Friday, May 31, 2013

Femmespiration Friday: Drew Barrymore in Poison Ivy (1992)

Hi friends! It's been a while since I've set aside some time on Friday to gush over whatever 90s dream girl happens to be dominating my brain that week. We've had an incredible series of Friday Femmespiration guest posts over the past few weeks, but I hope you're not sorry that it's time for me to delve back into my one true gift, my one genuine mission in this world: sharing my uninhibited enthusiasm for 90s babes in films of dubious commercial success that can be watched through Netflix instant. This week: a young, seductive, and big-haired Drew Barrymore in the cult classic Poison Ivy (1992).

If you're like me, you've lived through some uncomfortable, soul-searching moments where suddenly realize that your tendency to objectify/idolize (fine line, amirite?) an adolescent Barrymore miiiiight be verging on creepy. Consider, for instance, Drew in 1989's Far From Home:

 Yeah. She's 14. Whoops.

Of course, Drew had lived through quite a bit by 14—frequent nights at Studio 54, trouble with alcohol by age 11, and addiction to cocaine and a bout with rehab by 13. In any case, there is something really thrilling about her particular brand of unselfconscious sensuality. And Poison Ivy, which she filmed at 17, was an important moment in solidifying her image as a more adult actress who could play the hell out of the whole bisexual, irresistible teen-seductress-with-daddy-problems role.

It's also an important moment in solidifying her as one of my most honored 90s babes. From the giant, wild blonde curls, to her staple motorcycle jacket, nose ring, and red lipstick—I was captivated right along with Sara Gilbert's character, Sylvie, in the iconic tire swing opening.

I knew before watching Poison Ivy that it was going to have a very limited threshold of enjoyment for me before the romantic & sexually charged friendship between Ivy (Barrymore) & Sylvie dissolved into Ivy's full scale seduction and conquest of Gilbert's dad (Tom Skerritt) and a whole bunch of sick/absent mom creepiness. I was right.

But at least first we got this:

Honorable mention to Sara Gilbert for this look (not pictured: white socks & combat boots)
I mean, do I even need to comment? I'd do pretty much anything to have a mane like that. Except maybe hook up with Tom Skerritt.

Ivy's look is pretty grungy and badass for the early part of the movie, and of course, I can't get enough of that motorcycle jacket paired with a series of cropped shirts, boots, vintage shades and a dangling cigarette. What can I say? I'm a sucker for a femme fatale in some cutoffs and leather.

However, the movie's twisted plot also conveniently allows for Ivy to experiment with a more glamorous look, as she begins to wear Sylvie's mother's clothes and fantasize about herself as Georgia's replacement. It's hard to deny that this narrative allows for some truly amazing eye candy.

Obviously red becomes a common theme here. The movie is nothing if not subtle.

 I'm going to end this post before I offer too many spoilers (although I'd be remiss not to mention the yellow dress in the above .gif), and because I need to get ready for K.'s drag show (I'm sure a post will be forthcoming!). In closing, Poison Ivy is certainly not a masterpiece of modern cinema, but it IS fantastic example of why Drew Barrymore will always and forever be my 90s Queen Supreme. And remember, next time you are wondering what to wear to seduce your best friend & adolescent crush's father before causing a potentially deadly car crash and trying to replace her mother in your own fantasy version of their family unit (oops, spoilers), look no further. 

It's this:

And make sure it's raining, obviously.

Until next time!

Thursday, May 30, 2013

Unintentional Peg Bundy Tribute

It always feels like a kind of special holiday when I get to see Thomas, my amazing hair guy/BFF (you might remember him from this post or this one). Especially when it's time to finally ditch my faded roots for vibrant new color. Don't get me wrong—I love having a lighter coppery shade. But if I've learned one thing from my 10 odd years of being a fake redhead, it's that starting darker makes all the difference. As I explained to Thomas the first time I saw him, when you start coppery, it often gets really oxidized and dull quickly. Sidenote: he was pretty impressed by all of the technical hair jargon I'd picked up from re-runs of Bravo's Tabatha Takes Over. I'm fly like that.

Luckily for me, he knew exactly what to mix up for me to have this rich red that fades beautifully over many months, which means I can relax a little in terms of upkeep. Basically, it's the formula perfect for the lazy and broke but dedicated artificial redhead academic in your life. It probably has a more technical name with like numbers and stuff, but Tabatha never taught me that one.

It's pretty, right? But like I said, it's not like my hair was in terrible shape before either. Here's what it looked like before my appointment (last color had been in January):

Hanging out with Thomas and chatting about all things pop culture is always a delight, but this time, my big reveal came with an unexpected reaction. As he took away the salon cape thing, he burst out laughing at the pairing of my leopard print with my new big red curls.


I'm not sure if he thought my reaction would be anything other than intoxicated with joy, but if he did, he was dead wrong. I definitely need a few more inches of height, but it's safe to day this is the closest I've come to representing this particular icon of femme excess. But now it's clear that I should begin each day with the following affirmation: "How can I channel Peg today?"

Hey Thomas!

Right: the outfit. This is pretty basic look that I threw in my bag for a chilly Memorial day weekend at my mom's. But despite the fact that it's basically just a long sleeve T & some jeans, I felt great. My new shoes are definitely the best part—these adorable  Sanita "Dawn" sandals add a splash of color while also being super comfortable. Sorry guys, I think there are a lot of platform/clog posts in your future. My feet have never been so happy!

I'm also pretty into this bright pink lip with the red shoes. Playing with combos of pink/red/purple has been a goal of mine lately, even if I think I'm a little behind on that trend.


PS: it was really windy for this photo shoot. So just for fun, I will leave you with this. Because,

Shirt: thrifted (spring 2013)
Jacket: Gap Factory (similar)
Jeans: BDG high rise cigarette
Shoes: Sanita "Dawn" (summer 2013)
Polish: Tillie Polish in "Pool Boy"
Lipcolor: Wet n' Wild "Don't Blink Pink"


Tuesday, May 28, 2013

Rooftop reunion paradise

Does this relatively conservative blue cotton dress say, "I'm going to drink tequila, white wine, and beer, all before 8 pm--and then arrive tipsy and sweaty and my boyfriend's drag rehearsal just in time to catch a few moves from their new Magic Mike number?"

Maybe not. But my BFF Caroline (you might remember her from her Blair Waldorf femme-spiration post) was in town from the west coast last week, and so my Tuesday afternoon was ripe with possibilities. We spent some much-needed time catching up over delicious drinks outdoors, and then, before I knew it, we were having a beer on this beautiful roof. Talk about a sweet reunion! Thanks so much for taking some time away from watching DVR-ed episodes of Bar Rescue with your parents to kick it with me, C. 

I thrifted this dress for like $3 a while back, imagining that it would come in handy for the last sweaty weeks of teaching. But since it was still frigid on my last day of class (I wore tights!), it remained sadly neglected in my closet until this particularly warm afternoon. I'd never heard of the name on the label (She Bible), but some googling just revealed that it was made in San Francisco—part of a female owned label now called Curator. Simple, light, & easy, I think its a pretty good addition to my closet. Some bearded guy seemed to agree, calling out "hey, that's a nice dress!" on my way to the train. Thanks, man!

As much as I like this practical piece, though, Caroline's outfit was the the true star of this afternoon encounter. I am a huge fan of her personal style, especially her consistent ability to mix soft/hard elements together seamlessly. This might be my new favorite ensemble of hers—from the cat buttons (yes, the buttons are tiny cat faces! really!) to the black flats featuring over-sized, studded bows, this look is everything I want it to be and more.

Meet Caroline & her glorious flowing tresses!

Caroline finished off her look with this great denim jacket she recently thrifted. However, as she graciously reveals in the following photos, it has one slight flaw that causes her to leave the cuffs permanently rolled. Check out these spectacular bell sleeves, guys.

Okay, I know these bell sleeves are supposed to be hilarious, but Caroline's so hot that she can almost pull this off.

Still...better keep them rolled, girl. Just in case.

Stay tuned for another post featuring Caroline and her rad wardrobe soon!

dress: SheBible (thrifted, spring 2013)
shoes: Gentle Souls "Up & Away" 
lipcolor: Nyx soft matte lip cream in "Addis Ababa"

shirt: Forever 21 (summer 2013)
pants: J.Crew matchstick (on sale! spring 2013)
shoes: Aldo (fall 2012)
jean jacket: thrifted via Crossroads/some country music star's reject pile, probably
eyeliner: L'Oreal infallible gel lacquer in "blackest black" 
lipcolor: Wet n' Wild natural blend lip shimmer  



Saturday, May 25, 2013

Femmespiration Friday: Sisters of the Moon, or Stevie Nicks is my Spirit Animal (& our shared Spirit Animal is a Gypsy Wolf)

This Sunday is Stephanie Lynn "Stevie" Nick's 65th birthday and I can tell you right now that she doesn't look a day over fabulous. I'm Chloe, and Stevie Nicks is more than my femmespiration, she’s my INSPIRATION.

I was lucky enough to see Stevie perform live with Fleetwood Mac at Madison Square Garden this April and it was rad, like exceptionally so.  Like so rad that I came home and bought tickets for their Jones Beach concert in June.

Unlike most people I was a Stevie fan (really!) before I knew Fleetwood Mac's music, or more appropriately, before I knew the music I was listening to was played by Fleetwood Mac (those eternal two-for-Tuesday jams that everyone knows, moms bouncing in the driver's seat, cousins twirling out on the dock at sunset). I stole Stevie's album, Trouble in Shangri-La, from my mother in 2002, and spent a year listening to it on repeat, wondering who the sorcerer was.

This is the album cover of Trouble in Shangri-La, and if you've ever been sort of a cape (read: fantasy nerd), then Stevie's outfit probably caught your attention as it did mine. The corset, granny boots, and handkerchief skirt could have come out of my mom's closet from anytime between 1979 and 1992, or out of many of the books I’ve enjoyed between 1999 and now. So this was my introduction to Stevie Nicks, this album, not a trace of Lindsey Buckingham to be found artistically, just Stevie warbling over synthesizers dramatically and, in my mind, wandering through mystical landscapes, cape flowing proudly.

Fast-forward to 2011, when Stevie Nicks became less of an artist I liked and more of an artist who made me cry on the floor in my apartment. A friend introduced me to Tusk, which is Fleetwood Mac’s strangest and most exciting album as far as I’m concerned. I only listened to two songs during this period of my Fleetwood life: “Beautiful Child,” and “Storms”. I’ve heard Fleetwood Mac be described as Divorce Rock; these two songs pretty much crystallize that notion.

I tell you this because that’s what Stevie does to you. She makes you listen, and when the listening is over, you sort of want to curl up and cry, or somehow take her into yourself and keep her there. You may not know this, but over the course of her career Stevie’s gotten a lot of flack. She’s flake, a ditz, a mooncalf, not talented, blah blah blah. It’s all crap. Stevie’s music stays with you, Stevie stays with you. No -- she haunts you.

They say that 2013 is the Year of Fleetwood Mac. I’ve been having the adulthood of Stevie Nicks. Stevie wasn’t a feminist, she said so herself, but she was an independent woman and despite being a rock pioneer, she took a lot of that aforementioned flack for the very basic “crime” of being a woman. Not to mention being a beautiful woman who did drugs, slept around, and sang about wolves and shit. It could not have been easy, and it still isn’t, and if you ever see her solo she talks a lot of shit and so what, she totally should.

It's true, Stevie Nicks and I don’t have very much in common on the average day. She’s a flowy-skirt moon goddess and I’m a jeans/blouse/clogs kind of girl. She’s an international sensation with a career spanning decades and I sit at a desk. We both have blonde hair and an affection (me: currently, her: previously) for klonopin and that’s where the similarities end.  But despite this, I feel that you should know that Stevie Nicks is my spirit animal. Inside of me every day there’s a woman holding a lace covered tambourine, stamping her granny boots on the ground in time to the beat, and hoping she doesn’t trip over her flowing skirt. There's a woman who knows really sincerely that she's just as good as everyone else. A fearless woman, working her look, the look she chose, the look that's evolving with her. That Stevie, that timeless Stevie, is my inspiration every day.

When I walk around my neighborhood and I see girls rocking top hats and fringed blouses, when I see girls in belled sleeves and long skirts and platforms, when I encounter this exciting “pastel goth” thing that’s happening right now, I think of Stevie. I think of her incredible commitment to “her thing,” (or as she calls it, her uniform), which is kind of a California girl meets Victorian orphan meets witch meets John William Waterhouse painting combo. I see traces of Stevie all over the place. Do I wish that my personal wardrobe had more Stevie? Sure. Do I get my hair done every 4 months or so and say, “we’re going for Stevie Nicks-ish thing?” Yes. Do I want to show you pictures of Stevie now and talk about her some more? Yes.

This is what I'm talking about. The hair, even the permed bangs, everything about this. The simple gold jewelry and that purple pattern blouse? Gah. And my attempt, because I think you can really see what I'm trying to get my hairstylist to figure out over here.

Ok, enough of me. Can you even handle this? Is that a parrot? What's going on here? I think she has crystals woven into her hair. She's basically the love-child of this:

You know I'm right. Seriously:

It's not a minor obsession. It's a major obsession. And I can seriously relate to all of her weird interpersonal stuff.

A very young Stevie with Lindsey Buckingham. She hates this photograph. After it was taken she decided on being "very sexy under 18 pounds of lace and chiffon." It worked for her, clearly.

An adorable top-hatted Stevie with a very tall, also hatted Mick Fleetwood. I like to think about Mick Fleetwood meeting Lindsey and Stevie, and having this very real "I knew they were trouble when they walked in" kind of moment but being super taken with them despite this because they were beautiful and 10 years his junior and so talented.

Stevie with Lindsey really WEARING his hair. His velvet blazer is worth noting. Her bangs look wonderful.

Finally, Stevie in a beautiful silk nightgown, posing for a photo shoot with Mick Fleetwood -- I think it's pretty obvious that her sex life was complicated.

The evolution of her look is outstanding.  

Long nails, lots of rings, layered necklaces, aviators, sick bangs, a shawl and a fuck-you expression: perfection. 

Simultaneously angelic and bad-ass. Again, layered necklaces, rings, a scarf.

Pink, lace, silk, chiffon, so much hair. Yes. Yes forever. 
Stevie lives. Long live Stevie. 
Happy Birthday.