Polka Dots, Checks and Stripes

While I may swoon over Parisian fashion, it has become apparent that I am an All American Girl when it comes to style. (This is one of the benefits of Pinterest, in my estimation: nothing like realizing the patterns of your own taste when you see a board littered with pristine, white interiors and layered, textured outfits.) While I believe that most Fashion (with a capital F) is derivative of European design, there is a distinct swagger to styling in the states that I just adore. I think it's the mix of classics and comfort that get me all twitterpated.

All images via Pinterest

Ok, so the plethora of black and white here no doubt screams Paris, oui? But coupled with denim, some well-chosen statement accessories and gently tousled hair, you've got yourself a look that will make those amber waves of grain sing with pride...even if you're still jonesing for a baguette and fromage.

Fabulous Find

In trying to be mindful of unneccesary spending, I haven't allowed myself to shop in a while. But my birthday is around the corner (Wednesday, eep!) so I decided a few pretties might not be so bad. I do think it's important to purchase items that you love, but as I am still a thrifty gal at heart (despite my expensive taste), budget-friendly stores are often where I start perusing for my wish list items. (See, there's a focus, at least!)

Enter: Old Navy. I typically have zero luck at ON, except for PJ pants or basic tees. But I lucked out and found this little pretty just yesterday...


via


A proper blouse that I can hand wash and is under $30? Come to Natty! The fabric is soft as can be and the color is even prettier in person. (I also like the navy blue printed one, but I opted for this Bali shade.)

I styled this top with black slacks (tucked in), a simple black leather belt and flats, with silver hoops and loose waves. (Very Calvin Klein.) But it would also look lovely with skinnies tucked into riding boots, or dressed up with cuffed dark denim, my nude slingbacks and gold MK watch. (Because ON uses vanity sizing, it has a very blousy-borderlining-on-tunic fit. Well, it does for this shorty, at least.) And though the sleeves are shown rolled up (which some of the reviews complain doesn't stay), I left them loose with the button secured, which I happen to think looks more chic and flattering.

I am on a mission to invest in lovely, quality (read: pricey) pieces for my wardrobe, but this frugal find was just too great to pass up and keep to myself.

Have you found any steals lately? Do tell!

[Inspired Thursdays, v.2] The World of Tim Burton

Perhaps because Halloween is looming, or perhaps because of his sheer awesomeness, I am once again knee deep in my adoration of all things Tim Burton.

Photo: Google

I can imagine that given my penchant for girly soft pretties, this may seem an odd romance. But I assure you, my appreciation for this man runs deep and true.

It really knocks me over when someone is not only immensely creative, but so distinctly brands his work that you know within moments you are witnessing a Tim Burton creation (and not just because of the also recognizable/awesome Danny Elfman score). From the creepy-yet-endearing renderings and quirky black and white motifs that pepper his work, to the juxtaposition of his beloved characters with otherwise hum-drum realms, I am absolutely enchanted every time.



"Tree of the Dead" from Sleepy Hollow


I could go on for days about his films and artwork, but I will spare y'all in an attempt to keep this post brief. However, it bears mentioning that Big Fish has been one of my all-time Top 3 Favorite Films for quite a few years now. Given my snobbery, that's saying a lot.

And I may be dressing up as one of his characters for Halloween...

I have no legs.

OK, that's not true. But given my level of activity as of late, you'd think it were. I do realize the irony of this admission, coming from the same girl who just this past spring got all shouty about staying active. Humbled, I am. Bossy gals often look foolish, and it's definitely a look I don now and again.

If it weren't for (far too frequent) bathroom breaks, I doubt I'd leave my office chair more than twice a day (to refill my coffee mug). Over the past few weeks, I've even spent numerous lunch breaks glued to my seat, searching for new blogs or perusing images on Pinterest. (I am eLame.) But after a lovely day of traipsing around the fair yesterday, I was once again reminded how wonderful it feels to move. Still on an activity high (and probably sugar high, as well), I decided to use my perfectly functioning (albeit intensely pale) legs and take a little stroll for lunch. (Emphasis on "little.")

Photo: classy-in-the-city.tumblr.com

I walked down the stairs of our office building (I do at least heed my own advice on the stairs...all one set of them), across the parking lot and into Zoe's for Mediterranean yummies. Nommed pita later, I used the crosswalk and everything to visit the shopping center across the way, prancing over to Starbucks for a refreshing afternoon beverage(unsweetened black iced tea, please). If I could actually gague distance, I'd be able to better contextualize the brevity of this wee journey. But the distance isn't the point. (Getting there, promise.)

The point: I usually drive to that Starbucks. Or to the Panera in the adjacent shopping center. It isn't even a five minute walk, yet I usually drive it. When I lived in Brooklyn, I walked eight city blocks (yes, sometimes in the snow) to the nearest subway station to even begin my commute to work. But these days I'm driving myself across the street for caffeinated treats and delectable sandwiches. Madness, self!

The payoff: in addition to not feeling like such a sloth, I was filled with delight by some of the sweet moments I witnessed by virtue of simply being outdoors, amongst other humans. I am a total house cat and generally prefer to be indoors, in select company, curled up in a blankie and reading a book (or watching HGTV and Food Network). But there is something to be said for stepping out of one's comfort zone...and stepping out, in general.

You think they'd let me wear a princess dress and tiara to work? ...No?

Sometimes I still feel like a little a little girl playing dress up.

While I am happiest in pajamas and my Hello Kitty slippers, hair half secured in a pony, half sticking straight out like a ragamuffin, I also really enjoy getting dressed for work. But I think my enjoyment comes from pulling off (what I think is) a look that appears that of a grown-up: cuffed black slacks, a fashionable blouse in a modern neutral hue (a phrase that justifies my obsessions with all shades of gray), heeled Mary Janes, my beloved MK gold watch from Brover, some dangly earrings that complement but don't match my shirt (ah ha!), and clean, styled hair.

Meanwhile, every time I teeter down the hallway with my cup of coffee in hand, I am nervous that my sassy heels are going to get stuck in the sassy cuff of my sassy pants and I am going to eat the not-so-sassy gray berber carpet when I yard sale it in front of my office. (True, at least it's gray.)

But all is well, for there is a pair of fuzzy gray slippers discretely residing under my desk that like to come out and play on the regular. Bonus: I wear long enough pants that I can actually scuttle about the office in my slippers sometimes without anyone noticing. Holla!

These days I often catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror and think, 'Oh, hi, Soccer Mom.' I partially blame Banana Republic for having super comfy capri pants, though the blame for an ever-present cardigan is mine alone. But I suppose it's not completely off base; I am nearly 30, after all. (Though, to be fair, my love affair with the daytime-appropriate security blankie known as the cardigan has been a staple in my wardrobe since junior high. Yeah, cool kid. Right here.)

I'm not sure any look or outfit can really capture who we are, though. In so far as anyone can externally communicate their real self via these bodies in which we reside, we attempt to represent how we identify ourselves in relation to an established perception of style...whatever that means. So whether you're rockin' your favorite outfit and feeling like a million bucks, or cuddled up in snowman-covered pants and a Hanes v-neck feeling like a spunky kiddo again, have fun playing dress up! But let your true joy and identity reside in your heart...not in your closet.   

Like putty in your hands...

I guess it's no surprise that I've been going through some stuff. Like, pretty legit stuff.

But I am blessed enough to have family and friends who insist upon being there for me. I say "insist" because I am one of those idiots who has to be coerced to love on. I used to just curl up in a ball, take a day or two to be an utter disaster, then pull up the ol' big girl panties and move on. But I don't really think that will work in this scenario. Trust me: I've tried.

I am an absolutely believer in people and experiences shaping who we are. And yes, it tends to be true that the really awful, garbage situations are the ones that end up having the most impact. So boo on that. And yet, I've kind of surrendered to the shaping that is taking place for me as of late.

For starters, I find that I am completely wrapped up in my own little life. I hate that. I'm usually mildly thoughtful and try to remember all the (big and/or little) things going on in friends lives. (Side note: I worked with this psychologist while I was a health educator at the teen sex clinic--which isn't actually as sketchy as it sounds--and she used to make notes in her date book about goings-ons in each of the staff's lives so that she could remember to ask about it. "Hey, Natalie, how did the AP Bio test go? Did that guy ever ask you out?" The answers: aced it, and no. Per usual. Even if I felt slightly duped when I found out that she was "cheating" by writing down notes to facilitate her thoughtfulness, it was still such an awesome little picker-upper to know that someone cared enough about my mundane crap to follow up. And so I attempted to pay it forward by implementing such thoughtfulness into my own life. If I could find a pen.) But are my friends/family members complaining about my egocentrism? Nope. They just smile, catch me up, and feed me treats. For what more could I ask?

There is also a lot going on in terms of sculpting my heart. Not like I've been doing cardiac crunches or anything. That'd be weird. But I'm finally learning how to share my life with people, truly. As I mentioned before, I'm an idiot and don't find this comes naturally. I've been criticized by past loves (read: disasters) for not allowing my walls to come down fully. (To which I could have fairly replied that I would be much obliged to pull a few bricks out of said wall and chuck them with great force at him. But I've got a sneaking suspicion that is not what dude had in mind.) Despite the heartache and frustration at still being single with nary a flicker on the horizon, I know that I will not be the kind of wife and partner I want to be without having reached the stage I'm at (and will continue to progress through).

I've been keeping "Your Love is a Song" on steady rotation as of late. Partially because of my fairly recent obsession with Jon Foreman. Partially because it speaks to how I view my relationship with God: He knows I'm a "show me" kind of person, and He responds in kind. Always. Given the way things have played out as of late, I feel now, more than ever, that life is an intricate, gorgeously orchestrated symphony of sorts. Thing just work out too poetically for them to be anything but remarkably planned and intentional.

Maybe it's just me. But I'll take it.

This is How We Do It*

I was fortunate enough to make it out to Southern California (again) this past weekend for my 10-year high school reunion.

First of all, where the crap did the last decade go? I mean, I've had some great times since then and lived many lives, so I guess I can deal, but wow.

Second, I don't care who or how you were in high school, just go to your reunion. I was the angry, bitter, frizzy-haired girl, and I went. And let me tell you, I'm so glad...

On Saturday afternoon I checked into The Bristol, a cute little boutique hotel in downtown San Diego where the reunion was held. Upon arriving, I promptly started nesting: ironed my sassy party dress, set up my laptop, showered, docked my iPod and rocked out. There really is nothing more decadent than taking all afternoon to get ready (because I can) while sporting one of the hotel's lovely bath robes and listening to the shenanigans going on outside my room. (Between the reunion guests and a young wedding party, loudness and heavy wafts of weed were pretty much standard all weekend.)

I joined some friends and their respective husbands/boyfriends for Happy Hour at the Double Deuce. (Dive bar in party clothes, FTW!) This was a nice way to ease into the evening, mingling with a smaller group of old friends before jumping into the pit of awkwardness. (It's all I could do to avoid downing vodka-sodas in the manner I do iced coffees. I was actually nervous. For what? Dunno. I just was.)

We walked back to the hotel and decided to jump right in. Classy name tags in place, we grabbed some more drinks, a table just off the dance floor, and proceeded to people-watch our cocktail-dress-wearing arses off.

It took an hour or so for the place to really fill up, but there was no looking back once attendance swelled and the drinks started flowing. Seriously, two bartenders were not enough. This crowd knew how to party. And party we did.

Once I decided to stop being such a big baby and actually started mingling, I found myself marveling at how much fun I was having, chatting up people who I hadn't seen in ten years and/or never spoke to at all in high school. I'm thankful to be in the industry I am because I felt surprisingly comfortable chit-chatting with a myriad of folks, ranging from genuine catching-up to "Well hello there..." in passing. (After my first dozen screenings/premieres, I became convinced that I could successfully make conversation with a goldfish. You know, if an occasion warranted such interaction.) Part of me wishes I had the confidence (and straightening iron) that I do now back when I attended Carlsbad High School, but I may not be the same person and may not have explored the same path. So it worked out for the best. I think.

As the reunion party itself wound down, a group of us packed into someone's car (?) and headed to a club before last call. Most random group ever, but we had a great time and managed to make it back to the hotel safely.

Just a few hours later, I checked out of my room, drove back up the coast to Carlsbad, noshed on some In-N-Out, and met my aunt and her family for lunch. (Yes, the aunt who lives in Texas. It's pretty sad when I cross paths with family only while in other states.) It was so bizarre being back on my old stomping grounds, made even more strange when imagining those places still existing without Mom. Nothing has changed, and yet everything has. If that makes sense.

Anywho, it is nice to be back in Texas. I've got a move coming up in just under a month, and I'm so excited to nest again in my adorable new apartment. It's time to make my own "home," memories and roots reinforced like never before.

*Why yes, that is a Montell Jordan reference. Big ups to the '90s.

iLose

I was fairly disappointed in myself as I set out on the journey of a lifetime upon finding my baggage encumbered by a giant bag o' cords for all my contraptions. I should have just thrown machinery to the wind and vowed to commit 100% to the road, embracing the moments. (But then how would I have shared it all with you, right?)

I hate that I've become one of those people who can't be away from their Crackberry for more than an hour without having a meltdown.* I get the shakes if I can't find a WiFi connection for my laptop. (Starbucks, FTW!) It's sad that my local road-trips (1-3 hours in length) are dampered while waiting for my iPod to charge back up for use. (Seriously, turning the damn thing on drains half the battery. Where you at on that, Apple? And don't even try to talk me into buying a newer version. A contraption is a contraption, and I expect results, yo.)

I have a dear friend who refuses to give in to the iWorld, and I can't say I completely blame her. (Earmuffs, my sweet Mac.) In terms of contraptions, Apple is doing some nice work (minus the aforementioned iPod battery fail). But in creating such lovely machinery, they've made it far too easy for people like me to become completely reliant, even subservient, to my gadgets. And readers? I'm so not that girl.

I was the one who rocked the pager in high school...and wasn't a drug dealer. (My high school years were 1996-2000, by the by. I.e., way past the era of the pager's coolness. If there every really was one.) And while everyone else was in 2009 enjoying the awesome world of sweet apps and uber-fast internet via mobile phone, I was exploring the cutting-edge world of...wait for it...ringtones. Look. Out.

And now I have a GPS. My Garmin literally tells me what to do. IT'S A MACHINE. Now, granted, I bought this particular contraption because it tells me how to get places, which, that I am relying on a talking box is inherently sick. But it sasses me! The thing actually argues with me. Call me crazy, but I swear the tone changes from pleasant to pissed when it has to recalculate because I've (once again) chosen to trust my own sense of direction over its "short cut." (Things have actually improved with this contraption upon changing the voice from the American broad to the sexy Aussie. Chicken and I also named him "Chauncy.") (Indeed, I realize I named the robot. Which means I'll keep it forever. Or until the technology is defunct. Next month.)

So while my affinity for the gadgets troubles me deeply, I do justify it ("Danger, Will Robinson!") by insisting that such contraptions allow me to connect with real people: my phone to text and email (and occasionally even call someone), my camera to take pics to share, my iPod to reminisce, and Chauncy to get me to social gatherings. That's got to count for something, right?

...Bueller?

*Can you imagine if I owned an iPhone?!

Sometimes Bad is Good

In the aftermath of the past few months, I've learned a lot about the people closest to me, as well as people in general, really. It's no huge revelation that times of grief and struggle can bring out the best in people...and also the worst. I've seen some of my best friends behave more amazingly than I even thought possible, and some of my family members have saved me from going absolutely nuts in ways that I couldn't have guessed I would respond to/need.

However, inevitably, some people have also disappointed while wallowing in their own darkness. (This is not directed at anyone specifically, and certainly not anyone who reads my blog...that I know of. I'm trying to speak generally here for a reason. Finger-pointing does no good, in my opinion.)

But something that has dawned on me recently is that we should be thankful for these less-than-stellar people in our lives.

"Are you taking crazy pills?" you ask.

No. Hear me out...

If we didn't have the bad friends and bad family members, I don't think we'd ever quite appreciate the good ones. If you don't know any differently, how can you be expected to recognize the true greatness of with what you've been blessed?

Linguist Ferdinand de Saussure described language as a formal system of differential elements, basically indicating that we understand words and signs because they are not something else. I would argue that this is also how we form an understanding of human behavior: we assess one's character based on how they stack up next to our already-established network of relationships, good and bad.

For example, one may decide that a new romantic interest is very promising and possess positive qualities because they are comparing those qualities and behaviors to their own repertoire of good and bad, unique to the definition within sizing up a mate...and otherwise. One may conclude that Mr. AdorableAtTheMoment is worth shaving one's legs because he is not like Mr. PummeledMySelfConfidence in terms of making his feelings/intentions known, ability to hold down a job, lack of body odor, etc. (I would argue that many of the differentials made in the dating realm relate directly to sizing up how well one speaks your love language, but there are certainly many variables to consider.)

Getting back to my point... SQUIRREL!

Rather than curse your exes (friends and/or lovers) and/or spurned family members, allow yourself to go through the inevitable grieving period of losing that relationship (and with it a wee bit of your faith in humanity), then pray for them (and their sad, stupid hearts), and count your blessings for those still in your life with whom you can grab some bubbly and walk it out.

No wonder everyone has resorted to text speak...not that it's OK, BTW

Have you ever noticed that there seems to be a disconnect between the spell checking mechanisms available in most online resources? Like, depending on whether you're checking the spelling in a Word document, a Hotmail draft, or even a Blogger post, there are apparently variables that exist in each arena that will yield different misspellings.* I mean, we're talking words, people. Are they really that capricious?

Granted, I do on occasion just straight make up words (usually faux expletives), and I'm not surprised when the spell check doesn't know what the french toast to do with those. But adverbs? Uncommon verb tenses? Come on!

(Somewhere, some brilliant code writer is cursing my name for whining about some insignificant detail of their masterpiece. Do I have any idea what it takes to make a functioning system? Nope. Does this mean I can't thrash about over a sub par spell checker? Noooo.)

And, to be fair, the English language is inordinately cruel. I could barely get my near-genius high schoolers to understand half the rules of grammar in my SAT prep classes; how can I possibly expect a series of codes and equations to correctly identify what it is I am doing with my words?

But I am a Wordie. (For sure just made that word up, so I won't hold that against you, Spell Checker. It's like Foodie, see, but I am ardently interested is in words. More specifically, grammar, but I didn't want to walk around claiming to be a Grammie. That's just awkward.) And thus I get worked up about situations such as these.

Except when it comes to the LOL Cats. That's just good, clean fun.

*To demonstrate my point, I have taken the liberty of making red all the words that Blogger does not recognize in its spell check. They are, in fact, actual words. At least they are according to Dictionary.com. I heart Dictionary.com.

Jet Setter

You'd probably imagine I'm a bit high-maintenance given my penchant for pretty things, bubble baths, and Starbucks (in excess). (Did you catch the Oxford comma there? Yeah, good stuff.)

But you'd be wrong.

Well, kinda.

When it comes to packing for a trip, I am the most low maintenance gal you've ever seen. (Well, unless you've watched a lady hippie pack for a trip. She probably wins. But her idea of traveling is likely hitchhiking. And that involves nary more than a knapsack. And a knapsack? Not really something that is packed. Zing! I win again.)

I have a dinky carry-on roller that I've used for about a decade now, and I have mastered the art of filling this puppy to the brim with the bare essentials. I have survived five-day trips with one tiny rolling suitcase about the length of a standard pillow.

But how do I do this, you ask? I mean, I am the Queen of Beauty Products. My daily regimen alone should warrant half a traditional suitcase, yes?

No. My secret: sample sizes.

I also apply this basic principals of Tetris to packing, which makes the whole deal more efficient and fun. (Stop shaking your head at me. I'm awesome.)

This would probably be a good time to mention that if I am traveling, it is generally for a shoot, which means that my hair and makeup (and possibly wardrobe) will be provided by someone on set. All I have to do is show up looking clean, rested, and manicured.

But for a chronic insomniac whole tends to bite her cuticles and forgets about her eyebrows until they've reached Muppet status, that's asking a lot.

The Happiest Place on Earth (...well, a close second to Starbucks)

I freakin' love Disneyland.

"But Natalie," you say, "you strongly dislike children. And public places. And sweating."

True, on all accounts.

But something about being at a Disney Park trumps my innate bitterness and I am a carefree child all over again. I am that same little girl who strutted around Carlsbad/Oceanside beaches in my Minnie Mouse bathing suit, back before I detested the feel of sand on my bare skin or feared that any minute a whale was going to beach itself and try to eat my loved ones. (Seriously, you'd think that would be a childhood fear I'd someday outgrow. But you'd be wrong.) It brings back memories of Mom keeping Brover and I home from school, convincing us we had auditions in LA, only to surprise us by pulling into the Disneyland parking lot in Anaheim. Best. Day. Ever.

So I was beyond excited when I booked the spokesperson gig for a Disney/Verizon spot shooting in Florida at the Magic Kingdom. I have always wanted to visit this park, and to be doing so on someone else's dime (and getting paid, on top of that!) is just too good to be true. I hope I have some downtime from shooting to ride some rides (the baby ones, yo) and take some pics with the Disney Princesses. (They totally stole my career. Well, them and Anne Hathaway.)

I cherish the out-of-town shoots as a break from the norm: traipsing around in my hotel room and noshing on room service, exploring a new town, and banking a memory or two of my very own in my journey as an actress.

"It's all happening."

I feel pretty...

First of all, I want to welcome my new followers! I have been horrid in terms of thanking y'all for keeping up with my ramblings and for the sweet comments that make my lil heart pitter patter. I don't take a single reader for granted and I appreciate you lovely people more than you know. Grazie mille!
OK, so Mrs. Chicken is straight up spoiling me at this point. But I like it. She has given me yet another very sweet blogger award, and so I will pass the love along and provide more trivia about myself. (I mean, did you see the arm twisting there?)

Rules for this one: list 7 things we might not know about you and pass award on to 5 beautimus peeps.

1. I am deathly afraid of whales. Shut up. They basically embody the vastness of the sea and that whole concept just scares the bejesus out of me.

2. My biggest acting job to date was playing the young Peg Bundy in a commercial promo for the TV show Married with Children. I had the big hair pouf going on and blew up a Home Ec lab. Great times.

3. I hate bananas with a passion. I might be slightly allergic to them, but it could all be in my head. (Wouldn't be the first time this mass above my neck got in the way.)

4. My first real job (i.e. not working for my parents) was as a health educator at a sex clinic. Imagine Planned Parenthood run by teenagers. Sounds like a bad idea, yes? But it was awesome. We did some good work. And had ample access to condoms. Tell me I wasn't a hit with my classmates.

5. There will always be a special place in my heart for George Michael. Moving on...

6. If I'm away from a large body of water (be it an ocean, lake, river, whatever) for too long I start to get antsy. (I do realize this is an odd fact given #1, but I never said I made sense.)

7. I have an unhealthy obsession with House. The show. Not necessarily Hugh Laurie's character. Though...yeah.

Beautiful Bloggers:

1. Evening Sketches

2. Shine Out Loud ("You're all grows up!")

3. Gofahne Road

4. The Art of Throwing Stones

5. Carissa Jaded

A funny, silly little moment in the life of a Walking Contradiction...

While running errands this afternoon (quick "Woop woop!" for days off in the middle of the week), I pulled up to a shopping center in my sassy little white Volvo S40. My outfit: a baby pink Banana Republic turtleneck, gray slacks, and black ballet flats. My hair was pulled back in a sophisticated chignon (who doesn't love that word, yo?), and I had some very pink blush going on (can't remember why exactly I felt like playing Dolly Natty today). My iced coffee was nestled comfortably in my cup holder, and the sunroof was cracked just a hair to let in some of the crisp February breeze. I gathered my Kate Spade bag and Blackberry, kicked open my car door...and quickly noticed a fairly handsome middle-aged man staring at me like I had sprouted two heads (both with bubblegum pink cheeks, presumably).

Oh, did I forget to mention that I had Nine Inch Nails' "Pretty Hate Machine" cranked up to full volume? No? How about the fact that I was screeching along to the lyrics while bobbing my head like a fool? Not so much? My bad.

See, now how could I sacrifice such amusement by listening to something more appropriate given my get-up (something in the neighborhood of early-Norah Jones, maybe Colbie Caillat), or by dressing the part (Seriously, do you know how hard it is to get all that black eyeliner to come off? At a certain point, there aren't enough Q-tips in existence.)?

Is it really so odd to heart both Trent Reznor and Audrey Hepburn equally? Me thinks not.