I am Forever 21 (God forbid!)

When I was sitting on the plane to NYC for the first time nearly two years ago, an eager young beaver watching a continuous loop of Sex and the City on my new laptop and ready to take on the Manhattan magazine world, one of things I was most excited about was making my first trip to H&M.

In my three years of college, I had become a fan of Forever 21, the mecca for cheap trendy clothes, but I was always careful to use a discerning eye to pick out the pieces that would add some pizzazz to my wardrobe while still looking classy. Reading magazines religiously, I had come to learn about H&M, another mecca for cheap trendy clothes, but located only in Manhattan. The H&M pieces shown in fashion spreads seemed to be much more up my ally, blending cutting edge trends with classic sophistication (instead of latching onto the tacky trends and running with them, overdoing the sequins and glitter and polyester, as Forever 21 is apt to do), and I was ready to buy up the whole store.

Indeed, a made a point to visit H&M on my first full day in Manhattan and emerged with lots of cute stuff that I still wear today - a flowy silver racer-back tank, a black skirt suit, an asymmetrical lavender striped skirt.

The weird thing was that whenever I'd wear one of my Forever 21 tops, I'd get tons of compliments on it, with my friends always asking me wear I got it. At first ashamed of my second-rate H&M wannabe, I sheepishly said, "Forever 21," but always made the point to say that you have to be VERY choosy when shopping there (thereby making me sound like a savvy bargain hunter with style). Slowly but surely, much to my amazement, the girls all wished they could hit up a Forever 21, too. I suppose the grass is always greener, right?

Well, New York must have missed my Forever 21 style, because not long after I returned to Portland, two new outposts opened up in the city, one just blocks from where I lived during that summer. I remember Kristen excitedly telling me about finally getting the chance to shop there, but I just braced myself for her inevitable disappointment. Indeed, she quickly realized that the Forever 21 pieces in my wardrobe represented only a small percentage of what the store had to offer (and I must add, the most stylish small percentage of what the store had to offer), and the novelty of Forever 21 soon wore off.

Until yesterday, that is. The New York Times' new Thursday Style Section devoted an entire article to Forever 21. I can't for the life of me figure out why, now, they decided to write about the (in my opinion) second-rate H&M, but I guess I'm not surprised. The New York Times isn't exactly Vogue, or even Lucky. When you let them expand their style coverage to two days a week, this is what you get. In any case, I wanted to share some of my favorite parts of the piece with you, my dear readers...

If stores were Hilton sisters, H&M would be Nikki, and Forever 21 would be Paris. Where H&M might have restrained cargo pants and khaki blazers along with camisole tops, Forever 21 offers a dazzling array of silk chiffon halter tops, sequined denim jeans and terry cloth hot pants.

My point, exactly.

On my second visit the canvas drape shielding my 30-something body from the crowd of teenage girls was pulled back by mistake at least twice. Sorry, they mumbled. The drape closed. Then, giggles.

Ha ha. At least that's better than the room-less communal dressing rooms at Century 21.

All prices end in 80, a spokesman said, to give back "just that little bit more to the customer."

Awww, that's sweet. I love little bits of trivia like this.

And what's the lesson you're supposed to come away with from this post? We DESPERATELY need to get an H&M out here in the Northwest! Okay, I guess I'll have to settle for the one opening in San Fran later this year. Who wants to join me on a little H&M shopping spree?

My New Addiction

Oh man, I thought Us Weekly was good for ogling celeb papparazi shots, but check out this blog: Pink Is The New Blog. It's all the gossip you can handle, celeb shots and snarky comments. Love it! When there's nothing new at Awful Plastic Surgery, you'll find me scrolling down this spot. How do I ever get any work done?!

RedBallRedBallRedBallRedBallRedBall

You'd think I'm obsessed, wouldn't you? I've been wanting to post these photos from when the RedBall was here, but I didn't want the project to completely take over the blog. So I put up a few posts in between and now I can share some of these more candid RedBall shots.



Selena gets up close and personal with the giant red ball. Watch out - that thing throws you back with just as much, if not more, force as you use to jump into it.



Case in point: I even got some air on this one, and then not even a second after this photo was snapped, I nearly face-planted on the cement thanks to the kick-back. Ahhh, the power of the RedBall.



Selena and Kurt (the artist), before.



Selena and Kurt, after. Ahhh, the power of the RedBall. ;-)

Magalog Central

Like they say, timing is everything. Right after I put up a post way too reminiscent of Lucky, the matriarch of the "magalog" (that's "magazine" and "catalog" combined, also known as the shopping magazine, in the forms of Lucky, Cargo and Domino (Vitals is a bit of one, too)), Salon.com puts up an article about the very phenomenon, cast through the lens of media/cultural criticism. Here's the gist:

Now that Domino has dropped, the insidiousness of the shopping magazine takes a clear form: Why spend years building a personal aesthetic when you can just buy one?

Of course, I love the shopping mags - they are a form of vicarious shopping from the comfort of my couch and harmless to my bank account, but I also understand what Stephanie Zacharek, the writer, is talking about and, frankly, wish I would have written something like this myself. Ah well, I'll at least link to it to make myself feel smarter by association.

Don't Buy It! on Salon.com

My latest crushes...

Please humor me for a few minutes as I digress from meaningful blog contributions (ha ha - I promise I'm not that delusional) and offer up my own personal version of Lucky. In other words, here are the things I've been eyeing during my virtual window shopping and for lack of anything real to write about, I'm going to show you pictures of my desired items and tell you why I want them. Psychoanalysis optional.



The classic Eero Saarinen Tulip table. I've been big on mod white accents lately (as you'll see with the alarm clock below), and this would be so fun to sit down at. Hell, I might even eat at my dining room table if this was it.



The real thing is over $1,000. Hmm, yeah, I think I'll be picking up this $150 Ikea version instead.



Back when it was weirdly sunny for weeks at a time, I got a new bike - well, new to me since it's a vintage Schwinn cruiser, brown paint with white starbursts on it. Then it started to rain again, bringing all us Portlanders back down to reality, and sentencing my new bicycletta to my dining room. Before I start riding for real, I want to add these blue glitter handlebar grips to add some pizzazz. Isn't blue and brown a sweet combo?



I've got WAY to much makeup when you consider how much I don't wear it. But it's just so fun to buy and imagine getting all prettied up. I don't know about the rest of y'all ladies, but I've got two makeup bags - the big storage catch-all for all the stuff I think I'll use one day but never works its way into my daily routine, and the small, fit-in-my-oh-so-fabulous purse small pouch for my daily essentials. The problem is that my small travel makeup bag is old, so old it has a "Heetrz" sticker on it (Mari knows what I'm talking about - all the way back to high school). So I want this punchy modern-yet-retro makeup bag. I think it'll make me smile every time I don't like what I see in the mirror.



Sevens. I know, how typical. But no jeans have ever made my butt look as good as the classic Sevens I got at Atrium during my NYC summer. Now those Sevens have a huge hole above the left knee and it's only a matter of days before my underwear starts showing through the thinning denim covering my ass. It's time for a new pair. And why fix something if it ain't broke, right?



I so want a camera phone. There's always random things I notice when I'm out and about that I want to show someone else. Plus, I'm bored with my phone and I think it sounds like crap (from what people tell me). So when John finally gets that $150 credit to Car Toys in the mail, I'm heading right over there and making this phone mine. And then I probably won't be able to stop posting cell phone photos on the blog. Watch out!



Dad, this one's for you. I have a soft spot in my heart for horses thanks to the mornings spent at the race track with my dad when I was just a toddler, eating waffles and watching the race horses get their morning exercise. I desperately want to ride again, but until then, I think this small duffel should be my summer bag (don't worry, I'm still loyal to my Botkier - just need a more casual bag to get down and dirty with during the summer).



This is pretty much the alarm clock version of the Eero Saarinen table, so hot. And as anyone who knows me knows, I simply canNOT wake up in the morning, so maybe the robotic voice that yells out the time as the "alarm" will be just the thing to get me out of bed.



Lately I've really wanted to do some old-school paint-by-numbers, and what's more perfect for me than a horse portrait? Alexis, can we make paint-by-numbers the next crafting project...after the wood beads, of course!


So that's all the rad stuff that's on my radar (ick, that damn Radar magazine - I really hope I don't end up liking it, which I probably will). Anyone want to contribute to the Liz-Wants-To-Go-Shopping fund? Ha ha. Seriously (Mom), I'm going to pay my bills, promise. In the meantime, though, Nikki, my boss, gave me her $150 credit to b-glowing.com, the beauty website we rep, so I'm gonna go do some real spending on all the get-pretty stuff I'd never be able to afford in real life.

RedBall redux

In case you were wondering, here's a GORGEOUS photo montage of the RedBall at its first Portland location last Sunday, 4/10. It was an awesome experience (and yes, I mean that in the OED definition "filled with awe" kind of way). Although I know I can safely say I didn't have even a fraction of the good time Selena had last week! ;-)

Ask yourself...

Gawker jokes that this list of questions is what New York City is using to measure people's risk of depression. To me, they are the reasons I both long to and fear moving back to NYC.

· How much is your rent?
· Have you had difficulty finding a caring partner who loves and respects you?
· Is your career personally fulfilling?
· How much is your rent?
· Do you fear being the victim of a violent crime?
· Have you found supportive, loyal friends whom you can trust and confide in?
· How many roommates do you have?
· Can you afford to take advantage of all the social and cultural activities this city has to offer?
· How much is your rent?

The thing is, by these standards, my quality of life is pretty awesome in Portland. My rent is insanely low at $220/month; I have a wonderfully caring partner who loves, respects and admires me; my career, though just starting out, is interesting and challenging (this one, I have to admit, is a little shakier - I still miss mags); aside from John having a glass Gatorade bottle thrown through his car window (where in the world can you still buy Gatorade in a glass bottle??), there's been no violent crime anywhere in my vicinity; I have a number of good friends here - though I certainly have even more in NYC; 2 roommates, but one is my boyfriend and he doesn't count; and because everything is more reasonably priced here, I CAN afford to take advantage of the social and cultural activities in Portland (believe me, there are more than you may think). But there is still something about NYC that's calling me, like an irresistible siren song. In an ideal world, I would live in both places. Maybe one day I will.

Alexis has some thoughts to share.

My dear friend (and former roommate, so we have been through the worst together) friend, Alexis, had a little something she wanted to get off her chest this evening, and I thought - Hey! I have this new, nifty, super-duper BLOG that's the perfect platform to rant and rave! - so I invited her to be a "guest blogger." I just like saying I have a "guest blogger"...hee hee. Without further ado, "Lexy's Rant":

Theory: Every guy thinks that every girl automatically wants to be his girlfriend.

You’ve suffered through the awkwardness of the first date, more comfortably attended a movie together (but still in that nervous our-arms-are-touching-on the-armrest sort of way) for a second date, and are beginning to feel pretty relaxed when he’s planning the next date before the one you’re on has even ended.

Flash forward.

“So, are we still on for tonight?” you ask.

Pause. Still pausing. Okay, this is a really long “something isn’t as peachy as I thought it was” pause.

“Well, here’s the thing…”

Damn it. And you thought this one was different.

“I just need to take some space for myself right now.”

Space? You asked me to go on this date, remember?

“I’m not sure if I’m ready for this…”

Ready? Do you need more time to shave, or pick out a belt to match those pleated corduroy pants that I know from our previous two dates you’re going to wear?

“I just don’t want either of us to get hurt.”

Unless you were concerned with a crab-shell-cracker injury at the “fancy” Red Lobster dinner you’re taking me to, then I have no idea what you are talking about.

“I just need some time to think about us.”

Us? When did we become an “us”? And do I still get dinner? Because the cheddar biscuits are the only reason I agreed to go to that pseudo-fancy, one-step-above the Olive Garden fish house.



Why is it that every guy thinks that every girl he meets automatically wants to be his girlfriend? Because here’s the thing- we don’t. I just thought we were going to Red Lobster, but apparently, to him a shrimp cocktail means yours is the only tail he will be getting now that you’re dining together.

Contrary to popular (male) belief, we’re not all interested in clinging to your sculpted biceps, staring down every girl who happens to glance in your direction, screaming “That’s my man, biatch!” with only our eyes. We really don’t want to spend every free moment of our time with you, talking about shopping, our friends, and oh God, feelings. But why are guys thinking, “I see where this is going, and I’d better stop the Girlfriend Express before this gets out of hand?”

Sure, there are a few ladies out there who hunt for boyfriends like they are that fat-free, sugar-free chocolate dessert that actually tastes good (I mean, you know it’s out there, you just have to find it, and cling to it for dear life because that’s the best damn dessert you’re ever gonna find). But overall, most of us are just looking for a cute guy to call up and take us to dinner and a movie on Saturday night.

Let’s face it; to most women men aren’t some terrified prey we stalk as if we are asp-like predators looking to suffocate and eat them. Men are more like that slightly worn pair of Marc Jacobs Mary Janes you bought at Buffalo for fifty bucks. They are perfect for dinner on a Friday night, drinks on Saturday night, and maybe around the house in the middle of the afternoon when you just need to feel pretty. But you’re not going to wear them everyday; you wouldn’t even want to wear them everyday. They don’t go with every outfit you own, they are used (that’s why they were such a bargain), and you still have plenty of other shoes you love to wear.

But here’s the thing. The shoes don’t ask you for space if you wear them to dinner on Friday and the bar on Saturday. They’d even let you wear them to work on Monday if you wanted to.

Lesson: Always pick your Marc Jacobs over a date with any Mark or Jacob, because instead of looking to be the girlfriend, you just want to look cute in your Mary Janes.

On the Cutting Edge of Journalism (ha!)

I'm not really sure whether to be proud of this or laugh at it, but I'm sharing it nonetheless. The Willamette Week, our alternative news weekly, just won a Pulitzer. I'd love to celebrate this achievement for the often overlooked Portland press - and especially trumpet the fact that the scrappy, edgy "cool" paper full of escort ads and indie rock reviews won journalism's highest honor while our one daily newspaper, the delusionally righteous (and predictable) Oregonian, came away empty-handed for once. The Willamette Week is supposed to be the newspaper of my generation, and I should see this award as an optimistic sign that the establishment is open to a new guard.

The thing is, the scrappy, edgy "cool" Willamette Week also takes itself too seriously. They are the kind of publication that talks about itself - brags about itself - in its own pages (like how the Post likes to pat itself on the back when they publish a gossip bit before anyone else and publish that fact as if it's gossip itself). The "Willy Week" just thinks it's cooler than everyone, cooler than even its readers, and I hate that elistist bullshit. Jane has that same cooler than thou attitude. What's even worse about the Willamette Week is that it's gone beyond just discovering the next "it" local band and offering up hipster horoscopes; it's now priding itself on its tenacious, unflinching investigative reporting (which, I have to admit, must be good because that's what the Pulitzer was awarded for), while looking with disdain on the "lifestyle" coverage (movies, books, retail) that Portlanders really pick up the free pub to read. Should I fault the paper for trying to gain respect for serious journalism, trying to remake the "fluff" rag (which I personally love) into a hard-news-driven paper, serving as a governmental and big business watchdog, digging up secrets and righting long covered-up wrongs? First, their reporting forced the president of my college to resign (deservedly so) after losing $10 million in a bad investment, and now they've won the Pulitzer for uncovering a former governor's sexual relationship with a 14-year-old that had been ignored for 30 years. I admire what they're doing from a journalistic standpoint. I just can't shake the feeling that they're muckracking is more about gaining attention - and awards - for themselves rather than serving their readership. And goddamnit, I just wish that along with their so-called noble motives, they were able to have a sense of humor about themselves as well.

Anyway, who really cares what I think about it. In the end, it's pretty damn cool that our weekly won a Pulitzer. So I guess I'm proud of this. And I'll leave it at that.

RedBall in Portland - brought to us from NYC

I wish we had architecture like this in Portland, but at least we will be graced with this very same RedBall next week, joining St. Louis, Barcelona and Sydney as the 4th city to host this traveling public art installation.

The 15-foot inflatable red ball will be wedged into different locations in Portland's architecture everyday next week, prompting residents to see their urban landscape with fresh eyes when the structures are juxtaposed with a absurdly surprising, giant red ball. It's gonna be SO AWESOME to see this person, but makes me the happiest about it all is the following...

A fortuitous pairing, Portland-based Kevin Carroll and New York-based Kurt Perschke came together recently through a mutual friend who recognized the enormous potential for synergy in their work. Upon communicating, Carroll, an author and internationally recognized inspirational presenter, and Perschke, an accomplished visual artist, were both struck by the coincidence of an interest in play, discovery, and imagination. This belief in the inherent value of play drew Carroll to Perschke’s work and RedBall Portland was born.

Yes, I may be promoting this event for work, but I really wanted to post it because it's the perfect example of a PONY collaboration - a NYC artist bringing his modern art to PDX, a city that's full of character-defining architecture (bridges, renovated warehouses, Michael Graves' classic Portland Building) and an adventurous and vibrant population (jeezus, do I sound like the visitors' bureau or what?). We're not the only ones who believe in PONYs.

Check back next week for pics of the RedBall at its Portland locations! In the meantime you can see a sketch of the first Portland location - Arlene Schnitzer Concert Hall - here.

Mystery solved!!

Since we are magazine whores and circulate (or at least pretend to) in that world, it goes without saying that both Kristen and I are HUGE fans of Susan Orlean (who, by the way, got her start here in Portland and will be back in town on April 24th as part of Portland's annual Wordstock Festival). In the same way we think we're great writers - that's why we're doing this blog, right? - we also like the idea of appreciating the fine journalism in The New Yorker (where, ahem, Susan Orlean is a staff writer).

BRIEF TANGENT: I actually don't know about Kristen, but I have a subscription to The New Yorker both because I like the idea of it and I actually do enjoy the articles - when I actually sit down and read them, that is. Most of the time, though, my weekly (who can keep up with a weekly mag, anyway) issues get pushed aside for my US Weekly (hmm, that's also weekly, and yet the pictures are so much easier to get through than pages of dense text). I'm ashamed to admit it, but it's true. So I have stacks of New Yorker's piling up next to my bed. At least I look smart.

Anyway, back to the point of this post. The New Yorker doesn't publish a masthead, never has and seemingly never will. Which, of course, makes us even more curious as to who the lucky ones are that get to say, "I work at The New Yorker." Our dear friend, Kerry, got to say that during the summer of our ASME internships together, and we all even had lunch in their offices (I was probably too hungover to really enjoy it at the time), but the mystery of the complete masthead still remained unsolved. Until now. It seems we're not the only ones curious about such things, and the New York Observer put someone on the job, following leads and piecing together clues to form the closest thing to a masthead this venerable publication has ever seen. To me, it's akin to the Holy Grail. And now I'm sharing it with all of you (how many people know about this so far - two?). The New Yorker masthead, or as close as we're gonna get. Enjoy!

friends or strangers?

this WAS a multi-paragraph musing about how an old college acquaintance thinks we're long lost best friends (when we really only spent two weeks during the first month in college as friends) and wondering how it's possible that two people can possibly have such different perceptions of what their relationship means and, yes, even admitting a bit of vulnerability that i REALLY hope i'm not this girl in any of my supposed "friendships"....but, alas, my computer skills must not be as developed as i thought they were and i lost the entire thing somewhere between writing it and trying to post it to the blog. so this is what you're getting. and in the spirit of sharing everything - and because i'm DAMN frustrated to lose 20 minutes of writing into the ether - i'm posting it to the blog. deal with it! this'll get better, i promise.

Alright, the east coast half of this operation is finally up and running. Sadly, I'm stealing internet from my Brooklyn apartment right now, so I'm going to cut it short-- just for now.
more later lizzy, i promise :)

I always wanted a pony when I was little...

so now Kristen and I are starting our own! Welcome to PONYtales....more info to come...i'm falling asleep.