Off their chests and onto mine.

I was recently approached by Off Our Chests, a collaborative blog and organization that champions the fairly unobjectionable goal of making the world a happier place. Their request? Style an outfit around a piece from their new line of tees and tanks. My response? UH DUH, because a) I stalk their Twitter feed like it's my job and b) when have I ever said no to free swag?

Being the crochety old man that I am, I naturally gravitated toward the tee with the slouchiest, softest-looking fit. My first thought was to pair it with oxfords, suspenders and my favorite high-waisted pleated pants (OLD. MAN. STATUS), but I ultimately opted to glam it up with a sensible pair of sequined culottes and shoulder pads that would put any NFL linebacker to shame.

As a newly minted soldier in the army of happy, I thought I'd give you a brief tutorial on stuff happy people do.



Happy people whip their hair back and forth.



Happy people butcher the slogans on their t-shirts by eclipsing just enough to change the meaning. DON'T HAT ON IT PLZ.



Happy people give totes soror skinny arm.



Please note that this post is devoid of the usual pouty smizing. All smiles for Off Our Chests!

Oh, fine. One sassy face for the road.



Peep their post on me here. Then spend some time poking around their site. Amazeballs. (And 10% of merch proceeds go to We Stop Hate.) What more could one want from one's collaborative blogging experience?

Jacket: Vintage Bergdorf Goodman.
T-shirt: Off Our Chests.
Shorts: Cynthia Rowley.
Shoes: Zara.
Earrings: Nordstrom.
Watch: Michael Kors.

Are you brave enough to let me see your peacock?

Hey! Hey guys, it's me! Your patron saint of practicality and poise, who wears shorts in negative temperatures and takes outfit photos in public restrooms!



(High-fashion cuticle scrutiny.)



(High-fashion pit check, complete with high-fashion ginger roots that can't be tamed/saved/blamed/changed/tamed.)

Celebrating New York fashion week with a vintage fur coat, Anthro cropped sweatshirt and Zara high-waisted pleated shorts. There's a reason I'm not your patron saint of dating.

I'd like to introduce you to a new friend.



His name is Henry.





He's...rather mesmerizing.



And almost as photogenic as I am.

As a devoted Potter fanatic, I've always had a sneaking suspicion that my patronus would be a peacock. Vain. Ostentatious. And a little bit too much. When I spotted this ring in Aldo Accessories a few weeks ago, I knew it needed a new home on my finger. Even if it meant forcing a harassed sales associate to dig through backstock to find a ring sized small enough to fit my freakish baby hands.

Whatever. I work retail. I know full well that downtime is the enemy. She was secretly thrilled.

Aldo also carries an eagle (for all you Philadelphia fans out there!) and a goldfish (for all you new Pisces out there! EH? EH?). I'm just happy the flash panic over the "new zodiac" has subsided, as no one affected is old enough to so much as bang out a dramatic Facebook status/we all know I would have stubbornly stayed a Taurus anyway. Speaking of Facebook, here's a current event I'm much more concerned with: did anyone else notice that Zuck and his minions have changed the "Remove from Friends" button? It now reads "Unfriend." EW. WHAT. WHY. EW. I've always said "Defriend." I feel like my creative liberties concerning Facebook terminology have been yanked out from under me, right along with unique interests and the little box under my photo (may it rest in peace). Salt, meet wound.

Now enjoy a "did-she-just-say-what-I-think-she-just-said?" jam from girlcrush K. Perr to start your Wednesday off on the right...feather. (Note: I had to remove the mp3 I had originally posted after receiving a scary copyright infringement e-mail from Blogger. Turns out K. Perr and her people are really on top of things. Sorry!)

Fake it 'til you make it.

I have an exceptionally low tolerance for things that are fake. Fake people, fake Christmas trees, fake designer handbags, fake orgasms (don't be a quitter. You're only cheating yourself), fake conversations. You get the picture. With the exception of faux fur and the occasional diet Coke, I pride myself on only engaging in those pleasures in life that are 100% gin-u-wine.

Then, at an undisclosed point in the past week, my blog's title became wildly inaccurate.



And I joined the mighty legions of the bottle brunettes.

I know my ginger locks were rare and supposedly enviable. But they had been rare and enviable for upward of 21 years when I finally decided to do what I've been talking about since my junior year of high school and sample life as a sultry brownie. I've gotta say, guys: I don't know if I can ever go back. Ginger prejudice is real, y'all, and I didn't even know it until I was no longer on the receiving end. Strangers understand my sarcastic jokes better now that I'm a brunette. I get hit on less (in a good way). I no longer have to subconsciously match my clothes to my hair. This is the Em Aub Rob you're looking at for the foreseeable future, so you had better get used to it.

So here's the pressing issue: what shall I re-christen my blog?! La Vie en Chestnut? La Vie en Cinnamon? La Vie en Ginger[bread]? Sound off in the comments, please! I'm desperate for suggestions from minds more clever than my own.









Yesterday's Thanksgiving came hot on the heels of one hell of a fall. The past few months have tested me in ways I never imagined possible, but they have also taught me more about priorities and friendship and the strength of my own character than I could have hoped to glean from less trying times. As I sat down to consider my many blessings yesterday - family, friends, this vintage Ferragamo sweater I snapped up for less than the price of a Whole Foods grocery run - I was reminded to be thankful for the eternal possibility of change. Be it a new hair color, a paradigm shift or simply a switch in your daily coffee order, sometimes a new you can help you feel more like your old self than ever. And like all the best things in life, it doesn't cost a penny.



Sweater: Salvatore Ferragamo.
Dress: I Love H81.
Tights: L'Eggs.
Shoes: Zara.
Headband: Aldo.
Earrings: H&M.

Orange you glad it's fall?

Okay. I get it. You're sick of my nude bandage booties. I have heard your cries, and I have responded by purchasing:



A practical pair of knee-high orange suede moccasins. One of the perks of working at a resale store? First dibs on every outrageously cool item that rolls through the door (plus a discount on prices that are already way below sea level).





The neutral parade from last spring and summer marches on, as does my infatuation with henleys. It's like Animal Farm up in here: yes buttons good, no buttons bad. The chiffon side stripe and neck trim on this one had me at hello. Also, bike shorts are a thing now, but I'd recommend performing my leggings test before wearing them out of the house. I was going to say "taking them out for a spin," but here, the opposite is true; if you don't pass the leggings test, you should only take bike shorts out for a literal spin. As in spin class.



I prefer to spice up a blandly hued ensemble with some kind of a statement in the accessories department, be it a pair of out-there footwear or a tangle of bangles. In this case, I went for both. No watch (shocker!), but I did include a "coins of the world" bracelet that functions about the same as wearing jingle bells. No surprise tickle attacks for me.



Shirt: Jpark.
Shorts: Sketchy whore store in Astoria, Queens.
Boots: Minnetonka.
Earrings, rings, cuff and bracelets: Gifted or inherited.

Light coverage.

I feel like Taio Cruz and I would really hit it off, because I, too, throw my hands up in the air sometimes.



Presumably unlike Taio, I also attack my hair with craft scissors sometimes. I think my bangs look better a little shorter than most professional hairdressers are willing to believe, so I do minor touch-ups on my own. Fortunately, this trim went largely according to plan.



Leopard ring with a zebra shirt. Mixed animal prints is one of my favorite runway takeaways of the past year or so. The texture on this tank also makes the fact that it's basically see-through far less intimidating.



I already sang the praises of sheers in my Wang sweatshirt diatribe, and I think this outfit evidences my theory that semi-transparency is an excellent trend for those of us in the shapely-but-not-skinny club. If you disagree, I'm sorry to have offended your eyes. I also apologize for my highly primitive decor at the moment; I just moved into a new apartment a few days ago and furniture is about as far as I've gotten. Stay tuned for the surely epic transformation.

Shirt: Rock Revolution.
Bra: Jezebel.
Leggings: American Apparel.
Shoes: Deena & Ozzy.
Watch: Timex.
Ring: Street vendor in Astoria, Queens.
Earrings and necklace: Inherited.

Squared away.

Ah, Times Square: feared by natives, revered by tourists, thoroughly indescribable to anyone who has never experienced the madness. After spending five days a week in New York's legendary hub of overpriced sandwiches and overzealous humans wearing cardboard sandwiches (I'm going to make a t-shirt that says "I hate stand-up comedy" on one side and "bus tours are for quadriplegics" on the other), I've mastered the navigational tips that any NFT pamphlet will eagerly regale. But far above the impromptu subway concerts and the student rush lines towers a sleek skyscraper that challenges the carb-gobbling, sneaker-wearing culture of the area in which it stands. It is the Condé Nast building: home of Vogue and countless other internationally respected publications, and home of me for the last ten weeks.







(Embarrassing that I took these photos. In my defense, I did it before I was an employee.)

You've seen Ugly Betty and The Devil Wears Prada. You've heard urban myths of what goes on beyond the high-security turnstiles. And to be honest, Nasties are a lot like their fictional counterparts: a slender, well-dressed, workaholic bunch who have cultivated the kind of attitude that allows them to hold their own in a highly competitive and (to an extent) superficial industry like magazine journalism. Personally, I love it. I thrive on it. It's the pinnacle of New York's survival-of-the-fittest mentality; you don't come to this city expecting (or even wanting) to be coddled.

What Condé Nast employees aren't: soulless airheads only interested in prying their skim lattes from your quivering, worshipful fingers. These women (mostly) are ambitious, yes, but they are also fiercely intelligent and generous toward those who are willing to work hard. Sure, I did my share of prime time-worthy bitchwork (I'm too scared to post stories here, but ask me if you're curious. There are some winners), but I've always understood that you have to pay your dues when you're first starting out. And at Condé Nast, those dues come with some pretty sweet perks: fancy parties, free haircuts (with Bobbi Brown and Salma Hayek's stylist, no big deal), free food, free gym memberships, free reign on the beauty closet. Oh, and I guess, like, knowledge, or something. I got more out of the experience than I could have possibly imagined, and probably realize even now.

I chose to intern at a lifestyle magazine rather than a fashion magazine this summer, which was, quite honestly, the best decision I could have made. I enjoy fashion (I mean, kind of) (whatever) (wink, wink), but I've often questioned whether or not I could be satisfied by it as a career. After all, even this blog, which I suppose would be most accurately billed as a "fashion blog," is framed by my personal life and very much a product of my agenda. Writing for a magazine - adopting their voice, targeting their audience, pleasing their advertisers, adhering strictly to their views and purposes - is a whole different animal. It involves another set of skills that I'm equally interested in developing, but I have a sneaking suspicion that the glib, cyclical, business-oriented aspects of fashion journalism would drive me crazy after a while. Anyway, I'm not ruling it out, but I wanted to understand how the editorial process applies to other departments: fitness, nutrition, beauty, health, entertainment, sex. Fortunately, my internship confirmed my suspicions that writing is my first love. I'll be able to dress how I want no matter what I do; finding a way to make a living off of words is my first priority.

Anyway, I'm sure this is all very fascinating. My original plan for this post was to provide the dish on the "uniform" of each of Condé's magazines, a categorical distinction I gradually picked up on through stealthy observation of who pressed which buttons on the elevators. But here's the SparkNotes: Vogue girls do not wear skirts. They wear pants. Only pants. All pants, all the time. It's Pantsville. It's a veritable pants party. Preferably cropped. Sometimes pleated. But always of the pants-y variety.







I may be back in Evanston, Illinois (Chicago, let's go with Chicago), but I'm doing my best to bring a little Vogue to the Midwest. I used to abhor pants with every fiber of my being, but what can I say? They've grown on me. I love the laid-back flavor these green wool trousers bring to this crazy, shoulder-pad-inclusive floral bolero, which was a thrift store find in my even more obscure hometown of Vienna, Virginia.





This is how you know I'm an amateur fashion blogger. An expert would have made sure the clasp on her necklace was in back for the detail shot. Fail.

Jacket: Thrifted.
Tank: American Apparel.
Pants: Vintage Lord & Taylor.
Purse: Oroton.
Belt: Thrifted.
Shoes: Thrifted.
Earrings, necklace and watch: Inherited.

Cloudy with a chance of menswear.

It's been threatening to rain for three days now. I keep dressing down in anticipation. It has yet to so much as sprinkle. Infuriating. On the bright side, these fake-out forecasts have given me a chance to play with my approach to casualwear; namely, how to bring a little personality to jeans and a button-down.





This necklace is one of the few jewelry items I've ever actually purchased, having been lucky enough to inherit my weight in accessories from my late and formidably posh grandmother. It was my obsession this past fall and winter. The chain links are a combination of gunmetal and silver, though some are starting to go pink from where my perfume has rubbed off over time. Stah-ruggle.



No clunky Casio today. I thought the statement necklace begged for a one-metal color scheme and more delicate co-accessories. I'm a fan of how this particular watch adds a bit of sparkle without being excessively blinged out. Swarovski is not so much my jam.



Shirt: BDG.
Jeans: Forever 21.
Purse: Talon.
Shoes: Deena & Ozzy.
Earrings: Forever 21.
Necklace: Lou Lou boutique in Middleburg, VA.
Watch and rings: Inherited.

La Parisienne.

I love everything French. (Okay, not French dressing. I’m actually morally opposed to salad dressing. Don’t get me started.) I took five years of Spanish in middle and high school after being told it would be more useful in the "real world" (attention to all those with aspirations in a fashion-related industry: this is a lie), but I’m one-eighth French and exceedingly proud of it. When it comes to design, food and general worldview (okay, maybe not military tactics), there’s no denying that the French know best.

No surprise, then, that I spritzed on my YSL Parisienne perfume this morning and left my apartment feeling decidedly fierce.





If I'm going out, I usually strap on a cute balconette bra under this dress and embrace the cleavage buffet approach. For work, I layered it over a lace tank to make the ensemble a tad more office-appropes. Even Condé Nast has its limits.



If you're into this look, you would die over Paris-based Denni Elias's blog, Chicmuse. She's all about the legs, lips and massive platforms (and even heart-shaped sunglasses in her latest post). Her charming, quirky style is one of my favorite pools to dip into when I need a little style inspiration. Or workout inspiration. Those legs. No homo.

Tank: Kimchi Blue.
Dress: Kimchi Blue.
Shoes: BCBGirls.
Sunglasses: H&M.
Bracelet: Gifted.
Ring: Inherited.

The good war.

The dress that can go from the office to the outdoor flea market is a rare and precious find. I typically accessorize this sweet, peek-a-back floral number with brown leather Ralph Lauren platform sandals and traditional gold jewelry. For a casual half-day of work followed by an afternoon of gallivanting around the city (one love summer Fridays), however, I decided to "downtown" things up with a surplus belt and ankle boots.









I think the reason this mishmash works despite the divergent styles of the dress and the accessories is the common color thread. The green in the belt picks up on the green in the dress, as do the gemstones in the rings. Similarly, the black-and-white ribbon in the hat keeps the dark footwear from looking too heavy. Blending different styles is all about creating balance in the head-to-toe look.

Dress: Reformed.
Belt: Vintage.
Purse: Vintage.
Shoes: Bamboo.
Hat: Street vendor in Astoria, Queens.
Rings: Inherited.

Cotton candy.

You know these pants were the loser pants at the thrift store. They were the pants all the other pants made fun of after the owner went home for the night. Some teenage girl's mom wore them to her birthday party, and it. Was. Mortifying.







But all they needed was a pair of snakeskin platforms to lift them out of their life of anguish.

T-shirt: Zara.
Pants: Vintage.
Belt: Vintage.
Shoes: BCBGirls.
Earrings: Forever 21.
Ring: Inherited.

Dyed and tied.

I had planned on taking a timeout from my rampant narcissism this weekend (to resume on Monday with the work week, duhzies), but then the best thing ever happened. I left to buy groceries this morning to find ten blocks of carnival outside my door. Not one to shy away from an opportunity to ogle one-of-a-kind pieces (or haggle with street vendors), I made a beeline for the nearest ATM and took a few laps to see what the local artisans had to offer. Sure enough, I left an hour and a half later with a funky straw hat, a leather fanny pack in the perfect shade of tobacco, a fistful of hand-painted rings, a beautiful Indian wrap skirt that can be tied 21 different ways, and this dress:





So into the unexpected combo of lilac and orange. I've been wanting a tie-dye dress for a while now, and this one will make for perfect weekend thrifting/poolside lounging attire.

Dress: Street vendor in Astoria, Queens.
Hat: H&M.
Earrings: Forever 21.
Ring: Street vendor in Astoria, Queens.
Cuff: Inherited.

Floral terrace.

Just as I was emotionally preparing myself for a summer of awkward lurking in Bryant Park, it dawned on me. I have a balcony. Well, a fire escape. I've always had a thing for fire escapes. They're this magical fusion between two of my favorite things: cities and being outside. So suck it, haters. It's a balcony. This girl's got a room with a view.

Today was a day for gray-on-gray and floral hipster glasses.







It took a while for the fashion industry to sell me on sweats as a fashion statement, but it happened. Much like how I'm now slowly but surely developing an affinity for clogs (blame it on Miu Miu). These H&M high-waisted jersey harem pants were the straw that broke this camel's back.



The white, yellow and rose gold bracelet in the middle is my all-time fave. Delicate and feminine, yet subtly unexpected.



Bodysuit: Forever 21.
Pants: H&M.
Shoes: Deena & Ozzy.
Glasses: Street vendor in East Village.
Watch: Casio.
Earrings, rings and bracelets: Gifted or inherited.