Buying Other Peoples’ Things Is Very Grown Up.

When I was growing up, my family didn’t have a ton of money (see: raised by hippie artist types), so a lot of my clothes were hand-me downs or thrifted.  I remember the point I realized that not every clothing store carried only one of each article of clothing.  Looking back, I don’t think I thought it was strange to be wearing a souvenir shirt for a place I’d never been (one of these days, I will get to Hawaii!).  In high school, my wardrobe was full of vintage slips and secondhand children’s t-shirts.  In my home growing up as well as my subsequent apartments, probably 75% the things once belonged to someone else.*  I guess I, like so many people I know, am just a sucker for cool, weird shit that someone else didn’t want.

Which is lucky, because there’s a brand spankin’ new flea market in Somerville, just a short walk from our apartment.  In prior weeks, I’ve scored some kitschy wall art, a bunch of earrings, and a sweet vintage bathing suit (more pics of that to come soon).  My lady Jenny Z, a lover (and purveyor) of all things vintage and wonderful, hadn’t been yet, so we hit it up last Sunday, 90-degree heat and all.

to market


Lovely Jenny Z.


Me and J-Z.



I wanted this, but couldn’t imagine carrying it in that heat.


omg shoes.

Husband wanted to buy this painting to put in our bathroom. I wasn’t convinced.


no thank you

oh hi.


Husband. You can see the polka dot skirt I ended up getting to the left of some green stripes.


Sandal weather.

no thanks again.

Sweat notwithstanding, it was a successful trip.  Jenny got a bunch of stuff, including this bracelet:

I picked up a vintage skirt, some maple sugar candy, and these old photos:

That little girl in the kimono looks eerily like me as a kid.

And our friend Dan Blakeslee was playing:


When we got home, the husband kindly agreed to help me with my first-ever outfit photos.  It was (as I’ve mentioned) super steamy out that day, which inevitably brings out my dirty bohemian hippie side.  I just got this dress at the Gap (not something I do often!) and have totally fallen in love with it.

Why yes, I did go braless.

(dress – Gap / sandals – MIA / earrings (if you can see them!) – thrifted / camera bag (greatest thing ever) – Jo Totes)

All in all, what I’d call a Nice Little Sunday.  Davis Square Flea, thank you for making my summer.  Oh, and be sure to check out Jenny’s new blog, too.

* When settling into my first apartment in Boston, I kept finding little items I’d put out in the common areas would mysteriously reappear back in my bedroom.  I asked my friend/roommate about it; his response was “TOO MANY KNICKKNACKS!”


Emily Meets Burlesque, or: How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Cover Myself in Glitter

From the moment I had any say in the matter, I was a girly girl.  This was actually quite a feat, in light of the way I was raised.  Those of you born in the late 70s and early 80s may remember the gender-neutral child-rearing that was popular with many baby boomer types.  I was no exception; at any given time you could find me in the corduroy overalls and primary colors with muted browns and beiges that were de rigeur for any self-respecting hippie parent.  I didn’t have any strong notions of femininity forced on me; for instance, I have no memories of my mother putting on makeup or perfume.

Litte gender-neutral Emily and her feminist mama.

However, as early as I can remember, I wanted to be pretty and feminine and adored.  As I got a little older, this became more specific: I was totally in awe of the bombshell, the femme fatale.  By the time I turned ten, I’d discovered – and idolized – Marilyn Monroe and Jessica Rabbit (who I tried to emulate by draping my hair over one eye – I suspect the effect probably wasn’t the same).

The thing is, I was never fed these images.  If anything, it was quite the opposite: I sought them out.  I wanted to know everything there was to know about how to be feminine and seductive.  My early make-believe games centered around scandal-ridden movie starlets and prostitutes (no, really).  And don’t get me wrong: I’m pretty sure this was met with a healthy dose of parental feminism (and well-concealed raised eyebrows, no doubt).  But still, they let me be me.  It’s not that I wasn’t given the opportunity to choose for myself between pink and blue or Barbies and Legos.  It’s just that Barbie almost always won.  And then I’d take her clothes off.

For some reason I was just totally fascinated by the idea of that femininity and sexuality could hold their own innate power.  Somehow, I understood this from a very early age (and yes, I knew about sex from a very early age).  I don’t know if I’ll ever really know why.  But for whatever reason, it seems to have been nature – not nurture – that made me into the flirtatious, glitter-loving, attention-seeking creature I am today.  All my parents did was let that person run free.

Early self-expression.

Of course, it wasn’t always that easy.  Like (far too) many women, I grappled with body image issues throughout my adolescence and most of my twenties.  Suddenly my body wasn’t my friend, and I didn’t feel like that powerful, sexy persona was attainable anymore.  After years of ups and downs (on the scale and in my self-esteem), I had a life-changing moment: I saw my first live burlesque show.  Sure, I’d heard a bit about the neo-burlesque scene, and was secretly fascinated by it.  But the idea of doing it myself?  No way.  That felt wrong, almost narcissistic.   Maybe if my body was “better.”  You know: flatter stomach, smaller chest, fewer scars, longer legs, all that.   But that all went out the window when I saw a show for myself.  I saw women of every shape imaginable on that stage.  Women who looked how I thought I was supposed to look, and women who looked how I actually look.  And they all looked beautiful and sexy and so very happy.  And that’s when I knew I had to to get up there too.

…and so I did!  I took classes, I volunteered, I did my research, and I bought my first pair of pasties (red sequined stars, for those who are curious).  By the time I entered Rogue‘s amateur competition, I must have done something right, because, lo and behold, I won.  Somehow, after years of self-doubt, I found myself comfortable in my skin again.  It took a long time, but I could finally be the confident, sexy, powerful woman I’d been so fascinated by when I was young.  A year and a half later, I’ve joined the troupe as a full-time member.  And I’ll share a secret with you: I’m pretty sure I weigh the most I have ever in my life.  And yet, this is the happiest I’ve been in my body since I was a kid.

Taking it off.

I’m not saying the only way to self-acceptance is to get up on stage and show off your ta-tas.  But it was certainly what I needed to do to remember that whatever my body looks like, it is a miraculous, magical, beautiful thing, and it is mine.


Footnote: I actually started writing this because I really want to talk about burlesque and feminism.  It’s come to my attention recently that there is the opinion out there that all neo-burlesque is inherently un-feminist.  Obviously, burlesque is a topic I feel very strongly about, and I really do want to discuss this, but I felt like it was necessary to provide a bit of my background first.  So stay tuned for part two!