Rocker Chic: Good Friends Mean You Don't Give a Flying...

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I walked into our apartment last night, barefoot from 14 hours in sky high heels (after months of nothing beyond 3"), and H had this video on his laptop screen. He does that. He'll get on the internet and go down a rabbit hole. Last night, The Doors movie started it, and he ended up with Bon Scott as a schoolgirl. I didn't ask.

"The best thing about this," I said, watching it over his shoulder, "is that they don't give a flying [expletive]."

There's an unadulterated joy in this video. Sure, could be it was helped along with, um, substances, and sure, they're bona fide rock stars in the early days of video (when really, they were the best. ever.) in too-long hair and too-tight clothes. But underneath it all, they didn't give a shit and they were having an absolute blast. There was no pretentious strutting, there were no googly eyes at the camera, and there was nary a selfie in sight. The way it should be.

Photo courtesy of the nice man Rosana asked on the street, then Allie edited on her phone. Because I suck at that shit.

Despite having an electronic record of our togetherness (but we did ditch the selfie and actually asked a passerby to snap this pic, which had us in stitches for 100 reasons), that's precisely how I felt about last night. Last night, I met up with two women I met on the internet. We met because of perhaps the most pretentious industry out there. At any rate, fashion is the most vain, concerned always about appearances. It is appearances, defined. We talked about our industry. We lamented our missing compadres. We shared thoughts large and small. We had chipwiches.

The defining moment of our night came maybe the night before, when we were messaging to confirm plans, when one of us wrote how glad she was to be meeting up with us and how awesome it was to not think a lick about what she was wearing or how she looked. With "fashion people." Heck, with anyone, nowadays, it feels an incredible luxury to be one's self, open and unguarded, unconcerned about appearances. It's pure gold when you find it.

Don't you worry, now, we three looked positively respectable. We even peeked into a fashion event. But that wasn't the point of the night. Instead, we connected, we snorted (with laughter), we consoled, we planned, and we fed off of each other in the most delicious way. And it's all because we don't give a flying [expletive].

Bon Scott, you late star you, I think I'll borrow your look next time we're out.

Fashion Blogger Hires a Stylist. For Realz.

You know what you figure out when you search your own blog for the last post you did on cleaning out your closet, which you swear was not too long ago?

You figure out that it was in 2011.

Really.

See?

My August 2011 Accessories Cabinet Cleaning. Seriously. It's been that long.

I'm sure - I know - I've cleaned it out since then. At one point early this year, I even had clothes separated out into the Piles Every Stylist Says You Should Make When Cleaning Your Closet: Keep, Donate, and Maybe They Can Be Tailored.

And then we started #OperationPrettyHouse, beginning with painting our bedroom, in which All of the Piles were sitting, and I had to toss them back into the closet. Actually, H did. he hung them nicely, and sorta kept the organization from the piles, but all of the "Maybe They Can Be Tailored" pieces, most of which I really suspect can't be tailored, but I just can't give them up, are hanging there, smooshing the things I can wear now.

So about a month and a half ago, I emailed the savviest stylist I know, Rosana of DC Style Factory, and begged. Direct quote:

"I need official, real, closet help. I need to hire you for a closet audit as soon as you can fit me in. Desperate."

I then launched into the details of the problem, with formal, official closet analytics:

80-90% of the closet is "iffy or completely wrong in the fit department." #healthyme is taking its toll on my wearable clothing
5% OK for work
5% is great for going out
1 pair of trousers that fit me that are ok for work
1 skirt that fits me and is ok for work (a desperate Target purchase)
I make do with creative recycling and ill-fitting clothing
I was hanging onto a whole bunch of stuff hoping I can tailor it
I have not gotten anywhere near the tailor
95 little jackets I use to cover up tanks and Ts that aren't really office appropriate but it's a look I couldn't wear before #healthyme, so i'm in love

And the critical issue? I have a fashionista's dream: 2 large gift certificates to Fancy Stores with which I can strategically change that frustrating closet described above. One we scored at an auction for way below the value. One is courtesy of a grateful business colleague for making a connection to some significant work for his business. He knows me well.

But I refuse, absolutely refuse, to spend that amount of money - gifted or otherwise - without having a really solid understanding of my closet, what's in it, what works, and what I "need." (Because "need" is all relative, isn't it?)

So tomorrow after work, Rosana will ring my doorbell. I'll cross my fingers our nanny can distract The Beans while Rosana and I tear through the closet and Figure This Out. It may be worthy of spectators.

Maybe we should sell tickets. Chelsea of the chelsea chronicles is in...

As a Regular Woman, I need help. As a Fashion Blogger addicted to makeover shows, I've been curious for  years about the experience. I know I have emotional attachments to Clothing I Should Not Be Wearing. I'm curious to see what she'll make me toss, what she'll let me keep. I'm curious as to how much skill-building (i.e. ability to make those choices for myself, vice the sequined mini skirts being forcefully torn from my fingers) we'll do.

And then, like the good Fashionista I am, I'll. Go. Shopping.

And then, like the good Fashion Blogger I am, I'll Instagram it.