A Firsthand Accounting of 2011 and my Year in (Mostly Secondhand) Clothes

It was a hard year in many ways. I finished radiation treatment for my brain tumor, and had to leave the South Pacific to return to the northeastern US - to my old life. We had sublet our house (since we had expected to be gone until July 2011), so we moved into an apartment on the west side of Providence. I went back to the same office at Brown, and while there is comfort in what is familiar, there were times when I felt like I had stepped back several years in my career and that I was once again doing the very tasks I had sought to escape. Thanks, cancer.

However, I'm not one to dwell too much on the past and on what's negative. I've been tremendously blessed by love and support over this past year. My work situation may not be ideal, but I'm fortunate to have a job with terrific colleagues and with amazing health insurance that fully covers the $18K a year in MRIs that I get, as well as the consultations with my wonderful new oncologist. 

And I have more flexibility in my schedule now. I meet my daughter most days when she gets off the school bus, and for the first time in my adult life, I haven't worked full-time. That's been freeing, as was, perhaps ironically, turning 40. Between brain cancer and my (advancing) age, it's easier than ever to just not give a fuck about what people think. Last winter and spring, before I was allowed to drive again, I took the bus back and forth to work. Unless it was freezing out, I didn't wear a hat. Here's a family pic from early April (taken on the High Line in NYC). You can see that I was pretty bald:

But I didn't give a fuck. I still had my fabulous quilted orange vest, and my eBay Celine scarf, and most importantly, the two girls I love most sitting next to me. And so when punks on the bus would menacingly stare at me and my bald head, I'd stare back, thinking, What the hell are you looking at? Yeah, that's right. You think you can intimidate me? My brain tumor is far scarier than your punk-ass 15-year-old self. And once I met their gazes long enough, they'd stop staring.

This attitude also meant that it was time to stop being an apologist for my absolute love of clothes and secondhand shopping. I might be an academic, but I refuse to wear clogs and a drab palette. (Filmmaker John Waters thinks clogs are "the most offensive shoe known to man," and I am inclined to agree.) There's too much fun to be had in clothes to limit myself to wearing shades of gray... even if my worldview insists on thinking in nuances and shades of gray. I take pleasure in clothes and in textiles and design, in crafting outfits that are sometimes performative and that wink at my Fairfield County upbringing. Yes, I'm a preppy queer feminist who loves Lilly Pulitzer and Tory Burch (when I find their clothes secondhand, of course). And horse racing. In the words of Walt Whitman, "I am large, I contain multitudes."

So as 2011 draws to a close, I want to take a moment to highlight some of my favorite things this year. First, aside from the vest pictured above (and elsewhere on this blog) and my bright pants, it's also been a great year for orange accessories, although this is hardly an exhaustive inventory: 

Cuff bracelet by Leighelena, Dovecote, Westport, CT

Boiled wool felt ring, Cocoon, Istanbul, Turkey

The stunning Hermès "Voyage en Etoffes" scarf (by Annie Faivre), a Christmas gift from my generous, fun cousins

Believe it or not, however, my wardrobe does indeed extend beyond orange! Here are some of my best finds of the year:

This tunic, by Catherine Ogust, was known as the "Burma" shirt (thank you, Couture Allure Vintage Fashion blog), and probably dates from about 1970. It was in impeccable condition when I found it at Savers last summer for $4.99. Here I wear it with white Trina Turk pants (eBay), a Coach scarf (consignment), a ridiculous pair of sandals that have pink pom-poms (consignment), and a vintage pink Lucite bracelet ($1, thrift store)... plus a wonderfully bright and totally ridiculous Lilly Pulitzer bag that my friend Max bought me. 

In this ensemble I feel like I could have been an extra on the set of The Swimmer. I've never actually seen the film - although clips are available on YouTube - but it was first a fantastic John Cheever story about (what else?) anomie in suburban Connecticut. Seriously, who hasn't felt that in Fairfield County? What was it I was saying about clothing being performative? 

Another clear favorite this year was the Missoni top I found for 3 euros at a flea market in Porto Ercole, Italy, in July:

And I've found some great (non-orange) accessories, too:

Celine scarf, Savers, $4.99

Vintage leopard fur clip earrings, 25 cents, yard sale*

Vintage suede and metal belt, 25 cents, yard sale

Tod's loafers with (yes!) orange tassels, $99 but worth it, consignment store 

*Let me be clear that I would never buy nor wear new fur products. What should the ethics be of wearing vintage fur? I'm undecided. If vintage fur isn't worn, what becomes of it? Landfills? Do people bring their grandmothers' old mink stoles out to the woods and leave them to disintegrate? (I do wear leather, and I do eat meat 2-3 days a week.) All I know is that these things are complicated.

I am happy to say that I had a strong finish to my year in secondhand shopping. This nautical Kate Spade tote was $15.99 at the West Warwick Salvation Army thrift store on December 27. It needed one new $2 rivet to fix the handle. Done and done, and good as new:

Finally, the year ended on a couple of very, very bright notes: I found the vintage pink cashmere sweater at Savers last week, and on December 30, I found this Averardo Bessi top at Savers as well, along with the orange Gap Body t-shirt beneath it. Bessi was a former designer for Pucci who opened his own design house in 1950. Still, with its big bright paisleys, the resemblance to Pucci is unmistakable:

I'm hoping for a 2012 that is characterized by continued good health, published writing (I'll keep the dream alive), falling in love with new books and poetry and music and art, more snorkeling, time laughing with the people I love, seeing Lucero live (they're coming to PVD in April!), personal bests in distance and time for running, and, of course, the new and wonderful secondhand finds that will be revealed in time. 

That seems like a pretty good set of resolutions. 

Happy New Year. Love what you wear, and dress well.

Namaste,

Kelley

Indian textiles

Where to begin? For someone as obsessed with textiles, colors, and patterns as I am, India was a non-stop visual feast. This was our room at Shahpura House, a "heritage hotel," in Jaipur. We'd never before stayed anywhere with such fabulous bedlinens. 

It seemed that nearly every surface at Shahpura House was painted and carved in and with traditional Rajasthani patterns and details:

Ceiling view

Common area

Despite the fact that we were in India primarily to attend the wedding of the wonderful Gayatri Singh and Benjamin Clark, most of the photographs I took were of art and architectural details, like the above, and at City Palace in Jaipur. This is one of my favorite shots from the trip, and is of a corner:

But wait, you say: isn't this blog about clothes? Of course it is. Of course. And the shopping in India was as marvelous as I had hoped. We (I) wisely packed 2 extra bags inside our checked luggage so that we could get everything home. Here are just a few samples of clothes I bought, each representing different textile traditions from South Asia.

At FabIndia, I found this black sleeveless top which has Kashmiri-style crewelwork embroidery, which I actually wore under my wedding sari (shhh!):

At Anokhi, I bought an indigo-dye top with lovely red contrast detail on the button loops:

And at Soma, I fell in love with the circular block print designs on this top, which has a solid brown border and a jaunty cut on the bottom:

Of course, it wouldn't have been a trip to Soma without buying a bright silk chiffon block print scarf. So many times on this trip I thought, "Hooray for marigold yellow and marigold orange!" 

I also found my new favorite pants at Soma. They're more of a Western cut (I don't love the baggy drawstring thing on most Indian pants - not at 5' tall), and they're machine washable... unlike that crewelwork top and (oh god) that indigo shirt. 

Best of all, though, was when I found the little pendant painting of Ganesh at the City Palace shop in Jaipur, pictured here on the new Soma pants, because I realized that Ganesh and I were wearing THE SAME PANTS. 

There's so much more to muse about - the cultural collisions of old and new India everywhere we turned, other block prints and embroidery traditions (in which I'll bust out photos of my Bangladesh purchases from 2008), Turkish tilework from our whirlwind 36 hours in Istanbul, and a year-end roundup, but I'm going to sign off for now with one last picture, showing that there's good design in India even on matchbooks:

Namaste,

Kelley

Stay frosty

It's been five weeks since I last posted, due to a perfect storm of ongoing family health issues, the momentum of the teaching semester, and freelance work (in addition to the other things that always keep me busy). 

November in southern New England was "unseasonable." I was running in shorts some days, as it was 60 degrees outside and positively balmy. Dogwood and apple trees were blossoming. As Sam said, "This weather would be lovely if it didn't seem like a sign of the apocalypse." 

There was frost on the ground just the other day, cold enough to finally warrant a wool coat and warm hat. I love both the bright "poppy" color and the cut of this Charles Nolan coat, which I found at a consignment store. I've had the ultrasuede Alessandra Bacci hat for years - it came from Marshall's - and it's served me well through many winters. The Indian silk scarf was a gift.

Sometimes, of course, my clothing is not so much joyful as it is performative (although I'd argue that all clothes are performative, even when it's not obvious). I like to think that this outfit - especially when paired with my black leather jacket - makes me look like some version of a bad girl at a Catholic school, the kind of girl you'd cut class and smoke a joint with behind the gym (think Tammy Metzler in "Election"). 

Shirt and vest, Thomas Pink. Scarf (as tie), Hermes, on loan. 

Belt, Tommy Hilfiger, thrift store. Skirt, Berger and Mikkelson, New Zealand thrift store.

And sometimes "performative" means wearing clothes that are walking studies of colors and patterns, like this riot of black and white against the pop of a bright wool felt skirt. This mod coat was a 30th birthday gift from my dear friends John and Ester, and had belonged to John's grandmother. She must have been exactly my size, because I didn't need to have it hemmed. The knit tunic top has appeared on this blog before - it came from a flea market in Porto Ercole, Italy, and I suspect it's Missoni (it lacks a label but does have a "Made in Italy" tag inside). The bag is by Orla Kiely (a consignment store purchase), and while the pattern is of flatware, I think it also vaguely resembles a city skyline.

I aim to post more before I depart for Delhi next Saturday, but it's going to be a crazy week, with preparations for the trip, the last day of class, and, more importantly, my next MRI and followup with the oncologist. 

Here's a little autumn inspiration until my next post: pink dogwood, blooming in November, and some really gorgeous leaves from Boston (the roundish ones with the tie-dye effect are birch).

Does this mean the End Times are near? 

Until next time, Namaste, and dress well.

Kelley

Memory and Control

Clothes have always played a critical role in my memory, and remembering them, or recalling where I was, and with whom, in a certain outfit, helps to anchor my past for me. I don't look to previous clothes as symbols of bad or good fashion or as relics of material culture, but rather as deeply personal expressions of self that I recall with affection. 


It continues to happen. Last summer, longing for the right pair of espadrilles that wouldn't cost a fortune, I recalled that I had exactly the right espadrilles back in the mid-1980s that I bought at a store called Tano, then on Main St. in my hometown of Ridgefield, CT. I remembered how they were hot pink, and had several strips of narrow grosgrain ribbon in green, yellow, and lavender across the top of the shoe, and how those narrow ribbons then tied around my ankle, like a toe shoe would in ballet. They weren't the most comfortable or the most practical shoes, but I'm hard-pressed, lo these many years later, to think of something cuter. 


What I didn't remember is that there was visual evidence of these fabulous shoes, so I was lucky to stumble upon this old photo the other day. Here I am in my living room at 13 years old in 1984, holding my foster sister Na Young Park and preppily attired in an Izod Lacoste shirt, some kind of Lilly Pulitzer-like skirt, and my beloved espadrilles:

These days, though, clothes don't just anchor my memories. Certainly, thrift store and consignment shopping has always, always been a sport for me, as many can attest. In high school I often used to show up for dinner at my friend Kate's house wearing my latest finds, one of which was once a strapless magenta Victor Costa dress. And I suppose I get something of a high from the finding, and from the "construction" of well-coordinated outfits.


Yet clothes have taken on a new significance in the year since my diagnosis, and I realized recently that it's all about control. If I have been reminded of anything over the past year, it is that control is mostly an illusion. Yes, I can and do make good decisions about diet and exercise and the like, but I cannot control when my tumor will start to grow again, as it surely will, despite last year's surgery and the wonderfully advanced radiation I was fortunate enough to receive. Cancer does not discriminate. Similarly, no amount of prenatal testing (not that I opted for any at all) could have predicted that my daughter would be born with severe meconium aspiration syndrome and spend the first month of her life in NICUs, learning to breathe and eat on her own. 


What does this all mean for me? Well, it's that I have accepted that I have to cede control over these big issues of life and death (literally), and will do so as long as I am able to exercise smaller controls such as choosing my clothes with care and loving my wardrobe perhaps more than I should. To do so, I believe, is an affirmation, and celebrates this fragile life in the face of my - and our collective - absolute and certain mortality. 


Two recent moving and brave, brave pieces underscored, once again, this lack of control; how truly living also means acknowledging that we are letting go. Terry Gross could interview a mute donkey on "Fresh Air" and I'd still listen - she's that good an interviewer. Her conversation with poet Marie Howe, who often writes about loss, was one of the most honest I've ever heard  about death, grief, and, to use Howe's phrase, "what the living do." Along the same lines, Emily Rapp's wrenching essay for The New York Times chronicles what it's like to parent a young child with a terminal illness. Rapp's son has Tay-Sachs disease, despite prenatal tests that (falsely) came back negative, and he will die before he is three years old. Listen, read, weep, and join me in affirming the beauty and difficult truths in each. 


To return, perhaps mundanely, to my own celebrations of self and life inherent in my wardrobe choices, here are some recent pictures of what I've been wearing:

The orange pants strike again in a little cord on cord action. 

Shades of brown in my all-consignment ensemble: Trina Turk capelet 

(as seen on "Gossip Girl" several years ago), Tory Burch skirt, and Sigerson Morrison boots

J. Crew cashmere sweater and turtleneck (consignment) 

and THE BEST EVER bright orange down vest by Lilly Pulitzer (Wheeler School clothing sale)

There may be things about cold weather that are really unpleasant, 

but not the lining of this vest! Lions and tigers and Lilly, oh my!

Finally, there is an apple blossom on the tree in our yard. It is the end of October, so it won't last - like so much - but it was too beautiful not to stop, appreciate, and document.

Namaste. 

Dress well.

Blue

Some albums suit certain seasons. 

For twenty years now, October has been the month when I think, "I need to listen to Joni Mitchell's Blue." (Caveat: last October, experiencing the existential fear and angst of a brain tumor diagnosis and emergency neurosurgery in New Zealand, I wanted as much escapist pop as possible.)

I don't recall what circuitous route brought me to Blue, which singer-songwriters then in heavy rotation on my CD player kept citing it as an influence. I knew of Joni already by that point: I owned her arguably more "accessible" Ladies of the Canyon album, which included "Big Yellow Taxi," "Woodstock" (covered by Crosby, Stills, and Nash) and "The Circle Game" (which has always sounded like it belongs in a montage in a Lifetime movie). And it seemed like every newly-minted "lesbian" on campus could quote the chorus to the song "Both Sides Now" off Joni's Clouds album.

Something was different for me about Blue. I only know that when I first heard the opening lines to "All I Want," with the repetition of "traveling, traveling, traveling, traveling" like the momentum of new love itself, I simultaneously wondered why I hadn't always listened to it and felt as though I had always known it. (This would happen again a few years later, when I first heard Joan Armatrading, an introduction that was equally overdue.)

It's an album full of deep melancholy and longing. Say what you will about the cliche of associating such emotions with seasonal change/falling leaves/crisp New England weather: it holds true for me, as I've been reminded the past few days.


But there are different kinds of blues, and on a truly different "blue" note, I got out the navy and white Ferragamo spectator shoes on Tuesday and wore them for the first time since early May 2010 (they've been carefully boxed, because I knew they'd never survive the tropics). These are one of my favorite ever eBay purchases, not only because they make me feel like I could dance like Michael Jackson or that I belong in this scene, but because they were only $30 or something ridiculous:

I paired these with another great eBay purchase, my Marc Jacobs wool pinstripe pants with the hot pink piping (just visible in photo above).

To top it off (so to speak), I wore a shiny Thomas Pink shirt with cufflinks from IMOOI that I bought in April at the RISD Museum Store the day after my first post-radiation visit to my new oncologist. Sometimes you need a reward - and sometimes you just don't want to struggle with the cheap nylon versions of "silk knot" cufflinks.

While I'll never have a collection of shirts like Jonathan Adler and Simon Doonan, ("covet," indeed! and Adler's belt!) these cufflinks brighten anything in French cuffs. Even melancholy me.

Soma

Textiles produced by Soma, Jaipur, Rajasthan, India

Back in 2002, Sam and I took a great road trip from Rhode Island through the southern US. The first part of our trip took us through Virginia and North Carolina. We spent a night with friends in Dublin, VA, who took us to hear local bluegrass music at a venue where women were flatfooting. We then drove to Merlefest and heard two more days' worth of outstanding bluegrass and Americana music, including a "workshop" set by Gillian Welch and David Rawlings, who answered complicated audience questions like, "It sounds like you're using a modified drop-[XX] tuning in 'By the Mark.' Can you tell me how you came up with that?" 

Before we headed west toward Tennessee, we spent a lovely afternoon in Asheville, NC, where there was a shop that sold glorious hand-blocked textiles produced by the company Soma, based in Jaipur in the Indian state of Rajasthan. I was a little overcome by the selection even in that one store, but bought a scarf in pinks and greens that I wear to this day. While I realize there are many reasons to visit Jaipur, that lone scarf sparked a travel fantasy of textile shopping in Rajasthan. 

This fantasy will soon be a reality, because today we bought tickets to travel to a friend's wedding in Delhi in December. We'll be arriving a few days before the festivities so that we can go to Jaipur and I can fill up a spare suitcase with gaily colored fabrics like those depicted above.  

Cardi

Despite my love of many things Kiwi, I never did quite get used to New Zealanders' tendency to shorten certain words into precious diminutive versions -  e.g., "rellies" for relatives, "brekkie" for breakfast, "brelly" for umbrella. You get the idea. (I know it's not unique to NZ - this seems to be something they do in Australia, too.) 

So I won't call what I'm wearing above a "cardi" - especially because where I live, "Cardi" refers to one of these guys.

Still, this was one of those purchases that has proved more versatile than I thought it would. It's wool, for starters, and the bright tomato red color is not only cheering, but seems like something Anna Wintour would wear. I mean that in a good way - powerful, and like no one will f*ck with me. 

Shopping Guide: Tory Burch cardigan, consignment. Theory blouse, Wheeler School annual used clothing sale. Vintage Pucci bandana, eBay. Tory Burch bracelet, consignment. Earnest Sewn jeans, consignment. 

How do you measure a year?

October 12, 2011. Note ubiquitous Indian scarf - this one found on a field after a festival - paired with a really great find: a knit cotton top, made in Italy and likely Missoni, that I found at a flea market in Porto Ercole in July.

I don’t wear headphones when I run, preferring to find out what songs come naturally to my mind and body as I go. There are mornings when Stevie Wonder’s “Superstition” sets my pace, and times when far less exalted music – such as K$sha’s “Tik Tok” – determines the rhythm of my feet on the pavement. The other morning, tired and coming up a slightly hilly home stretch, I found myself mentally singing “Seasons of Love” from the Broadway musical Rent. It poses a question: “How do you measure, measure a year?” And this is a question much on my mind, because somehow, it’s been more than a year since my seizure, and it’s now the anniversary of my diagnosis.

My friend Frances asked me recently if it all seems very distant. There are aspects of my time in New Zealand that still feel so close and familiar as to be palpable – even now, I’m certain that it’s ingrained in my memory how to get from Auckland Radiation Oncology to the apartment in Hauraki. I know I could recognize the creaky, croaky call of the Tui; remember how the volcanic island of Rangitoto dominated the view from shore at St. Heliers Bay and Takapuna Beach; can still see how the Norfolk Island pine at the end of the driveway was silhouetted against each night’s sunset. I remember the tastes of whole milk passionfruit yogurt by The Collective; Tawari honey; the hand-cut Dan-Dan noodles Jesse and I slurped by the bowlful.

Other details have blurred from those first days, if they were ever clear. I can recall the week between my diagnosis and my neurosurgery only in very specific snapshots and sensory memories: Sam crying by the elevator when we first left the neurosurgeon’s office; how Yani made a sage and browned butter sauce for pasta that first night. How both my father and Steve had the same first reaction to my news, when I called from Dan and Yani’s, which was to utter the word “Shit.” I remember hearing that my sister was traveling for work in Houston, and so was going to be with Jesse and his dad.

The weekend before I went to the hospital, we moved into a vacant furnished apartment that Yani knew about, and Carson took pictures of me and Sam on the muddy tidal flats where the mangroves held the shore in thick, twisted roots. They are, of course, the last photos I have of myself when my skull was intact, before it had a topography. At some point that week I lost a favorite scarf – it wasn’t anything special, just the cheap Indian cotton/rayon type that is ubiquitous among female grad students of a certain stripe. (But it was my ubiquitous cheap Indian scarf, and I had bought it in Kenya!) At some point I watched “Camp Rock 2” on TV and not only wasn’t even embarrassed, but kind of liked Demi Lovato’s voice. At some point my parents arrived. I think it was the day before my surgery, when I had my functional MRI, but I’m not sure. 

And then, oddly enough, things begin to come into sharper focus. Perhaps that’s because, by the time I went to the hospital, I was already beginning to come to terms with what was happening. The night before my surgery, I cried and prayed with Terry, a Methodist minister in Auckland, who would prove to be a dear and steadfast friend. The anesthesiologist, a stylish young woman named Kim, asked me about different health habits, including how much alcohol I typically drank in a week, and joked as an aside, “Probably not as much as me.” I wrote lyrics from the song “The Orchids” – covered by Califone – in my journal: And in the morning after night / I fall in love with the light.

I awoke in the recovery room after surgery and immediately made sure that, in my head, I could still count out the 6/8 time in Handel’s “O Thou That Tellest Good Tidings to Zion.” I related completely inappropriate sexual anecdotes told by my Samoan staff to the nurses in the recovery room. I had a lovely Maori nurse named Aroha (“love”) that first night after surgery, who offered a crisp "Cheers," every time I thanked her. (In recalling these memories, I am reminded of Mary Oliver’s poem “The Summer Day,” in which she says she doesn’t know exactly what a prayer is, but she does know how to pay attention. Amen.)

But if many of these memories are benign or even welcome, the recent anticipation of the anniversaries of my seizure, diagnosis, and surgery has occasionally catapulted me right back to those times of uncertainty and fear last year, where I wasn’t sure how deep I’d fall, or how I’d climb back up, if I let myself really confront my own premature mortality. Thus I find myself crying a lot again this October, too, remembering, even though we’re home and it’s not a North Island spring but a New England autumn. Maybe this month will always remind me of what happened in October 2010, just as occasional twinges in my temples, or putting my head down the wrong way on a pillow, signal something in my body that reminds me: “brain tumor,” although that voice is softer now than it was then.

And yet I have been able to still that voice and to climb back up, each time, as I did then, thanks not just to my own resolve but in large part due to those who supported me then and throughout this hard and beautiful year, from Yani and Dan’s first hospitality in Auckland to my family’s travel and Sam’s sacrifices as a parent and partner, to Jesse shepherding me through radiation, to Terry’s visits every day in the hospital and every week after that, to the friends at home who let me weep over Skype and didn’t try to cheer me up, the friends who sent me scarves and hats and wine and cheese and bought me tickets to see Sharon Jones and countless other gifts of spirit and kindness. What I have found is what songwriter Jonathan Larson concludes in “Seasons of Love”: you can measure a year, or your life, in love.

Yours Truly

The Preppy Palagi, October 6, 2011

I love orange, and was thrilled to find these cords on eBay. I joked recently that the shades of orange in my wardrobe could be classified as "classic Penguin paperback," "Hermes," and "Cheetos." (To be fair, vintage Penguin paperbacks are not in a uniform shade of orange, so what is Nancy Mitford orange is not necessarily Gerald Durrell or Daphne du Maurier orange.) Nonetheless, any orange is a good orange. Just ask Lilly Pulitzer!

Shopping guide: J. Crew corduroys, eBay. Talbots blouse,TJ Maxx. Celine scarf, eBay. Tod's loafers, consignment. Hermes watch, eBay. Suede and metal belt, yard sale (25 cents!). Bracelets, South African tourist market.

Palagi

My time in the South Pacific

The Samoan word for "foreigner" is palagi. It's a word that connotes otherness, even if the literal meaning is closer to "cloudbreaker." Legend has it that native Samoans thought the tall masts of European ships were so high as to break the clouds - hence the name.

I lived and worked in the U.S. territory of American Samoa in 2010, and found that Samoans and expatriates alike used the term palagi with a lot of affection. (The "g" is pronounced "ng," as in "song.") I've therefore appropriated the term for this blog, in part because I welcome and embrace "otherness."

My life in American Samoa was rich and full. Then a seizure at the beginning of October 2010 led to a medical evacuation and neurological evaluation in Auckland, NZ. I was diagnosed with a brain tumor, and underwent neurosurgery and radiation during a spectacular North Island summer. The people of NZ were just as welcoming and friendly as the people of American Samoa, and I consider myself most fortunate to have been able to spend 3 months in New Zealand, even if it was under really difficult circumstances.

I miss the South Pacific every day.


Why a blog?


Peer pressure, plain and simple.

My love of recycled preppy and classic styles has distracted me many times over the past year. Expect to see silly posts about clothes juxtaposed with more serious reflections on the state of U.S. healthcare, celebrations of the natural world, art that sustains me, and thoughts on life with - not after - cancer. (I chafe at the word "survivor," mostly because I still live with this brain tumor and probably always will.) 

I don't do cancer ribbons in any color, but I don't judge those for whom such symbols have meaning.