What I wore when facing a terrifying internet diagnosis

Yesterday morning I woke up a bit sniffly and sore-throaty. By nightfall I could no longer deny that I had come down with a bad cold. Naturally, before popping Advil or making tea with honey or doing anything normal people do when they get sick, the first thing I did was answer quizzes about my symptoms over the glow of the computer screen. Did my head suffer from a stabbing pain, a sharp pain, or more of a dull ache? Did my cold come on suddenly, or had I felt sick for days? Did I feel queasy? Sweaty? Nauseous? The computer spit out a variety of terrifying diagnosis: Brain tumor. Cerebral laceration. Influenza. Today was going to be a long day.

One of the most important (and wildly ignored) lessons I've learned in my online life is that if you're sick, or anxious, or anxious about being sick, the internet is only going to make things worse. Perhaps you can relate.

For example, I've learned that, if pregnant, just don't Google anything. Ever. You will go from a perfectly normal pregnant woman, wondering why you have a side cramp, to a sobbing, heaving, hysterical wreck who may or may not be carrying a severely deformed Elephant Man-child with one eye and six arms, who will probably be born and immediately descend into a life of crime because you had half a glass of WINE last week, and now you're a terrible mother and your child stands no chance and oh, you should check for a fever because you've probably CONTRACTED MALARIA and YOU AND EVERYONE YOU KNOW WILL BE DEAD, and did I mention there is some horrible malady affecting your baby right now? RIGHT THIS VERY INSTANT?!?! That will teach you to take Benadryl, you drug-addicted harpie.

I usually turn to the Web for advice on common ailments. Mistake. Got a UTI? You should drink cranberry juice, not drink cranberry juice, eat yogurt, avoid dairy, take antibiotics, but be aware that the antibiotics will interact with your birth control, except when they won't, but it doesn't matter because you shouldn't have sex for three days/a week/two months/the rest of your life because what if you give the UTI to your partner/push it up into your brain/get hysteria? There's so much conflicting information on the Internet that even a minor illness can become a complex psychodrama of contradictory recommendations. I once determined, with help from WebMD, that I had a brain aneurysm. Turned out to be a sinus infection.

And don't get me started on the labyrinth of despair I enter when it comes to my children. When my daughter was 5 months old, I once googled "diaper rash". I figured it was a normal thing, but hey, why not google it just to be safe? Wrong. Don't google anything involving the word rash. Just don't. Out spat information regarding the tropical fungus my child was most likely infected with, and a sly accusation of child abuse and neglect. I spent a month feeling like the worst mother on the planet and half-expecting CPS to swoop in. I was convinced they'd be doing me a favor anyway because OBVIOUSLY I couldn't be trusted to care for a child.

I have no doubt that there are some people who can simply visit MayoClinic.com, get reassurance or a few questions to ask their doctors, and then move on without tumbling down a rabbit hole of anxiety and photographs of lesions. But not me. No sir, most certainly not me.


While I wanted to spend the day under the covers in my favorite flannel pajamas, I had to leave the house. We know how I feel about people who wear pajamas in public, so that wasn't an option. Instead, I went with something classic, comfortable, and warm. My head might be spinning with terrifying internet diagnoses, and I might be worrying that I'll drown in a pool of my own snot, but you'd never know it, right?

J Crew cardigan; American Eagle button-down; J Crew matchstick cords; Michael Korrs boots; Old Navy belt

Laura Ingalls, fashion icon and bad ass

When I was seven, there were only three things I wanted in this world:

1. Long, wavy, glossy blonde hair, like the girl in the Johnson and Johnson's Baby Shampoo commercial,
2. A pony, preferably white, whom I would name Candy, and
3. To be a rough and tumble prairie woman in a faded floral dress, crossing the country in a covered wagon.

As a young girl, my all-time favorite books were those from the Little House On The Prairie series by Laura Ingalls Wilder. Did you ever read them? Little House follows the adventures of the Ingalls family - Ma Caroline, Pa Charles, Mary, Laura, Carrie, and baby Grace - as they travel through the Midwest during the nineteenth century, searching for a hospitable place to settle. The books are told from Laura's perspective, and they do a beautiful job describing the rigors of life in the nineteenth century; specifically, the struggles the family faced against disease, frigid cold, governmental regulations, and Native Americans competing for the same land and food. 

Although I loved everything about the books, Laura was what drew me in so deeply. I desperately, desperately wanted to be Laura. Because, let's face, Laura was kind of a bad ass, and she led a suitably bad ass adventuresome life. I wanted to call my father Pa, and help him build a dugout house from the side of a hill, and listen to him trill out a hillbilly folk song on his violin. I wanted to wear faded floral dresses and pinafores with petticoats peeking out.  I wanted a dog named Jack to scamper next to me while I chased frogs out of the pond.  I wanted an older sister to squabble with (no offense to my younger brother, with whom I shared many legendary battles.)  I wanted a mother as sweet as Caroline, who wore a bucolic smile while darning homespun dresses. But, mostly, I wanted to challenge that mean, nasty Nellie Oleson in an epic mudfight, just like Laura did. Laura was loving and affectionate, but also mischievous and scrappy. I wanted to be the same. Hell, I still want to be her.

I was thinking about Laura when I plucked this dress out of my closet. In another form or color, the floral print might be dainty. But here it kind of smacks you in the face. It's feisty and still kind of sweet. If Laura was around today, it's something I imagine she might pick out, now that she can shop beyond the mercantile.

Forever 21 denim jacket; Forever 21 dress; thrifted Gap turtleneck; American Apparel tights; Target socks; Frye boots; Plato's Closet leather bracelet; Fossil hoops.

 

Californication: A bit of Rachel Zoe

I have an unfortunate obsession with Rachel Zoe. A high-profile Hollywood stylist, Zoe is credited with reintroducing the world to seventies influenced fashion. Her signature style can be defined as boho-chic, a term that came to be when, in 2003, Nicole Richie went to Zoe for help in 2003 for help and was photographed in oversized jewelry, flowing blouses, gigantic sunglasses and platform heels. Other celebrities took notice, and Zoe became a household name.

A doe-eyed, darkly tanned, pin-thin creature, Rachel Zoe is often seen wafting through racks of vintage Missoni with celebrity friends on her hit Bravo reality show. She teeters on gravity-defying heels, travels with 20 assistants, and air-kisses the likes of Kate Hudson, Karl Lagerfeld, and Jennifer Gardner. I imagine she smells like a combination of Starbucks non-fat lattes, the ocean, suede, and gardenias. Her masses of jewelry and outsized sunglasses add up to a theatrical, exaggerated, ostentatious sense of glamor, and at times she resembles a dizzying character from a madcap musical. 

Perhaps that's what I love most about her. Zoe is the perfect example of a more-is-more approach. In her world, there is no such thing as too much costume jewelry, too many artfully-placed highlights, too dark of a tan, too many feathers, too high heels or too much fur. She changes her sunglasses depending on the light, has professed a hatred towards condensation (in a NY Times interview - seriously, look it up) and her Blackberry ring tone is "Riders of the Storm" by the Doors. She spends an afternoon at home with her husband attired in a white cashmere bathrobe, high-heeled espadrilles and full photo-ready hair and make-up. She is a grand gesture. Indeed, she is the complete and total opposite of me.

I adore how deeply Rachel Zoe embraces Californian style and culture. From her accent to her laid-back glamorous style, she exemplifies the Malibu bohemian who eats organically, drives a massive hybrid SUV and has her facialist on speed dial. She's someone I'd love to grab an iced green tea with and gossip about vintage stores, where to get the best manicure, and the benefits of cleansing oils. I wouldn't want to work with her, though - listening to her utter "I die" and "Ba-nanas" repeatedly might induce me to shank her with a rusty blade.

Yesterday I was tempted to pull out all the stops and dress a la Rachel Zoe, complete with platforms, chunky gold watch, sequined beret and fur vest. Alas, I am not in possession of any of those items. I recently acquired a vintage oversized blazer I am certain Rachel would approve of, so that had to do.

Vintage thrifted Christian Dior blazer; Anthropologie burgundy tunic dress, Gap turtleneck; American Apparel leggings; Louis Vuitton Speedy 30 bag; Juicy Couture class ring necklace; Forever 21 chain necklace; ancient gold huggie earrings; Coach ballet flats