It’s So My Mom.

I kind of respect myself for wearing crap no other woman would be caught dead in. It’s funny.

Of course, I appreciate the very tailored, very classic dressing aesthetic my mom has bequeathed upon me; sort of like Carolina Herrera meets Anthropologie meets journalist’s salary.

But when nothing is clean, I am not past throwing on the wrinkled black polyester Express pants and open Christmas sweater vest over a way-too-low cami. Top it off with hoop earrings and a too-dressy white gold necklace, and I am tres ghetto.