bras and ranties

a stream of consciousness

2011-02-10T22:01:00.002-05:00

a stream of consciousness

2011-02-10T22:00:00.001-05:00

a stream of consciousness

2011-02-10T21:59:00.002-05:00

a stream of consciousness

2011-02-10T21:55:00.002-05:00

a stream of consciousness

2011-02-10T21:48:00.003-05:00

a stream of consciousness

2011-02-10T21:42:00.003-05:00

a stream of consciousness

2011-02-10T21:39:00.003-05:00

a stream of consciousness

2011-02-10T21:37:00.001-05:00

a stream of consciousness

2011-02-10T21:36:00.002-05:00

a stream of consciousness

2011-02-10T21:32:00.003-05:00

a stream of consciousness

2011-02-10T21:26:00.003-05:00

a stream of consciousness

2011-02-10T21:24:00.002-05:00

a stream of consciousness

2011-02-10T21:23:00.002-05:00

a stream of consciousness

2011-02-10T21:21:00.003-05:00

a stream of consciousness

2011-02-10T21:19:00.001-05:00

a stream of consciousness

2011-02-10T21:17:00.001-05:00

a stream of consciousness

2011-02-10T19:20:00.003-05:00

keeping up appearances

2011-01-09T20:14:00.010-05:00

it's always slightly startling to see one's own breath, expelled in arctic gust, exhaled at sub-zero. it carries on longer than you'd first expect, like cartoon wind. a surprise, we suppose, the bigness of it. the simplest instinct, the essence, so rarely regarded. so rarely an intent.

when the words (you know the ones, the only ones that matter) catch one of those big-ass breaths (the ride of their life) they never sound as you dreamed them. never the narrative you'd played out, nor in. liberating, to forget what you meant and just say what you mean. let words tumble out stark and nude, off the script. they take on this weight like gravity (that night a dash of fury, brute force determined, raw from heady tokes). pulled down into destiny like a chip through the pegs of a plinko board. the only way the way it goes. those mere minutes leave mark forever. those dances make up the truth of time.

we've always preferred to roll that way, filter free, from the call of the gut. to us it seems life might go smoother if everyone just said it straight, less the complications that bullshit will bring. must be tiring, keeping all that fake straight. we've since learnt our lesson though, since come to see we are most certainly the minority. ignorance (while not bliss) is at least a moving target, a lure to chase. the truth usually just fucking hurts.

blogger blue balls

2011-01-03T19:17:00.007-05:00

today the rest of us return to step with our realities, back to life with what we can only hope is rightly renewed chi, perspective, perhaps point. cliched as it may, the ringing in of a year anew can't help but inspire recalibration toward (at least in the direction of) bigger desires, intention for a greater good, however much of it we can muster. inspired after weeks of (mostly) fond memories with family, family of friends, it's almost impossible not to want more for the next, to lament at the last: the things we should have (ok shouldn't have) said, the things we didn't do, all those fucking emails we forgot to remember. the truths we ate, the ideas we abandoned. half-hearted. half-there.

it's been hard for us to express our shit lately; get it out in any medium. by the end of the year we were tumbling in some sad creative shambles, the pace of work and its procrastination enough to leave us just fumes when time came to create for fun. we were completely blocked when we tried to write, scraps of sentence making their way across the wall of this sterile medium. they just lay there, square on a page, absent of thread theory theatrics. florid words forming nothing really, overdramatic leaves clinging to a spindly, silly vine. so we tried turning pen to paintbrush, keen to unleash in confident color, perhaps fearing this shy serif just no longer fit our fancy. but what didn't come out of our unrestrained (even bc-enhanced) brush tips but motherfucking blocks. bright, square things, textured terrorized frustration. frantic expression of an intolerable inertia.

in many ways the year we just survived can be represented by this shape, burly blockades in the way of that ever-abstract -fleeting happiness. we spent the months resisting our deposit into such definitive, determined surroundings: the return to work (still a cubicle, if a cube of concrete) confines of domesticity (confusions with love), our own designed doubts (mind's own self-mutilation). forces to resist (yet curiously fit) the mold, whether at work en blog or at play. a lot of time spent worrying, mostly about what we weren't doing. inaction. stuck. rut. block. blocked. blah.

it was in a fit of the flu, fuzzy cone of a fever, messages in dreams maybe sent to process (a visitor's pass to the realm of hungry ghosts) that we broke through, owned it, got on top and rode that bad boy. we realized: perspective. blocks or breadcrumbs. were they standing tall our way or were they stones to step on, just shit to do.

if you believe in resolutions, yours should probably be just this: do what you want. think of what you want, and get it done. while brasandranties has always been quite good at declaring what it is that we desire, we've only recently remembered that it's all for naught unless we up and fucking do something about it. so here's to 11. turn up the lights.

a few good men

2010-12-08T19:20:00.013-05:00

we've been sitting with this one, hesitant to rantie, timid to accuse. truth be told, we wondered if we weren't simply just a bit embittered, turned against a type as a result of our own tornado. so we sat on it, head down (a rarity), hoping for the best, expecting something else. lady in wishful wait.

the year seems to have been a strange one for love; manic months bringing about the break down of an awful lot of relationships (our own just the first of many, most more significant). and in the inevitable reveal of character and conduct that any great fall into (then out of) love but guarantees, how many of these men did indeed turn out to be boys. amateurs. house of cards, a house of cads.

truth is men have always been dogs, animals in their own right (aren't we all). but something real and transformational seems to have come along with modernity, tectonic shifts in the way we regard relationships. blame media (any sort, social celebrity mass). blame a generation's disenchantment with religion (what's left a tundra of spirituality). blame hollywood, blame silicone boobies, bald spots, tiny pricks. blame drugs blame facebook blame porn blame our parents blame tiger, we don't care. in spite of it let us declare: the decline of the gentleman. dead on arrival.

yes yes not all of them are shitheads. we know some great ones, and we admit one can never so-scientifically categorize. but we've also seen an inordinate number of lads behaving lousy of late, and frankly we're fed up. get a grip, and get a fucking reality check. a woman will walk in the face of insufficiency, unfulfillment, flagrant disrespect. maybe time to man up, non?

while brasandranties was left wondering if perhaps the search for a few good men necessitated the forceful motivation of more than a few good women (just a shit-lot of us to whip these mofos into shape) the good men at the good men project had a better, admittedly less invasive idea. a cultured, content-oriented project // magazine, designed to challenge the cliched constraints of a typical men's rag. for thoughtful men with a conscience. and if you aren't into that, well, best of luck to you boy.

there are still a few men who love desperately (jd salinger)

the twists of fate

2010-11-28T15:04:00.009-05:00

they say these are the best days, when the formative take their form. they say that something clicks in to place, feuding forces startled to discover they could (could have always) coexist at ease, and with pleasure. they say one's place (her perch) is now its most sturdy, vantage point clear and wide. they say a lot of things, these pervasive time-worn colloquiums. but in their collective they weave a wisdom that remains (or so it seems, despite erratic escapades of change) somehow the truth. after all.

it was the morning of our birthday, through the foggy fury of our hangover, bleary cat-eyed puppy-loved awakening, our blindingly bright space blinking into place. as we looked around, took in the life we live through a new set of eyes (and yesterday's contacts) we began to laugh. full-belly, full-body, all-encompassing, a furious force.

it lay sprawled on the ground before us, unearthed by the light, the twists of fate and time that had brought us to this morning. no other place we could be. the truth. if we'd known who we were, the life we would be living (how extraordinary a departure from expectation) once we were to come into our (quote) adulthood, we could sure as hell have enjoyed ourself some more. worried a bit less. taken life a lot less fucking seriously.

are there things we wish we'd known, letters to our younger self we wish we could purpose to pilot through the shitstorms? hells yes. we'd swear on sunscreen, start face oils five years ago. rap our knuckles at fast fashion. save our bartending fortune. we'd insist we considered our creative self long ago, explored new mediums, never quit the damn piano. we'd silence any sort of shyness, impart the point of speaking out and standing up and living different and out loud over any sort of assimilation. any kinda herd. we'd say to trust no one but your truth: inner voice the only dogma. we'd shut the door on dysnfunction, run from those who run from things, fuck the fools who'd fool us twice. you know, the usual. but most of all, we'd just say breathe. and come what may man. it's just like a swing, a pendulum, ups an downs cradled within one's own velocity. the harder you ride, the higher you rise.

frock you

2010-11-11T12:11:00.005-05:00

there was the one that took us to the wedding on the beach: silky on our skin, a loose grip on the hip, creeping higher up our thigh as the evening unfurled. ooh, or how bout the one that spent the night with us underneath a blanket of midwinter sky: stars reflecting ethereal shimmer, hugging us close, rough bits brushing our ice-nipples and sending shivers down our middle. one of our favorites was tall, dark and strong: at once classically handsome and abstractly unexpected, standing out the sexiest from the crowd of the room, ours (all ours). we didn't really want to give any of them up, that one especially, but we did. because dresses are like men: once you're done, you pass them on. share that shit.

there's just one more day until the frocktail, the annual fundraising fete for juvenile diabetes research, designed to bring new loves into your life in a chic and celebratory setting. with over 120 dresses donated from some of toronto's best closets and clothiers (we have our eye on a calla number, and we'll fight you for it) it's safe to say this is the most fun you'll have whilst shopping. last year's event yielded brasandranties a brand new dress, an almost-girlfight and a six foot six giftbag. so we'll see you there, then?

tickets and info here

a rantie on raunch

2010-11-07T20:54:00.009-05:00

we received a recent reader request for a rantie on porn. men and porn, in the case you needed context. seems our reader was growing tired of dating boys that have redtube bookmarked, and she wanted to know brasandranties' thoughts on the matter. well sit back, relax, and grab a tissue.

we were instantly (viscerally) transported to the plush leather office chair of one of our (ever)unnamed xes (ye not-so innocent subjects), hand on mouse, huffing at the blogette's perpetual state of silence. before we knew it we'd back-paged a bit and, voila: our man's most recent masturbatory material. we obviously pressed play.

there we were, found in (how you say) first-person view of a silconed blonde, pontificating to the masses with her very enthusiastic oral talents. while we were initially somewhat horrified at this up close state of virtual // reality, it was actually when we heard the guy speak that things got nasty. the moans, the groans, comments of encouragement. even the dirty talk: we'd heard it all before. quite literally. that morning. from the mouth of our momentary man, uncreative little thing.

most women have already come to accept that porn plays a role in the habits of her partner; dismiss it as just the mechanics of a man. biology of the visually stimulated. if it's not affecting your own enjoyment, not bugging over it is one's best bet. but what not enough men talk about is just how habitual a proclivity for porn can be. when watching the professionals bang it out is suddenly a prerequisite for playtime (even worse, the real thing) you've got a problem in your hands. and what women aren't talking about is how man's (men's) pornographic tendencies affect us: in the bedroom and broader, perhaps even with regard to sexual identity (definition and demonstration). before you call bullshit, check your brazilian at the door. mmmhmmm. muff said (we just can't stop).

so just how much of our horizontal selves is authentically our carnal animal, and what distant part of it rings familiar of some xes smutty predilections? how much of our own erotic habits reflect an industry of sex that (to be frank) doesn't have much to do with us at all? worth a confabulation, non?

tis the time

2010-11-01T18:24:00.006-04:00

and so marks the beginning of our birthmonth, the lead up to the day that is really truly our most favorite. narcissistic as it may, we just adore it: november (the sole appearance of woman's letter, the symmetry of numbers). scorpio, through and through.

while we've yet to suffer (cum enjoy) the fate of dating a scorpioned sting, we find ourself attracted, pulled towards other scorps in the platonic sense. as if we tune into a fellow frequency amongst a crowd, sense their complication, need to feed the fire. there's just something about them, always sending us into cravings of their company.

it was almost five years ago we stumbled into oft-extolled gee beauty, our inner gorgeous perhaps just as in need of rescue as indeed our eyebrows were. and it was within this little rosedale gem we found something extraspecial, to which we now return on the monthly: sweet wonderland of services treats and treatments, from some of the best in town. no one but natalie has touched our brows since 2006. mum slash beauty guru miriam mans the makeup brushes, and what she can do to your face in half an hour is as striking as it is transformative. a bevvy of beauty, all of it delivered consistently in gee's chic and breezy style (and brought to life as one of the most visually stunning brands this strategist has yet seen). it's basically impossible to leave gee beauty not feeling beautiful, and looking it too. brasandranties recommends.

this week, gee is turning five years old, and to celebrate they're making you feel as gorgeous as you are. each day (starting, uh, yesterday) they'll be offering one of their signature services, en gratis. as well, they're capping off the celebration with (what we thinks is) the best news yet: the opening of 6, the big vision of an already-established eye for curation: a boutique right next door. see you there, gorgeous!

(tuesday is: flash manicure day. check the site to see details and book. we're going wednesday for a cocoa tan)

the bounce is back

2010-11-01T14:47:00.006-04:00

afternoon all. and pinch and a punch for the first of the month, the start of this november (our very favorite month, to be so revealed). we hope you each enjoyed your hallow's eve weekend; whether wicked, wistful or a little bit of both, we hope it was delicious nonetheless.

a strange spooked holiday, halloween. to be honest we don't enjoy it much, can never really writhe in the revelry the way the rest of you tend to. the dark and the light both come out that night, show their face (let madness out) with masks. public displays of devilry. freaks freaking us out.

one's choice of costumery is almost always an insight, a peek inside (these theatrics require a notion of truth). costume as archetype: how we see ourselves, how we think the world may take us in. our alter egos, inner existences, linear lives come to life. this year, we were a peacock. last year, we went 'naked'. interpret as you will.

the whole thing got us thinking, relating our resistance to the notion that we already kind of live like this on the daily en blogette. we've no real need for an outlet, a day ascribed to the alternative. we built our own stage, directed our own spotlight to our other-side, the after-dark. more of us should do the same, give the inside a chance to get out a bit more, however it may. letting one's freak flag fly (to be frank) is good practice on the regular: the release, the refusal, the realism often a saucy mix to add into the every day. why not try and keep it up?

fashion week wars

2010-10-22T11:30:00.009-04:00

we are knee-deep in the rush of fall, writings work and want-to-dos lay strewn around half-hearted, half-complete. so much has been happening that nothing has been happening, which we know makes total sense, life spinning just few rotations faster than ideal. fuck we needed off of that ride. so we countered the chaos and spent the weekend nustled up, home our greatest comfort. our chi feels now much improved, and we hope yours is feeling just as sweet.

if you've no idea where the hell we've been (as we told our boss) it was fashion week, man: ten collective days of spring summer (11) wares presented by some of canada's finest. and though we couldn't sum the energy to see it all, it was nevertheless quite a celebration to bear witness (just the bejeweled, occasionally belligerent fly on the wall). we love the shows and their surrounding circus; eat it up as entertainment, content for le blog, excitement for our future closet. fun, as fashion should be. and while we will be (oh, eventually) sharing our favorites from the weeks, something sooner has us itching to write, eager to rantie. as it were.

as with every season, and we're sure in every city, this semi-annual spectacle becomes as much a show of design collections as it does who's what: two coasts of faces taking on a frightening familiarity as the models hours days pass by. one only inevitably begins to figure: the writers, the editors. prs and their peons. the designers, their devoted. personalities. personas. a complex, unendingly curious culture, and one into which we're glad to have an ear once removed.

fashion is a world oft misconstrued by the masses: an industry dismissed as shallow in depth, effects on the everyday p'shawed as nearly negligent (lest any of us forget the school of cerulean) and most famously, an environment known to possess a cold and inhospitable air. truth is, fashion (itself) is anything but. it's alive. joyful. sometimes transformational. the role it has in our stories, in how our lives lay out is nonpareil. it unites unknowns, leads legions across language. creativity brought to life.

yet it seems the scene of toronto fashion last week perpetuated certain cruel assumptions. front row seat stealers checked shame with their coats. fashion leads declared loyalties en-tweet. established tutted at the new guard, questioning grounds. and the elders made their morals, pointer fingers black and white.

to be honest all the antics didn't fit with the faces across from us. we sat distracted, daydreaming the other-people drama (almost all come to life online) and played out the digital digs were they to happen in the flesh. would they stay hard lines, black on white, architected to cut and steal a breath? would they brush away in the mess of the mind, grubby and grey, fuzzy in interpretation, weird from hereon in?

hardly. when humans come together connection and commonality are all but inevitable. empathy, endearment can even go down (depending on your appetite). seems to us too much is left looming, just suspended in cyberspace. too much time tweeting things better left unsaid. one hand on the network, how bout the universe? brasandranties thinks we all need to try and lighten things up a little, laugh some more, dare we say love. it's just fashion, after all.

(image stolen from viktor vauthier)

glory days

2010-10-13T07:51:00.009-04:00

we didn't go to our high school reunion, passed for some more festive frivolity we can of course no longer recall. our closest friend from days of yore remains just as such (in fact, she skipped it with us) so suffice to say we weren't really compelled. we'd do the next one.

the realities of retrospect shine a light on what we weren't really ready to admit: we were just coasting. we were as lost as we could be considering our advantages; safety rails of education, work, expectation. life looked better than it felt, the destination sweet enough. but amongst an assembly of academics, doctors, mothers what we had felt unfulfilling. likely because it was.

since then we've come to learn the lesson, figured the futility in measuring your mark against any one or any thing but one's own potential. someone once whispered: listen to your dreams, these notes from some place higher. and in those airy syllables lay the truth. we are all made with the potential to do great things. so we began to follow our nose, explore whims of inspiration, just to see where we'd end up. followed inclination, inspiration, individuality. the more we did, the more arrived (that universal truth). this was the point.

through all those days of our kilted adolescence, within a factory of females desperate to meet the mould, one classmate had stood individual all along. this quiet creative: soft, elegant and unexpected. she kind of floated, flew amongst us. a sightseer from some place more magical. her gifts led calla to parsons then paris, where she collaborated with olivier theyskens (nina ricci and rochas) and then went on to launch her own stunning (and award-winning) line. with worldwide attention and lots of love from her hometown she released this video during paris fashion week, as invitation to her ss11 presentation (full collection here). an homage to niki de saint phalle, an artist of inspiration for calla. 'she epitomizes the creative woman i have in mind when designing' says the creative woman we now have in mind while writing. and inspiration lives.

worn.

2010-10-11T18:29:00.007-04:00

there was a time not long ago when brasandranties would seldom be found without the bolstering of a bra (save for the sport and spoils of bed). blessed early in life with a larger set of ladies, we spent half our adolescence in concerted attempt to reign those puppies in (until we discovered the power of cleavage, of course). but the thought of the girls unleashed in all their glory? we just couldn't do it.

over the years we've come to find a comfortable appreciation for choosing to let loose, and have thus acquired a collection of fabrics, shapes, and cuts that seem made to go au natural. dresses made bulky with underthings. enough sheer layers to trick an eye. the feeling of draped silk en-nip. sans is increasingly becoming the preferred way. we highly recommend it (though do expect some chest-talking, and a few squeals of glee whilst hugging).

in this instance, backless demands braless (unless you plan for unsuccessful creative attempts with a bandeau - it ruins the effect) so the front of the dress is just as important. this puppy has a (very hard to see) black ruffle all round the dress: providing coverage where necessaire at the front as well as a little flounce in the rear. guaranteed to put a little extra bounce in your, uh, step.

black ruffle scoop dress (it has thumbholes, whee!): one teaspoon (holts)

thick knit lace sockettes: legs beautiful

ponyhair wedge boots: max azria

ruched bucked bag: jenny bird

drop chain earrings: purchased off of the ears of a clothing show vendor

photographer's note: self-portrait skills currently lacking (and very good thing we were wearing underwear)

from the forever inexperienced

2010-10-11T13:12:00.006-04:00

the air has this crisp, unfamiliar potency that at first return kind of knocks our throat, a startled breath. but the next is fresh, the following deep and wide. a relief. there's something about this season, how it usually passes by in a blink, this time an uncharacteristic arrival long, curious and mellow. as if fall was a woman recently awakened, soaking up each second of her turn in the sun.

to be immersed amongst leaves leaning into their ombre evolution, to see spectacular carpets of treetops artfully swirling canary yellows burnt reds juicy oranges together. a finger painting. the flight, the travel of those meant to move. it's so fucking beautiful we almost double-rainbowed all over everything. thanks giving indeed.

the turning season appears to have also brought about a bevvy of breakups, what seems like many choosing to turn a page in time with the trees (dropping like flies, the words of the unromantic). since this we've received more me-toos and heartfelt hellos than we'd ever expected. something most certainly in the air.

while one could attribute the autumnal overhaul to just old habits of our adolescence (summer boys were always gone by fall) we can't help but wonder if the need to shed, molt and move along hasn't been inspired by something else. this theatrical transition going on all around us.

there really is something about walking in nature, observing life as it was intended. unaffected (for the most part) by consequences of choice or bad decisions. it hammers home the notion of letting go and letting life unroll as it may. releasing desire, intent, control. of living a moment out in the sun. we can change of course, hurt learn grow, do the best we can despite what life dishes, what little girl wishes. but only in the context of nature's chaos. only upon surrendering to the now. if you're of the type who listens, who intuits, who trusts gut, then trust you are exactly as you should be. that today is exactly as it was intended. one step closer to peace.

inspired by (rt) @WordWhisper s side effects of walking in nature: healing grudges, generating sweet memories, relieving guilt, restoring imagination.

blog lovin

2010-10-08T09:44:00.008-04:00

that deep, rich, most assuming color. non-color. at once striking, powerful, graceful, glamorous, nothing, everything: the shade drips with proposition. everything looks better in it. with it. against it.

we've always been drawn in by it, resisted against vibrant brights if black sat a moody option. even the sound of the word as it bubbles across lips, an inky sputter designed to conjur up as much the color as its unending context.

a stroke of genius it was when two ad agency partners decided to actualize their shared appreciation for all things black: a curated online collection of interesting things. so long as it is black celebrates the noir within every and anything: fashion, literature, music and the arts, all brought together under one singular, shaded pretense.

if only brasandranties had kept things so simple.

check so long as it is black here, and don't forget to share your own favorite blogs, sites and beyond. we'll be updating our blog lovin list at right, so be sure to share the love.

the best mirror, an old friend

2010-10-04T09:53:00.008-04:00

all around us live cliques of chicks, tight as tight can be considering their circumstance. we ourself have never functioned all that well as one of many, girl-on-girl dynamics dramatics just a little too much for this already amply-tortured soul. the twice we've tried (first junior high, the next a decade later) ended in scratches and a seeming civil war (respectively) so we've come to learn it's just not really our thing. instead we tend to find our friends peppered across the planes of life, a galaxy of sole stars shimmering. tangled garden of bright wild things. to each her own, we suppose.

we've been struck like lightning: deep, fundamental and in multiplicity over this weekend, upon unremitting consideration of the potency of a friendship. oh not the ones that run in revolutions, not the ones that let you lay down low. those true connections. the mates of the soul. the chosen family.

we've been moved to tears at the beauty of one, the dreams of another, in tandem with the pain of a third. a soggy muddled mess, bursts of joy tumbling against the punches of loss. never prior has life felt so complex, so very curious. never quite has the light, the sense of the nonsensical seemed so far from reach. but never before has brasandranties felt so full, so rich with what it is we have, with whom we love. with whom loves us in return.

the human condition requires tenacity of thought, the tally of blessings, purposeful perspective on all that we have. while it may only be natural to just grant these your givens, the truth is that these very things are the very point. the only point. they come together, weaving an unexpected, organic tapestry called life. and as we were surrounded and supported by our closest, we learnt that in turn we surround and support. we realized with a force the real function, true fortune: the acceptance, reciprocity, perpetuity. the love. so thank you (thank you always) for being a friend.

worn.

2010-09-26T21:07:00.007-04:00

some of us run from it as if it were the reaper, truth so meticulously constructed just a gust would whip it away. some of us run into it headlong, constant whirlwind dislodging any roots we may take up. running from something else, perhaps. we think (as in all things) change is something best kept in balance: in check in accordance with tolerance and appetite. the kind sought out, the type that arrives a pleasantry, and those shocks those bolts the very least expected. that spin reality redefined. however it arrives, always be grateful for the new. impossibly tragic, a soul stuck on replay.

we didn't actually request to go red, wasn't actually going for the ginger snap. this will (apparently) fade gracefully into what we'd had in mind, so we've decided to roll with however this fire might unfold. change the only constant.

and so the anticipated return of our camera equipment came in perfect time with the return of our desire to snap the style at all (we can't explain it, so we wont). so, after long last, here's what we wore to our saturday brunch meeting.

sheer olive shirtdress: h&m

nude (faux) leather leggings: h&m

nude cutout booties: h&m

silver and copper cuff: h&m

(it's almost embarrassing, really)

nude ribbon bodysuit: pho pa

silver mesh ring: what goes around comes around

grey leather bag: anna corinna

by the way we're calling it worn from this point forward. what i wore is someone else's. what we wore sounds weird. worn it is.

ever after

2010-09-23T09:55:00.005-04:00

the heartache arrives only to answer to the dream of it: the potential for what it could have been. what it was, before things changed. it's a test (a tortuous one) to try and distinguish fact from fantasy. to introspect impartial as to what was real. him, or just the hope of him.

deep down something cautioned us along, whispered worries our way in the moments meant for contentment. sniffed out dangers lying in wait. found fault lines waiting to trip us up and take us down. but despite it, the curse of the woman. the belief in that pest prince charming: hypnotic, insistent, intoxicating.

every girl has a mr big of her own, we know this to be true. but perhaps it's not for the magic of it, perhaps not the lovestory. perhaps it's just all an excuse. to excuse our own excusal of their misgivings, promises with half a heart, impermanent evolution. we romanticize dramatics, drape fantasy round the dance, dream a tale to which only disney'd buy the rights. and before you know it, a life unrecognizable. a love story not our own.

but eventually (inevitably) you come up against a force just as fierce as your naiveté (its convictions, its beliefs, the things it's sure are right). this wild universe of ours is ever-architected to conjure truths, to shine a light on what we need to see. what we're pretending we don't. it intervenes when we're letting someone else hold reigns too tight. it helps cut us loose when we're flapping to fly. it stops us from stopping ourselves.

so you choose your only choice: the unknown. you purge the past and the way it suffocates, rubbing skin all wrong. the way it pulls you places you've already conquered, sends your head, your self somewhere better left forgotten. better suited for demons. instead you choose the things you've yet to have, the places yet to see, the art yet to be inspired. you choose a life as yet designed, a love yet realized. you love, you learn, you let it go. it's just life.

the final word.

2010-09-16T17:01:00.005-04:00

at first we never considered what it was, what it would be, what it could. we just felt the need, the words itching our fingertips. the loudest voice is always stretching to be heard. a quiet wisdom, anything but. we can't remember what we wrote, that day or any other really. we just sit down log in and write.

this place is nothing but a metronome keeping time with our tide, as often a crest to breathe fire as it is a spot to weep. a place to celebrate. a place to curse our curses. a framework for randomness, it's only point to parallel whim. to write is the act, to publish is an afterthought.

a peculiar spectacle, the guts of a life left on the table. watch it, consume, eat it up, let it breed judgment, let it breed contempt. what's ours now yours. or so you think.

when did you get to decide what this was? what it looks like, how it sounds? conduct the pace of our prose, the taste and shape of our words as they stumble round your mouth. who says what we are, the very things we're not enough of, except for us?

this is not a blog, it's a blogette. the differential stands representative of our refusal to be anything but what we fucking are. our refusal to be what one (what you) might assume us to be. might assume a blog to be. we don't cover events for the sake of an invitation. we don't post praises in exchange for swag. we write what we write when we write it. and we'll give you as much (or as little) as we well please.

socks and sandals, oh my

2010-09-16T15:27:00.003-04:00

the rain arrives, bringing along with her the gusts of old man winter's chill. an insistent, assured cooling off from the blurred, sticky heat that seemed to lend this summer an air of imminent turmoil. slowed down by a soupy panic, masses as molasses. a very weird world. we're grateful for the relief, the return to normalcy: routine, wardrobe, way of life settled into a song we like the sounds of. melody, mercury finally on-beat with the uni-verse.

and as we dive into a new season of style (canada's only other type of temperature) we admit with an almost startling terror that we've already become witness to what we turns us off the very most: the boring black tight.

at once a cop-out and a curse, the boring black tight should hold no place in your array of underpinnings, let alone exist as the item of which you have the most. too many textures, patterns, complementary colours exist to excuse an everyday default of deep black. come on girls, live a little.

in fact brasandranties' fall footwear update (along with the majority of fashion fiends and followers alike) involves instead simply the pairing of pump with sock. what would once incite a stylistic sneer (white socks, mary janes, we will never) now somehow seems both darling and daring. and very fresh.

as tougher counterpoints to sweet dresses, scrunched beneath shorts, or a peeking pop of colour beneath a cuffed trouser, the sockette is a way to migrate your favorite pieces from summer, giving them legs to live on. pun intended. the look extends seasons, adds texture and varieties figurative and literal, while opening up fields of complementary accent colours you've yet to explore (tip: what's its opposite on the colour wheel). we've already begun to collect the makings of our own sockette menagerie, spanning the spectrum from an olive lace to a silky rust all the way to a fine knit navy you might swipe from your boyfriend. be daring, experiment, and work it out. and just say no to the bbt.

(image via sea of shoes)

the tides

2010-09-07T20:44:00.004-04:00

smell it. fall. a spice in the breeze, wind wrapping a chill only a chunky knit can cure. despite the sun still delivering us glimpses, blessed slivers left to saturate our fill, it seems the seasons have begun to turn. and in more ways than one. back to school patterns, forever ingrained: fashions, intentions, attitude seem to each get a lift come fall. it's the new new year. it's been a while.

we've moved east and now we peer out across an expanse of treetops, specked in roofs, in light. peaks of life. we see clouds roll their passage by, forming curiosities and sending lessons of perspective. often birds dance in troupes, using senses to fly. and, for days now, tens of bright butterflies parading across our landscape as they make their way warm, showing off for us shamelessly in their new fall wares. we'll enjoy watching the world turn from this place.

such (uh...) dramatic souls as our own often need a reminder of just how small our reality, how inconsequential our place in the picture grandiose. while our worries might be real, most of them are manufactured, and we are truly one of the lucky ones. we tend to need the reminder. it helps that our home now lets us.

since you evidently don't enjoy us making promises we don't keep (what we wore is coming, jesus) all we can say is this. we feel fresh, we feel good and the blogette is fucking on. hold us to it. and may you be so-renewed: in momentum, in style, in energy. welcome back.

x brasandranties

(image stolen from weheartit)

a breath

2010-09-01T22:52:00.014-04:00

how splendid, moments to our self. barely yesterday it was quite the contrast, a winter hibernated with few more but our pup, our own bedeviled banter and a peppering of carnal callings. perhaps a meeting or two so we could pay the rent. twas at once a delight and a plague, in many ways just a reversion of needstate. an adaptation to animal.

some gorgeous, wretched truths sure surface in solitude. hours spent in thoughts both tortuous and inspired, in bouts of discovery. you can end up places good, others far from. a rather interesting experiment if you have the chance.

and now returning to march, the return of something set free, the best summer days we've witnessed in life; these hours sometimes feel like they've turned to ash. but it's really only in these moments where the mind moves on, evolving what you think you know, how you're sure you feel. it's no coincidence a brain enjoys tracing the walls of a maze with grace, it's function to figure and problem solve. they're critical and we should each use in earnest. spend time wisely. means more books less blogs. no bachelor, but bach. create, and carry your creativity with you even to places it doesn't belong. and listen to the voice (the one that doesn't involve your mouth).

space-wasting

2010-08-26T20:46:00.006-04:00

we've come to note a rather disturbing wave making way across our city; an innuendo, influence tinting the vibe of many a boy about town. oh don't get brasandranties wrong, this has always been a bit of a problem. but things seem to have dialed up while we were looking the other way.

hair gel and chains. tees muscled, silkscreened. chests puffing fists pumping. there's guidos, guidos everywhere.

while brasandranties may be a proponent of a good old g-t-l for the soul, we just cannot fathom how the jersey shore circus is actually turning into trend. we've watched an episode or two, perplexed and horrified at just how very orange, but 5.5million people watch this shit weekly. for pleasure. and it's starting to show.

a revolving episode of partying and pulling girls, all of it made dramatic by the frequency beer goggles find the busted en hot tub, the complexities of coordinating multiple hook-ups, testosterone and tequila infused beat-downs, and the blue-balled frustration of being left in the lurch (on camera, no less). and in having lapped up the lives of america's most curious sweethearts, we've (er, you've) idolized them, normalized and glorified some pretty nasty ass habits. a sociocultural green light to guido-out. the situation will bank $5million in 2010. what a dire situation it is.

hot to shop

2010-08-17T18:31:00.006-04:00

we are currently mustering all sorts of self-control (sitting on hands, conjuring responsibility like a sorceress, spells to combat our visa's mysticism) thumbing through thumbnails of a line we are loving: shakuhachi. out of australia, every piece just looks a leisurely, luxurious delight. an apparel accompaniment to a very different way of life. j'adore.

our fantasy fall wardrobe yearns for this aesthetic; unique updates to shapes in any girl's list of wares-necessaire. an edgy femininity. we're assuming topshop will come closest to complementing the vibe, but hot damn it we wantie.

lots of emails desiring more what we wore (blush) and thus your wish is our command. what we wore, to work and otherwise to come all week. happy monday, lovelies.

and the living aint easy

2010-08-17T18:09:00.004-04:00

mother fucker. here we go again. stuck going round, all but merry, gaining speed. a heavy grip of momentum. it never ceases to amaze us, the tremendous force of a brain's bad habits. how much we can get in our own way. it's the truest test of the fool, really, the mistakes of an unlearned, immature ego. frankly we should know better.

and thus we're hoping there is something with a greater potency than our tempestuous tendencies. a deeper (dare we say soulful?) intention to pull it together. to accept the lessons life is smacking us in the face with, to let them bump us forward as they rage to do. to live better. isn't it the point.

most of us ignore signs, learnings, lessons when they come a-knocking. at first they're wrapped up easy, breezing by us as we continue to insist we know better. so they come back for more, manifesting a little meaner, packing a heftier punch than their visits did prior. until you wake up one day and your shit does not look pretty. your vantage point the pit of a ditch you've been digging in your sleep.

well fuck. there's only one way out and it's up. we are on earth to get over sins, old habits, our nasty selves. forgive adolescent torments, daddy issues, the scars life guarantees to deliver. we are all broken. every human is hurt. we are each but surviving, striving for contentment. the point is to do your best to be better. live, fuck up, get up and learn.

tie her up and take her out

2010-08-09T22:11:00.005-04:00

there's nothing quite like riding top-down shotgun through darkened city streets, craning your neck toward the buildings and the black. eyes up, full trust. it's a rather intriguing view of the city, to parallel the sky, like treading a whole new plane. an exhilarating freedom when the wind whips across the neck. an odd sensation when cool night hits the nose.

but by god what a disaster it leaves our lid wherever we arrive, a puffy mess of blondesque tangles. bangs frozen backward. a true helmet of hair. not hot. while we've successfully sourced (and over-utilized) a floral print turban (found at vintage69) our selection of scarves as headdress remains largely untouched, as we seem curiously unable to tie the fuckers. en retard.

then we stumbled upon this little wrap-up, via god knows who writing god knows what (it's a browser orgy over here). nevertheless we like it, the simple how to scarve. turban number one is our primary objective, to be experimented with post-haste.

molting

2010-08-09T22:06:00.001-04:00

fear not the post below might be representative of some sort of new-found fashion minimalism, that our style has somehow shifted simple overnight. that the wardrobe's gone zen. hardly. one of the best parts of opening up room for favorites to parade in opportunity is the space left in between. the room for timelier, trend-oriented pieces to round out the racks. peppering the now throughout.

and as the sales drone onward across august waves, we find our mind wandering helplessly toward the colors textures cuts of what's to come. while we'd be remiss to encourage the desertion of this summer sunshine (today rather inspirational in its absence) a part of us growls hungry for our city's fleeting fall and all its fashion.

bloggie favorite who what wear (long-readers long-aware) feeds the fury just right, recent posts not only providing a taste of next season's styles but also inspiration on how to work them in to now (as we tend). newest neutrals of rich camel and leopard print, straight leg seventies, thick knits and maxi skirts each fall for summer's light, diaphanous sensibilities. they come together to juxtapose, a bolder creativity. a fashion-lover's favorite time of year.

so what's on your own wardrobe wishlist? what looks are getting a second look? would love to hear what you have your eyes on. what you wore. email me@brasandranties.com

designing life

2010-08-09T11:14:00.005-04:00

we read somewhere (some source unsure, a web-based whisper, an unidentified digital dig) that the pressures of moving were emotionally akin to losing a loved one or family member. now as a soul who's lost a love (that painful thud in the gut: a door closing with unexpected departure) we can only scoff at the notion. we'd take this transition any day. but there's hardly any doubt that the process is exacting; a formidable change to a most primary human need. it inevitably leaves one feeling all fucked up, upside down, unsure. the search for comfort unyielding, home a fuzzy memory removed. each night we find we force our eyes wide, just to be sure we are where we are. it's really all kindsa weird.

and yet the oddly process has also allowed us a most fundamental fine-tuning, our chance to be released from beneath piles and piles of stuff. every possession we owned was put through a rigorous edit, the purpose only to pare down. to lighten the load that seems to lock us in a place; a burden gathering weight timidly, nudging us slowly toward suffocation. so we tossed it over the threshold, gave it new life with lives who have much less. people to whom our things would matter. and in doing so, we were left with only what matters most to us. more than a fair trade. life seems lighter, our breath now revolves with more ease. good chi all around. we'd highly recommend it.

chaos for peace

2010-08-03T09:57:00.005-04:00

we find long weekends especially difficult.

it's not for the luxurious hum of hours, standing back to back in what seems (when you're in it) a line neverending. not the addition of one more day of fun, one more day for one's self. it's certainly not the bliss of opening eyes monday morning, bed the only place you've gotta be. it's the taste, that delectable, irrefutable reminder of how our life used to be. of when our time was our own. the very memory makes us whimper. what the fuck were we thinking again?

in fact we even made it an extra (extra) long one, the break of days exactly what was needed not to recoup from the grind but to simply get shit done. and thus we packed up our clothes, our house, our life and dove head first into the new. a brand new home, with a different sort of heart.

to be frank and to be truthful, we did it for our chi. for our writing. we've never felt a space less creative, a place that made us less inclined than the one from which we've just departed. what a drain of energy, what a strain to feel comfort. we closed the door without even looking back. and now, bright and white and built for artistry. ceilings soaring, windows high, feeding us with light (instead of sucking the breath right out of us). a place that makes us smile when the key turns. and we're home.

email me@brasandranties.com

you're going the wrong way

2010-07-19T22:49:00.003-04:00

easy street presents itself a rather tantalizing option for lifetime travel - paved shoulders glimmering with the bliss of ignorance. built to blind lest your mind wander, ponder where you've found yourself.

it may be work; paths lined with willows weeping dollar bills, your pockets just big enough to inspire the re-creation of dreams. an aspirational rearrangement in accordance with the plan. the ladder suddenly a steadier climb than the heroic jumps of the dream chaser.

it could be him; clicks of comfort whispering what sounds enough like love. situations commanding, the wedding-washed demanding. somehow convinced, quieting the inkling that perhaps the person's presence is never, will never be large enough to fill the void of what they're not. no fire to stoke in the first place.

it very well may be life; bumping bodies as you breast-stroke the channel of mediocrity, gaining leads where you might, yet never enough to break away. presuming upon a change agent to squat in waiting, to trip you up across your tread. as if the magic of possibility was to seek us out, it's responsibility a direct proposition.

easy street is a path purposeful in its most fundamental appeal: a lack of difficulty. a lack of challenge. to consider it is human, all the moreso after a tough run at things. but it's a useless option. it's our responsibility to avoid this fate, to seek out the shit that challenges us, forces stretch leaps risks tumbles. to run from easy street, frightened of the place it might spit us out. to simply deem it the inexcusable path for pussies. we mean, really.

if you're holding yourself back, get out of the way. if you're scared of change, get ready to kiss its ass. life's gifts are directly proportional to life's chaos: the more you live, the more you live. see you out there.

do it yourself, why don't you

2010-07-18T22:57:00.005-04:00

we're kind of obsessing over the latest greatest diy from the (one and only) glamourai, her own recreation of a dress; first deconstructed then improved upon. a chic way to give new life to vintage scarves, to wrap yourself in something so light and luxurious seems the only way to bear this scorching summertime of ours. and the asymmetrical hardware? yes please.

we've long loved the notion of refashioning the pieces sitting stale within our wardrobe, transforming their shapes and their essence to mirror your own. turns out it takes minimal seamstress skills to be able to strategically pin, tuck and cut a brand new life into whatever fashion you've fallen out of step with, whatever's laying idle. budget-friendly, too.

let us know if you ever give this a go, or if you have something better in mind for the class. you know what to do me@brasandranties.com

(image stolen from the glamourai)

have you popped your topshop, cheri?

2010-07-18T21:52:00.003-04:00

topshop in toronto is more than old news by now, setting up shop over a month ago in the back of jonathan + olivia as a temperature test for the marketplace. a pre-expansion experiment before setting up permanent digs somewhere round town. we like it. we want it.

we'd just assumed everyone and their milfy mother had made their way downtown by now to check the wares, an edited, ever-evolving collection that has already begun to transition itself fabulously into brasandranties' summer wardrobe, as it were.

to highlight, the shoes at right, a set of heavy, seventies-esque sky-highs that seem to transform themselves into the best shoes ever once upon our feet. it's as if they all but disappear, adding nothing but leggy inches to our vertically-lacking frame. and voila, they instantly became our every day shoe. every. fucking. day.

throughout the racks you'll find on-trend pieces that will find a way to sit as staples amongst what you want to wear right now. in a fortnight (ah the brits) you'll be over them, and that's okay. that's the point. don't expect parity with h&m, in choice nor in price-point. it's more like zara with an edge. it's good. a great addition to the toronto shopping mix.

we'll be posting what we wore soon (we promise, we do). we have a half a dozen ready to rip sitting languidly on our lazy man's memory card. in the meantime, just for funsies, why don't you send us what you wore for once?

the bloggie blahs

2010-07-18T20:33:00.007-04:00

thanks for your emails asking after our whereabouts, our chi, whether or not we were dead. we don't even know what's up with the lack of le blog, our writings lately taking on enormously laborious proportions, requiring much more energy than we seem able to give. hey we aint apologizing; the only way to play in this inane and crazy space (at least until you're getting paid) is to just do you. but still, we've gotta get our mojo back.

truth is our creativity seems all but completely on hiatus, like we're just running this rut of rote inspiration. like we've lost touch with the undercurrent. work taking up any clever juice we have to give, shitty weed taking up the rest. change is most certainly in order. so we're packing in, moving up, finding a new space big and bright. a studio, a den, a workshop for writing, working, wearing (living) just a bit more creatively. it's exactly what we need.

despite it we've been having a hell of a summer, perpetual days soaked in rays enough to inspire a fuckload of fun, at the least. and we hope you've been having the same. drop us a word, bird me@brasandranties.com

three's a crowd

2010-07-09T14:13:00.002-04:00

it happened as casually as anything, one of last week's warm sticky nights, over the solicitation of a cigarette. the brushing of fingers, habit changing hands. the intimate act of bringing a stranger alight. four eyes meet each other across the flick of fire, then each set subsequently turns, looks directly toward us.

before she said it we could tell exactly what she wanted; could feel her eyes running over our skin, her precursor to much more. there was no dance around it, free from hints, absent of entendres. she leaned in close, breathed both of us in, looked down where our bodies were pushed together. she looked up at him, she looked back down at brasandranties, she smiled out one side of her mouth, and she suggested a menage a trois.

in truth we've never had one, yet to have the opportunity arise, and we weren't about to start that night. frankly we'd always envisioned being the guest, the supporting actress who can slip out when it's over, just part of the fantasy. unscathed from flashbacks of flesh burned into memory. away from any insecurities, arguments that may haunt a couple after having shared. seems a rather messy business, both literal and figurative. but that's just us.

would we share our own man, invite another woman to have him too? we just can't fathom it, most especially this one. seems the jealous sting of a scorpio is one of our fundamental traits. besides, we've never been one to share. he, of course, defaults to us, but would probably jump in should the situation arise. and what guy wouldn't?

the interaction got us wondering, pondering again the differentials between guys and girls, between guys with girls. men have the ability (the biology, the chemistry) to distinguish sex from love, to have the former without the latter. to fuck, no strings attached. and yet women, despite their declarations and best intentions, tend to get the two all tangled up, eventually wrapped tight in our strings of complication, convolution.

what do you think - do you, could you, have you? what happened when you did? confabulate amongst yourselves, or email me@brasandranties.com. let's just say we're curious.

words better left in our journal. oh well.

2010-07-06T21:13:00.005-04:00

we're not sure what to make of it, the blogette silence as of late. we just haven't been here, if that makes any sense: physically, emotionally, inspirationally. left in its place is simply disinclination, disheartenment it seems, not for the blog nor for the people but maybe just for the point of it. for the world of it. so we found ourselves clamming closed against a place with a face we don't really like the looks of right now. sorry about that.

we know we can humor, confuse, annoy some people with our tendency to rantie on the state of things. theories on conspiracies, mistrust for mankind, evil enterprise not typically topical within the crowds we tend to run. we suppose we just needed a break, pause, recalibration. yet now the whole notion feels so foreign we can barely blurt it out, let alone blog the fucker.

to be honest we get the vibe that many of you have been feeling a bit off. eclipses, heatwaves, frustrations - attribute it to what you will, but there's no doubt the bad chi's raging. upsets unsettling. it's really a mindfuck if you ponder it: positivity and it's fleeting nature. is it sustainable? is it possible? is it how people really feel? seems to us the state of perpetual happiness is limited to the extremes: the ignorant and the self-enlightened. the rest are just real people, living lives in the grey area in between, trying our damnedest. yet perhaps it's not the actual state (but just the daily quest for it) that eventually leads us to our happy place. or at least, a better place.

funny how easy it is to live in polarity to it though, human propensity easily swung toward brooding, toward concern instead. is it conditioned, the faults of the news, our parents, the g20, pharmaceuticals, high fructose corn syrup? or is it just fucking human?

a rantie

2010-06-29T10:17:00.006-04:00

we watched this weekend's siege of our city just a spectator, to both the movements and the mayhem. cocooned in our guilt within canada's paradise, that great north, the two cents of an armchair worthless by all accounts. in truth, being left to witness what went down through a screen gave the whole thing a surreal, manufactured feeling. reminiscent of hollywood, as it were. glimpses of a town familiar, masked in an alien narrative. the backdrop of a made up land.

what's undeniably real is that we returned to a city that feels as different as it's looked these past days. to say otherwise clearly means you have yet to see this, or this, or this. it feels sad. less innocent, less hopeful. it feels traumatized, grim reminders everywhere that it's not as much ours as we'd have liked to think.

all eyes are at once on canada, the quiet force sitting in wait with his magic tricks. oil. water. land. lumber. air. where we see canada's most darling, harper sees big fucking bank. so he takes the world's most powerful figures (figureheads fingerpuppets) to one of our country's most glorious geographies (lest we forget the world just saw the other) to talk shop. then he corrals a few more of 'em downtown (ignoring mayoral recommendations it take place at the ex, which already has a wall) and instead heads straight into the heart of our city. the heart of this country's (strong) economy. cha-ching. showoff.

meanwhile, how to remove those stubborn curiosities, those inquisitive concerns of the world's citizens about what's actually being discussed at this roundtable. what's being dealt on our behalf. how about purposely inciting mass exodus (the potential accounts of the lawyered up) then purposely enticing mass destruction? vandals left to run wild through the streets for 90mins on day one (fires burning, media's trojan horse) justifies the ludicrous 1.2billion dollar spend. getting tough the next day (denying rights, detaining unlawfully, assaulting verbally physically sexually the peaceful people) shows the world we aren't going to play so nice anymore.

along with a call for public inquiry, brasandranties calls for the upgrade of harper's strategist. the whole thing was just for show. public relations. advertising. and transparent, at that. the fiasco was simply a brand repositioning. canada land: timid no longer.

perhaps what the institutions didn't bank on was the force of the collective, the voices involved each with their own turn at the megaphone. timid no longer. we have a feeling stories will keep coming keep coming keep coming. and we want to know: what actually happened here this weekend, and why. and who's fucking canada is this anyway?

(image stolen from jen takes pictures)

ask brasandranties

2010-06-23T11:30:00.005-04:00

keep em coming people. we may not be too quick to respond, but we always do so eventually. when the time is just right. pretend it's a carrier pigeon. vintage styles. me@brasandranties.com

brasandranties, hoping you can help. straight up: i checked my boyfriend's phone and saw some highly suspicious behaviour. i'll spare you the details but it's been effectively agreed that i'm getting two-timed. so how to bring it up without seeming the creep? lots of love. (obv) anonymous.

oh dear. well, you seem appropriately convinced of his conniving activities, so we won't waste our blogette breath trying to defend the fool. let's agree to call a spade a schmuck and move along. which is exactly the point: you creeped his phone, he's proactively attempting to bone others, and you're the one who's worried? get your head together. he's breaking deals, dude. your breach of privacy is nothing compared with his breach of promise.

there are very few of us could truthfully, convincingly state that we've never (ever) checked a lover's phone. oh fine, we know it aint right. and experience dictates it should be avoided at all possible costs (you'll drive yourself nuts at every innuendo, trust). but once someone has cause to worry, once their radar's raging, they wind up snooping the berry. it's just a fact of life. you're human. he's a horndog.

tell the truth as to how you conceived your adulterous accusations, then ask him calmly and directly to explain. whatever you do, do not throw the blackberry: at his head or out the window (uh, just trust). be chill as you demand your (deserved) explanation. from that point forward it's up to you to trust your gut: its voice is always a bit louder than love's, fear's. it will probably tell you to dump the dude. so do it. you deserve better. best of luck x brasandranties

the stylings of strangers

2010-06-21T20:42:00.004-04:00

we know, we know. we've been rather lame with posting what we wore and we're hearing about it from every direction. patience, pretties. they're in there, laying in wait in the pipeline. waiting to feel inspired in their recreation (ugh, we always forget the night of) and waiting for our camera to be fixed (capless lenses en-bird, bad idea). so we guess you can say the blogette's a bit backed up. lots in our head, less out our fingertips. our roll sure seems mighty lackadaisical these days.

truth be told we find we've taken to this thang as an outlet for our deepest ranties, the things that trouble us the most. to get through them is often a rather exhaustive process: shaping, birthing, mind-gasming our confused feelings on the the matter. that shit aint easy, lest you forget.

we're well aware these creative experiments have taken a (sort of) backseat to our other endeavors: what we wore where we shopped whom lindsay lohan flashed somehow less of a priority in the grander scheme of things. and yet we've also come to miss these meanderings peppered throughout the madness, those whispers (by the ways) within any other kind. so we'll put our back back into it, give the blogette a little extra oomph. we will try our best to post the shit out of it (including lotso what we wore). hold us to it, mmkay?

in the meantime, we suggest you get lost in the style musings of brasandranties' latest blogette hearts: frou frouu. here you'll find a girl with a gorgeous sense of style, that's potentially trumped by her even more glorious pictures. we dare you not to be inspired, moved to trying something new. we know we were.

(image stolen from frou frouu)

do right woman, do right man

2010-06-14T09:26:00.005-04:00

at any given point in time, the blogette and its ramblings can be found representative of real life. inspired by instance, conversation, or observation certain seeds just cross our footing, impossible to ignore. their only destiny to manifest rantie. and so it were.

this latest arrived a bit of an undercurrent, the issue (the inspiration) tugging at us like a toddler for attention. first an email query from a woman in love with a man who bores (v bangs) her brains out in the bedroom. next a friend's (horrifyingly matter of fact) declaration of her continued quest for the as-yet unproved orgasm. then this weekend, the drank pontification of a girl who'd chosen companion instead of satisfaction, lacking in lust but fulfilled in spite of it. fulfilled (no doubt) her freudian slip of sadness, but we digress.

all of these women, sexually dissatisfied. underwhelmed. the anticlimax in its most literal form. forgive us, our useless theories, but we can't help but point out the overwhelmingly obvious here. seems to us like the boys aren't trying so hard. something is amiss if the guys are getting off and the girls are not. something broken in the food chain, the power dynamics, the emotional equilibrium between two. you call it biology - we call it the zombie effect of the over-porned. regardless. the boys are getting lazy.

mutual orgasms. an evolving sense of sexuality. a racing state of randy for each other, years in. these things to us are mandatories. anything else simply won't do. simply put: don't marry a dude unless he's a top five lay (we used to say top three but a girl's gotta do her thang, so we make room for those transformative tumbles). in other words, for it to last, you've got to love to make love with him.

if your bedroom's blase, if you're still searching for the mind-blowing, if you've shrugged your shoulders and declared it as just not happening - fuck that shit. this is what we're built to feel, what our bodies are made to do. it's in you, we can promise you that. find your fantasies with your man, or else find a man who can do you right. figure your fingers to do you right yourself. find a fuck buddy, then find another one. explore your sexuality. go deep raw unscripted, without qualms about how you look, how you sound, how you smell. keep the flame alive 24/7, connect it to your womanhood. it's amazing what bad sex can do for the psyche. it's amazing what great sex can do for the soul. accept anything less and you'll come to regret it. it's the only thing that'll be coming, anyway.

something wicked this way comes

2010-06-09T23:44:00.004-04:00

they say old habits die hard. patterns tough to break, cycles methodically turning, churning. a power over person, reigning them in.

we've wondered about the mind, its ability to keep us spinning on the same go-round. at times less merry, more masochistic. despite all we know (our lashing life lessons, rough rides) there it tends to go. and go. and go. same shit on a different shit day. more like bad habits die hard.

we humans tend to ignore the truth that we're more than just our minds. that perhaps this curious complex contorted muscle can at times become confused. lead us astray. a gritty playground, sticky with the sins of the self-accusatory. drilling down deep somewhere dark. it's really rather easy to get lost in there.

but isn't it true that our truly transformative moments (those tiny episodes of evolution, those life lessons) seem to happen not in the brain but in the soul? that the mind can actually slow us down. hold us back. keep us from the process.

so how do you ban the brain's bad habits: those easy paths to pattern, synapses steady and familiar with the way you tend to deal. how do you grow beyond destructive proclivities, create compassionate ones in their place? how do you grow up for the sake of you, for the sake of love, for the sake of life?

the perfect shape of an impossible thing

2010-06-07T10:55:00.005-04:00

as we flew home last night we found our mind wandering, pondering our closest friends. recently battling tough days (even tougher revelations) it's become to us quite clear: no one is possibly harder on themselves than a woman. work v craft. hobbies v passions. relationships, sometimes for the sake of them. crises and curiosities of fundamental identity. we exist in a vortex, challenges there constant: do more. think more. be more.

the quest for better often (unkindly) extends its reach to the relationship we have with our bodies, so many of us on a perpetual treadmill toward the unattainable. thinner. leaner. perkier. a little more here. a little less there. compares, contrasts (whether against subjects real or fantasy). catty comments purposed, hurled to hurt (the insults of the unimaginative).

only once have we ourself flirted a bit too heavily with the dangerous line, let focus morph to fixation as both our body (and our chi) slowly shrank away. first to go was the boobs: they are real, they are spectacular, and they are a leading indicator of our poundage. the rest of us quickly followed suit, until we all but resembled an eleven year old boy. not. hot.

the rest of the time our weight sits in direct proportion to our happiness: the more we have of one, the more of the other. our contentment inspires a little extra: dates spent dishing delectable, afternoons spent in bed when we should have been on the bosu. the lbs of love, heavy with happiness. hell, our man even asks for more: cultivate our curves, revel in our womanhood.

so what of the discrepancy, men finding feminine what women try maniacally to minimize? where went our raphaelite appreciation, disrupting long-standing definition of a beautiful body? we look around us (sticks for limbs, bones for bosom) and wonder why when where and how the fuck this became the norm? why anything but leaves some girls in despair, worried, shamed.

down with the notion that stick-thin (sick-thin) is desirable. down with your desire to look that way at all. brasandranties chooses to live healthy, live happy, live free from the bullying such bullshit imparts. instead we'll use our blogette to thus-declare: we are fucking beautiful, just as we are. we feel it. we look it. we know it. and we hope you know you're beautiful too.

what we wore

2010-05-31T09:55:00.003-04:00

we have officially dubbed this season the summer of romper, now that the much-contentious onesies have made their bi-annual trip full circle. au courant once more, brasandranties finds the one piece a fresh take on summer dress, the inclusion of leg holes magically making modern shapes of which we've grown tired. our recent weekend sojourn south yielded quite a few new numbers, so love it, hate it, hate to love or love to hate: the onesie is the way.

what we wore

last week, to work (hey, some things will never change)

grey silk asymmetrical romper with black lace paneling: madison marcus

blonde drape blazer: aritzia

gold and coral rope necklace: vintage 69

beige strap wedges: zara

once upon a time

2010-05-27T10:18:00.008-04:00

what is it about the throes of love (the fervor of a soulful union, the amorous vortex, the interminable pull) that makes this romantic so timid of it? cautious of holding it close. declaring it our own. as if at any moment we could drop to our knees clutching air, sobs turning ashes smutty. as if to believe it would be gone.

we're not normally so cautious, carefree with almost all but love. but our heart's been torn right here before (ravaged, more like). so now we dance along fault lines, tiny tings of fear that the revelry, celebrations, joyous days in the sun might disrupt. flap the butterfly effect.

we're a generation of dreamers, ingrained somewhere deep to quietly ache for the fairy tale. terrified of it when it becomes our own to pen. why does the practical mind take us to a place where we're left sitting skeptic of what many of us spent wistful nights whispering over? imagining. wondering what he was doing at that exact moment in time.

blame the tiger tales of infidelity, loveless legalities, the rate of dissolution, but we can't help but be left a bit of a skeptic. we know it's possible. we know it happens. we've each felt it, had it as our own for a time. but true love that lasts forever? that shit is exceptionally rare (and will not happen to a majority of people reading this blogette). it's not your destiny. it's not your right. not a promise from the universe, gods of fate, aphrodite. it's just a hope. just a dream.

so is the notion archaic? is forever's modernity left to arrangements understandings secrets blind eyes? or is true love truly possible? can it last the battle (no doubt battered, scarred, changed in form) but nonetheless all the better for it? can real love really last?

(thanks to nair and trojan for the sneak peek of sex and the city 2 last night. it obviously inspired. if you want a great (read: scathing) review even better than we'd have done it, check this out)

catwalk for a cause

2010-05-26T09:50:00.003-04:00

spring chills turned to summer sweats in a matter of days, fast forwarding toronto sun worshipers right to the thick of the season. the forecast predicts a solid run of 30+, the city clumsily coming along for the ride: blocks of traffic, dense heat dancing off of softening black tar. every other passer-by fanning, exclaiming the sun. shading dogs babies grandmothers, umbrellas feigning parasol. summer is here and we're loving every fucking second of it.

along with the soaring barometer comes soaring hemlines, a miniaturization of what constitutes clothing. along comes our latent taste for beer, suds that make us sneer in the cold somehow all that can quench our dog day desires. and along come the parties, every night a reason to celebrate. to make the most of the fleeting heat. sundays, wednesdays, fridays, brasandranties won't discriminate. it's all in the name of the good time.

the first big bash of this glorious and premature summer is undoubtedly this thursday's strut for a cure, the second annual fashion fete benefitting coast to coast against cancer (a children's cancer organization). with canada's own coco rocha strutting her infamous stuff (and todd lynn's rock and roll wares) down the runway, as well as a performance by dragonette and hosting hooks by the adored jeanne beker, the night promises to be quite the spectacle.

tickets are almost totally sold (we just bought ours this morning) and can be purchased here. get on that shit. 100% of dollars raised goes to improving the survival rate and quality of life for children and their families affected by cancer. can't ask for better than that. see you there!

style stick-up

2010-05-25T15:57:00.005-04:00

it's a fashion lover's worst nightmare: the shopping doppelganger. the closet copycat. that girl - that infuriating girl - who buys everything you buy. we had one once, a friend found oft-embezzling our favorite finds, scheming and scheduling their wears. her wares. as our latest pieces became sequentially misappropriated (little else can ruin that new dress rush) so-went our patience: both with her and with having to lie about where we'd bought stuff. and, not before long, so-went our friendship, the stress of pillaged individuality (and lack thereof) evidently too much for either of us to bear.

we couldn't help but be reminded of our stylistic single white female after stumbling on the fashion detector: soon to be released software that will allow random strangers to shoplift the style right off your back. the technology allows major retailers and malls to log inventory into a central identification database. any consumer can then have their browsers and phones scan photos (on websites, on facebook, even snaps of passers-by) for store, stock and price information. style stalking at its finest.

brasandranties tends to offer up this information rather willingly (not so much lately, since our lightbulbs burnt out and we're too lazy and/or underwhelmed for canadian tire) as do the copious style diaries on the daily, but we must admit there's something absurdly creepy about involuntarily providing it. not to mention twit-piccing the girl beside you because you like her ring. purchasing a top from h&m should not render us a mobile h&m billboard, a walking advertorial for their summer promo prices. and yet this seems to be the inevitable evolution of zuckerburg's vision - his pot of gold at the end of this information rainbow we've all (mindlessly) shared. offered up on a silver platter. big brother is alive and well, and he wants to know where you got those shoes.

how do you wear it?

2010-05-25T10:58:00.004-04:00

longtime readers and newfound blogette enthusiasts should by now be well-aware of brasandranties' love for all things boob: the bubbies, breasticles, big tiddies existing as inimitable purveyors of all things feminine. at once both safe and sensual, let's just say the boobs of the world are pretty important to us.

which is why we're thrilled to throw our support once again to the fashion targets breast cancer campaign, with proceeds benefiting rethink breast cancer. available across the country via joe fresh style, this year's tee retails for $12 and is the fifth in our own collection (but the first we've hacked into a crop top). they've made this year a little bit sweeter by adding a complementary berry polish into the mix (part of their newly-launched polish line) also benefitting the cause.

so how do you wear yours? turns out joe wants to know, and brasandranties does too. they're inviting all of us to snap up a tee and submit our steez here. winner receives a trip for two to toronto fashion week (and quite the spending spree of joe fresh wares). check the site for more details. so get involved, get a tee, show love for the girls and good luck!

fashion targets tee via joe fresh

the final round

2010-05-19T15:51:00.008-04:00

the first few happen as your back is turned, attention focused inward, only awarded to the immediate vicinity. work and play. parties people men meaning. there's hardly any room in the every day for the idea of it: commitment. lives tied together in a meaty legal knot. white wedding.

when those first few friends take the plunge it's rather simple to dismiss: outliers, odd ones, the obvious mistakes. a forced processing of forever. the concept remains an alien notion, firmly rooted in the foreign terrain of adulthood. a distant desire only your future oat-sewed self could fathom. one day.

then the nuptial phenomenon begins to spread its reach, tending towards tandem after the first one falls. newly-acquired husbands houses and honeymoons (don't even get us started on the birthing process). and yet our closest counterparts remain without attachment, instead finding themselves up against that final round. the precursor to said domino effect. the storms before the storm. breakin up.

it isn't easy - never is: no matter, no circumstance - but there's enormous relief in letting go of what's wrong. in stopping a mistake before it becomes your mistake. reclaiming hold of the future. these are our last heartbreaks before our biggest bets. a widespread inclination to look close at our companions, envision that (terrifying) state of forever and determine whether this is the face we want beside us. whether this person is enough.

none of us know what's waiting in store. where we'll be or how we'll feel. but keep eyes open, ears too (soul always). question whether your partner actually makes you happy. whether you like who you are in their presence. whether you're getting all that you give. don't spend a life lonely for fear of loneliness now; days of would-be freedom wasted, spent convincing compatibility as they slip from your fingers. just forget the fucker, and go forth knowing you're one step closer to peace.

only boring people get bored

2010-05-13T20:29:00.007-04:00

as we cavort our way round town - course through the veins of toronto, its days nights parties its people - it really never fails to amaze us. those decreasing degrees of separation / interconnectivity / incest as we all attempt to live lives in parallel. in time with each other.

some can be found bemoaning it: every one knows every one. of course it's not true (for how could it be) and yet the search for common ground, for context is inevitably abbreviated. a short-lived inquiry. anticlimax. everyone kinda does know everyone.

the truth sits at the core of what we groan about this town, while also being exactly what makes us enjoy it so. look closely at the faces around you. friend. foe. frienemy. take them in. because they sure as shit aren't going anywhere. they'll just get older. more weathered. all the wiser. this is your life, man.

it doesn't mean we have to like each other. it needn't mean we get along (where's the fun in that). but it means we must be gracious. respectful of other opinion, philosophies. allow each other the room to exist and experiment, to realize potential. to create value for the world however we've been blessed.

brasandranties is guilty of not always having been so-inclined. oh there's more than a few grudges with our stamp on it. but we're each on our own journey, just all at different points along the way. go forth. do your thang. conquer. inspire others to do similar. props to those who already are (you know, in case we haven't mentioned)

blogette fave

2010-05-12T10:27:00.004-04:00

women dress alike all over the world - they dress to be annoying to other women (elsa schiaparelli)

so-quoted a friend the book recently, the words for whatever reason sounding resonance. humor. perhaps appreciation for the simplistic explanations of a woman, her dress.

whether or not she's right we'll leave to you to debate. confabulate. while its never in fact been a personal style motivator, annoying les autres seems just an unfortunate (unnecessary) side effect of our greater attempts. but that's just us. we like to keep our steez wavering on the delicate line between sex and class (trust: the two are not mutually exclusive, despite what yo mama told you). and when in doubt we (of course) default to the former. it's more fun over there anyway.

and yet (slooty style predilections aside) we seem to be scoring a rather healthy tally when measuring our wardrobe against our latest blogette fave: the man repeller.

the man repeller blogs what we already know: that often our men have no fucking clue why we're wearing what we're wearing. they know it must be now, assume they'd see similar if they cracked a mag, and yet they still don't get it. sometimes they even hate it. we've experienced unforgettable looks (curiosity, bewilderment, confusion) from ours at the sight of: anything drop-crotch, oversized shoulders and our silk crop-top cape. funny beasts, aren't they?

how about you? yes of course you dress for yourself (who doesn't) but where do you land on the spectrum? do you mind what your man finds fugly? repellent? or do you rock out your hammer pants, your top-knots, your jumpsuits regardless? does fashion trump your sex appeal?

word to your mother

2010-05-10T10:31:00.008-04:00

brasandranties fought our mama the whole way through. we have early memories of our hot-headedness, assertions we were right, desire for attention, for things to go our way (some things never change). our mama bore the brunt.

she was at once our caretaker, our confidante, our problem-solver and our support. she was where we pushed ground, tested thresholds, experimented with lengths and leeway. at once exasperated by our differences and frustrated by our similarities, she still shouldered our pain (sometimes purposefully) and she'd have taken more of it if she could. even when we were an evil shit, she'd open her arms a saint. she was home.

still today, in our battle she's the bunker. never-endingly in our corner while the world is throwing flames. she sees behind the lacquer, inside our insistences of strength. it's only her that can soften our edges, warm us to the world. despite declaring our independence, she remains: our caretaker, our problem-solver, our support. our home.

we're sure she faults herself for our differences - for the clashes that still pepper our time together. but brasandranties doesn't bug about it much. we've realized they're not points at which we won't connect - they're not places we'll never make the jump. our differences are just the things we'll learn. the lessons we'll teach each other.

in fact it's the life (the home) she's provided that's allowed us to develop such different perspectives. a generational evolution of ideas, of what's possible. it's all thanks to her. it's all because of her. it's the best gift a mother could give, and we're forever thankful. love you mama x

mother's love is peace. it need not be acquired, it need not be deserved (erich fromm)

ask brasandranties

2010-05-06T23:52:00.008-04:00

we've been sitting on this particular query - holding it awkwardly, little fumbles as we attempt to maneuver through. as though it was never meant to be ours at all. in retrospect, we're not quite sure what the problem was - we've never been one to hold back our opinion. what felt then like a waver of heart we now know to be mercury in retrograde (serious, susan miller, get on that shit). thus, we blog.

brasandranties. you must get this often, but please share: what's your very best advice for those of us wanting to start a blog ourselves?

the truth. what brasandranties knows now is that we know nothing at all. and that in itself may be the key. because the beauty in the blog is the ability - to turn it into your own dialogue, your own voice, your mind's eye. it can become whatever it is you endeavour, providing you work and you work it out. it's got to be real, sourced from somewhere so deep it's almost inexplicable. it's got to be your own. and if it is, and you're bloggin: that's a blog baby.

that being said whether we're equipped to advise is still very much up in the air. but, since you asked, if we were to look back and take lesson, here's what we got:

* figure out your point of difference. what makes you unique (and more interesting) amongst to all the rest. there are a fuck load of (bad) blogs out there. no point being one of them.

* don't share too much. don't share too little. locate the line, dance along it lazily languidly through life. it aint easy, but don't stress. share too much: expect problems. share too little: low readership. find your way to stay interesting whilst staying out of the fishbowl.

* expect growing pains. within your relationships, within your voice, and especially with your momentum. people don't like being blogged about (yet people are the richest territory there is) personally, we think people should lighten up (facebook as micropublisher hello) but that's just us. but this is just our blog. work through the bullshit - like anything else, it comes and goes.

* chug through the volatility. your own, your audience's. the most important truth: we have to own those waves, the way our emotions direct our words, product, art. it's about the journey, not about the brand. the audience you resonate with at present will come along. you don't want the rest anyway.

* stay true. good product means eyeballs. eyeballs mean advertisers. it's an inevitable double-edged sword teasing any blogette author. if your wish is to turn your passion - your writing - into your source of income (and we should hope the fuck it is) then integration with business simply must go down. as pitches are thrown and media planners come a-knocking, remember to be choiceful with what manifests as yours. don't forget they're pitching a lot of balls, all damn day long.

* set your own rules. it's easy to fall into it, the habits, mores, expectations of what a blog is. what a blog should be. say what you will and create what you want. and no you don't have to do it on the daily (every day is so yesterday) but you do have to keep trucking. set a pace and make it stick - build it into your routine and take it seriously.

* dream big... the internet opens the gates of the world right to us. a click can bring words across oceans. it's extraordinary, and undoubtedly the reason so many are drawn to it. when you envision, go bigger than you first think possible. it's possible.

* ...but don't act it already. until you're making the lainey million, you're pretty much no one. it's just a blog, man.

unplugged

2010-05-05T15:22:00.007-04:00

finally home. the same old view with brand new eyes. many of you emailed: notes of new york noteworthies, queries for mid-shopping twitpics, calls of concern when we went tweet-less. one of you even thought we died. while we're sure our usual play by play (in a highly superior playground) would have undoubtedly entertained, we needed the silence. we were aching for it.

we unplugged hoping to re-energize and recalibrate (our withering chi lately showing its boredom en blogette) but we came home with much more. no, we're not talking about clothes (we got those too) or jewels (mmmhmm). what we came back with was perspective.

since our very first post, a number of people have asked after our vision. what we want to make of this thing. what we'd dream it to be, if it were. we used to laugh, shrug, brush the eagerness away. no planning, we'd decry. we'll write what comes. let it be. it's a fucking blog.

and yet a funny thing happens with the reigns too loose, driving fast-forward without a purpose (even an abstract one). something else takes hold of defining you, slowly turning the colors of what you thought you knew. of who you thought you were, what you thought it was. until one day in clarity, what you see is no longer your own.

our realizations will bring about new ways: for us to write, for you to confabulate and for the businesses to engage (it's inevitable). and while we may not ever know what it is we actually are, what we're now sure of is what we're not. hey, it's better than nothing.

email me@brasandranties.com

image stolen via weheartit

playing with barbies

2010-04-29T09:53:00.008-04:00

we were four. suburbs of new jersey, our best friend forever and her italian catholic family just one street over. one dinner in particular, her father readily recounts how he'd suggested a nose job for his now-wife prior to his proposal. the brood laughs. brasandranties lurches.

eleven, chicago. the bleachers of our junior high, an odd experience (for any) made all the more so by our company. strangely enrolled in a gifted school (our mascot was a seahorse) we'd been focused on our mind (less our looks) until our sister takes a layup and our father quips from behind: he'd missed it, brasandranties' nose had been in the way.

seventeen, toronto. high school textbook sale. thumbing through that year's yawn fest something compels us to look left. there we're faced with it: our classmate, minus about 78% of the nose she'd had the year before. like, tori spelling styles. like, a nub. like a doll.

and so outlines our path from awareness to obsession to horror toward the notion of a nose job, despite the austere proportions with which we've been blessed. while we can often be found insisting that we'd for sure fall victim to plastic's facelessness (jennifer grey, anyone) it's really because we can't handle the idea of something chiseling up our nostril. but whatever it takes.

most of you have already seen the transformation of heidi montag, the curious and the perverted already squinting at their screens, guessing at her change. her measures of insecurity. and yet it wasn't a disgust reminiscent of the nub that had us clicking off the hills premier tuesday night. it wasn't an itchy discomfort at the unveil of her new face (new boobs, new ass) that sent us reeling. nor was it empathy, to be honest. no sadness for how empty someone's soul must be to want to look that fucked (we have our own shit to worry about). in fact it was simply repulsion: toward mtv and their mockery of the whole thing. of the lives of these girls. especially considering their hand in it.

these young things signed up for the mtv machine fresh, hopeful and naive about the promises. the doors and dreams that were to line their yellow brick roads. now they're out the other end (this is the end, after all) a summary of our inventory: heidi (13+ plastic surgeries, marriage for marketing) kristin (90lbs with an obvious cocaine habit) stephanie (new face, jail twice, rehab twice, with an obvious cocaine habit) audrina (mental faculties questionable, also plastic). and then lo (what a wonder).

these girls (and their designed, inauthentic lives, conversations and friendships) are broken. and they were broken by our mtv. they've had their souls chopped up and fed back to them (and to us) in little bits; wrapped in shiny bows of materialism, of insecurity, of fucked up priorities. just as they want us. and rather than intervene throughout the obvious demise of these lab rat lives each season (ie shifting the entire hills 'reality' into an critically important message for young girls) mtv instead chose to flaunt their fucked-upedness. to dangle each damage like meat to the wild, unveiling each grimy piece shamelessly. mockingly.

truth is we're disgusted that any organization can get away with it, most especially one with such a place within culture - within reality - as mtv. breaking youths into ruin while trying to convince us they're not involved? it's exploitative. it's fucking monstrous. and it's enough. we beg of you.

6.5 boob job

2010-04-27T12:30:00.007-04:00

some girls go for the deep, salacious v: designed for the eye to get lost deep within its sultry notions. some girls hitch them high: system of pulleys rendering a shape at odds with nature. some shy away from presentation or prominence at all: under wraps for all but the luckiest (aerodynamic too). we personally like the flutter: just enough free-will that the girls move with us, each step a small flirtation of femininity. hey, to each her own.

whatever your preferred way to cleave, we hope you’re wearing the bubbies well this week, showing them off as they were meant. oh, haven’t you heard? we’re trying to start an earthquake.

technically yesterday (we of course participated, without realizing) boobquake is the brainchild of the blag hag, a global call for women to show some skin in a show of solidarity against stupidity. specifically, the stupidity of this iranian cleric, recently quoted as saying that the revealing clothing of women are to blame for recent earthquakes.

in actuality, this dude’s logic argues it’s adulterous men who directly affect the rate of earthquakes, but brasandranties won’t bother with logic here. the more pressing matter is his perpetuation of ignorance.

perhaps there actually is a force of anger at the root of our planet’s prodigious irritations, this recent rash of nature’s revenge. but perhaps it’s a reaction to the fundamental destruction humans have wreaked. perhaps it’s a reminder that money doesn’t make the world go-round, but rather, makes it stop. perhaps it’s in response to his own religion’s removal of rights.

the world is chock-full of people clamoring to be heard, to impart point of view on the unassuming. this man is very proof that the world is also full of idiots, including idiots in places of relative prominence. no human error will be overcome with the endurance of blame, with misogynistic missives. shouldn’t our sole, shared goal simply be survival?

besides. if the end does come, we're willing to bet you'll want some boobies then.

the unexamined life worth living

2010-04-26T11:19:00.008-04:00

we had one of the more perfect sundays, a cap to what can only be described as a gorgeous weekend. fixated on nothing more that the recalibration of our chi, we felt (and behaved) selfishly splendid for days straight. adored and adoring. t'was exactly what we needed after what's felt like a rather wretched stretch.

when the skies turned grey we headed inside for cover, movie marathon primed to feed our mind with lives and stories far from our own. an easy escape. and yet we spent the first ninety minutes sitting erect, sitting horrified, as we saw our fears (nightmares) brought to life within our living room.

we live in public is the story of josh harris, the greatest internet pioneer (we've apparently never heard of). a mad genius, an internet visionary, he made predictions about the digital world and what it would do to our lives long before his peers even understood its capabilities. he funneled this understanding into a number of bizarre, controversial human experiments (art?) around the millennium such as quiet: a bunker hotel under nyc he filled with 100 artists, 600 cameras and microphones, and even more automatic weaponry. it was fucked.

in essence this madman predicted the future human consumption of the internet-age, as well as the fundamental change to the human condition that comes along with it. he knew that each one of us would soon be fit with a camera and a monitor: a new virtual world allowing each of us the ability (and unending propensity) to broadcast. 15mins of fame, each day.

he likened this all-new reality to an electronic human beehive, each person relinquishing rights, image, deeds and thoughts to the power of the collective. powered by eyeballs we bring big brother to life; training people to automate themselves and provide value and content to the corporation without thought (facebook is now valued at some absurd number, $18billion we've heard, all because they own the electric versions of us). the collective conscious now has ultimate power, its influence and energy now able to affect mindshare. behavior. mood. all the while everyone is watching. apparently we want it that way.

the notion hit home (hit hard) in the wake of our recent blogette heebie-jeebies, our sick sense that we may have become the rat in this experiment. each of us pays a price for living in public; just how big of a ticket in direct proportion to how much we share. how much of our lives are we sacrificing? does it invite an influence of power (of evil) we can't yet conceptualize? is this the beginning of the end?

shaping faults that are not

2010-04-22T15:47:00.009-04:00

it was almost as if we weren't in our own body; the situation tumbled from our fingers into the electric haze of last call. the force was as deliberate and strong as our double vodka sodas (we prefer to call them skinny bitches) and before we knew what had happened were balls-deep in a full fledged scrap.

the culprit? jealousy. the affected? all involved. and the result? total ruin. the night at least. the weekend admittedly. our chi for sure.

it’s a tumultuous and excitable visitor to any relationship, this jealous beast. it can disrupt the path of a couple in an instant, just by identifying its prey and showing its teeth. with a force like horsepower coming up against a wall, the injection of green as ingredient tends to bring everything to a sudden, uncalculated halt. an obstacle. a man. a sloot. something in the middle, where there should be no one at all.

typically an affliction in-hand of the woman (at least, this woman) we’ve long insisted that jealousy doesn’t look good on anyone. even just a little. even if you’re cute. any attempts to shellac, to gussy it up pretty or dismiss it with a flutter are usually rendered pointless, relative to the cloud it inevitably rains.

a by-product of our overactive imagination (and perhaps our self-destructive belief that we’re always right) brasandranties has had a long and yet (relatively) successful road to managing our propensity toward overprotection. our unwillingness to share. while we’ll admit we’ve had our moments (our mind is certainly capable of the absurd paranoia on occasion) it seems we’ve been able to tune our ability to see the big picture and let shit go. solely because we have to. for the most part.

but oh those times we're on the other end of it. if ever the jelly rears its head in a man - baby blues trigger, turning green - our ability to empathize somehow goes right out the window. alongside his rationality, no doubt. a man left brooding and infantile is not hot. that's a man who gets jealous. that's not a man who knows what’s his.

any modern relationship is rife with conflict and complexities. our blackberries yield fruits of theories, maybes and what-ifs, ever-abridged communication leaving doors (sometimes moats) open for interpretation. misinterpretation. throw facebook into the mix and you’re guaranteed to go nuts. and take it outside to the real world? you’re fucked. there’s no way to get around it but get over it.

there will always be someone (sometimes more than one) panting for scraps, edging into a place they don’t belong. toeing the line too far for your liking. people don’t respect boundaries that aren’t theirs - hell, some people don’t even respect a ring. they do as they will (always do) and it simply can’t become your problem. that way, it won’t become ours either.

take it up with customer service

2010-04-21T22:56:00.014-04:00

we've been in front of a computer for three days straight; shoulders hunched, neck spasming, eyes crossing at random (likely attempting to roll back in our head as we whimper toward our painful death). we've been working it hard and it aint been fun. patience, brainpower, spirit and creativity sucked up into the guts of our machine with the click of each key. each command fucking shift.

no time to love, no time to live. no time to think, truth be told. we can barely even tweet (it's been killing us). but we blurt a blog (albeit a more than slight inebriated, nonsensical one) not for kicks nor tricks, just for us. a verbose vom into the pages of what's quite obviously become our notepad. our diatribe. which we admit we occasionally forget you voyeurs are reading.

until you all fucking yawn over it, of course. your collective boredom at our cerebral ramblings sent us reeling, at first for the hills, then back here for a rantie. fuck. it's no new conversation, the idea of momentum. of chi. so ours is busted; a slow strangle, a drawn out kind of kill. give a girl a break. you don't like it - you know what to do. in the meantime, we'll cease blogging whilst blitzed. and bored. mmkay?

messy lives of messy minds.

2010-04-19T20:25:00.010-04:00

our moleskine sits a perfectionist's pornography; thoughts captured perfect, diagrammatically making sense of the nonsensical. the flick of our sharpie architects answers, landscaped of unpicked possibility. one lined for daylight, another unlined, where the real shit goes down. these pages, if we may say, sit as things of beauty. every thing with a place. an order with our name on it.

yet somehow - and somewhat curiously - these pages sit in absurd opposition to every thing else about us. far from ordered, we usually swim deep in chaos, doggie-paddling our way through the piles of our controlled disorganization. through piles of stuff. turns out plate-spinning aint really our thang. and thus our collections tend to drum up a momentum (a mess) all their own, wardrobe words and the wears and tears of life finding their place within our place.

we've mulled it over and yet it still doesn't make much sense. how can our mind require a compulsive, overindulgent neatness, with the rest of our life anything but? do we exhaust all inclinations at work, relishing the fruits of randomness where we can get it? or have we simply ruled our unkempt beast of a brain to (at least) think efficiently whilst getting paid? we can't help but think that it's within the disorder that the good stuff sits in wait, ripe to pick if you can let the reigns loose a little bit. but it's still no excuse for this mess.

we think your porsche makes your penis look small

2010-04-15T22:09:00.006-04:00

we've had rich ones. we've had po ones. who's kidding whom, we've had a few in between too. our mother taught us early and she taught us well: marry for money, regret it for life. as such we've always regarded a man with money as simply a bit more, well, fun. but it's never why we're in it. it's never the reason. no matter how much, it's not enough to be enough. not enough to ignore the fact that we don't actually like you.

turns out we're in the minority (if only). in fact the dating tactic du jour seems to be declarative gold digging. at least girls don't have to fake it anymore. minimally enthusiastic googling has yielded an assortment of dating sites now aimed at pairing the digger with her daddy; an exchange of assets, literal to figurative. the star has a great piece here.

a part of us balks, horrified at the notion. the prude in us no doubt, tis the oldest profession after all. and we do love us some millionaire matchmaker. while we couldn't come to terms with banging a busted daddy warbucks, no matter how big his bucks, to each her own we suppose. the truth: a lot of people tread the line, and it's a line quite blurry to begin with. declaring what you want. taking care of a partner with one's respective endowments. consenting adults. we get it.

but forgive us, the romantic in us. we're quite well versed in the pains in love. it's hard to find once you do it's fast it's explosive and it usually hurts. it usually haunts. but by fuck love is beautiful. even the heartbreak in it is beautiful. point is, each one of us deserves it, the real shit. for some strange, cursed reason it's been ingrained within us. try as the diggers might to convince us, themselves otherwise, let brasandranties pontificate: love really is all there is.

favie: evan biddell

2010-04-14T19:01:00.005-04:00

our favorite fashion was evan biddell. his collection was extreme (purposefully, no doubt) and experimental: shapes taking on multi-dimensions, architecture come to life, textiles not meant to be worn. some would regard it as choppy, without influence. but we could see it from its first step: creatures, slowly roaming. mcqueen hooves brought atop, around the body: a coat with prehistoric spine. reptilian legs. it was all decidedly jurassic. we could honestly rock it.

biddell is presenting a collection at toronto's alternative fashion week (fat) next week, and we're hoping all of it will soon be at his studio boutique oz so we can see the goods up close.

(image by jenna wakani stolen from fashion)

favie: greta constantine

2010-04-14T18:24:00.008-04:00

greta constantine's was our favorite of the week, by far the best in show with regard to dramatics, theatrics and fashion-ness. the venue (the holding room of audi's gorgeous showroom, for this aint no lg fashion week show) housed the dark and sultry collection beautifully, the elegance somehow bouncing off the concrete walls, picking up momentum. fierceness via centrifugal force.

the energy was electric, a fashion spectacular. greta went from day to night to after-hours, signature draping lending fluid sophistication to office-wools (if only) straight into yards of jersey done greta grecian, a palette of smokey blues, greys and purples. and despite hard influences woven throughout - telltale signs of a more dangerous alter ego (shards of mirror, thick bands of leather, exposed curves of bare skin) - the bad girl didn't come out to play until the very end: moto leather legs on steroids, seemingly neverending and beserk sexy.

in fact it was the pause mid-show that got brasandranties most excited, the parade of ezra: clothes for the boys (those beautiful boys). here's where things got interesting; sharp cuts, killer detailing and tons of creativity. we mean, a leather poncho, hello. half the things the boys had on we wanted for ourselves (okay the other half needn't remain on either). can't wait to see this stuff up close, and to see more.

(image by jenna wakani stolen from fashion)

later v never

2010-04-14T13:27:00.007-04:00

we have yet to comment on the fashions of fashion week, but fear not. we'd never leave it final with a rantie on stagnant bureaucracies. no no. not when there's fashion to attend to.

rather than rush to report the runway we so removed, bloggers ejournalists everything in between in frantic race to bring what they just saw to life with the written word. consideration time directly proportional to quality of thought. we can barely rush when we're meant to.

instead we chose to allow the work to plant its seeds, to percolate. not for the purpose au rantie, but so that we could celebrate our very favorites. the inspiration for some of our best stylistic adventures has come to us slowly, our adoration for a look sometimes lazily taking shape (versus sending our heart soaring upon sight). it's often the fashion that creeps in slowly, timid through the shadows of your mind, your style subconscious. these are the notions of style that are most transformative.

so here are our favorites, in no particular order. and big ups to fashion magazine and jenna wakani for the shots (which we've ever so graciously borrowed thankyou).

toot toot

2010-04-12T22:30:00.007-04:00

a funny thing, inspiration. it can come from anywhere. just today: a blast of blue across asphalt, a grid of steel atop a palette of grey, foliage a canopy glowing lush overhead. to be an artist that can capture that inspiration into renewed form, hands creating things new from tiny parcels of else where. it'd be pretty cool, if it were. and yet words seem to be our only thing.

ashley rowe, on the other hand, is making market of her inspirations; individual characters, colors and choruses commandeering her brush, splattered signatures across luxurious tees. she looked to five locals for collaborative fodder and voila. the splatter collection was born.

we think there's something energetic in the fun miss rowe seems to be having with her splatter series, a playful fury to her creation. she's brought an unconfined excitability to life in a palette so sophisticated. we've already paired ours with leopard and acid wash. what (pray tell, the hell) will be next?

check the campaign come to life here, where you can shop the brasandranties or design your own. inspiration at work: gotta love it.

(shot by jenna wakani)

we've been busy

2010-04-12T09:28:00.003-04:00

we've been thinking this morning about confidence, or more specifically the lack thereof. it's an odd notion to grasp hold of, this idea of it being absent. of a person not able to source it. to have faith in it. in truth, we're more likely be accused of having the juice in abundance. of being over-sure of our perspective, if there ever was such a thing. there is in fact no better strategy for life (if you don't believe, who else will) and we do our very best to graciously employ it. but trust us when we say, we're no stranger to the effect: chi busters on the soul, outlook warped from the climb, the fall to the pit a harder hit than expected. of course it disrupts the mind, the moxie, the assuredness. of course it makes you wonder.

ten days ago a handful of you (hundreds of you) saw something we didn't want you to. an unfinished experiment. the chaos before order. a glimpse of the creative process before the fruits are culled, boiled down and packaged. it blew smoke out our ears and it blew our belief system up. our half-baked soul (how apropos) was there for the world to see, the labour of love lost from our control. we felt deflated and we felt defeated.

when something comes across your path (its design to knock you over, its purpose to play with what you think you know best) it's human to revel, to roll around in it. but it's enlightened to explore within what despairs, to determine the grander point. to evolve toward your next lesson. and all of a sudden, life clicks back into place.

our plan for the blogette relaunch is now bigger than ever. our point of view on ourself appropriately equalized. our lens on brasandranties rosier, our visions more dreamy than ever. peaks and valleys. waves. a rollercoaster. what you may: despite the clutter, despite the crap, life's purpose lies right before us, there for the taking. scratch the surface, delve deeper, open your eyes. and enjoy the view.

morning glory

2010-04-08T19:19:00.005-04:00

we've just sat down to write and the clouds have suddenly cleared. there's a glow like topaz, slivered blocks across the worn wood floor. we've been feeling the gloom all week, contrarily stoic. even more negative than usual, if one can imagine. we sit up high in the sky all day, the 16th floor, gazing out across the city. it's no wonder, then, that our head's been in the figurative clouds as well, this week leaving it's bruises as we bump along. it's no surprise really, we expected as much. susan miller (astrological goddess) told us so.

the good news is, the sun'll come out tomorrow too - and he'll keep smiling on us all weekend. just in time for the spring social, the seventh annual buy design. the fete benefits wear white for windfall (google it) and this year's theme is the best dress up yet. the dirty thirties had a cheek to it, a simple glamour. everyone was just aces, getting dizzy with their dames. a good time found despite it all. how apropos.

there'll be a dance hall and a big band, badminton, croquet, a parade. it'll be swell. if you're not sure what to wear, we'd suggest your daintiest hat. find your t-straps, toss them on with a little sockette (how burberry of you) then tuck your girls up high into a ladylike dress. belt that shit, powder your nose, red lips only. and off you go. what a looker.

check the adorable site to learn all the details.

a (really fucking long) rantie

2010-04-07T10:37:00.007-04:00

so, how was fashion week?

it's been the most commonly offered query so far, this week's return to the real world, bleary-eyed, beleaguered as ever. see post below. we've as yet managed to avoid answering the question directly, if only for the notion that 'read the rantie' is just a fuck lot easier. but the truth is, we've been mulling it for days and it just isn't getting any nicer. so here goes nothing.

robin kay opens the shows of fallwinter10 fashion week by sharing with us her vision: a bigger and bolder event each season, with

more designers, more collections, more supporters. upon encouragement, the front row claps for her in earnest. and yet the front row is all there is.

despite her wishful thinking (and what we can only assume is best intention) this past fashion week seemed as confused (and confusing) as ever. in the midst of an obvious identity crisis, brasandranties is left unclear as to whether there’s really a vision for fashion week at all.

first, the location. forget the tents at bryant park (actually, forget tents altogether) the announcement that our fashion week would take place at the ex was met with grunts and groans alike. as seasons pass, the event has been slowly creeping west: from front and center at nathan phillips, and now, the ex. the allstream center at the cne. doesn't get less glamorous than that.

second, the timing. it was all wrong, and not just because it all started on a sunday night. ironically, the idea of a tradeshow convention (allstream's function, after all) is at the root of fashion week’s essence: centralized viewing of designer collections for buying purposes. media awareness and coverage secondary. socialites primping and pruning just collateral damage. and yet toronto’s fashion week comes weeks after deadlines for orders have passed, most buyers already having seen collections prior in order to just do their jobs.

third, the money. try as we might, we cannot seem to get our hands on any information re cash flow. what's clear is that there are mighty sponsorship dollars coming in the fdcc's door (the fashion environment is lined with brand experiential booths, a perimeter of monopoly properties) and yet designers pay to show. media reps pay to cover. boozers pay to drink. of course such a spectacle costs, but the unbiased outsider has to wonder how efficiently this money is actually being spent.

toronto fashion week, god we hate to hate on you. brasandranties is a believer that this city is brimming with creativity, with ideas and ideologies. we simply won't buy in to canada's inferiority complex; our self-perpetuating mediocrity, excuses, reasons at the ready. the world stage is the only stage there is, this act our only go-around. now (more than ever) this is canada's time to show off our shit. and this shit simply will not do.

we have a flood of talent visioning and creating across our country, each of them desperate for a platform and for support. this platform's purpose is to provide designers access and attention to buyers, to media. most importantly, to the world, for canadian designers must go global. the economics require it.

logic thus demands that the organizing bodies do what they must to garner that attention for their members. that is, by declaration of their mission, the fdcc's sole purpose. by the looks of things we have the mechanics to get it done. we have the sponsorship dollars. and we quite obviously have the brains. and yet the creative drain continues, most of our best choosing to leave the runway d'official. our most exciting: greta constantine, mikhael kale, jeremy laing each choosing to (quote) go rogue. and wouldn't you?

we need a fix, and we need one fast. a new way of doing things, new energy and new leadership. a realignment back to its mission, a refocus to where it matters most: on our designers. let's discover what they need from their council. what they require for involvement and success in an organized fashion week. what their ideas are for showing the world what canada's made of. it's time for evolution, it's time for change. it's what fashion's all about anyway.

constipation

2010-04-06T14:17:00.004-04:00

we remember it clearly. our only feedback to simply laugh. someone asking, in earnest: brasandranties is so reactive. don't we worry about saying too much?

oh dear. friend it's actually quite the opposite. these ranties our take on the matter only after we've calmed the beat, counted back from ten, theorized hypothesized philosophized with each wave of breath. in the nose. out the mouth. in other words, this is how we feel only after we've calmed the fuck down. leapt mightily toward the silver lining. found the good in it, despite our predilections.

such is the case for our silence, last week tossing enough grenades our way to leave us feeling battered. worn. if we'd had a hole we'd have buried down deep, plumage convincingly invisible as our head goes dark in the sand. however unfortunately, ours is much more complicated than the life of the ostrich. and so here we are.

despite our diatribes often tumbling from loose-lips (oh did you miss our recent drunken twitter rantie? shame) when it's big it hurts. the words and emotions churn deep in our belly, drum up force, slam against the sides when we least expect it. but we can't get them the fuck out. not done yet. still baking.

lucky for us (not sure about you) it appears our blogette block has been so removed. to come: our fashion week feedback (uh oh), a few of our favorite things, what the fuck happened with the website last week and prostitution en vogue.

go on. email me@brasandranties.com

at attention, if you will

2010-03-29T23:03:00.004-04:00

bras and ranties must interrupt this regularly scheduled programming for a very (very) important announcement. remember when we asked you to remove brasandranties.blogspot.com from your bookmarks and instead go where we damn well tell you: brasandranties.com?

turns out none of you listened. good talk.

well we're telling you again, and this time it matters. we sit in wait of our blogette transformation, our evolution. just when exactly we flick the switch (we'll never tell) but know this: it will be soon. and when it happens, blogspot will be no longer. you'll be left in our yesterday.

brasandranties.com. save that shit.

the circus comes to town

2010-03-29T21:50:00.007-04:00

today marked the start of toronto fashion week. oh call it what you will. to spite the brand aficionado within we refuse the lg. tis not lg's fashion week, tis lg's cheque. we digress.

the five day fashion showcase actually began sunday evening, the opening bells timed to chime exactly as bras and ranties tends shut shit down. we wouldn't (couldn't) trade the weekend's quiet close for much but we had all intention to see the izma show, glorious pieces after our fur-adoring heart. and yet instead we spent our evening completely buggin out, panic raging at our to-do list (the bulk of which didn't matter mere hours earlier as we lounged deliciously in bed). and then the lazies strike again.

in fact one could argue that the festivities got going weeks ago, so we vow to start our untimely coverage there. with the gentleman who kicked the week off rogue, toronto's darling philip sparks. the show kicked things off on a high note, in both presentation and product.

inspired by moby dick, the models stood a pequod still-life as the guests wandered round, celebrating the details the designer's known for up close. melville's words quite obviously came to life for sparks through beautifully tailored dark wools and tweeds, thick sweaters (did we see buttons made of bone?) scattered across gorgeous men. perched on crates. draped in thick spools of rope. handsome as ever.

we promise to bust ass to get things up to speed, inspire confabulation in our fashion week commentary while also providing our usual absurdities. bloggin like woah. in the meantime. our twitter. seriously.

stories without morals

2010-03-28T21:39:00.006-04:00

truth is that we have no fucking clue. no fucking idea what it is we're actually doing. our life from every angle looks to be alien. absurd. cause for concern to say the least. random snapshots incite rote lists of concern; to dos, yet to be dones, oh fuck we didn'ts. always sending us off kilter, managing to spin just a bit too fast for us to keep pace. how deep is too deep a sudden jerk in our belly.

so we very obviously have the sundays; all the things we didn't do looming over us. each one bearing down heavy, tightening their grip in the muscles within our neck. we are wearing our stress all over us, and it doesn't look good.

regardless, we've been nudging work forward at a snail's pace, hopping from one client's small step to another. a rather rare and disheartening way to work, if we do say so. add to that this warped wonderland of fashion week, a rabbit hole rich with content. with flavor. we're a sprint finish away from unveiling the new site, quietly clicking in the background, labouring its way forward with love. we continue to creep our way through the tangles of love, it's best attempts v life. and people are calling us a bitch en blogette. all in a day's work, we guess.

rantie

2010-03-25T10:14:00.009-04:00

we possess unending curiosity about this strange (absurd) world in which we exist. in fact, we can often be find cerebrally wandering from conversations, a lovely chat changing shape suddenly to a static noise, trying mightily to interrupt the frequency of our philosophic inspiration. most often we lose our grip on these daydreams and land softly back in reality, rendered only slightly confused as to what it is we've missed. but those notions are left behind deep in the mind - in the gut - like planted seeds. or buried bombs, depending.

such is the case lately with the notion of friendships, in both subject matter and ideology. growing up absent of hometown roots placed an expiry date on most of our relationships, oceanic distances and snail mail the perfect recipe for letting go. even after landing, after settling down, we remained choiceful of our confidantes. we went for quality.

and then came facebook. and with it, the actual definition of a friend altered its course, watered down its virtues, shifted its paradigm. it even invented new permutations of the word. and all of a sudden, we each had hundreds (sometimes thousands) of friends. suddenly, those from whom we'd have chosen to keep our distance became ever-connected, ever-aware. those whose presence rubs us rough suddenly a mainstay in our every day. the notion of keeping one's friends close, enemies closer now lost its meaning, since both are watching your every move anyway.

so we all became too fucking nice.

facebook, twitter and their inevitable evolutions are now a breeding ground for what bras and ranties hates most: being fake. filled with people so concerned with perceptions that they choose to be vanilla. choose to be switzerland, fearful of labels, branding, association. fearful of being disliked. passive aggression (our pet peeve) reigns; subtle jabs, electronic eyes to the heavens as far as the feeble are willing to push. more comfortable standing pressed against the back wall; a blurry field of flowers blending into one another, a far cry from monet.

and so all around us sensitivities rage; insulting and offending now what seems an inevitable aftershock of our (apparently over-) confident, aggressive stance. words starting wars, polarizing with each post. why? well, we won't tell you what you want to hear, coating your ego with a saccharine bubble wrap. we won't pretend you're right when you're not. we're going to tell it to you straight (it's what we'd say to your face anyway). we're just being real. if more of us were, the world (and twitter) would be a much cooler place.

and that's the thing about people who mean everything they say; they think everyone else does too (khaled hosseini)

bras and ranties boycotts

2010-03-22T21:19:00.008-04:00

we used to work right across the street from one of the nicest starbucks around. we'd walk through the doors in the morning, each morning. we'd attach ourself to the tail end of the rush, look up to catch the eye of the barista, winking as he got to work. by the time we'd reach the cash, our drink would be served directly to us with a smile, a morning burst of good chi etched on the side beside the tall order: the bras and ranties. it was divine.

it was, as it was intended, our third place: another comfort spot, a part of a routine. as it was for so many. we were being spoon-fed an iconic brand experience model, and we were buying every wasted minute of it. slurping as we ate it up.

now, only a handful of years later, our morning starbucks experience makes us fume. the worst chi buster of all. we leave late. stressed. frustrated. rantie-ing about how a person can possibly do something day in, day out and somehow not improve. about operational inefficiencies and declining customer service standards. about the human race.

somehow a lesson in logic seems in order. open storefronts within blocks of each other and watch the seams unravel. cannibalization of sales, customer base, service standards. degradation of a key brand pillar: the perception of upmarket exclusivity. plasticization (and pesticidation) of the heart of the experience: the coffee. the coffee tastes like shit, and even the house brew is not fair trade. capitalism at its best.

there's the smell of mcdonald's in the air, both the operations model as much as those wretched breakfast sandwiches. this is a plastic, american experience churned out, eaten up by the zombies. the consuming masses. never (ever) again. we doth declare it.

pee yew.

2010-03-21T22:29:00.012-04:00

we always grin knowingly when a man offers up appreciation (devotion) for bras and ranties; sheepish at his admittance, as if one click of a mouse in a thousand somehow matters. we immediately reassure him that it doesn't make him seem gay, that he is in fact is one of many bras and ranties' boys and send him on his way. but not after he admits to us that there's too much fashion for his liking. pssh.

we will save the opportunity to rantie about the lack of stylistic vision the men in this town possess, as we had intended this post to be one for the boys. proof positive of the their compadres. their needs addressed, desires attended to. as always, it comes back to the vagine.

thank you to a kindly man-reader for introducing us to a whole new level. ideas amaze us, even in vaginal form evidently. introducing vulva: the scent of a woman's vagina (actually) captured in a bottle for your recreational use.

though we do believe we've found one of the world's sexiest scents (we'll never tell) we'd also be the first to wax philosophic earth mother about chemistry, pheromones, animalistic attractions. but this shit is, like, actually vagina juice. that you roll on. sniff sniff.

the prudes dismiss it as niche: sexual hobbyists, fetish fulfillment, private use. after all, what women wants a man that smells like someone else's pousse-pousse? but lest we not forget: there are a lot of weird dudes out there. there are dudes who fuck flashlights, dudes who marry pillows. soon enough, there may be dudes all over town bathed in bottled cum. sorry mom.

we already have enough to carry

2010-03-21T21:38:00.005-04:00

call it instinct, call it aging, call it spring fever. whatever it is, bras and ranties has been going wild for the wee ones lately. our world is usually absent of everything but the adult, babies in both ideology and actuality a distant, alien notion. we love the munchkins, really we do. but we've got some more living to get done first.

and yet each and every day last week, somehow the mini ones showed themselves. charmed us. annihilated us. we were cooing, googly-eyed. it was embarrassing really.

in the same span of days we learnt of two xboyfriends now expecting. daddy-bound. and while we wouldn't personally have chosen to procreate with the gentlemen (lovely as they are) the whole thing kinda does make you think. pause. gauge; your own life versus theirs. pace sticks.

for now, we're happy to experience motherhood vicarious, even short term tastes of their reality enough to keep the baby-proofing coming. but this very well may be a far-away whisper of bras and ranties' clock. consider us officially disturbed.

(image stolen from sea of shoes, a bras and ranties favorite)

style infidels and misunderstood mass murderers

2010-03-17T04:22:00.008-04:00

our lists float around us like little flies: our agenda, notebooks, random scraps of paper housing half-baked stacks of blogette writing intention. we jot them jauntily, planning to pump that shit out in one fell swoop; forgetting the languid pace of our sentences, the slow drawl of our words. so instead those lists grow taller, mightier as the day progresses, as life passes by. all of it just creative fodder for this writing.

he was on the list, this china man called brother sharp. a story so absurd it made headlines, a parody a paradox: derelict come to life. a tragic man, an out of the ordinary mind now the center of attention as he becomes noticed (and revered to instant stardom, thanks to this interweb) as fashion icon. sex symbol's a stretch. turns out his succinct style of bohemian grunge is being lauded as chic. and, despite his resistance (and seeming mental instability) some people are trying to launch his modeling career.

there we humans go again, so desperate for a fairy tale we bring a punchline to life without noticing the irony. none of it in poor intention, and yet. and while we're all for garnering inspiration from the streets, this is exploitative. and very dirty. pun intended on both accords.

we are awake blogging at 445am after being woken - terrified - by a man outside our window, ranting about killing people and then killing their families. unideal for a tuesday. after checking the deadbolts, grabbing a henckel, calling the police, and hiding the ganja our heart has finally slowed, cold sweat dried, mind convinced that we won't be the protagonist in those fantasies ce soir. the officer's appeasement: he's probably just wandered over from camh. we just sent him on his way.

there are people, services and institutions dedicating their lives to these people when everyone else turns their back. doing good. doing their best. it's an honorable way to spend one's day. so are we helping them do it well? is our city? it seems to us toronto's streets are sicker than we know, sicker than the city lets on. it's a very big and very expensive truth. exhausted googling (v exhaustive googling, of course) has yielded little information. if you know about more about this than us (which is likely) email me@brasandranties.com.

rantie

2010-03-16T14:22:00.014-04:00

we arrived uncharacteristically on time to the taping of (an upcoming) hills aftershow, a march monday mid-afternoon. we'd been in mtv's audience before, loving opportunity to live-rantie through one of our guiltiest pleasures. throw in obsession du jour kelly cutrone (and drinkie-poos served post-tape) and you can count us in.

while we're still not sure what it was that we expected, we must admit we were taken aback when our entire twitter feed came to life before our eyes. aspirin-sized avatars now living, breathing, speaking words in our direction. introductions as twitter handle, real names rarely ventured, offered up. the confused stare of a stranger when we went with our own name instead of our personality's. hugs. you know how we feel about hugs.

after a confused few minutes we were finally informed of the point of the whole thing: a soon to be launched online magazine by mtv called fora. content stacked tall with the words of local tweeters and bloggers. it all made sense now. the bloggers involved buzzed round in a frenzy, immediately identifiable by their enthusiasm (if not their peach beserk prom dresses, to-theme but extreme for an afternoon, even by bras and ranties' standards). of course they were excited, their shit's going mainstream. and brava.

the breed of readers who comb our posts looking for snags to grab hold to (usually ignorantly missing the point altogether) will respond to this rantie as our feeling envy for our lack of inclusion. not quite. in fact it's been a difficult, resistance-filled process for us to bring our writing to the real world. beyond blog. unmasked from bras and ranties' anonymity. the word: published, now carrying a whole new weight in the context of print. but this isn't about us. this isn't about mtv. it isn't about the bloggers either.

this is about the frenzy altogether. the round-up of local loggers (hitching on to hard work) is a strategy we see a number of brands, marketers, publicists scrambling toward. blog-wagoning, if you will. social media is a scary place, why not turn to those already doing it? fair enough.

and yet something about the fanfare (happening the world-over) feels eerily over-inflated. a bubble approaching dangerous mass. a growth unsustainable. a matter of time. while we realize we're doing it a bit differently (timid with our treads beyond the website's walls, shy at recognition, averse to blowin up) we can only do what we feel good about. speak not for others and do our own thang. maybe we'll be wrong, our trepidation perhaps unnecessary, our caution comical. but don't say we didn't warn you.

the woman who follows the crowd will usually go no further than the crowd. the woman who walks alone is likely to find herself in places no one has ever been before (einstein)

bubble wrap

2010-03-16T10:52:00.003-04:00

don't worry. we haven't died. haven't retired. not been eaten alive by hockey strategies. not playing hooky underneath the sheets.

despite a moleskine full this past weekend, we instead spent the days in rare self-imposed isolation. not because we were sad or mad, but to avoid feeling as such. after all, it would have been inevitable if we'd thrown ourself out into the downpour, attempting to fashion fun out of anything but.

we returned to a frenzied real world yesterday; a day rife with reminders of our precious state, and made all the moreso for a monday despite the sunshine. an early morning meeting waiting at the end of a crawling commute. a darkened room, subtleties and challenges volleyed across a boardroom table.

but even the dance of the client meeting couldn't prepare us for the afternoon, our much anticipated up close sneak peek of our latest obsession: the formidable kelly cutrone (more on her later, we're talking about us right now). as we rushed over the temple, mid-day, mid-week, we're not quite sure what we expected. but it wasn't this. rantie on the matter, up next.

email me@brasandranties.com. ideas, curiosities and well-wishes welcome. bloggin all day.

what we wore

2010-03-10T14:06:00.005-05:00

we're still getting used to the new what we wore: new name, new chi, new direction behind the lens. while we're obviously enjoying ironing out the kinks, it (like everything) is a work in process, so please bear with. though we must say, we're rather enjoying that ominous shadow.

what we wore

to nyood upstairs

faux (!!) fur shoulder stole: h&m

cropped black (shoulder gem-ed) jacket: h&m

yellow silk print blouse: tucker

grey body-con dress: bcbg max azria

grey caged leggings: h&m

strap platform boots: herve leger

brown and gold stud belt (worn as bracelet): mendocino

mottled gold cuff: soos

what would bras and ranties do?

2010-03-10T11:55:00.002-05:00

hi bras and ranties, hoping you can give me some advice. i've been with my girl for three months. she's seven years my senior and ended a long term relationship about a year ago. we've been taking it chill and slow, but have had the exclusivity talk and have intro'd each other to friends. a few of her girls dropped hints when they met me: one said finally, another that her friend should hold on to me. i would say things are going great, except for the fact that when we're not together, we rarely converse. i'm the one initiating convos; otherwise we'd have no banter whatsoever. and while she's not secretive, she's not exactly offering up what else she's up to. so, what do you think? is she in this or out of this?

out. but technically in. okay, maybe just the tip.

sir it appears your dear has her head in it, but not her heart. for whatever reason (be it friends, be it philandering, be it fear factor) your girl seems to have allowed you close, but just not close enough. three months in is more than enough time for something chill to pick up momentum (enough at least to keep in touch). if you were going to tumble over into the tundra of the attached, you would have done so already. label or not, this girl is not your girlfriend.

who's to say what compels any human to cushion themselves with space, to build unscalable boundaries, lift the drawbridge to the other side. what we do know is that it's usually not personal; the head, the heart, the soul have got to each be ready to rumble before a true relationship is made. unless she's simply a sociopath, it sounds to us like she's just not there.

it begs the question: how into it are you? if you're falling for the woman (if you're content with her pace, her space) then go forth and conquer - you might regret it if you don't. but be warned: when a relationship is out of balance (when the tug of war for power is so unevenly stacked) it rarely ends well. watch your back, and your heart.

want to know what bras and ranties would do? email me@brasandranties.com or formspring.

rantie

2010-03-09T09:45:00.006-05:00

yesterday was international women's day. we didn't talk about it.

we thought about it for a moment - the rights, truths, equalities of women no doubt critically important to us on personal, societal and global level. but we struggle with the notion of needing a day at all.

the last thing we're attempting to do is discount the work (the fight) of our mothers and their mothers in securing us the place within which we sit. our issue isn't that at all.

our issue is, however, with women's longstanding acceptance of the notion. long before the moneymakers penned their bible (history's most famous marketing material) woman and man lived symbiotically. never one without the other. two parts a whole, impossible without eachother. ying. yang.

equal.

and then the world tipped, currents and constructs pliable in the hands of the profiteers. history unraveled and women found themselves in marriages, cultures and religions in which they were inferior. it became simply the way it was, few individuals believing they themselves could incite change. social structures buried too deep to upheave.

we won't subscribe to a day that perpetuates the mistakes of generations past. recognizing the strides of women simply feeds the fucked-upedness that we had to stride in the first place. yesterday's quote seems suddenly all the more relevant.

bras and ranties looks forward to the day where humanity is our religion. where we step away from spoon-fed bullshit in front of us and see this world as something more. where empathy directs behaviour. after all, behaviour becomes destiny.

was that out loud?

2010-03-07T20:50:00.007-05:00

people often ask what it's like: a life come to life en-blog. style, diaries, truths up for consumption. up for attack. in truth, we (almost always) enjoy the role the blogette process plays within the madness; forcing us to calm our pace, mull it over, think it through.

twitter (despite our heart for it) can act a scarier beast - one who growled in our direction over the weekend, to our head-clouded surprise. the bite-size, the frequency, the medium all contribute to it being so easy to mindlessly muse. pause (and sometimes google) before you tweet obviously the new think before you speak.

watch your thoughts, they become words. watch your words, they become actions. watch your actions, they become habits. watch your habits, they become your character. watch your character, it becomes your destiny (lao tze)

what we wore

2010-03-04T08:04:00.002-05:00

today marks the birth day of what we wore, the brand appropriate evolution of a previous feature of similar name. the brand strategist in us was screeching at the inconsistency; the unwelcome first person sitting awkwardly on its own. lonesome amongst the royal we.

the rename marks the revitalization of the out-fit feature, undoubtedly delighting lovers and loathers alike. there will be many more outfits showing face (or everything but)

what we wore

cream studded caftan - h&m spring 2010

black underpinning - american apparel

black knee highs - as above

black seamless stockings - as above*

blonde and gold grommet pouch - jenny bird

platform strap booties - herve leger

* we take this opportunity to publicly declare our disdain. each pair costs $39 and lasts less than one night

musings

2010-03-02T14:22:00.009-05:00

today we were told - not for the first time, not the last - that we tend to be difficult. that we are harder on others than what's necessary. than what's rightful. some things better left unsaid. better left unnoticed.

to accept someone as they are, as they will, has been a difficult notion for bras and ranties to come to blanket terms. egocentric as it may be, we tend to liken ourself an intuit, radar often ringing before proof shows her face. sometimes just a feeling telling us we know better (it needn't be said we are most often correct, but we will anyway)

to accept someone as they are. to forgive them their trespasses. is it the truest form of love, of friendship? or is it turning a blind eye to those thus removed?

perhaps bras and ranties is new to the boundaries (transient childhood rearing its head once more) and are blindly hopping as yet traversed, transparent lines. creeping up too close. sending her reeling from the heat. this place not ours to tread.

while we do our very best to refrain from pointing out the obvious irony, we will instead say this. to accept someone as they are is empathy. to accept someone as they are is humanism. it's love. let it be learnt.

blogette hearts

2010-03-02T10:56:00.004-05:00

the cursed clothing lover finds herself useless at the seat of the sewing machine, visions of tweaks and alterations left unborn beside brand new bobbins. never materialized. never worn.

while it's rather amazing what can be accomplished with a few strategically placed safety pins, bras and ranties has never been what one would consider crafty. concepts of diy's and refashions succumb to the lazies as the should-do mountain acquires mass. only the exceptionally easy (in example, hair band ankle chains) have yet to make the cut.

all of this is about to change now that we've stumbled upon ps i made this, undoubtedly the most interesting (and most idiot-proof) catalogue of diy's compiled by one obviously crafty blogette maven. from rope and rhinestone earrings, faux fur snoods and feathered shoulder caps, this site is the dope diy.

we'll be trying out some projects of our own during an upcoming night in with our friend mary jane. we're eagerly anticipating the results of our creations. we'll show you ours, if you show us yours...

(image via ps i made this)

good day

2010-03-02T09:33:00.002-05:00

as predicted (no seriously, we predicted (and bet on) a 3-2 win) sunday was a game-changing day for our country. canadian spirit was thick in the air, a sea of red and white bookended by our country's coasts. the canadian way to win swelling a new kind of pride within each of us. enough with humility; canada is now louder and prouder than ever before (ask anyone who tried to get to bed early) and it's about damn time.

the win also brought about a renewed energy for bras and ranties, a new chi in the air. we're inspired to dive into march with a little extra vigor, a little extra moxy.

a hint of spring. more than a hint of spring in-stores. a new susan miller forecast. new herve leger boots. an organized closet. a true romance. life couldn't be more grand.

it's tuesday and we're going to try and blog the shit out of it. talk to me@brasandranties.com