Tag: Storytelling

  • Two can play that (Comparison) Game

    Two can play that (Comparison) Game

    After too many hours, the shimmery blue fabric pinned to my body amounted to a potato sack that looked nothing like what I saw online.

    Standing in front of my sewing room mirror, my brain was ready to start the comparison game.

    Would the blue dress even fit? Would it rip down the back when I sat down? Why did it highlight my gut like that? Why was it twisting that way? How many hours had I spent on it?

    Text message screenshot between two people. Conversation on the screen discusses challenges with sewing a dress.

    I snapped a quick pic to send to my best friend Fernando, part of the wardrobe team for a touring Broadway show: “I don’t think this dress is going to make it.”

    After a moment, the side eye emoji I got back was pretty on brand; he was disappointed. His motto is the familiar RuPaul refrain, You Better Work.

    And this dress was decidedly not working. As a YouTuber who focuses on vintage clothing, this was just about rock bottom.

    Like all chronically online people these days, dealing with disappointment is a good excuse to self soothe with the internet.

    I opened up Instagram to start scrolling for a dopamine fix.

    On cue, the recommendations algorithm pulled up a beautiful true-vintage dress, on sale via DM for $150, 32” inch waist. Another swipe to a beautifully staged photoshoot at a tiki bar, complete with flamingos, fake orchids, and Alfred Shaheen.

    A look back at the mirror confirms I don’t look like these photos at all. I remember the whistleblower story about how Meta can mess with teenage girls’ self esteem just by the images it serves. I feel the sinking in my stomach; approaching 40, the same effect can happen to me, too. That good ol’ comparison game.

    Defiance bubbles up.

    Maybe if I practiced more Self Love I wouldn’t feel this way? Caring about how I look is vain and childish. I should be focused on being mindful, focused on living in the moment.

    “Who cares about what other people think, it’s all about what I think. Be confident.

    Doesn’t Jose say he’ll love me just the same if I’m dolled up in full pinup or proudly in my sweatpants?

    I thought, “Enough!” and I swiftly deleted Instagram off my phone.

    I wish I could say that the concern about my appearance was a new thing, with the comparison game playing a big role in my self esteem.

    Scanned image from the magazine Gothic and Lolita Bible, volume 8. Cover features an illustration and various small images of magazine features. Japanese text overlay.
    Scanned cover images from the Japanese fashion magazine Fruits. Two covers are on the image, with both covers featuring different street style looks. Japanese text overlaid on the images.

    In the early 2000s I discovered Japanese street style and Elegant Gothic Lolita (EGL) as a senior in high school. I was obsessed.

    The “aesthetic” was ruffles, lace, ribbons and bows inspired by Rococo, all adding up to a style that was so different from the Western clothes I had access to. The outfits I saw in Fruits Magazine and The Gothic Lolita Bible felt like home and I was desperate to look like the people I saw in the photos.

    Using my retail pennies from my first job, I got busy saving, buying second hand Baby the Stars Shine Bright accessories and knockoff Vivienne Westwood rocking horse shoes, trying to perfect the look.

    Scanned image from the Gothic and Lolita Bible, with Japanese text describing new dresses from the brand Baby the Stars Shine Bright. The dresses are various shades of red and white.

    Reality hit when I bought my first $400 dress: it didn’t fit.

    It was designed for Japanese standard sizes which my curves wouldn’t conform to, forcing me to lay on my back to even stand a fighting chance at the zipper.

    Soon, it became routine to go to EGL meet ups, wearing my ill fitting dresses and sit amongst petite women, each fitting their imported dresses beautifully.

    Everyone else wore the latest outfits with complete sets of matching headpieces, accessories, dresses, purses, shoes, and frilly knee high socks. All while I couldn’t walk, breathe, or eat comfortably in the chair next to them, with my breasts bound to my chest to squeeze into what I’d worn.

    I wanted to be there so badly that I actively tried to suppress that the experience was actually a nightmare.

    After a particularly long and difficult meet up surrounded by people dressed in head-to-toe ribbons, I hit rock bottom.

    Physically squeezed, exhausted, and climbing out of my car, I heard a distinct POP of the zipper on my gothic lolita dress.

    Female wearing a bow on her head, sunglasses, a black sweater and red and pink dress. She poses with one hand on her hip and a peace sign.
    The fateful dress

    The side seam burst open, exposing me between my armpit and my hip, with my curves winning against the seams.

    My humiliation was bottomless.

    I knew I couldn’t keep doing this: being so physically uncomfortable in my clothes that they not only made it impossible to breathe, but made me a walking wardrobe malfunction. I knew I couldn’t keep showing up to these meet ups feeling less than every one else, self conscious of not having the full look, and shrinking away from my own body’s curves. I couldn’t keep playing the comparison game with my friends about clothes this way.

    I made the decision to give up the EGL street style, choosing to search for an aesthetic that would make me feel happy and comfortable.

    It was easy transition when I discovered that Vintage 40s/50s and Pinup fashions were more flattering to my body and close enough to the feminine aesthetic I loved.

    I embraced the new style and immediately felt better.

    Women standing in a group wearing evening wear.

    Similar to the Japanese Street Style community in the United States, the vintage scene is vibrant and beautiful.

    Events like Viva Las Vegas bring people together, with Friday night of the Weekender being an opportunity to go all out. All year, attendees source the most rare, one-of-a-kind pieces to wear for an opportunity to see and be seen. This year was no different.

    Within the sounds and lights of the slot machines, every woman in my line of sight is dressed to the nines, with full hair and makeup, luscious sequin dresses, and vintage 40s Lucite handbags. Men wear sharp true-vintage 40s and 50s suits with matching hats. In some cases, couples wear matching outfits, purposefully coordinating to signal their shared love of the style.

    It’s modern day peacocking and the comparison game is strong.

    But amongst the beautiful people, Jose and I are not dressed up like them. And amongst the crowd, we stand out like a sore thumb.

    I mentally remind myself, “I don’t care about what other people think!” as we move through the evening events, wandering from ball room to ball room to watch live music, drink champagne, and people watch. But I keep thinking longingly of the blue dress I couldn’t make fit.

    On Viva’s second night, I wore a 40s casual daytime look: a simple skirt and peasant top I’d worn since 9 AM, limp from the Vegas dust outside. My makeup was worn out, my hair unkempt. Jose, as someone decidedly NOT into the vintage scene, settled in his usual jeans and t-shirt with matching Air Jordans.

    Two people pose close to the camera, holding a bottle of wine.

    I reminded myself to be present, not play the comparison game, focus on the fun evening and prioritize laughter and dancing. We even won a bottle of wine!

    Yet, the sinking feeling grew through the night.

    We passed the Glamour Ball, with its women wearing velvet, silk, and shimmering 40s and 50s dresses, opera length gloves, and beautiful hair flowers. The women stood in groups by the entrance to the ballroom, fixing each other’s hair; wafts of expensive perfume encircling them.

    Woman walking in a red dress, hands on her hips.

    I repeat, “Be in the Moment,” silently to myself, pulling my shoulders back as I walk by with my straw daytime bag and dusty sandals. Jose squeezes my hand, watching me from the corner of his eye. His shoulder is bumped by a man wearing a pristine 40s wool suit, who quickly apologizes.

    Over the next several hours, the sinking feeling turns into a pang when I step out of the bathroom stall in the Women’s room, where a line of beautiful women carefully powder their nose and tend to their red lipstick in the mirror.

    My heart beats hard in my chest, trying to ignore my regret, sadness, and humiliation at my bare bones clothes.

    “You’re just here to have fun, it doesn’t matter that you’re not dressed up,” I repeat again and again, washing my hands quickly under the warm water.

    Jose stands outside in the line of impeccably dressed men waiting for their partners, his hand outstretched to meet me and pull me close to him.

    “Do you mind if we go back to the room for the night?” he asks quietly.

    I exhale, “Sure, ya- it’s getting late,” looking forward to the relief from battling my self consciousness, of having been strong against my insecurities.

    I’d won the battle, I had kept my head up high, had stayed present and in the moment even when it was painfully hard.

    We made our way to the elevators, away from the bustling crowd, the champagne and beer, and laughter of partying.

    Waiting for the elevator doors to open, Jose squeezes my hand. I look at his face in profile. He gazes straight ahead at the elevator just beginning to open.

    The ding of the door as it signals us.

    “Next time let’s try and dress up.” A pause before he looks over to me, “I didn’t feel good about myself out there. I don’t want to feel that way again.”

    I nod, in quiet understanding and no words to say.

    Turns out you can’t will yourself out of your feelings.


  • Moving to San Francisco by way of Phoenix

    Moving to San Francisco by way of Phoenix

    Getting tarot cards read in the middle of a BDSM fair is surprisingly terrifying.

    $20 (they take Venmo) in exchange for a 10 minute reading surrounded by butt plugs and the ethics of after-care.

    It was like any other day in San Francisco, between the Ghirardelli Chocolate, the tech bros, and the organic-free-range-single-origin granola.

    The entire time the cards were shuffled, I was terrified: I was leaving the big city and moving to the suburbs.

    I was moving to Phoenix.

    Tarot card images against a black background. The cards feature illustrations with crows.

    Across from me, a goth girl read the cards and said they meant, “This is good for you.”

    I said, “Thanks, I hate it.”

    As predicted, when I moved, I was a fish out of water. It was hot, dry, and flat, nothing like the Bay.

    Within four days of arriving, when there was still a week left of sleeping on a leaky blowup mattress, Jose got the call that he’d been let go. The job which had been the whole reason we’d had to leave SF laid him off.

    This was supposed to be good?

    The thing about Phoenix is that people either love it or hate it.

    Beautiful, crystal blue skies and gorgeous sunsets? 120 degree desert heat. Nature everywhere you look? Don’t go out there, scorpions. Or heat exposure, whichever kills you first.

    Who needs color when there’s endless brown as far as the eye can see?

    Landscape image of Tempe, Arizona, with clouds and dust in the air.

    Trying to find the silver lining, I asked strangers what to do over the summer, and the response was a resounding, “You just don’t go outside.”

    Wait- what?

    And just like the cars that regularly burst into flames on the 202, so did I. My 9-5 burnout got out of hand within the first three months that it took an intervention from my best friends to chill me out.

    I struggled to acclimate. People around me wanted to be there- some COULDN’T STOP talking about how much they loved it there.

    So I sucked it up. I became a summertime hermit, hiding in any bit of shade I could find, conserving water. I got a library card. I picked up reading because it was cheap and the Phoenix Public Library qualified as a “Heat Relief Center.

    I read books, Jose applied to jobs, and our days went on and on, blending into a haze in the summer heat.

    I couldn’t hide at home in the AC forever, though, and when the temperatures finally broke months later I decided to try and make an effort to get out of the house, to do my best to appreciate where I was, to explore.

    There had to be a reason people loved Arizona, even if I was convinced it was just a bunch of cope.

    By this point I’d read over 20 books and to treat myself, I found Changing Hands Bookstore and spent $30 on a copy of Intermezzo by Sally Rooney. Pricey, but a treat.

    The store had a little yellow index card attached to the display, marking it as the book club pick of the month, next meeting in 3 weeks so I thought… why not? I’d never been to a book club- maybe this it would help me get out of the house and be around more than just my cats and unemployed husband.

    Surprisingly, the monthly meetings were a lifeline as I struggled to survive in my loneliness. The SafekeepBlood TestThe God of the WoodsIsola– I put faith in that book club, devouring stories I never would have picked up just to get a chance to be in a room with other humans.

    The books made my life easier to swallow, which was even harder when everything went to shit during the 2024 Election. I’d never gotten so many political ads stuffed in my mailbox as I did that November.

    Every month I did my best to find community worth showing up for, even if the attempt was just sitting in a room of 50 people, quietly alone in the back as everyone else discussed literary fiction over glasses of red wine.

    The Phoenix weather began to warm in the Spring.

    Jose began his rounds of interviews.

    Jose wearing sunglasses, standing outside next to a mural in Phoenix.

    The club pick was Laila Lalami’s The Dream Hotel, centered on surveillance capitalism and its unintended consequences on regular folks.

    In a room of strangers, people debated the book, the state of data collection, how digital foot prints are being used in the legal system, and the current environment of fear online. “The Dream Hotel” was disturbing and didn’t feel like dystopian fiction at all: people shared that they’d had real nightmares reading, because of tech’s role in our lives. People debated never wearing their Apple Watch again.

    After an evening of debate, the moderator announced that she’d take one more speaker, scanning the room with her eyes for volunteers. I shocked myself the moment I raised my hand and impulsively took the mic. I didn’t actually know what I was actually going to say, opting to YOLO whatever was going to come out of my mouth.

    Somehow, I spoke evenly from my gut,
    “So. I actually work in tech.”

    The room fell silent.

    I explained where I was from, what I did for a living, and how the book made me feel. How it made me feel to hear their thoughts.

    How the book didn’t feel far fetched when you read the news or saw the state of the world.

    How “Big Tech” can be perceived in places like Arizona. How it’s different than how I think it’s perceived in San Francisco.

    How sometimes dumb tech decisions are made by accident. How books like this contribute to the narrative.

    The people around me raised their brows, spoke amongst themselves, genuinely thought through what I said. Some looked alarmed, some nodded in understanding.

    I handed back the mic and the moderator thanked me for speaking up. For being vulnerable, and for adding a new perspective to the room. People clapped. An older woman wearing a yellow hat leaned over to whisper, “Thank you for telling us about your experience.”

    My heart was filled with gratitude.

    As the conversation concluded, I picked up my empty glass of wine and headed to the exit. A regular handed me a tiny slip of paper, “Come celebrate the 10 year anniversary of the book club next month! Date and time to be announced on the Facebook group!” Welcoming, asking me to stay, to come again, to be part of their next gathering.

    Before my heart was filled with gratitude. But now it sank.

    On the way to book club, Jose had just gotten the news of his new role. It was a role that would blow us out of Arizona, requiring a move back to California, to San Francisco.

    That moment of connection and community I’d just found, that I knew was good for me, was over before it started.

    Bianca standing in front of a building, looking away from the camera.

    The move from Phoenix to the Bay went quickly after we broke our lease.

    Jose and I unpacked in our new apartment, overlooking a view of the San Francisco skyline: beautiful, cold, and humid with fog. I put away the shorts and tank tops I had bought in the desert and pulled out the cable knit sweaters that had been unworn for so long.

    Bittersweet.

    I’d finally given into what life could be in the desert, struggling to overcome the pain of loneliness and isolation. And here I was a year and a half later, back as if it had never happened, as if I’d never left.

    It took time to find a local bookstore, featuring a tiny notice on their website about their new book club. Their second meeting advertised it at a little pizza joint with an old goat as a mascot.I was home again.

    Slowly walking up the hilly streets, overlooking the foggy city with a book tucked under my arm, I was ready to reconnect with the reading community I’d began to discover.

    @vintageontap

    After a year (and a half) in the desert, I’m back in San Francisco. It all happened so very quickly, I’m still pinching myself. As soon as I had finally acclimated (and in some ways, resigned myself) to Arizona, I’m back home. It’s almost as if I never left! What have I brought home? A gratitude and appreciation for the Bay Area, including its vibrant culture, its fog, its food scene and all the random things I appreciated about city living. But what else? The desire to sink my teeth and join in on the communities I feel the most myself in, including with the vintage scene, sewing community, and… the book-ish one, too! Living in the desert with nothing to do but read in cool AC-filled rooms will do that. Still, I’m happy to be home and finally settled back in in California! Want to learn more about the move? I wrote a blog post that you can read on my website. Photos and videos coming soon now that I’m not living out of boxes 😅

    ♬ original sound – VintageOnTap


  • If There’s No Story, There’s No Video

    If There’s No Story, There’s No Video

    I’ve made tutorials online for years.

    And I’m only now confronting my YouTube kryptonite: storytelling.

    Sitting at my desk didn’t prep me for when the bucket of cold water hit: “Stop talking AT your audience, start talking TO them.”

    The truth hurt; I stopped making videos for nearly two years after that.

    I questioned myself, my vision for the videos, and went into analysis paralysis: what I could possibly say that wasn’t just… here’s a tutorial?

    Existential questions arose: Does anyone care about what I bring to the table? Do I even have a story to tell?

    Lightning struck in the form of a book recommendation, Matthew Dicks’ “Storyworthy, which I devoured in less than a week, walking on the treadmill. Nothing like a series of mind-fuck moments when you’re trying to get your steps in after work.

    Big stories need to be more about the little moments than the big ones.

    Matthew Dicks, Storyworthy

    What an unlock at Speed 5.7, Incline 2 to stop the audiobook in its tracks:

    Are there really Little Moments about sewing and vintage that are Big Stories? Is that something I can talk about? Will people care if I do?

    Carefully, I picked up that idea. Carefully, I held it close and really asked myself, what would it look like if every video had a Five Second Moment? What if I leaned on storytelling?

    Moments of real meaning that I had never noticed before. …Transformation.

    Matthew Dicks, Storyworthy

    The idea has grown inside me like a seed. It’s like finally being able to see the possibilities of what my videos can say.

    Storytelling and Video Production is picking up steam.

    I’m practicing every day to find the Five Second Moment, the key to not talking AT people but TO them. It’s meant reflecting daily on where there are stories in my life and how those stories might connect with my audience, especially those who’ve been with me for a while.

    Is it scary? Absolutely.

    To find those moments means being vulnerable about transformation, having a perspective, and using that to drive connection. It moves away from the transaction of a tutorial and instead to the human relationships that my channel has been lacking up till now.


    References

    1. Matthew Dicks: Storyworthy, 2018
    2. Tattoo design, Nestor Gonzalez, 2025