white ladies

These two really know how to work white -- simple, crisp, no bacon grease on the front.  I have six kinds of admiration. And the fact that our lady of immaculate pants on the left coordinated toenail polish with her friend's poppin' bag and flats -- over and above.   Mad style skillz, fo sheez.

and representing Sweden...

See, because they're tall, teutonic and obviously called each other up and were like, Let's dress in the strong, pure colors of the Swedish flag. Well played, is all I have to say.

West 7th

Note to the subject:  Very rightly suspicious, but see? This incident turned out to be stupid just another weird thing like a six-toed cat or language camp.

family jewels

This Dress Rehearsal was a complicated affair involving the Boys and Girls Club, the Jaguar/Land Rover dealership, a car show, a fashion show, models, and pop-up shops for designers Emma Berg and Stephanie Lake.  I added to the confusion by standing outside (too cheap to pony up for a ticket) in a picturesque Grapes-of-Wrath-sodhousewife frock and lesbian sandals -- legitimate attendees didn't know whether to give me a dollar for a decent haircut or if I would just go spend it on a ham bone.

These inlaws dressed appropriately for the occasion, which is to say, fully armored in one of Stephanie's neck monuments. This one is about a five year old vintage, every bit as dazzling as the day it was minted. I zoomed in so you too could be boggled by the detail, but turn your eyeballs upward again and try to imagine your mother-in-law rocking those smokin sandals like ringing a bell. Then we can talk about boggling.

happy book club hour

This is my friend Camille welcoming me to book club with a bikini martini which is not normally how we do business in our salon.  Usually I shield my friends from the working side of myself (did an image of a talking horse's ass just spring to mind?), but Camille was shaking things up too with this shoulder-revealing Missoni-esque halter from Hot Mama, so let the rule breaking begin!  She stepped about six degrees out of her comfort zone in purchasing this item and, holy olive tray, what a slippery slope it is.  Next thing you know, she's tossing likker together in combinations that make the lighting of a match inadvisable, and reading poetry.  Now if I had been running this show, the evening might have progressed like a chapter from Naked Lunch but not as pretty. That's the thing about Camille -- she can really hold her literature, and through absolutely unerring use of cutlery, cloth napkins and fresh fruit garnish, saves these events from what could easily be debauchery.  Here's to Camille, shaken not slurred.  She provides the following recipes that, when applied while reading, will give you new insights. Or hallucinations.

Bikini Martini
1 oz coconut rum (Malibu)
3/4 oz vanilla vodka
2 oz pineapple juice
dash of grenadine

Shake with ice and pour into a chilled martini glass.  Garnish with slice of fresh pineapple.


Peach Martini
2 oz vanilla vodka
1 oz peach schapps
2 oz peach nectar
1/2 oz fresh lime juice.
 
Shake with ice and pour into a chilled martini glass.  Garnish with slice of fresh peach.

oui

Happy Bastille Day!  This woman dressed up for the occasion in l'attitude de gaul, wearing a super-French expression of effortful tolerance for the ugly American up in her business.  To be fair, she was working this event -- I mean, really working it. In the employ of Barbette. Vive de workers!  Let them get on with it already! 

one tough mother

Yes, I dug her sandals, the B&W tats, the rolled jeans, but I also value my front teeth. Something about the way she was standing and lighting up a smoke in a whoop-ass make-my-day kind of way intimidated me so, like a cringeing vermin, I took this unauthorized photo and was on my creepy way. But not before making the startling connection that her mega-satchel was in fact a diaper bag and the mini-child dancing in the street was in her tender care.  I sense she is not up nights poring over Mothering magazine and teaching her infant sign language, and I could hug her for that.  Virtual hug. And even then, she would have kicked my judgmental ass.

hat trick

Go ahead and try to tell me this trifecta was not a plant by Urban Outfitters to jigger limp sales of ribcage-hugging silhouettes.  Duh.  I am wise to these marketing ploys.  With a rallying cry of Remember Jessica Simpson! stylists everywhere shudder at the horror and scamper off to find the youngest, tallest, willowiest BFFs ever to zip up an 18" fly.  See above.  I, for one, do not even need convincing about the delights of torso trussing garments, though on this thousand-degree occasion, I was sporting a simple belt of sweat around my waist.

colored

Stinkin hot, again, at Barbette's Bastille Day bash but Joseph and his clothes of many colors were not deterred.  Dude is a foo' for rainbow brites, said he's got about 25 pairs of Converse including one just like this at home -- ha ha (if you do NOT have an uncle who lives for the opportunity to use that punchline, raise your hand).  His mom enabled by bringing the shirt home from Unique Thrift, and the tie, I dunno, just to punch up the ensemble I guess.  My favorite is the ombre socks which not only confirm the ombre trend (I am even now ombre-ing the neighbor's cat, they'll thank me someday) but could go ankle-to-ankle with my mastfoot guy's for lower extremity flattery.

Skilled as he is, our man of color is just developing his talents -- he will be attending Reed College this fall, where he will major in English.  And Awesomeness.

hairs on fire

As in hot hot hot red hot. I think we've got a documented trend on our hands, or rather, on our heads with this ombre dyed event.  She laughed when I asked if she had done this herself (this is foreshadowing, English majors). Uhhh, no. Her friend, a registered professional, first applied bleach with a brush, concentrating it at the ends, with less and less going northward. Then she employed a similar scheme with the red dye #47.  I love the kodachrome intensity and, like my mullet, the options it presents. Can't commit to a whole head of red? Fine end dandy (somebody stop me).

And speaking of my mullet (here's where foreshadowing becomes all too real), after three seconds of careful consideration, I outed with some sewing scissors and went from long and luscious Barry Manilow...

to Davy Jones making a comeback at Mystic Lake Casino.  Dennis reported with brutal honesty that there is indeed a big chunk missing out of the back, but that's everyone else's problem.  I've got enough going on trying to decide if tucking it behind the ears makes me look more or less likely to commit sins #7 - 14.  Here's the thing about DIY hair: It's hard to know when to stop.  That's why, all of a sudden, you can see my esophagus and all those stringy tendons in my neck. And reportedly, the back of my cranium.