Wednesday, May 8, 2013

how I know I'm not in my neighborhood anymore

We know, instead, that we're on hip Grand Ave., the Williamsburg of St. Paul, because A) dude is wearing an artsy t-shirt and acrylic man-dant of Renaissance Fest provenance on his chest instead of a baby. If this were my hood, there would be at least six or seven children strapped on front, back, piled high and deep or harnessed in or being propelled in a monster truck/stroller.  And a dog as caboose, with bag of poo swinging from the leash.  If they were headed for Aldi, as they should be, they're going the wrong way.
B)  Are those Southpole jeans? I don't think so.
C)  Her Katniss hair appears to be reacting to the laws of physics rather than the architectural rule of product. And where are the blond highlights?
D) Long, narrow stretches of flowing natural fibers in flattering colors like peachy pink -- wtf?  In my neck of the woods, capris work their magic on every age, body type and occasion.

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