All the times I didn't wear underwear and a dirty tie-dye tank top this past few days. Four looks, starring an adventure in manning up and wearing heels, a desperate yet successful attempt to look like a lady, a desperate yet unsuccessful attempt to look like a lady, and a tall version of exactly how i'd dress this day in 1992.
My parents came to town earlier this week, an event you would have heard all about earlier today if Blogger hadn't magically deleted the entire contents of that post. (Insert a string of expletives usually saved for bros stealing downtown cabs at 2am.) But, beyond the two new "adult" dresses, meals and gin cocktails they splurged for, my mom brought along this gem — the vintage Fendi handbag of my life dreams. I'm not even excited about receiving it since I somehow feel like I've owned it forever, which is why I've skipped all new-things niceties and dove straight into filling it with shit:
Dry cleaners receipts, used Kleenexes, reject flavors of Orbit, bug repellant wipes (my veins are filled with Kool-Aid, i swear to god), some Birchbox lipstick holder I feel too guilty to throw away, a wallet, a sushi bag that holds everything that should be inside my wallet, hand sanitizer that never gets used and Warby Parker prescription sunglasses (a godsend). It's like the last page in Nylon magazine, only a whole hell of a lot more depressing.
Let the closet cleanse begin! I exist somewhere between mild and deep levels of clothes hoarding, but have finally reached the deep dark level of sartorial good riddance: realizing I'm equally disinterested in everything i own, but don't dislike anything enough to see it go. It's like my body is dating 55 weird-looking different men it doesn't want to go on a second date with, but still doesn't want to eat dinner alone. I've cut ties with a few hideous sweaters and insta-preggo maxi skirts, but unfortunately for my life partner, the infamous Clown Dress Birthday of 2011 will continue to live on. Long story short, this ruffly ol' thang is adorable at home but completely see through in public, causing me to be an hour later than my friend Alex to our joint festivities last year due to being forced to go home and change into something less...ass-y. Luckily for all parties involved, I grew up and bought this thing old ladies call a "slip", and now this bodily ode du circus is back on the ready-to-wear rack, ass intact.
Bright pink heels with bows on the top? If I understood hip-hop music, I'd say I'm all up on that Barbie shit, but I don't, so instead I'll go with "Bows on my shoes? If I were any more of a girl, I'd be wearing a tiny vagina charm bracelet to match."
Off to Annapolis for the weekend, where I'm going to spend a day and a half doing things I'm not yet sure of with people I've never met in a town I know nothing of except that it's not in fact Amagansett, the place I incorrectly told people I'd be visiting for the past three weeks. Not pictured, as per usual, are the six pairs of underwear i packed for a 36 hour trip (YOU NEVER KNOW), the oversized bag of beauty products i'll never end up using and rainboots, because why pack correctly for 40% chance of thunderstorms when you can just chance it in a bathing suit and plastic booties?
Gosh, I just can't WAIT to wear that bikini tomorrow.
**For the reader who asked about the two-piece torture device above, it's by Zimmerman, an Australian line carried at Bloomingdales and I believe at Nordstrom as well. They have a standalone shop in New York now as well, but for some whack reason, this particular one isn't sold there. Weird, right?