Slack-jawed in a shaggy coat, and other important things

Wearing this inhuman outfit, I went to the park for photos. There were lots of cats there. And I seem to be walking on water. Handy, because it never stops frickin' raining!! 

It's a magic cat with orange/yellow eyes. I'll call him Pyewacket, after actress Kim Novak's Siamese familiar spirit in the '58 movie Bell, Book and Candle, clip here. Ms. Novak plays a cool Manhattan witch who, sadly, becomes a normal, boring person after falling in love with a spineless man played by James Stewart. Sigh.

I looove this outfit. The jacket and vintage humongoid palazzo pants seem to match, and then I wore ruffles and that shaggy vest, newly sprung from its space bag. And the elastic corset belt of course makes any outfit better. 

Fierce, right? Or maybe I simply ate too much chocolate. 

Below, a different outfit featuring the classic stupefaction pose - you know, where you open your mouth a bit. Who knew that looking slack-jawed would be a thing? Of course this look is not unfamiliar to me; I just rarely do it for a camera. 

And I'm wearing white Manic Panic hair gel and white brows created with MAC chromacake. The lipstick, called Poe by Kat Von D, is almost black, but much of it had come off by the time I got home for photos. I belled the bottoms of these pants too. 

I learned this mouth pose from ingenue bloggers. It is the cousin of the half-mouth-droop, taught to me by Sue of A Colourful Canvas. And let's not forget the just-pulled-my-finger-outta-my-mouth pose. You can see my big fail here, last photo.

Lately I've seen bloggers rubbing or smooshing their moist lips suggestively with an index finger. Usually they have tousled, just-woke-up long hair too. Well, I think it's unfair that young bloggers get to hog all the "in" poses. It's time we short-haired (or otherwise), middle-aged bloggers moved in on these hot, hot, hot poses. 

Note the belled bottoms. The colour on the left is more accurate.

Until such happy day, though, at least I can do the one where you use your index and middle finger to strum your lips and make bub-bub-bub-bub sounds. Sophisticated, I know. Maybe I can make it a thing. Which brings me to the next pose...

It was Black Friday last week. In honour I present: the double-raspberry.

Below is the photo I put on IG. Zip it! Zip it good!

Black Friday - it sounds like a spell. It is a spell. You see a sign in a shop window that says 100% OFF STOREWIDE. You think, WOW, that's a great deal, I'll risk it. You go in. Bam, there's a wall of people windmilling their arms to grab, grab, grab. Hardly unexpected.

But where are the deals? Of course there's fine print: on selected items only.  If you're lucky there's a single cast-off on a rack in the very back for 80% off. Fortunately, I usually prefer these rejects, but it wasn't worth sticking around to find out. I sucked up the crowd buzz and left. 

A better view of those pants. Most of my shaggy apparel is out of storage now. In a pinch, I could hide a whole farmyard of animals in those pantlegs.

That's the end of this week's stroll through what I wore. It was US Thanksgiving, and I hope those of you who celebrate had a good one. It's the time to recount our blessings - there are so many. 

Have a good week everyone. Here's a link to Santana, Black Magic Woman, live in 1971. 

Yes, I think I'll also join Patti at Visible Monday, Not Dead Yet Style, and Catherine, #iwillwearwhatilike, at Not Dressed as Lamb.

Clothes the colour of porridge

Beige pants. They were on the $5 rack at the thrift shop. The first day I glimpsed them, I walked by - not surprising if you know me. I mean, beige, right? Knit, right? Not my thing.

Later that same day I stumbled across a couple of top blogs that were featuring expensive beige camel pants as a seasonal must-have. Uh-oh.

So the next day I went to the shop and had a closer look. They were still there. Missoni, fully lined, finely made, new condition, perfect fit. Sold. $5.

It happened so fast. What was I thinking!? Beige and on trend? It was like watching myself in a movie, screaming: DON'T GO IN THERE!!

The hand forking over the $5 was not my own: it was an imaginary well-manicured and moisturized hand attached to a calm and expensively-scented woman with a Cartier watch, fine pantyhose hosiery and a luxury handbag with a discreet logo, a woman with a quiet, carpeted walk-in closet the size and grandeur of a church, where matching pristine pieces hang on padded hangers.

Clearly I made a mistake. I suddenly started to feel like the next photo. Reminder to self: Never, NEVER go shopping without your morning coffee.

I had considered burying these pants (not à la Stephen King's "Pet Sematary" - who knows what would rise from the ground!) in a ruffled multicoloured lacy blouse and loud coat. Aah, too easy. Too guilt-free.

In the end, I decided to revel in my beigeness. How about a lovely fitted white blouse with extra long sleeves, my D&G pony heels, my so-soft brown leather belt? That would be nice. I even released my beige caramel wool/cashmere coat from its space bag after two years in lock-up.

But the imagined perfection, on this particular day, left me feeling rankled. Restless. Caged. Trapped in that perfect closet.

So like a little truffle pig I rooted out my combat boots and a corset T from Shelley of Forest City Fashionista. And lucky for me, the coat and pants clashed rather well - the coat a greeny beige and the pants a pinky beige. The idea of neutrals in conflict appealed. Then I added three belts and tower hair. My groove had been restored. Kind of. Inside I was wearing polka-dots, almost.

So that's me in beige. I walked with a swagger with my hands jammed in my pockets and wore my squinty Emporio Armani sunglasses, to bring a slightly darker tone to the look. And I clomped - that's what these boots do best.

These pants make me think of that Marianne Faithful song, "The Ballad of Lucy Jordan," here. Lucy is a suburban housewife ready to hurl herself from the rooftop because she realizes that at the age of 37(!) she'll never ride through the streets of Paris in a sports car. Heavy stuff. 

Well, I'm 54 and I still see myself tearing all over the place in a little sports car (well, because I have one, in yellow) - but not in beige clothes. Beige is calm, tidy, so non-freaked out. It's a porridge colour that doesn't suit me. I'd rather wear $20 tattered pants that look like all hell broke loose.

You can see how beige distorts me. Well, technically it's the T-shirt, but you know what I mean.

And that's my report. I got a haircut last night - hurray! A post on that will have to wait. See? It's an exciting life over here.

I guess I'll probably link something up later too. Maybe I'll edit this post too. Who knows?

Edit: I'm linking up to Patti at Not Dead Yet Style for Visible Monday, of course.
And I'm pretty sure I'll link up to Catherine at #iwillwearwhatilike at Not Dressed as Lamb when the time comes.

Style doctoring without borders

The very best clothes change me - they move me, literally. They make me hold my hands a certain way, stride a certain way. They affect my carriage and expression and speed. For me, these are the things that propel an outfit from merely great to exceptional.

The movements here are large. They are not something you would do going down the sidewalk. Even so, when I hit the pavement, these bold physical expressions are still there, coiled inside, ready to spring, not necessarily through a kick, but maybe a quick smile or high five. An energy has been created.

It's getting easier to express the particular supremacy of a cut or colour or texture and its effect in my photos. Is it because I am more in tune with these connections or because I am becoming less timid in the use of my camera and locations? Probably both.

I am patient too. I know there can be no exceptional responses without the short-of-exceptional in between for comparison, which can feel interminable, so when I do find that magic combination, well, it's something to relish, something I couldn't fathom giving up.

This week I imagined what it would be like if I woke up one morning and found out freedom of expression had been banned during the night. Specifically, from now on we would only be allowed to wear state-issued khakis and button-downs with plain black cotton shoes. Bobs would be the only sanctioned hairstyle. In other words, the pinnacle of norm core.

The blow would be staggering. But I wondered about those people who have always suppressed their style choices fearing what other people would think. I can't imagine the regret they'd feel staring at, say, a little red dress they'd secreted away in the closet before the clothing police raided their home.

They'd probably be asking themselves - why didn't I wear my dress/platform shoes/palazzo pants when I had the chance!? Why was I worried about a few raised eyebrows?

So I say, PUT ON THAT FECKING RED DRESS. Put it on NOW!! Freedoms are nibbled away bit by bit until, yes, it's possible we could wake up some day to an altered reality. It happens. So right now, this very minute, is as good a time as any to revel in our freedom to wear whatever the feck we want. Abso-fecking-lutely.

I use my individual expression to create antibodies against the pestilence of intolerance. This particular outfit created an especially powerful batch. In fact, I shared it with people I met on the street who were also eager for a big dose.

I bought this coat at My Sister's Closet after it had been rejected by shoppers in a pop-up shop at a cinema before a fashion film I couldn't attend. When I didn't see the coat at the shop the next day, I was sure it had been snapped up, but I had to ask anyway. The volunteer on duty went to check, and when she came back, there it was. Apparently, many people had tried it on and passed. Whew!

These tartan palazzo pants are made from a heavyweight brushed twill and I bought them at Used House of Vintage several years ago. This was my first time wearing this particular combination. Pretty damned strong antibodies if you ask me.

It's been quite a week.