How to wear fitted onesies over 55 for high adventure

Give me a purple or red fitted onesie and I'm on, hunting down baddies with headquarters in remote island volcanoes or exploring the Earth as a possible off-planet colony for my People. It happens every time. 

So here I am, still in the purple onesie from the West Vancouver United Church Flea Market, which I posted on here - I took it off in between though. The stirrup feet are miracles because they pull the fabric taut for an overall smoothing effect, which: 1) is calming when wearing a body-con outfit that flirts dangerously with my boundaries of public comfort; 2) provides streamlining for fast, comfortable deep space travel.

But first, let me write about that coat. That frickin' amazing coat from frickin' amazing Shelley of Forest City Fashionista. It came in a bulging envelope last week, along with something else equally amazing, which I am holding back from posting for delayed gratification. 

This photo is called golden leaf

Vivid fuchsia, vivid. By Danier, suede with shaggy fuchsia trim. It's almost (maybe, kinda, if-I'm-feelin'-glass-half-full) long enough for buttoxil area coverage (essential), but I brought along a stretch skirt in case I started feeling exposed, like I did behind the Strip shop below. Aliens must try to blend in.

They say, strip; I say, cover up. I'm practising being human by being unpredictable. Of course I wouldn't need the skirt if I were wearing a maxi coat, but this coat overruled all other outerwear considerations. Plus it has a secret weapon. Read on.

I swoon for that '60s groovy sci-fi vibe. Below, calling the Mother Ship with my Mantis. Or occupants of inter-planetary craft. Either will do, as long as their flight attendants serve Cheez Whiz ("processed cheese spread"), Space Food Sticks, ("developed for the U.S. Space Program"), and gherkin pickles (pickles).

I'm so glad I found this red wall! It's my first time here. These photos remind me of the piece Shelley did for VOGOFF magazine, where she's also calling her Mother Ship. 

The Purple People Eater, video clip, 1958 hit by Sheb Wooley)

When I was passing through Nordstrom during my inspiration walk, I ran into two friends who fell hard for this coat. Of course, I was keen to draw their attention to the glory of my spacesuit onesie as well, so I boldly hoisted the skirt to where no man has gone bef...* Oops, same era/genre, wrong script! To my high thighs to demonstrate its all-in-one-ness, which felt risqué, despite still being fully clothed. Well -

I needn't have worried one bit - they wouldn't have batted an eye if I had begun shooting ping-pong balls from my

Running in the vortex in Ackery's Alley

mouth, been wrapped in tentacles and slathered in Cheez Whiz and pickles - the coat had them in its thrall. They couldn't keep their hands off my cuffs and collar - the hypnotic power of the trim was alarmingly potent. (Note to self: Trim as secret weapon for future invasion strategy.) I almost had to Mantis them!

In the end, I gave up the onesie show and pulled my skirt back into place. Some stars, like the coat, shine brighter than others I suppose. 

Below, more evidence of the Fitted-Onesie Phenomenon (FOP) of super-sleuth/alien: my Emma Peel impression near the passport office, in a photo taken by Sandra Bernabei of Standard Deviations.

I'm wearing my vintage red wool knit onesie with original sewn-in belt at the hip, made by Gordi of Montreal. Also here. The seam threads were disintegrating so I had to resew the whole thing. Well worth it.

Below, a sneak peek in my bedroom. Is it possible I was abducted by one of the Occupants?!

And then I feast on a light breakfast. It's the new alternative energy.

To be clear, this post has been all about the SEO (search engine optimization), but you knew that, right? Now my blog will be inundated with hoards of women over 55 clamouring for tips on FOP. But to be fair, these tips can apply to any age. I'm sorry if I made anyone feel excluded.

That's it for now. I'll be linking up to Patti at Visible Monday on her blog Not Dead Yet Style and Catherine at #iwillwearwhatilike on her blog Not Dressed as Lamb.

May the FOP be with you, friends.

*From the original Star Trek TV series, 1966-69, line from the opening voiceover by Captain James T. Kirk. Relive it HERE.

Space, the final frontier. These are the voyages of the starship Enterprise. Its five-year mission: to explore strange new worlds, to seek out new life and new civilizations, to boldly go where no man has gone before.

Okay, now you'll be humming that opening theme all day. You're welcome. Heh.

Space bag showdown

Oh yes, everything looks fine, doesn't it - a sunshine-golden top, a lurex dress under that. "Gee-willikers, what a wonderful day, tra-la-la!" But HA! Look closer. What's that partial second "me" on the left side of the frame? This is what happens when you enter the Space Bag Zone, SBZ; Greenwich Mean Time meets Mel's Mean Times, when the mere mention of  Marie Kondo's The Life-changing Magic of Cleaning Up makes me want to gargle with Windex, wear plain dresses hand-sewn by the Dalai Lama - and drink the vegan blue Kool-Aid. 

Frolicking in the alley in the Space Bag Zone (SBZ) a day ago

Switching to SBZ always triggers my seasonal closet affective reorder, where I pod-up my winter duds to make way for the spring-summers. The clothes shown below await sorting and possible transition on E Deck, while the transport ship and crew (that would be me) go through final checks.

• Vacuum cleaner with mega extension hose-power and reloadable hepa cartridge? Check. 
• Backup plastic cocoons (aka Ziplock Space Bags - unpaid non-endorsement of love-hate product that has averted global takeovers by my closet)? Check. 
• Smelling salts? No fecking way. Get real.
• Chocolate? Check. 
• Hip flask? Check. 

I told O that if I weren't back in 24-hours to call Scully and Mulder (from the show X-Files). There was no telling what would conspire in the space pod colony deep in the cold, silent bowels of my building.

I descended, wheeling my cute vacuum cleaner defensively in front of me ready to "TAKE THEM OUT!!" When I reached the vault, with a steady hand and steely gaze, I unbolted the door and FLUNG IT OPEN!

!!! !!! !!!

From their plastic-cocooned darkness, my clothing blinked, then leered. Somehow during incubation they had sparked into consciousness! "IT'S ALIVE!!!" is what Gene Wilder screamed in Young Frankenstein. I screamed, "I'M GONNA NEED A BIGGER HOSE!" Suddenly, I felt like I was falling, falling...wearing a fabulous vintage maxi. Yeeeeah!

Those are parts of two of my many huge paintings

Toxic alien vapours quickly dulled all thought, motivation, and action. I'd have to be sure the government doesn't get its hands on this. Think of the chaos! But wait, maybe it already has. That would explain so much! I can see now that the symptoms of toxic alien vapours have been exhibited on my blog before. Don't be alarmed.

Somehow, I don't know how, maybe by drawing strength from a lifetime of make-or-break thrifting, hours later I resurfaced, dazed but still standing. It's a fog what really happened. I just knew from the forensic analysis of chocolate spatter on my face and arms and the empty flask that there had been some nasty business.

Gasping, I told O not to worry, that I was back with my body/mind stats as normal as ever. He rolled his eyes and went back to what he was doing. His stoicism is truly remarkable.

These spanglers on Z Deck tried to escape. Sorry, sorry, Paillette, no one, NO ONE escapes on my watch! I'm still not done down there. Not by far. But I am prepared to fight another day.

Fitting the Space Bag Zone theme, I have decided to share this video.

O scratch-built this robot several years ago based on a beloved Japanese robot in the '60s, Thunderboy, which was licensed from an American model robot called Robot Commando. I made the video - it's one of the very first ones I ever did - but O did the flying saucer. Heh.

And below, something I wore a few days ago - after all, this is also a style blog. Heh. As all of you know well, I am not perfect: "do I look like a frickin' role model?" I wore this black maxi tank dress over a black turtleneck. That's my silky skirt on top of it all. On my feet I wore combat boots. And there's my magic loupe, a gift made by O.

That's all. Whew. This week has been just about me - no meetups, no events, nothing else - although I did update my street style blog, Culture Serf, after running into an incredibly talented sewing friend at the fabric store, Dressew. 

I'll link up to Patti at Not Dead Yet Style for her Visible Monday and Catherine at Not Dressed as Lamb for her linkup, #iwillwearwhatilike. Maybe I'll see you there.

Got any battles stories you'd care to share? Do you do the seasonal wardrobe switcheroo? What aids do you use to get through it?

Is that an alien in my closet? Scary post.

AAACK!! Slam!! (pant, pant, pant)
That's the sound of me opening my closet then slamming the door shut before I'm sucked in and eaten. And the sound of my relief at living to tell the tale.

Evidence. EVIDENCE! Partial view of my closet.

Yeah, it's that bad.

It's a common problem, right? Right up there with gross grout and sweat between double-glazed windows the day after the warranty expires. Honestly, if you hear anyone say, "Oh, my closet? My clothes hang like they're in a high-end designer boutique, they don't touch each other, they're colour-coded and sorted by height and weight, and the hangers are padded," that's when it's time to say to the bartender, "Quick, get her another absinthe. This will go viral for sure! I hope my batteries last."

Voyaging into the closet of the unknown. A painting I did, acrylic on thick paper.

Already I have vacuum-sealed spacebags of clothes hibernating in my storage locker. I peek at the colony from time to time with my crime scene flashlight to make sure they're still breathing behind the padlocked door, resting in their plastic eggs in silent, cold darkness (heaped in tottering towers but the visual wrecks the in-space-nobody-can-hear-you-scream image). And we know how Alien ends, don't we? Those damned tentacles pull us in. And your space ship always breaks down so you can't get away. And then what? Mad bouts of sexless replication that can't be stopped?! There are so many things wrong with that.

Pods. PODS!! PODS!! Keep me away from the PODS! Me when I had bleached hair. And a pod in my living room.

Capsule wardrobe? An alien movie by any other name. All those pods. Clothes pods. Space pods. iPods. Sod the pods. Just thinking about it makes me want to put on a mega robo-suit like Ripley* and start whacking stuff around and screaming, "Get away from me, you B*tch Pods!" I'm preemptively exhausted. Let's not even get started on where I'd store a giant robo-suit. Eighties shoulder pads are challenge enough. *Heroine from movie Aliens.

YES!! MORE, I say with righteous voice, MORE EVIDENCE. Summer clothing now hibernating in pod abyss.

Sometimes I am giddy with the idea of throwing everything out, O-U-T, out! No more clutter, clenched sphincters, and squinty eyes. Instead, a confounding profound serenity. Like the scent of jeans fresh from the freezer. Clouds would be fluffier. Doritos would be healthier. I'd take up yoga, do downward dogs and sideways cows, and start saying all those namasty things. And drink green fluids with stringy bits. (Well, maybe not.) But I'd definitely cleanse - release the toxins: "Be free, Little Toxies!!" I'd feel great! And I'm sure I'd smell good. And I would be kind. And to celebrate, I'd change out of yoya pants. (sound of screeching brakes)

This is just a boring shot of what I wore today.

Then I think, I should dress like Lyn at Accidental Icon. Yeah! That's what I'll do. If I can't get a simple mind (okay, don't comment on that), at least I can get simple, clean clothing lines. Oooh, all that lovely architecture. Black. White. Purity. I'm sure I can find a few Issey Miyake pieces at the thrift shop on the $5 rack (first gross lie to myself). And I'll just add a little accent or two (second gross lie to myself), like maybe a colourful wrap, plaid platform shoes, psychedelic tights... (sound of screeching brakes)

Sigh.

Linda Blair in The Exorcist can spin her head around and spit green toxins; I can do this. It's uncanny.

Until I can figure this clothes thing out, I'll be wearing extra-long tattered sleeves; I'll create a trend: "Closet Sleeve," the sleeve that was wrested from that dark space, the diabolical place, like that horror movie with chewed bits from Chuckie* hiding in my closet. Well, no, there's no room even for little Chuckie. There no room even for skeletons, which is fine - I keep those in my dishwasher on the rinse cycle anyway.

Thinking about Chuckie gnawing my clothes in the dark, biting my hand, I'm freaking myself out. It's bad enough already. See what I do to make you happy? - happy at my misery?! Hahaha. Look, and now I'm laughing at myself. *In the Hollywood horror movie Child's Play, Chuckie is a heinous boy doll that murders people.

An illustration by O and me. A scary place.

Bartender, quick, another absinthe! Pffft. And chips. No, healthy Doritos. I'm coming down with a viral.

How has your week been? Are you keeping your closet demons at bay? Does your space ship break down at the most inconvenient times?

PS: Thank you for your stellar comments on my last post.

Another PS, Nov 12, 2016: I have linked this up to Not Dressed as Lamb, Saturday Share Linkup, in case you missed this the first time around.