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?

When good compliments go bad

The DIY text on this dress was inspired by a comment on this blog by Sue of You Can Call Me Sue and lyrics by hip hop group N.W.A. in "Gangsta Gangsta": "Do I look like a mutha feckin' role model?" 

This is the first of two tank maxis I farked with the Ted Baker London, Vancouver, store pre-opening media event in mind (2nd one here). I wore neither, but this one really got me thinking about role models, so-named for their character, not really looks, which is what makes this line so interesting.

In Vancouver, I am constantly on the look-out for style icons, and if I see people who dress in a cool way, I want to tell them so. That's how my street style blog, now dormant - at least until the blogger meetup in July - was born. But I've had a few cases where my good compliments have gone bad, real bad.

ME: Excuse me, can I just say I think you look fantastic! I love your [dress/pants/top]!

PERSON: I don't need your validation of my looks! Who do you think you are to judge me like that? 

ME: Oh. Um, I just like your style. I like your shoes too. But, uh, I'll just be on my way. Have a nice day. Oops, that was wrong, to prejudge you as a person capable of having a nice day. Sorry.

This exact dialogue never happened, but the thought bubbles were easy to read. Have we become so politically correct that I can't even compliment someone on their style without causing offense!? Most of us have probably been raised to think compliments are a good thing. Greetje, on her blog No Fear of Fashion, put it well here:

Compliments make people happy. Therefore… you should pay people lots of compliments. Sincere ones. They will not only lighten up that person's day but will also give you a happy feeling.

Sometimes I have coffee here. Other times I rush by. 

Maybe you also know the saying, "If you can't say anything nice about someone, don't say anything at all." So now what? If you can't say anything, don't say anything? Puh.

I am not going to stop telling people I'm wild about their style. That would be like telling me I can't, say, dance anymore (even though it would be a kindness to humanity). And since I can't prejudge who is going to be a prick about a compliment - I can never tell - I'm going to keep on dropping compliments like f-bombs all over the city. Be forewarned.

Wearing:

• DIY text, tank maxi dress, painted with acrylics
• thrifted long-sleeve boat neck top
• black jeggings, sample sale
• geta-style sandals, discount Topshop 
• magic loupe, gift from O
• vintage sunglasses, $2 at vintage store closing sale years ago

I took the second two photos when I got home from my inspiration walk, when my hair had become horned.

Have you ever had a person snap at you for giving them a compliment or is this just a Vancouver thing? I'd be relieved if it were the latter. (Please contact Miz Bagg for Sour Biatch Cafe franchise opportunities.)