A vamp, an angel, and a couple of stools

Look, new props! So excited. Well, not new, but they are items I dragged into the stairwell to liven things up - my red stool and my step stool. Hurray! I'm sure you'll agree they add a certain je ne sais quoi to my photos.

Below, my casual starlet look, or, uh, maybe a bit older than a starlet. In scientific fact, an older, burned out star is called a white dwarf or a degenerate dwarf because it only has a stellar core remnant, which means my nuclears have stopped but I'm still hot. Okaaaay. That might work. Astronomy has the best words sometimes. Space wormhole, for example, is another favourite.

All I really wanted to say was I am looking glamorously mellow, "Oh, dahling, I'm tiiiired of all the fuss. My driver is waiting." Nothing says glamour quite like batwing eyeliner, although putting it on was like trying to draw on a deflating balloon.

There is definitely a natural ease conveyed when one kneels on a super-hard, gritty concrete step in tights, then leans over and drapes one's arms on a stool with insouciance and props one's camera on a fully extended tripod against a wall so it doesn't fall over and one has to contort one's body to see the preview screen. It's practically second nature to me.

And more photos with The Prop.

Why is it that men can sit open-legged and not worry about putting a hand or a sweater or something else in front of their groinal apex? That's just wrong. Ain't nothing wrong with my envelope! And yet I persist in hiding, dare I say, the flaps, like my mail is on the prohibited list and has a big red stamp across it: customs and duty are owed! (snort of disgust)

If I see a man sitting like this on the train, hogging all the seats, I think, pig, go aerate somewhere else so I can frigging sit down. But a woman sitting like this? She's not only rude for hogging the seats, but she's extending an invitation, if you know what I mean, wink. Pathetic!

I don't sit like this on the train, by the way. I seldom ride trains. I seldom sit like this at all, but I'm making a point here, after the fact. "Knees together, ladies!" she trills. Puh. A little rebellion for the new year is definitely in order. I encourage all of you to sit like this for your next photos too. Hahaha!!

I'm wearing my DIY Middle Aged Kitteh t-shirt with a skirt hoisted with Calvin and Hobbes suspenders, a great gift from Bella of Citizen Rosebud years ago. I didn't like the skirt hanging below the hem of my coat. Under the t-shirt is a cotton camisole and another 3/4-sleeve shirt. And my boots.

I wore this, with a shaggy coat on top, to go buy frozen corn. We were out. I love corn. It's one of my favourite vegetables, categorized as such because I buy "fresh" corn. Dried-up corn is a grain. You may ask, does that mean over-cooked fresh corn turns back into a grain? No. It's just compost. Popcorn is also considered a grain, which is preposterous. Popcorn is movie food, a category unto itself. (And I worried whether I would have anything to write about in this post.)

And below, yet another prop, my step stool, which I also hauled into the concrete studio. These props are horribly unwieldy. Banging, clattering, me gasping, doors shutting on chair legs, tripod legs, real legs, expletives in foreign languages (which don't count). Where's my assistant!? Thus, these props will remain a special photo treat (liberal use of the word) for me.

The next all white/ivory outfit was interesting. So many associations - dairymaid, something from The Handmaid's Tale or Tess of the d'Urbervilles, tired hurdy-gurdy or dancehall girl in a gold-rush town (maybe because I just watched Godless), novitiate, and more.

Again, the Calvin and Hobbes suspenders were used to hold up this strapless soft baby-corduroy dress. The white top is actually a longish cotton nightgown. I removed all the eyelet lace trim to make it less nightgowny, and I floofed it at the top so it's spilling out of the bodice.

Patterned leggings and patterned socks and my brown booties finish the look. And we can't forget my magic loupe, which goes everywhere with me. Made by O and now restocked in his Etsy store HERE. Go buy one now. Heh.

From my stellar core remnant to yours, I hope you have a cosmic week. Keep that hot core and planetary nebula stoked! Yeeeeah! Hot nebs, it's a new term, you read it here first. And probably last. Or it could be a snack food.

Finally, for over a year I've been wanting to share this short ad with you and kept forgetting. See? I have a great memory for remembering what I forgot, but not for putting what I was supposed to remember. ???  It's for Shiseido brand cosmetics. I love it. O found it for me. You have to watch the whole thing.

Of course, I'll be linking up to Patti at Not Dead Yet Style, her Visible Monday gang, and Catherine at Not Dressed as Lamb and her #iwillwearwhatilike. Till next time, kittehs!

Morning after mascara

I wore mascara a few days ago. It's still wearing me. Now that I am more, ahem, mature, there are more cracks for the mascara bits to hide in, making removal much like an archaeological dig - slowly, layer by layer, day by day, shards of black artifacts are unearthed and examined. Same with eye shadow. By chance I like peanut butter on my toast and it often removes the last corporeal remains of lipstick. Perhaps I should try this on my eyes.

Drop crotch leggings worn on top of my jeans. DIY t-shirt.

Given a little more time, I suspect governments and corporations will set up tiny oil rigs on our eyelids to harvest cosmetic sludge aged to perfection with time, pressure, and hot flashes, a bit like how diamonds are made but without the big payoff - don't expect sales of this brand of crude at Tiffany.

Hey, who's been fracking on my face?!!

On the plus side, with those dark morning-after smudges comes an undeniable nasty-woman allure - "I was out all night partying after the concert and slept with, um, I forget their his? her? name" that may get tongues wagging in a delightful, "Oh, I feel so young again!" way. But that only works if your hair also looks like a rat's nest. The loose slob effect requires finesse. One without the other is a sure giveaway that you are a sorry pretender who probably spends hundreds of dollars to look artfully bad.

Nest hair? Yup, I'm the real deal, see above. In this outfit, I am wearing leggings with the crotch hanging down on top of my jeans, like I dressed in a hurry after I woke up in the wrong bed. Heh. After 50, we, if anyone, deserve to look like we've been partying all night without actually partying. Henceforth, "resting bitch face" will be known as "party face". Youngsters will look on with envy and horrified disgust.

Wouldn't it be great if there was a morning-after pill, not for family planning because who needs that now? It's not like you can stuff your grown children back up your hoo-haw and pretend the whole thing didn't happen. But a morning-after pill for cosmetics, right? One pill and, poof!, the makeup is gone. No more sandpaper, grinders, unguents, and emollients. With such a pill, each day would be a smorgasbord of false eyelashes, eyeliner, glitter, mascara, and shadows in a range of fruity colours.

Sigh.

And now we welcome the newest trend - going makeup free. Puh. How can we possibly afford that!? It's not like we all have a team of pro photographers and stylists and lighting experts, plastic surgeons and genetic therapists, poolside homes, personal chefs and photo editing experts on standby (I am my own gaffer). No thank you. I'm not rich enough to go makeup free, plus I could use some oil reserve royalties.

Wearing my winter coat the modern way - falling right off.

It's too bad the morning-after effect isn't limited to the face. My whole body tells me it's party party party all the time. Why haven't I been invited?!! Or maybe I was and I just forgot - I filed the memo in my cloud memory and it simply drifted away or my memory stick crashed. Maybe it's time for my actions to catch up to my hangover. Can you believe I didn't have my first New Year's booze until January 3? And I had to be prompted for it?! If ever there was a year to take up drinking, this is it.

But no, I shall simply be content on the path of occasional eye makeup debauchery and archaeological discovery. Pass me the bottle, will ya? It's my own special blend of crude.

PS. It's no use advising me on what makeup removers to use. They are USELESS. All of them. Every single one. I want MAGIC. Until then, I'll work the party face.

I'll link this up to Patti at Visible Monday, Not Dead Yet Style, and Catherine, #iwillwearwhatilike, Not Dressed as Lamb.

Hope you are having happy days despite everything.

DIY on Time, and Hat Attack

Put it on schweetheart, move that ass right out the door, and glorify in your punkitude. There's no time for second-guessing. People like it or don't like it; I can only dress for myself. And wearing this? Well, I feel friggin' fabulous.

The vintage pleated silk skirt, made in Italy, feels like a million bucks. I've worn it before with an ivory silk blouse with puffed sleeves, pearls, and black ballet flats, but there's no way that chic vibe was going to cut it with this pimptastic DIY pendant. 

Clomp, clomp, clomp. Make way for the glitter booties or face the consequences.

Details:

• thrifted Pancaldi & B black silk pleated skirt, vintage, made in Italy
• Middle Aged Kitteh DIY farked black T-shirt
• thrifted black T-shirt under layer for warmth
• DIY pendant, winner of the men's "My Watch is Bigger than Your Watch" contest
• turquoise tights and glitter booties, retail
• made for me by O: magic loupe and hinged bracelet
• pearls, retail long ago
• hair clip won from Shelley at Forest City Fashionista, made by Kayla Gibbens, work can be found HERE

With this hair clip, I'm linking up to Judith's Hat Attack 23 at Style Crone. Did you see that awesome whirlwind on her head? Swoon... My hair was feeling lazy today so I gave it a hand with this top-sider ponytail.

The Tag Heuer men's watch retails for about US$6,000. This one? Free; rather, it's priceless because I made it. And I always know the time is 10:09. O made the jump rings for me so I didn't have to spend a packet at Michael's craft store. I made another pendant at the same time for a later post.

Your comments on the onesie cracked me up. You'll be surprised to know that I haven't seen a single onesie in this entire city ever and would be shocked to see towns crawling with them. How could Vancouver, of all places, miss out on this slackeriffic trend? Crocs with it? Yes, please, in lime green or raspberry! 

Finally, thanks to Sally at Already Pretty for the shout-out in her Lovely Links on Friday for my tartan jacket upcycle, and to everyone else who linked to me - I often don't know who you are but I know you're out there. Mwah. 

I have a heap of work headed my way so I'll be offline for a bit, but your visit has been awesome - I just wish I had more drinks and hors d'oeuvres - perhaps some cheese nippies. And I can't forget big thanks and awkward hugs to my new subscribers. 

Going through my journals I came across this sketch, a version of Turnip Head in that aqua dress from the Who Wore It Better post. How I would like to have tea with you in that world. Have a great week.

Yellow Skirt Freak Show Update!! and more...

To expaond on the empaowering paowow of the 

latest Freakish Yellow Skirt adventure is 

near IMPAOSSIBLE.

renewal, rebellion!, reunion

reinvigorate, reconstitute, reconcile, rejoice 

reeth of life, family tree

days, oh days, of intense skirting around with 

targeted paower with 

 PAO of 

Project Minima

hand-shaking, skirt chasing, sketch-making, 

sew-saying

you must see the

magic in action

G O!   G O   N O W!!!

__________________________________________________________________

Pao was open for a little magic, and I think FYS, radiating with the love and creativity of all the incredible women who support the spirit of this travelling project, picked up as much new sparkle from Pao as it left behind over the few days she spent wearing the skirt among family, friends, and colleagues. Thanks, Pao, for joining the project. Pao has several wonderful posts on FYS, including some original art - make sure you see them all.

In other news...

The Middle-aged Kitteh T-shirt 

Giveaway Winner:

DRUMROLL Please: The winner is List Addict at Fur Earwig in Australia! Thanks everyone who joined. Your entry comments were priceless; I had a big laugh re-reading them while I was preparing those irritating little strips of paper for the draw. 

Speaking of giveaways...
Not long ago I won 50% off a pair of Firmoo glasses from a draw at Ariane's Style Sud-Est. They came in the mail just over a week ago and I LOVE them! Firmoo was true to their word - I got half price off everything. Living in Canada I'm always nervous that the shipping company will slam me with a $50 brokerage fee at the door. I added a slightly higher-index lens to slim the profile, but it was worth it. These are style F016.

And below, a peek at what I was wearing today. Maybe you have a good caption for it...?

Layers upon layers upon layers...all thrifted except the jeggings and socks.

• denim jeggings with TWO pairs of socks on top 
• insulated black booties 
• white crocheted dress 
• vintage lacy red slip showing through 
• long-sleeved pink shirt under the slip 
• DIY hacked up and embroidered white sweater 
• on top, a chopped off turtleneck done just before I went out the door because my neck was going to be cold. There was a little hole in the turtleneck anyway. Now I will "embroider" it. 
• shaggy green monster coat (not shown) 

It's been snowing like mad. While the snow is beautiful, I hope my favourite part of the water cycle - sublimation, the transformation of a solid directly into a gas - will kick in. Not likely. At some curbs this morning my whole foot was submerged in icy grey mush-water. But no leaks in my thrifted booties. Bwa-ha-ha! I am thankful for the little things, by golly.

Happy holidays. Happy non-holidays, too. In fact, happy normalcy. Well, maybe not REALLY normal, but whatever your particular resting smile-state happens to be: normally normal, freakishly normal, normally freakish... Time for caffeine. 

Also, thanks for the feedback about my banner-fiddling question. Good to know. 

Don't pin me down pinups

I'm hard to pin down when it comes to pinups - should I be myself or should I sexify myself with super sick phatness? Should I succumb to lax sexuational ethics? 

How about this? Pinup 1

If I told you that the me in this photo (brown wig, June 5/13) had written the best-seller 50 Ways to Make Men your Panting Slaves, would you see the image in a new light? If I were a trailblazing superhero-type politician (please don't call me an oxymoron) or a NASCAR winner, then what? How about if I were a Nobel Prize-winning astrophysicist who discovered dark energy around Uranus? Or what if you knew I was wearing red tassel pasties and a purple glitter thong under that demure white blouse and wraparound denim skirt? My facial expression would take on a whole new meaning, so would my mental state. And then you'd naturally ask, What (or who) is she doing with her right hand? Or simply, am I the famous editor of a French fashion magazine wearing a Chanel blouse and an Alexander McQueen maxi denim skirt with a diamond skull motif below the knee? As for men, we cannot dismiss the hotness factor of the plain straight-laced good-girl look. Um. Yeah...

Contextualization, what I call sexuational ethics, is paramount. If you're famous you can do pretty much whatever you want pinup-wise to accolades; if you're not, you better be ready to take off your clothes. But how far do you go beyond your comfort zone to be pinup sexy, if at all? (*Of course all my blogger friends qualify as famous.)

This was probably the most difficult of the portraits I've done so far in my art projects. In a parallel universe, or even in this one in another city or town, this could easily have been me(!). But I do like to think that I would have released my creative energies as maybe a pastry chef specializing in suggestive and outrageous desserts, a champion of the PTA, or a choirmaster with a penchant for quirky hymns. But I'm not those people. 

What this exercise underscored is the world of adventure under the clothes, which may not be apparent from one's body wrapping. Myself, I just happen to wear my adventures in a more surface way as well. Does that make me shallow?

Which leads me to Pinup 2

The sell-out audience listening my heavy-metal air ukulele solo were riveted to their seats, even after an hour. That reminds me, I shall have to tell the security guards at the exits to stop twirling their batons so vigorously. Don't they know that causes repetitive stress syndrome? Ooo, and I need to buy more rivets...

I am simply spewing sick phatness here wearing the requisite pinup underwear and bathing suit, albeit with my underwear on top of my front-zip, thigh-length bathing suit. This photo, taken by Sandra (Lens is More) on May 11, 2013, didn't make the VOGOFF cut, only because Miz Bagg, the editor, is such a screaming biatch. 

And then I come to THIS pinup. Pinup 3

If the first pinup was too cold and the middle one was too hot(?), this one is juust right. That's what I wore on Wednesday on my inspiration walk: my home-made T with low-rise jeans and my gym shoes. I am feeling very normal-self, minus specific sexification, but strong pinup-wise.

This post was inspired by the pinup/sexy conversation sparked by Bella at The Citizen Rosebud, which was then swept up by Jane George at Flight Platform Living and Desiree and Curtise and Tamera, and more I'm sure. In a world where people, an alarming number in fact, will have sex with anything with legs - probably insects too if it were possible - there's lots of room for interpretation about the concept of sexy. 

Which brings me back to sexuational ethics. I find that sex-o-vision is always more acute if there is a RELATIONSHIP or context to power it. A Steve Buscemi-lookalike as a neighbour? Probably not sexy, unless he were exceptionally funny and smart. Steve Buscemi on the big screen? Yup, sexy. If a chorus line of  male strippers gyrated their way into my living room while I'm dusting, I'd hand them all sponges and tell them to get started on the kitchen.* And men with model good looks? Meh. Why is it so easy to judge the sexiness of men but so many of us knock ourselves out when it comes to sexiness in ourselves - especially with our clothes on and especially with our clothes off.

If popular culture celebrated scientists and brains as sexy, you can bet Pinup 1 would be a contender, well, if I had someone else's brain. But it's Hollywood that seems to call the shots on sexy standards. I've never liked the Dove campaign for real beauty ads* because now we not only have professional models running around, laughing, in underwear, but our female friends and family members too. This is supposed to be a form of emancipation? And then there was that show How to Look Good Naked (a guilty pleasure). Please don't make me disrobe in the local shopping mall to prove that I'm attractive or love myself. Although I wouldn't mind a hearty wardrobe malfunction on the red carpet if I were famous and secretly got paid heaps of money for it. (Question to self: Would I disrobe for a centrefold for a million dollars? Just try me! Heh.)

Ah, life is funny. I guess we might as well dress up or strip down and enjoy it when possible, or not, and content ourselves knowing we're sexy on the inside - or not. Sexy - hate that word! Must. Stop. Now. Too many issues and just a weeny blog post. Plus, nobody pays me to be coherent. Ooo, which reminds me, I hope you've all seen Sarah, Misfits Vintage, in the June VOGOFF as Dr Hettie Hackenbush - now THAT's sexy, underwear under a winter coat with a sexy brain too.

Bah-bye.

Thoughts? 

Would you pose for a centrefold for a million dollars? What if it were for a women's magazine?

Oh, I'm linking up to Patti's VISIBLE MONDAY at Not Dead Yet Style. Drag your oozing sexiness and femme fatalism (actually, fatale-ism) over to Patti's garden of forbidden fruits (which means covered in whipped cream and chocolate, maybe swimming in liqueurs too). See you there.

*That scenario would NEVER happen as I don't dust.

*Lauded soap campaign in North America which features women of all shapes and ages running around, laughing, in white underwear. How unrealistic. Who wears white underwear any more?! (That soap burns my face like acid, by the way.)