Well kids – another day, another dollar.
Yesterday I skipped about downtown on my lunch, eager as I was to stretch my legs and prance about in my pretty purple dress.
I wandered about Club Monaco for a bit, admiring all the beautiful pieces that have recently arrived in anticipation for autumn’s arrival.
(I also cowered in disbelief to see that the store would still charge forty-nine dollars for a tank-top at that tail end of summer – at sixty percent off at that! I couldn’t help but wonder who was buying them when they were still listed at full price?)
Anyways, as I drifted about the mall, I realized it had been ever so long since I last tried on insane mannequin outfits at H&M – mostly because they have been selling such stellar stuff of late, and I just haven’t had the heart to mock a store that has blessed me with such abominably cute outfits.
Even Mr. M the other day conceded that his views on this clothing conglomerate had changed. And I quote:
“I want to hate H&M so much, but I can’t, because every I like pretty much every single thing you own from the store.”
And they say chivalry is dead!
Anywho, today I WAS in the mood for a good game of grotesque dress-up, so I ventured into the store with the express intention of finding the absolute fugliest pieces I could find and snapping snaps for all of you, dear readers, to see.
This ended up being much harder than I initially expected.
You see I was immediately drawn to this insane mess of a dress:
But you know what? I just didn’t have the heart to try it on. First of all, it felt like a cross between a bathroom shower mat and those thick wool sweaters that are of the express domain of Independent Swedish film makers and skiing instructors from the late 1970s.
Plus, it cost eighty bucks! My whole system went into revolt just thinking about this and there was no way I wanted this dress anywhere near my body.
I did, however, manage to find all the appropriate pieces to scrape this outfit together:
WHAT IS THIS MADNESS?
And, like, do any chicks out there actually do the shirtless + suit jacket combo? I mean, other than those who are paid extravagant fees to march down a runway looking equal parts pissed off and nihilistic?
And would anyone in their right mind wear this combination with shorts?
If you would and you are out there reading this, please contact me because I want to interview you on my next radio show happening next month. No joke at all, and no mocking either – I want to pick your brain and learn your secrets. E-mail me!
I actually don’t mind either the shorts or the jacket as separates, but together I felt as though I left the house with only a portion of my originally intended outfit on my body. Like I had been told that I only had thirty second to vacate the premises before it was blown to smithereens and this was the best I could do while still keeping myself alive.
The next two ensembles I tried on were what I like to call the “Chatalaine editorials circa 1993 – beach house chic!”
This cardigan would be tolerable if it had a giant fake A (or some other letter) to connote a varsity sports team of which I’m not actually a member but would make me feel collegiate nevertheless.
I cannot tell a lie, I kind of want this sweater, but only if it comes with a pipe and a large, red, velvet wing-backed chair.
Although something tells me that I’m not going to be picking all that up for $29.95.
A girl can dream though, can she not?
For afterall, we are the stuff that dreams are made on.
Except that first dress of course.
Because that friends – that is most definitely a nightmare.