Tag: Fashion

There was a star danced, and under that was I born

Hey kids,

I’m going to apologize right off the bat for a post that is going to be a ridiculous mishmash of thoughts, ideas, pictures, and song.

It’s like a “we need to eat these leftovers before they go bad” casserole, over here.

I’m throwing anything and everything into this dish. So just let me know if you need some ketchup, or BBQ sauce, or what have you.

I’ll be on it.

It is Monday after all.

And, do you know how I know dear readers, that today was in fact a Monday?

I’ll tell you.

You see, this was my breakfast:

Corrrrrr....YES.

And this was my lunch:

MAH NOMS.

Not exactly the healthiest of choices, heavens no, but certainly one of the tastiest. I know I’ve written about these apple fritters before, and I just need to reiterate one more time just how fricken stellar they truly are.

And because they are the size of a small cat, they pretty much count as two meals in one.

I know, I know – NOT HEALTHY!

But oh, so delicious.

Because I’m running around at work like a running around working thing, today at lunch I made an effort to pry myself away from my desk and go for a walk.

When I’m not laughing myself into six pack abs trying on the absolute barmiest outfit combinations I can find, I like to torture myself by modelling all the beautiful pieces of clothing I will never be able to afford.

Sometimes I stroll through Holt Renfrew at a snail’s pace, staring into the Prada showroom, devouring all the couture gowns that hang off of the mannequins, or are draped over banquettes and loveseats (or the arms of a wealthy patron.)

I tell you, it’s a pretty interesting sensation to ride the escalator behind someone whose bloody SUNGLASSES are worth more than your entire ensemble.

It’s also a little scary.

Today I tried on this skirt from Club Monaco.

Sparkles! Pleats! LOVE!

I must say that I kind of really loved it.

AND, it was sixty percent off – though by no means cheap (even still after the discount), it had pleats and sparkles, which are pretty much my favourite things ever when it comes to clothing accoutrements, so I think I will have to go back tomorrow and purchase it.

As long as I don’t find something even more sparkly and pleated in the interim.

(I’m a bit like a hummingbird in that way. My attention span can be quickly taken over by -Ooerrr…SHINEY THINGS!)

Speaking of moving from one thing to the next without absolutely zero transition, please,  PLEASE, listen to this song by Sarah Slean, about which I currently cannot get enough of:

I have been a dancing woman since getting home today, listening to it on repeat.

(I don’t even know how many times I’ve listened to it while writing this post. I’ve completely lost count.)

If I was currently using my ipod at the gym, this would be the only thing on my running playlist.

It actually makes me so happy I feel like crying.

And I know that’s pretty cheesy and all, and sometimes I feel like I oscillate wildly from one emotion to the next, and I do regularly find myself so overcome by events that transpire all over the world (pretty much to the point of paralysis), but I am also aware of how much beauty I have in my life, and how fortunate I am in so many ways.

Despite of course, having two-toned hair from my (continually craptastic) dye job.

The seal is for marksmanship and the gorilla is for sand racing.

Seriously guys, what is wrong with me? How am I so, SO bad at this?

Yikes.

In the meantime, however, let’s just keep dancing.

And eating apple fritters.

And sparkling. Like stars.

Until the day we supernova; fade away.

Dressing on the side

I took this snap as I walked to skytrain this morning:

Flower power!

It’s been so cold around these parts that most of the trees that line my route still stand bare, their flowers tucked away inside their warm and cozy buds.

I am missing the vibrant colours we on the West Coast are normally treated too at this time of year.

Cherry blossoms always remind me a bit of popcorn. One minute they are nothing more than little shells, rattling about in the spring time wind. Close your eyes, or turn your head but for a moment, and -POOF!

They have exploded into multi-textured, blush-toned brilliance.

They remind me of love.

They also remind me to keep the faith that one day we’ll have two days of consecutive sunshine.

(A girl can dream right?)

Today at lunch my great friend J asked me to accompany her to H&M because she needed to purchase some tank tops for a bachelorette party.

Never one to give up the opportunity to visit my “try don’t buy” Mecca, I readily agreed.

For those of you who are new to the blog, I love to do this thing where I go into stores and try on outfits that are modeled on the mannequins to see how well they translate to a real life body.

Some ridiculing is sometimes involved.

(H&M is also one of the most fun stores to do this in. Furthermore, it’s an extra bonus because I really like their men’s clothing and have been trying on more of their stuff in hopes of finding sweet new deals.)

Pretty much as soon as we entered the store, we honed in on what would be today’s outfit to highlight:

Lady bugs. On my shorts.

I mean, can you think of anything else that says SUMMER-BBQ-FUNTIME than these shorts?

I dare you to come up with something better!

Impossible. P.S. I am wearing a shirt I promise! It's the matching shirt (that goes with the shorts) but it's about three inches long.

But then, of course, I had to try on two other fashion concoctions to prove that I am 1.) not a total crap master (to both you, dear readers, and the sad faced girl working in the change room) and 2.) genuinely interested in some of the merchandise available for purchase at the store.

So in that aim, I put on this dress:

It was all yellow.

Which I would actually love if I wouldn’t be branded a hoyden extraordinaire (and maybe just general pervert) if I ever wore it outside of the confines of the dressing room – because take my word of it, the “dress”  was darn short.

Cute as heck yes, but not enough to convince me that I’m ready for a rap sheet.

The second were these pants:

Ms. Men's Red Pants to you!

I love the colour and they were super comfortable, but the crotch was hanging perilously low. And like I said, I’m just not digging the debauched vibe.

All in all, I struck out.

After J bought her goods, we walked back to the office and the perma-drizzle clung to our coats and hung from our hair.

But the memory of this morning’s flowers remains. And if things get really bad, I’ll just try on some new shorts.

Or a pair of men’s pants.

And I’ll think of summer.

And laugh.

Baby when the lights go out

Hi friends!

Did you all celebrate earth hour this past Saturday?

We managed to do some major tea light damage over the course of the evening.

Mr. M, crossword ninja.

Seriously, we had many, many candles aflame throughout the living room, and those tiny bright lights brought quite the kind glow to our little home; all in all it was truly a lovely way of passing the night, all bundled up in blankets, and crouched over our crossword.

Though I would be lying if I said there weren’t a couple of close calls, what with just how many tea lights we had going at our peak burnage, and, well, you know, the innate flammable quality of newsprint.

Ahem.

Nymeria pays no mind! She is a ninja cat.

Factor in that we couldn’t really see all that well, (and had to hold the flames pretty close to the clue boxes to make sure we could actually read what they said) and it’s pretty darn commendable that we weren’t consumed by an inferno of our own making.

We even got the chance to do a little story telling.

Here’s a taster of something we’re up to (on our gosh-darn, no-good end):

The city feels old. 

My glasses are scratched but even from way up here, I can barely make out the mason jar skyline.  There is too much dirty glass, cut against the rusting sunset, which bleeds into the eastern coast’s rushing waves.  I watch as they bury the dead – two thousand grayhairs – beneath a concrete blanket, their mouths hang open, as if they simply lie there, suspended in mid-breath.  I think of how cold it must be beneath the streets.  Their wedding rings will wash down the gutters, along with the soft silt that used to stick to the corners of their eyes, rubbed away with the early mornings they’ve now left behind.  Tonight the wind blows in from the west, and I move from my balcony back into the apartment. 

It’s Curfew.

Everything smells of mold and mothballs.  I pick up the rough spun blanket, folded on the floor and wrap it around my body.  The electric thrum coming from Maggi’s apartment makes my heart quiver – it feels sticky and unsatisfied, suspended inside me. 

It too feels old. 

The kettle jumps on the stove.  I wanted to make tea, but all I have is chickaree root, so heavy on the tongue and stomach.

“I want some tea babe.” Tom turns to me and cracks his neck. 

“Yeah. Me too.”  I walk over and turn off the element.

“Money, money, money,” he mutters, rolling his shoulders clockwise, and then counter.

I walk over to his chair, unwrap myself from the blanket, and lay it over the length of his body.  With it tucked up around his chin, he looks like the men in all my fathers’ photos from his days at the barbershop. 

“I wonder what beards felt like,” I mutter. Tom doesn’t say anything, knowing that I’m talking to myself.  “I’d like to think they felt like velvet – or a freshly brushed cat.”

I reach out and trace the outline of his cheekbone, so smooth it’s almost raw. 

“Hey now, whatcha doing?” He looks up at me.

I stop. 

“Nothing.”

“You’ve got this really sad look in your eyes.  Like you’ll never know the taste of tea ever again.” He trails off.

“Shut up,” I say.  “I don’t care about the tea.”

“Goodbye sweet pekoe!  I hardly knew your sweet, sweet taste!”  Tom reaches behind and tickles my ribs. 

“Don’t be a jerk!”  I swat at his bruised fingers but still, his hands are strong, and he takes hold of my waist and lifts me into his lap.  I take his hands in mine, and instinctively peel back the hardened strip of skin atop his left hand.  I probe at his panel, and its sickly tangerine glow, such a stark contrast to the coal of his skin. 

“You need to get this checked out.  It’s looking really infected.”

“Nah.  It’s fine.” Tom again rolls his shoulders and rustles his arms further, tighter, around my body.  “I told you already, there’s nothing to worry about.”

I lean forward.  He tightens his grip. I can feel his abdominals contracting against the center of my back.

“What has it been?”  I whisper. “Six months?”

Tom pushes me off of him.  “I don’t want to deal with this right now.”  He stands and walks away into the kitchen. 

I follow him in and start to put away the dishes from drying rack.  The compost steams to the left of my knee. 

“The company’s the one that paid for it in the first place! Right?” I ask, knowing that I’m right. “It can’t be that big of a deal!”

I look at his back, turned to me and trace the outlines of his shoulder blades with my fingers, flexing against each of his movements.

“You’re a superintendent.  They’ve got to understand this!”

Tom pulls away and begins to poke around the icebox, pretending to look for something.  There is nothing but freeze dried fruit and some black bread. 

I follow him.  I know I should drop it, but my tongue keeps pushing words to the front of my mouth, that no matter how hard I try, they won’t stop falling out.

“It smells infected, it looks infected.  Seriously, if you’re not going to do anything – ”

Tom turns around, brandishing a thick sack of frozen peas. 

 He presses the bag on top of his hand.  I can hear the sizzle of the heat making contact with the cold plastic.  He draws in a deep breath, his eyes bulging, teeth clenching. 

“There.  Happy?”

I come up behind him and slam the icebox shut.  I grab the now almost completely defrosted peas from his hands and flail it about, dramatically.  “Well that seems healthy, now doesn’t it?  A kilo bag defrosted in what, five seconds?  Astounding!  I throw the plastic into the sink.  “I don’t know about you, but I think a jobsite losing their head operator might not go over so well for the company!  So yeah. I’m ecstatic!”

…

Once I give it a bit more work, and get a little braver, I’ll post a little more.

But in the mean time, here are some things that I bloody-well love:

Heritage walks around New West:

Gotta love me some history.

Good eats:

Burger Heaven. Nuff said.

And pretty treats:

10 dollar cords! A yellow purse! SUNDRESS!

…

So that’s all she wrote kids.

Enjoy the start to your week, aannnnddd – DANCE! p.s. I’ve entered the twitterverse. Follow me @ethelthedean YAY!

An A for effort

Two years ago I was in writing hell.

I was in the process of finishing up my master’s thesis, and as such, was spending upwards of thirteen hours a day sitting in front my computer (and I use the term sitting pretty liberally, because for much of the time, I just contorted myself into the most back breaking positions imaginable to human kind – so much so that it’s really quite amazing I didn’t rework the entire curvature of my spine) writing a path dependent analysis of British and Canadian immigration policies and immigrant integration schemes, post-1945.

Nymeria was pretty much the best study partner I could have asked for.

Overall, I loved writing on the subject matter, loved my research (carried out both here in Canada and over in the UK), and very much loved the finished product.

Of course the million dollar question is, would have I said all this to you then?

Maybe.

Probably not.

What most likely would have happened instead, was that sometime during our conversation on the matter I would have either burst into tears, or begged you to go out and buy me a 7/11 apple fritter.

(Had you said either yes, or no, I probably still would have cried. From either disappointment or happiness – believe you me, those fat, salty sobs would have flowed.)

Sitting here, writing this today, with so much perspective on this event, it is pretty darn easy to talk about how great the whole experience was.

Nymeria is also here to remind me not to get completely delusional. She would like me to remember that at the time I was completely knackered. PLUS: Animal Print.

However at the time, I was a miserable wreck; as previously noted, my life was rife with high-drama crying fits, poor nutritional choices, and completely cringe-worthy, totally horrifying fashion statements.

If I only had one word to describe my dress sense for the first four months of 2010, it would be BRUTAL.

Just brutal.

I am disclosing this today, because I want to provide a different perspective (or palate cleanser if you will) from last Friday’s post.

I feel compelled point out that there have been times in my life where I have, on a daily basis, fashioned outfits that would have propelled me to the top of any worst dressed list out there.

Sometimes when I look at old photos, particularly of the early years Mr. M and I spent together as a couple, I often repeat to him, “Thank you so much for staying with me despite all the times I looked absolutely deranged.”

He normally just smiles, and dismisses my claims.

(Although, to be real here folks, if you take a second at the photos, he may be thinking along the same lines. We are a match made in (crazily dressed) heaven.)

But getting back to Thesisgate, 2010.

By the end of my scholarly run, things had gotten pretty darn bad.

Indeed, my closet had pretty much devolved into the following two outfits:

The first?

My pajamas.

The words on this sweater "who gives a hoot?" eventually became a short-lived life motto of mine.

Each morning I would wake up, and immediately begin writing. No shower. No bath. I would type away until about one o’clock, at which point I would eat a banana completely slathered in peanut butter, drink a pot of tea, and then have a massive, massive sweat-and-panic attack. To combat my massively rising anxiety, I would throw myself into different feats of strength, which sometimes meant push-ups, sit-ups, and pull-ups, but other times meant episodes of Gossip Girl.

After these exercises (in self-loathing), my garb would be sufficiently grodtastic, so I would take everything off, wash them, dry them, wash myself, dry myself, and then put the whole thing on again.

At the height of my efficiency, I probably had about three different sleeping ensembles on the go, none of which (I promise you) had a best before date that outlasted my defense date.

Blargh.

Outfit number two was my “Going Out Outfit.”

Now, at the beginning of January, this setup was at least a “semi-normal” ranking, on a scale from plain jane to absolutely barmy.

It mostly consisted of a pair of thick, comfortable leggings, a cute (albeit short) summer dress (it pretty much covered my bum and that was it) and a rotating duo of cardigans.

Unfortunately, before I really knew what was happening, I started adding soccer socks (on top of the leggings), big doc marten boots, chunky mens sweaters, and really outrageous scarves to the whole shebang.

I looked a bit like a cross between Daria, Blossom, and Claudia from the Babysitter’s Club.

The only thing missing was a giant hat with a bunch of fake flowers stuck to it. I mostly just wore old-school Canuck’s toques and a pink beret.

In my opinion, (and to the many, wide-eyed, confused individuals, who saw me wearing this in public places)- this is not a very good look.

For anyone.

(Or at least not anyone over the age of fourteen. In 1992.)

The day after I defended, Mr. M (ever the gentleman) very politely asked if I could never , ever, wear any one version of the getup ever again for the rest of my life.

I very respectfully (not to mention eagerly) agreed to do so.

I’ve also stopped eating 7/11 baked goods.

( But you can pry my penny candy from my cold dead hands.)

So there you have it my darlings. A (very bleak) fashion confession from yours truly.

Okay, so I have scoured my archives for a digital copy of my "going out outfit" and couldn't find one (good thinking on my part it would seem.) So please accept this as evidence of some of the silly things I do like take photos of my hairdo before going to work so I know what it looks like.

And I would like to make it very clear that when I do offer critiques on this here blog spot, they are never done with any malicious intent, or mean spiritedness. It is a way for me to deconstruct my relationship with the fashion industry, and how both my choices as a consumer, and my (evolving) taste aesthetic inform not only my perspective of the industry, but also of myself.

I spent a lovely afternoon with my sister in-law V on Sunday, and she remarked that she thinks there are lots of people out in the world who probably wish they could try on some of the more, well, unique outfits available for purchase at different stores, but never have the nerve or gall to follow through.

(To which I say (of course) is: GO FOR IT DUDES! It’s a TON of fun!

She also remarked that the salespeople probably spend quite a while speculating on who will even purchase the store’s crazier merchandise when its shows up at the store.

And just like them, I so desperately want to know who, if anyone, is out there is purchasing the strange apparel I’ve come across in downtown Vancouver.

And if I find out, I won’t have the heart to pass judgment.

After all, they’re probably just in the midst of finishing their PhD.

And their pajamas are still in the wash.

Tie a yellow ribbon

Today the sun came out.

This was truly brilliant.

Although I spent the majority of my day running around like a chicken with her head cut off, bopping around the city in taxi cabs, driven by semi-mad (and generally intolerant of all other motorists on the road) middle aged men, or otherwise glued to my computer screen sending out fourteen (give or take) different types of invitations to a 2,000 person gala event I am in the midst of organizing – just seeing those magnificent rays breaking through the ever-present cloud cover was downright magical.

Hello friends! It's been so long.

I am also happy to report that over the last two days I have felt a real shift in the air.

The cold in the mornings is less biting, less sharp. I can hear chickadees calling out to one another, echoing off the dew dappled branches, in harmony with the early hum, and buzz, of the world waking to a new day.

The air smells a little sweeter.

The wind blows a little warmer.

I can sense the cherry blossoms waiting to emerge from their long winter rest, and I can almost imagine a time where I can run about in sundresses and pedal pushers, ride my bike in flip-flops, and wear sunglasses at least every other day.

I am aware that I may be jumping the gun here, but I am so ready to herald the arrive of spring, I become giddy at the mere thought of any day where the temperature moves into double digit territory.

A girl can dream, right?

It was this giddiness that brought me back to H&M on Thursday to try on a few of the pieces that had caught my attention last Friday, and of course – the newly arrived merchandise.

This activity alone led to a full on laugh attack smack dab in the middle of my change room.

Seriously, I need to meet the principal buyer for this store, because based on their choices I wouldn’t know whether to shake their hand or send them to the loony bin.

Do not pass go. Do not ever work in the clothing industry again.

While I was putting on my outfits I was literally shaking with laughter – hooting and snorting like some crazed owl-pig hybrid.

To paraphrase those dude bros from LMFAO, who put it ever so wisely: I’m sexy and I know it BUT I LOOK COMPLETELY BARMY.

Now, don’t misunderstand me here – I am completely aware that I am a bit of a jerk (and a half), repeatedly showing up at this store with the express intention of only trying on clothes (clothes that nobody in their right mind has the business of buying) and never purchasing anything.

I am always especially aware of this fact after I’ve just spent a good chunk of my time in the store, careening about the change room, blinded by laughter, while chronicling the entire escapade with my camera phone.

Also, that this is, for sure, the definition of weirdo, hands down, bar-none, I am sure.

And yet seriously folks, as much as I am aware of my complicity in this whole charade, it still unnerves me to think about how all this merchandise (expensive merchandise at that) does end up going somewhere (and that place certainly is not the Lower Mainland Goodwill), which then makes me think that I shouldn’t feel like such a wanker, because I am not the one buying all these incredibly strange, over-priced articles of clothing.

And what I really start to think about (once my laugther has died down) are what (I perceive to be) the pros and cons of the fashion industry, and what I’m finding more and more to be its overall transient, fickle, and seemingly arbitrary nature.

Despite, of course, my slightly-wavering love for (what my aesthetic dictates to be) beautiful, beautiful pieces.

(This is where the whole endeavor gets a little sticky, you see.)

Like Heidi Klum has said, hundreds and hundreds of times: One day you’re in, and the next day you’re out.

People will spend over one hundred dollars on a suit jacket that they may wear once, that will not be a style a week from Saturday, just because they can.

The privilege and excess that the entire industry is built on, is truly astounding.

Plus so much of the clothing is not only completely unflattering, but downright BIZARRE.

Okay, so you could argue that the really bizarre thing is going and trying on clothing and taking photos of yourself (headless at that.)

Yet, despite the fact that my own actions don’t exactly connote a healthy level of sanity (I am aware that all the young, dispassionate individuals working at the store probably hate my guts) I’m hoping that my commitment to an academic deconstruction of the women’s fashion world (or at least some in-depth selfrefleciton on my own relationship with the industry) will make my actions less objectionable.

Or at the very least be enough to keep both of my feet firmly planted in the “sane” swimming pool of life (which isn’t all that deep, let me tell you) and not swimming laps with the dudes who are purchasing this:

Ummm. BANANA-RAMA.

Or this:

Do my pants remind you of a race track finish flag?

Okay, let’s go back to the first one and take one more look at that shirt:

When I retire to Florida, I'll wear many shirts like this.

(P.S. I am definitely wearing pants in that photo despite the fact that it looks like I’m not. Dodgy stuff here folks!)

When I showed this snap to Mr. M he was so incredibly distressed at the idea of this piece of clothing even existing he was pretty much at a loss for words.

While I felt like a cross between a big band leader and a detective from Miami Vice (and maybe also an extra from a Janet Jackson video circa 1989), he just thought that I looked absolutely deranged.

“Who would possibly think that a flesh toned suit would look GOOD?”

Who indeed.

But more than that, I am still wondering about where all those pieces of clothing go. Who is purchasing them? And who is manufacturing them? And what about designing?

And how do I feel about asking all these questions, if I myself am purchasing other pieces of clothing from the store?

Case in point, I ended up purchasing this sweater:

Love, love, rainbow love!

Am I, at the root of it all, stifling creativity, both on a design end, and a consumer end, when I lampoon these pieces?

Should it matter at all to me what people spend their money on, and how they dress?

While taking part in this one-side dialectic makes for some interesting thought patterns, most of the time I just end up feeling like such a grumpy, old fool.

So then should I, a self-assessed (at times) stodgy, bad-tempered prat, just let the crazily-dressed kids play all they want on my lawn, especially if they are wearing lemon coloured suit jackets, with tapered, zippered pants, hounds-tooth leggings and sheer metal crop tops?

I don’t have the answer to that one, dear readers.

Not yet at least.

But come spring, I’ll be on the lookout for these outfits. And the answers they might provide.

And also chickadees.

I’ll be on the lookout for them too.