just let it die already

The transformation period between runway to store-floor naturally entails a stiff delay. It's like the cocooning process between caterpillars to butterflies, although unlike the lepidopteron metaphor, store-floor is usually the caterpillar.

In saying that, Balenciaga really pushed the Roman Republic inspired campaign early on in S/S, and I'll admit, nothing roused me more (in the hetero way, of course) than seeing Jennifer Connelly transform from A Beautiful Mind to a beautiful mannequin.

But it stops there.

My motto is that if they're on clearance at Old Navy, they're clearly old news. No hate to the store, I love me some bargain, but If I can count 12 pairs of vinyl Moses-esque sandals at my front door when my little sister has friends over, it's time to file them under 'potential ironic revival', and put them back in their boxes.

To be fair though, I do understand that a good sole, like a good soul, can be hard to find.

If you're still kicking around in them for comfort, I guess I can't contend. Shit, I'll whip out my Uggs on a bitter winter weekend, if the mood strikes me so, and I'm prett sure no one will see me. But if one more street-style spokesman sites a single pair, I might have to start making nasty anonymous annotations on somebody's comment thread.

And you don't want me to get anonymous.

signs of life

Everyone said that moving home for the summer would be good for me.

And just like that I was back.

Winnipeg might lack a few fundamental metropolitan features like upmarket retail, a freeway, and most minorities. One thing this city does not founder in, however, is good, good people.

Contrary to popular belief, there are things to do in Manitoba. After hunting bison for the afternoon, we like to let our hair down, proverbially speaking (obviously), get gussied up, and paint the prairies red. Or purple. Or whatever doesn’t look too matchy with our outfits that’s night.

Behold, a sampling of my summer thus far, and a few of my favorite summertime things.

(*necking in public)

and meesha.

easy like sunday morning

People speak fondly of lazy Sunday's with a certain blasé brilliance, as if it were righteous to be slothful. Letting hours bleed into one another like colors in the wash, I have spent every seventh day sleeping in, dedicating what seems like decades to midday meals, playing scrabble and baking in the valiant prairie sun. No, we don't live in our igloos all year long.

Although not my designated day of rest (see: the book of Genesis) my summer Sundays have shown me the pleasures in nothing, and everything, and most everything in nothing much at all. To work. To home. To be honest, I don't mind. But I've been lazy with outfits. I've been lazy with call-backs. I've been lazy with blogging, which is right (or write) wretched. And I've been lazy on Sunday of last, and next, and likely always. Until September, at least.

So as to prevent bedsores, or worse, self-imposed social leprosy, I plan on remedying my listless life-style in all areas but one.

I plan on keeping all of my Sundays looking just like this.

belated bests

be·lat·ed
prn: /bɪˈleɪtɪd/ Pronunciation Key - Show Spelled Pronunciati[bi-ley-tid]

–adjective

1. late, delayed, or detained: We started the meeting without the belated representative.

2. coming or being after the customary, useful, or expected time: per; belated birthday greetings. See: your shitty friend, Carli

3. archaic. obsolete; old-fashioned; out-of-date: a belated view of world politics.

Though days late, your online address has been circling round my little head like a hungry shark in a party dress, not fed, yet not forgotten.

I'm still reeling from Friday's sugar induced coma, still full from two dozen tea sandwiches, and presently steaming my Tom Colin's soaked crinoline in my bathroom.

You're a prized friend, with a high prize mind, and wiz with online inbox prose.You're a braless wonder(ful), cat-eye aficionado, and sew a fast, fine, racy hem-line - shorter, and shorter, and "shorts under this dress?"

You wouldn't dream of it.

From all of us (Myself, I, and of course young, and highly impressionable Me) at HPL, Happy Belated Birthday, Cherie.

Love love.