to swoon/too soon

Fast approaching August sets the closet clock a-ticking. I look back on post-winter posts, on my blog, and your blog, and their blog, and all blogs, adorning catchy titles about the onset of spring, and expectation of summer. Sun-hats-this, and open-toe-that, all things balmy and Coppertone.

But the temperature went up, and like all things gravitational and depressing, it must come down again.

Thus, I have cut myself off. No more summer gorging. No one needs hip-cut swimmers in November.

Have you ever gone grocery shopping with a sweet tooth? Three days later, you're at home foraging for dinner and all you can find are marshmallows, caramel corn and Splenda. It's hard shopping for something that is not presently desired, and somehow, when you do, you're never quite prepared later on.
And just like trying to shop for cheese when all you want is cheesecake, it is very tricky to scout out winter wears while still working your cut-offs.

With the help of my ever-practical matriarch, I was able to make the move from teeny-weeny to warm and woolly, and stumbled upon a few cosy items that I can't wait to sport come the turn of the season:

A Canadian classic, and a mother's favourite, we scooped a vintage pair of knee grazing Santana Canada brown leather, wool-lined snow boots. Just like the kind your year-round-yard-working-neighbour-lady wears, but better.

These double lined, black woven leather, sharp toed ankle tops are just a pinky toe too big, but I figure if I can't make them work, I know someone who can. You know what they say about girls with big feet...
Big career moves. Congrats to you! xo

The photos don't serve this vintage Christian Dior trapeze coat, with black leather trim and a supremely structured collar, any due justice. In real life, this shit's real nice. Despite the fact that it's a touch Working Girl (1988), I can hardy wait to wear it and feel moderately important.
Perhaps I'll invest in a brief case.

The upside to shopping a season too early is that I don't run the risk of missing out on good vintage finds. While the rest of em are still trolling the racks for high-waisted everything and floral flounces, hemming like mad, and calling it "original", I'm in the outerwear section cashing in hard.

The down side?

I'll have to wait nice like a good little gentile on Christmas Eve before I can put them on.

new to the bu

I travelled all this way west, only to sneak back east every free moment I have.
It's all very high life, I know.
Thanks Clarke.

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.

who dat?

I received a message this morning congratulating me on my Now magazine cover.

Hallelujah, I thought to myself, modestly.
Someone has stumbled across my scribblings and recognized my genius.

Coffee in one hand, towel-turban up top, I rushed to my computer to revel in my success.

To my dismay however, I logged on to the website to find out that it was a photograph, not a feature story, and even worse, I had been confused with a 14 year old boy.

The real kicker?

Even I can’t deny the peculiar resemblance.

these boots were made for winning, and that's just what they'll do

Who loves clunky boots that reek of the early 90’s?
I do.

Being that hipster-trend setters/followers/bloggers have taken a much-needed hiatus from "florals" and moved on to Docs, this online contest could not have come at a better time.

My affinity for Miss Hannah Sider is no secret. (see: previous posts)

Likewise, her design aspirations for the new Doc Marten boot should not be kept a secret either. Vote for my girl, my heart, “the sole” right here.

Best of luck, me love.

eat your heart out, corey kennedy

I’ve been wanting to catalogue some treasures I have recently uncovered in Winnipeg while I bide my time “in between jobs”. In the absence of any real employment, I have accepted a full-time position as a bargain hunter. Myself and my colleague, "Mom", have engaged in a lucrative rummaging business wherein we bounce from Value Village to Value Village and expand on our conjoined wardrobe. Being that grade seven students don’t have the luxury of unemployment, my kid sister Sonny has been feeling left out while sitting in on our evening inventory and appraisal meetings.

Killing two birds with one gem, I was able to document some of my finds and include the little ankle-biter in the process.

To my dismay however, my twelve-year old sister looks far better in, well, most everything we bought. If memory serves correct, early pubescence should bring about pimples, hair, and habitual mood swings. Evidently, puberty is going far easier on her than it went on me.
Bah humbug.