I made this dress myself, off the T-shaped tunic 70s pattern I was obsessed with early this summer. The yoke, sleeves and contrast hem are a reclaimed fabric that is almost a light upholstery weight, the body is a light cotton (almost a lawn) that I had leftover from my purse-making business that I closed 8 years ago. At first I thought it was too Hannah Andersson looking for me, but I actually like it quite a bit.
FLY London boots
Necklace from local boutique Spirit Winds
Top: Bailey 44, an Anthropologie brand, cast-off from my mother
Skirt: I made it myself.
Asylum is, at least, a short read. Supremely derivative and rushed, it strikes one as something written as part of a contractual obligation versus inspired creative expression. The author, trying to cash in on another author’s success (Miss Peregrine’s Home for Peculiar Children), has copied the use of found photographs to illustrate creepy stories for young adults. What comes to mind is how once Diary of a Wimpy Kid made it, there were suddenly knock-offs on the shelves. The lack of originality is frustrating and insulting to Ransom Riggs, who at least was the current “first” to use this approach. Gimmick tends to wear thin with repeated use, and this is very true for this book, which sadly appears to be the beginning of what will be a largely forgettable series.
The pitfalls of writing about young adults are very clear in this novel; characters don’t ring true, don’t behave the way they would at that age, and seem flat and under-developed. Also, a criticism I have of many, many YA books; why do we write about so much violence and then almost completely avoid sex? It feels like the sexless kids go to a slaughter house, and sends the message that violence and torture are worthy of intense examination, but love and the physical expression thereof is somehow too much. Disappointing and seemingly dangerously close to plagiarism. 1 star.
Turquoise by my coworker Claudia Billings, and……marbles.
Top: Silk, Max Studio
Skirt: Cynthia Ashby that I modified at the waist.
Shoes: L’Artiste by Spring Step, via Satan. They are *almost* too high, but I can manage them.
I Hate Sundays: The way I really felt that day. Put the mask back on!
The biggest shopping weekend of the year and I promise you, I have not left my house. Wait, that may be a lie, as my inlaws will be visiting. Which means that I am envisioning otherworldly things that I might wear to convey my mood as the visit drags on…..
I think this sets the tone for day one, don’t you? Headdress and makeup together with one of my many kimonos should say, “Think about what you want to say to me right now, I am powerful.” By MimsyCrowns. This is the sort of Etsy prominence I aspire to, honestly. Everything she does is breathtaking.
Below that, an Alphonse Mucha corset that will remind me that I am in total control of my person, and will not be provoked by my Father in Law’s insistence that climate change is the fault of the Democrats, for demanding clean air laws in California and disturbing the layer of pollution that held the heat in….really, I lose focus until jolted back to reality by his penguin laugh (Nyah! Nyah! Nyah! he barks). By Etsy seller RetroFolie. Superb Craftsmanship.
In the middle, for Thanksgiving day, perhaps? We are eating out (I vowed never to cook for my inlaws many years ago, as they don’t eat flavor) and I will be drinking unlimited mimosas. I think this says, “Say a word about the election and I will freeze you and shatter you into a million pieces.” Nyah. Nyah. Nyah. By Etsy seller HysteriaMachine, I want everything they have.
Top Right, exhaustion with the incessant talking about NOTHING (my mother-in-law would die if her mouth stopped moving for a moment and it matters not what she talks about, she will report what’s on TV as if you are visually impaired) might lead to a simpler foundational support that says “I am here, holding you up. Keep smiling, keep nodding, move slowly.” From Etsy seller RoyalTailor.
Finally, the day before they leave. Speak not to the creature, she will silence you with a snap of her deadly fingers. I will wear it when we go out to the one plain restaurant they like so they can order overcooked pork chops and talk about how nice it is. Also from HysteriaMachine.
The in-laws are here for Thanksgiving. This is many, many things, all worthy of speed drinking in order to pass out, but here is a snippet:
MIL: (droning on and fucking on about a relative I hardly knew who has been dead for over ten years and what her widower’s dating life has been like since she died [also I’ve already been told all of this like ten times]) So, the Older Boy, he got sent to an all boy’s Catholic School because he fooled around at public school, yanno, being a kid, and had to repeat a year.
Me: (Imagining what it would be like if my kid flunked a year of high school): Huh.
MIL: But he got his grades up and….
FIL: (Interrupting, his all-time favorite hobby is not letting people finish a sentence): Well he’s, he’s got that girl’s got her claws in him!
MIL: Yeah, yeah, he’s got a girlfriend.
FIL: (to me, apparently because he can’t help himself trying to be offensive): He’s WHIPPED.
MIL: Yeah, kinda like you were sayin’ your daughter has taken charge in her marriage. [you guys needs to know I let that shit slide simply because it would have resulted in some sort of permanent schism and we only see them once a year if we can help it and my daughter is awesome and married a guy who needed help fixing his life and she has and that’s not the same at all]
Me: (Fuck me, why am I not drunk and passing out is anyone else going to deal with this? No?) I wouldn’t call it WHIPPED.
FIL: Well, she made him get his grades up so he could go back to public school and see her! She’s got him good!
Me: I would still refer to that as something other than “whipped” if, you know, the kid couldn’t manage to get through high school on his own, it sounds like he made a good choice in dating someone who could motivate him to do something other than be a drop-out.
MIL: (blinking in the headlights)
FIL: (does his penguin laugh) NYAK NYAK NYAK!
Me: (texts spouse: BRING ME A DRINK NOW)
Oh poor men, whipped by women with their claws in them. So, this kid, who btw is doomed entirely by a fucked up family situation that is beyond repair and practically worth a novel on its own, can’t manage high school, but meets a girl who, for the time being, seems to motivate him to be more successful.
Wait. I was trying to see what was wrong with that and why I should feel sorry for the poor trapped boy. Let me try again.
So, this kid, whose mother died of a drug overdose when he was 7 or so, whose father has been a non-parent, who has mostly lived with his grandparents his whole life, whose uncle died of a drug overdose, whose grandfather died of a drug overdose, this kid is failing in high school. So he gets sent to an all boys school, and what motivates him to get his shit together is this awful girl…wait. She makes him get his grades up. She makes him get a job, and now he has a job and good grades and this girlfriend…..
HOLD THE PHONE! I know why. Because we must constantly cast all things in the light of patriarchy, that’s why. So, scratch the above. Kid’s got a girl whose got her claws into him, he’s whipped and the little bitch will probably trap him with a pregnancy.
I understand. Now someone get me a goddamned drink.
I feel like a beautifully tiled Turkish garden area.
Marbles and the Michelle Arterburn fish necklace.
Diane Von Furstenberg silk dress/tunic from Buffalo Exchange in Albuquerque
Max Studio skirt via ThredUp
FLY London shoes
Kimono jacket/top from this weird shop in El Paso that is like a Christianized version of Anthropologie.
That Indian Kameez I got at a yard sale a million years ago
The Bisbee Hippie Gypsy Goddess necklace
El Cheapo leggings from Satan that are more like thick pantyhose and I hate the way they feel.