Oh my god, you guys. I can't remember the last time I've been so dramatically, wretchedly, miserably ill - just a cold, but an especially humbling one with a long, long valley more resembling an abyss.
|merino wool turtleneck: Italtempo, Winners, worn here|
holey cropped bell-sleeved hoodie: Double Zero, passed along by a dear friend
skirt: Joe Fresh, worn here with similar "eh, just threw on black clothes" outfit
thermal leggings: Elita
shorty cowboy boots: WalM*rt men's section clearance, worn here
|antique pin: a gift from my father, worn here|
How is it that on single-task days, like Having Bath or Doing One Load Laundry (which is still sitting in the dryer from Wednesday), when preparing or otherwise acquiring food isn't an option because that's another task so it's dry taco shells and baby carrots for dinner, there are still so many dirty dishes? Why does everything have so many steps?
I'm coming around a little now but being even more desperately behind on life amplifies the general despair. I'm channelling Gary Oldman in Immortal Beloved when the carriage gets stuck in the mud. Bring me Kahlua chocolates.
These photos are from two weeks ago, well prior to onset of the plague. This ensemble would have greatly pleased 15-year-old-me, which is something at least, she sure didn't get much satisfaction at the time. It's even a spring outfit because there is a flower.
To spare you further details of my abject suffering, make up a little for my radio silence, and take me away from all the grotty phlegm, boogers, dishes, and paperwork, here is some enhanced content:
I was stoked to be included in the Digital Catwalk series created by Anne of Spy Girl - what a generous gift! By which I mean Anne's super talent, her fantastic artwork, and also the stupendous legs she has so kindly bestowed upon me. Thanks, Anne! Check out her whole series here.
Pictures of our new chicks, though the brooder heat lamp doesn't make for great photo conditions. Here on March 25 they were one day old, still small as eggs. My favourite is when they pass out sprawled, feet everywhere. And also when they run around peeping.
We have two each of Columbian Rock Cross, Black Sex Link, and Barred Rock. No names yet, but we really should stop calling one Barred Rock "String Bum" (because she arrived with a piece of lint really stuck to her) and the other "Poo Bum" (because you can guess why).
|vintage handmade snakeskin-print rain cape: Black Market Clothing (Toronto, early '80s)|
The Travelling Yellow Skirt: Joe Fresh with hand-customizations, from Melanie by way most recently of Tami
pointy buckle boots: shop on Queen West I can't recall (Toronto, early '80s)
Yesterday I managed to lurch outdoors to test a Travelling Yellow Skirt Freak Show idea. Related to a conversation last weekend and today's outfit post, it included actual artifacts of my 15-year-old self.
What would your younger selves think of what you're wearing now? Of what you're doing with your life? How do you honour your past's promise, pain, or wishes, if those are things that hold meaning for you?