I call this one: exposed limbs, still a virgin.
Is it a bird?
Is it a nun-chuck-throw-pillow hybrid?
…Is it my tax return?
Before I continue, a petit disclaimer: The Carrie Bradshaw crashed hard drive crisis at hand never diverted itself, that shit is gone. Forever
. In true summer spirit though, Naomi
and me said, “Hey, let’s turn lemons to lemonade, we’ll reshoot everything and make it better!”
Alas though, trailing five feet tall Naomi popped by yesterday in a frantic fury, if only because she felt deep postpartum depression. “Now now, Nay nay, these feathers will make you feel better,”
said I. She laughed, I laughed and while gearing to shoot the shit, literally, she realized she’d left her memory cards at home.
And thus, we shot with a little baby digital monster.
So please now, birds and penguins, ignore the quality of these photos.
Between you and me I can’t see the difference, she’s that good.
[Cut to feathers.]
And…we’re back! Never mind the fact that the smiles you see are genuine giggles of joy and kisses of love that salute marabou vests, the summer solution to fur, and skirts that weigh 2000 pounds, my solution to gym-trotting, or even that I’ve already worked my Halloween–or rather, Fashion Week–around this outfit but now I offer this: when questionable trends point their exotic fabrics at you, you have choice: either take the blogger route, pile them together, go big or strip down to your birthday suit…and go home. Like Mary’s lame little lamb. What do you do?
a maniac really cool, or woman dissatisfied with the copious sex in her life, the former should likely win. Because really, what good are layers of chain and tassel if you aren’t going to pair them with a feathered vest. No good at all, that’s the answer.
Shake your tail tasseled feather far and wide and give yourself a high five because girlfriend, ya’look crazy!