peevish mama

Due to a variety of factors, my dressing has veered into dodgy territory as of late.  For one thing, I rediscovered flannel shirts as well as the little black Izod shirt my mom bought me three years ago.  Both have the ability to nudge an otherwise classic look into freaky new terrain.  I am loving the pseudo Prepster and pseudo Rockabilly chick looks right now – especially when you throw in a generous pinch of old Jewish woman and a dash of hoochie mama.  The change of seasons always gets me feeling a little frothy about clothes anyway, and since I am trying my darn’dest to be fiscally responsible and not to shop (with varying results), I find myself with no choice but to mine the old closet for gems (with varying results).  Furthermore, it’s easier to get freaky in the winter, what with all those layers and textures – wool and flannel, silk and waffle knit, feathers, leathers and furs – oh my!

Ill-advised as these sartorial experimentations may be, I feel like I can get away with it because I don’t see any one person, outside of my nuclear family, every single day.  I am accountable to no one.  See me looking like a fashion freak once in a while, you don’t bat an eye.  See it day after day, you may start to wonder if I’m not becoming just a titch unhinged. When we lived at Casa Sur, I used to see Red Vogue every day . . . or at least there was the risk of seeing her to keep me in check.  Now I am a true free agent, at liberty to quell my boredom with strange pairings from my closet.  I’m safe . . . for now . . . to cheekily combine rockabilly plaid shirts, grey skinny jeans, nearly over the knee boots and faux furs.  Or wideleg wool trousers with black Chucks, tanktops and lots of gold jewelry.  Doctor Dash notices clothes, but somehow I elicited no comment when I busted out in a pair of purple skinny jeans, my black Izod (collar up) and a kelly green cableknit sweater.  I looked like Muffy on a mission – pissed off at her square parents and hell bent on losing her virginity to Danger Johnny from the wrong side of the tracks.  Throw a floppy hat and a striped scarf into the mix and I’m two ticks away from shuffling a shopping cart down the street.  

Truth is, I don’t have the balls to really bust out à la Little Edie Bouvier pictured above, who thought nothing of topping an already peculiar outfit with a nun’s wimple. She’s the epitome of devil may care balls and high style.  Bananas.  A lady whose eccentric chic I quite admire.

[Just the other day Crackerjack said to me in all seriousness:  “You must be so excited it’s boot time!”  Yes! Yes! Yes!  I’m over the moon!  Obama is elected president AND it’s boot time!!!  A new day indeed!  I appreciate being known for my idiosyncracies, vapid and superficial as they may be.]