It’s my birthday eve! I am not calling you “Eve,” I am saying it is the day before my birthday.
I have already started getting cards.
And I’ve been getting presents for a month. My mother, father, aunt, pal Dottie and in-laws have already sent my gift. Don’t let me forget to model for you the nice Miley Cyrus pants my friend Dottie got me. Because could Dottie get a bigger kick out of her own self? These gifts up here are from my friend Paula, my cousin Katie and my stepsister. I’ll open them on my real bday.
What can I tell you? I get a lot of attention on my birthday.
By the way, when Dot and I lived together in college, once I got a piece of junk mail addressed to “Djune Gardens.” They inexplicably stuck a “D” at the front of my name. How they made this mistake I’ll never know, but Dottie not only kept the piece of junk mail, she taped it to her door. Years later she sent me a personalized Christmas tree ornament that reads “Djune,” and whenever she mails me something it is to “Djune.” This year my gift was to “Djune Dgardens.”
Again, who is her own house of amusement? Is it Dot?
Anyway, my mother-in-law got me a few birfday things while she was here, but she also sent me $100 yesterday. So after a hard day of work, and working at noon on freelance stuff, and then ending up working about an hour late, do you know what I did?
I took that 100 bucks and went to Old Navy. Because nothing slows me down when I got a Finn in my wallet. Neither Marvin nor I know if “a Finn” is really a hundred bucks, but we are too lazy to look it up.
So here’s what I got. It took me 15 minutes to buy these things. I was a purchasing dervish. There’s a term you hear all the time. A purchasing dervish.
Exhibit une. I got me some leopard shoes. Made from real leopards! Okay, not at all, unless leopards are suddenly man-made. Do you like my French, by the way? “une.” I’m Frenchin’ out. Oh, and careful (obsessed) readers will note I have leopard flats already, but they are suede, and not appropriate for summer. See. Is the thing.
I like how I can’t possibly be bothered to take the mail off the table before I style these pictures. My father, who is undoubtedly lying down instead of sitting, is rolling in despair. And ordering that DNA test he’s always considered.
I forgot to be French. Above is exhibit quiche.
Who is delighted maxi skirts are back? So along with it being 1979 and 1985, it is also 1990 and 1970. Hello, garbled fashion years! I look forward to the day they just pick a style for the ’10s. In the meantime, maxi skirts! Just call me maxi! Does anyone remember Maxi perfume? It was not perfume for your maxi pad. So don’t even go there, Hulk.
Okay, this looks like an unsexy Mr.-Rogers-in-drag pink cardigan, but really it has a sweet ruffle at the collar, which makes me sound like I am Shirley Partridge, but honest engine, it’s adorable in real life.
Oh. Sorry. Exhibit Peppy LePew.
In case you were being nosy, yes, I am a medium. I knew you were gonna look. Cause I’m a medium. Get it? Oh, with the psychic humor. “Call me now!”
And there it is. My new wardrobe, thanks to my in-laws and the part where I got born and the wonderful folks at Old Navy.
Oh, and thanks for all your suggestions for what I can photograph this weekend. Everyone was brilliant! I have no idea which one I’ma pick. But I know you wish I’d keep saying “I’ma.”