Perhaps it feels like only yesterday-ish that we all voted on what to keep from my last StitchFix box. It really wasn’t that long ago.
But you may also recall, while you’re recalling things, that I got that box of clothes right after my
and asked the nice people of fixing stitches if they’d let me put off deciding on that particular batch, and they did. So a mere 3 weeks ago we voted on those clothes. Twenty-hundred people said, You can get that for six cents at Marshall’s, and that was how voting went.
Then this new box came, a new box of clothes to wear to the many places I’m going during this, my pandemic. I’m headed out to see and be seen. Maybe I can wear these to urgent care.
Anyway, today I tried them on, because what the hell else I got to do, and then I photographed myself in them, which by the way went swimmingly.
Behold my first attempt. Also, let’s talk about my hair. As you know, from your enormous book of June events, I have been growing out my roots. It’s been four months, I have two glorious inches of pretty much pure-white hair, and it turns out, I hate it.
I don’t know if you’ve put down your June events book long enough to notice that we are having a pandemic, and we’re not supposed to go anywhere, and I’m looking at you, people swarming Lowe’s, you
So that means I cannot FIX my hair, which further means you are stuck looking at my giant roots throughout this whole photo sesh, and yes I just said sesh. For that I am sorry.
Also, I’m writing this on a breezy Sunday evening on my patio, where I am being devoured by mosquitoes (IT’S MARCH), and someone is letting his or her child scream endlessly on my street. I got up to frown socially distantly at said screaming child, who by the way I did not find and now I’m hallucinating screams which, yay. But here’s my upbeat news of the day. Look!
Anyway, let’s look at my clothes. And fucking roots.
I know that when one looks like I do, it’s easy for others to assume I’ve spent my whole life modeling for various enterprises such as No Life magazine and even Sporks Illustrated. I have not. Instead I’ve spent my life in the pursuit of the arts, if by the arts we mean the Real Housewives.
I offer you this to explain that I don’t know what the hell these poses are.
Long ago, my friend Renee and I shared a masseuse who had been a DOCTOR in her country. She was great. The point is, she vacationed to her country—I forget where she was from—and when she returned asked if I wanted to see her pictures, back when you actually held pictures in your hand.
This woman, who before this moment was normal-seeming, did these ABSURD POSES in each shot. Her toes were pointed. Her arms would be up over her head. It was like she was a member of the Ice Capades or was auditioning for a lobotomy. I could not WAIT for Renee to check out our masseuseinist’s vacation shot contortions.
I think she was my muse for these poses today. In summation.
Here it is again, in case you missed this hard-hitting pose. This little pose of mine. I’m gonna let it shine.
This shirt ties in the back. It has white roots in the front.
That smile is sincere, for once, as I was laughing at the animals but I forget why now. It’s just a laugh riot over here what with being confined to my house for 6 weeks and all.
Once I looked this shirt’s description up on my invoice from the StitchFix, there, I saw it’s called a front-tie shirt, so I guess I should be tying it in the front and SUE ME.
Also, I am going to always offer the option of how cheap you can get this at Marshall’s just so I don’t have to hear it in the comments.
I love everything about this photo, from the look on Edsel’s face to Iris’s Deeetroit leanin’ to my catalog-model glance to the side. Everything other than this unflattering shirt. Also, the jeans are part of the StitchFix, so note them from here on and we’ll vote on them eventually.
I mean, is there a BEAVER over in that corner of the room? What’m I LOOKING at?
Here is a ruffly-sleeved back top with a keyhole neck, in case you want to walk into my collarbone with your key. I got a brand new pair of roller skates, you got a brand new keyhole.
Here’s the shirt, my jeans, my tortured cat and my apprehensive dog. Now with roots!
Let’s end by addressing the situation.
I can make dress jokes like this. For I know you are stuck at home and cannot escape my wrapth.
Even Edsel’s like, “Wat wif dat poze?” And BY THE WAY, I would not wear these shoes with this dress, but I was so not in the mood to buckle a whole pair of shoes. I realize I should put more effort into this, my blog, but do you have any idea what a time-consuming pain in my ass these StitchFix posts are? I had to prop my phone up in my glasses cupboard, for feck’s sake.
That is all. I won’t give you the “buy everything” voting option, as I know I’m not getting the white “I’m a triangle” shirt.
Talk to you tomorrow, which marks six weeks since my
and a lifting of various prohibitions. For one thing, I can return to work!