blog: Color me lame
Y'all know I'm not one to be all like, "Well, according to So-and-so, [insert arbitrary rule of life]", especially when it comes to matters of style. I seek advice, I take tips to heart, but mostly I trust my instincts and take my cues from the unbearably fabulous. No white after Labor Day? No mixing shades? No heels with shorts? Pshaw! I reject your sartorial code and substitue the power of AWESOME.
But there is one hang-up I can't quite get over, and that is putting black and brown together in an outfit. Not to say that I don't do it. The vast majority of my wardrobe is based on black, so it's really inevitable that something brown is going to get mixed in there every now and then. Still, no matter how often I do it, something deep in my stylish subconscious rebels even as I reach for my basic black tights and sky pirate boots.
As a result, every time I do this, I always have this moment where I have to tell myself, "But Doc Hammer said it was okay!" Immediately, I feel at once better - because Doc did, in fact, say it was okay - and completely ridiculous - because I actually just said that to myself in my head.
In vaguely related news:
1. Have I discussed my thoughts on the television travesty that is What Not to Wear?
1a. Do you care?
2. For the cabaret after party on Friday, I did a solid black-and-white palette with a birdcage veil and black lipstick. I looked glorious. Pictures were taken, and hopefully some of them will be passed along to me.
In totally unrelated news, I slept for 11 solid hours on Saturday night and then couldn't sleep at all last night. So apparently my body has decided to give one good night of sleep per, what? month? Fuck that.
And I forgot my glasses at home this morning. So I'm going to be squinting at the screen all day. Rock on.
But there is one hang-up I can't quite get over, and that is putting black and brown together in an outfit. Not to say that I don't do it. The vast majority of my wardrobe is based on black, so it's really inevitable that something brown is going to get mixed in there every now and then. Still, no matter how often I do it, something deep in my stylish subconscious rebels even as I reach for my basic black tights and sky pirate boots.
As a result, every time I do this, I always have this moment where I have to tell myself, "But Doc Hammer said it was okay!" Immediately, I feel at once better - because Doc did, in fact, say it was okay - and completely ridiculous - because I actually just said that to myself in my head.
In vaguely related news:
1. Have I discussed my thoughts on the television travesty that is What Not to Wear?
1a. Do you care?
2. For the cabaret after party on Friday, I did a solid black-and-white palette with a birdcage veil and black lipstick. I looked glorious. Pictures were taken, and hopefully some of them will be passed along to me.
In totally unrelated news, I slept for 11 solid hours on Saturday night and then couldn't sleep at all last night. So apparently my body has decided to give one good night of sleep per, what? month? Fuck that.
And I forgot my glasses at home this morning. So I'm going to be squinting at the screen all day. Rock on.