So I did not win either category. Neither did Josh win best-dressed man or best facial hair. And I am kind of a sore loser – I’m an only child, what do you expect? But after I got done breaking stuff, I made myself remember that least I was a finalist – at least I still got my picture on the Seven Days website and a decent amount of exposure. And the people who won in both categories are kind of legit famous. Kat Wright is basically Burlington’s next Grace Potter. So there’s a certain fan base inherent in her campaign that I can’t really touch. It’s not an insult to my fashion prowess.
And I’m really happy about the representation in “best couple”. It’s nice to see Seven Days make plain that being publicly naked or getting buttloads of tattoos doesn’t preclude your ability to commit to a healthy relationship. Even the degenerates deserve love. It’s particularly nice because Josh and I are non-monogamous. You know this if you know us/have been hit on by one of us in real life, but I realized I have a lot of readers who don’t, and I often go back and forth on whether to “come out” to them. On the one hand, it’s fundamentally none of your damn business. On the other, while it really isn’t any of your damn business, it’s also the only way to gain representation. We think of poly relationships as doomed to fail because we hear, pretty much exclusively, about the ones that do. We think of non-monogamy as something that other people do. Practitioners couldn’t possibly be our neighbors or our co-workers or our vintage fashion bloggers. A couple of generations ago, we thought the same of queer and trans people, and look how much visibility has done. Not that I think the non-monogamous are oppressed, exactly. But being perpetually misunderstood (sometimes in really cruel ways: I’ve been told I’ll “die alone because no one can satisfy” me) is still a pain.
Josh is my primary partner, my life partner, and I love him to death. That doesn’t mean we own each other. It means we trust each other. And 10,000 Vermonters decided our relationship is a paragon of the genre. That’s pretty awesome.
…that got really soapbox-y really fast. Regularly scheduled outfit posts shall resume on the morrow.
This marks the first in a series of posts exposing the best and brightest of the Burlington thrift scene. 2014 will be the year I get superserious about slow fashion and recycling garments, and I plan to use my blog not just for my own creative ends, but to highlight artists and locations I admire. This week’s edition features Downtown Threads, open 11-7 on Church Street.
Downtown Threads is significantly more curated than a lot of secondhand stores. Sure, you’ll find a solid few New Look dresses and ’60s shifts, but the store’s overall aesthetic is highly bohemian. Think flowing tops and big sunglasses. Think Aztec print, drug rugs, and vision quests. If you ever find yourself road-tripping across the western seaboard, yearning for the perfect complement to your Levi’s and water bong, you should probably turn that ‘stang around and hit up Downtown Threads.
Oh, and the cowboy boots. You mustn’t forget the cowboy boots. If it doesn’t look good with cowboy boots, you won’t find it in stock.
Check out the most eye-catching of what Downtown Threads has to offer. I admit my own bias – so I’m not that into drug rugs. FILE A LAWSUIT – but I hope my collection might inspire someone, nonetheless, to get off the damn couch and investigate good ol’ DT. While the prices can be a smidge high, everything they carry is in excellent condition. They don’t take just anything off the street.
A whole wall of LBDs!
I took these photos a month ago yesterday. Even Cernunnos is scratching his horns over why I never posted them. I love the outfit, and I love the slightly surreal, thoroughly witchified setting. But I tried at least three times to pull these together into a coherent post, and it just wasn’t coming. And now I’m thinking that I just plain don’t have much to say about these pictures. There’s not much words can add here, really. Sometimes I’m tired of making statements. Sometimes dragging up deeper meaning behind every glance of light and turn of phrase stops being astute and becomes unbearably, obnoxiously po-mo. Hell, the fact that I just unironically used “po-mo” in a sentence is a testament to my analysis lobe needing a break. Enjoy some beauty for the sake of beauty. Enjoy a pretty outfit on a pink-haired witch, and I’ll be back soon with your regularly scheduled pretension.
It’s delightful to find two pieces that were clearly meant to go together – e.g. this dress and blouse. The silhouettes match seamlessly, and the black-and-white is classic, but the textures are just different enough to keep things interesting.
My friend Lizzie took this one. Thank her instagram filter for the sepia. A storm’s a-coming.
Dress, Blouse, Boots, & Brooch: Battery Street Jeans Tights: Gifted
I’ve mentioned this a few times now: I’m a bona fide trypophobe. Though trypophobia isn’t yet recognized by the DSM folks, it’s experientially very real, at least according to my experiences. My heart positively races at the sight of tightly clustered holes. Raindrops beading up on car windows is by far the worst for me; I shut my eyes tight and hope I’ll be home soon. Not to put too Freudian a point on things, but I’m pretty sure the phobia stems from the dime-sized hives I sprouted on my thighs at age six, trumpeting my allergy to Amoxicillin. (And now I’m starting to feel the phantom welts. I’ll be in my ward.)
My love for polka-dotted clothes, then, is inexplicable even to me. By proper phobic standards, I shouldn’t even be able to look at them. I could get Freudian again on your collective ass and ham-fist some theory about my obsessive-compulsive superego attempting to impose order on my phobia…yeah, I have no idea. All I know is that polka dots on clothes are a strange and notable exception to my aversion. And that today marks my fourth polka-dotted outfit in as many days.
Dress: Charlotte Russe Blouse & Necklace: Old Gold Tights: Sox Market Hat & Shoes: Gifted
I really love medieval and Renaissance music, and this is a great little track.
Here’s a squicky factoid about me: I have some issues with seasonal depression and anxiety. (Trust me, I’m squirming mightily as I write this. I don’t like talking about feelings. But it’s necessary in establishing a context for this post. And I’m consoling myself by remembering that it’s not feelings feelings, just misfiring serotonin.) I look forward to the January thaw weeks in advance. For a precious few day, I get an infusion of spring. Today it was fifty motherfucking degrees and smelled like awakening. I had me a little adventure down on the slowly thawing docks.
I’m truly sorry about the drawn-out atrocity that is this borrowed webcam. I should have my computer back by Monday. Until then, try to focus on the gist of the outfit and ignore the engorged pixels.
I’d been planning this outfit for a while. I liked the overarching theme of grey and red. All I was missing was the grey cardigan. Yesterday I found this one in the “free” box at Battery Street Jeans.
I took pictures of my dock-hopping:
Sometimes my city looks really bohemian. And I mean that in the literal sense. It reminds me of old Prague.
Half the docks were still mired in ice and half weren’t. The divide was almost exactly down the middle.
It’s a sad day indeed when my flip phone takes better outfit pictures than my webcam.
I want spring winds to follow me everywhere I go.
Dress & Belt: Handed down from Mom Hat: Handed down from cousin Shoes: Danform Jacket, Cardigan, & Necklace: Battery Street Jeans
This is my favorite warm-weather song.