Blanche Devereaux made me do it.

Dress that is awesome for wearing while eating everything all day, unless you're messy.
Wander-the-whole-city-comfy Booties.
Clutch that is actually big enough to put shit in.

Some days, you just wake up feeling called to channel your inner Golden Girl. Everybody's been there, right? Maybe?

Some days, the force of Blanche Devereaux is strong with you. And then this is what happens (my favorite day of my week in New Orleans):

You put on something acid-washed, and your hair finds an unusual amount of volume to draw from, and maybe it's just the Southern humidity, but probably it's the fictional ghost of Blanche Devereaux posessing your tresses...

She wore it better, obviously. 

You pick out the brightest, most harlot-y lip color you happen to have in your make-up bag at the moment, because it compliments acid-washed everything quite nicely, and of course a Devereaux girl couldn't go out with some ungodly Northern pallor (my face is made of ungodly Northern pallor, but a gal does what she can)...

You find the biggest earrings your head can support and rock them all day...

You get a little wild...

"Dahlin', I'm very concerned you're not quite sure what wild means..."

You get a little weird...

I met this guy at the Aquarium, later, and I don't know what the hell he is. But this creature is alive. THIS THING IS ALIVE. 

And you get a little dramatic...

You find the most fabulous old man kickin' to stand by your side, who will almost definitely follow you to Florida post haste...

How could I not take a picture with this man? Look at his damn shirt! Also, I'm pretty sure he only thought I was a little bit creepy.

Just kidding, he was super nice. Yay flamingos.

You spend the day living-- really living-- and doing whatever the hell your heart desires, because Blanche is just not the kind of woman to take a backseat to life...

Didn't we all?

And then you go back to that heart, because beneath the bright pantsuits, ginormo-glam clip-on earrings, and ooze of old people sexuality, that's what Blanche is. All heart.

Rue McClanahan before the Golden years of Blanche... Could she have been more adorable?

***

Lately, every time I reach for a lipcolor, or choose a color for manicure when I'm in for a no-chip (at this place, which is the best place, and I totally fucking love them), I am caught in the possibility that there is, perhaps, an elderly Floridian making these decisions for me. In the beauty-ish sector, I can't seem to be satisfied with anything but day-glo colors and super '80s palettes. It is very possible that in the near future, my morning routine will send me out the door looking something like this:

I mean, ya know... If I'm feeling adventurous. At least I don't have to delve into the world of permanents, because by Jesus, I hear them chemicals just fry ya ends right up. So says Blanche.

Next time, maybe, my rendition of Sophia-- wig and glasses mandatory. I would say Rose, but... Betty White is the world's greatest human.

Stay Golden, chickens!

-Ash