5 Reasons to Live Every Week Like it's Shark Week!

This is more than an excuse for me to play with and then consume stunning volumes of shark gummies. I swear. But... I totally did that. 

This weekend, IT'S SHARK WEEK REDUX! Or, as Discovery Channel has awesomely dubbed it, "Shweekend." Shark week has so much to teach us it needs a part deux, and it's this weekend!


And so...

5 Reasons to Live Every Week Like it's Shark Week!

1. Shark week reminds us life is short. 

Seriously, because those magnificent bastards are absolutely petrifying.

It's so easy to let yourself be held back by fear (like, of sharks maybe), to tell yourself you'll finally go for [insert lifelong dream] next month, or next year. But you never know what tomorrow will bring. So take the adventure, say yes to the enormously wonderful, terrifying things in front of you (unless they're trying to bite your face off) and LIVE. Do it now. Call the person you can't stop thinking about. Do the forgiving. Buy the shoes. EAT SO MANY BAGELS. See every castle still standing on the planet. Drink a glass of wine on every continent. Dive in, have a fucking blast, and remember how amazing it is that you're on this planet to begin with.

 The same planet as this thing:

Out of all of the things, including this thing, you got to be a human. That's pretty fucking rad. 

2. Sharks don't sweat the small stuff, they just eat it. 

They don't care what other sharks think about them. And they DEFINITELY don't care what you think of them.

Maybe that's why they freaking GLOW, National Geographic. Maybe that's the real reason. SCIENCE!

Instead of living a life plagued by giving a damn what the neighbors/your judgy cousin/the world-at-large/your ex-boyfriend/the guy in the yacht might think, wouldn't you rather just do you? Because that's when you're at your best. That's when life is at its most remarkable.

And then this happens...

And you can't NOT be happy. 

...WHAT.

3. Shark week Reminds us of the beauty of the world we live in.

Because sharks live here...

That is all.

4. Shark week teaches us respect. 

You never know what's going on beneath the surface-- of the water/ a person/ a situation.

We could all do well to remember that more often.

This lady, for instance, is here to teach you about respecting the Shark's house.

BECAUSE THAT IS HIS HOUSE, DAMN IT.

5. These things would not exist without sharks, in all of their glory.

These Shark Tooth Studs that I've been living in...

This Rose Gold and Diamond Shark Tooth-Inspired babe...

They probably saw a shark. Or 9,000. This Micro Scrimshaw Ivory Ship Ring circa 1790, surrounded by garnets and killing me slowly. Is it the most amazing thing ever? Perhaps.

Shark Jaw Necklace. It's on'y a partial jaw. It can't eat you.




And of course, this post would not be complete without a mention of this cinematic classic:

So take a leap, swim into the fear, eat all of the little things (like, candy, not people... ya big weirdo), let your pearly whites shine at each other, maybe watch Sharknado, and try not to bite.

Go forth, and live every week like it's Shark Week!!!

XO,

Ash.

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 

Royal Jewels

I have had the feeling of a phantom ring on my finger for a little over a week. My engagement ring, as I trotted off to New Orleans, stayed behind for a little TLC (with the most amazing bench jeweler around). I wore another in its place, but every time I looked down at my finger I got a little sad. It just wasn't exciting enough. I'm obnoxiously, stupidly, helplessly, annoyingly in love with my engagement ring. It is like my pointy, sparkly, really old child. Now you know. 

And today... I got it back! Hallelu!!! 

Just totally fucking rad. M. did the best job ever. Reunited and it feeeeels sooo gooooood!           

I get lost staring into this thing. 

Aaaaand very fitting, because today is vintage wedding dress shopping day! Yeehaw. 

Sidenote: So far wedding dress shopping has made me want to turn all bridezilla and throw tiaras or whatever. It's a strangely uncomfortable thing to have people try to liquor you up with champagne and force all kinds of fussy, scratchy, sometimes terrifying garments over your head. Standing in my skivvies, bridal attendant pawing at me and getting zippers caught in my hair because everything gets caught in my damn hair, feeling weirdly vulnerable and totally not into it... That was my first bridal gown outing. And it blew hard. It was more like being cornered in a bar by the one really pushy drunk dude who is sure he can convince you you just don't know that you really do want to be dragged, caveman-like, back to his douche-pad... Today-- today will be different. Today I'm buzzing for no reason at all. End rant.

Anyway, when I was down in the good ole Big Easy (which is hands-down my favorite jewelry shopping city, because there's nothing like seeing the fantabulous estate pieces fallen from the tree of Old Southern Money... Plus OMG flea markets...), I found myself pining a bit for what felt like my missing finger. And I happened upon Royal St...

And then upon rows and rows of storefronts like this one...

ALL OF YOU! COME HOME WITH ME!

And then upon the most unique vintage ring I've seen in years (besides, of course, my kite-shaped lover)...

I have freakishly long ET fingers, and this is one of those pieces of jewelry that makes them seem totally necessary. By this logic, this ring should stay on my finger like, I dunno... permanently.I've never seen anything quite like it.

Art Deco Platinum ring with old mine cut center Diamond (1.10 ct, G/H, SI) with the cutest little culet, Emerald pears, and calibre cut Sapphires. I kept this on my finger for what was probably an uncomfortable amount of time for pretty much everyone involved. It was great.

I also got to play with this mutha trucka...

Sweet mother of God, there is just no way to depict how stunning this guy is in person. So, just go to New Orleans, and go to here.

Art Deco Platinum Diamond and Sapphire stunnah, 3.75 cttw.

And then THIS happened:

150 carats of antique cut diamonds in rich 22k Gold, from the magical land of (antique) Fred Leighton. This actually made my heart flutter. Probably because it's haunted by some freaking royal ass ghosts. Because, come on. COME ON. You're killin' me, Smalls...

Photos just can't touch this one. 

Thanks for letting me come and play dress up, fine folks at Valobra! Made my day. 

But hey, if (you are crazy and) don't like looking at stunning pieces of wearable art history, you want to see some seriously unique (and not in the price range of above life-changing bib of diamonds) jewels, or you just really fucking love flea markets like I do... To the French Market with you! 

I bought this Bone & Agate bangle at the market, once upon a time in another life. It's one of my very favorite pieces in my jewelry collection. Also, it's kinda heavy, so it's the perfect accessory to wear if you're out wandering through alleys alone at night. If you're into that kind of thing.
You do you. 

When I lived in NOLA, I found every excuse that I could to whoops suddenly end up strolling the booths of awesomeness at the end of the French Market. 

How to get there: 

1. Eat a beignet.

2. Buy some frozen booze-to-go.

3. Follow the smell of Alligator on a stick (which is mouthgasmic).

4. Roll on through. 

Or, I dunno, ask a local. I'm sure there are other routes.  

This time around, I picked up this ginormous Lapis Lazuli cuff (...which makes me feel like I could get into some Xena, Warrior Princess shit. Or be on Game of Thrones, which I have never actually seen an episode of, but their costume pros must have the greatest job.) --

Yeah, really looks like it's about to bust out some secret powers. It's kind of distracting-- really hard not to just stare at it like a goon while it's on my arm. Also, prices in the market are amazeballs. Go there. Said market is also the reason there is currently an Alligator head on my mantel.

Having returned home now, from my vintage wedding dress adventure, I am SUPER FUCKING EXCITED. Not only did the awesome gal who helped me not rush me for a second or make me feel like a freaking loose meat sandwich at a white trash garden party, I FOUND MY DRESSSSSSSS! I cried like a little bitch. It was beautiful. I could not be more thrilled about it. Vintage for the win!

Now, I can't wait to pick out my jewels! 

Keep on sparklin', chickens. 

-Ash

Balls.

I wore this guy a couple days ago, and so many people stopped me on the street to compliment me on my balls (look closely... these silky shorts are hemmed with tiny pom poms). I can't think of another time I've heard so much talk about balls from total strangers... Except at the drag show I went to later that night, where *ball* talk abounded. 

Greatest Romper Ever.

Black Sandals I Pretend Are NOT Flip Flops...

I'm back in Chicago (I am mostly happy to be home-- family/puppies/neighbors/friends/charming nasal speech patterns/my lovely neighborhood and my lovely slice of the city...), but the South has followed me. I'm sitting in a cafe ( near the window, on the floor, on pillows, like a dirty hippie, which I'm pretty happy about), and even though the joint is washed in bright colors suggestive of a journey to Ashram, peddles Indonesian baubles and artisan-made soaps steps from its juice bar, and vibrates bohemian, Lynrd Skynrd is playing. Has been for the twenty minutes I've been here. And I'm missing New Orleans, but this place touts itself as a place for travelers. Maybe it will help.

I order tea and nachos. Um, that's what travelers eat, right? Full disclosure, this is my third go at a pile of nachos in two days, and I am a fucking nacho champion. Just saying. 

Missing the crap out of our little pink house... WHY GOD WHYYYY?!

Rain is falling now, unforgivably down the face of our sweet waitress, who's serving the jag-offs that insist she cater to their desires to exist just outside the reach of the deluge. They, covered and dry; she, left to the elements and handling it like a champ. Beyond the awning the rainfall has grown into rivers at the curbside.

I'm thinking of just a couple days ago: hot sun slapping my back as I wandered through the towering graves of a beautiful New Orleans cemetery. I'm remembering the absolute liberation I felt (even though it was hot as devil ass, which in NOLA in late July is a cold front) wearing this:

Shortly hereafter, I was approached by a kindly chick who offered me a tube of sunscreen because HOLY FUCK YOU GONNA BURN LITTLE GIRL! I'm not even a true redhead, guys. But my skin is totally ginger skin. Knock it off, skinz. Also, thank you, sunscreen lady!

Note the many X's and offerings, attempts at appeal to the favor of this passed Voodoo priestess.

They call these cemeteries "Cities of the Dead," but they couldn't feel more alive, somehow. Alive with regal palm trees thrusting themselves up in between tombs, swift scuttling lizards dancing about the vines at the bases of graves, mossy green flora fanning itself through the vacant spaces in burial structures, and the stories of tour guides bringing the deceased into being... again, and again, and again. Oh! And, also, this hat. 

The perfect thing to wear when you don't want anything to touch you because holy heat, or when you want to feel pretty awesome about the fact that your boobs are tiny, because otherwise I don't know how one might sport such a thang. This not a dig at you, big-tittied mommas, I still envy all your curves and edges, just like John Legend. Whatever, Chrissy Teigen. 

See, look at him, all falling in love with you and whatnot.

***

Freebird plays. The couple next to me (skinny jeans, ironic 90s tees, duplicate haircuts),
She to him: Oh! Isn't this your favorite song?
His reply: Um, no. That must be your other boyfriend.

Nachos: gone. Tea: a swig or so left.

The pillows I'm seated on are starting to feel lumpy and I can't find a polite way to sink my weight into them. The table to my right is occupied by two ladies about my age -- one, a patient listener; the other, OH MY GOD STOP BITCHING ABOUT YOUR CRAMPS (She's been reading the transcripts of some text message communication for about a hundred years, now). Please? I'm trying to digest nachos, over here. And it's kind of hard work. And I'm trying to meditate on how fantastic it was to see the (supposed, at least) tomb of Marie Laveau (for those who are not into creepy shit or history, Marie Laveau was a lauded Creole practitioner of Voodoo who helped to drive the practice, like a nail, into the foundation of the city's culture).

I'm not mad, for serious. It's just way too hot to move my face muscles. 

I would like to submit a formal request that should I die, which I plan never to do, that those who come to pay their respects bring equal amounts flowers and jewelry. Mardi Gras beads: totally acceptable. It is what it is. Don't care how ya bury me. Just appreciate that I'm probably haunting you if this request goes unmet. 

I'm trying to convince M. that a move to New Orleans is inevitable. If I could just take a boat ride through a swamp once a month, have tremendous live music bouncing off of me from every angle on the daily, and be surrounded by technicolor buildings and people, I think I would be quite satisfied. Once upon a time, I lived in NOLA. I played the parts of singer in a band, photographer's assistant, songwriter, and delinquent opera student. Having been back now, older and wiser (and mostly just not 19 anymore), the place is more invigorating than ever. Perhaps I am simply on a vacation high. I mean, I've heard people in such a stupor sing the praises of all manner of shit towns. Anyway, more to come on all of that. 

So, did you book your tickets yet? Where are you going? We're thinking New Mexico, next (I'm not sure why, but hey, when the call is there...). Then a European extravaganza (which must include  the pools of Sorrento, and every possible beautiful thing, obviously), an Indian jaunt, and maybe some Shamanic adventure through Peru. All of the reaches. ALL OF THEM. 

And a honeymoon in there, somewhere.

Dear Voodoo,

Please help?

Love and love and love. 

-Ash