Harem Pants & Elvis

The King has some words of wisdom for us, chickens. Look at Priscilla, ladies. Take a page outta her book. She's some kinda woman. Don't hate your hips, don't hide 'em. Love 'em tender!
These words are imaginary, and I made them up, but still. He'd probably say that.   

So, harem pants are one of my favorite things. I love them. I started wearing them a few years ago when I was taking yoga lessons (on an island, in a sun-filled room tucked away above the Atlantic... my college campus was unbelievable) from this dread-locked goddess who seemed to move with an impossible fluidity. Shoulders to the ground, feet to the sky, heart wide open, and the most lively excess of fabric in the crotch of her pants. I found the style enchanting. She called them by a name I can't remember, had picked them up by the armful in India, and carried them off with the perfect balance of exotic comfort and daring charm.

They've been peppering my wardrobe since then, which was maybe 4 years ago. Never at work, and often poorly received by the general public and my grandparents in specific. But this has meant, for the love of harem pants, finding fun and different ways to style them.

Elvis also approves of my blue suede shoes. I love the pop of color they add to these pants.

The other day, sunshine and beefcake fiancé in tow, I had fun pairing them with a white cami, gold belt, blue suede shoes and a blue bag. Add delicious pearl earrings, and done.

Oh, how I love them. Instant elevators. 

The greatest thing about this: the shape! I believe in curves, I believe in celebrating what I've got. And what you've got. And having finally reached a place in my life where I'm pretty happy about and comfortable with actually having hips, I'm excited to look at an image like this and think, GIRL, WORK IT, instead of, YEAH, LET'S SEE HOW WE CAN HIDE THOSE. It's liberating (so is wearing harem pants, in general). I like feeling like there's a touch of bombshell/ absence of camouflage. 

Guys, I really love these shoes. So I stare at them longingly. And everybody loves a metallic belt. Jewelry for your waist! I'm also really curious about this sidewalk, if we're being real. I can only hope this is a sign that Ninja Turtles really do exist. 

I actually wore this pair to work last week, high-waisted over a black tank, and my boss was into it (it should be mentioned that she is more stylish and fabulous than the average bear). I am super happy to be able to work them into a professional wardrobe. I'm still experimenting. And later in the day, when we realized that sitting at my desk all day with my legs bent had stretched the knees of my pants out to reveal a flappy bulge mid-leg when I stood, I discovered my new favorite faux pas: KNEE NIPPLES. It looked like my legs had sprouted udders. I proceeded to play at milking them, because why not, and I'm still laughing about it. Gross. Ha.

Apparently I can only stand in this exact pose while wearing this oufit. Later in the evening, we stumbled across a stretch of a kid's sidewalk chalk art. Good job kid. keep on coloring the world. This snake was actually kind of awesome and went on forever. And this makes me think of MC Hammer. Everybody wins!

I'll let you know if I ever figure out how to combat Knee Nipples or discover the black-tie appropriate harem pant. Anything is possible.

Work it, chickadees.

Xx.

-Ash

The Moon Is Almost As Full As I Am.

It's a supermoon, I guess.

I just ate SO much pizza, I feel like I'm going to die. The energy today felt wacky as hell-- the whole week did, actually. I met the real life manifestation of Napoleon Dynamite (I have witnesses, it is undeniable, he's real!), I was super early to work (WHAT IS THIS HOODOO), everyone and their mother has suddenly sprung from the woodwork, and the booties I've been trying to track down for like 3 months materialized out of thin (interwebz) air. I blame (...thank?) the full moon. And now, I'm eating like a ravenous animal.


Conclusion? Turning into a Werewolf.

Obviously, you are a much cuter wolf than homeboy.

You too? It's okay! We'll get through this. I mean, being a wolf probably won't be so bad. No one will ever expect you to shave your legs, and after a short adjustment period, the fame will be the pay dirt you've been dreaming of. You'll stay nice and toasty all winter. Everyone will think you're totally edgy, because you'll be the queen of the raw food movement (granted, it's a muskrat you just killed, but whatevs...), and your outrageously lucrative talk show appearances will more than cover your expenses for the gear you'll need on full moon nights.

People will give you whatever you want all the time to avoid getting their faces eaten. Also, you can howl at shit, and no one will think its weird. You kind of have it made, if you think about it.

Just because you're a werewolf now doesn't mean you've lost your sense of style. Sure, you're a mythical creature, but that doesn't mean you have to let yourself go!

Your signature piece:

 

Boar's Tusk and Diamond Collar. Don't worry, it's only $17,200!

Hunt your own food, nothing goes to waste. Living off the land. You're a total homesteader! Rock it out, ya damn hipster.

You'll need kicks for the front paws:

I love you, Louboutin sandals.

And for the back:

I want to be friends with these.

Hello, instantly doubled shoe collection! Welcome to the pack.

You may be a really furry lady, but you're STILL a lady. So you'll need this:

I suddenly desperately need this skirt...

And up top, this:

Of course you can wear a crop top, wolfie, It's all about confidence. And it's like $30. 

Your wolf eyes may not love the daylight, so here:

Moon people shades. Dolce & Gabbana have your back.

Even though you're wearing a pimp boar's tusk, you still need some bling. Diamonds look excellent by moonlight.

You are a badass.

Half Moon Diamond Ring-- this shit was made for you.

Black Diamond & 18K Single Spine Earring. Because you're too cool to wear two.

Self portrait.

Celestial Cuff with Pyrite.

And if you're going to wear fabulous jewelry, why not just toss an excellent manicure into the mix?

Midnight and whatnot.

You'll need somewhere to stow your goods:

McQ... I want.

In your wolf purse: a chicken wing, a lint roller, and $300.

A signature fragrance to cover the, um... Fact that you're a freaking wolf (you probably smell horrible). Your musk is all your own, dear one.

This should do it:

Eau de Lune Eau de Parfum. Apparently this is what the moon smells like.

After a hard day (or night), settle in with a good read:

One of the greatest books ever. Maurice Sendak was a G.

And fall into dreaming...

My dog. I can't even deal with this.

The perfect place to rest your head.

Stay classy, and try not to eat anyone. 

XO,

Ash














Sent from my iPhone

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

Vacation is the greatest thing. Ever.

Travel Essentials.

Booties
Hat (with feather because YES)
Daddy's by Lindsay Hunter. Mine is signed, "Happy Birthday, ya old ass bitch!" LOVE.
Sunnies

Today, I met the first gal of the summer who looked pastier than me. Her name was Sugar, and she seemed like kind of a bitch. We may well have been the same skin tone; perhaps she a bit more yellow, and I a mite more pinkish. Sugar, for the record, is an albino alligator. And I, for the record, am on the first real vacation I’ve taken in almost two years, in the loving arms of the Zydeco-soundtracked, swamp-creature-eating, opulent  mecca that is New Orleans.  And I’ve finally gotten a little color.

I could not love this place more. I just could not. 

It’s been a busy summer, and I’ve spent most of my time indoors during daylight hours. I love the sun—LOVE IT—and not being able to get out and play (even though I love my job and I work with the greatest people ever) has been a pain in the ass.  I didn’t realize how badly I needed a vacation (a break, and a new adventure) until we arrived here in New Orleans, my fiancé and I.

Even though I’ve been daydreaming about putting my feet up on the balcony railings of our second story townhouse rental (SERIOUSLY YOU GUYS, IT’S PINK ON THE OUTSIDE AND EVERYTHING INSIDE IS GILDED AND ANTIQUE. THEY’RE GONNA HAVE TO PRY ME OUT OF HERE WITH THE JAWS OF LIFE. AND THOSE JAWS WILL BE WEARING A SWEET ASS GRILL THAT HAS NOLA BURNISHED INTO ITS SURFACE. WITH DIAMONDS.), cold glass (let’s be real—bottle!) of Sauvingon Blanc in my hand and a seven month backlog of Vogue that I’ve not had a chance to get to at my disposal, I just didn’t realize how dire the need was.  

When the door to the apartment looks like this... You know there's something good inside.

Heaven, though. Just... heaven. And everything is metallic gold. Eeverywhere. 

Now that I sit here, nested in the height of an ancient ivy-clad oak, I wonder when the last time was that I really relaxed. Like, really relaxed. I can’t remember.  

Aaahhhhh.... Finally chilling the hell out. This green juice is my attempt at detoxing. Because alcohol. A lot of it.

Now, here I am. I feel feather-light, and tension is removing itself from my body in places I didn’t even realize it could dwell. It’s fucking amazing, for serious. I’m realizing I’ve barely taken any time for myself for far too long a stretch. I’ve gotten up each day, walked the pooches, tried to make myself look presentable (even though I have overslept through 5 alarms and am in a tremendous hurry, so there’s probably mascara on my cheeks and Chihuahua hair on my pants, sorry boss lady), rushed off to work, and come home exhausted to collapse in a pile of Thai take-out and online window shopping. And also Vampire TV shows that are marketed at an age group much younger than M. and I (shut up, you like them too).

This is me getting sunburned in my lazy people romper & old-ass bandana, and hanging out with the cutest damn alligator I've ever met. Not that I've met many gators, but I loves him. I wanted to take him home. But, the whole bit about eating my Chihuahuas is not really a selling point.

Side note, M. learned how to ^instagram^ things today! Yay.

Full disclosure: I’m not wearing a bra. I’m on vacation. I don’t fucking have to. My hair is in the greatest nest of a topknot and bundled with a black bandana I’ve worn Aunt-Jemima-style for fifteen years (I say "Aunt-Jemima-style," because I really wanted her to dress me when I was a little one. So, she wins.). I’m relishing the giant black Karen Walker Sunnies that are devouring most of my face (and let’s be honest with ourselves, I have a big fucking face, so these are some impressively large shades), I am wearing the romper equivalent of sweatpants, and I’m listening to the cackling of the neighborhood hens on the sidewalk. Talking about dudes, talking about love, talking about pork rinds and where to buy weed. Oh, Chickens. And I haven’t felt this happy in nine million years. I’m thrilled to recharge, to reconnect with the awesomeness that is me when cared for, and to bring it all back home to rock out my daily responsibilities with a brighter light and a rested, sharpened mind. Also, a “tan,” which really just means a sunburn that I really enjoyed getting. I have a widow's peak tan line, which is just impressive. Sorry I’m killing you, skin cells. We’ll discuss our melanoma situation when we get to it. Just kidding. Sort of.

So this is me, imploring you all to GET THE FUCK OUT AND TAKE A GODDAMN VACATION. Do something wonderful for yourself. Go SOMEWHERE. Turn off your damn phone. Drink a Bloody Mary the size of a bowling ball (which I did, last night, from which point awesomeness ensued and I went nuts on Bourbon Street like the semi-tourist I am), pick your poison, I don’t care. Then turn your phone back on again, and try to insta-capture the drunk ass you’ve made of yourself. Good job.

Said Bloody Mary... Bigger than my face.

You’re all amazing, chickadees. Seriously, monstrously fucking rad. But you’ve got to take a little time to do you, whenever you can, or you start to disappear into the monotony of making ends meet on the daily. And, so do I. Otherwise, that remarkable, soul-stirring YOU-ness starts to fade into the walls. And we can’t have that. No, we cannot.

BOOK A FUCKING FLIGHT. Do it right now.

When I'm loving life, seems to love me back <3

Love from NOLA!

-Ash