Ok, there’s a lot of shit going around out there on the interspiderwebs, so I just want to set the record straight and say, yes, I did in fact go to an awesome 1920s/30s-themed Ste Blau de Mayo party. And no, I don’t think it’s a coincidence that Ste Blau, PhD, was born exactly 123 years after the Battle of Puebla. I think her parents probably planned it.
Like Cinco de Mayo before it, Ste Blau de Mayo was an unexpected victory filled with the blood of many Frenchmen…I mean dresses! And tragedy! And new friends! I was lucky enough to be able to provide three of my loveliest dresses that barely see the light of day to three of the loveliest ladies I know. Plus the stunner I wore. As the fortunes cookies I got in Montreal always said, “The first and last love: self love.” It’s as if they knew. So let’s start with that:
And with fur:
Next, let’s take a look at Ariel nailing it with thin-hipped elegance:
It’s actually kind of gangsta. Like “hey, doll, you got moxie” 1920s gangsta. I believe it was called gangster back then.
Thanks, hipsamatic! You get me.
As always, it was a real treat to host The Lovely Scientist for the holiday,
wearing a dress I bought because it reminded me of that part in Home Alone where Catherine O’Hara is trying to do tradesies to get that old lady’s plane ticket and she’s like “oh and the earrings! don’t forget the earrings!” and the old lady’s husband is like “she’s got a whole shoebox of earrings at home, uh dannnngly ones.” You know. That part. Anyway,
Does this reveal something about my color palette?
And perhaps also my wily ways? Srsly tho, I’m closer than I thought to my goal of owning only [my-own-]flesh toned outfits. Step one: appear naked all the time. Step two: Inevitable world domination, obvio.
This brings us to the lady of the evening (but not in that way), dressed in frange,
and wrapped in the finest clothes from Bergdorf-Goodman:
The plethora of fab ladies was comforting, especially after the Ste Blau de Mayo treats were such a disaster, with
turning out more like
That’s what failure looks like, folks. Luckily we befriended Señor Piñata Bigote later in the night, who helped soften the blow (OH PUN WHAT NOW?)
And they all lived happily ever after.