(that is, in my face)

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Lately I’ve had this uncharacteristic urge to find (and presumably wear) a dress. It might be the shaved head, which renders all my baggy, androgynous clothing somewhat more androgynous than I’d actually like. Anyway, I thought a bit about what kind of dress I’d realistically be able to pull off, and I decided that it would have to be something out of my little-old-lady spinster dreams (looking a bit wobbly at the moment, but hey, there’s still hope). So. Some kind of cozy knit. Definitely long.

I present the onesie dress, complete with totally unnecessary bum flap. I’m assuming that any little-old-lady future of mine must involve leather jackets, hairless cats, and whatever absurd fantasy accessories I’m no longer too embarrassed to sport in public. Now I’d like some brilliant Japanese or Swedish designer to make this, please, and send me one. Yohji Yamamoto. Acne. Whichever, I’m not picky.

I bought a Rag & Bone jacket the other day. I feel like it has a bit of a bad boy thing going – not bad boy in the motorcycle gang creaky leather sense. Rather, bad little boy spoiled with treats, sticking gum on his teacher’s chair. Speaking of goblin school.
This also works as an accurate self portrait (of my soul, at the very least), minus the fat sacks of goblin silver.

I replaced the buttons, though, because I’m obsessive like that. Wooden buttons make me all tittering and weak in the knees.

The best part about the cabin is sifting through all the old stuff. Like this mouldering cloth-bound poetry book, with my grandfather’s professorial notes.

This is him and my mum, having magical wilderness adventures that I want to be part of.

Flooded lake.

Pie with a greyhound on it. Pie by my sister, greyhound by me.

Fancy leaf tea from Marley

Cookies from Terra Breads (I got a gift certificate. So did Brandon, who has wisely donated it to a good cause).

And I shaved my head, for the new year. Now I look marginally more capable of killing aliens.

My apartment is cold, and what I want more than anything in the world, right now, is a onesie made with panels of magical self-heating fabric. I would never take it off: not in the shower, not when I journey into the outside world to hunt for rations, not for the nocturnal mating call of my lovelorn man-friend, not ever.

I’m sure the heated sections could be placed more helpfully, but I guess I was going for an aesthetically pleasing effect. I realized only afterwards that I gave it a heated crotch. Ahem.

My sister, being generally a model of sisterly perfection, sent me a package of tasty things from Lancaster, where she’s been staying this last month. Best sister ever.

From the Whole Foods hot bar. As called by Claire, a trough. Looks like not that much in the photo, somehow, but I assure you it was enough to bankrupt me for the week, and it feels like a tidy little basketball, now, in my stomach.

I happen to know, puny mortal, where chantarelles grow wild and unnoticed. My mother brought me the single one she had found this weekend, because she is a goddess of mercy and abundance.

Greatest food in the world. Especially with eggs, other greatest food in the world.