Category: stuff I love

Love love LOVE this. Just the photo in the banner gives me a lump in my throat.

Five years ago, I bought 2 pairs of Thai fisherman pants from this little stand among the bustling thousands at the Chiang Mai night market. I’ve never worn them because … well, I didn’t know how to wear them. Now I do.

I have a plain red pair and a really pretty black pair with embroidery and beading. And they were cheap, cheap, cheap. Man, I loved Thailand!

So two questions:

~ Would I be a weirdo if I wore my fisherman pants around in daily life? Please know your answer will not deter me, I just want to know what I will be labeled, you see.

~ And, can we set up the SYC in Thailand? We’ll travel other places, of course. I mean, we have the crochet bus, the gypsy caravans, the cool motor home, the art boats. Plenty of modes of travel. But I say first stop is Chiang Mai! We’ll drink lassis and I’ll take you to Pop Am where you can eat and eat and eat for two bucks American. (We’ll give Jayne a break.)

Oh, and for dessert is an ice cream treat called Pygmy Boy.

I am not kidding.

I love roo.

I want to BE roo.

…. I think it’s important to smell like citrus.

My new favorites:

Dove Energize Body Wash — grapefruit and lemongrass. Yum.

Bath and Bodyworks White Citrus Body Spray. Also yum.

Both of these are light and crisp and fresh. I haaate heavy pretentious fragrances or anything that makes you smell like you’re a filthy hippie trying to cover up your filth. (cough) Patchouli (cough).

And when I sprayed the White Citrus on Piper and Callie Sunday morning before Disneyland — they saw me doing it and wanted some — they both went “Ooooh.”

So there’s your endorsement, pippa.

You will smell like Ooooh.

Gorgeous photo from the part of the world where MB grew up by photographer Galen Rowell, who also lived in the deep dark middle of nowhere until his tragic death in a plane crash in 2002.

(We don’t mention the name of the actual town on this blog.)

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I love being able to see a place that’s become so familiar to me through completely new eyes.

More spectacular photos here. Go check them out.

Look at this gorgeous dapper man.

From Advanced Style. Photos by Hanneli Mustaparta

Uhm, sir? Pardon me. Hi. I know I’m a gang member and a felon and wear black underthings under white overthings, but will you marry me?

You could make me over. I am putty in your hands.

Unless you say no. Then, of course, I renounce you utterly and spend my days poking pins into a voodoo doll of your likeness wearing a miniature version of this exact suit.

Oh, and just so we’re clear: You don’t …. uhm … have any Grey Poupon? Do you?

Nightfly’s send-up of my film noir heart. Brilliant. It was in the comments, but I had to give it its own post. (If you read this blog and you’re not reading the comments — especially lately, you are MISSING OUT. Best part of the blog.)

I’ve been in this racket a long time, and after a while you get a nose for trouble. Some people say it’s the Lord; me, I always figured that if He had to tell me wise then I wasn’t doin’ His work. Well, when she walked into the narthex, right away I could tell this dame was trouble. It wasn’t the black bra under the blouse. Dame’s got a right to wear what she wants where she don’t want guys lookin’, and I’ll bust anyone square in the chops if he don’t like it. I don’t have an NRA sticker on my car for giggles, mister.

But the vest was a dead giveaway. It wasn’t a fashion statement, it was a cry for help, right from the bottom of her noir heart. People hear that cry, they run – if they’re smart. Well, I’m plenty smart, smart enough to know better, but I see too many runners in my line. Usually they run to me. That’s why I’m standin’ here. The name’s Hammer – Father Mike Hammer. A collar and a Colt, that’s my angle.

Still laughing, NF. Too many geniuses reading this meager blog.

And, hey, the vest was denim and cute. Uhm, I think?? I don’t know.

Okay. Seriously. It was a cry for help.

Dear blog friend Brian sent me this today — saying it was for Sheila and me — based on this post where I talk about — oh, God knows what — my gun and MB’s fantasy man date based on an NRA sticker sighting and how perky Bob violated his man space, blahdie blah. Well, the comments in that thread are insane, basically — pony rides with guns were discussed at one point, I believe — and the whole thing inspired Brian to Photoshop this bit of crazy genius:

Seriously, Brian — I mean, I emailed you already, but I could not breathe — this is killing me. Tears of laughter. And look, that is my gun exactly, my .22! Check out my little purple duds, too! Frankly, Happy Pie Tracey never looked better and, I have to say, I really want this outfit. Those shoes! Brian, you dressed me better than I dress myself, thank you.

And you have to explain how this all came about, I beg you.

LOOK AT THAT INSANE STUFFED PONY!!

Go, gun totin’ Tracey, go!! Look how manic I am about sporting a firearm. Who needs pie? I got me a GUN.

I love how those pants are just round enough in the butt to suggest a hidden diaper.

And “drunken slatterns” — hahahahaha.

I’m rambling out of my mind here. Brian, how insane and sweet and hilarious of you. I can’t believe you took the time to make this. Thank you!! You made my day!!

(Okay. I’ve exceeded my exclamation point quota for the WEEK here.)