Cardigan, Merona. Scarf, Old Navy. Tank, Julie’s Closet. Trouser jeans, Express. Booties, Steve Madden Girl. Chain and silver pencil pendant, vintage. Bag, Simply Vera.
Cincinnati, like New Orleans, is a Catholic town. On my first Fat Tuesday in Cinci, my boss brought a king cake into work. Other than the unsanitary and potentially dangerous practice of hiding a plastic “baby” in the cake, I enjoyed that Mardi Gras treat.
Since Reedie jinxed me, my color theme was noticed again today, at work: “You look like a king cake.” Well, that’s a hell of a lot better than looking like a Moon Pie.
Originally, I was going to call this post “Bourbon Street.” I even had a poem to go with the title:
Got no feet
Give me something good to eat
Not a Moon Pie
I’m not gonna lie
I’d rather have a Cadbury Crème Egg
In fact, that’s what I had for breakfast
Which is why this poem is so shitty
Well, that’s as far as I got with the poetry. These pants are so long and wide legged, it sometimes looks as if I have no feet. Proof that they are under there: