Everyday is like Sunday

On Sunday afternoon, the filmmaker and I embarked on a photography adventure; with the sun shining boldly, we were excited and eager to explore the budding spring blooms, to discover and to capture visual rarities, from surprising architectural accents to small neighborhood crevices. While out and about, the filmmaker snapped a number of photographs to document my outfit, a sort of business casual look assimilated with navy pioneer woman. To carry necessary equipment and other personal belongings, I sported my hand-embroidered whale bag; the inlay of the plaid onto the navy outline gives this smirking whale some playful texture.

Thankfully, the day was warm enough to frolic and scamper without any type of outer jackets, but I stayed loyal to my opaque tights, coupled with a long-sleeved button-down shirt and high-waisted cotton a-line skirt. Tucking the white and blue button-down into the skirt accentuated the waistline, and succeeded in not appearing overtly stuffy or formal due to the girlish length, the girlish flow and movement, and the casual cotton. The thin blue stripe had the aesthetic appeal of an investment banker staple, but the shirt itself is a boon borrowed from my father's past days, and so its soft, worn in fabric evokes something a cowboy would spend his days wrangling in.

In deep contemplation, concerned with rooftop structures and contrast between brick and sky. For once, or at least for the first time in many weeks, I actually needed some protection for my eyes; these sunglasses are Ralph Lauren aviators, a quintessential classic.

A charlatan cameo layered with a doubled over gold embellished chain.

Standing at attention, at the base of a slide, probably in some type of nostalgic contemplation.

While climbing around on the local playground, I soon became a fixture on the tire swing, that is until the filmmaker decided to whip me around into a dazed oblivion. Spinning round and round in such a style, while I know consciously and rationally and physically is not of any notable velocity, is nonetheless rather disorienting. Though slightly scared I was going to slip through the large tire hole, or, conversely, cause the entire contraption to come crashing down with my adult body weight, I giggled and giggled, just as though I were five years old once again.

Staring off, again in deep contemplation, most plausibly at some definite illegal maneuver performed by an ill-trained and inane Garden State motor vehicle operator.

The cow horn bracelet from Viet Nam, a gift from Sallie and a current accessory favorite.

Pioneer-inspired leather mid-calf boots: durable, rugged, and ready to romp.