Skye recently started her quarter-life crisis.
Almost a whole year after my original quarter-life crisis.
She’s such a copycat.
We decided to celebrate her entrance into a calamity-causing age with a party.
And, like every fabulous party throughout history, costumes were required.
(We’re dreadfully strict.)
(Though matching shoes are optional.)
(You’ve got to know where to draw the line.)
(A wise rule of hopscotch that’s seen me through some difficult times.)
(Disregarding my continued inability to jump very long without falling down.)
(That’s my shame which shall remain secret.)
(You won’t tell, right?)
Skye based her ’70s costume on the above orange dress.
Isn’t it fabulous?
It also comes in blue velvet.
But that just seemed a tad too extreme.
Justin based his costume on a movie I’ve never seen.
You’re probably familiar with it.
Jeff experiences parties in a blase, accepting manner.
Monroe the dog can sympathize.
(Monroe is quite sympathetic.)
(His compassion is often overshadowed by his adorableness, but it’s there.)
(You just have to dig past his big, innocent eyes to see it.)
The fabulousness of a party is directly proportional to the number of people touching their faces in photos.
(Statistical verification pending.)
She knows what I’m talking about.
She didn’t like this photo, for completely un-understandable reasons.
As it’s a personal pet peeve of mine when beautiful people don’t like themselves in photos, even when they clearly look fabulous, I’m posting said photo on the Internet.
(On a completely unrelated note, I still haven’t acquired those new friends I was searching for.)
To make up for it, I show you this lovely couch tableau.
Nothing says party like sitting on a couch.
Except for guacamole.
Guacamole is the epitome of celebration.
Anna had left most of her snakes in Southern Virginia, making her head seem tragically lacking in venomous vipers.
Skye took the necessary sight-aversion steps anyway.
She was a Boy Scout in a past life.
Allison was a cowgirl, leading to my newest footwear obsession, boots.
Like most of my obsessions, I’ll probably limit my cowgirl boot craze to casually liking someone else’s, unless I discover the object of my fixation in a discount bin I bump into while out shopping for clean underwear.
(You know, when the laundry’s dirty.)
As I’d only had weeks of notice and plenty of free time, I was unable to come up with an appropriate costume and thus re-used my saloon madam getup from 2009.
This seemed appropriate, as it was a repetition of my 2003 saloon girl costume.
(I just realized I’ve owned that store-bought ensemble for almost a decade and thus must take a moment to reflect on my advancing age and inevitable death.)
(Also known as when costumes get real.)
Had you not really read the middle of this post, frantically trying to figure out Jeff’s costume?
Have no fear, you’ve made it to the big reveal – he’s the Bounty man.
I neglected to spill something, and thus Jeff was unable to fully utilize his new, super-cleaning strength,
MeganA Hippie, A Flamenco Dancer, and A Red-Haired Saloon Girl in a 1960s Western Drama (Or A Traditional Birthday Party)