While talking to my friend Lauren last week, I got pretty dang excited about the Kentucky Derby, which was this last Saturday. When I was little, my dad would often take me to the racetrack to see the horses. He’d also let me place bets and I was enamored with the Derby Day fashion I’d see on television every year. That shit is bananas.
Luckily my fella was equally pumped and we put it on our mental calendar to be up, shopping at Goodwill, dressed and downtown, by 11 on Saturday to start drinking our Mint Juleps.
Instead we woke up at 12:30 and hastily threw our outfits together complete with a pre-race shot of whiskey. Here’s what we came up with:
Not totally bad, right? Any hat is better than no hat if you ask me, but yeah, I think we imagined looking a little more like this:
But instead of the millionaire racehorse owner and his sexy date we wanted to be (or the pimp ass mother fuckers above), we came out looking like the millionaire’s slutty hipster daughter and the stable boy she’s boning.
He obviously did not wear that hat all day, but my steez was appropriate for the house party we went to next, and then the bar, etc, etc. Amirite?:
Let’s see, I have on some lingerie, a hat that I am pretty sure is from urban, my booties, some ancient ass skirt I found in the back of my closet, and a thrift store purse I found in Albuquerque. It also sort of looks like I’m farting in this photo…but let’s focus on the men at the party instead, shall we?
I thought they all looked so nice!
I’m pretty sure I was wasted at this point and started giving out my “Fashion Award”, which was just me proclaiming through a bunch of slurs, “I think you’re the best dressed boy/girl here you sexymotherfucker!” Obviously I gave that to Tony in the middle there. And notice, not a one of those boys are wearing flip flops, for which I would have kicked their asses out of my fashion photo.
Also, I noticed this:
Next year, me and my guy decided to ACTUALLY do it up nice. I think we’re aiming for some old school classy shit this time, a la:
But if there’s whiskey involved, as there usually is, I make no promises.