DAG Queen

If a Dag Queen pageant was ever held around these parts, I'd be the undisputed title-holder. But instead of the proverbial diamond-studded tiara, I'd be crowned with a luverly brown paperbag. Over ma head.

Helloooo beautiful! *wolf whistles*

I'm impossibly daggy when it comes to dressing up for a jaunt round the neighbourhood. Actually no, I'm just plain daggy. Period.

I practically live in my 'out-to-the-supermarket/park/nursery' ensemble: faded jeans, turquoise Espirit jumper (which I toggle with another canary yellow pullover and a purple sweater), and scruffy red Nikes that have definitely seen better days.

my trusty road warriors

I'm pretty sure people here think I'm a bag lady. Or perhaps, a really shabby au pair since I hang around a rather groovy-lookin' kid who, incidentally, only vaguely resembles me. Hmph.

I TRY to inspire myself to dress a tad more hip, happenin', or emulate haute monde. Or simply be like 'em perrrty, neatly-dressed mums I find myself admiring surreptitiously at the playground. But the truth is, I'm too lazy.

Plus, who the heck am I lookin' good for? The Tesco lady at the till? The highschool kids masticating bubblegum at the bus-stop? My indian newsagent?

I think not.

So dang if I'm daggy, and dang if I'm drab! Dag's just my style!?!

I guess I'm content looking 'good enough' for me. At least for now. :)

Double dang, I need a fringe cut!