All I Want for Christmas is You, Steve

Steve Jobs, that is. I just became a Mac girl. It’s a beautiful thing to be a Mac girl. At the risk of sounding like a Mac ad, I will just note that Macs are pretty, they greet my peripherals like old friends, without the need for disks, downloads, or constant rebooting, but most of all, they give you, to quote Blur, an enormous sense of well-being.

See, to be perfectly honest, I don’t even know how to use 90% of my Mac’s functions yet. But it seems like a lot of my favourite people have Macs. Creative people. Intelligent people. Beautiful people. Stuff White People Like explains the shallow appeal of being a Mac person better than I can, but basically--I feel a little bit cooler now.

Just Say No

My job involves me doing silly things sometimes. Which wouldn’t be so bad—we all do silly things sometimes, right? Except that they all seem to end up getting broadcast on TV. This isn’t even so bad except when it involves being in an ad that gets shown over and over and over again.

The first time I was in an ad, it was very Hollywood. Well, it was IN Hollywood. We were shooting out there for budgetary reasons—we had period sets and costumes, and wheatgrass juice, and those are easier to find in CA than UT. I got to have my face spray-painted with foundation, had porn star lashes stuck on my lids, and it was all very fun until I remembered how much I want to scream when people spend more than about fifteen minutes messing with my face and hair. And when I realised I couldn’t sit down in my dress. My presence in that ad was unremarkable except for the (negligible) length of the dress, and people usually don’t know it’s me in the ad unless I (or a “kind” friend) tells them. I get a little teasing a.k.a. sexual harassment about it once in a while, but the ads are coming to the end of their run, at least in Utah, so that’ll be that. It really was kind of fun, I was glad I did it, and said at the time that I probably wouldn’t want to do another.

Ha.

If you work at an ad agency, you are apparently fair game for “friends and family talent” (i.e. the budget is really small, so they can’t afford real talent for any but the essential roles).

I was at a shoot, minding my own business and chatting to my client, and asked the creative director who he was going to use for the last ad. “You,” he said. “In that case, I want make-up, and lots of it,” I said. It appeared that he was serious, so I got a bit of powder, lipstick, hairspray, and a jacket from wardrobe, but not the dark glasses and wig that I was rather hoping for.

The bit I’m in is over very quickly, which is all to the good. The worst of it is, I’m doing an American accent. For those of you who have heard my American accent, you’re probably smirking right about now. My American accent is not really for public consumption. It is not good. It’s more of a party trick, and, quite frankly, sounds a lot better if you have a few drinks inside you, which means it’s wasted (ha) at most of the parties I go to. It is definitely not the sort of thing that should be sprung on an unsuspecting public who may be prone to strokes.

[If I were GOOD at doing an American accent I would use it to order water in restaurants, thus avoiding the “what?” “water;” “huh?” “WATER,” both-of-us-stare-pleadingly-at-my-dinner-companion-until-he/she-translates sequence that typically ensues. ]

But our creative director seemed to think that doing an American accent must be easy because of Minnie Driver and Hugh Laurie (cheers, mates), and so I mumbled my way through a line that didn’t have too many tricky vowels and hoped that speaking softly would disguise the flaws.

I dunno. Maybe they can dub it later.

Thanks in Boston

My friends Margaret and Chris decided they wanted to do things a little differently this year at Thanksgiving: No pumpkin pie, no turkey, no overly fussy plans, no massive family gatherings. As I am not particularly emotionally tied to ye olde yankee traditions of Thxgiving, they asked me to grace them with my company. They had me at “no pumpkin pie.” I’m tired of pretending to like that muck.

Here's the product placement couple.


We made delicious food, including Bakewell Tart for dessert, their gracious and charming friends Seth, Karen, and Adam joined us, and much fun was had. We talked about politics and sex and religion, and sang a festive song or two.







The aperitif hour ended up being the most non-traditional. Wee Alice had been sick all week and not in her usual sunny frame of mind. Chris took her for a drive as a last-ditch (successful) attempt to lull her to sleep, and when they got back, I sat in the car with her and a book while he attended to the meat in manly fashion. After a while, there was a knock at the window --- Mags was standing there with stem glasses, a bottle of sparkly, and a plate of Brie and its accoutrements. We sat in the car and had girl talk in whispers, and finished off the Brie. One of those things that you can’t and wouldn’t plan, but wonderful.

There was lots of lounging in pyjamas, and eating tart at inappropriate hours of the day, and more talk, and music, and cheesy movies, but we also got to see the sights of Cambridge and Boston.

I had tea with my old college friend, Duane.






We went to the ICA (Institute of Contemporary Art), which had the most fabulous exhibition(Click on slideshow at the left). Beautiful things from ordinary objects. Paper plates formed into what look like balls of chenille wool. Semi-hemispheres of mylar that looked velvety, but also like coastal boulders, and on which I had an almost irresistible urge to dive and climb.







We visited the Gibson House, and even though we waltzed in without an appointment, we got a personal tour and I experienced the most gratitude of the weekend when I compared my washing machine and dryer to the boiler, mangle, drying room, and other nightmare apparatus that represented wash day back in the Victorian era. Though of course the house owners had a washerwoman to come in two days a week and do all the scrubbing and ironing. That wouldn’t be so bad. If you weren’t the washerwoman.

We wandered round the Back Bay area a little and researched chocolate croissants on Charles Street. And then it was time to hoof it to the airport.





Is too a colony. See.



These people were posing their dogs sitting on the ducks. Surprisingly successfully.



They really love their ducks.



I am thankful for friends.

Thanksgiving 08: Still Thanking

It's time to get our gratitude on!

If I'd thought ahead, I would have been a lot more specific in last year's thankful list, because I am still thankful for all those things, but don't want to totally repeat myself.

So here's the 08 things I like in my life (now 20% less generalised).

1. The fantastic weather we've had this year. I feel like I talk about it constantly, but it's been wonderful. Long, cool spring, long, warm autumn, picture-perfect sunny weather everywhere I've travelled. Let's not think about global warming. Shh.
2. Sushi.
3. You.
4. Modern medicine.
5. A family that doesn't hassle me about being single, because you know some do.
6. Yoga. Specifically, half moon pose.
7. Citrine.
8. My church calling, despite the constant mental balancing act between the guilt of not doing enough, and the mild bother of the time it does take.
9. Having two passports. I love anything that makes me feel like an MI5 agent.
10. Traditions.

In My Quest for Total Self-Absorption…

…I found that, using google analytics, you can find out what keywords people used to find your blog. As I’m procrastinating putting my laundry away, I thought I’d share a few of my favourite searches that led people to me, and let you ponder the implications for me and my blog.

“What happens if you don’t shower for a week.”
“What happens to your body when you have leprosy”
“Scratchy lump on tongue”
“pome of beautiful”
“lena needle grateful dead”
“Colin Firth.”

Remember, Remember

Remember, remember,
The fifth of November,
With gunpowder, treason, and plot.
I see no reason,
Why gunpowder treason,
Should ever be forgot.

On the fifth of November, we Brits like to honour a grand old tradition. We commemorate the overthrowing of a plot to blow up the houses of Parliament about four hundred years ago, by a group including one Guy Fawkes. Guy Fawkes was caught, hung, drawn, and quartered. Some people prefer to say that it’s about honouring Fawkes’ attempt to blow up the government, so, you know, whatever you prefer to celebrate, it’s an excuse for fireworks.

The central event of Bonfire Night aka Guy Fawkes Day is the burning of the Guy. Kids make an effigy of Fawkes, and in the evening, we stick him on a bonfire and burn him. Now, I’m not sure that burning effigies of late medieval criminals quite fits Blair’s image of New Britain, but to me it’s rather a nice reminder of the democratic process—that government is put in place by the people and should probably stay that way until peacefully removed by the people.

So my family and guest family member Trish got together to burn the guy and celebrate being British.









And Bonfire night happened to fall the day after the US election. However one feels about the results (personally: HURRAH!), it was certainly a landmark one. For one thing, I got to vote. And it was a fantastic night of seeing the voice of the people in action and being celebrated.

It seemed sort of poetic to be celebrating two triumphs of democracy in the same week. And comforting to remember that government by the people has survived and thrived for a long time. And is likely to continue for a while.

Birdbrains

I'm delay-blogging. Imagine I'm blogging by satellite phone. This is from last month's trip to England. We slowly drove behind these birds for several minutes while they ran down the road in front of us. I finally got out of the car to herd them away -- and as soon as I stepped outside, they all flew off. Because I'm much scarier than a ton of petrol-fueled metal. My sister-in-law says that if I hadn't been in the car, my dad would have just run over them, but I like to think that's not the case.

The Quest Continues

In which Lena talks with great perseverance of Dovedale and Matlock &c.

Next stop, Lyme Park. Now, the Mr Darcy link is a wee bit weaker here, but, recognise this...?



Yes, ladies, this was linked to so many wonderful moments, including the very famous and inspiring wet shirt scene, which Jane Austen must have edited out of her final draft of P&P as being too racy for Regency England, but which Andrew Davies wisely reinstated in the Official Standard Colin Firth Version.

Let’s all take a moment to remember the wet shirt scene. (sorry, can't embed for some reason).
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hasKmDr1yrA


Ready? Then I’ll continue.

Here’s where Darcy ran down the stairs after removing the wet shirt etc, and replacing it with a very fetching ensemble involving breeches.




Here's where Elizabeth wandered around with the Gardiners.





Here’s where Darcy asked Elizabeth if he could introduce her to her sister!!! (you have to be JA to make drama out of such a moment?).



Here are some pretty pictures of the grounds completely unrelated to Jane Austen.




We drove through the Peak District, near Matlock, and through Dovedale, as mentioned by Elizabeth when she's having her awkward conversation with Darcy.



The Jane Austen/Darcy quest ends here, at Sudbury Hall. Several of the rooms were used for interior shots in the Official Approved P&P, including the grand staircase.
And Queen Adelaide (consort of William the nth) lived here for three years, if you want other kinds of historical detail.



On our way back, because it was (sort of) on the way, and because Tim and Jess made me want to see it here and here, we stopped by Warwick Castle. By this time, it was nearly closing time, plus it costs eighteen quid to visit, so we decided to defer closer inspection for another time. This is what it looks like from outside the gate.


So, no I didn’t find Mr Darcy on this trip. Not so much as a wet shirt in sight. But I did get to see some of the beautiful settings and buildings that inspired Jane Austen, and the landscape that her characters discuss. I got to see the rugged Derbyshire dales (plus a little bit of Cheshire), and some of the finest buildings and design work in the nation. And now, when I read the books, they may be, if possible, even more real and alive to me.

A Quest (part one)

“One half of the world cannot understand the pleasures of the other” – Jane Austen




Several years ago, at a social gathering at my house, the female members of the group started having a spirited literary debate. Well, sort of – we were discussing whether or not we thought Mr Darcy and Mr Knightley were virgins at the time of their marriage. I can’t actually remember what side of the debate I was on at the time, but I do remember feeling very strongly about it. Z interrupted to say, “These are FICTIONAL characters, you know.” Before any of us could respond, James said drily “not in this house.”

It’s true. I’ve been a Jane Austen groupie since I was about nine. I’ve visited her house in Chawton, her grave in Winchester cathedral, the Jane Austen Centre in Bath (pretty much a waste of time). I’ve read her novels, her juvenilia, her letters, and various biographies and works of criticism, an excellent Choose Your Jane Austen Adventure book courtesy of Heidi, plus some really bad “sequels” – those are always a mistake. I’ve seen the movies (even the one with Greer Garson and Laurence Olivier, which is hilariously far from both the book and any semblance of the Regency period).

But this week, I was on a mission very close to my heart:

The search for Mr. Darcy.

The sexiest man in literature (don’t even talk to me about that co-dependent brute Heathcliffe).

I was off to Derbyshire.

It’s time I saw more of the Midlands anyway, and the Peaks have always sounded lovely. But it certainly didn’t hurt that I would get to visit Fitzwilliam Darcy’s old stomping grounds.

So, we drove up, watching the colours of stones and bricks of houses change, seeing hedges turn into dry stone walls, and the landscape become a little more dramatically peaked and valleyed. Our first stop was Chatsworth. It’s been surmised for ages that Jane Austen had Chatsworth in mind when she wrote about Pemberley, and there are a few details that make it likely. First, it’s gorgeous – an amazing house, with marvelous grounds landscaped by Capability Brown who was particularly expert at making things look naturally beautiful, and who today would probably have been a plastic surgeon. Second, it’s one of, if not THE most stately homes in Derbyshire. Third, it’s believed that Jane Austen visited it. And, total trivia, the woman who’d been Duchess of Devonshire* up until a few years before P&P was published was the rather notorious Georgiana (currently portrayed by Keira Knightley in The Duchess, who is apparently taking over Helena Bonham Carter’s 80s job as Official Period Actress of Britain). JA usually took her character names from her acquaintance or family, and Georgiana isn’t one of them, as far as I know. To add to the interest, bits of the Kiera P&P were filmed here. Exteriors, and the sculpture hall.






The gift shop is hilarious – lots of Duchess bits and pieces (peacock feather wreath, anyone?), the usual “you can garden like Chatsworth too!” type of books (they never mention the hundreds of gardeners, immense acreage, and famous 18th century landscapers in those books, I find); but best of all, they have lots of Mr Darcy kitsch – i.e. reproductions of that painting of Colin Firth as Mr Darcy that Elizabeth gazes at when she visits Pemberley. Now, I adore Colin as Mr Darcy, but I do not want a low-quality reproduction of an imitation Regency painting of him acting that role to hang over my fireplace. Even assuming I had a fireplace. I was quite tempted by the mugs, though.

The interior is full of lovely things, including Landseers, Tintorettos, a Rembrandt, beautiful furnishings and treasures – silver chandeliers, toilet sets, pistols, pottery. I also like that the place isn’t just a museum of the past – the current Duke and Duchess collect contemporary art that complements the interior beautifully (though I did overhear one or two people being a bit sniffy about the juxtaposition of old and new).

The grounds are also beautiful, with more contemporary sculpture.


I don’t know how this baby balances like this.




Back when people didn’t have Wii’s or flat screens, they had mazes. All the cool aristocrats had one.


There are all sorts of fun little secluded gardens, which were probably helpful when Georgiana (the Duchess, not the shy sister) and her husband and friend were conducting their rather complicated affairs.




And of all this, I could have…never really had a chance of being mistress. Though I did find out the heir only got married last year, and looks quite pleasant. Sigh. Really though, it was rather lovely to look out from the windows and see what Elizabeth saw…



*Chatsworth is the home of the Duke and Duchess of Devonshire, even though it's in Derbyshire.

Brotherly Love

One of my brothers and I have a cell phone we keep in England for shared use, due to the annoying American system of cell phones being on a different bandwidth from the rest of the world. Knowing his thoughtful nature, it was no surprise that he left me a little message from last time he was over here. As I turned on the phone yesterday, the words “Hey, fatty,” blinked on.


The really annoying thing is that I’m not sure how to change it to something equally derogatory for him.

On Being a Chick

Apparently I'm having identity issues lately, what with the age and gender posts. Expect one on what it's like to be white any day now.

So, I do like being a woman. Love the clothes, makeup, talking about emotions, blah blah. I haven’t had to deal with glass ceilings or discrimination or serious sexual harassment. I open my own jars, change tires, and I replaced my toilet once! With a broken ankle! (OK, Adri helped).

But in a few ways, men have it better. [disclaimer: the following are gross generalizations based on one woman's experience. Said woman's experience may not be typical of your results. This blog disclaims all responsibility from insult to readers who are superior to the author (and many men) in the areas described. ]. *

Men can go jogging at night without fear.
Men know which end up the batteries go without looking at the little plus and minus signs.
Men can put the tent up right first time.
Men don't get scared when they attach jumper cables because they think the car may blow up, even when they're certain they put them on the right terminals.
Men can move heavier things without help.
AND, men know things about cars and don't feel that they are constantly being ripped off by their mechanic.

I try to fake it. I usually talk to my brother before going to the mechanic, and have him tell me any lingo I need to know, and what questions to expect. However, I've been caught out at least once. I once delivered my carefully prepared spiel and then looked blank when the mechanic asked me how many cylinders I have (um, an even number…shall I risk a guess... 4? 8? Good grief, I’ve looked under the bonnet enough times. Why don’t I know?). I don't think for one minute that he needed to know. He was just testing me.

This is bothering me today, because I have a CAR ISSUE. About a month ago I had a little blowout, and what with bent rims and old tires, got a whole new set of both. After spending an amount of money that could have bought three of the yellow patent leather handbags I've been coveting lately, and probably shoes to match, I drove off with my new rims, which I still suspect may look a bit too pimped for my ride.

Then driving to choir practice a few nights ago, with a full car, some scary sounds started emanating from the rear right. It wasn't a wheel bearing. And that is where my female brain reaches its limit of diagnostic ability.

I took it to a mechanic, and they told me that the wheel and tire were the wrong size and were rubbing against the wheel well. Clearly the tyre company should have known this, right? Jerks.

I took it to the tyre company, and they took a look. The guy said things about damage to the side, and struts, and other car words. He said there was no problem with the wheel and the other mechanic didn't know what he was talking about. Then he mumbled something about looking into a different kind of tire and calling me back.

Now, if I were a man, I think I’d have a better chance of knowing whether or not he was being straight with me. Or, at least, I'd have a better chance of him THINKING I knew if he was being straight with me. As it was, I wanted to be assertive, but I wasn’t sure who to be assertive with.

So I called my brother. Guy brain. I started from the beginning, telling him there was a weird noise coming from the back. "That'll be the new tyre rubbing," he said immediately. OK, fine. He explained the tire issue to me in little words, he told me what to tell the tire guy, and that if he gives me any trouble, that he will come up to Salt Lake and "talk to him." (that sounds a bit like my brother is a mobster, but he's really not).

So, I guess the tire issue will get fixed, and it isn’t a big deal, and no-one will die. But I still hate dealing with mechanics.

* i.e. if you are a woman and way better than me and all men in dealing with cars and tents and jogging, and think I’m a sexist pig, don’t tell me. It’ll just make me feel bad about myself. And you know how emotional we women can get.

Being Big

I went to see Big, the musical, on Saturday. I enjoyed it (apart from the ending, which seems out of tune with the rest of the play) and it got me thinking about childhood vs adulthood. Big reminds us not to leave our childhood TOO far behind us, and seems to lean towards the “best years of your life” perspective about being a kid.

I’ve always disagreed. When I was in my early teens and loathing school, and getting my mum to write me notes so I could skive, I took some comfort in the fact that my dad also disagreed – and he was an adult, so his opinion had a bit more validity than mine. I was just hoping fervently that life would get better at some point.

It did. There were wonderful times in my teens, and yet I still love being an adult more. In a lot of ways, it’s actually lived up to the expectations and beliefs of youth. I can stay up as late as I like, read all night if I want, drive, eat whatever I choose, go to nightclubs without fibbing about my age, hang out with my friends all the time, I don’t care that I don’t look like Christy Turlington any more, and I don’t have ANY HOMEWORK. Plus I get paid for going to work. I always slightly resented the fact that I didn’t get paid for going to school.

Sure, there are consequences and flip sides to all of those things, and there are hard things about being an adult, but on the whole, I like it.

One of the wonderful things about being a kid, though, apart from the endless, sunny summers and meals waiting for you all the time, and having your mum be able to kiss anything better, is how you laugh ‘til it aches on a pretty regular basis. That kind of laughter is a little harder to come by as I get old and wrinkly.

But I've had it a few times over the past couple of weekends. First, going down the river at Lava Hot Springs last weekend in a big chain, almost having my arms pulled out of their sockets, screaming “bottoms up,” as rocks and little rapids approached.

Then on Friday night playing round the world ping pong at a party, as our group got smaller and smaller, and we ran around making ourselves dizzy more and more…

Then Sunday night playing a variation of Catchphrase (I really DON’T spend all my weekends playing catchphrase, despite blogging appearances). I was on the winning team--we won rather thoroughly and were very bad sports about it. We giggled helplessly as the other team struggled to guess things like “hat” (“helmet!” “visor!”) as part of “cat in the hat,” while somehow my teammates were thinking and guessing as one. It was beautiful. Of course no-one cared deeply about the outcome (well, let’s hope not), so we were free to gloat and patronise the other team to our hearts’ content.

For some reason, this all made me laugh until I was weak. It felt so good.

Despite certain stereotypes...

Last night, playing Catchphrase:

Sidney: Um, all mormons are this...bread can be too...

About five of us simultaneously: WHITE!!!

Sidney (looking disgusted): No...

Turns out the answer was "wholesome."

How High the Moon

Sarah and Trish very kindly wrote nice things about our party here and here, so I don’t have to boast. Suffice it to say I enjoyed it lots, and it made us want to do it all over again and invite all the people I forgot to send invites to this time. I also wish I’d taken more and better pics, but here are a couple.





As with most parties, I often enjoy the set up as much as the actual event. This one was a good team effort. We met at noon, and began cleaning, stringing lights, and pulling tables around. An interesting piece of trivia: the tables at Lindsay Gardens pavilion are the heaviest in the western hemisphere. Who knew? (And may those who helped us put them back in position after the party be blessed with happiness and green traffic lights for the rest of their days).

Our (I use “our” loosely) greatest feat of athleticism, however, involved getting the overhead lights up. We had big white globes, that you can't even SEE in those stupid pics, attached to miles of extension cords, and Rachel the arborist was in charge of climbing into the rafters minus ropes, while Marie and I looked on nervously and (at least I did) calculated our ability to catch her weight if she fell, and thought about how it would put a bit of a dampener on the party if they main hostess was in hospital with a cracked skull.

Then we took “shifts” at the site, watching over our efforts until party time. I had the most beautiful nap lying on the sun on one of the tables (another trivia fact: Lindsay Gardens pavilion tables are extremely comfortable to sleep on when you’re filthy dirty and tired).

And getting filthy dirty only makes it more pleasant to shower and get all tarted up and dance the night away…

We’re famous in Japan.

So, my favourite Jock and I were helping Rowan with some music workshops for a group of kids. Basically, R was leading them in singing exercises in parts, and we were trying to keep things going without messing them up too much. It was great; the kids were enthusiastic about everything, and clapped wildly at any opportunity. As R was introducing one of the exercises, she started telling them the story of how she learned it. Our group was all Japanese, and had one woman interpreting. So, R got as far as "I sang at Carnegie hall a month or two ago," when the interpreter decided to take a phone call and ran out of the room, so she had to skip the rest of the story and go straight to the exercise. The kids all applauded enthusiastically, and didn't seem to see anything untoward in R apparently just randomly boasting of her accomplishment for no obvious reason to a bunch of kids from Japan.

As they were leaving, R gave them copies of an arrangement she’d written, and some of them wanted her to autograph it. The next thing we knew, one of the kids wanted me and Tricia to sign, too – and not being up to “I really don’t have anything to do with this music and I’m not even a musician – you don’t want my name scribbled over your nice new copy,” in Japanese, we went ahead and signed. So of course all the other kids wanted us to sign. So we ended up with the bizarre experience of signing about thirty autographs that night.

Lena Gets Herself Some Religion

Sometimes three hours of church seems like a long time. I’ve been blessed with a long attention span since kidhood, but still, three hours sometimes just feels like three long hours of people telling me to be better than I am. The clock ticks slowly on, I’m sleepy, I’m hungry, whether I’ve eaten or not, my attention fades in and out of the lesson, while I resist the temptation to check my phone for messages and facebook status updates, I think about what I’m going to eat later, I have side conversations with Rachel and Marie about whether or not my ensemble of teal and lavender works (we say yes!), and I experiment, surprisingly successfully, with independently moving my second toe.

Sometimes I go home, dive into the fridge, and don’t feel like I got anything out of it other than reinforcement of a good habit – like when you have a horrible morning running, but you feel good that at least one got one’s rear out of the house. I know that lots of people say that you get out of church what you put into it, and on one hand, yeah, sure. On the other hand, they must never have sat through a REALLY BORING lesson. But thankfully, there’s usually enough moments that make it worthwhile even on the THREE LONG HOURS days. And today, I appreciate the people that helped give me those moments. The lessons were not boring, despite my almost complete inability to focus on them. And I now actually want to be a somewhat better person, which we can all be thankful for. That want will probably have faded by next Sunday, by which time I’ll be ready to stick on a dress again and go through another three hours of soul work.

California, oh California.

California was so sunny and warm and pretty, it just makes a girl laugh with joy. To wit:


We got some culture at the Malibu arts fest. In between making catty remarks about all the real-life Malibu Barbies.



We ate.







We made decadent dessert.









We went to the beach. We saw lots and lots of dolphins playing in the water. I failed to get a picture of any of them.






So here are a couple more artsy shots of rocks and water instead.






I surfed.




Ok, maybe that was someone else surfing. But it's Malibu, I had to get a surf shot in.


And a highlight of the trip: Cher's house! We know it's Cher's house because someone said so.



Cher! Famous Cher!



Wait a second, that headdress is reminding me of something.



Who'd have thought that outfit was inspired by nature?