My mother's wedding dress was the skin of a swan, still blindingly white after more than a decade nestled in tissue paper. She would never let me try it on, no matter how hard I begged, or how my young arms ached to stretch into strong beating wings.
I prefer an old world Renaissance look mixed in with a Norman Rockwell sensibility—it fits into my tweaked view of the universe— to make the strange normal and the normal strange, the small big and the big small.
As someone who happily discarded her toaster prior to her latest cross-country move with the prospect of replacing it with the Hello Kitty version, and whose last bathroom had Hello Kitty wall borders, you can imagine how quickly I jumped on it.
There is no such thing as distance—