It’s that time again. As Moira Rose would eagerly retort to the question of what her favourite season is, “Awards” is the singular reply. I just love the return of awarding the elite in an industry that treats people like auction-worthy objects in outfits they didn’t have to pay for all while winning trophies for playing pretend. The sweet, sweet smell of synthetic realism.

Have you ever been at a party or watching a show or reading a book and right in the middle of it, panic washes over you as the looming, inevitable fact that the end is drawing near? That’s my current mood dreading the forthcoming fall and then, I am loathe to say, winter.

Stampede 2020 is like every other party this year: cancelled. Not so much “yehaw” as “you better stay safe” sadly. But don’t fret fashion friends, your cowboy boots and hats and buckles and Canadian Tuxedo will wait dutifully until next year.

You know what I love? A city coming together for joy. Our city has seen better years – and worse I’m sure – but Calgary sure could use a unifying pick me up right about now. Oh wait, we’re going for the cup, aren’t we? Pull out your jerseys and hop on the wagon, kindly would you?

Every few years I feel like I am getting closer to self-actualization through dress. Yes, I’ve manipulated Maslow’s Hierarchy of Needs to be entirely sartorial focused. I’ve come to realize when it comes to loving yourself you either start from the inside out, or like me, the outside and work towards the deep dark in.

Some girls dream of wedding days. Other gals dream about a home full of children. Others yet dream of their name on a wall at a fancy office. Some dream of all three or none of that. Right to choose, right? Getting back to it, since I came to know about Paris, this prairie girl dreamed of going there.

It’s a bundle of excitement around here as I’m deep into preparation for my first, at home pop-up shop. It’s been a tizzy getting everything ready and as per usual I’m sweating a bit crossing off the seemingly insurmountable list of to-do’s while also taking sweet, delectable joy in the work along the way.

Recently I was gob smacked by something a friend told me. When another friend complemented her skirt she said thank you. She quickly – almost in the same breath - followed that with, ”I plan to wear it to every wedding this summer. Don’t tell.”

I’m sure you’ve heard the expression, “Her style was so effortless,” before. Typically one imagines some Parisian “it” girl looking put together walking around confident AF. When someone says that expression around me, I tease, “Oh like a crazed woman at a drug store, at midnight, sick as a dog getting cough syrup and couldn’t-will-herself-to-get-dressed kind of effortless?” My humour rarely lands well.

It has been a tough past few days. Weeks really. Honestly, this $h*t storm started years ago. Earlier this week, I lost my friend and mentor after her nearly ten year combat with a hereditary terminal illness: f*cking cancer.

The past few weeks one thing I can’t seem to shake off is the idea of taste. Good taste, bad taste, the taste in my mouth. I think about the people who are deemed tastemakers and things that are perceived as distasteful. I ask myself questions like, “Who decides the taste? Who and why does one challenge set taste?” And perhaps the most paralyzing and completely self centred thought, “Do I have “good” taste?”

That sad, FOMO feeling of summer ending is creeping in. The mornings and evenings are brisker, there are less day light hours, and the VMAs happened over the weekend. Its official: summer is on the way out.