Victoria Jones, you're my American idol.

God, I would love to find out that this Victoria Jones lady that I'm praising is actually British or something RIDICULOUS like that.

I don't think it comes as any kind of shock that I'm positively in love with ridiculously sparkly sweaters. I extolled their virtues in a previous post about House of Vintage in Portland, and subsequent trips to my local Goodwill has only cemented my faith in their beauty.

Why do I like them? Why wouldn't I? When bought correctly, they're insanely gaudy (which removes the need for any extra accessorizing), their often massive size removes the need for pants (because every lazy designer knows that plus-size clothing is made all the more fashionable by throwing some SPARKLES on it), and they serve as a great conversation starter. Friends might say "Wow. Are you sure you don't want to change before we go out? No? OK, cool. I'm gonna walk on this other side of the street, and we'll meet up later." Old ladies might mention something about the "moxie" it takes to wear something like that. Sidenote: that would be my dream conversation.

This past Saturday, I was combing through the Goodwill racks when I came upon a gem of a sweater: an ivory turtleneck, size 3X, with legit crystals, beads, and sequins sewn to the front in a bastardized argyle pattern. However, it was sporting some massive stains and a questionable odor, so I walked away--not before checking the label, though. And that, my friends, is how I fell in love with Victoria Jones. You see, she's the designer of the "perfect sweater" as well--the House of Vintage one. The lovely frock you see in the upper right corner is a VJ original (makes it sound chicer that way), onsale at eBay. Obviously, SHE HAS SEEN INTO MY DREAMS and brought them to fruition. After looking through eBay offerings, I've realized that she is now my go-to gal for sparkle sweaters of any variety. I have no idea who she is as a person, though, which bugs me. Because if she were alive and still in fighting shape, I would commission her to design my tacky wardrobe for the rest of my life.

Last sidenote: thinking that I would be clever, I googled "addicted to sparkles," hoping to find a cutely-named disease that I could use as a title for this post. Instead, all I got were weird Twilight fan pages. STOP TAKING OVER MY LIFE, STEPHANIE MEYER.