Grow it, Show it

My hair has gotten long.

Wait, no, that's not accurate.

My hair has gotten too damn long.

No, I am not talking Crystal Gayle length or anything, because that would be too damn crazy ass long. However, it has gotten long enough that when I see people I haven't seen in a while the first thing they say is "wow, look at your hair." That's actually the only time I am really grateful my hair has gotten as long as it has because they could say, "Wow, you've put on weight!" and that would be a true statement as well. The hair distracts them.

All other times, though? I do not like this hair.

There are really only two styles I can do with it: straight down and ponytail. I tried doing a half up, half down style that I used to love when I had mid-length hair, but I just ended up kind of looking like a Polygamist wife. That is not a look you want to have in Utah. I have tried braiding it, but with the aforementioned weight gain I end up looking like a pin head. Also, braiding would violate all of my rules for how a woman my age should behave.

My hair is everywhere now. It's its own entity. I find it in balls under the table, or wisps on my desk. Meg is always saying "your hair is on me," and it usually is, even if I am standing ten feet away.  As it gets longer it seems to get thicker too, reaching out to overtake everything around it. Oh, and don't even get me started on how it gets in the way when I am trying to be "amorous." I am beginning to worry my husband must have an Addams Family fetish because dalliances with me have become like getting it on with Cousin It.

So, then, why don't I just go ahead and cut it?

Because my daughter thinks it's beautiful, and I love the way I look through her eyes.

I love the fact she likes to pull my hair across her mouth and make a moustache. I love that she likes to sit in my lap and "hide" in it. I love that she wants to pet it as she goes to sleep. I love that she calls it my "big beautiful hair." I love her, so no matter how much I hate my hair, I'm keeping it for now.

Maybe I should start practicing "Don't it Make My Brown Eyes Blue" right now in case it gets too out of control...

Oh, wait, I already have blue eyes.

"Talking in your sleep," it is.

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Things I Have Learned From Pinterest

I, like pretty much every other person on the planet with two X chromosomes, have fallen prey to Pinterest. How could I not? I'm lazy and would like to be a better person, and Pinterest makes it seem like I can improve my lifestyle by surfing the web. Also, it makes me feel better about my slacker state, because it shows me other people are slacking as well by what they pin. Sure, it may look like they are coming up with great ideas for meals, playtime, and their homes, but I can read the subtext... 

1. No one wants to eat their vegetables -- or chicken breasts.  Seriously, there are so many recipes for chicken on the site at times I think it's sponsored by the poultry farmers of America. Then I remember that chicken breasts are the one thing pretty much everyone buys, and no one really knows how to prepare with flavor. There are equally as many recipes for "jazzing up" vegetables. You know what doesn't need "jazzing" to make it palatable? Ice cream. You don't need a "pin" to remind you. 

2. Everyone is disorganized. Organization tips are the chicken of the home design pages. Oh, and almost all organization can apparently be done with hanging shoe racks. I am expecting any day to see a pin with children stuffed into plastic sleeves hanging on the back of a closet door. 

3. There are very few "good hair" days. Women with straight hair are pinning advice on curling it. Women with curly hair are pinning advice on straightening it. Brunettes are looking for home streaking tips. Blondes are looking at "low lights." Everyone wants to find something "different" and "romantic" to do with it. I'm betting very few do. 

4. Playing with kids can be a drag. I love my daughter, I really do, but there are some times when I just have no idea what to do with her except sit her in front of the TV with a bag of refined sugar. Pinterest let's me know I am not alone. There are thousands of "car games," and "rainy day activities," and "play time ideas" that don't cost a lot of money, and don't need a lot of time to set up. Oh, and most of them can be organized with hanging shoe racks!   

5. Remembering more than five things is hard. Recipes with five ingredients or less spread faster on Pinterest than rumors about celebrity pregnancies on TMZ. Ditto for crafts with five pieces or less, photo shoot ideas with five props or less, and cleaning solutions with five steps or less. I guess six makes our brains explode. 

I've also noticed that a lot of people are apparently planning parties with great themes and really cute food that they aren't inviting me to, but I that's a topic for another post. Or for my therapist. 

Of course, it could just be that the parties are all in their minds... After all, actually throwing a party is work. 

That is sooo un-Pinterest.  

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An Open Letter to Disney (Costume Division)

Dear Disney,

Please stop making your costumes so poorly.

Yes, yes, I know, they are "costumes" and only really supposed to stay together for one or two wearings, three at the most. However, I also know they are designed for children, and you should know that when a child likes something they usually REALLY like it.

Take, for example, my daughter Meg. It was just over two weeks that her grandmother bought her a Princess Tiana costume at Costco. Since that time it has rarely left her body. She has eaten in. She has slept in it. She has played in it. She has twirled in it. Oh, you would not believe the twirling. I have to give it to you that you make dresses that twirl well. They just slowly unravel during said twirls.

It's not like this garment has been treated poorly. I mean, other than the regular toddler wear and tear. Both my Mom and I have carefully hand washed it, treating the fabric (which is apparently made from tissue paper's weaker cousin) like it was spun gold. Despite that the fabric seems hell bent on disintegrating. And in the areas where the fabric is holding fast? The seams are giving up the ghost. Did Cinderella teach you nothing about tying off a knot at the end of stitches?

I won't even go into the fact that no self respecting princess would wear a broach with her own picture on it -- after all, this letter is about quality issues, not common sense. I will just say this: do you really think any little girl wouldn't know which princess dress she was wearing? Do you doubt the effectiveness of your brainwashing that much?

I don't even care if you charge more for the costume. Maybe you could make two different versions, the cheap one time junky costume, and the "you can wear this like clothes" version. I'm sure there are some weird adults who would appreciate it too.

Really, think of the children. Or at least, think of my child. My strange, princess dressed child.

Thanks,

Libby

P.S. I am really not thrilled about your treatment of Moms in movies. The ones who are dead actually come out the best. That's another letter though...

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The Girlie Battle

I am considering an injunction against my Mother. Look what she did to Meg.

She claims Meg picked it out. That she tried to dissuade her from getting a headband with a planet attached. That she pointed out all kinds of tasteful, understated headbands, but that Meg wouldn't budge. That walking out of the store without that lavender abomination would have caused a fit that possibly would have ended with Meg exploding, and certainly would have ended with her mad at Grandma. That my Mother, the woman who is unswayable, was swayed.

I don't buy it.

I think this is just the opening salvo in my Mother's war of revenge.

I was not an easy teenager when it came to clothing. I wasn't my sister (that's a tale for another time -- a dark, Gothic tale) but I definitely didn't want to wear what my Mom picked out. I liked overalls with holes in them, and big baggy white t-shirts. For two whole years I only wore one earring: a silver female symbol. I liked bandannas. Hey, it was the early 90's. Lots of people were dressing this way. My Mother just couldn't believe I was one of them.

I can't believe she's been plotting for 20 years.

I can only picture what's coming next. Dresses with enormous bows! Patent leather shoes! Sparkly earrings! (gasp) TUTUS!

If Meg ends up a cheerleader I will know the war is lost.

I should probably call my lawyer now -- just to be safe.

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Expanding Vocabulary

We are going to Mexico (yay)! So, I need a new swimming suit (boo)!

I haven't bought a swimming suit in five years. Yes, that means the last time I wriggled into Lycra in front of a three way mirror was long before the fertility treatments -- and the pounds that came with them. Now, granted, I have lost some of that weight since, but I was still nervous. I needed support. I needed a distraction. I needed Meg.

Look at the cute toddler, not at the fat girl in the Mom swimsuit.

And no, I wasn't just taking pictures of myself, I was sending them to Tara for advice.

Meg thought shopping for swimsuits was hilarious. She loved running through the aisles, putting on the straps, and taking all the compliments from the saleswomen. She loved the echo in the dressing room. Most of all though, she loved watching me try them on.

Wait, that sounded bad. I'll explain.

Meg is at that age where she wants to know EVERYTHING. If there is a thing she cannot name, she points and says "that." We then tell her what it is called, and she repeats it at least four times, cementing into her brain. One of them words she recently stuck there? Boobs. So, every time I would take a swimsuit off, or start to put one on Meg would look up at me, point, and say "Mom's boobs."

Did I mention the dressing room echoed?

I was embarrassed at first. I tried to distract her with games on my phone, but every time I was topless she would comment. Finally, I just gave up. Every time she said it I would just say "yes, those are my boobs, or breasts. Can you say breasts?" I figured that would at least sound a bit classier to the women in the neighboring booths, and get her practicing her r sounds.

In the end though, Meg made it the most painless swimsuit shopping experience. After all, I will never see any of those people who heard her yelling about my boobs again, plus I'm pretty sure most of the saleswomen are almost totally deaf.

Oh, and I didn't focus on my thighs at all...

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Clothes Make the Murderer

I might be living with the new Boston (okay, Utah) strangler. I'm not kidding. He has the gloves for it. Know how I know he has the gloves for it? Because I bought them.

It is damn cold in Utah right now. I mean, colder than normal. That means it is so cold not even penguins want to vacation here, and Gwenyth Paltrow seems warm by comparison. Yep, it is even cold enough to freeze my sense of humor. It is also so cold that I had to go out -- and buy gloves. What kind of gloves did Ryan want? Dress gloves. You know, for when he dresses as a person who strangles people.

Really, there is no way that leather dress gloves can be worn without making the wearer look somewhat homicidal. They even look evil on the rack, like they might jump out and strangle you themselves. Ski gloves are sporty. Mittens are friendly and want to have a snowball fight and a beer. Those fingerless glove/mitten hybrids want to break dance and deliver packages on a bike. Dress gloves want to kill you.

It's not just the look of dress gloves, either. Have you ever heard fingers curling in that beautiful leather? "I'm coming for you," it says, "and I will do it in luxurious comfort and warmth." My little polyester lined fake shearling numbers are no match for that. NO MATCH FOR THAT!

I just hope he doesn't ask for a trench coat next. Then I'm really done.

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I'm Like Oprah

Pe-OPLE! The holidays are up-PON us! And that means it is time for O-PRAHHHHH to unveil her "Favorite Things" and cause normally rational, functional people to become babbling morons, -- and cause the rest of the world to envy them because they have just been given thousands of dollars in gifts. This year though, I am not letting Oprah steal the spot-LIGHT! This year, I am sharing my OWN favorite things! AND EVERYONE WHO READS THIS BLOG GETS ALL OF THE THINGS LISTED!*

Let's kick things off with something I think you all know I enjoy a great deal. It's tasty, it's economical, and it's green way to drink. Yep, I am talking about box WINEEEE!

Every sip makes you a better person because instead of leaving behind four glass bottles you are leaving behind one box! All your sips are cheaper too -- unless you regularly buy bottles of wine under five dollars each. And because it's a box you don't have to watch the wine level go down and feel bad about all those sips! Win! Win! WIIIIIIN!

You know what I really love doing when I am drinking? Yep, that's right blog-GING. And do you know what's better than just blogging? STEALING BLOG TOPICS FROM OTHER

PEOPLE!

That's right everyone! For instance, I stole this blog topic from the lovely Wendi Aa-RONS!

I could probably just put her blog on my list of favorite things, but I don't want to her to think I am selling her into slavery. Not yet.

I like to be comfortable when blogging. I mean, who doesn't, right? Aren't we all just looking for a little comfort, whether we are Utah based bloggers just trying to stay sane or Chicago based billionaires aiming for world domination? Of course we are. That's why one of my favorite things are pa-JA-ma PANTS!!

The pants above are from the holiday collection in keeping with the season, but pajama pants come in all themes, colors and sizes. Yes, comforting is that accepting and accommodating. No matter how much weight you gain or lose, they are there for you, like a secret fleecy lover. I'm not going to say any more, because this could get awkward.

Of course, I can't just sit around the house all day in pajama pants drinking wine and blogging. I have to go out in the world, if for no other reason, than to buy more wine. When I do that, I like to put my best foot forward, and that mean BOO-OOTS!

No, I have never spent time in a prison rodeo. Nor have I been a hobo. I am just clumsy and end up kicking things I should step over. Ryan keeps asking me when he can polish my boots, or burn them, and I just let him know I am keepin' it real -- boot style.

Our last, but not least item is being modeled by the lovely TA-ra. I think you will agree it is the e-PITO-me of class.

Not only can you express your love for the tiny hamlet of Beaver, Utah, but you can laugh like a 12 year old boy while doing it. I carry mine in my purse wherever I go. I never know when I might need it.

There are so many more of my favorite things I wish I could share with you in full. Road trip dough-NUTS. Mocking cele-BRI-ties at their low point and ignoring that even then they make more MO-ney than I ever will. Getting a pedicure at a salon where they are DEF-initely talking about me in Vietnamese, but not caring because they have good maga-ZINES. Really, I wish I could tell you all about all of those in detail, but this is only a one hour show, er blog.

I just hope that my little glimpse into my favorite things has brought you as much happiness as it has brought me. And I hope each and every one of you will enjoy taking them home with you, and loving them as I have.**

*No, you don't.

**No, really, there are no gifts.

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So NOT Fun Bags

I am tired of my boobs.

Don't get me wrong, I am usually very glad to have them. I have been told many, many times that they are one of my best attributes. They are fun to dress up in low cut dresses and blouses. They help me win arguments with my husband. I really do like them, most of the time. Right now though, they are just a pain in the ass.

Part of it is the heat. When the weather is hot, my boobs seem bigger, heavier, and just more THERE. I am always aware of them. When I am typing at my desk, they crowd against my arms. When I am drying my hair they stare back at me in the mirror, the biggest thing in the picture. No shirt When I am outside I can feel the sweat gathering underneath them, above them, and between them. It is not a cooling feeling at all, but a sticky one, that leaves me wondering if I am about to get "boob marks" on my shirt.

Oh, and don't even get me started on my bra. I am ALWAYS messing with it. The straps slip. Or the underwire digs. Or the clasp is coming undone. Or the cups are slipping. Honestly, there are days I mess with my bra so much I'm worried that someone in my office is going to sue me for sexual harassment. I try to be discreet, but I can only do so much and still get my job done. I don't think I am wearing the wrong size either, I just think that my bra is channeling the energy of my boobs.

It would be so nice if I could just take my boobs off once in a while. Just hang them in the closet and wear a summer tank top out in public without worrying that I look like a pagan fertility idol. Or go to sleep in the days before my period without wondering if one of those ridiculous boob separators would help me sleep better. Maybe I would even go to the swimming pool without wearing what feels like three ace bandages around my chest, all in the name of decency. Oh, what a glorious day that would be!

Sigh.

Well, I guess it could be worse. I could have balls. I hear those things are a real nightmare.

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Hiding My Shame in the Nick of Time

I have now lost close to 20 pounds. It's an accomplishment to be sure, but last night it almost cost me my dignity.

I like jeans. They are all I wear -- and I like them slightly baggy. After a 20 pound weight loss, that means they are VERY baggy. Like 16 year old wanna be white boy rapper baggy. Really, all I need are shamrock boxers, a tank top, and a sideways cap and I could be "DJ Only Wearing This To Piss Off My Dad Until He Makes Me Go to College." I mean, except for my boobs. And the toddler. And the fact I'm 36.

I should buy new pants, I know, but I don't want to. First of all, there is the fact I still have 20 pounds to lose. I don't want to have "fat, medium, and normal" pants. I don't want to buy every size Old Navy has to offer. Also, I kind of like the fact my pants are so big. They show I've done something, and that I am winning the battle of the bulge. I feel like one of those people who hold up their enormous pants on infomercials and smile.

I wasn't smiling last night though.

I was coming home from book club, and my hands were totally full. I had Meg on my hip and a hand under her butt. I had her diaper bag and my purse over one shoulder, and I had a shopping bag of toys I had taken to entertain Meg during book club over the other. I had a box of wine we had ended up not needing (lightweights), tucked under the arm that wasn't supporting Meg. Oh, and I had to reach for my house keys.

I was about half way up the front walk when I felt my pants start to slip. I felt only slight panic, and just widened my gait, hoping that would fix the problem. It did not. They slipped further, and now seemed to be picking up steam. I thought about setting down Meg, or the box of wine, but then realized that would end in the crumbling of the magnificent pyramid of stuff I had built upon myself; and that I would probably just camping, drunk, in the yard.

I had to make a run for it.

With every step I took I felt my pants going lower and lower. They slipped to the top of my butt. I wished for the millionth time in my life I didn't have a flat Irish ass. They slipped to mid-crack. I knew I was in trouble. I got to the door and thrust my hips forward "Solid Gold" style, hoping that would buy me time until I fumbled with my keys and opened the door. It was a desperation move, but it worked. It bought me just the seconds I needed to flip the lock. My pants fell, exposing the back of my gray granny panties and my white chicken thighs, just as I stepped inside and the screen door swung closed.

Meg burst into hysterics. She thought it was the funniest thing ever.

Now, it is true that my dignity may have not been totally saved. I have neighbors across the street, and they have windows; and screen doors are far from solid. However, I like to think I was victorious, and that I saved anyone living near us from having nightmares about my butt. They never would have been able to eat pancakes again.

Maybe I should buy a belt.

Nah. I would ruin my street cred.

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Don't Make Me Shop

I am in desperate need of new clothes. It has gotten to the point where every piece of clothing I pull out of closet is either has some sort of baby related stain, looks slightly lacy from the large number of small holes and tears, or was last fashionable in 2002 -- and it was likely only fashionable then because it was retro. Add to all these problems the fact I have lost 17 pounds, so all my fat pants are now falling off, and my skinny pants are still too tight, and I think you can understand why I wish I could wave a magic wand and totally revamp my wardrobe. After all, really, that's the only way it is going to happen.

It isn't that we don't have the money. I mean, we don't; my debit card laughs when I run it though the reader at the store, and our last bank statement didn't have numbers on it, but instead just said "broke as a joke." However, it is not finances that is keeping me from getting new clothes, but rather my abject fear of buying them.

Friends, I have no idea how to shop.

I have no idea what to look for on the rack. I hate trying things on. I don't know how things are supposed to fit. Also, I despise dressing room mirrors, and usually am so upset with the crazy static in my hair that only occurs in clothing stores that I don't even look at the clothes. Oh, and I always think I am spending too much money. I can spend like crazy on Meg, or on Ryan, or on gifts, but when it comes to me I worry 20 bucks is too much for a shirt or a pair of pants. I figure I am too hard on clothes to really spend more.

I've tried online shopping, thinking it would take the whole "store fear" out of the equation, only to wind up with dozens of pieces of clothing that either are not the color I thought, the size I thought, or had some weird applique I couldn't see in the pictures. I should have returned them, but I am not only bad at shopping, but really lazy.

I'm not really good about shopping with other people either. Multiple friends and family members have tried to take me out and make me over. Some of them still talk to me, but none of them will go shopping with me again. In most cases I refused to buy anything, finding varying reasons things weren't right, or refusing to try anything on because of the whole hair static thing. In the few cases where I did buy something I wore it once or twice, and then consigned it to the rack of misfit clothes -- items that lost their shine once the peer pressure was off.

Life would be so much easier if we were all nudists. Wait, no it wouldn't. Where would I put my keys? And, oh, SNAP, I share a chair at work. Yeah, nudism is out.

Well, maybe gypsy skirts with carrot stains will be the next big thing.

I can only hope.

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Put Some Pants on That Kid!

It is getting warmer, which means people are wearing less. In the case of some babies and toddlers, a lot less. After all, we all know that when the weather gets warm there is a certain set of parents who see nothing wrong with dressing their small child in nothing but a diaper and a t-shirt. And this year? Huggies is encouraging them.


Yes, that's right, diapers that look like jeans. Oh, and this isn't just some kitschy "design" like Disney or Muppet characters, meant to be a secret between you and your baby. According to the press release they are meant to make a baby look "fashionable." Yeah, especially if the fashion in questions is "demo derby chic." The only thing that would make these "jeans" more "fashionable" is if they came with a matching disposable bib halter top or wife beater bearing the words "My Mom is a MILF."

Please, Huggies, don't do that. I was only kidding.

I am sure there will be a HUGE market for these jeans. In fact, I wouldn't doubt if there was a line out the door at Wal-Mart of Moms wanting to "multi-task" their child's summer wardrobe. Of course, the really ingenious ones would just buy plain diapers and draw pockets on them. After all, who says all jeans have to be blue? White jeans were quite popular in the 80's.

Again, Huggies, I'm kidding, not coming up with marketing strategies.

I guess on the up side Huggies has just set the bar a lot lower for us Moms who feel their kids aren't always dressed as well as they should be. Just getting them in real pants is now a victory. Yeah, I know that isn't an actual upside, but I'm reaching here, trying to convince myself this isn't another step on the path of the downfall of civilization.

Damn you, Huggies.

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Dress for the Weather

Ah, spring in Utah.

This morning as I left for work it was a brisk 42 degrees. By noon it was in the 50's, and, as I sit here now, it feels like it is in the high 60's, low 70's. Really, it's hot enough that neither Meg or I are wearing pants. The dog is though, which is kind of suspicious.

Tomorrow, it is supposed to snow.

I think you an now understand why there is no such thing as a "set spring wardrobe" in this state. In the past 24 hours I have seen people wearing sweaters and jackets, and people wearing shorts and t-shirts. All were dressed perfectly appropriately for at least 15 minutes of the day, and for the rest of the time they were likely bemoaning their fashion choices. That's the real spring fashion choice in Utah: deciding if you would rather complain about being too hot, or being too cold.

Ryan prefers to be too hot, stripping off layers when it gets to unbearably warm. I prefer to be cold, taking his layers as he sheds them or surrenders them because I have gotten unbearably whiny. That's how it has worked for five years, and we have perfected the system. It's how we dress Meg though, that is the bone of contention.

Outfit one of seven for the day.

I dress her in a cute outfit, with a onesie underneath, and think she's ready to go.

Ryan changes out her cute sandals (that go with the outfit) and puts her in shoes and socks. Oh, and he adds a cardigan or hoodie.

I replace the cardigan with a rain jacket that I stash in her bag "just in case." I also grab the sandals.

Ryan stashes her parka in the bag as well, along with a warmer outfit, usually part of which is a sweater that could only be described as "apres ski."

We finally leave the house with a diaper bag that could be mistaken as a weekend getaway suitcase.

Well, at least we only have to worry about spring for another two weeks at most. Then the scorching summer will begin and none of will care about what we are wearing, because our brains will be melted.

It will almost make us miss the May weather schizophrenia.

Almost.

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Et Tu, Tina?

Dear Tina Fey,

Please come back to the geek girls.

Yes, you are on the cover of Vogue -- with Vogue airbrushing. But they don't love you like we do. They didn't love you when you were the fat girl who was funny asking questions from the audience on "SNL." They didn't love you when you first appeared on "Weekend Update." No, they looked at the TV and said "who the hell is she?" They said the same thing when you started on "30 Rock." Actually, what they really said was "maybe now glasses will fail and now she can't run with prime time TV people." Really, they did. I didn't want to tell you, but I heard it. I can't tell you where, but I did.

Didn't you see "Mean Girls"? Didn't you write "Mean Girls"?

The only reason the pretty people are paying you any attention is because you are an oddity to them: a smart girl who can also be considered pretty. Just wait though. Sooner or later they will remember that smart people make them feel dumb, and go back to the pretty and vapid girls. Nicole Kidman will once again be on the covers. Then the next time you see yourself on a magazine cover it will say "Tina Fey: the next Kirstie Alley?" I hate to be harsh, but someone needs to speak the truth, and bring you back from the dark side.

You know, I don't think I would mind the transformation so much if you hadn't decided Liz Lemon needed a makeover too. Oh, you think I didn't notice? She used to be my fashion icon. A woman who looked schlumpy, yet professional. A woman who looked like she just might be wearing pajamas to work, but fancy pajamas. On tonight's show? You had her wearing a zebra print tank top (with cleavage!) and a fitted mini skirt. I almost threw up.

I wish I could say I will refuse to watch your show, or see your movies until you change back. Unfortunately, I am an overweight smart girl, which means I have a low self-esteem. That means I will be waiting patiently for you when all of the pretty people turn you away. Oh, and I will probably buy you ice cream and tell you how they didn't deserve you in the first place.

Damn it I'm weak.

Best wishes,

Libby

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Second Generation

I am not what you might call a "fashion plate," and not just because I don't put on outfits by rubbing crayon over raised plastic drawings. I like things that are comfortable and functional, and that preferably don't touch my body too closely. Yes, I am talking about fun pants. Over the years my fashion choices have been misunderstood and mocked, mostly by my sisters, Tara, and my friend Murphy -- who started his mocking before we even knew each other.

Murphy and I met when we lived in the same apartment building in D.C. It was an L shaped building, which meant Murphy and I could see each others apartments from our windows. Now, at the time I was sarcastic and judgy, but I had nothing on Murph. He had formulated named for everyone in the apartments he could see. There was "lonely computer boy," "three way girl" (she lived up to her name), "sex on the floor girl," and me: "lesbian overall girl." I earned the name because I never had male friends over (I was horrible at dating) and I liked, no, loved, my overalls. Even after we met, and I had boyfriends, he kept the name for me.

I still do love my overalls. I would love it even more if I could fit my ass in them without looking like a joke involving Lynyrd Skynyrd. Luckily, Meg looks great in them, and is finally big enough to wear a pair...

See that smile? I sent that picture to Murph and he said he was calling child services -- or "What Not To Wear." Cynic.

If only he knew ow much she loves the Indigo Girls, and Crocs. Then he would understand...

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Fashion Backassward

Spring is springing up all over the place! As it happens every year the weather is getting warmer, the days are getting longer, and everything is my closet positively disgusts me. Really, every morning I open the doors, and the corpses of outfits past stare back. The clothes I would still love to wear are all worn, and either have stains, or little holes. I should throw them out, but I am hoping that hobo chic comes back. Then there are the clothes that are still in good shape, because I hate them and never wear them. They just glare out at me in their too sweatery, too dowdy, or too impulse buy looking way. I should probably throw them out too, but then I would feel bad about spending money on them in the first place.

Regardless to say, I have been doing a lot of online browsing as of late.

I don't know what it is about spring, but every year I am sure that I can turn my closet around with just the click of a button. Out will go the oversize tunics, and in will fly classy, yet kind of slutty sundresses that can be worn with snappy sandals, and paired with a light sweater for work. Never mind that I don't have snappy sandals, and that I think all light sweaters accentuate my back fat; the fantasy still exists. I usually start at Ann Taylor, and Anthropologie, veer over to Lane Bryant when I feel my self esteem getting low, and then make a pit stop at Old Navy when I consider the fact Meg will have to go to college.

Oh, Old Navy, what a circus of the pointless.

I will admit that I buy all of my t-shirts and jeans there, and have even found the occasional all purpose schmatta dress for five dollars in the clearance rack. However, when it comes to their "stylish" clothes, I just laugh. Take for example this little item they are offering without irony this season...



Yes, folks, that's right: Old Navy is trying to bring back the jumpsuit. I think they must be stopped.

Never mind that in order to pee any woman wearing one of these will pretty much have to get buck ass naked. Never mind that a bra is pretty much impossible to wear with this, and so a lot of boobies will be swinging in the wind that shouldn't be swinging in the wind. Never mind that the material it is made out of is the tissue paper cotton developed by NASA just for Old Navy, that will guarantee we see the panty lines, and camel toe of every unfortunate woman tricked into buy one of these monstrosities. Actually, mind all of those things, and put on top of them, like a gleaming cherry of fashion injustice, the fact that many, many people were praised, and paid handsomely when they came up with this idea.

Suddenly the things in my closet don't look so bad.

Who am I kidding. Yes they do. I'm going to end up in a fucking jumpsuit.

Just don't laugh at my camel toe.

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What Comes Around

Believe it or not, I used to be crafty. Not super-crafty, by any means. Ryan is still waiting for a denim jacket decorated with a sparkly embroidered dragon, holding a kitten, and crying a single tear that he requested the second year we were dating. However, there was a time when I dabbled in things like crocheting and embroidery. Most people who have known me at least five years have some piece of my handiwork: a scarf, or a blanket, a tea towel, or a shirt. None of these pieces are spectacular by any means. Most of them are flawed in some way, and I'm sure a few are only used when I come to visit.

Until this week though, Meg had nothing that I had made.

I had thought about embroidering some clothing, or crocheting a blanket for her, but instead I have just been spending time with her. Also, with the speed I finish projects anything I would have started would have been too small by the time I finished.

Thank goodness for hand-me-downs.


I made that onesie. Well, I didn't make it, but I put the little flower on it. And I put a little flower on another onesie. And cherries on a third. And there is even one with a palm tree. I embroidered all of these onesies when our friend Liz had her baby five years ago.

This week Liz brought us more clothes than I think Meg will ever wear, all now too small for her girl. These onesies were in with those clothes. I am so happy to have them. What a great surprise.

It's baby clothes karma. And it's actually inspired me to finally start on that jacket. Only this one will be a 2T.

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Cruel Shoes

I do not shop for shoes often. I am allergic to leather, which means I cannot just walk into a store and pick up a cute pair of slingback heels without worrying about my skin flaking off. Once I find shoes that don't make me itch, I stick with them until they are out of production. Currently, most of my shoe shopping is done in bulk, online, or in bulk, at the Crocs outlet.

However, there is a shoe siren calling me. The future of forward foot fashion. Her name? Zigi Soho.

Do you want the vibe of a dominatrix, but also need somewhere to put change for the bus?

Look no further. Zigi Soho.
Do you miss the style of "Three's Company" in the days before Mr. Farley came along and gayed it all up? Are you looking for a way to express that love on your feet? Do you enjoy strappy sandals that could cause your death if you fall off of them?

BAM! Zigi Soho!


Enjoyed the movie "Avatar"? I mean, like paint yourself blue, trying to learn the language enjoyed it? Enjoy really jangly ankle bracelets? Enjoy having your feet slightly irritated and tickled by your feet.

Get ready to walk the Oscar red carpet... with your date Zigi Soho.

Oh, and what about those times when you just need a little boost? A SIX INCH BOOST! You could just get circus stilts, but those aren't very fancy. After all, you want to be tall AND fashionable. You could go with shoes that have metal studs on them, but hey, go big or go home. You need metal studs AND fake diamonds. Oh, and it would be awesome if the shoe could be used as a weapon, wouldn't it?

I think I know who can help you. Zigi Soho.



Of course, there are some times that you just don't want to be fancy. You just want to relax in some jeans and maybe a nice pair of ballet flats. Nothing flashy, nothing too constrictive.

Oh, who the hell am I kidding? ZIIIIGIIII SOOOOOHOOOO!


After seeing these shoes, I am really thinking about buying some aquarium gravel and taping it to my Crocs. Or maybe some razor blades attached by grocery store twist ties.

I just hope that bitch Zigi Soho doesn't steal my ideas first...

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Get Thee Behind Me Satan, I Mean Jen

Today is the first day of Lent. For those of you who are heathens, that is the 40 day period in which Christians remember the time Jesus spent int he desert being tempted by Satan before he was crucified. In order to mark it people (Catholics in particular, or Episcopalians raised by Catholics in my case) fast, or at least give up something they love so they can suffer being tempted like Christ. Yeah, I know, it doesn't make a lot of sense due to that whole "all you have to do is believe in me" aspect of Christianity, but it brings out the martyr in all of us, which, obviously, is something we love.

I actually haven't given up anything for Lent in years. It isn't that I haven't wanted to (I mean, all that suffering!), I just have had other suffering to do (hormones, IUI, fertility tests) so I haven't pushed it. This year though, I have so much to be happy about, so it's time for a little Jesus based misery, just to say thanks. To that end, I am giving up wine.

Are you still there?

Yeah, I know, you think I'm kidding. If you know me, or have read this blog more than once, you know I like my wine. In fact, on some days it is all I like. And so, there are many people out there who don't think I will be able to go all 40 days without it.

One person in particular is sure I won't be able to do it. Her name isn't important, but it sounds a lot like Jen. Okay, her name is Jen. Today after learning that another co-worker had given up candy for Lent she left the following on her desk:

She's pure, unadulterated evil. Tomorrow she says she is going to do the same thing with wine bottles on my desk. Oh, and if that isn't enough? She says if I make it all 40 days, she will buy me pajama jeans. Yes, those pajama jeans. The pajama jeans that I think were created especially for me, and will never take off if they are attained. I mean, just look at the beauty:



Jen is one of the people who has mocked me because of my lust for pajama jeans. How delicious it will be when she is required to buy them. Oh, yes. They will be mine. And you know the best thing about them? I can spill wine on them and it won't show.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I am going to go make myself a martini. It won't be the same, but it might make it easier. I'll even toast to Jen. Oh, and Jesus.

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What is Your Baby Wearing?

Buying clothes for a baby is not an easy proposition. On one hand, there are clothes everywhere, in every store, all crying out "cute." On the other hand, most of those clothes are either poorly made, feature evil cartoon icons of corporations, or are so "cute" that they make any rational adult want to puke. Oh, and on the third hand the well made, cute, but not too cute, comfortable baby clothes cost more than anyone should pay for an outfit that will be worn maybe twice and vomited on repeatedly -- I mean, unless you're Lindsey Lohan.

I feel like we have really lucked out when it comes to Meg's clothes. We have many, many people who have given us wonderful hand me downs, and we have discovered that, for the most part, clothes by Carter's are economical, well made, and just cutesy enough to be darling without making me need insulin. However, I am starting to notice some nefarious undertones in their garments. Take this one for example:


At first glance it looks like a basic nightgown featuring good animal friends and the words "I love hugs." Really, who doesn't? Well, I don't really, but that's another post. Let's go back to the nightie, and look a little closer...

How many people, or animals do you know that give hugs right under the jawbone, covering the trachea? Unless you know a lot of serial killers, I am betting none. That elephant is not hugging that giraffe, he is trying to kill it. "I love hugs?" More like "I love inter species hate crimes." Oh, and that's not all. I give you, the jacket:

Try to ignore the adorable baby and focus on the ears on the hood. You cannot buy a Carter's jacket without them. It's almost like the CEO of the company has seen "The Island of Doctor Moreau" one too many times and declared all babies must look like genetic experiments. Luckily they look like cute genetic experiments.

I makes me wonder if I should listen to Barney CDs backwards to listen for satanic messages. Wait, you can hear those forwards, can't you?

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Taking a Shower

I am not a fan of baby showers. The stupid games, the precious cupcakes, the watered down drinks, really, not my scene. Don't get me wrong, I like throwing them, but mainly because I enjoy torturing my closest friends. There is nothing like watching these women, for once fattter than me, sweat as they wear used wrapping paper on their heads in festive "hats." Also, I like cupcakes.

Today though, we were given our first baby shower, by the lovely people at Ryan's school, and I have to say, I really loved it.

Since Meg was born we have been innudated with gifts. Trust me, I have the list of thank you notes to prove it. However, tonight it was about more than just the gifts, it was about the celebration. Everyone there was just so glad to see us, and to see Meg. It wasn't like people coming to visit us at home, because no one felt they were intruding, because it wasn't our home. They felt they could just sit and enjoy Meg. And we could enjoy it too. I finally got it. And I enjoyed some hummus and little quiches.

Of course, the gifts were nice too. We got a lot of books, but also so awesome clothes. I had no idea teachers were so stylish. My sister took pictures of us opening the gifts, but I look like I just gave birth, so we'll skip those. Instead, check out Meg modeling some of the loot...

Yeah, she looks awesome. Ryan said that I should't use our daughter for laughs, but Sally was all for it. She actually picked out the shoes...

Seriously though (and I say that much too much now) we are so blessed for out community who loves us, loves Meg, and wants to celebrate our new family. Oh, and thank god they always bring booze...

Don't worry, we'll wash them out before we use them for Meg. No, really, we will...

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