The Hell?

I am wearing white jeans today, Kittens. THAT IS HOW FAR OFF THE FUCKING DEEP END I HAVE GONE. White. Jeans. Seriously.

Now, let's examine the things that are wrong with this;

1) I am a slob.
2) I work in a manufacturing plant and there are pigeons living in the false ceiling of my office.
3) I drive an old POS truck that hasn't been washed since 2005.
4) THEY'RE WHITE FUCKING JEANS.

See? I'm not even making this up. I know that's a TERRIBLE picture, but you bitches can just shut up about how I look wrinkled and knock knee'd until you have tried to take a picture of your own thighs, you just don't know how fucking hard it is. THERE IS NO FLATTERING ANGLE. And I don't want to post one of those stupid 'in the bathroom mirror' shots because I hate them and also because the flash makes me look like a white pants wearing serial killer.

I'd keep going, but let's be real here, I need to not be all shouty because there is coffee on my desk just waiting to spill onto my lap.

Not Duck Short

My new swim suit arrived yesterday. It's exactly the same swim suit that I had last year.

OH, WAIT. NOT.

See, here's the thing. When you buy a plus sized suit (last years was a 16) the skirted bottom is 17" long. To compensate for your having things like, you know, AN ASS. Or, maybe, you know, BEING TALLER THAN A DUCK. The regular sized suit (a ten...so still not the sort of size one expects Heidi Klum and her stick legged like to be cavorting around in) is only 13 inches long. Now, you're probably thinking (like I was; because we're dumbasses) that after using a ruler and sort of hopping up and down so you can see in the bathroom mirror where the allegedly 13 inch skirt is going to end and then deciding that after you smacked your shin for the third time that it was probably long enough that you wouldn't have to wax your bikini line TOO exuberantly and anyway, it's only $30 which is a reasonable, because HELLO, It's VEGAS TIME in like two week and you're not going to actually lose that last twenty pounds and the prospect of standing in the unforgiving light and the 4H infested floors of the JC Penny dressing room is enough to make you hang yourself with your amazing new chain & ribbon necklace (shout out to Clairs 10 for $10 clearance and a big FUCK OFF to everyone who just said "you're not 14, why are you shopping there!?") and then you're all FINE, FUCK IT! and just order the damned thing. In black. Because black is slimming, right? You'll totally look just like Heidi Klum in a black swim suit, right? And anyway the blue one you really like isn't on sale and you're not a complete masochist so you can't justify spending $74 EACH PIECE for a new swim suit that you'll wear...twice? Maybe? And anyway, the black goes with your sexy (AHEM, certain people; SEXY, and FASHIONABLE, NOT SILLY) sun glasses.

Then, you wait excitedly. By "excitedly", I probably mean "drunkenly". By "probably" I mean "totally".

True to their word (hello, free standard shipping!) the package arrives in the allotted 4 to 7 days and even though you had a big fight with your husband the night before that wound up with both of you packing and then having a stand off about who had to actually move out and even though you've got a migraine and even though the dog puked in FOUR MOTHER FUCKING PLACES, you take that sucker into the bathroom and put it on.

AND THEN YOU STAB YOUR EYES OUT WITH THE TWEEZERS.

Because 13"? SHOWS A SHIT LOAD OF WHITE, WHITE THIGH.

Bastards.

How can they DO this to me? ME? Me of the pasty, white, white winter thighs with their soft whiteness and the glowing pale? After I told the WHOLE TEN PEOPLE who read this piece of Internet clogging awesomeness that I loved their damn swim suits and I'd wear it in public and now it would seem I meant 'wear it and show my pubic' which isn't NEARLY a good idea. Unless it's true that people will pay you to put your clothes back on and that's why the fat stripper earns the most (is that true? I could use a second job.)

SO THEN. Then, I have to return the damn thing (just the bottoms. The top is perfect) and hope that the replacement (a luxurious 15") will be long enough.

Otherwise, I suggest y'all don't look in the direction of Vegas unless you're wearing welding glasses or want the white, white glow of my ass burned into your retinas forever.

Out my mouth with the blah, blah, blah

My head is all full of rants today. Which is usual, I suppose, because it's Monday. Whose head ISN'T full of rants on Monday morning, am I right?

Of course I am. I'm always right. It's part of my charm.

All things considered I had a pretty good weekend. I had red velvet cake cheesecake on Saturday with a couple of my favorite people and one people I actively have to remind myself not to kick. But the other two I enjoyed very much. And there was cheesecake. And fried cheese. so really, pretty hard not to call THAT a win.

There *was* a little drama on Saturday night. It was prom night and M had bought a dress that she was super excited about. The only problem was it was so short you could see her scary knickers. I had to veto it, of course. Which lead to tears. Of course. Which lead to trying on everything in both of our closets. Which lead to more tears. Which lead to calling Baby Mama to try on everything in HER closet. Which lead to MORE tears and a trip to Ross. Can I get a Hallelujah for Ross? $17 and she had a short zebra print lurex dress with a hot pink sash. Looked cute, fit great and solved the drama. Well, that and the punk heels I let her buy. Zippers and studs. And about 7" tall. Pick your battles, Moms, that's my theory.

Sunday SIL decided that she wanted to do "something crazy". I suggested she pierce her nipples, find a casual encounter on Craigs List and then do some blow, but NOOOO some people are just no fun. So I took her to the place I get my hair done and while she was there I went looking for swim suits.

WHAT THE FUCKING HELL are designers thinking when it comes to swim suits, anyway? I can't be the only girl in the world who doesn't want my thigh fat hanging out for the world to see. And yet EVERY SINGLE FUCKING SUIT ends right mid-thigh fat. You know that part about 3" down from your hoo-ha? Right there. In the widest, palest, flabbiest part of your thigh as if to say, "Hey, y'all! Wanna see the cake I ate in 1990? LOOK RIGHT HERE!" That's fucked up, that's what that is. And really, $120? ARE YOU FUCKING HIGH? Needless to say, I had to console myself myself with pretzel bites and cheese. I mean if the world is going to look at my pale fleshy thighs, there might as well be something to see, ya know what I mean?

I did find a pair of shorts though.

Sorry in advance for the sun spot that's going to reflect off my legs and cause y'all to go blind. I can't help it. I'm Irish. That's just what color we are. Be glad you can't see my ass. Be glad of that on a number of levels actually.

I did finally find a swim suit today though. Lands End. Can I get a wooooohoooo? Thought so. I got the Swim Mini and a top with scrunchable sides that hides mah belly./ I can't make it post the pictures, and I can't get it to post the link, so whatever. It's cute. And you can't see my upper thigh fat.

Which means? I can go eat some more cheesecake! Did you hear the angels sing just now? Thought so.

Dear Clothing Makers. I hate you.

Seriously.

How in the world do the jeans I wore on Monday fit fine (if a bit loosely) and have a size "14" tag and the jeans I'm wearing TODAY also fit fine (though also a bit loosely) and have a size "10" tag?

How is it possible that my size medium shirts fit pretty much the same as the large and they both fit almost the same and an extra large, except that in different brands where the medium is too large and the extra large is too small?

It makes NO SENSE.

NONE.

Miss Behaving

I confess. I watch really, really bad reality television. The sort of TLC shows that make me scream at the television until someone takes away the remote and brings me a cold compress and a shot of Jameson's.

Shows like "My Monkey Baby" and "Love me Love my Doll" make my eye go all twitchy with the hilarious, awesome wrongness. "Obese and Pregnant" makes me stampy and "I Pooped a Baby" (aka: I didn't know I was pregnant, I think) makes me shrieky.

The one that REALLY does me in though is "Toddler and Tiara's". Don't get me wrong, I'm all for parading around in too much make up and inappropriate clothing and insisting that people tell me I'm beautiful. But I'm an adult. And frequently abusive to both controlled and legal substances. Asking a child, a wee impressionable (demon) darling to forfeit playing with Barbies in favor of being one is just...creepy.

Leaving aside the whole JonBennet Ramsey argument, I have to wonder what sort of fucked up psychology leads a parent (an unattractive, often over weight, definitely past her prime mother) to declare that one identical twin is "beautiful" and the other is not. THEY'RE IDENTICAL YOU TWAT.

It's the sort of rabid for fame mentality that leads to this . Not the web site, I don't mean, because THAT is rather brilliant, but the horrible objectification of children that leads both the kids and the parents to believe that they're not good enough as they are.

Not to mention how the really crap photoshop skills cause the kids to look like the spawn of Jessica Rabbit and Ronald McDonald.

Seriously. It's creepy. Especially the first one and the baby with the Wilma Flintsone updo. HOW CAN A BABY HAVE AN UPDO? With fucking pearls? What the fuck is WRONG with these parents?

Go check it out.

(thanks to CK for the link)

Ranties

One of the questions I get asked a lot is if I'm LOVING all the shopping I get to do as I shrink. And the answer?

NO. No, I am not.

It's not that I don't love shopping and it's not even that I don't love the fact that I can now buy pants in the Juniors department instead of the dark and spidery corner known as "Women's". It's not like I don't enjoy that the selection available to me now involves more than giant pastel tee shirts with screen printed kittens who sport clever sayings like "I don't DO mornings". It's not even like I don't enjoy that my ass no longer has it's own zip code.

It's more that OH MY GOD do you realize that you have to replace EVERYTHING you own when you lose this much weight? I have so far replaced jeans, of course, shirts a little less (baggy is a look, right?), shorts, obviously, but now I've had to start replacing things you wouldn't think of. Things like underwear.

I don't know about you guys, but I'm the kind of girl who's super picky about my drawers. I have..correction HAD...two or maybe three brands and styles of panties that I know will cover and stay put and not ride up or slide down, won't pinch or bind or give crazy panty lines or anything heinous like that. But OF COURSE those brands and that style? Do not come in the size I need. Which means I now have a drawer full of panties that creep up and down and twist side to side as their tent like proportions flap in the breeze until they are completely bunched up under my ass so that it looks like I've got a roll of paper towels under my butt cheeks. Of course, in addition to being unattractive it's also uncomfortable so I'd spend half the day digging at my ass like I've contracted Parishiltonitis about my lady bits.

Tres Secksi.

After weeks of this exercise in nonsense and armed with a Victoria's Secret coupon I decided to bite the bullet and buy new panties. Only you know what? The idea of trying on panties before you buy them is just....weird. Panties are meant to come three to a bag, all hermetically sealed and emblazoned with a logo featuring fruit and prepubescent girls with no hips and winning smiles. Frugality being both one of my virtues and also one of my vices, I couldn't pass up getting panties that usually retail for $18 at 5-for-$25. Also I figured "what the hell?" I might get laid more frequently if I wasn't wearing Bea Aurthur's Signature Line of Panties.

Standing before giant vats of panties, I began to sort through the bin labeled L/XL figuring that I might be able to find a few pairs that were not too grandma and not too hooker. As I pulled out one lime green thong after high cut see through lace after hipster Pink boy shorts after another I came to the sinking realization that VS thinks I need to spend my days looking like a transvestite stripper underneath my sensible ($1atgoodwillthankyouverymuch) Levi's and Old Navy perfect tee's. Seriously, there wasn't a single pair of panties in that pile that had more than 6 square inches of fabric. And my ass? FAR TOO LARGE for that kind of nonsense.

So I handed my coupon to the hipster in the neon jeans beside me and headed to Target.

Now, if you've never been fat you may not realize that when you ARE fat, you get like three options for panties. You can have the kind that go up to your navel, the kind that reach all the way up to your armpits or "boy shorts" which are neither boyish nor shorts like. However, if you're NOT fat?

Sweet Baby Jesus, the choices.

High cut, low cut, briefs, bikini, boy shorts, hipsters, ultra low hipster, hipster thongs, high cut thongs, string bikini's, string thongs, seamless, wicking, anti-bacterial (side note: GROSS), second skin, cotton, poly cotton, silk, lace, cotton and lace, lace and silk, "satin", embroidered, screen printed, embroidered with screen print in seamless cotton silk, baby seal skin, micro fiber....seriously who the hell needs that many fucking choices? I just want panties that cover my ass, don't give me camel toe, don't creep, don't slide, and don't give me swamp ass. I don't want neon pink sparkles that spell out "SASSY" and I don't care if they have a pocket for my...whatever the hell one puts in a pocket the size of a quarter...bus fare? Gum? Wet-naps? I don't need them to be "innovative" and I don't care if they're endorsed by Bruce Willis's big headed daughter.

And the sizing? Seriously? Corresponds to NOTHING. Why can't women's undies be like men's? No more random size "7" that really equals pants size "12" but only if that designer decided that a size 12 has hips 38-40 inches instead of the other designers who think your hips will be 40-44 or 32-90 or whatever the fuck they think women want to hear. Why can't they be size 36? As in, your hips are 36" plus or minus two inches, thank you come again? Especially, when after reading the packaging you determine that you wear size X because you fit into parameters Y&Z only to get home and discover either you have shrunk three inches around or they think you want your panties to be "blousey" because that is SUCH an attractive look?

Which is why, if I get into an accident the ER doctor is going to push me out into the hall with a note that says "DO NOT TREAT. DISOBEYED HER GRAM AND ISN'T WEARING ANY PANTIES AT ALL" where I will be mocked by all and sundry as I lay dying, commando, thanks to mass retailers refusal to provide me with some damn underwear that is made of cotton, is pleasantly fitted without being tight, doesn't climb up my ass and isn't covered with cartoon characters.

So consider yourself warned; if you DON'T eat that cheeseburger, large onion rings and milk shake for lunch you're going to die. You're welcome.

Kiki Titsling

PHEW. It's the last review day. I don't know how people do this all the time. Oh right. They get paid. Whereas *I* do it for the good of humanity. Because I am selfless and awesome like that.

Today, the final review isn't for His & Hers KY like Lorrie wanted, nor is it for Kreg's chainsaws or Eric condoms (with vibrating ring or otherwise). No, it's all about my favorite subject.

My boobs.

As you know, ladies, when you lose weight, you lose the girls.

Excuse me while I go sob quietly in the corner.

Ok, I'm back.

It's traumatizing enough to have to shop for new jeans (thank you Goodwill dollar day for my brand new with tags Old Navy Sweetheart jeans for $1 !) and it's even MORE upsetting to have to buy a new swim suit (thank you Mum for my Juicy Couture!) but to have to find new bra's.....I shudder.

All girls know about the maladies of bad bra's. Quatro-boob, shelf boob, loaf boob, elbow boob, cone boob, granny boob...need I go on? Having a bad bra on makes your old outfit...hell, your whole out look on LIFE just a little less rosy.

Previously, I was wearing a collection of very expensive bra's from Lane Bryant. And by very expensive I mean $60 EACH. I had seven. Each big enough to wear as a hat.

Now? Not so much.

LE SIGH.

So, I bequeathed my beautiful collection of barely worn bra's to my similarly big busted sister in law and started searching for less costly replacements. Because I have a sad, sinking feeling that the twins will be far smaller before I'm done.

While I was at Wal-Mart I found a few decent options.

Option A

This bra is by a brand called "Sweet Nothings" and retails for around $12. It fits decently, though the cups are weirdly pointy when you are shirtless when you are fully dressed, it's not too bad. It was fairly comfortable. My only problem was it rode up a bit during the day. Probably because to get cups that fit I went up a band size.

Cost: $12.88

Worth: $10

Verdict: Not a bad choice in a pinch.

Option B

This bra is by Fruit Of the Loom and is called the "Amazingly Comfortable Seemless Underwire"

OMG. It IS amazingly comfortable. Almost like wearing nothing at all. Which is about how much support you're getting. Still, it gives good, rounded shape, doesn't ride up, doesn't poke or pinch, and seems to hold everything up. Just don't jump around. Or run. You'll wind up with a black eye.

If, like me, you sleep in a bra, this one is perfect. One caveat, the cup sizes run large due to the stretchiness of the fabric, so buy your regular band size and try one cup size down for a good fit.

The color options were limited to black, white, pink and heather grey, but I can't imagine why you'd really need anything else.

Cost: $7

Worth: $7

Verdict: Perfect for low impact days. Like laying around the house reading a novel and eating Pirate's Booty cheddar popcorn

Of course, despite having found passable inexpensive options, I still just wasn't happy. I need my girls to look GOOD. Amazing. Traffic Stopping.

While I was waiting for M to wander to the mall to pick up the teeshirt I bought her (Jeff Hardy, because she's freakin' OBSESSED with Pro-"Wrestling" at the moment) I found myself at Victoria's Secret. A place I haven't shopped in, on, practically 20 years. They just didn't carry the size they need.

Now that I have little boobies (Down to a DD....sob) I pawed through the sale bin and was please to find some of the Bio Fit bra's that my cousin Bunny was raving about the other day when I lamented on FB that I need new tit slings. And it was on sale. Less than half of it's listed $50. Since the color's I found in my size matched my new panties (important in case you're in an accident) I bought one.

First off, you do not, apparently have to make this face

For your girls to look good. Which is important, because wandering around looking like a stoned zombie is probably going to get you some funny looks. That said, can I just get a halleluja from the audience?

This bra is AMAZING. So comfortable, perfect shape, doesn't ride, doesn't pinch, doesn't bunch or gap or make your boobs pointy.

Cost: $50 retail, currently selected colors on sale for about $23, annual sale starts 6/16

Worth: $23, 982.16 Seriously.

Verdict: Save your pennies. Buy one beautiful bra instead of several cheap ones!

Whew.

I'm done. Back to blogging about nothing.

Big Hair

I like big hair. Sadly, I don't have the sort of hair that lends itself to big hair. I have more the sort of hair that girls of the 70's dreamed about. Flat, stick straight, BORING hair. Blah.

The 80's, being my formative years have forever instilled on my brain that the bigger the hair, the sexier it is, so when the trend toward "bumped" or "slightly bee hived" hair came in I was all over it.

Only, my hair? NOT ON THE SAME PAGE. As a general rule my smooth bob resists all manner of teasing, fluffing, blowing out, ratting...well you got the idea.

So when I saw THESE I nearly swooned in the aisle

FINALLY I could have the big hair of my dreams!

The kit came with a "medium" a "tall" and a "small" sized insert. The small is designed for the small, over the forehead "model pouffe" style hair do. No need for that as my bangs manage to achieve that bit of craziness on it's own.

The directions call for you to part your hair just over your ears and then flip the front section forward and tease the base. Um..ok. I'm not very handy, but it comes with a little rat tail comb, so I broke out my bottle of Big Sexy and ratted it up.

My hair stood totally, straight up, sideways faux hawk style. It was sexy. Only. Not.

So I stuck the medium sized insert behind the part and smoothed the front hair over it. Because my hair is fairly short, it made me look like less like Bardot and more like a Cone head. Unwilling to give up, I pinned up the sides, and voila! CUTE HAIR! In under 5 minutes! AND on my first shot.

This is how their models look once teased to perfection

and this is how mine came out.

Not bad, right?

Cost: $9.99

Worth: $9.99

Verdict: If you love big hair and are hair-talent challenged or you know, lazy like me, well worth the $10

Dear Levi

My Darling,

It took me years to find you. Now, we've been together so long I've lost track of the time. Never has been there been a day when we are together that you didn't make be feel beautiful. You held me so tightly, get gently that through the years it's as though we became one. It's like we were meant to be together; fated even.

And yet, today, I must let you go. It's as though you don't know me at all anymore. It's as though we've grown apart. Or perhaps shrunk away from each other.

So, this one last time as I hold you close to me, warm from the sun, your touch so familiar to me as I smooth my hand down your legs and across your ass, before I kiss you goodbye, I want you to know, you've been the best pair of jeans ever.

All of my heart,

Thystle

Ouiser Says....

Just because you can get them on. Doesn't make them your size.

An unsolicited blogmercial

I am a slacker. I almost never pack my lunch and as a result am left to frequent one of the three or four restaurants in my industrial work neighborhood. Because this is Phoenix, more often than not, that means I eat some flavor of Mexican food almost every day. Only, here we don't call it "Mexican Food" we just call it "food".

Yesterday, true to form, I had brought no lunch and found myself at a local greasy spoon taqueria called "Filiberto's". There are about 123 places in the PHX called something-berto's, and they all serve moderately decent food for the most part. They're the sort of place you don't eat if you have a choice, but would murder Santa's elves for at 3am after a night of Corona & Patron shots. Or, you know, when you forget your lunch and your belly button is rubbing a hole in your back bone.

Anyhoodle, it was lunch time and I was starving and that chicken burrito was calling my name, so I eschewed my normally above reproach manners and rather than delicately cutting each bite, I tore into that burrito like a lion on the Serengeti happening upon a delicious dead zebra.

Now, anyone who has ever had the pleasure of my company at a meal know that my twins get hungry. Apparently yesterday they were hungry for burrito.



Now, that doesn't look to bad, right? Well get a load of this



That's right, it shot right past my mouth, down my chin, down between my creamy, heaving bosoms and INTO MY SHIRT. WTF? Who gets food INSIDE their shirt? Moi, that's who.

Not just a little either, a big, massive bright orange greasy stain



It kind of looks like a wiener. Like the ghost of Miss Manners squeezed out a big ol' mushroom stamp to teach me a lesson about not using silverware.

Tres classy.

Because I am prone to dropping things on the girls, I own very few white shirts. To make matters even BETTER I'm on a strict No New Clothing budget right now so it's not like I could do what I usually do and just buy a new shirt, change in a parking lot and get asked never to return to that store ever again. But also? I'm a little vain, so it's not like I wanted to sit in a stained, peppery shirt all day either.

Then, like a ray of light streaming down from the Heavens, my eyes happened upon an ad in Glamour for the Tide Pen. For the most part I tend to think things like that are snake oil, but that adorable Kelly Ripa looked so smug cleaning her central-casting-daughters pinafore, I thought, Why not? Sure, I'd have to brave Super Ghetto K-Mart. Sure, I haven't had a tetanus or rabies shot in a while. But I had rubber gloves in my trunk and close toed shoes, so why not be brave?

And I was, chickens! I was brave! I got my Tide Pen and headed back to my office to strip down and do laundry at my desk. Because that is what professional women do; they multi-task topless.

I took my shirt off, placed a folded paper towel behind it and followed the direction on the package. At first, not a damn thing happened. Then, slowly, the stain began to fade. I rubbed and blotted, rubbed and blotted and was rewarded with this



WILL YOU LOOK AT THAT? The stain is almost gone! I'll be damned. For the low, low price of $1.99, my shirt went from being garbage to salvageable. It's like a beautiful miracle of science.

So Miss Manners? Go Fuck Yourself. I'll eat my burrito and wear it too, because Tide Pen is the bestest thing EVAH.

PS - Dear Tide People, that will be $25,000 please. While I may be easy, I'm NEVER cheap.

Material World

Here in the desert, school started for most kids last week. But because M goes to private school she’s still got about a week left. Like the epically prepared people that we are, she’s just started her back to school shopping. Because her grandmothers are taking her. I know, SWEET, right? Grandma’s way easier to talk into stuff than mom right?

The text messages regarding this little adventure have flown fast and furious between the Gram’s, M and me.

Mom: Whattt can (M) wear to school?
Me: Whatever.
Mom: Not helpful
Me: You’re welcome
M: MOM pls cn I hv dcs? AND EnV2?
Me: Yes shoes. NO phone
M: Ima B gud ths yr. PRMS
Me: Doubt that
M: UR NOT COOL
Me: That’s my job
Mom: Your kid wears shoes that don’t fit
Me: Good luck with that
MIL: (M) wants to buy school clothes at goodwill?

Hold the phone here, chickens.

This morning, MSN.com is running a lead story about school clothes for kids. They tout this article as being reasonable. So I’m thinking; “Ways to look cool but not break the bank”. I’m expecting to see Target, Steve & Barry’s and places like that. Clothes topping out around $40 per piece, because, let’s face it, 13 year olds are basically giant, slightly more ambulatory 3 year olds. Except messier. And with worse attitudes. And hygiene issues. And messier.

I about spit diet coke like a fountain when I saw their suggestions. Almost $200 for jeans? For someone who is going to write “I heart Nick Jonas" on the knee in about a week. I don’t fucking think so. Especially not in this economy. Inflation is up 8% in just the last quarter and that’s OVERALL. Some things, including cereal & milk are up over 10%, fuel for the car is a lovely $3 PER GALLON MORE than it was 3 years ago, there are 7 houses on my street alone in foreclosure. The jobless rate is at 5.5% and they’re recommending a $100 sweater for a child?

How out of touch can they be? The clothes aren’t even that cute!

So I and Anit-Establishment Grunge Kiki circa 1991 could not have been happier to hear that M is shopping for threads at the GW. Shows that she understands the greater state of the world she inhabits, that she recognizes the value of economy and the quest for personal style above blind devotion to mass marketed versions of acceptability. It speaks to her concern for the environment and her desire to use fewer resources by making use of items already in existence.

It says that she values personality above appearance and understands that anyone can buy a matched uniform of conformity from Macy’s but a TRUE fashionista searches for inspiration in all that she encounters.

Sets the bar WAY low for her allowance too.

Just saying.

Like, totally, like HOT and like, stuff. You know?

I know that you all think that I, like the late Coco Chanel, have unerroring good taste and impeccable style.

You’re right.

Except that sometimes, I am less Coco Chanel and more Chanel the Stripper from Single Wide #4. When those times occur, it’s only fair that I hold myself up for mockery just as I have mocked others that sinned against fashion before me.

Because that’s just good blogging, people.

So with out futher ado, I present to you

WHAT I WORE WHEN I DID YARD WORK, BECAUSE IT WAS 110* AND I WAS REALLY, REALLY HOT, EVEN THOUGH I KNEW 1988 WOULD CALL AND BE ALL “YOU’RE TWO DECADES LATE, LOSER”



Doesn't look to bad from that angle does it? I mean, SURE, I'm wearing a visor, with the wrong initials, that I bought a Wal-Mart for a dollar and which has a really sexy sweat ring. SURE I'm clearly wearing a sleeveless shirt and OKAY; I may kind of skipped the gym for like the last week. Or month. Or whatever. Shut up, JUDGERS. Really, though, it isn't that bad.

Well, my pickles, brace yourselves, because it just gets better



Yes, that's right, I'm wearing SHORTALLS. I know. I know, okay? But they have so many lovely pockets for my cell phone, iPod, pruning shears, hair tie and flask. They're like, USEFUL, okay? Like a mechanics jump suit thingie.

And it's not like I'm not wearing a shirt.



Oh. Wait. I wasn't wearing a shirt.

That MIGHT explain why the "ice cream" man made three trips around the block and almost hit the same parked car. Twice.

Is it just me?

or does Mimi's belly button look sad?

Of course, I would be too, if someone made me leave the house dressed like that.

Kodak Moment

My husband sent me on a mission to find this picture

last night, and while I was looking for it, I was killing myself laughing and then, I was sad. Because there was nothing quite like the thrill of picking up your roll of film from the drugstore, opening that packet right there and flipping through snapshots to find out if they came out as well as you hoped they would.

Not to mention the joy you feel when you find a photo like this
while you dig through the desk looking for last years property tax statement.

Or one like this

tucked into an old book to make you remember the smell of salt on your skin.

It makes me sad that technology will mean that M can just delete pictures like this
or this

to prevent them from being used against her later the way that I fully intend to use these pictures. (That's my sister EyeTest, I mean Kassie rocking the pink sweat-suit)

As I sat in the middle of my living room floor pulling out album after album I found myself remembering the time my twin & I "climbed" a mountain


(she dresses WAY better now) and how crazy and carefree we all were

how a summer day didn't mean being cooped up in an office


it meant getting high in the park.

I suddenly had a nearly overwhelming longing for another baby when I saw just how cute M was

BUT then I remembered she was a freakin' BRAT she was for about the first 13 years



a brat with a FIERCE sense of fashion, though

Just as I was finishing up, resolving to dig out my giant manual winding Canon from the closet I opened one last roll of film.

There was M's 7th birthday party. Twelve little girls and this guy

rocking out in my living room with a karaoke machine, the Josie & The Pussycat's CD and 36 inflatable fish. I smiled as I remembered how completely happy everyone was that day. Not one squabble, the birthday girl radiant with the idea that we would take her to a movie at 10pm that night, that she would get pizza for dinner, that everything she asked for she got. I look at the one picture of myself from that day, six silk flowers in my hair, I'm making a face at the camera, but you can see that I'm happy, that the day could not have been happier, more perfect.

My heart sank though, because I knew what was coming next. I kept flipping though that stack of pictures, marveling at how young you can look, how innocent. I traced my finger over M's smooth forehead and then flipped the picture. There was her birthday cake, only the candles visible in the over-dark photo. I should have looked away, should have stopped there, stuffing the rest of the pictures back into the envelope.

I didn't; instead closing my eyes and laying that photo face down I sucked in my breath as I looked at the next picture, taken just two days later.

M's little face swollen and bloody as she lays hooked to tubes and machines, her blankie tucked beneath her comatose arm.

And I was grateful for the ability to delete pictures you don't want to ever see again.

Why I am going to Hell, reason 9,652

So my beloved Sister is getting married in September. She's very laid back and describes her wedding colors as "comfortable green". Yes, vague, I know. But nice. Because some of us (me) do not look good in all shades of green so we've got the option to find a color that suits us.

She's also allowed each of the bridesmaids to find their own style dress, shoes of their choice, etc. Basically, she's a bridal consultants nightmare. She even made a "floral designer" sputter with indignation when she said, "Oh, I don't care, whatever's easiest". EASIEST? Has this girl NEVER been to a wedding? There is NO easiest when it comes to wedding, there is only "How many hoops can I make my friends jump through before someone strangles me with their butt-bow?".

So, in an effort to make her wedding as dramatic as possible her mother-in-law texts her everyday to nag her about what shoes the bridesmaids will be wearing. *I* am wearing red patten peep toe platforms. With sparkles and *maybe* a slot in the toe bed for cash. Just saying.
But this isn't about my shoes. This is about the damn dress. So y'all remember when I was searching all over hells half acre for this dress in green?

Yeah, well it doesn't exist. Anywhere. So I figured if I couldn't have the dress I wanted I'd do my very best impression of a Long Island Princess in this dress instead;

Cute right? So I find the color that looks best with the dresses already been ordered and march my happy ass into the nearest David Bridal to order it. Except you need to have ordered in 23 weeks in advance. I (rudely) point out the color just became AVAILABLE less than a week before. They do not care. I order this dress instead in the picturesque color of fern;



IT will be here in mid August.

I'm pretty pleased with myself thinking that I'm all done with that horrible, mind sucking place BUT NO. I have to go order M's JR bridesmaid dress. SIGH.

So back I go. I wait in line for 25 minutes while the ONE sales girl working the front has a long involved discussion about canapes and shrimp boats and the virtue of the color "serenity" over "smoke" when at LONG FUCKING LAST it is my turn.

The following conversation ensues;

BridalGirl - Is the um, like, BRIDE registered here?
Me - No. But I should be in your system. I ordered a dress on Saturday
(side note; see how I am being MOSTLY polite?)
BG - You, like, need ANOTHER dress?
Me - It's not for me. It's for my daughter
BG - OH, I was like OMG, Who needs TWO dresses, even I don't, um, LOVE weddings that like much
Me - Me either. My 13 year old does though
BG - LIKE OMG, you look like so YOUNG to have a teenager!
Me - I gave birth when I was 10

(uncomfortable silence)
(nervous laughter)
(uncomfortable silence)

What? Like you wouldn't have done the same thing!

HELLLLLLO Nurse!

Of the many things that I agree to do, but don't really want to do, I managed to allow myself to get signed up for the state bowling tournament.

I do not love bowling, but I do love drinking, so I've bowled in a league for most of the last 6 years. While I suck tremendously at the "sport", I enjoy that fat, old, drunk, lazy people can play right along with the pros. Try that with sumo wrestling.

I also love that you can wear pretty much whatever the hell you want. Because chances are you're still going to be better looking that our local alley nut case whom we call Wiggy. See, Wiggy thinks that a wig, a string bikini top and/or short-shorts are acceptable attire. I have proof;

Oh, sorry. I should have warned you.

So, anyway, you can see that this is not a sport that "fashion" is a real concern.

Now, I know that since it's a tournament, there are rules as to what is or is not acceptable. For example, in the past denim, shorts and printed tee-shirts have all been out. Fair enough. So I called ahead to verify that my white capri's would be okay. They were, so I planned accordingly. Since my pants were white and my ass not something the world needs exposure to, I brought a long tunic-style top with a v-neck and layered a tank underneath it.

The thing about boobs, especially big boobs, is you're pretty much going to always have cleavage unless you're wearing a turtleneck. Sometimes even then. I didn't think the twins were dangling too far out so I was pretty shocked when they asked me to leave and go change.

That's right.

My boobs got me thrown out of a bowling alley.

So I had about 10 minutes to find something else to wear. Normally, I would have just worn J's spare work short, but of course he had taken it out of his truck. I couldn't run home because we were 150 miles away. At it was 7am so no where was open. Except Walgreens.

I hop in the truck, race to Walgreens and fully intend to buy a tee shirt. Because Walgreens always has piles of tee shirts, right? ALWAYS. Stacks and STACKS of them at 5/$10 or something.

Except, of course, when you need a damn tee shirt. THEN they only have a handful. In childrens sizes. I haven't worn a children's size ANYTHING in about 27 years. Frantically, I wreck pile after pile of tiny, tiny tee shirts searching frantically for an adult size. THEY HAVE TO HAVE A DAMN ADULT tee shirt in here, I mutter under my breath, flinging aside minuscule shirt after minuscule shirt. WTF. I have exactly 3 minutes to find a damn shirt, buy it, drive to the alley, put it on and line up. Finally, there at the bottom is one single solitary child's XL undershirt.

I snatch it up, sprint to the checkout, throw some cash at Methuselah's mother and race back to the bowling alley. I shove other bowlers out of my way in a mad dash for the ladies, whip off my shirts and dubiously hold up my sausage casing. What the hell? I figure and put it on.

And I'll be a monkey's uncle if I wasn't able to get that sucker on.
Who'd have thought?

As you can see, though, it was a little...um...tight. And see-through. And TIGHT. I'm pretty sure the cleavage would have been less distracting than my impression of a naughty, naughty nurse/cocktail waitress, but rules are rules, right?

(That's me, drinking beer at 8a.m., in a child's tee shirt, while surrounded by elderly people gambling their retirement and eating fried food. Which makes a good argument for America being the best country in the whole damn world.)

I know Victoria's Secret

Since some people, who I won’t name, but who sometimes answer when you call “Kati” finds great amusement in my nana chones, I decided to branch out; to go where my booty has never gone before, to trade in my gigantic cotton drawers for something more…less than.

But the thing is; I’m also HELLA cheap when it comes to things that I’m just going to throw away in a month or so. So while the Gestating Mrs. Smooth spent $50 to swath her nether regions when we were shopping this weekend, I spent MY lunch money on bras. And by my lunch money I mean $100. BUT I saved $100, because it was buy 2 get 2 free and at $50 each a girl needs to make sacrifices right? So while the twins are enjoying their new digs, my heinie was feeling a bit neglected.

And that just won’t do, because I’m exceedingly vain. (I’m sure you hadn’t noticed though.). In my vanity, though, I believe in equal opportunity. Fat, white, and vain all over; that’s me. But I digress.

Chones, like bras are a BIG DEAL to shop for. It’s not like jockey shorts where every pair is pretty much like the last. My lady bits need comfort and breathability. Not to mention I hate tight leg holes and exposed elastic. Also, they need to be pretty. And not give me a wedgies. And they should match with my bras because WHAT IF I’M IN AN ACCIDENT? My Gram made it exceedingly clear to us girls when we were young and impressionable that good underclothes were a sign of good breeding and GOD FORBID you were wearing that pair that is always left on laundry day because if you’re in an accident, they might not treat you and you will DIE. All because you are wearing sagged out faded skivvies with stretched out elastic and a wee little hole where they got caught in your zipper that one time when you had to cop-a-squat in the bushes during OzFest.

The stress was almost too much. I had a quick meeting with the Crown and braced myself to gird my loins. Bravely, I strode into that French Store and marched into the “Intimates” department. (Side note, since WHEN do pajama pants and socks with kittens qualify as “Intimate Apparel”? I’m pretty sure NO ONE gets “intimate” offers while wearing giant green knit pants with frolicking puppies on them.) But I am undaunted! I am determined! Nevermore will I do my impression of Mary Katherine Gallagher in the gyno’s office.

I WILL BE SEXY, goshdangit.

The problem with this of course is the sheer number of choices.

Do I want hipsters? Ew. NO. Next thing you know, I’ll have blue hair and write Emo poetry about my tight, tight pants and angsty-love-drama. Not going down THAT road.

So, then, maybe bikinis? ARE YOU F-ING kidding? Isn’t the whole point of panties to keep my bits safe from zippers and flaming hot car interiors? I’ve seen strippers with more fabric on then those provide. And STRING BIKINI’S? HAHAHA. DUDE. For reals; “String bikini” and “plus sizes” shouldn’t be even THOUGHT OF in the same sentence.

Of course, there are thongs, or as we refer to them around our house, “butt floss”. They’re useful in their own right, so okay. Those I can do. No panty lines…that’s a good idea, right? No reason to advertise my fondness for Hanes Her Way cotton sensibles all the time, is there? In the basket they go.

I’m feeling pretty victorious right about then. I’ve bought underpants that would make my mother avert her eyes and cause my father to say “SIIIIGGGGHHH” really loudly and then proclaim his ill luck for have spawned “girl children” if I ever were to mention them in his presence (actually, any mention of underwear in my fathers presence causes his beard to go one shade whiter.)

Can you wear thongs everyday though? Won’t you like, get a butt rash in the summer from the swamp-ass that goes unchecked by cottony goodness?

Seems dangerous.

And not GOOD dangerous, either. Bad dangerous. Fondle a baby bear in Mama-Grizzlies sight dangerous. EAT FOOD FROM A STREET VENDER dangerous.

And I? I am not that brave.

I am, however, persistent. So up the aisle I go.

There before me were these super adorable little lacy bits called “boy shorts”. Have you seen those? They’re like boxers, except for girls! And look at that adorable model! She looks so cozy! Very sporty-hot. Casual, yet sexy in a girl-next-door kind of way. YES! That’s just what I’m looking for! SCORE.

Yes, I just said “score!” like it was 1989, what are you going to do about it? I also say “awesome” and “super” like I just escaped from the set of the Brady Bunch and I LIKE IT.

Right, where was I? Ah, yes. Boy Shorts. Okay, so they had about 11,000 different brands, colors, fabrics, sizes, patterns, elastic/no-elastic and so on permeations. This, people, is why girls never do anything alone. WE NEED INPUT. The comfort of our secret selves is of UTMOST importance, am I right? There is just no way I am going to spend all day yanking at my undercarriage. That just won’t do.

I soldier on.

Into the cart goes a pair labeled “low rise boy briefs in NEW stretch lace”. That sounds good right? Low rise means they won’t hang out of my ever expanding collection of gap-waisted jeans. Stretch lace; that sounds practical, yet attractive. I’m feeling pretty good about it now. The cotton, though, oh damn you comfy, comfy cotton. Into the basket goes a pair of sensible black cotton ones.

I rush right home and wash them; even though it’s not laundry day yet, won’t be laundry day for about 4 more months. Carefully, I fluff them dry and fold them neatly.

Oooh! I am so excited!

No longer will I be hindered by the Hindenburg of lingerie! I am TURNING OVER A NEW LEAF. A fashionable, DARING, leaf. A leaf that will lead to OTHER leaves and next thing you know? Featured guest of Oprah.

First thing this morning I hop into the shower. Which pair will I wear? They better look good bronzed for the museum in my honor, I’m thinking. I select those sultry black stretch lace low rise goodies.

Gently, I slide them up over my hips, pausing to admire myself in the mirror. HELL YES! My ass looks FANTASTIC. I almost repeated the ass-photography exercise; I was so impressed with it. (Y’all can stop covering your eyes; I wouldn’t do that to you.)

I whistle my way through getting dressed, slip on my favorite jeans, step into my super cute brown heeled sandals, arms up and into a flirty summer top, comb the hair, on with the make up and I am SO FUCKING HOT I want to kiss myself.

Oh, but then.

You knew there would be a “but, then” didn’t you? Because there always is.

I am half way to work. It is already 100* at 7:30am.

And where are my precious lacy-bits?

UP MY DAMN ASS.

That’s right; they are wadded all the way up there like I am the Tri-State third-grade math champ.

Out of the truck and I’m doing the wiggle. You know the wiggle? That little half side step shimmy where you clench and unclench in a (futile) attempt to avoid having to go cave diving right in front of the boss? The wiggle that NEVER, EVER works?

Right.

Of course, I am NOTHING if not stubborn, so into the loo I go and fish those bad boys out and realign them. By the time I’ve made it to my office, my grandchildren are tasting polyester flowers.

By lunch time, I can floss my teeth with them. From the inside.

At two, I give up. Back to the ladies and off with the instruments of torture.

Lucky me, though, I listen to my Gram. In addition to her edicts that we should all own red bras (in case we need to flag a train), she also mandated that we have a ready supply of fresh panties to hand. So out to the truck and into the gym bag I go, happily retrieving enough melon-colored cotton to block the sun from shining in Africa.

I guess this is why my mother always told me to never give into peer pressure.

So, Miss Kati, mock away. Sticks and stones may break my bones, but I’ll be go to hell if I’ll give up my granny panties.

Bootyliciousness? Not so much.

In my life, I've learned many things. Like; it's hard to take a picture of your own ass.

Now, you may be thinking (indeed, I hope you are!) WHY THE HELL ARE YOU TAKING A PICTURE OF YOUR OWN ASS? and I will be thinking why are you shouting at me? But then, I will answer you by saying, because I wanted to know if these jeans made my ass look fat. And I can not see my own ass. Because it is behind me. Now, I tried many, many things. Like standing on a chair to look in the bathroom mirror, asking the dog, and checking my reflection in the patio doors all to no satisfactory conclusion, because the bathroom mirror made it look flat, the doors made it look bulbous and lumpy and the dogs said that it smells interesting so who cares? You know who cares? ME. Because we all know that I'm obsessed with myself. It's part of my charm.

So then I thought, Thystle, (that's what I go by around here, is Thystle), Why don't you just take a picture! Oh! Good Idea, Thystle! I thought, and I congratulated myself on this novel approach. But do you know, I spent a half hour and took twenty pictures and not ONE showed my entire ass? I think it's because my arms are too short. Yeah. That must be it. It's not POSSIBLY that my ass is too wide for the cell phones view finder. Right? (any time now peeps; I can hear the crickets....)

Sure, I could have used the self timer mode, but I have no idea how it works. And do you think I can find the manual? If you thought yes, you're wrong because I can not. I can find the manual for the first phone I had, I can find the manual for ex-roomates ex-phone, but not the one for my phone. So now, I have twenty blurry pictures that show the back pocket of my jeans and a sinking feeling that my ass is in fact bigger than Rosie's. Her ass is all over the place, but it fits in the picture. You know whose ass I have? Big Momma's. You know, Eddie Murphy in fat old lady drag? Yeah. Except not black. I think. I can't see it so I don't know.

The whole thing was very depressing. So I bought new shoes. Red Shoes. Shiny red shoes. Because there's nothing that a good pair of red shoes can't fix. Now, if I could just get that house of my sister....

If Wishes Were Belly Buttons

I just signed up for a blog group called “The Group Blogging Experience”. Every week you get a topic. This week is “Wishes”, so here goes.

I wish I had a beautiful belly button.

I know, I know. It seems a little vapid. But I’ll explain. Promise.

If I had a beautiful belly button, it would mean I lost the weight that I should have lost years ago.

Which would mean that I finally managed to get off my ass and make it to the gym regularly.

Probably because I solved my inability to get motivated.

So chances are I have gotten my depression in check finally after nearly 20 years.

In all likelihood, that means, I’m at least content with life. Maybe even happy.

Therefore, I’m probably ALSO doing all the other things that I always say I will, but never do. Like finishing that novel. Or learning to knit. Or you know, cleaning my house more frequently than I have birthdays.

If I had a beautiful belly button, I’d probably stop saying mean things about people. People like super models, for example, whose lives are OBVIOUSLY very difficult. You know, with all the standing around being pretty and waiting for it to be time to eat their daily raison.

If I had a beautiful belly button, I might wear a belt. Then my ass crack wouldn’t hang out of my pants, causing massive traffic pile ups when the sun glints off of it.

If I had a beautiful belly button, I’d give to charity. Dozens of fat orphans would have designer jeans and adorable tops to lift themselves out of poverty with. They’d probably go on to get jobs, go to college and do something amazing and meaningful they might not otherwise have accomplished. Like curing cancer! Or maybe bring about world peace! Or make gas affordable again so that I don’t have to consider selling my plasma to be able to afford a quarter of a tank. Or maybe they would invent a way to teleport from place to place so that we completely reduce our dependency on fossil fuel for transportation, thereby reducing the effects of global warming and SAVING THE WORLD.

So that’s why I’m wishing for a beautiful belly button.

It’s for the good of all mankind, really. It’s very selfless of me; NOBEL even.

I know. You’re welcome.