The Carrie Bradshaw Rule of Fashion

worst5When you put on something and think to yourself, “am I too old to wear this,” it’s probably one of the most fucked up moments of life … especially if you just turned 30 like I did. Because when did I get to the point in my life when I thought I was too old for ANYTHING

For me, it was when I threw on a black choker. You know … like the ones all the Jenners and Hadids are rocking (sign number one), and the ones I wore in the early-90s? I took one look in the mirror and immediately saw myself as Josie Grosie from Never Been Kissed, pretending to fit in with all the “rad” high school girls … terribly.

Like thinking about the fact that I could potentially wear the same outfits as my 14-year-old niece honestly makes me physically ill. For me AND for her.

But I didn’t take it off. Nope. I kept that sucker on. Mostly because I was mad at myself for even thinking something like that (pshh I’m timeless :::hair flip::: also, where is my Retinol eye cream?), and because I live life by the “Carrie Bradshaw Rule of Fashion.”

What is the Carrie Bradshaw Rule of Fashion you say? Well gather ’round kids. It’s time for a Life Sucks In A Strapless Bra lesson on life. 

Carrie Bradshaw was not some 20-something frolicking around NYC in her Jimmy Choos. Oh no. That bitch was in her 30s for most of Sex and the City (I feel like people overlook that fact). Which is SO refreshing, because now I feel like all we see are 20-somethings living off their parents money and seeing how they can out-hipster one another whilst “figuring it all out” :::cough cough GIRLS cough::: 

Carrie, Miranda, Samantha, Charlotte … all in their 30s during Sex and the City. Which oddly makes me feel so much better about what I have going on and not going on in my life right now.

So back to the Carrie Bradshaw Rule of Fashion … she had no rules. She made up the rules as she went. 

She wore shit like this:

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Oh and did we forget about this:

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And HELLO … the Cafeteria look where she met the comic book dude!?

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Did she look in the mirror and say, “hmm am I too mature to rock a belt around my middriff?” “I wonder if my 14-year-old niece and her friends are wearing the same thing?” NO. She didn’t give a shit. She made it her own, and made it work. Age was never a factor in her outfits. They were fun, creative, and expressed who she was as a person. And dammit, isn’t that what style is all about?

Chokers are fleeting fashion … I know that for a fact. But right now they fit into my style aesthetic. Will I go around rocking mom jeans and white Adidas Shell Toes? Well that is something that just does not fit into my style profile … sorry Hadid- and Jenner-lookalikes. 

So next time you think you’re too old to rock something, rely on the Carrie Bradshaw Rule of Fashion. As long as you aren’t rocking ties over t-shirts a-la Avril Lavigne … I think we are good. Because that shit is never okay.

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I Kind Of Hate Cat Marnell

Screen Shot 2017-02-21 at 1.59.39 PMI want to hate Cat Marnell. I really do. She even warns us in the beginning of her memoir, “How to Murder Your Life,” that we will probably end up hating her and her stupid entitled world she lives in. And I wanted to. SO badly. Typical rich kid with daddy issues gets hooked on drugs. How could this be entertaining? 

But it was. So much so that I finished “How to Murder Your Life” in like 48 hours. Any free spec of free time I had was dedicated to Cat Marnell’s wild ride filled with drugs, fashion, and bad decisions. And when it was over, I craved more. To the point where I ended up stalking Cat on Twitter and Instagram for a stupid amount of time, gasping over how thin she was (normal, right?).

I’ll be honest, apart of me hates Cat, for nothing more than pure selfish reasons. I, once upon a time, dreamed of picking up after college, moving to NYC, and working at a glossy magazine. But alas, due to the economy sucking, and being stupidly broke, that dream did not pan out (#noregrets)

So reading about her effortless move to NYC, her parent’s paying for her lifestyle, and just falling backwards in a drug haze into the glamorous world of magazines was only slightly infuriating to me. Slightly. Okay a lot. Maybe more than a lot :::shakes fist::: Arrrrggghhhh.  

And then I kind of adored her. Because of her honesty and self acceptance (also … Jesus Christ this is SUPER hard to write about without giving away any spoilers … ugh). But, without saying too much, she starts living her true self and gets to write about it … no matter how fucked up it was or how much it made you cringe, she was getting paid to write her truth. 

Cat paints such a vivid picture of her drug-filled existence that sometimes I felt like I was in the corner of her room watching her shoot up some sort of drug. I felt like I could reach out and smack the needle out of her hand as I took a break from rummaging through her designer-stuffed closet to say, “STOP DOING DRUGS, YA DUMMY… but may I borrow this Balenciaga clutch?”

It’s really every writers dream to be able to get paid to write about what they know best (for me it would probably be black outfits, cats, and wine). And when you write about something you know, and are passionate about, that writing becomes magnetic … which is what happened here in Cat’s memoir. 

Sometimes it’s nice to jump inside the lives of others, no matter how messy they are (and trust me, Cat’s is like the messiest mess of all time). I kept waiting for the part where she dies … but had to stupidly remind myself, “self, she wrote this fucking book, clearly she somehow survived and may or may not be bullet-proof.” I mean, for the love of God, whose boss sends them … DAMMIT ... spoiler. Nevermind.

So if Life Sucks In A Strapless Bra had a rating system for books, I would give Cat Marnell’s memoir like 4 bras out of 5 (guess I don’t hate her THAT much).

And also, don’t do drugs. Cat did an excellent job of making a drug habit look disgusting and horrifying, so if you were thinking about taking up a drug habit, this is a MUST READ for you. 

Also don’t do drugs, ya fucking idiot. 

Self Care

parks-and-recreation-meditation-ron-swansonThe world is a God damn dumpster fire. That’s really all I can say. I literally walked upstairs to pee the other night, and by the time I came back to my couch, the acting Attorney General had been fired for not swallowing a fist full of Trump’s crazy pills. Uhhh…  

Logging on to social media is like immersing yourself in an angry crowd of towns folk trying to bring to justice a bunch of witches. That is the world right now. So many people (myself included) are so angry, sad, outraged, in shock, and God damn rightly so since we are all fucked, unless you are a privileged white dude. 

I realize “self care” has become such a buzzword as of late. And for a while I thought it was just an excuse to slack off and schedule a massage for no reason. I didn’t realize what it meant or how important it was until I found myself in the middle of a good ol’ fashioned breakdown. 

My anxiety was through the roof, my eyes were leaking, I was FEELING things (what the eff!?). I just wasn’t me, and that’s a scary thing to realize. I’m not saying it was all Donald Trumps’ fault, but his dumb ass DEFINITELY had something to do with it (#thanksDonald). Because when you immerse yourself in that much negative shit, there is really no other outcome. 

While in no way, shape, or form would I consider myself even CLOSE to a “self help guru” (hi, I’m a hot fucking mess sprinkled with anxiety and self loathing), I am figuratively stepping outside of the insane, angry crowd of people to “get some fresh air.” Because sometimes it’s too much. 

One person can’t save the world, unfortunately. What you CAN focus on saving is your sanity. Because we need sane people to help fight this madness going down in our country. 

Henceforth where this “self care” comes in. Listen to your body. If you want to punt your television every time you watch the news, then stop for a bit. If you can’t take the crazy loons screaming on social media about how everything is awful and underlining another horrific thing Trump has done, log off.

For example I’ve been keeping my phone in my purse for a few hours after I get home from work. It’s torture, and I can only imagine it is like what a drug addict goes through when they can’t get a fix, but I’m trying, dammit. 

After hour two I like run to my phone thinking 50 people texted me, when in reality only a food delivery service texted me a coupon code for my next order. Awesome. 

I’m back on Pinterest, because pinning shit soothes my soul. I watch the Food Network because I find it relaxes me (unless Guy Fieri is on or some kids baking bullshit). I have like 45 books that need reading, so I’m going to do that this weekend. Binge watching TV is cool. Like right now I’m on Crazy Ex-Girlfriend (it’s so good, but I wish they would stop singing … it makes me uncomfortable).

I mean, we are all different weird birds, so I can’t tell you how to define your “self care.” Just don’t feel like an asshole because you’ve treated yourself to a bottle of wine and you’re soaking in a juicy Us Weekly instead of joining your fellow people and protesting for our rights. 

Just don’t tune out completely … because that would be dumb and I’m pretty sure if we all tune out, we are for sure going to die. Kay, thanks. 

Everything in moderation, right? Fake self help guru OUT :::drops mic:::

I Know Why Melania Trump Looked So Miserable…

Screen Shot 2017-01-24 at 1.43.03 PMI’m seeing all of these articles about how miserable Melania Trump looked at the inauguration, and how people are concerned for her well being because of it. 

Umm I know why she was miserable (besides the obvious, but I won’t go there right now). Girlfriend was rocking pointy 4-5 inch stiletto suede heels. No platform. No support. Just straight up, painful ass 4-5 inch stilettos. They looked fantastic, but my GAWD. The pain.

She stood in them. She walked all the way down Pennsylvania Ave in them. She hauled herself up the White House steps in them. I mean … sweet mother of ouch. I was cringing just watching it. 

How she kept it together is beyond me. At the end of the night before the inaugural ball, I saw a man in the armed forces escorting her into the White House. Probably because all of her toes were numb and she was sucking back tears of pain.  

If I were her, it would have taken everything in my being not to whip off the shoes, punt them, and strut into the White House barefoot as First Lady for the first time (hence why I would be the world’s worst First Lady. Please, whomever I date, don’t be presidential). 

I don’t care who you are. First Lady. Queen Elizabeth. Shoes like that are not comfortable, nor will they ever be. I don’t care if they have a red sole… at the end of the day it means bupkis. Our feet just shouldn’t be confined and elevated like that. It’s weird when you think about it. 

And I don’t believe designers go, “oh, you’re rich and famous? Let me sprinkle some magical dust pheasants and poor people don’t know about in the shoes so you can hop, skip, and jump in them all the day long.” No. 

For the love of God, I wore 4 inch heels sans a platform to a party two weeks ago and danced my ass off and guess what? My big toe is STILL numb. STILL. That can’t be good, right? So I can only imagine the agony Melania must be feeling. Although, bitch probably has an army of people to massage them whenever she wants. But don’t mind me, I’ll be over here praying to Jesus I regain feeling back in my big toe, and secretly freaking out that it is going to fall off, no big deal. 

So for all of you sooooo very concerned over the well being of our First Lady, shimmah. I’m pretty sure her misery stemmed from poor shoe choices (weeeeeelllll and being mar … no. No, Kate, fight it, fight it).

We’ve all been there. I mean who hasn’t shot their partner a look of death through the agony of their feet being shoved into a tight, uncomfortable point, or who, through grinded teeth, exclaimed, “I’m going to fucking scream if I can’t take these damn shoes off right now.” 

So first lesson for the First Lady, pull a Michelle Obama and rock some flats when you’ve got a long day ahead of you. She had the right idea. True, flats aren’t as sexy as heels, I get it, but give yourself a damn break. Ain’t no shame in your game, girl. 

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Tomorrow Is Going To Suck… So Shoes

Screen Shot 2017-01-19 at 12.39.58 PMIf you’re anything like me, tomorrow you will be sticking your fingers in your ears screaming, “LA LA LA LA LA, I CAN’T HEAR YOU,” as you avoid all TV and Internet coverage of the inauguration. Sigh … this is a sick dream, right?

Anywho … shoes. Over the past few months I think everyone has lost their minds a bit, and for the sake of shoes, I think it is an amazing thing. 

Want lightning bolts all over your booties? Done. Want to look like a sparkle bomb vommed all over your feet? Sold. All of it is kind of genius.

I recently purchased these pink flowery booties with a lucite heel (because … lucite heel … see above). The pattern looks like a print you would find on a couch rotting away in a vintage store, but I couldn’t resist. 

I was fully prepared for them to look heinous in person, but I was pleasantly surprised. And the best part is they give me this sick amount of joy (even though my feet are still a little numb from dancing in them this past weekend … that’s normal, right?)

So, if you’re feeling like the world is probably going to end starting tomorrow and women are on the verge of losing all of their rights and everything is just fucking awful, buy yourself a pair of shoes you normally would just look at and say, “I LOVE those, but where would I wear them?” Because those are the shoes that will make you smile the most, even in the worst of times. 

Need some inspiration? Welp, ma babies … Life Sucks In A Strapless Bra is here.

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Why I Take Birth Control

il_fullxfull.908370173_k35u-1I started taking birth control because I was violently depressed and my OBGYN thought it would help balance out my hormones. I didn’t start taking it to whore it up or to get jiggy without the consequences. I did it for my mental health.

And you know what? It helped. I cried every day. Every single day. I would come home from work, sit on my steps, and ball my eyes out. I was like that sad little egg in the anti-depressant commercial.

And once I started taking the pill, I felt more balanced. My mood felt more stable. And it was all because my hormones were out of wack. I would probably still be in the fetal position without it.

And now, because some rich, power-hungry bastards want to stick it to Obama, my mental health and my reproductive rights are at stake. Over a dick-measuring contest of what party has more power, the first heads on the chopping block are the ones of innocent women. Because, you know, we all BEGGED for vaginas. Tell me, in what world does this make sense?

Raped and pregnant because of it? Gotta have that baby. Get pregnant accidentally (because humans make mistakes)? Gotta have that baby. Want to prevent pregnancy until you’re responsible enough to care for one (you know like have money, a home, a job)? Nope. Gotta have that baby. Oh, you had a baby? Good luck getting insurance. OH! and the cost of raising a child just rose 1,000%. So go fuck yourself.

By taking away important institutions like Planned Parenthood and making birth control more expensive, we are just making existing problems worse. STDs will increase. Accidental pregnancies will go up. Over population will be a real thing, which causes all sorts of other problems like pollution (which will go unnoticed since no one in the Trump administration believes global warming is a thing … awesome).

Hate to tell you this, but taking birth control doesn’t constitute you as a whore, which for a lot of conservatives I feel like it does. Especially since you are trying to take away no co-pay birth control from 55 million women. #HoFoSho

For some women it stops painful cysts from occurring. For others it wards off horrific cramps each month. For ladies like me, it keeps us balanced and sane. And then there are the people who are in a committed (or not committed) relationship who just don’t want to end up barefoot and preggo living in a van down by the river because they weren’t ready.

Republicans and conservatives, are we bothering you? Do we bother you when we get screened for breast cancer? Do we bother you when we take care of our reproductive health, checking for STDs and numerous types of common cancers like uterine, ovarian, and cervical, just to name a few? Do we bother you when we are just trying to be responsible and controlling when we want to reproduce, since $233,610, the average cost of raising a child, doesn’t fall from trees last time I checked? Do uteruses and ovaries dance in your heads at night?

For a while I felt like we as women had come so far. I mean we have, don’t get me wrong. But now there is this eerie feeling like we are embarking on an era of rocking a scarlet letter on our blouses every time we have sex. It’s all so frightening.

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I want … no, I demand, single-minded, rich assholes who have penises (ie creepy ol’ man river below) to get off my reproductive and mental health rights. Because until you’ve bled from your vagina, you don’t know. You’ll NEVER know, mother fucker.

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And pregnancy isn’t a pre-exisiting condition, ya jagweeds. Tell me if that would be the case if men could birth babies. Give me a fucking break.

Life has never sucked in a strapless bra more … am I right?

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That Time Topshop Made Me Feel Like A Cow

tbs_movies_meangirls_645x360_081920110109I’ll admit it. I have let myself go a little bit. Because I love French fries, and it was the holidays, and I was sick, and blah blah blah, and at the end of the day I gave zero fucks and ate what I wanted.

My clothes still fit … I just feel gross and I am fully aware that there is some extra weight where there shouldn’t be. I’m owning it. I said it. It’s out in the world. 

I didn’t feel too bad about it until I treated myself to a little shopping trip for my birthday at Nordstrom. Topshop makes up a good portion of the “trendy” section, which I wasn’t complaining about because I heart Topshop

…until we got intimate in the dressing room. 

I had pulled 3 pairs of pants to try on, all ranging from sizes 10-12 (I’m normally a size 10, but knew Topshop runs small, so I decided to go up a size, just in case). Cute, ripped up skinny jeans. Gimme. 

The 10 barely went over my ankles. So I was like, okay, I get it, their sizes are wonky, I’ll suck it up and make the 12 work. Because French fries rule everything around me and this is where I am in life. 

The 12 barely went past my God damn knees. What in the living fuck? A big part of me wanted to throw myself in the corner of the fitting room in the fetal position, rocking back and forth crying hysterically listening to “In The Arms of an Angel.” I all of a sudden couldn’t even make eye contact with myself in the mirror because I was just straight up disgusted. 

And the kicker of all of this … 12 is the biggest size they had in Topshop pants at Nordstrom. I felt like Regina George trying on her formal dress after eating all of those Kalteen bars … “mmm yeah we don’t carry your size, maybe try Sears?” 

I didn’t even want to shop anymore. Even though I had found some cute tops that I adored, none of it was satisfying to me. None of it. I just felt fat, and gross, and not worthy of Topshop. And I kind of wanted an entire bottle of wine, but that was neither here nor there. 

And you know what? That is complete and utter bullshit. My mom quickly reminded me that the last time, months and months ago, I had the same run in with Topshop. I tried some shit on and all it did was make me feel bad about myself. 

Clothing should not make you feel bad about yourself. It should be a fun expression of who you are. Not a reminder that, mmm yeah, you don’t fit within our dumbass size ranges and maybe you should just eat salad for the rest of your life, you damn heifer. 

I think “plus size” is complete and utter nonsense. People treat it like a disease. Ooohh you gained an extra 10 pounds? Shucks, looks like we have to send you out to Plus size pasture. Cue the lightning bolts. 

Clothing companies, Topshop in particular … you are there to make women feel good about themselves. And when you don’t go past a certain size, or when certain sizes go from “normal” to “curvy” or “plus” … it doesn’t always make people feel great. Just because someone is over a certain size doesn’t mean they need to be in a different class of clothing. Just sayin’…

So Topshop, your tops are cute, your accessories are lovely, but your pants can suck it. Get it together and start catering to all women of all sizes, even the ones that love French fries a little more than others. A size is a size. Integrate them, shall we? 

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