A Hot Mess Runs Her Errands

IMG_3411You know the saying, “always dress like you’re about to see your worst enemy”? Well, as a lady in her 30s who loathes running errands, I subscribe to the saying, “dress like you give zero fucks because you want to get this shit done as quickly as possible.”

If my enemies saw me in “running errands” mode, they would do a victory lap. Stores are hot. Most people are rude, especially in the grocery store. Henceforth, most of the time, I don’t put in a lot of effort. Want to grab drinks? I’ll look like a million bucks… well… maybe like $100,000. Need shit to make dinner? I may look a little rough.

Quite frankly, I’m not sure when I stopped caring about what I looked like whilst running errands. Because I remember as a teenager, I wouldn’t even go get the mail without a full outfit and face of makeup on, because GOD forbid my crush would bike past my house or something.

So let me paint you an unfortunate picture:

  • No shower (calm down, I usually shower later)
  • No makeup (I really only check to make sure I don’t have black smeared all underneath my eyes)
  • Rosacea at full glow
  • Hair either under a hat, barely brushed, or up in a messy bun (and I’m not one of those girls who can do an effortlessly chic messy bun, I usually try and then have strands of hair poking out every which way)
  • Leggings, because the idea of real pants exhausts me when I’m just trying to get out the door
  • A random top – like for example I threw on a fleece the other day, realized it was inside out, and did not amend the issue (photo evidence above… it was too good not to photograph)
  • No bra
  • Converse sneakers
  • Sunglasses

I feel very blessed it’s wintertime… well, YOU should feel very blessed it’s wintertime, because a chic coat is the best distraction from a hot mess look. A winter hat, cute coat, and sunglasses? You think I look so stylish with a side of rosacea, right? Well, it’s because the sweatshirt I’m wearing, which happens to have Diet Coke stains on it, topped with a thick layer of dog fur, with my taas fully unsupported, is hidden from your eye balls.

I think I trick myself into believing it’s okay leaving the house looking somewhat homeless by pretending I’m just like a celebrity, dressed all comfy without makeup on, trying not to be noticed by my swarm of fans at the airport. Welp, I’m the farthest thing from a celebrity. And I don’t see what would stop Carol from 10th grade chemistry class, who sees me in Wegmans for the first time after 15 years, from coming over and painfully reuniting.

So I raise my glass to you ladies in your Lululemons, looking all put together and fabulous while I creep past you in the produce section looking like the Hunchback of Notre Dame who escaped from her bed and binge watch. Especially the ones with kids. How the fuck do you care for children AND manage to make yourself look flawless out in public? I mean, serious props to those ladies.

I don’t think we always need to be put together. Mostly because it’s EXHAUSTING. Why do I need to shower, curl my hair, style a cute outfit, and put on a full face of makeup when I just need God damn chicken breasts? It’s one thing if it makes you feel good to do so, it’s another when you’re doing it to please others. I don’t care who judges me, I don’t get glam for the grocery store. I suppose this is one of those rare and mystical things about getting older.

For the ones who are like me, who give zero fucks about what they look like whilst running necessary errands, I would say high five me or something if you see me out, but let’s be real, neither or us want to make eye contact with anyone, so a silent salute will have to do.

Let’s Try This Again…

cropped-kate1v4-2.jpgI really didn’t want to write a “LIFE SUCKS IN A STRAPLESS BRA IS BACK, BABY,” post because I’ve written and posted this oh so many times, even I’m like, “seriously… AGAIN?! See you in a year, bitch :::eye roll:::.” I write a post. I’m like, “that should suffice for a bit.” Then a year goes by without one word written. Why? I mean no one wants to hear my bullshit excuses.

So why am I giving this a shot again? Because resolutions… DUH. No, truthfully I think resolutions are actual nonsense. No one cares that you’re doing “dry January,” Carol.

Everything in moderation, people. But I digress.

In all seriousness, when I don’t write, when I don’t have that outlet, I don’t feel like myself. And this little blog is apart of me now. It has been since I birthed it in 2011 (holy SHIT that was a long time ago… and yet I haven’t aged a day :::hair flip:::). And I happen to believe it’s incredibly important to focus and nourish the things and people who bring joy to your life. So I’m blowing off the dust, and nurturing my craft once again. Honestly, it makes my heart so happy.

It’s like a friendship that fizzled out, and you see something on Facebook Memories that reminds you, “you know what, that bitch was FUN… I should reach out.”

So that’s what I’m doing. I’m firing up the ol’ blogging machine, and giving this a whirl once again.

For now, I’m just REALLY looking forward to chatting with you about real life things like trying to put on a body suit whilst incredibly intoxicated. And having no shame about talking to anyone and everyone about your ovaries. Just a little taste of all things to come.

So follow along. Keep me honest. Write me really sincere comments like, “So you’re not comfortable with your giggly bits? Then hit the fucking gym, fat cunt,” (which was an actual comment I once received and it destroyed me/made my day… so thank you, Taylor, whomever/wherever you are).

But no… be kind, for real. I’m fragile.

 

 

 

 

 

I Learned To Ride A Bike At 31

Up until, oh I don’t know, August of 2018, I didn’t know how to ride a bike. Stop. Seriously stop reading. Let that sink in for a minute. I’ll give you a minute to regroup…

No, my parents were not neglectful jerks. They taught me. With a cute pink bike with glittery tassels on the handle bars and an adorable white whicker basket with plastic purple and pink flowers on the front.

I have such fond memories of them holding on to me, saying, “you got this, sweetie,” and riding up and down my block until the sun was setting, trying desperately to master the skill. But, my good ol’ social anxiety set in at age 7 and I was all, “I’m going to go inside and write and color forever,” and I never flung my leg over a bike again.

Until at the not so sweet age of 31 when I started to date a guy who lived and breathed for bike riding. He literally said, “bike riding is really important to me, Kate.” And I internally whispered to myself, “fuck.”

I bet you’re wondering how I got away with not riding a bike between the ages of 7 and 31? Yeah. Me too. I guess it was a lot of, “oh guys, I’ll meet you there” or “shoot, I’m in heels.” But you know, I don’t really remember being hassled much, so thanks, friends and family!

Let me tell you, it wasn’t embarrassing AT ALL telling him I couldn’t ride a bike (it was one of my finer mortifying moments in my life). Spoiler alert: he didn’t break up with me, so that was cool. He also didn’t believe me, because, “:::stupid man voice::: it’s just like riding a bike.” Right.

So, in the heat of summer, down the shore, in shorts and flip flops (because I also barely own sneakers… that’s a different story), I walked to a “quiet” part of the street so I could prove to my boyfriend the saying, “it’s just like riding a bike,” it complete and utter hogwash.

I flung my leg over the thing and immediately felt this surge of, “okay… okay… I got this.” But this “quiet” area he found for me to learn was in between two motels. And all of a sudden I felt like a sideshow act. Like the vacationers weren’t there to sit poolside and relax, but came for the week to witness an actual adult woman not know how to maneuver a bike.

The lesson ended with me not remembering how to break, internally freaking out that I was going to break my face, quickly flinging my foot down while I was still in motion, and horribly stubbing my toe. To which I hopped off the bike and said calmly (no I wasn’t), “I’m done. That’s it for today. I’m not giving up. But today I’m done. I’ll try again later (no I wasn’t).”

I had done the impossible. I proved to my patient and encouraging boyfriend that a person could, indeed, forget how to ride a bike. Tai from Clueless was right, except I wasn’t a virgin who couldn’t drive, I was a loser who couldn’t ride a bike. Way harsh, Tai, but accurate.

His words, “bike riding is really important to me, Kate” kept playing over and over in my head as I took my walk of shame and defeat. As a gaggle of kids rode by on bikes, I screamed, “Ohh yeah just ride along like it’s nothing. You think it’s SO easy. SOOOO easy,” a la Carrie Bradshaw when a guy bumped in to her on the street after her boyfriend broke up with her on a Post It.

We didn’t broach the topic again until we went on vacation together with my family. He went to go rent a surf board and a stand up paddle board (as one does), but also “surprised” me with a bike. “Hey, it’s here if you want to give it a try again.” (Nope)

But one morning, I gave the lesson another go (I must have had my vacation ritual of champagne before 10am). I got on, and with his words of encouragement, “keep peddling, don’t stop, you got this, just keep peddling,” I took tiny little baby steps to successfully riding without falling or stubbing my toe. In fact, I went around the block, a thank you :::hair flip:::.

I immediately ran into the house and was all, “MOM, MOM, did you see me?! I rode a bike without dying!” To which she responded unenthusiastically, “Kate, you’re 31.” 

For the rest of vacation, I was the one asking my boyfriend to go on bike rides… simply so I could scream at gaggles of kids riding, “HEY! LOOK AT ME! I’M DOING IT, TOO! YEAH. SUCK IT.” 

What can I say, my story is a lot like Oprah’s. Her talk show first went national when she was 32. I learned how to ride a bike when I was 31. I’ll be launching my own TV network shortly. Stay tuned…

 

Fashion Week: Is It A Bad Joke At A Funeral?

PREFACE: It’s been a while since I hit submit on a post. I don’t have an excuse. I’m not going to be all, “uhh writer’s block, and I suck… and Trump’s a dick hole so it’s HIS fault :::shakes fist:::… THAT’S why I haven’t written.” I mean all of those things are true AND valid, but alas I’m not going to do that. Now that we’ve covered that…

As I sit here on my couch, binge watching coverage of Hurricane Irma and stuffing my face with caramel and milk chocolate covered pretzels (yeah… they are tiny slices of heaven), I can’t help but have this super eery feeling like it’s the end of times. DACA, hurricanes destroying the country, everyone suddenly feeling like it’s 100% okay to be a full blown racist again, and the fact that Hillary Clinton is STILL not our President. I mean fuck us… right?

And now it’s fashion week. Usually I’m all about it. I stalk Twitter, I watch the live shows on my phone, and I’m pretty sure I’m the last standing Tidal member, because I originally downloaded the app to watch the Yeezy fashion shows and never really deleted it, so you’re welcome Jay z and Kanye West, you’re welcome. Enjoy my $9.99 a month.

Obsessed would be an understatement when it came to fashion week. It gave me joy and a sense of peace in the vainest way possible. I would sit there watching these beautiful fashions, dreaming of the day I would get to watch the shows live, and everything felt better.

But fashion week this year feels… trivial. And let me be very clear that it makes me want to vomit that I actually typed out that sentence. It just feels really fucked up for me to go on Twitter right now and tweet, “I would sell my mother’s soul for that Marc Jacob’s jacket #NYFW,” like I normally would, when Florida is about to get Day After Tomorrow-ed. I can really only compare it to loudly saying something inappropriate at a funeral.

I’m seeing these fantastic fashion folk I follow on Instagram showing how busy they are and how they plan to survive fashion week, and while I normally would be thinking, “you lucky bitch, I want your life… where did I go wrong?,” I’m kind of just like… “uuuuuuuuuhhhhhhhhh ssstttttttttoooppp.” Like I want to watch their fabulous stories of running from show to show with envy, but I’m watching between two fingers as I cringe.

I get it. It’s fashion week. It’s an institution and these very talented people worked tirelessly to put on these shows. They didn’t know Donald Trump would actually get elected, then would decide climate change wasn’t a thing, and then weirdly have 45 hurricanes destroy numerous cities in the US. I mean HOW could they know that?

We shouldn’t have to sit shiva just because the world is crumbling around us. But I needed the world to know I feel very uncomfortable oogling over the fashions this year. If you see me tweet anything about fashion week, in my brain I will be doing so, peering around an imaginary corner with binoculars, quietly whispering to myself, “Alexander Wang is a genius. Satan, here is my mother’s soul, now give me the entire collection.” Oh yeah… “#NYFW.” As I try to quietly crunch on my popcorn, trying not to make a sound. That’s how I will be tweeting, if I even decide to. Which again I probably won’t, because, like I said, I’m SUPER uncomfortable. Am I the only one?

Now that’s off my chest, I’m sincerely sending my love to everyone suffering in any way. Stay strong, kids.

Al Gore rules. PEACE. 

Why I’m Voting For Hillary Clinton

fcd2d4a962648dd631f26ab4f7e83dc7Preface: The Clinton campaign did not sponsor this post. This is my opinion and mine alone. You are entitled to yours, so before you start throwing pitch forks at me, remember I said that. 

A lot of people have been asking me why I’ve been so “politically charged” on social media lately. At first I was offended, but then realized, yep 96.7% of my social media content either has to do with cats or people who piss me off on my commute to and from work. Really no contesting that.

But yes, I have been rather “politically charged” lately. I mean how could you not be, especially if you have a vagina. And if you’re not, in the wonderful words of Kate McKinnon as Hillary Clinton, “bish, ya cray!” 

I am so proud to be sitting here as a woman in 2016 with rights, and a career, and a platform like this blog to write whatever the fuck I want without fear of getting burned at the stake.

Could you imagine if this was the 1950s?! 29. Single. Childless. With a career?! I would have been considered the lonely spinster lady who should probably be given lithium and committed. “Don’t go near Old Lady Kate’s house, kids, I hear she has 40 cats and builds forts out of crackers,” they would say about my 29-year-old single ass. 

Now it’s 2016 and we have a woman running for one of the most important jobs in ze world (every time I say “in the world” I have to talk like Celine Dion, sorry). But I don’t want you to think I’m voting for her just because of her anatomy or because “it’s time.”

There are so many reasons why I’m voting for her, and yes, some have to do with the fact that I believe as women, we can do anything men can do. And that it is a COMPLETE abomination that this is such a big deal that a “poor lil lady” is running for such a big job. GASP.

But most importantly, I’m voting for her because she is educated, smart, and has the experience to run this country. Bottom line. 

I have zero interest in being her friend (although if she’s interested in grabbing some tea or cocktails and chatting, I’m always available, Hillary, I love you. Hi.). I don’t want to read her emails. And I don’t want to see her health records, because quite frankly, we could all drop dead at any minute, so it doesn’t fucking matter. 

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So you can understand how angry I get when people say things like, “she’s a bitch.” “I can’t relate to her.” “She’s cold.” “She’s shady.” Okay, we aren’t electing our next best friend, here. This isn’t enter to become Paris Hilton’s next BFF (Jesus Christ, remember that nightmare?)

I don’t want to relate to her. Because that would mean she was on my level and then the whole country would go up in a flame of Chardonnay, and my cat Ellsworth would be on the American flag. Be above me, Hillary, PLEASE. I beg of you. You’re sooooo much smarter than everyone. Flaunt that shit.

She’s shady. Who the fuck isn’t?! Haven’t you ever blown off a friend and been all, “yeah, I’m sick, :::cough, cough:::” and done something else more fun sans friend? I’m TOTALLY guilty of that. Yeah, dude, that’s called being a shade ball. We’ve all had our moments. So don’t throw stones, ya dig

And politicians are notoriously shady. It’s like in the job description to have confidential convos in dark alleyways in DC. And quite frankly I think House of Cards is playing mind games with us. Even the perfect and lovely Obama family, who I adore. I can’t help but look at them side-eyed and be all, “Michelle and Barack, whatcho REALLY doin’ over there?” 

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And her husband. Former President Bill Clinton. I’m going to stop you right there. He was a straight up dog. That is correct. But guess what? Come real close because I want you to hear this loud and clear. HE’S NOT RUNNING FOR PRESIDENT. So would his gaggle of skanks from the 90’s please see themselves out?

GOD. :::shakes off rage::: 

Nothing makes me more enraged then a misogynistic, privileged, poor excuse for a man, and that doesn’t exclude Donald Trump. I have zero respect for anyone who supports or is willing to vote for a man who…

encourages his followers to scream things like, “kill that cunt!” and “revoke the 19th amendment!” at his rallies.

shames women and calls them liars for sharing that they were sexually assaulted, making it that much harder for them to tell their story and move on from their pain, no matter whom they were assaulted by. 

gropes women because he can. Wait, wait, no I’m sorry, I think the exact words were, “grabs them by the pussy.” I don’t even think that is possible. I’m pretty sure you cannot grab at a vagina like you can grab at a pair of balls, Mr. Trump. The anatomy just doesn’t work like that. I believe you were thinking of taas. Yeah. Taas. Kelly Ann Conway, please be sure to put on your to-do list, “explain to Mr. Trump the difference between a vagina and taas.”  Kay, thanks.

and comments on the shape, size, and style of a woman in the cruelest of ways. Because as much as he’s tried, no one is willing to help him create the “Ivanka Cookie Cutter Factory” where all women in ze world moving forward will look like his weirdly perfect daughter. 

:::Takes a big ol’ deep breath:::

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So these are a few reasons why I’m for Hillary Clinton, and why I’m so politically charged right now, for those of you who think it is so out of character for me (which it is, I’m not going to “front” as the kids say). 

I wish I could say vote for whomever you want, I really wish I could. But at this stage in the game, if you’re voting for Donald Trump, I’m straight up judging you, and I don’t care who knows it. 

I’M WITH HER. Go Hillary, GO!

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International Pop & An Art Nerd

5121ffee-b4aa-4a08-920e-6b20cc2a7064I remember going to the Philadelphia Museum of Art when I was a wee lass (we’re talking maybe 4 or 5) and falling in love with the Van Gogh sunflowers. My mom bought me a poster of it in the gift shop when we left, and it was kind of over for me from there. I would spend my days painting paper plates with water colors, and having my family oogle over my “mind blowing” “abstract” creations. I was going to be the next Van Gogh … clearly.

… except not. After insisting my mom buy me a fancy easel, canvases, and paint, I began to realize I had absolutely zero artist ability (can barely pull together stick figs), and was thoroughly bummed out slash infuriated. I believe I even punted one of my failed art pieces. Yep. That’s how I roll. 

I thought my love affair with art was over, until I took a random art history class in college. And while my friends were drooling and falling asleep next to me, I was soaking in every slide (yes, my professor used slides). There was this wonderfully nerdy world of art history that I needed to explore. 

I ended up minoring in Art History, and still get chills when I think about the lives of legendary contemporary artists. The culture, the fashion, the creativity … it’s all overwhelming to me. In fact, I just watched a documentary on Robert Mapplethorpe and still cannot stop talking about it. Even though every time I try to bring it up to my mom she goes, “Kate, ew … he took pornographic photos.” No he didn’t … but that is neither here nor there.

While I’m a self proclaimed “art nerd” I rarely make it to the glorious museums that I live like 20 minutes away from. It’s shitty … it really is. In fact, I almost let the International Pop exhibit slip through my finger tips (I’m the worst … and SUPER lazy).

The exhibit is thrilling and I’m still swooning thinking about it. I was like a kid meeting her idols for the first time. I mean I was in the presence of Jasper John’s American Flag! It was a fucking really cool moment for me. (See … total dork. I wasn’t kidding).

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So if you haven’t, go see this exhibit. Now. Like close your fucking computer and go. Get a little culture. Discover something new. And if you ever want to nerd out about art, you know where to find me, kids. 

Here’s a taste of my favorite pieces (even though it was insanely hard to choose)… 

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How Much My Face Costs

Screen Shot 2015-09-10 at 2.25.19 PMI hate to admit this. In fact, I’m typing with one hand and covering my face in shame with the other. But I’m slightly mystified with the Kardashians. I’m not proud of it. But after a long day, it’s something I can turn my brain off and be entertained by, much like staring at something shiny, ya know?

Therefore when I see an article that says something like, oh I don’t know … “This is How Much Kylie Jenner Spends On Her Face,” I click on it. (Oh shut it, you probably did, too) 

I was expecting thousands and thousands of dollars would be spent, between the lip fillers and her star-studded cast of hair stylists and makeup artists. But the youngest of the Kardashian clan spends around a little over $3,000 for the whole sha-bang. While for me, that price is shocking and a bit appalling, for her it’s kind of like, “really? That’s all?” 

Which made me want to evaluate my own beauty regiment, because I don’t know about you, but I wake up looking like a gargoyle. So I need a LOT of help de-gargoyling myself before I can show my face in public without scaring small children. 

While I was a little nervous, yet 110% positive I wouldn’t come close to Kylie’s over $3,000 beauty budget, I decided to crunch the numbers and see how much I actually spend to fake dance around people and be all, “I WOKE UP LIKE DIS,” but in reality I woke up super early and applied X amount of dollars worth of shit to my body so I didn’t frighten you. 

So here it is … 

Face

Aveeno Positively Radiant Brightening Face Cleanser: $7.99

Aveeno Daily Moisturizing Lotion: $11.99

Kiehls Facial Fuel Eye De-puffer: $20.00

Miss Spa Brightening Facial Sheet Mask: $3.99 (only once in a blue moon, though)

Rubbing Alcohol: $3.29 (this is my solution to all breakouts … it’s glorious)

Makeup

Smashbox Photo Finish Foundation: $36 (I still don’t know if this shit ACTUALLY does anything)

Benefit Erase Paste: $26 (the cream of the Gods)

Laura Mercier Foundation: $48

Mac Bronzing Power: $26

Benefit Sugarbomb Box O’ Powder: $28 (I randomly found this stuffed in the back of my makeup drawer, and now I’m obsessed)

Benefit They’re Real Mascara: $24

Sephora Collection Long-lasting 12-hour liquid eyewear: $12

Sephora Collection Retractable Eyebrow Pencil: $13

Rimmel Lasting Finish By Kate Moss Lipstick: $5.79 (my current lip jam)

Hair:

TRESeme Color Revitalize Protection Shampoo: $4.99

Conditioner from a hair dye box (depends): $6.99 (yes, I buy the box hair dye, and only use the conditioner because it rocks that hard)

Keratin shit from my salon: $20 (it has my salon’s logo on it, so I don’t know exactly where you could get it.  What up, Verde Salon)

Not Your Mother’s Clean Freak Dry Shampoo: $5.99 (only when I’m super lazy and don’t want to wash my hair, which is constantly)

Grand total to NOT look like a gargoyle: $304.02 

I mean it isn’t TERRIBLE, right? RIGHT?! GOOD GOD, TELL ME I DON’T HAVE ISSUES! Sigh. I blame Sephora. Damn you, Sephora and all of your shiny goodness, DAMN YOU! :::shakes fist::: (just kidding, love you, mean it)

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Bunions. Bunions. Who’s Got The Bunions?

enhanced-buzz-3729-1367424652-18I’ll start this off by saying I hate feet. Really I do. It’s not like the sight of them make me gag or anything, I’m not that much of a freak … but I may or may not shield my eyes during toe fungus commercials (guuuhhhh)

I mean I think if you are born with a vagina, there is something in your DNA that just makes you adore shoes. But, unfortunately, the makers of these fierce shoes really don’t have “comfort” and “foot care” listed as their number one priority whilst making a shoe. It’s more about color, fabric, heel height, platforms, red soles … oooh the options, the sweet, sweet options. 

But the last time you bought a fierce pair of heels did you stop and be like, “hmm how will this shoe affect the health and wellbeing of my foot?” I’m sure you didn’t. If you are anything like me you’re just like, “SHINY THINGS … MINE,” and you’re done with it. But heels, at the end of the day, fuck up our feet. They just do. 

I never really thought about it nor gave a shit until I recently started seeing my shoes getting the same worn down circles where the side of my foot lives within them. I had no idea what it was all about or what it meant. I was just pissed that my shoes were looking more worn than they actually were. 

It wasn’t until my brother looked down at my bare foot and was like, “DEAR GOD … THAT BUNION!” Uhhh what? For some reason, my understanding of a “bunion” was that it was like a wort or some unsightly mass that would scare small children into the arms of their parents. Right? I mean even the word itself is absolutely cringeworthy. 

Never once did I think a bunion was simply your foot bones acting a fool due to poor, restricting footwear. Even worse, never once did I think it could happen to me (wow … I feel like I’m on a Lifetime special right now … tonight’s movie: the sad girl and her bunion)

All those years of wearing shoes that were too small for me because I didn’t want to accept the fact that I was a size 9, and then when I fell down the rabbit hole of wearing 4 inch heels. And now, I’m a commuter who refuses to be one of those women who rock sneakers on the train and switch into heels at work. Carrie Bradshaw never did it … now did she? But looking back, that bitch probably had INSANE bunions. 

So here I am, 28 years old … with bunions that are absolutely destroying the sides of my shoes. You would think I would care. That I would be like investing in orthopedic footwear. But alas … I’m not. Because I’m an idiot. And because I don’t want to let these bunions win, God dammit (also did I mention I’m an idiot, because if I keep up with this behavior, of course they are going to win). 

I’ve already accepted the fact that one day I will have to get that insanely painful surgery to remove said bunions and not be able to walk like a normal individual for a certain period of time. I’ve become one with it. I’ve owned it. I’m okay with it … kind of. 

These uncomfortable shoes we wear and that are the cause of bunions are the ones that make us connected to our femininity, and make us feel like rockstars. While I desperately wish Dr. Scholls looked like Loubs … they don’t, and probably never will. 

The things we do for fashion, right? Sigh. But hey, I did this to myself. I’ve own it and accepted it. But I have no regrets. Well … maybe pretending I was a size 8 when in reality I am a size 9. That was fucking stupid, self. But when it comes to all the amazing shoes I’ve put on my feet over the years… I regret nothing. NOTHING, I say. 

On a different note, a facility should be established, much like the “spas” where women go to get “refreshed,” where you can go have bunion surgery and recover in peace, whilst drinking wine, eating carbs, and lounging by a pool. I think I’m on to something, right? 

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Men And Their Heinous Summer Style

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photo credit: http://noisey.vice.com/en_ca/blog/what-your-terrible-taste-in-music-says-about-you

While dudes countdown the minutes until the weather peaks above 60 degrees for ladies to start stripping off their Northface parkas and start indulging in tighter, shorter, more skin-exposed garments … us ladies, well, don’t have it so great in the warmer months.

While yes, nothing is more satisfying then the ease of a summer outfit … there is a downside. And no, it is not idiots on the street cat calling us because all of a sudden, holy shit, women have curves! Sigh … it is having to look at men’s summer style.

I was inspired this morning whilst reading a post written by one of my favorite radio personalities on Elvis Duran and the Morning, Carla Marie, who was outlining how heinous cargo shorts are and why men shouldn’t wear them.

Because I realize only two dudes read this blog and are probably drooling on themselves while they do so, I’ll speak to your girlfriends when I say, what in holy hell is up with men’s summer fashion? It’s like every dude on the street looks like they are headed to go drop some “Molly” at a techno festival. It truly makes me want to do a slow jump, fist flying in midair that I’m single this summer.

After witnessing a man on the train on the way home the other day dressed in a proper seersucker suit and straw hat, dressed to the nines … I felt it was my civil service to list out what men should avoid wearing this summer. You’re welcome men … and ladies that have to co-exist with them.

1. Neon: Literally stop it with the loud shirts and hats. It’s not 1995 or 85, for that matter. And no, you aren’t the Fresh Price of Belair, no matter how ironic you think it is. I don’t care if it is your “work out gear.” It’s tacky and I hate you. (If you know where that quote came from I adore you)

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2. Colorful/White Rimmed Sunglasses: Sigh … whenever I see a dude in white sunglasses or colorful rimmed sunglasses, I desperately want to take them off his face and smash them. While that may seem a little dramatic … and mean (I would never ACTUALLY do it … unless I knew you, of course) they are just that heinous. To make it easier for you to understand, if I saw Justin Timberlake wearing white/colorful rimmed sunglasses on the street … this would be my face:

aunt-linda3. Tank Tops: We get it, you have muscles … and a cool tribal tattoo on your bicep and you want the entire world to see. Seriously. I got the memo … I saved it for later, and I’ll think of it fondly. Really. I will. Now put on a proper shirt … for the love of Jesus.

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4. Graphic T-shirts: Thanks, Urban Outfitters, for allowing this shit to still stay relevant with dudes. Apparently it is 2003 if you have a penis. If you think wearing a shirt that has a picture of a greasy hamburger with “Health Nut” across it brings all the ladies to the yard, you are sorely mistaken. Get a guard dog to get those ladies out of your yard IMMEDIATELY because ain’t nothing good can come from that.

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5. Flip Flops: I know, I know, you’re all, “this bitch just crossed the line.” But so many dudes don’t believe in getting pedicures because they think it sucks out their “manliness.” I’m not asking you to get OPI’s Red Hot in Rio painted on with a sassy little palm tree on your big toe. I’m asking you to have someone shave off your dead skin, clip your nails properly, and give your feet some much needed TLC (sorry, writing all of that out just made me gag). I hate feet. They are DIS-GUSTING. So proper care and maintenance is key. If you think pedicures are “girly” and make you less of a man, than I don’t want to see any sort of flip flop on your foot … fool. Go to a salon, freak. IDIOT! (Sorry I’ll stop … gross feet in Rainbow flip flops make me irate)

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:::Takes a bow::: you’re welcome, ladies with idiot boyfriends who can’t dress themselves, you’re welcome.

Behold! A Bitch Who Doesn’t Brunch

Screen Shot 2015-04-27 at 10.54.13 AMI hate making decisions. Especially, for some reason, right now. I’m blaming the explosion of allergies that is occurring. But I cannot make a decision to save my life. Do I want to organize my closet? Or do I want to watch a Will and Grace marathon? I’ll clean my closet :::gets to closet:::. Wait! This is a really good episode of Will and Grace (real life example) …back to the couch. Decisions are not currently my bag … baby (Austin Powers … still relevant). 

Hence why I loathe brunch. Now I know a bunch of city hipsters just threw their soy milk latte at their MacBook Pro screen … but it’s a fact. And it’s just a part of who I am. I am not a bitch who likes to brunch. There. I said it. I’m not a huge “Sunday Funday-er” and I hate the idea of breakfast and lunch merging into this beast of weird and overwhelming menu options. And here’s why:

7 a.m. – 12 p.m.: Breakfast 

12 p.m.-5 p.m.: Lunch

5 p.m. to 10 p.m.: Dinner

BRUNCH ISN’T REAL. 

Do I like the idea of day drinking? Umm it’s one of my most favorite things in the whole world. But why do I need to go to some snotty cafe or restaurant at noon on a weekend to have mimosas to do so? The answer is you do not. Day drinking can happen even if the word “brunch” isn’t in front of it. In fact, I think the word “brunch” was just invented for prude people who think day drinking was made up by the devil, and by simply adding a non-word to cover up their love for day drinking, they think they are better people than the ones who openly get their day drink on. 

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And there is a reason why I don’t fancy going to restaurants like the Cheesecake Factory. The menu is a fucking NOVEL. I literally start to make a pros and cons list of menu items. And when I finally pick something, I’m always let down. That shouldn’t happen at a restaurant. So why would I put myself in a situation where I had to choose between delicious, scrumptious and mouth watering pancakes or a big ol’ meaty burger with fries that make angels cry? It’s insanity, people, insanity! I want both. And now I’m fat. Thanks, brunch, thanks.  

Brunch has become the new black, I get it. I hear in New York City if you don’t do brunch, you literally aren’t a person … which reminds me even more why PHILLY RULES. But friends, if you ask me to brunch, I will politely decline. Ask me to breakfast! Seriously, I can’t remember the last time someone asked me to get breakfast on the weekend, probably because we are all too hungover to make it there. But hey, lunch is also an acceptable option, too. I adore lunch. Lunch rules. Sharing apps, having some cocktails, getting my carb on … it’s the best (man I’m getting hungry).

But when it comes to brunch, insert the biggest eye roll on the planet. What’s the next craze to hit the eating scene? Linner? “OMG you guys, let’s meet at 3:30 p.m. at Piere’s Sacred Bistro For Cool People and get our vodka and Red Bulls on with a Turkey Club Sandwich and a Steak!” No. Stop it. Maybe I’m old school, maybe I’m just a square, but brunch doesn’t fit into my vocab … at all.