Life Still Sucks In A Strapless Bra

I haven’t written for a year. An entire year. 

As I wipe off the figurative dust from Life Sucks In A Strapless Bra, I can’t help but think about who I was when I put the pen down on this day last year. I was depressed. Heartbroken. Pissed off. I had lost my way. Lost my voice. Lost what I loved most about this blog, which was coming to an empty space in the interweb and filing it with funny, interesting nonsense that I pulled from my brain that seemed to entertain people. 

That’s why I walked away. Kate needed to get her words back. I mean my last post one year ago today ended with, “Al Gore rules. PEACE.” Uhhh. Yeah. Baby girl needed a time out. 

Continue reading “Life Still Sucks In A Strapless Bra”

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Apple Watch: Not Allowed At My Arm Party

Photo credit: http://bgr.com/2015/04/24/tidal-music-streaming-fail-apple-win/
Photo credit: http://bgr.com/2015/04/24/tidal-music-streaming-fail-apple-win/

There have been so many moments in my life where I’ve either laughed/made fun of a new product and/or vowed I would never use it. And many moons down the road, I have had to eat my words as I joyously indulged in said product. I have no shame in my game.

Like the iPhone, for example. I wanted to punt the idea of touch screen. I talked so much shit on touch screens, Apple should have been like, “nope … and zero iPhones for Kate Concannon, bye,” when I went to purchase my first one. 

And now … I shall hate on the Apple Watch. I assume in a couple months or years if I am given the option of sacrificing my first born or keeping my Apple Watch, I will have to painfully say goodbye to my child (kidding … duh … …), but for now, I’m hatin’ … abbreviation and all. 

When I was hatin’ on touch screens when the iPhone came out, it was still a phone. Something we ALL need to communicate with one another (at least I believe that is what Alexander Graham Bell had in mind … boom history). The Apple Watch, well, in my opinion, was made strictly because uber rich people ran out of crazy ass gadgets and needed something new to oogle over. And tech nerds. Don’t forget the tech nerds. 

For the average gal like me, I have no purpose to bring an Apple Watch to my arm party. I already over communicate with everyone and everything in my life with being on every social media channel ever created (exaggeration), so why in bloody hell do I need ANOTHER avenue to do so?! I won’t sleep! Disconnecting would be virtually impossible.

They are basically telling me to strap the stress of my life onto my wrist. When you don’t want to look at texts/email, you throw your phone in your purse, right? Now if you text a boy/girl you “like,” you literally have to stare at your wrist waiting for him/her to respond, unless you tie your hands around your back … but my God. MADNESS, ladies, MADNESS! Self control is out the window. I would lose my shit, and end up punting the thing across the room. Or at least ritualistically burning it. 

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And can we talk about dinner etiquette? I think it is beyond rude when people are on their phones at dinner or out for cocktails (unless work shit is going on or an emergency, whatevs). Now you have no choice but to look at your wrist when that thing starts blinking and being all, “LOOK AT ME … HI … HI … IT’S YOUR APPLE WATCH … YOU HAVE AN EMAIL! OVER HERE! EMAIL!” It’s like an annoying kid pulling on your coattails. 

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Cool idea? Totally. Who doesn’t want to pretend they are Inspector Gadget. And props to the PR guru who gave Beyonce an Apple Watch so she could style it and Instagram rocking it. Genius idea, hell, it even made me consider getting one for a split second, because, you know, whatever Beyonce does we all HAVE to do, am I right? 

But my wrists are only open for business to shiny things that don’t stress me out, stylish pieces of medal, diamonds … and the occasional temporary tattoo. Sorry Apple Watch … there are many MANY a designer good ahead of you for me to obtain.

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. 

Wanted: A Ladysitter

kyle-ladysiter-smallI’m not afraid to admit that I’m mildly obsessed with the Real Housewives franchise. No matter what city or state they are in, I adore watching these crazy rich bitches take us on a tour of their crazytown lives.

Especially Kyle Richards (ps. I’m totally on Team Kyle … for any of you who watched the reunion over the past couple of weeks). There was an episode where she was getting ready in her fantastic bathroom … so fantastic I would actually move into her tub, when a man walked in, who I assumed was her assistant? Friend? But no. A caption appeared that revealed he was Kyle’s Ladysitter! (LADYSITTER, WHAT?! GASP?! WHAT IS A LADYSITTER?!)

My first thought was, is there a website like “Care.com” where you can find your dream Ladysitter? And two, what is this role exactly? Is it like a cross between your personal bitch and your authority figure who can be all, “NO, KATE, NO … put that fudge brownie down. BAD! :::smacks hand::: Now go do 50 sit ups and think about what you did.” Like he/she answers my emails, then tucks me into bed no later than 9 p.m. so I can get optimal beauty sleep? What is it!!?

I did some research (because doesn’t everyone research shit like this) and turns out, sites for the “elite” do have a Ladysitter service. Elite Metro Nannies lists it as: “A lady sitter can also provide the same services for singles that may be on the go and need personal assistance, much like a mother’s helper.” Sooo … you’re basically saying I’m hiring a personal assistant? What is the difference?

Kyle Richard’s Ladysitter seems to help her plan parties, take care of her kids, help her get dressed, and who knows what other shit Bravo isn’t showing us. Seems to me a Ladysitter just comes in and helps you get your shit together and do all the things you don’t want to do. Uhh genius. Where do I rope some poor soul into doing this for me?

So if any of you are just DYING to be my Ladysitter (don’t all kill each other to get a chance at this amazing opportunity, now), here are the job requirements … ahem

 The Ladysitter position for Miss Kate Concannon must fulfill the following requirements:

 1. Must like cats and be open to changing cat liter (I mean who likes cleaning that thing?!) slash cater to my cats the same way you will cater to yours truly and talk to them in the “cat voice” I use (instructions will be provided and you will be quizzed until you get it right)

2. Must enjoy drinking wine … chardonnay specifically (no one likes drinking alone)

3. Must have strong will power to keep my phone away from me when I’m drinking so I don’t text anyone I shouldn’t (I can be REAL convincing whilst drinking)

4. Must kill spiders and all other bugs, I don’t care how tiny they are … murder them

5. Must return phone calls for me AS me since I loathe talking on the phone (hope you’re good at impersonations)

6. Must make sure my cat pajamas are always so fresh and so clean clean

7. Must be funny … like Tina Fey funny (no one likes a serious sally)

8. Must be willing and able to smack unhealthy items out of my hands when you see me about to eat them 

9. Must be willing and able to massage my brain whenever I need it (allergy season is a bitch … my brain always hurts)

10. And finally, must get a tattoo of “Life Sucks In A Strapless Bra” somewhere on your person because mama’s gotta promote her baby at all times (okay fine, temporary tattoos are acceptable)

 ***Totally kidding. Kind of. Sort of.

 

When I Got Hypnotized By Wen

Picture 2380One evening I had a little too much to drink at my friend’s house and decided to make the responsible (and RIGHT) decision to just crash on her couch … as much as I was craving the comfort and soothing feel of my own bed. I’ve learned if you continue drinking, your friends couch will feel like your own bed (until you wake up with a gnarly kink in your neck … just kidding “anonymous” friend, your couch is SUPER comfy … yay couch!)

I also spent the entire evening with the TV on, because who knows what kind of ghosts my friends house has, am I right? Just kidding … kind of :::shifty eyes::: I clearly just fell asleep with the TV on because I passed out. I mean, details …

I did wake up to not only a massive wine headache, but a commercial that seemed to be lasting far too long, also known as an “infomercial,” something I hadn’t woken up early enough to see since I was 7 waiting for my cartoons to come on. This one specifically was for the Wen line of haircare products. In the world of infomercials, it is equivalent to Proactiv for your hair.

Every couple of minutes I would say to my hungover self, “good God, will this EVER end?!” Before I knew it, I had been watching this Wen informercial for like an hour, and by the time my friend had woken up and joined me in her living room, I just looked at her, eyes glazed and exclaimed, “I want to go to there,” pointing to the TV and the Wen models.

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All these famous people (C list famous, mind you … uh hello Alyssa Milano) going on and on about how Wen changed their lives, and don’t you want to be a “Wen girl,” too?! Models frolicking about with this fantastic hair. Heinous and almost comical pictures of women’s hair before Wen was used and after (which were CLEARLY enhanced … I’m no fool, Wen). I find it a LITTLE hard to believe that the “after” shot model had only used the Wen product. I mean maybe she did, but with a high tech stylist that not all of us have the pleasure of using every morning.

As much as I wanted to laugh or scoff and roll my eyes, as much as I desperately wished I had the energy to find the remote … I didn’t turn it off. Because apart of me was wondering, “wait?! Could I, Kate Concannon, be a Wen girl? And wait! Wonder if my hair could look as shiny and glorious as these models do?! Could I one day be walking down the street and just get this sudden urge to flip my hair in slow motion and have men fall to their needs asking me to marry them?! Everyone! To the Wen mobile!”

I’m convinced Wen must have hypnotized me or something. No, no … I’m actually certain it hypnotized me. I can only imagine this kind of hypnotism is reminiscent of what happened to Derek Zoolander when the song “Relax” came on. But instead of killing the Malaysian Prime Minister, I needed to make my hair super soft and smooth … model-style.

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Apart of me to this day still wants to log on to the website and get my Wen on. But the bigger, more logical side of my brain knows that when I get the product it will probably be the size of a hotel bottle of body wash and contain glorified conditioner, which will end up collecting dust underneath my bathroom sink.

Listen, infomercials are a thing, I get it. But perhaps just make them less phony. Perhaps make them live so I can see you didn’t significantly Photoshop the “before” pics to make me want to invest in your product so much I will feel like I will die without it. I know what you’re up to brands, I’m on to you.

But lesson learned here, kids … plain and simple: don’t watch informercials hungover. Just don’t do it. Say no. Embrace the ghosts in your friends home when you have too much to drink and keep the TV off.

Side note: I still to this day never became a Wen Girl and I SHANT, I say, I SHANT!

Don’t Shame Me For My Body, Ass

Untitled-1Remember the age old saying, “if you have nothing nice to say don’t say anything at all?” Clearly no one does, because apparently it is TOTALLY okay to discuss another persons weight. Now may I ask, what in the living hell is going on in the world?

Yesterday I was strolling through the Philadelphia Museum of Art and saw these paintings of women portrayed as gigantic blobs. There was literally nothing sexy about them. I remember learning in an art history class I took in college that this was once considered “beautiful” to be a large gigantic blob. Now … if we eat more than one slice of pizza without blotting off the excess grease, I mean burn us at the stake why don’t ya.

From Kim Kardashian getting fat shamed when she was preggo (I mean … don’t even get me started on that one) to Kelly Clarkson getting fat shamed for just having the nerve to not be a size negative 2 and be a successful musician, no one has the right to discuss another woman’s weight … ESPECIALLY a man. Why a gaggle of women haven’t gathered together with pitch forks and flaming torches to shame that Fox News anchor is beyond me. If anyone is down, let me know and we’ll get this shit started.

And let’s not forgot the polar opposite, which is even more hilarious … being TOO thin. I was watching the Today Show this week and Giuliana Rancic was discussing how people actually tweet at her to, “EAT A BURGER, BITCH!” Really? Because I would have to say if she was caught stuffing her face at McDonalds eating a burger, secret sauce running all down her face, all of a sudden the tabloid headlines would change from, “Scary Thin … Is Giuliana Invisible?!” to “Stick Goes Supersized” or something else disgusting like that. No one can win.

Listen, you have NO clue what someone is going through. These people could be on medication that makes them gain or lose weight uncontrollably. They could be depressed. They could very well have an eating disorder, and you know what? I don’t think a bulimic woman/man wants to sit down with a perfect stranger who is judging him/her to say, “yeah, I saw you were looking at my frail frame. I make myself throw up after I eat. That’s why.” It’s private. It’s painful. And it’s none of your damn business.

And look, if you have a family member or friend that you think has a problem, hell yes try to help them … privately, of course. But if you see a woman on the street, in Walmart, in your office, anywhere really who is either “too big” or “too skinny” in the eyes of society … keep it to yourself. Focus on more productive things in life, like people actually committing crimes and being mean to innocent human beings. Because those are the disgusting people, not the ones that just don’t happen to have the same bone structure as Kate Moss.

Society makes it really hard for women to love themselves. REALLY hard. The most important thing is to be healthy and happy. Straight up. And if you don’t like the way we look outside of that …

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Now if you would excuse me, my burrito is waiting for me. SUCK ON THAT … AYE AYE AYE AYE AYE AYE.