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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My Last Day In My 20s

screen-shot-2017-01-03-at-2-43-00-pmYes … sigh… that is me. At age 4 I want to say? Always in heels. You rarely ever caught me without heels on. I would literally walk into a strangers home and ask for a pair of heels. A lot hasn’t changed. I still love my heels. But you sure as fuck will never find me with my hand on my hip in a bathing suit today, that’s for damn sure.

And tomorrow, I turn 30. Holy shit.

I feel like I’ve spent these past 10 years growing, and changing. All of the tears, all the triumphs, all the hardships have made me more than ready to take a giant, refreshing leap into my 30s. 

Unlike some, I’m pumped for this new decade of life. Turning 30 and being single doesn’t classify you as an old bag, and it doesn’t mean you need to retire your single ass to the couch with your cats and start knitting until the cold breath of death approaches (although none of that sounds terrible)

In anticipation for my 30s to begin, I’ve become incredibly hungry. For life. For inspiration. For happiness. For success. I see this glittery, blurry light ahead and I just want to follow it. 

So for now I’m going to take a page out of Solange’s book. She recently turned 30 and reflected on all of the things that brought her to where she stands today. So I thought I should do the same. 

Who cares if my sister isn’t Beyonce. Everyone’s journey matters, and I’m so excited for you to come along and see what 30 brings me. 

Born January 4, 1987

Wore high heels everywhere 3-5 

Published for the first time 8

Felt extreme loss 12

Began training to be Britney Spears’ backup dancer 13

Realized life sucks in a strapless bra 16

Moved away and turned into a Hawk 18

Lived the life of a Devil Wears Prada intern 21

Started my career in advertising 22 

Gave birth to Life Sucks In A Strapless Bra 24

Interviewed by the Huffington Post (still … pinch me) 26

Got laid off, but got right back up 28

Just beginning to write my story… 30

(wh)Y Are Dresses So Ugly Right Now?!

8f0c7e79da7ede9d2a1185d25c4fc39eI have a holiday party on the horizon, and even though I have a solid 3 options currently sitting in my closet, I decided to take to the interwebs in search of “the perfect dress.” 

You know what I mean when I say “perfect dress” right? That dress you imagine yourself in, walking into rooms, making people gasp at your beauty, and twirling the night away. You know, that dress that DOES. NOT. EXIST. Am I the only one that builds this amazingly stunning dress in their brain only to find it doesn’t exist or costs $5,000? Because it’s fucking infuriating. 

Anywho … back to my search on the interwebs. 

My perfect dress could not be found. Hence why cardinal rule of dress buying is if you see one that you really like, even if you don’t need it, BUY. IT. Because a dress should make a woman feel like a woman (man, I have this strong urge to listen to Shania Twain…). Make you feel like Beyonce with a side of Britney and a touch of Gaga. 

But you know what I did find? Ugly. Lots of it. In bulk. I don’t know who decided the 90’s were violently back in and nothing else, or that vagina’s should be invited to holiday parties, too, but my GAWD, people. My eyes!

As a good fashion blogger, I should probably share with you all the cool looks for the holiday’s and where to find them, but fuck that. I have to share with you this heinousness that we as women have to be exposed to because it’s too funny not to share. 

So laugh slash cringe with me, won’t you? 

Tell me, why did this stylist feel the need to throw a white T under a long satin dress? Oh that’s right … because apparently it is 1995 and I didn’t get the memo. Duh. 

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If you wear this and someone offers you a bottle full of milk, do NOT be surprised. Because you look like an oversized baby, and you can thank good ol’ Urban Outfitters for that disaster. 

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It is totally cool to not wear pants in the privacy of your own home. Pants sucks. But when you get the urge to not wear pants out in public, or, I don’t know, say a holiday party, fight it. Fight it hard. Pants in public, kids, pants in public. :::The More You Know star swipe:::

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Number 1: That dress is see through. Number 2: the solve for said see through dress is not a cotton gray top over a pair of skinny black denim pants. I feel like I’m taking crazy pills! Dear H&M, fire your stylists. Like IMMEDIATELY.

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If I was going to a party that was located in my bedroom, with a reservation at a table that was my bed, and Netflix as my date, then fuck yes, dress of the year. Otherwise … holy sweater bag dress, Batman. 

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Aaaaaaand apparently my vagina and ass were invited to this party. Seriously, Urban Outfitters, go home, you’re drunk. 

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Sweet mother… bib overall dress, you guys. No no no … BIB. OVERALL. DRESS. Bib overall dress. BIB OVERALL DRESS! I can’t. I really just … nope. I got nothing. :::bangs head against wall:::

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If I have any desire to just say, “fuck it, I’m drinking the Kool Aid,” this is the dress I would wear to my cult initiation. 

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Da fuck?

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Did I accidentally spike my Diet Coke with acid or did this stylist think it was a cool idea to drape a backless cropped turtle neck sweater over a prom dress that a cast member of 10 Things I Hate About You wore?

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Whoreville, population one. 

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What Do We Do? The 2016 Presidential Election

I really was so above and beyond excited to sit here and write this post about how honored and thrilled I am to have a woman FINALLY elected president. I was going to talk about how I was probably still drunk from celebrating, and how my keyboard was covered in happy tears.

Welp, my keyboard is covered in tears, but they ain’t happy

Sigh. 

I haven’t had words for the majority of the day. I just have this horrific hallow feeling. Almost like I’m in mourning, which if any of you have ever mourned, is probably one of the worst feelings in the world. I just feel robbed. Depleted. And sad. Super sad. 

If any of you follow me on social media, or know me, you know how obsessed I am with Hillary Clinton. She has her flaws, and she may not be the coolest girl in the room, but Jesus is she inspiring and smart and just, well, so violently qualified to run this country. 

:::Sobs/blows nose:::

So the big thing now is where do we go? What do we do when we don’t want to get behind a racist, homophobic, xenophobic, misogynistic, sexual assault offender as our commander-in-chief? (I’m sorry I don’t think I’ll ever be able to say the words that rhyme “Shmresident Lump). 

The truth is I honestly don’t know. A huge part of me feels like he will never be my president, because I know deep down in my being that he will never change. I mean, I could be totally wrong. I also thought America wouldn’t be stupid enough to elect him, and, welp, here we are, kids.

One thing I do know is the like-minded people I met during the Clinton campaign are still here. Whether it was at the DNC, at a bar, at my work … it was just so refreshing to see such smart, like-minded people come together to trump hate and stand on the right side of history (that unfortunately did not prevail).

We all got Trumped, HARD, but our voices did not. And we need to remind ourselves of that. 

I see so many of my friends, mostly female and from the LBGTQ community, worried, even sick about their future, and it breaks my heart. Fuck, I’m scared. Like do I have to quit my job, marry an investment banker, and learn how to bake!? I DO NOT WANT TO. AH.

I have family members who are on Obamacare now worried that they won’t be insured come 2017. This shit is REAL

Look, we are all entitled to deal with this loss the way we wish. If you’re pissed, be pissed. If you want to “be united” and “more forward,” please do so. Me? I want to eat carbs and watch Hillary Clinton’s concession speech over and over again and cry on my couch. Do you. Just STAPH preaching on Facebook about how people should deal. It’s annoying as fuck and no one cares. 

Hillary may not have won, but I’m standing with my ladies, with my LGBTQ community, minorities, and to all the people who feel like their livelihood is in danger. Because I am one of those people. Know that we are the one’s that make America great … fuck we make America FANTASTIC. Period. 

And if “Shmresident Lump” can’t get behind us, well then, I guess I’m going to live in my little bubble where love is love, walls aren’t a thing, equal rights exist, acceptance prevails, women can do the same thing as men, if not more, and men don’t sexually assault women and get rewarded for it. I’m okay with living in that bubble the next four years. I really am. 

Hillary … my sweet, sweet Hillary :::sobs:::. Thank you for the inspiration. Thank you for making me feel like I can achieve anything I put my heart and soul into. Thank you for making me care about politics again. To me… you shattered that glass ceiling.

And girl, I hope you are taking a BOSS vacation. Like I hope your team rented you an island and you have a staff at hand that can just cook you amazing dinners, bring you tropical cocktails around the clock, and wait on you hand and foot. HIRE INA GARTEN. YAAS. You deserve it. Look if you need me to plan this glorious vaca for you, I will be happy to do so. Call me, we’ll have cocktails. 

So there you have it. If you want to cry, bitch, scream, sob … you know where to find me on the social channels, yo. I love you all. Dearly. You know who you are. 

Sigh. 

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Fear And Loathing Of Snapchat

sub-buzz-32211-1470077639-7You may want to throw shit at your computer screen after you read the next sentence, but … I hate Snapchat. Like a lot. I really do. 

Is the app downloaded onto my phone? Yes. Only because I want to “stay in the know” and not become an ancient tech dinosaur that says things like, “how do I subscribe to the interbweb?” But do I use the app? No. Well … unless I’m incredibly intoxicated. Or need that insanely amazing filter to make me look not so gargoyle-ish (you know which one … when even if you have 105 degree fever it still manages to make you look fantastic). 

The reason I loathe Snapchat is because I feel like it is turning everyone into a straight up narcissist in the worst way possible. 

A perfect example was when I was at a bar recently. Instead of drunk girls dancing, it was drunk girls Snapping. Groups of girls huddled close together, one holding her phone all the way out in the air, as they lip synced to that dumb ass song, “you ain’t gotta go to werk, werk, werk, werk, werk, werk, werk,” flipping their hair and seductively sipping their vodka sodas.

It was like:

Step 1. Take Snap video.

Step 2. Review it thoroughly.

Step 3. Re-do video because one girl doesn’t like it.

Step 4. Review video.

Step 5. Post video.

Step 6. Repeat steps 1-5.

There were some just solo Snapping, duck facing from different angles and bobbing her head seductively to the song, as her friends functioned around her. 

What in the living eff? Am I old or does this shit actually bring the boys to the yard now?  

Like I get it, you’re feeling yourself, you like your outfit … you want the world to see how good you look. Cool. Girl, do ya thang. But to spend a majority of the night on your phone in social media land? Yawn. 

There’s life happening while you’re busy face swapping (note to self: put that quote on decorative pillow). There are cute boys to be oogled. Their are hot messes to make fun of. Their are interesting conversations to be had with people. 

Correct, celebrities like Kim Kardashian spend like 98.9% of their day taking selfies and Snapchatting dumb shit in that irritating flower crown. Doing absolutely nothing but showing off their clev and being all, “guys I’m bored :::duck face … oops there’s my clev again:::

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Kylie Jenner’s Snapchat makes me want to bang my head against the wall. It’s basically her just looking all weird and serious as she kind of lip syncs to some rap song. It makes me THOROUGHLY uncomfortable. Like why? 

Why? Because I believe they are getting paid to do this. If someone said to me, “hey Kate, I’m going to throw you a thou to take Snapchat videos of you rocking my new lip color,” I would be like SOLD. I will duck face til the fucking cows come home, bro. 

But most of us, upon contrary belief, are not Kardashians. And we aren’t getting paid to drink at a bar. And if you are, I hate you … a lot. Therefore if you aren’t being paid, maybe put your phones down and stop Snapping whilst out in public. Make eye contact with people. Keep your phone in your purse for a new minutes … GASP (I know, I know, I’m totally addicted to my phone, too, it would be next to impossible, but worth a shot?) Drunk wine night in with the gals? Well Snap your faces off, kids.

I know I sound like a dusty old rag of a woman who is all waving her cane and yelling sentence fragments about technology, but after seeing the Snap clones all transformed into giraffe’s or pumpkins or whatever the hot filter of the day is, I had about enough.

INSTAGRAM FORVER!

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Shame Me: I Bought A Kylie Lip Kit

screen-shot-2016-10-21-at-12-14-30-pmI’m writing this post with my head down, covered in shame and disgust. I want ALL of you to know this. I hate myself just a little bit right now. 

:::sigh::: I purchased a Kylie Lip Kit :::shakes head::: Don’t look at me. 

Why? Well, I’ll be honest with you. I was drinking too much wine with my good friend, tried hers, and loved the color. I also tried to steal it (and failed). With all the hype, I couldn’t help but be curious. 

I was under the assumption these lip kits were so exclusive still. Like no one could get their paws on them, hence why I almost had a heart attack when I heard she had one (or maybe it was the alcohol… hmm). Like wasn’t her website crashing every other day due to demand a minute go? Or am I living in March of 2015? 

Turns out they aren’t exclusive anymore. Any slob can go onto her dumb website and buy any of the “normal” colors. If you want blue lips, though, you’re shit out of luck, ya freaks. 

So I pulled the trigger and got the KOKO K gloss. Sigh. I mean I can’t honestly deal with my life decisions. 

When it arrived at my house, my first reaction was, “what the fuck is this packaging?” It was a crappy, non-descript black box. No logo, no branding. I mean anything could have been in this damn box. WHAT’S IN THE BOX?! For $17 per gloss, perhaps you could swing for more jazzy packaging, Kyles. No?

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I opened the stupid box and was greeted with a large and in charge “KYLIE.” But I’ll give her this much, her branding is on point. So kodos to the rad designer who created her logo, because God knows it wasn’t Kylie Jenner. 

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Then I gracefully lifted up the styrofoam, unenthused, only to find a postcard of a Kylie Jenner mugshot? In a Louis Vuitton head wrap and taas out and about? And her seductively holding a name plate that said “KINGKYLIE”? Will someone PLEASE tell me what any of this has to do with lip gloss? Please. 

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I was so confused, and horrified, and couldn’t help but say to myself, “why in the blazing fuck did I waste over $20 on this dumb shit?” 

And then I turned the postcard over. There I found a note that looked like it was written by a child who was trying to work on her penmanship. Written, of course, by Ms. Kylie Jenner. I couldn’t help but wonder how many morons actually thought she had handwritten this note specially for them.

Also her punctuation on the note was 50 shades of fucked, so immediately I wanted to set fire to it. Kylie, you missed a period, dammit! “Let” should be initial CAP. AND there really isn’t a need for an ellipsis there. ARGH. Instead, I just threw it on the ground and kept going. I wanted my gloss, dammit. 

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When I got to the gloss, and applied it to my lips, it was the most anti-climactic moment of life. It was just lip gloss. That’s all it was. My mind wasn’t blown. It never dried like it claimed to (my lips looked all juicy … VOM). And it didn’t stay on extra long. The minute my lips touched my wine glass it was coming off. 

And, upon contrary belief, one application did not turn me into a Kardashian. Shucks.

Color-wise it was pretty and looked nice on me, that’s for sure. And I mean, it didn’t smell weird? I really don’t know what else to say about it. 

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All I know is I’m pretty sure you can find a better product, for a better price, and not pay over $8 in shipping. In fact I just got a great matte lip gloss from Ulta for $9. Check it. I even think they do a buy one, get one dealio. Aye, aye, aye, aye. 

The joke is on me, really. I just gave the Kardashian klan some of my hard-earned money, only to buy a lip gloss that I’m actually embarrassed to put on in public. Seriously. I mine as well be doing secret lines of coke on the train, but no, just applying my Kylie Lip Kit, don’t mind me! 

I can honestly say in this instance, curiosity DID almost kill the Kate. 

The Road To 30

d4c1fdd36301eaeb8884d28152c7085bRecently I’ve been thinking a lot about Life Sucks In A Strapless Bra. And me. I was a clueless 24-year-old when I gave birth to it, and here I am, a clueless almost 30-year-old. Now what? Where are we going? Who am I? 

And then, as I was huffing and puffing and sweating profusely while wrestling sheets onto my bed, I realized something: have I always gotten so winded whilst putting sheets on my bed? When I was done I laid on my floor exhausted, and almost sore? Wishing a random soul would run into my room and pour an ice cold bucket of water over my head. Yep. From putting damn sheets on my bed. 

Is this 30? 

My last year in my 20s has been a rocky one for sure. I was diagnosed with rosacea. I’m pretty sure I have a gluten intolerance and had to cut it out of my diet when all I want to do is make sweet sweet love to a crunchy baguette (wait … scratch that, what I meant is I want to devour it with a whole thing of Brie, ya pervs). Things ended pretty badly with a guy I really cared about for a long time, leaving me utterly heart broken. Oh yeah, and to add insult to injury, his lovely new girlfriend (whom I don’t know), started harassing me for no legitimate reason for a majority of the summer. 

It’s all been shit. But Jesus does it feel good to write about it and share it with you. 

While I’m super excited to turn 30 (no sarcasm, I truly fucking hated my 20s, and couldn’t be more pleased a new decade of life is on the horizon), I just can feel it in my bones that times are a-changin’. 

My friends are buying houses, talking more about their credit scores over dinner than dumb ass shit we used to chat about. They are saying things like, “yeah, we’ll probably start trying in the spring…” Wait. Weren’t we just talking about how we DON’T want to get pregnant slash ways to avoid it? I don’t know why, but I freak out when I hear people talking about procreating. It’s so … final. So, waiter, a bottle of wine for this gal and this gal only please. 

And me? Well, at the moment I’m contemplating whether or not to splurge and buy that suede purse from Zara that I’ve been oogling. And, quite frankly, don’t give a flying fuck about my credit score or when/if I will ever procreate so suck on that, AYE AYE AYE (no I’m totally kidding, you guys, credit scores are important, everyone, just not enough to gab about it with your gal friends … but I was serious about the procreation part)

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Odd lady out? Probably. While yes, being the black sheep sometimes makes me want to cry, after wrestling with my bed linens, I realized the beauty of it all. I could sit here and feel like the Hunchback shunned to her bell tower, single and not fitting in with my friends who are all making life their bitch as they troll Credit Karma or some shit, or I could share the splendor and disfunction of my path to 30 with you all. Hmm I’ll choose the later for $500, Alex. 

Don’t get it twisted, fashion and style and makeup and all that shit are still my life source. It will just be intermixed with interesting and funny (or sad … whatever way you want to slice it, your call) anecdotes from my single life on the brink of 30. 

Now look, this is my path, and my path only. I can already hear my friends picking up their phones and texting me, “was that me you were writing about? Blah blah blah, you hate me, why do you think I’m so lame … you bitch, blah.” 

Look, I probably will be writing about you. Get over it. You know I love you, come on, you do. Stop being silly. We’re all on different paths and unfortunately since you’re friends with me, you get involved in mine henceforth leaving me no choice then to write about your ass. I apologize in advance and know I never hate any of you (you know who you are, if you don’t then I probably hate you).

Okay, so let’s do the damn thing. Now if you will excuse me, I have to start getting ready for my bedtime of 9 p.m., place my heating pad on my stiff neck, and pray to the Gods of Amy Poehler and Tina Fey. 

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I’m BACK.

Screen Shot 2016-09-07 at 10.59.04 AMSo I bet all five of you reading this have been frantically clicking on Life Sucks In A Strapless Bra every day being all, “why hasn’t there been a post in almost a month!” “Did she quit?!” “Does life no longer suck in a strapless bra and I didn’t get the memo?!” 

No. No no no. I didn’t quit nor will I ever (this thing will be a relic for my great great great grandchildren to make fun of). Life will forever and always suck in a strapless bra … don’t get it twisted. 

And why haven’t I posted in almost a month? Welp, to be completely honest, writer’s block is a real thing, and it blows. Badly. Really badly. Maybe almost equally to a strapless bra. And you know what? Mama needed a break. And that’s okay. So to all five of you freaks, calm the fuck down. I’m here for all your snarky commentary about life and style forever and always. 

Now let’s get down to brass tax. Because everyone and their mother has been posting pics of their kids going “back to school” (no idea why I felt the need to put that in quotes), it made me think of how every first week back they made you write a, “what did you do over summer break” essay. Which made me reflect upon the good ol’ summer of 2016. 

I would probably title my essay, “It was the best of times, it was the worst of times.” Yes. Completely and utterly cliche, but devastatingly accurate. I laughed a lot. I cried a lot. I had some amazing experiences that will leave a mark on me forever, aaaaand some I have bolt locked away in a dust-covered box in the back of my mind that says, “do not touch under any circumstances, bitch.” But hey, as is life. 

So I apologize for my absence. Truly. This blog is my life and my happiness, and I’m refreshed and ready to get weird. So let’s check out some fun lessons I learned over this past summer, shall we?

1. Family and friends are super important and give you life (I mean, duh). Keep your circle tight, keep it small, keep it honest. Be thankful for them and tell them how much you care on the reg. Do it. 

2. Wine in a can is a thing and it’s glorious and my new favorite way to drink alcohol. Don’t ask questions, just try it. And, oh yeah, you’re welcome.

3. Be kind. To everyone you come across, because at the end of the day you have no idea what they are going through. 

4. That as women we can do anything we fucking put our minds to (shout out to Hillary Clinton). I had the pleasure of attending the DNC the night she accepted the nomination, and I cried, and laughed, and hugged strangers. And it was amazing. It was like the first time in history I didn’t loathe being around lots of people. 

5. Speaking of amazing women, this quote by Michelle Obama: “When they go low, we go high.” 

6. How important it is to embrace your flaws and own them AND be able to laugh at them. For example, I now have no issue posting things on Facebook like, “I’ve been wearing my skirt backwards all day, HAPPY MONDAY!”

7. That I actually like to cook and have been using it as a creative outlet lately. If you told me I would be doing this five years ago I would have said, “bitch, please” and flipped my hair like an asshole. Oh how things change.

8. SPANX underneath a dress in the summer equals death. If you don’t like my giggly bits, I don’t like you. 

9. Your gut is almost always right. And isn’t afraid to do the “I told you so” dance. You’re going to not want to listen to it. You’re going to want to tell it to shut the fuck up. But it’s going to tell you stuff you don’t want to hear, but need to hear and embrace. Listen to it, for the love. 

10. That people will try to rip you apart. Kick you while you’re down and then sprinkle salt in the wound just for the hell of it, no matter what kind of person you are. While we can’t change those people, it is all about rising above it all, and surrounding yourself with the positive ones. The ones that make you pee your pants laughing. Get your drunk for no reason and create epic days/nights with. Who will do literally anything for you. I’m so thankful for those people otherwise I would most likely be in a gutter somewhere singing to stray cats. 

Rising Above The Mean

tumblr_nl7l03KF5d1uo8okwo1_500I think I loathe the word “bullying” due to the Real Housewives franchise. “Lisa VanderPump called me a bitch behind my back to all the other girls and now everyone hates me. Why am I being bullied :::chugs bottle of Rose, vomits into Celine purse:::?!?!” 

I thought the term “bullying” was left next to the monkey bars when we graduated from school. Never in my adult existence did I think people in their 20’s, 30’s, or 40’s would be walking around getting verbally victimized by awful people trying to make themselves feel better by pulling others down. But alas, here we are.  

But I’m not here to tell you to not “bully” others, because as grown adults, if you have to be told to not be shitty to your fellow human, well then, Google a good psychiatrist, I’m sure they can work wonders on you. 

As cliche as it is, this is one of my all-time favorite quotes that I think about regularly: “everyone you meet is fighting a battle you know nothing about. Be kind. Always.” It’s not something I would ever put on a mug and drink tea out of, but it just stays with me. 

Simply because I have suffered from anxiety since I was little. When the insane worries are clawing at you from the inside out and there is nothing you can do to make it stop. When you want to just enjoy yourself, but the anxiety keeps pulling you back down. But you have to sit there, smile, and keep going … because as adults, what other options do we have? 

All people see are the smiles, jokes, and how well I’m put together. What people don’t see is when sometimes my heart constantly races and all I want to do is cry. I know those feelings all too well, therefore I can’t help but be sympathetic to others that could potentially be feeling the same way. Because I know one mean comment, or unjustifiable jab could cause me to spiral. And quite frankly, that’s just not an option for me. Because God dammit, I’m strong :::punches fist in air awkwardly::::.

It’s so easy to spread rumors, call people fat, ugly, stupid, a whore. But that person you insulted for no justifiable reason could be dealing with body image issues, or may have low self esteem. For example I sometimes slash always think I’m fat/overweight (I mean who doesn’t have those moments), so I don’t need the freakin’ peanut gallery sharing their thoughts on the topic, thanks. 

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That person you are berating with mean comments could be hanging on by a thread. You just never know. 

I know I’m coming off like a saint who is holier than thou and who has never done a bad thing in her life. Wrong. Completely wrong. I hate most people (kidding, kind of, sort of …) and I adore talking shit. Especially when I’m mad. Hi, I’m human. But when I do, I try to keep it to myself because I don’t want to be the reason that person has a shitty day, cries themselves to sleep, or does something unimaginable to themselves. 

Struggles don’t end when you become an adult, and apparently either does being ruthlessly mean for no reason. I’m sure I’ll be dealing with mean girls even when I’m in an old folks home doing synchronized swimming (#lifegoals)

The only way to respond is through kindness. Throw that anger and sadness you have from the mean person into something positive, like sending a compliment to your fellow lady. I adore supporting other women. I really do. And in a selfish way, giving compliments to others makes me feel amazing. So I encourage all of you to compliment someone. Do it. It’s like Xanax in word form, trust. 

So to all five of you out there reading this who have been personally victimized by some woman/man with nothing better to do with his/her time then to bring you down, I feel you. I’ve been there. But keep your head up. We’re adults. Acts that are traditionally committed in a playground setting have no room in my life, nor in yours. Remember that.

And next time you want to take an unjustifiable or justifiable jab at someone for the hell of it, say it with me now, “everyone you meet is fighting a battle you know nothing about.” 

Be kind, for the love of fuck. 

Ps. I dedicate this post to Amy Poehler and Tina Fey because they are my idols and are everything I want to be as a woman.

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