Are You Sure Those Are Your Pants?

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I’ve always heard stories about people going to work and then realizing that A. they aren’t wearing their own pants or B. that they aren’t wearing any pants at all. Okay, maybe B. is a drastic exaggeration, but it falls in line with my assumptions that these people were straight up mad. How the hell could you not be wearing your own pants? Who are you? Seriously. Get help.

Welp … the saying is true, kids. Thoust shall not call the kettle black … or the pot black … wait. Oh shush, you know what I’m saying. Let’s bring it back to a time last week when I got up in the morning, took my black skinny jeans off the hanger and thought I had gained 100 pounds over night.

Now, anytime a gal puts on skinny jeans (or guy, I won’t discriminate if you get down with ball huggers), there is a little dance involved whilst putting them on, especially if you just washed them. You pull them up halfway, do a little squat and shimmy, pull them up a little more, shimmy shimmy shake, then bring it on home and pull them all the way up with three mid-air jumps, and a bit more shimmying (this time it’s just for funsies). This is the life of a skinny jean wearer, am I right?

Well on this particular morning, I slipped on my black skinnies, and by the time I got to the second shimmy shimmy shake, I realized they weren’t fitting right. Now I base my weight on how my clothing fits. If it isn’t tight, it’s right, if it is, well, you need to lose weight … for SHIZ (see what I did there? Ehhh?!).

All I could think was, “did it happen finally?! Have all those years of eating carbs and potato products finally caught up with me!?” Literally buttoning these suckers was the saddest moment of my life. Like how could I have let this happen?! They buttoned, so that was good and all, but were they comfortable? Umm negative. I think I still have a button imprint under my belly button a week later. But typical me, I was running late, so I threw on an oversized shirt so no one could see my protruding muffin top, and went on with my way thinking about how obese I had become overnight.

The entire day I kept fidgeting in them, trying to pull them up in an effort to make them more comfortable and tolerable, but alas there was no rescuing my suffocating stomach. The worse part was I had to return something at Zara and the last thing I wanted to do was enter in to one of my favorite stores in my sad condition. But I went anyways, and since they were having a mega blowout sale I HAD to try stuff on, of course. Duh.

After acquiring way too many pieces of clothing to try on, I entered the Zara fitting room, questioning why I was subjecting myself to this violent form of torture. My damn pants didn’t fit me anymore. I had no right to enter into any room unless it was a Jenny Craig waiting room.

Now, if you are familiar with Zara fitting rooms, you know everything is very white … and VERY bright. You can’t hide from yourself in these bitches. So I went on my way, trying stuff on, trying not to make eye contact with my grotesque body. But when I went to put my ill-fitting pants back on I realized something: Wait. When did my black skinnies get so faded? And Jesus, when did the back pocket start to look like it is about to fall off? And OMG, when did I fall and rip the knee on these guys? What … is … HAPPENING! Then all of a sudden it hit me.


If I could have done a touchdown dance in the Zara fitting room, I would have … but the room was too restricting. Turns out I didn’t gain an excessive amount of weight overnight, I’m just a dumbass who keeps her old skinny jeans that should be thrown away still on a hanger in case of a “what if” moment (yes, I’m THAT psychotic).

So as you can assume, I’m super relieved and have since thrown those devil jeans away. The bad news is I have not the slightest idea where my real black skinnies are. If you have any information about their whereabouts please contact me ASAP.

Cheese fries for all!


HELP! I’m Dieting!

CaptureIt’s sad but true :::sigh:::

I can’t say I’ve ever dieted in my life. And it isn’t because I’m naturally thin and gorgeous (I mean if you are I want to personally smack you), but it’s because, basically, I love carbs … mostly potato products. And if I couldn’t have carbs, I would probably stab someone. My whole thing is if my clothes fit and if I feel healthy, then there is no need to diet. I don’t own a scale, and when I go to the doctor and, against my will, they have to weigh me, I don’t look … after begging them not to weigh me in the first place (I always lose that battle). It is all about how you feel, not about the number you are.

I’m subjecting myself to this dieting nonsense because in a mere three weeks I will be on a beach for the span of five days … a place I haven’t seen in quite some time, also known as “vacation.” And the idea of putting on a bathing suit makes me want to light fire to them and frantically run away into a dark cave and hide in the fetal position until the next snow storm.

Could I stand to lose a few LBs? Sure, who couldn’t. But here is a fun fact about me: I hate gyms. Loathe them. I’ve tried, really I have … numerous times in fact. But they skeeve me. People are always trying to talk to me, asking me when I’ll be done the machine, telling me my shoe is untied, hitting on me. And seriously dudes, why? I don’t go to the gym to bring the boys to the yard, okay. In fact I’m probably in a disgusting t-shirt, weird sweats with stains on them, hair in a bun, and no makeup … sweating my balls off. Oh yeah … let me get some o DAT! Freaks. So yeah, gyms are not an option for me. EVER. Unless there is one in my house … real housewives style. That I probably, STILL, won’t use. But I imagine a treadmill would make a lovely clothes hanger.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not a stationary person. I walk a ton, and sometimes I dabble in yoga (although I’m currently in the hunt for a new studio). But the reason I’m subjecting myself to this dieting hell is because, well, in your late 20’s things just aren’t, oh, how you say, naturally tight anymore. Gross, right? Eww, aging.

So as I sit here eating my plain Jane salad with half the dressing, no cheese, and minimal croutons miserably, I can’t help but crave a large plate of curly fries … and maybe a large margarita pizza to back it up. But in order for me to thoroughly enjoy myself on vacation, mama needs to tighten this shit up. I’m only dieting for me, because at the end of the day, you are the one that has to live with yourself, am I right?

In other news: dieting is the devil.


I’m A Little Tea Pot …

759ce1220f70c77d1d1278b17ddc95bbSometimes you just need to shake it up. Lately I’ve been feeling like Mr. Roboto, doing the same things every weekend. And you know what? Life is too short for Mr. Roboto nonsense. So this weekend is when I say, “ENOUGH!” and do something I’ve always wanted to do since I was a little girl … and that is attend high tea.

Perhaps it is my recent obsession with the show Ladies of London, or with my admiration for British culture in itself, but high tea has always been on my to-do list. Since I was little I’ve had a fascination with teatime, pretending with my plastic tea cup set, and throwing fits when I didn’t get the matching teacups in the Match Game. And I’m pretty sure I will be that old lady with the millions of china closets lining my house filled with precious tea cups, and if anyone tries to touch one I will most likely throw one of my cats at them.

The thing is, what does one wear to high tea? I have this vision of a fantastic white dress with lace white gloves and maybe a hat. But Jesus, we aren’t in foggy London town back in the early 19th century, for crying out loud. This is 2014, in Philadelphia, in the summer heat. Even though I won’t be having tea with the queen or any dignitaries (not that I’m calling my friends slobs, lahve ya!), I still feel like one needs to pay homage to the tradition by not dressing like a slob OR a hipster.

Jeans are definitely a no no, and anything plaid probably isn’t the greatest of ideas. I do have this vision of wearing all white, pinkies up and such, graciously pouring my tea into my lovely tea cup, and then accidentally pouring the hot tea on my lap, which will lead me to leap up like a psycho, knocking over the fine china, cursing like a sailor, and leaving stained and probably wearing a badge the owner of the tearoom gives me that says “unfit.”

Listen I believe I’m the Eliza Doolittle of the tea scene, but before the professor shoved marbles in her mouth to make her speak properly. “THE RAAAIN IN SPAAAIN FULLS MAIIINLY ON THE PLLLAAAINEE.” Yep. That’s me. Regardless of my klutz tenancies, and the fact that I’m a magnet for stains and awkward situations, I’m truly looking forward to drink real tea with real people and eat real scones instead of drinking water with my stuffed animals and eating Wonder bread.

Pinkies up!









Rubbing Of The Thighs

polls_lauren_uncomfortable_1658_620846_answer_1_xlargeThere is something disturbing happening to ladies in the summer heat. Something that women don’t usually like to talk about. It is the evil that cannot be seen, touched, or smelled … but yes, oh yes, it can be felt. I am here today to air out this dirty laundry, because let’s be real, it happens to the best of us. I’m talking about our upper, UPPER thighs rubbing together. And no, I’m not going to refer to it by the name so many like to call “chub rub,” because even saying it in my head makes me gag. And quite frankly, no matter what body type you have, it can happen to you. :::The more you know star swipe:::

There is nothing worse. You think you look so cute in your little skirt, strutting your stuff down the street, then all of a sudden it starts to happen. Skin on skin. Sweating. Back and forth. Back and forth, until you find yourself no longer strutting, but walking like you have a stick up your ass to soothe the irritation, but it doesn’t help. You know you are going to end up with an odd looking rash that will be the antithesis of sexy.

The sick part is women immediately think they are fat when this happens. Hence why I want to take the name “chub rub” throw it in the mud, run over it with my car five times and light fire to it. Ladies, trust me, regardless if you have the elusive and coveted “thigh gap” … there is a special place in your thighs that will, inevitably, rub together and torture you until you sit down. So don’t think you’re safe if your thigh is the circumference of a penny, it will happen to you, one day. Oh it will happen.

When it happened to me the first time, I immediately thought I had gained weight or the carbs I so love and cherish finally caught up to me. But no. I am proud to say I am not shaped like a model. I’ve got curves, my body isn’t perfect (but really, who does have this elusive “perfect body”). My thighs rub together when it is hot and humid and I’m sweating in places that I didn’t think I could sweat, and you know what, that just makes me feel more like a woman.

But even though this “situation” makes us become very VERY aware of our thighs and almost embrace them (which we should), the irritation it leaves is still the least sexy thing in the universe, like I said before. I mean no one wants to see that. Hence why these are the most genius things I have ever seen, Bandelettes. Sexy and cute, these lacy numbers wrap around your thigh to stop the rubbing. Genius, thy name is Bandelettes.

It almost makes you want thigh chaffing to happen because they are so cute, resembling a saucy thigh high. And for $14.99, I think this is a fantastic solution to a rather unsavory problem, don’t ya think? So thank you for helping us avoid that ridiculously unattractive rash thigh chaffing creates. Seriously. Ain’t nobody got time for that.


Adult Temper Tantrums

veruca-saltRemember when you were little and it was totally acceptable to freak out about something, turn into a complete spazz, and throw yourself on the ground kicking and screaming in defense? Looking back, those are cringe-worthy moments (not that I had them, I was a perfect child). Because now when I see children in full-blown freakout mode, it makes me want to overdose on birth control.

But this weekend I had a bit of an outer body experience. You know when you have the perfect outfit in your mind, and you spend time and good amounts of money trying to pull it together, and think you have it made … but later on find out you absolutely do not?

I was attending one of my good friend’s bridal showers, and what I was dreaming of wearing was my red palazzo pants from Zara, a lace black tank, and lots of strands of sparkly black beads, perhaps hair in a bun, and my strappy black stilettos. Sounds genius right? So I put my pants on, my tank, my heels, and started layering on all the strands of beads I purchased (which were not cheap), and well, the whole thing looked like shit. I felt my anxiety rising, but I took a deep breath and thought, “I’ll save the styling for last.” (Important point to my story: I don’t have AC in my upstairs, which isn’t conducive to rage.)

Luckily my best friend was there getting ready with me, and my mom … well lucky for me, not them. As I was slowly transforming into the Incredible Hulk over jewelry drama, I turned around only to hear from my best friend, “dude, can totally see your underwear.” Shit. What? I was wearing the only nude pair of undies I owned. So what do you do in a pickle like this? You go commando. Not my favorite thing in the world, but, meh, when in Rome. So I took it off, put my pants back on and did a little spin for my loved ones to check out my “situation” in the back, to which I saw faces trying not to burst out laughing … for fear they may die. Yeaaaahh I mine as well not have been wearing pants. My neck, my back, my woo haa and my crack were literally all out and about (gotta love silk pants). Sweet Jesus, my blood pressure. My blood pressure!

Bet you think it couldn’t get worse, right? Welp, have you ever had your mother say, “I KNOW! I’ll go get some of my underwear for you to wear.” At that point my mouth just hung open. Was she serious? “What?! They’re clean!” she screamed in defense of my shock. Sharing underpants with my mother? Is this what my life was coming to?! I was sweating, everyone was lying to me, I felt like crap about myself, and now this?! Enter adult temper tantrum stage right. It went just a little something like …

“I’m not wearing your damn underwear, you crazy woman.”
“NO! NO NO NO NO NO!” This is all mother f-ing wrong!”
“I look like shit.”
“You lie to me one more time I will cut you!”
“I hate these f-ing pants.”
“You all have heinous lie faces. HEINOUS!”
“Where are the scissors, I’m cutting these pants in half.”

And so on and so forth. I only gave you a dose of the massive amounts of curse words that were flying out of my mouth. God help my mother. But seriously … who offers someone their underpants? I mean I guess that’s love, in some odd backwards universe.

I was on a rampage, to the point where everyone just left me alone. And I was happy about it, because clearly I needed to find my zen. But on the voyage to find my zen, I looked in the mirror to find my hair looking like something Sporty Spice would have rocked back in the day. I tried to take deep breaths but the rage was coming out of my pours. If I could have screamed, “I’M NOT GOING!” ripped off my outfit, jumped back into bed in an air conditioned room, pulled the covers over my head and called it a day, I would have.

So there ya have it. Some may say I need medication, others would say I need therapy. I just call it the shit hitting the fashion fan all at once. When you don’t feel like you look your best, it alters your mood drastically. As much as I wanted slash still want to take a scissor to those pants, I got my shit together and wore them loudly and proudly to the bridal shower. I hope all the ladies in waiting enjoyed my panty line and being able to clearly see that they were lace. Because I looked HAWT.

Lessons learned: Try on your outfit dream ahead of time to check for wardrobe malfunctions. And get ready in air conditioning … ALWAYS. And if you don’t get ready in air conditioning and you are having massive wardrobe malfunctions, don’t take it out on your loves ones. OH YEAH … and if you are a mother, NEVER offer your daughter your underwear.

To my mother and best friend, I apologize thoroughly for my adult temper tantrum. Kids get pacifiers if they act up, I got Chardonnay. I was a win.

More Turkey, Less Shopping

thanksgiving-ann-sheridan-thecarveI’ve never understood the people who looked forward to the Black Friday madness. My first job was at Burlington Coat Factory when I was 16, and I remember having to work in the “coat department” on Black Friday, and quitting the next day.

Over the years, Black Friday has been taking steroids, my friends, to the point where it is now allowing stores to be opened ON Thanksgiving. I get the family traditions of eating dinner then taking a little cat nap, then heading out for the best deals at midnight … kind of. It’s cute, it’s tradition. Whatever. My family was too busy being in food comas and figuring out if one more piece of pie would push us over the edge to give a shit about awesome deals.

But what I don’t think people understand is that it takes human beings to open slash run these stores on Thanksgiving. People that have to deal with your crazy ass stampedes and tantrums and disgusting fights to get the best flat screen deal in the whole entire universe (which ps, it probably isn’t … shhh). People that either don’t get to spend Thanksgiving with their families, or have to leave mid-chocolate cream pie bite (my go-to Thanksgiving dessert) to head out to work. And you know what, that straight up sucks. To ask these people to for-go eating turkey for fear of a tryptophan coma that could inhibit their work is just cruel.

I’m starting a blog slow clap for Massachusetts, Maine and Rhode Island for establishing laws that tell retailers they absolutely cannot open on Thanksgiving and to shut their greedy mouths. Why can’t we be more like these states, other states, huh? And let’s include Nordstrom in this slow clap, because they, too are closed on Thanksgiving, AND not only that, but they premiere their store holiday decorations ON Black Friday. Not like in the death rattle of Halloween like some stores. I personally only consider it “the holidays” after I’ve digested my turkey and it is officially 12am on Black Friday. So to wake up to a beautifully decorated store on Black Friday, which Nordstrom knocks out of the park every year, I gotta say is a breath of fresh air.

Do you know there are ACTUAL malls fining stores for not opening on Thanksgiving. It’s called “Walden Galleria” in upstate New York, and I imagine it to look like this:


Talk about Thanksgiving-branded Scrooge. Macy’s, an American establishment, a way of life for fashion, is one of these horrid stores opening on Thanksgiving, which thoroughly shocked me. There’s no “magic of giving” in that way of life, Macy’s. Just sayin’.

I get it, a good sale is a good sale. I am the first one to throw up an amazing deal I scored all over social media. But I refuse to stand behind any retailer opening on Thanksgiving, refuse, and I hope you stand with me on this. Guess what kids, it ain’t like the old days where retailers save their mind blowing, Oprah-favorite-things audience member mind-blowing sales for just Black Friday. There’s a thing called Cyber Monday, and, oh yeah, genius discount sites that have amazing deals all-day, err-day. And, oh yeah, retailers are SO desperate for your money that they have awesome sales ALL throughout the holiday. So chill the fuck out.

Listen, Thanksgiving is about eating way too much, drinking copious amounts of wine, being with your loved ones, and being thankful for the life you lead, no matter what kind of life that is. Not to go ape shit over $5 t-shirts at Old Navy. I mean come on, it’s gross. You HAVE to admit. So slow your roll, eat ya turkey, and the deals will be there bright and early on Black Friday morning with all of the other crazy bastards out shopping.