Self Care

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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I Know Why Melania Trump Looked So Miserable…

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Tomorrow Is Going To Suck… So Shoes

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Why I Take Birth Control

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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That Time Topshop Made Me Feel Like A Cow

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

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

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

…until we got intimate in the dressing room. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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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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