Category Archives: Fashion

Why I Don’t Wear Thongs

I used to wear thong underwear.

In fact my college roommates and I used to have thong slingshot fights at the laundromat.

Until one of them would inevitably get hooked behind the washer on a drain pipe, or hung up in the light fixture (the underwear, not the roommates).

These days, my underpants are large and roomy. (To read more about what I’m currently wearing, read My Husband is Head Over Hanes for Me.)

But I do still own two thongs. One for daytime and one (black lacy) version for night time.

Don’t get excited.

I wear them only when the outfit necessitates, which is almost never. Or when I haven’t done my laundry in three weeks, because I’ve been doing everyone else’s.

That was the case today. And look what happened!


This never would have happened with granny panties.

Every time I bent over or turned sideways, this good-for-nothing T-Back gave me a Wedgie for the Ages!

I hate when you have to spend your whole day managing your outfit.

We all have “that shirt” where the button in the front randomly bursts open.

Usually in the middle of a staff meeting, or an interview – exposing your breasts to the company president.

And we all have “that skirt” made of some kind of unnatural polyester blend, that static-clings to your legs and crotch like a sausage casing.

I don’t think men have these wardrobe malfunctions.

“I was at lunch with a client and my jock strap broke, and my penis just FELL OUT in front of everyone!” said No Man Ever.


“I can’t sit down because the Spanx under my khakis are too tight, so… I’ll just stand.”


“My slacks flew up in the wind and my entire butt was showing. It was so embarrassing!”

All things never said by a man.

Maybe his fly was down ONCE and someone got a glimpse of his boxers. Big whoop.

Until your bare ass, or exposed nipple, has felt the cool breeze of embarrassment, you can’t really relate.

But as women, we can do things to mitigate these malfunctions.

We can buy new underwear and bras (with sturdy straps) more often than every five years.

We can do our laundry first next time and let our husbands turn their underwear inside out for a change.

We can remember to not neglect ourselves.


And for Pete’s sake, get rid of those thongs!!!!

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More than 100 Outfit Ideas for the Normal-Sized Woman

For more than a year now, my best friend and I have exchanged outfit photos each morning.
See my outfits here.

See her outfits here.

It’s been a great exercise for me because it’s forced me to put more effort into what I wear (and come to grips with my body image – I’m a size 8, and that’s OK!)

I believe when a woman likes her outfit, she is more confident in her career, in her relationships and in her life!

More than 100 outfit ideas!

More than 100 outfit ideas!

Disclaimer: Please don’t judge me based on the crappy quality of these photos. Or my messy bedroom.

6 Reasons I Can’t Wait for Fall

1. Pumpkin Spice Lattes at Fivebucks.

I mean Starbucks. It’s not my favorite time of year until I’m spending half my paycheck and one-fourth of my daily-calorie-intake on a 12 oz. cup of pie-flavored steamed milk.

2. Pants.

Camel Toes die in the winter

Camel Toes die in the winter

Let’s hope the high-waisted-shorts trend dies before the spring flowers bloom again.

When I was in college, the trend was LOW-rise shorts. So low, that girls’ pubic bones were protruding above the zipper. Now they’re so HIGH-waisted, their vaginas are hanging out underneath.

‘Tis the season to veto the vajayjay, and break out the Long Johns, girls!

3. Flu Shots.

Have you ever had the flu? I mean, REALLY had the flu? Not just the “flu” where your throat is sore and your nose is stuffy, blah blah blah.

But the one where you’re freezing to death and then burning alive. And you feel like a Mack truck has run over your body, and you fear you may never emerge from your bedchamber? If you’ve (really) had the flu, you know what I’m talking about.

And so I cheerfully celebrate my opportunity to pay Walgreens $25 each fall to avoid this inconvenience.

4. Football.

I actually hate football. Except for college football, specifically the SEC. I love watching these games mostly because I grew up watching the Gators.  So many warm-fuzzy memories of dad cheering wildly, mom making various-and-sundry chips and dips, and many, many drunken Saturdays at the Swamp.

(And because I like watching football 10,000 times better than baseball. If I have to sit through ONE MORE seven-hour long Shuffling-Sliding-Butt Patting-At Batting-Tobacco Chewing-Sliding-Loogy Hocking-Spit Fest, I’m going to give up TV all together and join the FLDS.)

5. Gravy.

Starting in September, it’s perfectly acceptable to start smothering things in gravy and topping things with marshmallows. And eating foods described as “hearty”, creamy”, “cozy” and “rib-sticking.”  Nevermind that it’s 90-degrees here in Florida until January.

6. The End of Bathing Suit Season.

No elaboration required.

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The Most Impractical Baby Shower Gift

Isn't she the cutest!

Isn’t she the cutest!

If you’ve had a baby, you know that baby shoes are totally impractical.

Shoes can change your life.

Shoes can change your life.

Babies kick them off, fuss when you try to wrestle them back on and outgrow them too quickly.

They are a total pain in the ass.

But they are soooooooooo cute.

So when I found a plaque that read: “Cinderella is proof that shoes can change your life.”

Ugh, I died.

I couldn’t resist buying my friend Anni a basket full of adorable (albeit useless) baby shoes!

I love shrink-wrap!

I love shrink-wrap!

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Making Over Ginger…

Casual summer outfits

Casual summer outfits

This afternoon I worked on inspiration boards for the prettiest red head I know.

She doesn’t need a makeover, but then again, most of my “clients” don’t need makeovers.

They just need a little help making outfits with the clothes they already have, and a little guidance on what else to buy!

She’s a mother of two, so she needs easy, effortless pieces.

Here are the boards I created for her.

One is for work (she’s a school teacher) and one is for the weekends.

Her color palette for this season includes: indigo, sky blue, citrus, tomato, coral and petal pink.

Her shopping list includes:

  • A jean jacket
  • A chambray shirt
  • A brightly colored blazer
  • A white T-shirt
  • An A-line Dress

    Work outfits - same palette

    Work outfits – same palette

  • A breezy, brightly colored scarf
  • Tan wedges
  • A big floppy straw hat
  • Dark denim skinny jeans
  • A tan cardigan
  • A tunic
  • A gold cuff

Stay tuned for the details from our shopping trip!

I clipped  the photos for the inspiration boards from InStyle, Redbook and Lucky magazines.

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Little Pool House of Horrors

Why is it that I always have to pee more often when I’m wearing a one-piece bathing suit?

Probably because it’s sucking in my fat so forcefully that my bladder cannot store even one 12 oz. poolside beverage for any length of time.

I know everyone else is just peeing in the water.

That dad in the Deep End, with the red solo cup, has been sitting in his inner tube for 3 hours.

I don’t know whether it’s moral opposition – or the fact that I still believe there’s purple pee-dye in the pool, but I just can’t do it.

So I waddle into the restroom like a wet Beluga – trying not to think about the grey mystery slop on the floor.

I writhe my body out of it’s sausage casing and sit down on the toilet completely naked – freezing.

Praying the snot-nosed boys outside don’t figure out the door code and walk in on me.

Wouldn’t want to traumatize the children.

Like the time I accidentally saw my grandmother naked at the beach.

Holy shit.

In my 8-year-old mind, her breasts were enormous…and flat…and long. Like two deflated whoopy cushions smashed against her body. She must have been 100 years old…

She was probably 57 with a great body.

After my 5 minutes of peace, I stand up and….

Oh God.

I can’t get my bathing suit back on. I mean…I REALLY cannot get this bitch back on my body.

Meanwhile the kids outside are tugging on the door handle. Giggling.

I pull. And pull. And nothing. I cannot even get it over my ass cheeks.

Panic sets in.

I have no cell phone. No way to call the outside world for help. Who would I even call?

My husband is the only one with the kindness AND the physical aptitude to handle the job.

I’ve seen him fit a large pizza box in an already-full ForceFlex Trash Bag.

Hmm…how long will it take before he comes to rescue me on his own?

Probably hours.

He’s most likely thrilled to have 10 nag-free-minutes without me.

I could be in here for days.

I decide to calm down and move slowly.

Centimeter by centimeter, I inch the suit up over my body. Over the butt… Now over the belly… I shove my boobs inside and…

The lights go out.

Oh my God. I must’ve been in here so long the timer went off.

I flail my arms around to set off the sensor, but I’m disoriented.

I feel for the wall. I would take off my sunglasses, but they’re prescription, and I’m legally blind, so that could only make matters worse.

What seems like hours later… I find the door handle.


I shield my eyes from the sun.

I’ve just escaped The Hole, and no one on the outside seems to care.

I think to myself…the next time I have to use the restroom (which will be in like 15 minutes) I am DEFINITELY going to bring Colt’s flashlight and his toy pliers…

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The Ween-ager Stage

A few weeks ago my adorable coworker, Brittany, came to me… frustrated.

She’d been shopping for clothes and NOTHING fit (welcome to the club, right?)

“Where were you shopping?” I asked.

“Macy’s” she answered. But with more prodding, I discovered, she’d been browsing the JUNIOR’s department [insert gasp].

Well, there’s your problem.

She’s 24 and in that weird stage between being a teenager and a woman (when you’re getting your master’s degree, but still shopping  at Charlotte Russe.)

Girl, you grew a booty in undergrad, and I’m sorry but….you can’t shop there anymore.

This is not something to bemoan. It’s something to celebrate!

It’s time to welcome new fabrics into your wardrobe like cotton, jersey knit, and linen! Time to embrace even sizes like 2,4, 6 and 8!

Sure, you can “fit” into a 9, but your ass crack is going to hang out a little. And let’s get a handle on those love handles, shall we?

It’s a tough transition, I know.

Retailers call it “misses.”

I prefer to think of it as “ween-ager” – because you really do have to wean yourself off of the teenage shopping mentality. I’m almost 30, and I still incorporate pieces from Forever 21 into my wardrobe.

The trick is knowing the kinds of pieces (like probably not pants) that you can get away with – without the other mommies at the park talking shit about you.

Even if you’ve got a bangin’ body, it’s probably best to say goodbye to crop tops, daisy dukes, super low-rise jeans (or super high-waisted jeans for that matter. Your camel toe wasn’t cute then, and it’s not cute now.) And definitely none of those sweatpants with words on the butt.

“Juicy” has a whole new meaning after you’ve had children and peed your pants a few times.

I convinced my young grasshopper to let me take her shopping.

I made Brit this Boho Chic Outfit-Board for days when she's feeling uninspired!

I made Brit this Boho Chic Outfit-Board for days when she’s feeling uninspired!

I told her to bring $200 and block off 4 hours for trying on clothes.

Before we left, I asked her a few questions about her style and what kinds of items she wanted. I also assessed her closet to see what she already had and what she needed.

Together, we turned “Blah Blah Brittany” into “Boho Chic Barbie!”

Click here to see photos from the makeover!

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Bathing Suit Shopping and “Side Ball”

Nothing makes you wanna kill yourself like shopping for a bathing suit.

Shortly after I had Colt, my mother convinced me to start shopping at Bealls Department Store. I guess she was implying that my days at Victoria’s Secret were over.

At Bealls, I found a cute coral one-piece that has been my go-to mommy suit for two years now.

But the elastic has dry-rotted, the seams are torn and the crotch is pilly.

A few weeks ago, I decided to return there – hoping to find another industrial strength suit to last until 2018.

But Todd has been begging me to buy a bikini. I think he’s realizing he may. never. see his wife in one again.

The thought must be terrifying.

So after trying on 75 bathing suits with no luck, I finally find the “Jessica Simpson” section at Bealls. Yessssss. She gained like 100 pounds with her kid, right?

Sure enough. I try on a killer blue bikini, and I love it. I’m no Adriana Lima, but it’s not bad. Not bad at all.

Todd and Colt mosey over toward the dressing room, and I swing open the door – certain Todd will pass out when he sees my smokin’ hot…

He looks confused. Staring.

Suddenly Colt cries, “Mommy it’s too small!”


Later in the week, I’m in Target trying not to spend $200 (impossible), and I notice The Cutest Bathing Suits Ever.

They come in the following sizes:

X-So f*&king small this wouldn’t fit my toddler if he were a girl.

So NOT much bigger than the XS.

My one a$$ cheek could not fit inside the bottom of this bathing suit. Maybe they are referring to the TV show?

Laughing at this top, which is CLEARLY mismarked. No boob bigger than a B cup could fit in one of these triangles.

X-Lo and Behold. This one fits.

XL bathing suit

XL bathing suit – Thanks a lot Target

Now… I am a size 6 in the morning… and a size 8 at night.

I’m not asking to fit in a petite small, but an EXTRA LARGE?

What about the rest of America? Where are they shopping?

Target is supposed to be a store for The American People.

I can only assume that the people in China assembling our bathing suits have started sizing them to fit their bodies.

Do men have to worry about these things? Things like Uniboob, Muffin top or Camel Toe?

Of course not.

When is the last time you heard your husband complain about squeezing his manhood into a neon-colored sling or checking for “side ball.”

They just slide on a pair of elastic-waisted shorts in a subtle-colored breathable fabric, and the mesh nest inside cradles their privates.

Nothing is squished or mashed or strung together. And they have pockets!

And I’m pretty sure if they’re medium sized, they just buy a “medium” size. Which is probably the same regardless of store or state or assembly plant location.

My head is swimming with the injustice of it all.

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Pardon my Pit Stains, Would You Like to Order Some Brochures?

I have to look nice at work. No jeans. No shorts. Definitely no jorts.

A dress code is OK by me. I  believe that clothes (done right) can make you look slimmer, younger and just feel…happier!

I read all the fashion magazine articles – “How to Dress Two Sizes Smaller”, “Dress Up to Slim Down.” Blah. Blah. Blah.

I read Tim Gunn’s column in Marie Claire every month.

The principles behind these articles are always the same:

1. Layer, layer, layer! Cute little jackets and cardigans hide fat arms!

2. Belt it! Buckle around your flouncy shirt to create a tiny waist!

3. Don’t forget the Shapewear! Proper undergarments are key!

Apparently none of these fashion editors have ever traveled south of the Mason Dixon line… in August.

Hell, it’s only April here in Florida, AND THE HIGH IS 90.

I know a lot about the heat.

I work as a sales rep for a local printer and service the University of South Florida.

Parking can sometimes be a challenge, so I try to park centrally and walk whenever I can.

This is my strategy to beat the heat: I pull into a parking spot, turn the A/C to MAX, and stick my face up to the vent.

I’d snort Frion if I could.

When I work up enough courage, I apply a fresh coat of lipgloss, pop a chiclet and…

Step out onto the surface of the sun.

Thirty seconds into my walk – there’s a pool of sweat forming between my boobs.

By 3 p.m. I could be mistaken for a homeless person.

I arrive on my customer’s doorstep in desperation…”Hi.” [Insert heavy breathing]

“I’m Julie, your campus representative. [Insert heavy breathing] Pardon my pit stains, would you like to order some brochures?”

Here are my comments to the fashion editors –

1. LAYER!!?? Does wearing panties count? Because I can’t bear to layer anything on TOP of my dress. As badly as I want to wear a cardigan to hide my fat arms, my pits need to BREATHE.

2. Belts are amazing, I agree. I have them in every color, skinny, fat, buckle, tie, etc. But the only thing accentuating my waist, is the sweat line accumulating underneath my belt.

3. If you read Spanx, you know I love shape wear. But HOLY SHIT. You might as well just wear black plastic trash bags around your thighs, and call it a day.

A typical outfit. Cute now. So damn hot after 9 a.m. (Don't mind the toilet paper in the background of this picture?!)

A typical outfit. Cute now. So damn hot after 9 a.m. (Don’t mind the toilet paper in the background of this picture?!)

Why does every 19-year-old girl I pass on the sidewalk look so cool and…matte?

Is it because she weighs 85 pounds and is wearing jort cutoffs and a bathing suit top?

Does she mistake me for Honey Boo Boo’s mama?

Just wait girl.

One day you’ll be a working mother – wearing your cardigan, belt and Spanx, just so you can look like a size 4 when you’re really an 8.

Trying to make ends meet. In the heat. Literally. Why won’t this belt fasten!!????!!!

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The People of the Courthouse

“I have Jury Duty.”

You might as well tell your friends you have the Ebola Virus.

They will feel SO BAD for you… but will secretly celebrate that they don’t have it.

Quite honestly, I don’t mind jury “service.”

The term “service” has replaced “duty” (perhaps to sound less obligatory and more honorary?) But it’s kind of like a colonoscopy, you can call it whatever you want, there’s still a tube going up your ass.

Nevertheless, it’s our civic responsibility, and we should take pride in it!

The other jurors were complaining.  About missing work. About the limited options in the snack machine. About having to “wait around ALL DAY.”

Five hours to sit and read? Sounds like a vacation to me.

The reason why I dread jury duty is not for the waiting, nor the process itself. It is for the inevitable forced interaction with the People of the Courthouse.

Who are actually the People of Walmart. They are just at the courthouse on this particular day either for “service” or for trial.

In fact, the only differences between Walmart and the Courthouse, are the metal detectors and the “dress code.”

I use this term loosely.

There are placards on each courtroom door that read, “No tank tops, shorts or GUM.”

I find it odd that GUM be emphasized over shorts or tank tops. In fact, I believe these signs should be re-thought all together.

An alternative idea might be: “No exposed cleavage or cracks allowed. Belt and Bra required to enter.”

It should also be clarified that pajama pants do not not REALLY qualify as “pants.” They are, in my opinion, more offensive than shorts.

Especially if you are not wearing underwear, and you are a man. With only a layer of flannel between me and your wiener.

There is such dichotomy in the courthouse between attorneys and their clients. A handsome young man in his Brooks Brothers suit and fancy cuff links. His client in her acid wash skinny jeans and T-back.

Oh, and all of her family members loitering outside the courtroom yelling obscenities into their cell phones. (Girl, your entourage is not winning you any points with “his honor.”)

Maybe this is why I never get picked to serve on an actual jury?

Because yes, I am likely to judge your book by it’s tattered, unkempt, cursing cover.

If there isn’t a voice in your head saying, “OH MY GOD, DO NOT WEAR THOSE FLANNEL PANTS TO YOUR COURT DATE, AND DO NOT CALL THE JUDGE A MOTH&* FU*^ER,” than I seriously doubt there is a voice saying, “DO NOT MAKE THAT METH IN YOUR BATHTUB AND INTEND TO SELL IT.”

Inside the courtroom, the attorneys question the jurors about our pasts to determine who might have any underlying prejudices. (They are trying to narrow down the group to the top eight most “fair” people.)

In my most recent experience, a law enforcement officer was involved in the trial, so the attorney asked, “Do any of you have a close personal relationship with anyone in law enforcement? If so, please raise your hand.”

This could be translated to, “If your boyfriend, father or brother is a cop, let us know.”

Instead, every hand goes up, and the SAME people who are bitching about being there ALL DAY launch into monologues about how… in 1993, in middle school…in Detroit…they once had a friend… whose girlfriend’s dad… was a security guard for the local mall.

And so what I thought would be a mini-vacay with my Real Simple, has turned into a 5-hour hostage situation in the Walmart.

I always seem to make it to the final round of questioning before getting dropped from the panel with no explanation. Like a when Alpha Delta Pi didn’t invite me back for preferentials.

Why wouldn’t they want me? Do I not LOOK unbiased enough? Can they read my thoughts? Is it my hot pink cardigan? My sequin earrings? The death stare I’m giving to the dumb ass next to me?

I can’t help but feel cheated.

So now I’m back in the big, stinky, un-chlorinated  jury pool. Just waiting for my next subpeona.

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