July 29, 2014 § Leave a comment
In 2002 I may have owned, not one, but two velour tracksuits. Black and tan. You know, for the seasons. My black, more wintery duo, had a pull over top from the very fancy Express. The tan springtime number purchased at Forever 21 was far to short in the inseam. Being cheap made me prepared for any flood.
[Me in 2004, in the airport on the way to Miami for Spring Break. Totally winning.]
Before you go on judging, this was before people freely wore leggings as an acceptable bottom. There is no comfort in the crotch of ladies jeans. We want to wear pajamas and we want to wear them now! We want to wear them in public! Everyday if we want!
The college girls of 2014 have the best fashion to choose from. I know because I frequently brunch in LA. If you want to know what new fad is hot right now, go out for eggs and a mimosa on a Saturday. Fashion Show. And be fierce.
Most current trends are far too… how do I put this? Slutty. They are too slutty for a woman in her 30s participation. I don’t think girls are showing more skin now than I did at that age, it’s just in different areas.
2004 = 2014
THEN: 3 inches of lower belly between low rise jeans and baby tee = NOW: the 3 inches of upper abs between crop top and high waisted pants. (this is so unfair, my upper abs died in vain because of this)
THEN: my jeans are so flared it looks like I’m floating = NOW: my jeans are so skinny they might be painted on
THEN: Thong showing every time you bend over in low rise cut offs = NOW: butt cheeks every time you walk in high waisted shorts.
THEN: Too tight baby tee with the neck cut out = NOW: too big man’s tee with giant arm holes cut out and an open back
Gorgeous hair is the best revenge. -Ivana Trump
Things I said in 2004:
“I really want to dye just one streak of my hair lime green.”
“I want, like real, chunky highlights.”
“Short choppy layers, all over and then straighten it for four hours.”
“I’ll be super fast, I’ll just scrunch my hair.”
“I’ll just pull down the whisps in the front. I can’t take it out, I have ponytail dent.”
“I iron it straight with a real iron. I don’t care if it’s bad for it, its the only thing that works.”
Things I say Now:
“I’m going really natural, nothing crazy.”
“belly-age? Ohm-le? That thing were it looks like I already have roots so I don’t have to come back for 6 months.”
“I can’t do pixie faux hawk, but the bob is back, right?”
“That hippy head band thing, it’s a commitment. Worse than ponytail dent”
“I want to grow it so long. I want a hair bra. Mermaid style”
“I heard shampooing is SO bad for your hair.”
Coco Chanel said to always take off one accessory before you leave the house and no one listened to her.
2004 = 2014
THEN: trucker hats in winter = NOW: felt floppy hats in summer
THEN: Walking advertisement for Abercrombie = NOW: walking contradiction wanna-be hipster
THEN: Chokers = NOW: thirty million wrap bracelets (honestly, who has the time?)
THEN: Thong peek-a-boo = NOW: bra through a sheer top
THEN: Uggs = NOW: Tory Burch flats
THEN: platform flip flops = NOW: Sky high platforms on 6 inch spikes
Basically Wearing Pajamas
I can’t decide if people who wear full on pajamas in public have given up or living life to the fullest. As I continue my attempt to outsmart normal clothes in the name of comfort.
Things I’ve said in 2014:
“I don’t care, I’m not changing. I’ll wear sweatpants to the grocery store.”
“This tracksuit is so cute, so soft, and if I wear jewelry, I can totally go out in it.”
“These jeans have spandex in them or something. They have a good flare too.”
“Yeah, but when I bend over can you see my crack out the top?”
Things I’ve said lately:
“I’m wearing athletic apparel to the grocery store, but I didn’t work out today. And I’m not going to.”
“This jumper is two seams away from footie pajamas and I look super dressed up.”
“Why would I wear jeans when I can wear leggings?”
“Yeah, but when I bend over can you see my crack through the fabric?”
Things that never change
We can agree on showing a little bra or a strap only its a an awesome color and never if it’s nude.
Trendy is the last stage before tacky.
Don’t do crack.
July 22, 2014 § Leave a comment
Hips are useful, hips are great,
Hips can get you a second date.
Hips are useful for other things as well,
More than just making certain men swell.
Hips are for balancing babies while you keep a hand free.
Hips are for groceries, because you can’t hold that shit on one knee.
Hips are for dancing and maybe unwanted attention.
Hips are for hip checking your bestie, aka: a sign of affection.
Hips are armrests for hugs with handles of love.
Hands on both hips shows power if push comes to shove.
Hips can push a drawer in or close a car door,
When your hands are so full and so far is the floor.
Hips are for belts to keep slouchy slacks upright.
Swing them around if you hear a good beat, don’t be uptight!
Hips are for laundry baskets, and help hold up jeans.
Hips keep your skirt in the right place, don’t be obscene.
Hips have been popular through out the decades,
They’ve had on poodle skirts, bell bottoms, and fanny packs with rollerblades.
There are lots of definitions of a woman to be kept,
But nothing like hips on a curvy silhouette.
Be proud of your humps, wide, flat, narrow, or round!
Your hips can stop traffic without even a sound.
So no matter your shape, go ahead and swing them about!
Not a thing sexier than a gal’s hips with no lies and no doubts!
I have a bit of writer’s block so I went back in my childhood to Dr. Seuss days. I’ve written a terrible poem about hips. I’m sorry, I’m not sorry (#sorrynotsorry). Is there a topic you’d want me to write about? Or one that you think I need to revisit? Thanks so much for reading! Tell your friends!
July 15, 2014 § 2 Comments
My newest theory on relationships is about boobs. Your boobs, the ones you own and are attached to the front of you. Also consider the male psyche and his unquenchable desire for the female body. Specifically we’d like steer his desire to the female body of the girl he’s dating/married to (at least that’s what we’re aiming for).
Instinctively, heterosexual men feel the need to spread the seed, but psychologically they crave a loyal female counterpart. Ladies, if you’ve ever had a sustainable platonic friendship with a member of the opposite sex (brothers, cousins, roommate’s, roommate’s boyfriends, etc.), then you know how much a guy needs a gal’s ear to whine to. When with a woman, a man feels truly safe to show actual emotions.
As little boys men are taught to toughen up, walk it off. Go cryin’ to pop and he’ll tell you it will put hair on you chest. Tears are for sissys. But mom will listen, sympathize, kiss it and make it all better. Why do you think there are so many mama’s boys running around?
When mamma’s boys into men, and don’t have a significant female, they’ll trot off to cry into the nearest bosom, figuratively speaking. A lot of times it’s still his mommy, but it could also be the robust chick at the deli counter. If a man doesn’t have this emotional outlet he may act out in other ways, violently, lazily, vindictively, promiscuously, melancholy-ly. He has his time of the month too.
If men need a feminine safe haven, what’s with the wandering eye of attached dudes? You hear it time and time again, the little man downstairs wants just about every oven to bake its bun. The family lineage must be carried on in as many vessels as possible. I have a feeling, even the born-to-be-mothers of the world would say that two or three kids is ample. It’s the man who wants to have ten thousand babies. Thus the urge to rub their faces in every pair of passing tits. Zero self control. That hotdog needs to be slathered with condiments and wrapped in a warm bun with great regularity in order to create the allusion it’s trying its best to procreate. He’ll do it solo if he has to. You’ve caught him before.
So here’s what I think: To prevent future mamsypamsyness, each man should touch at least one boob every day. And if you’re the one he’s sleeping next to at night, make that boob YOUR boob.
You’re making dinner, he’s telling you about a horrible day at work, look him dead in the eye and ask, “Have you touched a boob today?” The belly aching stops right there. You see what’s happening here? Providing him a bosom to cry into, and then letting him fondle the nipple a little. It’s nurturing eroticism. Killing two birds with one… jug. You’re watching movie and he’s drooling over Jessica Alba’s perky trot, just ask, “Have you checked my headlight yet?” and it’s not about your car. He’s groaning about aches and pains, say, “I’ve got a muscle that could use a rub.” He wants to motorboat a rack every day anyway. Why not give him what he wants? Why not make that rack yours?
70% of men think about sex every day, 43% of men think about it several times a day. Conditioning him once every 24 hours to take a titty time-out with your pair, other than foreplay, forces him to associate sexual feelings more consistently with only you, especially if you’re not a seven-times-a-week type of gal. And if he’s not a boob guy, bend over to get a daily spanking. All it takes is a few seconds. He’ll never be too tired to grab an ass. You don’t have to be Betty Paige, you just got to think like her for ten seconds. You’re already satisfying him emotionally, go ahead, put the icing on the cake.
My hypothesis states that if men receive their daily dose of girlie parts, they will be less likely to stray. If you feed the dog at the same time in the same place every day, the dog will learn to always go to that place to receive its meal. It’s not going over to the neighbor’s house for dinner. Don’t let your man go to the neighbor’s house for anything! You can fix him a fine meal at home. It doesn’t take much effort to remember to do it. You could have Mountaintop Mondays, Tata Tuesdays, Wild Jug Wednesdays, Funbag Fridays… you get the idea. After a while, he’ll remember on his own (speaking from experience). One simple little grope a day, stick to that and he’ll always be eating in your kitchen.
This may be the key to a healthy relationship. Not only will you get a daily breast exam, who knows, you could be rewarded with more frequent oral pleasure, impeccable execution of household chores, a night out on game day, he might even be moved to purchase jewelry. I’m not saying boobs will fix something already broken, but it should strengthen something in need of improvement. No big whoop, let ‘em cop a feel.
Touching her boob every day will keep his eye from wandering away.
***This was originally posted in Jan. of 2011, and I believe it rings true to this day. If you want to make a man smile when he’s blue… Boobs are powerful weapons, use yours wisely.
July 8, 2014 § Leave a comment
“Go put your bathing suit on, we’re meeting everyone at the lake in twenty minutes,” My mother ordered. I cleared my plate and hustled to my room. Finally, we were on our vacation. The good part of vacation with swimming, boats, and staying up past my bedtime. We had rented a cottage on Sebago Lake in Maine for easy access to fun and family for two whole weeks. I was eight years old and summer never felt so good! This year I was allowed to purchase a two-piece bathing suit, and today it was making it’s formal début.
I had played dress up a couple of times at home, and had a fail in the backyard with a slip ‘n’ slide, but nothing public. I’m not sure if it was peer pressure that led me to bikini-dom or the media’s sexy portrayal of swim separates. Either way, I thought my neon green, pink, and purple suit was my right of passage into womanhood. Only the essentials were covered. Midriff exposure was so sophisticated.
After a struggle getting the top unrolled to it’s appropriate position, I took the bottom one leg at a time. As I pulled it up over my rear it seemed a little low. I tugged at the hips giving myself extreme camel toe. This was not right. Examining myself in the mirror, I imagined walking on the beach. I turned to the side to make sure I looked thin enough, my pale girlish belly round instead of flat. Whoa! This mirror was not helping me, my mirror at home made me look like a Barbie Doll. I did a twirl to make sure it wasn’t just my angle. “KT – Hurry up! People are waiting,” bellowed my ma from the stairs above. I completely lost track of time, I had been examining my body for twenty full minutes.
It was in this moment I felt my first wave of modesty. I second-guessed my choice in purchasing the suit to begin with. I thought about putting on the one-piece my ma insisted I bring as an understudy for when my bikini was wet. “What are you doing down there? Let’s go!” She called as an alarm, time was running out.
Reluctantly, I took one last look of disgust at my stomach and threw on my cover-up. That day my low body image kept me beached on the sand until my jealousy of the kids in the water and encouragement of family prompted me to cannon ball. The rest of the vacation the one-piece got bumped up to first string. With my confidence back and my belly button covered, I got up on water skis for the first time.
Before this bikini, I had never felt self-conscious about my body. Feeling self-conscious is like a disease, and once you contract it you cannot get rid of it. Sure if you try hard enough you can diminish the symptoms, but you will never be fully rid of the toxic mind game you play with your disease. In a full-blown attack you can body shame yourself out of experiences and memories where physicality isn’t even a factor.
Sometimes I wish I had never put on that first bikini, as in many years to follow the bikini has been a trophy to attain. A competition against self, against food, against pleasure. But how much pleasure do we actually get out of beachwear? Isn’t it more important to be healthy and strong? Shouldn’t that be the driving factor and bikinis just side effects?
I try to only examine my body in a bathing suit for less than a minute, because I will always find something I’m unhappy with. When I get to that point, I say to myself, “Fuck it.” Every minute I stare at the unsightly jiggle is a minute I’m taking away from my own enjoyment. I refuse to self sabotage over a swim suit. I will not allow myself to leave dirty footprints in my mind. I make this decision and I feel brave.
July 1, 2014 § Leave a comment
People were taking selfies before smart phones. Before they were even called selfies. They were taking them before you could even tell what you were framing for. Most of the time you held out your arm as far as you could stretch and squeezed in real tight to the person next to you, just praying that you didn’t cut yourself off, or had your finger in front of the lens. Then you had to wind the damn clicky wheel for 10mins before taking a second shot for safety.
Pictures were for memories. Instant flashbacks to a happy day. This is why I enjoy the Throwback Thursday aka #tbt. It takes me back to a time when people didn’t waste good film on their food. I cringe every time I’m seated next to someone at a restaurant instagraming their meal. I’ll admit, I’ve taken part in this behavior, but it was before I realized how idiotic it was. There are only a few acceptable reasons to take pictures of your food.
1. You are a food photographer, it’s your job. You get paid for it.
2. For sentimental reasons others could not understand you need to share this picture with one or few individuals, in which case Snapchat is a useful tool.
3. You are ordered to by your nutritionist. No cheating.
Other than that, no one wants to see your food. Instead, savor the taste. Then work on your linguistics as you recall the meal. Try to use as many colorful adjectives as you can to more accurately describe the taste, smell, texture, and look of said memorable plate. I much rather hear a description of the best burger you ate than see a picture of it. Most food looks gross unless it’s dressed up for a photoshoot or super fancy already. And if you are at a super fancy restaurant, I’d say it would be a faux pas to take a quick snap shot of the amuse bouche.
As I was saying… Selfies, we’ve been doing it forever. Fascinated with our own features we’ve set forth on self-portraits of all kinds. Except now they’ve completely lost artistic integrity. There’s the selfie with the phone in the mirror, the serious selfie where the person is clearly not looking off contemplatively into the distance, and the belfie (butt selfie), which is apparently a picture you took of your own ass.
If the whole camera-lens-taking-a-bit-of-your-soul thing is true, we’ve screwed ourselves. I understand a healthy amount of narcissism is rather good. Helps your ego feel as though you have worth. If your self-esteem stocks are high you are a more productive and confident member of society. Instagram allows us to be photojournalists of our lives, creating a map of the places we’ve been and the people we know. Sure, selfies are going to be a part of that. But maybe we should limit it to only part.
I think it was only a year ago the first time I heard some one call this particular picture styling a “selfie.” I thought it was adorable. I don’t know if I thought it was adorable because I was under the impression that the quite hilarious person shooting the selfie made it up on her own, or if I genuinely thought it was a cute name for these half-assed pictures we were taking of ourselves. Unfortunately, as the media grew to exhaust it, the term lost all of it’s twinklely dust for me. When it was inducted into the dictionary, I rolled my eyes in disgust. It had become a novelty. Like those weird waving money cats in Chinatown.
Soon, I wanted to vomit every time I heard someone use it in a sentence. Fortunately for me, I surround myself with sarcastic people most of the time, so they would refer to it in jest and I could wash my puke down with laughter. Now I realize it’s just a really shitty picture you took of yourself. You look like crap because you can’t frame it up right. It’s way too close most of the time. And you have a hard time looking into the lens and smiling genuinely. Not only are you multitasking the holding the camera, pushing the button, and trying to be a model, but you are also looking at yourself in the little screen judging the picture before it’s even taken. Thus your selfie is the worst picture of you ever taken. Clearly, the shooter had some issues with the task.
Bottom line, you’ll get better results handing the camera off to someone else.
I like how, thanks to modern technology, we’ve managed to come up with a dual digital lens to help us frame our narcissism, but still cannot properly get rid of redeye. I always end up looking like the demon friend because of my blue peepers.
I would like to leave you with this thought, if you think it might be an inappropriate place to take a selfie. You should probably just leave the memory in your mind. Let’s be honest, it’s not called a “selfie” because of the wonderful scenery behind you.
Also, do not Google image search “selfie” just don’t.
In appropriate places to take a selfie: A funeral. Jail. In front of an arson. A hospital. Nasty public restrooms, or on the toilet, or in the shower. Actually just stay away from bathrooms in general. With the cop who just pulled you over. Auschwitz. The delivery room. A homeless shelter. Anytime you have been clearly crying your eyes out. At the dentist. Driving. After sex.
Anymore you can think of?