Skirting The Issue

Last night I locked myself in the closet and tried to clean the mess up. It was total pantamonium. That is no spelling error. It looked like a wild beast had charged through all of my dark colored pants, leaving a trail of destruction. Well, at least the beast part was true.

It was the sad remains of trying to find a pair that would fit me after the gluttony of the holidays. Gone arethe guilded days of eating. Here lies the sad reality. None of the pants fit. Okay, well, some of them "fit" only in the most technical sense. But, wearing them outside of my closet would have resulted in a serious fashion felony. I would have been guilty of gross distortion as to my actual body image.

I cleaned up the whole closet, but I couldn't bear to hang the pants up. I mean, why bother? They don't actually fit now, so why hang them up again. Hanging them would be a sign of hopefulness. Did I mention it was 10:00pm at night? I am very pragmatic when it comes to expending any energy when it comes to my clothes. That is why, back when I used to have clothes that needed to be ironed, I would only grudgingly iron them immediately before wearing them. My mother would constantly lecture me that I should set aside one night and iron all of the clothes that needed to be ironed. That struck me as overly confident that I would definitely get the opportunity to wear them. If I was going to get into a car accident tomorrow that would put me out of commission for a while, I imagined that while I convalesced, I would be extra bitter that I wasted those hours ironing clothes that I wasn't going to be able to wear.

So, you see why I won't put the time and energy into hanging those pants up now (so what if it would take only 10 minutes? That is ten minutes of valuable time doing something else, like whining about this issue in a blog post). Maybe I will have the confidence to hang them back up today after I polish off the last offending bit of Christmas excess-the peanut brittle. Then, no more temptations and no more excuses.

In the meantime, I have relied on the most wonderful fashion accessory of all time. The skirt. Sure, it gets a bit drafty in the winter time, but when all of your other options make your legs look like cocktail franks, you embrace the skirt and brace the wind. The only thing better than the skirt in these dire days of post Christmas reality, is of course, the skirt with the elastic waist band. Talk about a true friend, with you through thick and thin, literally, though thin hasn't been around much of late.

As for the pants, I hope to get back to them and not have to buy a new set. I am going to the gym again and not scarfing down all kinds calorie laden tidbits (at least not regularly). I am getting back on track. So, I should probably hang those pants up before my daughter reminds me that I promised to make homemade cookies with her this afternoon.

Deck the Balls!

Okay, I admit, if there really were fashion police, I would probably have been arrested a few times. But, I will go ahead and mock some of the obnoxious holiday "styles" I have seen of late.

Saturday night at my husband's work holiday party, there was a man there wearing the most obnoxious "holiday" pants I have ever seen. They were bright red cordouroys with green wreaths adorned with red bows all over them. There was no missing this man in a crowd. When I relayed this to a friend she told me that her significant other does a good volume of business in vintage and high end clothing of just this sort. Just goes to show you that taste and money do not always go hand in hand.

I was thinking that maybe the man had mistaken the words of the song "Deck the Halls" with "Deck the Balls" and therefore sported such pants to show his holiday spirit. He was probably just a victim of fashion amnesia. I myself bought a pair of pants a few years back which I now realize upon reflection, should have been limited to either upholstery or shower curtains. Bright blue and yellow. I must make a mental note to go back and destroy any photos of these in case I decide to run for public office.

A few nights ago we dined with some acquaintances from our Alma Mater. A spouse of one of the alums also decided to get all decked out in the spirit of the season. The fashion police would have picked him up on his three-alarm red blazer complete with christmas holiday buttons as extra adornment, had they been in the vicinity.

In general I don't go in for looking like a Christmas tree just because 'Tis the season. Consistently, I am also not into things like dressing in Disney top to toe. Just the occassional foray into the world of upholstery, that's me.

I Guess The War-Drobe Was A Fake

So now on the gun website, http://guanabee.com/2008/09/just-what-we-thought-not-wishe.php I found the Sarah Palin gun-tottin bikini photo on claims it was photoshopped. What is scarier is that they still like it. Here is what the website says:

"Awesome! Now, some would argue that the doctored picture above passes as political humor and is meant to be harmless, since the picture is so obviously fake, others disagree, and say that these stunts hurt the political process. Whatever it may be there’s no question this is an awesome Photoshop job."

Maybe we should change the name "wardrobe" all together... Peacerobe? Paxrobe? Of course, I am sure the word really originally came from "ward" and "robe." If that bikini photo goes around the world, it will do wonders for our image and we might all have to check into a "ward"...

A Heartbeat Away?

In case you can't see the picture of Sara Palin (and
you must-go to
http://guanabee.com/2008/09/sarah-palin-bikini-and-rifle-p.php)
little did I know
it would give new meaning for my post label of "war-drobe"

Let's Hope the Swimsuit Catches On!

Well, here is a photo of Michael Phelps in the US swimteam official Olympic bathing suit. The ladies' one is remarkably similar in style. I myself am hoping this style catches on. Not for speed or anything as efficiency minded as that, but for that fact that it will cover up a lot of cottage cheese thighs, mine included.

Sure, skeptics will tell me that I should go all out and go for the burqini, shown to the right, but I am not into total skin coverage, just the flabby bits. For those of you not familiar with the burqini, it is like the officially sanctioned bathing suit for obedient muslim women. As I mentioned, all I am after is covering up the old bum and thigh area, not a total cover up, and what is up with the goofy hat?

Somehow I don't see Phelps or Torres in that, even if it did turn out to be aquadynamic, or whatever the term would be. Well, maybe I could see them wearing the hats if Nike paid loads of money to sponsor it.

If you look at the burqini hat closely, it starts looking a bit deja vu. Really, all you need is the little propeller thing on top and you could have yourself a nice little beanie hat. I suppose with a big propeller thing on top, you could be a lot cooler though. Plus, you could make everyone on the beach work their abdominals, when they bust their guts laughing at how silly you look.

Ah well, until they mainstream the racer suit and it catches on with us non-racing types, I guess I will stick to my tankini with the skirt on the bottom, the closest thing I am willing to wear in the great American cover up.

Bag It!

My gym friends and I were having a good laugh about the size of my handbag and what it contains in it today. While they said it wasn't as big as I made it out to be, they couldn't believe the stuff I pulled out of it.

I can definitely commiserate with Nora Ephron who wrote similarly of the wacky things that she finds in her handbag. Aren't we all guilty of using the bag as a black hole at one time or another? For me it is every time someone hands me a receipt that I don't really need. Instead of finding a garbage bag, I stick it into the abyss of my handbag.

Speaking of the term handbag. My bag should more appropriately be called a shoulder bag. You see one hand could not freely carry such a load. Instead, I need my sculpted gym shoulder to shoulder that burden.

So what do I have in my handbag today? My wallet, my planner (a big planner for big plans) my cell phone, my cell phone charger (which I now carry ever since the time Thing 2 broke his arm and we were in the hospital for nearly 12 hours with my dead cell phone, staring at the electrical outlet which would have charged the phone if only I had had my charger.), my pashmina (for the many times I am too cold and without other outerwear to throw on), a bag of almonds (good and good for you if you have nothing else to eat and no possibility of eating soon), lip gloss, chapstick, nail file, random wrapped mint, random now unwrapping tampon (dont worry I threw it out upon finding it), a pen, my checkbook and check register, various restaurant and bookstore gift cards, hand cream, hand sanitizer, tissues, a small sack that turns into a reusable shopping bag, sunscreen (I swear this is a very small size), shea butter tub (again, sounds big but is actually small), a wrapped Walker's short bread cookie and several tea bags (well I had to make it worth my while when I was lucky enought to visit the business class lounge!), and I think that is it.

You probably thought I would mention a bunny somewhere in there, like a magician who pulls one out of a hat. Alas, I don't think that would get through airport security. My friends were laughing about the almonds and said the airport search dogs must have sniffed those out. I pointed out that because neither were they real sharp, nor at all liquid, I had no problem getting those nuts through.

Speaking of airport security, because I have a few liquids in my bag, I accidentally forgot to put my handcream in the clear plastic bag on the way to London. Turns out they never caught it. My friend Sheila from the gym said she had forgotten a half filled water bottle in her bag and no one caught that. Yikes! Any similar stories to share?

Pack It Up!

We are off to London tonight. Of course, I haven't packed a thing yet. I have, however, started piling. This is my usual approach to the whole "taking the things I will need when gone" issue.

I am a proud last minute packer in terms of actually putting things in the suitcase and going over my mental list of what will be needed. But a few days before the trip, I start "the pile." The pile is composed of all of the things I think of in the course of my day, that I don't want to forget to take, and mostly gifts for people I am visiting (no, the microwave macaroni and cheese is not for snacks, you can't get it over in the UK, so we are bringing it as a present).

It isn't until a few hours before we actually leave the house that I get down to the serious packing, what I am going to take to wear, read, etc. and how I am going to fit it all in that bag to the right.

Inevitably, I vacillate between what I like to call the "kitchen sink approach" and the "bare minimalist" approach. Do I take this vacation as a chance to pare down to the basics and lighten the load and make my life more simple? Or do I pack like I am never coming home again, like I might be subjected to extreme weather patterns? I can't say which I choose as each trip is different (and the amount of time left to pack and my mood often make the decision for me), but invariably, I get it wrong.

If I stuff my luggage with every imaginable item I might need, I come home with 80% of it absolutely unused and no room to take back all of the really neat things I coveted on the trip. If I go the bare minimalist route, I invariably forget several crucial items, causing me to have to find them in a strange land, at an exhorbitent price, not to mention, a new mini-wardrobe because the weather I packed for bore no relation to the weather I actually experienced.

Which way will I pack today? I won't know until this afternoon. Though I have to say, it is always more tempting to go with the bare minimalist approach. Because if there is one thing I hate more than packing, it's unpacking.

Back in a few weeks dear reader, at which time I will let you know how the packing, unpacking and purchasing went.

One of Da Boys

Ever since I was a teenager and watched those commercials for some panties (or was it stockings?) where they talked about the dreaded VPL-visible panty line, I have lived in fear of having VPL.

So for several decades, I did the obvious and just wore baggy slacks, shorts and skirts. Then along came what I like to call the wedgie underwear which coincided with the realization that all those baggy clothes on my bottom just made me look bigger, VPL or no VPL. I initially looked upon the wedgie underwear with quiet (yes, me) disdain. It looked like some kind of butt floss or definitely something which I assumed would provide one prolonged wedgie. I thought I would stick with the granny underwear, but, as they say, never say never.

My friend Susie convinced me that all wedgie underwear was not the same and some, which measured more than a 1/4" or so in the floss region, were actually quite bearable and took care of the old VPL problem. So I tried them, and I survived. I wouldn't say they are the most comfortable underwear, especially at night when I tend to squirm around, being the belly sleeper that I am. But they do the trick so they comprise about 50% of my undie population.

I thought I was all au courant in the undie deparmemt at that point. However, the folks in the underwear business must have gotten wind of that fact, so they decided to take one from the book of boys, by stealing the look of the new boy (and men)'s underwear, a cross between boxers and briefs. Enter the boy cut undie.

Probably in fear of the medical profession who always tells us to avoid cotton underwear though, the underwearmakers made their boy cut undies for ladies out of a synthetic material (I would tell you the exact fabric components, but that would involve a contortionistic yoga pose, or taking off my underwear. I think by now you can guess where and more precisely when I came up with the idea for this post).

So, I jumped in and bought some of these boy cut undies because they looked more comfortable than the wedgie ones and because they promised a seamless look (read: no VPL). They are comfy and look fine until you bend over to put on your slacks or shorts or whatever, at which point they immediately roll up creating a little border. So much for the VPL. I put on my shorts anyway and figure I will do the contortionistic yoga pose and unroll the boy cut undies once I get the shorts on by a series of movements akin to a covert military operation.

At this point I start questioning the idea of the boy cut undies and try to remember if I have seen boys or men guilty of VPL (like Undiana Jones?). I realize I never see them walking around with a little role of extra fabric (read: VPL), so I conclude it is because of the differen t fabric being used. Of course, because of their outdoor plumbing, those boys and men don't have to worry about getting bladder infections, and thus can wear cotton. Unfair, yes, I know, don't get me started.

Boy cut undies are a nice idea in theory, but they only work with some acrobatic adjustments and even then, whatever you are wearing over them can't be too skin tight or you end up with VPL anyway. Seams funny, so I will wait to see what they think up next.

Oh You Dirty Girl

My husband likes to call me “Messy Marvin.” Some of you might remember years ago, “Messy Marvin” was the name given to a child who got stuff all over his clothes in a laundry detergent commercial (I can’t remember which brand, which would be to the dismay of the company, no doubt). You see, I have a track record of spilling things on myself.

The probability of my dropping something on my outfit is directly proportional to the amount of money I spent on the outfit. So, needless to say, I don’t go in for very expensive clothing. And yet, I still manage to get the clothes I do buy dirty.

I don’t just get them dirty, I succeed in staining them with chocolate ice cream or spaghetti sauce or some other nearly impossible to remove ingredient, not on the periodic table of elements. In reality, I should probably dress all in white, on the theory that I could just bleach out whatever life (or I) threw at me, literally. However, I must be the only person on the planet to fail at bleaching. Somehow, when I use bleach, I will manage to ruin the outfit I have on, while trying to rescue the outfit from yesterday that ended up with teriyaki sauce on it (after it had enrobed the chicken, of course). I do this by splattering the stuff while applying it.

Even if I manage not to get my current outfit covered in bleach, I somehow fail to get the garment I am working on clean. Either the bleach doesn’t penetrate, or it works too well and the whole thing ends up a yellowish color that looks like an item of vintage clothing. When I say vintage clothing though, don’t think ebay, think oldlay, as in old lady!

I really don’t know what the solution is. I could try dressing all in black, but then I imagine that I would find some whitish substance, having the characteristics of crazy glue, to spill on myself. Plus, I don’t think I look good in black, so why be practical?

As I mentioned earlier, the more expensive the outfit, the more likely that I will get it dirty, and this definitely extends to evening wear. Let me give you a concrete (or should I say chocolate?) example of my messy laundry problem. Last year I attended a fundraiser in London where there were various yummy gourmet food stations. For my friend Mary Jane and I, the highlight of the evening was the chocolate fondue station.
I knew before I approached the fondue that I was undertaking a very risky endeavor given my history of being a food klutz and the fact that I was wearing a very expensive, and brand new L.K. Bennett dress. So, I decided I would be extra careful. I grabbed an extra napkin and made sure it was safely underneath whatever I was eating as I leaned over the fondue fountain and overindulged. I came away from the table sated and proud. I was proud that my extra napkin and extra caution had succeeded, or so I thought, in keeping my outfit clean. As we walked away, I looked down and discovered to my horror, that though I had managed to keep the bodice of my gown clean, I had somehow managed to lean into chocolate from the waist down. How the chocolate got that far down, I don’t know. Someone must have spilled chocolate down the table cloth and I hadn’t noticed. That someone must have been a pretty messy eater. I swear it wasn’t me.

Do I Look Fat In This?

I was trying on a pair of my summer pants from last season and, desperate for an opinion, I asked my ten year old son if I looked fat in the pants? “Yes” he said without hesitation. And my reply was “oh come on, I mean really?”

Why do we ask the eternal question, “Do I look fat in this?” We ask it as if we were otherwise svelte and swimsuit model material until we put on that skirt, that dress or those pants.

If I asked myself honestly the opinion I was seeking, I guess I would have to reword the question to something more along the lines of “Does the cottage cheese on my thighs show through this? Or perhaps, “Do these Bermuda shorts look like riding pants when I wear them?”

Instead, I stick with the tried and true “Do I look fat in this?” This is the question that strikes fear in every man’s heart. It is the proverbial damned if I do damned if I don’t question for the guys. If they say yes, well, you can pretty much guess the rest. But, if they say no out of kindness, weakness or an effort to get their wives or girlfriends to step out of the way of the ballgame on TV, it will invariably come back to haunt them. They will be confronted sooner and not later with the fact that “You told me I didn’t look fat in this!” This is shortly after the realization sets in on the woman’s part that in fact she doesn’t just look fat in it, but she is fat in it.

Let’s face it, outfits aren’t like appearing on TV, they don’t “make you look fat.” They don’t add ten pounds just by putting them on. It is what it is and what it is, unfortunately, is fat.

Maybe we should turn the question around and start asking it in a more positive way. “Does this outfit successfully conceal my spare tire?” “Can you still tell I am a pear shape in this?” Or maybe we should stop buying outfits that will look great when we lose 5 pounds, even if they are on sale and looked really good on the model in the catalogue.

Until then, I am going with my new question, adapted from my days of living in the UK, combined with my legal education, “Does this suit me? A yes or no answer only please!”
When the answer is no, I will just have to accept the fact that much to my dismay I don’t suffer from a distorted body image and what I already suspected is true. I am fat in it.