Tag Archives: Clothing


22 Feb

And I quote… from Netflix that is. How hilarious is that?

…”Three friends get trapped overnight on a ski lift at a New England resort. To make matters worse, they don’t have cell phones. To make matters worse than that, the resort is closed for the entire next week. To make matters worse still, a potentially deadly storm starts raging approximately two minutes after they get trapped up there. To make matters further worse, in the immediate area lurk blood-thirsty wolves (you know, the kind you always see running around killing people at posh ski resorts); and the characters aren’t all that interesting or sympathetic…”

I sniggled and giggled over this one.

Here’s why… I cringed when I saw this title. I mean, I’m a skier. Melikey my new skis and my new awesome gear. So this movie, aimed straight at my heart, pin pricking the fear that is all me and all in my head, made me drop my jaw and visions of “the other side of the freaking mountain” sprung their ugly twisted thoughts in my head. And visions of being a quadiplegic blonde chick in a wheel chair being spoon fed by her soon-to-be-ex-fiance made me rethink my choice of movie rentals.

That is, til I read this awesome review.

So – props to the dude with the badass review (xgd 485095) who reminded me that wolves don’t invade my lovely ski resort, nor would I ever be the last one at the party. I’m just not that kind of ski bunny. You know, the kind that is there for last call. Nut-uh.

I’m this kind – sunny skies, and clothing optional. That’s just how I roll. In springtime!

Now stop drooling you fools. You think I’d really post a picture of my backside all nekked? Well, maybe yes. But still.

Get a grip.


A new dawn, a new day

1 Jan

And I’m feeling good. Except for this screeching headache. And lack of sleep.

As I ponder the death of 2010, I reflect back on the year that went down fighting. When 2010 first arrived, she brought with her a shitload of baggage, wearing her support hose and thunder-wear so I knew she was in for the long haul. She moved right on in never asking, never apologizing. 2010 was like the zit I had before Prom – big, red, and fugly.

While 2010 was a wily bitch, never directly insulting me – she was  absolutely mocking me (ME!) and sniggering while I was all akimbo. As I look back now, I wish I had been more Duke Nukem and less Patty Duke when 2010 started punking me.

So as the new year knocks on my door, insisting 2010 move her crap out, I realize I have some choices about how long I’ll put up with 2011’s antics. I can either sit down and take it like a wuss; stand up and take it like a man; or channel my inner Xena and throw a weapon at the problem.

I like the latter the best. And I’ll take any opportunity to rock a warrior princess costume. As long as it comes with 4″ gladiator heels that is.

I could sooooo wear this outfit!

The most wonderful time of the year

21 Dec

It’s the hap-happiest season of all… Except for the crank-crankiest people in the mall.

It all started when I went to the mall looking for something fun for me. After spending 20 minutes finding a parking space that took me 20 minutes to walk to the mall, I arrived at the gilded gate to the glorified glitz of the super-sized shopping center.

The constant ding-ding-ding-ding-ding-ding of the dude trying to get people to drop a nickle into his bucket was very upsetting this year. Not just because I am pretty sure I lost part of my hearing in a freak water-skiing adventure that turned into vertigo that turned into me cupping my ear to hear what’s being said, but because I emptied my wallet to make room for all these stupid coupons I’ll never use so I didn’t have any coins or greenbacks to MAKE.HIM.STOP.THE.FREAKING.DING.DING.NOISE.NOW.

So with ringing in my ear (notice it wasn’t plural), I go to Bebe to see if there was anything a chick my age could wear without fear that some 20-something would {gulp} mock me for wearing. Um. That sooo didn’t work in my favor.

But I did see this Asian woman and her daughter start tugging at a slinky black dress. Since I don’t understand a thing they are saying I am forced to interpret tone and body language.

And I must say – it was quite the spectacle.

Angry Mom with eyes slanted downward (more downward than normal) grabs dress and yells something that has Teenager From Hell yank dress back and repeat Angry Mom’s epitaph (or so it sounded to me.) Spittle flies freely and I suspect lands on said garment.

Back and forth. Ending with a rip, a drop of the dress, and both ladies fled the scene.

Sales folks were conspicuously absent from the mayhem. I think they blended into the size 00 clothes rack that hardly anyone ever touches.

For me, I didn’t see anything more exciting than the Angry Asian Dress Tug-o-War so I left.

I went next to Banana Republic. Don’t you just love the name. I always expect monkeys to fly out the door. Or throw shit.

Which for me, was a dream about to come true. Imagine my delight.

Priggish man is buying I have no idea what for some female in his life. Starts complaining loudly, very loudly about I have no idea what. Sales staff congregate at this register and try to placate Papa but he’s perhaps empowered by the sudden attention and starts making everyone feel like shit, which I can see because he threw something over the counter. Maybe a pen. Or the tape dispenser.

When the dust settles, and Mr. Prig leaves, the girls almost physically shook the shit off their selves and most definitely shook the shit out of their heads so they could get back to job at hand. To sell stuff.

My conclusion: Sales folks at the mall have a shitty job. Granted, they have a job, but it comes with a high price indeed.

Take it off

16 Nov


Buddy is now 14-1/2 years old. That’s 101 to you and me. His eyes are all cloudy and his hearing is shot. He sleeps 23-1/2 hours a day but for those few minutes he’s awake, he’s the cutest freakin puppy there is.

His nicknames are Bud, Budster, and Yard Sale. Why Yard Sale you ask? Since you asked…

You know what a baby deer looks like when he tries to get up the first time? That’s Bud every time he shakes himself. Splat.

Last winter, my little Yard Sale started shivering so hard I thought he’d finally explode – so I bought two plain sweaters for him – one red, one brown. I wanted black but apparently that’s just “not a color parents buy” according to the fashion nazi’s at Petco.

For the record, I like buying stuff. Especially shoes. But for my dogs – whom I would do almost anything for – I refuse to truss them up with silly freaking burberry inspired patterns or long capes with matching hats and matching shoes. If you do, stop it right now.

It’s probably his last winter with us, so one day, after drinking too much wine at lunch (woops, they see right through me), I found this very cute and snuggly super soft angora sweater. And one for Buddy too. No hat, no shoes. Bummer for me.

Because I make fun of idiots who dress their dogs up in silly outfits with bows, I felt like maybe I’d have to stop doing that now – then quickly tossed that thought aside.

You see, unless your dog is naturally hairless or is on his last paws, show some respect and take that stupid shit off him. WTF? Who dresses their dog like this?

Are those freaking mary-jane paw-socks? What?

Seriously? A dog-kini?

My little Yard Sale’s days are numbered and all I want for him is to feel safe, warm, and loved. If lazing around in a fuzzy angora super soft sweater will keep him warm and cozy now that it’s cold, then I’m all for it.

But I’ll still laugh at you if I see your perfectly healthy dog sporting designer duds on the trail. Just saying.

My Shitty Shoes

13 Nov


I definitely play favorites with my shoes. They have specific personalities and when I wear them, they evoke specific emotions from me.

Yep – my 5″ gladiator black stilettos make me feel fierce whereas my 2″ tan clogs make me feel – well, a bit sad. I mean, given the choice, wouldn’t you rather wear strappy and sexy?

So it’s with much dismay that I find myself suddenly disgusted today.

First – how dare you walk your dog in public and let Peanut take a dump on the edge of the sidewalk. What a dick. Your dog might take “wittle poo poos”  (cuz I’m sure that’s how you say that), but shit is shit. And your dog shat and you didn’t pick it up.

Peanut’s poo might be pebbles, but when stepped on, this is the only time when I can legitimately say that size doesn’t matter.

And I was wearing my 4″ black knee high boots – the ones I’ve only worn once. The ones that make me feel daring and tall. And I needed daring and tall today.

I’m in public pawing a small patch of grass trying to get the poo off. People are looking at me. I’m about to hurl cuz I don’t know what you fed Peanut, but it smelled like that dog ate belly button lint. Just gross. Thanks.

I give in and stand in line at the Starbucks to get a bottle of water and some napkins. Then I thought “aha” – and sneak into the bathroom. Now I’m sure these public bathrooms are all spotless and sanitary, but I’m not about to take my boot off and stand in my tights on that floor. Hail no. Nor am I going to pop a squat on the toilet seat to clean em up.

So I settle for wetting down a bunch of paper towels and reverting to plan A. Pawing my dirty boot on the floor. By now, I’m pissed. This job is going to require some extensive surgery to remove the poo from the grooves. I’m forced to come home.

Thanks to my handiwork with toothpicks, the boot is poo free, but now I don’t want to wear them anymore. They are now evoking disgust from me. It wasn’t their fault, but at least for today, the memory of being smeared with poo goo is just too fresh.

And now that I’m back home, I guess my fuzzy black slippers will just have to do.

What happens in Vegas… part 1

30 Sep

We arrive at the Wynn in the early afternoon and quickly decided – it’s time for a drink! The hubby and I made our way down to the casino in search of some swanky cocktails and a snack or two.

You totally forget how the casino’s don’t want you to eat – just gamble baby. But as we meandered to the Encore, we found a place worthy of stopping for. The drink I ordered was called something silly like “Refreshingly Splendid” but it had mint and lime and cucumber and soda water – reminded me of some of my more happy spa days out with the gals.

The drink arrived and I tried to drink it. I swear I did, but I’m not a vacuum – my suction does not rival Dyson (sorry hubby). Each attempt felt like I was about to blow a capillary or two or three. I almost passed out from lack of oxygen. I tried to drink it the old-fashioned way, you know, without a straw, but there were so many small pieces of mint I quickly saw the dangers in doing so. Who wants to walk around in chi-chi ville with green crap in your teeth? Not me. So I gave up.  Ordered a glass of chardonnay. And it was yummy.

Slightly fed and definitely recharged, we started to think about where to go for the first night in Sin City. My new brother-in-law (yeah, I know you’re reading these!) has lotsa friends with connections – so we were put on the VIP list at Haze (a swanky nightclub at the Aria.) Decision made.

I got all dolled up with hot pink tube top, black cropped cargo pants, and 5″ gladiator stilettos. The hubby was looking pretty dang fine as well – and we felt pretty good – I absolutely felt that I was rocking the right look.

We  strutted into the club – and OMG my worst fears were realized – every chick from age 20 to 60 was wearing the slinky mini dress. And huge heels. Heels that I would give up the remaining enamel on my teeth for. Glittery heels, ones with feathers, with zippers, and other bling oh my. In the back of my mind, I could hear my inner Wicked Witch cackle and covet those ruby red slippers of theirs.

I felt self-conscious for all of about 5 minutes until I realized……. my style was all me. It’s who I am – how I feel – and after finishing that journey toward the Emerald City (err escalator toward the VIP line), I  felt renewed confidence in my own skin, and my skin tight cropped cargo pants. And 5″ gladiator heels.

I had asked the question of why it’s so important to dress to impress and I felt I had answered it. Dress to express yourself. Oh crap, did I just quote Madonna? No offense Madge.

Stayed tune for part 2 – wait til you hear what happens at Haze. This stuff can only happen in Vegas.

Dress to impress

14 Sep

A week and a half from now, the hubby and I will be heading out for some much needed poolside R&R.  I imagine several days spent lazing in lounge chairs, reading bodice ripper romance novels, being served cocktails with little umbrellas served by hot young cabana boys wearing skimpy shorts.

It sounds decadent and spoiled – and that’s the point. To be pampered and catered like the rich and famous. That’s where we’re going – to that magical kingdom that’s the happiest place on earth – for adults. Vegas.

As I perused my existing wardrobe, it struck me – I’ve booked a chi chi resort in a hot as hell city with hot as hell chicks. Do I have the right… stuff?

The pools we get to use are pretty darn exclusive – and if your know your current pop culture, you’ll know a certain celebrity (pssst…Paris Hilton) was recently not-so-gently-banned from where we’re staying…

And we have some VIP passes at a very hot nightclub (thank you UNOWHO!)

Which led me to ponder one of chickdom’s most critical and timeless questions “what should I wear?”

OK, I admit, I kinda have the whole shoe situation figured out. After all, I love me my high heels, but the rest? Bikinis, slinky dresses? I’m… after all…kinda old…

And given that I’m … kinda old… should I be wearing bikinis and slinky dresses?

Which lead me to ask google – the equivalent of calling your best friend and asking “what are you gonna wear?”

The response from my new google gal pal was “dress to impress beyotch”   (ok, she didn’t say beyotch exactly, but I imagine if she did, she would sound a lot like Lil Kim. Just sayin…)

Judging my own wardrobe, I knew the Vegas verdict would be handed down on me faster than a video confession ala What Not To Wear…. Guilty… clothes that don’t fit, flatter, showcase or support my sagging … assets…

Bitch… I mean Beyotch.

So I start to question myself… inner voice says “hey self”… i say “yes”

Inner voice says “hey, you rock, have a great hubby and life, why the doubt about your look – the levi’s 505s….”

I say “first off, yes, thank you dear Lord, and wtf – who wears 505s these days? are you kidding me?”

I continue to say ala Stacy London…. “SHUT UP!! …first off…  i’m ok/you’re ok and all that crap – but this is about enjoying la dolce vita, or at least, the vida loca.”

And armed with this wise inner bitchitude, I decide what to wear. And what not wear.

Stay tuned. I’ll explain later in Vegas why they say it’s important to dress to impress… {wink}

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