Tag: Fashion

Stop skirting the issue here

Hi Kids! Friday fry-up time.

A can of spam.

Yesterday I received what has to be the funniest spam comment in the history of spam comments.

It reads:

When I think back on all the blessings I have been given in my life, I can’t think of a single one, unless you count that rattlesnake that granted me all those wishes.

What the WHAT?

Talk about pure comedy gold.

Who are you, person who left this comment? Please introduce yourself to the group so we can all give you the round of applause you so dearly deserve. And I truly believe that it was a person, and not a spambot, what with it being a complete, coherent (if odd) sentence and all. (It’s also written in English and not Polish or Russian. Do you many of you peeps get a lot of multi-lingual spam? Because goodness knows, I get a TON.)

All I have to go on is the user name Silver Price and some sketchy e-mail address. So if you are reading this Monsieur Spammer, please step forward I just wish to tip my hat in your direction and let you know that your note will keep me laughing for ages.

AGES!

A close second goes to this comment which also deserves an honourable mention:

Sod costs more; however, it comes mature and ready to lay but prior to that you must prepare the area properly, and that takes time and dedication. If you have a fireplace, inside or outside, or a grill, you can pick up the fallen tree branches and cut them up for use in your fireplace or grill. Fixing your lawn can cost some money depending on how damaged it is. This list of foes continues nevertheless the absolute goal in the game remains to be the same.

BRILLIANT.

Next!

Mini-Me.

So. I recently went and tried on this mini-skirt but couldn’t bring myself to buy it despite the fact that I loved it.

It’s like a flapper skirt! Only fluffier!

KEEEEEY-UTE!

Sigh.

I have this love-fear relationship with mini-skirts. I adore them, but I have crippling anxiety when it comes to wearing them – I tend to, shall we say, over think the whole thing.

Am I showing too much leg? Do I need tights? Why am I so pale? How do I have so many veins? Why are my body proportions so out of whack?

WHY AM I EVEN THINKING ABOUT ALL OF THIS IN THE FIRST PLACE?

Good grief – this is exhausting!

This whole thing is weird. I mean, for the longest time (for most of my undergrad actually) I never even wore pants – hey don’t get the wrong idea here – and instead only ever donned skirts (of all lengths and styles – and believe you me, I rocked quite a few minis during this time.)

And it’s crazy to think that now that I am healthy (and oh-so much happier) I have all these awful hang-ups when it comes to this one article of clothing that I actually really like.

(I debated like crazy if I even wanted to post that one picture.)

I just wish that I could get over all of this crap and just move on. No more body issues, no more trepidation over what people will think or not think – just take the plunge and do it. Wear it with tights, wear it without tights – WHO CARES.

Just wear it.

So I’m working on it.

Viva forever.

For some reason I have never gotten over a memory I have of this YM magazine article I read when I was in grade five.

The Spice Girls were on the cover, and in their interview, Posh Spice said that she never wore both eye make-up and lipstick at the same time, less she come across as overdone (I’m not sure how often she or the other girls actually followed this model, but I digress).

Now somehow this rule of thumb has stuck with me for the past sixteen years. For real, to this day, I never, ever wear any eye make-up when I rock a strong lip, and seeing as though that is most days – well, I rarely break out anything stronger than a simple mascara (if that.)

I would never have thought Victoria Beckham would play such a small, but pivotal role in my life.

Huh.

Zigazigah is right.

…

Have a brilliant weekend you beauty cats! Do what you want – wear what you want – find that rattlesnake – and then tell me all about it.

I’m losing it

Hey kids.

Today I am bummed out. You see, yesterday, sometime betwixt the hours of two and seven, some crafty bastard stole my wallet.

DAMN YOU CRAFTY BASTARD!

Sigh.

This – this gives me a major sad. Like, the biggest.

So the majority of today was spent stressing over the fact that someone was sure to steal my identification, ruin my credit score, apply for EI in my name, and sign me up for membership in the CPC – THE HORROR!

As such, I spent a significant amount of time on the blower with Visa to cancel my credit card, waiting in line at ICBC to get a new driver’s license, shooting the breeze with Service Canada, getting a new debit card, applying for a replacement for my CareCard, etc, etc.

Urg. This kind of thing really, really stresses me out.

And as such, I take it as a good time to beat the ever living crap out of myself.

Seriously, just crown me Miss Flagellation 2012 and call it a day. I’ve earned the title.

It goes a little something like this:

First, I cry. Huge, heaving sobs wrack my body like some 18th century Victorian palsy. Once I’m sufficiently exhausted, my skin is consumed by a clammy, cold sweat, while the last of my fat teardrops slide down my cheeks and off of my chin.

Then I spaz.

I pace. I rant.

I blame myself for not taking better care of my stuff. I berate myself for not being careful enough; I chalk it up to bad karma for not buying the homeless newsletter, or for laughing at all those blooper videos on Youtube.

Then I start to make up armageddon scenarios in my head, and play them over and over again – for both M’s and my pleasure.

Repeat.

Of course all of this drives my poor husband up the wall (nay up all the walls.) He is already so busy with work that his threshold for my ravings is rather limited, particularly those that are only precariously balanced in reality (and that too may be up for debate.)

I am so lucky to have him in these silly (but very real for me) times of crisis.

He is the calm to my storm.

He talks me down from the ledge, and has a really brilliant way of not only helping me laugh at myself, but also being kinder to myself.

This is a great thing.

And the good news? None of my cards were used, nothing was stolen (other than my lovely little wallet that I loved.) I don’t ever carry cash, and everything is replaceable.

So while I am still bummed out, I’m working on taking it easy. And it’s getting easier.

Today I was going to write about mini-skirts.

I’ll save that post for tomorrow.

However here is a slight teaser for something that makes me less bummed out, and well, very, very happy:

So remember – same bat time, same bat channel! And keep your eyes peeled – this be bat country.

Dress me – I’m your mannequin

Well kids – another day, another dollar.

Yesterday I skipped about downtown on my lunch, eager as I was to stretch my legs and prance about in my pretty purple dress.

PURPLE DRESS!

I wandered about Club Monaco for a bit, admiring all the beautiful pieces that have recently arrived in anticipation for autumn’s arrival.

(I also cowered in disbelief to see that the store would still charge forty-nine dollars for a tank-top at that tail end of summer – at sixty percent off at that! I couldn’t help but wonder who was buying them when they were still listed at full price?)

Anyways, as I drifted about the mall, I realized it had been ever so long since I last tried on insane mannequin outfits at H&M – mostly because they have been selling such stellar stuff of late, and I just haven’t had the heart to mock a store that has blessed me with such abominably cute outfits.

Even Mr. M the other day conceded that his views on this clothing conglomerate had changed. And I quote:

“I want to hate H&M so much, but I can’t, because every I like pretty much every single thing you own from the store.”

And they say chivalry is dead!

Anywho, today I WAS in the mood for a good game of grotesque dress-up, so I ventured into the store with the express intention of finding the absolute fugliest pieces I could find and snapping snaps for all of you, dear readers, to see.

This ended up being much harder than I initially expected.

You see I was immediately drawn to this insane mess of a dress:

What the what…!?!?

But you know what? I just didn’t have the heart to try it on. First of all, it felt like a cross between a bathroom shower mat and those thick wool sweaters that are of the express domain of Independent Swedish film makers and skiing instructors from the late 1970s.

Plus, it cost eighty bucks! My whole system went into revolt just thinking about this and there was no way I wanted this dress anywhere near my body.

I did, however, manage to find all the appropriate pieces to scrape this outfit together:

Erm, I have a couple of questions about this.

WHAT IS THIS MADNESS?

And, like, do any chicks out there actually do the shirtless + suit jacket combo? I mean, other than those who are paid extravagant fees to march down a runway looking equal parts pissed off and nihilistic?

And would anyone in their right mind wear this combination with shorts?

If you would and you are out there reading this, please contact me because I want to interview you on my next radio show happening next month. No joke at all, and no mocking either – I want to pick your brain and learn your secrets. E-mail me!

I actually don’t mind either the shorts or the jacket as separates, but together I felt as though I left the house with only a portion of my originally intended outfit on my body. Like I had been told that I only had thirty second to vacate the premises before it was blown to smithereens and this was the best I could do while still keeping myself alive.

The next two ensembles I tried on were what I like to call the “Chatalaine editorials circa 1993 – beach house chic!”

No. 1:

Claaaaaammmm diiiigggeeerrssss

This cardigan would be tolerable if it had a giant fake A (or some other letter) to connote a varsity sports team of which I’m not actually a member but would make me feel collegiate nevertheless.

No. 2:

Caaaabllleee knnniiiittt.

I cannot tell a lie, I kind of want this sweater, but only if it comes with a pipe and a large, red, velvet wing-backed chair.

Although something tells me that I’m not going to be picking all that up for $29.95.

A girl can dream though, can she not?

For afterall, we are the stuff that dreams are made on.

Except that first dress of course.

Because that friends – that is most definitely a nightmare.

I am so smart. S-M-R-T.

Hey you beauty cats.

Today the sky is filled with sunshine, and it is glorious.

I have been a bit knackered as of late, as for most of the week I have been staying up way past my bedtime and knocking about the place like a social butterfly with vertigo.

On Monday Mr. M and I kicked some serious general knowledge butt with our friend A’s pub quiz team (otherwise known as Taking Care of Quizness. And hey! Don’t hate. With a team jam packed full of physics PhD’s, literature masters, classics keeners, and poli-sci pros, our nerd quota was so high that Steve Urkel actually showed up and put in an application to join the group.)

We ended up winning the top prize (and fifty bucks!), much to the chagrin of the Philoso-rapters, and the Sandy Vaginas.

(What a name. Doesn’t really make you want to head to the beach anytime soon, does it?)

Also, I couldn’t help but wonder if every time the former team answered a question correctly they would look at each other and say, “Clever giiiiiiiirl.”

(Before, you know, ripping that person apart, and eating their dismembered corpse.)

Erm, just in case you don’t know what I’m talking about, please see exhibit A:

Onwards!

Today I had an amazing lunch – a calamari sub from the absolutely dee-lish travelling wagon of culinary delights know as “Slingers.” It’s a food truck that specializes in gourmet sandwiches, and this offering near but knocked my socks off.

If any of you folks are kicking about Vancity in the next little bit (Ms. Audrey I am looking at you my darling) do yourselves a favour and tickle those tastes buds of yours at this here joint.

I promise that you won’t regret it.

Speaking of which, I was skulking around the hallowed halls of H&M yesterday, trying on far too many sundresses for my own good, when I came across a little blue and white number, with a fitted bodice and a hem line that wasn’t completely scandalous.

I tried it on, but wasn’t feeling it one hundred percent, so I ended up leaving the store empty handed.

Well, I woke up this morning unable to get it out of my mind. So as I threw back the blankets and jumped out of bed I exclaimed (just like General MacArthur before me), “I SHALL RETURN!”

Okay. So that didn’t happen at all. (Wouldn’t that have scared the crap-ola out of poor, unassuming Mr. M.)

But I did return, and I did buy the dress.

I plan on wearing it all weekend long, paired with this fabulous grey cardigan I picked up at Zara earlier in the week.

It has elbow patches guys. ELBOW PATHCES!

Meep.

The only ever fly in the ointment about going away (for any length of time really) is that I always hate saying goodbye to our little gal.

This is how I found her this morning before heading out to work:

Good grief, she is so adorable, I actually sometimes feel as though I grow drunk on her cuteness.

It’s a liability man! She could rule the world if only she could 1.) speak and 2.) sleep less than fifteen hours a day.

Cor. What a life.

I gave her as many chin scratches and belly rubs as I possibly could, before my elaborate love-in made me late for the train.

There will be extra snuggles when we arrive home on Sunday night.

What are you fabulous folks up to for the weekend?

I wish you nothing but love and laughter, always.

One tough cookie

Hey friends!

It’s Friday, it’s June, and it’s raining and winding like a raining and winding thing.

Tough Mudder is tomorrow, so as I may never see (write to?) you beauty cats ever again (due to my imminent death by hypothermia), so let me just say that it has been an absolute pleasure conversing with all of you.

For the (mayhaps final) Fry-Up, there are three things heating up docket, so let’s dive right in.

Number one:

Pretty pretties from the internets.

I’ve always been super weary of purchasing goods from the world wide interweb, however when I saw this dress there was little I could do to stop myself from taking out my credit card and buying it on the spot.

It was thirty-five dollars – which included shipping – a price so low I half expected the garment to dissolve into dust as soon as I opened the packaging.

However, as it is a non-structured dress (a slip, with a sheer overlay) that came with its ridiculously cute pink belt, I figured if I know my size pretty well, there was little chance that the fit was going to be completely off.

(I mean, for thirty-five clams there was no way I was going to go through the effort of returning the thing. If by bad luck it hadn’t fit, I would have bloody well made it fit.)

And it ended up being brilliant! On the whole, I am just so enamoured with its retro style that I half expect an American GI to walk up to me as I walk down the street and ask me if I would like to jitterbug with him as soon as the band returns from its break.

It’s also comfortable as all get out, both work and play appropriate, and as flattering as a grade school crush.

Now I just need to figure out how to curl my hair properly and heck – no one will be able to stop me!

Onwards!

Number two:

Fab books and belly laughs.

I am currently reading this book:

It is hilarious.

Today on skytrain I was busting a gut so hard the fellow sitting next to me leaned over and asked me what I was reading.

“A hilarious Canadian book about the absurdity of academia and our electoral and parliamentary systems!” I responded. “It won the Stephen Leacock medal!”

I don’t know whether to describe the look that flickered across his face as incredulous or withering, so let’s go with both.

If I had known that he would have greeted my description with such non-plussed scorn (hey, it’s a thing!) I probably would have said something different.

I should have just hollered, “MIND YOUR OWN BUSINESS YOU ULTRA MAROON!” and then farted loudly.

(P.S. This is how you get a seat to yourself on transit at all hours of the day.)

Anywho, the book is blinkin funny as heck, so if you have a chance, ch-ch-check it out. This goes double for all my Canuck readers out there.

You won’t regret it, I promise you.

P.S. for my international readership, the Stephen Leacock award is for Canadian humour writing. People who win it often have genetically modified funny bones. I am currently in the process of saving up for an F.B. enlargement so I too may one day compete in this illustrious field.

Number three:

SHOWERS.

I am one of those people who LOVE to shower.

I love being clean.

I love the process of becoming clean.

Everything about the venture that is involved with standing inside an enclosed bathing vestibule – I BLOODY WELL LOVE.

And tomorrow, during Tough Mudder, I am going to get very, very dirty.

The dirtiest.

Perhaps (and by perhaps I mean it is certain) that I will reach levels of filth I cannot even begin to imagine, sitting here at my computer.

And while I don’t fear that mess, I very much look forward to that moment where upon completion of my race, I will step into a shower, feel that cascade of hot water on my skin, and scrub the absolute shit out of my dermis.

Take that as you will.

…

So there you have it dudes.

On one last T.M. note, I am so excited to start off tomorrow I can hardly sit still.

I have trained like a madwoman and now it is time to see what I can do. I promise to take lots of photos and let you know how both Mr. M and I fared throughout the sixteen kilometers and twenty-five obstacles.

We’ll be seeing you at the finish line.