#1 Take your clothes for a “test drive” before wearing them for an important event.
#2 When in doubt, don’t wear it.
#3 The more skin, the less power.
#4 Know when clothes need to be retired.

I particularly appreciate number 3.

What would you add?

I spend a lot of time in the water most summers.  I would like a bathing suit that is cute, flattering, and comfortable and I really don’t think that is too much to ask.

To that end, as you start to dream up beach wear for next summer I would respectfully request that you design at least a few that are NOT HALTER TOPS.

Don’t get me wrong, I think halters LOOK fine.  But much like high heels, I suspect they were designed by people who never had any intention of actually putting them on.  

Now that I have two children, to get my chest where I want it I must tie the halter tight enough that I feel like I have a noose around my neck and by the end of my swim my entire upper back and shoulders hurt.  When I loosen it, I feel like certain attributes are a little too close to being on display, potentially ready to fall out any minute.  And carrying around a 1-year-old with wandering fingers who pulls on anything she finds interesting is a danger too.

I just want something comfortable that isn’t a tank suit I would wear to swim laps.  When I went swimsuit shopping this spring, I had to ask the sales associate if there were any suits that didn’t have a halter neckline.  She pointed me to the old lady suits with skirts and built in boob armor, which would have been kind of like wearing a mother-of-the-bride dress to my senior prom.  Needless to say, I didn’t buy anything.

In case you’re wondering, my bathing attire this summer has been an old, OLD bikini top (with straps) that does not match my tankini bottom (because the tankini top is a halter) and the aforementioned rashguard.  Seriously.  It is a less than “beach sexy” combination.

I’m considering starting a facebook group or something, isn’t that what all the cool kids do when they want to get something done?  I know there are others out there like me, who hate halters but are forced into them by our inability to find a single flattering suit that doesn’t tie behind my neck. 

Sensitive trapezius, untie!  Or unite!  Or something!

Here’s to next summer,

Heather

They fit like a glove, in fact they were so glove-like I was concerned they may be a little too tight.  At the moment I emerged from the dressing room, my salesperson, who had made it his mission to convince me that he was my personal shopper and there to serve me walked over.

Him:  So what do you think?

Me:  I’m worried they might be the tiniest bit too tight.

Him:  Hmmm…what kind of work do you do?

Me:  Consulting – think conservative.

Him:  Yes, well maybe…you know what you need to do?

Me:  Lose 10 pounds?

Him (horrified, sucks in breath):  NO GIRL!  I was going to say get those pants let out maybe 1/2 an inch.

Me:  Ha!  I’m more likely to lose 10 pounds than do that.

I bought them anyway because they probably fit, and were on sale, AND they had a matching suit jacket in a beautiful shade of gray.  For the last 15 minutes I’ve been wearing the pants (and yes, still working from home), then twisting around trying to see my ass in the mirror.  Finally I decided to take a picture using the self-timer on my camera.

Pause…

What an eye-opening moment of truth that was. 

Things I learned from the rear-view photograph:

1.  I do not look like I think I do from behind

2.  The pants are probably too tight

3.  I slouch

4.  My dresser is a dusty mess

5.  My highlights are not as blond as I thought and the back of my head is a right mess

6.  Don’t take full-rear view photos anymore

Things I will be forgetting:

1.  How to use the self-timer on the camera

You’re wondering…how was the holiday party?  Did you get a dress?  Let’s see your fabulous professional makeup job!  We must have closure!

For you, I will.

The party:  As is the norm at these things, there was the requisite old man in a tuxedo clapping his hands and hopping from foot to foot while Beyonce ordered him to “put a ring on it”.  He came accessorized by the typical slightly double-chinned wife in a sparkly floor length gown, with sparkly jacket thingy over it and tan pantyhose peeking out open toed soft sole shoes.  I’m sure you know him, he has been at every suburban wedding you’ve ever attended. 

There was enough cleavage on display, and in ample amounts, that I could easily have saved myself the approximately six hours I shopped last week and will never get back as I ping ponged from store to store looking for a non-busty dress.  There was however, a distinct lack of body glitter, which must mean I’m growing up.

There was a good buffet, A CHOCOLATE FOUNTAIN, and an open bar stocked with top shelf liquor.  Which was really all I needed to get past the fact that one of my male bosses drinks straight up peach schnapps, and the fact that one of Brett’s old, male co-workers tried to involve me in a conversation about Kegels (“200 a day!”, he says, as I reach for my fourth martini.)

The dress:  Plum.  Floor length and festive.  Machine washable.  A size smaller than I thought I needed, I tried it on a whim and it just so happened to fit.  Tightly.  It was on sale.  It required a scary girdle thing, the cost of which almost offset the sale price.  (Did you have any idea how expensive heavy duty undergarments are???)

The makeup: Oh the makeup.  I’ve always had this fantasy that professional makeup would magically transform me.  It transformed me all right.  First the “artiste” was 20 minutes late.  Then, she kept leaving me to go and ring up other customers. 

Rule number one of getting your makeup done:  DO NOT LOOK IN THE MIRROR UNTIL IT’S ALL OVER. 

Because you will see scary, hairy, drawn on eyebrows and some red looking eyeliner under your eyes, concealer on your nose, red blotchy patches everywhere else and you will want to run, but you can’t because in for a dollar and all that, plus if someone saw you walking through the mall looking that way they would be totally justified in following you to make sure you weren’t looking for small children to scare.

So here I am, sitting in the middle of the department store across from the Christmas sweatshirts while elderly patrons browse for the red one with a kitten wearing a Santa hat batting a green ball of yarn, and my hair looks like a rat’s nest and there is no “artiste” in sight and I look quite like a small child who’s errantly gotten a hold of mommy’s mascara.  Not quite as glamourous as I imagined.

It took TWO HOURS.

And then I got home and instead of the “Welcome-home- America’s-Next-Top-Model-for-you-are-transformed” reaction I was hoping for, Alex stared at me and Brett said, “You have on A LOT of eye makeup.”  And then Alex swung a piece of paper near my face and it caught the very edge of my false eyelash (oh yes I did) and almost knocked it off which would have been a DISASTER.

Before we left I insisted we take a family picture, which Alex scooted out of just as the shutter clicked, and then Emily Kate spit up on my (luckily, machine washable) dress. 

…and there is my boob almost falling out

We got to the party a mere 45 minutes late, and I started with a delicious concoction of vodka, amaretto, sours mix, grenadine, and Sierra Mist and all was right with the world.

Although I make fun, it WAS fun – enough fun that I ALMOST broke my rule of not dancing at corporate functions, because I truly believe that if I am drunk enough to be a good dancer I am making a total ass of myself when I am NOT on the dance floor.  Words to live by.

the shoe abyss

I stare at this photo, and the only matching pair I see are the twee little sneakers right in front. 

Tiny shoes.

Pointy shoes.

Dirty shoes.

Not in pairs.

Last week, after I took this picture I cleaned out the shoe closet and arranged everything in neat rows.  And this morning it looked exactly like that picture. 

And we were gone for four out of the last seven days.

Argh.  Someone tell me how to organize our shoes.  Note that there is a plastic, crappy shelf in that closet, which is obviously no match for the combined might of 837 single shoes speed dating trying to find a match.

But first, I should back up.  Not only has Thanksgiving snuck up on me, but our company’s VERY fancy holiday party is right on its heels.  Before we signed up to go, I did all the necessary legwork.  I convinced suckered my friend Stacey into babysitting.  I cross checked all the calendars to ensure there were no conflicting events.  Brett and I had a conversation that went something like this.

me:  Do you want to go to the holiday party?

him:  I don’t know, do you?

me:  I have to buy a dress if we go.

him:  So?  What’s that, $50?  If we go, we sit with my team.  We sat with your team last year.

me (smirking):  Fine, we’ll go.

him:  Are you sure you want to?

me:  I don’t know, do you?

The enthusiasm, she overwhelms.  Where was I?

Right.  Formal dresses.

News flash: formal dresses - when you are pushing your mid-thirties, have just had a second baby, would like some fabric other than cheap, sweaty polyester dipped in formaldehyde dye, and do not wish to shop at The Deb – cost more than $50.  And since I’ve left the party dress shopping until the last minute, there is not a lot of time to be picky.

Enter stage right the brilliant idea to ***Wear something I already own!!***

Enter stage left:

1. Black tank style sparkly bridesmaid dress
2. Navy blue satin-y bridesmaid dress
3. Wine colored, cocktail length, WTF was I thinking when I purchased this dress
4. Black dress from college formal with a NSFW neckline

Hmmm.

We can rule out #3 right away because once I saw the pictures from the last time I wore it (to a wedding), I knew I never would again.  Which is why, when I spilled an entire glass of wine down my front and it smelled like I’d been rolling on the floor of a bar, I tossed it right in the washer instead of bothering to have it dry-cleaned.  And wouldn’t you know it, that thing came out of the washer as good as new. 

#1 seemed promising.  Too bad that pregnancy not only widened my hips and grew my feet but also stretched my torso to the point that the waistline is now an empire waste and boy is that unflattering when you also have extra boob squeezing out your armpits.    I look like a Weeble.  Next!

Navy blue bridesmaid dress zipped up and didn’t look too bad but as I pranced around I remembered why I don’t do strapless.  I am so uncomfortable in strapless dresses waiting for an inadvertent reveal that I looked like I was on drugs.  Plus it was tight, and these formal things usually have excellent dinners, which I would like to be able to eat.  And cake!  I bet there will cake!

#4 I bought it for a formal in college and have since worn it more than enough times to get my money’s worth.  Never to work-do’s though, because when I bend forward you can almost see my belly button.  The cleavage this dress induces will go a long way toward erasing the polished, together, take no prisoners act that I attempt on a daily basis.  (Although maybe that image is already fading after the other day when I caught the heel of my shoe in the hem of my pants and almost spilled an entire can of Diet Pepsi on someone’s desk as I tripped.)

It’s easy to pretend you wear the same size you did five years ago when you wear dress pants and Ann Taylor sweaters every day.  It’s also easy to pretend that you could still zip up your wedding dress, but you haven’t because you don’t want to remove it from it’s protective packaging. 

Trying on dresses that have no business still living in your closet?  That right there is a cold, hard slap of reality.

 (As a preemptive note, I will be without Internet for FOUR DAYS.  Moment of silence…  So if I don’t respond to your comment right away, that’s why – it will be read and responded to when I get back, likely with shaky typing fingers and hallucinations from blog withdrawal.)

Metallics were all over the runway this spring. This bag is roomy enough to hold your plastic pretend cell phone, Mom’s keys, a few diapers, and some snacks to take you to daycare and back.

I know I said I loved these shoes, but our affair was short. And tight. The latest in maternity accessories is the FLAT patent leather shoes.

The season’s best loungewear is colorful and easy to wear, perfect at home and at play.

Prints in funky spring colors make these pajamas almost TOO FUN for sleep.

And finally, what NOT to wear.

I forgot however, that working full time and also having a child that requires things like baths and dinner and stories cuts into the free time I have to undertake hobbies. Like sewing.

Total cutting and sewing time required to make the sack: less than 1 hour.

Total time to complete the sack from start to finish: before Thanksgiving to yesterday.

Behold my sewing prowess…

I have to say though, for Baby 2.0 I am intrigued by the idea of the Sleep Sack Swaddle since I never fully got the hang of the perfect baby burrito. Looking at it, I think it’s just a regular sack, but with wings and velcro. I may have to buy one just so I can talk about how overpriced it is and how easy it was to make my own.

Pajammy to the right

Everybody’s wearing them for dancing tonight…

Sandra Boynton didn’t have anything to say about this though…

Pamper Camel-Toe!

I laughed so hard when I saw this that he started laughing too, just because we were having a giggle. One day though, he will want to kill me for taking this picture. And posting it on the internet.

Someone should have told them that Harley wear or pajama pants are the in thing this holiday season. I also realized looking through the last few weeks of pictures, that I am wearing these pj bottoms more often than not, although so far not in public. Maybe someone needs to upgrade me, too.

Finally, I got introduced as someone’s assistant yesterday. As in “My assistant did this…(To myself I thought, “Now hand me that blade and climb in the box so that I may saw you in half to the utter delight and amazement of the audience.” Because I am not an assistant, I am a consultant. Which means I tell YOU what to do. Har.)

This afternoon we are going to see Santa Claus at the mall the North Pole. Poor kid, it is 80 degrees here today and I’m about to dress him in a Christmas sweater. When you are only a year old, see, it’s ok. You can blame your parents.