The good news is, my new neighbor is either a hot, young-ish guy, or has hot, young-ish guy visitors at 10 pm on Saturday nights.
The bad news is, I learned this by passing said hot, young-ish guy at the common door, as he was walking in and I was walking out to meet the grocery delivery guy…and I was wearing mismatched pajamas and slippers, with hair I THINK was last washed on Thursday?
Aunt: “You look good, your outfit looks like an Ann Taylor ad.”
Me, aloud: “Thanks!”
Me, mentally: “Your outfit looks like ‘I have questions.'”
Praise be to any/all deities for providing me so many years of What Not to Wear, and other external influences to counteract an apparently genetic inclination to hide one’s body in giant clothes, or wear sweatpants to family parties.
I’m just gonna send the guy this video like it’s office training material. Except the office is my body, and “You bettah WORK.” (Ahem. I apologize for that.)
If Scott Foley ever grabbed my hair and put his mouth on that part of my neck, we wouldn’t have even made it into the apartment — I would have just pulled up the dress and ridden him like we were in the Hallway Tour de France. And I’m not ashamed to admit that watching him do…THAT to Olivia, even just for a tragically fleeting moment, produced an actual tingle. Kerry Washington gives great sex face.
Don’t judge me, we all have our deal. Mine just happens to involve being occasionally slapped on the ass with a fashionable leather glove by a trained assassin. Whatevs.
I’ll admit, most days I half-ass my appearance for work. I’m generally OK looking, so I let my hair air dry and don’t give a lot of thought to my clothes or makeup. I’m going to work — they don’t pay me to be pretty, and there’s no one here I want to get naked with.
But today I’m going out after work, and my God I’m cute when I give a damn. (And when my more fashionable friends hand-picked my entire outfit when we went shopping that time.)
I actually don’t get the appeal of Rebel Wilson as an actor. I don’t think she’s as funny as everyone else seems to think she is.
This line really is cute. I felt bad that I didn’t like a lot of the stuff Melissa McCarthy made, and it was SO cost-prohibitive. (You know you’re fucked when something’s at Nordstrom.) But Torrid? I might be able to hang with Torrid. And OMG, the model is the CUTEST.
Full disclosure: Depending on the week, I am one or two sizes away from “plus size,” and don’t believe it should be a thing. Clothes should just come in sizes. But I love seeing more options being made available, especially cute, affordable ones with adorable models.
“Since I am not model-skinny, but also not super fat and fabulously owning my hugeness, I fall into that nebulous ‘normal American woman’ size that legions of fashion stylists detest. For the record, I’m a size 8 (this week, anyway). Many stylists hate that size because, I think, to them, it shows that I lack the discipline to be an ascetic or the confident sassy abandon to be a total fatty hedonist. They’re like: pick a lane! Just be so enormous that you need to be buried in a piano, and dress accordingly.”
— Mindy Kaling, Is Everyone Hanging Out Without Me? (And Other Concerns)
Since I bitched so much about fashion yesterday, allow me to extol its virtues today.
So far today I’ve been complimented twice on my outfit. It’s a really simple stretchy cotton sundress, and the fabric is darted in a way that accentuates my best bits. I wore it because it’s Monday and fuck Monday and it’s 100-and-ball-sweat degrees with 600% humidity, and I need to wear as little clothing as possible. It looks lovely, but it’s just so simple to throw on and there’s no matching and no pants and no buttons or zippers, and it feels like I’m wearing a men’s t-shirt.
Being a woman RULES. OK, yes, I’ll have epic Chub Rub on the insides of my thighs from now until October, but eh. I’m at work wearing what amounts to a very fancy pillowcase, so I’ll deal.