Author: Big Mama

Edition 3: Fashion Friday

Let me start today with a disclaimer. This post is for the ladies. Of course, if all 3 of my male readers are like P, they moved on as soon as they saw the word fashion.

If not, here’s your chance. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.

I believe I have mentioned that I am a fan of Tim Gunn’s new show entitled, appropriately enough, “Tim Gunn’s Guide to Style”. Tim is a kind, gentle fashion authority. He honestly wants to help women look good and feel better about themselves. He doesn’t mock the fashion impaired, but instead offers them assistance.

Sometimes, he even cries.

And gasps at the mention of leggings.

And describes a closet full of capri pants and t-shirts as “self-flagellation”.

Love him.

One of the critical moments of Tim’s show (because yes, we are on a first name basis) is when his sidekick, Veronica, tells the women she needs to go through their underwear drawer.

I am not even kidding when I say that the first time I saw this I hid my face in a pillow to muffle the screaming.

I was mortified. Mainly because all I could think about was the shameful things Tim and Veronica would see if they were to go through my underwear drawer. I have underwear that attempted to see me through my pregnancy, and thus bid a fond farewell to elastic years ago. Yet I still wear them.

I have bras that are older than Caroline. Bras that should have been retired long ago after years of faithful support and gravity defiance.

But I haven’t been able to let go, mainly because I don’t want to think about replacing them.

I know some women love shopping for undergarments, but I don’t know these women. It’s not something I enjoy spending money on. It grieves me to spend money on a bra when it would be much better spent on something of value, like dishtowels from Anthropologie.

However, the reason Tim and Veronica go through the underwear drawer is because good undergarments are the key to clothes that fit well. A good bra can help eliminate that upper back fat spillage over the band.

Well, a good bra and cutting out the Hostess cupcakes. But you get my point.

It can lift and separate and cause you to instantly look 5 pounds thinner. What else can do that? Other than a mirror at a carnival or hallucinations?

Inspired by “Guide to Style”, I set out for Nordstroms’ today with Caroline. Nordstrom stores have professional bra-sizing specialists in their lingerie department, so I went in and got measured. Just as I suspected, like 98% of the female population, I have been wearing the wrong size.

The helpful saleslady took my measurements, assessed my bra needs, and then went in search of several different options.

I bet I tried on at least 20 different bras, which was no easy feat with Caroline climbing in and out of the dressing room the whole time and intermittently watching herself dance in the mirror.

The saleslady helped me figure out exactly what I needed and her opinion was much more helpful than Caroline’s, whose only opinion was that I should buy the “HOT PINK ONE, MAMA!”

Like I’m in the market for a hot pink bra.

That bra would require a different life. A life filled with Cosmopolitans and leisure time.

So, here’s what I learned today:

1. When you purchase a new bra, the band should fit snugly when fastened on the loosest hook setting. All bras lose their elasticity over time and this will allow you to fasten it tighter as time and saggage take their toll on the elastic.

2. Do not handwash bras in Woolite. Apparently, Woolite is like Kryptonite to brassieres. I had no idea. Either wash them on gentle cycle in a mesh bag and hang to dry or handwash them using regular laundry detergent.

3. The right bra will look and feel so much better than the bra you’ve been wearing. Especially if it’s a bra that carried you through the fluctuations of pregnancy and is the consistency of a moth-eaten dishtowel with underwire.

So, ladies. Go forth and support the girls that are closest to you. They are the only one you’ll ever have.

Well, unless you spring for saline upgrades.

Now a few questions:

1. Nicole asks: “What are your favorite shoes when you’re going for comfort? We’re taking a trip to Disney World in a couple weeks & I’m trying to decide on footwear. I’ll be wearing mostly capris & knee-length shorts. I don’t want to wear tennis shoes unless I have to, but my flimsy Ann Taylor Loft flip flops aren’t going to work for miles and miles of walking! I need comfy, yet cute and stylish.”

This is my daily dilemma. I love a pretty shoe, but pretty and practical don’t always go hand in hand.

Personally, if I were going to Disney World and wanted to be comfortable, I’d probably go with my Nike running shoes. They aren’t the cutest things in the world and I certainly wouldn’t set the fashion world on fire, but I also wouldn’t set my feet on fire.

And seriously, if you’ve ever been to Disney World then you know what I’m saying when I tell you that fashion is not the priority for most patrons. It’s like one big fashion don’t. You’ve never seen so many black socks paired with sandals in all your life, not to mention an appalling lack of female support garments. Apparently some folks like to let it all hang loose for Mickey Mouse.

My point is, wear what’s comfortable and won’t cause you to want to cut off your feet by noon. If you’re looking for a comfortable flip-flop with good support, I would suggest Reef flip-flops. They are the only kind I wear and have never caused me one ounce of foot discomfort, even after a day at Sea World.

2. Mandy asks: “Was I on something, or did I see Seven jeans at Kohl’s? Another question for Friday or whenever…What type of unders do we wear with yoga pants? I have just gone for the velour in the past, but I want to move on for a more yoga-type. I don’t like dental floss…is that my only option?”

I believe that you must have been on something.

In all fairness, there is a cheap brand of jeans called “Sevens”, but one quick try-on will confirm that they are imposters. The key is to make sure they say “For all mankind”. Because the real Sevens are an inclusive jean.

As for underwear under yoga pants, I don’t think you have to wear something that skimpy if you don’t want to. Just make sure it’s something with a smooth line. Visible underwear lines are not your friend.

I don’t really wear my yoga pants tight enough for it to be an issue. I like a loose fit that ensures any problem areas won’t be accentuated because wearing a girdle with yoga pants would defeat the whole purpose.

And make me angry. Very angry.

3. Suzi asks: “So I’m lost are you are real fashion expert or do you just have terrific taste?”

I am not a real fashion expert. I just play one on the blog.

But thanks for the compliment about my taste.

That’s all for this week.

I have more questions waiting in my inbox that I promise I’ll get to eventually, but I also have a child who needs to bring something that starts with “C” for show and tell today. And, as God is my witness, I will come up with something better than the “cap” from the toothpaste.

Y’all have a nice Friday!
The legacy of a good animal print

Many years ago, Gulley worked at Neiman Marcus. During her brief career in the high-end world of fashion and fabulous, she always knew what the newest trends were, and would report back to me.

It was a glorious time.

Unfortunately, it came in my pre-marriage days when my disposable income was approximately a negative number by the end of each month, in spite of the fact that I was living in an apartment where the rent was only $395 month ALL BILLS PAID.

I will tell y’all right now that the thermostat in that apartment was never above 70 degrees. I wore flannel pajamas and drank hot chocolate on the couch year round.

And if that isn’t a testament to the fabulous life I led as a single girl, I don’t know what is.

Anyway, I was on a budget. And in spite of working at Neiman’s, so was Gulley. Because retailers don’t actually pay their employees a salary that would allow them to shop at the store.

Especially a store that considers Cole Haan shoes to be a bargain basement item.

It was during this time, over 10 years ago, that Gulley told me about something called a Kate Spade purse. She had saved her money and used her employee discount to purchase the original Kate Spade bag, which you fashionistas out there may recall was essentially a box-shaped bag covered in some type of black microfiber material.

I was green with envy over her fabulous black bag.

I wanted one. I needed one. Who cares that Kate was charging $200 plus dollars for a black canvas purse? I had to have one, even if it meant skipping two or eighteen meals.

However, when a person is making so little money that they live in 492 square feet for the low price of $395 a month ALL BILLS PAID, and a two-piece extra spicy meal from Popeyes counts as a luxury item, designer handbag purchases don’t necessarily make good sense.

Then, one day Gulley was talking to her dad on the phone. Somehow the subject of purses came up and he mentioned that he knew a place where he could purchase a faux Kate Spade.

So we did the only thing two desperate girls in their early twenties could do. We begged and pleaded with him to risk life and limb to get us the counterfeit merchandise.

Here’s the thing about Gulley’s dad. He’s not a halfway kind of guy. If he does something, he’s going to do it ALL OUT and do it with style.

It’s his way.

So, he came to visit bearing two calf-hair, zebra-print Kate Spade bags. One for each of us.

He was like a renegade Santa Claus and we were understandably thrilled.

Gulley and I carried those purses for at least a year or two. It made every day better just knowing that the zebra-print goodness was a part of my life.

However, styles come and go. Eventually we knew it was time to retire the old girls.

I’m not sure where mine is now. As I have shown, I have a merciless tendency to get rid of anything and everything. I can’t imagine I threw it out, so it may be in a box in the attic serving as a bed to a wayward squirrel.

Because if there is anything living in our attic, it is only a squirrel. Not a mouse. Definitely not a mouse. And certainly not the larger cousin of the mouse, also known as a rat.

Yesterday, Gulley came over bearing her Kate Spade zebra-print bag. She gave it to Caroline. I like to think of it as a symbolic gesture. The passing of the fashion torch.

Caroline took one look at it and said, “OH MAMA! This is a GROWN UP BAG. This is a beautiful, GROWN UP BAG. Thank you, Guwwey, thank you!”

I’ve never been more proud than I was at that moment.

She gets it. She understands fabulous.
Rumors of his demise have been greatly exaggerated

First, I need to offer a heartfelt apology to Ed McMahon.

Sir, I had no idea that you were still alive. And I’m hoping well.

Kudos to you, Mr. McMahon. You have obviously discovered the key to long life because I feel certain you must be at least 107 years old.

Well, maybe not that old, but at least as old as Jane Seymour.

At any rate, I did not mean to spread false rumors regarding your death on the internet. So, if you’d please come bring me a large check from Publisher’s Clearing House, it would be greatly appreciated.

In other news, in the last podcast Sophie and I did I mentioned that I like to get a good sizzle out of my hair by using a product called STAY.

And when I say sizzle, I’m don’t mean it as an adjective. I’m not trying to find a clever way to say PIZAZZ or something. I literally mean that I like to hear my hair fry when it meets the heat of the curling iron.

I am from Texas. It’s part of my heritage.

At this moment, any readers who live north of the Mason-Dixon line are gasping in horror.

While your sisters in the South are nodding their heads and saying AMEN, PREACH IT SISTER.

Anyway, I mentioned that STAY helps my hair hold up beautifully in most all situations. I also mentioned that it comes in a generic bottle and I purchase it directly from my hairdresser. I have long felt certain that it is some sort of contraband hair substance.

But if loving it is wrong, I don’t want to be right.

So, a reader named Susan emailed me to ask about acquiring some STAY for herself. I looked on the bottle, gave her the only identifying information I could find, and suggested she do a Google search.

Because Google will supply you with more information than any doctorate program in the country. Or even the world.

Look what Susan found.

She found it at the well-known Payne’s Beauty Supply, which is only slightly less popular than say, Sephora.

Twenty dollars says you can’t find STAY at Sephora.

Probably due to FDA regulations.

And the sheer ugliness of the packaging.

I’m just saying the folks at “Straight Request” (also known as a back alley somewhere in Mexico) must be pretty confident in the quality of their product if this is the bottle they’re going to offer the public. It basically says IN YOUR FACE PHYTODEFRISANT (with your fancy French inflections), I AM SECURE IN WHO I AM AND MY HAIRCARE ABILITIES.

You can’t put a price on that kind of haircare confidence.

Well, actually you can, it’s $8.95 plus shipping.

It will give you lots of pizazz. And sizzle.

However, you may be embarrassed to display it on your bathroom shelf.
Thoughts from the other side of the lawn

Once upon a time when I was a semi-high-powered career woman, I used to save the majority of my vacation time for December. I loved to have almost the whole month off during the holiday season. I could shop and bake and decorate to my heart’s content without having to worry about any work pressure.

I used parchment paper, made homemade bread and pretended like I was Martha Stewart, but with a better wardrobe.

It was always the best month. In fact last year, during my last weekend before vacation ended, I thought to myself that if I didn’t have to go back to work, life would be perfect. I wouldn’t have anything to worry about and my life would be an idyllic fairytale filled with rainbows, unicorns and birds that sit on your finger and sing.

And Ed McMahon would show up to tell me I’d won some type of sweepstakes.

Except that might be creepy because I’m pretty sure he’s dead.

Fast forward to 10 months later, and here I am. As of today, I’ve officially been out of the professional work force for 5 months.

People ask me all the time if I’m enjoying being a stay at home mom and the truth is, yes.

Yes, I am.

In fact, last night P asked me what my plans were for the day and I turned my calendar to the month of October. It was blank.

And I was happy.

I love not having to balance so many responsibilities. I love not feeling a cloud of pressure hovering over me at all times. I love not having to worry about some doctor with a major God complex telling me he wouldn’t write my drug if it was man’s last chance for survival, and I love not having to worry about doing expense reports on the worst expense report software in the history of man.

I love being able to lie in bed with Caroline in the mornings and watch cartoons. I love being able to make plans at the last minute and decide that we’ll go to the park.

Or even better, the mall.

But so far, the roses and rainbows and singing birds haven’t shown up.

Not to mention, Ed McMahon.

Because while, yes, I am so happy and blessed by this new phase in my life, it’s not the end of all my problems. It’s just created new sets of worries and concerns. I’ve merely exchanged one set of issues for a new set.

Now I worry about our private insurance and monthly payments. I worry about the cost of gas and insurance. I worry about spending too much at the grocery store or going out to eat too much. I worry about playing with Caroline enough and coming up with fun activities. I worry that she isn’t learning her letters when I hear SuperWhy asking on T.V. for a fruit that starts with an “A” and I hear Caroline yelling, “LEMONS!! LEMONS!!”

I worry about keeping the house clean and the laundry done.

Of course, probably not as much as I should.

It all goes back to the oldest trick in the book. The grass is always greener on the other side.

And in my mind, the stay at home mom side of the yard was lush and green and nicely fertilized with no mosquitoes. Who could have a care in the world on that side of the lawn?

I think, as women (or humans), that’s what we have a tendency to do. We look around us and compare our lives to others. Everything can look so perfect and pretty from the outside looking in, but do we really have any idea what’s really on the inside? I think all around us there are people who are hurting and who are lonely, but you’d never tell just by looking at them.

This whole change has made me realize that, short of God, nothing is perfect. Every situation has its burdens, it struggles, its worries. What someone else has can always start looking better if we allow ourselves to be tricked in to that kind of thought pattern.

I remember a few years ago when Lance Armstrong won his 86th Tour De France or whatever. I watched him accept his trophy surrounded by his beautiful wife and his beautiful kids and thought, wow, they HAVE IT ALL.

Shortly after that I read that they had filed for divorce.

Apparently, what was happening on the inside was different from what was happening on the outside. It was a huge reminder for me that no one has it easy. Life is made up of moments and, while some are perfect, some are not. The only person who really knows is the person it’s happening to.

And now I’ve rambled.

But I guess what I’m learning is to appreciate the blessings God has placed in my life. I don’t want to spend my life wishing for what someone else has because God, in His infinite wisdom, obviously doesn’t think that’s the best thing for me. And that may change, but it might not.

I want to be content where I am and with what I have. My prayer is to be like Paul and say “I have learned the secret of being content in any and every situation, whether well fed or hungry, whether living in plenty or in want. I can do everything through him who gives me strength”. Phillipians 4: 12-13
Farewell to (maternity) arms

Well, the stomach ailment turned out to be more than a one shot deal. It was more along the lines of an hourly occurrence until about 6 a.m. Friday morning.

Here’s the amazing thing, I have never seen someone so cheerful in the midst of a stomach bug.

It was like this intestinal virus was the best thing that had ever happened to her. “Wow, MAMA! I threw up AGAIN! DID YOU SEE THAT? I MADE IT TO THE POTTY!!” Like she was announcing she’d just ridden the best roller coaster ever while they handed out cotton candy simultaneously.

God bless her.

In fact, she begged to go to school Friday morning. And trust me, the sleep deprived me, who had been doing laundry non-stop for about 8 hours, wanted nothing more than to send her to school. However, common sense prevailed and I realized nothing alienates fellow mamas more than spreading the bounty of a stomach virus.

We survived the plague and pestilence, and rebounded to have a pretty uneventful weekend.

In fact, by Sunday afternoon I decided it was time for the bi-annual cleaning out of my closet. This is an event that is highly anticipated around here, much like a root canal.

After church I decided to take the plunge and just go for it. P walked into our closet and this is what he saw.

He was quick to tell me I was being highly optimistic getting down all my sweaters out of storage. I like to call it wishful organizing.

For some reason I base my wardrobe choices on the month of the year rather than something sensible and logical such as temperature. I have grown weary of my summer wardrobe, plus the highs will only be in the 80’s this week.

The high 80’s.

That’s just chilly. If you’re over 95 years old.

Anyway, a while back, my friend E found out she was pregnant. I joyfully and generously offered her all my old maternity clothes. She came over and loaded them up in her car. About a month ago, shortly before her due date, she brought back all my clothes.

As I hung them back up, in the far recesses of my closet, I realized something.

They were hideous.

Okay, not all of them were hideous. There were, like, two decent shirts.

E was being sweet and polite, but $50.00 says she didn’t wear any of those clothes. And I don’t blame her one bit. I was completely delusional about my maternity wear offerings.

I wanted to call her and apologize for causing her to have to keep those clothes in her closet for 6 months. Most of all, I knew I had to get them back out of my closet before they contaminated my normal clothes. I told P I was getting rid of all my maternity clothes because, even if I were to ever get pregnant again, there is no way I could wear those clothes. It could cause lifelong fashion scars for my unborn child.

Here are a few prime examples of the ugly: (it was hard to narrow down the worst offenders)

Nothing is as attractive as horizontal stripes in bright colors when you’re 40 pounds over your normal weight.

Did I really think anyone would think I was on my way to play rugby?

Mmm. Overalls. So attractive anyway, but once you shove a tummy the size of a watermelon under those suckers, you’ve got a look that will cause people to pity you to no end. I am sad to say I wore these almost daily.

I now realize I looked like a fat farmer wearing shorts.

And these. Check out that panel. You pull out these bad boys and you’ve got yourself an incredibly effective form of birth control.

This isn’t maternity, but it is a “leather” skirt I bought on sale at Gap about 8 years ago. I haven’t worn it in about 6 years, but couldn’t bear to throw it out because it only cost $6.99. It was such a triumphal bargain moment at the time.

Of course that time was 1999.

So, between the maternity clothes and other items that needed to go, look how much stuff I cleaned out.

Since I’m acting like some sort of fashion expert every Friday on the internet, I realized PHYSICIAN, HEAL THYSELF.

And when it was all said and done, this is what I’m left with.

A glorious, organized closet filled with sweaters, jeans, and boots.

Now I just need some cool weather.

And another sweater coat.

Preferably from Anthropologie.

Oh, and in the last picture try not to notice the huge, white down jacket a la The Michelin Man. I got it on clearance from J. Crew about 5 or 12 years ago and I can’t bear to let it go.

Even though, as P was quick to remind me, there’s a much better chance of me having another baby than there is of me going skiing ever again.

It’s not that I don’t like skiing. I do.

I just don’t like the part that involves riding in a chair lift or actually going down the mountain.

Other than that, it’s a lovely activity.
Something new

In case any of y’all are wondering, you’re in the right place.

It’s a whole new look just in time for fall.

I owe a huge thank you to Laura at Swank Web Style. I’m sure she was about to pull out her hair with all my “Can we move this dot a .05 millimeter here and add a line here and can I see it in green also?”

Thanks Laura. I love it.