The Vagina Monologues

I have noticed an interesting, albeit annoying, phenomenon lately – completely heterosexual men with vaginas.  I am not saying the have REAL functioning, vaginas.  They have vaginas in the figurative sense, which makes them act like women.  No bueno.

Now before you point your finger at me in an accusatory fashion, please know that I am not saying ALL men have vaginas.  There are still the manly men out there who grow beards in “Movember” and scratch parts of their anatomy in public that makes their significant others cringe.  I, for one, like my men “manly” and am happy to report that my husband Bill has never exhibited signs of even a tiny vagina as part of his anatomy.  Yes, I have seen him cry, but not without a good reason.  He hates shopping, and  has never exhibited signs of bi-polar behaviour.  He is an all-American guy who would rather have his teeth drilled without novacaine than get a manicure.  He passes gas regularly and thinks it is incredibly funny.  He is more comfortable in his Levi jeans and a fishing t-shirt, and he actually had to purchase a suit when we got married, since he didn’t have one to his name.  He gives great bear hugs when I am sad, and always makes me feel “little” even when I’ve gained weight.  He is also more than capable of telling me to pull myself up by my bootstraps when I am being a big baby.  He keeps it real, and I am thankful for my manly guy.  

Seriously, these vagina-sporting men are rocking that particular girl part with great enthusiasm.  They are moody, weepy, given to temper tantrums, and would rather go shopping than watch sports.  They are “in touch” with their feminine side, dress better than most women I know, and they fight like girls – nasty.  They show signs of manipulative behaviour and use the guilt card on a regular basis.  Every time I am around one of these dudes (I am using that term loosely here) it makes me break out in a rash.  How DARE they impinge on those womanly traits?  Women are the only ones who are allowed to act like that.  It is expected of us. It is our God-given right.  It is what makes us one big collective pain in the ass.  Seriously, I’m pretty sure if Bill caught himself acting in that manner, he would make me take him out to a field and shoot him with one of his big manly guns.

I do know women who think guys with vaginas are “cute” and are thrilled to have a shopping buddy, as well as a bed buddy, all rolled into one.  I, for one, could not deal.  To me, there is nothing sexy about a man who is more obsessive about waxing his guys parts than I am about waxing my hoohah.  Of course, I am not repulsed by man hair.  I find it kind of appealing, and it certainly is handy in the winter when it’s cold outside.  I understand that there are guys out there that are sporting the “fur coat” on their backs.  I realize women may not find that attractive.  That’s fine.  Go get laser hair removal.  But for chrissake, don’t make a public service announcement about it.  This is way too much information.  I don’t even want to think of ME getting a wax job.

I think the most annoying thing about these vagina-equipped men is that they are so “in tune with their feelings” and feel compelled to inform anyone who will listen about how they wished their girlfriend could understand their needs.  Do I think men have needs? Yep, absolutely.  Are guys supposed to talk about it ad nauseum?  Nope, not last time I checked.  That is a conversation FOR YOUR GIRLFRIEND, not the entire world.  I do not want to “chat about it” over a cup of coffee.  That is what I have female friends for.  Us girls have the lock on whining, moaning, complaining and going on in great detail about every little aspect of our lives, no matter how trivial.  I can’t even imagine what Bill would say if one of his close buddies came up to him and said, “You know, I really love [insert name here] but she just doesn’t take the time to understand what I’m feeling about our relationship, and that I really just want her to listen.”  Really? Yeah, let’s just say Bill wouldn’t handle that interaction well.  But it’s never going to happen, because out of all of his guy friends, NONE of them have a vagina.  I’m 100% sure he’s happy about that.

It’s not that I don’t miss having a homosexual guy friend.  THAT is a totally different animal. They are allowed to have an imaginary vagina. They are the most awesome at telling you which outfit looks like crap on you, and will partake in heartfelt chats for hours about feelings and relationships and Real Housewives of New Jersey.  I’ve had several gay friends over my lifetime who not only have maneuvered me through some very dicey relationship issues, but have also kept me from committing some devastating fashion mistakes.  Gay guy friends are like great female friends without the competitive edge.  There is no competing. It is apples and oranges. 

So to any overly-sensitive, overly emotional, moody, weepy guys out there.  Stop it.  It’s not attractive, or sexy, or even remotely appealing.  Pull out your tampon and MAN UP.

Her name is Lola...she is a showgirl...with yellow feathers in her hair...

This one is for all my "bird" friends...you know who you are...

Most people don’t understand my unnatural obsession with birds…all birds really, but specifically MY birds, and mostly my umbrella cockatoo who I lovingly named Lola when she came into my life at 12 weeks old.

Lola appeared in our lives sort of haphazardly, but then again not really.  I’m pretty sure she had a plan from the moment she laid eyes on me, because as soon as I picked her up she laid her head on my chest and literally cried like an infant.  It must have been that “sucker” tattoo on my forehead that she spotted because I was “stick a fork in me” done immediately.  I had owned birds for many years, but this pile of white feathers captured my heart with one fell swoop, and I haven’t been the same since.  We took her home on my birthday, the weekend of the 2010 blizzard, and she held our hearts hostage.  We hand fed her with a 60cc syringe filled with bird formula for over a year. I even began making her bird baby food from a concoction of applesauce, vegetables, sweet potatoes, a dollop of peanut butter, and numerous other things that would go into a blender, then into the syringe.  I still make up a mix of fresh food for her every day, and I’m sure I will until the day I die.

We doted on her, played with her, spent a small fortune on toys, bought her a cage that takes up half of my living room, and let her run our entire life.  She was thrilled at her ability to make us do her biddings.  At the same time, we taught her to play by herself – with her mountain of ridiculously expensive bird toys – and enjoy the company of her feathered brother and sister, Sam and Lisa.  Overall she was unimpressed with her siblings, as she is with anything that might possibly take the spotlight off of her, but she found enjoyment in her new surroundings.  I contribute her impressive socialization to the fact we encouraged her to “make her own fun” and we hand fed her for so long – something that is not unusual for cockatoos in the wilds of Australia, Malaysia or Indonesia.  In fact, parent cockatoos have been known to feed their young well into their second year or until the mommy and daddy bird have another “clutch.” Cockatoos have an inherently strong flock mentality, and they rely on each other for most everything, including emotional support.  Yes, they are highly emotional.  If Lola were human, she’d be considered a drama queen.

To know Lola is to love her.  She’s a brat, a clown, a master manipulator, a skilled snuggler, and about a million other things.  No one believes me when I tell them that she crawls under the covers and curls up next to me when I am lying in bed watching tv. She’d attached herself to me with Velcro if she could.  She demands all of my attention when I am in the room, and you cannot even believe how hard it is to ignore a pet that can actually say its own name OVER and OVER and OVER to persuade you to pick her up and give her a smooch on the beak or a scratch under her wing.  This past week, we left for a trip and she was without us for five days. I had a slew of friends stop over to feed her and talk to her, but I was worried.  It was a first, even though she had just turned three years old.  Cockatoos can pluck themselves, sometimes to the point of self-mutilation, if they perceive themselves to be lonely, or unloved.  Loneliness can turn to neuroses, and that is very very bad for a bird.  But we arrived home and there she was, looking especially cute, bouncing up and down, and repeating “HI LOLA!” until I got her out of the cage and covered her with kisses.  She was fine. I was relieved.  She is an extraordinary bird and I am so proud of her.

I’ve owned pets my entire life.  Indeed, I really can’t imagine my life without my “feathered and furry babies” for one moment. I currently have Lola, my blue pionus parrot Sammy, my sweet flighty cockatiel Lisa and my bedroom slipper of a Pekingese Marlen.  All of them are so intrinsically woven into the fabric of my being, but Lola more so than the others for sure.  Maybe it is because I know she stands a very good chance of outliving me.  Thankfully, she is in love with my daughter as much as Bill and me, so I know if something happens to me, she will be loved like no other bird. I find great peace in that fact.

Would I recommend to anyone that they go out tomorrow and get a cockatoo so they can understand these incredible creatures?  No I absolutely wouldn’t.  Why?  Because far too often people bring birds into their homes without understanding all that is involved with these highly social, highly intelligent creatures.  No they are not merely “decorations.” Yes, they will love you to death.  They will also break your eardrums with their “singing” (I used that term loosely.) They are messy, expensive, demanding, painful if they bite, and incredibly stubborn when it comes to getting their way.  We live in their world, not the other way around. And while I have brought my three feathered kids (fids) into my home, the fact of the matter is they are still wild animals – not at all domesticated like a dog or a cat.  You cannot predict their behaviour, and you cannot promise that they won’t unexpectedly lean over and take off an earlobe.  Lola has yet to draw blood, but I know it is not a matter of “if” but “when.”  It will happen eventually, and more than likely it will involve stitches – something I have never had before, and honestly, I am not looking forward to at all.  But I will still love her to pieces, and I will still encourage her to be exactly what she is…one of the most glorious, affectionate species of birds on earth.  Cheers to the cockatoo – creatures with the intelligence of a five year old and the emotionally reasoning of a two year old, equalling the smartest brattiest most delightful two year old…for the rest of their lives. 

If you are looking for information on cockatoos or other birds, please contact me and I will be happy to direct you to where you can find the most relevant and honest information.

So I haven't blogged in a while..shoot me...

Sometimes you just need to get your drunk on, and start typing. I needed to do this.  Blogging is like sex after a long dry spell.  Sometimes you just need to have a cocktail or five to supply the lubrication, and get on with it.

I know I know. I haven’t blogged in a million years and you all are on pins and needles waiting to see what words of wisdom I have to impart.  Hold back your disappointment. I have none.  But here is what I do have, after months of working my ass off for work, and sticking my nose in places it probably had no place being…

1.     I have an incredible family, especially my daugher, who accepts me unconditionally.  Yes, they understand I’m not quite sane, and I am probably completely unmedicated (actually I am medicated – how scary is THAT???) But they love me.  I know that when I look in their eyes, and mostly they are just glad I’m happy.  You really can’t ask for much more than that.  Unconditional acceptance is one of the greatest gifts in life.  It’s my brass ring, my light at the end of the tunnel, my pot of gold at the end of the rainbow.  I’m not easy, I’m not subtle, and I completely lack any sense of diplomacy…yet my family understands and accepts, and doesn’t judge.

2.      I have a husband who not only lets me be myself – which isn’t always a good thing - but he knows when to “reel me in and keep me grounded.”  Not an easy task for anyone.  I worry that I am more than he bargained for, and I’ll just make him exhausted.  But every day he wakes up with a smile on his face, looks in my eyes and declares he loves me madly.  He’d have to be mad to put up with my antics.  Thank you Bill. I love you more madly.

3.      I have friends who, like my family, accept me and all the craziness that comes with…patient? Yep, they are incredibly patient, and probably just a little nuts themselves.  But I know they accept me for who I am, not what I can do for them. They revel in our mutual moments utter abandonment, and they understand that while I am not perfect, I am well-intentioned.  Thank you for that.

4.      I have a career that provides me with all I ever dreamed of..ever…in my entire life.  I get to boss everyone around, be creative in ways I never thought possible, thrive under pressure, and  hug lots of really cool people. And I get to do most of this in really cool locations all around the world.  Thank you God…for great timing and allowing me to be and accomplish all sorts of amazing things. 

Life is odd. Life is grand.  Life provides us with relationships and opportunities we never imagined.  But really, we earn these gifts.  I’ve busted my ass, made a ton of mistakes and tried my best to learn from each and every mistake.  I am where I am because of every choice I have ever made – good, bad or otherwise.  Honestly, I cannot imagine being anywhere else.  I have no regrets, no disappointments and no desire to do anything differently.  So now, I shall just go forth, do my best, and hope that I don’t do anything stupid.  Perfect? No.  Happy? In ways you cannot even imagine.

Big shoes to fill...

Some things just make you stop and take inventory of your life.  Death, an inevitable part of life, is one of those things.

Our family is suffering through this quiet but gutwrenching chaos this week.  We are losing our patriarch on Bill’s side of the family…his father, Lynwood Otis Tucker.  “Otis” is a giant of a presence who welcomed me with open arms the moment we met.  I met Otis before I met anyone else in Bill’s family.  He hugged me and it was like being wrapped in the arms of a big ol’ bear.  It was strange, our first meeting.  Bill and I had been dating a short time.  It was the last weekend of hunting season, and Bill wanted me to meet “his hunting buddies” whom I later realized were as close to him as any family could be.  So here I was, this “city-fied yankee” heading to the back hills of Southern Virginia.  I drove through Charlottesville, passed a sign that said “Waltons Mountain Museum” and through Lynchburg.  I can remember thinking to myself “Girl, you are soooo not in PA anymore.”  Truth be told, I hadn’t been in PA for a long time, but this part of the world felt so foreign to me. Before you knew it I was making a left onto Hogwaller Road.   I kid you not. To this day, Bill swears we are going to retire down there just so Hogwaller Road can be my address.  I am more amused by that thought now then I was back then.

So as I kept driving and listening for banjos and signs of Ned Beatty, I spotted an old pickup truck by the side of the road. Someone was in the truck, so I pulled over and rolled down the window with my freshly manicured hand (and yes, hair was done, and makeup perfectly applied as well.) 

Me – “Excuse me Sir, but I am looking for Bert Carr’s house.  Do you know he lives?”  (Bert is one of Bill’s best friends, and whom he was staying with while hunting in Halifax.)

Old Man in Truck (smiles and I realize there is not one tooth in his mouth) “Bert? He lives down the road.  Who are you looking for?” (I would later learn that this gentleman was “Big Smokey.”)

Me – “I’m looking for Billy Tucker.”

Big Smokey – “Ahhhhh, you’re looking for Hawkeye!” (Insert big toothless grin here.)

Hawkeye? Who the hell is Hawkeye?  I started to get a bit nervous, and wondered if Hawkeye was some strange code for “fresh meat approaching.”

Big Smokey jumped on the CB radio, and said something in his deep southern voice which left me wondering if I was in a foreign country. I kid you not, I couldn’t understand a word he said. Then he stuck his hand out the window and motioned. “You need to drive that way and make a left through the weeds. Hawkeye is hunting back in there.”

I thanked him and kept going.  What I didn’t know at the time is he was BACK on the radio to all of Bill’s friends to Bill and all of his friends ribbing “Hawkeye” about this woman who was looking for him. This group of guys is brutal when it comes to a good ribbing.

I spotted Bill’s old maroon Chevy Suburban about 50 feet off the road, and I did in fact have to drive through brush and weeds to get through, which must have been quite the sight, as I was driving my Sebring convertible, which isn’t that far off the ground.  I wasn’t sure if I’d ever get it back out.  Someone was standing next to the truck with his back to me, and I, of course, assumed it was Bill. I jumped out of the car, high heels and all, and yelled “Hey you!”  But it was Otis who turned around, not Bill. He had a great big smile and he hugged me so tight it was hard to breath.  He was dressed in camouflage overalls and he was wearing a hunting cap.  I will never forget that first time seeing him.  Everything about him was larger than life, and at the same time the most comforting and loveable man I ever met.  There was no hesitation about Otis.  We liked each other immediately.  Bill came trouncing back from chasing a deer, only to find his dad and I chattering away like two squirrels.  From then on, it was pretty much love between Otis and me.  Always teasing each other, always making time for a hug and a kiss.  I lost my dad four years prior to meeting Otis, and while no one could fill that void in my life, Otis comes close, very very close.

Which bring me to the point of this whole diatribe.  I am losing my Otis this week. Renal failure brought on by liver cancer is taking him from our lives – Bill’s, mine and my daughter’s.  I cannot think about all of this without crying, and thinking that the world is going to seem a whole lot less wonderful without him, much in the same way the world became less wonderful when I lost my own father.  I’m watching my husband, my Bill, lose his hero, his best friend, the man that Bill has worshipped  his whole life.  But there is something I see that Bill doesn’t see.  He is his father, cut from the same rough cloth, a carbon copy.  I know what Bill will be like in 30 years.  And how lucky am I to have found the one man on this earth after Lynwood Otis Tucker’s heart.  

So yes, the air is a bit bittersweet this week when I breathe in. I am reminded that it’s always best to stop and sniff the roses, and to always eat dessert first, tomorrow is promised to none of us. But I also know that I was blessed beyond words the day my path crossed with my father in law, and I owe him a debt of immeasurable gratitude for being Bill’s dad.  I do believe Otis Tucker may have given me one of my greatest gifts in my life…my soulmate.

And for that, Otis, you will forever be in my heart. Godspeed, and all my love to you.

Religion really has no place at this particuar table, so please stop serving it like it is the main course…

Well, here it goes.  I’m sure my “friends” number will plummet like a rock today.  That’s ok though. I’m hoping this will be “cleansing” experience for me.  I really need it.  So much this week has really made me sad and pissed me off in ways I did not think was possible. I need to get it off my chest, and I am sure it will anger more than a few. So, by all means, if you decide to unfriend me, please leave me a note that you are doing so and as to why, so I can block your ass, and you can forego stalking my facebook page.

Two words…gay marriage (friends list just dropped by a dozen or so.)

Ok, so let's review...those who stand on the evangelical right have made it abundantly clear that marriage between two individuals of the same sex is “wrong”, “perverted” and “against God’s will.”  They have a right to their opinion, and not once have I ever tried to change anyone’s mind who felt that way.  I don’t really care.  If you choose to live in your own little bubble then that is certainly your choice.  I live in a bubble of sorts as well, but generally speaking mine is a world of butterflies and unicorns, cute baby animals, and BASIC HUMAN RIGHTS FOR EVERYONE, regardless of what religion you are, what race you are, if you’re a man or a woman or a hermaphrodite, or what your sexual orientation is.  I want to live in a world where everyone is entitled to the same rights as their neighbour.  I am pretty sure that God isn’t particular about those things either.  Go ahead, cite some Bible passage and tell me I’m wrong.  I’m not a fan of that Book, mostly because it was written from MAN’S viewpoint.  I don’t buy into the whole “handed down from God thing.”  I’m pretty sure God has better things to do with his time.  Besides, the real perversion is how individuals and religions twist the words of the Bible to make it say whatever THEY want it to say.  It is the ultimate Book of Contradictions, handed down to man by other men who thought they were the foremost expert on all things “God.”

I've heard it said many times that gay marriage “blurs the lines between church and state.”  Honestly, there is nothing “blurry” about marriage and where it falls legally.  Marriage is a CIVIL union.  You don’t have to be married IN a church to be legally married.  So the religious right should drop that argument immediately.  If you don’t believe in gay marriage, then that is your right.  Don’t marry a gay person.  Don’t belong to a church that allows for gay marriage (there are many that do believe in it, by the way.) It’s all up to you.  But the bottom line is pretty clear to me.  If two people are married in a civil ceremony by a government official, then they are pretty much…wait for it…MARRIED.  That should afford them, and their children, and their pets, the same rights as any other married couple.  It’s really not a religious matter AT ALL.  So to the evangelical right I say, keep your religion out of my personal life, my marriage, my friend’s marriages, and everything else that does not personally pertain to you.

How does two gay people marrying effect others who don’t believe in gay marriage?  Does it make them uncomfortable?  Are they unable to answer their children’s questions?  Are they afraid it is contagious?  Really, explain to me, Mr. Holier Than Thou, HOW it relates to YOUR life, YOUR value system, YOUR beliefs. The answer is it doesn’t.  You don’t believe in the sanctity of marriage between two women or two men?  Fine. But do not shove your ideological beliefs down the throats of the rest of us.  We really don’t care what you think. Why don’t you go to church, or bible study, or something…whatever you do when you’re not preaching to the rest of us about why we’re going to hell and you’re going to heaven.  By the way, if I actually believed in heaven, I’m pretty sure I don’t want to spend eternity there, mostly because none of my friends will be there.  We’ll be off playing with unicorns and chasing butterflies.  But I don't believe in heaven and hell.  In fact, I believe in reincarnation.  Shove that up your butt and spin on it for a while.

For the record, I am a Republican…a Republican who is sick and tired of the extreme right dictating the Republican agenda and making us all look like complete idiots.  I don’t subscribe to much of what is being bandied around in the press as the "Republican agenda", and it makes me really really angry that Republicans are all falling under the same ridiculous label of  “religious right.” I'm not one of those people. I don’t judge when choosing my friends.  My friends are a brilliant beautiful cross-section of people from all types of religious, ideological and political backgrounds.  They are of different sexual orientations, different colors, and hail from a long list of different countries.  The one common thread that runs through my list of friends is their ability to accept others at face value without judgment.  I am proud to have these people in my life that I call friends, and they are just as much family to me as my own blood relatives. To them, I want to say thank you for giving me faith that there are kind, compassionate and wonderful people in the world.

To those who carry the cross of religion but still allow of the possibility of gay marriage, please don’t be offended by my rant, as clearly it is not directed towards you.  I salute you.  It is by far braver to go against the grain than follow the masses. My beef is with those who insist that “their way” is the ONLY way, God’s way.  

In my opinion?  God is probably very disappointed in “their way.”  God doesn’t create bigots.  Bigots create bigots.

Not goodbye...never goodbye...

Today is sad beyond words. 

Our very geriatric grumpy resident senior citizen/canine, Cherokee, nearly 17 years old, has lost the “quality of life battle” that we have been monitoring very closely for the past year or so.  We could see it coming…in her eyes, in her disposition, in the sound of her breathing.  But somehow, after several bad days, she’d suddenly perk up and start chasing squirrels in the back yard, so we shrugged it off, choosing not to think about the inevitable.

But as of late, the bad days have outweighed the good, and the past two weeks have been particularly gutwrenching for our family.  She lost weight, a lot of weight. She wasn’t eating and she was losing control of her bladder.  This morning, she couldn’t even get up.  Bill carried her outside at lunch and she couldn’t even stand on her own.  It’s always in that moment you “just know.”  She was suffering, the sparkle was gone from her eyes.  She was still trying to please us, but she was unable to do what she thought she should do.  We made the decision and Bill made the call.  We cried.  I’m still crying.

What is it about the animals in our lives that allows them to wrap themselves so tightly around our hearts that when they leave us we feel as though they took our heart with them.  Indeed, they do take a small piece of our heart, for it belongs to them, and them alone.  I have lost many pets in my life over the years, and none of them have been particularly easy.  This one is especially hard.  My mouthy mutt, lovingly nicknamed “Flappy” by me because she would “flap her yap” at you whenever she thought you weren’t listening, or she wasn’t getting her way.  I will miss her spirit, her love of our family and home, the way she always “wiped her face” on the carpet after she ate.  Those things will live in our house forever.

Whenever someone in my large group of friends who are animal lovers loses one of their own, I always send them this…I’ll read it to myself tonight before I go to bed, and remember how blessed I was to have known an extraordinary dog, an extraordinary family member.  I love you, Cherokee.

The Rainbow Bridge

inspired by a Norse legend

By the edge of a woods, at the foot of a hill,

Is a lush, green meadow where time stands still.

Where the friends of man and woman do run,

When their time on earth is over and done.

For here, between this world and the next,

Is a place where each beloved creature finds rest.

On this golden land, they wait and they play,

Till the Rainbow Bridge they cross over one day.

No more do they suffer, in pain or in sadness,

For here they are whole, their lives filled with gladness.

Their limbs are restored, their health renewed,

Their bodies have healed, with strength imbued.

They romp through the grass, without even a care,

Until one day they start, and sniff at the air.

All ears prick forward, eyes dart front and back,

Then all of a sudden, one breaks from the pack.

For just at that instant, their eyes have met;

Together again, both person and pet.

So they run to each other, these friends from long past,

The time of their parting is over at last.

The sadness they felt while they were apart,

Has turned into joy once more in each heart.

They embrace with a love that will last forever,

And then, side-by-side, they cross over… together.

Do these jeans make my ass look big?

So you know me…a fashionista, trendsetter, someone who likes to be elegant but with an edge.  I figure that I have the rest of my life to wear sensible shoes and pants that allow for “movement.”  But not yet, not now.  Currently I am in a “celebrate my age” frame of mind.  And that was exactly the thought I had on my brain as I meandered through a certain store (which shall remain nameless – I do not want to disclose all my discount shopping secrets.)  I needed to get out and stretch my legs, as well as my brain on my lunch break. What better way to do so than to rummage through clearance racks in search of the next great wardrobe find.

I was actually searching for a new shirt of two – something in another color besides black – to add to my spring collection.  There were a couple that caught my eye, but nothing that had the “wow” factor I was hoping for.  Still, I was enjoying the experience and continued onto the “jeans” aisle.

Now, let me start off by saying I have been perusing Vogue and InStyle magazine for months now, and I have really been digging the whole “colored jeans” trend.  But it does sort of scare me.  It would definitely require me to step out of my comfort zone, something I am not always good at doing.  This is probably why most of my closet is varying shades of black.  Black is safe, black is elegant. Black makes me look ten pounds thinner instantly, and I LOVE that about black. But there are days when I just wish for something bright and colourful, something that says “gutsy” and “fearless.” And while I do have a rather large collection of Hawaiian print sundresses, they are really more for “hanging out” not “letting it all hang out.” Besides, sundresses are seasonal.  They don’t count.

I was sifting through my designated size area for jeans (because I can never have enough jeans) and there they were, hanging there just waiting for me – BRIGHT RED SKINNY JEANS.  Not just any red, but truly a red that would make your eyes burn if you stared at them too long. And to add to my luck, they were Michael Kors, one of my very favorite designers, my go-to guy who always makes clothes that flatter me, even on my fattest of fat days.  I looked around suspiciously. Surely someone else would be eyeing these beauties for their own closet. Quickly I dashed to my favorite spot, the dressing room. This was going to be awesome.

I wiggled out of my very boring blue jeans and began wiggling my way into the red skinny dream jeans…wiggling…wiggling…wow, they are even skinnier than most skinny jeans. I finished pulling them up, buttoned and zipped them, and stood back to look in the mirror.  MOTHER OF GOD it was maybe the scariest thing I had ever seen. I looked like some sort of weird circus midget (not that I have anything against midgets.)  The only things that were missing were some Ronald McDonald shoes and one of the rainbow/afro clown wigs.  I had no idea that any color could make anyone look like…well…I’m not even sure how to describe it.  For those who know me, it is no secret that at 5’2”, I am hardly blessed with ANY kind of stature.  But these jeans made me look half my regular height.  I turned around and tried to get a view of the back.  My ass literally looked so big it would require its own zipcode if I ever left the dressing room.  Clearly, these jeans were meant for someone about 5’10” and 110 lbs, and blonde. (The color did nothing for my red locks either.) I was a washed out, apple shaped hot mess.  I quickly removed them and decided it was NOT me, it was the jeans, and that is why they were on a clearance rack.  Shame on you, Michael Kors.  I hurried out to the rack and found a pair of dark wash flare leg jeans to try on…if for no other reason than to assure myself that indeed I had not put on 50 pounds since yesterday.  And I was immediately soothed by what I saw in the mirror.  It WAS the red jeans…damn you Michael Kors…damn you to fashion hell.

So to this trend I say “SCREW colored jeans! Screw the whole colorblock trend!”  If I want to try to wear something in the colorblock genre, I shall wear varying shades of black.  That is as good as it will get.  Truth be told, I’m still waiting for the whole 80s Eurotrash look to come back into vogue.  God knows I’ll be stylin’ then!