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fashion
Posts

  • My Beauty Routine

    Wait… did you guys hear? Cindy Crawford actually got older over the past 20 years.  HOW DARE SHE, THAT WENCH! Her un-retouched non-photoshopped pictures have surfaced, and no one knows what to think or do about Cindy actually allowing age to happen.  Lord save us from this confusion – can Cindy still be attractive and allow the laws of nature?!!

    What makes someone beautiful? Is it the symmetry of their face? Contours and angles aligning in flawless sacred geometry that would make Fibonacci weep from the mathematical precision? Or is it a really good beauty routine where you clip, inject, buffer, vacuum, shine, wax, sheen, and preen your various lady parts?

    As a woman, I’m supposed to be up on being attractive rituals, because you know… looking good is my value to society and all. I only have a few years left of meaning in my life before I wither away into total insignificance by allowing myself to admit mortality. GROSS! YUCK! NEVER!

    Here’s my problem: my ceremonial, getting myself looking the best I can sacraments are pretty subpar -almost to the point of pathetic. My mom is always trying to inspire me to participate in self-care observances and will say things like, “Toni, don’t squander your looks. Here is a Clarisonic for you to exfoliate with.” She’ll then hand me an electric broom for my face. I am sure this apparatus is great and I would see positive results if I pressed its bristles against my skin to sweep away pesky skill cells, but I can barely motivate myself to brush my teeth let alone my cheeks.

    Yet I have to say, my mom does look amazing. To be honest, she is a great example of what is possible if you were to say… DRINK THE BLOOD OF VIRGINS TO KEEP YOUNG?!! (Seriously, my mom looks crazy good and is obviously a murderous vampire who will probably someday eat my child). To keep up with appearances, my mom pretends her girlish glow is because of a commitment to her procedures, hence gentle suggestions like “don’t use dish soap as shampoo.” (Ummm pretty sure they all have suds Mom so what-ev-er).

    When I think about all the “chick” things I am supposed to do to be hot, I want to impale myself with ironic bang-cutting scissors. Half of the things that are expected of me are actual torture. I cannot do manicures. The sound of someone filing my nails is like CIA style cruelty. I mean, the government would probably make me get a “mani-pedi” naked while shoving assorted tahini flavored products up my ass, but the nail filing is what would push me over the edge. Even the thought of that sound makes my brain itch.

    Then I’m supposed to rip hair out my body at an alarming speed with steaming hot bee diarrhea? Shaving my legs once a season isn’t enough? I can’t let my armpit hair fluctuate between blowing in the wind and an army buzz cut? And stop wondering what is going on with my vagina, you pervert!

    Women who have the money then cut off body parts, suck some out, and then stuff the others with various toxic materials. The plastic surgery options one can get to improve imperfections range from a tucking your twatt into the shape of an om, to puffing up your mouth with collagen. Call me old fashioned, but maybe all four of your lips would be just fine if you left them alone.

    I also find the uniform of sexiness exceedingly uncomfortable. First, it is suggested I separate my butt cheeks with a lacy fabric. Maybe it is just me, but flossing my ass is even more irritating than my teeth (and my gums bleed every time I do that). Then I am supposed to press, lift, and smash my tits into an underwire bra. No no no, that cozy sports bra won’t do, because then I have a “uni-boob” which is even worse then a uni-brow. I circumvent this whole where-do-I-place-my-funbags situation by wearing a nursing bra. It may be conventionally unattractive, but at least it’s easy access.

    Don’t even get me started on skinny jeans and buttons. It’s like a corset for my abdomen to make sure I don’t eat anything on the rare occasion I need to sit down. Don’t worry about me everyone. I will just wear these tight pants, stand, and maybe have a sip of water. If you throw some heels into the mix then forget it – I am not going anywhere. I will literally be where you last left me because I cannot walk. Come to think of it, in the right outfit I am the perfect woman. I will keep my silly thoughts and opinions all to myself because I wont be able to talk simply because of the level of concentration it requires for me to cope with excessive hunger, stay balanced on stilts, and make sure my mascara doesn’t run from tears of pain.

    So I decided to record my beauty routine for one week, to see where I am at. In all honestly – is there any hope for me?

    Saturday: Take shower because seeing friends that evening. Wash face with random bar of soap stuck to the floor from my child molding it into a snowman. There is no hair conditioner; sooo whoops I have to buy that. Put Vitamin E oil on my forehead because I keep making faces and expressing emotion – further deepening wrinkles. Note to self, no more getting surprised. Also, smile less. Put on leggings, t-shirt, no bra, and sweatshirt… now I am ready to be around people.

    Sunday: Wake up wearing leggings, t-shirt, no bra and sweatshirt. I am already dressed because I slept in yesterday’s clothes. Morning routine accomplished. That night I brush teeth, and floss back right molar because a piece of kale is stuck there. Sleep in clothes.

    Monday: It’s a workday, so I change t-shirt. Gotta keep it classy. Keep leggings and sweatshirt going, but its cold so put pair of loose leggings over the other leggings. Morning completed. That night I forget to brush teeth.

    Tuesday: Swap leggings for another pair of leggings. The rest can stay. That night I brush my teeth because I am an adult and it’s been 24 hours.

    Wed: Wake up dressed and ready to go! Add nursing bra because it’s that kinda day. Night: brush teeth.

    Thursday: Change clothes to a NEW pair of leggings, a NEW T-shirt, but the same bra and sweatshirt. Put on hat because it’s cold – and my hair is dirty. Night: brush teeth.

    Friday: Wake up dressed. Nice. Night: Realize it has been 6 days since water has touched any part of my body besides my hands. Debate washing face. Write a note to myself to remind myself to wash my face more. Have a friend over, and tell her about my not washing my face. I wonder out loud if this strategy will hurt my goal to eliminate wrinkles, or aid it. Maybe it is all the face products that give you wrinkles in the first place? My friend informs me that none of her research has ever suggested to not wash face. After she leaves I spend too much time on Facebook looking at videos about aliens. Forget to wash face and brush teeth.

    Saturday: Take shower and wash face with same soap – but now it’s shaped like a deformed penis. Fuck… still no conditioner.

    (Check out my mom… tell me she is not killing it at 63! PS, that is my dad with her.)

    beauty-regime-blog-(i)

    February 16, 2015 • Health, Musings, Women's Business • Views: 1471

  • Peer Pressure Boston Adventure

    I used to be strong. I had never been susceptible to peer pressure. I was committed to my convictions, and believed in the validity of my perspective. And then something happened. Something that confused me, wore me down, and pushed every button of my being like I was a Nintendo 64. That something I am referring to was the meshing of my DNA to create another human.

    Since squirting out The Munch, I doubt myself more. Not because I don’t think I know what I am doing, but because there is someone talking in my ear every second of my life, and I have no peaceful moments to think. I am easily flustered because from the second The Munch opens her eyes, she is spouting the utterings of her consciousness like silence is something that must be destroyed by the sound of her high-pitched voice. When she is not talking, The Munch is doing something that I for sure don’t want her to be doing – but because she is being quiet I take my sweet time investigating the shit show she is creating in the other room.

    The other morning I was rushing to get ready to take Munch to the doctor’s in Boston to get her lazy eye checked. Unlike my hippy doctor where we make appointments days in advance, the “White Man’s Western Medicine Doctor” means I made this appointment 6-months ago… and of course I was running late. Why you may ask… because a certain someone had to change her clothes 7 times that morning. (I have a lot of sweatpants to choose from).

    While I was getting everything ready, and packing snacks for the car, The Munch was in the bathroom “playing.” When I finally went in to grab her, I discovered that she was actually painting the bathtub, and her face, with red glitter.

    Toni: Whoa dude… that is an insane amount of glitter.
    Munch: I was just making the bathtub pretty and my eyes beautiful for the eye doctor.
    Toni: Okay cool… but that is really quite a lot. Let me wipe some off so your doctor doesn’t think I am breeding you to become a stripper in Tampa.
    Munch: Where is Tampa?
    Toni: Uhhhhhh Munch… why isn’t the glitter coming off?
    Munch: Oh. Because I glued it on.
    Toni: What?
    Munch: Yeah… I just used this glue right here…
    Toni: Wow… you sure as shit did.

    I then shoved my harlot daughter into the car and started frantically driving to Boston. Even if we didn’t stop once, we would maybe have 3 minutes to spare. When we were about 20 minutes away, I called my mom and asked if she would figure out the exact building we had to go to in Mass General…. She called back to say my appointment was at 9:45 not 11:15.

    Toni: That is a fucking lie!! WHAT THE DICK!!!!!!!!!! They told me 11:15!!!!!!!!!! I even called the other day and they never corrected me? WHAT THE FUCK!!
    My Mom: I don’t know what do say. You can still spend the day in Boston and enjoy yourself while I hang with Munch?
    Toni: AHHHHHHHHH I CAN’T ENJOY MYSELF! It is going to take 7-months to make another appointment. FUCK FUCK FUCK!
    Munch: Mamma, what is wrong?
    Toni: We missed your appointment…
    Munch: That is okay. We can just go another day.
    Toni: Munch you don’t get it… that means I just drove 2-hours for nothing when I could of spent the day hating myself in front of the computer!

    When we got to Boston, my mom suggested I go to the hospital and beg them to see me. My whole walk there I prepared my speech. My approach had to be flawless or else they would turn me away from the hospital, and I would have gotten Ebola for nothing. Luckily I convinced the receptionist to see us because I am just that convincing. The doctor did a bunch of tests and told me exactly what I knew she was going to tell me. All the hippy stuff I did is great and all, and it is cool that she wore the eye patch, but she still suggests surgery. Come to think of it, she probably knew she was going to suggest this from day one, and the eye patch was just a formality. Something tells me eye surgery is kind of like the c-section for ophthalmology. Not always necessary, but a well-rehearsed process.

    After we left, my mom offered to take Munch for ice cream so I could walk around and think about what to do. I said that was a good idea, but I really didn’t want to think about this at all so I decided to walk down Newbury Street and look for some birthday presents for the Scorpios in my life. Okay, now here is where everything went to shit for me. I was already in a fragile state from the chaos of the day, and I have not gone “shopping” in maybe 5 years. I live it the sticks, and the only place I go to buy stuff is the farm stand to get some squash cookies sweetened with intentions. Being in a store with sales people overwhelms the shit out of me. I start to panic just thinking about them asking if they can help me, and the potential disappointment they will feel if I say “no thank you” – or even worse… leave the store without buying anything! The responsibility for their wellbeing is just too much to bear!

    I walked into a store that seemed big enough were I could just peruse on my own, but this girl could smell my vulnerability. She came up, and stuck to me like a barnacle. She wouldn’t stop talking. It was almost worse than Munch because she actually expected me to talk back. At least Munch has the decency to talk AT me. My social anxiety disorder started kicking in, and I desperately wanted her to go away – but she kept smiling at me!! It is not that she was mean or anything. In fact she was super cute and friendly. Yet she wouldn’t stop showing me stuff in the store that she liked. I started to get so flustered I didn’t even know what was cool anymore because this 19-year old chick was chirping in my ear about music school and growing up in San Francisco.

    For some reason, my reaction was to lie about every question she asked me. I don’t know why I did this, but according to this girl I live in Boston, work in graphic design, and have a phobia of balloons. I also have a guinea pig named Coco who I knit sweaters for, and I only wear wool socks. Things got so out of hand. I didn’t want to buy anything, but I couldn’t leave unless I did. I felt too guilty because we had been talking all this time, even though I didn’t want to be talking to her in first place. She showed me some hats, and even tried them on for me. I picked two thinking it would be the cheapest option, and left paying $145!!! FOR TWO FUCKING HATS!! I can’t believe I got peer pressured by a child to buy an $80 leopard print hat!?

    By this point I was about ready to have an aneurism. I decided grab some dinner for my mom and Munch, and go home. Yet the restaurant I ordered from had a wait of 20 minutes to get our food. Wait… did I mention that my phone was dead by this point?? Well it was!! I couldn’t just sit somewhere no phone to stare at and entertain me. THAT WOULD BE FUCKING INSANE!!

    I went back to the street, but everywhere I looked there were shops! I went into one jewelry store hoping I wouldn’t be noticed. Everything was insanely expensive and I was spotted within seconds. “How can I help you?” The expectations of the sales clerks were too much! I felt like I was disappointing them just by being there. It was as if I was the tap dancing son of a football coach in the South. I had to run out of there and hyperventilate against a wall. Why did they keep saying “hi” to me!! What do you want from me?!! Can’t you just leave me alone to look at stuff I will never buy?

    I still had 18 minutes to kill, so I decided to stand outside of restaurants and read their menus. This may have been slightly strange for the diners in the windows, but at least I didn’t have to converse with them, or pay for their rigatoni.

    (Here is sparkle eyes Munch… and the top picture is me and that stupid fucking hat)

    boston-blog-(i) boston-blog-(i2)

  • I Know Why Skinny Is Beautiful

    The most popular new fashion line for teenage girls is a brand called Brandy Mellville, where the clothes only come in sizes 0-2. What? That is like doll clothes?! Needless to say, wearing these ultra skinny jeans to show off your thigh chasm, has a certain cache. To be cool in today’s high schools you not only need to shop in the right places, but also have the right body to fit into the right clothes – that body being a size fucking ZERO. So basically, if you are not Casper the Ghost, you might as well lock your self in your closet and starve until you are.

    UMMMMMM I AM SO GLAD I GREW UP IN THE 90’s!! You know what was cool when I was in high school? I will tell you – clothes that were wayyyyy too big and hid our bodies. It started with the “grunge” chapter where we wore corduroy pants, plaids tied around our waists, and T-shirts with band names on them. Then it was the “Hip Hop” look that consisted of baggy jeans, hoodies, and Adidas kicks. After that was the “rave” phase where the pants were so ridiculously huge that your entire body could fit in one leg. Maybe you would pair those with a “baby doll” T-shirt. That was as sexy as we got… a T-shirt that was sort of tight and didn’t hang down to our knees. Even though my mom HATED my clothes and would beg me to wear something that was actually my size, I am sure she would have preferred that to my only eating cucumber seeds in order to fit into Brandy Mellville.

    In a way this stupid store is a blessing. The messaging is so in your face it is almost comical. It is the physical manifestation of what is happening in society, and the generation we are breeding to fit into it. The definition of stylish for today’s teens is revealing, tight, and skinny. Yet we can’t blame these girls for revering a body type that is so thin you don’t have to open doors to walk through them. They are a product of today’s culture where the standard of beauty is digital. We don’t even look at models any more, but photo-shopped shadows that were once women.

    BUT GUESS FUCKING WHAT WORLD! I think I know what is happening with the incredible shrinking women of today’s world. It has to do with feminism, power, and influence.

    Much like the tides of the ocean and our monthly moon flow, feminism came in waves. The 1st wave was conceived so women could get the right to vote, and own property. In the sixties and seventies, the 2nd wave born to organize the women’s liberation movement which primarily focused on social equality. We are currently experiencing the post partum 3rd wave of feminism (or the 4th moderately heavy flow in some circles), which is being met by much emotional angst and psychic clotting. Ladies are relentlessly demanding equality and the reimagining of gender roles, but many are still resisting this plight, as they believe it is cramping their style.

    Let me tell you a secret. Do you know what coincided with these waves of feminism?? Women in advertising getting skinnier!!!! Who was the top model during the height of the women’s liberation movement? TWIGGY! A girl who was so thin, her limbs were like the twigs of trees. Not the branches mind you… but the teeny tiny twig parts. During this present-day 3rd wave of feminism advertising is using women so slender that actual humans can’t live up to the ideal – so we just draw stick figures with the computer, and that is considered the standard. There is a direct correlation with women gaining power within society, and the media promoting a body type that is physically weak. The more women become stronger mentally within the systems that control the world, the more we want them to look like they are so feeble that their toothpick extremities couldn’t pick up a toothpick.

    Now I know that everyone has a different body type. Some women are naturally thin. I am one of those women. I am 5’10” – so I am stretched out more. I have the “body type” of a model. In fact, I was approached over 4 different times in my teenage and early adult years to be one. When I was 16, I tried to take it seriously but here was the main problem. I also played sports, so was told my arms were too muscly. My agent asked me to stop doing so many things that involved my arms moving, so I could maintain a more willowy frame. With muscles I could be a “fitness” model (where there was less work and you got paid less) but not a “fashion” model (where the real money was).

    In order for my naturally slim body to marketable, I was asked to be more sedentary and eat less. Even though I was svelte, I was also told I could be a little more so if I really wanted to work. Nothing major – just lose 10 to 15 pounds. PS… I weighed 128. If I could be a little less strong, and a little less attached to consuming meals, I could make way more money. But I was 16! Dieting was hard because I was attached to feeling full, which I guess is so pathetically human of me. I tried to shed the excess pounds, but I didn’t like how frail I felt. I tried to brainstorm what could keep me obscenely skinny but still give me energy and finally came up with the perfect solution – but my mom didn’t let me do cocaine. WHAT A SQAURE!

    My point is, if my genetically slight frame wasn’t good enough to be a commodity, the only way to make it so was to deprive it. It is not natural to be obscenely skinny, you have to make a  conscious effort to achieve that goal.  The intensity of how stressed you are about consumption may vary from person to person, but models are trying to stay that thin.  It isn’t just about eating healthy,or avoiding desserts – the mentality is to keep up with the expectations society has placed on you.  I think it is pretty obvious that the pressure to stay thin is more prevalent then those with the ultimate ectomorph physique.  It is not like these girls are brimming with vitality.  Even when they are jumping through the air, with their hair blowing in the wind, it looks like someone through chicken bones out a window.  The greater the will power to starve, the less threatening you are to society. BECAUSE YOU ARE DISTRACTED, TIRED AND HUNGRY… rather than, focused, healthy, and determined.

    Yet here is the thing about modern food. It is filled with chemicals, partially hydrogenated oils, salt, sugar, and preservatives. The reason why Americans are so fat is not because they are lazy, it is because they are eating food that the body cannot process correctly and provides little nourishment. People who eat processed foods will lack the energy to exercise because their body is essentially starving for nutrients even as it grows in girth.

    So here lies this perfect trifecta of oppression. The more women empower themselves socially, the more they are expected to vanish physically. In order to achieve this preposterous paradigm, women have to obsess about counting calories of mass-produced poison pretending to be food. It is really hard to have the perfect body when you are dealing with contamination in the food sources. If we all had access to regular organic whole foods like they did in the turn of the century, and led more naturally active lives, we wouldn’t be struggling with weight gain in the same capacity. Yet instead we live deskbound existences attached to technology while scarfing down manufactured munchies as we ironically stare at artificial images of flawless physiques.

    brandy-melville-blog

    October 22, 2014 • Current Events, Musings, Women's Business • Views: 19890

  • Doing Stuff For Yourself Sucks

    One of the many annoying things about having a young child is how much you have to do for them. I don’t mean the keeping them alive part, but dealing with all the stuff that they can’t do because they are uncoordinated… or won’t do because they are jerks… and maybe you don’t want them to do because they suck at it. You have to wipe their butts, brush their teeth, get them juice from the fridge, help them get dressed, make sure they wash their hands with soap, assist with every cleaning process. This list goes on and on like that winding road the Beatles sang about semi off key. I am not only driving just Miss Daisy, but also serving her day and night like Alfred does Batman – yet without the glamour of a tuxedo.

    Now that The Munch is four, I feel like we have reached an age where she should do a lot of shit on her own. If children in the Amazonian rainforest can handle a machete, my kid can figure out how to put on underwear so it’s not backwards – a fudgie should be pretty obvious by this point.

    The quest for Munch’s autonomy is not just predicated on ability alone however, but also motivation. I want her to want to do these things, and feel empowered by her growing faculties. I don’t want to have to ask or fight about this crap. She should be inspired to grab life by the balls, and get her own fucking water.

    Lucky for me, recently The Munch gave me the perfect tool for manipulation to get this going.

    Munch: Mom, I really want to get earrings.
    Toni: Why do you want to get earrings?
    Munch: Because your mom told me that you had them when you were a little girl, and now I feel jealous.
    Toni: Well, I am not sure you are ready for earrings.
    Munch: BUT WHY MOM!!? I REALLY WANT EARRINGS! IT IS NOT FAIR!
    Toni: Munch you are so particular about your clothes, I cannot handle negotiating another accessory. If you can’t find the right headband you fly into a fit of rage. I don’t want to deal with taking care of your earrings.
    Munch: But I will take care of them!
    Toni: Okay here is the deal. If you can show me for one month that you can be responsible for your own body. You can get earrings before school starts.
    Munch: Okay!!!!!!!!!
    Toni: But Munch… that means you have to get yourself dressed, put your clothes away, clean up your room, and make your bed. Anything you are physically capable of executing, you have to do. You have to be responsible for your own body, and show me you can take care of it, your space, and your things.
    Munch: DEAL!

    You want to know what ?! For a week this totally worked!! The Munch did everything on her own, and if she tried to complain I would just say “it looks like you are still too young for earrings then,” and she would do it immediately. Life was amazing, and I felt like a Machiavellian genius.

    But on the 8th day I went in her room and her bed wasn’t made.

    Toni: Munch? What is going on you haven’t made your bed?
    Munch: Yeah… maybe I will do it this afternoon.
    Toni: No way. That is not our deal. We aren’t going to fight about these things. If you want earrings you have to do this stuff on your own without Mamma asking you too.
    Munch: But MOM… doing everything myself and being responsible for my body is too much work!!! Maybe I will just get earrings when I am six.

    (Here we are…. chilling on the unmade bed)

    earrings-blog-(i)

  • The Internal Battle Of Borrowing

    If you have a vagina, you have probably at one point in your life experienced the joy and drama of borrowing clothes from your friends. The amazing part of the lending process is when you are on the receiving end. The more challenging portion of the exchange is when you are on the giving end, because the second your friend puts on your clothes you immediately want them back.

    It is such a classic case of you don’t know what you got until it’s gone. Just the fact that someone is interested in something on the bottom of your closet floor makes it more appealing. Yet if you have already borrowed stuff from your friend, you can’t be a dick and say “Ummm actually no you can’t have that – because now I want it just because you wanted it so… sorry.” You have to suck it up and let them wear what you are now totally seduced by.

    Despite the internal chaos of the borrowing practice, it is part of the intimacy of female relationships. Now that The Munch is 4 and has a best friend, she has been initiated into this ritual. Munch and her best friend both really like princess dresses and princess gear. Hazel has very kindly let Munch borrow quite a few princess dresses, so in exchange Munch let Hazel borrow her coveted Cinderella glass slipper high heel shoes.

    Yet once Munch got home, the reality of not having her favorite shoes dawned on her. Suddenly the sorrow of loss overtook her tiny body, and she began to weep the tears of a broken doll. As much as I felt the anguish of her loss, she also had to learn that it is all part of the borrowing ceremony.

    Here we are talking about the tragedy of wanting to borrow stuff, but regretting lending the things you love.

    borrowing-blog-1 borrowing-blog-2 borrowing-blog-3borrowing-blog-4

  • The Hell Of High Heel Shoes

    I do not wear high heel shoes. I am already borderline freakishly tall at 5’9” – so I have never needed an extra boost to loom over people to an even more extreme degree. Even barefoot I am taller than most, so my experience with high heels is very limited. When I do try to wear them, I walk like a NBA player in drag. It is not a good look for me.

    But I get why girls like them. They make your legs look sexy, they are sassy, and they perch up your ass like a cat in heat – but the are as uncomfortable as balls in fishnets. I just don’t think they need to be the uniform of all things feminine, and wish they were more of an accent rather than a required statement of fashion. My main issue with heels is that you are so limited in your movement when you wear them. I know Beyonce can rock out her booty banging choreography in them, but you can’t climb a mountain in Manolos.

    I guess I could just be a hater because of my inexperience. When I lived in NYC my main mode of transportation was a skateboard, so I was always sweating and wearing high-tops Adidas – not the traditional chick attire. That didn’t mean I wasn’t going to fancy nightclubs and getting my groove on – I was just like a mythical creature in flat shoes surrounded by gazelles in stilettos. All these girls would be looking hot in their fuck me pumps, but I would be in sneakers, twerking without my feet hurting.

    So as the universe would have it, of course my daughter is obsessed with high heels – BECAUSE WHY THE FUCK WOULDN’T SHE BE!!!?? The Munch has these plastic Cinderella “glass” slippers that she insists on wearing every day, for every occasion. These shoes are the bane of my existence. Every normal kid activity such as running, skipping, jumping off rocks, all are done with caution now because of these goddamn mother-fucking shoes!!!!

    It makes me so depressed because more than anything I want my daughter to be a bad ass and do physical shit. So when she is restricting her abilities because of this binding foot torture, it breaks my heart. Yet The Munch is passionately committed to her heels, as well as proving me wrong that they constrain her.

    Munch: Mamma… I can’t climb up the slide!
    Toni: That is because of those forsaken shoes Munch! I keep telling you those aren’t outside shoes! They are dress up shoes!
    Munch: But I am playing dressing up and I am playing outside!
    Toni: Yeah, but those shoes are just for dressing up inside. They suck as outdoor shoes. That is why I keep buying you other shoes to wear. So you can do all the stuff you want to do.
    Munch: I can still do the stuff I want to do!!
    Toni: Munch, no you can’t if you can’t climb up this slide. Look, take your shoes off.
    Munch: I don’t want to.
    Toni: Please just trust me. Take them off for only a minute.
    Munch: Okay, I will listen to you.
    Toni: Now climb up the slide with your bare feet…. See isn’t that so much easier?
    Munch: Yes, but I can still do it with my high heels. I am going to put them back on.
    Toni: I don’t get it! You just had such an easier time climbing with your bare feet, why would you put them back on?
    Munch: Because I like them!

    There I sat at the top of the slide, watching Munch struggle to climb up with her shitty plastic shoes on. They have no traction on the bottom, so she kept slipping, and slamming her knees. Yet she wouldn’t stop trying. At first we were laughing hysterically because it was so insanely hard for her. Then Munch got super angry that she couldn’t do it, and was basically proving my point. I will also add that I am sure I wasn’t helping by rubbing it in, reminding her just how right I was as she slithered down. So then she ran away, sulked for a while on the rock, and gave me dirty looks.

    Then, as if possessed by ambition, Munch came back with the determination of an OCD ox. And I will be damned she climbed the shit out of that slide.

    I guess if she is going to wear these stupid shoes, at least she is building her upper body strength.
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  • Cuntree Mouse, City Mouse

    Sometimes the cuntree mouse ventures into the city.  My friend Gita and I decided to go shopping in Boston, an act I have not done in over 3 years.  When I lived in NYC I kinda gave a shit what I wore, but now that I live amongst the trees and chicken shit, I don’t really think it matters if my outfit clashes.  Especially in a place where the only online dating site that is advertised on television is “farmersonly.com.”

    The other element that has been impeding my fashion choices these days is my attachment comfort.  It is hard to prioritize a really cute pair of pants that ride up my ass to the point of creating a canyon between my cheeks, or shoes that feel like foot binding. I kind of would rather wear a fleece onsie.

    So when I was trying on “skinny jeans” today that were supposed to make me look….ummmm skinny I guess… I couldn’t get over how restrictive they felt.

    Toni: “Are you sure these are the right size?”

    Sales girl: “Yeah…. Totally”

    Toni: “Do you have them a size bigger.”

    Sales girl: “Yeah…. Totally.  But those are totally the right size.”

    Toni: “There are just so tight around the waist.”

    Sales girl: “Yeah.”

    Toni: “Its just that I am used to wearing maternity jeans.  In fact those are the only jeans I wear these days.  They have this roomy elastic waistband that is stretchy and without buttons to constrict your flesh.”

    Sales girl: “OH when did you have your baby?”

    Toni: “3-years ago.”

    Sales girl: “Ummm seriously dude.  Buy those jeans.”

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    May 17, 2013 • 2 years old, Adventures, Mommy Body, Mommy Mind, Women's Business • Views: 12100

  • Bikini Girls

    Little girls in bikinis.  Is this okay? Not okay?  Should you even be reading this? Are we going to get arrested for talking about this? I am scared.

    Last week my friend Gita sent me an article about how Gwyneth Paltrow designed a line of bikinis for 4-8 year old girls, and a group called Kidscape was outraged that she was promoting the sexualization of young girls.

    I wasn’t sure what I thought about little girls in bikinis, but I was sure that the 5-year old model was way skinnier than me, so I immediately committed to getting back to my birth weight.  Then…the next day I opened the mail and my mom had sent The Munch a bikini! Coincidence? Irony? Or was the bikini actually for me and my mom was trying to inspire my new diet goals of weighing 7 pounds 4 ounces?

    Of course The Munch was really excited about her new bathing suit and immediately wanted to put it on.  She was at first confused about the idea of a top and didn’t get it.

    Toni: “See… It’s just like Mamma’s Munch.”

    Munch: “Ohhhhhhh.  I see. I see.  To cover my nanas.” (which is what she calls boobs).

    Then she tried on the bottoms, but it was too big,  So The Munch did what any normal person would do.  Took off the bottoms and just wore the top – for the rest of the entire day.

    So now that my daughter not only has a bikini, but is wearing half of one, what do I think about this?  Does clothing sexualize little girls? Or does the observer?  If someone is going to see a child as sexy, does it matter what the kid is wearing? Or does their perversion exists regardless of apparel?  I am not sure – I am kind of the thinking that if someone is going to be turned on by kids, its because there is something wrong with them, and putting the child in a Yves Saint Laurent dress isn’t going to make a shit bit difference.

    But I do think the fashion for children has changed drastically since I was a kid, and there is something creepy about it.  My biggest issue is that kids now look like mini-adults rather than children.

    This was never an issue I had to contend with.  When I was young we didn’t have low wasted jeans or Baby-Tees to chose from.  Clothes were distinctly for kids.  As a pre-teen Pearl Jam was the shit and grunge was what was in style.  All my pants were baggy corduroys, and all my shirts were long sleeve plaids.  In high school, hip hop was the main cultural influence – so again all my pants were baggy and my t-shirts oversized.  I wasn’t hiding my body on purpose, I was just wearing what was considered cool.  I didn’t wear a tight pair of pants, or shirt that fit me, until I was in my 20’s.

    Now leggings, skinny jeans, high heel boots, and tight tops are the current things to wear.  In order for your kid to fit in, they have to be somewhat hip to the trends. But is this look problematic?  I don’t think little boys are necessarily seeing the girls as more sexual -because they are too busy thinking they have cooties, but I do question how little girls start seeing themselves.

    I remember as a child being fascinated by the idea of being a woman. What it would be like to have tits, or my period, were concepts I was intrigued by.  But the truth is that we are women for 80% of our lives.  It is such a short time where we get to be kids, so why not fully immerse ourselves in the experience of it.

    Maybe what kids wear can contribute to their growing up too fast, or maybe it really doesn’t matter.  I tend to believe that valuing your childhood happens within the context of your parents treasuring it as well.  That childhood is more of a state of mind that is preserved through environment.  Maybe once The Munch grows into the bottom half of her bikini I will think differently, but under these circumstances, all I see is a crazy little girl mooning me.

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