I've totally lost all fashion credibility.

I mean, it's not like I had much to start out with. But for the SECOND day in a row, I have somehow come to the office in stained pants. Ok, say it with me now: CLASSY.

Yesterday I kinda knew what I was getting myself into because it started out as a crappulous day. My family is sick right now (my husband got something at school and brought it home to incubate--thus infecting everyone in a 10 mile radius of my front door), and so I rushed around yesterday morning, doling out Tylenol Cold and washing dried snot off of cheeks as I got ready for work. I felt so lucky when I found my favorite jeans laying in the floor--hey, at least I didn't have to look for them. I put them on, put on a cashmere sweater that makes me feel better (because nothing goes with stains quite like cashmere), snapped on some hoop earrings and left. I realized on the way to work that there was a humungo stain right on the shin. Like just a bunch of white stuff. I tried to pick it off, but it wasn't coming. I have no idea what it was/is. My best bet is some kind of food detritus, but again, no clue. My husband thinks it looks like a stain of the Monica Lewinsky variety (now there's a dated reference!). Anyway, it stayed on my shin all freaking day. I tried to ignore it.

Then today, I put on The Holy Denim Trousers, actually pulling them off of the hanger in my closet where they had been lovingly hung. I put them on with a purple Dream sweater from J Crew that I just got in the mail yesterday (yea!) and my dark red peep toes. I looped a teal pashmina around my neck. I liked it--the colors didn't match but they did "go". I came to work feeling sassy. However, wouldn't you know that as soon as I stepped out of my car this morning I discovered that this time, there was a skinny, oblong stain on my thigh. Probably just coffee I thought. But no. It's an actual stain. And it's there. Calling out for the world to see. Now I'm going to have to hand wash my pants when I get home, which I'm not really cool with, but seriously, I would do anything short of sell off a kidney to keep these things in running order.

And here's the piece of fashion wisdom I'm going to impart to you. Keep your hair trimmed and in good fashion. Seems unrelated, but hear me out. I need a haircut--hella bad actually. My hair looks rough. And I haven't gotten a cut, the chief reason being that I just haven't gotten around to getting an appointment and there always seems to be something better to do, and whatever. If my hair were looking fine, it probably wouldn't matter one damn bit about my pants--I might not even notice. But because my hair isn't right, and looks overgrown and sad and underappreciated suburban mom (which I guess I am, but damn if I want to look like one), everything just seems a little bit worse. Does that make sense?

I think I'll make an appointment this weekend.

An Open Letter to Old Navy from Morgan's Ass

Dear Old Navy,

I know you probably don't get many letters from butts, so I'll try to make this as clear and concise as possible. Here's the thing: what's up with your pants, Old Navy? Morgan has this black pair of cropped pants in a trouser material with a very faint pintstripe that she thinks are totally adorable on her, and I guess in some way they are. They are the only cropped pants I've seen on her that actually end where they are supposed to--i.e., they do not scrape her ankle (Morgan is very short, you see). Plus, the legs are kind of narrow, in a cigarette style way, but they are not tight, and they manage to make her legs look really nice. Maybe it's the pinstriping? I don't know; I digress. The thing is, Old Navy, these pants are super cute. But the problem is, she can't seem to remember that every time she wears them she ends up exposing me to all the world, including the 17 year old boys she spends her days catering to. Isn't that sad, Old Navy? She puts them on, we're both happy, and then half way through the day, the bottom falls out (pun intended). She spends the rest of the day yanking them up, and I spend the rest of the day hiding from the sideways glances from said 17 year old boys.

I write you, Old Navy, because I want you to do something about it. I'm imagining that I am not the only ass betrayed by your pants. I imagine this is a problem that exists, in part, because you refuse to believe that we asses exist. You see, women's asses suffer a sad plight in American fashion. All of you clothing manufacturers seem to think we are more akin to the Loch Ness monster than any other part of the body--one guy spotted one of us once, snapped a picture, but it's been debatable whether we're actually out there or not. I'm writing this letter to tell you that we are out here. Women have butts. Women have nice curvy butts that jut out of the back of their jeans, and entice men (it's one of the myriad ways Morgan attracted her husband, and she has a black Gap skirt suit to thank for it). Sienna Miller may not have a butt, Paris Hilton may not be blessed with an ass, but Real Women do. And I think it's about time you bitches started accounting for that. We, the asses of the world, demand pants that cover us, love us, and define us. We want to be loved, appreciated and flattered, not shoved into the corner like a hideous fairisle sweater (natch). We demand it.

Oh, and Morgan said to tell you that she's actually quite impressed with your new denim line--she's heard lots of things about it. She hasn't bought anything from you (save some tank tops) in quite a while. Clean up your act, and I'll think about letting her go there and buy some more.

Best regards,

Jeanie P. Winchester

aka, Morgan's Butt