Third Time is the Charm

So I, like most women, have a bitch of a time finding jeans that fit. Everything is either digging into my hips and leaving these grotesque marks on my midsection or falling down and giving me a plumber's rear view every time I sit down. Not a pretty state of affairs. This struggle turns into a full fledged war when I am forced to factor in price. Cheap jeans are THE WORST. Absolutely nothing makes me feel worse than a cheap pair of jeans. I am serious--I would much rather try on bathing suits than cheap jeans.

And to tell you the truth, until recently, nothing put the "ass" in cheap ass like the jeans from Old Navy. I would put those jeans on, sit down, and WHOOPSIE DAISY! Is someone listening to Baby Got Back because you just saw my entire ass! I just flat didn't buy the things, even though they were cheap, even though I often heard their siren call as I shopped for jeans for everyone else in my family (and wow, did that make me feel like a jerk--stocking up on kids pants at Old Navy and then stalking off to the Gap to buy my own).

Then things changed. Old Navy changed their denim line, and I heard some good things on the blogosphere. People with asses...people like me...were buying jeans at Old Navy...and they looked good! I almost couldn't believe the luck. I needed some jeans (the Gap curvy flares that I have babied and hand washed for so long weren't going to last forever) so I placed an order. I found a pair that I thought was hella cute, and waited patiently. I thought my denim problems were over.

WRONG!!!!!!! They arrived, and I knew I was in trouble when I opened the package. The jeans were super dark, and the leg looked...small. Even worse, there was some kind of front pocket detailing (a snap or something) that screamed out to my hips and said, "Ha ha! I'm going to make you look like Idaho." Nevertheless, I tried them on. Surprisingly, they fit my hips and were comfortable in the waist. To bad they made me look like a fat hooker. They went down in to a skinny leg, although I had ordered (and the label said) boot cut. They were also really long, even though I had ordered (and the label said) short. I threw them on the bed in disgust. Why didn't they fit me? What the hell? The next morning, desperately, I wore them with a short dress over the top. This covered up the strange pocket situation and ginormo hips, and actually flattered the skinniness of them. I put on some big ole heels. Even better. My husband told me I looked like a Fly Girl (do they even have Fly Girls anymore?), but whatever. It worked. Mildly. My dress ended up getting wrinkled and looking less than fresh, and the jeans sagged after a while. Ok, well, it didn't really work. But really, neither did J. Lo's outfits when she was a Fly Girl. So there.

So the day after Thanksgiving they had Old Navy jeans for $15 for both men and women. Ok, now that's a good deal. I scooped up a couple of pairs for my husband, and sure enough, was tempted with the siren call of the INSANELY CHEAP JEANS. I went and got a pair, a lighter colored pair this time, that I thought might be looser. I threw them in my bag and didn't think about it. Should I have tried them on? Sure. But I was caught up in shopping fervor, and I tried to forget they were there. I brought them home. They would work, I thought. No weird pocket snaps, no strange skinny legs. These would be fine.

Not so much. The next day, I flirtatiously told my husband something in bed and then went to go get the house ready for Christmas. Being the naughty wife I am, I put on a pair of cute Christmas themed undies and the jeans. The fit was ok, although the leg was still a bit tight. But it was all ok for sitting around the house. Again, not so much. About halfway through the day I stretched myself out on the couch to read a wholesome Christmas themed Southern Living article. Too bad that in the process I had managed to show my Christmas themed ass to my entire family. That, my friends, is not wholesome, nor is it something that any four year old boy should have to experience. Once again, the Old Navy jeans had come down, and now my kids are not going to ever look at Santa's red suit the same again. Thanks Old Navy.

So I had learned my lesson. No more Old Navy jeans for me. I'm a Gap girl, I decided. But, of course, I'm writing this for a reason. My mom had not gotten the "Gap girl" memo, so when I fly home, what is sitting under the tree ready for me? Oh, a cashmere sweater...some pajamas...some cookbooks...and a pair of Old Navy jeans. My mom gets this big smile on her face when I open them, and says "I read online about how many people like them. I assumed you read the same things." I love this about my mom--that she's started reading fashion blogs now--so I smile and promise to love them.

And guess what...I actually do. I put them on the next day to run out to the grocery store, and sure enough...they fit. Amazingly well. There is no sagging, no digging. They just...fit. Perfectly. It is the absolute weirdest thing EVER. They actually even fit better than my Gap Curvy Boot Cuts, although the Gap ones have been worn to death. The length is even perfect on these jeans. I don't know. I'm excited to have new jeans, but I'm kind of freaked out by it too.

So here's the deal: if you're going to buy these things, and you should at least try, TRY THEM ON. Try on 15 pairs. I don't want to guarantee, because I don't do that, but you will find a pair to fit you. There may be one pair in the world, but if you have the patience, you'll find them.

Or you could just have your mom get you a pair. Mom's have a magic touch to fix boo-boo's and fit jeans. Oh, and to know what you're up to without even being in the same zip code as you. Yeah, Gabby, that means you. Clean your room like your daddy said.

It's a Blogapoolaza!

Ok, so I posted earlier (you better read that post too...isn't it nice to be bullied by someone that you don't know?), and I was tagged by Allie at Wardrobe Oxygen, so I'm posting again. It's a lot for someone who doesn't post nearly as much as she should. Well, my lovely readers, you can credit one of my coworkers who is usually peering over my shoulder at everything I do, but has today decided to take an afternoon sojourn to Staples and then to a lesson. God bless him! May my blog runneth over!

Anywhoodle, here is a blog meme that I was tagged for. Mine is nowhere near as interesting as Allie's, but you can make do with my paltry answers, I suppose.

1. What is the Story Behind the Name of Your Blog?
Ok, well, it's kind of stupid actually. I wanted to start a blog about fashion, and I knew right off that naming it was going to be the hardest part. I have a really hard time naming things--even my kids both have three names (instead of the two regular first and middle) because I couldn't decide what name to go with. So I started thinking about things that I wear a lot and what kind of stuff I would recommend people to wear. I realized that in the week up to the blog's creation I had worn a black sweater four out of the five days (a different one each of course). It isn't really something that I do that often--I regularly wear colors--but I realized that I do like black sweaters, and I always have, even as a kid. I started trying to think of things that went with black sweaters, and for some reason I thought of that Heaven's Gate cult that wore the all black and the Nikes and then drank the Kool Aid so they could catch a ride on the Hale Bopp comet. I know that sounds insane. ANYWAY, I thought about finding a group of people (not so unlike the Heaven's Gate dudes) that also liked black sweaters and that I could force to drink my fashion Kool Aid. It kind of just came to me.

And I know you're probably staring at the computer screen right now, afraid that my particular brand of crazy is going to infect you just because you read this, but I promise, it didn't sound that insane before I put that down. Ok, I'm embarrassed now.

2. Why Did You Start Blogging in the First Place?
This is actually not my first blog. I wrote my first blog, Confessions of a Southern Belle, when I was in college. I started it because several of my friends had Livejournals, and I like to follow trends. It was also this way of getting back at my now husband. We were having some problems--he had just graduated college and going through a bit of that "What the hell do I do now?" thing and I was going through a bit of the "I am really cute and fun and have a bitching job at a coffeehouse!" thing--and we decided to take a break from each other. I really wanted to chronicle my life as a single lady, or at least, what I thought my life as a single lady was going to be. I really did like the blog, so even when Matt and I got our lives straightened out, I kept it up. It was a nice way to sort through the weird ass feelings I had as an undergraduate--what to do, where to go, etc.

I started this blog when I was at my old job. It was just the most boring ass job in the world. I was an assistant to a university president at this for-profit university that was, seriously, in this nasty ass warehouse. Classy job, let me tell you. So we had outgrown our space at the warehouse, and the only place for me to sit was out in the middle of the building. Because of this, my desk was routinely covered with people trying to get me to do things for them, mostly because I was just there. I decided that a good way to keep them away was to look busy...really, really busy. So I started typing shit. I brought old short stories from home and retyped them, I wrote long emails detailing daily minutiae to my husband (he saved these, and some of them are HILARIOUS), I composed detailed shopping lists of things I thought were cute in Lucky Magazine, and that if I were suddenly given $100,000 would like to buy. The blog was just part of that. I also wanted to get in on it because I saw folks like Allie demystifying fashion and making it something that all women, no matter their size or budget could enjoy. Again, I was just following a trend.

3. What is Your Best Blogging Experience? Your Worst?
My best blogging experience has been getting told by folks that they like my writing. The fashion stuff is fun, but I really do this because I like to write, and I have been writing since 3rd grade when I won a contest with a diary entry I wrote as an orangutan. Someday I would like to support myself with it, but until that time comes, this is a great way to fill up my time. My mom is my super supporter (which, you know, she kind of has to be), and shows people the blog and then tells me that I made someone laugh or that a friend of hers printed out my post about what I would wear to Jerry Falwell's funeral and hung it on her door. That stuff makes me feel great.

My worst blogging experience is just not having the time to do this thing up right. Since I have changed jobs, it is increasingly hard for me to have time to post. I feel really bad about that. One of my worst characteristics is how hard I am on myself, and while it seems really silly, I sometimes feel really guilty when it's been awhile since I've posted.

4. What Do You Think Will Happen to Your Blog in 2008?
Realistically, I think what will happen is that I will post more. I am planning a move away from the Bay Area back to the South where I will start my own business and buy a house and live out the American dream (I say this only somewhat snarkily--scarily, it is time for me to settle down a bit). This will probably happen during the summer. While this will probably take me away from the blog a little, ultimately, it will afford me a much better lifestyle where I will have much more time to write and do things for myself. And I'll be around my mother, who despite her superfandom, is a HORRIBLE influence on my shopping habits (as I am to her), so that means much more shopping, and many more bad purchases that I will lament online. I hope this brings more opportunities to this humble blog (more readers, more attention), but if it doesn't, I'm fine with that. This is the one part of my life that I'm not completely Type A about, so I'm cool if it stays small.

So here's to 2008--the Year of the Morg--a year that will see me writing and living it up, Southern style!

When Something You Love Doesn't Love You Back

Ok, so remember that time that I wrote that post about that lovely little hooded cardi that I picked up at American Eagle right after Christmas? (Of course you do, and if you don't, skip down a post, and you can read all about it.) Ok, here's the thing. I love that damn thing, as I do all cardigans, but folks, this week I learned that cardigans just don't love me back.

So I wore that cardigan the day after I wrote that post. I put it on that morning with some jeans and a white scoopneck tee from the Gap. I thought I looked sporty, and just perfect for making binders, which is what I had to do that day (this requires me to sit on the floor and stuff things, and it's something you just don't wear heels to do). I left my house feeling sassy. However, about halfway through the day, I made my regular journey to the ladies' room. The person I saw in the mirror was NOT what I expected. The person I saw in the mirror weighed a good 10-15 pounds more than me. This person looked sloppy--her t-shirt looked, well, defeated, and the cardigan just hung open, sadlike, exposing a soft, Buddha belly that I really didn't know I had. I think my exact words upon seeing this image were, "Oh my STARS!" Anyway, I did the best I could to remedy the situation--I put on some lip gloss, I fluffed my hair, and I situated the cardigan just so. Suddenly I looked like myself again. I skipped on down the hall, happy with the fact that I had averted crisis.

But here's the thing. Lip gloss doesn't stay on forever, and cardigans that are situated just so are not apt to stay that way. As I left the building that afternoon, I caught a glimpse of myself in a glass doorway. Holy shit--did I shrink? How are my legs getting shorter? I got in the car and rode home listening to the Moz and feeling sorry for myself. It didn't help that it was raining like crazy. My life suddenly felt like a bad Lifetime movie with lots of hit you over the head metaphors. The world seemed to be wilting...like my sweater (shit, that's a simile, isn't it? Damn.).

I was pretty sure of what was up, but of course I blamed everything else. My jeans must have been wrong--maybe that fondue I ate was finally making its appearance--that t-shirt is getting a little long in the tooth, isn't it? The next morning I got up and put on my black corduroy pencil skirt (one of my faves) and a slimming black tank. On top I put on my berry cardigan from J. Crew. I love this thing--the color makes me look well-rested and spritely and it's pearl buttons make me feel all classy. Surely this ensemble would not disappoint.

But yeah, well, I'm guessing you know what happened. Midday bathroom break, and there I stand, wondering again how I've managed to get so fat in the middle of the day. And not even that--my weight has redistributed. Instead of being the hippy girl that I normally am, I suddenly see myself with this ginormous gut. I quickly figure out that it, indeed, is the cardigan. I just don't look good in them. In fact, the results are downright abysmal. If they are situated just right, I look fine--put together, cute, and well-dressed. If they are not, I look a lot like my dad. In a skirt. No offense to my dad of course.

But here's the bitch of it: I can't say that I really care that much. I really like cardigans, especially these two. They make me happy when I see them hanging in my closet--hells bells, I'm even currently watching another J. Crew one on ebay right now. Sure, they don't look stellar on me, but I'm willing to overlook that. How effed up is that? It's kind of like childbirth--you never remember just how bad it is, and that's why you're willing to hop back into bed with your significant other in six weeks. If you remembered, he would sleep on the couch and make do with a porno flick and bottle of Lubriderm for the REST OF HIS LIFE. It's just like that. I see the sweaters in my closet and I think, "Oh wow, that would be great. Let me put that on and feel hot!" only to find out at lunch time that I've been walking around all day disguised as a plumber.

So ladies, I want to know: Is there any item of clothing that you love so much that you don't give a damn what it looks like on you? Do you wear it often? Do you go out and look for others?

As you can see, I've picked out two cardigans here--the top is from J. Crew and is what I currently have (it's great--if you like this things and look good in them, you should buy it), and the bottom is from Banana Republic and is an outfit that I would love to have. See how classy and wonderful cardigans are? Body be damned, I'm sticking with them.

New Year, New Shopping, New Posts

Ok, so I know I'm a horrible blogger. Sorry. So many of you have emailed me or commented or sent me evil mind rays asking me why I haven't posted, when indeed, the holidays are a ways behind us. Here's the thing, though. In the House of the Black Sweater, we hold on to holidays as long as we possibly can. I didn't return to the Bay Area, and thus, Life as We Know It, until last Saturday, and then promptly went to sleep and didn't wake up until Monday (yesterday). Then I've had two crazy days at work and the BCS game was on last night, and I was there with 35 chicken wings...ok, ok, just color me apologetic. Anyway, let's get down to the clothes, which, as you know, is always the most important thing.

So I actually have a lot to write about because my mom and I did a lot of shopping while I was at home. Plus, I got TWO new pairs of boots! Yea! I have a black leather pair and a brown suede pair, and here's the thing--they actually fit my fat calves!!!! I feel like I can die a happy woman. This is actually just a precursor to the post I hope to author in a couple of days detailing my whole torrid relationship with said boots. If that doesn't give you something to wake up for in the morning, I don't know what does.

But the subject of this post is actually quite a bit different. It concerns being a snob. Or rather, judging a book by its cover. Or even, falling into a fashion rut and not seeing the here nor the there. Anyway, as many of you know, I have a few favorite stores that I almost exclusively shop at. If you see the list in the following post, you know what they are. Pieces from J. Crew, Banana Republic, Gap, Nordstrom (every once in a while), Old Navy, and Target make up my entire wardrobe. I seriously don't think I own a single piece that didn't come from one of those stores (well, I can think of two right now--a dress from Land's End and a dress from H&M--, so there are probably more, but you get the idea). It's not that I don't like things from other stores--it's just that these stores seem to fit me well without me really thinking about it, I can order pieces from their websites, they have good return policies, I could go on and on. Because I do very little shopping in malls, it's easy to lull myself into a world where not only are these the only stores that I shop at, these are the only stores that exist. This is not necessarily a bad thing--I have merely found things that fit my personal style--but I have started even thinking certain things about other stores (and in some naughty cases--the people that shop there). Forever 21 is for slutty party girls whose skin doesn't recoil at the sight of polyester (mine seems to break out in a rash at polyester and that's no lie), Abercrombie and Fitch is for genetically blessed teenagers, Chico's is for English professors and their ilk, J. Jill is for giants (seriously, have you ever tried on anything in there? I'm pretty sure Shaquille O'Neal buys his drag outfits in there)...I could go on and on.

And that is a bad thing. Just as with people, you shouldn't judge. I'm sure that if I tried, and actually looked, I could find something I like at every one of the stores mentioned. Case in point: I am now wearing a fantabulous new hooded cardigan from American Eagle. Now, if you grew up with me in the late 90's, you are probably well aware of American Eagle. I LOVED American Eagle when I was in high school. I got a gift card from there every year for Christmas, and I would trek out to spend it on the day after, sometimes in the midst of blinding snowstorms. I remember I had this one outfit--a pair of wide legged carpenter pants, a gray striped cotton cardigan and a white lace topped camisole--that I ADORED and paired with a chunky Claire's necklace and a pair of steel-toed brown Doc Martens. Obviously, American Eagle played a large part in my adolescence. The thing is, I haven't even been in there since I turned 17 or so. No real obvious reason--I just felt older. More refined.

That is, until my trip. My mom and I were sauntering through the mall when I saw a perfect navy cardigan hoodie with cute detailing. I told my mom that I liked it, and she points out that I should go in and try it on. "Oh, no, I can't," I say. My mom asks why not. I tell her that it is in American Eagle and I don't shop there. She looks at me like my head is on fire, and like all mothers who have been put through more shit than they care to acknowledge, just grabs my arm and leads me into the store, her head shaking. We find the sweater, and I take it to try on. Sure enough, it is cute. Really cute (you can see it at the side and see if you agree, although the details that you can't see are what set it off--it ties in the back, and the pockets in front are adorable). I'm standing in the dressing room, knowing that I like it, and still finding crap to say. "I shouldn't get it--it's for teenagers," I think. "What if one of my students has the same one?" Once again, my mother sets me straight. All she has to say to answer my question are the gentle words, "Shit, Morgan," and then she grabs the sweater and makes for the door, leaving me standing in my camisole and coral bra. She ends up buying it for me, which is nice, and reminds me of why I should live near my mom year round. I reciprocate by buying her a Diet Lemonade at Chick Fil-A and talking her into buying a pair of boots like my own. Who said motherhood is a thankless job?

Anyway, that should be the end of the story with the "Don't judge a book by its cover" moral rightly learned, but then I went shopping again at a different mall, this one bigger and better, and happen to visit the store Aerie, which is the lingerie side of American Eagle. I have never been there, as when I was a slutty teenager, we had to buy (or shoplift, depending on just how rebellious you were) our lingerie at Parks Belk like everyone else (I will admit to a few five fingered discounts of Guess lingerie, since I'm pretty sure that the statute of limitations on that kind of thing ran out many years ago). Ok, so Aerie is every slutty teenagers' wet dream--there are lots of cute, frilly things, and pictures of young models wearing them on the wall (including Vanessa from Gossip Girl who I kinda hate, but who was wearing the panties I ended up buying). They also have cute basics--pajama pants, yoga pants, and cotton undies to name a few. As one can deduce from reading my snarky Vanessa comment, I went with the cute cotton undies in the boy brief style which have earned me rave reviews, both from my hindparts for their comfort and from my husband who seems to ADORE them. They are seriously about the best undies I have had. Seriously. Really comfy, really cute, and in lots of great colors. Plus they are 4 for $20, which beats the pants off the 3 for $25 VS ones I was buying.

I only feel slightly pervy because in the end, Aerie is definitely for younger girls who probably shouldn't be buying the stuff they are buying for the reasons they are buying it for. I shiver when I think of the day my daughter discoves Aerie and my son discovers girls who shop at Aerie. And then I went on their website to find a picture for this blog, and also to buy more undies, and I find this picture of this girl above, and she looks well under the age of consent (kind of like Jamie Lynn Spears, come to think of it), and the whole thing makes me feel like I should be named Chester and spending a great deal of time in chat rooms talking to Chris Hanson. But whatever. I like Aerie. So screw the moral consequences.

Speaking of morals....this is long, but I hope it comes across that I want you, my lovely little croquembouches, to go out and try new stores in 2008. I certainly will. Seeing the success of my cardigan, I may hit up A&F next. My only fear is that I will emerge after shopping there, slightly deaf and bitching about the young people and their music. Oy.