I'm Half the Fashionista I Used to Be

Today I did something that I thought I would never do. I did something that makes me a hypocrite in the worst way, something that makes me question my devotion to everything I hold dear to me, something that I might never get over.

Today, I wore a dress over a pair of pants.

That is not me, by the way. That is a picture of some starlet that I found over at Go Fug Yourself.

Up until today, I felt the same away as the Fug Girls about wearing dresses over pants. I thought it was at best stupid and at worst unhinged. But then Allie at My Wardrobe Today (I am trying to link that, but the links are being weird--it's making my whole paragraph blue. It's my technical stupidity, I'm sure. So if the link doesn't work...sorry.) wore a dress over jeans while on vacation and it also looked a lot cuter than what we see above, so this morning when I couldn't find anything to match the new headband I got on the clearance rack at Target last night, I went for my green shift. The thing is, I had four students today, and if I wear the shift by itself, I have to wear heels. I knew my legs could not take both the students and the heels all day. I also knew that I had a kind of sheltered, pervy kid today, and a shorter dress is probably more of a "Don't threaten me with a good time" look rather than a look that says, "If the subject is plural, the verb had to be plural too!". So I put on my Gap Curvy Bootcuts, some big ole gold hoops, a bunch of bangles and my brown stacked flops from J.Crew. I checked the mirror. Like I said, the dress is kind of short--if I'm not careful and am not wearing the jeans you can be my gynecologist if you so desire. It kind of looked worldly, especially with my brown and ivory zebra print headband. I could be a hip globetrotting writer...or a standardized test tutor. I smacked on some lipgloss and headed out the door.

The day went well. No one commented, although what can you expect from a group who thinks the white Chuck Taylors count as dress shoes? Then I got home from my last lesson, came home and stretched out on my bed, and gazed at the husband. This is our conversation, as verbatim as I can remember it:

Matt: What are you wearing? Is that a dress over pants?

Me: Yeah, well....it's a short dress. Over pants.

Matt: I thought you hate that.

Me: Well, I do, I guess (pretend to be interested in American Justice).

Matt: Then why are you wearing it? It looks kind of weird.

Me: What do you mean "weird"?

Matt: You know that girl we knew who lived in the French house and smoked clove cigarettes? That girl who used to write weird things on her boobs? The one that wore the fur boots and said the word "existential" a lot. You look like her.

Me: (sigh, evil look, the sound of sudden acquisition of horrible headache for the next five nights)

Matt: Just so you know, that's not a good thing. (Looks at me). I'll be quiet now.

Back to American Justice. I really think Mumia killed that dude.

Anyway, I guess I'm not wearing this outfit again. It's a shame too, because it was really comfortable.

I guess that brings us to fashion rule numero uno: looking good doesn't necessarily feel good. And fashion rule numero two: husbands suck.

A Trip to The Village

First off, before I talk about my trip to a fancy-dancy mall, let me say that, growing up, my house, was right behind a motel called "The Village." It was a classy place, mostly catering to the men who worked for the power company, and pastors sleeping with the more dedicated members of their congregations. The thing I remember most about it is the sign in the front that never failed to have at least one light burned out, so it was always "T e V ll g ote" or somethng else as vague. When I learned to read, I would always very cleverly point out the missing letters, and what I thought the sign now said, punctuating things with a loud guffaw at my own humor. My mom would always purse her lips, and probably curse The Village under her breath. At the time, I thought she thought I was witty. Now that I'm older and a mother myself, I'm surprised she didn't call more babysitters.

Anyway, that is what I think of when I think "The Village," not a fancy mall. But today, because I had a student cancel on me, and because I can think of nothing I would rather do than sashay around a fancy mall whilst charging a hefty missed lesson fee, I visited the second Village, the one "at Corte Madera." Now, let me explain something: I work in Marin County, and I do all of my tutoring there, but I don't live there. There's one reason for that: I'm much, much too poor. Marin County is the place good yuppies go when Daddy dies. And, were I to have a rich relative who decided to kick it in the next two years or so, it is where I would most certainly buy a place. So, because of my poorness, I like to gaze at Marin Co. from afar, and once in awhile, pretend that I am cool enough to live there. That was my plan today. I walked into The Village, wearing my totally awesome leopard print flats (no one can tell they are from Target), and stalked around like it was for sale and the rent was due tonight. I either looked totally awesome, or like a raving idiot. But my hair looked damn good, so let's say "awesome."

There are a few things to think about when visiting a fancy mall. First off, there's no Auntie Anne's, and that blows. Second, you can't buy a freaking Philly cheesesteak anywhere. Third, (and I promise this is not about food), there are no Spencer's Gifts or any of those stores that sell nothing but athletic shoes and purple suits. It's something to get used to. But the good news is, you get Nordstrom instead. And, friends, there are no amounts of black light posters, incense, or fatty sandwiches that can equal the majesty that is a Nordstrom. More about that in a bit.

Here are the things that I don't like about fancy malls: 1) the sale section in Anthropologie, 2) the lack of food, 3) the fact that these people seem have eschewed air conditioners and fountains in favor of an outdoor "village feel," 4) the fact that no matter what I have on, I feel under dressed. Since most of those are self-explanatory, allow me to rant briefly on #1.

I have been to two Anthropologie's now--the one in Berkeley and the one in Corte Madera. I have bought quite a few things at the one in Berkeley, and most of them have been on sale. The sale section there is in a closet sized room, but the workers there are mostly students at UC, and are pretty nice and helpful. You can go in, find something, tell them what size you need, and they get it, show you something that will match, and then escort you out and to a dressing room. It's a nice experience. Not so at the Corte Madera store. First off, the sale section is again in a closet sized room, but I felt better of it because a few sale items had spilled out into the store at large, so things looked nice. That's before I stepped into The Room. The Room was roughly two degrees less than the surface of the sun. I don't know how it got so hot--maybe it was the lack of windows and the yards and yards of unwanted fabric lining the walls and floors in haphazard heaps. Maybe it was the sweaty, unwashed bodies of the poor being forced in like cattle. Inside The Room, girls worked elbow to elbow pulling out skirts and holding them up like silks at a bazaar. And because this is a great melting pot of a country, and an even greater melting pot of a region, no one in The Room spoke the same language. I definitely heard Spanish, German, and something that sounded Scandinavian while looking for a kimono dress. I know you're thinking that that's a misapproximation, but I'm being totally serious. This, with the heat and the many tongues, was like the Triangle Shirtwaist Factory of shopping. I finally found a dress in my size, and for the lovely, lovely price of $49.95, and fought my way out to take it to the dressing room. Once I got out, I looked for any available salesperson to perhaps show me to the dressing room. There were none. I finally saw one girl, but when I walked over to her, she turned around and started talking to someone else. I must have stood there for 10 minutes, my body heavy with the scent of The Room and poorness. Finally, I gave up, went back into The Room, where I shoved the dress onto a rack, and got the hell out. That kind of pisses me off. There's a shirt that I want from the Anthropologie website (and it's full price, natch), but something about the whole experience left me a little....hmmm...I don't know.

I didn't feel so poor and unwashed, however, when I stepped into Nordstrom. Nordstrom is the store I go to to wash off every bad shopping experience I've ever had. I luff me some Nordstrom. And I found my mod little jacket with the big buttons! I am so excited. Of course, it is still in the car, because I'm going to need to show my husband how cute I am in it before I tell him how much I paid for it....anyway, I may take a picture of it, as I am so happy with it.

My trip to The Village ended up a caesar salad and an iced tea at Boudin. It was a nice day, as most days are that end up with iced tea.

More Blatant Evidence That the Universe Does Not Want Me to Be Sexy

The world evidently has no use for sexy standardized test extraordinnaires, because once again, cosmic intervention is showing me that it's not meant for me to be sexy.

My mom is coming to town, so this morning I got up a whole hour before I had to go to work, took a nice long shower, BLOW DRIED MY FREAKING HAIR, and did my make up with appropriate amounts of blush so that I will not be deemed "pale" by said mom. I then put on the snakeskin pumps that you see about two posts down, a cute top, the only jeans that fit, and jangly earrings. I felt that I totally looked the part of successful, bicoastal daughter.

Except for the fact that I'm not.

Yes, the universe reminded me of that. The heels on these shoes are freaking thin. No sooner had I walked out the door that I started to tumble down the porch. Nice. I recovered, and walked down the walk to my car, where I totally wiped out on the sidewalk, scraping my ankle all to hell and dumping several key items out of my purse in the process. Now, I'm not going to claim that I'm the world's best at wearing heels, but I've done it enough to where falling twice in about a 30 second span of time is not normal.

So I get in the car, and put on my Ipod, as I figure that I need to pep myself back up into sexy fighting form. I sing to a mixture of Jet, Peaches, and Christina Aguilera on the way over the bridge. I am back. I am again fierce. I keep the Ipod on, and walk into the building, trying to imagine that I am on a catwalk with Ms. Jay from ANTM and he is wearing something appropriately ridiculous and probably involving feathers. I am walking like it is for sale and the rent is due tonight. Again, feeling good.

Yeah, but then, there's this work thing. And there are two of us in the office today. So it's busy (and yes, I know I shouldn't be taking out the time to type this, SHUT UP). To make matters worse, I started feeling weird. So now I'm quite sure that I have a urinary tract infection, which is about the most unsexy thing that one could get, except for maybe genital herpes, but even that has those commercials where good looking people talk about having outbreaks and crap, and hell, even Paris Hilton has freaking herpes. So I'm sitting here, twitching in my office chair, and twitching is not sexy.

I would growl, but I don't think that is sexy either.

To this, I only these words to say: What the hell, universe? What the hell? What do I have to do for you, you fickle bitch? Is it because I watch Rock of Love? Should I be spending my time in a soup kitchen instead? Goddammit, I spend way too much of my time with teenagers, don't I deserve to have a little adult fun?

I'm going to the bathroom now. On the way there, I'm going to try to be sexy. Which means I will fall. Most likely in front of some janitors or something.

Va Va Voom Lips, and Why I'm Hopelessly Unsexy

So anyone who knows me personally knows at least two things about me. 1) I'm gullible enough to be taken into just about any marketing ploy and 2) I'm a slut at heart. Not that I'm promiscuous or anything--I'm married to my high school sweetheart, and prefer to keep it that way, but I definitely have a predilection towards the sluttier looks and actions in life. I think it is because my hero is one Blanche Devereaux. Whatever. But anyway, with me, it's always the more cleavage the better, and I love to pine away looking at black pencil skirts and back seam fishnet hose.

Part of this look is, of course, red lips. I, however, have never owned a tube of red lipstick, and have always felt hopelessly scared by the stuff. Even though I have read countless fashion magazine articles about how to pull it off, I've always imagined myself buying it, putting it on, and then wham bam thank you ma'am--I'm transformed into Baby Jane. Although playing the part of Baby Jane won me some high school accolades in a drama competition (I went all out, bitches--you should have seen my hair), this is not a look I would like to revisit.

So imagine my excitement at finding Cover Girl's Tru Shine lipcolor collection, a collection that promises to match my skin tone and flatter my lips with any shade. It promises! It even says something about flattering 97% of skin tones. Now, if they had said 100%, I would have called bullshit, and perhaps I wouldn't have bought the product. But 97% sounds scientific, like this was all done in a lab, and out of their 100 models, three looked like ass, so they called it a day and slapped this 97% guarantee on it. It seems honest. Of course, I snap up Valentine Shine, which is a red lipstick. Hey, it promised! Va va va voom lips for the Morgan McSluttygirl!

So I buy the product, and on a day when I'm wearing all black, and thus need a pop, I pull it out. First off, putting lipstick on is a lot harder than I thought it was. To be quite honest, I never buy it--I always buy gloss, but I didn't think there was any huge change. Here's the deal though--you can't put lipstick on while hurdling toward the Richmond bridge at 70 mph. It requires precise detail--it requires for you to be stopped, and in front of a mirror, and possibly, with some sort of degree in lipstick application technology. So, while in line at the toll plaza, I pull out the tube and put it on, as carefully as possible. I mean, I'm not an expert, and I could tell I messed up a little at the top because my lips no longer had that little dip at the top center (what is that called?), but overall, it looked pretty good. And my lips were red!!! Really, really, red. I thought it looked fantastic. I handed my $4 over to the toll dude, smiled at him perhaps a little more than usual, and drove into Marin Co. knowing that I was sluttastically gorgeous.

And everything was going fine--I had a little spring in my step all that morning. I had an early morning student, and after meeting with her, went to the bathroom, and that's when I realized that my lips were no longer red. They were more like magenta. I kind of looked like one of those old women at the nursing home who is left to her own devices perhaps a bit more than she should be, and keeps layering on that one tube of Estee Lauder lipstick she bought in in 1984. Yes, that was me. The magenta was not cool. And not slutty.

So here are my theories: 1) Cover Girl knows that I am a pretender to the Devereaux throne, and feels that I can't handle red, so they downgraded me to magenta for my own good, 2) I'm one of the 3% of people who look like ass in this stuff or 3) I just really don't understand this lipstick thing. Perhaps if I had spent more time in applying it? I'm not sure. I mean, the product is actually nice--it's creamy, and has a nice shine to it, and the little silver tube is cute enough. But the color is just not for me. I think I'll try it a couple more times, and if it still doesn't work, well, there goes my hopes and dreams for sluttiness.

Oh well. I guess there is a place out there for bookish looking SAT tutors who aspire to red lips and back seam hose. I'm still holding on to the dream though!

Every Shoe, Every Color

So my daughter watches Hannah Montana. If you don't know what that is, allow me to explain: Billy Ray Cyrus (of Achy Breaky heart and mullett fame) had a child, and now she has a TV show where she's a rock star half the time, and a regular kid the rest of the time. And her dad is Billy Ray Cyrus. Except on the show, their last name is Stewart. Except when she's on stage. Then her last name is Montana. That's pretty much the gist of it.

The theme song is this poppy little number that encapsulates all this, and shows the excitement of being a rock star 50% of the time. Part of this, evidently, is being able to buy every shoe in every color. Now, while I usually disagree on principle with anything either a) on the Disney channel or b) associated with Billy Ray Cyrus, I must say I'm feeling Hannah Montana/Miley on this. Mostly because these little lovelies just walked into my life:

I ordered the black ones last week, and love, love, love them so much, that I'm ordering the brown ones tonight. Super cute, eh? Now, I'm not usually enticed to buy two different colors of the same shoe (one figures life is too short), but these are just lovely. And, even better....they were on final, final sale. Which means I got both pairs for what one pair would cost at regular price! Which makes me a smart, savvy shopper!

All of this basically alludes to the fact that now I'm going to have to start wearing heels again to work, even though it is the Land of Converse and Flop. So, stairs, students, and parents be damned, sexiness awaits!

Keeping Angelina in a Tube, and Why I Need an Intervention

So I've had this lipgloss for a while now (I actually bought it the day after I quit my job as a kind of "Get out of Jail" present), but I'm just now getting around to reviewing it, mostly because I've been a busy bee, and also because I've been a very bad blogger (see previous two posts). But today I'm proctoring a test for a bunch of 16 year olds who somehow manage to look cute in sweatpants and t-shirts at 10:00 a.m. on a Saturday. Was I like that too at 16? I believe I was--I remember well my total delight at wearing Abercrombie shorts to the Pizza Hut to make a salad and getting the glances of all the high school drop outs who routinely spat on pizzas. It was a nice feeling, but alas, it hasn't lasted. Now if I get glances, I dedicate whole blog posts to it and spend my night acting coy and declaring myself too sexy to vacuum. ANYWAY, this is just a long way of saying that because I am no longer 16 and need a little help to achieve hotness, I routinely buy lip glosses, and write about them on here. So here is my long-awaited review.

This is Bare Escentuals Buxom Lips, which is a lip plumper and gloss combo. I got the shade "Dolly" because it is kinda tawny brown, which I like, and also because it made me think of Dolly Parton and Dollywood and roast turkey legs. It's a pretty good match with my hair/eyes (brown and brown), and looks pretty natural. There is a glossy shine, and it is not sticky at all, which is nice. It also smells like vanilla, but not overly so, like some kind of Bonne Bell Lip Smacker of something. So as a gloss, it is pretty awesome. But, remember, it is a two in one product! It plumps too. To be honest, I've always been really curious about lip plumpers, especially the ones that reportedly cause pain as they plump the lips. Not curious enough to actually buy one though, that is, until I quit my job and decided to be throw caution to the wind. So I fully expected to feel something when I put this stuff on. And the truth is, you do feel something--it's like a mint cooling sensation. I have to say--I was a bit disappointed. Perhaps I'm revealing some sort of masochistic side, but I wanted to feel some PAIN. I wanted to feel my lips swell, and I definitely didn't get that with this. I think I do notice a little plumping action, but I'm definitely not morphed into Angelina Jolie (much to my chagrin). The thing is though, because of the mint and the gloss and the cooling, I'm really aware of my lips when I have this stuff on. So I think I stick them out more. Perhaps that's part of it the plumping magic. Or perhaps it's just me, doing my best Jessica Simpson post collagen impression.

So, all in all, this is a great gloss and decent plumper. The packaging is adorable, so you could buy it pretty much just based on that. Plus, it's a big ole tube, so even though the price is a little steeper than drugstore brand gloss, you get a lot of it.

Just to be completely honest, the other reason I'm writing this is because I'm trying to keep myself from buying anything on the Internet right now. There is something about starting to see "Back to School" signs (DAMN YOU TARGET!) that makes me want to buy clothes, and buy them in abundance. I get paid this Friday, and I've been tutoring a LOT, so I'm thinking I'm going to have a bit of cash. So instead of paying off the parking ticket(s) and several other things that I'm sure I should do, here is what I'm interested in procuring....

• a pair of fancy pants jeans, and by fancy pants jeans, I mean jeans that cost more than they ever should and make me feel like a total douche for owning them. I desire to feel horrible about myself. But I also desire to have my ass look nice, hence the desire for these pants.
• a pair of red croco pumps
• some silver bangle bracelets
• some of the Hanky Panky thongs that I've been hearing so much about
• a pair of cute walking shorts that I could get away with wearing to work
• a swingy black jacket that I could carry into fall (something mod-ish, with big ole buttons would be nice)
• a cute, flirty dress, perhaps a wrap, that would be super comfortable, but still look nice for meeting with parents
• a pink v-neck sweater, probably merino from J.Crew because I love them so
• a green tank top
• some black stacked flip flops like my brown ones
• some fancy new eye shadow
• some kind of blusher/bronzer combo that would make me look like I've had a restful summer, so when I visit the home of a kid who just spent his last 2 weeks in Nice, I can look like I have as well.

If I procure these items, Matt will most surely kick me out of the house, and so I will be homeless. But my grocery cart would be full of super cute stuff! Sometimes I think I have a shopping addiction. This is because I've researched it. Along with America's Got Talent, I also religiously watch Intervention (you're really thinking less of me now, aren't you?) and I can really identify with the addicts on there, except instead of being addicted to mouthwash and Oxy, I'm addicted to the rush I get when I see a great pair of shoes. To that end, sometimes I imagine myself being followed around by video cameras, and suddenly finding myself in a room with all my family and a strange dude saying "Morgan, these people are here because they love you like crazy, and they want to see you get help. By the way, those are some hot croco pumps. Did you get them at the Nordstrom Anniversary Sale?"

Sigh.

Holy Heart Failure, Batman! Morgan's Hot!

Ok, so I've had a strange day. And there are a few observations that I want to make here. Whether they are fashion related or not is debatable, but whatever. I'm a rule-breaker.

Just a nutshell of the things I will discuss:

--British men and their penchant for the plus sized among us

--fake accents and Oxford degrees

--Apu

--toothless men at the Home Depot

--Bay Area homeless people

So, to start off, I guess I have to admit that sometimes, on rare occasions, I like to watch America's Got Talent. If you've never seen this show, don't try to watch it or anything--you'll lose brain cells. It's horrible. There are these people on there who shimmy and shake and dress up as Columbian singing sensations (Yes, I'm looking at you, Boy Shakira) and consider it a talent. And there's David Hasselhoff, who has had so much Botox his face is now entirely made of botulism. And there's me, who finds it strangely entertaining, and gets all giddy when someone eats fire. But my favorite group is The Glamazons (see above), a group who call themselves the plus-sized Pussy Cat Dolls. Basically, they come out in corsets and fishnets, gyrate, and harmonize, and then they say a lot of stuff about doing it for all the ladies back home who are fat and fabu. It's all very Tyra Banks. And I eat it up, like its Pillsbury chocolate frosting on a spoon. I want to gyrate in a corset and fishnets! Well, anyway, so they do their schtick, and this British judge, Piers, (who is basically the poor man's Simon Cowell) gets all red and says something about being a normal British man who is turned on by curvy women. And by "curvy" you know he means "chubbalicious." Is anyone else surprised by this? I mean, how was I not informed that British men find chunkishness attractive? Had I known this, I would no longer drink Target Brand Diet Peach Raspberry Iced Tea, which really tastes like bottled back sweat, and I would use a Rascal as my major form of transport.

But anyway, barring any major lifestyle/transportation change, I went into work with this new knowledge, and what do I end up having to do? Well, for starters, call this guy in for an interview for an instructor position. So I call, and this LOVELY British voice answers, and tells me that yes, he'd love an interview, and he's a little groggy because he just flew in from London, and he'd love to put his OXFORD DEGREE in LITERATURE to the test. Ok. So. If there are three things that make a girl all weak in the knees, it's 1) smart dudes, 2) employed dudes, and 3) accents. So I'm charmed. I even make a point of telling everyone in the office that I'm charmed, and am looking forward to his interview.

So he comes in, and I make sure I'm front and center. Now, note here that I'm fully aware that I'm married, but you have to remember that I am from the South and there is a certain sluttiness/flirtiness that all Southern girls have and use (see Devereaux, Blanche). And yes, the accent is divine, and he's got this sort of rugged handsomeness, that while not the stuff of my daydreams, was fine enough to get me to put down the bag of Cheetos I was eating and bat my eyes a bit. ANYWAY, he takes his quiz, does lovely, and comes out to the front to chat. How's the weather, how was your drive from the city, that kind of thing. Then he goes to his interview. I'm sure he's perfect for the job.

But then my boss comes out and looks chagrinned. He's hired him, conditionally, he says. I ask what's up. Turns up the guy isn't from London at all--he's from DALY CITY. He's just kind of affected that accent, like some Bay Area Madonna. Plus, he's all douchey and is talking bad about American holidays. Shut up, dude. You're from DALY CITY. Isn't that the most pretentious thing you've ever heard? So whatever.

But now he's emailed me, and I really do think he likes me in a sort of odd way. I had a co-worker read the email, and she agrees. So I think he's trying to committ that ultimate act of Britishness and get a fatty on his arm. But it's enough to make me feel hot. And kind of good.

And then, to top things off, I stop to get gas, and this guy in the gas station who I swear to God is the living embodiment of Apu from the Simpsons (I seriously thought I was in one of those 7-11's that they've pimped to become a Kwik-E Mart or something) notes my wedding ring, and goes, "Oh, you're married. Sad, sad." And he seriously looks sad. Two options here: 1) he's trying to get out of an especially bad arranged marriage situation or 2) I am genuinely a heartbreaker.

Then, to put the cherry on the hotness sundae, I go to Home Depot. Now, granted there are not many 24 year old chicks hanging out in the Home Depot buying plumbing supplies (have I mentioned that I am quite the plummer?). But this guy in the plumbing aisle who seriously has one single, solitary tooth on his lower gum, comes over and hits on me, and then, when he makes a funny that I am forcing laughter at, touches my arm in kind of a pervy way.

But then I go outside and am accosted by a homeless woman who calls me a "rich bitch" and tries to look through my purse to see if she can find any change. Kind of takes the glamour off a trip to Home Depot to be accosted by a homeless woman, don't you agree?

But anyway, either 1) every man in the Bay Area has been eating vats of oysters today, or 2) the apocalypse is coming and we all need to mate like bunnies or 3) I really need to wear this denim skirt more often. It's weird. I wasn't feeling fashionable or cute at all today--just had on a denim skirt, a t-shirt my mom sent me from Asheville, NC (my future home), and brown stacked flops. I didn't even bother to dry my hair. But suddenly I'm sex magick.

What do you make of this, my gentle readers? I have always been the "cute" girl, the girl who gets the blue sweater instead of the pink, the girl friend rather than the girlfriend. Am I now suddenly the sex-tastic bombshell I have always wanted to be? Am I glamazon?

Or should I just shut up?