Spring Fashion Report 2016

Spring has sprung! The buds on my viburnum smell delicious, my daffodils are in full bloom, and this sentence sounds like I know what to do in a yard. That's the prerogative of a blog writer. You get to lie at will.

To help you get the most out of your life, I here offer you a guide to this year's spring fashion. You're probably going to want to take notes.

**NOTE: I want you to know that I found these items when I searched "wearable spring fashion." 

Let's let that sink in a little bit. 

OK. Here we go:

1. The practical neckline. 

Listen, I love me some checked and I love me some plaid. But in my life, I do need to tie my shoes, pick up toys, and walk. I can't see the groceries staying put with any of those activities if I'm wearing this particular V-to-navel cut.

2. Face masks. They're not just for Spidey anymore! Think of the approving looks you'll get in the carpool lane. Nothing says "school safety" like the minivan mom rocking this look!

3. Florals and sadness. I just want to include this person, not only because of her winsome pairing of florals, but also because her tired and naked face was the one image with which I totally identified. This is the exact look I typically sport when hauling my daughter to 6:30 am choir practice. I also grab my beaded face mask because I don't want to be recognized. It never works.

4. Breast mesh. Again with the practical! I love this look! Perfect for book club!

4. Bows. I really do love these shoes. But I chose this photo for the pink bows. Pink bows of any size are VERY FLATTERING, but when they span the width of a woman's torso, you know you're on to something.

5. No comment.

6. Sometimes I worry about whether I should wear boots with a particular outfit. I can see I have been over-thinking. Also, let's be humanitarians and get this woman some lip gloss.

7. Everyone needs highlights in the spring. Please remember this. Also, everyone needs to trust bang cutting with the professionals. Also, Thea wants you to know she's worried about the eye make-up.

8. And finally, boob cut-outs. Just to remind the boobs where they need to land. Middle age is tough, friends, and sometimes we need direction.

Happy spring! Now go shop!

Oscars Viewing Guide

A thousand years ago, when I was young and carefree, I used to watch movies. Moving pictures, as we called them. It was a grand time, a glamorous time, a time when I could eat an entire bag of Cheetos and not feel anything but happiness. It was a time when I could sleep in until noon and not even have a fever. It was a time when I not only knew who was up for an Oscar but also had seen most if not all the films nominated.

This time has passed.

Here's what I know about this year's show:

1. Some girls are going to wear pretty dresses.

2. Some girls are going to wear other kinds of dresses.

3. The winners will receive a little bronze statue man. They will also cry a lot.

4. The winners will be very angry with the orchestra when it cuts them off. Because actors and actresses don't have enough time in their lives when people are watching them and listening to their every word. 

5. Inside Out is up for best animated feature! I've totally seen that movie!

6. This is also nominated FOR AN ACADEMY AWARD. Let that sink in for a moment.

Right. That should do it. You're completely prepared to enjoy another Oscar season! Get out your swan dress and your Cher headpiece and you'll be good to go. Cheers and a happy red carpet to you!

You Take Care Now

I had my first manicure last week.

Actually, it wasn't a real manicure. It was a fake one, lasting only about ten minutes. And it was free. And I was in an airport lounge where the "manicurist" might also have been the "janitor." I don't know. I didn't ask. Because it was FANTASTIC.

My nails looked really lovely and girly for about three days. Now they look like this.

But for a moment, they were not chipped. They were all grown-up and pretty, which was a great distraction from my wrinkly, dry mom hands. (**WHEN DID THIS HAPPEN?? WHEN DID MY HANDS BECOME MOM HANDS?? EXPLAIN THIS TO ME!!)

I'm not great about doing girly things, like keeping up on hair and make-up trends or getting my nails done. I'm the kind of girl who tends to find an eyeliner in, say, 1999, and then stick with it. Same with eye shadow. I might have gotten a wee bit hysterical one time with the Estée Lauder woman when she said my sparkly, neutral eye shadow creme base had been discontinued. I remember her telling me that the pitch and intensity of my voice was inappropriate for a department store. WhatEVER. Stop discontinuing my make-up and I'll give you appropriate!

So last week, when the manicurist/janitor stopped clucking about how unmoisturized and generally disgusting my mom hands were and started massaging them, I think I purred. (Did you know they do that?! They massage your hands!) I started to slump in my chair, eyes closed, and a little puddle of drool accumulated at the corner of my mouth.

The whole, glorious experience reminded me of a day in 2001 when I got my one and only facial. A faint memory of total bliss peeked through and I'm sitting here now, wondering why I don't do these kinds of self-care things more often. Because here is my most urgent of questions: Is my face going the way of my mom hands?! Are my cheeks and forehead dry and hang-nailed and generally neglected? Especially since some heartless make-up executive (we'll call him The Man) discontinued my eye sparkle?!

I'm inching toward an inappropriate volume and pitch. I'm off to wring my hands... but only after applying a healthy amount of moisturizer. 

Winter Fashion: I Have Concerns

I'm battling a raging sinus infection and you know what I'm wearing? An infinity scarf. In case you missed last week, we have an infinity scarf issue in our house. Marc is opposed; I am in favor. We aren't quite as heated about neckwear as we were about getting Mr. Trump out of our state Monday evening. I was pretty whipped up about that. Marc was, as is his nature, more measured in his language. This is why I love him. Also, he would never wear orange make-up or a hairpiece.

So I'm feeling sick and a little whiny and worried about the world. More specifically, I worry about tweens. Sure, I have the normal worries about drugs, sex, and rock-n-roll, but today I'm mostly worried about their winter apparel.

In short, tweens appear to be coat-adverse. They don't wear coats. They wear sweatshirts and flowy sweaters and flat-ironed hair but they do not wear coats.

(Don't get distracted by how cute these outfits are. Don't do it! I'm making a point!)

Sometimes we pass these shivering girls or boys (this no-coat thing is no respecter of gender), and Marc will erupt at the insanity of it all. "What are they thinking? It's fifteen degrees outside!" I will join him: "They don't look cool. They just look cold!" Even Thea will pipe in. "That girl is wearing leggings that don't even go to her ankles! She will probably get frostbite." "Aha!" Marc will add, triumphant. "Good, Thea! And what ankle looks pretty with black and purple dead flesh?!"

He tends to go just a wee bit too far. 

Nevertheless, we have planted this kind of propaganda into the minds and hearts of our children for years, and it's totally working. Our children wear coats. OK, Mitch not so much. But if he's sledding, he totally wears a coat! 

Ana is doing us proud as a tween in so many ways, not the least of which is her willingness to wear clothes in winter. She, like her father, loves to be warm. She loves her coat and wears it with pride. She also wears a stocking hat because she is a very smart young woman. (NOTE: I have purchased two infinity scarves for her. Smart + stylish = world changer.)

My throat hurts. And I'm feeling dizzy. That photo of The Donald isn't helping. Time for a nap. I, for one, will be dreaming of the day when junior highers wear warm clothes and vote responsibly, in that order. We can do it, America! 

Winter Fashion: Marc Has Concerns

Marc and I have been married seventeen years. I married a good man, which is fortunate for me since I was completely clueless and about ten years old.

One thing we know after all these years together is that Marc knows best what clothes look good on me. Please don't send me letters and try to get me to free myself like the good feminist I am. I am not shackled to anything here. I simply know when I'm beat. When I get compliments on my clothing, Marc has probably had some input. When I don't get compliments, I probably got dressed in the dark and/or took the tags off before Marc could weigh in.

Everyone brings something awesome to the marriage. I bring my dance moves, and Marc brings his sage fashion advice.

WITH ONE EXCEPTION. I like infinity scarves.

Marc does not.

He really does not. And by this I mean I can see his face twitch a little when I put one on. I admit, sometimes the scarves are a bit large.

But sometimes they are pretty much fantastic and beautiful and trendy and youthful-not-slutty. When you turn forty, you are looking for youthful-not-slutty. Can I get an amen?

Marc disagrees with this fashion choice, and apparently, he is not alone. I was chatting with my friend Ann about this and Ann was feeling my pain. She and I were connecting about the infinity scarf. But then her husband, Jeff, came up and when he realized the topic of conversation, HIS FACE TWITCHED. Jeff also dislikes the scarves! He said, "Yeah, they're not our favorites," speaking for the males among us. 

I think it's the barrier issue. (STOP READING THIS IF YOU ARE UNDER EIGHTEEN. I MEAN IT. GO PLAY.) Infinity scarves are barriers to what lies beneath. This reminds me of a dear girlfriend of mine that sleeps with her own dark blue, fluffy fleece blanket. Julie just cocoons herself up in that thing right on top of her sheets, snuggles in and goes to sleep with a smile on her face.

Her husband has named the blanket The Fortress. Imposing. Impenetrable. Sends a clear message for what's about to happen if you attempt an advance.

Maybe Marc thinks my scarves are The Fortress, Version 2.0. Really, I'm just cold and trying to look cute. But he's reading into what message I'm sending. (Or maybe he just thinks they don't look great, but THAT'S IMPOSSIBLE. HE WOULD BE WRONG. AND HE IS NOT WRONG ABOUT WHAT LOOKS GOOD ON ME.)

Oooh. This is turning dark and broody. I just got chills. I'm going to get a scarf.

Pool Time and Other Dangers

I really do love me some pool time. Am I wrong to say such a thing, in this day of skin cancer awareness and limited sun hours? Well, I do. I'm not saying I bake out there until my epidermis flakes off and  my hair catches on fire, but I do love to feel the sun on my pale Midwestern bod and to remember again that God loves me. 

This is in sharp contrast to a certain Norwegian who lives among us and who has been known to marvel at his BLUE skin. Skin so white, it's BLUE. Marc runs to the shade (sprints) after fifteen minutes, but I just slather on some more 50 SPF and count it good. In a not-so-distant future, people might start asking me if I'm Marc's mother, but at least I will be fully fortified with Vitamin D and happy summertime memories. That must count for something.

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Which is good, because my recent pool visits have me counting lots of other ways I'm losing. First, I'm not sixteen. That, my friend, is very, very noticeable at the pool. Lots of people at the pool ARE sixteen, and they have the abs to prove it. And long, luscious hair which requires more than a quick shampoo every three days. Ahem. And they paint all their toenails in one sitting, which has a startlingly beautiful effect on one's feet. And they have perk in perky places and lift in lifty places. 

They are something to behold. 

I feel shocked, really, when I remember I passed that mile marker over two decades ago. The perk has parked, the lift has lowered. And now I wear a skirt when I'm swimming. 

Seriously. This is a blow to any woman's ego, is it not? I wear a skirt. Sure, it's short and cute and in a cute paisley print, but it is absolutely, undeniably a skirt. One short stop up from this.

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Skirts are awesome for dipping, throwing, and rescuing young children in the water. They prevent innocent sun bathers from seeing middle-aged groceries and other dangerous possibilities. And they are very practical for women who spend an inordinate amount of time failing to understand how to tighten and loosen goggles. (Am I alone in this? Do your children's goggles make you feel stupid? Are they secretly some Mensa test that I continue to fail?) 

So swim skirts have their merits. But they sag when wet. And cling in odd ways. And they are SKIRTS.

But here's the deal: When I was sixteen and didn't know perk and lift were temporary situations, I thought my thighs were too muscular. (HA!) And that my calves were too manly. (HEE!) And that my feet were fat. (WHO IN GOD'S GREEN EARTH CARES?!) So today may I be fully grateful for the healthy body I've been given, may I make peace with the skirt, and may I embrace my voluptuous feet. Heck, with this sunny perspective, I just might paint all those toes the same day AND take a webinar on goggle adjustments. Watch out, world!

Summer, in Theory

Oh, summer. I am so happy it's here. Just when I thought I would lose my ever-lovin' mind, summer arrived. And I am grateful.

But let's just be honest this year, Kim. (Danger! Danger! when I start speaking in the third person!) Summer is full of false promises in the area of fashion. I love summer fashion IN THEORY. But real life is often like a snowball to sunburned cheeks (you pick which set).

In your best interests, I present four fashion items that are awesome in theory alone:

1. Shorts. Aren't these cute?

Photo credits.

Yes. Yes, they are cute. And you will not be seeing me in them, likely for the rest of my days. Shorts SEEM like a great idea. They LOOK like a great idea on the pages of magazines. But when a body has birthed many small humans and that body also likes ice cream more than triathlons, well, shorts are NOT a great idea. They are a sad idea. Do not be fooled.

2. Midriffs. Look at this woman.

Photo credits.

I have no idea what she's doing but don't get distracted. The point here is her midriff. It is phenomenal. Awe-inspiring. It's the kind of midriff that allows her to skateboard down a sidewalk holding a long black pole and no one will bother her, not even public safety. Because she has the midriff. Do not, under any circumstances, pick up that pole, rip off your shirt, and try the same shenanigan. I, for one, have crossed to a different stage of life for midriffs, which looks more like this.

Photo credits.

No to skateboards. Yes to floppy hats and standing still.

3. Camping out. Actually, this sounds horrible to me. But some of you think it's romantic and family-friendly and good for honing survival instincts. Go, girl! Camp like a Sasquatch! And when you can't sleep at 3 am because the ground is not made for sleeping and wolves sound scary in real life, leave your little play stove right where it is and find me at the Westin. 

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4. Shiny accessories.

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Apparently shiny, sheeny things are the rage this summer, but I don't want to talk about that. I want to talk about my concern for the girl modeling this handcuff purse. Why hasn't anyone given her food? Why haven't they stuffed a couple slices of pizza in that purse to take with her when the photo shoot is over? I have written about fashion hot off the runways, my struggles with remembering to change my children's clothes and the perils of  skinny jeans. But I have never endorsed not giving models pizza. I just want to clarify my stance on that. Models should eat pizza and THEN hold shiny accessories. And then they should eat more pizza.

Photo credits.

Being Real With My Bad Self

Listen, I tried to be Wonder Blogger Girl. I really did. For awhile there, I was posting three (THREE!) times a week, which easily shattered any previous record ever set here. And I enjoyed it because I like you people and I like hearing from you.

Turns out, however, thrice weekly was too much. I'm sure you were tired of my musings and I was running out of time to, say, read books or keep current on international affairs. Also, I MUST clean the upstairs bathrooms. This whole balance between living and working continues to be a work in progress. Can I get an amen? Anyone else out there struggling with raising a family, cultivating a marriage, working every now and then, and remembering to play?

I'm still going to hang out here once a week and I sure as heck hope you'll join me. Shall we plan on Thursdays? Thursdays sound good. It's a date, then. I might even wear lip gloss, I'm so motivated.

So thrice-weekly blogging will need to go the way of the dinosaurs, Lee Press-On Nails, and low-rise jeans. I don't actually know if low-rise jeans are out for the general populace, but they certainly are for me. Things have happened in my low-rise region that produced three lovely children and an extra accessory for my midriff.

Leann Morgan says it best. I love this clip.

Tuck in those purses and see you next week. I'll be the one with the armpit jeans. 

Spring Fashion 2013

Because I love you, I have gone ahead and condensed a spring fashion guide right here, right now. You may write me a thank-you note. But please only do so if you are wearing one of these featured ensembles.

First we have the ever-beloved crotch pant. 

 Because we all have great reasons for accentuating that particular part of the body.

Next up, the day-glo pink evening gown with chandelier embellishment.

 I know the model looks angry but really she loves this dress and can't wait to wear it to....lots of places.

Next, for those days when you want to feel anonymous:

 (Extra credit question: Are there many real, life humans who wear ankle boots well? I fear my ankles look like stuffed sausages, so I'm not exactly excited to draw the eye to that region. Anyone?)

This photo makes the cut just for the hat. Please, please buy this hat and wear it to church and volunteer in the nursery. 

Finally, we have the best spring fashion tip ever: Wear your crown in public.

Take it off that top shelf in your closet and wear that thing! Stop hiding under a bushel, princess. Put on that red jeweled dress with the holes and crown it up!

I hope this clarifies all those confusing messages from the fashion world. Go in peace! Stuff those ankles in! And rock the crown!

Jeggings and Other Horrors

Please, please help me out here.

Why the jeggings?

Photo source.

Try not to concentrate on the fact that this particular woman hasn't eaten since half-way through the Clinton administration and focus instead on my confusion. Why skin-tight jeans that aren't jeans, with cuffs that squeeze all the blood out of one's ankles?

I have man-calves. There. I said it. I am the girl who cannot find stylish leather boots that zip because that zipper will end up slicing into my man-calf. Instead I have to find boots made from scary, synthetic materials that are stretchy and smell funny because they were made in a laboratory in Guam. I am the girl who should have pursued gymnastics or professional calf raising competitions because my man-calves would LITERALLY crush the competition.

Photo source.

So leggings/jeggings are full-fledged danger zone for me. Can I get an amen out there? Or are you all the people who have lovely calves and delicate ankles? I have serious delicate-ankle-envy. And you should be a little scared of my anger because people with huge calves can be vicious when provoked.

Please tell me I'm not the only one. Jeggings be gone?

Reasons I'm Not Famous

Did you watch the Golden Globes? Yeah, me neither. I had good intentions and I think Amy P. and Tina Fey are hi-larious, but I get so distracted so easily and I think that night I cleaned out my shoe rack. Turns out, the Birkenstocks I bought in the mid-nineties really AREN'T coming back in style. 

Which brings me to the subject of the day: Why I Am Not Famous and Should Never Be Allowed to Attend a Fancy Party. First, I might try to wear Birkenstocks. Second, I would absolutely not wear an appropriate dress/gown/ensemble, particularly if we take a look at what important people were sporting this year at the GGs. First, I give you Jessica Chastain:

Gorgeous and talented. But Sea Foam on me would be more like Sea Sick and Midwestern. Her pale and beautiful does not translate to my skin in Iowa winter because there is very little justice in the world. Finally, a sports bra would really ruin the whole look here but I'd be terrified to let things take their natural course. Sea foam sports bra it would be.

I think Halle is a lovely person, but if I tried to poke and prod my extra flesh into this ensemble, I would either be arrested or tied over a spit with an apple stuck in my mouth.

On to J-Nude.

 I don't see the love here. Why nude panty hose behind lace? Is this pretty? I am missing the point, I am sure. Also, I could stare at the camera with a smoldering gaze until all the cows came home and I'd still look like I forgot to cover the groceries.

Emily Blunt:

A wholly unnatural way to stand, but we're talking clothes here and I have to say it: Cut-outs will never touch this bod. I'm trying to show people God LOVES them, not the opposite. Trust me when I say a midriff cut-out would communicate hatred to all God's children.

I have such a long, faraway journey to make before I can understand the ways of fashion. In the meantime, anybody need a pair of Birks?

Signage, Part One

Say this word five times fast: Signage. Say it. Now assure your children you haven't been drinking, but that when you get older, laughs are cheap and you have to resort to reading blogs by crazy people.

When Marc was in grad school, he came home one day and told me in a disbelieving tone that his department had put up signs (signage) announcing an upcoming meeting regarding signage. While this is a very apt metaphor for just the kind of mindless banter that can drive a person right out of academia in a hurry, using the word "signage" has given me no small amount of joy over the years. Why not just "signs?" And why have meetings about it?

These are the deep questions of the universe, and entirely too heady to discuss on this blog. We prefer talking about falling on our tushes and woodchucks.

So instead of thinking about word origin, let's take a look at a sign that gave me GREAT joy recently. When we traveled to Dallas, we had the chance to visit a fantastic new outdoor space downtown called Klyde Warren Park. Yummy food trucks, great green space, delightful people and dog watching, and a lovely little playground.

When we approached the entrance to the playground, we saw this:

Talk about great signage! Only in Texas! And I want you to know I actually witnessed women removing their high heels to walk into the playground area.

I, with the foresight of a frumpy Midwesterner, had left my heels at home. I didn't look very pretty, but darn it, I was able to walk right up to the climbing cube and get AFTER it!

All right, you Southern women. Defend yourselves. Explain yourselves. And for the love of Pete, please interpret the signage.