1. You’re a dog.
2. You’re not a tourist.
3. You rarely spend time in the sun.
4. Also, you rarely spend time in the rain. You HATE the rain and would rather pee on the carpet. By the way I’m so over that, but now I realize you may be getting back at me and I kind of understand.
5. Because, obviously, I need to hear it again: YOU ARE A DOG. (Not to be confused with DAWG, which you are so not.)

Again, I’m sorry and I promise never to dress you in human clothing again. (I now realize human clothing is kind of redundant because HUMANS SHOULD BE THE ONLY ANIMAL TO WEAR CLOTHING.) Also? It only just occurred to me why you might be peeing on the carpet. If I promise never to have such a serious lapse in judgment again, will you please stop? Please? Remember: I can always take you to the shelter! (I kid. Only slightly. Maybe.)

This should be evidence enough that I make piss poor fashion choices all the time. RIGHT NOW, in fact. It should also be evidence enough to prove that the computer camera wouldn’t be sufficient to document my crappy wardrobe.

But wait! That wasn’t the Wardrobe Malfunction I wanted to show you. What I wanted to show you is how I have made piss poor fashion choices my whole life.

Seeee?

Let’s break it down, shall we? (And because I like lists, let’s do it list style.)

• Those glasses. I have a problem with those. People who may (have the luxury) of knowing me in real life, will know that I indeed am a wearer of the corrective eye wear. However, at the time of this photo I was not. I stole those puppies from my mom. Exactly what for, I am unsure. (Clearly, I do a lot of things and am unsure WHY I do them! Or MAYBE that is just the excuse I use to avoid looking like a piss poor fashion choice maker! Ohhh, psychology! I’m really peeling away the layers now.) Back to the glasses. I remember wearing them and feeling a little bit, erm, off. I don’t know, like, MAYBE I WAS WEARING THE WRONG PRESCRIPTION IN MY EYES??? Regardless, these effers are ugly. Beaten with the ugly stick. Born of an ugly mama, to an ugly papa, birthed by an ugly doctor, and swaddled in an ugly blanket. And they aren’t doing me any favors here. Blech. Also? Does anybody remember Sally Jesse Raphael? Yeeaaah. Now you do. You’re welcome.
• The necklace? Srsly? Is that a jingle bell? Oh for crying out loud! I was (supposedly) a hip 13 year old girl. Not a 57 year old divorcee living in Boca Raton, wearing a Gem Sweater, petting one of my 12 cats. And, yes, fashion does indeed extend to accessories and nail polish. Do we even need to debate this point? I DIDN’T THINK SO.
• My sweater has Christmas trees on it. Frankly, speaking of Gem Sweaters, it would probably be more attractive if I was wearing one of those because OH FOR THE LOVE A CHRISTMAS TREE SWEATER??? I can’t believe my mother let me leave the house looking like this. I look like a virgin (not by choice) 42 year old librarian. Barf.
• Let’s talk about what we can’t see here, but what I know is going on. Attending a private middle school, one that has no uniform but a strict dress code instead, wreaks havoc on personal style. I (but it wasn’t just me okay) would continually find ways to tweak the code so some originality could leak through (and in my case plenty made it). One of those ways was to take the mid-calf length skirt my mom sent me to school in and roll up the waist band; thus, making a mini skirt. The only problem with this was the fact that one’s waist became all lumpy and bumpy and one would end up looking as if she were wearing a potato sack. Attractive, no? Hence, the shapeless sweater.

Oy. Middle School. What a breeding ground for questionable fashion choices! I look like a monster (a fashionless monster) about to jump out the screen and rawr you to death. And I still can’t get over my (mom’s) glasses. Didn’t she even think to ask why I wanted to wear them to school? And WHY DIDN’T SHE STOP ME?

Wait. What was I talking about?

Oh yeah– Pictures! And, boy, do I have some goodies. Most of these are sitting in wee catalogued piles waiting to be scanned into the computer and written about. Tonight? I bring you photographic evidence that I just so happened to be kind of a big deal at one point in my life. Basically, there was (and still is, in some cases) more to me than the drugs/alcohol/recovery/relapse/recovery crap I’ve done. I know! Surprising, isn’t it? (If you didn’t notice, that last sentence was dripping with the sarcasm.*)

My life, as a young girl and teenager, was spent riding horses. I traveled the country (and indeed to other countries at times) riding and showing. I rode jumpers (judged by how high and how fast they go over fences), hunters (judged by how prettily they jump over a course of fences), and equitation (I was judged by how smoothly I would ride the horse over a course of fences). It was a lot of fun and I had a ton of success. I could expound for hours on the Life Lessons that riding taught me, how perseverance and hard work are required to meet and surpass goals and blah blah blah, but who really wants to hear that boring stuff? Am I right? (Of course, I am.)

Onward to the show. . .

Photographers walked the grounds of the show taking pictures of the riders. This was me, sitting on my horse, getting ready to enter the ring. I like the look on concentration on my face and my blond hair. Just because, you know, I don’t have blond hair.

Me and my horse Virginia City. Two things: 1. I didn’t name her. If I had, she would have been Princess Sparklepants of Sunshine and Rainbow Land and 2. That fence is pretty big, like 4′6″ big.

This would be Just Another Import. He’s like a big teddy bear. In fact, his barn name is Ted. He loves Werther’s Original caramels. Seriously. He would follow me anywhere for a caramel.

Lots of times I had to be all, “No autographs please” because the fans. The fans were positively rabid. I kid! I think I was just waving to my mom. That there horse is Peterbilt Special and he was my mom’s favorite buddy. He died a few years ago.

Horse shows were a tiring business. That was taken during my junior year of high school when I would go to school all week in New Jersey, hop a plane Thursday night to Florida, show all weekend, and hop another plane back to NJ on Sunday night. See? Exhausting. Also? I wonder what book I was reading.

This was one of the ponies I rode when I first began showing. Her name was Bon Soir, which is Good Evening is French. She once pooped on my friends head when we were wrapping her legs (something one does to her horse after having a lesson). She (the pony, not my friend) also had a really amazing, thick, curly, white tail.

Showing horses is the epitome of “hurry up and wait.” There was always lots of time to goof around on the golf carts, go get food, and just generally be an obnoxious teenager. Inevitably, I would then find myself running to the ring with my trainer screaming at me for not being on time. Whoopsie!

I don’t like to pick favorites because each horse I owned held a special place in my heart. I considered them all my best friends at a time when I didn’t have any friends. Sad, but true. Fun Fact: I was pretty much the biggest dork in my high school. I had no friends and spent what little free time I had socializing with books and horses. This usually causes other teenagers to laugh. Anyway. This was, like, my BFF. His name is So No Wonder, but I called him Sony (like the radio). I showed him at Madison Square Garden and won. Good Times, man, good times.

Here I am at the Winter Equestrian Festival. I was Small Junior Hunter Circuit Champion that year which is just a fancy way of saying that I kicked ass.

That’s Ted on the right and Peterbilt on the left. See? I told you that horse would follow me anywhere for a Werther’s Original. I’ve always thought horse showing is sort of cruel and unusual punishment. In the 100 degree Florida weather, we were forced to wear long sleeve shirts, wool jackets, boots, and britches (pants). Whoo- HOT. Conversely, in the ass cold of winter, we would wear the same outfit and freeze out patooties off.

Here I am with Sony and some Prize Lady. I’d just won a class and was receiving the trophy. I don’t think I ever got tired of the Victory Lap. It made me feel like I’d just done something Really Cool and Special.

This is me and Ted at the Devon Horse Show. A rider has to qualify in her/his division before she/he is able to ride there. I spent most of the year collecting enough points to qualify for the three major horse shows in the fall: The Pennsylvania National Horse Show (Harrisburg, PA), The National Horse Show (Madison Square Garden, NYC ((although it’s moved since then)), and the Washington International Horse Show (Washington, DC). Also Devin, but that was in the spring and not quite as hard to get into. I have a ton of photos with PROOF stamped on top. It just means I never bought a copy from the photographer and, well, when you show 50 weeks out of the year it’s just too damn expensive.

This was Sony and me at the Garden. It’s amazing and exciting to be able to show in such a prestigious arena. Although it was so cramped that I would end up walking Sony around the city block just to get some fresh air. I kind of wish I’d bought a picture from that time because it was the last time Sony would ever show and it was special. He’s alive, but lives in NJ and is old, old, old. I miss him. He was always a good guy to talk to and he never judged me. He also saved my ass quite a few times.

Sony and I at Devon. This was a very special class that I ended up winning and I think it’s my most favorite trophy ever. It just means so much. See the cool jacket I got to wear? It’s called a shadbelly and I just think that’s a funny name. Say it with me: SHADBELLY.

This was the first horse I ever really trusted. Before him, I’d been thrown in the dirt, broken my wrist, and ridden some real pieces of crap. I had been training with an asshole trainer and he didn’t really care who he put me on and I ended up getting really hurt. Eventually we left that guy and found someone with a conscience. Anyway. The horse’s name is Jimmy and he was a saint.

That ends our journey through Horse Land. Showing horses was one of the things that made me who I am today. Most of the really healthy patterns and behaviors I have began when I rode horses. Today, my horses are all too old for me to show them and I don’t have the time needed to dedicate to the many lessons and shows. Maybe someday, but now now.

*And if you didn’t notice, just who do you think I am anyway?

That being said, I was recently thinking about the book The Secret (which has become a movie and a cultural phenomenon). In case you have been hiding in a bomb shelter haven’t read it/seen it/heard of it, the “Secret” basically says that you attract what you think about; therefore, thinking positively will attract happy, wonderful, sunshine and rainbows, but thinking negatively will bring about a plague. While I tend to agree with this approach, I’m not entirely sold on it. I am a worrier by nature. My family, particularly The Him, finds this trait not charming, no, but annoying. On a near daily basis, he is subjected to every possible disastrous outcome which *might* result from any decision in our plans. I like to think that I stave of death, famine, and tragedy by merely worrying about them. Now, really, I know that’s not true, but in the planning stages of every choice I try to avert crisis by knowing what can go wrong. Seriously, what’s wrong with that?

The argument could be made, however, for that fact that thinking about all of these negative outcomes, causes them to come to fruition. Maybe. I don’t know. I do know that just the other day I decided to take the Baby One and the Dog out for a walk. One of my biggest fears is that I’ll be out walking with the Dog (which is a small dog by the way ((and small dog=small poop)) ) and he’ll poop, I won’t have a doggy-poop bag, another neighbor will come along right at that time, see me not picking up my dog poop, and think What an asshole! She didn’t even pick up her dog’s poop! Anyway, we’re out walking and, of course, the Dog poops. I did not foresee this little problem, thus, I left my doggy-poop bags at home, but no one was around and I walked away. But! I felt really guilty about it the whole time. On our return trip, I was obsessing about it and I knew we’d walk past it. I was totally thinking that we’d run into a neighbor right as we came up on the poop and that neighbor would be all That’s your dog’s poop! Why didn’t you pick it up??

So I did what any crazy sane, rational person would do: I decided to kick the turd off the sidewalk and into a nearby bush. As I came upon the offending poop, this was my plan. (By the way, it’s important to take note of the fact that I was wearing open-toed shoes– Flip Flops!) I kicked it up and over into the bush and instead of flying neatly through the air to land in a quiet, unassuming, out-of-the-way place, it smeared all over my foot. E-GADS! The horror!! I carefully (very carefully) slid my Flip Flop off and furiously rubbed the top of my foot all over the grass. And do you know what happened next? The neighbor walked by. And I just knew exactly what she was thinking: She forgot the doggy-poop bags! What an irresponsible pet owner! And to try and fix it by kicking the poop elsewhere? Well, she sure got what she deserved!

So I don’t know. Did I attract that negative outcome by my incessant worry over the negative or did I get poop all over my foot because I didn’t worry enough? Or Always Remember Doggy-Poop Bags! Lesson learned, the hard way me thinks.

Sure. It’s something like that, Bugs.

Cripes! Are those ever ugly?! Anyway…
I have a mammoth shoe collection. And, you would know by now if you’ve been paying attention, that not all of these shoes are gems in my wardrobe. On no. I keep every sad foot covering that has ever graced my pretty, little peepers. Oh wait! I should actually tell you about my Foot Anorexia! It’s really pathetic sad! You see, I have fairly small feet. Not freakishly so, but just small enough that people often say, “Oh my! I can’t borrow your shoes! Your feet are too tiny!” When people make these exclamations, I feel proud. Yup, proud. For years I walked around in fear of growing big, old, boat feet and in an effort to keep nature from taking its course, I wore shoes that were a size and a half too small. I didn’t want my feet to appear too large. I was hardly in danger of this, however, because my actual shoe size is a six. A six! That’s not large at all! But I’d rather hobble around on too small shoes than risk looking like I’m walking around with cinder blocks attached to my feet. See? This is Foot Anorexia. I’ve only very recently (sort-of) outgrown this ridiculous problem.

And these sad dogs are from the Foot Anorexia Era. Can’t you tell? They sort of look like doll shoes. And those way cool dinosaur laces don’t help much. Granted, I was about 19 when I wore these sneakers and, clearly, I was still straddling the fence of Not a Girl But Not Yet a Woman. With child-like dinosaur laces, I was somehow trying to reconcile my immature nature with the ginormous boobs I sprouted at 19 because I was a late bloomer. Wearing these shoes, was akin to wearing a billboard down Main Street with my mental problems painted on it– a therapist’s wet dream.

I’m not sure I even need to address how broken down these puppies are. I mean, we all see the cracks, rips, tears, and missing pieces, right? What would possess me to keep these shoes well past their Use By date, I really have no clue. Indubitably, they aren’t even fashionable and I’m not sure they ever were. They look like a throwback to a bygone era (like the 70’s), that should stay good and by gone, dammit. I easily have 400 other pairs of sneakers in my closet, but when asked if I was (by chance) throwing them out when I took them out of the closet for their premiere video, I said, “Oh hell no!” Was she suggesting they were garbage? OH NO WAY!

Here’s hoping I never dare to put these sneakers on my feet. Ever, ever again. Unless it’s Halloween and I’m going as a Homeless Person. Then it might be okay.

What’s with me and crochet? I don’t have any particular affinity for it, but, man oh geez, do I have a lot of this knitted specialty. Also? Pink? Now, it used to be my favorite color. One might say, I used to be a skosh obsessed with the color, but then I realized it wasn’t at all unique to like pink. Generally, hearts like pink, Valentine’s has laid claim to the color, and most girls are friendly with it as well. So I changed! Now I’m a Big Fan of Turquoise and Red. It’s lovely. I don’t know– it just IS. But, I digress.

Also, notice the slight difference in tone between the top and the bottom. See it? It’s there! I promise it is. It’s just enough to be obvious. And it’s annoying. It’s also fashionless, ugly, holey, and weird, but I’m only addressing the color change between the top and skirt right now.

And what might one wear UNDERNEATH the sweater? Obviously whatever it is had better be pretty to make up for all that pink ugliness. Seriously? This outfit is altogether too busy. It gives me a headache. And really? There aren’t ENOUGH words to talk about how hideous this is. Let’s just forget it, shall we?

Hole In The Pants For Him
What hole? Whose pants? His pants? His pants have no fracking hole!

Things I Am Thinking About
Um, I think I’d rather not know. Also? I think we all know how that turned out.

Baby Moo: Month 6
I know! I’m a little bit late. Whoops!

Something Fishy
I’m guessing that would be our dearly departed fish friends, Sonny and Crockett. But! Who knows!?! I might have been referring to the time Baby Moo pooped and it missed the diaper and slid out the side and landed on the floor! How do these things happen? I also might have been wondering who was the genius going around stealing tires off of cars in our development. I opened the front door to take Bugsy to school and was met by our Acura up on cinder blocks. Awesome!

Slippers
Oh, wait! That is a good one. I’m saving that for later.

No Title
But I did write something! It starts off, “Growing up in my house. . .” Growing up in my house, WHAT? It was crazy? We had fun? I have two sisters that no longer speak to me? WHAT?? Was I about to regale you with the time I sent my father to the E.R. when he was about to spank me? Oh! A real knee slapper! Or was I going to tell you about the time the police brought me home, drunk (me, not the police), on Thanksgiving break? WHEN I WAS IN EIGHTH GRADE! Good times! Who knows, but I bet it was a really juicy tale.

Three Purple Socks
Huh? I have NO CLUE. Clearly, my ever helpful titles aren’t ever really helping me to remember whatever it is that I wanted to write about. I once knit a sock. One sock. And it was kind of purple in color. But I definitely didn’t knit more than one, so obviously I didn’t knit three.

Ba-Dum-Shee
Apparently I was about to tell a joke. Although I now can’t remember what joke that was because I KNOW NO JOKES. So whatever. On second thought, perhaps I was going to relate something that recently happened. I might just be the clumsiest person alive, so a lot of mishaps go on throughout the day. I tripped and fell down the stairs yesterday, I rolled off the bed the other morning, I was trying on a pair of my Jimmy Choo stilettos when the heel got caught up on the rug and I took a tumble, and I nearly broke my ankle trying to maneuver a nursing baby and myself up ONTO the bed and OVER the guard rail last night. I have no excuse, other than standing vertical is clearly a challenge and throws me all out of sorts.

And that concludes our walk through my brain Drafts Folder. I now know I need to write a short blurb before I hit save to give myself a few more clues as to what I was thinking. Because if these titles are anything to go by, clearly I’m cross-eyed crazy clueless.

I now present the World’s Ugliest Skirt:

For the moment let me ignore (if I can) the migraine inducing pattern, to focus on the basic cut and
silhouette of this atrocity. If I replaced the bright orange and yellow flowers with, say, something more elegant and sedate and replaced the heavy brocade-like fabric for something lighter and more flowey, IT WOULD STILL BE UGLY. The skirt sits on the natural waistline and would make someone like myself, with a long torso and short legs, look like a squat elf. The pleats only serve to add girth AND HIPAGE, revealing me to be not long and slender but PEAR SHAPED AND UGLY. So, right out the starting gate this piece of shit skirt sucks. There is NOTHING, short of finding a new skirt, to make this thing better.

Onto the print!

Someone lower the lights, hand me a wet washcloth for my forehead, and leave the Imitrax on my night stand. I need a minute. The old joke, “The 60’s called and they want their skirt back” couldn’t be more appropriate. I feel like I need to be riding around in a VW bus, daisy chain in my hair, smoking a joint for me to pull off this magic. Although the print really might be harshing on the group’s buzz, so even they might kick me to the curb.

The extra, triangle-shaped fabric draped from the top of the hanger is not a case of double vision. The designer of this skirt clearly loved the print so much, s/he thought the wearer might appreciate a rag one could fashion into a top. It’s obviously not big enough to be a scarf and it’s triangle-shaped, so it’s not right for a pashmina either. It is just perfect, however, to be tied into a top! Yay! I can almost hear the relief. For example if one wore the skirt on Monday, but didn’t have her fill of the ugly on Wednesday and needed more of this ghastly pattern there is a solution: she could wear the top! Squee! It’s like a party in pink, orange, and yellow fabric!

In the interest of not wanting to burn any more holes in any more retinas, I’ll leave with this final thought: If we’re having this much fun and it’s only the third Wardrobe Malfunction Tuesday, can you imagine how much more cuh-cuh-crazee it’s going to get? (Yikes. Me neither.)