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?

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?

Today I am not choosing one outfit, but an entire style that I developed while mired in the depths of my eating disorder. (Wait, you didn’t know about that? Just add that to the list of my character defects! Yay!) As a ninety pound waif, I arrived at the conclusion that 1950’s Housewife Wear would be fashionable. On the one hand, this meant plenty of pencil skirts and killer high heels; however, the downside was itchy, stifling, unnatural fabrics and eye-bleeding prints. Not to mention the fact that I’m not particularly keen on wearing dresses and heels all day long. I’m just not that grown-up.

I now present you with a selection of dresses from this period in my life. I’m sorry that the quality of the photo isn’t better and that I didn’t take individual shots, but I didn’t feel like taking the time to upload each one, so here it is:

Clearly, comfort was not a priority. Also? These dresses are a negative size. There’s just not enough fabric to cover my entire left leg. Not that there’s anything wrong with people who are, but I’m just not that girly. What’s more? I can’t believe I tried so hard, for so long. I now wonder what the people I encountered were thinking. I wonder if they too felt visually assaulted by all the swing and polyester.

Here’s another one in which the pattern causes you to blink rapidly to focus your eyes. It’s that kind of migraine inducing. Blech.

The skirt might actually be alright, if paired with the right top. And by the right top, surely I mean something without polka dots. Oh, the polka dots. Good Heavens, wearing this dotted nightmare might cause some innocent, unsuspecting toddler to go crazy with a marker, mistaking me for a Connect-the-Dots. Although, a bit of marker might be an improvement.

I just can’t for the life of me fathom what I was thinking. Sure the style might not have been all that bad if I wanted to look like I stepped off the pages of Women’s Wear Daily in the 1950’s, which I didn’t. But the effort required to look this way! Oh it must have been tireless! As if I didn’t have enough to do! In between all the dress making, cookie baking, and child tending, I needed to apply lipstick and smooth out the wrinkles on my dress too? (Wait! I know I do those things now, but I do it in sticky blue jeans and stained nursing tops. Sweet.) In fact, that’s probably why this style of dress went out the window: I just didn’t have the energy to keep up with myself. Frankly, I just don’t care that much how I look. And, I hope, neither do you. Care how I look, I mean.

Next week, My Crocheted Nightmare! Awesome.

Hooo-boy, that’s frightful! I wish I had a good excuse for this poncho, but is there ever really a good excuse for a poncho? Is a poncho ever really needed? It’s not like they provide a great amount of warmth while being stylish and cute. I really think they’re just unbeautiful (it’s a word– I looked it up!).

I wish I knew what I was thinking when I spied this garment in the store. Was it, “I wish I had something only my grandmother would wear, only flashier and more kaleidoscopic.” Because it certainly wasn’t, “I’m just a touch cold. I’d like something that kept my core, body temperature while leaving my arms and neck practically bare. Oh wait! I need a PONCHO!” In my defense, I must tell you that I’ve never even worn it. Ugh. At least I’ve never worn it. Although it begs the question: Why buy so many unattractive clothes which I never wear? And I wouldn’t have an answer for you.

Poncho Number Two, because Oh-Good-Lord of course there’s another poncho, is more of a shawl really. It needs no introduction; thus, here is the next beaut:

Yes, I paid for it. Never before has something look so handmade. And, wait, don’t go getting your knickers twisted because I happen to love handmade. I am a huge fan of all things crafty. Hell, I’m a knitter, embroiderer, seamstress, all-around-crafty chica myself, so I don’t think I should have to qualify just how much I really do like it. It’s just that it has to be made well. It shouldn’t have that, “I just learned how to knit” feel to it, ya dig?

Those nubbly, pink things are roses! It’s scratchy! The style is such that is goes with nothing! What is it exactly?!? A shawl? A scarf? A wrap? A PONCHO?!? It’s not even cute! Bleh! It’s safe to say that this week is a true, honest-to-goodnes, Wardrobe Malfunction. Last week’s Malfunction was questionable– it could go either way depending on one’s preferred style. This week? Is just awful.

Do you see what I see? Is it just me? Does this dress put the fun in funky or is it loud, obnoxious, and sort of looks like I should be performing in the Carnival in Brazil? In case you need to assault you eyes a look at me in the dress, here:

Paired with the right (understated) accessories and shoes, this might actually be a nice look. I mean, I can’t nurse in it, so I can’t wear it unless I’m without baby for a few hours. (Oh, God, please may I have a wee break?) I probably just don’t have the guts to wear it out in public. It’s the kind of thing that the wearer must be absolutely sure about or else everyone knows.

I don’t know. You tell me, is my Wardrobe Malfunctioning, or not?

Except these:

There are 1759 reasons to get rid of these uglies. I mean, “Woof!” They have everything: lace, beads, frill, leather, ribbon. Everything shoes shouldn’t have. Sadly, I did not buy these to wear with any costume or gag outfit. I saw them in a shop window and thought they would make the perfect accessory to a skirt I used to own. And then I wore the outfit in public. I was in a shabby-chic/cowgirl phase (two styles which should never meet). I only wish I had a better excuse story for them.

I don’t even know what to say. I think they pretty much speak for themselves.

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.)

The item I am showcasing today would not be one of those times. It is a shirt made from another shirt. As in, a designer looked at a man’s dress shirt and thought, “How can I prettify this, so that a woman can wear it? How can I make this shirt better?” And then, he/she came up with this:

Oh, the horror! And, no, there is not enough fabric for this to be a wholly covering garment. As in, there is no back. Wait. Let’s take a better look see.

Clearly, I can’t explain what I was thinking when I bought this disaster, but it couldn’t have been: Gee, I look awesome! I’m not even sure I can properly explain what I am seeing. It is half of the front of a man’s dress shirt and half of the back of the dress shirt made in to one, whole shirt. By definition, this shirt should be a rag. This is not what a button down shirt should be made of, but should be made into.

I think we all need a closer look. Obvs.

Gah! It hasn’t gotten any better! Ignoring the tattoos and that jelly roll disguising itself as my stomach, I have no good excuse for this rag parading around as a shirt. Shield your child’s eyes, minimize this window until your boss walks by because I’m pronouncing these images NOT SAFE FOR ANYWHERE. Especially not for someone to wear. In public.

The shirt itself is scary enough, but take a moment and look at the second picture again. That tag? I can’t cut it out without damaging the shirt. Which, I suppose, wouldn’t be a bad thing as this shirt deserves to be burned, but what if I chose to wear it out in public? That tag would be the equivalent of a pocket protector. Extremely Dorky. And look more closely here:

Those buttons? They serve no purpose. What really holds the whole piece together is two strings one should use to hang themselves with tie around the back. I am just one loose knot away from tragedy.

Here’s the thing: In the five years that I’ve owned this shirt, I’ve never even worn it. I’m not sure this shirt would go unseen (or unlaughed at), so I’m positive the wearer needs copious amounts of alcohol self-esteem to wear it. Amounts of which I no longer have, nor am I sure if I ever did. Thus, this shirt has got to go. Where to donate it? I’m pretty sure The Salvation Army and Goodwill don’t accept handkerchiefs or rags. No friends of mine would ever wear such exotic (read: hideous) duds. Do you want it? I know you do. I know you’re ready to partay in this shirt. I know you have the perfect skirt/pants/shorts. I kid! Obvs. You really just want to frame it to immortalize my Bad Taste in clothing.