Category Archives: Fashion

Everything’s Coming Up Lillies

Worse than any hangover I've ever had. Okay. Third worst.

Worse than any hangover I’ve ever had. Okay. Third worst.

I woke up with a Lilly hangover this morning. What is a Lilly hangover you ask? It’s when you stay up until the wee early morning hours in the hopes of being one of the first online to scap up some Lilly Pulitzer for Target crap.

Have I lost my mind? Yes, I have. I will tell you something else. I’m pretty sure Lilly is rolling around in her grave right now. Because…Target. (I love Target, don’t get me wrong. But Lilly in Target? That’s like Imelda Marcos in Payless.)

In case you live in a box, cave or have a life, here’s a recap…

The powers that be at Lilly Pulitzer, for reasons I don’t really know because I know nothing about economics or consumerism or whatever, decided to collaborate with Target.

My best guess is that the Lilly people basically dummied down their product and slashed their prices by a million percent so that middle America could afford it. So these people get a taste of Lilly and the patterned gold and will want more. Except if they want it, they’ll have to go get the real stuff. We’ll just call them Lilly Teasers.

I am not a Lilly fan. My style is relaxed moms-wear, preferably in browns and blacks with the waistband of my jeans landing somewhere north of my belly button. My idea of bold is wearing mismatched socks.

A little over a year ago, I had never even heard of Lilly. So, why the (partial) all-nighter? I’ll give you one hint. She’s an off-spring of mine. And her wish list was long.

Just so you know, I didn’t have to stay up until 2am. I didn’t do it for moral support or to be a cheerleader. But because leaving your credit card alone with a 16 year old is probably not the wisest decision. Although by the end of the hour, she had those 16 digits committed to memory. Twenty something hours later, she still knows them. I’m a little bit scared.

So, here’s how it went down:

After stressing for two days because we weren’t going to be near a Target on the coveted day because we were away at a dance thing with other Lilly-loving junkies, we found someone to follow on Facebook that would keep us in the know. In other words, tell us when Target/Lilly would be releasing the goods online.

We refreshed and refreshed some more ’till the cows came home when suddenly our new Facebook Lilly friend made an announcement to “QUICK HURRY UP AND SWITCH TO YOUR MOBILE DEVICE!!!” In layman’s terms, that means that you could only order via your smart phone. Don’t ask because I don’t know. It’s one of those technological mysteries.

buying lilly

The Lilly Brigade

After much screaming, a broken eardrum and some pissed off neighbors, everyone had their phones ready to go. We were now prepared to procure some of the cheap coveted Lilly wear. Our new Facebook Lilly friend posted links to specific items in drips and drabs. This all happened before the actual online sale started.

After we were able to purchase some items, I saw a comment that the links were “leaked” and that Target found out and put a stop to the madness pronto. Now, I don’t know if that is true or not. But that’s what I read. And since the links stopped coming and from what I’ve seen in the wake of the madness, I believe it to be true.

Finally at nearly 2:30am, the heavy lidded teens and temporarily insane moms went to bed. I awoke to pissed off people on Facebook complaining about the injustice of it all. When they did finally announce the sale online, most everything was gone. Or gone within minutes. Possibly even seconds.

Pictures of brick and mortar Targets with lines wrapping halfway to the back parking lot were being posted. Hey, you people at the back of the 300 people deep line? Go home. You’re not even getting a nail file (which could have been yours for $2).

Apparently, we were very “lucky” to be able to get what we got. Now to wait for the shipments to come in. If the quality is at least better than a paper bag, then we may be keeping it. If not? We’ll have years of gift giving sitting in the closet. Oops. Did I just say that out loud?

Oh, and one more thing…if you tell anyone I actually was a willing participant in the madness? I’ll deny it. And you’ll never get a cheap cute Lilly headband that I bought for $15 from me.

And may I please introduce to you....The Final List.

And may I please introduce to you….The Final List.

 

Keep It In Your Pants, Son

This photo popped up on my Facebook newsfeed a couple of weeks ago:

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The Men’s Half Thong.  It’s so wrong, it’s just wrong.  I’m not quite sure what I thought when I first saw it.  I think I was a little shocked.  Which is weird for me because really, I am pretty open-minded.  It takes a lot to shock me.  And a lot to totally gross me out.  But this did it.  It both shocked and totally grossed me out.

Come on people, really?  Lordy, keep your junk hidden.  Give us something to leave to our imagination.  Would you like it if we walked around with our….oh, never mind.

Then of course, I inevitably had the next thought that I know everyone else in the free world is thinking:  How does it stay in place?

The only thing I could come up with is it has sticky stuff all up and around it.  So, it kinda works like a pasty, but instead of for boobs, it’s for penises (peen-eye?).  And even though I don’t have one, it kind of pained me to imagine ripping that stuff off my junk at the end of a long day at the beach after sweating and sea salt and who knows what else.

I shared the photo with my followers on my Facebook page (if you don’t follow me there yet, you can do so here: https://www.facebook.com/Momfeldcom).  I got all kinds of reactions.  Mostly everyone was disgusted.  Some had some funny things to say about it.  One follower said her friend’s mom thought it was spring loaded like ear cuffs.  Someone else said they were wondering about the amount of waxing that would be needed.  Then the conversation turned to red, white and blue.  Get it?  Red, white and BLUE?  It was all quite entertaining.  Still I needed to get to the bottom of it.  I needed to know how it stayed up.

Then a nice follower of mine shared this photo with me and shed some much needed light:

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Sorry, this pic is so small it’s hard to see. But you should be thankful.

So, it’s like a pant leg except it is missing the leg.  Well, it does have a “leg” but it’s the wrong leg.  It’s missing a lot of the material except for ahem, one little itty bitty part.  Or big part, depending on who you’re talking to.

You stick your leg through it and the string stays in place via butt crack.  Perfect.  Still not pretty.  Then random weird images ran through my mind like my dad wearing it and stuff.  Totally involuntary, by the way.  Sorry dad, I love ya, but….eww.

So, you know what guys?  Can you stick to a real bathing suit?  One that covers up a little more?  We know you have a penis.  You don’t need to prove it to us.  And I would like my lunch to stay where it was intended.  Thank you, the world at large appreciates it. 😉

 

A Girl and Her Parka

A friend posted this on Facebook the other day:

parka 2

I LOL’ed to myself and then I “Liked” the photo.  This friend commented that she was surprised that I did not comment.  Do you want to know why I did not comment?  Because people who live in glass houses should not throw stones.  Here is my look for 6 months out of the year:Yes, I have even worn slippers when dropping The Kid off at school.  I never said I was proud.

Yes, I have even worn slippers when dropping The Kid off at school. I never said I was proud.

During the off season, I keep it hidden away in an upstair’s closet.  Where it lies in wait for its annual debut.  October is when it comes out into the light and hangs on the coat hook by the garage door until the end of March.  Always ready for my eager self.

I love my parka so, SO much.  It literally is my best friend.  The Kid hates it.  When I say “hate” I mean it.  If given the chance to throw a lit match at it, I’m pretty sure she’d take it.  Hopefully, with me NOT inside.  I can see her cringe on the field hockey field when she sees me sitting in the bleachers wearing it.  Or when I throw it on to drop her and her friends off at the mall.  Sometimes I’ll even add my pair of Fuggs to complete the look.  This is the ultimate revenge tool.  There is nothing like embarrassing your teenager.  I live for it.  But that is only one of the reasons why I love my parka so.

  1. This thing covers up every flaw, faux pas, and bad hair day.  There is nothing like a big fluff of goose feathers to mask every imperfection from the scalp to the knees.  Now if I could only get away with wearing it in July.
  2. It allows me to get more sleep.  How?  I don’t have to waste time getting dressed.  If you happen to run into me at school or the grocery store and I am wearing this, you can bet the ranch on the fact that there is nothing but hairy legs, bra-less ta-tas and Walmart pajama bottoms under there.  I might be kinda screwed if I get arrested or wind up in a car accident.  Because chances are, if I’m dressed like this, I also have not changed my underwear.  Sorry mom.
  3. This bad boy covers my buns.  And if my buns are warm, everything is warm.  Who said heat escapes through the head?
  4. It is machine washable and dryer safe.  My white parka has the misfortune of being owned by a slob.  Therefore, it pretty much gets a bath every time I lean against my car, spill coffee on myself or sit.  It has seen the inside of a washing machine more times than Miley Cyrus has stuck out her tongue.

So, Purple Parka People, have you no shame?   Walking around in a comforter with arms?  Of course you don’t.  Neither do I.  I just hope you are dressed under there.  There is room for only one PJ clad housewife in this town.

 

A Pointless Blog Posting About My Closet

I am a self diagnosed slob.  It’s not just me who agrees with that diagnosis.  DH thinks I should get a prize for it.  So, I’m a little on the lazy side.  But who doesn’t just stare at that wadded up grocery list that somehow managed to work its way into the corner of the kitchen floor every time they walk by it?  It takes some serious energy bending down to that level at our age.  Or any age really.  Please.

My “office” space makes Oscar look like Martha Stewart (Oscar the Grouch or Oscar Madison?  It could go either way.).  Every time I eat, something inevitably ends up on my shirt.  One of the things on my ever growing “to do” list is to buy stock in OxyClean.  And my closet?  That’s a whole different story.  I actually haven’t really entered my closet, like really entered it, in a while.  My summer clothes are kept in a drawer and so are my jeans.  My closet also contains clothes that are predominately to be worn in an office setting and since I can’t find a job in an office setting, they have been hanging there pretty much collecting everything but my dry skin for years.

I decided to venture into my closet, I would say about 17 days ago, because DH and I were going to go out to dinner.  It was a chilly evening and I thought a cute sweater with some jeans would be good.  My closet is not nice.  The Kid has a huge walk in closet.  I don’t know who designed this house, but they got it wrong and it pisses me off.  Really pisses me off.  I have the type of closet that is about 2 feet deep by 6 feet long with bi-level doors.  Is that what they are called?  Bi-level?  I don’t even know.  But the type where when you pull on the knob, they fold in half.  Hey, I never claimed to be a closet OR door aficionado so get off my back.

Well, when I opened my little bi-level doors, I was smacked in the face with a major mess.  The shelf at the top is spilling over with pocketbooks I’ve had since the Bush administration.  The first Bush.  Lingerie that I will never, ever wear because they were my mothers (there’s a very good explanation) and shoes that have sentimental value to me.  Including caked-on-dried-up-mud-on-the-heels wedding shoes from 1992.

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98% of my tops are hanging from wire hangers.  And anything that has not been worn since my first temp job at a now-defunct pharmaceutical company seems to have a slight layer of dust on them.  Okay, so maybe a bit more than “slight.”  It seems that a very wet cloth is in order.  And forget about the floor.  I have shoes that fell out of style when The Fanny Pack came into style.  And dust bunnies that have grown into full grown rabbits.  Big ass mean rabbits with fangs.

          No Wire Hangers!

No Wire Hangers!

Since I was trying to get ready to go out to dinner with DH, and I’m pretty sure he was talking about going out to dinner that evening not next Tuesday, I had to pick something and get out.  Quick.  But there was another problem.  I soon discovered that nothing fit.  Nothing.

So, I need to clean out my closet.  Not only because it is the pig sty from hell but because what is the point of allowing clothes that do not fit take up perfectly good real estate.  I thought for sure that that would be a project I would do while recuperating from my surgery.  But it turns out that I can’t stand for more than a few minutes without it feeling like a big rubber band has wrapped itself around the middle of my leg.  

And anyway, I really hate projects.  What will happen is I will be all enthusiastic and start tossing clothes into a heap.  Then I will look at this heap and it will suddenly feel overwhelming.  And then I am going to want to do everything BUT clean up that heap.  Like go pour myself a glass of wine or try to run around the block with my broken knee because that pain would probably be better than the pain of cleaning up a mess that I willingly created all on my own without anyone telling me to.

Yesterday I decided to bite the bullet and start on Project Closet regardless of what my knee felt like.  I pulled on the little knobs and opened the doors.  I started to the right by grabbing a fistful of hangers with dresses on them.  I stared at these dresses for a minute.  Placed them back and closed the doors.  Then cursed in my mind.  Well, actually I cursed out loud but no one was there to hear me so it’s basically the same thing.  Then went downstairs and watched reruns of “Grey’s Anatomy” before they killed off Dr. McSteamy.  Damn.  I miss that man.  And maybe I’ll clean my closet tomorrow.  Maybe.

Wedding Dress Blues

photoWhen I was preparing to get married, my wish was to wear my mother-in-laws wedding dress.  My own mom’s wedding dress was out of the question because my parents got married shotgun style.  Catholic + pre-marital sex in 1966 = pink suit.  My MIL’s dress was gorgeous.  I mean it.  It was made of the most exquisite Chantilly Lace, with beautiful long lace sleeves.  The skirt was hooped like Cinderella’s ball gown.  It was every young bride’s dream.

When I shared this wish with her, the woman couldn’t run fast enough up the stairs to the attic to retrieve it.  I think the gesture made her happy.  After all, she is the mother of 4 boys and none of them like to wear women’s clothing.  To my knowledge anyway.

It was stored for well over 30 years in a large black garbage bag.  Rolled up in a ball.  I don’t blame her.  What else was she supposed to do?  And remember, she had 4 boys.  I ran into the bathroom to try it on.  I could barely get the arms up.  And zipper it?  I’d need a crow bar.  I was 122 pounds and pretty damn fit at the time.  All I could wonder was what did this woman eat?  Cabbage?  For every meal?

Besides that, it wasn’t in great shape.  The lace was torn as if it lost a fight with a paper shredder and had started yellowing like old teeth.  My heart lurched.  I was incredibly disappointed.  But there were options.

At a bridal expo I had recently attended, I met a man who preserved old wedding gowns.  I can’t remember exactly what we paid, but it was a bit pricey.  The dress came back with the same tears and it may not have been as yellow as old teeth, but it sure wasn’t white either.  Not even close.  And I did not want to be an ecru wearing bride.

Her dress was a Fink Brother original.  Lucky for us, they had a store in the big city.  We schlepped down there one day to meet with Mr. Fink himself.  He remembered that gown and told us the lace came from France and resembled a large round tablecloth with just a hole in the center for the waist.  No seams.  I could have the lace replaced but it would cost thousands.  Thousands I did not have.  And since I didn’t have any rich uncles laying around, I had to give up my dream gown.

This is what I wore instead:

My dress is a Fink Brothers as well

My dress is a Fink Brothers as well

Not exactly Cinderella’s ball gown, but it did the job.  And it was white.  MIL’s dress is neatly folded in a box in an upstairs closet.  I should have made a Christening gown out of it, but I couldn’t bring myself to cut it up.  Who knows?  Maybe the kid will pay thousands to get new lace.  Anybody have any rich uncles they’d like to share?

Dress Down

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See this dress?  I wore it to death. It was long, almost to my ankles, had a cute little belt and buttons that started half way down my back and went all the way to the bottom.  I adored this dress.

I used to have to commute about 45 minutes one way to work.  I worked for a big corporation in White Plains.  It was fun, but the days were long.  One evening, after I pulled into the driveway, I noticed that Dan from across the street was hanging out with my brother on the front porch.  Oh joy.  He’s such an asshole.  I was not in the mood to deal with him.

After I collected my things from my car and walked up the stairs to the house, Dan says to me “nice ass.”  Gee, thanks Dan.  You’re an asshole.  And yes, I do have a nice ass.  Thank you very much.

I go into the house and continue on to my room to change.  I reach behind me to unbutton my dress and the blood immediately leaves my face.  Holy shit!  I have just died.  They are already undone.  From the top button all the way to the bottom.  The asshole got a nice shot of my butt.  My thonged butt.  Thank God pantyhose were in at the time.  At least they covered up something.

I figured that they must have come loose in the car.  This is what happens when you love something to death.  It doesn’t pay to be loyal.  You just get shit on.  The button holes must have stretched out after about a million wears.  It was time to retire my beloved dress.  I did love you so.  Well, until you did this to me.

So, that was a major wardrobe malfunction to say the least.  I would say second to Janet Jackson’s ordeal.  Except I didn’t do mine on purpose.  I swear.

I am No Marcia Brady

If you liked my Cal-Pro story, you’ll love this one.  It’s quite obvious that my parents were on a budget.  So in addition to not being able to obtain Adidas, I couldn’t have Jordache jeans either.

What I did have were these totally rad gauchos.  My mom had a sewing machine.  Unfortunately for me, she wasn’t very good with it.  Every time I saw a pattern out on the table, I’d pray it wasn’t for me.

This one particular outfit stands out for me mostly because I wore it for my first day in a new school.  I was 12.  12 was a pinnacle year for me for fashion.  My gauchos were made with the stiffest denim known to man.  I believe the material was meant to upholster bus seats with.  What happens when you make gauchos out of stiff denim?  You become a triangle.  The top was a short sleeved shirt with an elastic neckline.  Why elastic?  I guess there was a sale on it.  Add in knee socks and saddle shoes and I am a total trend setter.

Honestly, I don’t know how I had any friends.  It must have been my winning personality.  Well, at least the saddle shoes were the same size.  Sorry, mom.  I know you meant well.  At least you clothed us.  But an elastic neckline?  Were you trying to kill me on purpose?  Gag.

Goody Two Shoes

Let’s go back to 1979.  Remember Caldor?  Well, do you remember the bin in the back of the shoe department?  You know the one.  It was filled to the brim with Cal-Pro sneakers.  Each shoe was attached to its twin by a really nice elastic rubber band.  Awesome.  Every 12 year old girl’s dream.

Yup, you guessed it.  I was one of the lucky few who got to actually own a pair of these. When all my friends had those totally nerdy Adidas and Pumas, I got Cal-Pros.  I was incredibly cool.  The envy of all the school.

The first time I tried them on was at gym class.  When I got them on, I saw that one shoe was a whole size larger than the other.  I literally spent the entire class with my toes lined up so it would look like they were the same size.  I’ll tell you, playing dodgeball with your feet pressed together doesn’t work very well.  Let’s just say I was an easy target.

I’m not sure what ever happened to those sneakers.  Did my mom return them?  I don’t remember.  I guess I blocked it out.  And the rubber band system?  What were they smoking at the factory?  Thanks a lot potheads.  You were a huge help in my development and for that I’m forever indebted to you.