Commando

Club Monaco crop top and jacket, Zara white skirt, Via Spiga sandals, Ray-Ban sunglasses

Anyone who knows me, knows I love a lot of coverage, and by coverage I mean I like the places on my body that look like ham hocks and also my private bits to be covered. Extra covered. That means you will never see the tops of my arms and my tooshie will always be in full-butted underwear otherwise known as granny panties. 

I fully admit that I have worn a thong only about a handful of times and only in the most dire of circumstances. I'm sorry, but a string going up my crack and a tiny triangle in the front barely constitutes healthy butt coverage. I need at least two layers between me and whatever that bum put on that Bart seat I'm sitting on. Sure there's been some awkward dating moments between dates 3 and 10 when I switch from sexy to full-butted undies and there's some sort of silent wave of confusion; but that's they're problem. So imagine my own surprise, at myself, when I decided to go commando in this white skirt. Honestly, I just thought that it would be easier to go commando than to wear an uncomfortable worthless thong where my butt and most of my vag would be exposed anyways. And I was right! It felt amazing. I was totally that girl in the movie that has the witty banter with the hot guy, and I end up saying "I'm not wearing any." So, if it was socially acceptable...or hygienic, "commando" would be my middle name. Except after 20 minutes I started to get all kinds of anxiety about what could crawl up my na-na and the repercussions of sitting down on any surface that another butt has touched. So, I ended up back in my full-butted underwear like Cinderella, but what a glorious 20 minutes of standing at the Ball.

Hermes, David Yurman, Anarchy Street bracelets, Michele watch, my own rings

Blue Suede Shoes

Zara skirt and shoes, Gap sweater, Ray-Ban sunglasses, Marc Jacobs bag 

You know how some people say "shoes will be the death of me?" That's how I feel about these shoes-literally, because whenever I wear these, all I'm thinking is, one more step in these goddamn, razor-blade laden blue suede shoes and I will die. They're deceivingly plain and comfortable looking. There's barely any shoe actually covering my feet! But somehow, anywhere the fabric of these shoes touch there's a blood wound underneath. Now, I've resorted to buying packs of band-aids just so I can wear these shoes. For example, in these pictures, I actually have about 7 band-aids of various kinds on various parts of my feet like foot armor. It's like they're angry, like I got the Chucky of shoes and they're torturing me by eating every part of my feet, but really stylishly. There is literally not one portion of my feet that these shoes have not torn through my flesh. The back of my ankles? Check. The tips of my toes? Check. The top of my right ankle? Check. Oh and the top of my left ankle? Check. I even have a wound at the bottom of my pinky toe. My pinky toe! That toe is so small! I refuse to give in however, because these shoes so perfectly matches with this outfit. On a side note, hey Zara why don't you stitch on a lining for these puppies, I'll pay the extra $10 bucks for it. That's how much I'm spending on band-aids each time anyways.

Hermes bracelet, Michele watch, Anarchy Street, Cartier, and my own rings

Tete-a-Tete

Zara faux leather skirt and shoes, Madewell tshirt, Ray-Ban sunglasses

I had a tete-a-tete with some Swedish meatballs today. They were served steaming hot with some mashed potatoes, gravy and that red IKEA sauce made of lingonberry; a berry that we all suspect is completely made up.

Something happens when you enter IKEA. First, you realize that for as long as you buy furniture from IKEA, you're never going to be a true adult, and that despite having a law degree that you will be relegated to spending hours putting together cardboard furniture by pushing in approximately 1,000 wooden dowels and using those ridiculously tiny worthless tools. Second, you always always stop into their cafeteria for the meatballs, even though you know that in the outside world the meatballs are total crap, that inside the world of IKEA, those meatballs are like $4.99 Kobe beef with gravy on top. That all the other food that they sell are basically just side dishes to the meatballs. So, imagine my surprise when the woman in front of me orders roasted chicken. Roasted chicken! With no meatballs! But that wasn't even the worse part. The worst part was when she indignantly asked the cashier for some "pan drippings" because her chicken was dry. I mean do you really want pan drippings from a place that sells the cheapest furniture on earth? Well do you?? Can you even have pan drippings from dehydrated chicken? And lady, of course your chicken is dry, it's a $3.99 chicken meal from IKEA! I mean this ain't no Boston Market. I will never know the answer to these questions, and neither will she because she threw her chicken out, which was the only correct thing she did while I was there. 

As for the furniture, here's to hoping that one day I will grow up and own adult furniture that comes fully assembled and delivered to my home at a place that does not also sell meatballs.

Maison Martin Margiela, Cartier, Baublebar and Brandy Pham rings, Anarchy Street, Svelte Metals, David Yurman bracelets, Michele watch

Cover-Up

Club Monaco denim shirt and bralette top, Gap jeans, Via Spiga sandals, Gucci bag, Ray-Ban sunglasses

Somewhere underneath all that denim is a bralette top. So, I mustered all this courage to wear a bralette top and nobody can even tell that it's a bralette top; which is probably the only socially acceptable way I can wear a bralette top anyways. (See my other bralette top musings here)

Svelte Metals bracelets, Svelte Metals, Cartier and my own rings, Michele watch