There’s a running joke in the family: if you ever wanted to look like you had a tan, you simply stand next to me. Yes it's true, I could make even Frosty the Snowman take on a healthy glow. And you certainly don’t need any reminder about slipping on the sunnies when I’m around- the glare alone has been known to put dogs and small children into a hypnotic state. (Just ask my daughter’s teacher the day I helped out on an excursion to the lake one sunny day…)
So it was with some trepidation I recently read the weather forecast to see that not only had Spring sprung, but it was bringing advance notice of Summertime with it.
I don’t know about where you live, but here, as soon as there’s even a hint of the temperature hitting 20 degrees (celsius for those not using the same scale, which is roughly 70+ degrees fahrenheit), out come the shorts and sundresses; and by default, so do any body parts that otherwise go undercover in colder climes.
It’s a time of year I dread, because there comes a time when it’s so hot one has run out of excuses and must simply dare to bare. (Either that, or convert to one of those religions that requires complete coverage all year round, and I just don’t know how that’d go down with my mother.)
And so I face the annual dilemma of what not to wear.
My preference is still for longer skirts or those maxi-dresses, they’re cool, comfy, with good coverage. But take it from me, pick the wrong print and you’ll have little kids lining up behind you wondering when tickets go on sale for the circus.
As an alternative, three-quarter pants are also pretty safe, unless you’re somewhere around my height and instead of lengthening the body, they make you look like you’re auditioning for a role as one of the dwarves (I always maintained I could be all seven at the same time, provided their names were: Stumpy, Lumpy, Bumpy, Frumpy, Dumpy, Jumpy, and let’s not forget Grumpy)!
But I still have to ensure that I slather sunscreen on any flesh that may be exposed as a result, ‘cause with my skin tone I only have two shades– blinding white or lobster red. And after a few disastrous attempts at the home self-tan job (seriously, the bathroom vanity got a better tan than I did), I have resigned myself to having the same alabaster complexion as Nicole Kidman (only I don’t share the smooth forehead as she, for some reason).
At my previous place of employment I could always tell when Summer had begun, by the streaks of fake tan on the toilet seat. At least I hope it was fake tan.
Anyway, there we were at school the other morning, doing the drop-off routine with the kids, when we couldn’t help but notice the student-teacher sashay through the playground…followed by the eyes of not only all the mothers, but the fathers too. When she stopped alongside the class she had been assigned that day, the odds of the teacher up front of the assembly keeping the attention of those 6th grade boys were a helluva lot longer than the skirt this other one had chosen to wear.
I’m sure you can imagine the kind of comments that were being passed around the schoolyard; suffice to say that she didn’t get a glowing report card from a large number of onlookers.
So there I was, standing with the usual suspects as we observed the whole thing from the safety of the back row. And with utter glee akin to the kindergartners in the crowd, I noticed that whoever had helped that intern out had done a dodgy job in the fake-tan danger-zone leaving the front of her knees a peculiar shade of orange, and the backs a brilliant white, almost enough to rival what was poking out my trouser legs.
OK so small things amuse small minds, but I’ve gotta say those two little white patches gave us a mighty big laugh. And for once it wasn’t my legs causing the mirth. But with summer coming, I guess the last laugh will most likely be on me.
Jx
©2009
Showing posts with label clothing. Show all posts
Showing posts with label clothing. Show all posts
Saturday, October 10, 2009
Sunday, August 9, 2009
Bottoms up!
First thing I’m going to do when I win the lottery is throw out all my undies.
Oh I’m not going to go off and join a commune or even ‘go commando’ ... it’s simply a secret dream I hold (not so secret now though) to once again own at least one complete set of matching bra and briefs. And socks without holes. Like I used to have in the years B.C. (that's 'Before Children' for the uninitiated). Instead of the hodge podge of decrepit cotton I make do with now.
Yes, due to different demands on the family budget, gone are the days when I had underwear I could happily wear. Gone too, the times when I could strip down to my smalls with a smile when necessary (and given my medical history, it’s been necessary a little too often).
I’ll try to be brief (pun fully intended). These days, I’m flat out finding a flattering (and not flattening) fit for my girls. I’d settle for a pair of panties that stayed put once you put them on. And don’t even get me started on socks! (I’ve already stated my opinion on those annoying little devils.)
Why is it that manufacturers of over-the-shoulder boulder holders for larger ladies think that black, white, or beige is enough of a colour choice? And why are they so darn expensive once you go up a few cups? It’s not like you’re using that much more fabric to make the darn things, for crying out loud!
There have been times, as I’ve recounted elsewhere, that I have tried on practically every item in the store without success. And too many times I have longingly looked at the lingerie section…*sighs*… there but for the grace of God go I.
As for undies, maybe I’m just unlucky, but I’m yet to find a brand that stays where they’re supposed to, looks great, and won’t break the family budget to buy. They either ride up, fall down, or my all-time favourite: the waistband stays behind after the knickers come off (please tell me I’m not the only one that’s happened to?)!
I have found that if you’re worried about the dreaded VPL, you really need to go the G string (in its various incarnations), and risk doing damage where your mother never kissed you. Or if you opt for comfort instead, you’re pretty much left with Nanna knickers, otherwise known as Passion Killers (for obvious reasons). That’s a bit too ‘Bridget Jones’, even for me.
Sure, there are other options for tops and bottoms, but I’m yet to discover the perfect pair within my current price range.
For example, a friend of mine recently splurged on one of those Dr Rey Shapewear jobs. Aside from the fact you almost have to mortgage your house to buy a pair, she found it nearly impossible to A) breathe, B) walk, and C) go to the bathroom… but hey, it’s true that she looked good not doing all those things!
So I’ve had to settle for the Best & Less specials, and managed to get the pulling up or picking out down to a fine art.
Oh, I’ve also decided that genes play their part in these particular problems. (Something else I can blame on my parents.)
Yes, unfortunately for him, it seems my son inherited the family backside and was forever pulling his waistband up or the bottom bits down, until we switched him to boxer shorts. It did the trick too- and the time spent picking at his pants has been greatly reduced, I’m happy to say. He never did quite get the knack of doing it without drawing attention to himself. (My daughter, however, is not at all fazed to tell all and sundry whenever she has a ‘wedgie’. So we’ve put her in those boyleg/shortie undies too, to try head that one off at the pass, so to speak.)
And so, first item on the agenda when I win The Big One is to chuck out all the smalls. And then replace them all.
And you can be sure that when we crack the champers to toast our win, it’ll be “Bottoms up” in more ways than one!
Jx
©2009
Oh I’m not going to go off and join a commune or even ‘go commando’ ... it’s simply a secret dream I hold (not so secret now though) to once again own at least one complete set of matching bra and briefs. And socks without holes. Like I used to have in the years B.C. (that's 'Before Children' for the uninitiated). Instead of the hodge podge of decrepit cotton I make do with now.
Yes, due to different demands on the family budget, gone are the days when I had underwear I could happily wear. Gone too, the times when I could strip down to my smalls with a smile when necessary (and given my medical history, it’s been necessary a little too often).
I’ll try to be brief (pun fully intended). These days, I’m flat out finding a flattering (and not flattening) fit for my girls. I’d settle for a pair of panties that stayed put once you put them on. And don’t even get me started on socks! (I’ve already stated my opinion on those annoying little devils.)
Why is it that manufacturers of over-the-shoulder boulder holders for larger ladies think that black, white, or beige is enough of a colour choice? And why are they so darn expensive once you go up a few cups? It’s not like you’re using that much more fabric to make the darn things, for crying out loud!
There have been times, as I’ve recounted elsewhere, that I have tried on practically every item in the store without success. And too many times I have longingly looked at the lingerie section…*sighs*… there but for the grace of God go I.
As for undies, maybe I’m just unlucky, but I’m yet to find a brand that stays where they’re supposed to, looks great, and won’t break the family budget to buy. They either ride up, fall down, or my all-time favourite: the waistband stays behind after the knickers come off (please tell me I’m not the only one that’s happened to?)!
I have found that if you’re worried about the dreaded VPL, you really need to go the G string (in its various incarnations), and risk doing damage where your mother never kissed you. Or if you opt for comfort instead, you’re pretty much left with Nanna knickers, otherwise known as Passion Killers (for obvious reasons). That’s a bit too ‘Bridget Jones’, even for me.
Sure, there are other options for tops and bottoms, but I’m yet to discover the perfect pair within my current price range.
For example, a friend of mine recently splurged on one of those Dr Rey Shapewear jobs. Aside from the fact you almost have to mortgage your house to buy a pair, she found it nearly impossible to A) breathe, B) walk, and C) go to the bathroom… but hey, it’s true that she looked good not doing all those things!
So I’ve had to settle for the Best & Less specials, and managed to get the pulling up or picking out down to a fine art.
Oh, I’ve also decided that genes play their part in these particular problems. (Something else I can blame on my parents.)
Yes, unfortunately for him, it seems my son inherited the family backside and was forever pulling his waistband up or the bottom bits down, until we switched him to boxer shorts. It did the trick too- and the time spent picking at his pants has been greatly reduced, I’m happy to say. He never did quite get the knack of doing it without drawing attention to himself. (My daughter, however, is not at all fazed to tell all and sundry whenever she has a ‘wedgie’. So we’ve put her in those boyleg/shortie undies too, to try head that one off at the pass, so to speak.)
And so, first item on the agenda when I win The Big One is to chuck out all the smalls. And then replace them all.
And you can be sure that when we crack the champers to toast our win, it’ll be “Bottoms up” in more ways than one!
Jx
©2009
Sunday, June 21, 2009
Boobie Trapped
(NOTE: The conference has been and gone, but I'm posting this from another blog of mine, due to requests to repeat in a public arena. I have no shame, apparently.)
I’ve got to go to Melbourne next week for a conference.
Now, I haven’t been in any kind of corporate clothing for years, and that was always part of the appeal of moving from the Copy and Sales department to being on-air in radio: no one really gets to see what you look like. You could be slopping into the studio in your slippers, but sound like a million dollars and that’s the way the listeners picture you (for some reason people always think I'm blonde, too…not sure how to take that, hmmmm)!
Anyway, thanks to a quirk of Mother Nature when I became a mother, most of my “suit” stuff no longer fits me. Aside from the little jelly belly that haunts a lot of us ladies even after we get rid of ‘the bump’, I‘m a far cry from the President of the Itty Bitty Titty Committee that I used to be at school, that’s for sure. Oh yes, I couldn’t be one of those early developers and get the goods when we were trying to attract the boys in high school, could I. Oh no, I had to be a late bloomer didn’t I?
And bloom I did.
My girls darn near require their own postcode these days!
Within minutes it seemed of finally falling pregnant with my firstborn, I went from a respectable and sorely missed C (for Cute/Compact) cup, to DD (a Desirable Double), to an F (Far out), through G (Good God), up to H (Holy Hell), and into a nappy bra once the milk kicked in. Do you know what I mean by that? Two cloth nappies folded into triangles then pinned together as a halter top in an effort to contain the massive milk-making machines. (And you will never see those photos, I can assure you.)
Not only did I set a new record in the maternity wing at our local hospital, I broke it with my next bub!
Through the miracle of weight loss one gets from breastfeeding, I soon shrunk back to a tidy little size 10-12 (ok, I’ll be honest, so it’s more like 12-14 these days). Except for the girls- still an F cup. Friends and family who said that you lose your boobs when you stop feeding, lied to me big time.
How hard is it, I ask, to find a decent dress or matching pieces to fit that sort of figure, that’s not too tight up top or too baggy at bottom?? Very. Bloody. Hard.
After a few years of looking longingly at my lovely clothes in my cupboard, I bit the bullet and gave them all away. Which left me with a fairly unexciting selection of vee neck tees (to draw the eyes upwards and away from the monster cleavage, dontcha know), oversized baseball tops (an all-out camouflage campaign), and just a couple of nice pairs of pants and skirts (bor-ing).
So when my boss says we’re off to Melbourne for a conference, it occurred to me that I needed to seriously rethink and rework my wardrobe. (Sheesh, it’s the “Style Capital of Australia”, for crying out loud! Could we not have held it somewhere called ‘Boganville’ instead?)
I take one of my BFFs with me to help me shop.
Here we pause and I make a comment about the true nature of our friendship, as a couple of days ago I again tried on the two dresses I bought with her approval. One has a nice vee front…….that darn near dips to my belly button thank you very much! The other has a 3 inch wide belt that cinches just below the boosies, and causes me to have flashbacks to the aforementioned nappy bra. *shudder*
Like anyone would pay attention to what I was teaching in the Master Class if I wore that one!!!
What was I thinking picking these dresses?
What was she thinking to let me get them??
So it’s back to the drawing board with just 2 days now to locate the perfect corporate outfit on an itty bitty budget (yes, pity my monetary assets aren't as large as my physical assets). And now I am hyperconscious of my curvaceous booty. To the point where I am positive that if the local TV news crew were out filming generic images of the crowds for a story on say, obesity, getting the sort of shots where they zoom in on the fat butts or rounded tums or generous chests going by…well, that little red light would so be blinking in my direction for sure.
I mean, when I returned the affronting belted number, the nice sales lady insisted I try on another style- also with a belt! Needless to say, even she couldn’t contain her shock, and was ever-so-helpful in refunding my money, ever-so-quickly too.
So now, with about 48 hours remaining, it’s come down to this: if I fail in my mission to camo the mammo’s, I can only hope that my Workshop is sufficiently brilliant to keep the group’s attention on the topic and not on my top.
On the other hand, if my Power Point Presentation is pathetic, at least there’ll be two points that participants will remember!
Jx
©2009
I’ve got to go to Melbourne next week for a conference.
Now, I haven’t been in any kind of corporate clothing for years, and that was always part of the appeal of moving from the Copy and Sales department to being on-air in radio: no one really gets to see what you look like. You could be slopping into the studio in your slippers, but sound like a million dollars and that’s the way the listeners picture you (for some reason people always think I'm blonde, too…not sure how to take that, hmmmm)!
Anyway, thanks to a quirk of Mother Nature when I became a mother, most of my “suit” stuff no longer fits me. Aside from the little jelly belly that haunts a lot of us ladies even after we get rid of ‘the bump’, I‘m a far cry from the President of the Itty Bitty Titty Committee that I used to be at school, that’s for sure. Oh yes, I couldn’t be one of those early developers and get the goods when we were trying to attract the boys in high school, could I. Oh no, I had to be a late bloomer didn’t I?
And bloom I did.
My girls darn near require their own postcode these days!
Within minutes it seemed of finally falling pregnant with my firstborn, I went from a respectable and sorely missed C (for Cute/Compact) cup, to DD (a Desirable Double), to an F (Far out), through G (Good God), up to H (Holy Hell), and into a nappy bra once the milk kicked in. Do you know what I mean by that? Two cloth nappies folded into triangles then pinned together as a halter top in an effort to contain the massive milk-making machines. (And you will never see those photos, I can assure you.)
Not only did I set a new record in the maternity wing at our local hospital, I broke it with my next bub!
Through the miracle of weight loss one gets from breastfeeding, I soon shrunk back to a tidy little size 10-12 (ok, I’ll be honest, so it’s more like 12-14 these days). Except for the girls- still an F cup. Friends and family who said that you lose your boobs when you stop feeding, lied to me big time.
How hard is it, I ask, to find a decent dress or matching pieces to fit that sort of figure, that’s not too tight up top or too baggy at bottom?? Very. Bloody. Hard.
After a few years of looking longingly at my lovely clothes in my cupboard, I bit the bullet and gave them all away. Which left me with a fairly unexciting selection of vee neck tees (to draw the eyes upwards and away from the monster cleavage, dontcha know), oversized baseball tops (an all-out camouflage campaign), and just a couple of nice pairs of pants and skirts (bor-ing).
So when my boss says we’re off to Melbourne for a conference, it occurred to me that I needed to seriously rethink and rework my wardrobe. (Sheesh, it’s the “Style Capital of Australia”, for crying out loud! Could we not have held it somewhere called ‘Boganville’ instead?)
I take one of my BFFs with me to help me shop.
Here we pause and I make a comment about the true nature of our friendship, as a couple of days ago I again tried on the two dresses I bought with her approval. One has a nice vee front…….that darn near dips to my belly button thank you very much! The other has a 3 inch wide belt that cinches just below the boosies, and causes me to have flashbacks to the aforementioned nappy bra. *shudder*
Like anyone would pay attention to what I was teaching in the Master Class if I wore that one!!!
What was I thinking picking these dresses?
What was she thinking to let me get them??
So it’s back to the drawing board with just 2 days now to locate the perfect corporate outfit on an itty bitty budget (yes, pity my monetary assets aren't as large as my physical assets). And now I am hyperconscious of my curvaceous booty. To the point where I am positive that if the local TV news crew were out filming generic images of the crowds for a story on say, obesity, getting the sort of shots where they zoom in on the fat butts or rounded tums or generous chests going by…well, that little red light would so be blinking in my direction for sure.
I mean, when I returned the affronting belted number, the nice sales lady insisted I try on another style- also with a belt! Needless to say, even she couldn’t contain her shock, and was ever-so-helpful in refunding my money, ever-so-quickly too.
So now, with about 48 hours remaining, it’s come down to this: if I fail in my mission to camo the mammo’s, I can only hope that my Workshop is sufficiently brilliant to keep the group’s attention on the topic and not on my top.
On the other hand, if my Power Point Presentation is pathetic, at least there’ll be two points that participants will remember!
Jx
©2009
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