Third Is The Word

Capture1Preface: I’ve never given an acceptance speech, so I’m going to take the opportunity to do so today … right here … right now. Ahem …

Today is a pretty fantastic day. And not just because it is Friday and not just because it is beautiful outside and starting to feel like fall. But strictly because it is OFFICIAL that Life Sucks In A Strapless Bra placed 3rd for Best Local Blogger in the PHL Philly Hot List. And, might I add, the only fashion blog in the top five. I truly don’t have words for how ecstatic I am … in fact, I just feel like this:

giphyPhilly has an amazing blogging scene. Yes, a lot of talent, but what I love most about it is how supportive we all are of one another. True, I don’t know a lot of bloggers outside of the lifestyle/fashion realm, but the ones I do know, some of whom were nominated for Best Local Blogger as well, are encouraging, supportive, and always willing to retweet or leave a lovely comment on a post. It is such a breath of fresh air and something that makes me honored to be apart of the Philly blogging scene.

I want to sincerely thank all of you who voted. I know it sucks having to give your email address and make a profile and do all of that nonsense and then getting all of those horrid emails (damn you, Philly Hot List :::shaking fist:::) But the fact that all of you suffered through that annoyance to support me and help me to get to where I am today … I cannot thank you enough. Seriously … beyond overwhelmed over here. Talk amongst yaselves …

CaptureI went into this thang with a loose goal of being in the top 10 … out of 96 amazing blogs, and to be the only fashion blog in the top five … well, is something special.


Anywho … thanks to my family, my amazing friends, co-workers, cats, my lord and savior Jesus Christ, my Apple laptop where all the magic happens, and mostly to anywho and everyone who voted. THIS ONE IS FOR YOU!

Cat Calling Your Clothes

pantsoffIf you are woman, you’ve been cat called in some way. For me it is usually overly cocky construction workers telling me to, “smile,” which makes me turn into Satan. But either way, there will forever and always be those gross men in this world that think it is okay to compliment a woman by screaming awkwardly at her on the street. “YO BA-BEEEE, BRING THAT OVER HERE TO DADDY.” Oh yes, I forgot, let me swoon, twirl my hair, and bring “that” over to you. Which is my fist. To your balls.

And listen, if you haven’t had the pleasure of being cat called, consider yourself lucky. It is just straight up embarrassing and doesn’t make you more of a woman or validate your “hotty status” in any way shape or form.

But I realized something over this past weekend. I found myself in Zara, drooling over their fall line and twirling around saying, “it’s too good … it’s all TOO good!” with stars in my eyes. Especially when I came across this amazing motorcycle jacket (see below). It was straight up sexy … I had to have it. But I found myself verbally harassing the inanimate object for no apparent reason:


“Look at you over there, you leather temptress.”
“You need to come home to mama.”
“Oh baby … bring that over here and be mine.”

Umm yeah … awkward as shit. I’m very much aware. But when I fall for a piece of clothing like I did for this motorcycle jacket, it is love …pure, unadulterated love. And I feel very much the need to express that love … by acting like a buffoon on the street ogling ladies and making them blush with embarrassment.

Listen, if I were this leather motorcycle jacket, I would have totally slapped me across the face. “FRESH! :::Slap:::” But my mom always told me to invest in a good,expensive piece only if you love it so much you could kiss it. And I suppose I took that a step too far. Unfortunately my leather love muffin is still sitting in the store as A. they didn’t have my size and B. a $300 leather motorcycle jacket just isn’t in the budget unless I wanted to live out of it for a few months.

I’m not saying it is okay for assholes to whistle at ladies on the street and embarrass us profusely, but I AM saying it is okay to cat call your clothes … because that only means you love it so much you could kiss it.

Bitch, I’m Stealing Your Look

CaptureWhen in elementary school, or middle school even, sharing a look with a friend was completely okay and insanely cool. Much like “On Wednesday’s we wear pink,” I would call my best friend up and exclaim, “tomorrow let’s wear white crew neck Gap t-shirts and Gap boot cut jeans!” (Yes … I actually literally did such a thing) And we would walk down the halls thinking we were the bees knees when in real life we were the biggest bunch of clowns that had ever existed.

Even if I saw a fellow classmate, you know one of the “cool” girls, rocking a piece of clothing or a pair of shoes that I coveted, I would have no qualms going out, buying them, and then sitting next to the girl wearing the same thing. I saw nothing wrong with it.

Nowadays, in this place called “adulthood,” that shit don’t fly. If you go out for drinks with a friend and find you are wearing the same thing, it is mortifying. Simply because well A. you look like you’re auditioning for Deal or No Deal, and B. all night you will deal with drunk assholes slurring being like, “jjjjuuusssguyys twinsssooorr ssssumthhiinn”?

And in the office when you walk in wearing the same thing as a fellow employee, you smile and exclaim “twinsies!!!!!!!!!!!!!!” and maybe take a pic and post it on social, but deep down, you know it sucks and is uber annoying. And not because you think you’re the most original person on the planet by wearing a black maxi on a Monday, but strictly because you are an individual who detests every five seconds hearing, “omg Susie in Accounting is TOTALLY wearing that outfit, too. You guys should take a pic.”

But this weekend I found myself falling back into my elementary school ways. Scrolling through Instagram, I stumbled upon the most perfect pair of heels that ever existed that my friend Sarah had just purchased. Drool dangling from my mouth I commented, “I want to go to where those shoes are.” And like that I had started the “bitch, I’m totally going to steal your look” process, something I hadn’t done since I purchased the same pair of Puma slide-on sneakers as the coolest girl in the 8th grade.

The difference was … I asked. I asked my friend Sarah if it was okay. Yes it is a free country and yes I had every right to purchase said shoes without her blessing, but to me, fashion is sacred. When you buy something as fantastic as these heels were (see above) you do so because you adore them and can’t live without them and find them to be something special. By not asking her if I could steal her look, I felt like I would be destined to strut around in them with some bad ju-ju. You know, falling face first into a puddle, the heel cracking off and spraining my ankle … normal stuff.

When I asked her, which felt like I was proposing marriage, her response was quite refreshing … “I take it as a compliment when people want to steal my look, go for it, girl.” And then I jumped up in mid-air and ran off skipping and kissing said heels. No that didn’t really happen, instead I kept asking “are you sure, are you sure, are you REALLY sure?!” until I was REALLY sure she was going to hit me.

So I bought the shoes. Now we are shoe twinsies … we should take a pic and post it on social (psyche). But no in all seriousness, it is normal to covet another person’s look. I do it all the time. Strangers on the street? Bitch, I steal their look all day errday and never ask. “Excuse me kind lady, may I go to the store and buy those shoes you are wearing, pretty please?” Umm no. But when it comes to friends, co-workers, your dog walker … you ask. Because that is the right thing to do. Otherwise you are tacky, my friend, straight up tacky. Admit that you envy their look and want it so badly you can’t stop drooling. It will make their day AND you’ll get something you desire out of it as well … without any bad ju-ju.


Consciously Uncoupling From Carbs and Vodka

Screen shot 2014-08-25 at 5.31.05 PMWelp, I’m back from vacation. And it was lovely. Truly. I’m refreshed, rejuvenated, creatively stimulated from my brain sitting on a shelf for the past week, and I’m no longer Casper the Friendly Ghost status. I’m more like his fourth cousin second removed, Slightly Toasted Marshmallow. What I’m trying to say is, I no longer look like I have a vitamin D deficiency, ya dig?

But when you look deeper inside my soul, and my veins, you will find something way less pleasant. Way less … healthy. And that is because vacation means carbs … and copious amounts of vodka. Seven days of, “ooh a frozen pizza for breakfast … SURE why not!” “Cocktails on the beach at 11 a.m. that can’t stop won’t stop until I crawl to bed at 1 a.m.? Bring it on!” For seven days. I know, I know … poor me, my life is so terribly, waaah, boo frickity whooo … but talk to my body, who wants to go on strike. It hates me … thoroughly. It wants to cut me.

If you don’t believe the horrific state I’m in right now, let me tell you a little story called I only peed once on an eight hour car ride home. Just once. That is how significantly dehydrated I am. The only hydration I received whilst on vaca was when I switched to vodka and club. Literally, I think I drank 14 bottle of water today and I still feel like my eyes are roaming around the desert with no water in sight seeing mirages of dancing pieces of bread.

So because I can’t keep my eyes open and I’m lethargic, and cranky, and my skin looks like something that roams around the hallways of a middle school, and I feel like I’ve gained straight up 15 pounds … I’ve made a decision. It has been a hard one to make, let me tell you. And slightly disturbing to even contemplate. But carbs, vodka and I … need to consciously uncouple. It’s time. I’ve always wondered why this Atkins character would invent such a torture-some diet that cancels out all carbs. Now I get it. He must have gotten back from a family vacation¬†and felt like a bloated whale and said, “ENOUGH!”¬†

I’m not one for diets. Or working out. Or being active. Or wearing those crazy ass “waist trainers” that Kim Kardashian has been seen using (ps. what in the name of all crazy is that shit about?) I’m just not. To sound like an obnoxious, valley girl for a hot minute (we all get one minute in life to sound like such hideous fools), like :::twirls hair::: shopping is my cardio :::pops gum:::. But when you feel this gross and unhealthy like I do right now, you do drastic things that you would never thought were possible. Like MAYBE just MAYBE not ingesting so many damn carbs.

At the end of the day, ladies, it is about being healthy. Mentally and physically. Pizza at all hours of the day and too many cocktails equals death. Yoga and veggies equals fresh to death. I mean, I hope so. If I don’t start feeling better on top of giving up carbs and vodka, I may or may not shank someone. Just sayin’.

Man, if everything goes according to plan, I will look like a super model just in time for the polar vortex to rear his/her/shis ugly face so I can layer my six pack under inches of wool. Screw that, if I have a six pack, I’m rockin’ a bikini in zero below weather. What what. #Classy


How Long Does It Take You To Get Ready?

audrey-as-holly-in-sleep-mask_with-cat-on-backI remember when I was in high school, I would spend hours planning my outfit for the next day. By the time I was finished it would look like a bomb had hit my closet as I was trying to concoct the “coolest” most “outlandish” outfit possible. I couldn’t even imagine what it would be like waking up not knowing what I was wearing. The horror.

Flash forward :::mumbles::: years later and it’s all about sleep. Nothing is more important to me in the morning than sleep. I don’t care if I have to wear a belted trash bag to work … mama needs her ZzzZzz’s. It takes me a solid 15-25 minutes to get ready in the morning, maybe 30 if I fall asleep whilst taking a straightener to my hair (hey, it has happened … mostly when I’m hung over).

But seriously, to the women that take over an hour to get ready in the morning, what in the name of sweet Jesus are you doing? I’m not shaming your or trying to make you feel bad. Hey, we all have our rituals in the morning. And sometimes those rituals involve massive amounts of sleep, but to each their own. A well rested lady is a lovely lady, that’s what I … always … not … say … :::Shifty eyes:::?

So I’m here to help the ladies who take an extreme amount of time to get ready in the morning. No longer will your significant others toe tap and complain about your beauty regime, because all ladies hate that shit. Dudes will never get it that it takes time to make us look like decent human beings in the morning. I happen to look like a gargoyle when I wake up. So, regardless of how long it takes you to get ready in the morning, you have every right to tell you significant other to shut the fuck up. Oooh you showered and had to put gel in your hair, maybe a little moisturizer? Boo frickity hoo. And if they gasp in horror, tell them Life Sucks In A Strapless Bra told you to say that.

Anywho, back to what I was saying. Follow these steps for a morning that will have you out the door in less than 45 minutes. Your life will be changed. Think of all the time you will have left over for activities, and by activities I mean sleep.

1. Don’t make breakfast. Don’t even turn your coffee pot on. In fact, don’t even go downstairs, that is where temptation lies. Throw a Special K bar in your purse when you’re running out the door, get coffee at work and call it a day.

2. Shower the night before. I’m telling you, it makes a difference. When you wake up, wash your face, put some moisturizer on, and start making yourself not look like a gargoyle.

3. Wash your hair the night before, too. I mean this is the true time suck. If you wash your hair and blow it out, all you will have to do in the morning is touch it up with a flat iron or curling iron. Boom.

4. Get a lucid idea of what you want to wear the evening before. If you’re like me, you have a Clueless-style catalog of your favorite outfits in your mind (or perhaps I’m just a freak, either or). Just make sure the outfit is clean and ready to go, and factor in some time to steam said clothes need-be (although if you can rock this out the evening before, too that would be splendid).

5. Keep your makeup simple, for the love. You aren’t going to da club, you’re going to work. Moisturizer, foundation, concealer, a little mascara, eye liner, blush, fill in your brows … and ta-da. Most likely you won’t look like Kim Kardashian, because she has a team of professionals that surround her at all times … and I’m pretty sure it takes hours to make her look like that. It just isn’t reality. The irony, right?

6. Don’t you dare groom yourself in the morning. Nails, eyebrows, waxing, shaving, plucking, smoothing, extracting, exfoliating all needs to be done the evening before. Otherwise you’re screwed. Have fun getting up at the crack of dawn, kids.

7. Keep your hair simple. If you did all the hard labor the evening before, all you have to do is touch it up, or throw it up, or add a little wave. We aren’t going to prom, we are going to work. Keep your eye on the prize. Why do you think they invented sock buns? I bet it was invented by a broad who hates getting out of bed in the morning, I’ll tell you that much.

8. Keep your accessories organized. If they are a jumbled mess, that is an obvious time suck. I keep my necklaces/bracelets/etc. right next to where I do my makeup so I can be thinking about what I want to wear with said outfit. Grab it. Throw it on. And wah-la, I’m accessorized.

9. Take a good amount of time for your teeth. Seriously. Dental care is important, coming from a person who has had some issues. Brush, gargle, floss, water pick … do your thang with this one, kids.

10. Absolutely no social media. Disconnect. 100%. Take this time to meditate or something as you get ready. No tweeting, updating your status on Facebook (OMG you guys, trying out my new NARS lipstick this morning, what do you think? #PoutyMcPouterson), Snapchatting (is that the next thing the kids are doing?), Instagramming, texting, or taking selfies. For the love of God … no selfies. Truly, no one cares.