fashion

New Year’s Eve: Fashion Tip for a Night Out

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Once in a very rare while I will go out. I will go out and feel so good about going out that I will actually put on makeup. This is something I do maybe six times a year; the fact of the matter is that I need to wear makeup more often, but me putting on makeup is like a four year old learning to color in within the lines for the first time: it’s just not pretty.

Anyway, on these rare occasions, if I’m feeling good enough to slap on some face crud, then odds are I’m going to be drinking. One super fashion tip I’ve learned over the years is…

Take your makeup off before going to bed.

This seems like a super mega no-brainer, but – especially after a few drinks – taking your makeup off can be nigh impossible. This stuff is made of  super greasy, anti-tear, no-run, staining, Infini-last, out-last, mega-last formulas now. And we put these uber chemicals on our faces. No matter how hard I would try at the end of the night to scrub the makeup off I would still wake up missing most of my eye lashes and staring at a face etched of lipstick and eyeshadow looking back at me from my pillow case.

So here’s what I’ve learned – And this is especially useful for nights like New Year’s Eve:

These little babies are all of $3 at your local Target or grocery stare and they are well worth it. I walk <stumble> into my door, head to bed, and wipe my face with one of these bad boys before gently falling asleep <or possibly passing out>. I wake up and Makeup-Face is on a small wipe on my night stand, my pillow case is clean, and my eye lashes intact. Any bags under my eyes are not there from makeup residue, I’ll tell you that.

Speaking of which, need to get rid of those bags or to hide your crankiness?

Other tip: Aviators.

The Sunglasses style, I mean. I love my aviators. They’ll never go out of style; haven’t ever AND they look good on everyone. Short hair, long hair, fat face, long face, thin or fat. Look great. They were my one big splurge of this year and they weren’t even costly. We’re talking $45-50.

They are Fossil White aviators and they are the reason I often wear contacts. Love them.

Here’s what they look like.

And here’s what they look like with my husband.

Check out Find the Bad Kitty for the newest addition in photos and feel free to follow me on Twitter,

@ChicGeekDaily !

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Mani, Pedi, Puke: A Christmas Tale

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I tend to find myself in awkward, uncomfortable situations on a semi regular basis. I don’t mean to do this, but rarely am I sorry that I did so after the fact. I simply don’t seem to fit in. And naturally I blame my parents for this. It’s every time they said “Just be yourself.”

A family photo when I was 8 years old. I’m sure they asked I just be myself for this, too.

There’s a song by Wilco called Hell is Chrome. It’s about finding yourself fitting into a wonderful, clean, handsome world where you really feel you belong. People like you and help you, and there’s order and organization. That world just happens to be Hell. When I hear that song I don’t think “It is because I am a heathen that I would fit into that place” as the action of being a heathen itself fits into the normal ideas conjured by the word Hell. What I hear is the story of a place that translates into ‘What is one person’s heaven is another man’s Newark. One man’s hell is another’s Oxford.’ That is to say, this world doesn’t necessarily work for me. People pretending to the point of making situations uncomfortable. It’s not that I don’t fit in to Greenwich Village or L.A. or anything like that. It’s just that sometimes it feels like I don’t think I fit in with other humans. Any where. Yet I live here and I do my best to be pleasant and ordinary.

The day before Christmas Eve a few years ago my cousin and I went to get holiday manicures. I like getting manicures. I don’t get them too often because I feel weird paying the equivalent of 2 or 3 hours work to someone who is more often then not an immigrant to my country just to clean my filthy hands. The same applies for pedicures. There’s something that seems uniquely American in having immigrants scrub the dead skin off your feet.

Megan and I went down to this place in Stamford, Connecticut and signed in for manicures. The woman I was placed with quietly asked that I take off my coat and roll up my sleeves to which I complied. Once I settled myself into her chair she begins to scrutinize my nails. In doing so, however, she judged my entire character.

“You…have…uh… very hairy arms,” she forced, choosing each word carefully as she was obviously only recently subjected to English, and smiled genuinely up at me.

“Yes,” I said. When I am insulted I save the emotions for later rants when I’m alone or surrounded by loved ones who have learned to ignore me. The thing was, though, that I wasn’t really offended. Besides, what do you say to that? I knew I had hairy arms and for her to be new to English and correctly identify that fact was pretty good. And I didn’t know where she was from; it could be that in her land a chick with hairy arms was hot shit, in a good way.

I smiled back. She spoke very quietly of the weather and holidays with vast expanses of silence in between. My cousin yelled something to me from a few seats over confirming our plans later in the evening.

“She….your sister?” my nail person asked after Megan and I finished our brief itinerary check.

“No, she’s my cousin.”

“Oh,” my manicurist chuckled. “I thought she your sister, but you would be thin.”

Awesome. No matter how new to American culture, one can apparently always master fat jokes immediately.

“I wish”, I answered dead pan. Of course, if I was her sister I’d probably have some other issues; I like to tell myself there are trade-offs to being hot.

Again, she continued filing my nails in silence. Silence. Nail filing. Nail buffing. It goes on forever. Barry Manilow played off in the distance, singing some ever repeated holiday song that was supposed to get us into the Christmas cheer while visions of Baby Boom–aged woman throwing panties on a stage played in our heads. Right when I was beginning to be lulled into a false sense of security my nail person jumped up, hand over mouth, and ran away. To me it’s obvious that in the incredible glory of my chubby, hairy arms she simply could no longer take being unworthy and left to return to her homeland.

About ten minutes passed, in which I continued to sit in at her chair. I guess other American women would have said something, but I like sitting, and if I’m sitting away from other people it’s even better. Finally another girl came over.

“I’m sorry,” she said, also somewhat new to the language, also speaking quietly.

“She…uh…throw up.”

Well, awesome.

“Megan!” I shouted to my cousin across the room. “I made my nail chick throw up.”

“You would,” Megan explained.

The new girl, still standing, was looking at me nervously, almost as though she were a little afraid. I never ever mean to be an offensive person and I take hygiene to be of upmost important, above all else except maybe booze. I smiled politely, sympathetically at her, as if to say “I will not bite, am not mean or angry, and just want someone to peel this wax crap off my hands.” I also made an attempt to smell better, through shear determined will, just in case. After a very long, very uncomfortable few seconds the new girl did this quick sigh-smile-shrug maneuver, something I’ve since tried to mimic toward my husband at times when I’m not listening, don’t care, and just want everything over with. It was a great move.

Then the new girl sat down and deftly finished my manicure.

In silence.

And that’s the story of my first, and last, Christmas manicure.

Megan & I in July of 2009, when we met up in Las Vegas for a couple of days. We live 2000 miles apart and I miss her daily. That hat was a gift from a SUPER CREEPY dude that kept hitting on her while we had drinks in Margaritaville. But, then, if you’re having drinks at a Jimmy Buffet chain restaurant in Vegas, you’re kind of asking for that to happen.

Fashion (And Eating Disfunction) in the Workplace

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I haven’t done a fashion post in a while, basically because I wear all the same crap: Jeans, shoes, cotton-poly blend top. Sometimes I change it up and wear a denim jacket on top and a tee shirt for pants, but that’s really only on extremely sloppy mornings and I generally change before leaving the house once I notice a draft around my…well, it’s not important. My hair seems to have had a growth spurt recently, as well.

Also, if you can’t tell from this picture, I’m wearing an Incredibra. That’s the slight boobtasticness there on the left. My left, your right. I got another $10 off coupon from Victoria’s Secret; purchased a nude Incredibra this time. They’ve got me in the palm of their crappy corporate VS hand. Also, pretty shitty….mmmonth, so not the most thrilled look on my face.

I have crap I have to do around the office. Movement is a necessity, so looking my best often comes second. This does nothing for one’s self esteem, especially in an office of rich hipsters with no families to drain their income; their wardrobes are something out of Sex And The City. Even most of the guys sport two hundred dollar haircuts, which for a girl might not be much, especially for highlights or color, but for a guy? C’mon.

A girl pretending they have the stomach capacity of a hummingbird has always been in fashion. Eating so daintily that you take miniscule bites too small for a toothless infant. Pushing your food around on your plate so that if you do manage to consume more than a bite or two in front of your coworkers, friends, date, etc, it still looks like you haven’t eaten anything at all. And then that show is followed by the delicate damsel bullshit distress whine of “I am so full. I can’t believe I just ate all that. I just hate myself.” Girls are trained to do this before puberty. To act as though you eat nothing in front of others and to make sure everyone hears you lament your hatred of you, because the fact that a girl has to eat is just tragic. To hate anorexics because of their strength in will power. Believe me. I’ve been asked “Can’t you just be a little anorexic?” after recovering from a 6 year eating disorder. And that was by a friend’s mother.

The lengths people go to in order to simply show the world they want to be thin as adults just kills me. Juicing is a big thing around my office. Drinking liquified spinach with a dash of cayenne and a single pomegranate seed and calling it a meal. And I’m just not too sure what it’s all for any more.Juicing is a big thing around my office right now. Drinking liquified spinach with a dash of cayenne and a single pomegranate seed and calling it a meal. And I’m just not too sure what it’s all for any more. A coworker was telling me how she keeps all snacks to 100 calories so that she can stay between 1000-1100 a day. As we sat in the break room she took out a pre-measured bag of 100 calories worth of crackers. She then proceeded to take out a slab of bright orange cheese, the thickness of a finger and the size of the palm of my hand. I have an aversion to orange dyed cheese and my coworker apparently picked up on this, but confused the look for me judging her caloric intake. “Oh….it’s such a small amount of cheese, that I don’t think it counts against the hundred calories…” I immediately came out of my orange horror and apologized, explaining that a calorie concern hadn’t crossed my mind. When I thought about this later, however, I realized the absurdity to it all. No one has to justify they food intake to another. You’re either hungry, a glutton, or have a thyroid issue. And I don’t care about any of it. But I did like the idea of pre-measured calories + any topping = the same pre-measured calories and nothing more. Which is why I felt justified in my afterwork snack.

And still just 90 calories. Like the adult version of DunkARoos

I’m kidding, I didn’t really eat that, but I’m sure it would have been delicious. It was just a commentary on the ridiculous. I blame women, mostly. There is a whole percentage of men, though, that do think it’s alright to tell girls “You would look sooooooo good if you just weren’t so fat/chubby/etc…” I don’t know a woman alive who hasn’t been told that. Which, by the way, is not okay. I think most men would be afraid to say something like that to me now. I don’t have “naivety” written across my face. I have more of an “I will cut you, bitch” look to me now. In a chubby, sexy way, of course.

This walking around like peacocks is tiresome to me know. I accepted it and participated whole heartedly when I was a teen, but now there are important things to be worried about. Being healthy, to me, should be the main focus. The whole “I’m better than you because I eat less” mentality I left behind along ago, but I still see it every day in others. Maybe I view it as insanity is because of what I have seen in the past. Just a few months ago, while I was working at a University, a young girl died due to complications from anorexia. I saw her almost every day, I had spent a long time in groups with women like that. It was hard looking at her, knowing people had tried to help, it being obvious she was going to die that way. And it still really bothers me that she did, in fact, die that way. I’ve done horrible things to my own body because I wanted to look prettier and I’m thankful I’ve been learning to be more accepting of me. I often wonder, however, if I wasn’t with my incredible husband, what I would see as acceptable acts to obtain acceptance. The lengths I would go to for beauty and style .

See the unattainable fashion of my office to my right. I watch these shoes walk by me at least three times a week. They are what can only be describe as hardcore, and they are a marker for what is expected of the other fashionable ladies in the company. To be fair, this particular coworker did ballet for years and the damage to her feet is actually eased by wearing such harshly structured shoes.

I like fashion, love it even, and if I had a better body I would probably have quite the clothing debt to pay off. But what I really like is looking acceptable, good sometimes, while being able to do my job and being, at least a little bit, comfortable. I care about how I look, so, yes, in comparison to the constant at work fashion show, I don’t feel great, but I try not to feel awful either. I eat and I don’t pretend I’m a bird when I do so. I have spent more than half my life punishing myself for ever being hungry and I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to stop completely hating myself for wanting to eat from time to time. But I am to a point where I know what is absurd for me personally and professionally as a company slave dog. I mean, Admin.

Holiday Tamales, Fashion Moment, and Siri Politics

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I’m not allergic to any thing. I’ve had a number of fancy and expensive doctors tell me this in the last couple of years. And they have all been full of shit. I had deviated septum surgery just over a year ago, because, said those expensive boys in lab coats, my severe allergy symptoms were being caused by my septum and swollen turbinates. Getting the surgery, they said, would be like breathing for the first time. Hot damn were those losers wrong. Since that time, my nose now rattles, I have worse allergy symptoms than ever before, and I’ve begun to develop sinus infections so bad that everything gets backed up to my ears and I then wind up with ear infections. A holiday season delight, let me tell you.

So that’s where I’ve been. Wrestling with the Devil in the Goo dress.

On Thursday I felt well enough to go into the office and not look like complete crap. I wore this:

Shirt by Anne Taylor loft. All the “ruching” hides the flibberty gibbity parts of my belly. The cardigan you’ve seen before and is the boyfriend cardigan by Mossimo, the skirt is “congratulations on being just shy of needing maternity ware” by Old Navy, but I love the cut. And I don’t want to jinx it, but I’ve worn it a good three times and it has yet to fall apart, so their child labor in Sri Lanka has gotten much better. The kids that made this skirt had the dexterity of 5 – maybe even 6 – years old. Awesome. Tights from WhereEverTheHell, and the shoes are my old favorite standby, which you’ve also seen before. And my hair is a Mess, and my face makeup done by Night Time Drool & Over Tired. Maybe my hair would’ve looked better if I used this Blow Dryer Hand Gun. Personally, I love the holster. Feel Badass AND Beautiful everyday. Or just feel the release of shooting yourself in the head with the power to still get up the next morning.

There’s a new Find the Bad Kitty, Holiday Edition beginning. It started today, so check it out.

Food wise, it’s holiday season in Texas, which means incredible homemade tamales gallore. I don’t make them, lord no. But almost every amazing Taqueria in town does and they are just ridicu-mazing. Obviously, that “ridiculously” and “amazing” ‘s baby. All porky and fatty and, oh, just great.

  

And, finally, I recently found out that Siri is pro-life, an issue we differ on. That being said, she’s also a total fucking slut, so maybe she needs to get her priorities straight.

  

November Style Tip

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11/23/2011.

Style tip: Never be ashamed to wear a hat. It will take attention away from your crappy hair and horrible outfit, and force people to look at your chubby, chubby face. Doing so will make them uncomfortable, they’ll leave relatively quickly, and then you get to have less time making small talk with somebody you hate. All thanks to a hat.

 

And this happened:

 

Friday is Pop-Tastic: Archer, Indiana Jones, Thundercats, & More!

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*Want to see 1000 hours of work smooshed down into 3 minutes? Gosh, I do! Timeplapsed Thundercat Painting is truly the very best way to start off your Friday.

 

* MTV Geek has released their Top of 2011 Animated TV Shows List and I actually agree with most of it. If you’re not watching Archer you have to start doing so. Much of it is on Netflix Watch It Instantly. H. Jon Benjamin is just fantastic and the mom from Arrested Development plays both a mom and head of a Secret Agency. The character she voices on Archer is pretty much the same character as she played in AD, which is a beautiful thing. I’m starting to think that may be just how she is in real life. And I love her.

 

*Almost exactly 30 years after her mysterious death, the L.A. Sheriff’s Office has decided to reopen the Natalie Wood investigation. This is based on new information the office has recently received regarding her disappearance on Thanksgiving of ’81.

 

*Anonymous is still determined to Occupy Wallstreet and they’ve got pretty creative ways to achieve this!

 

* Meet the King of the Geeks: A super nerd cracked the Jeopardy code. That lucky genius bastard.

 

* 17 Minutes of the newest Indiana Jones filumentary?! After this I’m going to have to go lie down from Excitement Overload.

 

* And, finally, those skinny bitches over at Victoria Secret are biting into my Geek Chicness, only they’re doing it with far perkier breasts. Hate them.

PS: I know Twilight whatever the hell came out today. And I don’t care. I don’t care about prancing, sequinsy vampires and their wolf frenemy that falls in love with a monstrous new born infant.

I don’t. Freaking. Care.

The Boots Zipped Round the World

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Two new things in the *very* limited world of GeekFat fashion: The boots and a bra.

First thing to discuss is the boots. These are the boots that inspired GeekFat, so they deserve a high and mighty spot. Thusly I’m calling them “The Boots Zipped Round the World” (not just because they were inspiring, but also because they actually zipped up and fit around my massive, massive calves). The boots are brown leather with a stretch backing, a very basic riding boot and I actually really like the dark brown back with the caramel brown front. It’s the Naturalizer Array and I heart them.

No big deal, right? Well they’re huge to me AND for the first time in literally about 6 months it is raining in Austin; I’ve conditioned the leather and am wearing them right now with slim jeans and a cool puff sleeved black shirt – I feel like a jedi. And I got them with combined coupons and in store sales up the wazoo, but we’ll get more into my cheapness later. The above picture was taken of me yesterday before an outing to a sports bar for wings,  food so fried and cheese smothered that it could only be called “food” if using quotations, and sports gaming where men played with both balls and pucks and I cared little about neither. I have a friend who loves her Packers and I support her happiness. So there you go.

THE bra.

No, it’s not that I just started wearing a bra. I love bras. Think they’re fantastic, albeit incredibly uncomfortable. I don’t like not wearing a bra unless I’m sleeping. On top of being chubbs, I’m also an admin, which means I am incredibly cheap. Though I’m currently cheap by necessity, I’m not sure I wouldn’t remain cheap if given substantial financial means. What I’m trying to say is that I needed a new bra, my others are less than steller, but a ladies undergarments are not inexpensive. For a remarkably little amount of cloth, these items are off the charts expensive, many costing more than dinner and a movie for two.

I had been carrying around two coupons I received to Victoria’s Secret. I generally only shop at VS once a year to eighteen months and only during their “We have to get the undies that are two years old out of our stock at any cost” sale. The stuff I wear is beyond last season out of style. It wasn’t even in style when I was a freshman in college. Super Out Of Style. The coupons, however, were really enticing. For one, they expired yesterday, meaning I felt the pressure to splurge. And secondly, one was for a free pair of underwear, no purchase necessary. I might as well walk in, I mean, they were just gonna GIVE me free panties. So, yeah, I completely fell for the ploy of merely getting the customer in the door.

I’m miserable. Just general, all around miserable. I like my shopping missions to be search and destroy, no eye contact, surgical strike, and no pushy sales people. To be fair all the ladies in VS have been, in my experience, very nice. They want to help, but are totally content to leave you alone if that’s what you indicate. I wove through their selection looking for something that defied gravity, weightless, will last an eternity, and is pretty. I like pretty, what can I say? And I’m wasn’t finding much – well, not much in my price range, which, even with the $10 off coupon, was pathetic. Finally, I decided if I’m going to buy my first non- so-on-sale-you-might-as-well-be-a-recluse-if-your’re-buying-this-out-of-style-crap bra, that I better get on with it and take the leap.

And that’s when I saw it. A great coverage, mega plunge, right amount of lift over the shoulder boulder holder. It was made of the material I could only imagine Susan Sommers would demand her personal space suit be made of. And it didn’t even have strap adjusters because the fabric adjusted itself to you. It was the iPad of braziers.

As I searched for my size a sales woman approached.

“Ohhhh, are you thinking about that bra? That’s an amazing bra!”

She helped me find my size and twittered off on her way. I putzed around a little while longer picking out my free underwear. While doing so I was approached by a second sales person.

“<gasp!> OHMYGOSH, your getting that bra?! Oh, man, that bra is greeeeeat!

Mmkay. Thanks.

That’s when I decided it was time for me to head home, I’d had enough of being a girl for the day. I headed to the register.

“Can I use both these coupons today at the same time?”

“The free panty and $10 off? Sure, that shouldn’t be a prob – ARE YOU GETTING THAT BRA?!”

She continued with – I shit you not – :

“<Sigh> Congratulations, that is the best bra you’ll ever own.”

I was essentially congratulated by three people, one literally, on my bra purchase in a 10 minute span.

Once I got home I simply had to try on the bra that couldn’t now possibly live up to the expectations created for it. And yet damned if it totally did. I’m wearing it now.

Well, duh, of course I’m not going to put a picture of me wearing a bra on here. But that is the actual bra. Also, I love horribly, horribly executed photo editing jobs.

The bra is truly so comfortable that I had to look up its style name so I could look for it in the future, in another 18 months, when I have the urge to spend so much on something great.

It’s called Incredible.

That’s it. I was a little perturbed they didn’t go with IcrediBra, which is what I insist upon calling it. Still, it’s no AbracadaBra.