Hats. The Final Reason I Can't Fashion Blog.

I think the fashion blogging world may overlook my other faults (ombre misunderstanding, sparce makeup collection, all the wrong free gear, and Valentine's socks for those of you who haven't been following my awesome little series) and let me in the club were it not for this final flaw.

I don't own the right kind of hats. Mine are all appropriate for a day at the races but not for:

heading to an outdoor garden to casually sit on an overturned flower pot,

faux napping on a lounge chair with Botoxed lips,

sitting on the stoop of a Brooklyn walkup and adjusting an earring.

This pretty much seals my fate. I'm no fashion blogger. Back to the mommy/humor hybrid fashion I wear so well.

VDay Outfit. Bye Bye Fashion Blogging Aspirations.

Would any fashion blogger worth her Manolos have these in her drawer and wear them as a cute Valentine's Day accessory? Even the part of me not trying to be a fashion blogger is embarrassed of these.

Happy Valentine's Day!

Free Stuff. Yet Another Reason I Don't Fashion Blog.

Were I a fashion blogger, I would take artsy self-portraits wearing free clothing from companies that love me. I'm going to give it a try.

This is me in my FREE ESPN hoody. At my old job, we sometimes got free stuff from media companies. I was important enough to get this hot hoody.

ESPN isn't my only sponsor. This is me in my FREE, custom Dr. Pepper tee. DP gave us a "I'm A [fill in the blank]" tshirt with our chosen phrase to support their new campaign.

Mine arrived during my first week as Household CEO. The hyperbolic fashion is the best way to rock this look. Tie it up ala 1988, pair it with an inappropriately short jean skirt, remove your shoes, and grab a broom and a baby. Now wait for your husband to get home. You will both laugh. And maybe cry.

Despite owning such awesome free gear I cannot claim to be a fashion blogger. To meet the genre's requirements, my readers would have to be so impressed by my hot style that they immediately buy a heather gray ESPN hoody and a custom Dr. Pepper tee.

Will you make my sponsors happy and buy these looks?

Yep, I'm no fashion blogger.

Makeup. Another Reason I'm Not A Fashion Blogger.

Were I a fashion blogger, I would probably be more into makeup. Behold all of my worldly cosmetics:

This is no joke. This is everything I own. I was quite surprised to find three eyeshadows. Time for some spring cleaning.

Ombre. Reason #1 I Could Never Be A Fashion Blogger.

There are many reasons I could never be a fashion blogger, one of which is the toddler I chase in forgiving, wash 'n dry cotton. And by forgiving wash 'n dry cotton, I mean old, stretched out running performance gear and race shirts.

However, mommyhood is a lame excuse because fashion trends frequently confuse me. Sometimes I adapt, as was the case with the pointy-toed shoe phenomenon, othertimes I ignore as is the case with the current nail decor rage.

Still othertimes, I am so confounded that I think the stylists are all on sabbatical.

For months, I've been flipping through Us Weekly and loudly exclaiming my disgust with the ladies' hair, "What's up with her roots?" I've yelled at my husband, "Why didn't her people fix this?"

Turns out, letting your roots grow out is now on trend and has a fancy French name to go with it. Here is the "ombre" style, formerly known as the "go get a highlight because your roots are over two inches long" style.

Pics I have no rights to. Fashion bloggers probably would.

Were I a fashion blogger, I would have known my half blonde, half mousy brown hair was on trend and never boldly dyed it dark brown. The error of my ways is illustrated below.

Pics that are sadly of me. Fashion bloggers would never post these.

I am not knocking fashion or fashion bloggers, but rather, expressing awe at their ability to keep up with trends and then be bold enough to test them out.

So, for the next few days I will share, via exhibit, several more reasons why I could never be a fashion blogger.

Join the fun! Could you be a fashion blogger?

What's In The Name.

To name our son we relied heavily on the "Baby Names" app and my decree that the Top 100 were too trendy.

We chose a unique, but not freakish, name he goes by and made it his middle name. Our dilemma was coming up with a first name to pair perfectly with the name by which he'd be known.

For those of you expecting a funny story of marital banter and a wife outwitting her husband with little more than a pomegranate and a stapler to achieve her purpose, stop reading now. I'm taking a turn from my usual style to try and write something serious, although I do think one of next week's prompts should be "Describe How You'd Use A Pomegranate And A Stapler To Outwit Someone." 

Back to serious mode.

We had a few names on our list, but we didn't feel strongly about any. The tipping point was the memory of one of my very best friends. The two year anniversary of her death just passed and it's about time I put in writing her influence on our son's name.

This friend was a friend who started out as the person across from me in the office, quickly became the person who welcomed my husband and me to our new city with open arms, and made us part of her family. 

At the office we could be serious and discuss "the business" when needed, but spent many hours exchanging relatively inappropriate IMs and text messages during meetings when eye rolls were not appropriate.  

She was the best work friend one could hope for, but she was much more than that.  She lived a mile away and we spent many a weekend night with her, either at the bar down the road or at one of our houses.  She would call and say, "I'm cooking tonight.  Bring wine and come over!"  

One night when my husband was out of town, the two of us went out and ended up walking home, me sans shoes.  In the morning, neither one of us knew what had happened or why I'd chosen to go barefoot the previous night, but we knew we'd had a blast.

I've heard grief described as numbness, but when she was gone I felt her absence with a sadness and shock that was overpowering. I listened to my boss read the eulogy and sobbed. The coffin left little room for anything other than reality.

In the days and weeks that followed my husband and I felt the sharp angles of her missing silhouette.

Less than two months after she died, I found out I was pregnant. She knew I'd decided it was time for a baby and my body wasn't cooperating. Crying and laughing on the way to the bookstore for a pregnancy guide, I knew she'd had a drink with the bigwigs in heaven and convinced them to knock me up. 

I thought of how excited I would have been to tell her. I thought how sad it was that she'd never meet this baby. I thought of the funny conversations we'd never have about my future parenting skills. I thought how lucky this baby would be to have her watching over.

I thought of all this and it took me several months to think of the name staring me in the face. It's hers. Ok, the male version of hers and also a family name, but hers nonetheless.

Not a day goes by that I don't think of her. 

More frequently than you might expect a memory catches me off guard or I hear that damn Michael Buble song they played at the burial and tears run down my face, but I think it's her way of letting me know she's still around.

And every once in awhile, if I listen closely, I can hear her infectious laugh as she watches me try to outwit the toddler who's named after her. I don't stand a chance.

Why Being A SAHM Is Like Being A Coal Miner.

Dear Stay At Home Moms (& Dads),

I am going to admit something that will make you want to punch me in my saggy boob.

I used to look at you from behind my corporate desk and think you spent hours doing yoga.

This isn't a farfetched conclusion because when spotted in your natural habitat (Target on a weekday afternoon), you were clad in yoga gear looking incredibly jacked.

When I signed on to join the SAHM club I anxiously awaited my Mom Yoga pass. I was nervous because I detest yoga, but it seemed like a requirement of the position. I was ready.

Months have passed and still I wait for my pass, yet frequently I find myself in Target on a Tuesday afternoon in yoga gear looking pretty strong.

"How is this remotely possible?" you ask.

Oh, it's possible because being a SAHM is like being a DAMN COAL MINER.

I've never mined coal, but I've seen enough of the dads on Teen Mom talk about the mines to be able to understand what it's like.

Into The Mine We Go!

First off, coal miners don't care about their appearance because SURVIVAL is the name of the game. Zippers, snaps, and "dry clean only" garments will slow you down in the event of a very possible explosion.

You may believe that mining explosions are much more dangerous than the ones I encounter, but don't judge until you've experienced a diaper blowout at 5000 feet or pushed a cart through the grocery store while your son screams for "crack" (crackers) and you sprint to the loading dock exit lest child protective services is in the next aisle. The coal miners and I need breathable cotton to survive the everyday.

Secondly, like my friends in the mine, I am pretty jacked because I engage in MANUAL LABOR for 12 hours a day.

Bending, lifting, cleaning, wiping, running, and chasing now take up a day formerly filled with motionless, yet strangely exhausting, corporate strife. Don't believe staying at home compares to backbreaking mine work? Here's a True Life story to prove it:

My husband has a Nike fuel band that uses magical wizardry to give him 

daily "fuel points." On days that he works out and then 

has a regular office experience, his number is around 4000. 

When I went away for a weekend my husband had to

care for the baby which meant working out didn't fit into the schedule. 

His fuel points on those days without working out? 

5000+. 

Analogy proven! Yes, I realize this would be a stronger case were my husband a miner during the week, so I've got a few more salient points. Read on.

Thirdly, like a coal miner I engage in work that is FREQUENTLY LOOKED DOWN UPON.

Let's all just agree that outside of Teen Mom, mining is the opposite of an aspirational career choice.

And oh, whatever, you would never judge a woman for her choice. I was, and still am, a Judgy McJudgerson. I rolled my eyes from my little ivory tower of corporate excess and thought things like, "She stays home? What? Can she not read?" and then laughed at my own wit.

Note: I am not making a social statement about the literacy of our coal mining population. It is purely coincidental that I used to say this and now live like a coal miner.

Lastly, the miners and me (Yes, I should use "I" instead of "me" but I like the alliteration of "miners and me" so don't start thinking I am one of those SAHMs I thought couldn't read) do a job that is UNDERPAID.

I know the Teen Mom dads are thrilled about "good mining money," but I'm guessing they are not adequately compensated for staring down death since nary a miner makes the Forbes "Richest People on the Planet" list.

Like the miners, I am not paid enough but, unfortunately, am aware of my sad economic plight. I think I should be paid triple my former salary because my valuable brain cells are being replaced with every verse of "The Wheels On The Bus." I would like to be compensated for bravely staring down the death of my brain.

So, SAHMs (& Dads), what do you have to say for yourselves? Pickaxes where yoga pants were promised? You're the ones who should be punched in your saggy boob.

This is the most egregious case of false advertising I've seen. I'm calling the FTC. The gig is up.

Sincerely,
annie