I had a completely different post planned today. One not at all related to blogging. One that would make at least one pushy ass bitch proud.

And then? Someone crushed The Poppy.

Let me tell you a little about my relationship with Poppy. When she and I started our online “affiliation”, she didn’t trust me. Contrary to popular belief, I am not a complete retard - and so I knew she had some kind of issue with me. We were civil, we ran in the same circles, we shared the same friends and secret keepers. But we weren’t tight by any means. Now? Well let’s just say that now I want to face punch anyone who makes Poppy sad.

For those of you who didn’t click any of the above links, here’s the dish in a nutshell:

“I am very disappointed at how much of the blogosphere has imploded lately.”

A. Fucking. Men.

Let’s get one thing straight right here: this post is NOT directed at the haters and the trolls and the Judgey McJudgey Judgersons. Because honestly? Fuck them.

THIS post, right here, is aimed squarely at those of you who have shut down or are contemplating shutting down your blogs. Especially you and you. And even you.

Now, I am not suggesting that no one is allowed to stop blogging. (Although seriously, how fucking cool would that be if I had that kind of power? RAWR!!!! Ahem. Moving on.) And I know lots of bloggers who have decided to shut down or dramatically slow down their blogging because it was interfering with other things they wanted to pursue in life. And to those people I say, good for you! Truly.

Have we covered all the disclaimers? Good.

Now, to those of you who are considering shutting down your blog because:

“Recent goings-on around the Internet have made me worry about being a blogger. What if I do or say something one day that will turn into a firestorm and anyone and everyone will be talking about me, judging me, ridiculing me, etc. And if they do, is it deserved because I’ve “opened myself up” here?”

Or because:

“So many people that I thought I knew, whispering behind backs or coming straight out and directing their frustrations on a woman who is devastated and hurting beyond belief, all the while they are begging a just as guilty man to keep entertaining them daily. The venom spewed at one of the three is unbelievable to me.”

Or because:

“This is not a place I desire to be any longer. Because this is a personal blog. And I have no need for people encouraging me to my face, then quick to IM or email behind my back with name calling, secretly waiting for me to fuck up so that they can quote my blog contents on Twitter and make fun of my pain as they jump all over my life. Surprise, surprise, I am human and oh so far from perfect. I am bound to fuck up sooner rather than later.”

If that is why you have considered shutting down your blog, then to you I say:

Don’t. You. Fucking. Dare.

Look, I feel you. I really, really do. Clearly. It’s fucking embarrassing how many posts I’ve written about people on the Internet hating me.

If you think I don’t know where you’re coming from, you’re wrong. This woman can’t stand me. This one? Also not a fan. And while I am LOATHE to even link to them here, I’m so fucking done with the pussy footing around and the cryptic posts. They don’t like me. I’m not sending them Christmas cards either. End of story.

Big. Fucking. Deal.

I don’t say that to be insensitive. Truly, I don’t. Because while I can tell you now that it’s not a big deal, there was a time not all that long ago when it was a HUGE deal to me. Huge. And not because I’m insecure or immature or stupid or need a thicker skin.

It bothered me because there were a few things I still needed to learn about life and people in general. And while I know that it is damned near in possible for humans to learn from other people’s experiences because we have some genetic mutation that requires us to fall on our own faces first, I’d still like to piss in the wind make an effort to pass on to you what I learned.

And WHY I feel so strongly about people shutting down their blogs because of internet bullshit.

1. You’re not “overly sensitive”. Or naive. Or too trusting. Or stupid. There’s not a goddamned thing wrong with you. It’s just that when you’re not the type of person to go out HURTING people, it would NEVER occur to you that other people would be like that. Ever. When you run smack into that kind of behavior, you naturally ASSUME there must be a reason and that just maybe that reason lies within you. Because even THAT is easier to comprehend than the idea of someone hating just for the sake of hating, and hurting just for sport with no conscience at all.

All that being said, you’re wrong. Because…

2. It has nothing to do with you. Other people’s issues have nothing to do with you. Nothing. The thing is, everyone is looking at you and the world around them through their very own looking glass. They’re “seeing” you through their own past, their own experiences, their own pain, their own what the fuck ever that was there long before you ever came along.

Now, I’m not suggesting that you try to analyze everyone who dislikes you. There is no sense digging around in someone’s past in order to better understand WHY they feel/act the way they do. There’s no point. Because honestly…

3. Sometimes it just Is What It Is. Sometimes there is no reason that will make sense to you. Don’t even try. Just look at it from afar with the same detached curiosity of “hm, I wonder why some cultures put horseshoes through their nostrils? I don’t get it.” You have to learn to accept the fact that some people’s brains and souls and hearts work completely different from yours. If you start poking around in other people’s psyche it is way too easy to lose a firm hold on your own. And believe me when I tell you, it’s just not worth that.

All of this might sound like perfectly good reasons to shut down your blog. Distance yourself from anyone you don’t “get” or people with murky lenses to see you with.

But if you do that, you’re missing the most important point:

It’s not just online.

You can take down your blog and retreat from the Internet. You can throw yourself into “real life”. And eventually, you’ll run across it there too. In church groups. In neighborhoods. In mommy groups. And you will keep running into it until eventually you are forced to make a choice - learn how to live your life regardless of it, or retreat into a sheltered existence.

And what the fuck kind of life is that? Where is the fairness in that? Where is the respect and appreciation for the way YOU were made, for YOUR murky as hell but still valuable in this world lens?

If you let the fact that there are people who don’t get you, who don’t like you, who will dog you and mock you and go out of their way to attack you run you off the Internet - where does it end? How far are you willing to retreat in order to protect yourself?

At what point will you say, “Enough”?

I’m not telling you that all of this is some kind of magic answer. I’d be lying if I said that I didn’t still second guess myself or considering running into my own cave once in a while.

But it does get easier. The doubt comes less and less. The desire to peek in and see what they’re saying about you now pops up less frequently. And most importantly, the ability to focus on those who do get you, who do love you for you, who do stand up and cheer for you and encourage you and support you - well, that part gets a whole lot easier.

I promise.

And Poppy? I, for one, am not going anywhere.

Yesterday, I showed you some of the lessons that my week in Parkersburg taught me.

There is one more valuable lesson that I haven’t yet discussed. It’s just been… well, painful, honestly, to think about. And it really needed it’s own post.

You see, we left in a hurry. I barely had time to notify my boss that I wouldn’t be coming to work on Tuesday and I had no idea when I’d be back. We loaded up the big suitcase with clothes we thought someone could use, blankets, shampoo - whatever random crap we thought might be useful to someone.

I quickly packed a small bag for the kids and I and told Jared to make his stuff fit in there. We needed the rest of the space for supplies. We threw pillows and pop and food into the back of the SUV and made sure the kids had toothbrushes. And then we raced out of town.

What we, or rather I, did not pack was anything warmer than a tank top.

Or pants.

Or makeup. Of any kind.

Because a) what kind of a princess wears makeup in a disaster area?!?! (although, going to buy it at a Wal-Mart 3 days later is totally acceptable and not at all princessy!) and b) I was trying to conserve room in the little suitcase (and T-shirts apparently take up a ginormous amount of space in my head.) and most importantly C) WE WERE GOING TO A TORNADO SITE. TORNADOES HAPPEN WHEN IT IS HOT! Right!?!

My husband has been kind enough to inform me that tornadoes actually happen when a hot front meets a cool front and a blah blah blah blah holy. fuck. I almost died.

It was so numbingly cold the day we arrived. And rainy. And windy. And did I already say cold? Because it was cold.

Naturally, I stopped at a Wal-Mart before heading into Parkersburg and bought TWO sweatshirts for myself. Because it was cold. Did I say I bought two sweatshirts for myself? Because I totally meant OF COURSE I BOUGHT THOSE FOR JARED’S MOM AND SISTER-IN-LAW AND YES I KNOW YOU HAVE NOTHING AND I AM SO GLAD YOU NOW HAVE CLEAN, WARM SWEATSHIRTS TO WEAR! Because it is cold out there.

Because seriously? There is no good way to say “give me back my new clothes you damn grabby refugee!!” without sounding rude.

ANYway, I made it through Day 1 with some crap wonderfully warm and appreciated stuff I stole from Jared’s side of the suitcase (because “everyone knows a tornado comes from a warm front and a COLD front and blah blah blah INFORMATION I COULD HAVE USED YESTERDAY!”)

After that, I relied heavily on my grandmother’s wardrobe. Which meant I squeezed my size none of your damn business but bigger than a 4 ass into a For Real Before They Changed The Sizes Size 4 sweat suit. And possibly some of my grandpa’s sweatpants. And although I greatly appreciated my grandmother’s generosity, I also learned a powerful lesson.

Pack well. The extra half hour it takes to make sure you are prepared for the weather could CHANGE YOUR LIFE.

And also? Prevent you from looking down at yourself at about 5 o’clock one evening and suddenly realize that you have spent the entire day wandering around looking like this:

Read the rest of this page »

As most of you know by now, one of our own is facing the battle of for her life. Again.

For those of you who don’t, allow me to quickly summarize: Lisa of Clusterfook.com finds herself battling cancer for the third time. She has two daughters and a husband and a life worth fighting for.

As you might guess, there is something you can do financially to help.

But, my friends, it is not enough. Sure, you can open up your wallets and help Lisa and her family enjoy a break from their new reality. We can help ease the strain of medical bills and loss of income. We can make sure she gets wigs and food and household bills paid while she searches for new ways to keep time with her daughters.

But Lisa, the greedy little bitch, wants more.

When she first shared her diagnosis with her blog friends, she made a specific request of all of us. It was simple and clear. And held the possibility to change the world.

Gratitude.

She asked us to remember, and to share, what we were thankful for.

In the days since that first announcement, Lisa has had more to say - both publicly and privately - about what she wants of us. Of you. Of me. Of people who hear of her story. She has talked about how this thing, this cancer that keeps invading her life, could mean more.

How it could maybe not, as she said, “have been for nothing”.

Peace, Lisa says. Let us all find peace. Let us all bring peace to those around us. Let us realize that there are bigger things than anger and fear and resentment. Let us remember to take better care of one another, and of ourselves.

And let us all learn to find comfort in inappropriate humor.

No, seriously. I’m not making that last part up.

The other day Lisa claims to have experienced a blissfully “tear free” day because of “inappropriate humor”. Apparently, she’s started getting by on fart jokes and sexual innuendos or something.

I know, it sounds weird. But the fucking woman’s got cancer, you know? Who am I to argue with her tactics? Whatever works for her. (She always has been a little fucking whacky if you want to know the truth.)

I’ve been trying to do my part. I don’t bitch quite as loudly when my daughter wakes me up at five in the morning… because, well, thank God - you know?

And I’ve also been threatening to kick Lisa’s ass on an almost daily basis. I figure, it really doesn’t get more inappropriate than threatening to beat up a woman with cancer. Right? (Although, to be fair, I’m only 5′2 and Lisa is kind of tough - I think this is really my best chance to take her.)

Now, it’s your turn.

Be kind. Be grateful. Hold close to the ones you love.

And send the fart jokes to Lisa.

You can do it in her comments at Clusterfook.

You can also Rickroll the shit out of her via email at lisaclusterfook at gmail dot com.

I expect to hear about some horridly dirty jokes coming from you people. I think it’s the least you can do.

Lisa, baby, this is for you:

Dear Miss Britt,

The Mutt Princess

Oh, my sweet. I did indeed experience a skin revolt when I moved here. Up until The Move, I had basically perfect skin. Minimal blemishes, no oil slicks, very rare dry patches that could quickly be corrected with a little extra moisturizer, and I had no idea what people were talking about when they discussed “pores”. How the hell could pores be visible?, I wondered.

And then I entered a land of high humidity and my skin wigged the fuck out. Suddenly I had zits and oil and nastiness and these holes on my face. Big, gaping HOLES that I was just sure could swallow a small child with little or no warning.

I went in search via the Internet, TLC and Beauty Columns. I took full advantage of my new access to fancy schmancy beauty stores like Sephora and Ulta. Blah blah blah yada yada the tale of Miss Britt’s quest for her lost porcelain skin…

Anyway. Here we are. And I have to be honest with you, here is not exactly pretty.

That’s me, fresh from the shower (with shirt still on my head! (Because everyone knows you use shirts, not towels, on your head - right?)). No makeup, no nothing. Clearly.

You too can have red blotchy skin that requires make up to go into public!!

No, seriously. I have advice.

ANYway - the first thing I learned about big ass pores is that it comes from unbalanced skin. Which is NOT necessarily the same as OILY skin. So washing your face fifty times a day in order to get rid of excess oil? Not such a great idea. (And incidentally, NOT washing your face to make sure your pores don’t have to work overtime because surely that makes sense - also not a good idea).

Here’s how you get your skin in balance: wash it. First thing in the morning, and right before bed. (And yes, that one two over half the time that you are too fucking tired and just collapse into bed because you can no longer see the make up anyway? That counts. In a bad way.)

Seriously though, it has itty bitty scrubber things in it, and that’s enough for me. You can get expensive stuff. I have some expensive stuff. It’s just - meh, it’s basically soap. As long as it’s not actual soap that will strip the shit out of your skin, I’ve found that the washy stuff is less important than the moisturizer.

Which brings us to part two of the secret to balanced skin (and eventually smaller pores): moisturize it. Not too much, not too little, after you wash your face twice a day. Finding a moisturizer that is right for your skin (not too much, not too little) can be tricky.

My current favorite is some free stuff I got from AmyD actually. I also have loads of mini tubs in that cabinet full of really expensive shit that I hate. But they are mini tubs - which means they didn’t cost me a dime. Go to Sephora and ask for samples. You’ll be able to tell almost instantly if it goes on smooth and leaves your skin feeling soft, or if it makes it feel kind of tight and not right. Obviously “tight and not right” would be bad.

OK - so, wash your face and use moisturizer. I’m sure you’ve been doing that. And I’m sure, like me, what you’re really hoping I’ll tell you is that I’ve found some magical product that you can put on and BAM! No more visible pores! And BAM OVER TIME! The pores actually tighten up and disappear for real!

Something, perhaps, like this:
(cue angels singing)

That is Dr. Brandt’s Pores No More. And it represents the hopes and dreams of big pored women everywhere. It promises to cover and tighten. It uses words like porcelain and smooth.

And all of that is pretty much a load of $45 a tube CRAP.

OK, Ok, I’m sorry. It’s not that bad. Once I got over my initial disappointment that this very expensive shit did not give me instant china doll skin, I figured out there are some good things that it does - if you know how to use it.

First - SHAKE the tube. I know, it’s a TUBE - not a bottle. But shake it anyway. Otherwise it is separated goo. Shake the tube and it will be like foundation, basically.

Second - use a sponge. And this is crucial. Because you are going to use the sponge to BASICALLY SPACKLE YOUR FACE. Really. (Trust me, the TLC make up chics say so.) You put the crap on the sponge and rub it on your face and basically push it into your pores. Have you ever put puddy in a dry wall hole? It’s like that.

The nice thing about this really expensive stuff is that it is tinted - so if you can get the washing and the moisturizing down to an Every Day Yes Even When You’re Tired routine, you may be able to get away with just using this with no makeup.

Unless you’re me. If you’re me, you have two problems with this stuff. Number one: sometimes you are just TIRED and so maybe the whole face washing thing is HARD some nights, don’t you judge me! Number two: it’s $45 a fucking TUBE! Seriously.

So, if you are me, you keep searching for an alternative and find something quite strange on the Internet. Something so strange, it might actually work. And you think… well… maybe it’s worth a shot. Just maybe…

I swear. Really. I actually put this on my face.

It is like $7 a tube and it is some of the BEST primer/pore spackler stuff you can buy. It won’t do much to actually shrink your pores, but it will cover them up and fill them in enough that with makeup you can be fabulous.

And, I’m sorry, but leaving the house without makeup should end at like 16 anyway. I don’t care what size your pores are.

(Do you have a burning question you’d like Miss Britt to answer? Email me at britt @ miss-britt dot com and I’ll sure as hell do my best! Anonymous questions (or posted as anonymous anyway) are totally A-OK too.)

To begin, you must first find a willing subject.

Now that you’re properly protected, it’s time to make The Stuff. Ignore the directions, as directions are clearly for pussies. And obviously you “know what the fuck I’m doing! JEEZ! Do you know how many times I’ve done this?”

Basically, throw everything but the conditioner and/or shampoo sample into the tub. Mix. Mix. Mix. When it looks like bad mayo, stop mixing.

Turn your attention back to your husband the subject the slightly effeminate man.

Once you’ve managed to convince your husband to put on a bonnet and let you take pictures properly secure the cap, it’s time to get to work.

Next, you’ll slather on The Stuff onto all the little hairs poking through the bonnet the cap..

You’ll also remember to take a picture of this crucial step so as not to ruin the entire fucking point, thereby invalidating all of your explanations that “baby, this is blogging GOLD!”

Check your watch and make note of the current time. Or the pretty close time. Timeish, if you will. Within like 5 or 10 minutes or so of the actual time should be good. It’s just boy hair.

Sit around and wait.

After 20 30 45ish minutes, remember to tell the subject that you need to wash that shit out, your hair is starting to fall out it’s probably been long enough.

Rinse.

Don’t say I never taught you nuthin’.

*Alternate title: The Things We Do For Love

OK, that is just it. IT, I tell you! IT!

Something horrible is happening right now, right here on the Internet, and something absolutely MUST be done about it.

To be honest with you, I blame myself. I could have prevented this weeks ago. But I just couldn’t be bothered to clutter up my pretty blog with anything of substance. I could not be troubled with reaching out for the good of the entire blogosphere. Nay, the good of humanity.

I am ashamed.

But today I make things right!!

(and also start explaining what the fuck I’m talking about)

There’s a little contest. Maybe you’ve heard about it. It’s the Blogger’s Choice Awards.

Wait. No, you, get your ass back here. This is not about YOU and YOUR disdain for all things votey and awardy and popularity contesty. This, my friend, is about humanity. And possibly boobs.

ANYway, the hilarious and wonderful Mr. Fabulous has been nominated in the category of Best Humor Blog (sit. down! For fuck’s sake I am telling you there is MORE!)

A while ago, Fabby finally came out and admitted that he wanted to win. He laid it all out there. He shared with us his dreams. In a blogosphere that is quick to cut out your heart if you show too much of it - or dare to step away from the Too Cool For School Awards kids - this man humbled himself before us.

His story touched me in special places that are rarely touched more than 4-7 times a month.

And yet, I did nothing.

Honestly, I figured I wouldn’t have to. Someone else would save the whales recycle do my kid’s homework end prostitution pimp for the Fab-mister and spend their day registering multiple email addresses and voting. Someone else would take care of it. Fabby would win and finally have peace. In the end, good would prevail and I would be happy and un-inconvenienced.

But Fabby knew better. Mr. Fabulous knew that bloggers are inherently lazy selfish easily distracted busy people, and would therefore need some kind of bribery incentive to get of their butts and vote. And so he put his brilliance to good use and offered a pimping contest.

Ah! At last! A chance at an OhMiBod and one intimate night with Prince! Surely this will motivate me to Do Something!

But alas, no. Even then I did not take action because it wasn’t my brother going to war my tax refund was actually pretty big last year I wasn’t using my civil liberties anyway I just had other things to do man, back up off me!

But now. Now I can take no more.

Now, I fear, someone may actually be cheating Mr. Fabby out of his happiness. And that just can’t happen. (Oh yeah, I fucking said it. You came from 8 votes to top 3 in 12 hours fairly my aching ASS! Bring it.)

So. Now I come to you, dear Internet. You simply must, must dedicate at least 15 minutes of your day today to go click on the damned link, register your email address, confirm, blah blah blah - and Vote. For Mr. Fab (aka Pointless-Drivel).

This cannot wait until tomorrow. Today, Friday, October whatthehellever-eth, is the absolute last day to vote.

What happens if you, like me, sit idely by and watch this man’s dreams die?

Why should YOU care?

1. Dooce could win. And dude, that chic has won enough fucking shit. And she cannot love you like the Fab Boy can love you. Plus she sucks and is not funny and likes to be mean to sites that are mean to her. OK? (yeah, I said it. Bring it.)

2. OK, the other possiblity is Crystal of the Boobies and she is hysterical. Really, really hysterical. And very much deserves good things as well. But she kind of already got to go to something for free recently (BlogHer) and Mr. Fab has not had such honor (and still won’t go free) and he really, really, really, really wants this. And wasn’t afraid to say it. Which I seriously and truly admire. (You know I love you Crystal baby, but this is for HUMANITY!!!)

3. If Fab wins, he is going to buy us all beer. Even you.

4. If Fab wins, the war in Iraq will magically end, bringing all the troops home and leaving a stable Iraq. In other words, if Fab wins, we all win! And they’ll have to talk about something else for the election!

So go on. Please. I am begging you here. I’m on my kneeeeees for Fabby.

I am not going to lie and tell you it will be easy. You’ll need to register. But I have like 400 readers. And if all of you would go and register just ONE email address today, we really could, together, make a difference. This here blog could change the WORLD. And YOU can be part of it.

And all you need to do is…

Click. Here. And VOTE!

.

.

(plus, I could totally win an OhMiBod, and you know that would be blogging GOLD!)

Hey Britt,

Thanks in Advance,

The Daughter

Dear Daughter,

Depression sucks.  God how it sucks.  I have seen it up close and personal and have been absolutely petrified that it was coming up in my own head every time I have a mood swing.  I have a family history and those cheesy ass commercials aren’t kidding when they say Depression Hurts.

As you have already seen first hand, depression can be literally debilitating.  Whatever your mother is going through is having a serious effect on her quality of life.

The absolute worst thing you can do for a depressed person is to tell them to “snap out of it” - which it doesn’t sound like you’re doing.  The problem here is that depression saps your will - your will to get up, to get out, and to seek help.  You are literally just too fucking tired and overwhelmed to even think about where to start fixing the problem.

As you’ve already suggested - she needs help, from someone besides you.

I’d like to tell you that she’s a grown woman with her own life and so are you and at some point it’s just not your problem.  But… I just can’t.  She’s your mom.  And if you knew your mom had cancer you wouldn’t just sit idly by and watch her wither away.  You’d do everything you could to get her care.

Understand that this is the same thing.  She. Needs.  Help.  Medical help.

Now - here is where my All By Myself Wisdom ends and The Infinite Wisdom Of Google Begins…

1. Try explaining to her that she is showing some symptoms of depression - and point out that that is a TREATABLE condition.  Bring her a list, a pamphlet, something she can look at and go “oh, other people feel like this too?” and “oh, shit, there may be a light at the end of this tunnel”

2. Empathize the best you can.  Show her you care about what she’s feeling.  While you can’t fully understand, having a safe place to put all those emotions she’s being bogged down with without judgement can help her to get to a place where she can at least reach out.

3. Talk to her about what this is doing to your relationship with her.  Be upfront with her about how this makes it hard for you to visit, etc.

4. Start with her regular physician.  This may not be as scary or as overwhelming to her, and a physician can actually provide quite a bit of medical support for depression.  She doesn’t have to go to a “shrink” to “get help”.

The bottom line here babe is that there is no quick and easy fix for this.  Get yourself a kick ass support system, because you are going to need it or you will get sucked dry.  This is a long road, and you’re going to need several places to refuel.  Get yourself some back up - family, friends, other people who care about your mom who can help you in talking to her over and over and over again if need be.  If it can be avoided, do not take this on all by yourself.

Fuck.  This one was hard.  I’m kind of.. uh.. depressed now.

And I suppose it would be terribly insensitive now to tell you that I need a drink after all of this?

Yes, I’m back.  Finally.  And I’m so damn excited I could about pee myself.  But then I would lose all credibility for today’s WWMBD Question…

Hi Miss Britt!

Goes without saying that I love your writing…though I guess I just said it. Okay, this is totally an embarrassing question, but you’re the one to ask. Feel free to leave off my name, or don’t, everyone knows I’m a giant dork anyway. Okay, here it is: how can I be sexy? Like, what’s the protocol? I mean, come on, you’re sex on legs in the best way. I am …not.

Miss the Not Sexy

Um, wow.  Can I just take a minute to revel in the wonderfulness that is this email?  It’s a little hard to revel when I’m working so hard to block out the irony because…

a) my husband once told me when he was younger and more stupid that I was “cute”, but that I would never be “beautiful”.  Of course he has had to perform copious amounts of yard work over the last seven years because of that comment - but still.  It is generally accepted that while I may have the Meg Ryan act down, I aint got nuthin’ on Angeline Holie. (not a typo, woman is a home wreckin’ ho - but anyway…)

and b) I often refer to Prince as “sex on legs”.  So it makes me giggle a little to see those words used in reference to me.  And also quiver, just a little.  At the thought.  Of, you know, him.

Ahem.  So.  Anyway.  Back to you.  And how I can help you.

First rule of sexy?  Thou shalt not mock lame ass magazines.  Seriously.

And not just because they’re right with their half ass attempts at telling you that “confidence is sexy” - in their articles that are illustrated with size 0 seventeen year old “women”.

You see, those lame ass magazines are brilliant for inspiration.  Specifically, the key to sexiness (aside from confidence and blah blah blah) is Inspiration for Imitation.

My mom is always asking me how I do “it”.  How do I pull it all together?  How did I do that to my hair?  How did I come up with that outfit and those accessories and yada yada yada.  And the answer is always the same:  I saw it, I studied it, I tried it in the mirror.  And then I fucked with “it” alot until I got it basically right.

I read blogs, I glance through magazines when I’m waiting at the salon, and mostly (this is really my secret weapon) I study women like a lonely lesbian.  When I see someone or something that I find particularly glamorous, or sexy, or whatever, I really study it.  I analyze it and pick it apart and try to notice the details.

I notice that her highlights are actually multiple colors.

I make note of the blogger her mentions that she uses eyeliner and fake lashes mostly on the outer half of her lids.

I notice that Jennifer Anniston once wore a pony tail on the red carpet - with a messy tail and a full crown and a few stray pieces in the front.

I notice that the women at the Ritz have sequins and/or kitten heels on their sandals - which is what separates their “footwear” from my “flip flops”.

And I realize that the key to any good “look” is just that - A Look.  Whether it’s shabby chic or glitzy glam, you do it all the way - from head to toe to wrists and ankles if called for.

Oh, and here’s the other thing that really makes all this “imitation” actually work.  You have to look for people who are kind of like you.

For example, I am short, curvy, blonde and I have insanely curly hair.  I spent a lot of my early teen years trying to model tall lanky women with long straight hair.  And it left me feeling really, really frustrated and completely inept.  When I was about 16 I started to notice that there were some really gorgeous women with super curly hair.  And they didn’t try to cover it up - they made it work.

Find realistic role models.  Do you have curly hair?  Are you tall?  Do you have ridiculously long legs or incredible cheek bones?  There is someone out there right now with features and strengths and “weaknesses” similar to yours that is already rockin’ it.  Focus on those women, and let go of the torturous idea of becoming something that is genetically impossible.

God this sounds really lame all of a sudden. I basically just wrote like 8 paragraphs about being a copy cat.  And you asked me how to be sexy?

Baby, the bottom line is: work it.  Make the effort and make it all the way.   BE sexy.  Own it. Work it.  Have fun with it.  Figure out what you find sexy and make it yours.  And don’t let people tell you that it’s stupid to wear make up to the grocery store or french tips to a garage sale if that makes you feel sexy.

Because in the end those magazines really do get that part right.  When you feel sexy, you become sexy.  They just forget to tell you that sometimes learning how to properly use pomade and accessorizing with earrings just like the ones you saw your favorite Soap star wear is a pretty damn good start to the “feeling” part.

I feel like I should try to end this on some really inspiration, pro woman power note.  So, um, hmm, yeah, uh….

Vagina.

OMG I am late today. Between broken Internet and working and blah blah (insert shit you don’t care about here), I haven’t been online really since Thursday. I know!!

Thank God for WWMBD…

Hello Miss Britt,

I loved your Vagina Chronicle a few weeks back, by the way, you had me laughing my head off. I think it was one of your best posts. Good work.

Have you considered altering it your WWMBD a tiny bit to Ask Britt’s Vagina? I say this because you could soooo pull this off in a tasteful yet funny way. You are a person with morals and values and a good swear word vocabulary so it would be perfect. If anyone ever read my blog, I’d want to do it.

Here’s my question:

Dear Britt’s Vagina (or Aunt Flo or whatever you want to name it),

My husband has a four day weekend coming up and he has his heart set on taking us to the middle of freaking nowhere to go camping and fishing. How can I get him to reconsider and take me someplace with a full service spa in it instead? It would also be a bonus it he thought it was his idea, and not because I threatened divorce.

Thank you,

Pamper vs. Nature

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OK, so I kinda thought this whole What Would Miss Britt Do thing would take off a little more.  I mean surely there are people out there at crossroads, desperate for answers and guidance, confident that I am just the person to provide both.

Dear Miss Britt,

I have a… friend… yes… he’s a friend… who seems to have a slight obsession with… let’s say… the color orange… yes, that’s it… and his obsession is wildly known throughout the blogosphere… because you know, orange is the new pink and stuff… but now… for some reason… people IRL seem to think there is the obsession with the color… when in fact IRL he actually likes… mmmm… let’s say red and black… just for arguments sake… so how does he explain to the world at large that while the blogosphere should be orange… he actually does not want an orange bathrobe, orange slippers, orange sweatshirts, or orange mittens for any occasion (although he is not against an orange baseball cap as his collection is missing one of that color, or orange afghans because they keep his fat ass warm in winter)… so what is he to do?

Thank you for your help,

Living A Tangerine Nightmare

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