Extra Small, Por Favor…

On a recent visit to Victoria’s Secret, as I was browsing the over-priced leopard, yoga pants, I overheard a conversation between a store employee and a customer. She asked the employee if they had any back stock in a particular style of thongs because she couldn’t find her size:

“No problem, ma’am, what size were you looking for?” asked the Victoria’s Secret employee.

“An extra small”, replied the customer.

“Umm, is this for you?” asked the VS employee.

“Yes”.

And then there was silence; the kind of silence that goes a second too long…an uncomfortable type of silence.

My curiosity got the best of me and I peered over the rack of yoga pants and there stood Rosie O’Donnell, ok, not the real Rosie, but a Latina version with a sprinkle of Nacho Libre.

As I stood there in a sea of bras and undies, I slurped the last of my green tea soy latte, perplexed. How could this woman have such a distorted sense of reality? There was no way that this woman fit into an XS. But as I examined her outfit, it was quite obvious she preferred clothes a la sausage casings. As I stood there holding a pair of yoga pants and my LARGE undies, all I could think about was how comfortable could squeezing an XL body into an XS thong possibly be? The images weren’t pretty. I thought about how painful it would be to wear a thong that would cut off circulation, dig into my skin and chafe my butthole. Not to mention the attractive “front thong” it would make by splitting the labias in half– a vision of roast beef bound together by a butcher string danced through my head. Rosie Nacho Libre was just asking for an un-godly yeast infection.

Look…I’m not a small woman by any stretch of the imagination. I got the boobs, the butt and the hips and after two kids my stomach is far from rock hard; more like firm, Jell-O. But… I dress to flatter the good parts and downplay the “not-so-pretty” parts. Being of bi-racial descent, Filipino/Mexican, I feel I can speak openly about “my people”. Yes, Filipinos and Mexicans. And if you have a problem with this, you can stop reading my blog and log on to some boring website to view the latest dancing dog in a conga line video or read about what Kardashian is flashing their vag this week.

My issue is aimed at my people; primarily my Latina sisters who wear clothes that don’t fit.

I’m not saying other races don’t do the same, but I need to speak on mine.

I don’t care if they make it in your size. If it doesn’t fit, it doesn’t fit.  Stop forcing the zipper until you get blisters on your fingers.

Just because it zips doesn’t mean it fits.

What is the criteria for what fits and what doesn’t fit?                                                                                                                                                    

Well, Let me share (and if you need this document in Spanish, I will gladly translate it for you in a PDF):

It doesn’t fit if…

• Your 7 year old can wear it
• I can see the shape of your vagina lips through the front of your jeans
• You have to smoosh your gut in half to button your pants
• Your waist fat is pouring out the top of your pants and making bleeding welts in your skin
• You get heartburn from the pressure of the restrictive waistline pushing all your organs upward
• You look like you’re wearing a wetsuit
• I can see your stretch marks on your belly hanging out the bottom of your tank top
• I can see your ass crack while you walk
• Your chi-chi’s are pouring out the front of your bra
• Your ass is pouring out the back of your jeans
• You’re trying to wear Hollister and/or Abercrombie jeans. (Please, if you are a size 16 trying to squeeze into a size 4 in Hollister jeans–you must have some form of dementia). I don’t know what the obsession is with our people and these brands.
• Your shirt just reaches your belly-button, and you try and make it look like you meant for it to be a half-shirt
• You’re trying to rock some short-shorts and I can see your asshole
• If your inner thighs are bleeding from the friction you created from your short-shorts
• Your skirt rolls up to your belly-button when you sit
• If the landscapers think you’re “muy sexy”
• You resemble a busted can of biscuits
• If you’ve made it on PeopleOf Walmart.com

“You cannot climb the ladder of success dressed in the costume of failure” – Zig Ziglar

I don’t care what size you are, there is something for everybody. With so many trendy designers marketing towards bigger sizes, there is no reason you should be 40 and rockin’ a crop top from Justice.

I’m not expecting women to live up to society’s standard of beauty. I know I will never be a size 4. This has nothing to do with weight and everything to do with effort; the effort you put into your appearance. Some  women might say, “I don’t give a shit about what people think about me. Why should it matter?”

It matters because when you invest in yourself and look put together it speaks volumes. It says, “I respect myself and I take myself seriously.”

It falls under the broader category of non-verbal communication. Perception is reality. You can be highly educated with a sparkling personality, but It’s hard for a lot of people to look past a sloppy exterior. Don’t you want to live up to your appearance’s full potential? Everyone has something beautiful about them. It’s a matter of choice: choosing to look sloppy and unkempt or choosing to look well-dressed and presentable. The attitude all flows from that.

The whole package matters. I can’t tell you how tired I am of hearing race used as a scapegoat for why you can’t find a job or find a good man…

Seriously….

Would YOU date YOU?

Would YOU hire YOU?

My Latina sisters..we gotta do better. Honor your worth.

Educate yourself.

Believe in yourself.

Respect yourself.

As you invest in the inner you, your outer appearance will benefit. Again..the whole package.

If you don’t want to be stereotyped, STOP mislabeling yourself.

Ok, that is all.

Thank you.

Gotta run to Victoria’s Secret and meet up with Rosie Nacho Libre to stock up on chonies.

Large.

Dropping Your Jam

It’s been happening from the beginning of time and it never seems to get any better. We go from generation to generation with new and improved products, suggestions from nutritionists on what to eat to improve cramps and bloating, and even birth control that will stop it completely….your period.

Menses. Menstruation. Aunt Flo. The Red Tide. Shark Week. Red Dot Special. Riding the Cotton Pony. On the Rag. A Visit from Captain Bloodsnatch. Riding the Red River. Strawberry Salad. On the Rag. Dropping Your Jam.

And with all that has changed throughout the years, one thing remains constant, we are all still bitches during that time of the month. I don’t care how old you are. You are still the raving, hormonal troll everyone wants to avoid.

And men will never understand why you’re keeled over writhing in pain. “What’s it feel like?” They ask.

You might think there are no words to describe your horror, but oh, there is:

Imagine someone..like an evil clown, stabbing you in the stomach and twisting the machete. Those would be cramps. And how about sore boobs, backaches, headaches, and being constantly tired and hot and the reoccurring chills from shit cramps? It might sink in even more if you tell your guy to imagine his butt hole bleeding non-stop and shoving cotton up it so he doesn’t ruin his cargo shorts.

All you want to do is sleep and eat and not talk to anyone because no one at that point is worthy of conversation. Your  back is killing you, like a cast member from Little Women: LA is practicing roundhouse kicks on your tailbone.

You feel like a walrus: bloated, shiny-faced, fat and you just want to roll around all day eating chocolate and carne asada fries with a diet Coke. And the cramps? Sorta like an Oompa Loompa crawled up your vag and started ice skating inside your uterine walls.

It feels like your crotch is throwing up 24/7 while the Chinese massage guy you see in the mall is kneading your abdomen 24/7 with his boney little fingers.

Oh, and the best part of having your period?

The fun of choosing your weapon of mass destruction: Pad? Tampon? Cup? Period Panties?

As I perused the feminine product aisle in the store recently, I couldn’t help but become overwhelmed with all the offerings available and the colorful packaging that went along with it.

I picked up a black and purple, sparkly, glitter box with a reflective pink logo that would make Elton John jealous. It contained pads for Tweens. Obviously, bleeding is fun like unicorns dancing over rainbows and farting cotton candy. Even the plastic wrapping the pads came in looked like something out of a Japanese anime film. And wait…I’m not done… wait for it….. It also came with feminine wipes  attached to every pad for your stank. Now you can enhance your fishy smell with mango scented wipes. Mmmmm.

Back in the early 80’s we didn’t have fun labels or graphics (or mango wipes).

You know what we had?

We had a Marcia Brady look-a-like running barefoot on the beach in her white pajama gown, hair blowing in the wind, flying a kite. That’s what we had. It was printed on a huge ass, cardboard box that could hold a flat screen TV.

And the pads? There weren’t a variety of sizes to pick from. No “ulta-thin, super-absorbent” maxi pads, mini pads or pantyliners according to vagina size. There were two sizes: mattress or pillow. And they would reach all the way from your ass crack to your belly button (a la sumo wrestler). It didn’t matter though, you were going to wake up to a bloody mess that would make the horse head scene in The Godfather look amateur.

Tampons? Forget about it. I wasn’t allowed to use those because I was a “virgin”. God forbid i inserted anything into my pure, Catholic body. I would for sure get Toxic Shock Syndrome and die a horrible, grisly death with a tampon lodged inside my birth canal. God would just not be cool with that. Enter: confession and the rosary.

But now, there are a few new additions to the feminine protection market:

The Period Cup. Don’t even talk to me about this contraption- a reusable silicone cup, worn internally to collect menstrual flow. Could anything be more gross? I apologize to any of my friends who love this technique of blood collection, but it creeps me out. I hate to do my own dishes. Why would I want to constantly clean out a cup o’ blood every few hours?

Period panties? Still trying to figure this one out. They tote these as “period panties for the modern woman”. I think I’m as modern as they come and I have no interest in wearing an extra thick panty to work for a week. Although, I did get a chuckle out of their Halloween line of period panties with such interesting names: Cunt Dracula, Red Rum, Rainbo: First Blood and Dawn of the Red to name a few….

Regardless of the constant crime scene in my pants, I remind myself how amazing it is to be a woman. I love the power and wondrous things my body can endure.  Although a monthly inconvenience, I know that Aunt Flo is what made my babies possible. It made my dream of being a mom a reality.

I’m blessed.

Period.

My Love/Hate Relationship with Bathing Suits

Bathing suit shopping. I’d have to rank that on the enjoyment level right next to sliding down a hill of razor blades. Even walking into the bathing suit section at the department store gives me anxiety. Every spring, the stores …

Huevos Rancheros , Dark Roast Coffee & Spanx

It was one of those mornings where I made the extra effort to look nice because of client meetings. As I drank my Kona vanilla macadamia nut coffee, I perused my closet for something that was comfortable but flattering. I started to eye one of my many wrap dresses. Usually, my choice of wardrobe is based upon whether i feel like wearing Spanx or not. Well, when it comes to any type of dress, Spanx are necessary to smooth things out..keep things in place and force the blubber to stay put. So, I pick out one of my DVF (Diane Von Furstenberg) wrap dresses. Diane was the inventor of wrap dresses and I will forever be grateful to her for creating such a one piece miracle for women of all shapes and sizes. And then I pick out a pair of Spanx. Now, Spanx come in all types: full body suits, shorts, tank tops, skirts, etc. And they are not cheap, but so worth it.

I go through my dresser and opt for what Spanx refers to as the Slim Cognito Open-Bust Mid-Thigh Bodysuit. I refer to it as my super-slim-wet suit. One thing you have to understand about wearing this bodysuit is that once you get it on, it’s on. It’s a process. Think about trying to push biscuit dough back into the can…that’s exactly what it’s like.

So, I force my whole human body into this contraption, wipe the sweat off my brow and check myself out in the mirror. It looks good and I can actually breathe. I’m not sure how Kim Kardashian can wear two of these at the same time (I’m not kidding, Google it). One thing I forgot to mention was that this particular Spanx bodysuit is made with a pee-pee hole. Yes, an opening to pee for convenience. Just wait…my story gets better (I can’t make this shit up).

After slipping on my beautiful Sam Edelman heels to complete my ensemble I head to the kitchen to fix myself a quick breakfast before heading out the door. I look in the fridge and find all the fixings for a great huevos rancheros breakfast. For those of you that don’t know what that is, huevos rancheros, pronounced ˈwāvōs ranˈCHerōs, is a Mexican dish of fried or poached eggs served on a tortilla with a spicy tomato sauce. And so I whip up a yummy dish and of course had to add my client’s famous El Sol fire roasted salsa! I did a little happy dance as I ate every spoonful and sipped my second cup of coffee. I finished up, grabbed my bag and car keys and headed into work.

At about 9am, I feel a small, shooting pain in my stomach. I dismiss it. I keep working away at my computer and within minutes feel a cramp and then another in my gut. My worst fear is coming true…poop cramps. Not just poop cramps. But poop cramps in Spanx! WTF?!  I try to breathe through the waves of  shit pains like a woman in late stage labor. I start to develop cold sweats as I try to shift my body from left to right to try to alleviate the pain while sitting at my desk.

I was in poo labor.

I’m not one for using a public bathroom when dropping a deuce. But I knew that if I did not get myself to the ladies room quick, I was going to build a dookie castle at my desk.

I casually head to the bathroom and had to pause a few times before I got there just to regain my composure and let each cramp subside. Any wrong move and I’d draw mud. I get to the bathroom and it was vacant, thank God! I rush into the stall and realize I still had to undress, yes undress. I had to go through the whole rigmarole of removing my dress AND Spanx. I take a deep breath through every cramp (they seem to be coming in shorter waves at this point). My poo labor was progressing. I take my dress off and hang it on the door hook. That was easy. And then comes the removal of my Spanx. With all the force I could muster, I pull down the top part of the body suit and at least get it to my waist.

Progress.

Now, to roll the rest off over my hips, stomach and thighs so that I could pull it off.

It wasn’t budging.

I tried two more times and the elasticity of the bodysuit kept it rolling back up. I think at this point, the fat on my hips started to swell.

And then…I felt a fart coming on.

I wanted to cry. I clenched my butt cheeks as hard as I could and started to yell at my Spanx, “Listen mother f**ker!! I didn’t pay $98 for you to fail me! You better come the f**k off or I will slice you and all your sisters up when I get home! Get off my body, NOW!” I grabbed that bodysuit and forced it off with all my might and like a slingshot, it flew across the stall and I was able to make it onto the porcelain god just in time.

I sat there, in nothing but my heels and bra reliving the last 15 minutes of my  life. It had come to this: me sitting in a public restroom,half-naked, brewing anal hot chocolate. I don’t know whether I was more mad at myself for choosing such a breakfast to induce liquid satan or the fact that my Spanx weren’t more fecal friendly.

I gathered my pride, got dressed, washed my hands, patted my face with a wet paper towel. I calmly walked back into my office deeply burying this episode of my life as a lesson learned: .

Oh, and if you find a pair of  Slim Cognito Open-Bust Mid-Thigh Bodysuit Spanx on 12th Street and Camelback Road, please do not return to owner.

Luxury must be comfortable, otherwise it is not luxury.” Coco Chanel

I’ve gotten to the point in my life where comfort is everything. From the hotels I stay at to the clothes and shoes I wear (ok, ok..maybe not so much my heels because my most gorgeous shoes are also the most uncomfortable). But my weekends consist of my Yeezy’s, workout leggings and a white v-neck t-shirt. I refer to my ensemble as my “mom uniform”. By no means am I frumpy, I’m just comfortable. I know that most of my friends would consider me high maintenance, but I really don’t think I’m that bad. I think you can still pull off a casual, relaxed look and still look amazing.

So, yesterday as I was eating my fruit bowl passing time on Pinterest, I decided that maybe I needed to switch my mom uniform up a bit. I started looking at the Women’s Fashion page and came across a board labeled,’Comfy Outfits’. Ready to click and pin some new outfit ideas, I came across this particular ‘comfy’ outfit….

WTF?

No, seriously, WTF?

If having labia squeezing, camel-toe jeans is comfortable,  I must be missing something. I look at this outfit and think, ‘there has to be some form of Gangrene setting in on those vagina lips..’ You’d have to peel your panties out of your cooch every time you’d have to use the restroom. Nooo, thank you.

With the latest trend being the high-waisted mom jean, I just can’t. Kylie and Kendall Jenner can pull it off, but if  you’re anywhere over the age of 20, you should not even for a second consider rocking high-waisted jeans. I don’t care how fabulous your body is. This is not a look that most women can pull off. So, if you aren’t 90lbs, Kylie, Kendall or even Miley…look the other way and leave those jeans nicely folded on that Forever 21 display.

What about the comfy hat? Seriously? Ok, I love hats. I love wearing baseball caps on comfy days to tame my unruly hair. But, it’s a baseball cap; not a hat I’d wear to the Kentucky Derby.

And those boobs. How comfortable is it to wear a top that you’re constantly watching to make sure your knockers don’t make an unscheduled appearance? Not to mention the tucking and squeezing them back into place. Maybe it’s not a problem for this woman as her fake tits don’t look like they move at all.Those suckers are staying put. With my deflated girls, I think I’d have to just tuck them in that nifty waist band of those torn jeans to avoid the gasps of horror if they decided to flop out.

The heels. Um, comfy? A 6″ inch heel in a pointed stiletto screams pain and anguish. Those honey, are what Oprah would refer to as “sitting shoes”. You don’t go anywhere, do anything but sit at your desk or on your couch and look pretty. Those aren’t “Run-into-Trader-Joe’s- for-groceries-pick-up-toilet-paper-from-Target-stop-into-TJ-Maxx” type of  errand running shoes. Those mofo’s are torture devices; it’s what they use in foreign countries to get spies to talk.

Ultimately, if you like it, wear it.

I’m gonna stick to my uniform.

“Anyone can get dressed up and glamorous but it’s how people dress in their days off that is the most intriguing.” – Alexander Wang