me again. happy Friday afternoon and hope you’re ready for a .gif parade…
Below is what Bambino was doing at the foot of our bed last night. The baby tiger on the left is our expression while this was going on for seven straight hours.
Suffice it to say, I’m pretty tired. But I just couldn’t WAIT to post what you’re going to see today in this post, so… here we go.
First, here’s what’s coming up soon on the blog: My Open Letter to the part of the PR industry that’s ruining it for the ones who know what they’re doing, and, Bridal Market is in full swing, so please, prep yourself for the intense dress action I’ll be bringing back from the shows over the next week or so. Because ITWILLBESOINTENSE,LIKEISAID. I suggest a warm bath and some breathing exercises to prepare yourselves.
P.S. – I wanna thank all of the designers for inviting me to walk, and then making the right decision to reject me outright upon receiving my demo reel:
Sigh. All my fat goes directly to my hands.
I have a story to share with you today SHOCK AMONG SHOCKS.
A couple days ago, a friend and I were sitting and chatting at one of those rare Starbucks establishments you see occasionally here in NYC. Things went from a typical conversation between two respectable women to *vagina and ass* within five minutes. Because I’m Alison?
We didn’t speak exclusively about butts and vaheens, because EW. I don’t want you to think I’m obsessed with that stuff. I mean, I am obsessed with that stuff but I don’t want you to think that. No so we talked about other things, also. Like relationship issues. And we spent a STRONG three minutes releasing shrill screams about Bridal Market (Claire Pettibone = the one I’m most worried about fainting at, as I’m sure you would understand. If you look for me there I will be the one sitting down 100% of the time with smelling salts in hand and a pregnancy pillow wrapped around me in case I fall out of my chair/get pregnant). We also talked about puppies because of course. We accidentally walked into about 20 minutes on politics but stopped before long, because DEPRESSING.
Someone brought up “underwear these days.” Probably me.
We talked about good underwear. We talked about baaaaad underwear, we talked about why we are incapable of throwing away our terrible terrible underwear that are so gross (which is one of the numbers on the list below, mind you). We talked about the best shapes for different kinds of butts, then we talked about men’s butts because NATURALLY. We got back on track, talking about which shape covers the most ground without being grannyish, we tried to determine the number one stunner for under skinny jeans and dresses, blah blah blah etcetera. By the way this is what it looks like when I put on a pair of my skinny jeans
Yeah, so then we got into talking about annoying trends in underwear.
I said probably too loudly: “I just want all this glitter out of my underwear. It gets in my butt.”
Let’s stop the tape right there, folks. You may be noticing that sometimes I don’t think before I yell something out about my underwear. In a crowded Starbucks at 2 in the afternoon among nursing mothers. For what it’s worth my panties were overrun with maddening amounts of glitter, and I was at my wit’s end. It was going to come out at some point so why not at Starbucks where there are toddler children playing on the floor and several older judgmental looking eavesdroppers. It goes without saying that there were some folks in there who probably thought my name was Iwanna Ga’Doughnonnia, or Anita Peterortwo. Or Sally con Strokum. Aunt MaJina. Donna Tuch-Marreare. (<== oh my goodness I think I just determined my porn name if I go into porn)
They just didn’t know the truth. Which was that, when I arrived on the website I use when buying underwear, I was denied any alternatives to these glanties (I first wrote *glittanties* but, no.). I needed boy shorts, they had boy shorts with glitter all the f**k over them, and I pressed Purchase. I didn’t say I was proud of it. You can imagine my expression when I got to the computer and realized only glitter ones were left
But yes, I bought them. And I’m still in possession of two pairs of (really great fitting which is why I bought them) boy shorts, fully enveloped in glitter that has apparently been glued on using a glue stick from my kindergarten class. Because it’s like my underwear just washed their hair in the shower and it’s all over the shower wall now instead of my underwear’s head. Or you get my point. The moment my thighs hit the pavement it’s like breaking open a pinata of glitter in my pants. I am immediately engulfed in glitter from the waist down. Here is what my thoughts used to be on people who wear glitter underwear, before I became the owner of glitter underwear: “good luck with your crippling feelings of inadequacy and destructive thirst for attention.” Here are my thoughts about people who wear glitter underwear, now that I own glitter underwear: “we are sisters.”
Here’s the point: you know me, you know I have certain needs. And these needs are at their most firm, when it comes to my undercarriage. You know how there are people who have exhaustive unemotional checklists of everything they need their partner to have (ivy league schooling, $$$$, etc.) in order for them to consider marrying them? Those kinds of checklists often turn out to be projections of what we wish we had in ourselves, and can have a detrimental effect on one’s love life. NOT SO, with the type of checklist I have. Which is a list of everything I need out of my underwear. Course this list is by no means complete. I cannot speak for all shapes of ass, nor all tastes in underwear <== that came out wrong.
I have canvassed everyone I know (by randomly having conversations about it over several years unintentionally) to find out the best underwear for your money and ass, and it is, resoundingly, Victoria’s Secret brand boy shorts and hipsters. The hipsters are actually called “cheeky” hipsters, but I feel like a truly ridiculous person calling them that so I don’t. To the list!
- Seamless coverage, no exceptions.
- I need to be able to walk around my home without pants, nary a care of the view from behind.
- Material must be soft, yet firm/capable of holding things in place. It’s essentially a butt bra, so ACT LIKE IT.
- No messages on the back. Because SERIOUSLY. Thanks so much, no I would not like to advertise the fact that I’m a “hot piece of ass” and like to “party all night” across where my asshole is. What sane person wants another person doing some light reading within inches of the anus? NOT I. Spend as little time as possible there, if you’d be so kind. If you must plaster letters across my butt, how about “no loitering.”
- Just, if you grant my wish of the “no loitering,” please… don’t do it in glitter.
- Still pretty ticked about the glitter. It’s permanently embedded in nearly all of my jeans -_________-
- “I would like my ass to look like a deli ham” = the last thing I’d ever say to a sales clerk selling me underwear. Yet somehow, that is exactly what they have brought to my since I was but a child, hoping for a round, right ass without seams. So: no cheek-gripping seams for chrissakes, is what #7 is. Srsly why would my objective be for people walking behind me to think “omg. that girl was born with the Human Centipede of Asses. Her ass, it looks like there might be an identical second one, spun on its axis and then stacked directly atop the first ass. HOTT. It’s like that girl with the three boobs instead of two! Except this is four cheeks instead of two, and it is gross instead of my teenage fantasy.” No thanks.
- I know some of you are saying that *working out* is a solution to this; that a firmer butt means reduced cheek-gripping action. I’m sorry- is this a health blog?
- No decorative stitching, printed onto the material or sewn in for utterly ridiculous aesthetic effect. Both are equally preposterous and make you look like the kind of person who has a room in her home devoted entirely to dolls.
- No animal prints where the animal print is magenta and neon green, unless you’re looking for a way to send the message, “I’d go to Taco Bell on a first date.” Here is what Bambino does when he sees one of my more ‘in your face about it’ pairs of clean underwear (and I really don’t want to encourage it)
- No frilly ruffles. I have fallen into the trap of purchasing frilly underwear in the past, and while they make sense in the boudoir ifyouknowwhatImean, ifyouknowwhatI’mtalkinabout, I can attest that, worn outside of the bedroom and under jeans, the frills only bunch up on the sides, adding the insult of wider hips to the already-imposed injury of being made to look like you’re an idiot.
- Final Note: Some underwear are decidedly period underwear, and they are purchased for that express purpose. SAME RULES APPLY.
So, as I transition rather pitifully out of Part 1, I will leave you with one burning question my girlfriends and I rather frequently arrive at:
How is it that: only girls are encouraged to concern themselves with waxing their entire pelvic region, almost to the point of it becoming a female standard? How has it not yet bled (no pun intended) over into guys’ regimens? I could make a compelling case for why men should make it a priority. I mean really, there is so much to gain. But I digress. Anyway I saw a video today that someone I will not be naming sent to me, and I’m gonna share with you but definitely only as a link. Because one of the guys, UMMM. He *stepped in gum*. Enjoy at your OWN RISK, and I hope you got the reference. If you got the reference you’re probably not clicking on that link, which is smart, and it is what I advise. Moving on…
On a completely unrelated note to everything I talked about above, OMGIAMINLOVEWITHTHISSHOOT. It’s the feather-winged finale of that styled loveliness I hinted at sometime back and OMG you’re gonna love it. I will stop using ‘OMG’ right now.
The surreal beauty you’re about to see below was submitted by Anna Pociask Photography, with the title “Temptation.” Anna said, “I wanted to tell a story of a woman tempting a good boy. Her beauty slowly enticing him…” NAILED IT.
This brings us ’round to our overall lesson today, folks. When it comes to clothing and accessories, gigantic feathered wings in a shoot is AWESOME, while leopard printed neon green underoos with suspenders and a neon sign on the back that reads “come in” are NOT AWESOME. Does anyone disagree with me? If so, by all means, share.
Anyway, hope you love this shoot as much as I did. It’s such a captivating foray into the dreamland we rarely get a chance to visit IRL. Or whatever. Holy shit just show the pictures already Alison.
So tell me…
1. Anyone excited to see the dress photos from the shows of Bridal Market? I know at least one person who is. *pointscutelyatself*
2. Any input on my totally insane underwear tangent that I’m not proud of? Also accepting “you need immediate medical attention for chronic insanity thrombosis” But obviously I prefer a comment of substance vs. attack. I mean obviously.
3. What do you think of today’s styled session? I am absolutely infatuated with the couple, Ashley and Robby… they’re married, by the way! Am I weird or does she actually look like a winged fairy IRL. I felt like I was watching Tinker Bell: The College Years. This whole thing turned out MAGNIFICENT.
xoxo! - Alison