There are few things more precious in this world than lady friends. I can’t count the number of times that Taylor and I have sat on my couch, or at a bar, or atop a wooden box with a hole cut in it at a Korean spa getting our vaginas steamed, and talked about how fucking lucky we feel to be women who are aware of the complexity of their feelings and capable of verbalizing and expressing them to one another in a meaningful way. And yeah, I’ve been drinking some Prosecco tonight, and I’m feeling sentimental, and this is going to be mush because I’m moving back up north this weekend and holy shit I’m already missing my boo Taylorrrrrr. <insert James Van Der Beek crying gif here>
Goodbye swamp-crotch, hello tights and boots and jackets and ALL THE GOOD CLOTHES.
Taylor and I have been holed up in our air-conditioned abodes with our pets and fams anxiously awaiting the apocalypse or the first day of fall… whichever came first. Turns out it was the latter, but seemingly by a pretty narrow margin amiright?
Hey, babes! I was all set to write this post last week and then this bitch named Irma came and knocked out my power and internet for days (and Lindsey and I are so grateful to be safe and our hearts go out to those who lost so much more in this storm). I was so ready, though, because this is an installment of Ask RBF, and WE LOVE GETTING QUESTIONS FROM Y’ALL.
Here’s the thing: I don’t really understand how time works. I’ll pack a day full of tasks and errands that I’m sure I’ll be able to complete, only to make it halfway through the list. I’m never late to work, but sometimes I show up with no makeup or fourth-day hair that really should’ve been washed because I don’t seem to understand that getting ready actually takes time and isn’t a magical process. I constantly forget to account for traffic on the way to the gym during morning rush hour and have to cut my workouts short, or, if I don’t have anywhere to be, I’ll do All The Moves and be surprised that I’ve been lifting weights for an hour. Read More
I always overpack. ALWAYS. Three day trip to Nashville? Six dresses. Week-long trip to Chicago? Eight pairs of jeans. Weekend at the beach? Three pairs of boots. It’s a problem. And for someone who loves planning so much, you would think that I would do a better job of it when it comes to packing. I think what it is for me, though, is that my propensity for planning is far outweighed by my crippling fear of not having enough options, so I throw everything I can possibly fit into the suitcase… juuuuuust in case. This is stupid for many reasons, the main one being that once I get back home I have to then unpack all this shit that I didn’t even/was never going to wear, and unpacking is the piiiiiiiitts.
Shopping smart is a skill. And it’s one that Taylor and I have only just recently begun to perfect. In college we would go to the mall and buy mountains of Forever 21 clothes that ended up never getting worn and ultimately being re-sold to Plato’s Closet and Rag-O-Rama so we’d have money to buy cigs and Chipotle.
Game of Thrones’ final season premiered Sunday night (duh, everyone knows this), and before we talk about the fashion, which should be the most important thing, can we address what’s really on everyone’s mind? Namely, WHAT THE FUCK IS ED SHEERAN DOING HERE.
This is an insult and an outrage, and I love Maisie Williams, but I hope she one day knows enough about life to be embarrassed about the fact that she stanned so hard for this dummy that the showrunners let him ruin five minutes of a great show for her sake. His face is terrible, his music is terrible, and THIS CAMEO WAS TERRIBLE. But Twitter already did a great job of dragging this whole thing, so I’ll move on, because: you guys, the lewks this season are FIRE. (Warning: spoilers ahead. Obviously.)
Happy Wednesday, dudes! We still can’t get it tf together, but a late post is an improvement over no post at all, right?
So let’s talk about how the 90s are fully back. Lindsey and I are at that age where we get to experience the return of trends we were alive to see the first time, and I don’t know about her, but I’m having flashbacks of my mom telling me that one day I’d know what it was like to see younguns rocking the same styles that I cringe remembering myself in as an adolescent. What my mom didn’t predict is that I’d be HERE FOR IT. Read More
Hey, lovelies! We’re glad you’re here. Sorry we didn’t post last week. We’re shit, we blew it.
But moving on: One of my irrational pet peeves is when a TV show about “normal people” puts characters in entirely new outfits in every scene and you never see a person wear anything more than once. Sure, TV is designed to sell us stuff, and real life can be kind of depressing so we don’t want total verisimilitude–but come on, even if I was rich, I like to think I’d get some repeat usage out of my hot designer shit. Besides, one of the best parts about getting dressed is being creative, and what’s more creative than finding multiple uses for a single thing?
In one of my earliest memories, I’m four or five years old. My mom and I are in the living room of the house I grew up in, and I’m wearing the same dress I insisted upon wearing every day: long and red, with little white flowers all over it, and a ruffle at the hem that just brushed the tops of my feet. I had other dresses, but this was my favorite, and in this memory my mother is trying to convince me to relinquish it for washing, and I am staunchly refusing. “I’ll wash it right now,” my mother is saying. “You can have it back in an hour.”
“But then I won’t have anything to wear while you’re washing it.”
“You have a drawer full of clean pants upstairs. You can wear pants for one hour. It won’t kill you. Besides, wouldn’t that more comfortable to play in?” At this point she’s getting exasperated, because I’m being an unreasonable dick, as children are wont to be. Read More