Stream of Consciousness of a Woman While Jeans Shopping

I am a 26 year old woman. The following is a complete account of my thought process before, during and after I recently purchased two pairs of jeans.

At home

Shit. I really need new jeans. Ok, yes, I have a drawer full of them already. But what’s even in here? A pair of H&M low risers I bought a couple years ago that don’t fit anymore – they say they’re a size 28 but that’s a damn lie if I’ve ever heard one. Two pairs of momjeans that I made the mistake of getting tailored BEFORE Thanksgiving last year. Needless to say my butt has swollen a little since then. They still look good, don’t get me wrong, but it wouldn’t exactly be work appropriate to wear something with this much of a risk for camel toe. Another pair of H&M jeans, with the back pockets I studded in 2012 before I lost those ten pounds, stopped wearing them, and then gained the ten pounds back. I used to wear these when I worked in the dairy section of Whole Foods. They actually don’t look so bad, except that some of the studs have fallen off. I’ve been saying I’ll remove them for months now, but instead I just wear them to work with long shirts and sweaters. Why am I so lazy? I don’t even like studs anymore.

What else? The mid-rise jeans I got from the gap – now, these are a true size 28. I say that because they actually fit. Just the right amount of stretch, too. But I wear them almost every day, and they’re not exactly sexy, just average. So I only wear them to work. And every time I wash them, the little pre-distressed hole in the leg gets bigger and bigger. Soon I won’t be able to wear them anywhere.

Ok, these pants are yellow so they don’t count. And these…sigh. My American Apparel easy jeans. With the waist right up to the belly button, super stretchy…they make my butt look great. But they’re so flimsy. The fabric has worn thin and faded substantially. There’s little knick marks from where the cats have pawed at my legs. And then, oh no… There are all these little holes near the crotch where my inner thighs have rubbed together.  How have I never noticed these before? Ok, I really have to throw these away. I mean, they were 70 dollars, 70 dollars for essentially jeggings, but I’ve probably worn them a good 300 times in the last two years. Shit, maybe more. Regardless, should a pair of jeans really fall apart like that? That’s never happened to me before. Have my thighs really gotten that big, or are the pants just cheaply made? I mean, just because American Apparel is sweatshop free doesn’t mean it’s worth the money. Too bad they’re the only store I know of that actually makes jeans for my buttshape. Large and in charge. With a high enough waist that my legs don’t look too short, which they are. Ugh, I really don’t want to go jeans shopping.

At work

I wonder if people can notice that I wore these jeans yesterday. It was probably a mistake to throw out the American Apparel ones. Okay, no it wasn’t. I have a full time job. I don’t make a lot by any means, but I certainly make enough to not wear clothes with holes in them. I need to get it together. I got paid today. I’ll just look online and get a sense of my options. Okay, what’s a nice, affordable place for a girl my age to shop? Besides American Apparel. Zara? Ugh I hate Zara. Zara is the place ex-sorority girls shop when they want to look like hipsters. Where’s the place ex-party girls shop when they decide to become young professionals? Cause that’s what I need. Fine, I’ll look at Zara.

Wow! These jeans are surprisingly affordable. Stretchy looking, high-waisted. And for only 40 dollars? Maybe I shouldn’t have been so harsh. Ok, I like these; and these…but I shouldn’t buy them online. I can almost guarantee they’re gonna be sized weird. I wish they said what size the models were wearing. I could just upsize by three, okay four, and that would probably be my size. Who am I kidding, I’ve played this game before and lost every time. I’ll just go to the store this weekend.


Ugh, my boyfriend is late to meet me at lunch, which never happens because I’m always the late one. Can’t reach him, must be a problem with the trains. This could take a while. Hmm…how close is Zara? Oh, there’s one only six blocks down Fifth Avenue! I’ll just tell him to meet me there. This way I’ll know I have a deadline and I can’t spend forever trying on  a bunch of crap. Gotta be decisive.

Damn, it’s windy today. Should have worn a scarf. Why is it taking so long to walk only six blocks? Damn tourists. Wait, is that an American Apparel? Yep. God, they’re everywhere. I am really cold. Fuck it, I’ll just go here.

No. No. No. Too expensive, too light of a wash, too similar to something I already have. Oh snap, a sale section? Let me check this shit out. 30% off? Seems like a pretty good deal. Let’s see if they have anything my size. If I remember correctly, the last time I tried on a size 28 at American Apparel I couldn’t even get them above my hips. Let’s try and avoid that trauma. Okay, dark wash jeans. 30% off. Size 29, this looks promising. They’re 90 dollars before the discount so they’ll be within my price range. That is, if they even fit.

Fitting room

Ok, moment of truth. No matter what happens, I’m not gonna hate myself. It’s not me, it’s the store. They run small. The sizing is wrong, and that’s why they’re on sale. Yeah, I can always go with that if I need to. Oh my god, they’re going over my hips! I was not expecting this! The fabric isn’t even stretchy! Ok let’s see if I can button them. I’ll suck in a bit and – nice! A little tight, a little mom-jeanish, but definitely fashionable enough to wear to work and casual occasions. Plus, when I start working out, they’ll fit perfectly. I hope these aren’t cheaply made, cause they’re final sale, and it wouldn’t be the first time my butt burst a seam. Dear god, that was mortifying. Please don’t let that happen to me again.

The party

Jesus fucking Christ I am an idiot. Why on earth did I wear my most painful heels when I CAN’T SIT DOWN IN THESE NEW JEANS? That was not a smart move. Oh look, tiny sandwiches. I wonder how many of those I can suck down before my super-high waistband snaps in half, sending the button flying through the air and into someone’s eye? I’m not even going to risk it. I don’t have insurance for that shit. Now I see why women were so skinny in the corset-wearing age. What age was that again? Maybe I should get a waist trainer. They make cute ones, I’ve seen them on Instagram. But are you supposed to wear them all day or just when you work out? Fuck it, it sounds terrible either way.

Ok, I have to leave this party, get out of these shoes, and put on sweatpants immediately.

At work

God I feel amazing today. Good thing I wore these leggings. Or I guess they are technically jeggings because they look like pants but are secretly way more awesome. You know, I really hate the word “jeggings.” Whatever happened to the term “stretch pants?” I used that word all the time in the nineties. I fuckin’ crushed stretch pants. These stretch pants I have on right now are particularly awesome because they have back pockets and a FAKE BUTTON in the front that does absolutely nothing except trick people. Plus, they’re gingham. Super cute, and work appropriate.

I honestly can’t believe it’s ok for me to wear something so comfortable. Jesus, that’s like, some internalized sexism right there. I doubt any man has ever said, “wow it’s crazy that I’m even allowed to wear this item of clothing because it doesn’t hurt, or leave a mark, or constrict my body parts or bunch up into my asscrack at ALL.” Not to mention that feeling of true SHOCK we women feel when our pants have pockets that are actually functional. A REAL woman should be physically encumbered at all times. Lol, kill me. I wish I owned cargo pants.

Hmm, if I remember correctly, Uniqlo had these STRETCH PANTS in several other sizes and colors. Perhaps a dark denim? Sounds good to me. I’d be perfectly happy never wearing a pair of real jeans again for the rest of my life. Real jeans don’t allow for the number of times my butt changes size in a given year. More importantly, real jeans don’t feel like pajamas and leave me with a pleasant surprise every time I finish peeing and realize I don’t have to zip or button anything. Real jeans are not for the busy modern woman. This is what I’ll tell myself.

In fact, I’m gonna walk to Uniqlo right frickin’ now and buy some more fake jeans.


Okay, I don’t have much time. Break is only supposed to last an hour and I just had to walk three whole blocks down Broadway. Fucking tourists, I swear to god. Still, it’ll be good to be hurried, that way I won’t have time to talk myself out of buying more pants I really didn’t budget for.

So where are the stretch pants? This store has really rearranged a lot since the last time I was here. I bet these sales associates work their asses off. Fuckin’ retail, man. God this place is huge. I’ll probably work off a pants size trying to find a pair. Ooh, look at this fuzzy sweater! God damn it, Kat, FOCUS.

Okay! Found the motherlode. These are the exact pants I was looking for. But oh, what about these?! Actual jeans, stretchy, super dark wash, mid-rise, and $39.99? OK, I’m trying these on, too. I know I said I only wanted to wear leggings but I think these might actually make me look like I spent some money on my appearance. At 26, you have to actually fake it ’til you make it. How am I doing on time…? Oof, not so good. To the fitting room!

Fitting room

I promise no matter what happens I will not beat myself up about the shape of my thighs. Or my ass. Or the place in between I used to call my “second butt” but I realize now is just called “saddlebags.” If neither of these pairs fit, I will not stomp out of this fitting room and walk directly into the Broadway traffic, screaming. Conversely, I will also not resign myself to becoming obese and immediately pick up a burger with a side of mac n cheese and proceed to eat my feelings. Well, I might do that, but I promise to not do it because of this.

Alright, alright, the stretch pants are a good look. I think I can get away with these, maybe, after a few squats. They just make my butt look so HUGE. I’ve really got to stop tying my self worth to the shapeliness of my rear end. Really. Like, by the end of the year. This is unacceptable and it WILL NOT STAND. Ok, next pair.

I…I just…Wow. Just, wow. These are amazing. I look great. I look responsible. I look like a person who has a full-time job and used the money from that job to buy smart jeans that young professionals buy. Wait, let me cuff the bottom. YES now we’re talking. All of my wardrobe problems are solved. It’ll be so easy to get ready in the morning with these as my go-to. People will probably even respect me more! They look so much more expensive than they actually are. This is fabulous. I’m buying these right away. Wow, what a find. Go me!

At home

I literally. Have nothing. To wear.



I may be a little late posting these, but seeing as I’m still fumbling around my apartment in a post-holiday haze singing “It’s Beginning to Look A Lot Like Christmas,” I figured the story of the BEST HOLIDAY PARTY OF 2013/EVER IN HISTORY was still appropriate to share.

For those of you who don’t know, I host an annual (two years & going strong!) XXXMAS party along with Jeffrey Scott, Sarah Sassafrass, Boy Reverend and Katy at their home in Raleigh. Last year we had SCURRY XXXMAS, a horror-meets-winter solstice theme that wasn’t really visually embodied beyond Christmas sweaters, sequins, and leaving our Halloween decorations up alongside snowflakes and disco balls. This year, we wanted to take things a bit further. While drunk at my brother’s Martha’s Vineyard home over Thanksgiving, I texted back and forth with Sass about themes, before finally making the Facebook event and broadcasting over Twitter. We decided on XXXMAS: ABDUCTION, where all things extraterrestrial would meet all things festive for a gigantic hometown holiday explosion.

I was certain it would be a great success, but not without some stress on my part. For an entire year after Scurry, I could not manage to live down the fact that I had fallen asleep early and missed most of my own soiree. People I didn’t even know were giving me shit about it well into the Fall of ’13, a humiliation that was only tempered when someone I’d never met before invited me to my own party this year (it was just like that episode of My So-Called Life where Rayanne used all her money to throw herself a birthday bash except I didn’t OD in the end). Although this year I would be arriving in Raleigh four days prior to the event with ample time to prepare, I had my plate pretty full with family issues and, you know, nail appointments and going to Dave & Busters. I had already purchased my look (on discount, with the help of Moe Dabbagh) and had it sent to my mother’s Cary residence, but I was unneccesarily worried about the decor. Two days before the event, I showed up to 3801 to find unassembled bubble wrap all over the floor, some kind of PVC archway in the hall, and paint and paper everywhere. Half finished gigantic alien head drawings were draped on the couch. I was eating a Cook Out corndog and spewing out complaints in my signature “I’m joking but not” tone, and I was pretty sure Sass was *this close* to blinding me with spray adhesive.


Sarah and I, as distinctly nonverbal and verbal artists respectively, often have a hard time imagining the other’s vision.

“We’re going to use this paper to make a giant circle and be the space portal,” she half explained while stomping around the house draped in twinkly lights and waving scissors. Whatever you say, Sarah.

And damn if I didn’t underestimate her again. Let it be known that in the midst of a full time work schedule, not to mention her final exam week, Sass still managed to spend 2 days cleaning and crafting to make the house into a full-on art installation. The Reverend’s PVC and bubble wrap creation had fully transformed the hallway into a Cosmic Ice Tunnel, and with the help of a few extras from me (a fog machine, an outdoor set up, 150 autographed extra copies of my Christmas card, and colorful lightbulb replacements in every room) as well as a few extra hands (Katy and Sass’s bro included), we managed to complete the setup by 8 pm on the night of the party…just before the first guests started barreling through the doors in packs. With the halls fully decked and LuxePosh on her decks, we were ready to leave this planet behind. Photos by Sarah Sassafrass for your viewing pleasure.
(Warning: there are lots. When Sass’ website goes public I will just link to it, but for now, enjoy the mass)

I didn’t exactly take a census, but I want to say…everyone fabulous in the entire state was there? I think we stumbled into a time warp or something, because the clocks were saying 5 am but I felt like the party had just begun. The next morning, feeling unexpectedly spritely, Katy and I went to Chipotle, and then Bojangles, and back home to eat in the wreckage. Sass was nowhere to be found and there was trash and barf everywhere. I was using pieces of painted bubble wrap as mini surfborts to slide across the slimy floors. My body suit was in a tangled mess and my autographs were strewn across the muddy yard.

As the sun was beginning to set on the second shortest day of the year, we finally located Sass. To this day, though, she prefers she’d remained abducted.

Lemme Get Dat

Sometimes when I’m pretending to not be 100% broke I imagine what ridiculous, amazing things I would spend my invisible money on. On a good day I would describe my personal style as a combination of Ke$ha, Rihanna and Chloe Sevigny, a homeless person, an early 90’s drag queen and a Harajuku girl. What I’m saying is I try to wear a lot of leather and denim and glitter and tight stuff. IF I hadn’t gotten arrested that one time (it’s whatever) and didn’t owe more money around town than Bunny Lebowski, these are the things I would buy with my stupidly modest hourly wage.

Alexander Wang Wallie Gym Sack $595
We’ve established that I never go to the gym ever, and that’s fine. I would probably not want to get sweat all over this completely appropriately priced gem anyway.  But one of my favorite things is luxury loungewear, seeing as I spend my time like 50/50  on the couch and at the club. I am still on the hunt for the best designer sweatpants if anyone has suggestions.

Jeremy Scott for Linda Farrow North America Sunglasses $315
Jeremy Scott has never missed a beat in his entire career, I’m pretty sure. Would you wear these? Probably not. Do they look stupid on this model who is obviously still exhausted from her debutante ball and spending all that money on lipgloss at Clinique this morning? Yes, absolutely. More importantly, would this make it possible for gay dudes with James Dean haircuts to do lines of cocaine off of my face in the VIP lounge? You tell me.

KTZ harness bum bag $400
To be completely honest I decided that I wanted this before I realized what it actually is. In case you can’t really tell, this is essentially a fanny pack that looks just about the perfect size to hold a pack of Parliaments or an iphone, maybe both. This seems entirely necessary for three reasons: I am always losing shit, I enjoy having two free hands so I can do drunk cartwheels and tear both my hamstrings from time to time, and I’m trying to dip my toes into the world of BDSM without having to trudge through the process of picking a safe word (we tried using “Hitler” and have yet to decide if that’s fucked).

Black Milk Moonwalker Swimsuit $90

Mishka Keep Watch leggings $65
When that movie Anastasia came out when we were kids I think it sucked and I hated it. But that year Burger King gave out these toys with their happy meals that were off-brand Beanie Baby versions of Anastasia characters, and one of them was just an eyeball. Why did my parents let me eat so much fast food? Times have really changed. But eyeballs are still cool and this is like, the only girl thing Mishka sells. I like them.

The Mountain green eyes cat shirt $20
Most of the time I find that the best clothes live at Opening Ceremony or at kitschy overpriced vintage stores. Other times there is an advertisement as a banner on my facebook page for a company called The Mountain, which has an entire collection of t-shirts that feature closeups of animal faces. They also have such categories as Fantasy, Dark Fantasy, the aptly named “Manimals,” and of course, the Three Wolf Moon.

Wildfox White Label fringe poncho $285
Wildfox is pretty hit or miss for me. Unlike their Couture label, which features mostly bedazzled sweatpants with terrible graphics on them, White Label is mostly stuff I would actually wear. And even though this Hey Dude applique is pretty questionable, I haven’t seen a lace/fringe combo this good since Miss Hannigan from Annie. Also I would probably buy anything modeled by someone with this hair color, so.

Jeffrey Campbell The Gil studded shoe $114
I see your creepers and your classic Mary Janes and I raise you four rows of silver toe spikes straight off the shell of Tokka (the mutant baby snapping turtle from  Ninja Turtles 2: Secret of the Ooze) a wooden wedge heel, and some silver leather. These shoes rule, Hi and Bye.

So do you think instead of paying my bills for the next 4 months I should just sell plasma and a kidney and buy this stuff instead? Yeah, same.


The Perfect Valentine’s Outfit

Happy Early Valentine’s Day, you little eager, lonely, depressed fashionistas. While I was (or wasn’t) trolling all the best style blogs for that perfect outfit to *WoW* your date on Valentine’s Day, I remembered that many of us don’t have a handsome, dapper young gent waiting to take us to the world’s nicest restaurant next Tuesday. Instead, some of us have a wonderful opportunity; that one day a year where it is perfectly acceptable to feel sorry for yourself, just like you do every other day of the year, loudly, publicly, and unabashed. With these undoubtedly exceptionally-beautiful-and-intelligent-but-misunderstood people in mind, I have designed the perfect outfit to take your pitiful self-indulgence to new and improved heights.

1. A Velour Tracksuit. I’m really not sure when these went out of style, and I never really complained when they did. It was probably around the time that every photo of Pregnant Britney doing something trampy, schizo and completely awesome also featured one of her custom velvet sweat sets. But let’s think long and hard about Britney for a minute. Maybe she had it right. She’d been unlucky in love in the past and the fame was getting to her, and by god she wanted a Big Mac. So here she came, buckin’ all the stereotypes and expectations and said “You know what, I’m gonna marry Kevin Federline, we’ll all wear tracksuits at the wedding, and I will eat a Big Mac. Every day for the next six years until I’m ready to come back on the scene and show everyone that my country ass can be chill as hell and still sell millions of records.” Maybe, just maybe this is our chance to show the world that you don’t have to be Crazy Britney to not give a fuck. To the nearest TJ Maxx!

2. A Paper Bag on Your Head. When you wake up Tuesday morning after crying yourself to sleep over the Valentine’s Facebook status that your ex posted about his new girlfriend, you will not do your hair, you will not put makeup on, you won’t even bother to wipe the Nutella and peanut butter from your soon-to-be-double chin. What’s the point? You have been strong enough to postpone your suicide for at least the next couple of hours, and that deserves the reward of complete and total disregard for your appearance. You honestly don’t even care if someone sees how you look! But you probably don’t want to be spotted in that velour tracksuit by anyone who actually knows you, so the bag will come in handy any time you absolutely must set foot outside. Which brings us to number three.

3. A Lobster Bib. Valentine’s Day may just be your hungriest day of the year. Since you’ll be waiting to buy yourself three boxes of Russell Stover’s until they go on sale Wednesday at Walgreens, treat yourself to the next best thing that anyone can: a trip to Red Lobster. Have you even heard of cheddar bay biscuits? If I am not mistaken, those bitches are bottomless and will go smashingly well with that cup of butter that comes with your seafood platter. Heart attacks for everybody!

4. A Novelty Flask. If you can get through this entire day without a thimble of cheap vodka, I applaud you. But the rest of us don’t have the conviction or wherewithal to be as boring as you. We’re going to need something potent and portable to take with us on our journey, and the only way to do that is, of course, in style. Trashy, ironic, self-deprecating, hot pink style.

5. A Cat. I am a firm believer that you need one of these every day of the year, but I understand that some of you have allergies or are not privy to the superiority of the feline species. But let’s make one thing clear; a cat will not make you feel especially loved on Valentine’s Day because it truly appreciates and loves you for you. Cat’s exist in nature to show us that true love is not unconditional. Instead, it’s something you receive as coercion for sharing your leftover shellfish. And that is beautiful.

6. A Copy of First Wives Club. This is the ultimate single bitch guide to life. While sure, they’re pushing fifty and still scheming and holding onto the past, watching Goldie Hawn scream “I AM NOT A DRUNK” while flipping her amazing hair around in a neurotic fit is nothing short of comforting.

7. Bald Eagle Bedroom Slippers. Patriotism! I’m joking, nothing is more upsetting to me than the concept of national paraphernalia. But puffy slippers are kind of a must and these are a pretty ridiculous concept I can get behind. Nothing says “I’m the shit!” like stomping around with your foot in a stuffed animal. …or is that “I’ve given up!” I can’t remember.

8. That Naked Picture of Adam Levine. This classic photo is where you will find the closest thing to ecstasy tonight, unless you take actual ecstasy which I don’t really frown upon either. I suggest dimming the lights and using your imagination to travel to a place far, far away where you can be serenaded by his buzzing falsetto to the utmost peak of pleasure. Or you can buy a vibrator, which pretty much works no matter what rock star you’re looking at.

9. A Shovel. Maybe it’s a metaphorical shovel for burying your desperation and loneliness in the back of your mind so you can go about your life empowered and unfazed. Maybe it’s a real shovel to help you dig your own grave in the parking lot of your ex-boyfriend’s apartment. We’re all searching for the tools to help us move up and move on. However you choose to do that is entirely up to your level of sanity.

The moral of the story here is, don’t put so much pressure on yourself this Valentine’s day. Aim low! I mean really, who needs a sexual partner or someone to cuddle with when you can smear lipstick all over your face in the mirror of your bedroom with a mouthful of fried calamari. I’m sure all those greedy hitched-up bitches would be jealous, I don’t care how big their Harry Winston is. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to go wipe away my tears while laughing hysterically.