Chrissy Teigen’s James Brown*

I’m a satire writer. I felt the need to start with that, in case you’re new here or you haven’t already realized that 90% of my blog is humor-based.

So, I think almost anything is laugh-till-I-pee funny.

It’s true.

My friends either love or hate going to the movies with me, because there’s a 110% chance I’ll be the loudest one laughing at every.single hint of a joke.

I laugh at myself and my ineptness. I laugh at fart and poop jokes. Hell, I laugh at farts. Every fart. I laugh at the fact that my boyfriend and I call each other Miss and Mr. Poopy Butthole (instead of the usual “Honey” or “Sweetie” *gagging noise*). I laugh at my students’ corny straight-from-the-dollar-special-Scholastic-knock-knock-book. Like, I genuinely laugh. I laugh at puppies simply being puppy-y. I laugh when conversations turn awkward. I laugh at my dad’s pronunciation of a Yoo-hoo as Yo-ho.

I fucking think everything is funny.

Well, almost.

Not everything is funny.

What makes me stop dead in my tracks during a laughing fit?

What makes me instantly get on my high horse soap box?

You want to know?

It’s when people pass off utter, on-purpose stupidity as “cute”.

I’m all for laughing at silly things like this:


Because it’s not stupidity, it’s a misunderstanding, turned hilarity.

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Recently, I stumbled upon a stupid af BuzzFeed article about–are you ready for this–Chrissy Teigen’s butthole.

Get this, despite having had sex with her husband, however many hundreds (thousands) of times, she had no clue he’d spied her butthole.

Apparently, she had always assumed her coffee crumpet was the one sacred place left on her body that her husband had not seen.

Chrissy, didn’t you ever wonder why all of your friends were getting their assholes bleached? No, it wasn’t for health reasons. SMH.
I really don’t aim to be a snotty bitch, but, really? How can someone be that dumb?

Furthermore, why are we perpetuating the stupidity by glorifying it?

All images from BuzzFeed, obviously. 



I was planning on completely dismissing this article as a slow news day at BuzzFeed, until I continued reading (why did I continue reading??), and was forced to choke down her grammatically incorrect, cringe-worthy tweet.

There are at least 11,378 fools out there who either didn’t even notice the lack of any understanding of grammar whatsoever in her post or they just didn’t care.

WE NEED TO START CARING.

As an educator, it is literally my job to spread knowledge and to stop the scourge of ignorance.

Why are we continuing to share, repost, retweet, and glorify stupidity masked in I’m-pretty-so-it’s-OK?

So, I did my due diligence as an educator, and I commented on the poor grammar and lame subject of an article someone actually got paid to write, and I was met with being called a “judgemental bitch”.

I will be honest, I was my usual snarky, dripping-in-satire-self, but I simply can’t sit by, as someone’s stupidity is celebrated, and do nothing.

In hindsight, maybe I should have privately messaged Chrissy, and said something along the lines of:

“Chrissy, sweetie, I’m not being mean when I say this, and really, I’m just trying to help you, but you might want to invest in a basic human anatomy book. While you’re at, you might want to also add to your Amazon cart, “Grammar For Dummies”. Actually, no. What am I thinking? You’re paid for your good looks. You don’t need basic common sense. Nah. You’re good. Forget I even said anything.”

Too much?

While I’m at it, ladies, can we stop playing the dumb, because it’s perceived-as-cute-card?

Maybe Chrissy Teigen is secretly a rocket scientist, but since women are still more valued for their looks, she plays that role, because a girl’s gotta eat?

Either way, I don’t care how “judgemental” I’m perceived to be, I’m going to continue fighting ignorance one snarky, time-wasting social media comment war at a time.

*James Brown= slang for butthole.

 

Flashback Friday: Sudden Summer Shame

Happy Flashback Friday! 

I just realized that some of my newer readers might not know that I used to write for the U.K.-based online magazine, Shopper Lottie. It got to be a little much on top of working and coming up with content for my blog, because the Shopper Lottie content had to be original and not previously published. I guess I’m really not the writing machine that I would like to be. Still, it was a really awesome experience, and I still adore the magazine creator, Charlotte. 

Since it’s almost summer break, I thought I’d share a post I wrote for Shopper Lottie about that fun realization when you’re super not summer body ready. 

Let me know what you think in the comments! 

Six Summer Fashion Tips For When You “Forgot” to Get That Summer Bod

Flashback Friday: Where My Hairy Ladies At?

For this week’s #fbf, I am re-posting An Ode to Hairy Women. Since last week was about my hair woes, I thought I would keep the ball rolling with hairy tales. This one is pretty gnarly. You have been warned.

Courtesy of Buzzfeed via Pinterest
Except this isn’t an actual ode. It’s more like a dedication, but the word ‘ode’ sounded so much more interesting. I can’t write poetry in any form, but I can write one hell of a dedication to hairy women, because I have a lot of experience with unwanted body hair. I would call myself a Purple Heart recipient veteran of the War on Body Hair, but I’m still in the trenches, fighting.

Before I go any further, if you’re a man…a man who happens to be disillusioned about women, in regards to them being similar to hairless Sphynx cats, stop reading now. If you’re brave, be warned. I am about to rock your world, in a really, really bad way. If you care to remain in blissful ignorance, go read literally anything else. 

My first experience with unwanted body hair happened in the bathtub at my grandmother’s cabin, the summer before 4th grade. Pretending I was a mermaid grew boring, and I suddenly felt compelled to look at my armpits, and good thing I did. I looked like a chia pet. It was terrifying. My mother introduced me to the razor that day. I didn’t know yet that that single instrument would be the bane of my entire existence. Why didn’t my boy cousins grow armpit hair? It was so unfair.

Soon after the dreaded pit hair, came loads of leg hair. I mean, loads. I had hairier legs than my dad (I’m not sure that’s saying much, though. Last we counted, he had, literally, three precious hairs left). My mom started buying razors in bulk at Costco. She also bought a lot of band aids. I had still not mastered the art of not bleeding to death during shaving. I looked like a 10 year-old cutter.

Next came the worst decision of my life. Do you ever look back on an event in your life, regardless of how many decades ago it was, and still cringe, like the pain of bad decisions is still a fresh wound? I still feel this bad decision, and if I were ever able to go back in time to change one thing it would be this. Not getting to go back and change how awful my first kiss was. Or, change farting in class the first day of freshmen year. No. I would go back and grab the razor out of my stupid, stupid hand the day I decided it would be smart to shave the baby hairs growing below my belly button. I had a smooth, beautiful, hairless belly for precisely one day. The next day my stomach looked like Robin William’s shoulders. I cried harder for the loss of my womanly belly than when my hamster, Rascal, died. It was traumatic. 

During my formative years, I discovered Nair. The day I discovered that a product could literally melt my mustache away was one of the best of my life. That is, until I failed to read the directions properly. I left that nasty shit on for 10 minutes longer than is suggested (I mean, the box specifically states to, “Under no circumstance leave on longer than 10 minutes, unless you want to melt your lips off, dumbass”). My mom actually let me stay home from school, because no one in the house could stand looking at me longer than a few seconds before dissolving into a big pile of ugly laughing. “Fuck-You-I-Hate-My-Life” pretty much said it all. After this incident my mom hid her Nair, and just a whiff of that noxious chemical would send me reeling.

During college, I struggled with additional unwanted hair. As if a hairy belly button, man legs, and a Burt Reynolds ‘stache wasn’t bad enough, I discovered I had hair sprouting on my chin. The day I found my new unwanted friends was the same day I had a blind date planned, because that’s how being me goes. I asked my best friend to pluck those deceiving bastards. After she plucked the few I had seen, she started in below my chin. I said, “Wait, what’re you doing? Are there more?” She just said, “Um”. In a state of utter panic, I asked how many more. She said, “Well, most of them are white, so we won’t have to pluck them. So…if I had to guess, 25?” I died a little inside that day.

 

Courtesy of YouTube via Pinterest
This will be me one day. I think she’s seriously adorable. I’m serious. I want to hug her. 

After the panic of that recent discovery, I resorted to accepting the fact that my life would now revolve around waxing trips to the salon. Because I have sensitive skin, I always looked like I had a sunburn in the shape of Middle-Aged Man. So, of course, the guy I was dating called me, in a panic, right after my monthly waxing appointment. His car had broken down and he was stranded. I literally had a red mustache and beard, but he was hot, so I had to go get him. I should have just called that one a loss, because tying a shirt around the bottom half of your face, because, “it was cold”, looks crazy. Eventually, because he wasn’t an imbecile, he put two and two together and discovered I had waxed my face. I just dumped him. It was better than knowing he knew

Presently, I am struggling with how to shave my man arms without getting razor burn. Do you know what razor burn on your arms looks like? It looks like Please Don’t Sit By Me. It looks like a fucking disease.

The second I’m a millionaire, I’m getting full-body electrolysis. Ladies Who Get It, am I right? Is that not the exact same thing you would do? Of course it is.

So, this isn’t really a dedication either, more of a really sad, true tale, that is dedicated to the Ladies Who Get It. To the Ladies Who Don’t Get It, you aren’t part of the club, so there (don’t get your panties in a twist, you’re already part of the Non-Manly Woman Club, so go be hairless, and let us hairy ladies have this).

Well, I gotta go. My 5 o’clock shadow is already coming in, and my boyfriend still doesn’t know I shave more than him. Shhhhh. 

 

I found this on Pinterest years ago, and it still makes me laugh
Really though…

Clever Chic Collective, Vol. II

I am so excited to announce that I’m a part of the Clever Chic Collective. What is that you ask? Well, it’s only a blogger collective made up of the cleverest, most creative, and amazeballs lady bloggers ever (am I still chic if I use the word ‘amazeballs’?).

I was so incredibly honored to be asked to contribute to this collective, and I can’t wait to introduce you to the women making waves in the blogging community.

Keep your eyes peeled as we bring you some of our best posts every Tuesday.

#girlpower

Today, we are pleased to announce new additions to our blogger collective, The Clever Chic Collective!  An Historian About Town, Mosaicca, and The Unabridged Sass plus Currently, Lately; PT Contender, Fatty McCupcakes, and How Do I Grown Up are collaborating to bring you the best posts from each of us.

For our second collective, we decided on the theme of community and friendship in order to represent the new additions to the group.

An Historian About Town

Blogging is all about community for me, and so is most of my life! One of the big reason I joined Alpha Gamma Delta, my sorority, is for the community and sisterhood. I am an alumna member, I serve as an advisor to two chapters and I am president of our alumnae group! Even though I was never a stereotypical Greek that most people picture, Alpha Gamma Delta is my base and provides more support and encouragement then I could ever imagine.

Junior Circle is our alumnae group, it’s for young alumnae to stay connected and maintain our sisterhood! We are quite a small group (only seven us), but the support I have there is unmatched. This is one of my favourite posts, where we visited the North Dakota State University ΑΓΔ chapter for International Reunion Day. I had never met these women, but they embraced us as sisters and friends- a wonderful community!

Junior Circle Roadtrip: Beta Beta’s IRD!

Until tomorrow,
The Historian!

Facebook | Twitter | Instagram | Pinterest | Bloglovin’

 

Mosaicca

When we decided upon the theme of community for this week’s collective post, I was honestly at a loss for what to link. I’ve never written a post specifically about friendship, per se. However, I realized how much community has meant to me in the marathons I run. Even though I run alone, every race I have done has attracted members of the community out to cheer us on, hand out Gatorade and snacks, play music, give high-fives, whatever! With that in mind, I decided to link to my review of my first full marathon, where I talk a lot about how wonderful the spectators were for support.

Here is my post!

Until next time,

xoxo Charlotte

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The Unabridged Sass

The theme of community is truly the perfect one for this week, as it represents the new additions to our little collective! Each and every one of the ladies involved in this collective are unique and truly extraordinary.

I’ll be honest and say that I immediately thought of friendship, and struggled to choose the perfect post for this week. And then, I thought of a very special post that perfectly represented friendship.

One of my best friends, Stephon, has always been there for me. I blogged about his wedding day and his engagement on my blog, but I think the perfect depiction of friendship is how he took me on a “friend date” when I was down in the dumps, as I wrote about in this post. Sometimes, you don’t need a whole village to cheer you up but rather just one really amazing friend.

Chrissey

INSTAGRAM | PINTEREST | TWITTER |

Currently, Lately

To me, community and friendship represent communication. Every day we use language to express our thoughts and ideas to other people. It is amazing how much we can share through the power of words. But not every instance of communication is a positive one. Sometimes we are forced to handle social situations that give us anxiety. For me, this often comes in the form of public speaking. A few weeks ago, I wrote a post about how I handle public speaking and the stress that it causes. Hopefully it can be helpful to anyone who feels the same way.

Sincerely,

Paige

Instagram  | Twitter | Bloglovin | Pinterest | Facebook

PT Contender

As far as community goes, I’d like to look at it on a deeper level: the inner circle. It’s the foundation we all build our own personal communities upon, and mine is all about Influence, Standards, and Courage. I think of community, and it brings to mind so many things…like community kickball drinking leagues [sidenote] If your town has one of these DO IT, you won’t regret it. I did this a couple years ago and it’s a great way to make new friends & also sneak in some exercise during the week!

Anyway, I recently wrote this post: Exclusivity & My Inner Circle, because it is HUGE. It can make or break you! Call me dramatic, call me Emily Gilmore, but I truly believe in keeping my inner circle insanely & unapologetically exclusive.

INSTAGRAM / TWITTER

Fatty McCupcakes

When I first heard that we would be focusing on community this week, I immediately thought friendship. As adults, we are at liberty to create our own little communities of support, love, and, in my case, lots of laughs. The communities of friends that I’ve built have shaped me into who I am today-as cliché and barfy as it sounds. This week, my first week collaborating with this fabulous league of ladies, I decided to link to my Memories post. It is a re-post from my first attempt at blogging, and is about sweet freedom, my first apartment, and my best friends during college. I hope you enjoy!

Love and Cupcakes,

Fatty

[INSTAGRAM/TWITTER/FACEBOOK/PINTEREST]

 

 

WTF Wednesday #2


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For this week’s installment of WTF Wednesday, it’s all about those dick diets that we all love so much (In no way am I insinuating that a particular body part is for lunch. I am using ‘dick’ like ‘jerk’. Got it?)

If you ever wondered why dieting sucks so much and it’s so damn hard (shit, I really shouldn’t have used the word ‘dick’, because now every other word has another meaning), it’s because diets taste freaking disgusting. 

For real. 

If I could, without guilt or consequence, continue eating marshmallow fluff and Nutella sandwiches for breakfast, till my dying day, I’d be a very happy, agreeable, and stress-free person.

But, because Heaven on Earth sandwiches make me fat and unhealthy, I get to eat unsweetened oatmeal and farty hard-boiled eggs for breakfast now. 

Yay. 

Along with finally trying to get my eating back on track, I’ve recently purchased organic colon cleanse pills and doTERRA Slim and Sassy. 

Because anything that’s quick and easy is my game. 

Let’s start with the colon cleanse. 

Never have these two words together ever sounded like a good time to me. Sure, it sounds like it’s maybe a good idea, because it’s supposed to rid you of the nasty sludge that gets built up in the intestines. But, the actual process of a colon cleanse? 

Just no.

When I bought these pills, I specifically asked if they’d make me poop my pants. I was assured it was a slow, not unpleasant process.

As much as I’d like to share some embarrassing story about how I was lied to and that I did actually crap my pants at school, it’s just not what happened. 

In fact, nothing has happened. Like, nothing. 

Maybe they are magic pills and they cleanse unknowingly, invisibly, magically. Or, I got scammed. 

I could have performed a more successful cleanse by eating from the shady roach coach that parks across from the strip club downtown. 

Next, let’s discuss Slim & Sassy by doTERRA. 

First, I have to make it clear that I am a hardcore fan of doTERRA essential oils. I know and love a couple consultants, and they are why I’m addicted to the amazing Past Tense for my headaches. So, I’m in no way dissing the company at all. 

But, Slim & Sassy is straight up “I’ll Just Stay Fat & Nasty”. 

This morning, I excitedly dropped a couple drops in my water, did a sniff test, and nervously took a tiny sip. 

I CAN’T EVEN EXPLAIN THE FLAVOR. 

It’s like your water has been tainted with grass-flavored peppermint grapefruit bark. 

And, now, my brand new “Boss Lady” metal water bottle will never be the same. 

Needless to say, S&S is not my jam.

Not only did it taste just incredibly odd, it mildly burned my lips and then left them numb.

In the middle of my light and sound read aloud, I started slurring my speech and drooling down my chin. 

As a teacher, this is just not a good look.

I don’t think I can stand trying Slim & Sassy again. My gag reflex is activating just thinking about it. Anyone want an almost-full bottle? 

In ending, I’m literally a walking billboard for the fact that almost all diet “tricks” do.not.work. 

The only thing that works is to stop pounding cake into your fat gob as if it were the end of days. 

This is why I struggle, because feeding Bertha* tastes a million times better than tainted water, sulfur eggs, and grass pills that just make my belch-y breath smell like fertilizer. 

#cakeme

*Bertha is my belly 

In Case There Was Any Question…


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I don’t know about you, but I sped right on out of 2016 in my cupcake delivery truck from Glutton hell, high on rocky road fudge and bleu cheese biscuits and crashed right into 2017 in a carb-induced coma, complete with egg nog dried into the corners of my mouth.

Whew. What a ride.

I spent most of my winter break carb-loading and comatose, covered in powdered sugar, next to an empty cookie tin. Cookie Monster doesn’t have shit on me. 

The result? 

Other than a blotchy, puffy face, I really couldn’t tell.

Thanks to my latest obsession of wearing leggings literally everyday, I never had to have the usual after-the-Holidays-can’t-fit-into-my-pants-crying-fit. 

My boyfriend would like to say that he’s eternally grateful to LuLaRoe and their leggings that keep his fat girlfriend half sane. 


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And, because I’d rather just not know, I don’t weigh myself. Even when I go to the doctor, I say, “Don’t tell me!”, as I anxiously get on the scale. I think they have, “Doesn’t want to know the extent of her fatness” written on my chart, because I don’t usually have to remind them. 

Normally, the way I can tell that I’ve overdone it and thus gained some weight is that some of my fat comes back up when I bend over to tie my shoes. 

Gross, I know. 

I’m just being honest. 

Because I’ve been the height of laziness over the last few weeks, I haven’t even put on real shoes. 

So, all of this to say- I couldn’t tell how much holiday weight I had gained. 

It was actually really refreshing at first to live blindly unaware of how much more stress I was putting on my overworked couch. 

I felt lighter, with each step to the refrigerator, thinking the damage couldn’t be that catastrophic.

However, behind my new lighthearted, unaware approach to my fatness was a nagging feeling that something would show me the truth. 

I figured my new leggings would finally give in to the pressure and the seams would come undone.

Or, while leaning on the door of the refrigerator, the whole thing would come crashing forward with the weight of my shitty food choices and my massive body. 

But…

No signs. Nothing.

That is, until I went to the bathroom at the salon where my masseuse rents a massage room. 

I was just sitting there, like any other normal person, doing their business. I was probably noticing the appalling state of my holey underwear or picking at my cuticles. 

Until.

Until I looked up and into the mirror directly in front of me. 

How I didn’t die of shock right then and there is a profound mystery to me. 

If at any point you feel the need to be slapped in the face with the reality of your fatness, just sit on a toilet in front of a fucking mirror.

After that terrible shock to my heart, it’s been green beans and chicken broth every day.

No, I’m lying. 

After my massage, I went straight to the store and bought a 12 pack of cupcakes and drowned my sorrow in frosting. 

Here’s my Yelp review of the salon and their asshole mirror:


So, in case any of you really need to know how far your weight gain has gotten out of control, or you’re a masochist, just get naked and sit down on a toilet in front of a full length mirror. 

#dead 💀

I’d like to thank one of my Facebook friends, followers, and old high school classmate for giving me the idea to turn my Yelp review into a blog post. Thanks, girl! 

5 Reasons Why I’m Failing at Adulting


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1.When my students do or say something turdly, really, just once, want to say, “I know you are, but what am I?” I know… but it would be so awesome to give them a little dose of the ridiculous excuses/responses/attitudes they give me every.single.day.


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2. Every year when I renew my car registration, I don’t put the new sticker on my license plate until I get pulled over. It’s like tradition. It is just so hard and takes too much effort to wipe the dust and grime off of my license plate and place the new sticker over the 10 that are already there, about to fall off. Pure unadulterated laziness.


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3. Every month, since I was 11 (why, God?) Aunt Flo has visited. One would think that after three decades of this ridiculousness, I would know to be prepared. Yet, every month, I ruin a pair of panties and I have to waddle into the store, with an entire roll of toilet paper wrapped around the crotch of my underwear.


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4. I love to wait until the bitter end before a credit card payment is due. That way, the extra money I was planning on using to pay down some of the debt can be used to buy new shoes or way too many Salted Caramel Mocha Frappuccinos far before I have to make the payment. Winning.


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5. I buy bananas for one sole purpose: I like to watch things slowly wither and die. For what other purpose do bananas serve? I sure as hell never eat them.


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Sudden Summer Shame 

Hey! It’s been a minute, but I finally have a new Shopper Lottie post up. I guess I was too busy getting my summer body on. Haha. Just kidding. I was too busy figuring out how best to eat my latest addiction (Tru Whip and rainbow sprinkles) without gaining any more weight. Losing the Winter of ’02 Weight for Summer Campaign ended when I couldn’t quit Taco Tuesday. Ya’ll know. You know. 

Check it out here:

Sudden Summer Shame
I’d love to know if you have any good tips for cleverly disguising or proudly displaying your not-ready-for-summer-bod. Let me know in the comments over at SL! 

Independence Day

I think most have surmised that there’s been some recent changes in my life. I almost went off to England. Alone. And now I’m apartment searching. Alone. 

Yup. 

I’m single and ready to mingle. 

Just kidding. I’m single and ready for some peace, and some much needed soul searching. 

Right now my priority is finding a place to live. 

It has not been easy due to some uncertainty surrounding the whens, hows, and the that-costs-how-muchs. The rental market where I live right now is slim and what you see is what you get. If you don’t jump right on the first half decent place you see, it’s gone the next day. I’m not exactly too picky, but I also don’t want to live in my city’s equivalent of Compton.

So, I’ll just say it’s been…interesting, the search for an apartment. I think I’ll add disappointing, scary, and fun, just to mix it up.

Yesterday, I got to tour a studio apartment in one of the oldest complexes in the city. The vintage charm was just oozing out of the Art Deco windows. There were even little milk delivery boxes. I couldn’t even. 



The apparent charm and ideal location were the only two pros with this place. There were holes in the walls, the lobby and hallway carpets were filthy, and the wood was just being left to rot. It was sad.

The search for the perfect apartment is, of course, disappointing because $425 a month in one of the most coveted areas is, in fact, too good to be true. 

Also, it’s scary to think that someone actually thinks anyone sane would  want to rent a place that houses one of the seven gates of hell. There was a crawl space door located in the closest that went forever into the abyss of your worst nightmares. *NERP. 

I love looking at houses and apartments, even when they end up being a big “nope”. I don’t know if it’s a woman thing, but every potential home I go into is an empty canvas that I can envision putting my mark on. Unless it’s scary and crack den-ish (I’ve never been in one, but I think it would be hard to work, decoratively, around the crack). 

Here’s a video I took of the apartment from yesterday. 


For some reason, my voice sounds kind of Valley Girl-ish. Forgive me. 

Wish me luck on my continued search! 

​*Thanks, Lori! 

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Beware the Unpadded Sports Bra

*Disclaimer: this post is about bewbs. Most specifically nipples. Yup, I just came right out and said it. If you think you’re not ready for this level of honesty, maybe pass on this one. Don’t say I didn’t warn you. 

I must be the only woman left on this planet who didn’t know that sports bras, minus added padding, is a recipe for disaster. In case you are also a nimrod and didn’t know this fascinating fact, don’t do it. That is, unless you are at home or for some strange reason you are missing your nipples.

Let me reiterate, don’t wear an un-padded sports bra in public. DON’T DO IT.

Learn from me, ladies.

Last week, it was necessary to wear a sports bra to work. We were having a fun-filled day of being outside. In the sun and 90-degree weather. All day. My most favorite part of this special day is being hot, sweaty, and stinky all.day

So, I decided my only decent bra didn’t deserve swamp boob level grossness. Thus, my decision to wear my deceiving, bitch of a sports bra. 

So, there I was thinking I was being extra smart because I was going to be extra comfy all day. Also, my sports bras tend to reign in my back boobs a bit more than a regular bra, with a regular back strap. So, there’s that. 

After spending a good 20 minutes outside where it was still a little chilly in the morning air, after speaking to at least half of the staff and teachers at my school, after smiling like a fucking idiot at everyone I saw, I looked in the mirror. 

To my absolute horror, my headlights were standing at full mast, front and center. 

OMG. I COULDN’T EVEN. 

It looked like I had taped stale, hard mini marshmallows to the front of my bra. Why anyone would ever want to do that is beyond me, but that’s what it fucking looked like.

Why body? Why? 

How do you undo something that’s already been done? How do you make someone unsee something they’ve already seen? 

Um, you don’t, jackass. 

What the fuck am I gonna do? I can’t run home, I’ll never get back in time. What am I gonna do???!
My Mod Mate suggested tissue, but I was not buying it. Under the thin material of my bastard bra, tissue would look lumpy. People would think I had unsuccessfully tried to pad my bra. Um, no. 

Then, I was struck with pure genius! I would cover my extra stubborn unmentionables with Post It notes! Pure genius, I tell you. Genius. 

The denser consistency of the paper would surely keep those bad boys in place. Also, the sticky strip would ensure the Post It stayed were it needed to. Win.

My Mod Mate was unconvinced, but I was undeterred. 

After successfully covering the last Captain Crunch Berry* (that kind of makes it sound like I have myriad berries. I assure you, I do not), I inspected my job in the mirror in the bathroom. 

I thought it looked fine. I really did. Because I had to show my Mod Mate what a fine job I did with the Post Its, I went next door to show her I was probably going to have to patent my idea. 

“Well, what do you think? You can’t see those two beacons of embarrassment anymore, right?”

Her response: 

“OMG. No. No. No. Girl, you don’t have two nips anymore! No.”

I answered: 

“Well, duh. That was that point. No more inappropriate nippage. No?”

She then said:

“No.”

I was at a loss. What could possibly be wrong with my Post It note nipple covers? They were genius. 

She clarified: 

“Well, for starters, you now you have eight nipples. Is that what you were going for? If so? Well done.”

The four corners of the Post It notes made weird octi-nipples under my sports bra. So, instead of two innocent, albeit, unpredictable doo-das, I had something going on that was straight out of the personal fetish collection of some freak. 

Nope. 

The Post It notes came out, and tissue was put in their place, and all was well. 

I should probably listen to my friend and colleague a lot more. She’s pretty old and worldly like that. 

In ending, ladies, never fashion nipple covers using Post It notes or other office supplies. Further, if this is ever a necessity, it’s time to buy a padded sports bra (preferably not one from the $1 bin at Walgreens). 

This post is dedicated to my Mod Mate, the Oscar to my Felix, and the best damn colleague and friend I’ve ever been lucky enough to share a year-long “camping” adventure with. I’ll miss your random pop ins, how we could communicate with a single eyebrow raise, and the way you always “got” me. I love you. Enjoy your new school, ya bitch. 

*Oscar coined this phrase to name a friend’s nips, and it was pure hilarity. I had to sneak it in.