Category Archives: Wardrobe malfunctions

A Rumination on Hot Guys

So, I was going through one of my social media sites, and looking at the pictures of hot guys.

A hot guy, with no shirt on, frolicking in the surf. Wearing jeans with his pants undone.

Another hot guy, leading a horse, wearing a leather jacket. He, too, has no shirt on, is wearing jeans with the buttons undone. He has a fine sheen of sweat going, as well.

A firefighter, in his turn outs. He’s wearing his helmet, carrying an ax, has the sweat thing going, and… he’s not wearing a shirt. As to whether he has pants on under his turn outs is unclear, but if he does, I am sure they are undone.

The pictures range from firefighters, to cops (Hubs is a cop–I’ve never seen him in his pants and gun belt but with no shirt on. I think that’s a dress code violation), to lumberjacks, to lonely dudes on the beach.

It’s all nice to look at, but does it make sense?

Now, don’t get me wrong, I enjoy firefighters, I do. But one does not see them washing their trucks–or whatever the boys call it these days–in their skivvies. Or in their turn outs. Particularly without shirts on.

On the point of the man frolicking in the surf in jeans and no shirt… Dude, wet jeans are totally uncomfortable. There is surely a chafing issue involved in that, right? And, with the pants undone, it’s likely he’ll get a little sand in there. Sand, inside tight, wet jeans, when one is quite obviously going commando? Ouch. I suppose it could be the ultimate exfoliation. Don’t know if it’s either necessary or wanted, but hey.

And the horse, the leather jacket, and the pants undone? If it’s so cold you have to wear a jacket and a hat, why, pray tell, is there no shirt involved? But if it’s so cold that a jacket must be worn, then why is he sweating? Or, more to the point, why is he sweating oil?

And why, oh why, can none of them button their pants?

Do they have fine motor deficits and need OT? I mean, it’s one thing if my five-year-old can’t keep his pants zipped up, but I would assume by 30-something, one should have mastered that.

Do they have some funk in the junk that needs airing out? Because if it’s that bad, maybe he needs a doctor.

Is he a pervert? (This one actually seems the most likely. I’d be scared if I saw a hot guy with his pants undone carrying an ax, even if he looked nice without a shirt on. After all, I doubt he has any fun lumberjack games in mind.)

But then, I’ve never frolicked in the desert wearing nothing but a bra and my Guess jeans, either. I guess I’ll leave that to Claudia Schiffer.




Awkward Moments Day

First, my thanks to Jannine Gallant for pointing out that March 18 is actually  Awkward Moments Day!

See, I think this is a day meant for me. Named for me. A day in celebration of…me!

Yeah, dude, getting stuck in one of these is pretty freaking awkward. But I can top that.

See, I am very familiar with awkward moments. That moment when you tell a joke and all you hear is crickets? Yeah, I’ve been there, done that. Many times.

I broke my nose slow dancing at my senior prom. I asked a guy out once and got turned down with the excuse, “I’m gay.” (Super awkward) I stood on my skirt in a shuttle crowded with football players, and the skirt hit the floor, leaving me standing there in nothing but my underwear and my cute boots.

I got stuck in a bounce house at my daughter’s second birthday party and I was eight months pregnant with my son. Getting out was like a bounce house giving birth to a beluga. I accidentally texted my boss with “I love you so much,” which was intended for my husband. The last time I went to the ER, my doctor was a man I went to high school with, and I threw up on him. Later that same night, after the drugs had kicked in, I made an outrageous, suggestive comment I thought was HI-larious that was really just crass. (Okay, I still think the comment was funny, but even I recognize the bad form in saying it to someone I haven’t seen in eighteen years)

That’s not so bad, except that I’ve run into him three times since then (after not seeing him for eighteen years, I run into him three times in six months? WTF, universe?). Each time is another awkward moment, as I pretend I don’t remember precisely what I said to him that night.

Yeah, my life is a series of those kind of awkward moments.

So today, as you nurse your post St. Paddy’s Day hangovers, partake of a little of the hair of the dog, and raise a pint in honor of me. After all, this is my day.

Happy Awkward Moments Day!

The Unattainable Resolution

Every year, at about this time of year, people make their resolutions, their ideas for how they will improve their lives. Resolutions often take this form:

1. I resolve to get in shape.

2. I will lose 50 pounds in six months

3. I will run a 10K.

4. I will eat healthier.

These are admirable goals, and I will admit that I’ve made these same resolutions before. But how many of us will actually meet these goals? Not too many, that’s for sure (I didn’t, when I made them. I have lost the 50 pounds, but that’s because my doctors jacked up my stomach when they thought they were fixing it. And it sucks. It really, really sucks)

But I digress.

So this year, I resolve to make completely unattainable resolutions. Why, you might ask. Well, because at least I’m going into it knowing these goals are ridiculous. My goal of losing 50 pounds was a ridiculous goal when I made it, only I didn’t have the self-awareness to know that.

This year, I’m not going into it blind. This year, I know.

In that spirit, here are my unattainable resolutions.

1. I resolve to make out with Nathan Fillion. Why? Because he’s Nathan Fillion, yo. But I want him wearing his Captain Mal outfit from Firefly. Don’t worry, husband will understand. I’m pretty certain he wants to make out with him, too.

2. I will wear a Lady Gaga-esque outfit and sing karaoke. That’s right. I will take my chubby, suburban mom body and shove it into a black leather… something, do up the crazy hair and put on crazy, Dr. Frank N. Furter make-up, and go out singing (and not in a mobster-in-witness-protection kind of way, either).

3. In that spirit, I’m going to need some clear heels. I resolve to  wear them and not fall down. (Yeah, right. That’s why these are unattainable. I’ve been known to trip over a four-inch long stick on the play ground. I’m THAT graceful).

4. I resolve to not be horrifically embarrassed by either the outfit or the stripper shoes. (That’s so ridiculous I just cracked myself up)

5. I resolve to be confident at all times, and never doubt my writing ability. (Huh. I broke that one just now. And, in the immortal words of Britney Spears, oops, I did it again).

So there you have it. Five resolutions that I have no intention of keeping. Well, four I have no intention of keeping, and one I’ve already broken.

Have a great day, y’all!

Leave a comment with your outrageous resolution…


Thoroughly Modern. For the Middle Ages

Right now, I’m totally obsessed with the idea of making mead. (Could also be that I’m just wanting to celebrate the non-Rapture that occurred. Oh wait, I wasn’t expecting it to)

A friend of mine has a “honey supplier,” and I’ve been dreaming of all the things I could do with a batch of honey.

Poached pears in Sauvignon blanc. Drizzled with a bit of honey over a dollop of marscapone cheese. Grilled peaches drizzled with honey. Even pork chops, with a honey-balsamic glaze and spiced with rosemary.


I’m all over the food porn today, I guess.

The idea of making honey wine intrigues me. I’ve had mead before, and it can be lovely. It can also be cloyingly sweet. I imagine the mead that I would make would be effervescent (the mead we’ve made before–the one time we tried–did have  bubbles, even if it tasted like cough syrup). Light and bubbly, a little sweet. It would be delightful to poach those pears in it.

This is how I imagine it, anyway.

I don’t know if this makes me a foodie or if this makes me just one step closer to embracing my Ren Faire geek status. First, it’s brewing mead. Then, the next thing you know, I’m down at the Ren Faire in a corset four sizes too small and fishnets, pretending like my boobs aren’t trying to spill out the top of my outfit.

Don’t get me wrong, I love the Ren Faire. I really do. The costumes, the pageantry, the goofy shows, the food. I admit I am geeky enough to be entranced by it. I enjoyed the men in leather armor (mmm, leather pants). But the women… Seriously, ladies, put some clothes on.  I’m pretty certain you’re not going to find your sugar daddy at the Ren Faire, so looking slutty won’t get you the attention you’re craving (unless you have Daddy issues–and don’t we all?–and then maybe it will).  See, honey, the man you’ll find at the Ren Faire will be a bloke who makes his own chain mail, lives in his mom’s basement and will argue the finer points of the Gunpowder Plot with you. Seriously.

Not that those guys aren’t fun. In a contest of geek versus cool guy, I’d take the geek any day of the week. They can at least (usually) string a sentence together.

Here’s my second point about the clothing at the Ren Faire: If you are a size 24 and ask, “Can you see my nipples?” really, for the love of all you consider holy, don’t wear it. And stop lying about your size. We all know you’re not a size 6. Shhh, honey, it’s okay. Neither am I. Just put the corset down and put on a shirt. They had those during the Renaissance, too.

So this is my fear for myself… my slow, gradual slide into uber-geekdom. Today, I’m all about brewing my own mead. Tomorrow, I’m making chain mail.


Epic Fails

My friend, Brooke Moss (don’t know her? She’s awesome. Check her out) recently posted about her day of epic fails. We all have them. Hers, at least, were varied. Mine tend to revolve around tantruming children and inadvertently winding up half clothed.

This is about the latter (the third installment of “wardrobe malfunctions”).

My winding up with a malfunctioning wardrobe is unfortunate for two reasons. One: I am not a skinny chick. Two: It never happens in the cute underwear. Ever. And it’s always in public. You know that dream you have where you’re standing buck nekkid in front of everyone in your high school class? Yeah, that kind of stuff doesn’t happen in real life. Unless you’re me (granted, I’m not naked. But it’s bad.)

This particular incident occurred when I worked at the hospital. I’d been talking to a couple of doctors about a patient, and I was feeling pretty awesome. Dare I say it? I felt smart. I’d demonstrated some good knowledge on neuroanatomy (one of my favorite topics), and I’d totally gotten my point across about the necessity of speech therapy to address swallow function. I was freaking on top of it.

I should never get cocky. Because the Universe conspires against me every time I start to think I’m fabulous.

Anyway, we discussed this patient while I made my way downstairs so I could get back to the rehab hospital, where I had two evaluations waiting. I said goodbye to the doctors (nice guys, for specialists, who tend to be short with… everyone). Decided I would take the short cut through the ER. This is where we begin with  my fatal mistake.

I should have taken the employee exit. I would have been fine (or, if I hadn’t been, no one would have seen me).

In any case, I walked out the doors of the ER. Heard someone call my name. Turned, took a step and… fell off the curb.

Right in front of an ambulance.

I landed on my face.

And because I was right outside of the ER on a slow day, everyone and their brother rushed to my aid. A couple of ER docs. Two paramedics. A triage nurse.

I was fine. A couple of scratches and bruises and a skinned knee, which was already bleeding through my unfortunately white pants.

What hadn’t survived my fall, you ask. Oh, my pants.

Yep, they’d split right up the center seam, from one end of my waistband to another. Basically, my fall had bisected my pants.


Because they’re used to blood and guts and vomit, my colleagues said nothing. Once I’d assured them that I was fine, that, no, I didn’t need any assistance, they started to go.

Clutching the tattered remnants of my pants together, I started the now-substantially-longer trek across the parking lot to my car.

“Um, do you maybe need… something?” One of the docs asked.

Pants might be a good thing, I thought. But I wasn’t going to voice that thought. “Uh… Yeah. Anyone got an extra set of scrubs? Or a lab coat?”

Let’s face it, a lab coat wasn’t going to cut it. There was no salvaging the remnants of my pants. None. It was heinous.

One of the nurses offered to get me a set of scrubs, and I went back into the ER. Past the two patients sitting in the lobby, a couple more EMTs, and so many CNAs that I started to think maybe crossing the parking lot wasn’t such a bad idea, after all.

Now, I may have mentioned, I am fat. I was fatter then. The scrubs she brought? A regular large. There was nothing regular about my largeness at the time. I was a big girl. Still am, but a smaller version of the big girl than I was then.

It was like six pounds of sugar in a four pound bag. Fat man in a little coat. The Hulk in Bruce Banner’s clothing. Awesome.

I asked for scrubs in a bigger size.

When the nurse returned about half an hour later, she said, “These are the biggest ones I could find. I got them from the waaayyy back.”

Super. Not only had I split my pants in half, but I’d just been told that the scrubs that might fit my fat ass are buried in the back. You know, in the dark corner we don’t speak of. The one with the cobwebs.

I checked the size. It was the same size my father wears. I wanted to die of shame. I’d demonstrated my gracefulness in front of people I work with, split my pants in half, and everyone had gotten a gander at my underwear, but I was also wearing scrubs the same size as my dad, who everyone acknowledges is enormous. And what was worse? They fit.

When I came out of the area I was in, the nurse came to see me before I left. Softly, she asked, “Do you want to be checked out by the OB?”


“The OB says she’ll see you, if you want. It was a big fall.”

Oh. Oh, no. They thought I was pregnant. No wonder they had all rushed to my aid. I’d thought their concern seemed… excessive.

 I wasn’t pregnant. Just fat.

“Um, no, I think I’ll be OK. Just a little tumble.”

Thank Heaven she didn’t press it.

I got to my car to go to the rehab hospital. Drove there, even. Sat in the parking lot thinking of the epic failure that had been my day. Got on my cell phone, called my boss, told her (the basics of) what had happened, and explained I needed to go home.

Called my colleague who was covering outpatient and asked her to do my evaluations.

And I went home, drank some wine, and ate a pint of Ben and Jerry’s by myself (yes, yes, it’s a classic fat girl thing to do, and explains how my butt got to be the size it was, but you know why it’s a classic? Because it’s true). When my husband called that night (he was out of town for some reason), I don’t think I even mentioned it to him.

So, there you have one of my epic failures. Awesome, huh?

Tell me, what are yours?

I Feel a Draft (Another in a series of wardrobe malfunctions)

I walk across the parking lot of our local University. Feel a draft.

I smooth my skirt over my thigh. Yep, still in place.

I catch people looking at me, but I look cute, so maybe that’s it? I check my skirt again. Still there, lying flat against my skin. All is fine, I reassure myself.

I walk across the quad, past the student union and a gaggle of student athletes. You know, the popular people everyone knows, even at a moderately sized university. Football players and cheerleaders. They watch me as I pass. I don’t want them to–I would prefer to be invisible to the popular people. Every time I’ve made their radar, it’s not been for something awesome. It’s always been for something I would prefer no one find out about.

I hear whispers, and, like all shy, paranoid people, I suspect they are whispering about me. I begin blushing furiously.

They’re not talking about me. It’s the epitome of conceit to assume every time anyone whispers it’s about you. I do not have narcissistic personality disorder. Nope. It’s not about me.

But I hear giggles behind me, and can’t stop the embarrassed flush from rising to my cheeks. I run my free hand over my skirt again.

It’s still there, and covering all the important bits.

I walk toward the humanities building, so embarrassed I think I might ignite, though I don’t have the foggiest idea why. Begin to climb the stairs, when behind me, I hear a voice.

“Oh my God, Meggan, you’re gonna die.”

Of course I am.

A girl in one of my classes yanks on my skirt. Hard. So hard I’m worried it will fall from my body. Hey, it’s happened before.

And pulls it out from underneath my backpack.

I’d walked nearly a half mile with my skirt tucked up under my backpack. My skirt had felt fine because I could only check the left side. Unfortunately, it was my right butt cheek that I’d been exposing to the entire world. My right butt cheek, in pink, santiny, granny panties with a well worn elastic waistband.

Yeah, I’m that much of a fashionista. No cute thongs for me. Nope. When I go for exposure, it’s in old underwear I’m embarrassed I even own.

Super awesome.

This is my life. I try to keep as many layers of fabric between my butt and the rest of the universe as humanly possible. I’m loath to wear a bathing suit, but stuff like this happens to my butt. Far too often for it to be accidental.

It ‘s enough to make a girl think the universe is out to get her.

Sad, but true.

Polar Bear, My Ass

I bought a pair of sweats the other day.

This, in and of itself, is not necessarily of note. However, since boycotting just about everything in regard to my alma mater for almost ten years, I broke down and bought a pair of sweats from said university. I guess I’ve finally gotten over my thesis.

In any case, I meant to get these cute blue sweats that had the name of said university running down the leg. That’s harmless enough.

Instead, as I was searching for sizes, I didn’t notice that the motif had changed. So what I bought were sweats that had the team logo on the ass.

This, even, would be alright, if my ass weren’t the size of Montana. And if the team mascot wasn’t wolves.

See, it has the team logo, along with wolf prints right on the butt. Only, when your butt is the size of mine, it looks less like wolf paw prints and more like, “Oh, my god, I was mauled by a polar bear!”

This is exactly the look I was going for.

I should return the sweats. I really should. But I’m not going to.

Not only is history an indicator (I really don’t return stuff I bought, unless I made a huge mistake with sizing, which happens, precisely, never), but I’ve also worn the things. I’d pulled off the tags before I even noted the polar bear prints right on the butt.

So I’m wearing the infamous sweats.

And proudly embracing the polar bear.