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
You guys, let’s face it: things have been awful lately. There are Nazis and white supremacists marching in the streets, our shit-ass President can’t stay off Twitter and continues to wage war on his fellow Americans at every possible turn, it’s been hot af for what feels like years (shout out to global warming, which definitely fucking exists!), and this season of Game of Thrones SUCKED. (Yes, I said it. That finale was boring trash, and the only good thing that happened all season was them dragons and all the ladies’ outfits.)
In times like these, we have to get real basic with our gratitude. Personally, I’m just living for the little things and hoping they’ll add up. If you, too, are in the market for some small bits of good amid the general dumpster fire of 2017, this post is for you. 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.
Normally, I’d start this post talking about how much I hate summer and how hot I am and how terrible and boring summer clothes are–actually, I stand by that last one, getting dressed this time of year is the worst–but it’s been pretty nice here in Atlanta lately. Temps have stayed mostly in the 80s, and we’re being blessed with cool breezes and lots of thunderstorms, which leaves me praying for death way less frequently than I did last August. In fact, I drove home from work last night with the damn windows down like it was still April! #miracles (#magnets #howdotheywork) Read More
Once upon a time, Taylor did not care so much about her hair. She used to let me cut it in our disgusting college apartment bathroom after multiple gin and tonics, with the same scissors I used to open packages of batteries for my Discman and cut the tags off my new Forever 21 gear. The atrocities I carried out on her head as a result of this were many, so much so that I even apologized to her for it during my maid of honor speech at her wedding many years later.
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.)