I decided to devote Thursdays to book recommendations but um, I’m sorry. Already dropped the ball. In fact, I dropped the ball without ever having picked up the ball. Which is kind of awesome, when you think about it. 

My reason for not getting it together enough to write a book recommendation? I have a stye. Alternatively spelled sty. It’s basically a pimple on my eyelid. You know how when you feel nauseous you’re like: oh my god, how did I go around not feeling nauseous for so long without appreciating every minute? That’s how I feel about my sty. Regular pimples pale in comparison. Regular pimples don’t deform your face. My eyelid looks like a greasy pink slug. I swear. A greasy, drooping, puffy pink slug. I look like the kind of woman who hobbles around, chews cloves and mumbles spells under her breath. I also look like this:

Seriously. How did I walk around not looking like that for so long and not appreciate every minute? 

Instead of a book, I recommend you check out “The Goonies.” It’s one of my all time favorite movies, and — as you can see — my eyelid has a starring role. 

xo

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Okay, so lately I’ve been super into the skinny-belt-over-cardigan thing. Have you guys noticed this? Instead of buttoning your cardigan, which is so boring and intuitive, you bring in a totally unnecessary accessory and make getting dressed ten times more complicated. Check it:

Or — if you’re the type who needs celebrity stamp-of-approval — check it:

What’s with Scarlett’s face, btw? It’s like her teeth fused into one giganto uni-tooth. I know, I know… I’m being mean. But just ’cause I’m jealous.

OF HER TOTALLY AWESOME UNITOOTH.

Anyway.

In between writing the Poseur books, looking for treasure in my cat’s kitty litter, and dream-stalking Zac Efron, I’ve totally revolutionized the skinny-belt phenomenon. That’s right. Bringing it to a new level ladies! What have I done you ask? Aren’t a little old for Zac Efron you wonder?

Answer to the second question: WE’RE ALL THE SAME AGE IN OUR DREAMS.

Answer to the first: I skinny-belted my scarf!

See, one day it got a little too hot for a cardigan, so I put on my favorite James Perse wifebeater. It’s like three years old and has gone through eight gazillion washings so it’s a little on the threadbare side (i.e. you can totally see all of my bra) which is a little too slutty, even for me. And I’m a HUGE slut, bébés! Just ask Julius, the guy with the scraggle-beard who practically lives in a lawn-chair outside my local laundromat. When he’s not blasting Marvin Gaye on his scotch-taped boombox, or bumming cigarettes from his cronies outside Bagel Delight, he calls out to bedraggled, laundry-addled women (like me) and orders them to smile. If they refuse (like me) he mutters, “bitch” or “stupid slut.” I know, right?

It’s like he knows.

Anyway.

I draped a fluttery, printed silk scarf over the wifebeater (oh. Make sure your scarf is in a breezy, light material — because a wool scarf with a summery tank? Might look a little nutso), and then skinny-belted it into place. The cinched scarf looked so good I was like: I would do this even if I wasn’t wearing a skanky-ass tank-top!

Here. For visualization purposes, I drew a quick concept-sketch. (I took the pic with my laptop, so it looks a little ghetto — but you get the idea.)

I wore my scarf cinched in the middle, but you can try wearing it open, too. Like, check out Natalie Portman’s hot-to-trot Rodarte dress in this photo:

With an extra-long chiffon scarf and skinny belt (or even a delicate ribbon) you can totally create the same effect! And it costs, like, one millionth the price. I mean, unless you’re wearing a Chanel belt with a Hermès scarf, or something. In which case, ehm, I’m not jealous. Seriously.

Slut.

xo

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Dear Miss Maude,

I like this guy, but he has major mood swings. Sometimes he’s the perfect gentleman — other times he’s a total jerk. Is it worth pursuing things with him? Or should I put the idea out of my mind and stay friends… 

–Swing Upset, age 14

Miss Upset, OMG:

There’s totally an Aretha Franklin song about this! Aretha Frankin, for those of you not in the know, was the Beyoncé of her day. Some of you may recognize her as the woman who sang herself into a coma at Obama’s Inauguration, you know — wearing the bedazzled dead-cat bow hat?

Okay. So, despite her terrifying taste in headgear, woman knows a thing or two about the mens. Here’s A-Franks on mood swings:

Your love is like see saw, baby/ goin’ up, goin’ down, goin’ all around/ just like a see saw… You change just like the wind/ that ain’t right/ that ain’t right/ that ain’t right/ that ain’t right, baby.

Dude.

Are you seriously going to ignore not one, not two, but FOUR “that ain’t rights” from this woman? 

Now, I’m not saying boys shouldn’t be allowed to be moody once in a while. Maybe he’s just tired. Or hungry. Or mommy confiscated the Xbox that morning. If you can’t imagine a finger-wagging, no-you-didn’t song about it, you probably shouldn’t take it too personally. Remember, the typical Beyoncé song goes like this:

Any other day, I would call, you would say/  “Baby, how’s your day?”/ But today, it ain’t the same/ Every other word is, “uh huh, yeah, okay/ Could it be that you are at the crib with another lady?

Not like this:

Any other day, I would call, you would say/ “Baby, how’s your day?”/ But today, it ain’t the same/ Every other word is, “uh huh, yeah okay/ Could it be that you forgot to eat your string cheese?

Know what I mean?

Anyway. Whatever the cause of his mood swings, there’s never a good excuse to be rude, and make someone (like you) feel like crap. If that’s what’s happening, girl… walk away. And leave the swing, the see-saw, the whole damn playground, to his cranky, bad self.

*Have a question? Need some totally wack, unprofessional advice? Email me at DearMissMaude@gmail.com!

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I hate the word blog. It’s totally like ‘blah’ and ‘clog’ mashed together. Blah is like: egh… I’m so bored. Clog is like: ew, the toilet won’t flush. Or wooden shoes invented by turn-of-the-century Dutch peasants to better outfit moms for last-minute excursions to Trader Joe’s. So when you think about it, the word “blog” is like: I flushed my mom’s wooden shoe down the toilet out of sheer boredom and now I’m standing in a swamp of upchucked poo.

Is it just me?

For a while, I toyed with the term “Fashion Log” — kind of classy right? Except, you know: If I’m already talking about poo, chances are this isn’t the classiest — let alone fashiony-est — site. Besides, it’d only be a matter of time before I broke down and started calling it my “flog,” which — in addition to being an awesome mash-up of Fashion and Log — also refers to whipping cowering medieval-dudes in brown peaked hats for, like, selling rancid horse meat, or whatever.

Oh, well. Maybe, I’ll embrace “blog” one day. Like, tomorrow. Which is like, forever from now.

xo

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