The Secret Life of a 4-Clasper

I don’t want to hear one more complaint about how life is hard with tiny boobs. NOT ONE WORD. I have no sympathy for you. You guys got an entire lingerie line, no, not even just a lingerie line, the BIGGEST lingerie line the entire continent of North America to fill almost their entire store with bras that have built in (not removable) billowing clouds of 4 inch thick tit boosting padding.

What in gods name. WHAT IN GODS NAME. I can’t buy a bra at that dang store anymore. Even though I hate them because Vicky’s Secret has definitely gone down in quality and I destroy their lace undies within days of buying them because when I’m pulling them up since they roll down into little lace tootsie rolls on my hips, i punch huge holes through the material and it looks like a 80′s hooker’s panty hose.

So, now I have no choice but to buy bras that literally take me, a 36(38)DD and suspend those bad boys into unreal heights, looking like Jabba the Hut got a new job at the circus as a tight rope walker and his adderall kicked in about halfway across, all of this being held in by a huge maxi pad featuring not 1, not 2, not even THREE, but 4 clasps.  You can’t hide that bungee cord in a cute tanky.

Things were so much more simple when I was a two-clasper.

A two clasper.

The good ol days.

Before I gained weight, starting in my bra.

Here’s how it went down:

Front clasp:

Status: LOL stop.

Why do you even own this? Arms tired from your hard job of typing on a computer all day? Can’t reach around back because your tiny biceps are too weak to hook? Ever heard of hooking first in the front then sliding it around?! Front claspers, you can get out!

1 Clasp:

Status: Fantasy effing fairytale dream.

This is a mythical bra creation. I don’t believe it exists. Maybe if you use a bathing suit as a bra. One-clasper bras are the unicorns of the bra world. Or maybe people like me have been kept out of their magical secret association. MEMBERS ONLY. DAINTY TORSOS ONLY.

2 Clasp:

Status: Normal.

Here we see what a bra should look like. two simple clasps- what high school boys are used to practicing on. Let me tell you, the first time they hit something higher than a 2 clasper, their confidence plummets and you will be in an awkward determined struggle, you’ll try to help him he’ll get annoyed so you try to flop your arms down just to let him go at it then he ends up swinging his thigh over your forehead to pin you down and reach over you so he can see it with his eyes himself and since you’re down there, you can just go ahead and help yourself because at this point he’s just pretending back there. Either that or he’s just sliding the entire bra over your face and it’ll get stuck between your upper lip and nostrils but he won’t care because you’re taking too long and this contraption is too hard and he’s already moving on to your happy trail.  Try to stay in the 2 clasp range.

3 Clasp: Things start to go downhill here. First, the above issue.  Second, it’s the depression of knowing you need an extra metal bracket to hold your shit together. Because your nonnies are just too wild to be free.  The support is better, but it’s like when someone who knows how to swim has to put on a life jacket on when their on a boat: they know they’d survive without it, but it’s just not safe, even though you just want to tear it off and be naked as fuck.

4 Clasp:  

Satus: Rock Bottom

Don’t talk to me. I own a 4-clasper.

Don’t even. 

When you reach the 4-clasp level, worlds have been altered. You are now the big guy who has to buy two seats on the airline.

You have an extra clasp for your own safety and the wellbeing of those around you.

But damn do they hold them up.

Corset:

Status: We Know.

You’re either a hot little snatch pants working at a fancy bar downtown as a cocktail waitress or  if you’re not, you’re just trying to keep it all together, mannnnnn in your halloween costume. 

I only wish the corset would give a couple extra charity inches to the bottom, because the tightness makes your hips flare out like a lampshade. This is why you must always pair a corset with a tutu.

Glitter Effing FB Page:  http://www.facebook.com/ifyourewearingpearls

The Incarceration of Monica Fay, Part One

It took me a while to get this out. I’d say the one and a half month wait was due to embarrassment, but it wasn’t. I was just being a lazy, ADHD, unruly wrecking ball of dandruff and glitter.

Dandruff due to seborrheic dermatitis.

Seborrheic dermatitis is caused by stress, fatigue, low self-esteem, embarrassment and obesity.

Well. If that isn’t raw sexuality, I don’t know what is.

So yes, I basically get dandruff flare when I’m having bouts of stress while obese and getting myself into awkward situations.

That sounds about right.

Why was I so stressed? What ever so traumatic could be happening in this magical hellhole we call life that could induce flakey flare?

Oh just a little thing called incarceration.  After all, two days before Thanksgiving, I was arrested in front of my boyfriend. But not just my boyfriend. My brand spanking new, 3 weeks young, boyfriend, my brother, his girlfriend, the dogs and ALL of our neighbors, who waddled out of their houses to watch my car Swifty Hellhole get searched (ha jokes on you because I have piles of girl in there.) and subsequently put into the back of a squad car by the HOTTEST Jerkface cop I’ve ever seen. You are an asshole sir, and I will NOT hit on you. There are consequences to your actions, I hope you found out the hard way, Officer YouGetNothingNotEvenAButtCaress.

Hold the phone. HOLD THE PHONE.  Back it up, you have a boyfriend now, Monica Fay?

Yes. And I don’t know why, but the kid is still with me, even after the PTSD he must have developed from watching his new girlfriend get arrested at 9 am, in pink striped knee socks, no shoes and pearl earrings.

I had just cooked eggs for everyone. I had just put breakfast on my own plate when my brother ran in and yelled that the police were towing my Swifty Hellhole and asking for me.

First of all. If the police are the ones taking your car and not the meter maids, this is NOT a good sign. Second, if the police are asking for you at your neighbors… this is not a good sign.

So, naturally, like a big boobied blonde ditz in a scary movie, I went right to where the obvious mayhem was centered. Knifed. If this was a scary movie, I would have already been knifed.

So yes, I was arrested. ARRESTED WITHOUT EVEN A WORD. I tried to get cuffed fast so that nobody in my house would finish breakfast before I got to leave, I urged the cop to GET ON WITH IT. I don’t know if Officer Twatfcuk has ever had someone urge him to arrest them faster before.

Of course I’m the unlucky girl who is dating someone who actually cares and watches out for me, so, my boyfriend, (nickname has not been chosen yet) stood there on the sidewalk, looking forlorn as I drove past, sitting in the back of the squad car, pink cotton socks getting grubby from God knows what had been rolling around high on bath salts in that same seat hours before.

By the way, no Rights of Miranda were read, mimed, acted out, trumpeted, or interpretive danced out. There was no warning of my right to remain silent. I didn’t.

The car stopped in front of my house, my brother and his girlfriend outside, absolutely bewildered.

With tears in her eyes, she leaned in and said “Don’t worry we’re going to bail you out.”

I said to her, “Stace, whatever you do, don’t bail me out. I’ll be back tomorrow and I won’t owe any money for bail or to the courts. This isn’t my first rodeo.”

Then officer Hot Bitchface and I drove around one complete block to the El Segundo Police station to book me for a 48 hour party.

I’m sorry but if our tax payer dollars are going to cops driving me around the block to the station, there’s going to have to be some changes in California.  We could have gone green and walked. It could have been an eco-friendly arrest. It could have been an ozone stroking stroll to the station which is so close to my house that if I flushed my toilet their shower of shame would run cold.

I’m tired of typing. If you want to learn why I got arrested in the first place and find out about my new prostitute friends and new things I learned about meth and also see my hysterical mug shot, stay on board ya’ll. This isn’t for amateurs. Seasoned Strugglers only yall.

add me strugglefucks www.facebook.com/ifyourewearingpearls

Free Tankie

You’re entered to win one of 5 free tankies  (pictured 2 posts below this) if you go “like” the It Isn’t Slutty If You’re Wearing Pearls Facebook Page click here >> http://www.facebook.com/ifyourewearingpearls 

They are sooo glitter effing soft and flowy. LOVEEE

In Loving Memory of Rachel Bailey

My Aunt Rachel was a big fan of my blog. She thought I was crazy, but she loved me very much and loved my outrageous stories.  As a child, I didn’t know what to think of this outspoken woman who took care of her own yet also seemed to be the mama of the neighborhood. The cool mom covered in tattoos and rocking a gorgeous deep purple Harley, but who could make amazing birthday cakes, whipped up delicate baby diaper towers for baby showers, who balanced wild child with classic beauty and poise, who spoke her mind, but never quite came out crass. We weren’t close as I grew up, in fact I was scared of her at first. I didn’t grow up with adults putting me in my place, everyone let me do whatever the fuck I wanted. My Aunt Rachel was not about all that. She was loving, but she’d lay it out to you if you were being a little shit.

It wasn’t until about two years ago, when I was about 22 or 23 when she and I finally started to connect, first through her annual summer party, then through Facebook, then through my blogs which she said she’d read before work, when she rose at 4 am, and how they’d send her to the work place she didn’t exactly love, still laughing to herself at my antics.  She couldn’t wait to catch up on my new entries and let me know what a nut I was.

We lost my Uncle Roger, her husband, earlier this year. If you’re looking for true love, for true soul mates, my Uncle Roger and Aunt Rachel were just that.  Their love and commitment was deep. Peas in a pod, Harley riding, loving, fun and funny, Army vets, putting on the best summer parties on their deck by the pool; everyone loved them because they were so real. I can still hear my uncle’s roaring laughter and see his bright red ponytail.  When my Aunt lost my Uncle, it was as if she had lost something in herself she could never, ever make whole again. She put on that smile as best she could., but she had been so strong for so long, nearly her entire life… and I told her that it was her turn to let someone else be strong for her. She is my role model for love and the deep integrity and loyalty I’ve seen in her very tight friendships.  I’ve closed my circle and I’m holding those girls as tightly as I can.

Before my business started really making money, I couldn’t afford to fly to DC when my uncle Roger passed away.  My Aunt Rachel, who already had to worry about the costs of burying her husband who also had years of medical bills before his decline, did not hesitate and bought me a ticket home immediately. AND she personally came with my sister to pick me up at the airport early in the morning, of course with a nice drink in hand to help with the reality we had to swallow at the funeral home later that day.

That weekend, I left her with a set of pearls; a long strand necklace, matching pearl bracelets, and earrings. I knew it wouldn’t bring back her soul mate, but it brought her closer to me.  That was the last time that I saw my beautiful aunt Rachel.

When I went on the Ellen Show, just in the audience, she was so excited to just record the episode, planning it days in advance, scanning the crowd for me.  When I got the news that a very big talent agency called and their literary agent was interested in turning It Isn’t Slutty If You’re Wearing Pearls into a book and possibly a TV show, she was one of the first people I called, and I could just hear the pride in her voice.  When she went to the beach with my sister, they found a shirt for me that reminded them of me. She was always thinking of me in this way.

They found this:

and later my aunt found this for me, knowing that football season was coming up, she a Niners fan, me a sad little Redskins fan.

On a trip back to DC a couple weeks ago, I was going to visit No Pants Baker and the rest of my family, my Aunt Rachel on the top of that list.  I was staying with No Pants Baker in the city, telling myself I needed to plan something with my Aunt Rachel, but I frolicked mercilessly all over that city first, got realll liberal over some rather turned wine and tater tots with my No Pants, raged politically incorrect, got unruly in a bar called Lincoln, became a pundit of partying.  I promised myself that weekend I’d get to her as I took my godson out to a late lunch. As I rode the red line back into the city, I received a text from my sister in which I could almost hear the hysteria in the little words on my screen.

My Aunt Rachel was in a serious accident my sister wrote…she crashed her beautiful purple Harley only two blocks from her home. They were airlifting her to the hospital.

I tried to run, I had heavy bags and a laptop case with me- the escalator was stopped, as usual, and I tried to run up. I fell, twice, and a man helped me up.  I got to the top, trying to run back to No Pants Baker’s, and I had to stop because I was close to throwing up.

My beautiful Aunt Rachel.

I rushed to University of Maryland Baltimore Shock Trauma, just as she was going into surgery. I stayed there all night and the next day, sleeping on the hospital floor at the feet of my aunts and uncles and cousins, trying to coax her back down from wherever she had gone… but I felt her when she left, she had gone and I knew it but I wasn’t done begging her to come back.

24 hours later, we found that we had lost her, she had been declared brain dead.

I had waited to go into see her before we had received the news- I wasn’t ready to see my  exceptional, truly one of a kind aunt in such a state.  Hearing we had lost her, I held my breath and walked into her room.

I kissed her goodbye, my breath no longer in my chest, and an hour later I found myself alone in the middle of my hotel room, screaming her name out over and over, not being able to stop myself from hyperventilating, as I collapsed on the floor next to my bed.  It was so unreal.

My sister drove up from Florida to be with my cousins and I.  My sister held herself together well while we were together, but she, being close in age with my aunt, had been best friends with her, and I knew that she was struck deeper than I could ever fathom in my own pain. There, sitting in Rachel’s room, I asked my cousin Ashley, Rachel’s daughter, if my aunt had kept my pearls.  There, on her dresser, in a little black leather box, my aunt had kept all of the pearls. I couldn’t think of anything else I wanted of hers other than what we had shared together.  Every time I look at a sterling silver and turquoise piece of jewelry I will have her near me, every time my dream catcher nabs a nasty dream from me I know it is her casting the net across its circular frame, every time I see a clown statue I will have her there.

There are many odd things that have happened involving her before and after her death that calling a coincidence would be an understatement. It will be my next entry, and funnier, because that is what she would have wanted.

It Isn’t Slutty If You’re Wearing Pearls  is now dedicated to the the memory of my Aunt Rachel.  She knew I was a weird little fuck and she let it be well known that she thought I was… but it was also that she loved that about me, that I made her laugh, that I brightened her day with my oddities, and that she loved my stories and she loved every nipplefuck, shart, shithole larry and glitterfuck that came out of my mouth, no bias.  I let things go a while, but I am determined to get It Isn’t Slutty If You’re Wearing Pearls in book stores just like she believed I could.

I love you, Aunt Rachel and Uncle Roger and I just really want you to know that I will do anything to protect my sister and Ashley and Joshua now that you are gone.

It Isn’t Slutty If You’re Wearing Pearls Tank Top

racerback flowy tank top coral

If you go click on the link below to get yours right now, I’ll send you a pair of pearl earrings too

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Chavez and his yellow boots.

Somehow Katy has convinced me to come watch the big fight at Happy Endings bar. I don’t even know who these people are, someone named Chavez, sporting sunshine dazzle dew drop yellow high top boots which I think may even have lace ups and hooks like victorian times. Then theres the other random.  I didnt know this was the big fight. I was imagining it was some parking lot fight, middle school style… til Happy Ending charged me a 10 dollar cover since the fight was on. They need to change their name to Angry Endings Bar.

Holy fuck canary pumps just beat the ever living beanbag balls out of random fighty man!!

I am not good at watching violence! Im cheering and covering my face im so confused!!!

My yellow high top fashionista won!!!

I want to help random fighty though he got munished. Murdered/punished.

Wait random fighty is actually Martinez and he won because his points were higher than snazz  toes even though chavez jr mashed his face in. Dang.

I shouldnt be allowed to watch this sport.

It Isn’t Slutty If You’re Wearing Pearls In Anime!

Pearls Anime

My super talented niece Savana drew this for It Isn’t Slutty If You’re Wearing Pearls!  She’s amazing at Anime and other types of Japanese art.  Love the broken pearl strand. I’ve definitely destroyed mine like that… but in a less elegant way. More like caught them on a bedpost when I was leaning over to grab something off of my bed covers causing them to explode into a magnificent arc of spastic popcorn beads.

Destroy pearls on facebook www.facebook.com/ifyourewearingpearls or on twitter www.twitter.com/msmonicafay