I Don't Care About Pedophiles... I Just Want to See the Clothes On a Grownup

 Meet the January cover girl of French Vogue, y'all!

Hot, right??

Getting a good sense of what these clothes might look like on you?

What's that? You're not?  Oh, that's because SHE'S TEN YEARS OLD. Yeah.... 10. One year older than my niece, who is just reading Tales of a Fourth Grade Nothing. Who thinks that adding some variant of  "poop" and "pee" to every single line on a Mad Libs is the height of humor (she may not be wrong there).

Found this on the Daily Mail, who, I'm sure, is positively giddy over the outrage it's causing. Yes, they are incredibly sexualized photos. Yes, I am horrified that the picture just above has her in a top cut so low that I wouldn't dare wear on the sluttiest night of the year Halloween.  Yes, this is the same type of photography that gets Chris Hansen in a tizzy.

But let's put aside the whole "this is the epitome of all that's wrong in this sad, fucked up little world of ours" thing and focus on my immediate thought, since I'm neither a pedophile nor a parent:  Can I open just one goddamned magazine and see clothes on someone that has at least graduated high school?

I'm not asking for much here. Really. Fuck fat models. Screw models over 25 (HAGS! ALL OF YOU!). Right now, I'd settle for someone that at least could drive to the photo shoot themselves:

Below is 15 year old Hailee Steinfeld, Mattie Ross in last year's True Grit. Stunning portrayal of a child looking for vengeance for her father's death. Now, she's the face of Miu Miu.

13 year old Elle Fanning! Dakota's tyke sister, and also the model for Marc by Marc Jacobs' fall/winter line.

She'd be a great model, if I were looking for something to wear on my first day of freshman year. BUT I'M NOT.  I'm a grown damned woman, looking to purchase clothes that I can wear to my job, that I can work without having to enforce Child Labor Laws.

Fashion designers, magazine editors, I implore you, on behalf of women everywhere... please. PLEASE. This isn't avant garde (clearly, since you aren't the only one doing it), this isn't edgy. This is just... stupid. Cast some models who's list of craziest nights don't include "that time when mom let me stay up past 10:30 to wait for Santa."

As Summer Draws To A Close...

The upcoming weekend is Labor Day, the signal for back-to-school and the end of summer. As a salute to my least favorite season (the sweating!), I think it's time to do a little "Don't Be a Slave to Fashion!" recap. There's a reason that every company sends out the dress code reminder at the beginning of June... there are a lot of pitfalls in summer clothing options.

Below are the top trends from this summer that I just can't get over, and after working at various street festivals all summer long, I couldn't get away from.

First up... shoes!

I'm not a huge fan of the Gladiator sandal, though (perhaps through sheer overexposure) I have acknowledged they have a place in the world. But this type of shoe, (this particular one is the BCBGeneration Kija)... I just don't get it. Is it a boot? Is it a sandal? Does it make your ankle sweat? I implore you, ladies, think of the tan lines!

While we're at it with the feet:

Legwarmers/Kneehighs with sandals/clogs/any footwear and shorts/skirts/etc. is wrong. I thought we finally all agreed to this. Have we not, for generations, been discussing the faux pas of our fathers and grandfathers wearing sandals with socks? Let's not confuse things here. When it comes to it, I suppose I'd rather you wear the boot/sandal monster above than this look.

From bottom to top:

One of the main reasons I hate summer is what it does to my hair. It's not really fun to go three months looking like a sweaty troll doll. While I suppose these hippie-redux headbands WOULD keep my hair from reaching maximum lift-off, I also hate the feeling of my damp hair plastered to the side of my face, and I can't see how this does anything but add to the problem.

The Boyfriend Tee:



I add this with a caveat; I like feminized menswear, and am actually a fan of the whole "boyfriend shirt" trend, when done right. However, I feel it should be noted that SHIRTS ARE NOT DRESSES.

Ladies, Vanessa Hudgens can not pull off this look, and we are not Vanessa Hudgens. Where are your pants? I have seen everything from the teenytiny jorts, which I am not a fan of, but will at least accept that you are somewhat aware of being in public, to the oblivious full moon that leads me to believe that it's not a few girls taking fashion to an unfortunate place, and that the shirt-as-solo is a full-on trend.

A note: if your shirt barely covers your cheeks while standing straight up, wear something underneath it. I think I speak for a grateful Chicago when I say we don't want to see your nethers when you bend over to pick up the food tickets you dropped while buying your big ass turkey leg.

Additional sidebar on this rant, $50 plus is too much to spend on a lumpy t-shirt. Please go get an XXXL from Hanes if you are so obliged.

From mini to maxi:


I add this as an homage to Sissy, who really hates this look. I don't, though I think, as with the Boyfriend Trend, strict rules apply. If you are using the maxi dress as a modern muumuu, seek help. If you fail the Pencil Test, WEAR A BRA.

Actually, two birds, one stone: this rule ties in nicely with the yearly nightmare of tube tops...unflattering on everyone. Always pulling them up, sagging issues, certain anatomy looking like flapjacks. Who likes that swampy feeling under there? What if you get sweat marks?! I speak from experience that the sisters should be contained, for your own sake. Halters are just not for us, mmkay?

I suppose that's the moral of this post altogether: just because it's out there, it doesn't mean you have to wear it. Don't be a slave to fashion! Some things shouldn't be worn by women over the age of 25 (Forever 21, I am looking at you.) Some things don't fit your body, no matter what size they come in. Some things really are meant for you to wear at home (yes you, rompers!)...at least if you're over the age of 5. A Birv rule of thumb: If you are constantly adjusting yourself- pulling something up, pulling something down, taking off and immediately putting back on- it's not flattering on you.

It's Gotta Be Like Sitting On Tennis Balls

Because my ass just isn't big enough... I think that it is time to add some fake cushion for the pushin'. Introducing the BOOTYPOP, ladies. And gents, if you feel you need to fill out the back end of your jeans a little better.



No booty-ness has never been a problem for me. I have ass to spare, no matter how many lunges I do/3rd story apartments with no elevators I move into. But (hehe) are the POPS sitting on the top of your cheeks? Is that where you need more butt? On me I'm pretty sure it would just look like I was smuggling cereal bowls.

Gotta say, if you have no booty, I can see the market for these. Here's Birv's Better Idea... make the POPS a place to store things- keys... ID... spare pair of panties for when you get to the home of the gentleman you're trying to woo with your POPPING ass. Speaking of butt-minded men... who snickered at the creepy leering man at the coffee shop in the ad? I did! At least, in my mind, it was a pervert in public, and not a husband disinterested in his flat-assed wife. Disinterested until she added 5 lbs on her rump and nowhere else, that is!! HOTT.

What do these feel like if the creeper grabs them, anyway? I mean, if you're slow dancing (people still do that, right?), and that certain someone wants to pull you in a little closer... what happens?

I love that it's endorsed by Martha Stewart. Never knew she cared about the roundedness of my rump.

CatFish, you and your adorable web-browsing sidekick have made me love again. Hooray blog!! Blogging, hooray!

Duct Tape Is NOT Your Friend, or, How I Learned I'll ALWAYS Need a Bra.

Man, I clung to those overalls for a looong time. Today's stroll down BFF Memory Lane takes us about a month into our freshman year.

BFF and I went to Webster University... a teeny tiny fine arts school that housed about 800 students when we attended. Since the school was so tiny, and perhaps because of the desire of the population to re-live a happier high school existence (freaks & geeks unite!), Webster had sock hops and dances about twice a quarter. They always had themes... Halloween, Christmas, and, in this particular instance, the Pajama Jammy Jam. It was our first dance, and in a fit of determination to fix my self confidence (well, and try to get laid), I picked up a little "sum'n sexxxy" for the dance on our monthly snack stock-up trip (juice boxes, ramen, and Nutter Butters- staples of college life) to the Kmart with Miles. Awwww yeah.

I picked out a plum-colored satin nighty... longish, not too revealing, just enough to get that "gee, I'd like to tap that" thought in some gentlemen's heads. At least, that's what it looked like on the rack. Remember... this is the '90s, heyday of the "slipdress" (thanks for that one, Princess Di!).

Most of you that read this blog have known me for quite a while, or at least have seen me at some point in your lives. I'm pretty sure you all realized that nothing I'm sporting in the "chestal region" is a recent development. I realized in the store getting a thin-strapped satin nighty was a risky maneuver. But me, I've thought ahead. I'm prepared. I was the recent recipient of a very early viral email (what would later be credited as a cautionary tale) about how to keep the "girls" in check. I drag BFF into the Home Supplies aisle.

BFF: "Are you sure this is a good idea?"

Birv: "Pshhhht YES. I mean... you could see it in the picture, but only because her dress was so low-cut. I'm not THAT slutty."

BFF: "How will you keep it from tearing your skin off?"

Birv: "Well... masking tape isn't as sticky as the other stuff. I'll use that by my skin, you know, like volleyball players do (!), and then the duct tape over that to keep them from bouncing around. It'll work, trust me! (The famous last words of anyone embarking on a stupid endeavor.)"

BFF: "Oooookaaay..."

We hustle back to the dorm rooms to get ready for our very first dance. BFF is ready quickly, adorably in a set of cotton jammies. Time for her to help Sultry Susie Birv get ready. The viral email doesn't really show how much tape was used to replace a bra, or how it was put on. Plus, that girl doesn't have tits the size of watermelons to deal with. I decide one strip for "Nip THO Prevention" and cleavage enhancement won't be enough. Best to wrap the whole kit & kaboodle (kabooble?) up, boob tube style, for good measure.

I employ a dubious (and remarkably gracious) BFF to start at my back and start wrapping like a mummy with the masking tape, while I hold the girls in place. We're standing in the middle of my dorm, hoping to god that my roommate doesn't walk in, as this would just take WAY too much explaining. After some awkward moments in which we try to figure out the nipple situation-I end up just taking care of that area myself (To this date, I have never seen BFF's goods. She insists she's seen far too much of mine.)- the masking tape layer is on. It's taken up the entire roll, which doesn't fill me with self-confidence and poise. In fact, it's pretty sweaty, and isn't exactly forming to my body like I envisioned it would; it's lumpy as hell and poking me in the arms when I try to put them at my sides.

Never one to do stupid things in a half-assed manner, I press on. So what if sweat is pooling in my cleavage, as well as dripping down my back? This kind of strapless bra beauty comes at a price. Once the duct tape is on, smoothing everything out- I'll look vixenish and gorgeous. A red-headed Marilyn (hah!). I make BFF start with the mummy wrap one more time.

Laughing the whole time, BFF finishes the job. It's getting hot in my room, and with two rolls of tape on my chest, it's pretty hard to inhale. I have no idea how anyone in their right mind would willingly wear a corset. But still...I'm gonna look friggin' sweet at that dance. I may not be able to sit down or bend over except at right angles (that much tape is actually pretty rigid), and the breathing thing may make it really hard to, you know, actually dance, but still. Who cares? I'm going to meet someone cute! I just know it! (All right, I'll be honest, what was going through my mind is "Tyson will finally notice me! Tyson will finally notice me!" Ahhh.... crushes)

An hour later, I'm ready for the actual nighty. I need assistance getting it on, as I can't lift my arms above my shoulders without serious threat of ripping off my nips (turns out masking tape is stickier than one would think), so BFF helps out. It barely fits over my homemade strapless bra. Never accounted for adding what must have been an inch of tape to my bustline.

It's totally not working. the duct tape only makes the peaks and points of the rest of the tape more prominent, the sweat dripping down my back to my ass is making a spot on my dress the size of Lake Michigan, and now every time I breathe, you can hear a weird crackling noise as the dress rubs across the tape.

BFF is trying to be loyal, and not laugh her ass off. She's failing miserably. I'm trying to convince myself that it is acceptable to go in public looking (and sounding) like an HVAC unit. I am also failing miserably. I finally decide (as sweat begins to work it's way out of my cleavage and I look more and more like a linebacker after a July practice in Florida) to give up on the taping and wear a bra and a sweater. So much for sex kitten appeal. I try to take the tape off.

This proves more difficult than it seems. My body heat has fused the glue of all the tape together. BFF runs to her room, and comes back, sniggering, with a giant pair of scissors (BFF is always prepared), and cuts through what basically adds up to a full torso cast.

Remember how I said I couldn't raise my arms without serious damage? This is nothing, NOTHING compared to trying to pull 80 layers of tape off my boobs. Guess what? That skin is pretty sensitive. And has apparently absorbed the first layer of tape like a she-wolf adopts a foundling boy. IT WILL NOT LET GO.

BFF is now crying laughing, unable to stand. She's now content to watch me suffer in pulling my modern body armor off while lounging in comfort in her Sailor Moon jammies on my bed. I finally get the tape off 1/2 an hour later, and we head to the dance in defeat- my hair 6 inches bigger in a poof of sweaty humidity from my frenzied fight with the tape demons.

Imeet no one (or have anyone notice me) at the party. Probably pretty lucky in that- I have red marks on my boobs for a full week after, and I look like a leper.

Just for shiggles... the viral email that prompted this is below. Enjoy.

This Is How You Should Know the Obama "Single Moms" Grant Isn't Real

I'm just spitballing here... but I would think you'd want to show enterprising young moms with kids in the park, having a debtfree picnic on a sunny day, not baby's first exposure to crack rocks.

Why I Never Liked Dolls. (Those creepy eyes!)

Meet Bebe Gloton, the Spanish sensation that's sweeping the nation, according to the Daily Mail.

Anyone else totally have the creepers from this video? Even the little girl doesn't seem to be having much fun. The little apron with the petal nipples? *shudder* Again, I know it's natural, blah blah blah. But this is one toy I wouldn't want my kid pulling out at the Steak & Shake, you know?

I'm Officially Old

Does anyone else find themselves worrying about the girl in this ad campaign by American Apparel? I'm worried she's either unwittingly found herself in casting couch porn ('Do...do I have to?' 'You wanna get into show business, don't ya?') or getting "sexted", as the kids say these days, all across her high school.

Either way, it makes me shudder.