My Texas Wardrobe

Living in Texas has its advantages - the best tex-mex food around, mouth-watering barbeque, and the heart-clogging-but-slap-yo-momma-good chicken fried steak.


So…food. Texas has food.


I know, I know… there are other fabulous things about Texas but its dinner time and I’m hungry, so bear with me.

What Texas, more specifically Houston, does not have, however, is cold weather. Some of you may be like Awesome! I’m more like how do you spell frowny face?

Growing up in Ohio and the Northeast assured me ample time in snugly sweaters and worn in jeans, parkas, mittens and…psst…Ugg boots. They may be a fashion crime people, but DAMN do they feel good!

Living in Houston has required a major adjustment to my closet and my mindset. Just because the calendar says December does not mean you can put away the flip flops. Parkas are brought out every 5 years or so when we have a cold snap. You know, when it gets down to 42 degrees out. Brrr….

Here are a couple of my favorite adjustments I’ve made to my Texas wardrobe.

Obviously, no wardrobe is complete without several pairs of jeans (of which we only wear 1, am I right ladies?!!). I wear them in the summer as well as winter here but to be honest, I’m sweating my buns off. So I’m delighted when I can throw them on and not worry that I’m going into early menopause.

Eddie Bauer Boyfriend Jeans Worn In




My new favorites are Eddie Bauer Boyfriend Jeans. Slouchy and comfy with super soft denim. Throw on a t-shirt, a cute pair of flats and you have you an easy weekend look. I really want to try these with a pair of low cut boots (my favs below) like something Gwyneth Paltrow would wear but I don’t know if I have the guts. We’ll see!

Confession time…I used to never wear skirts, like at all. There was a watershed moment in first grade when the teacher didn’t see my raised hand during a video and I had an accident. It was incredibly embarrassing. The ensemble I was wearing that day was a very preppy pink skirt and matching polo shirt. As if the skirt jinxed me, I vowed to never wear skirts again.

Fast forward 24 years, some serious re-thinking about that skirt jinx and tights. (I know they’ve always been around but apparently not in the land of me.)

Spanx Tight End- High Waisted


Spanx are my new favorite. A wee bit pricey but they really last. All sorts of colors to choose from too!

So I’ve already confessed that I have worn Uggs. I love them. My first year in Texas I bought a pair of grey knee high suede Uggs. I wore them exactly .5 times. It almost broke my heart that no one was going to see my beautiful new boots because it was just too darn hot. Thanks to Ebay a lucky (and stylish) chica is now wearing them.


Thankfully, someone in the fashion world heard my cries and the ankle boots are now everywhere. Here are a couple from my private collection that I can’t wait to pull out of the closet.

These are Steve Madden super sale last spring. While i cant find the actual boot, I found a few elsewhere:

Nine West

Mia

My Jennifer Aniston circa Justin Theroux boots. LOVE 'EM!

These are from Nordstrom Rack & there isn't a tag or identifying feature on the inside so I don't know who made these.

Here are a couple of choices for those moments when you want to kick someone's butt this winter.

Steve Madden

Ugg

 

Technical note: I apologize for the wonky fonts. Im working on my ipad tonight.

Also, I'm working on the comments section... Ever since I got the website a makeover I haven't been able to respond to comments. Sorry about that! I've read every onethough and appreciate all of your thoughts!

 

Flying, Public Speaking, First Dates and...the Spa?

You know that feeling you get when you are anticipating an unpleasant experience?  The clammy palms, stomach tied up in knots, chest is pounding and that line of sweat starts to bead on your brow. 

I’m presuming common triggers for this would be flying, public speaking, first dates, etc.  That sort of thing.

The spa does it for me.

I KNOW!   I don’t know what’s wrong with me either. 

Do not mistake my basket of nerves for not wanting to go. 

Stay with me; this is where it gets weird.

I love the spa.  

I really love it.  I love the ambiance, the quiet, the noiselessly moving ladies bustling about, and let’s not forget the plush robes.   It’s not like anyone is forcing me to go get manicured or waxed (a la Fifty Shades of Grey but that is another ball of wax. Pun totally intended).

The pinched and pulled women intimidate me and I'm never quite sure if I'm doing what I'm supposed to be doing.  Yes, I know.  It's mostly laying there.  But these are MY neuroses, thankyouverymuch.   

First, everyone whispers.  It’s the whole PEACE and SERENITY thing.

Apparently, I have the hearing of an 97 year old man.  You whisper something to me once, and I don’t get it I’ll ask you to repeat.  If I don’t pick it up the second time I’ll just nod, and accept whatever happens next.

That is how I got my lips spackled with something akin to dry wall paste. 

Unbeknown to me, I said yes to some fancy-dancy lip treatment.  I should have known when my lips started burning.  After what seemed like an hour of the esthetician scrubbing and pulling off the dried goo, my poor lips looked like two balloon animals glued to my face.  And they stung for hours afterward.

Secondly, I don’t want to look like I don’t know what I’m doing... sooooo I just don’t do anything.

For my first ever facial I had no idea what it really entailed. 

Everything was going swimmingly until she burnt my face off. 

(For those of you who don’t know:  there is a part in most facials that the esthetician will use steam as a way to soften and prepare the skin for the treatments). 

I wasn’t prepared.  She didn’t say anything.  She didn’t even whisper anything (at least I don’t think so).  

All of a sudden, the sun had camped out on my face.  

I couldn’t breathe.  

I couldn’t open my eyes. 

There was nowhere to turn my head to get air. 

I was suffocating. 

You are probably asking “Couldn’t you just move the machine away?” And you’d be right.  And of course I could have.  I just didn't want her to think I didn't know what I was doing.   

WHAT IS WRONG WITH ME?   

This is it.  I’m going to DIE.  In a spa.  From steam.  I hope Mark knows not to put this in the obituary.  Nice going, Kristen.  

She came back into the room at the very minute I would have expired.

"Weird, I guess I turned it on MAX.  But don’t worry; your skin is going to be AMAZING."

Oh, goodie.

Finally, there are some things I’m just not comfortable with getting touched. (You don't need to stop reading, Dad.  It's totally PG.)

Massages are super ridiculously awesome.   If I had a tail, I’d be wagging it at the mere mention of a massage.

For a great massage, you have to communicate with your masseuse about what you’re looking for. This should be a good thing. 

In the intro I always ask for deep tissue, but also I ask them not to massage my feet or hands.   Weird? Yes.  Crazy?  Nah. 

You see, I hate my feet.  They are ugly, ugly feet.  Not just run of the mill, haven’t-gotten-a-pedi-in- a-while  ugly.  Ugly.  It’s my cross to bear.   

My hands are a different story.  When I get nervous my palms sweat.   And since I’m in a spa situation I’m nervous from the minute I walk in the door until the minute I’m signing the credit card receipt. 

I don’t want the masseuse to think I have some weird hand sweating disease, so I put my hands on the Don’t Touch List as well.

My first massage at a new place here in Texas went something like this:

Yeah, so if you could just NOT do my hands and feet that would be great.

Um.  What?

I really don’t want my hands or feet massaged.  Cool? *Trying to move on*

That’s like THE best part of the massage.  *Insert hand on hip attitude*

For some people, I bet it is.  Not for me, though.  Sorry! 

With a look that said “you are THE freakiest girl in the world” she sauntered off so we could get started.

Not 10 minutes into my massage, she started whispering.

I’m face down, trying to enjoy my 50 minutes of peace. 

Hmm…I’m sorry, what did you say?

Mumble, whisper, mumble.

Hmmm…ok? 

And don’t you know I got my hands and feet massaged. 

Damn Whisperers.  

(And, yes.  I did tip her.)   

Let's Get Physical ... er... Healthy

I’m doing this “Let’s Get Healthy” thing. You know the drill – eat better, move more, consume considerably smaller amounts of brownie, etc.

(Side note: “Let’s Get Healthy” should be sung to the tune of “Let’s Get Physical” by Olivia Newton John. It just makes sense.)

In the spirit of “Let’s Get Healthy” I had to measure myself last night. It wasn’t pretty. Mainly because I don’t know how to work a tape measure. Do you put the metal end piece thing-y so it’s just touching the other end of the tape measure or on top of the tape measure? I took livestock in 4-H because I thought it would be a good way to meet boys so my sewing skills are lacking. (Note: if you like making out with someone that smells like manure then, yes, it is a great place to meet boys.)

That is not the point, however. The point IS: I had to measure myself last night. Measuring a few areas on your body is supposed to be a good way to tell if you’re losing inches. Pounds lost is not always the best guide. It's also a good way to become an alcoholic.




So for those of you looking to make a change and want to get started, I’ve made a quick step-by-step guide:

1. Figure out how to use the tape measure.

2. Wrap the tape measure around the body part you choose to start with. For example, I chose my thigh.

3. Stare, disbelievingly, at said number.

4. Deny that that number is correct.

5. Re-do the measurement.

6. Start whimpering.

7. DENY the measurement.

8. Storm out of bathroom.

9. Grab a glass of wine.

10. Measure, AGAIN.

11. Commence bawling.

12. Sip glass of wine. Grab the bottle of wine.

13. Lie on bathroom floor.

14. Order a pizza.

The following steps are crucial, y'all:

15. Have your significant other tell you that you are awesome and perfect and lovely no matter what that stupid tape measure says.**Crucial**

16. Wipe nose with his shirt.

17. Throw away tape measure.

Clearly there was a reason those manure boys and I didn’t work out.

Photo credit: Flickr


 

My First Mother's Day

My mothers day was lovely! I'm a lucky girl to be called Mommy and even luckier that I get to call Ella my daughter. How was yours? I hope you got lots of kisses and snuggles (if they aren't teenagers of course because I hear they don't snuggle so much as complain). I'm not going to lie, there were some tears that were shed (blame that old foe, miscommunication) but frowns were turned upside down in short order. I mean what is a holiday around here without someone breaking down at least once?!

I got to spend my day with my two favorite people in the whole wide world.

We went to lunch at one of my favorite places, The Black Walnut.

Momma, I must object to these lunch time photos shoots.

Hmmm... Your ideas on social welfare intrigue me. Let me think on it while I eat my applesauce.

I received two lovely cards, which brightened my day even more. I don't know about you but I love a good greeting card! They make me happy. And the most thoughtful gift was a lovely framed photo of four generations of Standley/Siler/Vennekotter ladies.

 

Four generations of love and good genes!

To end the evening, Mark stole inspiration from our honeymoon (Barcelona) and made a crazy good paella from scratch and an even crazier sangria to go with it. He knows the path to a woman's heart is through her stomach and with diamonds (shhh... he doesn't need to know the truth on that one).

And we finished off the evening with a cupcake the size of my head.

 

YUM!

Being Me

We all have our things right? You might eat PB&Js without the PB or maybe you can recite the Gettysburg Address by heart. Whatever it is, it's what makes us unique. I'm to the point in my life where I am grateful for what makes me different. I don't want to be like everyone else. I want to be me. And I want you to be you and revel in all your "you-ness".



So here I am...



I only read the NY Times for the Modern Love and Wedding Celebration stories in the Style Section.

I have GOT to go to bed by 9:00 (10:00 at the ABSOLUTE latest) or else I get weepy and emotional.

If left to my own devices I could live on buttered noodles, but I won’t because I’m a grown up…obviously.

The only way I wake up in a good mood is if my husband wakes me up. Alarm clocks make me angry.

I detest coffee (the smell, the taste, how hot it is) but drank it (several times a day even) in order to spend time with my then boyfriend, now husband. Oh, and I used to work at Starbucks but never drank their drinks.

I hate getting the mail and refuse to do so. Unless it’s around Christmas or my birthday when there might be cards in the mail. The hubs lets me open all the cards.

I always wanted an arm cast and braces growing up. I never broke anything nor needed braces. Such a bummer.

I’m an exceptional speller but I still need to sound out ‘together’ like my 3^rd grade teacher explained it to me: to-get-her.

I have a fantasy of camping out in Yellowstone National Park but I’m fairly certain the reality would be me getting eaten by a bear, mauled by a cougar (NOT Courtney Cox) and head-butted by a bison all in the same day. Also, I don’t like bugs.

So do tell lovelies, what makes you you? Leave it in the comments.