Don’t get me wrong – I’m not BEHIND the times.  I’m not wearing shoulder pads or anything.  I know how to dress myself and my slightly complicated figure.  I splurge on good denim, accentuate the positives, and know when to belt a dress.  When I actually try, I can put together a somewhat decent outfit.

But most of the time, I don’t really take fashion risks.  I like my tried-and-trues.

So on Saturday, when Ashley and I were at Anthropologie and she convinced me not only to try on but subsequently drive home with a pair of high-waisted jeans, I was shocked.

And when we got back to the house and my brother immediately brought up Steve Urkel, and then taught my nephews how to taunt me with the classic Urkel line, “Did I do that?” needless to say, my confidence was shaken.  But then I remembered that my brother isn’t exactly rocking the fashion world himself (sorry, Jeremy).

So I put on the new jeans, and headed out for dinner and drinks – looking no less than 7 feet tall, I might add.

But I left the tags on, just in case.  (I know – go ahead.  Judge.)

So what say you, my little sweeties?  Yay or nay on the high-waisted jeans?

Anne Shirley: Well, I wouldn’t marry anyone who was really wicked – but I think I’d like it if he could be wicked, and wouldn’t.

Listen, all I want is something dark brown and genuine leather, with no silver buckles or gold chains, small enough to carry into a bar, but large enough to lift a bottle of wine from a wedding reception. That’s all. And I can’t find it.

*Total lie. No one has asked. I wanted to talk about it anyway.

“This one looks SO GOOD on,” she declared.

“Excellent!” I replied.  And… awkward? I thought.  Because who likes to talk to strangers about their undergarments – I mean, besides Southwest Airlines, and Annie Parsons on her blog?

“In fact,” the woman continued, “I’m wearing it right now!”

Oh gosh oh Lord oh no no no no -

She pulled down her shirt and showed me not just a strap of the bra, but an entire boob of the bra.

And what can I say?  I bought it.

So unless I’m blogging about my undergarments or confessing my fascination with Lady Gaga, sometimes it’s hard to know what to share.

For example, yesterday, I had a melt-down.  Like, a full-on, forehead-to-desk sob fest.

Did my heart get broken?  Did I get horrible news?  Did I go bankrupt?  Did someone ask when my baby is due?

I wish.  At least then this melt-down would have been legitimate.

Oh no, friends – I was just feeling overwhelmed by life – life, and feeling inadequate.  I could say a lot more about why I was feeling inadequate, but I realize that the pressure we women put on ourselves to be extraordinary in every area of our lives is ridiculous – and damn it, Elizabeth Gilbert thinks so, too.  So there.

Anyway, I hope that you’ll stick with me as I continue to navigate what to say in this space, and in the meantime, settle for the little details from my life – like the fact that last night, I bought a fancy ruffly tank top from T.J. Maxx, only to get home and discover that it was a romper.

What’s a romper?

Something that I should never, ever wear: a tank top with sewn-in short-shorts.

At least I didn’t say “sewn-in crotch.”

I think that’s probably it.

Watching the Oscars makes me want to be in show business.  I just want to tell stories for the rest of my life.

I guess that this blog will have to do.

Only because nobody else could ever, ever compare.

I will always be a JAM girl.

And now, excuse me while I go weep.

No offense.