back in black

"back in black," in which est. 1975 explains the reason for her black wardrobe. #funny #humor #fashion #est1975 #est1975blog @Sarah (est. 1975)

If memory serves, and at my age it often doesn’t, I was about 24 years old when I made the Very Serious Life Decision to wear Mostly Black.

I use the qualifier “Mostly” for these reasons:

1. Black may be my color of choice, but as you can see from the picture below, my wardrobe actually incorporates black, white, and all the 50 shades of gray in between. (See what I did there? I made you think about sex.)


2. Sometimes I throw caution into the wind and try out an “accent” color. Subtle pieces, nothing crazy. A pink shell tank here. A pair of espresso brown ankle boots there. Tumultuous dalliances outside of my comfort zone that don’t last long. Goodwill ends up with most of these items within six months.

3. Pajamas don’t count. They’re not real clothes. I’ll wear any old clearance shit to bed, no matter what color. Who cares? Nobody sees that shit except for my husband, my son, and everybody in car line.

Anyway…. never mind all that. The important thing is Mostly Black.

So why did I make the decision in early 2000 to purge my closet of the flannel and chambray button-downs of the early 1990’s, the pastel sweater sets of the late 1990’s, and the peasant skirts and off-the-shoulder tops that were costume de rigueur at the time? Why did I turn my life into the Adventure in Greyscale it is today?

Here we go.

1. Black is slimming. Because I was SUPER fat back then. Like, RIDICULOUSLY fat.

I mean, I was a good 50 pounds lighter than I am now. And I could wear pencil skirts and button-down tops and other items of fitted clothing that now explode at the seams if I dare to even look at them. And I could actually shop at The Limited without every gay employee in the entire store rolling their eyes and stage whispering “oh girl” to anyone standing nearby.


24 years dumb.

2. Everything matches. I don’t know about you guys, but I could not be lazier when it comes to accessorizing. Who has the time to match their lipstick to their fingernails to their purse to their pumps? Not me, that’s who – I have a fuck-load of a television to watch. But if all of your clothes are black, and all of your shoes are black, and all of your bags are black, and all of your jewelry is black or metallic, you’re good to go no matter what shit you slap on in ten seconds.

3. You don’t have to worry about your makeup. Smoky eye? That goes with black. Neutral lid? That goes with black. Some glittery, glammed-out, sparkles-and-unicorn-cum Ziggy Stardust concoction you came up with at 3 in the morning after drinking an entire bottle of Courvoisier? Girl, you better believe that goes with black.

Ziggy knows.

4. I was in mourning. After my son Edward VII involved himself in an unsavory affair with an Irish actress named Nellie Clifden, my husband Prince Albert was forced to travel to Cambridge to confront him about his misdeeds. The two of them took a long walk in the rain to discuss Edward’s philandering, and upon his return my dear Albert fell ill and died. I was absolutely sick with grief, and I wore widow’s weeds every day from his death in 1861 to my own in 1901. And if you haven’t figured out that I’m talking about Queen Victoria by now you seriously need to SCHOOL YO’SELF.

5. If all of your underwear and pants are black, you never have to worry about period stains. You’re welcome.

So that’s that. I’ve worn Mostly Black for close to fifteen years now, earning me delightful nicknames such as “Wednesday Addams,” “June Carter Cash,” and “Where’s the Funeral?” This same wardrobe has also prompted my grandmother to ask my mother approximately 2397234987 times when I am going to start “wearing a little color.” I’m sorry, Grandma. I love you dearly. But the answer is probably never. Seriously, did you read the thing about the period stains? And the slimming thing? And the thing about the makeup?

For real.

And speaking of Queen Victoria, watch this right now and laugh (language is NSFW.)

from That Mitchell and Webb Look (BBC2)

oh no he di’int

Every married or cohabiting couple will tell you that there is a certain amount of space and tact granted to a partner or spouse with regards to his or her “solo activities.” And before you go on a long rant about how your beloved man or woman “doesn’t do that anymore” and “hasn’t done it since we started living together” let me stop you right there and say:


*wipes tear*

Look. I don’t want to pee in your soup. But the fact of the matter is that in any shared living arrangement there’s going to be a suspiciously long shower here, a dog-eared copy of 50 Shades there, and sparkling clean browser histories everywhere. How you respond when you stumble upon these things is up to you, but I personally feel it’s best to navigate these occurrences with respect and discretion. 

And maybe the tiniest smirk.

Unfortunately, no matter how perfectly you may deal with these situations, it is the very nature of the universe to fuck with us. So even if you are the most tactful and understanding partner in the world, even if Dan Savage has an oil painting of you in his house with the phrase “Good, Giving, and Game” inscribed underneath, even if you announce your entrance into every room with loud, stompy footsteps and a dozen “shot across the bow” warning coughs, accidents will still happen.

It’s inevitable. At some point you will catch your lover in the middle of some straight-up self love.

Let me tell you about when it happened to me.

On what started out as a boring night about two years ago, my husband and I were in separate rooms doing separate things. I was reading quietly in our bedroom while my husband was watching football on the family room TV with the volume up to ten million. If you need any help visualizing this scene of domestic bliss, here is an expertly-drawn diagram that illustrates exactly where we were with respect to one another:


Time passed. Then, suddenly, I thought to myself: “Hey, I don’t hear the football game anymore.” The house was eerily quiet, which seemed unusual because as I previously mentioned, the TV had been at volume 10 million. I lifted my head from my book for a closer listen. Didn’t hear anything. Listened harder. Still nothing. Wondered if my husband had just turned off the TV and fell asleep. Deemed it likely. Returned my attention to my book.

And then:


Now, it’s hard to accurately write out the sound of an orgasm, or the sound of an approaching orgasm. But one of those two things is certainly what I thought I heard. A loud sexytimes groan of a very intense nature and possibly helped along by Skinemax On Demand.

My immediate thoughts upon hearing this sound:

  1. So that’s why the volume is turned down. DUH.
  2. Damn, husband! You gonna wake up our son with that racket!
  3. Wait a minute. Is he masturbating on the sofa? In front of the huge windows that overlook the street?
  4. What the actual fuck is going on?

But. Remember what we discussed earlier. Respect. Discretion. I put my book down and eased off of the bed, gently and quietly, the better to preserve my husband’s privacy. I wanted to investigate what was going on, but if it turned out to be what I thought it was, I wanted to fade back into the bedroom as if nothing had happened.

I stepped softly into the hallway, where my view of my husband *should* have been limited to the back of his head, like so:


What I actually saw, however, was my husband’s entire glorious backside. He was standing in front of the couch, in full view of the open windows and indeed our entire neighborhood, completely and 100% buck ass naked. And he was wiping his junk off with his boxers.

I was in such shock that I couldn’t speak. My husband had never been so flagrant with his “me time” in all of the ten years we’d been together. Not that I minded, of course — in theory it was totally hot. It was just super out of character for him and I’m not particularly good at processing change.

So I stood there for a second with my mouth kind of hanging open, until eventually my husband got tipped off that I was standing behind him. Which is when he turned to me, red-faced, agitated, and clearly mortified. Completely naked. Crumpled boxers in hand.

But just as I was about to say something along the lines of “What the fuck are you doing jacking off in front of the living room window with no god damn clothes on?” he gestured to his crotch with his dirty boxers and wailed:


And I never laughed so hard in my entire life. Well, first I made sure his balls were okay. Then I never laughed so hard in my entire life.


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