So just because I was born with big cumbersome titties and a cavernous beav doesn't mean men and w'moon alike can't bite off my personal spring style. Here's my favorite staples of the new season.

There is only one store that a girl of my bust size can get a bra with reliable coverage and no padding (i.e. a "minimizer", which I desperately need). Sadly, since I boycott Victoria's Secret (they charge more to large twiddums) , that store happens to be TJ MAXX. Once you find the lingerie section, which you'll know by its post-apocalyptic wreckage, dazed, screaming babies and hordes of suicidal women, just look for your size. They WILL have it. If you're anything over a C-cup, they'll have two dazzling colors to choose from: beige/taupe/nude, or the whitest white you've ever seen in your life. In August of 2006 I purchased one with shoulder cushions designed to make even the wiliest purse strap cuddle softly and gently against the body; I retired it just last month. This brand had a REAL WOMAN'S NEEDS in mind!! My friend Caleb also remarked that he needed sunglasses to view that bra head-on. Luckily it had faded to a subtle grey in mere months. My current one is still new-ish and too bright. I got a migraine the first day I wore it, but I adore the way it fits under a cozy cowl-neck.

Claudia Kishi was the token Asian member of the Baby-Sitters Club. In every one of the books, they described her "wacky, eccentric, artistic, creative" and generally fearless style. In the first ten pages of ANY BSC book you will find a sentence like this: "Claudia's typical outfit was a pair of purple cutoff jean shorts with paisley print neon tights underneath. She'd pair this with flamingo-printed combat boots, eight pairs of leg warmers, a teal pirate blouse and a lone earring in the shape of the Eiffel tower. She was easily the best dressed at school." Her outfits always seemed so daring, but the author made it sound like no one but her could ever THINK about pulling it off. Well, Ann M. Martin, I beg to differ! Lately I've been wearing my own version of Ki-chic, for examps: a gingham print blouse paired with oversized corduroy stoner jacket accented with Swiss Miss braids, gold cockroach earrings and a snakeskin skirt. Not one person has complimented this look.

I don't know. My friend had a big, giant flannel nightgown that she bought for $12.99 at Ross as a costume for a film she was making. The material felt cheap and flammable as hell, but when I was on set I could not stop fucking putting this thing on. It felt like I had crawled back into the womb. All my troubles lifted instantly. My own reflection in the mirror reminded me of total serenity, someone else's idyllic childhood, and bread baking in the oven. (It was the opposite of how you feel on drugs or really wasted and you accidentally look in the bathroom mirror and realize that you have no soul.) Not surprisingly, the giant nightgown was stolen from the set. Every night I go to bed wishing it had been me.

Once I heard someone say that Crocs were "a dealbreaker." I think the idea of dealbreakers is so ridiculous in the first place, but the fact that it could be Crocs for anyone boggles my mind even more. Sure, I hated on Crocs with the best of them back in the day, but then I woke up one morning and realized: "I'm fucking pushing 30. And I have spent the better part of my life in heinously uncomfortable footwear. I want comfort and I want it NOW! And DRAW ME AN AVON STRAWBERRY TRUFFLE BUBBLE BATH WHILE YOU'RE AT IT so I can read the latest issue of "Prevention" in PEACE!!!" I went online and ordered some Crocs. They actually have them in lots of different styles, and mine are blizzack Mary Janes. My boyfriend is going with the classic holey ones in yellow, though, and I can't wait to GLIDE down the street together in matchies as we laugh at all the strugglin' folks hobbling around on the ungodly stilts I USED to associate with WOMANHOOD!!!!

I've tried to get these out of my life for the past fifteen years or so. Huge, awkwardly cut, horribly unflattering and chemical-smelling BAND SHIRTS always find their way into my closet. People always give them to me for free, and I can't refuse, because who refuses a shirt from a good-natured rocker tryin' to make friends with a freebie? Even if it does shrink into a PERFECT SQUARE?  I feel like an asshole selling them or leaving them on the street (but I must say, Oakland's homeless must look mighty hip judging by the number of Blowfly, Bratmobile and Amoeba shirts I've donated to them over the years). Well, I think it's time for me to EMBRACE the giant band shirt. I'm thinking with a pair of metallic leggings and cinched with a rope belt, I could have a pretty good look going. Because these are never leaving my life, and I have to accept it. I swear, when I get married I will just be wearing, like, a giant white High on Fire shirt, a veil, and...well, probably Crocs.

She's black. She looks like a phone cord. She's got two keys on her. She says "I'm a woman of the 90s. I've got my own apartment with an on-site laundry facility, and my mailbox is number 7." And she's dangling from my wrist all spring. 

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