Guess Who's Got a 50% Off Kiyonna Code?

That's a rhetorical question, obviously.

So I know I'm trying to be all deep and philosophical and stuff these days, but you guys (by which I mean gals...mostly) seemed to really like it when I post super special secret sales like that one a few months ago from Kiyonna.Well, they're doing it again.

From now until May 23rd all Kiyonna sale items are 50% off with the code HOTBUY50.

The Trinity Twist Dress from Kiyonna

My Favorite Wrap Dress Ever is available for under fifty bucks in red and black, plus there's the easy to wear Trinity Twist Dress in black or a really quite lovely amethyst.

For my separates-wearing friends, they've got a number of great tops, including the ridiculously flattering Caycee Twist and Rosalie Wrap, both of which do the whole desk-to-dinner thing (and yes, I hate myself a little for saying that) perfectly.

As for me, I'm taking advantage of this sale by going out on a bit of a sartorial limb by ordering the Duchess Day Dress in gray and I might even go back for the green since it's in that amazingly soft, breathable rayon/modal that feels like a blend of cotton and silk jersey.

I've got a short neck --it's what tragically ended my brief plus-size modeling career-- so I was a little hesitant about the pussy bow, until I did a little pinterest research and saw the necktie was convertible and could be worn draped instead.

I'm not old enough to have worn the pussy bow the last time it was popular, so I think I'm sartorially in the clear, but change is scary.

Honestly though, I'll probably snip it off (I'm not sure whether it comes attached) and wear it in my hair with the tails hanging down. It'll look great dancing.

There's free shipping on orders over $150 (they're also running a $10 shipping special to Canada, but that ends today)

Remember, Kiyonna starts at a size 10, so no need to feel like fat girls have all the excellent clothing choices.

I Hate to Move It, Move It

Sorry for my absence gang. It seems I'm in the dying throes of finally getting all of my beautiful things out of their godforsaken storage unit in equally godforsaken Southern California and it's become more involved than I thought.

(Spoiler Alert: painful third world bureaucracy is painful)

I know, people get all over me for not liking SoCal. I'm sure it's a lovely place and I know of at least three delightful people who live there voluntarily, but it's not where my earthly possessions --including my precious, precious shoes-- want to spend eternity.

Now I'm going to have to go through customs.

"This should be fun." said no one, ever.

Customs officials in Mexico are very much like la policia in their reputation for being continuously on the take.

Now, all of my experiences with the local constabulary have been just great --and considering one of those experiences includes Hot Latin Boy crashing his car into a police cruiser one rainy Tijuana morning, that's no faint praise-- but I'm less inclined to take my chances with la aduana.

The import fee is 17% of the value of everything brought into the country, payable right there in deliciously untraceable cash.

Naturally most of my possessions don't have receipts, and although I can say what I think each item is worth (for my shoes I'm writing "Used shoes for personal use, no value" and praying for a straight dude) the aduana has their say too, except they have guys with machine guns to back them up.

Thankfully we found someone Who Knows a Guy, because that's how things get done here but the whole endeavor still gives me the internal hairy eyeball, especially for someone who still needs training wheels for even this most basic and accepted level of international subterfuge.

So what did I miss last week? Put it in the comments!

Mother's Day Troubles

It's Mother's Day in the US. It was Friday in Mexico where I discovered the traditional thing is to drunkenly serenade madre dearest with the most horrific brass-heavy banda music imaginable, beginning at midnight and lasting into the wee small hours of the morning. I explained to HLB that in the US we generally eschew boozed-up aural assaults in favor of tension-filled brunches and vaguely hostile cards from Hallmark's popular Barely-Concealed Resentment line, the way the Lord intended.

He said it sounded boring.

I used to call my brother on Mother's Day so we could sympathize over the bum hand we were dealt in the maternal department. It was always a tough day for him. 

While I'd been coolly detached since my mid-twenties (thank you, squillions of hours of therapy) William never got past the anger at my mother's history of selling us down the river for any man willing to throw his hotdog down her hallway.

In her defense, there really ISN'T an excuse for wire hangers.

The poor kid always thought if he could just find the magical combination of words he could break through the spell and summon the nurturing, selfless mother he desperately wanted. He couldn't believe there really wasn't any water at that well.

Perceived mental illness and a history of substance abuse were the kindest excuses, but as the years went by the phone calls became harder.

There was never an easy way to say "I'm sorry, kiddio. She's just too far gone. It's not that she won't hear you; it's just that she can't."

 

When she didn't show up to his funeral --it was too hard for her, understand-- my heart broke for him. 

It broke for her, too. With his funeral, she had the opportunity to go through the pain and humiliation of walking into a room where nearly everyone knew precisely how badly she'd failed him, and rise to the occasion as the last chance to do right by her son.

Instead she sent a letter so filled with embarrassingly petty fuck-yous it backfired and provided one brief moment of levity. Behind our first-row hankies his widow and I giggled in bemused "I-can't-believe-she-went-there" awe as her sister read it from the lectern.

This Mother's Day is different. For the first time in years I actually have feelings about my mother: I'm angry. 

I'm angry she wouldn't or couldn't be what my brother needed from her.

I'm angry she dove so far down the rabbit hole of denial and professional victimhood that she'll never have to feel the punishing weight of her failure, a weight she could've taken off as lightly as a spiderweb any time until that day in March when the rain held off just long enough to get her son's ashes in the ground.

Next year I'm sure I'll be back to the same vague indifference I've had for the past fifteen years, playing those same greatest hits: You win some you lose some. Not everyone's cut out for motherhood. You can't help someone who doesn't know they need it.

Right now it's tough, and my thoughts go out to everyone for whom Mother's Day isn't cause for celebration. It sucks. It's painful and we can't even drown our disappointment in a decent hotel's eggs benedict.

But hey, there's always a bright side: At least there's no drunk guy with a tuba.