This Square Peg.

Happily Not Fitting In Since 1978.

Fabu Fashion Wednesday: Springtime Fakery.

Meteorologically speaking, it’s spring. In real time, however, a dreary cloudiness

Where are you, real springtime?

continues to cast an endless shadow over our atmosphere, bringing with it daily rainfall and cooler-than-average breezes. I won’t comment on the side eye I give anyone that tries to remind me of rain and flowers and things growing. (There goes that positive attitude. Le sigh.) Anyway, as you can imagine, dressing for work/the OK Corral can be an interesting experience. For one thing, my office must have a blood pact with cold air that states that the temperature inside must be freezing yearlong. So even if there was a warm, spring breeze outside, I would have to wear scarves or blazers or down comforters to keep warm during the workday. Secondly, it’s work. Other than having lunch outside or taking a quick walk, I don’t actually get to enjoy the lovely spring weather (when it comes) during the bulk of the day. By the time I leave, the spring temps are winding down.

Today’s forecast, like the 1,000 days before it, is cloudy, rainy, mid-60s. So to avoid having to drape myself in my mother’s Pashmina scarves at my desk, I decided to just dress for both the inside and the outside: I pulled out the turtleneck (which I never really put away, readers, because me and spring have trust issues) and a sweater. Before leaving this morning, my sister gazed at me and asked if it was cold outside. I told her the forecast. Eyeing my outfit, she soon raised her eyebrows and nodded. “I forgot that you’re constantly cold,” she remarked. “Do I look crazy?” I then asked, wondering about my very winter-y ensemble. She insisted that I didn’t look crazy. In the end, though, it doesn’t matter if people think I’m an escapee from some sort of weather-related asylum: as a draft whips itself around me and my desk here at the office, I’m warm.

Here I am:


That sweater with the magnificent, giant buttons was a great find from TJ Maxx. I’ve had it forever. Because of the half sleeves, that’s why I threw on the turtleneck (Ross) underneath. And for extra warmth, of course. With all the gray and black, though, I wanted pops of color. Enter my gold hoops, which always make me happy, and my new purple lippy. The latter was a fantastic part of my recent drugstore beauty haul–in an effort to not spend oodles of cash on makeup, I’ve been visiting drugstores and finding awesome colors without the pearl-clutching high prices. This is Perfect Tone Matte Lip Color in Retro Berry by Black Radiance. Here it is up close.


This ends my style offering for springtime fakery. Here’s to the good weather we will inevitably have, though. One day. At some point. In the near future?

P.S.: That déjà vu you’re feeling? It’s because we just discussed Fabu Fashion and springtime last week. When it was 80 degrees. No further explanation necessary, right?

Romper Room.

So I stopped wearing shorts sometime around the late 90s/early 2000s. There was no real reason. I recall looking at myself in the mirror one day and deciding that I was no longer in PE class. Therefore: no more shorts. (Deep down, though, summertime and the meeting of thighs…you get my drift, lady out there.) Anyway, fast forward to today, or rather, a few months ago: I received a romper as part of my recent swap party haul. And I was actually pretty excited. To me, rompers combine the best of both worlds: that classy jumpsuit look/feeling that I’ve grown to love, and a fun, lighthearted style that I personally think embodies summertime. It looks like that 16 year-ban will be ending this summer.

Since I didn’t get a chance to snap some photos of my new romper, here are some Pinterest-captured views of the kind of romper ensembles that delight my eye. In other words, I like styles that aren’t too short and can be dressed up or slightly dressed down.

That far left one with the shoes and the bag and the hat…giving me so much life.

Needless to say, when I finally wake up and the weather isn’t manifesting its bipolar ways–i.e., legitimate summertime–I’ll definitely put on my new romper and provide the pictorials just for you.

Tell me: are you a romper lady? Why or why not?


It’s called a comfort zone for a reason: it’s comfortable.comfortzone

My mom occasionally tells me the following: as a child, she would sit me in a spot and I would obediently stay there. Not fidgeting, not itching to move–glued to where I was placed and never giving cause to worry that I would disappear (unlike my little sister, who often disappeared and returned with fistfuls of food). By and large, when it comes several things in life, I’m still that little girl. When I’m comfortable somewhere or with something, there is very little desire to make changes. Because I’m content where I am. Of course, I don’t have to tell you that this can be both a good and bad thing. On one hand, I’m pleased to remain unmoved by every passing whim or flight of fancy. On the other hand: utter stagnancy.

To be stagnant is something I wouldn’t wish on anyone. Not even the girls who introduced me to the word unibrow. Even worse than being stagnant is the precise moment when you realize it, when you feel it: that you’re not moving, you’re not progressing, you’re stuck. Kind of takes your breath away. Several months ago, that realization consumed me. Underneath the contentment I felt with my life was also a complete lack of movement. I wasn’t going anywhere. That sinking feeling also came with a realization that many of the goals that I had, things I wanted to do, had been placed on life’s back burner. I had shelved many of my goals and desires to accommodate my responsibilities to my family, my employer, so on and so forth. But by doing this, I was also being quite faithful to my comfort zone. There’s the sneaky rub: my routine, my existence, was fine, not unpleasant. So why shift the system? Why disturb the force?

Utter stagnancy.

But I also recognized that in order to turn utter stagnancy on its head, to get moving, to remove from the back burner some of the goals and desires I had, some windows had to open for me. Well, with prayer, time, and keeping my eyes open, I started to feel the light breezes of opened windows all around me.

Change is on the horizon for your Square Peg, my dear readers. My pen is poised to begin a brand new chapter, one that will require putting on several pairs of big lady somethingwonderfulpantaloons and getting my life/goals moving. I’m being intentionally vague with the specifics until things become firmly planted, but once things are set in stone in the coming months, I will speak in detail. Until then, know that I’m intrigued, I’m terrified, and I’m super excited. It’s high time to relegate that comfort zone to life’s back burner, isn’t it?

it is advisable that we not remain friends.

I wrote this in 2012. Stuff was happening back then. These days, my quiet life is unencumbered by angry poems about silly boys. (Primarily because I’m married to Idris.) Happy Friday.

it is advisable that we not remain friends.

i will sabotage your efforts.

you will bring this new girl to me,

forgetting that our failed transition from

friends to something more is as fresh as the

gash you created on my heart,

and you will ask me that silly question of

“what do you think?”

and i will respond about her niceness and pleasantness

and casually mention that hopefully her meanness

will go away,

and you will wonder about this meanness you hadn’t

seen before, and i will assure you

that women know women, and i see it there, that meanness,

lurking right alongside her lazy eye and her obvious materialism.

and i don’t want to do this to you.

so don’t bring her before me, ok,

and don’t bring her up, and don’t suggest

this friendship that we obviously can never have.

just let me tend to my poor, weak heart, and

just keep away from me.

or, rather, stay over there,

close enough where i can see you,

but far enough that my poor heart and i

can pretend you’re no longer there.

Fabu Fashion Tuesday: It’s *Springtime.

*Which means the weather is wildly inconsistent.

Nevertheless, since today is a good weather day (sunny, mid 80s), I decided to dress for the occasion. Away we go.


If you can’t tell, that’s a peplum top. I paired it with my favorite black blazer (Sears; don’t sleep on Sears) because the OK Corral keeps the temperature at Ice Queen levels and I’m cold all the time. (My mother claims it’s because I’ve worked all the “meat” off my body. She has a way with words.) Anyway, as you know, I love my peplum and recently excitedly chose this this top at a swap party that I had with some friends a few months ago. (Clothes swap parties are truly everything. One day, I’ll actually arrive with items to swap instead of greedily snatching things up.) The pants are from Old Navy. They’re a bit loose, but whatever. They’re red. I heart them so. I bought them last year and remembered last night that they were waiting for me in my closet. The snazzy, shiny flats are courtesy of Mom, who still wonders aloud about how I basically just commandeered her shoes. My “what’s mine is yours and what’s yours in mine” reply isn’t really working. That awesome necklace came from The Avenue and boasted a sale price that had me grinning from sun-up to sundown.



Regarding the make-up, as asterisk springtime dawns on our area, I’ve been dabbling with lighter colored lippies. (No worries; my beloved and tried-and-true Ruby Woo knows I have other relationships.) So far, the one I’m one wearing here makes me very happy, more than the rest: Made You Pink Balm Stain by Wet n Wild. It’s a nice, lovely color for the office, I think, and I love the way it looks against my melanin. Regarding the hair: ta da, She’s back. (She is my hair, because anything that temperamental needs a pronoun, no?) As you saw, I wore crochets for the longest, and then followed that style with a new crochet look. Now we’re back to Her, but still protected in a neat cornrow updo/bun. I plan on protective styling it until mid-summer.

So there we go, another simple ensemble for Fabu Fashion.

How’s the weather where you are? Any old favorites or new favorites (lippy, styles, hair) you’re rocking right about now?

The One and Done.

Other than drinking copious amounts of champagne while watching the Academy Awards when I was 16 years old (how nerds “turn up”; we all make mistakes), This Square Peg can’t make it beyond one drink.

I was reminded of this during the weekend, when a friend offered me wine at a cookout. After a few, tiny sips, I was giggling like a happy fool. And that’s typically what happens: I take a few sips and I start laughing. And speaking at a decibel only cute puppies can hear. And complaining about the heat. Case in point: I went to a swanky restaurant in the city with my uncle and brother and had half of a cocktail. By the end of that partial cocktail, I was fanning myself, complaining of an invisible heat, cackling, my voice raised as I asked whether George Clooney, who was known to frequent the establishment, was in the room. The ride home found me sprawled in the backseat of the car, asleep and muttering under my breath. You can imagine how much fun my family had with me.

Apparently, the girl who sipped the foamy parts of her Dad’s beer when she was three years old (Mom is still not happy about that) can only handle just that: foam and sips. Of course, this doesn’t occur with drinks that taste like fizzy soda (i.e., wine coolers) and/or drinks where I can’t taste the alcohol. Those do not fall under the category of one and done. Maybe two and done. But the reactions are fairly the same. Anyway, in case you’re wondering:

  • Fizzy, bubbly things like champagne and fruity drinks are wonderful.
  • Harder drinks are out of the question.
  • Wine must be sweet.

Overall, though, add my inability to take more than one drink to the rest of the things I generally can’t do: tumble, eat spicy foods, and engage in anything having to do with roller coasters and/or lifting these feet off the ground when they’re not in an airplane. Ah, well. C’est la vie.

Welcome to Monday. Onwards and upwards…

because it’s Wednesday.


Call me a polygamist if you like, but here it is: my heart doesn’t solely belong to Idris. A heart can hold many rooms. So can an Italian villa. Anyway.

This is Michael Fassbender.

The hook, line, and sinker happened when he portrayed Edward Fairfax Rochester in the 2011 adaptation of Jane Eyre. I saw it more than once in the movie theater. I saw it more than three times in the movie theater. I’ll stop here.

Happy Wednesday, dear readers.

If you love Fassy as much as I do, I can share, I guess.

The Chocolate Flapper.

First, hi.

So last Saturday, a good friend of mine threw a decades party: guests were to choose their favorite decade and dress accordingly. Naturally, being that I love all things Twenties–the Jazz Age, Gatsby was running around (fictionally), and girls were bobbing their hair–it was a sure thing that I would arrive in my flapper best. After scouring the Internet for ideas on what to wear, I found the best outfit on Amazon and purchased it faster than you could say F. Scott Fitzgerald. Can I tell you how excited I was about this whole thing, by the way? I feel like I’ve been going through the motions lately. This fête was a nice injection to the monotony and I’m so happy that my friends to put it all together. Anywho, without further ado…

Your chocolate flapper.


I was so into it, too, walking around and swinging that feather boa like I owned a speakeasy down the street. Needless to say, the party was fantastic. There were sock hop ladies and Afros and Nineties girl groups all over the place. And lest you think we just danced and twirled the night away, there were various costume contests. Guess who won best costume, 1920-1950??

The sangria to the right was one of my lovely gifts. I won’t get into how excited I was to win. Everything you’re imagining about my reaction is what happened. But who was even more excited? My mother. She was elated, which was fun, sweet, and utterly awesome. Really good times.

Onwards and upwards…and flapwards…

p.s.: those bouncy curls you see on my head are actually my new batch of crochet braids. They added such a fun touch to the costume, no? We’ll talk about those new crochets later.

I Volunteer as Tribute?

If you’re talking about flying standby, then the answer is no.

Sure, I’ll volunteer for all kinds of things: bringing napkins and utensils to parties (not food; I’m sure the guests want to live to see another day); picking people up or driving someone to a destination; taking my sister’s place so I can fight some kids for food. But when you’re talking about giving up my seat on the flight I paid for? And throwing my travel plans to the wind? In that instance, no, madame, I cannot volunteer as tribute.

You’re a better woman than me, Katniss.

Am I the only one that remains unaffected and unmoved when they make this announcement at the airport? I remain right in my chair, flipping through my silly magazine, patiently waiting to board. There’s never a voice that says, “Self, help out a fellow passenger and give up your seat and take the voucher and just fly another time/the next day.” If anything, I marvel at the brave souls that respond to this cheerful plea by heading up to the counter. But I can marvel right from my seat, clutching my boarding pass until my knuckles turn white. Let me explain a few things about your flying Square Peg:

  1. Short of unavoidable/uncontrollable changes to a flight, my aim is to arrive where I need to be exactly the way I arranged it.
  2. This Square Peg is all for trying new things (within reason; I’m a proud square peg, after all), but let’s not get crazy.

The only time I’ve responded to an announcement to approach the counter was when they asked if anyone wanted to upgrade to first class. I basically raced up there. Selfish. Worth it, though.

Let me know: have you ever agreed to give up your ticket and fly standby? Did you collapse? Seriously, what inspired your decision? Kindly assuage my curiosity and tell me in the comments. Of course, it won’t change my mind, but I’ll marvel at you all the same.

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