UPDATE: An Eliza Parker Gift Certificate giveaway is live!

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I took my own advice before I knew it was my advice: I asked for something in return for something else.

This time, I asked for a clothing sponsorship for BlogHer ’10 from plus-size social occasion dress company, Eliza Parker, in exchange for my honest opinion on how I liked the dress.

If you’re new around here, (and really, if you are, where have you been? I’ve missed you!) you know that I’m honest to a fault. Almost to a tee. It’s pretty much a detriment to my social being, but whatevs. I’m honest, is my point.

To be honest (see: above), I was hoping, but not sure, I’d like the dress I had picked out with the help of one of the more-than-super-friendly associates over the phone. (Yes, an internet store who will help you over the phone. Like, help you style yourself and everything. It’s almost a lost art in this digital age, but I digress.)

When picking out a $189 dress, even if it’s given to you in exchange for your opinion, especially for someone like me with larger lady lumps, it’s nerve-wracking. There are SO many things to think about: belly chub, arm flaps, boob strapping, thunder thighs. And again, considering this was a $189 dress, I was hoping for the best.

Holy crap on a Baby Jeebus cracker.

I actually looked H.O.T. in my dress. No shit. For realsies. I’d even do me.

(Note: the photo used in this post to represent me in the Venice dress is clearly distorted and does not accurately portray the hotness I was protruding out of my every stretched pore. Just take me at my work. Again, see: above.)

This dress is so fancy, without being over-the-top (cause this mama don’t do over-the-top), it comes with a sash. This girl doesn’t do sashes. Until this dress. I put on that sash and sashayed my happy fine ass all around New York City with my snazzy sash.

This dress is so nice, I didn’t even wear Spanx, and I still felt unlumpy.

This dress is so nice, I could wear it to a funeral, then to a wedding, then to a funeral.

This dress is so nice, I ordered it in the size I think I am, and I could actually wear straight out of the box it came in.

This dress is so nice, I actually felt good about myself.

And that, my friends, is priceless.

(Actually, it costs about $189, and if you have the bone$ to spend on yourself, consider an Eliza Parker dress if you’re a size 10+. You can send me your thank you note after you get over your sexiness.)

This will be my obligatory BlogHer ’10 post.

WAIT.

That doesn’t mean I’ll be all “yeah!” and “awesome!” and “it’s the best thing to happen in my life in the history of forever!” no matter how much I loved being there.

My take is a little different.

2500+ people in one place who all know what “blog” is, who all have a Twitter name, and 97% have a born-with vagina (not counting Avitable‘s).

BlogHer ’10 was everything all at once rolled in sugary Awesome dipped in hot sauce.

Great, powerful things happened to me and many others.

Since the Sir was snipped 3 weeks after our 2nd baby’s birth, I’ve been off of the pill and any other birth control (except for that one short time when I went on the crazy-pill). I’ve never had a regular Lady Cycle, so it’s pretty much a guessing game for when I have to prepare for the Red Tide.

When packing for my trip to NYC, I thought about putting in some lady supplies, but since it was only 2+ weeks since my last visit from Aunt Flo, I figured there was no need to bring along the proper accouterments.

That’s when the power of 2300+ lady menses pulls in the cycles of the lunar phases and drops a little Red Rain in my panties. An entire week early.

Years ago (pre kids, pre marriage), that meant a party in the bathroom. You slutty ladies know what I mean. These days, it’s a crap-hassle, especially when I’m stuck in the middle of NYC getting ready to take a train out to the middle of Long Island without a car for 3 days.

This is when I start to make-do with the pantie liners stashed in my bathroom bag (don’t tell me you don’t have them for when you tinkle when you sneeze/laugh/jump/walk/run/jog) and double up until a friend comes to my rescue and takes me to CVS.

Not only do we women have the power of 1000 suns to change the way of the business world, but we also change the cycles of menses and the pull of the moon.

We are women; watch us bleed as we huddle and care for one another in the Red Tent.

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If you have not yet read The Red Tent by Anita Diamant, please, do yourself a massive favor and get it, read it, immerse yourself in it. It’s my 2nd favorite book of all time. It even beats out the Twilight books in my list. That says a LOT.

Even if you won’t be going to BlogHer this year, you need to know these things about me. They’re things I know about myself that you may be ashamed to find out and think I DON’T know them, but you’re afraid to tell me.

But really, I know these things about me, and you should know I know.

0. I look like that —-> Snark-faced most of the time, even if it’s only in my head.

1. I laugh loudly – I’m trying really hard to tone down my laughs, but when an 8 year old boy (I’m looking at you, @lski) makes comments that I laugh loudly, I realized it was a problem. I don’t think I talk too loud, but when I find something funny, even 1/2-way funny, I belt out the cackles. I’ll do my very best to keep it down around NYC so as to not draw more attention to myself.

2. I snore – Sorry to my roomies @poobou and @3princessmama, but when you have tonsils the size of golf balls like mine, you tend to snore like a drunk trucker. I’ll wear Breathe Right strips. Speaking of those Breathe Right strips, they need to incorporate the blackhead pore cleaners into those things.

3. My boobs are not as big as they appear – I stuff my bra with air pockets. They make for some good cleavage, but without those puppies, my saggy puppies are just sad.

4. I feel alone in a group – I may be a social butterfly, but when there are 10+ people standing or sitting around in a conversation, I feel lost. It’s probably my anxiety creeping up making me think everyone hates me, so I’m trying to do better. So, if you see me start to fidget and my eyes glaze over, reach over and punch me in the stomach. There’s enough padding there so you won’t hurt your hand. Also, I get mini anxiety attacks when I’m not being heard.

5. I want to hug you – Yes, I’m a hugger. Yes, I may want to kiss you, too. I’ve been told I’m good at both. I want you to come talk to me. No, I’m not saying I’m going to NOT come up to you, but if you see me, and I don’t see you, you MUST come up and talk to me. Please. Unless I’m taking a poo. Then please pretend you don’t know who I am and wait until I’m out of the potty.

Now that you know these things about me, whether we meet in NYC or some other time, please commit all of these things to memory. There may be a quiz.

If you already know me, what else do people need to know about me that I haven’t fully explained.

Go on, share with the people.