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.)

So it’s said, when your heart goes, your brain goes.

Or maybe just in my headcase.

Since my heart is still wonkified, my brain has decided to catch up and lower the bar. I can pretty much do nothing more than sit here and send out High on Klonopin Tweets that bring out crazy-heads.

Yeah.

The amount of work I have waiting for me to complete is pretty much almost overwhelming. But, I twatter on Twitter and spend shameful hours searching for the perfect bag/purse/carry-all/SLR holder deal.

And then I buy one that’s too small for my womanly needs.

So, like the freak noodge that I am, I spend even MORE countless hours searching for even the more perfecter bag.

I FINALLY ordered her today, and if she doesn’t exceed my every expectation that I’ve put on her for the last 2 months in my quest for THE! PERFECT! BAG/PURSE/CARRY-ALL/SLR HOLDER DEAL!, I may cry.

I better have some Klonopin and a cupcake on call for when the overnight package arrives. You hear that Zappos? It better come tomorrow. (please? i want nao.)

Isn’t she pretty?

Do you think she’ll love me? Do you think she’ll be everything I ever wished for? DO YOU THINK SHE’LL BE A HE AND BE MY FABULOUS GAY BOYFRIEND?

I need one.

I ask this of the world and universe and sweet sweet Baby Jeebus and Oprah: please make this bag work for me. Really, it’s the little things in life I need. I have my health, my bodily faculties, my strength, healthy children, a roof over my head, a husband who loves me. All I need right now is a few thousand dollars and this bag to be The One.

Otherwise, Twitter and my email inbox might catch on fire tomorrow when I’m high on Klonopin, apparently dragging out lunatics with my powerful gravitational pull of insanity.

(I wish this was sponsored so I’d still have $129 in my bank account.)

((I mean, it was only $29. NOT $129. I got a special deal. SILLY ME! I’d NEVER EVER spend that kind of money on a purse!))

(((Apparently I spend money when my brain and heart aren’t in proper working order.)))

My poor poor husband can’t be left to pick out a gift for me on his own like he did way back in ’96 when he gave me a gold pin of Mickey Mouse to wear “you know, just whenever.”

I ask you, WHO THE EFF WEARS A PIN?
WHO THE EFF WEARS A MICKEY MOUSE PIN?
WHO THE EFF WEARS A 3-INCH-TALL GOLD-PLATED MICKEY MOUSE PIN?

I’ll tell you, not me.

“It’s the thought that counts.”

The thought that as a 20-year-old “woman” I’d want to wear a Mickey Mouse pin?

At 20-years-old all I wanted was $10, another tattoo, and a Zima.

I love my husband more than brownies. I promise I do, but he’s not the best gift-giver.

I’m SO getting in trouble for this.

And guilted.

And I’m never ever getting another gift.

I have my fatness to thank for my lack of wanting things other than food, UH DUH.

If I were 50 pounds lighter, I’d want for things from Anthropologie. I’d pretty much live in their clothes.

And Shabby Apple.

And J. Crew.

And The Gap.

In my next life, I’ll totally be a retro, vintage-y kind of chic girl.

For now, I have last-year’s chino capris that shrunk in my drawers. bygones

Shopping for things for me is no fun.

Just ask my poor poor husband.

Buying gifts for me is nearly impossible unless it includes a dinner at a place of my choosing. I’m not happy with surprises.

Anal.

But not the owchie kind.

I don’t want for expensive purses. When I do need a new one, it takes me 17 trips to 14 different stores and countless hours online searching to find the perfect one. And still, I pick the one that will look better on me when I’m 70.

I love shoes, but because of my broken food foot 3 years ago, I have to be super picky with the style.

I don’t have the space for or want to dust chatchskies tzatchkies chotsckies kick-knacks.

I do want more money, but if he gave me cash, it would just be our cash and I’d spend it on Taco Bell and blow.

The BEST surprise gift he’s ever given me: our first cruise. 5 days, just us, and he arranged for my mom to watch our girls. I gained 9 pounds, he lost 3. Asshole.

The only thing other than cashola that I still want?

A DSLR.

mama wants. mama neeeeeeeds. mama will have one day thanks to The Secret, right? RIGHT?

Mother’s Day is in 2 weeks. I’m predicting he’ll make me pancakes and coffee and give me the funniest card he can find. I will LOVE it.

And if I’m NOT lucky, a Willow Tree Mother/Daughter/Angel/Clown figurine.