I had to fight the urge to buy the Required Suburban Mom Uniform today. I wanted capri’s. I wanted yet another dull colored t-shirt. Practical, durable, tough, boooooooooooooorrrrrrrrrrrrrriiiiiiiiiiiiiiinnnnnnnnnnnnng, My inner junior miss wasn’t having it.

Why is all the cool stuff regulated to the junior section? I like tattoo-ish designs. I like bling. I even like me some low-rise. (Not ass-crack low-rise, just make-my-butt-look-smaller low-rise) Shopping today for the upcoming BlogHer conference, I realized that I could either dress like a teenager or dress like a school marm. Sure, I am trying to be classic in my 30’s. But why do I have to sacrifice any sort of style???? As a 31-year-old mother of two, am I allowed to be hip? Sexy? Not Stifler’s Mom -whorey…but subtle sexy.

I know this will come as a shock to my husband, who trips over my overstuffed closet and drawers daily…but I have nothing to wear. I’m not saying that in the, I have a closet full of crap I CAN wear, but choose not to wear way…I’m saying, I really have nothing to wear. Sweatpants and a tank top will not cut it in San Jose this weekend. And it occurred to me recently that I could either wear pre-children work clothes from 2002 that are too big, or I could wear post 1^st child skinny clothes that are too casual for a conference.

I had to shop. For ADULT clothes. Not go to playgroup clothes. Not get dirty in the sand at the park clothes. But honest to God, adult clothing.

It wasn’t easy. But after two hours of hell on earth, including more shades of khaki than any one woman should ever try on, I emerged victorious. Crisp, fresh, tailored, skirt and blouse combo (did I just say “blouse?�). Hint of flash. Tons of style. I am the freaking Queen afterall. Can’t show up somewhere calling yourself the Queen looking like one of the help.

This is also a very longwinded way of me introducing a guest post. Karl wrote me weeks ago with a little post on we women and our clothing. I’ve been putting off posting it forever because #1 It’s fun to mess with Karl. I mean, he is a GUY going to blogHER (we all want to know your REAL motives) and #2 My site has been going through some wonkiness since the move. And #3 the Kaiser isn’t keen on any man chatting up his woman. It’s ok Karl, just buy the Kaiser a drink. Or five.

Ecru and Aubergine
by Karl Erikson

I was chatting with one of my bestest buds, Hilary, the other night. And as usual, the topic trains were zooming by quickly. We spoke about the porn film I’m producing (“Desperate Bukkake Ass Queens of Orange County”), about how use of the word ‘w00t’ should be reason enough for capital punishment, about euphemisms for genitalia (I’m still really pushing for “yabbamango” for the ladies), and about clothing.

Ladies, what is with the clothing? Don’t get me wrong, I love each and every one of you and I could look at you all day long in your various states of dress and undress. Seriously. But why the need for so many articles of clothing? I’ve had my share of girlfriends. And girl friends. Hell, I’ve even been married. I’ll just never get the fascination with apparel.

To me, it’s about the practicality. I have a closet (one) and a dresser (one). All the clothes I own could fit into a large suitcase. Even if I threw the five pairs of shoes in. I don’t need anything more than that. Underwear, tee shirts, shorts – that’s pretty much my every-day wear 90% of the year. I live in Florida. I also have socks, polo shirts, jeans, a few pairs of Dockers, a couple of suits, and ties. Oh, and shoes. That’s it. I’d show you a picture but you might freak out if you’re not used to seeing crime scene photos.

The beauty of having such a small selection of clothing is that I can be ready to go anywhere in just under three minutes flat. Movies? Typical shorts and tee shirt and sandals. First date? Polo shirt, Dockers, and loafers. First date at a really, really nice restaurant? Add a tie. Reading scripture at church on Sunday? Suit and dress shoes. Simple. I don’t have to freak out and deliberate. I’m decided, dressed, and driving in minutes.

But with women it’s different. It’s as if women ENJOY freaking out and stressing about what they’re going to wear. I can’t figure it any other way. Many of my female friends have more than just a walk-in closet. They’ve got adjunct closets in other rooms, too. And the closets are color freaking coded. “These are my ecru blouses, my yellows, my salmons, my reds, my aubergines…”

STOP. You had my eyes glazing over at ecru.

I have two pairs of jeans, no shit. Two. How many do you own? Hilary tells me she has five. I think that’s a really low number for a woman. I have friends who have dozens of pairs. Not dozens of pairs of pants, no. Dozens of pairs of just jeans. That’s friggin’ obscene, though I do kind of get turned on by the prospect of having so many pairs of jeans that I could do laundry maybe twice a year and get by just fine. What? I have three dozen pairs of underwear, I could totally make it happen.

This is a direct quote from our chat the other night, in which we debated the “need” for color-coding closets: “Well, when you have 40 pairs of pants and like 60 tops.” HUH?! Forty pairs of pants?

See, this is a major difference between men and women. Let’s say I have forty pairs of pants, just for the sake of ridiculous argument. If I’m walking through Sears or Clothes Whores USA and I see that they have pants on sale, I say to myself, “Well, I already have forty freaking pairs of pants” and I just keep on walking.

Not ladies. The idea of enough clothing doesn’t register with you. Women have some sort of brain defect that makes them say, “Ooh, 15% off. Those pants would go so well with that top I saw at Top Heavy, if I just pick up those flats I saw at Foot Fetish.” This is why getting ready for most of you requires at least several hours, plus a few weeks of pre-planning. You’ve got to go through the two bedroom closets, plus the closet in the study, the guest bedroom, and the entranceway.

Me, I enjoy not needing to consult Google Maps to find my fucking shirts.

So maybe you can explain it to me so that my feeble male mind can understand it. What is it with all the clothes, ladies? Wouldn’t it just be easier if you pared the wardrobe down to nothing but French maid outfits and Catholic schoolgirl uniforms? You know, the essentials.