In support of the everysize girl

There’s a great discussion going on over at BlogHer today about Glamour magazine’s plus-sized photo shoot. I highly suggest you check out the discussion, because not only is it informative, it also really gives a woman some food for thought (no pun intended?). Since I read Susan Wagner’s post, I’ve been thinking about designers and stylists in general, and what they are doing to our self images.

Media is flooded with talk about the fashion industry, and what it means for society. Little girls are obsessed with their bodies, and who do we blame? Do we blame magazines? Television? Mothers? I say we blame none of the above. What I noted in the BlogHer discussion, and will note here, is that the designers we all love are being supported by both the model-thin and the plus-sized and the everything-in-between. Don’t we buy Marc Jacobs handbags no matter what size we are? Don’t Jimmy Choos fit most every girl (regardless of whether we can afford them)? Haven’t we bought the “frugalista” lines of Anya Hindmarch and Anna Sui and Isaac Mizrahi? When the economy tanked, high-end designers found a new niche: Target shoppers. You can’t tell me that only the model-thin shop at Target, because I shop there and to think of me as anything but larger than the average girl is laughable.

It’s no secret that very few women are sample size, much less smaller than a 12 (I believe that’s still the national “average”).  Certainly we should all strive to be healthy, but as Oprah, Kirstie Alley, Valerie Bertinelli and I know all too well, it takes a while to get where you’re going. And sometimes you go there and come back – several times. I’m not saying here that I think more or less of someone because of their size (except YOU, Blake Lively, I do hate you and your tall skinny self) but I do think less of designers that limit their products to the very rich and the very skinny.

Rachel Zoe

I love fashion magazines. I watch Project Runway and The Rachel Zoe Project. I see Rachel’s collar bones and spine sticking out like a sharp coffee table edge, and I see the models the Runway hopefuls design for. We support their shows and their work; it’s time for designers – and the magazines and shows that feature them – to support everysized women by designing for ALL of us. Haute couture will never be within my financial reach, and to be honest, I wouldn’t wear half the crap that goes down the runway each fall and spring. BUT – and this is a big BUT – Americans are bigger now than they were last year, and I don’t see that trend changing much. We’re not all getting gastric bypass for Christmas, so until the national “average” turns around, design some decent-looking clothes for the rest of us, would ya?

Birthday Art

What’s that? You thought Birthday Week was over? PSHAW! You were mistaken, Internet. This gorgeous handmade birthday card, originally seen here, arrived in my mailbox today. Alissa of haley+rose makes beautiful stationery, jewelry, baked goods (well, I’ve heard about them, haven’t tried them) and, oh yes, television. Not only does she produce lovely things, she’s a lovely (and talented!) friend. Thanks for the sweet card, dearest! (And for using a Simpsons stamp – LOVE IT.)

Control Freak

I had lunch with my friend Emily today and we were talking about people we know who are crazy. I was first on the list, of course, followed closely by some other people who didn’t sound nearly as nuts as I am. Anyway, Emily referred to us as “crazy as fruit bats” and I thought to myself, You know, I don’t think I know a fruit bat. Batshit crazy? Well that’s high on my vocabulary list. Fruit bat? Not so much. And then she said the most startling thing: she said she never would have known that I was a tightly-wound ball of nervous, panicked anxiety, because…are you ready?…I seem so together all the time.

Poor thing, I told her, she is so fooled.

I have to admit, I felt a bit triumphant at the notion that my outsides don’t mirror my insides. Hallelujah! But then I thought about the people that see me every day, and I thought that maybe Emily was just being kind, because THOSE people, the ones that look at me every morning and every night, THOSE people know I’m a fruit bat. No doubt about it.

Wouldn’t it be nice to be able to control all of that, though? Wouldn’t it be fabulous to outwardly express exactly what you want other people to think that you’re feeling, as opposed to what you’re actually feeling? I think so, but I also think that biting my fingernails is fun, so you know, go figure.

In other news, I would like to report on what I promised to report on, and that is my birthday gift from BB.

Behold…

The Shark Steam Mop

That’s right. I got a STEAM MOP, bitches. And I love it. You would, too, if you were lucky enough to have a husband that actually listens when you speak, but you probably aren’t, which is why I am the ruler of all things mighty and wonderful, and you are…well, just you.

This thing rocks my world because a) it works on hardwood floors, and I have those in my kitchen. Kitchens, particularly their floors, are dirty places. Steam makes them clean. This in turn makes me happy. And b) I can use it on bathroom tile, which includes shower walls, and I only have to throw the microfiber pads in the washing machine to clean them because they are REUSABLE. Do you see how I’m saving the environment? No chemicals! No disposable cleaning pads! Very little electricity! I should get the Nobel Prize for Environmental Consciousness, I think.

It should be noted here (because I have that Blog With Integrity thing going on), that Shark in no way compensated me for this outstanding review of its stellar product. If Shark would like to remedy that, they are welcome to contact me, because I sure could use that carpet attachment to steam clean my sisal rug. Merely a suggestion, Shark, merely a suggestion.

The one where I re-introduce myself to society

I’ve started writing this about three different times now, mainly because I have a few things I want to say, but only one of them I don’t want to sound flip about. The first, and most important, is THANK YOU. Thank you for your kinds words and your suggestions and for opening yourselves up to me so that I know you’re here. Thank you for introducing me to More Women, for reminding me that I’m not alone, and most of all, for reading. Please don’t leave now. I have huge news. HUGE.

I went out in public on Friday night.

I know, this is either a) not news at all or b) completely uninteresting to you. But for me – FOR ME! – it was big. My girlfriends and I had been planning a night out for a while and since lately I’ve been experiencing more panic and anxiety than usual, I was apprehensive. It was Restaurant Week in downtown Raleigh. It was Friday night. It was pouring rain. Our reservations were later than we would usually go out, so already in my mind I’m thinking, Great, my blood sugar is low, the service is slow and here I am packed into this crowded place GET ME OUT OF – Wait. I didn’t think “get me out of here.” I tried really hard to concentrate on sangria gulping and people watching and whaddaya know? I distracted myself and didn’t panic. HUGE. Maybe not for you or for anyone else out there, but for me, it was a small victory.

We ate a fabulous meal, drank some delicious sangria and talked about all the things girls talk about. I tried very hard not to look like a fish out of water; after all, we don’t go out much anymore and is it just me, or are these pre-schoolers sitting over there at the bar? Don’t these girls need a chaperone to be out this late at 10pm?

image by Elizabeth

You don’t have to say it: I know full and well how geezer-y I sound. Every year – every MONTH – I vow to be more social, to go out more, to actually experience the city I live not far from, but every month my house seems to cushion me more and more, like a cocoon, to protect me from what’s out there. You know, like…people. And…stuff.

Anyway, afterward we drank more sangria and I attempted to wear every piece of jewelry my friend Kathy owns. It’s a good look for me, no?

image by Katherine H.

Yesterday morning I FINALLY got over to Kathy’s new place to see what beautiful things she’s done. Y’all, this girl has colors in her house that made me drool, and I know exactly what she’s getting for her housewarming gift…but I can’t tell you yet. It’s a secret. Then I visited my MIL in her temporary house, The Fanciest Hotel in the City, and bought Pop Rocks for BB at The Lollipop Shop. It was a good day. I went out in public, had not nary a freakout and will chalk that as a one-up for me.

Finally, I have to wonder out loud whether or not DJ AM was sucking on the crack pipe when he was dating Mandy Moore. I hope not, because that would kind of change my opinion of her, except not all that much because hello? she married Ryan Adams, the weirdest of all the weird musicians to come out of NC. And I have to say that Vicki Kennedy was absolutely beautiful at the services for Ted Kennedy yesterday – but someone needs to tell Michelle Obama that her god-awful blouse should die an early death.

via Huffington Post

1) You don’t wear the same blouse you wore to the Vatican to Ted Kennedy’s funeral, especially since you delivered the dying man’s message to the Pope while you were wearing it. Moschino or not. And 2) a funeral is not the time for your interpretation of couture. A funeral is a time for a tasteful but beautiful black suit, and surely somewhere in your giant White House closet you’ve got one of those.

I’m just saying.

On toilet paper and sand

DISCLAIMER: If you are related to me and find this, or any other post offensive in any way, PLEASE STOP READING NOW. It would do more damage than good for you to continue reading and discover that I am not actually who you think I am. I’m sorry. Go finish the sudoku – it’s a much more useful way to spend your time.

Well…I think it might be time to lower my expectations. You know how I’ve been complaining for, I don’t know, YEARS that I’m burned out, need a vakay immediately, oh boy I can’t wait for the beach in just two weeks? Yeah. Huh.

I talked to my MIL last night for a while and got a handle on how this Family Beach Vacation is going to shake out. It seems that it can be broken down sensibly into the number of bodies spending the night each night, which I have done in painstaking detail on my dry erase calendar in the kitchen. Logistics: There are 17 of us total, but only 15 of us can come (there are two extremely brilliant husbands who can’t get off work, the LUCKY BASTARDS), and of that 15, 6 are children. There are four bedrooms, three and a half baths, and an outdoor shower. Here’s how it’s gonna go (according to number of people sleeping in the house at a given moment):

Sunday-Wednesday: 5

Wednesday-Friday: 9

Friday-Saturday: 11

Saturday-Sunday: 9

Sunday-Tuesday: 6

Tuesday-Wednesday: 3

Wednesday-Sunday: I don’t care because I won’t be there anymore.

I tried to tell my MIL that I’m taking a tote bag full of books and a case of wine and a few fifths of tequila and maybe a carton of cigarettes, and if that wasn’t kosher with the rest of the crowd then I’d be glad to drive my car onto the sand and tough it out in the way-back of the station wagon. She reassured me with the news that there’s WiFi and lots of DVD players for Brian to watch “The Hulk” and “Hawaii Five-O” at all hours. Then I asked her about the bathroom situation (do we or do we not have to share?) and she said she’d have to wait and see until she gets to the house.

Internet, I might have to SHARE A BATHROOM.

Here’s how that works in my house: I have what one might call an exceptionally sensitive gag reflex. Like, the slightest mention of vomit (oh my god I don’t even think I can write this without puking all over my glamorous HP Pavilion DV6) sends me into waves of nausea not unlike a tsunami. So – and I’m NOT NAMING NAMES HERE – when there are people with whom I co-exist that like to dribble toothpaste and whiskers and mouthwash all over the counter and sink, I can barely wash my face without wanting to hurl. (We clean it, I swear we do, but then it’s dirty again in, like, an hour. Do you sympathize, Internet? Do you really?) In fact, our shower is so old and moldy-tiled that about six months ago I hauled my crap into the guest bathroom and now I shower there. Out of sight, out of mind. Anyway, none of this is taking into account the toilet paper issue (why is the extra never where it should be? how can we be out of rolls already?) and so now do you see why I might be more than just a little apprehensive about sharing a bathroom with more than one other person? Where am I going to store my toothbrush and my contacts case? Whose grubby hands (and other things) will have last touched the fixtures? Why am I thinking about this?

So I have concluded that if I arm myself with Janet Evanovich and Brad Thor and maybe some “Editors on Editing” and a enough tequila to make a bar in Cancun proud, I should be okay. In actuality, it’ll just be nice to be out of the office and the house, and to have my “toes in the water, ass in the sand” (thanks, Zac Brown). I’ll get to see all the girls, who grow and change every month it seems like, and I’ll be able to take afternoon naps and drink at eleven in the morning and not really feel guilty about it at all.

All of this won’t go down for another two weeks, but don’t worry: I’m taking my laptop (for school purposes, dammitall) and will bog and tweet on location.

You lucky ducks.

Coming Soon: A Costco shopping list that beats all shopping lists. Maybe.