The ongoing search for lift and support.

As the plus-size fashion market gains more attention, I think it’s worth pointing out the one area that still needs some work - fat girl lingerie. Now, the article does address that Lane Bryant will be opening more Cacique stores - their answer to Victoria’s Secret - but I had an experience this week that compels me to say more on the topic.

I visited a Lingerie Lady. I’m talking a little, old lady who runs a lingerie shop out of her home and has been in the business of getting women into the right bra for over 38 years. Wendy Shanker, in her book The Fat Girls Guide to Life, recommends that every fat girl pay a visit to the local Lingerie Lady.

This visit was maybe the single weirdest experience of my life. Try to imagine having dress alterations done, but instead you’re being assessed and measured and strapped in to a bra. It was really bizarre, and I don’t think I can write anymore without blushing violently.

Elaine is a tough-as-nails lady that knows the right bra is essential for good posture and health in women. (The vast majority of women are not even wearing the right size, and don’t know it.) Elaine definitely has the right bra - a truly utilitarian monstrosity built for one purpose only: lift, separate, and support. The one fashionable touch - an embroidered butterfly - cannot disguise what a hideous, taupe-colored granny bra it is. But, Holy Fuck, it was by far the most comfortable bra I had ever worn.

So what is Cacique planning to do? Can they reconcile fashion and women’s health? The fat girls tend to be well-endowed all around, so a skimpy piece of material - like those you would find at competitor, Victoria’s Secret - though cute, are wholly inadequate for the situation of the fat girl. For my sake, I’m hoping that Cacique can revolutionize the industry, because even though Elaine found me the perfect foundation garment to wear under a bridesmaid dress, I just don’t think I could bring myself to ever love the taupe-colored monstrosity. I still have some vanity left in me, after all.

Was life even worth living before Tako-kun?

Yesterday I brought home a new friend for Kiba: an awesome, bright green octopus toy complete with long, wavy tentacles and an alluring jingle bell and squeaker. I presented her with the toy - gave it a little shake, and then a squeeze to get a squeak out of it - and her face lit up like I had just presented Kiba with the true meaning of her life. She grabbed the toy and proceeded to run laps around the apartment, occasionally stepping on a tentacle and finding herself in the weird predicament of not wanting to drop the toy, but not realizing she has to lift her foot to keep moving.

Kiba (hearts) Tako-kun. Tako is Japanese for octopus.

Ladytron, The Presets…and more Franz Ferdinand!

Was at First Avenue on Saturday for the Ladytron show. I’ve been wanting to see this group for some time - and here they are! - straight from the UK.

They brought along Sydney, Australia natives, The Presets, a funky, dancy electro-duo. I tried to pay attention to the music but I couldn’t get past the fact that these two boys were in big, baggy t-shirts and skinny jeans. I’m talking hip-to-ankle, skin-tight skinny jeans. And these boys were way chicken-legged. Must we really go through that whole skinny jeans thing again?

Introducing: The Presets….now with skinny jeans!

Ladytron was f.a.b.u.l.o.u.s. The mood had this great dark-gothy-gritty-electropunk feel to it. (By the way, I think that was a great use of compound adjectives…). However, poor Ladytron was plagued with tech problems; keyboards and kick drums falling apart right on stage. But they held up pretty well despite it all.

I had to leave the show early to get back to Kiba, but it was serendipitous that I did so because…just as I started to head up Hennepin I saw some of the boys from Franz Ferdinand. At first I wasn’t sure…but, Yes! It must be them!…and I took off after them. (Boys from Scotland walk fast, let me tell ya.) I felt a little twinge at the idea of stalking them six blocks to Nicollet Mall, but it was totally worth it to chat with them for a few minutes and compliment them on a great show. Such sweet guys! Scotland is for me, too!

Crabs and Cabs

Last night was a long awaited treat - I hadn’t been to a show in what felt like ages! So I headed over to Northrop Auditorium to see The Cribs, Franz Ferdinand, and musical love of my life, Death Cab for Cutie. I was missing Lisa terribly - Lisa being my best and favorite girl that goes to the shows. She and I had seen Jason Mraz at Northrop just last fall. So I called her to share the nostalgia.

The Cribs were nothing special - I couldn’t actually tell what they were trying to get at. They certainly seem like the grimier younger brothers of Franz Ferdinand - the ones you beg your best friend not to date. You could hear the Brit Pop in them, but it just wasn’t enjoyable. Each time my eyes scanned the band members, I would catch the banner out of the corner of my eye, and it looked like a big, regal declaration for The Crabs.

Franz Ferdinand came out next and totally got the blood pumping. Their music is infectiously dancy, and Alex was totally rocking the smooth crooner thing.
But the main event for me was Death Cab for Cutie:

This was my fifth Death Cab show, and it never gets old. They are a sweet, great group of guys that write sweet, great songs.

We got a couple of great anecdotes from the band, including the recounting of their weirdest ever stay at someone’s house - a Minneapolitan woman who had shredded newspaper all over the floor of her house; a sort of free-range pad for her many hamsters and gerbils. (Ben Gibbard said he slept in the van, and left his bandmates to contest with the gerbils.) Ben also waxed poetic about their many gigs at First Avenue, and how it’s great to have a different venue - but it just didn’t feel like the Minneapolis he knows and loves.

“Where’s Conrad? Where are the stars on the wall? Where are the crackheads around the corner?”

“Where’s Pizza Luce?” Chris Walla chimed in.

Everyone’s got their priorities.

Study Confirms: We’re not dying of FAT!

Big Fat Blog’s got the low down on this awesome article about a huge and unexpected drop in the number of deaths since last year. While statistical analysts are scratching their heads, I’m enjoying the fact that “obesity epidemic” does not appear anywhere in the article. Not once.

I may clip this article out and keep it in a special scrapbook of fat positiveness in the media. It may take years to compile a decent scrapbook, but it’s worth the investment.

Boys on Boys

I’m ready to admit it: I am an unabashed fan of shonen-ai anime. Literally translated to “boy-love”, shonen-ai anime tells stories of romantic love between young men. The anime and manga are hugely popular among schoolgirls and young women in Japan - and authored almost exclusively by women! They are filled with impossibly cute boys, and fantastical love stories. I’d never argue that they come even close to portraying a realistic gay relationship - but the candy-coated escapism is the whole point!

I recently finished the series Sukisho, and it was really fascinating as a shonen-ai story. Set at a boys high school academy, there was not a single female creature to be seen. Not even at festivals and gatherings set off of the campus. All of the romantic pairings were between guys, but that’s not to say that there weren’t decidedly conventional feminine elements. Many of the characters were cast in the stereotypical woman-roles of nurse, mother, and caregiver. I thought it was interesting that even as two men in the relationship, they took on the conventional hetero readings of woman=caregiver and man=protector/provider.

Sora and Sunao from Sukisho.

Another series that I’ve been following is Loveless. This series makes me want to write riduculous, fangirlie things in AOL-shorthand: Loveless - OMG!

Ritsuka and Soubi of Loveless.

The character designs are so d.r.e.a.m.y (a word my boss likes to use). And the quasi-magical elements are subtle without it being an over the top Harry Potter-esque affair. There’s a lot of mystery - and I love the way a good anime will unfold over 13 or 26 episodes.

But I’m not an otaku, people, really. I just enjoy the pretty boys. A lot.

Fat Girls - A Call for Your Thoughts

Narcissist that I am, I pay attention to my site stats. Recently, I have been overrun by folks doing Google searches for ‘fat girls’. I’m always interested to know why people look for what they look for, so I want to know what you people are thinking about.

You came to the site for this image, so tell me why you are researching fat girls. Out of curiosity? Appreciation? Collecting a portfolio of fat girl images? I know you’re out there lurking - please, please leave us a comment so we can see what is drawing people to the fat girls.

Track for track, more moodiness than the average album

I have the new Placebo album, and am proceeding to beat it to death on my iTunes. There’s nothing like a little gloomy Brit rock to brighten my day. And while I think ‘Without You I’m Nothing’ remains their best album, ‘Meds’ is pretty damn good. An example of lyrics from ‘Post Blue’:

It’s in the water, baby
It’s in the pills that pick you up
It’s in the water, baby
It’s in the special way we fuck
It’s in the water, baby
It’s in your family tree
It’s in the water, baby
It’s between you and me

I’d break the back of love for you
I’d break the back of love for you

FatGrrl in Heat

Introducing FatGrrl porn! I’ve decided to incorporate a porn component of this site to bring in a little extra income.

Kidding.

The title sounds pornographic, but I’m thinking of literal heat. In particular, the kind of melting, sweaty heat that only the midwestern United States can produce. When I initially moved from Northern Idaho to Iowa to attend college, it was a shock to the system. I stepped out of the car to survey the scene and was immediately appalled to find my t-shirt sticking to my back, and my lungs felt 10-lbs heavier with all the humidity. I dove back into the car and wondered if the University of Washington was such a bad choice afterall, even if it was a few hours within reach of my family.

My eight years in the Midwest have been a slow, heels-in-the-dirt acclimation to the horrors of summer. Even now I spend those months scampering from one air conditioned space to another. I’m thinking about this now as another Midwest summer looms large, and I have a new reason to go out in the heat: Kiba. The new family member requires several trips out a day and that means I have to take her. Out. In. The. Heat.

Add to it that I’m totally loathe to wear my ‘indoor’ summer clothes outside. For most fat girls there’s a certain dread that comes with the prospect of wearing tank tops and shorts outside. On the one hand, this will be a good excercise for me to stick it to the popular beauty culture, and be proud to be out in the summer weather and not suffer in layers. But on the other hand, I can’t think of anything I’d rather do less right now than share my upper arms with the public park-going crowd.

I wonder if I could send Kiba to a doggy summer camp so that I can stay in the cool darkenss of my garden level apartment, huddled by my air conditioner?

Gonna bottle this magic and sell it!

If you’ve been following the drama (no, not Child Protective Services being called out to Britney Spears’ house) then you know that motherhood for me has been a difficult transition. We can safely say that is has sucked pretty hard for Kiba, too. In a strange manifestation of post-partum depression, it felt like I hadn’t been in a good mood for weeks, and Kiba and I lived in a near constant state of dread and anxiety for those times I would have to leave the apartment.

For Kiba there was a lot of crying. She has shredded a couple of doors frames with her claws, and showed the entryway door knob who’s boss - with her teeth. She would pant so hard as to imply hyperventilation, and shake so much that you could see her little body vibrating all the way across the room. I was washing her bedding several times a week because of the heavy drooling and panting, and I couldn’t even bump my keys without setting off a panic attack in which she raced around the apartment crying. There was a lot of drama. When I had run through seemingly every trick in the book (aside from dog drugs, ClomiCalm, and behavior therapy - sorry, Kiba, I’m not made of money), my adoption rep suggested having one of the senior foster hounds spend the night at my place. I thought the idea showed promise, so I started contacting foster parents in the area.

My final shred of patience was tested on Friday. I came home from work to find blood all around Kiba’s kennel. I whipped her out of there and got her under the light - checking paws and legs for wounds. Nothing. As I feared, she wouldn’t let me near her muzzle to check her mouth. The spazzy, stupid creature had chewed at the bars of her kennel till she shredded her gums. The next instant I was on the phone begging one of the foster moms, Beth, to please let me and Kiba meet her hound that night. All went well, and the next morning I had Cutter snoozing peacefully in my apartment. World, please let me introduce Cutter the Magical Hound:

Cutter is pure magic. He’s also the size of a small horse, often having to back out of spaces in my apartment where he didn’t have enough room to turn around. Almost from the moment he stepped into the apartment Kiba was a different dog. Yeah, she was okay when I was around and relaxing at home, but Cutter taught her the fine art of being a house hound: eating, sleeping, going for walks. Cutter is so mellow and laid back, and I was really hoping it would rub off on Kiba. Kiba, princess that she is, was a little bratty at first, convinced that all the toys and treats - even Cutter’s - belonged to her:

I gave them a few test runs alone in the apartment. The first time she cried a little, then the crying eventually stopped. I walked into the apartment after a ten-minute errand and…everything was still in one piece. The world was still turning. Kiba was on the couch, and Cutter was on the floor dreaming their little dreams of rabbits and steaks and butt-sniffing.

I marched over to the couch, took Kiba’s face in my hands and said, Who are you??? At that moment I totally fell in love with Cutter. It was a dream sleepover weekend in which I saw a little hope for Kiba’s settling in that hadn’t been there before. Even this week, there hasn’t been any drama. She’s been alone in the apartment while I’ve been at work. Her 5-week career as a professional spaz seems to be winding down. Beth told me I can invite Cutter over anytime. Cutter the Magical Hound.

UPDATE: So I wrote all of the above yesterday in the middle of my Cutter reverie, but then I went home to Kiba. She was fine after work, but then I had to leave again to attend my Japanese meet-up group. She didn’t take to that so well. Then she proceeded to be sick the rest of the night - her little guts all out of whack due to I have no idea what.

So it was a sleepless night, and not such a great morning because of a bastardly little fuckwad on the street that yelled at me for not picking up after Kiba. I’m so sorry, little bastard, for not moving fast enough for you. I realize being up all night with a sick dog is no excuse, and by god, I shouldn’t have stood there staring off into space. I should have been on my knees, scooping up those 5 drops of diarrhea so as not to offend your delicate neighborhood beauty sensibilities. And thank you, asshole, for your demonstration of courtesy. Why start off with the polite approach when you can immediately jump to something rude and hateful? Lucky for you then, little bastard, that I can be just as hateful. Fuck you.