This and That and a Dash of Oh, Pshaw

Oh...dear, dear bloggers. You are good for what ails a girl. I did not post my picture to solicit compliments, truly I did not, but I can't deny that your kind words have given me a huge boost.

And lemme tell ya...after spending the day looking for a party dress for Husband's annual semi-formal Christmas party, it was a boost I desperately needed.

Shopping for a cocktail dress in plus sizes is a bit like shopping for a ballet tutu for an elephant.

Could flourescent lighting be any more brutal?

When I stepped out of the dressing room to check out my fine self in the three way mirror, I thought I had accidentally opened the door to the alley and stumbled upon a crack whore coming off the night shift. I realized my mistake when it occurred to me that crack whores don't usually wear knee highs to ply their wares.

Dear Retailers marketing fancy schmancy holiday clothes to large and lovely ladies (Pssst...Lane Bryant, this means YOU):

Tulle is not our friend. Nor is anything made out of that stretchy faux velvet stuff you seem to think we like. It gets stuck places.

We do not want to show our batwings. We do want to look like we have a waist. Also backless = backfat = no flippin way. And those cute little trapeze, baby doll, empire waist top things? "Real women" (that is still your slogan, right?) avoid them like the plague because they create doubt about the reproductive status of the wearer. Don't make them anymore. Legions of "real" shoppers will thank you. I promise.

And finally? Satin is the textile equivalent of the Hubble telescope, and as such, should be considered wholly unsuitable for any type of garment. It should not be allowed to fall into the wrong hands. Forget what they did in the 70's. Nobody was thinking straight then. It's just wrong.

Signed,

B.A.

I did finally find something. Coldwater Creek, how do I love thee?? Enough to pay a ridiculous amount of money for a shiny blouse and a kicky little skirt, because it does not look as if I donned a Christmas tree skirt and cinched it with an attractive belt in the hopes of affecting some kind of shape.

Okay, so anyway...I wanted to address some of your comments on my appearance.

The Eyebrows

Some of you may have read my post "Motherplucker". I am very proud and gratified to say that the brows that you see in that picture are the result of several months worth of very concerted effort on my part to grow them out.

I have brow issues, you see, and I had plucked them almost into oblivion. Think Betty Boop. Marlena Dietrich. Pamela Anderson without the boobs or the haggard hooker chic.

It wasn't easy. Stray brow hairs drive me completely bonkers. I had to hide my tweezers and then have my husband do a vulcan mind meld on me to wipe my memory clean. I had to throw away all my strip wax and depilatory cream. I did find myself contemplating my trusty razor once or twice, but that's a dicey business at best so I restrained myself.

The last thing I need is to explain to all Husband's co-workers how I ended up browless. I would have to manufacture something pretty spectacular to explain how I lost my brows but otherwise escaped unscathed. Fire? No. A raging bacterial infection that targets only facial hair? No. The chin hairs would give me away.

I did consider teaching myself the ancient art of threading, just to clean up the strays, but that seemed inefficient and barbaric and besides, I would have had to have husband do ANOTHER vulcan mind meld on me and it seems like too many of those would eventually have some adverse effects on the brain.

Anyway...I'm pleased. I think they look much more like actual eyebrows now. Thanks for noticing.

The Complexion

Yes. I am white. Fishbelly white. Milky white. Alabaster white. I'm the shade of white I always imagine Lestate to be when he describes how white he is. Vampire white.

I don't get much darker than that in the summer either, because I am pretty obsessive about sunscreen and hat wearing. I don't tan, really. I turn a ridiculous shade of crimson and then when the molting has stopped, I go back to my formerly albinistic state.

I don't mind not being able to tan, really. I hope I will avoid the leather face look that so many Southern women seem to sport. And I hope I will avoid the fate of my SIL, an avid sun worshipper, who just had a huge patch of skin excised from her back. They had to go down to the muscle to get all the cancer and she lost so much tissue that there is still a hole there.

I'd rather be fishbelly white, thank you.

The Hair

Girls, did I not tell you of the miracle that is Frederik Fekkai glossing cream?? It is quite simply, the most amazing hair care product EVER. It's expensive, but so worth it. I would sell my soul to the devil to get this stuff. I would give blow jobs to homeless bums (sorry Jen). I would watch Dumb and Dumber again.

The shine you see there is the result of one little pea sized dollop of product.

It's. Da. Bomb.

And my hair color? Would that nature had blessed me with such richness, but alas she did not. My own color is a dark but mousy brown. No grays yet, thankfully, but it's still rather drab. I have been dying my hair some shade of red since I was sixteen years old. I wouldn't feel like myself as anything but a redhead.

You too can have this color. It is L'Oreal Preference Warm Copper Brown. Because I'm worth it.

The Courage

Ladies, please. If I was really courageous, I would have posted a picture of myself without make-up on. And that, quite frankly, ain't happening unless and until the devil himself is threatening to roast my plus sized ass over a crackling fire deep in the bowels of hell. And then I would have to give it serious consideration. A girl has to draw the line somewhere.

Thanks again for all your kind comments. You rock. Truly.