I mentioned it to my Twitterpals earlier today, but I have reactivated ye olde facebook account I set up a year ago. Every week I get a handful of lovely manologirls who try to friend me on my personal account and I have to say no, because boundaries aren’t just for sex games and cartographers (learned THAT the hard way).

Now all y’all crazy stalker-type people (and I love each and every one of you lunatics) can just friend me there instead of getting all up in my private Facebook Koolaid.

Check it, yo.

Y’all have probably noticed your pal Plummy has been getting some press as one of the new “fatshionistas”. Renata Espinosa over at the Daily Beast wrote an excellent article and within a week I got mentions in New York Magazine, Australian Cosmo and other places where, with rare exception, fat is a four letter word. And it’s been great. I’m thrilled. Just one question:

Can I just be a fashionista now?

It’s like my grandfather: he’s a good man, he’s Spencer Tracy at the end of the movie, yet every time he goes to the medical center he talks about his Lady Doctor.  Lady Doctor.  Now, my grandfather –who swore to me he had his kidney shot out in Okinawa, when in fact he was born with just one– cannot get a paper cut without giving me the vivid details about how it ALMOST bled so I imagine if ever he scooched down on a table with his feet in stirrups, draped in a sheet and all greased up to Jesus while some woman came at him with freezing cold escargots tongs and a meaningful glint in her eye, I’d probably hear about it.  At dinner.

But no, she’s a woman, and so she cannot be simply a doctor, she has to be a Lady Doctor.

I’m fat, but I’m a lot more than fat, and my sartorial interests lie well beyond the fine art and subtle science of making sure my thighs don’t ignite friction fires when I run to catch the elevator.

I am, for example, outraged Valentino let Alessandra Facchinetti go.  I  wept delicately poignant tears when I saw the Lacroix show after the house had to file for protection. I read Paris, British and even occasionally American Vogue, watch all the shows, draw lines, form opinions, revamp my wardrobe and try to speak thoughtfully on what most people think is a silly, silly industry. I can throw down about Madame Gres’ draping or Balenciaga’s cutting with anyone this side of Parson’s or beyond, and yet after all that I’m still a novelty act. I’m still just a Lady Doctor.

Well I’m sick of it. I appreciate the nods, and the rare genuine attempts to avoid tokenism, but from now on –and I think I speak for the rest of my plus-size fashion friends when I say it’s fashionista now, not fatshionista and by the way: the doctor is in.

They’re Balloafers!

I’m telling you right now I’m a huge, HUGE fan of the elasticized flat. Always have been, always will be, but my problem with them is they’re often SO flat they’re not as comfortable as something with a teensy bit of lift. It looks like these have a split leather sole and I particularly like the curve of the breast of the heel, it’s not just a little stack. The hardware is nice too, it looks like a loose snaffle bit, but not in a way that tries to imitate Gucci, which I appreciate.

Incidentally, if you can’t afford an Hermes “mors ring” scarf ring (pictured here on the lovely and talented MaiTai, whose blog is nothing short of a delight) do yourself a solid and pick up a pony or miniature horse snaffle bit. You can use it in the same way and even in sterling silver, it will cost you a tenth of what a Mors ring would.

Beautiful, non?

Loafers are available in pink, celery and a lovely sort of azure (sizes all limited) they’re from Raparo and are made in Italy, on sale for $79.

Solemmetellya a little story about Liam the Filthy Calvinist. Readers should note that Liam the Filthy Calvinist is not Liam Neeson, today’s Monday Hotness, rather Liam is a pseudonym I’m giving this guy because he’d be relatively easy to track down and I’d rather that not happen because I still see him on a pretty regular basis.

Anyhoodle.

It was Sunday evening just about this time last year and I was volunteering at my church bookstore. The joint had been empty for hours and I walked up to the front desk to ask our receptionist if she had a hip flask (she didn’t) when I froze dead in my tracks.

It’s Liam Neeson. In white linen pants.

Okay, it wasn’t Liam Neeson –he was younger and blonder– but I thought it was for a second and I actually stopped breathing as our eyes met. Of course because I’d only shaved one leg that day and had a weird rash on my chin, Liam walks in to the bookstore to do a little browsing.

In the four years I’d been volunteering in that bookstore, precisely ONE copy of Lesser Feasts and Fasts had been sold: mine. Until that night.There is probably one person on earth to whom a relatively arcane liturgical text is a total panty dropper, and that person is me. I know. I can’t help it.

ANYWAY,  he scurries up to the service in his gorgeous pants and as soon as I’m sure he’s gone I run into the foyer, execute a couple of Hills Are Alive spins and pant to the receptionist that I’m going to marry those pants someday. I didn’t know his name, I didn’t know what he did. All I knew was that he bought a copy of Lesser Feasts and Fasts, he’d been to an ivy league divinity school and he “secretly wanted to be Episcopalian”.

The last part threw me. Why couldn’t he be Episcopalian? What was stopping him? He went to a protestant divinity school so he wasn’t Catholic, and although I don’t really spend a lot of time among the other denominations, I don’t think the Lutherans and the Methodists make you “jump out” like prison gangs.

Then the penny dropped. He must be clergy in some other denomination.

Now, for reasons which I shall not explain, my number one all-time personal dating rule is NO CLERGY EVER. I don’t care how good the sex is  it leads to nothing but heartache and that’s a gospel (see what I did there?) truth.

But it all made sense. He was sneaking into a late service, he’d gone to a non-Episcopal divinity school, he had a German/Dutch accent…he was *GASP* a CALVINIST! I very nearly needed my smelling salts.

By the time he came back, I’d reasoned to myself that Calvinist ministers weren’t really clergy (I was just that desperate, they were really good pants) and it would probably be okay if we got married and had a million imaginary babies.  We chatted, or mostly he chatted at me and I tried not to fall over except for the time I literally (yes, literally) shouted “I’M SINGLE” and waved my hands in the air to show that I was not wearing a wedding ring.  Then, mortified, I sat down and tried to remember to breathe.

As he was getting to leave he looked straight at me and said: “You have the most striking blue-gray eyes I’ve ever seen. They speak to my soul.”

I

just

DIED.

Now, not for nothing, but I’m fairly used to getting variations on that kind of compliment, so I usually have a funny line or two worked up to break the tension. What I meant to say was “well I’m glad they’re pretty because they sure don’t work that well!”which would’ve been hokey, but cute.

What I actually said was:

“Thanks. They don’t work.”

At which point –English not being his first language– he looked at me as if I was a high-functioning blind person, made his very kind excuses and walked away.

Over the next few weeks he was around a LOT. He even came to a service where I’m the soloist and sat right next to me, in a space usually reserved for other musicians and stared at me all googly eyed. I was twitterpated beyond the endurance of a block so, when I discovered his last name, I –like a psycho–  googled him, found his church, read his bio and HOORAY no mention of a wife.

A few days later –after a wax appointment and a push-up bra that came with a three-day waiting period– I called my aunt, who just so happened to go to his church.

Now until that point I’d never voluntarily called my aunt, well, ever.  However, under the pretense of thanking her for a birthday card, I casually mentioned that I’d met her minister and thought he was some great shakes.

“Oh yes, he’s DELIGHTFUL.” she said –she totally had my number– “just delightful…and he’s getting married next  month!”

And thus Liam the Filthy Calvinist was born.

The REAL Liam Neeson would never do that to me. The REAL Liam Neeson would never introduce me to his six foot tall willowy wisp of a wife whom he met at a vegan restaurant as “my beloved” (seriously!) and then tell her “this is Plum, who I’ve been telling you about.”  Which is why –after that inexcusably long story– the REAL Liam Neeson is today’s Monday Hotness.

Oh, and this:

This week we’re going to be featuring some loafers on the Daily Kick.  Remember that at time of writing at least one color of each style will be available in a size 10.

I love loafers. Don’t own any but I love them and when sported in snazzy colors they lend a great kick to a casual outfit. YOOX (yo-ox) has a number of fab ones on crazy sale, but –and this is just between us– I especially love a good white loafer.

They’re just so old school Milan and although she gets trotted out entirely too frequently for my liking, there’s also something very Princess Grace about it too.

It reminds me of when she hurt her arm and just used an Hermes scarf as a sling. Was it sexy? No. Was it particularly avant guard? Not really. It was simply chic and thoughtless and beautiful but understated.

These are under $70, made in Italy, available in white (sizes limited but available in a 10 at time of writing), a tremendous sky blue, navy and black. Ciao!

Lots of people and organizations declare certain days, weeks, months, and years to be dedicated to a lot of things. For instance, Gold’s Gym apparently declared July ‘Cankles Awareness Month.’ Charming. But some of us aren’t going to let some random gym make us all panicky and over concerned about the state of our ankles.

In response, Imagine Today has declared August ‘Self-Esteem Awareness Month.’ This is a concept I can get behind. I’m absolutely in favor of all of us making a real effort to feel good about ourselves. When we like ourselves, we hold ourselves a little more confidently, we have more room to see the good in others, we become more comfortable in our own skins…we find more and better ways of sharing our superfantasticness with the world.

Oh yes, my friends, each and every one of you is superfantastic. Some of you sing, some of you dance, some of you write poetry, some of you tutor kids, some of you are wonderful cooks, some of you are great at sports, some of you have keen scientific minds, and some of you are good at counseling those in need of emotional support. All of these skills and dozens more make the world a better place to live in. The biggest stumbling block to happiness – or at least contentment – many of us face is the assumption that what we do and who we are is lacking in worth.

Add to normal human confusion the general miasma of disapproval that follows us due to the size labels in our clothes (or the color of our skin, outward signs of misunderstood religions we follow, obvious signs of physical challenge, etc.) and it’s easy to assume that we’re better off just shuffling ourselves under a rock to live out our days in hiding. We aren’t better off that way. We owe it to ourselves to live out loud, to share our talents and unique voices with the world.

The first exercise laid out for Self-Esteem Awareness Month struck me as particularly  important for a lot of us. Yes, it’s yesterday’s exercise, but let’s give it a go:

August 1st – Lets start this all of with a simple exercise that has been suggested on this blog before; write a list of at least five things about yourself that you love and tuck that list away somewhere for the next time you’re feeling down. I tend to make a new list/add to an old one every week or so – its a really quick & easy self-esteem boost.

So here’s my list of the moment:

1: I love that I am an excellent cook. It feels good to feed people well, including myself.

2: I love that I can make people laugh easily.

3: I love that I have a quick wit in conversation. People may groan at the puns, but they’re rarely bored talking to me.

4: I love that I have a quirky and entirely personal sense of style, and that I have always been unafraid to follow it.

5: I love that  cats and small children instinctively trust me.

So what about all of you? What do you love about you? Share it here, or tuck it away quietly in a drawer, but think about it today. You’ll be glad you did.

We’re in a generally literary mood here at Manolo for the Big Girl. No, this is not going to be another list of 100 books. I think we’ve covered that concept pretty well between my two most esteemed colleagues. What I want to talk about is how a single book can change your entire life.

The title of this post is something my father used to say. For a very long time, I interpreted that statement woefully literally. I thought that in all his years my father had read only one novel.

Oh, I knew he read books all the time. He read a great deal of history, he was fond of books about ships and trains ranging from technical descriptions of the various types to true stories of places they’d been to discussions of battles they’d affected.

But my father did read fiction, too. He was fond of PG Wodehouse, a taste he passed on to me in a huge way by presenting me with my first Jeeves book when I was just twelve. In later life, my brother the medieval historian got Dad hooked on O’Brien’s Aubrey Maturin series. I was finally able to talk him into reading Robertson Davies’ Papers of Samuel Marchbanks, which I knew my Twain-loving father would appreciate.

And yet he said every now and again ‘I read a novel once.’ That would be it. It was only in the last year or so of his life that I finally asked him what he meant. What he meant, as it turned out, was that he had read To Kill a Mockingbird, and reading that book, had begun to look at the world in a new way.

I could never get him to elaborate on precisely how it had changed his world, but it clearly did so on a profound level.

I, too, have read widely in both fiction and non-fiction. I’ve spent most of my life with a book of one sort or another in my hands. I have read classics and flavor of the moment and pure trash with nearly equal gusto. I appreciate the genius of Terry Prachett and Sharyn McCrumb as much as I do that of Wodehouse, George Bernard Shaw, Oscar Wilde, and – yes – Jane Austen. I am one of about three people I’ve ever known who has actually read more than one novel by Fielding (I read not only Tom Jones, but Shamela as well, and laughed greatly through both). The only other person I know who has actually read Tristram Shandy is my own brother. I pick up Shakespeare for fun and hunt down obscure Anthony Trollope novels eagerly.

And yet, the novel that I think most profoundly changed my world was a slim detective story by Josephine Tey entitled The Daughter of Time.

It was a boyfriend who handed it to me and told me that he thought I’d enjoy it. The guy had a lot of faults and I have never once regretted splitting with him, but I also owe him hugely. For one thing, I learned a great deal about what not to put up with in a relationship…but I also have to thank him for this single book.

Why? Because it changed the way I read. It made me fully realize for the first time that just because it’s published in a non-fiction book doesn’t mean the author isn’t grinding some personal axes. It reminds me to think about the angle the author is writing from and judge more carefully how that affects the conclusions the author reaches.

I think I got a great deal more from the book than that old boyfriend had ever considered I would…but then, that was a lot of what was already wrong with that relationship.

So, yeah, like my father before me, I read a novel once.

I hope that all of you do, too.