You know you’ve had a rough weekend when the best thing you can say is no one threw up directly ON you.

True, it makes for a pleasant change from last weekend when I was not so fortunate, but I woke up on the wrong side of every bed west of the Mississippi this morning (in the I’m-Very-Grumpy way, not the I’m-Gonna-Need-Some-Penicillin way) and my situation has not improved in the three hours since I was rousted from my peaceful slumber by the lovelorn cries (okay, technically lovelorn telephone calls) of a very nice former Golden Gloves boxer with whom I struck up an acquaintance over the summer.

The Man with the Golden Glove has the dubious honor of being the only man who has ever carried me down a flight of stairs as an adult without using any type of complex winch and pulley system. Impressive, yes, but it does not excuse a telephone call before nine in the morning. Still, he’s very sweet and has been hit in the head an awful lot so I did my best not to be openly hostile, which I think is as much as can reasonably be expected before my feet have hit the floor.

THEN I stumbled down to the kitchen to fix myself some cornbread and a restorative only to discover the fresh butter I got from the lady who sells baggies of various unlabeled dairy products at a little shop down the street tasted like cheese and the memory of an unpleasant scene from yesterday came flooding back.

See, someone who shall remain nameless started rooting around in my cheese cage (not a euphemism) and decided my carefully arranged cheeses should all go live together in the refrigerator because apparently this person was raised by wolves/howler monkeys/some other animals that don’t understand the importance of not messing with a woman’s Camembert without express written consent and thus are to be pitied and very occasionally killed.

Unbeknownst to me, in attempt to right an egregious wrong and get that weird vein in my forehead to stop pulsing profanities in Morse code, the person who was raised by wolves/howler monkeys/etc decided to put everything back EXCEPT he took the previously mentioned fresh dairy butter (which, it should be noted, tasted of nothing but baby angels and cream) and put it in the same cubby of the cheese cage as my most rank and resplendent soft-ripening cheeses.

So, despite it being before noon here on The Wrong Coast, I am calling this day a wash and have decided to spend it in the Texas Room with my best friend, Sweet Lady Internet.

It’s been a while since we’ve had a Lazy Poll Monday and I’ve been greatly remiss in responding to your comments, so let’s give it a go. You know the rules: Anything (almost) goes. Tell me what you’ve been doing, what’s on your mind, survey the MftBG readers for answers to life’s mysteries. Anything you want, just keep it clean.

Get your beautiful, beautiful minds out of the gutter, gang.  I’m talking about a quick blog post before Hot Latin Boy comes to pick me up for a picnic on the beach, which I’m sure will turn into another one of those five-hour lunches.

See, that’s the thing about living on the wrong coast (sorry, I’m an Atlantic girl and although I love my new country, I still generally object to the west coast, especially because so much of it is California) if I accidentally sleep ’til 11 because I am too fundamentally stupid to remember Time Bandits scares every last milky drop of bejeezus out of me and has since I was a kid, then by the time I wake up, it’s 2 p.m. in D.C.

The original plan for today’s picnic was some tuna salad sort of nicoise-style stuffed into these enormous tomatoes my neighbor grew, some cornbread from the only purveyor in town (it’s sweet, but sweet cornbread is better than no cornbread at all) a cold bean salad, one bottle of homemade jamaica each, some chocolate cake from the hardcore Mayan chocolatier down the street and a bottle of green Spanish wine, to split.

Sadly, the tomatoes and the bean salad are going to have to wait, because I only have time to run to our favorite taco place (I give them limes from my tree, they give us tacos from their parilla) to get a torta –a sort of enormous sandwich filled with carne asada and happiness– and the chocolate shop. I’ve got the wine at home and we’ll just have to have the bean salad at a time when I’m not too stupid to remember I’m afraid of Terry Gilliam and puppets.

Today’s question is simple:

You’re going on a picnic. You get to pick up to five living guests (dead people at a picnic are a drag, but I suppose they do help weigh down the blanket if there’s a breeze) and the menu. Who would you invite, what would you eat, where would you go and for extra imaginary bonus points: What would you do after?

(took this photo outside a shop in Aberystwyth, Wales. It’s so hard to pick just one)

I’d take my brother, my best friend Megh, my high school sweetheart (why not? He’s turned into a cool guy and I’d like to know him as an adult) Hot Latin Boy and my beloved pooch Dozer to have lunch on a beach somewhere desolate and beautiful on the coast of Pembrokeshire, Wales.

We’d have a combination of traditional Welsh food –laverbread, cockles, some nice meaty faggots, and bara brith– plus shrimp and grits and my grandmother’s brownie pecan pie, and after we’d all go for a long hike along the coast and then have a good tea and a nap. Then later, a game of football and the pub!

So here’s what I don’t understand: Are we supposed to be responsible for our own actions or not?

Because the charming follow-up article, titled “Paula Deen Needs to Accept Blame for her Diabetes” (note: blame, not responsibility because make no mistake, we are talking about something shameful. I wonder if athletic legend Billie Jean King also has to accept blame for her Type 2 Diabetes.) makes me confused.

If Paula Deen has to accept the “blame” for her diabetes because of the choices she personally made, then doesn’t that sort of mean we ALL are responsible for the choices we personally make? And yet she’s contributing to the Big Scary Obesity Epidemic because…what now?

Listen, I can’t say I have total recall of every morsel I’ve shoved into my elegant maw in the past 32 years, but I am almost certain even during my discotheque days I would’ve remembered a chubby Southern lady with strip lashes force-feeding me Krispy Kreme bread pudding.

We are all responsible for our own decisions and although I make my living on the internet, which as we all know is the Intergalactic Capital of Moron, even I give people enough credit not to base their entire nutritional lifestyle on someone they see on th’ teevee.

It’s not Paula Deen’s job or responsibility to be the health model of our nation because she makes food on television.

Do you think Andrew Zimmern from Bizarre Foods or whathisname, the guy who needs a shave and a shower in a carwash from Man vs Food, gulp down cold picked yak balls and 20 pounds of hotwings every day? Maybe, I don’t know their lives, but probably not. We imagine, because even on the internet we are marginally rational human beings, that they do what they do for a show, and that is not how they eat, or are suggesting WE eat, in our daily lives.

Neither of them are exactly willowy (hmm, could it be that men’s bodies aren’t generally considered public domain, existing mainly as an object to be appreciated or reviled, depending on how much random strangers find them physically desirable?) but no one seems to be on their mantits about healthful eating.

And what about Anthony Bourdain?

I’m pretty sure I’ve seen him smoke more cigarettes in his apparent lifelong quest to become Lou Reed (never gonna happen Tony, not for me, not for you, not for David Bowie) than anyone outside of a Thin Man movie. Is he responsible for the lung cancer epidemic?

Oh wait, not responsible…to blame.

Good morning, friends and lovers, how was your weekend?

Mine was okay. Friday, when I totally promised myself to write about Mode Merr (I will soon, I double promise) took an unexpected turn as I discovered when you live on the beach and the weather is perfect year ’round, that the appropriate length for a Friday lunch is just about five hours and involves a trip into town for a cultural event/random people watching, a leisurely lunch of aquatic foodstuffs and the mandatory accompanying cervezas, an even more leisurely stroll on the beach with the occasional smooch (recommended) and watching the minor league futbol team train in the sand (HIGHLY recommended) all topped off with a cafecito at home.

Nice work if you can get it.

Saturday was all fun and games, literally and Sunday. Well, let’s just say introducing the local population to Lemon Drops (straight shots of vodka with a sugar-coated lemon wedge as a chaser) was not the kindest thing I’ve done to my host country, so this morning –and not for the last time, I suspect– I uttered the phrase “I love you, but I warned you and I am NOT cleaning that up.”

Boys.

So while the shining stars of central American athletics were trying to locate their livers, dignity and any of my four complete (and thankfully tiled) bathrooms, all with little success, I was toodling around the internet for News of the Fats.

First up is this smug little article about Paula Deen getting type 2 diabetes. Honestly I don’t know much about her other than a few clips I’ve caught on the internet. From what I can tell, she makes high fat soul food . Okay. And?

Listen, if you’re going to make traditional soul food, it’s going to be high fat, it’s the nature of the southern fried beast.

Sure, she revels in her use of butter and other high fat ingredients, but it’s her shtick. Celebrity chefs gotta have a gimmick and that’s hers. Now I’m not going to pretend to say there isn’t possibly a correlation between eating high fat foods all the time and getting diabetes, but it ain’t that simple and pretending only fat people get sick is ridiculous, harmful and just another brick in the socially-acceptable wall of fat shaming.

Also, in 20 years or so, when our young, thin, vegan stars get osteoporosis, which is far less likely to affect a woman whose diets are chock-full of dairy and who carry a little extra weight on their frames, how many people are going to be smug about that, saying they had it coming?

I’ll have more for you tomorrow, someone just woke up downstairs and there are loud and pained cries for menudo. I sort of hope they mean the soup. But then again, I sort of don’t.

Hola amigos! Just a little update outside the realm of small fashion houses this week. Recently a whole mess of you have asked me in one form or another whether I’m going to be blogging about my adventures as I start my new and exciting life here in Mexico.

The answer is I don’t know.

I’d like to introduce you to a little concept called Mama’s Got Bills. Okay, I don’t have that many bills and the ones I do have I can afford by myself, but there’s a whole lot of Scotch and shoes out there that I don’t own and frankly, I’m not okay with that.

I’m only good at two things and I’m only allowed to charge for one of them (except for in one district of Tijuana, go ahead and Image Search “Zona Norte Tijuana” I’ll wait. Hint: those aren’t really Catholic school girls) so I’ve been keeping my scribblings to ‘myself with hopes that in the next year or so essays like “How Crossing the Border is Just Like the County Fair But With Slightly Fewer Piglets” and “How to Win Friends and Outdrink Waiters: a Beginners’ Guide to Being the Only White Girl in the Village” will amalgamate themselves into an actual book with pages and pictures and decent copy editing (my favorite part) a price tag (my  OTHER favorite part) and everything. Woo!

Stay tuned for more information, and if you’ve got any more questions or interests, shoot me an email. Otherwise it’s back to fat fashion from small houses tomorrow!

Yesterday we poked some gentle fun at budding hoochie conglomerate Eddy and Bri and used them as an example of a small fashion company geared towards a specific niche market.

I was actually surprised to see several folks defend the bottom two dresses, because I cannot conceive of any situation ever where a grown woman with a job that doesn’t involve picking up dollar bills with body parts other than her hands would think “Yes, what I clearly need is a ruched spandex and polyester tube dress that zips entirely  down the front with one tug.” Whither the dignity, y’all?

Anyhoodle, as I mentioned yesterday, it’s important not to throw the baby out with the bathtub gin, because little websites can provide big rewards if you can be bothered to check them regularly.

Case in point is Domino Dollhouse.

Even though I’m not interested in about 85% of what they make, these gals are near and dear to the place medical science says my heart should be and they’re on my “To Be Checked Regularly” list of plus size websites.

Their campy vintage-flavored offerings remind me of what Torrid used to sell six years ago when they had essentially three categories: Rockabilly, Punk and Other.

Basically you’re getting a lot of 1950′s stuff with some 1940′s by way of the 80′s (which, as Karen Walker so accurately said were “Just the 40′s with coke.”) with a smattering of young hipster paraphernalia.

I have a well-documented weak spot for a good midcentury dress, even better if it’s got a tiny twang of Grand Ole Opry and although most of  the stand-out pieces as styled still err a little heavily on the side of Costume not Fashion, thus making them a wee bit unsophisticated for my current look,  there are gems to be found for the girl who is willing to dig.

Even some of the costume-y dresses are awfully tempting and I have to warn my 32 year-old self away from them, reminding myself they are cutesy beyond all redemption and will never be Capital F Fashion no matter how hard I style them (I’d totally go for them were I ten years younger and could still play the naif card).

Is anyone else reminded of the Hefty Hideaway commercial from the original Hairspray movie? I’m not saying that like it’s a bad thing. Lord knows the early works of Miss John Waters influenced me as much as the later works of Yves Saint Laurent, and seriously, there’s always been a not-so-secret part of me that wants to dress like a John Waters heroine.

Still, for every dozen dresses that make you look like the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade’s salute to history’s greatest picnic foods, there’s a jewel like this, the Ava Adorable dress (currently sold out, but was available when I posted about it on the MftBG facebook page).

This is a great dress.

I bought it to wear for New Year’s Eve specifically, which didn’t technically (by which I mean “even remotely”) because that’s the day I emigrated and I spent from 8 o’clock onward studiously examining my eyelids from the inside.

It’s a perfect party dress, especially for girls who don’t like to be too revealing, plus it fits nicely in that little cubbyhole for things like symphonies in the park or any sort of evening event, especially outside, where you want the feel of a picnic dress, but still subtly remind everyone about how much more sophisticated, elegant and all around better dressed than they are.

There’s a matching fabric belt which I’d probably wear it for when I wanted that extra bit of early Givenchy feel, but for contemporary styling I replaced it with a thin, slightly rock and roll Diane Von Furstenburg double wrap natural python belt in a subtle animal print.

Speaking of animals (though not of subtlety) I also brought home this little creature from Domino Dollhouse’s last sale:

Isn’t he divine?

I know a giant alligator isn’t everyone’s idea of a good accessory but I have a great and glorious love for almost all things crocodiliad, and especially this ring, which garners compliments everywhere I go AND looks as if it came from Madame Medusa’s private jewelry collection, always a plus in my book.

A word of caution:

Domino Dollhouse has several pieces that go in and out of stock with some regularity. That means if you don’t see the watermelon dress, the Ava Adorable or whatever strikes your fancy right that minute, it doesn’t mean they’ll never have it again. At the same time, if you see something you love, I wouldn’t suggest waiting for it because if it goes out of stock –and it might, quickly– there’s no telling how long it’ll be before you have the chance to order again.

Happy Monday gang! How was everyone’s weekend? Mine was filled with home improvement. I just about survived.

I’m going to let you in on a little secret here: manual labor is not my strong suit. This would be fine if I ever once in my entire life actually REMEMBERED manual labor was not my strong suit before I went out and spent $300 at Home Depot but I never, ever do.

It’s always the same: I get an idea (I’m GREAT at ideas) and because I’m good at mechanical-type things, I think to myself  “Self, surely painting the entire walled garden three different colors, plus doing faux finishes on two walls in a Sunday is within your capable grasp, all you need is a friend who is willing to help.”

I think anyone who’s read The Wind in the Willows knows where this is going.

Thank goodness Hot Latin Boy is an excellent Rat to my Mr Toad, and while I was selecting the perfect painting outfit (chocolate leggings, brown and orange cowboy boots, a grey knit shift dress, vintage western shirt complete with embroidered deer heads and one of my beater Hermes scarves to tie my hair back) and playlist (Cafe Tacuba and Los Fabulosos Cadillacs for the major painting, Maria Callas for the detail work) HLB was, you know, actually painting.

In all fairness, I did my share of work, and I did it with as much gusto as I could muster considering my other partner in crime was a treacherous and not at all structurally sound stepladder whose rickety aluminum slats will be the first things I’ll see in hell.

All of that is to say it’s okay to have a niche.

I should never be allowed near a paint roller, as my dog, the tile floors of the patio and my own face will testify, but I can design the color scheme and decorate it like a palace once someone more competent than I has managed to get the color on the walls.

The same goes for small plus size fashion houses.

They’re not going to be All Things for All People, Everywhere. If you want that, go to Harrods (except don’t because the last time I went I couldn’t find grits for love nor money) so while it’s okay to mock bad construction, terrible photoshopping, questionable taste and shoddy design, calling a company out for designing clothes that don’t fit your lifestyle is like saying a restaurant is bad because you don’t like Chinese food.

Case in point:

Eddy & Bri

Yeah, I don’t really get it either, but I’m also not their target audience.

If you’re a young big girl without a lot of expendable income who wants the same sort of clubwear your skinny sisters wear, then Eddy & Bri is perfect for you. I’m not, so it isn’t. No big deal.

Clearly they’re still having growing pains –although I LOVE that model in the pale bronze minidress, girlfriend is throwing some serious shade– and their choice to offer the majority of their clothing in one, maybe two sizes is…unusual, but they’ve identified their market (it would be unkind of me to say their market apparently pays their rent in ones and quick handies at stoplights, so I won’t) and they’re sticking to it.

For the rest of this week I’m going to feature smaller design houses that are generally geared to specific probably-not-us markets along with reasons not to throw the baby out with the niche bathwater.