Well I never!

Let me just say I am aghast, no, several ghasts at so many of your treasonous cinematic ways.

It’s like that time a few years ago when I played that April Fools joke where I shamefully admitted to having promoted Crocs in exchange for cash and prizes (do I LOOK like a mommieblogger? Do I talk about gluten-free cupcakes, knitting or fabric with owls on them? No, I do not.) and a whole bunch of people were calling for my head, offering themselves as my editorial replacement.

Treacherous harpies.

Of course there are classic films I don’t enjoy.

I adore Vivien Leigh but I’d be fine without sitting through another viewing of Gone with the Wind, and although I won’t say neither love nor money could make me sit through Lawrence of Arabia again, it would take large quantities of both to get me to watch Omar Sharif ride in from the horizon on his camel, no matter how cinematically important that scene remains.

(like this, but for about five minutes)

These are not bad films.

It’s the rare piece of pop culture that stays relevant 50 years (as in the case of Lawrence of Arabia, released in 1962) or nearly 75 years.

It’s amazing so many of them still are.

1939 brought us GwtW, The Wizard of Oz, Of Mice and Men, Ninotchka, Dark Victory, The Women, Mr Smith Goes to Washington, Gunga Din, Stagecoach and a whole bunch of other classics that lend credence to the idea that it’s been all downhill in tinseltown since the clock struck 1940.

Ideals, tastes and conventions, not to mention technology, have changed dramatically since Greta giggled, so it’s important to appreciate film (or music or, I don’t know, body shape) on their own merits and not how well they compare to modern tastes, no matter how deeply or subtly engrained those tastes are.

Take, for example, the top musical hits from the same year.

You’ve got plenty of Glenn Miller, Bessie Smith singing “God Bless America”, a doubtlessly timeless ditty called “The Adventures of Piccolo Pete” and a personal favorite of mine, “Little Brown Jug” (it is a Plumcake family tradition to bounce wee children on one’s knees and sing Little Brown Jug, dipping them dramatically during the “we fell in!” line).

You can’t really fault Glenn Miller or Bessie Smith even if they’re not your preferred genres, but for my imaginary money, the only song that sounds as fresh and painful today as it must have then is Billie Holiday’s haunting “Strange Fruit”.

It reminds me of a brutal breakup when I was 26.

Uh, the over-easy rejection of classic films, not the horrifying epidemic of lynching of the thirties and forties, although I once had to gently tell my sweet but occasionally oblivious voice teacher that even though he was doing an all Billie Holiday tribute, as a middle-aged white man from East Texas with a twang thicker than day old grits, he didn’t exactly have the cultural pedigree to get away with singing that particular song.

Anyhoodle.

Back when I was 26, my long-term fella dumped me HARD for an East German amnesiac who couldn’t remember her name.

I’m not EVEN making that up.

Although he’d always been all about my big girl body, and his new strudel had all the svelte daintiness normally associated with a brain-damaged East German shot-put champion (I’m just guessing about the shot-put part, but the rest is dead on) he told me

“Just because you don’t hate your size doesn’t mean your size is okay.”

I was, for one of the very few times in my life, speechless. How could someone so smart be so wrong wrong wrongitty wrong?

It was then I realized –because I’m not very bright and hadn’t figured it out sooner– that some people really did decide on a person or object’s value and virtue based on whether they liked it or not.

What a crippling way to live.

Which isn’t to say there aren’t empirically rotten films or people out there, and there’s a whole conversation to be led by someone much more erudite than I about the joys of good taste and whether the enjoyment of quality craftsmanship is better or purer than the pleasure derived from “ooh, shiny thing go boom!” and whether, from a pleasure aspect, having good taste is more of a blessing or a curse.

Oh, and the next person who dares to say The Searchers is a bad film, when it is fairly and universally acknowledged as one of the best American films ever made, gets a one way trip to the woodshed behind Villa Plumcake and will be treated to a lengthy lecture on its cultural import, visual beauty and merciless examination of racism and the attitudes about Native American genocide. You don’t have to like it, but it doesn’t mean it’s not great.

Happy Friday, readers, how’s every little thing?

I’m great. Hot Latin Boy is going to be spending the evening being a Positive Male Role Model to a handful of his nephews who are in duress and need male bonding time (using MY best-seats-in-the-house tickets, I didn’t really want to see the most exciting and highly-anticipated match of the season anyway. Worst thing is it was my stupid idea. Man, I wish someone had told me sooner that human empathy was a sexually transmitted disease, I could’ve vaccinated when I went in for cholera and typhoid) so I’ve got a whole glorious Friday to myself and as soon as I clean the kitchen –by which I mean set fire to it or let one of the six hundred women who ring my doorbell every afternoon offering to clean my house actually put soap to scrubbie– I plan on running as far amok as five hours of sleep and a quarter tank of watered-down gas will take me.

The other day, superfantastic reader Katydid sent me an email about this image:

It appeared on Wednesday as an advertisement for the Victoria’s Secret Very Sexy collection in the advertising sidebar of your very own Manolo for the Big Girl, like this:

Katydid wrote:

Was enjoying your latest blog entry when my attention was completely captured by the Victoria Secret model featured in an ad on your site. I attached a pic of how it was displayed on my monitor. She may be the thinnest model I have ever seen and to me the image is disturbing!

I was compelled to share with you.

First of all, thank you Katydid and everyone else who has written over the years about potentially problematic advertising.

I’ve mentioned before, Manolo and I have relatively little control over what advertisements Glam.com or Google run. A few years ago we were bombarded with fake Louboutin sites and then it was all diet programs, what a mess.

The funny thing is, Victoria’s Secret Angel Candice Swanepoel (I’m 99.9% sure that’s Candice Swanepoel) is a pretty healthy, curvy model as far as models these days go.

In the picture she’s got her legs forward, her pelvis and bottom tilted back as far as it can go and is leaning forward from the waist. It’s an old modeling trick which even your pal Plumcake is not above using once in a while. She’s also being photographed from above, which is also very slimming.

Oh, and let’s not forget for a second all the photoshopping that went into the final image.

Here’s another shot of the South African model, taken from one of the Victoria’s Secret fashion shows:

See? Fairly generic run-of-the-milkmaid male fantasy fodder.

She would’ve been a hot non-threatening blonde in the 1950s and is a hot non-threatening blonde now. Sure, she might’ve actually had a little more in the way of pubic hair and a little less in the way of bizarre metal waist contraptions, but hey, maybe not.

The thing is, I bet a model with her body shape who wanted to go into haute couture runway modeling would be told to lose weight.

Of course it’s just another mixed message courtesy of the fashion and beauty industry. If you want to wear the best clothes, you have to look like a model! If you want guys to think you’re sexy you have to look like a totally different model!

Gosh, it’s almost as if they WANT to make us confused and insecure so they could sell us products designed to make us feel less ugly. Haha, no of course not, because that would be insidious and twisted!

(sigh)

In my fantasy world, there would be room for the bouncy beach babe, the androgynous waif, the size 10 girl next door, the voluptuous plus size model and the just plain round on the runway. All ages, all heights, all colors and all orientations.

Maybe I’ll start holding my breath riiiiiiight NOW.

Hurrah, it’s the return of Whisky Tango Foxtrot!

If you recall, last time we played, we featured a pair of purple lurex platform court shoes with peacock plumes attached at the quarter. Classy. Some of you thought these were the prettiest things since Eve’s kicky little figleaf number and some of you who apparently HADN’T been huffing extraordinary quantities of glue/spray paint/some other brain damaging chemical offered a host of entertaining scenarios wherein those sparkly purple monstrosities would be suitable attire.

Today I offer you this confection.

I’ve gone on record before as saying I wish I’d worn something ridiculous and frivolous to my high school prom, because as one ages, one’s ability to dress like a disco-crazy rainbow fish emerging majestically from a sea of LSD-infused lemon meringue without a twinge of irony becomes greatly diminished. Sad.

Still, when I came across this, uh, subtle piece of evening wear, I thought it would make a great second entry to our Whisky Tango Foxtrot featurette.

You know the drill. Give me a situation wherein this would be a totally appropriate outfit. Just to make it more challenging, no submissions may refer to Las Vegas OR The Little Mermaid. Too easy.

Have at it and next week I’ll post my favorite submissions!

Hey gang, in a continuing theme of bringing back favorite features, it’s time to find out What Miss Plumcake is:

(more…)

You know, it’s been a long little while since we’ve jump-started the week with some old-fashioned hotness and frankly, I’m not okay with that.

In a way, you have a gas station attendant in Ensenada to thank for what we are about to receive.

Yesterday, the fella and I decided to take a daytrip south of the little port city to avail ourselves of the fresh mountain air, see La Bufadora (purportedly the second biggest blowhole in North America), check out a potential relocation spot for Villa Plumcake and –fingers crossed– watch some jerkface surfers get eaten by sharks.

Disappointingly, the local great whites must’ve given up jerkface for Lent, and having grown up inside the Washington D.C. Beltway I can attest that not only is La Bufadora NOT the second biggest blowhole in North America, it wasn’t even the second biggest blowhole on my street. Still, the air was great, the mountains resplendent and the ocean view was well worth (okay, almost well worth) the disappointment of not seeing any great white gore fests.

Of course neither of us could focus on the air, mountain, blowhole or lack of shark-related brutality because we were too busy trying to remember the name of Barcelona’s dishy (okay, only I called him dishy) goalkeeper after seeing his doppeltwinsy pumping gas at a roadside fuel-and-taco emporium. This went on for three hours.

The keeper in question was, of course, young miss Victor Valdes.

I’ve got to be honest here, he’s never really steamed my tamale. Sure, he’s a good-looking fella, but his smolder is so self-satisfied that it leapfrogs straight over Sexy and lands in Unintentionally Hilarious Homoerotic Meathead.

e.g.:

P.S. I really hope the stylist put those back in Depeche Mode’s “Personal Jesus”video before Dave Gahan slaps someone silly.

Then I started thinking, in the way I so often do, about my favorite goal keepers. As it turns out Valdes, despite being considered one of the world’s best boys in the box (shut your mouth!) was only #3 behind Pepe Reina and Saint Iker for Ethpana’s 2010 World Cup national team.

Oh Pepe.

As any Liverpool fan will say, or more appropriately sing (to the tune of Guantanamera) “One Pepe Reina. There’s only one Pepe Reina.”

but wouldn’t it be nice if there were several?

If Victor Valdes is the guy at the bachelorette party you make your friends SWEAR never to mention again, second-generation goalkeeping legend Pepe Reina is the guy you marry and have a half-dozen athletically gifted children with, all while praying they get your hairline.

A lovable goofball, Reina was described as both the best dancer in the Liverpool Football Club and, much more interestingly, “the longest in the shower” on more than one occasion.

Of course we couldn’t mention the prince and the queen (Reina means Queen in Spanish) without taking a moment for Sara “If This Boob Job Doesn’t Convince You I’m a Serious Journalist I Don’t Know What Will” Carbonero’s infinitely better half,  Real Madrid keeper and captain of the World Cup-winning Spanish National Team, Iker Casillas.

We’ve featured Saint Iker on The Monday Hotness before, but just as a little refresher, here’s a teensy taste of why it’s a bad idea to throw something at a person who catches flying objects for a living.

I’ve said it before: Competence is so sexy.

When I lived in Texas, I almost never ate traditional Texan food. Now that I’m in Mexico where I have lengthy and ultimately fruitless (see what I did there) discussions on what is and is not a green tomato –No, that’s a tomatillo. Okay, see what you just handed me? That is ALSO a tomatillo– I find myself cooking soul food and Texas cuisine on a regular, bordering obsessive, basis.

Part of it is the joy of introducing people to your favorite foods. Hot Latin Boy has recently fallen for shrimp and grits, biscuits and gravy and gin and tonics, all in a big way and I couldn’t be more proud.

The other part is the comfort of the familiar.

Living in Texas I would never bother to make my own barbecue unless I wanted some Tennessee-style pulled pork because there’s no point in smoking your own brisket when half of God’s Own BBQ Joints are within a 40 minute drive.

(These are the four most famous pit stops in Lockhart, Texas; ground zero for great Texas bbq. I am and always shall be a Smitty’s girl)

In the spirit of friendship and smoked meat, I am throwing a Texas Independence Day party for a dozen or so of my Mexican friends on Saturday and the menu will feature a proper Texas brisket smoked for 12 hours, potato salad, cowboy beans, deviled eggs, homemade smushy white bread, pickled onions and, incongruously, Bananas Foster.

Bananas Foster? Isn’t that a New Orleans thing?

Yes. Yes it is.

Originally it was going to be the much more traditional banana puddings, complete with low rent Nilla wafers and luscious pillows of boozy whipped cream (ideally it would be my blue ribbon-winning brownie pecan pie, but I can’t find pecans here for love nor money), but I made the mistake of introducing the locals to the flambeed delight earlier this week. The response was so orgiastically enthusiastic, I worried for the sanctity of my tablecloth. Now I’m pretty sure if I ended the party Foster-less I’d quickly find myself in a new, short-lived career as a great white canape for great white sharks.

So what about you? If you were in a foreign land and asked to serve the food of your people, what would your menu be?

So okay, you know how yesterday I said I’d have a mess of Tadashi Shoji for you guys because they offer off-the-rack gowns in plus sizes that resemble the customized ones they did for Octavia Spencer?

Well it’s true, they do, EXCEPT where we are in the formalwear season –the winter party season is over and the summer party season won’t kick up until May– the pickings are a little thin on the ground at the moment. Still, I’ve managed to pluck a few lovelies suitable for bigger frames and am offering them for your delectation and delight right now.

Yeah I know, this is going to take a tall woman to pull off, but I also know I’ve got some fellow amazons who read this blog. Octavia Spencer wore a similar feathered skirt with a crisp white menswear-inspired shirt over it. I don’t think it was executed that well because she’s such a wee thing, but I can definitely see this with a tuxedo shirt worn open and tied cowgirl style at the waist to be a way to do high fashion formal without looking stuffy. There’s no elegance better than effortless elegance, and the insouciance of the shirt would make this look fantastic (and can you even imagine the enormous necklace opportunities?)

This dress is gold. It doesn’t look gold, it looks like a sort of anemic wheat bread color here, but trust me, it is a pale, dusted gold and dazzles –not in the Vegas way, don’t worry– in person. This is the most recognizable Tadashi cut and if you pop onto the site you’ll see many variations of this dress with long sleeves, cap sleeves, cocktail length and in various neutral (why? why can’t we have an emerald green or a potiron orange?) colors.

Next up are two cocktail dresses. I believe the first one with the wide scoop neck has made its appearance before on these hallowed pages, but it deserves a second chance. It’s great for pretty much all of the plus-size body shapes except those of us who have extremely broad shoulders but an itty bitty set of hips. Other than that, it doesn’t matter if you’re apple, pear, eggplant, turnip, artichoke or whatever (I made those last two up) it’s going to work like gangbusters on your body.

The lace dress overlay dress, actually reminds me of what Prada was doing a few years ago and McQueen did shortly thereafter, a sort of severe lace. It’s softened up –and was softened even more for the dress we saw on Ms Spencer yesterday which looks like a number of everyone’s favorite Kiyonna dresses– but still gives you some sophisticated edge, where most lace dresses are all about romance and sex appeal. I highly approve.

I went back and forth on this one because at first it looked like a shapeless Formal Fatty Tent. Upon closer examination,

I’ve determined this could be a godsend for those who carry their weight in their stomachs, especially high in the stomach.

The cage sleeve (you’ll have to zoom to appreciate the work) covers the bust and creates a bit of a waist in case you don’t travel with your own and the gathering on the bust looks like it’s pinned in two different directions so you get a nice cascade effect instead of Random Bunch of Material.

Oh, and for those folks who say you don’t have any place to wear them: FIND places to wear them.

Even if you live in the stickiest of sticks, there’s always opening night of the opera in the closest city, benefits…whatever. I’ve always said “Free your closet and your ass will follow” and I honestly believe it’s true. Just like you’re supposed to dress for the job you want, shop for the life you want. You’ll be amazed at what happens.