I’m a pretty tech savvy gal. I make my living on the internet. I can program a thermostat. I own a whole slew, possible two slews, of items that require AA batteries…so why do I feel like someone needs to hand me my ear trumpet and goiter ointment each time I attempt to understand Twitter?

I remember David Mitchell, the fantastic British comedian from Peep Show and a whole mess of hilarious radio panel games, explained why he didn’t like the little bluebird of chattiness: “I don’t like to give away jokes for free.”
Of course, at the moment the verified David Mitchell twitterfeed has just under 4000 tweets, but in his defense, almost none of them are funny.

Still, I understand the sentiment.

As I always say, I’m good at two things in the world, and writing’s the one I can charge for.

I don’t get paid for the @MissPlumcake Twitter account, nor do I for the MftBG Facebook page and let’s be honest here: I’ve only got so much wit and charm in me, if I use all of it without benefit of that gorgeous filthy lucre, I’m going to be living under a bridge eating the crumbs out of a homeless man’s beard and making fart jokes for a dime by the time I’m 35 because I used up all the funny 140 royalty-free characters at a time.

The protocol also confuses me.

There doesn’t seem to be an agreed-upon number of tweets a day that hits the magic spot of engaging the doofuses suggestible enough to follow me most wonderful and alluring people in the world, without turning them off via supersaturation or inanity.

I don’t want to be one of those people who only tweets for self-promotion, because those people are just Marketing Machines, and any machine that doesn’t make something cleaner, younger or less hairy when it’s done is not a machine for me.

On the other hand, there are the hyper-verbal tweeters and that results in the dreaded Live Blog. **shudder**

The Live Blog is something like Chinese Water Torture, but without the benefits of hydration, wherein someone decides to share the thrilling action of say, their cat taking a nap on the radiator AS IT UNFOLDS so when I log on to see what my pals have been doing I get three hundred posts from the same yahoo saying:

ZOMGLOL, Mister Mittens is totes sleeping on the radiator. So cute.
11:00 a.m.

Mister Mittens is the mayor of snugglebunny junction, here’s an instagram no one wants to see.
11:01 a.m.

I’m going to knit a sweater out of Mister Mittens’ ittie bittie kitteh hairs. Here’s a Ravelry pattern no self-respecting adult who has ever had sex or ever hopes to have sex in the future should ever admit to seeing, much less knowing about. Oh, and it probably has an owl. Or a moustache. Or an owl WITH a moustache. Jerks.

11:02 a.m.

MISTR MTTN STILL SLPN LOL.
11:03 a.m.

Random Stephen Fry retweet
11:04 a.m.

Viral video everyone saw two weeks ago. Probably ALSO involving kittens.
11:05 a.m.

OMFG MISTER MITTENS IS STILL ASLEEP #UKNOWURCATSASLEEPWHEN
11:06 a.m.

Sorry y’all, fail whale! Guess whoz still snorning?!
11:08 a.m.

And so on and so forth until my brain oozes out of my ears and leaves permanent stains on my brand new angora cardigan.

These people must be stopped. And the pathological retweeters, and the hot Bulgarian babes horny love for max gentlemans and dear GOD the knitters.

In conclusion, I’m going to keep tweeting, BUT I’M NOT HAPPY ABOUT IT.

…and you kids get offa my lawn!

Good morning my little muskrats of love, how’s every little thing? Miss Plumcake is up to her teacups this week getting ready a very special month-long feature which will kick off on Black Friday and run all the way through Christmas. But until then let’s find out What Miss Plumcake is…

Reading: Passionista by Ian Kerner PhD. A girl’s gotta keep on top of her game. The most thoughtful, least cringe-inducing practical guide to intimacy I’ve found.

Watching: The Graduate. I’m so not saying anything else about this right now.

Hearing:The Way I See It by Raphael Saadiq. Modern babymakin’ music in the grand Motown style. John Legend will get it done, but Raphael Saadiq will give you twins!

Smelling: 21 by Costume National a luxurious spiced milk bath in an 19th century opium den. Not especially complex, but unusual and sexy.

Loving: The return of the non-suicidal heel. About time, too! I love the slightly Edwardian feel of these kitten heels from All Black. Also? Eel!

Hating: Special K Protein Water Mix. I don’t generally go for this sort of thing, but a girl can always use more protein so I caved. Big mistake. This is gross with a capital GRRRR.

Wanting: Alexander McQueen Knuckle Box – The perfect combination of formal and violent. The only way this could be more “me” is if it came with a flask and a Book of Common Prayer.

Buying: Stabby Statement Necklace. Okay it’s not really called “stabby” but I love necklaces like this because it’s such a contrast against the softness of the decollete. Pieces like work especially well on big girls because it balances out our over-the-top lushness.

and that’s British slang for “that is, like, major suckitude!”

Here I was, all ready to present to you a multi-faceted, multi-pictured, multi-product post that would, if not gain widespread acclaim would at least cause a few snarky comments and YAY! Pageview bonus! and WordPress went and ate it.

In its place, we bring you the following observation: that shopping online for pants is … pants. Because all pants look exactly alike online:

Exhibit A: $698 Zenobia Slim Crepe Pants from Saks:

Exhibit B: $178 Eileen Fisher Stretch Crepe Pants, also from Saks:

Well, okay, these look different, but we don’t have to discuss them, do we?

You know, I’ve gotta say, I’ve just never been all that crazy about the whole Dove “Real Beauty” campaign. I remember back in college –this was way back in 1999 when the earth was still cooling– seeing some Dove ad and going…”Wait, so I’m supposed to be good with my body but also buy their anti-cellulite cream? Huh?”

See I was perusing Zelda Lily the other day and saw their story about how Dove ran this little ad in Craigslist (the emphasis is mine):

DOVE “REAL WOMEN” PRINT CASTING JUNE 28-30, 2010 in NYC ABSOLUTELY NO ACTRESSES / MODELS OR REALITY SHOW PARTICIPANTS or ANY ONE CARRYING A HEADSHOT!!!! REAL WOMEN ONLY! LOOKING FOR 3-4 REAL WOMEN for a DOVE PRINT CAMPAIGN!

AGES 35-45, CAUCASIAN, HISPANIC, AFRICAN AMERICAN, & ASIAN!

SHOOT: SUNDAY, JULY 18 in NYC! MUST BE AVAILABLE FOR THE SHOOT!
RATE: $500 for Shoot date & if selected for Ad Campaign (running 2011) you will be paid $4000!
USAGE: 3 years unlimited print & web usage in N. America Only

YOU WILL BE PHOTOGRAPHED FOR THE CAMPAIGN IN A TOWEL!
BEAUTIFUL ARMS AND LEGS AND FACE WILL BE SHOWN!

MUST HAVE FLAWLESS SKIN, NO TATTOOS OR SCARS!
Well groomed and clean…Nice Bodies..NATURALLY, FIT Not too
Curvy Not too Athletic.

Great Sparkling Personalities. Beautiful Smiles! A DOVE GIRL!!!
STYLISH AND COOL!
Beautiful HAIR & SKIN is a MUST!!!

PLEASE SUBMIT SNAPSHOTS of FACE & BODY ASAP & WE WILL CALL YOU IN FOR A CASTING NEXT WEEK 6/28-6/30 in NYC!
urbanproddovecasting@gmail.com

And you know, all those things are totally fine…for a model casting call. What grates my cheese is this whole tiresome anti-model thing. Really? So you don’t want models, you just want someone who looks like a model?

Oh, and please note you have to have a “Flawless Skin” and a “Nice Body…NATURALLY” because none of us have stretchmarks or scars naturally. Not from doing things like, oh I don’t know, having a baby.
Hitting puberty. Punching yourself in the face repeatedly in an effort to unread stupid casting calls from delusional companies? You know, natural stuff. Oh and you must be well-groomed, because I’m naturally follicle-free anyplace south of my eyelashes, aren’t you?

Also, you can’t be “too curvy” because Curvy = Fat and remember it is still not okay to be capital F Fat. You can be model fat –a size 10– or you can be Self-Congratulatory Token Fat –up to a size 14, maybe 16 if you’re quirky– but you can’t be a pretty size 18, 20, 22, 24 girl. Nope. Because that’s not natural. Oh, and you can’t be naturally thin either, so all you girls who got made fun of and called beanpole, or have people make snide comments about you “needing a sandwich” can just forget about it too, because your beauty isn’t “real.” It’s not natural. And if you’re not one of those previously-mentioned races?

Don’t even bother.

I think this sort of undercover discrimination is way more insidious than any high fashion over-photoshopped editorial spread featuring some 15 year-old Ukrainian girl in a $20,000 gown and a
glitter-crusted bear trap sitting on on a diving board in the middle of a pool of tapioca, because that is clearly an editorial thing. I’ve never been to Ukraine, but I am fairly secure in saying there is probably a relative paucity of haute couture gowns and athletic centers willing to be overrun by delicious manioc-based desserts.

I really wouldn’t care at all if Dove had shown a little intellectual honesty and just posted a model casting call for women between sizes 6 and 12 with flawless skin and beautiful hair and whatever else they wanted. It’s this “oh we’re so above models” nonsense that drives me up the wall. You want a specific look, and you’re defining that look –and very pointedly excluding others– and calling it “Real Beauty.”

Whatever, Dove. You can keep your trademarked Real Beauty. I’ll keep my natural scars, my natural stretch marks and my natural good sense. Now all I need is a flight to Ukraine. I want tapioca.

Friends, I see a lot of bad shoes.

Some are just ugly by virtue of production and design, some are ugly merely because looks aren’t job #1 (or even job #200) and those? Those are fine. I have no beef with shoes that are ugly as a byproduct of comfort, because they don’t pretend to be anything but comfort shoes.

However, once in a great while, a truly spectacularly bad shoe will separate itself from the pack of the tacky and cheap and soar like a bedazzled eagle to the absolute heights of spectacularly made, terrifically ill-conceived fug that makes my very soul tremble.

That shoe is then awarded the highly-coveted Ferby Gallini Ugly Shoe Award, affectionately known as The Golden Uggo, so named after two of my very favorite people whose particular footwear aesthetic happens to be somewhere between “clown with a head injury” and “mmm, that’s some good toad lickin’!”

Ladies and gentlemen, without further adieu, I give you the 2010 winner of the Ferby Gallini Ugly Shoe award for excellence in wretched bad taste:

No. Don’t speak. Just bask in its glory.

Oh, and check out the other pictures. It’ll answer your burning question “Is the mighty eagle’s beak covered in rhinestones like the world’s angriest discoball?” but then again, I think you know the answer to that.

I know what you all are thinking: It’s the beginning of Shoe Month, so obviously Miss Plumcake (who is looking even more radiant –almost luminous– than usual, if you do say so yourself) is going to start us out with a truly fabulous kick.

And that, my gorgeous little howler monkeys, is where you’d be wrong.

Today we’re going to start Shoe Month with THIS (imagine a great unveiling, possibly with doves and smoke):

This, my friends, is some seriously bad shoe.

Let me tell you a little story about when I was but a wee bairn. There were two things I truly loved: milk and pickles.  So one day, with the infinite wisdom of a six year old, I poured the entire jar of pickle brine into a half gallon of milk. For some reason I didn’t try it myself, and when my father poured it on his cereal well…I don’t think I need to finish this story, do I?

The Dolce Vita “Kade” sandal is available at Zappos and is available for purchase (possibly as a trick to play on your enemies) for $127. Pickle juice and milk not included

Did someone ask for more Grand National photos?

First of all I think we need to applaud this girl.  Yes, it’s a bad dress without the benefit of being interesting BUT look at her bust.

That is one masterfully wrangled rack.

As opposed to this:

MUCH better dress, totally ruined by the lack of a bra.  Here’s the deal:  I am not overly endowed in the chest department –I’m a respectable but not over-enthusiastic C– and what I do have doesn’t move much courtesy of  Plumcake family genetics. While standing up I don’t even pass the pencil test, so I totally understand the temptation to go sans boulderholder.

BUT I DON’T because I know nothing can ruin an outfit as fast as the wrong undergarments. Also, unless otherwise directed, hats should be worn down low over the eyebrow.

Okay, time for a little trip to truthville:  if you do this, you look like trash.  I know that’s an ugly thing to say and normally I’d try to beat around the bust (I meant to say bush, but it’s a funny slip so I’ll keep it) and be a little more subtle but seriously, nothing riles me more than big girls in ridiculous platter-o-boob corsets (this dovetails nicely with one of the many reasons I hate Renaissance festivals too, which in my experience might as well be called Uglye Girls Gettynge Their Tits Out Faire).  I mean couldn’t you just wear a t-shirt saying “Please value me for the one part of my body that’s socially acceptable?” it’d certainly be more comfortable, and not any less blatant.

/soapbox

Not that it’s any better on slimmer girls, although with this one at least they’re well-contained. Also,  I don’t know who this woman is but I know where to find her.  I DO like her hat though.

Pasty women of England:  I have been from El Paso to Texarkana and places that aren’t even IN Texas and I can tell you after this exhaustive research: Orange is not a person color, and while I love hot pink and orange together IN THEORY, I’m not sure it really works when the orange in question is your skin.  On the other hand (see what I did there), I LOVE that awful butterfly ring, and would wear it in a heartbeat.

This? Not so much:

A maribou shrug? Really? It’s like what the secretly gay quarterback (and they’re ALL secretly gay) would wear under his jersey for the big home game. And can we FINALLY get on board with the idea that most fascinators look stupid on women? Because they do. They’re like the square-tipped French manicures of hair.

Oh. Oh honey. I…that’s…wow…ruffles.  And bleach.  And Orange. And…I don’t even have the strength. It’s like the coral reef died of peroxide poisoning and took up residence on your top.

And finally I will leave you with an outfit I know some of you would love and wear (probably the same people who are going to yell at me about renn fests being full of ugly girls) and I’ll admit it: This could be a lot worse. Oh, I still think it’s bad, and her hair is tragiculous, but I don’t HATE the fascinator on her, and at least she’s mostly covered and not BRIGHT orange.