No, this will not be an ode to The Sound of Music. It won’t even be an ode to Julie Andrews, despite the fact that I find her a lot more inspirational overall than any Rogers and Hammerstein musical. This is more about looking around and opening up my own private box of awesome and encouraging all of you to do the same.

There’s a lot in the world to be angry about, or depressed about. Heck, I’ve merrily pointed some of them out to you. I will again. There’s a lot to be done before the world can accept a bunch of fat, happy women out being amazing without spontaneously combusting.

But if we wait for all of them to be ready, not one of us will enjoy our fat happitude, and that would be just plain stupid and wasteful of us. We are not stupid. We are not… well, not all of us are wasteful. We certainly aren’t going to waste our own fabulous just because there are some deeply confused people out there who wring their hands in anguish at the thought of our existence, let alone our refusal to wallow in the shame they try to heap on us.

So every once in a while I like to get all Little Mary Sunshine on their cabooses and celebrate cool stuff that I enjoy. In public. With a big ol’ grin on my face. What things might these be? I’m so glad you asked.

(more…)

Howdy gang! I have returned from my two glorious weeks of vacation in Virginia and am ready to hop right back in with both immaculately-shod feet.

I’d bore you with the details of my little holiday, but the interesting parts aren’t for family television (if you know what I mean, and I think you do) and the boring parts are well, kinda boring. I mean, not boring to ME but I don’t have a television so the realization that there was an ENTIRE CHANNEL devoted to Proper Football was like that moment I discovered gin or Jesus. I basically spent an entire week watching Premier League and swearing at Wayne “Angry Eyes” Rooney for being such a total tool. Except not because tools are actually useful UNLIKE YOU, MISTER GIMPY ANKLE POTATO HEAD.

/bitter

Anyhoodle, I was bopping around my favorite blogs and came across an outstanding entry from the always entertaining Ari Seth Cohen (and can we even TALK about how cute he is? If I were a boy I’d totally kiss him) at Advanced Style.

I truly can’t say enough about Advanced Style because it’s just that good. I hate that I didn’t come up with the idea myself. It’s exactly what real style, perfectly translated is all about. Not that I don’t appreciate The Scott Schuman Sartorialist and his ilk with carefully disheveled Bright Young Things, but it’s easy to look fabulous when you’re a 22 year-old with six miles of leg and cheekbones that could cut glass. They’re fashion plates and that’s fine, but fashion is boring unless you have style and Mr Cohen’s subjects have style in spades, diamonds, moons, clovers and little marshmallow rainbows.

Plus you get gems like this, from 98 year-old Rose:

Here are Roses’ top ten beauty and lifestyle secrets on how to look and feel great at 98

5. No need to use expensive moisturizers, Rose swears by Oil of Olay which she has been using for decades.

read the rest here, and bookmark it, love it and commit it to memory!

Friends,  I had kind of a sucky weekend. You know, the type where you sit in the dark listening to The Smiths longer than is probably strictly healthy and you’re fairly sure you’ll never be happy again and it’s just gonna be you and Mozzer sitting in a room together staring at each other until one of you actually dies from misanthropy.  You guys do that too, right? Right?

Usually when I have a sucky weekend, I don’t check my email because 99% of it comes from PR reps who are trying to convince to care about a whole lot of things I don’t even know about (What is a Jwow?) and your normal spam of Nigerian princes in seek of bank information and Ukrainian girls bending over and frankly I’m too delicate a petal to deal with that even when I’m feeling my normal chipper self. I definitely can’t hang when Truffaut films are speaking to me on any emotional level.

So it was with fear and trembling I opened an email from Beloved Reader Kylie.  I’m going to reprint it here in its entirety:

I wanted to share something that I think the plus-sized community needs to hear:

I have been plus sized since I was about 14 years old and NOT ONCE that I can remember has anyone so much as said ANYTHING negative about me pertaining to my size.  Boys have always been attracted me, girls have always been nice to me and my friends and family have always totally supportive of me in every way.  I have had my own self-esteem battles as anyone does, regardless of their size, but I have found I have more self-confidence in my appearance than my skinnier friends.  I decided long ago that whatever size I was (currently a 22/24) that I would do my hardest to not only love and accept myself for exactly who I am, but to be a confident woman who dresses and carries herself in the same way that any slender girl would, and I truly believe that this mindset has made all the difference for me.

My boyfriend of three years absolutely adores my Entire being and body completely.

Almost everyone I know has positively commented on the way that I look, and not only just my outfits.

No one has ever made me feel bad about myself in any way, shape or form and I have a feeling that I am in the minority in this, and on one hand it makes me feel sad that other curvy girls out there have had more difficulties with their size and how people react to them, but on the other hand, I feel completely blessed.  I have never been treated with anything but respect and kindness and I wanted to let people know that being a larger woman does not always mean that you have to fight adversity because I have never had any adversity to face.

I truly hope that I am not the only plus-sized woman out there who has had this experience, and I hope that I will hear that others too have been supported and loved for every inch and pound of themselves exactly for who they are and how they look just as I have.

Sincerely,

Kylie

This is something I’ve struggled with because my experiences generally have matched Kylie’s. I won’t say I’ve never been made to feel bad, but it has been extremely rare. What I HAVE experienced, however, is other girls who haven’t been as fortunate as Kylie and I, who try to convince me that in fact, I HAVE been treated as badly as they have but I’m not noticing it (and thus the inference that people are laughing at me and I’m too stupid to get the joke). This is particularly true of girls who once were fat and no longer are.

Now, I’m going to be intellectually honest and say that it is a possibility that despite being hyperaware of how people perceive me and borderline obsessed with the image I present and how it’s received, that in my thirty-one years of life I have been completely oblivious to all but a very few examples of the ugly, hateful and all-pervasive anti-fat bias at play around me.

But honestly I don’t think that’s what it is, and I’m so, SO glad to hear from Kylie because now I know although I might be in the minority, at least it’s not a minority of one.

Have people made fun of me because of my size? Sure, probably. Who cares? Have guys that I’ve thought were cute not been attracted to me (as unfathomable as that is) because of my size? Quite possibly. But you know, them’s the breaks. If some guy isn’t attracted to me because I’m fat that’s not any worse or more offensive than me not being attracted to him because he’s got spindly legs.

It’s preference, not persecution.

I think we create more problems for ourselves when we project our own insecurities onto other people’s actions (yeah I know, novel idea, right?) so when a woman who once was fat and insecure becomes less fat and less insecure, all of the sudden people who our girl felt were giving meaningful glares when she ordered the pasta instead of the side salad are now just people in a restaurant whom she may or may not notice.

If some passing girl gives me the stinkeye because I’m fat, who cares?

Lord knows I wouldn’t leave the house looking like 75% of the women I see for one reason or another. It doesn’t mean anything. I’m not going to treat them like less of  a person, I’m just going to hate their shoes. And honestly, that’s fine. I don’t need to like them and they don’t need to like me. It’s not like after the random disapproving girl rings up my groceries we’re going to go home, French braid eachother’s hair, have a slow motion bra-and-panties tickle fight and practice making out.   She’s going to ring up my criminally overpriced olive bar purchase and we’ll move on with our collective lives. C’est tout.

I’d like to hear from both sides of the aisle on this one. Has your experience been more like Kylie’s or less?

Okay, so PERHAPS I got a little worked up about yesterday’s shoe and the snake-related family trauma it evoked (although how cute was it that my little brother made a guest appearance in defense of the snakes?). It’s time for a palate cleanser, taking the best of Monday’s disco inferno and combining it with the old school elegance of exotic skins.

siiiiiiigh

These? These are the Ones That Got Away.

I mean, this is pretty much everything I love in a shoe for me me me. Solid heel, crocodile –technically it’s calf, but it’s a really good treatment– a platform, a heel cup, ankle strap, pretty pretty jewelry and emeralds! (almost!)

I would buy them just for the ornament.

I know I make fun of Giuseppe Zanotti for making some really bad shoes, but these are right up my alley, in my wheelhouse and singing me lullabies.

they’re not inexpensive, but I’d sell a kidney (well, not my OWN kidney, but how much can a roofie and sixteen bags of ice cost, anyway?) to even have the chance to buy them at retail, much less at 43%  off.

It’s always seemed unfair to me that the definitive version of Lena Horne‘s signature song “Stormy Weather” wasn’t recorded by Lena Horne. I knew Stormy Weather was associated with Horne from her movie of the same name, but to me, The Great Recording had always been Etta James‘ version off her seminal 1961 release At Last!.

A few days ago I sent out an email to a whole mess of music writer friends –either critics or musicians– and asked them who cut the definitive recording of Stormy Weather. Out of two dozen, only two said Lena Horne. Number one with a bullet was Etta James, followed by Dinah Washington, Billie Holiday and Ella Fitzgerald. Interestingly, no one mentioned Ethel Waters, for whom the song was written in 1933.

Lena Horne wasn’t a truly great actress, her voice was wonderful but nothing compared to Ella or Billie or Dinah. What she had was passion. She was ferocious in a wonderful, wild way that seemed to simmer just below the surface, as if a thin veneer of sequins and self control was the only thing keeping her from eviscerating you with her teeth, not because she was wicked, but because that’s just what wild things do.

For whatever her shortcomings were as a vocalist –and often said she hated to sing– her energy in a cabaret or theater setting was legendary. I remember watching her at the Kennedy Center when she reprised her Broadway hit, Lena Horne: The Lady and Her Music…she must’ve been about 70 at the time and shook down practically to the floor in her slinky floor-length gown.

“Yeah, Lena” she purred “but can you get back up?”

So today we celebrate Lena Horne, actress, cabaret star, civil rights activist, fascinating multi-faceted woman and ultimate Fierceness.

–”Don’t be afraid to feel as angry or as loving as you can, because when you feel nothing, it’s just death. ”

–”I’m not alone, I’m free. I no longer have to be a credit, I don’t have to be a symbol to anybody; I don’t have to be a first to anybody.”

–”Always be smarter than the people who hire you.” (editor’s note: unless the people who hire you happen to be the lovely and handsome Manolo. Gosh you’re looking dapper today, Boss!)

–”It’s not the load that breaks you down: It’s the way that you carry it.”

–”You have to be taught to be second class; you’re not born that way.”

–”I really do hate to sing.”

–”I was unique in that I was a kind of black that white people could accept. I was their daydream. I had the worst kind of acceptance because it was never for how great I was or what I contributed. It was because of the way I looked.”

–”It’s ill-becoming for an old broad to sing about how bad she wants it. But occasionally we do.”

There’s been something in the air of late. The first inkling I got was when my esteemed colleague wrote about how to take a compliment, already. And seriously, if you haven’t read it go do so right now. It’s a wonderful and important article we all should read.

But then I saw this post on Shapely Prose, which should also be required reading. Warning, the language is far saltier there than it is here. We are PG, SP is hard R. Just so’s you know what you’re getting yourself in for. And this isn’t the only place I’ve seen this concept. It’s starting to float around the Fatosphere in a big way, and I – for one – am completely in favor of it.

If you haven’t gone to see what the concept is, it happens to be standing up to be counted as brilliant at something, no apologies.

So here are a few things that make me, Twistie, pretty darn fabulous:

I’m a terrific self-taught cook and baker. In over forty years of baking, I have never made a bad pie crust. I can put together a good meal out of unlikely resources. If you come to Casa Twistie, chances are you will not leave hungry.

Over the course of the last three years or so, I have overcome my lifelong phobia of dogs. No longer do I quail in the face of corgis. Not only that, I have been adopted by my neighbor’s chihuahua and another friends’ tribe of rotts. I still approach strange dogs with caution, but the sight of a perfectly well-behaved small dog on a short leash no longer fills me with such panic that I have to cross the street.

Cats and small children instinctively trust me.

I taught myself to make bobbin lace and made all eleven yards of lace for my own wedding gown.

I can find the upside or the funny in almost any situation, and get the joke across to someone else.

I come up with quips and aphorisms off the top of my head that people assume were written by someone famous.

I have had people literally stop me in public places to tell me how fabulous I am. You can’t ask for better proof of awesome than that, can you?

When I sing out loud, I can be heard half a block away without benefit of a microphone.

So what about all of you? I want you to come right out and tell me what’s so special about you, and I want it without quibbles, apologies, or caveats. Be proud of yourselves.

As I mentioned yesterday is has been raining in Austin for the past three days, which is like a year and a half in Texas time, and since the Volvo is in the shop I have been partaking in the varied smells and delights of public transportation.

Now you’d think I would be anti-bus, what with me hating poor people and the environment and all, but you would be wrong; I heart the bus.

See, deep down (okay, not that deep down) I’m one of those Southerners who will have a conversation with anybody about anything (as long as it’s decent) and there are few things that give me more delight than asking how someone’s mama is.  Sometimes I ask even if I don’t really know the person, because they won’t know they haven’t said anything and odds are if you live in the South, you will ALWAYS have a story about your mama.

So that part of the bus is awesome, as is getting exercise first thing in the morning.  The part I do not relish is getting caught in the rain.

One might suspect that a girl who collects silk umbrellas wouldn’t get caught without one very often. Well, one would be wrong. Sometimes I’ll remember to take an umbrella, but odds are I’ll leave it somewhere.  If the homeless citizenry of Austin have, on average, a posher collection of parapluies  than the average city it’s mostly because I have personally bumbershot them all myself.  See also: Ray-Ban Classic Wayfarers (in tortoiseshell, if you please).

That being said, if you DO get caught in the rain there is an excellent life lesson to be learned (and it’s not “stop forgetting your stupid umbrella, you dingdong.”)

Walk gracefully in the rain.

I know, I know, it doesn’t make any sense, but trust me. Shoulders back, head up (like that little neck scrunch is going to do a darn thing to keep you dry anyway) determined –or at least not miserable– look and purposeful steps.

The moral of the story is this:

If you can walk with dignity in the rain, you can walk with dignity anywhere.

You can walk with dignity when you’ve been entirely humiliated by an ex-boyfriend, you can walk with dignity when you’ve been turned down for a promotion or laid off. You can walk with dignity even if you’ve just show the publisher of your newspaper your rear-end (festooned with Laundry Day Undies) because it’s the ONE FREAKIN’  DAY you forgot to wear a slip. You can walk with dignity and command a room before you even open your mouth if you’re called on to make a speech, and for safety reasons, you can walk with dignity down a dark street at night and make potential baddies think twice about messing with you.

How many of us really pay attention to our walks? And yet they say so much. Remember that scene in Pretty Woman when Julia Roberts lopes like a linebacker through the hotel lobby? Or Mister Humphries adorable mince in Are You Being Served?  What about John Wayne in pretty much everything? Just as much –perhaps more– than clothing, your walk defines how people see you and what’s better: it doesn’t cost a dime.
And for a little added tuition in the ambulatory arts, let’s hear from Professor Lux Interior and the rest of The Cramps playing The Way I Walk, live at Napa State Mental Hospital, 1978.