Happiest of humpdays, friends and lovers!

First of all, great big globs of appreciation go out to everyone who helped with my query yesterday.  I think the easiest plan of action is to bring her a dress that’s very similar to the one I want –albeit with a slightly different neckline– and have her copy that. I’m also up to my ears in fantastic fabrics, so I’m not sure whether to curse or kiss each one of you.

But my love/hate relationship with cotton lawn is not why you’re here. No, you’re coming for the Whisky and staying for the Tango Foxtrot.

I’m not going to lie: If these Sophie Gittins offerings were court shoes instead of peep-toed shbooties I would probably actually like them and, were they on serious sale, I might even add them to the Advanced Fashion Novelty division of the Plumcake Permanent Collection.

Don’t judge me.

But they’re not, so I won’t.

(you’re still judging me, aren’t you?)

What I WILL do is ask you for the situation where these shoes would be the only possible solution to your wardrobe emergency. I’ll be awarding extra points to anyone who includes references to Apocalypse Now or, for my fellow classicists, Heart of Darkness. No “The Horror” though…too easy.

Oh man please don’t let Eloquii suck.

So remember back in the day when The Limited owned Lane Bryant and for a couple years in the early noughties (yeah I hate calling them that too) when you could walk into Lane Bryant and come out with clothes that lasted more than one season, might’ve had some naturally occurring fibers and weren’t covered with random flaccid ruffles/metallic screenprints/shoddily adhered sequins and sometimes things even had sleeves? Plus you didn’t have to mortgage your house to buy a pair of underwear?

Man, those were heady days my friends.

I’m not saying Lane Bryant doesn’t still occasionally knock it out of the plus-size park, but I have some dear friends –who shall remain nameless since they are under the employ of Charming Shoppes– who straight-out admitted the quality of the average Lane Bryant product has dropped to what one friend calls “Just above Old Navy” while the average price per unit creeps ever higher. Sigh. ‘Twas always thus.

SO this is why I’m super excited about Eloquii, the new and confusingly vowel-heavy plus size line from The Limited.

I haven’t ordered anything from them yet but I am very encouraged to see a thoughtful mix of trend pieces and classics designed for actual adults to wear to their actual jobs and in their actual lives and although you can’t tell right now, I’m typing with all my fingers and toes crossed with the girlish and perhaps naive hope that Eloquii will fill the gap in plus size ready-to-wear between slouching-towards-bargain-bin Lane Bryant and lines like Lafayette 148 New York, which are fantastic but err on the side of prohibitively expensive for most wallets.

From what I’ve seen on the site, I’m pretty excited. True, there isn’t much that rocks my personal casbah at the very moment, and I’m a teensy bit concerned about the skirts being a little short because Lord knows how many plus size designers forget how big girls go OUT –especially in back– before we go down resulting in supposedly knee-length skirts that become festivals of oversharing when worn by a girl with more than the average quantity of junk in her trunk.

Still, I’ve selected a handful of items that might be wending their way to Villa Plumcake sooner rather than later.

I LOVE this striped dress. I would love it more if it hit at the middle or the bottom of the knee because honestly, it would be SO much more chic but still, I LOVE this dress. And would you look at that? SLEEVES.

The great thing about this dress is it will always look fashionable, no matter how old you are. it would be cute on a 16 year old and elegant on a woman of a certain age (although again, would be so much better if it wasn’t above the knee). It’s my favorite item on the site right now and if any of you have experience with it, I’d be very interested in hearing your take.

How about this trench coat? It’s tricky to make a decent trench for a big girl because the traditional cut adds a lot of bulk precisely where you don’t want it and the double breasted look is tough, especially for the chestally blessed. It looks like they took their time with the seaming of this one and although I’ve been burned many times before, this trench –especially in that color– might just be the one that’ll save me from swing coat perdition.

Who asked for a sheath? Someone asked for a sheath. Well, here you go.
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Okay gang, I have one hour and thirty seven minutes before I have to be down in the little village of Popotla to wait for the fishermen to come in. Not, sadly, because I’m waiting for a sailor, but the fishing boats come in at noon and if I’m not there to fight tooth and nail with these surprisingly tough little Mexican grandmothers (I don’t know how you say “throw elbows” in Spanish, but I sure bet they do!) at the exact minute they splosh today’s catch on their ramshackle folding table, then the seagulls will get my dinner and frankly, I cannot live with that.

As promised, here is a belated corset post with recommendations.

Please note I don’t actually own any of these corsets, although I wish I did. I judged them based on apparent quality of construction, variety of product (as in: do they offer longline/underbust/cotton/bridal/whatever corsets) and how much the site annoyed me.

My favorite by far is Corsets-UK.com

Although they don’t offer as much as I’d like to see in the way of neutral colors, they’ve got an impressive selection of underbust, sweetheart and longline corsets suitable for almost all your waist-cinching occasions.

By the way, if you’ve got a natural waist larger that 43″, you’re still probably safe going with a corset built for a smaller waist since fat is more malleable than bone. Just don’t go passing yourself out or doing anything dumb.

OH! And they’re doing a buy-two-get-one-free promotion on almost all corsets, so if you and some friends (I’m thinking bridesmaids) want to go in on a group order together, this might be the time to do it.

This long line underbust corset is for waist training. Personally, I don’t think waist training is a good idea because that stuff can mess with your ribs and lungs and other important parts of your body that should probably not be jostled around for the sake of a smaller waist. Still, there’s no harm in popping one on for a few hours if you’ve got a special event coming up, or if you need the extra control 24 steel bones provide.

If you want to do an overbust corset and still be responsible WRT the chestular situation (no Platter O’ Boobs/Dish of Desperation) a deep sweetheart is the way to go. That way you can maneuver the gals to their upright and locked position without spilling over into “I couldn’t get a date in high school so please approve of me now” territory. No one looks good in that territory.

There are TONS more corsets from the ridiculous (camouflage corset anyone?) to the sublime, but I’ve got to go throwdown with the old ladies over the best salmon so I’ll leave you to sort it out yourself. Good luck!

A corset is a lot like a handgun: Dangerous, powerful and ideally concealed in public spaces.

Unfortunately, you don’t need to be trained or certified before the state says it’s okay to have a corset.

Corsets are not Costume.

I mean, they CAN be, but you don’t need me or anyone else to tell you how to create that awful, desperate Platter O’ Boobs effect. So, just for the sake of my head not splitting in half with two even more judgmental pieholes growing in its place, let’s just forget corsets as costumery and focus on them as a piece of specialty shapewear.

For the purpose of this article, I’m going to define a corset as a piece of boned lingerie with laces that can be used to minimize the waist by at least 3″. I say that because there are a lot of cinchers, high-waisted girdles and other usually latex or rubber-intensive shapers that call themselves corsets.

Of course, if I learned anything from living in the DC metro area during the Clinton years, there’s boning and then there’s boning. A good corset has steel boning or something with the equivalent flexibility and control. Flimsy little plastic or fabric “bones” are less than useless, because not only do they NOT work most of the time, they’re also likely to roll on you (more on that later).

The two main mistakes I see big girls in corsets make (aside from the Platter O’Boobs) are wearing corsets that are the wrong shape for their body/the outfit and lacing the corset too tightly.

If you are very large-busted or tend towards the floppy, you want a corset that ends under the bust. Cleverly known as underbust corsets, they allow you to wear your own bra and avoid the POB look. They’re also my corset of choice because overbust corsets can ruin the side profile by making less-than-ginormous funbags look flat.

You should also consider the length of your torso.

I’ve got a long waist and a standard corset is usually too short for me, which leads to an incredibly alluring reverse muffin top where all the fat sploodges out the bottom. I usually fix that by wearing some manner of high-impact girdle so my hips and gut don’t burst forth like the mighty kraken, hellbent on destroying all in its path, or at least the lines of my outfit which –let’s face it– is more important.

A longline corset is the way to go if you want your lower stomach and hips to get some smoothing action as well.

They’re a bit more difficult to maneuver in and generally a little more expensive, but if you’ve laced yourself properly they’re no big deal.

If you’re quite short-waisted, a standard-length corset will probably work as a longline and if you want something for your waist only, look for a lace-up cincher instead of a corset.

Now the lacing.

It is so easy, not to mention tempting, to go overboard with the lacing.

But friends, the fat has got to go somewhere and when you over-lace not only does it look weird, disproportionate and fetishistic, you are almost guaranteed a nice bulging set of backfat puppies popping out of the top and bottom of your corset. Fabulous if you’re a dowager empress, not so great for the rest of us. Keep the laces at the top and bottom of your corset nice and open, focusing on creating a gently exaggerate curve, not overzealous Gibson Girl Gone Wild.

Monday I’ll have a selection of corsets I recommend as well as answering a few more questions about this seemingly most difficult piece of underwear. Until then I am being forcefully beckoned to Plumcake Central Command (my hammock) for an important meeting (a nap followed by a gin and tonic) before tonight’s busy schedule of…probably nothing.

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.

I’ll be honest. I’ve been slow to warm to Christmas.

When I was a kid, my brother and I made the yuletide bright mostly by waiting in an agreed-upon supermarket parking lot halfway between our parents respective evil lairs and being caught in the traditional children-of-bitter-divorce crossfire. Then later there would be cookies.

No one asked what we wanted for Christmas and as an adult, Christmas presents were firmly tucked into the For The Children nook of holiday cheer.

This year is different, and I discovered this year is different because Hot Latin Boy –who is a total curve-ruining overachiever– casually mentioned about all the millions of manhours he’s putting into my present, which I’m 99% positive is a “secret garden” full of my favorite plants and flowers from Texas and Virginia so I don’t feel homesick at Villa Plumcake.

That’s great and all, but it doesn’t exactly cast a golden luster on my gift to him, a white ceramic pineapple (a nod to an inside joke) that I’m not even going to giftwrap, lest it alert the border patrol.

It DID get me thinking what grand gift I really would like though, and for the first time in years, I’ve actually got one in mind.

Of course there’s the old standby:

(That, my friends, is the making of one FILTHY Venn Diagram)

but in the off chance Gaspar, Balthazar and Melchior DON’T manage to bring me Zizou, Xabi and Mou (I’m still going to wax, just in case) what I want more than anything in the whole wide world is a plaza-worn Traje de Luces.

Say what you will about bullfighting –despite Villa Plumcake being tantalizingly close to the Plaza Monumental, I’ve never brought myself to see a corrida the highly-embellished “suit of lights” is the pinnacle of beauty in a male couture garment.

(*snerk*)

And of course the bodies in them aren’t terrible either.

It occurs to me my burning desire for a traje marks a departure from buying clothes and accessories to collecting them. A traje is a standalone work of art and I would display it as such.

Of course I have a lot of my shoes, scarves and jewelry on display, but I also wear them. I’d never wear a traje.

Understandably, trajes are thousands of dollars new, and used ones fetch even higher prices if worn in the ring by a famous torero like Manolete, the James Dean of bullfighting.

I still don’t know if I’ll ever see a correo (I’ve heard they have no-kill ones, and I’d jump at the chance for that) or whether I’ll just stick with my Hemingway and Almodovar, but I’ve been pretty damn good this year and I sure would like to find a traje under my tree…you know, if Zizou and the boys don’t fit.

Happy Monday y’all!

It’s Día de la Revolución (observed) here in Mexico, and I am fixin’ to beat a hasty retreat back stateside for a limited five week engagement wherein I’ve got to pack all my worldly belongings, sell the Cadillac (insert sad trombone here, but low Caddy + potholes the size of a Benelux nation = heartache) and relocate to Villa Plumcake full time.

I know you all are waiting with bated breath to find out what happened with Hot Latin Boy’s mama.

Well, first of all, I wore heels. A pair of cerulean Dusicas not entirely dissimilar to these:

Then I was incredibly inspired by a picture of autumn leaves (what, you think it’s all archival Dior? Wrong!)  and decided to build my outfit from there.

I plucked out a Spense Woman sheath dress with some origami detail at the neck in a spectacular tomato red, a bit like this one from Avenue:

(sans the terrible shooties and busted fishnets, of course)

Then I added a leaf green shawl to cover up the odious cap sleeves and show Mama I was a respectful girl who wasn’t about to bare arms at our first meeting. I picked mine up from my favorite Oaxacan weaver’s stall (next to the revolutionist coffee shop) but it’s not too different from this, in case you don’t have a Zapotec family handy.

I tied it loosely behind my back to create a sort of soft shrug.

This is admittedly a little tricky because either you (by which I mean “me”) tie it too tight and then you look amazing but have the range of motion of an extremely chic tyrannosaurus rex or it’s too loose and it just flops all over the damn place doing no good for anyone.

Of course I had to bring the Birkin so I tied my lucky orange and red Hermes scarf tied as a sash around my waist for definition and to incorporate the orange of the Birkin into the whole look of the outfit.

I love the right orange and red together and I wonder why people don’t do it more often.

It’s infinitely easier to do than red and pink and looks so much fresher than *yawn* red and black, plus it’s a good gateway color to using red and green together without looking like you’re getting ready to deck the halls.

And as for mama…I’m pretty sure she loved me. She started to cry –not for the first time that day, apparently– and in a remarkable feat of self-control waited easily a minute to a minute and a half to ask me for grandchildren.

Do I regret wearing heels?

Not at all.

I joked with her about how I met her son, and how when I first set eyes on him I felt like I kept growing and growing taller and taller –he is Not Tall– and was afraid he wouldn’t like me because I was this enormous anglo giantess. She laughed, put her hand on her heart and said it doesn’t matter how tall I am, it’s the size of my heart and there are no heels in the world that could change the size of that.

Awww. If she only knew.