Manolo for the Big Girl

At the recommendation of a friend, Francesca recently went for a professional bra fitting at Intimacy, a wonderful bra boutique with locations in Atlanta, Boston, Chicago, Houston, Miami, and New York. It was a wonderful experience which resulted in a wonderful purchase. The woman helping Francesca did not use a measuring tape. She looked her over, did a little patting and looking and weighing hear and there, and came back with several bras for her to try on. She showed Francesca how to recognize a good fit from a bad, so that Francesca could shop elsewhere and find what she needs on her own, which was good because the cup sizes at Intimacy run a little small, so while there Francesca needed a 42D, elsewhere, it turns out, she is a 42C. Anyhow, it was a fine experience and Francesca recommends them. The only problem was that they only had one 42D in stock — not because they do not carry large sizes, but because so many 42D women shop there, that they were sold out. It was alright, though. That is why God created Cacique sales at Lane Bryant.

All this is an introduction to Francesca’s next tale, which has a less happy ending. While visiting one of the aforementioned cities, she decided to stop by the shop of a plus-size clothing designer of whom she had heard, and whom Francesca wanted to vett, while she had a chance to do so in person, before discussing the clothes on this website.

The clothes at this little boutique looked beautiful on the rack. The materials were luscious and the colors were amazing. Everything was presented in a tasteful and eye-pleasing manner. They were off to a good start.

But all of the designs had empire waists. Every. Single. One. And though some Apple-shaped women can get away with empire waists, Francesca is not one.  They also were all sleeveless, and Francesca does not “do” sleeveless, though she appreciates it on others. Still, for several reasons she decided to try on a few styles. Since many of our readers are Pears or have hourglass figures, and wear sleeveless dresses, I wanted a chance alone with the clothes in the fitting room, to see if the clothes were well-made (they were not). And, also, I was there anyway, and one never knows! One must be adventurous! And even with sleeveless dresses, one can work wonders with a shrug! So Francesca took about 4-5 dresses into the fitting room, and wore them out into the store where the mirror was.

Francesca understands that salespeople need to make sales. She understands when they say something like “if you wear Spanx, this will look fantastic” — which the saleswoman here said — because not everyone shares Francesca’s opinion that “if an outfit needs Spanx to look good, it is not a good outfit for you.” It’s OK. She gets it.

But it is another thing entirely for Francesca to stand in the middle of the boutique floor, looking like a stuffed sausage whose elephantine pregnancy is emphasized by a turniquet below her breasts –not that there is anything wrong with that, she supposes — and for the saleswoman to say “I think it looks wonderful. It looks much better than you believe it does. It looks terrific.”

Francesca looked the woman right in the eye and said “it is a beautiful dress for someone else.”

It is also something else for the saleswoman to say “the problem is your bra. You do not have enough support. If you buy a better bra, this dress will look amazing on you,” when Francesca was wearing a snug, brand-new, professionally-fitted bra which was probably the best fit she’d ever had, and if her breasts had been any better “supported,” they would have been up over her head. And when the rest of the dress was making Francesca look like she had a set of triplets stuffed into her (new lace) underwear.

Bah.

Francesca will not speak of this particular establishment again.

Meanwhile, remember, ladies: The last word on whether you look good in a dress is your own.

And shop at Intimacy. Francesca approves of them.

Marc, poodle, sugarlump, this:

This is Not Good.

This will end in heartache and bruises, and not in the worthwhile “hey at least I got a good job reference out of it” way. I’m not exactly sure what you’re trying to do here because I can promise you that ain’t nobody walking in these shoes. Remember those fantastic perspex heel jobbers from the same season?

The ones I bought because they were so fantastically NOT me that I just had to have them? Those don’t even stand up by themselves, they’re so poorly balanced.

I love a high-sloped heel as much as the next girl, but at some point the laws of physics do come into play and these and no amount of silver metallic leather is going to change that.

Pull it together Marc and give us some shoes we can actually wear, because honestly, if I wanted to spend time with something painful and expensive that can’t stand upright I’d stop avoiding my grandmother’s calls.

HA Hahahahahaha ha ha ha ha.

No.

For the most part, I’m pretty live and let live about fashion statements. I firmly believe that there is a body out there that is flattered by nearly every possible cut and definitely every single color, even if there are things I know darn well not to try on myself. Pink? Not for me. It makes me look jaundiced. On many others, however, it’s superfantastic. Empire waists? Not for everybody, but one that is cut just right makes me look like my poor little A+ cups are actually holding something up. I am one of the few women I’ve ever met who looks really good in lime green. I know that just because something doesn’t work on me doesn’t mean it won’t work on anybody at all.

Every once in a while, though, I run across something so heinous that my mind boggles and even I run out of words to describe the horror. This morning, before I’d even finished caffeinating myself into full consciousness, I found such an item.

Oh, Zaftique. Why? What possessed you? How quickly can we cast it out?

Which imp of perversity caused someone to design this fabric? I know splashy patterns are all the rage, but there are splashy patterns and splashy patterns, and this one nearly caused a splash right here at my computer desk. It does not help one iota to realize that this nightmare of a pattern graces 100% polyester…except in that I know no natural fibers were harmed in the making of this monstrosity.

But then not only did someone choose to actually manufacture this fabric in these lurid colors, someone chose to make it into a top whose cut is based quite clearly on a potato sack. There is no grace to this cut, no elegance, no particular thought that I can see.

But it gets worse. If this cost ten dollars, I might see a reason for it to exist. After all, there’s no point in wearing something too superfantastic to do the heavy housecleaning in. But no. This is $49.00…$54.00 if you wear Zaftique’s 4z - 6z.

Dear Zaftique. I know you are capable of making some very pretty clothes. You’ve made pieces I’ve lusted after in my heart. And then you do this. Why, oh why?

Look, you made this pretty wrap top, too:

You even made it in lots of pretty, versatile colors to suit a wide variety of skin tones and tastes. It even costs less than the potato sack demon smock and includes some cotton for breathability. You can do good things. I have faith in your ability to pull yourselves together and not make me break out in brainhives again.

Please try harder.

Thanks.

The trouble with telling people that you write about fashion is that people automatically ask you what you think about their outfits, and that can end in heartache, and by “heartache” naturally I mean “an entire weekend spent with twelve ounces of the finest porterhouse strapped on your recently rearranged face.”

Do not, under any circumstance heed the old chestnut “unless you have something nice to say, don’t say anything at all” for this will end in heartache as well.  Not saying anything when confronted by a big girl who –from the tip of her Bjork mini-bunned head to the bottom of her  beskulled stirrup-panted feet– is the hottest hot mess in the tri-county area will always fail.

Would that I had listened to my own advice. Thankfully, I escaped what our friend Billy S.  refers to as a “predestinate scratched face”  but not by much.

Which brings me to my second point: unless you are currently straddling a horse, stirrup pants = no.

Until a few days ago, had you bet me cash money that you could go into a store and emerge with a pair of stirrup pants I would have taken your bet and planned all sorts of vainglorious and complicated victory dances plus an array of remarks involving “your mom” to be performed upon my certain triumph.

Yet somehow they are making a resurgence. Who? Who are these people? Do they not know what pants are? Did my 5th grade closet become some sort of sacred shrine without me knowing? And most importantly, if stirrup pants are back, how far away can we possibly be from puffpaint sweatshirts, multiple Swatches and, God help me, butt bows?

The lip, she quivers.

Never let it be said that Manolo for the Big Girl doesn’t care about your needs. We know that most if not ALL of you at one time or another have pulled your hair, rent your garments and moaned “O IF ONLY I had a pair of laughably expensive be-logo’ed moon boots conceived from an unholy union between Run DMC’s old Adidas Superstars and the aged and dessicated hide of Snuffleupagus’s notoriously round-heeled great grandmother, Alma Jean! WHY IS LIFE SO HARD?”

Well, here you go:

What can I say? We’re givers.

No.

Why do I even bother to come back from the dead when the moment I return to life I face mortification at every turn? Sigh.

So here’s the deal, I spend Thursday evenings in the bar of Austin’s grandest hotel drinking Hendrick’s martinis, being sociable and casually hoping to meet the first of what I hope will be a veritable slew of wealthy foreign husbands with chiseled jaws and Norman castles who don’t understand big complicated phrases like “entrapment” and “community property laws.”

One might think that the bar of the poshest hotel in town would be excellent people watching, in fact *I* thought the poshest hotel in town would be excellent people watching but sadly, no. It has done nothing but reinforce the idea that money cannot buy taste and that there is no such thing as a formal flip flop.

I don’t think I realized quite how much I hated flip flops until I saw pair after pair of bejeweled, bedazzled, bewildering flip flops slapslapslapping their way through the ankle-deep carpet. Frankly, if you are not at a beach, in a communal shower or getting your toes did, there is no reason to wear flip flops outside the house. None? NONE.

Let me ask you flip flop wearers something…other than comfort, which I’ll take your word for, what’s the allure? They’re not attractive. The cheap ones are cheap and the expensive ones just LOOK cheap and there is not an outfit that cannot be wrecked by the judicious (or injudicious) application of those slippy slappy monsters.

Oh and please don’t get me started with BRIDAL flip flops. I’m feeling faint. Quick, someone better refill my Hendrick’s.*

*Hendrick’s is the Unofficial Gin of Manolo for The Big Girl. Not only is it the finest gin I’ve ever consumed –which is fair praise indeed considering that I’m Church of England and thus haven’t been sober since first communion– but their annual Olympiad judges competitors on “style, wit, intellect and cut of trouser” and that’s the sort of sport I can get behind.

Oh Dawn French, you are my everything. I love you with a love that is more than a love. You are SO funny and SO talented and your Catherine Zeta Sparticus Douglas Jones, Queen of Wales sketches (including an incredible Welsh accent and the greatest line ever written which is almost unrepeatable but ends in the phrase “cockle-tidy, snuggle-bosoms, drop-drawers gorgeous”) kill me every. single. time.

Therefore, I cannot bring myself to snark on you.

HOWEVER, and I’m saying this APROPOS OF NOTHING, that perhaps if you are blessed with great expanses of rack but not of leg or neck that a long, relatively shapeless mac in a Big! Floral! might not do THE most glorious things for you. Perhaps if you had a shorter, say, just bum-covering belted flared trench with a lapel you might not look so much like you are one stiff breeze away from requiring the immediate medical assistance of all the king’s horses and –somewhat more temptingly– all the king’s men.

Francesca is back!

Oh, kissie kissie, it is so good to be here! Kissies on both cheeks! xoxo!

Where has Francesca been, you ask?

Francesca has been sick.

Francesca was so sick, my friends, that she did not even have the energy to crawl to her shoe closet in order to admire and caress her new Vaneli boots.

Can you imagine?

And all this time, Francesca has been thinking of her dear readers. In the depth of her feverish haze, she cried out repeatedly “I did not mean that one should say it out loud!” Because, you see, in my last post, oh so many days ago, when I suggested that the “question,” when a friend loses weight, should be

“did you lose the weight in a healthy way? Are you actually healthier now than you were before? If so, congratulations! If not, is worrying about your (subjective) beauty more important than worrying about your mental, emotional, and physical health? How can I support you in what you really need?”

Francesca did not mean that you should necessarily say these thing aloud! No, no, she meant that this would be the best attitude to take, and she wishes that our society in general took this approach. As to what to actually say to a good friend or a mere acquaintance who has lost weight . . . well, perhaps we can open that up for a discussion in a future post!

And the second thing I wish to say, in response to Plumcake’s last post, is that it is no secret that Francesca is a fan of the fantasy literature, and of the Rennaissance Faire clothing, and of the flowy, wispy, feminine clothing in general. But as many readers stated, there is good wispy clothing and bad wispy clothing; flowy clothing that shows off one’s style and coloring and shape to advantage, and flowy clothing that only serves to make one look like a cow; there are times to wear the Renaissance clothes and times to wear the Renaissance-inspired clothes and times to wear neither. And in general, a good rule of thumb is to aspire to look like the Renaissance Lady of Good Breeding, and not the Renaissance Lady of Ill Repute.

Francesca has noticed that a disproportionate percentage of the sci-fi/fantasy female fandom world is made up of our Big Sisters, and wonders why that is . . . it is an interesting social question. But do not mock the clothing out of hand! You would never believe how many compliments Francesca receives on her LOTR cape, which was only $12.99 on sale at Size Appeal but is coveted by most of her skinny, non-fanfic friends. Random people on the street stop to tell her how much they love her cape.

But she would not wear it to a red-carpet event.