Manolo for the Big Girl Fashion, Lifestyle, and Humor for the Plus Sized Woman.

Y’all have probably noticed your pal Plummy has been getting some press as one of the new “fatshionistas”. Renata Espinosa over at the Daily Beast wrote an excellent article and within a week I got mentions in New York Magazine, Australian Cosmo and other places where, with rare exception, fat is a four letter word. And it’s been great. I’m thrilled. Just one question:

Can I just be a fashionista now?

It’s like my grandfather: he’s a good man, he’s Spencer Tracy at the end of the movie, yet every time he goes to the medical center he talks about his Lady Doctor.  Lady Doctor.  Now, my grandfather –who swore to me he had his kidney shot out in Okinawa, when in fact he was born with just one– cannot get a paper cut without giving me the vivid details about how it ALMOST bled so I imagine if ever he scooched down on a table with his feet in stirrups, draped in a sheet and all greased up to Jesus while some woman came at him with freezing cold escargots tongs and a meaningful glint in her eye, I’d probably hear about it.  At dinner.

But no, she’s a woman, and so she cannot be simply a doctor, she has to be a Lady Doctor.

I’m fat, but I’m a lot more than fat, and my sartorial interests lie well beyond the fine art and subtle science of making sure my thighs don’t ignite friction fires when I run to catch the elevator.

I am, for example, outraged Valentino let Alessandra Facchinetti go.  I  wept delicately poignant tears when I saw the Lacroix show after the house had to file for protection. I read Paris, British and even occasionally American Vogue, watch all the shows, draw lines, form opinions, revamp my wardrobe and try to speak thoughtfully on what most people think is a silly, silly industry. I can throw down about Madame Gres’ draping or Balenciaga’s cutting with anyone this side of Parson’s or beyond, and yet after all that I’m still a novelty act. I’m still just a Lady Doctor.

Well I’m sick of it. I appreciate the nods, and the rare genuine attempts to avoid tokenism, but from now on –and I think I speak for the rest of my plus-size fashion friends when I say it’s fashionista now, not fatshionista and by the way: the doctor is in.

This week we’re going to be featuring some loafers on the Daily Kick.  Remember that at time of writing at least one color of each style will be available in a size 10.

I love loafers. Don’t own any but I love them and when sported in snazzy colors they lend a great kick to a casual outfit. YOOX (yo-ox) has a number of fab ones on crazy sale, but –and this is just between us– I especially love a good white loafer.

They’re just so old school Milan and although she gets trotted out entirely too frequently for my liking, there’s also something very Princess Grace about it too.

It reminds me of when she hurt her arm and just used an Hermes scarf as a sling. Was it sexy? No. Was it particularly avant guard? Not really. It was simply chic and thoughtless and beautiful but understated.

These are under $70, made in Italy, available in white (sizes limited but available in a 10 at time of writing), a tremendous sky blue, navy and black. Ciao!

Available in a size 12 only, these adorable little Stewie sandals are on sale at Neiman’s for 55% off the retail price. And saints and ministers of grace defend us, they’re NOT Gladiators!

I don’t have a problem with gladiators, but I feel their time is coming to a close.

I was fulfilling a social obligation at a club the other night on West Sixth Street. Now let me first establish that I am entirely too cool for regular Sixth Street (a street that can best be described by the phrase “Long Island Iced Venereal Disease”) much less West Sixth Street, which is the same as regular Sixth, but with male pattern baldness.

With the exception of the fortuitous meeting of a friend who works out of the country and only comes back on weekends (and around whom I threw my arms while exlaiming “I hate everyone on this street except for you” which did NOT impress his mutton-dressed-as-should’ve-thought-about-sunscreen-in-their-20’s-cougar friends) I didn’t see a single person I knew or wanted to know.

I did, however, see a LOT of gladiator sandals.  When I got to my intended destination, every single girl on the dance floor was wearing a gladiator or gladiator-adjacent sandal. I’m not indulging in hyperbole. It was every. single. one.  And they were cute for the most part but –maybe it’s just the contrarian in me– I think if EVERYONE is wearing something, that’s something I don’t want to wear.

The other thing I like about these is they’ve got just a bit of lift to them. I know a lot of girls can’t or won’t wear pancake flats, and a lot of girls can’t or won’t wear heels or wedges. I’d guess this gives about an inch, inch and a half of height which seems like a happy medium.

Isn’t it nice when we can all get together?

Hey Ho Campers!

Last week I tossed out this inimitable image:

and you slammed me back with seven different deliciously deranged captions. Funnily enough, for some reason I didn’t even really notice the scarf motif that inspired most of you until you started sending in your captions. Now I can’t look away from them.

But mere scarves are not enough to win in this contest. They factor, but they are not enough on their own. And thus it is that I am proud to announce that our winner this week is the superfantastic gemdiva for this priceless beatdown:

Listen you…. you’re lucky all I did was take away your scarf. The last guy who said I looked like John Goodman is selling fake Marc Jacobs handbags from a pushcart on the street across from MOMA.

Scarves, designer knockoffs, super hot big guy John Goodman, and MOMA? I am not worthy.

Congratulations, gemdiva! And thanks to everyone who played!

Hey y’all, just a note, I know those “Lose 50 pounds in an hour and half” ads are all over the place, but we really don’t want them on our site. Manolo’s taking care of it, but it’ll take awhile. Just wanted to let you know we’re on it. Now back to your regularly scheduled hangover. –Plummy

Howdy campers, and welcome to another edition of Twistie’s Sunday Caption Madness! You all know the rules. I pick a picture I think is simply crying out for a great caption. You all dig deep in your brains/funny bones/festering souls to come up with a caption or two…or three…or ninety. You then post your best captions in the comments section. Next saturday, I declare a winner and we all laud that lucky person. There is joy and merriment throughout the land, and we all become better…well, at least more amused people as a result.

So, let’s get to it shall we? We shall!

Ready…set…snark!

I think most of you know by now that I’m a great big geek girl, and proud of it. I love me some Trek, I can quote Stargate:SG-1 episodes from memory, I can name all the Doctors in order, and I’m all about Buffy slaying vampires. When my television is on, it’s roughly a fifty-fifty chance that there will be something to do with sci-fi or fantasy playing.

One of my current favorite shows is Eureka (SyFy Fridays 9/8C). In it, former US Marshall Jack Carter (Colin Ferguson) is the one relatively average guy dealing with an entire town of super geniuses with high government clearance. Acting as their sherrif, Carter must untangle the latest messes caused by scientists using their knowledge for unfortunate ends, experiments run amok, and a host of gloriously quirky characters to get to the bottom of the latest mystery.

But I’m not here to talk about Carter, no matter how much I love and adore him (and I absolutely do). No, I’m here to talk about the unsung hero of Eureka: Vincent.

Vince (in the center of the picture) runs Cafe Diem, where whatever you want to eat is on the menu – or would be if Vince used menus – and the food is always free. Vince prides himself on the fact that he cannot be gastronomically stumped. Oh, and the entire town is fueled on Vinspresso.

In some ways, Vince fits way too many of the stereotypes of fat characters on television. He’s a funny guy, he never gets the girl (or the guy…we really don’t have that much evidence which way the door swings, or whether it’s only one), he’s mostly connected with food…yeah, all that is there. But I never looked at him and seethed. His humor is wry, Cafe Diem is a place that matters deeply to the town, and Vince is always treated as a valued member of the community. There has never been a single joke about Vince being fat, either. He’s simply a person fulfilling a needed role in the town. He’s appreciated for what he does, and when he’s the butt of a joke it’s because of something silly he’s doing. In Eureka, everyone gets ribbed for their behavior now and again. They do silly – or inexplicable – things on a regular basis. Fat, however, is something that just is. For the most part, nobody seems to care a great deal about it.

Of course, it doesn’t hurt that actor Chris Gautier brings so much warmth, intelligence, and bitchy charm to the role. With Cafe Diem the center of town gossip and Vince purveying as much of that as he does of his famous Vinspresso, it’s vital that he be both willing and able to tell people where the bodies are buried as well as a welcoming, trustworthy figure. Gautier manages the balancing act with grace.

I love Eureka. It’s a place of wonder and acceptance of the bizarre. I love Vincent. He’s someone I would honestly want to be friends with if we met. Most of all, I love that he’s simply allowed to be who he is, what he is, and how he is in this wonderful little imaginary town.