Shake your booty, yeah yeah.

My simian friend, Dr. Monkey, posted today about the Lane Bryant lingerie commercial that ABC and Fox deemed too racy to air (Monkey's got it at his blog, if you haven't seen it yet). This kind of shit never fails to get me all up in a lather.

Since when did having curves become a bad thing? Aren't our curves, our tits, our hips, our luscious booties the very things that have made us desirable to our suitors throughout history? Show me a hetero man who doesn't at least sneak a peek when we've got a low-cut top on and I'll show you a guy who makes his clothes out of old potato sacks, recycles his own hair, and probably spells "women" "womyn".

Seriously- YOU love our curves, WE love our curves- what the hell is wrong with the world??

Yes, I understand that some of you are naturally very thin, and though I resent the fact that you can snarf down an entire Wendy's extra value menu and nary gain an ounce while I sometimes worry if my jeans will fit the next day after daring to look at the dessert list, I get it. We are born with what we're born with, so sayeth the Universe.

I work out/exercise quite a bit, I generally watch what I eat. But honestly, I work in food. I like indulging here and there. I like having wine with dinner and sometimes breakfast. I like not spending 95% of my time obsessing about my body, like some people I know. Honestly- how boring is that? Do I spend some time obsessing? Sure, we all do. But I try to not make it my focus in life or to dwell on it too much. I refuse to beat myself up because I can't be whatever fucked-up concept of "ideal" that marketing agents have cultivated over the years. I would have to starve myself and work out 24/7 to get anywhere near what passes for "ideal" these days. Sorry, I may have my shallow/narcissistic moments, but that kind of behavior tends to push people into the "holy shit you're shallow!" range.
I still wear jeans that I've had for 10+ years, and that's good enough for me. I'm healthy, I'm relatively fit, I still get attention from men for my looks (I'd be a big ol' liar if I said that didn't matter). But...I still take the occasional "lazy day", I still love cheese and pork products more than I love sparkly Elvis (and I love me some sparkly Elvis), and I still make time to exercise my mind and cultivate a rich life involving friends, family, and dipping french fries in hollandaise sauce.

Show me a curvy, confident woman and I'll show you a woman who will keep you on your toes and keep you oh-so-happy in the sack. A woman who is comfortable in her own skin (curvy or thin) is a woman who can keep conversations as well as libidos going.

I just don't get why we get beat up on a daily basis about this shit. Doubt I ever will.

But honestly? The way I see it, the more we give in to the idea that we're not good enough, whatever our body type, we play into the bullshit. Find a way to love yourself more. Find a way to see yourself as beautiful and desirable. Force yourself to stop the self-criticism. Every day, look at yourself and see something you like, even if it's a bad day and you only like your eyelashes. If you keep it up, before you know it we'll all actually like ourselves, and this sort of misogynistic (ugh- now that's a word I never thought I'd use here) crap has no power over us.

Quit wasting time dwelling on the negative and start spending more time picking out a fabulous low-cut halter top or booty-hugging pencil skirt, dammit! Be the girl who is envied for her confidence. Be the girl who quits eating the shit sandwich the world put in her lunchbox.

Be who you are, without a doubt.

On a related note- Esquire magazine gets it- they appreciate a curvy, sexy broad. I was so very excited when this month's issue came through my mail-hole and saw my latest girl crush, Christina Hendricks, on the cover of their "Women" issue.

Good choice, boys, good choice:

Me-ow. If she's "fat", sign me up for "fat" because it looks pretty damn tasty to this girl.

XO

This is an incredibly romantic moment, and you're ruining it for me!

Yessir, it's that time again- birds are chirping, the sun is shining, summer is nearing, and...high-schoolers everywhere are contemplating donning uncomfortable eveningwear in an awkward and expensive attempt to get laid.

Prom.

It sure seems a lot different now than when I went in the 80's. The dresses are so...adult, the hair isn't so big, the eyebrows are plucked, and the pantyhose are nonexistent. I'm also guessing that none of this year's prom-goers will be slow-dancing to "Eternal Flame" by the Bangles.

I went to two proms, actually. The thing is, I didn't really want to go to either of them at the time. Despite my dreams of a Pretty in Pink-type prom experience, ending with me getting the guy I really wanted (instead of my actual date) and speeding off into the night with him in his BMW, it just seemed kind of stupid to me. (On a side note: am I the only one who totally wanted to violate Steff [James Spader] in all sorts of dirty, dirty ways back then [well, OK, now too]? Me-ow. Wimpy Blaine can kiss my wrong-side-of-the-tracks ass.)

I went to my boyfriend's prom when I was a junior. He was a senior at one of the only private High Schools in the area, we'll call him Crew Cut. Crew Cut came from a very respectable family who lived in a lovely old brick house in a quiet pocket of the city. His Mother hated me. I guess showing up for Sunday dinner wearing a Punk Rock t-shirt and ripped jeans while sporting a 4" high hairdo held aloft with the better part of an entire can of aqua net hairspray will not necessarily endear oneself to her boyfriend's conservative parents.

I've shown you this dress before, but it truly bears repeating. When searching for a dress for this event, I had difficulty finding anything at the Miller Hill Mall that satisfied my contrary tastes, so my seamstress Mom agreed to make it for me. I believe it is about a size four and approximately 45 yards of taffeta were violently sacrificed for it's construction:

I have previously compared this hairdo to Lindsay Lohan's pubes, and I stand by that assessment. I wanted to be "classy", so I accessorized with 2" black pumps, tasteful rhinestone jewelery, and eyebrows that were threatening to stage a coup against my face. My boyfriend was super-pumped here, because he totally thought he was getting some action that night (he was wrong- there was no way I was wrestling that poofy black beast off just so he could work on his "game") (Plus I had a curfew of like, midnight or something at that point.)(Plus I didn't want to and was actually thinking of dumping him at this point- sorry, Crew Cut).

I actually like this next picture- we look pretty cute despite my so-stiff-we-could-clean-pans-with-it bangs:

Aaaanndd, the actual "professional" photo from the event:


In the year between this prom and MY senior prom (1989), it seems that I joined a gang of lesbian Amazon warrior women. All I'm missing is a tan, a bow & arrow, and a tattoo of Grace Jones:

I originally had no plans to attend my own prom, but when all of my friends all of a sudden decided to go, I enlisted my Mom to felony assault yet another bolt of non flame-retardant fabric. Going against the grain yet again, I opted for a "klassy" short number that ended up being about as flattering as wearing a graffiti'd roll of bubble wrap.

The worst part about my prom was having to ask my 23 year-old boyfriend if he wanted to go. The whole time I was on the phone asking him I was silently pleading "No, no, no say no, no say no please, NO..."

Of course, in going with the theme of Universal fuckery that is my life, he said yes. Ugh.

Yes, it was nice of him to go, but...seriously?

The obligatory picture taken by my (less than happy that his daughter was dating an "older man") Dad:

My date was an artist, and I'm just freakishly pale, which should explain our complexions that seem to blend into the wall behind us. Now that I look at this picture again, I'm noticing that it looks like he's wearing clown shoes. Huh.

And once again, the "professional" shot, this time with 100% more balloons!!:

You can kind of see here how ginormous my earrings were- they were black & clear plastic flowers, which is so very, very awesome.
No making of the love was executed on this dreadful evening either, despite me and my friends having cleaned out and sanitized non-aerosol hairspray bottles, filled them with vodka, and smuggled them into the event (at the lodge of a local ski resort) in our purses. No amount of "Extra firm hold Smirnoff" was going to loosen me up for anything beyond a little make-out and maybe a quick feel under the dress- but over the bra, Mister.


So I wish all of this year's promsters well- may your dress not make you look like you are being attacked by oompa loompas, may your date not reek of Drakkar Noir and crotch sweat, may your punch be spiked with the finest spirits, and may your after-the-dance activities not involve accidental impregnation or herpes.

Go forth and prom away, my sparkly taffeta ponies. Go forth and prom!

XO

Grab some Adderall and try to pay attention, folks.

Holy shit, I've been a busy girl.

First off, I got through teaching that pastry class. Somehow I managed to emerge from three weeks of cake/custard/chocolate/buttercream-infused days with my ass intact and not threatening to need it's own zip code, thanks to lovely weather and Dirk, my bike.
Dirk and I have grown a lot closer these days, what with his nose being wedged between my buttcheeks & lady bits for an hour or so every day- hell, if he were a man I'd not only marry him, but I'd probably keep him locked in the bedroom 24/7. I looooove you, Dirk.

I've pimped Dirk out (as he so richly deserves to be) with a saddlebag basket and lights. The other night, when I was leaving work, I thought I ran over something on the road. Turns out, the thing I ran over was part of my headlight.

But as you can see, I- Whiskeymarie VonPartypants, mechanical engineer extrordinaire, used my mad skillz to make it look as good as new:

I double-dog dare any of you to find the differences between this and a new light. I know- even I have a hard time believing NASA hasn't called.


The BIG news (for me, anyways) of the last week is that I got a NEW (to me, anyways) CAR!!!

We have been debating this purchase for a while now- Me pulling for a hover car, the Mr. wanting to buy a rusty El Camino- and the time finally came to poo or get off the loo, so to speak. I was looking at buying a brand-new Toyota Rav-4, originally. Lord knows, I love excitement- I haven't risked my life in at least 4-6 weeks, and a tough broad like me isn't going to be deterred by little things like "rapid, uncontrollable accelleration" and "faulty brake lines".
I eat massive recalls for breakfast, bitch.

No, the thing that stopped me from plopping my ass in a spanking-new death wish vehicle wasn't so much the uneasiness about losing the use of my arms, bowels, and legs as it was about buying a NEW car. Sure, I've owned new cars in the past, but it never seemed quite right for me. I like vintage clothes, all my pets were rescues, I live in an old house, and I buy my underpants from the "only slightly used" rack at the Wal-mart. Buying something so untested and previously unloved seemed like all sorts of wrong for me. Well, that and the whole "It will lose a huge chunk of it's value the minute you drive off the lot and welcome to years of stupid car payments, stupid" thing. We can afford it, but I am nothing if not frugal and occasionally practical, and I thought my ve-hi-cle should reflect that. Plus, the thought of spending more on a car than I've spent on my entire post-secondary education pretty much made me sweat from places I didn't know had sweat glands. Sweaty ovaries and toenails are not an acceptable price to pay for newness. Not having a car payment at all for 4-5 years will do that to a person.
So...I ditched the "new" car idea and went with my gut. Say hello to "Ninjacar" (one word, say it really fast)!!:

A VW Rabbit! Aught-eight, to be exact. Did you know they were still making these things? Neither did I! Well, not until I saw one on the lot. Love. Deep, deep love. Super-fun to drive, and it's stealth capabilities make it easier for me to drive in the nude unnoticed.

Is it wrong that I was most excited about my new keychain?

The shoes I was wearing when I took ownership of my sweet new ride, in case you were wondering:
I've been cooking as well, though not obsessively documenting it the way I normally do. One of the most interesting things I've made lately was a sauce for roast pork tenderloin, only sort of following this recipe as my cooking arrogance makes me incapable of following recipes as written. This is almost always a successful approach for me. Almost. But this time, it actually was:



It was really good, and kind of strange. Sweet, spicy, creamy and complex. I loved it, the Mr. was more "I like it, but it is kind of weird" about it. I'd totally make it again.

Oh! Hey! I went roller-skating this weekend!

Saturday, I met up at Wisconsin's finest sort-of "Star Wars"-themed roller rink, the World of Wheels (seriously look at the link- you spelling geeks will love/hate it- look at the directions link). I've been here a few times in the last 10 or so years, and back in junior high I considered myself a medium-awesome skater: good at the turns, not so good at skating backwards or getting cute boys to notice me in my rainbow top and yellow harem pants and getting them to ask me to skate when Richard Marx came on.


Here I am, doing my best "lady robot roller-skater" impression:

It was fun, but in my old age I'm kind of scared of strapping heavy wheels to my feet and setting out on a shiny, slippery floor with clusters of small children whirling around me, threatening probable severe facial disfiguration for one or both of us. I didn't fall down or run into a wall the way I did last time, but I'm pretty sure several glasses of wine and knee pads are in order before I try this again. Come to think of it, I would probably need the same things to do lots of things again- my stint as an Aerosmith groupie comes to mind...

Oh- and my sister had a baby! A child to corrupt! Yay!!

Well, if I don't end up eating him first:

As Gwen can attest to, babies are delicate, soft, and delicious. Not as good as sausage, maybe, but with a nice hollandaise and a side of asparagus they can be quite tasty.

So that's what I've been up to: restrained consumerism, non-motorized and motorized modes of transportation, throwing shit in the blender, and eating babies.

Happy Monday, my baby-scented roller bitches. Happy Monday.

XO

Slipping Ex-lax into my wine might help...

see more Lolcats and funny pictures

Right now, I'm...

• looking at my bling-bling, newly de-grungified toes:

• Overly excited to visit Gwen over Memorial weekend. (Yay!! Pooping on stuff!!) This is way too early to be excited, I know. By the time the end of May rolls around, I will have surely imploded from anticipation. If I do, Y'all can forage through my remains for whatever bits you want to keep in a jar on the mantel, but make sure my hoo-ha and nip nips get sent to the Smithsonian, where they belong.
• Teaching an advanced pastry class at work right now. This? This is not nearly as awesome as it sounds. I have to taste everything before I grade it. Every-thing. After three or four so-rich-they-should-come-with-a-defibrillator-and-maybe-some-XXXXXL-sweatpants desserts, I'm done. Sugar overload- my blood sugar level has reached gummy bear and pixie stix levels, folks. On a related note: Yesterday one of my students asked me if there was ever any projects/desserts made by students that I absolutely wouldn't eat. I told her about the one and only student that I've ever had where I couldn't even consider putting even a morsel in my ever-so-ladylike pie hole. This particular student (we'll call him "Shasty McNastypants" just for Not Benny) wasn't the brightest bulb on the tree to begin with, but after another student mentioned how Shasty McNastypants had been regaling him with tales of how he liked to shit in his own hands whilst showering, just "because it's easier to clean up that way", well...the decision was pretty much made for me.
• Riding my bike everywhere. The other day, while I was biking to work, some random dude walking on the street yelled after me, "go faster!!" with a goofy smirk on his face. Then he got into his car and pulled up beside me at a stop sign and honked. WTF, dude? I'm thinking I maybe misunderstood him and he actually yelled, "Ho, bastard!!!" in a misguided attempt to woo me soft and gentle-like. I do that to men sometimes.
  
• Needing a kick in the ass, blog-wise. Is there anything you want me to talk about? Burning questions you may have? (Not to be confused with burning sensations you may have- keep that shit to yourself, weirdo.) Stories I forgot to tell you? Until I get my mojo back, I need some help from you, dearest internets. Don't make me resort to writing about ingrown hairs or my pet's poo habits (again). Please- it's in your own best interests, trust me.
  

Happy Wednesday, my little constipated nuggets of sugary goodness. Happy Wednesday.

XO