I have a long and illustrious history of disastrous relationships. It’s a family trait. I come from a long line of women with terrible taste in men, excepting my mother, of course. Now, Daddy is no saint, unless they wish to canonize a patron saint for rogues. My Daddy is now, and always has been, a gambler with somewhat flexible morality. And that is perfectly fine by me since I have somewhat flexible morality myself.
The bad luck with men comes down on his side of the family though--from his sisters to be precise, and his mother too, actually. She did have three husbands, after all. Well, two husbands and one man she thought she was married to. But enough about that. For the sake of continuity, we’ll just call my aunts the Honky Tonk Angels. There are far too many of them for you to keep them all straight. Hell, half the time they don’t even know their own names, so why in the world would I expect you to? There were seven of them all together, but there has to be an odd one in every bunch. That would be my Aunt Mildred. She found religion. The others found it too, but only after it had backslid. But those stories are for another time, and another book. The aunts deserve one all of their very own.
The first truly disastrous relationship in my life was that first real honest to god true love. And I can only thank Jesus in all his wisdom that he moved out of state, because otherwise one of us would be dead and one of us would be in prison. And lord bless him, he was the irresponsible sort, so I doubt he had life insurance. This man was a serial adulterer. He was cheating with so many women, he didn’t even know which ones of us were the “other” women. He would screw anything. A conveniently placed knot hole on a tree would probably have sufficed. And there have been any number of other disasters. Everything from “Oh, did I forget to tell you I was married? Darn, I hate when I do that!” to “Oh, I know we’ve been going out for almost a year, but Valentine’s day is a boyfriend-girlfriend kind of holiday, so it doesn’t really apply to us, does it?”
So, you have the legally unavailable, as in already legally wed to someone else. Then you have the emotionally unavailable, who are so backwards in relationships they don’t even realize they’re having them. Then you have those other ones. The ones that after two dates think they’ve found their soulmates. Now, it’s just my opinion, but before you go thinking somebody’s your soul mate, you might ought to wait till the niceness wears off. When you’ve reached the point in a relationship that you’re comfortable enough to actually admit to having bodily functions, or when you no longer feel the need to hide the fact that your clothes are more often on the floor than in the closet, then you can start thinking soul mates. Two dates, and I’m still being polite and you’re still trying to impress me. That is not the best time to go making life altering decisions.
This calls to mind one particular incident. I might want to mention that I am not mentioning names in this section because even the guilty deserve privacy. But for the sake of the story, we’ll call this one Gomer. That wasn’t his name, and he didn’t look or talk like a Gomer, but that doesn’t mean he wasn’t one. Gomer and I met and had one official date, and then one unofficial date (meaning, he didn’t spend any money, he just came to the house and watched TV with me and my roommate, Emily). It was okay—not spectacular, but I didn’t leave crying, and neither did he. Gomer was a little on the homely side, but I was going through this phase where I was trying not to be shallow. So I kept saying things to myself like, “But, he’s just SO nice!” If you have to sell yourself on ‘em, you will definitely be returning them to the store at a later date.
So, Gomer asks me to go with him to his office Christmas party. This was an instant red flag. And, I even said to Gomer, “Gomer, that seems a little serious for just one date.” But Gomer assured me this was not the case. It wasn’t like a formal sit down thing, it was just a big ol’ party with an open bar and everybody just had a big ol’ time. So, I agreed, against my better judgment, to go. I’m going to interrupt the story here to say that I am not into PDA (check the glossary, if you’re not sure). I’m just not touchy feely. If we’re not alone, and it isn’t foreplay, then you just need to stay on your own side. Anyway, back to Gomer. He was into PDA, or actually it might have been PDO—public displays of ownership. We walk in, and it was as awkward as walking into the senior prom with the boy my mother made me go with my freshman year. He’s parading me around this room, proud as a peacock, and everybody keeps saying how they’ve just heard so much about me! Of course, I’m thinking to myself, “What the heck does he know about me to tell them?”
As the night wore on, I managed to identify the faint ringing in my ears as my psycho alarm going off. So, I had the talk with Gomer. The one where I tell him what a nice man he is, and how he just seems to really want to settle down with someone, and I’m just not into settling down yet. I could have beaten this man over the head with a clue and he still wouldn’t have caught on. So, I just kept getting phone calls and emails. And I just kept ducking them.
Well one night I was out with my gay husband (that’s my friend John—he’s hopelessly gay, but he’s wonderful for fixing things and moving heavy furniture!) and another one of our friends, Jamie. It happened to be happy hour and there might have been a cocktail or two involved, and lo and behold my gay husband wound up with my cell phone and decided to give Gomer a wake up call. Now, John calls him up and proceeds to tell this story about how he and I had broken up, but we were back together, and he didn’t appreciate someone calling me all the time and trying to come between us, and he just thought it would be for the best if Gomer didn’t call me anymore. Jamie and I, having finished our cocktails by this point, were under the table laughing.
I was sure then that I would have heard the last of Gomer. Sadly, that was not the case. A few days later, I get another Gomer –gram. He starts off saying how he just didn’t know my ex and I were really that serious, and how I had owed it to him to tell him that there was a chance we’d get back together, and all this stuff. I mean you would have thought I’d all but promised to bear his young, the way he carried on. But then I read paragraph number two, and I started screaming for Emily to come in and read it with me, because I was laughing so hard I thought I’d pee on myself. Gomer went on to say, how since he and I weren’t going to be dating anymore, could I do him a favor and pass his phone number on to my roommate, he thought her name was Nikki, cause she was kinda cute, and he thought maybe she might like him. I sent that email to everybody I knew. It was just too funny to keep to myself.
Now, I couldn’t make that up. I swear to you, it is all true. This is why my previous relationships have been disasters. Middle ground is a wonderful place. I wish I had more than a passing acquaintance with it. But I don’t. Either, I’m completely in love and they’re just killing time, or they’re completely in love and I’m trying to figure out how to obtain a restraining order. Now Gomer is not the first freak in my life, sadly he wasn’t the last either. And if I were a betting woman, which with my luck would truly be a shame, there are undoubtedly more in my future. I will have to say that I do not think any of them will compare with one in particular from my not so distant past.
Once upon a time, I was living in this ratty little basement apartment with a roommate named Sacqua, Online, Sacqua met this guy who went to the same college we did and it just so happened that we both had classes with him. She talked to him online for a bit, and on the phone for a bit, and decided that the night of my graduation party, we would invite him over. Now as parties go, this one wasn’t wild by any stretch of the imagination. Unless you count me running around in a tiara, a feather boa, and my graduation gown drinking champagne straight from the bottle, that is. It was just a handful of friends, some truly funny movies and boatload of alcohol. And (drumroll, please) the guy.
Now, if you haven’t figured it out yet, I have a somewhat raunchy sense of humor at times. So did Sacqua. Some of the best times I ever had, were sitting around half drunk on wine listening to her interpret romance novels. His granite hardness, I swear that phrase was used in the book, in Sacqua’s witty hands became rock dick and as they were making love on the beach, the heroine in this particularly forgettable novel became known as sand coochie. Maybe it was the wine, but it the time it was hysterical. So, we got drunk the night of my graduation, we watched Clerks and a few other equally irreverent movies. Because our sense of humor tended towards filth, apparently the guy thought the rest of us did to. So a few days later, he and Sacqua are on the phone and he says to her that he wants to come over and perform for us. She asked him to clarify that, to which he replied, perform with an implied wink wink. Long story short, though I don’t know from experience, this guy wanted to come to our house and masturbate with an audience. What about my roommate, she’d asked. To which he replied that I was welcome to watch too. During the course of this conversation he also revealed to her, for whatever reason (I suppose her stunned silence left him with plenty of room to get a word in edgewise) that he shaved his testicles. Now, I am not opposed to grooming. But this was just a little creepy. If I haven’t seen your testicles, they really ought not to be brought up in conversation., just as a thought.
So the guy, henceforth known as Nair Nuts, did not just disappear. He kept creeping up like a bad penny. We’d go to a bar, and he’d be there. We’d bump into him on campus. And even a year later, I ran into this guy on campus whom I had dated casually. He was an art major, and was in Drawing Two that semester. This would be the class with life models. So this former beaux of mine is telling me all about this male model in the drawing class who just gives him the creeps. Suffice to say, Nair Nuts had finally found his audience, and a captive one at that.
Now it would be false to say all of my relationships have been completely disastrous. They did end after all. The real disaster would be to find myself still in one of those atrocities! But the men who’ve come and gone in my life, in a more significant capacity than Gomer, have helped me become the person I am today. Whether it was by breaking my heart, expanding my knowledge of art or music, or indulging my passionate nature, I’ve learned something from all of them and I wouldn’t be who or where I am today without each of them. And at the moment, I like where I’m at. And we all know how I feel about me.
At the moment, my love life isn’t a total disaster. I’ve been seeing a man who at the very least, has never bored me, is always a good time, and he’s just a little bit bad. Unfortunately, work and other responsibilities do not allow us to see one another that often, but when we do see one another, we make the most of it. I think maybe I like him best of all because I don’t see him all the time. The shine hasn’t worn off yet. Absence may indeed make the heart grow fonder. So, I’ll just keep living my life, seeing him when I can, and enjoying every minute I can. But, as always, I’ll keep my eye on the exit sign just in case the psycho alarm goes off again.
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
Fat Fashion, or the Lack Thereof
Fat Fashion, or the Lack Thereof
More than sixty percent of the American population is overweight. I’ll accept that fact easily. However the marketing geniuses at large discount department stores might need a wake up call. I’m not naming names, but just picture the smiley face, and you’ll know exactly where I’m going with this.
Take their clothing for example. All the itsy bitsy clothes are shoved way to the front of the store, and take up approximately seventy five percent of the floor space allotted for clothing. The plus size section is shoved into the farthest corner of the women’s department taking up about 18% of the remaining space, and the Maternity section is placed right next to it, with the other 7% of floor space. Because obviously pregnant women who feel fat, whose bodies have undergone traumatic changes want to be reminded that their girth has increased so significantly in such a short a time that they’ve been hidden away with the fat girls. Not to mention that it is a great idea to give them parking spaces right at the front of the store, and force them to go on a quest once inside to even find the two racks of clothing that are actually intended to fit them. Brilliant. I say put the maternity clothes up front so the poor women don’t have to walk any further than necessary.
As for us fat girls, I suppose they were being sensitive to our embarrassment about our size and thus thought to tuck our elastic waist band, stretch pants and screen printed kitten tees way in the back so we could pilfer through the meager offerings in relative solitude and anonymity. Catch a clue, people. If I buy it, if I wear it in public, I don’t give a damn who sees me pulling it off the rack. And further more, if more than half of the population is overwieight, then more than half the clothes in your store ought to reflect it.
Furthermore, I am not nine years old. I do not need Pooh Bear emblazoned across my chest. My chest tends to get enough attention on its own without adding any cartoon characters. I am also not ninety. I do not require elasticized waistbands in all of my clothing, despite my waist size. Fat comes in all ages, young old and everywhere in between. I do not need a floral print on everything I wear. I have no desire to blend with wallpaper and upholstery. Tents are not clothing.
One advantage of being a larger woman is that you get to have boobs. Real ones. So sell me some clothing that allows me to show them off, rather than Tigger. Instead, your only option is to walk out of there with stretch pants and t-shirts that are more suitable to someone at least three decades younger or three decades older than you are. I am not nearly as embarrassed by my body,as I would be to wear what the buyers at these stores think I ought to put on it.
It is the most frustrating thing in the world to walk into a discount department store, the ones whose claim to fame is one stop shopping and know that while you can purchase clothing there, you do not want to. Because all the cute stuff on display when you walk in, is never available in your size. Or heaven forbid, if a store does carry clothing in every size, they hike the price on the plus size. A size fourteen and size zero are the same price, but a size eighteen is three bucks more. Three bucks isn’t that big a deal, I know. But it’s the principle of the thing here. You’re being penalized for being larger. It ticks me off to no end. The size zero isn’t being discounted for using less fabric that the size ten, is it?
I have a few suggestions for these stores. First, find a well dressed plus sized woman and make her the buyer for your plus size department. Second, keep the cartoon characters in the kids sections. No self respecting adult woman of any size ought to be walking around with Disney character covering her boobs. Third, increase your selection of plus sized clothing. Offer a wider variety. And the trends of the season should not be restricted to those size fourteen and below. The price for a garment ought to be the same no matter what size it is.
In the meantime, we do what we must to look the best we can. Attractive clothing for larger women exists. It is out there, but it is only sold at exclusive stores that jack up the price far quicker than they jack up the quality. Again, the clearance rack is your best friend here…. And coupons.
Having a good wardrobe is not impossible, but it requires a certain amount of skill, bargain hunting, classics, and versatility. When you buy clothes, go with simple pieces that FIT you. No one ever made themselves look smaller by wearing clothes that were too big. No one ever made themselves look smaller by wearing clothes that were too tight either. That only makes you look like a sausage. So find your size, find clothing that gives your body balance and draws attention to the areas of your body you actually want people to look at. And this incidentally, is advice for all sizes.
More than sixty percent of the American population is overweight. I’ll accept that fact easily. However the marketing geniuses at large discount department stores might need a wake up call. I’m not naming names, but just picture the smiley face, and you’ll know exactly where I’m going with this.
Take their clothing for example. All the itsy bitsy clothes are shoved way to the front of the store, and take up approximately seventy five percent of the floor space allotted for clothing. The plus size section is shoved into the farthest corner of the women’s department taking up about 18% of the remaining space, and the Maternity section is placed right next to it, with the other 7% of floor space. Because obviously pregnant women who feel fat, whose bodies have undergone traumatic changes want to be reminded that their girth has increased so significantly in such a short a time that they’ve been hidden away with the fat girls. Not to mention that it is a great idea to give them parking spaces right at the front of the store, and force them to go on a quest once inside to even find the two racks of clothing that are actually intended to fit them. Brilliant. I say put the maternity clothes up front so the poor women don’t have to walk any further than necessary.
As for us fat girls, I suppose they were being sensitive to our embarrassment about our size and thus thought to tuck our elastic waist band, stretch pants and screen printed kitten tees way in the back so we could pilfer through the meager offerings in relative solitude and anonymity. Catch a clue, people. If I buy it, if I wear it in public, I don’t give a damn who sees me pulling it off the rack. And further more, if more than half of the population is overwieight, then more than half the clothes in your store ought to reflect it.
Furthermore, I am not nine years old. I do not need Pooh Bear emblazoned across my chest. My chest tends to get enough attention on its own without adding any cartoon characters. I am also not ninety. I do not require elasticized waistbands in all of my clothing, despite my waist size. Fat comes in all ages, young old and everywhere in between. I do not need a floral print on everything I wear. I have no desire to blend with wallpaper and upholstery. Tents are not clothing.
One advantage of being a larger woman is that you get to have boobs. Real ones. So sell me some clothing that allows me to show them off, rather than Tigger. Instead, your only option is to walk out of there with stretch pants and t-shirts that are more suitable to someone at least three decades younger or three decades older than you are. I am not nearly as embarrassed by my body,as I would be to wear what the buyers at these stores think I ought to put on it.
It is the most frustrating thing in the world to walk into a discount department store, the ones whose claim to fame is one stop shopping and know that while you can purchase clothing there, you do not want to. Because all the cute stuff on display when you walk in, is never available in your size. Or heaven forbid, if a store does carry clothing in every size, they hike the price on the plus size. A size fourteen and size zero are the same price, but a size eighteen is three bucks more. Three bucks isn’t that big a deal, I know. But it’s the principle of the thing here. You’re being penalized for being larger. It ticks me off to no end. The size zero isn’t being discounted for using less fabric that the size ten, is it?
I have a few suggestions for these stores. First, find a well dressed plus sized woman and make her the buyer for your plus size department. Second, keep the cartoon characters in the kids sections. No self respecting adult woman of any size ought to be walking around with Disney character covering her boobs. Third, increase your selection of plus sized clothing. Offer a wider variety. And the trends of the season should not be restricted to those size fourteen and below. The price for a garment ought to be the same no matter what size it is.
In the meantime, we do what we must to look the best we can. Attractive clothing for larger women exists. It is out there, but it is only sold at exclusive stores that jack up the price far quicker than they jack up the quality. Again, the clearance rack is your best friend here…. And coupons.
Having a good wardrobe is not impossible, but it requires a certain amount of skill, bargain hunting, classics, and versatility. When you buy clothes, go with simple pieces that FIT you. No one ever made themselves look smaller by wearing clothes that were too big. No one ever made themselves look smaller by wearing clothes that were too tight either. That only makes you look like a sausage. So find your size, find clothing that gives your body balance and draws attention to the areas of your body you actually want people to look at. And this incidentally, is advice for all sizes.
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