If we're going to reverse the fat-shaming phenomenon, let's choose a better spokesperson

Here's the thing: Most women (if not all. I mean, probably all, because life and society kind of suck) have some sort of hang up about their body. The greatest source of my displeasure used to be my hip/thigh area, but over the last decade it has grown to include my abdominal region, my muffin top zone, and the territory around my armpit fold where excess skin has accumulated thus preventing me from wearing anything strapless ever again. John Mayer may have tried to convince me that my body is a wonderland, but I've only ever seen it as an undulant war zone.

I don't want to be this way. I know that I'm a total cliché. And when my friends and I begin to descend into that rabbit hole of shame about our various body parts I'm the first one to speak up and say that we need to stop. We need to be proud of our bodies for what they can do, I say, whether it's run a marathon or swim two miles or digest a late-night pizza and a bottle of wine (at my age, that's an accomplishment), and stop beating ourselves up for not being an idealized, and largely unattainable, version of our fantastical selves. Because women are more than just their exterior bits. I mean, don't get me wrong, I want my exterior bits to look as good as they possibly can. If I didn't, I wouldn't spend hours of my life getting my hair and nails done, and half my rent on designer shoes. I'm not a hippie, for God's sake. I'm just tired of the inner dialogue that keeps wedging itself between me and a grilled cheese sandwich.

And much as I want to envelop every woman who is insecure about her body in a warm, fleshy, doughnut-scented hug, and tell her that she looks beautiful with vanilla icing in the corner of her mouth, I simply do not share in the feminist outcry that accompanies the media focus on a celebrity's weight gain. Especially when that celebrity has built her entire career on the tautness of her tits and the assiness of her ass, and is essentially solely responsible for her own objectification. Kim Kardashian is a perfect example. (I don't agree with attacking a woman for her pregnancy weight gain, and I'm not referring to that here. But she and her weight were a topic well before the pregnancy.) This woman, whose "job" is to...uh...well, I don't know what her job is, but she launched her career as a sex-tape maker and starrer inner (kids, please don't major in this) and from there built an empire on her sexy sexiness. Putting aside the fact that it's an embarrassment how people of this ilk — whose only goal in life is fame for fame's sake — are proliferating all across the modern Western landscape (go First World!), Kim Kardashian is the worst example of a woman fortunate enough to have a self-created platform in the public eye. She has orchestrated the entire conversation surrounding her image about her body, and as such that conversation won't veer off course, regardless of whether it's positive or not. Today, she posted this:     

Is this what we're meant to defend? When you go from playing the fat-shamed victim (or allowing the public to do it for you) to posting pictures like this of yourself, you've lost the argument for all women. So let's drop this bullshit of standing up for female body empowerment when this is the message that's being sent out. She is saying: Yes, haters gonna hate, but look at me now that I've dropped the baby weight. (Because I just assume that being Kanye's baby mama means you start to talk in uncontrollable rhyme.) Is this the woman that everyone has been tsk tsk'ing the media for fat-shaming? Is this the kind of response we as a gender want to employ to prove our point? I don't think it's fair for Kim Kardashian to be zeroed in on for having put on a few pounds anymore than I think it's right when women beat themselves up for doing the same, but I sure as hell am not going to go to bat for someone who thinks a semi-nude picture of her ass and sideboob is an adequate response or defense. Especially not when the only conversation she's ever sparked about herself was about the state of her body. I'm smarter than that. And so are you.

When a t-shirt says too much

Let me start by saying this: I have very little tolerance for the messages put forth by American Apparel. As a clothing brand, it's decidedly meh. It has no merit from a style standpoint, and the quality is mediocre at best. Plus, with all the media reports and on-the-record statements made by American Apparel workers about the labour abuses they suffer, the whole sweatshop-free-made-in-America tagline loses its credibility in my books. I also think that the founder and CEO Dov Charney is a grade-A creep.

More than anything, though, I dislike American Apparel for its shock tactics. Their advertisements often have a sexual bent, as if in this era of readily available internet porn sex is still considered subversive. And I generally don't respond well to images of very young-looking girls with vacant eyes spreading their legs wide for the camera or tugging suggestively at their underpants. Call me a prude, but I guess I'm simply not okay with the blatant and unapologetic objectification of women, and especially girls.

Now the company is coming under fire for producing a t-shirt depicting a woman masturbating while she's menstruating. The image comes courtesy of Toronto-based photographer/artist Petra Collins, and was originally featured in a women's art show called Gynolandscape in neon sign form. The piece is rather aptly named Period Power. Needless to say, the t-shirt has caused a lot of hand wringing, pearl clutching and general panty bunching. In defense of the t-shirt Collins said to TIME Magazine: "I'm really interested in what is hidden from our culture. We are always repressing or hiding what is natural to a post-pubescent body. We're taught to hate our menstrual cycle and even to hide masturbation."

Within the context of its original showing I can see how Period Power is poignant, relevant and even thought-provoking. And I agree with Collins to a certain extent. As a teenage girl I definitely remember being embarrassed by my period, surreptitiously slipping a feminine product into my pocket and slipping out of class to go to the bathroom. I also recall being mortified by the thought of another girl hearing me tear open the packaging of a maxi pad because THEN SHE'D KNOW. But was I taught to hate my period? No, my hatred grew naturally out of PMS symptoms and cramps, thankyouverymuch. And of course as teenagers we're ashamed of masturbation, mainly because we can't really decipher our feelings about sex and sexuality, and because traditional social and religious mores tell us that we shouldn't want to experience pleasure in that way. Which is, of course, total bullshit.

So, yeah, the image is breaking taboos. As an art piece. Put it on a t-shirt that sells for $32 at a retailer known for pandering to the lowest form of exploitation just to get a rise out of people and it kind of loses all its potency as a commentary on the perpetuation of Puritanical beliefs in modern society. And it's kind of gross! It's gross in the same way that a picture of a gaping wound would be gross, in the same way that those pictures of cancer-stricken organs on cigarette packs are gross, in the same way that a picture of a dirty diaper would be gross.

Do I think that a t-shirt showing a bleeding vagina that's being stimulated by a hand with a *really* tacky manicure is going to liberate or empower women in some way? Nope, sorry. If I was ashamed of my period when I was a teenager it was because I was ashamed of fucking everything when I was a teenager. They're called your awkward teen years for a reason. And the same goes for masturbation. Besides, I really don't think these issues are in the forefront of our continual struggle for gender equality, either. I don't think that putting a bleeding vagina on a t-shirt is going to do anything to close the wage gap in the workforce or prevent women from being fired or demoted for taking maternity leave or put more women in seats of power.

I'm glad that some ad companies are taking it upon themselves to remove the humiliation from menstruation for young girls. The HelloFlo campaign is nothing short of genius, frankly. But you know what? Parents, specifically mothers, should also do their part to let their daughters know that menstruation is natural and healthy, and nothing to be ashamed about. Same goes for masturbation. Because I really don't think a $32 t-shirt from American Apparel is going to get the message across.

You can never be too rich or too fat

Aren't fat people the grossest? They're all lumpy and jiggly, and you just know that they always smell bad. They eat all the time, and probably have cookie crumbs and Doritos powder perpetually lodged between their rolls of disgusting fat. And some of them even have the audacity to go around looking and acting happy. WTF, amirite?

One such person is Rebel Wilson. Like most of North America, I was first introduced to Rebel in the hilarious comedy Bridesmaids. She played Kristen Wiig's audacious roommate who was the worst combination of mean and stupid, a role she delivered with sweet-voiced venom and deadpan brilliance. She was as revolting as she was endearing. Then I saw her again in the surprisingly good Pitch Perfect where she played Fat Amy, a self-appointed descriptive modifier that she uses "so that twig bitches like you don't do it behind my back."

From where I stand, or rather sit in front of my TV, it looks like Rebel's having a good time. She's widely regarded as funny, she's worked with some very cool broads (the aforementioned Wiig and Kay Cannon, who wrote the screenplay for Pitch Perfect and has also worked as a producer on shows like New Girl and 30 Rock, which means she's worked with TINA FEY OMGSHESMYHERO), and she generally seems fun. She's even starring in a new ABC comedy called Super Fun Night. I mean, the evidence is all there, peoples. I don't know her life or anything but it looks like things are on the up and up. But you know what would make it all a bajillion times better? If she lost a ton of weight! Because no one can truly be happy if they aren't skinny, obvs.

Today, reports say that undisclosed weight loss companies are clamouring to sign Rebel on as a spokesperson a la Jessica Simpson x Weight Watchers and Jennifer Hudson x Jenny Craig. And since Rebel is currently on a primetime TV show, viewers would be able to track her transformation from week-to-week, which...isn't creepy at all...? (*cringe face*)

Apparently, Rebel is considering the offers but a source says she would be doing it "strictly for the money," which I think is the best answer EVER. Considering la Simp's Weight Watchers deal rang in at a whopping $4 million, why wouldn't Rebel sign on simply to make a shit ton of dough? The notion that any of these celebrities who front weight loss companies are doing it for anything other than the money is the biggest joke of all. It's a sick joke, mind you, when you consider that neither Hudson nor Simpy nor the likes of Kirstie Allie or Mariah Carey need the money. But most people do require some sort of incentive to lose weight, whether it's a particular outfit, a school reunion, a revenge plot, or health and cholesterol levels and all that other stuff that can't be measured in smug satisfaction or money (aka. boooooring). Hell, if Jenny Watchers came to me and offered me a million-dollar contract to shed the five pounds I've put on since last Christmas you'd see a cloud of dust gather behind my gym shoe-clad feet faster than you can say "can I get extra cheese on that?"

I hate the fact that weight loss companies are preying on Rebel because they think she'll be the best and most relevant fat-to-skinny story today. Because who are they to make judgements or assumptions on her happiness or her health or her personal goals based on her body type? But the fact that she unabashedly says she'll do it just for the cash? Fuck yeah, sister. Take 'em to the cleaners. And then take them to the drive-through.

Why some people should think before they write

I came across this post on Thought Catalog last week called, "5 Things Women Should Start Doing Again." And I thought it would be kind of self-helpy and all "you must learn to practice self care" (I just said that in my annoying, breathy yoga voice), and it was going to talk about taking more bubble baths or some shit like that. Because apparently, to the average white woman, a bubble bath is like Polysporin for your soul. So, it's safe to say that I went into this post with some pretty solid preconceived notions of its inevitable suckitude. And I wasn't wrong.

Except instead of being irritating in a learn-to-love-youself-by-administering-a-daily-self-hug way, the writer dug up all these old tyme-y practices and rituals that women did when life sucked way worse because there weren't such a things as dry shampoo and stretchy pants. Her list included:

1) Getting our hair set once a week
For starters, women do do that, it's called a standing weekly appointment at the blowdry bar. I know women who do this and they practice maintenance in between by using humectants and hair sprays to ensure the humidity doesn't get to them, and dry shampoo towards the end of the week when their hair starts to smell like a jockstrap after hockey practice. (Do hockey players even wear jockstraps? IDK.) 

I, for one, wouldn't commit to a weekly hair appointment unless there was financial compensation involved. The idea that I'm being forced to sit in a chair for an hour or more without the freewill to get up and walk in circles just because -- a little insight into my daily life, peoples -- makes me rashy. It's one of the main reasons I don't have a job. But let me tell you as a person who makes her "living" writing about beauty trends, that insouciant, je ne sais quoi, voulez-vous coucher avec moi ce soir hair is glorious and liberating and very in style and won't make you want to stab the person tugging at your hair with a round brush in the eye with the sharp end of a comb. Because if Orange Is The New Black has taught me anything, jail blows.

2) Using fancy stockings with garter belts
This one kind of enrages me. Why in all holy fuck would a woman want to complicate her life further with a garter belt? Aren't pantyhose evil enough on their own? With their suffocating control tops and blistering toe seams and look-at-them-the-wrong-way-and-you'll-get-a-run flimsiness, I'd just as soon never buy a pair again. Reintroducing a garter belt into your life is akin to using a maxi pad from the past, which, if my memory of Judy Blume literature is accurate, involved some sort of belt-like contraption and sounded almost as cringe-y as a Blume-ian description of an adolescent girl making sense of the feelings she gets *down there* from her crush.

3) Hosting Barefoot Contessa-esque parties
Before I get into this lemme say one thing: I freakin' love the Barefoot Contessa. I think that broad is feisty and smart and I will use her recipes for roast chicken and pork tenderloin until the day I die. And I don't care what my mom's friend says, Jeffrey is *not* schtuping his mistress in the city all week while the Contessa cooks for and entertains her gay BFFs.

I won't tear into the writer for her obvious ineptitude in the kitchen. Clearly, she is hella incapable of hosting a "Contessa-esque" party. Me? I invite people over for dinner all the time. I may not have the idyllic lavender-laden Hamptons garden of la Contessa -- but then I also didn't have a career as a top-level investment banker before cashing it in for a Cuisinart mixer and imported truffle oil. I only have myself to blame -- but I can certainly throw together a two course dinner with loads of booze and not break a sweat. I'm no Contessa, but my guests always leave sated, a little bit drunk and sometimes even with leftovers in tow.

4) Day drinking with abandon
Far be it from me to discourage drinking of any kind at any time of the day. I've had business lunches in Europe where the wine flows freely, though not excessively, and my boyfriend is a martini at lunch kinda guy (circumstance permitting), so I judge not. But I'll admit that I don't love drinking in the middle of the day. It slows me down too much and often means that I won't get anything accomplished in the afternoon. I may also still be shellshocked from an ex-publisher who used to come back from lunch shitfaced on a regular basis. He'd make passes at the receptionist, hurl sexually harassing comments at the rest of the staff and practice karate in the middle of the office lobby. I really wish I was making that up.

The writer opines: "We need to bring out the parasols, and the lil crustless finger sandwiches, and lay out in random public areas to enjoy the hell out of our mid-afternoon buzz. Men should know, when we arrive on a sunny day with our big-ass hats and sunglasses, to ask us if we prefer a bellini or a cucumber mojito." And then maybe force their will upon us, prevent us from being independent and free thinking, and possibly ask us to "fetch" them their slippers when they get home from a long, hard day at work?

Day drinking? Yes! Reverting to a time when women would lounge around as useless objects waiting for their every need and whim to be satisfied by a man? Fuck no. Oh, and, parasols? Bite me.

5) Wearing incredibly fancy shit for no reason
I must say, I kind of agree with this point but I think she phrases it completely wrong. "Incredibly fancy" implies a sweeping gown or a tuxedo, and while the writer does make mention of throwing the cashier at your local corner store for a loop by showing up in a ball gown to buy tampons -- I mean, why? -- her point is so far off the mark that its merits are obscured. I agree that as a society we could use a little cleaning up. There is no excuse for wearing sweatpants or yoga pants in any context outside of the gym or yoga studio. None. I don't care if you were just running out to take the kids to school or if you were just popping into the market or if you're about to embark on a14-hour flight. There have been major advancements made in the field of fabric technology that mean you don't have to look sloppy to be comfortable. Jeans have loads of stretch in them, as do maxi dresses and long skirts and trousers. Athletic running shoes are not the only kind of footwear that will keep your feet supported and comfortable. There are driving moccasins and loafers and oxfords and streetstyle sneakers and cute flats. There really is no excuse for looking like a slob except sheer laziness. And I'll admit, some days when I'm walking my dog I glance down at my outfit and think, "good Lord, I look like a homeless Olsen twin," and I'm ashamed. Let's all share some shame on this front, shall we? And make a concerted effort to clean our shit up a little bit.

In conclusion, live your life with dignity, respect for yourself and others, and with a healthy cache of booze in your house. But don't bring back old practices that were indicative of a patriarchal society that viewed women as pretty objects to look at but not hear. Because both women and men have worked too hard to overcome that bullshit, and we're still working really hard at it. Now, let's all have a drink.

Is this what they mean when they say carbs are evil?

Remember the Atkins diet? Gawd, what a drag that was. I think I tried it for, like, 28 hours once. I recall being especially perplexed by what my breakfast options were. There are many non-carb breakfast foods, obviously, but I experiemented with this in the days where I only used my stove for making coffee and my oven served as storage for my shoes. Seriously, I was a *total* cliche in my 20s. So making eggs first thing in the morning simply wasn't going to happen. I quickly learned that I wasn't a very pleasant person without carbs, anyway, and ditched Atkins in favour of the coffee-and-cigarettes diet. Because I'm smrt.

I'm glad to announce that nearly a decade later, I'm still happily consuming carbs. And I will never apologize for it, either. I've never met a pizza I couldn't pulverize, I've never pooh-poohed a potato and I've certainly never passed up a bowl of pasta. Until now. Last week Barilla chairman and resident fascist Guido Barilla said in an interview with Radio 24: "I would never do [a commercial] with a homosexual family, not for lack of respect but because we don't agree with them. Ours is a classic family where the woman plays a fundamental role." He went on to say that he doesn't support adoption by gay couples, but does support gay marriage, which has a whiff of the daddy-hits-me-because-he-loves-me about it.

After a boycott was called on all Barilla products, the chairman clarified his comments and apologized cryptically by saying simply that "the woman plays a central role in a family." I don't really know what's worse, that Mr. Barilla has completely cut lesbians out of the equation, that he doesn't think the gays are worthy of his products, or that he believes that a woman's place is in the kitchen. You'd think that as one of the world's leaders in pasta production the guy would have had some media training by now, or that he'd have a PR team that knew to keep him away from reporters. As far as gastronomic gaffes go, this is like Tom Cruise on Oprah's couch: we didn't see it coming, we can't believe it happened, and it has made us pretty nauseous. 

Art for (F)Arts' Sake

 
Something happened at some point along the creative way. When I wasn't looking (because I was probably doing tequila shots at the bar), all artistic writerly pursuits became thinly veiled attempts at getting a movie deal. Seriously. It's like the only reason anyone writes anymore is because they hope it will turn into something meme-y and money-y. I mean, I get it; I'm a writer, after all. We don't make a lot of money, so obviously if you're going to pursue your passion, why not tailor it to garner you some dolla-dolla-bills? And hey, the fame? That's just gravy.

But I woke up one morning and hipsters everywhere (ok, mainly in New York) were blogging about some bastardized, half-cocked concept of "love" hoping to land up with a million-dollar Miramax deal and Joseph Gordon-Levitt as the male lead. This is "art"? I smell bullshit.

Let's start with those two twee gag-muffins from 40 Days of Dating (http://fortydaysofdating.com/). The premise: two utterly nauseating cliches of New York singles in their "marrying years" decide to embark on an experiment to date for 40 days and see if true love blossoms. She is the prototypical girl who loves too much and just wants to find love and gosh, golly, gee ain't love grand?! And he's a douche. (No further explanation necessary.) They chronicled every barf-tastic detail, which included going to couples' therapy, because what self-obsessed navel-gazer wouldn't go to therapy and then chronicle it for the world to read? They even went so far as to film a day they spent together where they held hands constantly. Seriously, like, even in the bathroom. Cuz that's what married people do, I guess? (It's becoming all too clear to me now that the reason my boyfriend hasn't popped the question is because I insist on closing the door when I pee.) The end result, not surprisingly, is that they didn't end up together. Because hipsters don't cop to a Hollywood ending. Unless it's in Brooklyn, in which case, the more food truck lobster tacos offered on bended knee the better. And wouldn't ya know, those two douchenozzles now have a movie deal.

Next up: some idiot broad, also in NYC, whose boyfriend once told her, after scarfing a turkey on whole wheat that she made for him, that she's "300 sandwiches away from an engagement ring." (http://300sandwiches.com/) What a charmer. Think of it as Julia and Julia meets salmonella poisoning. Precious nuggets on the topic of this "challenge", as she calls it, include: "Sandwiches meant more to him than nice gifts, regular sex or any other incentive I could use to get him closer to putting a ring on it." And: "It would take me about a year to make that many sandwiches." Now, my math skills are questionable at best, but aren't there 365 days in a year? Why, then, has she been working on this for 15 months? These two aren't just sickeningly obnoxious, they're also cripplingly dumb. Movie deals are probably pending. And I'm fixing my noose.

What's the take-away from all this? Is it that we've become so incapable of creating legitimate art that we have to debase ourselves with trite, specious experiments in love to be relevant and even celebrated? Where do we point the finger? Reality television? Capitalism? Hormones? Twerking? One thing is for certain: when our alien overlords one day sift through our collective internet browser history, we'll be a lot less embarrassed when they come upon the vast encyclopedia of pornography at our fingertips than these pathetic blog attempts at defining love and art.

Comedy, Thy Name is Kanye

This morning I was reading a humour blog called Vogue UK. If you haven't read it before I beseech you to do so. They post some really funny shit almost on a daily basis and use hilarious phrases like "fash week" instead of fashion week, because obviously they're laughing too hard at the funny things they write to get a whole long word like "fashion" out in one go. For instance, they once put this picture of Victoria Beckham in a Best Dressed of the Week gallery. It's so jokes, amirite?

Well, I woke up on the wrong side of the bed today — sorry for yelling at you for using the wrong towel to dry your body this morning, Boyfriend. But seriously, why does the male species find it so difficult to distinguish between a towel that's meant to dry your hair and one that's meant for your body? IT'S NOT ROCKET SCIENCE. But I'm totes over it now. — so I knew that my fave humour blog would pull me out of the Tuesday doldrums with something aptly entertaining and side-splittingly hilarious. And I was right!

Today, Vogue-slapmyknee-UK reported on an interview Kanye West gave to BBC Radio 1. Now, that Kanye is one heck of a comedian. I mean, this guy has some real talent and I often wonder what it will take for him to get a sitcom. In the interview, he opined on the leather pants trend: "Whether I'm at a dinner with Anna Wintour, or ... giving Fendi our designs and getting them knocked down… [We] brought the leather jogging pants six years ago to Fendi, and they said no," he said. "How many motherfuckers you done seen with a leather jogging pant?" He's implying that Fendi, a fashion house that dates back to 1925 and is responsible for originating the idea of the It Bag, has *stolen* his idea of designing leather jogging pants! AHAAAAHAAAA. I mean, never mind that Gianni Versace did it back in the 1980s, or that Sophia Kokosalaki, when designing for the experimental leather label Ruffo Research, showed leather jogging pants back in the early 2000s. Sure, he could have slipped in those references to make his joke funnier, if somewhat pedantic, but hey, he's a modern guy and his jokes are phrased in a modern context.

He then hilariously went on to say this about Saint Laurent creative director Hedi Slimane: "So when I see Hedi Slimane, and it's like, 'OK, this is my take on the world,' yeah, he's got some nice $5,000 jeans in there, it's some nice ones here and there, some good shit here and there, but we are culture. Rap is the new rock and roll. We are culture. Rap is the new rock and roll. We are the rock stars. It's been like that for a minute, Hedi Slimane. It's been like that for a minute. We the biggest rock stars, and I'm the biggest of all of them."

Ok, so that wasn't so much funny-ha-ha as it was funny-hmmm. That Kanye's pretty smart, after all, and very conceptual, so it's not surprising that many of his comments would fly over the heads of us normals. This is, after all, the same man who named his child North. Presumably so that he (or she? I STILL CAN'T FIGURE OUT THE SEX OF THAT BABY) will never lead a group of campers astray. "Which way do we go?" "I dunno, just follow North. He [or she?!?] always travels in the direction of his [or her] name." That's gold.

I gotta say, I'm humbled by Kanye. I couldn't come up with material that funny if I tried. Remember when he said this: "I am God's vessel. But my greatest pain in life is that I will never be able to see myself perform live." And this: "I am not a fan of books." And this gem: "I don't even listen to rap. My apartment is too nice to listen to rap in." 

Funny, funny shit. So funny I may cry.