Fierce: or, The Biggest Box of Candy in the Shop, Part the Second

So, Shiawassee is staying at my house, and maybe because she's there for Valentine's Day, maybe because we've had a few too many whiskeys, she starts to give me a pretty strong earful about The Kind of Man I Need. I'm okay with this, not only because Shiawassee is sassier and smarter in the ways of the world than I could ever aspire to be, but also in light of my past. I've gotten tangled up with some shady characters before--some villains, even a sociopath--and it was mainly because I totally couldn't see the shadiness, the villainy, the sociopathy until it was way, way too late. It was after they were in. And then I was lost. A girl could have used a friend like Shiawassee standing over her shoulder saying, "Now I know you are not going to fall for that! Walk. A. Way."

I'll also let Shiawassee go to town on me over The Kind of Man I Need because she doesn't trivialize the issue of The Body. Meaning, my body. The thing that you're not supposed to say--and the thing that your girlfriends are apparently never supposed to entertain for even a second--is that realistically, most dudes have an issue with dating a fat girl. The specific subculture of Chubby Chasers aside, there is a hugely real difficulty that guys have in dealing with their attraction to a fat girl. An awesome, funny, sexy fat girl to be sure, but the awesome, the funny, the sexy will never eliminate the social charge of the fat. It doesn't take a genius to note how female fat is stigmatized in American culture, and by default, for a guy to want a fat girl...well, he's in grave danger of having that stigma rub off on him. Especially when you're talking about someone like me--no amount of euphemizing will squeeze me into the upper range of average. So in my experience, I have found that for a guy to admit that he wants to be with me, he either has to be:

1.) so clueless that he doesn't realize the social implications of being with a fat girl

2.) so secure in his masculinity that what other people think doesn't matter

or,

3.) so brave that he's willing to step up and face potential social stigma. Oh, and this bravery has to double if the guy is "very attractive" in a mainstream or traditional sense.

Fierce: or, The Biggest Box of Candy in the Shop, Part the First

So, Shiawassee was staying at my house for a few days, since she had a short gig in Rust City. I picked her up at the airport and took her back to the Gingerbread Cottage, and after hauling in her suitcase and doing our girly shrieking about how awesome it is that she's here, she looked at me sharply and said:

"You've lost weight. Did I tell you that when I saw you last month?"

Shiawassee met up with us for one night on our trip Down South last month. You know, when my jeans were slipping down and my bra was too big. I said, "No, you didn't tell me."

Still eyeballing me, she repeated, "You've lost weight."

One Year Ago Today

February 12, 2010.

The sweetest surprise ever.

Underwear and Kryptonite, Part the Second

Ambien is the work of the devil.

Well, or that's what I would say if I believed in the devil. There's too much evidence of actual, tangible villains and criminal masterminds for me to spend time worrying about some demon-y thing in a red jumpsuit and horns poking at people with a pitchfork. While red jumpsuits are far more popular than one would initially think, the only one I know running around with a pitchfork is the SuperVillain known as American Gothic, and he just lives the next town over, so I've got my eye on him already. Rather, let's say Ambien is the work of a criminal of the highest order, one who slaved away for years to come up with the exact chemical combination to render a SuperHero defenseless under the guise of what they call in the medical community "good sleep hygiene". Then this evil genius retained the services of the sleaziest of fixers to push the stuff onto pharmacy shelves as a miracle cure to finally put suffering insomniacs to rest. When the stuff then makes its way into the hands of Jane Q. Public, fine, she gets a great night's sleep. But the whole point of the conspiracy is to get the stuff into the hands--and into the systems--of SuperHeroes in order to watch them fall.

Underwear and Kryptonite, Part the First

I bought some new undies today.

No, no, just wait...it will all make sense.

On the trip I discovered that my magical underwear was all too big, rendering it significantly less magical. Well, completely un-magical, to be honest. So today I just couldn't stand it anymore, and I went out to purchase some ladies' unmentionables.

I'll be upfront and say that the new ones are not magical. Magical undies cannot be ordered up on demand like a Big Mac at a drive-thru. Like Wonder Woman's bracelets, they have to be procured via otherworldy means--passed down from the gods or discovered like the Holy Grail. You never just walk into a store and purchase the magic. However, today I was more than happy to settle for some delicates that fit properly. The magic can wait.

So I'm at the store, and I'm sorting through all of the polka dots and stripes and little ribbons and ruffles and whatnot--you know, pretty much any cute little thing that a cartoon character might wear--and I started thinking about the moment that the dainties became magic, the period when they actually became powerful enough to turn me into a SuperHero.