Monday, March 30, 2009

Say ladies, it's OUR turn!

Strange, I just don't see this ending very well:

LOS ANGELES (Hollywood Reporter) – Fox is developing a dating-competition series that casts "average-looking" people.

The series, titled "More to Love," is billed as the first "dating show for the rest of us," throwing open its doors to overweight contestants.

"For six years it's been skinny-minis and good-looking bachelors, and that's not what the dating world looks like," Fox president of alternative (programming) Mike Darnell said. "Why don't real women -- the women who watch these shows, for the most part -- have a chance to find love too?"

Fox orders heavyweight dating show

Of course, the tired-ass bullshit about "real women" gets trotted out. Newsflash, fellows: ALL women are real women, be they fat, thin, whatever. Having you come right out of the gate using that snooze-inducing nonsense doesn't inspire me to try out or tune in. Apparently, the success of "The Biggest Loser" is what "convinced" the network to give "More To Love" (and that title can go fuck itself, too) a whirl. The success of "The Biggest Loser" isn't about people thirsting to see "regular" people on TV. People watch “The Biggest Loser” to pull some sort of “inspiration” from it for their own bound-to-fail diet adventures, or to ooh and aah at the magical transformation that would come to anyone if their primary occupation was dieting and exercising. A magical transformation that, for a majority of the contestants, is fleeting. When “The Biggest Loser”, a show that has been mislabeled as a “public service” as it not-so-subtly humiliates and risks the health of its contestants on a weekly basis serves as your model, I’m not feeling confident that “More To Love” is going to be anything more than an exploitative humiliationfest geared towards people who want their pointing-and-laughing to be even more condoned than it already is by the media/society.

Sure, I'm willing to admit that my cynicism comes from having experienced the darker, crappier side of humans. And obviously, the producers are looking to make a buck. But it's so...annoying and rather offensive to me that they're trying to paint themselves as these Mr. Beautifuls who want to shake things up and show the world that fat girls DO date and fuck and *gasp* deserve love, too! I'd love it if Mike Darnell and Mike Fleiss managed to make a show that wasn't a train wreck of a nightmare and really did take their mission as seriously as Hollywood players can take it. But considering their first project together was "Who Wants to Marry a Millionaire"? Yeah, I'm not banking on it.

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Monday, March 9, 2009

The Ass That Wasn't There.

I need to put a Post-It note or something on my computer monitors both at work and at home to remind me that the next time I get a wild hare up my ass to do some lingerie shopping that one really needs to have an ass to wear “cheeky panties”.

It’s like, I look at the pictures on the website of heinies sporting “cheeky” unmentionables – point of order, I have to use “unmentionables” because FUCK, do I hate the word “panties”. In my head, I can only hear my own nasal Chicago accent saying “panties” and it’s a brutal, brutal noise, so “unmentionables” it shall be from here on out. So anyway, I look at the pictures on the website of hind ends sporting cheeky unmentionables and they look so lovely and I’m dazzled into imagining that I possess such a hind end and suddenly, I see they’re on sale and I have a Lane Bryant credit card and oh, it’s been so long since I’ve bought anything at LB let alone refreshed my unmentionable collection with new gear so YES I WILL TAKE THE CHEEKIES THANK YOU *CLICK*.

Then, they arrive and I gleefully throw a pair on and realize I simply do not have the ass to fill these fuckers out. My flat ass that has been flat since the dawn of my time, that remained defiantly flat even when I was at my peak gym attendance, my flat ass didn’t magically puff out to match the photoshopped Lane Bryant asses. It just stayed its usual flatty self, with flaps of fabric sitting on my ass where ass would go if I only had an ass (a deleted song from “The Wizard of Oz”, perhaps).

Of course, I’m not going to send them back because from the front, they look pretty okay. And they go just enough with the new fancy bra I bought that has a little dingly-dongly decorative bit hanging from the middle thing (as you can tell, I am a dedicated follower of fashion). I go through odd periods of buying lingerie. And as you’ve learned from previous (whiny) posts of mine, it’s certainly not because I’m jazzing my junk up for my man – I just have these inexplicable buying jags where I turn my nose up at casual (or comfortable) underpants and will not buy anything that doesn’t feature lace or beading or sequins or see-throughy bits. I’ve dabbled in many lingerie areas, from boy shorts to bustiers (not that I have much yay to boost), and learned that more often than not, I wind up feeling more uncomfortable than sexay. It’s kind of hard to feel sexy when you’re digging lacy fabric out of your crack or trying to bend underwire so it’s not poking you in the side of the boob (or, in my case, my flibbety flubbety upper arm flesh).

And yet...when I get into one of my moods...I can’t resist the siren call to try and look like something of a siren.

Well, as much of a siren as a fairly androgynous chick who gets mistaken for a guy at least once a month can look.

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