There are Asian dolls and Jewish dolls and Black dolls … and 1,894 variations of other dolls that Mattel, Bratz and the American Girl Company have dreamed up. But to the best of my knowledge, there isn’t a doll that more accurately reflects the body size of the majority of American women — that is to say, not a size 2. Even a Barbie who wasn’t plus-size but simply less impossibly slim would be an improvement! This image of a plus-size Barbie is, of course, just a mockup (which was posted on the Facebook page for Plus Size Modeling and is garnering the usual criticisms/praise). But in all honesty, a doll like this should exist. If we can’t get rid of Barbie dolls for little kids, we could at least make her more realistic looking. [Daily Mail UK] [Image via Daily Mail UK]
Well, that’s a disappointment! As much as we — and everyone else, because come on, who doesn’t love Rebel Wilson? — wanted the actress’s new show “Super Fun Night,” which premiered last night, to be the new best thing ever, the actuality of the show is more like our worst fears for it realized. The ABC sitcom takes the super funny, super adorable, super charming Wilson and turns her into a sort of punchline of herself whose main preoccupation is, “HEY GUYS, DON’T FORGET THAT I’M ALSO SUPER FAT.” It’s just a waste of a talented, multi-faceted comedienne’s breadth of humor and genuine ability. Like, how many Spanx jokes does a 22-minute pilot need? Four. The answer is four. Jezebel provided an excellent, if depressing, compilation of every fat joke from the first episode, and not only are they abundant to the point of superfluity, they’re also, well, not funny. (Furthermore, they stripped Rebel of her Australian accent, which unlike unfunny fat jokes is an actual crime against humanity.)
We’ve all got to pay rent somehow. Kristy Love from Atlanta, Georgia, uses her 48NN boobs — but not the way you think. Love is a “busty masseuse” who smothers and massages clients with her large breasts. Keep reading »
This weekend in the New York Times Social Q’s column, a woman wrote in to inquire about how to handle a ruthless grandma who is obsessed with her six-month-old granddaughter’s weight:
My husband and I have a beautiful 6-month-old daughter. She is chubby but not overweight by any means. My mother-in-law, who obviously has a weight obsession and is quite thin, has started making comments about my daughter’s size: “I can’t believe her legs are so big when she kicks all the time.” Or: “She’ll thin out when she starts to crawl.” My husband knows that these comments bother me, but he will not address them with her. I want to protect my daughter from her grandmother’s damaging and unhealthy fixation with weight. What should I do?
Okay, what kind of sick person body snarks a six-month-old baby? I don’t have kids, so I might be wrong about this, but aren’t babies supposed to be fat? I did not know that having a fat six-month-old was a problem you could have. Keep reading »
There’s fat, and then there’s fat. In the tunnels under London’s Thames River, there’s a pretty monumental fat situation. The Thames Water utility company has found a 15-ton bus-shaped lump of fat (yes, actual fat) stuck in the drains under South London. The lump — get ready to gag! — is apparently full of sanitary wipes and rotting food, and takes up around 95 percent of the entire sewer tunnel space. Had workers not caught it in time, a fully clogged tunnel would have resulted in raw sewage exploding out of sewer grates.
Terrifyingly, this isn’t the first time London Water has uncovered a major fatberg. Keep reading »
This weekend I was riding the A train, as I do nearly every day, and I received the first stranger comment about my weight in a long time. He had been sitting next to me for several stops and was talking to another girl with a stuffed Nintendo Mario character backpack near us, clearly trying to pick her up. I suspected he was drunk. I kept reading my book and said, “Excuse me,” as I walked past him when we got to my stop.
He loudly said to my back, “You should go on a diet,” as I was getting off the train. I had a pause waiting for the doors to open. Usually I ignore these kinds of things, but this time I turned to the 20-something white dude, looked him dead in the eye and said, “My body is none of your business, nor is anyone else’s.”
He started to rebut as I got off the train. I just kept going. I realized as I was walking away I said that not so much to change his mind but for the benefit of anyone else listening that might think it’s okay to talk about someone else’s body. Keep reading »
I was a full-blown feminist by the time I started college. I also had a full-blown eating disorder. As a teen I marched on Washington for women’s rights. I put out a zine called Wonder Woman. I played drums (and by “played” I mean I aggressively and skill-lessly beat the shit out of a floor tom, a snare and a cymbal) in a punk band whose songs included “Penis-Shaped Missile” and “Cute Band Alert.” I prepared all varieties of soy-based hippie stews for Food Not Bombs, though I don’t recall ever sampling any of them. And it wasn’t because of the soy. Or the hippie. While my dog-eared copy of Naomi Wolf’s The Beauty Myth was proudly displayed on my bookshelf, my equally well-worn calorie counter book was hidden out of sight in my desk drawer.
I was terrified of gaining weight. I restricted. I binged and purged. I hated my body. Keep reading »