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 »