heatherbeck

022/365: I Hath Wrought Ranch!

Long time readers will know that I'm quite the fan of Spanish culinary culture. In its simplicity, it is complex, and I've seldom encountered another culture in the world where so much deliberate time and attention is paid toward something as simple as eating.

That being the case, I am an American by birth, and in some regards, by inclination. And there are certain comfort foods that I was raised with that, on a cold, dreary winter's night, I yearn for.

One of them is arguably the greatest staple our constitutional republic has put forth in the last 243 years. Ranch dressing, you delightful, fattening, tangy, zesty shit — how I love you.

The thing is, it's not until you live in another place for a while, that you realize the things you take for granted simply don't exist. Hidden Valley ranch dressing. The Spaniards have never heard of it. No foul, obviously. They are too busy concocting earthy takes on French cheese sauces, so, as my grandmother used to say, they have their own fish to fry.

Still, when the craving got too intense, I decided to look up a recipe. Turns out, it's actually pretty simple, if you have the right ingredients.

1/2 cup of sour cream, 1/2 cup of mayonnaise, 1/2 cup of buttermilk. Mix those together with dill, salt, black pepper, dried parsley, garlic powder, onion powder, and some lemon juice, and there you have it! Whip out the celery sticks, and have yourself a party.

A couple of hiccups. Sour cream is not very common over here either. Neither is buttermilk. For the sour cream, I stockpiled that shit when I went to a specialty store in Salamanca recently. I cleaned them out. Yours truly literally purchased 2 gallons of sour cream. The cashier was very confused, that this busty American girl was so excited about her acquisition of a startling amount of specialty dairy.

As for the buttermilk, that's actually pretty easy to get around. Take regular milk, add a healthy squirt of vinegar, and let it set for half an hour. The maltic acid in the vinegar reacts with the lactic acid in the milk, and the whole thing gets thickened and tart. It's essentially the same thing.

So, I returned to my trusty kitchen/laboratory, and got to work. I had a bunch of mason jars laying around, so I thought I would do something fun.

I'm not a very political person, but when you're in another country, it's very easy for the natives to assume that you, the individual, are representative of your nation's politics at that time, and that the rest of your identity exists nebulously, somewhere outside of those narrow confines. I suppose we all do that, in a way. For my part, I generally try to be an ambassador of all the wonderful magic that my country has birthed into the world, usually in some pretty (intentionally) stereotypical ways. If I have people over, I play The Beach Boys and mid-century jazz. If I'm making dinner, I'll do a giant pot of Gulf Coast gumbo and a huge loaf of cornbread. If I'm speaking with somebody who I know doesn't speak a lick of English, they will say como esta, and I'll say, "Hey, how's it goin'" before continuing the conversation in Spanish, because everybody in the world has seen enough American movies to know that "Hey, how's it goin'" is just a nice combination of sounds that means hello.

In celebrating your cultural differences, even in small ways, and with good humor, you invite others to do the same, and get that much closer to realizing that every one of us is, in fact not different at all. There's something terribly romantic about that.

So in that spirit, I decided to make a shitload of ranch dressing, and hand it out to people. The initial reaction was one of curiosity, but I will wager to say that about 90% of everyone who tried it thought it was pretty decent.

I told a few people that if you go to a certain store in the United States, you can buy the stuff in 5-gallon drums, complete with a little spigot on the bottom.

They'd laugh, roll their eyes, and imply that that sounded like a very American product indeed.

021/365: Quest for Flannel

I'm sure there are going to be more shots of this shirt. It's part of a recent shipment of clothing I got on Amazon, and I admit, I rolled the dice on it a little bit. Flannel is fickle and it doesn't tend to stretch a lot. But I thought… Who knows? Maybe an XXXXXL will work? (Chinese sizing, so more like an XXXL, but still...).

Alas, the buttons barely close, there's some pretty substantial gapping, and if I breathe too deeply, the thing will probably pop right open, giving eye injuries to anybody who happens to be within the range of a flying button.

Oh, and did I mention that I kind of fall out the bottom? In case it's hard to tell…

One day, I keep telling myself… One day I will find a downright tent of a flannel shirt, and will then ask my seamstress to achieve the impossible.

[Ed. note: It may look like the girls are getting uncomfortably squished, but no worries. It was a "stage squish," and they're just fine.]

020/365: Ham again?!

In less than as many weeks, this is my third ham-related picture. Make of that what you will (courtesy of an episode of Community I had playing on my computer, and who doesn't love Gillian Jacobs? I want this costume for Halloween at some point...).

Anyway! Just a sundry note, because a few of you have written me with this concern recently: I think there's a bit of an issue pulling up all of my posts on the mobile app. Patreon is amazing, and I love it, but I've noticed huge chunks of content that just don't pop up, whole months get skipped, things like that. The desktop app? That works great, and everything can be found chronologically, or by tag. But in my experience, and in a few of your experiences, the mobile app is still a work in progress.

So, if there's something that you're sure you saw a little while back, and it doesn't pull up on the app, rest assured, it is still there. Probably just more easily accessible on an actual computer.

Anyway. Ham. 😋 And Gillian Jacobs. ☺️

Thing a Day: 019/365

Was (finally) wrapping up chapter 5 of Girl in the High Tower (available at the $12 tier), cozyfied in my bug fluffy robe.

For those of you who have been following the story, thank you for your patience. I had chapter 5 written, but then I wrote myself into a corner. Chapter 5 became chapter 6, and then I started writing what was going to be chapter 5, but that became chapter 6, and chapter 6 became chapter 7! Confused yet? I know I am.

Anyway. Chapter 5 is just about done, and 6 and 7 will be closely on its heels (since they're already written!). The adventure continues, and the plot thickens!

Anyway, found a new shade of lipstick, and was goofing around with my camera. This shot was totally accidental, but I thought it looked cute in a weird way, and as one of you remarked, it makes me look like a "busty Terminator." I'll take that as a compliment. 🤖

018/365: Magic Trick!

Today, I received a rather large batch of fresh clothes. Items that I scoured on Amazon, all from the same seller, all fairly inexpensive. The idea was to experiment with different fashions, different cuts, different materials, if something works? Amazing. If not? I'm not out a bunch of cash.

In the mix of that, I got something I've been thinking about for a while. A waist trainer. It's kind of like a corset, but without the cups. It's actually a pretty cool design, which I guess explains why it's been around since the early Victorian age (earlier? Yeah, earlier). It's good for posture. It just makes you feel thinner, and it might come in handy for certain outfits at some point. And hey, it's kind of cute, right?

Plus, my boobs are heavy. Having the underwire rest on top of some surface that's not my delicate belly skin isn't a bad thing.

So, I tried it on, and I was like "Yeah. This is awesome. I can get into this."

It wasn't too long before I discovered a cool little magic trick. If I take the underwires of the bra, and put them between the corset and my body, the corset holds up the weight of my chest, and some of the support falls on my waist and (non-existent?) hips! Not too shabby!

I can see why corsets/waist trainers are a thing! (Even if they're seldom repurposed in such a way.) It's a bit of a shame that they don't sell a corset that automatically comes with cups in my size, but in the meantime? This is actually not a terrible substitute.

You learn something new every day.

PS: I think it's kind of charming how the angle of this picture makes my boobs look tiny. Isn't that sweet? In reality, this method does cause them to ride higher and the project outward even more than they usually do, so there is a bit of a trade off. But if I can take some of the weight off of my shoulders for a second? That's cool. Just one step closer to steam punk.

Thing a Day: 017/365

So, this is pretty fun. In Spain, and in Europe in general, tobacco products are required to have big warnings and unsavory images in an attempt to deter purchasing. Diseased body parts, people in wheelchairs, a dude in a hospital bed… Things like that.

But this particular picture is my favorite. This weird looking little kid staring at a cigarette. Now, dear reader, I would like you to take a moment and think about who that little kid looks like. I'll wait.

Yep. He looks just like Russian president Vladimir Putin.

The similarity is not lost on the Spaniards. This little whippersnapper even has a nickname "hijo de Putin," or "son of Putin."

The fun comes from the fact that Putin sounds really similar to "puta," which essentially means whore. So, "son of a whore.

The first time I heard that, it gave me a chuckle. Isn't language fun? 😜

Thing a Day: 016/365

I can't believe I found this old shirt. Yeeeeears forgotten, from a visit long, long ago, stashed away in a box in a closet somewhere. But Linen is forgiving.

I'm not going to lie. I was anticipating one of those button-bursting scenarios that everyone seems to like so much, but the thread on the buttons is just too thick. Next time, I shall choose a more destructible fabric.

But for now, damn you tensile strength, this is the best you get. I will need to invest in some cheaper, intentionally smaller shirts.

Thing a Day: 015/365

Recently, someone asked me how much booze I could stash in my bra. I'm sure they were referring to things like... flasks (and to be fair, I have snuck flasks into an overpriced music venue before, much to the delight of my friends! I think that's how the conversation got started...). Alas, I have no flasks lying around, so I made do with what was available.

I have a feeling jamming entire bottle of vodka between in my cleavage might still be a liiiiitle too conspicuous to get into the concert undetected, but in the name of science, I thought I had might as well try. This, dear reader, is the result of such an experiment.

Thing a Day: 014/365

To be completely honest, I had resigned myself completely to the fact that I had graduated, forever, out of a certain class of lingerie. Yes, there are some fun pieces that come across as super-flirty because by body simply "wears" them differently, and all of that stretching, draping and folding flatters in some very unexpected ways. And I'm not gonna lie... those can be a LOT of fun to play with (something I'm learning more and more lately! 😘).

But something "built" for my body? I'd pretty much given up hope.

So imagine the tidal wave of emotion when I laid eyes on this incredible surprise, courtesy of an amazingly kind soul, for the first time. Tears actually came to my eyes, and that's not a terribly common thing for yours truly.

A bra portion that's incredibly supportive and strong enough to hold my 20-plus pounds of breasts; a gleaming, bright white that makes me want to keep it miles away from a glass of red wine; a draping, layered flow of satin that makes it a solid "teddy." It makes me feel pretty in an (and this is rare) effortless way.

I thank so many of you so much for saying that I'm sexy, but I'm the one who lives with this body every day, and it's easy to forget. With a shape like mine, I hardly ever see myself that way while still feeling "delicate." It's... a lovely feeling. ☺️

I can't wait to show it off more, so keep your eyes open. 😉

Thing a Day: 013/365

It has been the most utterly laid-back of birthdays. Ringing in 36 circumnavigations of the sun by binge-watching "The Crown," which is a perfectly amazing show, and Olivia Coleman is a treasure. (Also, I guess I need to update my bios to reflect that I'm solidly on the downward slope to 40 [!]). (Insert appropriate emoji in the comments below.)

So, today, for whatever form my raging anglophilia has taken, reminded me of this (utterly unsexy) video I filmed on my phone a little while back, through the window of a jewelry store not too far away from where I live. 

The most wonderful thing about this video is... hard to define. It's a Spanish store, with the usual arrangement of globally standard jewelry. There was no context surrounding this little statuette of QE2 to imply any reason she should be there, there was no theme, no little Union Flag hanging out, not specifically British pieces of jewelry. It's obviously battery operated, which explains the little hand wag (the only mechanization this statue has), so how long will the battery last, and also, it's just the hand moving! How silly! And where does the battery go? In her butt? Please tell me it goes in her butt!!! AHH! It's like the British equivalent of those little waving-hand cat statues at Chinese restaurants!

And, best of all, at some point in the not too distant past, someone who runs the shop had to say to themselves, "Yes! That's EXACTLY what this window needs! A tiny Queen Elizabeth! Because of course it does!"

I love silly shit like this. 

Anyway, just a quick, "Helll-loooo!!!!" to all of you. 

Thing a Day: 012/365

Just a quick sneak peak of the most adorable pattern! 😍 More of this soft, coziness to come, but it is quite possibly, the only cute, frivilous (Gasp! Colorful?!) bra I've owned in yeeears.

Thing a Day: 011/365

The followup to the post on IG. But a bit of backstory, I once got to MEET the Swedish chef. It was at an expo, I was a journalist working for a magazine, and the Muppets came to town, courtesy of our local PBS affiliate.

ANYWAY! Elmo? Whatever. Kermit? Drama whore, couldn't care less. Animal? Cool guy — we did a line of coke off Ms. Piggy's belly. Good times.

But my main man — there he was. Swedish Chef. 'Sitting' at a table, his floppy head and weird, humanoid hands. I can't remember feeling the way I felt since I was a little girl, and still believed that Santa Claus was a real thing. I was so fucking nervous.

"Hi, Swedish Chef!"

"Errr! Vërts der nërmen?!"

"H-Heather."

"Hey-thërrr! Sporky börd!"

"You toooo!!!"

The rest of the conversation was a blur. I had it recorded, and I can't find the recording for the life of me, but I would ask him questions. Real, honest to God, journalist questions. His favorite recipe, what restaurants he worked in, were there any character conflicts on the show. Of course, he would answer in complete gibberish. It was the awesomest thing ever. The article literally contained words that weren't words.

I swear, I was literally glowing for days. I got to meet my childhood hero. James Beard? Julia Child? Jacque Pepin? (I was a PBS cooking-show nerd.) Nah. Show me the travesty that can ensue if you try to fry a live chicken, and you've got my attention forever.

Fun fact. I have a couple of friends from Sweden. And apparently, the Swedish Chef is reviled there. They think he's a racist stereotype. And at the best, they think he sounds Finnish. I didn't think it was possible to be racist toward the Swedish. Safe cars? Easily assemble furniture? Mooses? (Chokolate mooooseees?) Snow?

Apparently, however, there was a Swedish academic who wrote a paper on the Swedish interpretation of the Swedish Chef. And he had a really great sense of humor about it, so I suppose that's something. (I think the title of the paper was "Ibsen borden berken Der Chokolate Mooooose: Bork Bork Bork.")

Not to make light of racism. Because racism sucks, and a whole category of people, with their unique cultures, histories, traditions, and worldviews, should never be boiled down to a single stereotype under any circumstances. And I can see, if you're Swedish, that that representation of your culture to a global audience might be percieved as narrowminded and overtly silly.

But. I still love the Swedish Chef.

Bork.

Thing a Day: 010/365

A friend of mine went back to the United States for the holidays, and just returned. I asked her to get me a souvenir. This is what she came up with. I literally don't know if this is the best gift ever, or the worst gift ever. What I DO know is that, A: They sell single-serving Spam, B: I talk way too much about ham, and C: this bastard's going in a skillet... now. 🍳

Thing a Day: 009/365

Imagining my nipples actually pointed straight ahead, without magical, physics-defying teeshirt tugging. 🤔Ahhh, for true porn star tits... alas. 🙃

Thing a Day: 008/365

One of my resolutions for New Year's is that I'm going to branch out a bit from standard-issue selfies and bathroom mirror shots. So a quick visit to Amazon, and €7 later, and I found a handy-dandy tripod that has a little smart phone bracket. It's dinky for sure, but it'll do the trick to up the artsiness quotent... 💃🏻

Up on the agenda... attempting to recreate that busty pinup aesthetic from the past... that's all I'll say for now, but stay tuned... 😏

Thing a Day: 007/365

Iberian cured ham. One of the reasons that I adore living here. The nuances of this stuff get people snobbily involved in conversation the way the French throw themselves into debates about wine, and the Italians get persnickitous over the proper thickness that garlic should be sliced. Though, it is Spain, so snobbery is always kept more than arm's-length away.

The ones you're seeing here, that occupy an entire aisle of my local grocery store, are the hind legs of the pig, slow-aged over months and months. These ones are pretty run-of-the-mill. Not necessarily Sam's Choice -- there's pride taken with this delicacy, no matter who is responsible for it -- but €160 is still a pretty decent bargain. If you want the ones that have been lovingly fed acorns, oysters, and have had Brandy mixed in with their feed? A similar hoc can run you upwards of €1200. But these do the trick juuuust fine.

I was talking to a friend of mine. He's a local artist, and he sold a couple of pieces recently. So he took it upon himself to buy one of these hocs at Christmastime. His massive family was getting together for the holidays, and even with a couple of dozen people running around, occasionally slicing razor thin pieces as they walk by in the kitchen (the same way I would always pluck a sugar cookie out of the popcorn tin in my kitchen) it'll last the whole season, with some leftover. A damn fine investment.

The curing process doesn't involve a goddamn thing. No salt, no spices, no seasoning. Just dryness, and smoke. The flavors are left over to speak for themselves. If done even halfway decently, the result is something that you grab a few slices of, wad into your mouth, and chew on while you let the aroma waft into your nasal passages.

It's the closest thing to pure romance that a dead animal could ever possibly hope to offer.

I eat a hamburger, and I don't give a shit about the cows life. You eat a piece of this, and you can't help but think about the life of the pig led, and it's long, dirty, glorious days under the Spanish sun.

There was a quote by one of my very favorite people, Anthony Bourdain, that I heard only recently (and laughed myself to tears). He waxed more philosophically and more poetically then I possibly can about the exact same subject. I'm going to recite it from memory, so it's likely that I'll butcher it, but it went something like this:

"It's pornographically good. To travel through Spain and not try this most traditional, most heartfelt expression of Spanish culture and history is like letting the great love of one's life slip through one's fingers. The result, then, is inevitably a slow spiral into depression, regret, despair, and ultimately, death."

I mean, I know the guy hated vegetarians, but… Damn. 😜

🐷

No wonder I've got a bit of a belly on me.

Thing a Day 006/365

It's been one heck of a year, and I'm finally recovered enough to say, "You know what? I'm gonna treat myself."

So, I popped onto Amazon and scrounged up a few articles that I thought were just... fun. Will they work? Will they fail miserably? Who knows! But stick around, and you might find out.

Let's just say, I have some plans in mind. #NewYearNewHeather

Thing a Day: 005/365

A peek behind the scenes: these are AMAZING. Silicone pads that fit to the straps of bras charged with carrying heavy loads. For me, even thicker bra straps DIG IN. These magical things make the day a lot more comfy. 🤤☺️

Think a Day 004/365

Question of the day: provided the top part was stretchy enough, do y'all think I could pull off the retro poodle skirt look? It's a question that's been weighing on my mind way more than it should. 🐩👗

Thing a Day 003/365

So, I missed today. And only three days in. But I can explain it.

So… There was a gas leak! Yes, that's right, the gas leak! And one of the water pipes burst. And the power went out, and so did the Internet? Also… An extra-dimensional squid teleported into the town square, and there was a psychic blast…

See? I'm full of excuses! 😜🤦🏻‍♀️

Thing of the Day 002/365

A fun little sketch by an anonymous collaborator (you know who you are; hit me up if you want me to throw down your IG tag!), re-discovered as I was paging through some old pics on my phone. I think it's fun how my expression turned out. Also, boobases.

Thought I would post it here so it doesn't just live in anonymity forever. :)

Thing a Day: 001/365

New Years Resolutions. I've never taken them too seriously. Except for one.

Several years ago, there was something silly and odd that I didn't like about myself.

See, I was a foodie before it was cool. I will eat anything (don't get any ideas, bwahaha). But there was one food I just could NOT get my head around: coconut.

Especially the candied kind, like you find on a Mounds Bar. It wasn't the flavor: it was the texture. Bleeeghh. When I was a little kid, my grandfather said he would give me $50 if I could eat a Mounds bar. This was $50, to a kid under the age of 10, in the '90s. I just couldn't do it.

Thing is, the textural hatred bled into a hatred for the flavor. Coconut shrimp, coconut milk (Thai food was otherwise amazing!), coconut water, all of it.

And it bugged me, so bad. I had eaten every organ meat under the sun, had actually enjoyed that semi-fertilized Philipino egg snack (whose name escapes me at the moment... balut?), boiled lamb brain was just not my flavor, but my Moroccan buddies said that that was excusable, because yeecch. But 99.9% of food? I was down.

Except for coconut. For something so universal, I just couldn't get over it. So, many New Years Days ago, I decided to conquer it. I went to a Whole Foods, and I bought 3 coconuts.

I bashed those fuckers open with a hammer. I tore out the meat. I started out with the path of least resistance. Just nibbling on some from time to time. The fresh stuff wasn't so bad, so I started there.

Then, cooking with it. Putting it into a blender with some other fruit and making smoothies. Just throwing myself into this stupid freaking tree-fruit thing.

And I worked my way up. Day after day. I must have spent hundreds of dollars of fucking coconuts that year. For real! It was almost an obsession. But by the next New Year? Summabitch.

Today, I freaking love this stuff. I can now devour a macaroon with the best of them. I keep coconut milk on hand because that stuff is the shit in a soup on a cold day. And every time I have coconut now, a part of me feels proud in a dumb way, because I conquered something that was big, even if it was, albeit, stupid and unimportant. I made the humble coconut my bitch.

And, since making the humble coconut my bitch, and with all the pride I've felt... I realize I have gone many years without carrying through on any sort of resolution.

So this year, let's try something: sometimes it'll be a big full-length thing, with kinky pics, long-winded essays, pieces of fiction, you name it; other times, it'll just be a dumb meme accompanied by "hehehehe." But every day, I just want to post something here. Every day. No. 001 of 365. (Or 366! Leap year!)

Lime in the coconut, muthafuckas. Let's do this.

Easily Distracted

Ah, Sunday — and a Sunday where I finally don't have anything pressing or urgent to do. All the best, leading up to what is going to be a quiet, ultra-low-key holiday season.

So, I'm taking the afternoon to indulge in one of my favorite pastimes: lazily getting some dishes and laundry done while I keep re-runs of one of my favorite TV shows streaming in the background. 

Which leads me to this fun video... All of my warm cozies are in the washing machine, which takes like, three hours to run a load, and that's before two hours in the drier. It's pretty freaking chilly today, so I unearthed this old classic, which at least keeps most of me warm — with some obvious exceptions. Try as I might, I can't fit all of me inside, but obscene overflowing aside, it does kind of offer a strange kind of support (until I inevitably fall out if I bend over the wrong way).

So, to kill a little time while waiting for the dishwasher to wrap up, I decided to have a little fun. Happy early Christmas, y'all. I hope most of you have some solid time off right now, and that your plans for the season are decidedly low-stress. :-) What are ya getting into?

Heather Beck: Virgin Killer

It’s kind of fun to have a surprise that you wouldn’t otherwise even consider to get for yourself. Case in point, a dear friend of mine had a question: “Have you ever heard of a ‘virgin killer’ sweater?”

I hadn’t, but that’s what Google is for. And when I checked it out, a bell of familiarity rang. I’d seen it somewhere before… maybe in some pop culture reference, movie TV show, I wasn’t sure, but somewhere. 

Essentially, it’s a sweater-dress with a high turtleneck. It comes down to about mid-thigh, and aside from an elastic hem that comes around the bottom completely, the entire back is open. To top it off, a pair of decorative ribbons that can be tied into a bow in the back — something to give it a finishing touch. The look is popular in Southeast Asia, Japan in particular, and yeah — I gotta admit, it’s pretty cute in a crazy kinda way. 

I imagined this was just a passing questions from my friend, until this person sent me a link a little while later: there it was, for sale, from Alibaba. It wasn’t very much, less than $10. "Whatddya think... do you want one?”

I honestly didn’t have an answer at first. I recently stocked myself up on some clothes — practical garments that can take me through the winter and into the spring — and the idea of something frivolous hadn’t crossed my mind. 

“I don’t know,” I said. “I mean… how would it even work? Dear Lord, could I even pull it of at all?”

The largest size available? An XL. It definitely wouldn’t be large enough, though it has the whole cable-knit thing going for it, so it would stretch, but… how much? How would it hang, blah blah blah.

But, as I’ve learned to say recently: what the heck. “Tell you what. If, for whatever reason such a sweater happens to show up in the mail… I will wear it.” Acknowledged. And? A couple weeks later? Lo and behold.

And so, here we are. I'm certainly not a match of the model in the stock product photo at the top of this essay (she's not me, duh). In my case, the boobs sucked up all the length, so it now hits me at the hips, where a normal sweater would (Hey! That never happens!). I have to admit, it look pretty cute with a bra, from the front (the back is another story — I’m a little self-conscious about my pudgy back, but warts and all, ol’ chaps. Though it WOULD pair splendidly with a cardigan!). And without a bra? Hmmm. I think you might be able to tell from the pics in the following collage (top center and middle row) that if I went out in public in such a state, I miiiiight get arrested (assuming of course that “spillage” is a misdemeanor in Spain). 

Verdict? I have to say... it's frivolous and just a little nuts, but... I'll be damned if it doesn't make me feel just a little cute in a show-off-y kind of way, which not gonna lie, is still kinda a new experience for me that I'm enjoying getting my head around. :-) And, a fun adventure, a cool surprise. Call it an anticipation of my 2020 resolution of “being open to new ideas that aren’t just baggy sweatshirts and old-man sweaters.” It's been working out so far. 

Inspiration

Featured a drawing about a month ago; found myself in the right place and state to recreate it. This was the default position for tonight's viewing of "Duck, You Sucker!", an unexpectedly great Sergio Leoni spaghetti western.

See what I mean?

Listen y'all. There's not too much to say about this one. If you follow me here, you know that I'm not too big on topless pics. I don't show them too much, and I don't pass them out. But... yeah. Gonna do it tonight, because nipples aren't a big deal. And... yeah.

But the other night, I posted a thing about tops. And how they can be too short, and that I might spill out. And this is an example of that. Yeah. From the top? Totally great. From the front/bottom? Not so much. 

Dear patrons: I failed. I got some new clothes! And I was experimenting! Hooray for me! And this black sweater top? I got it in a mother-fuckin' 3X! That's the largest FashionNova had to offer! I can't say I won't wear it in the future — if it's paired with a bra? Good to go if I wanna be slutty and show off my stupid belly. (Slant rhyme?) But... I guess I just wanted to think that this would be something I could just... wear? Who knows what that means. 

It's cool. I'm being snarky. I have re-runs of "30 Rock" going on in the background, so I'm feeling somewhere between Aaron Sorkin and Tina Fey (my last re-watch was "The Newsroom"), so I just wanted to.... do something. Yeah. Happy Holiday Season, everyone. 

:-D

The Pencil Test

[Credit where it's due: bottom picture is me; the two on the top, courtesy Google.]

Some of you may have heard of this, but maybe not. A long time ago, like, in the '50s, this Chicago Sun-Times newspaper columnist named Ann Landers (it was a pen name, and the role of this fictitious advice columnist has had many women behind it over the years), was asked a question about boobies. I haven't been able to track down the original article, but hey, Wikipedia is awesome, and as far as I can tell, it had to do with some newspaper reader asking at what point her daughter should wear a bra. 

Now, when I was growing up, most moms would get their daughters bras right off the bat. "Training bras" were that sort of coming-of-age ushering-in that, I suppose, is a relatively recent innovation. I don't guess they were the social norm in the '50s (and shit, have you seen bras from the '50s? They're like weird pyramids), so Landers's response was something a bit more refined than, "Ummm... I dunno. Take a pencil, and stick it in your underboob. If it falls out, you don't need a bra. If the underboob folds [ptosis, for the anatomy geeks out there] holds the pencil, that means you need a bra." To clarify, I'm not talking about stabbing a boob or anything — just the ol' horizontal tuck-in hold-up. 

Maybe it's just me, but on the surface, this seems a little superficial, not a good telltale of whether a bra is necessary, and kooky in that way that only the 1950s could be kooky. 

But, it entered the zeitgeist in the years since and, needless to say, it's had a couple of revisitations that border on pretty-darned gooberish. Back in the '70s, a student senator at the University of Texas was filibustered (she had to eventually be removed from one of the very highest legislative bodies in the Lone Star State) for her insistence that a university-wide dress code not be enforced: one that included bra-wearing to be mandatory if your tiddies could hold a pencil under them. Note: I have been unable to determine how, exactly, this could be verified on a case-by-case basis, so I'll just assume it's The Man bringing down the largely knocker-ed ladies of the world. (Also, how un-collegiate in a modern context!)

And then, references in popular culture. Movies, TV shows, more than a few magazine articles, and, I'm sure, the notion being passed from generation to generation. I think it even makes the meme circuit from time to time. 

The thing that bothers me about it is, mostly, contextual. As the rule goes: if the pencil falls, you've "passed" the pencil test; if your boob holds it in place, you've "failed." Failed? Failed what? It's no secret that there is an ongoing discussion about what beauty standards mean, though I'll certainly not be the first to jump into the fray over something as (relatively) innocuous as an arcane response in 60-year-old advice column. 

So what if a woman has boobs that can hold up a pencil? Before I got these boobs, mine certainly could. They were saggy, saggy fuckers. I didn't give a shit. Playboy tells the guys differently, however. And for the women, Cosmopolitan will be happy to tell us "101 Ways That Unexpectedly Jamming Your Finger Into a Guy's Butthole Will Make Him Happy"  (And then, on the next page, an advertorial titled, "God, Your Boobs Are Hideous and Never Forget That (But Here's a Product That Can Help!). Yay, magazines. 

So, I skip over this nonsense. I do what I can. I say, "fuck that mess," and embrace it. I'm not going to hold myself prisoner over this consumerist bullshit that favors androgyny almost exclusively — and, if you're plus-size in any way, you get a specialty category and a "you-go-girl" pat on the head. 

Do I fail the pencil test? Fuck yes, I do. The "baton test?" Of course! Do I fail the "golf club test?" Haven't tried, but probably! How about the "broomstick test?!" ...Hence the above pic. :-D Failed the shit out of that. I ain't ashamed. Big Fat "F," and proud of it. 

Suck it, Landers. Since you were a fictional woman in the first place and never actually existed, I have no ill will about throwing some shade: you probably had tiny boobs, and you were just jealous. So... I wonder what other tests I might fail. Landers.

You know what? Since I've got quite the hefty collection of boob-admiring deviants hanging around ... (I can't believe I'm gonna ask this, but let's stick it to the man!) ... any suggestions? 

Happy Thanksgiving, Everybody. :)

To be honest, I didn't really have any idea that Thanksgiving was coming up until yesterday. It's not easy to remember where I am: aside from the tinge of cold weather, there aren't a lot of seasonal reminders like pumpkin spice lattes, paper turkeys hanging in store windows, and the cringe-worthy countdown of knowing that you're going to just have to sit there and endure while Uncle Carl goes on about politics (we all have an Uncle Carl). 

Still, I feel somehow obligated to celebrate in some way or another. Taking its namesake into account, I feel this is as good an opportunity as any on the calendar to take stock and think about what I'm thankful for. 

In no particular order?

• Finally getting a new little batch of clothes that offer some protection against the elements (long sleeves? Whaaa? Especially ones for my long-ass monkey arms?).

• A brand-new, hand-made bra that supports better than any bra I've ever owned, all while minimizing the headlight factor (kinda — there's no hiding the ol' nipples completely). The trade-off for this kind of high-hefting support? I look even more massive than I usually do! Not that I think any of you are gonna mind, particularly, and again — support, dammit! (drools longingly).

• The selfless kindness of others, speaking of which. :-)

• That guy at the post office who really took his time to help out with some crazy customs issues I've had lately, and was even patient with my rotten Spanish. 

• The general health and well-being of those I care about (gotta include that one).

• Warm fireplaces.

• Good TV (dude, how you seen Watchmen yet? No spoilers — I'm still catching up).

• Finally getting back on a reasonable sleep schedule (not a bad thing for the laziest girl in the whole-wide world).

• Wine. Just because.

• Four months worth of work, completed in one month, and it FINALLY BEING OVER! 

• And last, but not least, all of you for sticking around this odd corner of the internet and seeing what I have to say. I really do appreciate the presence, commentary, and chillness of every single one of you. In the short term, I home this little missive gives you a small break from your Uncle Carl.

I'm sure there are things that I'm leaving off the list. But whether or not you celebrate Thanksgiving, I'm curious — what are you thankful for?

Girl in the High Tower - Chapter 2 Illustration

Imagine my surprise and pleasure when @hefty_cuties dropped this in my inbox last night. My first thoughts? How much the image on the page reflected exactly what I had in mind for this point in the story; how this artist has such a great talent for textures; how the overall effect is demure and subtle, but with just a hint of eroticism; how Nadya's thighs are so absolutely enviable; and how I WISH I could pull off her bangs. But overall? I'm in love.

Posting this here; also inserting it at its proper point in the original chapter 2 post, here:  https://www.patreon.com/posts/girl-in-high-2-29259766

Just in the nick of time, because guess who's just wrapping up chapter 5... It's been a bear of a chapter to work on — sort of a bridge between "setting the stage" and "getting to the real meat of the story." But if you've enjoyed this little thriller so far... I think you're going to like what's coming up.

The 10 Commandments a.k.a. Clothing Math

As it happens, I have a sort of love-hate relationship with clothing. Love, because we (for better or worse) live in a society where clothing is something we’re required to have, and also, because one can’t help but develop an affection for some article that makes you feel good when you wear it. Hate, because of the process of actually finding that article. I’m sure a great many of you have deduced this from between the lines, but yours truly isn’t exactly what you would call a big shopper.

It’s not just the boobs that cause this strained relationship (see what I did there?) with the idea. Even before I got the boobs, when I was in my 20s, I tended to avoid shopping like the plague. Or, at the very least, found it necessary to solicit the help of some of my more fashion-minded friends who would accompany me for some moral support. Of course, as it is for everyone, some aspect of clothing shopping is a necessity from time to time — like going to get your oil changed or hitting up the dentist, it’s something I don’t look forward to… but it has to be done, nonetheless. If I went into some store solo, the timer would start, and I would have precious few minutes to peruse the racks and fling garments around the dressing room before my attention span diminished completely, and I would lose interest altogether. Having some backup forced me to stay on track long enough so I could find some semblance of what I was looking for.

Even before then, when I was a kid, I still vividly recall heading over to the mall during back-to-school time. I, like so many other kids whose moms lug them along reluctantly, was an unappreciative little scamp — when you’re 9, you don’t realize how much clothes cost. But in my wee brain, it was torture.

To this day, I will keep the same two pairs of jeans until one of them dies. Then, I’ll generally wait around until the sole remaining pair is on the verge of heading to that Great Sweatshop in the Sky, at which point, I’ll figure it’s time for a re-stock. 

Aside from randomly acquiring a few pieces here and there, one of these “all in one fell swoop” shopping sprees hasn’t occurred in… well, a lot of seasons have come and gone. As it happens, the one-and-only clothing store within 50 miles of me is fine, but it’s tiny. Some mom-and-pop mini department store that sells the essentials, as well as a few fun things (but very, very little in my size. My usual default when I’m passing through there, and just need something is to grab a unisex tee shirt in the summer months; last winter, when the frosts were approaching, I stocked up on a couple of big, cozy old-man sweaters that looked like they came from the costume department of the Cosby Show.

But, with the heralding of my second pair of jeans going the way of the dodo, it’s time. And so, I take to the internet.

I heard of the site before, but have never actually tried ordering anything from them. It’s called Fashionnova, and while they cater to women of more traditional figures, they do have a capable plus-sized branch too, and everything is pretty reasonably priced, fast fashion, but generally made in the USA. For anything below the waist, I’m pretty easy-going, so a pair of jeans that doesn’t make my ass look lore non-existent than it already is will be just fine. For anything above the waist? It’s time to hit up the plus-size department.

Over the last week, I’ve been scouring Fashionnova, becoming cross eyed and distracted on more than one occasion as the timer ticks down to attention span obliteration. It doesn’t help that there are literally thousands of options on this site, each one with its own rules, sizings, fabric compositions… It quickly became apparent that, in lieu of actually being able to try anything on in person, I had to use my imagination, figuring that for this design an XL (or 1X? I’m still not exactly sure of the difference) would be fine; this design over here, on the other hand, might require a 3X. If it's stretchy? Maybe smaller! Unless it being bigger would mean it could be more of a dress... Or would it be too big, and fit me like a circus tent? Or would something be too small, and I’d hardly ever wear it because I would be exploding out of the sleeves or spilling out the bottom? How would this look with a bra? Could I get away going braless with this? Maybe if I layer? How would this layer? How would this fit me if I still had my small boobs? How much to compensate with the boobs?

You know that meme of the confused blonde woman, staring blankly into the distance as her face is surrounded by complicated mathematical equations? That’s pretty much been me over the last several days. 

But, with time, I’ve managed to take the accumulated data, and put together a rough list of guidelines that, for me, have made the process a little easier. If a garment doesn’t violate too many of these 10 Clothing Commandments? It might just be a winner. I imagine this list of Heather’s Clothing Rules will evolve and adapt over time, and none of them is hard-and-fast, but for now, it’s been helpful.

No. 1: Overall Aesthetic. My style is conservative, but not square. Modest, but not in an 1890s farm girl kind of way. I'm all about comfort and practicality, and wearing clothes that aren’t so trendy that they’ll be hopelessly outdated by this time next year. I’m not a big fan of “girly,” but I certainly don’t mind “feeling like a girl” in clothes (as my old-man sweaters have reminded me). Neutral colors, earth tones, maybe a pop of color here and there if the outfit itself is great.

No. 2: Coverage. The elephant(s) in the corner of the room… my boobs get more-than enough attention as it is, and I seldom find they need any help. So in tops, I tend to veer towards minimal-to-no cleavage. Also, I have a pet peeve shared by many women out there — I really just don’t feel comfortable being out in public and having my bra showing, especially because most of the bras I own look like they were designed by one of Santiago Calatrava’s more Brutalist contemporaries. Long cuts are preferable, because spilling out the bottom is something that’s happened in the past, leading to a lot of confused stares that take me a moment to decipher.

No. 3: Spandex is Bae. Do people still say bae? I’m too old for this shit… Anyway. If it has spandex in it, it’s stretchy. And if it’s stretchy, it automatically gets mega bonus points.

No. 4: Fuck the Sizing Chart. Every clothing website will have measurements. But those can change for me over the course of a day. If I’m wearing a bra with the straps set to tight? The bust size is more reliable. But if I’m going braless, either in or out of the house, my breasts are on level with my waist. So I tend to go for items that can accommodate either bra’d or braless. 

No. 5: When In Doubt… I just go a little larger, especially if it’s a non-stretchy fabric. I know a great local seamstress, and if something is too large, she’s developed a pretty keen ability to take it in a little. Plus, she’s a cool old lady with these bright neon stripes in her hair, and she brings me joy. 

No. 6: Go with the Flow. Shelves for your breasts, empire waists, different panels of fabric… usually bad signs. Most clothing like this just isn’t made for breasts this size. So, flowy. Tunic styles work. Longer dresses. Longer, European-cut tee shirts. And in these cases… back to the spandex. If it’s not stretchy, clothing just hangs straight of my boobs, and it looks like a frontal muumuu. With a little spandex and a slightly smaller size, my body gets hugged a little more, and it just looks more “intentional.”

No. 7: The Laws of Physics. In looking at hundreds, thousands, of these beautiful plus-size models showing off the clothes, I have to apply an extra filter: how will I look in that outfit. In my minds eye, I imagine these models a little skinnier, and with an appearance that says “Shhh, don’t tell anyone that I’m smuggling two soccer balls under my top.” Sometimes, with that filter applied, the end result could be tragic and just plain silly. Though sometimes, the particular style of an outfit might show me off in a way that’s actually… cute and flattering. It’s a case-by-case thing, and I’m STILL figuring that one out… 

No. 8: That Being Said… Most of these rules focus on sheer practicality, for obvious reasons. I’m not a cam girl, and my general style just tends to veer away from being “showy.” But… there are a couple of items, in all of this scouring, that have given me cause for a double take. “No,” I think… “That’s insane. There’s no WAY I could ever pull that off. It’s shocking, outrageous, insulting… And, shit, but I kinda love it.” Part of this journey for me has involved appreciating my body for what it is, and God willing, actually having a little fun with it. So, I try to keep in mind that clothing can be a great way to go about that. Something a little nuts, every now and then, for those rare instances where I just want to be all like, VAVOOM? Yeah, why the hell not.

No. 9: Go With My Gut. I tend to obsess, and dangle sizes over an article of clothing, figuring that if I miss the mark, I’m gonna be bummed because I should go an extra size larger or smaller. But eventually, I just have to use my best judgment, and trust in the return policy. 

Hmm. I guess that’s only 9. Though I’ll welcome any suggestions to round it out. What did I forget?

In any case. I’ve enjoyed writing this article. It’s like a nice, refreshing bite of sorbet that cleanses the palate. And, with that, I dive back into the fray, timer reset. Wish me luck.