Godammit, I’m Mad!

Thanks to Queen Michelle, I have developed an obsession with girdles. I am hoping it will go the way of my obsessions with Fred Harvey jewelry, Shriner regalia, botanica spells, Victorian tiger claws, nurse paraphernalia and Catholic children’s coloring books.

Meanwhile though, I am going at full throttle. Girdles are fucking fabulous!

Growing up, I was disgusted by girdles. They symbolized everything I loathed: Restrictions, deceit, middle-class womanhood. Ugh. They were ugly and repellent. They were even sad.

Later, I learned to love the look and power of a nice bustier, like all normal wives. I have a drawer full of them, all proud of having served their time in such a noble enterprise.

But searching the web for girdles has enlightened me as to the glorious and fetishistic weirdness they exude. You don’t have to be fashionably slim to look good in them. In fact, they make a sturdy or even beefy woman look quite tantalizing, like a PTA Lady crossed with a dominatrix. It’s the aspect of repression, and the challenge of conquering all that rubber and boning that make the girdle so erotic (I think. Men: Am I close?)

I really like the industrial strength girdles, and I never knew they came with zippers! The more retro the better, obviously, but I found one company that will die their girdles any color of your choice, a concession to the modern punk or slut in all of us.

While I can’t get the same thrill from suspender belts, this 8-strap Van Doren on the right, above, deserves to be admired as a quasi-girdle. It’s so crazy and excessive! It would be nice worn over a long skirt, Steampunk style, or with nothing but one’s fat ass to set off it’s beauty.   At $50, I’m sure you would get your money’s worth.

It’s Britney, bitch! Nah, just kidding.

God, I fucking rule.

Here I look fat, but so what, I have antlers.

So here’s the ensemble, as recommended by my trusted cyber-advisors. The white tank top, bangles, fitted jacket, and the fierce shoes.   I wore rocked this out to dinner tonight, with all three tags hanging out of the jeans!   I wanted to make it clear that the jeans were A PRIZE I WON, and not something I would actually buy.   It was a special birthday dinner for my boy, who is 33 today, the same age as Christ when he died for your sins.

Admit I rule. Let’s see Madonna look as good when she’s 55. Until then, she can kiss my fat ass!