They don’t make them like they used to. They make ‘em much better – like, really, really good.

  A friend of mine bought a brand-new car the other day – a zippy little Korean number that looks like a bunch of other zippy little Korean numbers – and it didn’t cost very much at all. It looks spunky, has plenty of bells and whistles, airbags everywhere and a tank that fills for less than $40. And it occurred to me: some things have become really really good.
  Cars weren’t always this way. The sight of a sedan parked by the side of the road with its hood up and steam coming from a pipe was a constant of my youth. You hardly see it anymore – and almost never with a new car. What would you do, anyway? Stand there staring at a computer chip? Even the warranty on a new car goes for five years. Five whole years! That’s seven iPhones away. No wonder roadside assistance companies now do house insurance.
  It made me think about the catergory, ‘really really good’. TV’s today are really really good. It feels like only a year back that they weighed more than 100kg and came in a cabinet. They’re now slim and sleek and you see people wheel them out of Costco in shopping trolleys.
  Budget air travel is really, really good. The days of saving up for your ‘big trip’ feel almost Downton Abbey-ish. I spoke to a 20-year-old recently who went to Bali for a weekend. Not that long ago you had to book months in advance just to get to Coolangatta. And it involved a travel agent and a ceremonial issuing of a triplicate ticket with its own pouch and clutch bag (I really, really miss those days!!!). My last boarding pass was flimsier than a shopper docket. (Mind you, as good as budget travel is, airport parking has become really, really bad.)
  Going to the dentist is really, really good. It used to be like airport parking, only worse – expensive AND painful. I sometimes wonder if I was unknowingly part of a secretly filmed pain-threshold experiment. Now I actually enjoy the visit somewhat. I don’t know who invented the stuff that numbs your gums before the needle goes in, but Madam or Sir, your invention is really, really good! And kudos to your colleagues who added the Perspex patient glasses, instant X-rays and auto-drink fountain. They’re all really, really good, too.
  Speaking of dreaded experiences, I used to dread camping – or anything involving a sleeping bag or a camp fire. But I like it now because camping equipment is really, really good. Inflatable mattresses, season-rated sleeping bags, non-leaky collapsible tents and portable toilets have made all the pain go away. You can forget the phrase ‘freeze-dried’ and opt for portable burners and fridges and 12-volt anything. An espresso after your warm camp shower?
  Dog owners are (generally) really, really good. They pick up their dogs’ poop and walk them on leads, and in summer you hardly ever see big wet sandy dogs freaking out kids on crowded beaches. I know we still have problems but, if only for further encouragement, I officially put dog owners in my really, really good category.
  Rubbish bins? Again, really, really good. They used to stink and have no capacity and bad handles and even worse, wonky lids. Now they’re big and super-wheelie and the lids shut and….anyway, they’re really, really good.
  So, I’d like to make a toast…and I’ll do that with a glass of really good, cheap beer in a really good, cheap big glass. Two more things that, rather wonderfully, have become really, really good.

Step away from the razor: pubic hair grooming injuries on the rise.

  When you think about it, putting a razor anywhere in the vicinity of your most sensitive parts is…well, a little bit bonkers. Risk-wise, it’s up there with walking on the ledge of a 50-storey building: one little slip and it’s all over. Okay, so a grooming injury probably won’t leave you flattened on the footpath, but it will be followed by obscene language, a few tears and days of discomfort. And yet, in the name of keeping things presentable in our pants, many of us regularly take that risk. Oh yes we do.
  A recent study has found public hair grooming injuries increased by 500 per cent between 2002 and 2010. 500 per cent. They say that beauty is pain, but this is just getting far too painful, guys. By monitoring Emergency Room visits, scientists at the University of California, San Francisco found genitourinary injuries – laceration, in most cases – rose by 247 incidents per year, with razors involved in 83 per cent of cases. Scissors and hot wax were also culprits.
  Although women made up only 56.7 per cent of the cohort, “external female genitalia” was the most common site of injury in the pubic region. Are your eyes watering yet? As for the cause of this increase, it’s safe to assume it comes down to one simple fact: hair down there has somehow become Pubic Enemy Number One (yes, I did just go there). Ouch.
  Where once the Brazilian wax was an exotic, underground trend, the hairless look has become mainstream over the last decade or so. And the “man-scaping” phenomenon indicates women aren’t the only ones getting a little wax-happy. It’s all a little strange considering pubic hair – like any body hair – serves a practical purpose. In fact, it is believed that the removal of pubic hair presents health risks of its own, increasing risk of infection and sexually transmitted diseases.
  Regardless, the decision of whether or not to leave things au naturel or to go bare is ultimately a personal one – influenced by factors like aesthetics, personal beliefs about grooming, or the purchase of a very skimpy bikini. If you’re a hair-free fan, all we’re suggesting is that perhaps the maintenance side of things is best left to the professionals. Yes, the experience of having a stranger spread hot wax between your legs, then rip it all off, is incredibly awkward. But surely this beats the more painful alternative?

 

Bra shopping gives me the shits big time!

Today I would like to talk about boobs. Specifically, my boobs. More specifically, how much my boobs shit me.
  If you’ve ever seen my boobs (hi there ex boyfriends, my doctor, and that group of people I walked past at the beach that time my left boob had magically freed itself from my bikini) your reaction to this statement would be on par with your reaction to hearing Miranda Kerr complain she’s having a fat day: smiling fixedly while mentally cataloging available pillows nearby you can punch.
  I am aware that my boobs are glorious. Completely natural, soft, bountiful bosoms that nestle in their E/F cup home. However trying to find them a happy home is the bane of my existence. Bra shopping for me is faced with the same fear and grudging acceptance as answering the door on Halloween: it’s something that has to be done, however I feel strangely panicky giving lollies to costumed children. I despise it, I even break out in boob sweat just thinking about it…bra shopping that is, not feeding lollies to children.
  A dreaded shopping trip is imminent considering I recently asked my mum to fix my bra strap with a safety pin and some strapping tape. He replied with, “I’m not bloody McGuiver. Go shopping.”
  If you believed bra advertisements, one would think bra shopping simply involves trying on dainty little scraps of perfectly fitted colourful lace while posing all sultry-like in the mirror and thoughtfully twirling my highlighted hair. It does not. It involves Valium.
  I am insanely jealous of girls who can skip joyously la la la into Kmart and pick up a three pack of bras for $25. My bras cost $50 minimum. I must buy architecturally designed monstrosities with heavy duty scaffolding and a complex rigging system to hold up my humps. They’re not attractive. They also require an engineering degree to fasten.
  Those cute/lacy/sexy bras you see on the rack (tee hee…rack) are designed for As, Bs and Cs. The D and DD bras are simply not structured for the larger lumped lass. So they don’t hold them in, don’t hold them up, or my lovely lady lumps are mashed together at unseemly angles with more bulging flesh than an early episode of The Biggest Loser…not the episodes at the end of the season that I refuse to watch because the contestants are all thinner than me.
  It’s not just bras. Bikinis? I need a size 18-20 to keep the ladies locked in, but this means the bottoms take a trip to Saggy McSagville. “Buy separates!” I hear you cry. Sure, I’ll just sell my first born child and my left kidney to finance said separates.
  There is no sports bra in the world that can stop my jubblies jubbling while jogging. My brokeback mountains must be laced in a straightjacket before any kind of up/down motion occurs. I have to wear at least 2 bras. And a crop top. And a tight shirt. I’m even contemplating hiring someone to jog behind me and cup my cups up with their hands. (Perverts need not apply.)
  What’s that you say, my perky little B cup sisters? “I try on dresses and they look horrid because I don’t fill out the top! Life is so gosh darn hard!” Pull up your big girl panties and buy a matching padded bra to pump up the jam. Me? I can’t magically flatten my breasticles. I have to go up to a larger size dress, which ends up fitting on the up top but with so much material everywhere else I could make a second dress for a child or a very small adult.
  Speaking of padding, bra designers need to remove all padding from bras larger than a D. We do not need the extra oomph. We are fine as is, thanks. Padding makes my chest look (as my mum frankly terms it) ‘like the cows have come home.’ Thanks Mum. I love when you compare me to cattle.

This may sound like a massive whinge-fest. It is. But I feel better now.

Which fashion magazine just put an actual curvy girl on the cover?

A plus-size fashion magazine. And it’s actually stylish. Stylish and freaking FABULOUS.

DARE Magazine is new fashion mag that’s just been launched in Canada. It began as a thesis project for fashion student Diana Di Poce in her final year and it was so fab that she received backing to launch the mag as an actual glossie. Check out the first cover:

G.O.R.G.E.O.U.S. Diana spoke to Thought Catalogue recently about why she created DARE:

 

DARE is dedicated to catering to curvy women sizes 12+. Although the magazine is targeted towards plus women, I didn’t find it necessary to label it as a plus-size magazine in the logo or in the aesthetic. The average woman in North America is a size 14, so I didn’t see a purpose in stamping a 12+ label on the website or on the cover of the first issue. Similar to how I flip through straight-size fashion magazines for trend inspiration knowing that I won’t be able to fit into these garments or shop at the stores mentioned, I want all women to be able to go to DARE as a fashion and beauty bible. And it really is a fashion bible. Check out some more pics:

 

 

 

 

HELLS YES. Well done DARE Magazine. Well done.