Stay Positive. Love Your Life.

I love pools. Like, LOVE pools. Like, I stayed with this one ex-boyfriend for a month after finding out he cheated on me just because it was still summer and he had a pool. Like, one time I was at a party at a co-worker's friend's house and I hadn't even been drinking or there for more than about 10 minutes before I borrowed a t-shirt and a pair of gym shorts from this girl I didn't even know just so I could go in her pool. Like, looking back, the single biggest regret of my childhood is not my deeply problematic relationship with my father, but the fact that we never owned a pool. I can't even swim and still have to wear earplugs and hold my nose when I go underwater, but I love pools all the same.

So this weekend I went to a public pool. Which, after reading that first paragraph, probably seems like kind of an anticlimactic way to start a story. But trust me, it was an achievement, because this is the first time in almost a decade I have been out in public in a bathing suit. Literally — almost a decade. I honestly couldn't remember how long it had been, so I sat down and did the math and it blew my mind: The last time anyone besides an immediate family member had seen me in a bathing suit was at a pool party at my roller derby team captain's house in 2007 (I remember because it was the summer we skated at Warped Tour). And again, after reading that first paragraph, that probably seems inconceivable, so let me explain.

For the vast majority of my life, I've been skinny. Not "slim" or "fit," but skinny. And not just skinny, but known for being skinny. Like, if someone in high school or college was describing me to a friend who'd just met me the weekend before, they'd invariably say, "You remember Becky — the tall, skinny one?" And I never even had to work for it. I was just naturally skinny. And I never fully appreciated it.

I'm the gangly, toothpick-legged one with the longer hair.

Now I'm on meds and officially a full year into my forties and yes, I could probably (definitely) eat better and exercise more, and I'm not so skinny. It's not even that I've gained weight, it's that all the weight I've gained seems to be centered right in the middle. I'm not so much fat as weird-shaped. Disproportionate. I have like, a converse hourglass figure — not-so-big boobs, a big belly, no hips to speak of. Which makes finding clothes that fit properly difficult: plus-size clothing assumes all parts of your body are equally plus-size, so a dress or clingy top that fits my midsection will usually be too roomy in the bust. "Skinny" jeans that fit my waist turn wide-leg at my thighs. And swimsuits are their very own epic misadventure. After a lifetime of effortless skinniness, of the biggest challenge I ever faced while shopping for clothes being "Cash or credit?", I now found this morbidly embarrassing. I mean, I used to wear bikinis, for crying out loud — how could I let people see me like this?? I decided I could not let people see me like this. I didn’t even own a bathing suit for years.

Then it occurred to me recently, probably while I was sweating my ass off on a tropically humid subway platform and frantically fanning myself with a fold-up map of Brooklyn I had dug out of my purse in desperation, that the only person this self-imposed exile was affecting in any way was me. Seriously? Outspoken feminist and contrarian who loves being in a pool almost more than life itself is going to spend another sweltering summer in the city avoiding FREE PUBLIC POOLS because she no longer looks hot in a bikini? Who even am I??

So I did it. I bought a bathing suit. I went to a public pool. I spent 2 hours floating in the shadow of the High Bridge Water Tower, surrounded by strangers. And it was glorious.

***

"What does body positivity mean to you?"

"So, look. The relationship we each have with our bodies is one of the most important and challenging relationships we'll ever have to cultivate, seeing as we're stuck with the one body our whole lives — and if dealing with the basic messiness inherent in owning a human body isn't enough to be getting on with, we also live in a culture that seems determined to poison that relationship from the get-go. We're slammed with body-shaming messages from the moment we're old enough to interact with society at all."

"The thing that happens when you teach people to be ashamed of their bodies is that you instill in them a deep belief that they're never enough, and the feeling of not being enough is a desperate feeling. Some people respond to it exactly the way capitalism wants them to — they pour money into products, clothes, food, and gym memberships that they think will help them measure up. Some people respond to it by hiding from life in an effort to avoid what feels like inevitable scrutiny from a world that tries to tell them they aren't good enough to exist. I have played both of those games, and let me tell you something: there's no way to win either one of them. You're setting yourself up to fail in both cases, because in both cases you are allowing someone else's rules to determine your worth. And NO ONE else has the power to do that — you're a human being, and as a human being, you're inherently worthy. That's just how that works."

"One of the things that kills me about body shame is that it can paralyze. Body shame is how we end up unable to enjoy our food. It’s how we end up afraid to show up at the gym lest some imaginary meathead gives us the stank-face for not looking perfect in our workout clothes. Body shame is how we stop ourselves from buying certain kinds of clothes because we 'can't get away with it.' It's how we end up having sex with the lights off and hiding our perceived 'body flaws' with strategically draped sheets. It's how we miss out on fun social opportunities because we don't feel attractive enough to be seen in public. It, in essence, kills our ability to enjoy some of the best things in life." — Megan Ribar

I'm extra glad now that I got that ice cream cone on the way home.

***

Inspired by Smart Glamour.
And my niece: May you always be this happy in your skin. ♥

Rise Of The Dead

Little Dead Riding Hood:

Happy Halloween, bitches!

Dream On, Dreamer

You know when you have that dream that you're getting up and getting ready for work, and then you actually wake up and you get all pissed because you have to do it all over again?

Well, not only did I have that dream last night, in the dream it was also HALLOWEEN.

And then I woke up.

Talk about a disappointing way to start your day.

I almost wore the red feather Mardi Gras mask anyway.

Still Smells Like Teen Spirit

Ripped stockings: Mine.
Striped knee socks: Also mine.
Doc Marten boots: Borrowed from my sister.
Baby-doll prom dress: Mine.
Baby-doll tank top: Mine.
Studded belt/choker: Mine.
Little girl hair barrettes: 18 for $3 at the drugstore.
Hair prep: None — just washed and let it frizz out naturally.
Makeup: Black eyeliner. That's it.

Reliving my youth for less than five bucks and a ticket to My So-Called Prom at the Bell House: Priceless.

GRUNGE LIVES!! RIOT GRRRL 4 EVA!!

Boo.

Devastatingly, due to lack of funds and insufficient prep time, I had to forgo an elaborate Halloween costume this year. Now if you know anything about me at all, you realize just how devastating a tragedy this is to have befallen me. However, like a phoenix in a wig and fake blood, I shall rise from the ashes of this finery failure and emerge next holiday in victory and even greater splendor! You know, since I have a whole extra year to work on the thing now. LITTLE DEAD RIDING HOOD LIVES!

So anyway...since I had no other plans, I decided to go to the parade in the Village. And even though I would only be watching, I couldn't betray the spirit of my favorite day of the year by just wearing everyday clothes. I had to do something...

Everyone who knows anything about me at all: "So are you getting dressed up?"
Me: "Not really."

"Not really" = sequined top hat with feathers, old prom dress, Mardi Gras beads, striped stockings, leopard print heels; elaborate face paint.

Elderly gentleman on the street: "That's a very striking costume!"
Me: "Oh, this is just what I wear every Sunday..."

The beginning of the parade was AMAZING, but it slowly tapered off into random people simply walking by wearing costumes. Since I consider myself something of an expert on all things Halloween, and because I'm just a judgemental bitch...

Presenting:

THE BeccaGo HALLOWEEN 2010 "I WISH I HAD THOUGHT OF THAT" AWARDS!

Best Group Costume: Zombie Golden Girls
Best Family Costume: Darth Vader (dad), Princess Leia (mom), and Yoda (baby)
Best Couples Costume: Where's Waldo? and Carmen Sandiego
Best Individual Costume: Up (guy in an aviator cap holding a bunch of balloons with a dollhouse tied to the strings)

And, just to prove that the "sexy" costume craze has gone FAR too far:

Top Honors go to...

SEXY BEDBUG!

Trick or treat, bitches! :D

Observation

I'm so much more productive when I can wear my Converse in the office.

God Damn Glam Nation

I know I have been sorely lax in writing up my Adam Lambert concert experience, and to those of you who have been waiting, I apologize for that, but there is almost no way to condense into words what spending 3 hours doing elaborately dazzling make-up and dressing like a Vegas showgirl high on peyote; 6 and a half hours standing on line in the middle of Times Square in 90 degree weather surrounded by frothing fans and curious tourists taking my picture; 2 hours lost in a crush of chubby teenaged girls who are seeing the show for the sixth time and delusional, far-too-inappropriately-dressed middle-aged women trying to push their way past said teenagers up to the front of the stage; and only one glorious and over-far-too-fast hour mesmerized by the overwhelming spectacle that is Adam Lambert was like.

I can, however, describe to you how much I hate people. I'm pretty good at that.

After stampeding our way into the theater once the doors were finally opened, everyone rushes towards the stage to claim the perfect spot. And these chicks — because they were mainly girls and women — were flat-out, claws-out prepared to defend their hard-won territory. Ok, that's understandable; after all, we had spent half the day waiting in sweltering heat precisely to obtain such a prime piece of real estate.

But this one woman...

I have no idea who she was or why she chose me, but this 40-something woman in a floral blouse, carrying a purse and a cocktail, decides to stand directly next to me and engage me in conversation. Her opening line is:

"Will you look at all these little girls? They're babies! Who wants to look out into the crowd and see them?"

My immediate reaction is to think, "Who the hell thinks he'd rather see you?" but I push the thought aside and just try to ignore her. After all, I am here to enjoy myself.

Then she asks me if I can hold her spot while she gets another drink. Hold her spot? How the hell do you hold someone a spot on the floor of a general admission show? Especially at the show of someone like Adam Lambert, who inspires The-Beatles-and-Elvis-combined-level hysteria? Yeah, sure, whatever, lady. Just go.

Sure enough, several minutes later I hear from somewhere behind me, "Excuse me...'scuse me...sorry...excuse me..." and my new best friend has pushed her way back to my side. People are giving us nasty looks and I want to explain to them that, look, I am an innocent party to this shit. I, unlike some people uncomfortably near me, have been to a concert in the last 2 decades and understand the rules of standing-room-only ettiquette.

Unfortunately, she tries to chat with me again. I'm texting my mom, who is somewhere up in the balcony, sitting down. I try looking around for her and BFF is all, "Ooh! Who are you talking to?"

"My mom."

"Your mom's here, too? Cool! Where is she?"

"Up in the seat section," I tell her. I don't add, "Where any sensible middle-aged woman who is simply here to enjoy the show and doesn't harbor fantasies of seducing a gay man 20 years her junior should be."

"That's so cool! What's she saying?"

Listen, you nosy bitch... "She says there are some boys making out right in front of her and they're the only guys she's seen here so far."

"OOH! WHERE?!?"

Jesus Christ, woman. I do not want to be privy to your perverse voyeuristic fantasies. I mumble, "I don't know," and go back to texting again so she'll leave me alone.

Me: "Crazy drunk lady down here thinks I'm her best friend."
Mom: "HAHAHAHAHAHA!"

Thanks for the sympathy, Ma.

Crazy drunk lady is now telling me, all conspiratorially, that we're not gonna let ANYONE get in front of us! No way! We can take these teenagers! At this point I am now visibly ignoring her, but she ignores the cues and keeps talking. [ED. NOTE: I almost just typed "stalking" — Freudian slip.]

Meanwhile, there's a 15- or 16-year-old girl on the other side of me yelling to her friend, who is somehow a row of people behind us. "Do you guys want to stand together?" I ask, sliding aside a few inches to let the friend through. "Really? Oh my God, that is so nice of you! Thank you so much!" They are so ridiculously grateful for this small act of kindness that I feel like I just handed them both a winning Powerball ticket.

But then this bitch has to ruin it. "Hey! Why are you letting them in front of you? I thought we weren't gonna do that!"

We? Who is this "we" you speak of, you hag?

The friends are looking back at us with strange expressions now, so I lean forward and whisper, "It's ok. I don't even know who she is."

"Really?"

"Really."

"Oh my God, we thought she knew you! That's so weird."

You're telling me, kid.

The show still hasn't started yet when I notice a little Indian-looking girl with braces standing next to an older man who appears to be her father, a little behind me to the right. She looks about 13 and is about 5'3". She's standing on tiptoe to see the stage. "Can you see from there?" I ask her. "Do you want to move up?" She lights up like I just told her she's going to Disneyworld and turns to her dad, all excited, to see if it's ok. "I'll take good care of her," I promise, and move aside to let her through. She keeps repeating, "Thank you! Thank you so much!" and she looks so happy, I feel like I've been given the Nobel Peace Prize.

So of course, this witch next to me has to ruin it again. "What are you doing?" she scolds me. Then she says to the little kid, "It's a good thing you're short!" What the fuck, lady? She's like, 12! I'm practically cocooning this poor child with my own body to keep my promise to her father, and I whisper to her, too, "It's ok, just ignore her." The two friends look back at us and snicker knowingly.

And again, after all this shit, she then asks me to hold her spot for her while she goes to the ladies room.

Are you fucking kidding me?

The place has gotten much more crowded and I think, there is no way she's gonna find her way back up here if she leaves, so I say, "Sure! No problem," and wave her away.

Thank God. Problem solved.

But no.

Unbelievably, about 20 minutes later, right in the middle of Orianthi's set, I hear grumbling behind me and shouts of "Hey! What are you doing?" and I hear a familiar voice repeating, "Sorry! I'm up there with the girl in the hat!"

Oh, no. You did NOT just insinuate that I have any role in this fucking mess. "No, you are NOT!" I yell back at her. "You are NOT with me! I DO NOT FUCKING KNOW YOU!"

Amazingly, this does not deter her nor impede her determined advance. She actually gets right up next to me again, and PUTS HER FUCKING ARM AROUND ME, like we are fucking partners in crime, and says, completely fucking obliviously, "Hey! I'm back!"

Are you FUCKING kidding me?

I am furious. "Look, lady," I fume at her, "I don't know you. WE ARE NOT FRIENDS! I DO NOT KNOW YOU! And I know Adam is all about love and positivity and shit, but if you do not stop pushing me, I swear to God, I'm gonna start throwing punches."

I'm almost positive I heard someone applaud.

Thank you, Cleveland!

Take It Off!

Several Saturdays ago, I went to a midnight showing of Doc Wasabassco's Burlesque at Union Hall. One of the first thoughts to pop into my head upon my decision to attend this engagement was: "Finally! An excuse to wear my lavender feathered cocktail hat with my leopard-print pumps!"

Yes, these are the sort of things I spontaneously muse upon.

And before I go any further, let me just advise you all that when you're wearing stiletto heels, it is NOT a good idea to follow the HopStop directions that include the step "Walk 10 blocks south on 5th Ave."

Anyway...

I'm a big fan of burlesque (then again, I'm also of the opinion that pole dancing is a legitimate art form). Maybe it's a result of my third-wave feminist streak and love of unique and creative self-expression. Or maybe It's just because I like to look at pretty naked girls. Either way, it's fun. And as I briefly mentioned in this post, I'm also a big fan of the unorthodox and unusual. People usually associate burlesque with a kind of kitschy, old-fashioned flirtiness. Which is why when the stage went dark in preparation for this next dancer and I heard the opening strains of Tool's "Sober" — a decidedly unburlesque piece of music — I knew I was in for something interesting. And most likely unforgettable.

And boy, it was.

Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you...

Magdalena Fox's Sugar Skull/Day Of The Dead Piece

(WARNING: EXPLICIT CONTENT)

Trouble viewing? Click

here.

At the end of the show, the male MC, Doc Wasabassco himself, surrounded on stage by 7 topless girls in g-strings, announced to the crowd: "Hi. This is my job. What do you do?"

I do believe I'll be back for more. :)

P.S.: In compliance with the requests made in this post, here is a partial pic of my heavenly headpiece:

I Survived Glam Nation...Barely

I am way too exhausted to write up a full report right now, but I thought I'd at least show you what I looked like:

Glam Nation Transformation!

Lighten Up, It's Just Fashion!

T minus 44 hours, 45 minutes to GLAM-STRAVAGANZA! A small taste of what's to come:

Totally appropriate style of dress for a 36-year-old to be seen in public, no...?

FIERCE!

Yesterday I discovered, purely by chance, a bridal accessory store only a few blocks from my house. And as I have frequently mentioned elsewhere, I live in a predominantly black neighborhood. And as everyone well knows, there is NOTHING more outrageously fabulous than black lady church hats.

Guess where all my pocket money will be going from now on...

The Land Of Make-Believe

I have nothing to write about today.
So I got this cheesy survey off the Interwebz instead — enjoy!

How old do you think is too old to dress up for Halloween?
NEVER!

How old are you?
35 going on 12

Are you into scary or sexy costumes?
The "sexy" costume craze has gotten out of control. Last year I saw a "sexy" Canadian Mountie and a "sexy" Sherlock Holmes. Seriously, ladies?

Will you/Did you dress up this Halloween?
Yes, and yes.

How many times do you plan to wear your costume this year?
Uh, once...? Have they extended Halloween without telling me?

What is your costume name?
"AWESOME"

Describe your costume?
My last costume was Adam Lambert. He is indescribable.

Where will you be celebrating Halloween?
Where WON'T I be celebrating Halloween?!?

When was the last time you went trick-or-treating?
High school. I was taking my little sister around the neighborhood, but that was really just an excuse.

Have you ever entered a costume contest?
Psssht. My department won 4 company-wide contests in a row while I was at my last job. The year that I left, they didn't even enter.

How soon did you know what you wanted to dress up as this year?
I literally decided this Halloween what I was going to be next Halloween.

When did you get your costume?
Last year I started late — end of August.

Do you deck out with lots of accessories, or just what it came with?
Dude, the accessories make the costume! And my costumes don't "come with" anything — that's cheating.

How much did you spend total on your costume this year?
Oh man, the boots alone cost $50...

Have you ever made a home-made costume?
Ever? Are you kidding me? ALL my costumes are home-made, bitch!

If so, what was it?
In chronologically descending order:
* Adam Lambert
* Lara Croft: Womb Raider
* Tia Dalma from Pirates Of The Caribbean
* a Vegas showgirl
* pregnant Britney Spears
* Medusa
* a Geisha
* a Hindu Goddess
* dead Princess Di
* Kitana from Mortal Kombat
* Shelly from The Crow (this was part of a couples costume)
* a Manson girl (this was part of a group costume)

What is your favorite couples costume idea?
The year that The Crow came out, I was in college and every frat party had at least 16 guys dressed as the Crow. One of them was arguing with my boyfriend at the time that he had the more authentic costume because his had the necklace with Shelly's ring. My boyfriend goes, "Well, I have Shelly," as I turn the corner in my white nightgown and dead girl makeup, with a white rose and wearing my own ring. The guy's jaw drops and he goes, "Damn. You win." Then he got me a beer.

What is your favorite group costume idea?
A few years ago, my sister and her friends dressed up as the characters from Clue — really brilliant, detailed costumes — and they each had their own weapon — the rope, the candlestick, the lead pipe. I was so jealous.

Name one of your childhood costumes?
Oh God, they were always those cheap plastic ones with the masks you couldn't breathe through. I think once I was Holly Hobby.

Do your parents still dress up for Halloween?
I don't remember my parents ever dressing up for Halloween. Except that one time I lent my mom my Ranger jersey so she could wear sweatpants to work as a "hockey player."

Do you already know what you want to dress up as next year?
Duh.

Erin Go Braless

I inadvertently wore a green sweater today, and now I'm worried that people will think I'm one of those dorks who dresses in theme for holidays. I'm hoping I can still retain a modicum of cool, however, since it's not Bedazzled. Thank heavens Banana Republic is classy like that.

Happy St. Hat Trick's Day everyone. May you find a shot of Goldschlager at the end of Reading Rainbow.

Winter Wardrobe Woes

Dear Michael Kors:

I would like to wear this to work every single day. In olive green and camel, too. Please send me one of each. Thanks.

Sincerely,
BeccaGo

P.S.: And a few of these in various shades for my "red carpet events," too, please. Much appreciated.

Things You Wouldn't Necessarily Guess By Looking At Me

1. I play poker.

[Yes, I realize the hand pictured is only a pair of Aces and not a royal flush. It was pre-game — I didn't set up the props.]

2. I used to be a roller girl.

Peta Sassin, #AK-47, Long Island Roller Rebels

3. I wanted to be a WWE Diva.

...

*Ok, I swear to God I own an autographed Polaroid picture of me and Lita, and I just tore up my place looking for it, but it is nowhere to be found. I'm scouring the attic for it next time I visit home. I will produce this priceless piece of photographic evidence if it is the last thing I ever do, damn it! I dare you to doubt my integrity!

Hello, Goth Kids!

Dave Navarro and Sasha Grey at the AVN Awards, or, as I like to call it, "What I Wish My Prom Had Really Been Like":

[Click the pic for full-size awesomeness]

Welcome to my nightmare... *evil grin*

Trick Or Treat!

Like all women who fall somewhere between "Victoria’s Secret model" and "not in an advanced state of decomposition" on the Physical Attractiveness Continuum, I've had my (small, but still…) share of unwanted attention from strangers. And again, like all women, I find the majority of these encounters creepy. But there's also a part of me that kind of loves them, for their sheer absurdity. Like that time the guy on the street sang me the Filet O' Fish jingle, or the time I pretended to be a deaf-mute with that guy in the pizza place, or when that crazy guy on the train was convinced I was a foot fetishist. Fun times. Especially when there's an audience: I was waiting for the subway one night when this guy stumbles over and makes his clumsy, drunken advances; I tell him, sorry, I have a boyfriend (which I don't, but for some reason I can never bring myself to outright hurt these psychos' feelings). He then slurs, "Well, you can't blame me for trying, right?" and proceeds, as he walks away pointing at me, to individually poll every other person on the platform, "You can't blame me for trying, right? I mean, I had to try, right?" Every time one of the people he's shouting at and consequently spitting on looks quizzically in my direction, I wave like I'm on a parade float and give them a thumbs-up. What can I say — I'm an entertainer.

But if there were ever a night for the freaks to come out and play, it's Halloween. I am a lunatic for Halloween. It's like my high holy day. I usually start planning the next year's costume as soon as I change out of the one I was just wearing. Over the past several years I have been: a Ninja, a Manson Girl (vintage '70s outfit covered in fake blood), a Hindu Goddess, a Geisha, Medusa, Pregnant Britney Spears, Dead Princess Di (I know, I'm going to hell for that one), a Vegas Showgirl, Tia Dalma from Pirates of the Caribbean, and — perhaps my all-time fave — Lara Croft: Womb Raider (Lara Croft, only pregnant and wearing a baby carrier with some "ethnic" baby dolls in it). All homemade. I'm telling you, I go ALL. OUT. The year that I was Medusa, I won a costume contest at work. The prize was $50. The costume cost me $80 to make. I still considered it a victory.

So this year I dressed up as Adam Lambert, because I secretly want to be him, and as a companion piece to my sister's Lady GaGa. We were fuckin' fabulous. See for yourselves:





And trust me, when you're walking through the Village next to a drunken, stick-thin, 6-foot blonde in fishnets and a leotard covered in sparkles, you're bound to get some attention. Especially when you're also walking in these boots:



At one point, we pass by a bunch of construction-worker-looking guys avoiding the rain under some sidewalk scaffolding. They start hootin' and hollerin', and little sister, in her semi-inebriated state, decides it would be funny to wave at them, go "HAAA-AAAYYY!" and sashay away like a drag queen on the catwalk. The guys get louder and rowdier, and I yell after her, "If they start chasing us, I'm gonna kill you! You know I can't run in these damn shoes!"

Later on we are safely ensconced in a new bar, hanging out by the floor-to-ceiling windows that open onto the street. Because I'm wearing a headset, sitting on a stool, and facing outside in order to watch the parade of crazies, people start mistaking me for the doorperson and showing me their IDs. I try to finagle a "cover charge" out of a few of them, but since I'm wasted and can't keep a straight face, this scheme sadly doesn't work.

Then this guy comes at me. After initially hitting on my sister and getting nowhere because she's too busy lurch-dancing like a spastic cripple, he's moved over to my side of the table and feeds me the old "You two are so hot, you must be sisters!" line. Now, I've been drinking steadily and running from bar to bar in the rain for hours at this point, the wig I'm wearing feels like a wet cat sitting on my head, and I can actually feel the eyeliner smeared down my face. There is no way I believe this guy actually thinks I look "hot." So, of course, I laugh in his face.

"No, really!" he insists. "You look so much alike!"

This is when I decide, since I am dressed like a man, to reveal to Romeo that yes, you're right, we are related, but I'm not her sister — I'm her brother.

Loverboy freezes, then begins vehemently refuting my claim. "No way, you're lying. I'm not stupid." But I saw that moment of panic in his eyes. Had I been in my right mind, I should have offered to unzip my pants and prove it, just to see his reaction. I really regret not trying this out.

So, boys and girls, the moral of this story, I suppose: I may not be a hot, leggy blonde, but it's reassuring to know that I at least make a pretty gay boy. ;)