The new look

As of August 1st, the site has moved from Blogger to Moveable Type, and obviously, there’s a new design, too. Not all the bells and whistles are in place quite yet, but we’ll be tweaking it over the next couple of weeks or so.

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About Wendy McClure

It's meI’m 34 years old and I live in Chicago, where I work as an editor and a writer. I started this site in November of 2000 to write about body image, weight issues, and diet culture because I thought there was a lot more to say about this kind of stuff besides what you might read here. I have a another site called Candyboots, which I built in April 2003 as a home for my stupidly popular collection of Weight Watchers 1974 Recipe Cards. I write the pop culture column for BUST magazine. In the spring of 2005 I published my first book, I’m Not the New Me.

I grew up in Oak Park, Illinois, hometown to many bright people who were also complete tools. I went to college at the University of Iowa, and then stayed there too long doing God knows what, mostly stuff that I forgot once I moved back to Chicago and got a TV.

You’re always welcome to write me but please understand I’m not able to respond to every email. In fact, it’s very rare that I can answer reader email these days. I have an updated FAQ section and a lot of guilt, if it helps any.

I warn you, as always, that I swear a lot on this site. Not to rock the shitwagon or anything, but I do.

(photo by Mireya Acierto)

Book & Anthologies

I'm Not the New Me

I’m Not the New Me

My first book, a memoir based in part on the website you’re reading right now. Visit the book site for reviews, FAQs and more.
Amazon | Barnes & Noble | Booksense | Powell’s

Sleepaway

Sleepaway: Writings on Summer Camp

Essay: “The Devoted at Lake Delavan”
Amazon | Barnes & Noble | Booksense | Powell’s

The M Word

The M Word: Writers on Same-Sex Marriage

Essay: “Holding My Breath: a Family History”
Amazon | Barnes & Noble | Booksense | Powell’s

"Chunky," and other gravy matters

Okay, so that Chicago Author’s Roundtable is this coming Monday night–not, as I’d totally foggily reported last week, this past Monday. (I guess that’s obvious, since time moves forward and not backward.) I hope you’ll come to the lovely air-conditioned comfort of the Sulzer Regional Library to hear Zulkey and Erin and Kevin Guilfoile and me, along with Kevin Smokler, who is touring this summer as the editor of a very cool book, and who is a great person to commiserate with about the bugfucking crazy business of having to push your own book as much as possible within about six weeks and on about four hours of sleep per night. We’ll be talking about stuff like what it means to have both online audiences and books to promote, whether having an internet presence can help a writing career, and, most importantly, discuss the mystifying differences between a blog and a chatroom (kidding).

So please come. It’ll be fun. I have no idea whether the table will actually be round. That could be awkward.

I feel I ought to provide some updates regarding the dicksmackery observed in Wednesday night’s post.
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Smell the Dove

Thank you, Sun-Times and Channel 2 fellas, for exposing those Dove billboards for the anti-erection propaganda that they are. That’s right: in their menacing white panties, the Dove women are chunky size-ten threats to the fantasies that Chicago newsmen clearly feel entitled to enjoy at all times, or at least while commuting or running errands, or rushing out to cover a breaking story about a fire or a murder or whatever, or otherwise cavorting through the vast, roofless Playboy mansion that is our entire goddamn city. Because apparently it’s bad enough that actual women are allowed to walk around Michigan Avenue or Navy Pier with their real live fleshy-flesh sticking out from under shorts and halter tops as if it were hot out or something, as if Richard Roeper’s boner wasn’t totally at stake. (Does he think it’s like his thumb and that he gets to vote with it?)

Plus I love it when these editorials say stuff like “ads should be about the beautiful people” (see the second segment), and “if I want to see plump gals baring too much skin, I’ll go to Taste of Chicago,” as if it were all just a matter of venue–because, what, it’s of great masturbatory importance to see chubby chicks in one place and not another? Like are there secret freaky Old Testament-style Jerk-Off Laws that prohibit getting off on “real women” when they’re served up on the same platter used for taut model fantasy fucktoys? I know these guys are talking out of their asses, but there’s a whiff of righteous outrage coming out of there, too, and it’s creepy.

And don’t even get me started on this guy’s remark about these ads encouraging people to be out of shape. Uh, yeah, we can see right through that, and it doesn’t help the “obesity epidemic” any when the chub you’re most concerned about is the one in your pants, dude. We know what’s up with that. (Or what’s not up. Or… ew.)

(I’ve recently upgraded and redesigned this site. To view the reader comments for this entry–and there were plenty–on the old site, click here. New comments can be left below.)