I know I've been on hiatus for awhile, but I couldn't keep my silence after I saw this story unfold:
That's right. One Mr. George Lopez, compares Kirstie Alley to swine. Because we all know how original and imaginative fat jokes are, especially ones that relate us to farm animals.
Lopez eventually apologizes, if you call "I misjudged the joke" an apology. Kirstie, reluctantly accepts it.
Let's say for a moment that we can set aside the sophomoric nature of this joke. I realize that some people find fat jokes to be hilarious, and even I can chuckle at them myself, if they're done well. No one wants to hear some obvious comparison to pork any more than any one wants to be schooled about the differences between men and women. An easy insult does not a respected comedian make. But I can get over that. What I can't get over is the sort of catch-22 that I think most overweight people feel they are stuck in. We are constantly being bombarded with messages on how to correct our "problem." And that if just got off our big, fat asses, and stopped stuffing hamburgers and ice cream in our mouths, we could be socially accepted and able to shop at more than 4% of the stores in any given shopping center.
Enter Kirstie Alley. A former skinny girl, who has publicly shared her weight struggle with the world in a humorous, HUMAN way. She goes on national television, clothed in little more than straps and sequins, and stands shoulder to shoulder with super models, teenagers, and professionally lauded female dancers. And proceeds to kick ass by landing in second place after her first week of Dancing With The Stars. How exactly is she rewarded? With a fat joke by late night nobody who only a few years back was chubbing up the airways.
To say this infuriates me would be an understatement, but that's not really the point. What I am wondering is what exactly the fuck are we supposed to do? Being fat in public is generally not accepted. You may remember a few months back when Marie Claire published this column by resident fat expert, Maura Kelly. The backlash was huge, and an apology followed, but the damage was done. Fat people are getting the message, loud and clear. We are not worthy of good jobs, healthy relationships, or according to Kelly, the freedom to just walk around. Yet when an overweight person not only performs something that is considering exercise, but also excels at it, it is suggested that she be lined up at the trough and prepared for slaughter. So apparently it's only acceptable that we lose weight in private, as not to force anyone to look at us being all...fat and stuff.
Comments like this come from a place of truth. Whether it stems from insecurity or fear (which I think may be the case of Kelly, jury's still out on Lopez) or from deep rooted malice, these aren't just passing, unintentional comments. These jokes and articles were not accidental. They were written and said with purpose, and directed at an increasingly growing number of people. Until fat people can be seen as people, without a preface, I don't think stories like this are going away any time soon.
But I will definitely keep my hooves crossed.
Friday, March 25, 2011
Thursday, July 8, 2010
Not Appropriate for Milk Cartons
I like to shop. I enjoy spending afternoons at the bookstore, cutting out of work early to check out sales at Macy’s, and browsing house wares at my favorite home décor shops. And although I love all these things, nothing plagues me with fear and trepidation like shopping for bras.
So a few weeks ago I took a deep breath, hopped in my car, and set out on Mission: Brapossible.
It’s not that I hate bras. Sure, nothing feels better than slipping out of my boob cradler after a long day at work, but overall I don’t mind wearing a bra. Bras are meant to be functional, compliment a cute pair of undies, and even assist in foreplay. I don’t have beef with brassieres.
What I hate is trying them on. I hate waltzing through the store clasping 87 mammary snugglers. I hate locking myself in a fitting room, stripping down, hooking, and un-hooking myself into a series of bras. I have my method down to a science, so there’s not much shifting that needs to happen, but there are so many things I would rather do than examine how my back appears in a strapless demi-cup. What’s even better is that many stores have adopted a sort of bra-whisperer philosophy. Now, I have a sales associate camped outside of the fitting room door, asking me every five seconds if I need any help. I have to repeatedly turn down offers for bra fittings from girls with names like Bailey and Gracie-Kate.
Back to the mission.
Last week, I entered the fitting room with no fewer than 20 bras. I have lost a bit of weight in the past few months, so I knew I may have to go down a size. What I did not expect to happen though, was to experience such a gross reduction in boobie tissue.
“Boobs!?!?!” I cried. “Where have you gone?”
I was met only with silence.
It’s not that I’m sad that my boobs are diminishing. It’s just weird. I’m used to looking for bra sizes with double letter values. I’m accustomed upgrading my shirt size because I can’t get my actual size over my ta-tas. I’ve grown tired of the way my cleavage peeks out from even the most modest of dresses.
But no longer. Now, I need padding, push-ups, and bras with titles like “The Balconette.” Gone are the days searching the racks for a hard to find girth/cup combo. I feel somewhat normal. And even though my breasts are running the risk of becoming ittie-bitties, I’m ok with it. Because it may just mean that the rest of me will follow.
So a few weeks ago I took a deep breath, hopped in my car, and set out on Mission: Brapossible.
It’s not that I hate bras. Sure, nothing feels better than slipping out of my boob cradler after a long day at work, but overall I don’t mind wearing a bra. Bras are meant to be functional, compliment a cute pair of undies, and even assist in foreplay. I don’t have beef with brassieres.
What I hate is trying them on. I hate waltzing through the store clasping 87 mammary snugglers. I hate locking myself in a fitting room, stripping down, hooking, and un-hooking myself into a series of bras. I have my method down to a science, so there’s not much shifting that needs to happen, but there are so many things I would rather do than examine how my back appears in a strapless demi-cup. What’s even better is that many stores have adopted a sort of bra-whisperer philosophy. Now, I have a sales associate camped outside of the fitting room door, asking me every five seconds if I need any help. I have to repeatedly turn down offers for bra fittings from girls with names like Bailey and Gracie-Kate.
Back to the mission.
Last week, I entered the fitting room with no fewer than 20 bras. I have lost a bit of weight in the past few months, so I knew I may have to go down a size. What I did not expect to happen though, was to experience such a gross reduction in boobie tissue.
“Boobs!?!?!” I cried. “Where have you gone?”
I was met only with silence.
It’s not that I’m sad that my boobs are diminishing. It’s just weird. I’m used to looking for bra sizes with double letter values. I’m accustomed upgrading my shirt size because I can’t get my actual size over my ta-tas. I’ve grown tired of the way my cleavage peeks out from even the most modest of dresses.
But no longer. Now, I need padding, push-ups, and bras with titles like “The Balconette.” Gone are the days searching the racks for a hard to find girth/cup combo. I feel somewhat normal. And even though my breasts are running the risk of becoming ittie-bitties, I’m ok with it. Because it may just mean that the rest of me will follow.
Monday, June 28, 2010
Mitten Meanderings
Maybe it’s the commercials showing vast expanses of blue water, cherry trees, and smiling faces. Perhaps it’s the countless “Great Lakes” license I’ve seen the past few weeks. Or maybe it’s been the string of impossibly hot weather that commenced on Nashville before summer even started. Whatever it is, I am jonesin for summertime in Michigan.
I miss waking up to cool temperatures, and being able to dine outside in the evening without feeling the prick of perspiration. I miss needing a sweatshirt on cool nights, even when it was August. I miss breezy weekends in the sun, complete with surprise sunburns because I was lured into a false sense of security by the cooler temperatures.
I miss ice cream parlors. Real ice cream parlors with names the The Taystee Freeze, Ice Cream Junction, and The Grill and Chill. No homogenized, sterile, brightly lit, marble slab-with-all-the-fixins conglomerate. I want to slurp a hand dipped chocolate-covered vanilla cone while sitting on a weathered picnic table. Watch people come to the window in ill-fitting summer garb and order banana splits. Play the batting cages until the sun sets. And not to mention the ice cream flavors. Where is my Mooney’s Blue Moon? Tell me where I can find real Superman ice cream, and I will spend the rest of my days trying to avoid dripping pink, yellow, and blue drops on my clothes.
And what about the water? What about never being more than an hour’s drive away from a real lake? Not the man made stuff, with built-in grades and two feet of sand shoveled in from some foreign county. I’m talking sand dunes, light houses, and drop-offs that make you scream for your mommy. How I miss the stretches of time spent water skiing, fishing, and soaking up sun from my spot on the boat. How I crave dipping my toes in the water from the edge of the dock.
I miss getting in the car and heading to Pine Knob (sorry, I refuse to call it the DTE Energy something-or-other) for some amazing outdoor music. Where are the shows at The Fillmore, The Shelter, Saint Andrews, or the Royal Oak Theater? Gone are the days of sprawling out on a blanket at Meadowbrook Music Festival.
I’m craving YaYa’s chicken, Boston Coolers from Halo Burger, and mostaccioli al forno from Italia Gardens. I would love to pick-up a Reuben from Oliver T’s and an iced coffee at Tim Horton’s for lunch. I miss happy hours at Damon’s, Grand Blanc Inn, and Blackstone’s. Hell, I’d even settle for a coney at Angelo’s right now.
I know that in a little while, I’ll be back for a visit. And I’ll get my fix, and realize that I’ve spent a month romanticizing all of the things that I was so used to before. I’ll come back to the sultriness of the south and be ok for a few more months. Then, I’ll start missing Christmastime in the Midwest.
Help me, help me, help me sail away
Well, give me two good reasons why I oughta stay
Cause I love to live so pleasantly
Live this life of luxury
Lazing on a Sunday Afternoon
I miss waking up to cool temperatures, and being able to dine outside in the evening without feeling the prick of perspiration. I miss needing a sweatshirt on cool nights, even when it was August. I miss breezy weekends in the sun, complete with surprise sunburns because I was lured into a false sense of security by the cooler temperatures.
I miss ice cream parlors. Real ice cream parlors with names the The Taystee Freeze, Ice Cream Junction, and The Grill and Chill. No homogenized, sterile, brightly lit, marble slab-with-all-the-fixins conglomerate. I want to slurp a hand dipped chocolate-covered vanilla cone while sitting on a weathered picnic table. Watch people come to the window in ill-fitting summer garb and order banana splits. Play the batting cages until the sun sets. And not to mention the ice cream flavors. Where is my Mooney’s Blue Moon? Tell me where I can find real Superman ice cream, and I will spend the rest of my days trying to avoid dripping pink, yellow, and blue drops on my clothes.
And what about the water? What about never being more than an hour’s drive away from a real lake? Not the man made stuff, with built-in grades and two feet of sand shoveled in from some foreign county. I’m talking sand dunes, light houses, and drop-offs that make you scream for your mommy. How I miss the stretches of time spent water skiing, fishing, and soaking up sun from my spot on the boat. How I crave dipping my toes in the water from the edge of the dock.
I miss getting in the car and heading to Pine Knob (sorry, I refuse to call it the DTE Energy something-or-other) for some amazing outdoor music. Where are the shows at The Fillmore, The Shelter, Saint Andrews, or the Royal Oak Theater? Gone are the days of sprawling out on a blanket at Meadowbrook Music Festival.
I’m craving YaYa’s chicken, Boston Coolers from Halo Burger, and mostaccioli al forno from Italia Gardens. I would love to pick-up a Reuben from Oliver T’s and an iced coffee at Tim Horton’s for lunch. I miss happy hours at Damon’s, Grand Blanc Inn, and Blackstone’s. Hell, I’d even settle for a coney at Angelo’s right now.
I know that in a little while, I’ll be back for a visit. And I’ll get my fix, and realize that I’ve spent a month romanticizing all of the things that I was so used to before. I’ll come back to the sultriness of the south and be ok for a few more months. Then, I’ll start missing Christmastime in the Midwest.
Help me, help me, help me sail away
Well, give me two good reasons why I oughta stay
Cause I love to live so pleasantly
Live this life of luxury
Lazing on a Sunday Afternoon
Thursday, June 10, 2010
Losing It, Part I
I have been meaning to blog about The Biggest Loser television show for some time now. I have struggled to organize my feelings about this program in a constructive manner, so I have just sat back, and read what far more articulate bloggers have had to say. However, when I saw that Jillian Michaels now has her very own reality fat-hater show, I could stay quiet no longer.
I first, have to own up to a bit of hypocrisy. Right now, a coworker and I are running a Biggest Loser contest at our workplace. I have also purchased and/or rented various Biggest Loser products: cookbooks, exercise DVDs, etc. I have watched the show on a few occasions in the past, but I usually get too angry to sit through an entire season. I have a strong desire to improve my health, and have been healthfully and diligently working on my weight loss through the past year or so. I’m not knocking the desire or attempt to lose weight – I just want to make that clear.
I’ve always wondered what happened to Biggest Loser contestants after their time at the ranch had expired. I rounded up a couple where-are-they-now articles, and was interested to see that many contestants were not able to sustain their weight loss. In fact, most of the featured contestants gained back at least half of the weight they had lost. Sort of makes me wonder how successful the “scream til they drop” technique works in the long term.
Then yesterday, I came across this post over at Body Love Wellness. I remember watching Kai Hibbard a few years back, and found her to be funny and witty, and somewhat of a kindred spirit. I was really sad and disappointed to hear that she had developed an eating disorder. I was not surprised, however, that the show was so cutthroat behind the scenes.
I think what bothers me is that The Biggest Loser has turned into a resource for folks trying to fight the fat, myself included. And what makes me particularly sad is that the show promotes a really ugly approach to taking care of oneself. Most of the professionals I have consulted with regarding weight loss (nutritionists, psychologists, physicians) have all advocated weight loss that is slow-yet-steady. And more importantly, they've advocated treating myself well. Based on what Kai Hibbard has shared, it appears that Biggest Loser producers and consultants have taken a different approach. From what I can tell, this method has not proven successful beyond a few minutes.
All of this leads me to further question why we're OK with this. I'm continuing this post into a Part II, but I think there is a deeper issue at play. Why are we willing to accept and even delight over a form of abuse inflicted upon others?
I first, have to own up to a bit of hypocrisy. Right now, a coworker and I are running a Biggest Loser contest at our workplace. I have also purchased and/or rented various Biggest Loser products: cookbooks, exercise DVDs, etc. I have watched the show on a few occasions in the past, but I usually get too angry to sit through an entire season. I have a strong desire to improve my health, and have been healthfully and diligently working on my weight loss through the past year or so. I’m not knocking the desire or attempt to lose weight – I just want to make that clear.
I’ve always wondered what happened to Biggest Loser contestants after their time at the ranch had expired. I rounded up a couple where-are-they-now articles, and was interested to see that many contestants were not able to sustain their weight loss. In fact, most of the featured contestants gained back at least half of the weight they had lost. Sort of makes me wonder how successful the “scream til they drop” technique works in the long term.
Then yesterday, I came across this post over at Body Love Wellness. I remember watching Kai Hibbard a few years back, and found her to be funny and witty, and somewhat of a kindred spirit. I was really sad and disappointed to hear that she had developed an eating disorder. I was not surprised, however, that the show was so cutthroat behind the scenes.
I think what bothers me is that The Biggest Loser has turned into a resource for folks trying to fight the fat, myself included. And what makes me particularly sad is that the show promotes a really ugly approach to taking care of oneself. Most of the professionals I have consulted with regarding weight loss (nutritionists, psychologists, physicians) have all advocated weight loss that is slow-yet-steady. And more importantly, they've advocated treating myself well. Based on what Kai Hibbard has shared, it appears that Biggest Loser producers and consultants have taken a different approach. From what I can tell, this method has not proven successful beyond a few minutes.
All of this leads me to further question why we're OK with this. I'm continuing this post into a Part II, but I think there is a deeper issue at play. Why are we willing to accept and even delight over a form of abuse inflicted upon others?
Losing It, Part II
I had the pleasure of catching about fifteen minutes of Losing it With Jillian this week. I wasn’t able to watch much more than that, so I promptly turned the channel to something more appropriate, like the second season of Friday Night Lights. But I digress. Losing it With Jillian is aptly titled, as watching the show makes a person want to climb the bell tower. The show is more of what you’ve seen of Jillian. Insults, screaming, and a healthy dose of death threats, compliments of Ms. Michaels. In the episode I watched, a mother was humiliated in front of her children. She cried, begged to for breaks, and eventually pushed her huffing, puffing, red-faced self to complete Jillian’s odd combination of exercises. I have seen Jillian perform the same “technique” on Biggest Loser contestants. She treats them like cattle, reminds them of how close they are to dying, and screams and them for falling off treadmills and not being able to lift inordinately heavy weights. All for their own good though, because deep-down she cares very deeply for the fatties.
I then stumbled upon this entry over at fatshionista.com. Now, I don’t necessarily agree with all of Lesley’s opinions, but I appreciate that she articulates herself well, and provides substantial back-up to her arguments. But what shocked me the most about her entry, was the video she posted of Jillian Michael’s hot mic faux-pas during an interview. I think it is a true testimony to her intentions behind the verbal abuse she serves up weekly on The Biggest Loser. Michaels, like many others, views fat people as a sort of non-people. And I believe that Lesley hit the nail on the head when she says :
All of this is not to highlight what a horrible person Jillian Michaels is. She's playing a character, and obviously has filled a spot where there was demand for her type of character. There are a million Jillians in the world today, but I suppose this Jillian has made herself a mascot, in more than one way. The point of this exists in a challenge I have with myself. To talk to myself and treat myself the way I would if I were training The Biggest Loser contestants. To stop being so judgmental of other women of substance. To start questioning the mistreatment of all people, not just in cases where it's socially acceptable to do so.
I then stumbled upon this entry over at fatshionista.com. Now, I don’t necessarily agree with all of Lesley’s opinions, but I appreciate that she articulates herself well, and provides substantial back-up to her arguments. But what shocked me the most about her entry, was the video she posted of Jillian Michael’s hot mic faux-pas during an interview. I think it is a true testimony to her intentions behind the verbal abuse she serves up weekly on The Biggest Loser. Michaels, like many others, views fat people as a sort of non-people. And I believe that Lesley hit the nail on the head when she says :
The real kicker for me is that a few years ago, I would have seen nothing wrong with Michaels' (or anyone else for that matter) treatment of overweight people. Fat acceptance is something I struggle with, even now. In some ways I do believe that I don't deserve to have a certain amount of success, money, healthy relationships, or love. That I deserve to be treated like a second-rate citizen. And it's not Jillian Michaels' fault that I feel this way; this issue is far more deeply rooted and systemic than some flash-in-the-pan trendster trainer. But I do think that shows like Michaels' perpetuate the emotion many overweight people already feel. The reason there is no backlash towards this type of behavior, is in my opinion, because people don't see anything wrong with it - regardless of what their size may be. There's something so devastatingly wrong about this, but I recognize that I contribute to the problem.It’s not simply Michaels’ fat-hatin’ that bugs me, nor is it her penchant for yelling. My problem is that her methods of engaging and motivating her clients is frighteningly close to a relationship which in any other context we would call abusive. Working off the two clips above exclusively — two clips I chose pretty much at random from a multitude of possibilities — I can make this case. For one, Michaels dehumanizes the fat people she works with (”They’re not like normal people”, “half-dead”). She seems to think the brains of fat people have been compromised such that they can only respond to repetitive screaming, not unlike wayward cattle. She makes threats, not just to their physical safety, but to their very lives (”The only way you’re coming off this damn treadmill is if you die on it”). Her abuse is calculated to break her clients down until they weep, and even then she doesn’t let up. She is unpredictable, with a vicious and quick temper, and is apathetic toward (if not gratified by) her clients’ discomfort, be it physical or emotional. There’s even elements of codependency in there, as it’s only when the fat people in question behave as instructed that her mood might change and they may receive some encouragement or support, which is only meted out in doses small enough to keep them craving more. And before any of this happens, the people she trains must first be convinced that they cannot possibly survive without her, that their lives prior to this introduction were worthless, their bodies but hollow shells — or, in this case, shells filled with soulless fat.
All of this is not to highlight what a horrible person Jillian Michaels is. She's playing a character, and obviously has filled a spot where there was demand for her type of character. There are a million Jillians in the world today, but I suppose this Jillian has made herself a mascot, in more than one way. The point of this exists in a challenge I have with myself. To talk to myself and treat myself the way I would if I were training The Biggest Loser contestants. To stop being so judgmental of other women of substance. To start questioning the mistreatment of all people, not just in cases where it's socially acceptable to do so.
Wednesday, May 26, 2010
…And See How That Goes
I’ve always enjoyed Sarah Silverman. She’s equal parts crass, witty, vulnerable, offensive, and intelligent. And if you asked the William, he’d add hot to the list.
I recently ran across this CNNOpinion interview with Sarah, where she discusses fat jokes.
According to Sarah:
"I don't really care for like, fat jokes about women, specifically, because I feel that we live in a society where fat men deserve love, and fat women do not deserve love -- at least in white America. And so I feel like that's an ugly thing, and it doesn't make me laugh."
Silverman’s perspective did two things to me. First, it hit really close to home. I realize that in allowing myself to feel undeserving of love, I contribute to a larger, societal issue. It’s something I feel challenged to fix every day, and it’s affects every relationship I have. Secondly, it reinforced the feeling I have about fat jokes. Don’t get me wrong – I can laugh at fat jokes. It’s not that I’m so sensitive that I can’t see how making fun of fat people is funny. However, it may be that same sensitivity that keeps me from thinking most fat jokes are funny enough to laugh at. To me, they usually seem cheap and unimaginative. It doesn’t require much insight or creativity to point out physical characteristics to others. And for similar reasons, I don’t like jokes about skinny people.
I hear a lot of overweight women make fun of themselves, in an attempt to be funny. And while I realize that this is likely just a defense mechanism, it really bothers me. Not only does it make others uncomfortable, I’m not sure that it doesn’t just perpetuate thoughts of negative self-worth. Having the ability to make fun of myself is important, but I have to draw the line at calling myself names, or referencing my body using negative terminology and overused stereotypes.
Sarah has gained a few more cool points in my book. Not that she needed any…
I recently ran across this CNNOpinion interview with Sarah, where she discusses fat jokes.
According to Sarah:
"I don't really care for like, fat jokes about women, specifically, because I feel that we live in a society where fat men deserve love, and fat women do not deserve love -- at least in white America. And so I feel like that's an ugly thing, and it doesn't make me laugh."
Silverman’s perspective did two things to me. First, it hit really close to home. I realize that in allowing myself to feel undeserving of love, I contribute to a larger, societal issue. It’s something I feel challenged to fix every day, and it’s affects every relationship I have. Secondly, it reinforced the feeling I have about fat jokes. Don’t get me wrong – I can laugh at fat jokes. It’s not that I’m so sensitive that I can’t see how making fun of fat people is funny. However, it may be that same sensitivity that keeps me from thinking most fat jokes are funny enough to laugh at. To me, they usually seem cheap and unimaginative. It doesn’t require much insight or creativity to point out physical characteristics to others. And for similar reasons, I don’t like jokes about skinny people.
I hear a lot of overweight women make fun of themselves, in an attempt to be funny. And while I realize that this is likely just a defense mechanism, it really bothers me. Not only does it make others uncomfortable, I’m not sure that it doesn’t just perpetuate thoughts of negative self-worth. Having the ability to make fun of myself is important, but I have to draw the line at calling myself names, or referencing my body using negative terminology and overused stereotypes.
Sarah has gained a few more cool points in my book. Not that she needed any…
Monday, April 5, 2010
The Good Side of Down
Today, I was involved in a mid-day meeting where lunch was served. The choices allowed for some healthy decision making, so I loaded a plate up with veggie wraps and fruit. As I was enjoying my lunch, a women who works with me scrunched up her nose and squinted in the direction of my lunch.
"Ohhhh, look at you! You're being so good!"
My initial reaction was to find a nice spot in the middle of her forehead for which to place the heel of shoe. The fear of termination and/or jail time prevented me from proceeding with that plan, so instead I just stewed about it.
I'm being good, huh? And I suppose being bad would mean that I had chips instead of fruit, and maybe a cookie for dessert. How about two cookies? What if all I ate for lunch was chips and cookies and more chips, followed by a gallon-size swig of Coca-Cola? Would that make me really, really, really bad?
Eating fruit does not make one a good person. Having a cookie does not make one a bad person. Bad people punch little kids in the face. Bad people deface property, kick puppies, make fun of disabled people, or become republicans. Bad people are not bad because they eat cookies. I'm so tired of this constant measure of food's placement on the axis of evil. Pizza? Bad. Quinoa? Good! Pizza and quinoa? Uhhhh...
All of this scalability, this balance of good vs. evil that we all spew does not help. It doesn't. It makes people feel unnecessary shame and guilt. It makes people treat themselves poorly in the name of health. It makes people feel like they can't leave their houses for a meal. And that, really is bad.
I am just as guilty of this good/bad mentality. It's something I think of every day, with every morsel I decide to swallow. But I vow to try my damnedest not to place that on another person. Because no one is bad because of the things they choose to eat. Unless you're a cannibal, and even that's negotiable.
I constantly challenge myself to reshape the way I think when it comes to food. Part of what I have struggled with in regards to disordered eating stems from people in my life telling me that what I was eating was good or bad. Starting with my grandmother and moving all the way to my nutritionist in college, it's ingrained in me to associate feeling poor about myself with what I am eating at that time. And that's no way for anyone to feel - good, bad, or ugly.
"Ohhhh, look at you! You're being so good!"
My initial reaction was to find a nice spot in the middle of her forehead for which to place the heel of shoe. The fear of termination and/or jail time prevented me from proceeding with that plan, so instead I just stewed about it.
I'm being good, huh? And I suppose being bad would mean that I had chips instead of fruit, and maybe a cookie for dessert. How about two cookies? What if all I ate for lunch was chips and cookies and more chips, followed by a gallon-size swig of Coca-Cola? Would that make me really, really, really bad?
Eating fruit does not make one a good person. Having a cookie does not make one a bad person. Bad people punch little kids in the face. Bad people deface property, kick puppies, make fun of disabled people, or become republicans. Bad people are not bad because they eat cookies. I'm so tired of this constant measure of food's placement on the axis of evil. Pizza? Bad. Quinoa? Good! Pizza and quinoa? Uhhhh...
All of this scalability, this balance of good vs. evil that we all spew does not help. It doesn't. It makes people feel unnecessary shame and guilt. It makes people treat themselves poorly in the name of health. It makes people feel like they can't leave their houses for a meal. And that, really is bad.
I am just as guilty of this good/bad mentality. It's something I think of every day, with every morsel I decide to swallow. But I vow to try my damnedest not to place that on another person. Because no one is bad because of the things they choose to eat. Unless you're a cannibal, and even that's negotiable.
I constantly challenge myself to reshape the way I think when it comes to food. Part of what I have struggled with in regards to disordered eating stems from people in my life telling me that what I was eating was good or bad. Starting with my grandmother and moving all the way to my nutritionist in college, it's ingrained in me to associate feeling poor about myself with what I am eating at that time. And that's no way for anyone to feel - good, bad, or ugly.
Wednesday, January 20, 2010
The Pandora Affect
Over the past few weeks, I’ve really been delving into some reading and movies discussing the topic of eating disorders. Since disordered eating is something I struggle with daily, I sometimes find myself searching for answers as to the why and how this all started for me. Aside from this, I also have something called PCOS, which is an acronym for a disease that affects my insulin levels, weight fluctuations, and my ability to ovulate. I’ve been researching a lot into the causes behind PCOS. Most theories seem to put PCOS as the cause of all symptoms related to disease, but there are some schools of thought that believe that obesity can actually cause PCOS.
As I delve into my research, I can only find one recurring theme. That all of this talk of insulin resistance, disordered eating, depression, and a litany of other unattractive symptoms just makes me feel badly about myself. And subsequently triggers me to fall back into dangerous habits. And I hate that.
So, I find myself feeling very stuck in all of this. I want to feel better. I want to manage my PCOS so that not every day feels like an uphill battle. I want to normalize my eating so that the prospect of eating out doesn’t incite a tightening in my chest. I want to be able to discover what I can do to better myself without sending myself into a tailspin of anxiety.
How do I find answers without opening up a new set of questions?
As I delve into my research, I can only find one recurring theme. That all of this talk of insulin resistance, disordered eating, depression, and a litany of other unattractive symptoms just makes me feel badly about myself. And subsequently triggers me to fall back into dangerous habits. And I hate that.
So, I find myself feeling very stuck in all of this. I want to feel better. I want to manage my PCOS so that not every day feels like an uphill battle. I want to normalize my eating so that the prospect of eating out doesn’t incite a tightening in my chest. I want to be able to discover what I can do to better myself without sending myself into a tailspin of anxiety.
How do I find answers without opening up a new set of questions?
Friday, January 8, 2010
Wealthy Successors Have No Regard
Dear People With Whom I Work:
Prosperity and posterity are not words that are interchangeable. They have have vastly different meanings, despite sharing a similar phonetic pronunciation. Using these words in exchange for one another makes you sounds silly, and can sometimes negate other fundamental concepts you are trying to relay.
Additionally, the word "irregardless" has no true meaning. Yes, this "word" has been added to Webster's dictionary, but only because your educators and mother failed you in a horrible way.
Therefore, the next time you choose to use any of these words as described, do not be surprised by my glazed-over expression. I'm just visiting my happy place.
Sincerely,
Your Considerably Underpaid Co-worker
Prosperity and posterity are not words that are interchangeable. They have have vastly different meanings, despite sharing a similar phonetic pronunciation. Using these words in exchange for one another makes you sounds silly, and can sometimes negate other fundamental concepts you are trying to relay.
Additionally, the word "irregardless" has no true meaning. Yes, this "word" has been added to Webster's dictionary, but only because your educators and mother failed you in a horrible way.
Therefore, the next time you choose to use any of these words as described, do not be surprised by my glazed-over expression. I'm just visiting my happy place.
Sincerely,
Your Considerably Underpaid Co-worker
Sunday, January 3, 2010
Adjusting
I have been playing with a 2009 review blog for the past week or so, but haven't produced anything that didn't sound somehow whiny and narcissistic at the same time. So, instead I found this survey on another blog, and decided this might be a better way to summarize the past 365 days. Happy New Year!
1.What did you do in 2009 that you'd never done before?
Walked into a flooded house. And then moved the bare essentials out in about 45 minutes.
2. Did you keep your new years’ resolutions, and will you make more for next year?
I did. I'm not a huge fan of resolutions, because I feel like life doesn't necessarily work in a sort of set goal, meet goal pattern. So I've started to make year-end goals instead of resolving to change myself in some prolific way.
3.Did anyone close to you give birth?
Only if co-workers count.
4.Did anyone close to you die?
No, thankfully.
5.What countries did you visit?
Canada!
6.What would you like to have in 2010 that you lacked in 2009?
A specific vision for my professional future.
7.What dates from 2009 will remain etched upon your memory and why?
No dates really stand out. I had some special adventures with my bestie, and some very trying times personally.
8.What was your biggest achievement of the year?
Losing a whole dress size worth of weight.
10. Did you suffer illness or injury?
Nah.
11. What was the best thing you bought?
A new trench coat, and it was a steal. I get complimented every time I wear it.
12. Whose behavior merited celebration?
Hmmm, that's a tough one. I have to say that I am so proud of my parents. Their marriage was tested this year, and they have come out of it pretty strong.
13. Whose behavior made you appalled and depressed?
All of the "celebrity" parents who made seemingly selfish and money-driven decisions instead of thinking of their children. Jon, Kate, Balloon Boy Dad, etc.
14. Where did most of your money go?
Bills, bills, bills. And a travel.
15. What did you get really, really, really excited about?
That William and I started our podcast. It's been a great tool for us to just relax and talk to each other. I also feel like we challenge each other to pursue creative endeavors.
16. What song will always remind you of 2009?
Michael Jackson's This is It.
17. Compared to this time last year, are you:
a) happier or sadder? Hmmm. I would say right now, I am happier overall. But I am much more guarded now than I was at the beginning of 2009.
b) thinner or fatter? Thinner!
c) richer or poorer? Ugh.
18. What do you wish you’d done more of?
Exercising. I often sacrificed Emily Health Time to working.
19. What do you wish you’d done less of?
Working. Whining.
20. How will you be spending Christmas?
I spent Christmas with my family. The WHOLE family.
21. How many one-night stands?
17. Just kidding. Zero.
22. What was your favorite TV program?
The Office and 30 Rock stand out right now.
23. Do you hate anyone now that you didn’t hate this time last year?
No. I am trying to work on some of the negative feelings I still have for people who have wronged me.
24. What was the best book you read?
As cheesy as this sounds, the last Harry Potter book. I saved it as long as could, and finally read it a few months ago.
25. What was your greatest musical discovery?
Adele.
26. What did you want and get?
A Wii! And a white noise machine. I am thankful for family and friends who love me.
27. What did you want and not get?
Inner peace.
28. What was your favorite film of this year?
Up In The Air and Julie & Julie were my two standouts.
29. What did you do on your birthday?
I spent it in San Francisco, with the person I love the most.
30.What one thing would have made your year immeasurably more satisfying?
Professional growth, along with a better paycheck.
31. Which celebrity/public figure did you fancy the most?
Justin Timberlake
32. What political issue stirred you the most?
Healthcare reform.
33. Who did you miss?
My family.
34. Who was the best new person you met?
Although I already knew this person before 2009, I gained a wonderful new mentor in a manager I had last year.
35. Tell us a valuable life lesson you learned in 2009?
That forgiveness isn't a weakness. And that I can weather a lot more than I thought I could.
36. Quote a song lyric that sums up your year.
"And children don't grow up; our bodies get bigger but our hearts get torn up."
All-in-all, I am happy to kiss 2009 goodbye. Although I know that life doesn't work in plotted, 365-day spans of time, I feel a certain amount of re-energization with the arrival of 2010.
Cheers.
1.What did you do in 2009 that you'd never done before?
Walked into a flooded house. And then moved the bare essentials out in about 45 minutes.
2. Did you keep your new years’ resolutions, and will you make more for next year?
I did. I'm not a huge fan of resolutions, because I feel like life doesn't necessarily work in a sort of set goal, meet goal pattern. So I've started to make year-end goals instead of resolving to change myself in some prolific way.
3.Did anyone close to you give birth?
Only if co-workers count.
4.Did anyone close to you die?
No, thankfully.
5.What countries did you visit?
Canada!
6.What would you like to have in 2010 that you lacked in 2009?
A specific vision for my professional future.
7.What dates from 2009 will remain etched upon your memory and why?
No dates really stand out. I had some special adventures with my bestie, and some very trying times personally.
8.What was your biggest achievement of the year?
Losing a whole dress size worth of weight.
10. Did you suffer illness or injury?
Nah.
11. What was the best thing you bought?
A new trench coat, and it was a steal. I get complimented every time I wear it.
12. Whose behavior merited celebration?
Hmmm, that's a tough one. I have to say that I am so proud of my parents. Their marriage was tested this year, and they have come out of it pretty strong.
13. Whose behavior made you appalled and depressed?
All of the "celebrity" parents who made seemingly selfish and money-driven decisions instead of thinking of their children. Jon, Kate, Balloon Boy Dad, etc.
14. Where did most of your money go?
Bills, bills, bills. And a travel.
15. What did you get really, really, really excited about?
That William and I started our podcast. It's been a great tool for us to just relax and talk to each other. I also feel like we challenge each other to pursue creative endeavors.
16. What song will always remind you of 2009?
Michael Jackson's This is It.
17. Compared to this time last year, are you:
a) happier or sadder? Hmmm. I would say right now, I am happier overall. But I am much more guarded now than I was at the beginning of 2009.
b) thinner or fatter? Thinner!
c) richer or poorer? Ugh.
18. What do you wish you’d done more of?
Exercising. I often sacrificed Emily Health Time to working.
19. What do you wish you’d done less of?
Working. Whining.
20. How will you be spending Christmas?
I spent Christmas with my family. The WHOLE family.
21. How many one-night stands?
17. Just kidding. Zero.
22. What was your favorite TV program?
The Office and 30 Rock stand out right now.
23. Do you hate anyone now that you didn’t hate this time last year?
No. I am trying to work on some of the negative feelings I still have for people who have wronged me.
24. What was the best book you read?
As cheesy as this sounds, the last Harry Potter book. I saved it as long as could, and finally read it a few months ago.
25. What was your greatest musical discovery?
Adele.
26. What did you want and get?
A Wii! And a white noise machine. I am thankful for family and friends who love me.
27. What did you want and not get?
Inner peace.
28. What was your favorite film of this year?
Up In The Air and Julie & Julie were my two standouts.
29. What did you do on your birthday?
I spent it in San Francisco, with the person I love the most.
30.What one thing would have made your year immeasurably more satisfying?
Professional growth, along with a better paycheck.
31. Which celebrity/public figure did you fancy the most?
Justin Timberlake
32. What political issue stirred you the most?
Healthcare reform.
33. Who did you miss?
My family.
34. Who was the best new person you met?
Although I already knew this person before 2009, I gained a wonderful new mentor in a manager I had last year.
35. Tell us a valuable life lesson you learned in 2009?
That forgiveness isn't a weakness. And that I can weather a lot more than I thought I could.
36. Quote a song lyric that sums up your year.
"And children don't grow up; our bodies get bigger but our hearts get torn up."
All-in-all, I am happy to kiss 2009 goodbye. Although I know that life doesn't work in plotted, 365-day spans of time, I feel a certain amount of re-energization with the arrival of 2010.
Cheers.
Wednesday, December 30, 2009
Justice for Amy
I spent a few days in Michigan last week, and while I was there, decided to peruse my mom's selection of books. She usually lets me invade her collection when I'm home, and was generous enough to let me read her copy of If I Am Missing or Dead: A Sister's Story of Love. I was intrigued by the book, partially because of it's subject matter, and partially because the author grew-up in Michigan.
Janine Latus and her sister, Amy, grew up in a large family. Their father was emotionally and sexually abusive to Janine and her sister, and both of these women grew up to be in abusive relationships. The books is written from the perspective of Janine, and ends in the death of her sister Amy. Amy's story was fairly sensational, garnering attention from national news media. Amy's murderer was sentenced to just under 20 years in prison after pleading guilty to Amy's death.
I'll admit that I am not a professional book critic. I read frequently, but don't feel well equipped to accurately articulate the pros and cons of every book I read. However, after reading If I am Missing or Dead, I felt that I had been deceived.
Firstly, the books title and summary indicate that this book is the story of a woman's death. Not so. Instead the story is mainly based on the trials and tribulations of Amy's sister, Janine. Janine mainly tells Amy's story through a series of reiterated phone call conversations and recollection of family vacations. Only at the final chapters of the book, does Amy's story unfold, and discussed the specifics of her domestic abuse and untimely death.
I finished the story upset with Janine Latus. I didn't think she did justice to her sister's memory. Much of the narrative on Amy described her weight fluctuations, something that seemed to bother Janine more than Amy. Janine also battles her own weight and image demons; allowing her husband to perform daily weigh-ins, and getting breast augmentation at his "gentle" suggestion. The book offered a few discussion questions posed to Janine Latus after she had written the book. I was completely surprised to read that Janine found no connection between she and Amy's body image issues and their abuse. Given the great amount of time Janine spends describing their bodies from youth to adulthood, it was difficult to understand how Janine could not make this connection.
The book purports itself as a red-flag to women, to watch-out for these types of behaviors from the men in our lives. Although Janine Latus eventually leaves her husband, it is after over a decade a marriage; after her children and step-children witness years of verbal and physical abuse. After years of Janine staying in the relationship out of a need to feel needed and wealthy. I found Amy's death to be more of an injustice after seeing it from Janine's perspective. It is too strong to say that Amy's sister capitalized on her death, but I did detect a sort of martyr-ish self-fulfillment in Janine's woeful tale.
It's strange to take an emotional journey of this nature, and come out feeling unresolved. I realize that I am judging a situation from which I have had nary a sip, but I found myself wanting more for Amy Latus. That at least those closest to her could have an insight into how their lives had unraveled.
It's too late
She's gone too far
She's lost the sun
She's come undone
She didn't know what she was headed for
And when I found what she was headed for
It was too late
She's come undone
She found a mountain that was far too high
And when she found out she couldn't fly Mama, it was too late
Janine Latus and her sister, Amy, grew up in a large family. Their father was emotionally and sexually abusive to Janine and her sister, and both of these women grew up to be in abusive relationships. The books is written from the perspective of Janine, and ends in the death of her sister Amy. Amy's story was fairly sensational, garnering attention from national news media. Amy's murderer was sentenced to just under 20 years in prison after pleading guilty to Amy's death.
I'll admit that I am not a professional book critic. I read frequently, but don't feel well equipped to accurately articulate the pros and cons of every book I read. However, after reading If I am Missing or Dead, I felt that I had been deceived.
Firstly, the books title and summary indicate that this book is the story of a woman's death. Not so. Instead the story is mainly based on the trials and tribulations of Amy's sister, Janine. Janine mainly tells Amy's story through a series of reiterated phone call conversations and recollection of family vacations. Only at the final chapters of the book, does Amy's story unfold, and discussed the specifics of her domestic abuse and untimely death.
I finished the story upset with Janine Latus. I didn't think she did justice to her sister's memory. Much of the narrative on Amy described her weight fluctuations, something that seemed to bother Janine more than Amy. Janine also battles her own weight and image demons; allowing her husband to perform daily weigh-ins, and getting breast augmentation at his "gentle" suggestion. The book offered a few discussion questions posed to Janine Latus after she had written the book. I was completely surprised to read that Janine found no connection between she and Amy's body image issues and their abuse. Given the great amount of time Janine spends describing their bodies from youth to adulthood, it was difficult to understand how Janine could not make this connection.
The book purports itself as a red-flag to women, to watch-out for these types of behaviors from the men in our lives. Although Janine Latus eventually leaves her husband, it is after over a decade a marriage; after her children and step-children witness years of verbal and physical abuse. After years of Janine staying in the relationship out of a need to feel needed and wealthy. I found Amy's death to be more of an injustice after seeing it from Janine's perspective. It is too strong to say that Amy's sister capitalized on her death, but I did detect a sort of martyr-ish self-fulfillment in Janine's woeful tale.
It's strange to take an emotional journey of this nature, and come out feeling unresolved. I realize that I am judging a situation from which I have had nary a sip, but I found myself wanting more for Amy Latus. That at least those closest to her could have an insight into how their lives had unraveled.
It's too late
She's gone too far
She's lost the sun
She's come undone
She didn't know what she was headed for
And when I found what she was headed for
It was too late
She's come undone
She found a mountain that was far too high
And when she found out she couldn't fly Mama, it was too late
Thursday, December 17, 2009
Eventual Clarity
Tonight, I ran into an old friend of mine from the first year I lived in Nashville. Whenever I run into someone I haven't seen in awhile, I kind of clench up. Immediately, I run a mental assessment to determine if I was thinner or heavier the last time I saw the person. I then wait for the inevitable head-to-toe scan, followed by a possible question regarding how much weight I've lost.
But tonight was different, Hannah just looked me right in the eye and told me I looked well. This was especially remarkable given the fact that the last time Hannah saw me, I was sizes smaller. Of course, I was subsisting on a diet of black coffee and Special K cereal, but I digress. We decided to meet later in the evening for drinks, as Hannah happened to already have plans with a few acquaintances from our college days. For the next three hours, I hemmed and hawed on whether or not I would show up. Reunions are not necessarily my forte, unless I know the guest list and all possible escape routes ahead of time. But I went. Reluctantly.
I could run through the events and conversation of the evening, but ultimately, here is what I came away with after spending a couple hours with old friends.
1. No one is paying as close attention to my weight fluctuations as I am. And if they are, they are brilliant, Oscar-worthy actors.
2. Sometimes being in a serious relationship hinders one's ability to socialize effectively. I was engaged for a portion of my first year in Nashville, and I spent a lot of time holed-up in my apartment, gushing to my then-fiancee. I missed out on meeting some really genuine and warm people.
3. I allow myself to hide behind the issues I have with my weight. I convince myself that people aren't going to like me because of the way I look. Although this often keeps me from being hurt, it more frequently prevents me from getting to know really amazing people.
4. Every evening should end with an ale.
All of this is to say that I hate how much life I've missed out on, staying wrapped in this little cocoon I've created for myself. I haven't the faintest clue how to get out of it, but I'm willing to try. So even if this resolve only lasts for the next day, I find some hope in the fact that I am recognizing these parts of myself. Isn't acceptance the first step?
I wish that, I knew what I know now
When I was younger...
But tonight was different, Hannah just looked me right in the eye and told me I looked well. This was especially remarkable given the fact that the last time Hannah saw me, I was sizes smaller. Of course, I was subsisting on a diet of black coffee and Special K cereal, but I digress. We decided to meet later in the evening for drinks, as Hannah happened to already have plans with a few acquaintances from our college days. For the next three hours, I hemmed and hawed on whether or not I would show up. Reunions are not necessarily my forte, unless I know the guest list and all possible escape routes ahead of time. But I went. Reluctantly.
I could run through the events and conversation of the evening, but ultimately, here is what I came away with after spending a couple hours with old friends.
1. No one is paying as close attention to my weight fluctuations as I am. And if they are, they are brilliant, Oscar-worthy actors.
2. Sometimes being in a serious relationship hinders one's ability to socialize effectively. I was engaged for a portion of my first year in Nashville, and I spent a lot of time holed-up in my apartment, gushing to my then-fiancee. I missed out on meeting some really genuine and warm people.
3. I allow myself to hide behind the issues I have with my weight. I convince myself that people aren't going to like me because of the way I look. Although this often keeps me from being hurt, it more frequently prevents me from getting to know really amazing people.
4. Every evening should end with an ale.
All of this is to say that I hate how much life I've missed out on, staying wrapped in this little cocoon I've created for myself. I haven't the faintest clue how to get out of it, but I'm willing to try. So even if this resolve only lasts for the next day, I find some hope in the fact that I am recognizing these parts of myself. Isn't acceptance the first step?
I wish that, I knew what I know now
When I was younger...
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
It All Started with a Shoe
They were light and delicate and palest shade of pink. There was a tiny elastic band that connected each side, and a dainty bow near the spot where my toes slid by. I wore them everyday for a month, and was careful to make sure that not so much as a speck of dirt tainted the sweet smelling leather.
My mom bought me my first pair of ballet shoes the summer before I started kindergarten. Saturday mornings, I would wriggle into my tights and leotard and carefully place my shoes on my feet. The next 30 minutes were spent at the barre and sashaying my way across the dance studio floor. I loved it.
On a shopping trip with my grandmother a couple years later, I found a new love. It came to me via patent leather and a thick black ribbon tie. I would heel-and-toe across my family's kitchen floor, much to the chagrin of my mother. Tap shoes aren't easy on kitchen tile.
A few years after that, I graduated to Pointe class, and got my first pair of Pointe shoes. Even though they added six inches to my frame, they made my toes bleed. I was used to the structure of ballet class, but Pointe took things to a new level. Sometimes, I wanted just to dance. No worrying about form, feet placement, or the time it took to wrap my feet before class started.
I was lamenting to a friend about my predicament, and she recommended I try taking in a modern dance class. And a few days later I was just dancing. Gone were the itchy tights, wedgie-inducing leotards and arabesque-ing until my form was perfect. Instead, I was with a group of misfits who wore what they wanted, danced because it felt good, and had nothing. on. their. feet.
No shoes. Nothing to tie on between classes. No toes to wrap, no Advil to take, no plies to correct. Sure, form was important, but so was feeling the music. It didn't matter the angle at which my leg was bent, or whether turns were well-spotted. I didn't have to worry about Buffalo Time Steps or fifth position placement. I was more aware of my body and how it moved. My moves were large and expressive, instead of dainty and controlled. I loved every minute of it. And no shoes.
I started taking a hip-hop class this week, and I got a little glimpse of that feeling again. Sometimes, I have remind myself how important it is to move. The tough part of being so conscious of my body is that I forget that I'm actually good at dance. It's familiar, and comfortable, and for just a few minutes I forget about how much I try to appear as small as possible. For a few minutes, I am shoeless.
My mom bought me my first pair of ballet shoes the summer before I started kindergarten. Saturday mornings, I would wriggle into my tights and leotard and carefully place my shoes on my feet. The next 30 minutes were spent at the barre and sashaying my way across the dance studio floor. I loved it.
On a shopping trip with my grandmother a couple years later, I found a new love. It came to me via patent leather and a thick black ribbon tie. I would heel-and-toe across my family's kitchen floor, much to the chagrin of my mother. Tap shoes aren't easy on kitchen tile.
A few years after that, I graduated to Pointe class, and got my first pair of Pointe shoes. Even though they added six inches to my frame, they made my toes bleed. I was used to the structure of ballet class, but Pointe took things to a new level. Sometimes, I wanted just to dance. No worrying about form, feet placement, or the time it took to wrap my feet before class started.
I was lamenting to a friend about my predicament, and she recommended I try taking in a modern dance class. And a few days later I was just dancing. Gone were the itchy tights, wedgie-inducing leotards and arabesque-ing until my form was perfect. Instead, I was with a group of misfits who wore what they wanted, danced because it felt good, and had nothing. on. their. feet.
No shoes. Nothing to tie on between classes. No toes to wrap, no Advil to take, no plies to correct. Sure, form was important, but so was feeling the music. It didn't matter the angle at which my leg was bent, or whether turns were well-spotted. I didn't have to worry about Buffalo Time Steps or fifth position placement. I was more aware of my body and how it moved. My moves were large and expressive, instead of dainty and controlled. I loved every minute of it. And no shoes.
I started taking a hip-hop class this week, and I got a little glimpse of that feeling again. Sometimes, I have remind myself how important it is to move. The tough part of being so conscious of my body is that I forget that I'm actually good at dance. It's familiar, and comfortable, and for just a few minutes I forget about how much I try to appear as small as possible. For a few minutes, I am shoeless.
Tuesday, October 6, 2009
Paper Thin
Dear Awesome Neighbor,
I just wanted to thank you and your dogs for waking me up at 2:30AM this morning. It was very refreshing to be stunned into coherence by a shrieking puppy and the slamming of your back door. Additionally, I appreciate the 45-minute coughing session that ensued mere inches from our shared wall thereafter.
Perhaps tomorrow morning, you could turn on your stereo around 3AM. Or maybe, you could run the length of your living space while whistling the Leave it to Beaver theme song. Heck, who am I kidding? You don't even need to be that creative. A little stomping and yelling at your undeservedly sweet dogs should do the trick.
While I realize that my difficulties in falling and staying asleep and your general neighborly awesomeness are mutually exclusive, it would be great if you could muster up a grain of consideration for those who sleep during the hours of 11PM-5AM. It's only a six-hour window where I ask that you lower your obnoxious quotient by a few clicks.
So, as I sludge my way through my grogginess and sleep-deprived-grump during work today, I will raise my coffee cup in the hopes that you have as productive a day as I surely will. Fucker.
Truly Yours,
Exhausted
I just wanted to thank you and your dogs for waking me up at 2:30AM this morning. It was very refreshing to be stunned into coherence by a shrieking puppy and the slamming of your back door. Additionally, I appreciate the 45-minute coughing session that ensued mere inches from our shared wall thereafter.
Perhaps tomorrow morning, you could turn on your stereo around 3AM. Or maybe, you could run the length of your living space while whistling the Leave it to Beaver theme song. Heck, who am I kidding? You don't even need to be that creative. A little stomping and yelling at your undeservedly sweet dogs should do the trick.
While I realize that my difficulties in falling and staying asleep and your general neighborly awesomeness are mutually exclusive, it would be great if you could muster up a grain of consideration for those who sleep during the hours of 11PM-5AM. It's only a six-hour window where I ask that you lower your obnoxious quotient by a few clicks.
So, as I sludge my way through my grogginess and sleep-deprived-grump during work today, I will raise my coffee cup in the hopes that you have as productive a day as I surely will. Fucker.
Truly Yours,
Exhausted
Wednesday, August 12, 2009
Contradiction in Terms
So, I recently blogged about a new dating show, More to Love, and thought I had moved on to bigger and better things, until I stumbled upon this over at 5 Resolutions. And my frustration came back full-force.
I had read some pretty stellar reviews about Drop Dead Diva in the few entertainment magazines I subscribe to. I was kind of curious about it, so when I saw the first few episodes were hanging out in my friend's On Demand queue, I thought I would check it out. I didn't even make it through the first half-hour of the show. Somewhere between the platter of donuts that Brooke Elliott's (Jane) character eyes lustily, and the Lane Bryant jokes, I fell off the grid.
I remember seeing Margaret Cho live a few years ago, and it was right after she had gone through a significant weight loss. She joked about the fact that she had lost the weight by eating a diet of mainly persimmons and exercising to the point of obsession. The climax occurred when she literally pooped herself while stuck in traffic on her way home from work in L.A. Cho hammed it up, made the facial expressions that helped bring her to fame, and we all had a great laugh and went home. I had since read all of Cho's interviews where she talks about body image and the hope for an eventual migration to body acceptance for all body types. And I bought it.
So, imagine my surprise when I check out Cho's latest project, and I am slapped in the face with stereotype upon stereotype. The fat chick can't resist a donut. Hmm, why is that familiar? Why does it seem like a regression to watch what appear to be confident, capable women, exploit some shortcoming that is not really based in truth?
I think Jane could still be effective without playing the victim to food. I wonder if perhaps exploring some of the real food issues that women face might actually be easier to relate to, however less, ahem, appetizing it might be. What I would ultimately like to see is a strong, sexy, confident, and yes, chubby woman who isn't a victim. A woman who usually has the whole wheat toast and apple for breakfast, but sometimes indulges in an eclair. A woman who is not thin, but not necessarily unhealthy.
Would that be so hard to swallow?
I had read some pretty stellar reviews about Drop Dead Diva in the few entertainment magazines I subscribe to. I was kind of curious about it, so when I saw the first few episodes were hanging out in my friend's On Demand queue, I thought I would check it out. I didn't even make it through the first half-hour of the show. Somewhere between the platter of donuts that Brooke Elliott's (Jane) character eyes lustily, and the Lane Bryant jokes, I fell off the grid.
I remember seeing Margaret Cho live a few years ago, and it was right after she had gone through a significant weight loss. She joked about the fact that she had lost the weight by eating a diet of mainly persimmons and exercising to the point of obsession. The climax occurred when she literally pooped herself while stuck in traffic on her way home from work in L.A. Cho hammed it up, made the facial expressions that helped bring her to fame, and we all had a great laugh and went home. I had since read all of Cho's interviews where she talks about body image and the hope for an eventual migration to body acceptance for all body types. And I bought it.
So, imagine my surprise when I check out Cho's latest project, and I am slapped in the face with stereotype upon stereotype. The fat chick can't resist a donut. Hmm, why is that familiar? Why does it seem like a regression to watch what appear to be confident, capable women, exploit some shortcoming that is not really based in truth?
I think Jane could still be effective without playing the victim to food. I wonder if perhaps exploring some of the real food issues that women face might actually be easier to relate to, however less, ahem, appetizing it might be. What I would ultimately like to see is a strong, sexy, confident, and yes, chubby woman who isn't a victim. A woman who usually has the whole wheat toast and apple for breakfast, but sometimes indulges in an eclair. A woman who is not thin, but not necessarily unhealthy.
Would that be so hard to swallow?
Sunday, June 21, 2009
Post-Matriculation Booty Shakin'
During my college days, I was a bit of a party-music connoisseur. I had an extensive collection of CDs, and was usually the primary resource for any of the music played during my sorority's house parties. And I loved it. I would spend most of my post-tuition earnings on the latest and greatest in hip-hop, dance, and a little pop. On Thursday nights, my roommate and I would rock out to my latest finds. We’d even turn on the Christmas lights we’d strewn about the room in an attempt to lure boys into our room. Not that we needed the “mood lighting.” It was after all, college.
Then life happened. College ended (the fun years anyway), post-college break-ups occurred, and my life as a corporate drone started. Not only were my fun party CDs irrelevant, they just weren’t as cool to listen to. Somehow, sitting in traffic after a 10-hour day, feeling my Spanx cut off all circulation to my lower extremities voided any need to play The Thong Song. Instead, I made friends with Elvis Costello, The Cure, and Dashboard Confessional.
But every once in awhile, when I least expect it, I’ll hear something that takes me right back to those days. And there I am, shaking my ass on the dance floor of our neighboring fraternity house. A never-ending supply of screwdriver drinks in my hand, my feet in the highest heels I could find, my lips never un-glossed and ever ready for any potential 2AM make-out sessions.
This weekend, my friend K-Ro came out for a visit. We were bouncing around town, when LMFAO’s I’m in Miami, Bitch came on the radio. We both stopped mid-sentence, and I immediately turned up the radio. The song has been in constant replay since that moment. Sometimes I can overlook all of the things that I consider to make ‘good’ music, and just enjoy something that makes me want to get out of my seat and dance.
I got a plan, what’s your cell?
We playin’ naked Twister back in my hotel…
Then life happened. College ended (the fun years anyway), post-college break-ups occurred, and my life as a corporate drone started. Not only were my fun party CDs irrelevant, they just weren’t as cool to listen to. Somehow, sitting in traffic after a 10-hour day, feeling my Spanx cut off all circulation to my lower extremities voided any need to play The Thong Song. Instead, I made friends with Elvis Costello, The Cure, and Dashboard Confessional.
But every once in awhile, when I least expect it, I’ll hear something that takes me right back to those days. And there I am, shaking my ass on the dance floor of our neighboring fraternity house. A never-ending supply of screwdriver drinks in my hand, my feet in the highest heels I could find, my lips never un-glossed and ever ready for any potential 2AM make-out sessions.
This weekend, my friend K-Ro came out for a visit. We were bouncing around town, when LMFAO’s I’m in Miami, Bitch came on the radio. We both stopped mid-sentence, and I immediately turned up the radio. The song has been in constant replay since that moment. Sometimes I can overlook all of the things that I consider to make ‘good’ music, and just enjoy something that makes me want to get out of my seat and dance.
I got a plan, what’s your cell?
We playin’ naked Twister back in my hotel…
Wednesday, June 3, 2009
Retaining Walls
“Hey, do you remember that guy we ran into when we were downtown a few weeks ago? He was tall, with dark ey-”
“Scott?”
“Uh, yeah. How did you remember that?”
Shrug.
I have always considered myself as someone with an above average memory. Sure, as I get closer to my 30s, and have to memorize industry-specific acronyms, website passwords, and friend’s birthdays, I am not as sharp as I used to be. But for the most part, I have the uncanny ability to hold on to faces, names, events, and places easily.
My friend L doesn’t remember anything. She spent most of our high school graduation leaned over, asking me to identify three-quarters of our graduating class, most of whom she had known since pre-pubescence. She forgets to put her car in park before turning it off. At no time can she name the title, or any starring actors of a movie she saw within the week. And she doesn’t care. She laughs off her ineptitude at memorizing names. She gives rap songs ridiculously inappropriate titles because she thinks it’s funny that she doesn’t know the real titles. She spends a good deal of her driving time getting lost. But she never skips a beat.
Then there’s me. I hold on to everything. Every detail. Every forehead crease, wrinkled skirt, handsome face, or peculiar odor. I fast forward and rewind, like a little mini-film that plays on repeat in my brain. The outfit my last manager wore on the day of my job interview five years ago? Got it. The cost of my dance costumes for my competition recital in 8th grade? Don’t even have to check the receipt. The painted-walls smell of the hallway in my freshman dorm corridor where I stood the moment I laid eyes on my first love? Yes, indeed.
And usually, this memory of mine is a great tool. My mom calls me after her church service to tell me about a childhood friend’s parent that she ran into. I can always recite their names so my mom won’t be embarrassed during her next encounter. I can remember where the car was parked, right down to the crack in the pavement next to the left rear wheel. My high school speech teacher would be proud to know that I still can recite the poem Sarah Cynthia Sylvia Stout. Well, most of it anyway.
But sometimes, and what is becoming more than some times, I don’t want to remember. The way the wind was knocked out of me when I found out a rather crushing secret kept by a close friend? You can keep it. Hearing two grown women, who had purported to my be my friend only weeks before, say vile, sophomoric, and completely unoriginal things about me? Please burn the original and any copies.
It’s sort of like Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind. There is no way to erase bad memories, or chunks of memory, for convenience sake. Sure, a blow to the head might do some good, but that has potential of putting my motor-skills at risk. And the real catch when it comes to having an impeccable memory is that for all the fantastic, sunny skied, blue watered, sand-between-my-toes kinds of flashbacks, there are always a few spoilers.
So what then? Is there some sort of guide to pushing away everything bad that keeps me up at night? Isn’t repressing bad stuff just exacerbating the issue? Or is the solution to hold on to the good stuff nice and tight, but keep the bad stuff at bay? Not so much that it disappears, but just so that it’s not showing every half-hour on all screens within my brain? Maybe it’s better to address the big stuff, even if it drags on and closure seems just beyond the fingertips. Maybe being haunted by something so crisp, clear, and painfully present is a sign that I have yet to truly confront this stuff.
Because ultimately, I refuse to just start forgetting. Unlike my friend, I am not content to not remember. I like cataloging new faces. I enjoy the feeling I get when I smell that combination of sea salt, hot dogs, and freshly mowed grass. I like tracing my fingers along the skin of the person I love, and knowing there will be no surprises. I like to remember.
“Scott?”
“Uh, yeah. How did you remember that?”
Shrug.
I have always considered myself as someone with an above average memory. Sure, as I get closer to my 30s, and have to memorize industry-specific acronyms, website passwords, and friend’s birthdays, I am not as sharp as I used to be. But for the most part, I have the uncanny ability to hold on to faces, names, events, and places easily.
My friend L doesn’t remember anything. She spent most of our high school graduation leaned over, asking me to identify three-quarters of our graduating class, most of whom she had known since pre-pubescence. She forgets to put her car in park before turning it off. At no time can she name the title, or any starring actors of a movie she saw within the week. And she doesn’t care. She laughs off her ineptitude at memorizing names. She gives rap songs ridiculously inappropriate titles because she thinks it’s funny that she doesn’t know the real titles. She spends a good deal of her driving time getting lost. But she never skips a beat.
Then there’s me. I hold on to everything. Every detail. Every forehead crease, wrinkled skirt, handsome face, or peculiar odor. I fast forward and rewind, like a little mini-film that plays on repeat in my brain. The outfit my last manager wore on the day of my job interview five years ago? Got it. The cost of my dance costumes for my competition recital in 8th grade? Don’t even have to check the receipt. The painted-walls smell of the hallway in my freshman dorm corridor where I stood the moment I laid eyes on my first love? Yes, indeed.
And usually, this memory of mine is a great tool. My mom calls me after her church service to tell me about a childhood friend’s parent that she ran into. I can always recite their names so my mom won’t be embarrassed during her next encounter. I can remember where the car was parked, right down to the crack in the pavement next to the left rear wheel. My high school speech teacher would be proud to know that I still can recite the poem Sarah Cynthia Sylvia Stout. Well, most of it anyway.
But sometimes, and what is becoming more than some times, I don’t want to remember. The way the wind was knocked out of me when I found out a rather crushing secret kept by a close friend? You can keep it. Hearing two grown women, who had purported to my be my friend only weeks before, say vile, sophomoric, and completely unoriginal things about me? Please burn the original and any copies.
It’s sort of like Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind. There is no way to erase bad memories, or chunks of memory, for convenience sake. Sure, a blow to the head might do some good, but that has potential of putting my motor-skills at risk. And the real catch when it comes to having an impeccable memory is that for all the fantastic, sunny skied, blue watered, sand-between-my-toes kinds of flashbacks, there are always a few spoilers.
So what then? Is there some sort of guide to pushing away everything bad that keeps me up at night? Isn’t repressing bad stuff just exacerbating the issue? Or is the solution to hold on to the good stuff nice and tight, but keep the bad stuff at bay? Not so much that it disappears, but just so that it’s not showing every half-hour on all screens within my brain? Maybe it’s better to address the big stuff, even if it drags on and closure seems just beyond the fingertips. Maybe being haunted by something so crisp, clear, and painfully present is a sign that I have yet to truly confront this stuff.
Because ultimately, I refuse to just start forgetting. Unlike my friend, I am not content to not remember. I like cataloging new faces. I enjoy the feeling I get when I smell that combination of sea salt, hot dogs, and freshly mowed grass. I like tracing my fingers along the skin of the person I love, and knowing there will be no surprises. I like to remember.
Tuesday, June 2, 2009
Long Overdue
So, I've been M.I.A. for awhile, and not the British she-rapper who almost dripped birthing fluids while performing at the Grammys. I mean out-of-pocket, indisposed, or otherwise engaged.
I mainly didn't write because it was like Lemony Snickets up in this piece for a few months, and I didn't feel like sharing bitter comentary about my life's shortcomings. I'm getting over all that, slowly...and not-so-surely.
There really is no point to this post, other than to dump a few meanderings I have been pondering over the past week. So, her goes.
I mainly didn't write because it was like Lemony Snickets up in this piece for a few months, and I didn't feel like sharing bitter comentary about my life's shortcomings. I'm getting over all that, slowly...and not-so-surely.
There really is no point to this post, other than to dump a few meanderings I have been pondering over the past week. So, her goes.
- Why does Southwest airline only post flight information five - six months in advance? Ummm, hi. It is summertime and need to get my travel plans in order for the rest of 2009. Life does not end after Halloween.
- Eminem, I still love you. I am so sorry I doubted you for so long. Had you just told me you were holed-up in Detroit, nursing your addiction, I would have come to your rescue. And even brought you a strawberry Faygo to make it better.
- I am now StubHub's bitch. TicketsNow, you can take your tickets and do something highly depraved, profane, and painful.
- As if I needed another reason to love and spend all of my supplemental income at Target, the store has started carrying Soap & Glory products. I discovered this stuff on vacation in Canada awhile back, and I was hooked. But like all European-inspired products, it took four score and seven years to make it to the US, let alone the mid-south. But it was worth the wait.
My goal is to make these posts not as few and far between. So, to the four of you still reading this, cheers.
Tuesday, January 13, 2009
Piece-Mealing Metaphors
You know those times when things seem to just click together? Maybe everything is not perfect, but life hums on at just the right tune that if you could capture it on your digital camera, you wouldn't delete the picture for a couple years?
Yeah, me too.
Except there is sometimes this little thing. Or maybe it's a really big thing, disguised as a little thing. And maybe it's not in your face all the time. Maybe it's like a snag on your favorite sweater, that if you just leave it alone and don't pull that one teeny-tiny little thread, your sweater would remain intact for at least six more dry cleanings.
Perhaps it's that if you pull that little snag, you might be forced to see the demise of something you really love.
It might not even be that black-and-white. It might be this wonderful shade of grey. Not so grey that it envelops you and and makes you forget about any other color. Maybe it's invigorating, like mornings along the San Francisco Bay. It might just smooth out the sharp edges of things you would rather just leave undiscovered and lull you into a false sense of security the way four-wheel drive does to Midwesterners.
But you know, you always know, that like all things unpleasant, it will surface. And no amount of pink frosting, or perfectly sized jeans found on sale, or sleeping in on Saturdays will ever make it less sharp. Less devastating. Less not there.
Little boxes, on the hillside
Little boxes, made of ticky-tacky
Little boxes, on the hillside
Little boxes, just the same
There's a pink one, and a green one
A blue one, and a yellow one
And they're all made out of ticky-tacky
And they all look just the same
And the people in boxes, all went to the university
And they were put in boxes, and they all came out the same
And there's doctors and lawyers and business executives
And they're all made out of ticky-tacky
And they all look just the same
Yeah, me too.
Except there is sometimes this little thing. Or maybe it's a really big thing, disguised as a little thing. And maybe it's not in your face all the time. Maybe it's like a snag on your favorite sweater, that if you just leave it alone and don't pull that one teeny-tiny little thread, your sweater would remain intact for at least six more dry cleanings.
Perhaps it's that if you pull that little snag, you might be forced to see the demise of something you really love.
It might not even be that black-and-white. It might be this wonderful shade of grey. Not so grey that it envelops you and and makes you forget about any other color. Maybe it's invigorating, like mornings along the San Francisco Bay. It might just smooth out the sharp edges of things you would rather just leave undiscovered and lull you into a false sense of security the way four-wheel drive does to Midwesterners.
But you know, you always know, that like all things unpleasant, it will surface. And no amount of pink frosting, or perfectly sized jeans found on sale, or sleeping in on Saturdays will ever make it less sharp. Less devastating. Less not there.
Little boxes, on the hillside
Little boxes, made of ticky-tacky
Little boxes, on the hillside
Little boxes, just the same
There's a pink one, and a green one
A blue one, and a yellow one
And they're all made out of ticky-tacky
And they all look just the same
And the people in boxes, all went to the university
And they were put in boxes, and they all came out the same
And there's doctors and lawyers and business executives
And they're all made out of ticky-tacky
And they all look just the same
Sunday, January 11, 2009
Behind Stall Number One...
When I was a kid, I had a mild fear of public bathrooms. I remember willing my aching bladder to just wait a few more minutes on my bumpy bus rides home from school in the afternoon. I would run in the door, and barely make it to the bathroom. My mom always lectured me on holding it too long, but no amount of her talk could make me use the bathroom during school.
I've gotten over my phobia since then, and in the past year I have traveled pretty extensively for both work and myself. So, using public restrooms sort of becomes a secondary thing, and I don't even think twice to push open the door marked 'Ladies.' Once inside, however, I have noticed that not everyone is playing by the same rules. It appears that maybe men aren't the only ones who can't be trusted to follow proper bathroom etiquette. Ladies, I know you're out there...and I'm keeping my eye on you.
1. Do not peek through the space between the stall door to see if someone is occupying the stall. Sometimes that space is bordering on a full inch, and if I wanted my lady-parts on display I would call Larry Flynt. Try knocking. Or even checking for feet under the door. Or just waiting for a half-minute until I exit.
2. When using the air-dryer to dry your hands, please do not heed the advice of Outkast and shake it like a Polaroid. While I appreciate that the air-dryer takes some time to fully dry hands, I do not want to be sprinkled while you attempt to pre-dry. Walk a few feet away from me before you attempt to wring your hands of access water.
3. Wash your hands. Seriously? Don't be disgusting.
4. When there is a long line of women using the bathroom, do not take extra time to fix your face while people stand behind you waiting for a sink. The bathroom is not a place where I like to spend extra time, and it tends to get crowded. Put away your Wet-n-Wild lip gloss, and move it on out.
5. Pay it forward when it comes to toilet paper. If the stall you just left is out of toilet paper, don't let some unsuspecting mother with her tw0 year old wander in after you without a warning. Remember that feeling you get when you're all settled in, and then have to call out to some generous soul to spare a square?
6. Sometimes, the bathroom can get a little...seedy, and a hover situation is definitely in order. But be a dear, and clean up any toilet seat sprinkle that may result from your attempt to avoid crabs.
Lesson adjourned.
I've gotten over my phobia since then, and in the past year I have traveled pretty extensively for both work and myself. So, using public restrooms sort of becomes a secondary thing, and I don't even think twice to push open the door marked 'Ladies.' Once inside, however, I have noticed that not everyone is playing by the same rules. It appears that maybe men aren't the only ones who can't be trusted to follow proper bathroom etiquette. Ladies, I know you're out there...and I'm keeping my eye on you.
1. Do not peek through the space between the stall door to see if someone is occupying the stall. Sometimes that space is bordering on a full inch, and if I wanted my lady-parts on display I would call Larry Flynt. Try knocking. Or even checking for feet under the door. Or just waiting for a half-minute until I exit.
2. When using the air-dryer to dry your hands, please do not heed the advice of Outkast and shake it like a Polaroid. While I appreciate that the air-dryer takes some time to fully dry hands, I do not want to be sprinkled while you attempt to pre-dry. Walk a few feet away from me before you attempt to wring your hands of access water.
3. Wash your hands. Seriously? Don't be disgusting.
4. When there is a long line of women using the bathroom, do not take extra time to fix your face while people stand behind you waiting for a sink. The bathroom is not a place where I like to spend extra time, and it tends to get crowded. Put away your Wet-n-Wild lip gloss, and move it on out.
5. Pay it forward when it comes to toilet paper. If the stall you just left is out of toilet paper, don't let some unsuspecting mother with her tw0 year old wander in after you without a warning. Remember that feeling you get when you're all settled in, and then have to call out to some generous soul to spare a square?
6. Sometimes, the bathroom can get a little...seedy, and a hover situation is definitely in order. But be a dear, and clean up any toilet seat sprinkle that may result from your attempt to avoid crabs.
Lesson adjourned.
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