The State of Independence.

It's the Fourth o' July here in the United States, marking the day we said "hey yo, we don't think so" to the British and threw down stakes on our own joint. Of course, because I'm having people over for dinner and had planned on grilling...the weather has taken a big dump on the Midwest. THANKS, WEATHER.

But I'm not here to talk about my grilling plans (or how they've been pooped on) - I'm here, instead, to declare independence and hope you might join me at whatever comfort level you're currently residing.



My self-worth is not determined by the size of my ass, the span of my belly, the jiggleliciousness of my upper arms, my stretch marks, or how this might determine how attractive or unattractive I am to others.

The food I eat doesn't change my morality. The chocolate Frosty shake I had yesterday didn't make me bad. The mixed green salad with balsamic vinaigrette dressing I had before it didn't make me good. The pork tenderloin I'm cooking tonight won't make me bad. The fruit salad I'll be having along side it won't make me good. I'm a decent person because I'm not a raging douchehole. (Okay, some might disagree, BUT WHATEV.)

My weight also doesn't affect my morality. The size of my thighs is not an arbiter on the Good/Bad Scale. I will not be a better, finer, smarter, more charming, or more delightful person if I'm thin. I am a fine smarty charmer, period.

My weight doesn't determine how worthy of love I am or how much love I'm capable of flinging out there.

I will not hide myself. I will not sit in a corner and behave like I'm "supposed to" because I'm fat. I will be true to myself in all respects and accept and embrace the consequences of being me. I will be loud, I will be honest, and I will gleefully work to upend every single bullshitty message that is being sent to women, to men, to everyone about what makes them worthwhile.

I will be defiant to the very end, and goddamn, I will have a great time.

Happy Independence Day, everyone.

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The Wonderful World of Doucheney

I've been lax in the new bloggage arena, as I've recently returned from a trip to Australia and bouncing back from 24-hour-long travel days is not quite as easy as it used to be. So you'll have to excuse me if I'm a bit all over the place because I'm in one of those moods that results in having far too many subjects swimming through my mind and simply not enough brainpower to summon up any kind of intelligent response beyond "SHUT IT" or profanity-laden variations thereof. So, for now, I will focus my ire on the Wonderful World of Disney.



My bell has been rung hard by Walt Disney Studios' upcoming animated movie called "G-Force". "G-Force" is about a gang of intrepid international spies or some shit, and they all happen to be guinea pigs. Cute, right? Well...if you're into guinea pigs, but yeah, CUTE! Whee! Fun! Guinea pigs doing karate and engaging in adventure! Voiced by Sam Rockwell, Tracy Morgan, Nicolas Cage, and Penelope Cruz, the G-Force get into hi-jinks and stuff and...whatever. This movie never would have registered on my Couldn't Particularly Give a Guinea Pig's Ass About Disney (yes, including Pixar*) Radar unless I'd seen a commercial for it on Discovery Channel or Animal Planet and couldn't suss out who was doing the voices of said guinea pigs. I looked up the website for information and what put me over the edge and fired my ass up was the fact that the female guinea pig, in a film that is ostensibly geared towards children, is described...as SEXY. Agent Juarez, voiced by Cruz, is a "sexy martial arts pro". IT'S A FRIGGING GUINEA PIG. GUINEA PIGS ARE JUST ONE THING: CUTE (well, if you're a guinea pig fan). They are not SEXY. The male character pigs aren't given descriptors like "sexy" - they're "determined to succeed at all costs", "outrageous". Not one mention of how "sexy" those male guinea pigs happen to be.

Oh, but sexy Agent Juarez is "the brains of the outfit", so it's okay that the female character in this crapfest's initial description is about how fucking "sexy" she is. If you're wondering why boys and girls are getting sexualized younger and younger, you don't need to look much further than this impending shitfest for some clues.





*Yes, I realize that not being a fiend for Pixar makes me a soulless, heartless robot incapable of love or something. It's not that I hate Pixar, I'm just not particularly driven to rush out opening weekend to see whatever they might fling up on the multiplex screens. Plus, I spent a year in college studying and doing animation, and it kind of made me really hate most cartoons. Except "The Venture Brothers".

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Self-loathing coated in butter.

How do you solve a problem like Kirstie Alley? She’s on the cover of People magazine this week, decrying the horror that is...well, her. Of course, she’s a horrible, disgusting human being because she’s “fallen off the wagon” and has gained 83 pounds as a result of de-Jenny Craigging herself in 2007. She’s at the shriek-inducing number of 228 pounds, which I haven’t seen myself since I was in high school, and so, like a good self-loathing fattie, she’s publicly deriding herself on a major magazine cover and on Oprah for being 58 years old and not looking like she did or weighing what she did when she was on “Cheers”...OVER 20 YEARS AGO.



There are comments on the article – I’d advise avoiding them, as it’s mostly the usual song and dance of “calories in/calories out”, “there’s no way she’s only 228 lbs, she must be 350 lbs.”, “embrace your size – but lose weight anyway!” and “it’s a lifestyle change!!!!” I swear to Christ, if there’s any cliche’d phrase I’d like to torpedo, it’s “IT’S A LIFESTYLE CHAAAAANGE!!!!” Say it in a really high-pitched voice to amp up the annoying factor. But at the same time, it’s an interesting microcosm of the hamster wheel so many people are stuck on. “I lost weight, it came back, and I lost weight, and it came back, and it lost weight, and it came back” is a common refrain among the commenters, but dammit, they are determined that this one last time, just this one...last...time, it is going to stick and stick hard and they are going to be the perfectest version of themselves that they know is hiding inside of them--! Oh, and the usual “I need to be around to see my grandchildren” gets dropped that I can so easily envision being said in a wobbly yet summoning up strength they had not known they had with tears dancing in their eyes sort of voice. This fat ain’t gonna lick me! No sir! I’m gonna spend my days counting my calories/points/eating my frozen NutriSystem meals/endlessly fretting about what I put in my mouth and one day, I’ll find me a man who loves me and get a real nice job in the big city and everything’ll be a-okay ‘cause I’ll be skinny and pretty and good!

Sorry – flight of fancy that probably should have stayed in my head. Though I do tend to have internal dialogues that wind up sounding like 40s melodramas. I’m not sure I have a point, exactly (and when do I, really), but when I read all of this horseshit I wish I had a scream as loud as an air raid siren so I could grab people’s attention but good and tell them that hating themselves is not going to be the magical key to weight loss and perfect health. Self-loathing is not a fucking character-builder. It doesn’t make you stronger. It doesn’t make you better. It’s just an ever-deepening, creepy-ass trap; a trap that is a huge moneymaker for corporations that do not have and never will have good intentions. You’re not disgusting. You’re not freakish. You’re not ugly. And you’re never going to be perfect. And holy shit, that is so okay.

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Random rambling for a Thursday night.

I watched the trailer for “Julie and Julia”, the upcoming Nora Ephron comedy based on the true stories of renowned chef Julia Child (played by Meryl Streep) and Julie Powell (Amy Adams), a woman who decided to go through Child’s seminal cookbook and prepare a dish every day for a year straight. I’m interested in seeing the movie because I’m quite fond of both Meryl and Amy, but damn if I didn’t get pissy with the trailer trot-out of the usual trope – that Powell is upset to the point of tears that she might be getting fat due to her labor of love. Of course, she’s reassured by the Sassy Sidekick Girlfriend character that it’s only showing in her face. Blugh. My queendom for a woman-centric movie that doesn’t contain one single fucking “I AM TERRIFIED I MIGHT GET FAT/I AM FAT/DOES MY ASS LOOK FAT IN THIS” scene. It’s rather creepy that the most frightening thing for so many people is the idea of becoming or being fat. I’m more afraid that I’m going to get into a life-or-death struggle with a giant squid or hammerhead shark than I am of my fat. But I also have to acknowledge that I’ve never held a position of thin/beauty privilege. I’ve never been praised exclusively for my looks and my self-esteem has never hinged primarily on my thinness. And it will probably sound condescending of me, but I feel bad for those who have been or are in that position. I’ve got plenty of mind-fucks for a myriad of other reasons due to a myriad of other subjects, but jeepers, that has to be one of the biggest mind-fucks to be so terrified of gaining weight and not fitting in that teeny tiny societal box of what is considered “pretty”.

I’ve lived fat my entire life. It’s simply the way I’ve always been. I’ve practically cross-stitched “You have such a pretty face” on pillows. So it’s admittedly hard for me to truly understand the kind of panic that seems to accompany so many women and men over the idea of being fat. And how could you not panic, thanks to the constant broadcast message being sent: fat destroys, fat depresses, fat makes you morally suspect, fat makes you lazy, fat makes you ugly, fat makes you unlovable. Even after all the personal work I’ve done to embrace me and every bubbly bit that is part of me, I still had a moment of astonishment not too long ago during a pretty deep conversation with a friend of mine where he told me “I’ve always thought you were beautiful”. Mercy, how I had to fight myself to not tell him “you’re wrong/you’re blind/you’re high”. I think I even had him repeat it because my brain kind of shrunk like a squeezed sponge for a moment from the volume of the “BWUH?!?!?” that echoed through my skull. You really never completely get rid of the “you’re wrong/you’re blind/you’re high”, I’ve learned. Even if you’re able to parry immediately with “oh, shut the fuck up, brain”, the “oh pshaw” litany hides in the dark, waiting for the perfect opportunity to leap out like Vegas Elvis doing karate moves to “Suspicious Minds”.

How do we make fat something that simply is, like being thin, like being blond or brunette or tall or short?

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If you pretend it doesn't exist, it doesn't exist!

Emily Yoffe, a.k.a. “Dear Prudence” on Slate.com, is into chats now, apparently. And this question came up:

Arlington, Va.: Dear Pru,

I need your feedback. I am a "woman of size". I have been all of my life. I work out regularly, don't overeat, but here I am. I'm not asking for diet advice. What I need is something different. I need advice on how to deal with the country's hostility towards overweight women. Women of size are not seen as date-worthy, have insurmountable negative connotations associated with them (lazy, slobs, smelly... I'm none of those things!), and are in general treated poorly. Being judged for your looks is the last acceptable form of "prejudice". I guess what I'm most sad about is that this is such a tiny part of who I am, yet never gets overlooked. However, I'm still invisible. So, I guess my question is: how do I overcome my anger at people who feel it's okay to judge me?



First, Yoffe’s response, and then my response to her response.

Emily Yoffe:: First of all, remember you're not alone. Most American are "people of size" so at any workplace or social setting you are hardly going to be the only overweight person. Remember, often the way you are treated is in response to the way you act. You say your weight never gets overlooked, yet you are invisible. This sounds as if you spend a lot of time looking for ways to interpret encounters as being about your weight. I am not saying there is no fat prejudice out there. But if you are comfortable with yourself, and act as if you are, you will notice a lot less hostility.

I almost want to pinch Yoffe’s cheeks for being so...deliciously clueless. But let me say first to Arlington, VA., and everyone else in general: drop the “Last Acceptable Prejudice” hoo-hah now, please. Because it’s not. And engaging in the Oppression Olympics is foolish and undermining to anyone’s cause. Now, back to Yoffe’s “advice”, which boils down to “people won’t be mean if you behave” with the obligatory “oh, well, hurr hurr I certainly don’t doubt there’s no fat prejudice out there”.

Is there air on your planet? On your very, very privileged planet? All you have to do is watch network television for an evening, look at any tabloid at the checkout stand, or read the fucking internet and there is fat prejudice everywhere. EVERYWHERE. If you stopped fat women on the street and asked them when was the last time they felt like they caught shit for their weight, be it blatant or otherwise, I’d bank they could rattle off quite a hefty list of grievances. I also don’t think Yoffe quite gets the idea of fat not being overlooked, yet making one invisible at the same time from a fat woman’s perspective. I’ve had plenty of occasions where I would say that I have felt invisible and yet simultaneously quite obvious because of my fat. Dismissed and ignored because of my fat. Being dismissed and ignored would certainly fall under the umbrella of “invisible”, I think.

Let’s also take a moment to address the idea of “start acting like you’re comfortable with yourself and people will not be mean”. I think many of us have learned that being comfortable with ourselves and being public about it doesn’t exactly warm the hearts of all people, everywhere. If there’s a blogger on the Fatosphere that hasn’t gotten at least one comment telling us to shut up and quit complaining, to stop being fat, to go on a diet because they DO SO work, to stop being lazy/binging/ugly/stupid...well, I would eat my hat. Embracing how we look and loving how we look is a threat. And the thing is...it’s not only a threat when fat women do it. Women refusing to adhere to the demands of the very narrow spectrum of what is considered “beautiful” is a threat to the weight loss industry, it’s a threat to the patriarchy, it’s a threat to the fashion industry, it is a threat to everything we are taught from the get-go about what’s “right” and what’s “wrong” and what women should do in order to be “good” instead of “bad”.

Later in the chat, a participant chimes in with this, which is all kinds of awesome:

For the “woman of size”:Check out the Fat Acceptance movement! It's a wonderful way to work on combating the kind of prejudice you describe, and to connect with other people (mostly women) who have similar experiences. I'm particularly fond of Kate Harding's Shapely Prose blog, but just google Fat Acceptance, and you'll see lots of options.

Yoffe’s response (I can so easily imagine her sniffing with derision)? Good advice, thanks. But I also think the "woman of size" needs ways to think less about her size. Uhhhhh-huh. So if we all just think less about our size and more about...oh, I don’t know, pretty shoes or kitties or unicorns, ALL THE BAD IN THE WORLD WILL GO AWAY. Yes, I realize I’m probably hyperbolic and heavily sarcastic and getting capslocky, but for fuck’s sake. I’d love to not think about my size. However, THE ENTIRE FRIGGING WORLD IS FOCUSED ON IT. If you read anything even resembling a major newspaper/website/watch news channels, there isn’t a fucking day that doesn’t sport some sort of “holy shit the fat oh my god the fat the fat is coming we are all fat we are eating ourselves to death think of the children don’t let them have sugar or cake or anything because the cake kills” story. And what makes it all creepier is that people eat it up without question. Any other stinking story about ANYTHING and eyebrows are raised, cynical statements are made, data that looks wonky is dismissed. Something about fat, though, and it’s BATTEN DOWN THE HATCHES BECAUSE THE FATPOCALYPSE IS A-COMIN’.

FYI, the “Fatpocalypse” is here, and it’s not going anywhere because it’s always BEEN here. And it’s getting more visible. And, even better...it’s getting louder.

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Say ladies, it's OUR turn!

Strange, I just don't see this ending very well:

LOS ANGELES (Hollywood Reporter) – Fox is developing a dating-competition series that casts "average-looking" people.

The series, titled "More to Love," is billed as the first "dating show for the rest of us," throwing open its doors to overweight contestants.

"For six years it's been skinny-minis and good-looking bachelors, and that's not what the dating world looks like," Fox president of alternative (programming) Mike Darnell said. "Why don't real women -- the women who watch these shows, for the most part -- have a chance to find love too?"

Fox orders heavyweight dating show



Of course, the tired-ass bullshit about "real women" gets trotted out. Newsflash, fellows: ALL women are real women, be they fat, thin, whatever. Having you come right out of the gate using that snooze-inducing nonsense doesn't inspire me to try out or tune in. Apparently, the success of "The Biggest Loser" is what "convinced" the network to give "More To Love" (and that title can go fuck itself, too) a whirl. The success of "The Biggest Loser" isn't about people thirsting to see "regular" people on TV. People watch “The Biggest Loser” to pull some sort of “inspiration” from it for their own bound-to-fail diet adventures, or to ooh and aah at the magical transformation that would come to anyone if their primary occupation was dieting and exercising. A magical transformation that, for a majority of the contestants, is fleeting. When “The Biggest Loser”, a show that has been mislabeled as a “public service” as it not-so-subtly humiliates and risks the health of its contestants on a weekly basis serves as your model, I’m not feeling confident that “More To Love” is going to be anything more than an exploitative humiliationfest geared towards people who want their pointing-and-laughing to be even more condoned than it already is by the media/society.

Sure, I'm willing to admit that my cynicism comes from having experienced the darker, crappier side of humans. And obviously, the producers are looking to make a buck. But it's so...annoying and rather offensive to me that they're trying to paint themselves as these Mr. Beautifuls who want to shake things up and show the world that fat girls DO date and fuck and *gasp* deserve love, too! I'd love it if Mike Darnell and Mike Fleiss managed to make a show that wasn't a train wreck of a nightmare and really did take their mission as seriously as Hollywood players can take it. But considering their first project together was "Who Wants to Marry a Millionaire"? Yeah, I'm not banking on it.

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The Ass That Wasn't There.

I need to put a Post-It note or something on my computer monitors both at work and at home to remind me that the next time I get a wild hare up my ass to do some lingerie shopping that one really needs to have an ass to wear “cheeky panties”.



It’s like, I look at the pictures on the website of heinies sporting “cheeky” unmentionables – point of order, I have to use “unmentionables” because FUCK, do I hate the word “panties”. In my head, I can only hear my own nasal Chicago accent saying “panties” and it’s a brutal, brutal noise, so “unmentionables” it shall be from here on out. So anyway, I look at the pictures on the website of hind ends sporting cheeky unmentionables and they look so lovely and I’m dazzled into imagining that I possess such a hind end and suddenly, I see they’re on sale and I have a Lane Bryant credit card and oh, it’s been so long since I’ve bought anything at LB let alone refreshed my unmentionable collection with new gear so YES I WILL TAKE THE CHEEKIES THANK YOU *CLICK*.

Then, they arrive and I gleefully throw a pair on and realize I simply do not have the ass to fill these fuckers out. My flat ass that has been flat since the dawn of my time, that remained defiantly flat even when I was at my peak gym attendance, my flat ass didn’t magically puff out to match the photoshopped Lane Bryant asses. It just stayed its usual flatty self, with flaps of fabric sitting on my ass where ass would go if I only had an ass (a deleted song from “The Wizard of Oz”, perhaps).

Of course, I’m not going to send them back because from the front, they look pretty okay. And they go just enough with the new fancy bra I bought that has a little dingly-dongly decorative bit hanging from the middle thing (as you can tell, I am a dedicated follower of fashion). I go through odd periods of buying lingerie. And as you’ve learned from previous (whiny) posts of mine, it’s certainly not because I’m jazzing my junk up for my man – I just have these inexplicable buying jags where I turn my nose up at casual (or comfortable) underpants and will not buy anything that doesn’t feature lace or beading or sequins or see-throughy bits. I’ve dabbled in many lingerie areas, from boy shorts to bustiers (not that I have much yay to boost), and learned that more often than not, I wind up feeling more uncomfortable than sexay. It’s kind of hard to feel sexy when you’re digging lacy fabric out of your crack or trying to bend underwire so it’s not poking you in the side of the boob (or, in my case, my flibbety flubbety upper arm flesh).

And yet...when I get into one of my moods...I can’t resist the siren call to try and look like something of a siren.

Well, as much of a siren as a fairly androgynous chick who gets mistaken for a guy at least once a month can look.

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