Loving one's body when it feels like no one else will.

It's an unsavory thing, being reminded that the body type one inhabits seems so universally loathed. Especially on a day like today, Love Your Body day. On a good day, I embrace every inch and every pound of myself, and on a bad day...well, like today, for example. On a bad day, every single shitty, stupid comment ever made about the way I look is in the forefront of my brain. Every single, shitty, stupid comment that can be made on the internet about how awful fat people are seems to be in my view. Everything that I feel I'm not -- beautiful, attractive, worthy of being loved back -- crashes on top of me. And it just gets harder to surface from beneath the ignorance, the hatred--the societal as well as the self-inflicted.

All I want to do today is completely retreat from the world. The world doesn't care for me, and I don't particularly care for it. Like the Beach Boys sing, "I just wasn't made for these times". Even the anger I have (I have plenty and that's why I'm single, according to an anonymous commenter) isn't sustaining me. All I've got is resignation with a heaping helping of apathy at present. So I'm open to suggestions: what helps you get up in the morning? What keeps you going? What do you hang onto to make anything worth it?

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Just call me 'Squatch.

So I'm reading about this Australian teen* who has decided to compete as a sumo wrestler, which is awesome. Pictures of her can be found here, and as always, if you treasure your brain, don't read the comments. I discovered the story at another website, and the thing that kept causing synapses in my head to continually misfire were the vehement assertions that there's no WAY in shrieking hell that this girl could be healthy, and that if she's 280 lbs. at 14, her legs are going to crumble and she's yet another ticking time bomb.

Thing is, though, when I was 14? I was 260 lbs., and 'Lantic Ocean, I'm still here. Which is, apparently, a miraculous, borderline fictitious thing.



I topped out at 5'9" when I was probably 12 or 13 years old. I was always taller than most of my classmates, and certainly larger than most of them. Being built like a brawler was a distinct advantage when I went through my "Kissing Monster" phase. No, I wasn't 31 at the time--for whatever reason, when I was five or six, I decided the best game in the world would be to run around the playground and try to kiss as many boys (and girls, I was an equal-opportunity Kissing Monster) as I possibly could. A teacher, Mr. Rossi, would eventually put a stop to my kissing by telling me (not unkindly) "the boys don't like it when you do that!"

Oh, irony.

But I was a bruiser from birth. There isn't a photograph of me in existence where I'm not fat, either as a child, adolescent, or adult. I never had a glorious, storied "skinny" time in my life. And what struck me most about Samantha-Jane Stacey when I looked at photographs of her was Jesus H., she looks like me. She's got more boob than I do and bless her hamstrings and flexibility, she can crouch so beautifully. But yeah, Samantha-Jane's got some Nolan in her for sure. The other thing that I dig is that she isn't sitting back and being the sad fat kid in the corner like society would prefer her to be. She is out and rocking all 280 lbs of herself in a male-dominated sport and she is aiming to win.

I've seen commenters getting tight about her competing in an "adult" sport. If that's so troubling, then I'd like to see some hand-wringing over kids playing ANY sport whatsoever. Sports injuries among kids are an ever-increasing problem as kids are being pushed to compete harder and harder long before they're physically (or mentally) ready to handle it. I can't help but feel a vibe that there's far less hang-wringing about the notion of kids being involved in such sports as baseball, football, gymnastics, or track because those are sports where 98 percent of the participants "look right". Sumo is a sport dominated by men (and perhaps one day, women) who aren't going to be on the cover of GQ wearing an Armani suit while fashion models are draped over them. Sumo wrestlers are seen as walking punchlines, not muscular warriors of sport.

And, since everyone on the internet has a medical degree, over and over again the following is declared as True Facts:

*It is simply IMPOSSIBLE that she's healthy
*It is simply IMPOSSIBLE that she's going to be able to walk by the time she's an adult because there's NO WAY her leg bones could POSSIBLY carry 280 lbs
*It is simply IMPOSSIBLE that she can't lose weight

As I mentioned before, I was probably clocking in at 260 lbs. at 14, and I'm obviously a mythical creature like Bigfoot or the Loch Ness Monster because I can ambulate just fine. I can jump, I can skip, I can dance the hootchie-koo. Even when I was 320 lbs, I could walk, jump, do stairs, all the benchmarks set by the Internet Doctors as being signs of health. It seems like a DUH at this point, but just to remind the planet: you cannot determine what someone's health status is by simply looking at them. Unless you have superpowers that include being able to analyze a person's innards and outnards with a mere glance, when you open your yap and declare in dramatic, operatic tones that so-and-so CANNOT POSSIBLY BE HEALTHY, you sound silly (and not fun silly). The unfortunate thing is that there are so many people thinking they are in possession of those superpowers, opening their yaps and asserting they are able to determine on sight who is healthy and "good", the ones who do it don't realize how silly they sound. It's hard to when you're surrounded by similarly silly people.

So, rock on with your very bad ass self, Samantha-Jane. This Jane is cheering you on (I won't say "rooting" since, in Australia, it definitely does not mean "cheering you on").






*Hey, UPI, thanks for categorizing this story under Odd News, you fucking doucheweasels.

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A smattering of nattering.

My brain’s all over the joint so, as a result, this post will probably cover 18 katrillion topics and I’m not 100 percent sure it will make any sense, let alone come to any sort of point. But hey, Monday's almost over. Let’s roll the dice and see what comes out of my idiot head.



I’ve been ruminating on this comment I read over at Jezebel a couple of weeks ago:

...do we ever tell single men to just suck it up and be happy alone? To me, it seems like we just want these older single women to shut up because there aren't any solutions.

It rang my bell something fierce, and since then, I’ve been paying slightly closer attention to the various message boards and whatnots that I peruse and it really is rather striking how older single fellows bemoaning their single status are given the “keep yer chin up, buddy, she’s out there/don’t give up, man, Ms. Right’s right around the corner!!” platitudes and rah-rahing, but us older single women…yeah, why don’t we shut our traps and be happy with what we have, huh? Be grateful that you have friends/family/a roof over your head/a job to go to/two legs to stand on/two eyeballs to see out of/the sun shines/the wind blows etc. etc. etc. and fucking on and on. You don’t NEED a relationship, you know. So BE GRATEFUL, and you’d damn well better keep any of those stupid thoughts about how it pretty much sucks being the third wheel/ignored/alone to yourself so the rest of us aren’t bummed out.

If I sound bitter, it’s because I am. Bitter and kind of furious at times, actually. I know I trot out this song-and-dance more often than anyone really gives a rat’s ass about, but as I’m preparing to embark on one last ridonk attempt at online dateage, perhaps I’m trying to pump out the last remnants of bitterness from the lower decks of my very large failboat, the U.S.S. Chunky-n-Doom’d in order to embark upon this project with some semblance of optimism. Or, at least, the ability to put on a convincing show of it. But I think we all have that moment of “bwuh!!!” when someone tells us of a double-standard and then we see it in practice for ourselves. And mercy, am I bwuhing my ass off lately. I think it’s the most hurtful when it comes from people who you’re close to, be they family or friends. When my mother trots out the old saw about “Life Lessons” and “Everything happens for a reason”, I would like to put her in the shed because I’m waaaaaaaaaaay over Life Lessons Happening For a Reason. I’m at the point in my life where I would much rather just be presented with a list of all the Reasons the Life Lessons are happening and what I could do in order to pass the next exam. Someone tell me where I can pick up the Cliff’s Notes and I’ll study up something fucking fierce.

**********

I had this thought many times today: JUST FUCKING EAT FUCKING EAT FUCKING EAAAAAAT. No, not directed at myself, but overhearing co-workers getting tight over calorie counts and dress sizes and being "disgusting" and "pigs" and the usual foorahrah, accompanied by oohing and aahing over a co-worker just back from maternity leave. The same woman that insisted I'd lost weight while I was overseas was borderline frothing as she told New Mom she'd lost weight ohyesyouhavethebabyweight'salmostallgoneohmygoodness! I really loathe how diet conversation has become a lo-cal substitute (har har) for CONVERSATION. That discussing one's diet/exercise regimen and how many calories are consumed and what "bad" things you avoid eating and how "bad" you've been if you had a cookie is considered interesting chat while at work or out with friends. Not that I'm looking to have a deep, philosophical chat with my co-workers, but good gravy, could it be chatter that isn't a competition to see who can come up with the most colorfully hatey ways to deride oneself? I suspect I may be repeating myself, but it's appalling to me that self-loathing has become a rite of passage. It's absolutely acceptable for a person to participate in a conversation that consists primarily of which body parts of ours we find to be horrifically disgusting and how we HAVE to get in shape (the only appropriate shape being thin) and coveting bodies that it is downright scientifically impossible to have. I think about Dara Torres, the 41-year-old Olympic swimmer that made so many headlines because she was coming back to compete at *gasp* the ancient age of 41 AND *super-mega-gasp* after having had a BABY! You know goddamned well millions of women saw the photographs of her and her washboard abs and muscular thighs and immediately thought themselves shitty because they didn't have those abs and muscular thighs--never mind the fact that Dara Torres' job...is being a SWIMMER. She spends $100,000 a year on a head coach, a sprint coach, two stretchers, two masseuses, a chiropractor, and a nanny. That's why she's got friggin' washboard abs and muscular thighs--because she can devote every friggin' free moment to flopping around in the friggin' pool, friends. But that kind of logic doesn't penetrate our brains because we are so caught up in the magic being sold to us each and every day that our lives will practically turn into a never-ending utopia of awesome and unicorns if we could just stop being such out-of-control hogbeasts and GET. THIN. Oh, I mean, GET IN SHAPE.

**********

Lastly, I do wish to report I'm in love with something shiny, pretty, and with a blinky light. I bought a 500GB hard drive tonight and it's...it's a delight, frankly. A couple of years ago, I had a massive hard drive implosion that ate much of my writing, including 15 or so completed screenplays. Yep, a LIFE LESSON if there ever was one. Not that I've been able to write shit since then, but I suddenly came over all "must have external hard drive now" this evening and trotted out to pick myself up my new best friend. We'll just overlook the large amount of surge-protecting power strips I have in my Bachelorette Lair (a.k.a. my room in my parents' house) *cough* because it's important that my bass amp be at the ready at all times in case I feel a need to jam, or it only take mere seconds for my PC to leap to life because dammit, I NEED TO KNOW WHERE CHRIS MAKEPEACE IS.

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Strike 193,882,093, Alton Brown.

Paul over at BigFatBlog blows shit at Alton Brown waaay better than I can at the moment because when I'm steamed, coherency is not my friend. Instead, it's a lot of gasping, eye-rolling, and "fu-huh-huck YOU"-ing. Followed by a rant that is plentiful with expletives not ever deleted.



I mean, not that I needed an additional reason to call Alton Brown fucking clownshoes. It just boggles my freaking mind that a cat would feel so comfortable displaying his utter contempt for the people who PAY HIS GODDAMNED BILLS. Well, I should say, the FAT people who pay his goddamned bills. I can only hope that any fat person in anything resembling a non-self-loathing space that is a fan of his stops being a fan of his, stops buying his shit, and stops lining the pockets of this ginormous, throbbing, overrated doucheweasel.

Then, join me in penning a lovely letter to the Food Network. Their physical address appears to be:

75 Ninth Avenue
New York, NY 10011

And what makes it even more kneeslappingly laughable (in that "I really want to kick the world in its ass right about now" way) is the "Core Values" blabbetty blah on their website (parent company: Scripps).

I'd love it if Alton Brown didn't have a job anymore. I'm dreaming big, I know. But for fuck's sake, Food Network shitcanned the dude from "Dinner Impossible" for fudging his resume'. However, Alton Brown's dish of hatred and contempt is delicious? Yeah, no. Time for Food Network and Alton Brown to be on the receiving end of some major pushback.

(Anyone who has better contact info for Food Network, lay it on me in the comments.)

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Romper stomper bomper Pru.

Dear Prudence (real name: Emily Yoffe),

I read your advice column every Thursday on slate.com. I'm an avid reader of advice columns, in fact, from Dear Abby to Carolyn Hax to Miss Conduct. I'm always curious to see if they're presented with situations similar to any I may have (or may be) going through at any given time, and I like to see the responses to fat-related scenarios as well. It's not often that an advice columnist surprises me. More often than not, when someone writes in with some sort of fat-related query, it turns into a polite screed about The Evils of Fat: while it's not okay to haterate against fat people, well, they sure do need some fixing is the usual tone. Basically, save the delightful Miss Conduct (a.k.a. Robin Abrahams, who is a friend of Fat Acceptance), advice columnists generally demonstrate Concern Trollesque behavior.

And this week, I knew I was in for a doozy when the video question was titled "Heavier and Hard Up" (a transcript follows after the cut):



Dear Prudence,

I've been living with my boyfriend for a year. I'm 23, and he's 35. He's usually a very gentle and caring man, but two weeks ago he dropped a bomb on me. When I asked him why we don't have sex as often as we used to, he told me he no longer finds me as physically attractive because of my recent weight gain.

I know I've gained weight - I went from a size 16 to a size 20, and I'm not happy about it either. But it didn't bother me much until I found out about his true feelings. He swears up and down that he still loves the person inside just as much as ever. But I can't help but feel that if he won't accept me physically, he doesn't really love me. Now I feel like if I want this to work, I need to change. But I haven't tried to change him. So how is that fair?

Signed, Confused in the Country

Now, Prudence, if I had been presented with this question, I would be dying for more details. What was her activity level like prior to moving in with her boyfriend? Had she been ill? Any major life changes besides moving in with the boyfriend? What is the general relationship like, since there is a sizable age difference? Basically, I'd be hard-pressed to fire off a response without having more information. But we don't want to let human curiosity or the natural inclination to have more facts to go on get in our way of doling out some terribly "fine" advice, do we.

Dear Confused,

You're only 23 and you've gone up two dress sizes in a year, to a size that by any measure puts you in the plus category. (oh god OH GOD NO NOT THE PLUS CATEGORY) It's not unreasonable for your boyfriend to be concerned about this trajectory (sweet mother of Christ YOU ARE GOING TO END UP 500 POUNDS AND BEING TAKEN OUT OF YOUR HOUSE BY A CRANE). Of course we all want to be loved for who we are regardless of what we look like. But hey, people care about what they look like and what their partners look like (so SHAPE THE FUCK UP, FATTY!). Try to separate this issue out from your relationship and instead take a look at your relationship with food (I CAN SENSE YOU SIT ON THE COUCH ALL DAY AND WATCH TV AND EAT DONUTS BECAUSE THAT IS WHAT ALL FAT PEOPLE DO). For the sake of your future health (YOU ARE GOING TO DIE, CHUBS), join Weight Watchers (it's not a diet, it's a LIFESTYLE!), get into an exercise program, try to do something to get this problem under control (BECAUSE YOU ARE OUT OF CONTROL FAT FATTERSON).

I strongly suggest watching the video, because my transcript (or even my, uh, editorial whimsy) cannot possibly communicate the kind of...pompous disdain that drips out of Emily's mouth. Of COURSE if you're fat, you've got a fucked up relationship with food. What made my jaw drop a bit more was the "tough shit, people are superficial so get with the program if you want to be loved" tone. Like...it's not cool to be superficial, right? So...why on earth would you endorse asshole behavior? Oh wait, of course, we're talking about OMG KILLER FAT KILLING KILLING KILLING RUN AWAY. And that point's nailed home with the deathly serious "For the sake of your future health". For the SAKE of your FUTURE HEALTH, Confused, JOIN WEIGHT WATCHERS.

*record scratch*

Yeah, that'd be the last thing I'd prescribe anybody, really. If I wanted to teach someone how to be neurotic about what he/she puts into his/her mouth even more so than just regular old-fashioned no-cost dieting does, then yeah, I'd tell them to hop on the Weight Watchers train.

As for the "my boyfriend doesn't want to fuck me because I've gained the weight" thing...well, I'd be inclined to say "then he can go find someone else to fuck and you find someone who wants to fuck you", personally. But of course, let me add on the disclaimer of never having been in a relationship, blah blah blee blah blah. So I've been lucky enough never to be on the receiving end of such a proclamation. I can only imagine what I, at my frostiest and best, would do. Most likely, I would crawl into the nearest liquor cabinet and not come out for a few weeks. Shit, I've crawled into the liquor cabinet for far less emotionally devastating things. And I would be hunting down the nearest Weight Watchers meeting if I wasn't in the mindset that I'm in now, which is "I am who I am and I look the way I look, and it's not my problem if you can't dig on it".

I think about the woman who wrote this letter in the first place. You have to figure she must be a fairly avid reader of ole Prudence, and must think that most of the advice Prudie's dispensing is sound and fair. She must have been thrilled to see that her letter was going to be published AND to discover it was a featured video--! That is ZOMG level of excitement right there. I'd wager she hoped Prudence might assure her that she's not being unreasonable to WTF her boyfriend a little bit for his stance. I'd wager that once Prudence was done informing her she was an out-of-control, lazy sack of unlovable shit, she had a full-snot cry, maybe a few shots, and immediately got rid of any "bad" food in the house. She's probably started "cutting back" and "behaving herself", tracking every single bit of food that goes into her mouth, counting every calorie, every fat gram, every second spent on the treadmill or the walking track.

She is going to be good and worthy of love just as soon as those 20 pounds, those 30 pounds, those 50 pounds come off. You'll see.

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A sweet mouthful.

First off, if anyone's interested, here's a link to photos I took at Lollapalooza 2008, and some links to videos I took:

The opening of Rage Against the Machine's set

Radiohead doing a bit of "Airbag"

A super-wee bit of Gogol Bordello

The conclusion of "March of the Pigs" by Nine Inch Nails and

Love and Rockets doing a bit of "No New Tale to Tell"

It was my first experience with any kind of music festival and I have to say I was pleased overall. Sometimes, the bleedthrough from other bands' sets was annoying and the volume at the Rage show was way, way, way too low. Sunday brought a virtual sellout of pop-based products, so I was extremely nervous that Grant Park (and Nine Inch Nails' set) was going to turn into an alcohol-soaked nightmare of 75,000 drunkards (of course, they still had plenty of beer and wine and, to be fair, water remained plentiful). A return trip for me would hinge on what kind of lineup they manage to assemble for next year and if I could sucker someone into going with me. While I can certainly operate on a solo basis without any problem, it was annoying having to pack up my blanket and gather up all my crap in order to go on a bathroom run or get something to drink/eat. The super-bonus was discovering that Grant Park has FLUSH TOILETS. Since they had so many porta-potties, the lines at the flushies were quite mellow. I touched Perry Farrell, that was rather exciting. I'd been lurking around the DJ area and Perry was slated to do a set. I was standing on the sidewalk and turned around to see Perry and his people getting out of a golfcart at the curb. Somehow he was coming in my general direction and in my usual "smooth" fashion, I touched his shoulder as if to guide him past the unsavory rabble (i.e. anyone but me because I'm the RAWK). We exchanged big smiles and "Hiiiiiiiiiiii!"'s. I've been a Jane's Addiction fan for quite a long time (couldn't tell you how many times I've been asked, "Jane, what's your...ADDICTION? HURRHURRHURRHURRRRRR"), so having a little Perry moment...very neat.

And now for something completely different: fudge.



I was enjoying a bit of fudge from North Carolina this evening, a little slab of plain chocolate fudge and a little slab of orange-and-chocolate fudge, and for whatever reason it made me think about "Fat Monica" on "Friends". Every time she made an appearance, she was almost constantly eating. It was rare she was without a candy bar in her hand--not that it stayed in her hand very long, since lord knows us fatties can't stop ourselves from stuffing candy in our yaps the second it crosses our palms. I always found Fat Monica to be fairly galling for several reasons: the make-up job on Courteney Cox was atrocious, the fat girl cliches flew fast and furiously, and "Friends" co-creator Marta Kauffman certainly was far more sizable than the women employed on her megahit show. It would have been such a plum opportunity to blow up some Fat Girl Cliches, but instead they relied on the same old song and dance: Fat Girl eats constantly, Fat Girl wears appalling, ill-fitting outfits, Fat Girl can't get a date. Even a flashback episode revealing that Chandler would have hooked up with Monica regardless of her size smacked of jerkwater bullshit. If I remember correctly (and someone please correct me if I'm wrong), the day after they sleep together doesn't she start craving vegetables or something? I swear that the super-brief-semi-positive body moment (as rare as a sighting of Bigfoot) was completely shat upon with a "NOW Fat Girl is going to get herself UNDER CONTROL!" footnote.

I got on Fat Monica because I was enjoying my fudge and thinking about how I wasn't snarfing it down or double-fisting it or stuffing my face with it. I wasn't inhaling a full fucking pound, I was having enough to satisfy me. I can't help but laugh (as well as quietly rage) at how mass media loves to portray fat people as beasts incapable of controlling themselves when it comes to food, particularly anything sweet or classified as "unhealthy". Have I squirmed a bit with delight when eating something particularly delicious? Absolutely. I've actually skipped with joy when tasting something yummy. But I've never found myself writhing on the floor in sweaty ecstasy, a ring of chocolate or fudge or whipped cream around my mouth because I live in REALITY. And it makes me even testier when I read/see fat people who are insistent on perpetuating the notion that we are all batshit walking Hoovers sucking down every foodstuff within our grasp, that we are these less-than-human monsters with insatiable appetites, usually in the name of "humor". Or trotting out the old chestnut "well, they're just going to make fun of me, so I'll make fun of me first". I used to drive that bandwagon, but then I started to realize that even if I *did* make fun of myself first, it wasn't going to change anyone's opinion that I was a walking fat-laden time bomb of obese epidemictude. If anything, it only reinforced beliefs that I was worthy of mockery. To me, doing the "beating them to the punch" routine meant I was giving them permission to blow shit at me. That gets old after a while, especially if you're already in self-loathe mode. So, you know, quit it.

I know that's not much of an ending, but I'm still recovering from being on vacation, with part of it spent in Vegas. Damn fucking straight I ate at buffets. And went up for seconds.

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If this blog's rockin'...

...it means I've spent the last two days (with one more to go) in Grant Park at Lollapalooza. I tend to make poor clothing choices when I go to outdoorsy/semi-activity-centric things, and for the last two days, I've been in long shorts that are just a mite too big. I generally wear clothing that's a bit too big because I don't like that "tight" feeling. I like to be flowy, like...a...flowy thing. Anyway. So I wore shorts that were a mite too big, which resulted in me, while walking to the train, hitching up my drawers every few steps. Today, the shorts fit properly, dammit, and should not fall off when I'm doing my weird gesticulating/dancing that I do when it comes to Nine Inch Nails.

I mean, they may fall off from excitement, but not from jumping/dancing.

I touched Perry Farrell yesterday. That was quite neat. I've been a Jane's Addiction enthusiast for many a moon, and it was one of those "I turned around and holy fuck, it's Perry Farrell" kind of moments. So, as he was making his way toward the DJ tent, I touched his shoulder ever so delicately as if to guide him where he needed to be (I'm such a douchelette). We exchanged very chipper "Hiiiiiiiiii!"'s and then I proceeded to text pretty much everyone in the universe that I knew would know who I was talking about.

Tonight, I'm just grateful I have a hotel room downtown so that I don't have to deal with the 45-minute train ride home with 19,000,000 of my closest friends. I work downtown as well, so I won't have to roll my very sore, very tired ass out of bed until 6 a.m. That will be so delicious. Once I get all my picture ducks in a row (along with a smattering of videos), I will be sure to post some up for your reading and listening pleasure. Of course, I'm about to head into two super-busy weeks, with a friend coming in from out of town and going to Vegas...could someone please put 48 hours into one day so I can get some crap done? So your guess is as good as mine as to when that's going to occur. Let's just call it...soon-esque.

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