blooming compliments.

i ran into my friend E outside of work today. it's rather chilly here in NYC, and yet, she had a big purple flower perched atop her crown of perpetually shiny, auburn hair. she just looks so precious and beautiful, i thought, as i stood there watching her tiptap towards me in her snazzy purple boots (they match the flower, of course).

i didn't tell her that, though. why didn't i tell her that? I SHOULD HAVE TOLD HER THAT! i'm not sure why i didn't tell her that. chock it up to frequent bouts of radical self-absorption.

later on, as that perky purple anemone blossomed in my mind, i thought about how important it is for me, a woman, to tell other women how beautiful, stunning, well-dressed, hottie-rocking-those-boots they are on a regular basis. we get the comments, welcome and otherwise, from the guys with relative frequency, and don't get me wrong, that's nice! needed! you think you might like to see me naked wearing only this aubergine bloom in my hair, and that is definitely a confidence booster!

but there's something, genuine and innocent and sisterly about getting props from another woman that just feels good and special and empowering. there is no ulterior motive; she just thinks you got it going on, and she took the time to tell you so as you left the bathroom stall and she went in. getting a compliment from another woman is almost like her saying in some little way that she might kinda wanna be like me when she grows up. i'd like to give that feeling to other women more often.

E. i'm sorry i didn't tell you before. i kinda wanna be like you when i grow up... flower 'n' all.

meg

my cousin Lauren's little girl turned four recently. she got a new bike that she describes as "cotton candy blue."

tee!

and i know exactly what color she's talking about, don't you? oh, the unintentional brilliance of a 4-year old.

this little girl makes my heart melt like a Hershey's chocolate square snuggled up to a freshly roasted marshmallow. if i ever have a little girl, i hope she's half as sweet and spunky and kind-natured as this little one, but i'm fairly certain mine will come out rolling her eyes, droning motherrrrrrrr and wearing combat boots.

it's called karma. kicks your ass every time.

one girl's trash is another girl's treasure.

bon appetit!

i remember reading somewhere that you have a "food issue" when you find yourself digging food out of your trash can and then eating it.

i've done this. a number of times. i am not ashamed to admit it. well, that's not completely true. of course i'm ashamed to admit it, but i'm admitting it because i know you all have done the same thing one time or another, or you've thought about it, and if you haven't at least thought about it, i'm not really sure why the hell you're reading this blog.

back when i used to deny deny deny myself, back when i was convinced it was the ice cream, the cookies, the chocolate bars that were The Problem, not some other deeply-rooted problem in my psyche like, oh... one dead parent, one absent-in-spirit, alcoholic parent and a codependent core so tightly wound around my colon that an aroma of steamed brussels sprouts followed me everywhere.

(seriously, ask The Urban Family).

i'd gorge myself on The Forbidden Foods, and then in a redemptive tizzy, toss what was left into the trash. i'd bury it underneath piles of garbage, convinced that if i couldn't see these foods, i wouldn't want them, and that i would then lose the weight (or keep the weight off, whatever it was that day), and presto change-o all my problems would be solved.

moments later, i'd be back at the trash can, or at least hovering near,

GOODNESS, I NEED TO GET THOSE DISHES DONE.

a silent debate raging in my head between Prudence and Sloth, about whether to dive in and retrieve the sugary corpses at the bottom of the can, or not; by mentally ramshackling myself to the couch.

DO NOT GO BACK TO THE KITCHEN. DO NOT GO BACK INTO THE KITCHEN. SATAN LIVES IN THERE, AND HE TASTES LIKE VANILLA ICE CREAM.

Sloth usually won. i'd find myself digging through the fortress of sticky styrofoam to-go containers, rank tuna fish cans and days-old beer bottles to the bottom of the can to rescue the melty, leftover 1/2 cup of Haagan-Dazs i'd so ceremoniously discarded just a few minutes before. i'd shove the remaining melty mess into my mouth as quickly as possible, not even noticing it go down. as if the faster i swallowed, the less it would mean i actually ate it, and the less it would mean i actually had a problem.

and boy oh boy, did i have a problem.

i don't do that anymore. not in the same way anyway. i don't binge, throw all the food in the house away, and then return moments later to "rescue" it and devour it as if my entire life depended upon it. i do however, on occasion, still eat food out of the trash can. on principle, i know this seems a little strange, and i know that if my Aunt Charlene is reading this she's going to gasp as loudly as she did when i told her that i sometimes go commando, and she'll either send me 1) a check because she thinks i'm too broke to buy food and underwear or 2) a care package with food and underwear or 3) a check for therapy because i'm eating food out of the trash can and not wearing underwear. i am none of the above.

so, last night, i tossed some food because i thought i was done with it, and then i thought:

wait. i'm not done. i'm still hungry. i want another dumpling. but wait, the dumplings are in the trash. if i take the dumplings out of the trash and eat one, does this mean i have a problem? it certainly meant i had a problem before.

no, silly. it means you're still hungry, and it's not as if they've been sitting there for days. they've been sitting there for a few minutes. you're only problem now is that you don't trust yourself.

so i ate one, and then threw the rest of them away. for good. because i was done.

what a lovely word DONE.

i've spent so much of my life stopping eating before i was done, satiated, full. i'm not gonna do that anymore. i'm allowed to change my mind, order a second serving, eat what's in the to-go container on the subway ride home. now, i admit, taking food out of your trash seems a bit extreme, i guess, but it works for me, and i'm convinced the main reason i've stopped binging and reached a healthy weight is because i've learned to eat according to my body's needs. this has given me the freedom to eat ALL foods ANYTIME with no qualms (most of the time, anyway, and provided it's not covered in blue fur. use your noggin.).

there is no such thing as a forbidden food, a bad food, an evil food. food does not come equipped with angel wings or devil's horns. food does not have moral qualities. this even means the food ya just tossed into the trash can.

retrieving food from the trash can doesn't mean you have a problem. it might just mean you're a little bit thrifty. and have ya ever sampled a room temperature dumpling? tasty. just be sure to scavenge for a bit of the scallion sauce too.

another non-diet that's a diet... sigh.

i am so disappointed.

sigh.

a friend of mine brought this by my desk today.

http://www.amazon.com/Writing-Diet-Write-Yourself-Right-Size/dp/1585425710

sigh.

i like julia cameron. i've done The Artist's Way, and i know it helped me unleash size ate, but i am sooo disappointed in her right now. this, this just annoys me.

sigh.

of course, i haven't read it yet, so it's not really fair for me to judge, but i'm gonna anyway.

sigh.

i'll skim it, and i'll find many of the things she says helpful and insightful. many of the exercises useful and interesting, even fun, i daresay. i might even do a few.

sigh.

but why-oh-why must it be pegged to weight loss? why-oh-why aren't these exercises worth doing just for the self-knowledge that follows? why must they be done in hopes of losing weight?

sigh.

because, margaux, the word DIET on the cover of a book, no matter how simple and dignified the serifed font and cover design, SELLS BOOKS. and we continue to buy them because DIET is the only sort of "self-improvement" many of us have ever known and maybe even care to know. all the rest of those self-improvement books are full of nothing but self-absorbed balderdash, but DIET. there's something we can really sink our teeth into. we SEE the results in one's newly unveiled cheekbones. the way to world peace is through the gaping space between your well-toned, very thin thighs. Eileen Ford said so.

sigh.

i'm not an artist so i can be skinny. i'm an artist so i can be the most fully, self-actualized human being i can be.

sigh.

i am so disappointed.

EAT

one word, two syllables: goosebumps.

thank you, michal.

mit cream anyone?

ever notice how zits tend to be symmetrical? meaning that if one pops up on the left cheek, it's only a matter of days before another pops up in the exact same place on the other cheek? i don't think this is what they mean by the "beauty of symmetry."

anyway... maybe it's just me. but my zits seem to do this all the time. maybe they get lonely. maybe they suffer from stage fright; they need a fellow hussy with whom to toss up their red petticoats. they get shy out there all by themselves.

my skin got very confused this week. i developed a large, very large, zit directly above my upper right lip exactly opposite from the mole on the left. a zole. a mit.

my skin invented something new! i'm talented that way.

and this might be the most ridiculous post i've ever written.

me... photoshopped.

last thursday - valentine's day - a guy at work who's always walking around taking pictures of staff with his fancy dancy camera (he took this one too), stopped by my desk, and said,

"i gotta take a picture of you with that heart necklace on."

"uh. okay." for one who performs ALONE ON STAGE on a regular basis, and aspires to perform ALONE ON STAGE for a living, i do not really like having my picture taken ALONE. maybe it's residual body image issues:

oh, but my big fat nose, my big fat face, my big fat zits will be preserved for all time in this shoddy state.

or maybe it's that residual feeling of undeservedness.

WHY WOULD ANYONE WANT A PICTURE OF ME ALONE? don't you want someone else in here to distract you from all this imperfect-ness?

so he took the pic, and 15 minutes later he emails me this one.


wow. i thought. that looks pretty good. i like that pic. i look refreshed, i haven't exfoliated in ages, but my skin looks so... wait a minute! that big honkin' zit on my cheek is completely gone!

then it hit me.

i've been photoshopped!

i felt so dirty.

out of curiosity, i asked the guy to email me the original version so i could see the difference. no, not to beat myself up over how pimply and wrinkly i am, but to see first person how and why this photoshopping phenomenon is so widely-accepted.


ohhhh... that's why.

go on... click to see the difference. (if you click the pics, they get larger. go on! get to know my pores!)

i don't think i look awful in the untouched one - a female human bean at the end of a long work day, i guess - but you see why some folks might prefer the photoshopped version of themselves. i mean, it's one thing to see the real and touched-up version of faith hill and say, "oh, but she looks just as pretty, just more real in the first one!" and it's another thing entirely to see yourself all human and flawed and then to see yourself all goddess-like and flawless and then choose the real version. i'm just as conditioned as everyone else to think the porcelain-skinned visages in all the magazines and movies is normal and ideal. human looks abnormal to this conditioned eye.

if they're gonna put you on the cover of a nationally-distributed magazine, i can see how it might be a little difficult to stick to your guns and go with the untouched version (not that i think the editors gave faith hill or any of their cover models much of a choice in the matter). out of principle and a duty to my fellow womenfolk, of course, i'd choose the real one b/c i see how this stuff gets out of hand - lengthening limbs, carving out waists, shading in breasts. the guy who took my pic even removed my signature Marilyn mole above my lip! since when is a tiny little mole a flaw? i mean, really, it grows steely strands of hair. how cool is that?

------

my apologies for being so lax in posting as of late. The Cute and i have been mourning the loss of his little dog Chicken. she died suddenly last sunday afternoon after suffering an idiopathic seizure (meaning they have no fucking idea what caused it; so much for closure). she was the cutest, sweetest, weirdest dog i've ever known, and i'd grown quite attached to her. her paws smelled like Fritos, she chased her own tail, she loved homebaked peanut butter dog cookies and she was a very good sport about letting us balance things on her head.


she was only 3 1/2. i shall miss her very much.

another clip from size ate on youtube.

you look happy to see me!

what do you think is the first thing they'll say when they see each other for the first time since last summer?

i had dinner on friday night with a friend i haven't seen in ages. we talked about how long it's been for about 10 minutes, trying to place when we remember seeing each other last along some imaginary timeline stretching between our candlelit glasses of sangria (my glass of sangria, her glass of soda and lime; she's off the sauce for Lent, sweet girl).

i had a great time catching up with her. s is a hip New York woman who is successful in the entertainment industry, wears funky glasses and dines at swanky restaurants but who also observes Lent, buys her 4-year old niece ruby red slippers for her birthday and sends thank you notes. she's grounded, and i adore her.

on the train ride home, as i sat recalling our visit, i was struck by something:

she never once commented on my appearance, and i never once commented on hers THE ENTIRE NIGHT.

do you know how remarkably refreshing and rare it is to spend an entire evening with someone (a female particularly) and not a single comment is made about the other's appearance?

very.

i mean absolutely nothing. not even an obligatory:

"you look great!

"well you do too!"

just:

"hi! so great to see you! god it's been so long!"

then we talked about everything BUT. just two girls sitting around chatting about their lives over chorizo and patatas bravas.

not to say it isn't nice and wonderful and esteem-building for someone to sincerely, positively comment on how i look from time to time or for me to say the same about someone else, but i hate the obligatory you-look-fabulous chatter that we females especially feel so compelled to engage in. we frequently don't really mean it, and sometimes (many times) a person's appearance doesn't speak an ounce of truth about what's really going on underneath.

how about "it's so great to see you! how ya doing?"?

great to see YOU. the person. the being. not your highlights, or your yoga booty, or your flat abs, or your size 4 True Religion jeans. YOU are not those things, and neither am i. (nor am i the scary hair-of-steel that grows out of the mole on my upper lip or the zits on my chin or the ain't-done-yoga-in-months-booty, thank god).

i realize that not everyone feels this way. some people don't care, don't notice. i know a lot of my irritation around this stems from a childhood of always feeling like i had to look prettier and thinner in order to earn a joyful exclamation upon my return after having been away.

"oh." their faces usually seemed to say. "you're not thinner than you were than before you left for school this morning."

and god forbid if i came back heavier; like i did after the first semester of my freshmen year in college. i think my dad may have been ever so slightly more ashamed if i'd come back pregnant, but i'm not so sure. at least then he would have known i was operating as a heterosexual. i mean, a liberal daughter he could take. a FAT liberal daughter?

next stop? LESBO!

well, now i'm just being bitter.

tsk.

i don't know. juuuuust something to think about the next time you see that friend you haven't seen in ages. it's not about one another's presence that matters, right? but about being in one another's presence. so say something that means something.

happy friday

i'm alive!!!

but i'm a busy bee! lots of good stuff going on though! looks like we have size ate shows booked in new jersey, mississippi and illinois over the next few months (once the contracts are signed and the plane reservations are made, i'll actually reveal the where and the when so if you're near one, maybe you can come?)

exciting and scary. oh, those two things go together like peanut butter and chocolate, don't they?

now this. this is just a happy song, for a happy day (FRIDAY!) from Israeli singer songwriter, Yael Naim. i first heard this song on the new Apple commercial during the Super Bowl, and i knew i had to find out who it was. i have, and now I CAN'T STOP LISTENING. enjoy!

pearl of wisdom from utah

my friend joanna on men who don't like it when women cry:

"look. boobies come with tears. if ya want boobies, ya get tears."

just happy

it wasn't nearly this pleasant, but i sure do feel better.

sorry, guys. it has been one helluva week. plenty good stuff, plenty challenges, but i'm spending a little time away from the keyboard this weekend to rest mine eyes (and my brain). when your eyes twitch, that's your body's way of telling you to GO STARE AT A TREE, PLEASE.

i went to the acupuncturist on wednesday. one of the first things he said to me was:

"you've lost some weight since i saw you last. you're slimmer."

"yeah, i guessssss so..." i pause.

"it's not easy!!!" he says with great admiration, expecting me to detail my valiant attempts at exercise and weight loss.

"actually, i haven't been trying at all."

"really?" he's shocked.

"yeah. i think i'm just happy."

"huh."

can't wrap his brain around that one: A WOMAN WHO HAS CEASED STRUGGLING WITH HER WEIGHT. do they make those on planet Earth?

gratuitous baby pic of the week #... i've lost count.

tater tot has teef! a very big day indeed.

'tis my birthday.

me minus 27 years.

i am 33 today.

"the age Jesus was when he was crucified," The Cute likes to point out.

i'm spending it pretty quietly today. hanging at a local cafe, sending out some size ate p.r. emails, reading some Jane Kenyon poetry. later on, i'm going for drinks and dinner with a few friends. i was not feeling the big, sparkly birthday bash.

"where's your birthday tiara?" the Cute asked me yesterday.

"i'm wearing it on the inside this year."

i'm very very happy with my life these days. i told The Cute last night that i wouldn't change a single thing about my life right now. i do believe i am right where i am supposed to be right at this very moment. i don't mean i don't want more... bigger and better things, but i'm satisfied, pleased, thrilled with today and now and all of its blessings. i'm even dealing with the recent vicious outbreak of zits on my chin with relative calm. they just don't matter in comparison, do they?

nope.

but i mean, really. 33-years old and i still breakout?!?! not fair. i'll bet Jesus didn't have zits.

less hair = more me.

from a friends' blog - Twin Peeks. "C," by the way, is cancer (she said in whispered tones).

So in between laughing, I've decided that this should be a year of change. This is one of those things that happens either a) from age or b) after having "C" or c) perhaps a little of both.

I've decided to enroll in a writing course. I've only been talking about doing this for about, hmm, five or more years. I attended an open house at The New School last week and after talking to a seemingly suicidal poet and a chain smoking novelist, I decided I to sign up for Writing for Women's Magazines.

Last Friday, the day before the 41st anniversary of my being here on earth, I went to get my hair cut. The 2nd time in two weeks (far from typical). I opened a magazine, ripped out a picture and said, "Chop it off." B looked at me like I was crazy... Are you sure? she said... Yep. Get rid of it.

And so I did. I officially have short hair. Well, long short hair. Within the past three months, I've probably lost about 12 inches. In hair that is. And I can't tell you how good it feels. We all cling to our hair. Some of us hide behind it. Some choose to make a statement with it. Some wear it one way or another b/c a
boyfriend likes it that way. Some have no choice but to lose it. I decided that I put too much emphasis on it. Not that I don't style and slop some gel into it now. But I thought by cutting it, there'd be some Samson effect and my Bed Bath Beyond sheets would turn to salt or we'd fall into a recession.

Oh, shoot. Did I do that?

I kid.

Really, it was quite cathartic, losing all this hair. It's as if it had the anti-Samson effect. I feel that much stronger!

Many people have asked me, Liz, how do you think you've changed since this summer?

Well, I can't exactly put my finger on it, but, all of a sudden the little things like hair don't seem to matter. Less seems to be more. More seems to be a lot more. It's all good. Take it all with a grain of salt. Yadda, yadda, yadda, yadda.

My suggestion to YOU(!) is, do something today that you never normally do. Walk to work a different route. Wear green eye shadow. Eat a pomegranate. Make a concerted effort to make eye contact, smile and say hi to everyone you pass. These little changes will make a huge difference. Even just for a minute or two. I promise, you'll kinda like being hair, not there.

i chopped more of my hair off recently, and i keep getting closer to it's natural color. i too feel stronger, more ME with this lid. i may be less "pretty" in some people's eyes because i don't have long, wavy, blond hair, but that's okay. ME is better than pretty any day.

just so you know...

first, let me say how much it means to me that you all believe in size ate so strongly. with every email, every comment, you light the fire under my bum. a fire that does, unfortunately, occasionally peter out from time to time. i need the lighter fluid of your words.

but lately, i've gotten a couple of messages along the lines of:

what the fuck is going on with your show? why aren't you touring the world yet?

and my answer is:

i'm working on it.

i have a couple of tentative shows booked for the spring, and i'm working on more, but size ate is, in every sense of the word, a one-woman show. i have an administrative staff of one - me - and there is only so much i can do. sure, i could spend every free moment working on my show and getting it out there, but i also have, i am very proud to say, a LIFE, a life outside of my show and it's cause. i have a full-time job i want to do well. i have a boyfriend whom i love very much, and whom i want to spend time lollygagging with. i have amazing friends that i want to see and share chocolate bars with. i have a bed i want to spend long hours sleeping in. i have books i want to read. i have presents to wrap and errands to run. i have a LIFE! seven years ago, lightheaded and starving, i never thought i'd have one, and i'm not gonna take it for granted.

trust me, i spend plenty of time feeling guilty about not doing enough regarding the show, knowing that it's important and could help many girls and women if i can only get them to see it, but when the guilt practically overwhelms me, i stop and ask myself:

well, why the hell did you choose to get better in the first place?

so i could live my life, that's why. and that's just what i'm doing. my show is a part of that life, a part i am very proud of no doubt, but just a part, not the end all be all. not my raison d'etre. ya know, i can spend an entire day NOT thinking about eating disorders and body image, and that, my dears, is the whole point.

FREEDOM!!!

and here's the thing: if i don't fully live my own life, i'm not setting a very good example for those girls and women who are struggling to overcome their own eating disorders and body image issues. that may sound like a cop out, but i don't care. i didn't write my show and start this blog so i could develop a NEW AND IMPROVED! obsession. i did it to get over the old one, and to help others get over theirs. if i worked non-stop on size ate, it'd become an obsession, a different, less life-threatening obsession sure, but an obsession nonetheless. an obsession that would keep me from truly enjoying every morsel of this sweet life, morsels i'm not willing to give up, and neither should you. life is all too short for that kind of nonsense.

oh, so based on the contents of your brain, i think you'd want an empty shot glass.

sunday was The Cute's birthday. he had a little gathering of friends down at The Bleecker Street Bar that night. i made The Cute's favorite recipe for chocolate cake - Ina Garten's chocolate espresso cake - but i made cupcakes instead. i was desperately eager to use my brand-spankin' new Oneida cupcake carrier! a divinely perfect Christmas gift from r.

"that is so very Margaux-y," The Cute says.

at the end of the night, i'm enjoying my reign as Cupcake Fairy, walking around the bar handing out leftover cupcakes to strangers (i wish i could get paid to do this).

i approach the bar and offer the remaining two cupcakes to two guys. one is the bartender, and one, i determine by the girth of his forearms and his no-nonsense demeanor, must be the bouncer. they thank me, and the bartender returns the favor by offering me a free shot.

"oh, okay, but it's gotta be something girly and sweet."

"really?" the bouncer says. "something girly and sweet?"

"uh, yeah. why?"

"well, based on your size i thought you'd want something hard and biting."

a diet by any other name is still a diet.

how dumb do i look?

i rec'd an email this morning from the South Beach Diet website with the subject line:

STOP DIETING, START LIVING.

um... think they saw those Weight Watchers's ads and panicked?

i clicked over to their website to investigate:

The South Beach Diet is more than a diet — it's a way of life. "Food is meant to be enjoyed, even savored. That's what makes the South Beach Diet a lifestyle and what differentiates us from other healthy eating plans," says Dr. Arthur Agatston, preventive cardiologist and author of The South Beach Diet and The South Beach Heart Health Revolution.

ah... so it's an EATING PLAN, not a diet. i don't know if any of you have ever done the South Beach Diet, but i have, and it certainly felt like dieting to me. it's very restricted, especially the first two weeks. NO CARROTS, NO BEETS, NO CORN, NO POTATOES, NO BREAD, NO PEAS (among many others). it's not an awful diet - it's not all grapefruits or all cabbage soup all of the time - but again, i don't feel like it teaches you about listening to your body and it's needs. it directs and restricts and forbids, it does not instruct. you can read more about it here.

Because of Dr. Agatston's healthy lifestyle philosophy, beginning this month South Beach Diet foods from Kraft will be known as South Beach Living foods. The name change is a true reflection of Dr. Agatston's desire to encourage people to adopt lifelong healthy eating habits...

"My goal has always been to change the way America eats. Now I have an even larger goal: to change the way America lives." That's why he (Dr. Agatston) brings you South Beach Living foods from Kraft.

here, the ingredients in one of Kraft's South Beach Living foods, a Turkey and Bacon Club Refrigerated Wrap Kit (who needs a kit to make a wrap?).

Ingredients: OVEN ROASTED TURKEY BREAST - CURED - TURKEY BREAST, WATER, CONTAINS LESS THAN 2% OF MODIFIED CORN STARCH, SALT, POTASSIUM LACTATE, SUGAR, SODIUM PHOSPHATES, SODIUM DIACETATE, SODIUM ERYTHORBATE (MADE FROM SUGAR), SODIUM NITRITE, NATURAL AND ARTIFICIAL FLAVOR. SUGAR FREE STRAWBERRY GELATIN - ARTIFICIALLY FLAVORED - WATER, GELATIN, ADIPIC ACID (FOR TARTNESS), SODIUM CITRATE (CONTROLS ACIDITY), CITRIC ACID (FOR TARTNESS), ASPARTAME** AND ACESULFAME POTASSIUM (SWEETENERS), SALT, RED 40, ARTIFICIAL FLAVOR. **PHENYLKETONURICS: CONTAINS PHENYLALANINE. WHEAT TORTILLAS - WATER, MODIFIED WHEAT STARCH, WHOLE WHEAT FLOUR, VITAL WHEAT GLUTEN, PALM OIL, CELLULOSE POWDER, WHEAT PROTEIN ISOLATE, CONTAINS LESS THAN 2% OF SALT, LEAVENING (SODIUM BICARBONATE, SODIUM ACID PYROPHOSPHATE), CELLULOSE GUM, DISTILLED MONOGLYCERIDES, WHEAT STARCH, ALPHA AMYLASE, PRESERVATIVES (CALCIUM PROPIONATE, SORBIC ACID, FUMARIC ACID, SODIUM METABISULFITE), CANOLA OIL, TRIGLYCERIDES, ARTIFICIAL FLAVOR, CARAMEL COLOR, SUCRALOSE. CONTAINS WHEAT, SULFITES. CHEESE BLEND - 2% MILK NATURAL REDUCED FAT MOZZARELLA CHEESE (PASTEURIZED PART-SKIM MILK, CHEESE CULTURE, SALT, ENZYMES, VITAMIN A PALMITATE), NATURAL NONFAT CHEDDAR CHEESE...

no carrots, no beets, no corn, no potatoes, no bread, no peas... but distilled monoglycerides are just fine.

christmas constipation.

i had a wonderful christmas yesterday with The Cute and his mutt sidekick, Chicken. we opened gifts, and then spent the day lollygagging about (i lollygagged, he cooked lasagna) we had a sausage and cheese casserole for breakfast, and a cheesy lasagna with a side of sausage for dinner. they were both absolutely delicious, but next year, Santa, please leave some Ex-Lax in my stocking.
_____

a card from jibjab:

http://www.jibjab.com/sendables/view/mrqJVA4pyNGICGEuESTEUTvP

using our heads from this ridiculous pic from last christmas: http://sizeate.blogspot.com/2006/12/ufc-2006.html

hope your holidays have been happy and that you've been enjoying the attendant treats guilt-free!

"go on a diet diet."

i was on the subway this afternoon, looked up, and saw a series of signs running across the top of the car.

LIVE OR DIET

DIETS ARE MEAN

PEOPLE DON'T FAIL, DIETS DO

STOP DIETING, START LIVING

MAKE A NEW YEAR'S RESOLUTION TO NOT GO ON A DIET

isn't that awesome! how inspiring! i wanna get on this NO DIETING train!

i was, of course, intrigued. i wholeheartedly do not believe that diets work. yes, you will lose weight, but you will gain it back, or you will spend the rest of your life obsessing (mildly to severely) about keeping the weight off i.e. you will develop an eating disorder. it is my opinion that dieting IS a culturally-acceptable, culturally-endorsed, culturally-encouraged eating disorder.

anyway, upon closer inspection, i realized that these uplifting little bon mots were ads for Weight Watchers.

Weight Watchers, these signs tell me, is not a diet.

bullshit.

bullshit.

and oh yeah, bullshit.

Weight Watchers IS a diet. yes, you don't count calories, but you count POINTS. a number is a number. i will admit that WW is not the worst diet in the world as far as diets go. they've made adjustments in recent years that emphasize the importance of fruits and vegetables and exercise, but it is still a diet. it teaches you nothing about learning to eat intuitively, about listening to your body and its needs. you can spend the rest of your life counting calories or counting points or counting pounds, but it is still counting, and it is still crazy-making.

and... AND!!!

they weigh you every week. that's seriously fucked up. this allows no room for individual differences in how weight is distributed, muscle mass, water retention and extra heavy pair of dungarees. even more disturbing, it's an almost guarantee that you will, at one point or another, go to your "weigh-in" and leave in a shittier mood that you walked in. why? because you gained A POUND.

i went on Weight Watchers a few years ago "just to see." (more bullshit. i wanted to go on a diet. i wanted to be in control. i wanted, on some level, to develop another, more culturally-acceptable eating disorder). mostly, what i remember is that our meeting leader looked like Vincent Price, and that i was hungry ALL OF THE TIME. i had close to zero energy. but hey! i lost 2 pounds my first week.

EUPHORIA!

when i came back the next week, i knew i'd gained the 2 pounds back before i even got on the scale. when i hopped on the scale, and the numbers revealed that i had indeed gained those two glorious, life-changing pounds back, my meeting leader WOULD NOT EVEN LOOK ME IN THE EYE. he was ashamed of me? for me? i felt like i was being shamed, tsk-ed, scolded for gaining TWO POUNDS.

"well, let's just get back on track for next week."

fuck you, i thought. i will not be back next week. or ever.

but it sure beats child abuse.

talking about our philosophies on disciplining children with my aunt, uncle and grandmother when i was in baltimore last weekend. my grandmother turns to me and says:

"well, margaux wasn't disciplined; she was just fed."

i don't know whether to cry or to thank her for this accidentally illuminating insight into the genesis of my struggles with emotional eating.

nice legs.

one of my favorite blogs is dooce. one of my favorite posts is this one.

i'm a big advocate of therapy and medication (if it's needed and supervised). i took Zoloft for a year, about 6 years ago. my general practitioner prescribed it for me after i had a breakdown in his examination room. i was there for a routine physical. i had asked his nurse TWICE not to tell me how much i weighed, i even stood on the scale BACKWARDS, and she still told me, loud and clear.

"DID YOU NOT HEAR ME?" i yelped between sobs.

i felt as if i did not exist. as if my needs and desires did not matter. and then, of course, there was THE NUMBER.

i don't even remember the number, (it had to have been pretty low, i was knee deep in anorexia at this time) but i remember i could not stop crying. try as i might, i was sniffling and weeping and sniffling and weeping. i was able to pull it together just for a few moments i can do this, i can do this, when Doctor L walked in. just as my doctor extended his hand to shake mine, my face crumpled, tears fell. i could not do this, after all.

i was already in therapy at this point, but had never considered medication. i just couldn't. medication is for weaklings. crazy people. not ME. i was a pull yourself up by your own bootstraps type of gal. it's in my genetics, steel threaded into my DNA. never feel sorry for yourself, never be weak, never be... human.

doctor L convinced me otherwise.

"margaux. say you didn't have any legs. you're on a street corner and you desperately needed to get to the other side. i walk up to you with a pair of legs and tell you you can have them, you just have to say 'yes.' wouldn't you take them?"

i took it for a year, and it did help. i ate more. i got my period after a year of amenorrhea. i became more social. it's taken me awhile to attribute my improvement to the Zoloft. at the time, i just liked to think i was getting better all by myself! (those damn bootstraps again) i remember feeling less stressed, less anxious, less angry. or maybe not less, so much as i just found i could deal with the stress, the anxiety, the anger more effectively, more sanely. fasting on steamed cabbage with dijon mustard for three days would not solve my problems after all!

they do say that you cannot rely on drugs to fix your problems, and that you shouldn't take drugs alone, but in conjunction with therapy. i completely agree. one way or another, you're going to have to hash out your issues someday in therapy, in a support group, somewhere other than in your sweet little head. meds just keep you from completely losing your shit when your realize how many issues you really have.

thought you were over that childhood trauma? yeah... NO. start over.

i'm no longer on any anti-anxiety medication. i just stopped taking it one day. (not advisable, unless you like numbness in your extremities. i should have gone off of it under the care of my doctor. he would have tapered the dosage to avoid withdrawal effects). i'm also not in therapy. but all of that is for RIGHT NOW. i'm sure there will come a time when i'll feel the need to return to therapy. i'm also open to the possiblity of taking medication again if need be.

i like crossing streets, and there are so many ways of doing so.

still sassy after all these years.

my aunt, my grandmother and i were on our way to the bus station on monday afternoon. i was leaving baltimore after a short weekend trip to visit the family. (i had a great time, by the way. slept like a rock, and ate like a queen).

i'm not sure how the conversation started, but...

MY AUNT: well, in the pictures, So and So looks like they've lost weight.

ME: oh, yeah. they have, and i think they've even lost more since those were taken.

MY 88-YEAR OLD GRANDMOTHER: well, i think looove is the reason Margaux's lost weight... that or SEX!

s'more of b'more

i'm going to baltimore this weekend. my grandma is there visiting my aunt and uncle. they live in glen arm, an rural-ish area outside of baltimore, whose rolling landscape is punctuated by red barns and majestic trees. there's a firehouse nearby that always seems to be hosting a pancake breakfast (two of my favorite words). i really love it there, even if i do get carsick on quick trips to the grocery store. cars go up and down and right and left. subways pretty much go in a straight line.

life there centers around the kitchen. the kitchen counter specifically. one might spend a few minutes lounging in the living room or watching football in the den, but one always returns to the kitchen counter. elbows on counter, chin in hands, watching life happen. i'm looking forward to sipping coffee and chatting with my grandma, eating ice cream while watching the evening news with my uncle rick, digging through recipe boxes with my aunt char, and breathing... deeply.

see you monday.

did i mention that she's a size 2?

how dare you have appear to have an ample derriere and appear happy in the same series of pics? shouldn't you be wallowing in self-hatred?

i'm sure you've probably read or heard about this already, but here you are.

http://www.tmz.com/2007/11/28/name-that-butt/

and check out the caption:

We know what you ate this summer, Love -- everything!

i'm not the biggest fan of her acting or her singing, but this is gross, gross, gross.

and i don't mean her ass, i mean TMZ's decision to post something like this and the litany of cruel comments that followed. i don't know why i'm shocked. i mean, TMZ and newsstand magazines like it put out entire issues devoted to the BEST and WORST beach bodies and it always horrifies me, and yet i always pick it up, don't i? (did i tell you that the head researcher at one of these mags told me over drinks that they put those "body" issues together when there is absolutely nothing else going on b/c they know it will always sell - specifically to young women? true.)

she has posted on her blog about this, but i can't seem to get to it. i'm guessing her server crashed from all the hits. here'sa quote from an article i found on aol:

"Like all women out there should, I love my body," the 28-year-old actress tells her fans on her blog, adding "A size 2 is not fat! Nor will it ever be. And being a size 0 doesn't make you beautiful.

The former Hanes model says that she has "sat by in silence" for too long, claiming women are unfairly subjected to criticism about their physique."I'm not upset for me, but for all of the girls out there that are struggling with their body image," Hewitt said. Hewitt, who recently starred in the CBS drama 'The Ghost Whisperer,' announced her engagement to Scottish actor Ross McCall in late November.

Despite her frustration, Hewitt has some words of encouragement to fellow women out there: "To all girls with butts, boobs, hips and a waist, put on a bikini – put it on and stay strong."

happy friday.

gratuituous "baby" pic of the week

my nephew tyler. the most beautiful 11-year old boy ever. just after a gladiator football game. he likes hip-hop and he loves to read. (click on the pic for a better view)

thankful

i am thankful for so many things this year.

the way the smell of Thanksgiving lingers in my apartment for days.

my pink velvet chair.

Target.

a job that both challenges me and pays me quite well (to be driven insane on a daily basis).

itsy bitsy Barbie shoes.

my niece and nephews.

On Writing by Stephen King.

i've learned to not only accept, but love, at least a little bit, my belly.

The Cute and his heart lattes and, well... just his heart.

i used to be good about keeping a daily list of what i'm grateful for. i find it to be so very helpful in keeping things in perspective. i know we all know it, but you focus on the lack, and that's all you're gonna see (and probably get more of) ever.

some damn dog took a crap on my shoe! look at this pile of shit on my shoe! my shoes are totally ruined, and now, so is my life! all because of this pile of shit! and there is no one here to help me clean it up! i am alone and stinky, and it will never ever get better!

meanwhile, there's a pile of treasure sparkling in the sunlight two feet away that i have completely forgotten about.

oh, that. but how can i possibly carry it all home with this pile of shit on my shoe?

today seems like a good day, the day after thanksgiving, to renew my commitment to keeping a gratitude journal (the name irritates me like the smell of English Tea Rose Potpourri but i'll deal with it until someone comes up with something less schmaltzy).

the daily grace!

adventures in gratitude!

the thankful almanac!

i'll keep working on it.

aren't they absolutely ridiculous? aren't they totally cute?

portion-peeking.

"that's not enough food for you."

he says, peeking at a co-worker's breakfast tray.

"it's all i want."

"well, it wouldn't be enough for her."

her meaning me.

i'm not sure what that means, and i'm not sure how i even got to be a part of this conversation, sitting there minding my business, but i know i don't like it. i don't understand why people find it acceptable to comment on another's food - portions, combinations, or otherwise. no one knows my, her, his, their needs more than i, she, he, or they. so zip it.

do not comment on the size of my food portions, and i will not comment on the size of your brain.

mom.

today is the 20th anniversary of my mom's death. she died of cancer. it started in the breast and metastasized to her lung, then brain, then liver. she died on a thursday in 1987. i was 12.

my brother played in the Valdosta High School football game on friday night. he wrote the word MOM across his taped knuckles.

to the funeral, i wore a navy blue corduroy dress with puffed sleeves and a white cotton collar that my aunt charlene bought me the day before. i didn't cry. i was tired of crying. i was relieved.

i ate macaroni and cheese at the reception. casseroles multiplied like Gremlins those first few days. high-carb condolences.

we had a guest book for those who "called" at the house. i thought that was weird. i still do.

we got a lot of sappy sweet sympathy cards. i hated those. i still do.

i'm not sure i believe in heaven, but if there is one, and i go there when i go, i imagine we'll be reunited. there will be no celestial fireworks. no formal fanfare. no white and wings and halos and trumpets, but running shorts and tennis shoes, her walking through the back door asking me to help with the groceries. Maizey, our golden lab, trailing eagerly behind her.

i've got bad hearing.

i'll be posting pretty infrequently for a while. work is a bit crazy with the holidays coming up, and i'm working on getting size ate booked at more colleges in the spring, so i won't have much time for blogging. and yes, there still is that latte-heart-drawing boy. he's still around, thank goodness, although i'm sad to say that the jig is completely up. he now knows how truly nuts i am. the other day (in my defense, it was the end of a very long, bumpy one) as i stood in the kitchen, he told me:

"wow. you look sexy, so tall and thin."

i burst into tears, of course.

what i heard was:

"you look sexy because you happen to look tall and thin right at this very moment, but usually you don't look sexy because you don't usually look tall and thin, so i'm not usually attracted to you. this probably means you'll eventually stop having these moments of looking sexy i.e. tall and thin, and so i'll probably stop being attracted to you at all, ergo i'll probably stop loving you at all."

what he meant was:

"you look sexy, so tall and thin."

men. so literal.

-----

thank you, lisa and nina.

http://lemongloria.blogspot.com/2007/11/weight-weightdont-tell-me.html

sage advice

i went to cleveland for my grandmother's 90th birthday party a couple of weekends ago. she's in amazingly good health. still sharp as a tack, still physically agile, still opinionated and unafraid to let you know exactly what she thinks. probably one of the reasons she's lived so long and in such good health. she doesn't hold it in. she just says it. in 90 years, she's never ever been wrong about anything. i mean it, just ask her. she'll tell you.

so, i attribute her long life to that. that and the one gin martini a day.

on sunday afternoon, most of the family had congregated in gram's kitchen to say their goodbyes. i hugged her:

"happy birthday, gram. i love you."

"i love you too." then, as the entire family looks on, she leans over to whisper something into my ear. i'm thinking she's going to say something to me about The Cute (who came with me, the brave, sweet man). what a lovely man he is. how kindhearted and how well he handled being surrounded by 30 of my relatives. and how do you spell his last name again?

"and i think you should brush your hair."

whatever it is i think i see becomes a tootsie roll to me!

my sister in law dressed up my nephew tate for halloween. desperately makes me want a baby so i can dress him up in adorable costumes for my own entertainment! i saw an infant dressed up as a Hershey Kiss once, and i had to stop myself from nibbling her toes off!

baby chipmunk tate seemed to be having a great time...

the same cannot be said for big brother grant.


he was a little afear'd of his Big Bad Wolf costume (to the neighbor's little girl's Little Red Riding Hood), so he went trick or treating partially costumed.


my halloween was no less festive. i dogsat for The Cute while he was in LaLa Land making music.


hope your halloween was happy and completely guilt-free!

'cause seriously, it is.

if you're looking for my very unimpressive bostini cream pie Daring Bakers Challenge blog post go to my new, non-body image/eating disorders related blog - everything i bake is brown.

eibib is just for fun. i plan on posting infrequently and haphazardly with flour in my hair and chocolate beneath my fingertips.

the body supposition

as i blowdried my hair this morning, my soft belly peeked out from beneath my t-shirt and said hello to my reflection in the mirror.

my gut reaction, was one of "ewwww. fat, fat, fat girl."

wow. like riding a bike that body hatred!

later on as i was walking down the street on this absolutely beautiful indian summer's day, it hit me: the only times in my life when my belly has looked the way that i think it should look - flat like the girls on the cover of Shape magazine-flat - has been when i have been either one of two things -

SAD or STARVING.

neither of which i have any interest in being anymore. at least not by choice.

so, this led me to the conclusion that i'm probably just not supposed to have a flat belly. that really helped me relax. i mean, doesn't it stand to reason that the body you have when you're happy is very likely the body you're supposed to have?

just a thought.

i'm sorry, but "anna rexia" would never have boobs that big.

Skeleton Costume includes Knit Dress with Glitter Screenprint, Headband, Choker Neckband, Removable “Anna Rexia” Badge and Ribbon Tie Belt. $42.95 at Three Wishes

wondering if The Cute would be willing to go as Beau Leemik?

(thanks, a.)

thought for the day

why and how would it ever be a good idea to have a Mexican food restaurant in an airport?

you're just about to board (with a bunch of strangers) a bus with wings. a relatively small, confined space equipped with a pseudo-toilet that doesn't really flush anything away and doesn't really provide a proper means of washing your hands. you get Wet-Ones.

and they think it a good idea to offer Mexican food. so much for friendly skies.

...and our profiles match.

my brother beau was here in nyc on business a couple of weeks ago. he is VERY SUCCESSFUL and IMPORTANT - you can tell by the way that he handles his Blackberry like a scepter - and he is my brother! he has always been very supportive of me and my projects, and his wife (hi, al!) reads my blog on a relatively regular basis. in the past, they've both jokingly pleaded hurt feelings because i seem to have a number of pics up of grant and tate, my brother lance's weensies, but hardly any of their russet-haired children. beau brought it up again when i saw him last thursday night.

well.

i'm punishing beau for that time he locked me in the closet. and that time he told me to not be one of those nerds who reads all the time because no one was going to like me. and that time he called me Miss Piggy, and that time he told me i was built like a halfback, oh no, wait... that was the other brother. and that time(s) he knocked the wind out of me. and that time he pinned me to the floor and dangled a spit loogie over my face. and that time he pinned me to the floor and dangled a spit loogie over my face...and it fell...in my mouth.

and that time he woke me up one morning, "Margaux, get up! You're late for school!" i hopped out of bed, washed my face, rushed downstairs, poured myself a bowl of cereal. beau stood there flipping through a magazine, watching me eat.

"Hey Margaux, what time is it?"

"I don't know, Beau. Look at the clock."

"Hey Margaux, what time is it?"

i drop my spoon, look at the clock in frustration.

half past...12 midnight.

oh...but...then...

there was that time when i was a baby, he patted me on the head, and said to my grandmother, "i wuvs that little creep." and that time he shared with just me the bag of hidden-from-the-children salt and vinegar potato chips he found in the basement. and that time in the 7th grade, not too long after mom died, when my perfectionist self wandered into his bedroom at 2am, weeping because

"i have three six-week exams tomorrow, i've only studied for one, and i can't possibly remember it all."

he hugged me, and told me to just be sure that i understand the concepts, then i can answer the questions in my own words. i don't have to memorize the information word for word. and that time he lent me money...and that other time he lent me money...um, and that other time he lent me money. and that time, when i think he heard me really sing for the first time. it was at his wedding reception, and we slow-danced afterwards. he looked me in the eyes, and said, "you've gotta do something with that."

so, for all that and more, beauzo. and because all of your children are just too beautiful and amazing and mischievous and bright in their own right. i can't imagine where they get it from.

tyler + chester

madison


ethan

can't tell we're related, can ya?

brotherly, er...love.

Included in the Pillsbury Dough family are: Poppie Fresh (Pillsbury Dough Boy's wife), Popper (son), Bun Bun (baby daughter), GrandPopper and GranMommer (grandparents), Biscuit (cat), Flapjack (dog), Rollie (uncle)

"hey, margaux, when are you doing your show again? i want to bring my sister to see it. i want her to know she doesn't always have to be skinny or tryin' to be skinny. she just had a baby, and she's all 'i'm so fat'... well, she is a little fat now. she looks like a busted can of biscuits."

<, =, or >

"hey, can i try these sneakers in a 9 and a 9 1/2?"

he snickers.

"what? is something funny?"

"no, no, i'll be right back."

he returns with the shoes, and before i even get the first one on my foot:

"it's a really great shoe. girls really like it because it makes their feet look small."

pause.

i say nothing. i'm looking at the shoe. it's cute. sleek. a little flashy in the way i like it to be (think South-Florida-Grandma). the toe, however, is a little pointy for my taste. who wants a pointy tennis shoe? he interrupts my decision-making process to repeat:

"yeah, girls really like this shoe, because it makes their feet look small."

now, i say nothing to this guy. i'm still angry with myself because i didn't respond with the irritation that i felt:

as in, "maybe i don't want my feet to look small. my feet are in happy proportion to my not-small body. i may not be fat, i may not be lumbering (this year), but i am not a small woman. if my feet looked smaller, i'd look like a Chinese woman with bound feet. if my feet were smaller, i would probably have a hard time keeping my balance, and this would make it exceedingly difficult for me to kick your ass."

no, i just nod and smile, and point out the features of the shoe that make it "slimming."

"oh yes, i see. it's a very delicate shoe. not a big sole, and it's very structured."

i'm such a pussy.

i wanted to scream.

it's not that i think this guy is a horrible person or anything. he's selling shoes. he says what he needs to say to get the sale (he did not get this one). i also get that many women (including myself) don't want shoes that make their feet look like oceanliners. what annoyed me was the insistence and assumption in his voice. the insistence and assumption that of course i want my feet to look smaller because i am a "girl." feet, that quite honestly and objectively, aren't particularly boat-ish in proportion to my 5'8" frame. by extension, it pissed me off because its the same insistence and assumption i heard in his voice that permeates our culture, whispering into every woman, man, child's ear that if you're a female, you must want to be smaller, daintier, slimmer, wispier. AND, it's not just your major body parts that must desire to be smaller - not just your thighs, belly and ass - but your ears, your feet, the circumference of your head, the girth of your ring finger.

oh my god, i can't believe i wear a size eight ring.

if you're a female, you must want to be less in every conceivable way.

i don't get it. i mean, i do. of course, i do. i've been trained very well. i still struggle with the desire to be dainty, but when i think about it logically, it really doesn't make any sense does it?

i mean, does the woman who takes up the least space win?

and i mean something other than the envy of other eating disordered women and the lust of insecure men.

fringe benefits

i went to valdosta, georgia this past weekend for a wedding and to visit my brother and his brood (grant and tate are his tykes. wowza, are they cute. having a cherubic baby fall asleep in your arms might very well be the greatest incentive for procreation ever. pics to come!).

the wedding was one of the most beautiful and unusual i've ever attended. my friend s married an Indian guy, so they had two ceremonies - a traditional Indian ceremony with s all decked out in a sari, bindi and henna-tattooed hands, followed by a 45-minute cocktail break, then a traditional Western ceremony, with s all decked out in the requisite Big White Dress.

at the uber-fancy dinner and reception following the ceremony, i gathered with a couple of my high school friends to watch the traditional dancing. as we stood there, my friend m turns to me with a look of blissful relief on her face:

"hey! i just realized somethin.' i'm standin' here trying to hold my stomach in. i don't have to do that anymore! i'm pregnant!"

oh, my aching bilateral dorsal anterior cingulate.

Fig. 1 (Friederich et al., 2007). Subjective anxiety ratings in response to images of interior design and body shape images (n = 16 healthy women). 0 = not anxious at all, 10 = very anxious. [NOTE: different results may be obtained in avid fans of Martha Stewart Living or HGTV or Queer Eye for the Straight Guy.]

Friederich HC, Uher R, Brooks S, Giampietro V, Brammer M, Williams SC, Herzog W, Treasure J, Campbell IC. (2007). I'm not as slim as that girl: Neural bases of body shape self-comparison to media images. Neuroimage Jun 2; [Epub ahead of print].

The aim of the present study was to assess the impact of images of slim female fashion models on healthy young women. Brain responses to images of slim-idealized bodies (active condition) and interior designs (control condition) were measured using functional neuroimaging in 18 healthy young women. Instructions encouraged the participants to compare their own body shape/own home with the one in the images. Participants rated the level of anxiety that they experienced while exposed to the images. In the active relative to the control condition, participants activated body shape processing networks, including the lateral fusiform gyrus on both sides, the right inferior parietal lobule, the right lateral prefrontal cortex and the left anterior cingulate. The level of reported anxiety during the exposure to slim bodies correlated with established measures of shape and weight concern and with brain activations in bilateral basal ganglia, left amygdala, bilateral dorsal anterior cingulate, and left inferior lateral prefrontal cortex. Brain networks associated with anxiety induced by self-comparison to slim images may be involved in the genesis of body dissatisfaction and hence with vulnerability to eating disorders.

so that's what's happening in my brain when i'm flipping through Vogue magazine at the nail salon, and why i feel like i should head straight for the gym immediately following.

from The Neurocritic

gratuitous baby pic of the week #3

it doesn't seem fair that i should have to share on my birthday.

my nephew grant mitchell laskey turned two recently, and in typical aunt margaux fashion, i forgot. i've gotten into the habit of sending birthday and christmas gifts about six months late. i am going to spend all eternity in Bad Auntie heaven...surrounded by hundreds of children screaming for juice, and all i'll have is a bottle of vodka.

one of the many reasons.

The Cute knows about my disordered eating history and my warped body image. he sticks around anyway. a few weeks ago, we were eating at the diner after The Police concert. he got the club sandwich, and i ordered a veggie burger and fries. we were noshing away when he stopped to point out that while i'd been very certain to specify whole grain bread for my burger (i did everything but write it down for the waiter), i'd removed it from my plate, and hadn't eaten a bit of it. i laughed:

"yeah, i know. makes zero sense."

i then ordered a piece of the double fudge chocolate layer cake.

this week, we dined at the same delightfully tacky diner before i left for my pal's wedding in connecticut. i ordered another veggie burger with fries. The Cute, a reuben. my burger arrived sandwiched between two giant white bread buns reminiscent of Princess Leia's hairdo. as i nibbled the mozzarella off the bread and put the bun's remains to the side, i pointed out:

"i didn't specify a bread this time cuz i knew i wasn't gonna eat it."

"well, couldn't you eat some of the bread they do bring you?"

The Cute. soooo logical.

"yes, i could, but i'd rather save room for the spicy waffle fries."

"ah."

"i have issues," i say with a shrug, smiling through a mouthful of spicy waffle fry dipped in blue cheese dressing.

he stops. looks at me with affectionate amusement.

"you have cute issues. TOO. MUCH. CUTE."

no double fudge chocolate layer cake necessary today. this boy is sweet enough.