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.

happy might make my butt look big, but you're miserable and won't go to therapy.

the fucking dress doesn't fit.

the dress i was planning on wearing to my friend's wedding this weekend in connecticut doesn't fit.

there. i said it. it's not because i have two little zit scars in my cleavage; or because it's black, and i'd really rather wear something a little more cheery and light for a late summer wedding.

the fucking dress doesn't fit.

the dress i put on layaway, and i never put things on layaway convinced that if i can't afford it one one fell swoop, well then, i can't really afford it, can i?

duped by the exotically beautiful salesgirl that oozed:

eet is soo pract-ee-kal, you vill vear it all zee time. black eez so basic and vorks for everyzeeeng.

yes, i agree. black is basic, and it works for everything, but only if it FITS, dammit.

oh, it fits, if you want to be literal about it. i can zip it up, and it looks normal, but it feels completely uncomfortable. i feel like a trussed chicken: BOUND. i wouldn't be able to eat a thing, sitting would be so-not-fun, and forget dancing! and if a girl can't dance and eat at a wedding, why bother going?

i've put on a little weight since i bought the dress a couple of months ago. i'm annoyed. i feel a little dumb. i feel a little angry. i feel a lot ashamed, and why? because i've gained about five pounds. five pounds, margaux, not forty. feeling annoyed, dumb, angry, and ashamed over gaining five pounds...now, that's something to feel annoyed, dumb, and angry about.

particularly when i think about why i've gained five pounds:

i've been happy.

HAPPY, people.

i was more than a little sad for a few months there. so sad, and so heartbroken, that i veritably lost my appetite. that is, i can say without a doubt, the first time that has ever happened to me in my entire life. someone really should mark that down somewhere. etch a brass plaque and screw it to my ass:

IN NOVEMBER 2006

MARGAUX LASKEY LOST HER APPETITE.

because i am highly doubtful it will ever happen again.

i've never been one of those people who "cope" by not eating. "coping" for me, much of the time, has meant eating. not this go around. chocolate held no appeal. bagels, nada. ice cream, ehhh. cheese, pffft. i'd like to think this means that i've developed some new way of coping, that i just allowed myself to feel the sadness. i spent many hours curled up in a ball on my bed weeping. tears trickled down my face while i rode the subway home. i cried in the supermarket's frozen meats section. i wasn't scared of the sadness because i knew it wouldn't last. like all emotions, i knew it was temporary. i could go "there" without feeling like i'd never come back because i'd been to the abyss before and made it back. i could go "there" again with a sense of peace, so i didn't have to go to the refrigerator.

and the not-eating (not-eating much, i should say. i was still eating, just not much) wasn't about starving myself, or some fucked up, "well, if i were thinner, things wouldn't have turned out this way or that, this or that person might actually have loved me, and we could have lived happily ever after." nope, it wasn't about that either. i just needed to spend time digesting my emotions, not food. the ache in my heart overwhelmed the ache in my belly, and i just needed to give it its due.

so, there ya have it. i lost weight.

people started noticing. Friends Who Know expressed concern:

"i just want you to tell you that i've noticed that you've been losing weight."

co-workers shouted their congratulations across the office:

"you're looking good, girl!"

family members offered that familiar though confusing cocktail of envy, curiosity and concern:

"now what have you done to lose that weight? well, don't lose anymore... but you look great."

it started to scare me a little bit. i could see how easy it would be to step back into the hopsotch of disordered eating. with all of this attention and the loose-fitting clothes that i wore like sartorial trophies, why not keep it up? i distinctly remember being awoken in the middle of the night by hunger pains once during that time. it was a pivotal moment for me, and i think i knew it. i could stay in bed and try to go back to sleep, i thought, and choose to ignore the growls in my belly. if i keep it up, surely i would lose more weight, get more attention, feel "better," feel superior. i actually sat up in bed and said aloud to myself, "nope, we're not doing this. we're getting out of bed, and getting a snack."

peanut butter and graham crackers.

slowly, i started feeling better. i woke up one morning and realized i was no longer missing the dysfunctional rigamarole that had been my raison d'etre for so many months. i wasn't crying anymore. i was laughing a lot more. i was drinking a bit (sometimes a lot) more. i was kissing a lot more. i was dancing a lot more. i was happy a lot more. so, i guess it would stand to reason that i was eating a lot more.

so, yes, what this means is:

i've gained weight.

wow. i said it, and the world didn't crumble around me.

i've gained weight.

and i am still me.

i've gained weight.

and the people who loved me when i was five pounds lighter, still love me.

i've gained weight.

but - no, not but - AND, i'm happy.

the dress doesn't fit, but there's always another dress, and i really like the way i look in Happy.