america the beautiful: the documentary

i went to see the new documentary by Darryl Roberts last night called America the Beautiful. it's a fascinating, terrifying, entertaining and educational look into America's obsession with beauty and the price we pay for that (if that seems like a broad description well, the scope of the movie is broad). what's even more fascinating is that the documentary is written, directed and produced by A GUY and funded by three other GUYS. i love that! he explains a little more about why he was drawn to making this movie on his blog.

anyway... GO SEE IT! it's opening in NYC tomorrow August 1 at Cinema Village, and will open in a number of other cities very soon. click here for listings.

see it because it's educational and entertaining (and if you can't feel comfy eating a 12 pound bucket of buttered popcorn while watching THIS film, when can you?), but also see it because the more people who go out NOW to see it, the more distribution the film will get, and then even more folks will get see it, and this film needs to be seen.

eye-opening.

thank you, darryl. i bet your mama's proud.

what i did last night

made this zucchini bread.

watched this remarkable video.



i highly recommend both.

napkins recommended to catch errant crumbs and tears.

could the jeans be higher-waisted?

all four of us girls greatly contributed to the depletion of the ozone layer with the creation of those hairdos (note the Diet 7up in hand).

looking at this picture makes me a wee sad, and it has nothing to do with the acid-washed denim, brick wall bangs or the Sun-In bleached hair - although all of that is bloody awful too.

this picture was taken about a year after my first flirtation with anorexia. by this time, i was seemingly well-adjusted, at a healthy weight and into my first year of high school. yet if cameras could freeze thoughts as well as images, and you could peel back the photo and peer into my mind, you'd see a mind graffiti'd with a litany of lamentations. SO UGLY. SO FAT. SO DUMB. SO UNPOPULAR. and yet, there i was... so pretty, so healthy, so smart, so popular, but completely unable to see it. blind to it. just about how a freshmen girl in high school is supposed to feel, i know, and i don't know that you can raise a daughter who won't ever experience a lick of self-hatred or self-doubt, but i just wish i could step into this picture, sidle up to 14-year old me, and whisper into her ear:

it gets better, beautiful girl, i promise.

let's trade places for a week and see how you feel about that statement.

this morning, on the subway ride in, i'm standing up holding on to one of the poles. there's a guy sitting down next to me. he seems a little out of it, but i figure he's just tired and undercaffeinated on a weekday morning.

like me.

fifteen minutes into the train ride, he leans over to the woman sitting next to him and says:

hold my seat, would you? i gotta go pee.

she looks at him and sort of gives him a combination shake and nod of her head. not wanting to piss him off, i guess, by saying no, and not wanting to commit to holding this guy's seat on a crowded train.

now, he declares:

"just hold my seat for a few minutes while i go pee."

again, she says nothing. just looks at him through her fluttering eyelashes, playing dumb.

i'm sorry, i'm a woodnymph from the Forest of Everlasting, i don't speak human. where do the fairies live in this city?

at this point, he gets up, and i think i'm being helpful by saying to this guy, who must be an out-of-towner:

"hey, there aren't bathrooms on the subway trains."

"i knooooow..."

and now i know from the stench, that this guy is drunk.

"i need you guys to hold my seat while i go pee in the space between the trains."

right.

and i giggle to myself, because it was just last night that my friend L from sweet, green, magnolia-sprinkled valdosta, georgia said to me via Facebook chat, "your life seems so glamorous in NYC!"

indeed.

really?

American Apparel's Nylon Tricot Suspender Swimsuit

i mean... REALLY?

but why?

wisdom is where you find it

i was headed to a dentist's appointment a few weeks ago to pick up my SECOND $500 nightguard (you are not you surprised to hear that i grind my teeth at night).

i get off at the 53rd + fifth avenue stop. i'm riding up a really loooooong escalator from the subway to the street exit, when some ambitious young lad takes the stairs.*

(i used to be The One who took the stairs, and i don't mean a few stairs, the it-will-actually-take-me-less-time-to-take-the-stairs-so-why-not stairs, but i mean the 150 steps stairs that NO ONE TAKES EVER unless the escalator is dead. i got a lot of who-the-hell and why-the-hell looks on a 90 degree days when i'd trudge up the stairs in my little black work shoes and my little black pencil skirt, eyes fixed, lips pursed, breath controlled. i loved the looks.

BECAUSE I'M BETTER THAN YOU, THAT'S WHY, my thoughts were screaming.

like many eating disorderlies, i fancied myself immortal, special, incapable of feeling pain or discomfort. needless, therefore... better than all you humans).

now, i ride the escalator. it feels GREAT to step aside and let those who want to walk up the escalator do so.

please! go right ahead.

anyway, this lad is leaping to the top of the stairwell, and we're all watching in a combination of awe and annoyance.

show off.

just as guy is getting to the top of the escalator, this homeless man - skin the color of milk chocolate, head surrounded by a corona of crazy gray hair and beard - steps onto the down escalator, takes one contemplative look at the guy dashing up the stairs, turns to the rest of us and shouts, like a king addressing his subjects:

REPEAT AFTER ME: EXERCISE? BAAAAD. MASSAGE? GOOOOOOOD. EXERCISE? BAD. MASSAGE? GOOOOOOD. NOW, GO GET ONE.

*in the NYC subway, if there's an escalator, there's usually a set of stairs right next to it. you see plenty of folks dashing down the stairs, but rarely up. some of those suckers are LONG.

my own little river map

this morning, as i'm getting dressed in front of the bathroom mirror, the sunlight streaming through the window hits my body in such a way so that the fine, white striations on my hips are more pronounced.

i stop. i stare. i gently touch them, delicate little white ribbons weaving across my hips and onto my inner thighs.

"oh, my poor little stretch marks."

i'm sure there will come a day in the not too distant future when i am not so well-rested nor so well-balanced, and i will see these marks as gross and unattractive. i will try to rid my body of them via copious slatherings of cocoa butter and vigorous exfoliations, but for today, i like them. welcome them. they are evidence of a life lived imperfectly, and a body and soul that has adapted.

"thank you."

a reaction of gratitude and compassion instead of disgust. this is a good day indeed.

blackmail on a sunday morning.

these are my cousins's kids. the two boys have their t-shirts wrapped around their heads "ninja-style," i was told (i thought it was more evocative of a chador, but i'm doubting that that was the intent).

see the super-scary ninja in the center? the one w/ the red hood? grandma char has a rather impressive collection of clip-on earrings. turns out super-scary ninjas like to wear them up their nose. part of their "shock and awe" approach to attack, i presume.

i took a bunch of pictures of them, they were all scrambling to see them, and eager for me to take more.

i told Red, "yeah, this is cool when you're nine, but in five years, you so won't want your friends seeing this picture."

which is totally why i'm saving it on my hard drive.

i guess i can take the canned goods out of my backpack then.

i'm headed off to baltimore this weekend (via the fancy, schmancy greyhound bus) to visit my aunt char, uncle rick and cousins. my cousin B is leaving in the next few weeks to teach high school for a year in the boondocks of alaska (are there boondocks in alaska?). i wanted to visit before he left.

aunt char is my dad's sister. my dad was a professional football player. my aunt char married a professional football player. my mom and dad had two boys and one baby girl. my aunt char and uncle rick had two boys and one baby girl. i'm the baby and B is the middle kid, so i'm not sure why it worked out the way it did, but B and i are the more unconventional ones of our respective families, so i guess i feel a special kinship with him. we have both stared down some personal demons pretty publicly, and we both never felt quite right about hanging around our hometowns or settling down like our sibs (we are, what you might call, "late bloomers"). i took off for concrete jungle of nyc and he took off for the sugary beaches of southern california. i guess i've sort of "settled" a bit in nyc, but he's off again to the wilderness of alaska, and he's super-pumped about it.

anyway, he's a one cool guy with a strong sense of self-awareness and humility, and i will miss our late night conversations in the kitchen about politics and education.

i called my aunt this morning to discuss when i might arrive.

"if i take the 2:30 bus i'll get there at 6pm. is that okay? i can come later if you want me to so you guys don't have to drive in rush hour traffic to come get me."

"i don't care. 6 is fine."

"great."

"and we have food."

some things never change.

my brother Lance sent me a copy of the Christmas letter my mom sent out in 1978. this is what she had to say about me (click the image to see it fully):





notice "loves cleaning" was not included in the list.

oops! missed a hip.

http://photoshopdisasters.blogspot.com/2008/06/zoo-shadow-of-doubt.html

the guy who was doing the photoshopping got so distracted by imogen's brand-spankin' new tatas, he couldn't finish the job. i'm sure he finished, ifyaknowhatimean, but he didn't finish this.

(thanks, r.)

getting my brownie ass on.

an im chat with my bro from this afternoon. referencing this post, of course.
4:42 PMbro: are you eating a "big" salad today

me: ha.

no

HUGE baked potato and veggies.

bro: just saw the post

are you going to eat it all

me: already did.

and a brownie

so there.

4:42 PM bro: you should probably go work out then

me: ha

or vomit.

bro: whatever it takes...you don't want brownie ass

me: lol

brownie ass

bro: i'm just joking

4:43 PM me: i know.

i DO have a sense of humor about it all

most of the time anyway.

something about this chat is endearing to me. something about my brother's ability to joke about it means he gets It... most of the time anyway.

kinda like when he told me a couple of years ago, after i'd started the blog and after i'd done the show in NYC:

"ya know, i don't call you Margox because i think you're big like an ox or anything."

(i did know that.)

sweet, right? in the only way that brothers - who know who you are, where you've come from and how old you were when you stopped wetting the bed - sweet in the way only brothers know how to be... just before they lock you in the closet.

if you can't think of anything nice to say, don't comment on my lunch.

last friday afternoon, i got onto the elevator with my lunch. a plastic carton i'd filled up at our company's overpriced salad bar. i ride the elevator for a couple of floors. the elevator stops. a guy gets on.

it's friday. it's sunny. i'm in a good mood. i am friend to Everyman. sprinkling my sparkly cheer on any who come into my company. awkward silence in the elevator? no sirree! i won't have it! i am friendly! i make everyone comfortable! i will not stare at my shoes! i will not stare at the floor numbers as they change, feigning fascination with oh my! the pretty lights!

14, 13, 12, 11, 10.

"hi," i say.

"hi," he says.

i rest in a self-satisfied pause.

then he ruins it all. he looks at my lunch and says:

"wow. that's a BIG salad."

and i swear he says it as if he's never seen the likes of such a monstrous salad. so incredulous he is, i might as well have an entire double chocolate fudge cake heaving in my arms.

and frankly, that is my goddamn business and would be perfectly acceptable and fine too! BECAUSE IT'S MY FOOD, MY BODY AND MY CHOICE, and if MY BODY needs an entire chocolate cake, it needs an entire chocolate cake, and if MY BODY needs a 4,000 pound salad it needs a 4,000 pound salad sans commentary from YOU, mr. weeny man. i know you. you, who ate a smooth peanut butter (b/c the crunchy kind hurts your wittle, tiny, baby-sensitive gums) and grape jelly sandwich on white bread while sitting at your computer, crumbs dropping between the keys. you are the person whose keyboard we are all afraid to touch.

well! now i'm just being judgmental.

no matter.

FOOD COMMENTATOR. i hate food commentators.

wow, are you eating ALL OF THAT?

wow, is that ALL YOU'RE EATING?

i try to be understanding. he works in the Technology department of my company. he's pale and wan and awkward. maybe he's uncomfortable in this small, confined space, alone with a living, breathing being that and has boobs and smells like flowers and SweetTarts, but seriously, is this all he can think of to say?

so many other options.

like...

nothing. absolutely nothing is sooo much better.

oh, right. fun.

Today, I will stop struggling so hard. I will let go of my belief that life and recovery have to be hard. I will replace it with a belief that I can walk this journey in ease and peace. And sometimes, it can actually be fun.

from The Language of Letting Go by Melody Beattie.

you can actually get the daily thoughts for a day at this website. i have the book by my bed. actually, i think it's under my bed. it's way easier to go to the website than to retrieve the book. i risk losing an arm to rabid dust bunnies.

for that passive-aggressive baby shower hostess

in an attempt to find some inspiration for a cute though not saccharine sweet baby shower corsage, i stopped by my neighborhood party store. i want to make something that's pretty, but something with a little wit, but something that doesn't involve baby socks or pacifiers or wet ones.

yes, i am making a baby shower corsage. i actually, seriously, no-joke googled "baby shower corsage that will not make you gag," in hopes that maybe there was some woman out there who was faced with a similar dilemma, solved it wittily yet prettily, and then blogged about it.

no dice.

so i went into the party store, and i didn't find much inspiration, but i did find this cake topper. it's not the best pic in the world (a better one here), but it's a figurine of a pretty darn slim pregnant woman (excepting her protruding belly) who has broken a scale because she's SO FREAKING HUGE.

i'm throwing a party to celebrate the birth of your beautiful miracle baby, you earth mother, you. i've baked you a big beautiful cake (your favorite flavor and icing), and now, i'm just gonna put this little figurine on top to remind you just HOW MUCH WEIGHT YOU'VE GAINED. now, go on, eat as much you want! it's okay! you're eating for TWO!

it bugs. and for a moment i thought maybe i was being oversensitive, but i did a quick google search looking for a better pic, and i found this. ah ha! commiseration is a fine thing indeed. i love the internetikins. i want to pinch its cheeks.

she has a home gym.

The Cute and i had dinner with some friends last night in fort greene, brooklyn. on the walk there, i saw this sign and immediately felt the need to take a picture.

as i fumble with my phone, The Cute:

"babe, i believe they're referring to Jamaican beef patties, not Patty who lives down the street."

this is my dresser.

i think i need a new one.

thanksgiving in june.

thanks be to jesus!

two things to be thankful for:

ONE:

the heat wave has broken. we are now lollygagging about in temperatures in the lower 80s.

on the way to the subway tonight, e and i discuss:

"it's going to be the early-80s tomorrow."

"really? does this mean i'll wake up with feathered bangs and wearing Jordache jeans?"

TWO:

ADELE.


if you haven't heard her, seen her, you should. i just saw her live tonight at the Highline Ballroom here in NYC. not only does she have an amazing voice that channels the soul goddesses of the 60s, she's only about 6-years old. (not true. she's just turned 20 on may 5. OMG! my grandma betty's birthday!). she's still a wee uncomfortable onstage - she sort of reminds me of me when i was a freshmen theater major in monologue class:

but what do i do with these things called HANDS? i swear i've never noticed them before! get them OFF!

but you just don't care. she's so damned charming, what with her bouncy, British accent and her little peasant top (with a Spanx underneath, she told us) and her fake eyelashes and her "mum" in the audience. her singing voice is similar to that of Amy Winehouse, but she's still very much her own artist and woman.

and did you notice? she's round, and curvy, and downright ample. i like seeing that. a round, curvy, beautiful woman selling out two nights at a popular NYC music venue. now... if they'd only show her entire body (not just her face) in her music videos. see?




and here.

grow some 'nads, music industry.

the sundress legacy.

flounce proudly.

i'm astonished, really. how quickly it comes back. you think you've conquered it. shoved it down into the innards, and yet.

doo do doo do, doo do doo do, doo do doo do...

it's like the goddamn Twilight Zone.

everyone's being an asshole because their buttcheeks are chafing and their pores are clogging in this miserable heat, but i'm somehow managing to take it personally.

is it because i'm ugly? is it because i'm fat? is it because of that zit on my left cheek?

seriously? um. no. suffering from delusions of grandeur, my dahlin'? everyone here is preoccupied with their misery - just like you - so shove some ice cubes into your C-cup and SNAP OUT OF IT!

nyc is having a bit of a heat wave. temps hit 100 today, and this past weekend was pretty awful too. on sunday, after The Cute (poor dear) drenched himself in sweat fixing the ice cube maker, we sat down at the kitchen table and stared at one another over a batch of homemade Bloody Marys. communication limited to vigorous eye movements and motionless-speaking worthy of a ventriloquist. movement permitted only to 1. visit the air-conditioned bedroom or 2. shower... again.

and NO TOUCHING.

i don't do well in heat, or rather, i haven't done well in the heat in the past. i've gotten much better, but it has always brought up so much body angst for me. hot and sticky weather means to me 1. hot, swollen body and 2. less clothing.

FAT-FEELING BODY!!! LESS CLOTHING!!! a torturous combination for someone trying to get comfortable with her body.

but then, i think, what would the challenge be in 365 days of big sweaters and courduroys? nada much.

over the past couple of years, i've relaxed a bit. gotten more comfy in my skin, gotten more comfy showing more skin. it's nice to move through the world with less body shame, and i consider the wearing of a certain summer staple one of the many bonuses of being a girl.

WE GET TO WEAR DRESSES!!! NA NA NI BOO BOO!!!

it is completely culturally-acceptable, daresay expected, for us womenfolk to wear light, flouncy (read: cool) dresses when the temperatures soar. i'm not suggesting you dress to please anyone other than yourself, but these days, i choose to weather heat waves donning strappy sundresses and flouncy tunics rather than my summer uniform of yore: heavy cotton XL t-shirts and jeans.

i swear their are boobs somewhere in this sea of jersey knit. hold on a sec, i'll find one for ya.

my body is far from perfect, and i obviously still struggle with some body anxiety when it comes to summer attire. so what makes it different now? what makes it easier now?

hm.

i think it has something to do with the fact that these days, my own physical well-being is mucho more important-o to my emotional well-being than what other people think of me... and my arms... and my ass... and that zit on my left cheek. sure, it might still feel like it matters sometimes, but a whole helluva lot less. these days, it's more about how i feel in the world, not about how i think they feel about my being in it.

actually, it's The Cute who's pointed out the Sundress Legacy to me on a number of occasions. me, on a hot summer's day, slipping into a light, airy confection of a summer dress, and he struggling into yet another pair of PANTS: those sartorial contraptions that cover both legs in material from hip to heel.

you girls are lucky.

yes, yes we are. not totally fair, i'll grant you, but then neither was that not being able to vote for the first 100+ years of the republic. i'll consider this a fair trade, thanks.

i have to go shopping now.

sausage grows on trees.

i. want. this. album.

(thanks, nina).