sorta surfing...2 thoughts.

you are a fat, ugly slob.

what?

yes, you. you are a fat, ugly slob. did you see those photos of yourself in a swimsuit?

um, yes. yes, i did.

so, what are you going to do about it? i certainly think that should serve as a wake-up call. you're going to go on a diet, aren't you? and please, get a tan. you were blinding people out there.

um, no. it certainly occurred to me, but no. i am not going on a diet, and no, i will not get a tan. i do not tan...i crisp.

what are you going to do? i mean, you cannot be happy with the way you look in a swimsuit. something must be done!

yes, thank you, i am going to do something. i'm going to try to accept and love my body for the way that is right now at this very moment in all of it's glorious imperfection. i'm not going to lie and say i was happy to see how i look in a swimsuit. it's still difficult. maybe it always will be, although i'd like to think that someday i will see myself and think nothing but, "oh wow. there's me. there's me...happy."


know what though? i don't think i could have enjoyed myself any more yesterday with a thinner body. i don't think the sun would have felt any warmer against my skin. i don't think the ocean would have felt any more bracing and clean. i don't think the sand would have been any more yielding and soft to my tired feet. i don't think the waves would have felt any more powerful and lifting. i don't think my heart would have beat any faster when i stood up on the surfboard for the first (and second and third and fourth) time and immediately went crashing into the surf, head over heels.

i don't think i could have felt any lighter had i weighed any less. turns out that has absolutely nothing to do with the size of my ass.

i was just asking.

yeah...well...don't.

_______


on the beach w/ my friend c yesterday. we went surfing, er...actually, i should say that c went surfing, i went attempting to surf. i did get up on the board, but mostly just fell over in a lovely tumble every time. the surfer dude Dan that was supposed to teach us was a no-show, so we were left to our own devices. it was fun though, and quite literally and figuratively, a day at the beach. and don't you just know that all snack foods taste best on a beach under a big pink hat? no? well, they do. duh.

as we're sitting there, i'm looking around at all of the different types of bodies prancing about, and i'm thinking:

wow...they really are all so beautiful. she's certainly not skinny, but what a lovely wittled waist and pendulous hips...oh, and her! she's whiter than me, poor dear, but her skin's like porcelain, and what a lovely rest for the eyes after all of the copper-skinned sunbathers trotting about...and look at her...she's got a belly, but she wears a bikini anyway...she does not apologize for the soft and round souvenir left behind by pregnancy.

i say to c, who is a wee little lass...a petite 5 footer who doesn't weigh enough to give blood, and has a couple of (ahem) body issues of her own:

it's interesting how i'm looking at all of these different bodies. i can be so gentle and sympathetic with their imperfections, mostly finding beauty there, but i can't do that for myself.

i don't really notice other people's bodies.

when i was really deep in my shit, i used to be very judgemental of other people's bodies, mostly women. i would always be comparing myself.

yeah, i really only compare myself with people who are smaller.

people who are smaller?

yeah.

like who? children? three-year olds?

sometimes. (in total seriousness)

we collapsed into a fit of laughter once she realized what she said, but i've been there, or at least some place like it. i used to be very proud when i could pick up teensy-tshirts in the little boy's department, and they'd fit me. the boobs are back tho, so no more of that. i never looked very good in Transformer t's anyway.

the best bod on the beach
(if i ever have a daughter, i'm fairly certain she'll look just about like this.
because i looked just about like this...and still do.)

surfing...and i don't mean the web.

they have their version...

i'm taking off tonight for Narragansett, Rhode Island with my friend c. we're taking surfing lessons tomorrow! we've been planning this since the spring, but it's just now occurring to me that 1. i will have to wear a swimsuit 2. i could get bashed in the head by a surfboard and drown and/or 3. one of my limbs could get chomped off by a shark (well now, wouldn't that present a whole new set of body image issues?)

but let's focus on the positive!

this is one of my many attempts to find exercise and movement that brings about a sense of joy as opposed to a sense of self-inflicted punishment. i'm not sure how much joy i'll be feeling as i am now imagining lots of water of up the nose, wedgied swim trunks and sunburn, but what the hey. gotta give it a shot. my nasal passages could use a good cleanse, there's nothing quite like a sudden wedgie to make you PAY ATTENTION and the sunshine generously sprinkles my face with freckles which, if i don't say so myself, is kinda cute.

hang ten!

and we have ours.

the scarlet letter

my dear friend A, an old 3rd and 4th grade school chum from Natchitoches, Louisiana, has been a wee bit sicky as of late. it borders on serious stuff, and i worry about this auburn-haired beauty who has the most generous spirit of anyone i have ever met. perhaps, if i am lucky, i will grow up to be like her someday. (highly doubtful. i grew up fighting two older brothers for the front seat; i will never be completely generous in spirit.)

she sent me a box of French orange-essence chocolates called "Madamoiselle de Margaux" in the mail a week or so ago just for the heck of it. (funny how those trinkets always arrive at juuuust at the right time, isn't it? when you are certain everyone has forgotten your name, much less your address and passion for sweets.) she sends me boxes brimming with goodies that make me sparkle and my house smell clean. she leaves precious musings in my myspace message box that make me teary and long for our childhood of climbing gingko trees, playing in the clover patch behind her house, suckin' on Icees from the corner store.

people like A make me like myself more...

well, surely, the thought must go, if she thinks i'm deserving of this here chocolate/eye glitter/love, then surely i must be. she's no dummy.

i had a related conversation with a good friend the other night. now, this fella is a wonderful human bean, but doesn't always think so. there is no number of inspiring quotes or amusing e-cards that can convince him of his wonderful-ness. i've tried. nada. he did recognize that he's blessed with a number of wonderful friends and family, to which i replied with more than a little frustration:

don't you know that that says something about you? assholes do not attract good people.

i don't know that he got it, but i did. my friends are fabulous; so must i be! (if only a fraction on some days).

Winston Churchill said it far more eloquently than i:

Show me who admires and loves you and I'll show you who you are.

if these photos are any indication, i'm quite a glamorous hottie...even when i'm sick.

all photographs of A by A.

a little bathroom reading, part 2

in an email from my friend La this morning: her take on the WHAT ARE YOU WAITING FOR? assignment:

My dad's visiting. This morning he asks, what's the message on the mirror? It's to remind me to take action. And he nodded. He knows.

the above is all tricked out with Photoshop Elements, the below is as seen upon entering her powder room.


______

and now, a word from our sponsors...

sort of unrelated, but no less inspired...the music of Matt Shulman. just discovered him yesterday thanks to my publicist, Laurie Sheppard over at BOOM PR. they (you know, those very important people They) say "he's like Miles Davis meets Radiohead" or a "Chet Baker for the 21st century." his rendition of "My Funny Valentine" makes my eyelashes flutter and my pinkies dance. you can get a sample of it on his website. he has a gig coming up this Saturday at the Rockwood Music Hall (a quaint little joint where Nora Jones is known to frequent) and on August 7 at The Jazz Standard...you know, where all of They hang out. check it out. your pinkies need the workout.

overheard in the office today

"in Cuba, there are five words for a woman like that:

aye aye aye aye ayeeeeeee."

not about me, i should note, but it shoulda been, dammit. no no no. a co-worker was expressing his er...affection for Thandie Newton, one of the many stars of the movie Crash after i had expressed my er...affection for Terrence Howard, also a member of the Crash ensemble cast, but the movie that single-handledly turned me into an almost-stalker of this mocha-dreamboat was Hustle & Flow. i watched it this weekend, and immediately set about thinking how i could marry him and have his babies. i highly doubt he dates weeny white women like myself, but a girl can dream...

oh, dear me. a girl's prospects are mighty slim when she finds herself falling for a pimp who uses a curling iron.

a little bathroom reading...

there will be no formal invitation sent.

had my weekly phone chat with kindred spirit La today. when we hang up, i look at my phone, the hours flash, and i'm shocked. surely that was just a 15 minute conversation! no, my dear, try 1:37 hours. let me tell you, it's more fun and far cheaper than therapy.

we both have problems taking "life by the balls" as it were. we both agree that we've gotten better in the recent past - i've take some swan dives off of the high dive into the Vulnerability Pool over the past few months (for the record, there's always water there. it's not always warm, mind you, but there is always water, and frequently dear friends to clap when you emerge from the water glistening and shocked you've survived), and she has fully recovered from a physically and emotionally crippling back problem in the past couple of years. she is now a charmingly prudish assistant librarian who takes test drives in navy blue Saab convertibles for the hey-na of it. i (heart) her.

but hey, we do still have our issues, and hey, we sometimes like to forget we still have our issues. we could both stand to take more risks. we could both get a little more comfortable with grabbing life by the 'nads. so, in an effort to remind ourselves that life, indeed, is short, we agreed to get crafty with a little watercolor and slap the following question onto our bathroom mirrors (the above is mine):

WHAT ARE YOU WAITING FOR?

we agreed that asking this question can inform so many decisions and choices you make throughout the day. unlike the tired old maxim LIFE IS SHORT (yeah, and?), this one demands an answer, therefore you actually have to think, and that might lead you to making a different (read: scarier) choice. you might decide to draft your resume for that dream job, ask for a raise, wear the silky red lace underwear even if you aren't properly trimmed, make that phone call to your estranged relative, confess a crush (and not vomit), dance around your apartment nude to Ms. Dy-Na-Mi-Tee at 2 am, or just try a different flavored Dunkin Donuts iced coffee tomorrow morning.

so, i'll let you know how this informs my daily decisions. maybe i'll sprinkle on a little MAC eye glitter and slip into a pair of cute shoes. maybe i'll skip a few steps to work. maybe i'll begin to smile at the cute ones that smile at me. maybe i'll call my estranged relative in an attempt to break The Wall. maybe...oh, the possibilities are endless! and isn't that exciting? scary. yes. but what's the option? regret? no, thank you. i've had more than my fair share, and it's not an acquired taste...ever.

life is short, people, but size doesn't matter. it's what you do with it.

tootin' my own horn

after a few celebratory cocktails, the photography got very avant garde...

size ate was nominated for two New York Innovative Theatre Awards last night.

Outstanding Solo Performance

and

Outstanding Performance Art Production.

woo hooo!

i've actually known for a few weeks, but had to keep it on the down low until the official announcement ceremony last night. but now...the gloves are off. this nomination has the potential to catapult me and my show into the international limelight - i'll be bigger than David Hasselhoff in Europe - encouraging women to embrace and love their bodies in all of their many sizes, shapes and colors in every country all over the world!

or perhaps just a few colleges in the tri-state area...to start.

now really, i know it sounds like a cliche, but it really is just an honor to be nominated. it was such a surprise in the first place, if i were to win (which i really really don't think i will, and i'm not just fishin' for compliments), it'd just be icin' on the cake. (but then, you all know how much i do looooooove icing...)

it would have been a lovely ceremony had it not been for the fact that it was the hottest day of the year and the Ukrainian National Home's air conditioner went kaput that afternoon. blech. a roomful of sweating drama queens...not a pretty sight. no one's hair was happy.

somehow, it turned out to be a fabulous evening anyway...must've been the friends that were there to support me.

oh, and the vodka sodas helped too.

is it a bird? is it a plane? a new kind of rorshach test?

summer has arrived, and she is a raving, menopausal beeatch.

god. it. is. hot.

and all those people that are saying:

yes, it's hot, but it's not really humid, so it's really not that bad.

can just go back to their non-air-conditioned apartments, sip some organic herbal tea and melt a smug, environmentally-friendly death because I DON'T WANT TO HEAR IT.

kidding, kidding, people!

actually, i'm handling this summer surprisingly well. could be because i'm spending quite a bit of it inside standing nude in front of my AC while drinking a Corona with a little lime pendant bubbling at its neck. yes, there is that, but i'm also trying to remember to walk slower, wear breathable cotton clothing (and underwear!), drink a shite-load of water, and buck convention by walking on the shady side of the street. all i need is a parasol! (and you think i jest...)

yesterday was supremely hot. i met up with my friend j. from IIN for a little "check-in" meeting. we get together to see how we're doing on our goals both professional and personal.

she was wearing long sleeves.

what?

i, on the other hand, felt like i could not get naked enough. yesterday was so very hot, i forgot my body dramas. i do not care that my arms are jiggly, or that my belly peeks out from beneath my tank top, or that my feet are imperfectly calloused. why? because i am certain that i am DYING OF A HEAT STROKE. puts my thighs in perspective. the blazing sun just downright fries all that self-consciousness away, and reveals a new attitude in its place: you have a problem with my impudent little belly? yes, well, it can fuuuuck you up.

sort of refreshing, isn't it? don't ya just loooooove a silver lining? it's dripping with sweat, but it's there. shiny and slick. like my forehead.

and still anatomically incorrect...and gay.

blond ambition

seen on a t-shirt worn by a girl at the bagel shop today:

When the going gets tough, the tough go blond.

i'm taking it as God's way of answering my recent quandry as to whether i should go back to my au naturel shade of brunette.

and you don't even need a tutu.

photo by Chester Higgins, NYT

Judith Jamison, Artistic Director of the Alvin Ailey Dance Company, from The New York Times, July 5, 2006:

She says Ailey dancers "are all sizes and shape — all muscle, but tall, short, a little wider, a little narrower, from everywhere in the world, and every dancer knows when you start in my company, you come out on stage a 10; then you can work your way up to wherever you're going."

"I tell my dancers you achieve that by understanding that the body God gave you is a 10," she says. "He gave you something perfect to work with."

dog days of summer

i know i keep saying i'm coming back...and i am. i haven't been feeling very "writerly" lately. i am working on a post about boobs tho, so stay tuned. yes. BOOBS.

so here...a semi-ode to summer. that pain in the ass animal that keeps showing up at my doorstep.
___

summer

alternately kisses

and licks my face

down! down!

slobbering all over my freshly

washed cotton shirt

and perfumed skin.

now a furious pinky red

oh, why the fuck bother?

i want to die when

she snuggles against my chest

and pees out of inbred excitement

sending a steady

drip

drip

dripping

down

down

down

between my breasts

into to a pool of excruciating drool

that rests in the nook that is my belly button

ew.

but then it

comes to me in the

evening beneath the shade of a tree

unconditional sunshine

wags her wistful tail

breezy

breezy

breezy

and i can't help but thank her

for

cherry popsicles

eyelet lace sundresses

and

grass stains.

but she's totally not anorexic...i just saw a picture of her in US Weekly eating an ice cream cone!

check out this blog, and i swear, i will be back soon. ready or not.

i think i could take her...

have i been horribly remiss in posting lately or what?

eh...blame it on the heat and humidity...blame it on post-vacation blues...blame it on President Bush...whatever your fancy. i've been spending lots of time putting together an EPK (electronic press kit) for my show, so i'm a bit computer weary. no offense, dear readers, but in my off hours, i'd rather be sitting under a shady tree and digging my toes into the dirt.

so, in an effort to quell your demands for posts (i'm kidding...not a one of you has complained about my absence. sniff, sniff.), i'm posting one of my favorite photos from my show, size ate, in november. my lighting designer, jenny granrud took them all, and this is actually the first time i've been through them - there were about 200.

cool, huh?

seattle smiles...

sorry folks...have been in the seattle and portland area for the past 8 days. first, a week in seattle hanging w/ my pal s., then on to the portland area for a family wedding. i tried to blog from there, but the computer i had access to would not have it so. probably best...i needed a break from all things Web. so, i got crafty, and made some postcards which you see here to send home to friends.

i also learned that heaven tastes like a foamy soy latte made especially for me by barista Michelle at Revolutions in the Green Lake district of Seattle...

food served in a restaurant with a pink door and trapeze artists tastes better...

if you're doing the 2.9 mile run around Green Lake (or any run for that matter), it's far more enjoyable and passes far more quickly if you smile at the passersby. i always find it interesting who smiles back; often it's those that look the least friendly that are the most eager to let one big old grin rrrrrrriip...

i'm far less independent than i used to be (and i mean that in the best possible way). i'm finding i need people, and i'm only delighted by that discovery...my friends are like a good pair of earrings - i don't feel complete without them, and they make my whole head sparkle.

i love my friends, part deux

i would look so good on this sofa - would bring out the pink in my cheeks....both pairs.

i received a telephone call from my friend r.h. the other day.

"hey, what are you doing?"

"oh, just staring at your sofa."

"my sofa?"

"yes, your sofa. it's at nova zembla. it's pink with white trim and buttons. it's perfect. i'll take pictures and send them to you."

so this morning, i rec'd this email with attached pics:

These don’t do the fabric justice. Much like yourself, its weave is too complex and unique to be fully realized on film.

Though you are quite photogenic as a rule.

r.h.

i'm only funny when not trying.

now, if they'd all done this, i would have an idea...

a co-worker said to me at work today...

"have you ever had any secret admirers?"

"well, i'm certain i must have had plenty, but they never told me."

yeah. this is called LIVING IN A FANTASY WORLD. i've established residency there. come visit. no sales tax.

storypeople

"this is an American unicorn which explains why it has two horns and they're painted to match the tile in its bathroom."

i don't know if you all are familiar with Brian Andreas's art and poetry...but you should be. whenever i need to send a birthday e-card or just need a little pick-me-up, i go here. they're silly, they're profound, and some are downright tearjerkin'. i can read his stuff over and over again, and it never gets old. hope someone feels that way about me someday.

here's just a sample of a few of his poems:

She said she usually cried at least once each day not because she was sad, but because the world was so beautiful & life was so short.
-
I used to wait for a sign, she said, before I did anything. Then one night I had a dream & an angel in black tights came to me & said, you can start any time now, & then I asked is this a sign? & the angel started laughing & I woke up. Now, I think the whole world is filled with signs, but if there's no laughter, I know they're not for me.
-
I used to think traveling to exotic places would be fun, but I have a little more experience now & it’s only fun if it doesn’t wreck your sleep.
-
I asked her what she planned to do with her life & she said she was way beyond that point already. I'm just happy I remember to be there when it happens, she said.
-
Of course I'm not happy, she said to me, but I've got a degree in psychology so at least I can explain why.
-
One Halloween, my sister made a magic wand & she went around giving wishes to all my friends, but when she got glitter on all the candy they yelled at her & she went home crying & later on my mom made me share my candy with her & she was so happy she flung glitter all over & gave me an extra wish I know didn't work because I still have a sister who loves shiny stuff.

i love my friends.

...but you do have an unsightly hair growing out of the mole on your face. please pluck.

a voicemail rec'd today at noon upon exiting the sweltering subway:

hey, it's b. just calling to say, "Hi." i was thinking of you because it's so hot, and i know you're probably miserable. i just wanted to let you know that you are not fat.

love you, and call me later if you want. i'm around. running errands, watching the food channel.

the best princesses have messy hair (and tater tots for lunch)

contrast is cruel. sitting in an office under a labyrinth of air vents and fluorescent lights after a weekend spent idling under a canopy of trees in Central Park, sunlight piercing through the emerald folds of Summer's new party dress is just plain torture with a capital Mean.

ugh.

let's focus on the positive!

one of the best things about this weekend was a call i rec'd from my old friend r.s.c. she was calling to check in to see if i'd heard anything about another high school pal who'd just given birth to her first baby on saturday at 3 a.m. - samuel joseph.

yes, mom and baby and daddy are splendid. sigh.



















we gabbed as old friends are wont to do; as if i'd seen her a couple of days ago and not the 6 months it actually has been. we discussed some pretty deep stuff within the half hour we were on the phone. snap! we just go there. our fathers (that coulda gone on for days, Verizon doesn't own enough minutes). not having enough time in the day to really just enjoy Life. motherhood. i expressed my utter awe at the fact that she was a mom to two goh-geous, loving kids (who were giggling with glee in the background as we spoke). i still just don't "get" how people do it. she quelled my fears of imperfection somewhat when she said:

oh, if my walls could talk.

she then told me that she still thinks about my show (which she came to NYC to see back in november) and that she can no longer do her 4-year old little girl's hair anymore:

or at least not the way i used to. i used to be ruthless - pulling and tugging and getting her hair to look 'perfect.' now, i just sort of do what i can and say, 'you're just beautiful the way that you are, and it doesn't really matter how it looks!' i also let her make more decisions about what she wears. i even let her wear her princess outfits to the mall.

goodness that made my day.

i'm left wondering...is it acceptable for a 31-year old to wear her princess outfit to the mall? i mean, really. how else do i expect the Prince to recognize me?

so proud to be a michigander

The Milford Baking Company in Michigan is serving up "Hoffa cupcakes," featuring a green plastic hand reaching up through chocolate icing and candy sprinkles.

and the engraved ones are so expensive.

Why don't Southern girls like group sex?

Too many thank-you notes.

from today's New York Times's article about Southern hostesses

pardon my love for poetry

venus in white cotton underpants
(and no, this is not me)

i know some of you would rather, oh, i dunno...spend an hour or two with me mid-PMS breakdown with no ibuprofen or chocolate in sight than read the stuff, but this poem struck a chord with me last week while riding into work on the subway. all about the extraordinary in the ordinary...plow through if you can...there's a lovely nugget at the end that tastes like happy (which is remarkably similar to the flavor of a purple SweetTart).

LETTER FROM OUR MAN IN BLOSSOMTIME

Often an easterly churns
Emerald feathered ferns
Calling to mind Aunt Rae's decrepit
Framed fan as it
Must have flickered in its heyday.
Black-eyed Susans rim blueberry. Display,
However, is all on the outside. Let me describe the utter
Simplicity of our housekeeping. The water
Stutters fits and starts in both sinks, remaining
Dependably pure ice; veining
The ceiling, a convention of leaks
Makes host of our home to any and all weather. Everything
creaks:
Floor, shutters, the door. Still,
We have the stupendously adequate scenery to keep our morale
Afloat. And even Margaret's taking mouseholes in the molding
Fairly well in stride. But O my friend, I'm holding
Back epiphany. Last night,
More acutely than for any first time, her white
Forearms, bared in ruth-
less battle with the dinner, pierced me; I saw
Venus among the clamshells, raw
Botticelli: I have known no happiness so based in truth.*

- Louise Glück

*bolds are mine.

a minor explosion + a movie

my cleanse died an unsightly death on friday night.

met my friend r for drinks and dinner. what i ate was not on the cleanse. i justified my meal - a veggie burger with french fries - by telling myself that it was all plant-based (excepting the giant puddle of blue cheese on top of the burger), and the 1.5 martinis i drank were clear...like water, i told myself.

ha.

ha.

ha.

my stomach could not be fooled.

excuse me, you feed me nothing but raw vegetables and fruit all day long, then you expect me to just up and deal with this? just so you know, i'm gonna keep you up all night, and that little road trip you're planning on taking tomorrow to South Orange, New Jersey is going to rawther terrifying for you b/c i just might explode at any moment with absolutely no warning other than a swift kick of nausea just before i blow.

that'll teach me.

----

on saturday night, i stayed in and watched movies. the 40-year old virgin - snorting laughter, people, snorting, raucous laughter - and a charming little fluff of a movie - last holiday with queen latifah. she plays a quiet frump who lives very...safely. she loves to cook extravagant feasts for others, but will only eat Lean Cuisine for dinner. she has an enormous crush on a boy, but can hardly speak to him. (god, this sounds so painfully familiar). anywhoo...she finds out she has just a few weeks to live and...oh, you know the story. it is what it is what it is, folks, but it is sweet, and it's absolutely refreshing to see a woman (and an African-American one no less) who is not a size 2 starring in a Hollywood movie as a smart, intelligent, desirable woman...not the maid or snarky sidekick. and, she gets the cute boy (LL Cool J) in the end!

gerard depardieu is in the movie as well. he's so charming and so very french. sigh. he has the best line in the movie. he says to queen latifah's character (and i paraphrase):

GD: you and me, we know the secret to life.

QL: oh yeah, and what is that?

GD: butter.

day 3 with no coffee

Monogrammed Ping Pong paddle made from Lucky Charms, by Johnny and Nancy

and i still haven't killed anyone or fallen asleep in a puddle of drool on my desk.

part of a "cleanse" that i'm doing. of course, i've amended my cleanse to include a margarita and quesadilla for dinner on wednesday night and an egg roll with my steamed broccoli and tofu with brown rice last night, but the first part of the day has been very cleansing - no wheat, no dairy, no sugar, no caffeine. i think i'm falling off the wagon in the evenings because i'm not eating enough throughout the day, so i come home ravenous and desperate for some lipids.

so, margaux, eat more during the day please.

it's an interesting experiment for me to do a cleanse. to not view it as a diet, but as self-care, takes some major psychological tinkering.

as in...

i'm not having ice cream not because i can't, but because i'm taking really good care of myself and cleansing my system.

as opposed to...

you cannot have ice cream because you are already a fat tub of lard and ice cream will only make you lardierrrr, little miss piggy. oink, oink.

interesting to note that my kind voice is in first person, and my defeating voice is like an admonishing, abusive parent. hmmmmm...

i suppose one could say that i shouldn't even bother doing the cleanse if i'm not doing in perfectly, but whatever...i'm practicing. i'm still not sure my body and mind can grasp the fact that this is not deprivation for weight loss, but restraint for health. i'm not sure the starved little girl inside trusts me enough to believe that i will feed her normally again; that vomit-flavored "greens drinks," dry salads and soups with giant slithery strands of kombu seaweed will not be forever. so, if that means allowing her a bowl of Lucky Charms in the evenings at the tail end of a food-virtuous day, so be it.

self-care isn't always the color of kale.

motherless heathen casserole

now i know all of you non-motherless folks are gonna get all depressed and feel sorry for me when i post this, but that's really not the point. the point in posting this is to show how us motherless heathens (i'm kidding, i'm kidding) manage in our own trailblazing way - whether it be in raising a child, whipping together a brunch casserole or making a life. (besides, it's a damn fine casserole recipe and worth posting in its own right.)

this evening, got an email from a friend who lost her mom while we were in college:

Hey M -
I am accepting a position as playgroup coordinator in our MOMS group and they are having a new members brunch on Friday - I have to bring an item - any suggestions/recipes? Remember - I am cooking impaired so it would have to be pretty simple!!!

I actually enjoyed a mother's day for the first time in a long while - sad and happy at the same time. sure miss her - wish I could get some damn advice sometimes! :)...

from me:

hey love...

i'm so glad to hear that you had a good mother's day this year! i absolutely adored the photos you sent of the baby this afternoon - i was giggling out loud at work. he is just the damn cutest child, andi can't decide who he looks most like - you or your hubby.

so weird...this was one of the hard ones for me. i haven't had much of a problem with them in the past - they usually just whiz on by and i wake up a couple of days later and go, "oh! mother's day. guess i shoulda been sad." not so this year. i was blue. not horribly so, but just sad. i think it definitely has something to do w/ me getting closer to the age my mom was when she died. i'm closer now to that age than i am to the age i was when she died. i dunno. it's weird. i also had my period, so that never helps w/ maintaining sanity.

i get what you mean about needing advice! i SO want to call my mom all of the time, and ask her advice...about anything and everything...my menstrual cycle, my career, guys, the cups equivalent of a pound of flour. that sorta thing. it just sux. period. i can't imagine what it must be like to have a child and not have a mom to call. i do think about that. thing is, j, i know that you are amazing mom just as you are. you're mom's probably up there going, "sheesh. she's doing a great job. i couldn't give her any advice anywhoo."

so. a brunch item. yes. i have a great recipe. it's from some ancient copy of southern living. it's a sausage and grits casserole, and it is simple and DEEEEEEEEELISH. i'll attach it in word.

i love you, dearheart, and you all look so very happy, and i am so very happy to see it.

xxxxxooooo
mx.

Southern Living Sausage and Grits

2 cups water
½ cup quick cooking grits
4 cups (10 ounces) shredded cheddar cheese
4 eggs, beaten
1 cup milk
½ teaspoon dried thyme
1/8 teaspoon garlic powder
2 pounds of hot & spicy sausage, cooked and crumbled.

Preheat oven to 350 degrees.

Boil water. Stir in grits and return to a boil. Cook 4 minutes, stirring occasionally. Combine grits and cheese until cheese melts. Combine all other ingredients except for sausage. Add a small amount of the grits to the egg mixture and stir. Do this over and over until all combined. Add sausage. Pour into lightly greased 12” x 8” dish. Bake at 350 degrees for approximately 40 minutes.

You can prepare the dish and refrigerate overnight. If you do so, let stand for 15 minutes, and then bake at 350 degrees for 50-55 minutes.

and i quote

in an email to me this afternoon from my friend, g, commenting on my recent moodiness:

...You're just super sensitive. Almost as if you were autistic. hahaha.

i should be offended, but all i can do is laugh and wonder if she

might

be

right.

disclaimer: autism is not funny. i know this. neither is cancer, and i certainly found myself laughing when i heard that Julia Sweeney, when both she and her brother had cancer and were living together, would answer the phone, "House of Cancer!"

laugh or die, folks, laugh or die...i choose laugh.

a different kind of m & m

aunt flo, yo.

it being mother's day, it seems appropriate that i woke up this morning to discover that Aunt Flo had arrived in all of her scarlet glory. seems to explain the recent crying jags as well. blame it on the moooooooon. my friend, r, tells me that last night was a full moon, so that means i'm on a "good cycle." whatever that means. a good cycle. hm. i still have cramps, i just downed a whole box of Whoppers in a dark movie theater, i feel and look pregnant, and want to cry constantly, but at least i am on a "good cycle."

rejoice, people! my uterus is in harmony with the universe!

so, then of course, today is mother's day.

(cue Beethoven's Fifth.)

so that coupled with the whole menstruation madness has me more than a wee bit...hyper-sensitive...to put it mildly.

i've been trying to take really good care of myself today.

i woke up late and strolled to the bagel shop. stopped into the drugstore to purchase "feminine supplies" (to quote my stepmother) and in memoriam of my mom, Andes Mints (big treats for when guests came).

browsed the yellow roses selection at the deli, thinking i might buy some in homage to mom's favorite shade, but decided economical Jane wouldn't have paid $20 for a bouquet of brown-edged roses. so, in a more fitting homage to mom, i didn't buy them.

spent the morning watching Audrey Hepburn and Fred Astaire in Funny Face (mom fostered my love for musicals. i'd dance around in the living room for hours in just pink tights and a t-shirt listening to Oklahoma! and Sound of Music.)

went to brunch and a movie with the Urban Family in midtown. laughed so hard i snorted.

came home, wept a wee bit, and will soon go to my meditation class so i can learn to just be with my weepy, crampy, i'm 31, but still-want-my-mommy-ness.

wonder what it might be like to grow up?

heavens, i hope i never quite know.

making a joyful movement from 11 to 3

yeah...no.

just a quick post b/c i's exhausted...but in a good way. you know that post-beach tired. you're freshly washed, a little sunburnt, you still find little pearls of sand underneath your nails, but so happy that you have spent yourself in such a way? that's me. i am spent and it

feels

so

good.

i went to the Self Magazine Workout in the Park today from 11 to 3 p.m. my pal C organized the day for us. i wasn't sure what to expect. lots of free samples of shit i would never use but would keep for eons in anticipation of that house full of guests that would never come? yes. an estrofest on steroids - a bevy of workout-obsessed women scrambling for the first row? yes. an either miserably hot day or a miserably rainy day? yes.

oh, me of little faith.

it was a blast. a BLAST i tell you. the weather was perfetta, there were loads of awesome dance/exercise classes throughout the day including the ones i took part in -

Hip Hop Bhangra - my absolute favorite!

Capoeira - i got to do cartwheels!

Ballroom Blitz - the jitterbug, the merengue, the fox trot - on amphetamines.

Crumping and Clowning - did you see the movie, Rize? never have i felt so very white, but ohhh fun! (note to self: must shake ass more often. quite invigorating.)

and, to close out the day...

Cardio Striptease - puurrrrrrr.

there were also yoga + pilates classes, massage booths and yes, loads and loads of free samples that i did my best to refuse, but free stuff is FREE STUFF. they were also giving free makeovers over at the Clarins counter, but who wants makeup caked on when ya tryin' to crump, yo?

i was just there to mooooooooove, and moooooooove i did.

my one peeve - there was no plain water available. a few of the sponsors were Propel Fitness Water, Crystal Light and Fresca, all of which are sweetened with some sort of artificial sweetener. the chipper emcee with a perfectly coiffed flippy bob kept telling us to "hydrate, ladies, please. please don't forget to load up on the Propel Fitness Water, Crystal Light and Fresca that our sponsors have so kindly donated to us." 'tis a shame...here we are spending a day dedicated to fitness while simultaneously sucking down carcinogenic bubbly by the gallon.

blech.

yes, yes, yes. i know what you're thinking - it was really a marketing nightmare meant to drum up magazine subscriptions for self and gym memberships for Crunch, but hey! they got what they wanted, and i got what i wanted. in my search for "joyful movement," i think i found at least 3 or 4 that i'd like to do again. all of the classes kicked my ass and really got my heart going, but i didn't realize it b/c i was having so much damn fun. that's what i want exercise to be for me; an activity that makes me happy to be in this body - as is. there were women (and a few very brave men) of all shapes and sizes and ages there today shakin' what their mama gave 'em. and that's so fittin', it being mother's day tomorrow 'n' all.

...how sweet the smell

i stopped by sephora today on my lunch break. retail therapy doesn't work. i know this, but it seems to work for a 1/2 hour or so, and sometimes, seems to is enough. (why do you think people stay in unsatisfying relationships for as long as they do? b/c he seems to be the right guy/girl.) today, i needed some new body wash. i sniffed through all the fruity, springy ones - melon daquiri, lemonade, strawberry milkshake. nah. not this year. i needed something a little more refined. a little less Bubble Yum. i saw it on display across the room. a pale, pale pink bottle. i ambled over. i popped the cap. i sniffed. a soft, soap and water scent that reminded me of childhood summer baths and white cotton nightgowns. in a simple times roman font on the front of the bottle it said:

grace.

if ever i needed that, i certainly need it now. i am, at this point in my life, lumbering. knocking things over, crying at bars, spilling any liquid in my possession...living messily.

so, i bought a little grace.

available, ladies and gentlemen, for $22 at the times square sephora.

sir lancelot turns 39

happy belated birthday to my brother, lance.

the barrel-chested 6'5" Gentle Giant

king of Costco and Publix

lover of economy-size protein powder

enthusiastic fisherman who won't eat fish

most thoughtful how-did-you-know-i-needed-that? gift-giver

always-remembers-my-birthday brother who never pinned me to the ground and dangled spit loogies over my face or farted on my pillow

amazing husband and father who takes touching, heartwarming pictures like this of his son because, of course, you won't forget his cherubic face. it's the pudgy hands and feet discovering sand you'll beg to remember:

MY founding father.

Q. Who made the first ice cream cone?

A. The first commercially made ice cream in the U.S. was
sold by a Mr. Hall in New York City in 1786.  The first
ice cream soda was made by Robert Green of Philadelphia
in 1874 by adding ice cream to plain soda water.  The
first ice cream cone appeared at the 1904 Louisiana
Purchase Exposition in St. Louis thanks to Charles E.
Menches.

she's still a betty...

a grandma's nightmare

gramma isakson's birthday again. 88 years fabulous. you can read last year's post here.

i spoke with gram today.

she's going over to her friend's for dinner tonight. dinner that i am certain will be preceded by the requisite cocktail and little cut glass dish of mixed nuts. i will always associate my gramma with the jingle of ice cubes in a highball glass; the bitter, sizzly pop of tonic dancing with lime and gin; my delicious, salty fingertips post-Planter's can dive (she stole all the cashews); and, of course, the 5 o'clock news.

she's spending the day just as she wants to; "putzing" is what she said. which means, in Betty-speak, that she's probably cleaning the whole damn condo from top to bottom. her entire decor is white or some version thereof: cream, eggshell, pearl, alabaster, ivory; therefore requiring constant care. this screams NIGHTMARE to me, but i think Betty gets much satisfaction from keeping a pristine home. i like cooking in it, i just don't like cleaning it. she does not leave dishes in the sink or wet clothes in the washer overnight. she wipes down her bathroom daily.

surely, i must be adopted.

her cleanliness it not without its dark side:

i distinctly remember her making me stand smack-dab center of her snowy-tiled kitchen before i took a sip of Kool-Aid. i couldn't even sit at the table. i had to stand there. how can a kid enjoy Kool-Aid standing in exile in the middle of a kitchen? Kool-Aid is meant to be enjoyed on a beanbag, 2 inches in front of a television blaring bad cartoons that reinforce negative gender and ethnic stereotypes. i guess she wanted to give me a wide breadth lest i spontaneously develop epilepsy at the age of 10 and toss the bug juice into the air turning her arctic wonderland into the scene of a polar bear slaughter.

i was humiliated and very angry, but...she has a home that is a haven, where order prevails and i do always look forward to my time there even if, at 31, she'd still prefer that i not eat my ice cream on the couch.

bragging rights

yeah...this has nothing to do with food, but whatever. gotta post about my amazing artist of an aunt - joanne horsfall beasley. she has an exhibit coming up on may 13-14 in redwood city, california.

i always wanted to be an artist like her. i used to send her my pictures in hopes that she'd call my mother in a dither screaming "PRODIGY! PRODIGY! THIS CHILD IS A PRODIGY! SHE'S GONNA MAKE YOU MILLIONS!"

needless to say, never happened. i am a perfectly capable artist, but i am not gifted as such. i, ever hopeful, did try to sell my "artwork" on the street corner once when i was about 6. once again, i was certain that my genius would be discovered my some curator passing through the little village of milan, michigan. i sold one picture to my babysitter's boyfriend, david. he drove up in his turquoise Pontiac Firebird, permed curls bobbing in the wind and bought one of my paintings for a whole dollar. sigh. the kids selling lemonade down the street fared far better.

ah well...i am my own kind of artist, i suppose.

(it's very possible that i've posted about her already, and i find my memory is slipping...that's okay...i get to experience the good stuff for the first time 2 or 3 times!)

every woman has an eating disorder

my friend's new blog. she's writing a book and she needs your brilliant comments!

http://everywomanhasaneatingdisorder.blogspot.com/

9 new roomies!

the ladies have moved in...it's so nice not to sleep alone anymore...

happy may day, y'all! if i were a more festive person, i'd be wearing a daisy chain and prancing around barefoot. but alas, i work in an office. so, in homage to may day, i wear pink.

as a kid growing up in milan, we used may 1st as an excuse to pillage our neighborhood's gardens, make little bouquets and leave them at people's doorsteps - a sort of Robin Hood of Flora.

wonder if Mrs. Bird ever realized those bleeding hearts in the bouquet she gushed over were actually from her garden...

some bunny loves me...ba da bum ching.

ah...'tis the season for rooftop and park picnics.

i attended a picnic atop a roof in park slope today, complete with Paula Deen-inspired dishes like an ooey-gooey veggie cheese strata with a Wonderbread crust. i like that. a little class, a little trash...just like me.

i went to an Easter picnic a few weeks ago held in Central Park. i can't help but associate Easter with my grandmothers, Ursula and Betty. we always seemed to be spending our Easters with either one of them or both. we'd usually dye eggs (Paas, of course) the night we arrived, awake the next morning, hunt for eggs and our Easter baskets, then scarf down as much chocolate as we could before being wrapped up in pretty, uncomfortable suits 'n' ties 'n' dresses for our bi-annual trip to church. (Episcopalian. my grandparents had converted after all of their children had grown. i kinda dug the kneeling bench and incense, but it totally grossed me out that everyone drank the wine out of the same cup for communion.)

the contents of the basket didn't change much from year to year. we always got one chocolate bunny and one white chocolate bunny. there were, of course, the requisite jelly beans and egg-shaped, speckled bubble gum pebbles nestled in the green cellophane grass. we usually got one additional, inedible gift -- a stuffed animal of some sort for me. my brothers must've gotten something more masculine -- an AC/DC record for Beau, maybe? a spool of fishing line for Lance? as i got older the gifts got a little more sophisticated. earrings. first studs, then when i was an almost-teenager, dangly earrings. that was a coup. mom did not want me growing up too fast, and in her mind a pair of dangly earrings made a girl exponentially older. so, duh - of course i wanted them. i'd put them on and model in front of the bathroom mirror, tossing my head back and forth. if they jingled a little bit when i walked, even better. i not only looked older, i sounded it too.

i don't remember the last time i got an Easter basket. must've been a couple of years after mom died. i guess i was just too old or, what's probably more likely, is that i'd started "watching my weight," and 1-pound chocolate bunnies were not on the latest Seventeen magazine diet.

i know my Aunt Char got my cousin Lauren and me baskets that first Easter after mom died. i remember distinctly that she got us both Esprit t-shirts and, as is always the case with female cousins who are only one year apart and equally bratty and self-entitled, it could not possibly be an easy exchange. Lauren got the one i wanted. tears. i'm sure sweet Aunt Char thought the tears had something to do with my not having my mother around for that first Easter, but i don't know. perhaps subconsciously, they did. i think i just really wanted that t-shirt. it was pastel and Esprit, after all.

this year, i decided to buy myself a basket (or at least what i might want in a basket, who needs a container?) - malted milk eggs, jelly beans, a white chocolate bunny. i haven't had that much candy in my house ever. i would have always been waaaaay to terrified to allow that sort of sweetness into my body and (yes, i'm getting metaphorical here) life. but whatever...i'm learning to trust myself again with that sort of stuff. why? well, we weren't born terrified of food. we learned this shit. we learned to think that chocolate is bad and that spinach, grapefruit and broccoli are akin to the Holy Trinity. when i was a kid with that gargantuan basket of goodies, i didn't eat it all in one sitting. i ate off the ear, nibbled a jelly bean, then ran off and swam in the pool for 3 hours. the candy would be there when i got back -- if i wanted it. i was allowed.

so, here i am, at the ripe old age of 31, learning to allow again.

not easy. but i did it anyway. i bought all the goodies and put them in my cabinets. i stocked up. my cabinets were a diabetic coma waiting to happen.

here's a coup. i hardly ate any of it. i just threw away the entire white chocolate bunny (minus a nibbled ear), and i used the jelly beans and malted milk eggs for the I.B.S. Bunny Cake i made for the picnic (see below). sure, i nibbled a few in preparation, but it was nothing like the day a few years ago, at size 6 and in the thick of my disorder, when i ate two one-pound bags of malted milk eggs then walked around the city for hours in an effort to

burn.

it.

off.

what i'm learning is that when i surround myself with abundance, i feel secure, therefore i don't have to load up in fear that i will never again be allowed to taste sweetness. when i give myself complete permission to indulge in sweets, in sadness and in life, i begin to recognize my true appetite, my true hunger. not what i think i want. or what i've been told i want. or what i think i don't want b/c someone has told me i do want it. i am allowed and, dare i say, entitled to as much or as little as i want of everything. malted milk eggs. esprit t-shirts. love.

no need to gorge, my dears, there's plenty more where that came from.

-----
the requisite Bunny Cake. recipe courtesy of Ursula Horsfall, and i'm assuming she must've gotten it out of a Ladies Home Journal circa 1945. it's rather quaint in comparison to the lifelike hare Martha might construct, but it's just right for me.
















in memoriam of my past intestinal woes, i gave my bunny cake I.B.S (irritable bowel syndrome), hence the chocolate
chip droppings you see here. i now notice my bunny also had no whiskers. good thing she was frosted to the plate;
coulda been bashin' into trees and crappin' all over the place.

ya just bake one round of a cake. slice it in half so you have two moons. put a little frosting on one, then sandwich them together. set it upright so you've got the body of the bunny. frost that sucker with white homemade buttercream icing (if i've said it once, i've said it a million times before - it's all in the icing. use a cake mix, but by God, do not use jarred icing. not if you care for your friends.) slap two pink jellybeans on for eyes, a black one for a nose. ruffle up a little cotton ball for the tail, or if you find you have no cotton balls like i did, take a little vegan macaroon (b/c of course you have these hanging around your cupboards), frost it and stick it on the bunny's arse. cut out two ears from white paper, color the pink part and stick into the cake wherever you feel they look best. then make whiskers from paper, or i was thinking it might be clever to use angel hair pasta. take a bag of coconut and divvy it into halfsies. sprinkle your bunny cake w/ one portion. (get it? that's fur.) drop a few drops of green food coloring into the other portion of coconut, and toss w/ a fork 'til it's grassy green. spread it out on a platter. transfer your bunny cake to the grassy knoll. nestle some malted milk eggs and jellybeans into the grass. tada! a bunny cake. friends and family will be impressed as will small children.

i don't recommend the-two-martini-and-a-bite-of-mozzarella-prosciutto-panini dinner.

it feels right and good when you're with your friends at joe's pub bobbin' to the music and wheezing with laughter, but soon, after you've left your friends and you're alone on the R train, a dark haze begins to descend, and you know this might not have been a good idea. you are not nauseated. you are not going to vomit. but you are, my dear, going to cry.

oh scheisse.

why? because this is what drunk girls do. it's in the manual.

so, after you've exited the subway and you're walking down your street towards Old Faithful (your bed), you see a very sad thing; an enormous tree that has been chopped into massive chunks littering your neighbor's sidewalk. ever-hopeful ivy still clinging to parts.

now isn't that sad?

i'm not sure there is anything sadder than a chopped up tree. at least not tonight. not after a -two-martini-and-a-bite-of-mozzarella-prosciutto dinner. and so, you plop yourself down onto the most massive chunk. the one that's sitting upright as if it's a tree trunk rooted into the earth (but not, and isn't that sad?) your butt touching the many lives of this tree - ring after ring after ring after ring. your drunk butt sullying the holy majesty of this ol' tree.

he doesn't seem to mind.

so you cry. and it feels good.

who says, by god, that tears have to be a bad thing? that sad has to be a bad thing? it's all part of it. i don't mean "you have to taste what is bitter to know what is sweet" and all that rigamarole. that's good too, but don't we all have an embroidered pillow or cross-stitch plaque reminding us of that every day of our blessed lives? i just mean sad for the sake of sad. mad for the sake of mad. not so you can know happy. but so you can know sad. so you can know mad. so you can know alive, for heaven's sake.

you don't sleep on the stump. your vigil is very short - a few minutes at most. you head home, trudge up the stairs and you must've wept to sleep because you wake up surrounded by little white blossoms of Kleenex. you giggle. you wonder now, in the brilliant spring light beaming through your blinds, what the F all the fuss was about.

who knows...but it sure was nice.

i’m sitting out in the backyard today. this has become my morning ritual since the weather has warmed a bit. i love it. it grounds me. connects me with nature. i am alone back here but i feel less alone here than i do in an office full of people. sometimes, if i think no one is watching, i lay down on the grass and look up through the canopy of trees.

wow, these trees look like bunches of kale!

the birdsong alternates between an almost annoying bickering chorus and a singular, mournful sigh. the slate gray tiles that were laid down to make the patio are rumpled and disheveled courtesy of the giant redwood tree’s roots snaking beneath the surface.

i have a secret love affair with that tree. again, if i think no one is watching, i’ll hug her.

hi, my name is Margaux, and i’m a tree hugger.

i want to be like this tree when i grow up. she is firmly rooted, and she winds her roots deeper into the earth with each passing day. her branches dance in the sky and every spring she gets a brand new green sequinned party dress (a full skirt that makes her large trunk look very slim).

if the neighbors are out tending their gardens or pulling their laundry off the line, i’ll just reach out and lay my palm against her trunk. just to be sure of you, as Pooh might say.

fortitude through osmosis, i am hoping. and a brand new party dress would be good too.

quote for the day

I like living. I have sometimes been wildly, despairingly, acutely miserable, racked with sorrow, but through it all I still know quite certainly that just to be alive is a grand thing.
- Agatha Christie

messy messy me.

i've been horribly remiss (is that the right word? oh gads, who cares.) in posting lately. why?

well, everything isn't perfect, i don't have all my ducks in a row, the stars haven't aligned, my I's aren't dotted and my T's aren't crossed, my apartment's still a mess, i still haven't resolved all of my father-daughter issues, i haven't fallen madly in love and proven all the naysayers wrong, and i still haven't saved the world. sheesh.

so really. how could a girl like me have anything to say?

well, duh. isn't that the point of this blog?

why yes. that is the point of this blog. to track and record this messy little journey. particularly the journey of one lovely imperfect woman who's not quite sure how or why or what the fuck, but is putting one foot in front of the other anyway. a lovely imperfect woman who still struggles with a body image that resembles Jabba the Hut. a lovely imperfect woman who desperately wants to be free from the prison that is dieting, but is still not quite sure how to live without that structure, without the sense that life is just one big series of constant attempts to better oneself. (damn those Transcentalists!)

god forbid this lovely woman should just be.

historically, i am a better do-er than be-er, but that's only b/c i haven't been practicing much lately. i've been wrapping myself up in to-do lists , topping myself with big shiny bows, and hoping that this would somehow make me appear more valuable...therefore through some sort of alchemy...i actually would be.

posh.

anyway...this is my long way of saying. i'm back. i'm back to writing more messily. living more messily. i always did much better with finger paints than crayons. i don't mind the paint beneath the nails. evidence, that somewhere, someday, i dug in...and swirled.