big is not a four letter word.

Alison Bales, Duke University Center

...The difference today, at least in basketball, is that big women are more secure in being and playing big, said Goestenkors, the Duke coach. She said that Bales, the Blue Devils' center, proudly wore three-inch heels, which made her 6-10, while the team was in Cancún, Mexico, in December. Bales said a photograph of her in heels on Duke's Web site had elicited several grateful messages from tall girls or their parents.

...from an excellent article my friend sent me the other day stemming from the debate over whether women competing in sports should be weighed or not.

some feel it's just a part of measuring an athlete's overall health (most argue it's to monitor for quick weight loss or gain), but others (and, surprise, i fall into this category) think it causes unnecessary anxiety about a factor that isn't particularly indicative of an athlete's health or ability to perform optimally, and can lead to the dreaded female athlete triad - eating disorders, amennorhea, osteoporosis. it's an interesting debate, and i recognize the flaw in my thinking. i want women to be given the same advantages that men are given - in sports, in business, in life - but is asking that female athletes not be weighed and their weights not be made public (like all male athletes are required to do) asking for preferential treatment? or is it just protecting our young female athletes from the reality that is our weight- and size-obsessed culture?

i suppose what we ultimately want to strive for is a redefinition of what it means to be

BIG

TALL

WOMAN

all at the same time. many of the young women the article mentions - college basketball players Courtney and Ashley Paris, the Williams girls, the women of the WNBA - seem to be doing just that, god love 'em. in the same article, Courtney Paris is referred to as "the female Shaquille O'Neal." and that's a compliment. i love that. i know sports is not the cure-all, there are plenty of eating disordered athletes out there, but i do think it can help shift ones relationship with the body from passive - the body to be preened, plucked and paraded - to active - the body to run, to dance, to leap, to lunge.

(unfortunately, i think the article is now only available if you have a subscription to the Times, if you're desperate to read it, let me know, and i'll email you a copy. hush hush.)

pardon, it's the nyquil talking.

oh, heavens. i am so sick. it's really just a bad cold, but i really don't get sick that often, so when i do, it feels like "so sick," even if it's just "under the weather" for some folks. little phlegmatic elfin creatures have latched themselves onto my lungs and are holding on for dear life. i'm doing my best to drown them in ginger ale and tea, but they're tough little suckers.

when you lay in bed with nothing to do, you start to obsess about very stupid things...

case in point:

i've been shot in the chest. not really, but that's what it looks like. i have an ENORMOUS ZIT right in between my breasts. funny to me, because just as i'm getting more comfortable sharing my decolletage with the rest of the world, a garagantuan redhead troll takes up residence there. of course, i also tried to pop it before it was ready, so it's now mostly likely infected, and it will now live there for the entire summer, thwarting any of my attempts to wear low-cut tops, attract a suitor who i will fall madly in love with, marry, and will slow dance with every evening to the din of the dishwasher as our three pink-faced daughters - isa, plum, and adele - sleep in their beds overhead.

life is so unfair.

i'm going back to bed.

and where the greens are probably brown.

i just loved the look of this little diner on the LES. have never been, but will go someday. how can a girl resist a place that advertises DAIRY & MEAT FOOD so proudly?

vitamin T

my friend im'ed me at work yesterday.

"i keep wanting to cry."

"have you?"

"no."

"maybe you should."

"oh no, but then i'd have to give up control."

it's really too bad that crying is seen as something that is considered so damn awful, so bad, so weak, so pathetic:

if i'm crying than my world might very well be falling apart.

or maybe what we're really scared of is:

if i cry OTHER PEOPLE might think that my world is falling apart.

here's the thing - i feel 4 million times better after i cry, so why shouldn't i just let the tears flow? folks indulge in all sorts of unhealthy behaviors in order to make themselves feel better immediately - they take pills, they drink too many martinis, they eat ice cream until they're sick, they engage in twisted relationships - all to distract them from the real issue at hand - they're sad, they're angry, they're frustrated, they're depressed.

true, crying is not elegant. it is not clean. in all likelihood, you will not look like Demi Moore in Ghost when you cry - tiny crystalline tears slowly trickling down your perfectly composed face. no. it's a messy thing. but i can certainly say that since i've begun to react to the tingle of tears like this:

"oh. there they are again. okay. hold on, let me get a tissue and duck into the bathroom for a spell."

i've been a lot less likely to engage in those less than ideal behaviors i was talking about above. i've lost a little weight recently, and i attribute much of it to the fact that i've been giving myself permission to feel all those "bad feelings" - sadness, anger, fear - instead of shoving them down by overeating malted milk balls (i still eat them, just not pounds of them). i've actually come to prefer tears to the other stuff. whodathunk?

crying is just a part of my week (if not part of my day). VITAMIN T, i call it. T for tears. cheaper than One-a-Day, and it doesn't make my pee bright yellow.

so, cry little ones, cry.

and if people ask you if your world is falling apart, just tell them,

"oh, no...i'm just watering the flowers."

see ya in the bathroom.

the perfect fit

Magic Numbers

The colour of my eyes is dependent on how much I weigh today. They are either the silver grey of a morning mist across a Canadian lake as the sun rises and catches the cold gleaming water. Or they are the colour of dishwater, greasy and thick with grime, dirty with all of the family's Sunday roasting pans, and forks and knives, and casserole dishes and baking trays - murky and grimy and ugly.

Depending on what I weigh, my hair might be the browns and caramels of a thick chocolate bar that melts and shines and drips promise by the fire. Or the flat brown of a library carpet, laid in 1972, and trampled on by cheap shoes and schoolchildren every day since - tired and thin and lifeless...

Depending on how much I weigh today, my breasts may be round and full, reminiscent of a Russ Meyer vixen, ready to be grasped, voluminous and juicy. Or they are veiny and sagging, the skin at the top indented and ravaged by stretched tears, sitting lazily on my ribcage, flattened, blotchy, and dry.

I will love or hate myself, depending on how much I weigh today.

the first chapter in The Perfect Fit, a book by British novelist Louise Kean. i'm only on page 78, but so far, it's a very insightful look (ohmigod, that's me!) into the conflicted life of a former fat girl. what to do when you've lost the weight, you still have oodles of problems and you don't have the weight to blame or diet to keep you distracted anymore?

exactly.

because i can laugh at myself...and so should you.

a parody of the beloved Dove commercial.

oh, and she could use a bit more mascara too.

the "homely" portrait...and the Photoshopped version.
she actually looks a little thinner too, doesn't she?

i'm a huge fan of Jane Austen's works. Persuasion might very well be my favorite book (and movie) ever. i used to watch the A & E version of Pride and Prejudice every sunday as i folded my laundry, moon-eyed and swooning as Mr. Darcy boldly declared his love for Elizabeth Bennett.

an interesting article in this past sunday's New York Times about Jane Austen's "looks." a British publisher recently decided to Photoshop her portrait as they found it too "homely." was she pretty? was she not? and why does it matter to so many of her fans to think of her as attractive?

i suppose i'd like to think that she was a lovely, graceful creature who chose not to marry in order to engage in her literary pursuits untethered, but i suppose it is quite a bit more plausible that she was quite plain and wrote these books, not just to critique the circus of society, but to create a place for herself in it - the only place she might ever have, being that "Austen lived in an age when a woman’s physical attractiveness was, next to her fortune, her greatest asset." (and sometimes i'm wondering if things have changed?)

and having these assets was almost absolutely necessary if she ever wanted "snag herself a man," as my Grandma Horsfall would say.

stout...but in a good way.

the happy buddha approves.

i've been dying to make Nigella Lawson's Chocolate Guinness Cake for quite a while. it's a beautiful cake, meant to look like a dark pint of stout with a frothy top. i'd been drooling over the picture in Feast for over a year (the page is starting to dimple with damp), but could never find a sufficient enough reason to bake it.

pish! posh! pshaw! life itself is a sufficient reason to bake!

so, finally...st. patty's day it was going to be (appropriate, right?) but alas, my ambition fizzled and went kersplat after two nights cocktail waitressing until 3 am. forced to choose between baking or bed, i chose bed.

anyhoodle...it's been a stressful-strange past couple of weeks, and i've had a hard time relaxing. i come home absolutely exhausted, lie down in bed thinking i'm going to konk out in seconds and then...

reeeexxxntgahatrhasjfjajflkjsPpppppPP!

lilliputian Boy Scouts parachute onto my bed and tie millions of little knots up and down my neck and spine.

so, ya know, that makes it hard to sleep...

breathe...

be...

i know that part of the reason i'm having trouble relaxing is that i'm always anticipating the next "to do," whether it be for work-work, cocktail-waitressing-work or size-ate-work, my brain is always on "work mode."

so last night, i put it on "bake mode."

inspired by a visit to farmgirl, i read about her emergency chocolate cake and decided that tonight was the night to bake myself to a better me, a more ME me. when i'm angry, i make soup because i can chop chop chop CHOP CHOP CHOP slice slice slice slice whack whack whack stir stir stir CHOP! without hurting anyone, and when i'm tense, i bake because it relaxes me. the rhythmic stirring, the careful measuring, the finger-licking, the sweet-warm scent that wraps its arms around my entire apartment and holds it tight for hours. i cannot afford a trip to a spa, i cannot afford a massage, i cannot afford to buy Valium on the black market, but i can afford the ingredients for a little emergency cake baking therapy.

and for the record, i slept like a wee lass. so well, in fact, there was a pool of drool on my pillow when i awoke. i fine sign indeed.

on my mom's Royal Doulton china
(that's her and my aunt charlene in the background - my cooking muses).

the recipe i followed is this one here. nigella uses dry cocoa in her recipe, but Little Bouffe uses bar chocolate. i feel a little guilty defying Nigella, but if given the opportunity to choose, i prefer using bar chocolate instead of cocoa. as a fan of the aggressively moist, gooey baked good as opposed to the delicately cakey, i don't like the idea of adding DRY, PROCESSED CHOCOLATE POWDER to my cakes, brownies, cookies and frostings. some people feel you need to reduce the butter or shortening in your recipe to offset that added by using bar chocolate, but i think not. i've never done so, and i've never been displeased with the results. also, i made cupcakes - they're easier to share - so i adjusted the baking time to approx. 25 minutes at 350 degrees.

and now i MUST have one of these.

baby ain't got back

to be filed under the category "you can't have it all - at least you can't have it all at once" - jessica simpson is rumored to have had her ass padded when she did the film Dukes of Hazzard. she'd gotten too thin.

pity they can't "pad" her brain.

hissssss.

did i write that out loud?

life vs. pancakes

Dr. Jules Hilbert: Hell Harold, you could just eat nothing but pancakes if you wanted.

Harold Crick: What is wrong with you? Hey, I don't want to eat nothing but pancakes, I want to live! I mean, who in their right mind in a choice between pancakes and living chooses pancakes?

Dr. Jules Hilbert: Harold, if you pause to think, you'd realize that that answer is inextricably contingent upon the type of life being led... and, of course, the quality of the pancakes.

oh, please go rent the movie Stranger Than Fiction with Will Ferrell as Harold Crick.

a sad barometer

in an article about Halle Berry from the April 2007 issue of InStyle Magazine:

...she still keeps a pair of Mickey Mouse blue jeans that she's had since she was 15. "It's my annual test - I try them on once a year, and if I can still fit into them, then all is good in the world!"

give

me

a

break.

this sort of disgusts me, and i'm really too tired to explain why. i'm sure there's some sad part of me that would love to be the same size i was at 15 when i'm 40, but i really hope it doesn't matter at that point. hell, it doesn't matter to me at this point, and i don't even have an Oscar or a 31-year old model boyfriend.

productivity for dummies.

sometimes, (when i am so tired i consider "reading a newspaper" at my desk - head bent over, hair in face - so that i might nap for a few minutes undetected) it feels like the most productive thing i do all day is go to the bathroom.

when you're a toddler, this is considered an accomplishment. when you're 32, it's sort of sad. no one gives you a gold star or a gingersnap, and i really think that is completely unfair.

a sugar-fairy godmother would be nice.

i am sooooooo tired.

financing a dream is exhausting. two waitressing shifts this weekend, a full work week to look forward to, and i never want to see my Guinness-soaked, black Dansko clogs again.

this is when a girl starts contemplating the possibility of landing herself a sugar daddy. i don't want to marry him, but if i could just date him for a few months, until i got my finances in order, that'd be fab.

eh...i know i'm not the type. this trophy talks too much, and this C-cup girl needs support with her spaghetti strap camisoles, ifyouknowhatimean.

but, it's nights like tonight when i really wish the whole Cinderella story weren't a load of balderdash.

do they make glass slippers with orthotics?

sort-of-sisters.

my sweet cousin lauren sent this photo to me the other day. i think i was six and she was five. we were at our grandma's house in naples, florida (i thought everyone was saying "maples" until i was about 10 - as in syrup) for easter vacation, and i'd practically forced lauren to dress up like a dog and be in my play. i got to wear the pretty pink dress and play the heroine.

i seem to recall trying to force lauren to do a lot of things. poor girl. she was my pretty, little blond cousin that i adopted...er, abducted...as my kid sister every time she came to visit. she was supposed to be my doll. i wanted to try on makeup, play with dolls, put on plays and do all sorts of girly-things she had absolutely no interest in. she'd rather hang out with the boys while they played Atari or latch on to my older brother Lance's pantleg and let him drag her all over the house. i did not understand her tomboy proclivities, but i sure did love her. being the babies and the only girls in three-children families, i suppose we had to bond. it was a matter of survival. one of us had to go for help when the other was being held down and tortured by one of our brothers (usually involving a spit-loogie dangling perilously close to our face).

looking at this photo, i realize...lauren may have had to dress up like a dog, but i'm flashing the world my six-year old nip for all eternity. i think she got the better end of the deal.

or maybe just a poodle.

if i ever have a daughter, i want to name her Adele.

why?

i like the name, and a Jersey mother by the name of Adele Springsteen took out a personal loan of $60 one Christmas so she could buy her teenage son, Bruce, an electric guitar.

Live version of Thunder Road.

fear wears a skirt.

To one who is afraid, everything rustles.

- Sophocles

good eggs.

i received an email from the shipping department at work on friday -

Subject: You've received a Fedex or Messenger Package

i was busy on friday, and i assumed it was something lame that could wait until today - a press kit, a glossy brochure - something that took 40 trees to produce and would immediately end up in my trash can after a quick flip and a sigh.

today, i came in after a very looooong weekend of slingin' drinks, and was not in the bestest of moods. i stopped by the shipping department to pick up my package...

it was a plain manila envelope addressed to me.

curious.

it was lumpy and rattly and certainly suspect.

anthrax?

curiosity got the best of me. i opened it anyway. it wasn't anything lame and glossy and environmentally incorrect at all...

inside, i found two one-pound bags of Whoppers Robin Eggs and a sweet note from a friend. touched. sooo touched. in an email about a week ago, he'd asked me what i was up to...i mentioned that i was doing pretty great, getting the show together, on an upswing after a few bumpy months, and eating lots of easter egg chocolate malted milk balls. the crunch, it would seem, helps me cope.

and then, this.

isn't it nice to be heard?

the mammy project

my review of michelle matlock's one-woman show, the mammy project, was posted yesterday on feministreview.org.

so good. (the show, not the review) please see it if you have the opportunity someday.

while you're at it - check out this 1967 Aunt Jemima syrup commercial.

margauxpalooza.

the name my friend c christened my as yet unbooked size ate tour.

it's not prostitution, but it's close.

i'm waitressing again.

cocktail waitressing to be specific.

something i never ever thought i would do, but i need the extra cash right now what with getting stuff together for the show, catching up on bills, etc., and in the world of nyc pub/bars/restaurants, the place i'm slingin' drinks is not a bad gig, and i'm actually quite thankful for the work.

it's different waiting tables when your 32 as opposed to when you're 22. when you're 22, or at least when i was 22, i was a lot less inclined to set boundaries with the guests. as in,

"wow, that guy keeps brushing up against me every time i walk by him with a tray. oh well, at least he says he's sorry."

at 32...

"if that fucking guy keeps accidentally-oh-i'm-sorry-COPPING A FUCKING FEEL every time i walk by him with a tray, i'm going to accidentally knee him in the family jewels so hard, he's going to be the last in what i'm sure is a long line of pathetic assholes with a penchant for bad haircuts, no necks and excessive cologne."

travel the country with me and 9 of my closest friends.

size 16 a.k.a. Svetlana is offstage flirting...as per usual.

i need a producer's assistant and stage manager in one! and please let them know that i bake.

if you or anyone you know might be interested, please refer them to this craigslist posting.

http://newyork.craigslist.org/mnh/cwg/293468654.html

Producer’s assistant/stage manager wanted for my one-woman show, size ate.

Excellent opportunity for someone interested in getting hands-on experience in theatrical marketing and production, touring, stage managing and social issues theatre. size ate deals particularly with body image and eating disorders.

One dynamic, flexible, good-humored, self-starter needed for a two-part job:

As producer’s assistant…

Primary duty is to assist in marketing and booking of size ate for academic year 2007-08 at high schools, colleges and other appropriate venues. To begin in April.

As a stage manager…

To tour with performer for academic year of 2007-08 (rehearsals begin in August). Duties include those of a typical stage manager as well as a variety of other duties, some yet to be discovered, that will aid in getting the show mounted in each venue.

Email me for more details. Include a resume and two references. Check out the show's website at http://www.sizeate.com.

Requirements:
Stage management experience; touring a plus, but not required.
Excellent phone demeanor.
Mac/PC proficiency.
Microsoft Word, Microsoft Excel required. PowerPoint a plus, but not required.

just a thought

i don't think people should be allowed to eat apples at their desk.

CRRRRRRRRRRRRRUCHamuncha, muncha, muncha, muncha.

that's all i'm sayin'.

it is never too late to be what you might have been. - george eliot

Halloween, 1955 by Grandma Moses

Q. When is "too old"? At what age do we give up?

A. At 100, Grandma Moses was still painting.
At 98, Titian painted "Battle of Lepants"
At 93, George Bernard Shaw wrote "Farfetched Fables."
At 91, Samon de Valera served as president of Ireland.
At 90, Pablo Picasso still drew and engraved.
At 89, Arthur Rubinstein gave a recital in Carnegie Hall.
At 88, Pablo Casals still performed cello concerts.
At 82, Winston Churchill wrote the four-volume work,
"A History of the English-Speaking Peoples"
At 82, Leo Tolstoy wrote "I Cannot Be Silent"
At 82, Goethe finished "Faust"
At 81, Benjamin Franklin engineered the diplomacy that
led to the adoption of the US Constitution.

notice that none of these people's accomplishments involved bigger boobs, firmer abs or the perfect size 6.

i can't be clever; i have cramps.

aunt flo arrived in all of her vermilion glory this morning. she's such a show-off.

i sat down to eat dinner tonight, and i thought to myself,

"i feel so fat and miserable. what's wrong with me?"

"you're supposed to feel this way, dummy. you're on your period. the fact that you're feeling this way proves your normalcy. if you felt slender and euphoric, i'd be concerned. it'll pass."

"oh, yeah...right."

i immediately felt better. funny when you give yourself permission to feel a certain feeling how that feeling almost immediately diminishes. the bad ones anyway. or maybe it's just that instead of feeling dumb for feeling fat and miserable, i just feel fat and miserable, which doesn't seem like much of an improvement, but it is. minus one is only minus one, but it's still minus one.

Fat and Miserable are just annoying houseguests; i have to tolerate them tonight, but i can get through it because i know that they won't be here when i wake up in the morning.

i am slowly killing them with a lethal cocktail of ibuprofen and dark chocolate M & Ms.

and daily naps.

my nephew grant mitchell

i'm pretty happy about being an adult, but i do miss being tossed into the air and pony rides.

argh.

i've had quite a few folks tell me they've tried to contact me via info(at)sizeate.com, and it's bounced back.

how.

very.

annoying.

I'M ONLY TRYING TO BUILD AN OUTREACH PROGRAM HERE!!!

anyway...for the time being, please email me at margrocks(at)aol.com, until i get my server situation figured out.

(and if you're wondering why i write my email address with (at) instead of @, it's because crazy little hackers can scan the web and pick up formatted email addresses and then slam you with spam, and i already have a Rolex and in no need of an "enlargement," thank you very much. when you email me though, use @ in the address, or you can just click the link.)

TamPontification

for every girl who's ever been without, and for every guy who's had to dash to the drugstore for the girlfriend who's been without -

go here now and donate. for every "virtual donation," Seventh Generation donates one box of organic cotton tampons or chlorine-free pads to a homeless shelter in the state of your choice. one box of fem-hyg products can set a gal back a pretty penny, and it's frequently overlooked as a necessary supply in homeless shelters (i occasionally volunteer at a shelter in the city, and the supplies are paltry if existent at all).

now, i have to say (and i admit, this is rather self-absorbed of me, but...), i wish they'd handed these products out free in my junior high school. i know, i know...i was far from being a homeless person, but it sure would have been easier than trying to get up the nerve to request them from my freaked-out father - a recent widower who would have prefered to continue to operate under the notion that his 12-year old daughter did not, nor ever would have, breasts, ovaries, a uterus or a vagina.

anyway...check it out. it's an excellent website dedicated to all things menstrual including a growing list of euphemisms and a collection of personal musings.

my question is - are they donating ibuprofen and chocolate as well? and when are they going to start selling that as a pre-packaged deal?

and fyi: if you ever happen to be in France and ask for a box of tampons, do not be surprised if you are presented with a lovely set of rubber stamps suitable for creating adorable shower invitations and holiday cards.

pole-dancing + self-perception

i went out on tuesday night with a few friends from college. two live in the city, but one of them (the slightly-crazed looking redhead on the right), still lives in Oxford, Mississippi, and i haven't seen him in almost 10 years. good lord. i'm old enough to have friends i haven't seen in 10 years. old enough to have friends that i haven't seen in 10 years that i used to drink with...and when i say drink i mean bourbon not Kool-Aid.

i had such a great time. we were just supposed to go for a very civilized dinner of tapas and wine, but "just one more drink at a bar around the corner" turned into a spontaneous night of pole-dancing (us doing the dancing, boys included) and snorting laughter. it was just what i needed. platters of greasy chorizo and calamari. dancing like J-Lo in a Lower East Side Bar. two drunk boys proclaiming to me and my female companion r: "OH MY GOD, YOU'RE FUCKING BEAUTIFUL!" at random times throughout the evening (and what girl doesn't like that no matter how drunk the boy's gotta get to say it?).

it was a much-needed connection. a touchstone experience that made me think about all the parts i loved about myself at 19 - i was insanely fearless when it came to having a good time (pole-dancing, anyone?). i was unabashedly nerdy and smart. i spent Saturdays reading on the porch at Square Books or wandering through the stacks at the college library, unearthing ancient editions of Daphne du Maurier books and 1960s periodicals. creativity was a part of my daily life - like a multivitamin i had to have in order to survive - i performed in musicals, painted watercolors, created collage, kept an illustrated journal. i was very happy and "me" in many ways, unhindered by the need to be seen as a "pretty girl," i was free to dive headfirst into academia and theatrics. ohhh, and i loved the way it felt on my skin.

of course, how can you think about the parts you liked about yourself without thinking about the parts you hated? while i was quite fulfilled creatively and academically, i felt incredibly overweight and unattractive. i hid my plump though by no means enormous body underneath extra-large T-shirts and jeans meant for someone two sizes larger. i rarely if ever went out. i knew i couldn't compete with the perky sleek silhouettes of the Tri-Delts and Kappa Gammas, so why even try. i watched a lot of Oprah and read lots of Martha Stewart Living magazines. i had a great personality, and i was liked by many people, but if you'd asked me where my boobs were located, i'm not so sure i could have told you, so unaware of and unwilling to acknowledge my body was i.

i had a conversation with p, one of the guys i was hanging out with on tuesday. he told me that he'd always felt like "the little guy" in school. i told him that's so weird because i've never thought of him as "small" at all. i know i've thought of him as adorable, absolutely fucking hysterical, incredibly talented and probably one of the few graduates of our theater department who would be a commercial success (and he's well on his way), but "small" was never a word that came to mind when i thought of p. i told him how i'd felt about myself in college, and he was similarly miffed. i mean, i certainly know i look (and feel) better than i did when i was in college, but i certainly wasn't the lumbering troll i perceived myself to be, nor was he the elfin woodland creature he imagined himself to be.

it made me think about how we perceive ourselves and how i have learned, since college, that there are times when it's safe to trust my self-perception - when i am sane, well-fed, well-rested and well-loved (are any of us that in college?) - and times to not - when i am insane, starved or stuffed, exhausted, neglected and/or, pardon me for being blunt, bleeding between my legs. that's when i know to turn down the internal volume and call on my good friends* to give me the straight up. i may not believe them at any given moment that i'm fabulous and deserving, but i have decided to trust that they're telling me the friggin' truth and then act "as if." they are not stupid people, and on those days when i don't know myself, i can trust them to tell me. i can rest in their loving assessment until the fog clears and i can see the true version of myself on my own.

so, for now, i'm resting in "fucking beautiful," and i have to say, it feels pretty fucking nice.

*choose wisely.

i may not be a billionairess, but at least i have my own place.

hello kitty and i are the same age.

32.

she was born on november 1, 1974. i was born on january 19, 1975.

this means something to me. i'm not sure why, but it does.

according to her bio, she still lives at home "with her parents and her twin sister, Mimmy."

happy birthday, paavo.

click for a much better view.

paavo's one-month old hand. hard to believe that any part of me was ever this small, this delicate and yet this fierce.

the baby is going on tour.

some of you sugarplums have been sweet enough to ask what the hey-na is going on with my one-woman show size ate.

well...

here's the deal. because it would take me just as much time and money as it did last time for me to mount the show in NYC, and because i have even less of both this go 'round, i've decided to postpone the performance in order to focus on booking performances at high schools and colleges for the fall of '07.

pfffffft.

i was totally psyched about doing the show again, so eager to perform after having been away for so long, but...i thought and i thought and i thought, and ya know? it's time to move the show onward and upward towards the actual goal - taking it on tour so i can get it seen by as many girls and women as possible. if i had the resources to do both full-tilt, i would, but no piles of money have fallen on my head just yet allowing me to quit my job and fund both extravagantly (and if i can put in a request that that pile of money not fall on my head, but just to the right of me, thanks).

it's about the message, not about the performance.

so...that means doing loads and loads of really un-fun things like creating Excel spreadsheet call lists, re-writing the press kit, updating the website, searching for a stage manager, cold-calling schools, deciding whether or not to incorporate or become a 501(c)3 non-profit organization, getting insurance, getting quotes from balloon companies for nine inflatable body forms...it's all a big ol' learning experience.

eh. i'd rather be acting.

but, as my friend t said, "you gotta feed the baby."

so, i will, because i want her to grow up big and beautiful and strong, and i'm pretty confident that she'll do just that. problem is - you know it's coming but you can't avoid it - when you feed the baby, it's inevitable that she's going to throw up all over you at some point, probably more than once, and you still have to love her because she's your heart and soul and because it's all your fault anyway - you created the little excrement machine.

schadenfreude en toilette.

somebody was crying in the bathroom stall at work today, and it wasn't me!

and i thought i was the only girl who found bathroom stalls to be one of the best places to let it rip...in more ways than one.

ba-da-bum-ching.

being good to myself day...night...week...month...year.

my friend r was having a rough day on friday. she got off of work at 5, and wanted, she thought, to go home and take a nap.

"no," she thought. "i am not going to go home and take a nap. that is the beginning of a descent into a night of self-pity watching bad television and eating greasy chicken wings."

so, she decided to make that night her Being Good to Myself Night.

i love that.

she got her nails done. she had a glass of wine at the wine bar in her Brooklyn 'hood. she flirted with the French waiter. she ate a healthy dinner. she got a good night's sleep.

she said she realized that "being good to myself doesn't look like going out for happy hour drinks every friday and getting wasted. being good to myself doesn't look like eating a plate of hot wings. and it doesn't necessarily look like a trip to the gym or a yoga class."

being good to ourselves is going to differ day to day. it's about listening to our bodies, our hearts, and our heads, then making the best decision based on what they need at that very moment. not what you needed yesterday, or what you'll need tomorrow, or what you should have gotten from your parents when you were three, but right now. maintenant. (and if one of them is asking for something completely ridiculous, like your heart is shouting "right now, it might feel really good to toss yourself out the window, and see if you'll sprout fairy wings so you can fly away from this shithole," your head and body will stop you.)

i find i treat myself best when think of myself as my own mother. i don't mean i'm acting as my actual mother, Homecoming Queen Janie Horsfall Laskey (i've tried that, doesn't work), but as my own internal mother, as if i were mothering myself as i would my own child. it sounds sort of woo-woo, but it's pretty amazing how it informs your choices when you think of it in those terms. a mother does what is best for a child, not necessarily what the child wants in order to feel good pronto, but what is best for the little tyke in the long run. a mother disciplines, but loves unconditionally. she knows when to push you to that hot yoga class, onto that stupid blind date you'd rather cancel, out of your south Georgia comfort zone and into the chaos that is New York City, but she also knows when what you really need is just a bowl of mac 'n' cheese and a Jane Austen novel.

and chocolate, of course.

oh happy day.

air out your skivvies...literally or figuratively or both.

alright...enough depressing, angry posts about a culture that perpetuates an unhealthy weight for women.

today, spring flirts with us. we can see her pink, tulle petticoat peeking out from beneath winter's heavy coat. everyone is in a better mood for it including my friend penny at the bagel shop who knows my name and how i like my bagel and my coffee.

i am wearing a yellow t-shirt with puffed sleeves and sucking on a chocolate non pareil. the miniscule white spheres stick to the roof my mouth, but i like it.

i have found a new favorite song that makes me wiggle my booty whether it's in a chair or not (No Bad News by Patty Griffin).

life is good.

and i've found a lovely poem by the sufi mystic poet Hafiz. when i put a book of his poetry down, a residue of ecstasy and light remains on my fingertips. sort of smells like tangerines.

We Have Not Come To Take Prisoners

We have not come to take prisoners,
But to surrender ever more deeply
To freedom and joy.
We have not come into this exquisite world
To hold ourselves hostage from love.

Run my dear,
From anything
That may not strengthen
Your precious budding wings.

Run like hell my dear,
From anyone likely
To put a sharp knife
Into the sacred, tender vision
Of your beautiful heart.

We have a duty to befriend
Those aspects of obedience
That stand outside of our house
And shout to our reason
"O please, O please, Come out and play."

For we have not come here to take prisoners
Or to confine our wondrous spirits,
But to experience every and ever more deeply
Our divine courage, freedom, and Light!

so go out and PLAY!!!

auschwitz is in vogue, apparently.

from the latest New York Times T magazine

this picture makes me nauseated. it's easily the most disturbing fashion photo i've seen in recent years, and that is saying quite alot. she's underage, underweight, underfed and clearly undersupervised.

where, pray tell, is this child's mother?

what else does a nominee need?

i just got this in an email from my friend j, and i had to share:

When they asked Abigail Breslin at the Golden Globes what she had in her little purse,
she revealed lip gloss and cookies. A girl after my own heart.

"Women’s bodies have always been theater, and this is just another act."

i meant to post this article by Emily Nussbaum, The Incredible Shrinking Model, from New York magazine last week, but i just never got around to it. it's the best piece i've read about the whole debate regarding models and weight...are they too thin? are they just naturally that way, or are they starving themselves? will a minimum BMI solve the problem? and can we expect the fashion industry to moderate themselves?

it's a wonderful piece, not just because Nussbaum gets some models to admit to some unsavory truths, but because she presents models not as prestigious glamazons who inspire envy, but as "nameless, faceless manual laborers," many underage, many from poor Eastern European countries, desperate to make a living for themselves and their families. so starving themselves seems like a small price to pay for what they hope will be a fairy tale rise to fame and fortune like that of Russian supermodel Natalia Vodianova. i finished this article feeling mostly pity for these young women, wishing i could adopt them and make them chili.

then, a few days ago, i finally watched Thin, the HBO documentary that goes inside Renfrew Center, an eating disorders treatment center in Florida. what disturbed me most is how "normal" these women looked to me. is that how conditioned i am? i'm afraid so. the Renfrew women don't look thinner than the women we see on television shows and in the media. sadly, my first thought upon seeing one woman was, "she's not so bad." then, she hops on the scale, and the numbers read "84.5." (ugh. i weighed 85 pounds in the 5th grade) imagine my horror when she reveals that she's been feeding herself through a feeding tube for the past 2 or 3 years because she won't eat.

"normal," my ass.

in the documentary, one of the girls comes in to get weighed and have her vital signs checked. she has to slip out of her gown to show the nurse that she hasn't been cutting herself. (below is a screen grab of that scene) it seemed familiar, like i'd seen this image before...


then it struck me how very similar it is to this image of a model that accompanied the New York magazine article.

sisterly love, my bum.

they're preparing for the candlelit liposuction ceremony.

i can't believe i missed this New York Times article that ran in Sunday's paper about Delta Zeta, a sorority at DePauw University that evicted 23 of its members for being "insufficiently committed."

The 23 members included every woman who was overweight. They also included the only black, Korean and Vietnamese members. The dozen students allowed to stay were slender and popular with fraternity men — conventionally pretty women the sorority hoped could attract new recruits.

oy. the only remotely redeeming part of this story is that of the 12 women who were asked to stay, six were so angry they quit.

related joke:

what's the sorority girl's mating call? ohmigooooood, i'm sooo drunk.

never underestimate the power of a cookie.

i'm not sure how i ended up on their mailing list (haven't they heard that i've fallen into wicked New York woman ways? then again, that's probably precisely why i'm on it) but i've been receiving the weekly bulletin from the First United Methodist Church in Valdosta, Georgia for the past couple of months.

that's where i was confirmed. that's where i learned how to play handbells. that's where i went to junior choir every Sunday night, not because i wanted to sing for the glory of the Lord, but because i had a major, lustful 8th grade crush on bad-boy Methodist and 10th grader, Justin Bridges.

sigh.

he had neither eye nor heart for me, but it sure made youth group much more fun.

flipping through the bulletin this evening, i came across this notice:

KAIROS COOKIES

Thank you so much for providing cookies for the Kairos Prison Ministry. Thirty men gave their lives to the Lord. God's presence was evident during the entire weekend. It was very successful. May the Lord bless you richly.

Kairos Prison Team

now that must be one darn tasty cookie.

real women on the red carpet.

i wonder if they make this dress in a misses size 10.

Abigail Breslin, nominated for best supporting actress for playing the part of Olive in Little Miss Sunshine, on the red carpet last night at the Oscars. goodness, it does my heart good to see such a real little girl - no highlights, no heels, no midriff-baring tops - succeed in Hollywood. i really wish she'd won, but i was pleased as punch to see the curvalicious Jennifer Hudson win too.

my assumption always is that men and women alike prefer the long, lithe silhouettes of Gwyneth Paltrow and Nicole Kidman (b/c, of course, i'm still fighting the concept of that being The Ideal Body. to the men in the my family, it was...it is.)


...to the soft yet substantial slopes of Jennifer Hudson.

NOT.

i watched the Oscars with a small group of both genders, and it was easily JH who garnered the most positive, visceral reactions from the boys. i'm not sure why that still surprises me even after having been told numerous times that most guys prefer a little meat...a little curve...a little deeelish dish to dive into, and really, how could they not? you get the impression that Gwyneth just wears her dress whereas Jennifer dances hers.

watch jennifer's red dress dance.

and then watch olive get down.

good cholesterol.

"should i take conversational french classes, or just date a frenchman?"

"date a frenchman."

"do they taste like croissants?"

"nuh uh. better. creme brulee."

there you have it.

i discovered a great series of cards yesterday afternoon called Pondering Pool, written and designed by Susan Mrosek. the above is my favorite, but i looooove this one too.

and here i thought *i* was voluptuous.

click the picture for a bigger view.

i love my landlady. among the many, many lovely things she does, she makes me green tea cupcakes, let's me sing Kelly Clarkson ballads full voice (when i think no one else is in the building) without saying a word and freely shares her crafty supplies with me. have i mentioned what a lucky girl i am?

she left me the above clipping from the latest People magazine about the backstage goings-on at Rock & Republic's show at Fashion Week. the Post-It note is her addition.

if this is voluptuous, what, pray tell, is thin?

wrinkles are roadmaps of where life has been.

i have a subscription to More magazine. it's actually a magazine meant for women 4o and over. yes, i'm 32. i don't care. i love it. it's filled with sassy, smart, successful women who have been up and down and over and out. yeah...it still has it's issues. most of the 40+ women are still too damn skinny to serve as a fair representation of the general population (especially women who have been through menopause), but trust me. pick it up, and you'll see that it's a huge improvement over the vapid shit they try to sell us young 'uns, and...it gives me something to look forward to. i've always been coined a "late bloomer." fine. if i can bloom like these "crones," i'll happily concede my tardiness in the greenhouse of life.

anyway...i discovered in it's pages a wonderful new Dove ad campaign for their Pro-Age line. i love it. Pro-Age instead of Anti-Age...get it, get it, get it? anyway, i went to their website to see if they had something online that i could link to, and i guess they actually shot a commercial, but they weren't allowed to air it.

OLD (-ish) WOMEN NUUUUUUUUUUUUUUDE!!! HURRY! COVER THINE EYES! THE SIGHT OF SLIGHTLY SAGGY SKIN AND AGE SPOTS IS KNOWN TO CAUSE IRRITABLE BOWEL SYNDROME AND SOME FORMS OF CANCER.

i think it's absolutely lovely and about damn time. appreciating the beauty of the aging body is not so different from appreciating the beauty of all different body types. it's all about expanding our concept of beautiful to include instead of to exclude. can we please stop acting like life is one big sorority rush?

i think of all of the older women in my life, and they're not less beautiful than the young ones...they're different. my mother's knuckles were lined with deep crevices she blamed on 20 years of dishwashing. she hated them, but tracing those crevices with my fingers while i massaged her hands with Soft Sense lotion when she was sick is one of my most vivid and beautiful memories. i memorized those wrinkles like a blind man memorizes braille. as for myself? i love the way i look now more than i ever have, and yes, i have creeping crow's feet, gray hairs and stretch marks.

anyway...

check it out, and be sure to check out the "reaction to the commercial" as well. i can't decide whether i pity or i wanna smack the blond woman. you'll see what i mean. eh. i'll choose pity. it hurts my hand to smack a computer screen.

corsets 'n' conversation, part deux

Anonymous said...
um, as a male reader of your blog - i was wondering if there were any photos of this fine social event?

oh, anonymous...show your sad little face. yes, there were pictures, but this is all you're getting. a nice girl doesn't corset 'n' tell.

gingerbread venus

a friend of a friend's mother made these gingerbread Venus of Willendorf cookies.

from Wikipedia:

Venus of Willendorf, also known as the Woman of Willendorf, is an 11.1 cm (4 3/8 inches) high statuette of a female figure, discovered at a paleolithic site near Willendorf, Austria, in 1908 by archaeologist Josef Szombathy. It is carved from an oolitic limestone that is not local to the area, and tinted with red ochre.

As of 1990, upon a revised analysis of the stratigraphy of its site, it was estimated to have been carved between 22,000 - 24,000 BCE. Very little is known about its origin, method of creation, or cultural significance.

...The Venus is not a realistic portrait but rather an idealization of the female figure. Her vulva, breasts, and swollen belly are very pronounced, suggesting a strong connection to fertility. Her tiny arms are folded over her breasts, and she has no visible face, her head being covered with what might be coils of braids, eyes, or a kind of headdress. The lack of a face has prompted some archaeologists and philosophers to view the Venus as a "universal mother..."

The nickname, urging a comparison of this rather obese figurine to the classical image of "Venus", causes resistance in some modern analysis. "The ironic identification of these figurines as 'Venus' pleasantly satisfied certain assumptions at the time about the primitive, about women, and about taste," Christopher Witcombe has noticed. At the same time there is professional reluctance to identify her as an Earth Mother goddess of paleolithic Old Europe. Some suggest that her corpulence would represent high status in a hunter-gatherer society, and that beside her obvious fertility she could be an emblem of security and success.

but do they make leiderhausen that small?

on wednesday, february 7th at 12:16 pm, my friend n who lives in frankfurt, germany gave birth to a beauuuuuutiful baby boy named Paavo Joscha Ludz.

welcome wee Paavo. your mama is a warrior and your papa is a bear; you're a tough, little miracle bound for great love and great things.

corsets 'n' conversation

our party looked absolutely nothing like this

i went to a "corset party" the other night. yes, boys were there too (sadly, not in corsets). boobs, baked goods...funny how boys seem to have radar for this sort of shindig.

it sounds much more risque that it actually was. really just an excuse to wear our closeted corsets (a's in white satin with black embroidery, e's in purple satin with lace trim, mine in black satin inset with pale blue panels and navy detailing), bake valentine's cookies, drink pomegranate martinis and listen to jazz. i certainly wouldn't want to have to wear a corset every day of my life, but every once in a while, it's an uplifting experience. you're certainly forced to have better posture, and if you have any misgivings about exposing your cleavage in public, a corset will force you to get over that real quick. particularly in mid-winter, when the girls ain't seen the light of day in months...they get a little shy, but in a corset -

THERE THEY ARE. and there is nothing you or anyone else can do to avoid them.

it's almost like the physical embodiment of multiple personalities. people have conversations with you and your breasts.

anyway...it was a lovely time. i got into a fascinating conversation with a guy who works for a major tabloid magazine (i promised i wouldn't say which one). i started complaining about all of the diet stories the tabloid magazines do, and he essentially told me they do "diet" stories only when they have absolutely nothing else to write about AND that their diet issues are always their biggest sellers of the year. that's what women want to read about, so that's what we print.

oy.

i just thought you should know that. i mean, i think a lot of us know that because we're smart, savvy women, but to actually hear it from the source itself? helpful. i'm absolutely guilty of picking up the diet issues. they always draw me in. i flip through that flimsy little mag hoping to find The Secret to Everlasting Thinness. knowing, however, that i'm a "sure thing" in their eyes - that they can draw me in with what even a tabloid mag knows is worthless drivel by preying on my insecurities - will certainly make me stop next time before picking one up. if i do read it, it'll be with a different perspective, and at least i'll know where to direct the anger - out instead of in.

and i don't think they meant "phat" in a good way.

my friend a was digging through the digital archives of the Library of Congress, and she came across this little animated film from 1913 - The Phable of the Phat Woman.

who says it was better in the olden days?

i love my nose...because it works.

What We Love About Our Bodies

a lovely feature in Fitness Magazine, February 2007. don't go waste your money on the actual mag, just click on the link above to check out the slide show.

then answer the question yourself...what do YOU love about your body?

i do love my nose. i also love my shoulders and upper back. a genetic blessing from my linebacker father, when i do yoga regularly, they're sinewy and sleek, but not at all delicate...and that's oooookay.

just no "dutch ovens," please.

i've been stuck inside all weekend with an awful cold. sniff, sniff, hack. a perfect opportunity to flip through the 400 magazines i have stacked around my apartment. i found a couple of new haircuts i might like to try and a few CDs i'm gonna download, but my favorite little tidbit, from Glamour, December 2006:

Men who love "real bodies" are better in bed
Sex during your period? Or when you haven't waxed? If your partner has no problem with that, it's good news for your sexual health. Men who are comfortable with real issues like sweat, hair, and menstruation are more intimate lovers and more likely to have practiced safe sex than men who are less comfortable with those things, a new study finds. A man who is at ease with your body and his own may be better able to relax in the bedroom and talk about safe sex and birth control, says study coauthor L. Monique Ward, a professor at the University of Michigan in Ann Arbor...

makes total sense to me. if you christen my cellulite "darling dimples," i can burp and fart in front of you on occasion, and you still think i'm hot...i'm all yours. i mean, c'mon...if you can't handle that, you can't handle this.

let's be honest; stranger sounds happen between the sheets.

overheard.

"i think maybe i should move to a town where they still print the school lunch menu in the newspaper."

thinsane.

standing in line at the drugstore today, i saw this on the cover of US Weekly.

HOLLYWOOD'S REVENGE DIETS!
Better after breakup! How newly single stars get slim and sexy fast

Reese, they tell us, is two sizes smaller apres Ryan, Drew has lost 20 pounds, and Kate Hudson has lost 10. these women were already quite thin before their breakups so it's fascinating to me that their weight loss is considered a good thing and assumed to be intentional, the result of some sort of "I Will Survive/Irreplaceable/Since You've Been Gone" exercise and weight loss program.

they are thinner, therefore they must be doing better!

there doesn't seem to be any room for the idea that their weight loss is the result of something far more serious and sad - distress over the end of what they thought would be a lifelong, committed relationship.

sure does piss me off that when most people see women who have lost weight, the assumption is that they must be doing more fabulous. yes yes yes, that can sometimes be the case (and hurrah! i champion those women), but sudden, dramatic weight loss can and should also elicit concern from loved ones. weight loss can be a medical symptom of a serious problem (depression, anxiety, etc.) regardless of one's size beforehand.

instead of:

you look great!

how about:

you look great! how do you feel?

just because their ass looks better in their jeans, doesn't mean their heads and hearts are in the right place.

i am now a magical fiery bitch.

it's not quite this red, but i thought the pic was so beautiful i couldn't resist

i dyed my hair last friday. after 6 or 7 years of being a "blonde," i am now a reddish brunette. i like it. i really do. i thought i would look into the mirror and start crying because i wouldn't recognize the woman staring back at me, but i actually like my darker, fiery reflection. i can see the green in my hazel eyes now, and my cheeks have grown roses. my friend c says i look "Jane Austenien."

i'll take that as a compliment, thanks.

i needed a change. i've been experiencing some internal shifts as of late, so it seemed right to commemorate those shifts with a slight change in my external appearance as well. it's healthier for my hair, my pocketbook and my psyche. i began to identify way too much with my tousled blonde locks, and i don't like that. hair, like all body parts, is impermanent. so, i guess dying my hair was a little exercise in detachment:

could i still be "me" without the blonde hair?

well, of course i can the answer is, but nothing prepared me for some of the comments i got from co-workers, particularly this one:

"but you were my magical fairy princess!"

"and i can't be your magical fairy princess now that i'm a brunette?"

"no."

wow. i've been de-throned. i guess i am now the auburn-haired wicked stepsister who reeks of Gorgonzola cheese and wears granny panties. ah well...it's a good thing i own my own wings.

because thin people have no problem with self-acceptance...ever.

"well, every time i see you, you just keep getting thinner. you're not going to be able to do your show!"

i smile sweetly, but i want to explode.

um...what? how does that make any sense whatsoever?!?!?

argh.

now, this poor fella didn't even see my show, he's just read about it, but...still! good lord. it's been a bit of a constant battle trying to get people to "get it," but then, i guess that's why i do the show. the show seems to help folks "get it" in ways that a coffee conversation never ever will.

i find it incredibly fascinating that people want to assume that my show must be about the struggles of a fatish girl wanting to be thin b/c, the assumption seems to be, don't we all desperately want to be thinner? prettier? er-er? the concept of a anyone being happy right where she/he is seems so totally foreign to most people particularly if that place doesn't reflect the cultural ideal, and isn't that sad.

par example:

i am sitting in my cluttered little sort-of-a-one-bedroom apartment in the very non-exclusive borough of Queens. i could bemoan my lot - i'm not rich, i'm not in love, i'm not Grace Kelly's twin, but at this very moment, i wouldn't be anywhere or anyone else. the Super Bowl is being played somewhere, and i couldn't care less. i am alone. i am warm here. chili simmers on the stove. the scent of cinnamon, cumin and allspice waltzes through my apartment and takes me back to childhood football games and Christmas roasts. shirley horn's buttery voice melts through my speakers...

Here's to Life, here's to Love, here's to you...

now yes, the journey illustrated in my show began as an attempt to find happiness in a size 6, but the path took a big sweeping turn, and ended up becoming about learning how to maintain the same level of love for myself no matter where i fall on the weight/dress size/is-my-nose-too-big-or-just-right spectrum. now, does this mean i don't ever think i could look better? feel better? be better? absolutely not, but i really believe i have to be happy where i am before i can get anywhere better. if i can't sit here and see the joy in this, how can i expect to see the joy in that?

god's not dumb. he's not gonna give you the sun when you refuse to see the sunlight and keep begging for the moon.