<, =, or >

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

he snickers.

"what? is something funny?"

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

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

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

pause.

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

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

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

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

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

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

i'm such a pussy.

i wanted to scream.

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

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

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

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

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

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

fringe benefits

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

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

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

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

oh, my aching bilateral dorsal anterior cingulate.

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

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

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

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

from The Neurocritic

gratuitous baby pic of the week #3

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

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

one of the many reasons.

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

"yeah, i know. makes zero sense."

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

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

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

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

The Cute. soooo logical.

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

"ah."

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

he stops. looks at me with affectionate amusement.

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

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

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

the fucking dress doesn't fit.

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

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

the fucking dress doesn't fit.

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

duped by the exotically beautiful salesgirl that oozed:

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

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

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

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

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

i've been happy.

HAPPY, people.

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

IN NOVEMBER 2006

MARGAUX LASKEY LOST HER APPETITE.

because i am highly doubtful it will ever happen again.

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

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

so, there ya have it. i lost weight.

people started noticing. Friends Who Know expressed concern:

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

co-workers shouted their congratulations across the office:

"you're looking good, girl!"

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

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

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

peanut butter and graham crackers.

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

so, yes, what this means is:

i've gained weight.

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

i've gained weight.

and i am still me.

i've gained weight.

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

i've gained weight.

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

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

and it will smell like peas.

paavo poops.

my dear friend n emailed me today. i owe her an email from about three months ago. i owe her a really long, juicy email, but truth be told, i am not an e-mailer. i'm not a phone chatter-er either. this makes it very difficult for me to keep in touch with those who i don't see on a regular basis. this includes grandmothers too. (heathen!) i am just soooo much better face to face. i can reach out and hug you, touch you, and as is the case with some of my family members, punch you if you deserve it.

i always resolve to be better about it. just jot down on my calendar days when i'm supposed to call l or a or n and then JUST DO IT. but i rarely if ever do. pox on me. as my mother would say, "margaux, you can't expect to get letters, if you don't send them." luckily, my pals haven't written me off just yet, and i PROMISE, dear n, to send you an update email soon. i can't just keep using you for pictures of your adorable, well-dressed, round-cheeked, German blossom baby.

it's a good thing i can bake.

the afternoon before The Police concert at Giants Stadium. The Cute was taking me. i was in the bathroom "putting on my face" when familiar strains of music came soaring through the apartment:

"isn't that sweet," i thought. "he's playing The Police, because we're going to hear The Police tonight."

i walk into the kitchen, blush brush in hand:

"you know, i was having a hard time remembering songs by The Police, but now that i hear them, i'm like duh, of course! i know these tunes. i love these songs!"

silence. The Cute peers at me from behind his rockstar ringlets:

"this isn't The Police, sweetiecakes. this is U2."

faith in photoshop.

pretty, pretty, pretty, faith hill. so thin and willowy, skin so flawless, waist so taut and cinched (even after three babies!).


and here's what she really looks like.

a very, very human, pretty, pretty, pretty faith hill.

click here to read all about what was done to make her look like an expressionless Carrie Underwood clone.

(thank you, amy. i will never be a particularly successful blogger b/c i'm the equivalent of your 88-year old grandmother when it comes to keeping up with the rest of the blogosphere. good thing i have friends who do!)

"no duh" would have been a better headline.

Study Suggests That a Need for Physical Perfection May Reveal Emotional Flaws

no kidding.

if it takes a scientific study to get plastic surgeons to psychologically screen their patients, or even just be more aware of their patients' emotional well-being, great. i just find it funny that this study is presented as something revelatory and new.

i've been living it for most of my life.

we're not all rushing to the doctor for a pug nose or a pair of immovable boobs, but in varying degrees, haven't most of us spent oodles of time and money trying to fulfill our "need for physical perfection?"

time and money that would have been better spent on therapy.

in the flo.

the first day of aunt flo's visit is never fun.

swollen. crampy. soooooooooo tired.

my silhouette changes. i've never been oklahoma, but i become kentucky.

strangely, i've sort of grown to like it though. for reasons beyond the obvious:

1. i'm not pregnant!

2. i'm not menopausal!

3. i'm not dead!

i like these first couple of days of my period because i find i cannot be bothered. my standard reaction to all things on days like today can be summed up in one word:

WHATEVER.

things that would otherwise annoy me don't, or if they do, i break down and weep unabashedly and feel absolutely no regret or shame for doing so. it's not emotional detachment; i still feel, i just do so sans judgment.

no:

i'm such a pathetic, weepy baby.

more like:

i'm a weepy baby. i need more tissues, please, and chocolate.

no:

sorry, i'm such a bitch. sorry, sorry, sorry.

more like:

wow, i'm a snarky bitch. this can be fun!

the feelings, well, they just sort of wash over me and fade away into to an ibuprofen-induced calm...until the elephant stomps across the tundra of my uterus again.

"big girl, you are beautiful!"

i'd have given my left breast to be a part of this video. would have made for creative costuming, but goodness this looks like it was so much fun to make!

“i am a pretty girl.”

i came across this blogpost, Beauty is in the Eye of the Toothbrush Holder the other day. its beauty and honesty stunned me. even more when i discovered that it came from the fingertips of a 24-year old.

no fair.

i don't think i truly started having moments of epiphanous self-love like this until my late 20s or early 30s. i still struggle, dammit, and it pisses me off. for instance, due to the heat, humidity and a hearty case of PMS, my face has broken out into a constellation of pink stars. it is so very hard for me to look at myself in the mirror and not see red, angry tittles screaming back at me:

mwahahahahahahaaaaa! i shall ruin your life!

it is so very hard for me not to hear my grandmother's voice circa 1994, when i was struggling with a particularly bad collegiate breakout, spoken as if she were offering me some bit of revelatory advice:

well...do you ever wash your face?

so, yeah, i still struggle with seeing The Truth in the mirror. The Truth that yes, i have zits sometimes, my skin doesn't look like airbrushed porcelain, but it's still pretty damn clear. my eyes are a bright hazel-amber that remind me of my mom's. my nose works, and i have pretty great cheekbones.

unlike when i was 24, i now have a hefty dose of perspective. the zit is no longer who i am, it's just part of who i am TODAY. and, this time 'round, i know it won't last. not a bit of it. the acne. the undereye circles. the bright hazel-amber eyes. the sculpted cheekbones. the zits'll clear up in the next week or two. the undereye circles will do the same with a good night's sleep and plenty of H20. the bright eyes will eventually slope and crinkle around the edges. the cheekbones will lose their striking prominence with the inevitable weight gain that will come with (hopefully) bearing children and a ripe and probably rounder middle age.

so, for today, i'm gonna try to look forward to changing, for better or for worse. change means i'm alive. dead people certainly don't get zits, but then, they're DEAD...and i can always dab on a little concealer.

"i am woman, hear me chew."

i've got myself taken care of. i wonder what he's gonna eat.

Be Yourselves, Girls, Order the Rib-Eye

i used to be the girl that ate a "little something" before she went out on dates so i wouldn't eat too much at dinner. i remember my eighth-grade valentine's dance. i went with parker grow. i wore a royal blue satin dress with a sequinned bodice and an assymmetrical waistline. parker had a matching cummerbund and bowtie. i rolled my hair. i teased my bangs. i had braces. and because i'd read in TEEN magazine to eat something before a date so as not to make a big oink out of oneself, i ate a piece of ham and cheese pizza before he picked me up. we went to his house for a lovely dinner his mother had prepared for eight of us. i hardly ate a bit, which in retrospect, was not only rude, but incredibly stupid. the food was delicious, particularly the homemade tiramisu dessert that i pecked at like an anorexic sparrow.

i will always regret that uneaten dessert. sorry, mrs. grow.

i also went through a phase where i only ordered salads when i was on dates. again...dumb. i enjoy salads, definitely, i eat them on a daily basis, but not usually when confronted with other, more carnivorous options. and in the romance department, salad? pffft. can you really imagine sharing a forkful of mixed greens over candlelight? nothing sexy about that. offering up a drippy bit of pink steak au poivre to the salivating boy across the way? Sexy City. and if what one eats at dinner is indicative of the tastes of another appetite, i'd prefer the boy associate my desires with something hearty and robust, not light and fibrous.

in the end, of course, a girl should eat whatever the hell she wants on a date. eating steak when what you're really craving is broccoli in hopes he'll think you're "unpretentious and down to earth and unneurotic," is just as silly as eating a salad because you don't want to appear "too carnivorous" and what i'm guessing this really means is, masculine.

gasp!

so yeah, ladies, eat what you will, what you want, what you crave. i man worth his salt is gonna like you for reasons other than what you put in your mouth anyway. salad, steak...whatever. of course, i'm not so sure the same holds true for boys, for me, that is. i mean, i think i have admit to a bit of a double standard here. on my first real date with The Cute, i ordered steak au poivre...and so did he. good thing. if he'd ordered "just a salad," i'm not so sure i would have stuck around for dessert.

compassion can be a bitch.

remember when we were proud of our belly buttons?

Sent: Mon, 30 Jul 2007 2:53 pm

Subject: Hey

Hey Margaux. One of the books came per your recommendation. So thanks for the suggestion, it makes sense so far. I am so angry with myself for using food in this way. But this is good time for intervention.

On 7/31/07, margrocks@aol.com wrote:

yay! i hope you enjoy it, and don't be angry w/ yourself, sweetpea. try compassion. works much better every time.

now, if i could only take my own damned advice. i've certainly gotten better at it - choosing compassion over control - but it ain't always easy. even after all of these years of therapy, i'm still flabbergasted that it continues (at times) to be far easier to be cruel to myself than kind. by compassionate, i don't mean self-destructive and letting oneself go all willy-nilly, but gentle and kind. i suppose i should be compassionate towards myself in terms of self-compassion too, eh? i've taken what feels like baby steps, but if i look back at the girl i was a few years ago, i can hardly make her out in the distance - a girl who couldn't bring herself to even touch her belly in the bath or shower because it was less than perfect...

...maybe if i don't touch it, wash it, moisturize it, care for it, acknowledge it, it will go away...

now, on less than perfect days, when the ups and downs of life match the perceived roly-poly of my midriff, i do this: i purposely fall asleep with my hands resting gently upon my abdomen, palms down. i imagine light and love and compassion breathing from my hands into The Belly, my longtime bane. touch: a simple thing, but an absolute necessity in creating and maintaining cohesive, lasting, loving relationships, and i would certainly like one of those with The Belly. we're getting to know one another after a lengthy, embittered separation.

i'm baaaack...for today, anyway.

promises, promises...

so sorry i have been a lazy girl in terms of posting on the blog as of late. the past few months have been nuts at work - we moved from one big, labyrinthine building to another bigger, more labyrinthine building. i was involved intimately in the whole crazy-making process. this meant loads and loads of time spent in front of the computer. this also meant i had absolutely zero interest in spending any time in front of the computer after work for any reason - blogging, emailing, graphic design, lesbian porn (kidding, dad!). nothing. nada. nope. the idea of more time with a computer nauseated me. i even came to resent my Treo - "Satan's phone," i came to think of it. everyone, including Satan, can get in touch with you anytime, anywhere.

so anyway...


hi! how ya been?

so there's the work thing, and..and! i really am trying to spend some time figuring out what the next step is for size ate - the blog, the show, the Moi. the blog started as an online diary meant to share my neuroses surrounding body and food. the idea being that this would make it easier for me to then get up on a stage ALONE in front of 80 people and talk, act, dance, sing about it for an hour in my one-woman show. PRACTICE EXPOSING MYSELF is what this blog really should have been called. like a flasher-in-training. so i did that, and i did the show, and so...


now what?

hm. not sure.

the show itself has some performances coming up, and i'm planning on booking more so that's good...wonderful...great. i'm really looking forward to re-uniting with my "little bastard child" (as my friend coins those projects we deem "problems" but end up getting most of our attention, and in the end, our love, and so they turn out beautiful and well-adjusted and successful, or...in prison). i am such a different person now than i was when i first performed this show almost two years ago. the same in many ways, but oh-so-different and "grown" in ways i never could have imagined. i'm eager to see what sort of voice i'll give the show from this vantage point. and it's so very exciting for me, because this was always the point of the show; that it should be organic...growing, changing...juuuust like the human body. and it is. it will.

"snaps" for change!


i think my recent silence stems from uncertainty about what this blog is to be going forward. a diary? a resource? a forum? a bit of all three? should it be more structured or keep the same free-flowing whateverness it's had for the past 3 years? honestly, not a big deal. it really is just a blog, and who knows...my point is...i'm working on it. working through it. playing through it. getting my hands dirty and fingerpainting my future. so, my postings are gonna be messy, and infrequent and probably not quite clear, but i'm here, and i'll keep posting about body, food and culture and looking forward to hearing from you when something ping! resonates with you. it really has been the emails i've gotten from readers and YouTube viewers that have kept me going in my development of size ate. you dears, are The Fire Under My Ass. so, thanks. i needed that.

and yes, yes, yes...you nosey nellies who've asked, there still is the whirling dervish of laughter and curls...the boy who draws hearts on lattes and whose good-good heart and balsamic vinaigrette make me swoon. someday...i'll introduce you. ( :

overheard in the office.

"models always look like the most miserable people, so why is it we always want to wear what they're wearing?"

back from lala land...

what loooove looks like in the laskey family...

the philosopher and his little brother, ethan.

sorry for the lengthy pause in posting. i was in Lala Land for the first time this past week. Los Angeles, i mean. where Botox grows on trees. i'll be posting some pics and deets in the coming days, so stay tuned. i'd really like your opinion on my nose job.

KIDDING!

i also went to San Diego where, among other things, i hung out in the Jacuzzi with my 10-year old nephew, tyler:

(a heavy sigh) "i wish i were rich."

"you don't think you're rich?"

"well, i know i'm rich in loooooooooove, but i mean the other kind."

don't know, but don't wanna go.

my aunt and 88-year old grandma came to NYC for the day on saturday to visit. we had an absolutely wonderful time. we ate lunch at Rock Center Cafe, rode the Circle Line cruise, ate lunch again at the Eatery, wandered through the magical dome that is Grand Central Station, had cocktails at a nearby pub...we gabbed, we giggled. it was a great day full of many lovely moments to cherish, but beyond a doubt, the most memorable moment was a single sentence uttered by my Aunt Charlene in complete and utter sincerity as we were riding through the city in a cab:

where is that F-A-R-T Schwarz?

this is the package, ok?

I quit Weight Watchers. Can you believe it? I quit! Fergie Schmergie! I hate fiber. I like Mallomars and if Derek isn't going to love me for the tiny amount of cellulite I have on the back of my thighs then fuck him. Screw that guy. This is the package, ok? It's exactly the same under the wrapping. This is the package, no exchanges, no returns. Right? Why does our society push us to be perpetually uncomfortable with who we are. It's so messed up! Wanna know why? (reading from a magazine) "Boost your buttocks and thighs. Luscious Liposuction. Flawless face lifts." That's why. Enough is enough. We need to stop letting society and media and our religious leaders delegate who we are. You're amazing and I'm even more amazing and anybody who doesn't get it can screw themselves. (sigh) That felt fantastic.

Molly Shannon as Carrie in the movie Gray Matters. sent to me by Cassie, a size ate reader. thanks for thinking of me. to quote another Mollie Shannon vehicle, "you're a SUPERSTAR!"

distract me, please.

well, it's a miracle if anyone is still reading this blog. i have been absolutely and utterly distracted over the past few weeks. working like a madwoman and exhausted and so damn sick of computers, the last thing i want to do is touch one in any capacity when i get home from work. i have actually dreamt about Excel spreadsheets the last two nights. what would freud have to say about that?

get a life, woman.

full disclosure: oh, okay...and then, yes then...if you really wanna know there is this boy who draws hearts on the tops of lattes he makes for me...

with a side of noogie.

"i'll have the wedgie burger with fries, please."

"uh. i'm sorry?"

"the wedgie burger."

"i'm so sorry?"

"the wedgie burger."

i hand her the menu so she can just point it out, and her index finger lands on the VEGGIE burger.

i have no idea what might be in a wedgie burger, but i know i don't want one.

a fat rant.

i can't believe i've missed this...it is WONDERFUL. it has gotten a TON of press, and she's gotten 903,983 views as of a few minutes ago. it clearly resonates with people...of ALL SIZES.

thank you, Joy Nash.

cooking for a boy

"i don't know what i should make...i mean, i'm much more of a winter cook - soups, stews, hearty things...i live off of salads in the summer. should i do a pasta? but i never make pasta. fish scares me. chicken's sorta boring...maybe i..."

"he won't care. pick your dress."

gratuitous baby pic of the week #2

grant mitchell laskey having "Doughnuts for Dad" at pre-school...

good boy...likes his carbs.

thank you.

do you ever have one of those days when you look around you and realize how very lucky you are to be where you are and surrounded by those who surround you?

today was that kind of day - i wore my blessings like a blush.

no more "date salads."

i went on a date thursday night (yes, i've actually had a few of those lately), and The Cute took me to an excellent sushi place downtown. while he was away using the loo, i struck up a conversation with the folks at the table next to me - two women on a business trip.

"oh, so you're from miami, you all must have really great sushi down there."

"oh, i've been all over, and this is by far the best sushi place i've ever been to...and i'm not on a date, so i can stuff my face."

"well, i am on a date, and i'm still gonna stuff my face."

"good for you...and you'll still have more fun afterwards than we will."

lesbians like tiaras too.

okay, okay...full disclosure:

my neighbors k + k are out of town for the week, so i "borrowed" their periodicals (really just the People magazine and the Time Out New York).

hi guys! i'll return them uncrinkled, and i promise i did not read them while on the throne.

i was flipping through the TONY and came across an interview with Glenn Marla, the reigning Miss LEZ and self-described "fat go-go and sex-positive superstar." i'm not a lesbian (really, Dad, i'm not), but if i were, i think i'd be a lot like her. she describes her style as combining "aspects of gut-as-glamour, dapper dandy, and trannie realness with a strong relationship to color – and a love of spandex and sparkle." on second thought, i'd like to work on adopting her style philosophy, whether i shoot for the other team or not. sparkle is a non-gender-biased cosmetic upper.

she said a few things that stuck with me, more so than anything any Miss USA has ever squawked:

My platform was to make backfat the new cleavage, and I don't know if you have looked around lately, but backfat has become all the rage!

I'm an ethical slut who tries to fall in love at least once a day...

I do believe that one can be fabulous, amazing, brilliant, sexy and nice.

one of those days...

...when you feel like no one sees you, or when they see you, they're rude.

...when it rains, and you have no umbrella but everyone else in this city seems to have a golf-sized one and absolutely no problem clipping you in the face with it's metal talons without so much as a "sorry," and it feels personal, like god chose this weather because he knew it would piss you off because you must have done something wrong once that you don't even remember, but you're sure it was something you did, something you ate, some thought you thunk, some booger you picked then wiped under your school desk when you were in Mrs. McClane's 1st grade class because you just didn't feel like walking up to her desk for a tissue.

THIS

IS

YOUR

PUNISHMENT.

...when the guy behind you in line at Duane Reade sighs dramatically, and says, "oh c'mon!" as you take a wee bit too long for his taste removing money from your purse. normally, you'd just ignore it and seethe, but something about the events of today make you look him straight in the eye and say,

"if it's a problem, you can move to another register."

"really?"

"yes, really." would you like a fucking escort?

maybe it's because i'm wearing all black, you think. i must just blend in. or maybe it's because i have suddenly become ugly and fat and so that's why everyone's being so awfully rude to me today.

that is what i do on days like today. if i can't make sense of other people's crappy behavior towards me, i assume that it's about me and some horrid flaw i have that is inspiring their behavioral vomit to land on my shoes. i know many folks who do this, and it varies as to what that imagined flaw might be. for me, and this'll come as no big shock, it's most frequently a physical flaw i imagine is encouraging these people to put on their meanypants.

blaming the body. exhausting. silly, maybe, but it's typical of so many of us folks who've struggled with eating issues and body image. i've done it for years, and it's a testament to my progress and healing that i really only do it on the shittiest of days anymore (midsummer 90 degree days count as "shittiest" too). days like today...when teenagers on the train ride home make fun of my all-black waitressing clothes:

look, she even has a black umbrella to match.

maybe, no...absolutely, it has nothing to do with you and your perfectly imperfect person, and everything to do with the shitty weather and that person's failing marriage, and that person's blister, and that teenage kid's pregnancy scare, and that guy who just got smacked in the face with a gigantic golf umbrella two minutes before you stood in line together at the Duane Reade, and all he wanted was a pack of cigarettes.

so, no. like most people's reactions, it had nothing to do with you and everything to do with their own internal scheisse, but still...no one could blame you if a little schadenfreude smirk did slide across your face when that guy asked for a pack of Newport Lights, and the clerk behind the counter replied:

"we're out."

it's never too late to source what you might have sourced.

it always creeps me out a bit when i get anonymous comments on blog posts that are more than a month or so old...

who is reading me, and why won't they let me see who they are?

and this one is no different, i'm still a little creeped out, but the intention seems to be a good one. i (incorrectly) quoted george eliot in a title of a blog once and failed to indicate who said it (it wasn't me). i'm so familiar w/ that quote, i guess i assumed everyone was and didn't need a source. anyway...i got this today -

"It is never too late to become what you might have been."
George Eliot, pseudonym of Mary Ann Evans. Post the source please.
Thanks and feel good. - Anonymous

ouch. hard not to feel like i'm being accused of plagiarism or something, but whatevs...them's there the breaks of sharing your writing publicly. for the record, it's mary ann evans who went by the nom de plume george eliot - author of one of my favorite books- Middlemarch. if you like jane austen, you'll probably like her too. she's like jane austen with a PhD in British political and social history...who wears stilettos.

so thanks, mr./ms. anonymous, for keeping me honest. it does feel good.

gratuitous baby pic of the week #1

grant mitchell laskey

i'm gonna limit myself people. once a week. i swear.

(fingers crossed)

the raisinet philosophy

today, just after lunch, i had what i thought was a craving for chocolate. i scraped some change together and went to the vending machine and bought myself a package of Dark Raisinets. a relatively healthy compromise i reasoned - dark chocolate full of antioxidants and raisins full of fiber. whatever. that bit is irrelevant. i got back to my desk, sat down, readied to open the bag and realized:

i didn't want them anymore.

i just wanted to be allowed to have them.

it's not new news that allowing yourself to have things (not just desire then deny them) sometimes suddenly leaves room for you to figure out that you didn't actually want them in the first place, you just wanted the freedom to choose.

i'm still surprised when i see that concept in action in my own life, having lived in a self-destructive cycle of complete denial then totally whacked-out binging for so long. i suppose it's the same reason i have two 5-pound bags of chocolate and candy in my cupboard nowadays. the candy has gone relatively uneaten, but it's always there, my SweetTart-scented security blanket of sorts. i am allowed to wrap myself up in it's sweetness anytime i like, but i rarely want to nowadays, and i can't help but partially attribute that to the fact that its consistent presence gives me a choice to do so, or not. by giving myself permission to eat or to feel (b/c in the end that's what all this is about - permission to feel all your feelings - the good, the bad the ugly) anything i want to, i have quieted the denial devil that sat on my shoulder screaming her philosophy of 'NO' for so many years.

i can now hear my body sweetly whisper (or scream) her needs and cravings - sometimes waffle fries dripping with cheese and mayo, sure, but oftentimes sauteed spinach with a little garlic and olive oil over the Ben & Jerry's Phish Food ice cream in the freezer. now that's something that never woulda happened in the old days.

and then sometimes, it's not about the food at all, is it? it's the shared glance, caress, kiss, connection i crave. the ones that come from sharing that little piece of tiramisu in the tiny italian place with the tin ceiling, skinny waitress and unripe pears. imagine not having giving myself the permission to taste that.

you can learn a lot from an unopened bag of chocolate-covered raisins. totally worth the 75 cents.

living from the inside out.

came across the new book by makeup artist Bobbi Brown the other day at work called Living Beauty. it's full of the typical makeup and skin care tips (with some nutrition and wellness tips thrown in for balance), but i picked it up primarily because it focuses on aging, and there are a few profiles of famous women highlighting their views on beauty and aging. some good little nuggets of wisdom in there from Susan Sarandon, Vera Wang, Lorraine Bracco, Marcia Gay Harden and others, but my favorite part of the entire book though, was the foreward by sassypants Debra Winger. i liked it so much, i typed it up for you here:

The prospect of writing about a woman "aging gracefully" has always given me pause. The term itself sounds as if one is lingering on each landing of a descending staircase, waving elegantly. The descent is what i do not like.

Aging, I feel is more of an ascension; I like that it is an "ing" word. It denotes a process that is alive and happening, growing up and getting closer. Now, we all know what "closer" may mean, but I think of it as moving toward the essential: what was there in the beginning and will be there in the end. We spend a lot of time in between trying to mask our age, hide it, reshape it, but it usually looks just that way...an altered state.

I have tried in the last decade to abstain from value judgments of those who choose plastic surgery. I don't know enough about it to even remark. Sometimes the results are startling to the untrained eye, but many times I'm sure I don't notice what has been done. For me, though, I am actually interested in the process of aging as an unfolding of some mystery. When I was little, someone told me that when you age, you turn into the person you were all your life. My grandmother, although possessing beautiful skin, had a sort of permanent grimace, that she called her smile. It did things to her face that said a lot. My mother, whom I didn't get to see age past seventy, had a twinkle in her eye that stole your attention immediately.

Each time I travel to another country and encounter another culture, when I return I am struck by the degree to which American culture is led by the media and not the lives and inherent beauty of its general population. This is not to say that everyone subscribes to this view, but it is safe to say that the popular cutlure has no room for real wrinkles. We are the specialists in no lines, no map, no history and this includes the history of many other lands. My favorite state of mind is when I am not made to think about myself from the outside in. The fact is, this is a fool's errand. Through a series of events early in my life, I found that the message I got about "vision" is that you will never truly know what you look like to others, because it is your consciousness and your critical eye that are looking in the mirror. It is simply a measure of one's own compassion for oneself, which we all know is the first step to compassion for others.

It seems to be that the challenge is to be the embodiment of whatever is happening in your life at that moment. Sad faces can be extraordinarily moving and beautiful. Happiness is a message, not a look. Making it more difficult, the movie industry in the United States promotes a lineless, motionless look for women of all ages that is, ironically, so nonthreatening that it is scary. But not "scary" in the way we want in the movies. Not in a way that would wake us up, kick us in the butt, and say, "Hey! Get on with it!"

The knowledge that Bobbi has shared begs the question of how palpable can beauty, enhanced or not, be without acceptance of oneself at every stage of life. I am interested in this question. I also applaud those who hold up different approaches to beauty. It is a big world and there is room for us all. A deeper understanding can only lead to a greater appreciation. The effects of our actions are written on our faces. Why not tell countless stories in many languages?

lbs. the musical

i just received this in a mass email from my theater company...somewhere between size 10 and size 12, one seems to become "full-sized."

'LBS. THE MUSICAL'

John Paolillo (choreo.-writer) Mary Feinsinger (music) & Lisa Ferber (lyrics)
are casting a workshop of lbs. The Musical, a comedic view of what it is
like to be full-sized in a small world.

Seeking—Three Full-Sized Women: size 12-24; Three Thin Women: size 2 to 10;
One Slender Male. Note: All must be late 20s-early 30s and be very strong in
dance, song, and acting (triple threats). All types encouraged.

Auditions will be held june 2, 2-5 p.m. at New York Sports Club, 62nd St. &
Broadway, NYC. Bring pix & résumés, along with a tape/CD (karaoke) of music
to sing to. No pay. you will be asked to dance sing and read.

life is short, eat (the best part of the) dessert first.

is it self-loving or self-indulging to bake a batch of Julia Child's brownies on a saturday night, frost them with chocolate buttercream icing and then cut out a square directly from the center (leaving a significant Pyrex eye staring back at you) because in your estimation, that's where the best brownie resides?

and who says self-loving and self-indulging can't be one and the same?

so many goldilocks think they're bears.

my friend sent me this in an email the other day:

You will get a kick out of this. So, I went to the doctor b/c I have felt like I'm fat and need to lose weight. I was hoping he would give me some diet pills to help get me started. He calculated my BMI and said "Well, you're one pound overweight." What?? Ha. So, no diet pills, but I can lose up to 30 lbs and still be healthy. Such a difference in culture and reality. Culture says I'm fat, reality says I'm just right.

yeah, sorry...more babies.

tate william

just too tired to be profound, er...too tired to attempt profundity lately, so until i'm able to catch up on my z's...precious baby nephews it'll be.

grant mitchell

the mamas and the ta-tas

sundays can be painfully slow at the pub. yesterday particularly, it being mama's day 'n' all, and most people don't bring their mamas to a pub. while not good for my pocketbook, good for the mamas of the world, i suppose. the bartender and i flip through trashy mags for hours at a time. i learn nothing, other than that i'm quite happy i do not live in L.A., Jessica Simpson's breasts seem to get bigger with each passing day, and that with each flip of the page, i find myself feeling increasingly sorry for Britney and Lindsay, and increasingly angry at their mothers.

where are they?

and, of course, i recognize the unfairness in that complaint. why aren't i equally angry at their fathers?

where are they?

anyway, i did find an advertisement for this website. love 'em.

----

and yes, it was mother's day yesterday. yes, my mother is dead. yes, i was fine. i got a little Eeyorean on my walk home in the evening, but i made a few touchbase telephone calls to other motherless heathens i know and love, and that seemed to help. then i went home and celebrated the freedom of my motherlessness by running around my apartment with scissors in dirty underwear until 3am.

the best IM conversation ever.

how are all things otherwise?

fine fine

good good

ha ha

ho ho

hoo hoo

he he

hep hep

challah challah

bling bling

ding dong

chin chin

hip ho

chim chiminy chim chiminy chim chim chireeeee...

E-I-E-I-O

rub a dub dub

you win

i wore ya down, eh?

pffft.

sub-par, big-old-duh chocolate cake

and my prize-winning humble pie is coolin' on the windowsill.

sitting at my keyboard. i nibble sub-par chocolate cake from Omonia Cafe. i wear a miniature tiara on my head, just because, or maybe because i need to feel special after a day of slingin' this and that, and cleaning out ketchup bottle lids with my recently manicured fingernails. i'm hoping someone is watching this little tableau through my window because oh, that would be amusing to see, and if i weren't so tired, i might giggle at my reflection in the window.

exhausted after a full weekend of work...and for what?

"paying off debt."

"getting ahead."

but am i? really...getting ahead? or just treading murky water? and not really getting any closer to The Island of the Debt-Free where everyone has maxxed out their 401k and has at least 3 months worth of living expenses in the bank "just in case?" i realize just now that i am very possibly working so much (seven days a week, thank ye very much) in order to avoid getting to the real work...the real, hard, "blood on the forehead" work of fostering and growing my show and all it's little branches. now, as i write it, it seems like such a BIG OLD DUH, but "paying off debt" really is a completely socially acceptable and even applaudable reason to postpone pursuit of your dreams. only now do i wonder how many of us who use that line are really just bullshitting the world...and ourselves.

clearly this requires more exploration, but i just don't have the energy at this point and time.

someone pointed out the little stress zits that have popped up along my hairline and in the center of my cheeks today as if they were pointing out peony blossoms.

why, thank you. i hadn't noticed.

this chocolate cake sucks.

heaven on wheels

good thing i don't have my own kids yet...this blog would be littered with nuthin' but pics of the wee ones. for now, occasional litterings of my blossom nephew grant, livin' and lovin' life. i could learn a thing or two from him.

life balance + corn muffins

sorry i have been out of touch lately...busy busy busy. working seven days a week (no, i'm not kidding), allowing very little time for reflection, brownie-baking and dancing around my apartment naked. admittedly, my life is more than a little bit out of balance, but at least i'm aware, and aware that a change must be made and probably sooner rather than later.

but still...later.

for now, i'm just going to concentrate on eating my corn muffin.

oh. my.

April 29, 2007 -- FORGET alcohol - Lindsay Lohan is addicted to shopping. "I talk about my impulses with my therapist - I have a shopping problem. I love to shop too much," she told Nylon magazine. As for life in front of the cameras, Lohan said, "I get embarrassed about the paparazzi if I'm in a chic restaurant, or when I was in the AA meetings . . . I feel really disrespectful because those people are doing that for themselves and it's no one else's business. But that was the only time it was embarrassing. Other times, I obviously like it . . . I wouldn't ever want them to not take my picture . . . I'd be worried. I'd be like 'Do people not care for me?' " New York Post, Page Six

with cheeeeeeese.

check out sidepony for some uber-witty, uber-adorable cards and other whimsical nonesuch to make you giggle.

tate william laskey

my brother lance and his wife wendy welcomed a new baby boy yesterday, april 23 at 9:12 am. tate weighed in at 8 pounds 15 ounces and is a lanky 21.5 inches long. mom, dad and baby are well and wonderful...

while big brother grant is still assessing the situation...

it was really awkward.

waiting on a table of four from Pennsylvania this past sunday afternoon at the pub.

"can i get you guys anything else?"

"are you an actress?" one of them asks. the one in the tangerine-colored polo shirt who keeps smiling at me whenever i walk past, as if he recognizes me.*

"i am," i sheepishly admit. "among other things."

"i knew it!" one of them exclaimed. "doesn't she look like a model?"

absolutely NO RESPONSE from the others at the table. just blank stares. apparently, they didn't agree. ha.

"um...uh," i stutter because one must say something in such situations to fill the blushing silence. "am i supposed to tip you now?"

*and gay, i should note, but don't they always have the best taste?

or the size of your jeans.

i love this, i love this, i love this, i love this!

“A career takes more than talent. It takes character.”

kitty carlisle hart 1915-2007

“I’m more optimistic, more enthusiastic, and I have more energy than ever before,” she said just after her 79th birthday. Energy, she said, came from doing the things she wanted to do. “You get so tired when you do what other people want you to do,” she said.

amen, kitty, amen.

i met her a couple of times when i was working in event planning. she was just as charming and sweet as they say. not at all snooty - like one might expect her to be. usually the folks that have a reason to be a bit snooty aren't, and those who really have no grounds for snootiness, are the snootiest snoots in the world.

is snoot a word?

yes.

the (gay) nose knows.

lately, i've been thinking about changing my fragrance. i've been wearing Sud Pacifique's Vanille Coco for over a year, but in honor of spring (if it ever gets here), i was looking to lighten up a bit, try something a little more fleuriste, a little less pâtissier. i don't know that i want to smell like a vanilla sugar cookie with chocolate icing for the rest of my life. i went to Sephora, i tested, i tried, i borrowed friends' noses, i narrowed it down...

i still wasn't sure though. i do like Vanille Coco, and i get lots of compliments on it (mostly from straight men who have i-still-want-my-mommy-to-bake-me-cookies issues, but whatever).

the other day, while i was still wearing V.C., a drunk gay man told me i smelled like a vanilla-scented candle from Pottery Barn.

that clinched it.

i'm now wearing this.

mmm...liver pate en masque.

"You could eat this log. Or you could stick your hand in a rusty kitchen grinder. Yeah, have fun."

don't ya love laughing maniacally to yourself in an otherwise completely quiet, though completely occupied, office? me too. people tend to leave you alone when you do that.

i spent my friday afternoon in such a state. i discovered this. Wendy McClure, author of the blog Pound and the book I'm Not the New Me, found these Weight Watchers recipe cards (circa 1974) in the basement of her parent's house. she's posted them all here along with her hysterical commentary (now available in a book called The Amazing Mackerel Pudding Plan).

it's really not any wonder people might lose weight on this diet. just the images sort of make me want to vomit...or never eat again.

and he doesn't even have to use mousse.

grant, my brother's son...just because...he has the best hazel eyes and a halo of curls that i am equally envious of...and lookit those lips...if a rosebud could pucker, it would look like this.

the only sorority-endorsing i'll ever do...

my Aunt Charlene sent me this link last week. it's a public service message from the sorority Delta Gamma. the message is a good one - particularly that it encourages friends and family who think a loved one might have an eating disorder to do something about it - say something, tell someone, make noise. it even goes so far to say that it's worth losing a friendship. a powerful, scary statement and easier said than done, but true.

when i first developed anorexia at the age of 13, it was my friend courtney, a very brave 8th grader, who called my parents and told them they needed to get me help. she was a recovering anorexic herself who had just spent three months in an inpatient program. i imagine she saw a bit of herself reflected in me, and wanted to stop it before i became a full on facsimile. i think i recall being sort of pissed at her (like most co-anorexics, i probably thought she was jealous), but i thank heavens she had the chutzpah to do what she did. i got help before it got too horribly bad. sure, i've struggled with eating disorders since then, but never to the extreme that some people do - i never had to spend time in a hospital; i haven't suffered from serious medical problems as a result of my disorder (yet) - and i credit that early intervention with keeping me from slipping into the abyss.

so anyway...don't just sit there...say something. sure - hard to think of what to say in such a situation, but far easier than trying to think of what to say at a funeral.

i know that sounds extreme, but people die from these disorders:

Anorexia nervosa has the highest premature fatality rate of any mental illness (Sullivan, 1995).

‘God damn it, you’ve got to be kind.’

kurt vonnegut 1922-2007

Hello, babies. Welcome to Earth. It’s hot in the summer and cold in the winter. It’s round and wet and crowded. At the outside, babies, you’ve got about a hundred years here. There’s only one rule that I know of, babies — ‘God damn it, you’ve got to be kind.’

when i was working at The Comfort Diner in 1997, i waited on Mr. Vonnegut and his wife. i had absolutely no idea who he was, but another waiter did and was beside himself. shamefully, i had never read any of Vonnegut's books (and i still haven't), but after reading the obit in the Times, particularly the quote above, i will.

what i remember - he drank lots of coffee and didn't smile much.

a perfect day.

someone (else) washes and blowdries your hair;

you do laundry, and all the socks find their partner;

and you fall asleep in clean sheets that smell like SweetTarts.

show me the curves.

"Everything that's happened to me in the last year
has only made me feel more like a normal person...but in the most beautiful way."

America Ferrara, one of television's curvier if not outright curvy actresses (she's only a size 6, for heaven's sake) dons the cover of May's W magazine. notable, of course, because this mag is notorious for slapping the skinniest and the scariest on it's cover and all throughout.

so, hurrah for America, but i can't help but notice that i don't see many curves in this picture (excepting that hint of a breast we see in the lower right hand corner). if you're familiar with W, you'd know that they usually show more of the cover celeb's body - at least from the hips up. what we've got here is essentially a headshot that conceals her lauded curves instead of celebrating them.

so yay for A, but a little bit of boo on W too.