jennsylvania

"Symptoms Include Mistaking Leggings for Pants"

So glad my BFF Stacey is back from her honeymoon because it means she has time to send me stuff like this:

  

Now if they just made a vaccine to cure my Crocs virus...

I've Got Your Counterpoint Right Here, Marie Claire

I’ve been sitting at my desk ignoring my novel which is due next week.  Instead I’ve been compulsively checking whether or not Marie Claire accepts my offer to write a counterpoint to this article.

(No, seriously, you have to read the article first.) 

(Yes, the whole thing.) 

(I’ll wait.)

Then it occurred to me I don’t need some magazine I don’t even buy to give me a platform.  I’ve got my own right here.

So I shall attack this article much like I attack a piece of cake – layer by layer.

You know, because I’m fat and eatin’ cake is what we fatties do best! 

(In between bouts of self-loathing and feeling lonely and swilling corn syrup straight out of the bottle, of course.)

The second I read the title Should Fatties Get a Room? by Maura Kelly I knew I was in for some fair and balanced perspective.  The article opens with Maura’s editor posing this question: “Do you really think people feel uncomfortable when they see overweight people making out on television?” which… seriously? 

This is what everyone talks about in editorial meetings at Marie Claire? 

Huh.  No wonder I subscribe to Traditional Home instead.

But maybe that’s because a house is the only thing that fits around me. 

You know, because I’m fat.

So, after this asshole editor poses this question, she steers Maura to an article on CNN.com that mentions the new sitcom Mike & Molly.  Apparently the show “has drawn complaints for its abundance of fat jokes [as well as] cries from some viewers who aren’t comfortable watching intimacy between two plus-sized actors.”

I was unaware of this.  According to the trailer I just saw, Mike & Molly is the #1 new comedy on television, so despite fatty-fat-fat complaints, viewers still tune in.  I watched the first couple of episodes because I freaking adore Melissa McCarthy and if there’s ever a sitcom or movie made from my work, I hope she’s one of the actresses the producers consider.

But here’s the thing – even though I love the premise and the cast, I didn’t care for the show.  For those who aren’t fat like me, (did I mention I’m fat?  apparently this is not only very important to many, many strangers but also my singular defining characteristic) you might not know that most of us don’t sit around all day making self-deprecating remarks.  We’ve got jobs and lives and interests outside what the numbers on the scale read.  Sometimes we’re even (gasp!) successful.  And, FYI if our family, friends, and co-workers kept cracking wise about the size of our asses, we wouldn’t voluntarily hang out with them.

Personally, I found the show pandering and pedantic.  Honestly, I hate any sitcom where I can see the jokes coming from a mile away.  I prefer my comedy edgier and more unpredictable, like It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia.  Regardless, I watched for a couple of weeks but ultimately decided I had better things to do with those thirty minutes a week.  (But not exercise.  Fat people wouldn’t dream of breaking a sweat or anything.  Because we’re inherently lazy.) 

Sorry, Melissa, I tried.  Still love you, though.

Anyway, at no point does Maura mention actually having watched the show.  As my friend pointed out in an email exchange earlier today, we should definitely have someone who’s “not much of a TV person” critique a show she’s never seen. 

Maura then has a visceral reaction to the size of the actors, stating, “Those people are downright obese!”  She briefly touches upon how she doesn’t want to promote anorexia, either, but really, obesity is a national problem, and we’re all paying for it with our insurance.  Funny, I thought I was the one paying my own health and life insurance bills.  (Sidebar:  How about we make this deal, then?  When nationalized healthcare rolls out, I won’t expect anyone to fund my fat ass, as long as I don’t have to cover those who text and drive, smoke, take drugs, drink to excess, disobey traffic laws while riding their bikes, or have a whole bunch of kids.  That sounds fair, yes?)

Also, I’m not sure the show is “promoting obesity” so much as it is “acknowledging that life indeed exists in double-digit-sized pants.”

Maura goes on to to say that she’d “be grossed out if I had to watch two characters with rolls and rolls of fat kissing each other… because I’d be grossed out if I had to watch them doing anything.  To be brutally honest, even in real life, I find it aesthetically displeasing to watch a very, very fat person simply walk across a room – just like I’d find it distressing if I saw a very drunk person stumbling across a bar or a (sic) heroine addict slumping in a bar.”

I’m torn about this sentiment.  On the one hand, I can’t help but think the author’s a fat-phobic mean girl, but on the other, these are her opinions and she should be allowed to express them, no matter how much I disagree. 

The key here is I don’t have to buy her opinion… much like I don’t have to buy any of the products advertised on Marie Claire.  I’m not advocating censorship; rather, I’m going to let a free market economy dictate whether or not this person profits from spouting statements that run the gamut from naivety to hate. 

Maura goes on to out herself, admitting that she, too, has fat friends. 

How brave! 

How noble! 

How much do you want to bet they don’t return her calls after this? 

She claims not to be size-ist and commiserates how hard it must be for people to “psych themselves up for the long process of slimming down.”  Then - and this is what really gets me - she uses her article to share her own incredibly simplistic and condescending weight loss tips, like getting more fiber and trying some exercise as opposed to none.  She cheers on readers, telling them in big shout-y capital letters YOU CAN DO IT!

Apparently all fat people have been waiting for is some cluelessly self-righteous Ivy Leaguer to instruct them on how to not disgust her. 

Because that’s key. 

Maura then gets in a plug for watching less TV because it “turns off both our brains and bodies and probably does a helluva lot to contribute to the obesity problem.”  Perhaps her suggestion is that we read more of the high-brow fare in Marie Claire, such as articles on Five Ways to Tell If He’s Just Not That into You or Why the Stars of the Facebook Movie Are Not So Hot.

Upon first reading, I tried to give Maura the benefit of the doubt.  Here the whole internet was losing its shit over someone expressing honest, albeit unpopular, opinions.  I rationalized that maybe we were all looking at this one article out of context.  As someone who’s written hundreds of thousands of words in print and on the internet, sometimes I rely on shortcuts.  I don’t always give the full story because I assume if people are regular readers, they know the background.  But the more I dug, the less validity my theory held.  Maura’s column seems to focus on the vagaries of relationships and dating.  In a five month span, I only found one column where she even mentioned her own weight, so it’s not like this is a common theme in her work for Marie Claire.

In short, the more I read this article, the angrier I got. 

Here’s the thing - I’ve spent my career trying to give readers the message that they should love themselves no matter what.  I’ve worked hard to set the kind of example that will help empower women to embrace who they are and what they look like.  Sometimes I’m stupid and vain and I get caught up in silly things like whether or not my teeth are properly whitened, but the point is I do my best to build myself – and, by extension, other women – up and I get pissed off when some self-righteous asshole tells us we aren’t of value because we don’t fit into some arbitrary standard of beauty.

Apparently I wasn’t alone in my anger.

After the article was published to sizable (pun intended) backlash, Maura amended her article with an apology and the explanation that what she’d written may have been colored by her own experiences with eating disorders.

I’m not saying she gets a pass, but it does give everything she wrote some perspective.  Honestly, I feel sorry for her.  I bet she agonizes over every single calorie and beats herself up if she gains two pounds.  I bet she can’t ever shut her brain off and just enjoy an indulgent meal or a lazy Sunday.  I bet no matter what “naughtiness” she might allow herself, she always pays for it later.  And as someone who spent a portion of her life starving herself, I bet she’s never really faced her reflection in the mirror at her heaviest weight and said, “Girl, you got it going on” and actually meant it.  

You know what?  That’s a miserable fucking way to live.  

And it’s sad and I’m sorry and I get it.  I still hold her responsible for her words, but I now see what prompted them. 

However, Marie Claire – you knowingly paid a former anorexic to write a snarky article about fat people?

I mean, one of your editors not only suggested this topic but then read over the finished copy and thought, “Yes, this will do nicely,” by allowing it to be posted under your masthead with the title Should Fatties Get a Room?

And now you’re surprised that people didn’t like it?

Are you fucking kidding me?

I’m not buying it, Marie Claire.

And I’m not buying your magazine, either.

 

Maybe Tomorrow

Today I am organized.

Today I have myself together.

Today I am showered, blown out, made up, and clad in ready-to-go-outside clothing.

Today I'm in full jewelry.

Today I know where my shoes are.

Today my walkway is shoveled.

Today that smart-assed FedEx driver isn't going to catch me in my bathrobe or in dirty sweatpants or with wet hair and no make-up or barefoot scuttling through snowdrifts and across freezing sidewalks covered in sharp rock salt crystals.  AGAIN.

Today I am not going to sound all breathless and spastic on the intercom when the doorbell rings.

Today I will make up for three weeks of pajama-based, stained-shirted, wet-haired, naked faced, frozen-footed embarrassment.

Today I am going to prove that I am a competent adult, able to sign for a package without looking like a total asshole in the process.

Today I am ready.

Today I spot the truck from my office on the second floor and run downstairs, out the door, over to the gate to wait in well-groomed, nicely dressed anticipation.

Today the smart-assed FedEx driver walks completely past my house.  He spots me as he climbs back into his truck, pausing only long enough to say, "Nothing today.  Maybe tomorrow."

Game on, tomorrow.  Game on.

Show And Tell And Barf

Seems like being a teacher this time of year, particularly if you teach grade school, would be an enormous pain in the ass.  I can't imagine trying to interest and engage a pack of attention-deficit-disordered second graders hopped up on Christmas cookies and Ritalin mere days before vacation and Santa's arrival. 

I guarantee you people are not paid enough. 

However, if you've been teaching for any amount of time, you probably have coping strategies.  My guess is now is not the time of year to teach kids about the first continental congress.  Rather, I'll bet you stick to light lessons, long breaks, and lots of class participation.  If there was ever a time to bust out Show and Tell, it would be now.

The thing is, I'm not a second grader and if I'm hopped up on anything, it's spiked eggnog.  And yet I'm in the exact same ADD-addled, can't sit still, Christmas!Christmas!Christmas! frame of mind as all my young brethren.  So today's blog is going to be my version of Show and Tell. 

Here goes:

The best part of being an author is going to book events.  There's nothing more gratifying than getting to connect with people who "get" you (and like you anyway.)

The second best part of being an author is preparing for book events because, at least in my world, this means new shoes.  Wait, let me state that more appropriately - new shoes!  NEW SHOES!  Tour's always early summer and I pretty much wear a polo and khaki or plaid shorts every day as soon as it hits 65 degrees, so shoes are where I get creative.  Ergo, today's Show and Tell is a retrospective of all my book event footwear. 

(Listen, what do you want from me?  My brain is basted in egg-based cocktails.)

Anyway, shoes.

 

These are the newest arrival.  I bought them to replace the Chanel sling-backs Maisy ate seven years ago.  The good news is I got the very last pair Zappos had and they were on super-sale.  (I suspect they were a return, but who cares?  Look at them!  Penny loafers!  With heels!)  I planned to wear these this year's Witty Women event at The Book Cellar but it turns out that I can't walk more then about fifteen feet in them, lurching and halting the whole way.  Still... pretty!  Shiny!  I've since been practicing walking in them (Miss Tyra would be proud) and I'm up to twenty feet.  At this rate you can expect to see them on tour circa 2012.

These are my favorite shoes in the world, and not just because I wore them to my very first book signing.  I keep them on display now because one of the roses is missing and I wore the heels down to stumps in New York a couple of years ago.  The brand is Irregular Choice and this is probably the least funky of their designs.  They used to have four pages of merchandise on Zappos but now only offer a couple of styles.  The good news is that 6PM.com is the discount arm of Zappos and if you dig them, they have a ton of this brand on sale.  (Actually a lot of what I'm going to show next is on 6PM.)

I wore these Jessica Bennett's for a Bright Lights, Big Ass event in Philly and by the end of the night, I was barefoot, carrying them around in my purse.  They don't look like they'd hobble you, but appearances are deceiving.  (And yet they make a delightful shake-shake noise when in motion so I can't bear to part with them.)

 

These are Beverly Feldman shoes.  I wore the hell out of these in my Bright Lights, Big Ass summer and they've held up ridiculously well.  They're like the Terminator of shoes - un-killable.  I never lost a single jewel off of them and the soles are barely worn.

I wore these to Printer's Row when on tour for Such a Pretty Fat.  Back then, I posted a photo of them online and got a ton of hate-mail, e.g. "HOW DARE U BUY FURAGUMMO SHOES U'VE LEARNED NOTHING UR A DUMB."  Yeah, well, guess what - they're made out of plastic.  Plastic Ferragamos do not cost what non-plastic Ferragamos cost.  Again, JELLY SHOES.  Plus, I didn't buy these in lieu of paying rent.  So there's that.

So I'm not in second grade.  But that doesn't mean I don't share their taste in footwear.  (Got for 40% off lowest sale price at Bloomingdales.  Score!)  I pretty much wear these to any non-open-toed-season book event and lunches with the girls.

I was so freaking excited to find out they still make Tretorns!  I bought them in my favorite color combination for Pretty in Plaid but the minute I put them on, I realized they weren't the same anymore.  There's no squish, no cushioning, they're nothing like ones I wore in the '80s that gave your feet a big, cottony hug.  They're a shell of their former selves.  Sigh. 

These are a total shout-out to the Pappagallos I couldn't afford but desperately wanted back in the '80s.  I love them long time, but they're a bitch in terms of arch support.  Cute shoes are not your friend in much the same way tequila shots are not your friend.  They sound like a fab idea until the next day when you realize can't walk.

These Paul Greens are the first pair of shoes I've paid full price for in years.  (At least I got them in Portland where's there's no sales tax.)  Due to the Borns above, I was limping around Portland so when I found shiny sandals with decent arch support, price was my last concern. 

And now we come to what I'm wearing right now...

Yes, they're Crocs, yes, they're some kind of weird rubber hybrid, yes, they're shaped just like Dutch wooden shoes, yes, I see Chuck Norris's look of disgust, yes, I realize how ugly they are, yes, I understand how these negate any kind of good taste you may have attributed to me from the above shots, and yes, I adore them. 

As an interesting side note, Chuck barfed on them seconds after this shot was taken.  I assume this is his way of telling me U R A DUMB.  (Fortunately, it wiped right off.) 

Anyway, with this post school's officially out, so I'll be back next week with a Christmas wrap-up.  

Happy Happy and Merry Merry to you all!

Don't Know Much About The French I Took, Either

I just spent the better part of twenty minutes recalling a conversation I had with my ninth grade Geometry teacher.  Eloquently - in the ways that only a ninth grade smartass can be eloquent - I explained to Mr. Kaylor that I would never, ever need to understand the difference between obtuse and acute angles and how the word "rectiliniar" did nothing but make me giggle.

In completely related news, I also just spent the last twenty minutes trapped on the stairwell holding a bed headboard.

Well played, Mr. Kaylor. 

Well played.

Not A Doctor, Nor Do I Play One On TV

Twenty four years ago I started college.

Thirteen years ago I finished it.

(No, I'm not a doctor.)

(Shut up.)

When my college graduation commencement, um, commenced, I watched as all my classmates marched across the stage to shake hands with the university president before receiving the leather-bound book containing their diploma. 

Prior to the ceremony, we were required to practice the receipt of our diplomas, as the grab-and-shake was an orchestrated move.  If we reached with the wrong hands or employed bad timing, the ceremony would appear awkward and ungainly, like when two straight men attempt to hug each other. 

The proper choreography entailed extending ones right hand to the President while the left was open to receive the star of the show, the raison d'etre, the reason we'd all gathered here in the first place. 

I sat anxiously in my seat, mentally rehearsing my take on the grab-and-shake.  Would I get all hammy like the kids who opened the leather covers and then did the Rocky Balboa victory dance off the stage?  Would I be cool and staid like the adult students, giving the President a brisk nod before proceeding back to their seats, only then to peek at the grand prize inside? 

I ended up somewhere in the middle.  Although I flashed the President (and audience) a brilliant smile, I decided to wait to return to my seat to glance at the enclosed document. 

The walk back to my chair was only a few yards, yet it felt like an eternity.  My heart pounded out of my chest and I was breathless in anticipation. 

What would it be like to finally see my name on that document? 

How would I react? 

Would I read and re-read the names of all the trustees who'd endorsed this document?

Would I simply hug it straight to my chest?  

Would I run my fingers across the calligraphy that announced in no uncertain terms that regardless of everything I'd gone through to get here, that I'd finally finished what I'd started? 

I paused in my seat for a moment, soaking in the gravity of what I was about to see. 

This was it.  This was to be my touchstone for all the hard work I'd put in after my initial failure.  This document would sum up everything I'd been working for over the past eleven years.

I opened the cover...

... only to find a small scrap of paper that wished me a hearty congratulations on my achievement and further instructions that if I wanted my ACTUAL diploma, I needed to pay the Purdue parking facility thirty-five dollars for my outstanding ticket.

Motherfuckers.

While everyone else posed with their diplomas after the ceremony, I held up my encumbrance slip.  Granted, I was angry, but moreso, I was amused.  A big part of me thought that this was truly the most appropriate ending of a momentous college career.

As summer progressed and I settled into my post-grad life in Chicago, my parents would ask me when I was going to get my actual diploma.  I said I'd get it as soon as I took care of my parking ticket.  And by "take care of," I meant "get the university to waive." 

You see, the ticket was bogus in my opinion.  I was parked at a meter in the garage with plenty of time left on it.  Purdue had a rule about no student vehicles parking in this particular garage but I happened to be driving my mother's car that day. 

OK, fine, technically I was breaking the rule. 

However, my little Tercel was registered with the university.  My mother's Honda wasn't.  How could campus parking cops possibly know it was me going to my philosophy class and not my mother attending to some pre-graduation business on campus?  Plus, I was working full time and carrying a fifteen hour load.  The only way I was able to get to my class in time from working the lunch shift was to drive.  I didn't see a lot of choice in the matter and for Christ's sake, I graduated with a 4.0 that semester and could someone cut me a tiny break, please, please? 

I documented all this information and set it to my university in hopes of an appeal.

Denied.

So I made a pledge right then and there that I would NEVER pay to get my diploma and that they'd never see a dime from me in donations until I received my diploma.  Every year enthusiastic students would call me during fund-raising drives and every year I'd tell them no diploma, no check, no dice.  I figured with all the money I'd given them over eleven years, they could look past the thirty five damn dollars.

They didn't.

We'd reached a stalemate.

This stalemate continued for thirteen years until some very nice university employees came to my Chicago book signing.  They brought me a bag of Purdue College of Liberal Arts goodies and asked if I'd ever consider speaking on campus.  I told them no, due to my grudge.  They promised to look into the matter.

They were good to their word. 

A couple of days ago I got a note saying if I contacted a certain person she might be able to get me my diploma.  So I did and yesterday, I received confirmation that my diploma is on its way.

I didn't even have to pay thirty-five dollars.

All I had to do was wait thirteen years and write two New York Times best selling books.

So now I'm happy to speak on campus and when the fundraisers call, instead of giving them a piece of my mind, I'll give them a credit card number.

In short? 

I WIN.

And now I'm going to throw the best graduation party EVER.

After all, I've had twenty four years to plan it.

Dear Paul Rudd, I Am Only Funny Inside My Own Head

Setting:  The family room, approximately one second after Fletch has come in the door from work this evening.

"Hey!  Hey!  Hey!  Guess what?" I exclaim.

Fletch is automatically wary.  "Can I guess after I take my coat off?"

"Um, okay."  I pause for a millisecond before pouncing on him again.  "Guess what?  Guess what?"

His sigh is barely perceptible, yet still surprisingly heavy.  "Do you want me to guess or are you just going to tell me?"

"I'll just tell you.  My friend got a freelance job doing an interview with Paul Rudd!"  (Whom I love SO MUCH.)

"Nice!" 

"Yeah, and instead of doing my own work, I've spent the last hour creating pretend emails that she should send to him, like 'Dear Paul Rudd, As part of my research, my editor requires us to make out.'  And "Dear Paul Rudd, we're going to need an additional photo for your feature.  Might you have any where you're not wearing pants?  (Profile is fine.)'"  And, "Dear Paul Rudd, what exactly are your thoughts about swinging?  You know, hypothetically.'"

Fletch appraises me with a gimlet eye.  "Since when do you write anything even vaguely suggestive?"

"Since never.  But it's so damn funny."

He shakes his head.  "Yeah, not so much."

Well, then, you know what Fletch really isn't going to find funny? 

When I prepare an entire dinner while speaking out loud in imaginary letters to Paul Rudd in lieu of actual conversation.

"Dear Paul Rudd, Stacey and I are getting massages and having high tea tomorrow.  Can I have $200?"

"Dear Paul Rudd, How do I roast a chicken?"

"Dear Paul Rudd, Remember the last time I roasted a chicken and I accidentally did it upside down and then I almost felt too sad to eat him once he was cooked because he looked too much like a hostage in that position?"

"Dear Paul Rudd, Do you know what happened to the extra bottle of olive oil?"

"Dear Paul Rudd, How come I set the alarm off every morning after Fletch goes to the gym?  Am I punching the numbers in too slowly?  Or too fast?"

"Dear Paul Rudd, Can you introduce me to Seth Rogan?  But just as friends, okay?  I find his hair unattractive."

"Dear Paul Rudd, Can you please option one of my books so you can play Fletch, so if we have to make out it won't be cheating because you'll just be getting into character?"

"Dear Paul Rudd, If I were to buy a demi-baguette and accidentally eat it all before you had any, would you also call me The Cookie Monster, only for French bread?"

"Dear Paul Rudd, I found the olive oil."

"Dear Paul Rudd, Do you also think I'm passive-aggressive for licking Fletch's wine glass on Thanksgiving because he wasn't being properly sympathetic to how much I was suffering with my cold?"

"Dear Paul Rudd, I was not aware I was 'braying like a jackass' every time I say 'Dear Paul Rudd.'"

"Dear Paul Rudd, I promise to stop speaking in imaginary letters if Fletch stops hiding downstairs." 

(Although, honestly, I think it was the lure of a freshly roasted chicken that brought him back from the depths of the basement rather than any false promises on my part.)

Anyway, if you'd like to comment on this entry, it must be in the form of a letter to Paul Rudd.

(P.S.  Dear Paul Rudd, I know.  I know.  And I'm sorry, but I don't actually have a day job that I shouldn't quit.)