These are the things that made me happy about today.
Upcoming SNL episode:
Sesame Street doing Mad Men:
Upcoming Britpop duo, Mini Viva (can't get this shit out of my head)
Wednesday, September 30, 2009
Guh-ross.
In my rush to get to work today, I managed to double-spritz... with 2 different kinds of perfume. Body Shop's lemon spritz... and Dolce & Gabbana for Women. I smell like a 1920's perfume speakeasy. This, in addition to scented body lotion, means I spent the entire day picturing folks fainting in my wake... coming down with the vapors. Some probably did.
Then there was the decision to wear black tights with open-toed wedges. "Daring", I thought. "Fashion-forward." In those heels I was a solid 6'1, with my red pencil skirt and smart black cardigan.
2 hours later - I was desperately pilfering clear nail polish off of a kind coworker to stop the massive run that began... at the wedge's open toe.
I have very little luck with clothing. A vivid memory comes to mind - of a chunky, rotund little girl on one of her first days of kindergarten, leaning over to pick up her day's work while her mother and teacher gossiped behind her. My pants (my WHITE pants) split right open then and there. The adults busted up laughing.
Then there was the seam-splitting college incident... my Old Navy jeans gave out on the bike ride to class. So there I am desperately performing some sort of triage with a sweater, tying it around my waist and hoping to god just to make it through the day. Somehow, I did.
The year after that, I ripped the thigh of a striped pair of pants wide open on a staircase while drunkenly chatting with friends at my birthday party. Luckily I was in a bit of a goth mood, and extra-large pins to close the tear just looked... well, hot. Those were awesome pants.
But people wonder why I have appearance issues. In addition to clearly needing to lose a few pounds: I DESTROY CLOTHING WHILE IT IS STILL ON ME. My grooming habits occasionally unconsciously double-up because I can't keep my mind on anything, and some girl wore the same dress as me to prom. And looked better. Perhaps I should just print all of this out to hand straight to that therapist waiting patiently in my future, hmm?
Then there was the decision to wear black tights with open-toed wedges. "Daring", I thought. "Fashion-forward." In those heels I was a solid 6'1, with my red pencil skirt and smart black cardigan.
2 hours later - I was desperately pilfering clear nail polish off of a kind coworker to stop the massive run that began... at the wedge's open toe.
I have very little luck with clothing. A vivid memory comes to mind - of a chunky, rotund little girl on one of her first days of kindergarten, leaning over to pick up her day's work while her mother and teacher gossiped behind her. My pants (my WHITE pants) split right open then and there. The adults busted up laughing.
Then there was the seam-splitting college incident... my Old Navy jeans gave out on the bike ride to class. So there I am desperately performing some sort of triage with a sweater, tying it around my waist and hoping to god just to make it through the day. Somehow, I did.
The year after that, I ripped the thigh of a striped pair of pants wide open on a staircase while drunkenly chatting with friends at my birthday party. Luckily I was in a bit of a goth mood, and extra-large pins to close the tear just looked... well, hot. Those were awesome pants.
But people wonder why I have appearance issues. In addition to clearly needing to lose a few pounds: I DESTROY CLOTHING WHILE IT IS STILL ON ME. My grooming habits occasionally unconsciously double-up because I can't keep my mind on anything, and some girl wore the same dress as me to prom. And looked better. Perhaps I should just print all of this out to hand straight to that therapist waiting patiently in my future, hmm?
Tuesday, September 29, 2009
TV
That episode of The Office is on where Jim and Pam fool Dwight into thinking he's being recruited by the CIA, so they lure him to the rooftop for a chopper pick-up, and then text him and convince him to throw away his cell phone. Then Michael accidentally leaks the half-nude picture of his secret girlfriend, Jan, from their vacation in Jamaica, to the entire
packaging section of the company. This shit is brilliant.
I don't know why I love this show so much, but I do. And it's not just the Jim and Pam thing, but believe me, that sure as hell helps. Jim Halpert is pretty much television hubby perfection.
I didn't always enjoy television this much. For a couple years of college, I paid little to no attention to it. And as a kid, my mom wouldn't even let us watch most stuff. The Simpsons? Nope. And our hours were limited, too.
I didn't care at all. What I wanted that time for was reading. I'd get the year's lists of required books and have them all under my belt by September. I had every book at the Chula Vista Public Library read by the time I was 15... and that even counts the dime novels I'd sneak off to read just to check out the sex scenes. What? I was curious. Sorry, mom.
My mother once walked into the bathroom to find me taking a shower with one arm sticking out of the water - reading a book. It's just how I rolled. I plotted and schemed, hiding flashlights under the bed so that once I was tucked in, I could get back to the business at hand. If there were no flashlights, I'd stand under the hallway light under I was too tired to be on my feet. I'd skip homework, ditch friends, and yea, I know - it makes me seem like a loser. Maybe I was. But it was the best thing ever.
And now, I read, but not enough, and I've definitely developed an obsession with certain TV shows. 30 Rock, No Reservations, TLC medical mini-documentaries, Law & Order, 60 Minutes. Well, 60 Minutes doesn't count because I want to work there. The rest are likely ridiculous and unneccesary. But then I listen to the reverence in people's voices when they discuss the classics; Seinfeld, Curb Your Enthusiasm, Arrested Development. Friends! Saved By the Bell! Old sitcoms, old dramas. That's art too, you know? It just takes a different form.
Maybe someday I'll get back to reading, but for now, I'm just gonna cuddle up with my honey and my dumbass cat, and watch Tool Academy and make fun of how stupid people can really be while mixing their cliches. I get a kick out of it - so there.
packaging section of the company. This shit is brilliant.
I don't know why I love this show so much, but I do. And it's not just the Jim and Pam thing, but believe me, that sure as hell helps. Jim Halpert is pretty much television hubby perfection.
I didn't always enjoy television this much. For a couple years of college, I paid little to no attention to it. And as a kid, my mom wouldn't even let us watch most stuff. The Simpsons? Nope. And our hours were limited, too.
I didn't care at all. What I wanted that time for was reading. I'd get the year's lists of required books and have them all under my belt by September. I had every book at the Chula Vista Public Library read by the time I was 15... and that even counts the dime novels I'd sneak off to read just to check out the sex scenes. What? I was curious. Sorry, mom.
My mother once walked into the bathroom to find me taking a shower with one arm sticking out of the water - reading a book. It's just how I rolled. I plotted and schemed, hiding flashlights under the bed so that once I was tucked in, I could get back to the business at hand. If there were no flashlights, I'd stand under the hallway light under I was too tired to be on my feet. I'd skip homework, ditch friends, and yea, I know - it makes me seem like a loser. Maybe I was. But it was the best thing ever.
And now, I read, but not enough, and I've definitely developed an obsession with certain TV shows. 30 Rock, No Reservations, TLC medical mini-documentaries, Law & Order, 60 Minutes. Well, 60 Minutes doesn't count because I want to work there. The rest are likely ridiculous and unneccesary. But then I listen to the reverence in people's voices when they discuss the classics; Seinfeld, Curb Your Enthusiasm, Arrested Development. Friends! Saved By the Bell! Old sitcoms, old dramas. That's art too, you know? It just takes a different form.
Maybe someday I'll get back to reading, but for now, I'm just gonna cuddle up with my honey and my dumbass cat, and watch Tool Academy and make fun of how stupid people can really be while mixing their cliches. I get a kick out of it - so there.
Monday, September 28, 2009
Fixed!
Germain fixed my blog! You can see my photos in full now - thank goodness I know human beings with any sort of computer knowledge.
Today was lame, man... Yom Kippur is the Pinto of Jewish holidays. Sure, you get rid of all of your sins, but you're also deprived of water. All day. Have I mentioned I live in a desert? A DESERT. The high today was 105. I'm guessing - yesterday was 107 for sure, and that was a record. Heat waves are the best moments in which to feel grateful for an office job. Those moments come so rarely, no?
I've been pondering writing a novel. Or short stories, or a play, or a screenplay. Anything to extend the thoughts that I have running around my head that I think would be worth putting on paper.
But here's the problem. For the last five years, I've been trained, indoctrinated, and mind-blasted into having the ability to reduce an entire story to 15 seconds. First it was 30, then 25, then 20, and now an effortless 15. I can cram the whos, wheres, whens, whys and whats in, in three words or less. Impressive, right? I'm an information machine.
So as you probably can understand... the thought of stringing words together and forming an entire piece of literature (which also has to make me rich) is daunting. That, and with three jobs and a moderately successful social life, I don't even have time to vacuum. No, seriously. I'm about 3 days away from paying someone to clean my 2 bedrooms, small living room, and pathetic kitchen for me. If they take a damp rag to the baseboards, I will cry. I will bake them brownies and ask impertinent questions about their children. We will become besties. I re-signed my apartment lease for the single reason that I also received a free rug steaming service, and I've been daydreaming about the "after" image of my beige carpet ever since. I make bets with myself about how many spots will disappear entirely, or just fade by 50%, which is acceptable and still lovely.
If I could write a novel full of sarcastic life-failure anecdotes, we'd have a runaway bestseller on our hands.
Today was lame, man... Yom Kippur is the Pinto of Jewish holidays. Sure, you get rid of all of your sins, but you're also deprived of water. All day. Have I mentioned I live in a desert? A DESERT. The high today was 105. I'm guessing - yesterday was 107 for sure, and that was a record. Heat waves are the best moments in which to feel grateful for an office job. Those moments come so rarely, no?
I've been pondering writing a novel. Or short stories, or a play, or a screenplay. Anything to extend the thoughts that I have running around my head that I think would be worth putting on paper.
But here's the problem. For the last five years, I've been trained, indoctrinated, and mind-blasted into having the ability to reduce an entire story to 15 seconds. First it was 30, then 25, then 20, and now an effortless 15. I can cram the whos, wheres, whens, whys and whats in, in three words or less. Impressive, right? I'm an information machine.
So as you probably can understand... the thought of stringing words together and forming an entire piece of literature (which also has to make me rich) is daunting. That, and with three jobs and a moderately successful social life, I don't even have time to vacuum. No, seriously. I'm about 3 days away from paying someone to clean my 2 bedrooms, small living room, and pathetic kitchen for me. If they take a damp rag to the baseboards, I will cry. I will bake them brownies and ask impertinent questions about their children. We will become besties. I re-signed my apartment lease for the single reason that I also received a free rug steaming service, and I've been daydreaming about the "after" image of my beige carpet ever since. I make bets with myself about how many spots will disappear entirely, or just fade by 50%, which is acceptable and still lovely.
If I could write a novel full of sarcastic life-failure anecdotes, we'd have a runaway bestseller on our hands.
Friday, September 25, 2009
Universal Healthcare
My first politically-minded blog... lord help me.
When I think about universal health care, I don't think about costs to our taxes, Big Brother's control, or the effects on civil liberties. I think about the fact that it's 2009... and we still live within a system that only allows you to go see a doctor if you're employed. And not only employed, but employed full-time, or very lucky to be employed by a part-time job with benefits. It's a rarity, the only one I'm aware of is Starbucks.
And there are millions of reasons NOT to work at Starbucks.
So if a universal health care system fixes just that, and that alone, I think we'll all be better off. Because there's got to be SOMETHING wrong with the infrastructure, if an American citizen can walk into Mexico and be able to pay $250 dollars a year, and get everything they need for an entire year.
Life isn't like Grey's Anatomy; our doctors are overworked, walking on pins and needles because we live in a lawsuit-happy society that's just waiting for a missed diagnosis. And those doctors, on the other side of the spectrum, jump to conclusions regularly about their patients because they're overworked, and expensive procedures mean a healthy practice and a healthy paycheck.
I have a friend whose mother was diagnosed with ovarian cancer... she went in for surgery, and had her lady parts removed. Comes out for recovery, and is told that there was never any cancer to begin with; congratulations! It just blows my mind.
So, I'm rambling, but what I'm trying to say is... more options mean bigger and better possibilities for every US patient. Public OR private... I don't believe in the evil of government. I believe in the evil of individual people, like, say, a former president or two, but I just can't buy the fear that's being passed around by every Republican television ad. The death panels are crap. Nobody's pulling the plug on Grandma. It all just reminds me of the rumors that went around when the Bush Administration was trying to justify the Iraq War - yea, that went really well. Do you support the proposed legislation?
When I think about universal health care, I don't think about costs to our taxes, Big Brother's control, or the effects on civil liberties. I think about the fact that it's 2009... and we still live within a system that only allows you to go see a doctor if you're employed. And not only employed, but employed full-time, or very lucky to be employed by a part-time job with benefits. It's a rarity, the only one I'm aware of is Starbucks.
And there are millions of reasons NOT to work at Starbucks.
So if a universal health care system fixes just that, and that alone, I think we'll all be better off. Because there's got to be SOMETHING wrong with the infrastructure, if an American citizen can walk into Mexico and be able to pay $250 dollars a year, and get everything they need for an entire year.
Life isn't like Grey's Anatomy; our doctors are overworked, walking on pins and needles because we live in a lawsuit-happy society that's just waiting for a missed diagnosis. And those doctors, on the other side of the spectrum, jump to conclusions regularly about their patients because they're overworked, and expensive procedures mean a healthy practice and a healthy paycheck.
I have a friend whose mother was diagnosed with ovarian cancer... she went in for surgery, and had her lady parts removed. Comes out for recovery, and is told that there was never any cancer to begin with; congratulations! It just blows my mind.
So, I'm rambling, but what I'm trying to say is... more options mean bigger and better possibilities for every US patient. Public OR private... I don't believe in the evil of government. I believe in the evil of individual people, like, say, a former president or two, but I just can't buy the fear that's being passed around by every Republican television ad. The death panels are crap. Nobody's pulling the plug on Grandma. It all just reminds me of the rumors that went around when the Bush Administration was trying to justify the Iraq War - yea, that went really well. Do you support the proposed legislation?
Tuesday, September 22, 2009
Biggest Fear
What is your biggest fear? The mind-numbing, life-altering scenario that totally screws up your world and leaves you feeling paralyzed?
Some writer friends of mine were having a discussion tonight at dinner about a recent writing exercise they underwent; each wrote their biggest fear down on a piece of paper, which was then passed to a random person, who then had to write out a description of the effects of that fear - from the perspective of the person that fear originated from. Make sense?
My chosen fear would have been "dying in a plane crash." This wasn't always the case... my childhood involved annual transatlantic flights in summer, and I don't remember being afraid... just cranky, exhausted, and vomity. Every.single.time. But anxiety really reared its ugly head at me for the first time on a flight, perhaps two years ago. Suddenly I couldn't handle the lack of control - lost all capacity to reassure myself that everything would be all right. It would rush at me, all at once; the loss of pressure, the disappearance of contact with the ground, and that I was, in fact, strapped in to the guts of a man-made machine hurtling straight at the heavens, with nothing I could do about it.
It makes me think of the opening scene, or one of the opening scenes, in Garden State - where Zach Braff sits in a medically induced coma, zombie stare straight ahead, as the people around him react normally to a midair emergency, oxygen masks bouncing through the house of horrors.
For the most part, that's how I react outwardly when I'm afraid on a flight. It's only if you look at my whitened knuckles, peer inside my mouth at my clenching and unclenching jaw, that you realize that I am in the middle of a massive panic attack... attempting all the while to follow the breathing exercises everybody suggests. They don't do shit. You know what surefire method gets results? STOPPING THE GODDAMN TURBULENCE. I know, I know, turbulence doesn't cause crashes. But I get to read every week about some poor fucker who went to the plane bathroom at the wrong time, the turbulence hits, and whammo, dude flies up at the ceiling and will never walk again.
When I was a kid I used to have nightmares that consisted of all of my relatives dying in a plane crash, but that's different - the fear there was losing the people I loved. This is a fear of the physical... the lack of control. If I had the cash, I'd definitely take flying lessons, if only to understand what was happening up in the air. I've heard that helps. What's your greatest fear?
Some writer friends of mine were having a discussion tonight at dinner about a recent writing exercise they underwent; each wrote their biggest fear down on a piece of paper, which was then passed to a random person, who then had to write out a description of the effects of that fear - from the perspective of the person that fear originated from. Make sense?
My chosen fear would have been "dying in a plane crash." This wasn't always the case... my childhood involved annual transatlantic flights in summer, and I don't remember being afraid... just cranky, exhausted, and vomity. Every.single.time. But anxiety really reared its ugly head at me for the first time on a flight, perhaps two years ago. Suddenly I couldn't handle the lack of control - lost all capacity to reassure myself that everything would be all right. It would rush at me, all at once; the loss of pressure, the disappearance of contact with the ground, and that I was, in fact, strapped in to the guts of a man-made machine hurtling straight at the heavens, with nothing I could do about it.
It makes me think of the opening scene, or one of the opening scenes, in Garden State - where Zach Braff sits in a medically induced coma, zombie stare straight ahead, as the people around him react normally to a midair emergency, oxygen masks bouncing through the house of horrors.
For the most part, that's how I react outwardly when I'm afraid on a flight. It's only if you look at my whitened knuckles, peer inside my mouth at my clenching and unclenching jaw, that you realize that I am in the middle of a massive panic attack... attempting all the while to follow the breathing exercises everybody suggests. They don't do shit. You know what surefire method gets results? STOPPING THE GODDAMN TURBULENCE. I know, I know, turbulence doesn't cause crashes. But I get to read every week about some poor fucker who went to the plane bathroom at the wrong time, the turbulence hits, and whammo, dude flies up at the ceiling and will never walk again.
When I was a kid I used to have nightmares that consisted of all of my relatives dying in a plane crash, but that's different - the fear there was losing the people I loved. This is a fear of the physical... the lack of control. If I had the cash, I'd definitely take flying lessons, if only to understand what was happening up in the air. I've heard that helps. What's your greatest fear?
Sunday, September 20, 2009
Picture Post!
Sorry about my lack of posts this weekend - hope this makes up for it!
Spent three days in San Diego - took a friend to the city for the first time, and visited family for Rosh Hashanah (Jewish high holidays.)
The picture above is Seaport Village - a park adjacent to downtown that looks over San Diego bay, and across to Coronado Bridge.
Polar bear calisthenics at the San Diego Zoo...
We were about two feet from this lioness's face, and getting that close to something that can bite your head off cleanly... well. It was something.
Spooning tigres. Awww.
We also went to Julian and picked apples and pears and had apple pie - it's one of my favorite spots in the world.
And one final stop - Cuyamaca Lake in the Cleveland National Forest - it was pretty sad to see the fireline still standing clear in the hills above the lake from the 2007 wildfires. And now, back to reality!
Wednesday, September 16, 2009
Glee
This is a number from my new favorite show:
I'm obsessed. Did I mention I myself did show choir in school? Oh yea, baby. For one year only, I was a proud member of Bonita Vista High School's Sound Unlimited. Why one year only, you ask? My mother remembers it this way: my grades slipped, and I was forced to pick between the school paper and show choir. My memory: I was cruelly forced to give up the thing I loved the most because of a couple of "C" papers, and I still weep at the sound of 4-part harmony.
Theatre kids, drama kids, band kids... they are often the most humiliated and ridiculed of high school genres. Trust me, I did pretty much all of the humiliating genres in school. I majored in them, and logged endless extracurricular hours. But even though I suffered at the time for being part of "those groups"... I wouldn't have done it any other way. In college, it motivated me to audition for Naked Voices, an acapella group that changed my life. (Check out their myspace page to listen to some current recordings, they're going stronger than ever.) I won a soloist award with them at regionals at USC; and gained endless self confidence about my ability to command a room. Without them, I turned beet red and mumbled. With them, I was Whitney Houston. Pre-crack. We were fearless. We got the crowd on their feet, and their is no drug stronger, man. It was magic.
These days, I take whatever opportunity I can get to sing. We go to kareoke pretty often, and I've auditioned twice now for Star Spangled Banner honors at local sports games. I did backup vocals for some local guy's album. That pretty much wraps up my singing experience for the last five years. It's pathetic!
I hear music in me, all the time. If I had the cash to record an album, I would. I've attempted to learn to play both the left-handed guitar and the keyboard, without success. It sucks having the music beating in you, and no outlet. Anyone want to form a Glee Club?
I'm obsessed. Did I mention I myself did show choir in school? Oh yea, baby. For one year only, I was a proud member of Bonita Vista High School's Sound Unlimited. Why one year only, you ask? My mother remembers it this way: my grades slipped, and I was forced to pick between the school paper and show choir. My memory: I was cruelly forced to give up the thing I loved the most because of a couple of "C" papers, and I still weep at the sound of 4-part harmony.
Theatre kids, drama kids, band kids... they are often the most humiliated and ridiculed of high school genres. Trust me, I did pretty much all of the humiliating genres in school. I majored in them, and logged endless extracurricular hours. But even though I suffered at the time for being part of "those groups"... I wouldn't have done it any other way. In college, it motivated me to audition for Naked Voices, an acapella group that changed my life. (Check out their myspace page to listen to some current recordings, they're going stronger than ever.) I won a soloist award with them at regionals at USC; and gained endless self confidence about my ability to command a room. Without them, I turned beet red and mumbled. With them, I was Whitney Houston. Pre-crack. We were fearless. We got the crowd on their feet, and their is no drug stronger, man. It was magic.
These days, I take whatever opportunity I can get to sing. We go to kareoke pretty often, and I've auditioned twice now for Star Spangled Banner honors at local sports games. I did backup vocals for some local guy's album. That pretty much wraps up my singing experience for the last five years. It's pathetic!
I hear music in me, all the time. If I had the cash to record an album, I would. I've attempted to learn to play both the left-handed guitar and the keyboard, without success. It sucks having the music beating in you, and no outlet. Anyone want to form a Glee Club?
Monday, September 14, 2009
Time of My Life
He was my first celebrity crush... the first R-rated movie I ever saw. I watched it at my friend Jackie's house, about 12 years old, mouth hanging open. Man, he was always so sexy... because you could just tell he was a nice guy.
And this dance that they do at the end... I think every girl imagines that's her, someday... standing in the corner of the room, wishing the man she loves sees her, and they whirl away into the evening... sealing all that romance with a kiss.
And this dance that they do at the end... I think every girl imagines that's her, someday... standing in the corner of the room, wishing the man she loves sees her, and they whirl away into the evening... sealing all that romance with a kiss.
Sunday, September 13, 2009
The Music that gets me through.
Watching the VMA's is a must every year - I love award shows, period. When I was a kid, we'd gather around the TV to watch the Oscars. It was the ONLY night of the year when we could A) eat in front of the TV, and B) order pizza. It was the biggest, biggest treat.
These days, award shows still give me a thrill. Especially all of the ones that are music-related... yea, I know the performances are often lip-synced, and over the top, and I really rarely like rap performances on them, for some reason. Maybe I like my rap pre-produced?
Anyway, it got me thinking about the music that inspires me, that really keeps me going. It changes all the time, but this is the stuff I'm currently hooked on.
I actually just heard this for the first time today. I'm not crazy about Susan Boyle, although I think she has great talent... but Wild Horses has got to be one of the most beautiful, endlessly gorgeous songs of all time. And the way her voice reaches up to the notes in the chorus... I just tear up thinking about it. It's lovely.
I watch this video all of the time. It's some school music teacher who loves Tori, and taught a bunch of songs to his kids... this one is my favorite. The looks on their faces are so sweet. Doesn't hurt that the song kicks ass, either.
Somebody's Youtube comment on this song says "years can go by, and then some brutal sunday morning finds me singing it like it were my soulcry." That's exactly how I feel. I know every word, every beat, and even though the lyrics seem depressing, it really ends up being uplifting for me.
This song has a really deep connection with me... I actually heard it for the first time in college, long before Sara was signed to a record label. She was a member of the Awaken acapella group at UCLA, and I was a member of Naked Voices at UCSB, and I saw them perform this and bought the CD. I wish I could upload the acapella version, because it's even better than this one. This song got me through a lot of bad times.
Rufus... oh, Rufus. You make me weak in the knees with your fabulous self. I could pick another dozen songs I love just as much as this one... Cigarettes and Chocolate Milk, your Across the Universe or Hallelujah covers, but this song is killer.
This is the best audio quality I could find on the live version of this song, which is the way I like it best. Ben Folds can really write a sweet, touching song... but the audience participation he does with this track always puts a giant knot in my throat. The way they sing back to him, and they know it all, and it gives me such joyful squishies.
I could go on forever here. These don't include my favorite dance songs, or R&B, or rock, and it's a little light on the dudes. It's just a few of my introspective tunes, that I thought you'd enjoy! What song makes your heart sing?
These days, award shows still give me a thrill. Especially all of the ones that are music-related... yea, I know the performances are often lip-synced, and over the top, and I really rarely like rap performances on them, for some reason. Maybe I like my rap pre-produced?
Anyway, it got me thinking about the music that inspires me, that really keeps me going. It changes all the time, but this is the stuff I'm currently hooked on.
I actually just heard this for the first time today. I'm not crazy about Susan Boyle, although I think she has great talent... but Wild Horses has got to be one of the most beautiful, endlessly gorgeous songs of all time. And the way her voice reaches up to the notes in the chorus... I just tear up thinking about it. It's lovely.
I watch this video all of the time. It's some school music teacher who loves Tori, and taught a bunch of songs to his kids... this one is my favorite. The looks on their faces are so sweet. Doesn't hurt that the song kicks ass, either.
Somebody's Youtube comment on this song says "years can go by, and then some brutal sunday morning finds me singing it like it were my soulcry." That's exactly how I feel. I know every word, every beat, and even though the lyrics seem depressing, it really ends up being uplifting for me.
This song has a really deep connection with me... I actually heard it for the first time in college, long before Sara was signed to a record label. She was a member of the Awaken acapella group at UCLA, and I was a member of Naked Voices at UCSB, and I saw them perform this and bought the CD. I wish I could upload the acapella version, because it's even better than this one. This song got me through a lot of bad times.
Rufus... oh, Rufus. You make me weak in the knees with your fabulous self. I could pick another dozen songs I love just as much as this one... Cigarettes and Chocolate Milk, your Across the Universe or Hallelujah covers, but this song is killer.
This is the best audio quality I could find on the live version of this song, which is the way I like it best. Ben Folds can really write a sweet, touching song... but the audience participation he does with this track always puts a giant knot in my throat. The way they sing back to him, and they know it all, and it gives me such joyful squishies.
I could go on forever here. These don't include my favorite dance songs, or R&B, or rock, and it's a little light on the dudes. It's just a few of my introspective tunes, that I thought you'd enjoy! What song makes your heart sing?
Thursday, September 10, 2009
I think I shall vomit now.
There is a skill level not attainable by everyone when it comes to the art of over-eating. I still believe my younger brother holds that title - as a growing teenage boy, I once saw him consume 15+ pieces of meat at a Brazilian steakhouse - the kind where you pay a flat entree fee and the animal products are unlimited. Even as we all sat groaning, holding onto our rotund food babies for dear life, he was searching for the next waiter who'd walk by with yet another tasty morsel.
It was grotesque, but nonetheless fascinating. The same sort of thing you feel watching Joey Chestnut decimate an entire farm's worth of hot dogs at those annual Nathan's competition. The same reason why we can't look away from the climactic horror scene in the latest Halloween franchise film.
I'm writing from experience, clearly; not just the observance of over-eating but the feeling of it within myself. Take right now, for existence. After three days of truly successful, careful and healthy portioning, combined with good exercise regimes including both cardio and weights, I came in to work today and made mistakes. BIG mistakes.
My first was to nibble on the chocolate chip cookie bars brought in by a woman who knows her shit when it comes to baking. They were still gooey - half-cooked and warm - sopping with chocolate and whispering quietly... "I'm going straight to your ass, baby."
Then there was lunch. The office brings in donated lunches and charges 5 dollars which goes to charity - cash or check accepted with pleasure and thanks. I paid with check... and ate KFC. Yes, it was the grilled chicken, and I skipped the coleslaw because I find that stuff generally repulsive, but it all still adds up to one cookie bar, 1 grilled chicken breast, 1 grilled chicken leg, a small mound of mashed potatoes and gravy and... a biscuit.
I think I shall die shortly.
There is no pleasure involved here. I ate it all like a prison inmate given his last meal - quickly, without tasting, ignoring the implications of what was going down the gullet. My unthinking, irresponsible face. And for the past half hour, I have only been naseous. I have promised myself a walk when I get home, a simple salad for dinner to make up for today's foolish choices. Why do we keep doing this to ourselves? If there was never any pleasure associated with the experience, then WHY DID I DO IT?
Chubby people should have an insurance allotment for overeating therapy. Food is pain, man.
It was grotesque, but nonetheless fascinating. The same sort of thing you feel watching Joey Chestnut decimate an entire farm's worth of hot dogs at those annual Nathan's competition. The same reason why we can't look away from the climactic horror scene in the latest Halloween franchise film.
I'm writing from experience, clearly; not just the observance of over-eating but the feeling of it within myself. Take right now, for existence. After three days of truly successful, careful and healthy portioning, combined with good exercise regimes including both cardio and weights, I came in to work today and made mistakes. BIG mistakes.
My first was to nibble on the chocolate chip cookie bars brought in by a woman who knows her shit when it comes to baking. They were still gooey - half-cooked and warm - sopping with chocolate and whispering quietly... "I'm going straight to your ass, baby."
Then there was lunch. The office brings in donated lunches and charges 5 dollars which goes to charity - cash or check accepted with pleasure and thanks. I paid with check... and ate KFC. Yes, it was the grilled chicken, and I skipped the coleslaw because I find that stuff generally repulsive, but it all still adds up to one cookie bar, 1 grilled chicken breast, 1 grilled chicken leg, a small mound of mashed potatoes and gravy and... a biscuit.
I think I shall die shortly.
There is no pleasure involved here. I ate it all like a prison inmate given his last meal - quickly, without tasting, ignoring the implications of what was going down the gullet. My unthinking, irresponsible face. And for the past half hour, I have only been naseous. I have promised myself a walk when I get home, a simple salad for dinner to make up for today's foolish choices. Why do we keep doing this to ourselves? If there was never any pleasure associated with the experience, then WHY DID I DO IT?
Chubby people should have an insurance allotment for overeating therapy. Food is pain, man.
Wednesday, September 9, 2009
My moment of grace.
This blog posting is brought to you by the letters WTF?
Take a look at this picture. It was taken from inside my Camry, at the intersection of Scottsdale and Shea, in the midst of a day of errand-running. At the corner is a man, an ordinary-looking guy, sitting in a chair. Ignore the second, standing man - he's not important to this anecdote. Chair-man is holding a sign - the words, which are not visible from this moment's vantage point, read "Honk for A Prayer."
I was at this intersection for a couple of minutes, and watched as the occasional car honked. The prayer man would nod in their direction, lift his hand to the sky, and mouth a benediction. What religion did this man follow? What god, or goddess, was he praying on behalf of? And, most fascinatingly, why did he believe he could make a difference in other people's lives when the thing he does all day... is sit at a traffic intersection holding a sign requesting honks for prayers?
All of these thoughts ran through my head until finally, there at the light just a few feet away from this holy roller, I felt my hand pressing the horn. Just a light tap. I had also just taken a photograph of him, the one you see above, for the sole purpose of discussing it later. He nodded at me and smiled - the benediction was uttered from soundless lips. I was embarrassed that I had made such a personal gesture, of sorts, out in a public place.
I looked up and saw that my fanciful musings had delayed my start-off at the green light. The dark-green sedan to the left of me was already feet ahead, and to my shock, was suddenly broadsided at at least 30 miles an hour by a large pick-up truck. The impact of the collision pushed both vehicles directly into my path... a few feet from where I now sat in open-mouthed shock.
What a day.
I make no presumptions about religion, but it's fair to say that I believe in something, and that something is what I term "g-d." It makes me uncomfortable to even discuss my beliefs with others, because I'm sensitive to the feeling of intrusion, or the old what-I-believe-makes-more-sense routine. I don't play that game. Let's just say that for a moment, I felt... protected. Enconsced in a floaty comforty feeling I didn't have minutes before. And that goes a long way when you're generally plagued by feelings of anxiety about what in the world is going to happen next.
These men on corners, with their signs, and their occasional bombast, and their multicolored promises for a chosen life, or a true path... they're a dime a dozen. Perhaps the gentleman on his folding chair was just supposed to be a witness to my momentary good luck? In the end, who knows.
But as I began to accelerate slightly around the accident scene, making sure both of the men involved were doing OK, I turned to take in the reaction of Prayer Man. He had been gazing at the now-mangled sedan, and glanced up at the same time so that our eyes met - and then he just smiled.
Take a look at this picture. It was taken from inside my Camry, at the intersection of Scottsdale and Shea, in the midst of a day of errand-running. At the corner is a man, an ordinary-looking guy, sitting in a chair. Ignore the second, standing man - he's not important to this anecdote. Chair-man is holding a sign - the words, which are not visible from this moment's vantage point, read "Honk for A Prayer."
I was at this intersection for a couple of minutes, and watched as the occasional car honked. The prayer man would nod in their direction, lift his hand to the sky, and mouth a benediction. What religion did this man follow? What god, or goddess, was he praying on behalf of? And, most fascinatingly, why did he believe he could make a difference in other people's lives when the thing he does all day... is sit at a traffic intersection holding a sign requesting honks for prayers?
All of these thoughts ran through my head until finally, there at the light just a few feet away from this holy roller, I felt my hand pressing the horn. Just a light tap. I had also just taken a photograph of him, the one you see above, for the sole purpose of discussing it later. He nodded at me and smiled - the benediction was uttered from soundless lips. I was embarrassed that I had made such a personal gesture, of sorts, out in a public place.
I looked up and saw that my fanciful musings had delayed my start-off at the green light. The dark-green sedan to the left of me was already feet ahead, and to my shock, was suddenly broadsided at at least 30 miles an hour by a large pick-up truck. The impact of the collision pushed both vehicles directly into my path... a few feet from where I now sat in open-mouthed shock.
What a day.
I make no presumptions about religion, but it's fair to say that I believe in something, and that something is what I term "g-d." It makes me uncomfortable to even discuss my beliefs with others, because I'm sensitive to the feeling of intrusion, or the old what-I-believe-makes-more-sense routine. I don't play that game. Let's just say that for a moment, I felt... protected. Enconsced in a floaty comforty feeling I didn't have minutes before. And that goes a long way when you're generally plagued by feelings of anxiety about what in the world is going to happen next.
These men on corners, with their signs, and their occasional bombast, and their multicolored promises for a chosen life, or a true path... they're a dime a dozen. Perhaps the gentleman on his folding chair was just supposed to be a witness to my momentary good luck? In the end, who knows.
But as I began to accelerate slightly around the accident scene, making sure both of the men involved were doing OK, I turned to take in the reaction of Prayer Man. He had been gazing at the now-mangled sedan, and glanced up at the same time so that our eyes met - and then he just smiled.
Tuesday, September 8, 2009
Blogging
Is turning out to be really great! I'm already following 13 blogs, most of whom are written by people I know and know well, and I'm really enjoying myself. Why don't you start a blog too? I'll follow it wholeheartedly :)
My ultimate girl-crush
This man. This man right here.
I've read his book, and watched nearly every episode of his show - I'm just in awe of the man, and what he's spent his life doing. I can only imagine that in between episodes, or chapters, he's leading a monastic life of self-starvation, because I don't know how he walks after eating some of the shit he's eaten. He is a foodie god, specifically because he would probably never term himself that, and balk at the prospect.
I love his anecdotes about night after night spent in sweaty kitchens, shooting up heroin to stay awake and banging nameless women-who-may-be-whores in the early-morning hours in dark alleyways before returning to his lair of the week to put together the produce list. It's a window into a world I will never know - New York City in the 1980's - gritty, seamy, dirty fun. And here's the guy who survived it, eating a live octopus in some southeast Asian street shack, choking and laughing and describing the experience moment by moment.
What a sexy motherfucker.
This year he's sticking to the US, which is refreshing and pretty awesome. There is now a Sri Lankan restaurant I HAVE to visit in Staten Island, and I can't wait to get to the remote fish smokehouse under that one bridge outside of Chicago. He and his weird-ass tour guides can make everything look delicious, and sinful, and necessary to experience before I die.
I'm glad he's able to find so much that he loves here in the states - I've always agreed with his biggest complaint, and that is the total lack of quality in American street food - namely, Fast Food Nation. When we want something quick, it's Mickey D's, or Arby's, or something else equally disgusting. When you need something quick in Singapore, it's hand-made noodles, rich broth, fresh veggies. Street does not equal unhealthy - and in turn, the people are healthy too. In that Time Magazine article I posted this weekend, the most fascinating part to me was the moment where the author suggested that McDonalds placed playgrounds inside their "restaurants" just so the kids get themselves a little more hungry by running around a bit, and therefore ingest more crap. We kill ourselves a little every time we eat.
But when Anthony Bourdain eats, he eats like a king. And it reminds me, every time, of what a meal SHOULD be: a sublime all-sense experience, fulfilling but not overwhelming, savory and of course, accompanied by a really good beer. That's the kind of experience I look forward to when I'm lucky enough to have the chance.
Plus, Anthony is sexy as hell, no?
I've read his book, and watched nearly every episode of his show - I'm just in awe of the man, and what he's spent his life doing. I can only imagine that in between episodes, or chapters, he's leading a monastic life of self-starvation, because I don't know how he walks after eating some of the shit he's eaten. He is a foodie god, specifically because he would probably never term himself that, and balk at the prospect.
I love his anecdotes about night after night spent in sweaty kitchens, shooting up heroin to stay awake and banging nameless women-who-may-be-whores in the early-morning hours in dark alleyways before returning to his lair of the week to put together the produce list. It's a window into a world I will never know - New York City in the 1980's - gritty, seamy, dirty fun. And here's the guy who survived it, eating a live octopus in some southeast Asian street shack, choking and laughing and describing the experience moment by moment.
What a sexy motherfucker.
This year he's sticking to the US, which is refreshing and pretty awesome. There is now a Sri Lankan restaurant I HAVE to visit in Staten Island, and I can't wait to get to the remote fish smokehouse under that one bridge outside of Chicago. He and his weird-ass tour guides can make everything look delicious, and sinful, and necessary to experience before I die.
I'm glad he's able to find so much that he loves here in the states - I've always agreed with his biggest complaint, and that is the total lack of quality in American street food - namely, Fast Food Nation. When we want something quick, it's Mickey D's, or Arby's, or something else equally disgusting. When you need something quick in Singapore, it's hand-made noodles, rich broth, fresh veggies. Street does not equal unhealthy - and in turn, the people are healthy too. In that Time Magazine article I posted this weekend, the most fascinating part to me was the moment where the author suggested that McDonalds placed playgrounds inside their "restaurants" just so the kids get themselves a little more hungry by running around a bit, and therefore ingest more crap. We kill ourselves a little every time we eat.
But when Anthony Bourdain eats, he eats like a king. And it reminds me, every time, of what a meal SHOULD be: a sublime all-sense experience, fulfilling but not overwhelming, savory and of course, accompanied by a really good beer. That's the kind of experience I look forward to when I'm lucky enough to have the chance.
Plus, Anthony is sexy as hell, no?
Sunday, September 6, 2009
I was watching all of the slick, oiled-up athletes on NBC this morning while meandering through my work day... they're amazing, aren't they?
Pure muscle, pure athleticism, and their bodies just work like springs when that starting shot is fired. Usain Bolt is so cute with his little poses, too. Watching Olympic-style competitions is my favorite, because they're just in their element. Centered and focused and ready to fly.
I'm no athlete, but I swam for nearly 14 years. The closest I ever got to fame was participation in a couple of relay races at the junior olympics - which are not as important or special as they sound. I didn't even capitalize them, so there's your clue. One summer I took tennis lessons, another involved volleyball camp, and what else... perhaps there was basketball at some point? I never really caught on to any of it, even though I do remember teeny things... how to serve, how to spike, etc.
I quit swimming around 15 or 16... I just couldn't handle the thought of moving down the pool one. more. time. I was done. So up until this past year, my workouts have consisted of the gym, my IPod strapped to my head, trying to think of anything but the fact that I'm exercising. Right now.
God bless gyms with TV'S on the machines, or pacing guides, or plug-ins for your IPod, ANYTHING that gets me more distracted. And yes, I know that you burn more calories when you actually focus on the task at hand and concentrate on giving 100%. I don't care, it hurts.
But I've found a solution, for the time being. I finally found a Pilates studio that I can afford, and I freaking LOVE it. Every movement feels woman-centric and graceful and hard, but not so hard that I want to die. And I feel like I do better from class to class. The instructors are older, married, hilarious, and they've got great bodies, but not so great that I don't think I can get there myself. They've stayed late to show me moves, come over and gently correct my form... they're so good to me, and I leave feeling a little more alive. I felt that way leaving Bikram Yoga too, but the dizzy spells and nausea just didn't seem worth it for the end result.
I'm hoping I really stick with Pilates and make a go of it. I haven't lost weight since I started, but I feel significantly stronger. And I'm hoping this post forces me to get my ass to the studio asap, since I haven't been able to attend in a week. Tomorrow morning. Goal set. Now I have to go, because I wrote about it online. Right?
Friday, September 4, 2009
I'm about to do something crazy
I mean, even for me.
Next Wednesday, between the hours of 2 and 4, I'm attending a Ford Models open call for plus-sized ladies. It's something I've always wanted to try... if you've ever watched the Fox show "More To Love," there's a girl on there who looks very similar to me - she's just a little heavier - and she is, indeed, a plus-size model. I was intrigued.
So, theoretically, I could do this. I'm also gonna go to National Anthem tryouts for the Phoenix Suns games. This is how I stay alive - alive-feeling, anyway. Putting these things within my sights and just going for them. I can sing, well enough, and I certainly know how to smile at the camera. So why not take a moment to dream about a different life... a life where I make millions, jetting off to London and Paris and Milan on regular intervals, hobnobbing with rock stars and media moguls, paying 6 months rent with a single shoot.
It could happen.
Just think - that's what this blog could eventually turn into. "Adventures of a Plus-Sized Model."
Subtitle: "With No Interest In Being a Regular-Sized Model." Eventually there would be a book deal, network appearances, my own plus-sized clothing line. Comprised of mostly creams, forest greens, charcoal greys and deep purples.
None of this has been thought of, at all, by me... ever. Not once.
I also run fantasies through my head regarding what I'll do with my Powerball winnings. We all have something that gets us through the day! This shit gets me along for weeks.
Anyway, it's time to get ready for First Fridays downtown, and a dinner at Fez, a decadent Moroccan burger joint with to-die-for apricot margaritas. I'm not a big drinker, but the combinations made possible by fruit and alcohol are sometimes just too good to pass up. What's your favorite fruity drink?
Next Wednesday, between the hours of 2 and 4, I'm attending a Ford Models open call for plus-sized ladies. It's something I've always wanted to try... if you've ever watched the Fox show "More To Love," there's a girl on there who looks very similar to me - she's just a little heavier - and she is, indeed, a plus-size model. I was intrigued.
So, theoretically, I could do this. I'm also gonna go to National Anthem tryouts for the Phoenix Suns games. This is how I stay alive - alive-feeling, anyway. Putting these things within my sights and just going for them. I can sing, well enough, and I certainly know how to smile at the camera. So why not take a moment to dream about a different life... a life where I make millions, jetting off to London and Paris and Milan on regular intervals, hobnobbing with rock stars and media moguls, paying 6 months rent with a single shoot.
It could happen.
Just think - that's what this blog could eventually turn into. "Adventures of a Plus-Sized Model."
Subtitle: "With No Interest In Being a Regular-Sized Model." Eventually there would be a book deal, network appearances, my own plus-sized clothing line. Comprised of mostly creams, forest greens, charcoal greys and deep purples.
None of this has been thought of, at all, by me... ever. Not once.
I also run fantasies through my head regarding what I'll do with my Powerball winnings. We all have something that gets us through the day! This shit gets me along for weeks.
Anyway, it's time to get ready for First Fridays downtown, and a dinner at Fez, a decadent Moroccan burger joint with to-die-for apricot margaritas. I'm not a big drinker, but the combinations made possible by fruit and alcohol are sometimes just too good to pass up. What's your favorite fruity drink?
Thursday, September 3, 2009
Brie
Tonight was a great evening, networking with women that do the same thing I do, on the side - sell Stella & Dot jewelry. We met on the second floor of Duck & Decanter, a posh central Phoenix spot.
They're all a little older, and like 90% have tiny, tiny children. Not my age bracket, not my income level. But lovely people, no doubt. This side business has been a little intimidating - although the potential to make real money is definitely there.
You don't care about any of that shit.
The reason I'm referring to tonight's soiree... is what they served. And what they served... was brie.
Now, I consider myself to be a foodie. I love food. Worship food. I take special delight in trying out a new restaurant, going to a new place and stuffing my maw with arugula, and dark chocolate, and other such morsels. Growing up, my mom was always a stay at home parent, and our Jewish and Turkish cultures meant every meal was an insane feast. As a young swimmer, I'd get out of my 2-hour practice, enter the minivan, and my mother would have a warm 3 or 4-dish tupperware filled with homemade goodies. And that was before dinner. We'd rotate our vacation days around the spot we'd picked for each and every meal.
My LIFE was food.
In the last few years that I've been on my own, my foodie requirements have changed. Meals normally consist of a grilled protein and veggie, breakfast is steel-cut oatmeal w/ peanut butter or granola(which my mother makes from scratch and mails me, but that's a different story) and I tend to piece together my foodstuffs from the average, garden-variety ingredients in the fridge.
I don't buy brie. Who can afford brie? This particular brie was French, speckled with blue, so soft on the inside it oozed. It was served with a white wine. I didn't even bother checking the label. I grabbed a glass and a heart-shaped cracker... a plastic knife... and dug in.
I think I moaned. In the meeting. With the moms, and their jewelry-selling tips.
I may also have had two glasses of wine, and may have quickly begun to discuss the cheese and how good it was with anyone who would listen.
"I know... yes, the Adrienne necklace looks divine as a headband... did you taste the rind? Sometimes the nasty part of the brie is the rind but in this case it's like... the crust on the pie... No, there's hardly any left, you can't try it. Don't... stop reaching for it. It's my... BACK OFF BITCH!"
No wonder I never get anything done. Is it possible to have self-induced ADD? Is that a thing, with a diagnosis, and a treatment? The last thing I remember, I was glaring at this woman with her gall and her high-falutin' superiority complex, requesting the food basket be sent her way. There may have been growling.
I need to buy some fucking brie.
They're all a little older, and like 90% have tiny, tiny children. Not my age bracket, not my income level. But lovely people, no doubt. This side business has been a little intimidating - although the potential to make real money is definitely there.
You don't care about any of that shit.
The reason I'm referring to tonight's soiree... is what they served. And what they served... was brie.
Now, I consider myself to be a foodie. I love food. Worship food. I take special delight in trying out a new restaurant, going to a new place and stuffing my maw with arugula, and dark chocolate, and other such morsels. Growing up, my mom was always a stay at home parent, and our Jewish and Turkish cultures meant every meal was an insane feast. As a young swimmer, I'd get out of my 2-hour practice, enter the minivan, and my mother would have a warm 3 or 4-dish tupperware filled with homemade goodies. And that was before dinner. We'd rotate our vacation days around the spot we'd picked for each and every meal.
My LIFE was food.
In the last few years that I've been on my own, my foodie requirements have changed. Meals normally consist of a grilled protein and veggie, breakfast is steel-cut oatmeal w/ peanut butter or granola(which my mother makes from scratch and mails me, but that's a different story) and I tend to piece together my foodstuffs from the average, garden-variety ingredients in the fridge.
I don't buy brie. Who can afford brie? This particular brie was French, speckled with blue, so soft on the inside it oozed. It was served with a white wine. I didn't even bother checking the label. I grabbed a glass and a heart-shaped cracker... a plastic knife... and dug in.
I think I moaned. In the meeting. With the moms, and their jewelry-selling tips.
I may also have had two glasses of wine, and may have quickly begun to discuss the cheese and how good it was with anyone who would listen.
"I know... yes, the Adrienne necklace looks divine as a headband... did you taste the rind? Sometimes the nasty part of the brie is the rind but in this case it's like... the crust on the pie... No, there's hardly any left, you can't try it. Don't... stop reaching for it. It's my... BACK OFF BITCH!"
No wonder I never get anything done. Is it possible to have self-induced ADD? Is that a thing, with a diagnosis, and a treatment? The last thing I remember, I was glaring at this woman with her gall and her high-falutin' superiority complex, requesting the food basket be sent her way. There may have been growling.
I need to buy some fucking brie.
Wednesday, September 2, 2009
Hello there, you.
I am by every definition a Big Girl.
I stand 5'10 and 3/4 inches tall exactly, I weigh... enough. I have been considered plus-sized, or overweight, during every chapter of my life. I wore adult clothing by the time I was 8, and sport a size 10 shoe. A few of the compact cars out there make me feel like Alice after consuming the "Eat Me" cake, growing unstoppably bigger in a world staying just the same size. In third world countries, I am Gulliver, marauder of Lilliput. I am, by every definition, a Big Girl.
Before I go any further, let me say that this is not an angry space. Sure, there are times when my trials overwhelm me, but this is to be a location of much joy. I love my body. I love my life, and the people who I am lucky enough to have in it. There will be no pity parties here. This is to be a celebration of me.
So, where to begin?
I am suddenly overtaken by a total feeling of helplessness. How do I start telling you both the story of my past, and letting you into my future, and do both with wit and humor? Such a tall tale... but I've got the height for it. Let's begin by catching you up to where I am now.
I am a resident of Scottsdale, Arizona. I am a workaholic, but my work will not be a part of what I write here. It's just not a good idea in a recession, darlings. Suffice it to say that I have multiple jobs, doing multiple things. They are of multiple importance.
I live in an apartment, and share a great deal of time with a cat and a boyfriend. There used to be fish, and there wasn't always so much STUFF, but for the most part, my "setting settings" have stayed much the same since arriving here 2 years ago. I am settled, and happy, and loved.
Welcome to my world. I may not be skinny, but there is so much more to life than regretting what was never possible to begin with... and all of that will be contained here. The Lilliputians be damned.
I stand 5'10 and 3/4 inches tall exactly, I weigh... enough. I have been considered plus-sized, or overweight, during every chapter of my life. I wore adult clothing by the time I was 8, and sport a size 10 shoe. A few of the compact cars out there make me feel like Alice after consuming the "Eat Me" cake, growing unstoppably bigger in a world staying just the same size. In third world countries, I am Gulliver, marauder of Lilliput. I am, by every definition, a Big Girl.
Before I go any further, let me say that this is not an angry space. Sure, there are times when my trials overwhelm me, but this is to be a location of much joy. I love my body. I love my life, and the people who I am lucky enough to have in it. There will be no pity parties here. This is to be a celebration of me.
So, where to begin?
I am suddenly overtaken by a total feeling of helplessness. How do I start telling you both the story of my past, and letting you into my future, and do both with wit and humor? Such a tall tale... but I've got the height for it. Let's begin by catching you up to where I am now.
I am a resident of Scottsdale, Arizona. I am a workaholic, but my work will not be a part of what I write here. It's just not a good idea in a recession, darlings. Suffice it to say that I have multiple jobs, doing multiple things. They are of multiple importance.
I live in an apartment, and share a great deal of time with a cat and a boyfriend. There used to be fish, and there wasn't always so much STUFF, but for the most part, my "setting settings" have stayed much the same since arriving here 2 years ago. I am settled, and happy, and loved.
Welcome to my world. I may not be skinny, but there is so much more to life than regretting what was never possible to begin with... and all of that will be contained here. The Lilliputians be damned.
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