Category Archives: Grrlz
Have you ever come across a blog and wondered how in the world such a gem could exist without your knowing about it? And you start reading more and more posts and you’re all OMG HILARIOUS! OMG! ME TOO! ME TOO! SISTER FRIEND ME TOO!??
That just happened to me! Well, okay. It happens pretty much any time I read a blog because I’m a chameleon. I also like blogs a lot. But still, Mackenzie’s blog did that to me in a way that made me want to tell you all to go READ her blog now because she is funny. She might be less funny if you’re male. I don’t know, you men are so weird these days.
She has inspired me to post a picture of my white ass legs but I can’t do that right now, given the 8 years of leg hair currently residing there (unless you’d like to see my spikey gams, then I will gladly oblige — but I really hope you don’t because there are some really attractive guys who read this blog and I would hate to do anything to make them think any less of me). So I’ll shave them up here pretty soon and show you what white legs REALLY LOOK LIKE. Girl, your legs aren’t white. MINE are white. Blindingly so. And also a little pink. I’m kind of like a toddler in that as I get older, the more I resemble my two-year-old self.
Okay. Enough rambling. Back to reading Mackenzie’s blog.
For years now, when I cough or sneeze or move or roll over in bed at a certain angle or in a certain way, I get a shooting pain on my right side, near my pretty little ovary but every time I go to the doctor, there’s nothing abnormal showing up, so I’ve always blown it off as just a weird body thing.
I coughed about five minutes ago and thought that maybe someone was trying to dig their way out of my midsection with a dull spoon, so I Googled it and guess what? (This might be a little TMI for you boys reading this, so feel free to avert your eyes.) A popping cyst! That’s what it is! Well, the most likely culprit, at any rate. Which makes a lot of sense. And if any of you gents are wondering what exactly this pain feels like, come over here and let me kick you in the junk. I’m pretty sure it’d be an accurate representation.
Okay, so yesterday there was supposed to be a huge outpouring of blogging for women in Congo. More specifically, about the atrocities that women in Congo face daily. I thought, “Wow, this is awesome and so exactly what I want to educate people on but god, I’m really exhausted and a little sick and ohhh look! My bed!” I am officially the worst person on the face of the planet. Not that my little blog post would change the world but education is key (or “planting the seeds”, as we wacky Christians would say) and if one person realizes the depth of this issue, then that’s all that matters. Other people blogged about it, so you should go read that for your education.
Yesterday was kind of a wash for me. Well, to be honest, the entire weekend was a wash. I accomplished absolutely nothing and have developed such a fear of my homework that I didn’t actually do any of it. It’s due tomorrow, so tonight and tomorrow will be excrutiatingly fun. I have a little under two weeks to write a short story and even though I have a pretty good idea of what I’m writing, I still can’t turn off K-Fucked Radio.
Me: Okay! I’m going to sit down and knock this bitch out so I can enjoy my life!
Brain: Don’t be too wordy.
Me: I’m not too wordy!
Brain: You’re too wordy.
Me: That was a brilliant line we just came up with. Isn’t it brilliant? It flows, it moves, it has COLOR.
Brain: It’s wordy.
Me: Okay then…how about this?
Me: Well, if you’re so good at this, why don’t YOU write it?
Brain: Can’t. No new ideas. Or good ones.
Me: How about a bad idea? It worked in “Under the Tuscan Sun”…
Me: You’re a stubborn jackass, you know that?
Brain: Just honest. Stop telling the same story over and over again. Stop ripping yourself off. Stop SUCKING.
So. You know. There we are. On a positive note, we were assigned an Amy Tan story this week and it was quite an enjoyable read (“The Rules of the Game”).
In other news, this morning on the bus, I got severely distracted by the FKA. No, not because the FKA was THERE (lordy, wouldn’t my fellow passengers have been treated to some early morning antics if that were the case?!) but I was listening to Shoop (srsly, iChip was on shuffle) and I was like, yeah, I need to write her a letter because damn. Then I wondered about how I could ever slyly snag a handful. And well, it was all downhill after that.
The ever fabulous Mo receives a lot of heartbreaking emails from girls who are in need of advice and/or encouragement, and sometimes she posts them so that we, as readers, can help out. This question is near and dear to my heart, mainly because I’ve been there. I set up shop there. In fact, I could probably set up shop there again because it’s been HOW long since I saw some lip action from a guy?
Anyway, I sat down to respond to the post and realized that it might be easier to just, you know, make a post of my own, given my tendency to RAMBLE. Especially when I get to talk about myself and my sordid past. A friend of mine says that blogs exist so that people can spout off their opinions (he says some other stuff, too but I don’t remember it word for word…I should go look it up since he HAS A BLOG) and I say that in large part, personal blogs that exist for the sake of filling up the interwebz with pointless content are the most narcissistic tool known to man. You get to talk about whatever you want for however long you want and sometimes, people read it and comment to talk about you, too and then you can respond and talk about yourself SOME MORE, which is always a good thing, especially when you’re me and refuse to talk at all in person.
By the way, today I’m wearing a red shirt with a pink tank top underneath. I am mad stylin’.
My point! I be havin’ one! Or several. Back in the day, I was awkward. Puberty and I were not friends (although really, is puberty friends with ANYONE? That bitch is wicked unpopular). I had bad hair and weird clothes and since I ran around living my life in my head, I spent a lot of time existing in a reality that did not quite line up with the reality of those around me (well, it seems that some things never change). I wrote bad prose, worse poetry (OMG I LUV U!! or OMG I H8 U DIIIEEEE!!) but I listened to some really good music. That stuff aside, I was a reasonably nice girl and considered myself dateable on the personality front. Then I realized that no one in high school pays attention to stupid shit like personalities! Good times.
So I was dateless throughout high school. In my younger, elementary years, I “dated” someone who turned out to be gay. Thankfully, we both got over ourselves and we talk semi-regularly on MySpace. Maturity, FTW! I had crushes in high school. I asked one of them to the prom and was rebuffed instantly with the line, “I don’t do prom.” (Until the next year, when he so did prom.) Then I went to college. Oh, how I went to college. There, I discovered one of my favorite things about college campuses: boys. Lots of them. Running around with their shirts off. Or vaguely resembling popular rock station DJs, only 800 times hotter.
But none of them were interested in me. It seemed that the only place to meet guys that were interested in me was online. I don’t have a problem with online relationships (friendly or otherwise), so long as everyone’s cool and uses common sense. I’ve never seen most of my friends face to face, and they’re like family to me. Anyway, so I met this guy. And he was weird and funny and couldn’t spell but that was okay because he liked me! He was interested in me! OMG! (This was in the Dark Ages, so OMG was not yet widely used.) So we ACTUALLY met. AJ came with me in case I needed to bailed out. I was nervous but things went okay. We kind of clicked and had a lot to talk about. I didn’t feel any sparks. At the end of the night, what I felt was relief. He liked me in person, too. Then there was an awkward kiss and I was off!
Being new to relationships and all, I was pretty bad at it. Making out was like, so awkward because huh? What am I doing? With my hands? Am I doing this right? Wait, what? Huh? WHAT?! NO! NO*! ABORT! And so on and so forth. For nearly three years. There were many fights and that one time when he threw his cat across the room because it clawed him in the face because he wouldn’t stop torturing the poor thing and that other time when he threw his CD player into the wall because it was the nearest object that wasn’t me. More fights. More and more and more fights.
All because I wanted to fit in.
I know this is probably coming off like, “Well, I did this and you SHOULDN’T but if you do, it’s all your fault!” but that’s not what I mean at all. I know what it’s like to stand where you are, sweetie, and by God’s good graces, I know what it’s like to stand on the other side. You are lovable. Every square inch of your beautiful body is lovable and you deserve to have that. Everyone does. Everyone deserves to have intimate relationships with others, regardless of their size or skin color or country of origin or religion or who they’re attracted to. Someone commented and said to wear clothes that make you feel good and to engage in activities that you enjoy, and I couldn’t agree more. As you come into your own, you will begin to see your worth as it encompasses your entire being. I hate the saying “how do you expect anyone to love you if you don’t you love?” but it’s true, at least in part. Something changes about a person when their self-esteem begins to rise. I’m not sure what it is – something in the way you carry yourself, a certain glow about the cheeks. On days when I am feeling my best, I get the most attention. Sometimes it’s unwanted but that happens on my worst days, too.
My advice to you would be to focus on the things that bring you joy – friends, hobbies, pets, classes, books, photos, sunsets, baby animals, flowers, stars – and begin the painful excursion of learning you. For myself, when I focus on something that I want but am unable to immediately and/or easily obtain, I find that the want quickly becomes unbearable and only subsides when I distract myself with other things.
You, my dear, are glorious and wonderful and you have a community out here embracing and supporting you. If you ever find yourself in need of a shoulder to cry on or vent to, my mailbox is always open. I have found that things have gotten easier as I’ve gotten older. After the monumental death of my first relationship, I went through a phase where sanity and I were incommunicado and then I moved to California because I have seen too many movies. Turns out, it was the best thing I could’ve done. I got distance from my situation, found some awesome people who were willing to listen, and most of all, I began to see myself as an acceptable, worthy human being.
I’ve never had guys beating down my door. I will never have guys beating down my door, which is fine by me because a) I’m too poor to constantly replace doors, and b) I’m a recluse by nature. There have been a few nibbles in the past [insert number here] years and I’ve been interested in approximately one person (The Rebound and The Distraction don’t count), and if you’ve been around the various incarnations of the Sparkle Pantsosphere in the past four years (yeah, four years), you know who I’m talking about and how it ended (did I tell y’all about that night?). I’ve not actively pursued anyone mostly by choice and partly by fear because while I have grown immensely comfortable with myself, there are some aspects of my personality that will never change. But by and large, I’m happy. I still have moments of crippling self-doubt and feeling alone but it usually passes. I have found the best cure for those moments are my friends. And movies. And YouTube. And sometimes, a big bowl of ice cream.
*Apparently, he was unfamiliar with this word.
I’m in the middle of doing homework (we’re working on “Shiloh” by Bobbie Ann Mason, in case you’re interested) but a few things have popped up into my consciousness since I got home that I just need to rant about.
1. Bush calling the 4,000 dead 4,000 foundations of peace. I mean, really all this man has to do is open his mouth and I go spiraling into a hysterical, hair-pulling fit.
2. Maxim’s unsexiest women list. I know that I’m about six months too late to the show but really? Really? We need to stoop to this level? Women don’t have enough self-image problems that we need to throw this in there? I shouldn’t be so surprised to see that men have, yet again, whittled down a woman’s worth to her sexual attractiveness but this just hurts. And what’s more, it hurts everyone. I struggle a lot, especially lately, with how I appear to others. It’s hard work learning to love yourself and I still can’t find ways to shut up that little voice who keeps telling me to just eat once a day. It’s there and it’s constant and this is a perfect segue into the next point.
3. People getting way too excited about scantily clad, barely-legal dancers. Yes, please. Let’s objectify women a bit more, shall we?
I hate you all.
Really. It’s perfectly legal to take upskirt shots of people if they’re in public.
You stay classy, Oklahoma.
Penelope Trunk strikes again, this time flaunting the advice: LAIDEEZ DO NOT PURSUE CAREER HAVE BABIES FIRST DO NOT PASS GO DO NOT COLLECT $200.
Right. I’m going to check the age of my eggs and then freeze them. Because I’m sure my health insurance will cover all of these procedures. And then, when the perfect boy comes along and sweeps me off my feet, we can thaw out those babies out and get to fertilizin’!
This morning I put on what to many people would seem like hardly any makeup but for me is a lot of makeup. You know, eye shadow (two! shades!) AND mascara AND blush, oh my! I put on one of my favorite outfits and my awesome $5 thrifted Sketchers boots and left the house feeling awesome. But while I was getting ready, a thought flitted through my head, a thought that almost always flits through my head before I go somewhere: will people think I’m a slob if I go out looking like this?
You see, I generally just don’t give a crap what people think, so I will leave the house in sweat pants or pajama pants (if I’m running to the store; I don’t wear these things to work, no matter how much I wish I could) and usually my hair is pulled back in a ponytail or a messy bun-like structure. I wear makeup to work and usually it’s just foundation. But at the same time, while I don’t care what people think, I do care what they think. If that makes sense. See, when you’re fat, a lot of people look at you and assume a few things:
1. All you do is eat McDonald’s/Twinkies/potato chips/lard straight from a bucket all day long.
2. You are dumb.
3. You are a lazy slob.
4. You are not human.
I know that my I-don’t-care appearance can be (and probably is) written off as a result of my fatness, which is a result of my lazy slobness, and that since I feel so rotten about myself on the inside, I can’t be bothered to look good. I’m not exactly sure who society wants me to look good for but I feel that pressure everyday when I leave the house. I don’t care what people think but I really don’t want them to think that I’m a lazy slob. So I feel extra guilty when I leave the house looking less than perfect because omg! now people will see that I am fat and a lazy slob! It angers me because I know if I knocked 100 pounds off my frame and left the house in the same condition that real me leaves the house, 100 pounds less me would have that air of cuteness and not caringness that is oft attributed to my smaller sisters. It would show that 100 pounds less me doesn’t conform to patriarchal standards! Whereas real me? Is a lazy slob who can’t take care of her appearance.
What about you guys? Not to make you think about all the ways society judges you and makes you feel worthless (because you aren’t! There is only love in the Sparkle Pantsosphere! Unless you’re a douchebag, then I reserve the right to mock you and dislike you a great deal), but do any of you experience this? Something similar? Something entirely different?
What about my male readers (I know there are like, THREE of you!)? What do you experience that is similar? Anything?
And for the record, I feel cute today, so society can bite my ass.
So I’m thisclose to breaking my biggest traffic day ever (back in May, with a whopping 38 visits!)…and upon checking it again, WordPress reset itself in the last four hours. SCORE! Well. I was at 34, I think. That’s because I gave my url to some awesome folks in teh fatosphere.
Regular readers, say hello to the Fatosphere! Fatosphere, say hello to my…one…regular reader(s)!
For those of you coming here for the first time, I should tell you that I don’t blog a lot about fat activism; I’m not fat-centered, content-wise (how many hyphens can I use?), but you know, I’m a part of it.
I’ve had 2 hours of sleep and very little food and I spent the afternoon and tonight analyzing Steinbeck and I don’t like him and my brain is in a puddle on the floor.
I’m going to give y’all a proper introduction of me later. Or maybe sooner. I can’t decide!
At work, in a Word document, I have this whole post typed up and I’ll post it here later in the week once I tie up some loose ends. It spans yesterday and part of today, so it should be an interesting read. I mean, it could be published for its wonderfulness. As such, I can’t give you a recap of last weekend or the week to date because all of that is in the post.
I just finished a pretty tasty grilled cheese sandwich and am about two minutes away from fixing a big bowl of ice cream. It’s a big bowl of ice cream kind of night. Actually, it’s more of a big bowl of ice cream and a bottle of wine type of night. You know those, internets? Have you ever had one? This particular one is part seasonal, part dysthymic, part heartache. I’m not sure what to do aside from the obvious and I’m working on that, I promise. But for the moment, it’s all I can do to get out of bed, to not lock myself in my room, to not turn around and walk away when people start talking.
If you want to get your blood boiling, go here and read the letter to the editor, which is quickly followed by nearly 400 comments, the first 50 of which are from men suggesting much (sexual) violence be performed against this girl who is merely trying to keep women from being portrayed as nothing more than a tea-cozy for the penises of the world.
Ice cream calls.