Tenth Musee

Last night I decided to listen to a meditation on weight loss that I downloaded to my iPhone. I have a hard time relaxing as it is, so I thought throwing in a little subliminal weight loss action couldn’t hurt.

I skipped the intro about not listening while operating a forklift or whatever, and got down to the business of relaxing. That part of the program was actually quite nice and similar to my own meditation techniques — when I remember to actually use them.  I was way into his soothing, guided affirmations when he said, “You do not want any fatty, greasy, salty, savory, crispy, fattening foods.  You choose to forego sweet, decadent, frosted, sugary, fattening foods.”

I actually started to get a little uncomfortable. First off, when you describe them like that, hell yes, I want them!  But what got me was his Scottish accent.  Every time he said “fattening foods” it came out “fottening feuds”, which kept pulling me out of my relaxation and making me squirmy. “You do not want any shugarrry, sweeet, crrrreeameh FOTTENING FEUDS.”

After a few giggles, I guess I got over it because I don’t remember anything after that for who knows how long until he said “You are now fully awake.”  That prompted me to open my eyes and I put my phone on the nightstand and immediately fell asleep.

I think I slept pretty well — I didn’t dream of Sean Connery like I thought I might.  But I woke up this morning wanting a grreeeasy, sallllty, saaavory, fottening mushroom quesadilla, so I guess it’s not working yet.

Last May, I moved into a new apartment complex.  It’s kinda schmancy and overall, I have very little to complain about except perhaps the rent price and the dude downstairs who has a penchant for action movies and a deep, personal relationship with his surround sound.  And maybe the Tacky Water People.  And the Friendly Pedophile.  But I digress.

When I moved in, I was given one covered parking space on the end, very close to my stairs. Score! To my right is parked a white Miata, circa 1992 or so. It’s in 1992 condition… not bad, but certainly not cherry.

The day after I moved in, while I was unloading things from my (2009) Matrix, a man in a pith helmet with the mullet flaps on the back sidles up to me with this hands clasped behind his back, like he was ice skating in a Rockwell painting.

“So you just moved in, huh?” he says.

“Yes, just yesterday,” I replied.

And then, with a weird knowing grin and the tone of someone hosting a children’s storytime, he said, “Ok, well, don’t you go dinging my car now.”  (wink) “I keep a close eye on my baby,” gesturing to the Miata.

I laughed politely and ribbed him a bit back, assuming he was just trying to be cute. “It’s a deal. Wouldn’t want to mar such a classic!”  Then I wished him a good day and off I went up the stairs.

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Happy New Year to anyone still reading this thing.  *poke* Are you still there?

Like many other non-practicing bloggers, I figured I’d blow the dust off and see if I can post more often this year. I live such an exciting life of bunny-petting and pajama-wearing that I’ve not felt I had anything post-worthy for a while that wasn’t work-related, but there are enough changes coming in 2010 that I might as well bring back the blog.  Twitter is awesome, but viva blogging!

I do like this design, but I could do with a new look around here… it’s time.  Something a little cheerier, don’t you agree?  I’m taking the Muse back to Expression Engine, as well. It turns out Wordpress was just a fling for me — thrilling at first, but ultimately mediocre.  So thanks for the interminable upgrades and incompatible plugins, Wordpress, but you never forget your first love.

I was reading through my archives over the holiday break. It’s bizarre how different I sound 7 years ago when I first started this blog.  I don’t even know what I was complaining about most of the time.  In hindsight the majority of it is so… cranky.  Funny, sure… but certainly, a collection of unwarranted gripery in the grand scheme of things.

I lost about a year or so of posts during one of my many domain name changes. I’m not sure what possessed me to change my domain name not once, but twice over the last 7 years — boredom I suspect, a desire to reignite the blog spark — but I don’t recommend it. I still have the database those posts live in, I’m just not sure how to get the content out… maybe someday I’ll figure it out.

But of the posts I do have, my favorites are the ones about the various encounters with people I’ve had.  I meet weird people — I can’t help it. I’m one of those people who weirdos gravitate to and I somehow can’t help but engage them myself.  It’s just part of who I am… and I’ve accepted it because it makes excellent blog fodder.

So, here are some of my favorites for your reading enjoyment:

• Love Me Tender
• Fiddy Wouldn’t Front (I think this is Daniel’s favorite)
• Debbie Diapers and the Amazing Technology Craptactular
• Burgess Fisherman and the Discount Diaper Cream
• Like They Do on the Discovery Channel

If you like those, you can find more under the Characters tag.

Happy 2010!

I was talking to Kathy this morning about the upcoming holidays and she commented that she’s looking forward to Christmas a little more this year. We pondered that it’s because Reilly is a bit older this year, she’s got two kids now and that sort of thing.  I asked if they did the traditional “bake cookies for Santa, leave a carrot out for Rudolph” scenario and of course, they do.  It made me think of my own holidays with my family and the memories I have of being really small.

I remember being about 3 or 4, wearing footie pajamas and standing on the precipice to the living room from the hallway, with my hands clasped together in utter delight, marveling at all the stuff that Santa had brought. I don’t recall much of it now — I think there was a drum that I promptly stuck my drumsticks through and I remember there being a cowgirl hat and boots and one of those little horses on wheels.  But what I distinctly remember is seeing the plate of cookies we’d set out the night before, missing 3 or 4 bites, the milk half empty and the carrot nibbled just enough.

We’ll just gloss over the fact that one of my earliest Christmas memories revolves around food.

On Christmas Eve, my mom and I made cookies together, cutting them out with cookie cutters, cooling them on racks and eventually frosting and decorating them just so.  I remember mom helping me pour Santa’s milk in a smoke-colored highball glass and setting everything out on our rattan coffee table.  I remember so clearly my mom leaning in and the way she smelled like sugar cookies and Jergen’s lotion, reminding me that these cookies were for Santa, as a thank you for my Christmas gifts, as a snack on his long journey. And while I really wanted that green-frosted Christmas tree with the little silver balls that later in life cracked one of my molars, I remember looking wide-eyed at her as I tucked my hand away, nodding in agreement.  We wouldn’t want Santa or Rudolph to go hungry.

In hindsight, it seems all the other reindeer were left to fend for themselves.

Dad would read ‘Twas the Night Before Christmas, as Rockwell-esque as that seems. It didn’t last forever, perhaps on the first handful of Christmases and a few scattered over the years after that, but I fondly recall him wearing a very red v-neck sweater with a wide-collared shirt underneath, sitting with his leg crossed in a big 70’s velour chair, reading from a thin hard-cover picturebook with little tears in the sleeve.  And when it was over, he’d scoop up my little PJ’d self and tuck me in, allowing sugarplums to dance accordingly, while mom was in the kitchen, pouring the grown-ups some Benedictine in snifters.

Of course, eventually I realized that Dad also enjoyed green-frosted Christmas tree cookies with little silver balls on them and that Rudolph was really my mom, but there’s something distinctly tactile and emotional about that memory of seeing the cookies on Christmas morning, half eaten, milk glass half empty.  I truly believed that Santa had been there, that he’d brought all these wonderful goodies for me, because I was such a good girl.  It was a time that I never questioned anything about myself or my self-worth, about faith or politics or reality.  It encompasses all the wonder I think Christmas should be for little children… pure and wonderous and magical. It makes me happy for Reilly and Carter, that they’ll get a chance to experience that.

It would nice if the holidays could still be like that for everyone.

I don’t know if I’m a very good boss.  I’m a bit of a control freak, admittedly, and while I don’t really think others are incapable of handling something, I do often feel it’s easier to do it myself than to spend time explaining something that may not be done “right” the first time.  And when I do take the time to explain something that needs to be done, if it’s not done right the first time, I get a little bent — because I could have done it myself and not had to repeat myself.  This is not to say I’m not open to questions and dialog and suggestions, I totally am.  Input is totally great, but in general, I’m on a schedule and I need stuff done at the same quality level as if I were doing it myself.   Period.

Doesn’t that sound like every boss you’ve ever hated?  When I remove myself from it and look at it as an observer, I feel like now, if I were in a traditional office, I’d be that boss that no one invites to anything.  Except… I’m usually the girl that people do invite to things, that coworkers and colleagues want to have around. It occured to me the other night that, now that I’m my own boss and I hire people to do things for me,  I’m totally Chandler when he gets his promotion in Friends.

“Perfectionist” ranks up there with “she’s got a great personality” in terms of desirability, and it makes people think you’re an overbearing pain in the ass, but without perfectionists in this world, the Earth would be (and sometimes is) one giant orb of mediocrity. It drives me crazy when the opportunity for greatness presents itself and it’s met with “good enough”.  Why be good enough when it can be great?

Of course, we’re only human and sometimes things won’t be perfect. And I know I am imperfect, despite my many creative efforts to blind you all with my glorious gloriousness.  (*clap clap*  Look over here!  Awesomeness!  Shiny!)  I don’t think that means I should stop trying to excel, to go beyond and to achieve something greater than was there before.

But it can be… well, a little exhausting.

Along with accepting responsibility for own my quirks and shortcomings, I blame my detail-oriented, perfection-seeking, boss-man-type tendencies on the former Boss Men in my own life.

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It’s about that time again — the time of year where bloggers far and wide bare their bazooms for breast cancer.  Kathy and I have participated, donated and supported Boobiethon since 2003 and we’re proud to do it again this year.

I can’t remember if I submitted a photo last year or not… but I will this year, though I don’t know what the motif will be. I tend to go with the sort of arty boudoir kind of thing.  You don’t need to see every freckle, do you?

It’s funny how after all these years of looking at headless blogger boobies, I do recognize some. I’ve never seen 99% of these women topless with their heads on, but I can still pick out certain bloggers like I’m choosing chocolates from the See’s box.

But, let me be clear, that’s only because I’ve participated every year and actually know those bloggers’ boobs, either in real life or because they told me it was them in the photo. And sometimes I don’t recognize the blogger, but do recognize the boobs from years past.

Otherwise, the Boobiethon is totally anonymous and very tasteful.  Photo submissions are usually covered, either by some sort of prop, hands or a bra or, for the more adventurous, there’s a bare gallery that requires a $50 minimum donation by viewers in order to gain access.  Men edit men’s photos, women edit women’s and for the love of all that is holy, if you don’t want people to know who you are, do not include photos with your face in it.  It will be edited out before it goes online, but remember that someone will need to do that and that someone will see your face. So, no faces. NO FACES.  And men? No junk. Seriously.

The lovely and talented Mel is in charge now and has been for the last couple years.  She’s totally kicking ass at it and has put forth a lot of effort and time to this cause, so your participation is encouraged and welcomed.  Right now, she’s accepting pre-launch submissions of photos, so get your racks ready and snap a few!

The 8th Annual Blogger Boobiethon starts on October 1st and runs through October 7th.  Submissions are accepted now and monetary donations will be accepted starting October 1st.  Both men and women are encouraged so submit their headless, faceless and junkless photos of their breasts.  Themed shots, prop shots and bra shots are welcomed — use your creativity! — and survivor submissions are greatly encouraged for the Survivor Gallery, which is the reason for this whole thing.

All proceeds, except a portion set aside for the Bloggers Helping Bloggers, goes to the Susan G. Komen Foundation.  Last year $9300 was raised — let’s make it at least $10k in 2009.  In the last seven years, bloggers have raised over $50,000 for breast cancer research and awareness, so take off your bras, get out your cameras and show us your boobs!

There are the people with a lot of rules and strict do’s and don’ts about Twitter.  Then there are the people with a personal set of guidelines. I’m not really one for telling you how to do something — I believe people should use social networking in a way that’s meaningful to them and we should go with the flow, however it evolves.  But I do have some personal guidelines for my own optimum Twitter experience, to use it in way that’s meaningful to me.

Leah recently wrote a great list of “22 Reasons I’m Not Following You on Twitter” and most of her list I agree with (especially #1 and #18), but since I recently unfollowed a slew of people in a huff, the need to expound on and/or add a few guidelines of my own. read more >

So can we talk about my neighbors some more?  It seems no matter where I go, I end up with at least one subpar neighbor.  I had to ask mikey if maybe it was me — perhaps I’m doing something that makes the neighbors jerky, or maybe I have unrealistic expectations, but he insists it’s them.

Remember the Tacky Water Bottle people from across the hall?  Well, last Friday, I received a notice on my door from the apartment management, letting me know I’m in violation of their “common areas” policies with my water bottles.  While I wasn’t thrilled to hear this — I mean, where else are you supposed to keep them in an apartment? — if that’s their policy and I’m in violation, fine. I’ll figure something out.

So I called the office to let them know I was going to comply and ask for suggestions on where I might keep them, since it’s a month’s worth of water.  I was connected with the manager, who informed me that I was issued the violation primarily because there were “several complaints” about my water bottles “blowing over and rolling down the hallways very noisily” and neighbors were having to “round them up” for me.

I like to consider myself a lady, but I have to quote my father here and cry, “Horseshit!”  Total, utter nonsense.  And I told her so. I said, “I’m happy to comply with your policies if that is the case. It’s not the most convenient thing, but if that’s your rule, that’s how it goes.  However, I can tell you with about 99.9% accuracy that those ‘reports’ are hogwash. I am home all day, every day and my desk is right on the other side of the ice cube glass window/wall from those bottles.  I sit right there.  If there were anything blowing anywhere, especially noisily, I would have heard it. If there were someone out there rounding up my anything, I would have seen them.  I know you can’t tell me who it is, nor do I really want you to, but if it’s the neighbors across the hall, I have an idea of what this is about. “  Then I briefly recapped the interaction on the 4th of July.

She told me I can store the bottles on my patio and I, as obviously retaliatory as it was, informed the management that “if we’re going to go there”, then the neighbors across the hall aren’t exactly angels, rummaging around in their storage unit (in the common area of the hallway) loudly at 1am every night. I also mentioned the constant stream people going in and out of their apartment loudly (which is directly across from the ‘ice cube glass’ wall, so I’m constantly distracted by it), multiple times, at all hours of the day from dawn until midnight, causing me to speculate how many people actually live there.  I also mentioned that their guests occasionally peer in my glass wall/window, sometimes even putting their hands up to block the side glare.  Into my apartment! They can’t see anything, even with the lights on, except shapes, but I feel kind of skeeved by that!   I told her that other than that one interaction, I’d never spoken with them and didn’t want to start a feud with my neighbors, but that I wouldn’t stand for fabrications and again, “if we’re going to go there”, then I would also no longer stand for morons peering into my apartment.

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I am surprisingly upset right now. Far more upset than I thought I’d be. Not that I ever thought I’d be crying over my former boss — especially not over this, no one wishes for this.

My friend and former coworker, “Stella”,  just sent me a note through Facebook alerting me that our old boss, the doctor in the optometry center where we both worked, met and became friends, is in the end stages of what sounds like a terrible cancer I’d never even heard of until about 4 minutes ago.

I’m… stunned and well, I’m just floored.  And I’m so very, very sad for her and her beautiful family. Such wonderful people. It seems so unfair.

I met Dr. M in 1992 when I walked into the mall to get an eye exam.  First I met Stella, who gave me my pre-exam, then Dr. M, who five minutes into the exam pulled back the keratometer and said, “I like you! Do you want a job here?”

And there you have it. I’d never even had an eye exam, but within minutes, I had a job as the new optometric technician. It all just clicked and I knew right away that I wanted to work for her. I didn’t even hesitate to say “Yes!” even though I already had a perfectly decent job for slightly more money.  I started in a few days and over the next few months, Dr. M. and Stella taught me everything they could about being a great optometric assistant.  They even taught me to fit contacts so I could study for my NCLE (which I never did end up getting — I’m wishing I had now, for some reason).

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Marie over at Agent Lover had an interesting experience where a site complimented her by featuring her in a Fat Love fashion post.  I have never thought of Marie as fat and while she’s not a size 4, by her own admission, she doesn’t feel the need to declare “I’m a BBW!” from a rooftop either.   I’ve always thought she was unique and a little crazy and really daring when it came to fashion.  And I never once noticed her weight.  She’s just… Marie, hot stuff n’ all.   To quote her:

I don’t need to wear a sign around my neck and label myself as plus-size just so OTHER people are aware that I’m proud of my body. I just work my shit. And would continue to do so if I became a size 4. Ya dig?

I appreciate that. She’s just being who she is, working her swagger.  The original post, while intending to be complimentary, just missed the mark by assuming that every confident person who isn’t thin is totally cool with being the Grand Marshall of the Fat Pride Parade.

The author of the Fat Love Friday post responded immediately, according to Marie’s post comments, and offered to remove the offending post, explaining that fat doesn’t have to be seen as a negative word (”My view is that the word “fat” doesn’t always have to be used negatively. And I certainly didn’t use it that way in the post.”).  I’m in no way “villianizing” the author, she’s entitled to her point of view and I understand where she’s coming from — but I see why Marie doesn’t want it taken down. It’s because she’s making a point and removing the post would defeat that purpose.  To quote her again…

Try to change the meaning of the word all you want. Fat is fat. No woman, no girl, no matter what age is going to want to be called that.

And the Fat Love author responded with something that struck a nerve. I started to comment in Marie’s comments, but I was rambling and starting to veer off-topic, so I thought it best to give a little back-story, then vent my opinion here. The post author responded to Marie’s comment with this:

In regards to fat not being positive, I don’t think that’s necessarily true…There is an entire pro-fat movement dedicated to changing this.

I totally disagree with most “pro-fat movements” and “fat acceptance” declarations.  I understand trying to ‘reclaim’ the word, but frankly… why does anyone want it?

I don’t agree with fat-ism or discrimination against the overweight in any way.  No, indeed — that’s just rude, outright mean and something I’ve experienced myself.   But I feel the same about people reclaiming the word “fat” as I do about women reclaiming “bitch”. RECLAIMING IT DOESN’T MAKE IT UNTRUE.

Reclaiming “bitch” and putting a stamp of “empowered woman” on it doesn’t mean you’re not a bitch.  In fact, it probably increases the likelihood of it being true, in my experience.   And walking around declaring myself fat doesn’t make it any less true.  It doesn’t mean someone isn’t beautiful, but the terms “fat acceptance” and “pro-fat movements” give the impression that speaking out against discrimination of the overweight (which is generally the schtick of the pro-fat movement) is the same as saying “It’s OK to be 300 lbs.” Guess what?  It’s not OK with your liver. Or your heart. Or your kidneys. Or your back, knees or doctor.

While running PutDowntheDonut.com (and I won’t give you the song and dance about how it’s coming back — it is — when I have a minute), I was bombarded with “fat power” and “fat acceptance” and “pro-fat” protesters saying that because my site was about being real about losing weight, being candid and honest, we were anti-fat.  Uh, yeah, it’s a weight loss site — so that’s kind of the whole idea. We got a lot of “I’m 275 lbs. and I look HOT! Who the hell do you think you are?” or “I’m a size 26 and I work my ass, girl! Who the hell do you think you are?” or “I’m 310 lbs and my doctor said I was perfectly healthy at my last physical! Who the hell do you think you are?”

I think I’m someone who doesn’t really care how hot you are or how fat you are. It’s none of my business. I like a curvier woman — this is not news. I think women with more meat on their bones are sexy and I wish I was born in another era when a size 12 or 14 was considered the epitome of beauty. But I’m not and that’s the breaks, kid.  I don’t care what size you are or how confident you are — but don’t try to convince me it’s healthy to be fat.

The Donut wasn’t anti-fat people, just anti-FAT. There’s a difference.  And we weren’t anti-your fat. That’s on you… but if I want to be anti-my fat, well, that’s my own damn business.  I don’t have to accept my own fat if I don’t want to.  Improving on myself is ultimately a testament to how much I love myself, isn’t it?  I don’t care what doctor is blowing sunshine up your ass, being “fat” isn’t healthy, no matter how empowered you feel about the label.

And while I realized that Marie’s post wasn’t talking about health, but about fashion, my perception of fat acceptance is the same:  if I say I’m fat and wear the title with pride, it makes it ok that I’m deluding myself.  I’d rather not label myself something just to make others feel more comfortable about their own issues.

I know I’m overweight. I know I need to lose some weight to be healthier. But am I fabulous? You’re damn right I am. And I don’t have to subscribe to fat-acceptance or any other label to embrace that about myself, nor does anyone else.

I may have opened a can of worms, I may have just prattled incoherently, but… I needed to get that off my chest.