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.

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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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 >

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.

My whole life, I’ve considered myself an only child. Even when I had step-siblings — especially when I had step-siblings — I considered myself the one and only, my parents’ sole offspring.  And that part is true — I am their only child.  But at 15 years old, I was told that my dad — the last of the famous international playboys, apparently — had other children before he married my mom.  My mother knew, but they kept it a secret from me in fear I would spill the beans to my well-to-do maternal grandparents, who didn’t know — understandably.  She passed away with that secret kept.

There’s more to this story, but none of which I feel is the business of the Internet.  Maybe a book someday (man, it would make a good semi-fictionalized memoir), but not the Internet… not yet, perhaps not ever.

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So, being of a certain age, my biological clock has been tick tick ticking like one of those big alarm clocks in Wile E. Coyote’s ACME bombs. While having a bunny is plenty enough for me right now, I can’t deny the fact that the chance to have a child may be passing me by. Even if you’re not sure if you want one or if you’re ready, the fact that you might not be able to at some point is a bitter pill to swallow.  Like one of those big fat horse pills that taste like chalk.

I’m surrounded by moms. Most other women my age either have kids or are planning to and of course, the explosion of mommies on the Internet has allowed me to have a successful career.  I love kids (for the most part) and kids love me.  I think being a mom is a wonderful gift and a challenging, rewarding, often thankless job. I had an amazing mom and I would love to pass that on all the things she taught me in 10 short years… maybe. See? I don’t even know.

But being enveloped in moms has turned my sensitivity to motherhood all the way to eleven.  In the last few years, I’ve experienced more pitying looks, more “As a mom…” authority speeches, more “when you have kids you’ll understand” dismissives than ever before.  Realistically, it may not be more, but it just seems like it because I’m more aware of it.  You’d be surprised how openly snide women can be when you least expect it.  Between blogs and real life, I see, hear and sometimes receive more woman-on-woman snatchery than should really be permitted outside of adult entertainment.  Women, let’s face it, can be bitches.  And I’ve begun to feel frustrated, maybe a little jealous, resentful even… until today.

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File this under “One of those Things That Might Make Me a Jerk”, but it often bugs me when people use alternate words to describe certain colors. It just does. Like saying something is orange when it’s yellow or pink when it’s salmon… though, admittedly, sometimes salmon walks a fine line. Swims a fine line? Whatever. Or gray when it’s blue, etc.

Color-blind?  Ok, I’ll have to suck it up there – my dad was colorblind (or so I suspect of Mr. Olive Pants-Brown Shoes-Purple Shirt) – but only about 5% of men and less than 1 percent of women are likely to be color-blind so when I hear a reference to something as yellow when it’s orange or vice versa, it’s like nails on a chalkboard to me.  Hopefully, this doesn’t incite the wrath of the color-impaired.

I realize it’s the persnickety designer in me, the part that actually cares about the nuances of ecru vs. tan vs. cream vs. eggshell.  And I realize sometimes people can’t help it and color may be considered somewhat subjective, but I certainly am not going to go outside and declare the sky aubergine simply because that’s how I perceive it (that’s ‘eggplant’ or a deep purple/black with what some might call a slightly red undertone, in case you were wondering).  And no, I don’t think the sky is eggplant.

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I just cried the whole way through Barack Obama’s inaugural speech. I couldn’t help it! I’m so happy that we’re moving forward as a country and I couldn’t be happier to see George Bush out of office. I don’t talk about politics much on here, but I have no qualms about saying that I hope the door hits Bush on his way out.  Assuming he can figure out how to get through the door.

I had a terrible nightmare last night about Lulu.  I rarely have nightmares and I’m not sure why I had this particular one, but for some reason I was in a car on the freeway and Lulu was running in a wide grassy median between the two sides of road.  She was terrified and sprinting faster than I ever thought rabbits could go… I was driving really fast, trying to catch her and I could never keep up no matter how fast I drove.

Suddenly, much like a macabre video game, predators appeared in the median… wolves, coyotes, a German shepherd… she dodged them all, leaping over them, diving under them and still we kept speeding along.  Finally, a big bear swatted her to the ground when she tried to jump past it and the terror in her eyes are absolutely horrifying. I watched the bear sniff her butt fluff, while her nose ran with tears (that’s what happens when she’s really scared) and her eyes darted wildly around.

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