Monday, January 16, 2006

Wherein I decide this blogging thing is so much fun, I'll go for two.

Can you tell I have cabin fever?
It's been raining for 27 days straight. Actually its been raining here for thirty days straight; but the national news, in its wisdom, has declared that if it doesn't happen in a major city then it simply doesn't happen. So anyway, what with watching a one-year-old and living out in the ass slap of nowhere I get out of the house on the average of once a week during the winter months. This sucks.
On the other hand, it leaves me with lots of spare time on my hands as long as nobody needs a diaper. I have wallpapered my dining room and part of a bedroom with sheet music, which looks pretty snazzy, I have made some nice abstract collages, I have read some books and I have spent some time on the internet. I have also had a lot of time to think about things. And you, gentle reader, reap the benefit.
Comes article the second:

I see that lately 'bacon' has become something of a trend reference, and I have nothing but good feelings towards bacon boosters. Bacon is particularly good. After all, its a food. And food is good.
Many people, mainly female ones, fear bacon. Probably because of a. the fat, b. the salt c. the nitrates d. it's made of pig and pigs are icky. I don't. I fear no fat, including my own. There exists not one calorie or carbohydrate that I eschew. This is not to say that I have an athletes metabolism-just that I've stopped caring, and it stopped being a problem, weirdly enough. I have only been on one serious diet in my life and after losing 10 pounds I said 'fuck this, I want a goddamn ice cream cone.' Am I built like Kate Moss? Oh Christ no. Never have been. But the point is that when I fianlly decided that I liked to eat more than I wanted to look like Kate Moss, I didn't automatically start shovelling pasta unstoppably into myself like a salmon conveyor. I weigh something like 185, and I look fine.
Heres the deal. I'm not a six year old boy. I am a middle aged woman. Period. And while other women are weighing cod filets, all the world is open to me, the whole good world of food. I eat precisely what I want; when I'm full I stop and if I want more I get more. Sometimes I even cook using that most dreaded of all substances... chicken fat, y'all-the 'fattiest of all the fats' according to Richard Simmons.
Have some broccoli, Richard. No really. You can eat all the broccoli you want.
I remember the very first morbidly obese person I ever saw; I was 12 and we were at Disneyland. Remember 'Pearl' from the first Blade movie? Yeah. So there we were waiting in line to go on the submarine ride....her chins spread out onto her shoulders and rested on her boobs, her boobs hung to her stomach, one down either side of it like a pair of rubber bota bags, and her stomach hung to her knees and daddled about out from under her blouse like a big, red, flubby scrotum.
I didn't see another one (a morbidly obese person, geeze) until I was in my 20's. And then suddenly, they were everywhere. I don't mean people with glandular disorders or people taking cortisone or people who are just built big-I mean people who have invested serious time and money into doing this to themselves and who now look like a pile of ambulatory tits.
Tell me why. What is the attraction in stuffing oneself like a dog at the dump, as though next week the entire world was going to STOP PRODUCING GROCERIES? For fucks sakes; eating too much hurts.
Yeah, I'm a heartless cunt, right? Thats aside the point.
See, according to the literature on the subject, I grew up with all the psychological issues that morbidly obese people have, minus the avoirdupois. And it came to pass that those issues finally landed me in group therapy with five other women, all of whom had stated issues with overeating and weight. And yet during the entire year I was there not one of them brought up the subject. Yet they were the first ones to take offense; we would go out for lunch and they were cutting their eyes around and imagining insults everywhere, going on at great length about how ashamed it all made them feel. But God HELP you if you finished your meal; they'd blush and look down and titter and smirk. I had no idea what their problem was for the longest time, but apparently in their eyes, my not leaving half a sandwich on my plate equalled being a rude, obnoxious, gluttonous pig. I was the only one who never went home with a doggy bag. I was also the only one who a. wasn't morbidly obese, and b. didnt have a BACK SEAT FULL OF CRUMPLED DOGGIE BAGS. Now tell me, what the fuck is that??
See, now I'm hungry. More later.


  1. Anonymous1:51 AM

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