On Fat

I’m fat.

I can feel you inhale…yes? It’s a strange (taboo?) thing to hear people say about themselves without a great swath of self loathing or compliment hunting. But it’s true. My BMI declares me overweight. This is not to say that I’m ugly or gross, or hideous, or unhealthy, or don’t take care of myself, or hate who I am, but…I’m fat.

Before we get any further, as it seems to bear…

I look like this:

And this:

And this:

As an aside, these pictures were all taken in the last eight months. I weigh within the same five pounds in all of them.

“FAT” fatfatfatfatfat. The word is so incredibly loaded. It has grown beyond its actual definition (from Merriam Webster: 1 : notable for having an unusual amount of fat) and into a slur, a vicious judgment, the last socially acceptable prejudice. It is one of the words you simply cannot hurl without injury.

You, assuming that YOU are not fat, probably know better than I do what people mean when they use this word, actually. Only very rarely is the word “fat” used in front of a fat person. I’ve been distanced from the social use and discussion of the word, and how it is used on the other side of the fence, where the thin people are, because I have spent, literally, my whole life overweight. It was one of the first two things I knew about myself: 1.) redhead (awesome), 2.) fat (ugh).

It’s an interesting context to grow up with because every part of your life happens through the filter of “Fat Girl.” Before you are anything, you are fat. You’ll have to take my word on that for the moment before I get around to exploring that topic here, which I eventually will. Suffice it to say that I was grew up under the care of a 6 foot, 600 pound narcissist with addiction issues who basically killed herself with her weight loss efforts and a man who did a really good job of running for cover and enabling this tragic slide. (But we watched a bunch of The Muppet Show, so that was cool.) Obvs, there’s some genetic stuff in there as well, but I’m gonna cut to the chase and say that with the combination of nature and nurture, I was kind of screwed before I even got started. I have always been a fat person, I have no memory of being anything other.

To meet me with my friends, you would likely refer to me as the fat girl (oh excuse me – large…heavy…big – and you might whisper it so as not to seem rude), and, frankly, I am, in the circles I travel. But that does not necessarily mean what you think it means, apologies to Fezig.

So – here’s the thing, I eat well, I exercise, I have kept close to fifty pounds of weight off for over ten years( a rarely accomplished feat, if I don’t say so myself). You’d never know these things to see me on the street, and that pretty much is what it is. I’m not the thinnest I’ve ever been right now, but I’m always fighting to get there without living a life that is focused on the concept of thin = happy, because that is fools gold. Could I exercise even more? Sure. Could I eat even better? Yeah. Do I sometimes lose the fight over my body’s irrational impulse to eat too much? Or crap? Or emotionally? Sure. I could work out for an hour seven days a week, and cook every single meal from scratch, rather than just the 95% I do now and give up the entire rest of my life in order to attain this one ideal.

Or I could preserve some time, and energy, and mental space for the people and the things that I love. Hitting the gym three times a week, not cooking every twelfth meal, and calling that a happy medium so that I can suck the marrow of joy from the rest of my life.

Am I perfect? Not by a long shot.
Am I happy? Yeah.
Am I lucky? Incredibly.

I can’t control how the world perceives me. That is a ridiculously unwinnable battle. I control my choices, and can really only judge myself from where I’ve come.

So – I’ll choose joy, and I’ll rock my fat ass, and I give you full permission to judge me as you will.

Ars gratia artis…..?

So – I was recently in a position to have to EXPLAIN why art was important in a community. My immediate response was…well DUH, and my second was…because art is important because it’s ART. What other reason could a person possibly need?

In that moment and for these purposes that answer did not cut it. At all. And I found myself having to examine and articulate one of the driving ideals of my life. Because a life without art is a life bereft. Period.

Here is what I came to…My why art matters to you even if you don’t think it does manifesto.

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Art is important to a community because it is crucial for the soul and mind of a person to be nourished and engaged, and it is from engaged people with minds open to growth and change that a community is built. Without creative discourse, challenging thought and common experiences, a full-fledged community never develops, simply people who live in the same geographical area. Art provides us, by its nature, the fertilizer to let a community blossom. It is a social outlet, a political outlet, an emotional outlet. Art can shine the light on the truth before it can be spoken aloud in a literal fashion. A community without art, is not quite a community at all.

____________________________________________________

I once had a well-educated** adult tell me that she “didn’t like culture. ” Now – to each their own, but when she said this I was so stunned that I couldn’t even respond. To run into a person who would admit this without shame, or any sense of the place of art in the universe, it was as if someone had told me the earth WAS actually flat, the idea was so foreign.

I suspect I will have occasion to run into her again. If this comes up – I will give her my little manifesto. And a book.

**"Well-educated" is obviously debatable, given the rest of this, but she had more, and more expensive degrees than I did, from more well-respected schools.

On Homemaking. Yeah. I said Homemaking.

I’m not (nor do I aspire to be) Martha Stewart, nor am I sprung from The Handmaid’s Tale, and I have never mentally lived somewhere that’s green. I have problems putting away shoes, and jackets, and mail so that there is very frequently a shoe/mail/jacket farm in my living room. My house is not pristine, my wine glasses don’t match, and the bulk of my furniture is second hand. I, however, have been called a “consummate hostess” by at least one darling, handsome, Englishman, who most certainly knew what he was talking about. I will use his judgment of me to speak from a position of authority on this topic.

Scores of people have gotten lost in the idea that homemaking involves fancy stainless matching appliances, perfectly clean baseboards as all times, the nicest blankets…the trappings of Pottery Barn and Williams Sonoma and Yankee Candle . It is as if there is an insidious voice permeating through society that tells us…if I only have the perfect candle and the perfect sheets and the perfect baskets in the perfect place, my family will be happy and we will all love each other and my friends will be happy here just like it happens on TV! This is housemaking. The making of a house. Housemaking is great, and sometimes lucrative, if you are a prop designer. Other than that – it doesn’t get you much of anywhere, except into a race where you chase the Jonses and never quite make it, but you might own a lovely collection of $100 baskets.

HOMEMAKING, on the other hand, as the term suggests, is about making a home. When you think “home” do you think – perfect knickknacks? Or do you think of a place, whatever that place is, where you feel safe, welcome, and at ease? Homemaking is about creating the latter, an emotional environment, knickknacks be dammed. When you come to my house** my greatest desire is that you feel comfortable and loved. Yup – loved. You come into my house – and there is love for you. Here are my most important house rules:

1.) Make yourself at home.
2.) It’s okay if you break something.
3.) It’s okay if you spill something.
4.) Nothing in my home is more important than the people in it.

Now of course, there’s a whole world of don’t be an ass, and pick up after yourself, and manners apply, yadda yadda, because that all goes to the whole comfort for all thing. AND – if Yankee Candles are truly what you love, put’em everywhere, go to town (I will probably judge you for this, but you probably wouldn’t have me over anyway)

At the end of the day though, when you are making a home and a life and building a family in whatever way you define it, having the best basket collection will not help you. Mad Men sold our mothers and fathers, and us, the idea, with their designers and food stylists and shiny appliances. A Viking range does not a home make. Might make you a nice pie, though.

**let me not leave out the BFF here :) - it’s our house – but it’s my blog and we’re not chatting before I post this…I expect she agrees with me.

Last night I had the strangest dream...

In my dream I was committed to an insane asylum that looked like a regular Hampton Inny sort of place. I didn't know it was an asylum until I started paying REEEEEEALY close attention and noticed that, while most of the people seemed okay, they all had little signs like "I eat canned human flesh" and such things randomly scrawled on their body - a'la the infamous Dixie Chicks Entertainment Weekly cover. I started to wise up when realized that I didn't know how long I had been there. I escaped, Jason Bourne style, surreptitiously jumping gates and then running down the side of the road (in a fluffy skirt - I can't explain THAT part at all - but it was a super cute skirt)I hitched a ride in an eighteen wheeler with the asylum people chasing me. Eventually - I made it back to town where I FINALLY found someone I knew, who informed me that I'd been I'd been gone for 6 months and everyone thought I was a bitch for just running off.

SO - just for the good of the order - if I ever entirely disappear, I have been committed against my will. Please come find me.

Happy Friday!

So I've got that going for me...which is nice.

So - it's no secret to anyone that I've been a bit up and down of late, mired in some world where Bridget Jones, Eyore, and Samuel Beckett had an orgy that birthed my brain. This particular brain has been wreaking havoc on my life.

During a great bout of said havoc-wreaking the other day my friend happened to call and as we chatted she asked me if I was really that upset. I attempted to flatly reply...

"yeah"

I tried to explain why - a nearly impossible feat - and it doesn't bear here so I'm not going to repeat it.
In response she told me a story...

Many years ago we were all playing with one of those questions books, this one was "Would you rather?" The question at hand,

"Would you rather gain the ability to leave excellent voicemail messages or have the elevator come more quickly by pushing the buttons rapidly, multiple times?"

I had said: "Well I already leave AWESOME voicemail messages so I've gotta go elevator."

She apparently now thinks of me whenever trying to get the elevator to come faster.

I have no recollection of this moment - but it's nice to know I trust that I have at least one thing under control.

I'm sure you do too. Something is bound to break you eventually - you can always fall back on your personal equivalent of excellent voicemail messages. It's a good thing to have in your pocket.

Are you a good witch or a bad witch?

We did personality testing at work the other week. Typically - I enjoy such exercises, and am rarely surprised by the results (for you Meyers-Briggs fans out there I'm an ENTJ - I believe that personality type boils down to, soulless, but can deliver.)

Last time out we did something different - DiSC Training, which stands for Dominance, Influence, Steadiness, Conscientiousness.

I share with you now - my DiSC profile.
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I have the "Inspirational Pattern"

Emotions: Accepts aggression, downplays need for affection.

Goal: Control of their environment or audience.

Judges others by: Projection of personal strength, character, and social power.

Influences others by: Charm, direction, intimidation, use of rewards.

Value to the organization: Acts as a "people mover," initiates, demands, compliments, disciplines.

Overuses: Attitude that "the ends justify the means."

Under Pressure: Becomes manipulative, quarrelsome, belligerent.

Fears: Weak behavior, loss of social status.

Would increase effectiveness through: Genuine sensitivity, willingness to help others to succeed in their own personal development.
______________________________________

I'm not going to get into the rest of the description now - it's three paragraphs long and is probably more than you want to know about me. Highlights include"astute at identifying and manipulating an individual's existing motives in order to direct that person's behavior toward a predetermined end" and "people often feel a conflicting sensation by feeling drawn to Inspirational people and yet being curiously distanced"

Granted - this is how your personality is at the office - not at home or in personal relationships where it can change** but I believe what I learned most from this excercise is that I missed my calling as a cult leader.

**those of you that know me personally - you have my permission to roll your eyes knowingly at this post. That said, I'm pretty sure I'm not as evil yet tasty at home as they say I am at work. If so - sorry if you feel curiously distanced from me :) - perhaps this explains my enduring singleness.

I am a bright and glorious ray of sunshine…

So – sorry to be all absent and non-posty. Big little meeting is all done with a minimum level of trauma and maximum level of exhaustion. Highlights included dinner at a barn and pumpkins full of candy as far as the eye could see. I believe the staff was in sugar coma for much of the meeting.

We’re taking bets on when I might get it together enough to haul my suitcase out of my trunk and up three flights of stairs. Anyone that had less than three days after the meeting has placed a losing bet. Sorry friends. Apparently I CAN go a week without wearing slacks to work.

I’m back now and certainly will have more deep thoughts to share, including the following.

Groundhog day:
Aka - Why life in the adult world sometimes requires a pile of blankets, a pint of ice cream, a bottle of wine, and a cat. Sadly – I still have no cat.

I am in the enviable position of knowing some amazing and spectacular people who I am blessed to call my friends. I was in the unenviable position last week of having to gently (hopefully) request that one of these remarkable souls give me some space so that I could recover from some, shall we say, distracting feelings of depth.

Apparently I was unclear on the “space” factor here, and in one of those rare moments that adulthood affords you to both feel terrible AND SIMULTANEOUSLY inflict pain on others, I had to have a second-go-round of this conversation. Details aside, my timing on the first version wasn’t great, simply because it had to happen, and my timing on part deux was horrid - cosmic events coinciding to actually act as a fulcrum for the leverage of crappiness. YAY! I think my soul may have died a little bit this month.

So – I’m sure this isn’t very interesting for you, but it brings me back to a business idea from my late 20s…consider it patented.

I am of the opinion that every city needs the following establishment for those of us folk who are basically flying solo through the universe. When there is nowhere to go for the comforts of home or when the comforts of home never quite existed in the first place.

It’s a hotel (of course) somewhere within driving distance and preferably both in the woods and on the water.

You call a number (this is only the actual action that must be taken on your part).

The hotel comes to pick you up in a nice sedan where you can sleep in the back, then they check you in and give you flannel pajamas, fuzzy slippers, a tooth brush, the whole nine yards. You hand them your calendar and they get you out of whatever it is you have somehow committed yourself to be doing. Do you need to pack anything? Nope! You just call and they come get you. When you get there, your room consists of a giant couch, a fluffy bed, a big tv, and is all sort of old and rumply with a whole bunch of blankets. From room service you can order crappy magazines, pets, bottles of whatever, pints of ice cream, yoga teachers, gallons of diet coke, music, playdough, books… you get the idea. Every day is mandatory nap time from 2:00pm-4:00pm. Dinner is served every night at 8:00pm at the big table, where no one is cranky with you for being not so talky. Then after three days, or when you are theoretically able to see the light at the end of your tunnel again, they drive you home.

And they have cleaned your apartment while you are gone.

And preferably done your laundry.

I think this establishment would be a great service to society, and should in fact be covered by health insurance.

If I figure out how to make it happen, you will be the first to know. In the meantime, I’ve got some laundry to do.

I suspect I will be wearing my suspenders of funny again in the near future, so just keep an eye on the space. I promise you, if nothing else, Joy for Monday…

Insert witty title here that makes sense of Alice, sauce, Pandora, ugly shoes, hot dogs and Seinfeld.

So- I've surprisingly been having a less than stellar few weeks out here in the wilds of my life. I seem to have jacked up/misplaced my chi. Have you seen it? I could have sworn it was right there.

Last year I opted to figure out what an adult female was supposed to do with these strange things called feelings. Apparently the box I was keeping them in, lo these many years, used to be owned by Pandora. Then there were the few months I put them BACK in the box (it's a damn handy box to have) so that I could turn into a bionic working machine, subsisting on coffee, spinach, and the Starbucks Reduced-Fat Turkey Bacon Breakfast Sandwich. In hindsight, this progression of events was, while unavoidable, not one of the best ideas I ever had.

I've been stunned to discover that I'm now paying the piper, trying to emotionally catch up. Stupid piper. What's interesting (...frustrating...agonizing...ridiculous) to me is that catching up when you are behind on the feeling isn't as simple as catching up on laundry - you can't dedicate a whole day to it, drop off your drycleaning, and merrily go on with your life. It's more like making sauce. Not something you can rush, or do well with bad equipment, or neglect while you're doing other things. One must simply put it all in the pot and stir constantly until you have dinner. Dammit.

My advice to you, should you ask, is if you willingly peer into the looking glass and choose to step through, don't underestimate the length or depth of that trip. The journey back from behind it is a long one, and it needs a bunch of gear.

Fortunately, I have NOT misplaced my "funny." So I'm at least having an amusing trip along the way....

Case in point...one of the frequent ways I'm described is "that Heather - she can get things DONE!"

Here is the VERY SIMPLE list of things that I could not get done over labor day weekend:

1.) Bought cat stuff, could not procure cat from two different locations (potentially averting a murderous rage in England)

2.) Got pulled over on the way home from the cat debacle. Could not get out of ticket. Cop was condescending and mean despite my inappropriately low cut shirt.

3.) Later, went to buy a book - which they did not have at the bookstore.

4.) Then, went to the movies - where I was informed that the AC was out, just in my theatre. As it was pushing 100 degrees out here, decided to go home instead and get a hot dog for lunch and buy some shoes.

5.) All of the shoes were ugly.

6.) Hot dog place was closed.

7.) Walked to the bakery for hot dog buns - closed.

8.) Walked to the grocery store for same buns - closed.

FINALLY managed to procure some freaking buns at the second grocery store.

By the time I got to the AC at the movie theatre - I had just given up and decided I was living someone else's life over the weekend - like a bad Seinfeld episode. Hilarious.

Granted - also infuriating - but really - hilarious.

Man - when the universe is going to smack you upside the head with a two-by-four, it really likes to go for it.

Deep Thoughts: Happiness is ...finding your skate key

So - last week Authorblog asked - what makes you happy? Interesting, complicated question that. I read that post and dismissed it but it's been plucking at the back of my head. Like a tiny tenacious chicken on my shoulder. My knee jerk reactions were pretty simple - Tom Waits and a good bourbon, board game night, a great road trip, a well-executed event, some good lovin' - you get the drift - easy answers - technically all things that I enjoy - but are they the things that make me happy?

What's been interesting to learn the longer I rolled this one around in my head is that what makes me happy, is a day, an hour, a moment - of contentment. This is steeped in irony as "contentedness" is actually on the "Miscellaneous List of Things that I Hate" (yeah - that really exists.) There is a very fine line between the two. Contentedness, as I know it, implies long term settling, not moving forward, not risking growth. Conversely, a moment of contentment, is earned, at least for me. Having all of the other daily needs, cares, demons in your life and your head put to bed for a period of time, however brief and by whatever means. To use a spectacularly average cliche, a moment to really stop and smell the roses. The real happiness is not in Tom Waits and bourbon, but that you can take the time to wallow in it, good lovin' is great (YAY!) - but transcendent is the moment of lying in the arms of a man who is both your lover and trusted friend.

So - the happiness for me - is not only the great moment, but having earned the ability to relish while it lasts. Happiness, not so much a state of being, but something to be captured in the net.

We'll see what the chicken makes me do next.

Judgement, Hat of

Those of you that know me, know that my mom died recently, in a vaguely long and drawn out fashion. (This is obviously not the "Joy for Monday" post...bear with me. I suspect it will get funnier, maybe not though. Continue at your own risk. There are some very funny monkeys below if you prefer that.) If you know me, you also know that I did not have a spectacular, or even an averagely bad relationship with my mom.

My mother was a kind woman, her intentions were the best, her mind was open, and she loved me immensely in her fashion, which in many books makes me a lucky lucky girl. That said - she was a disastrous parent in most ways. The best example I can give for the purposes of this post is that I, in my entire life, have never had a conversation with my mother that wasn't about her. How can that be? you might ask. Case in point: when I turned thirty, and was legitimately having some trouble with it, I had gone on one of my rare trips home and mentioned my struggle to my mother. I am not a confider in my parents (for good reason - but I may explain that at another time), mentioning this was a BIG DEAL. Her response was...

"Well, you know every time YOU turn a year older, I turn a year older too."

This exact type of reaction is merely one of the reasons that I, after years of using many tactics to come up with some sort of daughterly relationship with her - opted out. Her response to my (basically subconscious) decision was to use all of the family holiday letters to mention how uncommunicative I was, passive-aggressively call me out for being terrible at rare family functions, and end many conversations and social outings with "I don't understand why you are so MEAN to me." Now - you may think that yes, my treatment of her does sound mean, but in defense of myself, I will share that I had done legitimately everything within my young power to have a tolerable relationship here. It was just not in the cards, and with a woman as intense as my mom was, you have to draw the line somewhere.

However - due to my mother's kindness and generosity, she was loved and trusted by many. Her friends, save for one - to whom I owe a lifelong debt of gratitude - all knew nothing of me but what she told them. Her best day-to-day friend, also her housekeeper, who I will call Julie, heard the most of how mean and ungrateful "How sharper than a serpent's tooth...blah blah blah..." I was.

Which brings me to the events of the hour.

I got the call, from the lifelong-debt-of-gratitude friend , that my mother was really dying for real. I flew to my parent's home immediately and went straight to the hospital. My mother was in ICU, sedated, unaware, tubed up, the whole nine yards of all of the stuff. The first time I went home I was there for a week. We (my parent's friends, me , my father and the brotherman) taking care of each other. I was pretty much, as you would expect, rocked out of my world. I am, however, a professional planner and all of those skills (skillz?) served me well while I navigated all of the stuff that has to happen in a situation like this, while I was also attempting to keep everything in my "everything-is-time-sensitive" job afloat.

So - here I am at my "we-have-a-terrible-relationship-why-are-you-so-mean-to-me " mother's deathbed, with all of the relatives giving me the "nice-of-you-to-show-up" eye. This was not, what we commonly refer to as "fun." We go into the terrible horrible meeting of the Council, where my father, very bravely, stepped up and told the doctors that my mother, his wife of 35 years, should be "do-not-resuscitate." This was an emotional moment, to say the least. We all file out into the waiting room, me at the end of the line of council folk. When I get there, Julie the housekeeper is crying. Hasn't hit weeping yet, but she obviously needs some comfort. I, tenuously, still seem to have my shit together, so I go over to comfort her. I put my arm around her and grab her hand. I tell her how important she was to my mother and how much my mom loved her. She looks up with her big watery eyes, sniffling, and says to me....

"You know, Heather, I hated you for so many years because of how terribly you treated your mom."

I believe she followed up with something about how I wasn't the evil spawn of Satan destined to burn in hell while bound to a rock with my eyes plucked out by vicious tropical birds and was actually quite impressive, but I have no idea, because my soul had frozen in that moment. I excused myself to make a phone call, got up and slowly walked out of the waiting room, and then barrelled down the hall, blind and hyperventilating. My younger brother (thanks Brotherman) took one look at me, physically grabbed me with what I assume was basically all of his strength, and held me while I totally and utterly lost it, in the privacy of some random corner of the hospital.

So - Mom didn't die that week. And I flew home. And then flew back and forth. And waited. And flew back and forth. She died a few weeks later. And we planned the memorial.

At which point it was deemed important by Julie that my mother's "Red-Hat-Lady"* hat appear at her memorial service. This fact was communicated to me by the Brotherman. To which I responded "Well- then I hope Julie brings her big Hat of Judgement." Beat...beat...and then the Brotherman and I both bust out laughing uncontrollably...

I have since let go of my rage about this particular moment, Julie knew what she knew, and said what she said and has taken very good care of both of my parents. If that's the arrow I have to take to have the life I have and love, then so be it. But.... the Hat of Judgement! What a life it has!

The mighty "Hat of Judgement" has taken on a life of its own. Having shared this story with a few friends in Chicago, the Hat of Judgement is getting around. There is a man with whom I am acquainted that heard this story before he met me. Upon our first meeting, before hands were shaken or greetings exchanged, we physically tipped our hats of judgement at each other. We now speak of Flipflops of Despair, Boots of Shame, and my personal favorite runner up to the hat, the Cloak of Loathing.

So - the next time you are in a meeting, or onsite, or out in public, and someone is particularly evil to you or simply too dumb to exist in your personal space (yeah- pretend you are all above that - but you know EXACTLY what I'm talking about,) I say - tip your hat of judgement.

"I tip my hat to you sir."

Professional, polite, and will make you feel better on the inside.

*Hats! The Red Hat Society Musical at the Royal George Theatre, 1641 North Halsted Street, Chicago, IL

Do Ya Wanna Buy a Duck?

Yesterday I took the time to go to the Botanic Gardens. One of the interesting things I've discovered about myself as I have gotten older is that I seem to be far more outdoorsy than I ever expected, and when my "chi" is off nature is good for me. I go there often these days... apparently my chi is on a whirlwind tour of crazy - sort of like a giant whack-a-mole of feelings.

I have also discovered a great love of ducks, their existence seems to be slightly against the laws of physics, and I find this remarkable. All of this in spite of my phobia of birds - so go figure.

Anyway - I tell you this as pretty much just a long setup to - I, lost in my melancholic reverie, made my way to my favorite place at the garden - the duck pond. It's real purty. Beautiful view of the garden, massive weeping willow tree, impossibly darling (Darling?) children yelling "DUCK."

So I walk up to the actual entrance to the duck pond, looking for the perfect spot to indulge my mental state (some inconsiderate woman has left her stroller where I USUALLY sit. bitch.) and in front of me I see a middle-school aged retarded asian girl in a motorized wheelchair. And I think to myself. ...

ah.

Apparently we have the same coping mechanisms.

The ducks were cool though.