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Because you are never too old to melt

Is it just me, or do these remind you of men in the thirties? Like miners, covered in soot, wearing those hats that kinda look like berets?

Make sure to get to #11. Little pooch will melt your heart into a puddle, he will.

http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/24714000/

Climbing walls

Haven't written lately because relaxing my muscles enough to type is just way too much work. Holy beJeezus, this quitting smoking thing is KILLING ME.

Speaking of which, once I get a few weeks of non-smoking under my belt, remind me to tell you all what its like to be on Chantix. Two words, though, to tide you over: NOT GOOD.

Today's winner

Heard in the lunchroom:

I may make bad decisions, but I'm not crazy.... At least, I don't think I'm crazy.

To love or to hate

I've been in the process of tossing around ideas for my blog for some time now. One idea is to make t-shirts that say, "I'm a Fat Chick!" or "I love Fat Chicks!" but looks like some other (BRILLIANT!) person beat me to it. GOTS TA GET ME ONE.

http://www.zazzle.com/fatguyshirts

Sometimes what you see on TV is true

I'm a Thusday night TV kinda girl. At 7PM on Thursday night, you better believe I've gone all potato, planted firmly on my sofa, totally digging Ugly Betty and Grey's Anatomy. I order some ethnic delivery or other, drink some alcoholic beverage or other, and totally veg to ABC. (Or CBS, I can never figure out which is which... which, I guess, may be problematic for the network marketing department. But anyway.) Thursday night is my one bit of TV watching every week, my guilty little pleasure.

So, you know how in Grey's Anatomy there are all these uncomfortable moments in the elevator? Its like if A just had a nasty break up with B, and said breakup was caused by C who slept with A who then gave VD to B and E, and D is just in the middle of all this drama trying to not turn to the bottle for clarification, well, then, the elevator will only allow those five people on it, I'm not kidding. It is a modern day feat of engineering that elevators can now choose who ride them, and you can bet that the doors will only open for those people who would rather not be crammed into a metal box together. Douglas Adams would be so proud, although I just wonder why noone ever thinks to take the stairs, or waits for the next elevator because it gets kinda crowded with that much illicit sex all over the place.

My point, though, is that bit about the elevators? Where they can open up and out will pop THAT PERSON? Well, that's a truism. I know this because THAT PERSON, my office crush that I'm working very diligently to avoid, keeps flying out of the elevator and trying to make small talk. The very fact that I have a crush violates two long-upheld Fat Chick Rules: 1) Never, under any circumstances, date a lawyer. If things get ugly, he's been professionally trained in the art of arguing which does not swing the pendulum in my favor. Plus, there's that whole Chip on Shoulder thing, and that's just gross. And 2) Never date a coworker again. I say again because I've done that, and the last thing I want to do is repeat THAT headache again. Especially if the coworker is a lawyer and makes more money than me and knows how to argue an opponent into the ground (there should be a verb for that). I mean, if things got nasty between ex-boyfriend-current-coworker, then it should at least be someone who is wimpy and makes less than me, so that I can strut around the office with that distinctive HA! I MAKE MORE MONEY THAN YOU! air. But as it is, said crush is a lawyer so its like a double whammy.

But the part about the elevator? Back to that. I'm developing an irrational fear of them. Every time I hear that DING! I expect LawyerlyCrush to just fly out, all chipper to see me and asking wierd questions that make me take steps backwards and consider taking the stairs down 37 flights just to get out of this Uncomfortable Elevator Moment. Because didn't he get that memo? The one that informed him that LAWYERS don't talk to peons? That there is a pecking order and I'm not worthy of attention from His Lawyerly Highness? And why is it that elevators get to decide who they open for, when they open, and who pops out? That is so not fair.

On avoiding responsibility

I had an article due on May 15. On May 14, I got an email saying that the deadline had been extended to May 19.

So you know what I did this weekend?

I cleaned out my closets.

A rhetorical question

Would you like to see what happens to a plane when engineers apply 154% of it's maximum rated load? File this one under "Blowing Stuff Up."

Spirituality for the new millenium

This makes me want to go to Church and pray for my immortal soul. I'd even buy a "Sunday best" outfit and do my hair, with a curling iron and HAIRSPRAY (which gives me zits on my cheeks the next day) and encourage others to do the same. For their soul and the good of all humanity and the love of God, Jesus, and the Holy Spirit.

If only Church were really like this...

http://www.jibjab.com/view/171333

BUT THINK OF THE CHILDREN!!!

Everyone: PANIC! NOW!!!

At least, that's the general gist of an email I just got. It very thoughtfully warned me of a wild, dangerous animal living [are you ready for this?] IN MY NEIGHBORHOOD. Yes, smack dab in the middle of urban sprawl is a creature so heinous that its very possible aluded-to existence (because no one is totally sure if its even there) is a threat to my safety, the safety of my pets and any children in the tristate area.

Do you know what this god forsaken beastly creature, this demon-like scourage upon the earth, is? Do you? Well? Do you?

It is a fox. Seriously. It's a fox, I'm not kidding.

And for your further amusement, I give you my neighbors' reactions to ASCO's dire warning about said furry fiend:

Last night's bulletin about the sighting of a Red Fox near the George Lane Beach brought back a rash of emails such as:

"It was one thing when we just had pigeons, sea gulls and squirrels. Now, besides those, we're living amongst opossum, raccoons, coyote and now foxes!"

But what about the geckos? Wouldn't it be great if we could also have geckos? If we are going to selectively choose acceptable wildlife, then I'd like geckos, please. And soon. They'll eat the spiders, and spiders make me nervous. And I just love how squirrels are problematic, but those rats staking out turf in the alleys? Hell, those are our neighbors. We love them like brothers.

[ASCO commentary:]Our fear of this is what caused us to send out our Security Alert! There is a red fox in the area with a litter. This is a wild animal. She does not want a dog coming over to her family nor a child. We want to warn all of you to keep your dogs on leash when you are walking them and keep your eye on your children.

And now for the most informative email we received. "FYI. There has been a mother fox and her 6 babies living on the beach above Berger Park for about 6 weeks. I understand that she has relocated to Loyola, and the police know about it (I ran into a policeman on Rosemont and the beach and he was watching for them--said he was the only area officer who hadn't yet seen the babies) and animal control was called, but can not do anything because this species is protected under the endangered species act."

Is it a crack whore fox? Is that what all this fuss is about? Is that why I'm getting Security Alert!s? Is that why someone called the cops, because she was dealing smack to school kids? Well... since its a drug addicted, sex-peddling drifter, then I totally appreciate my tax dollars being spent on fox watching. I mean, sure Chicago schools suck ass, and sure our roads are potholed and our crime rate is abominable. All that will be there tomorrow, too, so no need to waste valuable fox-babies-watching-time with any of that nonsense, no way. We know how it goes with babies: They grow up. Gotta watch 'em while we got the chance. Maybe we should send out a Security Alert! about that? And any gecko sightings?

And yes, I'll be heading off to the beach to take my gander. But don't you worry, Internet: I read that Security Alert! and I've been warned by the Security Alert! to BE ALERT. And I learned my lesson back when I tried to feed the bears: Do not bring the cats and if they happen to follow me, don't dangle one in front of such a ghastly fiend singing, "Heeeeeere foxy foxy... heeeeeeeere foxy foxy." Because that has been done and documented in the "Bad Ideas" chapter of my autobiography, and I need my remaining three fingers so that I can write tomorrow's blog post.

Signs of aging

Twice - count em, TWICE - yesterday random strangers wished me a Happy Mother's Day. The conversation went something like this:

Random Stranger on the Elevater: Happy Mother's Day. [Insert warm, I-remembered-to-say-something-nice self congratulating smile]

Fat Chick: Oh, I'm not a mother.

RSE: That's ok, you will be.

or

Random Bus Passenger: [Slightly alarmed] But you want kids, don't you?

Fat Chick: [WTF?!]

So... Let's analyze, shall we?

First: Do I look like a mother? What does a mother look like, anyway? Is there a sign, like some neon arrow pointing to the top of my head? What gives?

I was on my way to floating, so maybe that's it? I was willing to go outside in a BRUTAL storm? Maybe I was on the way to pick up my kid from ballet? Because only a mother would be so self-sacrificing as to venture out just as hell was freezing over? I almost asked each person why they wished me a Happy Mother's Day, hoping for a little insight into what triggered the "I SPOTTED A MOTHER!" reflex, but, well, let's face it: That could have been more than a little uncomfortable for all parties involved.

Second: Do I want kids? The answer, as so many know: Yes. Absolutely. Will I become a mother? Hopefully.

And if you don't already know, Internet, let me drop the S-bomb: I may just be in the market for sperm. (No, I am not taking offers, so don't even go there.) Rather, I am STILL in the process of choosing between adoption and pregnancy. As a single-mother-wannabe, there are some rather weighty consequencies of either choice, and I have been wrestling with them for some time.... about three years. And by the way, I prefer the term "deliberation" to the phrase "paralysis by analysis." Which is what I've heard whispered around me whenever I bring up the subject.

I'll figure it out. Eventually.

More on this later.

Random thoughts on my mother

I used to have dreams where I was with my mother. We would talk and talk and talk, just like we did at our best times while she was alive. I miss those dreams as much as I miss her.

When friends complain about their mothers, I get angry because at least they have mothers. But then I remember that I used to complain about my mom and my anger goes away.

Sometimes I hate my mother for being dead and I would like nothing more than to rail at her. I mean, how the hell could she leave me with so many messes? And its one thing to leave her kids with messes, but its an entirely worse thing to die before she taught us how to clean them up.

My mother was beautiful. She had green eyes and a lovely, smooth voice. I can still see her and hear her when I try.

I only knew her for 20 years, but I still love her to this day. And even though I'm a grown, self-sufficient woman now, I still need her.

Happy Mothers Day

Oil pastels: crayons for big kids

YIPPEE!!! I can now text my blog. Apparently this functionality has existed for some time. Who woulda thunk it?

This is so perfect

You know, I've often considered flashing the cop cams on Hollywood and Sheridan, but this just takes the cake:

http://www.boingboing.net/2008/05/06/passenger-moons-spee.html

I'm rambling, I know

I want to go to England/Scotland/Wales/Ireland. Just to buy yarn. I want to grab two friends (ok, a sibling and a friend), rent a car and find lots of small yarn makers (I'm guessing there is a word for that occupation, but hell if I know it) and drink lots of tea and ale and eat kippers and bangers and mash (?). And spend a week or so being in love with all things girly and fibery.

Oh, and with this post I declare my neverending adoration of Debbie Bliss Yarns. Must buy Luxury Tweed for this sweater I want to make...

And one more thought: Ravelry, I love you, you who are the greatest of all social networking sites! And thanks to the ubercool RobotGrrrl who introduced me. What did I do before Ravelry?!?!

Because I always need the final word

So I'm having a bit of a comment-fest on this post. The basic questions, it seems to me, are: What is hateful? and Is hatefulness ever justifiable?

According to Manda Overboard, this quote is not hateful or dehumanizing in any way:

If you don't mind being horribly huge, sweet.

Horribly huge? To call someone "horrible" based on their size is not, in itself, horrible? How about dehumanizing? Can we call it dehumanizing? How about bigoted? Does that fit? (Pun intended.)

Or how about this picture: [Update: I removed the picture. I have been thinking about it - all last night as I drafted this post, and all today - and I am worried that I, too, am exploiting the woman in the picture by posting it. It is still out there on the Public Internets, just not on my blog.]

MO maintains that the photo (which was filenamed "fatty" on her blog), was neither vicious nor hateful. Rather, it was an expression of Manda's exasperation. She goes on (in my comments section) to state that she is equally exasperated with drug addicts. Funny, there are no exploitative pictures of them on her blog... Or posts like Lard, and Arses (I'd like to recommend "Smack, and Tracks" - it has a certain ring to it).

Yes, Manda Overboard, I agree with you: There are many needless ills in this world, two of which are 1) prejudice and 2) lack of compassion, love and genuine kindness. I don't believe it is ever OK to hate someone or be cruel. Hate and cruelty are never justifiable.

And two last thoughts: When I saw that picture on your blog, MO, my first thought was, "OMG! Is that me?" And my second thought was, "Funny how she chose a stereotypical picture of a fat woman - all eating cake, bulging out of underwear, mouth wiiiiiiiiide open." Stereotypes are everywhere, and so useful for perpetuating lies.

Shame on you Manda Overboard. Shame on you.

If I had a car...

I would spend more money at Ikea, Joann Fabrics, Mitsuwa and Target.

I would visit my relatives more often.

I would know where Buffalo Grove is.

And Northbrook.

I would always offer friends rides home, because I like it when people ask me.

I would probably get a lot of speeding tickets. And parking tickets. And I wouldn't want to pay them, so I'd probably have to pay late-payment penalties.

I would buy petrol in Indiana, because I hear it's cheaper in the sticks.

I would be tempted to drive to work, especially in the coldest part of February.

I would offer to be the designated driver... No, I'll be truthful and take that back. Even if I had a car, I would still cab it so that I could drink martinis with wild abandon.

I would spend a lot of time looking for parking and then, later, I would spend a lot of time complaining about how I spent so much time looking for parking.

I would never HAVE to ride the CTA buses again. I could if I wanted to, but it wouldn't be a necessity. I'd have a choice.

I'd take road trips to such places as the Niagara Falls, the butter Jesus (Ohio?), Galena and Mermet Springs.

And Northbrook.

I would feel guilty about the damage I was doing to the environment, even though I'd own a tiny, fuel-efficient spritely thing.

I would buy fuzzy dice and string christmas lights inside the car (if I could find a way to light them up).

I'd go car camping and maybe tailgate a Bear's game.

This works on so many levels

see more crazy cat pics

On Being a Fat Chick: Blind Dates

My peeps rarely set me up (maybe once a year, if that), and when they do it’s with a guy who they think will rock my world. Unfortunately, such standards for blind date compatibility are not universally shared.

Some – not all – of my acquaintances seem to think that, in the grand dating rodeo, all hogs must be penned in their own corral. By God, they are going to do whatever they can to make sure I date my own kind, and are positively alarmed when I’m approached by a man lacking a beer belly. In their skewed perspective, it’s just unnatural for anything but a beluga to hit on me.

These are the assholes that try to fix me up on a regular basis. What’s worse, they act like they are doing me a favor. I wish they’d stop.

They incessantly wing man me with fat guys, regardless of the guy’s ax-murdering past. In true Fat Chick style, I call them on it, asking, “Why him? Because we’re both fat, right?” To which they respond with the expected gasp-laugh and avoidance of eye contact.

I’m dead-on, and they totally know it: In their small minds, said Hungry Hungry Hippo and I are perfect for each other since we are both the size of New England states. My directness horrifies them; the “f” word (and I’m not referring to “fuck” here) may never be spoken in mixed company. Enorm-a-man and I are the 900 pound gorillas in the room.

While I’ve happily dated my fellow lard asses on several occasions, I’ve dated them because I found them hot (I can’t date a man I’m not attracted to), not because he was big. I find it offensive that certain people think fat should stick with fat. It’s myopic and totally smacks of “Thin is in” in the same way “White makes right” is a rallying cry for the ignorant of the world.

This is why these people are my acquaintances and not my friends: They are fat-phobes, prejudiced, maladjusted, shallow and most definitely not cosmopolitan. I once kept a mental log at a party, and was not surprised that these same acquaintances only mingled with white, middle-class yuppies (and I’m not exaggerating here). In truth, I’d rather avoid them, but what can you do when you’ve been invited to a cocktail party and you don’t control the guest list and you know the martinis will be mighty fine so you seriously want to attend?