The love between a Grrl and her Scale.

I’ll be ringing in the new year with Amy as we get together and work on craft projects in a frenzy that will herald a new age as the clock strikes midnight. Yeah, you’re thinking: Crafting? Tame! But you haven’t met the right crafters yet.

I’ve got an idea rolling around in my head to permanently put my bathroom scale out of commission. I found a lovely box of 3 inch coarse screws. I don’t know what ‘coarse’ means when you’re talking about hardware, but they’re sharp, and I like it! I think an assemblage on the scale with these sharpies would make for a fitting end. Except that I think I’m going to experience a terrible mourning at the death of my scale.

I never get on this scale. It sits in my bathroom gathering dust. I refuse to believe that whatever number it spits out will ever be an indicator of my health or worth. I won’t go near the scales at the YWCA - I shun them. I hate all the emotional shit that we are forced to shovel on account of these measuring tools. But I still don’t want to get rid of mine. I wonder if it’s a component of this eating disorder: that small hope that one day I will step on the scale and that miracle number will appear, telling me that I have finally reached a point where I can be considered acceptable and desirable.

I see a girl wandering around the junior’s department at a size where she could have any piece of clothing she wants, and I get pretty fucking bitter. Bitter that the world seems designed around her; bitter that she is being judged by the scale, too, only she falls on the spectrum in a worthy place; bitter that the common response to my rage is: ‘Well, you could lose that weight if you really wanted to.” Sometimes I want to wish 100 extra lbs. on her.

I hate my scale. I hate that it will never show me the number I want to see. I hate that I want to see that number so badly. I hate that I can’t get past this place.

Dude, I’m SO fuckin’ trashing that scale this weekend.

Dueling Caretakers

“You should write that down.”

“Why?”

“So you don’t find yourself mid-January wondering, ‘Did that dude pay his rent or not?’ You won’t have to remember. It will be written down.”

“This memory…like a VAULT!”

“Yeah. Without a key.”

The (unofficial) Minneapolis Film Fest 2005

I hid myself away in my apartment and enjoyed a 4-day holiday weekend - only venturing out to find more films. Found some new loves, rekindled some old film romances…

Millenium, Season 1
Elfen Leid, Vol. 2 & 3
Batman Begins
Mad Hot Ballroom
Mythical Detective Loki Ragnarok, Vol. 1
Peacemaker, Vol. 1
Munich
The Producers
Memoirs of a Geisha
The Karate Kid
Gravitation, Vol. 1-3
Otogi Zoushi, Vol. 3 & 4
Millions

And it’s only a three-day workweek till the next holiday weekend!

Text messaging the holiday spirit.

“Happy Holidays! Love, Morgan.”

“Merry Christmas, Morgan! Go Jesus! Love, the Schmoofies.”

Happy Holidays from FatGrrl

Stay warm. Stay sane. Find someone to share a kiss with under the mistletoe.

(Thanks to Mark and Giselle for the super-cute greyhound illustration.)

Karmic Kickbacks

Two nights ago my harmless, but rather irritating, hypochondriac resident called at 10pm to solicit my help in getting him some throat drops. I was feeling generous so I headed over to the Super America, toting a can of quarters and dimes he gave me, to buy him some medicine. I figured it was my good deed for the day, and surely worth a few good karma points.

Today I cashed in that karma.

Standing outside the building, chatting with some other caretakers, a resident comes down to inform me that someone vomited on the staircase, and someone else put out a cigarette in the mess. The other caretakers cast consoling glances, but I just grinned.

“Well, I’m only paid to take care of the administrative duties. The property manager’s charity case does all the cleaning.”

My cohorts realized who I was referencing and burst out laughing. The cleaning lady is none other than the Functioning Alcoholic - the long-term pain in my ass and general menace. I glowed with the thought of delivering this task in person.

After a lot of loud knocking, she stumbled to the door and opened it. Her red-rimmed eyes glared out and her whole appearance screamed “hangover!” I smiled pleasantly and told her about the bubbling mess on the stairs, and asked her to tend to it after she vacuumed the hallways. I waited until I saw her hanging head give a small nod, I gave a cheery “Thanks!”, and then I positively floated all the way downtown to enjoy a screening of “Memoirs of a Geisha.”

I wonder what kind of goodies I’d get if I actually picked up lunch for the Hypochondriac, as he often asks me to do?

Are you ready for this?

Chomsky!

It’s too much cuteness. Too much for me! I see a playdate for Chomsky and Kiba in the very near future! I’m sure Chomsky and Kiba will get along as well as Eyeteeth (the Chomsker’s owner) and I do.

So he implied that I was a niche-marketed clothes whore, and I was all like, Shopping?

Disaster. Shortly after I finish praising Clint to the skies and thinking it couldn’t possibly get more fun with a fat fashions debate, things get icky, and now my idea of success “for fat chix in the world is to be on the receiving end of a niche marketing campaign…. Buy up everything they throw at you and maybe, just maybe they’ll remember you next season. And then again, maybe not. ” He said if that’s my idea, I can just “wallow in it.”

Like pigs wallow, you know, in a sty.

As it happens, I have lots of ideas about success for the fat girls. Success for fat girls is:

- Walking into a store that understands my ass looks nothing like a skinny girl’s ass and that I want a cut of cloth that shows off my assets (pun definitely intended).
- Eating whatever the hell I want in a restaurant without the scrutinizing stares of fellow diners who think they know better about what should be going in my body.
- Worrying that I might not get a job because my competitor’s got a killer CV, not because she’s got a killer figure.
- Enlightment for the men out there that think they have a right to the 36-24-36 girls, and us fat girls are the ones you boys date when there’s nothing left available. Think of all the blowjobs you’re missing out on, boys.
- The total collapse of the diet industry right down to every last quack nutritional supplement.
- Withdrawal of every bullshit obesity study put out by the CDC, NIH, and their brethren of bogus research institutes.
- Every bariatric surgeon required to volunteer 10 hours a week in an eating disorder treatment center.

It could go on and on…

If it comes down to giving my money to Lane Bryant, or giving it to Weight Watchers, I guaran-damn-tee you that it will be going towards a sexy blouse or a new bra. Being an activist doesn’t preclude a sense of style or design, or me wanting to dress it up a bit. But I also throw my money at authors who write great and fascinating books about fat politics and acceptance, because those are the causes I support.

But speaking of fashionistas, I’m going to go one step further with my vapidity and point out this totally cute designer, Daniel Vosovic, to get things in a lighter mood.

Hot! Studied design and dance. Hot geek!

Aperture Priority.

Clint’s been working the comments on a post at FatGrrl in a way that makes life worth livin’. The tenacity! The banter! Dude drops vocab bombs like ‘alopecia’ and ‘pabulum’ pretty casually, and I won’t be giving you hints. Go look them up. Clint’s a Twin Cities photographer, too, but the absolute kicker on his blog (for me) is his listed interest in ‘curvy brilliant fierce women.’ Sweet! I love curvy brilliant fierce women, too!

Untitled, 2005, found on Clint’s Photo-A-Week site.

What I want to know, Clint, is why can’t I find an artist page for you on mnartists.org?

Lunch Invitation.

Property Manager: “I was calling to see if you need a ride to the lunch today.”

Enslaved Caretaker: “Lunch?”

“I told you, right?”

“A lunch for the property management employees?”

“Yeah.”

“Nope - didn’t hear about it.”

“I guess I forgot to tell you.”

“I won’t be able to attend, but thanks for the invitation.”

“It’s at Noon at Nye’s.”

“Got it. Thanks.”

You’d almost think he didn’t want me there.