Want my Slaw?

Who Am I?

2011-09-22T13:25:00.000-04:00

I mean, for reals, I look in the mirror and I’m all “Who is thisperson”? The update on the weight loss/ screw you Hashimoto's I’m doing the workaround on you – is that since mid January I’ve dropped 37 pounds – wholly WHAT!?There has been some tweaking of my prescription after Hashimoto kicked it up anotch. You know sometimes a body that’s been broken for 40 years just does nottake kindly to changing its ways, but as of last week my blood work was superfine. I’ve gone from looking into the mirror at the gym and thinking, hmmmmm I’mnot this round in REAL life to staring in wonder at my square shoulders andshrinking waist and thinking…. Actually not thinking, it’s a total brain fuck.

Noneof my clothes fit, they are all about 3 sizes too big. I know that may seem really cool to most ofyou BUT I have a HUGE wardrobe with tons of really nice things and nothing towear. Work trousers that I wore just 9 months ago that fit so close to my hipsI sewed the pockets shut so they wouldn’t bulge fell OFF last week when I triedthem on. I ended up emptying my closet of all pants/ jeans/ skirts and dressesthat were purchased any time prior to July. My bras are pathetic, well actuallymy bras are outstanding, my boobs are underwhelming, and good lord my ass! What happened back there? I’ve bought a few new bras and 2 new pairs ofpaints, but it is kinda stressing me out thinking about the expense of a wholenew wardrobe. What I need now is a Sugar Daddy to support my shopping spree.

Istill have not felt any physical changes; it’s all psychological and emotional.I am really pissed off at every doctor over the previous 39 years of my lifewho decided instead of diagnosing a genetic autoimmune disorder to guilt me,instill poor body image and lecture me about my dooming obesity and pre - “whatever”condition they decided to fling at me as a medical scare tactic. FYI – there isno such thing as a PRE illness, either you are ill or you or not. I can’t TELLyou how many times my old GP told me, “You are PRE diabetic” until one day Iasked, “How bad is my sugar level?” her answer, “It’s fine, in the normal rangeBUT at your weight you are pre-diabetic” THAT MAKES NO SENSE! I guess I couldbe pre- anything, I’m a woman who grew up on Long Island and lots of women fromLI have breast cancer so go ahead, diagnose me with pre-breast cancer, no not that IHAVE cancer but…. you know it’s all the same.

My other ‘thing’ that just recently has been screwingwith my head is being called…. Beautiful. Like really sincerely labeledbeautiful. The other day a friend flung that word at me, out of the blue,totally random with no pretext and I cried (I’m welling up just typing this). It’sso F’ed up cause I can be called a fat piece of shit and walk away with my headheld high with sass, but beautiful, it broke me down.

I saw Swason the otherday and she was shocked at my appearance, and I have to admit, so am I. Sheleft for tour and made me promise to stop shrinking, I will try. Also another friendinformed me that I can really ONLY hold onto my fat girl kick ass personalityfor 2 more dress sizes then it’s Bye Bye raucous funny girl and hello vapidintroverted boring chick, that’s just the rules… crap!

Unbelievable

2011-08-15T12:12:00.005-04:00

Unfortunately my contentment does not make for good blogging. Remember my good ol’ days filled with worries and uncertainty? Damn those were some meaty blog posts. Now all seems to be in balance, job is swell, heath is getting on track, and a general sense of bliss has infiltrated my being – and being tan ain’t bad for my gleeful soul either. However even with all this jolly goodness there will always be something stuck in my craw, so go ahead and file this under, “same tune different day”, it’s the issue of my weight/health/weight loss.

After finally being diagnosed with a genetically faulty thyroid and prescribed drugs to engage the metabolic process I have very easily dropped close to 26 lbs in 7 months. People congratulate me, but really I have done NOTHING except take my meds and produce blood samples on a regular basis. I’ve always been active, I’ve never been a junk food addict, food hoarder, binge eater, etc… it’s just I have ALWAYS been heavy.

Now that it has been proven that my weight is NOT a product of what I do but is in fact due to a lack of naturally produced thyroid hormones, acquaintances who float into my life refuse to release their assumptions regarding my weight (or the weight of all fat people I assume). They still believe, even after I explain the genetic auto immune disease that’s been attacking my thyroid for 40 years, that my weight loss MUST be the result of finally living a “healthy lifestyle” – huh what? NO it is because I am on medication that is making my body work like a normal person, and by the way non medical personnel what’s with the assumption that I have not lived a “healthy life style” in the past?

These transient experts in weight gain/ loss refuse to accept the fact that not all fat people are tragic souls to be pitied, humiliated, and harassed for lack of motivation and control. Again and again these commentators retort with, “Are you sure it is the medication, I mean you ARE going to the gym now?” Yes I go to the gym now but I went to the Gym for the past 10 years (when employed) and I haven’t changed my diet at all, but still they refuse these facts and nudge… “No really what ‘plan’ are you on? I’m really trying to lose weight and I want to know your secret.” So again, let me BLOW your minds with this CRAZY truth, I’m a person who is fat because of a disease NOT because of “choices”. So as to this ‘secret plan’…. Ummm it’s the plan where my body works just like yours. Maybe I should ask them why THEY are overweight?

To prove my point further, for 5 – 6 weeks this summer my meds stopped working, I kept working out and eating my usual diet and my weight loss plateaued. Doc. ran two series of blood tests, tweaked my prescription, and within 7 days of new meds I dropped 2.8 lbs. I know this isn’t a real scientific experiment but it seems rather clear that no meds = no weight loss, meds= weight loss.

I’m just happy that my body is chemically balanced and is working like all bodies should. The weight loss is a fun side perk, even though my boobs are now feeling the brunt of this loss, and getting complements on how I look is always appreciated (at any size) but what is pissing me off is this constant commenting by random people who feel the urge to congratulate me for “finally making healthy choices”. It’s like a giant “I Told You So” – how about I told YOU so. I told YOU, collective world of fat shamers and body harshers, that I do the things people should do to have a body that works but mine just didn’t, mine was broken and anything I could do didn’t matter. Now it is fixed, and it’s working, and this is what it looks like. There is no egregious lack of self restraint here, no wealth of bad choices, no sloth like non-activity, there is NOTHING that you have been brainwashed to believe that ALL fat people choose to do/ not do, because as we all know Fat is a choice for every fat person, we are the same anyways. I didn’t chose this body, this was the body that was given to me, and it’s cool, I like this body and now it is changing but ONLY because my motor is humming. One day maybe the motor will cool down and my body will change again, and ya know what, that’s cool too.

Can’t Get Anything Past Me

2011-06-27T16:11:00.011-04:00

Don’t ask don’t tell don’t got nothing on, “If I don’t talk about it, it doesn’t exist”, however people who adopt this behavior must be constantly bitch slapped by um… I don’t know...REALITY! Yeah cause the power of positive thinking or “negation thinking” will unfortunately not magically repair my broken toilet. - Backing up.

Last Wednesday I was scheduled for new windows, thank god. Tuesday night as I stripped my window dressings, removed hanging photos, rolled up rugs, and moved 4 rooms of furniture to accommodate my early morning work crew I bid a fond farewell to the arctic blasts of winter, the guillotine action of the falling window sashes of summer, and good riddance to the missing screens and uninvited surprise wildlife visits.
Wednesday morning I awoke early to do a last sweep of the apartment, readying all five windows for their removal, then sat patiently in what I can only describe as an apartment in complete disarray. I waited…and waited. For hours I listened to the workmen next door; I thought that was good sign but good lord I was getting antsy. As time passed from Noon to One then onto Two I was quickly losing all faith in this crew. At 2:45pm I could wait no longer so I popped over to my neighbor’s abode to question the workmen about my appointment. The foreman (AKA the guy who spoke English), looked at me all pissed off and said “This job is TOO big for only two men, there is NO WAY that I can do your windows today!”

Did he just explode on ME!? F-U you idiot! But what I did say was, “I took off work today for the window installation. You could have told me at 9am when you arrived and saw the job that you couldn’t do my apartment today that way I could have gone to work”. He looked confused at this line of reasoning, stormed past me and entered my apartment. He circled through the rooms mumbling that he didn’t have enough men and that carrying windows up and down 4 flights of stairs was hard… blah… blah… blah…. Then he said he would do it… but wasn’t sure … complained that my air conditioners were still in the windows (really? Cause I should be sitting here for 8 hours in the heat?) then he stood in the middle of my living room and pretended (?) to make some phone calls…. then walked out. It was all very confusing.

I called the super, he was PISSED that this guy even spoke to me and doubly pissed that the whole schedule for the building was going down the drain on the first day of install. I told the super that I had no clue what was going on since the foreman never actually said whether or not I should keep waiting or go to work or stay home the next day… nothing. This was my first encounter with the foreman’s “If I don’t talk about it, it doesn’t exist”, Modus operandi, unfortunately it would not be the last.

Fast forward to this morning and the actual window install. All was going well, or so I thought. They were noisy and messy but whatever, I own a broom and dustpan, it’s a trade off for new windows. The guys flew through the installation and were out by 11:30am – yahoo! They thanked me, I thanked them, I locked the door behind them and as I passed my bathroom I thought hmmmm, lid up on the toilet that’s odd? As I moved closer I noticed a handful of screws IN the toilet – WTF guys REALLY??? Why lift the lid on the toilet and dump screws into the bowl, ughhhhh. So I rolled up my sleeve and fished them out, closed the lid and OH GOOD LORD the back of my toilet was shattered. Welcome to day two of “If I don’t talk about it, it doesn’t exist”. Did they think that I wouldn’t notice that they used my commode as a step ladder with that HUGE gray boot print on the lid and the missing porcelain off the rear right corner? Are people like this so delusional to think that NOBODY will notice their stupid crap? What was the thought process… ohhh man I broke the toilet… I should ummm… oh yeh lift the lid to hide it, I’m brilliant. And why do I feel this is the same ridiculous behavior that drives these male celebrities/ politicians to practice uber risky cheating behavior, btw I have NO problem with them cheating, just man up, own it, and stop with the denial.

So now I am without any “facilities” for I discovered to my very damp dismay that the missing corner was not merely cosmetic, as I originally assumed, for when I flushed…. weeeee indoor water feature! Fingers (and legs) crossed that my replacement toilet will magically appear within a few days, otherwise…. ummmm…. not too sure on the otherwise.

Get It Together Body!

2011-06-23T13:58:00.012-04:00

Nice going body, after I heaped on the accolades last week you up and revolt, great. Yep my blood work came back to reveal, to my doctor’s dismay, that my thyroid is kickin’ the synthoid’s booty. My hormones are so out of wack (again) that my Doctor called to ask, “Are you still TAKING the synthroid?” COME ON, really? Doc thinks that maybe I got a bad batch of meds (that’s frightening) and/ or I need to up my dosage. Looks like my fat ass is all pissed off that my thyroid is burning off all the juicy-ness that it worked so hard to store. Ass… thyroid… can’t you two just get along?

While I had Doc on the line I took the opportunity to share the news of my weight loss to which she responded “Really?” Odd response I thought from a doctor who in January said, “I’m not worried about your weight but I would like to see you lose 10 or 20 pounds.” So now I’m on a new dosage and scheduled to actually SEE my doctor in a month, I guess to prove to her that my thyroid is actually responding to the medication by burning up my brick store house.

I’ve also noticed that body is going though what I can only call “shrinking pains”, thanks again body. Over the weekend my Mom said, “Wow you must feel SO great now that you lost all that weight!” When actually I feel the same or sometimes worse. You see I never FELT fat, I guess some people do, I never did (do). I have always been strong, not fast but strong. I’ve never had a problem on my 4 flights of stairs lugging up everything from my 10 bags of groceries, to my bulging 75lb. suitcase, from my 55lb. dishwasher to my tall wooden dresser. Even when I was 45 lbs. heavier I never had a problem on the subway stairs or walking for hours around the city. I never had the feeling that I was encumbered, nothing hurt, nothing was sore, I wasn’t short of breath or drenched in perspiration. All those stereotypical “fat person” ailments didn’t exist for me. But now that I’m lighter my legs are KILLING ME. No really I feel like an old lady, it’s pathetic.

On Tuesday I asked Dr. Pico to give my knees a poke and he was all “WOAH, your knee caps!” He feels that my knee caps are engaged in a tug of war of death with my leg muscles but with some frequent focused stretches I may be able to release my knees from the fiery fist of my thighs. And again – BODY GET IT TOGETHER – come on!

In my non-medical expertise I blame this knee cap cage match on the proliferation of “squats” that have permeated my week. Why is EVERY trainer coo-coo for squats? I got pulsing squats, slow squats, sumo squats, squats with lunges, squats with weights, you name it… they got a squat for it. And you know what else they got, they got a sadistic streak cause just when my body is on the razor’s edge of complete collapse they yell “GET LOWER” – screw you squat.

A Quickie

2011-06-16T16:12:00.008-04:00

Just a little check in and update:

I am finally owning this newly revved up thyroid as well as my new body. As of this morning I have dropped over 10% of my body weight…hold it… what?! Yep the good old thyroid is chugging along after 40 years of deep slumber – way to go thyroid!

The YMCA is killing me softly with their change in schedule. The Y-guys have tested my fortitude by changing ALL three of my weekly classes, however they do not know the power of Swason’s motivational afternoon texts or the incentive put forth by the promise of one of her “winners only” home cooked meals – losers stay at home.

Talking about winners - this will only be news to persons who spend less than than 4 minutes with me - we WON the Olympic ticket raffle!!! Yep we won the lottery to purchase Opening Ceremonies tickets to London 2012. This was a huge win thanks to the all loving Zeus and Athena, for only .13% of ticket buyers were granted the opportunity to plop down a few thousand bucks to attend the ceremonies and Mom and I are now part of that .13% - USA USA USA (Hail Britannia as well). Next up 13 months of pre Olympic blog postings.

And since we are on topic of winners and the YMCA I would like to publicly report that I DO NOT punk out during my most hated work out, Boot Camp. I may be in the lower portion of ‘fit level’ but I do everything (even if modified) and remain jogging ON THE TRACK even when my feet are mysteriously turned to cement blocks encased in lead while other THIN people sneak back into the workout room through the back door. Yeah you people are PUNKS and losers; they would never get dinner at Swason’s Astoria Roof Top Café. WINNING!!!!

Fat Is The New Bed Bug

2011-05-23T20:03:00.010-04:00

Mom and I hosted our biennial yard sale spectacular this past weekend at Chez Louis and along with our butt load of exquisite valuables, priced at $4 or less, we stocked our exclusive lady’s salon (AKA the garage) with over 200 pieces of clothing, shoes, accessories, handbags, etc… Funny that even after this MAJOR purge my closets are still bursting – not sure how that happens – however I was really happy to offer up some fantastic fashions (and bargains) for my wide hipped sisters since my mountain of clothes ranged in sizes 16 to 22. Trousers, capris, skirts, blouses, sweaters, TONS of jeans and even a few gala dresses - good lord I could outfit every luscious booty east of The Shinnecock Canal! I couldn’t wait for the masses to arrive so I could play stylist for the chunksters of the east end, but what I got instead was an afternoon of fat shaming – WTF!!??

As shoppers approached the garage entrance I greeted them with a wide smile and announced “We have sizes from Large to Size 22 and shoes in sizes 10 and 11! To which I would receive either a laugh of disbelief or a look of horror. These traumatized women could not turn on their heels fast enough to scurry away from the garage of obesity. It was bizarre. Women would look at me, scrunch up their noses and shake their heads in disgust. Many asked “Size 22!? Who wears a 22? Oh my GOD, that's CRAZY!” Hmmmm.. let’s see… you are standing in MY driveway… with all of MY stuff for sale…. Hmmmm I WONDER whose clothes they may be? THEY ARE MINE you fuckin’ idiot!!! And those GIANT size 10 shoes are mine too, and by the way those size 11 shoes that you just lost your lunch over are my mother’s.

I was shocked by how easily the fat shame flowed off these women’s lips directly into my face. They were visually repulsed just by the thought of being in the vicinity of THOSE clothes and they had no qualms about sharing their disgust with me. I guess now that I don't LOOK like a woman who wears a size 16 (whatever that means) these size bitches felt that I could be “in” on the secret that all women who wear a 16 or greater are to be mocked and shamed but only behind their backs - to their faces they should be pitied.

I’m not delusional; I know women despise lard asses, but I never experienced such a self-righteous outward expression of revulsion pertaining to the physical existence of a clothing size …clothing that was manufactured to fit my body, my size, clothing that I wore, that I rocked.

Odd how so many women get attached to a number printed on a thin tab of cloth sewn into a garment, I just put clothes on my body and whatever fits I buy. The sizing numbers are totally random, my closet houses garments from a Large to a 2X, and they all fit.

Oh and by the way peeps, a size 12 in 1985 is the same as a size 5 – 6 in 2011. I looked up the standard Misses sizing specifically for 1985 because it was a watershed year for me as a fatty; it was the moment at age 14 that I outgrew the Misses department and hence began my relationship with fashion fat shaming. My mother, hoping that she could embarrass and induce enough low self esteem in my obese brain that it would magically melt the fat off my body kept the existence of Lane Bryant a secret and since stores didn’t carry anything over a size 12, I was just shit out of luck. It’s so strange to look back now at the standard sizing measurements to discover that I would have only been a size 7-8 by today’s Misses sizing, but by 1985’s standards I was TOO HUGE for clothes, but perfect for moo-moos. The shame I felt because I was unable to fit into any clothes (besides stirrup pants and over sized sweatshirts) was overwhelming as was the harassment and bullying from my High School classmates (well not really “mates”). But I got through it and found my sass and discovered the world (though very hidden) of plus sized clothing – it does get better. But now here in my driveway 25+ years later I was still battling the perception that fat women should be ashamed of their clothing size and really wouldn’t the world just be a better place if all women over a size 14 be outfitted for a mandatory burka?

On a similar note – even after dropping 40 pounds over the past 4 years I am STILL too fat for the Jitney. Just this past Friday I was once again the LAST passenger to get a seat partner on a packed buss. FOUR passengers looked at the perfectly EMPTY seat next to me then turned and asked the women across the aisle to remove her bag so they could sit next to her, she refused, they moved on to the rear of the bus. Really… really?

Mondays at 5:30pm, I DOMINATE YOU!

2011-05-05T15:04:00.007-04:00

It has taken 3.5 months but I have finally reached the pinnacle of super success in my YMCA Mondays at 5:30pm “High Low Step Class”. This past Monday I owned that step routine, so much so that I even placed a RISER under my platform. Yes – the woman with the long and tumultuous relationship with stairs actually RAISED her step and did not as much as waiver when the pull of gravity reared its unforgiving powers of persuasion. Also I actually remembered to take a shot off my inhaler BEFORE class (allergy induced asthma), which apparently really ups my game. Who knew that full lung capacity could make such a huge difference in stamina?*So there I was, pole position, owning the front of class, smirking on the inside as two uber skinny ladies turned crimson and sulked off into the corners. I know rejoicing in the pain of others is not very nice (yet it is very German – see schadenfreude), but besides being able to breathe the one other thing that surprisingly keeps my feet a- movin’ is being better than somebody – no matter how old or feeble. I RULE YOU!

Of course in hindsight I should have seen it coming … I mean really, can’t a chunkster grab a break? During stretch my Monday instructor sadly announced that our small clan of High Low Steppers was being disbanded in two weeks time to make room for ANOTHER Zumba class… what the what???!!! Damn you trendy Latin Queens YMCA members and your insatiable desire to pop and lock. Now I’m going back to the bottom of the pack, AND in a class that requires coordination and grace…ughhhh.

Feeling dejected I feverishly texted Swason bemoaning my grievance towards this Zumba ridiculousness. Swason who is the original competitor (backstroke dominator) informed me at once that I would NOT be at the back of the Zumba pack for it is not the High Low Step Class that I dominate, but the TIME SLOT that is my bitch. Therefore according to Swason (a well seasoned teller of truths) no matter what class is scheduled for Mondays at 5:30pm I will RULE that room.

Carpe Zumba!

Thanks Weekend

2011-05-01T23:50:00.012-04:00

Oh good lord this weekend was just super pleasant. I mean really, how could a weekend NOT be charmed when kicked off by the most beautiful wedding ever? Trees, a full orchestra, timpani, trumpet salutes, posh British accents inducing shivers in my nether regions and hats!
Sorry Jews, it was nice and all for the past 40 years but I’m jumping ship, where do I pledge my soul to the C of E? BTW, they did kinda had me at “Pancake Day” anyways.

Next up I would like to give ol’ Mother Nature a huge sloppy wet kiss cause she doled out a picture perfect spring day – TWICE in a row! Swason said it best today – Us New Yorkers REALLY have to work hard for Spring but once we get it, it’s fantastic.

But back to my Saturday. In celebration of the glorious sun returning to his realm I walked the 3 miles to the East River and lounged my day away with a back log of Vanity Fairs and a huge ice coffee. The walk was fantastic, sometimes it’s just kinda nifty to take the slow road and absorb the world. The beautiful small row of restored brownstones on a lacey tree lined street, “secret” community gardens squeezed into the cracks between buildings and a handful of really interesting abandoned industrial spaces all dotted my route. Back home after another 3 mile jaunt I extended my Saturday glow with a Fuck Chop fly by. Though it was not some of his best work (damn you bourbon), one can always find a glimmer goodness during any naked funtime.

Moving on…SundaySwason and I joined the inside foodie community for a Sunday lunch at M Wells in LIC. I got one word for this French eatery, decadent. It took all I had NOT to order the heavy cream and 7 cheese potato thing (not having a car and driver to race me back to my apartment 3 min. after all that dairy hits my intestines drastically reduces my menu choices) so I went with the egg soufflé garnished with salty pork stuff and a freshly baked biscuit with honey… love. As per usual the two gays perched atop their chrome stools to my right became my BFFs within 30 seconds of my bottom coming into contact with the red vinyl of my counter stool. Maybe one day I will learn how to fine tune this power to focus on STRAIGHT single men, but probably not.

The remainder of the day included a mini banana cupcake, more lounging river side (after introducing Swason to Gantry Park), watching what could only be described as a sailing ship of urban graffiti pirates, drinkies at LIC Bar and some spring time house work.

Fer reals, this was my weekend. Not too shabby.

Out of Body Experience

2011-04-27T11:59:00.007-04:00

Haven’t blogged for a while so I thought I should check in.

I’m still trying to get my head and body around this Hashimoto’s thang. For over ten years I’ve been extremely content with my size and weight, I didn’t even own a scale. My size/ weight fluctuated but what remained constant was my emotional balance. Prior to coming to my happy place I dieted and exercised for 20 years with NO results, except emotional despair, guilt and self loathing. I was accused of lying by family members, doctors and acquaintances when asked about my eating habits and physical activity. Time and time again I was brought to tears by the frustration of it all, not the frustration of the hard work without any results but mostly by the frustration of nobody believing me. My body and I were at odds, completely disengaged, I was so done attacking myself that I finally gave in and just LIVED. I kept going to the gym and shaking my bon bon but NEVER thought of a scale or my pants size, what mattered was that I was out and about, NOT what my body looked like. We could live separate but equal, I would keep doing what I was doing and it could just keep doing nothing. Now that we were on the same page I could manage my expectations (which were nil) and all was rainbows and unicorns.

Fast forward a few years. While in grad school 3 years ago I dropped 20 pounds with no effort. I was totally underwhelmed and emotionally detached for I knew NOT to assign any gravity to this weight loss. My body has a history of untrustworthy behavior so I refused to allow my head to buy into this morph. Looking back I am confident (thanks to my superior self diagnosis skills and google) that due to the16 months of extreme stress I mainlined my thyroid with all those wacky hormones it was lacking thereby turning me into normal person who burns and stores. Now with the addition of my thyroid meds my body is totally changing, pounds are falling off as well as my pants… but… I can’t get roped in. I don’t want to become attached to this loss because I am so frightened that something will snap, my pants will tighten up and I will be left in the gutter broken hearted. It has taken me so long to be happy in my head, detached from the physical, yet I feel that with each fraction of an inch off my hips I am setting myself up for emotional failure. I started weighing myself at the Y, just once a month, but even so I went into a total tail spin a few weeks ago when I discovered that I had gained a HALF a pound. Poor Swason had to text me off the ledge when I feverishly typed out my crazy into my blackberry. Turns out it was a fluke, I actually lost weight, but still…. I HATE that I care. My body is like a mermaid summoning my head into the cold deep waters, I know it’s dangerous in there…but I’m just so curious…oooo sparkly… maybe something good is there… I’m just gonna take a shallow dive under…

Does My Face Make Me Look Old?

2011-03-17T12:15:00.007-04:00

Just in case you all thought I put the internet dating hunt on hold, you are very much mistaken. My virtual pursuit to find a man who is not a mess is thriving, yet I’m only giving my time to the free site OKCupid for my cash is too dear to flush an unending stream of ducats down the world wide web sewer of Match, Jdate, Eharmony, etc… Yet even though I continue to fervently chum the dating waters my nets are habitually devoid of any daily catch.

Besides the random electronic missives from the usual illiterate wack jobs or photos of engorged “erect members” taken in the reflection of a public bathroom mirror, my inbox has experienced an uptick in emails from men who are completely delusional regarding their age vs. physical appearance. Since I turned 40 a few months back I guess the robot monkeys over at OKCupid have dumped me into a higher age bracket pool (they obviously do not know me) so now I have the comedic pleasure of receiving emails from the 45+ crowd, the majority of whom begin their courtship by confidently announcing, “I look younger than my age”. What the Who told you that? And by the way internet dude vying for my pleasure, I can SEE your photo so allow me to be the judge of that statement. Side note I have no issues with baldness, or beards, or age, just OWN IT dudes! Good lord I tell people I’m 54 just so they can look at me in shook and proclaim “You Look Terrific!!”

Just this morning I received an email from a 46 year old who was 60% bald with a salt and peppered beard who in ALL CAPS not only stated that he looked a decade younger than his actual age, but he went further and bragged about his “baby face”. First, no 46 year old man should ever favorably compare any part of his being to that of a baby and guess what 46 year old – YOU LOOK FORTY SIX (actually if he said he was 53 I would have believed that). It must be amazing to have the blinding confidence that a man possesses, no wonder they make war so often, they must truly believe they are all super-beings.

Cause I know you love it – here’s an excerpt from an actual email I received yesterday:
You are very pretty, do you want to get a druink? I am 5,10 and 160 pounds.I came to New York on October 2005.I like Tropicana Orange Juice.I do my laundry in my days off.I like Google and Wikipedia a lot.I can make your computer run faster.I am a pedicab driver. I work 3-4 days a week. I work near Central Park. In less than half an hour, you can notice that I am f.r.i.e.n.d.l.y.

4% Less Gail, 100% Still Awesome

2011-03-14T19:59:00.009-04:00

Since starting my thyroid meds two months ago I’ve dropped 4% of my body weight – what the what? It’s shocking and baffling and all kinds of crazy mind fuck nonsense. My blood work is fantastic, looks like the ol’ Hashimoto is in check – BONZAI - and my co-workers have confirmed that I haven’t morphed into some wackjob due to the side-effects of hopping up my thyroid on hormones. Or maybe they are just placating my crazy in hopes that I won’t go postal on their keisters.

So yeah, a few pounds down. People say I look differently, I guess I do, I have no concept of my body so I just say thank you. But inside my pea brain I believe they have read this blog and are just being polite/ supportive. This is where the mind fuck comes into play. 10 of my dearest buddies can all give me a thumbs up - “looking good” which I immediately discredit cause you know, they are my pals, but the spurned panhandler on the corner of Park and 60^th who murmured, “Fat Fuckin’ Bitch” – now THAT guy I believe is speaking the truth of all the peoples of the world. I gotta adjust my intake filter, I am giving way to much weight to the crazies.

However there is one exception to my rule of “don’t believe any complements from people who know you” and that is Fuck Chop, he has a golden ticket to my happy head place. I won’t go into detail but suffice to say a very casual comment presented at a most opportune moment about my jiggly wobbly bits magically transformed me into a drop dead sex kitten (in my head). I think every chunkster should get herself/ himself a Fuck Chop who nonchalantly drops very enthusiastic comments regarding his/her parts that maybe were the bottom of their “Things I Love About My Self” list. Cause I will tell you something peeps, just that one little comment roto rootered out all the self questioning brain crap and replaced it with a heap of - Oh Snap, I am One Hot Mamma Jamma!

Lastly I unfortunately have to report that with this 4% loss of body I will also be dropping 4% of my kick ass personality cause that’s how us skinny girls do. Besides turning vapid I am also honing my speaking without inflection skills (ala Paris Hilton, or all women under the age of 35 on The Hampton Jitney). Ok…..ummmmm…. yeah…sooooo….

Cakey Face

2011-03-07T14:53:00.006-05:00

Tomorrow is one of my most favorite Christian holidays that this super Jew has adopted into her cannon of “I know this is really a Jesus thing, but gosh darn it I’m gonna secularize it cause it’s so darn yummy”. Yep palls, it is once again PANCAKE TUESDAY!

Just 2 short years ago I discovered this fantastic holiday while sitting woefully in my stark egg shell corner at Hydra. Listening to the drone of the worker bees dutifully spewing lies about the demise of the white collar workforce and the tanking financial markets all the while driving me coo coo bananas with their taboo work attire (again with the corduroys and flip flops?) and incontinence. Just the knowledge that this day existed, a day that celebrated the sweet cakey goodness of the most perfect food - is it cake, is it breakfast… who the F cares, pour more maple sugar on that Mo Fo, fry up a slab of salty pork and let’s get this pancake in my FACE! - brought a little shred of happiness into my otherwise tear drenched day. Of course good news/ bad news Pancake Day 2009 was also the day I was laid off from Hydra and so began a whole new life adventure.

I will always remember Pancake Day 2009 as one of those times in my life that I felt totally and completely out of control. I began my day the same as the previous 5 months yet by 4:10pm I was officially on the dole. I had no plan and no savings. My crap ass gig at Hydra was crap ass, but at least it was my crap ass gig.

So here’s to Pancake Day 2011, and to many more sweet and delicious surprises that my fates heftily lob into my life!

I Will Drape Myself In Denim

2011-03-01T11:57:00.005-05:00

For those of you who have encouraged my letter writing campaign supporting my juicy bottom’s want for Curvy Id Levi’s - I am happy to report, Levi’s Makes Good!!! Now I will admit I’m not confident if ONE letter a campaign makes, but heck it must have been one kick ass letter because I received the following response yesterday:

Dear Gail,

Thanks so much for your email to our CEO, Mr. John Anderson, regarding the sizes available for Curve ID at our stores. He has forwarded your email to me and I have to apologize for the disappointing reception you received at the Lexington Avenue store.

Since we have recently launched this brand new line of women’s jeans, there is a very incomplete size range available. However, we are in the process of expanding the line in our stores.

I just spoke to one of the managers at the Lexington Avenue store, Andrew Lemin, and he was very sorry you had a negative experience on February 18^th. He says the store does carry some of the 33 size, which is considered a 16. They will be happy to measure you and then if the store has low inventory on some sizes, the online store at levi.com has a nice selection of 33 and 34 waist in different inseams and finishes.

Thanks again for letting us know about this and please feel free to contact me if I may assist you further.

Sincerely,Shawn

I don’t know who this Shawn is, but he/ she is OK in my book. Shout out to Shawn and to Levi’s for their direct and honest approach to my complaint/ concern and doing so in such a timely and friendly manner.

Watch Out For Those Curves

2011-02-23T12:15:00.012-05:00

Readers who access my blog through Facebook probably are already aware of my issue with the Levi’s marketing campaign for their Curve ID jeans and the lack of stock in their flagship store on Lexington Ave.

Thanks to a bit of goggling/ research by Thom I sent the following letter of complaint to Levi’s President & CEO John Anderson - cause really why not go directly to the top.

BTW – with some more goggling I found that others find this marketing campaign to be both sexist and racists, way to go Levis’! New Curve ID Jeans Proving To Be Controversial

It is about size in your Lexington Ave. store

Dear Mr. Anderson,

As a woman with a love of Levi’s and curves I was very excited about your new line of Curve Id jeans. Your marketing/ advertising campaign to promote women’s confidence and size acceptance is groundbreaking; seems that no matter what I read or where I go I am bombarded with your slogan, “It’s about Shape, Not Size”. Kudos to your creative team for this powerful message and for flooding my major metropolis with good body loving vibes. I especially LOVED the wide expanse of window displays at your Lexington Avenue Levis store in Manhattan that silently scream Levi’s self empowering message, beckoning to all woman with curves to enter this palace of denim and experience the freedom of true fit! Now imagine my surprise when I entered your store on Friday Feb. 18^th with credit card in hand psyched to purchase a pair (or two or three) of size 16 CURVE ID jeans and was informed by a very non curvy sales girl that your store only carries up to a size 12… well maybe a 14 but she didn’t think they had any of those either. There appears to be a disconnect between your message and your practice, don’t you think?

I understand your right as a company to stock whatever you wish and I also understand that I can purchase your size 16 Curve ID Levi’s at a plethora of other retailers BUT my issue is with your window displays at your Manhattan flagship store, who are you marketing too? Obviously NOT curvy woman if you only carry up to a size 12. In addition you were quoted in an interview stating:

‘They (women) said there are three very uncomfortable buying experiences: underwear, swimwear and jeans because they have to expose themselves to what they consider unfair expectations on the perfect body size. We started with the premise that women should feel confident about who they are. And we are going to bring a shape proposition that will make them feel great and not just a size proposition. We are building on that and saying ‘ladies, feel good who you are; your shape is individual to you and we can fit your shape.’

Now how do you think a woman who is already marginalized by the fashion industry because of her size would feel when she, after following your marketing campaign, was turned away from your flagship store because it IS all about her size? I’ll tell you how she would feel, she would feel that Levi’s let her down and lured her into their store under false pretenses only to be chastised because of her fat ass.

I hope this letter finds its way into the correct hands so that your brilliant marketing message can be authentically realized in your retail stores by actually carrying the jeans for the women you are targeting. However if you cannot/ will not carry the entire line of your Curve ID jeans then I would suggest that you pull this message from the windows of the stores that only cater to smaller sizes and replace your feel good message of “It’s about Shape, Not Size” with “It’s ALL about size here, Do not enter if your waist is over 30”

Stop Hating On My Lady Parts

2011-02-22T15:19:00.003-05:00

Sadness, Perky Bottoms is on a medical leave of absence from the YMCA and while she’s off cooling her heals I am stuck with a substitute instructor that… um… is a douche bag. This interim fitness dude is the same guy who teaches all the hard core boot camp classes and other random sweat till you vomit your right lung through your left nostril nonsense – but ahem…. Pardon et vous, this is a step class so maybe DROP the incessant drill sergeant barking son, OK?

On top of his abrasive bug dog demeanor this guy is also one of my least favorite types of Gays, he is the woman hating gay. Not only does he hate woman he assumes that we also hate ourselves and secretly wish were hard bodied, fully waxed, with a 9 inch schlong throbbing between… ok you get it. I’ve experienced these Gays before at other gyms, they attempt to motivate by yelling at a room full of women, “You don’t want those hips!!!”, “Summer is coming soon, work off that ass ladies!!”, “Pull those arms in closer, you want to lose that chest”. HOLD UP! REALLY? Why would I EVER want to lose my money makers? These round soft spots are my parts that make me a woman, and true though I may not be the preferred dish on the majority of American Males’ menus the discerning connoisseurs that ARE worshiping at this temple would be sorely remiss if I lost my lady lumps.

I am all for getting to a place where each individual feels their best, for some that is flat and hard, and for others it’s curvy and soft – or any place on the spectrum in between. I’m also fine with an instructor utilizing GENDER NEUTRAL verbiage to target body parts, but to listen to a man screaming at a room of woman for an hour about how much they all must HATE their unattractive womanly bodies, and if you didn’t you should now, makes me want to smother this smug tiny tot between my two heaving breasts.

Wholey Moley

2011-02-16T12:46:00.016-05:00

To continue my “Welcome to Your 40’s Gail, Try Not To Fall Apart” lifestyle I made an appointment with my skilled (yet not humorous) dermatologist for a full body skin meet and great, or as members of the medical community call it, a Skin Cancer Screening.

I never considered myself highly freckled however my new GP and new Gyno BOTH made mention of my proliferation of speckles during my most recent examinations. While perched in a very compromising position my Gyno even went as far as to poke at my brown spotted knees, proclaiming with glee as if she just uncovered a wondrous discovery, ”WOW! Are you seeing a dermatologist?”

Well now I am.

Dr. Derma arrived with clipboard and calipers in hand however he realized all too quickly that this was not gonna be a routine pasty Upper East Side blue blooded skin scan. He was intrigued by the freckle on the sole of my left foot and my tattoo also received special mention– why thank you doctor – however, instead of ordering in dinner (FYI - China Fun is ‘round the corner) and spending a few hours cataloging ALL my speckles, spots, and splats Dr. Derma submitted to the fact this was a job that far surpassed his organizational skills.

Dr. Derma broken and worn by my unending surface area of freckles leaned against the counter, sighed, then asked a rather odd question considering I was tenuously sheathed in a paper kimono, “How comfortable are you with being naked?” Yeah… ummm…internal struggle…what does he want me to say…I mean I’m in a doctor’s office…so… NAKED GOOD!. “I feel totally fine with being naked”. Relief flashed across Dr. Derma’s face as he thrust into my hand a tri-folded brochure and pleaded with me to “Go there”. I looked down into my open palm and read these two words from the glossy page, “MOLE MAPPERS”.

WHAT THE WHAT?

Yep turns out there is a medical photographer downtown who for a mere several hundred dollars will snap nude photos of my skin, thereby “mapping” my moles for future comparisons.

I haven’t booked my shoot yet, I’m still deciding whether or not to trade my hard earned cash for a CD of detailed digital images of my bespeckled body.

Cons: My photographer may be this perv, “A Firing Exposes Worries Over Medical Photo Method”

Pros: With a wide formatted hard copy of my Mole Map I could subsidize my income by offering ‘readings’ of clients’ star/mole charts or I could most probably unlock the star gate.

Yoga Ain’t Ready For This Jelly

2011-02-15T13:22:00.017-05:00

On Friday nights when I’m not out kicking up a rumpus I’ve committed myself to FAST walking 2 miles on the track and an hour of Family Yoga at the Y.

Last Friday was only my second appearance at Family Yoga but I was feeling rather confident, I mean sure those 7 year olds may be limber but I got focus and my OHMing rocks– eat it kids.

Our class is headed by a very sweet compact Chinese woman who quietly guides us into postures with instructions such as “Pace yor hans on yor ties”. I know it is awful (well awful awesome) but I LOVE it every time she says ‘ties’.

This past Friday we began by perching our bottoms on a firm foam brick, crossing our legs and sitting tall and relaxed. This I got. I sat with my shoulders down, head up, chest out, clear mind, while Miss. Susie circulated around the class of fidgety children adjusting their posture. Once again kids – big deal so you can put your foot behind your head – I can SIT – I rule this class.

Miss. Susie finally arrived at my mat. As she stood at my back she gently laid a soft hand on my left shoulder, leaned in and quietly said, “You should be sitting on a brick”. I turned my head over my shoulder and with a cocked eyebrow I responded, “I am.

”YES my bottom is THAT luscious that I engulfed the ENTIRE BRICK!

Miss. Susie was mortified, I was not. She apologized profusely, stammering, “I don’t see… I didn’t know… you… umm… yes… now I see… I don’t want to embarrass.” I wriggled on my brick as I laughed, trying to convince my mini yogi that all was well. We continued our death match of I’m Sorry – That’s Ok verbal table tennis as the class sat in studied silence watching the insanity unfold until I finally nodded, pointed towards my junky trunk, and said “I have a lot of cushion back there”. Miss. Susie assuming I was exhibiting self-deprecating behavior jumped at this opportunity to bolster my tender ego, “Oh no that’s GOOD”. Shockingly I responded, “I know”

Nothing Bad About That

2011-02-07T15:12:00.018-05:00

Sometimes I score a week that is so totally unexpectedly kick ass that it just makes me beam, and last week was that kinda week.

Ok yes there was a crazy stupid ice/slush storm and yes I did knock my block off (see Off With Her Head) but really if that was the worst thing going on in my life in the middle of a harsh dark winter then I think I’m living on the plus side of the crap life bell curve.

Work was fantastic all week, my boss was out and so were 50% of my lady workmates. This occupational respite was a chance for me to blog (win win for both you and me) and tidy up the place.

The remainder of my week of kick-ass goodness rested heavily on the mantle of some of my most favorite people:

Masters – Haven’t seen her in a few months but she is always a breath of fresh air and good fun. We spent an afternoon at the Whitney doing the art thing and catching up on my random silliness. Besides Masters being just an all ‘round super gal I also LOVE the fact that she and I both hit the wall at the same exact time and understand that one should never ignore the body’s yearning for a grilled cheese with tomato.

Galetta – MIA since hand delivering my flat screen TV in June, Galetta popped up on my gmail at the beginning of last week and wooed me back into his steel trap of charm. DAMN that Galetta, he knows all my mushy buttons, well that AND he bought me a new blackberry Torch. Oh Galetta, he makes me feel like such a whore, but like he has always said, “I don’t need to BUY your love, I got a lease”.

After a few days of love notes Galetta took me out for a fantastic Argentinean meal with the hopes of a long night of drunken carousing, but… enter surprise guest #2

Surprise Guest #2 – I shouldn’t be blogging about him at all but he really did add some sass to my week of unplanned goodness. SG#2 or Long Term Booty Call or Fuck Chop (he hasn’t settled into a real nick name) rang my phone (after 4 months of radio silence) while I was being wined and bourboned by Galetta. Now I am NOT one to drop a friend for a piece of ass (that Coney Island thing doesn’t count Thom) but Galetta either feeing that he still owed me something OR feeling that he was wasting a perfectly good night out on the Lower East Side with a 40 year old lady, insisted that I head home ASAP to accept Fuck Chop’s most welcome offer. So I did.

Of course my week had other goodies besides these pop outs and heck I even laid some ground work for this week’s love fest. Either life is really F’in super or my synthroid meds are blowing my endorphins through the roof!

Off With Her Head!

2011-02-03T16:44:00.025-05:00

I love living alone; I could never imagine cohabitating with anything more animate than my dear dust bunnies. Though I enjoy my luxuriously solitary lifestyle 99% of the time, it’s the odd 1% that sends me into a tizzy (see EEEEEEK a Mouse). My recent tumble into the dark abyss of endless tragedy was not the result of some illegal squatter, furry or feathered, but due to the fear that within the overnight hours my body would die in my bed, alone and cold.

FINE so I didn’t die, but who knows, I could have? Like the time I was certain I had shattered my knee cap and was alone, trapped in my apartment with no possible way of escaping the imminent doom of certain death. Who would ever know? How long would it take somebody to find my cold bloated body? Yes in retrospect maybe I shouldn’t have fallen asleep with an ice pack resting on my bruised knee thereby freezing the entire workings so when I awoke I was completely paralyzed, albeit temporarily. Hey I’m not an orthopedist; I’m a chick, alone…. dying in my one bedroom apartment, who knew the ice would FREEZE my knee.

Anyways, the other night after visiting my chiropractor Dr. Pico (yummm Dr. Pico) AND going to the gym I returned home to discover an odd kinda pressure behind my left ear. The low grade pain started slowly then spread into my jaw and left sinus. By the time the pressure spread to my teeth I thought I should do something, so being a woman of the new millennium I logged onto Facebook. Right? I mean how is that NOT the proper course of action when you think you are on the cusp of a grand mal seizure? Fortunately an old friend was online, fine he’s not a medical professional, but he is a Production Manager or TD or something …really does it matter, the guy knows how to fix things. He read my symptoms over the IM and quickly typed “You are NOT having a stroke, you probably have a pinched nerve” – whatever, what kind of help is he? He obviously didn’t understand that I was birthing an aneurysm through my head nugget hole. I asserted that I was truly on death’s door however my typing had become somewhat erratic since my vision out of my right eye had turned into a sunspot. That wasn’t good. So with no other option than to just embrace the end of my poor sad lonely life I signed off Facebook, crawled into bed, and awaited the cloaked hand of death.

Long story longer, the next morning I woke up. I still felt “odd” so after work I ditched the gym and returned to Dr. Pico. Once in the exam room Dr. Pico placed his powerful bear paws around my neck and sarcastically said, “Oh this is good” - hey buddy drop the snark, ok? Then an echoing crrraaaack, followed by Dr. Pico's diagnosis, “You knocked your head off!”. What the what? Yep it turned out I knocked my skull off to the side so I was pinching like everything on the left side of my neck. Turns out I was totally NOT dying….but I could have been, that’s all I’m saying.

Let’s Play Smut or Sass

2011-02-02T12:32:00.007-05:00

This week my YMCA fitness classes have undergone a drastic change in participant demographic, we have GUYS! What the what? And I am talking CUTE guys, like tall stocky uncoordinated dude love muffins. This Y chromosome addition is a blessing and a curse. Blessing = adorable, curse = there is NO way I can flirt looking like a Hot Mess!

In addition to looking like a freak show, last night I really sealed the deal of presenting myself as an “untouchable” by opening my sass mouth and sharing with our co-ed class what MAY have been a bit inappropriate.

During class there are a few young ladies who talk/ respond to the instructor with humorous shout outs and heckles, and when I have an extra ounce of lung capacity I have been known to add my two cents, i.e. Instructor to class: “Are you feeling that in your LEGS yet?!!, Me: “Legs? I am feeling it EVERYWHERE!” – oh so Catskills of me. But last night as Perky Bottom (aka instructor) was flipping a new CD into the boom box she paused to inform us of the YMCA’s Valentine’s Day Dance (seriously, how cute is that?). After reading off the deets from the posting a women yelled out, “What’s the dress code?” and as Perky Bottom skimmed the flyer I helpfully interjected, “Sweaty or non- sweaty? Well really it should just be sweaty cause if all goes well you are gonna end up that way later in the evening. Hehehehe….” Yeah ya see that comment would have been sassy within a gaggle of women, BUT I think it read SMUTTY to our brothers in the back of the room. Ummm, predator much Gail?

Then as if that wasn’t enough, for some reason during “stretch” Perky Bottom got onto the subject of cupcakes. As us ladies tugged at our shins and chimed in with our reviews and preferences, mine being a 80 – 20 split of cake to frosting, Perky Bottom looked over at me and proclaimed, “I would lick the frosting off your cupcakes”…. and we are done.

Fingers crossed that my membership hasn’t been revoked for inciting lewdness.

I Love to Hate You

2011-01-29T15:30:00.008-05:00

Welcome to the 2^nd full week of my YMCA membership where I believe I’m blossoming into a very well rounded masochist. I’ve belonged to gyms before and have always enjoyed it, sure I’m not a muscle head or a lithe aerobics master with boundless spring and energy, but I push my sweaty ass around laughing between my dying gasps of life. I can think of a bucket load of things that are so much worse than my gym time, actually after experiencing the ‘prep’ for my colonoscopy 2 weeks ago I have a whole new gauge as to what is really not THAT bad. However there is something about going to this YMCA that creates within me a wonderful cocktail of hatefulness and joy, and isn’t that the core of masochism?
Fun House Mirrors – I know there are mirrors created in this world to lull me into a false reality of my body proportions. There are retail dressing rooms equipped with such magical looking glasses that I’ve not wanted to redress for I felt as though I should be sharing this wondrous nakedness with the entire city - I’m a freakin’ Venus! However at the Y, these sadists have installed the reverse of those wonderful mental rainbow inducing mirrors. For the past 2 weeks of class I’ve been taken by surprised to see this woman in the mirror who is wearing my work out gear but is at least 4 inches shorter and totally round, WTF that is SO not me! I didn’t look like that when I left home. It’s odd though because when I look at the other women in the class then look at their reflections their representations are spot on….hmmmm must be the angle.

Perky Perfection – My instructor has the body of a graceful ballerina combined with a rock hard marathon runner. I am confident that her boundless energy can only be the result of a fist full of coke (please just let me live with that delusion) and if it wasn’t enough that she is perfectly perfect physically she is a professional pastry chef… right of course you are. However the other day there was a sliver of light when during our stretch she blurted out to the class, “Ughhh my skin is so dry, it’s disgusting”. For at that exact moment while trying to reach the tips of my fingers to my shins I thought, “You know what, my skin feels rather fantastic – I RULE YOU INSTRUCTOR!”

Random Gawkers – OK I get that this is the Y and because I’m saving cash I have to deal with crap that wouldn’t happen at a real gym that cost some bucks. Well I mean I am TRYING to get that this is the Y and unlike the gym where adults are there for one thing and one thing only – working it – at the Y I’m sharing the space with a multitude of users. Hi piano class! Howdy Chinese learners! Check it out, 7 year olds learning to play the recorder! Now if you all could just stay put in your classrooms and NOT loiter in the doorway of the studio gawking at my red faced sweaty mess we all could get along. Or YOU GUYS I can see your reflection in the mirror, stop leering through the window at the back of the studio and keep running the track! The other night a guy actually had the balls to stand at the front of the class checking us out (?) and after a few seconds the instructor said, “Are you here for class” he calmly looked at her and answered “Oh no, I’m not here for class” and remained leaning against the mirrored wall, well until the instructor pointedly told him to leave.

So that’s just a few of my observations from the past fortnight but oddly enough none of those bitterly annoying things appear to inhibit my level of enjoyment. I get a kick out of attending class and I feel better for it even if the process does tend to piss me off.

mas·och·ism gratification gained from pain, deprivation, degradation, etc., inflicted or imposed on oneself, either as a result of one's own actions or the actions of others.

My Life In The Fatosphere

2011-01-27T15:00:00.008-05:00

If you are totally confused as to why I’m on this route – go back and read my last entry - now continue.

I’m fat, I’ve always been fat, it’s not what I am it is who I am. I’m assuming a good comparison would be people who are gay or blind, it becomes who you are, not what you are.

There hasn’t been a time in my life that I wasn’t fat. I remember several year ago Lu looking at baby photo of me in full happy Buddha glory and proclaiming, “Like your Mom was surprised that you would never be a size 6 ?” (btw – this was not a jab at me) Oh Mom…. I knew she meant well but she didn’t know what to do with a fat daughter. She herself was the daughter of a woman who triumphed in the fact that she never weighed over 98 pounds, even pregnant. Yes this was my Tab addicted chain-smoking tight-assed grandmother who grabbed my 7 year old thigh as I sat shivering in an over air conditioned car and hissed, “How could YOU ever be cold, look at this.” – then gave my squishy leg a squeeze.

Being fat my entire life has formed me into the person I am. At age 40 I could not imagine my life as anything (anyone) different. And would I want to? I don’t know. Sure if I magically dropped 70lbs I assume my life would be easier, but would I still be me?

This influx of self reflection is the direct result of my recent diagnosis, it’s so conflicting to know that even though I am NOW contented with who I am (the majority of the time), was it all an unfair joke of the universe to grow up in this body? I don’t think anybody who has ever been thin would understand this feeling. To them a body is something to be conquered, or changed, or controlled. Mine is not. Mine is like an annoying tagalong that finally became accepted into the tribe out of mere exhaustion.

Last night at the gym while I was losing a lung and ¾ of my fluids I wondered what does it feel like for the people who were once skinny and now fat? I think there is a difference between people who have always been fat and those who once lived the life of a skinny person and now have chunked up. Do they harbor self hatred for what time and age has done to them? Do they long for something that used to be? Is it like how I feel about the bags under my eyes and my bitchy gray hairs, it’s annoying, it’s not “me”, but we age and things change? Maybe they used to be school athletes and now they wish for the past, maybe that’s why they are fighting so hard, to get BACK something. I never had that something, my past body and my present body are one and the same, this is all I know. This is me, it neither makes me happy nor sad, it just is. Over the past 30 years I’ve tried to morph my body, but I’ve never experienced any outcome from my labors, oddly though I’m at ease with this non-result based physicality, or maybe I’m just living a delusional existence in my self created reality.

Now with my thyroid diagnosis and medication I wonder how or even if my body will change. I’ve googled extensively and it seems that the only thing that MAY happen is that I go hyper anxiety wacky (great) or bloat out my belly (hot). **Side note - Yet again my Masters in Childhood Education does NOTHING to help in my non professional internet medical research – one day I will find a use for that 40K piece of paper.** One would think that by shooting up my body with the thyroid hormones it’s been lacking for 30+ years I would somehow jump start the whole system, but strangely (from what I think I understand) your body finds a “home base” and even with the hormones my body will fight the change tooth and nail. Long story short - I’m a store house, not a burner AKA I’m built for comfort, not for speed.

A Turn in Another Direction

2011-01-26T11:08:00.007-05:00

I know I’ve been absent from blogging, but you haven’t missed out on much. I turned 40, took a trip to Jamaica, the holidays, winter… blah blah blah. But now I’m back to blog about a new journey I’m undertaking. It’s personal (maybe too personal for the blog) and unlike my past bogging submissions may lack in humor (good lord I hope not). It’s gonna be all about me, my body, and my feelings towards it.

In the past I’ve sprinkled in some funny antidotes (see Too Luscious for the Hampton Jitney) about being a fat woman but now after receiving a medical diagnosis that may or may not affect who I think I am I feel that I need to journal the process.

Immediately after turning 40 I was diagnosed with, Hashimoto's thyroiditis or chronic lymphocytic thyroiditis. Hashimoto's disease is an autoimmune genetic disorder where your immune system thinks that your thyroid is an alien intruder and must be expelled from your body. The thyroid get’s really pissed off by this false accusation but it’s more of a fleer than a fighter so all it does to combat the attack is swell and shut down (see goiter).

Chances are that I’ve lived the first 39 years of my life with this disorder yet no doctor ever took a moment to diagnose me. As far back as I can remember whenever I submitted my body for a physical examination my various doctors would feel my neck, then pause and say with a grimace, “You have big glands”. I never knew how to react to this odd accusation except to say, “I hear that often”. The cycle of medical call and response was finally broken this past fall when at my new gyno she felt my neck, paused, tilted her head then before she could admonish me for my protuberances I proclaimed with a sigh and an eye roll, “I know I have big glands”. Shockingly she shook her head no and with a firm seriousness said, “Make an appointment with your GP, this isn’t your glands it’s your thyroid”.

At my NEWER GP’s office (side note - really why did I resist going to doctors on the Upper East Side for so long, it’s like a country club up here compared to the livestock convention in Queens), she took a feel and said firmly, “No that’s your glands, you just have big glands.” Ok….back to the drawing board. But miracles of miracles 20 min later upon completion of the physical exam my GP recanted her initial dismissal and suggested that I schedule an ultra sound of my thyroid because “Gynecologists are really good at sensing these types of things”.

Two ultra sounds and a few blood tests later my diagnosis was strongly confirmed, Hashimoto's disorder. There is no cure for the disorder; however I can treat the symptoms of my pathetically challenged thyroid with synthetic hormones for the remainder of my life, which I am.

So there it is, the first chapter of many to come. Yet again sorry that this will not be as entertaining as my “Temp Receptionist Stories” or my “On Line Dating Disasters” but sometimes I’m a little bit mushy and introspective and this is just one of those moments.

Maybe My Gays Have Ruined My Dating Pool?

2010-11-08T16:06:00.006-05:00

I am still trolling the internets searching for my man cause as we all know I love to have a project, however I think I liked last Autumn’s project better - see painting my kitchen. No doubt it is a long haul however instead of becoming weary over the poor collection of first daters I have acquired I seem to be drastically lowering my expectations and standards as the months (years) fade away behind me. Case in point “Late Night Dater” (AKA - LND).

LND contacted me a few weeks ago in response to my OKCupid profile, his emails were well written and clever (even though he did begin our electronic correspondence by inquiring about the partial tattoo in view on my left breast) however because of his out of town travel, my cold, and then my jaunt out West we had to delay the ritualistic face to face “public cocktail” until late last week.

When LND called to set the date he informed me that he worked until 11pm so our date would be commencing at the witching hour – oh good grief. Really the last thing I want to do on a cold Friday night is drag my cozy ass out of my apartment after 11pm to meet a guy for a FIRST date – but one must do what one must do so I slapped on a coat of makeup, flat ironed my bangs, strapped on my heals and headed on out to the subway like a 23 year old bridge and tunnel kid (sans a can of beer concealed within a brown bag with a straw).

While on the subway LND was furiously sending off the texts, first informing me that he was so concerned about looking good for our first date that in his fervor he sliced his neck shaving and was very embarrassed about his oozing laceration. Then he texted to inform me that the bar I had chosen in LIC had a line and that it was at capacity. Bizarre, I didn’t know I frequented such trendy places, but I guess that’s what happens after 11:30pm on a Friday.

I arrived as the crowd was starting to thin out so it was just moments until we were seated at the bar. LND was awkward and nervous but gentile and charming. He’s cultured and highly educated but as he spoke all I could think was – really you were concerned about “looking good” for our first date!? Maybe it was a conscious decision to pull focus from his gnarled neck by sporting a faded and ratty gray (sic black) polo shirt with a collar that resembled two pieces of limp rotelli and jeans that sagged and billowed on the floor? Is this really what a grown man wears to work and to a date? How about a pair of (size appropriate) dark jeans, a clean T shirt and a V neck sweater – that’s all I need. Have some pride in yourself, and some respect for me. I pulled my tired ass out of my apartment at 11pm for HIM and dolled myself up. Maybe I should have just worn sweats and a stained T shirt, hell why even put on a bra or shoes even, slippers are so much more comfortable and really shouldn’t we all strive for comfort, one nation united under snuggies, or as I like to call them “the adult one-sie”. Really why even shower at all, let’s just let all social conventions go to the way side and be slobs.

Fashion aside I also got a strange vibe while we sipped our artfully crafted top shelf cocktails, well not strange, just… ummmmm….gay. YES GAY! I think I was on a date with a GAY GUY, unfortunately he didn’t have the gay dressing gene, only the gay voice and mannerism gene….. great, what the F am I gonna do with that? I mean if I’m gonna date a gay then I want me a finely bespoken butch (you know who you are), not a hobo swish.

At the end of the night, or early morning, I couldn’t tell if I was overtired or bored. He was really sweet and did all the right things, despite spilling my drink into my lap, but there was just….. nothing. Still I am open and available, good vibes….good vibes so when LND emailed for a second date I said “Yes”. Basically unless a guy is an axe murdered (or a hunchbacked little person with a limp – no really that happened) I will always accept a second date invitation cause sometimes guys need a second chance to shine (especially nervous ones).

LND suggested a lunch date, since his work schedule has him chained to a desk between the hours of 2pm to 11pm, and by chance he works just steps from my office on the Upper East Side – bonus bonus – not only am I on the UES but it is also home to MANY yummy critically acclaimed charming eateries. Quickly we exchanged emails confirming the date and time and cuisine, Chinese. Fantastic Chinese. I was certain he would then offer Tao or any other quaint Asian bistro as our second date local - but wow was I off. He is taking me to China Fun, FREAKIN’ CHINA FUN!!!! China Fun home to the $7.00 greasy lunch special, are you kidding me? This is how you use your second chance, this is how you court a 40 year old woman? Yet again this is NOT about money (the guy makes money) this is about respect and courtship and having a CLUE. There are a BILLION places on the UES he could choose that would be lovely and charming and NOT expensive but by selecting a takeout joint for a second date he is basically stating – you’re not worth a reservation, a cloth napkin or flatware.

So much to decide between now and Thursday, egg roll, soup or soda…. Hmmmmm?

(PS sorry for the lack of funny images, my computer is sad today).

And You Are Here For…..?

2010-09-28T21:16:00.003-04:00

Please allow me to begin this posting with a gut wrenching UGHHHHH, Christ on a cracker!!!! Insert raised shaken fist – and boy do I know where I would like to insert that fist.

First on my list of “if you weren’t sitting behind that bullet proof glass I would kill you” is the numb nut receptionist at my new GP’s (doctor’s) office. This physician whom I recently tapped as my GP,after years of neglecting my general health, ran a full physical exam, submitted my blood work to the lab, and requested that I see 4 specialists to check out some other random health related issues (see: alien baby growing in my scalp). In one month’s time I was to return for a detailed health analysis thereby fulfilling my personal oath to enter my 40’s with a medical baseline. Unfortunately what I did not take into account when I made my appointment 30 days ago was that my doctor (and her staff) was/were ASHOLES!

In just 3 weeks I saw the audiologist, dermatologist, gynecologist and radiologist. My test results were forwarded to my GP and oh boy was I excited to have a real sit down chat with my new doc. Being me, I called the office on Monday confirmed my Friday 3pm appointment and informed my employer that I would need to take a half day to attend to my health.

I arrived at the doc at 2:45 (early as per me), signed in, and took a seat. At 3:30 the receptionist called my name and shouted through the bullet proof glass, “DO YOU HAVE AN APPOITMENT”. Confused I answered, “Yes, 3pm”. Numb nut, “For what?” I think we all know where this question and answerer exchange was going. Yep after numb nut explained that not only did I NOT have an appointment but they NEVER take appointments, I freaked out. Turns out the practice functioned like a walk in clinic and I was informed that it would only be another 1.5 hours until the doctor could see me. WTF!!!! I asked if the doctor could call with my lab results and was told, “We don’t do that”. I then asked why they didn’t tell me a month ago when I MADE the appointment or on Monday when I confirmed the appointment that they didn’t take appointments – numb nut said, “Well it’s a not like it’s a problem, you can just wait”. It was a problem, I took off a half day of work AND I had to be on a train at 4:35, Ughhhh!!!! I ended the confrontation by yelling “Would you at least call me if my labs showed something? I guess I don’t have diabetes or an STD? How was my mammogram and chest x-ray? Asthma, breast cancer?” Numb nut - “Well yeah, I guess you’re Ok”.

Unfortunately my grand sweeping storming out of the packed waiting room was anticlimactic since the exit door is also the elevator door which remained closed for what seemed to be a very uncomfortable eternity.

Now it’s back to the beginning. I’m searching for a new GP who can interpret my lab results and partner with me in a life of good health. Oh and TAKE APPOINTMENTS!

How Low Can You Go?

2010-09-20T12:41:00.002-04:00

Friday Night Date Recap:

I arrived at the bar before Tim (of course); well actually I arrived at the bar before anybody. At 6pm I was the only soul in the place so I plopped myself down on a spinny red bar stool and ordered up a Tom Collins. A few moments later Tim strode through the swinging door festooned in his circa 1984 finest. Really!? This guy is 37 years old and he is wearing high wasted light blue stone washed jeans with his shirt cuffs flipped over his jacket then rolled up to his elbows ala Miami Vice – ughhhhh. Oh AND he had a pony tail! Yep he had slicked back his tawny brown hair into a 3” pubic hair poof that sat complacently on his shirt collar. HOT.

His personality was Ok and with just a few drinks our conversation began to flow. He wasn’t particularly entertaining or flattering but he was intelligent and we agreed on most major topics (religion, politics, the hatred of slow tourists clogging up our streets, etc…). As I sat there listening to him talk about his intimate relationship with show tunes and his love of Lady Gaga (I know, I know) I cataloged how much time and money it would take to make this guy appropriate for prime time, and really it wasn’t that much. A ten dollar super cut and a quick pop into a Gap and he would be a totally different guy, there was a good foundation there…. I thought.

After he downed his second cocktail he took me next door for dinner. Yes kudos to me for getting to step two on a first date. We ate and drank and talked about pop culture and travel. Sure there may have been red flags; his undying love of Tom Selleck, his claim that “Jackass the Movie” was the funniest film ever to be screened, his fanatic appreciation of Buffy The Vampire Slayer (complete with a table side reenactment of the “musical” episode), and his pick for “the one guy I would go gay for” – Tim Gunn. But hey if I’m looking past the pony tail and the grandpa jeans I can give concessions to the vocal gaffs, right? Lord knows I’ve sat across the table from a lot worse.

Dinner was finished and he suggested dessert – well duhhhh of course. His gooey chocolate concoction arrived with two fortune cookies daintily balanced on either side of the bowl; he took one then offered the other to me. His paper fortune revealed some pithy statement whiles mine… well…. if I could find the guy who penned this culinary communiqué I would punch him in the FACE! Yep I cracked open my cookie, took one look at my fortune, placed it back onto the table and said, “Ok moving on…” Tim of course wanted to know what it said and prodded me to read it out loud. So with all I had in me I lifted the asinine missive and read the following in a full voice, “You will never go hungry”. Yeah…. like that’s not uncomfortable coming from the lips of a chick who has been classified morbidly obese since the age of 9.

Out into the cool night Tim walked me to the subway. By this time between the sumptm3kY dinner and the several glasses of wine I was totally over all my judgy judgmental-ness (so the guy has a pony tail and loves big bushy mustaches, I can look past that) and I was totally revving up for a good old smooch. I did the prerequisite, “Thanks I had a great time” then he leaned over….and….. gave me the one armed open shoulder to shoulder hug. What The??!!! How did that freaking happen?

The next day I sent off a quickie email reiterating my appreciativeness of the past night’s entertainment and offered up an idea for a next date if he so wished, and guess what? I got NO RESPONSE! How could that even be? I mean come on, who is this guy waiting for? How many kick ass cool chicks are out there in this big city that will overlook all his misgivings and still give him the benefit of the doubt? Am I that lame that I can’t even get a second date from this guy? Ughhhhhh. How low do I have to stoop?

Yes I Would Love To Join You!

2010-09-17T16:33:00.003-04:00

I’ve recently been inundated with a new social phenomenon, the “non invite, invite”. The non invite, invite is infiltrating my social circle’s modus operandi like a legion of phragmites headed towards the marshy flatlands of eastern Long Island (Too random a reference?). Like its predecessor the ever popular lack luster “Non RSVP” the Non Invite, Invite (or NII) has taken hold of the new millennium’s masses and I fear it is sticking.

I first noticed the NII a few years back when Scooter in his awesomely manipulating manner would ask, “Hey are you doing anything later?” I would answer, “No totally free. Wanna do something?” He would then respond, “Ummm not too sure. Give me a call later and I’ll let you know if I can.” WHAT THE FUCK!? Seriously, and he would get me every time. I let it slide cause… well…. it was Scooter and that was how we rolled. Now not only do I get this behavior from a multitude of close friends I’m also on the receiving end of NII from random acquaintances. What is going on? Why would anybody seek me out, extend an invitation, then when I am enthusiastically agreeable to their suggested socialization - drop me. Maybe I should be more like the NON RSVPers, and stay remote. Refuse not only to respond to the invitation but indeed not even acknowledge the receipt of said invitation. Those are the people when asked, “Did you get my invitation I sent last week to the dinner party I am hosting in 3 days?” respond with “Oh yeah I saw that email in my inbox, I just haven’t opened it yet”. Really, my invitation didn’t even rate the sudden double twitch of your pointer finger? Be-Je-Bus Christ! The good thing is that I have weeded most Non RSVPers out of my life, F You controlling bastards; Gail does not wait on you. However the NII is secretive, you never know when the NII will strike or who will hand it out, therefore making it much less easily preemptively eradicated.

Case in point just yesterday I was on the receiving end of a NII from a perspective suitor from OK Cupid. After exchanging a litany of drunken flirtatious emails on Wednesday evening (side note under “things I learned this summer” - my drunken flirting yields high results) he asked, “Do you want to meet for a drink or something this weekend?” I replied agreeably and gave him my gmail address so we could continue our communication removed from the OKCupid conduit. Next is an excerpt from our exchange yesterday:

He: “Hi still up for going out this weekend?”
Me: “Great! Tomorrow or Sunday would be perfect, Saturday not so free”
He: “I guess tomorrow is Ok. Any part of town?”
Me: “In Manhattan any place between Canal and the 70’s is fine. And I’m free after 5pm”
He: “How about Union Square or NoHo?”
Me: PERFECT! I know both neighborhoods really well.

SILENCE……………

Yep for the next 5.5 hours there was no communication. WTF? By 10:30pm last night I hadn’t heard anything and was totally unsure if we were still on for tonight. Now I’m not being all Type A or wacko, I just need to know if (1) was he the one guy killed in the NYC tornado and (2) do I need to dress for a date (and pack makeup, hair goop, and heels) when I leave my apartment at 8:45 am or will I be returning back to Queens after work to change cause the “date” isn’t till 9pm? Ughhhh so annoying and controlling to leave me hanging therefore I had to be that chick and email him, “Hi, wanted to know if there is a time that we are meeting up tomorrow?” he responded, “Oh I guess after work sometime, my schedule is totally open. I’ll text you sometime tomorrow”. And again, WHAT THE FUCK!!?? If your schedule is totally open and you are asking me out then TELL ME WHEN AND WHERE!!!! Am I supposed to show up at work today with 3 sets of clothes, and shoes, and bags patiently awaiting your text with baited breath in hopes that SOMETHING may be appropriate for this mystery date?

So long story longer - feeling totally apathetic to tonight’s date I tossed on some random clothes this morning and awaited the buzz of my silenced blackberry. At 3pm I got the info and of course the dude went rogue and picked a place a little more posh than I had expected, oh well hopefully it will be dark and I’ll be drunk quickly.