Summer reading: The Eye in the Door

I'm trying to figure out what to write my autobiography paper on (still) and so I decided to get my brain back into World War One mode by listening to The Eye in the Door, the second installment of the Regeneration trilogy, a series of novels that takes place in England, on the "home-front", during the war. The books are about injured and "shell shocked" soldiers receiving psychological treatment from the neurologist and cultural anthropologist Dr. W.H.R Rivers. Nearly all of the characters are based on the lives of real men, including Dr. Rivers, Wilfred Owen, Siegfried Sassoon, and Robert Graves, except for our protagonist Billy Prior, a temperamental Northerner who'll unapologetically have sex with anyone (homosexuality features as a primary theme in the novels as a threat to national security and something which is frequently treated at the hospital in which Dr. Rivers works), who hates his father and seeks to replace Dr. Rivers as a father figure, and who is a fighter as well as a lover. Prior is a bit over the top, but I am absolutely in love with him.

Summer reading: We Have Always Lived in the Castle

Well, that didn't take as long as I thought it would. Just part of one day. I listened to my book and cleaned the bathroom and the kitchen and worked on my knitting and had a very pleasant Saturday in the process.

Shirley Jackson's We Have Always Lived in the Castle is a story about two young women who, along with their elderly uncle, have locked themselves away in their ancestral mansion for six years after their parents, brother, and aunt had all been murdered in the house with arsenic (mixed in with the sugar they sprinkled over blackberries). The older sister, Constance, had been tried for the murders but was acquitted and now takes care of her uncle and the younger sister, Mary Katherine (or Merricat), who was only 12 at the time of the deaths.

Summer reading: American Gods

I love books, I love studying literature, but I hate reading. This is the great contradiction of my life, and unfortunately it has kept me from being as well-read as I'd like to be. I just don't get as much pleasure from reading as a lot of people do. I'd much rather watch a tv show (or glance through blogs, watch youtube videos, or stare at a wall) than read a book. Reading is work and I am lazy. But, since these crazy people in this PhD program gave me a fellowship and I'm getting paid to read, it really is work and I am obligated to do it full time. So I'm trying to work on getting through as many novels as I can this summer. Not necessarily great works of literature, but books I've been meaning to read for some time, books I hope will be enjoyable, and most importantly books I can listen to so that I can push through them while I'm doing other things like cleaning my bathroom or walking to school. I'm going to try to keep track of them on the blog so I have a good record of what I've read.

I was feeling rather hateful towards my body tonight. It's an old familiar feeling, and it's incredibly cruel. I feel disgust and contempt and anger. It's this ugly body's fault that I am not happy, that I am not in a relationship, that I am shy and self-conscious. My poor body. I shouldn't be so abusive towards it.  Even after all of the work I have been putting in to not falling for those same old lies (that diets work, that thinness equals love and happiness, that fat is ugly, that I am worthless and unlovable because of my shapeless and ugly body), they still creep up on me. If I don't check them swiftly and often they'll take hold of me and choke me before I even realize what's happening. Sometimes the lies get so loud in my head that the only way to shut them up to start a new diet, obsess over everything I eat, force myself to exercise when I don't want to. Of course doing things you hate doing is unsustainable and I give up soon enough (usually feeling like a total failure). 

This is hard on me. I don't want to be like that. I want to call bullshit on the whole cycle, on all of the lies, and especially on how justified and righteous I feel when I bash myself for something that is so much not in my control. I'm pretty sure that perverse feeling of righteousness comes from when I was younger and I bought in to everyone's cruel remarks about my body. They would let up if I agreed with them. As long as they knew I despised myself as much as they did, my fatness was slightly more acceptable. Sometimes they would even be nice ("no, you're not that fat!"). Or maybe it's my Mormon habit of constant self examination, the constant comparison of myself with others to check my own standing before God, the constant struggle towards perfection (which I'm also learning to give up, or at least rethink, for the sake of my emotional health and sanity). In any case I firmly believe that no good comes from self-contempt, from guilt, or from comparison with other people. How can I be healthy physically if I hate my body? How can I be healthy spiritually if I get caught in guilt cycles? How can I be healthy emotionally if I compare myself with the fraction of what I know of other people's lives? 

Fortunately I caught it before I woke up tomorrow morning with a new diet in mind. I won't do it. I do not eat badly and I don't need to change any of my eating habits. I move my body every day, and I certainly could move it more, but I think that means I need to find things to get me out of the house and doing stuff. I want to live with a purpose and it's hard to be purposeful when I'm running as fast as I can on a machine going no where. My brain does not like that.

Also, this article helped a lot to remind me that diets are evil and that I don't have to hide my body. Also I bought some fantastic new clothes. I read an article the other day in Bitch Magazine about "fatshion" and how we fat ladies should not be hiding our bodies in shame. She talked about how using fashion to be visible is political, it's participating in fat activism. Visible bodies are powerful bodies; they are speaking bodies, and they demand to be seen and heard. That's why fashion in general is important for women, and why it is especially important for fat women to take seriously. (Seriously, there's this theory called "presence politics" that I plan on learning more about this summer). They want us to hate ourselves into dieting (they being the diet industry first and foremost, but also the people who buy into the cult of the body and the narrowly defined ideals of beauty that actually causes all but a small percentage of people to suffer for it). They want us to disappear, or to fulfill stereotypes and dress like lazy slobs so they can feel righteous and justified in their shaming. So instead of being committed to a diet, I'm going to be committed to finding and wearing loud clothes (which believe me can be very very difficult in a world where the only clothes I can fit into are either online or only found in one store at the mall. Clearly fatties are more profitable in the diet industry than in the fashion industry). So I bought four new patterned tops for my trip to New York next week (which is a big deal because I hardly ever wear patterned fabric). And I'm going to flaunt it.  I also bought a necklace, which is again a big deal because I never accessorize. 

So yeah, don't hate your body. It's beautiful. It's a freaking miracle. And I'll try to not hate mine. 

May

I feel like life has been pretty intense since school got out. Colors are bright in May. Food tastes better when it's humid and hot. Nothing gets done but I'm exhausted at the end of every day. I play video games now. I sing more often, and I sing louder than I ever have. I listen to simple songs over and over again. I play them on the ukulele until they annoy me. I plant flowers and the flowers distract me when I'm trying to study. How can I read when there are seven pots of plants next to me? Life exists in front of me and it is so vivid. So I can't help but stare and watch and nothing really happens, but all of it is happening. And it is all right there.

I planted these and they're still alive. 

T and I watch an episode of the Dick Van Dyke show (or two or three) every time we hang out. Now that is some solid comedy. I'm always surprised at how much I laugh and how much joy the show gives me. (And because it was aired in 1961 there are always some pretty problematic and sexist issues T and I can talk about). A great deal of my life right now revolves around television. I watched the latest episode of Parks and Recreation today and I sobbed because that show is about making sacrifices for the people you care about, helping them achieve their dreams, being there for them, building communities. It is such a positive show. It's always been a bright spot in my life when I spend a great deal of my days thinking about the possibilities of meaninglessness, the certainty of death. Thank goodness for tv, and for friends, and for steaks and cupcakes and karaoke. And the ukulele, and maybe even for Kentucky. (also, k is apparently the letter of the day).

Our favorite: steak, mashed potatoes, spinach salad, homemade boba tea, and Dick Van Dyke

Quinoa cupcakes with lavender frosting 

T and I.B. on the balcony. 

The most beautiful day

I.B. loves Fuchsia 

T and B (aka The Twins) are so cute

Tea party! 

And, as promised, here is the poem I wrote for my Renaissance/critical theory class (that sucked! did I mention that?) 

To his sweet still trembling tender youth I write

These feeble rhymes. To courage, to victory wrought

By a greater power, by Love, a force unsought

But known. His heart still racing from the fight,

From victory's drug his muscles twitch, alight

With life. And Love, her Holiness, has caught

My heart, ensnared with beauty every thought

Of him, his triumph, his sweet submissive might.

To my own still trembling heart I hold my prize:

A body lithe, a spirit blessed by Fate.

To him, his wisdom, beauty, grace, I sing, 

Upon his youthful slender frame my eyes

Like warm hands linger, trace, and consummate

His quest for glory. O my child, my king.  

Also, here's the adorable Brazilian song I've been listening to (and learning to sing and play on the uke) 

hats and boots

I had the plan to write a post at the end of the semester when I felt the familiar and tremendous sense of relief and accomplishment, when everything came together and I felt like I kicked the semester's butt. I wanted to sum up the papers I wrote and talk about my struggles, my successes, my travels, etc. But the end has been a little too anticlimactic for a big victory post.

And it's not really over, even though it is, technically. I still have a paper due tomorrow, but the thing is, I haven't really started it yet. And the other thing is, I am not about to stay up all night long writing furiously to finish it. Screw that. I don't believe in working that way anymore (did I ever? Maybe once in 2005). So I talked to my professor, and I'm taking an incomplete. I'm going to spend the next couple of weeks with my attention undivided and focused on researching a project that actually matters to me, a project I'd like to try to get published. She's cool with it. And so, with one email my semester came to an end.

Except not quite because I still have to do one more ridiculous project for the class that had so many massive assignments that I couldn't spend the time I needed to finish the class I actually cared about. I'm used to doing some small papers, maybe a midterm, and one final paper. This ridiculous class (the deformed and unwanted birth of the Renaissance and an introduction to contemporary critical theory) was one busy work assignment after another, and for the final assignment I am to do an ekphrasis. This is, according to wikipedia, a "graphic description of a visual art" and I've decided to do a highly eroticized Petrarchan sonnet about this guy:



I know..it's kind of creepy to write an erotic poem about a statue depicting someone who is clearly 12 years old. But I desperately want to do something that makes my class squirm when I read it out loud to them, especially over this statue. A few people did some poor readings of this guy that kind of pissed me off this semester.  One kid argued that Donatello's David is meant to secretly be a woman who is standing on the decapitated head of patriarchy. Why would you read a depiction of David from the Bible as a woman? Well, for one thing s(he) sure is sexy. Look at that hitched hip! S(he)'s like all of those sexy models we see everywhere. And you know, men are only attracted to sexy women. When my professor asked him to explain how the shepherd's hat and the boots fit into his reading he literally said, "Well, you know how much women love hats and boots." Yep. Bitches love accessories. Other people in the class kept saying that this sculpture was "homoerotic" and I think that meant that only gay men could possibly be attracted to young boys? Also, that's not what homoerotic even means. Homoeroticism is used as a way of understanding how men interact with each other. One single depiction of a sexy dude is not "homoerotic" it's just erotic. Therefore, I (a woman) will be writing an erotic poem describing this sexy (wo)man-child. I hope they think I'm being terrible inappropriate, because that's what I thought of their readings.  I'll post the poem when I'm done.

It does feel good to be (kind of) done with the semester. I can't wait to get back to life and laundry and cleaning my house and eating real food again. And maybe blogging more!

Dead Puppies Aren’t Much Fun, or How I Learned to Let a Fish Break My Heart

This is a little essay that I wrote for my Autobiographical Forms class. I thought it was kind of fun, even though it's about dead puppies... 

Tonight while cleaning out his bowl I nearly dropped my pet fish David Bowie down the garbage disposal. I screamed and tried to catch his little slippery body. He slipped onto the plastic cover over the disposal and I scooped him up and dropped him into a warm, safe cup of water. Tragedy averted. What would I have done if he had gone into the disposal? Would I mercy kill David Bowie by flipping that switch? Would I try to fish him out before giving up, even if that meant smashing him with my own fingers? Yes, probably. I wouldn't give up on him. I would fight for him. There is no doubt that if that fish dies because of me, I will be devastated.

As a child the death of a pet fish was nothing. When Gil died we flushed him without much thought. My mother came home and panicked. "Where is Gil?" "He died and we flushed him. We didn't want you to have to see him dead." She wailed. Gil was her fish and she had him for nearly five years. She loved him, and we were cruel to flush him.

But what's the death of a fish when you live on a farm and witness countless deaths over the years? I helped my dad slaughter rabbits and chickens and was never fazed when he used the crowbar to knock my pet rabbit senseless. I helped him pull the skin off, excited that I had come into possession of such a fine fur, and saddened when he told me I couldn't keep it and wear it as a hat. I gutted chickens, plucked turkeys, chased a headless duck into the bushes, and during one hunting season my older sister and I asked if we could keep the poor deer's brain. My grandparents said yes and we wrapped it carefully in tinfoil and put it in our refrigerator. I'm not sure if my mom realized what was in the tinfoil and got rid of it, but we soon forgot that the brain was even there.

We also had a lot of dogs, but living on a farm meant that no one dog was too cherished to shoot if he or she killed a beloved goose or peacock. I hated my grandparents for doing it, as if the life of a goose was worth that of a dog. But they had few qualms and would punish when necessary.

My parents once tried to breed Rottweilers, but failed when one of the dogs slept on her puppies to keep them warm one cold night and killed them all. My dad made my sister and me gather them up and put them in a large, empty dog food bag to take to the dump.

Dogs also knew no mercy from the farm vehicles. When six or seven or eight dogs are chasing after a truck, it was always possible for one to get caught under a wheel, especially if the truck is moving slowly. Sparky was the first that I can remember clearly, although I know there were many before her. She was a little, black, beloved toy poodle.  My mom hit her right in front of our driveway. There was much wailing and gnashing of teeth.

Rowdy was my dog. My parents saved him from the pound and claimed that he had once been a circus dog. He was little and stocky with curly white hair that would collect the snow in perfect golf balls around his feet. While slowly backing up her big red truck in a garage my grandma hit him and he died. I was crushed, but moved on rather quickly. There were ten other dogs to hold my attention.

Buster was another beloved. Short and long with rough black and brown hair, I don't remember where he came from but we got him as a puppy and had to save him from choking on his food on a nearly daily basis. One day we packed up our old yellow Jeep Cherokee with cages of chickens and headed out to the county fair where we would win best in show and countless other ribbons. It was a proud moment for all of us. When we got home we couldn't find Buster anywhere. I finally spotted him laying off the side of the road. We had probably hit him on our way to the fair without noticing. We should have brought him with us.

We buried Buster next to Sparky in a quiet little area between some trees, one of the many unexplained piles of red sandstone rocks that dotted the property. My mother again was the most distraught. When an animal died she performed her best. In some other part of the world she could have been a fantastic professional mourner. Her histrionics made me even more stoic and accepting of the fate of death. All I wanted was the mourning to end and to move on with our lives. When Sparky died I joined in on the wailings, but Buster hardened me, and I knew my heart wouldn't break again for a dog.

When I was eleven or twelve my dad brought home a puppy for my birthday. She was a brown border collie and Australian shepherd mix and I named her Bobbie Brown. She was not a well behaved dog and I didn't put the effort into training her because I was irresponsible and easily distracted, so she got into a fair amount trouble. We had to tie her up in the back yard and would bark and bark. I never gave her enough attention while she was young and troublesome, but she became a close companion to me when we both grew a bit older. She had spirit and personality and she was often the leader of the pack of our six or seven dogs that roamed the ranch. I'm almost certain she would lead them into the North Hills and go running with the coyotes. She wasn't afraid of anything, and she was sociable and kind. It wasn't too long before she had her first litter of puppies, and we had no idea who the father was.

About a week later another dog, Kylee, a little blue healer mix and who was barely a puppy herself, had a litter.  One cold dark morning in February my dad burst in the house with a puppy in his hand.  "Kylee's having puppies!" He told us how he had gone out to his truck and saw Kylee in the snow surrounded by blood. He thought she had been attacked.  Unlike Bobbie, Kylee was too young to be having puppies and we had never even suspected that she was pregnant.  We brought her in the house and Haley watched over her while she gave birth the rest of the litter.

I became the proud mama of twelve puppies: George, Macca, John, Cecelia, Yoko, Julia, Jake, Bart, Linda, Jude, Martha, and Lucy.

We made Bobbie a bed in our room and I watched as her pups grew fat and round. My favorites were Jake and Bart. Jake was the fattest puppy, the slowest and the laziest puppy I have ever seen. His fur was pale brown and I loved him. Bart had an old face and was the darkest. I was enchanted by his sweetness. Kylee's puppies lived in my sister's room and after they were all big enough we moved them into one of the empty chicken coops. Every morning I would get up and go out and play with the puppies, feed them and watch them grow. Babysitting twelve puppies was probably the best thing that has ever happened to me.

I was always a nurturer. My mom tells me that when I was five and my little sister was born I was very serious and excited about helping to take care of her. She was my baby. As she got bigger I took on the responsibility of bathing her, dressing her, and feeding her breakfast. I was just thinking of a home video I watched with my family last year. My mom had been recording Lindy playing with Xia, a Rottweiler who treated Lindy like a puppy. They were best friends, and Lindy would crawl all over that huge dog without a thought. At one point Haley and I came out into the kitchen. I was smiling and happy, indomitably cheerful. Without asking for permission I found myself a popsicle and then proceeded to fix Lindy her bowl of cereal. How many hours had my mom been up with Lindy and didn't make her breakfast? I asked her about this and she told me that I would have been disappointed if she had already fed her. I don't doubt this.

As my twelve puppies grew bigger my family decided it was time to try to find them homes. I don't remember feeling too broken up about giving them away. I would keep Bart, and my grandpa would take Jake, so I would have my favorites. We also decided to keep George. I could write a book about George. Not only did he become our beloved, but he stayed with us for fifteen years and was the best dog that anyone could ever ask for. When I was living in London last year I visited in April and was able to say goodbye to George. He lost his ability to walk, and my mother, ever patient and strong, would carry him outside and around the house and finally to the vet.  He never looked more like a puppy in those last weeks.

I didn't have Bart for long before my dad ran him over. He was just barely growing out of his puppy stage.

Bobbie had another litter a couple years later. This time they were all black and white. My dad and his friend went out one day and lopped all their tails off, except for the one we would keep: McCaffrey. He was the fluffiest, fattest, and sweetest of the litter. My mom got him with her little red Neon.

When I was fifteen we decided to move to California, and along with our house, our chicken coops and dog sheds, we had to leave four of our six dogs behind. We found homes for two of them, and my dad decided to take another two to the pound. They chose to keep George and Romeo, one of Bobbie's puppies, and take Bobbie away. I was stoic and accepted the decision, even though Romeo was not a very good dog and not one that I loved. They told me that keeping Romeo was just like keeping Bobbie because he was hers. They put her in the back of a pickup and I said goodbye. I didn't fight for her. I didn't cry or wail or hold on to her. It wasn't until years later that my stoicism, that my blithe acceptance of loss and death, finally broke down and I realized my complicity in the loss of that dog. I lost Bobbie but it wasn’t an accident, it wasn’t necessary and it could have been helped. I so desperately wanted to forget and move on with my life that I forgot too soon, I forgot about her even while my dad lifted her into the back of the truck. I would now do everything in my power to save my fish, but I wasn’t willing to do so for Bobbie. I can only hope now that someone saw her beautiful face and her kind eyes and took her home, that she was able to have a second chance with a family, with children and a warm bed and plenty of space for her play. I have to believe it because the alternative would break my heart. 

new year dilemma

I'm not sure if it's really happened, but one of the goals of this blog is to grapple with issues of personal identity and life choices. It's kind of my favorite thing to think about, probably too much so. Every day I feel anxiety over who I am, who I am meant to be (and who decides that), what is meaningful in the world, the whole point of existence, etc.

For most of my adult life I've favored the idea of community and interpersonal relationships providing the most meaning, and probably too often I've relied on other people to give me purpose in life. This is dangerous for anyone, but especially for me because I am single and live far away from my family and closest friends. I'm pretty certain that if I were married I would take better care of myself and find more meaning and purpose in the things I do for me, because they would directly affect another person.  Right now no body cares if I keep my bathroom clean or if I eat nothing but cereal for three days in a row. The problem with thinking and feeling this way is that I am doing a terrible job of taking care of myself, but I have no drive (except a vague guilty feeling in the back of my mind) to do any better.

I had thought of many goals for this new year, but I don't think the personal ones that don't directly affect other people are going to make it past February, and many of them I haven't even bothered to start.

But, you see, I hate this about myself. I hate that I assign meaning to some things over others, to the point where some things have no meaning and so are not worth my time. Right now the only thing that really matters to me is school. Last semester I did well in all of my classes while the rest of my life, happiness, and health crumbled down around me, and my greatest worry in letting that happen was that it would affect my school work. As the semester ended I felt terrible; physically, emotionally, spiritually terrible. I don't want that to happen again, and so my main goal now is to try to find a way to care about myself for the sake of myself.

Ughh, doesn't that seem awful? I don't want to baby myself and focus so much on me that I lose sight of the things that matter. (Wait, no, I matter.)  I prefer the idea that in order to find oneself one must lose oneself in the service of others. But how does that help me keep my bathroom clean? How does that keep me physically healthy?

I don't know if I can find the answers. I know that being with other people and doing things for them makes me happier so I'll keep that up. But I hope I find some things that make me personally happy and feel good that doesn't necessarily affect other people.  One thing I'm thinking of is playing the ukulele. I want to practice it every day because I love it, not because it matters to someone else. But I can't help but think "if it doesn't matter to another person then what is the point?" Bah. Why can't "Because I enjoy it" be enough?? Someone asked me if I have less interest or pleasure in the things that I used to enjoy, and I couldn't answer the question because I don't do anything that I enjoy.  I knit, but there's no pleasure in that except for knowing that I'm making something for someone I care about. I cook, but I only like doing that when I'm cooking for other people.

Well, ok, as far as food and health there are some things I can do. I'd like to have less impact on the earth. I don't have a car, so that's good, and I just found a market near my house that is 100% local, so I plan on buying food from there.  I also want to be less wasteful, especially with food. I found this poster that was used during WWII to encourage everyone to waste less food, and I think it's perfect for life now. I want to value my food, because it is valuable. I don't mind spending more money on food if I work hard to not waste it. I just love this poster. Buy food with thought, cook it with care, don't eat more than you need, save what you can, and don't waste it. So sensible, and yet it seems so revolutionary. I think this is a perfect goal for 2012 and something I can maintain past February.

Also, I like this video I saw last week. I have seen a decline in my health since I came back from London and I'm pretty sure it's because I have not been walking everywhere. Even though I don't have a car here, it's very hard to get around town on the buses so I usually find a ride. But, I want to walk 30 minutes every day and I'm pretty sure I can do it. Now that I found the food market so close to my house I can definitely walk over there once or twice a week.



So I don't know. Does anyone have any suggestions for changing how I value myself and start doing things that are personally enjoyable?

a year in review, 2011

I absolutely love the New Year. I love the opportunity to make a cognitive break and compartmentalize the last twelve months into their own little box and open up a new empty box for the next twelve months. I love making new year resolutions; I always have improvements in mind but I usually need something to push me into doing them. The first three months of each year are consequently some of my happiest and most productive.  I also like the opportunity to look back and take stock of how I've been living my life. This year I'm not too pleased with myself. I had so many great experiences, but something kept me from feeling happy for most of it, and I'm pretty sure that was my negative attitude.

Last New Year's Eve I was in Munich with my best friend. I was sick and we were exhausted from our Germany Christmas so we decided not to go out. We had spent most of the day in Salzburg Austria, where Mozart was born, and by the time we got back we couldn't even imagine trying to find something to do for New Year's. Fortunately our hostel had a pretty fantastic view of the city, and I have never seen so many fireworks in my entire life. As soon as midnight approached they started going off everywhere and didn't stop for a half an hour. It seems that every family in Munich had they own little firework show. So we sat there and ate fancy chocolate and watched the fireworks. It was a lovely way to start the new year.

Christmas and New Year's in Germany

on community and existentialism

Meaning is not relative, but it is relational. It is not based on one's experience alone, but on one's experience with other people. We may be nothing to the universe, but when we have compassion for another human being, when we sorrow for her suffering and joy in his success, we may see that we are all one and the same substance, not only with the person for whom we have compassion, but with all people, with the earth, with animals and stars and everything.

on community: fellowship vs. friendship

I've been thinking and talking a lot about community these days. Theoretically community is extremely important to me, and I'm taking notice of how the theory plays out in real life, and it's not exactly what I expected.

I've been having struggles with my local church congregation, and I've also been having difficulties expressing my grievances. The congregation is small, just a little single's branch with 30 or so members. They are warm and inviting, and yet I feel left out. They are caring of each other, and they're friendly with each other, to the point that they spend hours with each other every day. They're friends. And I hate it. The thing is, I'm not looking for friends at church. I don't need a social circle; I need a community. I want fellowship, not friendship.  And I'm realizing now what the difference is.

on fence-sitting

It's hard to be a Mormon fence-sitter. You're either in our you're out, and there seems to be little room for the inbetweeners. Part of the reason is that we have set up a fantastic system for checking up on people through the home and visiting teaching programs. We are assigned to look out for one another, and a monthly quota of home visits must be met. It's funny how isolated some of us still feel. It's also funny how defensive I get with my home and visiting teachers. When someone I knew from my ward, someone I thought I was becoming friends with, told me that he was my hometeacher I felt like something had been lost. Now he is obligated to me. I don't think we're friends anymore. I certainly can't tell him about my struggles. I must make up excuses for why I haven't been going to church and tell him all is well. I'm happy. Smiles. No there isn't anything you can do for me right now, maybe take out the trash? Yes, I'll let you know if I need anything. See you next month.

some girls are bigger than others

I was at Target today and there was a rack of $5 tights, really cute tights in all different colors. There were golden tights and some in dark teal; there were pink, red, green tights.  I was ready to buy a pair in every color. Only, the XL tights were limited to black and gray, and they were very nearly gone. The mediums and smalls in the lovely colors were piled high.  I guess fat girls aren't allowed to buy golden tights? Maybe they think they'll sell fewer of them because fat people don't shop for anything but sweatpants? Funny how all the XLs were almost out of stock.

Before that I was with some friends at Kohls and I thought I'd look and see if they have any jeans.  Again, they had them piled high in sizes 4, 6, 8, 10, but very few in 16 and none in 18. I looked around the store and saw a lot of larger women and I wondered where they bought all of their clothes. You'd think that of all the places that would stock larger sizes in misses would be the place where moms shop for their momjeans. Why are fat women exiled to fat lady specialty shops? I personally can't shop in "plus size" clothing stores because a) all the clothes there are ugly and b) I lack girth in the hip and thigh area. A size 18 in misses will fit me fine, and a size 18 or a 1X in "plus size" will fall off of me.

I suppose it's a good thing that it's nearly impossible for me to find clothes, because, as a friend told me recently, I'm kind of addicted to shopping.  I guess it's better to shop and shop and shop and never find any thing to buy than to be surrounded by cute clothes that actually fit. It's saving me money.

Remember, some girls are bigger than others...

a string of randoms

I've decided that if I blog things instead of just posting stuff on facebook it would be more accessible to me at a later date.  So here are some of those things.

This video brings me endless joy.


Also, I've found this extension for Google Chrome that will switch out gendered words: he for she, him for her, man for woman, woman for man, etc. I'm excited about this because it's an extremely useful tool for seeing how strongly our culture favors masculine pronouns, and it's already something feminists have used to point these things out. We do it all the time in my feminist religious philosophy class.