There's a certain word that, any time I say it, everyone in my vicinity cringes and looks away as if I had just admitted I like to bathe in the blood of aborted babies. It really mystifies me, because it's a very simple word, and it's an entirely accurate descriptor for me. Fat. Fat. That's all. Just fat.

This has happened twice lately, both in conversations regarding jeans. I had to buy new jeans for work before Christmas, because my old ones ripped and my newer pair was really uncomfortable. I didn't want to shell out the cash for Lane Bryant jeans, so I tried Target, Kohl's, and Wal-Mart first. And that reminded me of what for the part six years I've gone straight to LB.

I was telling a good friend of mine this, and she suggested I go to Old Navy. "Can't," I said. "I'm too fat." She started, looking away, and started insisting I couldn't be too large to shop at Old Navy. I just laughed and told her their jeans in-store stop at size 20, which is four sizes too small for me. She continued looking very uncomfortable.

Yesterday, someone was talking about Kohl's and how "wonderful" it is. I mentioned that I tried to get jeans there before going to LB, and the bartender (who's about a size 14), asked me "Why do you shop at Lane Bryant?!" From her tone I'm guessing she went in once and was horrified by the prices, since she has cheaper options.

I kind of blinked at her. "Because I'm fat a girl."

She immediately stopped making eye contact and started making disagreeing sounds, clucking her tongue, pulling that "you're not fat" crap. I laughed. "It's true," I said, "these are size 24 jeans." Everyone around me continued looking horrified that I would say that about myself. They're seriously less horrified when I make jokes about bondage and sex toy sodomy.

And even though I know that society has added all sorts of connotations to the word "fat", peoples' reactions still amuse me. "You're not fat" -- really? What part of me isn't fat? My hair?

So commercials like this ...



and this ....



or this with semen-like salad dressing dripping past cleavage ...



Those are all okay. But apparently, ABC and freaking Fox refused to air this Lane Bryant commercial. I wonder why. Could it be because Ashley Graham isn't a stick figure?

Every fat women gets it at some point in her life. People can't just say she's pretty; it's always "you have such a pretty face!" or, god forbid, "you'd be so pretty if you lost some weight!" The people saying these things think it's a compliment, or they think it's encouraging in some fucked up way.

It's been a long time since I've heard that crap; I think most of my family just gave up on "encouraging" me to lose weight with those comments. Actually, I can't think of the last time (before this incident) that anybody said anything about my appearance other than a general "you look nice".

Last week I was talking to a friend of mine after work. I don't even remember what we were talking about, but I made some reference to being fat--not in any derogatory way, just as a statement of fact. That's when my friend told me that apparently when I started working there, a bunch of my coworkers were sitting around talking. Somehow the subject of me came up, and the general consensus was basically that I have such a pretty face.

Weird to know that goes on behind my back.

Two weeks ago, on Super Bowl Sunday, I slipped on a patch of ice and wrenched the bejesus out of my lower back. It's mostly better now; still a little stiff when I first get up in the morning, and still giving me some sciatica-like pains down my legs, but so much better than at first. The first couple of days I could hardly walk. Made working really interesting, let me tell you.

A consequence of this is the fact that stairs? Really not my friends. If I really, really, really had to, I could climb the three flights of stairs to my first class every morning. And I can manage to go down them now. So that's progress. But I choose not to aggravate my strained muscles, and so I've been taking the elevator up in the morning.

I never took the elevator before, even though the stairs hurt my knees a little bit; it wasn't necessary. And back in the day, before I stopped hating myself, I would never use an elevator when there were stairs, specifically because I was afraid people would look at me and think, "Well that's why she's such a lardass!" That thought entered my head again as I started using the elevator because of my back; the one time somebody else was on it I felt ashamed. (It's kind of tucked away in a corner of the building, most people probably don't know it's there. I actually didn't originally either.)

Luckily, I was able to nip that in the bud right away. If somebody wants to think I'm fat because I use the elevator, then fuck them. Fuck them with something hard and sandpapery. I'm not going to cause myself more pain just to avoid some ignorant stranger's thoughts about me. I wish it hadn't taken me the first, oh, 23 years of my life to achieve that attitude. But I've also learned that those insidious kinds of thoughts can creep back in to my head--it's not something you're ever just done with, this whole process of accepting yourself and withstanding societal pressures and opinions about being fat.

I've been thinking a lot lately about how much money I make in tips, how it varies, and how it compares to my coworkers. It seems to me like the women of equal skill and equal experience, but who are conventionally slender and/or pretty, make a lot more money than me in general. It also seems like I tend to make more money in general when I had the section of high tables, where people are eye-to-eye with me, rather than their faces being at the same level as my stomach and fat ass. So I think they're perceiving me as less fat, and all the things associated with "fat".

It's similar to how I make more tips when I wear makeup or a push-up bra, and when my skin in clear. Tips ought to be based on service rendered, not appearance, but it seems like the closer you adhere to traditional beauty standards the more you make in tips. It really frustrates me.

Through a series of random events, I ended up looking through a box of photos as my dad's house. I found a picture of me at about seventeen or eighteen, and I stared at it for a long time. Then I held it up and said, "I can't believe how skinny I was."

"And you should be again," he answered right away, without even a pause.

"That's not the point," I told him. "I thought I was the ugliest most disgusting thing on two legs. I thought I was a whale."

Again, without a pause: "Then what do you think now?"

Ouch. Lucky for him I've developed some perspective, or he'd have had a very upset daughter on his hands. I stared at him and then rolled my eyes.

"Well, you've let yourself go to the point th--"

I cut him off. "That's not the point. The point is that my body image was so screwed up that I thought I was enormous when I wasn't."

He made a comment about that kind of thing can cause anorexia or bulimia, and I just looked at him and said "Yes, it can." He asked what that meant, so I told him I came near that. He just kept saying sort of sarcastically, "I must have missed that" until I told him it's about behaviors, not appearance, and told him about a couple of the more disturbing thoughts I had in the past. At that point he got uncomfortable and decided it was time to cook dinner.

Later, when we were having dinner, he kept trying to shove more steak on to my plate. I finally got exasperated and said, "How did you go from calling me fat to forcing food on me?"

"I never said that!" he said. So I reminded him of the whale comment, and he sort of looked down at his plate and mumbled, "I shouldn't have said that."

Damn right he shouldn't have.

For my creative writing class, I have to write a twelve page story. I started out with something, but was told the subject wasn't appropriate for the assignment. So I started over. I decided to write a sort of fat acceptance journey story, but it's a little more difficult than I thought--mainly because I'm having to put myself back in to a self-hating mindset to write the beginning.

It's really triggering. I'm looking at my stretch marks and hating them; I'm feeling like my stomach is disgusting; I'm feeling depressed. And then there's an aspect that's not so awful: recalling that great post-workout feeling, remembering how interesting it was to run my hands over my body and feel a new, weird shape emerging.

But of course, the end result is an urge to diet, and an urge to hate myself. I should've chosen a different story topic.

Apparently, toy companies can't just base their 80s-era toy sales on nostalgia: they also have to give them "makeovers" to fit with ridiculous standards today. Strawberry Shortcake got it last year, which just pissed me off--I have fond memories of Shortcake! My first tricycle was a read and white SS tricycle, with a white seat and printed with strawberries. I loved that thing, I wish when I grew out of it that I'd thought to keep it for nostalgic reasons.

Honestly, what was wrong with the original, who looked like a dessert personified? The new version is so unremarkable; there's nothing shortcakey about her. At least she's fully clothed and they didn't give her breast implants, I guess. Except her giant head that's about twice the width of her waist--those are normal proportions, right? The original SS had a big wide head too, but she was also all around ... fluffy, I guess. Look at those bloomers!

And then there's the slimming down of my precious Care Bears. WTF is with that? The innocent, playful, cuddly bears I loved as a child have been oddly slimmed down. Even bears can't be fat? And just as importantly, even girl bears have be all coy and flirty? They're all about attitude now, it seems, and gender stereotypes.

And then there were all the My Little Pony toys I had. I loved those things, with their sparkly eyes and their shiny hair, and that weird smell of their squishy plastic bodies. Anybody else remember that smell? Fond memories, right? I wonder if these giant-hooved, giant-headed monstrosities smell the same.

The latest of my childhood toys to have a ridiculous facelift is Rainbow Brite. I thought RB was the shit, man. I had a freaking RB record that I played endlessly until it mysteriously disappeared--I think to this day that my mom gave it away because she was sick of hearing it! I think I had a Strawberry Shortcake one, too. I don't remember what they sounded like, just a vague mental picture of the album sleeves, but I remember crying when they vanished.

Now, RB has been remade. She's taller, more naked, more hourglass shaped, and her friends have no personality anymore. And similar to the new Strawberry shortcake, her head is out of proportion to her body. Because girls are never too young to be told they need to be disproportionately thin, amirite?

Why couldn't they just leave them alone? If they were still my childhood toys, I'd probably buy them all (uh, when I had money). If I had kids, I'd buy the old ones for them. These new ones? I am not impressed.

One of my tables tonight had just finished their dinner; I picked up their plates and asked if they wanted dessert. The woman laughed, but the man very loudly said "OH HELL NO! We NEVER get dessert when we go out! Too much damn food!"

I gave them my standard response: "Well, we don't want to send you home hungry!"

"Well I don't want to be no 200 pounds either!"

I'm sure they noticed that my smile got rather rigid; I thought about telling him I weigh 260 pounds, but decided it wasn't worth it in the middle of the dinner rush.

Now, of course, I am fat. But I bet the guy wouldn't guy I weighed more than 200 pounds, because people have that fixed in their minds as Huger Than Huge. Ridiculous.

I went to my dad's for dinner this week. A while after I got there, we were sitting on the desk just listening to the winds in the trees, talking about nothing.

Suddenly my dad squints at me and says, "Why does it look like you've dumped a few pounds?"

Here we go again, I thought, but just shrugged and said "I don't know."

Right away he got all tense. "Well, have you?" Again, I said I didn't know, and his nostrils flared. "Well who the hell would know then!"

I laughed a little and told him (again), "Dad, I don't weigh myself."

He looked me for a minute; I could practically see his brain failing to understand a woman not obsessed with her weight. "Well, do your pants fit different, do you feel better, anything?"

"Nope."

He looked at me again and then sighed and said okay and let it drop. I doubt I actually look any different; I think he was just hoping to prod me in to dieting by "complimenting" me. He just can't seem to wrap his head around the fact that I don't monitor every ounce I weigh and every bite I take. Or rather, he can't believe that it's not because I'm "giving up", or that I'm not in denial about it being "a problem".

Later, I mentioned going to the physical therapist on campus about the fact that I walk funny. I always have, a little; but waitressing and working retail has exacerbated it. Specifically, I pronate inward and walk duck-footed, my right foot terribly so. So I tell my dad I went to this appointment, and right away he says "Well isn't the problem obvious?"

I played dumb; I made him make the ignorant statement that it's because of my weight. When I asked why the medical professional didn't say a word about my weight then, he said "She just didn't want to hurt your feelings." Right, because doctors are SO concerned about not upsetting fat people. I told him I've always walked weird, and he snapped at me, "Right, so lets not do something about the problem and see if maybe it enhances your life!"

I repeated that I remembered kids making fun of me in kindergarten for walking goofy, and continued telling him about the things the therapist said and how we were approaching it. I basically didn't give him a chance to throw any more fat blaming crap at me, because I'm just weary of it. I could understand him going directly to that if I hadn't always walked like this. But I didn't start getting chubby until I was about eight, and I obviously had started walking, and walking oddly, way before that. Even at that age, I struggled to keep up with other kids walking or running.

But of course, I'm fat now, so that's got to be the problem.

There are two women who have recently started coming in to my restaurant, who are on a low-carb diet. One looks like she stuck her finger in an electric socket, from her wide eyes to her crazy red hair. The other is very round, with dyed blonde hair and little round old-lady glasses. The first one is super quiet and hardly talks at all; the second is rather bossy, loud, and comes off sort of bitchy.

I've waited on them two out of the three times I've seen them, and both times it's been the same thing. The ginger orders something nearly zero carb (like a steak and broccoli and a salad without croutons), and the blonde orders something with carbs (say a burger with the bun, but with salad instead of fries) and comments about how she's "bad" compared to the ginger. I just don't acknowledge it--beyond demonstrating that I remember them (hey, I work for tips!) by saying "No croutons, right?" when they order their salads.

The first time, I said something like, "would you like some fresh fruit for dessert?" and the blonde promptly told me how the ginger was doing "so good" and had "lost eight pounds!" The second time, same thing, only now it was 19 pounds. I sort of stumbled over my words, because I didn't know what to say. I ended up just saying, "Okay, no dessert then. I'll take your ticket whenever you're ready!"

I know that the expected, societally acceptable response--especially from a woman, and double especially from a fat woman--is congratulations, encouragement, jealousy, etc. But I just don't want to play that game anymore, with anyone.

Last night I lost my temper a bit with one of the cooks. He's one of those borderline alcoholic, wannabe hood, thoroughly average guys who thinks he's The Shit. I was walking through the kitchen to get something, and one of my coworkers was standing by the food line. This girl drives me up a damn wall; I think she's a complete idiot, that she sleeps around out of a lack of self-esteem, and that she's way too willing to let men walk all over her. As far as I know, she and this AFC (asshat fry cook) aren't really friends; he just thinks it's fun to pick on her because she gets riled up and, sadly, probably lets his comments get under her skin.

Anyway, she grabbed a French fry out of the fry bin, and as she was eating it, AFC says to her, "Stop eating! You're like a fucking cow!"

A mish-mash of things I've read about the connection between dieting, misogyny, and control rushed through my mind. The girl was already "defending" herself--not by telling him to fuck off, of course, but by saying she hadn't eaten that day. I glared at AFC as I stalked by and told him "It's none of your damn business what she eats, don't be so fucking rude."

Of course, AFC and his fellow asshat broil cook immediately started mocking me, mimicking me saying "that's soooo rude!" and other things. I don't care--they left my coworker alone, and I've got a hell of a lot more self-confidence than she does, so the little bastards can try to cow me if they want. Good luck with that, boys.

I know it's a very little thing; it certainly isn't earth-shaking. But I'm glad that reacting to those sorts of things has become normal for me. I used to be so afraid of rocking the boat I wouldn't speak up; I used to be afraid of being mocked for going against the societal norms that say I should shut up and not get involved. I used to think I had no right to speak up, because I'm a fatass, so naturally my opinions aren't valid. FUCK THAT NOISE.

It may not change things; AFC may not think twice next time he wants to say something like that, and my female coworker may continue accepting it. But maybe it at least planted an idea that that shit isn't okay.

Of course, I'm still working on that in my own life, too. I had to shoot my own father down for something like this tonight; he asked where I was, and I told him I had a coupon for a free burrito so I was at Qdoba. His response was, "Well that sounds fattening. Shouldn't you be eating something with less carbs?"

I paused for a second before answering, because I almost responded similar to how my coworker did--with justifications. But you know what? Even though he's my father, it's still not really his business.

So I paraphrased a line from an Anita Blake book. "You didn't know I was eating when you called, so I'm pretty sure you didn't call to lecture me about my dinner." We got to the actual point of his phone call then.

None of those things are connected. It's one of those posts.

My poor little dog had surgery today; my mom took her to my aunt, who's a vet. She removed a half pound fatty tumor from my poor pumpkin's chest. She also cleaned her teeth ... or tried. Apparently some of them were basically wedged in by tartar, so my poor baby is coming home with half her teeth in a bag.



I noticed at work today that one of my coworkers gained weight while she was gone for the summer. I don't mean this in a catty way. The only reason I noticed this is because she's in denial and won't buy new pants. Instead, she's got them really low on her hips, cinched in with a belt, which creates a muffin top that extends a good three inches out from her belt. It makes me sad; I'm sure she hates the fact that she's changed, and thinks as long as she "fits" into those size X pants, it's not that "bad". I wish there was a way I could suggest she get new pants without humiliating her utterly, because it really is the pants and not her body, but I know from past things she's said that she's insecure about her body as it is.



And finally, my grandmother said something today that absolutely left me speechless. Out of the blue, she brought up a couple of college women who were raped in their dorm rooms recently .... and said they deserved it. Why? Because they left their windows open. She said that of course the men shouldn't have done it, but the women were asking for it by having their windows open. I literally could not find a thing to say, I was so shocked.

I've learned, generally speaking, not to answer my phone when my dad calls after nine at night. If he's not drunk, he'll leave a message and I'll call him back. If he is, he'll leave a message and I'll call him the next day. It's just too frustrating to try to talk to him when he's been in the whiskey--I never know what to expect. It could be drunken angry ranting about my mother; it could be sad, bitter remorse about her. It could be rambling about how much he loves me; it could be rambling about how he's so worried about me because I'm fat/broke/single/unprepared for the fact that he'll "be dead soon". It could be technology questions it would be difficult to navigate him through sober; it could be anything.

But tonight, I accidentally answered it. And he was drunk, and I got a little bit of all the above except the technology thing. It started out with him apologizing for letting me leave his house last night without telling me he loves me. Then it was he's proud of me, and wants me to just relax and not worry about this school thing. Then it was tell my mother to do something obscene to herself, he's getting me a new car and it'll be better than anything she could do for me--in a sad tone of voice--and he'll have my Mustang ready for me. Then he lectured me about being fat and "unhealthy". Etc.

Basically it was par for the drunken course. Luckily, I've finally gotten the knack of not letting it get to me. More or less. It's frustrating to try to tell him, again, that I'm not unhealthy. It's frustrating trying to steer him away from the subject of my mother. And it's frustrating when I don't know what promises to believe. Is he really going to come up with a car for me? And if so, will it be in my name or will it stay in his and be something he can hold over me because he's afraid I'll desert him like my mother did? Isn't it a little suspect he's suddenly promising this once my mother has a car for me, because he's trying to show her up? And with my vehicle history, will it be another throw-away junker, or rather perilously close?

And if he does procure this car ... what the hell do I do then? Which parent do I turn down--my mother, who's so proud to be able to help me, or my father, whose motives are probably suspect but who says he'll have a newer, better vehicle for me? My mother, who's trying to help me establish things of my own, or my father, who'll cover the registration and insurance? My mother, who's trying to apologize for the last several years she's been a drag on me, or my father, who's trying to apologize for my less-than-stable childhood?

Twenty-seven years old, five years since they split up, and I'm still getting caught in the middle between them.

A weekly(ish) series where I talk briefly about somebody who I think is cool for one reason for another.

I used to work at a Lane Bryant, and one of the advertisements we had in the store was a poster nearly as tall as me. It was an add for Seven7 jeans, and showed a pretty dark-haired girl in a garden, looking over her shoulder. I absolutely loved it. Sometimes when I was alone in the store I would stop and just look at it, and her. When I left, I wanted to take it with me as a wall decoration--it really was a beautiful photograph, in addition to the woman being lovely. I had no idea who she was until last fall, when I opened a Glamour magazine and there she was!

Who she is: Crystal Renn, former straight-size, current plus-size model.

What she's done: Ads for Lane Bryant and Torrid, all sorts of magazine spreads, finale dress at 2006 Gaultier show (right).

Why I love her: Renn started out doing traditional modeling early in her career, and was at one time a size zero--in fact, she weighed less than 100 pounds. Not that I put much stock (okay, any) in the BMI, but her BMI was about 13. And guess what? She wasn't happy. She didn't feel healthy. So she quit her job--on the verge of getting a $40k contract--and started eating again. She's now about a size 12, and absolutely smoking hot. And she does more than catalog work--she does the same sort of editorial layouts her skinny counterparts do, for Elle and Vogue and other magazines. She's also very open about how she struggled to fit into the straight modeling world, and how much happier she is now at the size her body wants to be. Even though she's not what I would consider truly fat, I think she's an awesome size acceptance role model. And because she's a model and therefore puts herself out there for people to oogle, I have no qualms about saying that aside from all the intellectual reasons I love her, she's a total babe.

Just as a comparison, here are two pictures of her. The left is when she was a "normal" sized model, and the right is current. Doesn't she look so much healthier, and sexier, now?

I was at my dad's last week, right before I got sick. We were having a leisurely evening, sitting in easy chairs on his wrap-around deck, getting some fresh air, listening to the crickets. I don't totally remember now how the conversation went, but I know he managed to give me grief about two out of three of my least favorite topics to discuss with him.

The first was my weight. He said something about when was I going to get my weight "under control" and I said it is under control. "Bullshit! When are you going to do something about it?" I said I'm not, and he demanded to know why. I said "I don't care enough about it to do anything."
"You don't care about your health?" Now, I find that absolutely hilarious coming from someone who drinks every night, smokes, spray paints cars without a mask, dips his hands in paint thinner, and thinks guns and whiskey are a great combination.
"I'm perfectly healthy," I told him.
"Oh really? Could you run two miles?"
I just looked at him, trying to figure out the best response--I was leaning towards I couldn't, but plenty of skinny people couldn't either.
"Well, could you?" he demanded again.
"Could you?" Okay, no the best response.
"I'm 50 years old and I drink like a sailor and breathe toxic chemicals! But I could if I had to. I wouldn't like it, but sometimes in life you have to do things you don't like."

Which was his excellent segue into giving me grief about my career/schooling. He started in about how I need to pick something and stick with it, blah blah blah; when I said I didn't know what I'd be good at he told me that's a 12 year old's answer. Then he said, "I thought you were going to be a dietetic technician, or did you give up on that too!"

That right there tells me that my aunt's got a big mouth. Because I have in fact "given up" on that whole misguided adventure, but wasn't planning on telling my dad that yet. I told my aunt, though, but asked her not to tell my dad and explained why. But I'm sure she did. I didn't admit it, though. I just wasn't up for it. Instead I just sighed and said "Do we really have to talk about this now?"

"No, let's put it off another ten years!" and he stormed off to go flip the burgers on the grill. Luckily he let it drop then, and instead we talked about his dog with the broken leg. And then I pissed him off again by calling my cousin's fiance an idiot because he told my dad something totally incorrect. But he's a pharmacist, so naturally he's infallible.

I'm just so tired of having these conversations with my father. I know he's just worried about me; but I wish he'd just let go of those two topics. I'm sick of him making me feel like I'm disappointing him because I'm fat--oh wait, I mean unhealthy.

This article is great. I love the tenth reason:

"It is embarrassing for one of the most scientifically, technologically and medicinally advanced nations in the world to base advice on how to prevent one of the leading causes of poor health and premature death (obesity) on a 200-year-old numerical hack developed by a mathematician who was not even an expert in what little was known about the human body back then."

Agreed!

I work with a girl we'll call Roxanne. She's a couple of years younger than me, and has two kids with two different dads. She's living with a third guy, who she luckily didn't get knocked up by before realizing he's a douche. She's a skinny, pretty little thing--who is utterly convinced she's fat. She goes on and on about how big her belly is, grabbing it and squeezing it. She bemoans how her second son ruined her figure, and says she looks like "one of those hillbillies" with scrawny arms and legs and a "big belly".

Meanwhile, I'd love to look like her. Yeah, if you really, really look, you can see her stomach isn't flat--which is natural, not "fat"--but she looks like a normal, healthy woman. And yet I, at 260 pounds, would be more comfortable wearing a swimsuit in public than she would. I've tried several times to tell her that she's being too hard on herself, that nobody else thinks that, that she's perfectly proportional and has no reason to feel self-conscious. She just says either "you don't have to see me naked" or "you don't know how I used to look".

It makes me sad that she's got such issues, but it also makes me sort of happy that I don't have any sort of glorified, thin youth to look back on and beat myself up about "losing".

And I don't much like marmalade.



Check it out!

So on Monday, on the way to work, the muffler fell off my damn ghetto buggy car. Annoying, but not too critical, especially since my dad is a car guy and can fix it. I took my car (which is actually my dad's car I've been driving for three years) to my dad today for him to fix it, and he gave me a loaner.

But while I was there, I saw something wonderful. On blocks, in my dad's shop, was MY car. My classic red, white hard top, leather interior, more horsepower than a sixteen year old girl should've had, '66 Mustang. My sixteenth birthday present, taken away at 19 when I went to college, because my dad was afraid it would be stolen on campus. For eight years, my beautiful car has been sitting in storage. Every year or so my dad would make some mention of getting it ready for the summer, but it never moved from its place in my dad's storage shed.

But today, she's getting worked on! I might actually get my baby back! I'm so freaking excited! Except one thing. One rather embarrassing thing, that I noticed a couple of years ago when I went to sit in my car and be nostalgic. That one thing is this:

So ... I'm dieting. For my car. I think it's a worthy cause. I wore an 18 when I was driving my car before. I'm a 22 now. Two sizes isn't really that much. And since my car can't adjust, well, my flab will have to this time. I know I feel better when I eat less carby crap anyway, so it shouldn't really be difficult. Right? Well, we'll see.