Feckin People

When I visited my old office yesterday, François, the big fat short door man from a French-speaking African country I don't remember, who used to always fawn and almost faint over my beauté, says as a greeting: 'Wow, you 'ave gotten big! 'ow much you gained? 'ow much you now weigh?' And to emphasize this, he motions with his plump short arms, as though he were holding an enormous beach ball. I say: Salut, François. Comment ça va? And then, je regrette, I don't know how to say "in this country we don't comment to people's face about their weight gain, especially to women. It's extremely rude." I couldn't even think of the French for rude. Anyway, these things happen to me all the time and when I tell people they don't believe me. But it's the truth, alas.

Sacher-Masoch

Aside from perusing a little Marquis de Sade and Venus in Furs and, OK, The Story of O., I've never much cared for sado-masochism. And yet there lives a masochist inside me who loves to be berated and is particularly fond of: You fat pig. And he's bed fellows with a sadist who is sweet upon---how convenient, what a marriage of minds---You fat pig! Neither of them wants me to lose weight, naturally.

Inglorious Bastards

I finally called a pest control guy to deal with our ant invasion and I think I enunciated very clearly, as one is apt to do when dealing with service people, babysitters, phone companies etc. Yet he was unable to understand me. Him: Huh, tent problem? Me: No, ant problem! Safe for what? Safe what? Me: Safe for children? Him: (and I could hear the irritation in his voice) JESUS! Then he hung up on me. Hung up on me!!!! I called him back and said: First of all, take the potatoes out of your ears. And secondly: It was extremely rude of you to hang up on a customer. And thirdly: FUCK YOU!

Do I have an anger problem?

Olsen Trolls

Speaking of fashion, the hideous Olsen trolls are among this year's inductees for the Council of Fashion Designers of America. Like Alexander Wang, who deserves it, of course. The Olsens? They should wear paper bags all the time. Over their heads. Even when they get their venti frappuccinos. Why do I care? Cause it's sacrilege, man!

Pants on Fire

Must have been over a year ago that I thought about getting some good ole plain Levi's. Didn't cause I thought I was too fat. Now everyone is wearing them. They are on fire! Lame.

In: Irony

Everyone is so ironic. A. ordered a Michael Jackson shirt that just arrived for, quote, irony's sake. Sarcasm I get. Irony? Not so much. Growing a beard and wearing loafers is ironic I guess. Liking cats in sinks and Fuck You, Penguin, http://www.fupenguin.com. or does that just make you hip? And does this make Me old as the hills?

"Hipster irony is predicated on the fear that if you take a stand and claim to actually like something, you are opening yourself up to criticism by those who do not. The work-around is to only like things ironically, to never actually come out in support of anything." That sums it up. Courtesy of www.thetartan.org/2007/9/24/forum/hipsters.

Whole Foods

When we bought a house, A. told me I should stop shopping at Whole Foods. You know, buying a coconut, yogurt and vitamins for $100 and stuff. I thought I wouldn't survive. Yet I did manage somehow, thanks to democratic Trader Joe's and Super A and Super King, both really super in their own weird ways. But yesterday I couldn't resist the siren song of Whole Paycheck. And fuck. It's the second time I ended up with moldy bread. And the organic fruit crushers Milan loves are waaaay sweeter than their non-organic brethren at TJ's. It's really not all that it's cracked up to be, Whole Foods.

Quoth the Ramen, 'Nevermore.'

I checked out a really cute preschool in Silver Lake today. All meals are provided. Lunch on Tuesdays: Ramen. Yes, Ramen.

Pondering Pee

When you have diabetes (still don't know), you pee a lot. I don't pee a lot. I have what my grandma calls the bladder of a camel. Does that count? Or is holding pee very long not equal to not having to pee a lot, as in often? Or is holding pee even bad for your health?

Crackers, Jack!

I ate a whole box of whole grain crackers last night. They were meant for Milan and were supposed to last all week. I ate them the way Homer Simpson eats the contents of Marge's jewelry chest after taking an Ambien. I ate them at midnight when I couldn't sleep and the whir of the air conditioner was driving me to stare at the dark walls. I ate them after drinking a glass of water first. I ate them after I took a Klonopin, which only helped in that I ate the crackers slowly and dreamily, like a lazy machine. I woke up with crack pieces sticking to my sweaty chest.

I told Dr. S. He laughed. Then he asked: Did you eat them very fast? Me, no slowly. He: Like one after the other. Did it take 1/2 hour? Me: no more like an hour. He: when you started, did you know you were going to eat the whole box? Me: are you kidding me? hell no. just one or two. Or five. Me: this is the first time ever I've indulged in what you guys call binge eating. He: yes, it's very funny if you can laugh about it. Me: this is what I think of myself: I. am. a. fat. pig. and. I ate. like. a fat. pig. Then I had to laugh. He laughed too. It's good to be light-hearted about this, he said.

And gave me a prescription for dopamax, just in light of the seriousness of the situation (i.e. 1400 calories to the box) and some prescription strength folate, so my feet don't fall asleep. Well done.

Dr. S.

I forgot I actually do have another hero or two: Dr. S being one of them. Even though, it turns out, he buys into the stereotype (can one even call it that?) that Jews are miserly. And I was talking about a fRENCH PERSON! But Dr. S is elderly; and from South India. And he meditates a lot. Still. Jews. And saying this to a German. Very uncomfortable. Kept thinking, to distract myself: 99 Cent Store. 99 Cent Store. 99 Cent Store. 99 Cent Store. 99 Cent Store.

Unicorns on the other hand...

Unicorns, under certain circumstances, can be OK. Just like crystals, Tarot cards, spirit guides, purple velvet, face glitter, patchouli, Salvia divinorum, peyote and agave nectar in moderation. Maybe. It has a lower glycemic index than sugar, they say. Unicorns are pretty sweet.

Horse Girls (Not to be confused with horse faces)

There were girls in high school that liked horses. Collected horse pictures (instead of Duran Duran photos) or even rode horses. I hated them. My friends and I (real winners: chain-smoking, Asti Spumante guzzling when we should be doing our homework, boy crazy) called them "horse girls." I thought about them last night when I read The Highly Sensitive Person. I read it, finally, because my incredibly smart and sensitive friend R. thought I might fall into that category. I'm disappointed, though. The book would have been a revelation if I were 23. But I've changed. I still react strongly to sights, sounds and caffeine and need tons of alone time. But I've also grown to be less exhausted from a mere conversation. I've become moderately social. I fit in. But I also have a completely sadistic streak that isn't sensitive at all and that wants to torture the modern equivalent of horse girls. Cause, the thing is, I know some. And they could use a good torturing.

The Hungry Caterpillar

Oh, I almost forgot the reason I was writing about my dad in the first place! (This is your brain on drugs.) I emailed him a list of award-winning children's books to buy for me in Germany, among them The Very Hungry Caterpillar (or Die Kleine Raupe Nimmersatt). He said he didn't find this classic award-winning book in the least bit interesting. In fact, he thought it was pedagogic in the most primitive form. But it's won awards, I said. And people love it! Well, just because people love it doesn't mean it's any good, he said. Just as easy as that.

My Dad

My Dad is my only hero. Because he truly doesn't care about what other people think. Restaurant critics, movie reviewers, experts on anything from children's literature to rose gardening. Once, I was meeting him downtown and as I approached, I saw him standing by a bench, completely un-self-conscious, like a wise little Zen master. His body language showed he was completely unaware of the effect of his body and angles and posture and shirt and shoes and his environment. I felt a tender twinge for this skinny leather skinned self-actualized man.

Motherhood

When I told M. this afternoon that it was time for a nap, he ran into his room and started hurtling stuffed animals onto his bed. He can only sleep if they're all aboard. Priceless.

More Death

I also killed a Chrysochus auratus today. By watching him and not helping him as he struggled in my sink, which contained CLR. It was one of those huge green iridescent beetles which Mexican kids tie on a string as a toy. Sorry if that's a racist statement. I've seen it happen.

Hills of Africa

I must have killed a million ants today. Once, I saw a documentary where African ants attacked a huge lizard and carried him (yes, carried him) off to their hill in order to feast. Ever since I don't trust the fuckers.

PS: Guy above. If you see this pic of yourself, I'm sorry. I just found it on Google Images. I assume you live in Portland. I assume a lot more, but I won't say.

Hats

Hats. They are cool. I'm late on the trend. And yet. Hats.

Serendipity?

In anticipation of Dr S.' arrival back from his month-long meditation retreat in India, I broke two tablets of R in half and then in half again (cause he’ll be there to catch me if I fall). Immediately I'm riddled with anxiety---so it can't be psychosomatic. The D word is lurking more and when I turned on the Aware Show at 1pm, the topic was: Diabetes. Now, none of my horrible disease suspicions ever turned out to be true (brain tumor, brain cancer, AIDS, stomach cancer, bird flu...) but this one... there might be something there. Intuitively speaking. But IF I go to the doctor and turn out to have diabetes, it will be on my permanent record! And the only thing I have to go by is that I'm FAT!. fat fat fat. ugh.

So you want a piece of me?

I've got to stop picking up junk by the side of the road. Like yesterday on Verdugo, there was a water table sitting at the curb. I pulled up close to inspect it and there were two drunk hobos hanging out right next to it. They were eying me. Yet I pulled up and even, idiotically, rolled down my window so I could see the water table better. One of the foul bums came up and leaned into the car and said: What do you want from me? I said: Just looking at that toy. He said, reeking of tipple and never-laundered clothes and rats and sewage: Why don't you buy the baby something nice? Me: Uhm, I've got to roll up my window now. He: So you want a piece of me? Licking his lips. Me: Gotta go. Rolling up window now! He: Yeah, baby. I got something for you. Me: Excuse me, rolling up now. Window moves up, crushing his arms and elbows. Him cursing at me. Him finally letting go and stepping away from my car. Me speeding off. Nice work.

Sexy Beast

This is how my brain works: What's that quote from that actor in what's that movie the one with the other actor? The actor who played Gandhi? Google: Ben Kingsley. Yeah That One. IMDB: Sexy Beast: Oh Yeah. Ray Winstone. What? Not Philip Seymour Hoffman. Nah. Which finally leads to: Oh, yeah. Bloody hell. I'm sweating in here. Roasting. Boiling. Baking. Sweltering. It's like a sauna. Furnace. You can fry an egg on my stomach. Ohh, who wouldn't lap this up? It's ridiculous. Tremendous. Fantastic. Fan-dabby-dozy-tastic.

Car-ma

Karma is a bitch. I stole a lip pencil at Target last night. A tiny, skinny specimen. Don't even know why I did it other than the fact that Target was particularly bugging me for several reasons. So after I paid for everything else I put everything in the truck, including my purse, my phone and... CAR keys. Shit. Which led to the punishment of being stuck at Target for almost 2 hours, with several desperate calls to AAA, relying on the kindness of strangers and the unkindness of Target staff. Finally, some Armenian slime ball showed up, after hours, my car almost the only one left in the vast parking lot, and complaining about not being able to reach me by phone. Serves my thieving self right!

Infirm Terrible

After kissing that luscious skinhead boy who cried in my lap when he found out he was HIV positive I think I thought I was dying of AIDS for three years. After that it was a brain tumor that led to an ulcer. And now I taste something sweet. I think it's been there for a while and when I meditated on the JH Experience my clogged third eye received the message that I might be diabetic. And this time I mean it.

Heavy

All I'm thinking is: she moves her heavy body, moves her heavy body, her heavy body. You only have to let the soft animal of your body love what it loves, what it loves, her heavy body, chocolate, bread and cheese, Mighty Bites, a gallon of grapefruit juice, as she moves her heavy body and her mind is stuffed with fat, too, like one of those white sausages you eat in Bavaria before 11am. Cause they go bad. Real bad.

Bada-Bing and Belevdere

These days people are drinking drinks I've never heard of and never will. I am so out of touch. Last night I had two delicious Belvedere and Tonics on a "mom's night out," and I kept thinking of JT who said: Why can't we just have a night out? Why does it have to be qualified as a mom's night out? Obviously my thoughts don't run very deep right now. Just involve things like: Can I sneak Cheerios onto the plane? At the same time I've been living vicariously through Pamela de Barres and her I'm With the Band. And at the frequent mentions of Rodney Bingenheimer I got nostalgic for being 16 and on Mykonos and his fat photo albums and photographer Brad Elterman and Rodney calling me his "sweet 60s girl." Such an idiot for not looking them up when I moved to Cally in 1990. Ah, our summer of love. No one to worship at my shrine these days. Or ever again. I think.

Muffintops

And to add insult to injury, when I was checking the weather on msn.com earlier, I stumbled on a gallery of muffintops. Women of the world, why do you put up with this derogatory impudence? Why do you botox and pad and depilate your brains and speak in little girl voices? And put up with this renewed wave of misogyny?

Cougars

I've been thinking about cougars. That's because I read my friend JT's blog entry about going out in Hollywood with her co-workers, to a bar with lots of cougars pouncing on their fresh 20-something souls. I don't think I've ever thought of women along those lines before. When I was in my 20s and went to bars, of course, there'd be "girls" in their 30s, and I did think they were sort of pathetic, especially the ones that looked really shriveled up and pruney and dressed like hookers, but I never applied the term cougar. I thought vaguely of Mrs. Robinson and maybe women in their 50s. Cougars, if they existed, were far removed from everyday life. But now all of a sudden they are everywhere and feminism has been kicked in the gut again.