I've
been told I would like The
Daily Show but I only recently figured out when
it was on. It's on twice a day so it would seem like
I could have figured it out sooner. It's pretty funny.
Last night I laughed out loud more than once. The
president kinda set them up with his
speech. He makes it too easy.
It's
on at the same time local news is on. Local news is
the worst when it comes to the culture of fear but I
like to make sure I'm not missing anything. A week or
so ago the local news had a thing on about some new
tech thing, maybe an IPOD, I can't remember. The news
guy was in a living room, or maybe a dorm. A big screen
TV was on in the background and was it tuned in to the
local news? NO! It was tuned into The Daily Show.
I
think I've heard people make disparaging remarks about
getting the news from comedy shows. And there's some
truth to that. But it's good to laugh.
I
moved to SF from NYC shortly after Loma
Prieta. Funny since lots of people were away. But
I was missing Renee and, as much as I loved NYC, I wasn't
settling in. I was drifting from job to job. I lived in
a residential hotel. A friend was driving to Boulder
and I jumped in the car. From Boulder I took a train
to SF.
Amtrak
stops in the East Bay and there is a bus that brings
you into the city. I was sitting next to an older woman
on the bus as we crossed the Bay bridge. She kept talking
about the earthquake and how the
bridge had collapsed. If only we could make it across
the bridge then everything would be OK. She was rocking
her body back and forth. Her arms were pushing at the
air. It was as if she was willing the bus across the
bridge.
I
have a kinetic memory of what it was like to be sitting
next to a person using her whole body trying to control
what could not be controlled. It comes to me in those
moments when I am doing the same. I feel my body tighten
and push. I am rocking backward and forward. My hands
push at the air. It's all happening internally but it
wears me out.
I
had such a good time blogging yesterday. Blogging with
the lap top is kind of a drag because it's soooooooo
slow. I read one page while I wait for the next one
to load. It was more like slogging. But I slogged
along and caught up with people.
I
noticed I wasn't being linked by another person who
used to link to me. Ah well. It didn't hit me as hard.
I have de-evolved in the TTB ecosystem from an adorable
rodent to a slithering
reptile, which might have freaked me out except
I read that he has changed things and many people dropped.
There's a cool
graph of my linking crash. I seem to have come back
up and then gone back down and am now rising again.
I have a way to go before I will evolve again and given
all recent delinking it doesn't seem like that's likely.
It's really, really, REALLY stupid to take any of this
too seriously. Some of my favorite blogs are also slithering
reptiles. And the graph could also accurately represent
my own withdrawal from blogging. Both writing and reading.
Yesterday I took my time and clicked around and remembered
why I don't really want to quit.
When
I first started reading Kurt I had him linked as Sainteros.
Other people had him as The
Coffee Sutras. And then he moved and changed the
name to A Happening,
which put him at the top of my blog roll. But then he
changed to Lucid Moment. And I changed it on my blog
roll. That's a lot of yadda yadda but the point is sometimes
I have trouble remembering where he is on the roll and
he's one of my favorite reads.
The
mechanics of linking is a whole thing. It has meaning.
I think the meaning is complicated and possibly not
useful. I'm still thinking about it all.
Kurt
linked to a
blog that his ex began a short time ago so I checked
it out. In one
of her posts he commented that he would watch the
kids while she went to Italy. I found that so charming.
And so tender. One of those moments when you marvel
that people are willing to reveal so much of themselves
in these text boxes.
Veronica's
blog is looking very festive. She has a link to
the Buy
Nothing Christmas Blog, which is very cool. I'd
like to say I will but nothing this Christmas because
I abhor commercialism. And I do. But the truth is I'd
like to buy everyone I know everything they've ever
wanted and I can't even afford to bake cookies.
I
got my Christmas package from Karen.
Every year. No matter where I am. She makes sure I have
something to open on Christmas. I get as much pleasure
from looking at them every day as I do opening them.
It doesn't matter what they are. It's about Karen. And
how much I love her. It's about old friends who are
there even when time goes by and you don't talk, or
see one another.
Blogging
felt that way yesterday. Checking in on old friends.
I felt like I was leaning on the fence talking with
the neighbors, hearing about the health problems and
the baby news and the what we had for dinner and what
we're thinking about and who we miss and how's the weather
and oh dear I missed your birthday and on and on. And
some people aren't writing these days. And others are
back. I'm a happy little reptile.
I'm
not immune to measures of my ... uh ...status. And
it is weird to be delinked. But. It's always people
who bring me back. The amazing willingness to write
life out loud. The artistry that might never have a
venue. It's all so ... amazing.
I
had such a nice day on Tuesday. Abeer
came over for lunch. It was great to catch up. And
then I had dinner
with Sonya.
I go out so rarely and don't really have people over
that often these days. It was good.
And
then on Wednesday I felt the need to tuck in. It wasn't
a reaction anything negative. I'm just sucked so deep
inward. I'm not sure why. I knew why. But I feel like
that has changed. Maybe tucking in has just become habit.
Wednesday
was a nice day too.
Danelle
said it was hard to imagine me spending lots of time
alone since I was so social in Boulder. I've been thinking
about that.
Oddly
enough, even trying to write about it makes me curl
inward.
Sonya
took me to Chapeau
for dinner last night. It is the kind of place I usually
like. I love French Bistro food. I like the blend of
causal and home style with exquisite craft and ingredient.
I have a feeling our experience might have been better
but ...
It's
a small room with a lot of tables. I think, if I were
them, I'd take a few out but I know they need to make
money. That many tables takes away a sense of intimacy
and it also makes it hard for someone my size to be
seated. We arrived early so there was only one other
table filled. The host asked if we had reservations.
We didn't. He rushed off to check on something. I think
he could have been more aware of what was going to be
happening that night but I may be over critical of him.
More on that later. He returned and guided us to a table
in the back, which would be the table of choice since
it was away from the door and it was chilly last night.
But I knew I was going to be in the way there. If the
place didn't get full it might have worked out but the
waiter was going to be climbing over me to get to other
tables.
During
the evening it became hard to discern who was who since
it seemed that everyone did a bit of everything but
a gentleman who was mostly a waiter approached
and asked if we would be willing to move to a table
where "we might be more comfortable." The
snarky part of me wanted to say that I'd be happy to
move to a table where I wouldn't be in his way but the
truth was I was happy to move.
When
we got to the second table the host asked me if I could
scoot in to make more room for the person who might
sit behind me. I said something about maybe I should
just leave at which point he said, no no. He came back
a few times to check the space between my chair and
the table behind me.
So....for
me the rest of the night was tense. The food was fantastic.
Perfect. They brought us a small cup of califlower soup
with white truffle oil. Just a few bites but so rich
and good. I like when place gives you something
you don't expect. I had a trout, watercress and fingerling
salad (which was fantastic) and pork loin with shredded
brussel sprouts and ... I actually forget but I think
it might have been butternut squash. It was also great
and not forgettable but I was not as able to enjoy it
as I might have been if I weren't feeling like every
time anyone got near me I was in the way.
There
was a party of women who started to come in shortly
after we were sat. One of them didn't like how close
to the door their table was and made quite a scene about
it. I sat there wondering how it is that one woman can
feel so entitled to comfort and I can feel like I'm
taking up space that I don't deserve. The women were
having a birthday party, during which they asked one
of the owners to take a photo. To do this she had to
stand behind me. It was a little uncomfortable. She
was talking to them and leaning to get the right angle.
It's the kind of thing you don't really mind. Except
I was already feeling like I wanted them all to stay
far away from me.
I
had profiterolles for desert. Classic. Great chocolate.
The food was great. And the host brought us a sorbet
sampler "on the house". Why? I wonder.
As
we walked out the owner held the door and came out to
talk to us. He was lovely and apologetic. He talked
a little too much about the problems of his day but
what ever. He listened. He apologized. He kissed both
my cheeks. I think they did what they could to make
amends, short of the host apologizing. The owner hoped
I would come back and said he would remember me. I believe
he will. But I won't go back.
I
would recommend it. The food is great. It's a pretty
space. The ceilings are high and when the room fills
up it gets boomy. Fewer people would mean less noise.
Given all that, the owner is personable. I watched him
go from table to table. His wife, the other owner, also
seemed to know people and greet them. She wasn't quite
as charming but I wasn't in the best mood. The service
was attentive. Maybe a little too attentive. People
kept asking us if everything was all right but I think
that might have been because it obviously was not. Hard
to take back that moment of being asked to scoot my
fat ass in.
My
choice to not be ashamed of my weight is an active choice.
I make that choice in defiance of all the teasing I
got as a kid, all the rejection I've experienced professionally,
romantically. Despite rarely seeing anyone who looks
like me in movies, or television who isn't joke. Despite
being thought of as someone with a disease. Not being
ashamed is an effort. So when someone asks me to scoot
in for the comfort of someone who isn't even there yet,
I feel humiliated.
No
one ever did sit at that table. For that matter the
tables around the first table we sat in were never taken
so we could have eaten there.
It's
hard to make a living in restaurants. The place is small.
We had the prix fix, which was a good deal. I think
the place is a friendly place and on a night when they
aren't busy it would be fine for everyone, of any size.
More or less.
It's
odd. I feel the need to be clear that the place was
good and I wonder why. I got hurt. I was treated with
disrespect. Why am I trying to be understanding?
And
thinking back to yesterday when I was trying to write
about maybe needing to get out more and finding myself
stuck in the writing I realize that there are reasons
why I don't want to go out.
I
have never let my weight stop me. I had a rock-n-roll
band. I traveled. I flirted. I ....I just have never
let it stop me. And now. I kinda am. But after last
night I want to tuck in again.
A
friend sent me the link to one of your
columns. I had trouble getting through it because
it was written from the assumption that there are more
fat Americans and that people are fatter because we,
as a nation, eat too much. I take issue with both
assumptions. But, for the purpose of this letter, let's
say there are more fat Americas and all manner of accommodations
are being made for them.
You
begin and end your piece with the news of longer needles
to insure that people with larger butts get a proper
dosage of medicine. You say it is a sad cultural punch
and I wonder why it's sad to know that people of size
can get the medicine they need. As I read on I
continue to wonder why fat people being buried with dignity
or having chairs in which they feel comfortable and
supported is anything other than the way it ought to
be. If I have understood you, you think these are all
signs of a pathological national hunger.
Just
for a second, in the middle of your piece, I took hope.
You suggest that obesity is a complicated issue. But
your notion of complexity seems to be about why we eat
more and exercise less and says nothing about how the
diet industry, an industry that has grown during the
same time frame in which we are supposed to have become
so much fatter, may in fact be part
of the so called problem. I might project that you
would say it isn't the diet, it's the people who chose
the extreme diets and fail rather than choosing a moderate,
healthy diet and maintaining their weight. But, just
for a minute, consider that parallel of the growth of
the diet industry and the growth of our butt size.
I
might mention theories about Cushing
Syndrome or Leptin
in terms of why obesity is a complex issue and not as
simple as an increase in gluttony but I actually agree
with much of what you say about the culture and consumption
as means of comfort. But many of the people who indulge
in consumption are thin, or average sized. Why is
it that pundits always want to make this kind of point
on the backs of fat people?
In
my fifty two years of being a fat person, I've experienced
discrimination in my personal and professional life.
But things are much worse, much more hateful. So when
I read something like what you've written I wonder if
you think about how you contribute to that hatred. I
am old enough to process the emotional distress from
experiencing this hostility but I worry about the kids.
A
recent
article in the Teach Tolerance magazine talks about
a ten year old girl who learned not to make assumptions
about fat people when she saw a picture of Cheryl Haworth
and learned that a fat girl was also an athlete. I hope
more kids are exposed to this kind of awareness. It
is possible to be fat and fit.
In
the spirit of full disclosure you should know that I
am publishing this on my blog. I often write about the
issues of being fat on my blog. I hope that it serve
to counter the idea that:"Obesity is, by and large, a reaction, a response to a spiritual crisis
and a deep-seated energetic hole in the head/heart/soul."
Being
fat has been part of the evolution of my head,heart
and soul. I've learned a lot about assumptions. Obviously
I hope that you might read this and think about how
what you've written may contribute to the culture of
fat hatred but I publish it on my blog in the hopes
that my small base of readers will know that the assumptions
you make are not useful and warrant challenging. You
could read someotherpeople if
you wanted to challenge your own assumtions.
If
you saw me on the streets of our city you might not
guess that I swim forty five minutes a day, six day
a week and do yoga. I think food can be comforting but
I've never eaten anything in any amount that made "religious
scowling" or "neocon smirks" easier to
bear and "junk food marketing" is lost on
me. I do agree health is a change in the way you think.
It doesn't seem healthy for me to be ashamed of the
size of my ass. And if I need medication I will bend
over and be grateful that the needle is long enough
to make sure I get the medicine.
Usually,
in SF, when the ground shakes, you start looking for
the nearest door frame. But there's some kind
of construction going on down the street and my apartment
is vibrating. It's not bothering me. I just keep wondering
if it is what it is or if it's ...the BIG one.
Heh.
I'm
reluctant to take my
open letter to Mr. Morford off the front page because
I was sort of hoping I'd hear from him. But I also want
to post about Steve's
new song. I used to act out my New Orleans wanna-be
life listening to Steve play Professor Longhair and
the Neville's, as well as his own wonderful
music.
After
my bad
night at the restaurant I caved inward. Not exactly
depressed. Just not in the mood to connect. As a result,
there have been other things that I wanted to post about
and didn't.
I
wanted to post about Tookie
but there were no words. I like how Maria
posted. And that
picture is so haunting. It's beautiful. And horrible.
Paul
linked to another post about the Morford and asked
the question: What can be done to break up these cyclical
conversation? The cycle pivots on the notion of health.
Her
experience of health care is too often the experience
of fat people. It makes me angry.
Someone
I know had a heart attack last week. He's in his eighties. He
was never fat. He never smoked or did drugs. He ate
lots of fruit and veggies and was always physically
active. His decline began about five years ago and has,
in many ways been shocking. He has lived longer than
any member of his family. They all died from heart related
illness. So, he did lots of good self care and his genetics
are doing their thing. It is what it is. No fault.
No blame.
His
wife, a year away from eighty, is on no meds. Her only
health issues are some joint pain. She smoked on and
off and has always been fat. And has dieted off and
on all her life. Lost weight. Gained weight. Lost weight.
Gained it back.
Sigh.
Health
is so individual. Whenever anyone says fat people should
just lose weight I wonder if they think about how that
is going to happen. And I wonder if they think about
how having your body size made the issue impacts your
health. I wonder a lot of things. The cycle isn't
going to stop until people get that some people are
always going to be fat and that you can be healthy at
any weight and that health is not a place you arrive
at. It's a process.
I'm
not caved today. I feel fine. Just a little shaken from
time to time. Things will settle down when the construction
guys go to lunch. I have the energy to connect. Look
around. Think. Feel. Wonder some more.
My
wallet was stolen. I looked at my finger and realized
I was very sick and then I fell off my chair. I lost
my baby.
Those
were my dreams on Friday night. I woke up after each
dream and had trouble getting back to sleep. When the
morning arrived I was so tired I didn't want to
get up and go to the pool. But I did.
When
I went to the pool on Thursday I realized that the construction
wasn't really construction so much as it was repair.
The entire street was blocked off and torn up. There
had been a water main break early in the morning. There
was mud everywhere. They were out there again on Saturday and
I learned, from some women at the pool that people a
bock away from me had been without water.
It
is cold. I've don't remember SF ever being this
cold. This morning we had rain, lightning and hail.
It was so intense that I moved away from the computer.
All my Poppop's old phobias about storms became real.
Turn off everything electrical. Stay away from water.
Stay off the phone. I'm not sure why I got so scared
except I seem to feel excessively vulnerable.
The
rain has stopped and I'm back at the computer with CSPAN
on the TV. The congress is working on Sunday. I looked
out my backdoor a minute ago. There's a small river
of water rushing down the street. I can't imagine what
it looks like at the corner. I suspect it's a mud pit.
Someone
in my building always decorates a small tree in the
back yard. When I first moved in the tree was small
enough to sit on top of the picnic table we have out
back. It's almost my height now. The ornaments
are tiny. It's very sweet.
I'm
pretty far away from Christmas right now. I'm just not
... enough ... for it. Or something.
I've
been listening to some of the big debate over whether
or not to say Merry Christmas, or Happy Holidays. I
usually try to say Happy Holidays, unless I know the
person is either Christian or celebrates Christmas.
But I make cultural obtuse blunders.
For
example, I made a few Jewish Sims families. When a Sim
gets to a certain level of cooking skill they learn
a new dish. I had Moshe Swartz eating a pork chop and
suddenly I remembered that wasn't cool. I hope he didn't
get a taste for them coz he's not getting another one.
It
is a god game. But what's a Sims to do when god makes
you break a law?
Every
year my down stairs neighbor has what she calls a dunking
party. She says it's a Swedish tradition. She and her
daughter make a huge pot of vegetable soup and everyone
comes over to eat soup and dunk bread in it. Every year
she invites me and very year I beg off. She told me
if I came at 1:00 there wouldn't be too many people
so I went. It turned out to be just she and I, which
was perfect. We sat in her kitchen and ate soup. Very
sweet.
I
spent the rest of the afternoon and evening on the phone
with Jeanne and then Mom and then Danelle. Had my dinner.
Brie and bread and tangerines. Steak, arugala, feta
and beet salad. A glass of wine. Some egg nog for desert.
I
watched a
movie that was just so dreary and yet so human.
The ending is not exactly happy but extremely tender.
It was a good movie to watch.
Just
before I went to bed I opened one of the two packages
Kristina sent and so my last word of the evening was
ooooooo.
And
so this is Christmas.
My
first Christmas away from home was one of my favorites.
I was in Boulder. I called Mom from a pay phone in the
snow. My friend wrote a bad check so that we could have
dinner in a diner and see a
movie. We ended the night a bar. It was desperate
and funky and yet, it was mine. I think I like it better
as a memory than I did then.
Bruce
Cockburn is on the radio. Matt is going to be sitting
in for Larry this week. It's Sunday morning. I'm
going to go make my breakfast and open my presents and
have the day that will become another memory.
After
watching four seasons of QAF
in a row my Netflix queue took a turn. There's no real
rhyme or reason for why I put a movie in my queue. I
read about one on a blog, or a friend says something,
or someone on the radio does a review. I don't pay attention
to how I've lined them up.
First
I saw The
Assassination of Richard Nixon, which was a portrait
of a mental collapse. There was only one moment in the
film in which I got tired of watching Sean Penn. For
the most part it is well acted, difficult and tragic.
Then
I watched The
Woodsman. Another difficult portrait but somewhat
redemptive. And then I watched two Mike Leigh films.
All or
Nothing and Vera Drake.
Both difficult, dreary and yet utterly human.
Renee,
just back from a semester in Mexico, and I were talking
the other day about how the idea that things ought to
get better and/or be fair is particularly American.
In most countries people understand that things go wrong
and may not work out. The moment of doubt is the cliff
hanger and we wonder how things are going to get ...
better.
There
is a Christmas scene in Vera Drake. Everything has gone
very wrong and the usually jovial family is sullen.
The young man who is new to the family (having
just asked the daughter to marry him) says it is the
best Christmas of his life. And he's sincere. He is
now a part of this group of people and happy to be there
even in their darkest hour.
I,
being too typically American, watched these films with
an eye for positivity. And, in all of them there are
these dear moments of humanity. When I saw that
these were the films that I would have to watch during
Christmas I thought I'd be buried in depression. But
something about the way people inhabit their tragedy
moves me. I feel softer and more open.
I
finished Mother
Millett. While I was reading it I called Millett
my new best friend. She was just a little older when
she was writing the book than I am now. Her mother was
just a little older than my mother is now. All
of the issues are the issues I'm experiencing, although
the details are different.
My
mother is remarkably healthy. Her husband is the one
with the problems and there is some irony in that. He
was the healthy guy. Not fat. Never smoked. Ate his
fruits and veggies. Mom has weight cycled all of her
life but has mostly been fat. Smoked for awhile as a
young adult and then once in awhile after she quit.
He is a few years older and she is the care giver now.
Since
the time I went to help take care of him after one surgery
I've been thinking I need to move closer. But I can't
quite figure out how to pull it off, or if I need to
do it. They are embedded in a community of seniors with
a structure of care giving. They don't need me now and
they may never. But the emotional pull is strong.
My
relationship with Mom is one of the more complicated
and difficult relationships of my life, which is not
at all unusual. Millett writes in an internal, observational
manner. I feel so much of what she went through. The
anger. The way she loses herself in the presence of
her mother. The need to save.
The
book positions strongly against institutionalization.
And that is where my uncertainty about being with my
Mom ends.
I
remember going to visit my mother's mother in the home.
It may be an embellished memory but I remember going
down stairs and so I remember it as a basement. She
was sitting in a chair in the middle of a room in which
there were other elders. As we got closer I realized
that she was tied to her chair. She was holding
the newspaper, as she did every morning, but she was
holding it upside down.
In the course of springing her mother, Kate discovers that the use of
"restraint"--strapping residents into their beds--is a not uncommon
practice at St. Anne's. Looking over the nursing notes in her mother's
file, she finds that such treatment was recommended for
Helen--"specifically a black belt, a great hunk of rough fabric like a
huge karate belt with which one is tied to the bed and made immobile
and helpless"; the notes convey that Helen "does not cooperate in
taking every medication put before her...and even strikes the hand that
would administer, refuses many blandishments, is not adjusting. An
unwilling resident, who from the moment she entered the place seems to
have provoked the admitting nurse." There is a palpable sense of
personal pride in Millett's account; like daughter like mother, one
might say. But there is also a very important current of indignation
that propels this book, and Millett's other work, down its wild course.(more)
I
don't think I can let that happen to my mother. And
so I wait for news. Details of doctor's visits. I listen
as my friends talk about their own mothers. I
read more of
them. I have a few friends who have already lost
their mothers and two who lost them in car accidents.
Jo
Ann's book is so wonderful.
And
I am aware of my own age in relation to all of this.
So Kate was my new best friend for awhile. Comforting
and confronting me with her own memory. Now I'm onto
Didion.
Different. And yet somehow the same.
The
section of Powell that had been closed and torn up to
fix the water main break is open again. There are still
a few places on the curb that need work but the sound
of road work is not the first sound of the morning.
People have carved their initials into the cement. There
is a heart with M + M in it. The work seemed to take
a long time but was, no doubt, hampered by the weather.
Tuesday
at the pool was crowded so I left after twenty minutes.
Wednesday I got into a conversation with a neighbor
and, although we were moving the whole time, I wasn't
swimming. Thursday and Friday I got in my forty five
minutes of back and forth. This morning it was just
four of us for a half an hour. I worried when two more
people got in but we all managed to give each other
space.
I
couldn't find my copy of Fugitive
Pieces for three days. It's not like my apartment
is big. I have four shelves full of books and two tables
stacked and a row on the shelf above my desk. And a
few on the table beside my chair. I wandered from shelf
to stack to shelf looking for the book. And then I gave
up and then I wandered some more. Where was it? Did
I lend it to someone and they didn't give it back?
Eventually
I found it. Tonight I had the same problem with After
Henry. It makes me a feel a bit dotty. Part of the
problem is that I get distracted by books. I start looking
at something and forget what I'm doing. As much as I
envy Kristina's collection I'm sure I'd never be able
to find anything.
Didion
has always sent me to the dictionary. Sometimes I've
heard the word and think I know what it means but need
to be sure. In this
book I found lacunae
and anodyne.
Early
in the evening, last night, I became tired of the sound of the TV.
I turned on NPR and made some red bean and kale soup
with sausage.
And then I turned off the radio and read with just the sound
of rain on the window. At ten I watched Numbers.
I love the math. I don't understand the math but I love
listening to it.
This
morning on the news I heard that today
will be a second longer. The extra second was needed
because the earth is slowing on its axis. It seemed
like something rich with metaphor. I thought about it
while I swam. I've come up with nothing fanciful. Just.
Only. Things change.
I
checked on Maria
to make sure she wasn't under
water and found that she had passed me a meme.
Four jobs you've had in your life:
Cook, waitress, singer, drug dealer.
Four movies you could watch over and over:
Wings of Desire and .... not much else.
Four places you've lived: Pittsburgh,
PA, Wheaton MD, Boulder CO and NYC.