30 Days: Worse For the Wear

30 days in.  No weight loss.  More weight gain.  Why?

Here's the answer

• cookies (gluten free doesn't make them calorie free)
• eggnog (can't handle diary well, but doesn't stop me from imbibing.  Mmmmmhhhhh, noggy goodness)
• depression 
• butternut squash mac and cheese (Swiss instead of cheddar makes its betta)
• anxieties 
• scones (they're not really that good, but does it stop me.  No!)
• little sleep (Because nothing says Christmas like 3 5' snowmen on a 2 ft lawn, just outside my bedroom window)
• rock through the car windshield which cancelled Christmas plans

I'm not the person I want to be.  I want to be so much more.  And right now my head is spinning with all the things I want to do, like map out my novel, clean my room, do some yoga, visit the library, and yet I want to curl up in bed and sleep for three days.

Maybe a good night's sleep and a cry would help.  Maybe I should sleep on the couch tonight, which is dark and tomb-like.  Maybe I'll feel better in the morning.

Today. It Sucked.

     "I see you like to color coordinate.  Does the carpet match the drapes?"


   "I like when women say whatever they want.  I might be married but I enjoy 'interesting" conversations."

  "Caroline, LinkedIn thinks you should connect with X (your rapist).

The P in PTSD is post.  As in after.  There is no time limit to how far removed this post situation might be.  It could be 14 years later when a deep-seated fear and hatred is triggered.

You don't expect an inappropriate remark to detonate a well of emotions that leaves you silently crying for 2 hours while you drive up and down I-95, while your child plays Angry Birds, fortunately unaware of the crazy train sitting in the driver's seat.

I don't put much effort into my looks.  Besides coloring my hair blue (which I realized today is nothing but an attempted security blanket), I don't style it very often.  I rarely wear make-up.  Now that the weather is warmer, I'm wearing long, flowy skirts that aren't all that flattering, but I feel comfortable in.

I don't set out with the intent on appearing like I'm sex on a stick.  I don't bathe in milk and honey.  I don't roll in pheromones.  At this point I would be a better spokesperson for The Cheesecake Factory than Abercrombie & Fitch.

Yet, I wind up in situations where complete strangers say the most inappropriate things to me.  And it terrifies me.  It makes me so angry and sad.  Like the only thing this person sees before them is a sexual object.

Once, I was nothing but a sexual object for someone, for 5 miserable months.  "You're incapable of having an intelligent conversation with me, but your body makes up for it."

I've admitted previously that I struggle with self-harm.  One of the reasons why self-harming is such a struggle for me to stop is because I secretly believe that the cuts, welts, and scars will be such a turn-off that if a person is really interested in me, it will be because of my sense of humor, my intelligence, or my inability to laugh silently.

For the love of God, I don't want strangers to assume that I'm comfortable with sexual innuendo because my bra cup overfloweth.

I'm so scared and so low right now that if acid were splashed in my face right now I'd probably be happy.  I feel like I'm 18 all over again, trying to believe that I am more than a hole for someone to fuck.  

I'm trying to tell myself that I'm not a bad person, that I wasn't asking for it then as much as I wasn't asking for it today.  And it's really hard to listen to it.

I can't get a hold of my therapist, so writing it out will have to do.  I haven't hurt myself in the last 2 hours, yea, so there's a win I suppose.

It's gotta be better tomorrow.  Or at least I'll fake it.  My little karate kid is going to test for his yellow belt and mommy's anxieties don't need to overshadow his big day. 

Socks

The other day I had the following conversation with my mom :

"I saw someone at the store yesterday and when I described her to your father and siblings, everyone had the same reaction.

This woman was wearing a tiara, black and red striped knee socks, and lime green sneakers.

Everyone asked, 'Is Caroline in town?"

"No Mom, I wasn't in town, but I am wearing pink and green knee socks."

Ahhh, it's good to be me. 

A Day In the Life of this Writer

Each morning I wake up bright eyed, excited to grab the reigns of a new day, another chance to make my mark on the world around me.  Refreshed and relaxed I jump out of bed, whereupon I throw open my heat-reflecting curtains and smile benevolently at my fellow apartment dwellers as they make their way to a more traditional job working for the man every night and day.  With a content sigh, I dress in my stylish clothes, scrunch my hair into a darling, touchable mess of curls eschewing any makeup as it would detract from my natural dewy countenance.

Mornings are the best time of day.

For the birds.

And over-Botoxed anchorwomen

But never for me.

Nada.

Instead, what usually transpires is the Kiddo jumps on me long before I've gotten the bare minimum 6 hours of recommended sleep because I'll have been up until 2AM writing or reading.  (Although some evenings I get a crack-like addiction for Scrubs, Bones, Arrested Development, or The Closer).

Kiddo commences with the morning wiggle/snuggle/kick routine punctuated by commands of "Get me a little breakfast, but not too much, and a fiber gummy.  Fiber gummies help me poop!"  Sufficiently annoyed,  I stumble on osteoarthritic knees to the kitchen where upon I dispense the cereal o' the day and fiber gummies to the overstimulated Kiddo while I await the almighty coffee maker to brew my drug of choice, usually Brother's Havanna blend which reminds me of Ybor cigar shops. (Never Folgers or Maxwell House).
 
This morning somewhere between cup number 1 and 2 I thought that a change of scenery for the day would be a good thing for me and the Kiddo.  He could run around at my parent's house and I could concentrate at the library down the road.  As I imagined myself pounding out inspired works, I tossed on my far-from- glamorous-but-totally-comfy gray yoga pants and a holey t-shirt.  Easter-egg-hued plaid socks and beat-up sneakers complimented the half-assed pigtails and Nike cap jammed on my head. 

Fashion nightmare, why yes I am? 

The way I see it, if the rich and famous movie stars can dress like a thrift-store-scavenger/nuclear-war survivor while they are trying to hide away from the press, why can't I do the same? 

I could totally rock those outfits.

I'd like to pretend that people will think I'm famous when I'm dressed like a color blind bum but I'm not that delusional, nor do I take myself that seriously.  Honestly, you can't really pull of being famous and mysterious when you are writing in a library that reeks of despair and stale farts. 

 

I March to the Beat of a Different Drummer and I Won't Wear Your Damn Shoes!

It's time for me to toot my own horn, but not just for me, for any woman who has ever felt less than, who has questioned her gut instincts because someone else has told her that she is wrong.  This post is for any woman who has felt too fat, too plain, too outspoken, too wrong in every way.

I've lost 6lbs in the last 6 days.  Yea me for actually watching what the hell I've been eating!  I need and want to lose some weight so I can be a bit healthier, so I can chase after my son without wanting to die from lack of oxygen, so if I have to run (AGAIN) after a (suspected) rape victim I won't be so sore the next day I can't move without bitching.  The thing is, I'M DOING IT FOR MYSELF, not for anyone else!!!!!!

Women, have you ever made the mistake of trying to diet/lose weight to impress someone whether it be your family member who says that you have such a pretty face, but a fat ass or your (lame-ass, needs-to-be-dumped-right-away) boyfriend who "liked you when you first started going out, while there was a LOT more of you to like," but is "even turned on more now that there is LESS of you."

(Side note: 3 of the 4 guys I have dated were fixated on my weight/waist/chest size and each time I was with one of them, I tried to 'fix' my body to have their approval.  Thank God with the help of a great mentor and spiritual adviser, I've realized that the problem isn't ME, it's the assholes that I've been with.)

I wish every woman out there who has cried when she looked at the woman in the mirror, believing that she is too fat, too disgusting to be loved, could realize what it's taken me almost 30 years to realize.

This entire post stems from a commercial I saw while vegging out on the parent's couch Christmas day watching A Christmas Story marathon that PISSED. ME. OFF.  (Sidenote: I've spent several hours on the almighty Google and YouTube trying to locate the commercial just so I could get even more pissy before writing about said commercial.  No such luck.)

The product being touted by athletic-blond Barbie are those shoes with the curved sole, claiming to firm up you legs and butt just by walking around in them.  (Frankly, if you believe that walking ten feet around you kitchen and one trip through the grocery store a week will give you buns of steel, I have a bridge I'd like to sell you.)  So Christmas Barbie is putting gifts under the tree for her family, explaining who gets which present, when she pulls out the asstastic toning sneakers saying, "And for my husband I got myself a pair of <INSERT NAME-BRAND> shoes so I can be a sexier me."

^^^^^^^^^^^^Long pause^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

Did I just hear that correctly?

You are going to be SEXIER FOR HIM?  Why don't you just say that your relationship with your husband is so superficial that you feel that a tighter ass will show your love for him?  That you aren't good enough/sexy enough to keep your husband happy?  That you are the problem?

WHAT. THE. HELL?

Ladies out there: NO!

We don't need to put up with this shit for one minute longer.  You are just right the way you are and if the man of you dreams thinks that your body shape/size is out of proportion for him, drop his ass right there.

What I'm trying to say is, if you want to/need to lose weight, DO. IT. FOR. YOURSELF.  No one else. 

I've made that mistake before.  I was with a man (men) who made me question my beauty, my self-worth, my self-esteem.  I'm not here to point fingers and play the blame game.  I went along with their ideas because I didn't love myself.  I didn't like what was inside me, so I thought I could fix the outside. 

I wish I could go back in time and tell myself  what the ever witty Jen Lancaster says in her book Such a Pretty Fat, "I'm tired of books where a self-loathing heroine is teased to the point where she starves herself skinny in hopes of a fabulous new life.  And I hate the message that women can't possibly be happy until we all fit into our skinny jeans.  I don't find these stories uplifting: they make me want to hug these women and take them out for fizzy champagne drinks and cheesecakes and explain to them that until they figure out their insides, their outsides don't matter."  (Emphasis mine)

I am living my life one day at a time, loving myself.  Don't me wrong.  I have my ups and downs.  Being unemployed has not be the greatest thing on my ego.  Being a single mom with a wacky sense of humor sometimes makes me wonder how soon my son will ask to see a shrink.  I have days when I am horribly brutal to myself.  But the important thing is, I come out of it.  And I move forward.

Learn to love yourself first before you try to fix your weight.  And do it for yourself. 


I hope this is a message that I can pass on to my younger sisters and any women out there floundering around in a sea of weight-induced misery.  30 years is far too long a time to not enjoy life because you aren't a size 6. 

It's All Because of You

Merry Christmas from the Diatribest and the Kiddo

To all my readers,
THANK YOU so much for the wonderful gift you have given me this year.  When I started writing back in August, I never, EVER imagined that I would have people from all over the world stopping by to read my rantings and musings.  Each day I log in, I find that new countries have added themselves to the map.  (Hello Croatia!  Hello Belgium!)  I was so hesitant to write for so long because I didn't believe that I had anything worthwhile to contribute.  Thank you for giving me that boost of confidence that I've needed for a long time. 

It's because of your continual readership that has inspired me to work on a short novel and to begin working again on expanding my college thesis.  I haven't touched it in 7 years for I believed that I was too unintelligent to undertake a scholarly piece because I was never able to further my education like many of my college classmates have.  I'm not bluffing when I say, without you I couldn't do this. 

The Kiddo and I are doing well and look forward to the new year with anticipation.  Hopefully it will bring me gainful employment and continued good health for my son.  I couldn't be happier.

As always I remain black beans and ricely yours,
The Diatribest

Christmas Scenes from the Diatribest Household

The Kiddo reciting his litany to (a very rude) Santa

Our (very dead) Christmas tree

My favorite ornament--Baby Kiddo four years ago

The Baby Diatribest's first Christmas

Wooden Creche that I've had since I was 5.  It still has the 3.99 price tag from Woolworths.

Painting ornaments

An impromptu photo shoot

A nice hot toddy to cap off the end of the day

If You've Ever Felt Fat. . . With Absolutely No Apologies to Maura Kelly or Marie Claire's EIC Joanna Coles

Dear tactless Maura Kelly and her questionable editor Joanna Coles

Ladies, have either of you ever woken up in the morning and felt like it was going to be one of your fat days?  You know instinctively that none of your clothes will look right on you, you assume everyone at work will see the cellulite on your legs, and your raging PMS hormone-addled body is screaming for chocolate, salt, or a combination of the two.  (French fries dunked in a chocolate shake?  Why, yes I will!)  So when I came across this drivel, I'm sorry, this blog post which masquerades as a piece of freelance writing worthy of monetary compensation Should Fatties Get a Room? (Even on TV?), I am happy to say that I could care less about your ignorant, C minus creative arts class assessment on fat/big boned/obese people.  (And really, if you took out the word "Fatties" out of the title and inserted a different age/social/religious/ethnic group, for example, Welfare Recipients, Blacks, Mormons, Hasidic Jews, there would be one hell of a lawsuit and boycott on your hands.)

It's taken me almost 30 years to realize and understand what the ever witty Jen Lancaster says in her book Such a Pretty Fat, "I'm tired of books where a self-loathing heroine is teased to the point where she starves herself skinny in hopes of a fabulous new life.  And I hate the message that women can't possibly be happy until we all fit into our skinny jeans.  I don't find these stories uplifting: they make me want to hug these women and take them out for fizzy champagne drinks and cheesecakes and explain to them that until they figure out their insides, their outsides don't matter."  (Emphasis mine)

See, my body type tends to be more like this:

She is so gorgeous!

What's not to like?

                         Instead of THIS:

I've seen healthier legs on a stork!

I want to scream, "Eat a damn sandwich!"

And I'm not going to apologize for my curves, I'm gonna embrace them!  Do you know how much women pay for a set of D-D-D in hopes of raising their self-esteem and garnering more looks from the male population?  I got these babies for free!  Should I apologize to you because my thighs touch when I stand up or that "Baby Got Back" by Sir-Mix-A-Lot celebrates women like me and not you?  Are you that unhappy in your love/emotional/physical life that you find it revolting to see an overweight person in love and enjoying life?  Do you somehow feel better knowing that the thousands of people who don't have this gift of understanding and security that I have so lately received are going to cry into their pints of ice cream while they mentally scourge themselves for being viewed as disgusting?

And while you think that your half-assed attempt of an apology (I'm sorry your feelings got hurt for what I said, even though what I said is right, and I'm actually a victim too) is going to cut it, don't count on it.  We live in a day and age where cell phones post videos directly to YouTube, blog posts can go viral in a matter of hours, and talking heads love to comment on 'controversial' topics (Joanna's words, not mine).  This isn't going to be swept under the rug that easily.  My mother said that when you say a word in anger, once it's out there, you can't take it back.  The damage has already been done.  So Ms. Kelly let this be a lesson to you, never trust an editor who goads you into writing on a topic that you have no real clue about, and understand when you piss off one friend, you've lost one friend.  When you piss off a large (pun intended) contingent on the internet, you're screwed.

They just don't make 'em like they use to----Part Duex

Well, my first and certainly not last mistake has been pointed out to me by an expert trivia fan.  It was EVA not Zsa Zsa who played in Green Acres.  Whoops!  But still, I am grossed out when I think of plasticine Gabor.  

They just don't make 'em like they use to

This week I have been bogged down with the continual aid at the parental property.  The MotherShip had the Wild Woman of Borneo look about her, so for the past three days, I've been logging in most of my time out in deliverance country.  No joke, there are deer that walk through the back yard and I half expect the neighbor down the road to invite the new folks to a Klan rally.  (Really, we get it.  You live in a log cabin, you have a truck with Dixie flags, and your yard is a testament to hunting.)

So while I have been unable to summon up the energy to write, I have at least collected articles of amusement and ideas that I have been running around in this highly caffeinated cerebral cortex.  The you've-got-to-be-kidding-me factor has been through the roof, and it's technically not even Friday for another 120 mins.

First up, is this brand of crazy.  I haven't followed up on it yet, but I am assuming that all over the blog-sphere one camp or another will be admiring/denouncing/sanctifying/vilifying James Lee, an obviously mentally diminished man.  It is apparent that by reading the first line of Lee's demand this is not your everyday Mother Earth Lover; he's quite off his rocker.  He hates, well, pretty much everybody.  He's no a peacnik but he's not a warmonger either.  Lee wants everyone dead so he can be Lord Cuckoo Head of the Beetle Kingdom.  The thing of this that makes me wonder the most, isn't why wasn't this person arrested back when he began causing public disturbances as we are now finding out about his prior encounters; it's why do we not have mental hospitals anymore?  I truly believe that there are people who cannot live in society, who need to be sheltered from the outside world, for their ideas of reality are far too warped.  I'm not talking about mental hospitals out of One Flew Over the Cuckoo Nest, or Girl, Interrupted  but maybe a cross between Shutter Island and Charlie and the Chocolate Factory.

Second item up for intellectual target practice are the big bad gangbangers of Chicago.  It appears that "police and city officials do not respect them."  Well, someone stop the presses 'cuz this is the biggest shocker of my life.  Image that, citizens whose job it is to uphold the law don't like those 'self-identified gang members' who do their best to break the law.  And these upstanding Chicago boys really know how to represent their intelligence: "they were tricked into coming to the meeting, and that it amounted to harassment." 

Now here's the thing, if I were head of a gang I would be ASHAMED to admit that I was tricked by the police.  Isn't part of being a gang member/hooligan/thug with street cred supposed to be wise to the tricks of the 5-0.  Would you really want to project the image that instead of being wily like a fox, you are as dumb as Wiley Coyote?  And complaining that you were harassed by the police, isn't police harassment one of your merit badges?  Like you don't get any really respect unless the Po Po be hasslen' you every time a situation goes down. 

And of course if Chicago ever wants to see less gang violence all the city has to do is "provide jobs and improve their community."  Because of course, it's Chicago's fault for making all these gang members sell drugs, shoot out of driving cars, and destroy neighborhoods. 

Third and most lastly for the evening, vanity thy name is Zsa Zsa.  Is this even a real story or is The Onion being used as a source for real and current news?  It appears that Mr. Zsa Zsa beleives his alling wife would want to have her moral remains a la Madame Tussaud's for the entire world to gawk.  And not immortalized in wax, but to have her body pumped with plastic filler.  Wasn't Paris Hilton in a horror movie where that happened?  I don't know, it's far too weird for me. 

One might argue that Catholic do the same thing, noting the various chapel crypts in Europe where one can't throw a stone without hitting an incorrupt body, but the distinction here is that Catholics believe these people to have led holy lives, preformed miracles, and are spending their eternity in the presence of the Almighty Creator. 

I'm not too sure that Green Acres is a TV show that I'll be watching in late night reruns. 

Open Mouth, Insert Pointy Stiletto Encased Foot

I've made a few dumb mistakes in my life.  Some I can laugh about (my early 90's jerry-curl perm), some still make me cringe (drunk dialing), and some were flat out DUMB (note to self, don't EVER again try to go UP a down-moving escalator while in a little black dress and chunky black heels.  It took two weeks for the black eye and bruising to heal).

I'm fortune that I'm not a celebrity.  (Sure, I'd love the monetary part of the package, especially the way the economy is in the crapper, but other than that, no thank you!)
--None of my bad hair week/mismatched wardrobe malfunction/excessive use of the word F#*k will never make it to newsstands across the country.
--I have no sex tapes on the Internet and no wet tee shirt videos for Girls Gone Wild.
--I've never been recorded uttering racist or tactless jokes into my live microphone at a big conference.

In short, I'm safe in saying that if anyone wants to remind me of my dumb mistakes, there is always a chance that I can argue Perry Mason style that the event never took place or that I will even remember it.  (Maybe I should start taking Ginkoba.  Bad memories run in the family.)

So while I do feel some pity for Miss Philippines' first mistake for she has undoubtedly become the most YouTube'd woman this month, I think that her arrogant answer is product of a culture that puts excessive importance on feminine perfection.  Pre-teen girls play with anorexic Barbies/Bratz Dolls, movie stars that had breakthrough roles as the 'chubby girl' in the movie are whittled down to size six by the time the red carpet is rolled out, and TV fitness instructors (yes, you Jillian-I-won't-ruin-my-body-with-pregnancy-Michaels) will have you believe that an ounce of flab is as disgusting as kicking a puppy.

Why do we live in a society where women are conditioned to despise themselves for being less than flawless?  Why are we expected to maintain the facade of being put together in every aspect of our lives when we are crying, dying, rotting inside?  Just look at the tabloids next time you are in line at the grocery store.  In one magazine you will find articles geared to educating women on "How to Dress for Success", "How to Decorate like Martha", "Fifty Naughty Positions", "Exercise while at Work", and "Learn to Embrace Yourself".  It's exhausting just reading those titles, much less than worrying that we women will be considered less than for failing to uphold the printed directions.

It's getting close to midnight and my rant has wondered around quiet a bit tonight.  I leave you with this tidbit that never ceases to amaze me.  Even girl and boy and grown man and woman need to watch this: Evolution