Eat the Damn Cake

This is a guest post. Kate (yes, it’s a popular name for cool women writers) contacted me yesterday, asking me to write about the Marie Claire controversy. I was all set to do it, and then it occurred to me that she’d watched the show, felt passionately enough about the issue to write to me in the first place, and was an excellent writer. So I promptly passed the buck– right back to her. Kate is firstly a Katherine, unlike me (I’m one of those rare, endangered just-Kates), and she is a former entertainment blogger for a very popular blog (which must remain a secret for top-secret reasons). She didn’t even want to include that. I had to force her to sound the slightest bit braggy. Here she is:

A few days ago, Marie Claire writer  Maura Kelly posted this piece online in which she uses the new CBS series “Mike and Molly” as an example of exactly what she does not want to see on TV:   fat people!  Or more specifically and worse:   fat people in love!   In the post, titled “Should ‘Fatties’ Get a Room? (Even on TV?)”, she breezily explains why she just can’t stand the sight of two “fat people” on TV kissing.  (On the show, Mike and Molly begin a sweet romance after meeting in Overeaters Anonymous.)  Actually, she can’t stand to watch “fat people” do anything at all!  They’re so fat!  What are they doing on her television in the first place?!  Acting like humans?!  Gross! Continue Reading »

I understand why models have to be so skinny. It’s because of cameras. Cameras hate fat. They hate anything that stands out in any way, actually. But especially fat. I look in the mirror and observe that my arms are really not that incredibly gigantic. They don’t even look disproportionate, really. When I’m being absolutely honest with myself. But in photos, they appear to each weigh about seventy pounds. Maybe sixty-five, if one is being kind about the situation.

(I bet even this little guy could do some serious damage. Source)

Looking at photos of me that include my arms (which is most photos of me, since I have both of them and haven’t found a way to hide the fact) makes me want to stop eating pasta for the rest of my life. And then it makes me think about my arms when I’m eating pasta (which I usually am, within an hour or so of deciding never to eat it again). Continue Reading »

(source)

Dominique Browning writes in the New York Times that her hair is sexy. She’s fifty-five. It’s gray. It’s long. You gotta problem with that? I don’t, but she feels the world’s disapproving eye on her, even as it reaches out bony fingers to stroke a wafting strand. Being a middle-aged woman with long hair is rebellious, she says. There’s a rule. Women are supposed to cut their hair at a certain age. They’re supposed to do it quietly, complacently, and stylishly. And then their friends will all say, “Oh! You look lovely!” and exchange approving looks.  But Browning wants more than that fleeting, compulsory interaction with other women. She has a line towards the end of the article that goes: “Is it not wonderfully sexy the way our grandmothers, those women of the prairie, or concrete canyons, would braid their hair up in the morning and let their cowboys unravel them at night?” Continue Reading »

The first time I called Bear my husband was on the phone with Roberto, the sound and lights guy from the venue. I was asking him if he’d seen Bear’s blood kit. A little black bag with the blood machine and the test strips, the finger pricker*, a syringe, and a vial of insulin.

“I think that we—that my husband—forgot his blood kit.”

“You said it,” said Bear, from beside me. He was driving. And laughing at me a little. “Nice. The first time. Remember how the first time you called me your fiancé was to the computer repairman?”

“Yes,” I said. “I remember.”

“What?” said Roberto. “Can you hold on a second? Wait– I’ll call you back.”

He didn’t call me back. Which was fine. Bear could stick his finger with a needle. He kept telling me how he’d gotten really good at it. I kept averting my eyes when he did it. We were on our honeymoon. We drove through the Hamptons (well, some of them, anyway), and out to Montauk. Everything was closed. There were no celebrities or really rich people to be seen. But then, the really rich people have a habit of disguising themselves as not-so-rich people in windblown rustic couture in that area. So who knows.

“Ground zero, baby,” said Bear, “for the Pottery Barn revolution!” Continue Reading »

I threw up on my wedding night.

I don’t know where to start the story. Which is why instead of starting, I got some pizza, looked through some photos of friends of people I am friends with on Facebook, and watched an episode of Castle on Hulu. Then I clicked open a blank Word document, and here I am. Typing and looking at my hands on the dirty keyboard. Chipping turquoise nails, gold wedding band. Because I’m married. And when you don’t know where or how to start, the best thing to do is just start.

The world wants to ask me, “Does it feel different? How does it feel?”

And my answer is, “It feels different.” Continue Reading »

I was picking up Bear’s shirts at the drycleaner. Jackie, the woman who works there, said, “When is the big day?”

I said, “Sunday.”

She reached across the counter and took my hand in both of hers. “Then I have to say something,” she said. “I have to say I wish for you good life, happiness, everything good. You should not be scared. ” She smiled at me as she spoke.

A man waited with a bag of laundry, checking his phone.

“I like you,” said Jackie. “I want happy life for you.”

“I like you, too,” I said. “I want that for you, too.”

And we looked at each other, smiling.

It was sort of perfect. Getting married can do that. Suddenly everyone in the world seems to come together. And they’re all smiling at you.

*  *  *  *  *

Un-roast: Today I love the way I look when I grin. I used to cover my mouth when I smiled, when I was thirteen. I thought my smile was really dorky. I was right.  But dorky is good.

P.S. Check out (if you want) my article in Huffpo about the TODAYshow.com’s report about homeschoolers, here.