I typed this in an email to my boyfriend (fiance) and decided to paste it here, too, so y’all know:
I feel, lately, like most of the problems around me are caused by unhappy people looking to make others unhappy. I want to be left alone so I can do my work and have a good life.

I put a couple of new pics on the Flickr page, including my new author photo and a pic of Toby and me. New author photo is also on the About page, for those who are interested in seeing it but don’t want to click all the way over to Flickr.

weight yammering

I’m a little bit annoyed by the fact that I’ve been losing and gaining the same five pounds since February 1. I want to tell people “I’ve lost 40 pounds!” but then that number changes back to 35. Back and forth, back and forth. I read a comment on a blog the other day (maybe Big Fat Deal?) where someone said, “The only way she was able to maintain that weight was by eating only 1200 calories a day and exercising for 90 minutes every night!!” And I thought, “Damn.” Because that’s what I’m doing every day, and it’s not working. I’m stuck here at this pants size that I don’t want to be.

My number one motivation here is becoming a pants size that is readily available in all non-plus-size, non-vanity-sized retail clothing stores. I’ll just say it: Size 12. And it’s not happening. And it’s starting to piss me off. Personally, I don’t think 90 minutes of exercise per day is a lot, especially if you spend most of your day sitting at a desk or in your car. It’s not like we live in genteel Victorian England, where everyone has a huge freaking garden to take an hour-long walk after every meal. So I don’t feel like it’s unreasonable that I might have to exercise even more. But I do feel like I either have time to lose weight, or time to, say, write a novel. But not both. Not with an eight-hour day job and 2 hour roundtrip commute. Very, very annoying.

(Note: The above paragraphs are about me, not about you. I want to be size 12, and that’s my business. My desire to be size 12 has nothing to do with your body, my opinion of your body, or American society’s potential, personal hatred of you. FYI. So don’t start, if you’re thinking of starting down that road.)

Hardcore judgmental thoughts, here. Avert your eyes if you can’t take it.

See… I hate lookism, and so I avoid people who judge others only by their looks. But, at the same time, I can’t stand it when people go around presupposing that everyone is discriminating against them or, basically, that any woman thinner/prettier than them must be an evil bitch. It goes both ways, you know?

A while back, I found some chick’s weight-loss blog. (I will never recall the URL and I’m about to hate on this chick, so I wouldn’t post it in any case.) This woman said she’d just lost some enormous amount of weight, okay? And she had several entries about how it now disgusts her to see fat people on the subway. She said she especially hates to watch them eat. And that’s her right, I suppose. You could maybe say her reaction was actually self-hatred and fear of becoming fat again. But still, I thought, “Well, you’re a miserable, insecure, lookist bitch, and that’s why you’ll never be happy, no matter what you do.”

A while back, that old Trainwrecks site used to link to a Livejournal group for “hot” fat chicks. Fat chicks who thought themselves pretty would submit a picture to the group, and then the group — in plain sight, online — would critique the hell out of the photo and vote on whether the submitter was “hot” enough to join their little clique. I saw that and thought, “I bet a million dollars half these chicks go to fat-activist sites and complain about lookism on a regular basis.”

This feeling has been boiling inside me for a while, and I’ve resisted posting it because it’s kind of sexist, but now I can’t stand it anymore and I have to say: Insecure women are a major force of evil in our country. Or, at least, a major source of annoyance to me, personally.

I mean, insecure men are plentiful and annoying, too. But there are whole industries built on the masses of insecure women who believe that their only value is in being pretty, and that, if they can’t be prettiest, they can at least judge less pretty women and hate prettier women. And then, of course, they give stupid men the excuse to walk around labelling all women catty bitches.

Disclaimer: I’m sure I used to be one of these insecure women, probably. And it’s only because I’m getting older that I have so little patience for that sort of thing today. (Maybe my reaction is secretly self-hatred and a fear of becoming insecure again? Heh.) But I’m not the only one who’s tired of insecure women. It seems like, in each of my social groups, most of the women are working, buying cars and houses, starting families… and then there’s that one woman who’s constantly comparing her looks to everyone else’s and worrying whether men think she’s hot. And the rest of us are like, “Jesus, bitch, can you please shut up about that stupid, boring crap?” You know? Like:

Jane: OMG, you guys, my mom has been really ill lately. She’s getting worse.
Sharon: Oh, no. That sucks. What are you going to do?
Jane: I don’t know. My brother and I are meeting tonight to discuss our options. She might have to move in with John and me.
Cindy: Wow, that sucks. Guess what, you guys! I lost six more pounds! So now I weigh even less than you, Jane! And guess what else. That guy at Starbucks? Totally checked me out again. I think it was my new bra. I can’t wait for Todd to find out — he’s gonna be so jealous!
Jane and Sharon: [stony silence]
Cindy: So, you guys, why don’t we go to that Starbucks, and then go shopping for smaller jeans? We never hang out anymore. You guys never call me anymore. Why is that? Is it because I’m thinner than you now?

Coming down now.

Okay. Sorry I had to talk all loud like that. I just feel like, lately, I’m trying to vent these feelings in a subtle way, but I’m not being very clear, and then people are like, “What? She said on her blog that pretty women don’t deserve to live on our planet? She’s a jerk, then! A fat, ugly jerk whose boyfriend didn’t buy her anything for Valentine’s Day!” So I wanted to clarify. Hope I did.

Later, taters.

1. Would you rather live in a world where looks don’t matter, or live in a world where your looks embody the standard of beauty?

2. What’s wrong with getting by on your looks? Is that somehow worse than getting by on your brains, your perseverence, or your good personality?

I think I’m okay with people getting by on their looks, as long as they’re honest about it. And, more importantly, as long as the people choosing/hiring/electing the pretty people are honest about their motivation. Don’t flirt with your pretty secretary all day and then tell me you’re promoting her because she types real fast.

I think I’m also okay with people wishing to be beautiful enough to get by on their looks. Again, though, as long as they’re honest. Don’t pretend you’re trying to eradicate lookism if, really, in your heart, you’re just trying to browbeat people into giving you the same perks that pretty people get.

3. If you are a woman and you want your significant other to buy you something for Valentine’s Day: Would you be as happy with your gift if you weren’t allowed to show anyone or tell anyone about it?

I ask this because I remember that, in high school, I didn’t hate Valentine’s Day because none of the boys at my school bought me gifts. I hated it because all the girls at my school went around making note of who got gifts and who didn’t. Now that I’m no longer surrounded by packs of immature girls, I don’t need gifts for Valentine’s Day. And I realize that the whole thing was just more of the bullshit insecurity contests that women put each other through.

4. What could a man possibly buy me that I wouldn’t be just as glad to buy for myself?

Nothing. I have really good taste, actually, and therefore I prefer to buy jewelry, flowers, and candy for myself.

The other day at my day job, I walked to the elevator and saw this guy who sometimes works contract for us, who I haven’t seen in a long time. Who is latino. Of whom I am wary, because once, in the past, I saw him in the hall and he said, “Why don’t you smile? You look so ****ing pissed off all the time.” And he said that in a pissed-off way, and it pissed me off and freaked me out.

So, I see this guy. And he’s smiling, and I give him a standard Corporate American greeting. And he says, “Hi. Wow. How are you doing? You look good. You lost a lot of weight, huh?”

And I say, “Uh, Rodrigo, that’s not something you should say to a lady. You shouldn’t be commenting on…”

And he says, “But you lost a lot of weight. You look good.”

And the elevator door opens, and we get in, and another woman is in there, and I say, “Okay, thanks, but what if I lost weight because I was sick or something? You shouldn’t comment on a woman’s physical…”

And he says, “But you look good! What should I say then? I mean, I want to say you look good. How should I say it?”

And the other woman was simultaneous smiling and raising her eyebrow, and I didn’t want to get all into it, so I just said, “You can tell someone ‘You’re looking well.'”

And he goes, “You’re looking well. You’re looking very well.” And I return the sentiment, and get out of the elevator and hightail it home.

What I should have told him was that I’m not looking for any man’s verbal approval of my physical appearance, and it’s impertinent to offer such a thing unsolicited.

I think about this a lot now. This is what I think: It’s wrong to criticize people for things they can’t help. If you want to criticize someone’s manners or work habits, I won’t hate you for it and I might join you, because I’m a critical bitch like that. But if you want to criticize someone’s face or race or mental abilities… then you’re just an asshole. Why would you criticize someone for something they can’t control?

In the same way, to a lesser extent, I think it’s purposeless to comment positively on someone’s face or skin color or hair texture or intellect, because what is the person going to say in return? “Thank you. I chose my DNA myself”?

I think that, if you must compliment or critique someone, it should be on their actions. Like, I would compliment you on your nice clothing, because I know you selected it and put the outfit together, and you did a good job. Or I would compliment you on something you wrote, or said, or built.

It’s a fine line, I know. You could argue that people do have some control over the presentation of their bodies and faces and hair. However, I think most of us can tell the difference between, “Congrats on your weight loss, you look great” and “You look good” said while the speaker looks you up and down. And the difference is the offering of approval. And I don’t want it. And yet, since the moment I was born, there has been a never-ending supply of Latino men willing to offer it. Approval, or the retraction of. On my body, my face, my clothing, my behavior. My words, my facial expression, whether or not I’m chewing gum…

And I don’t want it. When I want their opinions, I will ask for them. And I never will want them, so I never will ask.

And I’m picking on Latino men, here, because they’re the ones with whom I, personally, have experienced this phenomenon the most. But it’s not just them. It’s men of all corners of the rainbow, I’m sure, and it’s women, too. But mostly men, because that’s what men get raised to do in our society — offer their approval of people they find attractive. I mean, I know that I would never feel comfortable offering a man my approval of his looks, unless he was a very close friend of mine, or unless I was trying to get him into bed.

And you can get mad at me for saying all that, but that’s the way I feel. And you might be a woman who feels differently and enjoys that kind of attention. And if you are, I support your right to feel that way. And I’m sure I’m just reinventing some wheel that a feminist rolled back in 1972. But it’s a feeling that’s been boiling in me for a very long time now, independent of any dissertation or magazine rant.

in other body issue news

I didn’t really want to work out last night. Instead, I decided to do this new thing I Tivo’ed from Fit TV — a new dance show called Shimmy. It was about belly dancing, as you can probably guess. Belly dancing provides a decent, ballet-like workout, and it’s kind of fun, so it doesn’t really feel like working out.

So I turned on Shimmy and moved along with all its isolations and slow routines. My kids and I giggled at the dramatic film of women shaking sequins in the snow. Then I went to bed. Then I woke up.

And, oh my god, I feel like somebody beat me with a pillowcase full of soda cans. Every muscle in my body — quads, glutes, abs, triceps, biceps, trapezius! kidneys! the balls of my feet! — is sore.

Shimmy tore my ass up. I laughed at it last night, but Shimmy has the last laugh now.

What Jealousy Means to Me

Right now I kind of hate one female writer I’ve never met, and I really, really loathe one male writer I’ve never met.

Why? Not because their writing is bad. I’ve read and enjoyed their stuff in the past.

Why, then? Because they have things that I don’t have. What do I do when this happens? Easy — I make voodoo dolls of these people, then scream at the voodoo dolls and slap their faces!

No, just kidding. I force myself to think, in great detail, what it is about these people that I hate. In other words, what they have that I don’t have.

And then I silently thank those people for showing me my own true path to happiness. Because that’s always it, for me. The things I bitterly covet from others are the things I need to work on getting for myself. And the faster I face that, the faster I can get to work on making myself happy.

Something That Everyone Already Knows

Kids don’t really like clowns. So quit decorating their rooms with clown pictures. Sheesh.

Y’all know I hate clowns — it says it in my first book, on the very first page, I believe. But hearing this story on the radio made me think more about it. The DJs talked about how clowns used to be more popular back in the heydays of circuses and parades, back before Stephen King’s It came out. And they are so right.

However, I did think of one clown I’ve always been able to tolerate, and that is Mr. Ronald McDonald.

Then again, Ronald has never really been a clown, in my mind. He’s just some weird-looking guy who hangs out with other weird-looking guys named Grimace, Mayor McCheese, Hamburgler, the Fry Guys, and that chick who has the head of a bird. Maybe they’re aliens. Maybe they’re Egyptian gods. Maybe they’re mutants or something. Either way, I don’t hate them, because they were obvioulsy born looking like that, and I don’t hate people for how they were born.

Thrift Report

I’ve been meaning to tell y’all for a while now that I finally, finally scored an awesome leather jacket at the thrift store. Brown suede, slight motorcycle style, high quality, perfect fit. For TEN DOLLARS. You can’t beat that with a stick.

(You could probably beat it with a Shimmy, though!)

(Okay, that’s it. No more cutesy self-referencing sentences within the blog post.)

And then… I want to tell y’all that my kids got into the act, and that they scored some completely outrageous finds, but I can’t, because that would be revealing the kids’ personal businesses. And you know how kids are. You know how they get. You know how, when we were kids, the cardinal sin was getting caught with clothes from K-Mart. Even, illogically, if a classmate saw you shopping there because she, herself, was shopping there. The rule seemed to be: first person to call out someone for shopping at K-Mart is the winner, no matter how they got the evidence.

So I won’t say. I’ve probably already said too much. I mean, I think my kids can stand up for themselves and their awesome thrift finds, but just in case, I’ll hush.

There are two fictional characters I suspect of having Asperger’s Syndrome, whether or not the actors were consciously portraying them that way:

1. Napoleon Dynamite.

2. Bill Haverchuck of Freaks and Geeks.

Or maybe I’m just projecting that onto them because I like those characters, and one of my sons has Aspergers, and I want to imagine my son living a life with a happy ending. Every week.

And now that I’m searching for links, I see that I’m not the first person to have expressed those thoughts:

• Napoleon Dynamite: Asperger’s Disorder or Geek NOS?
• an amateur review in which some guy bashes Jared Hess for mocking “stupid, disgusting, socially retarded” characters, and the last commenter sets him straight
• Napoleon discussion on Aspies for Freedom
• In a review of the Freaks and Geeks DVD set, someone calls Bill Haverchuck the poster boy for Aspergers.

So, once again, know that you can count on Gwenworld.com for all your years-after-the-fact pop culture commentary! Here’s some more:
I saw Shallow Hal last night, and it wasn’t as bad as I’d assumed it would be, way back when it first came out in 2001. I guess I was just looking for an excuse to dislike Gwyneth Paltrow. That was before she wore that too-big-in-the-bust pink dress to the Oscars, and I began to feel bad for her, instead.

yays

I was in the dentist’s office for about four minutes this morning, and now I’m good to go. (Tiny bump on my new temp bridge was throwing off my bite, wreaking havoc. Now it’s gone.) Thank gosh. It wasn’t until it was over that I realized how much I’d been dreading that visit. Oh, also, dreading things makes me grind my teeth. Which makes them hurt more. Duh. Vicious cycle ahoy!

I’m going to start a museum

in which I archive lame attempts at flirting by self-important Corporate American men.

Not because they flirt with me, but because I’ve been in a position to overhear the flirting, over and over and over again. Because they do it right in front of me, because I’m not pretty enough to be visible to them. Plenty of women can say the same thing, I’m sure — that they overhear crass come-ons on a regular basis, that they feel disrespected by the men who do such things in professional settings… But would other women obsessively analyze and catalog the phenomemon, like I unwillingly find myself doing every week day? Probably not. Upon hearing any random failed come-on, I immediately, telepathically comprehend the would-be pick-up artist’s secret fears, skeevy desires, and pathetic fetishes. I don’t want to know, but I can’t help it.

And that’s why hearing that crap tortures me. No, not because I’m an old, fat, jealous shrew. Not because I’m a jealous lesbian. But because it’s pretty depressing, hearing the silently screamed longings of men I can’t admire.

Five Pound Allowance

Speaking of being a fat, jealous, lesbian shrew… I can’t wait until Christmas Eve. Why? Because I’m going to eat baked goods on that day. Baked goods of my own making.

I’ve decided to allow myself to gain as much as five pounds, between Christmas and New Year’s. Because isn’t that, like, the legally ordained amount of weight that we gain that week in America? So I’m ready.

And then, by May, I plan to lose 20 pounds net. And then I will be done. Wish me luck.

And merry December 24th to y’all, whether you celebrate Christmas or not, and whether you eat baked goods or not. Have fun.

I went to the bookstore the other day and came across a diet book called Skinny Bitch. Or Skinny Bitches, Skinny Bitch Diet… something like that. I had to flip through it to see what the gimmick was. The beginning was “tough love” type insults. They said that “fat slobs” had to admit that they had a problem, get off their lazy asses, quit eating so much, etc. And it went on in that vein for a few chapters, telling the reader to exercise more and eat less, with liberal peppering of the words fat, slob, bitch, lazy, etc.

“How long can this book sustain itself?” I wondered.

In the middle, there was a chapter about meat being fattening. And then, with no warning whatsoever, the book became a hardcore vegan tract. Flipping through it there in the aisle, I saw the usual arguments about cruelty and health issues. They even busted out and told the reader that she didn’t need that much protein survive. “Look at giraffes!” the authors said. “They don’t need that much protein!” (That’s usually the part where I stop listening to vegan evangelists in real life–when they suggest that my dietary requirements should be the same as an herbivores.)

So the book got hardcore vegan in the middle. Then, for Act Three, the authors apologized for the ugly words and the tough love, and said they only did it out of genuine concern for the reader. Then, there was a lot of “you go, girl!” sort of truisms, about living for yourself and not waiting for love to change your life, and only being able to change yourself, and loving yourself whether you’re fat or thin… and that men would love you if you were beautiful inside as well as out, and that being beautiful inside was only possible if you were “cruelty free.” (I.e., if you don’t eat meat.)

And this is what I have to wonder. What is the point of browbeating insecure straight women into becoming vegans? If you believe in veganism, why aren’t you browbeating everyone equally? Do the people behind this book believe that insecure straight women, once they become vegans, will influence everyone else in the world to follow their example?

I didn’t understand it. It was puzzling to me. I was, and remain, puzzled.

I am secretly a man.

That’s what people think about me, when I don’t act the way they believe a woman should. I am secretly a lesbian, a robot, an alien, an animal, or crazy.

No, you guys. I’m a woman. Really! I just don’t always feel like getting all emotional with you. I don’t want to have personal dramas–at least not between 8 and 5. I just want to do the work I’ve agreed to do for money. And then go home.

I save my emotions. I’m running out of them, as I get older, so I save what remains for the weekends and spend them on little things. You know? Art, music, commercials with sad music… my own children, my own family, my own romance.

Don’t take it personally, that I don’t get emotional with you. Don’t think I’m abnormal. I’m just conserving resources. Please understand, and help me. I’d do the same for you.

[censored]

I just wrote, deleted, rewrote, and deleted a bunch of stuff about prettiness. About losing weight, becoming prettier, people hating pretty people, people treating pretty people like objects or possessions, people stalking and harassing pretty people, pretty people becoming defensive and protective of themselves, other people mistaking pretty people’s defense mechanisms for haughtiness and conceit, people who hide their own prettiness out of fear, Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, attempts to change one’s negative mental associations with prettiness and weight loss, fervent wishing to be judged by my actions and not my looks, the fact that prettiness, in spite of everything, is still valuable and not something you would ever really willingly lose…

… the fact that I can’t write anything about any of these things because it’s obnoxious, it sounds like Andie McDowell smirking “Don’t hate me because I’m beautiful,” the fact that you’re not allowed to say aloud that you might believe you’re pretty, sexist socialization, my grandmother flying down from heaven and slapping my face, women being damned if they do or if they don’t, possible self delusion, annoying self censorship, annoying fear.

You aren’t going to know what I mean if you don’t know Houston streets, but I’m going to say this, anyway. There sure are a lot of stupid, rude people driving down Allen Parkway in the mornings lately. And in the River Oaks area, in general.

Stupid woman in the Lexus SUV with the bluebonnet license plate who lives in (or visits someone in) Allen Parkway condos: You almost killed me the other day, and you didn’t even notice.

Rude people coming west down Memorial, then going left on Shepherd: Quit running the red light, assholes. Quit running the red, then filling up the intersection on the red, then having the nerve to honk at me when I’m trying to come east down Memorial and go right on Shepherd while I have the green freaking arrow. Who do you people think you are? Do you think that, because you’re going into River Oaks, that makes you special? You’re wrong.

People going south on Shepherd, turning left on Allen Parkway: That’s a two-lane left turn. See the arrows on the signs? Stay in your lane, or don’t throw the finger at people who honk at you to keep you from wrecking.

Stupid people driving Hummers or Tahoes while texting on your phones: Stay in your lanes, or else don’t act all hurt when I honk at you for coming out of your lane and drifting toward my car.

There — I feel better having typed all that. I know it won’t keep me any safer, though. Unfortunately. Constant vigilance…

What Not to Pay a Lot For

Today I’m wearing a $3 sweater. It’s fuchsia, 100% mercerized cotton, from Jones New York. Also, I’m wearing $8 pants — black, lined, perfect fit — the label of which was removed before I found them at the thrift store.

My shoes are heeled loafers from the Kohl’s Junior section. I bought them on clearance, along with two other pairs, before I realized that Kohl’s had a junior shoe section. It’s where they put all the shoes with chunky heels, looks like. So, like… training heels? For teens who don’t yet know how to walk in heels, but still want to? I think I’m the only one buying them, though.

Normally I don’t wear heels with pants, because I don’t care enough, but today I have to because my favorite black loafers — flats — have finally given out. They’re broken in a way that I can no longer fix them. *Sighz!!1!!*

This is boring, isn’t it? Let me sex it up for y’all, then.

You don’t own me. Nor do you own my wardrobe.

I have this friend named Julio, and as his name implies, he is a latino male, and therefore he embodies certain stereotypes on a regular basis. (I’m sorry, latino men reading this, but y’all do. Y’all just do.)

Me: … and I had to wear heels today, because those shoes I wear every day? Now have a big old hole in them.
Julio: [with knowing look] That’s not why you’re wearing heels.
Me: It’s not?
Julio: Come on. Don’t play dumb. What does your boyfriend say about it?
Me: Dude. Stop being latino.

You see what he’s saying? No? Okay, here’s another.

Julio: I like your ring.
Me: Thanks.
Julio: So, is your boyfriend going to pop the question?
Me: What?
Julio: Come on. Don’t play dumb. We both know why you’re wearing that ring on that finger. You’re trying to tell him something. So, I guess all that stuff you said about not wanting to get married… You’ve changed your mind now, huh?
Me: I’m wearing my ring on this finger because I finally lost enough weight to wear it again, but I haven’t lost enough weight to move it to my middle finger yet.
Julio: Oh.
Me: If I want to get married to my boyfriend, I’ll just tell him that. With my words.
Julio: Okay, sorry. You don’t have to get all mad.

You see what I’m saying now, about latinos? No?

Me: So I have to go meet with the underwriter after lunch.
Julio: Oh, I see. So that’s why you’re wearing a skirt today.
Me: What the hell? Julio, I’m wearing a skirt because all my pants were in the wash this morning.
Julio: Whatever. Look, you don’t have to lie. I know how women are. If you have a crush on this underwriter guy, it’s fine with me. But does your boyfriend know? He’s gonna figure it out, when he sees that you’re wearing a skirt.
Me: No, he isn’t, because my boyfriend isn’t a possessive, self-centered latino. He knows that I dress for myself and not for every man on earth! Dammit!
Julio: That’s what you think. I have to hand it to your boyfriend — he plays it pretty cool, and obviously that works for him. But all men are the same, and we all know how women are. He knows why you’re wearing that skirt. You’d better watch yourself.
Me: Oh my god! What the hell is wrong with you and every other latino man I know??!??1!1!

I’m not obsessed with my weight. I’m obsessed with the means of measuring it.

My scale finally broke all the way. For the past month or so, it’s been telling me that I weigh 354.5 pounds. (That’s not really the number, but I don’t feel comfortable saying the real number online. So I’m telling y’all analogously, instead.)

One day last week, it told me that I weighed 351.5, which was my goal weight at the time, so I chose to believe my scale on that day. Then it went back to 354.5, and I chose not to believe it.

Now I should weigh 349.5, if I’m counting my calories right. (Which I am, because — hello — look how obsessive I am about the numbers, here.) But the scale won’t tell me that I’ve lost two pounds this week. Instead, it obsessively sticks to 354.5.

This morning, it said 99999, then it said 298.5, then it said 351.5.

I guess it’s time to get a new scale. I was all freaked out about that, starting from a new baseline, within a new system. Because, see, I don’t care if the scale tells me my true weight — I only care if it accurately gauges weight loss. But if I buy a new scale, the baseline will presumably change, and what will I do with that integer of difference?

Julio said, “That what standards are for.” I said, “I have standards. What are you trying to say?” But he said he meant mathematical standards, and that I should put a filled 5-gallon jug of water on each scale, to gauge their difference, and then make my calculations from that. (He’s good at math. He has a degree in it or something.)

I was happy. “What a good idea!” I said. “But I’ll use a ten-pound dumbbell, instead.”

So now all I have to do is buy a new scale.

“So is that why you’re always in a bad mood lately? Because you’re starving yourself in order to change the numbers on your broken scale?”

“No. Shut the hell up.”

“What does your boyfriend say? Does he say you’re always in a bad mood lately? Does he think it’s worth the weight loss, to hear your bitching all the time?”

“SHUT THE HELL UP.”

Turkey Day, or Pork Day, or Mussells in Black Bean Sauce Day

I’m not cooking for Thanksgiving, after all. What with all the stress of my ex-husband suing me for custody of our kids, I am simply unable. Plus, I don’t have the kids for Thanksgiving this year, anyway, so I’d prefer to spend the four-day weekend loafing, not washing dishes.

We’re going to a Chinese restaurant — me, my boyfriend, and all my family members who’ve been displaced by my decision not to cook. My boyfriend wants to buy me lobster. I said I’d rather just eat pork. Or mussels. Or shrimp. Or tofu.

And I’m thankful. I give thanks for my boyfriend, my family, my friends, and especially my kids.

It looks, by the way, like this whole custody suit thing might work out better than I’d feared. Fingers crossed…

Whining Done

That’s it. No more whining. Really, I’m relatively content now — the bad stuff has been handled and potential good stuff looms on the horizon (always). So, I’m good. I’m thankful. I’m hopeful.

What are y’all doing for Thanksgiving, peeps? What kind of pies are you going to make? Will you send me a piece? A 100-calorie slice, please?

I used to never drink red wine but now I only drink red wine. I’ve gone from merlot to cabernet and chianti, and next must be shiraz.

We bought our cat a water fountain. She likes to drink the water right from its trickle source. Some people would say it’s a waste of energy, to keep it running, but I think it’s such a small thing to make a small creature happy, and therefore worth doing. You know?

I think I’m gonna be a fairy for Halloween. Maybe. I’ll have to make the costume myself, though, because I don’t want to be a slut fairy, and therefore there’s no suitable costume in the stores. (All the women’s costumes for sale are slut costumes. Remind me to complain about that later.)

This is what I have time to do, between my long commute home and bed time:
1. monitor homework
2. monitor everyone getting fed, one way or another
3. nag about the chores that should’ve been done before I got home
4. clean up only the very messiest messes, concurrently with one of the tasks above
5. exercise with Gilad
6. nagging the kids to brush their teeth and wash their faces
7. the reading of the bedtime story
and that’s about it.

Every single other thing — dentist bank groceries bills boyfriend oil change tires laundry — I have to do over the weekend. Or during my lunch hours. Or in my dreams.

I’m glad we got a cat. This one doesn’t tear up the furniture or make a big mess, and I feel fleeting joy whenever I see her little cat face. She always has a funny or cute expression. She walks around in a constant state of “Hey guys,” or “Am I interrupting?” or “JESUS, A SQUIRREL!!” or “In my fantasies, everyone is chasing me. Look how clever I am, running away from them. Oops, sorry.. smashed into the plant again…”

Back to the Halloween thing.

Not a slutty fairy, and not a pink or purple fairy, and not a gothic fairy, and not an overtly glittery fairy. I want to be a nature-based fairy, in shades of green or aqua with brown, and only a little bit of magic in evidence. In my mind, as I design it, I think the words “pond fairy.” I’m a pond fairy, dammit. We’re going to a party where I always feel a little insecure. No, strike that — I always feel insecure at any Halloween party we go to, because I feel like there’s this giant expectation that all the women must be dressed promiscuously, and they all must be thin, and the whole purpose of the holiday is to put them on display to the men serving them liquor.

And that’s fine — I’m grown-up enough to ignore any bullshit that I don’t want to take part in. But at the same time, I want to get all into it and make a nice costume. Yet I feel there’s no use in wasting my creativity on such an event. You know?

I guess I could go to the Ren Fair, because the people who go there are more appreciative of creativity. But we’re bored of going there and seeing the same exact stuff year after year. So I tell myself to make whatever costume I want, and then to photograph it and put it on my Flickr, and that’ll make it worth the effort. But then I feel silly about that. How vain, to spend money and effort on photos meant to show off, right? (Same way I feel, now, about doing any creative thing for which I don’t already have a fee negotiated. )

Worst part: I get envious of my boyfriend. He loves to work hard on his costumes and come up with something awesome every single year. And people appreciate it, and they compliment him. Then, they look at me and think, “Not sexy enough,” and move on. And I feel… whiny because I haven’t received enough attention, I guess. Hate to admit such a weakness, but that’s how I feel. Creativity should trump plain nudity, in my mind, but it never will. Will it?

I was looking for inspiration online. (Fairy costumes, I mean.) I found this Flickr set called Convention Costumes Pool. Look at it. What do you think? How many of the women pictured here enjoyed making their costumes? And how many enjoy displaying their bodies to a bunch of convention guys? And how many women here enjoyed making their costumes, but got completely ignored in favor of the convention guys and the women displaying their bodies?

There were some bad-ass costumes among the social experiment, though. Check it:
1. Final Fantasy = awesome piping
2. meshy mer-person
3. Final Fantasy hangover?
4. Awesome Color Scheme Woman
5. I need this woman’s wig.

And you know what?

Screw it, while I’m there, I’ll just link y’all to some of my favest Flickr faves:
1. shoe fetish
2. If I had to date a non-human, it would be Relax Bear.
3. I want to eat this (then follow Jackie around and eat everything else she eats, too.)
4. Stained glass is always good.
5. So is just about anything that Jagosaurus photographs.

That’s all.

Of course I have big ol’ opinions on all the current issues of the day… I just can’t always write about them, for fear that I’ll get so pissed off, I’ll hurt someone or myself. But the time has come to briefly vent about everything that no one can stop talking about. So…

Those Illegal Aliens

Don’t talk to me about Those Illegal Aliens, unless you’re going to address the real issue. Here is the real issue: Those Illegal Aliens need jobs now, and plenty of employers here are willing to hire them for less than a living wage.

That’s all there is to it. Should we make it easier for foreigners to come in and do the jobs no one else will do for so cheap? Should those foreigners be rewarded for their service by being allowed to become citizens faster? Should laws be adjusted so that companies can hire whoever they want, for as little as they want? Or should companies be forced to hire people for min wage or more? Or would that totally destroy our economy and standard of living?

Those are the issues that need to be discussed. I don’t know the answers. Do you?

If you have other issues you’d like to share with me, such as, “I don’t like Mexicans because all Mexicans steal and I think we should build a big wall to separate us from the Mexicans, and I don’t like it when people speak a language that I don’t speak because it makes me worry that they’re talking about me,” then please just shut the fuck up.

Seriously, shut up and go away. You hate Mexicans, and I hate ignorant assholes. I tried to build a wall around myself to keep them away, but they just talk louder. If I have to live with ignorant assholes, then you have to live with Mexicans and everyone else. Shut up and get over it. Try their food, actually. It’s good.

Scientists Have Finally Proven That Men Are Biologically Compelled to be Sleep Around

Here we go with this one again. Jesus. Here’s what I already said about it, a long time ago.

Here’s all I’m going to say about it now:
If I’m sleeping with you, I would prefer it if you didn’t act like an asshole.
If I’m sleeping with you and you start acting like an asshole (i.e., lying to me, treating me poorly, sleeping with other people while giving me the impression that you aren’t), then I will stop sleeping with you. You can pull out all the scientific evidence you want, but there is no blueprint of anyone’s DNA that will make me want to sleep with an asshole.

The Mommy Wars

You know why I hardly ever talk about my kids on this blog? Because I don’t want to hear anyone’s opinion of how I’m raising them.

You know why I don’t give out unsolicited parenting advice? Because, unless you’re abusing your kids, I don’t really care how choose to parent them.

Personally, I think that parents who feel the need to criticize the parenting techniques of others – be they Ferberizing or attachment, breast or bottle, working mommy or stay-at-home mommy or anything else – must be unhappy, insecure people who are secretly scared that their way really isn’t the right one, after all. But that, if they scream really loudly that their way is the only right way, that will somehow make it true and thereby magically make their kids safe, well-adjusted, and successful.

Mind your own business, people. If you know what’s best for kids, do it for your kids and leave everyone else alone.

Oh, and the so-called Child Free people? The ones who go around talking about how all “breeders” are assholes and the world is overpopulated and how they enjoy pinching babies at the grocery store and making them cry? Those are the most miserable people of all. Luckily, though, they only say that stuff online, so I’ve never had to tell one to shut up and mind her own business in the real world. (Or ask Congress to build a really big wall to keep them out of my life.)

My fantasy is to walk up to a group of men in suits and say, “Hey, you guys, you know who’s hot? John Doe over at ABC Corp. I mean, he is smokin’ hot. Seriously. Is he married? You think he’d be willing to cheat on his wife this weekend after the XYZ Conference? Heh, heh. Because I would lo-o-ove to spend some time with him, if you know what I mean. Alone time. You know – naked. Hey, so have any of you guys ever stood next to him at a urinal? What’s he packing? Anybody know?”

And they’d laugh and say, “You’re a pistol, Gwen. I’ll ask around – see what I can find out.”

Or wait… this one…

I’d go to some industry happy hour and run into Jim Smith from Cogswell. After a few drinks, I’d put my hand on his waist and ask him if he’d like to continue the party at my apartment. He’d say some shit like, “I’m flattered but I’d really like to keep our relationship professional,” or whatever.

Then, two months later, I’d be having a meeting with all the important men at my company. We’d be making decisions on a really big contract. Someone would suggest, “What about giving it to Jim Smith at Cogswell? His bid looked really good.”

And I’d say, “No. Not Jim Smith. He has a really bad attitude.”

And, from the look on my face, all the men would know what I meant, and they’d just smile knowingly and award the contract to someone else.

No, no, no – wait! Here’s the best one:

I’d be a big-time manager at a big company, right? And some little hottie – say, Bob Jones in Accounting – would be walking down the hall amongst ten or eleven of his coworkers. And I’d say, “Hey, Bob. Lookin’ good. Boy, I wish I could see what your wife sees when you get out of the shower every night. Mm, mm!“

And it would be so awesome, because Bob would have to smile awkwardly and stumble away, because he’s know that if he told me to go to hell, I’d so totally have his ass fired. Or, at least, make his life really hard from 9 to 5, you know?

And then Bob would go out for drinks with his coworkers. Some of them would treat him like crap because they’d be assuming he was sleeping his way up the ladder with me. Others would tell him, “What are you going to do?”

And he’d say, “I don’t know. If I complain to HR, they won’t do anything about it. I can’t go to Gwen’s supervisor, Mrs. Gotrocks – she’s the owner of the company and no one’s ever seen her! Plus, if I say anything at all, Gwen will either have me fired, or else make my life hell.”

“Why don’t you quit?” his friends would say.

“I can’t afford to,” he’d reply. “I’ve been looking for another job, but I can’t find anything.”

Then, every morning as Bob drove to work, he’d be depressed. All day at work, he’d be jumpy, worried that I’d show up at his cubicle. He might consider suing my company, but he’d be too scared to lose his benefits because, like, his wife would have cancer or some shit, right? So, whenever he saw me in the hall, he’d get a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach, not knowing whether or not I was going to say something disgustingly inappropriate.

And I’d keep him guessing – that sexy little tease!

And it would be awesome.

Wouldn’t it? I mean, I’m guessing it would be, but it’s actually kind of hard for me to imagine.

If you’re one of the people who lives those fantasies every day, write and tell me how it feels, okay?. I’m really interested to know what it’s like to be you.

1. The only thing worse than miserable people who take out their misery on others? Is when those people make tons more money than me. Especially when they gain positions of power and inspire stupid and greedy people to act just like them.

2. What’s worse than a bully? A grown human being who gets bullied by more powerful people, then turns around and bullies people with less power. Because, you know, treating people like shit because they can’t speak English fast enough to defend themselves – yeah, that’s gonna make rich people stop calling you ghetto and white trash. Sure.

3. What’s worse than sexist men? The women who enable them. Especially if those women tell you in private that they recognize and hate the sexism… but then they play along with it so they won’t get fired or broken up with or divorced or whatever. Thanks, sell-outs. Why don’t you have a bunch of boy babies and then raise them to be dickheads, too? Oh, never mind… You already did.

I know I just described 70% of America. I know.

Some day I’ll have my own planet, and assholes won’t be allowed to live there.

There’ll be, like, three hundred and fifty-seven people living there. We’ll starve to death, of course. But we’ll do it politely, goddammit.