My Earlobes Still Feel Fat

Carnie Wilson, the woman who made Gastric Bypass famous by streaming video of her operation online, has been through a few ups and downs (and a few book deals, and People magazine covers...) in the past 10 years.  But I hadn't seen much of her the past few years, until now.  A few days ago, I was cruising my favorite gossip site, DListed , and I came across a little blurb about Carnie.  She hasn't been in the news much, so I'd assumed she was just getting on with her life.  But I guess she's probably been trying to stay out of the public eye, since she's gained back a good bit of the weight she lost twice: first right after the surgery, and again a few years later after putting it back on.  So.  Finally, someone in the public sphere admits that GB isn't the SKINNY SOLUTION everybody thinks it is.  I feel validated, and relieved, even as I feel kind of sorry for Carnie; she went through all the ups and downs with the media watching, and even though she kind

I'm wearing jeans today, for the first time since... I can't even remember. Spring, maybe? You guys know how big of a deal this is for me. I didn't want to do it, but it's 28 degrees in London right now and I can't even begin to describe how sick I am of tights and leggings. So I bit the bullet. The last time I tried on my jeans, I could barely button the 'normal' pair. The fat jeans I bought a little over a year ago, though, felt great. Only one problem: they're way too long! Which I don't remember being a problem when I first bought them... But it must have been, unless I've got the horrible shrinks. Anyway, that day I gave up and went for the leggings/dress combo again. But today, after I got my shit together and got the flat ready for our housekeeper, I only had 10 minutes to throw something on. So I held my breath, closed my eyes, and pulled on the 'normals'. And, amazingly, they fit! Ok, so they're

Last month I posted about a new (then) TV show called 'Mike and Molly', about two chunky people in luurve.  I thought it was probably a good idea for the media to try portraying fat people as real human beings who fall in love and make out and shit, but apparently some people are offended by it.  Seems the mere thought of two fatties getting in each others' atmospheres is enough to make some skinny bitches hurl.  Maura Kelly , for one. Now, I'm not really interested in telling you my thoughts on the matter, because I think you can probably guess them (if not, I'll sum up: I hate my body, and think it's fat and therefore disgusting, but I also believe that anyone and everyone has a right to get it on with a consenting adult, and I definitely don't think two fat people is any grosser an image than two old people or two teenagers or two of anybody whose naked coupling isn't thrust at us from tv and movie screens on a regular basis).  Ok, so I kind of tol

There's been a lot of chatter in the media lately about the trials and tribulations of traveling under the influence of a couple (hundred?) extra pounds.  And somewhere between Kevin Smith being kicked off Southwest Airlines and the constant barrage of fat-fear and obesity epidemic outcry, a few pieces have emerged that put a chubbily human face on the matter (without too much whining or crying).  I think I'm going to start linking to such pieces (if only to keep the blog alive for a while as every remotely interesting original thought goes straight into the 'book' file).  First up, Traveling While Fat , from last weekend's NY Times.  It's a pretty good start down the 'fat is human' road, although I have to wonder whether a woman could write something so matter of fact, with so little apology for her size. Lord knows I couldn't.  Hence, the GB, and now, the memoir in which I constantly express a need to apologize for my still-unacceptable size.

There have been very few fat (ie normal to overweight) people on television in my lifetime, and the ones who did grace my HD were usually the subject of a reality show.  If I saw someone above a size 4, s/he was either on a scary documentary about morbid obesity (I'm not making light of that, by the way, although the fear tactics rub me the wrong way), or part of a competition to lose weight faster than other heavy people (I know some of you really love The Biggest Loser, but I still think it's a bit cruel), or, once and never again (yet), a Bachelor-esque competition to win the heart of a meaty man who digs 'curvy women.' But regardless of how I feel about the portrayal of fat people on television, the shows that pack a bit more poundage must be doing pretty well, since they're multiplying every year.  I can think of at least 4 get-fit shows, where BL used to be the only one.  TLC has upped its number of weight-centric fear documentaries, too.  And now fictional

My best friend is getting married on Sunday, and I've been having serious anxiety about being the fattest person at the wedding.  I guess I've been yammering about how I look a lot, because yesterday I was nattering on about how if my roots are dyed and my brows are waxed then maybe I won't mind being such a tub of lard, and my mom looked over at me with a raised eyebrow and went "Boy, you've still got issues, huh?" Is it rude to shout DUH in the face of one's elders?  Well, I just laughed and said "What was your first clue?"  Then told her I'd be entering therapy as soon as I can afford it (so basically never). Oh well, I guess it's good to know she's finally noticed...

I've been home in San Francisco for exactly 2.5 days.  I've been in Napa with my parents and my sister for less than a full day.  I'm already locking myself in my room and crying. Not because they're torturing me (at least not on purpose), but because being here with my mom and my sister, and sometimes even my dad, is just a constant reminder of how I'm too fat, and too disgusting, and worst of all too complacent. I spend much of my time, when I'm in London with my boyfriend, trying to come to terms with my body at the weight where it levels out.  I try to eat healthily and be active, but not diet or follow an exercise regime, and then accept the weight and size where my body seems comfortable.  It doesn't always work, but it feels like I'm at least trying to break out of my cage of fucked-up body issues. Then I come home.  And I'm surrounded by talk of 'points' and boxes of weight-watchers-approved snacks.  And my mom and sister spend

It’s not exactly the perfect end to a perfect meal at one of New York’s best restaurants, on my knees in a beautiful, dark wood paneled bathroom,* throwing up house-made raspberry truffles into a once pristine toilet, while cool lounge music plays softly in the background.  I’m just praying nobody can hear me, and also that the auto-flush won’t go off in my face. Sometimes I wish I could turn the GB off.  Not so I can binge on Ben & Jerry’s, or stuff my face with ballpark hotdogs, but for special meals like Per Se in New York or Ristorante Semplice in London.  It would be nice to be able to have a set menu at a Michelin-starred restaurant without spending the rest of the evening either curled on my side (best-case) or throwing up (worst-case).  But it would be worse to miss out on all the amazing food on offer! And drink.  Wine takes up a surprising amount of space in my stomach, especially rich reds like the delicious Barolos my bf likes to order (and I’d love to drink more of

The other night, the bf and I were watching this show called “Inside Nature’s Giants,” which we didn’t realize at first involves dissecting the big-ass animals of land and sea.  We chose to watch the episode about whales, because they’re frickin fascinating and also because I love tigers too much to watch one get cut up.  But I wish we had chosen the tigers, because the whole time they were slicing through the whale, and the fatty, slippery flesh was sliding all over the beach, and the scientists were covered in grease, I kept thinking about my body.  How that was probably what I looked like when the doctors were slicing me up and pulling off hunks of my blubber.  How that's still what my body feels like in places: loose, slippery, uncontained . My classmates are always saying I have a very ‘descriptive’ touch when it comes to talking about my body, and my friend N pointed out that I frequently use food metaphors/similes, which is kind of interesting.  But I’m not sure it mean

The lovely bf took me to Mexico a couple of months ago, and I started a blog post there.  Obviously, I never finished it, because I was distracted by the beautiful pool and our personal pastry class and the delectable food everywhere we turned, but I looked at it again today and realized that the subject I wanted to touch on is still worth discussing.  Basically, I started the post with a photo of the amazing resort where we were staying.  And I mean AMAZING.  I’ve never before in my life stayed at a hotel so beautiful and comfortable and just plain stunning that I didn’t want to leave the compound walls.  I’m all about real Mexico– the people, the culture, the food– but I had absolutely no desire to leave ever.  I could seriously live in this amazing place.  This is important for you to know, not so I can brag, but so you can understand how pissed off I was to still feel like such a fat cow.  I mean, here I was, with my own private villa with its own private POOL, and the only

... but the dude over at Egotastic has finally posted photos of someone above a size 2.*  Not only that, he defends her hotness against those people who would say she's too fat to be attractive in a bikini!  AND since the blog doesn't have a comments section, I can just pretend that's the end of it.  No trolls!  Hooray huzzah and yippeeee! That is all.** * Yes, I'm aware she's probably still only a size 6 or something, but just let me have my moment anyway. **Okay, yes, I am aware that I haven't posted in forever .  There's a post-in-waiting about my recent trip to Mexico (and bikinis), but this was more pressing, and less work, so you'll just have to wait for the mexico post.

I woke up this morning and checked my twitter account (yes, I know), and one of the first things I saw was a link to this post by a writer named Amy Alkon (I'll let you read it instead of summarizing).  Amy writes with wild abandon about all the people who annoy her in life, and usually I appreciate her no-holds-barred approach.  But this time, I felt she went too far.  Not because she's being cruel to a fat person, but because she's being cruel unnecessarily.  And, more importantly, unfunnily.  And it's not just her; the commenters on the post have their fangs out too. And I don't get it.  I mean, I get it: this chick gained 40 lbs and her boyfriend doesn't sleep with her anymore, so obviously she needs to lose weight (or lose the guy, which nobody seemed to think was an option for this obviously morbidly obese woman).  What I don't get is the poison.  Why do people have so much hatred in their hearts for fat people?  What is it about fatties that offe

These days, curves are infinitely preferable to straight up-and-down body types.  Or so we're told.  But we're also told that said curves have to be wee and firm, taut and high, perfectly rounded and impeccably proportioned.  So all those curvy chicks out there, flaunting their J-Lo asses and Christina Hendricks breasts (DROOOL), and ostensibly shattering the myth of Twiggy, serve less to comfort me than as an even higher standard of sex appeal which I'll never reach. As a result, I often feel disappointed when I buy a dress I think looks great on me, only to see it on the model (or mannequin), with her (its) perfect, bounce-a-quarter-off-that-ass curves and realize that the dress only looks great on me in comparison to other items in my closet.  From a more objective, overall, survey-the-world sort of view, it looks just ok, mostly due to my many lumps and bumps, and my massive hips. BUT.  This past weekend, I was in New York with the bf, and he insisted on going into

A couple of days ago (on Valentine’s day, in fact), Kevin Smith was kicked off a Southwest Airlines plane for being ‘too fat to fly.’  You can read the details on Kevin’s blog , if you haven’t already been following the debacle on Twitter (I say debacle in seriousness– Twitter crashed at least twice last night as a result of ‘too many tweets’). This isn’t a post about that occurrence specifically, mostly because it’s already been hashed out to death but also because Smith’s whole point is that he doesn’t actually qualify as too fat to fly; he fits in the seat with the armrests down and the seatbelt buckled, unextended.  What I want to talk about is the policy, held by multiple airlines, that those ‘customers of size’ (I think I threw up a little just now) who can’t fit in the seat with the armrests down must purchase two seats at full price. Look, I get it.  It sucks to have someone encroaching on your space, especially on an airplane, where space is already at such a premium.  I’

    Yesterday, I wrote a piece for class about my childhood in Manhattan Beach, and more specifically about how my brother and I used to sneak out to the mini mart down the road and buy candy behind my mom’s back.  I tried to make the piece funny, but I think it just turned out uncomfortable, because that’s exactly how I felt writing it, like I was peeling back my skin and showing the world my big gaping flaw: I like sweets.  In fact, as a kid I was mildly obsessed with them, but even now I’m a huge fan (as evidenced by my baking blog ).  And I hate that my sweet tooth makes me feel like I’ve done something wrong, because to me it’s the strongest evidence the prosecution could cite in the case against the fatty– clearly I wasn’t fat because I ate too much asparagus.     And it doesn’t matter that I love asparagus now, or that I’ll often pass up a rich chocolate cake for a plate of grilled zucchini, because the fact remains that I also still love me some dessert.  Which makes me feel

So as I think I may have mentioned, I have to write a book for my MA in Creative Nonfiction, and I decided to write a memoir about this whole GB experience, including childhood stuff and family dynamics in addition to the process of surgery and the mental and physical results of the change.  I thought it would be so easy.  I mean, I spend 90% of my time thinking about my body anyway, how hard could it be to put those thoughts down in the form of an interesting, structured narrative? NOT, that's how easy.  I haven't written one single word of the book, and I'm having a really hard time starting.  And the longer I put it off, the more afraid I am of failing at my goal to write a funny, frank narrative; I'm terrified it'll end up as a 'poor me' memoir, and I'll have proven my dad right in saying that this project is self-indulgent and useless.  And that's not the only surprise stumbling block... When I tell people what I'm writing about, they al

For a couple of years now, I’ve been a big fan of the TV show What Not To Wear.  I find Clinton adorable and Stacy just mean enough, and I almost always agree with their style choices (I seriously spend half the show trying to figure out where Stacy gets her dresses and shoes!).  And I was hooked for life when I realized that they’re not at all sizeist; they don’t even take sizes into account, almost like they’re wearing blinders to the number on the tag (fabric and fit take precedence). I think the moment I realized that my affection for Stacy and Clinton wasn’t just about the dresses (but OH the dresses!) was during an old episode with a woman named Kandis, who was more than usually obsessed with her size.  Within the first few hours of their tutorial, Stacy lost her patience with Kandis’s self-deprecation, and she said something that I thought was so interesting, I actually wrote it down verbatim (really, thank god for Tivo): “You know what worries me? You are only talking about