A little Election Day music from the late, great and virtually unheard of outside of Texas, Blaze Foley. Foley was overshadowed both in life and death by his best friend Townes Van Zandt, and was shot on his front porch at 40 years old.
It’s a great bluesy song, and I’m sure the “stuff” he’s asking the police not to take is shoes. Definitely shoes.
“It takes a certain type of person to have a painting of themselves above the mantel” said my friend Kirk, who at the time was admiring the same great room I was, the walls packed floor to ceiling with minor Picassos, major Modiglianis and candid portraits of our genteel host as a younger, freer man in Paris which would have been beautiful even if they hadn’t been taken by Man Ray.
“Hey! I have a painting of myself on my mantel!” I protested.
“Exactly.”
If I’m being honest, it’s not a terribly good portrait and I can’t even remember who painted it. It’s a little Liechtenstein by way of early Byzantium for me, but although I have a painting, I don’t think I have a single photo of myself displayed anywhere in the house.
Is that weird? That’s probably weird.
It’s not the dreaded Fat Girl Shame, and it’s certainly not out of modesty. I don’t have many photos of myself from my younger days and most of my grand adventures were either solo, or else photo documentation would’ve been an unwise choice. I do have several photos from last year’s trip to Ireland, but most of them are from the budding hours of our last night in town and feature a good-hearted but misguided and exceedingly ungroomed gentleman of our recent acquaintance trying to forcibly tongue bathe me on the dance floor while I shot pleading looks to my BFF who, in the tradition of all BFFs everywhere, laughed at me mercilessly and kept the shutter snapping.
Other than that, no photos.
I have a girlfriend, Penelope (obv not her real name) on the other hand, who is a normal person.
Like normal people, she has photo documentation of her life scattered in little Ikea frames all over her living space. The odd thing to me is that almost all the photos are from her teens and early twenties…a hundred pounds ago. Especially the ones on the refrigerator. I know she’s uncomfortable with her weight. She’s been uncomfortable with it since she was nine, but it’s like size 22 Penelope doesn’t exist, just size 12 who could still fit in her cheerleader uniform.
I just don’t know what to think. It makes me unusually uncomfortable, like the friend who still uses a head shot from when she was 19 as her internet dating profile, even though she’s in her mid-thirties with a totally different body shape. It’s frustrating, because she’s just exactly as beautiful now as she was then. Same thing with my skinny photo girl.
Maybe I don’t know what it’s like since I’ve always been a big girl.
I’ve never had this slender past to look upon with a combination of pride and shame. Sometimes I’m larger and sometimes I’m smaller, but I don’t harbor any belief I could still pass for 19. The last time I passed for 19 I was probably twelve and a half. Still, if I had photos of myself from that period, I’d probably stick them up.
Just not exclusively. It’s the exclusivity that’s weird.
Is it diet motivation? Coincidence? Blanket self-delusion? Intellectual dishonesty in adorable Swedish frames?
Someone help me understand.
This is a pretty traditional Thanksgiving dinner. Turkey, cranberries, pie, gravy, seasonal vegetable medley… it’s a meal that many people look forward to every year.
It’s also one that many people dread every year. In this case, I’m not talking about the company, because that will be another article. As per usual, I’ll spend the weekends leading up to Thanksgiving (here in USAnia, anyway) talking about different aspects of Thanksgiving, very much including the emotional ones. But today, I’m just talking menu planning.
You see, no matter how traditional or un you plan to be, the meal needs planning in advance. So let’s break it down and figure out how to figure out what to serve your nearest and dearest for the holiday.
As some of our more intrepid readers may recall, last week I posted three truths about me and one bald-faced lie, and then asked you all to guess which was the nose-growing statement in the garden of my prose. What? I can mix metaphors that don’t even exist if I like. But remember, I’m a professional blogger. Do not try this at home.
Anyway.
Six of you waded in and gave it a go… and somebody did get it right.
To find out the sordid truth about the three truths and the yet more sordid truth behind the one lie, join me after the cut.
Well, I saw Curvy Girls, the marginally unscripted TV show that proves to the naysayers that yes, if you work diligently and study hard at school, even plus size women can be in a painfully vapid “reality” shows that make you question whether the Mayans and their kooky 2012 plans might really be for the best.
On one hand, I’m glad to see beautiful plus size women, even if they’re only model plus-size, getting press. On the other, I just don’t get trash TV. Sure it’s not as bad as some show like Hoarders where the audience derives a pretty nauseating combination of entertainment and schadenfreude from the public exposition of someone’s mental illness, but none of that stuff can be good for your soul.
Have you see Curvy Girls? What do you think? Is it good for big girls, bad for big girls or just plain garbage?
I’m writing this on Monday afternoon. Hurricane Sandy is supposed to make landfall a bit north of us in a few hours and the leaves that had fallen prettily over the past week are now a matted wet carpet, beaten down by the constant rain. I suspect we’ll lose electricity tonight or tomorrow and I’m surprisingly fine with that. It’s not that cold, and historically my friend’s place doesn’t lose water or gas when the grid goes down.
When we lose electricity at Plumcake Cottage –which can happen during such traumatic weather events as a pelican landing on the roof– we lose everything. Never in my life did I expect to say “Sweetheart, go to the ocean and get a bucket of water. We need to be able to flush.” but there you have it. Tropical glamor: redefined.
Speaking of redefinition, I suppose now is as good a time as any to ask your opinion on Olivia Newton John’s career-defining character, Sandy Olsen in Surrender Your Identity To Garner Male Approval: The Musical, I mean Grease!
As you might be able to tell, I am not a fan. I mean I love Stockard Channing and pencil skirts as much if not more than the next girl, but even as a stupid teenager I remember being forced to sing Grease medleys and thinking “Is this a good idea? I really don’t think this is a good idea. Is this a good idea?” but I seemed to be the only one.
Okay, the wind is picking up and this copy of Kinky Boots isn’t going to watch itself. Stay safe, gang.
