I do not seek out violence, I do not leave my house intending to threaten harm to other individuals. Most of the time, I am a very nice person, or at least fake being a nice person with relative success. I'm southern. That is what we do.
I have been sick, miserable and trapped in my house for a week. I went out because I wanted a book. It was such a simple thing, really. I drove to Hastings, found a parking space, and got out of my car. I had walked past the car next to me, when this woman gets out and says to me, "If you look, you'll see half the paint from my mirror on your car door." Now, I had tried to be careful getting out, but these were narrow spaces, and it was a very windy day. I dutifully went back and looked and sure enough, there on my door was the tiniest little sliver of red paint, maybe 1/8 of an inch in width and no more than a 1/4 inch in length. But I apologized. I told her I was sorry and that I hadn't realized I had bumped her mirror.
Rather than responding in an equally civil manner, the woman continued to harangue me for this. At that point, I offered to give her my insurance information, and she declined. But she continued her tirade about the "event". I use the word event rather than the more appropriate word "incident" because in this woman's mind, it was well and truly an "EVENT". Suffice to say, at this point I'd had enough. I responded to her by saying that I had apologized and that I had offered her my insurance information and that was all I could do. I went on to say, because at this point I had hit my limit, that I had not left my house in order to be a verbal punching bag for her, and I was not required to take her abuse. There may have been expletives inserted at various points in this response, and one of them might have been "bitch". In fact, I am almost certain of it. Regardless of this, I was done with the conversation and walked away. As I was walking away, she says to me that if my ass weren't so wide, I might not have hit her car geting out of mine.
I'm fat. It's not exactly something that snuck up on me. I'm well aware of it. So I turned around to this woman who apparently feels that "fat" is the worst insult she can throw at me and thanked her for the newsflash. I even went on to state, sarcastically, "That I hadn't realized when I got up and dressed myself that my ass was that big". At this point, I lost my temper. I called the woman a bitter piece of shit and told her to get her ass back in her car and take it the f* on home or I was going to beat the piss out of her.
This is proof that while you can take the girl out of Jellico, you cannot take Jellico out of the girl.
Saturday, November 7, 2009
Wednesday, October 21, 2009
Paranormal Mania
For whatever reason, television has become obsessed with the paranormal: Ghosthunters, Most Haunted, A Haunting, Ghost Adventures, Paranormal State, Extreme Paranormal and Ghost Lab to name a few. Now, I love a good ghost story as good as anyone. I've even been known to spin one or two myself. I'm also a firm believer that there are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio. My issue with these shows, even Ghosthunters now, sadly, is that people are too quick to label something paranormal. Also, if you go looking for ghosts, when you think you've found one, don't run.
Nothing makes me crazier than to be watching one of these "ghost hunting" shows and see someone say "I think we've found something" and then run the other direction. If you think you've got something, stay there until all possibilities have been exhausted. Additionally, if you say you are using scientific methods, use scientific methods. On one recent episode, investigators used a "biocam" to detect physiological symptoms/signs of mood or stress level. A baseline reading was done in one room, and then these people were taken to another room where they had been told two axe murders had taken place and were asked to sit in that very spot. Now, I have to be perfectly honest, paranormal or not, if I were sitting in the same exact spot where two people had been murdered with an axe, I'm pretty sure my stress level would result in observable physiological changes. A random, double blind sample is not difficult. If you want to measure this accurately, tell people they are sitting in "the spot" when really they are not and see if you get similar results. Additionally, to determine if it is the location and not the knowledge that these individuals possess that is producing these effects, then have people who do not know the history participate in this study. Tell them you're measuring temperature fluctuations or some such. Either way, don't call this evidence. When you can't fully establish a causal relationship between things, don't claim that one exists.
As someone who believes in ghosts, and as someone who believes in science, it is possible to bring those two things together in a way that will be equally satisfying.
Nothing makes me crazier than to be watching one of these "ghost hunting" shows and see someone say "I think we've found something" and then run the other direction. If you think you've got something, stay there until all possibilities have been exhausted. Additionally, if you say you are using scientific methods, use scientific methods. On one recent episode, investigators used a "biocam" to detect physiological symptoms/signs of mood or stress level. A baseline reading was done in one room, and then these people were taken to another room where they had been told two axe murders had taken place and were asked to sit in that very spot. Now, I have to be perfectly honest, paranormal or not, if I were sitting in the same exact spot where two people had been murdered with an axe, I'm pretty sure my stress level would result in observable physiological changes. A random, double blind sample is not difficult. If you want to measure this accurately, tell people they are sitting in "the spot" when really they are not and see if you get similar results. Additionally, to determine if it is the location and not the knowledge that these individuals possess that is producing these effects, then have people who do not know the history participate in this study. Tell them you're measuring temperature fluctuations or some such. Either way, don't call this evidence. When you can't fully establish a causal relationship between things, don't claim that one exists.
As someone who believes in ghosts, and as someone who believes in science, it is possible to bring those two things together in a way that will be equally satisfying.
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
The Men in My Life
I have a long and illustrious history of disastrous relationships. It’s a family trait. I come from a long line of women with terrible taste in men, excepting my mother, of course. Now, Daddy is no saint, unless they wish to canonize a patron saint for rogues. My Daddy is now, and always has been, a gambler with somewhat flexible morality. And that is perfectly fine by me since I have somewhat flexible morality myself.
The bad luck with men comes down on his side of the family though--from his sisters to be precise, and his mother too, actually. She did have three husbands, after all. Well, two husbands and one man she thought she was married to. But enough about that. For the sake of continuity, we’ll just call my aunts the Honky Tonk Angels. There are far too many of them for you to keep them all straight. Hell, half the time they don’t even know their own names, so why in the world would I expect you to? There were seven of them all together, but there has to be an odd one in every bunch. That would be my Aunt Mildred. She found religion. The others found it too, but only after it had backslid. But those stories are for another time, and another book. The aunts deserve one all of their very own.
The first truly disastrous relationship in my life was that first real honest to god true love. And I can only thank Jesus in all his wisdom that he moved out of state, because otherwise one of us would be dead and one of us would be in prison. And lord bless him, he was the irresponsible sort, so I doubt he had life insurance. This man was a serial adulterer. He was cheating with so many women, he didn’t even know which ones of us were the “other” women. He would screw anything. A conveniently placed knot hole on a tree would probably have sufficed. And there have been any number of other disasters. Everything from “Oh, did I forget to tell you I was married? Darn, I hate when I do that!” to “Oh, I know we’ve been going out for almost a year, but Valentine’s day is a boyfriend-girlfriend kind of holiday, so it doesn’t really apply to us, does it?”
So, you have the legally unavailable, as in already legally wed to someone else. Then you have the emotionally unavailable, who are so backwards in relationships they don’t even realize they’re having them. Then you have those other ones. The ones that after two dates think they’ve found their soulmates. Now, it’s just my opinion, but before you go thinking somebody’s your soul mate, you might ought to wait till the niceness wears off. When you’ve reached the point in a relationship that you’re comfortable enough to actually admit to having bodily functions, or when you no longer feel the need to hide the fact that your clothes are more often on the floor than in the closet, then you can start thinking soul mates. Two dates, and I’m still being polite and you’re still trying to impress me. That is not the best time to go making life altering decisions.
This calls to mind one particular incident. I might want to mention that I am not mentioning names in this section because even the guilty deserve privacy. But for the sake of the story, we’ll call this one Gomer. That wasn’t his name, and he didn’t look or talk like a Gomer, but that doesn’t mean he wasn’t one. Gomer and I met and had one official date, and then one unofficial date (meaning, he didn’t spend any money, he just came to the house and watched TV with me and my roommate, Emily). It was okay—not spectacular, but I didn’t leave crying, and neither did he. Gomer was a little on the homely side, but I was going through this phase where I was trying not to be shallow. So I kept saying things to myself like, “But, he’s just SO nice!” If you have to sell yourself on ‘em, you will definitely be returning them to the store at a later date.
So, Gomer asks me to go with him to his office Christmas party. This was an instant red flag. And, I even said to Gomer, “Gomer, that seems a little serious for just one date.” But Gomer assured me this was not the case. It wasn’t like a formal sit down thing, it was just a big ol’ party with an open bar and everybody just had a big ol’ time. So, I agreed, against my better judgment, to go. I’m going to interrupt the story here to say that I am not into PDA (check the glossary, if you’re not sure). I’m just not touchy feely. If we’re not alone, and it isn’t foreplay, then you just need to stay on your own side. Anyway, back to Gomer. He was into PDA, or actually it might have been PDO—public displays of ownership. We walk in, and it was as awkward as walking into the senior prom with the boy my mother made me go with my freshman year. He’s parading me around this room, proud as a peacock, and everybody keeps saying how they’ve just heard so much about me! Of course, I’m thinking to myself, “What the heck does he know about me to tell them?”
As the night wore on, I managed to identify the faint ringing in my ears as my psycho alarm going off. So, I had the talk with Gomer. The one where I tell him what a nice man he is, and how he just seems to really want to settle down with someone, and I’m just not into settling down yet. I could have beaten this man over the head with a clue and he still wouldn’t have caught on. So, I just kept getting phone calls and emails. And I just kept ducking them.
Well one night I was out with my gay husband (that’s my friend John—he’s hopelessly gay, but he’s wonderful for fixing things and moving heavy furniture!) and another one of our friends, Jamie. It happened to be happy hour and there might have been a cocktail or two involved, and lo and behold my gay husband wound up with my cell phone and decided to give Gomer a wake up call. Now, John calls him up and proceeds to tell this story about how he and I had broken up, but we were back together, and he didn’t appreciate someone calling me all the time and trying to come between us, and he just thought it would be for the best if Gomer didn’t call me anymore. Jamie and I, having finished our cocktails by this point, were under the table laughing.
I was sure then that I would have heard the last of Gomer. Sadly, that was not the case. A few days later, I get another Gomer –gram. He starts off saying how he just didn’t know my ex and I were really that serious, and how I had owed it to him to tell him that there was a chance we’d get back together, and all this stuff. I mean you would have thought I’d all but promised to bear his young, the way he carried on. But then I read paragraph number two, and I started screaming for Emily to come in and read it with me, because I was laughing so hard I thought I’d pee on myself. Gomer went on to say, how since he and I weren’t going to be dating anymore, could I do him a favor and pass his phone number on to my roommate, he thought her name was Nikki, cause she was kinda cute, and he thought maybe she might like him. I sent that email to everybody I knew. It was just too funny to keep to myself.
Now, I couldn’t make that up. I swear to you, it is all true. This is why my previous relationships have been disasters. Middle ground is a wonderful place. I wish I had more than a passing acquaintance with it. But I don’t. Either, I’m completely in love and they’re just killing time, or they’re completely in love and I’m trying to figure out how to obtain a restraining order. Now Gomer is not the first freak in my life, sadly he wasn’t the last either. And if I were a betting woman, which with my luck would truly be a shame, there are undoubtedly more in my future. I will have to say that I do not think any of them will compare with one in particular from my not so distant past.
Once upon a time, I was living in this ratty little basement apartment with a roommate named Sacqua, Online, Sacqua met this guy who went to the same college we did and it just so happened that we both had classes with him. She talked to him online for a bit, and on the phone for a bit, and decided that the night of my graduation party, we would invite him over. Now as parties go, this one wasn’t wild by any stretch of the imagination. Unless you count me running around in a tiara, a feather boa, and my graduation gown drinking champagne straight from the bottle, that is. It was just a handful of friends, some truly funny movies and boatload of alcohol. And (drumroll, please) the guy.
Now, if you haven’t figured it out yet, I have a somewhat raunchy sense of humor at times. So did Sacqua. Some of the best times I ever had, were sitting around half drunk on wine listening to her interpret romance novels. His granite hardness, I swear that phrase was used in the book, in Sacqua’s witty hands became rock dick and as they were making love on the beach, the heroine in this particularly forgettable novel became known as sand coochie. Maybe it was the wine, but it the time it was hysterical. So, we got drunk the night of my graduation, we watched Clerks and a few other equally irreverent movies. Because our sense of humor tended towards filth, apparently the guy thought the rest of us did to. So a few days later, he and Sacqua are on the phone and he says to her that he wants to come over and perform for us. She asked him to clarify that, to which he replied, perform with an implied wink wink. Long story short, though I don’t know from experience, this guy wanted to come to our house and masturbate with an audience. What about my roommate, she’d asked. To which he replied that I was welcome to watch too. During the course of this conversation he also revealed to her, for whatever reason (I suppose her stunned silence left him with plenty of room to get a word in edgewise) that he shaved his testicles. Now, I am not opposed to grooming. But this was just a little creepy. If I haven’t seen your testicles, they really ought not to be brought up in conversation., just as a thought.
So the guy, henceforth known as Nair Nuts, did not just disappear. He kept creeping up like a bad penny. We’d go to a bar, and he’d be there. We’d bump into him on campus. And even a year later, I ran into this guy on campus whom I had dated casually. He was an art major, and was in Drawing Two that semester. This would be the class with life models. So this former beaux of mine is telling me all about this male model in the drawing class who just gives him the creeps. Suffice to say, Nair Nuts had finally found his audience, and a captive one at that.
Now it would be false to say all of my relationships have been completely disastrous. They did end after all. The real disaster would be to find myself still in one of those atrocities! But the men who’ve come and gone in my life, in a more significant capacity than Gomer, have helped me become the person I am today. Whether it was by breaking my heart, expanding my knowledge of art or music, or indulging my passionate nature, I’ve learned something from all of them and I wouldn’t be who or where I am today without each of them. And at the moment, I like where I’m at. And we all know how I feel about me.
At the moment, my love life isn’t a total disaster. I’ve been seeing a man who at the very least, has never bored me, is always a good time, and he’s just a little bit bad. Unfortunately, work and other responsibilities do not allow us to see one another that often, but when we do see one another, we make the most of it. I think maybe I like him best of all because I don’t see him all the time. The shine hasn’t worn off yet. Absence may indeed make the heart grow fonder. So, I’ll just keep living my life, seeing him when I can, and enjoying every minute I can. But, as always, I’ll keep my eye on the exit sign just in case the psycho alarm goes off again.
The bad luck with men comes down on his side of the family though--from his sisters to be precise, and his mother too, actually. She did have three husbands, after all. Well, two husbands and one man she thought she was married to. But enough about that. For the sake of continuity, we’ll just call my aunts the Honky Tonk Angels. There are far too many of them for you to keep them all straight. Hell, half the time they don’t even know their own names, so why in the world would I expect you to? There were seven of them all together, but there has to be an odd one in every bunch. That would be my Aunt Mildred. She found religion. The others found it too, but only after it had backslid. But those stories are for another time, and another book. The aunts deserve one all of their very own.
The first truly disastrous relationship in my life was that first real honest to god true love. And I can only thank Jesus in all his wisdom that he moved out of state, because otherwise one of us would be dead and one of us would be in prison. And lord bless him, he was the irresponsible sort, so I doubt he had life insurance. This man was a serial adulterer. He was cheating with so many women, he didn’t even know which ones of us were the “other” women. He would screw anything. A conveniently placed knot hole on a tree would probably have sufficed. And there have been any number of other disasters. Everything from “Oh, did I forget to tell you I was married? Darn, I hate when I do that!” to “Oh, I know we’ve been going out for almost a year, but Valentine’s day is a boyfriend-girlfriend kind of holiday, so it doesn’t really apply to us, does it?”
So, you have the legally unavailable, as in already legally wed to someone else. Then you have the emotionally unavailable, who are so backwards in relationships they don’t even realize they’re having them. Then you have those other ones. The ones that after two dates think they’ve found their soulmates. Now, it’s just my opinion, but before you go thinking somebody’s your soul mate, you might ought to wait till the niceness wears off. When you’ve reached the point in a relationship that you’re comfortable enough to actually admit to having bodily functions, or when you no longer feel the need to hide the fact that your clothes are more often on the floor than in the closet, then you can start thinking soul mates. Two dates, and I’m still being polite and you’re still trying to impress me. That is not the best time to go making life altering decisions.
This calls to mind one particular incident. I might want to mention that I am not mentioning names in this section because even the guilty deserve privacy. But for the sake of the story, we’ll call this one Gomer. That wasn’t his name, and he didn’t look or talk like a Gomer, but that doesn’t mean he wasn’t one. Gomer and I met and had one official date, and then one unofficial date (meaning, he didn’t spend any money, he just came to the house and watched TV with me and my roommate, Emily). It was okay—not spectacular, but I didn’t leave crying, and neither did he. Gomer was a little on the homely side, but I was going through this phase where I was trying not to be shallow. So I kept saying things to myself like, “But, he’s just SO nice!” If you have to sell yourself on ‘em, you will definitely be returning them to the store at a later date.
So, Gomer asks me to go with him to his office Christmas party. This was an instant red flag. And, I even said to Gomer, “Gomer, that seems a little serious for just one date.” But Gomer assured me this was not the case. It wasn’t like a formal sit down thing, it was just a big ol’ party with an open bar and everybody just had a big ol’ time. So, I agreed, against my better judgment, to go. I’m going to interrupt the story here to say that I am not into PDA (check the glossary, if you’re not sure). I’m just not touchy feely. If we’re not alone, and it isn’t foreplay, then you just need to stay on your own side. Anyway, back to Gomer. He was into PDA, or actually it might have been PDO—public displays of ownership. We walk in, and it was as awkward as walking into the senior prom with the boy my mother made me go with my freshman year. He’s parading me around this room, proud as a peacock, and everybody keeps saying how they’ve just heard so much about me! Of course, I’m thinking to myself, “What the heck does he know about me to tell them?”
As the night wore on, I managed to identify the faint ringing in my ears as my psycho alarm going off. So, I had the talk with Gomer. The one where I tell him what a nice man he is, and how he just seems to really want to settle down with someone, and I’m just not into settling down yet. I could have beaten this man over the head with a clue and he still wouldn’t have caught on. So, I just kept getting phone calls and emails. And I just kept ducking them.
Well one night I was out with my gay husband (that’s my friend John—he’s hopelessly gay, but he’s wonderful for fixing things and moving heavy furniture!) and another one of our friends, Jamie. It happened to be happy hour and there might have been a cocktail or two involved, and lo and behold my gay husband wound up with my cell phone and decided to give Gomer a wake up call. Now, John calls him up and proceeds to tell this story about how he and I had broken up, but we were back together, and he didn’t appreciate someone calling me all the time and trying to come between us, and he just thought it would be for the best if Gomer didn’t call me anymore. Jamie and I, having finished our cocktails by this point, were under the table laughing.
I was sure then that I would have heard the last of Gomer. Sadly, that was not the case. A few days later, I get another Gomer –gram. He starts off saying how he just didn’t know my ex and I were really that serious, and how I had owed it to him to tell him that there was a chance we’d get back together, and all this stuff. I mean you would have thought I’d all but promised to bear his young, the way he carried on. But then I read paragraph number two, and I started screaming for Emily to come in and read it with me, because I was laughing so hard I thought I’d pee on myself. Gomer went on to say, how since he and I weren’t going to be dating anymore, could I do him a favor and pass his phone number on to my roommate, he thought her name was Nikki, cause she was kinda cute, and he thought maybe she might like him. I sent that email to everybody I knew. It was just too funny to keep to myself.
Now, I couldn’t make that up. I swear to you, it is all true. This is why my previous relationships have been disasters. Middle ground is a wonderful place. I wish I had more than a passing acquaintance with it. But I don’t. Either, I’m completely in love and they’re just killing time, or they’re completely in love and I’m trying to figure out how to obtain a restraining order. Now Gomer is not the first freak in my life, sadly he wasn’t the last either. And if I were a betting woman, which with my luck would truly be a shame, there are undoubtedly more in my future. I will have to say that I do not think any of them will compare with one in particular from my not so distant past.
Once upon a time, I was living in this ratty little basement apartment with a roommate named Sacqua, Online, Sacqua met this guy who went to the same college we did and it just so happened that we both had classes with him. She talked to him online for a bit, and on the phone for a bit, and decided that the night of my graduation party, we would invite him over. Now as parties go, this one wasn’t wild by any stretch of the imagination. Unless you count me running around in a tiara, a feather boa, and my graduation gown drinking champagne straight from the bottle, that is. It was just a handful of friends, some truly funny movies and boatload of alcohol. And (drumroll, please) the guy.
Now, if you haven’t figured it out yet, I have a somewhat raunchy sense of humor at times. So did Sacqua. Some of the best times I ever had, were sitting around half drunk on wine listening to her interpret romance novels. His granite hardness, I swear that phrase was used in the book, in Sacqua’s witty hands became rock dick and as they were making love on the beach, the heroine in this particularly forgettable novel became known as sand coochie. Maybe it was the wine, but it the time it was hysterical. So, we got drunk the night of my graduation, we watched Clerks and a few other equally irreverent movies. Because our sense of humor tended towards filth, apparently the guy thought the rest of us did to. So a few days later, he and Sacqua are on the phone and he says to her that he wants to come over and perform for us. She asked him to clarify that, to which he replied, perform with an implied wink wink. Long story short, though I don’t know from experience, this guy wanted to come to our house and masturbate with an audience. What about my roommate, she’d asked. To which he replied that I was welcome to watch too. During the course of this conversation he also revealed to her, for whatever reason (I suppose her stunned silence left him with plenty of room to get a word in edgewise) that he shaved his testicles. Now, I am not opposed to grooming. But this was just a little creepy. If I haven’t seen your testicles, they really ought not to be brought up in conversation., just as a thought.
So the guy, henceforth known as Nair Nuts, did not just disappear. He kept creeping up like a bad penny. We’d go to a bar, and he’d be there. We’d bump into him on campus. And even a year later, I ran into this guy on campus whom I had dated casually. He was an art major, and was in Drawing Two that semester. This would be the class with life models. So this former beaux of mine is telling me all about this male model in the drawing class who just gives him the creeps. Suffice to say, Nair Nuts had finally found his audience, and a captive one at that.
Now it would be false to say all of my relationships have been completely disastrous. They did end after all. The real disaster would be to find myself still in one of those atrocities! But the men who’ve come and gone in my life, in a more significant capacity than Gomer, have helped me become the person I am today. Whether it was by breaking my heart, expanding my knowledge of art or music, or indulging my passionate nature, I’ve learned something from all of them and I wouldn’t be who or where I am today without each of them. And at the moment, I like where I’m at. And we all know how I feel about me.
At the moment, my love life isn’t a total disaster. I’ve been seeing a man who at the very least, has never bored me, is always a good time, and he’s just a little bit bad. Unfortunately, work and other responsibilities do not allow us to see one another that often, but when we do see one another, we make the most of it. I think maybe I like him best of all because I don’t see him all the time. The shine hasn’t worn off yet. Absence may indeed make the heart grow fonder. So, I’ll just keep living my life, seeing him when I can, and enjoying every minute I can. But, as always, I’ll keep my eye on the exit sign just in case the psycho alarm goes off again.
Fat Fashion, or the Lack Thereof
Fat Fashion, or the Lack Thereof
More than sixty percent of the American population is overweight. I’ll accept that fact easily. However the marketing geniuses at large discount department stores might need a wake up call. I’m not naming names, but just picture the smiley face, and you’ll know exactly where I’m going with this.
Take their clothing for example. All the itsy bitsy clothes are shoved way to the front of the store, and take up approximately seventy five percent of the floor space allotted for clothing. The plus size section is shoved into the farthest corner of the women’s department taking up about 18% of the remaining space, and the Maternity section is placed right next to it, with the other 7% of floor space. Because obviously pregnant women who feel fat, whose bodies have undergone traumatic changes want to be reminded that their girth has increased so significantly in such a short a time that they’ve been hidden away with the fat girls. Not to mention that it is a great idea to give them parking spaces right at the front of the store, and force them to go on a quest once inside to even find the two racks of clothing that are actually intended to fit them. Brilliant. I say put the maternity clothes up front so the poor women don’t have to walk any further than necessary.
As for us fat girls, I suppose they were being sensitive to our embarrassment about our size and thus thought to tuck our elastic waist band, stretch pants and screen printed kitten tees way in the back so we could pilfer through the meager offerings in relative solitude and anonymity. Catch a clue, people. If I buy it, if I wear it in public, I don’t give a damn who sees me pulling it off the rack. And further more, if more than half of the population is overwieight, then more than half the clothes in your store ought to reflect it.
Furthermore, I am not nine years old. I do not need Pooh Bear emblazoned across my chest. My chest tends to get enough attention on its own without adding any cartoon characters. I am also not ninety. I do not require elasticized waistbands in all of my clothing, despite my waist size. Fat comes in all ages, young old and everywhere in between. I do not need a floral print on everything I wear. I have no desire to blend with wallpaper and upholstery. Tents are not clothing.
One advantage of being a larger woman is that you get to have boobs. Real ones. So sell me some clothing that allows me to show them off, rather than Tigger. Instead, your only option is to walk out of there with stretch pants and t-shirts that are more suitable to someone at least three decades younger or three decades older than you are. I am not nearly as embarrassed by my body,as I would be to wear what the buyers at these stores think I ought to put on it.
It is the most frustrating thing in the world to walk into a discount department store, the ones whose claim to fame is one stop shopping and know that while you can purchase clothing there, you do not want to. Because all the cute stuff on display when you walk in, is never available in your size. Or heaven forbid, if a store does carry clothing in every size, they hike the price on the plus size. A size fourteen and size zero are the same price, but a size eighteen is three bucks more. Three bucks isn’t that big a deal, I know. But it’s the principle of the thing here. You’re being penalized for being larger. It ticks me off to no end. The size zero isn’t being discounted for using less fabric that the size ten, is it?
I have a few suggestions for these stores. First, find a well dressed plus sized woman and make her the buyer for your plus size department. Second, keep the cartoon characters in the kids sections. No self respecting adult woman of any size ought to be walking around with Disney character covering her boobs. Third, increase your selection of plus sized clothing. Offer a wider variety. And the trends of the season should not be restricted to those size fourteen and below. The price for a garment ought to be the same no matter what size it is.
In the meantime, we do what we must to look the best we can. Attractive clothing for larger women exists. It is out there, but it is only sold at exclusive stores that jack up the price far quicker than they jack up the quality. Again, the clearance rack is your best friend here…. And coupons.
Having a good wardrobe is not impossible, but it requires a certain amount of skill, bargain hunting, classics, and versatility. When you buy clothes, go with simple pieces that FIT you. No one ever made themselves look smaller by wearing clothes that were too big. No one ever made themselves look smaller by wearing clothes that were too tight either. That only makes you look like a sausage. So find your size, find clothing that gives your body balance and draws attention to the areas of your body you actually want people to look at. And this incidentally, is advice for all sizes.
More than sixty percent of the American population is overweight. I’ll accept that fact easily. However the marketing geniuses at large discount department stores might need a wake up call. I’m not naming names, but just picture the smiley face, and you’ll know exactly where I’m going with this.
Take their clothing for example. All the itsy bitsy clothes are shoved way to the front of the store, and take up approximately seventy five percent of the floor space allotted for clothing. The plus size section is shoved into the farthest corner of the women’s department taking up about 18% of the remaining space, and the Maternity section is placed right next to it, with the other 7% of floor space. Because obviously pregnant women who feel fat, whose bodies have undergone traumatic changes want to be reminded that their girth has increased so significantly in such a short a time that they’ve been hidden away with the fat girls. Not to mention that it is a great idea to give them parking spaces right at the front of the store, and force them to go on a quest once inside to even find the two racks of clothing that are actually intended to fit them. Brilliant. I say put the maternity clothes up front so the poor women don’t have to walk any further than necessary.
As for us fat girls, I suppose they were being sensitive to our embarrassment about our size and thus thought to tuck our elastic waist band, stretch pants and screen printed kitten tees way in the back so we could pilfer through the meager offerings in relative solitude and anonymity. Catch a clue, people. If I buy it, if I wear it in public, I don’t give a damn who sees me pulling it off the rack. And further more, if more than half of the population is overwieight, then more than half the clothes in your store ought to reflect it.
Furthermore, I am not nine years old. I do not need Pooh Bear emblazoned across my chest. My chest tends to get enough attention on its own without adding any cartoon characters. I am also not ninety. I do not require elasticized waistbands in all of my clothing, despite my waist size. Fat comes in all ages, young old and everywhere in between. I do not need a floral print on everything I wear. I have no desire to blend with wallpaper and upholstery. Tents are not clothing.
One advantage of being a larger woman is that you get to have boobs. Real ones. So sell me some clothing that allows me to show them off, rather than Tigger. Instead, your only option is to walk out of there with stretch pants and t-shirts that are more suitable to someone at least three decades younger or three decades older than you are. I am not nearly as embarrassed by my body,as I would be to wear what the buyers at these stores think I ought to put on it.
It is the most frustrating thing in the world to walk into a discount department store, the ones whose claim to fame is one stop shopping and know that while you can purchase clothing there, you do not want to. Because all the cute stuff on display when you walk in, is never available in your size. Or heaven forbid, if a store does carry clothing in every size, they hike the price on the plus size. A size fourteen and size zero are the same price, but a size eighteen is three bucks more. Three bucks isn’t that big a deal, I know. But it’s the principle of the thing here. You’re being penalized for being larger. It ticks me off to no end. The size zero isn’t being discounted for using less fabric that the size ten, is it?
I have a few suggestions for these stores. First, find a well dressed plus sized woman and make her the buyer for your plus size department. Second, keep the cartoon characters in the kids sections. No self respecting adult woman of any size ought to be walking around with Disney character covering her boobs. Third, increase your selection of plus sized clothing. Offer a wider variety. And the trends of the season should not be restricted to those size fourteen and below. The price for a garment ought to be the same no matter what size it is.
In the meantime, we do what we must to look the best we can. Attractive clothing for larger women exists. It is out there, but it is only sold at exclusive stores that jack up the price far quicker than they jack up the quality. Again, the clearance rack is your best friend here…. And coupons.
Having a good wardrobe is not impossible, but it requires a certain amount of skill, bargain hunting, classics, and versatility. When you buy clothes, go with simple pieces that FIT you. No one ever made themselves look smaller by wearing clothes that were too big. No one ever made themselves look smaller by wearing clothes that were too tight either. That only makes you look like a sausage. So find your size, find clothing that gives your body balance and draws attention to the areas of your body you actually want people to look at. And this incidentally, is advice for all sizes.
Sunday, June 28, 2009
The Fat Girl Manifesto
Be Happy With You
The key to being happy with yourself, isn’t found in a size, a bank balance, an address, or the right bag. But a good bag, even a knockoff, can certainly brighten your day. I used to dream of waking up thin. As a little girl, the fairy godmother of my dreams would wave her wand make me skinny and rich, and life would be perfect. I never dreamed that she would make me pretty, because even fat, I already knew that I was pretty.
Maybe it was all the backhanded compliments, like “But you have such a pretty face!”. Now this was always followed with the ubiquitous, “If only you’d lose weight.”
For all those people, all I have to say to you now that we are getting older, is. “You’d have such a pretty face, without all those wrinkles! Why don’t you gain a few pounds and see if they fill in?” I know that sounds bitchy, mean, vindictive, and all those things that us fat girls who have to get by on personality shouldn’t be, but to hell with that. I am bitter, mean, bitchy, vindictive and I don’t care. Fat people, and fat women especially, are discriminated against. You can’t make fun of people for their race, their religion, their sexual orientation, their height, their political leanings, etcetera, etcetera. However, there are two groups of people that it is still perfectly acceptable to make fun of, throw slurs at, or otherwise deride. I happen to fall into both of those categories---Fat and Southern.
Fat, in the minds of many people, is equivalent to slovenly, lazy, gluttonous and any number of other highly derogatory terms. Southern, in the minds of many, is equivalent to stupid, illiterate, inbred, racist, and so forth, and so on, ad nauseum. Bigotry is not an issue of race. We are all bigots in some fashion or other. I am a bigot. I look at skinny women, and think “I hate her”. And other people, I am sure, look at me and think, “Oh, my god! Just go on a diet!”. There is not a person in this world who is satisfied with the way they look. Whether it’s your boobs, your nose, your butt, your gut, your hair, your eyes, your skin, your wrinkles, or anything else, we would all like to change something about ourselves. But instead of thinking about what we want to change, think about what you would not change.
I have incredible bone structure. That might sound conceited, but so be it. I have high cheekbones, a good jaw line, and an undeniably cute nose, in spite of a minor accident (we’ll get to that later). I’ve also received numerous compliments on my lips, my eyes and my hair. I’m very smart, I’m reasonably well read, and my friends, at least, think I am witty. Now the question I have to ask myself is, would I give up or in anyway, alter that rather long list of things about myself that I like, to change the one thing that I don’t—namely my weight? I would think that the answer to that would be an obvious no. But that isn’t necessarily the case. There are any number women out there, women who have just as many desirable and wonderful attributes as those I have claimed for myself, who are also of a size that society would frown upon, and would give it all up to be skinny.
I don’t know when it happened exactly. At some point or other, in my very early twenties, I just looked in the mirror and said “I look good”. And it was true. To look at it objectively, just tally it. Make a list of the good and the bad, and see which is longer. Being fat is no different than having thin hair or a big nose. It isn’t just about what you eat, or about the fact that you don’t get your big ass off the couch often enough, though those things don’t help. Genetics, environment, culture, all those things are a factor. I grew up in a region where pork is a spice. You save your bacon grease to flavor your vegetables. Fat is in inevitable. It gets us all. Genetics just determines when.
Me, I’ve been fat pretty much my entire life. Those skinny bitches from high school who used to look down their noses at me because of it—well a few kids and a decade and half of southern cooking means now they are looking down their noses and over their double chins. Now, when I say skinny bitches, I am in no way implying that every thin woman is an evil, villainous, bigot who harbors an undying hatred for us fat girls. That would be narrowminded, and I prefer to think that I am not. But there are women, usually the women who are so obsessed with their own weight that they will starve themselves if the scale varies by more than two pounds, who do hate fat women, because in us, they see what they fear they will become. And if you dare not to be bound by the narrow confines of what they consider beautiful, then you might as well paint a target on your back, because they will try to make you pay for it.
Beauty, if you are willing to open yourself to the concept, comes in every, shape size and color. But the only opinion that matters in the end, is your own. If someone calls you fat, it isn’t an insult unless you allow it to be. If you are fat, and someone says so, then it is no different that someone saying “your eyes are brown”. It is only insulting if you allow yourself to fall into the trap of believing that fat is ugly, or bad, or wrong, or sinful. It might not be healthy, but neither is smoking, drinking, doing drugs or starving yourself. Those things, trends aside, seem to actually make people more attractive. And for one brief shining moment about five hundred years ago, I would have been not only a goddess, but a muse.
Look at the paintings of the Renaissance. Women had curves and lots of them. They had breasts and hips and stomachs that today would have caused their doctor’s to label them morbidly obese. And they were the beauties of the age. Okay, so many of them were also prostitutes. But they were considered beautiful by icons of the artistic world that have helped to define our very civilization.
And contrary to what fashion magazines, television and movies would have us believe, not every man out there is looking for a size two. Go on the internet, type in the term plus size, or BBW. I don’t suggest going to these sites, as most of them are undoubtedly pornographic, but take a look at the number of hits you get. If there are enough men out there who enjoy looking at larger women naked to support that number of websites, obviously, not all of them are looking for Barbie.
Be proud of yourself, your accomplishments and your life. Accept who you are, what you are, and accept that not everybody is going to like you. Appreciate the ones who do, and always be sure to list yourself among them.
The key to being happy with yourself, isn’t found in a size, a bank balance, an address, or the right bag. But a good bag, even a knockoff, can certainly brighten your day. I used to dream of waking up thin. As a little girl, the fairy godmother of my dreams would wave her wand make me skinny and rich, and life would be perfect. I never dreamed that she would make me pretty, because even fat, I already knew that I was pretty.
Maybe it was all the backhanded compliments, like “But you have such a pretty face!”. Now this was always followed with the ubiquitous, “If only you’d lose weight.”
For all those people, all I have to say to you now that we are getting older, is. “You’d have such a pretty face, without all those wrinkles! Why don’t you gain a few pounds and see if they fill in?” I know that sounds bitchy, mean, vindictive, and all those things that us fat girls who have to get by on personality shouldn’t be, but to hell with that. I am bitter, mean, bitchy, vindictive and I don’t care. Fat people, and fat women especially, are discriminated against. You can’t make fun of people for their race, their religion, their sexual orientation, their height, their political leanings, etcetera, etcetera. However, there are two groups of people that it is still perfectly acceptable to make fun of, throw slurs at, or otherwise deride. I happen to fall into both of those categories---Fat and Southern.
Fat, in the minds of many people, is equivalent to slovenly, lazy, gluttonous and any number of other highly derogatory terms. Southern, in the minds of many, is equivalent to stupid, illiterate, inbred, racist, and so forth, and so on, ad nauseum. Bigotry is not an issue of race. We are all bigots in some fashion or other. I am a bigot. I look at skinny women, and think “I hate her”. And other people, I am sure, look at me and think, “Oh, my god! Just go on a diet!”. There is not a person in this world who is satisfied with the way they look. Whether it’s your boobs, your nose, your butt, your gut, your hair, your eyes, your skin, your wrinkles, or anything else, we would all like to change something about ourselves. But instead of thinking about what we want to change, think about what you would not change.
I have incredible bone structure. That might sound conceited, but so be it. I have high cheekbones, a good jaw line, and an undeniably cute nose, in spite of a minor accident (we’ll get to that later). I’ve also received numerous compliments on my lips, my eyes and my hair. I’m very smart, I’m reasonably well read, and my friends, at least, think I am witty. Now the question I have to ask myself is, would I give up or in anyway, alter that rather long list of things about myself that I like, to change the one thing that I don’t—namely my weight? I would think that the answer to that would be an obvious no. But that isn’t necessarily the case. There are any number women out there, women who have just as many desirable and wonderful attributes as those I have claimed for myself, who are also of a size that society would frown upon, and would give it all up to be skinny.
I don’t know when it happened exactly. At some point or other, in my very early twenties, I just looked in the mirror and said “I look good”. And it was true. To look at it objectively, just tally it. Make a list of the good and the bad, and see which is longer. Being fat is no different than having thin hair or a big nose. It isn’t just about what you eat, or about the fact that you don’t get your big ass off the couch often enough, though those things don’t help. Genetics, environment, culture, all those things are a factor. I grew up in a region where pork is a spice. You save your bacon grease to flavor your vegetables. Fat is in inevitable. It gets us all. Genetics just determines when.
Me, I’ve been fat pretty much my entire life. Those skinny bitches from high school who used to look down their noses at me because of it—well a few kids and a decade and half of southern cooking means now they are looking down their noses and over their double chins. Now, when I say skinny bitches, I am in no way implying that every thin woman is an evil, villainous, bigot who harbors an undying hatred for us fat girls. That would be narrowminded, and I prefer to think that I am not. But there are women, usually the women who are so obsessed with their own weight that they will starve themselves if the scale varies by more than two pounds, who do hate fat women, because in us, they see what they fear they will become. And if you dare not to be bound by the narrow confines of what they consider beautiful, then you might as well paint a target on your back, because they will try to make you pay for it.
Beauty, if you are willing to open yourself to the concept, comes in every, shape size and color. But the only opinion that matters in the end, is your own. If someone calls you fat, it isn’t an insult unless you allow it to be. If you are fat, and someone says so, then it is no different that someone saying “your eyes are brown”. It is only insulting if you allow yourself to fall into the trap of believing that fat is ugly, or bad, or wrong, or sinful. It might not be healthy, but neither is smoking, drinking, doing drugs or starving yourself. Those things, trends aside, seem to actually make people more attractive. And for one brief shining moment about five hundred years ago, I would have been not only a goddess, but a muse.
Look at the paintings of the Renaissance. Women had curves and lots of them. They had breasts and hips and stomachs that today would have caused their doctor’s to label them morbidly obese. And they were the beauties of the age. Okay, so many of them were also prostitutes. But they were considered beautiful by icons of the artistic world that have helped to define our very civilization.
And contrary to what fashion magazines, television and movies would have us believe, not every man out there is looking for a size two. Go on the internet, type in the term plus size, or BBW. I don’t suggest going to these sites, as most of them are undoubtedly pornographic, but take a look at the number of hits you get. If there are enough men out there who enjoy looking at larger women naked to support that number of websites, obviously, not all of them are looking for Barbie.
Be proud of yourself, your accomplishments and your life. Accept who you are, what you are, and accept that not everybody is going to like you. Appreciate the ones who do, and always be sure to list yourself among them.
I wish this was a work of fiction, but sadly, my life is this insane.
Transporting the Pig (or Ham on the Lam, as we like to call it)
I have often been told, once I launch into one of my stories that these things could never happen to anybody else. Being the modest soul I am, I reply, “Of course, they could! My life isn’t any more interesting than anybody else’s…. It’s just all in the way you look at it.” After this last adventure, I may be inclined to agree with all those people. This stuff truly does not happen to anybody else.
Let me begin by introducing you to Chloe. Now, Chloe is a pot bellied pig, not the typical hog variety from which our many fine breakfast foods come, but the pet variety. However, pigs being pigs, Chloe liked to eat, and soon outgrew her environment (that environment being our neighbor’s house). In addition, Chloe is the Houdini of the animal kingdom. She has more magic in her little cloven hooves than half the hacks in Vegas. There isn’t a door, a fence, or a harness that can hold this girl when she’s ready to go.
Sadly, city streets being what they are, we could all envision poor Chloe coming to a bad end. She liked to wander the neighborhood, rooting for particularly tasty flower bulbs. The first time I was introduced to Chloe, I was lying in bed, and I heard the strangest noises right outside my window. This sort of snorting, snuffling sound that was unmistakably porcine. Not being a farm girl, myself, I made Emily come listen and confirm, that there was indeed a pig snorting around outside my bedroom (it would not be the first time a pig had been snorting around outside my bedroom, it would just be the first time it was a pig with four legs and a cute, little curly tail).
It wasn’t too long after that, once again in my night clothes, that there came a knock on my door fairly late at night. It was some random person from the neighborhood inquiring if that was my pig in the road, cause it was bound to get hit. I informed them, that no indeed, that was not my pig, but her owners could be located two houses down.
Poor Chloe was fast becoming a delinquent pig, forever running away from home.
It just so happened that Emily’s parents own a farm, and that they once had a pot bellied pig for a pet. Emily’s father was simply in love with the idea of having another one, and so she spoke with the neighbor, and after much consideration, it was decided by one and all that Chloe would be much safer and much happier in the country. The trick, however, was getting her there. And this, my friends, is where the adventure really begins.
Pigs are not the most aerodynamic of creatures, not a whole lot of spring in the step if you catch my meaning. It could be because they have those tiny, almost dainty little legs with a keg like body sitting right on top of them. We made all the preparations for this trip. We went to the local PetSmart and bought a large dog harness in the most alarming shade of drag-queen purple you’ve ever seen, and with it a matching leash. The harness went on the pig okay, and as long as we were just walking her around in the neighborhood, she was fine with that. When it came to leading her into a vehicle, that is when things began to go downhill. Maybe it is some sort of Darwinian response, maybe animals, particularly those that it is socially acceptable to consume in this country, have some sort of instinct about getting into vehicles with something that is higher up on the food chain. Call it farfetched, but if this pig is smart enough to open a gate, she’s smart enough to have a sense of self preservation. You remember that line from Silence of the Lambs, where Hannibal and Clarice are talking about the lambs screaming. Well, I imagine that this is sort of what that sounded like. That pig screamed, squalled, hollered and carried on loud enough to wake the dead.
Self preservation aside, there are some things that make even the smartest girls do things they’ll regret. In my case, it is usually vodka. In Chloe’s case, it’s Doritos. So, with the help of our neighbor, and particularly her husband, we lifted this pig into the tarp shrouded backseat of a Saturn Ion. They should give us our very own commercial for this, I swear. Maybe they could steal the line from Capital One, only instead of your wallet, it would ask, “What’s in your Saturn?”
Emily is the brave one. I just drove the car. Sort of sounds like a liquor store hold up when you put it that way, but there you have it. Within five minutes of being on the road, Emily was covered in things I can’t even begin to discuss. Chloe, being the adventurer that she is, took to travel by automobile reasonably well. She even sniffed and snorted around a little bit to acclimate herself to her environment. It is more than a little unnerving to drive a car with a pig’s snout stuck in your ribcage. Eventually, however, Chloe settled in and was easily mollified by the occasional nacho flavored snack. I was driving extra careful, and I admit it freely, slower than I have driven in years! But, this pig had already let loose with a couple of her bodily functions and the last thing I wanted was more of them.
Everything was going along just fine. We were maybe ten minutes away from the farm, which was more than thirty country miles from where we started, when this redneck yahoo without a muffler decided he needed to pass us. So, Chloe starts to get nervous, and she proceeds to prance around on Emily’s thighs. So we bribed her with more Doritos. In retrospect, this may not have been our best idea. I will say this about pigs and Doritos. Keep your windows down. There is no fart as noxious as the fart of a nervous pig with a love of junk food.
We did eventually reach the farm, without further mishap. I drove the rest of the way with my shirt pulled up over my nose. I really did look like I’d been party to a hold up of some sort. When we finally gotto the farm, Chloe was having none of it. She was done with people, she was particularly done with us, and whatever we had led her to, well she just wasn’t going to budge. So, Emily’s dad, Emily and myself, had to literally lift the pig out of the backseat with the tarp, using it like a sling. Once her little cloven hooves were on nonmoving ground, she seemed a little more willing to forgive us. Eventually, we herded her to her new pen. She got to meet the ducks and the geese, and the puppies. And I imagine, as long as the Doritos keep coming, life will be just fine.
Now, for me, the best part of this story was getting to tell it to my friends, particularly Denise, who until I took her to Jellico for the first time had never seen a chicken not wrapped in plastic and resting on its very own Styrofoam tray. So, I call her up and leave her this message on her answering machine about how I’ll be out of touch for the day because I’m going to be transporting a pig. Well, her mother got the message before she did, and Sue thinks that “transporting the pig” is code for something, I don’t know if it’s a hot new street drug or maybe a man whore, but if it’s in code it must be illicit, and therefore an even better time. But apparently, neither one would come as much of a surprise to anybody, and I’m just not sure how to feel about that.
I have often been told, once I launch into one of my stories that these things could never happen to anybody else. Being the modest soul I am, I reply, “Of course, they could! My life isn’t any more interesting than anybody else’s…. It’s just all in the way you look at it.” After this last adventure, I may be inclined to agree with all those people. This stuff truly does not happen to anybody else.
Let me begin by introducing you to Chloe. Now, Chloe is a pot bellied pig, not the typical hog variety from which our many fine breakfast foods come, but the pet variety. However, pigs being pigs, Chloe liked to eat, and soon outgrew her environment (that environment being our neighbor’s house). In addition, Chloe is the Houdini of the animal kingdom. She has more magic in her little cloven hooves than half the hacks in Vegas. There isn’t a door, a fence, or a harness that can hold this girl when she’s ready to go.
Sadly, city streets being what they are, we could all envision poor Chloe coming to a bad end. She liked to wander the neighborhood, rooting for particularly tasty flower bulbs. The first time I was introduced to Chloe, I was lying in bed, and I heard the strangest noises right outside my window. This sort of snorting, snuffling sound that was unmistakably porcine. Not being a farm girl, myself, I made Emily come listen and confirm, that there was indeed a pig snorting around outside my bedroom (it would not be the first time a pig had been snorting around outside my bedroom, it would just be the first time it was a pig with four legs and a cute, little curly tail).
It wasn’t too long after that, once again in my night clothes, that there came a knock on my door fairly late at night. It was some random person from the neighborhood inquiring if that was my pig in the road, cause it was bound to get hit. I informed them, that no indeed, that was not my pig, but her owners could be located two houses down.
Poor Chloe was fast becoming a delinquent pig, forever running away from home.
It just so happened that Emily’s parents own a farm, and that they once had a pot bellied pig for a pet. Emily’s father was simply in love with the idea of having another one, and so she spoke with the neighbor, and after much consideration, it was decided by one and all that Chloe would be much safer and much happier in the country. The trick, however, was getting her there. And this, my friends, is where the adventure really begins.
Pigs are not the most aerodynamic of creatures, not a whole lot of spring in the step if you catch my meaning. It could be because they have those tiny, almost dainty little legs with a keg like body sitting right on top of them. We made all the preparations for this trip. We went to the local PetSmart and bought a large dog harness in the most alarming shade of drag-queen purple you’ve ever seen, and with it a matching leash. The harness went on the pig okay, and as long as we were just walking her around in the neighborhood, she was fine with that. When it came to leading her into a vehicle, that is when things began to go downhill. Maybe it is some sort of Darwinian response, maybe animals, particularly those that it is socially acceptable to consume in this country, have some sort of instinct about getting into vehicles with something that is higher up on the food chain. Call it farfetched, but if this pig is smart enough to open a gate, she’s smart enough to have a sense of self preservation. You remember that line from Silence of the Lambs, where Hannibal and Clarice are talking about the lambs screaming. Well, I imagine that this is sort of what that sounded like. That pig screamed, squalled, hollered and carried on loud enough to wake the dead.
Self preservation aside, there are some things that make even the smartest girls do things they’ll regret. In my case, it is usually vodka. In Chloe’s case, it’s Doritos. So, with the help of our neighbor, and particularly her husband, we lifted this pig into the tarp shrouded backseat of a Saturn Ion. They should give us our very own commercial for this, I swear. Maybe they could steal the line from Capital One, only instead of your wallet, it would ask, “What’s in your Saturn?”
Emily is the brave one. I just drove the car. Sort of sounds like a liquor store hold up when you put it that way, but there you have it. Within five minutes of being on the road, Emily was covered in things I can’t even begin to discuss. Chloe, being the adventurer that she is, took to travel by automobile reasonably well. She even sniffed and snorted around a little bit to acclimate herself to her environment. It is more than a little unnerving to drive a car with a pig’s snout stuck in your ribcage. Eventually, however, Chloe settled in and was easily mollified by the occasional nacho flavored snack. I was driving extra careful, and I admit it freely, slower than I have driven in years! But, this pig had already let loose with a couple of her bodily functions and the last thing I wanted was more of them.
Everything was going along just fine. We were maybe ten minutes away from the farm, which was more than thirty country miles from where we started, when this redneck yahoo without a muffler decided he needed to pass us. So, Chloe starts to get nervous, and she proceeds to prance around on Emily’s thighs. So we bribed her with more Doritos. In retrospect, this may not have been our best idea. I will say this about pigs and Doritos. Keep your windows down. There is no fart as noxious as the fart of a nervous pig with a love of junk food.
We did eventually reach the farm, without further mishap. I drove the rest of the way with my shirt pulled up over my nose. I really did look like I’d been party to a hold up of some sort. When we finally gotto the farm, Chloe was having none of it. She was done with people, she was particularly done with us, and whatever we had led her to, well she just wasn’t going to budge. So, Emily’s dad, Emily and myself, had to literally lift the pig out of the backseat with the tarp, using it like a sling. Once her little cloven hooves were on nonmoving ground, she seemed a little more willing to forgive us. Eventually, we herded her to her new pen. She got to meet the ducks and the geese, and the puppies. And I imagine, as long as the Doritos keep coming, life will be just fine.
Now, for me, the best part of this story was getting to tell it to my friends, particularly Denise, who until I took her to Jellico for the first time had never seen a chicken not wrapped in plastic and resting on its very own Styrofoam tray. So, I call her up and leave her this message on her answering machine about how I’ll be out of touch for the day because I’m going to be transporting a pig. Well, her mother got the message before she did, and Sue thinks that “transporting the pig” is code for something, I don’t know if it’s a hot new street drug or maybe a man whore, but if it’s in code it must be illicit, and therefore an even better time. But apparently, neither one would come as much of a surprise to anybody, and I’m just not sure how to feel about that.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
