Posts from — February 2009

A binge was inevitable. I spent three days in too-close-for-comfort hospital quarters with members of my immediate and extended family, which I’m imagining is a challenge for even the most mentally stable of individuals. It was actually a miracle I held my shit together for as long as I did, but by the end of the third day, I was starting to unravel. So I got in my car and headed to the nearest restaurant.

The menu was overwhelming, and I panicked at the prospect of having to settle on just a few items when what I really wanted to do was throw my skinny vegetarianism out the window and order one of everything on the menu. I finally decided on a a salad with sesame-ginger dressing (which may as well be ranch), a side of hush puppies and a basket of sweet potato fries covered in cinnamon and sugar. When the waitress came over to take my order, I made sure to preface it with “This is going to be piggish, but…”

WHY THE FUCK DO I FEEL THE NEED TO APOLOGIZE FOR EATING? DO FAT PEOPLE APOLOGIZE FOR GOING TO BUFFETS?

So here’s the scene: My mom is in a hospital bed, post-heart attack. My aunt, my sister and myself are all there to keep her company and the conversation is casual enough. My sister is talking about how much my niece resembles me, which she does, except that she’s a twig at 17 and I was a little on the chubby side at that age. I make this distinction, and my aunt says, “You’ve never been fat or had meat on your bones.” I love her for saying this, but I object with “It’s true, I was chubby.”

Then my mom, who might I remind you is at this point lucky to be alive, somehow finds the energy to weigh in on the conversation. Looking at my aunt, she proclaims, “She was fat!” Then she looks at me and exclaims, “Remember that gold dress picture? You were fat.”

I’m not sure where things went from there because in that moment I was mortified by two facts: One, that I ever owned anything gold, especially a dress; Two, that my mom emphasized the word “fat,” when I clearly preferred to use “chubby,” which truly is more accurate.

Thanks, Mom, for not letting me trick anyone into thinking I’ve always been skinny. I owe you one.

Tomorrow afternoon, I’m getting on a plane to fly to my Skinny Lady. We’ve joked about me bringing her certain edible items she can’t get in the city she lives in (i.e. frozen yogurt). Then I remembered that a human I’m
semi-related to once flew 2,000 miles on an airplane with 10 chicken soft tacos stashed in her carry-on. Apparently, Del Taco doesn’t exist on the East Coast and she wanted to take her boyfriend something special to eat. The thought was sweet, but I’d rather die than be the person on the airplane that smells like food.

Today I saw the craziest thing – I was sitting in my mom’s room on the cardiac care unit of the local hospital when all of a sudden, a Pizza Hut delivery guy stepped off the elevator, pizzas in hand, and delivered them to whomever was occupying the next room down. At first I thought my eyes were deceiving me. I hadn’t had much sleep and it’s not unusual for me to have food-related hallucinations. But I wasn’t the only one who saw him, so he must have been real. 

I sat there for a minute waiting for an alarm to go off, a nurse to tell him he made a mistake, someone to escort him out, something, anything, but nothing happened. The pizzas were apparently delivered safe and sound. How could it be though? It’s the I JUST HAD A HEART ATTACK UNIT for crying out loud.

I guess I can’t blame the person who ordered the pizzas. If I were in the hospital dying, I’d want french fries by my side. If I’m going to die, at least let it be for something I love.

My mom points to a stack of tabloid magazines circa 2007 on an end table in her living room and asks me if I want to take them home to read. I tell her that’s old news, so no thanks. She says it’s not old news to her, and did I know that Oprah’s name should’ve been Orpah, after a character in the Bible. No, I didn’t know that, which proves her point that old news can be new news.

But this is all irrelevant to what happens next. She tells me to bring her the magazine on top. It happens to be an In Touch Weekly from June 2007 with Angelina Jolie gracing the cover. She indicates for me to sit down next to her, flips through until she finds the page she’s looking for, and then directs me to read a blurb beneath a picture of the actress, who happens to be looking rather skeletal.

The gist of the blurb is that skinny women: 1) have more difficulty getting pregnant, and 2) are more likely to miscarry. I turn to my mom after reading the blurb and the first thing I notice is the satisfied look on her face, as if she just discovered the cause of all my problems. So I say to her, ”Mom, she looks like a skeleton. I don’t.”  To which she replied, “Almost.” I love it when she compliments me!

In fact, I was a kind of Hershey bar whore — there wasn’t much I wouldn’t do for a nickel’s worth of chocolate.

- P.B. Jones in Capote’s Answered Prayers. Who knew it was possible for a fictional homosexual man and a straight married woman to be soulmates?

This is a drawing I did of bedtime at my house. When I showed it to my husband, he asked, “Who’s the long skinny one on the left?” The answer is debatable, but that’s my side of the bed and I always prefer to be the skinny one, so I’m going to have to say it’s me. 

To be honest though, the first comment my husband made upon seeing this drawing was: “Your father would be mortified if he saw this.” It’s true. My father was a talented artist by all accounts, and I, his genetic offspring, have turned out to be a talentless disappointment (in more ways than one, I’m sure). Yay me.

Peanuts, formerly Peanut M&M’s. I like to sit and nibble the chocolate and candy coating off. I figure the calories don’t really count, and I get to prolong the pleasure of eating. An added bonus – my husband gets to enjoy the leftovers.