Tag Archives: health

On Being A Turkey


I’m currently in the middle of my favorite annual meltdown: Thanksgiving Dinner perfectionism. My chef brother makes the actual dinner – along with my mother, also a former chef – so there’s no performance pressure there. Thanksgiving is like my brother’s Olympics, SuperBowl, Christmas and birthday rolled into one giant meal for 20 people, so he generally pulls out all the stops. Keeps it somewhat traditional but mixes it up; his cranberry compote has bacon in it, for example, and one year he did three different stuffings (one was straight-up Stove Top for Yours Truly – I WON’T APOLOGIZE FOR THE BUTTERY PROCESSED CRAP IN MY LIFE).

There’s a finesse to freaking out about nothing, but after 40 years of practice, I’m at the top of my game. While the hate crimes pile up in this country and children go hungry and cats fight dogs in the street, I’ve been on Pinterest, agonizing over recipes I will never make at parties we will never throw. Welcome to Thanksgiving Privilege 2016, Population: Me.

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When Your House Is On Fire


Everyone will have words today. You know it, I know it. Loud, angry, panicked, heartbreaking words of disbelief; triumphant, jeering, chaotic voices of hatred but also hope.

Today, these are the words I need to set free from the brown female body I live in so  I can move forward and turn the fear running through my body like electricity into action:

I’m going full-on Pollyanna.

If I have to play the fucking Glad Game to remind myself of what’s good in the world every goddamn day, well that’s what I’m gonna do. No complaining about the election (unless I have a really great joke) – not in public, anyway – no moping around, waiting for the worst to happen to this brown, female body. If shit goes down in this country – which is really the only direction it can go now – I have to be ready to spring into action and push the pendulum in the other direction. I can’t be one of those people who loses and then spends the next four years alienating everyone with my insufferable ire. In two years, campaigning for re-election begins, meaning we have work to do.

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“Health”: This Is Why You’re Fat

Here’s my list of reasons, ranging from ‘The Truth’ to ‘Biatch, Please’:

-Seven months of sitting around with a broken/healing/cyber arm. The daily effort of being positive about that arm has been my undoing. Add boredom and loneliness to that effort and you have a formulaic cheeseburger ripe for overeating.

-I’m cleared for physical therapy, but not heavy exercise. The doc said I could walk or use a stationary bike, but what is that even? A bike that goes nowhere? And walking is a young person’s game, everyone knows that. I dream of being in a pool, but visualize a frog with one leg cut off swimming in tiny, ineffective circles while his asshole frog friends laugh at him in his ill-fitting bathing suit. Nope — not projecting at all.

-Grimm, and other one-word TV shows like Revenge! Deception! Scandal! Homeland! Castle! Smash! Vikings! Nashville! And my favorite, Californication! All that fornicating (and the intensely good writing) felt like six seasons of exercise to me. It’s embarrassing how much TV I watched in the past seven months, but also a little bit thrilling to feel like A Real American from Mississippi.

-Fast food and a gaping maw. The most gapingest of maws, really. Pretty sure fast food gives you cancer, if not physically, then morally. Great, now I have moral food cancer.

-Feelings: OM NOM-inally delicious! So many feelings, so little time to eat them. Hey wait, all I have is time. I’ll bet feelings go great with chocolate sauce and pork belly sandwiches.

-The internet. More specifically, This Is Why You’re Fat (dot com!), which is like a dating site for overweight carbs looking to meet bad news carbs from the wrong side of the tracks. And much like The Smoking Man from X-Files always made me want to smoke, This Is Why You’re Fat inspires me to eat terrible food wrapped in terrible food, rolled in bacon and covered in donuts.

-Everything that’s awful for me tastes fucking rad (see above). Better Cheddars and fried chicken? My affinity for them knows no diabetic bounds.

Habits, laziness. All my habits and laziness lead to Rome. And Rome burned, so there’s something to think about.

I’m 37 now. Leave me alone so I can slide into my blobby-ass forties with dignity, asshole.


Reasons, man. It always comes down to reasons. And who cares what they are, as long as you get over them?

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