Wednesday, November 26, 2008

Big

The clothes in my closet come in various sizes. There's the I-used-to-be-able-to-wear-these-and-I'm holding-onto-them-because-I-swear-one-day-I'll-get-into-them-again clothes. The if-I-suck-in-my-gut-I-can-still-button-them clothes. The vertical-stripes-supposedly-make-you-look-slimmer clothes. The as-long-as-I-don’t-take-off-my-jacket-this-will-be-OK clothes. The baggy-look-is-still-in-isn't-it? clothes. The one-size-fits-all clothes.

And then there's the fat clothes. Fat clothes are the ones we all think of as temporary, the ones we resent from the moment we've tried them on in the store. Before we’ve even had the chance to finish purchasing them, we’re already taking a vow to get rid of them as soon as we possibly can. No one ever cries out "I just love this!" about fat clothes. Usually we murmur something like "At least it covers my huge ass" and then shake our heads and dream about the day we'll toss them aside and easily slip back into our beloved skinny jeans. Fat clothes are the step-children of the clothing world. We might resign ourselves to bringing them home and caring for them, but we never love them as much as we love our real clothing.

I assume that a great number of people have fat clothes. These are the pants with the elastic waist or that pair of shorts that can be worn unbuttoned when paired with an untucked shirt. For women, maybe it's that shapeless sweatshirt that really belongs to your husband or the maternity pants you still wear even though “the baby” is now studying for his PhD. Fat clothes tend to be rather plain and usually darker in color. Fancy designs or overly bright colors would draw too much attention, something fat clothes are absolutely not supposed to do. Fat clothes often come in various shades of gray. No one buys hot pink fat clothes.

It’s funny, you would think we would actually love our fat clothes. Even as children, we’re told that bigger is better. Toddlers are enticed away from diapers by the promise of wearing “big boy pants”. Children are told to eat their vegetables so they can grow up “big and strong.” First graders want to grow up into being second graders, short kids want to be taller and teenagers want to grow into adulthood.

As adults, especially over the past few years, we are told more is better. For example, if you order one donut at Dunkin’ Donuts, you’ll likely be told it’s actually cheaper to order two. At the local movie house it’s often suggested that we buy a large sized popcorn which comes with not just an enormous price tag but also in a container the size of a bathtub. We have Biggie Fries and Supersize. We have breast implants, SUV’s, collagen-enhanced lips, large print books and extra-wide trailers. There’s big hair, the Big Gulp, the big picture, the Big Kahuna, the big man on campus, Big Brother, Big Love, the big bang, big ideas, the big cheese, Big Bird, the Big Chill and Clifford, the Big Red Dog. We’re told what we all really want is to park our enormous Hummer in the driveway of our 12,000 square foot McMansion and then go inside to our cinema-sized TV. We’re supposed to want everything big, big, big. In America, bigger is best. Except, apparently, when it comes to our clothes.

It’s unfortunate, really. Those skinny clothes that we hold in such reverence don’t care much for us. Skinny clothes are like the head cheerleader in school, lightning quick with a roll of the eye and a snarky comment. You gain a couple pounds, maybe add a half-inch to your middle and those skinny clothes are looking at you and thinking “You’re going to try and put ME on? I don’t think so.” But fat clothes are more like that really reliable friend we know we can call when we need a shoulder to lean on. They don’t judge us on how we look. They’re OK if you add a little to your middle. So this Thanksgiving go ahead and add a little more gravy to those potatoes. Your fat clothes love you no matter what.

Thursday, November 13, 2008

Be Heard


Proposition 8 protests are taking place all over the country on Saturday, November 15, including one in NYC at 1:30 PM. We all have a chance to stand up and demand that gay/lesbian couples be given the same rights as straight couples. Come out and be heard!
To find a Prop 8 protest in your area, please visit jointheimpact.wetpaint.com.

Sunday, November 9, 2008

How About A Little Pie?


Yesterday was a perfect day. It was one of those days that happen from time to time, where you feel as if you can do no wrong. I bounded out of bed at 7AM full of energy and ready to tackle, well, if not the world, at least all the things on my "to do" list. I'm a big believer in lists. They keep me focused. And for someone who's been known to look for any excuse to not complete something ("Oh look, my toenails need clipping. Maybe I should just go back to bed.") being more focused is a good thing.

Picking up the leaves that had fallen outside was on the list as priority #1. It wasn't so much that the leaves scattered along the ground bothered me. It's more the fact that one of my neighbors has taken to coming over to my house and cleaning them up himself. Anywhere else and this would be considered a kind gesture, but I think it's more an act of hostility. I've begun to suspect my neighbors get together on a semi-regular basis to compare their individual lists all titled: "Why Tom is an Incompetent Homeowner." Trust me, it's not paranoia. Once, when I was up on a ladder cleaning out my gutters, a neighbor walked by and said "So, you FINALLY got to those, did you?"

My neighbors have too much time on their hands.

Anyway, within one hour of my getting out of bed, the leaves were off the ground and in their paper recycling bags. I tossed in a load of laundry (#2 on the list), ate breakfast and started my grocery list (trip to the supermarket was #3). By 11AM, I had crossed off the picking up of leaves, 2 loads of laundry, the grocery shopping, gone for a 4-mile run and had thrown in phone calls to my mother and sister along with checking my emails.

Four hours later, my dog Nora had been bathed, the house had been cleaned, the rented movies had been returned, the checkbook was balanced and a pan of perfectly baked brownies was coming out of the oven. Maybe all this didn't exactly make me Superman, but I was feeling good enough about myself to at least identify with that singing woman from the old TV commercials who could both bring home the bacon AND fry it up in the pan. I felt very accomplished.

In fact, I was feeling so accomplished, I thought I deserved a nap. Could there be a better environment to take a nap in than the one I had created? The bed linens were clean and soft and the taste of a warm homemade double-chocolate brownie still tickled my palate. The desire to close my eyes felt as if I had earned it. A one hour's nap was little reward for all I had managed to do. Right? So, I patted Nora on the head and headed upstairs to bed.

Flash forward to one hour later. Let's face it, there are times in all our lives where the understanding that God has a sense of humor likes to prove itself. Despite what the Reverend (and I use that term oh-so-loosely) Fred Phelps would like people to believe, God doesn't hate. If anything, God likes a good chuckle now and again. There's a line from the old Lynn Redgrave movie, Georgy Girl: "God always has another custard pie up His sleeve." And little did I know that while I slept, God had pulled out the celestial apron and started baking.

The first thing I wondered as I groggily came down the stairs was: What is that smell? Pre-nap, the scent in the air would have made Martha Stewart proud. A heady mix of Murphy's Oil Soap, warm chocolate and Lemon Pledge. But this smell was alarmingly different: the smell of sick dog.

Now, you should know that whenever Nora gets sick, something in her head seems to scream out to her: "RUN TO THE LIVING ROOM!" As much as I'd like her to realize that getting sick on the kitchen floor or the tiled bathroom floor would be an easier clean up for me, that's never the case. Even the hardwood floors would be OK, if that was where she had an accident. But, that's just not quite custard pie-ish enough. Instead, when Nora falls ill and feels something about to suddenly come out, no matter which end that something is about to come out of, she feels the need to run straight to the living room rug. And while I was asleep, this is exactly what she had been doing...a lot.

I won't go into a detailed description. Let's just say that dog diarrhea, for the uninitiated, is not a pretty sight. And the fact that my living room rug was being marinated in it wasn't exactly what anyone would have wanted to wake up to. But, the custard pie had been thrown and there wasn't much to do except have a chuckle, check on Nora, open up the windows and haul out the cleaning supplies again. After all (my apologies for this obvious ending)... shit happens.

Thursday, November 6, 2008

Bite Me

Last week, my friend A was a dancing zombie in the New York City Halloween parade. Every year a large group of people, all dressed in their zombie finest, re-create the famous monster dance from Michael Jackson’s "Thriller" video. (You can find the dance recreation on YouTube if you’d like to see it.) My friend A loved every minute of performing during the parade and said to me "If you’re free for next year’s parade, you should sign up to do it. It was great!" Hmmmmm. Let’s see: me surrounded by 100 people all dressed up as zombies. I‘ll (shudder) pass.

For almost 30 years, I have had a totally irrational, unexplainable, keep the lights on, hide-under-the-covers fear of zombies. Really, I do.

It started on Martha’s Vineyard in the summer of 1979 when a group of my friends and I went to see the movie "Dawn of the Dead". The audience in the theater was hooting and cheering, clearly loving every moment of the undead chowing down on the living. But while everyone around me called out for some rotting creature to take yet another bite of warm flesh flavored goodness, my seventeen year old self cowered in my seat, praying for the end credits to roll so I could escape outside to the safety of a blissful zombie-free world.

In the 29 years since that summer, my fear of zombies has stayed intact. I cringe at television commercials advertising any soon to be released zombie films and I have multiple issues with overly-realistic looking zombie costumes at Halloween. At times, I feel somewhat like Oz’s Cowardly Lion, repeating over and over again "I do believe in spooks, I do believe in spooks." Substitute the word "zombies" and that would be me standing there, tail in hand.

Don't ask me why it's zombies that have this effect. I have no idea. I have watched many horror films and not been scared at all. Jason can slash his way through as many horny teenagers he likes each Halloween and that dead girl from "The Ring" can crawl across as many floors as she pleases and I won't bat an eyelash. But bring out one slow-moving, ashen faced zombie with a serious flesh craving and I'm more terrified than a thirtysomething pre-liposuctioned Hollywood starlet facing the paparazzi during bikini season. It may be irrational but zombies, in plain language, scare the crap out of me.

Which brings me to this past Tuesday, Election Day.

While so much of the country was celebrating the victory of now President-Elect Obama, (yours truly included) the news coming out of California was not so jubilant. By a majority vote, gay marriage in that state (and 2 others) has now been banned. It seems unbelievable that in the same year Americans elect our first African-American President, in 3 states they also managed to cast enough votes to deny other Americans the right to marry. America may have finally reached a point where race doesn't matter to the majority of us anymore, but apparently a whole lotta people are still terrified of what some of us do with our genitals.

Exactly what is it about 2 people of the same sex taking a vow to love and cherish that scares so many? Do the supporters of Proposition 8 view a gay couple the same way the characters in that Dawn of the Dead movie viewed the slowly advancing members of the undead? Are we so horrifying for them to behold that just the sight of us in twos make them want to flee faster than Bristol Palin's boyfriend digging his escape tunnel? Is gay marriage the new zombie?

I wish I had some answers here, but there aren't any reasonable explanations when you're talking about irrational fears. The misguided supporters of Proposition 8 seem to believe they are somehow "protecting" marriage, much like people used to believe that they were "protecting" their neighborhoods by trying to keep people of color out. But luckily, times and attitudes change. Sometimes, change doesn't happen as quickly as we would like, but it does happen. The Prop 8 supporters can lock their doors and hide inside, but it's not going to stop progress from banging on that door until it gets to come in.

In January, an African-American will be sworn in as President of the United States. And someday, same sex marriage will be legal everywhere. It's slowly coming our way, one faltering footstep after another. And there's absolutely no reason to be afraid.