All my skinny ladies. All my skinny ladies.

Can I just say something really quickly?
Of course you can, it’s your blog. You can say anything you’d like dear.
Ok. Thanks.

I’ve held my peace about this for a while. Figured, everyone’s gotta get their chance to shine. But it’s time I’ve opened my mouth about this. In defense of all my fellow, naturally slender women.

Kate Winslet, a beauty, has an amazing face and an amazing body. She knows this and takes pride in her figure. And she should. But so often I’ve heard her say, along with other curvaceous va-va-va-voom women, that “they are real women” who aren’t going to starve themselves to look like the waifs in the magazines. I applaud her confidence, really I do.

But a reeeeal woman, really Kate? I take personal offense to that comment as it suggests that since I’m naturally thin, I’m not a real woman. I don’t starve myself. I don’t try to be thin. I eat- a lot actually. It’s just me. I’m happy body-acceptance for women is being promoted. It is so long over due. And God, I never want any teenage girl thinking she is too fat. But for that matter, I don’t want any teenage girl thinking she is too skinny either.

Why are body types trends? Consider my brief and sporadic timeline of women’s body shapes. The statues of the renaissance women depicted voluptuous bodies. The 60s donned Twiggy-esque proportions as the new-it body. The 80s marked the supermodel era of Cindy Crawford and the like curvy beauties. Then Kate Moss and company took over only to be replaced by Beyonce and her fellow bootylicious ladies. Why can’t we all be beautiful at the same time? How can an ass size be a trend or measurements be appropriate for an era?

The bottom line is, we’re all different. No one should starve themselves to match the magazine girl. But for that matter no one should eat themselves to oblivion to get more curvy or inject their breasts and asses with silicon.

All of our bodies are beautiful, no matter what shape, size or proportions, all of the time.

Mmm-Mmm Yuck

I swore I would never do it again. I made vows to God, Buddah, Mohammed and on the head of my firstborn child. But there I was last night, forcing canned soup down my throat. Must’ve been left over from the Y2K scare some 9 years ago. Please don’t fault me, it was the last thing in my food pantry.

I pull open the can and I remember all over again why I can’t stand canned soup. The aroma hits harder and harder as more of it plops out of the can. This is no easy pour- I’m jumping up and down to free the remainder of preserved beans trapped in the aluminum.

It’s really a shame that I am complaining about food intended for the convenience of the masses and that helped to bring comfort to soldiers. Soldiers, who fought to preserve my freedom. Regardless, this preserved food brings about an unfortunate circumstance as olfaction is no longer a gift but a curse. As all sorts of disgusting sounds (hearing, also made a curse) emerge from the escaping lentil bean mass, I forget the benefits the sense of smell allows- walking down a flower studded avenue in Hawaii, baby powder, new car scent, the smell of a new book. Because I have two nostrils and a pot of cold lumpy soup underneath them, all I can remember is the foulness that is opportune when you are blessed to have a functioning sense of smell - the street meats of various cities, the donkey shit gracing the trails of the Grand Canyon in August, road kill. And last but not least, canned lentil soup.

I’ve noticed that all canned soup has the same smell, it doesn’t matter the flavor. And the taste? All cans might as well read ‘Sodium’ in a beautiful script typeface where the flavor should be. My 5-star cuisine happened to be lentil, but it could’ve very well been chicken soup or clam chowder. I think they all taste the same anyways.

I dunno, the thought of canned beans bothers me enough- but canned meat? Canned seafood? Oh boy. But I guess we all do desperate things when we are hungry.

Not a very good start to my week.

And.

It’s freezing out. I wish I could wish that I had a cup of steaming hot soup, hot enough to melt a little frozen snowboy into the lad he rightly deserves to be. But I can’t. I have it right in front of me and I’d almost rather be a snowperson right now so my tastebuds would be frozen and all food would taste like nothing. A carrot is probably lacking too when it comes to sense of smell. Another plus.

I could list the pros of life as a snowperson forever, or, I could get off my ass and go food shopping.

Love & War

At the age of 25, I juuust now realized the brilliance of the Itchy & Scratchy show. (They fight. They fight. They fight fight fight fight fight.) There’s so much more beyond the extreme violence between the dueling cat and mouse than the entertaining-seeking eye can see.

I was about to jump into the shower, I had a terribly itchy day. Maybe it was the wool coat. Maybe the change in the weather. I hoped a hot shower would yet again prove a cure-all. Not yet fully undressed I paused to scratch my arm and started singing some nonsensical original song. I’m often amazed at my ability to conjure up such profound words on the spot, there was never a truer improv lyricist. “Itch. Scratch. Itch. Scratch. Itch. Scratch.” Kinda in the same timing and melody one would say “Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock.”

This song brings me to remember the enemy pair and mid scratch the magnitude of Bart, Lisa and Maggie’s evening entertainment dawned on me.

I wonder why such revelations come with age. I hadn’t watched the Simpsons in years. Why was this coming to me now? It was only about two years ago that I finally understood the significance of Popeye’s name. Think of how his cartoon face is permanently scrunched up to one side in a constant state of winking. His left eye closed, the right always open and out and a little further. His right eye is popping out. Popeye has a (Wait for it. Waaaaaait for it!!) a pop-eye! I praised myself for the revelation. I’m a genius. I wonder if other people have figured this out and if they would ever dare deem their aptitude above average for such an obvious, obvious notion.

(But how did he get like that anyways? Does he even have an eye in that left eye socket?)

Then I think about the time I watched BIG starring Tom Hanks for the first time as a young adult. I was unsupervised by my very christian mother who, when we were kids, made a habit of grabbing the remote to fast forward or change the channel when she deemed the next scene inappropriate- usually a sex scene, or oh my god- imagine this… k-i-s-s-i-n-g. Our eyes weren’t suited for most of the content of TV, and this was only the early 1990s, nothing close to even the daytime television of today. If she had her way, all television shows would still show MARRIED couples sleeping in separate beds. So you can imagine my initial shock when I realized that this lucky youth got to sex it up with an older woman. Not a 20-something-year-old woman but more like an early 30-something-year-old woman. And this kid was tottering somewhere between 12-13 years old. What a lucky little shit! But as an 18 year old myself, I was still flabberghasted that such an event could take place. That a boy could suddenly become a man through the wish of a bodyless fortuneteller at a fair didn’t phase me. That was practical. But the prospect of the boy inside the body of a man about to kick it with Susan (played by Elizabeth Perkins) I couldn’t handle. Imagine Elizabeth reading the script: and then you are to make love to a 12 year old. But we can’t blame her character Susan, this poor woman destined to romp around and fall in love with a mere boy. Most men are 12.5 year olds in aging bodies. How could she know that he REALLY was an actual boy, not a man who acts like a boy.

That sista started the cougar movement. Forget Demi and Ashton.

The part comes up where Mom always fast forwarded. Wait! Wait! What? You mean to tell me that they get it on? I exalt in the dorm belonging to my friend Ian. We’re sitting on his bed, the lower bunk. Unphased, he and Jen say almost in unison- uh, yeah. Wait! Who let’s stuff like that get on television? It takes a minute for it to settle in. I’m still shocked. One day he’s singing “shimmey shimmey cocoa puff” the next he’s putting the moves on a hottie almost 3 times his age. And this wasn’t the Nellie version, I might understand that transition- they could both light it up and take a puff and it wouldn’t be a big deal. Or, as big a deal at least.

So there I am, singing, “Itch. Scratch. Itch. Scratch.” (Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock) And in a matter of 5 minutes a million diverted thoughts enter my brain. Why am I singing Itch Scratch and not Itch Itch? Cause sometimes I say I’m itching my nose. It’s because you’re not really itching our nose. You’re scratching our nose, silly. Says my brain. You can’t itch an itch as much as you can’t scratch a scratch… well you could but it would hurt.

What is an itch anyways? (besides the dictionary definition of an uncomfortable sensation that causes a desire to scratch. Wow, uh… thanks for the head’s up?)

After I finish conversing with myself the real juices start flowing.

The act of scratching cannot exist without the presence of an itch. A scratch is useless without an itch. So essentially a scratch needs an itch. An itch can exist without a scratch but quite uncomfortably. Think of never being able to itch- I mean, scratch an itch. It’s worse than Chinese torture. I’m getting all itchy just thinking about it. Matt Groening knew this. He created Itchy and Scratchy to be somewhat co-dependant on another. They both needed each other even though they fought another so hard. What would Itchy do all day without someone to whack? And Scratchy? Who would he chase besides his own tail? They love to hurt another. They need to. One presents a need and the other provides the fulfillment. Still, it’s an insidious bond.

I think I maybe have a certain relationship like this. But I wonder whether I am the itch or I am the scratch. Do I not exist without this other person? Oh heavens no. And the same is true for the other party. We both enjoy another but it seems we are both itches. So I guess you can, then, itch an itch… Right? But an itch does want to be scratched. So am I wasting my time? I as an itch cannot and will not provide other said itch satisfaction.

We all need to learn from Itchy and Scratchy- as in, what not to do. Strive for relationships that don’t include fighting & purposely hurting another. And dependency, is never really a good thing either.

http://www.thesimpsons.com/bios/bios_townspeople_itchyandscratchy.htm