Metamorphosis

About six years ago, I returned to my hometown to visit my family. Cigarettes were smoked. Home cooked meals were eaten. Pictures were taken. Overall, it was a pleasant and fun experience with my family.

Several weeks later, my mom sent me the highlights of the pictures taken. I was excited. Now I could share my experience with my wife and have images to back up the stories.

I ripped the manilla envelope open. My tiny hand reached inside and pulled out the pile of pictures like I had found buried treasure. 

I looked at the pictures. My mouth dropped open. I almost shit my pants.

There I was, standing next to my grammy, looking like I had been inflated like a Macy's Day Parade balloon. My face equaled two of my grandmother's. I looked like I could have swallowed her whole. I could see the fat spilling from my back as my shirt tried desperately to hold it all in. 

I asked my wife, Is that what I look like!?

What could she say? Of course that's what I looked like. It wasn't the humidity that made me look like a puffy lesbian. 

In all fairness, I knew I had gained some weight, but I had no idea, until I saw those pictures, that I was on the road to pushing for maximum density.

In that moment, seeing myself so unhealthy, so beefy, so unlike the me I used to be, I told my wife it was time for a change. No more buying cases of soda. No more eating whatever the hell I wanted whenever I wanted. Just no more. I could not allow myself to be that woman I was looking at.

With my wife's help and my own determination, I started my transformation. 

<Play upbeat, inspirational song while you watch as the food on my plate goes from cheeseburgers and milkshakes, to chicken and potatoes, to pasta and cheese, to whole grains and non-animal proteins. While you watch as I walk on the treadmill, and then jog on the treadmill, and then run on the treadmill, and then run up and down mountainous roads and trails.>

Ta-da!

I was an overweight, stagnant, food-addicted slug. And now I'm a nonsmoking, yoga-doing vegan and a runner. Me. A runner! I used to curse running, pointing out people who I saw running as insane. I can only hope that when you pass me by, you say I'm crazy too.

Enough (Not in a JLo Kind of Way)

The grocery store is one of the least threatening place to be.

Or, is it?

The electric doors slide open; my wife heads through another set of doors while I head left to grab a cart. I haven't noticed, but there is a disagreement developing between two men.

I start to head through the second set of doors and hear the man behind me say:

FAGGOT!

The word, dripping with disdain, not directed at me, creepy-crawls its way up my spine, swings from my brain stem like it's playing a cruel game of keep away, and finally lands on my head like a large piece of excrement. Just as it was intended for the other man who kept walking.

I can feel the rush of blood in my veins. I hear this shit all the time on television, in movies, from religious followers, in politics (though politicians never use derogatory terms so blatantly; they are far more underhanded when it comes to insulting gays and lesbians). I need to make a decision. I can either be the change I want to see in the world, or I can keep walking.

I turn around to find an older white male, his black hair thick on his head, his stomach rotund, wearing a dirty t-shirt tucked into his large pants. I say, very calmly (I'm not kidding: I am quite calm,) "Faggot? Really?"

He is not amused. His nostrils flare. He face reddens. The look on his face suggests he would kill me if there weren't witnesses. The silence becomes more and more awkward. The wife at his side keeps looking down at the ground. She will play no part.

Okay. I guess we are done here.

I walk through the second set of doors and he tells me to mind my own business, calls me a bitch. A bitch? No, no. Anything but that. Why can't I be a faggot, too?

"Okay. Whatever you say, big man."

My wife is standing there, looking puzzled. And then he really let's me have it. "Oh, are you a dyke? Fucking dykes!"

Now, that's more like it.

Unlike his wife, my wife does get involved. "Proud dykes, thank you!" she announces as she takes my arm.

We are too far away from him to reach out and strangle us, so instead, he turns his hand into an imaginary gun, aims, and fires at us both.

Someone forgot to take their Zoloft.

Despite the round of fire we have just taken, my wife and I laugh all the way to the fresh vegetables.

My wife says she is proud of me. I am proud of me too. Whether or not he thinks twice about calling someone a faggot again is out of my control. I just couldn't let him simply get away with it. It was one more thing that felt like enough.

What's Next?

When I get comfortable with the idea that there couldn't be any weird ingredients or strange processes involved with a certain type of food, I give said food no further consideration. I ask no questions. I ingest it without a second thought.

I'm sorry? What's that you say? Come again? I don't think I heard you correctly. It what now? No. No way. You're mistaken. Pssh...that can't be true. <Waving my hand in the air like I'm swating away a swarm of insects.> What happens before it hits my lips? It goes through what? Egg whites? Fish gills? You're joking. You're telling me that wine goes through a filtration process that involves fish gills or egg whites?

Gross.

I have heard of vegan wine, and no, it's not me saying in a high pitched voice, I'm out of tre-e ba-ark. When is it going to be da-ande-elion season again? Blame it on my own ignorance, but I thought vegan wine simply meant it contained no honey.

Should I have know better? Perhaps. But seriously, when it comes to grapes and sugar, I just never thought there was a place for animal by-products. I'm already "that girl" who asks those questions before ordering in a restaurant--to be clear, I don't give a shit about being that girl--and now I have to ask about the wine too?

Fuck it. I can go my whole life without another glass of wine. In fact, I can go my whole life without another sip of alcohol. But if I find out root beer goes through a similar process, I'm going to slap somebody.

Oh, Oprah

As God himself hangs upon the word of Oprah, she names Charles Dickens' classic, A Tale of Two Cities, as her book of the month.

Come on, Oprah.

I'm not saying Charles doesn't deserve his due. He's classic. He's world renowned. But he's no big secret. Oprah had a chance to change an author's life, to take something obscure and brilliant and make it huge. And the chances are running out. And she picks a dead guy who needs no help in getting people to read his book?

Last month it was Jonathan Franzen's Freedom, and he didn't need any help either.

I'm disappointed. It's difficult to find the diamond in the rough, the needle in the haystack, the holy-shit-this-book-is-utterly-fantastic! among all the spines on a bookstore's shelves. And I know there are greatly written, brilliantly wonderful books out there. Oprah can be a compass to help find them.

Oprah didn't need to tell us what we already knew.

If I had my own talk show, I would feature new authors; new authors who wrote a book that I didn't want to finish for fear the characters would leave me. New authors who deserve to be distinguished from the other spines. New authors who want a private jet and an indoor swimming pool and a financial advisor and a walk in closet full of designer clothes and bath salts and a butler and a private chef and a lawyer and a garden and a library and a...

Hump-day Haiku: Lady Gaga

She said stop calling
She's busy on the dance floor.
Go home, Beyonce'.

The local Goodwill
Featured a meat dress for sale.
It never caught on.

Talented and fun.
Don't ask don't tell advocate.
She just wants to dance.

Better Than Macy's Day

Over the weekend, my wife let out the dogs and came back to bed to report the wild turkeys were in our yard. I couldn't believe it. In our yard! But once they saw the dogs, they flew, ran, and hightailed it the hell out of there. On the drive in and out of our neighborhood, I know where to look for the turkeys. They have their own specific turf. Our yard is not it. So when she reported the news, I felt like I had really missed something. I had been left out.

This morning, on the way to work, my wife and I stopped to check the mail.

I got out of the car.

Put the key in the box.

Movement. On my right.

OMG. I inhaled sharply.

Two turkeys, crossing the street. Less than ten feet away from me.

I stood perfectly still.

And then there were five turkeys. And then three. Two. One. Four. Six. Three. Two. Eight. Two. One. Two. Big ones. Little ones. Their little necks bobbing back and forth as their little legs did their best to keep up with their counterparts. Their turkey "feet" crunching the dirt, snow, and road beneath them, the sound echoing in my ears. Just when I thought they were done, there were more. I stood there like I was staring at the real-life Santa. My eyes were wide, staring in disbelief. The smile on my face could be seen from space. A turkey parade, all for me!

It was turkey perfection.

I know the turkeys don't care about me. There is no place for me in their world. They were just going about their turkey business. But if they knew how much I cared about them and how they fit into my world, they would have invited me to go with them.

What is Wrong With Me?

Now, before you start compiling a list that takes up the next hour of your life, I mean regarding the fact that I've been staring at this blank page for thirty plus minutes and can come up with nothing to write about.

For you dedicated readers, it comes as no surprise to hear that yesterday was an unpleasant day. Thankfully, it is over.

Today, I feel so much better. I even sent a query to a Super Agent. (Super Agent: An agent whose client list is far superior to my no-credential-having ass.) I was able to work, albeit briefly, on my next novel, and I can feel the hope welling inside me again. But for whatever reason, this blogging business isn't coming as easily.

Is it possible that I have actually run out of topics to discuss?

As if.

There's always Don't Ask Don't Tell, the Bush tax cuts, queries, McDonalds, Nineteenth Century irrigation, mail-order brides, reality TV, Peyton Manning's meltdown, books, but not one of these topics wants to come to the forefront and make a spectacle of themselves.

Fine. I don't need them to make a spectacle. I can manage that damn well on my own. All I need is a pair of tights and a purse.

Blocked

I do a really good job staying positive, especially with my writing. However, I have hit a wall, and thus, I am blocked and have been for several days.

If only I could see a doctor. It does feel like being sick without visible symptoms. There is a pill for restless legs, broken hearts, short eyelashes, and flaccid penises, so why can't I take a pill for writer's block? If I explained that the light bulb of my soul has temporarily burnt out, that it's a struggle just to breathe, that if I were to walk it would be in circles, surely the doctor would have some kind of solution besides me feeling around in the darkness of my mind, trying to find that harmonious place where I belong.

My characters can't help me. They are too busy hiding behind thick, dark redwoods. And unless someone has experienced blockage of their own, there is no making anyone else understand. Writing is a lonely profession. And the struggles that come with it are faced alone.

This isn't the first time I haven't felt myself. It will not be the last. When I think about all the other writers out there who go through the same struggles, I think I just might belong here after all.

Open Letter: Michael Vick

Dear Michael Vick,

With the exception of an open handed slap across the face, it is rare for me to want to inflict bodily harm on someone. That is, until you.

I see you out there, on the field, smiling, succeeding, making lots of money, and I know that if you hadn't been caught, you would still be treating dogs inhumanely. Yet, everyone wants to tell me you've changed.

You've changed all right. You've changed from a convict into a professional football player. You've changed from a despicable human being into a jersey-selling product. You've changed from a cold-hearted bastard to an apologetic softy.

The hell you have.

Men who get caught doing things they shouldn't be doing always turn to the cameras with tears and "heartfelt" apologies, when what they're really doing is trying to save their asses. If you had never been caught, would you have taken it upon yourself to stop your behavior? I bet you would have. I should really take it easy on you.

It's so sad that you were paid paltrily by the NFL and had to revert to doing something drastic, like fighting dogs and other acts I shall not name. 

You can't start boo-hooing after you've been caught. It seems insincere to stand in front of everyone--cameras rolling, flash bulbs flashing, quotes forthcoming--and say that you knew it was wrong and you're sorry. You didn't know how wrong it was until you got busted. Until it threatened to ruin you; ruin your status and power.

Your PR machine sure is churning out a different version of you. Here, here! Let's raise our glass to American's short term memory and our ability to swallow whatever we're fed.

You are, and will always be, a real piece of shit, Mr. Vick. I hope a linebacker breaks your collarbone and skins you alive.

Sincerely,

Whack-A-Muse

Mistaken Identies

It is rare when my wife gets into bed before me, and I think that is for good reason.

Before walking across the living room, before heading down the stairs, before pulling back the homemade quilt, the feather bed, and the 600 count threaded sheets, my wife takes off her glasses, tucking them safely into the bathroom cabinet. The terrain she must navigate with blurry vision is not dangerous. She has done it many times and knows her way around.

But, as she laid in bed last night, waiting for me to get my affairs in order, she started looking around. She panickly announced, "Is that a spider?" The covers are creeping closer to her chin as the realization that a spider might be sharing her sleeping space sinks in. She is resisting the temptation to cover her head for fear she will lose track of the spider.

Good lord, here we go.

Our bedroom isn't a broom closet. There are all kinds of places a spider can find its way into. Her announcement was so vague I had to ask, "Where?"

"Over there." Her hand comes out of the covers to point slowly and purposefully, like she's the Grim Reaper of insects. "On the wall," she stops to count. "Five bricks down, by the dresser."

I'm already looking at the "spider" before she tells me where it is. I'm standing further away than she is from the "spider" and already know she's mistaken.

"No, it's a spot on the wall."

She was skeptical. I think she thought I was lying so I could just get into bed already.

I sighed knowing that although I let her know it was not, in fact, a spider, the issue was still unresolved. My shoulders sank as I wearily asked, "Do you want me to go over and touch it?"

She nodded her head up and down like an excitedly nervous child.

I walked around our bed, stradled a dog bed, and brought my finger to the spot of mortar she had mistaken for a blood-sucking, human-eating spider.

"Do you feel better now?"

She nodded and said, "When you went to touch it I thought it was going to jump on you and attack your face!"

Yeah, because aside from binding bricks together, mortar is known for that very thing.