I haven't blogged for two days. Bad Sarah. But there was a reason...

No there wasn't. I was just tired. Wendy, Michelle and I geeked out and went to see LOTR -- again -- on Thursday. For those keeping track, this is my third viewing in the theater. It's still really good. Plus, I got to wave and sigh everytime Legolas, my husband, came on screen. (No, really -- an internet quiz said he'd be my husband, so it must be true!)

So I have seem best pic nominees five times. Unfortunatey, I've only seen two of the movies -- Moulin Rouge and LOTR. (One of the Moulin Rouge's was on a plane, so I feel less guilty about that.) I may try to catch matinees of Iris or Beautiful Mind today, and there's a 10-something showing of Gosford Park in Evanston. I'm going up there for dinner at Ang and Jordan's, so I might swing by the theater on my way home.

I watched Godfather III last night -- except for Sophia Coppola, I actually thought it was a good movie. unfortuantly, Sohia Coppola's character is ertty pivotal. Alas. I kept thinking how different the movie would have been if Winona Ryder, who can actually act, hadn't bailed out. Maybe there are some deleted Winona scenes on the extras disk.

Boy, I'm just much more fun when I repress, aren't I?

Work is so-so, but I had a sobering reality check today: I helped a friend work on her resume. She has a great job that she does well and really likes. Only problem: It's at Arthur Andersen. If it sticks around, she wants to stick around. But she wants an updated resume on file just to be sure.

Makes my job woes seem pretty minor in comparison.

Also, it could be worse: I could be one of the idiots who asked the editor on a satirical (i.e., fake) newsletter to comment as if he was a legitimate source on Fox News. Read the story about it here. Doh!

WARNING: I'M DISCUSSING EMOTIONAL "ISSUES" AGAIN. I'LL TRY TO BE FUNNY LATER.

Weird day. There's a flu-like thing going around my voice class, and I was feeling pretty crap yesterday after class. Still crap this morning, so I called in sick, popped some echinacea and Vitamin C, and went back to bed in hopes of warding it off. Slept half the day, and woke up feeling better. So that part went well.

After I dragged myself out of bed, I went online to the blogs/message groups I frequent. And on Newton's message board there was a discussion on fat people -- why they are foul, disgusting, hideous abortions of humanity and should be mocked to death. (I'm paraphrasing, but that's the basic sense of it.)

I've got my weight issues. I come from sturdy-country-folk stock -- I'm pretty much designed to pump out babies and pull the plow. At my most fit, I tend towards the larger end of the spectrum. And personally, I think I look like a cow, but I've always thought that, regardless of how much I actually weigh. I look back at pictures of myself from high school college and think "What the hell was my problem?" But now that I've passed 30, spend the day sitting on my ass, use chocolate as a substitute for caffeine, and no longer ride my bike to work... well, I'm fat.

Sometime after the Q: How do you make love to a fat girl? A: Roll her in flour and go for the wet spot post, I started taking it a little personally. Plus, there was this post from Newton, who is one of my exes, answering the question: "Do fat people date other fat people because they can't expect anything else?"

OK - vital statistics. At my maximum editorial weight of 13.5 stone (as compared to 11 stone now) the answer is that I went out with fat women. Fancying them ... well, that's all in the mind, isn't it? I used to say things like "She's very pretty" or "I really enjoy her company". I would never have said anything like "I used to enjoy that position, but now I can't do it and breathe at the same time."

Here's my response:

Jesus, folks, if I wasn't already paranoid about being a fat bitch, I sure as hell am now....

Not every woman is born to be a size 4. I think it's partly the fact that we're such size Nazis here in the US -- Look, Jennifer Lopez has a fat butt! Drew Barrymore is puttin' on the pounds! Get over yourself, these chicks are skinny, just not emaciated -- that we've got a fair amount of obesity. You just get to a point where if you're not going to be the ideal -- if you've got any meat on you whatsoever -- then you might as well just give up. You're never gong to be pretty or sexy as long as you have thighs and belly and backfat and whatever, so bring on the chocolate!

Yes, that's simplistic. But jesus, folks, I don't even know what I look like anymore. I'm one of the fat chicks the Ed dated. At that point, he didn't complain, but was it just because I was as good as he could get? Thanks, Ed, now you know why that therapy hasn't quite taken yet

On a good day, I'm curvy. On a bad day, I'm a @#%$ zepplin. I don't know which is true.

Look, you go with whatever turns you on. If you like skinny guys/girls great. If you go for "the bigger the cushion, the sweeter the pushin'" also great. Why such contempt for people who don't look like you feel they should?

And there was an uncomfortable silence, then a lot of pointing and laughing at Newton, for incurring the wrath of a (fat) ex. One person decided to be a dick (FP The thought of it is making me ill, does that put it plain enough.) but ignorant assholes don't particularly bother me. They're ignorant assholes, and thus their opinion is not worth crap.

A lot of it was shit-stirring. Fine. It's not stuff you're meant to take seriously. I get that. What gets me is the otherwise intelligent, cool people -- like Newton, who I genuinely like and respect -- start shovelling out this sort of bullshit. And I get to the point where I can't tell if it's bullshit anymore. Newton used to love me, I think. Was that because I wasn't so fat then? Was it despite how I looked? Was it just something to pass the time until he lost weight and found someone cuter? Is there any intrinsic value to me outside the the size of my waistband or whether or not my thighs touch when I walk?

One comment from the board I thought was interesting: [My wife] is fat. Technically she's obese. It used to bother me, and still does occasionally, but if I'm honest it's just because I didn't want people taking the piss out of me for having a big girlfriend.

So where are we now -- you're despised if you're fat. You're despised if you like people who are fat. What the hell is going on?

I'm not saying I need you all to worship me as a beautiful goddess. I don't think it's true, so I don't see why you would. I have no objective sense of how I look -- I have days when I feel great and sexy and fabulous, and I have days when I don't think I should be allowed to leave the house. I've never been the cute one in my family -- my sisters are gorgeous, and yes, thin -- and I've had a "distorted body image" blah blah blah pretty much forever. But I have no idea what's real anymore, and that pisses me off.

I told Newton I'd be blogging about this, and he's basically waiting for me to yell at him and talk about what an asshole he is. I can't. I'm not angry at him, I'm just confused and pissed at myself for not being physically acceptable. And I know that is fucked up. But there it is.

But Newton? Every time you ask me why the hell I'm not dating anyone, consider this: As far as I can tell, the people who actually like me think I'm horrible to look at. How fucking willing am I going to be to throw myself at a stranger?

Duplicate post deleted

Duplicate post deleted, dammit.

Ah, blogger's back up. It's been most frustrating the last few days. But the spellcheck doesn't seem to be working. Drat.

Wet Hot Meatballs was everything I could have hoped and dreamed it would be: Wacky camp hijinx, authority being questioned, kooky camp directors, Evil Anonymous Rich Kids Camp, controlled substances, lovesick geeks gettin' some, and a quality soundtrack. Actually, the soundtrack to Meatballs was cheesy in the extreme, but it's somewhat terrifying to realize that I still know pretty much all the lyrics to the opening song ("Are you ready for the summer....") and the campfire song ("We are the CITs, so pity us...."). What else could my brain be doing with that space? The world may never know.

I got all excited when I got home today because there was a check-type letter from the federal government. I ripped it open, only to find much, much less money than I had been promised. I was on the verge of calling the accountant in hysterics when I looked at the address. Oh. Oops. It's for my former tenant. She already got one, so I figured this one had to be mine. Sorry, Ann.

And dammit, I want my gum'mint money!

To add to my "this neighborhood is wacky" file, there's a large Animal Control van parked out near the crackhouse on our block. (Sorry, alleged crackhouse.) I haven't seen anyone there for probably a couple of weeks, so I had been thinking everything had cleared up. However, the guy who owns the place has about five little long-haired Chihuahuas. Being the apocalyptic sort of person that I am, I immediatly started thinking that something had gone horribly wrong with the owner, and he was lying dead on the floor with the Chihuahuas munching on him. I really hope that's not the case, because (1) I wouldn't wish that on anyone, not even the owner of the crackhouse; (2) I really don't think that would be good for the dogs; (3) I was just starting to convnce people that our neighborhood was really getting better; and (4) I don't need anymore fuel for my own little paranoid fantasy that I'll be dead in my house for several weeks, cats gnawing on my body, before anyone notices.

Why, yes, I was an imaginative child. What do you mean, that might not have been a good thing?

Great. Now Mongo is sitting at my feet, and I'm getting very antsy. Guh.

Promise me that when/if I turn into the scary old cat lady, you'll all get together and call at least once a week to make sure I'm still alive? Thanks.

Wow. That's cheery.

Um, sweet dreams.