Typically narcissistic blogging.

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Fitting Rooms

For various reasons I am not going into right now, I lost a little over 30lbs over the course of the last several months. End result, simplified? My knees hurt less and my pants don’t fit. I should note that, as a person who will never, ever be “skinny” and never plans to be, I find myself caught between two body weight dogmas. The first tells me I am just buying into systemic fatphobia and the diet industry. The second tells me I should lose weight because pretty=skinny.

Neither is true for me, but it makes me profoundly self-conscious about a personal decision I have made about my body and what I choose to do with and to it. But that’s not why I have decided to write this post.

I have decided to write this post because people keep talking to me as if this weight loss is the Accomplishments of Accomplishments. They exclaim over it with greater enthusiasm than they offer over the fact that I have a law degree, that I know Latin, that I am brilliant, hilarious, and great in bed. Okay, I do get some outright skepticism over that last claim, but whatever. Ladies, you can approach that claim scientifically if you like. My number is [redacted].

I hate being told that I should be super proud of my weight loss. I hate people acting as if it’s the best fucking thing I have ever done. I hate people asking how I feel, as if they have just handed me a fucking Oscar and I am supposed to make a fucking speech.

You know how I feel? Fat.

You know how I would feel if I lost another 30lbs?

Fat.

It has nothing to do with my weight, you see.
fat hearts

The fact is, I’m pretty much okay with this. I’m okay with being fat. I’m less okay with how society has made me feel about being fat. I realize this is something of a contradiction. If I am okay with my body, then why the issues? It’s complicated; I’m a multifaceted Whiskeypants. Let’s leave it at that for now.

What gets me is how much people are not okay with it. How eager they are to praise me for my recently pronounced cheekbones and the fact that I can barely keep my pants up, even with a belt.

What gets me is how they say, “Sweet! You can go shopping now!” —as if all of my body image issues have disappeared and standing in a fitting room no longer sets off every single  issue I still have, no longer fills me with anxiety, no longer makes me wonder why designers won’t even acknowledge people above a certain size. As if pride in my body is directly correlated to my weight loss. (Hint: It isn’t.) Don’t get me wrong, I am proud of what I have accomplished, here. But not because I look 30lbs “better” according to society’s fucked up standards.

What gets me is how they think that my reward for losing weight is getting to wear smaller clothes. Shopping for clothes. Trying on clothes that were designed for people 1/2 my size and never my shape. Buying the clothes that look the least stupid on me.

23NOc6p
Yeah. Tell me more about how I should be excited about that.

Hiatus

In the last few weeks I have been asked a number of times in a number of ways, where the hell I have been and why I have not been blogging. My answer has been simple: I’m taking a break.

The thing is, I didn’t take this break intentionally. I didn’t wake up one morning and decide I was on blogging vacation (mmmm, vacation), and I didn’t hang up my blogger hat (now you have to wonder if I actually have a hat for blogging) with the idea that I wouldn’t be wearing it any time soon.

The fact is, after the dustup from the last two posts, I’m on the emotionally exhausted side. The rather extensive group of people who felt that my post was necessary have thanked me for “taking that bullet” (their words), but the thing about bullets—even figurative bullets—it takes some time to recover from them.

Please don’t mistake this for whining—I knew what I was doing when I wrote and published the first of the last two posts. I accepted that fact when I hit “publish” and as I became more and more exhausted by some of the responses I had to actively and consciously own it. 

I’m not done here. I still have a wealth of opinions (popular and not-so-popular) and probably some new flowcharts to make. I have guest posts I still haven’t put together and published from my friends Allegra and Sasha. I’ll be back, but probably not in a Schwarzenegger-y sort of way.

So…yeah. I don’t know how to end this post gracefully, so I’m just gonna leave you with a picture of my cat.

cat

Death and Social Media II: Addendum

Today I published a very controversial post about how we handle unexpected tragedy on social media. I used a specific, relatively recent example, and I used it as a way to show that we need to seriously think about how to include social media in how we discuss death and suicide in high-risk communities.

I’d like to make clear that I did not write and publish this post lightly. I asked other people—people with level heads and strong emotions and lots of experience with death—to read it and give me feedback. I asked when I should post it. I asked for advice. What you see is a post I published after two months of editing and thought.

The responses I got were almost entirely polarized. Some were public, some were private, but almost all were on opposite ends of the spectrum.

According to some, I was entirely without empathy, and I should absolutely not be using this tragic event as a teaching moment.

According to others, I was a beacon of reason and good thinking, and I was thanked profusely for what I wrote.

I think that the truth must be somewhere in the middle.

I do not think I was wrong to write and publish the post; I truly believe that we need to seriously consider how we handle death on social media. As to whether I should have used that particular example…I don’t know. That particular tragedy and how it was handled—and how people reacted to it—was powerful and it is the reason I wrote this post in the first place.

The post was never intended to hurt anybody, but effect always trumps intent, so I own that.

I will not take the post down. I have done a quick edit to try to vague it up as much as I could in this moment, tried to make it more general. I am open to suggestions about how to generalize it further without losing the power and the context of it—because while I am deeply sympathetic to those experiencing their loss and grief, I am also attempting to tell a story from the perspective of people who were anticipating grief and heartbreak with no information as to whether that grief and heartbreak was theirs, this time.

I have been informed, by the way, by the two different poles of this argument, that our feelings did matter and that our feelings, in fact, didn’t. I think that this also falls somewhere in the middle.

So, I would love some input on how to make this a viable, healthy conversation. I’d love to see more blog posts about how social media has changed the landscape of mourning, emotion, loss, and pain. It’s a difficult conversation, and as long as we continue to connect through social media, it’s a necessary one.

When I set out to become a blogger, I thought my blog would be a place for pure humor, Venn diagrams, flowcharts, and pictures of my cat. Increasingly I have posted about those things that are difficult to talk about. Things that we don’t want to address. Things we like to pretend don’t exist until they happen to us. But I want to do it in ways that create discussion, not kill it. I want people to be interested, but not hurt. 

So I humbly request feedback, suggestions, and criticism. I hope to constantly improve my writing, my perspective, this blog, so that it truly is a place where such conversations can happen.

Death and Social Media

Not too long ago, my Facebook feed was suddenly peppered with vague posts about the death of somebody who was part of a broader (but quite small) community of which I am a member. People refused to post the name of the person who died.

I was immediately filled with fear and anxiety that I was out of the loop on the death of somebody I might know and care about. It had happened to me with Sparkly (learned about her on Facebook, by accident), and I had been the person filling in people who were out of the loop on Donovan (learned he was in a coma when I was, without warning, added to a Facebook group to discuss it). And what I learned from both of those tragic events is that:

1. It totally sucks to learn these things via Facebook;
2. Learning these things via Facebook is inevitable;
3. Nobody, nobody should be out of the loop when somebody in a close-knit community is seriously injured, near death, or dead;
4. We need to take a serious look at how we handle tragedy on social media.

In the most recent circumstances, a small but very visible and active group within the larger grieving community seemed to think that not naming names would protect privacy, even as they posted details about his death that were far more invasive than his identity. This group was also inclined to criticize those asking for more information. When my very dear friend Rachel, who has lived through more brutal loss than the vast majority of the people I know, finally demanded that people name names, another friend commented, “If you are frustrated by not being in the in club over grieving with us, consider yourself lucky.”

Now, I understand that grief totally kills our communication skills. And this is why not a single one of us called him out on this comment. However, the essence of that comment should be addressed, because Rachel was not the only person who was essentially accused of being a vulture for asking.

I think we need to start with the assumption that nobody actually wants to be in that club. Nobody. If you really think somebody wants to be in that club, it’s time to do some unfriending and maybe look into a temporary restraining order. Okay? So let’s start with that foundational premise. Nobody wants to be in that club. If people are going to glom on for drama, that will become readily apparent, and they will not be anybody’s problem but their own.

I think we should continue with the general awareness that people die. I know, it’s something nobody really wants to think about, which makes all of these discussions about death much more difficult. Rachel’s response to the accusation of wanting to be in the mourner’s club nailed my reaction to this series of vaguebook posts: “Our community is very high risk, and I have lost more friends than I have digits to suicide, drugs, and motorcycle accidents. I found out in a million different ways. Because of this, fear strikes my heart EVERY TIME I hear ‘motorcycle casualty on the 880′ or any time [people] are posting about some unnamed tragedy.”

Marisa filled it out: “I’ve known too many quick-and-deads to ever, ever think that ‘if I knew them, I would know.’ I found out last week about a dear friend…via Facebook. But at least names were named. [...]Creating this kind of stress and anxiety in this incredibly high risk group is rude. It’s not telling anyone how to grieve; it’s asking for basic consideration.”

I’m not sure I know more than a tiny handful of people who have not been affected by tragedy and/or sudden death. Hell, just in case you think I am being insensitive, I have been struggling with depression and suicide ideation since I was a child. To top that off, I ride a motorcycle. In reality I–or any of us–could die any day. Every day. So many of my friends are similar: they suffer from extreme depression, are risk takers, get into accidents, and some of them have died. We are high-risk. With regard to the death of loved ones, I have not always been in the immediate loop. Nor would I expect even my closest friends to be in the event of my injury or death. Too many breaks in communication can happen. So assuming:

A. that everybody who should know does know is wrong.

B. that not naming names has no effect on those who didn’t know the individual is wrong.

C. that people who ask for the identity of the deceased are just social media vultures is—you guessed it—wrong.

I think we also need to think about how we handle information. Talking about a death in the community, not naming names, but offering other extremely private details is kinda like creating a really screwed up guessing game and it protects nobody’s privacy, ultimately.

For the record, when people understandably don’t want to guess, calling them vultures for asking for information is going to result in some ruffled feathers, especially when you have given just enough information to create the need to ask for more. You are hurting. I get it, and I have been there. I am so very, very sorry for your loss. But freaking out a bunch of your friends and then slapping them down when they ask for information is not the way to handle it. As my friend Normal pointed out in an analog example, “I don’t go to Lucky 13 and yell ‘one of us died and I feel sad!’ and then walk off to the bathroom without expecting a lot of follow-up upsetness.”

fat amyNorm gets a gif for that, because she nailed it.

We have all lost people. We are extremely aware of how truly fragile are the lives of our friends, family, and loved ones. And when somebody in a close-knit community feels the need to say that somebody who was a part of the community died, but not who it was, it does far more harm than good.

If you are going to withhold information out of respect to families and partners, consider withholding all of it and finding a more private forum for your initial response. In examples I have seen and heard of, some folks refused to name names publicly but explicitly offered to if contacted privately. It turns out I didn’t know the deceased, and I had the amazing and unfortunate privilege of getting to struggle with a feeling of intense relief even as I watched people I care about grieve.

I have read everything his friends have posted about him, and I have let those posts give substance to the person my friends have lost. This post is not about the fact that I don’t care; I do. This post is about the fact that people need to know, even if just to learn that their hearts won’t be breaking, this time. 

A Checkered Year

I suppose it’s time for my increasingly traditional annual retrospective. 

If 2013 were a cartoon animal, it would be the Cat in the Hat, balancing too much shit and ultimately failing. Oh, don’t get me wrong, many, many good things happened in 2013. 

  • I went to Puerto Vallarta, my first vacation in six years.
  • My friends generously helped me get Iago, my beloved motorcycle back on the road.
  • With some overlap, my friends also helped me raise significant funds for the organization for which I work.
  • I moved into a fantastic apartment in SF (with laundry AND a dishwasher AND hardwood floors AND natural light AND off-street parking).
  • I met Allie Brosh.
  • I got three raises (which add up to, in just a little over a year, a 29% raise from my first salary here).
  • Luke and Marisa got married.
  • Jay and Jenneviere got married.
  • What I am hoping is becoming a Christmas tradition of spending one of the most annoying days of the year with my friends Lisa, Matt, and Elaine.
  • I have met some new people and made some new friends, at least two of whom are definitely keepers (and one I just fucking love so much I gave her, as somebody pointed out when I mentioned the book signing, an original Allie Brosh drawing).
  • I beat my all time best bowling score. Which isn’t amazing, but I’m still pretty pleased with myself. (Current best: 157.)
  • I learned some new things about who I am and how my brain works that explains A LOT about me and is helping me to make sense of my life and who I am.

But 2013 also slipped on a gigantic pile of shit, twisted its ankle, and landed on its face in yet another gigantic pile of shit with its mouth wide fucking open, for me and for people I love.

Losing Sparkly Devil broke more hearts than mine, and I think some part of me is always going to be wondering when we are going to go get our next cocktail and talk about everything. I still make notes in my head for things I want to chat with her about. Apparently it’s going to be a while, so I should start writing them down.

  • I have watched my friends lose people, family members, partners to death, relationship failure, and drama. Broken hearts everywhere.
  • There are friends who have been too far away for me to give them the kind of support I wanted to give.
  • I am having to face the fact that my beloved constant companion, my purrbucket, my cuddly, affectionate, loving, and deeply annoying cat Thumper is officially old. He still looks great in a bowtie, though.

I don’t do the resolution thing, really. I know what I want to accomplish in the next year. I don’t know how I am going to do all of it, yet, but I’ll figure it out. 

Happy New Year.

The Ultimate Nightmare

I was seven years old when A Nightmare on Elm Street came out in 1984. For some reason my babysitter decided it would be fine for me to see it. Yeah, you should probably check in with the people babysitting your kids.

Two things have been true until tonight:

1. I have been fascinated by and have actively sought out horror movies ever since; and
2. I haven’t watched the original ANOES since (I saw the remake; it wasn’t awful).

Oh, let me clarify. I haven’t watched the original since…until tonight. I’m watching it now. Why not? I thought to myself as I chose how to celebrate my favorite holidayWhy not celebrate with the movie that entirely rewired my wee brain when I was a child? It’s possible that I’ll have the answer to that soon, but the movie is only just a few minutes in.

Let’s share a little history. The effect that this movie had on me, a kid who hadn’t even made it to the first grade yet, was striking. It terrified me. I did not yet have the ridiculously macabre and dark sense of humor I do now. I did not have the ability to recognize the sick sense of humor in the horror before me. I just saw Freddy Krueger.

freddyarms

You know the full story by now, but Freddy was a scary-as-fuck dead guy who could kill you in your dreams, and even preschool Whiskeypants knew that was Fucked. Up. Preschool Whiskeypants knew that waking up was hard sometimes. Preschool Whiskeypants had intense nightmares on a very regular basis and was pretty damn sure that it made absolute sense that your nightmares could kill you. 

I would spend the rest of my childhood trying to figure out how to sleep safely. While it wasn’t only because of ANOES (there was a host of other factors in my childhood that added to this), this movie hardwired me to believe that sleep left a person altogether too vulnerable. In fact, I think it was out of desperation for rest that my brain created its own coping mechanism: it turned Freddy Krueger into an ally. Freddy would show up in my nightmares and show me the way out. It was the only way my subconscious could work through my absolute terror of the character.

Rewatching A Nightmare on Elm Street right now is giving me a new appreciation for the movie, but the fear that 7-year-old Whiskeypants experienced is still there, 29 years later. It’s not a fear of the movie, with its nigh-hilarious special effects (Freddy has fluorescent green blood? Really?), baby Johnny Depp, and fascinating hairdos. It’s still the idea behind it that gets me. That makes me wonder how well I will sleep tonight.

I guess in some ways, 36-year-old Whiskeypants is still 7-year-old Whiskeypants.

Happy Halloween.

One, two...

One, two…

Sexy Halloween

YOU GUYS. Halloween is just around the corner! You know what THAT means: it’s time to scramble to put together the perfect Sexy [Whatever] costume. But what if all your friends are already going as Sexy Nurse, Sexy Nun, Sexy Cop, Sexy Zombie and Sexy Lisa Simpson? DO NOT WORRY. Everything is going to be okay, because my friends and I have pages and pages of ideas for you, courtesy of this lovely comic and an absolutely epic Facebook thread.

Are you ready for this?
If yes, click below (and click again) for embiggenation:

Sexy Halloween

Note: I love Halloween. I mean, really. I LOVE Halloween. The sheer amount of work and creativity that goes into this unholiday is mindblowing and I enjoy it immensely. So even if I didn’t have a host of other issues with the “Sexy [x]” Halloween costume, the sheer consistent laziness of it would irritate me.

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