Fat philanthropy

"I've never seen so many obese women as I have this year."

The setting: an annual convention for a women's philanthropic organization. The speaker: a woman who considers herself obese, but maybe not quite as obese as some of the others here.

Since I'm not a member of the organization, this wasn't my scene and these weren't my people, so it wasn't my place to say anything. Since I'm fairly fit and haven't ever had to struggle with weight, it's unfair for me to criticize. But she had verbalized what I was thinking: Many of these women are very wide. Depending on the fit of their clothes, they are also lumpy in unusual ways.

I was just there to be with my mom, who has been as active member of this organization for 67 years. (For the record, she is quite thin, having lost weight after Dad died last February. They had been married 63 years.) And yet I was grumpy about being there.

I struggled with this grumpiness because it had emerged from a murky corner of my heart. I was judging the convention women for their size, for the Middle America way they dressed, their earnestness, their whiteness. (Of about 600 participants, I noted two women of color.) I judged them by this overheard bit of conversation: “Then I go, ‘I’m running out of teddy bears!’” Maybe I judged them for the banality of the venue, an "Events Center" billed as Loveland, Colorado, but which was in fact an Embassy Suites next to a Budweiser arena and the Larimer County Fairgrounds. The complex teeters on the edge of the eastern plains of Colorado, which is to say the setting is flat and brown. From there on to the east lies the Land of States Lumped Together in the Middle. (This is a smug left-coast bias, of course: As mom has said, Anything inland from the California coast is "Back east.")

Maybe I judged them for their slowness, their tendency to walk at a leisurely pace from room to elevator to conference rooms to complimentary happy hour. (They may have stepped it up for the latter. No judgment there.)

And indeed, when one woman complained of feeling sluggish, I suggested some fresh air.

"That's probably it," she said. "I don't think I've gotten out of this hotel since we got here."

That was Sunday. They had arrived Tuesday.

Here's the thing. In this contentious political season, I strongly support those on the side of peace and justice, diversity and tolerance. I'd like conservatives to back off and let LGBT people, for example, live their lives; I'd like Christians not to impose their values on personal decisions and government business. If I lump these women together as I do the Lumpy States, aren't I being hypocritical as well as judgmental?

I started to come around by the end of the weekend, though. After all, these are my mother's people, and my mother is a smart woman (whom I love even though we don't agree on political issues, which we do not discuss).

At the final banquet, the incoming president and her board were installed, in her words, "wearing pretty dresses" and "bling." I'm not one for Disney princesses, so this was not my thing.

I wasn't expecting to be bowled over by what came next.

And that was the money. They announced in some detail and with greatly deserved pride how much they have raised for St. Jude's Children's Hospital in the past year. Each state was recognized for the thousands of dollars they had contributed--hundreds of thousands for some, and for a few, over a million dollars. Since 1972, when they first adopted the hospital as their special interest, they have raised over 200 million dollars. That's money that goes into research for childhood cancers. That's money that saves the lives of children. These women clearly are more than tacky clothes and tedious meetings. They effect real and positive change in the world, Ms. I'm Too Fit for This, and they can walk as slowly as they damn well please.

Aginess

(To borrow from Stephen Colbert and his coined word "truthiness.")

Age, wrinkles, and crepey skin. (No, not creepy: "crepey." Like crepe paper. Even though the spell-checker doesn't recognize it as a word, pop-up ads inform me that is undesirable and unsightly, and therefore I am self-conscious about it.) It has been creeping up on me in recent years. (See what I did there?) I notice it when I'm doing yoga. When I do down dog, the skin on my thighs is loose, like cellular shades--I mean the window coverings. Pull them up, they're pleated; let them down, not so much.

As for the face? How is it that I have the skin of a 70-year-old, and other women my age do not?

I identify a number of factors: 1) I grew up in L.A. in the '60s and '70s, when tans were attractive. And if your skin type didn't readily tan, you could always let your skin burn, and that would fade to a tan. 2) I am of Scandinavian stock. Scandinavia includes territory north of the Arctic Circle, where the sun disappears for two-to-six months of the year. Who needs sunblock? 3) I didn't sleep well for about ten years.

Whatever the reasons or excuses, I still avoid looking in the mirror, and when I do I'm quite disappointed. Is that really me? If I squint or dim the lights and smile, then, yes, I recognize myself. (For the record, all those expensive products that claim to reduce deep wrinkles, they obviously haven't been tested on one such as me.)

I know: first-world problems. First-world, privileged white-woman problems.

Anyway, what I mean to say is, I find myself looking into the faces of old people (oldish, meaning 50+) and try to picture how they looked 20, 30 years ago. I can't do it. People are who they are; they have always been the age they are now. At least that's how it seems. Look at the photo of Jimmy and Rosalyn Carter on their wedding day, July 6, 1946. Seventy years ago. How handsome they both are, how strong, how vital. You can see who they will be in their faces--or who they were.

President Carter is 91. My dad would have been 92 last May. He kept a photo album of those years, the '30s, '40s, 50s. That's who he was: so tall and slim and handsome, so capable, so adventurous. A baby son in his arms: how young he was!

And some day, if all goes well, I'll be in my 90s, thinking back to my 50s and how strong I was, how active and healthy.

Just random thoughts, really. And now I have to go look after a couple of three-month-old puppies, who run like there's no tomorrow. Or like there are lots of them.

Elles

In my eclectic, persistent search to distract myself from things I should be doing, I listened to a podcast called la société après mai 68, which refers to the social upheaval (student and worker riots) in France during the "Days of May" in 1968. The podcast was an interview with Antoinette Fouque, a co-founder of the French feminist Mouvement de la Libération des Femmes (MLF) in the late '60s. The other co-founder was Monique Wittig (1935-2003).

I'm not sure how I first came upon Wittig's writing, but in my early twenties I bought a used copy of her second novel, Les Guérillères, about a group of women waging war on men. I probably was drawn to it because the title was French (my major at UCSB), even though the text was an English translation. 

To get to my point here, years after I read this book, I got to take a class with Monique Wittig at the University of Arizona. We read five of her novels, including Les Guérillères, and a collection of essays. I read them in the original French, and while I didn't entirely understand them (the words or meaning), I was certainly in awe and grateful for the opportunity to be in her presence at a seminar table. My shameless claim to fame is that she and the rest of the class came to my house for coffee and pastries at the end of the semester. (Inasmuch as pastries are pastries if they're not patisseries.) 

I remember that she was greatly displeased about David Le Vay's translation of Les Guérillères because he altered and distorted the entire philosophical construct, which centered on the simple pronoun elles. In French, a group of men is referred to as ils; a group of women is elles. Traditionally speaking, if there is one man among any number of women, the pronoun (as well as relevant adjectives and past participles) is masculine.

To describe the warriors in Les Guérillères, Wittig uses the pronoun elles, and Le Vay shifts between "they" and "the women." For example, the first line: "When it rains the women stay in the summer-house." Why "the women" when Wittig simply wrote "elles"? Her purpose, as I understand it, was to re-appropriate the feminine pronoun as the universal. The English "they" was perfectly acceptable because it is ungendered. Throughout my English translation, I edited "they women" to keep the reference as she preferred.

Louise Turcotte, who wrote the foreword to Wittig's essay collection, The Straight Mind, writes, "In claiming the lesbian point of view as universal, she overturns the concepts to which we are accustomed.... [Her] lesbian thought does not aim to transgress but clearly to do away with the categories of gender and sex on which the very notion of universality rests." In fact, Wittig identified her movement not as feminism but "radical lesbianism" because the feminine is defined in opposition to the masculine, whereas lesbianism is entire unto itself. 

I just saw that today is Heterosexual Pride Day. Apparently it's not going over too well in the twittersphere. We live in interesting times, is all I can say.

http://savoirs.rfi.fr/fr/comprendre-enrichir/histoire/archives-la-societe-apres-mai-68

The popular girls

Elementary school was a long time ago, but I still harbor pleasant memories (or maybe illusions) of being one of the popular girls. I was athletic, so I was a valued member of any team; I was smart (which admittedly has more to do with being popular with teachers), and, if I may say so, cute (although, if I was aware of that, it didn't translate to confidence.) And I was nice to the not-so-popular girls. Then middle school happened. Let us never speak of that again. 

But now, now, I find myself popular again! This time, however, it has little to do with my personality, and everything to do with the fact that I harbor PUPPIES at my house--that is, at least one puppy most of the time, and often two. "Can I come see the puppies?" say my friends. "Are the puppies awake?" asks the ten-year-old neighbor boy. "Oh, puppies!" sighs everyone anywhere ever. (Unless they're cat people, and then there's no hope for them.) On our first visit to the vet, at least five techs materialized in the lobby to see the puppies, one with her phone taking pictures. What strange, exotic creatures! What magnetic, irresistible, unparalleled cuteness! Cute without even trying. Sweet even though they chew whatever objects and textures that they can get their evil--I mean, sharp--teeth on. They may smell trouble before you can even think of it, but that "Who, me?' expression, the goofy gamboling that passes for running, and the fluffy butts and carrot tails are irresistible. You just hope they'll like you enough that you can be their friend.

So dang cute

There is cuteness fever at our house. I know, it sounds awful, like a cloying perfume or too-sweet dessert that hurts your teeth just to look at it. But there's no avoiding it. Neighbors have eagerly asked to visit, like the ten-year-old boy who comes by randomly every couple days for an infusion of--puppies.

Juno is a fluff ball and a little clumsy; her sister Lucy is lean and adventurous. They weight about 14 pounds, still light enough to pick up, still small enough to occupy a kitchen and allow room for a human. The fluff ball sits at your feet and gazes up companionably. Even though she may not like being held, I love to put my face in her fur. The adventurer claims each new object as a chew-toy; she will run just for the hell of it. The two of them wrestle fearlessly, biting on ears and cheeks, knocking each other down at full speed.

Sweetest of all is the way C gets all gooey around them: sitting on the ground, gathering one or both onto his lap, cooing and laughing at their silliness. Ordinarily, it's hard to know what brings him joy. Many situations cause anxiety; internet exchanges invite insightful teenage disdain or fervent agreement. But cute puppies can only evoke love: for their soft fur, their bumbling gait, and their wonder at this world where everything is new and ripe for play.

Get the hell out of my way

Who hasn't wanted to say that at some point in their life? Maybe a shopper has lodged his cart in the aisle exactly in front of the Paul Newman pasta sauce and is contemplating the relative merits of marinara or basil with garlic, and all you want is to grab some sauce so you can go home and have a late dinner and you're already cranky because you're so very hungry. Maybe a grandma is driving especially slow in front of you because her arthritis is acting up, and if you somehow divined the reason you might be more sympathetic, but as it is you're already late and she's made you miss two lights. Or maybe you're a woman who has worked long hours for a company in the hope that you might get that coveted promotion, only to be passed over again and again by a suit who's younger and less experienced than you.

Or maybe you're Hillary Clinton, and you've worked your whole damn adult life to make real, positive change in the lives of poor families, overworked mothers, undocumented workers, and abused children. You've been skewered for putting career before the gentler arts of baking cookies and supporting your husband, the Governor, the President. You've been excoriated for staying with him even when the scandal of his infidelities must have made you both furious and mortified. You've been called a feminazi; you've been told you're not a good feminist.

So you, Dear Reader, are not Hillary, obviously, but Hillary is Hillary, and after all the shit she's gone through, she's still in the game. She knows international diplomacy, health care, and the law inside out. She knows how to deal with haters. She may not be charismatic, but she listens to people and apparently she's got a good sense of humor, and she's got an actionable five-part solution to every problem, whether it's to organize the White House egg hunt or crush ISIS.

So, look. Bernie Sanders is terrific. He's galvanized young people, brought awareness to the democratic socialist platform. You know that, the Berners know that, Bernie knows that. But, Bernie, you lost. The New York Times reports that you lost by any measure--popular vote, caucuses, people-who-might-have-voted-but-couldn't-get-to-the-caucus. You lost. Please do not try to ride that dead horse to Washington. The system may not always be fair, but can you verify categorically that it is rigged enough to compensate for the millions, millions of votes that she got and you didn't? With all due respect, you've had your moment. Now get the hell out of her way. In fact, do more than that. Support her. Implore your followers to support her. Shout out the good things she has done and will do. You have the charisma; she has the chops. Figure it out before it's too late.

P.S. New York magazine has a really interesting profile of her; I recommend it.

Pee

Forgive me if my subject is the puppy again. She takes up a lot of my time because 1) she's so adorable to watch and play with, and 2) the world is a big chew toy for her. This morning at five a.m. she was raring to play or, if not to play, then to chew. On a coffee-table book about the Musée d'Orsay or, when I took that away, on the coffee table. Her teeth are tiny white baby teeth, not strong enough yet to cause irreparable damage to the furniture, at least. But I can tell by the way she savors the plant table (one piece of furniture I spent real money on) that she is developing her palate. Testing....

Ice cubes are underrated. They're free, readily available, and puppies can either chase them like a hockey puck or chaw on them like a jawbreaker. The dollar store has a variety of dog toys for--oh!--one dollar each. A cardboard box from the recycling is distracting. All of these are prime chewable objects, but the trouble is that each one only lasts about 15 seconds. That's pretty steep entertainment value even for the dollar store.

One inimitable, priceless chewable object is Juno's sister, Lucy. By the same token, Juno is Lucy's chewable object. One or both of them is going to have a pierced ear. I think a pirate ring might be appropriate.

I take Juno outside about every three minutes. I praise her when she pees as though she's discovered unobtainium. But still, there are puddles ink the house. On the door mat. In the hall. At a random spot on the wood floor. Hey! I just watched you pee outside! I praised you like you discovered a new freaking planet! You woke me up at five o'clock and made me play with you, and you owe me!

Ah, you clever thing. Your cuteness. It's your only and unassailable defense. Why don't you gambol and make my heart feel light. Run to me and let me put my face in your furry fluffiness. We'll try again tomorrow, but right now I need to go to bed.