How DOES One Go About Getting a Tape-Worm?

Remember when you were 5 and nobody said things like "emotional eater?"  God, I miss that.
Everywhere I look, somebody skinnier than me is talking about their current diets, and I want to go all bulimic all over them.  If, you know...I WAS bulimic.
But I'm not.
I just eat.  Sometimes I eat too much.
Specifically, I eat too much when I've vowed to myself to start my diet tomorrow.
But like Ms. Joplin once said: Tomorrow never happens.
So, I just eat.
And then I eat some more.
And I don't even enjoy it.
I hate food.  Because I love it so much.

It doesn't help to have a boyfriend that's too sweet for my own good.  He knows I love food.  He's aware of my sweet tooth.  So, instead of surprising me with flowers, he surprises me with Airheads and french fries.
And it makes me want to cry.
Because I KNOW all those skinny girls are being surprised with tulips, or lilacs, or even baby's breath.

Sometimes, I visit websites about anorexia and I feel.... jealousy.  Sick, right?  I wonder if they have pointers.
What kind of a person does that?
Maybe I should just go back to hoping I get some kind of awful stomach flu and stop eating because I'm too busy vomiting.
God....that would be so sweet.

Laying Down Life Lessons

Before starting off with some fantastical story, I'd like to take a moment here to plug myself.
....no....that sounded wrong.  So wrong.
I just mean that you may have noticed I now have this little bar off to the left for followers.  This means, you can now easily follow me, and get notifications whenever I update.  Theoretically, this is to make your life easier, but in actuality it is one more step on my way to becoming famous and wealthy and just utterly fabulous.  So fabulous, that such lewd remarks as "plug myself" will fall by the wayside, not being fabulous enough to keep up.
So there you have it.
Be a follower.
Join the flock.
Allow me to think for you.

Today, I'm thinking about a dog.  Specifically, a dog that arrived in my life when I was 15.
I hated her.  Then, when she grew on me, I seemed incapable of coming up with a suitable name for the small, black puppy.
One morning, as my dad drove me to school, he said (not unlike Mr. King, Jr.), "I had a dream.  We were calling the puppy Via (he pronounced it "Wee-eye"), seemed like a pretty good name.  Whaddaya think?"
"What does it mean?"
"Nothing.  Just a name."
"A name should mean something.  In Latin, Via means 'road.' Why would I want to name a dog Road?"
*sighs* "The dog needs a name, Caitlin."
"if you add a 't' then it would mean Life.  Like...Vita.  But I don't wanna pronounce it the way you're supposed to, with the v sounding like a w.  It should just sound like a v."
"So...Veeeetah?"
"Yeah.  Vita."

It fit.  Vita was a beautiful representation of life.  She loved it.  She was happy, and clever, and insistent upon being friends with everybody.  I learned that the children waiting at the bus-stop had named her "Wiggles," because she was always so thrilled to see them every morning.  She looked after all of us.

She died shortly after I moved to California.  I didn't give her much of a goodbye, so sure that there would be time enough for one more visit.

But I don't want to think about that.  Let me tell you about what Vita taught me:
There is never enough ice-cream in the world, and there is no shame in enjoying it.
A good walk with your pack can make even the worst day better.
When someone is sad, the best thing to do is to sit with them quietly.
Couches and beds are always preferable to the floor.
Cover yourself in smells you like.
Take enjoyment from those around you.
Be patient.
Be kind.
Undies fresh out of the dryer are nothing short of awesome.
Nap in front of the fireplace.
There's no shame in snoring.
Ladies DO fart, and they do it with abandon.
Always call shotgun.
Enjoy a good wiggle.
Take from life what you can, while you can, and give back even more before you go.

Thanks V.  You were one of a kind.

Sweet & Sticky

When I was about 8 years old, I spent nearly every waking minute with my best friend, Lissy.  I don't remember meeting her.  We'd known each other since before memory, and I figure we fought so damn much we may as well have been sisters.

Collin told me to write about my best childhood memory, but rather than try to narrow it down, I just generalized to Lissy.  


She was tall and skinny and beautiful, and I thought she was everything I wanted to be.  

One thing Lissy didn't have going for her though: she was terrified of her dad.  She never said so, but she stopped speaking every time he entered the room.  The man was unpleasant and scary, to say the least.  If he arrived, it was only a matter of time before we were yelled at for one inane thing or another.  More often than not, yours truly was yelled at for eating the play-doh.  Why would they have those frikkin play-doh food factories, if they didn't want us to eat it?  Yeah, that's right, shaddup!

Here's one of the things I remember most about Lissy: she was COMPLETELY OBSESSED with the sticky part of envelopes.  She insisted it tasted like sugar, but you never get to lick them, so it's hard to notice in the short bit of time it takes to wet the envelope.  So...

One day during those long summer afternoons, when the grownups mysteriously didn't get the days off, we made ourselves some hot chocolate.  Lissy always put extra marshmallows in, ensuring the ultimate sugar rush.  *I think it's safe to say that my friendship with Lissy very nearly gave me the diabetes*  Then, since obviously you can't just have liquid and simply must have some solid food to go with it, we chose to partake in those sugary sweet envelopes.  

The large, mean man forgot to lock those tidbits away, so we promptly grabbed his new box of 150 envelopes and split them evenly, to be fair.  Commence the licking.

By the time her dad came home, Lissy and I both had cuts all over our tongues and this sweet almost rancid taste that didn't go away for days.  Unfortunately, the fun ended there, and I was told to go home.  

The next day, Liss told me she got in trouble, but didn't elucidate.  We never got the chance to extol on our shared experience.

To this day, I still get all happy when I get to lick the envelope.  My office-mates point out those envelope wetting things, with the sponge tips....but where's the fun?  I always think of Lissy; if she still enjoys the taste, or if the sweetness she once exclaimed over disappeared entirely.

6 Out of 12 Ain't Bad

Lately I've been obsessed with hipsters and the amount of work it would take to make myself into one.  The answer, probably, is "A lot."  For one, hipsters are notoriously those size 0 women walking around in Salvation Army clothing that should be hideous, but isn't, because they're just so skinny, and let's face it:  things just look better on skinny bones.  At least...Salvation Army ugliness does.

Hipsters are those friends that are probably too cool to be your friends, or at least, they are the friends that enjoy knowing you think that.  They scoff at your consumerism and penchant for purchasing food with ingredients you can't pronounce.  They dress painstakingly casual; and more than likely spend hours trying to look like they just rolled out of bed, when I could almost instantaneously achieve the same results.
Obviously, I enjoy making fun of those tight-pant-wearing-Scenesters as much as the next person, but only because I secretly wish to be one of them.  Isn't that always how it works?
I'm the type of person that likes to set a plan.  Thus, I present: my step-by-step quest to be a Hipster.
I thought diet was the way to go, but as Mr. Herculodge pointed out: "...diets promote self-denial and going on a self-punishing diet is a sign of capitulating to the media’s tyrannical notions of what constitutes a pleasing body image."   Clearly, hipsters don't diet.  At this point, I turned entirely to Herculodge, as he gave 12 easily defined rules to the hipster diet.
Principle #1: Hipsters Don’t Go on Diets.  I am more than happy to adhere to this! "check!"
Principle #2: Hipsters Don’t Get Bloated.   *looks at belly and full glass of wine*  "Shit."
Principle #3: Thanksgiving Must Be Anti-Bloat and Anti-Traditional. *thinks back on past Thanksgiving, stressing over perfect vegan stuffing and then eating myself into oblivion*  "Double shit!"
Principle #4: Hipsters Don’t Get Punk-Fed by the Man.  As I said, they don't like poly-syllabic words on their ingredients.  *She wrote whilst shoving carrots into that stink-pot she calls a mouth*  "Check!"
Principle #5: Hipsters Only Eat Foods That Are Part of a Grand Pastoral Narrative.  This apparently means that hipsters mostly eat organic, locally grown shit that comes complete with pamphlets.  I'm all vegan and shopping at Whole Foods these days, so I think I've got this covered, as nearly everything in my house has some type of label on it, telling me of Guatemalan farmers laboring to bring me this delectable dark chocolate.  Thank you, Guatemala!  Mucho....appreciated.  "Check!"
Principle #6: Hipsters Only Eat While Conversing Or Reading.  *thinks of how easy brother makes this look, and then of all the food stains on my own books*  "Shit."
Principle #7: Hipsters Know Their Sushi.  Err....I know that I like it.  I know California rolls and I would be willing to do tricks to get my grubby paws on them!  "Check!...maybe."
Principle #8: Hipsters Grind Their Own Coffee Beans and Use a French Press.  "Air press!  That's like, double check, bitches!"

Principle #9: When It Comes to Setting the Table, Hipsters Favor Japanese or Swank.  *looks at messy game board pile that covers table*  "Hmm...shit."
Principle #10: Making Gourmet Comfort Food Is Ironic and Therefore Cool.  *Boyfriend takes this moment to point out new vegan alternatives for mac 'n cheese* "I'm so fucking THERE! CHECK!"
Principle #11: Hipsters Never, Ever Buy Store-Bought Salad Dressing.  *Stares longingly at bottles of salad dressing*  "Damn."
Principle #12: Hipsters Are Eating Contrarians.  YES!!!!!  Veganism is totally on my side!


Looks like I'm 50% hipster.  Just you wait, my friends.  Soon enough I'll be rolling my eyes, revelling in the ironic, and too skinny to see!  Give it time.