The Purge Part 4: Premium Denim.

This is a post about purging poor body image.

I went to the doctor again on Monday. It was a truly horrific experience--6 hours to be told you need more tests and must take another day off of work to come back?

Okay, half day. I'll be at the Studio in the morning, but Gallery must do without me that day.

As long as I'm coming clean, I might as well tell you the only piece of information I ever really want to know when I visit my GP--how much do I weigh? One hundred nineteen. For you new readers, I was, but three months ago, a bangin' 153 with an ass to match. Now my ass is flat and the two pairs of jeans that [sort of] fit me hang in the back like I crapped my pants after a couple wears.

I've given up the dream that I'll miraculously gain back the 30 pounds (actually, it's 34 now) but I haven't really gotten used to the way my body looks. In case you were wondering, it's completely destroyed--my skin hangs off of me loosely, my boobs are deflated, and my legs look chickeny and thin.

I've always told the women around me to "rock whatever you got, as hard as you can", so why am I having such a hard time taking my own advice?

I've got to purge this hatred of my body and this dependency on the scale. I've got to suck it up and buy some new jeans without fearing they won't fit in a couple months because guess what? They will. It's time to admit that last time I dropped a dramatic amount of weight that it took 4 years to gain it back. It's time to tell my thyroid function to fuck off, and that I laugh at danger and break all the rules.

It's time to rock whatever I got as hard as I can.


Exes in the Inbox.

Is it something in the air? It's this early NE spring I think, that's making all my exes text and email me this week. It's not just ex boyfriends--but all kinds of exes--friends, coworkers, paramours--and they're calling from all over the country and right here in Brooklyn and Manhattan. Funny that the sunshine would make them...reflective, maybe? The sun seems to make me even more happy to be single in that it also tends to make me happy to be alone. I love being alone, especially when it's nice out and I don't have the inconvenience of a partner to file behind while taking long walks on concrete. I like to walk fast. Not a lot of people walk as fast as me.

I love living alone too, but sometimes my apartment seems too expansive and I tend to hole myself up in my bedroom which is the smallest room in my house. Sometimes I sit in the living room and pretend I still live in SF, and that this one room is my whole apartment and my bed fits just so in the closet and I'm chain smoking near the window with my iBook (oh, I miss Lakricia I) on my lap. 

But now I have this huge apartment with one too many rooms and Lakricia V and I are trying to make sense of this recent ex-plosion, especially mid so much purging. The San Franciscans, however, are easy to reconcile--is there a single SFer I wouldn't welcome a ring from here in New York?

Enter the slight but fashionable Nick Douglas whom I was introduced to many moons ago by the Ninja faction of Team Tenderloin. There he is! Right in my inbox! Yet another San Franciscan who has resurfaced in the frozen (thawing?) north. Among topics like "when are we both free to hang out" and "why is my nickname Ferguson", he also shot me this question which took me by surprise:

Sounds from your blog like you've gone through hella lot since then...now I'm trying to find any mention of me in it. Did I ever earn one?

This is hilarious to me, as Nick, who graces the pages of IAAJD as "Other Nick the Writer", is mentioned more than a handful of times and in fact is responsible for deposing the post about Bryan "I love you, no wait, that's gross, I don't love you" Kreiger and securing the title of the number one most quoted post in the entire history of my blog. This is not an exaggeration by the way, and for proof one needs look no farther than Keenan's comment on a post I wrote last week.

The post? Oh, it's this one. And Nick, it's our very, very favorite.

And by favorite, I mean doggy.


The Purge Part 3: "You better start blogging away, bitch."

This is a post about purging...

Your disgusting, sinful, old sheets.

I'm telling you that I changed my sheets today, as it is a new day.


The Purge Part 2: "Please, tell me something to make this okay."

This is a post about the things we know we have to purge.

On my teeny nightstand next to my bed there is a lamp, a glass of water, and bottles of pills. There are pills I take in the morning and different ones I take at night. Save a couple weeks of antibiotics I have never been this person before, the person who takes pills routinely, and it's proving rather difficult.

First, there's just the logistics of being a pill person--there are times that they must be taken and amounts of food that they [supposedly] must be taken with, and then you just have to remember to take them, and even more frustrating--you have to remember that you've already taken them. They're so small, all my pills. They're tiny little white pills and they come in four sizes, and there are far too many of them in the tall orange bottles where they live to warrant the number of days that have passed. I can't seem to wrap my head around taking them, on time, everyday, for many days in a row. It's all so hard. But this, I suppose, is part of my reality. The worst part is, it is becoming my whole reality.

I haven't been completely honest either, and I suppose it's time to make this exceedingly clear: I am really, really sick. I am "may have to add 3 more pills a day to the regimen" sick, I'm "sometimes I can't stand up" sick, and once even I was "passed out on the concrete floor at work" sick. The insult to this injury is that it's quite likely that I'm several different kinds of sick, all with treatments that impede each other.

I am one hundred, twenty-three pounds.

Have you any idea how tempting it is to have someone to save me from this? To hold my hand and drop me off at the hospital, to bring me tea and water at night, to count out all my pills, to massage my calves until I can stand up long enough to take a shower. To bring me dinner. To make me eat. To fix me and fuck me and call me beautiful--but me, all of me, is becoming an increasingly large responsibility and it's almost too daunting for me and it's definitely too daunting for someone kind enough to actually do all of those things.

By now I suppose that everyone is realizing that this isn't exactly hypothetical, and I guess you can imagine this conversation any way you want because I wont repeat it here as it was just long enough to hurt. I will say that he was just new enough to be perfect, and just perfect enough to be wonderful, and way, way too great to be deserved by tiny, treacherous, mind-fuck me. 

I have another appointment on Monday, and one the Monday following. Soon I will have a treatment plan, and soon after that a routine. Maybe by then I will have rifled through a Wordsmith and a Painter or two, and maybe be fortunate enough to fall back to the natural conclusion? 

Until then I'm pissed at myself for being too honest and lacking the will to change my sheets because of course they smell like him and I'm scared to death to do this all alone, but I suppose I'm even more scared of getting help for all the wrong reasons--and wait, haven't I done this before?

Cross your fingers for me, kittens. I need it right now.

p.s. ...and bring me some Cake. 



Yes, I know you're expecting The Purge: Part 2, but this takes precedent for now. That's a lie, I'm just struggling with that post.

I went to the doctor [again] today, this time for a medical appointment rather than the usual psychological. I'm having a very hard time with the results of this.

I was convinced that I had gained weight, maybe as much as 10 pounds, but apparently I'm just getting more and more used to the size of my body because I actually lost six pounds, and am down to 126. Thankfully there's a filmmaker on the horizon that promises to make me eat, which may or may not help. We'll see. And please, don't ask me about him quite yet.

I feel like a list is in order, and this may be the perfect time as my doctor handed me quite the hefty one today of tests that I must return and have performed on Thursday morning. Enjoy.

1. Lipid panel
2. Rheumatoid Factor, Quant (KCH)
3. Syphilis Ab, Total w/rflx to R
4. T3 Resin Uptake (KCH)
5. Thyroid Stimulating Hormone, 3
6. Thyroxine Level, Total (KCH)
7. Triiodithyronine Level, Total
8. Anti-Nuclear Antibody w/reflex t
9. Basic Metabolic Panel
10. HIV-1, HIV-2 Screen Ab w/rflx (Don't freak out, this is a follow up test to a previously negative test.)
11. Hemoglobin A1C (Quest)
12. Hemogram Auto Diff w/rflx to M

Wish me luck. I HATE needles.


The Purge Part 1: For Keenan

This is a post about the things we are reluctant to purge.

I remember a day last November or so, I don't remember exactly what day and it doesn't even really matter what day. It was a day off for me, and I got out of the shower and strolled through my empty apartment naked and actively daydreamed about living there alone. I thought about all the garish victorian-esque illustrated roses that I could paint on my walls and how much cooler my bed would be if it was hot pink rather than red. I thought about finally hanging my M collection on the wall instead of staging them on my shelving unit. I thought about painting a mural of everywhere I've ever lived and omitting where Chase had. Funny. I got that fleeting wish within six weeks.
I was still, however, reluctant to let him go. Decisive, but regretful that it had to be over; that is, until about the time the back of my head hit the linoleum covered concrete of my kitchen floor, twice, while he screamed at me about how I couldn't possibly break up with him. By the time there was blood streaming through my fingertips the indecision was gone. See how that works? We say we give chances, but the truth is that I'd been frightened of him every time he touched me since he knocked me down in the street last June; my knee wore the evidence for a week, but my sense memory still hasn't forgotten. I knew then I would never be able to let this go way back in June, so why didn't I let him go? Oh, theres an algorithm for that.
My answer to Keenan's recent post:
Miranda Moure said...
Oh dear. Boys making silly mistakes under the influence of alcohol. Been there. Recently. And what did I do? I sat him down, sweetly (I doubt he would use this adjective) described why he wouldn't work in my life anymore, asked for my house keys back (long story) and sent him back into the world to enjoy his 20's with the occasional friendly text message from me.

Women can switch gears like this incredibly fast, and the swiftness is set on a curve against 3 things: 1. The longevity of said relationship so far, 2. the toll said relationship is taking on the rest of our lives (read: time) and 3. the relative idiocy of the offence. Men are constantly blindsided by the logistics of this, and women never care to explain.

So here's me explaining.

Is there hope? Well, that's verging on a post, so maybe I owe you one
This, I suppose, is that post that I owed.

I wanted to say something about hope and forgiveness and persistence, but I'm reading this back and realizing that as much as it may suck to be the one quietly suffering, it's way worse to be the one unknowingly imposing. Shouldn't we want better for ourselves than to stay with someone who doesn't want us? To do the reverse? 
I'm looking for it, Keenan. I'm looking for crazy, uncompromising love. I want fantastic life affirming love, inspiring love; validating love. I may find it a few more times before I die, and you may too--but I guarantee we will not find what we don't seek. In the meantime, I suppose we will purge and be purged by those who don't quite measure up--people who aren't available enough or are too available, people who can't handle our MUI's and people who steal our house keys (that is oddly specific, no?).

In the meantime we will revel in those people who show up at our doorsteps with six packs and new doorknobs, and we will share those six packs and remark not on what we have lost (metaphorical keys?), but rather our good fortune. Because we are love! And we are fortunate.


p.s. to Keen--I will never forget that doorknob and that six pack. Ever. Until I die. XO.



Dakota Fanning was shooting some editorial at work the other day. She looks like a little doll, no? Even now that she's older, she has this quality like Drew Barrymore still has: a somewhat childlike face and a memorable career as a childhood actress to match that lets viewers impose an even more childlike face upon her.

Last year, Ms. Fanning shot an ad campaign for Marc Jacobs' perfume line. She was 17 years old at the time, and the world uproariously responded; the ads were even banned in the UK. I mean, I get it. It's that pink tinted hue to the photo that makes it look vintage and seemingly amateurish, the cold shadow against the far wall and the downward tilt of her chin that makes you feel like she's being photographed at someone else's will. But then again, that was pretty much the idea; it's an obvious nod to Nabokov and a reminder to everyone out there that seventeen year old people have sex. 

I don't know what kind of sex you were having at seventeen, but I was having glorious, exploratory, invulnerable sex. I was having indoor, outdoor, multiple partner sex; girl sex, boy sex, digital-in-the-back-seat-sex, oops-the-condom-broke-sex and who-cares-if-I'm-on-my-period sex. I was having beautiful auto-erotic while reading Anias Nin late into the night sex. I was having very much in love with my boyfriend turned fiancee sex. The point is that I was having, as many teenagers have, this kind of worry free, love filled, fun and guiltless sex that is hard to have as you start adding more candles to the birthday Cake, and I am lucky that I never have to be divorced from this girl that was once me, and yes, I likely could be swayed to purchase a product that mildly promised that I could regain that.

But this isn't really about advertising, but rather the desexualization of teenagers. Now I'm not here to have a debate whether teenagers are truly ready for the responsibilities that come with sex because I don't necessarily think you can blame someone that you haven't properly armed, and I think we, in general, fall short in that respect. What this is about is...shit. I've talked myself into an unavoidable corner where I'm about to quote John Mayer, but "girls become lovers who turn into mothers", so please, whatever you chose to arm your daughters with today, remember that she may one day do the same to her daughter in kind. 

This has all been a very long lead in to plug my Mom's movie. She is talented and amazing, and has spent more than a few hours over the years listening to me spill my guts over some boy or another, sometimes explicitly. Like all Moms, she wants me safe and happy. I am lucky, however, that she also wants me opinionated.

My opinions aside, I've seen this film twice in different stages, and what I thought at first was a simple nod to my own ideals turned out to be unbelievably divisive, specifically across races and generations and less so by gender (am I the only one that finds this weird?) And, I don't know. Teen sex is one of those situations with many layers of grey, but what I can almost guarantee you is that if you know a teenage girl, you can be assured that she will have sex one day, as one hundred times out of a hundred this is the case. Don't you at least think she should have the best playbook possible? I mean, do you really think this world is becoming an easier place to navigate the complexities of sexual relationships within? 

So...watch the trailer, check out the website, and then you'll no doubt want to make it official.

And please, stay safe kittens.


Hello Daddy, Hello Mom.

Just a quick note as I have a huge post in the works which simply isn't done yet. Actually there are two. Posts that aren't done, not quick notes.

 For those of you who have been following my recent pregnancy test addiction spurned by my period not arriving for over 6 weeks, you'll be pleased for me to know that my period finally came. Just in time to go to the doctor and fuck up another urinalysis.

 I had actually made a doctors appointment about this, and was lucky enough today to be able to call and cancel. Lucky too that I won't have to look a 23 y/o kid in the face and explain to him that he's going to be a father. Lucky I don't have to shake and white-knuckle it through another e.p.t. since I've already done it 3 times.

 Oh, intrauterine device: I should have never doubted you. You may be my favorite thing in the world.


The Wackness.

I am having one of those weekends, one we would have resolved five or six years ago with something we used to call "Emergency Cocktail Meeting", for when your life seems so irrational that you have to get it out, spread it around a polished wood bar. Yes, I said cocktails because they and the addition of a few friends, not beers, are the cure for ridiculousness--something strong that you can sip slowly as one too many drinks capping a weekend you need to process are probably not a good idea. You know what I mean though, yeah? I'm talking vodka martinis or really spicy bloody mary's--a restorative cocktail, not a haze inducing one.

But this post is not about cocktails or even restoration. This post is about choices.

Today I am so reminded of the TSG, not that I remember what that stands for even though I have searched my blog for an explanation. Wait, no. I literally just remembered what that is anachronizing--Tantric Sex Guy.

Anyway...yes. The TSG. I met him one summer mid an ECM at Amber. The correlations? The jeans maybe, the way he always wore the same good pair he had when he'd see me. The way he'd both read and comment on my blog even when it was about him. Even when it was pretty explosive. But there's something more I can't quite put my finger on--something about the brevity and veracity of our tet-a-tet, something about how I predicted what would happen between us so exactly and descriptively that it was almost prophetic; and yes, I know you're going to say that it ended that way because I predicted it, but this story is not about self-fulfilling prophecies.

I just know that I'm rereading Open Letter..., and there's a line that sticks in my head now and always has: "I never liked you enough not to fuck you." That was true when I said it and it was true more times than this time that I said it, but this outtro is probably where the similarities of now and that long gone summer in 2007 begin to fall apart. I'm not in the mood to be disparaging today, and that's pretty unfortunate for all those reading because If I chose to relate to you the reason VYNY will not be returning to my bed you would likely be just shy of entranced. In fact, your heads would explode if I went so far as retyping the text messages here.

But today I am choosing to grant a pass; you can remember the VYNY as but a talented youngling who made one childish mistake, and we'll leave it at that. I do feel, however, as if an exchange is in order; like I owe some tidbit I've previously withheld in order to keep this new one a relative secret.

The TSG once sent me a text message that was mentioned in this post and this one, but I never revealed the content. Ever. Not even to a lot of people that asked in person. I left him in my bed while I went to work one morning, and received it on my lunchbreak. I still remember what it said, and even with a few years on it I still believe that it was the most ridiculous text I've ever received. Ready?

I just walked home from your apartment and my hand has smelled like your pussy all day.

Not that I need to explain this to you, but this is not something I need to know on my lunchbreak, nor is it particularly tantalizing in a way that...no. I mean in any way. To me, anyway.

The really funny part was all the suggestions my girlfriends came up with as possible replies, the best of which was:

That's so weird because my pussy has smelled like your hand all day!

Looking back, I wish I would have actually sent that text. But this is not a story about regret.