the slack daily

(wo)Man vs. Self

 

I'm working on it.

The Fatmistress

Dear Internet,

If you want to see photos of when I was 200 pounds, you don't need to skulk through cached versions of my blog. (Because those show up on my webstats, which means trying to hide your tracks is kind of silly.)

They're up on Flickr for all to see, but I've attached it below for your enjoyment. (You should check out some of my high school photos, too. It's pretty funny stuff.)

 

Big love,

the slackmistress

Where I Invent the Mullet.

Slackmistress, circa 2004

 

I just looked at this photo of myself, pulled from the depths of a nearly-dead computer that was sent out to pasture, and thought I don't look half bad with short hair. Maybe I could keep the front short, and just grow out the back.

Then I realized I invented the mullet.

Twenty Years Later.

I never did write about my high school reunion.

Sure, I mentioned it. There was an anecdote. I posted some photos here and there.

People always ask me how I have such a good memory when it comes to middle school and high school. More than half of my professional career has been dedicated to writing - and rewriting - those years, that it's never been all that far from my mind.

Tug at one small silvery filament of memory and the whole thing is bound to unravel.

At my ten year high school reunion, I was looking forward to connecting with my high school friends (Facebook was but a gleam in young Zuckerberg's eye?) and coming back a Capital-S Success. I found that people still kept to themselves, for the most part. Groups clung together with the same magnetic force that they did in high school.

But then came Facebook.

And suddenly I was planning our 20-year reunion.

There was the joke that i heard not once, not twice, but over and over - are you friends with the popular people? (To be fair, I may have been the first one who made it.)

While everyone went on and grew up and Did Things Adults Did, I work in a business that's been caled "High School With Money." I'm writing pilots about high school wrongs, about rumors, about first kisses, about who your friends really are.

Planning the reunion, I pored over yearbooks and tried to match names and photos with email addresses and friend requests. I dug up old journals and looked through everyone else's friends' list remembering boys that I liked and girls who were mean to me.

I talked to new friends - people I knew in high school, but wasn't friends with - about the whole process.

I mean, I'm not an idiot. I know that high school is rife with reverse narcissism - that belief that it's all about you, and it's all bad. I had braces. I had glasses. I had a bad perm (is there such a thing as a good perm? Not in the 80s.) I was chubby and dark in a school filled with skinny blonde girls. I was smart and I was funny and I could be prone to fits of bravado to mask the fact that I was painfully shy and totally self-conscious.

(I definitely didn't date.)

All of this, swirling in my head while I decided that I was going to confront the girl(s) who were mean to me. I had one in my sights, specifically. I wasn't going to be cruel (erm, that would defeat the purpose,) but I just wanted to say you did this and that wasn't cool.

Except that I didn't get a chance to, because when I ran into her it didn't really matter.

Because she wasn't the person I thought she was, either.

When I write characters I try not to make them one-dimensional.

Yet I had painted all the "villains" in my life in precisely that way. 

There was no grand moment. I just realized that I didn't know them and they didn't know me. That was it.

But I was no longer shy. I was no longer self-conscious. I was no longer worried about what people thought.

And that's why my high school reunion was a hell of a lot of fun. 

(And I'm looking forward to someone else planning the next one.)

 

What if All We Have to Look Forward to is a Bucket of Pig's Blood?

According to Jenny the Bloggess, today is Blogging Without Makeup Day,where bloggers, world-'round, post photos of themselves sans makeup.

To be honest, every day is Blogging Without Makeup Day, because I don't roll out of bed fully made up.
(And I don't blog every day. But we're talking about makeup here. Stay focused, people.)

My husband does not wake up to this:

Or even this:

I.R. Smart!

The slackmistress in her natural habitat looks something like this:

True to form, I didn't even brush my hair.

This is what it looks like without the cute dog to distract you:

I won't eat your children. PROBABLY.

But then I got to thinking: what's the point of this Blogging Without Makeup Day? Did I just take Jenny's word for it? Sure, it seems to be a meme, but what if it was elaborate ruse to get a bunch of (predominantly female) bloggers to post photos of themselves looking less than their absolute best? What if it was in fact a joke of Carrie-like proportions, and now all we have to look forward to is a bucket of pig's blood?

I pondered this conspiracy theory:

Wearing my pondering glasses.

 

But then I got distracted and forgot.

Cro-Slackdon.

Will has been gone less than 24 hours.

I have already ceased:

• Showering (I showered last night before I went out. I think. No, I'm pretty sure.)
• Brushing my hair. (That's what fingers are for!)
• Eating. (Protein bar + edamame + wine = balanced meal, yes?)
• Putting on pants. (I did wear my pajama bottoms outside, though. I am not a complete heathen.)

By Saturday will I have donned the tinfoil hat and kleenex box slippers? Only time will tell. Don't forget, BetheMarriage LIVE! (On Ice!) will go on with guest host Oslowe (aka Will, Deux.)

Citizens Against Inaccurate IDs. (CAII!!!!!!!!!!)

According to Jenny the Bloggess, today is Blog Action Day.   Jenny's tackled the issue of Amputee Porn For All, and I don't think I can add more to her well-reasoned argument except to say that my husband has long been a proponent of porn for the less fortunate. 

But today, I'm going to take my own stand, and start my own coalition.  It's called Citizens Against Inaccurate IDs.  Or CAII!!!!!!!!!!!! for short.  Because that's what Ninjas sound like before they rend the flesh from your bones.  (Those are Ninjas, right?)

I recently had the misfortune of having to renew my Driver's License at the DMV. The last time I had to do this it was 2002; my body was about 30 pounds thinner and my bank account was 30 pounds heavier.  I thought that life didn't get better than that.  Until I stood in line waiting to get my picture taken. 

A Mentally Retarded Gentleman struck up a conversation with me.  I'm always thankful when people start conversations with me in public, as I have a tendency to talk to myself, forgetting that I'm not at home in an oversized t-shirt and a pair of torn panties tippy-tapping at the keyboard talking out character voices and plot points while silently wondering where that last pair of sweatpants went. (Answer: they disintegrated.) 

But here I was out in public at the DMV, although still sans pants (I was wearing a skirt as I had already ventured out, so I might as well make a day of it.)  In fact, I was wearing a skirt, a pair of motorcycle boots, and my bright green Lucky Charms "Magically Delicious" t-shirt and someone thought I looked pleasant enough to talk to.  I turned and smiled and he told me that he was here to get his ID taken.  I responded that I was here to get my Drivers' License photo.  We crept up, person by person, toward the front.

Right before I was called forward to get my photo taken, the my Partner in DMV Conversation Crime looked me up and down and said

I bet you are Magically Delicious.

And then he smiled.

I blinked once, twice, and realized I had just gotten sexually harassed by a Mentally Retarded Guy.

My license came out looking like this:

Last week, I went to the DMV.  Yesterday, I got this in the mail:

You know what's wrong with this picture?

It's better than I look on a daily basis.

When I get pulled over, stuffed in my too-tight coffee-stained jeans 'cause I'm too poor and stubborn to buy new ones, a faded and ripped Aqua Teen Hunger Force T-shirt, my greasy hair piled on top of my head and my glasses askew from hitting myself in the eye with the straw from my iced coffee, I'm going to be arrested for stealing that nice Nina Bargiel's pink Mini Cooper and Driver's License.  As I'm hauled off to LA County Women's Correctional Facility, I will scream wildly but I'm the slackmistress! and people will shake their heads sadly and murmur that woman would never get hit on by a Mentally Retarded Gentleman.

When I get out of prison, I will end up having to do fake Amputee Porn to pay my bills.  Thankfully, Jenny's got me covered.

...

When it comes to global poverty - a subject that I know little about (not because I don't care, mind you, but because I prefer to work on issues closer to home where I can see my direct influence, because I am selfish and petty and oh yeah, I like dogs) one of my favorite organizations is Heifer International.   Find out what they do here.  Around the holidays, I have been known for getting people cows and pigs and sheep because honestly, a water buffalo is way more awesome and how many soap-filled gift baskets can one person get?

What a Difference Having Your Jaw Sawed Off Your Head and Bionically Reattached Makes.

And don't forget:

Will has the details and the FAQ here.

On Dogwalkers & Live Chats.

My previous post reminded me of an incident that took place about eight years ago.  The year was 2000, and I was living in one of those huge, soulless apartment buildings in Hollywood where all of the units looked exactly the same.  Master bedroom with enclosed bathroom on one side and slightly smaller bedroom with adjacent bathroom on the other flanked a shared living room and galley kitchen.  This place boasted huge ceilings and beautiful (faux) wood floors, but the fact is that was straight out of Apartments 'r Us. 

The reason Older Slackbrother J. and I had elected to live there is that they didn't bat an eye about me owning a three legged pit bull named Peanut.

In fact, the landlord wasn't particularly picky about anyone who lived there, so we had the virtual societal salad of couples and hookers and drug dealers and old people  and a ton of strippers. (In fact, a date that once picked me up remarked hey, you live in the stripper building!)  Being just around the corner from Sunset Blvd. (not the nice part) we were also around the corner from three or four strip clubs. 

In the morning, sans makeup, (and usually sans underwear)  I would crawl out of bed, throw on some amalgamation of clothes (or a robe over my PJs), grab my glasses and walk Peanut.  On the way to the elevator, I'd usually run into two or three girls returning home from the night shift.  They'd coo at the dog, I'd nod politely (it was too early for small talk) and we'd all be on our way.

When I returned home in the evening, I'd repeat the process, except this time I was fully makeup'd and had my contacts in, and my clothes took n a more matching quality since I had worn them to work that day.  The same two or three girls would be heading off to work, and I'd greet them in the hallway.  They'd coo over Peanut, and we'd be on our way.

...except one evening, when one of the girls stopped me.

You're so sweet, she told me, but your morning dogwalker?  She's kind of a bitch.  And not exactly cute, if you know what I'm sayin.

I don't have a ---ooohhh. 

They looked at me, confused.

I'll talk to her, I promised.

They gave Peanut one last pat and were on their way.

...

And it's that time again...

Join Will & I tonight at 8pm PST on Ustream.tv!

If I Didn't Shower, I'd be Eva Frickin' Mendes.

Wednesdays I work my shift at the gym. They usually go something like this:

9:37pm [Tuesday night]: Awesome, I'll get to bed in a couple of minutes and rock out seven hours of sleep!
9:42pm: I need to stop saying things like rock out.
9:47pm: The kids don't say "rock out" anymore, do they?
11:47pm: After an exhaustive google search, a smattering of MySpace pages, an IM conversation with a friend's daughter and four glasses of wine - a medical necessity on the last part. (I need to dull my senses before feasting my retinas on the visual vomit that is the 'Space so I don't collpase into an epileptic seizure.)
12:02am: bedtime!
1:14am: If I fall asleep now, I can get three hours of sleep.
2:49am: I am totally awake. But I still get two more hours.  Score!
4:46am: [ALARM]
5:01am: Dear Ex-Agent: I hope you come down with a raging case of crotch scorpions.

Then it's off to work.  I shower, in the sense that I stand naked, half-asleep under the showerhead like a post-roofie cocktail sorority girl.  I needed to wash my hair yesterday, as I was walking that fine line between super shiny and can I get grease with that?, but, y'know, I was going to work at the gym.  Where I rent spin shoes to people.  Where I pick up sweaty towels.  The only glamorous part is when famous people sweat on me (this esteemed list includes: Nicole Kidman, Alicia Silverstone, and Justin Timberlake.)

In short: I look like a sleep-deprived chubby, greasy-haired zombie who's just been through a gangbang with with bunch of ultramarathoners who have neglected to shower post-race.

(But, y'know, I have a good personality.)

Post-work, I headed out to the grocery store to pick up stuff for dinner.  I needed to hit both the Ralph's and the Trader Joe's, so I pointed my car East toward LaBrea where the stores are located across the street from each other.  I was in the Trader Joe's in the dairy aisle (picking up feta cheese for that evening's greek chicken salad) when I noticed him staring at me. 

He caught me looking and looked away, so I took a moment to study his face.  I may forget your name, but I never forget a face.  Nope, not even remotely familiar.  Slight fauxhawk, big sunglasses. Sort of generic hipster.  I continued shopping.  I could feel him still staring at me, and I began to wonder if maybe he was a blog reader?  The only place I ever ran into readers was in the Trader Joes.

I reached over someone to grab a package of smoked turkey breast when I realized that someone was him.  He smiled.

I'm sorry, he told me, I can't stop staring.  I find myself inexplicably drawn to you.  He had a slight British accent.

Maybe I look like your sister, I responded, none-too-helpfully.

He laughed.  I shouldn't say inexplicably, he said.  Actually, you're totally my type. I just, I've never seen someone who just was completely my type.

His voice shook a bit. I realized he was nervous.

Is that crazy? he asked, I would ask--

I held up my left hand.  Thank you so much, I told him, but I'm married.

He laughed, almost relieved.

Okay, then.  He turned to walk away.  Wait.

I waited.

Happily? he asked.

Happily, I responded.

He's a lucky man.  And you can't blame a bloke for trying!

We went our separate ways.  I was at the checkout when he finished up at the checkout a few aisles down, and he waved as he left. 

Clearly the key to sexiness is looking like you don't give a shit.  If I hadn't showered, I'd be Eva frickin' Mendes.

... Also: a many thanks to The Bloggess for listing me as one of the people who she'd want at her dinner party.  I don't think I'll steal a baby, since they can't hold their liquor.  Showering is currently undecided.