Tag: not nice

Being Fat on Twitter

~ Kiki Writes ~ Leave a comment

Full fat aviThe past couple of weeks, I started getting a lot of friendly interaction from guys on Twitter. Friendly to the point of being straight up creeper. In one case I was pretty sure I was being measured for a skin suit and the guy doing it was kind of underwhelming and I was seriously bummed by the anti-climax there.

But, I digress, as I so often do.

At first, I couldn’t figure out why I was getting all of this attention. I wasn’t tweeting anything differently than I normally did. If anything, I’d been tweeting less than usual.

And then it hit me.

I had put up a new avi a few days after New Year’s Eve. A head and shoulders selfie of me wearing a white cami (that’s a kind of tank top, fellas) that I’d tinted to blue to give it a wintry look. I liked it. I thought it fit the January feel and I was looking for something I could have for a while before I got bored and decided to change it. Sounds pretty legit right? Nothing weird. Nothing overtly sexy. Nothing overtly anything, I thought.

Except the angle, the framing of the picture, well, you couldn’t tell that I’m fat.

January aviAhh! That’s it!

Guys think the “fat girl belly dancing” line in my bio is some sort of self-deprecation thing when they see that pic. I actually had one guy tell me that I’m “not that big”. Thanks, dude. Didn’t ask for your pitiful reassurance, but okay then.

As soon as I figured this out, I changed my avi to the full-figured shot at the top of the post. And I made a vow. Only full-fat avis (avies? avi’s? I still don’t know how to spell that) from now on.

First of all, that does cut down on some of the questionable attention, except for the odd chubby chaser.

Second of all, I don’t want the people that follow me, that read my tweets to forget that I’m legit fat and not “OMG I’M SO FAT!!!” fat. That when I talk about my weight, even when I joke about it, I’m talking about my actual state of existence. I’m not fishing for a compliment. This is my actual being, kids. I am fat. Legit fat. For real. And I’m going to comment upon it from time to time.

I don’t want guys to be misled because I put up a picture of my pretty face and they miss out on the rolls in the bakery and cottage cheese in the dairy section. I want them to know that I am more than likely a girl they wouldn’t give the time of day to on the street because she’s a “fatty”.

This is a public service, my friends.

I just can’t be responsible for anymore broken hearts.

35 Now

~ Kiki Writes ~ Leave a comment

birthday hatI’m going to be honest with you about something.

Yesterday, when I officially turned 35, I was more put out about the fact that I had to run errands and go grocery shopping than I was about turning 35.

When it comes to my birthday, I am like a toddler. It’s mine, mine, mine! I don’t have to! It’s my birthday! I get to do whatever I want! And I don’t want to be a grown-up and do grown-up things!

Which brings me to my next reflective point about turning 35.

I am now on the downward slide to 40 (“Hands up! Test your nuts!” as we used to say while riding roller coasters) and as such I’m sure there are people looking at me, possibly wanting to poke me, wondering what the hell is wrong with me. I’m 35 now. I’m supposed to be a grown-up. I’m supposed to be this, that, and the other with a real job and a mortgage and bills and all the trappings of adulthood. I’m supposed to be striving to meet society’s expectations of a woman of my advanced age (and weight, but that’s a different post). What am I doing?

This is actually something I’ve reflected on quite a bit in the month leading up to my birthday.  I gave serious consideration to the fact that I’m still dodging a big part of the standard adult business and that maybe I should consider, you know, straightening up and flying right.

But I just can’t make myself do it, kids. I knew it back when I was 12. I remember being supremely unhappy at the prospect of being 13 because that would mean I was a teenager and after teenager was adult and there was so much of that life stage that I didn’t find appealing. I liked being a kid and I’ve always been very bitter about the whole growing up thing.

Here’s the thing. I KNOW I can adult. I could adult with the best of them. I’m very good at responsibility. I’m so good at responsibility that I’ve been known to take on responsibilities that aren’t even mine. I’m very reliable and dependable and organized. I’m mature. I’ve been mature since I was little. I have all of the qualifications to be a good and proper adult according to society’s standards.

I just don’t want to BE an adult.

After years of doing things I hated in order to live up to someone else’s standards, trying to please other people, I realized that I have no desire to adult. It’s an epic drag and it’s not for me.

I’d rather do things my way, if you don’t mind.

So if that means being 35 and not being grown-up, that’s perfectly cool with me.

The Anxiety Monster

~ Kiki Writes ~ Leave a comment

Kiki's red hairI have a mild problem with anxiety. Back in the day, smoking is what helped me medicate it. I smoked when I got anxious. The nicotine helped when I’d get that sudden flare of what I called “fuck up anxiety”, that sure fire feeling that I had just fucked up even if I hadn’t, or if I had, it was so insignificant that an ant wouldn’t notice it because it was such a small thing. Just the act of getting the cigarette out of the pack, lighting it up, taking the first inhale, smoking that sucker down, helped take the edge off of that.

I don’t smoke anymore, but I still have that fuck up anxiety.

I’m having it right now, actually, as I type this.

It likes to settle in my shoulders mostly and ride up the back of my neck. My brain likes to replay whatever it is that I’ve done or think I’ve done until it’s so huge and wound up so tight my head would spin off if it were to let go. It makes me want to primal scream in an attempt to release the pressure in my head and drown out the voices assaulting my character.

It’s really annoying. I’ve yet to come up with decent coping mechanism in the five years since I quit smoking. Meditation helps, but funnily enough, when the anxiety acts up, I don’t want to meditate. Kind of defeats the purpose there, huh?

Now, I know that compared to some of my friends, I’m getting off easy. Their anxiety and the resulting attacks can be debilitating and that’s pretty awful. I do acknowledge that I’m lucky in that respect that it isn’t worse for me. I can actually still function despite the anxiety.

But it’s still annoying.

I don’t need any help from my brain when it comes to screwing things up. I can do bad and feel bad all by myself over legit things. I don’t need to blow up tiny seconds and non-existent moments into a disaster.

Sometimes, it’s a once in a while thing. I can go weeks and not have a problem. And then I have times when it’s basically an all the time feeling that can go on for weeks. It lightens up, but never really goes away. It’s the latter that I’ve been dealing with lately. It makes me a right irritable bitch because the constant anxiety puts me on edge and within a day I hate everything, everyone, and your mother, too.

I haven’t exactly figured out the triggers for it. I think some of it is stress. I think some of it could be hormonal. I think some of it could just be. I don’t think I always need a trigger.

I do need a better coping method to riding it out, though. Because this habit of doing nothing but feeling bad and being irritated and not meditating isn’t working.

Stupid anxiety monster hanging around the closets of my mind.

Crisis Averted…Mostly

~ Kiki Writes ~ Leave a comment

ThinkingI’ve had my bout of existential episode and I’m feeling better now. It took some long, hard thinking and some meditating and some avoidance and some more thinking and some prioritizing, but for the most part, I think the crisis has been averted.

The biggest hurdle was asking myself if I want to continue with my writing career. The answer to that is yes. I like to write, I’m going to do it anyway, I might as well try to make some money off of it. That said, I’ve come to accept that I’m not the kind of writer that will be able to support herself exclusively through writing. I lack what it takes to do that. And that’s fine! Well, it’s not really fine, but I need to accept it as fine because there’s not much I can do to change it and accepting is better than being all salty about it.

So with that lined out, other things have sort have slotted into place. I’m still a writer at the end of all things, I’ve just now wised up to the fact that I can and should be more things. This isn’t a failure. This is me reassessing my writing career and coming up with different goals that are more realistic. This is me reassessing my life at present and re-prioritizing things and coming up with goals that are more realistic. That’s necessity, not failure.

And you can believe me because I know a thing or twelve about failure.

Once I sort of got all of this hashed out, I realized that I felt better. Not necessarily happier. Definitely not content. But better. I had my “What the fuck am I doing here?” picnic and now I can get back on the path to my greatness, whatever that is.

I also came to the conclusion that if I don’t stop every once in a while and assess my state of being, I’m going to end up chugging along out of habit or stubbornness instead of really paying attention to what I need and what I want and changing to accommodate that. And that would be a real drag. It’s okay to change. Like the song said, it’s the only thing that stays the same.

No, I can’t remember which song. My brain is a jumble of song lyrics and pop culture trivia.

Anyway, I’m back in the saddle and marching to a beat of a different drummer and taking it one day at a time and whole bunch of other cliches that illustrate poorly that I’m not giving up, just moving on.

That’s the trick.

To keep moving.

I’m Having a Bit of an Existential Episode

~ Kiki Writes ~ Leave a comment

ThinkingI said last week on my Facebook page that there wasn’t a blog post on Thursday because I was having an existential crisis. That was both true and misleading (that’s a Clue reference, just to be clear). I am having an existential episode for sure, but I wouldn’t exactly call it a crisis. Yet.

Right now I’m feeling deeply unsatisfied with the state of my existence and I’m not exactly sure how to rectify it. Mostly it has to do with my work-life. I feel like there are choices to be made, decisions to be decided, when it comes to my writing career. Mostly, I’m questioning on whether or not to continue it.

I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking why didn’t I label this as I writing post. Because this sort of thing leaks into the rest of my life as well (and I’ll probably do a writing post about it later). Answer this question: What would I do if I didn’t write?

-First of all, I’d probably still write because that’s what I like to do. I like to tell stories even if my ability to do so is questionable. I just wouldn’t be trying to do it for a living.

-The status of this blog would be up in the air. The big motivation for having it was to establish it as a sort of writing home base. Take that away, and it’s basically nothing more than a ramble about random life thoughts and my favorite old TV shows.

-I’d have to figure out what I want to do with my life. If I’m not going to be a writer, then what am I going to be? If I throw in this towel, then what’s Plan B (or by this point in my life more like plan K)? Am I calling my attempt to make my own life the way I want it a failure? Do I go get a soul sucking job that I’ll hate but will pay the bills and make me the adult everyone says I should be and just plain exist until my heart finally gives out from boredom?

That sounds both unappetizing and fucking scary.

The other day I said on Twitter that some days I feel like I should have just pursued a career in marine biology or meteorology like I wanted to and called it good. Oh sure, I got ribbed to hell and back for saying that I wanted to do those things and I didn’t exactly get any overwhelming support for those possible career choices, but the to be fair, the same can be said for writing. And if I did become a marine biologist or meteorologist, I’d have that coveted grown-up job and I wouldn’t be having an existential incident right now.

Or would I?

Maybe I would have hit this point in my life no matter what I was doing and be forced to question if I still wanted to do it. Maybe no matter what I’d hit the September of my 34th year and be unsatisfied and feel the need to sit down and try to figure out why and what I needed to do to fix it.

Or maybe I wouldn’t.

Maybe I would have had a much more satisfying life studying science and this would never be a problem.

I’ll never know.

I can only go by what’s going on right now in this life which has resulted from the choices I did make.

And right now I need to make another choice.

I didn’t study for this quiz.

Five Things About My ALS Ice Bucket Challenge

~ Kiki Writes ~ Leave a comment

bucketIn case you missed it, earlier this week I participated in the ALS Ice Bucket Challenge and posted the best part of the video on my KikiWrites Facebook page (you would know that if you liked that page, hint hint). It’s the craze sweeping the nation and all for a good cause!

But because I’m an egotistical sort and this is my blog, I thought I’d give a little insight into my particular ice bucket challenge.

Here are five behind the scenes trivia bits about it.

1. I wore that shirt on purpose. You’d think it was a blunder wearing a white shirt for a water challenge, but no. I wore it for the message (Live Laugh Love) and I wore it because my darling friend Carl referred to me doing the ice bucket challenge as a wet t-shirt contest and I felt compelled to play up that angle because I thought it was funny.

2. I involved my nieces. I decided to seize the opportunity of being challenged to educate my nieces (I’m homeschool them anyway, so might as well). In order to dunk Aunt Kiki with ice water, they had to learn a little something. The older two had to read about ALS and the ice bucket challenge while I explained it all to the youngest niece. When it came time to do it, the middle niece filmed it while the youngest niece had the honor of drenching me (the oldest niece had lost interest at that point because being 12 is hard, yo). The younger two then opted to also do the challenge unofficially (I did film them and posted those videos for family to see). What started out as a fun opportunity to pour ice water on Aunt Kiki became an education in charity, illness, and the power of community.

3. I flipped the bird to certain people in the comments of the original video. The full-length video was posted on my personal Facebook page because that’s where I was challenged. My first comment on it was to inform people offended by the “waste of water” of two websites, water.org and cleanwater.org, which they could visit in order to turn their disdain into positive action. If you’re going to be asshole by judging and dismissing people’s attempts to do something good, then I’m going to make you LOOK like an asshole. I got no problems with that.

4. I donated money, too. Many of the detractors point out that people are wasting water just to get out of donating money. HOWEVER. Many, if not most of, the participants are donating some money. I couldn’t afford to kick in a lot of dough, but I did kick in a bit. I also made sure to mention the website repeatedly so other people would know where to go to donate.

5. I did this challenge at my mom’s house, so… She got that big dead spot in her yard where her pool had been nice and watered, but it’s a 25 minute drive home for me and I wasn’t going to do it in wet clothes. And since I already lug two bags to her house to teach, I really didn’t want to pack another one so I could change for the drive home. So I took my pajamas instead. And drove home bra-less.

The more you know…

PSA: Stop Saying “Being Fat Isn’t Healthy”

~ Kiki Writes ~ 2 Comments

stopThis is going to be short because I want to be able to use it as a reference for people every time they make this comment. I want to be able to link to it and call it all good.

Three reasons for you to stop saying “Being fat isn’t healthy.”

1. You can’t tell the state of someone’s health by looking at them. If you could, then doctors wouldn’t need to go to school for so many years because anyone could be diagnosed with a glance (which is, unfortunately, how many doctors do diagnose fat patients). And if all it took to be healthy was to be thin, then Mary Tyler Moore wouldn’t have diabetes, Weight Watchers would be a cure-all, and there’d be no tragic articles about people who did all the right health things and still got cancer.

2. The lack of affordable healthcare in this country, the fact that healthcare is considered a privilege, the fact that healthcare is a for-profit business has contributed more to the state of my and many other’s health than weight ever will.

3. NO ONE IS OBLIGATED TO BE HEALTHY ANYWAY. For real. Fuck off.

So the next time you feel the urge to come at a fatty with the pseudo-concern blather of “being fat isn’t healthy” refer back to this list.

Particularly the last two words of number three.

Picture: Fat Girl in a Two-Piece

~ Kiki Writes ~ Leave a comment

Fat girl bikiniWhen I posted about my fat girl two-piece swimwear a couple of weeks ago, I was pretty torn on the idea of actually posting a picture of me wearing it on the interwebs. After all, this is the shit memes are made of. “A fat girl in a bikini? Let me caption this! LOL!”

Also, I am by no means popular, but this sort of thing is a magnet for assholes. “Here! Allow me to comment negatively on your body for no other reason than I like to make other people feel shitty as a means of a controlling them!” For real, that’s what you’re doing. Even if you do it nicely under the guise of being “real” or “truthful” or “helpful”, in the end you’re just propagating stereotypes and garbage knowledge because to allow this sort of thing to exist without comment would go against society’s grain and that would make you feel oogy.

But I said, “fuck it”, and posted it on Twitter and Facebook. And now here.

Isn’t it funny how a picture can bring out this sort of thing? Not just the insensitivity and the bashing, but the discussion of the social implications of me, a fat girl, a woman in general, posting a picture of myself in a swimsuit.

When I first decided to change my Facebook and Twitter profile pictures and use this image, I thought I should crop it to reduce the amount of skin showing. I didn’t want to make certain relatives and friends uncomfortable on Facebook and I didn’t want to appear as unprofessional on Twitter since I do hock my cheesy wares over there from time to time.

Isn’t that funny?

I worried about making people who are supposed to love me for who and what I am uncomfortable by putting up a picture of who and what I am.  Now that’s just stupid. First of all, that picture shouldn’t change their feelings. Second of all, I already make many of them uncomfortable because of who and what I am without displaying any fat rolls. The picture is of no consequence.

I worried about appearing unprofessional on Twitter because I have this thing about being respected and laws knows that a woman can’t be respected if she is at all comfortable with her body and displays it in any way she sees fit. By the power vested in my boobs, I’m already starting way down the respect ladder. And if I show them off in any way, knock me down a few rungs more. Ain’t that some bullshit?

It’s summer. My Twitter bio says I’m the Lincoln Land Cleavage Queen three years running (thanks for that, Carl). Why can’t I be professional AND have a profile picture displaying both of these facts? I think I can and I did. The picture won’t change what I tweet and won’t change the fact that I have always and will always demand the respect I think I’m entitled (I’ve got a real hang-up with it, kids, enough to warrant its own post).

Now, let’s take a look at the picture itself. Pretty nice, huh? Love the hat. The pose and the angle doesn’t really show off the full effect of my 240 pounds. The way I’m angled so you can’t see how wide my hips and shoulders are, the way the swimsuit sits so the fat rolls are subdued, the fact that my arms and legs are mostly out of the picture, it all sort of lies. I mean I do carry my weight somewhat well, but this angle makes me look better. This actually wasn’t my intention. My roommate Carrie said I looked like I belonged on the Riviera, so I posed as such.

From this angle, you also can’t see my bad skin, as it’s mostly on my right side and my back. The height of the bikini bottoms hides the stretchmarks on my upper belly. The bikini top hides the worst of my boob stretchmarks, but if you look sharp there, on the left side just above where that strap comes around my ribs, you can see one of my surgery scars. Snazzy, huh?

When I look at this picture, you know what I focus on? How great my rack looks in the bikini top. Seriously. The girls look fabulous.

You know what bothers me the most when I look at this picture? I’m not wearing lipstick. I wish I was sporting my berry color just to brighten up my face and give myself a little more glamour. Also, I wish I’d picked a different color nail polish. My pink or coral or blue would have been better.

Yeah, I’m  pretty vain like that.

I’m Not Child-Free…I Just Don’t Want Any Kids

~ Kiki Writes ~ Leave a comment

No kidsI don’t have kids, don’t particularly want kids (though I reserve the right to change my mind at any point because I’m not very comfortable with absolutes; I do know that if I acquire a kid, it won’t be me getting pregnant because that squicks me too much), but I bristle at the term “child-free”.

If you’ve never heard of the term, here’s my version of the definition: child-free people don’t want kids, don’t like kids, don’t like YOUR kids, and basically don’t think anyone should have kids, and if they do, they shouldn’t inflict their children on the general public until they are no longer children.

As much as I can’t stand parents who think their children are special little unicorns that would be ruined by discipline and here is 100 pictures a day to prove that and shouldn’t you be having kids because your life has no meaning if you don’t, these child-free people are just as bad.

Bitching incessantly about other people’s children, using quaint terms like “breeder” and “crotch dropping” to refer to every parent and child (I only use “crotch dropping” for special occasions to refer to either adult or child because, seriously, that is a pretty great insult), somehow thinking that the human race could continue to exist without reproduction. I get that people don’t like kids, but seriously, they need to pull it back a tick. The kid-hate/parent-hate is just a bit much. I’m not particularly fond of teenagers, but the mere sight of them doesn’t turn me into a raving, venom-spewing asshole. Most of the time.

I believe that there’s a huge distinction between child-free people and people without kids. First of all, not all people without kids are child-free. Some of them can’t have kids, but would like to and for whatever reason haven’t acquired any yet. Some people without kids are undecided about having kids. Or waiting to have kids.

And some people that don’t have kids and don’t want any kids aren’t child-free. They’re like me. They like kids, they just don’t necessarily want any. They get annoyed with other people’s kids, but they don’t want to lock them in a room away from society until they’ve come of age and are magically not annoying anymore. Judging by the child-free people I’ve encountered alone, annoying is not a trait you just grow out of at the age of 18 or 21.

And some people that don’t have kids and don’t want kids don’t think other people that do have kids are stupid breeders. Many people want kids. And that’s totally cool. Most of my friends are parents and they’re pretty good parents. Some of them even enjoy being parents, which is awesome. I don’t believe I’ve ever had the urge to tell someone that they’re dumb for having kids.

Do I sometimes gloat a little because I don’t have any impossible extra-curricular activity schedules to manage and I get to sleep in sometimes? Sure. I consider it a fair trade for all of the potty training updates I have to endure. But it’s not with malice. It’s all done in good fun. Because I know that those parents love their kids as much as I like not having any.

So please don’t call me child-free or think that I’m child-free. I’m not. I ain’t that kind of asshole.

I just don’t have, or want, any kids.

Those Pesky Shoulds

~ Kiki Writes ~ Leave a comment

ThinkingWhenever I get a little bit of free time, my mind is filled with things that I should be doing instead of not doing anything important or, laws forbid, relaxing.

I should work on that bag I started as a way to keep me occupied during afternoon kid minding.

I should do a few more lessons on Duolingo.

I should do more work on whatever writing project I’m doing even if I’ve already hit my daily To Do List demand.

This blog post is a should. I had some free time this afternoon. I did a few extra Duolingo lessons. Then I still had some time. So instead of enjoying the fact that I don’t have to make dinner this evening and resting up some before I go to work tonight, I’m writing this blog post. And after I’m done writing this, I’ll do my workout, and probably try to get a couple more chapters on A Tale of Two Lady Killers revised before I leave for floorset.

You see, so long as there are things I should be doing, then I’m always going to feel like a lazy bum if I’m not doing them when I have the time.

I already feel like a slacker, like I don’t work hard enough or have enough to do. I feel like I haven’t earned any downtime or free time or relaxation time. So I SHOULD be doing something productive. I should be working out or writing or sewing or working or SOMETHING.

Those shoulds are so pesky. They make me feel guilty every time I decide to take ten minutes to play a game or check Twitter. Because I SHOULD be doing something else. I’m wasting time.

I don’t relax. I waste time. At least that’s what the shoulds in my brain make me think. And so I go to bed feeling guilty often because I wasted time watching reruns of F Troop and The Rifleman instead of doing more exercises or writing more words or curing cancer or whatever else I should be doing.

It’s something I try to work on, but it isn’t easy for me. I envy people who can do nothing and not feel bad about it. I spent a day in bed with a really nasty headache last week and felt like a bum because I barely got one page written before I gave up on trying to be productive. Even a headache doesn’t quiet those shoulds in my brain.

Because I should have been doing something else.

For me, to not do anything is an act of rebellion because I don’t feel like I’ve earned it. Even when I complete my To  Do list for the day, I didn’t earn it. I’ll never earn it and I know it. There’s always one more thing I should be doing before I can relax.

Ooh, that reminds me! I need to wrap up this post.

There’s something else I should be doing.