exitstrategy

So I am twice my normal size and all filled up with turkey. My thanksgiving was the same old: I was the token spinsta with all the other married couples with babies. I had to field the same old questions: when are you getting married, when are you going to reproduce, when are you going to stop all communication with us, your ridiculous family (ha wishful thinking).

The festive occasion took place at my sister’s new mansion. Ironically, her, her husband, and her baby are extra tiny so I felt as if I was in a Hans Christian Anderson fairy tale. The tale of the tiny perfect family. And, of course, I would be the unnapreciated character who has to sweep the chimney or churn the butter. My recollection of fairy tales is not as strong as my recollection of television shows . . .

I woke up this morning with the familiar food hangover. I really want to go check out the sales but I just don’t have the strength. Damn you tryptophan.

TV shows were different when I was a child. Teenagers did not look like grown ups (well except for 90210, I mean Gabrielle Carteres - seriously?). The families were not dysfunctional and the kids did not do drugs or have sex. It was a much more innocent time. And, every year, sometimes a few times a year, there would be the very special holiday episode. The episode would involve a family overcoming challenges and in so doing discovering the true meaning of the holidays.

I miss these episodes. See, I was raised by television. I learned about the dangers of smoking cigarettes when Stephanie Tanner was offered a “smoke” from a bad kid. As Danny Tanner explained, smoking is not cool. You got it dude.

I learned about the dangers of drinking from the Cosby Show when Vanessa got hammered and called Denise to pick her up from the party using a shoe phone. It was hilarious and very informative.

And, I learned about the birds and the bees from 90210 when Brenda and Dylan finally did it on homecoming night. Of course from that point on I had unreasonably high expectations of homecoming dances. My date for my first homecoming dance was no Dylan McCay and he drove a Dodge neon, not a super cool vintage porsche.

Of course, as you can probably guess, my whole moral code was derived from a montage of 80s and early 90s shows. The very special holiday episodes was key to my development. It taught me the importance of family.

So, on this Thanksgiving day, I will try to do my best to give you a very special holiday blogisode. The moral of this post is - enjoy your family. And for those of you who do, please let me know where you live because I need a new family.

Time to eat pumpkin pie - GLURP GLURP GLURP.

You are not supposed to gain weight until Thanksgiving starts. Studies show that from Thanksgiving to Christmas, most Americans pack on the pounds on account of all the holiday parties and increased food and drink. But, Thanksgiving is three days away.

I recently learned at the the gym that I was ahead of the curve and had already gotten started on my holiday expansion.

I was in the locker room after my workout. I was wearing light grey adidas pants with a swirly pattern going down the side. The effect of the swirl from my ass, across my hip, down to my knee, was, SHOCKER, not good. It emphasized all the trouble spots. The swirl functioned as an arrow pointing to my fattest points encouraging onlookers to stare at my fat ass.

I was staring at myself in the mirror, following the swirls and just taking in the overall horror of my reflection. I looked rather huge. But, I am not the most sane individual, so perhaps it was just body image issues. Fingers crossed. Or so, I thought. But I heard a woman to my left making strange noices.

Several times this woman would spontaneously shout “Glurp” or “AAAAG” or “Guuuuuu.” I looked over for a second to identify the source of these sounds and noticed a woman across the aisle from me. A few seconds later, I was back in my position staring at my fat reflection and obsessing. And then it happened. The woman across the way said what all the others in the locker room were thinking. She said, “Glurp, Glurp. Stop looking at yourself in the mirror. You’re fat. Glurp.”

I was shocked. At first I thought I had imagined it, but then a few minutes later she again shouted “Glurp Glurp.” I knew I had not imagined it.

I do realize that this poor woman probably had some form of Tourette’s Syndrome. I do not begrudge her for shouting what she did. She could not help it. And, part of the reason she could not help it was because I am in fact, glurp, glurp, FAT.

I wonder though if I can still wait until New Years to resolve to lose the weight. I mean I will only gain more weight. Thanksgiving is coming and I love mashed potatoes. Glurp, Glurp?

I firmly believe that it is important to try everything once. Then, at least I can say I am openminded. I mean I go into all these situations closed minded and assume it will be terrible, but at least I try.

So, anyways, true to my philosophy, I went to a Shabbat ceremony for singles. My friend and I enter into this large room with stained glass windows. There was a little table with Kosher wine, and a longer table with kosher “dinner” - but it was all greek appetizers that looked questionable. Then, as with every jewish gathering, there was a three piece country band. You know, a challah honky tonk.

At 5′7″, I am amazonian for jewish people. So, from my altitude, I could see everything. And, what I saw, it was not good. There were fat short dudes, ugly short dudes, wierd short dudes, married short dudes.

I was expecting the Temple mixer that Charlotte went to in Sex and the City. But, there was no Harry Goldenblatt who proposed to me. And, much to my dismay, there was no tall, hunky, ivy-league asshole who just wanted to do it.

The thing I do not understand is that I went to synagogue. I am not really an observant Jew so I should get bonus points with g-d for going to his house and listening to his children play country tunes. But I guess I did not actually stay for the service portion of the evening. When the country music stopped, and the crowd was being ushered into the sanctuary for the service, my friend and I snuck out and got sushi. Oh sh*t - we ate shellfish.

I guess I got off lucky at the Challah honkey tonk. I mean, maybe it was embarassing and depressing, but at least I was not smited.

Amen!!

So for those of you reading the last few Spinsta entries, you must be thinking that things are all rainbows and butterflies these days. I have not written any enraged blogs in a WHILE.

Well, in truth, for those who really read the Spinsta’s blog, you would have attempted to stage an intervention of sorts because some of these latest blogs are a CRY FOR HELP.

Anyways, I am enraged again. Have no fear.

So, today I had to prepare an arbitration claim. In order to file the claim, I needed to get a dollar figure from the guy in accounting, or whatever other hole he crawls out of. So, I tell unnamed number cruncher, “dude, I need these numbers crunched.” Well, I emailed said unnamed number cruncher (avoid akward conversation with wierd unnamed number cruncher): “Hi!! If you could please compute the total amount of interest, that would be just great!” Oh yes, the Spinsta is a secret gunner. Don’t judge me. . .

Well, psychotic unnamed number cruncher did not respond. When I went into his office to ask him to crunch said numbers, he snapped at me! He said “I will do it when I can.” Um, buddy, you will do it when I ask you to do it.

This is what really gets me fired up: I get treated like shit by a lot partners, clients, my family, etc. But, there are limits. The limits are clearly defined: people who I work for abuse me, people who work for me can, if I so chose, be abused.

I forgot what my point was. After re-reading that line I can’t stop thinking of the Eurythmics song Sweet Dreams.

Ok I found the thought. The point is this: unnamed, ungrateful, uncouth number cruncher - YOU WORK FOR ME.

So, I just had a networking event and it sucked. I don’t like networking. I understand why it is so valuable. You need to get out there and meet new people. Because, ultimately they can help you in your career or your life. Or, if they cannot help you themselves, they may know someone who can, and so on.

Yes, in theory networking is great. But, in practice, I just don’t have the patience. Say you meet a “contact.” Well, at this age, it is years before they can really help you. And, it seems to be the same sorry saps that go to these networking events: i.e. the ones who need the contacts themselves. Yes, the competition. Or, put another way, the dead weight.

I am a fan of the quick fix. I invented the “get rich quick” scheme. I mean clearly I did not invent it as that would have probably taken time to develop. But you know what I mean. In order to really get a benefit from networking, you have to do it consistently and over a long period of time. Who can wait that long?

The title is not intended to be clever. I want to be on the show The Biggest Loser. For the past 8 years I have tried to lose 10 pounds. Sometimes I get closer to the goal, often times I get farther away. But, no matter how hard I try (well I don’t try that hard), I cannot lose those 10 pounds.

Anytime I read about how people lost a ton of weight, they always talk about how the first 50 or so pounds were easier to lose. The final few pounds were the hardest to shave off.

It necessarily follows that losing 10 pounds is harder than losing 100 pounds. So, I would be a perfect contestant.

I do not know what the prize is at the end of the show. I would imagine its $100,000. It’s always 100,000. 100,000 for covergirl, for your own line furnished by treseme, for your restaurant furnished by gladware, etc. Oh, and I guess you develop self-esteem. Whatever…

This is actually one of the Spinsta’s best ideas. I spend 1/3 of my pay check on my weight loss quest: trainer, healthy food, pilates, clothes that are too small to inspire me to lose, etc. But, if I did The Biggest Loser, the food and the trainer are free. And don’t they all get to live in some mansion in California? What a great exitstategy.

Today marked the beginning of the Thanksgiving episodes on tv. Gossip Girl, the only show on television that really matters in these uncertain times, showcased family drama during the holiday feast.

I love watching these episodes of family dysfunction. I have high hopes for Brothers and Sisters - there could be a relapse, an affair, an illigitimate child, etc. I no longer watch Greys Anatomy, but that will most certainly feature drama. Someone will be brought in to Seattle Grace with a live turkey growing inside her, or after removing some dudes appendix for “practice,” the interns will surgically stuff each other in a clever play on holiday cooking.

Now don’t get me wrong, my family should have its own Thanksgiving special. We are much more dysfunctional than any family a television writer could whip up. But, we express our turkey day family drama by talking behind each others backs or repressing our true feelings. Oh and don’t get me started on the emotional eating. Unfortunately, all of our hijinx are a little too nuanced. So, it is not something easily captured in a one hour show.

And so I crave these special episodes. It helps me deal with my inner rage. And that is what am I thankful for.

So, I think today is officially the first snow. I mean I am no weatherman but I do not remember snowflakes before today. I have lived in Chicago for five years. Before that I lived in Wisconsin and Minnesota. I am used to cold and snow. After all, I have endured 28 winters. But, I truly hate cold weather.

I don’t know if its the snow so much. It’s the sub-zero bitter cold, the days that end at 3 in the afternoon, the disappearance of the sun for months, or the fact that it never seems to end.

Many people romanticize the first snow. I have had 28 first snows. Enough is enough. All I think of when I see the first snow is the slow, steady, onslaught of seasonal-affect disorder. And given that I am a heartbeat away from needing electro-shop therapy (I mean it is Sunday), I do not think things will end well.

I think I need to move. But, if I cannot complain about the weather, what will I do? Go outside and breath fresh air? The Spinsta does not do fresh air. And besides, it is socially acceptable to gain weight around this time, and colder climates have higher thresholds of appropriate added girth. I guess I will just get one of those faux-sun lamps from Brookstone.

It’s an age old tale. A woman does all the work and the man takes credit. And don’t get me started on all the countless women in history who pretended to be a man in order to get the credit they deserved. There was George Eliot, George Sand, Currer Bell, and Yentl. And then of course there was Just One of the Guys. A fellow journalist, Terry Griffith, was not getting the opportunities on the newspaper as a girl so she had to cut her hair and pose as a boy. (And coincidentally, Yentl style, she ended up going back to a life as a woman by exposing her jugs to the man of her dreams. Maybe that is the secret…)

In my career, I feel as if I am frequently passed over in favor of male associates. Woman do not have the same opportunities as men, that has been shown. According to CNN.com, a woman makes only $0.76 cents for every dollar a man makes.

This harsh reality is tough to swallow. But, at least we women can do one thing that man cannot do. We can bring new beings into this world.

That all changed about a year ago on The Oprah Show, when a man took away that blessing. There he was, talking about the teeny peeny and bragging about how he was carrying a child. It was hard for me to handle. I mean, can’t we at least have the solitary privilege of giving birth?

Then I hear that the Pregant Man is again expecting. This is just too much. There is nothing that makes it more blaringly obvious that the Spinsta has a bearen womb, than a man with a non-bearen womb.

You take your extra $0.24 cents and your loving family and your bun in the oven. I got my career. Or, for those wealthy bearen couples reading this tale, the Spinsta’s got a vacant tummy and she is looking for a way to get some maternity leave…