Life of the Fat, Funny, Friend…

There is this song, Fat, Funny, Friend, that has been taking over “The TikTok” by a young woman named Maddie Zahm. She narrates her emotions having lived the life of the fat, funny, friend and now, having lost the weight, realizing the juxtaposition between the two traits, she’s written an absolute gem. The lyrics have resonated with so many people and allowed people to share their own experiences living in a bigger body.

Our societal standard on fat people is, fat is an awful and dirty word and even more awful and dirty to be, being so means you don’t deserve acknowledgement in social settings. Any compliments are in lieu of your fatness. You know the ol’, “you’re not fat, you’re beautiful” because one couldn’t be both? Having fat, being fat and having any level of self esteem or candor is met with disgust, anger, and calls for fat individuals to seek medical advice from keyboard warriors.

What has always baffled me about this…

Being fat is a trait yet it comes with a whole laundry list of outside expectancies as if all fat people are a collective. If you live in a larger body you must be lazy, unmotivated, self loathing, naïve (because there are people who just have to point out your fatness as if you didn’t know), unhealthy, sloppy, etc. etc.

To so many the worst thing they could be is fat. Not unkind, not cruel, not judgmental, nope…fat.

I have my own stories, everyone does. The first time I was made aware of my size being an “issue” was in the 3rd grade so I was 9 years old. I’ve pretty much always been taller and bigger than my peers. We were broken off into groups, doing a project at our square tables. One boy commented how myself and another girl looked like twins, which I smiled at, she was a beautiful girl and a friend. The other boy of the group quipped, “Yeah, but Melissa is fat.” At 9 years old I was faced with the realization that my size set me apart. I may in fact have beauty but it was definitely in spite of my fatness and there were going to be people I’d cross paths with who felt the nastiest insult to my person would revolve around my size. These things, these words, stick with people.

Some will profess their comments are merely to help you and to look after your health. Did I ask you to do that for me? Did any of these women ask you to do that for them? It’s absurd when you really think about it. Take a trait like handedness. If it was less desirable in our society to be right handed some in our society would approach a righty and say, “Ya know? I noticed you’re a righty. You should really work on your left handed-ness.” It is lunacy. If anyone wishes to change any trait about themselves, whether it be their weight or hair color, that is for them to sort out and do. No one else.

The young woman from the aforementioned song sings about her feelings of inadequacies. About feeling like the joke, being made to feel invisible, feeling like she needed to be funny and always readily available for her friends to validate herself. This is how so many woman have felt or do feel throughout their lives and it’s despicable.

I have always had a pretty strong sense of self. I don’t really know where it comes from but I never felt like I needed to do or be anything to try and fit in. I am satisfied in my hobbies, my interests, my desire to learn, my positive and less positive attributes… in myself. I am grateful for this. That is not to say that I haven’t been wounded by words throughout my life but having a solid foundation in myself, I know those words are being said by a sad, hurt individual who is perpetuating that hurt onto me. I also know that some people are just straight up garbage and enjoy ridiculing others, we’ll always have those.

Society looks at someone like me, and says how dare she love herself, as she is?

How dare these plus size women, like Lizzo and Tess Holliday thrive on social media platforms, as they are?

How dare these fat people wear what they want, be in loving relationships…breath, as they are?

How dare you. Do better. Be better. Mind your own damn business.

Surviving The Dumpster Fire Year(s)

Where to begin? *eye roll…

My last post was published February 2019 so we all now what a year 2020 was and now we’re in September 2021 and the future…still not looking so bright. It is so incredibly hard to be creative in these times. I mean, I can swing a hammer, paint a picture, make a present-holiday-semi-bougie-wreath, but writing? Good Lordt.

If you too consider yourself a quasi-connoisseur of the arts you know what I mean. The past year and 9 months has been nothing short of emotionally, physically, and creatively draining.

Alas, here we are…let me delve into a topic, we’ll see how it goes? Wish me luck.

Finding the Good in the Rejection

I awoke with the thought…Does everyone have those moments where they reflect and think, how different would my life be if those things I had wished so hard for had worked out? I do and I find myself…grateful they didn’t. I suppose that is a good sign, eh? If you measure your successes in adulthood by the societal benchmarks I am not doing half bad. Married, own a home, one offspring, bills are paid, and the lawn looks pretty good, typically. I’ve never much cared for societal norms though so that’s probably why all of those “check marks” I’ve received were completely done out of “order”. First came baby, then came home, then marriage. My husband and I are unorthodox, so it works. Society, I extend to you a big fat… *raspberry.

I guess I am getting at the fact that I am not of a glib nature, I’m proud of myself, of us. I know the stress, worry, tears, and hard work that have gone into every aspect of my adulthood, parenthood, wife-hood. Being blessed with the fruitful and descriptive memory I have, I can think back to the woman I was and the feelings I felt. Another heart break, rejection, missed opportunity, failed career attempt, on and on. At 34, I can look at all of that and see the lesson, the good. The slamming of those doors were not negatives. They were character builders. They were moments seared into my mind screaming to me…

“THIS IS NOT FOR YOU. THIS IS NOT YOUR CIRCUS, NOR YOUR MONKEYS. GIRL, KEEP GOING!”

Thank you brain. Thank you for those intuitions, those metaphorical slaps upside the head, that told me in my moments of grief, this too shall pass. Like a kidney stone most times, but it will pass and you will be better off for it. I’m not one to impart unsolicited advice (*guttural laugh I do all the time) but I think this diatribe is to say that, if you’re in one of those moments that feels never ending or painful or like life is just throwing punches like Tyson, its not forever. If that man/woman makes you feel like garbage about yourself, or that job leaves you drained, or you find yourself in a pandemic surrounded by lunatics and you can’t muster a creative thought to keep you going…It all has an end, a transition, a lesson, a character builder.

If 2020 + 2021 are to be looked back upon as character builder years I better end up Wonder Woman, She-Ra, Xena, or some other amazing heroine because…dang. Hold fast friends, this too will pass.

Father of Mine

Every time I write a new blog I think…

Do I want to share this? Do I want to send this into the ethos of inter space? Do I want to share somethings that are so personal? After all, I am not usually forthcoming with anything personal in person. Then, I think, who actually reads this? These little nuggets in my mind need a outlet. Fuck it.

As I was watching a docu-series about celebrities, listening to them talk about their childhoods, one spoke of their relationship with their father, I reflected on my own.

But first…back story!

Childhood. I was shy, quiet. Read my books, made a few friends. I used humor to fix everything, and in the company of strangers or large groups I used my superpower to disappear. You know, invisible.

In my teen years I was filled with a blind naivety. I wanted out of my small town, I was destined for great things, I wanted to travel, I wanted to have a career doing something I loved, and if I found a mate to share all that with, great. You know, naïve.

My twenties, I was all about finding myself. Who am I? What do I want? What makes me happy? Self indulge, take no prisoners, gratification. You know, selfish.

Now I am in my thirties. I had my son when I was 27. I started dating my fiancé the year prior. We bought a house last year. We’re settled. I don’t care to sink into that hole anymore. I know who I am. I know what makes me happy. I know there are things I sacrificed not even sacrificed but let go of. Things, in hindsight, I never needed but wanted. I want to travel. I want time for myself. I want to practice healthier habits (ok that one is a need), etc. but I have a whole list of NEEDS that come before those things. You know, responsibilities.

OK, if you’re still with me, back to the topic…

By my late twenties, early thirties. I really found my voice. Whether in the form of writing or verbal. My son was about 3 when I decided to reach out to my biological father. I wrote a lengthy letter about what I felt. My perception of my childhood and where he fell into it, he didn’t. He was an acquaintance. He doesn’t know me, nor do I know him. I wanted to know. Just know, him. I did, eventually, receive a call from him in response to my letter. I was looking for stories of his side of the family, where were we from, how did my mother and he happen, what was his side, anything? What I found in the 2 conversations we had was he knew nothing of our heritage. I don’t think it was something that really meant much to him. He grew up with both parents in the home, very middle class. The other realization was that he is the victim. In every area of his life, he is the victim. I needed to know this.

It took me having my son to really want to know what he was, and how he felt. I look at my son and I just marvel at him. He is a part of me. He has my eyes, my deadly glare, my sense of humor. It blows my mind. He has, literally, been a part of me from my birth, and now he’s here, walking around. BOOM*

I look at my marvel, and my thoughts of my father shifted. I went from a child’s view of their absent parent. Why isn’t he here? Why did he leave us? What did I do? It changed to, HOW could he not be there? HOW could he leave? HOW could HE do that to his only child? Those were the answers I was seeking, not even knowing that’s what I was seeking when I sent the letter. And I found the answer. He believes he is the victim in HIS story. That is his narrative. He couldn’t be a father because he was consumed by his own victimhood. And, that is now put to rest for me. I now know. I never lost sleep over it but it was always a buzzing gnat in my mind. I can now squish that fucker.

I don’t hate him. I don’t miss him. I miss my grandmother, who has since passed. I miss the memories with my grandparents. I cant really miss him. There was always a man shaped hole in the door. I used to get upset with him for never knowing his only child. I couldn’t wrap my head around that. Now, I pity him. He will never know his only grandchild. He never got to see either of us grow. So, where the man shaped hole in the door is filled for me, he has two gapping holes in his life where his daughter and grandson will never be. I don’t know that he even understands the magnitude of that but, I do.

A Loss For Words

Happy New Year

I am still here

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It is 2019

No flying cars, no alien invasion, no floating cities, nothing like my 8 year old self imagined it would be. Of course, 8 year old me also thought being a “grown up” would entail me and 5 of my closest friends living in a large NYC apartment. All of us with side jobs, a favorite coffee shop, and clever quippy banter.  Alas, life is no Friends episode and I could never drink that much coffee.

The atmosphere in this country, in these times, is thick to say the least. So much vile rhetoric, so much division, so much stress.  It infiltrates your mood even with the best armor and outlook. The only solace to be found is binge watching any new Netflix series, or any old 90’s sitcom and locking your door(s).  Basically, anything mind numbing to achieve minimal survival mode.

It is hard to muster the energy to be creative, or write interesting WordPress posts, with the state of things. It is hard to muster the energy for much beyond the necessary. Call it an empathic drain, call it lazy, call it whatever you’d like.

Where I live there have been many department store closings. While momma loves a good clearance sale, it is down right depressing. The stores I would frequent as a kid reduced to empty shells, most destined to remain empty in such a fearful economy.  It is never so much the place, it’s the memories that such places conjure that makes these closings sad.

January is just sad all around.

This blog post is sad all around.

I promise to dig deep for some creativity next time. Hold fast friends, daylight approaches and with it a new hope…or a new Netflix series. Same difference.

 

 

I am not good with change…

Gosh, How long has it been??

Too long.

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September is looming. With it brings, back to school, the holidays, stress, stress, and stress.

Truthfully, it’s been a stressful summer too. It’s been a stressful few years. I know, I know, quit my bitching’. I have come to find, the main culprit in my stress…CHANGE!

I HATE change. But, I am an enigma, in that, I go through ebbs and flows when it comes to the beautiful beast of change. When a flow washes over, I need change. Cut my hair, take up Zomba, register for a class…anything. When it ebbs…stay back, let me live in my bubble of complacency thank you very much. I, of course, need to have a hold of the reins of change because I know when I feel comfortable with changes and when I don’t. I have always been this way.

Liam is this way. He needs routine. He rarely does ok with changes. Even the slightest change on his ebb days sends him into a tailspin. This is indicative of Autism. So, I have trepidations about his school year, he will have all new everything, building, teacher, therapists. I AM nervous! haha How do I teach my kid to go with the flow when I need to have such a strong hold on the goings on in my life!? Riddle me that!? I know I drive myself nuts worrying. Worrying about the future, what train wreck may await. I can’t help it. I wish I could.

Lately, its been one unforeseen thing after another, in all areas of my life. I feel my throat tighten, every time. I feel the grip of change. I always seem to make it through. I guess that is resiliency. I guess that makes me strong. But, damn if I ain’t tired. And those reins I spoke of? Yeah, I am that woman. Let me do it…I got it…I’ll figure it out… I want it done, like, yesterday…>>>me<<<! Maybe I think if I am one step ahead I can be better prepared, when things change. Maybe I think if I do it all myself I can have control over the outcome in some way. And maybe, I want to do it all because I don’t want to depend on anyone else.

It’s a lot. A mother, even if she doesn’t work full-time, is a full time care taker to her family. And, I’ve been the full time worker and full time care taker combined. Something always needs to be done. Always.

I’ve thought a lot lately about planning an annual outing/trip. A day, a weekend. Go somewhere. Travel. Alone. Read a book. Turn off my phone. I need to find that woman again who loved traveling. The woman who found so much joy in little things. The woman who took things lighter, who rode the wave of change easier.

I know life changes. It is inevitable. I know having a family adds more cards to the deck when it comes to penciling in self-care. I know all this, but I don’t change it.

Now THAT is the change that I need to embrace and accept.

 

Special Needs Parent…

 I’ve been mulling over this topic.

I’m always hesitant ( if that is even the right word) to write about my son. If you don’t know Autism firsthand you may have some misconceptions, or no conceptions at all on the topic. He’s my son; I don’t want him to be treated different. I don’t want to see another sad head tilt or another begrudged curious eye. He’s not the f@#$ing loch ness monster people. He is not broken; He is Liam.

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Let me start with some factoids coming from a mom who’s done A LOT of late night research.

Autism is a fairly new diagnosis. It has become a much more common diagnosis in recent years, but I believe Autism and the entire spectrum have always been, we just didn’t always have a name for it. It is referred to as a neurological social disorder.  There is a spectrum when it comes to Autism; some individuals are considered high functioning and others lower functioning, but many fall in the middle. They, like neuro-typical “normal developing” kids, have strengths and weaknesses when it comes to their development and like ANY child, they grow and learn at their own pace because EVERY child is unique.

As far as my baby goes, (he is 4 years old but he will always be my baby), he has always progressed normally when it comes to milestone motor skills. He crawled and walked at the typical times. He started babbling and said his first words when he was “supposed to”. Unlike other spectrum children he has always been a very good eater (To this day, he will try almost anything we put in front of him). Unlike other spectrum children he has always been smiley and affectionate.

We started to notice signs around 18 months. He wasn’t progressing with his words. He wasn’t answering to his name. He seemed to get engrossed in his toys, wanting to examine them as opposed to using them in a functional way. If he had a puzzle he would fixate on one piece, and examine it instead of trying to place the pieces together. These habits are all associated with ASD (Autism Spectrum Disorder).

I remember equating his habits to how his father and I were as children. We were both very shy kids, often playing by ourselves. We didn’t enjoy normal social functions because they were overwhelming. Liam shared some of these traits, but this was different.

As Liam has gotten older I try to immerse myself in ASD to better understand him. Liam’s first physical therapist helped me understand how Liam’s brain reacts to his environment; For Liam the normal fight or flight response to his surroundings is magnified when compared to a person who is not ASD. When this response is triggered he gets overwhelmed and very uncomfortable. He constantly seeks sensory input. He is very active; He loves jumping, running, swinging, and wrestling. However, when he becomes overwhelmed, we’re talking a life or death, fight or flight response to protect himself from something that may seem innocent to you or I. With ASD this response can be triggered by bright lights, loud places/people, unfamiliar surroundings. In some cases you may not even know what is triggering the response. The struggle in the case of Liam is that he (like many others with ASD) is non-verbal; He can’t tell us what is bothering him.

So, what happens when this overwhelmed response is triggered for Liam and other ASD individuals? They try to regulate and calm themselves, which often isn’t an easy task for them. He may scream, but not always in a dissatisfied way, sometimes he shrieks when overwhelmed with joy. He walks on his tiptoes to seek out deep pressure. He may flap his arms or hands. He might look at his hands, and fidget with his fingers or toys. He sometimes chews on fabrics, or his rubber sensory toys. He will often look for any available exit, wanting to leave and get home to his safe space in his room.

He is most comfortable at home. That makes social outings hard. We make plans, but we always have to be prepared for the fact that they probably won’t happen. It all depends on how Liam feels. That doesn’t make for a very social mom, so I ask for understanding in that. I know full well and understand completely when others have to cancel plans. I assure you I take it better than most!

So, why am I writing all of this?

Why do you need to know this?

Well, I guess you don’t NEED to know all of this if you don’t know someone who has ASD. I share this because I love someone with ASD, but also because I want others to know that ASD does not define him. He has ASD he is not ASD. I share what I know in the hope that the next time you see someone exhibiting similar habits to my son, maybe you will just go about your business instead of staring or snickering or rolling your eyes. It is terrifying to raise any child with the climate in this country being so intense and cruel. People throw the R word around as derogatory slang or in place of words like asinine or stupid. To ‘retard’ is to slow growth, that is the actual definition but people use it to mean less than. I wince when I hear this word. There are so many other words you can use, don’t use this one. My son is smart. He is sweet. He is mischievous and funny. He is handsome. He is a strong and muscular boy. He has a passion for music and singing.

I often remember a friend’s response to learning that Liam had ASD, “I’m sorry to hear that. We all want our kids to be healthy.” It stuck in my side a bit, but I wrote it off as ignorance to ASD. My kid IS healthy. He is healthier than a horse. He just has special needs. Being his parent requires extra patience, kindness, and care. We have to be diligent and we need have open communication with all of his therapists and teachers and his doctor. We have to advocate for him because he may never be at place where he can do so for himself.

That is the toughest thing, in ALL of this. The realization that Liam may never fully talk. He may never be able to live on his own or socialize normally. I see all that he has to offer because he is my baby, but the world may only see the surface. The world is so afraid of anything different, anything against the “norm”.

Just be kind.

Take a second and learn.

If you are curious, ask. Reading a blog entry like this one might make social situations a little easier for us. That way Liam can just be himself, and that’s all I want for him. ❤ ❤

 

 

New Year; New Me

Did the title reel you in?

Good, good. Mwah ha ha

 

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Seriously though, I’m not “new”, that was my cliché obligatory new year title. I know my stubborn ass well enough to know that I will never change. I am going to make conscious efforts to eat better and move. Just move at all. HA This 31 year old body doesn’t like stagnant living. I must appease the beast.

So it is 2018. Another year, gone. My baby will be 4 in 3 days. This is traumatizing. My sweet, chubby, drooling, cuddle bug is now a big ol’ boy.  😦 Jumping, running, rough, and tumble…boy. Liam is an enigma. A mischievous, silly little bringer of laughs. He loves tickles, cuddles, anything physical and energetic. He sings his name so sweetly, even if it does sound like Leon sometimes. Well, Leon is what his great grandfather calls him anyway…close enough. You correct your elders once, after that whatever name they delve you, sticks. Probably why I spent my youth being referred to as “The Wiss” by my grandparents.

Hey, nicknames are a silly thing, huh? You meet and befriend someone and they say no no, you’re not Melissa anymore, you’re now…….insert name here…….

I have had quite a few over the years. I don’t mind them. There is but one name I will never be called, if you choose to speak it I will neither respond nor count you as close a friend. I won’t even type that name. Every nickname I’ve brandished, I like. I will answer too them. Each name has a metaphorical notch on the timeline of my life. I can remember times and places with you with what name you know me by.

Little nuggets of identity. History. Mystery. Ivory.

I got carried away there.

Anyway, this year is a blank page, yadda yadda. I don’t have too many expectations, maybe that will help things to happen naturally and come to fruition with minimal stress and pain.

One can dream. Peace. 🙂

 

And she’s all alone…

Writing within this state of mind is hard.

You think a thousand things all at once and still, nothing at all.  You have such feelings of conviction and clarity but, still, fog. You feel embolden by a headline, a news show, a heated conflict of views, yet feel the flame dwindle and you submit to silence.

I will be 31 in less than 2 weeks. Birthdays, as with the years, fly by. You almost forget, thanks for the reminders Facebook. There is no longer this rush and fear of finding out who I am, what I want. There is more of a coming to terms with who I am, what I want.  I have never sat in thought and really analyzed my past, present and future so much. It is exhausting.

So many serendipitous moments happen in unison and you’re forced to face things. I am not a face-er. Never was. I’d much rather say my piece and bounce. Or just bounce. Thank my father for that.

My thoughts drift to childhood a lot. My own, others, my sons. Our childhoods play such a role in who we are. They are our backbone. It is so crucial for kids to have stability, love, bare necessities and beyond. Our upbringing can determine our traits, how we treat others, how we interact with the world. So much of my inward strength comes from picking myself up, its just those bootstraps can snap. They get weathered, they crack, they fray.

Parenting now makes me realize that no parent has a clue.

None of them.

Your superstar mom, she had no clue, she was trying to survive just as you are now. Your absentee father, he was even more clueless and took the easy road, he ran and never looked back.

This shit is hard. While, as an adult, you’re less of a mess than your 20 something self, you’re still lost and now you’re trying to decide what is best for a little breathing human!? WTF?

I am much more likely to say how I feel, much more likely to give myself a break, much more loving, affectionate, emotional than I used to be. But that little girl is still there, she’ll always be. Quiet, reserved, unfazed, reading in a corner to drown out the world.

Say it with music:

” Spinning, laughing, dancing, to her favorite song, She’s a little girl with nothing wrong and she’s alone. A little girl with nothing wrong, and she’s all alone. Fragile as a leaf in autumn just fallin’ to the ground without a sound. Crooked little smile on her face tells a tale of grace that’s all her own “-Norah Jones

Thank you Norah.

I can never fault my son, he carries my every trait from childhood. I just want a seat left for me at his table, always. If your babies talk your ear off, tell you the same story over and over, sing to you, joke with you…let them. Stop the world around you, and listen to them. Coming from a parent that relishes every little word. Let them speak, and listen to them. Coming from a kid that was not easy to crack, not easy to get close too, I see the struggle from the other side. If only I may crack that egg, what a wonderful moment that’ll be. ♥

 

 

 

The Pink Drill Diaries: Finch Chair

I ACTUALLY remembered to take before photos.

*GASP*

So this is my “Finch chair” as I so adoringly will refer. I found it on the side of the road by Finch Paper in Glens Falls. A wooden beauty with a beautifully carved back piece. Nothing antique about it, I am sure it was mass produced at one point, part of a set. But, still I caught a glimpse as a I passed and quickly made a U-turn.

I recently refinished another chair, sanded it, painted it a rusty orange and found a lovely floral fabric for the fabricated seat that I made out of pallet wood. It came out SO good, I was super proud of myself.

Anyway, I gloat about that finished piece because THIS chair I am refinishing with the color and esthetic of my pride and joy in mind. I will, eventually, have three chairs that could either be sold together or separately. Each unique but birds of a feather.

So Finch…

I sanded him down. taped up the parts I don’t wish to paint, at the moment anyway I also used copious amounts of wood glue to reinforce one rickety leg. Then…

I sprayed the carved back piece and seat “C” shaped supports in a deep Maroon. I LOVE this color. So Autumn, so rich, and goes well with my finished beauty. Can you tell I am proud of that other chair?! Ha.

So Finch is a WIP (work in progress) . I will share him finished, when he’s…finished.

Until then…here’s Beauty….I did not get any before photos of her. 😦

*Swoon* 😉

 

The Pink Drill Diaries: Part 1

 

I loved writing my previous blog series so I thought it’d be fun to document my latest venture in an ongoing series.

I am in the beginning stages of small business.

Eeek!! 🙂 I know!

I’m combining my love of furniture, and photography and laboring under the name Melly’s Craftworks & Photography.

I, also, got a great opportunity to consign some of my craft babies at a new shop!!

Wicks from the Sticks, opening July 12th in Glens Falls, NY!

The first official tool I bought toward this business was a little pink Black & Decker hand drill. Hence the title. I saw this little drill on the self, and I had to get it. It’s small, powerful, suggestively feminine in color, dare I say underestimated. I felt a kinship.

What I bring to the table in my business is a desire to make old and rustic cast asides, beautiful and lovable again and the photos I hope to capture will provoke an array of emotion.

So within this series I will, try, to do before and after photos of some of the pieces I work on and add some details about of each refurb journey. I will even add some photo edits that I do! I say “try” because I always tell myself to take photos but I get so engrossed in each project than before I know it, it’s finished.

Always on the hunt for new fixer upper beauties and with my mind’s eye always looking through my camera’s lens, I embark. Join me.

OK, “Join me” sounds hellishly cliche, but seriously, I hope you do. Each piece is an adventure of creativity for me and every photo/edit is a glimpse into what I see in any given scene.

Let’s go.