Scorn at Every Size

Me: “I need to lose some weight.”

 

Therapist: “But you get regular checkups and your health is fine? Heart, cholesterol, blood pressure?”

 

Me: “Yes, but I’m MUCH heavier than the recommended highest weight for my height. And I’m not looking at, like, Jamie Lee Jo Bob’s Anorexia Enthusiast Forum — these are weight charts from real medical organizations.”

 

Therapist: “Those charts are based on the same BMI criteria you just told me was ‘horseshit.’ Have you heard of the Health at Every Size movement? That you can weigh more than you ‘should’ but still be perfectly healthy?”

 

Me: “Of course. And I totally believe that.”

 

Therapist: “OK, so…you JUST said your health is fine.”

 

Me: “But it’s NOT. I have a gut like a 55-year-old man with a lifelong Budweiser habit.”

 

Therapist: “I agree you should exercise more often, but if you do, and you eat a balanced diet, what if this is genetically just the way your body is supposed to be?”

 

Me: “It’s not.”

 

Therapist: “So you’re saying you support the idea of ‘health at every size’ for everyone except yourself?”

 

Me: “…Yes, that’s correct.”

 

She doesn’t want me to do Whole30, because apparently you, like, need carbs to live or something? But I’m doing it, so… we’ve reached an impasse. And by “impasse,” I mean, “thing I’m not telling my therapist.”

Fuck you, douche-bros

1. It’s not even a CLEVER rape-y poem.

2. Ladies, let us all encourage our youth to remember they are worth more than Natty Light. You hold out for Yuengling, girls. And also for men who don’t do shit like this.

(Is it clear I’m not making light of this but rather attempting humor so I don’t smash my computer at work in some sort of tiny white woman Hulk rage? OK, good.)

Creepy email inviting freshman co-eds to party prompts fliers on Penn campus: Students take stand to show support for incoming female students.

Beer, cheese, sexism, and soulmates

I really do like craft beer, but this is pretty great. I’ve definitely been on a few episodes of Side Eye from the Beer Guy when beer bros don’t think I know what I’m talking about.

Ahem, and for the bonus dick: “The other night I sampled Stone Brewing’s W00t Stout. You know that one where they collaborated with Wil Wheaton? OMG, I know—how great is Wil Wheaton?!”

Via Reductress: I’m Not Really Into Craft Beer, I’m Just Here for the Dick

By the way, y’all should just go follow Reductress, because they’re delightful and may be my soulmates:
6 Cheese Wheels For When You Give Up On Sex

My kids would be bad, but they’d be perfectly good at it.

Dispatches From the Department of Why I Don’t Have Children:

I almost never iron my clothes, so I don’t own an ironing board. This morning my shirt was a bit wrinkled…possibly because I keep clean clothes in a pile on the other side of my bed where a man should be, because I am too lazy to hang them up.

So I ironed the shirt using the living room carpet as an ironing board.

I was wearing underwear and my deodorant shirt — a beer-branded fitted tee I wear while doing my hair and makeup so any rogue deodorant marks get on THAT shirt rather than the shirt I wear to work.

I was also running late for work, and listening to a song about S&M at full volume.

Do they have a Kidz Bop “S&M?” I guess I could compromise. FOR THE CHILDREN.

Merry Christmas to all, and to all, some good mood-altering substances.

I think I’m packed for Christmas, yeah?  

No, wait… You’re right. I need beer.

Also, I totally hear you — Xanax would’ve been great, but alas, there’s some shit about ethics where they won’t give it to me because I don’t actually have anxiety? I KNOW, right, what the shit? This IS America, right? Family gatherings + Jesus’ birthday = special dispensation. That’s in the Bible: “And lo, distributed among them, there were delicious medications, and yea, they were happy. OK, well…not really HAPPY, but they didn’t hit anyone, and so there was peace on earth, and sedated goodwill toward men.”

P.S. I will spend today baking MANY cookies; those are almost Xanax if you eat enough of them.

P.P.S. That whiskey is not for me. That shit is like having one of those hippie honey cough drops in your drink. Ugh.

This holiday season, give the gift of kissing my ass.

During holiday seasons I love to torture myself by looking at those bullshit “for her” and “for him” gift recommendation lists.

For instance, BN.com recommends “for him” all this sweet Star Wars and Doctor Who stuff, Rodin “Thinker” bookends, and cool beer/gin kits. And “for her,” a bunch of fucking candles and tote bags and tea sets, and what looks like every pink gift item they sell.

Kiss my dick, Barnes & Noble.

I will admit, I love candles and pink stuff. But I also like beer and gin, dammit, and I do, um, THINK, at least often enough to enjoy “Thinker” bookends. Plus I know tons of ladies who’d enjoy Star Wars/Doctor Who swag. Hmph.

Mad props to LivingSocial, though. Their “for her” gift guide has bourbon tastings, distillery tours, photography lessons, and race car experience packages. (And Brazilian waxes, but eh, it’s still a good list of options. And, um… I’ll just go ahead and add that wax to my cart along with the bourbon tasting. That’s gonna be a weird day.)

 

Instant bravery: just add beer.

I haven’t been buying things unless I absolutely had to, because I was going to be moving, so the less stuff I had to pack, the better.

Except I ran out of alcohol.

This would be fine ordinarily, but I’m down to the last bits of packing, which means I have to confront the Boyfriend Box — a bunch of relationship remnants I’ve had tucked away, out of sight and mind in the closet, for more than 2 years. Like everything else in the apartment, I’m going to go through it and see what needs to be kept/tossed/donated. 

So I picked up a six-pack of Dogfish Head Namaste beer. For, um, inner peace. Yes. 

Bonus: I won’t have to pack the beer if I drink it all. But worst case, I move a few bottles to the new place.

Namaste, a quiet night at home, and all of Fiona Apple’s albums on shuffle. 

Let’s dance, feelings. I ain’t scared.

Aaaaaaand release…

Sometimes at the end of a bad day, taking off your bra is pretty much the greatest thing that ever happened.

Also beer. But the bra thing was pretty good.

Love with a side of beer cheese.

Today I fell in love with the guy running the growler station at my local liquor store.

Our union will be craft-beer-battered.

Did you see me get the good beer, man? No Miller Lite in this temple of a body. Let’s get intoxicated sometime.

Buffy was wrong. Beer good.

I’d love to bottle this feeling so I can have it ready when I need it.

Oh, wait. It IS in a bottle. It’s called beer.