Further Proof that I'm an Underachiever

Donna Simpson of New Jersey announced that she intends to eat her way into the record books, and has already been offered a reality show and book deal. Maybe the rest of us have it all wrong, trying to attain and maintain a healthy weight and even passing up a second cupcake, no matter how yummy, now and then. Oprah, Dr. Phil, Inside Edition and Entertainment Tonight are vying madly for the rights to her story.

At present, she weighs a mere 604 pounds at 5'4", but she aims big. She means to top the scales at 1,000 pounds and has worked out a plan to accomplish it. The New York Post reported that she hopes to reach her goal in two years, eating 12,000 calories per day. That’s the rough equivalent of 11 Big Macs, six large orders of French fries, and 10 large sodas from McDonalds. A registered dietician who weighed in on the topic says that she will reach it in less than a year at the rate she is going. She needs 4,000 to 5,000 calories per day to maintain her weight, but if she boosts her intake to 12,500, a mere 7,500 more, she will gain about two pounds per day. Do the math. I did, and my calculator immediately died of congestive heart failure.

Ms. Simpson loves cake and doughnuts, but her favorite food is sushi -- she can eat 70 pieces in one sitting. She has petitioned the Guinness Book of World Records for the title of world’s heaviest mother, but Guinness has no such category. She gave birth to a daughter in 2007 when she weighed only 532 pounds, and required a team of 30 doctors to deliver the baby. It's unknown how the child's father navigated the appropriate channels to make conception possible.

She makes money posting scantily-clad pictures and videos on Supersizedbombshells.com, where people can pay to watch her eat. Under the alias Treasure Bombshell, she lists her hobbies as going to restaurants, talking with friends, watching videos, snuggling, being fed and traveling in cars. Not surprisingly, she also loves to receive gift certificates to restaurants.

Some of the health implications associated with her goal include serious cardiovascular risks, arthritic conditions resulting from pressure on her joints, irritated skin and of course, death. Her Body Mass Index, a statistical measure which compares a person’s weight and height, is 103.9, while a normal BMI is 19-24; someone classified as morbidly obese is 40.

At the very least, this woman's daily intake could feed a small Third World village. Whatever her personal pathology may be, there is something terribly obscene about one person eating that much food when much of the world is starving.

Saturday Night is Wasted on the Married

What I needed most in the world tonight was red grapefruit. I ate the only one in the refrigerator and craved more. I decided that my body was telling me something, so I walked around the corner to the neighborhood grocery. Flip came along to protect me, although I am far tougher than he is.

He tried to tell the store clerk that the girls outside the bar next door looked like hookers, but he couldn't remember the word. I'm not sure why he wanted to share this, but I reminded him that he came from a gentler era in which girls didn't look like hookers unless they were hookers. Everyone we passed was duded up and trailing perfume at near-toxic levels, wearing death-defying skimpy outfits despite the low temperature and a fierce wind off the Bay. I wore paint-streaked sweat pants, Ugg boots and a shape-hiding down jacket, topped by a bad haircut. If I were a hooker, I would starve.

Yesterday, I had my hair cut and I've been planning a rematch ever since. I couldn't remember when my last one was so I consulted last year's calendar, which had many haircuts for Flip penned in but not a single one for me. I checked the entire year twice. Then I found my calendar from the year before and realized that my last one was in March of 2008. Exactly two years ago. I could probably lose my reputation as a high maintenance woman if I'm not careful.

The person I used to go to was a flake but he gave good haircut, and over several years he got to know my hair, which is finicky. Unfortunately, he disappeared into another dimension or maybe witness protection, leaving only a vague message on his cell phone. The new stylist gave Flip a good cut a month ago, so I thought I would try her. Now my hair looks like a bad Farrah Fawcett wig. With a little Minnie Mouse thrown in for good measure. It's a rotten way to be wounded.

I've been to doctor appointments in which medical interns doing a rotation in a particular specialty sat in. My hairdresser had her own intern, a facialist who wanted to learn about hair so she watched, owl-like, as my hair was washed, cut and flat-ironed. It reminded me of the actor's fourth wall, the space separating the audience from the action of a theatrical performance, traditionally conceived of as an imaginary wall completing the enclosure of the stage.

I do not possess the skills to flat-iron my hair, or even to style it with a dryer and brush. I haven't looked at the back of my head in years because I believe that what I don't know can't hurt me. As soon as I got outside in the rain, my naturally wavy hair reasserted itself and I realized that she flat-ironed it to delay my discovery that it bulges oddly with large clumps that seem to belong to some other haircut entirely.

Flip, however, was looking good when he escorted me to the store. Our hot Saturday night date netted several grapefruits and some red grapefruit juice, plus a dark chocolate bar with crystallized ginger. Between that, the strawberry-rhubarb pie I made yesterday and several boxes of Girl Scout cookies, our his 'n' hers diabetic comas are assured. If that's not romantic, I don't know what is.

Let Them Eat Cupcake

I'm convinced that the adorable little cupcake shop in my neighborhood, That Takes the Cake, is spiking their products with crack cocaine. When I belly up to the counter for the 3rd or 4th time in a week, the charming owners smile and greet me by name. They sing, "See you next time" as I leave, clutching my little white box which gets bigger every visit. I have never believed that I was an addictive personality, nor have I had an uncontrollable love of sweets before, but I think about their cupcakes nearly all the time. "I hate Mondays" has taken on a whole new meaning because they are closed on that day. I spend Mondays in withdrawal, waiting for Tuesday.

Their cupcakes have delightful names, even: Elvis has Left the Building. Blonde Bombshell, Alfred Hitchocolate, Gentlemen Prefer Reds, Double Trouble, Three's Company, Hella Nutella, Key Lime-o-Licious and more. My favorites are Orange Zinger and one made with Meyer lemons whose name I don't know because I scarf them so fast I haven't bothered with introductions. The owners state that the main ingredient in their cupcakes is happiness. I don't doubt it, but I know that crack is in there too, maybe the sparkly jimmies on the icing, maybe the scrumptious filling, or maybe it's cleverly blended with the flour and baking powder. But trust me, it's in there somewhere. With a little angel dust thrown in for good measure.

I haven't started selling off our silverware or shoplifting in jewelry stores yet, but it's inevitable. I just don't know when the monkey on my back will grow to unmanageable proportions. Only that it will, and when it does it won't be pretty. I will balloon to 500 pounds and none of my clothes will fit but I won't be able to buy new ones because all my money is in cupcake futures. You could say that cupcakes are my future.

Please don't suggest that I join a 12-step program. I know they exist, but I would rather eat cake.

All You Need is a Rat Zapper

"Hey honey, look at this," he said.

"Mmmhmm." I was engrossed in feeding paper to my new shredder which arrived this morning. I had already jammed it twice. I am not good with machines, but I love them.

"You've got to see this," he persisted. I walked over to his computer and saw "Search for stuff to buy" on his Google home page. He was particularly intrigued with an item called a rat zapper.

"Do you want to shoot rats at the city dump?" I asked nervously. Alzheimer's is brutal, horrifying, tragic and maddening, but also fascinating. His mind travels to places I cannot follow, which I can best liken to an acid trip although I only know of them by repute. Since I would never hurt an animal, he had my attention. I wondered where this might be going.

He nodded, eyes shining. "But I want my own," he said. I did the quick mental evaluation that has become second nature. He didn't look like someone who would murder helpless wildlife. Always a relief. He moved down the list to an item called half-life.

"What's that?" I asked. "Einstein," he replied. I looked it up. "Half-life is the period of time it takes for a substance undergoing decay to decrease by half. The name originally was used to describe a characteristic of unstable atoms, but may apply to any quantity which follows a set-rate decay." A lot of formulas followed which had to do with nuclear science.

Interesting. I wonder what the application is to a brain decaying from Alzheimer's. As nearly as can be determined, there is no set rate. The disease is capricious. It amuses itself by darting in and stealing brain cells seemingly at random.

Google also offered butterfly houses, stuffed monkeys, left-handed guitars and pregnancy tests. Speak of random. I could find no connection other than that every item listed is offered for sale somewhere. Rat zapper is like Chinese cleaver is like Swiss Army knife is like -- barbecue sauce? I'm not sure if the BBQ sauce is applied before or after the animal is zapped, though. I think it depends on whether one is preparing dinner or not. Also offered was a Hulk Hand, Tiffany lamps and steaks. Let's put the latter in the same column with the dead rats and BBQ sauce. The stuffed monkey requires further investigation, though. I need to know if we are talking Curious George or taxidermy.

Meanwhile, Flip has found something to covet other than a rat zapper. He has decided that he needs a bazooka. I wonder if he'll settle for Bazooka bubble gum.

I'm beginning to think that Evgeni Plushenko also suffers from Alzheimer's as he now claims that he won a platinum medal at the Vancouver Olympics. His website even features a photo of this medal, which seems to have been whipped up for the occasion. He is clearly delusional. I would have thought that a seasoned competitor who has won many awards for his figure skating including the silver medal a few days ago would understand that good sportsmanship is the main commodity at such events. The judges gave the gold to Evan Lysacek of the United States. Some critics have stated that it should have gone to Plushenko because he attempted a quadruple jump while Lysacek did not, but the points were awarded on form, grace and power, as well as when in the 4-minute program certain jumps were executed.

Plushenko does not seem to care that he represents not only himself and his considerable talent, but his country. Sadly, Russian Prime Minister Vladimir Putin also made a statement that "Plushenko performed the most accomplished program on the Vancouver ice." Maybe so. Maybe not. But the whole purpose of the Olympics, to bring superb athletes from all countries together in peaceful competition, is being sullied by Plushenko's disgraceful performance off the ice.

That rat zapper might come in handy after all.

Honey, Don't Forget to Pack my Uzi with the PBJ's

Tomorrow, a new law on guns in national parks takes effect. Congress passed and President Obama signed a bill allowing people to carry loaded, concealed weapons in national parks for "self-defense."

What were they thinking?

This travesty represents a huge victory for the National Rifle Association. Since 1871, the NRA has been America’s oldest sportsman’s group. Four million members strong, the NRA continues its mission to uphold Second Amendment rights and to advocate enforcement of existing laws against violent offenders to reduce crime. The Association remains the nation’s leader in firearm education and training for law-abiding gun owners, law enforcement and the military, for which they cannot be faulted even by folks like me who fear guns and would never own one.

But when gun advocates portray themselves as victims of so-called “bigotry” by those who disagree with them, they are way off target. Some have likened their position to African-Americans in the Civil Rights movement, which carried to its logical extreme states that ones status as a gun advocate is an immutable characteristic like skin color and that gun usage is comparable to race or sexual orientation.

They must be high.

In their bizarre world view, anyone who fails to endorse the effects of their gun advocacy, such as forcing families to accept semi-automatic pistols or assault weapons in Yellowstone, is the same as those who infamously refused service to black students at a Woolworth’s lunch counter in Greensboro, NC, in 1960.

It's appalling that the NRA has managed to convince a majority of legislators that allowing civilians to carry loaded, concealed weapons in national parks and wildlife preserves won't inevitably lead to more impulsive shooting of animals as well as "accidents" in which humans are maimed or killed. Their despicable argument that not allowing this constitutes bigotry is simply insane. People are born into a particular race, but none of them exits the birth canal toting a gun.

Guns are dangerous. They are tools designed to kill, and in this country they fulfill their function 30,000 times each year, while injuring another 80,000 people. I fail to understand how this is a civil rights issue, and no amount of NRA-speak will convince me that it is anything but a public safety issue.

Lest I be misunderstood, I do not hate people who own guns. But I do hate and deplore the fact that they will now be allowed to carry them into the last vestiges of unspoiled land, our national parks, the very places most people go to enjoy the natural beauty of our country and escape the stresses of city life. While I believe that most gun owners are reasonably responsible, I worry about the few who are not, the dangerous, unstable ones who want to play GI Joe in the woods.

We really don't need to worry about foreign terrorists killing American citizens when we have people right here at home with a frontier mentality, and the weapons to act on it. Expect increasing shoot-outs among the laughing children, wildlife photographers and picnic frolickers as people who shouldn't have guns "defend" themselves against others who also should not. I find this vastly troubling, and you should, too.

Requiem for Rain Boots

To the only rain boots I have owned since my ugly childhood galoshes, I will miss you. I bought you because I was utterly taken with the tigers and roses decorating you, designed by the famous tattoo artist Ed Hardy. My reasoning was that I will probably never have an actual tattoo on my body but I admire good tattoo art, and the purchase was further cinched by the fact that I was born in the Chinese Year of the Tiger. Plus, I love roses.

You have decorated my closet for a year, during which time it never rained in San Francisco, although I waited and waited. Finally, the rain gods favored us and I gleefully donned my boots and ventured forth. After a few minutes I realized that my left foot was wet. So wet that when I got home, I was unable to pull the boot off my foot without help. My sock had attached itself to my skin and also required an emergency crew (Flip) to remove it. I thought I must have stepped on something sharp but couldn't find a hole in the rubber bottom.

I took it to a shoemaker to see if it could be repaired. They were expensive, and are no longer available. He flexed the bottom and showed me that it was completely split. "Old rubber," he pronounced with disdain. "But I've never worn them," I said. "I've had them for a year but it hasn't rained here until now." "Cannot fix," he said.

Cannot get money back either. I've had them too long. I'm thinking maybe I'll use them as planters... they'd look good with ivy trailing out of them where my legs used to be.

The Chinese Year of the Tiger began on February 14th, otherwise known as Valentine's Day. It also marked Losar, the Tibetan New Year and most important holiday of all to Tibetans. Unfortunately, those in Tibet were not allowed to celebrate because the Chinese government which took over their country in 1959 remains intent on destroying their culture as innocent people, both Tibetan and Chinese, hang in the balance while the world does nothing. Sadly, this is how most individuals behave regarding the less fortunate members of their own societies who slip through cracks every day. Until everyone realizes at the cellular level that we are all connected, nothing will change significantly. Tashi Delek!* And Xīn nián hǎo!**


* Happy New Year in Tibetan
**Happy New Year in Mandarin

Not Your Mama's Barbie Doll

Barfing Barbie

I have just discovered a new art form - Altered Barbies. There is a show in San Francisco every October featuring such works as Barbie Hugging the Porcelain, Gene Simmons begging Barbie, Deaf Jewish Lesbian Barbie and S&M Barbie.

Why was I never told? I have a rather tortured relationship with Barbie. We have never been friends and in fact, with unthinkable cruelty I refused to buy one for my younger daughter when she was a child and instead, foisted the more elegant Madame Alexander dolls on her. I completely missed the point. All her friends had Barbies, and my intransigence on this issue was more reprehensible than refusing to buy my son a toy gun had been.

It wasn't the breasts that offended me, but the fact that Barbie's feet were perpetually flexed for high heels, which seemed to imply that any proper woman wore cruel shoes at all times. The tackiness of the dolls was also a factor. But a little girl's wishes were dashed in the process, and I lost track of that far more important issue in my earnest desire to elevate her tastes. I think that as soon as we make something so insignificant about us and our values, bad parenting ensues. What is more, I should have known better. My own mother never bought me the patent leather maryjanes I coveted, nor would she allow me to wear anything remotely "fancy." Ruffles, bows and lace were outlawed from my wardrobe no matter what the other children wore. So if I had it to do over, i would buy my daughter every Barbie on the market. But sadly, there are no do-overs with child rearing.

The Moving Finger writes; and, having writ,
Moves on: nor all your Piety nor Wit
Shall lure it back to cancel half a Line,
Nor all your Tears wash out a Word of it.

The Rubaiyat - Omar Khayyam - 11th century. He was surely a parent as well as a poet.

LaVonne Sallee is the artist whose works are featured here:

Gene Simmons Begging Barbie

Deaf Jewish Lesbian Barbie - no mean trick, reading the Torah in sign language. She must be blind as well; hence, the dark glasses.

S&M Barbie

Anorexic Barbie

Three-headed Pit Bull Barbie

Centaur Barbie

I rather love this one:



Jean August Ingres - The Bather

I'm still waiting for a Senior Citizen Barbie - after all, she's over fifty years old now. And everyone knows that fifty is the new nineteen.