This is one of my favorite times of the year. Halloween creepiness is everywhere, the weather is (some days) getting crisp and cool, and NaNo is ramping up once more.
NaNoWriMo, or National Novel Writing Month for the uninitiated, is the process of writing a 50,000 word novel in the 30 days of November. That’s about 1700 words a day, if you’re interested and not friendly with math. The whole point of it is to get people to write the novels they keep saying they want to write but never get around to actually writing.
If YOU are one of those, “Oh yeah, I’m going to write a book someday” people, I highly suggest checking it out. Yes, even if you don’t consider yourself a writer. Especially if you don’t consider yourself a writer.
I don’t really remember how I got into NaNo, but I remember diving in and falling utterly in love. This year marks my thirteenth year participating, and when I win, it will be Win #8. To me, it’s an opportunity to write whatever I want, risk free. I’ve written fanfiction, space operas (okay that was an accident, but still), mainstream lit, fantasy, scifi. Really, whatever I wanted to try. No one ever has to read anything I write, and if I truly hate it, it never has to be edited. It can rot in piece on my thumbdrive.
Don’t get me wrong, it’s always better to end the month with a document that looks, through careful editing, like it could one day grow up to be a proper novel. But sometimes that doesn’t happen. And because the breakneck pace doesn’t allow my inner editor to barge in and stomp all over the creative joy, I have not once in 13 years walked away from NaNo with nothing. Even in the years I didn’t win or hated what I wrote, there was always SOMETHING. Sometimes it was a character, or a plot I would go on to use elsewhere, sometimes it was something as simple as a kick ass name, but there is always something.
My own NaNo prep is simple:
I update my profile picture to something that makes me smile (#tbt to questionable child safety).
I decide what genre I want to play in this year (Humor! Mystery!).
I name my novel something snappy and cobble together a terrible cover (but always with a tasteful font).
I reread last year’s NaNovel and realize it’s 185% less terrible than I thought (Vinus Semi-victorious).
I get to the end of what I’d written the previous year and get irrationally upset the story isn’t finished (please tell me he kills Nenry).
I get rueful when I remember I could just write the end of said novel (Maybe during Camp NaNoWriMo next year?).
Gather my writing totems and an assortment of candles (sometimes to motivate myself I write by candlelight in fingerless gloves, pretending I’m in a dusty attic somewhere creating a masterpiece that will hopefully bore the pants off of students two hundred years from now).
Snag some Halloween candy halfprice (Hello, Dots. We meet again).
And then presto chango, I’m ready for Nano.
So now I’ll have a rock solid alibi for not blogging during the month of November. And the goal for next year is to have a whole series, a little bit like NaNo for newbies. (Okay, the goal was actually to have said series for this year, but obviously that didn’t happen because I’m a writer and terrible with deadlines. I salute you, Douglas Adams.)
My experiences with airplanes and airports are casual at best. I’ve flown only a handful of times in my life, and then mostly whenever ground travel wasn’t possible (e.g. Hawaii or Germany). I’m very much a road trip girl. And really, with enough gas, drivers, and cases of Dr. Pepper, you can get damn near anywhere in the US in two days. *
To be frank, I hate flying. It’s not the take-off and landings, or turbulence, or the flying itself. I enjoy all of those things. No, I hate airports, lings, useless drains on resources such as time, money, and freedom (I’m looking at you, TSA). More accurately, I don’t hate flying so much as the trappings that make flying an undesirable option for me. Well, these things and the simple fact I’m fat.
I haven’t really talked about being fat here on my blog, aside from a one-off rant about being fat and needing medical attention. My body shape shouldn’t need a disclaimer of any kind, but I’m writing one anyway to hopefully avoid concern trolls (this may be, to quote Dumbledore, optimistic to the point of foolishness).
So here’s the big disclaimer, boiled down to two points. Point one: I’m fat. Not chubby, not fluffy, but full-on fat, like barely fits into Torrid clothing (for the uninitiated means a size 30, or rather 30ish, since some of their stuff runs big and/or small, since apparently women’s clothing sizes are determined using pregnant hamsters and some sort of black arts ritual involving unicorn turds). Point two: I don’t think fat bodies are unnatural, or that possessors of fat bodies are any less human (and therefore less deserving of human treatment) than anyone else. Period.
Despite having lived with a fat body for 30+ years, I’m pretty new to fat acceptance and body positivity in general. And being human, I kind of suck at both. I spent the majority of my life being embarrassed of my body to the point of trying to manipulate it simply for some aesthetic I genetically was never capable of in the first place. Being new to self-care and self-love, I often find myself falling into the old habits of hate and shame. So I have no problems confessing that when I got the crazy idea to fly to Florida to see my best friend, literally seconds after buying the nonrefundable tickets, I was seized by anxiety.
What if I missed the plane? What if I was too fat for the seat? What if someone complained and they kicked me off the flight? What if they charged me for an extra seat but kicked me off anyway? What if they lost my luggage? What would I do for underwear? What if I need an extender? What if they run out of extenders and kick me off?
Horror stories from my fellow fat people rang in my ears and the vaguely worded “passenger of size” policies compounded the ball of anxiety eating away my stomach lining. Making the matter even murkier was the fact that most of the fatfolkwhowroteaboutflying never really specified how big they were. Some threw out a dress size, but that wasn’t useful, given how we’ve established how useful that particular mode of measurement is (seriously though, sometimes I order the same size in the same brand and they’re still different, wtf clothing designers?!). Also, people carry weight differently, so just because they fit didn’t mean I would.
For 42 days, from the moment of buying my tickets to the moment I hugged my best friend for the first time in seven years, I pretty much had a series of (mostly) mild but constant panic attacks. Sometimes the anxiety went away, in quiet moments that I forgot I had to try and squeeze myself into a flying sardine can, but I was always aware of it. The day before I flew out, I had a full-blown panic attack at work.
“Relax,” my coworker said. She was alternately making sure I was breathing and doing the work I was supposed to be doing. “You’ve flown before. You’ll be fine.”
“You don’t know that,” I replied darkly. “And I haven’t flown as a death fat.”
Then my flight came, and here’s what happened.
On the day of, my wonderful family dropped me off at the airport (for the record I remember flying back when people actually got to come to the gate to see you off, which was awesome. Let’s bring that back). Having a supportive sendoff was helpful, because apparently a lot changes when you don’t fly for decades at a time. But the check-in process was smooth, I only got minimally groped by TSA (who interestingly enough were more concerned with patting down my braids than my person), and found my gate in minutes. In fact, my biggest problem pre-boarding was using the bathroom because there were no purse pegs, meaning I had to balance my carry ons and hover over the toilet simultaneously. (Note to self: work on balance.)
I sprung for the Early Bird Check-in in hopes of boarding as early as possible. I scored an A position, which allowed me to unfold my seating strategy, which was basically find an empty window seat nearish to the front. Generally someone will sit in the aisle, but unless the plane gets super full, most people will pass on sitting in the middle. They’ll instead go to the back, and should they not find their desired seating, they’re still unlikely to come back. Unfortunately, this flight was super full, so all seats were full. The woman that had to sit in the middle next to me was supremely unhappy, which is understandable.
One part of my journey that I’m a wee bit proud of is the fact that, when I realized I needed an extender, I had no problems asking for one. I wasn’t embarrassed and was 100% shame free. It was kind of awesome in a validating way. Unlearning decades of problematic crap sucks, so I take the little victories when I can! Second victory of the night was a chatty flight attendant with a penchant for telling punny jokes.
The flight home went similarly, but with one addition. I know that Southwest offers passengers of size a sort of reserved seating option, but honestly the website wasn’t clear on requesting one, so I didn’t really pursue it. The woman who checked me in automatically gave me a reserved seat and a preboarding pass. I asked her if it was because I was large, and she just kinda shrugged and directed me towards security. My flight was super early in the morning (before 8 a.m.), and I was the first person on the plane. This time my strategy worked perfectly, and I was able to breathe a bit more comfortably with a seat between me and my rowmate, who incidentally was a really pleasant woman. I mean, I spilled my entire drink on her leg because I’m clumsy like that, and we still had a nice chat about scifi (she recommended Wayward Pines to me, so we’ll see about that).
So basically… I spent a month measuring chairs and desperately scouring the internet for nothing. Bottom line for all my fellow fats: if you want to try flying, try flying. I can’t guarantee you’ll have an easy time of it, because I suspect I lucked out in a lot of little ways, but it might be worth trying. I know it was worth it for me and my bestie.
* I live in the smack dab middle of America. This statement is less true of someone in L.A. attempting to get to NYC.
My reading goal this year was simple: 52 books. For those of you playing the home version, that’s merely a book a week. Completely doable, even with a full time job and adulty obligations. My only real concern was whether I could get ahead before NaNo, because really November is just a blur of sleeping and murdering plot bunnies.
I’m happy to announce that as of September, I’m sitting pretty on 45 of 52. That means I have 16ish weeks (or 8 fortnights) to read 7 books. I don’t want to get ahead of myself, but I think I’ve got this.
However, the devil, they say, is in the details. I further challenged myself with 5 caveats, and I’m not faring well with those. More than 20 of the books had to be new to me, and I passed this one with flying colors (thank you, local library). However, I was also supposed to read 3 classics I’ve never read before and I’ve gotten exactly none of those read. Also, I haven’t gotten the courage to try another assault on Wuthering Heights. I’m thinking of giving up the book entirely, because I’m beginning to lose hope that after fifteen years I could find something I didn’t loathe about the book.
The other challenges are going okay. Ish. The challenge about reading 5 from my Unread Pile isn’t going so badly (4/5), but the one I’m actually making progress on is the bit about reading 5 nonfiction books. I’m all about the fiction, but I’ve read two memoirs (is the Kid President book a memoir? It kind reads like one, but not really? I’m counting it anyway), and I’m working on a biography of Queen Elizabeth II, which is 105% more entertaining that I thought it was going to be (No offense intended to my favorite Bond girl).
So, in a nutshell, my life might be falling apart, but at least my yearly reading goal is coming together nicely.
You know, if Welcome to Night Vale can take a hiatus in July, I think I can as well. We’ll ignore the fact that they’re a well-known and exquisitely produced show that redefines weird-strange-lovely and I’m some random blog that everyone (including myself) seems to forget exists.
Children’s Fun Fact Science Corner: There are no monsters under your bed.*
* unless you fall asleep. then there are totally monsters.
I am beginning to think that I like planning a blog more than actual blogging. I have a notebook filled with page after page of entry ideas, and digital documents of words typed upon words, but I continued to be foiled. Why is it so difficult to put pen to paper? Fingers to keys? I don’t know exactly why, but I will keep on trying. I am determined to make this blog work.
Speaking of the blog, here’s a preview of coming attractions:
Yup, it’s a name change! Pretty soon* Irrelephants.com will become CwellanS.org!
I know what you’re thinking, and I’m pretty sure I felt your eyes roll. But hold on the nay-saying! This will be the last name change. CwellanSorg, which loosely, in a bastardized way, means “killing sorrow,” is the mission statement my blog has been looking for. All this writer’s block, the scraping around for joy? My desperate means of killing sorrow so I can thrive. If I can’t choose joy, if I can’t escape the black cloud that’s following me, then I’ll have to give up blogging. At least for a little while.
I’m not sure when the change will take place. I’m attempting to make a theme but it’s going pretty badly. I have Irrelephants for another couple of months, so I’m really trying to get something together that looks nice, and isn’t just a modified version of the basic theme.
In unrelated news, here is a gif that I found tacked onto a Tumblr post. I’m not sure what it was doing there, much less who made it. But if you happen to know who this darling gif should belong to, let me know. It’s pretty much my favorite thing about this week.
* And by “pretty soon” I mean at some point between now and when I run off to become a pirate of the high seas.
So vacation is a week over, and let me tell you, the vacation hangover stings something fierce. It doesn’t help that this work week was messaged directly from Satan himself.
My week in the mountains, hiking around in poison ivy-free trails, swimming in a cold lake, and laughing every day with family I only see every decade or so, was simultaneously amazing and trying. Trying not because family, no matter how much you love them are still family, and sometimes you need a break after so much quality time, but because of my life. Small talk is an act of torture by and of itself when you’re an introvert. I can do it, and I can do it well, but it’s never pleasant, and I always find myself wondering desperately, what is the point?!
Sometimes I wonder if I really hate small talk, or if I simply hate talking about work. Because when it comes to small talk as an unmarried, childfree woman of thirty, after the weather, the only thing people will inquire about is my job.
Let me start with a statement: I hate the company I work for. I don’t really hate my job, like the day to day what I do, but I loathe, with every fiber of my being, the corporation I slave for day after day. I work for the same company I have for ten years. Like so many of my peers, my “get me through school job” became my “desperately trying to pay my loans off” job. To say I’m underemployed is putting it mildly. Despite the increasing number of applications I send off, the hours I spend scouring ads and online job listings, I remain where I have been.
I’m not embarrassed or ashamed to be underemployed. There are a helluva lot of jobs and even more people applying for each one. But I hate wasting my life where I’m at, and I have begun slightly embittered because it feels like I’ll be trapped forever at a place which, at every turn, has proved untrustworthy. So when my great aunt wants to talk about what I’m doing with my life, “rolling change and stocking floors” doesn’t really stimulate much discussion.
Another downside to small talk? It launches me into a downward spiral of existential crisis. What am I doing with my life? Does my life have meaning? What if no one remembers me when I die? What if I die alone? Have I accomplished anything? Will I ever see the sailboat?
I don’t know what I’m doing my life. Ten years ago, that didn’t bother me because I was young, and I figured I’d eventually find what set my soul on fire. I still don’t, and even though I believe too old isn’t a thing, I do wish the universe would clue me in to whatever it is I’m supposed to be doing.
It’s that time of decade again: time for a vacation! I’m packing up the car and heading to Lake Tahoe for an almost family reunionish thing. Blogging probably won’t happen, since I’m hoping the next ten days will be nothing but fruity drinks, good meals, and people I don’t want to punch in the face. We’ll see at any rate.
Once I’m back, there will be some changes happening around here. Hopefully they will be good changes, but at any rate, they’ll be changes I like, and since I make up approximately 100% of my readership, I think it will be okay.
I’ve been working on an entry detailing my life this past year. 30 has changed me in a lot of ways, but the more I think about it the more I realize 30 hasn’t done squat to me. Sometimes this comes from close introspection, from lying on a blanket and looking at constellations I learned in the eleventh grade, contemplating my place in this wide, winding universe. Sometimes this comes from silly moments where I realize I am, in fact, still a child.
My family has had a tradition of waving goodbye. Whether the person leaving was on their way to work, school, or driving through the 48 contiguous United States, we lined up and waved to those leaving. We still do that, even when someone leaves from the host’s house. We file up and wave (later there was also dancing, but perhaps the less said about that, the better. Have you ever seen a 60 year old white man try to twerk his nonexistent butt at you?).
Today I waved my mother goodbye on her way to work. I’ve been under the weather lately, and you know how sometimes, while you’re sick, you can feel a booger moving in and out as you try to breathe around it? I removed it discreetly so I could continue, you know, breathing. My mother took time out of her day to lean out the window and say, “Throw that way. Don’t put it on my car.”
Of course I wasn’t going to put in on her car, I was going to throw it away. But being told not to brought out my inner three year old, and so I flicked said booger on her tires as I waved her away.
So apparently I’m the kind of 30 year old who wipes boogers on her mother’s car. I’m not sure any amount of editing or wordsmithing can make my upcoming “What I’ve Learned from 30” entry meaningful.
Apologies for the radio silence. Does it help that it wasn’t intentional? I haven’t been in a good head place lately, and what’s worse is that I didn’t even realize I wasn’t in a good head space until I started rereading ASOIAF. It wasn’t until I was halfway through AFFC when I realized if Westeros is my escape, there might be something seriously wrong with me.
I haven’t allowed myself to give up on this blog yet. It’s my hope that you won’t, either.
I know a lot of people view birthdays and getting older as this inherently depressing thing. The unasked for sympathy I got last year when I turned 30 was kind of unreal. People were surprised I felt no shame over the big three-oh, or else thought I was vaguely delusional and still hanging to the vestiges of my youth. No, as anonymous once so aptly put it: growing older is a privilege denied to many, and I refuse to feel bad about my age.
No, it is of another milestone I write of today: anniversaries. Specifically, working anniversaries. Today marks the beginning of my 10th year at my current job.
I don’t like my job, and I’ve made no secret of this. Actually, the job in and of itself isn’t bad, but the corporation I work for is terrible, and they corrupt even the most stalwartly kind, good-hearted, hard-working people. Each work day is the emotional equivalent of banging my head into a brick wall, and for the pleasure of taking abuse with a smile (be if from a customer, coworker, or manager), I get paid about a dollar more than someone who’s been with the company for six months. The fact that, as soon as I walk through those doors tomorrow morning, I will be starting my tenth year at my “get me through school” job, is one of the most depressing milestones I can think of.
I’ve been out of university for six years now. For the first five years, I was so busy drowning in student loans and resume rejections, my only thought was to keep my head above the tide. At the five year mark, thanks to some lucky breaks and the help of some very generous family members, the student loan tsunami turned. I’ve still got loads of debt, but there’s been enough cleared away as to see the light at the end of the tunnel. I’ve had a change to breathe in the last year, and to ponder where my life is going, and where I want it to go.
I am unhappy with my current employment, but unfortunately, despite sucking the life out of my last decade, my job hasn’t given me many marketable skills. My job hunt is wide open (literally, the only requirements I look for in a job is that it must be full time, and it must offer health benefits, since I’ll be punished monetarily for not having them), and there is still nothing on the horizon. I’m not even so foolish as to only look and apply for jobs I actually want, but anything that pays better than what I’m doing now.
Why such low standards, you ask? (And believe me, people ask!) Because the kick of it all is, even once I’ve paid off all my loans (which should be about another five years), I still can’t afford to live the kind of life I want. How extravagantly do I wish to live? My outrageous goals are living in a safe area in a place of my own, making enough money to pay my bills and to be able to save some money for an emergency. That’s…. that’s about it.
My life has to change. I’ve been trying, but it isn’t enough. And today’s anniversary has put my life into harsh perspective.
So far, my white knight Netflix has given the world some pretty solid programming: Daredevil, Jessica Jones, OITNB. The whole reason I even have Netflix at all is because they picked up Arrested Development for a fourth season. As a kid who grew up back when TGIF was a thing, Full House was 7 year old me’s favorite TV show (which would be eclipsed three years later by Matlock, but hey, that’s life). So when Fuller House was announced, I was pretty darn excited. So excited, in fact, I broke my internet fast a week early because I was too anxious to watch when it dropped on February 26.
Full(er) disclosure: I was a big fan of the original series, I’m a sucker for nostalgia, and lately I’ve been craving fluff that requires no brain power to suss out. Fuller House falls under all three of these categories.
Everyone seems to be upset by the premise of the show, which is the same as Full House but with women instead of men. I am confused, simply because from any of the promotional materials, I had thought that was fairly obvious. A lot of people on the internet also seem to be angry about how cheesy and fluffy the show is, which also confuses me, because hello, did you not see the original series? I love Full House, don’t get me wrong, but if that ain’t cheese, I don’t know what is.
Also, spoilers? Maybe? Game of Thrones and Walking Dead this isn’t, but still. You’ve been warned.
Stephanie becomes a world-travelling, semi-famous DJ. As a fellow middle child, I revel vicariously in her success.
Kimmy freaking Gibbler. When I originally learned Kimmy would be one of the leads, I was a little nervous. I had Kimmy filed firmly under “Better In Small Doses.” Never in a million years would I have guessed she’d be one of my favorite parts of the show, but, hey, there it is.
All the dancing! I enjoyed the random dancing, from the NKOTB homage to the nightclub dance off. Perhaps because there was more of it in Full House than some people seem to remember, maybe because I just like dancing. But it was fun.
As Ramona points out, the Fuller-Tanner clan is as white bread as white bread watching Frozen can possibly get. Even including a Latina child isn’t enough to dilute the glaring whiteness. As if to make it a point to be all the things people hate about white people, in episode 11 includes an Indian themed party, complete with a Bollywood music number. Now, I won’t deny I dig Bollywood dance numbers, but I just, I dunno, prefer it when my mindless entertainment isn’t mixed so heavily with cultural appropriation. Because really, what was the payoff? Kimmy’s business looks good, and she and Stephanie had a bonding moment? Not worth it, guys.
The love triangle between DJ, Steve, and newcomer Matt. Not only do I hate love triangles in general, but also, this one was super forced and, perhaps most sinfully, not entertaining. Steve was never a brain trust, but now he’s just creepy and insecure. Maybe it’s because DJ and Steve were never my OTP, but I was pretty meh about the whole arc.
Holy Chalupas. I get the appeal of cheesy taglines (“How rude” escaped my lips many a time as a youngster), but this one feels forced and never once made me so much as grin. Max is my favorite kid, and it’s downright disappointing he gets such a lame catch phrase.
Bottom line: if you’re a former TGIF kid who enjoyed Full House, and you’re not expecting art with a capital A, watch Fuller House. Laugh at the corny jokes. Take in all the cheese. Get a cavity from all the saccharine family sweetness. Enjoy! If you didn’t like Full House, Fuller House won’t be your cup of tea.
I do hope that, should it get a second season, Fuller House will rely less on the fond memories of my childhood. While the tributes, homages, and references to Full House make it feel like we’re all in on the joke, season two needs to be crutch-free. If the show is going to stand on its own two feet, it’s going to have to get used to its own weight.