Yay for babies! Boo for women’s rights!

There has been so much discussion lately about the GOP’s war on women’s rights. But come on, ladies, let’s think about it for a minute. Are we really smart enough to make our own decisions about birth control and abortion?

Let’s look a little closer:

A woman’s reproductive organs are there for the sole purpose of making babies. We all know that any sexual activity we engage in is for one reason and one reason only: TO MAKE BABIES IN THE GLORY OF GOD’S NAME.

We know this because we are ALL straight. We are ALL saving ourselves for marriage. We ALL want to be mothers. And… most importantly, we are ALL Christian, and we ALL interpret the bible THE EXACT SAME WAY.

Let’s not forget that this is America. We all have the religious freedom to be Christian, go to Christian church and worship our Christian god. There really isn’t any need for any other religious belief, because Christianity is the only one that makes sense.

Now that that’s out of the way, let’s get back to baby-making.

So ladies, since the only reason for sexual activity is to make babies, in wedlock, there is absolutely no excuse for having sex with another woman. That’s disgusting. Also, if you have sex with someone you love, but you aren’t married to that person (and obviously that person MUST be a man), it’s quite simple: you are an abomination. If you’re not sure what an “abomination” is, and you probably aren’t because your vagina and breasts are making you stupid, you can find a lovely definition on dictionary.com.

Also, if you go out and get yourself raped, you are a stupid whore. I mean, seriously, look how you’re dressed. And don’t get me started on that whorish glass of Chardonnay you just sipped or the way you sluttily dropped your keys underneath that broken street light and bent over like the skank you are to retrieve them. And you want to blame someone else (some poor horny man) for what happened to you? Bitch please.

Now, we all know that when an unwanted pregnancy happens, there is only ONE person we can blame: the slut who got pregnant. Only women make these kinds of mistakes. Men don’t run around telling lies to get women in bed. They don’t refuse or “forget” to wear condoms. They never get caught up in “the heat of the moment” and have unprotected sex. They don’t have sex out of wedlock. They CERTAINLY don’t abandon women that were stupid enough to get pregnant by being a giant slut and having sex. They never abandon their children (I mean, how is he supposed to know if it’s even his baby? You probably fucked all his friends you dumb whore).

Gosh, I’m getting myself all worked up now. I’m starting to wonder if… well, maybe there is another side to this argument. Maybe there is a (watch it: I’m about to drop the “F” bomb) Feminist side? At the risk of sounding like an empowered (whorish) woman, I’m wondering if I shouldn’t try to look at this from another angle.

Babies: The only reason to have sex. God: Only wants us to have heterosexual, married sex, to make babies.

So, I got a panel of women together to discuss this issue (it didn’t really seem necessary to get any men on the panel, because it’s not about men, it’s about fetuses and I couldn’t get any fetuses to speak on their own behalf), and we decided to get on board with this whole contraception issue because we think the world needs lots more unwanted babies.

We need a law. Soon. To prevent the loss of potential life (babies!). This is about to get graphic, so if you’re squeamish, you might not want to read any further.

Now, if a woman masturbates, we know two things:

She is a slutty fucking abomination.

She is not going to get pregnant and make a baby.

If a man masturbates, we know two things:

Men will be men!

He is ejaculating his life force (baby-making juice).

But answer this: WHERE did his baby-making juice go? Into a sock? Onto his stomach? Onto someone’s face? Into someone’s mouth? Up a butt? Down the shower drain? Into his Egyptian cotton sheets? Into his Megadeath T-shirt?


I’m sorry, as far as I can tell, that asshole is a straight-up murderer. And who knows? If he impregnated a woman, there might have been twins. I’d call that a double homicide. We’ll never know, will we? Because he’s a disgusting baby-killer.

I want to weep when I think of all the dead babies wrapped in tissue, floppy condoms, dirty socks and torn t-shirts.

Any man who ejaculates into any location other than the vagina of a FERTILE woman (his wife), should be PROSECUTED to the full extent of the law.

After he’s prosecuted, should he end up in jail, where he is anally raped by fellow inmates, he should be prosecuted again, for each “offense” – those are just more dead babies up his ass.

Let’s take action before any more children aren’t born!

Please sign this petition, and keep it circulating! We need to save the babies!


Why I don’t diet

Today’s letter is “D.” D for Diet. Another dirty, dangerous, destructive word for many people. Certainly for me.

How sad is it that people are starving, here in this country, and all over the world and yet our fatasses are still bragging about the latest “diet” we are on?

Well, not me… anymore. I gave up dieting. Do you know why? Because it doesn’t work. Diets make you fat. I actually looked perfectly fine, and wasn’t overweight, until I tried to get skinnier. I made a real mess of me. If you can go “on” a diet, you can go “off” it, and with every round of on-again/off-again you can put on more weight.

People who are utterly clueless about the living hell of an eating disorder might hear me say “I don’t diet. I won’t diet. Period.,” and start in on the judging.

Well, no wonder she’s fat. She refuses to diet.

Damn, she’s just giving up.

She’s just going to let herself go.

She’s one of those fat feminist types, probably a lesbian because no man will want her if she doesn’t take care of herself.

Lazy bitch.

So, let me be clear: I didn’t give up dieting because I lack willpower, or because I’m too lazy, or it’s too much trouble. I don’t diet because IT DOESN’T FUCKING WORK.

I didn’t give up dieting so I could eat bags of Big Macs, boxes of donuts and multi-layered cakes. I gave it up because IT DOESN’T FUCKING WORK.

I didn’t stop dieting because I like being fat, I stopped because IT DOESN’T FUCKING WORK.

I didn’t give up dieting because I’m self-destructive and want to DIE of a heart attack, high cholesterol and diabetes. I gave it up because I love myself and I want to LIVE.

I eat healthy food, most of the time. I eat small portions, most of the time. I don’t eat a lot of fast food or a lot of sugar. I don’t order lots of pizzas. I don’t drink any soda (regular or diet). I don’t use sugar or artificial sweeteners in any of my beverages.

But I live. I don’t deny myself everything all the time. I don’t starve myself. I don’t set myself up for failure anymore. I don’t restrict my calories in an unhealthy way. I don’t have “forbidden” foods. I avoid foods that make me feel sick or crappy, which is why I limit (not eliminate) sugar and other refined carbohydrates, fast food, fried food, and processed food.

A year ago, I was diagnosed as hypothyroid (yes, that’s the fat, tired kind). Before being diagnosed, I knew something was wrong with me. So now, not only was “dieting” out, but just trying to eat healthy and exercise did absolutely NOTHING for me. I just kept gaining weight. I was so tired, all the time, I could barely drive a car because I would nod off at stop lights. I would drag myself through a one or two (if I could even do it) mile jog. I never got any good feelings, no endorphin rushes from it. I would collapse after it, utterly exhausted and fall asleep. My weight was at an all-time high, and nothing helped. I couldn’t restrict my calories much more without risking lowering my metabolism even more. But I didn’t like weighing so much that I felt unhealthy.

Here I am, a year later. The medication I’m on helps tremendously. I still have to battle being tired, and I’ve just accepted the fact that I need more sleep than most people to function at my best. I don’t beat myself up for being “lazy” because of it. I give myself a break. I know that because of my under-active thyroid, I have to live a certain way. I do exercise, but I do things I enjoy because if I try to do things I hate, I won’t stick with it. I limit refined carbohydrates because they make me more tired, shaky and sluggish. I eat lots of fiber and high iodine foods because it helps my energy levels. It’s taken a year, but I’m 22 pounds lighter. I don’t have a goal weight in mind. I only weigh myself to keep myself “on track.” My weight fluctuates a few pounds here and there, which is normal, especially for a woman. I know that I will weigh more right before my period, but less right after it. I don’t obsess on the end result, because there is no “end result” – this is my life. I don’t care how much weight I lose, I care about how good I feel, and I care about maintaining a weight that feels right TO ME. I don’t give a raging shit-fuck what Hollywood thinks, what the fashion industry advertises, or what narrow-minded judgmental ass-fucks say. No offense, but I don’t give shit what you think, about my weight. I don’t believe that I’m less of a person because I weigh more than… whomever. I don’t believe I need to be thin in order to be loved. I don’t believe I need to be thin to attract a man. Sure, some men might think I’m too fat, but so what? Hell, some men might think I’m too thin. Chubby chasers are real y’all.

My rant about skinny privilege also has me thinking that if you have plenty, if you’re the kind of person that still thinks you need to “go on a diet”: You are very privileged.  You have more than enough, enough that you feel you should allow yourself less. Maybe “fat” is a privilege too. Maybe, you’re not even fat. But if you continue “dieting,” there is a good chance you will be.

I gave up dieting, and I have lost 22 pounds. I will probably lose more. But I won’t do it by dieting. I will do it by showing myself some goddamn respect.

I am a woman. I refuse to diet… and I’m thinking… yeah, that’s a political statement… a political statement smothered and covered in melted cheese and cream gravy.

Skinny Wednesday.

So, since yesterday was Fat Tuesday, and everyone parties and overindulges, and today is the first day of Lent, and you’re supposed to give something up, I figured I would dub it “Skinny Wednesday.” Because for some of us, we’d have to give up an awful lot to be “skinny.” And I see a lot of people saying they’re giving up sweets, desserts, refined sugar… hmmm… so are they giving it up to prove how strong their wills are, how devoted to Jesus they are? Isn’t there some secret part (or not-so-secret part) of them that’s thinking that an added benefit will be: WEIGHT LOSS. Woohoo! Skinny jeans for Jesus! Yippee! What could be better, more exciting than losing weight? Well, I can tell you, as  a former weight loss junkie, there is no greater high. Watching the number go down on the scale was the best drug I ever took. Until it destroyed me, of course.

So, I ranted on Fat yesterday. Today, I rant on Skinny. Just as Fat was my own personal demon, Skinny was my dream girl, what I believed to be my true inner self – as soon as I lost enough weight, that is. Those who know me already know this, but those who don’t, I even wrote a play where the three female characters (all based on me) were named Fat Girl, Skinny Girl & Sexy Girl. (The play is called Crack Whore, Bulimic, Girl-Next-Door and it was produced at the Psychic Visions Theatre in the summer of 2006, and again in the summer of 2009).

I remember one man I dated for five years saying to me, “Sigh – (that’s him sighing, he didn’t actually say, “sigh”) Skinny doesn’t equal sexy.” I had no idea what the hell he was talking about. Of course skinny equaled sexy! Every image in the media said so. I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that as soon as I was skinny enough, true happiness would be mine. And I learned the hard way that there is no such thing as “skinny enough” when you need it to provide all of your happiness, and the fulfillment of all your hopes and dreams. I mean seriously, that’s a lot of pressure to put on “skinny” – even as awesome and empowering as you might think Skinny is.

So, how awesome and empowering is it to be SKINNY? Well, I think it’s pretty awesome. I’ve been thin enough in my adult life to wear clothes I bought in the little girls’ section. Shopping IS WAY FUCKING EASIER if you are thin. Trust me on this one. My weight has fluctuated in a 70+ pound range. I know what I’m talking about. It’s easier, when buying modern clothes, to be skinny. It just is. Any skinny woman who tells you differently is lying, has no idea how hard it is to buy clothes when you’re not skinny because she’s never been fat, or doesn’t actually realize she’s skinny. (Although I will say that there is sometimes an exception if you are trying on vintage clothes from the 50s and 60s. If you are very thin, you can’t always fill them out. Shows you how much times have changed and how much our perception of “the perfect body” has changed).

So, that has me thinking about privilege. I’ve recently read two articles (don’t remember where) about privilege. One was about “white privilege.”  The article was basically like, “White people need to acknowledge their white privilege.” Holy crap, I thought. I’ve already got white guilt, now I’ve got to acknowledge my white privilege? How the hell do I that? Is it okay to just say “I acknowledge my white privilege. I understand that the color of my skin makes life so much easier than it would be if it were any other color, especially here in America.” Okay. So who do I say it to? Do I bring it up at parties? Do I send an email blast to my “friends of color”? Do I approach ethnic people on the street and announce my deep, true understanding of my privilege?

Dictionary.com defines acknowledge as:



verb (used with object), -edged, -edg·ing.

1. to admit to be real or true; recognize the existence, truth,or fact of.
2. to show or express recognition or realization of.
3. to recognize the authority, validity, or claims of.
4. to show or express appreciation or gratitude for.
5. to indicate or make known the receipt of.

Okay. So I admit it. I guess. Isn’t it kind of hard to acknowledge my white privilege when I really, truly cannot begin to acknowledge what it’s really like to be anything else? Can I show appreciation and gratitude for “being white?” Doesn’t that make me a racist? I mean sure, I can say I “recognize the existence, truth, or fact of my whiteness and its privileges” but then what? Have I made ethnic people feel better? Have I eradicated racism? Have I accomplished something? I’m left feeling as if I should apologize for the color of my skin, but that it won’t really matter in the end or change anything in the world. I’m left wishing the color of my skin, your skin, our skin really didn’t matter. If people would just stop being fucking racists, no one would have to acknowledge their white privilege, because it wouldn’t exist. Wouldn’t that be nifty?

So let me walk a mile in some shoes I understand. Fat shoes. This brings me to the other thing I read, which was about “Skinny privilege.” Same basic point: “Skinny people – i.e., those with high metabolisms that don’t have to worry about every morsel they put in their mouths because they are naturally skinny – need to acknowledge that they are privileged.” Okay, now I get it. Even when I was relatively thin, I had to torture myself to stay that way. But I still experienced a certain – freedom of movement. Like I said, shopping for clothes is easier. But no one assumed I was just this “privileged” skinny person. If they weren’t negative and critical assholes, they might ask how I stayed in such great shape, or say things like “you obviously take care of yourself.”  (The irony is that I’m “healthier” now than I was then because mentally, emotionally and physically, I’m not as self-destructive. But most people would probably think the other, thinner me looked “healthier.”)

So, with my sluggish metabolism, which is partly genetics, made even worse by years of bingeing and purging, and now middle-age and hypothryoidism, I don’t have to eat very many calories to maintain my “voluptuous” body. Lucky me. And yeah, sometimes I want to stab skinny women right in their prominent rib cages when they talk about the bag of Oreos they ate for dinner while pointing out how baggy their size 4 jeans are fitting them lately. So, what should I do? Force them to acknowledge their skinny privilege? Acknowledge it bitch! Just admit it! Come on! What if they do? If all the skinny people just come up to me and acknowledge how privileged they are, will I feel better? Maybe for a second. Hey, thanks for noticing I’m fat and you’re not!  But then what? Will it raise my metabolism? Will it take me down a dress size? Will it mean I can eat as much as I want without gaining weight? No.

If by “acknowledging” one’s skinny or white privilege, one is somehow implying that “it’s better to be white and/or skinny” then aren’t we taking a step back from true progress by doing so? What if Fat and Black became the new White and Skinny? What if no one had to apologize for their appearance anymore?

As empowering as it is to say “No” to any more dieting or self-torture to maintain what is for me, an unrealistic and impossible body type, I can hazard a guess that “skinny” has its privileges. So does “white.” That’s just the way our world still is.

So, to the Black/Latin/Asian/Middle Eastern/Native American/Eskimo/etc community: I acknowledge my white privilege.

To the “skinny” community: You owe me an acknowledgement.

I guess if you are skinny & ethnic, we can call it even.

But seriously, if “skinny” wasn’t treated better than “fat” we wouldn’t need to acknowledge that “privilege” either.

Maybe I’m just a dreamer, but I hope we can just get past all this stupid shit someday, and just “imagine all the people.”

That’s it. Just imagine them.

What do they look like?

Happy Skinny Wednesday, all you people who are privileged enough to be breathing, right…. now.

Fat rant

Well, it’s Fat Tuesday. Ugh. Fat. My own personal “N” word. Wait, I can’t say that. I can’t compare abhorrent racism to being a fat-ass, can I? Damn. Okay, I apologize to the Black community. Again. (I’m sure I’ve said some other stupid-ass white shit at some point).

So, the “F” word. Not THAT “F” word silly. FAT. For those of us who are fat, were fat, think we’re fat, or have been called fat (and that’s a lot of people) the word fat can be at best cringe-worthy, and at worst, debilitating. You never even have to have been fat a day in your life to have felt fat or be referred to as fat. We throw it around pretty often.

Hey Fat ass. Fat lazy piece of shit. I hate that fat bitch. Who does that fat loser think she is? But when did “fat” become “phat?” What about a fat crib, a fat ride? Or is that a phat ride? What the hell would I know? I don’t think I’ve ever been called “phat” but boy-oh-boy have I been called “fat.” A lot.

I have been told to lose weight more times than I can count. I have been asked about my baby’s due date more times than I can count. (I’ve never been pregnant). Hell, the first time someone asked me if I was pregnant I think I weighed less than 120 pounds.

I’ve stood in a bar while a total stranger (a man) yelled in my face, “You’re fucking fat!” Out of the blue. I’m still not sure why that happened. Even if I was fat, who the hell is that rude? Jeez.

Lately, it’s struck me as odd that I actually heard a lot more fat criticism when I was much, much thinner than I hear now. People actually look shocked when I talk about my body issues, or admit my past eating disorder. “You? Really? But you’re not even overweight.” Wait. What? I’m not? (Of course doctors at free clinics still love to tell me how fat I am and that I should cut back on all the fried foods I’m eating. Again – what? What? Fried foods? Seriously? They’re bad for you? Who knew? And I’m eating them? Who knew?)

But all of this makes me think I was “fatter” when I was thin. Maybe “fat” can be a state of mind. After all, it was all I thought about, all I talked about. I was fucking obsessed. I’m fat. I’m fat. I said it like a bazillion times a day. I could take any conversation and make it about my weight.


My friend: “So it’s totally annoying but I keep getting my neighbor’s phone bill in my mail, and then I have to go knock on his door and give him his mail, and he’s creepy so it weirds me out.”

Me: “I wish my mailbox was further away because I could really use the exercise. And I hate my neighbor too, because I saw him talking to his girlfriend the other day, and I’m pretty sure he was telling her how much weight I’ve gained. And I hope I don’t ever have to knock on his door cause my chubby fingers might just break right through the wood with their heaviness.”

In case you haven’t figured it out yet: I was straight-up crazy. My body dysmorphic disorder was crippling. I was totally paranoid too. I actually thought everyone had gotten together and planned something really funny: Everyone keep telling Marnie that she isn’t fat, even though she is, it will drive her crazy. I felt as if everyone was running around saying “the sky is orange” when I knew damn well it was blue. But everyone was in on it.

Comments about my body involving words like “curvy,” “voluptuous,” “luscious,” and so on, years ago would have sent me running. All I heard was “fat” and it was enough to have me sobbing so hard I puked and cut ribbons of bright red blood into my flesh. Now, those same words can make me think I’m so sexy that it’s dangerous to leave the house.

But fat. Could I handle that one yet? What if someone called me fat? What if I am, “fat?” I mean, what’s fat anyway? Bigger than a size 6? A BMI of more than 26? I think it’s relative. I grew up in the 80’s when tiny tits and narrow hips, lean and slender, sliding into Gloria Vanderbilt jeans was the symbol of beauty. But what if I had been born in the early 1600’s and Rubens was putting an ad on craigslist (or however they did it back then) for models to paint? I’d get the job over someone like, say… Keira Knightley.

But this is not 1621, and “fat” is still a dirty word. I refuse though, to believe, as some people certainly seem to, that fat is more than just a possibly hurtful physical description, that it says something about who you really are on the inside.

Fat is not a character flaw.

Being fat does not mean a person is weak. It does not mean they are lazy, or lack willpower. It does not mean they are stupid, dirty, or uneducated.

Fat happens. Skinny happens. And no matter how smart you think you are, how much you think you know about a person by looking at them, and judging them, you don’t know shit. You don’t know shit about that person’s journey. How they used to look, how they will look later, and why they look the way they look now.

I saw a (stupid) woman’s comment on a picture of a young model on the Facebook page “Healthy is the New Skinny.” (Clearly, they promote “healthy” bodies over “skinny at any cost” bodies). The model was quite pretty, not skinny, not fat. The woman went off on the model saying there is no way she could be healthy because she was at least a size 12, and something along the lines of her obviously being “addicted to sugar.” Really bitch? So you know, for a fact, by looking at a picture of a woman that she is ADDICTED TO SUGAR? Not even just eats it, or likes it, but is addicted. It’s not like she’s holding a box of sugar cubes and wearing a shirt that says, “I can’t stop eating sugar because I’m a fat lazy piece of shit sugar addict.”  This kind of ignorance blows my mind. I want to grab a woman that stupid and force-feed her processed cheese until she gains so much weight she is smothered by her own fat rolls. But I don’t have that kind of time and money, because processed cheese is expensive. And I’d have to buy tons of it because she’s OBVIOUSLY ADDICTED TO VELVEETA and I can tell by looking at her.

So, enough of my Fat Rant. Happy Fat Tuesday everyone. Think twice before you call somebody fat. In another time  or place they might be a sex symbol. They might be a goddamn sex symbol right here, right now and you’re too narrow-minded to see it.

I know I’m phat. I’m one phat-ass fuckin’ political statement.

Body blog.

It’s been bugging me as of late that I don’t have a body blog. What exactly is a “body blog” you ask? Well, hell if I know. It’s just stuck in my head.

A body. I live inside one. So do you. Unless you are a disembodied spirit reading this, in which case… cool! I’d love to have followers on more than one plane of existence. But back to bodies (no offense to the disembodied spirits), I can’t stop thinking about them. Physical body. Damn, her body’s tight. Check out his body. Body of work. Body of proof. Body of text. Paint and body shop. Body building. Body mass index. Body fat calculator. Bodies, the exhibition. Adrien Body. Wait, that’s Brody. But he’s got a body. A nice long skinny body. And when his body got all up in Beyonce’s luscious scrumptious body, in Cadillac Records, well, my body got pretty turned on. But enough.

I called this Her Body Politic because “the” body politic was already taken (and also refers to a 70’s gay Canadian monthly magazine), and also because I think Woman, and Her Body has become, maybe even more so as of late, a political issue, and a political statement. It seems that a woman can walk out her door, and by that very act alone, be a political statement. What we wear, what we eat, whether or not we marry, who we marry, what reproductive choices we make, how much we weigh, how big or little our tits are, how we walk, how high we hold our heads, how often we open up our mouths for ourselves, our girlfriends, our sisters, our lovers, our mothers, makes a political statement.

I was born into a female body. I have been told I was fat when I wasn’t fat. I have been overweight and told I had the “perfect body.” I am in my 40’s and have never been married. I have never had children, which was my choice. I have been on oral contraception most of my adult life, because I don’t want children, and because my periods were debilitating without it. My breasts are probably not the same size as yours, nor are they even the same size as each other. I have scars on my arms and legs. I put them there. I have scars on my heart. Life put them there. I have numerous tattoos. I do not “dress my age.” Hollywood and the Fashion Industry would consider me obese, but then they think a size 6 is “plus-size.” I refuse to diet. I refuse to throw up my meals. I refuse to starve myself on purpose. I exercise when, and if I feel like it. I am hypothyroid. What, and how much I eat is nobody’s business but I bet it’s less than you think it is if you are judging me based on the size of my jeans. I hate buying clothes, but I love buying lingerie. I might be wearing some right now, but not letting anyone see it. Sometimes I look at myself and think I am a straight-up disaster. Sometimes I look at myself and think it’s irresponsible to be this sexy.

I am a woman. I am a political statement.