My hatred of the Cathy comic is second only to Family Circus. Actually, make that Blondie. NO, Beetle Bailey, definitely Beetle Bailey. Oh, who am I kidding? Every comic strip run in the newspaper reeks of suckage. (Though Peanuts is kind of comfortingly endearing. And Zits can be alright. The cleverness of Frank and Ernest is often chuckle-worthy too, and I didn’t even “get” the name until like two years ago. Ok, so I guess only some reek of suckage.) THE POINT IS I hate the Cathy comic, yet whenever I go swimsuit shopping, I see, hear and think of nothing else.

I decided to go on a swimsuit hunt earlier this evening after I’d completed my four mile run (the severity of the wind keeping me from attaining the 11-minute mile pace I was shooting for, CURSE YOU, WIND) and before I was hungry enough to eat dinner, putting my mind in a place that was content with my body for carrying me four miles (in 47 minutes [not 44], seriously, wind, I’ll kill you) and was (mostly) accepting of my body how it is with no room for excuses (i.e., slightly more poochified stomach via supper consumption).

As I approached the swim-wear section of Kohl’s (obvs., I only shop at the hippest of stores), I could already feel the negative body image waves oozing out of the racks of bikinis and tankinis and skirtinis — could already hear the young and old women lamenting in hushed voices how they themselves weren’t so teeny or not teeny enough or would never be teeny. Some voices weren’t so hushed. “There are three things I loathe shopping for — jeans, prom dresses, and swimsuits!” said one teen (whose torso and hip-width was about the size of my thigh) to her friend; “I hate the way I look in all of them!” The friend nodded violently, a pained-pouty look on her face, her body equally as small. “This is torture,” said another. “I’m going to strangle myself with these halter-top strings.” Others periodically let out sharp sighs of frustration while holding up striped or flower-patterned separates with disgust, as if they were handling rotten flesh.

I could feel the women around me doing the thing I’ve often done — shopping with their sullen faces and slumped shoulders, carrying their hangers along with their dread of those fluorescent, unforgiving dressing room lights as they silently sized each other up, furtively checking out each other’s breasts, hips, thighs, butts, stomachs — those damn “problem areas” — wishing some other’s perceived-perfect body part could become one of their own, a quick change-out, leave the bulges behind in the dressing room along with the other unwanted merchandise. So many times I’ve shopped and mentally switched out my own problematic parts. If I had her flatter stomach I could wear this. If I had her smaller breasts I could wear that.

All around, all I could see, hear, focus on were a dozen or more Cathys, all “AAACK!”ing away in pursuit of a swimsuit on a body that doesn’t exist. I’m too big! It’s too small! The diet starts tomorrow! Wake me up when I’m a size 5!

But I didn’t want to give into that this time. It doesn’t have to be that way. I wanted to stop thinking badly of myself, stop thinking badly (stereotypically, jealously, Cathy-esquely) of other women, and punch Cathy (with her insulting, non-hilarious swimsuit shopping foibles) in her stupid, noseless face. So I blocked it out, and I shopped, and I tried on, and I accepted both my upper and lower stomach pooches (with or without dinner), my dimpled cheeks (ain’t talkin’ about my face), my wide, high hips (hopefully the kids will just slide right out), and my in-need-of-substantial-support chest (not in the form of pep talks and hugs).

I walked out with two swimsuits — one of the sporty/nautical persuasion (appealing to the runner/sailor[?] in me), and one of the punky/pin-up persuasion (appealing to the rock-out-with-my-curvy-frame-er in me). Neither hides every flaw, but both show the me I’m proud of.

open letter

Dear Curtis Sittenfeld,

Please read Special Topics in Calamity Physics by Marisha Pessl and take copious, copious notes on character description done properly. Take, for example, one of the many passages from your novel Prep that presents only a hairstyle, over-thought name, and clothing choice for the complete description of a character:

“I thought of Aspeth’s long pale hair, the clothes she wore – now that it was spring, pastel shirts and khaki skirts and white or navy espadrilles – and her tan, shapely legs and the light sprinkling of freckles across her nose, which always looked as if she had spent the afternoon playing tennis in the sun. Then I glanced and Conchita on the bike beside me, her glowing pink rain slicker and hat, her dark puffy hair.”

Or how about this one:

“Norie Cleehan, who was a pale skinny girl from Colorado with long limp brown hair and a soft voice said, ‘Leave it alone, Darden.”

Now, compare these to a Pessl passage:

“She had an elegant sort of romantic, bone-sculpted face, one that took well to both shadows and light, even at their extremes. And she was older than I’d realized, somewhere in her late thirties. Most extraordinarily thought was the air of a Chateau Marmont bungalow about her, a sense of RKO, which I’d never before witnessed in a person, only while Dad and I watched Jezebel into the early hours of the morning. Yes, within her carriage and deliberate steps like a metronome (now retreated behind the display of potato chips) was a little bit of the Paramount lot, a little neat scotch and air kisses at Ciro’s. I felt, when she opened her mouth, she wouldn’t utter the crumbly speech of modernity, but would use moist words like beau, top drawer and sound (only occasionally ring-a-ding-ding), and when she considered a person, took in him/her, she would place those nearly extinct personality traits – Character, Reputation, Integrity and Class – above all others.”

And one more, just for good measure:

“Well, it just so happened Hello, My Name Is LARSON was a kid Dad took to like a Surinam Cockroach to bat droppings. He was one of those unsinkable eighteen-year-olds, with a Hardy Boy face no one had anymore, all freckles and gee-whiz grin, thick brown hair that grew around his face like an urn plant and a lanky body in constant motion as if he were being operated by a ventriloquist on speed (see Chapter 2, ‘Charlie McCarthy’ The Puppies That Changed Our Lives, Mesh, 1958). Dad found Larson wondrous. And that was the thing with Dad: he’d teach Modes of Mediation to a thousand John Dorys he was barely able to stomach, and then he’d pay a kid for a berry-favored Tums and fall head over heels, declaring him a veritable dolphin who’d spiral through the air when you whistled. ‘Now that’s a promising young man,’ said Dad. ‘I’d exchange every Happy, Sleepy and Doc to teach him. He was spark. You don’t find that often.’”

See how uninspired and severely lacking your descriptions are, even though both yours and Pessl’s characters are in the same prep-school demographic, so there’s really no excuse? See? See how I’m still angry at having wasted hours reading your inane dribble even though it was years ago? See?

Regards,

Lauren

Oh my GOD PLEASE somebody make me get of the darn Internet and go do something useful like READING or WRITING REVIEWS or DOING SOMETHING BESIDES LAPTOPINGINGINGINGING.

You know my lack of self control is really quite astonishing.

I am gosh darnobsessed with playing Mahjong whilst listening to Of Montreal’s Hissing Fauna, Are You The Destroyer? really really really loudly on my headphones. Srsly — this is like the fourth night in a row I’ve come home and embarked on this little super-combo and it doesn’t look to let up anytime soon. Plus it’s too cold to do anything else.

vindication! kind of!

Sometimes I read Sleater-Kinney guitarist Carrie Brownstein’s music blog, Monitor Mix.

This week she interviewed Laura Krafft, a writer for The Colbert Report. While the interview is entertaining and hilarious and all that (how could an interview NOT be hilarious with a Colbert Report writer? I don’t even want to know) the best part was in the latter half of the interview where Krafft states: “My favorite comedy show, hands down, is America’s Funniest Home Videos.”

I LOVE America’s Funniest Home Videos. It throws me immediately into a giggle fit that doesn’t cease until the commercial break or until Bob Saget starts talking. And although I can’t remember any particular incident, I know I’ve been ridiculed for that particular penchant of mine many times over. It was just nice to read that another person on earth is of the same opinion, and that she also happens to be an intelligent, witty writer who works with Mr. Noblet.  I am not alone.

Wowza.

lottsa tv and a conversion and a book

I’m so afraid of what this Writer’s Strike could mean for my precious Grey’s Anatomy. This season, especially the last two episodes, have been fantastico and I just want more more more for my gluttonous eyes! Chomp/blink.

Anyone else watching Private Practice? I don’t think the cast has enough chemistry to last beyond one or two seasons, but the individual performances are great (especially from Amy Brenneman; makes me want to watch Judging Amy now).

I’m not missing Gilmore Girls this TV season as much as I thought I would. It’s probably because everything beyond Season 4 was shite, which doesn’t explain my steadfast continued watching. Still, Tuesdays feel a little empty. I’m a sad sack.

ANTM notes: even though I love love love Heather I fear Bianca is right in that her personality is not quite cut out for the industry, particularly in a commercial sense, or what a representative for Cover Girl would need to fake being like. May have to pull for Jenah.

YAY Season 4 Project Runway!

I’m a total Regina Spektor convert. Totally was annoyed by her. Now, not.

Still reading Swann’s Way. Taking forever but liking.

It’s effing freezing in here.