Musings from Fatty McButterpants: To 16, and Beyond.

My downward spiralling pity party reemerged last weekend when I purchased a "fuji apple pink" 3/4-sleeve turtleneck from Old Navy. It looks lovely on me, and it feels so comfy because I have room to move. So what's the problem?

It's an XXL. This is the first Women's XXL item I have ever bought in my entire life. I just keep growing and growing and growing. Not upward, but outward. And I haven't given birth to any kids yet. What's going to happen 10 years from now when I become a baby incubator? You're supposed to gain at least 20 pounds when you have a child. How am I supposed to get rid of that?

Today I had this Fat Actress moment when I was getting ready for work. My regular pants were feeling slightly snugger than I was comfortable with. So I figured I change into one of my pairs of fat pants. But then my fat pants were too tight too. :( I had to change my entire ensemble, and then I spent the rest of the day futzing with my sweater that kept cropping up over my belly. Boo hoo. It wasn't quite as bad as the above picture, but that's how I felt inside.

It's not like I eat like Kirstie did in her show, wolfing down entire bags of chips and trays of cookies in one sitting. My stomach can only hold so much food, even if I really like that food. But no matter how little goes inside my tummy, the outside of my tummy continues to expand. I exercise four times a week. I don't mean occasionally walking a lap around my block. I mean serious cardio. Tae Bo, Power Yoga, Step, and Total Body Conditioning. It's like something you'd see on Work Out.

I look at my friends eating normal or larger sized portions, and I wonder how their bodies can deal with that food when mine can't. Half of them don't even exercise! Then I feel even worse when I see a commercial for one of those ubiquitous "Obesity in America" news specials, with the camera taking headless shots of people's flabby bottoms and overflowing midsections. Not muffin tops. Not beer bellies. Cascading rolls of fat spilling out of their shirts and pants. And I think to myself, am I part of this problem? Am I not pushing myself hard enough at the gym? Am I still taking in too many calories? I know I could eat additional fruits and vegetables. But I can't drink any more water. My 2.5+ liters a day would drown any other human being.

I just need to accept my size and body type. I will always have a chunky torso, whether it's toned or mushy. But I hate having to buy bigger clothes every year. It's not like the government is giving me annual gift cards to the Gap. I should write my Senator. Maybe Madame Boxer can attach a special rider to the next spending bill.

Rock This Town? No, Degrassi, Nooo!

If you watched the latest episode of Degrassi: The New Generation on Friday, then you might be as traumatized as I am. I thought I'd be cool with JT dying. Hello, it's Degrassi: It goes there. What did you expect? But this? This was hard. Especially when we found out that not only is Liberty still in love with JT, but JT is still in love with her, too. Then it got all West Side Story, with "Tony!" "Maria!" "Tony! "Maria!" And right before JT could reach Liberty, some random guy stabs him. For no reason! Then Liberty rushes to his limp body, cradling her ex-baby-daddy in her arms, screaming for help.

I can't process this right now. This weekend has left me exhausted. I would talk about the reasons this episode has affected me so much, mainly because I identify with Liberty in the early seasons of Degrassi, when she was pursuing JT, but he just wanted to be friends with her. That was so me in eighth and ninth grade. Or, Grade 8 and Grade 9, as they say in Canadian.

If y'all watch Degrassi, or if you just like television shows involving average-looking teenagers going to school in America's attic (i.e. the Maple leaf country), please weigh in. Leave a comment, and we'll discuss my post-adolescent angst.

He Can Always Work at Dunder-Mifflin.

Did y'all catch Kevin Reilly on last week's episode of The Office? Yes, the sometimes delusional President of NBC Entertainment had a three-second cameo at the beginning of "The Return" as Dwight's potential employer. I wasn't sure it was Mr. Reilly at first. But Defamer confirmed it for me. He's pretty darn cute, for a older gentleman. And I'm two degrees of separation away from him. Sweet! Kevin is my latest "wishes-he-were-a-celebrity" crush. Because network presidents are only tabloid-worthy if you can find them on The Sunset Strip. No matter how cool Jeff Zucker thinks he is 'cause he knows Kirstie Alley.

Even if the constant breaking rumors turn out to be true at some confirmed point in the near future, I'm sure Kevin will land on his feet. If nothing else, his golden parachute and his big pile of money will help cushion his fall.

Oh yeah. Loved the rest of the episode, too. "I liked you better as the temp." "Me too." You're lucky you're still around, BJ.

Update, 3/1/2007: KEVIN REILLY RE-UPS AS PRESIDENT, NBC ENTERTAINMENT

"The Return of the King"

In honor of the holiday, I'm watching my second favorite episode of The Boondocks, in which Martin Luther King awakes from his 40-year coma. After being persecuted for his nonviolent beliefs in a post-9/11 America, and watching some booty-shaking videos on BET, the controversial Civil Rights activist declares, "I'm going to Canada." If you haven't seen it, I encourage you to watch this clip of Dr. King's speech as he addresses the black American community four decades after he was shot.

What's my first favorite episode of Boondocks? The Trial of R. Kelly. I wish Aaron had left Rosa Parks in it, though.

In somewhat related news, I think some creepy, middle-aged white guy tried to solicit me at the gas station last night. All I did was respond to his, "Hello, how are you?" with a polite, "I'm good, how are you?" And I get, "You want to have some fun tonight?" What part of my outfit said, "I'm a hooker?" The thick black turtleneck, the puffy down coat, or the comfortable brown loafers by Hush Puppies? I don't think my being mistaken for a prostitute by some skeevy dude of a different color was part of Dr. King's multicultural Dream.

Elisabeth Hasselbeck: Representin', yo.

I had the unfortunate experience of catching the opening of The View this morning, the day after that guy in the White House addressed the nation about his plan for victory in Iraq, i.e. "the most dangerous foreign policy blunder in this country since Vietnam" (tm Senator Chuck Hagel, R-Nebraska).

Apparently Ms. Hasselbeck's role on The View is to put a face to the 11% of Americans who think George W. Bush's troop surge idea is the way to go for Iraq. She had the nerve to compare putting 21,500 more American troops into the war-torn nation, with using chemotherapy to treat her mother's cancer. Rosie pointed out to her that "after 9/11," our country had the support of the entire world, and now we have none. Elisabeth's response? She doesn't care what the rest of the world thinks of us; she'd rather be safe. Because in her mind, those two things are not related.

How did this ninny get to be a co-host on a national talk show? Oh yeah. She took fourth place on Survivor, and married a backup NFL quarterback. If that's all it takes, I should have my own talk show on ABC right now.

Hey, Hasselbeck. How would you like to serve your country over there, so we don't have to fight them over here, after reading this tidbit of news: Pentagon abandons active-duty time limit. According to the AP:

"The Pentagon has abandoned its limit on the time a citizen-soldier can be required to serve on active duty, officials said Thursday, a major change that reflects an Army stretched thin by longer-than-expected combat in Iraq...

...Until now, the Pentagon's policy on the Guard or Reserve was that members' cumulative time on active duty for the Iraq or Afghan wars could not exceed 24 months. That cumulative limit is now lifted; the remaining limit is on the length of any single mobilization, which may not exceed 24 consecutive months, Pace said.

In other words, a citizen-soldier could be mobilized for a 24-month stretch in Iraq or Afghanistan, then demobilized and allowed to return to civilian life, only to be mobilized a second time for as much as an additional 24 months. In practice, Pace said, the Pentagon intends to limit all future mobilizations to 12 months."

Elisabeth, don't come crying to me about, "But I have a baby to raise." Rosie told you today about that Army couple she knew who have an infant, but they both have to go to Iraq anyway. You can sign up at the Recruitment Station and leave that kid with your husband Tim. I'm sure he'll be able figure out how to raise a child while you're off in the desert fighting "insurgents." Thousands of parents are going through the same situation right now. Since you're all for supporting George Bush in this war, why don't you join them?

It stands for Live, and Love, too.

The L Word, Season 4, premiered last night on Showtime. It wasn't until I was watching the preview on my OnDemand cable that I realized how much I missed this show. There is only one season a year, it lasts for about three months, and then, Boom, it's gone. So sad. I will enjoy it while it's still around. If you don't have Showtime, but want to keep up to date on Bette's baby-stealing antics, Helena's newfound poverty, Tina's return to "white heterosexual privilege," Jenny's incessant navel gazing, Kit's inability to escape her Foxy Brown past, and Alice's overall awesomeness (she is soooo funny), then take a gander at the recaps at AfterEllen.com. Scribe Grrrl has a certain flair for recording the show's drama, humor and parade of "guest-bians" (tm Scribe Grrrl).

In other premium-cable-that-I-so-cannot-afford-but-have-anyway news, I am so psyched about Extras on HBO, starting this week! I would not shut up about this show in the car last night as I was riding around LA with my friends, helping them search for their dinner. I was telling them all about the upcoming Orlando Bloom episode, where he is possibly the only man in the world that Maggie doesn't fancy. But I'm more excited about the Daniel Radcliffe episode, because 1, I love the Harry Potter books and movies, and 2, he reminds me of a guy I had a crush on. Actually, he looks like multiple guys I had crushes on. They were older than him, of course. I'm feeling a little squicky now, because Mr. Radcliffe's not legal yet. Not in the U.S. anyway. I don't know how they roll in Britain, but I'm not down for checking out teenagers.

Onto free (if you have a TV) broadcast television, and away from people who turn 18 this July. The Office. Loved. It. How can last week's episode make me start rooting for Roy, while I snipe at Pam? That's the power of The Office. Pam's crying didn't touch me that deeply. Yeah, I would have sat with her and gave her a hug while she sniffled. But inside, I'd be like, Hello? You rejected Jim twice, missy. You didn't think he was going to move on? Well, he did, and he found someone who appreciates him. And if you want him back, Pam, then, in the words of Britney Spears, "why don't you do somethin'?"

Last, but not least: Oxygen's Campus Ladies. Because Joan, Barri, Paige, Abdul and "Mr. Drew" rock my world. With guest stars like Patton Oswalt, Megan Mullaly, Penny Marshall, Jason Alexander, Mo'Nique and Sean Hayes, how can you go wrong? And that's just Season 2.

Honorable mention: Jim Gaffigan in My Boys. Jim, you are working it. But that show needs help. Woof. Not so good. And Kyle Howard? Please ask for some more lines. You're adorable, but your character arc ended way too soon. You cannot peak in the second episode of a thirteen episode series. I mean, season. Yeah. That's right. Season. Who said "cancelled"?

Keeping the Brown Man Down: Bianca's First Post of the New Year

As planned and as usual, I spent my New Year's Eve watching the Twilight Zone marathon on SciFi. But by midnight, I had fallen asleep watching the Fingerbang episode of South Park. I'm still watching The Twilight Zone now. I put together my new Ikea bookshelf (with doors!) while I was consumed one of my favorite episodes, "Number 12 Looks Just Like You." Made in 1964, but even more poignant now. It should be required viewing for anyone considering elective plastic surgery.

Now that I have pretty much recovered from my trip home, I have now fallen back into my routine of putzing around on the internet when I should be doing other productive things. Like unpacking, or opening my snail mail. Hence, I stumbled onto these two items courtesy of Racialicious.

1: Shades of Brown: The L.A. Times’ Latino problem, written by Daniel Hernandez in LA Weekly,

"In more than 30 interviews with current and former staff members of various backgrounds, as well as many longtime community leaders and newsroom-diversity advocates, a portrait of the Los Angeles Times emerges as an institution that remains incapable of adapting to the city’s changing faces. Year after year, the paper still feels like it’s manufactured for the recently arrived Anglo Westsider. Who wishes he were in New York."

How is it that the Los Angeles Times, a newspaper based in a city that used to be part of Mexico and whose population is at least 46% "Hispanic or Latino", is still treating all of these people as outsiders who the newspaper must either pander to or barely tolerate?

and, 2: A commentary by Racialicious editor Carmen Van Kerckhove, on a newly infamous Virgin Trains commercial. This one-minute-and-20-second-long advertisment, airing in the UK and on YouTube, involves olde tyme Native Americans on horseback attacking a modern-day locomotive, filled with white people, barreling through the British countryside. Quoi? What kind of twisted, anachronistic history rewriters has Charles Bronson got working for him at Virgin? As I can recall from Pocahontas, the British were the ones who invaded the Native Americans' land, not the other way around.

The commercial then ends with the slogan, "Man who go on big train have big idea." Because I wasn't offended enough before.

It's 2007, people. Did we learn nothing from Mel and Michael?

Musings from an Angeleno: The Back Home? edition

I wish there were something meaningful I could say about my Christmas vacation to St. Thomas this year, something that would distinguish it from the seven other Christmas vacations that I've flown back home for.

It was better than the year Mummy embarassed me on New Year's Eve.

It was not as good as my first year of college, when I came back and discovered that in addition to going out to the Old Mill on Saturday nights like we did in high school, the places to be were Duffy's on Fridays, and the Green House on Tuesdays.

It was better than the year I missed Christmas with my friends because I was in St. Kitts on a cruise, and I spent New Year's Eve crying on the Lido deck after Grammy had been mean to me.

It was not as good as my senior year of college when I was hanging out at Duffy's and one of my former classmates told me that I looked good. He was buzzed, but I still liked the accurate appreciation of my physiognomy.

It was better than that time I was only home for 48 hours.

It was more eventful than last year. And that's saying something.

I'm glad I went, and I'm glad I'm back. But every time I make that 12-hour journey from St. Thomas back to LA, a part of me always wonders if either place will ever completely feel like home.

Musings from a St. Thomian: The Christmas Eve edition

(Imagine a picture of A Charlie Brown Christmas here.)

Being in St. Thomas for Christmas vacation is always an adventure. I've been making some poignant observations over the past few days. If any of my soupcons of brilliance grab you, feel free to share my bon mots with your friends. (Warning: Any or all of the words I wrote above, or below, may have been used incorrectly by me.)

1. People. Please keep your octogenarian relatives off the road. This goes for individuals 90 and above as well. If your Grandma or Auntie or Nenie was alive when the US purchased the Virgin Islands (in 1917), they should not be driving up and down Donkey Hill! Be a good grandchild or godchild or great-niece and give them a ride.

2. I miss the trio of Christmas bushes my Mummy put up last year. They deserve their own separate post, but long story short: it was like my mother had adopted three of Charlie Brown's unfortunate Christmas trees. The kind you have to wave your hands over with your big-headed friends to make look halfway decent. This year, Mummy got a real tree. Meaning something in an actual tree shape. Not something that came from the ground. If anything, it came from some plastic laboratory where the scientists create trees that grow their own lights. It's pretty. And Mummy added some new ornaments to make it extra festive. But I miss our sad little bushes. I liked them, Mummy!

3. Tonight at the Christmas Eve Candlelight Service that Mummy, Grammy and I attend each year, I encountered one of my many old crushes from high school. No, not the valedictorian that went to Yale. No, not the Jewish valedictorian that went to Yale. No, not the other Jewish one. Nope. That one. Yes, that one. I went up to him and said, "Hey." I wasn't completely sure it was him. Like I cared. I go up to anyone and say hi. I don't have to know them. I'm charming and adorable. Well, apparently he didn't think so. He was cordial. Cor. Dial. Yes, he did ask me if I was still in LA, and then he bragged about my film-related job to his parents. And he told me what he was doing with his life and where he was, and how he hung out with some of our classmates one time. But still. He wasn't impressed by me. And I am impressive. Hello! I looked so cute, too. :(

Whatever. He's not even going out while he's here. What is that about? Like he's too cool now to hang out in dirty parking lots outside of rickety-old shacks? Okay, yes, this past Friday at Duffy's was lame. But, come on. What else are you going to while you're here? I personally need to be entertained while I'm here, even if it is by people I barely talked to in high school, and skeevy old guys whose two-for-one drinks have deluded them into thinking I would dance with them. To each his own, I guess. :)

4. My niece. Well, my St. Thomas niece. She is so cool. She's ten months old now? Yes, ten months. I'll go with that. I'm so glad I finally got to meet her. I wish I could see her more often. She's friendly and curious and happy. And yes, she's very cute. But I don't like to say that about babies. Because most babies I see are cute. But what if you have a baby in your life that isn't cute? Furthermore, it's not like they can control how they come out. I was a cute baby. Then I went through an awkward phase, from when I hit puberty hard at eight, until...now. So.

5. My parents. I so should have gotten that family therapy session that I was talking about earlier this year. Dude. You'd think my Mummy and Grammy would know how to effectively communicate with each other by now. Mummy scoffs whenever I suggest therapy. But if it was a gift, she might be more receptive. I don't know about Grammy, though. I could tell her we were going to the mall, and then when she gets out of the car, Surprise!

6. I have watched all my Daria videos. I am now watching all my Flash Forward videos. In every episode, Ben Foster seems to be channeling Matthew Perry. Not really Friends Matthew Perry, but Studio 60 Matthew Perry. It's really weird. I doubt anyone reading this has tapes of Flash Forward so you can see what I'm talking about. But it's bizarre. It's like they went to the same Acting School for Dry Comedy Moments.

For those of you celebrating Christmas tomorrow, like I will be, have a good one. For those with other plans, enjoy the lack of traffic and the elbow room at the movie theaters.

I Love The Office! You Should, Too.

Since my latest posts have been so heavy and thought-provoking and emotionally-draining for some (i.e. me), today I offer something light-hearted and fun:

Reasons I love The Office.

1. It's so funny.
2. Rashida hearts Jim.
3. Pam needs to say something to get Jim back. She burned him but good. But like in "Foreverwood," the last episode of Everwood (I'm still not over it, Dawn Ostroff!), where Amy waits outside of Ephram's apartment with the giant Ferris wheel, and Ephram's all, "I've always loved you, Amy"? Pam can do something big for Jim, and Jim will be all, "I've always loved you, Pam." But what about Rashida, Jim? What about Rashida?!

Ahem.

4. Stanley and Phyllis. Love. Them.
5. Ryan. Break up with Kelly already. But for real this time.
6. Angela. Because green is apparently a whory color. Who knew?
7. Dwight. He owns a beet farm. He thinks you can buy gaydar from Radio Shack. Finally, someone dorkier than I am.
8. Michael Scott. "Spamster."
9. Take Your Daughter To Work Day. Awesome. Ryan was so scared. Ha ha, Stanley was so funny.
10. Boys and Girls. "Do black people like pizza?"
11. The webisodes! So cute. When is Oscar coming back from his looong vacation? I miss him.
12. Creed staring that woman breastfeeding, then taking a picture of her boob. So inappropriate. So hilarious.
13. Kelly not knowing anything about Diwali, and Dwight knowing everything about Diwali. Perfect characterization about one of Dunder-Mifflin's "most ethnic employees."
14. Jan. Oh, Jan. So neurotic, so reluctantly in love with Michael.
15. Kevin's poor uncle Bernie, and Ryan's cousin Mufasa. Ha!
16. Michael, then Dwight kissing Oscar. Uncomfortable. I, like Ryan, had to look away.

I have many, many more. But chew on those for a while. I encourage you to suggest your own reasons for loving The Office as well.

"I Can't Get a Job Because I'm a (White) Male."

It all started with this article in the latest issue Vanity Fair, entitled "Why Women Aren't Funny," by Christopher Hitchens. Here's an excerpt from the witty tome:

"...my argument doesn't say that there are no decent women comedians. There are more terrible female comedians than there are terrible male comedians, but there are some impressive ladies out there. Most of them, though, when you come to review the situation, are hefty or dykey or Jewish, or some combo of the three. When Roseanne stands up and tells biker jokes and invites people who don't dig her shtick to suck her dick—know what I am saying? And the Sapphic faction may have its own reasons for wanting what I want—the sweet surrender of female laughter. While Jewish humor, boiling as it is with angst and self-deprecation, is almost masculine by definition."

"Hefty or dykey or Jewish?" Okay, wow. There is so much wrong with that paragraph, and with the man who wrote it, that I won't even bother to attempt analysis.

I found out about Mr. Hitchens's piece (hee!) while browsing pamie.com and Feministing. The writers and readers of Feministing had some choice words for Mr. Hitchens. But pamie's post on the subject this Saturday was the one that sparked the "comedy blog war," i.e. humorous yet informed discussion, that I'm hoping to contribute to.

The first retallion shot was fired over the bow by pamie's friend Irwin on his blog, From Studio Twelve A. Irwin is currently "holding a knife to [his] penis" because "girl writers are getting hired just because they are girls ALL THE TIME. And some of them, aren't funny. Or they are funny, but not as funny as other people. This is fact." He asserts that since women comedy writers are as rare as "polar bears, or Native Americans" they are in higher demand, and are therefore taking away jobs from him and his fellow white male friends.

Irwin, put the knife down, and get over yourself.

pamie, who is a girl and a working comedy writer, then responded to Irwin's post with valid anecdotal evidence to prove her point. Here is one of my favorite passages:

"[Irwin's] main complaint is that a woman gets the job he thinks there are hundreds more men qualified for. There's one more slot in the room of ten writers, but instead of going to him...it goes to "some girl," and it doesn't matter if that girl is funny or not...

...Maybe the reason he's sometimes working with "the girl" who isn't funny is because in some cases when they have to hire "the girl," they go to their go-to girl: one they know won't make problems, or one they know from before, or one they don't think is pretty/sexy/flirty/single/straight enough to cause "problems," or one that has been waiting for such a chance and they're taking a risk, or whatever...Irwin fails to mention how many times he's found himself working with a man who's intensely unfunny, who every day he's like, "Guy! Why did they hire him?" Does he shrug his shoulders and go, "Must be because he's a guy. Damn this patriarchal comedy system!" No, he doesn't. The dick is never the reason why that dick got hired."

Exactly. There is usually ONE girl in the comedy writers room. ONE. The rest of the writers are guys, and they are almost exclusively white. Did Irwin ever question why most writers on television shows are white males? I doubt it. Because he'd have to take a hard look at the industry he works in, and admit his privileged place in the white patriarchal structure that runs it. He'd have to acknowledge that even though white males constitute less than 30 percent of the US population, they control over 90 percent of what goes on TV. (And countless other industries as well.) Yes, I know that Irwin is not one of the people who decides what programs go on our televisions. But the fact that he shares the same color AND gender of most of the the people who do make those decisions at every level? He needs to admit that gives him a leg up on the normalcy ladder, no matter how many polar bears and Native Americans are applying for the same job.

Today, Irwin posted a response to pamie's response. He asserts, "1. There are far less women writing comedy than men. Period." and, "2. Pamie does not fully understand because she is a great writer so it doesn't matter." He concludes his argument by stating, "now I shall go back to trying to be funny, despite the handicap between my legs."

Oy vey.

Again, too many eye-rolling things to comment on. I will agree that pamie is a great writer, proven by the fact that I purchased both of her novels. I just get so upset when I hear or read (white) males professing, "those women/minorities are taking our jobs!"

Irwin, have you ever considered how many jobs you have gotten simply because you are a white male? Before you automatically say, "None," I encourage you to think about it. Even if "none" is the correct answer, think about why the comedy writers' world is such that a distinct effort must be made to find a "female voice" for a show. Women make up 51% of the population. Why do the people who make comedies need a special search to find out how to speak to the majority of this country?

Additionally, why do you think you need to "hire a gay guy" to fill that niche? I'm neither gay, nor a guy, but I am a writer, and I am funny.

Musings from a Black Woman: That's a big bag, little lady.

White Privilege: Unpacking the Invisible Knapsack

I stumbled up this while reading Racialicious. When I hear certain people talk about how great it is here in the US of A, and how racism isn't such a big problem anymore, I like to refer to number 46:

I can chose blemish cover or bandages in "flesh" color and have them more or less match my skin.

Now you know full well there are no brown colored Band-Aids to be found in any drugstore, supermarket or SuperTarget in any corner of this country. That's a big reason why I purchase colorful Sesame Street, Care Bears or Hello Kitty bandages. It looks better than having some tacky peach colored adhesive strip on my skin. And people with that peach colored skin probably have never though about it ever. But I think about the implicit racism, every time I get a cut.

Yeah, not being able to find bandages in my skin color is not a life threatening issue. Neither is not being able to easily find face powder and concealer in my skin color, which happens a lot. But almost every one of those effects listed has occured to me at some point in my life, often repeatedly.

1. I can't arrange to be in the company of people of my race most of the time. I am still in need of a black friend here in LA. And I'm not going to take and exact count, but over 60% of the people I work with are white. Ergo.

2. I can avoid spending time with people whom I was trained to mistrust and who have learned to mistrust my kind or me. Well, I wasn't trained to mistrust anyone in particular. So...next?

3. If I should need to move, I can be pretty sure of renting or purchasing housing in an area which I can afford and in which I would want to live. Okay, considering I live in LA, and rent is skyrocketing in every area (as if it was ever cheap to begin with), this isn't so much a race issue as it is a class issue. Or a Southern California issue.

4. I can be pretty sure that my neighbors in such a location will be neutral or pleasant to me. Most of my neighbors, right now, are nice. They represent a few different colors and nationalities, too. But if I moved to a wealthier area so my currently nonexistent kids could go to better public schools, I don't know if my neighbors would be so tolerant of my brown-skinned presence. Hypothetical jerks.

5. I can go shopping alone most of the time, pretty well assured that I will not be followed or harassed. Okay this one is a biggie. Half of the time I enter any store outside of my immediate neighborhood, I get asked by some ninny, "Do you work here?" or "Where can I find this?" In most cases, it is very clear that, No, I do not work at CVS (rolling my eyes), considering I'm not wearing a blue polo shirt or a nametag. Idiots. I am this close to getting that shirt made that I've been thinking about for months, that says, "I don't work here" on the front, and "What makes you think I do?" on the back. Unfortunately, half of the time the person asking is elderly or a child, so I can't YELL AT THEM like I want to. But the other times...I'm working on it. If one more uppity middle-aged white lady asks me snidely, "Do you work here?" I am going to let her have it. It will not be pretty, and she will leave the store crying. I'll be making men cry, too. No one likes to be called a racist, but sometimes you have to call a spade a spade. Yeah, I said it.

Go through the others yourself. There are 50 total. Either you'll feel bad about the privilege you never knew you had, or angry about the privileges that you never realized you deserved. It's guaranteed to make you feel neither warm nor fuzzy.

Some of my best friends are white people.

"I’m sick of white folks. It’s not just that we command an unseemly portion of the world’s resources, exploiting hundreds of millions of non-white folks and causing horrendous environmental damage in the process and then patting ourselves on the back for paying the merest lip service to righting our wrongs. It’s that when we make movies about the atrocities committed for our benefit and with our tacit consent, we insist upon setting up one of our own as the hero. It’s really pretty sick."

Check out Jeremy C. Fox's review of Blood Diamond at Pajiba. Even though I'm not personally "sick of white folks," I was totally digging his account of Hollywood movies that focus on the trivialities of white people at the expense of the more important stories of the brown people involved. That was why Bring It On: All or Nothing warranted such a favorable review from me: even though Hayden Panera Bread was the lead, the movie focused on the brown people as well. Unlike its predecessor, Bring It On, which followed Kirsten Dunst and her pale cheer-stealing team, instead of Gabrielle Union and her band of plucky brown performers.

And yes, I love me some Leo DiCaprio. I have since Growing Pains. However, I must echo the sentiment, "What accent does Leonardo DiCaprio think he's doing?" Because I so cannot tell from those commercials. Blood Diamond takes place in South Africa, but from the way he was talking, I thought he was The Last King of Scotland.

Thanksgiving Brilliance, only a few days late.

I'd love to share this poignance with the idiots complaining about the "foreigners" coming into our country and "taking our jobs." Dear, most of your jobs are going to China and India. Didn't you watch that episode of 30 Days?

Addendum (12/7/2006): Because I can't keep track of every comment on social injustice, people. Here is Robert Jensen's article, "No Thanks to Thanksgiving" found at AlterNet. I'll still be celebrating the holiday every year, but my progressive smugness will be almost unbearable next Turkey Day. With passages like,

"Thanksgiving is the day when the dominant white culture (and, sadly, most of the rest of the non-white but non-indigenous population) celebrates the beginning of a genocide that was, in fact, blessed by the men we hold up as our heroic founding fathers."

how can I resist ranting at my mother and other assorted relatives about the slaughter of the native peoples of our country, as I ask them to pass the cranberry sauce? (In the can shape, of course. Yum!)

Pumping Boobs.

Okay, you can all calm down. The search is over. I found the post I was looking for on the underwear drawer earlier. The paragraph below had me in silent stitches:

From his bottlefeeds, Cal takes about 3-4 ounces every 2-3 hours while awake. However, he's supposed to be getting somewhere between 2 to 2.5 ounces per pound per day (or about 5 ounces per kilo per day) so it seems from my record keeping (we have this little binder of all his ins and outs so that we can round on the baby every day--only partially kidding) he's getting closer to 3 ounces per pound per day. Of course, some of this is only extrapolation since I'm still nursing him part of the time and my boob has no calibration on it (at least not that I can locate), but it has me thinking: are we feeding him too much? See, this is EXACTLY the type of question that, when I was a Peds resident, would have me ROLLING MY EYES at the CRAZY FIRST TIME PARENT because dude, your kid is FINE, he's not getting super-fat or puking up his feeds or looking distended and uncomfortable, so just CHILL already, Nervous Nellie, GOD. But now, see, here now is my punishment for being so "there there now, silly parent" about those concerns--now I know EXACTLY where those parents were coming from. Are we feeding our kid too much? How much is he really eating, anyway?

Crazy first time parent. Hee hee! Even though I'm not going to be a breastfeeding enthusiast when I have kids, I will certainly have some other aspect of childrearing that I too will be obsessed about. One of them will be gender neutrality, taken directly from X: A Fabulous Child's Story. Read it and learn, people. And remember, I'd like my baby's clothes in yellow, please.

My Monkey Baby.

New addition to The Sites I Like: the underwear drawer. It's a blog by a woman named Michelle, who works as a resident at some big hospital in New York City, and lives with her husband Joe and their 1-and-a-1/2-year-old son Cal.

In Michelle's Thanksgiving entry, she shares somes photos of Cal from Halloween this year. Yes, he is adorable. But he is dressed up as a monkey. I bring this up because I was watching the season finale of Def Comedy Jam this morning. One of the comics, Chris Spencer, of Significant Others fame, brought up how he had to stop his "Latin," (and I'm guessing) non-black wife from dressing up his black son as a monkey for Halloween. His joke wasn't that funny, but the concept amused me. He then asked her pointedly, what if they dressed up his son as a gardener, with a leaf blower to clean out people's yards? That part was funny, and got his meaning across, too.

Now, I personally could never dress up my (nonexistent) child as a monkey, or any type of simian creature, no matter how cute they looked. Hello, that would be so inappropriate! A little brown baby walking the streets of LA begging for candy in a monkey outfit? I don't think so. I would shame black people everywhere.

It's so unfair. What if my baby loved Curious George? Or Planet of the Apes? Or BJ and the Bear? That last one would be pretty sad, actually. I'd have bigger things to worry than a Halloween costume if my kid liked a live-action television show about a trucker and his chimpanzee.

Anyhoo, check out the underwear drawer. I can't find the post that truly inspired me, about how Michelle was doing her residency with 24-hour on call days, and stuck to her own anal-retentive breastfeeding/pumping schedule, out of fear of...well, I don't remember what she was afraid of. But reading about her self-inflicted insanity confirmed my ongoing proclamation that I will not be breastfeeding my biological kids after my maternity leave is over. After two months (or less), my monkey babies will be drinking formula, and they will like it.

Addendum: Why I Hate Studio 60 (subtitled: Kristin is never coming back, Aaron!)

So yeah, I'm still going to watch the presumably last four episodes of this tres horrible show. But tonight I have found another explanation of why I hate Studio 60 on the Sunset Strip. In the Television without Pity recap of last week's episode, "The Option Period," Miss Alli breaks down how Aaron Sorkin's misogyny and his inability to get over his ex-girlfriend Kristin Chenoweth are bleeding all over the show. The setup is, Harriet wants to pose in her underwear for some magazine, but Simon and Tom don't want her to do it, because right now she's "classy," and if she does the photo shoot, she will be "bargain bin...K-Mart." Yeah. Oh deary deary dear.

Miss Alli sums up the situation nicely:

Tom insists that "[the magazine is] getting the better end of the deal." [Harriet] wants to know why. "Because they're enhancing themselves, and you're diminishing yourself." Yes, by posing in your underwear, you are less. Literally, Tom just said that women who pose in their underwear are diminished. They are less. You can ogle their boobs, you can make comments about how much you want to see them naked...but if they give you what you are asking for and drooling over, then they become less than they were. It's pretty shocking, in that it's presented as logical rather than blisteringly misogynist, which it is.

And I love the slam on Aaron that immediately follows:

And if you want to get really creepy, just remember the subtext is that Aaron Sorkin is addressing his relatively recent ex -- who is frankly at least as talented as he is -- telling her that she is now diminished. She is now less. Sorry, Kristin Chenoweth. Forget Wicked. You're diminished, and your asshole boyfriend has decided to announce this not only to you, but to the general public as well. That guy's a class act all the way.

Preach the word, Miss Alli.

I knew there was something about The West Wing that always skeeved me out, even though I own Season 1-4, and adore so many of the episodes. That Sorkin way of being perplexed by strong, intelligent women often appears in his writing as simultaneous admiration of and disgust for those women owning their sexuality. I'm not saying that Harriet should or should not pose for Maxim (yeah, I said it). I am saying that it's none of Aaron's business what a woman chooses do with her own body. He definitely has no right to judge her about it, essentially lusting after her half naked body, then calling her a dirty whore if she dares show it to anyone else. And, he has no logical reason to make this non-situation the life-or-death plotline that Studio 60 hinges on for an entire episode. Who cares?! God, get over it, Aaron.

How I Learned to Love Studio 60

After watching last night's god-awful episode, "The Option Period," I was tempted to never again watch Studio 60 on the Sunset Strip. Even though most likely there will only be four more left to watch ever. Anyway, the writing sucked, the characters' motivations were terrible, and if Harriet wants to pose in her lingerie, she should just do it. Who cares what Matt, Simon and Tom think? Furthermore, don't Simon and Tom have anything else going on in their lives besides obsessing over their coworker doing a photo spread?

So. Today I happened upon this post on the MOM & Pop Culture blog, entitled "studio 60 -- the show i love to hate." I particularly enjoyed this excerpt: "Part of me hopes that Studio 60 goes on forever. Because right now I am so damn amused by its awfulness -- in the same way that I used to be amused by Baywatch. Believe it or not, Studio 60 has way BIGGER BOOBS than Baywatch."

Hee hee hee! With this new perspective, I am now reinvigorated to watch Aaron Sorkin's latest masterpiece. And by masterpiece, I mean trainwreck.

I Heart Stephen Colbert: The Thomas Jefferson Edition

On Wednesday's episode of The Colbert Report, Stephen interviewed three Thomas Jeffersons to find America's Top Jefferson. I was concerned that he would only ask them about being the third President of the United States and appearing on the nickel. But then Stephen won me over, as he always does, by repeatedly asking the three Jeffersons about his legendary "affair," i.e. forced sexual relationship, with Sally Hemmings, who was not only one of Jefferson's slaves, but also his wife's half-sister. Nice.

The Jeffersons tried to dodge the subject, but Stephen kept nailing them, asking them if Thomas Jefferson wanted to be remembered as the "guy who banged his slaves." Check out these clips on the Comedy Central website, labeled Thomas Jefferson Pt. 1, and Thomas Jefferson Pt. 2. Stephen also presses them about Jefferson's penchant for weed.

Kudos to you, Stephen Colbert, for asking our "Founding Fathers," i.e. slave-owning hypocritical genocidal tax cheats, the tough questions.

"Happy Feet"? Well, I'm not happy about it.

I was reading the latest Leadership issue of The Hollywood Reporter when I happened upon this review of Happy Feet, the latest animated movie involving anthropomorphic, not-so-funny animals, thrust upon us by Disney and Pixar.

In the review, Kirk Honeycutt writes that Mumble, the adolescent penguin voiced by post-adolescent Elijah Wood (I love you, Elijah! I don't care if you're going to be the next celebrity to get "lanced."), "runs into a group of Latino penguins, the Adelie Amigos, who convince him that his dancing is actually cool."

What? A group of Latino penguins? Where do I begin?

Penguins come in species like Emperor, and King, and yes, Adelie. They don't come in Latino. They aren't descendants of Spanish conquistadors and the people they enslaved and/or slaughtered. They are penguins. They don't have the oppressor-imposed ethnic categories, like "Latino," that we humans have in America, Furthermore, Adelie penguins are from Antarctica. Unless I'm mistaken, there isn't a big influx of Latino culture from Chile and Argentina permeating that ice shelf.

As if that wasn't bad enough...who is voicing the leaders of these Adelie Amigos? Robin Williams.

Apparently I didn't get the memo that Robin Williams is now Latino. Last I heard, he still thought he was a sassy black man from the 70s. Or an African.