Category Archives: Uncategorized

Whoops! I Did it (to my website) Again

If you read this blog on the actual site it lives in, you might have noticed this morning that WHOA IT’S GONE TO BLUE!

Last night I redid my Etsy store banner, and it gave me the wild hair to do a new header for my actual website – little did I know the terror it would unleash.  I ended up changing the colors on every damn header, redoing menus…see all the buttons on the sidebar?  I had to redo those from scratch because I have no earthly idea what I did with the old files.

At any rate, I was tired of how dark the site was; this might be a bit *too* bright, but I think after I tone down the background a little it’ll be just what I wanted.

In the meantime since I don’t have any meaningful content, here are some more of my favorite fonts.

All fonts can be downloaded free at dafont.

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Ten Things I Love, 9/25

Kickin’ it old school on this week’s Sylvan Points at Things. Here are Ten Things I Love.

1 – My new iPhone case.

I’ve a snowball’s chance in hell of being able to afford an iPhone 6 (or even a 5S) any time soon, but my little 4 is still hanging on.  I bought it a new case, though, on what has become my greatest shopping weakness, Etsy.  It’s purdy.  It’s also very me, as lately I’ve been obsessed with teal and turquoise.

2 – These puffy manatee stickers.

Puffy pink manatees.  Wearing pearls.  I mean, come on.

3 – The coolest sticky notes ever.

4 – Amazingly decent strangers.

Last week, I lost my wallet.  The whole thing.  Aside from the pain-in-the-butt that is having to cancel and replace all my cards, I love that wallet; it was a souvenir from my trip to Portland, and came from Herbivore in the all-vegan strip mall.

The morning before I was set to go lose hours of my life at the DPS replacing my driver’s license, I got a phone call from my apartment management – a visitor to the complex had found my wallet in the parking lot and turned it in.  Every single thing was still in it down to the stamps.  I was so incredibly grateful, but of course I have no idea who this guy was, so I’ll say it here: thank you Fantastic Honest Guy! I got back my Starbucks card and a little faith in humanity.

5 – These vegetables I drew.

I’ve been having a ridiculously good time making stickers and such for my Etsy shop; the latest is a 5-a-Day veg tracker.  I drew the happy veggies at the top, and they’ve been making me smile ever since.

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6 – Fall premiere season.

Even if you take away the immense relief of the weather finally starting to turn (though it probably won’t be good and Fallish until mid October), this time of year has one huge advantage over any other:  all my TV shows are coming back.  Two of them, Sleepy Hollow and Agents of SHIELD, have already started; the rest are scattered throughout October.  I’m even excited about the ones that underwhelmed me last year…well, except for those I’ve just flat out stopped watching.  There are only so many hours in a week after all and in theory at least I’m writing a novel.

7 – Ed Sheeran.

So honey now
Take me into your loving arms
Kiss me under the light of a thousand stars
Place your head on my beating heart
I’m thinking out loud
That maybe we found love right where we are.

A fuzzy tattooed British ginger and clever lyricist – I didn’t have a chance.  You may have heard him on the radio lately – his latest single, “Don’t,” makes me happy for no real reason I can describe.  I think the first hit he had here in America was “The A-Team,” which has the distinction of being the only pop song I know that includes the word “pastries;” as well as a recent duet with Taylor Swift.  This is one of my favorite tracks from his most recent album:

8 – Roberto Mendoza’s goddess prints.

I love his style – it reminds me of Disney’s Hercules (in a good way). His Gaea and his Lilith are particularly awesome to me, but they’re all gorgeous.

9 – Jes, the Militant Baker.

Jes is one of my very favorite body-positive bloggers – she’s whip-smart, funny, thoughtful, and hella brave.  If you’re a body image warrior and you’re not reading her, you’re missing out – some of her most popular posts include Why We’ve Learned to Hate Ourselves, How to Kick Ass on a Daily Basis, and Things No One Will Tell Fat Girls…SO I WILL.  I make occasional posts on body image, but Jes is one of the women who’s out there every day putting herself on the line for us in the face of hate and shaming and a world that wants us to disappear.  That kind of awesomeness is, well, awesome, in the sense of the word that involves actual awe.

10 – It’s That Time of Year Again…

That’s right, it’s Vegan Month of Food (aka Vegan MoFo), when bloggers all over the world tackle tons of amazing food-related posts.  So far my favorite this year is Miss Kitchen Witch‘s series on Harry Potter recipes – she’s cooking up everything from Honeyduke’s Cockroach Clusters (veganized, of course) to her own Patronus Charm Cocktail.  The photography is gorgeous and the recipes are inventive – Apparate over to her blog and check them out!

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A Fat Rant in the Key of FU

(Note: trolls will be deleted and blocked.  No warning, no quarter. My sandbox, my rules.  Pro-diet talk will not be tolerated either. If you want to go on about “that’s all well and good, but OMGOBESITYEPIDEMIC,” there’s an entire internet out there where you’re welcome and encouraged.  This is not one of those spaces.  I’m only leaving the comments open for a couple of days anyway.)

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“But…but people saying it’s okay to be fat might make people think it’s okay to be fat! You’re PROMOTING OBESITY! The lack of self-hatred will kill us all!”

Okay, sweetie. Come here, let me ‘splain you a thing:

You’re damn right I promote obesity. I also promote thinness, tallness, freckled-facedness, and baldness. I’m down with dark skin, light skin, all the crayons in the box and any more you can moosh together. I support big butts and tiny boobs and vice versa. I’m ready to march in the Jiggly Thigh Parade and I’ll wave a flag for a big dick or a small one. Covered in tattoos, riddled with piercings, I promote all of it. I want everybody to look every way. Know why?

BECAUSE THERE IS NOTHING WRONG WITH ANY OF OUR BODIES.

It doesn’t matter what you look like, whether you were born that way or had something altered or did nothing but sit on your booty and eat chips. None of that has anything to do with what kind of person you are. Our hearts cannot be reduced to a single external factor. Claiming that someone is something because of a single physical attribute or identifier is ugly and childish and, it turns out, the root of most of our societal issues.

Our appearance and our health have one key thing in common: they are not fully under our control.

Are there things you can do to be healthier no matter what state your body is in? Absolutely, whether that’s to make it easier to walk up stairs or to beat cancer. But whether you do anything or not, whether you grow gradually healthier or sicker, is not up to me. Your body is not my business or my problem. And while the math would seem simple, apparently it’s not: THAT MEANS MY BODY ISN’T YOUR BUSINESS EITHER.

When you look at me and sneer because I weigh 300 pounds, you don’t know my story. You don’t know if I’m diabetic or have heart disease any more than looking at a thin person can tell you they’re a heroin addict or have a brain tumor. You don’t know, and it’s NOT YOUR BUSINESS.

Sensing a theme here?

My ass is big, but that doesn’t mean you have permission to get all up on it.

When you look at a fat person with judgment, do you know what you’re really seeing? You’re seeing yourself, reflected back in all your bigotry and self-loathing. We are fun-house mirrors of your prejudices, and it’s not a pretty picture. In 37 years on this Earth I have yet to meet anyone who was cruel to another person but didn’t already hate themselves. That applies equally to fat people who mock other fat people.

Oh, and:

Don’t pretend you care about my health. First of all, I know you don’t. Why? Because you know nothing about it, as I said already, and because giving out unsolicited advice is not compassionate. It’s a dominance display. The great white savior of the fatties has come to Earth to tell us calories in, calories out! Put down the cake, girls!

(It’s pretty much always white people. Well, white people and Michelle Obama. Speaking of which, if you try to come at me with that whole “fat people raise the price of health care and taxes and OMG!” nonsense, I would invite you to give me an itemized list of all the things your taxes pay for and show me how many you support versus not. My taxes pay for shit I don’t like, so do yours, welcome to America and suck it up. Maybe one of these days we’ll be able to designate exactly what we pay for, and you can support nothing but anti-obesity programs and I can support the Hook Electrodes Up to Every Congressman’s Junk Act of 2014. But for now, using that argument makes you sound desperate and kind of ridiculous.)

Now, I know you’re thinking, “But people have kids and loved ones who are affected by their health. That means it’s their business.”

Okay, fine. But it’s still not yours.

Healthcare decisions are deeply personal for everyone no matter what’s going on with their bodies. You can seek your loved ones’ advice and help, or bow to their opinions about your size, but in the end the person living in that body is the person who truly has to live with it. Only you can decide how much weight, if you’ll pardon the pun, to give other people’s opinions.

I am not here to make your decisions for you. I would prefer, of course, that you treat your body with love and respect and demand others do the same, but you’re the one who has to realize you deserve it – even if by all societal standards you’re an untouchable.

I realize that saying all of this will not change your mind if you already hate fat people. Oddly enough, I didn’t write this for you. I wrote it for other fat people who don’t yet see that while being fat does not make you a bad person, being hateful does. I don’t care how huge you are, or if you’re on a scooter in Wal Mart or hooked up to oxygen. I don’t care if you’re an anoretic, bulimic, a cutter, an ultra-marathoner, or waving at me from the summit of Mount Everest which you climbed with nothing but a rope and a sheet of LSD.  Neither your size, ability, race, sexuality, nor your health should be used as a weapon against your basic worth.  You deserve dignity and respect because you are a human being, and if we can’t believe that all humans on this Earth deserve that, there’s little hope for us as a species. I like to think we can do better.

We can do better.

Let’s do better.

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Metanoia and the Married Spinster

handsIt was such a beautiful evening. A candlelit room, flowers, a tower of chai cupcakes, a circle of loving friends, with me all made up and shiny in red. My two best friends in the world, hailing from wildly divergent spiritual backgrounds, teaming up to marry their girl off to their girl.

I made vows. They were long. They’re hanging on my bedroom wall, which is the only way I have any idea what they say. I think it’s safe to report that in the last three years I’ve broken every one.

Several people have expressed a desire to know how my whole self-love situation has progressed since my self-wedding on July 30, 2011. I want so badly to tell them, and to say now, that it caused a revolution in how I treat myself, that I’ve learned my own awesomeness and am living by my authentic inner goddess truth or whatever.

Not so much.

By the time I lost my wedding ring I probably should have known something was wrong.

I fucked it up, guys. If you know anything about my life these last few years you know it hasn’t been easy. After my psych diagnosis everything became so complicated; then my life as a writer kind of collapsed like a soufflé sitting on a beehive. This year I’ve found myself unrecognizable as the woman who walked down that aisle to Apocalyptica and then did Bollywood-esque moves in a circle while ever so slightly drunk on sangria.

I don’t even dance anymore.

It’s hard to say what went wrong. I could point to individual circumstances, but blaming any one thing, including myself, seems like a cop-out.

I feel like I swallowed a drought. My insides are dusty and cracked, soul parched, silently begging the sky to open up both to green the land and to release the tension in the air. I’m a hungry ghost, wandering the world with my mouth wide open but unable to find satiety. I haunted all the places I used to touch the Sacred; I rattled my chains and howled without a voice.

I’m fairly sure that, looking at 2014 as a whole so far, you could quite accurately say I’ve been having a slow protracted nervous breakdown.

My sincerest hope is that I’ll look back and realize it was more than that – that it was Jungian metanoia, and the rebuilding after the breakdown led to something amazing.

The past few weeks have been much better, but the really shitty thing about bipolar is that you learn not to trust feeling well. You know it’s going to be yanked away from you, whether tomorrow or in a month. You try to enjoy it and do as much living as possible, but underneath is a current of fear and sadness that never goes away.

It’s funny. I decided to self-marry because I was tired of being at war with myself. Not a year later I was diagnosed with an illness that basically means my brain is at war with itself.

Here in 2014, four years after my first novel hit shelves and three years after I vowed to care for myself as I would my beloved, everything I used to love and enjoy, everything that I thought made me who I was, is just…gone.

For a long while I was obsessed with “getting it all back.” For a brief span of months around age 30, I was happy – I didn’t realize it at the time, and it certainly wasn’t perfect, but I really felt like life was functioning on all eight cylinders for the first time in adulthood. Since then I’ve tried to reach back in time and capture that feeling, that person I was, when I was HPS of a coven and had an actual human lover and was dancing and my career was in its infancy so anything, anything could happen.

I’ve realized recently – embarrassingly recently, in fact – that I don’t want it back. At 30 I didn’t want to be 23 again. Why would I want to be 30 now?

And by God, if this last year has served to tear down and pulverize everything I thought I liked about myself and everything that made me who I believed I was, I’m going to make that demolition worth the dust in the air and the pounding jackhammers all night long. One of my life mottos is “Make the pain count.” Life is going to suck, and suck hard with malice aforethought, and you can’t always prevent the suck no matter how “together” you are. What you can do is use the suck.

I’ll stop with the sucking metaphor there, though, because it could go someplace weird really fast.

If this were a two-person marriage, I’m pretty sure my wife would have walked out by now. I don’t say that in a bitter way; I’ve been an inattentive spouse at best and an abusive one at worst. But unlike an ordinary marriage, when one of us treats the other one like crap, the other can’t leave. Try though I might I can’t get away from myself.

It’s that better part of me, in fact, that has kept me hoping – that little voice whispering “Come on, you can try again – nobody’s keeping score but you. It’s going to be okay.” She says she loves me, and she’s not giving up on me. She knows who I can be underneath the rubble of who I have been, but she can’t tell me; I have to figure it out for myself.

That’s how I know wisdom when I hear it: it’s almost always really annoying.

I don’t know how I’m going to make things better. I’ve certainly tried. Every attempt, from the tiniest shift to a tectonic realignment, has fizzled. But I know, deep down somewhere more visceral than my heart, maybe my liver or spleen, that I’m meant to do something really badass with my life, and that the way I’ve been living since the wedding is not it. I don’t know which way to go, or how to start, or much of anything; but I have an inner conviction that I’ve got work to do.

I also still have an awesome wife. And you know what they say: behind every great woman is that same woman, because she had to kick her own ass.

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Sylvan Points at Stuff, 9/4

Hello again!  Let’s start with what may in fact be the best song ever.

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I love that different parts of the world have their quirky trends – Japan has washi tape, and it turns out Korea has diary stamps. They’re itty bitty (usually 1cm x 1cm x 3cm) wood-mounted stamps with tiny symbols to use in planners and diaries, indicating dates, appointments, weather, all sorts of stuff. If you don’t want to bulk up your planner with stickers, you might try some of these adorable little dudes:

While we’re on the subject of adorable things, I give you puffy manatee stickers.  Pink manatees.  Wearing pearls.

Pink Freaking Manatees!

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Hey, anybody need some Uranium?

Great Product, Poor Packaging.

Seriously, you have to read the reviews.  I love it when Amazon customers gang up on crazy-ass products like those “Bic for Vaginas” pens and the banana slicer.

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All right, stop

(collaborate and listen)

(sorry)

whatever you’re doing because DANCING BABY GROOT CUPCAKES.  There’s even a how-to video.

Don’t forget, you can also find me:

On Pinterest, where I post dozens of images of the same sort of stuff for a few days and then move on to something else.

On Tumblr, where I reblog inflammatory political stuff on occasion but mostly just enjoy the gay porn.

On Flickr, where there are lots of pictures of stuff I’ve made.  This may in fact include the Littlest Tofu Ever once I bust out my polymer clay tools.

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