Okay, so it has been a while since my last posting. Blame it on not having a life, ergo no fun stories to write about as well as a serious case of writer’s block. And I am still mourning the outing of Ricky Martin. That will always hurt. But here I go.
So, since last we met, other than my Ricky Martin breakdown, I was in a life and death battle with fluff. Okay, maybe it was not that dramatic, but I was in a fierce battle with fluff with my never ending desire to get rid of the excess fluffage of which my body vociferously holds on to despite the fact that we are not in a famine, other than a self imposed one. It has proven to be a worthy adversary.
My “model” diet of not eating did not work out so well. I was able to last for a few days on only lettuce and green tea, but you can only go so far when the sight of a cupcake brings you to tears and you would trade your left testicle (if I had testicles which I assure you, I do not) for said cupcake. However, I am a few fluffy pounds lighter, and have been able to keep them off even with the re-introduction of solid food back into my diet. I even had a cupcake. Yay! But I still have much fluff to lose. Boo.
So, I am now trying a different approach. I am going to attempt to accept my fluff and its stubborn nature to adhere to my belly and my thighs, rather than my boobs and my butt. Why could you not just stay in my boobs and my butt? But I digress, and no pun intended. So, in this attempt to “love” my body, maybe I will start exercising since I need to anyway. But rather than doing it to get less fluffy, I will do it to get healthier. Blah, blah, blah, who am I kidding? Deep down, it will still mostly be for aesthetic reasons.
And so here is the fight for fluff. As you may know, I am trying to break into an industry where you are based on your dress size. Zero and negative digits are preferred, and you may be able to slide up to a size 2 or 4 if you are almost freakishly tall like me. But you are really pushing it at a size 4, especially in the modeling industry. However, if you are on the opposite end of the spectrum, you can be a “character” actor or a “plus size model” if you are overweight. Does this sound wrong to anyone else? What about us fluffy girls in the middle? Why do you have to be icky thin or overweight to get work in acting or modeling? Why can we not just be actors and models without the need of being either or on the dress size scale? We can act and model too god damn it. Give us a chance, and let us eat a damn cupcake without feeling guilty.
Would the world really end if there were a size 8 or 10 model in Vogue or she be the latest starlet? Me thinks not. In fact, I think the women of the world would rejoice in finally seeing someone who actually looks like them, and has a body type and size that is actually achievable. Now I know there are women out there that are naturally super skinny. However, they are an extreme minority and do not represent the rest of us who are just medium in size. Also, it is not a healthy thing to promote either extreme of skinny or overweight. Healthy should be promoted. Why is this something that the entertainment and modeling industry are so vehemently against?
I for one, who has major body issues and is in need of thousands of dollars worth of therapy to help address, would like to see some size 6-10s in magazines and the silver screen. I would like to see a girl with a little fluff and not have it be viewed as gross. Because whether we want to believe it or not, this does affect us all: men, women and children. It shows that only perfection will succeed, get the girl or boy, and that they are the only ones worth anything. When I do see an actress get butchered in the media for having gained a little weight, making her to be gross and less than for that minor little flaw, I cannot help but feel they are butchering me. Because even at her fattest, she is still thinner than me or most women I know or the same size. So if she is gross, what does that make us?
Hence, the fight for fluff, because fluffy girls need to work too.
Monday, May 10, 2010
Wednesday, March 31, 2010
A Part of Me Died on Monday :(
As you all have heard by now, Ricky Martin came out of the closet. Yes, this was not a surprise to all of you, but for some of us who have been living in the sweet denial that he was straight and we actually had a chance with him, it was a sad, sad day. We no longer have a chance with Ricky, but gay boys, rejoice, he is all yours. Be kind to him.
I still remember the day my cousin told me about this hot Latin guy named Ricky Martin, and had me listen to "La Copa de la Vida." I am not a fan of soccer, but that day I yelled goal. This is before his soaring fame in the U.S. and "Livin' La Vida Loca" infamy. He was our little secret, along with all of Latin America, and his sweet bon bon was all ours. He was our Elvis without the jumpsuit.
After that fateful Grammy performance in 1999, everyone had heard about Ricky Martin. From there on, he was everywhere. Including a live performance and signing at the previous Tower Records on Sunset Blvd. in Los Angeles. I had just moved to San Diego at the time, was unfamiliar with Southern California, and I was determined to meet my man.
I woke up uncharacteristically at 5 a.m. (I never woke up before noon if I did not have to) to get ready for the two hour drive to L.A. I get there safely and without trouble, and find the obvious line that was forming to meet him. Where did all of these bitches come from? Do they not know he is mine? After being herded into the parking lot to wait in line to see him, then began the wait. One hour. Two hours. Three hours. Four hours. Did I mention that it was a very hot day? Well, it was, and there was no water or food in sight. In fact, some people actually passed out from the heat, but I stood strong.
And then he came. Although he was several hours late due to interviews and needing to do some yoga, we still rejoiced! He was here! He was now going to sing for us! No he wasn't! Apparently, the sound system failed, and so said performance was now canceled. Dammit! It's okay I kept reminding myself, I am still going to meet him, and he will be entranced by my beauty and will pull me aside, after which he will fall madly in love and marry me. Yeah, it did not quite go as I imagined it.
So, after so many disappointments, and another two hours waiting in the sun to actually get inside and get his autograph, I am literally the next one in line at the door to be let in. I am reeling with excitement. This is it! I am finally going to meet him in person! My heart is beating, my stomach is fluttering, it's going to happen! No, not really! I was foiled yet again! What does the cat herder at the door tell me? He is not signing autographs anymore because he wants to meet everyone. NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!! I am the next person in line! You cannot do this to me!
Well, they did that to me. When it was finally my turn to go in, I was rushed through. "Go, go!" they were telling me. As I rushed through, they handed me a black and white photo of him with the autograph already imposed on it, a chain necklace that read "Loca" on it (which I still have), and then, there he was. He was a vision to behold. I can truly say he is the most beautiful man I have ever seen. So I walk up to the elevated table at which he was sitting to get my quick handshake, and he says to me, "Hola. Thank you for coming. Thank you so much for coming." I stare into his beautiful eyes, and all I can say to him before I was ushered out so the next bitch behind me can get her five second handshake was "ekh." Yes, I ekhed at him in disgust then walked away shaking my head in disappointment.
That was it! After a 10 hour freaking day, all I got was an hola and a bloody necklace?! As I stood outside the door, I stared at the photo and necklace in one hand, and then at my empty hand that touched Ricky. Damn it, I felt robbed. And that is exactly why I started yelling "all you get is this stupid necklace!" at people in line after I left. That they may as well not waste their time since you don't get to stand there, chat and take a picture with him. A necklace, a handshake and a don't let the door hit you in the ass on the way out.
After all of that, I still loved him. Loved him so much that I covered most of San Diego in a period of 40 minutes going to four different Ticket Masters to buy tickets to his concert in Portland, OR. But that is a different story.
So as you can see, I went to great lengths for Ricky Martin. This is why the news of his now confirmed homosexuality has hurt me so. Do not get me wrong, I love my gays, I am all for same-sex marriage, homosexuals serving in the military and having the same rights as everyone because damn it, we are all human. But why did Ricky have to be gay! Why? Oh well, somethings are just too beautiful and not long for this world, and I guess it is better knowing that since I cannot have him, no woman ever will. I will never be able to compete with a penis. But the loss of hope is devastating, and it will take me a while to get over this loss.
Ricky, if you read this, I still love you, and I wish you all the happiness in the world. But you owe me a proper meet and greet dammit.
I still remember the day my cousin told me about this hot Latin guy named Ricky Martin, and had me listen to "La Copa de la Vida." I am not a fan of soccer, but that day I yelled goal. This is before his soaring fame in the U.S. and "Livin' La Vida Loca" infamy. He was our little secret, along with all of Latin America, and his sweet bon bon was all ours. He was our Elvis without the jumpsuit.
After that fateful Grammy performance in 1999, everyone had heard about Ricky Martin. From there on, he was everywhere. Including a live performance and signing at the previous Tower Records on Sunset Blvd. in Los Angeles. I had just moved to San Diego at the time, was unfamiliar with Southern California, and I was determined to meet my man.
I woke up uncharacteristically at 5 a.m. (I never woke up before noon if I did not have to) to get ready for the two hour drive to L.A. I get there safely and without trouble, and find the obvious line that was forming to meet him. Where did all of these bitches come from? Do they not know he is mine? After being herded into the parking lot to wait in line to see him, then began the wait. One hour. Two hours. Three hours. Four hours. Did I mention that it was a very hot day? Well, it was, and there was no water or food in sight. In fact, some people actually passed out from the heat, but I stood strong.
And then he came. Although he was several hours late due to interviews and needing to do some yoga, we still rejoiced! He was here! He was now going to sing for us! No he wasn't! Apparently, the sound system failed, and so said performance was now canceled. Dammit! It's okay I kept reminding myself, I am still going to meet him, and he will be entranced by my beauty and will pull me aside, after which he will fall madly in love and marry me. Yeah, it did not quite go as I imagined it.
So, after so many disappointments, and another two hours waiting in the sun to actually get inside and get his autograph, I am literally the next one in line at the door to be let in. I am reeling with excitement. This is it! I am finally going to meet him in person! My heart is beating, my stomach is fluttering, it's going to happen! No, not really! I was foiled yet again! What does the cat herder at the door tell me? He is not signing autographs anymore because he wants to meet everyone. NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!! I am the next person in line! You cannot do this to me!
Well, they did that to me. When it was finally my turn to go in, I was rushed through. "Go, go!" they were telling me. As I rushed through, they handed me a black and white photo of him with the autograph already imposed on it, a chain necklace that read "Loca" on it (which I still have), and then, there he was. He was a vision to behold. I can truly say he is the most beautiful man I have ever seen. So I walk up to the elevated table at which he was sitting to get my quick handshake, and he says to me, "Hola. Thank you for coming. Thank you so much for coming." I stare into his beautiful eyes, and all I can say to him before I was ushered out so the next bitch behind me can get her five second handshake was "ekh." Yes, I ekhed at him in disgust then walked away shaking my head in disappointment.
That was it! After a 10 hour freaking day, all I got was an hola and a bloody necklace?! As I stood outside the door, I stared at the photo and necklace in one hand, and then at my empty hand that touched Ricky. Damn it, I felt robbed. And that is exactly why I started yelling "all you get is this stupid necklace!" at people in line after I left. That they may as well not waste their time since you don't get to stand there, chat and take a picture with him. A necklace, a handshake and a don't let the door hit you in the ass on the way out.
After all of that, I still loved him. Loved him so much that I covered most of San Diego in a period of 40 minutes going to four different Ticket Masters to buy tickets to his concert in Portland, OR. But that is a different story.
So as you can see, I went to great lengths for Ricky Martin. This is why the news of his now confirmed homosexuality has hurt me so. Do not get me wrong, I love my gays, I am all for same-sex marriage, homosexuals serving in the military and having the same rights as everyone because damn it, we are all human. But why did Ricky have to be gay! Why? Oh well, somethings are just too beautiful and not long for this world, and I guess it is better knowing that since I cannot have him, no woman ever will. I will never be able to compete with a penis. But the loss of hope is devastating, and it will take me a while to get over this loss.
Ricky, if you read this, I still love you, and I wish you all the happiness in the world. But you owe me a proper meet and greet dammit.
Monday, March 29, 2010
Chubby Side of Thin: My attempt at getting rid of 20 lbs of fluff via the model way.
First, a preface to those of you who have no idea what the hell I am talking about. I am on a mission to change referring to oneself as fat, to fluffy. Hence, fluff = fat. Fluffy just sounds nicer and more positive than fat. Just try it out. “I’m feeling fluffy,” “I’m having a fluff day.” Sounds cute and more positive, right? Also, fluffy is when you are not quite thin, but not fat. Yes, I know this seems like a contradiction, but at a certain point of weight, it is not fluff, and no matter what words you use it just is not cute. And it is my word, so I get to place rules of its usage as I please.
Fluffy is, as I refer to myself, being on the chubby side of thin. Do not confuse fluffy with poufy, which is a whole different state of being. Poufy is a nice way of saying bloated. Can you imagine having a fluffy poufy day? I have, and it is a recipe for disaster. But that is a whole different topic. Back to fluff.
For example, I have gained 20 lbs of fluff in the past couple of years. So I am not fat, but rather as aforementioned, on the chubby side of thin. I cannot fit comfortably into clothes that were once loose, and now I have a bloody muffin top. Now do not get me wrong, I am not on a roller coaster of self pity wanting compliments. Please do not tell me to love myself, because I do. That is why I am trying to make myself better. But this current state of fluff makes me want to cry and eat my feelings, but that is what got me into this current state to begin with.
So now, my only option is to try the model diet of not eating, with a few modifications. I know it is not really my ONLY option, but I hate sweating, so working out is out of the question at the moment. Deal with it. Also, buying a new wardrobe is also out of the question. I do not have the funds and will not reward weight gain in such a way. Besides, the model diet will not only allow me to fit in said clothes, but will save a ton on groceries and therefore allow me to buy something pretty.
So I am going to try to live on water, green tea, a fruit and/or a vegetable a day until I lose the fluff, with the occasional can of tuna or popcorn if I feel faint. Wish me luck. I know this might be more calories than the average model consumes and minus the cigarettes, but I do not want to be icky skinny, which is different than thin, yet again, a whole different topic.
And so today I embark on said model diet. Will I last? I hope so. Will it work? I hope so. Will I keep the weight off if it works? Probably not all of it, but that is what dieting all over again is for. Will I be cranky? Yes, yes I will, and I will probably cry a lot too. Should I just be happy with my body? Yes, but honestly, I just do not feel comfortable and simply feel better at a lower weight, and living in L.A. and trying to break into an industry where I am viewed as old and fat does not help either. I love how just getting on a plane to another city makes me young and thin again. Except when I go home and family is all too quick to point out that I have gained weight. And people wonder why I have body issues.
Fluffy is, as I refer to myself, being on the chubby side of thin. Do not confuse fluffy with poufy, which is a whole different state of being. Poufy is a nice way of saying bloated. Can you imagine having a fluffy poufy day? I have, and it is a recipe for disaster. But that is a whole different topic. Back to fluff.
For example, I have gained 20 lbs of fluff in the past couple of years. So I am not fat, but rather as aforementioned, on the chubby side of thin. I cannot fit comfortably into clothes that were once loose, and now I have a bloody muffin top. Now do not get me wrong, I am not on a roller coaster of self pity wanting compliments. Please do not tell me to love myself, because I do. That is why I am trying to make myself better. But this current state of fluff makes me want to cry and eat my feelings, but that is what got me into this current state to begin with.
So now, my only option is to try the model diet of not eating, with a few modifications. I know it is not really my ONLY option, but I hate sweating, so working out is out of the question at the moment. Deal with it. Also, buying a new wardrobe is also out of the question. I do not have the funds and will not reward weight gain in such a way. Besides, the model diet will not only allow me to fit in said clothes, but will save a ton on groceries and therefore allow me to buy something pretty.
So I am going to try to live on water, green tea, a fruit and/or a vegetable a day until I lose the fluff, with the occasional can of tuna or popcorn if I feel faint. Wish me luck. I know this might be more calories than the average model consumes and minus the cigarettes, but I do not want to be icky skinny, which is different than thin, yet again, a whole different topic.
And so today I embark on said model diet. Will I last? I hope so. Will it work? I hope so. Will I keep the weight off if it works? Probably not all of it, but that is what dieting all over again is for. Will I be cranky? Yes, yes I will, and I will probably cry a lot too. Should I just be happy with my body? Yes, but honestly, I just do not feel comfortable and simply feel better at a lower weight, and living in L.A. and trying to break into an industry where I am viewed as old and fat does not help either. I love how just getting on a plane to another city makes me young and thin again. Except when I go home and family is all too quick to point out that I have gained weight. And people wonder why I have body issues.
Friday, March 26, 2010
Well Hello: A Quick Introduction
Hello! My name is Yasmine (yes-meen), and I am a tall, Palestinian-American girl with a fro. The reason why it reads "Pali-American" is because blogspot does not give you enough characters so I had to shorten the title as best I could. I actually wanted the blog name to be "Musings of an Almost Freakishly Tall Palestinian-American Girl with a Fro," but it would not fit, so I did what I could.
So I am sure you are asking, "what constitutes almost freakishly tall?" Well my new hopefully loyal readers, I am just shy of six feet, but stand 6'3"-6'5" depending on the heels. Yes, I wear heels. Deal with it. Why should I deny myself fashion because you are uncomfortable with my being vertically blessed?
Moving right along. As also stated, I am Palestinian. So don't mess with me, we invented the suicide bomber. No, I'm just kidding! But really.
Now for the fro. I have super tight curly hair. Enough said.
So these blogs will be my musings on everything and anything that pops into my mind on any given day. From what I love, to what I hate. Like dirty feet. I HATE dirty feet. I mean really people, if you are going to expose your feet to the world, take a damn foot file and some soap to those nasty things you call your feet. But I digress.
I hope you enjoy my musings, and if you do, I hope that you will pass the word along. If you don't, well, too bad. I'm going to keep writing.
Toodles,
Yasmine
So I am sure you are asking, "what constitutes almost freakishly tall?" Well my new hopefully loyal readers, I am just shy of six feet, but stand 6'3"-6'5" depending on the heels. Yes, I wear heels. Deal with it. Why should I deny myself fashion because you are uncomfortable with my being vertically blessed?
Moving right along. As also stated, I am Palestinian. So don't mess with me, we invented the suicide bomber. No, I'm just kidding! But really.
Now for the fro. I have super tight curly hair. Enough said.
So these blogs will be my musings on everything and anything that pops into my mind on any given day. From what I love, to what I hate. Like dirty feet. I HATE dirty feet. I mean really people, if you are going to expose your feet to the world, take a damn foot file and some soap to those nasty things you call your feet. But I digress.
I hope you enjoy my musings, and if you do, I hope that you will pass the word along. If you don't, well, too bad. I'm going to keep writing.
Toodles,
Yasmine
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