I grew up in a house where structure was more important than sensation. Was it dinner time? No? Then I was most definitely not hungry, even if I felt very hungry.
At the beginning of 2021, I began the process of learning about intuitive eating, a way of thinking about food and fullness that essentially says: the body knows what’s up, don’t fuck with it. If you’re hungry, eat.
Of course this is oversimplifying, especially if you, like me, were not raised to think the body itself had much to tell. I’ve been really lucky to work with two great folks, Jenny Weinar of Home Body Therapy and Heather Rudalavage of Intuitive Nutrition. They’re both based in Philly, but I believe work with people everywhere thanks to the pandemic.
My nutritionist gave me a list of adjectives to tape on the fridge to run through when I’m standing there. Do I want salty, creamy, hot, cold, crunchy, soft? You’re a writer, she said. You get the point.
Relatedly, snacking is a foreign country that I am not used to visiting yet my food people have been strongly advising I take up residence there. But inevitably there’s also writing and teaching and side hustles and friends and parents and walks to take, so the best way I’ve come up with to work AND snack is the Giant Bag of Stuff. Here’s my current recipe: 1 part rice chex, 1 part mini pretzels, 1 part honey roasted peanuts, 1 part peanut m&ms, ½ part sweetened sour cherries. Shake.
Some folks last time were a little confused about what this newsletter would actually be going forward, my bad! So this is what the paid subscription to Frump Feelings will be like (thank you so much to those who are already on board, I’m so appreciative) and you’re getting this first one even if you’re a free subscriber. After this, to stay in touch every two weeks and read original stories and art, hit the buttons below.
Eh? Maybe.
OK here we go!
I’m interested in writing and reading that is ABOUT pleasure, especially in ways that don’t involve rape, murder and violence (I wrote a book about all these things and maxed out on them, sorry!). I’m excited to try out a model built around pleasure and the delicious pain of waiting—an original story, told serially, aka dosed out in small parts over time as if I think I’m Dickens.
His stories were printed in pieces of about 5,000 words, but people didn’t have the internet then so I’m going to give you around 500 words at a time.
This week is the beginning, Chapter 1, of a story called “The Purple Cow.” Today’s installment is about Kate the Pig, illustrated by the miraculous Steve Teare.
The Purple Cow
Chapter 1: Kate the Pig
Once upon a time, there was a fat frumpy queer pig named Kate who lived in a group house in West Philadelphia with four roommates. There was Otto, a slick gay boy otter who did photography and was in a throuple with two chickens famous around the neighborhood because they were hot and owned an urban farm that sold wild flowers and high quality dairy cream. There was Theresa, a svelte owl with excellent glasses and the finest femme fashions, sequins embroidered along her feathers and hand-knitted socks on her feet. There was Ace, a nonbinary raccoon with shockingly dexterous hands who was usually found in the house’s unfinished basement whittling a spoon or arranging a small jar of wildflowers. Finally, there was Tom, a short badger who helped everyone with their websites outside of his day job working for Comcast.
The house that Kate and friends lived in was owned by a slumlord named Walter Wolf Jr, and whenever they called him about the laundry machine overflowing or a flare up in the ant infestation, they were transferred three times before being disconnected. It was usually Theresa or Tom who called, since they were the most responsible. Sometimes it was Otto. It was rarely Ace. And it was never Kate.
The house was called The Purple Cow, after the only ice cream flavor they could agree upon. Ace foraged a scrap of wood from one of the pallets discarded by the nearby gentrification pizza shop and woodburned the name into it.
You have a woodburner? Kate asked.
Obviously, Ace said. How else do you think I made that clean/dirty sign for the dishwasher? Or that all gender sign for the second floor bathroom?
Wow, Kate said. I just thought you got those on Etsy.
Ace brought their dark leathered hands to their snout and sighed.
Kate got her cream from Otto’s boyfriends’ farm and then turned it into ice cream, a process she usually did on Sunday mornings while swiping on Tinder. It seemed she had run through all the queers in Philadelphia and most in southern and central New Jersey too.
It was a thing to Tinder while fat, an extra layer of difficulty you might say. Kate had always been fat, properly fat. Most days now, she woke up, looked in the mirror and felt only lightly bad to neutral about her side stretch marks, her stomach that extended over her upper vagina area in an interesting arc, and her extra fur around her chest and neck. She had grown used to it. She had changed, and her eyes had changed with her.
Put-ta-ta, ta-ta-ting! Came the twinkly sound of a new Tinder match, with all its horizontal momentum.
It was a fox she didn’t remember swiping on, small and sleek, leaning against a bicycle in their photo. Name: Danny.
Hi Kate, the fox wrote. You sure are beautiful.
Kate the Pig