Peripheral Vision, not Just for Perverts!

And...... I'm already a day late.
Hello August! Glad to see you, but I'm trying to get to October. No offense August, but you're hot and sticky; these are qualities I seek in a fresh baked pastry, not in my day to day living! Sorry August, but I am patiently waiting for October. It is just too damn HOT! The upside, August is the month to get kids out of the mall, out of our supermarkets, out of the movie theaters, off their handheld devices and back to school!!!
My son is twenty-three and no longer in school, but because I don't want to be the only Mother not raising her glass celebrating returning to the classroom, I plan on attending numerous Happy Hours throughout the month of August! Mothers Unite!!!
The upside of October? Cooler weather and Oktoberfest!!! I'm not an alcoholic, I just play one while blogging! Please...... I don't drink. I'm topless sober. No need to booze me up. I'd be the naked one in the corner, talking to people who really aren't there; attractive people of course.
(i hallucinate when i drink... and yes, that is the truth!)
As far as 'naked in the corner', my gym's scale is in the corner. Maybe they feel it offers a sense of privacy, for those who have the occasional 'is this flippin' scale broken' meltdown. I do gently step on three different times, then of course go with the lower of the three results shown. Sadly, very rarely does it vary. Whether I place left foot first, right foot first..... turn myself about..... The damn scale reads the same all three times.
I would love to weigh naked in the corner; I feel like I've gained at least 6 lbs. Besides, don't clothes and shoes weigh, like 15 lbs? Weighing naked would do one of two things for business... Vacate the property as though there was a bomb threat or...... Encourage members to stay longer, push harder and possibly not stare directly at me. It's all about peripheral vision, people! How else are we going to judge strangers and compare ourselves to others? It's all about the gift of peripheral!
I'll weigh in August 2nd! Yes, I'll wear clothes! Yes, I'll report back!
Happy August!!!

Hello Month Three of 2011

Work.... Grateful!
Schedule.... Demanding!
Family..... Missed!
Relationship...... Challenged!
Balances.......... Unpaid!
Friends............... Appreciated!
Stress........ Up!
Psoriasis......... Annoying!
Weight................ Down!
Gym......... Random!
Optimistic............... Always!
Sense of Self......... Improving!
Blogging........................Priceless!!!

March has only been here 9hrs (est) and I still have to look at both my phone and my computer to believe it's here at all! I'm not sure where January and February dissolved to, but no doubt, they are gone. I am welcoming March with open arms.
Inches are still gone and weight is still down. 216 is nothing to brag about. However, it's not 246 and... it is a process. Pepsi is still a must have, because me headaches/migraines dictate that it is. The good news: the Pepsi intake is decreasing!
The top was (and is) decreasing in size; I'm happy to report that the bottom half is finally starting to catch up! FINALLY!!! "Triangular" was not a good look for me!
This was just a little something to play catch-up by.
Looking forward to having more time next time.
What I've also been noticing.... which I knew all along...... Fat friends don't like fat friends losing weight. So, to that, I also should have posted:

Fat Friends....................... Cranky!
(yes, I chose 'cranky'. other words that came to mind were not lady-like)

Have a great third month of 2011......................... and don't be Cranky!

The Flat-Chested Triangle, a shape not yet sung about on Sesame Street!

So yes, I weighed in on the 21st of January. The scale made its way to 219.4.

However, here I am in the middle of a heavy period and I feel as though I weigh 246 once again. What a roller coaster! It's said that women are more moody and more emotional creatures then men... Gee, I wonder why?

Is it disrespectful that I'm wondering if my God isn't an overweight woman? I say this because, what I do know is that, at least among women, fat friends don't like their fat friends to lose weight! Sure, they smile and offer well wishes on the outside... if their Mothers' raised them right. But, on the inside, they're sitting in a Krispy Kreme having a major meltdown.

My weight is gradually coming down; the inches too, are also coming off. Inches off my bra size! This is NOT where I need the inches to come off! I do think my God is a fluffy female, because if I do put a few pounds back on, like this week for example, the inches don't return to the boobage. The inches always seem to find a new place to call home, on my ass. I look like a flat-chested, wide-load triangle. Just not as pointy. Only a fluffy female would do that to another fluffy female. If my God were a man, it would surely be the other way around. Most men like a bigger top and a smaller bottom. The best thing about my God? My God allowing me to have such a peculiar, borderline controversial, sense of humor.

I will make my God proud on Monday, January 31st, when my flat-chested, triangular body gets on the scale. Through this glorious period, may the three digits read 219 or less!!!

Extra Credit Points aren't Just for School!

Four days until Christmas, two days until my period... Calgon take me away! Some of you may not understand the Calgon statement; what can I say, YOUTUBE it!
The good news today is that I made my way to the gym, the bad news is that I passed the gym on my way to Dairy Queen! The best news of the day? Double Cheeseburger Meal was on promo for $3.99. I did substitute the fries with onion rings and yes, I loved every single delicious, calorie loaded, grease soaked bite!
My Mother raised a thoughtful woman though, as I passed by the gym, I waved and said, "Hello- I won't be in today." No, really I did.... complete with the cupped-hand, pageant wave. Well, I just figured I'd say the my "Hello" on the way to Dairy Queen because if I were to wave and say my "Hello" after Dairy Queen, my mouth would be full! My MaMa raised a lady, people!
Usually my fastfood choice for period week is McDonalds, but DQ was calling my name today! And it was flippin' delicious!!! No, I will not be in the gym today. Yes, I will be working out at home tonight! The music will be up and sweats will be on (complete with bandana- please see previous post for details)! Memories of my Dairy Queen fieldtrip will get me through my hour workout! And yes, I ordered a Coke! Not a Diet Coke... a Coke! Own your Double Cheeseburger Meal, people!!!
Dear Santa (per previous post), please allow me to revise; I would like Discipline..... and Calgon.... and 12 vouchers for a FREE Double Cheeseburger Meal at Dairy Queen to get me through each 'period week' in 2011!
You know, a few days ago I was behind a man, maybe mid twenties, in line at the grocery store. He was purchasing only two items: tampons and Advil. For whatever reason, he felt the need to share his thoughts, when he looked to me and said, "I don't think you ladies understand how hard it is for us guys to buy these things." Then I shared my thoughts on his 'purchase', by looking at him and saying, "Well, are you buying EXACTLY what she told you to? The least you could do is throw in a few of her favorite candy bars and a Cosmo magazine!" He said, "Really?" I said, "Well, extra credit points aren't just for school, you know! Besides, chocolate makes us happy and if she's reading a magazine she won't be bitching at you!"
Hopefully my couple of suggestions were taken as spontaneous and thoughtful on his part. And he may not know it yet, but in a week or two, he will reap the benefits of being so spontaneous and thoughtful. The Cosmo magazine he purchased was featuring several fascinating must reads: 'Make Him Grin and Bare It Tonight', '69 New Ways to Satisfy Your Man' and 'Clothing Optional Workouts for Couples.'
No doubt he won't mind buying her 'monthly essentials', in the future!

Two Full Plates, One Zipper Down and a Partridge in a Pear Tree!

On my Christmas Wish List this year: DISCIPLINE!
Dear Santa,
Please bring me discipline! I'll take it in a pill form, a nasty tasting beverage, intravenously or even as a suppository! I NEED discipline! I also need to be friends with people who suck at cooking and who suck even more at baking! I need to attend holiday gatherings where there was a kitchen fire and all that's being served, is burnt to a crisp! Where's the friend who bakes and confuses salt for sugar? I am friends with none of these people. Damn it!
Thank you for the invites and for encouraging me to have another serving at your yummy parties. Where everyone attending is doing the same thing.... eating, drinking and being merry!!! I'm unsure how many were doing what I was doing; hiding my unzipped pants under my lengthy, cozy turtleneck!
Tis the season to be challenged by the Holiday 7! It's said that the average American gains 7 lbs from November through the New Year; 7 lbs overall, not each month. Or each week, for that matter. So far, I've gained 1. ONE POUND! The good news? My bathroom time this season is reminding me that I am eating better. If you indulge in holiday goodies after spending months eating a much improved diet, you will be spending more time in the bathroom; with your body wondering, "What the hell did you feed me? What did I ever do to you?"
I'm due to start my period the 23rd. I'm confident to share that the Holiday 7 will be exceeded this week! Okay, maybe not. More water, less PMS cravings! There was a time that I would gain anywhere from 5-12 lbs the week of my period. But, maintaining a more disciplined diet that week specifically, has reduced the weight gain (which always vanished after the period anyway) to only about 3 lbs. And the horrid migraines I used to have monthly, are no longer monthly at all. Practically quarterly, maybe less!
This Holiday 7, is this the same for both men and women? Just seems like women would gain more than 7, at least 10! Typically, the women are the ones in the kitchen, taste-testing as they go. In general, women have little to no will power. Women also have more cravings than men, and more often than men. Men crave sex! Well, a meal that includes a piece of meat that Fred Flinstone would enjoy, and then sex! If women would crave sex more, and would satisfy that craving like she does a can of pringles.... craving: SATISFIED and potential weight issue: SOLVED!!!

Voluptuous Shoulders may be The Real Issue!

It's Wednesday, December 8th, and for almost a week now, I've considered blogging about my love/hate relationship with food, budget, weight gain, weight loss, cellulite, middle age spread, gravity, body image, self worth, confidence, stretch marks, the gym, the compliments, the suggestions, the excuses, the jealousy, the Krispy Kreme 'HOT' sign, walks with inclines (like my driveway and the walk to the mailbox), photographs representing who I was then... who I am now... and how much I've turned into my Mother. Through my 41st year, I would like to encounter a true sense of self. Well, a sense of self and a closet full of size 8's. Loose fitting 8's! EIGHT's! ATEs!
You may be wondering why an 8? Well, because I know with an improved diet and daily workouts; whether at the gym or just walking my driveway to get the mail, I know it's feasible. I just need to work in 3D; channeling Dedication, Discipline and Determination! I also know what I weigh, what I feel like and what I look like when I wear a size 8. Besides, I don't want my size to be in double digits.... well, except my bra size!
Did I mention I'm 5'2 1/2"? Yes people, almost 5'3"!!! I weigh more than most 6' athletes! I'd like to say it's all muscle, but, I think the numbers speak for themselves! My highest... 246lbs. My current... 226lbs. My goals... A size 8 (approx 125lbs) and A true sense of self (priceless)!
What you'll find through my daily journaling, rather blogging, is that I'm painfully honest. I'm so honest, you may ask that I start lying! What got me thinking about blogging on this specific subject is, The Biggest Loser. The Biggest Loser is taking applications for their next season. Though for a very brief second I considered applying to be on the show; I then thought of all the job applications I've submitted over the last year (since my job was eliminated in Jan of 2009 because of budget cuts), and the thought of being rejected AGAIN didn't interest me. Besides, I know how to lose the weight, I just don't work in 3D all the time. Maybe there should be a 4th D: Daily!
I'd have too many stipulations for The Biggest Loser. I wouldn't permit cameras to air me working out without a bandana on my head... thanks to a 1999 diagnosed hormonal disorder, my hair is quite THIN on top. Sure, the word 'thin' may come to mind when watching The Biggest Loser, but it shouldn't reference my sparse scalp. Also, I wouldn't want the viewers to be concerned for my raw, tomato-red face; believe me, someone will want to dial a hotline! I have rosacea, and when I work out hard, my face looks like someone left it under a broiler a little too long. OUCH for the viewers' eyes and OUCH for my face... it actually stings a little, too! The rosacea diagnosis was a 40th birthday present; didn't really care for that present, but unfortunately, it wasn't returnable. Lastly, I have psoriasis. My psoriasis was diagnosed in my early 30s. Though the psoriasis can be unsightly on the elbows (I could care less about that); it's under the nails. Having no medical insurance, I no longer take Enbrel. So, for now, the nails are no longer attached. For those that are still attached, they need to be kept super short; not to catch on anything, and painted with dark polish; to not make your belly queasy. (should be back on Enbrel within the month)
Why too much information? Here comes the honesty... being an obese contestant on The Biggest Loser wouldn't bother me.... being the obese contestant, with no hair, a raw red face and nail-less fingers... well, that would have me screaming for Dr. Phil and a bartender!
So, I chose to take this journey to improved health, weight loss and an overall better sense of self, via blogging! To vent, to be honest and to be held accountable; not only to those reading, but to myself!
Why start on a Wednesday? No sense in waiting for Monday! No sense in waiting for 2011! Besides, with the few lbs I've already lost, I got a very nice, but disturbing compliment today. "Are you losing weight, your shoulders look smaller?" I didn't know whether to laugh or cry. Did I have husky shoulders! Can we agree to maybe call them voluptuous shoulders? That (assumingly) heartfelt compliment, is why I decided to start the blog of honesty today! Maybe someone reading this blog, also has (unknowingly) voluptuous shoulders? This blog may inspire that person to acknowledge their plus size shoulder issue? Who in the world, compliments shoulder weight loss? One body part at a time, I guess!
Without the humiliation of failure, there is no greater incentive for success!

How Do You Spell the Word, What?

It's official! I have bypassed 'turning into my Mother' today, and have gone straight for the gusto, by 'turning into my Grandmother.'
I looked at my S.O. (Significant Other; as I affectionately refer to him, with only the best of acronyms), and asked, "How do you spell the word, What?" It was as though my S.O. and I had been married for 20 years when he replied, "What the hell are you talking about?" I said, "I thought I knew how to spell 'what', but it doesn't look right!" Then it seemed like we were having a Spelling Bee for Preschoolers in our living room. The result: I did spell 'what' correctly, it just didn't look right. My eyes are older and more goofy now. What can I say?
I am no longer my Mother; I am now my Grandmother. Well, except I'm alive. My Grandmother passed away a few years ago, but believe me, if she were alive today, she too, would be asking, "How do you spell the word, What?"
These ridiculous moments of foolishness are, in the Shannon Language, described as 'Kathy Moments' (my Mother) or 'Barbara-isms' (my late Grandmother, and Kathy's Mother) If you want to see horns grow on a woman, just reference her in any way shape or form back to her Mother. And only then, may God have mercy on your soul!
Awwwww..... family genes! Damn it!
Visiting my son recently, a sentence came so easily from his mouth; one that did not go over well with my ears. "You look like Grandma." Now, I know he didn't say, "You look like 'A' Grandma," but the thought of me not attending more Pilates Classes did cross my mind. I really wanted to just kick him in the teeth; but lucky for him, my stubby legs couldn't reach! My immediate second thought was, 'How the hell am I going to spank this 21 year old, almost 6', 200 lb jackass?' I never really spanked him as a child, and would you look how he's turned out? This offspring of mine just insulted me with the most vicious of words! I then, must have given him a look that I wanted to kick him in the teeth, because he urgently tried to redeem himself by adding, "Well, not all the time. Just right then. You only looked like Grandma for a second." What did he just say? (now my hearing is playing tricks on me) Did jackass just repeat himself with an encore of stupidity?
My horns came out so fast, the broomstick I normally ride, turned into a pitchfork! Just when I thought I would beat him with my broomstick, now I can jab at him with my pitchfork! I didn't need a Pilates Class for Pitchfork Jabbing! Now, if someone could just hold him still! My reflex's aren't what they used to be.
It's inevitable. We do resemble our breeders; from physical features and characteristics, to mannerisms and even dialect. I look like my Mother and my sister looks like my Father, just less masculine. (At least that's what I tell her)
We too, even jab at one another. Like when she said, "I'm glad I don't have Mom's ass." Then I reminded her, "Yeah, but you have Dad's chest!"
Thankfully, we both have a cents of humor!
('Cents' doesn't look right, but I spell checked it. Like I said, my eyes are older and more goofy now)

Hubba Bubba and Doc Baker

It was only when my Monday got away from me, and I was I sitting with a couple of girlfriends that evening, and I realized, 'I guess I can blog about anything.'
We weren't speaking ill of husbands, which is usually what happens when you get a few vaginas together. We weren't chatting about how children can suck both your energy and a few of your brain cells, so effortlessly and successfully. We were however, speaking of dentists, one mouth doctor, and gynecologists, the other mouth doctor...... come on people, they both say "open wide."
We found ourselves sharing phobias, terror in the chair and a gynecologists visit that went so wrong, you could only laugh. As that's all you could really do, because the thirty minute visit was so unprofessional, irresponsible and a farce of an appointment; that had I known what I was truly in-store for, I would have B.Y.O.B. Brought my own BArTeNdEr! And maybe even my own BoUnCeR!
I hadn't shared the experience in two years. At the time, the only person I shared the experience with, was the young lady I knew, whose work was affiliated with a local hospital, who seemed to have a great head on her shoulders, and who referred me to this doctor. The very dreaded, gynecologist.
Unlike most women, I don't mind the 'downstairs' doctor. He or she has attended medical school, can prescribe drugs, can deliver a new baby into the world and can keep my 'downstairs' healthy and in working order. I have a wonderful 'downstairs' doctor in Florida, but recently moving to Georgia, was shopping for a new one. Took the advice of a friend, as noted above. A 'downstairs' doctor is not someone you do business with based on a billboard or an ad in the yellow pages. You go to reputable friends and have them suggest reputable doctors. Although, what I learned with this experience, I should have checked my reputable friend's references.
Allow me to share my thirty minute appointment with you. Though I am one to embellish and even exaggerate, there was no embellishment or exaggeration needed with this 'story.' Sad but true!
I had just seen my doctor in Florida for my annual visit. We discussed heavy bleeding, he suggested a procedure where the inside of the uterus is burned a little bit to prevent such heavy bleeding. Or maybe we discussed roasting marshmallows, this has been almost 3 years ago, so I really don't remember. So, my doctor had suggested finding a local doctor, learn that doctor's opinion and go from there.
My visit started off like any other. I signed in, they took my license and insurance card, I filled out a book worth of paperwork, signed on the dotted line and waited. It should be acknowledged, from the initial phone call to the office, to the day I was now in the office, I shared many times (not to waste the doctor's time) that I had just seen my Florida doctor and I was there for a consultation and a possible second opinion.
The waiting room was standard, clean and loaded with every issue of Parents magazine. I noticed through a vertical glass panel of the office a very young assistant. I didn't know what her role was; I knew that she was in scrubs, looked young enough to have not even started her first period, yet was holding a clipboard. I can remember laughing to myself, wondering, 'since when do you need a clipboard to clean a doctor's office?' Well, five minutes later, with the most comical of irony, the scrub-wearing custodian must have gotten promoted, because she was now in the waiting room, calling my name to come on back. I'm walking beside her, wanting so desperately to ask, "is it bring your daughter to work day?" But, I couldn't say anything. I could only stare. Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail, she didn't look a day over fourteen and she seemed to be a little too happy. Annoyingly bubbly. We start with the blood pressure. She's asking me how my day was going, I was looking for hickeys on her neck. Blood pressure kind of high, no hickeys to be found. Now I notice she's chewing gum. Did she buy this with her allowance or her paycheck? She's taken my blood pressure and is about to record my weight, now I'm annoyed that she probably makes more than I do and got to work on her Huffy banana seat bike. There's no way she's old enough to drive. Then she asks me to get on the scale. My Hubba Bubba chewing, hickey-free, underage, money in the bank, cheerleader records my weight without laughing out loud, or batting an eye, and invites me to follow her back to a room. A room? What does this mean?
When you have your initial appointment with a gynecologist, there is always a consultation in their office. An office where you can view their medical degree, see family photos and maybe some artwork their child did in third grade. This is the only doctor's office where this takes place. There is no such consultation, or meet and greet, if you will, with any other doctor! As we were walking down the hall, I could tell there was not going to be such a meet and greet today. I could tell I was walking away from the welcoming zone. Several steps later, my Hubba Bubba princess opens the door, escorts me in and politely tells me the doctor will be in soon. She asks me to put the gown on, open in the front, and leaves. Just as I'm thinking, 'I'm here for a consultation,' I notice my room. My exam room. My suite. My suite was unlike any other. If I had an iphone back then, I would have taken several pictures for evidence. It's amazing what a woman who is expected to be naked in five minutes can notice in five minutes. The room was the size of an exam room, but with no exam room features. No pictures of newborns on the wall. No silk flower arrangements in sight. No small boxes of tissues to be seen. Most importantly, no screen or divider, no curtain, no separate room, no nothing for one to change. Believe me I looked. And when I looked, that's when I realized where I was. I was in a storage room, that just happened to have an exam table. There were many machines in the room, a filing cabinet and white walls with nothing but a diagram of a vagina you may have caught in Health Class. Not that all storage rooms have a diagram of a vagina in them, but I know a storage room when I see one. I was in a storage room. Any second a man who I have never met, will be in and is expecting me to be naked, wearing a worn hospital gown that never closes properly in front.... and I'm still dressed. And there's nowhere to change. And I'm pretty sure Ashton Kutcher is going to walk in any moment with a camera crew, letting me know I've been 'punk'd.' And, I would welcome him. I would welcome Ashton with a hug, because there is no other logical explanation as to why this is happening to me. But, I can't think about hugging Ashton now, I need to remove all clothing and get into the generic gown, like ten minutes ago. Hubba Bubba and Doc Baker (yes, that's a Little House on the Prairie reference) will be in any second. The only thing that would make this more uncomfortable is if Bubba and Baker walk in, mid-change. Or so I thought!
I've made my way through the clutter and am now on the exam table, very upset that I shaved. Not that the gynecologist caresses your legs anyway, but with today's events, it would have been nice that if he actually bumped into me, I would have cut him with my leg stubble. Damn it, I shouldn't have been so thoughtful!
He knocks (I'm shocked) and enters. Hubba Bubba in tow, clipboard and all. He shakes my hand, introduces himself and is seemingly polite. Draped in my open gown, I briefly reiterate that I was there for a consultation and had just had my 'annual' a month ago. We chat about the heavy bleeding, the recommendation and the fact I was seeking a local doctor. I did neglect to tell him I would still be seeking a local doctor after this visit.
Always the next sentence to hear, "Well, let's take a look." Hubba Bubba was off to my left, several feet over and my doctor for the day, Doc Baker was just about to start a breast exam... for my consultation.... for my heavy bleeding........ Where the hell are my BaRtEnDeR and BoUnCeR? Anyway, right boob pops out; more like falls out, and Hubba Bubba looks straight up to the ceiling, as if she just saw a shooting star. My hickey-free cheerleader couldn't even make eye contact with raw boob number one. She was uncomfortable and I'm sure was in some slight neck pain based on how fast she looked up when the boob fell out. Right boob isn't even the big boob, left boob, will undoubtedly put her in therapy! Thank God for my peripheral vision, but still waiting for Ashton Kutcher to arrive. Boobage good, now Doc Baker continues his exam 'downstairs.' Luckily, if Bubba stays where she is, the only thing she's going to view is side thigh cellulite. I wanted to tell her, "Stay Bubba, stay!" Doc Baker agrees with Florida doctor to procedure to prevent monthly hemorrhaging. While still stationed 'downstaris' he asked me something, and I made the mistake of looking up when answering. I now realize I have a height preference for 'downstairs' doctors. I looked up, but I didn't see him. I saw the top of his nose and his eyes. No mouth, no chin, no shoulders, no chest. He's too short to be a doctor, at least a 'downstairs' doctor. Was he sitting on a stool? I know when he walked in, I was the taller of us. I also know I was on an exam table. But, he was short. So short that all I did see was his head, and only part of it. Which took me back to birthing videos, when for the first few minutes of birth, all you see is a head. Here I am answering this doctor's question and all I see is half head. Next uncomfortable thought, 'so this is what I would look like giving birth to adult human head.'
He needed to stand up! Or buy some shoes with lifts, or heals! I need to close my legs, get dressed and get out! I am happy to report that when my Florida doctor asks a question, I can see his head, his shoulders and his chest and I have no notions of giving birth to an adult human head.
In sharing this very true story with the few people I have, the same question is always asked, "Why didn't you leave?" And to that I answer, "Are you f***ing kidding me!!!" I had to see what was going to happen next. Train wreck from the time I walked in, to the time I left. I wasn't in any danger. It was surreal and I wasn't about to cut my visit short. No way!!! I was not going to be rattled by Bubba and Baker!!! I paid the co-pay and left.
The office called a couple weeks after, asking if were interested in making an appointment for the procedure; I never laughed so hard in my life! Went on to explain that I would never return to their office and said several curse words, both old and new, in the process. After telling this story to the woman who referred me, she was stunned, horrified and embarrassed. She tells me she's always been in an exam room, with tissues and flowers and newborn photos on the wall. Well just rub it in, why don't you! When I asked about Hubba Bubba, my 'friend' later learned and shared with me, that Hubba Bubba was Doc Baker's daughter, she was seventeen and she was going to nursing school. The woman who called me back regarding a future appointment was his wife, she works in the office as well.
So, i guess it's, bring your family to work day... Everyday!
Even living in Georgia, I still visit Florida to see family, friends, and my outstanding, and tall; Bubba-free, 'downstairs' doctor!!!
Even if my all girl parts fall on the floor tomorrow, I would pick them up, pack them up and we'd be on our way to Florida! Maybe stopping for a few travel necessities, Slim Jims, bottled water, a Whatchamacallit and a pack of Hubba Bubba!

Three Pairs of Jeans and a Fluffy Cashier!

As I work my way into my 40th year, I'm noticing it's like working your way into a pair of jeans that just came out of the hot dryer, the day you've started your period! You knew it was coming, you wish you were better prepared and you're regretting inhaling that bag of potato chips yesterday! You now have beads of sweat forming in a variety of places, desirable and not, because you're doing the "i think i can" dance to get into a pair of jeans that clearly should have been 'line' dried and not 'dryer' dried! I'm not saying you need to get a clothesline for that time of the month. Do what I do, throw the washed jeans over the bars of your treadmill. The jeans will keep your other 'treadmill clothes' company.
Where are your period jeans? If you wear a size 12, smart women of all ages know that you should have a size 14 on standby. These are your Period Jeans! Don't forget about your Low Self Esteem Jeans, these are the size 16 you should have on standby! Let's be honest, period or no period, we all have fat days! You take your 'fat day' size 12, jump into the Low Self Esteem size 16.... and the compliments are never ending!!! "Wow, you've lost weight!" "You look amazing!"
You will feel light as a feather, I guarantee it!
Although, I will tell you... when you're purchasing a pair of size 12, 14 and 16 jeans simultaneously, the cashier does tend to give you a questionable look. My suggestion: throw in a pregnancy test for good measure! Then just make small talk, "I hope it's a girl!" Obviously, this only applies if you're buying jeans at Target or Walmart. Last I knew, they didn't sell pregnancy tests at Macy's. If you're shopping for your three pairs of jeans where there are no pregnancy tests, don't panic, just purchase individually. It is more time consuming, but you'll save yourself the questions the inquiring cashier would ask. Well, unless she's on the fluffy side. The fluffier cashier would probably appreciate the three-jean-tip!!!
I hope you appreciated this tip!!! You're welcome!
And no... the 40's aren't so bad.... you just have to have the right attitude AND the right pair of jeans AND a treadmill!!!

"Blogging for Dummies" leads to a 'road-walker' make-over on Oprah

There is no doubt that there is a thick, bright yellow book waiting for me at Barnes & Noble titled, "Blogging for Dummies." I, however, will chance it. I will make do, without. I will attempt to make ALL of my English teachers proud of me; my eleventh grade Journalism teacher as well. Besides, I'd rather not part with the assumed asking price of $19.95. Instead, I will 'wing it!' Those who may not be familiar with the term 'wing it,' please refer to "Slang for Dummies." No, nothing to do with a bird; that would be located in yet another, bright yellow book, "Inappropriate Hand Gestures for Dummies."
So, Where to begin? I have NO idea! Do I blog about funny things, sad things, honest things, happy things, depressing things, friends I love, friends who are no longer friends; or maybe, family members I'd rather not claim? Do I blog about sex, weight, money, vacations, bad habits, embarrassing moments, food, hobbies, relationships, health; or, what about love? Do I blog about strangers who walk along the side of the road, and based on their tan and the look of dehydration, have been walking awhile? Should I confess to you, that on more than one occasion, I thought of pulling over and asking, "Where are you going?" Actually, here we are, only the second paragraph in, and I'm lying to you. I wouldn't ask, "Where are you going?" I think I would ask, "How did you get here?" I know I would NOT ask the very obvious, "Don't your feet hurt?" That's just rude! But seriously, where is he going? How did he get 'here'? Does he have family? And most importantly, how much farther is he going to walk? I get sweaty and struggle to walk level one on the treadmill for twenty minutes, and it seems he's been walking for hours, if not days. I don't think he imagined that for himself. I don't think when his third grade teacher asked, "What are you going to be when you grow up?" his response was, "A thirsty, tan, road-walker." Forgive me, "road-walker" just sounds cuter than "homeless." There's nothing 'cute' about being homeless; about being a road-walker.
The most bizarre thoughts run through my mind though. Like, 'Wow, he's Tan!' You can never go wrong with a bronzed body! Well, except for the skin cancer. Of course, then I start thinking... 'Okay, he's a road-walker, I doubt he has Blue Cross. Not only does he need a ride, some money, food and water; what he really needs is sunscreen!' Next bizarre thought, 'Nice body!' He seems to be in great shape. Look at the work-out he's getting, extensive cardio and weight lifting. He's carrying what looks to be a pretty full backpack. Based on the size of the body he's chopped up, Lord only knows the weight of that backpack. I almost got in an accident last week when I found myself doing 13mph in a 55mph. I was trying to get a better look at a road-walker's face. No doubt, a semi-attractive road-walker can cause some accidents, people! But, with a soap filled shower, a haircut and a shave; I often wonder if the road-walker I pass today is going to be Oprah's 'make-over' success story tomorrow?
The lengths that people will go through to be on Oprah!