I was out shopping today looking for new work clothes. For the first time, I figured I would venture from the junior section and try out the women’s department. Upon my arrival to the dark side, I realize with such resounding clarity why women have such terrible self images. It totally starts at the department stores!
I first went to the petite department. This is apparently where little people buy their clothing. I swear, Santa’s elves would have a tough go trying to find clothes in that section – they are so small! This section is dedicated to doll clothes – complete with frills, bows, lace and many other intricate details. I tried on a pair of slacks and they were perfect. As shorts. This was clearly not the Dacia department. I wandered a little further.
The next department was the WOMEN’s section. I capitalize because unlike the petite section, the WOMEN’s section has nothing frilly or intricate about it. The word WOMEN is prominately displayed on the biggest wall. Apparently, you are not a WOMAN until you have shopped in this area. It’s all about getting your WOMAN ass into some clothes. Period. The junior department is just looking friendlier by the minute. I decide to try on some pants.
I find my size, on sale, and head to the dressing room. Now, I am a junior size 7 so I choose a WOMAN size 8. Junior sizes are odd and WOMAN sizes are even numbers. I round up to give myself beer drinking room. Now, in the junior section, I think they assume all juniors are around 5’5”. Well, in the WOMEN section, they assume after 7th grade you’ll hit another growth spurt and shoot up about another 15 feet and therefore your pants need to be extra long. I am not a tall woman, but I’m not a little person either. These pants must have had a good extra two feet tacked onto the end of them. Great, I think, not so much of a “sale” when I have to pay to have the damn things tailored.
I decide to buy the long pants because I need them. As I make my way to pay for my find, I realize that in the front of the store is the plus size section. Now, I am sure that every woman who is overweight just loves to go to the front of this effing store to go through the tents that they have displayed on hangers. The clothing in this section isn’t even pretty! Do these idiots think if you’re overweight you don’t want to look good? I tell you, only a man would come up with this marketing strategy. To top it off, the women in the life size displays are about a size 10. When did a 10 become a plus size?? Isn’t this America? I thought we were all overweight?
I pick my jaw up off the floor where it fell and pay for my incredibly long pants. I then contemplate my adventure outside of the junior department. I see how women learn to hate their image and it all starts in the department store. I am never shopping in the WOMAN section again. I am going to hang on to being a junior as long as I can.
Sunday, October 9, 2011
Saturday, October 8, 2011
Cha-Cha-Cha Changes
I was having a conversation with my vodka cranberry and decided it was time that I start to make some changes in my life. Of course, my glass of yummy-ness made me promise not to switch to whiskey and I promised I wouldn’t. Besides, do I look like a middle-aged man to you? What kind of woman drinks whiskey? Probably the same kind of woman who wears tree camouflage and has Copenhagen stress marks in the back pockets of her Carhartts.
First things first, I needed to hit the gym more often or quit eating cookies on the half-hour marks. I already spend an hour a day at the gym so it must be the cookies that make my physique look more meatball-ish. Time to scratch the cookies. Damn.
Next were the clothes that I seem to just jam myself into on the weekends. I don’t know why, but I hate getting dolled up on days that start with ‘S’. It is true that sexy starts with S but so does slob and being a slob is so much easier than sexy. Besides, my boobs need a rest from being jammed up to my chin all week. The poor girls are so scared to come down Friday night that it takes them until Sunday to finally relax. Nevertheless, I need to start paying more attention to my clothing choices on the weekends. That’s really the only time the outside world sees me. Time to get a credit card.*
Next, my brain needed some more intelligent activity. My chick lit novels and rag magazines are doing me no favors in the brilliant department. I need to start watching the news and occasionally pick up a newspaper. I was so shocked when just last week I figured out that Osama Bin Laden died. Like where the hell was I when that went down?! I hope to God I was doing something important like feeding orphan children. Based on my normal routine, I was probably tanning or getting my nails done. Time to subscribe to a newspaper.
Finally, I need to make some new friends. My old friends are fabulous but they’re tired of my lazy ass not returning calls, failing to show up at events and overall being a crappy friend. However, new friends won’t have a clue as to how slothful I truly am so I’ll have a clean slate. I don’t really know where to find new friends and the last time I was at Trader Joe’s, no one seemed particularly interested in getting to know me. Add, ‘Become a more interesting person’ to my list.
As I re-read over this blog, I thoughtfully chew my double chocolate chip cookie and wonder if maybe everyone else is changing and I refuse to grow up. I couldn’t imagine how this could be the case. Maybe after I get my new credit card, I’ll pick up a few self-help books and check things out.
In the meantime, I should probably just stay who I am and start drinking double vodka cranberries instead of singles. That seems like a healthy enough change to me!
*I hope like hell that my dad isn’t reading this. I may be 29 years old, but he told me that I wasn’t allowed to have credit cards and I’ve stuck it out this far…maybe he’ll let me use his…hmm….
First things first, I needed to hit the gym more often or quit eating cookies on the half-hour marks. I already spend an hour a day at the gym so it must be the cookies that make my physique look more meatball-ish. Time to scratch the cookies. Damn.
Next were the clothes that I seem to just jam myself into on the weekends. I don’t know why, but I hate getting dolled up on days that start with ‘S’. It is true that sexy starts with S but so does slob and being a slob is so much easier than sexy. Besides, my boobs need a rest from being jammed up to my chin all week. The poor girls are so scared to come down Friday night that it takes them until Sunday to finally relax. Nevertheless, I need to start paying more attention to my clothing choices on the weekends. That’s really the only time the outside world sees me. Time to get a credit card.*
Next, my brain needed some more intelligent activity. My chick lit novels and rag magazines are doing me no favors in the brilliant department. I need to start watching the news and occasionally pick up a newspaper. I was so shocked when just last week I figured out that Osama Bin Laden died. Like where the hell was I when that went down?! I hope to God I was doing something important like feeding orphan children. Based on my normal routine, I was probably tanning or getting my nails done. Time to subscribe to a newspaper.
Finally, I need to make some new friends. My old friends are fabulous but they’re tired of my lazy ass not returning calls, failing to show up at events and overall being a crappy friend. However, new friends won’t have a clue as to how slothful I truly am so I’ll have a clean slate. I don’t really know where to find new friends and the last time I was at Trader Joe’s, no one seemed particularly interested in getting to know me. Add, ‘Become a more interesting person’ to my list.
As I re-read over this blog, I thoughtfully chew my double chocolate chip cookie and wonder if maybe everyone else is changing and I refuse to grow up. I couldn’t imagine how this could be the case. Maybe after I get my new credit card, I’ll pick up a few self-help books and check things out.
In the meantime, I should probably just stay who I am and start drinking double vodka cranberries instead of singles. That seems like a healthy enough change to me!
*I hope like hell that my dad isn’t reading this. I may be 29 years old, but he told me that I wasn’t allowed to have credit cards and I’ve stuck it out this far…maybe he’ll let me use his…hmm….
Wednesday, October 5, 2011
Trader Joe's and PMS
PMS is a crazy place. Men could probably equate this to 90% of the cazy things they get involved in. Strange things happen during this hormonal hot spot in the month and I never seem to escape it. It’s like this super human force takes over my brain and suddenly I’m a hot mess and can’t figure out why I hate everyone and find them all so annoying. Then, as soon as I realize that I’ve been taken over, I cry profusely and beg forgiveness from everyone I know. This is probably the only unattractive aspect about me – and I mean only.
Needless to say, on Sunday, I woke up bright eyed and bushy tailed starving for cornbread. It couldn’t be just any cornbread either. It had to be from Trader Joe's. So after much deliberation, pacing the kitchen floor and a bag of cookies later, I decide that it’s high time I jump into my best track suit and head into the city. Well... Olympia... but you get the idea. I’m in a TRACK SUIT for crying out loud – and it’s not even 1970.
During my 20-minute drive I mentally map where I need to go while I am in town. I knew I needed to go to Trader Joe's, the tanning salon, and Office Depot to have some scanning done. The only real ‘chore’ that I enjoy doing is anything that makes me more attractive. (For a brief listing of these services please see footnote.*) So I decided I would save the best for last – tanning! Yay!
I pull into the parking lot of Trader Joe's and as I am locking my vehicle, I notice that Mr. and Mrs. Granola and their two kids - Trail and Mix - are starting at me. I give myself the once over in the reflection of my car. Best black track jacket? Check. Sweats to match with a bedazzled leg and bottom? Check. Make-up caked on so no one realizes it was leftovers from last night? Check. Cross necklace? Check (um, hello Granola family…It’s Sunday! Represent some Jesus wouldja?). Platform Guess flip flops? Check.** Hoop earrings and bling ring? Check!+
I couldn’t understand why that odd little family looked at me so strangely until I crossed the threshold of Trader Joe's. Almost instantly everyone turned to look at me - I was the Snooki in the land of organic eating dirt worshippers. I could feel the heat rise to my cheeks and my bronzer melt from my forehead. I needed to get out of this place and quick! Who knew what crazy ideas they wanted me to try. I quickly scanned the isles and as my nerves rose, so did my frustration. Where was this damn box of bread already?!
Finally a kind woman with wonderfully flowing armpit hair rustled up a gentleman who would go into the depths of the backroom farm to fish out my box of heaven. He was back behind the double doors for minutes too long. The stares kept coming and at one point, a little girl tugged on her amish mother’s skirt and whispered, “Why is she so orange?” I couldn’t hate on the little one until her beastly mother replied, “that’s what happens when you do drugs – you turn orange.” I would have loved to have stepped into that conversation and tell the little munchkin and her witch mother that what really happens when you do drugs is that you have the time of your life, flying high, dancing like it’s nobody’s business, and you wake up pool side to a plastic flamingo with your best girlfriend heaving chunks of Jack in the Box in a bush. But! I clearly was scary enough for these two little angels…they walked away quickly after my menacing stare.
Finally DJ Quick decided to come back out…empty handed. “I’m sorry miss. The truck won’t be in until this afternoon.”
Before I let the tears cascade down my little bronzed face and mess up my eyeliner, I said, “What does that mean exactly?”
He told me they were out of cornbread. Remember, this was my only reason for living on Sunday.
I quickly left the strange land of naturalists and was so saddened at the travesty our grocery stores have come to. Really, what is the purpose of even having a Trader Joes when there’s no cornbread or two buck chuck? I drug my track suited self to the tanning salon and quietly shed my tears as the heated lamps dried the saddness away.
*Facials, waxes, manicures, pedicures, massage, tanning, weight lifting, cardio, clothes shopping, shoe shopping, bikini shopping, car shopping, haircuts, colors, foils, extensions, buying push-up bras, high heel shopping, make-up…I think you get the general idea here.
**My track pants are too long so it was either platform flops or stilettos and it was church day.
+It was my lucky ring and I was definitely gonna hit some slots on the way home.
Needless to say, on Sunday, I woke up bright eyed and bushy tailed starving for cornbread. It couldn’t be just any cornbread either. It had to be from Trader Joe's. So after much deliberation, pacing the kitchen floor and a bag of cookies later, I decide that it’s high time I jump into my best track suit and head into the city. Well... Olympia... but you get the idea. I’m in a TRACK SUIT for crying out loud – and it’s not even 1970.
During my 20-minute drive I mentally map where I need to go while I am in town. I knew I needed to go to Trader Joe's, the tanning salon, and Office Depot to have some scanning done. The only real ‘chore’ that I enjoy doing is anything that makes me more attractive. (For a brief listing of these services please see footnote.*) So I decided I would save the best for last – tanning! Yay!
I pull into the parking lot of Trader Joe's and as I am locking my vehicle, I notice that Mr. and Mrs. Granola and their two kids - Trail and Mix - are starting at me. I give myself the once over in the reflection of my car. Best black track jacket? Check. Sweats to match with a bedazzled leg and bottom? Check. Make-up caked on so no one realizes it was leftovers from last night? Check. Cross necklace? Check (um, hello Granola family…It’s Sunday! Represent some Jesus wouldja?). Platform Guess flip flops? Check.** Hoop earrings and bling ring? Check!+
I couldn’t understand why that odd little family looked at me so strangely until I crossed the threshold of Trader Joe's. Almost instantly everyone turned to look at me - I was the Snooki in the land of organic eating dirt worshippers. I could feel the heat rise to my cheeks and my bronzer melt from my forehead. I needed to get out of this place and quick! Who knew what crazy ideas they wanted me to try. I quickly scanned the isles and as my nerves rose, so did my frustration. Where was this damn box of bread already?!
Finally a kind woman with wonderfully flowing armpit hair rustled up a gentleman who would go into the depths of the backroom farm to fish out my box of heaven. He was back behind the double doors for minutes too long. The stares kept coming and at one point, a little girl tugged on her amish mother’s skirt and whispered, “Why is she so orange?” I couldn’t hate on the little one until her beastly mother replied, “that’s what happens when you do drugs – you turn orange.” I would have loved to have stepped into that conversation and tell the little munchkin and her witch mother that what really happens when you do drugs is that you have the time of your life, flying high, dancing like it’s nobody’s business, and you wake up pool side to a plastic flamingo with your best girlfriend heaving chunks of Jack in the Box in a bush. But! I clearly was scary enough for these two little angels…they walked away quickly after my menacing stare.
Finally DJ Quick decided to come back out…empty handed. “I’m sorry miss. The truck won’t be in until this afternoon.”
Before I let the tears cascade down my little bronzed face and mess up my eyeliner, I said, “What does that mean exactly?”
He told me they were out of cornbread. Remember, this was my only reason for living on Sunday.
I quickly left the strange land of naturalists and was so saddened at the travesty our grocery stores have come to. Really, what is the purpose of even having a Trader Joes when there’s no cornbread or two buck chuck? I drug my track suited self to the tanning salon and quietly shed my tears as the heated lamps dried the saddness away.
*Facials, waxes, manicures, pedicures, massage, tanning, weight lifting, cardio, clothes shopping, shoe shopping, bikini shopping, car shopping, haircuts, colors, foils, extensions, buying push-up bras, high heel shopping, make-up…I think you get the general idea here.
**My track pants are too long so it was either platform flops or stilettos and it was church day.
+It was my lucky ring and I was definitely gonna hit some slots on the way home.
Sunday, July 24, 2011
Damaged Merchandise
My husband, Mitch*, really likes new things. I mean, who doesn’t? However, he takes it to a whole new level. I have never met anyone who purposely ruins perfectly good products just so he can buy new. Yet, when it comes to clothes, they practically rot off the hanger before he shops for new.
Today, I woke up to the sun shining in my face and the sound of the sprinkler watering the back yard. Oh shoot! I was supposed to turn that off. Hold please! Alright, I am back. That really irks me. I am the one who pays the water bill. Anyhow…As I was saying, the morning was tranquil. I felt a warm body next to me and as I closed my eyes, I rolled over to snuggle into my lover. As soon as I felt the dog licking my face, I was suddenly transported back to reality. There was no lover in my bed. It was my lab, waiting for me to get up. Hung-over, I padded into the kitchen to make myself some coffee. Mitch is moving about the house at break-neck speed which can only mean two things:
• He wants to get out of the house to go buy something before I wake up;
• Or, he hooked up with the friendly neighborhood dope dealer and is hopped up on coke.
Since he has random drug testing at work, I assume shopping. I ask where he is going and the following dialogue ensues:
“Goin’ to Sears to take back the patio umbrella.”
Let’s pause here and reflect to an earlier part of this story where I state that he “purposely ruins perfectly good products just so he can buy new”. This is the case with the umbrella. We purchased a new patio set last summer at the end of the season**but waited to buy the umbrella. This year, at the start of summer, we bought the umbrella and promptly brought it home and opened it above the patio set. It’s never been closed or brought inside. I told Mitch on several occasions that we needed to take it down when it got windy so that it didn’t take flight and leave us for the neighbors house. On one such occasion, the umbrella did take off and took the table and all of the tiles down with it. I reminded him yet again that it would be wise if we stored it.
I am sure that most of you who are reading this think, why don’t you do it? Are your arms broken? Indeed they are. Enough said. I don’t do anything that involves the outdoor work of home ownership. This is why I am married. It was cheaper to marry than hire a landscape architect.
So during the last minor windstorm we had, the open umbrella snapped in half and is now broken because he neglected to care for it properly. Now that you know the back story, we return to the dialogue:
“Mitch, you can’t take back an umbrella when it’s our fault that it’s broken.”
“The hell I can’t! It’s defective!”
I ponder this comment. It’s defective? Against wind? I am shocked at this statement. My husband, the landscape architect, is one of those people. He is a customer service employee’s nightmare person who doesn’t employ common sense when they purchase a product. I say nothing and drink my coffee. Off he leaves for Sears to be one of those dreadful people. I am thankful I woke up late and am too queasy to be asked to ride along.
An hour later, he calls. He is triumphant that he has a new umbrella in his possession. He tells me that the guy at Sears agreed with him that the umbrella was defective even after Mitch tells him the truth of what happened. It is during this phone conversation that I realize why he is such an outstanding salesman. He knows how to get his desired outcome, while still telling the truth, and getting his listener to be in agreement with him.
My new question is this: Why isn’t he running for President?
*Name changed to protect the innocent and salvage my marriage.
**Surprise, surprise, he already wants a new BIGGER set this year. I think I have made my point.
Today, I woke up to the sun shining in my face and the sound of the sprinkler watering the back yard. Oh shoot! I was supposed to turn that off. Hold please! Alright, I am back. That really irks me. I am the one who pays the water bill. Anyhow…As I was saying, the morning was tranquil. I felt a warm body next to me and as I closed my eyes, I rolled over to snuggle into my lover. As soon as I felt the dog licking my face, I was suddenly transported back to reality. There was no lover in my bed. It was my lab, waiting for me to get up. Hung-over, I padded into the kitchen to make myself some coffee. Mitch is moving about the house at break-neck speed which can only mean two things:
• He wants to get out of the house to go buy something before I wake up;
• Or, he hooked up with the friendly neighborhood dope dealer and is hopped up on coke.
Since he has random drug testing at work, I assume shopping. I ask where he is going and the following dialogue ensues:
“Goin’ to Sears to take back the patio umbrella.”
Let’s pause here and reflect to an earlier part of this story where I state that he “purposely ruins perfectly good products just so he can buy new”. This is the case with the umbrella. We purchased a new patio set last summer at the end of the season**but waited to buy the umbrella. This year, at the start of summer, we bought the umbrella and promptly brought it home and opened it above the patio set. It’s never been closed or brought inside. I told Mitch on several occasions that we needed to take it down when it got windy so that it didn’t take flight and leave us for the neighbors house. On one such occasion, the umbrella did take off and took the table and all of the tiles down with it. I reminded him yet again that it would be wise if we stored it.
I am sure that most of you who are reading this think, why don’t you do it? Are your arms broken? Indeed they are. Enough said. I don’t do anything that involves the outdoor work of home ownership. This is why I am married. It was cheaper to marry than hire a landscape architect.
So during the last minor windstorm we had, the open umbrella snapped in half and is now broken because he neglected to care for it properly. Now that you know the back story, we return to the dialogue:
“Mitch, you can’t take back an umbrella when it’s our fault that it’s broken.”
“The hell I can’t! It’s defective!”
I ponder this comment. It’s defective? Against wind? I am shocked at this statement. My husband, the landscape architect, is one of those people. He is a customer service employee’s nightmare person who doesn’t employ common sense when they purchase a product. I say nothing and drink my coffee. Off he leaves for Sears to be one of those dreadful people. I am thankful I woke up late and am too queasy to be asked to ride along.
An hour later, he calls. He is triumphant that he has a new umbrella in his possession. He tells me that the guy at Sears agreed with him that the umbrella was defective even after Mitch tells him the truth of what happened. It is during this phone conversation that I realize why he is such an outstanding salesman. He knows how to get his desired outcome, while still telling the truth, and getting his listener to be in agreement with him.
My new question is this: Why isn’t he running for President?
*Name changed to protect the innocent and salvage my marriage.
**Surprise, surprise, he already wants a new BIGGER set this year. I think I have made my point.
Thursday, February 24, 2011
What's a running watch?
I have known my friend David for a long time. One recent evening, out of the blue, David instant messages me on Facebook. The following is the conversation that ensued. I found it ridiculously funny and for you who know Mr. Brotche, you will also see the humor…
David: How you doin?
Dacia: I'm good. Just shopping online and hanging out on FB. How are you?
David: I’m hanging in there...what are you shopping for?
Dacia: I'm trying to decide if I really need a running watch or if I am just fascinated by the buttons. Garmin watches are pretty expensive.
David: what is a running watch?
Dacia: It measures your distance, time, pace, and heart rate. BUT! Apparently they can also walk your dog, cook your dinner, and change your oil for only 10 easy payments of $59.99...
David: holy butt f*cker buy me one
Dacia: Agreed. Aiight. Why not? Would black be ok by you?
David: well I would prefer silver...but black would work. Does it still work if you’re a lazy ass and don't want to run?
Dacia: I think it works like a Wii remote. You just wiggle the damn thing and push a button and it does all the work.
David: lmao thats great
Dacia: I agree. Perhaps that's why they are so expensive. You can brag to all your friends that you just broke the one-mile running record and you really didn't have to do nothing but sit on your ass and play Buck Hunter while twirling a watch. Amazing self esteem builder.
David: in that case I gotta have one
Dacia: In camo or hunter orange to match the plastic gun?
David: camo....hello
Dacia: I figured so. You wouldn't want anyone to SEE the watch being twirled.
David: How you doin?
Dacia: I'm good. Just shopping online and hanging out on FB. How are you?
David: I’m hanging in there...what are you shopping for?
Dacia: I'm trying to decide if I really need a running watch or if I am just fascinated by the buttons. Garmin watches are pretty expensive.
David: what is a running watch?
Dacia: It measures your distance, time, pace, and heart rate. BUT! Apparently they can also walk your dog, cook your dinner, and change your oil for only 10 easy payments of $59.99...
David: holy butt f*cker buy me one
Dacia: Agreed. Aiight. Why not? Would black be ok by you?
David: well I would prefer silver...but black would work. Does it still work if you’re a lazy ass and don't want to run?
Dacia: I think it works like a Wii remote. You just wiggle the damn thing and push a button and it does all the work.
David: lmao thats great
Dacia: I agree. Perhaps that's why they are so expensive. You can brag to all your friends that you just broke the one-mile running record and you really didn't have to do nothing but sit on your ass and play Buck Hunter while twirling a watch. Amazing self esteem builder.
David: in that case I gotta have one
Dacia: In camo or hunter orange to match the plastic gun?
David: camo....hello
Dacia: I figured so. You wouldn't want anyone to SEE the watch being twirled.
Sunday, December 12, 2010
Rabbit Food
On the evening news the other night, one of the anchors was presenting a national health report. I always perk up during this segment always interested in what the latest trends in health are. I wasn’t at all surprised to hear that smoking rates were at an all-time low (as they are almost $10/pack now). But the shocking part of this report was when the woman announced that obesity is at an all time high and researchers couldn’t come to a consensus as to why.
Now, for those of you who are non-smokers, I don’t expect you to understand this. However! It shouldn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out that people who quit smoking gain weight. I think that next time they have an opening for the Executive Director of the APHA — I might throw my name in the hat just to see what happens… Based on what I’ve heard, it can’t be that difficult of a job. Hell, I might even be successful!
I just reached eight months of non-smoking status and keeping the fork out of my mouth is the most difficult part of quitting. If you can’t tell by my cynical writing— I am not thrilled with the weight gain. I’ve gained 12 pounds. I would like to think that it’s muscle (and most good people will lie and say that it is) but I know it’s not. Since when did potato chips and Starbucks contribute to muscle gain? They don’t. Bummer.
So instead of complaining about this gain I decided I had two options: A.) Start smoking again (YAY!!!) or, B.) Work out and watch what I eat. I crunched the numbers and unless I get a substantial pay raise, I don’t think I can afford to smoke again. I really don’t know how I would pitch an increase in salary to my supervisor either. So, I really am only left with option B.
Here I am. The end of week one. I just went grocery shopping with my husband and it wasn’t pleasant for either of us. I put Cheetos in the basket, he took them out and replaced them with rice cakes. Cookies – out. Vegetables – in. I was thoroughly irritated that by the time we left I promised I would go home and make a huge breakfast of greasy food. That would sure show him!
I watched as he put away the normal food and my rabbit food was put in special places by itself to make it easily accessible. I was chastised by my husband to quit pouting and that I would thank him this summer when I would once again rule the backyard in my tiny bikini. I doubted that I would ever be thankful that I was living off granola, rice cakes and veggies and continued my glare-down as he made himself a pepperoni pizza for breakfast.
I only perked up when he said that he would need to start exercising soon because he too, would like to trim down before summer. Wicked thoughts flashed through my mind of making him do push-ups and sit-ups with me. Jumping jacks and squats…. VUAHHH HAHAHA!!!
Misery truly does love company.
Now, for those of you who are non-smokers, I don’t expect you to understand this. However! It shouldn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out that people who quit smoking gain weight. I think that next time they have an opening for the Executive Director of the APHA — I might throw my name in the hat just to see what happens… Based on what I’ve heard, it can’t be that difficult of a job. Hell, I might even be successful!
I just reached eight months of non-smoking status and keeping the fork out of my mouth is the most difficult part of quitting. If you can’t tell by my cynical writing— I am not thrilled with the weight gain. I’ve gained 12 pounds. I would like to think that it’s muscle (and most good people will lie and say that it is) but I know it’s not. Since when did potato chips and Starbucks contribute to muscle gain? They don’t. Bummer.
So instead of complaining about this gain I decided I had two options: A.) Start smoking again (YAY!!!) or, B.) Work out and watch what I eat. I crunched the numbers and unless I get a substantial pay raise, I don’t think I can afford to smoke again. I really don’t know how I would pitch an increase in salary to my supervisor either. So, I really am only left with option B.
Here I am. The end of week one. I just went grocery shopping with my husband and it wasn’t pleasant for either of us. I put Cheetos in the basket, he took them out and replaced them with rice cakes. Cookies – out. Vegetables – in. I was thoroughly irritated that by the time we left I promised I would go home and make a huge breakfast of greasy food. That would sure show him!
I watched as he put away the normal food and my rabbit food was put in special places by itself to make it easily accessible. I was chastised by my husband to quit pouting and that I would thank him this summer when I would once again rule the backyard in my tiny bikini. I doubted that I would ever be thankful that I was living off granola, rice cakes and veggies and continued my glare-down as he made himself a pepperoni pizza for breakfast.
I only perked up when he said that he would need to start exercising soon because he too, would like to trim down before summer. Wicked thoughts flashed through my mind of making him do push-ups and sit-ups with me. Jumping jacks and squats…. VUAHHH HAHAHA!!!
Misery truly does love company.
Thursday, November 25, 2010
Thanksgiving
Today was the type of day only a movie could portray accurately. I don’t know how else to explain other than to say that Martha Stewart would have frowned and shook her head when my sister literally shouted “BINGO!” during grace. Yes, this was Dunbar Family Thanksgiving 2010.
I have often told my parents that I wanted to list our family holidays on Ticket Master as an event. My mom, bless her sweet soul, has always tried her best to plan our festivities to be more beautiful than a Thomas Kinkade painting. However, the rest of the disorderly family members often ruin all that effort in a matter of moments.
This evening, after the prayer fiasco* we were told to ‘dig in’. In my family, it seems as though everyone is afraid that there won’t be enough to go around. There was more grabbing of meat than if we were at a hot dance club. Stuffing and potatoes were plopped onto plates, my dad ran hot laps around the table to be the first one for Yams**, and my uncle’s head was literally missed by mere inches as a homemade roll sailed through the sky. Yes, this is really what it is like.
After the initial commotion of jockeying for food, the table goes silent except for the munching of hungry mouths. Somewhere amid this solace of silence, murmurs of chatter begin to take place. It is then that I proudly announce that they really don’t serve beer in hell+ that a firestorm of conversation erupts. Cursing sprinkles the dialogue until my sister cuts in and states that our talk is probably making baby Jesus cry. Yes folks, this is the same sister who couldn’t help but shout “BINGO!” during grace.
I pour the last glass of wine for myself.
Soon after dinner, everyone finds themselves too full to help clean the kitchen – this is pretty typical. Being the resourceful gal I am (and not wanting to get stuck cleaning the kitchen), I find our only non-family member (A.K.A. real guest) smoking outside and instruct her that it is her duty to wash the dishes in the kitchen. I find this extremely satisfactory. I get the feeling however, that my mom, doesn’t think so. My dad, often on the end of the spectrum with me, agrees and instructs something else to our lone-non-family guest.
I find a bottle of champagne and pour myself a glass.
I then meander under the family radar to my parent’s quiet bedroom. I stretch out on their designer comforter set and allow the fullness of my belly to absorb every bit of me. With my half-marathon quickly approaching, I suddenly appreciate carb loading – and with gusto. I am completely stuffed, tired from the turkey, and perhaps a little tipsy++.
Just when I am getting cozy, my mom comes in to berate me for falling asleep. She tells me that I need to come out and visit with family. Mind you, this is the DUNBAR house. I can HEAR them even if I had stayed home. Our family is loud and rambunctious. I slowly make my way back to the living room where my husband is glued to the football game alongside my brother in law. I wonder how on earth he can even hear it over the top of my aunt yelling at my uncle, my uncle pretending that he’s old and senile, my mom asking everyone if they want pie (bless her for trying to keep the spirit alive) and my dad telling me that I need to finish off the bottle of champagne.
I grab the bottle of champagne and after evaluating the contents, I decide it’s best to shotgun the bottle and not waste any time. I am ready to go home. My sister tells me that I shouldn’t drink all the champagne, my husband snaps out of his trance and grabs the camera and my mom scolds me in advance for vomiting on her carpet. All I can think is: Game On! Down the hatch the champagne goes and my name is being shouted in a chant by my family.
I win the champagne challenge and as first place, I get to recycle the bottle.
Whoever could have planned a better Thanksgiving?
*Dear Jesus, please take mercy on my sister’s soul.
**Which no one likes anyway.
+No idea where this came from, at the time, this part of the conversation was relevant. Now? Not so much.
++ Okay, maybe a LOT tipsy. But who cares? It’s a holiday.
I have often told my parents that I wanted to list our family holidays on Ticket Master as an event. My mom, bless her sweet soul, has always tried her best to plan our festivities to be more beautiful than a Thomas Kinkade painting. However, the rest of the disorderly family members often ruin all that effort in a matter of moments.
This evening, after the prayer fiasco* we were told to ‘dig in’. In my family, it seems as though everyone is afraid that there won’t be enough to go around. There was more grabbing of meat than if we were at a hot dance club. Stuffing and potatoes were plopped onto plates, my dad ran hot laps around the table to be the first one for Yams**, and my uncle’s head was literally missed by mere inches as a homemade roll sailed through the sky. Yes, this is really what it is like.
After the initial commotion of jockeying for food, the table goes silent except for the munching of hungry mouths. Somewhere amid this solace of silence, murmurs of chatter begin to take place. It is then that I proudly announce that they really don’t serve beer in hell+ that a firestorm of conversation erupts. Cursing sprinkles the dialogue until my sister cuts in and states that our talk is probably making baby Jesus cry. Yes folks, this is the same sister who couldn’t help but shout “BINGO!” during grace.
I pour the last glass of wine for myself.
Soon after dinner, everyone finds themselves too full to help clean the kitchen – this is pretty typical. Being the resourceful gal I am (and not wanting to get stuck cleaning the kitchen), I find our only non-family member (A.K.A. real guest) smoking outside and instruct her that it is her duty to wash the dishes in the kitchen. I find this extremely satisfactory. I get the feeling however, that my mom, doesn’t think so. My dad, often on the end of the spectrum with me, agrees and instructs something else to our lone-non-family guest.
I find a bottle of champagne and pour myself a glass.
I then meander under the family radar to my parent’s quiet bedroom. I stretch out on their designer comforter set and allow the fullness of my belly to absorb every bit of me. With my half-marathon quickly approaching, I suddenly appreciate carb loading – and with gusto. I am completely stuffed, tired from the turkey, and perhaps a little tipsy++.
Just when I am getting cozy, my mom comes in to berate me for falling asleep. She tells me that I need to come out and visit with family. Mind you, this is the DUNBAR house. I can HEAR them even if I had stayed home. Our family is loud and rambunctious. I slowly make my way back to the living room where my husband is glued to the football game alongside my brother in law. I wonder how on earth he can even hear it over the top of my aunt yelling at my uncle, my uncle pretending that he’s old and senile, my mom asking everyone if they want pie (bless her for trying to keep the spirit alive) and my dad telling me that I need to finish off the bottle of champagne.
I grab the bottle of champagne and after evaluating the contents, I decide it’s best to shotgun the bottle and not waste any time. I am ready to go home. My sister tells me that I shouldn’t drink all the champagne, my husband snaps out of his trance and grabs the camera and my mom scolds me in advance for vomiting on her carpet. All I can think is: Game On! Down the hatch the champagne goes and my name is being shouted in a chant by my family.
I win the champagne challenge and as first place, I get to recycle the bottle.
Whoever could have planned a better Thanksgiving?
*Dear Jesus, please take mercy on my sister’s soul.
**Which no one likes anyway.
+No idea where this came from, at the time, this part of the conversation was relevant. Now? Not so much.
++ Okay, maybe a LOT tipsy. But who cares? It’s a holiday.
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