Everyone...excuse me...every WOMAN knows the high importance of finding a good - er, I mean, great hairdresser. Well, I had found one years ago, but she got a wild hair up her butt and decided to move to California to pursue fashion design. Bitter, party of one? Yes, that's me. Ever since then, I have been wandering lost in the land of "I am looking for a good hairdresser-ville" for about three years now.
In my search for "the one", I did find a pretty great guy who meets all necessary "great hairdresser" requirements...which are as follows:
1. Great hair washer. Everyone knows the washing of the hair can be one of the best parts. (And it is of utmost importance that the hairdresser practices proper hygeine and smells great since he/she is bent down in front of my face as he/she washes my hair. So - first qualification met.
2. Must make me feel comfortable. This qualification can be met in a series of different circumstances. For instance - good conversation. There must a certain "ebb and flow" between my hairdresser and I. Awkward silences? Save those for first dates, not my trips to a hairdresser. Besides, wasn't that a class in hair design school? Communication 101? The hairdresser should also feel complete and total freedom to make several comments as to the healthy condition of my hair. I am there in a vain attempt to feel beautiful and goregous. Any comments made to make me feel as such are greatly appreciated.
3. Must be able to speak and (correctly) interpret basic English. In other words - a "trim" should never be confused with a "cut".
4. Obviously must be able to properly use a pair of scissors. Key word here: properly.
5. A great hairdresser can operate in the midst of any personal crisis...In the words of Anelle from Steel Magnolia's..."My personal tragedy will not affect my ability to do good hair."
6. A good amount of gossip is crucial. But not too harsh. It's really an art that has to be mastered over time. Just enough to keep me interested. Again, I find a Steel Magnolia's quote so appropriate here - "If you don't have anything nice to say about somebody, come sit by me." And don't worry...I don't repeat gossip. So listen the first time.
7. And while this is not a requirement, per se, it is definetly a plus. Gay men are great hairdressers. I'm just gonna say it. I hate to stereotype, but I have yet to meet one gay man who was a hairdresser who wasn't absoutely fabu. (And by fabu, I mean "fabulous"...gay men are great with coming up with these phrases.)
Well last week, Thursday to be exact (because all tragedies are remembered) I was desperate. I tried to make an appointment with my newfound hairdresser, but alas, he was not available until the next week. (Of course, because he's fabu!) So, I took a major risk and decided to go with a new gal. MAJOR MISTAKE. I even asked the receptionist making the appointment, "Um...maam...is this girl any good?" Her response? "Of course!" I think by "of course!" she meant, "Hell no! The girl failed first grade for not being able to use scissors." Because THAT comment would have been much more accurate than her saying, "Of course." She clearly sits on a throne of lies.
Here's a run-down of how this went down...
3:20 p.m. - Arrive early. Because that is what adults do. (Usually I don't act like one, but today was an exception.)
3:35 p.m. - Receptionist tells me that I can go on back because my hairdresser is here.
3:45 p.m. - Still waiting. My appointment was at 3:30 p.m.
3:50 p.m. - Irritated as hell. Walk up to the receptionist and ask, "Um, did you tell her I was here?"
3:51 p.m. - Realize that my hairdresser was sitting right beside me running her mouth while I was waiting impatiently. "Oh, are you Danielle? Well, I have been waiting on you." REALLY?!!
3:55 p.m. - She doesn't rate too bad on the "must be a good hairwasher" requirement. And she is actually beginning to make good conversation. Hey...this could turn out to be pretty good.
4:00 p.m. - I realize that through her conversation (and my woman's intuition) that she is exactly one of the women who slept with one of my friends husbands. Oh yeah. These.Are.The.Days.Of.Our.Lives.
4:01 p.m. - She immediately realizes that I know. Awkward silence the remainder of my appointment.
4:05 p.m. - I directly point to a girl sitting next to me and say, "That's exactly how I want my hair cut." I am thinking that there is NO way she can mess this up. I mean, she has a living model sitting right beside her to look at how I would like my new "do" to look. I gave her too much credit.
4:15 p.m. - Awkward silence continues.
4:35 p.m. - and awkward silence continues to, um, continue.
4:50 p.m. - Wow. She is cutting a lot of my hair.
5:00 p.m. - Okay, she is cutting A LOT of my hair.
5:05 p.m. - Put my glasses on and look in the mirror. Yup, she cut off a lot of my hair. I am resisting tears. First, she is a homewrecker. Second, she is a homewrecker who just gave ME a bad hair cut. What a biotch.
5:15 p.m. - GET ME OUT OF HERE!
5:20 p.m. - Put on my best, "Oh, i like it!" smile.
5:30 p.m. - Immediatly look at myself in the mirror when I get into my car and say, out loud, "Oh my god. I hate it." I put on more lip gloss and blush in an effort to distract from what quite possibly may be the worst haircut ever.
5:33 p.m. - Look in the mirror again. My hair looks like a cross between a really bad "mom" haircut and a mushroom.
5:45 p.m. - Look in the mirror at home. And absoutley, have a tantrum. Complete with real, crocodile tears. This goes on for a few minutes.
6:00 p.m. - Thinking about throwing myself a for-real by-invitation-only pity party. Complete with party favors and party hats...to cover up the bad hair.
I am SO sticking with my gay hairdresser from now on. Even if I have to wait a decade.
Wednesday, November 16, 2011
Tuesday, August 23, 2011
So bad I can't even come up with a witty title
WARNING: This is one of those stories where you could quite possibly think that I am lying, telling a story, stretching the truth...or just all-out, making this crap up. I. AM. SO. NOT. Nothing has been changed, thwarted or even made to sound better and/or worse to enhance the actual story. So, brace yourself for what I'm sure will be somewhat of an emotional journey for you, as it was for me. Today you will get to experience a variety of emotions including intriguement (is that a word?), curiosity, anger, rage, sympathy, hilarious-ity (again, is that a word?) and then we'll hopefully wrap it up with motivation. So, you ready? Here goes...
Last week, I woke up (mid-morning as I normally do), and in usual Danielle fashion, I rolled out of bed and checked my cell phone to see if anyone interesting called or texted me. Facebook sends me my messages and posts via text so I wasn't too surprised when I got a text notifying me that someone sent me a private message on facebook. "Hmm...wonder who sent me a message?" It was a guy with whom I attended high school. "Oh, he must want to catch up or see how I'm doing." As I read my message, I could hardly believe it. For one thing, I had only been awake for a mere two minutes and after reading that message, I started to think I was still dreaming...or perhaps nightmare-ing - because in the land of my dreams, this conversation would NOT occur. Yes, that must have been it. Because surely, no human being would actually (a) say this to me or (b) um...say this to me or (c) have the freakin' guts to say this to me! So, you are wondering what exactly this person could have said to be of the amount of importance to actually blog about it, right? Well, here it is - word for word:
"Dam!!! Danielle I C U havent missed to many meals!!"
Geez. If the guy wanted to reconnect with me on Facebook, a simple "Hi, how are you?" would have sufficed. Was it absolutely necessary to cut me down like that? I was mad as hell. Appalled. Hurt. Pissed. Enraged. As I laid there in my bed contemplating what I just read, I considered which, of my many, responses I could give this asshole. Here's a complete list:
Well, damn, I see you haven't picked up a book since high school. First of all, damn is spelled with an n at the end, not like a water dam, you complete moron. And the "to" you used in your sentence to insult me is actually supposed to be spelled "too". And your use of an extreme amount of exclamation points was a little extreme don't you think? So, yeah, the next time YOU want to insult someone, please, at the very least, use correct grammar you idiot.
Oh, I see you like television too! It sounds like "Snapped" is your favorite TV show. That's good, because at the rate you are going, you will make your television debut soon. Very soon.
Actually, as a matter of fact, I ate a kindergartner back in 2004. I'm still digesting.
I'm sorry, but I recall a certain memory that involved you showing your...ahem...male package... to the entire physical education class when we were in high school. Well, you were in high school. By the looks of things, it appeared your package was still in elementary school and didn't get the memo.
...and those are about all the witty, biting remarks I could muster up. But instead of sinking to that level, I just responded by blocking him from my Facebook. Why would I need that kind of negativity in my life? I don't. And people like that are looking to get a reaction. And I refused to give him the satisfaction of a response.
Most days, I would have really let that get me down. I might have even cried about it. But, I didn't. Because, although it hurt a little for someone to say something so hurtful and rude, I genuinely didn't care what he thought. And that is not a familiar place for me. Usually I care too much what people think. And I don't know where I found the confidence to not care. Maybe what I've lost in pounds this year I have gained in confidence and the self-assurance that I am okay with me.
People will never be satisfied. Especially those who are negative. I guarantee you that if I were to actually loose weight to what would be classified as a normal, healthy weight for my height, people would say I was too skinny. There is just no pleasing some people. And I'm okay with that. Because, strangely enough, that comment came during a time where I was actually feeling very good about myself. Sure, I'm not exactly where I want to be. But, I know I've made healthier changes and I've lost 20 pounds since January. That is progress. Progress that I am proud of. Toot. Toot. And do I still have a way to go? Yes.
And one last thing: Dear A-hole, perhaps you thought your comment would make me want to give up? Oh no. You are sadly mistaken. And for your sake, I hope we never cross paths in public. Because I would hate to insult you with my witty, intelligent, highly sarcastic tongue.
Last week, I woke up (mid-morning as I normally do), and in usual Danielle fashion, I rolled out of bed and checked my cell phone to see if anyone interesting called or texted me. Facebook sends me my messages and posts via text so I wasn't too surprised when I got a text notifying me that someone sent me a private message on facebook. "Hmm...wonder who sent me a message?" It was a guy with whom I attended high school. "Oh, he must want to catch up or see how I'm doing." As I read my message, I could hardly believe it. For one thing, I had only been awake for a mere two minutes and after reading that message, I started to think I was still dreaming...or perhaps nightmare-ing - because in the land of my dreams, this conversation would NOT occur. Yes, that must have been it. Because surely, no human being would actually (a) say this to me or (b) um...say this to me or (c) have the freakin' guts to say this to me! So, you are wondering what exactly this person could have said to be of the amount of importance to actually blog about it, right? Well, here it is - word for word:
"Dam!!! Danielle I C U havent missed to many meals!!"
Geez. If the guy wanted to reconnect with me on Facebook, a simple "Hi, how are you?" would have sufficed. Was it absolutely necessary to cut me down like that? I was mad as hell. Appalled. Hurt. Pissed. Enraged. As I laid there in my bed contemplating what I just read, I considered which, of my many, responses I could give this asshole. Here's a complete list:
Well, damn, I see you haven't picked up a book since high school. First of all, damn is spelled with an n at the end, not like a water dam, you complete moron. And the "to" you used in your sentence to insult me is actually supposed to be spelled "too". And your use of an extreme amount of exclamation points was a little extreme don't you think? So, yeah, the next time YOU want to insult someone, please, at the very least, use correct grammar you idiot.
Oh, I see you like television too! It sounds like "Snapped" is your favorite TV show. That's good, because at the rate you are going, you will make your television debut soon. Very soon.
Actually, as a matter of fact, I ate a kindergartner back in 2004. I'm still digesting.
I'm sorry, but I recall a certain memory that involved you showing your...ahem...male package... to the entire physical education class when we were in high school. Well, you were in high school. By the looks of things, it appeared your package was still in elementary school and didn't get the memo.
...and those are about all the witty, biting remarks I could muster up. But instead of sinking to that level, I just responded by blocking him from my Facebook. Why would I need that kind of negativity in my life? I don't. And people like that are looking to get a reaction. And I refused to give him the satisfaction of a response.
Most days, I would have really let that get me down. I might have even cried about it. But, I didn't. Because, although it hurt a little for someone to say something so hurtful and rude, I genuinely didn't care what he thought. And that is not a familiar place for me. Usually I care too much what people think. And I don't know where I found the confidence to not care. Maybe what I've lost in pounds this year I have gained in confidence and the self-assurance that I am okay with me.
People will never be satisfied. Especially those who are negative. I guarantee you that if I were to actually loose weight to what would be classified as a normal, healthy weight for my height, people would say I was too skinny. There is just no pleasing some people. And I'm okay with that. Because, strangely enough, that comment came during a time where I was actually feeling very good about myself. Sure, I'm not exactly where I want to be. But, I know I've made healthier changes and I've lost 20 pounds since January. That is progress. Progress that I am proud of. Toot. Toot. And do I still have a way to go? Yes.
And one last thing: Dear A-hole, perhaps you thought your comment would make me want to give up? Oh no. You are sadly mistaken. And for your sake, I hope we never cross paths in public. Because I would hate to insult you with my witty, intelligent, highly sarcastic tongue.
Friday, August 5, 2011
Of the things to forget, a bra is not one
What I have today is short. However, I hope you find the information useful - like a piece of advice you can store in your mental closet of "never do that".
I forgot to wear a bra to work.
I know right? How does a 31 year-old forget to wear a bra to work? A 31 year-old who is well-endowed? You wouldn't believe me if I told you. So the important information to remember here is that I, chubby girl, forgot to wear a freakin' bra. In the land of this crap only happens to me...it happened.
It wouldn't have been so bad if I were a secretary or something not so mobile. But I am working at a famous chain restaurant (which, come to think of it would have served as a benefit if I worked at Hooters) where wearing a bra is...um...of utmost importance. But by the time I realized I didn't have the bra in the backseat of my car like I thought I did... wow. I just realized how scandalous that sounded. But I promise you - it's so not scandalous. The truth of the matter is, I wish that was the reason I had a bra in the backseat of my car. But the truth is way less, um, sexy. The truth is that I am one of those "I could live in my car" girls and along with three purses, countless pairs of shoes, a few bath towels, a Caboodles make-up case and random jewelry, I was sure I left a sports bra in my backseat after changing from a workout.
I was clearly mistaken.
So, I spent the night sweating like a pig at work due to a lack of support for Thelma and Louise. I made many bathroom trips to grab a few napkins and pat dry. (Don't worry, I totally washed my hands every time...I mean, 80 percent of the time. Kidding.) Luckily our work shirts are a starchy, heavy material that doesn't have good "see through" powers. Otherwise, I'd just be mortified. And also, I did have a tight fitting tank top that sorta disguised my bra-less look I had going on. And just in case anyone (how dare they!) asked about my new "look", I was going to respond with a totally untruthful story about how I had a non-cancerous knot removed on my boob and was unable to wear a bra. I shouldn't have spent so much time concocting the whole lie of a story, but I had to cover all my bases. Because saying, "I forgot to put one on" just wouldn't suffice. Why couldn't I have forgotten socks? Or something borrow-able? But, me? I had to forget a bra. It's not like I could just walk up to my boss and say, "Hey, I forgot my bra. Got one I can borrow for the night? We look about the same size."
Geez. Sometimes I feel, and act, just like a 12 year old.
Tuesday, August 2, 2011
Chubby girl @ water park...snarky comments need not reply
I remember the summer of 1992 - I was 12. My dad had just gotten full custody of me that summer and was quickly learning that I was indeed a girl and not one of the 15 bratty little boys he was coaching that summer for little league baseball. The point that I was a girl was driven all the way to home base when he received a call from work from me crying on the other end of our huge cordless phone telling him I had gotten my period. I know, right? I think that might have been one of his most horrific moments as a parent. It was definitely one of mine as I made a faulty choice (with lack of motherly consultation) to use a tampon. The first time I got my period. Every woman knows - this is a no no. So, traumatic experience? Heck yes.
Now, you may be asking, "What in the hell does tampons and first periods have to do with water parks?" Well, my dad decided to make me feel better by allowing me to go with him and his little league baseball team to the water park in Memphis - Adventure River. Perhaps you too went in the 90's - it was 'da bomb diggity. I was less than thrilled to attend with a group of meandering little tween boys - who would without a doubt annoy the piss out of the only girl attending within the group. But yet, I was excited to get my swim on. I picked out my most sporty swimsuit and packed my bag. I could hardly sleep that night with thoughts of water slides and wave pools. The drive to Adventure River was nothing short of...well...an adventure with a group of grown men and annoying little shits also known as 6th grade boys. But alas, I almost wet myself when I saw the tips of swirling slides from the Interstate as we quickly approached the park. I was excited. We are talking Griswold National Lampoon Vacation excited. But something about being there with a bunch of boys when I was 12 just made me feel extremely uncool. I chickened out and barely rode any of the thrill water slides. If I could go back to when I was 12, I swear I would push myself up that water slide and show those boys who was the queen of the water park!
That was 19 years ago. But today, I embraced my inner 12 year old. And I mastered every single water slide at the park. And I'm 31 years old. And I'm chubby. And I'm as white as they come. And you know what? In the midst of tanned and toned teenagers, moms who had better bodies than me, little kiddos in their floaties, and most importantly, the 12 year old little baseball bullies who brought me back to 1992, I, 31 year-old, white-as-a-ghost chubby girl rocked the hell out of that water park. And I did it with flare.
The Accelerator.
Fear scale: 6.
My first slide of the day. I may have had a somewhat difficult time maneuvering myself onto the inner tube, which I am sure brought entertainment to some spectators, but I did the damn thing. (And a little bit of pee may have came out in the process.) Oh, and it should be noted that my one piece suddenly became a thong at the end of the ride. Dear fellow on-lookers, you're welcome.
Bathing suit in my ass scale: 10.
The Cyclone.
Fear scale: 6-7.
Water rides, like cheese fries, are much more fun when shared. I rode with my friend and nephew. This slide - part in pitch-black darkness and part in the light (which you see pictured), was just pure fun. And I felt like the 12 year old in me was saying, "Finally! A little fun!" My serious 31 year old persona disappeared with the first splash of water.
Bathing suit in my ass scale: 2.
The Pipeline.
Fear scale: 5.
Most fun water slide of the day for me. I rode it three times (he! he!) And I'm pretty sure I said "Whoohooo!!!" Did I make a total idiot out of myself? Yup. Did I care? Hell to the no.
Bathing suit in my ass scale: 8.5.
Black and White Lightning.
Fear scale (before riding): 4
Fear scale (after riding): 9
This was the type of water slide I would not ride that day back in 1992. Partly because I had (um...make that have) an extreme fear of falling off the side of the slide and plunging downward toward my death. But, caution was thrown to the wind today as I plunged down both slides. Would I call drinking a gallon of chlorinated pee water and scraping my knee loads of fun? Not quite. But I did it anyway!
Bathing suit in my ass scale: can't remember because I was checking my pulse to see if I was still breathing.
Vortex.
Fear scale: 7
This ride was kind of like a shot at the doctor's office - the more you thought about it, the worse it seemed. But when it actually happened, it wasn't that bad. Besides the fact that it was completely enclosed and super-fast, it was not that big of a deal. (But because most people thought this was the scariest of them all, I felt like superwoman afterwards).
Bathing suit in my ass scale: 9.5 - I mean, hello? It is called Vortex. What did you expect?
Vertigo. (aka "blue fish bowl" or my personal favorite "Hell's toilet bowl")
Fear scale: off the charts
The definition of vertigo is: a medical condition that leads to a sense of spinning, dizziness and disorientation. Wow. And we pay for that?
I must have had an out of body experience to have ridden this. We've all had the unfortunate experience of flushing Goldie the goldfish down the toilet when he met his untimely death. Well, I'm pretty sure this was natures way of paying me back. Because I felt just like a goldfish...or something else being flushed down the toilet. It all happened so fast that my only thought was, "when will I get to the round bowl thing so it will be over?" And then I landed in a large pool of water and was quite surprised that the lifeguard did not come to my rescue. Since I looked horrified and all. "No, it's ok, Mr. Lifeguard, don't help me. It's not like it's your freakin' job or anything." Yet, my overwhelming thought was, "I did it!" Twelve year old Danielle would have never attempted hell's toilet bowl. But 31 year old Danielle jumped in feet first...because...I mean, that's what the sign said to do.
Bathing suit in my ass scale: Who cared? I was alive.
Usually, I'd be so concerned with trying to not look like an idiot. I normally would have fretted over which bathing suit made me look the least fat and then spray-tanned my way into an oompa-loompa orange so I wouldn't feel like Casper the friendly ghost at the pool. But, today, I did something better. I lived. Granted, it was only water slides. But, I lived it up. I had fun. I didn't give a rip what people thought or how fat I was or any of the other less than appealing things I could have worried about. I didn't give a rip. I looked at myself in the mirror in the bathroom on the way out of the water park - and I saw a girl. I saw a chubby girl. I saw an extremely pasty-white girl with no hopes of ever having a tan. I saw a sunburned girl with a tired face. But you know what else I saw? I saw a girl who had fun.
So, have fun. Do life. Ride the slide. Don't worry about looking stupid. You get one life - so do it.
Now, you may be asking, "What in the hell does tampons and first periods have to do with water parks?" Well, my dad decided to make me feel better by allowing me to go with him and his little league baseball team to the water park in Memphis - Adventure River. Perhaps you too went in the 90's - it was 'da bomb diggity. I was less than thrilled to attend with a group of meandering little tween boys - who would without a doubt annoy the piss out of the only girl attending within the group. But yet, I was excited to get my swim on. I picked out my most sporty swimsuit and packed my bag. I could hardly sleep that night with thoughts of water slides and wave pools. The drive to Adventure River was nothing short of...well...an adventure with a group of grown men and annoying little shits also known as 6th grade boys. But alas, I almost wet myself when I saw the tips of swirling slides from the Interstate as we quickly approached the park. I was excited. We are talking Griswold National Lampoon Vacation excited. But something about being there with a bunch of boys when I was 12 just made me feel extremely uncool. I chickened out and barely rode any of the thrill water slides. If I could go back to when I was 12, I swear I would push myself up that water slide and show those boys who was the queen of the water park!
That was 19 years ago. But today, I embraced my inner 12 year old. And I mastered every single water slide at the park. And I'm 31 years old. And I'm chubby. And I'm as white as they come. And you know what? In the midst of tanned and toned teenagers, moms who had better bodies than me, little kiddos in their floaties, and most importantly, the 12 year old little baseball bullies who brought me back to 1992, I, 31 year-old, white-as-a-ghost chubby girl rocked the hell out of that water park. And I did it with flare.
Fear scale: 6.
My first slide of the day. I may have had a somewhat difficult time maneuvering myself onto the inner tube, which I am sure brought entertainment to some spectators, but I did the damn thing. (And a little bit of pee may have came out in the process.) Oh, and it should be noted that my one piece suddenly became a thong at the end of the ride. Dear fellow on-lookers, you're welcome.
Bathing suit in my ass scale: 10.
Fear scale: 6-7.
Water rides, like cheese fries, are much more fun when shared. I rode with my friend and nephew. This slide - part in pitch-black darkness and part in the light (which you see pictured), was just pure fun. And I felt like the 12 year old in me was saying, "Finally! A little fun!" My serious 31 year old persona disappeared with the first splash of water.
Bathing suit in my ass scale: 2.
Fear scale: 5.
Most fun water slide of the day for me. I rode it three times (he! he!) And I'm pretty sure I said "Whoohooo!!!" Did I make a total idiot out of myself? Yup. Did I care? Hell to the no.
Bathing suit in my ass scale: 8.5.
Fear scale (before riding): 4
Fear scale (after riding): 9
This was the type of water slide I would not ride that day back in 1992. Partly because I had (um...make that have) an extreme fear of falling off the side of the slide and plunging downward toward my death. But, caution was thrown to the wind today as I plunged down both slides. Would I call drinking a gallon of chlorinated pee water and scraping my knee loads of fun? Not quite. But I did it anyway!
Bathing suit in my ass scale: can't remember because I was checking my pulse to see if I was still breathing.
Fear scale: 7
This ride was kind of like a shot at the doctor's office - the more you thought about it, the worse it seemed. But when it actually happened, it wasn't that bad. Besides the fact that it was completely enclosed and super-fast, it was not that big of a deal. (But because most people thought this was the scariest of them all, I felt like superwoman afterwards).
Bathing suit in my ass scale: 9.5 - I mean, hello? It is called Vortex. What did you expect?
Vertigo. (aka "blue fish bowl" or my personal favorite "Hell's toilet bowl")
Fear scale: off the charts
The definition of vertigo is: a medical condition that leads to a sense of spinning, dizziness and disorientation. Wow. And we pay for that?
I must have had an out of body experience to have ridden this. We've all had the unfortunate experience of flushing Goldie the goldfish down the toilet when he met his untimely death. Well, I'm pretty sure this was natures way of paying me back. Because I felt just like a goldfish...or something else being flushed down the toilet. It all happened so fast that my only thought was, "when will I get to the round bowl thing so it will be over?" And then I landed in a large pool of water and was quite surprised that the lifeguard did not come to my rescue. Since I looked horrified and all. "No, it's ok, Mr. Lifeguard, don't help me. It's not like it's your freakin' job or anything." Yet, my overwhelming thought was, "I did it!" Twelve year old Danielle would have never attempted hell's toilet bowl. But 31 year old Danielle jumped in feet first...because...I mean, that's what the sign said to do.
Bathing suit in my ass scale: Who cared? I was alive.
Usually, I'd be so concerned with trying to not look like an idiot. I normally would have fretted over which bathing suit made me look the least fat and then spray-tanned my way into an oompa-loompa orange so I wouldn't feel like Casper the friendly ghost at the pool. But, today, I did something better. I lived. Granted, it was only water slides. But, I lived it up. I had fun. I didn't give a rip what people thought or how fat I was or any of the other less than appealing things I could have worried about. I didn't give a rip. I looked at myself in the mirror in the bathroom on the way out of the water park - and I saw a girl. I saw a chubby girl. I saw an extremely pasty-white girl with no hopes of ever having a tan. I saw a sunburned girl with a tired face. But you know what else I saw? I saw a girl who had fun.
So, have fun. Do life. Ride the slide. Don't worry about looking stupid. You get one life - so do it.
Wednesday, July 27, 2011
Baby got middle
If you've been reading my blog at all, you know my struggle with getting out of the 180's. Ever since I gained weight (a total of 70 pounds over the course of around 15 years), I have never lost down below 184. The height of my...vast large-ness was in January at a whopping 205 pounds. I know, right? OMG. Not to mention that I am only 5'3 which made 205 appear way larger than what it seems. I am thinking those horrible fun house mirrors at the carnival had nothing on my frame back in January. And the suckiest part of me gaining weight is that I gain it all from my waist up. My stomach and face take all the weight. Why can't I look like one of the Kardashians and have a killer badonkadonk or Shakira's hips that don't lie? But no. God blessed me with the apple shape. Baby got back? Um, no, this baby ain't got back. This baby got middle. I changed the lyrics - "You can do side bends or sit ups...but please don't loose that gut. Dial 1-800-Muffin-Top and kick those nasty thoughts...baby got middle." Sir-Mix-A-Lot would be so enthused.
But today, the scale was my friend. I am down to 182! Almost out of the 180s. But, considering I have a big party coming up this weekend (where there will be lots of Southern food goodness, along with cocktails galore), I really don't want to blow it.
So, what is my plan?
Dance my ass off to "Baby Got Back"...
and maybe entertain the crowd with my new lyrics.
Tuesday, July 26, 2011
Men are from Mars...women are from...like a whole different galaxy
Inside the mind of a female, if you dare open it, lies complex things. Intricate details to everyday occurrences. A sort-of "pandora's box" of thoughts if you will. Some (ahem...men) call us complicated. I prefer intelligently complex. There. That sounds much better and much more appealing. The inner workings of the female brain is quite brilliant and amazing. Well, when you compare it to the much more simple and non-complex inner workings of its counterpart. Take for instance, the following situations and differences between men and women.
Situation #1 - Bad hair day
Women: Attempt desired hair-do. Heave hairbrush across the bathroom when it does not accomplish said hair-do. Maybe shed a tear in frustration. Leave for work in a heightened state of annoyance. And thus, "this day sucks" has officially begun.
Men: Put on a baseball hat. Or just choose to not give a shit.
Situation #2 - Fight/argument with the BFF
Women: Play out and over-analyze the fight and/or argument with the BFF and how it "went down". Reconfirm that you were not the one in the wrong...or perhaps come to the conclusion that you are a harsh bitch. In which case, a prompt apology is required. Continue to over-analyze future conversation (or facebook message) in which you will have to restore friendship with the BFF. Anticipate possible responses and figure out how you will react accordingly. All the while, torturing (aka re-hashing this entire scenario) with your boyfriend or husband or other friend (basically anyone who will listen).
Men: First move: they question, "What is a BFF?" Second move: they usually just throw a punch or two and it's over with.
Situation #3 - Going out on a date
Women: Shower (probably a bath...seems more girly). Spend a ridiculous amount of time figuring out what outfit to wear. Because all body parts must look cute. Boobs. Butt. And everything else. What about our hair? Down, which says I'm carefree and fun. Or up, which says I'm serious, smart and sophisticated. Or the new fishtail braid which says I'm trendy. Wait a minute...wasn't there an article about this in Cosmo? Should I bake some cookies? Saw that in a romantic comedy once. It lets him know I can cook. House must be clean. Lets him know I can do the housewife thing. And some men find that sexy. And the warped over-analyzing goes on from there...
Men: Shower (although sometimes...may opt for just a simple freshen-up with clean underwear) Shave. Do a few push-ups. Check their breath with the 'ole cup the hand around the mouth and breathe to see if you can smell your own stanky breath trick. (Which is not an accurate test by the way).
Situation #4 - The "how was your weekend?" conversation
Women: We give you the extended version with every.single.detail. "Great! Friday night me and some girlfriends got together and had went out to eat at that new restaurant. SO good! I got the cheese fry appetizer. And our waiter was hilarious. Remind me to tell you what he said. And then we went and watched that new romcom (romantic comedy)- so good! I swear, that Justin Timber-hot gets better with age." And we continue on with Saturday's events and wrap it up with Sunday's events. It should be noted that anytime we are asked "how was something" whether it be a weekend, night, work day or vacation, you most likely need to go pop some Orville Redenbacher cuz it's going to be awhile.
Men: "Good."
Situation #5 - The after sex thoughts going on in our heads
Single women: "Did this mean anything to him? How do I look? Is my hair all messed up? Does he want to snuggle? Or worse, does he want to go home? Will he call tomorrow? Should I text him first or should I wait?"
Married women: "Ok, glad that's over. Gosh, I have so much to do. Did I lock the door? Who has ball practice tomorrow? Wait a minute...are those his freakin' clothes on the floor? I swear if he leaves those out one more time when there is a freakin' clothes hamper right near the door..."
Single men: "zzzzz...."
Married men: "zzzz...."
And there you have it folks. Proof we are from two entirely different galaxies.
Situation #1 - Bad hair day
Women: Attempt desired hair-do. Heave hairbrush across the bathroom when it does not accomplish said hair-do. Maybe shed a tear in frustration. Leave for work in a heightened state of annoyance. And thus, "this day sucks" has officially begun.
Men: Put on a baseball hat. Or just choose to not give a shit.
Situation #2 - Fight/argument with the BFF
Women: Play out and over-analyze the fight and/or argument with the BFF and how it "went down". Reconfirm that you were not the one in the wrong...or perhaps come to the conclusion that you are a harsh bitch. In which case, a prompt apology is required. Continue to over-analyze future conversation (or facebook message) in which you will have to restore friendship with the BFF. Anticipate possible responses and figure out how you will react accordingly. All the while, torturing (aka re-hashing this entire scenario) with your boyfriend or husband or other friend (basically anyone who will listen).
Men: First move: they question, "What is a BFF?" Second move: they usually just throw a punch or two and it's over with.
Situation #3 - Going out on a date
Women: Shower (probably a bath...seems more girly). Spend a ridiculous amount of time figuring out what outfit to wear. Because all body parts must look cute. Boobs. Butt. And everything else. What about our hair? Down, which says I'm carefree and fun. Or up, which says I'm serious, smart and sophisticated. Or the new fishtail braid which says I'm trendy. Wait a minute...wasn't there an article about this in Cosmo? Should I bake some cookies? Saw that in a romantic comedy once. It lets him know I can cook. House must be clean. Lets him know I can do the housewife thing. And some men find that sexy. And the warped over-analyzing goes on from there...
Men: Shower (although sometimes...may opt for just a simple freshen-up with clean underwear) Shave. Do a few push-ups. Check their breath with the 'ole cup the hand around the mouth and breathe to see if you can smell your own stanky breath trick. (Which is not an accurate test by the way).
Situation #4 - The "how was your weekend?" conversation
Women: We give you the extended version with every.single.detail. "Great! Friday night me and some girlfriends got together and had went out to eat at that new restaurant. SO good! I got the cheese fry appetizer. And our waiter was hilarious. Remind me to tell you what he said. And then we went and watched that new romcom (romantic comedy)- so good! I swear, that Justin Timber-hot gets better with age." And we continue on with Saturday's events and wrap it up with Sunday's events. It should be noted that anytime we are asked "how was something" whether it be a weekend, night, work day or vacation, you most likely need to go pop some Orville Redenbacher cuz it's going to be awhile.
Men: "Good."
Situation #5 - The after sex thoughts going on in our heads
Single women: "Did this mean anything to him? How do I look? Is my hair all messed up? Does he want to snuggle? Or worse, does he want to go home? Will he call tomorrow? Should I text him first or should I wait?"
Married women: "Ok, glad that's over. Gosh, I have so much to do. Did I lock the door? Who has ball practice tomorrow? Wait a minute...are those his freakin' clothes on the floor? I swear if he leaves those out one more time when there is a freakin' clothes hamper right near the door..."
Single men: "zzzzz...."
Married men: "zzzz...."
And there you have it folks. Proof we are from two entirely different galaxies.
Thursday, July 21, 2011
I'm about to become that girl
My relationship with the 180s? In the words of Kristen Cavalari (aka skinny bitch) from MTV's Laguna Beach...we are so "dunzo". For those of you who have apparently grown out of watching teenage reality shows, that means I'm done. Finished.
I am so freakin' tired of stepping on the scales only to see something that starts with 18(filll in the blank). Seriously? I'm to the point now where I am about to go into what I call serious call-me-crazy-if-you-want-to mode. You know the one, right? When you are out with your girlfriends, she's the one that orders the skinny margarita version while everyone else is downing the double-straw fish bowl size margarita. The one that orders some sort of vinaigrette while everyone else is like "can order some ranch dressing with a side of salad" and the one who eats fruit as if it is a real a dessert option. You know her. We all know her. Because we hate her. And why do we hate her? Because she is loosing weight. And it is working for her. And we are all jealous bitches, aren't we? Secretly wishing we had that kind of self-control.
Well, I am about to be that girl. You can hate me if you want to. Heck, I may even hate me for a little while. I'm about to be a water-drinkin', salad eatin', lean protein cookin', fruit snackin' girl. I'm not going to go all crazy and do the stupid things people do to loose weight (only to put it back on weeks later). I can promise you that I may become the girl I mentioned above, but rest assured I will never be the girl who gives up carbs (um...do you want me to go on a killing spree in the dessert cake aisle at Wal-Mart? I didn't think so.) I will never be the girl who completely gives up sweet tea (wouldn't I loose my Southern accent? That is, in fact, what gives us our accent right?) But I am talking about seriously giving a second thought about everything I eat, drink and...well...think. Because here lately I am beginning to believe that the mere thought about cheese fries makes my waist size increase an inch. And, (insert big ARG! here) I am talking about getting back on the fitness bandwagon. I've managed to have lost between 19-20 pounds since January, but since around about April or so, I haven't ran even once. I could blame it on a injury, but that injury cleared up within a couple of weeks...and I still haven't moved my butt off the couch. So, Jillian Michaels and your evil DVD...it's go time.
I'll keep you posted. Hopefully the 170's will make their debut. Soon.
I am so freakin' tired of stepping on the scales only to see something that starts with 18(filll in the blank). Seriously? I'm to the point now where I am about to go into what I call serious call-me-crazy-if-you-want-to mode. You know the one, right? When you are out with your girlfriends, she's the one that orders the skinny margarita version while everyone else is downing the double-straw fish bowl size margarita. The one that orders some sort of vinaigrette while everyone else is like "can order some ranch dressing with a side of salad" and the one who eats fruit as if it is a real a dessert option. You know her. We all know her. Because we hate her. And why do we hate her? Because she is loosing weight. And it is working for her. And we are all jealous bitches, aren't we? Secretly wishing we had that kind of self-control.
Well, I am about to be that girl. You can hate me if you want to. Heck, I may even hate me for a little while. I'm about to be a water-drinkin', salad eatin', lean protein cookin', fruit snackin' girl. I'm not going to go all crazy and do the stupid things people do to loose weight (only to put it back on weeks later). I can promise you that I may become the girl I mentioned above, but rest assured I will never be the girl who gives up carbs (um...do you want me to go on a killing spree in the dessert cake aisle at Wal-Mart? I didn't think so.) I will never be the girl who completely gives up sweet tea (wouldn't I loose my Southern accent? That is, in fact, what gives us our accent right?) But I am talking about seriously giving a second thought about everything I eat, drink and...well...think. Because here lately I am beginning to believe that the mere thought about cheese fries makes my waist size increase an inch. And, (insert big ARG! here) I am talking about getting back on the fitness bandwagon. I've managed to have lost between 19-20 pounds since January, but since around about April or so, I haven't ran even once. I could blame it on a injury, but that injury cleared up within a couple of weeks...and I still haven't moved my butt off the couch. So, Jillian Michaels and your evil DVD...it's go time.
I'll keep you posted. Hopefully the 170's will make their debut. Soon.
Wednesday, July 20, 2011
Sending me messages...
So, apparently my cellular device is trying to send me a message.
In today's high tech modern world, things often go array. Or perhaps the diet gods are living in my cell phone and trying to send me a message that I quite literally will receive. Because there is a definitely a higher power at work via my cell phones predictive text. I'm pretty sure it isn't God. I mean, because He isn't too concerned with my weight loss...I mean, with global warming and literally keeping up with the Kardashians, I'm pretty sure he's busy.
So allow me to tell you exactly what has been going on with my cell phone. It has this handy little help-me-out tool called predictive text. It is supposed to correctly guess what word I am attempting to text. Now, considering the vastness of the English language, many times the predictive text is a bit off. And for that reason, I am often forgiving and continue to use predictive text. For instance, when I try to spell "me", my cell phone often wants to spell "of". Not a big deal. But here lately, I've been noticing a common theme in the errors of certain words and phrases. For instance...
When I want to spell the word "eat" my cell phone spells "fat".
When I want to spell the world "food" my cell phone spells "done".
I am so not kidding.
And to get even a little more creative...
If I try to spell lazy, it spells jazz (as in "don't be lazy...jazzercise!")
Dear predictive text,
I got the freakin' message.
In today's high tech modern world, things often go array. Or perhaps the diet gods are living in my cell phone and trying to send me a message that I quite literally will receive. Because there is a definitely a higher power at work via my cell phones predictive text. I'm pretty sure it isn't God. I mean, because He isn't too concerned with my weight loss...I mean, with global warming and literally keeping up with the Kardashians, I'm pretty sure he's busy.
So allow me to tell you exactly what has been going on with my cell phone. It has this handy little help-me-out tool called predictive text. It is supposed to correctly guess what word I am attempting to text. Now, considering the vastness of the English language, many times the predictive text is a bit off. And for that reason, I am often forgiving and continue to use predictive text. For instance, when I try to spell "me", my cell phone often wants to spell "of". Not a big deal. But here lately, I've been noticing a common theme in the errors of certain words and phrases. For instance...
When I want to spell the word "eat" my cell phone spells "fat".
When I want to spell the world "food" my cell phone spells "done".
I am so not kidding.
And to get even a little more creative...
If I try to spell lazy, it spells jazz (as in "don't be lazy...jazzercise!")
Dear predictive text,
I got the freakin' message.
Wednesday, June 8, 2011
Is she prettier than me?
I'm starting to think I should have just named this blog "Inner monologues with Danielle". So...here goes. Let me give you a little background information on today's inner monologue.
I'm at a local restaurant with my dad. It is also of utmost importance that you know that I am wearing minimal make-up (Hello! It's like 100 degrees outside. It's just melting off anyways!) and I'm having one of those "no matter what I wear, I still feel fat and gross and ugly" days. And my partially wet hair is haphazardly enclosed in a horrid "clippie" because it's so friggin' hot out. So, needless to say, I am not feeling like a sexy goddess. So...my dad nudges me and says, "Hey, isn't that Molly?" Molly is a girl I knew from back in the day. Now, most men will not understand what I am about to say. But women definitely will. I was at that crucial point in time. You know...where you see someone you know but they haven't seen you yet. And you are thinking you can just look away or walk in the other direction as to avoid them. Not because you don't like them but because, let's face it, you just don't look cute that day. And you don't want to see anyone from your past not looking cute. Well, it's too late. Molly looks straight in my direction. Gee. Thanks Dad.
"Hey girl! It's been a long time!" Yeah, long enough for me to gain 50 pounds and for you to have two kids and still be skinner than me. Skinny biotch.
I am glancing Molly over with my eyes. Long blonde hair. Flawless complexion. She's got the whole "Whoops...I'm just wearing jeans and a t-shirt. But I just happen to look cute." Hate her.
"So, what are you doing these days?" Quick! Think of something good...something super successful. Dang it! Attempt failed. Abort mission. Retreat! Retreat! Say you have to go to the bathroom!
"Oh, not much." Really? That's my answer? You idiot.
Molly says, "Well, you just don't know what you want to do, do you?" Is this bitch reading my diary? And No. She. Didn't. "Well you don't know what it's like to get hit in the face, do you?"
After Molly gives me her number, she says, "Let's catch up soon!" Sure thing. I'll jump right on that. Right after I call my ex and beg him to tell me for the hundredth time why I wasn't good enough for him. May as well get all my torture over in one day.
Me: "K. Bye!"
Molly walks away. Really? She has the butt of a 16-year old. Still hate her.
What I don't mention are the thousands of other thoughts going on in my head during the three minutes she is talking to me while I am attempting to pay attention. Horrible thoughts like, "Wow. She is cuter than me now." "I thought she got fat? She must have lost all the weight." And the overwhelming girl thought that we all have. The one where you are straight up comparing yourself to the other person. And you realize one thing: you are clearly not the winner of the "Who's prettier?" debate going on inside your mind.
I am ashamed. Because I should totally be focused on catching up with my old friend. But my thoughts are so...immature and vain. What is wrong with me? But then it totally hits me. I'm normal. In fact, these seemingly delusional thoughts are the very thing that makes me normal. The only difference in me and other women out there is that I am actually admitting to engaging in this horrible game of comparison. And I'm admitting my thoughts out there for the world to see. A part of me would like to tell you some wonderful, inspiring story of how we should stop the madness and cease comparing ourselves to our friends and even strangers. But my guess is, even with the most inspiring of words or the wittiest of comments, we wouldn't. Because inside, we are all little girls asking ourselves, "Is she prettier than me?"
I'm at a local restaurant with my dad. It is also of utmost importance that you know that I am wearing minimal make-up (Hello! It's like 100 degrees outside. It's just melting off anyways!) and I'm having one of those "no matter what I wear, I still feel fat and gross and ugly" days. And my partially wet hair is haphazardly enclosed in a horrid "clippie" because it's so friggin' hot out. So, needless to say, I am not feeling like a sexy goddess. So...my dad nudges me and says, "Hey, isn't that Molly?" Molly is a girl I knew from back in the day. Now, most men will not understand what I am about to say. But women definitely will. I was at that crucial point in time. You know...where you see someone you know but they haven't seen you yet. And you are thinking you can just look away or walk in the other direction as to avoid them. Not because you don't like them but because, let's face it, you just don't look cute that day. And you don't want to see anyone from your past not looking cute. Well, it's too late. Molly looks straight in my direction. Gee. Thanks Dad.
"Hey girl! It's been a long time!" Yeah, long enough for me to gain 50 pounds and for you to have two kids and still be skinner than me. Skinny biotch.
I am glancing Molly over with my eyes. Long blonde hair. Flawless complexion. She's got the whole "Whoops...I'm just wearing jeans and a t-shirt. But I just happen to look cute." Hate her.
"So, what are you doing these days?" Quick! Think of something good...something super successful. Dang it! Attempt failed. Abort mission. Retreat! Retreat! Say you have to go to the bathroom!
"Oh, not much." Really? That's my answer? You idiot.
Molly says, "Well, you just don't know what you want to do, do you?" Is this bitch reading my diary? And No. She. Didn't. "Well you don't know what it's like to get hit in the face, do you?"
After Molly gives me her number, she says, "Let's catch up soon!" Sure thing. I'll jump right on that. Right after I call my ex and beg him to tell me for the hundredth time why I wasn't good enough for him. May as well get all my torture over in one day.
Me: "K. Bye!"
Molly walks away. Really? She has the butt of a 16-year old. Still hate her.
What I don't mention are the thousands of other thoughts going on in my head during the three minutes she is talking to me while I am attempting to pay attention. Horrible thoughts like, "Wow. She is cuter than me now." "I thought she got fat? She must have lost all the weight." And the overwhelming girl thought that we all have. The one where you are straight up comparing yourself to the other person. And you realize one thing: you are clearly not the winner of the "Who's prettier?" debate going on inside your mind.
I am ashamed. Because I should totally be focused on catching up with my old friend. But my thoughts are so...immature and vain. What is wrong with me? But then it totally hits me. I'm normal. In fact, these seemingly delusional thoughts are the very thing that makes me normal. The only difference in me and other women out there is that I am actually admitting to engaging in this horrible game of comparison. And I'm admitting my thoughts out there for the world to see. A part of me would like to tell you some wonderful, inspiring story of how we should stop the madness and cease comparing ourselves to our friends and even strangers. But my guess is, even with the most inspiring of words or the wittiest of comments, we wouldn't. Because inside, we are all little girls asking ourselves, "Is she prettier than me?"
Thursday, May 26, 2011
A day in the life of PMS...warning - foul language may appear
PMS. Officially it stands for pre-menstrual syndrome. And officially, it sucks. Now, you will never hear a real woman say that PMS is not real (in fact, saying that just might get you bitch slapped). And if by some weird freak of nature some woman does say that, she's a bitch and she shouldn't be trusted. (Don't leave her alone with your kids or husband.) PMS is real like the big girl PMS underwear I'm forced to wear right now. (P.S. For all you ladies out there...please tell me that I'm not the only one who has a stash of what I call "big ass grandma period panties" located in the very back of the unmentionable drawer.) Uh. PMS. I hate you. You know...I think someone should do a survey of all the women in prison. I bet you almost 90% of those women were PMS-ing during their offense. Especially the ones who cut a fool.
In "celebration" of PMS...here's a little taste of what a day in the life of my PMS is like.
What is up with the teenage zits on my face? Um...last time I checked, I was well past puberty. And taking one good look down my shirt...I know I am well past puberty. PMS= Pimples May Surface
Did my bra shrink overnight? And my pants? Everything is tight...uh. Why aren't women allowed to wear elastic or sweat pants to work? I'm actually contemplating buying some maternity pants for days like these. That is perfectly acceptable, right? Dress codes. I got your freakin' dress code. PMS=Pass me My Sweatpants and Puffy Mid Section
Why yes, chocolate does make it better. And Doritos. And Ben & Jerry. And caramel popcorn. And pizza rolls. PMS=Provide Me with Snacks
Oh. No. You. Didn't. Just. Cut. Me. Off. In. Traffic. On a normal day I would just honk at you. But today, I will honk at you, flip you off and look straight at you while I say a few curse words. PMS=Pardon My Shouting
It was Friday night. I was supposed to be out. Having fun. Or at least doing something that partially resembled fun. Instead, I was stood up again by quite possibly the biggest douche bag on the planet, curled up in my grandma's patch-quilt blanket, sobbing like a baby, with thoughts like, "Why is my life so horrible?" PMS= Psychotic Mood Shift and Plainly, Men Suck! and Pardon My Sobbing.
Person standing too close to me at Wal-Mart: Don't you see the ice cream in my cart? Next to the Tampax? You better back the hell up. PMS=People Make me Sick
Checking out facebook, I notice that a lot of people keep their status in the same genre. I mean, if your status is always about the same thing, like your kids...or your job...or your pregnancy...or your diet...you are boring. Mix it up a little. We, the audience, need some variety. PMS= Pissy Mood Syndrome
Hope you enjoyed that.
From,
Your big-panty wearin', sweat-pant sportin', ice cream eatin', emotional crisis havin', PMSin' biggest fan.
In "celebration" of PMS...here's a little taste of what a day in the life of my PMS is like.
What is up with the teenage zits on my face? Um...last time I checked, I was well past puberty. And taking one good look down my shirt...I know I am well past puberty. PMS= Pimples May Surface
Did my bra shrink overnight? And my pants? Everything is tight...uh. Why aren't women allowed to wear elastic or sweat pants to work? I'm actually contemplating buying some maternity pants for days like these. That is perfectly acceptable, right? Dress codes. I got your freakin' dress code. PMS=Pass me My Sweatpants and Puffy Mid Section
Why yes, chocolate does make it better. And Doritos. And Ben & Jerry. And caramel popcorn. And pizza rolls. PMS=Provide Me with Snacks
Oh. No. You. Didn't. Just. Cut. Me. Off. In. Traffic. On a normal day I would just honk at you. But today, I will honk at you, flip you off and look straight at you while I say a few curse words. PMS=Pardon My Shouting
It was Friday night. I was supposed to be out. Having fun. Or at least doing something that partially resembled fun. Instead, I was stood up again by quite possibly the biggest douche bag on the planet, curled up in my grandma's patch-quilt blanket, sobbing like a baby, with thoughts like, "Why is my life so horrible?" PMS= Psychotic Mood Shift and Plainly, Men Suck! and Pardon My Sobbing.
Person standing too close to me at Wal-Mart: Don't you see the ice cream in my cart? Next to the Tampax? You better back the hell up. PMS=People Make me Sick
Checking out facebook, I notice that a lot of people keep their status in the same genre. I mean, if your status is always about the same thing, like your kids...or your job...or your pregnancy...or your diet...you are boring. Mix it up a little. We, the audience, need some variety. PMS= Pissy Mood Syndrome
Hope you enjoyed that.
From,
Your big-panty wearin', sweat-pant sportin', ice cream eatin', emotional crisis havin', PMSin' biggest fan.
Tuesday, May 17, 2011
Hey, it's ok if...
One of my favorite things to do is read magazines. And one of my favorite sections is in Glamour magazine called "It's Ok If..." So here's my version.
It's ok if...
-You'd rather read a celebrity gossip magazine over an intellectual novel.
-You browse Wal-Mart on the weekends because there just isn't anything better to do.
-You open to the middle of the Harlequin romance novels to see if the rumor is true: that dead in the center of the novel is the "good part". (Wait...am I the only one who has done that?)
-You secretly hope the cute somebody standing behind you is checking you out as you walk away.
-You color-code your closet or alphabetize your DVD collection.
-If you put all your grandma panties towards the back of your panty drawer...just in case someone decides to take a peek. You want them to see your sexy undies...not the "these are what I wear when I feel like a bloated pig" panties.
-You seriously contemple kissing a total stranger.
-People ask you if you are homeless and living in your car because it's so dirty.
-You paint over the chipped nail polish because you just don't have that kind of time on your hands.
-You are fascinated with ear wax.
-You stand in front of the mirror and try to shake your booty like they do on BET.
-You sleep in...and then take a nap...and wonder why you are still, in fact, sleepy.
-You fantasize about what sleazy/borderline-trashy outfit you want to wear if you ever hit your goal weight.
-You spent an ample amount of time considering how you'd spend that million dollars you just might win someday.
-You have your "if I ever see him/her again" speech planned...for what you want to say. (Although it never seems to go that way does it?)
So, yeah. It's ok. We are all a little strange.
It's ok if...
-You'd rather read a celebrity gossip magazine over an intellectual novel.
-You browse Wal-Mart on the weekends because there just isn't anything better to do.
-You open to the middle of the Harlequin romance novels to see if the rumor is true: that dead in the center of the novel is the "good part". (Wait...am I the only one who has done that?)
-You secretly hope the cute somebody standing behind you is checking you out as you walk away.
-You color-code your closet or alphabetize your DVD collection.
-If you put all your grandma panties towards the back of your panty drawer...just in case someone decides to take a peek. You want them to see your sexy undies...not the "these are what I wear when I feel like a bloated pig" panties.
-You seriously contemple kissing a total stranger.
-People ask you if you are homeless and living in your car because it's so dirty.
-You paint over the chipped nail polish because you just don't have that kind of time on your hands.
-You are fascinated with ear wax.
-You stand in front of the mirror and try to shake your booty like they do on BET.
-You sleep in...and then take a nap...and wonder why you are still, in fact, sleepy.
-You fantasize about what sleazy/borderline-trashy outfit you want to wear if you ever hit your goal weight.
-You spent an ample amount of time considering how you'd spend that million dollars you just might win someday.
-You have your "if I ever see him/her again" speech planned...for what you want to say. (Although it never seems to go that way does it?)
So, yeah. It's ok. We are all a little strange.
One awesome date - modern man take notes
I am absolutely, without question, frustrated with my experience with today's modern man and his ability to date. Allow me to vent...because I have a few questions that maybe someone can answer...
Is dating unheard of these days?! Whatever happened to someone calling you up and actually uttering the following phrase: "I was wondering if you'd like to go out this weekend?" Instead, I get a random text message asking if I wanna "hang out" later (which is code for "let's watch tv".) Long gone are the days when a man actually asks you out, plans a date and picks you up. That has happened once in my adult life. Once. And while that date did not turn into a relationship, I still, to this day, rate that as the best date I have ever been on. You know why? Because the guy called me up (a week in advance! I know right? I can still hardly believe it myself) and actually asked me out (which I realize is a big deal because a guy can always run the risk of being rejected) and planned the date himself. He knocked on my front door, brought me a nice flower, opened the car door for me and whisked me away and treated me like I was some kind of royalty. Let's skip to dinner...he took me to a nice restaurant and actually suggested something on the menu. Not in a bossy way, but in a super-hot take-charge manly kind of way. (SO tired of hearing the boring response of "Whatever you want to do" to my question of "What do you have planned?" UHH!) So...back to the awesome one date I had like 8 years ago...I may not have ended up in a relationship with this guy, but the point is this: this guy knew how to date. Perhaps he should teach a course to today's modern man who thinks a date is "hanging out". Um...hello...it's not! I'm not at all opposed to hanging out with you...but if that's it...it isn't a good sign.
I don't require fancy restaurants. Nor do I require any amount of sufficient funds. I don't require fancy places or clothing. But I do require effort. I require you, modern man, to get up off your ass, make a plan, and ask me out for heaven's sake! I'm not even asking you to be creative...just ask...preferably at least three days in advance. Do you not know how hot that is? How manly that makes you? I just refuse to believe that I am supposed to settle for "hanging out" every blue moon. I mean, it isn't that old fashioned is it? I'm not asking for a horse drawn carriage and to be courted. I just want a freaking date!
Sunday, May 15, 2011
Back on the bandwagon
So sorry blogger friends...I have sorta taken a hiatus from writing. And from exercising. And from eating healthy. But never fear, I am jumping back on the bandwagon! I'm trying to go back to what threw me off from my awesome weight loss streak I had going...I'm not quite sure, but I know the following life events have not helped:
1. Working at a restaurant during late night hours is torture on a diet. Resisting cheese fries for half price is almost an impossible feat. And what is open at 12 a.m.? McDonald's. Taco Bell. Krystal's. (Not good for a trying-to-be-healthy gal.)
2. Whenever I have a new crush or am dating a guy...I get all giddy and happy and forget that working out must still remain a priority.
3. I had some sort of severe side pain going on for about a week which landed me in the emergency room. I wasn't able to walk/run for a week (and I unfortunately have not since) and wasn't able to run in the 5K I had planned due to that injury. Which really sucked. Like, majorly. But, mark my words - I. WILL. RUN. A. 5K.
So...there's a small little up-date. I promise to be more faithful to my ten readers. Lol.
Love and cheese fries,
Danielle
1. Working at a restaurant during late night hours is torture on a diet. Resisting cheese fries for half price is almost an impossible feat. And what is open at 12 a.m.? McDonald's. Taco Bell. Krystal's. (Not good for a trying-to-be-healthy gal.)
2. Whenever I have a new crush or am dating a guy...I get all giddy and happy and forget that working out must still remain a priority.
3. I had some sort of severe side pain going on for about a week which landed me in the emergency room. I wasn't able to walk/run for a week (and I unfortunately have not since) and wasn't able to run in the 5K I had planned due to that injury. Which really sucked. Like, majorly. But, mark my words - I. WILL. RUN. A. 5K.
So...there's a small little up-date. I promise to be more faithful to my ten readers. Lol.
Love and cheese fries,
Danielle
Wednesday, April 20, 2011
Waiting on Ashton Kutcher to jump out from behind a tree
Seriously? Have you ever had one of those moments in life where you thought any of the following...
Those are five hours I'll never get back.
Is this a practical joke? I thought they did away with Candid Camera?
Oh...wait...it must be Punk'd. Am I on Punk'd? Where is Ashton Kutcher?
Are you 'effin kidding me?
Is this really happening to me right now?
Did I actually pay for this kind of torture?
I think you catch my drift. Today's blog has absolutely nothing to do with weight loss or anything of the sort. It just has to do with what was quite possibly the biggest waste of my money...like...ever. Here's the down low on tonight's events...I had to take a training course to obtain a permit to serve alcohol at a restaurant. If I don't get it, I like, well, don't have a job. So, I had to pay $65 for a training class on serving alcohol to get a permit. Blah, blah. I would like to say that I paid $65 for a freak show. The lady who trained us was c to the razy. I mean, really. Here's a breakdown of some of the stupid crap she said/did and my inner monologue.
5:30 - I am informed that the trainer ("Ms. V") is running late. Wow. How very professional of her.
5:40 - Ms. V aka "Satan's favorite worker" arrives looking quite flustered.
5:42 - Ms. V tells me quite rudely, "What are you doing? Go back in the back room where everyone else is." Oh no. she. didn't.
5:45 - Ms. V is visibly upset that she has to train 12 people instead of four. Oh, I was mistaken. I thought this was her job.
5:50 - Ms. V tells us that she needs her payment of $65 and our driver's license card. She then tells us that she will not accept any id that has been destroyed, etc. Oh crap. Mine has a small bubble in the lamination. This crazy lady will think I have a fake ID.
6:00 - Crazy lady closely examines my ID like I am a criminal and rubs her nasty fingers across my ID until the bubble disappears. She informs me that she will let it slide this time but that my ID could be considered an "inappropriate form of identification". What in the hell is wrong with this lady? This was my first thought that I seriously might be on the Mid-South's version of Punk'd.
6:01 - Crazy lady asks me if I was aware that my ID could be considered an unacceptable form of identification. Roll my eyes and tell her sarcastically, "No, maam. I was not aware."
6:02 until what seems like eternity - Satan's worker forces each of us to read word for word each paragraph in the training manual. Not sure what hell consists of, but am fairly sure it consists of Ms. V sitting beside me, forcing me to read my every mistake out loud.
Special note: Ms. V was too stupid to pick up on the fact that there was a girl there who couldn't really read. She said to the girl, "Um...girl, you are gonna have to speak up louder." Finally, the girl's friend said, "She can't read that well." Ms. V's response: "Well just skip her then." OMG! What a total bi-otch.
AND...before we could get to the next person to read, Ms. V would respond rudely with, "Next person please!!" (Insert me growing more and more frustrated. And forcing myself to shut up before I get kicked out of this ridiculous training session.)
8:00 - Since she is treating us like 5 year olds, I wonder if I should raise my hand and say, "Ms. V, can I go to the potty? I need to make a pee pee."
8:15 - Ms. V says she will be "nice" and let us eat dinner for 10 minutes. Wow. I wonder if she unlocks her children from the basement and allows them 10 minutes to eat?
8:20 - Ms. V tells the waitress that she "must" take our salads away from the table because the onion smell is giving her a headache. Seriously? Where is Ashton Kutcher? I just know he's about to jump out from behind a tree any minute.
8:30 - Ms. V brings out a visual aid explaining to us how to do long division in order to calculate the measurements of alcoholic beverages. Then she tells us we should know 4th grade math, but she is convinced some of us in the room will fail the test if she doesn't cover the 4th grade math. Wow. Wonder if I can escape long enough to go slit her tires?
9:30 - Ms. V finally wraps up her 4th grade math lesson. This is 5 hours I will never get back. And I had to actually pay for this torture.
9:35 - I ask Ms. V if my answers are right on my practice questions. She looks at me like an idiot and says, "I guess." ARGGGGGG!!!!!
10:00 - Ms. V tells us we can take our tests. She cautions us to not cheat. And hovers over each one of us like a hawk making sure we do no such thing.
10:30 - Ms. V informs me I passed.
10:31 - Walk out to the parking lot cautiously...because I'm still waiting on Ashton to jump out from behind a tree.
P.S. I'm not a genius...but I can almost bet that Ms. V was once an elementary school teacher who was fired for her "teaching techniques".
Those are five hours I'll never get back.
Is this a practical joke? I thought they did away with Candid Camera?
Oh...wait...it must be Punk'd. Am I on Punk'd? Where is Ashton Kutcher?
Are you 'effin kidding me?
Is this really happening to me right now?
Did I actually pay for this kind of torture?
I think you catch my drift. Today's blog has absolutely nothing to do with weight loss or anything of the sort. It just has to do with what was quite possibly the biggest waste of my money...like...ever. Here's the down low on tonight's events...I had to take a training course to obtain a permit to serve alcohol at a restaurant. If I don't get it, I like, well, don't have a job. So, I had to pay $65 for a training class on serving alcohol to get a permit. Blah, blah. I would like to say that I paid $65 for a freak show. The lady who trained us was c to the razy. I mean, really. Here's a breakdown of some of the stupid crap she said/did and my inner monologue.
5:30 - I am informed that the trainer ("Ms. V") is running late. Wow. How very professional of her.
5:40 - Ms. V aka "Satan's favorite worker" arrives looking quite flustered.
5:42 - Ms. V tells me quite rudely, "What are you doing? Go back in the back room where everyone else is." Oh no. she. didn't.
5:45 - Ms. V is visibly upset that she has to train 12 people instead of four. Oh, I was mistaken. I thought this was her job.
5:50 - Ms. V tells us that she needs her payment of $65 and our driver's license card. She then tells us that she will not accept any id that has been destroyed, etc. Oh crap. Mine has a small bubble in the lamination. This crazy lady will think I have a fake ID.
6:00 - Crazy lady closely examines my ID like I am a criminal and rubs her nasty fingers across my ID until the bubble disappears. She informs me that she will let it slide this time but that my ID could be considered an "inappropriate form of identification". What in the hell is wrong with this lady? This was my first thought that I seriously might be on the Mid-South's version of Punk'd.
6:01 - Crazy lady asks me if I was aware that my ID could be considered an unacceptable form of identification. Roll my eyes and tell her sarcastically, "No, maam. I was not aware."
6:02 until what seems like eternity - Satan's worker forces each of us to read word for word each paragraph in the training manual. Not sure what hell consists of, but am fairly sure it consists of Ms. V sitting beside me, forcing me to read my every mistake out loud.
Special note: Ms. V was too stupid to pick up on the fact that there was a girl there who couldn't really read. She said to the girl, "Um...girl, you are gonna have to speak up louder." Finally, the girl's friend said, "She can't read that well." Ms. V's response: "Well just skip her then." OMG! What a total bi-otch.
AND...before we could get to the next person to read, Ms. V would respond rudely with, "Next person please!!" (Insert me growing more and more frustrated. And forcing myself to shut up before I get kicked out of this ridiculous training session.)
8:00 - Since she is treating us like 5 year olds, I wonder if I should raise my hand and say, "Ms. V, can I go to the potty? I need to make a pee pee."
8:15 - Ms. V says she will be "nice" and let us eat dinner for 10 minutes. Wow. I wonder if she unlocks her children from the basement and allows them 10 minutes to eat?
8:20 - Ms. V tells the waitress that she "must" take our salads away from the table because the onion smell is giving her a headache. Seriously? Where is Ashton Kutcher? I just know he's about to jump out from behind a tree any minute.
8:30 - Ms. V brings out a visual aid explaining to us how to do long division in order to calculate the measurements of alcoholic beverages. Then she tells us we should know 4th grade math, but she is convinced some of us in the room will fail the test if she doesn't cover the 4th grade math. Wow. Wonder if I can escape long enough to go slit her tires?
9:30 - Ms. V finally wraps up her 4th grade math lesson. This is 5 hours I will never get back. And I had to actually pay for this torture.
9:35 - I ask Ms. V if my answers are right on my practice questions. She looks at me like an idiot and says, "I guess." ARGGGGGG!!!!!
10:00 - Ms. V tells us we can take our tests. She cautions us to not cheat. And hovers over each one of us like a hawk making sure we do no such thing.
10:30 - Ms. V informs me I passed.
10:31 - Walk out to the parking lot cautiously...because I'm still waiting on Ashton to jump out from behind a tree.
P.S. I'm not a genius...but I can almost bet that Ms. V was once an elementary school teacher who was fired for her "teaching techniques".
Update on my scale must be broken...
The update is: my scale IS in fact broken. Or at least defective. And I can say this with confidence because I tested my suspicion that something had gone way wrong with my scale. I stepped onto the scale in my birthday suit. Then I stepped back on the scale, fully clothed, with shoes...and while holding a rather large decorative iron cross. And the scale read the same weight. SO - glad to know my scale is currently taking a hiatus from accurate readings.
I refuse to spend another $30ish dollars on another digital scale. So, I will now be forced to frequent my local doctor's office to weigh in each week - or buy a cheap $10 scale.
With that said - I have no idea what I really weigh. But I know my pants are loose and don't cut off the circulation quite as much as a couple of months ago. Yay for healthy blood circulation. That's got to be a good thing.
Saturday, April 16, 2011
Goin' all Taylor Swift on ya...part one
If you are even remotely aware of who Taylor Swift is, you know that she is famous for calling out dudes she's dated in her love songs. I like that about her. Taylor isn't mysterious. She puts it out there. I'm like her in that way. I often times wish I were more mysterious like those cool girls in the movies. But I'm just not like that. I will tell you what I think (probably with more words than are required) and I rarely keep my feelings to myself.
So - I thought it might be fun to write a little something about some of the guys I've dated (or not dated). The purpose is pure fun and entertainment. Some guys I am leaving out for that reason. But...for your entertainment...here goes my first installment of "Goin' all Taylor Swift on ya". Sit back - grab some popcorn (or cheese fries) and enjoy.
P.S. Names have been changed.
Freddy - First guy I ever held hands with. Aww. And, why yes, it was at the local skating rink. And he was such a good skater. He could even skate backwards. I really knew how to pick the good guys back then. We held hands so long...we got the sweaty hands. Kinda gross. But for an 11 year old, it was totally cool.
Bradley - First guy I phone stalked. You know, where you call and hang up like 14 times trying to get up enough courage to utter a word. (But instead you just breathe heavily on the other end.) Somehow me and Bradley ended up on some sort of school bus road trip together. I annoyingly punched him in the arm every time we passed by a BP gas station (his initials) and said, "Hey! BP!" Come to think of it, I'm not surprised he avoided me every time I passed him in the hallway of my middle school. But shouldn't I have gotten some kind of credit for being creative and using his name while being annoying?
Justin - Oh Justin. He's still hot. Seriously. (But a major jerk - at least the last contact I had with him he was.) He was the first guy to get me a balloon with a teddy bear in it (so cool in 1990). If a stuffed balloon isn't love, please tell me what is. (P.S. We also had a lot of super-hot hand holding sessions in the local movie theatre.) Good thing I have no idea where he is now. Because I'd probably be stupid enough to date him again. (Still can't get over the balloon.)
Randall - First guy I seriously thought I wanted to marry. (I was 12). I took piano lessons from his sister just to hang out with him. (Desperate much?) I rode my first roller coaster just to impress him. I begged our band director to let me hold his sheet music during the football games. It was quite pitiful. And I thought I would die when I found out he liked someone so much older (16). I had enough guts to call him and just ask him point blank: will you be my boyfriend? He said no. Fast forward: He was 3 years older than me and when I became a little bit older, he asked me out. Guess who said no this time?
Bobby - First guy I ever really kissed. And it was a Valentine's Day party. How perfect was that? Such a good kisser. (Probably still is. Damn him!) And that perfect kiss led to my first ever heartache. Still randomly see him out and around. And still blush.
Tom - Sweetest guy friend ever. The guy friend you wanted to like enough to date, but for some reason, just couldn't. And now, he's the guy I wish I would have at least went out on one date with. He's married now to such a sweet girl and has a wonderful family. (Insert me kicking myself in the butt and insert him probably laughing hysterically right now.) It's ok. I deserve it.
Daniel - The guy that you knew loved you but you didn't love back. (Believe it or not, that sucks way worse than being the one who isn't being loved back.) I don't wanna get all Hallmark-moment on my readers...but this one could quite literally bring me to tears. I recently found an old letter he wrote to me in which he told me he thought I was the prettiest girl in the world and that he wanted to be my big teddy bear. (I sat in my living room floor and cried.) SO wish I could go back in time. Biggest regret. But...he is happily married now. And I couldn't be happier for him. He deserves it. Because I surely don't deserve him.
Allen - I was a freshmen. He was a senior. Such a big deal. (This was during a temporary move to another high school.) It was like a scene from an awesome teen drama movie. He'd pick me up in his black camaro from school and we'd ride off into the sunset (well, not the sunset, but that sounded good anyway.) He was the first guy to ever buy me flowers for my birthday (and a puppy). He was sorta stalker-ish though. I can remember being sick one day and he knocked on the door and I saw soup in his hands...and I didn't answer the door. (Seriously? What was wrong with me? I think I drove the good ones away.) But, granted, he was very clingy. I broke up with him shortly after. And then he wrote me the words to a REM song in a letter. And he told me he loved me. My response: "No, you actually don't." Wow. I was a harsh.
Hope you've enjoyed this first installment. (:
So - I thought it might be fun to write a little something about some of the guys I've dated (or not dated). The purpose is pure fun and entertainment. Some guys I am leaving out for that reason. But...for your entertainment...here goes my first installment of "Goin' all Taylor Swift on ya". Sit back - grab some popcorn (or cheese fries) and enjoy.
P.S. Names have been changed.
Freddy - First guy I ever held hands with. Aww. And, why yes, it was at the local skating rink. And he was such a good skater. He could even skate backwards. I really knew how to pick the good guys back then. We held hands so long...we got the sweaty hands. Kinda gross. But for an 11 year old, it was totally cool.
Bradley - First guy I phone stalked. You know, where you call and hang up like 14 times trying to get up enough courage to utter a word. (But instead you just breathe heavily on the other end.) Somehow me and Bradley ended up on some sort of school bus road trip together. I annoyingly punched him in the arm every time we passed by a BP gas station (his initials) and said, "Hey! BP!" Come to think of it, I'm not surprised he avoided me every time I passed him in the hallway of my middle school. But shouldn't I have gotten some kind of credit for being creative and using his name while being annoying?
Justin - Oh Justin. He's still hot. Seriously. (But a major jerk - at least the last contact I had with him he was.) He was the first guy to get me a balloon with a teddy bear in it (so cool in 1990). If a stuffed balloon isn't love, please tell me what is. (P.S. We also had a lot of super-hot hand holding sessions in the local movie theatre.) Good thing I have no idea where he is now. Because I'd probably be stupid enough to date him again. (Still can't get over the balloon.)
Randall - First guy I seriously thought I wanted to marry. (I was 12). I took piano lessons from his sister just to hang out with him. (Desperate much?) I rode my first roller coaster just to impress him. I begged our band director to let me hold his sheet music during the football games. It was quite pitiful. And I thought I would die when I found out he liked someone so much older (16). I had enough guts to call him and just ask him point blank: will you be my boyfriend? He said no. Fast forward: He was 3 years older than me and when I became a little bit older, he asked me out. Guess who said no this time?
Bobby - First guy I ever really kissed. And it was a Valentine's Day party. How perfect was that? Such a good kisser. (Probably still is. Damn him!) And that perfect kiss led to my first ever heartache. Still randomly see him out and around. And still blush.
Tom - Sweetest guy friend ever. The guy friend you wanted to like enough to date, but for some reason, just couldn't. And now, he's the guy I wish I would have at least went out on one date with. He's married now to such a sweet girl and has a wonderful family. (Insert me kicking myself in the butt and insert him probably laughing hysterically right now.) It's ok. I deserve it.
Daniel - The guy that you knew loved you but you didn't love back. (Believe it or not, that sucks way worse than being the one who isn't being loved back.) I don't wanna get all Hallmark-moment on my readers...but this one could quite literally bring me to tears. I recently found an old letter he wrote to me in which he told me he thought I was the prettiest girl in the world and that he wanted to be my big teddy bear. (I sat in my living room floor and cried.) SO wish I could go back in time. Biggest regret. But...he is happily married now. And I couldn't be happier for him. He deserves it. Because I surely don't deserve him.
Allen - I was a freshmen. He was a senior. Such a big deal. (This was during a temporary move to another high school.) It was like a scene from an awesome teen drama movie. He'd pick me up in his black camaro from school and we'd ride off into the sunset (well, not the sunset, but that sounded good anyway.) He was the first guy to ever buy me flowers for my birthday (and a puppy). He was sorta stalker-ish though. I can remember being sick one day and he knocked on the door and I saw soup in his hands...and I didn't answer the door. (Seriously? What was wrong with me? I think I drove the good ones away.) But, granted, he was very clingy. I broke up with him shortly after. And then he wrote me the words to a REM song in a letter. And he told me he loved me. My response: "No, you actually don't." Wow. I was a harsh.
Hope you've enjoyed this first installment. (:
My scale must be broken
My scale must be broken. Perhaps I should take it back. Or check the battery. Or give it a good shake. Or throw it against the wall. Because clearly...it can not be displaying an accurate reading.
Seriously...not a single pound of weight loss this week? (Granted, my official weigh-in day is tomorrow, but I doubt it reads all that different tomorrow as opposed to today.) Not even a tenth of a pound. If I could look back on this week and see where I have eaten cheese fries or not worked out, I would understand. But I worked out...every.freakin.day. And while I may have had one too many cokes at work, I didn't drown myself in cheese fries or the thousand other fatty foods I wanted to immerse myself in.
I hear this happens. The time where you are trying but nothing is happening. The time when beads of sweat mean nothing when it's weigh-in time. The time when you just want to take that rice cake and heave it across the room and trade it in for a bacon cheeseburger. When you, quite literally, want to take the scale and throw it against the wall and then step on the tiny little pieces that remain. (And if it wasn't a high-priced digital scale...I totally would). This sucks!
And I know...it's just a phase. This too shall pass. That is what I hear. Yeah. Yeah. Whatever.
P.S. Screw you scale. I won't quit. And I will not give into the bacon cheeseburger you are apparently trying to tempt me with.
Seriously...not a single pound of weight loss this week? (Granted, my official weigh-in day is tomorrow, but I doubt it reads all that different tomorrow as opposed to today.) Not even a tenth of a pound. If I could look back on this week and see where I have eaten cheese fries or not worked out, I would understand. But I worked out...every.freakin.day. And while I may have had one too many cokes at work, I didn't drown myself in cheese fries or the thousand other fatty foods I wanted to immerse myself in.
I hear this happens. The time where you are trying but nothing is happening. The time when beads of sweat mean nothing when it's weigh-in time. The time when you just want to take that rice cake and heave it across the room and trade it in for a bacon cheeseburger. When you, quite literally, want to take the scale and throw it against the wall and then step on the tiny little pieces that remain. (And if it wasn't a high-priced digital scale...I totally would). This sucks!
And I know...it's just a phase. This too shall pass. That is what I hear. Yeah. Yeah. Whatever.
P.S. Screw you scale. I won't quit. And I will not give into the bacon cheeseburger you are apparently trying to tempt me with.
Thursday, April 14, 2011
"Me? Pretty? Why, thank you sir."
Every person (especially girl), whether they are single or married - loves to hear a sincere compliment. We can't always toot our own horn, so it feels good when someone else toots it for us. (Wow...that sounded dirty, but was so not intended to be. And now it's quite possible that your mind didn't go to the place mine went and now I have forced it to...so...um...sorry about that.) What can I say? I'm the girl that can probably find about 100 ways in a day to a comment with "that's what she said". It isn't always a good thing. Sometimes it leaves me snickering in a corner by myself with people asking "what's so funny?" Me. And apparently my dirty mind.
Anyways...got a little off topic there. Back to the point: everyone loves being complimented. Especially me. And when you are 31 and never been married, those compliments from males tend to be of a rare and special kind. Because let's face it - I'm 31 and never been married, so of course the following thoughts cross my mind: "Do I repulse the opposite sex?" "Is there some sort of hairy mole growing out of the side of my face no one is telling me about?" and the thought I most frequent: "What the hell is wrong with me?" And all my friends and family say, "Oh, he's out there. God has that special one for you." And my response to that would be, "Yeah. Blah. Blah. Blah. You still get to go home to your husband (and kids - and dog - geez...you have it all!) and have all the sex you want without being considered promiscuous, slutty or sinful. And more importantly, when you don't feel like cutting the light off - there is someone there to do it for you."
Bitter? Party of one? Yes, that's me. And dang...I keep getting off topic (but who doesn't like the scenic route to the point?)
So - when I get a compliment from the opposite sex - it matters.
And I got one at work tonight. Most of the male compliments I receive are usually somewhat of a vulgar nature. (Don't worry, I won't share...but you are secretly wishing I would right? I thought so. Shame on you. Lol.) Well, out of nowhere this guy says to another guy standing close by - "I think she is really pretty." (and points to me) How precious is THAT I ask you? He used the word pretty. Not hot (though fully acceptable) and not anything that registers above a 5 on what I call the perv-o-meter. (Which, in case you are wondering, would include phrases that include, but are not limited to the following words: panties and any word which refers to my lady parts.)
Back to pretty. What a nice compliment! And I turned to him and said, "Thank you for saying that. That was such a sweet thing to say." And that was the end. There was no gross comment which followed. Just a nice, sincere compliment from a nice, sincere man. And it was...well...nice. So, thank you nice man.
And here's hoping that you receive the compliment you deserve today.
Anyways...got a little off topic there. Back to the point: everyone loves being complimented. Especially me. And when you are 31 and never been married, those compliments from males tend to be of a rare and special kind. Because let's face it - I'm 31 and never been married, so of course the following thoughts cross my mind: "Do I repulse the opposite sex?" "Is there some sort of hairy mole growing out of the side of my face no one is telling me about?" and the thought I most frequent: "What the hell is wrong with me?" And all my friends and family say, "Oh, he's out there. God has that special one for you." And my response to that would be, "Yeah. Blah. Blah. Blah. You still get to go home to your husband (and kids - and dog - geez...you have it all!) and have all the sex you want without being considered promiscuous, slutty or sinful. And more importantly, when you don't feel like cutting the light off - there is someone there to do it for you."
Bitter? Party of one? Yes, that's me. And dang...I keep getting off topic (but who doesn't like the scenic route to the point?)
So - when I get a compliment from the opposite sex - it matters.
And I got one at work tonight. Most of the male compliments I receive are usually somewhat of a vulgar nature. (Don't worry, I won't share...but you are secretly wishing I would right? I thought so. Shame on you. Lol.) Well, out of nowhere this guy says to another guy standing close by - "I think she is really pretty." (and points to me) How precious is THAT I ask you? He used the word pretty. Not hot (though fully acceptable) and not anything that registers above a 5 on what I call the perv-o-meter. (Which, in case you are wondering, would include phrases that include, but are not limited to the following words: panties and any word which refers to my lady parts.)
Back to pretty. What a nice compliment! And I turned to him and said, "Thank you for saying that. That was such a sweet thing to say." And that was the end. There was no gross comment which followed. Just a nice, sincere compliment from a nice, sincere man. And it was...well...nice. So, thank you nice man.
And here's hoping that you receive the compliment you deserve today.
Wednesday, April 13, 2011
Why tattoo placement is crucial for chubby girls (or guys)
I never really thought of myself as "cool enough" to get a tattoo. I secretly wanted to get one but always lacked the right amount of gusto to get it done. Not to mention pain. I'm not a real big fan of self-inflicted pain (unless it's the emotional kind...I'm good at that). I never really understood why people would pierce certain body parts...not because I thought it was gross, but because I just couldn't understand why they'd want to go through all that pain. So, I didn't feel cool enough (weren't people with tattoos supposed to drive Harley Davidsons or something? Or at least have that "bad ass" vibe? Because I so am not bad ass. Though I'd like to be for at least a day. And the closest I come to feeling that way is when I wear cowgirl boots.) And then there was the whole choosing a tattoo I'd want to have on my body for forever. I made a list of what I didn't want (should I ever get the guts to actually get a tattoo:
1. Any kind of character (think Disney). Character images for adults belong on horribly tacky night shirts that are only sold at Wal-Mart...and grandma sweatshirts. Not a hip tattoo.
2. Anything that could possibly stretch on any part of my body and become something it wasn't originally intended to be. And considering my struggle with weight, this was of major importance. In other words, I didn't want a rose to turn into a long-stemmed one thanks to a 40 pound weight gain or pregnancy.
3. Anything lower-back. I know, like 90% of girls east of the Mississippi have the tramp stamp. It just wasn't for me. And it would hurt.
4. Anything on my foot. Too painful.
5. I didn't want a colored tattoo...I think they are kinda tacky. (Unless you are going for the whole body tattoo thing...in which case it should be colored because your body is like a walking piece of artwork.)
6. No butterflies - too girly cliche.
7. Something that sorta meant something to me. (How could I ever explain why I got Winne the Pooh on my ankle?)
8. Something that wouldn't be that clearly visible with the proper amount of clothing on.
Well, guess what? I got the gusto. Finally got a tattoo. (Still not badass.) I chose to get the following tattooed on my back (not lower back...more like my left shoulder blade):
Hope...
That's right, hope... The reason I got the dots after the word was to signify that hope is to come and hope is to be expected. (pretty cool if I say so myself). And it's in a pretty font. (Definitely not badass.) Oh well. I'm girly. That's just me.
But something never really occurred to me. What if I loose weight? I have fat on/in/around my back (so gross). I was thinking last night, "What if my back gets skinnier?" And while this probably won't happen, I had a hilarious, somewhat scary thought. "If my tattoo shrinks...it will shrink into Hoe..." What would people think? Hoe...to be expected? Hoe...is coming for you?
I never thought there would be a downfall to loosing weight. Perhaps those with tattoos should rethink that.
1. Any kind of character (think Disney). Character images for adults belong on horribly tacky night shirts that are only sold at Wal-Mart...and grandma sweatshirts. Not a hip tattoo.
2. Anything that could possibly stretch on any part of my body and become something it wasn't originally intended to be. And considering my struggle with weight, this was of major importance. In other words, I didn't want a rose to turn into a long-stemmed one thanks to a 40 pound weight gain or pregnancy.
3. Anything lower-back. I know, like 90% of girls east of the Mississippi have the tramp stamp. It just wasn't for me. And it would hurt.
4. Anything on my foot. Too painful.
5. I didn't want a colored tattoo...I think they are kinda tacky. (Unless you are going for the whole body tattoo thing...in which case it should be colored because your body is like a walking piece of artwork.)
6. No butterflies - too girly cliche.
7. Something that sorta meant something to me. (How could I ever explain why I got Winne the Pooh on my ankle?)
8. Something that wouldn't be that clearly visible with the proper amount of clothing on.
Well, guess what? I got the gusto. Finally got a tattoo. (Still not badass.) I chose to get the following tattooed on my back (not lower back...more like my left shoulder blade):
Hope...
That's right, hope... The reason I got the dots after the word was to signify that hope is to come and hope is to be expected. (pretty cool if I say so myself). And it's in a pretty font. (Definitely not badass.) Oh well. I'm girly. That's just me.
But something never really occurred to me. What if I loose weight? I have fat on/in/around my back (so gross). I was thinking last night, "What if my back gets skinnier?" And while this probably won't happen, I had a hilarious, somewhat scary thought. "If my tattoo shrinks...it will shrink into Hoe..." What would people think? Hoe...to be expected? Hoe...is coming for you?
I never thought there would be a downfall to loosing weight. Perhaps those with tattoos should rethink that.
Tuesday, April 12, 2011
My letter to the 190s
Dear 190's,
I'll start out nice...We had a wild time didn't we? All those late nights eating whatever was in the fridge. All those McDonald's breakfast meals we ate...what was our favorite again? Oh yes...I remember...a sausage, egg and cheese biscuit, large sweet tea and let's not forget the hash brown. I can recall cleaning my car out every week and finding a multitude of fast food bags and cups. I was a lot embarrassed when I'd throw them away. But, then again, we never were ones to hesitate to order cheese fries or anything else on the menu. That just wasn't our style. We were drawn like magnets to anything cheesy, creamy or fatty.
We've hung out for quite awhile over the last year or so. And while we shared some (seemingly) good times...I have to admit, you kinda got on my nerves. There towards the end, you were growing more and more annoying and frustrating. And you didn't really get the hint: I wanted to end our relationship. But you just kept hanging around, hoping I'd forget you were there. But I never forgot. And you stuck around for what seemed like forever. So many times, I often wished you'd just go away. (But you could have left the cheese fries; I wouldn't have complained.) I hated looking at your face on the scale. To be honest, I grew to despise you.
Unfortunately, you didn't take the hint. You couldn't just make things easy and...well...disappear could you? No. You made me make all the effort, didn't you? You just thought I'd give in and say, "This is too hard. I may as well just keep 190s around." Well, I didn't give in. (Even though you hovered around my life for months.) You have had your time in my life. And now, I must say my farewell to you.
Know you will not be missed. Know you are no longer welcome. And I will never see you again.
Peace out,
Danielle
To my blogger friends,
That's right...currently in the 180s! Whoo hoo! Since January, I've lost a grand total of 17 pounds. Remember, I topped the scales at 205. (Oh. My. Gosh.) My next goal is the 170s. (Haven't seen those since...well...can't even remember.) When I recently got on the scales, I sang the Hallelujah chorus and did a little dance (true story). I stayed in the 190s for so long. Too long. Farewell 190s!
Sunday, April 10, 2011
How do you pizza?
I have been going crazy with creating new "pizzas". Just wanted to share with you that it is totally possible to enjoy a version of pizza AND still be healthy and possibly loose a few pounds. I didn't bother to calculate all the calories precisely (because really? I have better things to do...well...not really. But still.) I try to keep the calories under an obscene amount, but I don't get all psycho with it. But, for those of you Type A personalities out there...enjoy the following...
on most of the pizzas I created, they included the following "staples":
1 sandwich thin (100 calories)
1/3 cup of 2% reduced fat cheese (around 60-70 calories)
1/4 cup of pizza sauce (around 40 calories)
My first healthy pizza creation: Hawaiian Pizza
Sandwich Thins
Pizza Sauce
Fresh mushrooms
Pineapple tidbits
Canadian bacon
2% milk mozzarella cheese
Looks good huh? (Well...it tasted good)
Here's a quick recipe:
1. Saute chopped mushrooms and Canadian bacon in skillet
2. Toast the sandwich thin in toaster or on broil
3. Add pizza sauce, then cheese, then sauteed 'shrooms and bacon, then top with pineapple
4. Bake for about 10 minutes or until cheese is melted
Awesome pizza creation #2: Buffalo Chicken Pizza
Neely's Honey Kissed BBQ Sauce (Soooo good!)
2% cheddar cheese mix
Red onion
Chicken breast
Sandwich thin
*No pizza sauce. The BBQ is the sub for pizza sauce*
The finished product. I added a salad and veggies to up the health factor.
Quick recipe:
1. Grill or boil 2 chicken breast tenderloins (skinless). Add bbq sauce and saute in a skillet with sliced red onions until onions are tender.
2. Toast sandwich thins in oven or broil.
3. Add bbq sauce to sandwich thin. Layer on mozzarella cheese, then chicken and onion.
4. Bake around 10 minutes or until cheese is melted.
Awesome pizza creation #3: Supreme Pizza
(sorry, no pic)
2 slices turkey bacon
1 slice turkey sausage
2% shredded cheddar cheese
Sliced mushrooms
Sliced bell pepper
Sandwich thin
Pizza sauce
You too should reward yourself!
Finally! A future gift to myself to get excited about!
Anyone who knows me knows that I love anything artsy or creative. I love stumbling upon little boutique shops and the unique gifts that lay hidden inside like treasures waiting to be found. And now my weight loss journey and my creative world collide.
I was perusing the other day when I had some time to kill and ran upon the cutest little stationary store...here is their logo:
Cute, right? And what a neat concept for a store! Very...well...my taste. And it appealed to me even more because this is the exact color I want to paint my spare bedroom. So, of course, I had to walk in. And I could hear everything in there speaking my language. You know the movie "Confessions of a Shopaholic" where the mannequins come alive? I felt like that - the pieces of stationary and cute lamps were saying "Buy me! You love me! Don't you want me?" And then...one item spoke above the rest and then I found...in a random store...my inspiration...for a weight loss goal.
Goals are important. I don't care how cliche it is. I don't care how cheesy making goals are. I make them. And here lately, I've actually completed a few...kinda new for me. I think rewarding oneself is the best way to achieve a goal. My psychology degree taught me that much. You reward positive behavior. One of my first major goals in weight loss is to get down into the 170s. (I haven't seen the 170s...well...since maybe Brittney's first mental health breakdown.) And I needed to find a way to reward myself - something to work towards. (Other than cheese fries) And what does this have to do with Mrs. Post? Well, it just so happens that Mrs. Post has this adorable piece of wonderfulness in her vicinity...
LOVE it! Turquoise is my fav. Owls are also a current fav (very "in" right now in the design world). Now, for me, being the design junkie I am...I just found my future reward.
You can't really tell in the picture, but it's a big frame. And it's $38. I know what you are thinking - "For a freakin' picture frame?" And I know - it's a little ridiculous. But am I still going to purchase it for myself when I get down into the 170s? Heck yes I am. Will I feel guilty? Nope. Will you be jealous when you see how cute it is in my home? I hope so. (-:
Yay for design. And super-yay for design when it can be incorporated into me accomplishing a goal! And I'll keep you updated when this makes its way into my living room.
Thursday, April 7, 2011
Hilarious work-out moment of the day
I found this video on-line...I'm attaching the link so you can view it.
This is a video of a Zumba class...notice the guy in the right side corner. He's wearing khaki pants...I'm wondering if he forgot his gym bag and came straight from his 9 to 5 office job. Poor white guy...he makes every stereotype true. Enjoy.
http://youtu.be/QYIAt1DLSvQ
This is a video of a Zumba class...notice the guy in the right side corner. He's wearing khaki pants...I'm wondering if he forgot his gym bag and came straight from his 9 to 5 office job. Poor white guy...he makes every stereotype true. Enjoy.
http://youtu.be/QYIAt1DLSvQ
Tuesday, April 5, 2011
Having some doubts...
I'm usually a very optimistic person. I am also usually a very realistic person, which sometimes causes optimisim to fly right out of the window.
I am seriously wondering and questioning...can I really do this? Can I run a 5K at the end of the month?
I'm having some doubts. In less than a month, I'm just not sure I will be able to run approximately 3 miles without stopping. Without stopping. That was my goal. Not running a part and walking a part. My goal was to run it. The whole thing. It's on my "things I want to do this year" list. I so want to cross that one off. For once, I want to meet a goal. I want to do it for my biggest critic - the person who is always telling me I can't do it. That person is myself.
I know partly why I feel this way...I didn't push myself last week. I ran one day. One day. I just couldn't get motivated. I still worked out...and I still lost weight...but I slacked off on running. I made myself go today and I can honestly say, I pushed myself. I usually run hard during the beginning and flake out at the end of my 5K run at the gym. But, today, I ran .05 miles at a time and walked .05 miles - for a total of 3.1 miles (a 5K). In other words, I was consistent through the whole workout instead of just giving my all at the beginning and ending up walking the rest. So, overall, today - I ran as much as I walked. I'm really going to try to get up to running .07 miles then walking .03 and repeating until I get to 3 miles by this Saturday. I have seriously got to push myself through this. I knew it would be hard.
Sometimes before I go to the gym, I psych myself out. When I start to think how hard it's going to be - I'm already unmotivated before I even begin. But when I just think of it as .01 mile at a time, it helps. Before I know it - I'm at a half of a mile and I think I can go one more tenths of a mile. And I do. It feels so good when I push myself and I accomplish more than I set out to do. I have to remember that. I have to.
Here's to setting high...and attainable goals.
I am seriously wondering and questioning...can I really do this? Can I run a 5K at the end of the month?
I'm having some doubts. In less than a month, I'm just not sure I will be able to run approximately 3 miles without stopping. Without stopping. That was my goal. Not running a part and walking a part. My goal was to run it. The whole thing. It's on my "things I want to do this year" list. I so want to cross that one off. For once, I want to meet a goal. I want to do it for my biggest critic - the person who is always telling me I can't do it. That person is myself.
I know partly why I feel this way...I didn't push myself last week. I ran one day. One day. I just couldn't get motivated. I still worked out...and I still lost weight...but I slacked off on running. I made myself go today and I can honestly say, I pushed myself. I usually run hard during the beginning and flake out at the end of my 5K run at the gym. But, today, I ran .05 miles at a time and walked .05 miles - for a total of 3.1 miles (a 5K). In other words, I was consistent through the whole workout instead of just giving my all at the beginning and ending up walking the rest. So, overall, today - I ran as much as I walked. I'm really going to try to get up to running .07 miles then walking .03 and repeating until I get to 3 miles by this Saturday. I have seriously got to push myself through this. I knew it would be hard.
Sometimes before I go to the gym, I psych myself out. When I start to think how hard it's going to be - I'm already unmotivated before I even begin. But when I just think of it as .01 mile at a time, it helps. Before I know it - I'm at a half of a mile and I think I can go one more tenths of a mile. And I do. It feels so good when I push myself and I accomplish more than I set out to do. I have to remember that. I have to.
Here's to setting high...and attainable goals.
Sunday, April 3, 2011
Tips while eating at a restaurant...an unlikely blog entry
I'm gonna take a little break from my posts regarding diet, exercise, etc. and do what I need to do for a minute...vent...via my mad writing skills.
At this point in my life, college grad and all, I am...waiting tables. I'd like to blame it on the economy or something equally as lame, but I will just be honest - I quit a job I hated. Even though my previous job provided me with a stable income and all the "adult" benefits such as insurance, etc. I. Just. Couldn't. Do. It. Anymore. (And that's an entirely different blog entry). So - long story short - I'm waiting tables. And with the exception of stupid idiots who think it's okay to tip $1.00, it isn't that bad. Actually, I like it. And I especially like my co-workers.
But, for you stupid idiots who think it's okay to tip $1.00...well...you are a stupid idiot.
I provide good...no...great service. I say that with confidence. Sit in my section at the restaurant where I work and you will see for yourself. You will have little time to even think about a refill before I am standing in front of you with one. I can even entertain you with wit, should I assess that is needed. (I have seriously good instinct skills and know what individuals enjoy good conversation or those who just want their food and little talk). For talk alone I was tipped $15 this weekend (he was an ASU alumni - it was easy conversation!) I am here to serve - that's my job. And unlike many drive-thru clerks - (and one certain convenience store clerk), I actually like my job. Except for today. And I have made some tips and guidelines for customers while eating at a restaurant...so you and I can both have a great day...
1) Please understand you are not my only table or customer. Seriously. Although I promise to bust my butt to treat you like you are.
2) Please understand that 15 different servers are trying to use the same computers and drink machine to get your order in and your drinks ready. So if it takes us more than 2 minutes...that's why. We know you are thirsty.
3) Understand that we are juggling about 12 different requests at one time. And 99% of the time, we remember every request. Forgive us for the other 1%.
4) If you have a complicated order - that alone should be just cause for an increase in the tip you give. When you create your own menu item and often times absolutely ridiculous requests - know you are that person at a restaurant. We get that you're at a restaurant and you want to be served. And you have that right. But don't take it too far...for instance..."I want the salad, but no tomatoes or onions or cucumbers. Dressing on the side. And extra dressing. And croutons on the side. And on my hamburger I want exactly 3 slices of tomatoes and little mayonnaise and no sesame seeds on the bun. And I want cheese on top of the meat and on the bottom. And I want my fries extra crispy." You laugh. But that was a real order.
5) Know that when you order flavored teas or lemonade - we have to make them. Meaning, we have to mix them. There usually isn't a "strawberry lemonade" on tap. We have to get the strawberry mix, the lemonade and mix them. That takes time. Doesn't a coke sound better?
6) IT IS NEVER. EVER. UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCE - ok to tip $1 or $2. Never. Ever. Get it? If your reality consists of tips that are that low - you need to get out more...or stay at home and eat a sandwich.
7) Know that servers get approximately $2.00 per hour to work plus tips. And if you give us shitty tips - well, that's shitty. Shame on you. You should know better.
8) Servers have to claim at least 10% of their sales. Meaning, we get taxed for 10% of our sales. When YOU don't tip 10%, that's money out of our pocket. And we still have a percentage that goes to our bartenders, bus boys and hostesses. I know that's a lot of percentage talk - simply put: TIP!
9) Don't treat us like slaves. I can't speak for other serves, but if you treat me nicely, I will go the extra mile for you! If you don't...I'll...well...I'll just keep that my little secret.
10) When you have a large party, please don't give me the following drink order:
Seat 1: water, no ice - lemons on the side
Seat 2: water, light on the ice - no lemon
Seat 3: hot tea w/ honey (WTF?)
...you get the point.
11) Sunday's are the absolute WORST days for tips. Worst! This simply shouldn't be. If the big church hats are prohibiting your ability to calculate a proper percentage to tip, take it off and give your brain some room to breathe. Just sayin'.
To those of you who have realized you broke the above guidelines - Happy eating you jerks! You deserve a kick in the butt from the bottom of my ugly slip-resistant shoes I'm forced to wear.
To the others of you - can I get you a refill?
At this point in my life, college grad and all, I am...waiting tables. I'd like to blame it on the economy or something equally as lame, but I will just be honest - I quit a job I hated. Even though my previous job provided me with a stable income and all the "adult" benefits such as insurance, etc. I. Just. Couldn't. Do. It. Anymore. (And that's an entirely different blog entry). So - long story short - I'm waiting tables. And with the exception of stupid idiots who think it's okay to tip $1.00, it isn't that bad. Actually, I like it. And I especially like my co-workers.
But, for you stupid idiots who think it's okay to tip $1.00...well...you are a stupid idiot.
I provide good...no...great service. I say that with confidence. Sit in my section at the restaurant where I work and you will see for yourself. You will have little time to even think about a refill before I am standing in front of you with one. I can even entertain you with wit, should I assess that is needed. (I have seriously good instinct skills and know what individuals enjoy good conversation or those who just want their food and little talk). For talk alone I was tipped $15 this weekend (he was an ASU alumni - it was easy conversation!) I am here to serve - that's my job. And unlike many drive-thru clerks - (and one certain convenience store clerk), I actually like my job. Except for today. And I have made some tips and guidelines for customers while eating at a restaurant...so you and I can both have a great day...
1) Please understand you are not my only table or customer. Seriously. Although I promise to bust my butt to treat you like you are.
2) Please understand that 15 different servers are trying to use the same computers and drink machine to get your order in and your drinks ready. So if it takes us more than 2 minutes...that's why. We know you are thirsty.
3) Understand that we are juggling about 12 different requests at one time. And 99% of the time, we remember every request. Forgive us for the other 1%.
4) If you have a complicated order - that alone should be just cause for an increase in the tip you give. When you create your own menu item and often times absolutely ridiculous requests - know you are that person at a restaurant. We get that you're at a restaurant and you want to be served. And you have that right. But don't take it too far...for instance..."I want the salad, but no tomatoes or onions or cucumbers. Dressing on the side. And extra dressing. And croutons on the side. And on my hamburger I want exactly 3 slices of tomatoes and little mayonnaise and no sesame seeds on the bun. And I want cheese on top of the meat and on the bottom. And I want my fries extra crispy." You laugh. But that was a real order.
5) Know that when you order flavored teas or lemonade - we have to make them. Meaning, we have to mix them. There usually isn't a "strawberry lemonade" on tap. We have to get the strawberry mix, the lemonade and mix them. That takes time. Doesn't a coke sound better?
6) IT IS NEVER. EVER. UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCE - ok to tip $1 or $2. Never. Ever. Get it? If your reality consists of tips that are that low - you need to get out more...or stay at home and eat a sandwich.
7) Know that servers get approximately $2.00 per hour to work plus tips. And if you give us shitty tips - well, that's shitty. Shame on you. You should know better.
8) Servers have to claim at least 10% of their sales. Meaning, we get taxed for 10% of our sales. When YOU don't tip 10%, that's money out of our pocket. And we still have a percentage that goes to our bartenders, bus boys and hostesses. I know that's a lot of percentage talk - simply put: TIP!
9) Don't treat us like slaves. I can't speak for other serves, but if you treat me nicely, I will go the extra mile for you! If you don't...I'll...well...I'll just keep that my little secret.
10) When you have a large party, please don't give me the following drink order:
Seat 1: water, no ice - lemons on the side
Seat 2: water, light on the ice - no lemon
Seat 3: hot tea w/ honey (WTF?)
...you get the point.
11) Sunday's are the absolute WORST days for tips. Worst! This simply shouldn't be. If the big church hats are prohibiting your ability to calculate a proper percentage to tip, take it off and give your brain some room to breathe. Just sayin'.
To those of you who have realized you broke the above guidelines - Happy eating you jerks! You deserve a kick in the butt from the bottom of my ugly slip-resistant shoes I'm forced to wear.
To the others of you - can I get you a refill?
Friday, April 1, 2011
I hate you Jillian Michaels
Jillian Michaels. You know her. That trainer from The Biggest Loser. She knows how to push buttons. Especially emotional ones that leave the contestants crying, walking off and letting out sob stories about why they are really fat. (I have to admit - this part of the show usually makes me tear up too.) Point being, you know Jillian. You want to hug her and punch her in the face...all at the same time.
Well today - quite frankly, I wanted to give Jillian a swift, quick kick in the ass. Especially when she said the following:
"If you're looking for a modified version of the jumping jacks, look elsewhere. 400 pound people can do it - so can you."
Jillian - I got your modified version of a jumping jack.
I bought her DVD "30 Day Shred". In part because I needed a guided toning workout. Sure, I see all those pieces of equipment at the gym but have no idea how to work them - I need a hot guy to show me how (: (Perhaps I should play up the whole "Excuse me sir, I don't know how this works. Can you show me?" dumb blonde routine. Only thing is...I really don't know how those machines work. So...back to the point - 30 Day Shred video.
You are supposed to do the video every day for 30 days and increase in intensity every 10 days (there are 3 separate workouts on the DVD; one for days 1-10, one for days 11-20 and one for days 21-30. It's a 30-minute video that includes 3 segments of the following: 3 minute strength moves, 2 minutes of cardio and 1 minute of abs. All to equal about 30ish minutes with a warm-up and cool-down. I took my measurements beforehand and will share after 30 days what the results are. Right now, it's just too depressing.
On day one, I was totally clueless. Yea! The excitement of a new video! Day two, I knew what I was in for...and I was sore from day one. So day two sucked. Day three was worse. I was even more sore from days one and two. Day three (today), I acted like a 5 year old who didn't want to go to bed. I was thinking of every excuse possible to not do the video...here's the run-down...
Put the DVD in the player...
I think I need to use the bathroom...
I need some water...
Better check my facebook...
We need extra toilet paper in the spare bathroom...
I need some more water...
I need a straw for my water...
Push start on DVD player...
Push pause on DVD player...need to open front door - it's hot...
Push start on DVD player (again)...
18 minutes into the video my sister calls...an excuse to pause the video again
Resume video and complete...
Tell Jillian she is the anti-christ...
3 days down, 27 to go.
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