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?"

   

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.

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.

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!

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

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".
 

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.