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.  

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. 

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.  

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.
   

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.