Friday, August 28, 2009

My Husband Married a Plus Size Model

Okay, so I see an article on a new book called, Hungry. It strikes a chord with me because I’m on Weight Watchers, and I eat Weight Watchers ice cream 3 times a day, every day--it’s like a religion for me. Sort of. Okay, not really. But food is my obsession and my passion. Some people fantasize about things they shouldn't. I fantasize about onion rings with fry sauce.

Hungry? Yeess I ammm…

So I read on.

Well, Hungry is about a model who was once a size 0 and is now a "plus size" model.

She talks about how the industry is changing, and how women who are bigger, (plus size) deserve to be models too. She goes on and on about how size 0 should no longer be the focus for women or models.

In the mean time, my dieting mind is thinking, “Sweet! If "plus size" is the new size 0--count me in! Screw this stupid diet. Yeeeehaaawww on the bandwagon of fatness!"

So I get even more excited. My mind is racing--I can finally be my plus size self and eat onion rings all day! And secretly, I wanted to stick my tongue out at all the skinny people in the world and say, “Idiots! Plus size is in!"

So I’m reading and singing to myself, “Don’t you wish your mama was hot like me?”--when the music comes to a screeching halt.

This "plus size" model is a size 12.

Ohhhh Pllleaaassssee…

A size 12!

When was size 12 defined as a "plus" size?

If that's the case, I have to work my “plus size” butt off everyday, exercising and doing Weight Watchers, just to stay that size!

I don’t know what made me more angry--the idea that a size 12 is called a “plus size” or the fact that I can’t eat onion rings every day! Total toss up. Oh wait--onion rings definitely won.

Because when I think of being a plus size model, I’m thinking waaay bigger than a size 12! Give us chubby chicks a break here! I mean the industry is finally realizing that some of us have Italian genes and love food, and THIS--THIS IS OUR BIG BREAK?

Idiots.

The bright side is that I get to tell my husband he’s married to model material. Not just any model, a plus size model.

Ooohh Baby.


So at the end of the day, the fashion industry has tried to make me feel fat and plus size-ish even when I'm not! Maybe I won’t be a "plus size" model after all, cause that five seconds of considering it was pretty intense.

Tuesday, August 25, 2009

My hubands Hands and My Hand were Competing

I have a confession. I have man hands. Yes. It's embarrassing. And that is why I will only share this in the intimate setting of the world wide web.

So I came up with a brilliant solution.

I told my hubby one day, “I have man hands.”

“No you don’t," he argues.

“We wear the same ring size!”

“Your fingers are long and slender.”

“They have hair on them.”

Awkward silence.

He just sits there. He knows where this is going.

“Soooo, I’m getting fake nails.”

I threaten to make an appointment. It's tough to measure MAN hands against Money. But ultimately, the Man Hands won, and off I went to the salon. However, ladies, let me warn you that when I made the appointment, I was under the illusion that I was pampering myself. Let it be known, let it be written, that fake nails are NOT a way to pamper yourself! They are a sacrifice of pain and terror. Here's how it goes:

First, they tear off all of your cuticles. I yelled at them to stop. “Owww! Holy crap! This sucks!”

They just keep doing it. The other ladies at the salon just looked at me. One lady nods at me knowingly.

I mouth to her “HELP ME…”

Then they take out this drill thing. I thought those were only used at the dentist office.
No one told me this was part of the process. I squirm.


The nail lady laughs. “Oh, honey. We are going to toughen you up.”

Wow. I didn’t know that’s why I came.

Then they primed my nails with this burning ointment.

By now, I’ve conjured up a pretty good lawsuit.

But before I know it, all torture ceased, and magically, my Man Hands disappeared. Maybe I wont sue. I'll just take two Ibuprofen instead.

Then I head up to the cash register to pay for my nails. My credit card drops to the floor. I try to pick it up. I end up with my butt in the air, chasing the card, as my new fake nails push it forward. Yep. This is going to be fun. I can tell.

I head home with my new nails.

As I walk through the door, I grab my hubby's hand in excitement. “Look!” I lock our fingers. “Now when we hold hands, I can tell which one's the girl and which one's the boy!”

“So? How was the salon? Was it fun?” he asks.

“It depends on how you define ‘fun’. If you prefer torture over Man Hands, then yeah, way fun.”

And quite frankly, I do. Our hands look different now, his and mine. They are now two separate entities rather than identical twins. I can feel like a feminine woman, and he can feel like a manly man. And even though he may never admit it, I think he likes it.

Thursday, August 20, 2009

Invisible Rules...We All Have Them, and None of Them Work!

Changing others in my life is a great topic considering it is the very basis of all of my pain and disappointments.

Why?

Because everyone in my life should follow "THE RULES."

What are the rules? Umm...I really don't know.

They change everyday and totally depend on the situation. However, I expect everyone, especially my husband, to know what they are. For instance, if I have had a long day, (I work too), and the kids are all going crazy, then my hubby comes home from work and asks me, "Honey, what's for dinner?"
What's for dinner? Alert! A "RULE" has been broken. Don't ask me what's for dinner! Can you not tell that I am overwhelmed, busy, irritated and not in the mood for one more nagging question?

Then one simple question becomes a four hour conversation about how he is insensitive and obnoxious. Why? Because he broke the most important RULE.

ALWAYS KNOW HOW I FEEL, AND IF YOU CAN'T TELL, THINK ABOUT IT AND GUESS!

(But you better guess correctly because if you are wrong, there may be hell to pay for it.)

So the next day he comes home and doesn't say a stinking word. By then I am calm, and wondering, "Why is he so quiet?"

ALERT! Another rule is broken. DON'T IGNORE ME AND SHUT DOWN. YOU ARE SUPPOSE TO WANT TO TALK TO ME!

See, the truth of the matter is all these RULES I make up are simply that. Made up! And no one will ever live by our rules. The guy on the freeway will always go too fast or too slow. It will rain on your kids' outdoor birthday party that you have been planning for months. People and "life" break these RULES all the time.

So today, the lesson for me is that the only RULES that will ever get me anywhere are the RULES I make for myself. Otherwise, I end up pissed off and angry! And that ruins my day and makes my family scatter like little roaches when they see me!

So if you're tired and your hubby comes home and asks, "What's for dinner?"

It might be better to say, "Wendys," and then spend 15 dollars to save you and your family a lot of grief!

Monday, August 17, 2009

Date Night Part Two: The Reality

Okay, I had lots of fun posting my first video, but I feel the need to put a disclaimer on it. I usually won't apologize for my honesty in that moment, but here I go.

First of all, when I watch the video, I already know I'm occupying my time feeling sorry for myself.

Second, I should have joined him in Wii. Didn't want to. Chose to gripe instead. Good times.

Third, I tried to change my attitude by video taping him and laughing. Believe it or not, it worked!

After I video taped him, I asked him to come out and ride bikes with me. He fixed the bikes, and off we went. Then we came home, and I asked him to help me work the video.

He watched it. I apologized. He watched himself, we died laughing. And at the end of the day, we both realized that what happened was funny.

So I hope if you are ever a moron like I was, you video tape yourself, post it on a blog and laugh.

'Cause in the end, we are all idiots.

And the best thing we can do is laugh about it.

Saturday, August 15, 2009

Date Night At Its Best!!

I did not plan on posting this. I was practicing, but it turned out so funny... I couldn't help myself.

video

Please tell me this has happened to you!!

Wednesday, August 12, 2009

If I DIE... These are the RULES

Okay, so I’ve been thinking about a lot of great things lately. One of them is wondering about when I’m dead. I have anxiety so strong that when I'm driving down the freeway, my mind goes a little psyco like this:

“What if I am driving, and a tire flies off of another car, and then I don’t even see it, and I get in a wreck and die. Wow. That would really suck. But it probably won’t happen. But what if…?"

Anyhow, by the time I have reached my destination, in my mind, I’ve died, my hubby has spoken at my funeral, and of course everyone thought I was a great mother and wife. Boooyyaaa! And at the end of the Funeral there will be a dance.

Yes, I said dance.

Okay, but it is after the funeral and flowers that the real discussion begins.

What if he wants to get remarried?

Can I make the rules?

Of course I can!

I try to talk about it with my hubby. Here’s how it usually goes:

“If I die, you had better get remarried. Men who stay unmarried their whole lives turn out weird.”

He looks at me like I’ve lost my mind. “If you die, I can’t even think about it. I couldn’t remarry,” he says back. (Right thing to say, but not true.)

“Well, if you don’t remarry, you’re going to come to heaven a weirdo. I’ll be stuck with a weird guy forever. You have to remarry. But don’t worry, I’ve taken the complexity out of it FOR YOU."

"Okay...can we talk about this another time? I’m getting depressed," he says.

Get over it.

Rule number one:

"She must be fatter than me. She doesn't have to be huge, but she needs to struggle with weight."

He laughs. "Okay, got it! But you're really skinny so that will be easy."

Compliments. Compliments. Compliments. AWWW!!

That's fine as long as she is bigger than me.

Rule number two:

"She has to be uglier than me. I don’t want YOU to come to heaven with some hot chick on your arm. This would be intimidating as there is no plastic surgery in heaven. I have very few options while I’m there."

“You don’t need plastic surgery. You’re beautiful,” he says.

“Thank you, dear, but if you marry a hot chick, I will haunt you.”

Rule Number Three:

"She cannot be patient. I want her to be good with kids, but she can’t be patient. Or else the kids will be like, '
Wow you’re so much nicer than my 'other mom', she always yelled.' ”

He laughs. He knows he can’t argue with this one.

Then I ask him, “What are your rules?”

He simply says with confidence, “I’m not going to die. By the time I do, you’ll be so old; you won’t even know I’m gone.”

This is his sanity trying to balance me out. Good luck with that.

I’ll interpret that to mean, “Don’t get remarried.”

Now ladies, feel free to use these rules. But I recommend talking about it before you die or post them on a blog!

However, I plan on living until I'm old. Very old. But I like to control the situations even after I'm dead. Yes, I'm the ultimate control freak.



Friday, August 7, 2009

Oprah and I have a connection... Well, ya know--we both turned 30.








Okay, so I am turning 30 in less than three days.

And I am so excited!

I didn't realize how great it was going to be until my hubby made me a DVD of my life. It was beautiful, the music was beautiful, but me...well to be honest, not so much.

And that's when I realized a connection between Oprah and me.

A few months ago, I was reading this magazine, okay not reading, mindlessly looking through pictures, when I was at the hair dresser's.

I don't like magazines, but this one had tons of celebrities from younger years...to the present.

Most of them have passed 30, but here is what shocked me the most.

All, and I mean ALL, the stars looked like crap until they were in their 30's, including Oprah.

Then they started looking great!

So back to the DVD my hubby made.

Bottom line:

I looked like CRAP most of my childhood. No, I can't possibly blame my parents. They begged me to be cute.

"Please stop wearing your brothers clothes," my mom would beg.

"Whatever, I look great!" I would say back. "Besides, they're free." (Cause I took them from his closet.)

"You look like a boy."

"Whatever!" I said that a lot when I was young. Thank goodness I've traded the word "whatever" in my vocabulary to "crap." Way more mature.

Then I would stomp off in my boy swimsuit (yes, I thought they made cute shorts--scary) and a button-down boy shirt, and head off to school.

Then I would come home and cry because none of the boys liked me. Why did they judge me so?

Maturity has given me clarity.

It's because I looked like them. I was camouflaged as a man.

They probably didn't realize I was a girl until half way through the year.

Yep. That's not good.

So as I reflected on this video, I saw a significant change my senior year.

Then I went off to college and met my hubby.

I actually looked like a girl when he met me.

We got married. Then, I took a turn for the worse.

I had three kids in three years.

I reverted. Looking at those pictures made me realize that I am DONE having kids.

Then at about 29, I finally figured out how to have short hair and not look like a man.

I lost 40 lbs of baby weight and thyroid weight.

I asked my really good friend to shop with me and tell me when the jeans were ugly and made my butt looked big.

She did.

People in the dressing room stared at her in disbelief.

I hugged her and thanked her for her honesty, because I wanted to look cute.

She went through my closet and told me most of my clothes look like I'm ready to attend a Fiesta.

Which I thought was great, but apparently not flattering for me.

She taught me about bras and reminded me that my boobs hanging down to my belly button was not attractive. (Totally shocked to me too.)

She told me my shoes looked like I stole them from my grandma.

I looked at her in total disbelief and thought, "How did you know?" (Creepy)

And so the transformation began.

And now I look the best I can.

I could use plastic surgery, but I'm just happy to be out of the "boy clothes" stage.

Which brings me back to why Oprah and I have a connection.

She looked waaayy better in her thirties than she did in her twenties.

And even though I am not quite 30 yet, I suspect I'm going to get better at this fashion, girly stuff.

And after watching my DVD, I would never want to go back.

Who would?

How does this relate to marriage?

Ladies, we just get hotter with age!

Wednesday, August 5, 2009

Do You Suffer from a "Fartless" Marriage?


With all the talk on "sexless marriages" my ADD mind has gone to a new dilemma. I have yet to meet many in this predicament, yet I like to reach out to the few and lonely on my blog.

What about "fartless" marriages?

With a society so obsessed with Sex, we forget the little things, like passing gas.

So here I go.

Aww. That felt better. Just kidding.

It all started in college. I met this guy. Seemed nice, normal.

Ate breakfast with him everyday. We became great friends. Then he revealed something to me, and I knew from the very bottom of my soul that we would NEVER get married.

"I will never fart in front of my wife," he stated.

I dropped my fork in disbelief.

"That is the craziest thing I've ever heard of!" I retorted back.

"It's not appropriate. I think it's unattractive."

"Look," I said with unsurpassed passion, "farting can be VERY bonding. I mean, once you fart in front of someone, it's like you are officially friends forever--no it's more than that. You just don't get it, do you?"

He looked at me in utter disgust.

Whatever.

A "fartless" marriage just waiting to happen.

So I went on my merry little way.

Who needs him?

Then I met my hubby.

After a few dates, I had to ask him.

"Do you believe in farting in front of someone if you're really close?"

"Heck ya! What am I suppose to do? Hold it in my whole life?"

My heart raced with passion.

Then after a few months, we knew we loved each other very much.

We were at the park, it was late.

I was pushing him on the swing. Yes, I was pushing him.

We were laughing and talking, then complete silence.

He slowly swung over my head and farted.

"Whoops," was all he said.

I stared laughing so hard.

He stopped swinging.

I asked him right then and there, "You really love me, don't you?"

"Yep."

Wow.

We were married soon after.

To this day, we can pass gas in front of each other.

Some days, I wish I hadn't been so open.

But the alternative is to walk around in constant pain--literally.

That could have huge repercussions, physically and emotionally.

So even though less would be great, having a "fartless marriage" would leave out some crucial elements.

For instance:

Trust: I know that no matter how bad the day is, he still loves me.

Stress relief: nothing's worse than holding it in.

Maturity: you know they understand that everyone does it. Just because you fart, it doesn't make you less than. It makes you HUMAN.

So as couples, we need to stop hiding behind the "sexless" marriage plague and start talking about REAL issues.

Glad I CAN on this blog.


This blog is dedicated to Kim Ryan who thinks farting is the funniest thing in the world!

Tuesday, August 4, 2009

No Pants! Time to be a Feminist

I hate to scare you.

I really do.

But there is someone out there with a voodoo dryer right now.

And he is attacking our washroom.

We have been cursed.

We have gone through 3 dryers in the last year.

Long story, no one cares. So here's the point.

So my hubby is putting in the third dryer.

The clothes are "done" and they're not dry.

"We have a problem!" my hubby yells from down stairs."The clothes are still not dry."

"Okay. Fix it," I yell back.

"Ooookkkkaaaay." His voice is slightly annoyed at my obvious genius.

But apparently, it's not obvious enough!

The dryer is still not working.

So my female mind begins to take over. Mostly because I've run out of Glade Plug-ins and my house smells like week old laundry. No, not like, it IS week old laundry, halfway dried.

So last night was his second night of attempting to fix it.

He announces, "It's a piece of crap. I tried to fix it. It blows the breaker every time!"

"I have an idea! Why don't you call our friend who's an electrician and ask him. I bet he might know what's up?" ('cause you don't, and my pants smell.)

"Well, I think I have an idea of what it is. It's hooked up wrong. I'll get it."

"Okay, I hope you like women with stinky pants," I added in.

"I'll fix it."

"Okay, I hope you know that clothes began to mold after a few days."

"I know."

"Okay, I hope you know that tomorrow I'm out of underwear."

"Yikes!"

I knew I could get him somehow.

However, not enough to convince him to call for help.

So this morning, I wake up, and try to find clothes. Go to the laundry room, climb over the mountain of stinky-ness (soon to be the mountain of mold) and try to find something to wear.

Think. Think. Think.

What to do?

Resent him, call him and yell, or do the unthinkable.

Call for help when he's at work?

Can I? Should I?

You bet!

So I'm going to insult my hubby's manliness. I'm going to call for help.

Why? How could I? What type of monster am I?

Well, to be honest, a stinky one.

I can't sit around and wait for him to become a certified electrician. I'm not dragging my clothes to a laundry mat. I live out in the middle of nowhere, my kids will probably vandalize the place, and my blog will turn into crime confession rather than relationship issues.

That's not good.

Laundry mats are powerful places, I know.

But here is the lesson I've learned.

I can wait, be annoyed, smell like a dead animal, and nag him.

Or I can stop being a victim of his ego. Call for help and when he gets annoyed, let him know that I didn't marry him because of his handyman abilities. If that were true, we would have divorced years ago (might leave that part out).

I will remind him he has other good qualities, none of which include fixing things.

I'm sure he will understand.

If not, at least he'll smell good.

I'M A FEMINIST WITHOUT PANTS. I HAVE NO CHOICE.

Saturday, August 1, 2009

I Can't Spell... Another Reason I Married My Husband




I'm a smart person.

Just thought I'd remind you before I start telling you about how dumb I can be.
Despite the fact that I'm intelligent, creative, good-looking (okay slight exaggeration), and humble (no exaggeration), I have one weakness.

Yes, just one.

Spelling.

But I was redeemed by a handsome prince who was a walking spelling bee contestant.

My husband.

And he loves the fact that I ask him how to spell everything in the world.

But why? What's the truth behind his NEED to be asked how to spell?

I didn't know the whole story until after we were married, so usually our interactions were unhealthy. For example:

I would try to spell something, he would laugh, and I would be like, "Okay, how to do YOU spell it." (Jerk face.)

He would proudly cock his head to the side and spell it like he was IN a freaking spelling bee.

Then he'd repeat the word after he spelled it and smile proudly.

"Gold star's in the mail," I would think to myself.

Then one day, we had a BREAK THROUGH in our relationship.

Our marriage was solidified by ONE simple question.

"Why the heck do you get all cocky when I ask you how to spell a word?" I asked.

He paused for a moment. His eyes got all intense. Yes. He was remembering something and it wasn't pleasant.

"It all started in the fourth grade."

Oh boy, we need a therapist here right away! I wish there was some three-digit number you could call to get therapist intervention to come to your house in these revealing moments.

No number. Had to listen.

"It was down to me and Bender."

Curse Bender forever and ever! (Whaaallllaaa), evil spell dispensed.

"Okay, who names their kid Bender?" I interrupted.

He gave me THE LOOK and I shut up.

"So it was down to the wire on this spelling bee. It was my chance to become the spelling bee champion. Giving me power to rule and reign the elementary school and help my self-esteem development from that moment throughout the eternities. (Okay I took a little bit of artistic exaggeration for that part.)

"I was ask to spell the word ascot. I was desperate for help. I spelled it 'A-S-K-E-T.' "

Yeah. That sounds right to me.

Then he spelled it for me the CORRECT way.

"It's A-S-C-O-T."
Good to know. Now I can sleep.

"What the crap is an ascot?" I ask--cot him. (Hehe. Sorry, my mom's humor is coming out.)

"It's a scarf."

Wow. Impressive. I had no idea what an ascot was and I'm 29.

"I never entered another spelling bee after that," he added in a dead-like tone.

Wow. Not impressive.

So every time I ask him to spell something, he gets it right, (partially because I can only spell on a third grade level, but I don't ever remind him of that especially since he's been so traumatized).

And then he feels sooo good inside. This boosts his ego, still wounded from the fourth grade, and I don't have to worry about clicking on spell check every five seconds.

His ego and my weakness balance each other out.

That's how most relationships work on various levels.

Don't worry, Honey, you will always be the "Spelling Bee" champion in our house.

Now that's love.