Planning a Wild Nite Out. . .

Tomorrow, I get to have a Girl's Nite Out!

Whoo hoo! Soooooo excited!

I really am lucky I have such an understanding husband. He watches the kiddos, feeds them, bathes them and puts them to bed while I yuk it up with the girls. I don't do it often, but sometimes you gotta let your hair down!

Before I had children, a night out meant dinner at a trendy bistro, followed by cocktails at a club, maybe dancing. Sometimes we would go chic, sometimes we would go casual. Depends.

I have LOTS of wild stories from the past. Lots.

Remember the party scene in Sixteen Candles where Long Duk Dong (played by Gedde Watanabe) opens the door wearing a toga? We had parties like that all the time. (You know the girl wearing Jake's Mom's fur and pearls, and the pearls broke and she cut her best friend's hair off? That was totally me and my friends.)(I am NOT exaggerating.)

These days though, I gotta admit, a nite with the girls looks a little different.

For one thing, I don't drink anymore.

For another, my new idea of a great evening out is going to a Baptist Church with all of my scrapbook supplies and working on my photo albums.

I'm not kidding. I am really going to do that.

And I can't wait.

Liar, Liar. . .

George Washington, age 10, hat in hand: "Father, I cannot tell a lie. It was I who cut down the cherry tree."

Me, age 10, eyes cast down, tongue poking my cheek out: "I don't know who ate the last donut. I don't! Really! I am not lying!"

And I haven't gotten any better at it either.

Integrity is a Gift of Fat.

I wish I could say that my integrity comes naturally to me, that it has always been clear to me that Honesty Is The Best Policy, but unfortunately, I had to learn the hard way.

I suck at lying.

And that's the truth!

Who I am following right now. . .

These are the blogs I read pretty much daily.

Thought you might like them too:

Jennsylvania -- Jen Lancaster is the original. She's a bestselling author (Such a Pretty Fat is my favorite). When you read her, you'll see a lot of similarities. I want to be her. (sort of.) (I suspect her mother gave her the same talk by mother gave me about not swearing so much, because she hasn't cursed in her blog for a while now.)

Annabel Manners -- love this girl. She's elegant, preppy and cute. And brief, which is what a blog should be.

The Beauty Boomer -- this is a blog about makeup & style. And she's also really funny. Who knew makeup could be so hilarious?

The Bitchy Waiter -- this guy is a RIOT.

Robert Reich -- I don't know why I read him because he is so depressing, and I rarely agree with him. But it's important to maintain perspective on the economy, so I read him.

Ali Edwards - if you like to scrapbook, Ali is a great designer. Her work is gorgeous. She's very feel-good tho -- never snarky, never bitchy, so. . .I just read her for the pictures.

Enjoy!

MMMMMMMMM Humble Pie!

If you've been following my blog, you know that I like to defy what the world thinks of what fat people can and can't do.

So when I had the opportunity to participate in the City's Leadership Fitness program as Dr. Mark Escamilla's partner, I signed right up.

Saturday was our first Boot Camp.

I wanted to be a model camper. I showered. (On a Saturday!) I put on a cute pink skort, a white v-neck and my Nike's. My hair was tucked into a baseball cap rather than scrunched back in a chongo. I was going to look CUTE when I worked out!

I showed up early, as directed, so that my measurements could be taken. (Yeah. ick.) The staff at V-Fit are all very nice, and discreet. And no, I honestly didn't mind having dreamy, dark haired, dark eyed, Vick wrap his strong arms around me to position the tape, as long as he didn't call out the numbers. (I am a happily married mother of three,and not the least bit inclined to Cougar. . . .but if you saw Vick. Sigh.)

The staff was being very cheery and peppy. They were cheery and peppy in that "We-are-going-to-pretend-we-don't-notice-that-you-are-a-size-24-even-though-the-rest-of-us-make-Jillian-Michaels-look-like-the-Pillsbury-dough boy" sort of way.

Vick gave me a tour of the circuit, nothing looking too intimidating. Until he showed me the pit.

The pit is a lovely, carpeted stairway. That doesn't go anywhere. Seriously. The stairs end in a brick wall. It's very Winchester Mystery House. Only much, much scarier. Because at the Winchester Mystery House they don't actually make you run up and down the weird stairways.

After my tour, my fellow bootcampers began to arrive. Dr. Mark, of course, along with Scott Elliff, the superintendent of Corpus Christi ISD; Mayor Joe Adame; (yeah. . .the MAYOR); Tim Fitzpatrick, Athletic Director for Texas A&M University Corpus Christi, and other A-Listers. (Did I mention that THE MAYOR was there?) It was like a Chamber Mixer without the business suits, makeup & high heels. Also, no one was drunk.

Not that anyone would have believed that after seeing my first task on the circuit.

I was stationed at the step. Not the mystery-house-scary-steps, those would come later. It was a simple aerobic step-class step. I've taken HUNDREDS of step classes. (not recently, but still.) I certainly wasn't afraid of some stupid step.

So the whistle blew. And I hopped on. And then I fell off.

Not just a quiet little misstep.

I sent myself tumbling ass-over-elbows onto the floor.

In front of THE MAYOR.

And stupid me, I tried to break my fall with my arm, so of course I sprained my wrist & elbow.

What a maroon.

I was able to get up & finish the camp. I am sore all over today because of all the exercises dreamy Vic made me do. But my arm hurts worse.

I'll be fine.

And I am going back to bootcamp on Tuesday.

I have to work off the calories from that Humble Pie.

Irish Eyes

Obviously, genetics has something to do with your looks.

That's why I've always wanted to be French. In my mind, French girls are frail, bird-like creatures who can wear anything and look fashionable. It's a stereotype, but it's a flattering one.

But I'm Irish.

I look Irish. I have blue eyes, a ruddy complexion, and people who have never met me before think my red hair is authentic. (Thanks Kasey!!!!) I wish I looked more Nicole Kidman in Far & Away and less Brenda Fricker in Home Alone 2, but I do look Irish.

I'm not really Irish. I'm American. But Americans like to hyphenate, and when I hyphenate I'm always Irish-American. I claim the ethnicity, but I don't have any relatives with brogues. No one in my family makes soda bread. We're sorta Lucky-Charms-Irish. (Magically Delicious!)

Most of my ancestors were Irish. I think. My maiden name is German, so some in my family hyphenate themselves as German-Americans. But to me, German-American sounds so thick, so solid, so strong. I prefer to evoke ethereal images of fairies, shananchies, limericks and leprechauns.

Except I am about as ethereal as a bus.

My husband's grandparents came from Okinawa, which is a small island in southern Japan. Due to the small gene pool, my husband is allergic to everything. Especially fish. (He's Japanese & we can't even go out for Sushi.) But he's good looking. His whole family is good looking. His sisters are lovely petite girls with thick dark hair and almond shaped eyes.

At my wedding, my dad couldn't stop talking about how beautiful they are. In fact, as Dad & I were dancing the traditional father-daughter waltz, dad raved to me about Greg's sisters:

"Dad?" I said

"Yes?" he replied.

"You know I paid $1,500.00 for this dress right?"

"Oh, you look nice too. I am just saying that Joyce & Suzanne are GORGEOUS."

They are. They really are. They are beautiful inside and out.

And they aren't even Irish!

The Blame Game

When my mother was in seventh grade, Sister Urban Maria sternly advised the girls to eat a hearty breakfast every morning. “I don’t want to hear that you are taking after these fashion models”, she said, “All they have for breakfast is a cup of coffee and a cigarette!”

With this in mind, as soon as class let out, my mom and all the other aspiring fashion models ran to the corner store to buy their first packs of Chesterfields.

Philip Morris owes Sister Urban Maria a commission.

Sixty years later, my mom still smokes.

Mom is the most polite smoker in the world. She would never smoke in someone else’s home, or car, or in a non-smoking designated area. She won’t smoke around my kids, although it doesn’t bother me if she smokes in front of them. They see her for a couple of days a year. It won’t kill them to be around cigarette smoke for a few hours. I lived immersed in second hand cigarette smoke for 18 years. I am fine. Mostly. Nevertheless, my mom wouldn’t dream of smoking around the boys.

I don’t smoke, but I can identify with smokers.

Smokers are bullied. They are bullied socially, medically and legislatively.

Just like fat people.

Here’s an example:

When a smoker gets cancer, people shrug and say “what did you expect?”

When fat people get diabetes they say the same thing.

It’s the Blame Game. Blame the sick for causing the disease. People behave as if smokers deserve cancer. Fat people deserve diabetes.

Remember in the 80’s when HIV and AIDS emerged? Remember the awful jokes? The irrational fear? Remember how people shrugged and said “what did they expect?"

Those were dark days.

I am not denying that smoking is a cause of cancer. That does not mean smokers deserve cancer.

I am not denying that obesity is a cause of Type 2 diabetes. That does not mean fat people deserve diabetes.

I am standing up to the social, medical and legislative bullies.

Sister Urban Maria, pray for us.

In All Fairness to Jillian Michaels. . .

Sometimes I wanna yell at fat people too.

The other day, I took my 2 year old to the grocery store. As I was walking in, I saw her. You know who I mean: a big girl with greasy hair and no makeup wearing a sloppy, oversized t-shirt, baggy shorts and chanclas (that’s flip-flops to those of you outside of Texas). She had a filthy dirty kid in her cart. The kid had a binky in his mouth, even though he had to be at least 2 years old. A real White Trash Wanda.

And I admit it. I started to judge. I am not proud of that, but I did. The first thing I thought was “have some respect for yourself”. Then I thought “Please God, don’t let me get stuck in line behind them”. Because I just knew that she would load up her cart with Ho-Hos and bacon rinds and I would have to listen to her gripe to the cashier about how her Lone Star Card wasn’t working. I knew I’d have to look at the whiny, snot nosed kid drinking Coke out of a bottle, while his mother yelled at him to “shut the eff up.” I had the whole encounter mapped out in my sanctimonious little mind.

Then I realized that I was looking at my reflection.

The filthy kid in the cart was none other than my precious miracle baby. (With a snotty nose, a dirty shirt and a binky.) (But he does not drink Coke out of a bottle. He uses a cup.)

Jillian Michaels would have had a field day with me.