What Is It With Me and Shoes?

Drag Queen update

I am a girl, so technically my wearing girly stuff does not make me a Drag Queen, but some things just make me feel my inner Pricilla Queen of the Desert. Especially drop dead CMF shoes.

I guess it’s because I never have been able to handle heels, which is probably why I covet them so. I mean just look at these babies; towering stilettos, stage-like platforms and hypnotizing shine. Glorious gold bling that looks like two glitter encrusted boobs enveloping your feet.

I love you shoes, but alas, I fear my pink Chucks will be as close as I ever get to having girly feet.

Deal with it tshirt from Zazzle.com

Deal with it tshirt from Zazzle.com

Guns and Vibrators

We’re not moving; in fact I have lived in this house longer than I have lived anywhere since my childhood home. Awhh, that is so warm and fuzzy, kind of like the stuff in the corners, fuzzy.

When I was a kid mom made us do spring cleaning. Move the furniture clean behind it, clean the furniture, and wash the walls, windows and light fixtures. Thank goodness it was only once a year.

Upon adulthood however, I would just move once a year.

But we have been in our home for six and a half years and while it’s not like I have never done a spring cleaning, it just wasn’t quite as thorough as Mom would like. (Believe me I hear about it when she comes for her winter visits.)

So this past week when I rearranged our bedroom, I found some pretty interesting stuff under the bed. Frankly I was amazed at the stuff under there.

Home is where the hair ball is. And this particular hair ball had been formulating so long it was representative of at least three different hair colors: Standard red, kitchen beautician blonde and LA Espresso.

There was also a commemorative bat from the 1975 Cincinnati Reds, one sock, one panty ho, a heating pad that does not heat, hot curlers that get too hot and two items I’d rather not mention.

God help me, I’m scared to move the couch.

Goodbye Fat Girl Shops, Hello Dryer

I have been treating myself with some respect for about ten months now and DAMN! Side–effect: I am almost down to playing weight. (Almost is a relative term.) I mean don’t get excited yet, I have a ways to go, ( I can still move furniture with a good hip swing) but if you know me and you ran into me recently you’d be impressed.

“Damn girl you look good”
“I know.”

And if you don’t know me and you ran into me, you probably wouldn’t notice me.

Hallelujah! Hallelujah!

You would not do a double take as I passed. You would not poke your friend and point at me. (I’ve seen you do this, bitches). At worst you might think, “That lady would be even cuter if she dropped ten or fifty.”

You would have to live my life to know how good being just normal fat feels. I bought a blouse at Kohls. KOHLS! Yes it was in the woman’s department, but it is the same store where a size 2 might buy something. GOODBYE FAT GIRL SHOPS FOREVER.

Goodbye Catherines. What makes you think chunky chicks want to be draped in flowing hibiscus print potato sacks? Goodbye Lane Bryant. Thanks for making me feel too old to shop at the sort of almost hip fat girl shop. Goodbye Woman Within Catalog. Shame on you and your muumuus, up to size 8x, that beckon us to keep going.

“There’s still a few steps left before you’ll be wearing bed sheets fastened with a lovely butterfly or cat pin, so order today.” (And I am not taking about twin sheets here!)

Goodbye to my ass being so big it looks like it houses my parasite twin.

Goodbye seat belt extenders on airplanes.

Goodbye daily pain. I have been recalled to life.

HELLO!

Bras that don’t have extenders.

Shopping with my girlfriends at the mall.

Hello waking up sans pain, and not dreading the day.

Hello to wearing something besides black, navy blue or brown… dark brown.

Thank you normal fat, but don’t get attached to me, I am just blowing through. I’ve got a date in chubby town. Smile when you see me there, in something besides shoes with a flat cushy heel, waiting in line for the next train to voluptuous city.

Hey there red dress. Yeah, red dress! Low cut and above the knee. That’s right… above the knee. I’ll wear you with strappy heels all the way to blue jean burg where I’ll slide into a pair of 501s without the aid of friends, pliers or lubricants.

In blue jean burg you’re free. It’s like a hub from where you can go anywhere. Anywhere!

Turn your nose up at the relaxed fit. Shun the elastic waist and the vanity sizing. Say hello to your DRYER. If you can’t slide them on, so hot the rivets burn your belly, you better get your pumas and hit the bricks. And no stopping for a smoothie because they’re “healthy”, you may have water, maybe some lemon.

Look, you do what you want, but when I get to the burg, I’m staying. So don’t come around talking to me about vacation or birthdays or Christmas or its Tuesday. Me, Wayne, 3oz chicken breasts, in season fruits, south beach fiber bars, and baked salmon are staying!

Cops and Darlings

I like to eat in restaurants. The kind of restaurants where they call me Mrs. Lastname, but find it gauche to mention that while the entrée costs more than the server is old, the sides are still ala cart. (That means it’s extra for asparagus, and corn is not on the menu.)

And I like to call waiters who have less mustache than I do, Darling. Yep, and I do so in a Zsa Zsa accent. (If you don’t know who Zsa Zsa is I would probably call you darling too.)

No, they like it; they do… But cops don’t! Even super duper cute cops with the biggest gun I’ve ever seen (close up) who have a really good start on a big ole Tom Selleck ‘stache.

Maybe because waiters have to be nice if they want a good tip, and cops can’t take tips, (aka bribes, or at least won’t take the kind of bribes I could afford) so they feel no need to tolerate condescending endearments from a woman whose excuse for knowingly giving a stop sign the California treatment was that it was in the mall parking lot and therefore only required obedience if there were another vehicle in the vicinity, “Daahling”.

Not sure why he let me off with a warning, (during which he referred to me with a patronizing “ma’am”) perhaps it was because I refrained from calling his partner sweetie.

Yes I Watched the Wedding, and Yes I Wore a Tiara

And yes, I know how silly that is, but so what, it was fun.

I got up at four in the morning, put on the tiara from my bridal shower, made tea, no crumpets because I don’t know what they are, and tuned in for six hours of pretty people in amazing clothes with fairy tale horses and some of the assed upped-est hats I’ve ever seen.

Why would I watch something as inconsequential as a royal wedding when there was tornado devastation in the mid-west, unemployment everywhere, $4.50 gas and suffering people all over the world. Because duh, there is devastation, unemployment and suffering all over the world and my heart and brain can only take so much before I need some escape time.

I made my donations to the Red Cross, said my prayers, did my job hunting, skipped the day trip to the beach and watched fancy people in hundred year old horse drawn carriages and a thousand year old church do it up limey style.

Hopefully by the time Harry ties the knot, the world will be in a little better shape and I can skip the frivolity… But I might watch anyway; after all Harry is a cheeky little bugger who is kind of cuter than Wils. Should be a jolly good show.