The Hunger Calls

It is a time for new resolutions. Paying off debt, losing weight, being kinder- that sort of thing. Lucky for me, I’ve come to realize that New Year’s Resolutions are bullshit, so I don’t have to do any of those things previously mentioned. HA

Sadly, my credit cards are pretty much maxed out, so I do  desire to pay off my debt. Buuuut, I also desire to go to Rocklahoma, and hang out with all of my favorite bands. I also desire to buy (what many people would consider) unnecessary decorative items for my home. So I don’t know if I’m going to pay off debt this year or not, ok?

I am also of the age where my weight doesn’t much bother me anymore; though I do, at times, want to be an uber-hot mama that people gawk at. Fortunately, DDD boobs and a penchant for brightly-colored duds can accomplish pretty much the same thing.

However, my best friend is getting married in the end of February, and asked me last year to be one of her bridesmaids. Note, I said she asked me last year. Which means I had over 365 in which to shed the 65 or so pounds that would inhibit me from being one of the sexiest bridesmaids that ever lived. (Hey, just dream with me here.)

As if being on the chubby side wasn’t enough,  her other bridesmaids could fit into a pair of my pants all at once. Dammit.

Now my bestie has always been quick to argue when I’ve been down on myself, so my fears of looking like a heifer in wedding pictures have naught to do with her. In fact, my girl even let us pick our own dresses- to let us show off our own personal style and not have us despise her for picking something we all look like shit it.

No, my insecurities are all of my own making.

So like any normal person, of course I took that year I had to slim down and buff up.

BAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA. Just kidding.

Knowing myself as I know myself, I bought my dress (from China) in the size that I was at the time I bought it. Last year. And now, less than two months away from the wedding, I’m exactly (or maybe a tad bit more) the weight I was then.

It had been over nine months since I tried my dress on initially when I took it to the alterations lady a few weeks ago to get the tail bustled. After much sucking in and pulling back, it zipped, but just. After she measured for straps to hold up the busooms, I was thinking that, HEY! I look pretty good! (Yeah, ok, so I had to have her take my socks off because it was too tight to bend down. Shut up.)

Sadly, the next day, my neck and shoulders were completely jacked up from sucking in and bunching up. So, instead of being the super-sensuous bridesmaid I imagined in my head, I’ve settled for being able to sit during dinner and still being able to breathe, and maybe avoiding my armpit fat from photobombing the wedding party.

The thing I’ve discovered, though, is that the will power that once made me only eat three saltine crackers and a grape each day back in ninth grade has gone on permanent vacation. The simple fact that I’m trying (ok, not really) to lose weight makes me completely ravenous, to the point that I want to eat every single order of boneless wings that I serve to a table. (GAAWWWWWD, boneless wings sound amazing right now….)

I’ve told myself for the month of January, I will focus on eating less, and worry about shaping up in February. Unfortunately, since my daily diet rivals that of an African elephant, I’ve got quite a bit of cutting down to do.

To help keep my stomach from crying aloud with his own voice, (which I imagine sounds very like Boris Karloff) I’ve taken to drinking copious amounts of coffee mixed with way too many pink packets. Coffee is supposed to speed up your metabolism, they say. What they don’t say, is that coffee makes you pee like you’ve been drinking booze for seven days straight. And it probably doesn’t help that the sleep I’m supposed to be getting to help me trim down is interrupted by caffeine.

I just…. I just want to be skinny like I was when I thought I was fat.

(On the plus side, whenever I’ve shown a picture of me in my dress to anyone, their first reaction has always been, “Geez, your boobs look huge!” )

I May Not Be Fat, But I Still Look Like A Whale

So as I have mentioned in the past, I do not sport the slender physique of a starving Somalian or a high-fashion model. Throughout the years, I have become increasingly comfortable with my non-twiggy self, since what I possess seems to be a magnet for Man Hands. Of course, a good twenty pounds of this reason reside in my colossal Boulder Holder, which results in a good amount of non-classy cleavage that I would be lost without. However, there is always one place where my muscled and french-fry fed bod always gets on my nerves.

The Dressing Room.

I ventured to the mall last week to procure a dress for my Rockstar’s niece’s wedding. (Yes, the fact that he has a neice old enough to marry is not lost on me.) I was thrilled to find myself once again amonst friends, (I mean the racks of clothes) and greeted each with a warm smile. It took me less time than it would take you to sing Happy Birthday twice to load my arms down with a pile of overly-dressy and bejeweled frocks (including a clearanced prom dress) and I made my way to the dreaded Room.

Let us just say, after becoming stuck in a dress with my arms over my head and my bosoms the obstacle to my freedom, I will only be trying on dresses with elastic surrounding the boobs. (I would have called for an attendant, but I was much too embarrassed.)

I tried on at least twenty dresses of all shapes and sizes, and felt exactly like Prince Charming searching endlessly for Cinderella’s foot. This one was too tight; this one was too loose; this one showed too much cleavage; this one showed to much back fat, (of which I don’t have alot of, but in certain dresses, it seems like I have backboobs). The only thing I can definitely get away with is going a little bit short on the skirt if need be, because I’ve been told I have baby-like skin, and they are well-muscled from hours of heel usage. In the end, I left the mall feeling depressed and corpulant. The only thing that made my sulking better was the fact that I picked up a pair of bronzey sequined pumps for only $8. (Go me!)

My friend Delightfulness was with me during my decent into self-loathing. She assured me that I am beautiful (easy for her to say- she was shopping at the other end of the dress rack on the skinny side- we needed megaphones to communicate our findings.) and that every day I must look at a different body part and tell myself what it was I liked about it. I began with my toes, and how I like that they are not long and creepy like so many peoples’ are. I find this excercise helpful except for one major thing- I can tell myself how perfect my boobies are (many people have done so) and how nice my skin is, and how non-flabby my butt is, but in the end, I’m still only skinnier than 3/4 of the McDonald’s devotees. And that does NOT make me look good in a dress.

P.S. I ended up finding a fabulous one-piece pantset that perfectly displayed the proper amount of cleavage to remain tasteful and still draw attention away from the eyesores.

The Truth About Facebook

I have mixed feeling about Facebook.

Maybe it’s the fact that it’s just an excuse for everyone to say, “Hey! Look at me! I’m so great and wonderful and I post ALL these pictures to make you guys  THINK that I’m one of those people who DO stuff. I’m so beautiful and photogenic, and I fully intend to make you realize that!”

Yes, I am bitter.

I am bitter because no matter how many pictures my Facebook buddies post of me, EVERY SINGLE ONE looks like shit. I realize that I am not a skinny minnie, but for chrissake! Do they HAVE to post the pictures of me that make me look like I’m in the third tri-mester of my pregnancy with a whale?! These people are supposed to be my friends! What the hell?!

I am quite certain there are at least one or two good pictures out there of me, so why do my “Friends” insist on posting these horrendous photos? I will tell you why.

Because they want to make themselves look better.

I am their Facebook D.U.F.F.

For those of you who don’t know, a D.U.F.F. is a Designated Ugly Fat Friend.

I know this is what these people are doing, because I’ve had DUFFs in the past.

The difference is my DUFFs were not picked specifically to be DUFFs. They were my friends, and OTHER people informed me that they were DUFFs. I only saw them as my beautiful friends.

And I would NEVER EVER have posted pictures of them without their approval.

Moving on.

I have an appropriate amount of Facebook friends, I think.

Just over a hundred. I see no need to hike up my self-esteem by claiming every single person I’ve met in my life, including the woman who gave my mom the ultra-sound when she was pregnant with me as a Facebook friend. If I don’t still know you (or if you went to the same school as I did 10 years after me) I feel no need to approve your friend request.

And here’s the thing. I thought Facebook was a place to get in touch with people you liked. So why the hell do people go offline THE second I try to chat with them? If you don’t want to talk to me, then why the hell did you add me as your friend? If it was just to creep through my posted pictures, We’ve already established there are no good ones for you to look at. So just delete me already and be done with it.

Next- a confession.

Yes, I creep through people’s pictures. I especially find joy in looking through people’s wedding photos to see what kind of wedding they had. (I have a weird obssession with weddings. I’m quite certain that if they didn’t cost so much, I would have one every year.)  I do find it slightly disturbing that so many people are getting married nowadays- has this been going on for a long time and I never noticed? I also like to see photos of the boys I had crushes on, and the women that they ended up with; which I then think evil thoughts about in my head. (Such as- she has back fat. I’m cuter than her. I am also quite certain these women are saying the same things about me.) Also, do normal people always go on vacations EVERY year? Because I haven’t been on a real vacation since 1997 when I went to Tennessee with my parents and swam in a 4 person jacuzzi tub. Damn all you people and your fabulous vacations!

I DO like to look at my Facebook friends’ pictures when they are into photogrophy, or have gotten a new camera. After all, I love pretty things.

About the games- WTF?! Do you people have nothing better to do than feed virtual pigs and pretend to be mafia goons? NO, I do NOT want to help you get 7 more acres for your Farmville farm, because I would much rather go to work to save money for my own REAL farm. (Where I shall have a fainting goat and a peacock.) And anyway, shouldn’t you be having sex with you significant other, or learning to cook, or some other semi-useful thing?

I will admit, it is nice to see that Bob, or Henry, or Gloria have cancer, or have gotten engaged, or have died. Although, if I am not worthy of a phone call at these fine Life Moments, I have this feeling that you are somewhat dead to me already. Don’t you agree?

Lastly, it seems that Facebook is a place where any individual may go and blab all about themselves and their wonderful life, so I just don’t see the point. After all- I have a blog for that. XOXO

 

I Hope You Don’t Dance

After my drunken post about giving a lap dance last night, (Yeah, sorry about that) I have decided that I must come clean.

I am Sparklebumps, and I cannot dance.

Though the desire to dance runs strongly through my veins, I cannot, under any circumstances, compel my feet to move in time with music. On the contrary, any time I have been coerced onto a dance floor, my feet become oddly rooted to the spot where I am standing, and no amount of goading or pushing from onlookers can coerce my body to frolic or covort. This becomes achingly more apparent every time I go to a wedding, where I am dragged out and encouraged to dance. My stoic non-movement has actually caused other dancers to pause in bewilderment, which only adds to my mortification. But I refuse to be one of those people who attempt to dance when they have no business doing so. Resembling an epileptic is not for me.

I believe my lack of talent on the dance floor stems from the fact that I was brought up Baptist, and dancing is considered the elusive 8th deadly sin. Despite the mention of dancing in the Bible (ahem, Baptists), the church and school I went to strictly forbade it. Just thinking of ALL those familys with 7 kids who will grow up to be as dance-deficient as I saddens me…

When observing people dancing, I am utterly fascinated, paying special attention to their feet and the way they move them. I am a firm believer that you can learn something just by watching someone do it. Unfortuneately, I would need to spend every spare moment of the rest of my life watching people dance to acquire this talent.

That is not to say that I lack natural rythm; no, in fact, I have, on occassion, been asked if I used to be a stripper. I do not find this offensive as some would, simply because if I can move my body in a way that looks good naked, it matters not if I don’t look good kicking my feet up to that annoying song Celebration. However, it is safe to say that I shall not be showing off my stripper-esque moves at the next family wedding.

I am quite certain that when Lee Ann Womack sang I Hope You Dance, she wanted to add the lyrics, “Except you, Sparklebumps.”

P.S. Oddly enough, I get a very very high score when dancing to Honkytonk Bedonkedonk on that Wii game…