Not such a "Big Girl"

Steven and I had to go to Target today to pick something up and before our outing was completed we ended up at Kohl's.  (I really do have a wonderful husband.)  We perused the shoes and purses (nothing to write home about) and made our way around to what I call "The Big Girl Section."  We walked through the maze that is the larger clothes.  Sizes accompanied by X's.  Styles that don't ever look quite, well, stylish (Why is that?  Big girls want cute stuff too!  And we aren't all over the age of 60, though judging by the clothes, you'd never know it.)  I wanted to see if they had some plaid shorts.  I'm a bit of a sucker for the plaid short.  And Steven is too.  So i figured, "This is Kohl's.  I should be able to find something for a decent price." 

We found a pair that was pretty cute and pretty normally priced.  What is this!?  I need the good ol' Kohl's sale.  And $35 for a pair of shorts is not a sale.  So we passed them by.  No need to even try them on.  We kept walking.  


Now the unfair thing about the "Big Girl Section" is the fact that is right beside, actually attached to, the "Regular Girl Section."  There's no real divider and before you know what you've done, you've moseyed over to shirts that won't button and pants that won't zip. But damn, they're cute.  You find yourself saying, "That's just what I was looking for!"  Then you look at the sizes and realize that single digits are blaring back at you.  Laughing at you.  Saying, "Please, girl!  You'd need me and my friend size 6 to make this work."  So you put whatever it is down, hoping no one saw you, the "Big Girl" pick up something so clearly out of your league, and your shopping trip is done.  


Well, not today.  We found the plaid shorts I wanted.  Not too short--because really, I don't have the thighs for that.  On sale--marked down from $30 to $15.  I started thumbing through the numbers.  I was sure the one I needed wouldn't be there.  And, well, it wasn't.  But Steven suggested I try the largest size they had available on the rack.  It's a size smaller than I normally wear and it did not have a "W" beside it.  (For you "Regular Girls" the "W" stands for Woman and means that the size on the tag is even a bit bigger than it says.  The cut is supposed to be more flattering for the "Big Girls."  In some cases this is true.  In others, well, not.)  I was hesitant but Steven and I figured that this would give me a new goal to work towards.  I had no expectations that they would fit.  


Into the dressing room I went.  Side note:  Why do dressing rooms smell?  This one smelled like nasty feet.  No one was in there.  So the foot smell was so strong that it had carried over from some past occupant.  OK, moving on--that's making my stomach turn a bit.  I put on the shorts.  Let me say that again.  I. PUT. ON. THE. SHORTS.  They fit!!!!  I walked out of the dressing room and showed Steven.  He was grinning from ear to ear.  


Now I'm not saying that I am, or will be in the immediate future, a frequenter of the "Regular Girl Section."  But my 30 pound loss (yep, last weigh-in proved it!) helped me get my plaid shorts--REGULAR ones.  Talk about great motivation.  Now there's this "Regular Girl" skirt I've been eyeing....  

Taming the Beast

There are few things in this world that my husband loves as much as he loves me.  His mom.  Hockey.  And the truck to the right.  This, my firends, is a 1985 Chevrolet truck.  I know you might not recognize it as a truck because it is missing a key truck compenent (the bed) but it is one.  A big one.  In fact, if it weren't for the steps on the sides (hard to see in this picture bit it's there) I wouldn't be ale to climb into it.  Well, not without using my Spidey senses.  Which I don't have so I guess that's a moot point.  Anyway, it's a beast.  Big and intimidating.  At least for me.  

I am girl that never learned to drive a manual.  I love that I don't have to try and remember where that stick goes or when you have to put it there.  I like the freedom of a car the does the work for me.  That was all before I met Steven. Now I want to learn to drive something that takes a little more effort—even if I never intend to actually put forth that effort every day. I don’t want to drive a stick in my day-to-day life. But it would be nice to know how, just in case. Plus Steven thinks it’s awesome and I love to be awesome to Steven. Not hard for me, I know, considering my already high level of awesome. But a little extra never hurt anyone.

So the Green Beast (or Booger, depending on the moment) is our only vehicle that requires the driver to shift gears. So, in turn, it’s the only way I have to learn. Steven used to have a Mustang that would meet this requirement but he got rid of it. Shouldn’t have done that. (right, honey? hehe) Anyway, last Saturday we needed to get the truck back into the garage. Steven saw this as the perfect opportunity for me to begin my lessons. Yes, this makes perfect sense. I am going to drive a huge truck that I don’t know how to drive TOWARDS my house. Does this sound like a bad idea to anyone else? Thought so.


But in I hopped. Wait—there was no hopping—it was more like a climb and hoist type operation. But I got in nonetheless. I took my place behind the wheel (which was a little sticky and way dirty) I went to push the clutch all the way in. Nope. Steven suggested I move the seat up. There we go; I can reach the pedals now. However, the steering wheel is now firmly pressed against my tummy. Nice. It will still turn so I’ll deal.


Lesson starts and I’m trying to listen really closely so that I can make sure that I don’t do anything extremely terrible like run into a tree, but my leg is now beginning to shake from holding the clutch down. It’s cramping from the full extension that is required (damn my short legs!) and that’s all my mind will let me process. So I blurt out, “let’s get going before my leg falls off!” Hope I didn’t miss anything important.


My first task was Reverse. Great, I don’t like Reverse in normal cars. But I managed it. Quite well I think. And then it was time to go forward. Towards the tree, in hopes of going towards the house. Again, bad idea? Anyway, I did fine. I was in Low. I don’t know what that means but it’s not First Gear. I stalled out in that so for right now, Low is my friend. I managed to inch the truck towards the garage and only freaked out once (well maybe a few times) at the close proximity of anything I could severely damage. Steven and I switched so he could pull it into the garage. I wasn’t near that brave. But when I stepped out I felt like I had done something major. I felt accomplished. My hands felt sticky.


And I have to saw that Steven is a great teacher. He wasn’t pushy or easily agitated. I was nervous to drive with him because he does this stuff so well. But all that ended the second we started. The truck is back in the garage. The garage is in one piece. And I really did have fun. I might even want to do it again. In an open field. With nothing to hit. For miles.

Blister in the sun...

Some things are just not fair.  Not at all.  Not even a little bit.  Take for instance my mother's ability to tan with the ease of someone born and raised much further South than the continental United States.  She lays on her deck, book in hand and turns the nicest shade of tan you've ever seen.  My dad?  He can hang out outside for a bit, doing yard work or whatever kind of work, and the same thing happens.  Nice and tan.  It's like my parents were put in some human toaster and came out perfect. 


Me?  HA!  There is something wrong with my skin.  It's rejects the sun with a ferocity that just makes no sense.  The tan gene skipped me completely.  I have this lovely (insert sarcasm here) reddish undertone to my skin that only becomes more and more prominent the longer i stay out in the rays.  Now don't get me wrong, my arms and shoulders will brown a bit, turning not so much red but all the more freckled.  But my cheeks always glow a hot pink and my nose would give Rudolph reason to think of retirement.  And my legs?  Well let's just say that translucent takes on a whole new meaning when they get involved.


To add insult to injury I married a man with Italian blood and the ability to tan by merely thinking about it.  Steven's arms and legs get tan as soon as the sun starts shining in early spring and don't ever really fade.  He's like a plant.  If there's sun, he thrives.  My only real saving grace is the fact that he's not a guy to go shirtless so he's got a killer farmer's tan.  His back and belly are as white as me.  That seems to level the playing field a bit.  Though only a little.  


But today I decided to fight.  I want to be tan.  I'm tired of wearing my light khaki shorts and blending in with the fabric.  I'm sick of looking a bit sick.  And let's face it; chubby looks better tan.   You know it's true.  So i took my book, my water and my beach chair and I hit the deck.  It took all of 40 seconds for the sweat to begin to pour.  In my mind I'm chanting " I can do this, I can do this" over and over.  A mantra if you will to make it through the heat.  I was doing ok.  I was going to make it.  Then I looked down.  


I stared through the sunlight bouncing off my legs to what was now visible.  Blotches.  Large and red.  And they were all over.  My knees look like I'd kneeled in red paint and my thighs have the appearance of skin after it's been slapped over and over.  I've got a feeling that this is just not going to be my day.  There was an odd tingle all over every place the sun had kissed (or bitten--whatever you want to call it) and I wasn't quite sure if that was pain or just discomfort.  Isn't there supposed to be a little burn of sorts?  No?  Well, damn. 


So I got up and came inside.  Within about ten minutes I looked back to normal.  Well, except for the dryness, slight itching and tiny little spots.  Is this just not meant to be for me?  Am i destined to be the girl with pearly white legs?  The girl who will always have to use SPF this-is-strong-enough-for babies?  Maybe I'll go back out for a minute. Just a little bit.  Give it another try.  Or maybe I'll just sit on the couch and read while the Golden Girls plays in the background.  Yeah, that sounds more like it. 


  

This Little Piggie...

My husband turned the big 2-4 last week. Yeah, he’s young. Just call me Demi! Well, not really. Our ages aren’t that far apart and I do not look like that in a bikini. But he is younger. By a couple—er, three—well, actually four—fine, and a half (damn those halves) years. When I met him he was 19 and the furthest thing from my mind was getting involved with him. Ok, that’s a lie. But I wouldn’t admit it. Anyway, moving on.

This past Saturday we did what any good Southerner would do to celebrate their birth. We threw a pig on the cooker and had our friends come out for more food than any of us could possibly eat. Everyone was so wonderful. They brought potato salad and mac and cheese and dips and chips and deviled eggs and drinks and cookies and cake. Every person that pulled up brought one more thing that I hadn’t had in what felt like an eternity. And I ate. And ate. And ate.

I ate until I felt almost nauseous. I let the feeling subside and I ate again. Every time I walked by a cookie, I ate one. I ate barbecue loaded in sauce. I drank a cup of sweet tea—with CAFFEINE! And I ate one of the best pieces of cake I have had since my wedding. (Thanks, Courtney and Connie!) And let me tell you, I feel like crap. Pure, nasty crap.

I gained weight last week. Yeah, you heard me. GAINED! Didn’t lose. Not one half a pound. Oh, how the mighty have fallen. Last week was heinous in terms of diets. There was only one night I didn’t manage to eat something on my “off limits” list. I goofed big time. So this week, I’ve started back at square one. Steven’s throwing out all the leftover treats and I’m beginning again. Back to basics. Yesterday was tough, but I’m back on track. Took a little (ok, big) detour but I got it all figured out now. Wish me luck…again.

In terms of the party, it was wonderful. Steven and I know that we have wonderful friends and family. And they just keep proving us right over and over. Things have been a little rough lately and there is something about having your favorite people around you that makes the world seem right again. And it was right. And it was wonderful. we love our friends like family and appreciate the friendship that our family offers. We are lucky. We are so blessed. Can’t wait for next year!

Shedding the Big Girl clothes...

It finally happened. I almost didn’t believe it, but it actually happened. I have officially gotten too small for one of my bigger “big girl” shirts! Yes, ladies and gentlemen, I have had to retire something that I bought after the “inflation.” When I had finally gained enough weight that it was imperative that I buy a few items so that I would not have to subject the world to my nakedness (you’re welcome), I began the weekly Old Navy hunt. Upon one of my many visits to their website (they only sell Big Girl clothes online. Do I hear “Discrimination Lawsuit?”), I happened upon the cutest black shirt. Stylish. Flattering. Huge. Ok, not huge. But bigger. Bigger than I have bought before. But it worked and I really liked it. It was my go-to shirt.


The other day I couldn’t figure out what to wear. When you run into that type of dilemma, what do you do? You pull out the go-to. I grabbed the shirt from its usual place and went to put it on. It looked weird. What was this look? I hadn’t seen it in so long. It was too flowy. Not at all stylish. It actually looked HUGE. It was too big! Praise the Lord, I have a shirt that’s too big!! I took off that bad boy and threw it in a drawer in the spare bedroom where it will sit until it is time to take it to Goodwill. I have never been so happy to get rid of a favorite shirt!

Oh and get this! My shorts that were too tight last year. I can wear ‘em. And the bigger shorts that I bought to be big enough? I can take those off without unbuttoning them! My wardrobe is shifting quite dramatically. At least I had the good sense to keep my smaller stuff. Wishful thinking finally paid off!

Recipe Update:

After the whole breakfast casserole debacle we were both a little gun-shy on trying a new recipe and ready to redeem the cookbook. Enter the Buffalo Chicken Chili. In a word, YUM! I will post the recipe for you in my next post. It’s made with stuff that you wouldn’t normally think of so keep an open mind. And if you add the suggested amount of hot sauce, it really does taste like Buffalo Wings. Just try not to dip it in ranch. :)