Queen of Denial

In my family, we don't have uncomfortable conversations. Instead, we ignore the elephant in the room, pretend bad stuff isn't happening, and hope whatever makes us nervous simply goes away.

We're also obsessed with food. My grandmother, for example, talks about nothing except what she's eaten, what she's going to eat, or what she wants to eat.

So I suppose it should be no surprise that I've been avoiding the scale lately. Yes, I knew my clothes were tighter than they used to be. That muffin top at the KISS concert was no fluke. Even Brady asked me last weekend why I always wear my clothes too tight. Out of the mouths of babes, I guess.

But today the scale couldn't be avoided when I went to the doctor. I've been fighting a sinus infection for weeks, but I've been on antibiotics for a couple of weeks, so I assumed it would go away. It did not. This morning I woke up under the weather and went to the doctor to make sure it was not strep.

My blood pressure is fine. I had no fever. I did have, however, eight more pounds than I used to have.

The doctor's office called to ask if I could show up 30 minutes earlier, which I did, then they made me wait for 45 minutes. Granted, it's flu season and I'm sure they're busy, but I fumed the whole time. Turns out it was not strep, but rather a persistently annoying sinus infection that 10 days of antibiotics didn't cure. So now I have more.

Other than whining and feeling the need to make my mom's famous lime sherbet freezes when I have a sore throat, being sick somehow makes me feel like I have permission to eat junk I wouldn't normally eat. So I went to Walmart and bought a cart full of oreos, potato chips, and iced sugar cookies.

Hence the trip to the gym tonight for the treadmill and elliptical machine. I will NOT get fat again. Seriously. If I have to go to the gym three times a day in order to keep from going back up a size, that's what I'll do.

Kate Moss recently said that noting tastes as good as being skinny feels. I don't know about that, but I do agree with my pal Sorne, who says that she loves to eat more than she hates working out. So bring on the Christmas food, and schedule my cardio.

Citations by the fashion police

I blame Madonna. From the first moment she wore that white lace corset to sing "Like a Virgin," women everywhere have found it acceptable to show their undergarments in public. Listen up... they call them "undergarments" for a reason. They go UNDER garments. Not beside, not outside, not near, but UNDER. It's not rocket science.

So stop showing me your bra straps, ladies. They make t-back and strapless bras for a reason. Even if your bra is super cute, I do not want to see it. Yes, I wear my sexy pink and zebra bra to work all the time, but I don't show it off to others. I know it's there. No one else needs to.

And another thing, if you're wearing super low rise jeans, do not bend over. Crack kills.

Attention lady in front of me in yoga class tonight, low waisted yoga pants and granny panties don't mix. Wear higher pants or lower underwear. I saw your pink and green striped cotton panties so many times I nearly pulled a hamstring trying to look away. Namaste.

I don't know if I've been watching way too much "What Not to Wear" or I'm just reverting back to my fashionista ways, but I don't think most of America owns a mirror. Granted, I've been known to go to Walmart without makeup. I wore my yoga clothes to Target tonight. I don't always look runway worthy.

But stop with the "it's comfortable" excuses and dress like you care. Some of us have to look at you in the grocery store.

No more sweatpants. EVER. It's not okay. I subscribe to the Jerry Seinfeld philosophy: people who wear sweatpants have just given up on life.

There should be an audition process for the following: short shorts, spaghetti straps, thongs (not to be confused with flip flops, which you wear on your feet), bikinis, and tight shirts. If I can count your fat rolls from five feet, change your clothes. It's too tight.

Women of the world, raise your right hands and repeat after me: I vow to look in the mirror before I leave my house. I will not wear socks with sandals, hose with open-toed shoes (or hose at all, really), and any footwear that make my feet look like mushrooms. Pointed-toe shoes are uncomfortable, but they make my legs look long and fabulous. I will not wear things that are too tight, too short, or reveal any undergarment. My shoes do not have to match my handbag. My accessories should pop, not match. I will iron wrinkles. I will not use a safety pin to keep my blouse closed. I will not use my purse as a grocery sack, but will consider it part of my outfit. And, in the name of all that is good and holy, I will never, ever wear white shoes.

GREAT Friday

Happy 4th birthday to sweet little Peyt Peyt. I love ya, even if you do call me Fart Blossom.

Lola and I (I've decided the car's a "Lola" after all) went to the Corridor this afternoon to meet my pal Ashleigh for dinner at Abuelo's, then I stopped at Krispy Kreme to get donuts and the Bentonville Wal-Mart (the mecca of commercialism) for groceries. The fam's coming up for Easter dinner tomorrow afternoon, and I'm making ham, deviled eggs, and hashbrown casserole, then we're having donuts for dessert. It's not a traditional Easter dessert, but who can say no to a Krispy Kreme?

Today was simply beautiful and the perfect day to celebrate Good Friday... the day Christ died for all of us. Easter is a holiday for food and family, but I hope we all spend some time with the One who made the day--and all our days of eternity--possible.

The blonde baker

The following photo comes to me from my pal Brent, who got it from someone he knows in Little Rock. Evidently Suzanne, one of his friend's coworkers, was leaving her position and her manager called to order her a goodbye cake from one of the Wal-Marts in LR. He told them to put "Best wishes Suzanne" and underneath that "We will miss you." When they went to pick up the cake, this is what they got.



They thought it was so funny, they kept the cake.