Monday, February 8, 2010

In My Book, C is for Cookie

Hello again blogging world. I've missed you so. Okay, so I know it has been almost a year since I've written anything, but...I've been busy? Okay, more like, I've been lazy. I have no excuses. So here is a little tidbit to wet your whistle on.

I never aspired to be a cheerleader. There are a few key reasons why. 1. Cheerleading was not cool in my high school. I wouldn't have been into it even if it were cool, but it really wasn't cool. 2. I'm a realist. My body was not cheerleading material. And 3. I would have been ridiculed endlessly in my family.

Now my mom forced me to do a lot of things in the name of exercise, but the year she forced me into cheerleading camp...well that was just cruel. Worse than the year she signed me up for the swim team as a 260 lb. teenage girl. Did she actually think that was a good idea? I'm trying to figure out her thought process, it must have been something like this...

"Kim is really getting heavy. I need to get her involved in some kind of activity that would make her feel good about herself AND get her some good exercise. I know, I'll sign her up the our area's highly competitive swim team. They have to take anyone, and I know that she will LOVE getting into a swimsuit every single day for a year. That's it. Swim team it is. She is going to be so excited!"

The sad thing is, that probably wasn't too far off from what she was thinking. My mom has an extremely high self esteem.

Anywho, back to the story. So, it was the summer after 5th grade. A fairly uneventful summer, I can't remember anything about it until August. My mom was a Young Women's Leader and Girl's Camp rolled around. She and my two older sisters were going to camp, but I was only 11. The older boys all had jobs, and my dad has never taken a day off work in his life. I'm not kidding, I had foot surgery when I was 19, he dropped me off at the hospital. He didn't even come in and do the pre-op stuff with me. I know I was 19 but I was still a little scared. Anyway, missing work was not his forte and he certainly wasn't going to take a week off to hang out with me. In retrospect I don't know why they didn't just let me hang out at home. I'm sure they didn't know where we were 90 percent of the time anyway.

Moving on. So my mom is gone for the week and my dad has to work. What to do with Kim. Lucky for me, the high school was sponsoring cheerleading camp. Oh joy. What obese teen doesn't want to wear short shirts and jump around with other girls literally half their size?

There are many painful details about cheerleading camp that I could share, but I'll hit the highlights. 1. I did not have an awesome attitude about cheer camp. I wanted to die every moment, every cheer, every hurkey, every spread eagle... sheer torture for me and my fat self. Just picture in your head, I'm all red from "dancing" and me and my 2 inch vertical are trying to spread my eagle in the .003 seconds I'm off the ground, this of course is accompanied by a grunt, how could it not be? It wasn't pretty.

However, when they sat us all down and the high school cheerleaders spelled out the word CHEERLEADER and told us what each letter meant, I literally had to cover my mouth so I wouldn't laugh out loud. "L is for Lush because as a cheerleader you totally get wasted every weekend after the big game." Okay that was mean, all cheerleaders are hating me right now.

The final straw was the last day when we sat down in our little groups and we went around the circle and had to say why we wanted to be cheerleaders. Big obnoxious..okay skinny obnoxious girl who had been grating on my nerves all week said, "I want to be a cheerleader because I like to be loud." I said, "we can tell." Next Sweet Quiet Girl said, "I want to be a cheerleader because that's what my dad wanted me to be before he died." WHAT? I'm next I follow Dead-dad's-dream girl, and what do I say? No, not, "I'm just trying cheerleading out." Not, "I'm here to learn." I said with my same snotty attitude, "I don't want to be a cheerleader. I hate cheerleading! my mom made me come because she is out of town this week, and my dad had to work." That is what came after Dead-Dad's-Dream-Girl. Ahhhh. Could I have been a bigger jerk?

Needless to say, I did not become a cheerleader in high school. My thighs continued to be too big, and my attitude not nearly perky enough. Let's be honest the only thing C will ever stand for in my book is Cookie.

Thursday, March 26, 2009

Shamu the 20 year old Girl

I should probably rename my blog seeing how I never write about my kids, only about myself. Let's see...Sponge-Kimmy Crazy Pants.... Sponge-Kim Silly Pants....I've got it!..... Sponge-Chubby Size 16 Pants. Okay that last one made me laugh out loud. I am hilarious!

Speaking of being a size 16 *cough* since birth, when I was 20 I went on a tour with my college choir. We were supposed to go to New Zealand, but this was the year of the 9/11 attacks and the church rerouted all international tour groups. We got rerouted to.....wait for it....Texas. Yep, freakin' Texas for three freakin' weeks. Excuse the language, I'm not bitter, really. So we're all trying to make the best of the situation and have good attitudes about not leaving the country, but it proved to be more difficult than first expected.

This tour was...interesting. We had some conflicting opinions within the group and that made some things .....difficult. There was a big tour meeting with lots and lots of crying over....well, basically over which color of belt we were supposed to wear.

This was the same tour that during a daytime performance at a school I didn't get the memo about starting the show with a different song than our usual opener. The song we were starting with was a men's only entrance. So Brother Brower (our beloved director) gives the opening cue and I start loudly singing, "Hark I Hear the Harps Eternal" and the men started singing "Joshua Fit the Battle of Jericho." Oops! I then start laughing which earned the death look from Brother Brower.

I wish I could say that was the only time I received the death look, but alas, it was not to be. During another performance of this cool little Spanish song called "Caballo Viejo" I was kind of groovin' along (nerd I know. I'm THAT girl, the weird one in the choir who moves when they sing. You know what I'm talking about, the one who REALLY feels the music. Ow, it hurts to admit that). Anyway, I'm dancing along, in the front row no less, and my nose was really itching so I just reached up and gave it a little scratch, like it was part of my dance. Brother Brower gave me a look that said, "Holy Crap, did you really just do that in a performance?!? Do you WANT to die?" Oops again.

So things hadn't been going too well. About halfway through the tour we finally got a day off. We got to stay in a hotel and see Les Miserable in Dallas. The hotel was DISGUSTING and the cast of Les Mis was TERRIBLE, but it was still fun. We were all pumped about going swimming when we arrived. I was prepared at one of our other stops I had purchased a wrap that matched my cute red swimsuit. As alluded to in previous posts, I'm a just a tiny bit self conscience about my thighs, so this wrap was key.

I got all ready and headed down to the pool with my girls. I got there and had a brief discussion with myself about whether or not to take the wrap off. It's a light material so I decided against taking it off although I'm sure it is not meant to be worn in water. This lets you know how nervous I'm feeling being in a swimsuit.

We started messing around and playing in the water and I soon forgot about being self conscience, and just started having a good time. We started this game that is so stupid it pains me to share this part of the story. We were going underwater and then as we came out of the water we flipped our hair back like the Little Mermaid. Go ahead, mock, laugh, yes we were in college at the time. Meanwhile, Brother Brower had wondered down to the pool to see what everyone was up to. I called to him, "Brother Brower, who am I?" and then proceeded to play the Little Mermaid game. In retrospect I probably deserved the answer, seeing how I was a 20 year old pretending to be the Little Mermaid.

Regardless, the conversation proceeded as such:

ME: "Brother Brower, who am I?"

BB: "I don't know......Shamu?"

ME: "Shamu?!?!? Shamu?!!?!? I AM IN A SWIMSUIT AND YOU ARE CALLING ME SHAMU?!?!!?!?"

Seeing his obvious folly, Brother Brower immediately started back tracking.

BB: "Kim, Shamu is sleek."

ME (yelling): "Shamu weighs 2,000 pounds!!"

BB: "Shamu is a powerful and stealthy predator. "

ME (still yelling): "Both great if you are a killer whale, not great if you are a 20 year old girl."

The conversation went on like this for a while. I got out of the pool soon after. For the record, my swimsuit was red, not black and white.

The next day on the bus, I took over the microphone during morning announcements and told the whole sad story, so everyone would know. Later that day we arrived in San Antonio. We went to the Riverwalk and the Alamo, and it was amazing....until.....we saw what was playing at the IMAX Theater in town. Yep, you guessed it. SeaWorld: featuring SHAMU. Great! Shamu is so big that he won't even fit on a regular movie screen it has to be at an IMAX!

It was a blow. I actually went on a diet that summer when I got home and lost 30 pounds so it wasn't all for naught, I suppose.

I have told this story as many times as humanly possible so that no one with ever forget that Brother Brower called me Shamu. I told it on the bus the next year when we were on tour....and the year after that. Brother Brower yelled from the back of the bus, "Will you please just let it go?"

NEVER. So Brother Brower....this one is for you! :)

Friday, January 9, 2009

You had to know it was coming

So I have an excuse, I really do. What have I been doing the last four months that made it so difficult to blog one funny story? Well, I had heart surgery, bought a house, fixed up a house, went to Florida with my family, fixed up a house, had Christmas, and ran my little business. I've been busy okay!

*DISCLAIMER* This entry talks extensively about *cough* using the facilities. If this sort of thing offends you, you should probably stop checking my blog, but you might want to stop reading now.

So I've shared stories of nakedness, smart-alec-ness, and ketchup-ness, so you had to know a story of pants peeing-ness was coming.

Let me begin by saying, in my youth I could hold my pee forever. My dad was a road that I mean, the car didn't stop unless the gas tank was empty. Did I mention the van we had in my growing up years had two gas tanks? Yeah. So the absolute soonest you would pee would be four hours after the last stop. When I was young, seven or eight, I told my dad that I really needed to use the facilities. He did not listen, or we were in the middle of Wyoming, which is the middle of nowhere and he couldn't stop. I choose to remember it as he wouldn't stop. Anyway, I wrapped myself in a yellow blanket and peed. I remember thinking, "this will show him," like he was going to clean up the pee, right. I didn't have that kind of dad, he was old school--as in my mom took care of all things pee oriented.

Anyway, with this history being known, you will understand my thinking this one day while shopping. I was probably seven months pregnant with Mia. I was shopping for dipping chocolate so I could make my father-in-law some cashew clusters for father's day. I had been all over town and was coming up empty. At the second to last store I felt the need to relieve myself. I should also mention at this point that I HATE public restrooms. I have been called a germ-a-phobe. I'm not, I just don't like the thought of sitting where someone else has sat. Ewww it gives me the gross-out-shivers as I write about it. So with this non-public-restroom preference, and my ability to hold my pee for hours on end, I decided to hold it.

By the time I entered Winco, my last store, I had to go pretty bad. I only needed a few things so I thought I would make it. I just had to keep moving, and when I stopped I crossed my legs and danced. I made my way through the store and got to the front, and realized I could not hold it any longer. So I decide to give up and use the bathroom *shiver* You know how as soon as you make up your mind to actually go instead of hold it, your pee holding muscles go on vacation and you suddenly have to go twenty times worse than you had to go five seconds previous. This theory is proved in children needing to go to the bathroom. Brandon will be fine and dandy and as soon as he announces he has to pee, it is a race. From outside the bathroom you can hear the stomping dance that accompanies the taking off of the pants--well that's how things were shaping up.

I parked my cart by the bathroom and lifted Brandon out of the basket. I was really dancing now. We rushed into the bathroom straight to the handicap stall so there is room for all three of us, Bran, me, and my giant belly. I got into the stall and things were getting desperate. I was trying to lock the stall, which was proving to be harder than advanced calculus, when my body simply gave up and I started to pee....a lot. And either my pee holding muscles gave up from all the years of abuse, or there was a six pound baby sitting on my bladder, but I could not stop it for anything. I finally got the stall locked and ran to the toilet. I made it. I did my thing and looked for a little toilet paper to assist me in my time of need. And as if things weren't bad enough, there was not a shred to be found. At that point I was sure that God was having a slow day and needed some entertainment. While contemplating how to deal with this situation, my apparently genius son unlocked the door that I couldn't lock with a college degree, and took off running. I had no choice but to shake off, pull up my wet pants and hope to air dry. I chased him out of the stall and get him to pause so I could wash hands. We finished our shopping, and dripped our way home. Oh, if only I had the pee holding muscles of my younger years.

Thursday, October 23, 2008

Workin' in a Coal Mine

Here is another story from the request line....Laura, this is for you.

People are always surprised to hear that I worked in a coal mine one summer. I'm surprised that they are surprised the same way I was when I realized that a camel was a weird high school mascot. I honestly never thought about it until I got to college and people started laughing when they found out. I grew up in a mining community in Wyoming, where the high school mascot was a camel. Seemed normal to me.

Anyway, everyone and their dog worked for the mines in one way or another. My dad was not a miner. We had no direct connection with the mines. This wasn't an issue until it came time to find summer employment. My friends whose parents worked at the mine had the necessary connection to work at the mine. The job certainly wasn't glamorous, in fact and think freakin' scary and dangerous would best describe it. The drove trucks literally the size of my house, around filled with coal or dirt. Yikes. Oh, did I mention they got paid at least double what anyone else was making. Yeah, that's what made that job worth it, I remember now.

Anyway, I digress. The summer after my freshman year of college I was out looking for work. I was late coming home because I had stayed for first summer term at school. I had missed out on most of the summer work. I would have loved to drive truck for the mine, but my dad worked for the city and didn't believe in helping his children find work. Don't even get me started on that one.

I finally got a mine related job. I worked for an independent lab that contracted with the mine. My job was to analyze the coals content so it could be regulated. Translation: I had a job that was mindless and boring, I worked at the mine, but not for the mine so I made $4.00 less an hour than my friends driving the trucks. The work was dirty, dirty, dirty, and I had to wear a respirator so I didn't get the black lung. *cough*

One day I came home at end of a 12 hours shift, plus commute, and I was tired. I mean dog tired. I made my way down to my bathroom and prepared to embark on the de-coaling process. I swear that coal dust chemically fuses to the human skin. I think any of my coal mine workin' buddies could back my up on this one. You have to use a washcloth in order to make sure you get the dust off of your body. When the cloth was black, your face was not. You get the idea.

So this particular night, I was moving at a snail's pace and I got into the shower and started the cleaning process. I quickly realized that I had forgotten my wash cloth. I stood there for a minute debating whether to get out of the warm shower to get it or not. Being as worn out as I was, I decided to go manual. BIG MISHTAKE! (name that movie). So I started the vigorous scrubbing process. Things went fine on the body area because that was mostly covered with clothes during the day. The neck and face are another story. I loaded up my hands with face wash and just went to town. I mean, I was scrubbing hard. When all of a left pinky got shoved so far up my left nostril I thought I might have brain damage. I mean I was scrubbing furiously and all that force went straight up my poor nose. I screamed out in pain and dislodged the foreign object. My nose immediately started bleeding profusely, so much that I had to finish my shower with one hand plugging my nose.

I was more annoyed than anything, but after a little thought decided it was a pretty dang funny story. I mean really, who does these kind of things? So I write up the story and e-mail it to my friend Brad who gets an enormous kick out of anyone injuring themselves. As I'm writing the e-mail I am just laughing hysterically, and the more I think about it, the harder I laugh.

The next day at work I decide to tell my trainer about my experience. I figure she has probably had similar experiences, having worked at the mine a while and all. So I relate the whole hilarious tell, laughing myself silly in the process, and she never even cracks a smile. All she said at the end was," oh." as she looked at me questioning my mental competence. I guess I wasn't surprised, I mean she had the personality of a fence post, but come on. This is top quality stuff.

For whatever reason, her indifference to the story made it that much funnier to me. I laughed myself silly again recounting the story to Brad, whom I knew would appreciate the social blunder associated with sharing it. Picture in your mind telling someone a story that you KNEW was funny and them just looking at you like a moron. Classic, I tell you. Classic.

I learned a few things at the coal mine. 1) finish college 2) don't waste your best stories on the unappreciative.

Any dear readers...hold onto your knickers, soon to come

My mom is the devil
Shamu the 20 year old girl
And countless other stories of humilation

Thursday, October 2, 2008

The Ketchup Family

Well, loyal followers, yes all four of you, I'm here with another classic story to brighten your day.

I was about 8 months pregnant with Mia and had just finished teaching summer school. They had given us some coupons for free chicken nuggets. We passed them out to the kids and kept a few for ourselves. This was fortunate because chicken nuggets were a staple in Brandon's diet at the time. Did I mention the coupons were for McDonalds chicken nuggets? For some inexplicable reason I LOVED McDonalds during my pregnancy. It was one of those love/hate things. One bite would make me gag and the next would be heaven. Weird.

Anyway, Dave, Brandon, and I go for a little family outing to McDonalds for a little free dinner. We order our nuggets and find a table. Our table placement is crucial to the story so let me describe. We chose one of the tables along the big long bench that lines an entire wall. They have several tables with chairs on the other side. Well I sat on the bench and Dave took the chair, Brandon was in the highchair in between us.

We start to eat our nuggets which Dave and Brandon are dipping in ketchup...gross. Dave drops a ketchup covered nugget mid bite. It rolls down his freshly cleaned white t-shirt, and I start to laugh. It is really funny how uptight he gets about these kind of things. Spills infuriate him for some reason, and it is so ridiculous that it cracks me up. This was one of those times. I am totally laughing and he looks up at me with his laser eyes and says, "Why would you laugh at that?" I didn't think he would appreciate "because it's funny," so I said, "I'm sorry honey *giggle* are you okay *giggle*giggle*?" He sits there doing his, I-think-I'm-acting-like-I'm-not-mad-at-you-but-I-am-mad-at-you-and-you-totally-know-because-you're-not-a-moron-and-can-read-body-language silent treatment. I continue to try and get a hold of myself.

Not two minutes later, Brandon drops an entire cup of ketchup down the front of him and onto the floor. Dave at least cracks a smile at this point. This is where the story gets interesting. I clean Brandon off, and then think, "I can't leave a whole cup of ketchup on the floor." Now keep in mind I am eight months pregnant. I go to bend over to pick up the ketchup cup off of the floor, and as I lean forward gravity takes over and I realize my bum is leaving my seat and not in a good way. I start to fall off the bench which is bolted to the wall into the table that is not bolted to the floor. The table groans loudly as it crashes into Dave under my pregnant weight. As I fall forward I also scream at the top of my lungs. I hit the floor with my left hand square in the ketchup cup. The interesting thing is I ended up with ketchup on my knee as well, when there was no ketchup even in the knee region of the floor. To make matters worse, I end up wedged under the table and in my huge pregnant awkwardness, I can't get myself up.

With no shortage of commotion, I finally un-wedge myself from under the table. By the time I return to my seat, face blazing, there are about 600 people staring at me. I was pregnant and unstable and practically in tears at this point. Keep in mind not two minutes ago Dave was livid with me for laughing when he dropped a nugget on himself. What does my loving husband say to the woman who is carrying his child? No, not "oh honey, are you alright?" He said, laughing, and I quote, "WHAT THE CRAP ARE YOU DOING?!?!?" What does he mean, what the crap am I doing? I falling on the ground and humiliating myself, what does it look like I'm doing?

I tell him I am going to wash my hands in the bathroom, and huff off. When I had cleaned and composed myself I returned to the table. I calmly asked him, "Honey, why would you ask me what I was doing when it was obvious that I was falling on my face in a crowded room full of people?" He proceeded to explain that he didn't know why I was cleaning up the ketchup when they pay people to do that. He couldn't understand why I was bending over. I said, "In all the time you've known me, have I ever screamed at the top of my lungs as I have bent over to clean something up?" He didn't have much to say about that.

Sunday, September 21, 2008

The Wedding Singer

Lest you think I am now mature and refined, here's a little story from just a few weeks ago.

Some of you may know, I have this secret desire to be a lounge singer. I would love to sing in jazz clubs (never mind the fact I'm not a jazz singer). Last year I was making a track for one of my voice students. She was in a pageant and needed an accompaniment track for her song. I went to the accompanists house to help make the track. He need tempo markings, cuts, and so forth. Anyway, Steve, the piano guy is really awesome. I mean REALLY. He has played and written things for TV. He lives in the Tri-Cities and commutes to L.A. Anyway, we're making this track and he keeps telling me he really likes my voice. He said I'm good and he'd like to work with me sometime. Total ego trip, right. He told me to call him sometime. I thought he was just being nice, and went on my merry way. I forgot that he ever said anything really.

Fast forward a year. The pageant girl's older sister, who was also a student of mine, is getting married. A day before the wedding they call and ask me if I will sing at the reception. I of course say yes, and get looking through my books for some good wedding numbers. Steve, the pianist above, is going to be playing.

I get to the reception, Stephanie in tow, she happened to be in town for the weekend. We go through the line, and then I go to do my thing. This wedding is probably one of the most beautiful setups I've ever seen. The reception is in the family's backyard. They live in this BEAUTIFUL home right on the river and it's sunset. They have a huge white tent with chandeliers in them. The tables and chairs are in the tent. There is this amazing spread of food. Just past the end of the big tent is the music station. I walk up to Steve and re-introduce myself. He actually remembers me, or at least pretends to. I sing "The Man I Love" and then opt to sing "Unforgettable." I've only sung it a hundred times. Steve starts playing the intro. and all my dreams of being a lounge singer come to life until...I realize it's time for me to come in and I haven't a clue what note to sing. You see, Steve is a jazz musician, which means he's not playing the melody in any way shape or form. I decide to guess and hope for the best....I guessed wrong....REALLY wrong. I sing the first phrase, take the mic away from my mouth and apologize. He plays a few notes of the melody and I'm on my way. The second phrase starts and again, I can't find my note. This is my singing worst nightmare. Finally, Steve starts playing every note with me. How humiliating. That is like the ultimate insult to a good singer.

So I muddle through the rest of the song, and then sing another to make sure "Unforgettable" was truly forgotten. I sigh with relief thinking the worst of the night is over. I sing a few more songs without incident, and Steve even invites me to come and sing on his radio show, so he must still respect me a little.

Steph and I then decide to hit the buffet. We load up, in the most delicate way possible, I still have fat girl complex. I promise not every post will have to do with my weight, but I must explain the fat girl complex. When you are really overweight, people watch you when you eat. They watch you at a buffet, or refreshment table. They may not even realize they are doing it, but they watch everything you put into your mouth. At least it feels like they do. Hence and therefore, I can't comfortably eat at any kind of buffet, I'm nervous to ride in small cars sometimes, and rickety chairs send chills down my spine.

Moving on. Steph and I decide to divide and conquer as far as cake is concerned. My fat girl complex and I are going to throw away plates and refill water cups, and Steph is going to get us some cake. We split up. I walk across the lawn and dispose of the plates, and then proceed across the lawn toward the water. I didn't notice a giant cord running right across my path and totally tripped on it. I didn't fall, but it was close...I did however knock out the power in the entire reception. The chandeliers in the tents went out, as did all other lights and fans associated with said cord. I froze for a moment not knowing what would be more embarrassing. I decided it would be best to just keep walking. Did I mention that it was dusk, and as soon as the lights went out, you could hardly see a thing? Oh yeah, and the part of the lawn I was walking across was right next to Steve and the stage. Man if this guy didn't think I was a moron before...

Giggling, yet trying to keep it casual, I continued walking toward Stephanie. I get to her at the cake and try to whisper in her ear that I had just shut down the power grid, but I was laughing so hard just little puffs of air and snorts were coming out. This was compounded by the fact that she was looking at me like I was speaking Greek, and said, "I can't understand a word you are saying." This just made me laugh harder. I was literally crying at this point. About now, someone found my cord and reconnected it, and the party resumed it's previous buzz. Steph and I walk back to the table to shove down some cake, and get my books. I calm down enough to relay the story.

We have a good laugh and then decide to make a less conspicuous departure. As we're walking out, something strikes Stephanie, "You know, it wouldn't have been that bad if you had just been another wedding guest, but you just sang, and now everyone knows that it was the wedding singer that knocked out the lights." I guess that's why I'm not a lounge singer.

Thursday, September 18, 2008

Who doesn't love a little muffin top?

As has been eluded to in previous blogs, I was not a thin child. Let me clarify, I have never been "thin." I have always been various degrees of fat, more fat, less fat, chubby, big boned, I think I had "baby fat" until I was 22. No, seriously, I had some MAJOR weight issues as a kid and early teen. In fact, I had gastric bypass at the tender age of 15. Best decision of my life.

So these days I'm anywhere from 80 to 100 lbs. lighter than I used to be. That's right people, I weigh less now, than I did in 6th grade. I'm still embarrassed about my weight. In fact, just today we were buying life insurance for my husband and they were taking my information as the beneficiary. They asked for my height and weight as part of the questionnaire. What the crap does my weight have to do with my ability to collect thousands of dollars if my husband dies? Are they afraid I'm going to buy $250,000 worth of Ding Dongs (It's a possibility). Here's the sad part. I lied! I pride myself on being completely honest, and I could not bring myself to say my real weight out loud so I lied. I only shaved off 3 pounds, but it sounded so much better.

I just told my husband. He laughed and said, "Why didn't you say 160?" FYI, that would have been shaving off quite a few more than 3 pounds. I said, "They're not morons, they could see me."

Moving on. Now, you've all seen some plastic surgery makeover show where the person have something like 327 inches of extra skin on their bodies. My body, not that extreme, but I've got some saggy skin. We've already discussed the thigh slapping issue, so we don't have to go there. Let's just say, I'm not a perfect physical specimen.

On with the story. 6 years ago, Steph and I were both living at home for the summer. She had just returned from her mission, and I was home between semesters. It was supposed to be the best summer ever, but by the time I got home from school she was already seriously dating Travis. Grrrrr. Did I mention she'd only been home 4 or 5 weeks. I had some real issues with Travis...ruining my perfect summer and all. Don't worry, I'm over it now.

ANYWAY, (holy crap, this is as bad as talking to me. no more tangents, I promise) Steph and I come home from work one Friday. My dad is out of town so we're thinking Par-tay. My mom comes into the room and the conversation goes something like this...

MOM: Let's go to dinner!

STEPH & I: Yeah!! Sweet. Let's go.

Visions of Red Robin and Olive Garden fill our heads.

MOM (excited, with crack eyes)...Okay I know I promised no more tangents, but you have to know this about my mom. She is a very enthusiastic woman and when she gets really excited her head shakes and she gets these really big eyes, which we have affectionately named, Crack Eyes. I just realized that the description of this sounds like a seizure, but it's not.

MOM (excited, with crack eyes): Let's go to Costco!

My parent's LOVE to eat at Costco. It is weird. They don't live on a fixed income. They make plenty of money and live well below their means. They could easily afford any of the above mentioned restaurants, but they LOVE Costco food.

ME (really disappointed): Moooomm, Costco? Are you kidding? That is so white trash. Let's go somewhere good.

MOM: Costco is good.

So I grumble off to my bedroom to change out of my work clothes. Then I get this brilliant idea. If my mom wants to eat at Costco, I'm going to dress for the occasion. This is not going to end pretty.

I start to giggle and put on a tank top I use strictly as an undershirt. It hits just below the bra line, so it is short. Its straps are very close to the neck, almost like a halter, so my colored bra straps are hanging out for all the world to see. As are my nasty arms that have the hanging skin previously discussed.

I start to actually laugh out loud when I pull out a pair of shorts from high school that are at least 2 sizes too small and 6 inches too short. The laugh is stifled a little as I lie down and suck in to get them zipped. This is a challenge in itself. You know the situation this is creating just above the waistline. The chub that won't fit in the shorts is hanging over the top in a serious way. Keep in mind I have the short tank top on too.

I then put some socks on my glow-in-the-dark-white, hairy legs and jam my feet into my yellow flip flops. I am laughing out loud at myself at this point, which is only making the situation worse/better because it makes said chub jiggle more.

I strut out into the living room and announce, "I'm ready to go to Costco, Mom." Luckily, it was my mom and not my dad. She laughed until she cried. We all did. Then I went and changed. I wasn't going to seriously leave the house like that. I can't remember what happened next. I don't remember if we ate at Costco or not. Let me be clear, I too love Costco food. I'm certainly not knocking it. It just wasn't what I wanted that particular night.

Later my mom said we should have taken a picture of the "White trash outfit." I'm not sure if she had blackmail in mind or what. Maybe she wanted to show it to my husband the night before we got married so he would know what he was committing to for eternity. That's another story for another blog.

And no Abby, I will not recreate this for a photo.