Monday, April 26

The Mammary Memos

What a weekend.

I feel like I just got off a ride from a convertible topped train.

Completely frazzled.

Matt’s play was this weekend, and it went great. There were cast parties, and rehearsals for our daughters’ play, and there were supposed to be 2 baseball games.

But they got rained out. (Which was great. Matt was really heartsick that he couldn’t come to Tim’s first 2 games because of the show. I have been praying for a week that the games would get rained out. And very much like God, the skies held their own until 15 minutes before we were supposed to be at the ball park. Then the skies opened up with such a dramatic display that it took my breath away! And the game was cancelled just in time! He is seldom early, but always right on time.)

And after going on 4 hours of sleep Saturday, I was a little exhausted. And frazzled. And PMSey. So I had a slight panic attack on Saturday evening. Those things are no fun. And then I was supposed to go to a cast party and act like I had it all together. Which I don’t. But I tried.

The first hour was hit and miss. There were lots of people there, and I tried to go to the rooms that had the least amount of people in them until I relaxed. Finally I got settled down and it was right about the time a group of girls ended up in the kitchen.

(Now I have SWORN that I would not use names in this story, to protect the not-so-innocent. So this conversation I am about to share will be in one long run on quoted statement. Therefore you get the full flavor of the story without incriminating any of the women who said the statements.)

“My costume tonight made me look like I was all boobs.

Really? I thought you were all boobs!

Yeah, you look like you are pretty busty.

(Realizing that 4 out of the 5 women currently in the kitchen are a DD cup and over. One girl is a B. )

Wow. We all have the girls. You know what I hate? When you go to sleep and you have to spread them apart to sleep on your stomach.

Yes, we are all united by the big blue vein.”

(If you have big girls and fair skin, then you know exactly what I am talking about)


For a half of an hour, we discussed the pros and cons (mostly cons) of being blessed, boob and bra horror stories, and what living with big jugs is really like.

Shucks, I think we did Dolly Parton proud.

Fellows wandered in and out of the kitchen. My husband was in there laughing quite a bit because he lives with me. This is all stuff he has heard before. And he was able to both qualify the information, and figure out that I am not the only one who talks like this.

We talked about gravity, boys’ reactions to big girls, the fact if you go to the store without a bra on people think you are just fat because when they hang- they lay on your tummy.

We talked about a lot about bras because there are a lot of them that give us busty girls 4boob, superboob, or saggy boobs.

And the one B cup in the room talked about the fact she never gets “headlights” because her bras are mostly foam.

To which one of the big busty ladies in the room yelled “BUT AT LEAST you can buy bras at Victoria Secrets!”

And with that, an entire room full of girls yelled in unison “YEAH!!!!” cause none of us can.

What amazes me is that regardless of the issue we can discuss, every woman has insecurities about something. Each woman had frustrations boon from her body. There were skinny girls, big girls, and medium girls. And each one of us there has something that makes her feel “less than,” even though she has “more than” to someone else.

I wish I could tell you that we solved all the worlds’ problems with busts right then and there.

Instead, we decided we would write a show about it. And we WILL call it the Mammary Memos.

Because women feel empowered by talking about their issues. We don’t need to solve them. We just need to emotionalize about them. To hear for ourselves that we are not alone in our struggle to adjust. (Which means bending over, shaking and stuffing, as one brave soul displayed in the kitchen, which put us under with laughter.) We feel better if we TALK about it.

Which is why I love this blog so darn much. It gives me the opportunity to be a real woman, not one who is trying to achieve perfection. Nope, I just get to achieve being me. And that is a great feeling. Because me, even though I am neurotic, less than graceful, and a complete and utter mystery (especially to Matt- and sometimes even myself) is pretty awesome.

Not that I am a fantastic person, because I am not. I make mistakes, lose my temper and make a fool out of myself on a regular basis. But the idea that I am free to be me is pretty wonderful.

Something we are not taught in magazines or on TV. It’s a state we grow into, eventually realizing that we all can’t be the glamorous Jolees and Bullocks. There are some Phyllis Dillers and Betty Whites thrown in there. And when we get in the zone, we can change the entire dynamic of what fabulousness really is.

Or in my case, Flabulousness. How can you be fabulous today?

Wednesday, April 21

Charlie VS The Duct Tape

Say what you want about it- but I like tanning.

I’m not hard core about it by any stretch, and the fact is I am still quite pale. I enjoy the actual act of tanning in a bed- listening to music, a fan blowing on you, being forced to close your eyes for a 5 to 10 minute stretch… and no one is there to scream “MOM!!!!!!”

Yep, I like the solitude of tanning.

And I don’t go often, but last week when I saw my white/blue legs in the full on sunlight at the YMCA, next to Lee Ann’s freshly “Florida vacationed” legs, I decided I should get a little color.

And I debated about a spray tan. Especially after watching the Hussy’s educational vlog about “Spray tan for a chubby girl.”

But I went old school. Cause I wanted an excuse to get out of the house 3 times a week. Maybe 4, tops. And only for a month.

Cause we all know that tan fat looks way better than pale fat.

Here’s the thing about tanning though. I have major hangovers.

Not like “I partied all night” hangovers. No, no, no. It’s the “I’ve had 3 kids and gravity now owns my chest” hangovers.

In otherwords, cause I tan butt nekked, when I lay on my back without a cross yer heart, the girls fall to the side and cover 50% of the tops of my arms. Or if I lift my arms, I get these wonderful little tan lines of the sides of my torso that look something like this.

Tres bella, jah?

And something had to be done. Something DRASTIC.

There are 3 things every girl needs in her toolbox. A high heeled shoe (to work as a hammer and is great for smashing bugs), a nail file (a stand in for sandpaper and can be used as a screwdriver) and DUCT TAPE.

And for a problem this floppy, duct tape was the answer.

My girls have a healthy relationship with duct tape. Being a theatre nerd, I have taped them down on many occasions. To dance, to bind, to cover “headlights”…. Me and duct tape go WAY BACK.

So I walked into the tanning place with my keys and MP3 player in one pocket, and a roll of uber trendy tyedyed duct tape in the other. And I got a room.

Making sure the door was locked tightly, I stripped down to nothingness, got my roll of DT out, laid in the bed, and went to work.


Got one piece of tape off the roll. Normally duct tape doesn’t seem loud when I use it at home, cause my house sounds like grand central station. But there in the tanning salon that day, you could have heard a pin drop. Or someone in the next tanning bed to your left giggle.

I applied the piece of tape strategically, across the “headlights” and over the sides. But immediately I recognized that there are some pliability issues, and the parts of the girls that weren’t taped were still flopping over.

Cause I kinda look like this…

So. I was going to need a bigger piece of tape.


(More giggling from bed next door)

This time I laid the tape on in a diagonal position. Which meant I would need one more piece to go the other way.


From bed next door in a still giggly voice “That’s going to hurt to take off!”

(Because apparently every woman recognizes the sound of her own baby crying, can hear from a mile away where a great shoe sale is going on, and knows the sound duct tape makes.)

Finally I was ready to tan.

And 10 minutes of uninterrupted bliss was just what I needed.

When the bed went off, I was left with a dilemma. Do I take the tape off here? Or wait till I get home? The pros of waiting till I got home were it would be less noisy, and I could take a shower and loosen it up. The cons would be that I would have to carry my bra out the front door of the tanning salon and would have very odd looking cleavage under my shirt.

I opted to remove it right there.

And I went for the quick method.

I grabbed hold of each side of one strip (the first piece I applied, meaning there were 2 other pieces on top of that strip) and YANKED.


The problems were 2 fold. Or 2 taped.

A. The other pieces of tape on top of the one I pulled were stuck really good.

B. My nipples were not wanting to come off of the tape. I’m assuming because there is no hair to soften the blow. They were stuck.

I chose to deal with the other pieces of tape first, and pulled them off fast and furious.


Problem A was solved, and now I had to deal with stuck nipples.

Immediately I remembered that I had this issue once before in the past. And my solution for it was to take a piece of tissue and put it there BEFORE applying tape. Which meant I was going to have to bite the bullet and go for it.

If you are a gentleman and still reading this blog, now is when you need to look away. (Who am I kidding? All the boys dropped out after the picture of the old lady and are now googling if their wives are really going to look like that one day.)

The nips were STUCK. Really Really STUCK.

So I pulled. And I yanked. It was like a booby taffy pulling session in there.

And I learned that my nipples have a 5 inch stretch threshold. Right about the time I was thinking I was going to scream, the tape finally came off.


So I had to repeat the process on the other side. And it hurt just as bad as the left side.

I wadded up the duct tape, threw it all into the little garbage can in the room (and my tape filled half the tiny can) got dressed and flew out the door.

Not surprisingly, there was a lady talking to the front desk girl, looking at lotions. Until I walked out, that is. Then she had no problem staring at me and grinning.

Sometimes, a person needs to look stupidity straight in the eyes.

Tuesday, April 20

Potatoes- Take 2, 4, 6 and Flabulous 8

I promise you I have a fantastic story about me, the tanning bed, and tape.

Honest, I do.

But it is 4:16am as I am typing this, and I have been up all night editing a video. And I have another one to go.

So the story will have to weight. I mean wait.

And on that subject, I am 178.8 at the moment (I KNOW. I kinda suck lately) and I battled a Dominos Bread Bowl Pasta tonight (technically last night) and lost.

I am going to head off to bed after I get the kids on the bus at 7, so another 3 hours to finish the second video. But I figured you would want to see what I have been working so hard on.

Remember the potato video? Here is the rest of the Flabulous 8 doing the same challenge. All the good parts, and the video comes right in at 6 minutes. Which is longer than I was able to hold the potatoes.

So enjoy, and on Wednesday, I will put everything right and fix it all. With duct tape.

Till then....

(and if you want to encourage any of these great gals, head over to the Flab to Fab contest website! I know they would love to hear from you!)

Monday, April 19

Me and my big BEHIND

I know. I am behind on EVERYTHING.

Behind on laundry.

Behind on videos and blogging.

Behind on losing weight.

I can’t seem to catch up lately.

Water consumption is up, coffee is slightly down (mostly cause I’m tired of drinking water) and I am feeling a bit frazzled.

Which is ok. I honestly thrive when I’m frazzled.

When I am stressed, I can kick it into high gear and whip some tail. So lets’ just hope that’s the case this week.

On the diet front- since my hubby is going to be extremely busy this week, we tried to cram in as much family time this weekend as we could. That’s a good thing, trust me. But we decided to have as many family meals as we could.

So, uh…. I gained. In fact, I will admit that this week’s weigh in looks worse than my week one weigh in. So this week?

I’m kicking it into high gear.

I can’t go walking because Matt will be gone in the evenings, but I can do DVDs at home.

And I got my ChaLean extreme. She was not joking about the extreme part.

Tonight I have to do the fitness test for it, but I’m also going to do 2 of my biggest loser videos. Maybe even a Billy Blanks Ab workout- if I can still move.

Tuesday will be a rest day, then Wednesday I’m back on the horse again. I gotta look fly for this weekend when my hubs premiere’s himself in a musical. (Not really, but he is one of the leads.)

And my new goal dress is on it’s way. I can’t WAIT to get it. Nothing like looking at a dress you can’t fit into that you desperately want to wear to keep you away from eating junk!!

As soon as it gets here, I’ll post a picture!

Friday, April 16

You say potato, I say OUCH!!!!!!!!!!!!

It LOOKED like a good idea on paper.

Each of the Flab to Fab girls (known as the Flabulous 8) was supposed to hold something weighing 10 pounds over their heads for 10 minutes. Or longer. I chose 10 pounds of potatoes, and thought it was quite fitting as I battle French Fries on a regular basis.

I didn't make it to 10, and I can't announce how long I made it till we get the "official" video finished. But I can show you the highlights...

Now, the whole time I had been talking about this challenge, Matt seemed to think that it would be a cake walk. Something extremely easy. He also made some remark about how men have serious upperbody strength, and he could EASILY hit 10 minutes.

So, I put him to the test and stood by his side for moral support... and a little smack talk too. I was honestly hoping to best my previous time, but I didn't even come close.

I thought you would enjoy the footage from the second time around.

Wednesday, April 14

A Nature Film...

I probably should submit this to
Animal Planet for posterity's sake.....

Tuesday, April 13

Morning Attack and Flowers of Thankfulness

This morning was one of the days I don’t wish to repeat anytime soon.

Kids were stinkers, hubby was preparing for a big meeting and had a case of the jitters, and I was still in a pasta coma at 7am. (I ate 4 bowls of pasta last night. They weren’t huge bowls, but I lost all control.)
I can’t control a whole lot in my world lately.

So today I am simply going to name off a few things I am thankful for because I think I need the reminder.

1. I am very thankful for my husband. He’s precious to me. And I love him like no other.

2. I am thankful that my kids are stretching independent wings. As tough as it is, they are growing up. Mom and Dad get to deal with the bumps and growing pains of this tween-age time, but them trying to grow up means that we are doing things right.

3. I am thankful for my SIL/BFF Julia. Today is here birthday, and it has been 20 years of an enduring friendship that has lasts the test of whine. Uh, time rather. Happy Birthday, Julia! I’ll call and sing to you later.

4. I am thankful for my other SIL/BFF Tricky Nikki. She’s my link to sanity. She supports me in a way that most women could only hope for.

5. I am thankful for Lilacs that bloom in early spring.

On that note, today I am going to tell you about one of the most amazing things that God has ever done for me.

A few years back, we had to move out of “our house.” Matt couldn’t find a job, our house payment skyrocketed, and we were left no choice but to move.

And I was devastated.

As we moved into the crappy house (the one we are still living in) I was a broken woman and sank into a deep depression. I was angry that we went from a 2700 square foot to a 700 sq ft house with one toilet. I was bitter that we moved from the country into a neighborhood that is questionable at best. I don’t deal well with change as it is, and this change was a little too much.

One of my favorite things to do at the old house in the country was to walk outside in the morning (in my nightgown) and cut fresh lilacs from the side of the house. I have always loved lilacs, and I had 4 very well established bushes growing right outside my door. I girl couldn’t ask for much more than that.

6 months later, I was still in a deep depression about our new location. It didn’t feel like home, it was tiny and unwelcoming, and the winter had been long and cold.

And one morning, I was especially angry about things and to say I was having a rough patch would be putting it mildly. I was falling apart. I stormed outside to my car. On my way there, I detected the faint smell I would embrace in the mornings at our country house.


I stopped in my tracks and just breathed. Breathed in the scent I associate with happiness. I could smell it not too far away.

Then I looked for it.

And wouldn’t you know it, right there in my back yard, planted firmly next to the trash cans, was a lilac bush.

Life is like that a lot, you know.

We look at our lives like a big pile of trash- frustrating, stinky and awkward. Dealing with trash isn’t fun. It’s bulky and it smells like every old rotten scent of the things we have thrown away in our lives has blended together to make eau du rubbage. It’s overwhelming.

And yet, even still, the scent of promise- the breeze carrying hope- is never far away. It is never far from the trash of our lives.

That was the day God challenged me to be content with my tiny house and my situation. To make the best of things. To find happiness next to the garbage. Because He had (and still has, for that matter) a plan for our lives.

And it’s firmly planted next to the crappy stuff. Right by the trash.

I bet you have some trash going on in your life right now. I know I surely do. My attitude this morning was stinkier than a land fill. But when I came home, today was the first day I could smell the lilacs. They have been blooming for a week, but you couldn’t catch a wiff if you tried.
They smelled like nothing at all.

And many days, God’s promise for our life doesn’t show any evidence of being fruitful either. We may not even realize it’s there. But soon, those little blooms of hope will start to open up, and you will breathe out of desperation for a fresh breath, and find God’s promise filling your senses once again.

What we lack- He makes up for in spades. Or in lilacs, perhaps...

Sunday, April 11

How to meet your musical heroes and still look cool -if it’s opposite day

I had been waiting for this concert for 3 months.

Christabel and the Jons.

My absolute favorite band. I discovered them during Talley’s Folly (the show we did at Sleepy Creek Vineyard over Valentines day) and they have been burning up my MP3 player ever since.

I should probably preface this story by telling you that in 1997 I came precariously close to getting kicked out of a Christian concert being given by Miss Angie and 6pence None the Richer. I was THAT GIRL. You know the one. Who stands in the front row, singing along as loud as she can to EVERY SINGLE SONG. I actually got dirty looks from Leigh Nash, and when I met her after the show, she commented on what a lovely voice I had. (She said it nicely, but still…Lesson learned.)

So my goal at Christabel and the Jons was to not make the same mistake. I would not sing during the concert.

We got to Sleepy Creek after I spent HOURS getting ready. Yes, I said hours. You don’t meet your musical heroes without far too much thought in what you will wear, and how you will do your hair, etc.. Matt briefly mentioned the word “obsessive,” but I turned up the music so I couldn’t hear him.

(I also insisted on doing his hair. Any of you women out there know that how your man looks is just as important as how you look. Poor Matt took being a human Barbie doll like a man. As much as he could. I also picked out his outfit. Normally he can wear whatever. NOT to Christabel and the Jons. Enough said.)

Those of you who made it out to see Talley’s Folly in February know that Sleepy Creek vineyards has a really intimate feel to it. It’s small, quaint, and there’s no place for performers to hide. (There is a swing out back…. Hee hee) And being a total math whiz, I knew that this quadrupled my chances of meeting the band. We walked in, and the band is milling around talking to people. And I got a glass of Hen Pecked (my favorite wine ever) and tried my best to look cool.

Mentally, I was doing that thing all of us girls do on important occasions.

Checking hair (mine was fake) to make sure it’s in place.

Wiping any misguided mascara from corners of eyes. (Why does makeup always end up there anyway?)

Making sure lipstick has not feathered. (Matt had no clue what that meant when I asked him if my lipstick had feathered. He said “It’s on your lips.” I went to the restroom and checked for myself.)

Quick bathroom break and then making sure the dress had not gotten tucked up inside the back of my unders like Rachel on “Friends” (the bridesmaid episode).

And finally, taking one last look at my shoes. (these are the ones I decoupaged last year with scrapbooking paper and Modpodge. They only come out on very special occasions. Last night was a special night.)

And there the band was. All 4 of them, standing together, outside, enjoying a moment of peace before the show.

Being a stalker uber fan who was perfectly in place from head to toe, I made my move.

Casually as one can, I sashayed outside- right in front of them, and that was when my mouth took over.

“Hi my name is Charlie and you all have been burning up my Ipod and I absolutely love your music and I have been waiting so excitedly for tonight and I am your friend on facebook and I am so excited to hear you play and you guys are my favorite band ever and I just love the simplicity of your music, yet there is such depth, and the people here have no idea what they are about to experience, but they will be loving you by the time you finish, of course they will be slightly drunk, because they come for the wine, not like me, I just came for you, of course there is a different kind of drunk here, it’s not rowdy like most bars, because the people here are a little more classy, so it’s kind of like a classy drunk, or maybe a different echelon of drunk but I am so excited to see your band tonight because you are my most favorite band ever and I listen to you all the time and I brought my husband, he’s not really a music guy but he came here with me because I wanted him to hear you live and experience your music and I know I am gushing all over you, sorry for that- if you have a newspaper in the van you can smack me on the nose with it and I will stop!”

Now, of course, I am falling all over myself here. It’s sad. Matt rushed to my rescue.

“If you can’t tell, Charlie loves your music. She’s thrilled to be here tonight.”

Thank you Matt, for summing up what I was trying to say in 2 sentences.

By this point I am doing my best not to look any less cool than I already do. I made a few more unrelated, incomprehensible statements, and finally I relaxed. The band was exceedingly gracious. We talked for a few minutes more, and I was edging myself closer to the parking lot. I use my hands when I talk, and I tend to gravitate where I have space to talk and no one gets smacked in the face. I couldn’t trust myself after the last run on sentence of nonsense , and quickly decided wide open spaces were my best bet.

What I didn’t consider was the gravel on the parking lot would be so uneven. One big dramatic hand gesture, and I found myself in the slow motion fall backwards, with my decoupaged shoes to blame. My arms immediately went into windmill mode (you may have seen it before, where your arms circle around you in wild fashion trying to recapture your balance) and I stumbled backwards. In reality, I caught myself before I hit butt on gravel. But it was a very close call.

The concert was wonderful, and the band was just as amazing as I had hoped. I sat a few rows back where they couldn’t see me singing along to every song. And I sang very softly. I only disturbed Matt. But during the second set, there was a lull as they were discussing what song to do. And of course I shouted out my favorite (Extremely loud) “BOY CRAZY!”

Securing my place as the crazy stalker fan in their hearts.

As they prepared to do the song, Christa said “This is the song my good friend Charlie requested…”

And to be honest? I didn’t hear the rest of what she said. I was too over the moon to hear another word.

So, in grand Charlie fashion, I would like to share a new song of theirs. The lyrics are most appropriate for how I feel for acting like such a nerd to the band.

The song is called “I cried over you.”

Friday, April 9

Catcher in the Thigh

It’s all the power yoga I am doing. IT HAS TO BE.

Because parts of me are sore that I don’t remember ever being sore before. And it’s interfering a bit in the day to day activity of my life.

Mostly- it’s throwing a wrench in a basic staple of my routine. WALKING.

Walking for exercise, walking for purpose, walking to pee… wherever I am going, I am constantly reminded that I have been working out.

So Wednesday night, at walking group, my good buddy Hope showed up. She’s a hoot, and I have loved reconnecting with her as an adult, since we were high school friends. She wears a fanny pack like me to walking group (BLESS YOU FOR THAT, HOPE! I was feeling like a dork till you showed me it was socially acceptable to walk with an extra fanny on your middle.)

And for my readers in the UK, when I say fanny pack- I mean this:

(Hulk Hogan makes it look so cool....)

I don’t mean fanny in the way you use the term. (Just thought I better add that disclaimer, as I have a lot of gals on the other side of the pond who read this!!! LOL)

I explained to Hope that I was not going to be walking at my best that night because my thigh was hurting. The top of my thigh, to be exact. (Before I had always worried about the back of my thigh, as it contained so much cottage cheese, but all these lunges and crap are working the front of the thigh too.) So with every step I had taken earlier that day, I was VERY AWARE of the top of my thigh.

And I don’t mind admitting that through the duration of Wednesday night church, I was rubbing the tops of my thighs as inconspicuously as one can possibly do in church. They hurt!!!!

I figured that all that massaging had loosened them up enough to crank out our 6 laps or so (which equals 3 miles) but I am not so good at calculations.

So Hope and I began our circular journey around the footpath of the mall. We talk and chit chat about pretty much everything. And we got in 2 laps. I was doing a motion with my hips and booty to try and alleviate some of the pressure off my thighs. Especially my right one. And I am pretty sure that if you had been walking behind us, it would have looked like I was doing an impersonation of a rap video gone wrong.

When Tricky Nikki showed up, we were in the groove, but we stopped and got a quick drink of water. I stopped moving, for less than a minute, and got a good swig of water.

That’s when the cramp hit me.

Yep, the top of my right thigh seized up like a slug that gets salt poured on it.

And it literally knocked me off my foot.

To which I quickly compensated with the other foot to retain some sense of balance. But mostly I looked like I had consumed one too many cocktails before the walk.

To which Hope practically spit water out of her mouth from laughing, and Tricky Nikki, who is used to my frantic antics, giggled and asked if I was ok. By that point, I was pulling out every stretch I remember from high school gym class to get the cramp to go away. And it subsided a little. Little enough to start walking again.

I told them we better start moving before another cramp hit me. So we did. I spent the next 3 laps trying my best to find a way to walk without hurting the thigh more.

Those methods included (but are not limited to) :

1. Walking dragging one leg behind me in a limping fashion.

2. Trying to kick the leg out in a wide circle as I brought it around to the front. Like a mule. (But I looked like the other term for a donkey)

3. Skipping style.

4. Shuffle motion.

5. Whiney style, which was the preferred method of choice. I tried to keep it to myself, but every once in a while, I would declare a good “OUCH!” with a step. My poor friends. What they put up with from me!!!

It’s taken a lot of hot baths, a day off of the yoga, and heating pad/advil treatments, but it finally feels much better. Thank heavens.

So today I will be back on the yoga. But I will be careful, and do my best to keep the positions from hurting me again like they did.

And Hope, I am thinking about ordering us these tshirts….

Wednesday, April 7

Hair's to being BRAVE

Dear random hair near my bellybutton-

Poor little guy! I think that you got lost! Normally I find boogers like you on my chin! It is pretty obvious you are slightly irritated about your location. I understand. My tummy is constantly dripping with sweat lately, and it’s no fun for me either! Especially because it doesn’t seem to be shrinking as quick as I would like it too. So we are going to have to work harder on the tummy. And you, my little lost friend, have GOT. TO. GO.

On the flip side, I want to thank you for not growing a huge zit around yourself as protection. That disguise doesn’t work with me, anyway. You have simply grown as yourself. Slightly out of place, but true to yourself.

I feel like that a lot in life. You know, I am the one person who doesn’t quite fit in anywhere else. I used to be too young to be in the “in crowd.” Now I’m too old. I always feel too fat, (as fat chicks will do) but I hear people telling me how good I look. I don’t see it, near my belly button hair, and I think that you understand.

Cause sometimes it feels like I am standing out here on my own, looking totally out of place, in an area that I shouldn’t be growing. But honestly, I am THRIVING right here. Wanna know why?
Everytime I look around, I see other girls that are joining me. That are taking the plunge and coming with me on this journey.

It’s like other belly button hairs are popping up all over the place!

Realistically, I don’t want a furry belly button. So in practice, I have no choice but to pluck you out.

And sometimes I feel like the world does that to fat chicks too. We walk into a store, and some thinny salesperson says “We don’t carry YOUR size here.” PLUCK.

Or we go out to dinner and order something not so good for us and a diet coke (because it’s a splurge day), and the server smirks, thinking “lot of good that diet coke is going to do you.” PLUCK.

Or any time I turn on the television and see that I don’t look like any one on a sit com- just the documentaries. PLUCK.

In theory, little hair, I would keep you right where you are. I would nurture you and help you thrive. Because I am sick and tired of being the one who is out of place. I understand, hair, exactly how you feel. Really, if you had grown about 4 inches down, I wouldn’t have noticed you at all.

But you are brazen and wild, and are showing up on the vast white (and stretchmarky) canvas of my tummy. And you stand for something that impresses me.

You stand up for being yourself.

I have to pluck you, dear little hair, but know that everytime I look at my flabby belly from here on out, I will think of you, and remember that being brave isn’t always pretty. Not in the middle of what we are doing.

But when it’s all said and done, braveness is the most beautiful thing we could ever stand for. Even when it gets a little hairy.


Monday, April 5

The Note Pad

Dear County Market-

I was going to write you a lengthy apology letter yesterday afternoon. Not because I spent a crap ton of money at your store buying healthy and organic food…

And not because I stocked my cupboards with delicious foods that I can actually eat….

And certainly not because of the huge sale you were having on yougurt and I bought 30 containers of it….

But because I thought that I left you a present.

About halfway through the drive home, I realized that I could no longer feel my pad in the location it was supposed to be. And I thought, especially after the Shamwreck Run, that I had left a you a totally disgusting present from the leg of my shortie shorts (which are not so shortie as most young people would wear, but they are short for me.)

And I gotta tell you, County Market, I was praying that it wasn’t so. I was riding home, with my cheeks bright red, thinking of all the aisles I might have “dropped the bomb” on Easter Sunday, when your store was PACKED TO THE GILLS. Who saw it happen? Did they get a manager and point me out? Will I be allowed back into your store? At least 3 weeks out of the month?

Thankfully, I was Diva Cupping it, so it should have been nice and white. But you just never know. Accidents are prone to happen to girls like me, especially when they are focused on healthy food procurement and winning a contest, as I am.

You have no idea how relieved I was to discover (after racing to the bathroom the second I got home) that the pad was safely stuck to the inside of my shorts. I cannot imagine the migratory pattern of the pad, or how it got there, but I was ecstatic to see it stuck on the inside booty of my shorties.

Problem solved, and now I don’t have to send you a letter at all. THANK HEAVENS!!!
Almost sincerely yours-
Charlie, Queen of Mishaps

Friday, April 2


PS- If you haven't done it already would you please go to my page on the Flab to FAB blog and become a follower? I keep forgetting to ask you!!! Thanks sooooooooooo much!!!! I love you!!!

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