Some Pig

Story of My Life

"There are two kinds of women.  You're either a Jackie Kennedy or a Marilyn Monroe.  Are you a Jackie or a Marilyn?" - Mad Men, season 2

Warren and I have a date! An actual, get-out-of-town date!  Okay, it's a wedding, but it counts because 1) we're going to be out of the house; and, 2) we won't eat dinner til AFTER 7 p.m.  And because the people getting married are Republicans with MBAs, it's going to be a fancy shindig.  How fancy?  Well, when I texted the bride with an SOS plea for help with the dress code, the response was, "Whatever u feel comfortable in.  Most r wearing knee or below dresses."  Um, whatever *I* feel comfortable in?!?!  Lady, I have two kids, two cats and a full-time job - what I feel most comfortable in is a coma.

Since I don't think anyone wants to see me in my sweatpants and a stained t-shirt, I went shopping.  This time I went upscale, choosing the designer consignment shoppe over the charity thrift store.  Yeah, I know, the prices are at least twice what I'd pay at the thrift, but cost isn't the only consideration.  While I enjoy big puffed leg-o-mutton sleeves and asymmetrical hemlines as much as the next girl, I don't think I want to look like a refugee from the Prom, circa 1987, yanno?  Anyway, I tried on everything black and cocktail-ish the store had in sizes 2 through 10, and could the dress designers just get it together and decide what each size is for once and for all?!  Is it really possible for me to swim in one maker's size two and not be able to zip another's size 8??  (Answer: Yes. Yes, it is.)  I also owe a HUGE debt of gratitude to Real Housewives of Orange County's season finale because, after seeing the rather zaftig one in a low-backed number that failed to hide her back fat, I quickly realized that yes, everyone ELSE does too see it and anything cut down to my waist from the rear view was immediately out of the running.

After much wriggling and zipping and buttoning and tying, I narrowed it down to two candidates.  Candidate One was a slinky beaded number that did amazing things for my form.  It turned my childbearing hips and slight paunch into a va-va-voom hourglass figure.  The girls were positioned front and center for all to admire.  The back fat was safely concealed (think "sausage casing").  I did not have what I would call full range of motion for such picayune considerations as, say, walking and sitting down, but when you look that good, who needs 'em???

Candidate Two was a far more sedate number.  The sleeveless tank-cut top had a sweetheart neckline.  The bodice skimmed over rather than reconstructed my figure, ending at a slightly dropped waist.  It had a knife-pleated skirt topped with a sash lined in contrasting peridot satin.  As with the other dress, the back fat was safely hidden away (unfortunately it is not nearly as easy to camouflage my abundant upper arms, more's the pity).  Unlike the former, I could actually move somewhat normally, aside from having to remember I was wearing a dress and not my usual sweats. In short, where the first frock trumpeted "nightclub and champagne," this one murmured an understated "country club and pearls".

It came down to decision time, and I'm sure you can guess which dress I wanted: I wanted the sexy number. Hey, given the fact that I get to dress up and go out once per decade on average, by the time my next opportunity rolls around, I'll probably be wearing caftans a la Bea Arthur as Maude. All y'all know I have a near-obsession with attaining MILF status just once in this lifetime before I die, and this is a golden opportunity!  Or it was... at least, until I tried zipping up the sexy beaded Marilyn dress all the way.  And then, Houston, we had a problem - namely that my rib cage is so damn wide, I couldn't get the zipper up the last three inches.  (Yeah, it is too my rib cage is wide.  I'm not ashamed to admit that I'm a pudgenheimer when that's the issue, but remember how I said already that it fit my chubby midsection?  Seriously, I have a freakishly large rib cage for one of my [lack of] stature.  I wore my mom's wedding dress and I had to have the entire top remade because I was so much wider than she was, and my mom's four inches taller than I am.  So shut it.)  Trust me, I tried.  I wriggled.  I wiggled.  I tried the pull-slo-oo-o-oo--oooo-owly approach, and I tried the zipitallatonce approach, and nuttin' worked on that bastard.  Despite my best efforts and prayers (yeah, there are no atheists in dressing rooms, either), it soon became abundantly clear that this lovely little Marilyn-at-the-Garden number was not fated to be mine.  I'm sure one of the myriad local Pilates moms will spot it traveling between her personal training session and her no-fat skim latte break, and it will fit like a friggin' dream.  Yay for her.  

So now I'm stuck with the tasteful little black dress, which will be fine, I know.  I'll look very ... sweet.  And demure.  And appropriate.  I will look like the girl you take home to Mother, when what I want to look like is the kind of woman your mother warned you about (and not in a People of Wal-Mart kind of way, either). In short, no one is going to walk up to me in the Oval Room and ask me to sing "Happy Birthday, Mr. President," although they might ask me to run for Student Senate.

I told Warren later that night, "I had a choice between being Jackie Kennedy or Marilyn Monroe for this wedding, and I have to be Jackie Kennedy."

"Oh," he said.  Then after a moment, wistfully: "That's too bad.  I would have liked taking Marilyn Monroe."

P.S. On the plus side, I only spent twenty-five smackers on this garment! And, as a consolation prize, I found these shoes dirt cheap at the mall!  Aren't they wicked cute?  I promise to post pictures after the festivities.

A Girl After My Own Heart

I am starting class period 4 today when I hear the soft susurrations of whispering from the side of the room.  "Is there something I can answer for you, Susan?" I say firmly in my best teacher voice to the girl turned around in her seat.  "Um," she gulps, an expression of consternation on her face, "I was just telling my friend that I like your shoes and she should look at them." 

"Oh!  Well.  Thank you!" is all I can think to say in response. I am wearing a very darling set of round-toe pumps in grey suede with a double strap across the top and contrast stitching.  They ARE pretty darn cute, if I do say so myself.  How can I possibly find fault with such impeccable taste?

Letter From A Broad, Celebrity Endorsement Edition

Dear Ed Hardy/Christian Audigier/whoever,

For starters, could you please decide what name these garments are meant to evoke, because I am totally confused.  One would think that this Ed Hardy fellow is the person responsible for this, um, fashion statement, but then right under the name "Ed Hardy" is the very prominent subheading BY CHRISTIAN AUDIGIER.  What is that supposed to mean?  Is Ed Hardy Christian Audigier's alter ego?   Is he an evil twin?  Have Ed Hardy and Christian Audigier ever been seen in the same place at the same time?  Why the hell is this clothing line named after the apparently fictitious Ed Hardy if you're just going to splatter BY CHRISTIAN AUDIGIER all over it?  Why not just call it CHRISTIAN AUDIGIER and spare yourself the hassle?  Also, isn't it a little outre to display the designer's name so prominently under the label name?  After all, when Karl Lagerfeld designs a Chanel suit (is he still designing Chanel?  I seem to be five or six years behind on my Vogue reading), he doesn't put BY KARL LAGERFELD under the famous double-C logo. Furthermore,  could I please clue you in on the poor choice you made for "celebreality" spokesperson?  I know there's a recession, but geez - Jon Gosselin?  Really?  What, Michael Vick was too pricey?  There wasn't a Backstreet Boy or two willing to give you a cut-rate endorsement?  Finally, could you please share with me whatever kind of mind control you're currently exercising over the general populace to make them wear your ugly-ass clothing?  I would like to share it with the crazypants folks who are convinced that public-option health care is akin to throwing out the Constitution in favor of gulags and Five-Year Plans.  I'm not saying you have to be clinically insane to love Ed's-slash-Christian's unique aesthetic (i.e., biker tattoos meet seventies van art tinged with just a splash of eighties fluorescence), but I'm sure it helps.

Sincerely,

Puzzled

Dear Jon Gosselin,

Wow, what douchebag you turned out to be!

(As you can see, I don't believe in pulling my punches.)

While I'm not a J&K+8 fan, I had seen enough of your ex to have a whole lotta sympathy for you, and from the sounds of it, a lot of other people felt the same way.  And you've managed to burn through those stores of goodwill in about three-point-two tabloid stories, dude.  When you were the whipped husband shambling along in the wake of the SS Kate, I wondered what you'd be like if you weren't being chastised, ordered around, condescended to, or belittled continuously.

Obviously the answer is, "a douchebag".

Look, I understand you're making up for your lost youth.  You were surrounded six-deep in diapers and TV cameras at an age when I was hanging out with my friends, running up credit card debt, going out on worknights, and dating highly unsuitable people (Or more accurately, pining after highly unsuitable people and wondering why they didn't want to date me.  It's best all around that I got married later in life.).  But the fact remains that you are THIRTY-two, and not TWENTY-two, so a good deal of the sh!t you can get away with, or at least excuse away on the basis of callow youth, you can't do when you pass the three-zero Rubicon.  I mean, just look at the sight of you:

Aside from the fact that the picture on the upper left makes you look like you're rocking the petal-pink lipstick (not your best color, BTW), you've got the cute-suburban-dad thing going on.  The picture on the right, on the other hand, makes you look like a superannuated frat boy after spring break.  Dude, if your face gets any puffier, you're going to have to punch it down like bread dough.  And we need to have a long, serious talk about your Ed Hardy BY CHRISTIAN AUDIGIER addiction.  There are several things I never want to see on or near ANYONE'S hiney, and embroidered lion's heads definitely make the list.  Seriously, the only place we should EVER see those jeans is on a bonfire.  Or on the Glamour magazine "Don't" page, and you should have a black bar over your face.  One or the other.

We also need to talk about your taste in women, a sense of taste which seems to be firmly lodged right behind those lion's heads.  I know now that you're on the road to being unmarried you are free to pursue your lovin' any way you want it, but do you have to pick barely-legals who look like they're carrying an alphabet soup bowl full of STDs, even if they can't spell STD?  Holy penicillin, Batman, if any of those walking Petri dishes of skeeze you've been parading around came anywhere near MY kids, I'd be asking the pediatrician for an aerosol antibiotic.  No, scratch that.  If any of those skankbuckets came near my kids, I'd be lawyering up and throwing the book at you.  And I'd just love to see the judge's reaction when you come strolling into the courtroom in your $275 sweatshirts and your bottle-blonde hoochie mamas.  I'd be getting sole custody faster than you can say "Ed Hardy BY CHRISTIAN AUDIGIER" five times fast.

Now go put on some nice Dockers and pay some attention to your kids.

SP

P.S. Beware the specter of a rapid fall from fashion's graces wearing that trendy sh!t too.  Remember Ashton Kutcher and the trucker cap phenomenon?  I rest my case.

Twinkletoes

I went over to my teaching buddy Sarah's house last week and I fell hopelessly in lust.  No, not like THAT, people, get your minds out of the gutter!  (Although you are pretty smokin', Sarah - I wouldn't kick you out of bed for eating crackers!  If I ever decide to switch sides, I'll call ya.)  My feelings weren't triggered by looks or intellect or the ability to find the mot juste.  No, I fell in lust with her TOES.

I know this will surprise my readership, accustomed as you are to thinking of me as an arbiter of class and grace (snort), but I have just the faintest smidge of a hint of tackiness about me.  I may look all plain-Jane on the outside, but inside is a Marilyn Monroe, breathily proclaiming that diamonds are a girl's best friend (and good-quality imitation is just fine, too, authenticity be damned).   I loves me nearly anything sparkly and glittery and sequined.  I secretly envy pageant contestants their fancy ball gowns, and my one regret about my wedding is that I didn't go dress shopping and indulge my inner diva by trying on ridiculously elaborate dresses, if only for a few hours.  Sadly, my budget and lifestyle are such that my zest for zircons, my desire for diamonds remains largely unfulfilled and is likely to stay that way on a day-to-day basis.

At Last, I'm Ahead of the Curve

My moment has come, people.

After years of being a bottom-feeder in the economic sea, I am finally cresting the wave.

Seems like everyone else is discovering the joys of being cheap thanks to our current recession.  But guess what?  I was cheap AGES ago!  I was cheap when cheap wasn't cool!  I was off-branding, thrift-storing, hand-me-downing and discount-shopping when all the fashionistas were turning up their exquisitely chiseled noses at anything less than full price.  Now the Ladies Who Shop have seen the light and rebranded themselves as recessionistas, to which I say, Welcome to the Big Dance, gals - but cheap is a title you earn, sistas,  not one you can just take up the way you all took up pashminas ten years ago.  So before you can claim your bona fides, here are some things you need to know.

First of all, there is a distinct, if upside-down, hierarchy in the cheap class structure.  Finding the latest designer fashion for half price at TJ Maxx is fine as far as that goes, but it's the equivalent of going on one of those trophy-hunting safaris where the guides release farm-raised animals into the wild, track it for you, help you field dress it, and truck it out.  Where's the sport in that?  Finding a nearly-new Birkin bag for free at the town dump store, now, THAT'S a score!  My personal Pyramid of Cheap looks like this: 

Hand-me-downs/Dump store/Freebies/Freecycle

Cheap thrift stores (local, Goodwill)/Craigslist

Consignment (general)/eBay

Consignment (select)

Off-brand and overstock stores/Outlets

Second, the less you pay for something, the more street cred you get for your purchase.  This is why thrift stores rate more highly than consignment stores, and dump stores more highly than thrift stores.  Snapping up a pair of Lucky jeans at a yard sale for $5 is waaaaaay more impressive than paying $50 at a consignment store.  There's a corollary to that which I like to call the "Diamond in the Rough" principle:  The more indiscriminate the shopping venue, the more credit you get for finding a real gem.  My current favorite haunt is a local charity thrift store that takes everything - and I do mean everything - offered to them.  Needless to say, it is chockablock with mom jeans, pilled polyester sweaters, and slightly-stained Wal-Mart store brand kids' clothes.  On the other hand, I've scored a bunch of good finds (Ralph Lauren, J. Jill, Banana Republic) at $3 apiece.  THREE BUCKS A POP!  I can't afford NOT to buy them!

Third, you need to embrace your cheapness - nay, revel in it - the same way you relished your ability to throw around disposable income in the fat years.  If you spent five bucks for something that retailed for $100 originally, dammit, you need to represent!  Skulking around trying to deny your cheapitude (yes, I just made up that word, wanna make something of it?) makes you look mean and petty and small; flaunting it makes you look progressive and forward-thinking.  On the other hand, don't hesitate to protect your sources.  If you know of a particular Goodwill outlet that gets primo swag from the ritzy neighborhoods, you are under no obligation to tell those b*tches you call friends, especially if that means they're going to strip the place bare before you get a shot at it. 

Finally, pick your poison.  Admit your limitations and choose a speciality.  I'm a Goodwill/thrift store kinda gal myself.  That doesn't mean I won't go on eBay, it just means that I don't delude myself into thinking that I'm just as good at eBaying as I am at thrift shopping.  I had an acquaintance who was the Jedi Master of dump stores (she lived in a swank suburb, which helped) but who never went to outlets; I have another friend who is all about the outlets and regularly finds the $10 deal reduced from $200.  Each kind of cheap comes with its own skill set and aptitudes, and after all, it's our differences that make the world such an interesting place, isn't it?  (Pause for kumbaya moment here.)

There.  Well-informed is well-armed, as they say, and now those of you who wish to join the ranks of the proud penny-pinchers can consider yourselves initiated.  Just stay the hell away from my thrift store and we'll all get along just fine.

Not Quite Ready for Prime Time

I have terrible news.

I have a party in two weeks and I have nothing to wear.

This would not be a big deal, except that this party is being hosted by, and attended by, relatives of Warren's.  Warren's relatives, as a collective group, are tall, willowy, gracious, outgoing, professionally accomplished, personally talented and socially adept.  I, on the other hand, am short, squat, and socially awkward.  I teach eighth grade for a living and my most noteworthy talent seems to be writing down the snarky things I say in my head for other people to read, a habit for which I receive exactly no remuneration or wide-scale public acclaim.  On top of that, I suck at being sociable at cocktail parties where I don't know the majority of the attendees. I can't hear well when there are a million other people talking around me, so my "small talk" tends to consist of me yelling, "Excuse me?" and "What?" a lot to someone who pretty much didn't want to talk to me in the first place.  Then I wind up standing somewhere on the sidelines, getting stepped on a zillion times since people don't tend to look down a whole lot when they're looking around for the bar. 

As the joke goes, Other than that, Mrs. Lincoln, how did you like the play?

At the ripe old age of forty-one, I have made peace with most of my personal flaws and foibles.  I have learned to live with the fact that I'm an introvert. I do not usually fare well in social gatherings if I don't already know most of the people there.  I also don't have any sense of how to dress for those occasions that fall outside the three categories of things for which I have an internal dress code, those being work, weekends, and weddings.  For example, my friend Toasty invited me to her lovely daughter's first birthday party last year, which was a huge neighborhood shindy involving ideas I shamelessly poached for my own daughter's fifth birthday extravaganza.  It was held on a weekend, so I arrived in my usual Saturday mufti of shorts, t-shirt, and athletic sandals, with an air of dishevelment about the hair and frenzy about the eyes, if I remember correctly.  Apparently I was the only mom who didn't get the memo to dress in a breezy cotton sundress accessorized with a sweater and cute dressy sandals, because that's what every other mother at the party was wearing.  I mean, damn! Is there some kind of sub rosa woman-to-woman grapevine that spreads the dress code through nonverbal communication?  "Psst.  We're all wearing capris and Indian-print tops to the preschool picnic.  Pass it on!"  How is it that everyone else figures these things out and I can't?  Did I miss the boat by not joining a sorority in college?  Did someone pass out PIN codes to unlock the door to middle-class momhood and I forgot to write it down??  What am I doing wrong???

So now I have to figure out something to wear that is dressy, but not too dressy, and stylish, or at least not hopelessly out of date.  And then I have to wear it for several hours, preferably without spilling something down my front.  And I have to make sparkling conversation while hoping and praying that my adorably-dressed children aren't wetting themselves, eating all the canapes, getting into fights with their cousins, or some combination of the above.  Just thinking about all of this is making me slightly queasy.  Maybe I can hire Toasty to be my cocktail-party stunt double!  She seems to know what to wear, say, and do in these situations.  Then I can stay home in my JCPenney's flannel pj pants and hunt through the TV listings for Real Housewives reruns while she dazzles everyone with my social acumen.  It's a win-win! 

Being ever the optimist, I can see one silver lining around this particular cloud.  At least I am not a member of the extended Obama/Robinson clan, because being an introverted underachiever at their family reunions must REALLY suck!  Imagine that conversation:  "Hi, Michelle!" [awkward silence] "So, um, how's the White House treating you?"  [longer and even more awkward pause] "Me?  Well, I'm, uh, still blogging.  Yep, I passed the 500-post mark recently!  I don't suppose you've had time to read my latest post, have you?  No?  Well, you're busy. What?  WHAT?  I can't hear you very well.  I'm just going to, uh - you'll excuse me - yeah!  Let's get together sometime!  My calendar's pretty open.  Good talking to you!"

Higher Math

Skinny jeans + typical freshman girl = optical illusion of a HUUUGE butt and toothpick legs.

Skinny jeans + boxer shorts + no belt = schizophrenia between emo-boy look and thug-in-da-hood look.

Skinny jeans + middle-aged celebrity = clear paranoia about remaining hip and relevant.

Skinny jeans + fluorescent orange and green t-shirt + dyed black hair = get your own iconic decade, losers!

Skinny jeans + Rock of Love bus = standing prescription for Monistat and penicillin.

Skinny jeans + slightly overweight adolescent = muffin top from HELL.

Skinny jeans + slightly overweight adolescent + inability to be realistic about what size you REALLY are = self-applied tourniquet.

Skinny jeans + mullet + wifebeater = violation of my rights as a prisoner of circumstances guaranteed by the Geneva Convention.

Skinny jeans + tramp-stamp tattoos = more information than I need to know about your love life, personal tastes, and/or favorite animals. 

Skinny jeans + one slightly (ahem) overweight middle-aged mom with delusions of MILF status = don't worry, it will NEVER happen in this lifetime!

I Yam What I Yam

Recently I made a passing reference on this site about how I was going to strive to attain MILF status.  And I was, too. I had grand plans about how I was going to step up the ole fitness plan, get back into my skinny jeans (as in, jeans I only wear when I'm skinny, not as in, jeans that so tight the people wearing them lose circulation in their feet), and in general just kick it up a notch.  Yessir, I was bringing sexy back to places it had never even been before!  Yup, that was me!  You weren't going to recognize me, I was going to be sooooo fiiiiiiiiine.

And then I got an up-close look at a real live MILF.

Great galloping GlamourShots, Batman, what the hell was I thinking???  There is no possible WAY I could be a MILF, in this or any other incarnation!  No. Possible. Way.  Have you ever seen a MILF up close?  In case you haven't, I will fill you in:  Being a MILF is high maintenance.  As in, Ferrari Testarossa high maintenance.  Space shuttle high maintenance.  Beauty-queen-from-Texas high maintenance.  It takes a lot of time to get your long hair professionally layered and subtly highlighted every six weeks, not to mention the mani/pedi touch-ups and the regular facials.  Then there's shopping for the designer oversized sunglasses you need to wear on top of your head to hold back the expensively-groomed hair; the Pilates classes you always look like you're on your way to or from; the gumball-sized diamonds on your ears and fingers; and oh yes, the expensive SUV you use to cart around your three towheaded children, all of whom are perfectly behaved and impeccably dressed, of course (they need to be perfectly behaved so you can do all that shopping and not run screaming from the mall, I guess).  Geez, just thinking about the effort involved in doing all that makes me want to lie down and take a nap, or better yet, have some cookies and milk and THEN lie down and take a nap (which could be why I look the way *I* do, and the MILFs of the world look the way *they* do).  There aren't enough hours in the day for me to do all the work necessary to attain MILF status! 

I can't speak for the rest of the country, but New England specializes in the glamour-active MILF.  The ones I've seen hereabouts are usually dressed in super-expensive, ultra-high-tech athletic wear, generally consisting of some kind of black yoga pants and a zip-up top, with the vest/top strategically unzipped just low enough to show off a figure better than the one I had before I had kids. MILFs in my neck of the woods all have the ability to wear lipstick without rubbing it off their lips within five minutes of application, unlike yours truly, and the whole kit and kaboodle is skillfully accessorized with plenty of David Yurman jewelry and those Pandora bracelets.  The full jewelry and makeup is a bit incongruous with the wardrobe; these moms look simultaneously like they're about to start jogging at any minute and like they've never broken a sweat before in their lives (I know. I don't understand how they can do both at once, either.  It must be genetic or something.). 

Since I have lowered my sights from full-blown MILF status, I will just have to content myself with being comparatively sexy; e.g., I am the sexiest person Warren better be planning to, um, encounter any time in the near future (i.e., the rest of his life).  And compared to not having any sex with anyone ever again, let me tell you, I am one red-hot mama!  Now pass those chips this way and be quick about it.

P.S. I'd love to hear from my readers around the country (for which read, aside from my local friends, I have one reader in Virginia and one in California) about what subspecies of MILF you encounter, and whether or not you live up to the local standards. 

I'm Doomed, I Say, Dooooooooomed

Something truly terrible happened this morning.

My four-year-old daughter - FOUR YEARS OLD, may I remind you - tore through at least four outfits before settling on something to wear today.  She wouldn't wear this dress because the buttons on it were purple and she doesn't like purple buttons.  She rejected two other dresses in short order because they were the wrong color, or didn't have flowers, or just weren't right somehow.  Then she finally decided to wear a skirt instead, but had a hard time choosing which tights to wear because she didn't want to wear tights and reluctantly agreed to only after being informed that it was too cold to go bare-legged.  What she really wanted to wear, of course, was the same pink velour dress she wore to school yesterday; she was completely put out by the fact that, gee, her mom and dad weren't going to let her wear the same thing two days in a row.  All of this took place this morning, five minutes before I had to walk out the door, of course.

While India was summarily rejecting every clothing option suggested (Pants?  I spit on your pants!  Corduroy jumper?  Fie on corduroy jumpers!), I had a vision - a flash forward, if you will - of the two of us nine years from now.  In my vision (nightmare?), I'm shrieking up the stairs that I'm leaving for school this minute and India needs to get a move on RIGHT NOW OR ELSE while my daughter's having a meltdown over which of the seven exactly identical pairs of jeans currently scattered around the room she should wear.  At that point I will no doubt say incredibly helpful things like, "goddammit, India, what difference does it make, they all look the same anyway," and "I don't see how you can not have anything to wear when you have enough clothes here to outfit the sixth fleet."  I then follow that up by grumbling under my breath about ungrateful teenage daughters who don't appreciate having a ride to school every morning when lots of other kids would love a ride to school and would get dressed on time in order to have one.

Want to know what's even worse?  While we were negotiating India's Great Clothing Dilemma, Celeste - the TWO YEAR OLD - opened her drawer and pointed to a specific top, saying, "I want dat!  I want dat one!" 

I don't stand a chance.

Dynamic Tension

I've been living at the center of two equally strong forces pulling me in opposite directions. 

The first force is the one that doesn't give a damn. We've had winter for the better part of the past four months and it doesn't seem likely to let up anytime soon.  Since it looks like I'll be spending the rest of my life in my fleece pants, what does it matter what size I am?  Given my love of anything deep fried, cheese smothered, sour-cream-embellished, or breaded,  why the hell not just give into my deepest desires and cuddle up to a Loosiana Gator Dog or three on the couch with some What Not to Wear and maybe an Oprah or two?  I've seen ads around for Weight Watchers with the slogan, "Nothing tastes as good as thin feels," to which I'd like to reply, hogwash! My mom has a recipe for a homemade chocolate cake with chocolate frosting that makes me happy just to be alive and breathing, and I'll eat a piece the size of my head any time the opportunity presents.  I've been fat and I've been thin, and while I definitely enjoyed being a size 2 (not an unreasonable aspiration for someone five feet tall, may I remind you), I also derive a great deal of satisfaction from the pleasures of the table.  I will gladly go up a size in exchange for the pleasure of hosing down the occasional plate of nachos and a deep-fried cupcake or two, swimsuit be damned and full speed ahead!

On the other hand, I am vain enough to want to hold onto what few scraps of youthful good looks I may have left.  Just the other day, a male colleague of mine complimented one of my fashion choices.  After my snort of derision, one of my other colleagues, bless his young heart, took the pacifier out of his mouth long enough to say, "Yeah! You're a cougar!" (He's barely thirty.)  Imagine!  Me!  A cougar!  Just think of it - if I'm a cougar today, maybe I can aspire to higher status tomorrow - dare I say milf??  I was quickly brought back down to earth from my flights of fancy by the realization that aspirations to milf-dom and extended snack sessions on the couch are directly antithetical to one another.  What's a girl to do?

Well, I took myself to the hairdresser's, that's what. Actually, "hairdresser's" is a misnomer.  I went whole hog to the highestfalutin spa de beaute in town, a place where my car and my diamond are by far the smallest and least expensive of all the patrons in the house.  I handed over my hair and my credit card to the nice colorist who made all my greys go away.  See?

 

This is me before - if you look closely you can see one of my many, many grey hairs on the side.

 

This is me after.  I don't know why these pictures are so blurry, BTW. 

But now I have a crucial decision to make:  Follow the path of least resistance and enjoy life, or strive for MILFdom and (gulp) work at it?  One option offers delicious, fudgy brownies and easeful afternoons on the couch and the other requires regular leg-shaving, physical exertion, and cosmetic maintenance.   One makes me a happy person to be around and the other makes Warren a happy person to be around.  As Robert Frost once said, two roads diverged in a yellow wood and I haven't a clue which one to take.  Perhaps I should have a small snack and think it over.  With a diet soda, of course.