Sssshhhh, do you hear that? It is my vagina ticking...

I'm at that age (twenty mufflemuffle-ish) when ALL of my friends are either pregnant or have already popped a few out. I actually kind of like this stage for the most part. I get invited to super fun little kid birthday parties (oh man, one was held at the firehouse and all the firemen came out and gave us tours and whatnot....tasty), I get to play with all the cool new toys, and any time I feel my stupid biological clock starting to go into "alarm" mode, I just hang out with some of my friends' kids until they have one of those flailing on the floor and crying uncrontrollably meltdowns in aisle 12 of the grocery store...then I'm totally remedied of that ohhh-but-they-are-so-cute-and-cuddly-and-i-want-one-inside-me-and-can-we-name-him-Jude-and-give-him-a-mohawk phase.

So yeah, for the most part, I totally dig this stage of my life. The whole "being the ousider because I don't have a kid yet" thing doesn't really bother me.

Except for the whole "Ohhhh, so you don't have any kids? (Insert super confused or frowny face here)," that I hear constantly from people. They aren't saying it, but this is what they are assuming about you if you are a twenty mufflemuffle-ish year old woman and you haven't managed to get anything but Cinnabon's in that oven of yours...

Assumption #1: You must hate kids, huh Andy?

Oh my gosh....SO not true. I stinkin' love them, okay? I spend hours of my life each week with children...voluntarily! I like how they are super honest. I like how they don't worry about what people think about them. I like their creativity. I like how they will totally pee on you if you are taking too long to change their diaper. I like how they can make an entire crappy day disappear with one giggle. I like how they pick their nose and eat their boogers in public. I like how they will repeat ANYTHING you tell them to say. I like when they slip up and tell me things about their mommy and daddy that they probably would prefer I not know. I stinkin' love kids, mkay? Just because I don't have one of my own doesn't mean I'm out there turning them into mice like those witches from that movie The Witches. I love kids. Period.

Assumption #2: You must be totally selfish, huh Andy?
Well, yes. Yes I am. But guess what? I have earned the right to be selfish. Not having kids means you get the following benefits as part of the package: being able to spend your money on whatever you want, not just braces, new clothes for them to wear to school, and 80 bags of diapers a year; getting to go wherever I want for vacation, instead of making sure it is child-friendly; getting to take road trips; staying up late and sleeping in; eating unbalanced meals....ALL of these glorious things are perks of not having children. So don't be angry at me because you can't go to Cancun for vacation anymore. And don't make faces at me when I say I ate marshmallows and poptarts for dinner. Don't hate. I'm trying to get all of this out of my system NOW so when/if I do have children, I won't be all bitter and disgruntled toward them. There are perks to having children, and there are perks to not having children. So just eeeeeease up on thinking we non-parents are selfish.

Assumption #3: Ohhhh, she probably can't have kids. Poor thing.
Whoah whoah whoah. Just because a woman hasn't tried to use her baby-making organs doesn't mean they don't work. Back up off our grills, okay? If one more granny-aged well-meaning cotton-headed lady asks me if "Everything is in working order," when I tell her I don't have kids, I might just snap and end up asking her the same question. Just because I'm not using my middle finger right now, doesn't mean it doesn't work. It just means I'm learning restraint. With my middle finger, and the rest of my body, thank you very much.

So yeah, just to settle the dispute:
1- I love kids.
2- I'm allowed to be in the selfish phase of my life
3- Ew...please don't think about whether certain organs in my body are in good working order. That is just creepy.


Cellulite and Tell You Right,
Andy

The Unlovely Bones (or Dada Stick, Mama Sticks)

Soooooo yyyyeah. Here are two things about human bodies:
1. They are incredibly breakable.
2. Also, incredibly difficult to put back together.
(This highly enlightening biology moment brought to you by my 12th grade Paramed. Bio. teacher, who also happened to be incredibly racist....back me up on this, anyone reading this who went to Catonsville High School.)

But, leave it to my sister to attempt to do both of those things. (Have I mentioned in the past that my sister, if she does anything else in the world, makes things happen?) Its true. Kenley says/thinks/demands soemthing to be done, and by God---it WILL be done.

I was down in Florida recently to go to a Local Natives concert (oh. my. gosh....you don't know who the Local Natives are??!!?? Only my most favoritist new band ever. Check them out. Immediately. You must.) The day I was supposed to leave to head back to good ole' Leland, NC my sister had a bad fall, and totally broke her kneecap. Like, in half. As one of the doctor's described it, "The pieces of your kneecap are currently in two different zipcodes." Sick, dude.

(Due to a pending lawsuit, I will not go into the details here of how/where she fell. But it involves a certain company that deals with Pets. And Marts. And well, you get it.)

So Kenley went from being a totally mobile, healthy mother of two young children to suddenly being completely immobile from the legs down. Bound to a wheelchair. Two kids in diapers to take care of. Her company shutting down for good and losing her job in the next month. Oh yeah, and a husband who had just left for Naval deployment for the next six months. Life was about to get super ugly.

Here is a very, very, very brief synopsis of how the following weeks went:
- Kenley got crutches and a walker. (Harper started calling them "Mama Sticks". Also, she was freaked out by them tremendously. Anytime Kenley would start walking toward Harper, the metal poles clinking and scraping, Harper would get that "OMG, what is THAT!?" look on her face and come find another non-metal adult to hold her.) We found out in about one day that crutches and a walker were just not going to cut it for her to move around.
- Kenley finally gets a wheelchair. Harper LOVES this thing. She calls it Mama Choochoo, and asks for rides on it all the time.
- We meet with doctors. Then more doctors. Then lawyers. And other lawyers. And pick up prescriptions. And meeting with more doctors. And get more prescriptions.
- Harper is missing daddy, and asking where he is. We cut Dave's head out of a picture we had, and glue it on a  popsickle stick. That way, Daddy can kiss Harper whenever she wants him to. She calls this "Dada Stick".
- Kenley FINALLY gets a prescription for a lightweight wheelchair. (Although I've gotta tell ya', as the person who was schlepping the chair in and out of the back of a Jeep in the hot summer sun in Florida...it did NOT feel that lightweight to me.)
- Dave FINALLY gets approval to come back home from deployment, since Aunt Andy's job is about to explode without her there, and since Kenley simply can't be left alone. It took a lot of work getting him home, let me tell you, but we were SO thankful once we got the final word that he was on his way back to the good old U.S. of A.
- Dave and Kenley are back together again, reunited and it feels so painful, sore, and stressed.
- Kenley had surgery, started physical therapy, interviewed and was hired for a new job. Dave played Mr. Mom.

Buuuuuuuuuuuuut,

Now Dave has to head back to his ship. Ugh!

So M.G. (that's what Harper calls my mom, her grandma) is down in FL for the next 11 days to take over the Florence Nightingale responsibilities. Then I'm heading back down there for another week. Then we'll see where we are after that. But I'll probably be back down again for another shift before the summer is up.

Things have been stressed for them, to say the least. Two kids in diapers. A wife in a wheelchair. A new job. A husband on deployment. Medical bills. Lawuits. Surgeries. Physical therapy. It has been totally nuts for them.

So I'd like to take this opportunity to give some virtual Fist Bumps and Shout Outs to some very awesome people:
*Noreen Penson: The kids' daycare provider, who totally bailed us out of some very difficult situations. You are so amazing with the kids. Thank you, thank you, thank you.

*Amy Clay and Judy Andrews: Kenley and Dave's neighbors...a.k.a. Saints! You guys really stepped in with the meals and helping with the kids and getting us everything we needed. You guys are ah-maze-ing.

*Sam DeRasmi, Beth Tarnowski, Kristin Smith, Nicole ______, Amy Williams, Amber McGunigale, and anyone else who brought dinner, did housework, or watched the kids for Kenley and Dave. Wow, you guys rock. Thank you so much!

*A super special shout out to Jenn (and Keith) Evola and Theresa Patch, who are Kenley's friends who I got to meet while I was down there. You guys really went waaaay above and beyond anything I could have ever asked for. You are true friends to my sister, and great caretakers of her family. Which, in my book, makes you guys family. I felt so blessed to know you guys were there to handle anything and everything they needed. Thank you, thank you, thank you!

*Thanks to an awesome website, called Care Calendar. I gotta tell you people...I don't know how we would have coordinated all the meals, housework, childcare, etc. that we needed without a system like this. It is run by the Bortel Family, and it is totally free (although donations are gladly accepted for using their system.) It was a lifesaver for someone like me, who demands things be organized.

*Thanks to my brother Matt for helping me out while I was taking care of Kenley. The extra pair of hands we SO helpful!

*And of course, thank you to my brother-in-law Dave, who has had to take over a lot of responsibilities this past month. Thank you for your patience and willingness to go the extra mile. And thank you for loving my sister the way you do. I couldn't have asked for a better brother-in-law.

Pretty, huh?

Things I Wish I Didn't Have

Ugh, God blessed me with an awesome mom. She really is a keeper. (Much love to ya, Mama Crawford!)

Unfortunately, as many of you out there probably know, when you have someone who did a good job raising you, you probably ended up with some character traits you wish you could get rid of. Even just for a day or two.

Like...

A Solid Work Ethic

I have been employed since the day after I turned 14 years old. I have worked at least one job, if not two, at ALL times in my life ever since. I am going on my 13th year in the work force. I have several letters of recommendation that make me sound like the Virgin Mary herself birthed me. I have been offered the job for every position I have ever interviewed for. My yearly reviews have to be filed in a special lead folder, because the golden shine from them is blinding. And in all humility, I am mostly proud of these things. Because I work hard. Really, really hard. And I pour all my energy into it. And God gives me the strength to get through even when I have bosses and coworkers who are, shall we say, "less than desirable".

But seriously, there have been several times in my life when I have looked at people who have crappy work ethics and have found myself very jealous of them. I mean, I desperately want to call in late to work 3 mornings a week. I would love to just show up to work whenever I feel like it. I would really, really, really like to feel okay with only giving 50% on a special project. I wonder what it must feel like to utter the words "Oh well, guess we just won't make the deadline. Ha!"

Sometimes, I really hate the good work ethic my mom instilled in me. Thanks a lot, Crawford! Psh.



Having a Guilty Conscience
Oh my gosh. I never need anyone to accuse me of anything I have ever done wrong, because I am constantly turning myself in before anyone else even has a chance to discover I have done something wrong at all. My guilty conscience is my superhero power (that, and Automatic Exploding Afro). Here are three examples...

     1. I threw a killer house party my senior year of high school when my mom was out of town. I mean, that mess was tri-county! Kids were arrested. Cops came (twice). Beer flowed. Drugs were dropped (although I had no part in this aspect). Entire panels of the fence in our backyard were destroyed. Years later, when my mom tried to sell the house, she was STILL finding beer bottles, condoms (gross people!), and cigarette butts in our back yard. It was epic. Worthy of any '90's movie references you can think of. BUT, when all was said and done, I couldn't even get to sleep that night knowing I had done something so wrong. The guilt was literally eating me up inside (well, the guilt plus the 30 beers I had ingested settling into my under-aged belly). I picked up the phone around 3am or so, called the front desk of the hotel where my mom was staying, and asked to be transferred to her room. With my heart pounding, I gave her the scoop, told her I would be ready for my sentencing when she came home, and that I would have the house cleaned up by the time she got back. In all honesty, I probably could have come up with a cover story, and been able to ellude my mom for years without her finding out. But the guilt would have seriously torn a whole in my brain, and it would have started leaking out in little chunks out of my right ear, and that just insn't a good look for anyone, especially someone with curly hair.

     2. (Oh my gosh, if my dad reads this he might really get mad....sorry dad) So when I was about 9 or so, I spent the weekend with my brother at my grandma's house. My grandma is cool, but there really wasn't ever a lot to do at the house. We had a book of Ronald and Nancy Reagan paper dolls (what the frig, why would these ever be created, ever?). There were approximately 11 kid movies she owned: 10 were Shirley Temple movies, and 1 was "Big Top Pee-Wee" which, if you ask me, really should not have been shown to kids. Sooooo, one day in our boredeom, we found this old Chock Full O' Nuts coffee can filled to the brim with coins, and a bag of coin wrappers sitting on top. Our grandma said we could roll them up in the wrappers if we wanted to. Sweet! Something to do! So my brother and I started counting the coins and placing them in the brown paper coin rollers. (Matt, oh my gosh, do you even remember this?) Well, we got through the entire jar, and let me tell you...it was A LOT of money. (Keep in mind, I was like 9, so the "A LOT" part might be relative.) Anyway, when we were done, my grandma told us to be sure to put the wrapped coins back in the jar, and she would take them to the bank later on and put the money in her account. Well, I figured I deserved a cut of the profits since I did all the labor, so I managed to squirrel away about 8-10 rolls of quarters, which adds up to roughly $80-$100 bucks. There was plenty still left in the jar, so I figured no one would notice.

BUT, I just couldn't bring myself to spend the money. I got home, and thought of alllllll the ways I could spend it.... a new My Little Pony. Some cool new hair scrunchies. I always did want a Bedazzler. I laid in bed at night and dreamt of what I would spend it on. At least, that's what I did for the first night. The rest of the nights, I laid in bed wondering how God was going to punish me. Would it be a huge lightening bolt while I was waiting for our carpool lady to pick us up at school, leaving behind only a smoldering pile of ashes and my gym bag? Perhaps God would bring forth a flood that would only hit my bedroom, sweeping me away in the middle of the night while my family was left dry and un-wrathed upon? The guilt...I could taste it like a mouth full of stolen quarters. I had to make it right. So the following Sunday, I brought the rolls of quarters with me to church. And I put them, all of them, in the gold offering plate. It was the most tainted, but most joyful tithe I have ever given.

3. The third example of my guilty conscience is taking place right now, as I type. I feel sooooooo incredibly badly for typing this blog while I'm at work, that I think I am going to have to stay an extra hour just so I can balance out my timesheet and not feel badly at the end of the month when I fill out my hours. (Wow, I'm combining A Solid Work Ethic AND A Guilty Conscience in this one...not too shabby.)

Just once, I would like to do something bad and not have pangs of guilt so badly that I think I am having a heart attack at the age of 27.


What about you guys out there? Have anything  your parents instilled in you that you wish you could get rid of every so often?


Cellulite and Tell You Right,
Andy

Lunch, Interrupted

I work in your standard office environment. Which means I live in a fishbowl for 40+ hours of the week. Everytime you sneeze, every time you say "I love you" to someone on the phone, every time you try and eek out one of those silent-but-deadlies...everyone in the office is aware of it. You can't get away with anything in this place.

Especially if you are trying to eat.

Like a lot of people, though I hate despise loathe lose a little bit of my soul every time I clock in at my job, I for some reason am very dedicated to it. Which translates into a good 4 out of 5 lunches every week which are spent eating a microwaved meal at my desk, still hudled over my keyboard trying desperately to reduce my email inbox down to a double-digit number instead of doing the healthy thing and leaving the office behind for 30 minutes while I venture out into the real world.

So because you are sitting at your desk, even though you have food in front of you, people feel free to walk in and talk to you about their little ridiculous emergencies that could have been avoided with better planning and forethought work while you are eating. And more often than not, they feel the need to comment on your lunch selection.

Here are a few of my favorite things that have actually been said to me while eating lunch in my office:

"Oh, that looks good! What's that?"

Every time someone asks me "What's that?" while I'm eating, I really have to fight the urge to keep my smart-assery at bay. Here is why: never ONCE have I brought something so exotic and so unrecognizable for lunch that your average cubicle-monkey really and truly might not be able to identify it. If you walk into my office, and I am eating somethign that looks like wavy sheets of pasta layered with red tomato sauce sitting in a plastic microwaveable tray...chances are, it is lasagna. If you come in, and it looks like a bunch of lettuce, carrots, mushrooms, tomatoes, and cucumbers all decided to get in a bowl and have a big ole' party together, chances are I'm eating what we grown ups call a "salad". Seriously. If you can't identify a slice of leftover pizza by now, I'm worried for your skills of observation. You will probably be eaten by a bear at some point in your life because you were too stupid to realize the "lovely park" you just wandered in was the Grizzly Exhibit at your local zoo. Don't ask me "What's that" unless it looks like I'm eating Scorpion Shishkabobs with Bird Poo dipping sauce. (And even then...who wouldn't be able to identify a scorpion when they see one?!?!)

"Oh, you don't want that orange. Here, take this crate of tangerines my brother flew in for me."
Don't tell me what I DO and DO NOT want to eat, mmmkay? I brought this orange for lunch today because I in fact DO want to eat it. Please trust me when I say that I was not sitting at my desk, peeling my oh-so-sweet, juicy, and delicious orange but really thinking on the inside, "Gee, I wish some obnoxious Buttinski would waltz into my office, degrade my citrus selection for the day, and then drop 18 lbs. of unwanted produce in my lap." No one has ever formulated that thought. Ever. So keep your supposed-superior produce to yourself! And when you have to take a week off of work because you caught Salmonella poisoning from your Mexican fruit, I'll be laughing my butt off because the organic and locally grown orange I ate last week provided me with enough Vitamin C to Kung-Fu Chop your Salmonella butt right in your stupid looking face, okay?

"Oh wow, that cookie looks sooooooo good. I wish I didn't care about what I put in my body."
Hey you Skinny Freak who has had 6 children and still fits in a size 4 pair of jeans!!!!! I know I'm draggin' a big wagon, mkay? I don't need you passively-agressively pointing it out to me while I'm trying to take in one simple joy like a stinkin' cookie!!!! Back off, go pop out another kid, and mind your own business. Freak!

"Oh hey, do you mind if I have some of that? I haven't had anything to eat yet today because I was running late this morning and didn't have time to pack a lunch thanks to my husband who had lost my keys last night and my sick cat who needed an insulin shot this morning really tied me up time-wise and then I forgot we had that big meeting today so I had to go change out of my khakis and sweater and into a Power Suit but my pantyhose got a run in them so I had to drive to the local drugstore and see if they had any but they only had X-Small and X-Large sizes, and no medium, so I called my sister to see if she could loan me blah blah blah blah blah blah blaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah."
By this point in the unwanted conversation, one of two things is about to take place...
1) I will have already shoveled ALL of the food that she was asking to share into my own mouth because I'm a chubby girl, and we don't take kindly to people asking us to share food. You have better odds of me giving you a kidney than you do of me giving you half of my sandwich.
OR
2) I will rip off my own arm and beat myself senseless with it until I pass out face down on my keyboard just so I don't have to listen to anymore of your stories about your husband, your cat, your sister, or your pantyhose.

Anyone else deal with these lunch intruders at work? Seriously, I enjoy my food in silence and shame, like the rest of Chubby America. No one here needs your running commentary about the history of the peanut butter and jelly sandwich.

Cellulite and Tell You Right,
Andy

T&A, and VDay, Oh My!

Here is the thing about Valentine's Day...

Most men are clueless. They really are, bless 'em. (Unless you found one of the super-awesome-thoughtful-considerate ones....if so, ask them to send a message back to their planet to send down more like him!) So instead of putting effort into it, they go with something easy. And what to their wondering eyes should appear, but special Valentine's Day jewelry shaped like a woman's rear.

Ladies and Gentlemen, the award for most awful Valentine's Day Jewelry Design goes to...(drumroll please)...

The "Open Hearts" collection, by Jane Seymour

Come on now, I can NOT be the only one who sees two things when I look at this design (and it's not two hearts, either). I'm talking about boobs and butt, people. Rack and rear. What woman would want to wear this design? It looks like a poorly graffitied homage that some thug sprayed on the side of a Metro train to impress his 'boo'. (Yeah, I went there. Hello, 2002! Nice of you to show up!)

The last thing women want is a constant reminder dangling from our neck of the perfectly shaped boobs and butt we never had to begin with will never have again, thanks to squeezing out out your third child, Sir.

Second place award goes to the sterling silver Hershey Kiss Pendant Necklace.
Guys, do not even THINK about getting this for your lady. Not for Valentine's Day. Not for any other holiday. I don't care if a Hershey's Kiss holds some kind of special meaning for the two of you. I don't care if you met in Hershey, Pennsylvania, proposed to her on the Kissing Tower in Hershey Park, and made love to each other on a bed of Hershey Kisses on your first night as husband and wife. There is no reason to have chocolate candy-shaped silver dangling from your body.

Listen, I love chocolate just as much as the next girl. (Well, probably more than the next girl.) But just because you like something doesn't mean you should shape it out of sterling silver and dangle it from your neck like some Olympic Medal won in the Chocoholic Luge Race. What if you happen to love porkchops? Should your hubby get you a gold-plated pendant shaped like a pork chop for Valentine's Day? I would like to submit Man Rule #4985 for approval, stating "No food-shaped jewelry item should be presented to your wife." Guys, this is a rule set up for your own self-preservation. Adhere to it. I promise it won't let you down.

Also, can we talk about the fact that the craftsmanship is terrible? I mean, this looks like the kind of thing you get out of those quarter-machines at the front of the grocery store when you were a kid. If you get her this, some of those press-on tattoos, and a rubber bouncy ball she could have a veritable cornucopia of quarter-machine goodies!

Here is hoping the ladies in my life will not receive such hideousness for Valentines Day. And here is hoping that the men in my life are smart enough to steer clear of anything resembling boobs, butts, and pork chops when shopping for the woman who is supposed to be the love of their life.



Cellulite and Tell You Right,
Andy

Things I will NEVER do if I'm ever a mom

Okay, before all the moms out there go ballistic on me and start a Blogger Comment War, I'd just like to say these few things:
a) Yes, I know. I'm not a mom, and until I have kids, there are many things you think I just "wouldn't understand." Trust me, I have a full grasp of this concept. I hear this line at least 4 times a week. I get it. You're smarter than me because you are a parent.
b) This is just a blog. Something I do with my spare time. A few scrawlings across the screen so I can still feel okay about telling people I was an English major in college. This is just a blog. This is just a blog. This is just a blog.
c) Yes, I realize that if I ever do reproduce a little Mini Andy, that I'm sure I'll break every single one of these rules I have written down. And when that happens, I hope some young single child-less girl out there will see me doing one of these things, get frustrated, and then be prompted to write a blog exactly like this one. Life is cyclical people. Just like laundry.

Okay, so without further ado, I give you....

Things I Will NEVER Do If I'm Ever A Mom

1. I will never bring my 11-14 year old son bra shopping with me.
This is just down right wrong. I know sometimes you have several errands to run, and you've got the kids with you, and blah blah blah. I know babysitters are expensive (especially me, but that's only because I'm an awesome babysitter specializing in living room forts, braiding Barbie's hair, and awesome bedtime stories complete with the character voices and everything). And I know if you leave him at home by himself he will eat everything in the pantry and leave a trail of Oreo crumbs and half-empty Gatorade bottles for you to clean up when you get home. But if "Shop for bras and panties" is on your list of errands, you seriously need to find somewhere else for your son to be at this time. Last night, I was in the lingerie section of a store, and this kid was a wreck. One minute he was on his hands and knees crawling under the dressing room stalls, making machine gun noises. Later on he was taking some of the larger bras off of the rack, and seeing how far he could catapult a pair of panties across the room. After that, I caught him staring at the assortment of bras in my hand, and giving me a really creepy "I'm young enough to not quite understand all of this, but old enough to still have dirty thoughts running through my head" kind of look. Then he started to time himself to see how fast he could run from the Juniors panty section to the Women's World section and back. Then his little overstimulated brain got distracted by a display case, and he started reading out loud the advertisement for a particular new bra, turning to me while giggling and asking "What are 'concealing petals' for?" If I could have found his mother, I would have given her an earful. Or if I could have gotten my hands on him and gotten out of the store before security could tackle me, then I would have. But I'm not a particularly fast runner, so my only consolation is writing a blog about it to ensure I remember NEVER to bring my future-son bra shopping with me. Ever.

2. I will never lick my finger and wipe something off of my kid's face with it.
Seriously, this is gnarly. I know first hand, because it was done to me SEVERAL times as a kid. Really, is that tiny trail of chocolate on your kid's face bothering you THAT MUCH that you absolutely have to lick your thumb and smear it off? Now the kid not only has a chocolate smear on their face slightly resembling poo, but now their face has all of your mouth germs on it, and it smells like whatever you ate for lunch. Awesome. Good job, parents. You have just cemented your kid as The Stinky Kid in Class. How is this considered a better alternative to just leaving the chocolate on there? What ever happened to sleeves? Man, I'm 26 years old, and I still wipe my face on my shirt sleeve. That's why shirt sleeves exist. You are robbing them of their life's mission if you deny them this duty. I happen to think that kids with crud on their faces look endearing. I have been known to utter these very words more than once in my life..."Awww, look at that little monster with the trail of Cheeto's dust all over his cheek...isn't he cute?" But trust me, no one has ever said "Aww, look at that kid. He looks so much better now that the Ranch dressing has been smeared off of his face and replaced with a trail of dad-spittle."

3. I will never lie to my kid.
Wait, scratch that. That's ridiculous. Everyone lies to their kid. It is for their best interest, right?

4. I will never kid myself into thinking that the rest of the world agrees that my child is the most beautiful child in the world.
Look, let's be honest with each other here. We've all seen them. They exist, and they walk among us every day. The ugly kids. Or heck, maybe they aren't even ugly...but they're just not as cute as some of the other kids. Its okay to not be THE CUTEST KID IN THE WORLD (besides, that title is already held by my niece). We can't all have THE CUTEST baby. Of course parents think they have the most beautiful child. But you can't expect everyone in the world to agree with you. Because everyone else in the world has their own kids, who they think are the most beautiful kids in the world. So let's just take a look at the facts: Fact #1: Everyone in the world thinks they have a good sense of humor, a great eye for fashion, and the cutest kid. Fact #2: Everyone in the world can name at least one person who DOES NOT have a good sense of humor, a great eye for fashion, or the cutest kid. You do the math.

5. I will never be disappointed in my child for not having the exact set of interest that I do.
If I ever have a kid, I promise myself I will not expect them on the way out of the birth canal to pick up an interest in writing, an undying love for the music of Queen, and a penchant for singing in the shower. It is ridiculous to think that just because you gave life to something means it will mimic your every desire, talent, and goal in life. Is it awesome if it works out that way? Absolutely 100% yes. Is it a trajedy if it doesn't? Not at all. And I refuse to get all "Ohh, woe is me, I can't connect with my son/daughter because they're into _______ and I'm into _____." If I had a kid, and one day it said to me, "You know what mom? I think I really like taking computers apart and putting them back together again," I would be so amped up to discover that about my little monster. Do I share their excitement over motherboards? No. But the fact that they identified something they like independently of me is awesome. If my daughter expresses a desire to hold the world record for facial piercings, then so be it. What if my son just got a grant to study the mating rituals of creatures living in the Mariana Trench? Okay....not my thing, but hey---that's why God is awesome. We all have an infinite set of interests programmed into us. I hate seeing kids struggling and sacrificing themselves just to excel at something their parents love, but which they themself have no interest or passion for. Would I love to have a kid who will sing along with me while we're on road trips? Yes, that would be AWWWWESOME. But would I also love a kid who would rather study math theorems? You bet. I refuse to be one of those parents who wants a cookie cutter version of themself to pop out. I want something new. I want my kid to have their own thing. And I promise myself I will put forth great effort to support them in whatever that may be.

What are some of the things you promise yourself you will never do as a parent? Or maybe you had a list like this, but then had kids, and it all changed. Let me know...

Cellulite and Tell You Right,
Andy

Dear Kerr Avenue McDonald's

Okay, this is a quickie here this morning...

Topic: Implied Condiments

Rant: Seriously, a human being should never, EVER have to ask someone at a fast food restaurant if they can have some ketchup with their meal. This condiment should be implied with the purchasing of any food item whatsoever at these grease joints. Please don't make me ask for ketchup with my fries...it only makes you look stupid and unintuitive.

In Closing: Asking "Do you need ketchup with those fries?" is equally as ridiculous as "Do fries come with that shake?"

-Cellulite and Tell You Right,

Andy

The Summer of Cellulite

Americans become fascinated with weird things very easily...

~ Obnoxious New Jersey “Housewives” (although trust me, the average N.J. housewife does NOT resemble the TV versions at all)
~ Competitive Eating
~ “When Bears/Sharks/Crazy Brides Attack”
~ And more recently...a fascination with the larger side of living.

You know what I’m talking about, all you Princesses of Pudge, you Broads of Bulk, Ladies of Largeness, Dames of Dumpiness, Women of Width, and Femmes of Flab.

For some reason, this summer's TV lineup is proving to be all about the Girls of Girth, and I'm taking issue with two shows in particular...

“Dance Your Ass Off”

Premise: Let’s get a bunch of fatties together, squeeze them into fishnet stockings, throw a bunch of sequins on them, teach them some dance moves, and then criticize them on how poorly they executed a dance routine each week.

Look, I am all for getting in shape (especially since my current shape is “donut-shaped”). But what gets me is the exploitation factor. Should overweight people lose weight...YES. Should they have fun doing it...YES. Should it be broadcast on cable TV for all the world to see...I’m going with NO on this one. The producers will surely try and turn this into an overly dramatic depiction of what is really going on behind the scenes...see the clip below, where the contestants are throwing pillows in fits of cellulite-induced rage; making rabid, animalistic facial expressions while thundering onto a stair-stepper; and practically spouting sonnets to a wheel of cheesecake while basking in the refrigerator’s glowing light. Wouldn’t it be more humane to show what was really going on in their lives, instead of the fleeting moments of insanity and hunger-driven madness? Let’s show the contestants interacting with their families, let’s show them going grocery shopping and learning healthy buying techniques. Anything other than the freak-show ridiculousness that the Oxygen producers will surely turn this show into. Empresses of Excess, I implore you...we all need to get in shape. But it shouldn’t take public humiliation, degradation, and people who don’t care about you at all sitting in front of a “judging panel” to dissect your progress in order for you to be motivated to lose weight.



“More to Love”

Premise: Think “The Bachelor”, only McDonald’s Super Sized.

They should have just called this one “Average People in the Dating Scene”...it would have been more realistic. Because let’s face it... if you eliminate all of the aspiring (bad)actresses, worn out 80’s band groupies, and women who have more plastic in their bodies than Barbie...this is what you are left with. This is what real people look like...average, probably overweight, and unremarkable (pointing to myself as Exhibit A). The producers have been quoted as saying the bachelor is a “Kevin James-type”, and the women are plus-sized and looking for love (in all the wrong places, if you ask me). They have also stated that their emphasis will not be on getting the women to lose weight...it is simply to help them find true love. Let me tell you, I question ANYONE...size 2 or size 22... who thinks that a ‘reality’ show (using the term incredibly loosely here) will be the best venue for finding a soul mate. The promo bump hosts the typical shedding of tears along with all of the clichéd sayings we large women tell ourselves like “I do think I’m judged on my weight”, “I really really want to have that love story” and my personal favorite that I should just go ahead and get tattooed on the (large) small of my back “I just want people to love me for me”. Is this show a sign of the apocalypse...No. But seriously ladies, if you are large, and you’re looking for a date, why don’t you try going to the gym? You’ll accomplish two things...getting healthier, and the opportunity to meet men who have at least one common interest shared with you. Let’s not all bring out the claws to fight and compete over one fat guy. There’s plenty of him to go around, but just because FOX TV has deemed him a good candidate for a reality show doesn’t mean he is the best candidate to whisk you away into Happily Married Ever After.



In closing, I beg my fellow Meaty Maidens, Countesses of Corpulence, Squaws of Surplus, and Handmaidens of Heft: Yes, getting in shape should be a priority. But please do it in a healthy manor that won’t compromise your self-confidence, values, and acceptance of the person you are regardless of your ability to dance, your marital status, or your jean size.

Cellulite and Tell You Right,
Andy

I'm Aging Like a Fine Wine (that you don't get carded for when buying)

Okay, I am only a month into being 26 years old, yet my body is acting like it is in full senior-citizen mode.

While sitting at work a few days ago, I was running my fingers through my hair, when something in my strands caught my eye. It looked like maybe a piece of lint, so I sifted through the curls trying to get it out of there. Finally I found it again, and what caught my eye was finally brought into focus…a lone, wirey, white hair. Not even grey, okay. But white. Stark white.

I pulled on it thinking “Surely this simply got caught in my hair after the 18th senior citizen hugged me today”. But alas, when I pulled on it, it was attached to my head. A white hair, in MY head.

I freaked out, held onto the singular strand, and marched myself into my coworker’s office, holding the rogue ringlet between my fingers.

“What is this. Seriously, what is THIS?” I demanded, pulling the hair closer to Allison to inspect.
“Oh Andy. Oh,” was her only reply.
“Seriously, this is NOT okay! I’m only 26, this is NOT okay!”
“At least it’s just one though,” she said, trying her best to comfort me.
“That’s it. I’m seriously chocking this up to stress. This CANNOT be an age thing. You know, I’ve been really stressed lately at work. It’s got to be just stress.”
“Absolutely, I’m sure that’s it.”

And with that I returned to my office to yank the perpetrator straight out of the follicle from whence it came.

Fast forward a few days, and I find myself at the local Harris Teeter to pick up some munchies for a Spa Party I am having at my house. While I was there I picked up some cheese, dips and wine to make homemade sangria for the party.

I came home, unloaded the groceries, and checked my receipt to see if any coupons were attached (as H.T. does sometimes). To my horror, a message on the line-item receipt caught my eye that I couldn’t ignore: "Cashier has bypassed age verification."



What! Bypassed it? Excuse me, but I’m pretty sure the rule of thumb in most stores in NC is to ask for someone’s ID if they are 40 or under. Forty! I still have a good 14 years before that cute, blonde, tanned 13 year old cashier is bypassing ANYTHING about me.

To top it all off, I had a big rubber ball in my grocery cart and a bright blue t-shirt on that says “Summer Camp Staff” on it. For all she knew, I was a 19 year old camp counselor who was picking up a ball, some cheese, and trying to sneak some wine into my cabin back at camp.

To make matters worse, I am so horrified by the barrage on my age-awareness this week that I am sure I am creating wrinkles and worry lines all over my face.

So if you are looking for my last little tiny shred of "I'm still young" or "Hey, I think I look pretty today", it's still there...just burried deep into the trench line on my forehead.



(Aged) Cellulite and Tell You Right
- Andy

Eye Spy with my Little Eye a Scam In the Making

You can file this post under the "Really? I mean, seriously?!" category.

I was watching the news this morning while getting ready for work, and one of those prescription drug commercials came on t.v. (Ugh, don't even get me started on why the U.S. even allows advertising prescriptions on t.v...it is so ridiculous. That's a whole other blog.) But this prescription commercial had Brooke Shields touting it, so it caught my eye.

"What prescription could Brooke Shields be a spokesperson for?" I wondered. Surely it must be something for postpartum depression, or maybe even a new anti-wrinkle injection.

But no. I was wrong. Brooke is out there stomping for this new product called "Latisse", which is supposed to--get this--lengthen, thicken, and darken your eyelashes.

Um, hello...don't we already have something that does that? It is called mascara, and you can find about 30 different variations of it at any local drug store. Why would a sane human being want to put something prescription strength on them when it isn't necessary!? Just run to CVS and you can find anything your heart desires to pimp yo' eyes...mascara that lengthens, mascara that thickens, mascara that is waterproof, mascara with a curved brush, mascara with colors in it, mascara with glitter in it, even mascara that creates a sillicone tube surrounding each eyelash.

Also, if you can't find what you want in the mascara aisle, you can trot yourself over to where the false eyelashes are kept and can find a whole array of falsies...realistic lashes, lashes made out of feathers, lashes with neon colors, even lashes with crystals at the ends.

Whether you go with the mascara or the fake eyelashes, the best part about both of those products is that you DON'T need a prescription in order to use them!

I'm sorry, but I have a hard time understanding why we are still desperately trying to drum up funds to study cures and treatments for cancer, AIDS, diabetes, and multiple sclerosis but that there is enough funding out there to dedicate an entire lab team to create a prescription-strength eyelash enhancer?

Really? I mean, seriously?!!?

Look, look. I know the ellusive pull of wanting fabulous lashes more than anyone else. I was born with hooded eyelids and short, stubby eyelashes that grow in a downward direction. If anyone wants stunning lashes, it is me. BUT, I have managed to find plenty of mascara, eyeliner, eyelash curlers, and false eyelash options to achieve any length of lashes I want, all WITHOUT going to the doctor and getting a prescription strength solution. And the best part is, at the end of the day it can all be washed away. No side effects, no FDA warnings, nothing.

Like any prescription, there are side effects with this Latisse. Mostly they are listed as eyelids turning red, itchy, dry, puffy, skin darkening, etc. Wow, that sounds great. Your eyes will be puffy, red and flakey, but hey---your lashes will look great! What a tradeoff!

And hey, warning to any of you blue/gray/green-eyed women out there who are planning on trying this stuff. The FDA warns that one of the side effects can also be "brown iris pigmentation". Yyyyeah, you read that correctly. Your eyes will turn BROWN. The actual color of your eye could be changed! Man, at least the redness, swelling, and dry eyelids will go away after you stop using the product. But eye color change cannot be reversed. Ever.

I'd also like to point out one more thing in this little rant.

Find a man, any man. Someone in your office, someone who goes to your church, someone on your intramural softball team. Pull him aside and ask him, "Hey (fill in name here), Who do you think has the longest eyelashes at work/church/softball?"

He'll shrug his shoulders, grunt "I don't know", and walk away with further concrete evidence that women are insane when it comes to our looks. And trust him ladies, he really and truly doesn't know. Men in general do not notice these things. I once died my hair purple (accidentally, trust me) and it took 3 days for my male boss to realize it and ask me if I was "feeling okay."

Don't get me wrong. I'm not judging women for wanting lashes that a Prince Charming-esque man could climb up and save us à la Rapunzel. In fact, if I had to be left with only one makeup item to live on, it would probably be my mascara.

But please don't invest the time, money, and risk into a prescription strength product to give you fabulous lashes. Do something else with all of that time, money and risk instead. Something more worthwhile. I guarantee it will contribute to your selfworth more greatly than any old Latisse will.

Cellulite and Tell You Right,

- Andy

Just call me "Phoenix"

So, never a dull moment in the life of Andy.

Sunday I got back from my fabulous vacation week of “Do Nothingness” on Ocracoke. It was exactly what I needed…a full week devoted to scribbling in journals, daily napping, staring at the underside of a sun umbrella, and not checking my work emails. I could actually feel the stress sliding off of me with every layer of sunscreen slathered on my pasty self.

Monday, I was anxious to get back and go to my Small Group meeting (small group is PC3 code for Bible Study Group, if you don’t know) to catch up with my newly found lovely ladies and see how they had been. Instead of our usual discussion group at someone’s house, we decided to head to K38 restaurant for some salsa and chatter.

While waiting for our table, Jana, Nicole and I stood in the lobby, chitchatting back and forth.

“How was your vacation?” Jana asked me.

“It was SO great…I am actually still in the vacay-vibe…still feeling relaxed, just feeling great!” I said. And I meant it. I was still loose, still breezy, still awesome.

We continued catching up for a while, when another lady waiting in the lobby turned to me and said “Your hair, your hair.”

And just at that second, I could smell the horrifyingly unmistakable scent of burning hair. MY burning hair! Quicker than I knew my body could react, my hand bolted up and started patting the fire out. It all happened in a span of maybe 7 seconds, but it felt like 7 years and 700 degrees.

After the flames were out, I looked around to see what could have possibly caused the spontaneous combustion of my luscious locks.

There. There it was. A rogue tealight candle, precariously perched on a window ledge where I had been standing as I was regaling my friends with how relaxed and chilled out I was.

As I turned and spotted the candle, I also spotted everyone in the bar staring at me. Also, everyone in the lobby. And everyone seated at the tables. And the waitstaff. And probably the people parking their cars in the lot outside.

“I’m okay, I’m okay, it’s alright,” I manage to blurt out, chuckling in between breaths, trying desperately to laugh it off.

But to no avail. My feeble female emotions finally caught up with the situation at hand. I could just imagine what the people sitting at the bar must be “tweeting”... “Head fire at K38...get down here!” “K38 will now be changing its name to Flaming Andy’s.” My hands began to tremble. Followed by a lightning speed heartbeat. Finally, the welling up of tears.


“Don’t cry, don’t cry,” Jana said.

Nicole chimed in, “It’s okay Andy, it’s really not that bad.” They both began helping me brush the soot and ashes out of my hair and off of my shirt.

I don’t know what it is, but I have this ridiculous uncontrollable reaction when I hear the words “Don’t cry.” Anytime I hear those words, it just pushes me full force into crying mode and past the point of no return.

By this point, Natalie, a fourth member of our group, showed up and was catching up on the situation.

The restaurant host (who saw everything that happened) came over and asked if I needed anything. Sobbing, with running eye makeup, a wavering voice, and charcoaled hair, I said “Could I have a tissue or something?”

He returned with a napkin from the bar. “Is there anything else I can get you?”

“Well, can I have a glass of water?” I replied.

“Are you sure, you don’t want ANYTHING else?” he asked.

“Actually, can I have a vodka tonic with lime?”

And I’m telling you what…I’ve never been served a drink faster or stronger in my life.

The second he came back with the cocktail, I realized I might have just made the situation worse.

I was fairly new to this Bible study group, and had probably only met with these girls maybe 6 times. And here I had gone an ordered a cocktail at a Bible study meeting. What was I thinking? (Well, I can tell you what I was thinking… “The only thing that will calm me down is a stiff drink.”)

Way to go Andy! You find this awesome new group, you go and catch your head on fire, and then you order a cocktail during our Bible study hour…good one. Super appropriate to be ordering cocktails and garnishes when we are supposed to be discussing our Lord and Savior!

I looked around to the other girls to see if their faces would betray any kind of internal judgement they were passing on me for ordering an alcoholic drink. To my relief, it was completely the opposite.

“Oh honey, don’t you worry, I’d be ordering a drink, too.”

“Andy, don’t even worry about it, you go for it.”

Whew. A relief. These girls are keepers. Not that I would make a habit out of drinking at Bible study, by any stretch of the imagination. In fact, most of you reading this already know that I’m really not a drinker at all (I got all of that out of my system during my young 20’s, believe you me). But it was absolutely a relief that these girls weren’t ready to “lay hands” on me and start “exorcising the demons” out of me like some church-goers would be.

We finally got our table (the host tucked us back in a small room separate from other tables), and after setting our purses down, Jana took me to the restroom to try and get the rest of the burned hair out of my head.

Once we got back to the table, Brooke showed up, and we all had many, many laughs at my expense, which is exactly how I wanted it. If they hadn’t kept me laughing, I would have burst into tears again and run to the nearest salon to get a drastic haircut which inevitably would have been a mistake.

The restaurant ended up covering my tab for the night. And our group had a chance to have some definite bonding time, good laughs, share what is going on in our life, and eat some good food.

So, like the Phoenix, I will rise again to return to my small group next week. With a new assurance of the following things:
1. Those girls are keepers.
2. Thank goodness for curls---they hide A LOT!
3. There’s nothing either a vodka tonic, laughs with friends, and a good conditioner won’t fix.

Lauren and Leanne, I’m so sorry you couldn’t make it. Unfortunately, there will not be a re-enactment. But if you search, I’m sure there is a low-quality cell phone video of it floating around on YouTube somewhere.

Sanity in T minus 6 hours

Well, I am off for a real vacation in a few hours.

It seems like the majority of my vacation days are used for things like weddings, births, birthdays, taking mass amounts of middle schoolers to summer camp, etc.

Don't get me wrong...I love all of those things. But they aren't really vacations. I haven't had a real, week-long vacation in a loooong time. So this year, I decided to take an entire week, go somewhere, and do absolutely nothing.

I'm heading to my old stomping ground, Ocracoke Island. It is this fabulously quaint island tucked away in the Outer Banks...just small enough to be able to get around via bike. Great little restaurants, pubs, knick-knack stores, and more importantly---empty beaches.

So mom, me, Wicket and Tatters will be leaving in 6 hours to head to the Cedar Island Ferry, and start our week-long "Do Nothing" tour.

Though this is a vacation, I'm making a list of rules I am going to do my best to follow while away...

Rule #1: Absolutely NO checking of work email.
NONE. (This is going to be a toughie for me...but I've blocked the web adress on my computer, so hopefully that will help.) I suffer from ODD (Obsessive Doomsday Disorder). I am convinced that the world at work will fall apart without me there for a whole week. (I know...how obnoxious of me to think that.) So I am planning on curing myself of my ODD by not checking the emails at all. I'm sure some little 'emergency' will occur at work, but you know what...this week, I am going to do my best to not care about it.

Rule #2: Write something EVERYDAY.
I am terrible at consistent writing. The whole "Practice makes perfect" thing just loses itself on me, and I find myself jumbling down singular lines in the car while I'm driving, then getting back to those scraps of paper a week later and going, "Huh, what does that say?" Unable to read my own writing, or unable to re-capture the train of thought, I end up crumpling the papers and tossing them. I am going to attempt to write something everyday. Will every day yeild a masterpiece? Definitely not. But it will get me back in the saddle, and give my writer's block a run for it's money for the week.

Rule #3: No makeup until 5:00 p.m.
This will be even tougher than the no email rule! I rarely ever go out in public without makeup. And if I do, it is only to the Leland Walmart, which- if you've never been there- definitely does not warrant makeup in order to walk around with the rest of the Leland-ite Zombies. Even now, I can already feel the inner insecurities inside of me whispering "Well, sure, no makeup. But concealer doesn't count." Or "Okay, no makeup. But what will one coat of mascara hurt?" Get thee behind me, Demons of Maybelline and Clinique! I'm sure I'll fail at this rule (and probably all the rest, as well.) But I'm at least going to give it the old college try (or in my case, the old 26 year old try.)

Rule #4: No cell phone.
This will actually be a super easy rule for me. I hate hate hate phones of all kind, especially cell phones. So I'm looking forward to a week of no calls, no voicemails, no texting, etc. Yay!

Rule #5: Try something new.
I know, I know...ultra vague rule. But hey...this IS a vacation afterall. I'll either try a new food, try a new activity...who knows. But I think a vacation is a perfectly good time to expand any kind of horizons.

So there you have it...the only self-imposed rules I will be operating under for an entire week.

Any suggestions for others, I'd be glad to consider them. But don't bother phoning them in, or emailing them to my work address. ;)

-Cellulite and Tell You Right,

Andy

Flinging Poo

I am currently nursing two of my good girlfriends through breakups right now. Which is awful, and I hurt for them. It's my job as a friend to saddle up and go through it with them, do what I can to ease their pain and encourage them. They would do it for me, without a doubt.

On one hand, I am awesome at this kind of thing. Because I went through A LOT with my last relationship. Name a destructive issue, and my last relationship had it. So I'm pretty much a pro when it comes to relating and empathizing on these topics.

On the other hand, I'm NOT awesome at this kind of thing. Because in the end, nothing anyone can say or do for you really and truly helps anyway. The only thing that helps is time, a healthy sense of self-worth, and friendships. But mostly time. the phrase "Time heals all wounds," exists because it is true to the core, like so many other phrases. No matter how desperately you want to speed through the break-up process, time is always there, keeping a steady pace through the maddening heartache.

It takes all this time, because it took all that time in the first place to develop those feelings. If you only had a 5-day long relationship, of course the breakup wouldn't be as bad as having a 5-year long relationship breakup. This isn't news to anyone.

What is surprising to me, however, is that some people try to fool you into thinking that a lasting relationship is just an antiquated concept, and that you can't possibly really want one. How passé! How boring! How old-fashioned! Wouldn't it be more fun to have a flavor of the month?

Well, let me tell you what the "flavor of the month" is right now.

The flavor of the month happens to be chocolate, in the form of the "Fling" candy bar.

The commercial shows animated Princess and Prince-type characters, awkwardly saying goodbye after a presumable one-night stand.

Walt Disney, I'm sure, would be rolling in his cryogenically-sealed chamber if he ever laid eyes on this.

Little birdies sing "Forever is overrated" at the finale, as the Princess basks in the glow of ......what? Why is she basking in a glow? Basking in the glow of regret? Basking in the glow of an empty physical act? Basking in the glow of a desire for something more but settling for something less?

Is this what advertising companies really think will reach women? Glorifying a meaningless night together? Really? That's the best you've got? That is the level to which you want to stoop?

People, forever is NOT overrated. Don't buy into it. There are some people in this world who have led such meaningful lives...either through service, relationships, etc. that forever would NEVER be enough time to experience everything they would want to, to accomplish everything they would want, and to give everything they would want to this world.

There are people out there who know exactly how desirable forever is, because their time has been cut short. Or their spouse's time has been cut short. Or their children's lives have been cut short. Try telling those people that forever is overrated.

"Fling" bar---YOU are what is wrong with today's easy-come-easy-go, instant gratification, and almost-instant boredom of the things that are to be treasured in life.

I don't care what kind of experience you are advertising...whether just the experience of eating a candy bar, or the experience of a forever-love, I don't want an ad. agency dictating to me what my value system should be. Period.

Time wounds all heels, Fling. Time wounds all heels.

- Cellulite and Tell You Right,
Andy

Your Epidermis is Showing

Well, here it is. "Fashion" (using the term extremely loosely here) has taken a giant nosedive into a rotting pile of skanky laundry.

Ladies and gentlemen, let me introduce you to my subject matter for the day...the "Bikini Jean".

Really, ladies? Really? Was there such a high demand out there for jeans that ride LOWER than those currently available in stores? I mean, it's bad enough that I have to scour the very depths of the bargain bins like Jacques Cousteau in order to find a pair of jeans that will sit ABOVE my butt crack. Now this?

If an article of clothing is so revealing that it has to have panties built right into it, something is terribly wrong. For funsies, let's dissect categorically what is so wrong about these "pants"...

1. "Your epidermis is showing."
A LOT of it. Too much of it. I have never met anyone who ever uttered the words "The pockets on these pants are so restricting...if I could just cut out the sides of the jeans, I would feel SO much more comfortable."

2. Holding on by a string.
Well, two string, in this case. But seriously, those two strings are the only thing keeping these jeans up on your body. One swift sneeze, and you'd better hope that you're wearing REAL panties underneath those fake sowed-on thongs. Otherwise, you'll be feeling a nice breeze where the sun don't shine, and offering a free show to anyone within sight line of you.

3. Why even bother with the long pants?
It strikes me as hilarious that this article of clothing was constructed with such revealing cutouts in scandalous areas, and yet is so concealing of other ares of the body. Never, ever, ever, ever, ever have I heard any woman say "You know, I just wish I could find some jeans that show off my fabulous underwear-zone, but that still will hide my awful knees." It just doesn't happen. If you are comfortable enough to show that much skin near your bikini area, then why even bother taking the jeans all the way to the floor? Why not just go ahead and make them Daisy Dukes? Or heck, why bother wearing pants at all? You're already showing off anything and everything anyone would be interested in...why not just let the rest of your body breathe and go naked?

4. Hey fellas? Would you care for some rancid, cheap, and overly-advertised milk? Or would you like to purchase this conservatively-dressed cow at a reasonable price?
Ladies, after centuries of the old "Why buy the cow..." adage, you still haven't gotten it. Yeah, you're gonna get oggled, and you're gonna have men staring at you when you wear these. And I guess some of you find that appealing, because you equate being stared at with being loved. But you're already showing off the goods, so these jeans will only hold their attention for a short period, and then they will quickly get bored with them. And they'll expect to see more skin from the next outfit. And more skin on the next date. I'm not saying that you have to wrap yourself head to toe in burlap like some impoverished, inbred mountain-folk or anything like that. But honestly, what message are you trying to send with this outfit? I can tell you what kind of message you are sending to me, and I'm not even a guy. Just imagine what kind of messages those little receptors the male "brains" are getting.

In closing, I'm disappointed, but not stunned with this latest design. More and more I see outfits worn in public that should only be worn in one of two places: a) The privacy of your own home infront of your own husband OR b)a strip club. And more and more I find myself sensitive to this issue. I work with the middle school ministry at my church, and I love each and every one of those girls like they were my own little sisters. I am also the aunt of a new amazing niece. When I think about the middle schoolers I love, and when I think about my precious niece, and the hopes and dreams I have for them, this increasingly disgusting social acceptance of sexual provocation really sickens me.

Ladies- I'm not preaching here. I am stating the truth. The female body is captivating. And wonderous. And for your husband to enjoy. It was not designed to spark the sexual desires of every man you pass on the street. You control your body, and you control the vibes you are sending out to the world with it.

Men- Yes, the female body is captivating. And wonderous. But please remember the next time you find yourself oggling a woman...that woman is some man's wife. Maybe she is currently married or maybe she is someone's future wife. Treat every woman out there like she is a wife. Just because a woman is advertising herself in a sexually explicit manner doesn't mean you have to react to it. (And every once in a while, make an effort to compliment those of us who dress in a more respectful manner. Every woman at her core needs to know she is beautiful to someone.)

So yeah, I can make fun of the new fashion, and everyone gets a good laugh. But just remember that the surfacing of these latest trends point to something sad and lost in our society.

Also, if I see any of MY friends wearing anything like this, don't think I won't call you out, girl. ;)

Cellulite and Tell You Right,
Andy

Beastiality, Cannibalism, and Men Who Eat Meat

There are quite a few commercials out there right now which seem completely ridiculous to me. I find myself sitting in front of the "boobtube" (as my grandpa called it) after watching a commercial, and wondering what the ad. executives were thinking when they gave the "go ahead" with some of these commercials.


#1: Why is Old Spice trying to entice me into beastiality?
The commercial shows a centaur, taking a shower with their latest product.So here's the stream of consciousness going on in my head... Oh hey, look. It's a hot dude getting all sudsy in the shower. (Camera pans out) Wait, that's not a hot dude. It's a centaur. But still, a hot centaur. Wait, what am I saying, a hot centaur? You can't say that...it's icky. But the dude-part of him IS hot. It's just the horse-part that I'm against. Okay, the commercial is almost over. Good. Cuz I'm not sure what to do about my semi-attraction to the hot Old Spice Centaur Dude. And as if forcing that kind of thought process onto someone isn't icky enough, the commercial doesn't stop there. It continues, to show the dude getting out of the shower, being greeted by (presumably) his girlfriend/wife/live-in equine enthusiast. Which makes things even weirder. Because then your though process jumps somewhere we're not even going to go on this blog. Ick. What was Old Spice thinking? Were they trying to appeal to men, implying that all men are studs? Please, spare me. Were they trying to appeal to women? If so, they definitely didn't rope in this filly.



#2 Did she just dip that strawberry in his belly button?
Okay, I admit it, I'm already predisposed to hating any and all Axe products. This probably comes from chaperoning many week-long retreats with the middle school boys from my church, and going into a chemical-induced coughing fit every time they would spray that mess on themselves in the back of the bus. But, having said that, even if this product was being launched by a company that I actually liked, I still would be really creeped out by their latest commercial. They are plugging the "Axe Dark Temptation" scent, with the idea that if a dude sprays the "cologne" on, he will become as irresistable as dark chocolate. The women in this commercial are ridiculous. Like a pack of rabbid Michael Vick-owned dogs, these women are biting chunks out of this guys like they haven't eaten in weeks. It is beyond creepy. It edges on cannibalism, but since the guy is made out of chocolate, I guess the over-payed ad. execs thought it would be 'funny'. Bleh. Grosses me out. I don't want a mental image of a guy taking his nose off, and sprinkling its bits all over my icecream. Also, his constatly wide-open eyeballs are super skeevy. This chocolate-covered dude not only enjoys having his body parts eaten, but he also has the kind of crazy eyes you often find on serial killers, rapists, and- oh yeah--cannibals. This commercial is almost enough to make me turn away from my dark chocolate-loving ways. Almost.



#3 Oh hey, you love breathing air?!? I love breathing air, too!!! We're just meant to be together!!!
I'm going to preface this complaint by saying that I have had many, many, many good friends find great relationships via online dating sites such as match.com, eharmony, fishinthesea, etc. So this isn't a bash against those methods, please understand me. I just need to point out the ridiculousness of one of the latest commercials. (I couldn't find it online anywhere, but you've probably seen it already.) Black and white shot, featuring a guy in a fedora, if I remember correctly. He goes on to say to the camera somethign like, "I'm an all-American guy. I LOVE cheeseburgers." Oh wow. Form a line ladies, let's not get rowdy. I know how badly we've all been scouting the world, looking for a Prince Charming out there who loves cheeseburgers. He surely is one-of-a-kind.
Please. This guy is less Prince Charming, and more Hamburglar. I can't imagine anyone is storming the match.com site after seeing that gem. (Also, the commercial closes with a closeup of him eating a Hostess cupcake. Seriously? Is this guy a 5 year old who still lives with his mother? I can't handle it.)

I've never taken any classes in advertising, marketing, or anything like that, so I may be way off base here. Though I don't have any book-smarts on commercial advertising, I do have expertise in one very important area...I'm a consumer. And a female consumer at that, which is in the majority. There are more of us. And we are the ones who do most of the shopping and buying. So if I'm not diggin' the concept of a beastialitous (is that even a word) relationship, biting a chunk out of some total stranger's butt while I'm riding public transportation buses, or running as fast as I can to the nearest cheeseburger-eating contest to find myself the guy of my dreams, then I'm sure I can't be the only one out there who feels this way.

I am the Walrus, coo coo catchu.

So, it is almost the middle of February, and I have finally begun the whiplash-enducing effort of starting (and sticking to) an exercise routine. I purposefully didn't start my new workout regime in the New Year for a few reasons.
1. I was in Kenya during New Years, and people don't really "run for fun" in Kenya. They mostly run for survival.
2. New Years resolutions are doomed from the start anyway. People make them under the influence of too much champagne, guilty feelings spawned by too much time spent with family members over the holidays, and the goal-inspiring dust of sugar plum fairies.

One of my "resolutions" for the year is to get in shape. Original, huh?

I enlisted the help of my neighbor Morgan, since history would show you that unless I have someone holding me accountable to something, I will never, ever follow through. Ever. So I roped Morgan in to be my walking buddy, and every day we walk the neighborhood, our 4 dogs in tow, gabbing about our days like a bunch of "The Hills" rejects. It's all very interesting to us, but probably not very interesting to anyone else at all.

Now, turns out I really enjoy working out, walking, etc. I always feel better afterward, and I can tell it helps me deal with stress. Getting my butt moving isn't the difficult part.

The difficult part is fighting the enemy...food.

To be more specific, not food as a whole, but my bad eating habits regarding food.

I pretty much eat all the time, always, and excitedly at that. I love food. I love the bad kind of food, mostly. Creamy things. Starchy bits. Sweet nibbles. Bring on the carbs while you're at it.

So my goal is really to change my eating habits, in addition to getting into a less squishy shape and into a more solid shape. My winter layer of fat was useful for my hibernation period, but I'm ready to be free of it.

This will probably be the last blog I post on this topic. Hearing other people talk about their own weight loss is boring...I am aware. In fact, if you have stuck with this blog for this long, then give yourself a gold star for the day--you gave your attention span a good work out.

Promising next blog will be less fat, more fab!

- Cellulite and Tell You Right,
Andy