Yesterday I had a bit of the mean reds.  I did something stupid where I cyber-stalked one of my man’s clients, and in a pitiful bout of self-pity and insecure lameness, I read her blog, pored over her pictures and decided that she’s not only the most gorgeous girl in the world, she also has EVERYTHING IN COMMON with my man, and therefore, most be DESTROYED.

It was a sad case of women on women hate.

My reaction and feelings were just plain silly.  It must be my Danish blood.  You know us Danes.  We’re a raging, plate-throwing, pastry-gorging ball of theatrics.  I got to thinking about myself, comparing myself, thinking of my hips and thighs, wrapped in pearly tiger stripes from stretching out to make room for a growing baby.  I thought about my boobs.  Champs, they are.  Inflated to porn-star proportions then deflated beyond their years, they fed a baby every two hours for 16 months.  Things jiggle.  I like cake.  I only run when being chased.  You do the math.

And then, the downward spiral continued and I thought about that last time I was hit on by a stranger.  A stranger that wasn’t a homeless crack-head, that is.  On my walk home I started to think about that.  Am I attractive?  Am I looking old?  Why do only crazy people ask me out?  Do I give off a vibe that says “taken”, or is there a sign on my back that says “This One’s Nuts”?

Just as my thoughts were reaching a dangerous low, and my hands were becoming more and more clenched and I was milliseconds away from talking to myself, I heard “Excuse me!”

I stopped.  A gentleman in a suit got out of his car. 

Him:  Sorry to just approach you out of the blue like this.

Me:  (Stupid).  Ok!

Him:  But you’re really attactive and I just had to stop to talk to you.

I don’t remember the rest of the conversation.  I just stared at his perfect white smile and his face that was a Seattle version of Taye Diggs and I grinned and nodded and said thank you fifty times while I dreamed of going to his mom’s house for sweet potato pie and how beautiful our green eyed baby with an afro would be.  Taye Diggs.  I said it. 

Are you married?  I’m engaged.  That’s understandable.  You’re so sweet, thank you for stopping.  Have a great night.  You too.  La ti da, swagger away in my heels, my hands no longer clenched, embarrassed at my shallowness but thankful that maybe God was paying attention to my silly need to feel like I’ve still got it and that turning 30 in two weeks is not the end of the world.

I went home to my amazing man and my beautiful girl and said a quiet thank you and laughed.  I’m a smart girl.  I’ve got a good head on my shoulders.  I don’t need much, but right then and there I needed an ego boost.  And man alive, my ego just got a 90 minute Swedish massage on an isolated Seychelles beach.  By Taye Diggs.

And it felt good.

Thin will always be in here in the good ol’ USA.  That’s just a fact.  It’s a little disturbing how “celebrity” coincides with “skinny”, but our OBSESSION with it is what’s truly baffling, especially for a country that houses so many unhealthy, overweight people.  We’re a fat nation with a billion dollar diet industry.  We’re obsessed with food and obsessed with weight.  We love Paula Deen just as much as we love Dr. Atkins. 

Strangely, we not only expect celebrities and models to be rail thin, but we demand that they be role models.  Darling, you must be a size zero, but there’s no way in hell you’re admitting that you subsist on Americanos and Merits. 

I’ve been thinking a lot about this because of a few articles about Kate and Lady Gaga.  They are getting their hands slapped by the media for being straight up.  Apparantly, the appopriate answer to the question “how do you stay so thin” should be “Well, I’m so glad you asked!  I drink milk every day, I eat three square meals- never skipping breakfast of course!- and I NEVER EVER DRINK A DROP OF ALCOHOL!  I also run 3 days a week and go to church on Sundays- a very non-threatening universal happy church of course!  But I don’t obsess about my weight!  No way!  I don’t own a scale and I don’t cut out any food groups!  Rock the vote and stay in school!!!!!”

I’m glad to hear that Kate Moss has a weird diet mantra (Nothing tastes as good as thin feels) and I’m glad Lady Gaga admitted that she doesn’t eat, that’s how  she got skinny.

THANK YOU, ladies.  For real.  I’m sick of this backward mentality that believes something is wrong with you if you can’t look like a supermodel by simple diet and exercise.  It creates a strange mystery which becomes an obsession.

Sorry, America.  You can’t have it all.  You can’t Supersize your lunch and Supermodel your waistline by buying the Acai Cleanse or $15 poop pills from the drugstore.  Maybe if we start thinking logically, the next actress to drop to 80 pounds won’t make international headlines.  Maybe it won’t be an issue.  And then, just maybe, young girls will be empowered with a choice:  I can eat healthy and live healthy and I can also not eat and therefore not enjoy my life.

It seems that covering the reality of the situation underestimates the intelligence of young women everywhere. 

Hi there!  It’s me, that one girl with that one blog.  Sorry I’ve been away.  Travelling the world and teaching sign language to Midget Children With Leprosy© has really put things in perspective.  You know how it goes.

Honestly though, I’ve just been plagued with questions these days.  For instance:

• Why do I breakout only under my ears?
• What is nougat?
• Why are Snickers and Baby Ruth composed of the same ingredients, yet entirely different (and therefore the Olsen twins of the candy world)?
• Why can’t Posh Spice smile?
• What sort of hand soap shoud I buy for the bathroom?  Do I go for a pine-esque holiday number or will that simply be annoying come February?

Life is hard.

Well, it’s that time of year again.  The time where, after a Summer of detoxing, yoga-ing, juicing and being a wheat free Vegan, I’ve surrendered to the vodka, the cupcakes, the cozy nights in, cooking rich comfort food for my loved ones and waking them up to the smell of homemade pumpkin bread.

Meanwhile, my once only slightly annoying ass has spread into a mass of bulbonic plague proportions.  So after squeezing into a once-comfy pair of pants, I waddled my sausage casing of a body into the kitchen to ask the question every domestic partner dreads:

“Do I look fat in these pants?”

Richard did an excellent job of being sensitive and avoiding the question altogether.  “Eggs, honey?”

As I arrived to work this morning, I realized that every woman in the office is on a diet.  We sit.  We type.  We talk about our favorite Halloween candy and boozy treats which leads to an earnest plea to “please put ‘Go for a Walk’ on my Outlook calendar!  Let’s do this!”  Four hours and six mini-Snickers later, we have decided that YouTube and fashion blogs are so much more fun than walking outside in the rain.

Just then, I remembered something.  Every single boyfriend I’ve ever had had one thing in common:  they don’t care and they don’t notice.

They don’t care about the 6 pounds you gained over the holidays because they don’t notice.  You’ve got what they need.  The extra is like frosting on the cake, baby girl.  And that attraction is chemical.  You smell good to them.  Your body is like a magnet.  I think that we’re the ones obsessing over our bodies, comparing ourselves to the models we grew up with, taking our mothers words and twisting them, seeking perfection, whatever that may be.  The men?  I think they’re wired to love us for our goods.  You know.  The stuff they don’t have.  As my daughter calls it:  the Yoni and the Ninga.

I sighed and decided to take advantage of the rare Seattle sunshine and grabbed my wallet.  Inside, I found this:

So just hush, little darlings.  Put your yoni and your ningas in something stretchy (I mean, I can’t sing the praises of leggings and dresses enough!) and relax.  Because someone, somewhere thinks you’re hot stuff and is willing to write it down on Hello Kitty stationary.