Chubby Girl Brigade

A Rubber Maid Container (or more accurately, Rubber Matron Container, because I’m married, and too old to be considered a maid. I do serve people, but in my profession we are called “MOM!”)

A generic adult female squeezes her fat into a lycra-intensive garment so she won’t shake like a bowlful of jelly.

So I’m still rambling on about the play I’m in (Wizard of Oz)—because it’s dominating my life at the moment. But I prefer that acting dominate my life to such things as a backed-up sewer in my basement, sick kids or husband, neighbor wars over parenting issues, a History of Mathematics paper, an upcoming blind date (not that I've had a blind date in years--although if GAH's eyes develop glaucoma, I will) or laundry, so I’m not complaining.

My Gynecology Appointment or The Day I Ate An Entire Package of Pillsbury's White Chocolate and Macadamia Nut Cookie Dough While Sobbing In My Car

I have very bad PMS. Not today, mind you (although I don't know when you're reading this, so it really could be today and if that's the case, BACK OFF AND LEAVE ME ALONE), but about once a week every month, I am UNBEARABLE. Frankly, it's gotten to the point where I'm not quite functional as a human being, so recently I broke down and went to see a women's specialist about it.

First off, she weighed me. Ugh. The words "she weighed me" carry more weight (har har) for a chubby girl than anything I could have written, so I'll leave it at that. I'm sure you feel my pain.

Next, we talked about my HELLISH PMS and how I cannot even cope with the sound of people chewing or even their very presence on this earth at times. I even cried. And not the fake girl tears that will get me stuff. Real tears.

She then said THE WORST THING THAT SHE COULD HAVE POSSIBLE SAID TO ANYONE. EVER.

Playing Around

A generic adult female doesn’t get a heart, a brain, some courage, or an all-expenses-paid trip to Kansas, but she does get to sing some songs and play dress-up, and she avoids falling into the orchestra pit.

If the two of you who read my ramblings consistently remember my rambling about trying out for the “Wizard of Oz,” you know I didn’t get the part of Glinda. But what I failed to mention is that I actually did make it into the play. I got the part of a crow and I’m in both the Girls’ Chorus and the Oz Chorus. Whoopee for me, huh? But I’m having fun actually, except that I’m a little self-conscious of myself because EVERYONE ELSE in the play is a size 10 or smaller—with the exception of Glinda, who is a size 18. I know that because I sewed Glinda’s costume (if I couldn’t be Glinda, I could at least have a part in making her look like a giant pink glittery Hostess Snoball) and I was privy to her bust and waist measurements. Later on I even measured around her arm, but I forgot my tape measure and had to use dental floss, which I had in my purse, so I can’t quantify the circumference for that part of her body, suffice to say, in the privacy of my own home, I tried the dental floss on me and we were the same arm-size. The material for that mountain of a dress had about 10 lbs of glitter in it, which shed, so now my sewing room looks like a discoball-lit lounge. At least they picked a non-waif for the good witch. My inner feminist was glad for that. Ladies, you can be chubby and gorgeous (even if you are wearing a poofy 80s style prom dress that makes you look, in Jodi’s words—Jodi is Glinda—“like a house.”) Let me tell you, of the 75 munchkins in the play, 95 of them ran up and hugged Jodi and told her how bee-yoo-tiful she was, when she appeared last night in costume for the picture-taking session. Kids love sparkly things, and so do my cats. As I was sewing the dress, I had to confine Magic and Servo to the laundry room because they were playing “gouge the glittery thing” too enthusiastically.

A Period Piece

Warning: To anyone who is embarrassed by any of the following words: Kotex, tampon, period, feminine hygiene, Aunt Flo, sanitary napkin, monthly visitor, ovary, uterus, PMS—GET OVER IT!

A generic adult female gets a monthly visit from the period fairy and, in a fit of PMS-fueled anger, promptly whacks the little winged intruder upside the head with the 3-hole punch, and stalks off to cuddle up with the hot water bottle, a 3 lb. canister of Midol, and all the chocolate she can find in the house, and then she sends the generic adult husband out to Sam’s Club to get more because DAMMIT there’s NOT enough!

Yes, my chubby friends, eventually someone here at the CGB website writers’ sweatshop was going to mention her period. It’s a commonly known fact that if you get two or more adult females together, they will start discussing childbirth, crafting hobbies, or menstruation. And since I rely heavily on estrogen in formulating my identity, you get to listen to me talk about that wonderful part of a woman’s life when she is reminded that life is bloody hell. So siddown and shaddup!

Grin and Bare Them

What a generic adult female likes about herself

As a Chubby Girl, I don't get a lot of compliments on my looks, which is ok because I really don't look like this anyway. I look at myself in the mirror and think, I can't have THAT big of a tummy. Seriously, I don't think the mirror has it right. And photographs too; my face isn't that fat. I still look OK in skin-tight leggings
and a cut-off t-shirt, right?

OK, maybe not. But I do have one feature that I know is quite beautiful: my teeth (actually, 28 features, I counted). Really and truly, my teeth are gorgeous.

I went to the dentist a few days ago, and because I have such fabulous teeth, it's not cause for concern. I actually relish my half hour of sitting still in the dentist's chair with the broken arm rest, staring at the Pelton-Crane movable dental light or at the ceiling tiles, while my son sits in the corner and colors quietly and the hygienist scrapes away at my incisors, cuspids, and molars. As long as the hygienist doesn't try to hold a conversation with me, I relax to a state of semi-wakefulness. It's so rare for a generic mother of five to get 30 minutes of quiet time, so I take it when I can get it, and I can get it here at the dentist's office.

The tray of sharp instruments capable of piercing the unsuspecting tongue and slashing it to shreds of bologna doesn't bother me a bit. I hear the shrill whine of the drill in the next cubicle and think "Ha ha! That won't be me!" Why? Because my teeth are mighty fine specimens of bone.