Chubby Girl Brigade

Sticks and stones may break my bones, but weights will always hurt me MORE

Against my better judgment, I have let a dominatrix into the house.  I swore up and down that no abuse of this kind, particularly in on the emotional level, was tolerated within the confines of my abode.  But for a reason that I will share later on, we have her in the house to stay.

My kids don’t see her as a threat or as a monster, and I try to keep it that way (oh, what delusions we allow our children to possess!).  We don’t discuss her in derogatory or dismissive tones with the kids.  They LOVE to report on any interaction with her.  But I know better.  She’s brutally honest, which is what I fear most.  She can reduce me to tears in 2 seconds.  But I keep going back for more. 

My husband goes in to “consult” with her often as well and, before doing so, he sucks in his stomach to impress her (although I know for a fact she doesn’t care) and has even been known to strip down to his original packaging when in her presence.

Yes, ladies and male friends of the CGB, we now have a scale in the bathroom.

I finally reversed my decades-old stance on scale ownership because of my PE class.  I need to turn in my final health assessment and I’m supposed to submit my weight.  Before my doomsday purchase, I thought I might pop into the doctor’s office and ask if I could use the one they have, but I was afraid that I might be carted off to see all the Dr. Freuds and Dr. Frasiers in the institutional-style basement of the clinic and be forced to wear the backwards jacket and live in a room lined with gymnastic matting.  What fat chick in her right mind would beg a nurse to let her in to see the scale, especially without an appointment? 

I also considered asking a neighbor, but there too, I’m afraid of the consequences.  Not only am I worried that people might sic their dogs on me if I were to start knocking on doors asking to use a bathroom scale, but my children might suffer as well.  They would be teased at the bus stop: “Hey, I heard your mother likes to be WEIGHED!  Does she wanna come over?  We got a trucker’s scale!”

So I figured for the well-being of my kids, I’d buy a scale of our own, even if it means being tortured by honesty in numbers.

Oh, I know what you are thinking:  How do I know the scale is a ‘she?’  Because if she was a boy scale, instead of hurling deadly insults at me every time I step on him, he’d try to look up my towel. 

Calling Londoner CGB members!

A generic adult female's daughter crosses the big pond.

And she's going to march in the New Year's Day parade!  So if any of you Brits want to see a Generic PotatoBean, check out the festivities!  You can email me at genadfemale at chubbygirlbrigade dot com for further information on what she will be doing, besides craning her neck to spot the Queen. 

I'm afraid for the little P'Bean, because she is wont to leave things lying around and letting them get stolen (has anyone seen a white cell phone lately?).  I'm worried that the Generic Bean passport will be ripped from her tiny little potatoey hands while she stands there, ogling British boys and squealing for beanish joy at the Globe theater (American for "theatre").  I'm worried that the box of Oreo-Os and two boxes of apple crisp breakfast bars will be the only things she eats because either a) she will spend all her meal money the first day on Union Jack T-shirts or b) it too will get stolen as she waffles in choosing whether to have fish n' chips or bangers n' mash for lunch (although I'm not sure if bangers are available on luncheon menus) (or what bangers actually are) (and why they must be accompanied by mash) ("bangers n' mash" sounds like boys who like to "run the bases").

Coal in Your Stocking

Last week, trying to get the last bit of Christmas shopping done in the tiny amount of time I had left (catalog goes to the printer this week, FINGERS CROSSED), I found myself in a checkout line behind a woman and her very young son. He was doing that silly thing that little kids do, where they hide their faces in their mom's coat and peek at you, only to hide again once you make eye contact with them. When I'd stopped playing the game with him, the little boy finally said, "Hi."

"Hello," I replied.

He asked, "Are you going to have a baby?"

I simply said "No" and then mentally willed his tiny mouth shut so he couldn't follow it up with something like "Are you sure, because you sure are fat!" or "Mom, that fat lady says she's not going to have a baby, but I think she's a LIAR."

However, in retrospect, I thought of several other responses that I wish I'd been able to conjure up at the time:

1. "Yes."

2. "Yes, but it's not a baby. I'm going to have PUPPIES!"

3. "No, but make sure you ask your mom where babies come from as soon as you leave the store. Also, don't believe her first answer."

4. "No, I'm actually just a fat person."

5. "No, I'm actually just a fat person that likes to eat children." *licks lips*

6. "No. Oh! By the way, Santa told me that you're getting coal in your stocking."

7. "Santa is really your mom."

My birthday lovin' continues

One more card, or three to be exact, but from one person.  Lord Grand High Girdle sent me three tiny cards with strange pictures of himself.  He frolicked with shiny pretend flowers, was awed by a pretend NCCT, and he posed bending over backwards from a pretend fence.  I won't show the pictures because I haven't asked his permission, but I can post the front of the cards without fear of retribution.  He wished me a Super Happy Fun Time!  Oh, I am ferklempt!

Gullible Adult Female

A generic adult female falls for it.

A few weeks ago, I saw this on the CGB.  Being naturally altruistic (just call me Generous Adult Female), I replied to the call.  I was a little puzzled though, because usually when Jerilyn posts items like this, she tells me about it before it goes up on the site.  Putting aside my other natural inclination towards feeling left out of the loop, I sent this email asking what was up: "What's up?"  The response was a sad tale of a home fire in the residence of a single mom with several children.  The focus of charity was towards the children, but Jerilyn told me that she would like to collect clothing for this chubby sister in need.  Did I have any hand-me-down plus size clothing, perhaps in a size 20-22W?  What a coincidence!  My size exactly!  Kind-hearted spirit that I am, I also asked if there were other things needed: towels, toiletries, etc.  Jerilyn's answer was short, "Whatever." 

Because I am overflowing with the milk of human kindness, I purchased a new pair of jeans and a shirt for this unfortunate woman.  I found the clothing on the clearance rack at Target (my milk of human kindness likes a good deal) and on Dec. 8, I sent my donation to Jerilyn, thinking that I am SUCH a good person to give NEW clothes instead of old crappy hand-me-downs.

The next day, I got a birthday card from a CGB member.  I thought to myself, "Wow.  She must really be a fan of mine to have researched my birthday and address and sent me a card."

On Saturday, two more cards from CGB members arrived.  I realized something was up.  I had been taken.  I knew Jerilyn had set me up by handing out my address like Halloween candy through that little Santa's Helper post.  She admitted that she was the evil genius behind my mailbox full of cards.  I was such a dunce for falling for her little scheme!  I swallowed her story, hook, line and sinker.  I'm going to have to learn how to be more cynical.

Anyway, I want to say thank you to all who sent something!  Look at my pile of cards! I would have taken a picture of The Brownies, the NCCT candy, the Culver's GC, and the organ books that were also sent, but the food items were consumed immediately and quickly.  The Culver's card was also very soon used up, and I didn't put the organ books in the picture because they were out in the car and I was too lazy to get them.  And as for the item that Jerilyn sent me, I couldn't very well put that IN the picture because it was taking the picture.  (She had also told me that her old digital camera was going to her daughter--ANOTHER LIE)

Anyway, this was the most fun I've had on my birthday!  I love mail and it was great to see that you all considered me a friend worth at least 37 cents plus cost of the card!

PMS Confession: What's with the packaging?

Just once, I wish someone would make a decent tampon with a comfortable, yet flushable applicator in a flushable wrapper so I didn't have to spend half my time in the unisex bathroom trying to figure out what to do with the !@##!@#$! plastic wrappers. (Current method: wrapping them in the paper towels I used to dry my hands and then giving them another pass under the running faucet to futher seal the wrapper in a cocoon of damp wood product.) I'd prefer the only evidence of my period be my hellish PMS, thankyouverymuch. (Of course, this is from the woman who uses the bathroom with both the fan AND the faucet running so people can't hear what she's actually doing. Who do I think I'm fooling?)

Send your PMS Confession to:
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All submissions will remain anonymous so as to protect the not-so-innocent from social repercussions.

Et tu, ATF?

Regardless of your views on gun control, this article is about my recent purchase of a .22 rifle for my 14 yr old son. Please understand that while I have never shot a gun myself, my son has been shooting (cans and stumps—nothing living, I promise) for most of his life (taking short breaks for using the restroom and eating burritos). He has a 4.0 GPA, he keeps his room clean, and huddles up with his mother on the sofa while we watch Lost through our fingers. He's a really good kid, and I don't want to hear about all the good kids that went out and shot up their schools or how I'm a bad mom for buying him a gun. I know all the talk. My goodness, I agree with most of it. But the kid wants a gun, and his dad wants him to have a gun, and for the sake of preserving the peace in our marriage, I bought a firearm for my son for Christmas.

In order to buy a gun in Oregon, you have to go through a thorough background check (I am aware this is probably the same throughout the country), so moments after I walked up to the gun counter at the local wherever-you-buy-guns store, I found myself filling out a ream of paperwork, nervously trying to remember if I'd ever committed a felony or spent time in a mental hospital ("no" on both counts, oddly enough).

And then I was asked a question I've been avoiding for 34 years—MY WEIGHT.

I'm sure you're wondering the same thing I am—Is offering to make out with your son so his lips are limber for his first chair clarinet challenge a felony?

Ha! I kid.

What does weight have to do with the ability to own a gun? Do they need to make sure I'm heavy enough to properly counterbalance a weapon? Does the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms keep a folder of fatties with firearms? Is the utter humiliation associated with revealing one's weight to a wherever-you-buy-guns store employee enough to go on a cheese-eating binge, followed by the armed robbery of several local ice cream shops?

I asked the lady if I had to put down real weight or driver's license weight. She wasn't amused.

At this point, I got really nervous. I mean, for pete's sake, I was buying a freaking GUN and I had to disclose my real weight!

I got so nervous that when the lady got ready to fingerprint me and said, "Now, I want you to look at your thumb" and I thought she said, "I want you to lick your thumb" and did so.

YES, PEOPLE, I LICKED MY THUMB. (As I was licking, I tried to remember all the places my thumb had been since I'd washed it last. Ah, motherhood, and the complete paranoia of germ history it brings.)

I then held up my newly-licked thumb and said to the lady, "Ok, now what?"

Once she and the 107 boys in line behind me hoping to purchase their own guns stopped weeping with laughter (there were actual tears!) at the site of a nervous fat woman licking her thumb like a toddler with a lollipop, I was able to complete the rest of the purchase with less embarrassment, although once you've earnestly licked your thumb in hopes of purchasing a gun, is there any more embarrassment to be had? I think not.

It ain't over 'til the fat lady sings

A generic adult female had a delusion of grandeur and joined up with a choir.

It was a seasonal thing and now it’s over.  But I’m ok with that.  I had a good time and sang passably well in the alto section.

But wouldn’t you know it, I had to sit in a very narrow row of choir seats; it was flying-coach small.  And three of the four altos seated in that row were “of size.”  To make matters worse, I was sitting between two people and kept dropping things on the floor. My pencil, or water bottle, or much-needed lip balm would leave my fingers without permission and, drawn inexorably center-of-the-earth-ward, would find the floor and then travel via rolling to the drop-off to the next level down.  There I sat, wedged between two sister fatties and the chair I was sitting on and the chair behind me, unable to move, unable to retrieve my possessions until after the practice when I would have to wait until everyone left the row so I could wiggle onto the floor and fumble around for my things.  The row was just barely wide enough for me to make it.  Every single night this happened.  I worried that I would get stuck and have to cry out for help—“Assistance please.  Fat lady wedged underneath row of choir seats.  Anyone?”  And then I would have to send up a flare for location purposes because I would be unable to even lift a hand heavenward to flag down a passing tenor or bass.  Or even soprano, although we all know sopranos can’t lift anything heavier than their own voices.  But at least the shrill notes of a lyric soprano could break the glass of the fire alarm and alert the appropriate rescue authorities. 

Happily, it was never necessary call for help.  Then we moved venues.  The new place had much more leg room for us in the back, but unfortunately, due to some shuffling, I was not in the back.  I was placed right up front.  Right behind where the soloists were supposed to stand.  I informed the director that should this be my permanent seat, I would stand up at the appropriate moment during the song and send little Joshie lurching into the microphone and possibly over the edge of the dais.  And there was no way Tim and I could occupy the same 3-ft diameter circle without one of us being comprised entirely of neutrinos.  And I was certainly unwilling to undergo the necessary atomic particle change.  The director saw my point, so, blessedly, we front row altos were shifted to the left by one seat.  It was still an uncomfortable place when the soloists were performing, but at least no one was injured. 

At least we all had to dress in black and stand at a slight angle so my fat wasn’t an impediment to those who had come to listen to the concert. 

One more thing: Opening night, the heel on my left shoe broke clean off right before we were supposed to take the stand.  I about strangled my flab for being so heavy as to break my favorite pair of dress shoes.  Stupid obesity.  When it starts wrecking footwear, that’s when I get angry.  No more brownies for my cellulite!  At least not tonight.  On the plus side, I GET TO BUY EVEN CUTER NEW SHOES!  Hooray! 

Return of Bad Haiku

Sitting at my desk
So very proud: skinny jeans!*
Until button left

Crawling on the floor
Can't find my missing button
Hope the zipper holds.

*Yeah, my "skinny" jeans
They're probably your fat pants
It's all relative.