Fat Pants

The first line of this riddle
Begins in the middle
When you find you must fiddle
With the waistband of your pants.

Something isn’t quite right.
The waistband is too tight.
You must pull, stretch and fight
Just to get them on.

Well I say by golly and by gosh!
They have gone and shrunk in the wash!
And seriously, this is no time to josh
When you find your pants too tight.

Of course, it never is your fault.
Perhaps you’ve eaten too much salt.
Surely it can’t be that hard to halt
The shrinking of your pants.

Or perhaps it’s a tiny bit of bloat.
So you stop and make a mental note
To go and find your long black coat
That will hide your tightening pants.

And then one day at the table
Your waistband button is unstable
And you are finally no longer able
To control your muffin top.

You unbutton the button for much relief.
But your newfound joy is oh so brief.
You look down at your gut in dazed disbelief
And stare at the fat hanging out.

Holy cow! You’re in shock.
You think this is a crock.
So you promise yourself that you will walk
A couple of miles tomorrow.

Despite some walking,
You still find it shocking.
So then you start talking
To all of the friends that you have.

They all give you tips.
“Just lay off the chips
And you’ll find that your hips
Will soon fit back in your pants.”

“Don’t go to the bar.”
“Don’t take your car.”
“Try walking real far
And that should do the trick.”

Despite your best efforts your pants do stay shrunk.
And your mood stays in a real awful funk.
And then you find that the junk in your trunk
Starts growing a bit larger too.

Then one friend who’s a dope,
Goes and gives you no hope,
And tells you to just cope
With the signs of menopause.

Oh, that’s NOT what you need!
You refuse to concede!
Your gut WILL recede
And someday fit back in your pants!

So time passes by
And you ask yourself, “Why?”
Heck, you might even cry
A few tears for your chunky self.

But despite such dear friends
And all things you intend
You can no longer pretend
To fit into the pants you have.

So with your head held down low
And your weight at a plateau
You reluctantly go
To shop for a pair of fat pants.

You head into the store.
You walk past and ignore
The cute clothes you adore
And you look for the dumpy section.

After 2 hours of pain
You sit down and complain
About how this is insane
And you aren’t having any fun.

Nothing fits right.
You’re too fat for your height.
So you decide you just might
Buy some nice sweatpants instead.

They always will fit.
And you must admit,
That then you could quit
This shopping trip you hate.

Elastic waists here we come!
And although you’re a bit glum
You are glad you’ve succumbed
To wearing clothes that allow you to breathe!

After all it won’t really be for that long.
You are determined and know that you will be strong.
And soon you’ll be wearing a little black thong
Underneath your skinny pants!

But six months later you’re still in your sweats.
You decide this must be as bad as it gets.
You look back and have so many regrets
About your journey to bigger pants.

You look in the mirror and search for the girl,
The one who was proud, the one that wore pearls,
The one who would smile and give a big twirl
When she looks at herself in the mirror.

And then you see her, just a flicker at first.
And you know that you have come through the worst.
Your misguided bubble of denial has burst.
You accept that you need some fat pants.

You realize that your worst fear is true.
You’ll get those fat pants. It’s what you must do.
If not, you will make your naked debut
Because you’ll have no pants that fit.

You head back to the store with a different plan.
You will do your best and do all that you can
To find some fat pants that will make your man
Take a second long look at you.

And finally you find them-the pair that’s for you.
They’re definitely bigger than what you’re used to.
But in a funny way you feel all anew
And are wanting to flaunt your stuff.

You look in the mirror and look at the girl,
The one who is proud, the one that wears pearls,
The girl gives a smile and gives a big twirl
When she looks at herself in the mirror.

You’re wearing fat pants and they look ok.
They’re a step or two up from those sweats that were grey.
But you’re just going to buy the one pair today
Because that’s all you’re going to need.

After all it won’t really be for that long.
You are determined and know that you will be strong.
And soon you will be wearing a little black thong
Underneath your skinny pants!


Check This Out!

Trader Joe's Carne Asada. Go get some.

The Write In

I am fully disheartened, somewhat disbelieving and well on my way to feeling disenfranchised. This has led me to make a decision I never thought I would make. I am not voting for either of my gubernatorial candidates on Election Day. I have decided to write in a candidate. I was originally going to write in Mickey Mouse, a very popular write in candidate I have learned. However, this choice is a statement of protest for me and a notification of my extreme dissatisfaction with the behavior of the Democratic and Republican candidates for governor in my state. Wanting my write in choice to express the full weight of my feelings, I have taken this decision quite seriously. I have considered the qualifications of many of my friends, family members and prominent members of my community. After much serious consideration, I have decided to write in the principal of my son’s elementary school.

It was the candidates’ television and radio commercials that put me over the edge. And I pronounce both sides guilty. Their misleading advertising, designed to provide the highest shock value possible, is full of truth stretching, fact manipulation and often downright lies. I don’t consider myself to be politically involved or even a politically astute citizen. I prefer to not immerse myself in the never ending debate of correctness, superior positioning, and precise chastising so prevalent in politics. However, despite my limited interest in the process and game of politics, I am not ignorant of the issues or uncaring as to their outcome.

These deceptive commercials have been useless in providing me any valuable or accurate information that I find necessary to make an informed voting decision. The fabrications presented and tactics used in these commercials have done nothing but turn me off to both candidates. They have failed at proving the ineptitude of their opponents and have failed at convincing me to negate their adversary. They have both been successful in alienating me and they have both lost any chance at getting my vote this year. They have wasted their money. Is it really so much to ask for a little decency, a little honesty and a little integrity?

And that is why I’m voting for our elementary school principal. She’s got it-decency, honesty and integrity. She’s smart, capable and well respected. She’s approachable, insightful and attacks problems with a positive and infectious can-do attitude. Her results speak for themselves. The children are thriving, the parents are happy and other teachers only wish they could get hired by her. The learning process at our school is forward thinking, innovative and full of opportunity. The principal is competent and confident and always responsive to the many needs of our school. And…she’s never, ever run a negative campaign ad.

The principal will make a fabulous governor. And who knows? Perhaps I should consider her for president as well. I’ll be paying very close attention to how Mr. Obama and Mr. McCain behave in the last few weeks of the election. If they don’t live up to my expectations I am fully prepared to nominate our school principal for president as well. And of course, her vice presidential candidate would be the school’s dean of students. I’m equally fond of her, equally confident in her abilities, and certainly comfortable with her being a heartbeat away from the presidency. So watch out Mr. Obama and Mr. McCain. The principal is under serious consideration for your job too. After all, if this election has proven one thing, it’s that years of political experience aren’t at all necessary to be president and vice president of this country.



Check This Out!

If you have any sort of crafty inclination whatsoever, then you absolutely must check out http://tsurutadesigns.blogspot.com/ . The beautiful cards, amazing stamping techniques and innovative designs will leave you inspired, in awe and definitely itching to start your own project.

If you have any sort of heavy metal inclination whatsoever, then you absolutely must check out Metallica’s new video for the song, The Day That Never Comes. Regardless of your stance on the war, I dare you to watch this and not feel for our soldiers and the difficult moments they must deal with on a daily basis.

If you have any sort of jazz inclination whatsoever, then you absolutely must check out Big Bad Voodoo Daddy’s album, This Beautiful Life. Here at Slightly Exaggerated, we are loving the trumpets, loving the saxophones and loving the beat. We are particularly enthralled with the track, 2000 Volts and are particularly amused by the lyrics in, Ol’ MacDonald.

Numb

My mother died one year ago today.




I guess I feel it should be acknowledged somehow.


I just don’t think I know how to do that, though.

I’ve been trying to find a way to package the last year into a tidy blog full of lessons that I have learned. I want to tell you stories of how I have been profoundly affected by the death of my mother. I want to share the newfound wisdom that arrives when one emerges on the other side of a life changing event.

I just don’t think I can do that, though.

I could tell you that life does go on. People adjust. Good things still happen. I could tell you that it’s still possible to be happy and laugh and find tremendous joy in life. I could tell you that my memories of my mother’s uniqueness and way of navigating through life are priceless. I could tell you that I am grateful for the time I had. I could tell you how aware I am that things far worse happen to people every day. I could tell you how lucky I feel that they haven’t happened to me. I could tell you that things eventually do get back to normal.

I just don’t think I would be telling the entire truth, though.

I could tell you that, every single day, the phone is still maddeningly silent. I could tell you about tears, negativity, anger, unfairness, feeling cheated and grief pounds. I could tell you about sleepless nights, crazy dreams, well intentioned advice and the standard steps for a journey of grief. I could tell you about my obsessions with obituaries, pineapple pizza, 3 Musketeers Mint candy bars, super soft blankets, a box of decoupaged soap and one cheap white vase. I could tell you about how nothing will ever be normal again.

I just don’t think you’d really understand, though.

I could tell you about the 85 year old lady at the soccer field who was so agile in both mind and body and had a mouth like a sailor. I could tell you how much I loved her at first and then how quickly I found myself resenting her vitality. I could tell you about the thousands of energetic and hopeful women I saw on TV who were walking to cure cancer. I could tell you how I yelled out in disgust, “Oh please, like that will make a difference! People are still going to die!” I could tell you about the lady in the grocery store who needed my help finding bran in the bulk foods department. I could tell you how shockingly livid I became when she told me a young girl like myself probably didn’t know a thing about “being stopped up”.

I just don’t think I really want to talk about those uncomfortable moments, though.

If I tried really hard I could come up with a representative parable full of deep meaning. I could reiterate how all of the standard lessons of life are completely true. I could implore you to connect with your loved ones while they are still alive. I could tell you to hug your kids and to call your mother. I could tell you that life is too short to be ruled by pettiness. I could tell you to count your blessings and appreciate all that you have today. I could tell you how much meaning these lessons take on after it’s too late to do anything about it. I could tell you to live each day as if it were your last and to not waste a moment.

I just don’t think it would really make that much difference, though.

When it comes down to it, I really don’t have a clue what to say about what happened a year ago today. Nothing about it can fit into a tidy little blog. I don’t have any good advice, or valuable lessons or touching revelations to share. When it comes down to it, I guess I feel just a little bit numb today.



Check This Out!

In honor of my mother, head on down to your local drugstore today and buy some nice lotion that smells like freesia or lilac, a couple of extra pair of black ankle socks, a National Enquirer newspaper, and a 2 liter bottle of cola. On your way home, pick up a biography of an old movie star and some Architectural Digest’s from the library. For dinner, you may choose a pineapple pizza from Domino’s Pizza, fish and chips or fettuccine alfredo without that spicy parsley on top. And don’t forget to activate the Bat Phone by calling your daughter and telling her what her brothers and father have been doing.

It Gets Much Worse

I went to the mailbox with thoughts of the economic crisis and our national downfall swirling around in my head. The stock market was plunging, the average consumer could no longer get loans or credit of any kind and the entire nation was waiting to see if Sarah Palin would implode during the Vice Presidential debate. This awful economic and political crisis, the accompanying credit crunch and shocking bank failures and the dramatic failed bailout plan and subsequent recovery plan have worried our entire nation.

But, I must tell you this, my friends. I have really bad news. For you see, it gets much worse. I have been offered a credit card.

In the midst of this unstable, disturbing, national turmoil a bank has offered me a credit card with a limit of $30,000, in my choice of five fashionable colors. The bank was kind enough to include my new convenience checks so that I could begin saving the economy immediately. I was in shock when I opened the mailbox and found the letter, for you see, I barely have a job. Some people would even consider me unemployed. My yearly income can be measured only in the hundreds of dollars. And I can assure you, it’s not a joke, or a conditional deal or some sort of questionable proposition. I’ve read the fine print. If I sign on the bottom line, this deal is a done deal.

And what shocked me more, was that the letter came from Washington Mutual Bank. Correct me if I’m wrong, but haven’t they been having a bit of trouble lately? Technically, do they even exist anymore? While America is losing faith in the entire banking system, it seems that Washington Mutual has placed $30,000 worth of misplaced trust in this almost unemployed, over budget, overwhelmed by her grocery bill, suburban mother of two.

Is it possible we are in far more serious shape than the average American realizes? Do we have this major credit crunch because people like me have been offered such large amounts of undeserved credit? Do we have bank failures because they think almost jobless people like me are credit worthy and should be offered an easy chance to live beyond their means? Does anyone out there have a brain anymore?

I send this notice to you my friends to tell you that something is wrong with this country. I shouldn’t have been offered that credit card. Even if you include the husband’s income, we still shouldn’t have been offered that credit card. A now defunct American bank, in the midst of the most serious national economic situation since the Great Depression, has offered a severely underemployed person $30,000 worth of credit.

This is either very humorous or very disturbing.


Check This Out!

The person that made us laugh the most this week at Slightly Exaggerated was comedienne Chonda Pierce. I can’t tell you how refreshing her honest, vulnerable, southern Christian gal kind of humor has touched us. We laughed until we had to pee. Check her out on You Tube, or at Netflix or at your local library.

Aisle 5B

I had been standing there for over 5 minutes staring at the shelves in aisle 5B. All of the options sounded delicious and very appealing. I didn’t realize however, how hard it would be to narrow the wide variety of alternatives down to just a few. I knew that this decision was turning out to be much more difficult than it really should be. And it was certainly taking up an unreasonable amount of my time. After all, there must have been over 50 different flavors of canned cat food in front of me and I stood there, staring at them all, befuddled and paralyzed with indecision.

I’ve noticed in the past, from their desperate howls and incessant pestering that begins two hours before mealtime, that my 3 cats are quite fond of eating. Eating, after all, is in their top 3 favorite things to do, after sleeping all day in inappropriate and bunglesome locations, and finding annoying and destructive ways to wake me up at night. I thought picking out their favorite canned cat food would be a good way to show my love for those 3 precious kitty fluff balls and at the same time, hopefully, bribe them to stop ripping apart the fabric on the underside of my box spring.

The trouble was, I really had no idea if my cats preferred cat food with gravy or without gravy. Did they feel like eating food that was grilled or sliced? Marinated or minced? Morsels or flakes? Was it a chunky kind of day or a smooth kind of day? A roasted day or a simmered day? Regular or gourmet? And of course, somehow I had to guess what flavors they preferred, given the many options of beef, chicken, liver, giblets, turkey, whitefish, shrimp, crab, tuna, chicken hearts, salmon, cod, sole, mackerel, trout or the mystery flavors of “seafood feast” and “chopped grill”. Of course, if I really loved my cats I would forgo all of the regular choices and go straight to the super expensive restaurant inspired recipes that included long grain rice, garden veggies and greens. I wondered if the cats would like one of the soufflés made with aged cheddar. The meat also sounded more delicious in these pricier meals. The tuna was yellowfin, the salmon was wild, the turkey was tender and the chicken was all white.

With all of these amazing choices how was it possible for anyone to choose? It would take almost two months just to try them all once!

The descriptions on the sides of the cans didn’t make it any easier. Did I want my cats to have “a seductive dining experience” or did I want to “make my cats purr with delight”? Should I chose the “mouthwatering and delectable” or the “succulent and artfully prepared”? I wondered if the “Tuscan inspired, tantalizing and luxurious” meal was tastier than the “chef created recipe of slow cooked beef lavishly basted in gravy”. Should I go for the “delightful, delicate feast” or the “scrumptious, delicious collaboration”? It all sounded so good. My stomach growled. If my cats could talk, what would they tell me to buy?

Of course, I finally came to my senses. I realized that it didn’t make one bit of difference. If my cats could talk they would tell me to grab the closest can, throw it in the basket, check out in the express lane and get home as fast as I could. They would tell me to rip open the top of that can, dump the food in their dish, leave the spoon and can on the floor so they could lick them dry later and then get the heck out of their way. They would then proceed to attack the food with such voracity that anyone who witnessed the spectacle of carnivorous aggression would wonder if they had eaten at all in the last week. It didn’t matter at all what flavor I chose, they would devour it instantaneously. They wouldn’t have a clue what flavor the food even was as they feasted in fast forward. The food would be inhaled so quickly that it would most likely bypass their taste buds entirely and go directly to their stomachs.

And even if somehow my cats were able to discern what flavor the food was, I realized that they wouldn’t care. If they could talk, they wouldn’t in a million years turn to me and say “Aww, salmon again?” Nor would they whine to me, “But I hate chicken!” They would never try to hide their Sliced Ocean Fish Feast underneath their bowls. They would never pick the fresh garden greens out of their Tender Turkey Tuscany meal and try to throw them away in a wadded up paper napkin. I can’t ever see my cats trying to sneak some Marinated Morsels Beef Feast in Gravy to the dog when I wasn’t looking. Nope, I knew my cats and I knew…they would eat anything.

After spending so much time in aisle 5B, I was running a bit late. So on the way home I hit the fast food drive through for dinner. In about 49 seconds had ordered a number 3, paid for it and was fishing for the french fries at the bottom of the bag while I waited for the stoplight to turn green. When I got home I started to eat my hamburger at the dining room table. As usual, one of the cats jumped up to sniff my food and attempt to steal a bite or lick my plate. But after one sniff, the cat jumped right back down again. He didn’t try to steal my food or lick my paper wrapper once. Apparently, my cardboard hamburger wasn’t tantalizing or luxurious enough for my cat. I guess he didn’t think the special sauce was artfully prepared. My grease laden fries definitely didn’t make my cat purr with delight. Apparently, my cats won’t eat just anything.

The cat walked arrogantly away from the table, his nose held high, and sat down next to his food bowl. He then started his obnoxious pre-mealtime howl. Soon, the other two joined in and the howling chorus began. After I wolfed down my forgettable number 3 meal, I took the cat food cans out of the grocery bag and lined them up on the counter. I stood and stared at them for quite some time while the cats continued to howl in desperate despair. All of the options sounded delicious and very appealing. I didn’t realize how hard it would be to narrow it down to just one.


Check This Out!

At Slightly Exaggerated this week we have been enjoying lunches of rice and peas and parmesan cheese with a tiny bit of butter and salt. We eat this lunch while watching old Brady Bunch episodes and have recently realized just how young Greg seems and just how handsome that blue eyed Mr. Brady really was. We also have our favorite Queen song I Want It All on repeat, and have become quite taken with another Queen song, the haunting, Mother Love. Mother Love was recorded just prior to the unmatched Freddy Mercury’s death and wasn’t released until 4 years later on the album, Made In Heaven. And finally, as election day approaches we encourage you to view the following link http://ellen.warnerbros.com/2008/10/breaking_news.php

Confessions of a Suburban Slacker

Check This Out!

Check out my latest work, Confessions of a Suburban Slacker at the website http://www.burbia.com/.

The Fun Parent

I was in a Hallmark store when I was forced to accept the truth. It was many years ago and we were living in an “I” state at the time….Idaho or Indiana…I can’t quite remember which one. The teenager was either in the womb or was a tiny baby. I can’t quite remember which one. I do, however, remember the exact moment in that Hallmark store when the cartoon rooster Foghorn Leghorn made an indelible impression upon me.

I was searching for the perfect greeting card. The husband was not interested in analyzing each one with me. He wandered off. A few aisles away an unsupervised child ran amok. This unattended child had unfortunately found the display of novelty alarm clocks. He then proceeded to try out the unique alarms on each of these clocks. One alarm was a chirping bird. Another was a barking dog. Another alarm sounded like a car alarm going off. I learned it was possible to be awoken by a mooing cow, a honking New York City taxi or a ship full of angry pirates. Apparently, one could also wake up to the sounds of a fire engine, a lawn mower or Barney the dinosaur announcing that it was, “Time to get up, for all my friends!” As the unsupervised child continued to sample each alarm clock, I grew more and more annoyed. Each alarm was more obnoxious than the last one and I was having a difficult time concentrating on my perfect card search. And where was that child’s mother? It was then that Foghorn Leghorn spoke to the entire Hallmark store louder than any of the other alarms had. His booming southern accent echoed throughout the store, “WELL I SAY, I SAY BOY! IT IS TIME TO GET UP! IT IS TIME TO GET UP!”

I could stand it no longer. I had to see what kind of ill-mannered, impolite child could be so ignorant of the unwelcome and continuing commotion he was causing in a public place. I marched myself to the end of the card section and turned the corner to walk up the alarm clock aisle. I saw him immediately. He was standing there with a plastic Foghorn Leghorn in his hands the size of a football and a grin on his face the size of hoagie sandwich.

It was the husband. It was the husband who was standing there enamored with the plastic chicken. It was the husband who was unsupervised. It was the husband who had been testing out every single alarm clock the store had. He saw me and yelled, “Come here! You’ve got to hear this. It’s hilarious!”

And at that moment, right there in that Hallmark store, the truth became crystal clear to me. I knew, that in our family, I was not going to be the fun parent.

Over the years the husband has done many things to uphold his status as the fun parent. He pushed our kids higher on the swings and faster on the merry go round than I would have. At the water park he bypassed the slow winding waterslide in favor of the speed slide from hell. He was the one that rode the roller coasters that flirted with death the minute the kids reached the allowable minimum height. He was the parent who sent the boy, who was only 4, careening on his bike down a huge hill only to watch him crash violently at the bottom. The husband is the one in all the family pictures with the children. I am the one who took the pictures of them while screaming”be careful!” The husband is the one who walks into a store with wet shoes and tries to make a squeaking noise on the linoleum floor as loud and long as he possibly can. While most parents worry about their teenager driving too fast, the husband is encouraging ours to take up drag racing.

Recently, our family visited the science museum. The kids and the husband were thrilled to find out there was a large reptile and amphibian show there that weekend. I however, can’t list a single reptile or amphibian in my top 10 list of favorite animals. I left the husband in charge of the children while I went to buy IMAX movie tickets. When I returned I found my children in the company of an extremely large “biker dude” dressed all in denim and leather and metallic studs. His hair was swept back in a loose pony tail revealing his matching stud earrings and colorful neck tattoo. His name was Slim. The teenager was sitting on his right knee and the boy was perched up against his left knee. His hands were resting on the shoulders of each child. On top of and wound around my precious babies, there was a 21 foot long, 310 pound anaconda boa constrictor snake. The beaming boy couldn’t contain himself. “Mom! Mom! Can you believe this? Slim let us hold his snake Fluffy!” Slim looked pleased, the children looked as happy as I had ever seen them and that awful snake looked very hungry. I don’t know who frightened me more-Slim or Fluffy.

I turned in horror to the husband and gave him “the look”. He grinned and shrugged his shoulders and said, “What? They’re fine. Slim said Fluffy wouldn’t hurt a fly.” And at that moment I knew that the lesson I had learned in that Hallmark store 14 or 15 years ago was still true. I was still not the fun parent.

I have accepted the fact that I am the more cautious parent. I have accepted the fact that I am more likely to say no, think things are a bad idea and be the parent that worries about safety. I am the parent who thinks we should walk into a store and not have the whole store know we’ve arrived. I am the parent who will turn around to discipline the children and find it was the husband causing all the trouble. I am the parent who says, “You don’t have to like it, you just have to do it/eat it/clean it.” I know that I will always be the parent who makes sure the kids are vaccinated in a timely manner, reads “What Your 3rd Grader Should Know” to them and makes sure they get a vitamin once in a while. And I know that the husband will be the parent who makes sure they see Monty Python movies in a timely manner, reads the Lord of the Rings series to them and let’s them drink a little Mountain Dew once in a while.

And thank goodness the teenager and the boy have both of us.


Check This Out!

The science fiction book Ender’s Game by Orson Scott Card comes highly recommended by the boy because you never know what is going to happen next. The teenager recommends the classic TV series Emergency! because Roy and Johnny are soooo brave…..sigh. The husband recommends the new Dodge Challenger because it looks cool and goes really fast. And I recommend leaving your child in a booster seat until they are 4ft 9 inches tall because it’s just safer that way.