I've moved!

After a hiatus to help hubby with some of his work and to set up my new blog, I have moved over to Wordpress.com. The new name is the same as the old one, just the host has changed. So, find me at www.illjuststartagainmonday.wordpress.com. I look forward to hearing from you!

Stephania

Epiphany

My shrink has left me. Retired from private practice. Philistine. How could she? Shrinks are like Moms -- they're always supposed to be there. I actually took the news (delivered by mail in a cheery letter) far better than I expected. Only two tubs of Edy's, four bags of Oreo's Double Stuffed, and maybe 14 or 15 daiquiris were required to see me through the critical first four-day-in-shock period. In case you are worried about drunk driving, fear not. I remained in seclusion during that difficult time.

Since then I have been asking friends for recommendations. What I am really looking for is a good mother -- rather like Mrs. Walton or Mrs. Cosby. By the way, will yours fit the bill and work pro bono or take my insurance?

However, in the last few days my attitude has improved immensely. I had an epiphany in the car a few days ago as I listened to a sad country song about all the years gone by and how I would miss them. These songs usually have me in short order tearfully singing along, nodding and thinking to myself, "Yes, I miss it already!" Afterward I cry and sometimes call my husband Richard to tell him I love him. Poor thing. He finds it confusing to have sniffling wife call him out of the blue to say, "You know I love you, don't you? I mean, in case I die in a car accident or something?"

"Stephania, have you been in a car accident?" he'll ask.

"No." Sniff, sniff.

"Are you alright? What's the matter?"

So then I go into my explanation about the country song and he says, "Awww," and offers to take me out to dinner since I'm feeling down. What a man!

But I digressed from my epiphany. On this occasion, sniffling along to this country song, I asked myself, So what was your life like? What are you leaving behind, exactly? I realized that I grew up in a circus of a family, but I learned a lot in the process and I love them anyway. I realized that I am a wonderful friend to count on in a pinch, but I'm lousy at returning phone calls and emails. I'm very protective of the ones I love, and I have a hard time letting them care for me. I am an embracer of new ideas. I like to see how things can be applied, not how they come apart. I can sometimes be a bull in a china shop, but it is unintentional and I try to rectify any problems I have caused as soon as I can. I saved a man's life once, and might have saved others' at the same time. The number of people I can call friends has to be counted on my toes, my fingers are full. The toes might fill up, too, if I counted people I don't get a chance to talk to very often. I've had some accomplishments, but that's no guarantee that I'll get what I want today. When I don't, it helps me to remember that one of the best yardsticks of my life's achievements is the love I have given. And when I look at that - the love I have given and the love I have received -- my life has been rich and beautiful. I could die right now without any regrets for the past.

I'd be miserable about missing the future, of course. But my epiphany felt good. When I got home and told my husband, Richard about my epiphany he said, "And you're very generous, too. I can just imagine you as a little child, a little toddler, sharing one of your cookies with your brother. I can see you standing there, reaching your hand out to him, with the half cookie in it. Can't you picture that?"

Richard is sweet, but I had to be honest. "No. No way. I'd eat the whole thing and he'd be on his own."

A couple days later I was on the phone with my brother -- the brother with whom I would in theory have shared the cookie -- and I told him about Richard's sweet vision of us. "What do you think?" I asked. "Do you think I would have shared a cookie with you?"

My brother is very diplomatic. "I think kids of that age don't really know how to share yet."

Now you see why I love my family.

The pencil test

Talking about the lovely plump reclining nudes painted by Peter Paul Rubens got me to looking them up on the internet. Do you know what I noticed? All of his women, regardless of the size of their stomachs or their fannies, had round, upright, perky boobs. Boobs that meet the French standard "each should fill a champagne glass -- no more, no less." How is this possible? Maybe when you are 13, first getting boobs, they may be perky and small, even though the rest of you is five sizes larger. (I was.) But that lasted for about one year.

Does anyone remember the pencil test? That was something we did in junior high. You were supposed to put a pencil under your breast, and if it stayed there it meant you had larger breasts and were more "mature." The cheerleaders passed the pencil test. I passed the pencil test. Passing the pencil test was highly desirable back then. Unfortunately, due to the ravages of time and far too many Tostitos with nacho cheese dip, I can now pass the first graders box-of-eight crayons test. You know those big boxes of 64 crayons? I figure that by the time I'm 90, the chances are good I'll pass that one. Then I'll have to shoot myself.

On artists and firemen

Guess what I learned yesterday? Firemen are often artists. As if firemen weren't hunky enough, the work schedule -- three or four days on, then three or four days off -- works very well for artists, who like large blocks of time for the muse to take over their bodies as they paint or sculpt with their shirts off and their pants clinging suggestively around their manly hips. Oh, my -- somebody hand me a fan, I find myself becoming a bit overheated.
I don't know about you, but I and many of my less-than-svelte friends have all been drawn to artists at one time or another. Unfortunately, having an artist as a love-mate is a bit of a crap-shoot. On the one hand, they are misunderstood, wounded, tearing out their hearts and putting it forth to the world in their art. So alluring, especially to those of us who feel under-appreciated ourselves. On the other hand, America does not have a crying need for full and part-time artists. They are usually paupers, living on the incomes of -- you guessed it -- their love mates. I was lucky enough to actually snag and marry a painter who has a day job that pays the mortgage. Artists, aside from the whole soulful suffering romantic mystique, are particularly popular among larger women because they often view the female form differently than their male peers. My wonderful husband, for example, described my size 24 rear end and size 18 top as "like a sumptuous pear." All of my girlfriends wanted to clone him.
Photographers, on the other hand, are iffy. I am not a photographer, and hence don't know the proper terms, but if they are gentlemen, they will airbrush or use blurry focus to help disguise any flaws in their paramour's physiques. Some, however, are hell bent on doing studies of interesting textures - such as cellulite and flab -- regardless of the psychological effect on the subject of the photographs. Date and mate photographers with extreme caution.
Apparently the women-of-all-sizes-are-interesting-and-and-even-beautiful-subjects-for-painting/sculpting/shooting (ideally not with a gun) world view on the part of modern male artists can be traced back to Peter Paul Rubens (I'm not sure if they named the candy bar after him or not). He's the one who painted the lovely reclining nudes, virtually all of whom were plump or more by today's standards. Although he painted in a very realistic style, he often draped his subjects artfully -- which in my opinion did wonders to direct the eye away from any unfortunate imperfections.
Well, if you decide you do want to risk your luck with an artist, I recommend buying a cheap cut of steak, a pan without non-stick coating, and some black powdered eye shadow. Put the steak on the pan on high, go into your room, and put some eye shadow on your hands. Rub them together vigorously. Then rub your face and hair, leaving smudges. Give another dose of eye shadow to your sleeves and upper body. Finish with your hands. By now the steak should be burning and smoking on the stove and setting off the fire alarm. DO NOT TAKE IT OFF THE STOVE!!!! You want as much smoke in the house as possible! Wait until you hear the pounding on the door, then stagger over, coughing like crazy, and claim you were in the other room asleep and your roommate left food cooking on the stove. With luck, one of the firemen will be the artist of your dreams.

That which doesn't kill you...

People say that adversity is good for you: "That which doesn't kill you only makes you stronger." Who came up with that horse hockey? Adversity makes me upset, which makes me bite my nails, which makes my hands look awful, giving me bad manicure day. Bad manicure days (BMDs) are every bit as emotionally devastating to a woman as bad hair days, and everyone knows that the only cures for BHDs are fabulously expensive spa days, frozen strawberry daiquiris, and Haagen Dazs. In liberal quantities.

I hate adversity. And isn't life filled with it? I have decided that anything that ends with e, y, or r is stressful enough to warrant a trip to the nearest Krispy Kreme or Godiva store. Consider these words: marriage, divorce, date, murder, mother, husband's mother, baby, teenager, natural disaster, or -- my all purpose word to cover any situation or need -- calamity. Do they not all end with e, y, or r? Are they not maddening enough to drive one to despair (another "r" word!), or -- dare I say it? -- thoughts of suicide? Surely these require -- no, demand -- immediate relief! But what to do??

Alas, in my case, that which doesn't kill me usually sends me straight to the refrigerator. But what I really need is an all-expenses-paid lifetime membership at the nearest fabulously expensive spa...

On the size of men (not what you think!)

One thing I want clear from the beginning: this is a blog for women. It's not that I don't have sympathy for men of girth, it's just that they have it easier than we do. They're far more desirable on the dating market than women of size. Why? Because walking into a room on the arm of a large man makes your butt look smaller, that's why. Short rotund men are even better, because not only do they slim the thighs and buttocks, they make one appear taller and slimmer overall, rather like supermodel Emme. I believe we should have a rating system, a BQ (Butt Quotient), measuring the extent to which this male's body slims the body of the woman next to him. Vincent D'Onofrio (whom I consider to be a sex god anyway) would rate a good 7 on a scale of 1 to 10. He might score higher but he is too tall. Bono (another god in my libido's firmament) would be about a 4. He'd score higher, but he's not wide enough.

Whatever you do, beware the man with tight buns and washboard abs. Jeffrey Donovan, who pays Michael Westen in
Burn Notice, would score a minus 10 on the BQ scale. Unless you happen to have been born blessed with perfect womanly curves that his skinny little rear will bring into sharp contrast (say, 36-24-36), your every defect will be magnified. Avoid men like this at all cost, although this advice can be modified in certain ethnic groups and subcultures. I heard a wonderful song on a country station the other day extolling the virtues of a woman holding onto her beer gut, which gave her more for him to love. Please clone that man and his friends.

Now, if you are a large gentlemen who happens to be reading this blog today and doubts my word, I tell you all that you need is a bit of panache. Think of yourself as Nero Wolfe, or as my beloved Bono. Get yourself some impeccable outfits, imagine yourself walking into the room with Angelina Jolie in stiletto heels on your arm, hanging on your every word, and hot as hell for you. Everyone is jealous of you. You are an intelligent man with a very keen sense of taste. You can show a lady a fabulous time anywhere from Ristorante Enoteca Pinchiorre in Florence (arguably one of the top 20 restaurants in Europe) to your handsomely accessorized boudoir. You tiger, you.

Consider these things well, ladies, the next time you select your escort for a social function. Just remember my mantra: The bigger his gut, the smaller your butt!

Food Trackers Vs. Exercise Trackers

If you have linked to this blog, you may have gathered that I am a person who -- like you -- regularly peruses the internet, hoping to find motivation, information, and inspiration for my latest attempt at weight loss. I've signed up at many a website to track my calorie intake and exercise outgo -- and all of them are a pain the rear to fill out every day. I usually quit within two weeks. Especially the food trackers. I mean really! Not only do they make you lie and feel guilty for doing so, but looking up the contents of every casserole and sandwich? (With this economy, I actually cook some things from scratch.) Give me a break! Logging exercise, on the other hand, isn't necessarily as bad, because everything you log makes you feel virtuous. I especially like logging my steps. I think of it as rather like camouflage exercise. No aerobics, no heavy lifting, and I have to walk every day. And it still counts! I've even gotten into the habit of wearing a pedometer everywhere I go, which makes me look like a regular exerciser to people who don't know me. At any rate, I decided it was time for the chronically diet challenged to have a place to go to share the delights (stuffed crust pizza with pepperoni, sausage, and mushrooms) and despair (OMG, could that half pound of M&Ms I scarfed last night have caused this monster zit on my chin?) of falling of the salad, Perrier, and broiled fish wagon. Remember, to save calories, just dip your fork in the dressing with each bite. Or not.

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