Twin Lakes, Wisconsin- a tiny hamlet with excitement for all.
There is a flea market near Sissy and Big Bro's lake house that is truly an experience that shouldn't be missed. Not only is it your one stop shop for anything from a full set of BetaMax movies to terrifying clown dolls, but I have seen, on more than one occasion, a truly impressive set of truck balls (Not familiar? Why, you have hardly lived a full life. Check it out.) in the parking lot, and there's a lady that drives around in a golf cart selling to-go Fuzzy Navels and Bloody Mary's. You never want for entertainment and strange used things from other people's homes.
When Big Bro showed this picture he took at last weekend's flea market to me last night, I had to share immediately.
Cute kid, right? (Gladiator sandals! They're EVERYWHERE!) Let's pull back on the scene.
All together... awwwwwwww. And... hahaha! I mean, That little girl has gotta be just out of the stroller herself- in my imagination, they take turns pushing each other. Still- let's pull out on the whole scene, shall we? I like to think that the look in Grandma #1's eyes here is a little jealousy upon seeing the set-up that Grandma #2 is rockin'.
Let's look at that sweet ride one more time.
I always used to envision myself as a silly old lady tooling around on a lollipop-colored scooter wearing a crazy big helmet like The Great Gazoo, but I think I have just gotten a glimpse at my future destiny.
While I got sucked in by the British Bachelor (that accent!), I've never been a huge fan of dating shows. My tastes in the reality genre tend to the dance and cooking competitions (Hell's Kitchen! FTW!) Despite my usual disdain for the genre, I was pumped for Fox's premiere of it's new "Bachelor for Big Folks", More To Love. I watched this show last night determined to discover exactly why I despised it. Full disclosure: I am shamefully, sheepishly hooked.
Perhaps my enjoyment of the show stems from the fact that I find it refreshing that there's a reality show about plus size people that is not a weight loss competition, but I found myself enjoying More To Love.
There's an air of tastefulness to the show... well, as much tastefulness as a reality dating show can muster. I am consistently amazed at the lengths people will go to in order to get on tv; 20 women attempt to generate enough lusty feelings for one man to have them spouting such vapidity as "I could really marry this man!" after about one hour in his presence. Are you really that desperate for love? Or desperate for the innate approval that comes from the attention you derive as a reality tv star? (I think it's the second one!)
There is definitely a train wreckiness to the show: height and weight are listed for each woman (and Luke, our schlubby bachelor) along with age and career. In the same breath with which I was damning the producers for exploiting these poor women, I also found myself comparing my own stats to theirs. (Brilliant marketing tool? I THINK YES!) There was the typical "shameless attention grab" in which one of the girls artlessly jumped in the pool fully clothed, as well as two sleaze-out "gimme a kiss" seduction moments (one such attempt mounted while Luke had another girl sitting next to him on the couch. AWKWARD). Finally, previews for future episodes feature plenty of hefty hanky-panky scenes, as well as what looks to be a fairly delicious girl-fight, complete with battery by floral arrangement. Count me in!
What I appreciate about the show is the candid nature with which the girls speak and behave. While some viewers were undoubtedtly turned off by the admittedly obvious pity editing, watching these girls support each other on body image (bonding over mutual enjoyment of Spanx!), throw up the armor in the face of rejection, and light up when given diamond rings- this show's "rose ceremony" trinket- only to appear so dejected when told they had to give them back for the ceremony (indian giver!!) hits a little TOO close to home for this single, zaftig blogger.
This show is NOT revolutionizing the world view on body image. But it is a show enjoyable, at least in its premiere, for it's mindful portrayal of the "average" American.
Yeah, they're BOTH totally checking her out. Rock on with your bad self, Obama! Ps... anyone else think Sarkozy is the least French-sounding name ever?
I really don't mean to examine the world of products developed for "down there" on a daily basis here on Fonzipan, but I couldn't bypass the Cuchini, the product developed due to the mass conversion to the Brazilian. As the website states, there "ain't no bush for the cush". I have to tell you, I never made the connection myself. Clearly, I have not been using my time wisely.
As if we needed more things to worry about... now we need to stick a cup in our panties? When do we say "enough is enough"? Do guys have such questionable products? Now I have to investigate.
Almost as good as spontaneous public dancing... T-Mobile introduces mass karaoke, and everyone appears to be having a blast. Why, WHY does everyone in England always look like they're up for a good prank?
PS: at :40 and 2:02... is that Pink, or is it just me??
So it turns out the early bird special yesterday was lovely. No mention of my expiring ova by mom, everyone seemed to have a nice time, and it was absolutely BEAUTIFUL outside, which always helps when you're at a restaurant next to a river. Phew!! Now, on to more exciting news.
Sis-in-law's caper went off without a hitch yesterday. Background: Big Bro and Sis-in-law have some of the most annoying neighbors possible, if you can call being connected to a drug cartel "annoying". The shoot-outs and police raids tend to the extreme side of irritation. Frankly, the 4 charming offspring that flip you off as you walk by (plus a 6 month old PLUS a bun in the oven) and the parties until 2 am are more annoying- as these happen much more often.
Anyway, The Cartel (as we'll call them) have been unsuccessfully trying to sell their house for about 3 years now... something about the barking guard dogs and inability to let prospective buyers see the garage is PROBABLY hindering their success.
Sis-in-law, an ex-Catholic, has decided to return to her roots in order to take matters into her own hands. Enter the St. Joseph Statue, Jesus' earthly pappy and patron saint of carpenters. Apparently, if you bury a St. Joseph statue in the yard of the home you're trying to sell (or buy), and say a prayer every day for two weeks, the home will sell faster. Who says spell-casting only belongs to Wiccans?
Sis-in-law, ready to do just about anything to get The Cartel out of her hair, snuck over to The Cartel's house yesterday (while they were at a Christening!) and buried her own little St. Joseph.
Let's help her out- the real prayer is below, but that's super-long, so I think we'll try a shorter one, but if we all say it for her, it'll probably work.
"St. Joseph, hear my prayer..Pimp This House, Y'all!!"
PRAYER TO SAINT JOSEPH FOR SELLING A HOUSE O, Saint Joseph, you who taught our Lord the carpenter's trade, and saw to it that he was always properly housed, hear my earnest plea. I want you to help me now as you helped your foster-child Jesus, and as you have helped many others in the matter of housing. I wish to sell this [house/property] quickly, easily, and profitably and I implore you to grant my wish by bringing me a good buyer, one who is eager, compliant, and honest, and by letting nothing impede the rapid conclusion of the sale.
Dear Saint Joseph, I know you would do this for me out of the goodness of your heart and in your own good time, but my need is very great now and so I must make you hurry on my behalf. Saint Joseph, I am going to place you in a difficult position with your head in darkness and you will suffer as our Lord suffered, until this [house/property] is sold. Then, Saint Joseph, i swear before the cross and God Almighty, that i will redeem you and you will receive my gratitude and a place of honour in my home. Amen.
Kim Kardashian, after a hard day's...work? Yeah, we'll go with work.
Morrissey at the Coachella Festival... apparently the Grandaddy of EMO eats his feelings as much as I do...
My Amy... with a hella-giant burn on her leg from "cooking pasta" (read: meth lab mishap). Also, according to the Daily Mail, Amy is considering moving to St. Lucia in order to adopt some of the local children. All I can say is, if her house is made of gingerbread, run. RUN CHILDREN! BEFORE SHE FEEDS AGAIN!!
I love birthdays. I especially love birthdays that fall on Dancing Thursdays. Oh Also Beth... what joy you bring to the Fonzipan world on your birthday!!
In honor of your birthday and your love of the little people... enjoy.
Mini Michael and Also Beth deserve your praise, readers. Shower them with it!
Henrik Stenson in Florida (!) during the opening round of the WGC-CA Championship. Stenson stripped to his skivvies on his CADDIE'S ADVICE, who is evidently the most convincing woman in the world: "Oh, you don't want to get mud on your clothes. Take the shot in your underwear. Tell you what, I'll help clean you up!" Get that woman to talk to Robert Pattinson, and I'll give her a medal.
Sidenote: where does one apply to become a caddie? I could hack it.
People do weird things in the name of assisting others.
I'm intrigued by a website that Sis-In-Law sent me, Pimp This Bum. It's filled with WTF's... not the least of which is the criminal overuse of Everlast's What You Like. I hate that f-ing song. At first glance, it looks like this website is just stripping these men of their dignity, but on closer inspection, it doesn't. In fact, they are treated like human beings, and the use of humor and shock value to grab people's attention certainly works.
I'm interested in documentarists... like naturalists, they never seem to get involved with their subject, hoping instead to remain objective. This is troubling to me; how do you not help someone on the street that you have been working with for months? I'm all for raising awareness, but how do you walk away?
Thursdays are dance days... and while this one does not fill me with spasms of delight like a group of people spontaneously breaking into rhythm, the score at the end is what makes this for me!
Birv here. I understand that portable technology is a grand thing, and allows us to be in contact at times when we previously haven't been.
We must remember that there are certain times in which being in contact with people is still...taboo.
Do you remember when you lived in a house with a corded phone? Where was the phone located? Was it in the bathroom? It was not, was it?
That's right, there was a time where potty privacy was a deeply held belief. To many, including Birv, the bathroom is still a place where one can go to escape from the techno-saturated world. Some people don't like to have their every bathroom noise broadcast to your pals on the other end of the line, and we certainly don't care if you're going to a job fair, and whether or not Janice wants to go.
The joy of your phone being portable? It is NOT attached to you. You can leave it at your desk. The 2 minutes it takes for you to pee is a time that someone can wait for you to return the call.
Let's have a little Emily Post moment here: just because you CAN bring your phone into the bathroom doesn't mean you SHOULD bring it into the bathroom.
Kisses.
Thanks to Geekologie for the picture, and for (hopefully) understanding the laptop stays outside the potty.
To blog or not to blog... that is the question. According to the Daily Mail, Salma Hayek breastfed a stranger's child while she was filming in Sierra Leone. I am SO conflicted about this, I don't even know what to say.
On one hand, that's incredibly selfless, noble and amazing.
On the other... WTF?!?!?!?! That's so crazy middle ages that my puritanical, overly-sanitized Western mind can't comprehend it.
There's a youtube post on the Daily Mail site... but I draw the line there.
I have the same pre-teen horror that I had when I read The Grapes of Wrath. Grandpa! nooo!
Stop the presses... News of the World discovered a 23 year old male hits the bong once in a while. Here's how Michael Phelps is proving that he is indeed an upstanding citizen and a worthy role model: if he weren't suffering from apparent pool/doob-induced oxygen deprivation, he could have totally denied that was him. Be honest... it looks like every dude you hung out with in college, doesn't it?
And yet... he admitted to it. Here he is, from the Associated Press:
"I engaged in behavior which was regrettable and demonstrated bad judgment," Phelps said in the statement released by one of his agents. "I'm 23 years old and despite the successes I've had in the pool, I acted in a youthful and inappropriate way, not in a manner people have come to expect from me. For this, I am sorry. I promise my fans and the public it will not happen again."
News flash- Michael Phelps also hangs out in Vegas strip clubs, drinks booze, and totally takes advantage of the scads of pussy his fame grants him. *GASP!* Come on. He's 23. Would you any different? Especially if, for the first time in your young life, you went from being "that dorky dude with the Dumbo ears that never leaves the pool" to being the supreme god of all things athletic?
If you want to be a bastion of morality and eliminate people that have ever rocked the ganj from your life- you would have to remove the president from office, stop watching TV, throw out all your books and delete every single song from your iPod that you've ever listened to.
The real crime here? That Michael Phelps didn't appear to understand what the bright flashy thing was that went off in the hand of the weird guy that ran away shouting "Yes!!! CHACCHHHINGGGG!!"
THAT'S the Amy Winehouse I know and love. According to the source for All Things Amy Daily Mail, Legitimate Actor (media whore) Josh Bowman has returned to England, and my girl is back- stealing drinks from other hotel guest's tables and throwing drinks on newlyweds. Phew!!! Life is back to normal.
Honestly- if it isn't invasive comments about my physical being, it's presumptuous questions about my love life.
There's something about being a single woman that seems to enable people, with the same inability to respect boundaries that encourages comments about my weight to ask about my dating life. "How's your love life?" Non-existent, thanks for pointing that out. "Any new boys on your horizon?" Several, and all appear to be retreating hastily. Look- off they run! Whee!
This group of people seems to be limited to married people, particularly women. Is it a sense of maddening superiority that causes them to ask this question every time I see them? Honestly- it's been two days. Do you think someone's suddenly declared their undying love to me in line at Walgreens when I'm picking up acne cream and pads? Do you think I have a secret husband I keep locked in the closet?
Trust me, I'm not that private. If something was going on, you'd know. I'd twirl around singing "I'm in love I'm in love and I don't care who knows it!!"
Just ask Katie Holmes, who got to spend her 30th birthday blissfully Tom Cruise-free. Does it look to anyone else like Tom Cruise has been sucking the life force out of her to preserve his tiny body? "MUST EAT BRAAAAAAINS!!"
My weight is a battle I am ever waging. I have a vision that the day my thighs drop the saddlebags and the jiggling of my upper arms no longer causes the butterfly effect, I will magically meet any one of my imaginary boyfriends (Lee Pace, I'm looking at you tonight), and he will fall in love with me instantly, from across a crowded room. Naturally, as we're walking towards each other, eyes alight with finding our soul mate in each other, a giant, many-tentacled alien will destroy the planet. Such is my luck.
Wait, where was I? Oh right... I'm fat. Anyway, I've been hanging with the peeps at Jenny Craig lately, and have been losing some weight. Yay! The downside, people have eyeballs. When people notice things, they love to talk about the things they notice. Somehow, in the Great American Lexicon of Poor Manners, I missed the chapter that a change in your appearance becomes an open invitation to random passersby to dissect your personal style.
I am completely flabbergasted by the nerve of my co-workers- indeed, some people with whom I have NEVER spoken- to come up to me and discuss not only my weight, but my hair (color, cut, whether I wear it up or down), my makeup (my particular favorite was being called "dewy, but too heavy on the eyemakeup"), whether I look better with glasses or contacts, the clothes that I wear, the collection of shoes under my desk, what I eat ("is that Jenny approved?" Who knows? Keep working on those curly fries). It's like working on a noticeable flaw gives people carte-blanche to point out everything that is wrong with you. Settle down people, I'm rehabbing the kitchen, not rebuilding the house.
Throughout these overweening conversations, I inexplicably find myself dumbstruck, smiling and trying to explain my fashion choices to my meddling turkey of a conversant. Why of course I DO look better with my hair down. You're right, I should go and buy hairdye tonight! Better yet, I'll do it at lunch!
It's only after these overfamiliar exchanges have taken place and the intrusive peck has walked away from my desk that I feel the sting of the back-handed insult buried in there.
It brings me to ask, if this is you with a filter, what are you really thinking? However, I often wonder whether or not people really do have a filter when it comes to situations like this. People genuinely think they are being helpful, and tact doesn't come into play when giving unsolicited advice. People blurt out whatever alights on the gentle breezes of their minds.
For all my self-righteous indignation, I'm no exception. I am an overly-opinionated bossy boots with enough knowledge to talk about anything, and abounding gall to fake what I don't know. So where does this verbal diarrhea come from? Why do we feel compelled to say whatever is on our minds about how others live their peaceable existences, without any regard for what is likely a carefully thought out personal choice?
Simple- we always think we're right. It is human nature to judge others by our own pushy, self-assertive life code. It is inconceivable to think that others live by an equally effective, though disparate set of choices/values/plans. This is the delicate eggshell-thin construct of our own EGO. We are constantly checking the mental checklist of our life (choices, actions, experiences) against those of other people. Are we normal? Are we appropriate? Are we right?
Deep down, I know that most people don't have vicious intentions when scrutinizing every aspect of my being. For most, it is a message of solidarity, their way of showing that they are supportive of my lame attempts at self-improvement. I just wish that I could be going through rehab or something less noticeable... maybe then Joyce would keep her hands to herself and not pull the top of my shirt up: "You're a pretty girl. You don't need to rely on your tits. Cover those up."
This is a looong 'un... written entirely while I was waiting tonight. Who says one can't be productive with nothing to do? Feel free to skip to the material for short attention spans below this post if you like.
I have dined alone at a restaurant before, though usually by my own choice. I have been lucky enough to say (minimal though my dating history may be) that I have never been stood up. Tonight, however, I must admit that this is precisely what’s happened.The embarrassing truth is that tonight, I was stood up by an eighty-three year old woman.
I’ve discussed Pat, the woman I call my “pseudo-grandma” on this site before.Having first been introduced when my mother worked at the law firm at which I was later employed, Pat took a shine to me and she and I see plays, operas, the odd night at the symphony.She’s one of the few people I can count on to always be up for something “cultural”.During the fall, we have season tickets to The Court Theater, located on campus of University of Chicago. Nice digs, indeed. We usually meet for dinner before the show, and we decided to try someplace new.
Earlier this week we had planned on meeting at Orly’s, a restaurant recommended by the theater at 6 pm.I arrive a few minutes late, and I am enthusiastically greeted by a short, round host with a very heavy, yet unplaceable accent. As I’m being seated, I take in the odd décor- garish murals depicting a range of themes: mainly centering on tex-mex, baking and barbecue. I also have seen enough to realize I am the sole patron of the place tonight. Being a new restaurant to our repertoire, I realize Pat must be late.
I’m starting to grow a little bored, so I begin texting a friend to pass the time, a captain’s log of sorts: “Pseudo-grandma is late. I’m the only one in the restaurant. I feel like I’m a castaway on a desert island, with the locals staring at me.”
I sit, and while I eat a dry, but warm cornbread muffin, I jovially explain to the host and my server that someone will soon be joining me. After fifteen minutes, I try calling Pat. Her cell phone is off, which is not unusual- at eighty-three, she detests the thing and it gives an unholy squeal in her hearing aids that I can usually hear across the table.
Dressed as I am in my theater finery, and experiencing an atypically fantastic hair day (an ode to the power of hemp oil shampoo!), it is natural for my attendants at the restaurant to assume that I am waiting on a date. My waiter asks “Is he running late?” to which I respond with an inadvertently cryptic “She.” My waiter gives me a double take that I don’t immediately understand. As he walks away, it dawns on my why he looked at me with somewhat unflattering surprise.
“Captain’s Log: 15 minutes and waiting. The natives are friendly, and have brought me sustenance. Through a possible error in comprehension, my waiter could possibly think I’m a lesbian.” Due to a few low-toned and completely distressing comments to me about how he wouldn’t ignore a girl that looks as good as I do, I make no effort to dissuade him of this notion.
I order chips and guacamole. The guacamole is pre-made and still frozen and the chips are stale. I continue to eat them, partly because I want to look like I have purpose in the restaurant, and partly because the idle wait staff is standing right by me… staring. With only me to attend to, I am experiencing a bit more attention from the wait staff than I’d like, particularly while I am waiting longer and longer for an individual who is clearly not going to show.
“Captain’s Log: 30 minutes and waiting. The natives are now looking at me with pity. They appear to question whether I had a dining partner at all. Indeed… at this point, so do I. Did I create pseudo-grandma as some deserted dining mirage??” I try Pat’s cell phone several more times, each time going straight to voicemail. While I wait, the music, a generic piano concerto that isn’t quite Muzak and isn’t quite worth listening to repeats three times.My waiter, waggling his eyebrows in a suggestive manner, asks me if he thinks my date isn’t going to show. I decide to finally set the record straight, but trying to explain my relationship with Pat is difficult, and I end up babbling non-sensically to the guy. As I look at the bemused expression in his eyes, I realize I am giving him far more information than he cared to know, and probably asserting in his mind that I have gotten stood up by a date and I am now trying to save face. I should have just told him she was my grandmother.
Forty minutes in, and I am genuinely worried about Pat. The woman does more in a day than a Marine, and stays up later than any 21 year old I know, but she is in her eighties and driving in from the suburbs. I know from personal experience that driving with Pat is a singularly terrifying ordeal, and I begin to worry that she has gotten in an accident.I decide to call her house number, which she answers. She has forgotten the play.
“Captain’s Log: 40 minutes and final entry. It’s official, I have been stood up by an 83 year old woman. I shall never leave the dining island. There is no hope!!”I finally break down and order ribs, and from my waiter’s smug expression as I hang up the phone, I know that he is certain that I have been stood up.As he delivers my ribs, he says in a quiet voice that shows that he is hoping his boss won’t hear “you look too good to leave alone tonight!”Wide-eyed, horrified, I use my best defense mechanism for when someone (sadly, anyone) shows interest in me; I laugh far too loud, and pretend I don’t understand him until he walks away.I choke down my ribs as fast as I can manage, which is difficult, because they can only be described as a boiled shoe covered in ketchup and cherry jam.
I ended up paying $35 for my crap dinner tonight, a wholly wasted experience. I did meet Pat at the play, which was like the CLIF notes version of MacBeth. The best thing I can say about tonight is that it ended quickly. And that I still have amazing hair.
All together... awwwwwwww. And... hahaha! I mean, That little girl has gotta be just out of the stroller herself- in my imagination, they take turns pushing each other. Still- let's pull out on the whole scene, shall we? 
I like to think that the look in Grandma #1's eyes here is a little jealousy upon seeing the set-up that Grandma #2 is rockin'.
