Diary of a Crazy Track Lady 7-24-10

July 24, 2010

July 24, 2010

Well, it’s been 20 days (more or less) since you’ve decided to revamp your eating and exercising routine. I must admit, I had my doubts about it at first. But, I see you are serious this time and are doing everything you can to keep yourself on track to a new you. Okay, so you back slid a little bit last weekend. That’s okay, it was a wedding after all and it would have been rude to the guests of honor to not eat and drink alcohol, right? (Yep, keep telling yourself that).

Actually, I want to let you in on a little secret…it is OK to drink alcohol and eat crap food every now and then, AS LONG AS YOU DO IT IN MODERATION! Take only a handful of chips, put the bag back in the pantry, and savor the few you have in your hand. If you’re still hungry for something salty, eat a pickle spear. You’re not craving the JUNK, you’re craving the SALT!If you want a sweet treat, have a small piece of chocolate (which is good for the heart) slowwwwwly. It tastes so much better that way and it will keep you from wanting to eat the whole package.

As for the alcohol…watch the intake with that. It’s nothing but sugar. And, with the cran juice, the calories just add up quickly. It was very wise of you to stop your daily nightcaps, but don’t deny yourself the chance to have a drink or two on the weekends. Again, everything in moderation, right?

Guess what? You HAVE lost some weight! I know you didn’t step on the scale at the beginning of this “new you” phase, but everything has begun to feel a little looser. The Duff Beer shorts no longer pinch your waist. That’s a great sign, ya know? And by the way, the number on the scale is  not to be obsessed over — so don’t start weighing yourself all the time. What’s important is the way you feel about yourself, and how much healthier you can become by eating the foods your body needs. not what you want.

Speaking of which, have you made the connection that eating healthier foods has stopped the cravings? Yep, that’s the secret. Smaller portions, throughout the day, keeps the hunger pains at bay. In fact, you’re really not craving anything, ever, because you’re always eating!

Who knew it was this easy? Okay, so you knew it a couple years ago. And you stopped eating well. Well, look what happened. Okay, okay, I won’t beat you up over it, but I want you to continue doing what you’re doing because you’ve learned something valuable here. Don’t lose the lesson again, okay?


Future Self


Diary of a Crazy Track Lady 7-10-10

July 10, 2010

Hi there, lady! I am so happy to see you again. I just wanted to take a moment to say “YAY, YOU!” for your excellent work this past week. I am glad we’ve both decided to get back on track with exercising and eating healthier.  It hasn’t been too bad, eh?

I like how we’re starting to feel….again. It’s been awhile since we’ve had a chance to experience the endorphin rush, hasn’t it? Wow, how I have missed that post-aerobo-dogging calmness! I am sooooo glad we started that up again. And best of all, it’s FREE! Okay, so the idea of joining a fitness program and working out sounds wonderful, but why spend the money when we can use our neighborhood as our gym? The economy is tight enough as is, and we’re already stretched beyond our means. So, back to strapping the harness on your BEST PERSONAL TRAINER EVER, and away we can go –out to dance, sing, jog and fret about like the “crazy track lady” you’ve become. TAKE THAT, fancy health clubs!

Keep up the great work. I’ll be checking back in on you to make sure you’re remaining focused and inspired. Remember, two and a half years ago how HOT you looked? Well, we can and will get back there again. I’m in charge now, and I am NOT going to sit back and watch you fail again!

I’ll see you in a few days. And remember, I am here for you.


Future Hot Self

Reconnecting with the Past

October 12, 2009

I dedicate this post to a friend from my past — if you’ve followed my url, you’ll know who you are.

I turned 45 last Friday, yet I don’t feel 45. Sure, I feel older — bones creak more, gravity has taken its toll, and now with “the change” coming, I find myself weeping during commercials with puppies in them. Why? I don’t know, it just seems like something I should do without feeling embarrassed by it. Getting older is like old people and farts — these things happen, sometimes when you aren’t even looking.

But, I want to specifically dedicate THIS post to my past. To a “certain person” I met years ago (almost 19 now, wow) who was no doubt one of the funniest men I have ever met. He knows who he is.

It’s weird how we’ve managed to reconnect. A few nights ago, and for reasons still unknown to me, I dreamt about him. I dreamt he was working in an on-the-road traveling comedy troupe, and I saw him one night up on stage. (If you knew the guy, you’d say “Yep, that’s where he needs to be”)  I shouted “Hey! I know that dude!” and tried to get his attention, but he just ignored me, called security and went on his merry way — by riding in the back of a truck that delivers new cars to dealerships. (Hey, it’s MY dream, I can’t explain it — these dreams just “happen”). But I woke up from that dream thinking two things: “WTF?” followed quickly by the infamous “I wonder if he’s on Facebook…?”

(Oh yea — about Facebook. I wrote about that networking site a few months ago. Well, I’m not feeling so high school “uncool” anymore over there. After whining about my lack of being included at “the cool kids table”, I got enough people to validate my existence that I don’t feel so “climb the clock tower”ish anymore. So, I’ve decided to hang around there a little while longer.)

I’m glad I did too. After this completely random, incongruent, and inexplicable dream I had, I logged onto Facebook, did a quick search and — holy highballs! He’s on there! Wow. What a moment of serendipity for me. And, he hasn’t changed a bit. At least not from what I can tell.

He and I share a tiny bit of history that still makes me laugh out loud whenever I think about it. Noooo, not THAT kind of history. Sheesh. I’ve often used this particular moment in our history as a great attention-getter in class. I start with the line: “Wanna hear about the time I smuggled something illegally into the country?” Nothing quiets a class of middle school students down faster than hearing their Cheez Whiz and Wonderbread of a teacher say the words “smuggle” and “illegally” in the same sentence. (Of COURSE we do, Mrs. B, we’d be idiots not to get the goods on our teacher to use at a later date!)

Of course the REAL story to my smuggling is way different than what transpires in the under-developed, nefarious minds of the young adolescent, but it makes for great story telling. Especially when I include what might possibly be the funniest, gut-busting line of all times ever uttered by any human: “I know this might sound gross, but how big is your anus?”

Wow. Almost 19 years later, and I’m STILL laughing about this. That’s some heavy duty comedy fire power.

Thanks, Dan, for making me laugh after all these years. I’m so glad we’ve reconnected.

Conversations with My Muse: Choices We Make

August 10, 2009

Ow, ow, ow…

What’s wrong?

I’m old, that’s what’s wrong.

You, old? You’re only 47!

What the hell, I’m only 44 — 45 this October.

Ohhhh, you mean you didn’t just turn 47 this year?

No. That was my spouse.

Ah, well I knew there was a 47 year old living somewhere in your house.

Yea, he’s the older dude, going gray.

That happens. Well, it happens to others.

What do you mean by that?

Well, look at me, for instance. How “old” do you think I look?

Yea, yea, I get it — you don’t look a day older than 24.

And HOW old am I really?

Well, I’m not sure. We’ve never really established that, have we?

Older than Jesus, if you believe that kind of stuff.

Oh, I’m definitely a Christian. Just not “that” kind of Christian.

What do you mean by “not that kind of Christian”?

Creationists. I am not a big believer in that theory.

Oooh, are we here to discuss theology? This could be quite the debate.

Eh, not so much. It’s so hard to get good, solid debates going with people nowadays.

How come?

Someone always gets pissed off. It seems that I can’t say a damn thing anymore without risking getting someone’s knickers in a knot.

Knickers? What are those?


Again, what are those?

Aw come on, you know what pants are, don’t you?

Um, do you see what I’m wearing here?

You mean your toga?

Yes. I’ve had this on for several thousand years now. Of course I change it from time to time, add a couple of extra fig leaves and olive branches where and when necessary, but it’s pretty much all I have in my wardrobe.

How boring.

Well, yes and no. It makes it a lot simpler to choose what to wear in the morning. I don’t have to stand in my closet and think too hard about my outfit.

True. I like the simplicity behind that.

But, there are times when I wish I had a little more “something something”. Know what I’m saying?

Not really, but I sense you’re going to tell me anyways, aren’t you?

Come on, how long have we known each other now?

True. Go on, share your latest “thoughts on fashion” with me. I’ll just sit here and enjoy this hot cup of coherence.

Ha! “Cup of coherence” — I like that!

Thanks, I created that one on my own. You were “off duty” that day, wink wink.

Sheesh! You won’t let me live that incident in Italy down, will you?

Well, it was a pretty serious thing you did.

Let’s move on, shall we?

Agreed. Now, explain your fashion sense.

Okay. I’ll start with the toga. This is my “required” work uniform, so I have to wear this when I am working with others on their composing.

Uniform? Your toga is a uniform?

Of course, if I didn’t wear this people wouldn’t take me seriously as an Ancient Greek Muse. So, it goes without saying that I am required to remain professionally dressed at all times. Hence, the toga.

Wow, some uniform. I assume it is insulated from the cold weather climates, too?

Of course! I added an extra layer or two of lanolin and gortex for those chilly biomes I go to on occasion.

Like the Inuits up north?

Exactly. If it hadn’t been for those added layers, I’d have turned into a frozen musicle. Ha, get it? MUSE icle, MUSICAL?


I swear, I kill me some times.

Back to our topic…

Hang on a sec…I’ve got to change songs on my IPod…

Whoa. You’ve been listening to your Ipod while you’re sitting here talking to me?

Yea, why not? I’m a great multi tasker.

That’s kinda rude. I have to tell my kids all the time to take their ear buds out of their ears and listen to me. The only relief I have is, they don’t have cell phones too — so I am not competing with their text messaging skills.

Your kids don’t have cell phones?

No, and they won’t be getting them any time soon. I figure if I am driving my kid somewhere, I damn well know where he or she is, and if I call that place and they aren’t there — well, that’s a problem they won’t like having.


Yea, I know — I’m a real old-fashioned, fuddy duddy of a mom. My kids tell me that almost every day. My choice, though. I survived my early years without one just fine, thank you very much.

I think that’s a good thing, though.

You do? I thought you’d be a little disappointed in me. Think I was being too strict as a mom.

Can I let you in on a little secret?


There’s been a lot of talk back on Mt Olympus about your kids.

My kids? Huh???

Oh yea! Zeus and Hera have been very complimentary towards you, your husband and your kids. They feel you and your husband have your parenting shit together.

And where are they getting this information from?

Me, silly. Do you think I just sit around here, listen to you blather on about your life, etc, and not do anything with that information?

Well, there was this whole “confidentiality agreement” you agreed to sign.

That only covers issues of privacy that might jeopardize your career or personal safety — first and/or last names, kids names, city locations, etc.


The rest is “free domain” knowledge. And by Gods, your children are good kids. Worthy of a paragraph or two in the parenting section of the Mt. Olympus Monthly.

Wow, the Gods like me, they really, really like me!

Okay Sally Fields, let’s get back to the main point of today’s topic: choices.

Yes, I LOVE this topic.


Because there have been times lately when I’ve just wanted to pull my hair out over some of the things I’ve heard in the press.

And you think this is a good thing? To get so stressed out about what others are doing?

It makes me feel better about the choices I make.

Give me a story that really chapped your hide.

I see you’re borrowing a phrase I used the other day: “chaps my hide”

I didn’t borrow it, I gave it to you.

Okay, whateverrrr!

No, no, no! Remember — we both agreed to strike that word from our collective vocabulary! tsk tsk!

Sorry, you’re right. Let’s move on..A story…well, without having to rehash what I wrote about that cop who was caught going 149 mph on his motorcyle, I’d just like to finish that story up by saying the arresting officer made a foolish choice of his own.

How so?

He turned off the microphone on his radio after he realized the officer who was speeding was a “friendly.”

What’s a “friendly”?

A fellow cop, you know — one of his own.

So the conversation wasn’t recorded? No evidence? Oooh, that sounds bad.

Yea, sounds a little like a cover up, huh?

Could be. What’s going to happen to the cop, do you think?

I dunno, but I’m assuming that there will be an investigation. At least I hope so.

Okay, I get it. It goes back to “choices” we make.

Exactly — the choices we make are the stepping stones to the consequences we must endure.

Nice quote, who said that?

I did! I just made it up.

Well, I like it — heyyyyyyyy…

Ah ha, is that what I think it is?


I see the light bulb going off over your head.

You want me to reconsider turning myself in, don’t you?

Wow, I’m impressed. You stayed on task and focused today AND caught the message I have been trying to give you the entire time.

You’re very clever.

Naw, just getting older and wiser.

Blue Haireds and Bad Smells

August 4, 2009

Man, my eyes are burning. This shit smells worse than cat piss, too. I blame all the blue haired, little old ladies, anyone who works in a department store, horny teenaged boys, and pre-pubescent girls who insist upon dressing up like little whores in a French red light district, for bringing this evil curse upon me. I’m talking about cheap, tawdry, perfume and body deodorants.

While taking our teenage son out for his daily “crash and dash” lessons (he’s a new driver — just a warning for all you locals), we stopped by two local stores: Hallmark and Kohl’s. My daughter was searching for a Webkinz — ever hear of those? Yea, those stuffed animals some incredible genius invented for the sole purpose of separating me from my money. I swear, I’m gonna kick the ass of the person who created this latest internet “must have”.

For those of you unfamiliar with Webkinz, here’s how it works. Every seven seconds, some unknown group of marketing savants meets in the dark basement of a tall building, devising new “stuffed’ animals for their assigned demographic: Children ages 3-9. While they “think” they are targeting only this age group is beyond me — I haven’t been able to cure my 13-year old daughter of this affliction called “IWantItNow!” since the damn things first emerged.

Wait — isn’t this similar to the whole “Beanie Babies” craze of the 90s? Kind of — only worse. These animals come with — hold on a sec, you’ll love this one — interactive capabilities! Apparently, the days of just “playing” with a cutesy, stuffed animal are long gone. To hell with being creative enough to make up little stories and scenarios with your two dollars’ worth of fuzzy material and fiberfill carefully crafted by Factory Workers #123 and #346 from somewhere inside the bowels of  a sweatshop factory in Indonesia. Now your little darling gets the chance to go “interactive”! Nothing says quality parenting better than sticking your 4-year old in front of a computer for six hours a day and allowing them to “chat” with other Labrador retrievers and goldendoodles from all over the world. Way to go, technology!

I see I have wandered off track here. My original rant really has nothing to do with those insidious stuffed animals. It has everything to do with the places we went today that sells them, however. I don’t know why every Hallmark store I have ever walked into smells like a bunch of little old ladies swathed in Faberge just set up camp inside the front doors. I swear, my eyes begin to burn the second I open up the glass doors. Just walking from the front to the back of the store is liking running a military gauntlet where they use perfume spritzers instead of swords. Nothing says “survival training” better than spending ten minutes in a noxious cloud of perfume without wearing a gas mask, running out, eyes burning, lungs in full vapor-lock, and taking in big gulps of fresh air.

But my pain didn’t end there. Noooo. After the stop at Hallmark, we had to run over to Kohl’s to get my husband a new watch. And yes, once again had to pass through the perfume section. In fact, we had to stop in the section so my husband could peruse the Timexes. And this is where little old ladies and young girls need to be banned from ever visiting. While hubby looked at watches, my daughter decided she’d imbue herself with a big ol’ spritz of “cheap ho” perfume. I swear, the stuff was potent enough to stun a water buffalo into complete submission.

I used to wear perfume, years ago back when I first met my husband and was trying to get laid a lot more often than I need to now. My perfume of choice was a lovely, subtle smell called “White Linen” by Estee Lauder. It smelled of Lilies of the Valley, and wasn’t the least bit overpowering. One small dab on my wrist lasted for the entire day. But, I stopped wearing it when I realized that sniffly nose I was sporting by 6 pm every evening was actually an allergic reaction I was having to the scent. My eyes would itch, my lungs would start to close up, and I’d swear I was developing a cold. By next morning, however, I’d feel fine. How I went for so long before I was able to connect the dots between perfume and allergy, I’ll never know. I just decided I’d stop wearing perfume — I didn’t want the hassle of having my lungs close up on me on a regular basis.

Unfortunately, my choice to stop wearing perfume doesn’t protect me from the little old blue haireds who choose to bathe in theirs. You know the types — because their smell announces their arrival five minutes before you ever see them sneaking up to you like some sort of “perfumed, blue wigged” ninja.

I have two theories about why they do these things:

1. They no longer have a reliable sense of smell. Like our hearing and sight, our sense of smell weakens as we grow older. Therefore, what they think is a “dab” is really a bath in perfume. They just can’t smell it as strongly.

2. It’s really a cover up. For what? I don’t want to be cruel or crude here, but I think it’s a way for them to cover up the other smells associated with aging: bladder control issues, gastrointestinal emissions, and bodily odors.

Last time I checked, Miss Manners frowned heavily on going out in public reeking like a bus station urinal. Can it happen to me someday? Probably — but I also believe there comes a time when adults need to consider wearing diapers again. Adult diapers. And carry a diaper bag at all times, if necessary.

As for gastrointestinal emissions — well, I’m just as guilty for that as anyone. However, I haven’t reached the stage in my life where I’m required to eat Metamucil and drink a quart of prune juice a day. My innards are still relatively intact, so anything with extra fiber hasn’t worn down my tract to the point of a bad case of the walking farts–yet. It’s ironic when you think about farts — at 13, they’re hilarious. At 82? Not so much. So, on goes the perfume to cover up the smell of last night’s lentil soup now wafting through the church’s rafters.

Bodily odors. Ugh. As a mother of a teenage hockey player, nothing smells worse than a hockey bag with 20 lbs of gear shoved into the backseat of the minivan moments after an on-ice session. That smell can knock a vulture off a meat wagon. Which leads me to another moment in time when “perfume” became my worst enemy.

Apparently, another marketing guru come up with the idea for a teenage boy’s deodorant called “Axe”. They showed commercial after commercial of nerdy looking boys spraying themselves with this, only to end up with gorgeous, cheerleader type girls hanging all over them. Nothing says “I might get laid” to a horny teenage boy better, huh? So, out came the pleas: “Mom — I want some Axe so I can smell good for my non-existent girlfriend!” Granted, my son needed deodorant. Badly. So, I gave in, bought him his own “horndog-in-a-can” and told him “Use it sparingly, and only after hockey practice”.

Well, mom — that was all well and good, but did you stop to think that ALL the other boys on his team saw that same freaping commercial? Yes, 17 cans of Axe, 17 horny, stupid teenaged boys and one big Axe fight, stinkin’ up the locker room. By the time he came out of the locker room, my eyes were already burning. By the time we got home, I was partially blinded, and on the verge of total lung collapse. All because the entire team of boys assumed the same thing — “Axe gets you laid.” Wrong, Axe irritates the shit out of your mother’s respiratory system, and she refuses to let you wear it in the house, ever.

I digress again. This rant really isn’t about teenage boys or pre-pubsecent girls with stuffed animal obsessions. It’s about little old ladies who insist on going out in public dripping in horrible, irritating scents. Ladies, you’re darling, you served your purpose in life, now it’s time to listen to what I have to say. Your excessive use of  cheap, clearance-priced perfume found at the bottom of a “reduced-for-quick-sale-purchase” bin at the local Big Lots has got to stop. It is annoying and, for some of us, a real health concern. I’m sure you’d never intentionally set out to harm me. But, before you go out, do me a favor. Ask a friend (one who has a much better sense of smell than you) to give you a good, all over body sniff. If nothing offensive is coming from your pants or your armpits, then consider laying off the perfume. If it is your pants or your armpits, then have some self pride and fix yourself — you old hot mess. I don’t want to be able to smell you ten minutes before, or three hours after, you dodder by.


August 4, 2009

At times, my life was a landscape,
Designed and defined
By wheat-colored, stilled flat lands
Stretching for endless miles,
along a simple plane.
My life at times was a slow pace
Of gradual ascent
Towards a sandstone plateau
Overlooking impassable peaks and low-lying valleys.
Riverbanks overflowing from tears,
Raged alongside
The soft carpeting of springy, green grass
just beyond my reach,
where lavender-colored flowers bent to the wind’s call
and red-breasted songbirds answered in unabashed celebration.

My life is becoming
A series of jagged,
Roughened, wind-worn edges
Of slips, dips, slides and glides
Along its changing horizons.
The pebbles under my feet –
Small annoyances left behind long ago.
The stones in my shoes –
My burdens along this beaten path.
Boulders – some granite, others made of
weathering sandstone,
Are my constant worries:

Am I good enough?
Am I smart enough?
Am I loved enough?

Navigating this mountain
I remind myself to breathe in deeply
To fill my body with life’s experiences
And oxygen to feed my slowly healing soul.

I scan the horizon above, beside and below me:
Above– the freedom to think, to be, to allow, to accept
Beside– less frequent boulders continue to block  my path ahead
Below– more pebbles and stones awaiting my weary feet

Then will I begin my descent down the other side
Stopping only when my journey ends at the place where
I find that bright, green, spring-filled meadow of
safe, soft grass.
Where I can dance,
Unencumbered and unabashed,
among the yellow buttercups and flittering butterflies,
Bare-footed and finally free.

“Real Women” = “Fat” TV Show

July 28, 2009

Yep, it’s time for another one of my rants about my world. Wow, you just can’t beat television as a valuable source of material for rants. I’ve struck the mother lode with this medium.

First, it’s important to talk a little bit about “set precedents.” For years, Hollywood has given all of us “real women” an incredibly impossible ideal that all women need to strive for in order to achieve “perfect beauty”: a size 0 (that’s a “zero”, not an “O”, in case you’re also a blond, skinny, chick reading this right now).

Okay, before I start getting responses that accuse me of being sexist, ageist, “fattist” or whatever the latest PC term for overweight is, I will own up to my own figure. I am not, I repeat, NOT one of those women who fit into size 0 pants. If math serves me correctly here, I’m more of a size 14(ish). Bigger on the days I’m retaining water. Less on the days I drink more coffee. Needless to say, I’m “full bodied”. But, I can carry it off better than, say someone the size of a professional jockey. I’m tall. I used to be tall and thin, now I’m just tall. Genetics, aging, childbirth, and not watching my weight (because I no longer care) has added several unwanted, unneccesary pounds to my 5’10″(ish) height. I say “ish” because according to my doctor, I’ve shrunk. I think I was just slouching on that day she measured me.

I own my weight issues and certainly can’t do anything about my height issues. I just thought I’d put this out there so nobody could come back at me and say “Well, you can say all this because YOU don’t have anything to talk about!” (I’m also “blond”, so that argument goes out the window too, nyah!)

But, of course, I do have something to say. Ladies, it is time we take some things back — like weight issues and hair issues.

I saw a preview for the latest round of reality TV shows called “More to Love”, and this one looks like nothing more than an excuse to take the sting out of the word “fat” and soften it up with the euphemism: “real woman”. Are you kidding me?

The premise behind this concept is simple: a bachelor is searching for his “Miss Right” (sound familiar here?). But, with a twist. This time, the chubby chaser is looking for a–yes–they said it out loud, “real woman”. Translation: women somewhere in the 5′-5’6″ height range and between 175 – 215 lbs (rough estimate based on some quick calculations I made regarding circumference) As I once heard it said: “Just a hugging and a chalking I go”. I’m no math wizard here, but I know “fat” when I see it. And folks, these women are “fat”.

I don’t have a problem with the premise of the show. Fat women need love too. I totally support anyone who can find the love of their life — skinny, fat, pimply faced, etc. So long as they aren’t searching for an abusive, controlling, addicted, waste of a human being, who am I to argue or complain?

The problem I have is in the euphemistic and patronizing tone of the words “Real woman”. Come on, let’s call it like we see it. Am I any less “real” as a woman because I don’t weigh 215 (approximately) pounds? Am I less of a “real woman” because I was blessed with long legs and a short torso?

I have an entirely different definition of “real woman”, and it has nothing to do with weight or height, but everything to do with character:

1. A real woman isn’t afraid to leave the house without full make up on, uncombed hair or even an unshowered body.

2. A real woman isn’t afraid to put a worm on a hook, land the fish, kiss the first one for good luck, and pry the bloody hook from the fish’s mouth.

3. A real woman couldn’t tell you the difference between Donna Karan and Dolce Gabbana, but she can hogtie a calf, castrate a bull and chop a chord of wood, if need be — all before noon on a blistering summer day (or midnight on a frigid winter’s night).

4. A real woman doesn’t sit around and whine about her man’s failings, or the fact that she can’t find a decent man, or she’s too fat, too ugly, too poor, etc. She just works with what she has. If she decides to drop any weight, let’s hope it’s the man who doesn’t love her for who she is, not what she looks like.

5. A real woman doesn’t sit around comparing herself to other women. I get that Jennifer Aniston is a size 0. I accept that she is “knock-’em-dead” gorgeous. But I also know that she hasn’t had a stable relationship in years. Evidently, physical beauty can’t buy love and security, huh?

These are just a few things I consider to be part of a real woman’s treasure trove of value. Notice nowhere in there did I say “a-real-woman-is-actually-a-fat-woman-upset-at-being-called-fat-who-is-really-just-trying-to-find-her-place-in-a-society-that-has-created-impossibly-unrealistic-expectations-of-beauty-and-worth.” However, I bet that’s the first thing the pitch people for this reality show said to the network producers as they were hauling out the contract to sign.

It’s time we stopped with all this nonsense about beauty and how it is defined. I, myself, could lose some pounds. As I said before, I own this statement. But, let’s drop the euphemisms and start calling it like we see it.  These women on this show are fat. If TV producers want to create a show called “Real Women”, then I say they search for more appropriate and fitting women to answer their audition calls– and sit back to see how many really do show up after all.