The Sexiest Men in the World Live in My Area

October 18, 2009

I used to think firemen were the sexiest men on the planet. Well, that was before my area got an NHL team.

I’m often surprised by the lack of positive publicity this sport receives. I’ve written about it on my blog, so I won’t rehash my thoughts here. But, I want to add another element I didn’t mention before:

Hockey players are the sexiest men on the planet. I should probably qualify that with “my” definition of sexy: a man who is strong, brave and tough when needed, but soft, gentle, and caring all the other times. That is not just sexy, that’s intoxicating.

Last summer, when I was involved in my writer’s workshop, I had to write about someone or something in the community that was actively working towards change. I immediately thought of our local NHL team. Why? Because I know the back story of these guys. I know the team captain anonymously sends large sums of money to organizations–just because–and expects no press attention in return. Last year, he gave almost $150,000 of his own money for various causes in and around this area. And, by the way, he also visits sick children in the hospital on a regular basis.

The players make regular stops at schools and libraries to stress the benefits of education (something close to my heart, being a teacher). The team has built a safe playground for children, donating the supplies and man hours. The organization has re-opened one of the local after-school program buildings that had to shut down due to lack of public funds. Everything they do, they do because they want to, not because they are contractually obligated.

And the real tear-jerker…

The NHL’s motto is  “Hockey Fights Cancer”. Last year, one of our local high school hockey players was diagnosed with terminal brain cancer. Upon hearing this, the team offered the young man a contract — a legit one — to become a “Blue Jacket” for a day. They even paid him a small salary ($1.00) and gave him an official team jersey with his name on the back. Team players would go to his house (or his hospital room) and sit by his side while they watched the other NHL teams play.

Unfortunately, Ryan succumbed to his cancer in May of this year. His last wish? To make it to at least one playoff game before he passed away. The team made sure he got his wish.

Last night’s game was our team’s chance to raise money to fight cancer. The team had this young man’s jersey displayed on the player’s bench, in tribute to his memory. When one of the players scored the first goal of last night’s game, his response to the interviewer went something like this “I just had a feeling I was going to score. I’m not a huge fan of a ‘higher power’, but I think Ryan had something to do with it…” Wow. Talk about a sense of humility and compassion.

So, I apologize to all the sexy, heroic firefighters out there who risk their lives every day to save the lives of others. You are still very much heroes in my eyes. But, in my opinion, you have some pretty stiff competition when it comes to the true definition of  “sexy”.

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Conversations with My Muse: The Sandman Waketh

August 14, 2009

Dude, get up.

Nnnnnnnnnh…

I said, get up!

Wha? Huh? Whose zat?

Me. I said wake up.

Go away.

No, not until we talk.

What the fu–

Don’t speak to me that way, now get up or I’m gonna give you a wedgie.

Friggen leave me alone, dammit!

NO. I want an explanation now.

Bitch, can’t you see I’m trying to sleep here? WHAT THE FU-

That’s it, I’m grabbin..

Ow! Jezzus, what the hell is wrong with you?

Good, you’re awake.

Well now I am!!!

We need to talk about last night.

What about it? Ooooooh, my friggen head. I think I’m gonna hurl.

The bathroom’s over there. Go do what you gotta do and then come back. We’re gonna talk about that dream I had last night.

Dream you had? Sheeee it, that’s what this is about?

Yes, now go.

Little demanding there. Can you at least give me a couple minutes here? I gotta —

What?

I can’t stand up yet-

Why not? Ohhhhhh…

Yea, smart ass. Ohhh.

Sorry, I’m a chick. Nothing on me wakes up twenty minutes before I do. I’ll turn away until you’re, ahem, ALL awake and good to go.

You can at least offer to make me a cup of coffee while we’re waiting.

Sure, but let me tell you it’s early afternoon.

So? My shift starts at midnight.

Ah, that’s right…you have the night shift. Which is exactly why we need to talk.

I’m not getting into this without my afternoon piss and a cup of coffee.

Fine then – I’ll be back with two cups. I give you two minutes, make it quick.

Two minutes? I can’t whiz that fast.

That’s gross, just go already — sheesh!

Whatever…

Watch the attitude.

You’re a pain in the ass, ya know that?

Hey, I’m not the one with the raging hangover.

You try coming up with millions of ideas for dreams every night, night after night. Then you can come bitching to me about how much I drink. It’s not easy being me, ya know.

Oh, quit your whining. Geez, you can be such a girly man at times.

Excuse me?

You heard me. You have no idea what it’s like to be female.

Uh, yea, I do. I rummage around inside many females’ heads on a regular basis. And let me tell you, what I see is scary shit sometimes.

Like what?

You fantasize too often. Sorry, but Erik Estrada? How gay is that?

Me dreaming about Erik Estrada is gay? How do you figure that?

That guy was so..I dunno, 70s?

Ya, so what? At least I’m not fantasizing about Courtney Thorne Smith.

Hmmmm…..Courtney..

Hey, that’s hubby’s fantasy, not mine. Stick with the program here.

Whatever. So, I’m up now. What’s the big deal about last night?

Well, you threw me in a garbage truck. I’m curious to know what made you decide to do that.

I did that?

Yes, I was thrown into a garbage truck and covered in a whole bunch of disgusting crap. Then, I had to sit there and listen to the thing start compacting on me. It was scary, I started freaking out.

Wow, that’s nasty.

No kidding! I could even feel my head compressing. I feel things in my dreams, you know.

You do? Like what?

Oh, everything. Some people only dream in black and white. Many don’t even remember their dreams. I, on the other hand, remember everything. I also taste, see, touch, smell and feel in my dreams.

That’s cool.

No, not all the time. Imagine being able to feel the concussion of being shot. Think that’s “cool”?

Well, no.

Exactly. But that’s what happens to me when I dream. Everything is 100% vivid.

Hmm….

What? You actually sounded coherent there for a moment.

Well, I do have a theory about your dreams, now that I’m a little more awake.

Hangover going away?

Can’t ya tell? Heh heh heh.

Good Lord, it’s like visiting with a frat boy. This place is even littered with beer bottles, which is odd since I don’t drink beer.

Imagine how your dreams would be if, say, I dropped acid? I think you’re getting off pretty easy here.

How so?

Well, you get the benefit of my insobriety while I have to wake each afternoon with a hangover. I think you’re the one taking advantage of me.

Oh my god, I can’t believe you’re pushing your problems off onto me.

Listen, I’ll make it very simple for you to understand. Your dreams aren’t as incoherent and incongruent as you think.

They aren’t? Hmm, try explaining that to my husband. He thinks my dreams are indicative of something far worse than just an active imagination.

He does?

Not really, but he does roll his eyes whenever he hears me say, “You won’t believe the dream I had last night…” He usually follows that up with, “And it was very weird.”

Nice catch phrase.

It works. So, back to the garbage truck dream. What was that all about?

Simple. Remember last year when you got all caught up in that work stuff?

Yea, that was a load of crap.

Ahhhh…

Oh…I think I’m catching on. I had to take a load of crap last year from some fellow workers..

Keep going…

And now that the main trouble maker is gone…

Un huh…

I can officially “dump” the idea of having to take that same load of crap THIS year!

BINGO!!!

Wow, that is freakin’ amazing. You did all that?

And you thought I was nothing more than just a lazy, shiftless, raging alcoholic frat boy who enjoys the occasional picture show of girl-on-girl action and nudity..

Whoa, buddy…Let’s not go there, okay?

Hey, I’m a guy, what can I tell ya?

I guess we all have our weaknesses. Just remember, I don’t swing that way. So, if you’re in the mood for a little girl on girl porn, go visit my hubby, okay?

Cool. How does he feel about Jennifer Aniston?

You’re a pig.

You know you love me.

I’m out of here.


Satan’s Sandwich

August 8, 2009

The first clue that something might be “amiss” should have been the pink colored liability waiver form the person needed to sign.

The next clue — even stronger than the first — was the pair of latex gloves handed out to the diner with the tag line: “Here–you need to wear these to keep your hands from touching any of the juices.” Whoa.

The third clue that should have scared the customer off was watching another person try to eat it. I imagine it would be like attending a state mandated electrocution.

This is what I saw on TV last night.

The show “Man versus Food” is a glutton fest for foodies. Every week, the host of the show travels to some place (always in the United States — which explains why we’re such an obese nation over all) and challenges the establishment to make him physically ill by force feeding him portions of “something” big enough to support 20 Ethiopian families for two years (I’ve heard stories of some Ethiopian families surviving for one month on two chickens and some hardened dirt).

Tonight’s episode, however, took a scary, sadistic turn away from gluttony and into the not-often-explored world of “dangerous food to eat.” The host went to a restaurant that serves a burger called “The Four Horseman Burger”.

Ooh — the fourth clue! For those of us familiar with the term “The Four Horsemen,” you can surmise that its chosen name portends something very, very, bad. And you won’t be disappointed by said assumption, either. This was a very, very, evil burger. I think it would make an excellent torture device — force feed this to terrorists and they’ll be spilling their secrets faster than Angelina Jolie collects orphans.

The secret weapon in this burger is the “ghost chili”. I’ve never heard of this particular chili, but I believe it’s the chili Satan grows in his personal garden and uses as a topping for his nachos. I cannot support the notion that God would create anything this evil. It truly must be the “work of the devil.”

Let’s put some scientific insight into this…

A Jalepeno pepper tops out at approximately 8,000 Scoville units of “hotness”

A Serrano tops out at 23,000 units

A Habanero at 350,000 units

The “ghost chili” — the most potent in the world, exceeds 1,000,000 Scoville units. I’ve included a picture of the little rascal here:

Hottest Chili Pepper in the World

Hottest Chili Pepper in the World

Back to the burger…

The burger has ALL of those chilis on them. Yes, all FOUR types (The name makes perfect sense now, huh, huh?) The only thing hotter than the ghost chili is a can of law-enforcement grade “pepper spray”.  I don’t think they spray that on the burger, but that would make a logical “finishing” touch before presentation.

The challenge was for the host to eat one of these burgers in half an hour. So of course I had to watch him try on this challenge.

He took one bite….and that’s when Satan could be heard laughing in the background. The host squirmed, pounded the table, blanched, grimaced, broke out into a river of sweat, cried, screamed, moaned, and did everything imaginable except spontaneously combust. I was waiting for that “en fuego” moment to happen — I really was!

Soon, that one bite became another, then another, then finally — ALL GONE! The host had managed to eat the entire burger within the half hour. Personally, the time challenge was a sidebar — I was more disappointed by the fact that I wasn’t going to get to see a man burst into flames before my very eyes.

Of course the challenge didn’t end there. Naw, that’d be “too easy”. Upon finishing the last morsel, the host had to sit there squirming for another five minutes — before he could take a sip of milk to neutralize the effects. I imagine he also was waiting for the layers of esphogeal tissue that he burned off eating this monstrosity to make their way down into the bubbling, churning, volcanic lava pit, aka “his stomach”.

The good news is, he survived the challenge. The bad news is, he probably blew out his rectum when flames shot out of his ass the next day.


“Mistake” versus “Choice”

August 6, 2009

I’ve had it with the euphemism world out there. Specifically, the one world where people believe the words “a series of bad choices” can be intermingled, intermangled, and interchanged with the words “stupid mistake”. Let me explain.

Here, in my relatively “safe” local suburb, a police officer was recently arrested for riding his motorcycle at 149 mph down a country road. Yes, that number IS correct: 149 MPH!

First, I can’t stand motorcycles. And don’t even bother to respond to this post if you own one and want to tell me how wonderful they are — I will never be convinced. They are dangerous to ride and even more dangerous to have to drive anywhere near. I can never see the bike until it’s within smacking distance. Sorry — but all the safety training in the world won’t guarantee you will come out of a 25-foot skid over asphalt unscathed if you choose to ride your motorcycle wearing only flip flops, shorts and a wife-beater shirt. For people who choose to do that, thank you for your willingness to “thin the herd” of stupid people.

But this rant isn’t about motorcycles. It’s about what happens when people are caught doing something they know they shouldn’t be doing, and the excuses that stream from their mouths once they are standing before their local judge.

In the case of High-Speed Willy, his only comment to the judge was: “I made a mistake.” And this is where my head exploded.

A couple years ago, the principal of my children’s middle school was arrested for driving while intoxicated (DWI or DUI for some). It was 2:00 am, he was going the wrong way down a one-way street, and when asked for his driver’s license, he handed the arresting officer his Blockbuster card. Yea, he’s REALLLY coherent. He blew twice the legal limit on the Breathalyzer.

Of course this made the local news — TV, newspaper, etc. His name was everywhere along with the name of the middle school my kids attend.

While I am not opposed to adults getting their “drink on”, I am vehemently opposed to drinking and driving and was very irate by this principal’s words to the press: “I made a mistake.” No, a mistake is accidentally dropping your cell phone in a river while fishing, or accidentally leaving a wallet filled with money on a table in a high school weight room after you’ve left for the night. (Both of which have occurred to family members of mine).

What these two morons (the police officer and the principal) did were make bad CHOICES. The police officer didn’t accidentally stomp his foot down on the gas pedal and clutch, causing an unexpected acceleration — for which he kept it down (again, by mistake?) for an extended period of time. He didn’t suddenly find himself  “swerving” on the road, around cars that mysteriously “appeared” beside him.The principal didn’t “accidentally” walk into a bar, unknowingly order shot after shot of alcohol (or beer, whatever the case may be), unwillingly open his mouth, surprisingly pour it down his throat hour after hour, then get back into his car and inadvertently drive off into the night.

The drunken principal’s situation hits closer to home with me. Not because it’s the school where my kids go, or the fact that I am a teacher. No, it hits home with me because of what happened two days before he was busted for DUI. My son was caught goofing around during a fire drill, and was given a “Saturday school” for this. The principal pulled my son into his office, said “Because of your CHOICE to screw around during school, you can come to Saturday school.” And when the principal called me to tell me what he had done, I agreed with the principal’s use of the term “choice”. My son earned that extra day in school for the poor choice he made.

But, when the principal was busted for DUI, what do you imagine was the consequence for his behavior? Jail time? Personally, I would have loved to see him serve 3 days in jail. But, of course that didn’t happen. Instead, the school district gave him 10 days, suspended leave, with pay. WITH PAY.

Sorry, but that is not a “consequence” for a school principal — that’s a freaping vacation! How am I, as a responsible parent, expected to teach my son and daughter about “consequences” when the adult leaders aren’t taking responsibility for THEIR own actions?And THIS chaps my hide.

Fortunately, the students were smart enough to recognize the actions of the principal were abhorrent. Conversely, the principal lost all respect from his student body immediately after the incident. None of the students were able to resist a good “So I threw a spit wad at Suzy, so what? At least I didn’t get busted for drinking and driving and gave the cop my Blockbuster card!” As disrespectful as that sounds, you cannot argue the logic behind that.

For the police officer, I believe his career is officially over. The local city government has issued a statement concerning the officer’s conduct and how it is detrimental to the overall “perception” of the police force.

There is some wonderful irony to both of the stories above:

The officer’s story is an ironic metaphor for motorcycle riding. He threw himself under the bus, and came out in a world of hurt.

The principal was demoted to the rank of “assistant principal” and is now responsible for disciplining disruptive, behaviorally challenged, high school students.

All because of the “mistakes” they claim to have made. Yea, right.


Conversations with My Muse: Dreams

July 31, 2009

Excuse me, but….Erik Estrada?

Erik Estrada? Who’s that?

The guy who was totally “crushing” on me last night.

Were you hurt?

No, silly. That’s a term

What’s a “term”?

“Crushing”

What’s it mean?

It means that someone *likes* another person.

Well, I must be crushing on you then.

No…lol, not likes as in Hey-I-enjoy-being-your-friend kind of *like*, but *like like*

Still not getting it.

Let me give you an analogy you can understand, ok?

That might work.

How do you feel about me?

I think you’re cool.

How do you feel about….chocolate?

It’s good..

Vodka and cranberry juice?

LOOOOOVE it.

Well there ya go, Erik liked me last night to the same degree you like Vodka and cranberry juice.

Oh, I see. Is he cute?

Well, last night he was. This morning, probably not as much.

Did you sleep with him?

No!!!! Good Lord, I’m married!

Then why were you with him last night?

Hey, he came to me. I didn’t go out gallavanting.

I’m getting confused again.

I probably should fill in some minor details.

That would certainly help.

I was sleeping and –

He came into your room while you were sleeping????

No! This is the point in our conversation where you don’t talk, okay?

Uh humm..

So, I was sleeping and Erik came to me in a dream.

Ah!!!! I get it. So you dreamt about being in love with Erik Estrada?

Yes, now you understand.

I get it….question?

Who’s that?

Oh my God…you don’t know who Erik Estrada is? How long have you been floating around this world?

Thousands of years, and no I haven’t. I can’t meet every one ya know..

I’ll give you that.

So, tell me more. Who is he and why was he in your dreams last night?

He used to star on a popular television show called “CHIPS”. He was a cop. They called him “Ponch”.

Ponch — that sounds like a fat man in a rain suit.

Trust me, he wasn’t anything like that. He was a very handsome guy — his face was plastered all over the gossip magazines.

You keep saying “was” — is he dead?

No, he’s still alive. But, he’s thirty years older now. I don’t really know what he looks like.

Well, you can google him ya know.

I should! Hang on…

C.H.I.P.S.

C.H.I.P.S.

There he is as “Ponch” from CHIPS

Wow, he is pretty hot.

Yes, I had such a crush on him….in 7th grade!

7th Grade? Gosh, that was….if I do my math correctly….1977?

Yes.

Holy crap that was a long time ago!

I know!

What does he look like now?

Hang on, let me try to find another picture..

Erik Now

Erik Now

That’s what he looks like now? Hmmm.

Yes. I’m afraid he’s a bit too over-botoxed and polished now.

What’s botox?

It’s the latest craze out here. Ever hear of botulism?

No, what’s that?

It’s a form of bacteria allowed to breed in food. The bacteria is a toxin–

Toxin? That’s poison, right?

Yes.

And people use this on their FACES?

Yes..

Holy Hercules, that’s gross!

Well, they don’t use a deadly supply on their face…

Oh?

No, they just use a smaller dose…It just temporarily paralyzes the facial muscles, leaving the skin looking taut. And, unfortunately, a little like a mannaquin’s face too.

I noticed that with Marcia Cross and Nicole Kidman — beautiful ladies, frozen faces.

Exactly. So…back to my dream with Erik. What was that all about?

What do you mean?

Why did I have a dream about Erik Estrada? I haven’t thought of him in years…

I dunno.

Aren’t you my muse? My visionary? The woman who brings me inspiration, creativity, poetry, etc? The one who, without those skills I’d be forced to study calculus equations? *hee hee*

Well, yes and no…

Huh?

I don’t do the night shift. I only work the 8 am to 10 pm shift with you.

You don’t?

Of course not! Did you honestly think I worked around the clock for no pay?

Well….my dreams are just as vivid as my day thoughts..I just figured —

Well, sorry to disappoint ya chickie, but I don’t do nights. I save that for my co-worker. And, let me give you a little insight about him —

Who?

My co-worker, “The Sandman”…

Ahhhhhh. What is it?

He tips the bottle a little too often. You know — glug, glug, glug

What makes you say that?

Think about it carefully. Do your dreams ever make perfect sense?

No, but they seem to make sense at the time I’m having them.

That’s because The Sandman is still at the bar, knocking back a few pints. Every thing seems okay, while he’s still sober. But by the time you wake up and begin to think about your dream — well, he’s passed out on the floor of a bathroom somewhere, waiting for the effects to wear off.

The Sandman’s a raging alcoholic?

Absolutely! But, he’s hilarious at times. Ever dream about being somewhere totally naked?

All the time..

That’s him playing a practical joke on you.

I don’t see how my being naked in public is in any way, shape or form *funny*.

I guess you had to be there….We get big giggles out of it when we all gather back at Mt Olympus to play the game tapes back. I swear Zeus is going to fall off his gilded throne every time he sees another naked person sitting in a classroom, to be honest.

Well, thanks for having a laugh at my expense.

Oh, lighten up. It’s only a dream. Like you wouldn’t actually be naked anywhere in public, right?

Maybe a nude beach somewhere..

You have those now?????

Yes, not exactly sure where though.

Wowwww, I am so there…Let me google it. I’m about ready to leave anyways, got some spare time on my hands.

You’re a wild one, aren’t you?

Always.

Okay, gotta get some more coffee in me anyways. Hugs?

As usual.

Later, chickie!


More About Michael Jackson’s Untimely Death

July 29, 2009

For some strange reason, I’m still fascinated by the emerging details surrounding Michael Jackson’s death. I wasn’t a fan of his — I haven’t been since 1980(ish). I think I stopped caring about him the moment he went from black to white (hmm, kinda like his song, huh? Just now thought of that) And with his questionable behavior the last few years, I certainly turned away from anything to do with him. Artistic talents aside, I am skeeved out by any man who invites young boys to play at his house. Shuddddder.

But, this isn’t about that. It’s about the details that are now covering all the headlines and internet news sites out there. People.com has a feature on it now (I admit, I read it — I’m a slave to tabloid reporting) where they interviewed the former chef. She mentioned part of the “typical” morning routine at his house was for Dr. Murray to “come down the stairs from Michael’s bedroom carrying oxygen tanks.” HUH?

This sounds so bizarre to me. What allegedly “healthy” 50-year old needs oxygen tanks replaced every morning? It was evident Michael did not smoke, so needing oxygen treatments for COPD could certainly be ruled out. I have a family member who requires oxygen for COPD, and that is only from 40+ years of smoking two packs of unfiltered cigarettes a day. That’s enough tar and nicotine to shellack the inside of one’s lungs, I would presume. And she’s in her 80s– did I mention that?

So again, I’m not buying whatever all these former and “current” employees are trying to sell as a “casual-day-in-the-park”. I don’t understand how all of Michael Jackson’s bizarre, unusual behavior and required “treatments” by his physicians (on-call or otherwise) can go unnoticed and unspoken about for  years.

The LAPD has every right and concern to go into a full-blown investigation of these doctors. But, I think it needs to go further. I think everyone who had any part in the “silent acceptance” of Michael Jackson’s slow descent into mental illness and subsequent drug use deserves to be put under a microscope and examined.

This is akin to watching some sort of psychological experiment run completely amok.

As an aside:

Has anyone thought to step in for Lindsay Lohan? I am worried she’s going to be making headline news next, followed by a whole new series of  stories that start with the line: “I remember when Lindsay used to…”

Sad, very sad.


“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.