Stop Him Before He Walks Out That Door!

In my short time as a married woman, I have come to know a few things about men and clothes. Or at least, my husband and clothes. One is that he could care less about labels, unlike his label whoring wife, and two, sometimes he's blind about his fashion choices while other times he's quite particular about every tuck and crease. Thankfully, these particular times are few and far between. Hubby is more of a polo and jeans kind of guy.

He's also a guy who is cool with the fact that he is about to celebrate his 28th birthday - not old by any means, but not the teenage guy that he once was. And, like any man with a functioning brain, he's realized that there are just some items of clothing and clothing stores that are better left for the younger crowd.

Unfortunately, that was not at all the case for the over 35 gentleman who opened the door for me this morning on my way in to work. I couldn't help but notice that he had on some "destroyed" jeans - you know what I'm talking about - the expensive kind that looks like they've been run over by a Hummer. Fine. Whatever. But when I looked closer (no I wasn't gawking, thankyouverymuch), I noticed that they had the store's name imprinted on the front and side of the jeans!!!! It looked like the man was a walking billboard. And the most unfortunate thing? It was a store for young 'uns. American Eagle to be exact. Corporate office guy was sporting his destroyed denim with label on display American Eagle jeans on casual Friday. On purpose, evidently.

Now, first of all, there is not a thing wrong with American Eagle jeans - even though there is much wrong with the jeans that man was wearing, including the fact that the store even sold them in the first place they were so fugly. But let me just tell it to you straight: I went through my Abercrombie & Fitch/Hollister/American Eagle phase. I did. And there's nothing wrong with picking up a sweater from there or a cute top every once in a while. But there comes a point in time when it's just NOT OKAY for men and women "of a certain age" to be shopping at the same clothing stores as their children. It's just awkward.

Scenario:
Hey Dad! (who is in the dressing room beside teenage daughter),
How do these camis look with this destroyed denim mini? OMG! Those flared leg jeans are sooo you!

See how it could get weird?

Now some stores are exceptions, like Express and Gap. Even Express is pushing it sometimes for me, even though my husband loves their jeans (they come in short sizes). While I was all about Express whenever I was going through my bar hopping days, it's not really my clothing store of choice. Also, it makes me feel fat when I go in there.

Y'all, you just can't age gracefully in American Eagle jeans.

Curvy Low Rise?

Why yes, those two words were actually in the same sentence, I mean label today!

In my quest to find some jeans since the wall eating dog took a chunk out of mine, I went to Ann Taylor Loft where they promised that they would have jeans for "curvy" girls like myself. I know that at one time these jeans were a reality because I own a pair, albeit a pair with a dog bite in them (but still wearable, as I am sporting them today). Curvy meaning contoured through the hip and thigh, but mid-rise so as to hide the muffin top that threatens to overtake me at times. Unfortunately, the designers at Ann Taylor Loft must have spent the summer throwing up in a bulemic craze before unveiling the fall line. Because their "curvy" jeans do absolutely nothing for the "curvy" girl when they are low-rise so as to showcase that sensitive area above the hip that sticks out in a most unfortunate way.

I thought maybe my need for lunch was possibly making my stomach pooch out more, so I finally just threw the dang jeans down and left in a huff. I'm sure the sales clerk that had to clean up my dressing room is a HUGE fan of me at this point. When I got back to work, I immediately went to gap.com in the hopes of finding curvy jeans that aren't low rise. According to their website, I am "you know what" out of luck. And I just can't monetarily do a pair of designer jeans, which would probably make me feel even worse about myself since they are all in European sizes that make American sizes look like big 'ole Krispy Kreme doughnuts.

In other news that doesn't have to do with my futile search for jeans, a little bird told me that Old Navy yoga pants were $2.50. Why yes, I did just swoon, since my holey J.Crew yoga pants are begging to be sent to that great clothing pile in the sky. Actually, a bird didn't tell me, but the genius that is Big Mama had it posted on her blog. So yes, I will be visiting Gap's red headed cousin, Old Navy to stock up on some much needed pants with a stretchy waist. Go visit her today for some real fashion advice/news instead of mindless complaining.

You might just learn something.

Sales People Stalkers

I went to Bed Bath & Beyond on my lunch break to grab some needed closet essentials for our house - and also a trash can I found beside a clearance table for $6.98. Score, much? Anyway, I really REALLY hate Bed Bath & Beyond because not only do I feel overwhelmed by the amount of merchandise available to me, but I feel really, uh, STALKED by their sales staff.

Now, don't get me wrong. I am most definitely not a fan of snooty shops where people just look you up and down when you walk through the door and you know they're mentally wondering why you aren't carrying the latest Coach bag or why that stand of your hair is out of place. I avoid those places like the plague (J.Crew at Haywood mall anybody?). But I am also not a fan of feeling like my entrance into a store is going to be lit up by a spotlight and that EVERY SINGLE SALES PERSON is focusing on me. It's like I have a "you will make commission off her" sign on my butt.

I walked into BB&B today and two people yelled a "welcome!" to me. Very loudly. Um...gee, thanks for the welcome, guys and gals. After my face finished turning bright red with embarassment and I scurried on my way with a grin on my face that probably more resembled constipation than genuine friendliness, I found the section I was looking for and the items I needed (after I was "hello" attacked by yet another sales person).

I grabbed the two (small) things and was on my way out the door when I spotted the trash can of my dreams. Well, not really my dreams, but it was cheap, so in a way it was dreamy. After asking a quick question about it, the sales person I was talking to (I think he followed me from the front door or else that store just has a plethora of eager beaver sales people) asked me if I wanted a shopping cart. Since everything I was carrying weighed a total of 3 lbs and the aisles at BB&B are 3 inches wide, I declined. Shopping carts in that store are more hassle than they're worth, but that's another post for another time. I walked a total of two steps and YET ANOTHER sales person spotted me and asked me if I wanted a shopping cart. I almost felt like screaming YES PLEASE, BRING IT! just so they would get the pleasure of bringing me the freaking cart and they would leave me the heck alone already. Instead I just shook my head and ran for the register. Seriously. I ran.

Luckily, I don't think any of the sales people followed me out. However, there are probably some waiting at my house or something, asking if I need help carrying my items in. Because they are cheerful stalkers that way.

A Friday Rant

Things I don't understand:

1. I don't understand why people feel the need to zoom up and tailgate you when they "feel" that you've pulled out in front of them with your car. Just because you "feel" it, doesn't mean it's correct, dude in the truck that irritated me on Monday and that I shot mean looks at when we got on the highway. And yeah, I totally cut you off getting on 385.

2. I don't understand why people say "it is what it is." That has to be the most annoying phrase ever. Um, really, it IS what it IS? Imagine that.

3. I don't understand why kids constantly have to text on their cell phones. They are going to get carpal tunnel by high school graduation.

4. I don't understand zippered cigarette leggings/pants. Real people can't wear them. And the real people that try to wear them are deluded.

5. I don't understand why, every time I'm on my cell phone talking (not texting), the volume of my voice goes up several notches. This has caused several family members and close friends hearing loss. I apologize.

6. I don't understand how I can weigh one thing at 8 am and something completely different (and scary) eight hours later. From now on, I'm just going with my moon weight. Thanks for asking.

7. I don't understand why Hobby Lobby insists on being five holidays ahead of all the other stores. I go outside and it's August and hot. I go inside Hobby Lobby and it's Valentine's Day 2010.

8. I think that speaker phone should be disbanned from offices worldwide. NO ONE. WANTS. TO. HEAR. YOUR. BIDNESS.

9. I don't understand why some shirts make me sweat more than others. Like the one I have on now. It just doesn't make any sense...is the amount you sweat correlated to the arm hole in a shirt? Can someone find this out for me?

10. I don't understand why I try and change things up that are perfectly fine as they are. As in, this morning, instead of my usual Starbucks beverage of choice, I chose something completely different. And it tastes of cardboard, despite the copious amounts of sugar I doctored it with. This is why I am a creature of habit.

TGIF.

An Open Letter to Starbucks

Dear Starbucks:



Thank you so much for offering such deliciousness as the Venti 6 pump non-fat vanilla latte. My day would not be complete without you and your hotness (coffee that is). However, there have been a few things as of late that have really been getting under my skin:



1. Oh Starbucks, home of the famously overpriced coffee...no, I do not want to try your strawberry banana smoothie, even though it is half-priced, as it has been for the past two weeks because no one wants a smoothie from Starbucks at 7:20 in the a.m. They want caffeine. Leave the smoothies for places that specialize in smoothie making, like Keva, and y'all stick to making wonderfully expensive lattes and mochas and such. Thanks.



2. Oh Starbucks, ye olde company who tries to save the world, one coffee bean at a time...yes, I do in fact want my receipt because although I applaud your efforts to save paper with my tiny purchase record thus saving the world as a whole, you should applaud my efforts to want to record my $4.27 purchase so that it doesn't become an overdraft charge which will then lead to much anxiety and stress. So save the paper or save my sanity? Hmmmm...I'll probably take my sanity.



3. Oh Starbucks, who displays hipness at every turn. Can you please tell the barista at the drive through to maybe come to work a little less high in the morning? While I do believe that Starbucks is a giant doorway to bigger and better careers, I do not believe that achieving those goals will be possible while looking like you just rolled out of bed with last night's blunt still attached to your lips. Just a thought.



4. And finally, Oh Starbucks, when I order a delectable and overpriced pastry or "perfect oatmeal" which is really just Quaker instant in a Starbucks container, I would like it to be given to me in a bag, please. Although I know I may resemble an overly talented circus freak that can carry 500 items at one time, carrying a large cup of hot coffee and a container of "perfect oatmeal" and a purse and possibly a laptop into my cubicle without a handy bag poses some problems and possible risks of being burned. We wouldn't want a McDonald's situation on our hands, would we?



See you in the morning, Oh Starbucks.



Love,



Your Friend, Kelley

Her right to be an idiot.

Oh ya'll, I am steaming. S-T-E-A-M-I-N-G. Now, usually, I do not wax political on this blog, but, I'm sure you've probably guessed that I am a Bible believin', wife to a Marine, Palin lovin', Carrie Prejean supportin', Conservative from way down South. If you haven't guessed that, well, now you know. And nothing gets me in a tizzy more than someone who is rude to, ignorant of, or unsupportive in general to our men and women in uniform. Like Ms. Barbara Boxer, California Senator and current boil on my butt.

If you haven't seen the clip, watch it here. This woman, with her "make me look hip" eye glasses and (if you want my opinion) pretty bad highlights, just says this to a BRIGADIER GENERAL. "Please don't call me ma'am" Boxer was obviously not raised in my neck of the woods when you were whipped with Daddy's belt if you didn't use "sir" or "ma'am" when addressing someone. She is obviously not too familiar with military niceties either. According to my hubby, who ended his 5 year, 3 tours of duty to Iraq USMC career, using "ma'am" or "sir" is the highest form of respect a member of the military can give to another. Chad said that a member of the military would address the President as "sir." He's actually the one who told me about this happening, too. He wasn't too happy about it.

Despite your political leanings, this whole incident was rude and should not have happened. In her yearning to put this man in his place, Ms. Boxer ended up making career women as a whole look like schmucks. This woman should have been more respectful of this man, who has served our country for many years and has worked JUST AS HARD or even more so to achieve such a high rank in the military. He fought for her right to be a smart aleck idiot. If she had a daddy like mine, she would have already received what we down here call a "whoopin."

You Wear It Well

I think probably the worst thing a woman can hear is this comment:

"You really wear your weight well."

What. The. Heck. Oh I'm sorry, is my extra 50 lbs of possibly anti-depressant taking pudge making you think of me in my old Buckle jeans? Because, let me tell you, I wore those well. The weight? Not so much. And the comment? Just a polite way to say..."you're looking a bit on the obsese side. But you still have a pretty face."

My weight gain, as chronicled somewhat in this blog, has been a nightmare of gargantuan (literally) proportions. I went from never having to worry about that extra calorie to frantically counting every little thing I eat in the hopes that I didn't go over my 1250 calorie a day limit. Oh no! I ingested an extra strawberry! It may send me over the edge! Yes, I lost about 25 lbs right before my wedding last year, the result (sadly) of self-starvation, lunatic exercising to see who was going to break first - me or the elliptical - and a couple of rounds of finger down throat upchucking in the bathroom. But it worked and I was looking more my normal self when I walked down the aisle to my hubby, although not really that close to my weight loss goal.

The honeymoon (the entire 7 day all-inclusive panorama of world class cuisine and 24 hour room service) caused me to start the ballooning climb back upward. Coupled with newly wedded stretch pant bliss, I am now back (almost) where I started 2 years ago when I sat in the doctor's office with my boyfriend (now husband) feeling like a gigantic cow and needing some answers. I have literally tried everything...bulemia, calorie counting, weight watchers, thyroid tests, personal training with a psychotic biotch with an annoying accent, and now I am jazzercising 2-3 times a week, an exercise that can burn upwards of 450 calories per one hour session. And I'm counting calories again. And crying because nothing fits. I finally gave up and went back to my doctor this week.

I started looking back on when the weight gain started (2003) and what was going on in my life at that time, which included a crazy boyfriend, parents remarrying, and some other stuff that caused me to seek solace in a little pill called Zoloft. And the weight gain started. I put on 30 lbs in the first 3 years - but nobody really noticed because my hip bones protruded in my bathing suit before. But when I hit the 150 mark, it started to get bad and noticeable. And I had another depression/OCD/anxiety related episode that caused another doctor to prescribe Cymbalta, the crack of SSRI drugs.

My new doctor, a woman who was so understanding and kind that she made me want to cry out of gratitude, confirmed my belief that perhaps the continuous use of anti-depressants had been one of the culprits of my weight gain. And, with her help, I am weaning off of them and I will no longer be carrying a pill bottle around in my purse, a la Sophia on the Golden Girls, for the first time in 6 years. It's going to take a couple of months...remember the comment about crack? Yeah, evidently the body goes through some serious withdrawals from this stuff. I hope my butt starts withdrawing back to its former self, but it's going to take time, much like everything important in life does.

So stay with me, because it's about to get interesting. And one day, very soon, clad in my old Buckle jeans, I will be looking like this...my former self, seen above. And yeah, those are the Buckle jeans.

They call me dear...but that's not my name

I know that my ranting and raving should only be for Tuesday's posts, but I just need to get this out there...I am a (almost) 26 year old married woman. I own my own home, my own car, and I have a step-child that my husband and I help to fund and raise. I have more responsibilities on my plate than most 40 year olds. So, random people, stop calling me "sweetie" or "dear." It's patronizing and annoying.

Oh come on, you know what I'm talking about. You decide to be kind and hold open the door for Ms. Professional, jugging her coffee, laptop, and $300 briefcase.

"Oh, thank you dear (sweetie) (honey) (sweetness), but I'm going through the other door."

I'm sorry, what? I KNOW that you just didn't go there with me. Yeah, I know that I look like I'm not a day over 19, except for in my butt, but show a little respect for me as a human being. Don't be patronizing. All you have to say is..."thanks, I'm using this door." No harm, no foul. And no getting my hackles raised and causing me to be irritated before I have my first cup of java.

And no one, and I do mean NO ONE needs to call me "honey" except for my mama. Even my husband doesn't call me that. I know we live in the South and I can handle the "sweetie" thing from Waffle House waitresses. But not from anyone else. Just take note, kay?

Ticked Off Tuesday

Because Tuesdays are evidently the most productive day of the work week, there is also a chance that Tuesdays could be the day when you get ticked off the most. I know I do. Now, don't blame it on my lack of sleep because my husband sleeps diagonally or my lack of Cymbalta because I have been taking my medication, ya'll. It's something about humanity in general that sometimes REALLY. TICKS. ME. OFF. I know I'm not the only one out there. So let me begin...



This weekend, while shopping with Mama at Steinmart, there seemed to be a plethora of mothers and grandmothers out and about with their babies/grandbabies. Which is fine. I'm not anti-baby by any means. I am, however, anti-stroller. And by stroller, I mean the gignormous tank like hunks of plastic that can evidently hold not only a baby, but a kitchen sink and the preparation for a Southern Sunday dinner. Obviously, these mothers are used to these monsters and have the biceps to prove it, but unfortunately for them, they do not fit in any aisle of any major department store. Or boutique, for that matter. And while we're on the subject, it is somewhat disturbing to be browsing amongst the home goods to find an elderly woman sitting there and bottle feeding a baby. I mean, come on. If I wanted to smell formula, I would go to a daycare. I am at Steinmart, people. I need to smell knock off Yankee Candle scents for goodness sakes! Not poo diapers and spit up! Leave the kids at home! Enjoy a day of freedom! And keep your freakin' tank stroller off my freakin' toe!