I’ve admitted before, I have lovely lady lumps and I don’t mean my boobies. I mean the cheesy lumps on my arse and my thighs. Being that I am a plumpalicious girl, I am standing up and protecting my fellow larger ladies and the rest of the world.

How? By calling a moratorium on shorts that are wider than they are long.

Unless you are in the top .01% of the ladies in the U.S., YOUR SHORTS SHOULD BE LONGER THAN THEY ARE WIDE. If this ratio is on the negative side, DON’T SQUEEZE YOUR FAT ASS INTO THE SHORTS.

Just because some clothing store makes the clothes and you can pull up the screaming zipper, DO NOT buy the shorts.

Oh, Sweet Baby Jeebus and Oprah. Here is my evidence from Old Navy*:

Allowing Old Navy (and others) to sell shorts at a 4 1/2″ inseam in a size 6 or up should be criminal. Allowing us larger ladies think it is OK to leave the house, much less purchase, any shorts less than a 5″ inseam (and still you gotsta have some NICE legs to pull those off) is a travesty.

And who are they joking with this picture of the shorts with a space between the legs? No woman who is a size 14 or up has any space between her thighs. You nasty nasty marketing picture-taking people are trying to make us think that those shorts (with pleats BTW) will allow our crotches to breathe.

Sorry, ladies, but wearing these shorts will only allow your ass to have a snack on some denim.

So, please. For the love of Sweet Baby Jeebus and Oprah. Stand UP and show your lovely legs! Just wear your shorts a little longer.

________________________________________________________________

*Originally published March 30, 2008 but still ever-so-awesome.

Most people have a “most regrettable moment.”

Not me.

Except for all those times I used a credit card when I should have, said something really dumb, or said yes when I should have said no.

But specifically, that ONE regrettable moment?

Is an entire year.

I have a year of regret.

An entire year that has made me fat who I am today.

How, pray tel, does a year make me fat who I am today?

Let me be more cryptic specific.

The year after I graduated high school and before I met Patrick was a very exploratory year, and not the kind of exploration that required spelunking gear. Though it totally could have.

I wasn’t, we’ll say, focused on my school work. I was still living at home going to the local community college, but I really wasn’t home much. At 18, I was so friggin smart! and free! and a girl! and I was cute! and I had a job!

and I was HOT!

Oh, damns was I the shit. Long blond curly hair, size 28 men’s jeans shorts (they were cool back then), weighed 123 pounds cause when you weigh 123 pounds once you remember, had a cool new tattoo, and then another.

I was pretty much the one that brought all the boys to yard.

And they came for me.

I think a small part of me knew this, but a more conscious part of me just wanted the attention. That part of me ruled the rest of me. I was wanted.

Kind of like how I want freshly baked brownies right now.

Which brings me back to how that year made me fat today.

I met Patrick when we were both 18. We immediately stuck to each other and never let go. He loved me like no other guy had ever loved me. He respected me, he doted on me, he listened to me.

He didn’t want to let me go.

So I stayed. Thankfully.

He made me feel wanted. Special. Needed.

But I still noticed all the other boys in the yard. And they still noticed me.

To keep Patrick and to keep myself sane and to keep myself from making the other guys notice me, I subconsciously made myself fat.

Now, at 33, a mom, a wife, a woman. I’m not noticed. My husband loves me, I know this.

But subconsciously, I don’t want to be noticed because then, THEN, I might want them to be noticed.

Nobody notices a fat, 33 year old, mom, wife.

And, like that carton of milk in the back of my fridge with the expiration date of Sept 08, I just recently realized this.

Spoiled milk can become cheese, right? I’m pretty much the cheese.

mmmmm… cheese…

Like a bad episode of Celebrity Rehab, drama on Twitter when it doesn’t involved me SUCKS ME IN. I can’t look away. I must find out who comes out the other side as the crazy person.

This time, it’s Kevin Smith (THAT Kevin Smith) versus the Twitter PR rep for Southwest Airlines.

VS

It’s epic.

It’s social media at its best.

It’s social media at its worst.

It’s one for the internet history books.

__________________________________________________

Here’s what the Team Kevin Smith twitterers imagined the Southwest PR rep wrote in her journal about her night of drama:

Sometime before February 13th
OH
EM
GEE

You will NOT believe the awesome job I just got. All of my 6 years of college totally paid off and I got the job I really super wanted. I’m gonna be the lead twitterer for a major airline!!!1!! I’m super duper excited to work with an awes0me company like Southwest Airlines!

I’ll get to stay home and Twitter all day long. Super awesome. All I have to do is tell people who whine about their tickets to call the Southwest 1-800 number and wait on hold for 45 minutes. It’s super duper easy cheesy.

** I can’t believe how lucky I am. **

Saturday, February 13th ~ 9pm est
OH
EM
GEE

You will NOT believe that I have to actually sit on twitter on Valentine’s Day Eve instead of go out with my fiancee. I mean, he planned an awesome dinner at Olive Garden, but noooooo… I have to be on the stupid computer answering stupid customer questions just to tell them to call the stupid 1-800 number. GAH. I wanna go OUUUUUUT….

** I can’t believe how much this sucks. **

Saturday, February 13th ~ 10pm est
OH
EM
GEE

You would NOT believe that I have to respond to some fat guy on twitter who got kicked off a plane. I mean, he’s fat. He needs at least two seats. What’s his deal? Doesn’t EVERYbody know fat people need two seats? So what if he could put down the armrest like our policy claims is the difference between fat (two seats) or not fat (one seat). He deserves to be kicked off.

GAH. What a whiner.

** I can’t believe people are so stoopid. **

Saturday, February 13th ~ 10:03pm est
OH
FUCK

You would NOT believe how many twitteres are harrassing ME. Like it’s MY fault that guy got kicked off the plane. Whatevs. He got his $100 voucher. What else does he expect? A cookie? (ha! a cookie for a fat guy. LOLZ)

** I can’t believe people like this guy. **

Saturday, February 13th ~ 10:30pm est
OH
SWEET
JEEBUS

You would not believe how many times my boss has called my cell. I’m SO not answering that. I mean, this is all gonna go away overnight, right? It’s not like people are going to talk about this in the morning, right? I already tried to DM him to give him another $100, but he’s not even following me. Like, everyone should follow me, I mean SouthwestAir. We’re like the best airline in the world.

** I can’t believe I have to do this dumb job on a Saturday night when I could be making out with my fiancee at the Olive Garden. **

Saturday, February 13th ~ 11:00pm est
SHIT

You would not believe that I got fired. Even after I wrote that super awesome post on the Southwest blog about how it’s totally not our fault that that fat guy got kicked off, they fired me. I even titled it something super duper cute ’cause he’s all “Silent Bob” and he’s not so silent. I mean, that’s a gem.  And it’s totally not our fault he couldn’t fly on our plane just cause he could put down his armrests but was still fat.

** I can’t believe the internet hates me. **

__________________________________________________

Dedicated to Sarah in MI