Since I’m medically certified as crazy enough for prescription medication by my pill-pushing psychiatrist, I no longer understand the Instant Cry routine Claire has implemented. Her arsenal of tactics to get what she wants has evolved from throwing her wee body on the ground in protest to the Instant Cry where she’s perfected the art of popping out tears in less than 1/2 a second.

As a teen girl with teen girl problems, I recall using this effective method of attention-getting on my boyfriends. They’d tell me they couldn’t make it over to pick me up for school because of some bullshit reason like lack of gas money, and I’d do a 180 of emotion to full-on weeping. I can’t say it worked every time, but for my more sensitive high school boyfriends, my crying charm got me what I wanted.

I’d want to go to Taco Bell, he’d want to go to Hardee’s, I’d throw a tantrum, and we went to Taco Bell.

His mom wanted him home by 11, I wanted to stay at my friend’s house until 12, I huffed and puffed, and we stayed out until 12.

I don’t think this method of getting what I want would work today. Mainly because Patrick has been around too long to know the difference between a real cry and my fake stomping, but also because my highly-medicated brain is prevented from producing any emotion beyond extreme highs and lows. ZOLOFT FTW!

By now, I’m convinced that Claire is a 14-year-old trapped in a miniature 6-year-old’s body, complete with tear-popping meltdowns, a love of anything trendy, unexplained melodrama, and the necessity to be asleep for a minimum of 11 hours a day.

She’s gorgeous, so people tell me they assume she can get away with anything. But as her mother, I’m legally responsible for not letting that happen. Her big blue eyes have no heart-melting affect on me.

Aside from ignoring the whines, cries, and general disagreeableness, I have no idea how to parent my child. I thought her sister was going to be the difficult one to raise, but after she got over her selective mutism, acute anxiety, and speech delay, Anna is pretty close to being the Perfect 7-Year-Old Child. If she continues on the path she’s currently living, she’ll end up a well-educated successful woman.

Claire? Not-so-much.

I’m thinking of just teaching her how to use her emotional powers for evil against boys to get everything she ever wanted. If only my mother had taught me the ways of Candy Spelling, I, too, could be set for life as a wealthy Stage 5 hoarder. Instead, I lost my ways as an emotional manipulator and ended up a middle-class Stage 1 hoarder.

My daughter has the potential to BE something: A Stage 5 emotional manipulator with a Sugar Daddy.

© Angie [A Whole Lot of Nothing] for A Whole Lot of Nothing • Your Favorite Blog, 2012. | Permalink | 2 comments | Add to del.icio.us
Post tags: emotional, girl, raising a 6 year old girl, tantrum, teenager

Feed enhanced by Better Feed from Ozh

You know all that hubbub earlier this week about the sweatshirt JCPenney was selling for little girls that said, “I’m too pretty to do homework, so my brother has to do it for me.”? It’s sexist, a reflection of extrinsic negativity pressuring girls, and just plain poor taste in style. White sweatshirts are SO 1992. Thankfully, JCPenney removed the shirt, and it’s no longer for sale. I’d like to believe it was all because of the Daily Curve post I put up on Curvy Girl Guide, but that would be more self-centered of me than even I can handle.

By this point a whole 2 days later, it’s all a bunch of blah, blah, blah, let’s move on to doing something better with our time.

Of course, I’ve thought up a shirt to make for jokesters like me who are adults to wear. Huffington Post had a few interesting made-to-offend shirt ideas, so I shared my own on Facebook:(...)
Read the rest of No, YOUR Mom Dances On a Pole. (87 words)

© Angie [A Whole Lot of Nothing] for A Whole Lot of Nothing • Your Favorite Blog, 2011. | Permalink | 5 comments | Add to del.icio.us
Post tags: facebook, girl, homework, jcpenney, mom, pole dance, sweatshirt

Feed enhanced by Better Feed from Ozh

I broke down and shelled out $3 for the Couch to 5 K app for my phone.

It takes me less than 1/2 a second to decide on buying a dozen mini cupcakes, but it took me about 6 months to finally justify spending 3 dollars on an exercise app.

I’ll succeed in finishing off the cupcakes, but I may fail at actually using the exercise app.

I know. Crazy town.

I quit soda in December thinking I’d instantly drop a few hundred pounds. Didn’t happen.

Apparently I have to actually get up and do more than walk to the toilet to equal actual exercise.

That’s just stupid.

Exercise is hard. And it’s hot outside. And I don’t like the hot. It makes sweat. And sweat is stupid.

It takes too many steps to turn on the Wii Fit Plus.

THAT is a sign of fucking lazy.

I’ve told you before that I take lazy to a whole other level. Now do you believe me?

But now I guess being fat is stupid. And that’s just dumb.

________________________________________

Pee Pee Ess: I lied.

© Angie [A Whole Lot of Nothing] for A Whole Lot of Nothing • Your Favorite Blog, 2010. | Permalink | 36 comments | Add to del.icio.us
Post tags: exercise, fat, girl

Feed enhanced by Better Feed from Ozh

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.

© Angie [A Whole Lot of Nothing] for A Whole Lot of Nothing • Your Favorite Blog, 2010. | Permalink | 35 comments | Add to del.icio.us
Post tags: fat, girl, legs, shorts, style, thighs, women

Feed enhanced by Better Feed from Ozh

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…

© Angie [A Whole Lot of Nothing] for A Whole Lot of Nothing • Your Favorite Blog, 2010. | Permalink | 39 comments | Add to del.icio.us
Post tags: fat, girl, mom, teenager, woman

Feed enhanced by Better Feed from Ozh

I’m a girl who likes the perks of being a girl. I like not having to take out the trash, having doors opened for me, getting flowers, and the whole making-a-baby-in-my-belly thing. I like getting dressed up with pretty jewelry, wearing makeup, and gussying up my hair all fancy-like. Like the song says, “I enjoy being a girl.”

As a girl, I also want the same rights as a man. I demand to be given the equal opportunities for a job, for a house, and I want my girls to have the same chances as the boys in sports.

I want to be noticed for my looks, but I want to be respected for taking the time to look nice.

I want to be noticed for my sexuality, but I want to be understood as an equally sexual being.

I want my level of education to be admired, but I want my intelligence to be validated.

I’m fortunate enough to have a husband to understands all of my expectations and caters to my feminine contradictions.

He also understands my love of reality crap TV shows. Cause really, what girl doesn’t like seeing other girls putting themselves out in front of a man like a piece of meat to devour and be devoured all for a rose?

This girl.

I’m a Kool-Aid-drinking liberal lefty with an expired membership to NOW. I believe in equal rights for every one. Even the right for women to put themselves on national television whoring themselves out for the “love” of one man whom they’ve never met.

I’m not one to judge. I watch Rock of Love, Flavor of Love, and I’ve been known to watch an episode or two of The Bachelor. I thank you, girls, for your willingness to make crap great television.

But holy hell, women. Is it worth your self-worth to “fall in love” with a man you’ve been vying for against 18 other women? Is it worth ruining any sort of professional or personal reputation you’ve built up to try to hook yourself a man?

My personal parental goal for my girls is to keep them off of VH1 reality shows. I’m also adding to my goal, any other show that puts silicone boobs and fake DSL (dick-sucking lips) up for sale for advertisers to pay my consumer cash so these girls can feel some sort of validation for a few minutes of attention from one single man. But they don’t get paid. They do it for attention. At least get some cash for whoring yourself, girls! (See: Pretty Woman or Secret Diary of a Call Girl)

I may be seen as a hypocrite in that I actually watch some of this drivel, but I find it nauseating to watch these fellow women (doctors, teachers, sales reps, students, mothers) whore themselves out for a few minutes of notoriety as they cry and beg their way into an unknown man’s “heart.”

The more education she has, or the smarter the woman seems to be, the more I feel sorry for her for feeling it necessary to beg for a man’s attention. Which is probably why I feel better about watching the crap shows on VH1 rather than The Bachelor. Them bitches is d.u.m.b.

I’m just waiting for the women to jump up and down like a 3-year-old yelling “NOTICE ME! I’M PRETTY ENOUGH, AREN’T I? PICK ME! I NEEEEEED YOU!”

Kind of like how I was in high school.

© Angie [A Whole Lot of Nothing] for A Whole Lot of Nothing • Your Favorite Blog, 2009. | Permalink | 13 comments | Add to del.icio.us
Post tags: girl, reality show, reality tv, the bachelor, vh1, women, women's rights

Feed enhanced by Better Feed from Ozh