A Sign for the Puff

I think I had a major sign from the “Stop eating yourself into your fatpants” gods today. No lie. I was at lunch with a friend, and once again, I was chomping on the salty goodness of tortilla chips and salsa, a routine activity for me. I was thinking to myself, “Man, these things are delicious, I can’t wait to have anoth-----------“ OUUUUUUUUUUCHHHHHHHH!Right there, in mid bite, an itty bitty rock of salt leapt off of the chip and into my right eyeball. This….hurt like a bitch. A BITTTTCH! One eye closed Puff.
I quickly grabbed a wet napkin and plunged it into my eyeball trying to melt the meteor of salt that just embedded itself into my contact. It took two napkins, half a glass of water, one contact lense and looking like a crackwhore in the middle of a restaurant for me to say to myself, “PUT THE CHIPS DOWN!” Speaking of crackwhores…I am a chipwhore. Who the hell needs drugs when you can fiend for something much more delicious? ANNND certainly no one’s gonna plot an intervention over your adoration of the tortilla chip? At least crack makes you skinny! Bad joke. But still…Puff.
The older we get the more I realize what bitches age and metabolism are. My roommate and I had an ENORMOUS candy drawer in college that we had to fill weekly because we showed no mercy to a Twix bar. Now, I even think about a Twix bar and my ass not only grows a little bit, but I also get a stomach ache. What happened to just doin whatcha want!? Eating whatcha want? I’ll tell ya…Skinny Bitches took all that glory and soak it up for themselves. Not only that, but for those of us who actually have to work on our aging bods, it gets more and more…oh, and more discouraging trying to attain a great…or even pretty good bod. Puff.
This puff will be short and will end with a rhyme.
How do we lose weight if we don’t have the time
You pick up a chip and almost lose sight
And all you want is another bite
The things that taste good are so bad, but delish
I’d rather eat pizza instead of grilled fish
I’d die for some ice cream
I’d sing for some cheese
But I really want to just fit in my jeans
So with much hesitation, I’ll say with a sigh
I’m gonna lay low on the things that are fried
I may wine a little, I’ll bitch and I’ll huff
But nothin’s as good as a much needed DE-PUFF!

MeatPuffs

The Gym.Is.Hilarious. Nowhere else on earth can you find such an eclectic group of people allll trying to achieve the same goal. Look HOT. In general, I am a people watcher. I’ve always wanted to know everything about everyone and often wonder, “What’s their story?” The gym is a fantastic place to do this. Not only can you be incognito because you’re struttin yourself on the elliptical, but you can also have a soundtrack for this incredible journey all in the form of an ipod.
The gym is A LOT like high school. Puff. You’ve got your meatheads, your fat kids
(I may or may not fit in that category…depends on who’s doing cardio next to me!), your “wanna be” meatheads, your workout barbies and your couples. The best part about the gym is the outfits that these gaggles of gregarious gymgoers sport while lifting, spinning and running.
One corner of my gym is like a mini South Beach with a vast aray of wolverine like men in thee smallest tanktop you’ve ever seen on a man… all held together by miniscule “sleeves.” They’re pecs bulge out from either side and they walk like they’ve just been violated by something in their southern hemisphere. No thanks. Puff.
The other, more ridiculous version of a meathead is straiiiight outta Jersey Shore. They own stock in LA Looks hair gel and probably sleep in a tanning bed at night. These guys wear winter hats with those cute little brims perched to the side with huge sweatpants and a T shirt that they’ve intentionally shrunk 36 times in the dryer to get it just right. They probably played football in high school and think they’re still Captain. Go team! Puff. These guys make me want to vomit into my treadmill cup holder simply just watching them. Sure, they’re in shape and they’re there to work out, but the moves these fellas make is straight outta National Effing Geographic. “Watch carefully as the Lion (Meathead) stalks its prey (Skinny Bitch). He lurks through the grasslands (treadmills) and makes his way slowly towards his next meal (next conquest) and suddenly, BAM, ATTACK, the cheetah lunges (approaches carefully not to mess up his perfectly gelled do) and takes down his prey (idiot girl who thinks he’s cute and has never done this before.) These people need their own gym... and maybe even their own planet. Puff.
Fat Kids. I’m not commenting on the fat kids. They’re at the gym…they’re doing their thing. Good for them.
Wanna Be Meatheads. Ahhh ha! Hilarious. Probably my favorite spectacle at the gym. Often decked out with a bandana (which yes, I am guilty of once sporting the bandana…it was pink and it was cute! Suck it!) hugging their hedgehog like coiffe for dear life and usually some sort of lame tribal tattoo on their arm. They’re skin has never even been even remotely kissed by a ray of sunshine and they usually have some sort of perv patch growing somewhere sporadically on their face. However, these guys walk around like they owwwwn this gym, think that chicks love them and usually come in pairs. Keep an eye out. Puff.
Workout Barbie. I complain enough about Skinny Bitches so I will only say one thing. I seriously saw a skinny bitch with FAKE eyelashes reapplying lipgloss while taking a kickboxing class and flirting with the guy next to her. Nuff said. Puff.

I also have a woman in my spin class who insists on doing ballet mid class. Right.
Couples. There is ZERO need to make out at the gym. Puff.
With that being said, I wear my black pants and black t shirt and black jacket (imposter North Face Jacket) that’s covered in dog hair. My hair is still a little bit wet from the shower I took 10 hours ago and plopped into a messy bun and I think my granny panties may be suffocating. But instead of a bitchfest I write this as a thank you…Thank you to all of you fantastically ridiculous people at the gym for making my workout go by SO much faster, and to my ipod, for putting a soundtrack to it all! De-puff!

Chocolate Cake A la Puff

If I could have a conversation with my 17 year old self the first thing I would say is…For the love of all things standardized, STUDY WAY MORE for your SAT’s, that way maybe when you’re 28 you won’t be stuck in a job you hate! Then I would tell myself NOT to cut my own bangs and to not date any more boys whose names begin with B. I remember my dad telling me to “pay attention to all of the history in England and France because you may never get this opportunity again.” Come again, by history did you mean foreign boys? Because I’m pretty sure that’s the ONLY think I paid attention to. Hindsight is a bitch. Puff.
Regret and hindsight are two different things. I REGRET eating the piece of 3 day old chocolate cake today that was stuffed with so much cherry pie filling goodness that I almost had a mini O. But, in hindsight, would I still eat it? You bet my ever growing ass I would. I REGRET not wearing knee highs with my pumps today because it’s 30 degrees outside. But, in hindsight, my feet look way cuter without them! And then the more serious note…the ever popular and always uncomfortable question…Do I REGRET getting married? And if my answer is yes, then what is my hindsight? And if my answer is No, then why did I get divorced? A lot of people say they don’t live with regrets because the things they have done in their life have made them who they are and have taught them a lesson. ..So what’s my excuse. Puff.
What is my answer to that question? I do regret getting married. I do. How can I possibly wish that I would ever feel that way? How could I not regret feeling ashamed that I made the wrong choice? Puff. Now on to my hindsight. In hindsight, I realized I have figurative balls the size of watermelons and that I am A-Ok livin life all by myself. So many of us wish we could change something in our past. A decision we made, a person we dated, a job we took or something we said. We harp on the what if’s? The truth of the matter is if we focus on the “Look at what happened,” instead of the “what if’s” we may be a little better off.
For instance, what if I didn’t eat that cake? Answer: I’d be sitting at my desk clawing at my mousepad and fiending for anything remotely chocolate. What if I did wear knee highs? I’d probably have had to go to CVS to buy some clear nailpolish to fix the runner I have in my pantyhose! And what if I hadn’t gotten married? Who the heck knows….That’s the best part about the “What if’s”….You never know what would have happened if you didn’t make the choice you did.
As women, we are tough cookies who can be balls of mush. We overanalyze and harp on things we can’t change…I…am the queen of this. Something I have learned is that we can't control the things that end up making us stronger, but we can cerainly learn how to evaluate why things happened and appreciate them for the purpose that they served. Instead of saying , “WHY MEEEEE!” Maybe say, “Ok, My turn…now what!?” and find a solution. We have more strength in us than we even know and if we can all just take a little gander at the inner cookie of toughness, our hindsight can be a great thing!....With that said, still NEVER EVER cut your own bangs.De-puff.

Yes.No.Maybe

Yes.Maybe.No.
Three itsy bitsy words that have been embedded in our heads as girls from the first time we liked a boy. When we’re younger it’s pretty easy to tell if you’re official or not…If his notebook says I ♥ so and so on it, you’re in like Flint (I always thought it was FLynn, apparently it's FLINT! WHO knew!?). If he lets you borrow his hoodie or a movie…GOLDEN. If you’re still confused, you pass him some origami shaped note with the simple phrase: Do you Like ME? Yes. No. Maybe. Circle One. And as untrained, naïve boys they usually answered us honestly. The older we get, the harder it is to tell if we’re their girlfriend…they’re girl…friend orrrr simply just their “I’m gonna call her the instant I’m a hornball” friend. We can’t pass them a note anymore and if we dare ask if we are “official,” we look like marriage hungry losers. Puff.
And it’s not like we’re asking after 5 minutes of dating, or whatever it is we’re doing. Typically, you’ve already done the deed, met some friends, maybe even the parents…but the second you throw out the word GIRLFRIEND they act like little lab rats shuttering from the sight of a lab coat. Talk about awkward! Very rarely does a guy say, “Hey, I really enjoy spending time with you and I don’t want to date, rail or spend most of my time with anyone else.” Because if they say that they might as well say, “I’m agreeing to sleep with you, and only you until we break up.” The thought of commitment typically scares boys right out of their damn britches. It’s like love is a little war to them and the second the girlfriend bomb is dropped, they think RETREAT, RE-EFFING-TREAT! Puff.
UNFORTUNATELY, once again, Facebook has created a status monster. If his status says “single,” when in fact, he’s dating YOU…it might as well say, “Chick I’m sleeping with and seeing everyday just isn’t quite awesome enough to announce to my 535 FB friends that I’m dating her yet.” Hmph and Puff! I wish our status could say, “He kinda has a small weeny, is scared of commitment and LIKES greys anatomy, but I like him anyway!” That would be faneffingtastic. Puff.
So, this begs the question…How in the world are we supposed to know without asking!? Do we wait for them to introduce us as their “girl,” and does “my girl” mean girlfriend!? How long do we effing wait for them to invite us to be in an effing relationship on Facebook(and p.s.- Have I mentioned that FB is a spawn for all things jealousy and neuroticism!?) Moving on… Why in the world can’t we ask!? I mean, sheesh, it’s not like we’re getting any younger! To make matters more confusing, unlike when we had their hoodie in high school, if we end up with a pair of their pajama bottoms, or even meet their mom, who by the way loves us, this STILL doesn’t mean you’re OFFICIAL. PUFF.
While there’s no official answer to the official question, I say go ahead and ask em and if he acts like a punk, then at least you didn’t waste your damn time! Yes. No. Maybe. We may not be passing notes, we may not be claiming hoodies, but these boys should be writing our names allllll ovvah their proverbial notebooks, and if they aren’t then move.the heck.on! De-puff!

Punky Puffer!

"I still wanna be friends though..." Ahh, the infamous words from the guy who wants to let us down gently. In my life I've been the dumper and the dumpee in relationships. I've let em down gently and I've also been known to pull the ole cold shoulder trick. I've written more "i wanna break up with you" letters than I care to admit...but never have I ever said, "I still want to be friends!" Never. In guy code, generally, "You're a great friend," really means, "We had great sex and while I have zero emotional commitment to you, I'd still like to rail you as often as possible." I don't exactly think this sentiment comes with matching best friend braclets. Is it possible to be friends with an ex? Sure. Once you're both over eachother and have moved on, and can confidently and non-ackwardly discuss your new lovahs! However, I've noticed that guys, those sneaky bastards, like to swoop on in with the "friend" move almost as soon as they dump your ass. While you're still listening to Pink's "I'm still a Rockstar" on repeat and have barely dried your tears, homeboy sends you a text that reads, "I need your opinion on something."Puff.
Well since we ARE friends, sure, I'll give you my opinion on something...what is it, clothes, food, new job? And here it comes, said dbag says, "So I've been talking this girl and-----" Before you can even fight through comprehending the rest of that sentence, you are instantly brought down to Punky Brewster level. You're like "kid sister," except you just saw this dude naked 2 weeks ago. Vomit. Puff. He wants to know YOUR opinion on why his new skinny bitch of the month doesn't respond to all of his texts, or doesn't want to meet his family, whatever it is.... And this, ladies, this is when it's decision time. To have any kind of relationship, you should have been friends first? Right!? So, as his friend, you could suck it up and give him your opinion. Well, Punky Effing Brewster, SCUHHRREEEWWW that! Lemme break it down for ya:
Boy breaks up with you.
"Let's be friends"
Boy meets new girl..aka...skinny bitch (they're all skinny bitches)
New girl doens't like boy so much
Boy comes to you for advice
You politely give him advice
New girl breaks up with boy anyway because he's a dbag
Boy runs back to you, sad, needing affection
AND BAM...you wake up naked, knowing your BFF just used you for rebound sex!
See how that works. PUFF.
So, before we go being accessible sex to ur ex boyfriends, let's think twice about what it really means...and let's hold off on matching BFF Bracelets. De-puff.

Fancy...Pants...

"You look like a Million Bucks"...This phrase has an entirely new meaning to me as of this past weekend. A few weeks ago I bought a pair of designer jeans at a SUPER discount, and every time I wear them I feel like I need to yank my shirt up just a smidge so that the gold tag embellished pocket can glisten for all to see. Of course I wear these designer duds with my $6 Old Navy Shoes and plain white long sleeved shirt I got on clearance at kohls for $2.90. Sidenote...Kohls has AMAZING sales...and their candles! Yum! I digress. I found myself on Sunday walking around a swanky mall feelin good cause I had my fancy pants on. I even had the balls to walk into Nordstrom like I owned the joint...and there it was...Puff.
A gaggle of pre pubescent, soccer playing, brace faced thirteen year olds covered in so much name brand gorgeousness I had to take a picture. There was Michael Kors, Coach, The North Face, Rockin Republic AND I think in the midst of all that couture I even saw a Prada...a real one. I felt an instant high off of seeing such gorgeousness, such lavishness...such, wait... when I was 13 my mom took me to Bradlees and I was lucky if I even got Hanes undies and these little brats and their rubber band mouths get MY (as in the one I've been socking away $25 a month for!) Michael Kors bag! PUUUUFFFFF!
I...was...jealous of these little twits (hence my bitterness and juvenile remarks about said 13 year olds!)who didn't work a damn day in their life to earn such perfection hanging from their still growing arms! Do they even realize how lucky they are to have such greatness!? Surely not. And then I started thinking about the kids in their school...who can barely afford the Faded Glory brand from Wal Mart and have no idea who Michael Kors is. I remember the first time I saw a GAP bag...I was in eighth grade and saw the navy blue bag with those fantastic white letters. I said "What is G-A-P?" to the popluar bitch holding the bag. "Hahahahah you guys, you guys, she doesn't know what the GAP is! Don't you ever like shop at the mall!?" No, you stupid horse faced slut (she wasn't then, but sistah friend had about 3 kids by the age of 18...suck it!)...I don't shop at the mall, we umm, can't afford it. I had never felt so embarassed or worthless. Contemplative Puff...
Seeing these little pre-madonnas at Nordstrom brought me right back to eighth grade and I instantly wanted to wrap my whole body in my plain white Tee...with no visibility of the "coolness" on my back pocket. I realized that status is like a blind taste test. Dr. Thunder vs. Dr. Pepper...Dr. Thunder may in fact taste better, but Docttttahhh Pepppah's got the name and it's $1.25 for a can, not 25 cents. Wow."Wow, I love those jeans, what are they!?" Common, common question in a group of women. You better hope you're wearing something noteworthy orrrrr you simply say, "I can't remmmember what kind these are..but I got them at Nordy's!" When you know full well...you got em on super clearance at Target. God Bless TJ MAXX...at least they make it possible to own at least one pair of fancy pants and not promise your first born to the sales clerk! Apprently expensive dictates cool, but um, have ya seen a runway show...That shit is UG-UH-LEEEE and I wouldn't be caught dead in half of it! Vomit and Puff!
Are we happier when we have money to buy whatever we want and not have to worry about bills? You bet your ass. Would it have been nice to be born into the Lucky Sperm Club where everything is simply handed to us? I used to think so. But then I met said members of this elite "club" and realized not only do they have any regard for society or the less fortunate, but most of the luckey speremers I know...druggies and sluts. Excellent. No thanks. I have zero respect for people who don't earn what they have and don't appreciate the things they are GIVEN. Whoever thinks money makes you a good person...no dice my friend, no dice. Do the C's on your coach bag make you a better person...Hell to the No. Are my no name flats the most comforable shoes I've ever worn? Yes...sweet Jesus I love them! When you're down in the dumps and need a shoulder to cry on, do you care if that shoulder is decorated in Hanes or Ann Taylor? Nope! I walked away from Nordstrom hoping with all my heart that that gaggle of tweens fully appreciates what they're flaunting allll over their eighth grade classrooms...because somewhere in that class there's a little girl wearing no name jeans and has no idea what The Gap is...and that, pre-madonnas, is A-Ok.De...puff.

Cream Puff

In the movie version on my life I walk around my house in Christian Louboutin heels and a Juicy Couture bikini and there is not one ounce of imperfection on my ass...or thighs...or stomach. I can wear ANY jeans I want and if I'm feelin sassy, I'll even slip my skinny ass into a pair of Juniors. That's right "Angels" and "Mudd," I'm comin for you bitches! Puff.
Weight. You bitch.The way you effect a woman's sense of worth is impecable. And why..please for the love of all that is remotely fair, tell me whhhhy do we always lose weight when we're upset...when we're wallowing in our sorrows? I walked 8 miles a day...every day...when I was deciding to leave my husband. Those 8 miles a day were thee most therapeutic steps of my life...and I lost a good 30 pounds....Then, I got over it. Puff.
Food. Glorious, amazing food is both my best friend the kind of enemy I want to spit on and even kick a little. I cannot walk down the cookie aisle without imagining the sweet taste of a double stuffed oreo...those things are like little pillows of perfection placed between two chocolate slices of heaven. And cheese....cheese is the most amazing food on the planet. Anything you can add to grits, eat plain or on a burger is an incredible, incredible food. And who the hell can pass up a brownie...a warm, fudgey corner piece of a brownie is like the best sex you've ever had...except you don't have to see yourself naked. Score! But then...then I think of my ass, and how it resembles a shelf. My ass literally starts in the middle of my back and takes it sweet time coming to an end. It has a mind of it's own when I dance, run or even walk. Some guys love big bums, ummm have they seen this thing!? Puff.
And let's discuss the "muffin top." I will never forget the first time I saw a picture of myself, trying to breathe in a pair of size 4 jeans...and there it was...the top that was muffin. That couldn't be me!? No way. But I remember thinking the jeans just sat a little funny...no my little puffer self...you ate yourself into needing a much bigger pair of pants! Even if you cut any remnant that there was even a size ever noted on what you're wearing...you know...you know that those size 4's, or 8's or whatever you once were that made you happy...those are but a distant memory...and now, now you are in you effing "fat pants." Screw you fat pants. Puff.
Weight watchers told me that for my "petite" size of 5'1" I should weigh 109 pounds. Hi, weight watchers, my right thigh weighs 109 pounds! I almost spit out my 2 point itty bitty snack bar when they told me that...and by the way...if you eat the whole box of snack bars...that's only 8 points, so that's ok, right?! Puff.
I have discovered in recent months that despite the skinny bitches at the gym who make me want to rip every ounce of fat off my body, and the way my ass looks in the mirror in spin class...that I actually semi-enjoy working out. I can relieve some stress, have a little dance party on the eliptical listening to my ipod, and I can think about allll those people who have described me as "cute," or "chubby!" Everyday... I decide to go to the gym so that the ENORMOUS pile of "Pants with Potential" can kiss my shrinking ass, cause I'm comin for ya. De-puff.