Confessions of an ex-heifer.

It has come to my attention that I closely resemble an M&M. On the outside is a hard, colorful outer shell. And on the inside - chocolate.

From ages birth until I was 18 I would venture to say I could have easily gotten a scholarship to Jenny Craig; as I was the perfect candidate. Rotund and full of imagination, I was your favorite fat kid. And oblivious at that. I was the token fatty with all of my friends. They were twigs, and I didn't seem to let it stop me from attempting to borrow their clothes. Not to mention, my sister was a star gymnast and cheerleader who went through boyfriends like I go through brain cells when I watch Jersey Shore. Needless to say, self-image issues began early.


Since I weighed 135lbs in 3rd grade, I had a lot of physical clout over a lot of people. Specifically, boys on the soccer field at recess. I planned my wardrobe accordingly, but sometimes I had to wear something warmer than my Sheryl Crow tee, jorts and my Nike sneaks. I remember specifically the pairs of jeans I would leave unbuttoned for school, because they were puncturing my stomach. So much so, that had I been pregnant, it would have been easy for me to have a self-handled abortion. Sweatshirts became a necessity for coverage.

When I was 18, my sister and I went to Starbucks and began chit chatting about our youth. She told me that one evening during family dinner, she noticed I was going in for thirds. It happens to be that my mother's spaghetti is that bad ass. Anyway, after dinner she burst into tears. She told me she was crying because she thought I would never lose the weight; that I would become obese. My mother reassured her that it was just baby fat, and that it would pass. To which my sister replied: "She's 14!"

My fupa didn't go away immediately. It took a little while. The summer before 10th grade I started working out a little harder for soccer and volleyball, so I slimmed down and voila! Got a boyfriend. In his defense, he's not a shallow ass bag, my new sexy teenage bod was all he knew. We just met. Anyway, during volleyball preseason I was moved to Varsity as a sophomore to give the bench some depth. And I wasn't about to be the salmon in this river, so I did what the other girls did as game-day rituals. Chick-fil-a before every game, peanut butter straight out of the tub before games when we had tournaments (you know, quick energy), and something after the game for muscle rebuilding. Keep in mind, I rode the bench for half of the season since the entire team was comprised of seniors. I put on a few pounds, and was dumped around Christmas time. We got back together, but I'm still convinced he started having second thoughts about the outer me, what with my helmet haircut and my perpetual Buddha belly.

You know, I'm proud of my bulbous youth. I was a statistic,  and now I'm just a sloth. No longer being an athlete really takes a toll on your motivation to do anything but sit around. After my shoulder surgery it was hard to bounce back into my once-active lifestyle. Now I'm paying someone to make me work out. You'd think I would know how to work out after 18 years of doing so.

But I need to offset the amount of chocolate covered almonds I consume. So, money well spent.

I live every day longing to have been born 7 years earlier.

If you don't know me, or if you haven't made this realization on your own, the 90s are the best 10 years that the world will ever know. If you disagree, then go drink bleach.

I grew up with 3 people who got to fully experience the essence of the 90s: my sister, who is often mistaken for a red-headed Cabbage Patch kid, my brother, whose Doppelganger would have easily been Zack Morris and my cousin Erin, who mourned over Kurt Cobain's death more than Courtney Love did. Those 3 got to live in the 90s. And I say "live" with the utmost intent. I got to be alive in the 90s, but I didn't get to live. I didn't get to experience my pre-teen years, tween years, teen years, and all other synonyms for adolescence in the 90s. They get to remember everything! They remember grunge, Nirvana, the sexual innuendos in Clueless that I didn't get until I was 17, Blimpie, The Cookie Monster when he was actually eating cookies instead of vegetables, the never-ending competition between MTV and VH1, and everything else that could possibly bring a human being joy.

And here I am. Being forced into the digital age, expected to erase my memory of disposable cameras and JNCO jeans.

But I refuse.

Thus, consider this long-overdue post a refresher of joy. A pedestal for awesome music, perfect humor and undeniably cool fashion. Consider this... an ode to the few wonderful things I remember from my brief childhood in the 90s:

Childhood memory #1: Adidas wind pants.

Adidas wind pants were my go-to pair of pants when I went to the skating rink. I liked the way they flowed and flapped behind me as I speed skated to the tunes of any Boyz II Men song, and "Everybody" by Backstreet Boys. The only reason I was cool was because I wore Adidas wind pants to Hurst Skate, which was just as appropriate as someone wearing flannel and a weed pendant necklace to a Third Eye Blind concert. There was another skating rink called Skatetown that was slightly less white trash and more for a popular crowd. But I never went to Skatetown. My mom didn't want to drive that far.

Childhood memory #2: Grand Champions.

Grand Champions, the most beautiful horses in the world! Palamino, Stallion, Thoroughbred, Spotted Appaloosa... Not only did I have about 47 different plastic Grand Champions, I had the game, reins, hygienal supplies, saddles, blankets,  and a large suitcase to tote my prized collection. I made everyone shut up for the commercials, and spent a large sum of minutes in the toy aisle of any grocery store, staring at the beautiful, faux equines. My parents were smarter than to take me to Toys 'R Us, as I would have had a heart attack partially due to obesity and partially due to stress.

Childhood memory #3: After school specials.

The best shows on TV came on after school. And did I know every single opening jingle? Yes. Full House, Step by Step, Family Matters, Boy Meets World, Saved by the Bell, Doug, and Legends of the Hidden temple, to name a few. Everyday at 3:30 I would walk home from school, fix a large bowl of Kix and/or 2 turkey and mayonnaise sandwiches to consume during my primetime TV. It's a wonder I was overweight.

There are so many memories that I want to ramble on about, but will spare you the paragraphs. My only request is that someone find me the jean overalls I used to wear with a sports bra, and go rollerblading with me.

Where my dogs at?

Chafing and perpetual camel toe aside, I've recently become a fan of stationary cycling at my gym. Amidst other workouts that I'm trying to have compensate for me being an ex-collegiate athlete, I've found that cycling is the best workout because I'm not really aware I'm working out until I try to get up for  a drink of water and my legs stop working due to the longevity of my faux bike ride.

I was at the gym today, cycling my little chocolate-loving heart out, and a movie began playing on one of the tiny treadmill televisions directly in front of me. Alas, I began watching "I Am Legend."

After a few minutes of gawking at Will Smith's hot black bod, and growing increasingly more curious about what it would be like to live in a deserted world, I embark on the most awful and depressing scene of the movie:

When his precious dog, Sam, dies in his toned arms because a douche bag zombie-human's zombie-dog bit her in a vicious battle.

Then, it hit me. The saddest part of any movie pertaining to a dog, is if/when the dog dies. Examples include but are not limited to: Old Yellar, Homeward Bound, Lassie, My Dog Skip and Air Bud. Say the dog and its owner get into a street debacle with a gang. Shots fire and we see the owner is still standing strong while its puppy is left on the ground to bleed to its death.

Boom. Instant tears.

The audience could have cared less if the human survived the gang bang, so long as the doggy made it out of there alive. What did the dog ever do to you? Nothing. Nothing but need you, love you and serve as inexorable means of bouncy, furry happiness. I began to develop a theory as I was cycling deeper into my "random uphill" workout regime. I feel as though people feel more pain when dogs die in movies because they're the most loyal species to roam this planet. I would say "animals" instead of "dogs" but cats are selfish assholes.

Think about it, do mean things to your friends - you get shit listed for a while. Do mean things to your dogs - he shits in the yard and brings you your slippers at night. You could swap your dog's water bowl for a bowl full of vodka and he would still bite a burglar for you when the time came. Do that to your friend and you're getting sand in your bed.

The innate loyalty dogs possess is astounding. Which is why I think it's sad to see them die, even in movies. It's like they're the only good people left. Well, them and the guy from the Allstate Insurance commercials. Who has an uncanny resemblance to what the prodigy of Denzel Washington and Morgan Freeman would look like.

The Outback Chronicles: The Hostess Stand

I had shoulder surgery on January 29, 2010. While the residuum was mentally euphoric, it was physically taxing. I quickly became:

1) A drug addict.
2) Constipated.
and 3) A worthless human being to society.

I somehow miraculously found it within me to keep up with my schoolwork, which gave me the upper hand when dealing with the number of absences in my classes later in the semester. But I needed money. And pronto. After applying at a slew of degrading and brainless jobs, I came across an old place of employment for one of my roommates: Outback Steakhouse.

I'm a fan of the restaurant industry. Not because of the shameless, dirty managers who get off on hiring 16-year-old blonds with an IQ of 5, and not because of the sexy, undeniably flattering outfits, but because I can manipulate innocent people into giving me free money.

How much cash I walk home with is dependent upon the intelligence level of my tables, how much twang I can incorporate in my dialogue, how much ass I can kiss and how many jokes I can crack without genuinely offending people. I'm just shy of lowering my moral standard to a point where I'd let people know that I'm a single mother who needs to make enough money for her infants as to avoid having to resort to stripping. We're all aware of the "Angel of Cloud 9"...

I'd make serious bank with the pity card.

Anyway, the Outback Chronicles are not to justify why I prefer serving food than folding clothes in order to have some kind of pre-career income. No, the Outback Chronicles are to inform the world of the slovenly servers, ridiculous banter, useless busboys and inexorable drama that occurs daily. Today, I would like to take the time to dispel the wonder that is: The Hostess Stand.

You see, because I had shoulder surgery, I was unable to do anything physical. Not to say lifting trays of hot food is a heart-racing workout, but I was incapable of doing anything pertaining to my shoulder. So, Outback management let me hostess until my shoulder was back to useful. Then I would be promoted to server.

As a hostess, you are expected to have both the IQ and the responsibility level of a 7-year-old. You keep your area clean, appear polite, and understand how to read and count. What they don't tell you in the job description, is that you're inadvertantly the Dr. Phil of the restaurant. Servers and busboys alike approach the hostess stand with this wistful look on their face that makes you wonder if someone put an "I CARE" sign on your forehead while you were dozing off.

Personal problems, shit-talking, life struggles, unwanted opinions, physical ailments... the list goes on. Once someone outside the hostesss realm leans against the stand, peers over to look at the floor chart and lets out that sigh of weariness... you know something of said characteristics is coming. At which point you can either look busy, or accidentally make eye contact. You decide your fate.

But really, you don't. Because if any employee has a spare 15 seconds, any and all of that ear-bleeding vernacular is fair game to besprinkle upon open ears. I've decided the best thing to do is nod. Any advice given will only prolong the hostess-stand confession, and give the impression that you're siding/supporting whatever and whoever approaches.

Sometimes I wish I were deaf. Maybe that will be my next table-serving scam. Everyone likes a deaf girl.