Don’t Hate Me Because I Am Beautiful

Sometimes a post can just write itself, which in my book, is a good day. From the ever esteemed newspaper across the pond, The Daily Mail, a poor, put upon beauty named Samantha Brick wrote a piece the other day about how hard it is to be oh so beautiful. Apparently she is gifted all kinds of things from men whom she doesn’t know and women are completely jealous of her.

Oy Vey! Seriously? This has to be a horribly timed April Fools post because I don’t think I have ever read such drivel in my life. Well, maybe if I looked at a teen girl’s journal, I might see something just as bad. . . but probably not. The cherry on top was her rebuttle article after she recieved many not so nice comments on the article as well as Facebook. Brick even tried to explain that Londoners just don’t get it but having lived in Hollywood for a time, they do.

Now let me back up, I have never thought of myself as beautiful. Cute, sure. Dorky, oh hell yeah. And there are the times when I put forth a huge effort and have been complimented. Which I appreciate and the blush like there is no tomorrow. I am who I am and worrying about it seems silly. And I don’t think there was a time ever when I thought of myself as sexy. That has to do with looking like a kid, acting like an adolescent boy and tripping over my own two feet.

I also think beauty is in the eye of the beholder. Thank goodness that it seems the whole of London has the same damn pair of eyes since men send alcohol to her table at restaurants. Sam, can I call you Sam? Good. Sam, even with my average looks, when I used to go out, there were times when someone sent me a drink. Big freakin deal. Just a few short years ago I had a cute whipper snapper, eight years younger than moi, canoodle with me for a few months. But do I chalk that up to I must be just oh my goodness, sooooo beautiful!

And about that Hollywood thing. Sweetie, you do realize that is the land of make believe, right? Charlie Sheen went off the deep end last year and ran around LA shouting WINNING and drinking Tiger Blood. D-Listed reguarly features some woman they call Chicken Cutlets (aka Pheobie Price) and she claims to be some super dooper model. Hell, there are still a few paps around that will take Paris Hilton’s picture. So I wouldn’t be bragging about how comfortable people are with your beauty. People are paid in LA to tell someone just how wonderful they are, how the world would end without them and they say yes to every request or thought. Why? Because it’s a paycheck baby! And let’s not forget that it is also the land of the crazies, drug addicted, alcohol addicted, sex addicted, let’s go to rehab type of place.

No my dear Sam, people aren’t jealous of you. More than likely your winnning personality sets their teeth on edge and they are glaring at you because you are just that obnoxious. It is fine to have self esteem but you my sweet little flower, are no super model. Nor are you someone that I would immediately think, gee! I wish I looked like her!

Oh and a little tip for you. One of the pictures in your article shows a noticible pooch; get some Spanx and that should smooth it out. Just saying, from one normal looking girl to someone who is just so “beautiful.”

I Love Me Some Spanx

First, the last post has all kinds of spelling errors and I apologize, my laptop is acting up and I was using a mini notebook and well, typing isn’t all that easy. While my laptop’s keys do not work (well, a good portion of them) I finally got around to dragging out a spare keyboard so I can actually type without too many errors.

And because I have no shame, a story from a few years ago. . .

The Queen is all about looking smart. Girlfriend is always dressed nicely, accessorized down to the jewelry, shoes and purses. During a golf tournament I was working, we sat chatting with another friend and the topic of Spanx came up. I listened intently as they discussed the finer points up the suck em in pants, nodding and making a mental note that I should get a pair to try. The interesting part about all of this is, when my hose would start to wear and tear, I would cut them off around the thigh area and wear them under skirts. And I had done that since my Ann Taylor days back in the late ’90s.

I hit up Dillards looking for the oh so important, you have to have them Spanx. Unfortunately the sticker shock made me rethink getting them. I would occasionally look at them when at the mall but never did buy them. For my birthday the Queen was ever so nice and spoiled me like she normally does, this time it was in the form of Spanx.

I was down in her office, chatting with her, she gave me my gift and I knew right then and there I had to try them on. Unfortunately I had on tights and realized I would have to take them off, put the Spanx on and then put the tights back on. . .

Having no shame, I stripped down in her office with the door closed and someone standing in front of the section that was glass. I got them to my knees and thought, man, this is going to be great. Those suck em in pants had a different plan though. The Queen had bought what she thought would fit me but as we kept on trying to get them up and over my butt, we realized that they were too small.

The Queen tried to help me from behind, which looked like a bad use of the Heimlich maneuver, we tried me on the floor pulling on them like you might do with really tight jeans, we went with the let’s try to get it all the way up on one leg and then the other and who knows how many other ways.

There was laughter, tears, shaking until we couldn’t contain ourselves; oh and half the women in her department sauntered into her office trying to figure out what in the world was going on. It was a case of the wouldn’t you love to be a fly on the wall? And all this while my dress is almost over my head, tights laying on the floor and the Spanx being wrestled into submission.

Once we all dried our tears and stopped laughing, I calmly put my tights back on, pulled my dress back down and stuffed the ill fitting Spanx back into the package. I finally got the correct size and am now a card carrying member in the suck em in pants group but. . .

That story has followed me for a few years now, normally when I completely forget about the story, the Queen has someone come up to me and ask about the Spanx story. Carrier reps, coworkers and other offices have heard about me and the day it all went wrong.

But I have no shame and was reminded of that story the other week when I saw a friend I hadn’t seen in a couple of years. She was in the Chattanooga office, we squealed with delight when we saw each other and then she threw out the Spanx story for other ladies to hear.

Thank goodness there are no pictures and while I would kill to weigh what I did then, you still would not have wanted to see that mess.

Oh and just for Monday, since I dislike it so. . . I am now down 25 pounds. It took changing medication to finally get the weight to come off consistently but woo hoo! Come on skinny jeans, get ready because I am working my way down to wear you again. Spanx included.