Eat a Cookie Hall of Fame: Part 3

Today, we welcome Perry Reeves into the prestigious club of the Eat a Cookie Hall of Fame.

Before I met my fiance, I refused to watch Entourage. I didn't want to add viewers to the yechy show that glorified the douchebaggery that abounds in LA. But, he loves it, and I can handle it in small doses.

Except for Perry Reeves. The camera adds 10 pounds? Then Miss Reeves needs to gain 40. Everytime she appears on screen, all I can think is: "Ari Gold would not stand for that boniness in his bed. No one wants a jutting hip bone to slice across their thigh." The producers of this show clearly decided they weren't even going to bother pretending 3/4 of the women in Hollywood aren't afraid of food.

I'm going to start soliciting donations soon to put together delicious, completely inorganic, fatty, rich cookie baskets to send to our Hall of Famers. If we can just add a little softness to one scrawny shoulder in LA....I will feel my work has been done.

The Key to Good Makeup is...A Pretty Face

If you're like me, you love free stuff. I collect my Sephora Insider points like a hoarder with a fetish for porcelein dolls, just to get as much free product as possible. The month Kashi gave away free cookies via the mail was basically the greatest month of all time. Too bad the cookies sucked.

And that's the problem with most freebies and samples....its either something you don't really want in the first place or such a small little bottle/bag/cookie that it's disappointing. If you're going to give me something free, be serious about it. Instead of a tiny pouch of eye cream, give me the whole thing. HOW am I supposed to know if it erases my dark circles if you only gave me enough for one-half of one eye?

Thank God the Beauty Gods smiled upon us recently and begot the world Birchbox, otherwise known as (in my house, at least), the Holy Grail of Beauty Samples.

Every month, for the the nominal fee of $10, I get a pretty little box in my mail, sweetly wrapped and tied with a bow. Best of all, it's stuffed full of beauty goodies. Once, it had a granola bar (and it was delicious).

The samples are usually "premium" sized, meaning it lasts more than a single use. Also, because I've filled out a handy-dandy survey about my beauty tastes, everything I get is something I really am excited to try. And even though there's no pressure to buy, buy I do. But that's okay, too, because I earn points when I buy things and that, in turn, earns me discounts! Genius. Pure pretty-girl genius.

Highlights of recent boxes? Korres body wash, Kate Spade perfume, Anastasia of Beverly Hills mascara, and a Twistband hair tie. Love doesn't begin to cover how I feel about Birchbox.

Mad Women

I am on a diet. I am exercising more than my big ol body has exercised since I was on the high school water polo team.

But I don't want to be skinny. Actually, I don't even want to be thin.

"Well, what is it you want to be?" My mom asks.

Duh. I want to be Christina Hendricks. But, like, with blonde hair and smaller boobies.

She, to me and probably most male Americans, is the perfectly shaped woman. Soft, voluptuous, feminine and curvy. She can eat a steak with you and not have to excuse herself to yak while you wait for the check. She also doesn't take up two seats on an airplane. She probably also smells nicely of jasmine and baby powder.

A "friend" of mine, during my single years, once asked me how I was getting so many dates. I think she was incredulous that she, a size 8, was going nowhere fast with men, but me, a then-size 14/16 was the belle of the ball. My reply was how this blog was born...

"No one likes a skinny girl." And I believe that. So today, my "ideal" size is 12. I'd be stoked for a 14. Some would probably say that's still fat. I prefer chubby, and I love it.

Oy, just let the man dance!

People are pissed, I guess, that Chaz Bono is gonna be on Dancing with the Stars.

Now, Chaz is not a plus-sized gal. But he was once. So I'll just say this:

These people complaining should be ashamed of themselves. Who cares what Chaz did with his hoo-ha? There's nothing more unnatural about that then the fake boobs adorning 90% of the female competitors on the show. And frankly....these complainers should be ashamed of themselves mostly just for even watching DWTS. It's an awful show. Truly awful.

We'd all be so much happier if we only bothered to get angry at the really shocking things in life....like when someone cuts you in line at CVS.

I...can't...move

Sam the Trainer kicked my ass. I can't move. My forearms hurt. My lower back muscles hurt. I didn't even know I have lower back muscles.

Today's work out came thanks to one 10 month-old puppy named Bugsy who decided, rather abruptly, that he had not gotten enough exercise at the dog park, and thus, bolted down the street. I chased him for two blocks before I finally caught him when he stopped to romp in a patch of weeds. I am sure the good people of the neighborhood enjoyed watching a large blonde lady running after a tiny little miniature pinscher down the street.

Eat a Cookie Hall of Fame: Part 2

It's time for another Eat a Cookie Hall of Fame inductee!

Everyone's favorite fashionista, so dedicated to her work that she literally has turned herself into a wire hanger....Miss Rachel Zoe.

Frankly, I'm flumoxed that this science lab skeleton beauty was able to get pregnant. She is a real miracle. I think all her faux fur vests kept her womb warm.

On a related, interesting note...I found this picture of Rachel on a website dedicated to helping people get this skinny. Tips, included. I feel the site should come with a disclaimer: "Warning, looking like this won't actually make you look good. And you'll be so boney, your dog won't want to sit on your lap. But whatever, it's your wrinkled skin."

I Wanna Be a Supermodel

Today's list of I Want It Now features dresses, dresses and more dresses from http://www.saksfifthavenue.com/.

First, I am a big fan of dresses. I'm not sure why women in years long ago wanted to wear pants so desperately. A great dress makes you look like you spent 2 hours getting ready instead of the 2 minutes it actually took to slip it on. Effortlessly cool. Feminine. Sexy. Sweet. Professional. Smart. All accomplished by one piece of clothing. Whenever my single gal pals ask me what they should wear on a date, I always say, "A dress." There are only a few things left in this world that women don't have to share with men (like pregnancy and lipstick). Dresses are one of them.

Secondly, I love me some color. Yes, two of the dresses below are black--because I also love me some black. But if I'm ever in just a black dress, the cardigan over it is usually a bright, punchy shade. I own a neon yellow top I rock whenever the mood strikes. Maybe I look garrish. Maybe I stick out more than I'd like. But, really, who cares? Black does not have to be the uniform of every fat woman on this earth.

And last, I was at one time shocked by the enormous, stylish selection Saks Fifth Avenue carries in its Salon Z (Plus Size) department. Not that Saks isn't stylish. Mostly just because I'd always figured high-end was synonamous with "Plus sizes keep out!" Or maybe I'd just never bothered to look. Like most women, I've been afraid to buy that $250 dress since, "Oh, you know, I'm on a diet and who knows what size I'll be in a few months." Sisters, we're always on a diet. Let's give ourselves a break, and at least look smokin' hot while we wait to see how many pounds we can lose in a week.

Aidan Mattox dress. Cocktail party, here you come!

Lafayette 148 New York dress. I love the sultry color. Like wine and raspberries and a good make out sesh.


MICHAEL Michael Kors dress. I love professional dresses with unexpected twists, like the satin borders that run through this.

Z from Zenobia dress. This dress basically dares him not to ask you out again. The just below-the-knee fit is flattering on most of us plus-sized dolls.

Stairway to Heaven....?

With 5 months left until my weddingpalooza, I bit the bullet and hired myself a trainer. Not to get skinny, or probably even thin...just to maybe minimize my arm flab and any potential back cleavage in my pristine white gown.

I don't do particularly well with people yelling at me and ordering me around, especially if I think I know what I'm doing. Which is why I sought out a trainer who specializes in boxing--something I know pretty much nada about. This way, when he says "Stand like this, put your arms here, kick with this foot this way," I'm not thinking, "Shut up, you roided bastard."

Although, as it turns out, I could never think that about Sam, my poor poor trainer. Sam has the patience of a cloistered nun. Last Thursday, I was all sorts of pathetic, hitting the punching bag so soft it could be construed as a love tap. Sam said, with all his trainer-therapist wisdom, "The days we DO NOT want to work out but do it anyway are the days we're getting the most out of it--a real test for our bodies and our minds." If I was able to catch my breath, I would've told him I love him.

So, I'm looking forward to today's session. Sorta. Except, last week, just when I thought I had the system all figured out, Sam said, "Today, we do stairs." (And by "we" he meant me, while he watched with dismay at the bottom.)

My nemesis, the stairs

I will attempt to, once again, not feel bovine-ish as I struggle to climb the stairs while doing bizarre combinations of leg lifts and squats with a medicine ball. I will attempt to not cry. I will attempt to not complain. I will attempt to make Sam think I'm progressing. These are my goals.

On a side note, I said to my fiance the other night, "Honey, Sam thinks I should buy my own gloves..." He stared at me for a moment and then said, "I'm not sure boxing gloves in the house are a good idea."

Why ever heaven's not???