There’s a great discussion going on over at BlogHer today about Glamour magazine’s plus-sized photo shoot. I highly suggest you check out the discussion, because not only is it informative, it also really gives a woman some food for thought (no pun intended?). Since I read Susan Wagner’s post, I’ve been thinking about designers and stylists in general, and what they are doing to our self images.

Media is flooded with talk about the fashion industry, and what it means for society. Little girls are obsessed with their bodies, and who do we blame? Do we blame magazines? Television? Mothers? I say we blame none of the above. What I noted in the BlogHer discussion, and will note here, is that the designers we all love are being supported by both the model-thin and the plus-sized and the everything-in-between. Don’t we buy Marc Jacobs handbags no matter what size we are? Don’t Jimmy Choos fit most every girl (regardless of whether we can afford them)? Haven’t we bought the “frugalista” lines of Anya Hindmarch and Anna Sui and Isaac Mizrahi? When the economy tanked, high-end designers found a new niche: Target shoppers. You can’t tell me that only the model-thin shop at Target, because I shop there and to think of me as anything but larger than the average girl is laughable.

It’s no secret that very few women are sample size, much less smaller than a 12 (I believe that’s still the national “average”).  Certainly we should all strive to be healthy, but as Oprah, Kirstie Alley, Valerie Bertinelli and I know all too well, it takes a while to get where you’re going. And sometimes you go there and come back – several times. I’m not saying here that I think more or less of someone because of their size (except YOU, Blake Lively, I do hate you and your tall skinny self) but I do think less of designers that limit their products to the very rich and the very skinny.

Rachel Zoe

I love fashion magazines. I watch Project Runway and The Rachel Zoe Project. I see Rachel’s collar bones and spine sticking out like a sharp coffee table edge, and I see the models the Runway hopefuls design for. We support their shows and their work; it’s time for designers – and the magazines and shows that feature them – to support everysized women by designing for ALL of us. Haute couture will never be within my financial reach, and to be honest, I wouldn’t wear half the crap that goes down the runway each fall and spring. BUT – and this is a big BUT – Americans are bigger now than they were last year, and I don’t see that trend changing much. We’re not all getting gastric bypass for Christmas, so until the national “average” turns around, design some decent-looking clothes for the rest of us, would ya?

…You crawl in my lap to get a little love, throw your paw up on my arm and start sniffing it like it’s glue. And then, when I look down to see what’s going on, I noticed that your perfectly white paw is not so much white, but more like BLOODY PINK, and then I realize that you are not the domesticated creature I thought you were. Also, thanks for leaving your murder victim in the driveway for me to run over this morning. You rock, you dirty hunter, you.

True or false? Post your guesses below.

I loved my Honda Accord. The day I got it was the day I received a surprise phone call from my parents. They had been looking and looking for something to replace my 1989 Oldsmobile Cutlass, the one with the burgundy interior and the luggage rack on the back. The one I had wrecked in a snowstorm on my way to Chapel Hill for a Friday night frat party. Finally they’d found the replacement, but I needed to drive from my college down to NC to trade the old one for the new one. I was dying to find out the color. What did the inside look like? Did it have a sunroof? More importantly, did it have the capability to play both tapes AND CDs? Was it leather? (Also important because leather, you see, doesn’t clutch the stench of cigarette smoke quite like upholstery.)

An hour and a half after that phone call, I pulled up in the parking lot of a BBQ joint in a small town off Highway 86. I didn’t see my parents, but I did see a sparkling green Honda, four shiny doors, no tacky spoiler, was that a sunroof?, parked in the second row, away from the BBQ drive-thru. I squealed out loud, jumped out of the car and ran to meet my new beloved piece of machinery. The love I had – will always have – for that car cannot be measured with words or even pictures. The love I feel for every inch of that Honda can only be measured by the buckets of tears I cried the day I – a married woman with a job and a mortgage – sold it to illegal aliens for under-the-table cash.

We went through a lot together, that car and I. There were the many road trips back and forth from state to state, moving boxes of my belongings from dorm to house to apartment and finally, into my permanent home. There were carpet stains from someone else’s children, dings from parking too close to my neighbors, scratches from fallen branches covered in snow. But the biggest dent, located just under the left headlight, came from what started out as a well-intentioned errand.

No one washes their car as much as they probably should, and when you find yourself too busy to breathe, much less get your chores and errands done, important things inevitably fall between the cracks. My Honda always had its check-ups on time, but not so much with the washes. Out on the main drag in my town, there is an automatic car wash that is convenient to a lot of places. On the one particular Sunday afternoon I decided to stop by there, I was lucky – and surprised – to not wait in line for my turn, especially after I did what I did. You know the timers on the outside of the car wash that tell you how long you have to sit under those giant dryers? The big tall digital ones with the red glowing numbers? The ones you can’t possibly miss if you tried?

Turns out, it IS possible to miss them. In fact, it’s entirely possibly to finish your car wash, turn to the left, KNOCK OVER THE TIMER and not realize what you’ve done until you look behind you and see the evidence, collapsed on the concrete with its tangled wire guts sprawled out for all to see. It’s also possible that no one saw you or your car, which is why this particular Sunday afternoon I raced out of that car wash as fast I could, called 13 different friends in panic and waited for the police to come arrest me for property damage.

Oddly enough – security cameras and all – they never came.

So in all the hubbub of this past month and it’s, um, SHIT, I have not gotten around to telling you about what we did during October – and Internet, I hope you find this as hysterical as I did. First of all, BB was on vacation (thank you Pepsi for taking him back) for 10 days. On some of the days, if he hadn’t been around, well, I don’t want to know what life would’ve been like. Other days, I’m like DUDE. MOVE YOUR FACE.

Anyway, so one Saturday morning BB got up at the crack of dawn and wanted to ride a few hours towards the coast to his hometown. His father is buried there and his grandparents’ house is still there and his high school and the Peanut Festival and his aunt and uncle and WHAT? Did I say, PEANUT FESTIVAL?

Oh yes, Internet. Yes I did.

Today’s list will introduce to you to the 34th Annual Peanut Festival Parade (and surrounding attractions), featuring tractors, Mr. Peanut, high school bands, the Peanut Queen, some horses and more people crowding the streets of Small Town USA than we thought actually lived there.

1.  Some old tractors. Seriously, the first part of the Peanut Festival Parade was just a line of old tractors, driven by mostly teenagers – I use the term loosely because they were maybe 13 – and some old men.

2. I’m not sure if this chick is Miss Chowan County, or Miss Edenton, or Miss Peanut Festival, but she was in the parade and was mighty proud of it.

3. The rest of the parade was super boring – a couple of high school bands, some old cars, a few horses. Then we get to the good part – the county, which is (out there) pronounced “cown-y” with some really round o’s. And in the county, guess what you can see?

Cotton!

4. And . . .

More cotton!

5. And . . . wait for it . . . the whole reason for the Festivus . . .

Peanuts!

Seriously y’all, those are peanuts tangled up in all those weeds. Whole clusters of them. And that dust in the background is from the peanut picking machine (I’m sure it has an official name but I haven’t bothered to learn it) that turns over the peanut plants to expose the nuts.

6. Then we went out to the river, where BB did some thinking:

7. And I played around with the camera:

Check out those mad skillz.

8. Then we caught a glimpse of the Chowan County Fair (not to be confused with the Peanut Festival, occurring simultaneously) from the car:

And then we came home, because that was a little too much fun for one day.

Conversation between Kathy and me this week:

Me: Dude, this year has sucked some major balls.

Kathy: Um, yes.

Me: I mean, really. Think about all the shitty stuff that’s happened. I am SO over 2009. I should make a list.

Kathy: I don’t think we need a list to remember all the bad stuff.

Me: Maybe not. But that’s not the point. The point is, 2009 needs to be done.

Kathy: Yeah, I am with you on telling 2009 to peace the fuck out already.

And so this, Internet, is my new mission. Get through the end of the year, get through the messy holidays, the impending bad stuff, the doctor’s appointments, the final exams, the WHATEVER, and get to New Year’s Eve. This year, New Year’s Eve will be known as “Peace the fuck out already, 2009″ Night.

You think if I sent out invitations to a party celebrating “Peace the fuck out already, 2009″ people would come?

…You are so good that I want to marry you. Your cookies, mixed with your cream, form the perfect bowl of ice cream. You make me think about you every day, lonely in the freezer, all by yourself. Let’s be together, always. Whaddaya say?

Sadly, the three of you (seriously? just three of you? WHERE ARE YOU, PEOPLE?) did not agree. However, Rebecca wins for being the first one to guess – correctly – that my True That? story for Tuesday was, in fact, TRUE.

Names were changed to protect the douchebags, but yes, it happened. Oh, did it happen. Maybe that should go on next week’s list of “250 Things That Scarred Me for Life.” Hmmm…

More tomorrow, friends. And lots of changes in store for Half Baked, Twice as Good. Stay tuned! (All three of you…)

We’re starting something new here at Half Baked, Twice as Good, and we’re calling it “True That? Tuesday.” Here’s how it works: I tell you a story. You decide if that story is true or false, and post your answer in the comments below. On Wednesday, I’ll tell you whether or not you’re right. Most of these stories will fall into the category of HORRIBLY EMBARRASSING, but don’t let that sway your votes. Enjoy! (PS, there might be something in it for the first person to get this right.)

It is April, 1995. We are all gathered in the dining room of my boarding school, dressed in our J. Crew sundresses, bows in our hair because, well, it’s what we did. The air is warm but not yet humid; the seniors all have good hair still, but not for long as the humidity is coming. I am a junior, seated near the back of the room, by the door to the brick patio. We are gathered this night for “Senior Superlatives,” a night when the senior class bestows its awards upon the juniors, ready and waiting to take their place on the social ladder.

As we wait to find out who the most popular girls in our class are, Lindsay gets up, holding her posterboard sign by its string, and flashes her wide, toothy smile. I have known Lindsay since we were campers – and then counselors – together at summer camp. Her dry, sarcastic sense of humor appeals to my personality and I always admire the way she can stand in front of a group of people with complete ease. She has always been one of the most popular girls on campus – in every club, an officer in the SGA, a resident assistant on the junior hall. If you were Lindsay’s friend, you were guaranteed a spot in her green Eddie Bauer Ford Explorer after school, when the cool kids rode off campus to smoke cigarettes and listen to Dave Matthews.

I sit on the edge of my chair, wondering if Lindsay – last year voted “Most Outgoing and Likeable” – has seen those same qualities in me. After all, I had been selected as a resident assistant for senior year already. I was a Presidential Scholar, I was in most of the clubs and involved in activities. But even if she chose one of my classmates instead of me, I know plenty of senior girls and I’m bound to get a superlative sometime tonight.

With her wide, familiar grin and long, blond ponytail, she stands before us now and looks over the group. She talks about the superlative and says that the girl she has selected is not just outgoing and likeable, but also has a heart of gold, a personality that is unique and lovely. This girl is funny, she is warm and she always has a ribbon in her hair.

I sit transfixed, butterflies in my stomach because YES! Lindsay has noticed me! She sees the ribbons I wear to “dress up” the pajamas I wear to class. She knows that I am a well-meaning person, if not the most popular. Surely that bond between us formed years before at camp, and she is finally recognizing it now! Tonight! In front of the whole school!

She holds that pink posterboard with the polka-dotted green grosgrain ribbon in her hands, and I can see a long note written on one side, in her signature slanted handwriting. Does that say Dear Elizabeth, or Dear Emily? The other side has the superlative title, decorated with glitter, puff paint and bright colors. I can already picture where I will hang it in the room I have senior year.

Lindsay tilts her head to one side, making her ponytail sway and showing off her own grosgrain ribbon. She smiles out at the room and says, “The Most Outgoing and Likeable Superlative goes to . . . Elizabeth!”

I am shaking with both excitement and fear, for now I have to stand up and walk to her from my seat in the back of the room. I can’t wait to get that posterboard with its pink and green palette into my hands because IT’S MINE! I have to step over people and around chairs and I can’t keep from smiling because Yes! She recognized me! ME!

Suddenly the room is quiet and I look around and then up at Lindsay to see what has happened. She tilts her head to the other side, smiles sadly and says out loud to the whole school, “Oh no, sorry. The other Elizabeth. Elizabeth Jones!”

My face is hot now as I feel it turning beet red. I slink back to my seat, thankful now that it’s in the back of the dining room. I consider briefly sneaking out the back door to the brick patio, but decide against it, for that would make noise and draw more attention to the girl that will now be known as Bless Her Heart, Poor Pitiful Thing. Elizabeth Jones, with her Florida accent, thick dirty blonde hair and husky build, struts to the front of the room, hugs Lindsay with all her might and shoots me a smug look. I try to lower myself further into my seat, but can’t escape the pitying glances coming from my classmates.

I will forever be remembered as “The Wrong Elizabeth.”

This little spot on the Interwebs has suffered in the last month, thanks in no small part to my lack of posting some decent content. I blame this on many things, but mostly on illness, anxiety and distractions. There are so many things that have gone on that I haven’t posted about (the Peanut Festival! the All-Stars reunion! the Demise of Tonya on RW/RR Challenge!) because . . . well, I don’t really know why. In my head, the creative juices are flowing, sort of, but somewhere deep in the confines of my brain, the things I want to say are getting stuck – bottlenecked, if you will – in the traffic of my anxiety.

A couple of months ago one of my blog posts was submitted to Creative Nonfiction for consideration in its “Favorite Blog” contest. The winner will be published in the premiere issue of their redesigned magazine. Friday morning they released the 15 finalists, and Half Baked, Twice as Good was not among them. Surprised? Yeah, me neither. But that’s okay, because the blogs they did select as finalists are some really, really great ones. Anyway, all of this is to point out that there are far better places you could spend your time online, but I specifically want to thank the 8 of you that come here – you are my 8 favorite people in the whole wide world.

Also, Monday listing has been on hiatus for the month of October as my head has been too far up my ass to write anything. I was going to try to overcome that today, but instead I thought I’d wait for next Monday. It might take me a whole week to come up with a list. This is sad.

I will, however, treat you to some pictures from the 39th Annual Power Tool Pumpkin Carving party at my brother’s on Friday night. There was Funkin’ Punkin’ Ale, power tools galore, lots of Jello shots in spooky shapes, and one very rambunctious kitten. We left at a decent hour in order for BB to get up at 5am the next morning, but apparently just as he was getting ready for work, the party was winding down. Who, I ask you, can still party until 5am at 30 years old? Not I, friends.

Mmmm, jello shots in bat, ghost and pumpkin shapes

That's me with K. Cat, except that I'm not wearing a pumpkin on my head. It just looks that way.

That's my mother, the skinny movie star. She's holding Gravy, a rescue kitten whose brother is Biscuit (formerly known as Big Rig).