I'd Like You To Meet B.O.B.

I know I usually write on the humorous side, but...

Today I posted a Face In Hole picture where my friend had photoshopped our faces on Victoria's Secret models' bodies. I put the following caption with it: Too bad it isn't as easy to get these bodies as it is for us to photoshop our heads on them.

The seemingly flawless, cellulite-free, tanned, toned bodies make me both envious and insecure. After all my body has never looked like that. In fact, I don't even know that my body is capable of looking like that. Now, I'm not what anyone, with maybe the exception of the modeling industry and my ex-husband, would consider to be fat, overweight, or any of the other comments people use or we, ourselves, use to tear down our confidence. But, I do have curves...sometimes, I think a couple too wide and a few too many.

I could give you the excuses as to why I have them...a medical condition that messes with my metabolism; medicine that does the same; an injury prevents me from doing most cardio...but the truth is, I have a life. I do not get paid to look perfect all of the time. I don't have 4+ hours every day to spend at the gym or have the money for my own personal chef or health conscious meals to be delivered daily. To be honest, I work my ass off for the body that I have. Well that isn't exactly true. For the most part, I try to exercise daily and eat right, but I still have an ample ass that my ex, my friends, co-workers, and I affectionately refer to as B.O.B (Big Ol' Butt).

B.O.B has been around since I was 8 years old, or at least that was the first time my sisters' ever made me aware of my bubble butt. I am not ashamed of B.O.B. He (yes, I've decided he is male) is a part of me. Still every once in a while, like when I was trying on my new Victoria's Secret bathing suit that arrived yesterday, I find myself thinking, that is not what it looked like in the catalog. Inevitably, I start critiquing my non-washboard stomach, which despite my efforts, refuses to lay flat like a good little tummy. Then I move to my biggest nemesis: my thighs. First off, I am bow legged, so if I ever wear anything like a maxi-dress, a curve forgiving style that is super cute and flattering on so many women, I end up looking like the Liberty Bell. Something, that unless you have some sort of strange bell fetish, is not an attractive look.

I also have...gasp...cellulite. I don't want to have it. I hate every last bit of it. I've used every cellulite cream, natural detox drink, and massage therapy you can think of to get id of the tiny dimples that plague my thighs,  but nonetheless, there it is spiting me, saying things like, "Did you really need that cookie, Thunder Thighs?" or "Why don't you put a little more sugar in you tea, Tons of Fun?" 

The bright red swimsuit against my pale skin seemed to make my large thighs glow. That's when for some stupid reason, I decided I wasn't being tortured enough so I turned around to see ...B.O.B. There he was in all his glory peeking out from the corners of my bathing suit like a big ol' beach ball. I let out a sigh. Months and months of intense working out and I still had big legs, a less than perfect stomach, and of course, B.O.B. 

As I stood there debating whether to send my little red bikini back and exchange it for a one piece...or more accurately, a muumuu, I heard the news anchor cut to the terrorist attack on the Boston Marathon. The reporter was talking about the many people that were killed and injured and how a man in the midst of his own tragedy, somehow managed to give an accurate description of the perpetrators.  This hero, which helped Boston's finest correctly identify the bombers, lost his legs during the explosion. As did many others, including a dancer.

I looked back in the mirror at my legs. Instead of seeing these large, flabby, cellulite ridden appendages, I saw strong, long, fully functioning, beautiful legs that allow me to run, dance, walk, chase, catch, and smear birthday cake frosting all over the faces of my nieces and nephews. And you know what? That birthday cake tasted damn good. I may not have have the perfect body, but I do allow myself to enjoy the occasional spur of the moment decision to split fries with my sister or share a hot fudge sundae with a broken-hearted friend.

No matter what you are going through, remember, there is always someone that would do anything to have your life, your family, your spirit, your perfectly imperfect legs or your B.O.B. 

Life isn't about perfection. It's about perspective.

Be Careful Not To Talk Crap When You Butt Dial

The other day I was minding my own business when I was suddenly blindsided by something that shook me to my very core. I opened my Facebook page and my friend had tagged me in the following post:

Pretty sure Shay Stone butt dialed me twice today.

At first I thought, no biggie, my butt probably had something important to say. Then the uttermost horror set in as I realized something. I do some pretty stupid shit when no one is around.

I'm not talking stupid like walking around half naked with two different socks on (although I do that) or singing Kiss in my highest Prince voice (although I do that too). No I am talking a few french fries short of a happy meal, grab the butterfly net embarrassing.

For example, I sing...to the dogs and cats. That's right, I walk around incorporating their names into songs - some that I make up; some that are real songs. The latest one I was belting out was Carly Rae Jepsen's Call Me Maybe, only my lyrics went something like this:

Kunik Jeffrey

Hey Ku-nik Jeffrey,
You're so crazy,
Mama loves you so much,
You're my baby.

Yes, my dog has a middle name (how else will he know when he is in trouble?) and yes, there may be something wrong with me. And as if that wasn't bad enough, quite often I also find myself having conversations, asking them questions or seeking their opinions:

Monkey face (Anakin's nickname) should we watch Big Bang Theory or Jeopardy?

Do you guys want to have some popcorn with mom?

Cappers, (Captain Nemo's nickname) where'd mom put her keys? 

Yes, I agree.  I'd rather lick my butt then eat whatever that is he is cooking. 

And it doesn't stop there. See, you all know I sing like a rock star when no one is around (refer to my R post from April's A-Z Challenge), but, ummm, well sometimes, I, ummm, also write... out loud. OK, this is really embarrassing but because you guys are some of my closest strangers that I'll probably never meet in person, I feel comfortable sharing this. I have been told that I write dialogue really, really well. I like to think there are 2 reasons for that: 1) [Non-embarrassing reason:] I know men and women; 2) [Incredibly embarrassing reason:] I play out conversations in my head. If I get really stumped, I may say them out loud to see how they would go.

So now imagine I just butt dialed you. There is a chance that you could hear me having an argument...with myself. Hello Sybil!

Thankfully in this case, my conversation was not all that embarrassing. My friend told me it was muffled, but she overheard me discussing wanting more turkey and stuffing for Thanksgiving. Apparently my butt felt the need to call and tell her that. Which led me to the other thing butt dialing can reveal -the reason I can't lose anymore weight. After all, it's kind of hard to slim down when, while I'm trying to work my ass off, my butt is secretly calling trying to get more stuffing!

All in all I guess I should just be happy that I didn't talk too much shit ;)


*Christmas is coming! Don't forget my books are available:*

For the Single Ladies in your life

http://www.amazon.com/Why-Am-Still-Single-Tough/dp/0985590610/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1354062185&sr=8-1&keywords=shay+stone

For those suffering from chronic pain

http://www.amazon.com/Pain-Go-Away-Shay-Stone/dp/0985590602/ref=sr_1_2?ie=UTF8&qid=1354062185&sr=8-2&keywords=shay+stone

Move over Booty Pop-Another Million Dollar Idea I Gave Away

Normally I try to keep my blog pretty light. However, after what I saw the other night, I decided I simply had to amend my views and share my new found knowledge with the world. I feel it is unfair to keep it to myself.

I am of course talking about Aciphex.

Aciphex, pronounced "ass affects," is a product designed to relieve acid reflux and heartburn. As I was thumbing through my channels and came across this commercial, I paused for a moment certain I was watching some old Saturday Night Live skit. Surely the next thing I would see would be Tina Fey beaming about how it stopped her embarrassing anal leakage, Will Ferrell bragging about how it turned his saggy old man ass into buns of steel or Amy Poehler boasting about how just a few drops of Aciphex in her husband's morning coffee turned him from a complete boarish, tactless ass to a sweet, sensitive teddybear. But nope, this was a legitimate commercial and the name of the product was actually "Aciphex".

All I could think was how the hell did that get past research and development and ever reach the marketing department? It made me think of another unfortunately named product. I mean really, who could ever forget Nads? The informative commercial featured a woman with an Australian accent explaining how she developed the miracle product for her Wolfman-like, hairy daughters with ingredients she found right in her own kitchen. Okay, note to self: If you are invited over to this woman's house for dinner, DON'T ACCEPT. There is a pretty good chance there will be hair in your food.

Anyway, somewhere along the way, didn't someone say, "Excuse me? Furry lady with the Austrailian accent…I don't know if it means something different in Australia, but in the United States "Nads" is slang for men's balls. So unless you only want to sell to immature guys that buy them as a joke for friends, you may want to rethink the name. "

And don't get me wrong, the product had great success. But how much better could it have done if instead of Nads, it went with a more women friendly name like "Naturally Gone" or "Hair 2day…Gone 2moro"." I mean if you are a woman and you are standing in the isle of a drug store which box are you going to grab? I mean, really? It's like standing in the isle and deciding between a 1 day cure for a yeast infection or a 7 day cure.

And finally, this blog would not be complete if I did not mention the other great sensation sweeping the nation: Booty Pop. This is basically a pair of spandex pants with a stuffed booty sewn inside. This will make all the girls, and hell, I guess guys too-I won't discriminate, that are lacking in the derriere department able to fill out their jeans/dresses more aptly. Allow me to say, being teased since I was seven for having a "bubble butt" and still having ample "junk in da trunk" I cannot speak on this product with any authority. All I can say is first of all, kudos to anyone that has the guts not only to go to a store and actually buy this product (I saw it first in a Bed, Bath & Beyond circular), but to do so with a straight face. Second, explain this to me: Once you have walked around in this thing…we won't even get into how you will explain where your booty disappears to when you put on a swimsuit. Although if you do wear it with a bikini, which conjures images of the bottom of the nude colored shorts sticking out of the bathing suit & a soggy, saggy baby diaper-esque image to mind (can you say "SEXY?!?"), I have to believe it could serve as a flotation device, much like water wings or Pamela Anderson's breasts.

Now with that thought thoroughly engrained, let me get back to my original question. Your newfound booty has attracted your dream man. You have decided to take it to the "next level." Bow chicka bow bow. You take off your push up bra that gave you the cleavage of a Goddess, revealing your C's are actually A's, the Spanx that gave you that slim trim stomach, allowing your muffin top to sprawl out gasping for air and lastly, you take off…your butt. I mean at what point does the guy A) Not go "Yeah, this is just too much artillery to go through"; B) Have a valid lawsuit for false advertising; C) Acknowledge that , holy crap does THIS chick have some serious issues; and D) Say, "WTF? Did you just take off your ass?!?"

Like I said, I cannot speak on authority about these products. I mean, who knows? Maybe Booty Pop comes with an instruction guide on what to do when your lover shrieks in horror about the whole snap on-snap off ass/sex deal. You know, an instruction guide or the number of a good therapist.

Wait! I've got it. Here is another million dollar idea I'm about to give away. Maybe the makers of Booty Pop can come out with a male equivalent and call it "Penis Pop." That way when the woman gets undressed and takes off her spandex ass, the guy can slip off his padded package and instead of being embarassed or horrified they can call it even.

You know, as long as everyone's NADS are properly groomed;]

http://www.chronicpainbook.com/
http://shannan-afterwife.blogspot.com/