Mo Livin' Large

"What's playing at the Roxy? I'll tell you what's playing at the Roxy....

... Picture about a Minnesota man so in love with a Mississippi girl that he sacrifices everything and moves all the ways to Biloxi. That's what's playing at the Roxy." Nathan Detroit (Frank Sinatra) Guys and Dolls

I love Sinatra. I love Guys and Dolls. Hence the reason for today's quote. Well that and it's my blog and I'll write whatever I feel like writing.  ;)

One of my random posts just to bring you up to date on what's been going on in my life but doesn't necessitate an entire blog post.

• Remember Preston with the suicidal dog? He texted me a few weeks ago. He wanted a one-nighter. I declined. Haven't heard from him since.
• Catholic Boy and I have been chatting quite a bit. Poor guy got quite an earful about Clark and amazingly enough is still talking to me. I have come to the realization I am in love with Catholic Boy. However, given that he's been through a handful of girlfriends since we met five years ago and I've been a piece on the side through most of those relationships, I will never pursue anything with him. Like I said a few weeks ago, our friendship far outweighs the benefits on my side of things.
• In my on-going weight loss project, I was happily introduced to the blog Skinnytaste by Lovely Lisa. It's a wonderful blog written by Gina who is dedicated to making delicious, scrumptious healthy recipes. All recipes are Weight Watchers friendly and the variety is absolutely mind-boggling. So far I've made Stuffed Pepper Soup, Greek Turkey Meatballs, Skinny Tzatzki, and Easy Crust-Less Spinach and Feta Pie. And I've made them all twice, believe it or not (not just because they were so good but because I also had all of the ingredients on hand and needed lunch).
• Confession: I love Regency (pre-, during and post-Napoleonic wars) romance novels. I devour them by the boxload that I buy either through eBay or my local used bookstore (Paperback Trade Inn in Clawson).
• After seeing him in Push, I developed a cougar crush on Chris Evans. So when What's Your Number starring Anna Faris and Chris Evans came out on DVD, I ran out and bought it despite the bad reviews. Well, that and I think Anna Faris' character Ally and I have a lot in common. Not going to lie, I enjoyed it. So if you want to have a What's Your Number viewing party, hit me up.
• So not only have I been watching What's Your Number, but Bridget Jones' Diary, He's Just Not That Into You, The Holiday, The Naked Truth and Love Actually are in constant rotation on my DVD player.
• Just curious if anyone is stunned by my revelation about Catholic Boy. I literally was walking back from lunch with Lovely Lisa and it just kind of came into my head and out of my mouth.
• I'm considering hiring a big teddy-bear type guy to be my personal hugger who doubles as my movie watching/cuddling partner. It's been a while since I've experienced the human touch (and for once, I don't mean that in a sexual way).
• I'm tired. Not like physically sleepy tired (well, most days anyways) but tired with the direction my life is taking. Bored is probably the more accurate word here. But regardless.... I think I'm going to spend May researching low-cost ways to make my life more interesting. Any and all suggestions are welcome.

And that, my friends, is all the news that's fit to print. Cheers!

 

I'm the rule, not the exception ~ Mo

A continuation of last Monday's post.

To summarize: Mo meets boy (Clark), Mo talks with boy, Mo is smitten but hesitant because of boy's use of the word curvy, boy assures Mo it's a euphemism, Mo sends more pictures of Mo to boy, boy rejects Mo.

Mo was heartbroken.

And Mo really needs to stop referring to herself in the third person.

So yeah, anyways.... As weird as it sounds, I was heartbroken by a man I had never actually met before. Within five minutes, I deleted all evidence of our text messaging, tore down my dating profile and sat at my desk trying not to cry.

The last time I cried at work was in 2004 when I was going through my divorce. I'm loathe to admit it, but my eight year streak came to an end on April 10th when I went into the bathroom and cried. Over Clark. A guy I've never even met in person.

What on earth is wrong with me?

Lovely Lisa was the first person I told. I lamented for a few minutes and then confessed I felt like I was going through a break up. "How long did you guys talk?" Lisa asked.

"Over eight hours," I confessed.

"Well, yeah. No wonder you feel like you went through a break up. You guys talked enough for like the equivalent of about three dates," Lisa sympathized.

She's a good friend.

I left work early that day. Not because of what was going on with Clark but because my parents were getting remarried and I was standing in as a witness (um, yeah. Did I mention Jim and Sue got remarried? I'll explain some other time).

Jen got the phone call while I was driving back to the 'burbs. She tried to assure me it was him and not me. Kudos for trying, but I wasn't anywhere near convinced.

I went home for a little while, ate a cupcake, went to the courthouse where I witnessed my parents 3rd marriage (I will really have to blog about that soon), and then, because I felt like the least lovable person since Adolf Hitler, I skipped my parents' third wedding reception (really going to have to tell that story soon) and went home.

My parents love and respect each other enough to get married three times (but only one divorce), and I can't even find a guy who is willing to at least meet me in person after five days of consecutive texting and talking. Plus my sister and her boyfriend were there and yeah, I felt really alone, unlovable, etc. Much like Bridget Jones (see YouTube Clip here).

The thing is, as much as everyone (yourselves included) wants to call Clark a douchebag, I never even remotely got that impression. And this is me we're talking about. The Queen of Dating the Douchebag (just call me QDD). I mean, I went out with Art, the guy who wouldn't shower before our date after he went to the gym. Anthony, a guy who never called me by my name and that I was better at analyzing than dating (no, seriously. At one point Anthony said he should just talk to me rather than try and get an appointment with his shrink). Mike, who stood me up and never called me again. And of course, there's always ReTodded (a favorite with my male readers, which just makes me laugh and laugh).

Can we really call Clark a douchebag because he doesn't want to date a girl my size? I mean, I'm a lot of woman to take on psychologically no matter which way you slice and dice it. Now add into it my physical size and yeah, I'm a big woman. There's mo' to Mo, you know? I am A LOT of responsibility. ;)

All personal feelings aside though, I will say this: I learned a lot from him. And no, I mean that in a good way.

Clark made me think about what I want in a man. It's something I've been turning over in my mind a lot these past few months (Jen, loathe to admit but I still haven't finished my list) and in talking with Clark, I realized there are things he talked about doing or opinions that he had that made me re-evaluate the kind of man I want to be with.

Clark is very well traveled and yet has never been to Paris. "So I've had a couple of buddies who suggested we go over the years but why would I want to go to the city of love with a guy? And yeah, there were a couple of women who expressed interest in going but none of them were the ones I really wanted to go with." Um, hello? Am I the only one who swoons a little reading that?

We also got into the infamous need vs. want debate. Now if you recall from one of my early blog posts, I'm big on wanting a man, not needing a man. But Clark said he needed a woman, and once he enlightened me, I understood what he meant. Clark explained that in his opinion, being in a relationship is a basic human need. That people need to share their lives with others, no matter how trivial the reason. That we need physical contact with others to be at our full capacity as human beings.

He was actually much more eloquent about it, but it makes sense right?

Does any of this explain why I'm hesitant to not label Clark as a douchebag? Admittedly, it's been almost a full month. You'd think I'd be over it. And there's a part of me that is.

But I'm not completely over it. I'm not sure if it's Clark himself that I miss or what he represents. A man who realizes what it takes to be classified as a man, and makes no apologies for it. Someone who knows what he wants. A romantic.

As the old saying goes, if it's meant to be it will happen. And in the meantime Jen, I'm going to finish that list.

 

"They're the exception, and we're not the exception, we're the rule!"

~ Gigi (Ginnifer Goodwin) He's Just Not That Into You

Hello friends. It's been awhile. My fault entirely. But I'm back and ready to share with you what's been going on with me.

As you may recall, I recently posted a profile on Plenty of Fish (read my profile here) and unbelievably, I met a boy. In truth, one can hardly call a 47-year-old man a boy, but hey.... And yes, I said 47. I like my men like my cheese, wine and steak... well aged. LOL.

Clark responded to my profile on POF and to be honest, I thought he was a scammer his pictures were almost so well done. Clark playing golf, looking out at the water... it reminded me of the pictures Phoebe's grandma (Friends) kept of her dad that turned out to be just the picture of some guy that comes with the frame.  It wasn't until I saw a picture of him with Brandon Inge that I realized he was the real deal because let's be honest, as good as scammers can be, you can't fake that. And as often happens, emailing through POF became a bit of a hassle with schedules and work so we progressed to texting.

Clark asked about meeting me on Good Friday after work. I said sure, but told him I couldn't meet until at the earliest 6:30 because I work at an accounting firm downtown and it was at the tail end of tax season. He said that was too late. I (kinda) joked with him that perhaps he shouldn't book two dates in one night. Clark responded by asking if he could call me that night instead. I said sure, not really expecting to hear from him.

Lo and behold, he called. And even stranger, we talked for three hours.

The next morning, I woke up about 8:00 am and Clark texted at 8:30. We went back and forth most of the day texting with long pauses while I was at the hair salon or while he was out mowing the lawn. And then at eight, he called again and we talked until 1 am.

Throughout those two conversations, Clark and I talked about everything and anything. No topic was off limits. I found out the reason he said 6:30 was too late was because he works in Royal Oak and gets off work at 2:00 and lives in Clarkston. He found it hilarious that strippers freak me out. We both disliked the movie The Descendants (he hated it; I just didn't find it as appealing as other George Clooney movies though we both thought the best scene was when Clooney was running (don't want to ruin it for anyone who hasn't seen the movie)). He's the kind of guy that would be willing to go to the hair salon with me if I agree to go hit some balls with him at the driving range even though I explained three different golf pros have told me I'm not good at golf because my big boobs prevent me from following through with my swing. Clark takes his steak medium rare, wears boxers or boxer briefs, hates skinny jeans, and agrees that if your significant other doesn't like your chosen scent, then maybe you should really consider changing it.

I was smitten. Oh Lord was I smitten. Yet I was also hesitant because of his penchant for using the word curvy to describe my figure.

When you're my size (3x or 22W/24W) you come to realize that certain words have certain connotations. Voluptuous covers plus sizes ranging from 14W to 24W, rubenesque seems synonymous with fat (which would be me and I'm not saying that to be self-deprecating; it's the truth), and curvy is a word that the majority of the population uses to describe women at the low to mid range of plus size. Marilyn Monroe and Adele are curvy; Melissa McCarthy and I are fat. Cute, definitely, but fat. Top of the plus size range if you will.

So you can see why I may have been hesitant when Clark kept talking about me being curvy. And on the Monday after Easter I (literally) called him on it.

Throughout our conversation regarding my size Clark assured me he used the word curvy as a euphemism. That no matter my size (which I did tell him but that he pleaded ignorance to), he thought I was pretty. And to please, please send him more pictures of myself (in his defense, never once did he ask me to send him a naked picture which I give him credit for).

So I sent him more pictures. Including one very strange shot of Sassy Booties and I at the company Christmas party where I thought the addition of strings of beads were appropriate. But all three pictures I send would give him a much clearer picture (no pun intended) of my size.

And it was mid-morning Tuesday when I received the text from him saying he didn't think it was going to work between us but good luck.

To be continued....

 

"I can't even find someone for a platonic relationship,...

... much less the kind where someone wants to see me naked." ~ Gilbert Gottfried

I'm giving online dating another try. So here's the profile I came up with.

About Me

The first thing people usually notice about me is my smile. And then I open my mouth and spew forth hilarity. My laugh has also been described as being as infectious as the stomach flu, which if you've ever worked in a small office or lived under the same roof with a bunch of people who have the stomach flu, you know it's not a matter of IF you get it, but when. Which leads us back to my sense of humor... it's not a matter of IF you'll get it, but when. It's really just one big circuitous cycle.

A little about me.... I love books, all kinds. I have shelves of cookbooks, novels, biographies, a slightly obsessive amount of books about the Kennedys, wine, books about writing books, the list goes on and on. I'm a very verbal creature in the sense that words, not visuals, really do it for me so if you have poor grammar and can't write a complete sentence, no offense to you but it's not going to work. Sending me the message "U R hott!" isn't going to work me into a frenzy, though I'm sure you're a great guy. For someone else.

My cookbooks are stained and splattered, illustrating that they're not just for show. My pot roast carbonnade cuts like butter and my homemade garlic mayo on grilled tuna steak is out of this world. I haven't quite perfected my lemon raspberry squares or cheesecake recipes just yet, they usually end up with a crack or two running through them, but they taste amazing all the same. Just ask my family and friends.

I'm generous to a fault, have a problem saying the word no, and have a compulsive shopping habit. Currently my shopping habits are trending towards skirts, dresses and ballet flats, though I'm also on the look out for some madras plaid shorts. So if you see any, please don't hesitate to let me know.

I enjoy wandering through art museums just as much as I like being a bleacher creature at Comerica Park. And as much as I enjoy staying in big city hotels, I'm a happy camper out in the woods. My music tastes run the gambit from Bach to Sinatra to Social Distortion to Miles Davis and with the exception of Simon and Garfunkle, there's not much I don't like.

As for you, I'd really (really really) appreciate if you practice good hygiene. Showering on a regular basis and freshly laundered clothes go a long way with me, perhaps even more than your grammar knowledge. You're relatively drama free, are kind to small children and animals, and are just as comfortable curling up on the couch for an all day Godfather marathon as going out and about and exploring what's out there. Oh, and you MUST enjoy kissing. Not just as a perfunctory duty, but because you honestly enjoy it.

First Date

One that you're looking forward to so much that you shower would be nice. I once had a first (and consequently last) date where the guy didn't shower after going to the gym two hours beforehand.

Okay, seriously. Coffee? Cliched. A drink? Well, kinda cliched but at least it's more adult-like. How about doing something where we can get to know each other? Root for the Tigers or wander through a museum, grabbing some grub at Slow's and poking around Corktown. ANYthing that's not cliched, please. :)

As for pics,  I used my Mo Livin' Large pic (feathery witch hat) and the one included here.

Thoughts? Suggestions? Single guys you'd like to introduce me to?;)

"Never mind, I'll find someone like you...

... I wish nothing but the best for you, too." ~ Adele "Someone Like You"

Saturday morning dawned bright and early. A little too early as I'd been at Jen and Jeff's seeing their new place the night before (beautiful place I might add). I also had over 30 bags of shredded paper in the back end of my mom's truck I had to recycle before I met my friend Liz to go to Eastern Market. So needless to say, I managed to shower, throw my hair back in a headband, and apply the bare minimal of make-up before I hit the pavement in my Levi's, Chucks, and a long sleeve gray t-shirt.

So it figures I'd run into one of the ones who got away, doesn't it?

As Liz and I approached Shed 3, I noticed a man standing to the right of the doors smoking a cigarette. Something about him caught my eye and I glanced in his direction again. It was indeed who I thought it to be.

Catholic Boy (and when he grows up, he will be Catholic Man! That last bit will only make sense if you've seen the movie Cabin Boy).

He was wearing his uniform Detroit Tigers hat (perfect fade, perfect curve in the brim... which reminds me, I need to grab mine from my mom's house), a pair of jeans, and a track jacket. He looked hot. Smokin' hot (no pun intended).

I was debating whether or not to say something when the decision was made for me. As I was hmmmm'ing and hawing over Catholic Boy, Liz was opening the door. And two women, one carrying a large Norfolk Island Pine (thank you, www.bordineplants.com), spilled out of Shed 3.

They were laughing. They were joking. They looked like they'd be fun to hang out with. They were pretty.

And they made a beeline to Catholic Boy.

I felt my heart plummet. The three of them walked away, Catholic Boy now carrying the tree. And I felt as if I walked into a wall.

The truth is, I've always been loathe to explain my attraction to Catholic Boy. We met online almost five years ago, and it's been back and forth ever since. Except for the year long "communication vacation" we had back in 2010.

I remember being at work the day after we met and I couldn't stop smiling. Which is odd because there are a lot of people who will tell you I smile constantly. But everyone at the office kept remarking about the fact that I could not stop smiling.

Like I said to my friend Lorie once. "This little moth is drawn to his flame."

I enjoyed Catholic Boy. It wasn't about sex, because while it was good, it wasn't mind blowing. I just enjoyed him. He made me laugh. He made me think. He made me cry once or twice.

But what I liked most about Catholic Boy was that every time I thought I had him pegged, he did something to crack my latest illusion. For example, I loaned him my copy of I Hope They Serve Beer in Hell, written by Tucker Max.

It should be noted that Tucker Max has been described as "the poster child for vulgarity" by U.S. District Judge Stewart Dalzell and that a feminist group at Ohio State University claims his writing "promotes a culture of rape." (Both of these factoids are found on the Tucker Max Wikipedia page). While I do agree, partially, with the Hon. Stewart Dalzell, I disagree with Ohio State's feminists. He can be crude, lewd, and even vicious, but there's still no denying that he's a funny guy. I thought for sure given some of the things we'd talked about and the fact he was a frat boy in college that Catholic Boy would find I Hope They Serve Beer in Hell as funny as I did.

He didn't.

I think to me though the fact Catholic Boy returned my book was more surprising to me than the fact he didn't find it funny. Which again, just goes to show I couldn't figure him out.

In 2009, he asked what I'd been up when we met up one night. I told him I had gone to the Norman Rockwell exhibit at the Detroit Institute of Arts.

"Wait, there's a Norman Rockwell exhibit at the DIA?" he asked.

"Yep."

"I like him." Well, no shit, Sherlock. Because the three reprints you have hanging in your living room didn't clue me into that fact. "We should go."

Catholic Boy wanted to go to the museum to see the Norman Rockwell exhibit. Do you know how rare it is to find a guy who wants to go to a museum? Just for the record, we didn't go. The following weekend was the last weekend it was at the DIA and both of us had other plans.

To best describe our relationship, it was a friends with benefits kind of thing. For me though the friends outweighed the benefits.

But the night we buried my brother, I used him shamelessly for sex. I simply sent him a text that said, "Are you home?" When he responded in the affirmative I sent him a text that said, "I'm coming over." His response was that the door was open. I literally walked in, did what I set out to do, and walked out. I didn't say a word (which as you can guess is unusual for me).

A few weeks later, we met up again. As soon as I walked in, he asked "What was up with you that last time? You didn't even say hello, let alone good-bye."

I sighed. "I'll tell you later." We did what we always do and he asked again.

"Catholic Boy, we buried my brother that day. I needed to feel something, anything, and I somehow needed to feel it with you."

"I'm sorry." He paused and looked at me. "I'm really sorry, Mo. I know how much your brother and sister mean to you."

Another shocker. He remembered that I have one of each sibling.

He was a jig-saw puzzle I could never quite finish.

Last weekend, I finished reading He's Just Not That Into You. I made up my mind not to "waste the pretty" and as stated repeatedly in the movie, I thought of myself as the rule, not the exception. With my new mantra and Catholic Boy's text-every-few-months habits, I knew I was going to have to move on. 

Seeing this glimpse of him this weekend, with a woman who looked like she'd be a lot of fun to hang out with, I knew it was time.

I texted Lorie, who was there with me at the beginning and understands that I can't explain whatever it is that Catholic Boy and I have, but I know it has to end whatever it is. I texted Jen, who emphasized with my idea to play Adele's "Someone Like You" over and over and over again (my neighbors would be relieved to know I was too lazy to go out and retrieve the CD from my car). And I texted my friend Chris, the guy I go to for advice about, you guessed it, guys.

Me: I ran into the one who got away at the farmers market this morning. He was with his girlfriend. She's gorgeous. I want to kill myself.

Me (again): Not literally, but most definitely hypothetically.

Chris: If they walk away, let them walk!

Me: Does it ever stop it from being a disappointment though?

Chris: Nope.

Me: And there you have it....

 

This Slut Votes.

I think in the past two years, Planned Parenthood has been in the news almost as much as they were in the 90s. Of course, in the 90s it was all about Planned Parenthoods being bombed by anti-abortionists and now its a political bruhaha regarding funding. First Congress in 2011 and more recently the Susan G. Komen Foundation both wanted to significantly reduce funding to Planned Parenthood. And in recent news, Mitt Romney has also stated he would eliminate Federal funding to Planned Parenthood (as well as the subsidy for Amtrak and the National Endowments for both Arts and Humanities; just sayin'). 

In a country where the number of uninsured steadily rises with each passing year, going from 46.3 million in 2008 to 52 million in 2011, cutting Federal funding to a health care organization that makes it a point to serve the underprivileged is, in my opinion, ludicrous.

Yes, I just likened Planned Parenthood to a health care organization.

What else do you call an organization that performs routine gynecological services, mammograms, pregnancy testing, pre-natal care, and STD testing? Yes, Planned Parenthood does abortions. Abortions count for 3% of their patient care services. Cancer Screening and Prevention makes up 14.5% of Planned Parenthood's patient services. Ironic isn't it that the one word everyone thinks of when they think "Planned Parenthood" is abortion and yet it makes up the smallest percentage of patient services?

Now, the way I see it, all of these procedures Planned Parenthood performs are the same procedures you'll find taking place in a hospital-affiliated gynecologist's office, abortions included. So how can Fox News host Bill O'Reilly some people say Planned Parenthood is not  a part of health care?

In a country where almost 17% of its constituents are uninsured, you would hope Congress would fight harder to keep organizations like Planned Parenthood in business, especially when you consider that two-thirds of Planned Parenthood patients are referred by government agencies. And while I applaud Sandra Fluke for her Congressional testimony, I do have to ask (and woefully admit that I agree with Ann Coulter on this).... Who are you again?

Don't get me wrong. I love how Ms. Fluke used the treatment of Polycystic Ovarian Syndrome (and you'll know why if you read my Dear 16-Year-Old Mo post) and endometriosis to illustrate why contraception should be covered by insurers. I also felt sick to my stomach when I read the following:

"One student told us that she knew birth control wasn’t covered, and she assumed that’s how Georgetown’s insurance handled all of women’s sexual healthcare, so when she was raped, she didn’t go to the doctor even to be examined or tested for sexually transmitted infections because she thought insurance wasn’t going to cover something like that, something that was related to a woman’s reproductive health." -- Sandra Fluke's March 23, 2012 Congressional Testimony

Now, before those of you who know me think I've gone over to the other side, let me say this. I think Ms. Fluke was a poor choice as an expert witness to be pulled in front of Congress to testify. Unfortunately, Ms. Fluke is not an expert, but rather a law student. At Georgetown Law, the 13th highest Law school in the country according to U.S. News & World Report. Further complicating the situation for me is the fact that Georgetown is a Jesuit school.

If there is one thing the Catholic church is adamant about, it's birth control. Sex is for one reason and one reason only: procreation. You do not mess with God's plan.

And people wonder why I'm a lapsed Catholic?

Digressing again. Sorry.

Unlike Ms. Coulter, I did not find Ms. Fluke to be a poor choice to testify before Congress because she's a "liberal... hysterical drama queen." Rather, I found her to be a poor choice because she is a law student at one of the country's most elite schools. When you consider that Georgetown University itself is one of the top 25 national universities according to, you guessed it, U.S. News & World Report, and that its law school is ranked thirteenth on the list of best law schools, well, yeah, kind of puts her a few pounds ahead on the "every woman" scale in my opinion. On the other hand, Water Buffalo pointed out that Ms. Fluke was the perfect candidate to testify before Congress because she's a non-Catholic woman with insurance that does not cover contraception because of the insurer's religious beliefs.

Score one, Water Buffalo.

Regardless, Ms. Fluke's testimony never once suggested that she, nor any of her friends, were sluts. Or prostitutes. A fact that Rush Limbaugh grossly overlooked when he launched an attack against Sandra Fluke on his March 1, 2012 broadcast. Along with how contraception actually works. Limbaugh rhetorically asked, "Ms. Fluke, have you ever heard of not having sex? Have you ever heard of not having sex so often?" This remark makes me believe that Limbaugh believes oral contraceptives to be like Viagra or other erectile dysfunction medication: you pop it when you need it. 

Additionally, Limbaugh went on to remark "What next are you going to want, Ms. Fluke, that you see etched in misery on the faces of fellow students at Georgetown because they don't have? 'When I look around my campus, I see the faces of the women affected....' Prove it! What is "on their faces"? Acne? What is it, acne? Zits? What's on their faces that tells you? Seriously! You know, I'm the mayor of Realville. I live in Literalville."

As a woman with Polycystic Ovarian Syndrome, I can tell you Mr. Mayor of Realville that yes, yes indeed, you will see acne on the faces of the women at Georgetown because guess what? Acne, often cystic, is a common feature of PCOS. And guess what helps keep the acne at bay? Guess what it is that helps us regulate our menstrual cycles? That's right. Here in Detroit, there in Literalville, it's going to be the same answer: oral contraceptives. Which the female students at Georgetown cannot get because it's not covered by the student insurance.

Which goes back to the issue of contraceptives and religious freedom. And why I brought Planned Parenthood into this post in the first place.

As I stated, I'm a lapsed Catholic. Long before I was diagnosed with PCOS, I shed myself of the majority of my Catholic upbringing (as have my parents I might add). I'm pretty liberal. I believe homosexuals have the right to marry. I believe in programs like welfare and unemployment benefits (though I also believe in drug testing for recipients of these benefits but that's another story). And oddly, I also believe in religious freedom.

Though I don't believe in the Catholic Church's stand on contraception because I do believe in religious freedom, I cannot agree with the government forcing Catholic health insurance companies to cover contraception. On the other hand, I do believe that Catholic health systems, such as Michigan's own Trinity Health, has a moral and ethical obligation to offer its patients the option of contraception, most especially when the patient needs it or is not Catholic. Because by not offering non-Catholic patients contraception, you violate their religious beliefs. For a really good article on Catholics, health care, and contraception, read Danielle Tumminio's "Is Birth Control Coverage Motivated by Religious Freedom or Religious Bullying?"

And for those of us Catholics who are lapsed, sluts, prostitutes, or just out and out need or want birth control, I recommend going to Planned Parenthood. It's where this voting slut goes.

"I'd have to say that, in general, models take themselves too seriously....

.... Basically, they are genetic freaks who spend a couple of hours in hair and makeup." ~ Rebecca Romijn

Last week, Macy's posted a load of pictures centered around their Spring plus size apparel on Facebook.

I swear, you would have thought they'd posted a picture a grisly crime scene with the amount of flack they received over those pictures. Over 75% of the 250+ comments were about the models and how they aren't plus size because no one appears to be larger than a size 10 or 12. The fans went on and criticized the clothes themselves, saying the clothes were matronly, the prints unflattering for women of size  and that there was no use of color.

Either I'm getting old or my sense of what's stylish and attractive isn't what it used to be, but I found absolutely nothing wrong with the clothes. I admit, after reviewing the website for awhile, I found quite a few pieces I would never consider buying, but the reality is not only can I say the same thing about Lane Bryant, but I actually found more at Macy's I'd like to buy this spring than I did from Lane Bryant.

A dozen or so years ago, I actually used to work for Marshall Field's here in Michigan, which for those of you who don't remember is now Macy's. Back then we had a half dozen racks of Koret and Alfred Dunner which, with the exception of a few (very few) select pieces, were synonymous with granny clothes. Jones New York was our primary suiting brand, though we had a bunch of suit sets for $79.99 in the dresses departments that again appealed to our 70 and over clientele. Evening dresses cames in about five colors: black, navy, champagne/ivory, mauve and powder blue. And we also seemed to carry every Liz Claiborne horizontally striped t-shirt and sweater known to man. 

In short, with the exception of the (at the time) new Ralph Lauren lines, my paycheck was never in imminent danger of being in the negative with all of the clothes I was buying. In fact, more often than not, my friend B and I were blowing up the Comments and Suggestions box with requests for a more stylish selection, more color choices, and just an overhaul of the complete buying-for-plus-size process. 

I personally think that in 12 years, plus size fashion has come a long way. Not only do we have the mainstays of Lane Bryant, Avenue, and Ashley Stewart, but designers such as Ralph Lauren, Tommy Hilfiger, Michael Kors, Calvin Klein, Karen Kane, Marina Rinaldi, and Jessica Simpson, among many others, have jumped on the bandwagon. We have a wonderful selection of plus size apparel nowadays.

So why are all of the Macy's Facebook fans crying foul regarding the lack of plus size models? Don't they realize how far we've come? (I'm being sincere here. I really just don't get it).

I received a catalog for Roamans, an online plus size store, about three weeks ago. Last week, I received a catalog for Jessica London, another online plus size retailer. Neither catalog featured plus size models. And these are plus size specific companies. I browsed through Avenue's website and again, by the Macy's fans definition of plus size models, no plus size models were to found on Avenue's website either. In fact the only plus size companies Macy's fans used as examples for plus size models were Torrid and Lane Bryant.

So isn't it ironic that Lane Bryant's Ashley Graham is also found on Macy's website modeling for INC International Concepts, Nine West, Spense and Macy's own brand Style&co?

Yes, I would love to see a woman larger than a size 12 model clothes for plus sizes. Am I going to take Macy's to task for not using such a model like most of the commentators on Facebook did? No. Or at least not right away. Because I firmly believe that plus size specific companies, such as Avenue, Lane Bryant, Roamans, and Jessica London need to raked over the coals for alienating their clientele first before Macy's, who caters to all sizes, gets called in front of the firing squad first.

Oh, and the dress? I just bought it at Macy's last week. Like I said, lots of things I want to buy there this season.  ;)

 

"Nature makes boys and girls lovely to look upon...

... so they can be tolerated until they acquire some sense." ~ William Lyon Phelps

March 12 was the 100th birthday of an organization I hold very near and dear to my heart: Girl Scouts. Because of Girl Scouts, I have seen and done things I wouldn't ordinarily do. I have made life long friends. And I once became the most popular girl at Boy Scout camp.

When we were sophomores in high school our troop leaders made an interesting decision, one I'm sure they almost immediately regretted. We were going to go camping at Silver Trails Boy Scout Camp. With boys. There were a few other Girl Scout troops there as well, one of which we knew well, but (and no offense to Sheila or Carrie or Vanessa or anyone else I may have missed).... We were at BOY Scout camp. Our eyes and ears weren't really focused on the girls.

It was an early October weekend when this all took place. The leaves were in the midst of their color change, and the temperatures were warm enough during the day but cold at night. Darkness fell about 7 p.m., and it was about this time on a Friday night that we actually arrived at the camp. We met a young woman who was to show us to our campsite. Some of us were quietly bitching moaning about having to set up our tents, which was never our favorite activity to begin with, in the dark.

The young woman, who was probably all of twenty-two bless her heart, got on her walkie talkie and called her younger brother and two of his friends to our campsite to set up the tents for us.

And thus it began.

Please forgive my lack of usual detail. It was just such a dream come true long time ago that some of the lesser details have become a bit hazy.

The younger brother, Chris, and his friends, one of whom was Jake, came by and helped us set up our tents. They were very nice and polite and had no issues chatting with our leaders' husbands while they put up our tents and went off to gather wood for a fire for us. This is a very important fact for you to remember...

... because the next morning is when the rest of the boy scouts figured out we were there.

Not going to lie. Odds were definitely in any girl's favor that weekend.

I remember our leaders giving us a pep talk about taking the activities seriously. They explained that because these were boys, they were going to think the girls couldn't keep up.

BAH! Turns out, we showed them.

Our troop was divided into two patrols to participate in the activities. We'd go from station to station building fires, figuring out how to cross a creek as a team, and other nature/team building activities. At some point, Chris and Jake caught up with us, along with Jake's little hellion weekend buddy, Phillip and we all wandered around the camp together.

I should mention here that because my memory is a bit hazy and dreamlike, I cannot recall exactly how we met some of guys I'm about to mention, but there were three distinct groups. Chris and Jake, a group from Grand Blanc including a redhead who was really into our leader's daughter Jeanne, and a third group from Walled Lake including two guys named Rob and Adam.

Around noon, we stopped and went back to our campsite for lunch. Which was interesting because right in the middle of lunch the group of guys from Grand Blanc wandered into the woods behind our camp and serenaded us with The Righteous Brothers "You've Lost That Love and Feeling." Original? No. Did we care? Yeah, a bunch of 15-year-old girls are going to mind that four guys couldn't come up with a more original song to serenade us with. Our leaders and their husbands on the other hand, they cared. Not so much about the song choice, but the fact it even happened.

As they chewed us out about conducting ourselves like ladies, Jen and I occasionally glanced at one
another and did the proverbial eye roll. What we both found interesting was that during the serenade, some of the guys were clearly directing it at Jeanne, and yet it was Jen, our friend DonnaMarie, and myself who were bearing the brunt of the verbal flogging.

There's something to be said for being the outgoing girls of the bunch, clearly.

After lunch, and with Jake and his little buddy Phillip in tow, we made our way to the archery session. Our group signed up for a session and took a seat. Surrounded by boys. Little boys, boys our age, and men. We were the only girls in the little outdoor ampitheatre. When it came our turn to shoot the bows and arrows, little asshole Phillip said, quite loudly, "I don't know why we have to bother watching this. They're girls. Girls can't shoot bows and arrows."

His remark was met with a fair share of laughter.

There wasn't a lot of instruction given to us as to how to properly shoot a bow and arrow. I'm not sure if it was a time constraint issue or if it was more of a conspiracy issue, but either way, all of those males underestimated us ladies. What they didn't know was that Mo actually already knew how to shoot a bow and arrow. My dad had taught me a few years earlier. So I quickly taught my fellow girl scouts. And by the third and final shot, everyone in the group had hit the target, or at least the haystack it was posted to, at least once.

Except me.

I was so busy teaching everyone how to correctly line up their quivers against the bow and then how to line up a shot, I hadn't made any of my own. I was fully prepared to forfeit my opportunity but the man running the station told us he wouldn't sign off on our completion until I completed the activity.

Essentially, I had to shoot three arrows. By myself. With everyone watching.

Sucks to be me.

I prepared my bow and arrow and let the first shot go. It actually skidded along the ground before stopping several feet in front of the target. There was some laughter and catcalling from the stands. Taking a deep breath, I re-aligned myself, set up my second shot, and let it fly. I hit the target. Not just a corner of it, but within the circles. There were some "Wows!" in the crowd and someone said, "Let's see if she can do it again." I smiled to myself, lined up my third and final shot, and let 'er rip...

... right into the dead center of the bullseye.

My friends cheered. Jake said to Phillip, "See? That's why we watch the girls shoot bows and arrows!"

The rest of the afternoon as we went from station to station, boys were pointing at me and telling the older scouts, "That's the girl who hit the bullseye!"

Turns out, I was the only scout in the campground who made a bullseye all weekend.

Girls can't shoot bows and arrows indeed.

Later that night, after an awards ceremony around a campfire where I won frickin' tent stakes, we girls were back in our tents talking. Suddenly someone said, "I think something's out there."

"It's probably just a rabbit," I replied. No sooner were the words out of my mouth when there was suddenly a lot of woodland creature activity behind our tent.

"I don't think that's a rabbit, Mo."

I was unzipping the window of the tent when a voice whispered, "Where's Jeanne?"

Again, Jeanne is the leader's daughter.

"She's in here," I whispered back as I finished unzipping the window.

"Monique? Is that you?"

"Adam?" He was one of the Walled Lake guys.

"Yeah." Suddenly the redhead from Grand Blanc was in the window followed by a blond Adam.

"Jeanne, there's someone here to see you...." I whispered. She was by my side in an instant.

"Where's Jen?" Rob, the other guy from Walled Lake, asked.

"Over here," Jen whispered from the tent less than four feet away.

It continued like this with girls popping up and down in front of the windows while the guys were rotating around outside the tent, with lots of whispering, teenage hormones, etc.

Suddenly our leader's husband's booming voice called out, "Gentlemen, get back to your campsites NOW!"

The guys scattered like leaves.

The next morning, our leaders read us the riot act. One of them even started crying. And we were marched firmly to and from the closing flag ceremony, standing a great distance apart from everyone at the ceremony itself. There were no chances to say good-bye, to possibly grab a phone number or address or anything.... We were ordered to finish packing and our parents would be there soon to pick us up.

The thing was, we hadn't actually done anything to warrant the amount of trouble we'd gotten in. We hadn't snuck off to the empty field nearby, we weren't drinking, we hadn't even left our tents. A few teenage boys had done what teenage boys do: they snuck into our camp and talked with us. But given the dirty looks Jen and I were getting (we were almost always the instigators in situations when things didn't go exactly as our leaders planned, even when evidence to the contrary was blatantly staring our leaders in the face), you'd think we had run off, gotten married in a pagan sacrificial virgin ceremony, and killed all the innocent little forest creatures by beheading them.

In short, the punishment certainly did not fit the crime.

When we got home, we told our own mothers what happened. I think it may have been my mom calling Jen's mom, or whatever, but there was a phone call made between the two moms and the common summary was: our leaders needed to have a wine cooler or two and loosen up.

But needless to say, we never did return to Boy Scout/Girl Scout camp.

 

"Every breath you take, every move you make, every bond you break...

... every step you take, I'll be watching you." ~ "Every Breath" by The Police

Once upon a time, Mo was a stalker.

(I'm pausing while I wait for the laughter to die down because those who know me well know I still have mad Google stalking skills).

This is a story about my early stalking days. Before computers were as popular a household appliance as a washing machine. Before the mainstream population knew what the Internet was. Before Google even existed!

Yes, yes, there was such a time. Believe it or not, when I was in high school, getting a teacher to give you a pass to the computer lab was kind of a big deal.

Kind of, sort of digressing again. Needless to say, this is the story of my high school and beyond crush.

For my fellow alum readers, could you just bear in mind that this story took place more than 20 years ago? And if you figure out who it is I'm talking about, just laugh, shake your head, and do your typical "Oh Mo" thing. Please? I'm beggin' you.

To say I am was boy crazy is to put my obsession with the opposite sex mildly. I went through crushes on boys like Ryan Gosling goes through abdominal crunches (and for your viewing pleasure....).

But there was one boy in particular that I was always sweet on. We'll call him Heath, because that's my favorite candy bar. There's a little irony in there too but I can't just come out and tell you what it is.

Anyways, the day Heath stepped foot in Royal Oak Kimball High School ("Let's give a cheer for Kimball High School, let's give a cheer that's long and strong..."), my heart was claimed. Though in Heath's defense, he most likely didn't know it (and perhaps still doesn't?).

I gawked at him in the hallways. I forced my friends to attend basketball games just to see him. I was over the moon when I found out he actually lived on the next street over.

To this day, I always take the longer route to my mom's house just to pass his house even though he hasn't lived there in about 15 years.

The kids I used to baby-sit for lived across the street and six houses down from him. One evening, after a particularly harsh rainstorm, the street flooded. Travis, bless his little heart, wanted to go out and play in the puddles. I had already consented as, not going to lie, I wanted to too, but imagine my delight when Heath and his brother came outside. About thirty seconds later, imagine my mortification when little Travis called out, "Hey, Mo! Isn't that the guy you like?"

God willing, Heath didn't hear him. Or if he did, he never said anything about it.

As the school years merged one into another, my crush on Heath never faded. By senior year, I was still gawking at him, making a point to visit with my friend Dee before second hour only because Heath was in there too (which was right across the hall from MY second hour), and driving by his house every chance I got (thank GOD it was one of the few ways to get to my house from that particular "busy road"). By the time basketball season rolled around, even Heath's mom knew of my unrequited love crush for her son, thanks to my good friend Irish Politician (they worked together believe it or not).

You know, looking back, it would actually be a small miracle if Heath didn't know about my crush....

In the midst of basketball season, yours truly got the thrill of her high school career: I somehow managed to land the Varsity Basketball Team layout for the Lancer yearbook. Which meant I had to interview the team captains, Heath included (y'all are digging out your yearbooks now aren't you?). I still remember that brief 20 minute interview fondly.

*sigh*

It was about this time that I came up with a completely harebrained idea. I swear, this is the truth: I once read a book, in high school (it's an impressionable age okay?), about a girl who had a crush on some guy and she would basically go do this little Indian War Dance/African Rain Dance thing in his front yard. 

You see where I'm going with this, right?

You do.

So you can only imagine what a complete lunatic I've become in the years since high school.

I digress.

It started off where after the basketball games and while Irish Politician was driving my friends and I home, we would stop in front of Heath's house. I would simply kneel and wave my arms up and down (much like a praying Muslim, I admit) on the sidewalk chanting my undying love. As basketball season progressed, my daring increased. I went from the sidewalk to the top of his front steps (his house was on a hill and there was a small set of stairs leading from the sidewalk to the front yard). And then halfway up the sidewalk. And then as basketball season reached it's climax, I was in the middle of the front yard.

I should mention two things here. One: there is a HUGE plate glass window on the front of his house. It's probably about six feet by eight feet and takes up one entire wall of the living room (never having been in the house before, I can only guess). Second: Kimball's basketball team was doing so well, we were tied with Troy for the district title (or some such nonsense, I really don't remember except that we were going beyond the usual basketball season because we were kicking butt).

So one particular night, my friend Irish Politician decided we needed to up the ante a bit. Okay, a lot. Not only was I to do my own version of an Indian War Dance/African Rain Dance thing in Heath's front yard, but Irish Politician was going to pull into his driveway with the lights of her unreliable 1980-something Ford Thunderbird on.

Again, I mention that Heath lived on a rather steep hill for a house. I should also mention that this particular Royal Oak Boulevard was a Boulevard in the true sense that there were boulevards in the middle of the street separating the two sides of the streets.

I should also clarify that no, I was not on drugs nor did I have a single sip of alcohol until I went to college.

I'm not sure if that fact makes me braver or a bigger idiot, but it is what it is.

So Irish Politician went around the boulevard, dropped me at the sidewalk, and then continued to pull into Heath's driveway with the car running and headlights on, shining directly into the darkened living room of Heath's house.

In the meantime, I ran up into the front yard and began running in crazy circles and figure eights waving my arms around like a lunatic and even began chanting a bit.

You can imagine everyone's surprise when a light suddenly went on in the house.

Now imagine the light going on to reflect Heath's dad standing in the living room in his boxer shorts.

Are you picturing this yet?

It gets better. Because Irish Politician's car conked out right in the middle of the driveway at this point.

They say that in panicked situations, adrenaline is a force to be reckoned with. I can attest to this. It's the only way I managed to run across the front yard shouting, "Put it in neutral, put it in neutral!" before shoving the car back down the driveway with Irish Politician and two of our other friends in it.

At some point, Irish Politician managed to get the car started again. Behind me, another light came on in Heath's house as the front yard suddenly got brighter. And there was Mo, running as fast as her legs could carry her down the driveway, across the boulevard, and diving head first into the car before Irish Politician peeled away.

I can only hope and pray that this is the first time this story has seen the light of day for many of you.

And for you others who didn't know me in high school.... Don't I sound like a hell of a good time? ;)

 

"I have lived my life in a culture that hates fat people." ~ Camryn Manheim

The other day, my friend Mary posted about a great haircut she'd gotten at Great Clips. Which of course led to a whole series of comments about where people are getting their haircut, how much they're paying, etc.. Being me, I of course volunteered my salon's information, which ended up leading into a discussion about why I had left my last salon.

I just want to say here and now, I'm not a salon hopper as a habit. I leave a salon for a small handful of reasons, which usually revolve around the stylist moving, I've moved, or I'm unhappy with the costs or services. I went to a salon in Sterling Heights for almost four years. I loved the salon, the stylist, the colors, and the cuts, but in the last year I was there, my stylist was getting so overbooked that her services started to suffer. My final straw was when I got my hair highlighted and there was noticeable root "growth" that had never gotten colored to begin with.

Small digression: I love my hair. I have great hair. Therefore, spending a few extra dollars on my hair is okay with me, especially when I'm employed. Finding a stylist you like and who does a great job can be difficult. In the five years I lived in Chicago, I spent the first 18 months searching for a stylist I liked. The search proved fruitless and in the end it was easier for me to travel back and forth between Chicago and Royal Oak for great hair cuts and color. So I know how difficult is to find a new stylist.

After I left the salon in Sterling Heights, I went back to the salon I'd been going to in Royal Oak when I lived in Chicago (logistically that's kind of hard to follow, I'm sure). I LOVE the stylist I had at this salon. She was friendly, she was quick, she was efficient, and I LOVE her work. I do. On the rare occasion my usual stylist couldn't fit me in, I'd go to the owner, whom I also adore.

It was the rest of the salon I couldn't deal with.

At first, I tried to shrug off my feelings of discomfort. As someone who has been plus-size the majority of her adult life, I'm always very conscious of the fact that I am most likely the largest woman in the establishment. Normally, after a short while, say twenty minutes to a half hour, I relax and enjoy myself. Usually, I can even forget all about my size and its connotations.

But occasionally, I can't.

And my last salon was no exception. In fact, the longer I went there, the more noticeable it was that I was the fat kid.

Though I have my rare moments, I'm not someone who slacks off in the appearance department. My hair and make up are almost always done, and while I'm not trendy, my clothes are still stylish. I have fun jewelry, love to experiment with make up and if there's a fault to be had in my appearance, it's that I really don't give a flying fig about my nails so sometimes they're either broken or unfiled. Combined with the fact I shower on a daily (or more) basis, there's really no reason to stop and stare when you see me on the street.

Except for my size of course. Which in all honesty, I'm not 100% convinced I'm large enough for people to stare at.

Yet every time I stepped foot in that Royal Oak salon, I felt like I could be the mother of Gilbert Grape. Google it if you need a refresher.

People would constantly stare at me. I mean, sure, sitting in a chair with foil squares on top of your head isn't exactly the norm, but it's not out of place at a hair salon. Since I would go over my appearance with a fine tooth comb before I went in the salon, I knew I hadn't sprouted a third arm, or more likely, spinach in my teeth or whatever. Again, I'm not some country bumpkin who just won the lotto and came to the big city from my Holla (Hollow) because I wanted a make-over.

In the mirror I could see the smirks. The "Oh look, the fat girl thinks she's going to be prettier if she gets her hair done at an expensive salon" smirk from a patronizing stylist. Some clients would just stare right through me as if I wasn't there, which always amazes me. How do you not see the proverbial elephant in the room? The worse were the double takes. The people who would just be walking along casually from the shampoo bowl back to their stylist's chair, not really paying attention to anything but then they'd look in my direction and BOOM! I felt like they couldn't get back to the chair fast enough to tweet about the latest fat kid sighting. And every time I went to pay for my services, I couldn't get through the transaction fast enough to get away from the pitying looks.

When I found myself hiding in the bathroom while waiting for my color to develop on my last visit I decided enough was enough. I wasn't going back.

Again, my decision had nothing. at. all. to do with my stylist; I still refer clients to her occasionally. And truthfully, I feel bad for leaving without saying a word. I'm sure the owner, one of the nicest guys imaginable, would feel absolutely horrible if I told him why I left. Looking back, I should have said something. It wouldn't have changed anything for me, but perhaps they could have had sensitivity training or something (cue bad The Office scenes here). I don't know.

But for now, I'm perfectly content to continue seeing my new stylist in another Royal Oak salon where women of all sizes work and get their hair done.