"If she doesn't stop being so bossy, she's never going to find a husband." My uncle informs my mother one night in the car when I run in to pick up our honey baked ham.  This, the same uncle who has been barking orders at all of us...in German...for the last few decades. Including his partner of 33 years. 

I'm not usually one to speak in stereotypes, but I gotta ask...why is a man who knows what he wants and speaks up about it considered assertive and confident? While a woman who knows what she wants and speaks up about is called bossy? I'm campaigning to have that word eliminated from the English language. Along with the word nag, spinster, and a few words for the female anatomy.

Obviously, my uncle has never watched Wife Swap. Have you seen some of the crazies on that show? PS...all married. Or Dog the Bounty Hunter? Beth Chapman is my idol. Maybe you can be as bossy as you want to be as long as you're wearing hot pants and stilettos. Note to self.  

PSS...Is it really the end of the world if I never "settle down?" I mean, some of my married friends look at me like I'm carrying around a bottomless hot fudge sundae. And when I talk about things like naps or sole possession of the remote control, their eyes glaze over a little.  

So, I'm dying to know...if you could eliminate one word from the English language, what would it be?

Dear Baby Jesus, 

I hope you know how much I love you. And are not offended that I spent the day of your birth:

Watching YouTube videos of things like the grape stomping lady, whistling puppy and the Family Guy ipecac episode with my uncle.

Refereeing a day long grudge match between my 18 pound Shih-Tzu and his 104 pound Labrador opponent.

Opening presents, presents and more presents.

Loading several of the same presents in trunk of car to exchange as quickly as possible.

And napping/slipping into a semi-coma after eating copious amounts of tryptophan-laced turkey.

PS...Earlier this month, I shared my retro Christmas spirit with Charles Phoenix at the National Hot Rod Museum. And was filled with glee upon seeing this photo of the Nativity made entirely out of meat and hashbrowns and/or sauerkraut.

I'm very sorry I giggled at an image of the Baby Jesus as a Vienna sausage. I won't do it again. I totally love you.  

This was stenciled on a wall of the underground parking garage at my local Target. I think I'll frame it and hang it on my fridge.  

Sectors of the population that will forever remain a mystery to me:

1. People who say they don't like chocolate. And mean it.

2. Anyone who falls outside the category of "dog lover"

3. Men (usually of the tight-knit college variety) known to have entire conversations using nothing but movie lines

4. Anyone who can say no to food

5. The obnoxious couple who can spot and or/echolocate the two seats immediately behind you at any movie

6. Flight Attendants (I mean, at the first little noise, I would run through the cabin screaming "We're goin' down!!!)

7. Anyone who doesn't own a TV 

8. The person who invented pantyhose and the population still wearing them

9. Any human being who will camp out on the sidewalk overnight for anything

And...

10. People who actually respond positively to having their photo taken

I really don't get it. It's the season for picture taking and camera giving, but every time I walk by the digital camera kiosk at Target, I can't help but think I would rather receive a year's membership to the Tube Sock of the Month club than a camera for Christmas. 

I haven't owned a camera since I was 15.  And I can't pinpoint the exact moment when I began to abhor photos, but it happened sometime between this happy photo:

...and this one:

The second photo was, in fact, taken when I was 15. Captured on an old Polaroid Instamatic camera...the kind that spit your photo out through a trap door on the front. Even though it's 20 years old and grainy, notice the look I'm flashing the photographer (that's me on the left). It says it all, don't you think?

Here's the thing. I don't like surprises. And it always seems like photo taking happens immediately after someone yells out your name and you turn around with your mouth open. Or they take the shot of you shoveling something into your pie hole. News flash: Nobody looks good when they're eating. Or you run across a photo and notice someone's back side in the background...only to realize it's yours.

Who are these mysterious people who like having their photo taken? Am I the only fat person who dives to the floor like I'm running with the bulls in Pamplona every time someone pulls out a Nikon?

Any worst-photo-ever stories out there? Anyone running the bulls with me?  

Bad Elizabeth (slapping hand)! Bad bad Elizabeth! Sorry, guys, that it's been so long since I've posted. I am making it my New Year's resolution to blog at least twice a week for the ENTIRE 2011 year. Startiiinnnggggggg...now.

Some days, the words just pour out of me and I can't get to the Power Book fast enough. Other days...not so much. But I hope your blur of Thanksgiving family, fun and...ugh...food, distracted you from my absence. Excuses, I have not (and now I'm talking like Yoda). But perhaps I may offer an explanation.

My parents were here for two weeks. Thir-teen days. The last time my parents shared 750 feet of living space (my dad measured it while I was at work one day with a 30 inch gift wrap tube) for two weeks, my previously crimeless mother set my favorite bag and kitchen curtains on fire. In that order. I still have the holy bag to prove it. This was the same trip where we returned from a long, hard day of shopping to find my dad unsuccessfully trying to extricate himself from a disastrous V-8 spill. Who falls asleep with 16 ounces of V-8 in their hand? WHO??? 

I admit it. I may be the most tightly wound human being you've ever met. I can, and will, freak out over just about anything. In real emergencies, I am cool, calm and collected. But it's the little things you don't see coming that'll make me go Michael-Douglas-in-Falling-Down on ya. For example:

I feel a slight pang of injustice when my twenties come back from the BofA ATM not facing the same direction. I mean, is there NO sense of decency in the American banking system anymore?!? 

I've been known to channel John McEnroe at board games past. Rummikub...2009. It was ugly.

And you know what happens when you're fat and feel out-of-control when faced with even the slightest temptation? You become fixated on the things you can control. Or think you can control. In my case, I have become obsessed with two things. Carpet and cars. Obsessed in a way that could easily land me on an A&E reality show...sandwiched somewhere between Hoarders and Dog the Bounty Hunter. 

The carpet is a no brainer. No shoes please. Until I can afford hardwood floors. And then you can wear Lady Gaga's meat shoes for all I care.  

Then (and this is where the reality show comes in) there is the obsession with my automobile. Or, more specifically, scratches on said automobile. Only now I have to say it like Long Duk Dong in Sixteen Candles..."oto-mo-biiile." I have a Prius. A gunmetal gray Prius named Miles. Now, I love my Prius. Don't get me wrong. But enough with the environmentally friendly paint, people. Are you friggin' kidding me? It scratches like a you-know-what. My ex drives a 1963 Ford Falcon that wouldn't scratch if you took a sickle to it. That's what I'm talking about. Oh please, auto industry, bring back the lead paint. I promise not to eat it and it will make my life so much easier. Meanwhile, I have to play offensive tackle to unsuspecting people like my parents who dare to do ridiculous things in my car. Like get in and out of it.

I could go on and on about my scratchophobia. And tell you about my relationship with the Auto Body Brothers. Or about the amazing invention of 3M film, which is changing my life one door panel at a time. But it's a story for another day. For now, I'm just realizing some things. One...I might be cuckoo. But a little bit of Southern charm could easily disguise that. And, two, I've got to get back to the task at hand...losing the weight and all the baggage that comes with it. Cause these Samsonites are beginning to get a little heavy.