“No massa, no, please don’t hit me with that same ol tired resolution agin this New Year’s, please, oh puddy please, I’m beggin. I jest cain’t do that losing 20 lbs bull sh-t agin, no how”. Excuse me, but that was Gracie, the demon who lives inside me. Lazy little tramp she is. Whiney little beast just wants to eat chocolate and drink wine all day and watch back-to-back episodes of Tabatha’s Salon Takeover and Millionaire Matchmaker. Sodden trollop is complaining about starting the year off with yet another diet, yada, yada, yada.
Well, I’m having the last laugh today because I decided I’m officially starting The Paula Deen Butter Brigade Fan Club. By God, I’m gonna be the President and first official member. From here on out I, along with my good buddy Paula, will celebrate all things buttery, gooey, delicious, fattening, and possibly, downright deadly. I have decided, at the ripe and deserving age of 58, it is time to embrace my inner plumpette. I pledge this will not be the 14th year in a row that I valiantly make the same old tired resolution, will not march in lock step to the gym with the 300 other local resolutionaries who have sworn off eating more than 500 calories per day and promised to mercilessly pound the treadmill until they fly off backward while trying to reload their 3lb. Sony Walkmans. Thank God they have all given up the ghost by the third week of January!
Nope, I’ve decided we spend WAAAYYY too much time talking about this subject and feeling less than legitimate because we are carrying a few too many pounds. OK, I’m not talking about ‘The Biggest Loser’ here and folks who are morbidly obese (Jillian is the bomb); I’m thinking of all the time and attention and talk we focus on “what if”. “What If” I just could fit in those size 8’s? Damn, Matthew McConaughey might just marry me; if my thighs didn’t touch when I walked I could live in Barcelona and not Hubert NC. If I lost 10 lbs. I COULD win the Nobel Peace Prize, certainly obtain Whirred Peas and end war as we know it? BOORRING! To the enth degree! Enough already, a pox on all our porkie houses!!
Gracie (and I suppose the entire coven who accompanies her!) and I have decided to celebrate the matronly shape and eating with gusto, Italian style. Do you see any stick figure Nancy Reagan types hanging out around the Trevi Fountain in Rome? (Don’t misunderstand, Ronnie was my hero, where the heck is he now when we really need him??) And hell no you’re not taking away my lovely bottle of Pinot Noir or Cabernet I open each evening as I start to prep a scrumptious dinner. Did I tell you I’m a total foodie? Yes, in addition to the TV viewing sins enumerated above, I can get lost in Ina’s freckles, and Giada’s Malibu beach view, and Tyler Florence is the equivalent of Sunday services in this house. Screw George Clooney, my sexual fantasies revolve around Bobby Flay’s rooftop grill. That’s right brother, slather on that smokey mesquite bourbon-laced sauce, you Celtic devil.
You might have noticed I’ve posted recent baby pix of Pooter and Booger; I am SSSOOO in love with our babies!
This is probably indicative of some crazy, middle-aged brain-fart type of disease, but they are SOOO cute and funny. Maybe this is God’s way of saying ‘Yo bioche, you need grandbabies and real soon, too!”
Anyway, for those of you wondering how that first official booking with Wilhelmina went…here is the tale. First of all, with Eve Shelton Models there was only the lonely; you never had support or company; if you were booked you showed up completely on your own, no car service to a location, no classes for beginning models, nada, zip. For this event, a van picked us up in front of the agency and whisked us to the Hamptons (the Holy Grail for the poor and disenfranchised in NYC) and presto chango, we were shooting photos that were considered more prestigious than Vogue for the ladies on the farm in Texas! Oops, did I mention one small detail? We were modeling maternity outfits?!? What the heck, I was getting a day rate of $400 a day for five days! Do the math! Life was good and money was flowing. You could have dressed me in purple felt and called me Barney and I would have been grinning from ear to ear. Finally there was camaraderie and a sense of belonging. I felt like Tom Hanks in ‘Castaway’ after he’d been rescued.
A funny aside. On the night before the last day of shooting the client took us to dinner at a famous seafood restaurant on Long Island and encouraged us all to order lobsters. Before we even left the restaurant I was doubled over with terrible stomach cramps and was fervently wishing God would just come and take me away. I was also totally puzzled because I had been eating lobster since we’d arrived in NYC and had never experienced any problems. I was begging God to snatch me up and leave me for dead by the side of the road, because I couldn’t imagine how I would be able to work the next day. Here I get my first real break, and it wasn’t looking good for functioning tomorrow. I shrank in mortification imagining Wilhelmina getting the news that her newbie couldn’t cut it on a simple five-day shoot. The client kept urging me to allow them to take me to the emergency room, but when you have little money and no insurance, that little trip was out of the question.
Suffice it to say I obviously survived the rogue lobster, lived to work the final day, and now I think I’m off to the seafood market to buy some nice two-pound lobsters; it is part of my new resolution after all! Have a wondrous New Year’s Eve and I’ll see you next year.