The truth hurts
Loud Girl A: So Mandy's been gaining weight again. She's up over 300 lbs.
Loud Girl L: That's rather noticeable when you're only 5' tall.
Loud Girl A: Yes. She keeps asking her husband if she looks fat.
Loud Girl L: And he says, "Yes," right?
Loud Girl A: No, he says, "You look beautiful." He's trying to think of a kind way to say, "You look beautiful and fat."
And now the diatribe: If you are 5' tall and weigh over 300lbs, you are fat and you know it. It's not like being 10lbs overweight and wondering if that is showing up in your blue jeans. It's not like having gone up a size and worrying that you have now tipped the scale between average and seriously overweight. 5' tall and 300lbs is obviously, unabashedly, in-your-face fat. You can't hide that size. Even slimming black is powerless against that, so why torture your poor husband by asking him to lie to you and say that you look less than what you are?
Yes, Virginia, there is a Fat. And you are It. Deal. Either do something about it and start asking, "Can you tell I'm working on this," or have another twinkie and ask, "Is this dress flattering?" But for the love of all things sane, stop asking if you look fat!
Anonymous submission
RECENT LOUD-GIRL E-MAIL EXCHANGE:
Loud Girl 1: Does it make me a bad employee that when I hear someone other than my boss say, "Let's see if we can get LoudGirl to do X-Y-Z," my first reaction is to jump up on my chair and scream "Like bloody hell you will!"
Loud Girl 2: No, I believe that is what's called a "normal" reaction.
Loud Girl 1: I just wish that following through on that impulse wasn't called "fired."
Open letter
Dear guy in the ancient van in the office parking lot last night,
I could tell from your vacant stare that you weren't exactly thrilled to be bringing the family to see the bats, and that's a sentiment I can certainly understand. But dude, that doesn't excuse the fact that you failed to remove your head from your ass before driving.
I don't know where you learned to drive, champ, but here in Texas -- nay, in America -- you stop when you get to the end of a row in a parking lot. You don't have the right of way to merge into the traffic flow at the end. You wait until I have passed before pulling out into the lane.
The worst part -- the piece de resistance, if you will -- is that you STARED ME IN THE EYE as you pulled out in front of me without even pausing. You knew I was there. You saw the disbelief on my face and my annoyed hand motions. And yet you kept going.
I would have been completely within my rights if I'd hit you, you bastard. But I didn't, because I didn't want to hurt my new car, and I didn't want the hassle. Also, I didn't want my Whataburger to get cold while I berated you and waited for the police to come. So I let you pass. But next time ... next time, all bets are off.
Sincerely,
Katherine
Average Blogger sounds off
This past weekend marked the first convocation of the Loud Girls in the Back. As the token out-of-towner, I flew in on United. I have nothing against United. Not nearly as much as I have against Northwest, (Or NWA, as they hilariously refer to themselves.) I harbor a certain amount of distaste for flying in general, but since I got married and generally have an acceptable companion on one side of me, I haven't had that many issues. And now we have a kid whose legs don't even reach the floor, which means Tha Mistah and I can squabble over the extra leg room for at least a couple more years.
But I was solo for this trip, and it took me back to the many single flights I've been subjected to. Somehow I always get some randomly annoying seatmate. The talker. The falls-asleep-and-falls-in-your-shoulder-lady-with-really-big-hair. The scarily large and sweaty fat person who has to put the arm rest up and doesn't understand why you are squicked out when their damp polyester touches you. My parents were on a flight once where a guy dropped dead between beverage service and landing. I'm sure my nicer twin was stuck in the next seat.
But until Friday, I'd been lucky enough to avoid The Stench. Oh, my god. It was vile! The guy next to me was so bad that the woman sitting behind me could smell it. You know that Seinfeld episode where Elaine gets the smell in her hair? I was SURE there was going to be tomato juice in my future. The best part was when the guy complained that the kid behind him was kicking his seat. I was so tempted to give the kid a dollar to keep it up so the guy would move. No such luck.
Oddly enough, the same guy was sitting next to me on the flight home. Someone must have said something to him, because he was bathed AND perfumed. Which once upon a time I would have said was almost as bad, but ... nope. Not even close.
Oh, bugger off
Welcome to LGB (not to be confused with GLB, which is another type of blog altogether). What can you expect to read here? Well, we're not really sure. In fact, it'll probably be just as much a surprise for us as it is for you.
I suppose it's mostly a place for snarky honesty and the venting of spleens. We Loud Girls don't suffer fools gladly, or with much grace, and you can be sure we'll have something to say about it.
So. Stupid people. Stupid things. Sarcastic observations that are too good to keep to ourselves. You'll find it all here. Have something to share with the world? Drop me a line, and we'll post it. Loud Girls unite!
