Blueberry Girl

She was thirteen. Her arms rested flatly on the cream-flecked science lab counter. The room was filled with a sloshed chatter and the naked teenage legs of almost-summer. His name was Franz. He was a gorgeous Germanic God of fourteen years that inhabited the small blue stool next to her and her gams which were fully covered in a stretch denim disaster that she would regret as soon as 1998 passed.

Every night she batted her eyes and tipped her head just so toward her old Popples pillow and imagined that it could be him. She knew with every nucleic bit of her body that he cared just as much for her as she did for him. If only he had the chance to show it. If only he had the chance to prove it. If only his dad had bought him a white horse for his last birthday or Franz had decided to take Karate lessons instead of pottery classes. But every day went by and he just smiled, said hello, and continued to do his research in solitude. She supposed he had many things going on in his family life that made him stay so quiet. An alcoholic uncle perhaps. A diseased brother. An old family secret about the serial killing grandmother who preyed on bachelors wearing bowling shoes. She didn’t know what caused the silence, but she respected it just the same.

“Your thigh is as big as my head.”

The voice came from behind her as she scribbled down the reaction of glass to different degrees of heat in her composition book.

“Dude. Come on.”

The second voice came from Mister Germanic God himself and, as she turned, she saw Franz shove the freckled villain away ever so slightly. In fact, the slightness was almost more of a pat than a shove, but it was enough for the young boy to move away and back toward his own station.

“Sorry.”

Franz was looking at her with his crystallized blue eyes and in that moment, she pictured her Popples pillowcase. She didn’t want him to look at her like that. She could tell he didn’t know what to do with what he saw. Her thighs felt thick. Her arms seemed to swell in front of her like the blueberry girl in Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. She was positive a double chin had sprouted like a bad hair in a mole, only this was something that couldn’t be plucked. Her body was expanding and bubbling and pouring out of its own edges. And that’s when she realized that Franz wouldn’t be able to fit her ass on his white horse. And he would be more likely to ask for her protection in a fight than to offer his own. And he would never be able to grab her in the back of a red Chevy and get all rough and tumble with her plump bits and pieces because he would be too afraid to do so. The boy didn’t know how to handle her. No one knew how to handle her. And her body reminded her of it by folding over one more roll on her back. She felt the stick of flesh sliding onto flesh. She felt beads of sweat forming in the creases of her plump bend of leg. Beneath her, the stool creaked.



Susan Roberts

The Things You Do For Love

Before I tell you the following story, you need to know that I fully believe that Rowdy sits around with some of his wayward friends and brags about the bullshit he can get me to do. Now, he swears he doesn't, but why else would he make me shimmy into a rusty grain truck, seed scurrying into my clothes, to unroll the top canvas? What other explanation could be given to talking me into shoveling pounds and pounds of mud out of an ancient water tank and then periodically making me attempt to heave the heavy slosh pit above my 8-month pregnant tummy? Rowdy is constantly talking me into ridiculous bullshit. What's worse is that I know it is ridiculous as I am doing it. What can I say: I'm a devoted wife. Even as I type this, that catchy '60s tune by Jimmy Soul is be-bopping through my mind:

A pretty woman makes her husband look small
And very often causes his downfall
As soon as he marries her then she starts
To do the things that will break his heart

But if you make an ugly woman your wife
you'll be happy for the rest of your life
An ugly woman cooks meals on time
And she'll always give you peace of mind

If you wanna be happy for the rest of your life
Never make a pretty woman your wife
So from my personal point of view
Get an ugly girl to marry you

Don't let your friends say you have no taste
Go ahead and marry anyway
Though her face is ugly, her eyes don't match
Take it from me, she's a better catch

If you wanna be happy for the rest of your life
Never make a pretty woman your wife
So from my personal point of view
Get an ugly girl to marry you

Spoken:
Say man!
Hey baby!
I saw your wife the other day!
Yeah?
Yeah, an' she's ug-leeee!
Yeah, she's ugly, but she sure can cook, baby!
Yeah, all right!

Now, you may be wondering why I'm listing a few of the grand gestures I lavishly pour upon Rowdy and, furthermore, why I am printing a catchy classic to explain this. Well, the answer to those questions is quite simple, really. Listen up, fellas. This is valuable and honest and will most assuredly save you a ton of heartache, disappointment and, above freakin' all, money if you heed my warnings.

You can either have a good-looking wife or an accommodating one. You simply can't have it both ways. In vain, you will try to fight that. You will search the world or, in the very least, the local honky tonk, tirelessly to find the shiny bombshell blonde who will labor gladly over gourmet meals and pre-set your coffee pot so that you'll have a warm pot brewing before you stumble out of bed and gleefully mow the yard because she thinks it is really her job. Oh, and when she's not freshening up you and your buddies' beer koozies while cheering on your favorite football team, she's busy dreaming up kinky new "bedroom" positions to both limit your physical effort while maximizing your "O" face.

I don't mean to break your heart, guys, but this woman doesn't exist. And before you go emailing me that you've already stumbled upon this Kate Hudson/Jenna Jameson/Martha Stewart mirage, I have three more names for you: Bill Clinton, George W. Bush, Barack Obama. IF you happen to love one of these guys, chances are you don't like one or more of the others. But, the reason the American people have all at one point or another picked these guys, as different as they are, is campaigning and marketing. And any dolled up broad who is pimping more bling than J. Lo as she's serving homemade buffalo wings to your friends while she is whispering her desire to give you a hummer in your ear is simply that. Lying politicians wrap themselves up in the nostalgic images of leaders of old to get elected and a high-maintenance woman will masquerade as a laidback, freaky Betty Crocker until they take that stroll down the aisle. And, with both, once the deal’s official, all bets are off. The "Contract with America" becomes null and void. And once Barbie has your credit card number, the highway hand jobs and packed lunch boxes are as withered as your wedding bouquet. Then you realize they were merely a ploy to get your money, jack.

The previous paragraph might lead you boys who are living with buyer's remorse over this poorly thought out purchase, so to speak, to believe I am sympathetic to your plight. That is absolutely NOT the case! You could have had a woman who would've gleefully performed these tasks for the rest of your life. After all, each of you had ample opportunity to tie down multiple ladies who are truly devoted to pleasing their lover. (Calm down, feminists. I am one of you. Devotion isn't the same thing as enslavement. No matter how liberated we are, no matter if we are male or female, we should all be devoted to serving our lover.) But, while some band geek or slightly fleshy debate captain longed for a chance to love you, you competed for the fleeting affection of the glossy-lipped, Prada-clad socialite. Whether you want to admit it or not, you got exactly what you sought.

Personally I believe that men shouldn't marry until they are at least 30 and I will preach this to my sons. So, if you do want to chase the glittery switch of the glamour girls, do it in your "single years." It's like buying a car; it's just fine to test drive a sexy, high octane Ferrari, but when you get out the check book, you better be pulling off the lot with a gas efficient, smooth riding mini van. You might not feel quite as cool when you pull up to the Elks Lodge, but you'll be more comfortable on the cross-country journey with a vehicle full of kids.

Now, for those of you who have taken the route of my husband and heeded the caution of this song, I'm sure you are satisfied, in the kitchen, in the bedroom and in whatever bullshit garage or barn you also have her working in. The newest evidence I am presenting to you, my brilliant readers, is the current "experimental treatment" Rowdy and his chiropractor have me dutifully performing on him twice daily. As you may or may not know, about 8 years ago, Rowdy was hauling hay in an International tractor when two semis collided with him. Well, he actually leapt out of the tattered ride before the second plowed into the tractor, but he has some back problems as a lingering result of the accident.

Keeping his back in line is a constant challenge for him and, because he is such a devoted provider and servant for my children and me, I consider his well being in this regard as one of my top priorities. Unlike most men, Rowdy is willing to try non-traditional treatments if it will yield results, so when I made him an appointment for acupuncture last October, he was more than willing to give it a whirl. While this eastern medicine has been by no means a cure all, it has also been the most effective therapy thus far. After the initial three procedures, he now returns about once every three or four weeks for a tune-up regimen, basically.

Like I said, I am generally pretty eager to help him in any way. But two weeks ago when he returned from Dr. Stover's office, handed me a tooth brush and then explained how twice daily I must rub it across his finger nails and toe nails because Doc Stover believed this would keep his back in place, I scoured the house for hidden cameras. THIS HAD TO BE JOKE!

Bewildered, I said, "What choo talkin' 'bout, Willis?"

Rowdy then spilled into his medical mumbo jumbo, explaining to his leery lady that each side of your nail cuticles houses pressure points and, when conjoined with his needle therapy, the treatment will be productive longer. If my mom's appendix nightmare hadn't unfolded, I probably would've already called Dr. Stover to question him about this new medical regimen he has me performing on my husband.

I don't think this has anything to do with acupuncture or Rowdy's back. On the contrary, I think Dr. Stover and Rowdy are now competing to see who can get their wife to do the most ridicules bullshit for them. And then somewhere in this sick game, one of them said, "Hey, let's see if you can get Shonda to scrub your hands and feet with a toothbrush two times a day."

I bet Stover's trying to convince his wife Holli of some off the wall nonsense as I type this. After all, the toothbrush "therapy" is going to be hard to beat. But, I'm going right along with it, whether or not it’s a bet. As absurd and daft as I may look, down on my hands and knees brushing away on Rowdy's "pressure points" like I'm a Vietnamese nail girl, I'm willingly going along for it. If it is a treatment, maybe it will help Rowdy's back throb a little less. And, if it's a competition, which is my guess, maybe Rowdy can take a little cash off his bet with his chiropractor.

Now, the reason I first typed out the Jimmy Soul ballad, then busted the myth about the 3-in-1 wife and lastly documented the latest series of hogwash Rowdy has convinced me to do is really to further prove that you can either have the gorgeous wife or the good one. Just like you, I know a few real lookers who are very dedicated and self-sacrificing where their men are concerned. But, I think you will find that they still perceive themselves as the geek they blossomed out of after high school. Trust me, boys, low self-esteem is an absolute must when you pick your spouse.

Drinking beer at the local tavern with Rowdy's recently single cousin last December, we listened as he and a few of his other single buddies bitched about their disappointment from all the women they date. Rowdy and I made suggestions of a few unattached local ladies, but they quickly dismissed each one. Apparently, these girls weren't up to their beauty par. After Rowdy explained to his cousin how each of his love affairs would produce the same money-drained result until he re-evaluated his choice in ladies, he wrapped his arms around me and said, "You want to see what the ass of a good woman looks like. Well, here you go."

While some of you might be gasping as though this was horrible, I want you to know I consider this one of the sweetest statements he's ever made about me. Of course I want him to think I am beautiful. I want to feel beautiful. But, far more than that, I want him to see me as the foundation on which his life is built. When his friends bemoan all the accommodations their wives won't make, I LOVE that Rowdy brags about all the star treatment he receives from me. And, you know what, he does, too.

So, just like the song says, IF YOU WANT TO BE HAPPY FOR THE REST OF YOUR LIFE, NEVER MAKE A PRETTY WOMAN YOUR WIFE. GO FOR MY PERSONAL POINT OF VIEW -- GET AN UGLY GIRL TO MARRY YOU!




-Shonda Little

Your Little Body

He said, "I missed your little body," and the language
sent me reeling, like the fantasies I'd had as a thirteen
year old drama queen, so quiet and shy in my bedroom.
I groaned, meaning: Call me little. Call me yours. Call me
sexy, drag me across the bed by the back of my knees
and I will feel--

What? Vulnerable, precious, small and nooked naked in
your arms, pressed so neatly between your body and the wall,
I love feeling small. When I had a dream last night you took a
faded polaroid of my large, grapely full breasts, on a velvet couch
with my clothes strewn about me, that couch was so big, and I
felt so small-- God, make me feel like those skinny Hollywood
bitches when you discover my hipbones, which you love to press,
make me guess what I look like to you, with my eyes closed...
I am not losing myself, even if I can't sleep at night. I still look
like me to you, even if I am swelling, like late summer fruit.
"You're not fat," you say with soft, subtle brow. But I know now,
how words like soft, curvy and round can bless my soul. Lover,
feed me these as we sleep, and I am yours forever.



Shannon Moore

Chub-love-ville

I've felt normal for exactly 3 days of my adult life. I had lost 70 lbs after 6 months of eating sprouts, practically living on an elliptical and abstaining from all alcoholic temptations. And then I realized that I really missed my strawberry margaritas. And my lime. And every flavor of beer under the sun. And cake batter ice cream. And those things that turn from candy into gum. And Nerds ropes in a movie theatre. And Happy Meals filled with chicken nuggets on the kind of day that makes you wish you'd taken those 5 vicodin you've secreted away near the purple vibrator in your bedroom. I'm not normal. I'm a fat chick. I live with a fat chick. I drink with fat chicks. I eat with fat chicks. I work with fat chicks. I have had some really great times with fat chicks. And at some point, in the process of growing up, I stopped caring if people stared when I double fisted ice cream or ordered a smorgasbord of breads, butters, meats, sauces, and sweets in a restaurant. I realized those skinny guys with the little bike buggies don't really want to buggy my large and lovely ass up a hill (or even down). And I laugh about the fact that I could snap most men in half. It's a part of the life. It's a part of the spirit. We measure our calves for shits and giggles. We flap our arm fat for fun. We push out our stomachs and name the fake babies we never had and aren't pregnant with (mine's Tim and some days he's 5 months old and some days he's 3). We discuss how to rob ice cream trucks instead of banks and create candy bar delivery services at 4 a.m. We will drive hours for the perfect donut or most recent craving. These are our stories for better or worse... for ten lbs or fifty.