I Pity The Skinny Girls: UPDATE

UPDATE!  I think there has been a misunderstanding on this post.  When I say “skinny girl,” I guess I should clarify that I mean girls who stand in the mirror, wanting to fix every flaw in their body and hate themselves for it.  I mean girls who only value themselves based on what others say or think about them.  I don’t mean the skinny girls who love going to the gym and eating healthy and love themselves, no matter what anyone else says.  If you are a skinny girl who loves herself, you are not a “skinny girl,” you are a fit girl.  If you’re skinny and fit and happy and you do not judge yourself or others based on their appearance, you are not a “skinny girl,” you are a beautiful woman.  There is no need to get bent out of shape and send me hate mail and write inappropriate comments.  If you are loved for the person that is inside of you instead of what you look like, then you are a healthy, beautiful person.  

This post is not about how I hate girls who look better than me, this post is about how I was able to love myself after twenty four years of hating what I saw in the mirror.  This is a post about every girl who thought her self worth was tied to a number on a scale, when a persons self worth is through their actions and through the beauty of their heart, not the beauty in the mirror.  If I have offended anyone in any way, I apologize, I never meant to cause any ill harm to anyone.

Ever since I was a little girl, for as long as I could remember, I knew I was different.

I grew up in a Minneapolis suburb, where most of the little girls were Scandinavian or German descent, like myself, or they were Hmong or Middle Eastern.  The latter two were very scarce until I was in high school though, and looking back, I could tell by just how I looked that I was different.

I had very pale skin.  My mother had read that a child who gets sun burn badly has a much higher chance of skin cancer so she was very cautious to ensure that we never got sun burn, and it resulted in us not really getting any type of tan either since my brother and I would burn just looking out the window.  I was the tallest girl in my class, ending up being around 5’8” once I finished high school.  My hair is almost black and very thick, my eyes are a very dark brown, and I had monsterous hips at age 10.  My body decided at age ten that I needed to fill out so my hips got wide, I got mosquito bites on my chest (those never really grew much), and I shot up, but one thing about myself never really changed.

I was always the fat kid in class.

When I was in fifth grade, at the ripe age of 11, I weighed nearly 200 pounds.  When I was in sixth grade, I was a size 16.  When I graduated high school, I was nearly 300 pounds and a size 24.  When I got married, I was even heavier and a size 26.  I’ve lost a decent amount of weight since getting married and I’m the same size I was in high school, but how I view myself has changed drastically.

I used to be horribly embarrassed of my weight.  I would apologize to my friends that they had a fat friend like me, and they never understood why I would apologize for that.  I would look in the mirror and think I was ugly because I was heavy.  I would stare in the mirror and find every single flaw with my body, and wonder why I was heavy. When I was first married, I banned all full length mirrors in the house, as well as a scale, because I knew that I would obsess over them.  Why are all of those other girls who are skinny so lucky to be like that?

Like any kid, I was teased relentlessly because of my weight.  In my sophomore year of high school, I was playing dodge ball and one of the kids in my class hit me with the ball and yelled “Out of the way, lard-ass!”  I remember sitting in the locker room nearly in tears, so embarrassed.  Not really mad at him for calling me that, but mad at myself for thinking it was true.

I tried every diet, I tried starving myself, I tried making myself throw up sometimes.  But, alas, I just love food and I hated to be wasteful so I ate.  Everything bothered me.

Once I moved to Alaska, I saw that most of the people I knew were heavy, and they were happy.  I still got some grief from people, once even from my manager at a deli I worked at.  She bought me some weight loss pills and handed them to me with a wink, telling me that customers would like me better if I looked more like my modelesque coworker.

But when I hit around the age of 19, when I got into the dating scene finally, I realized something.

Being fat is awesome.

I went on a date with a decorated soldier once.  He was gorgeous, far out of my league when it came to looks.  We went out for lunch and I ordered a greasy hamburger and devoured it.  Because I was hungry.  He commented on that, and not the way I expected.

“This is why I like dating heavy girls.  They don’t eat those shitty salads.  I’m not afraid to order good food.  You’ll order good food too and we can talk about how awesome the food is!”

I had never thought of it like that, so every time I went on a date, I would order what I wanted to order: delicious, greasy food.

Surprisingly, most men I met loved this.  One time, I had someone ask me why I didn’t order a salad and I gave him a look and said, “Seriously?  Do I look like someone who would ever eat a salad?”

He laughed and we gorged ourselves on ice cream.

Other times, I would have some of my guy friends tell me that they secretly preferred heavier women just based on the fact that “I can always be myself around women who have a few extra pounds.”

My eyes opened to the possibilities.  I realized that everyone is self conscious about the way they look, but there’s no reason to be.

I met my husband a couple of years after moving to Alaska, and he was a gorgeous man who is basically the perfect husband.  He’s six feet and seven inches of awkward, gorgeous hilarity.  And what makes him even better?  He doesn’t care about how heavy I am.  He seems to like it, actually.  He’s never asked me to lose weight, he’s never told me I needed to lose weight, and he always tells me that he thinks I’m beautiful.

And I can out eat him at a buffet and he doesn’t even care.

Now, you’re probably wondering why I pity the skinny girls.

The reason is simple:  those bitches won’t be skinny forever.

Being married to the military, I’ve met many spouses who were skinny and would pretty much live at the gym because their husbands told them that if they gained weight, they would leave them.  And I’ve even met men who have filed for separation or divorces because their wives gained weight.

I’ve been to parties with military spouses whose husbands would tell their wives not to eat something because their dress won’t fit after eating it.  I’ve met men who made sure that their wives went on a diet directly after giving birth because they needed to get that baby weight off now.

The only reason I’m working to drop some weight is for health reasons.  I’m trying to work for the state, and the position I want requires me to be able to do a lot of running and shoot a gun with accuracy, and in order to do that I need to be a little lighter and a lot stronger. I’ve been dieting lately, I’ve been seeing a personal trainer, and I’ve dropped over 20 pounds and my body feels stronger every day.

I’m not doing it for Alex.  I’m not doing it for the world.  I’m losing weight because I want to lose it for my health.

To the skinny girls: If your boyfriend or husband wants to leave you because you might be heavy some day, then guess what, you need to drop him like a bad habit.

Your looks will fade anyway and before you know it, your nipples will be knee high.  Salads are not delicious, no matter what you say.  Unless it’s drowning in dressing, cheese and meat.

I know my husband will love me no matter what because he fell in love with me when I had several hour glasses on my figure.

And I know one thing for certain: No matter what, my mom will always love me.  Who else’s approval do I need in order to be happy?

No ones.  Just my moms.

Have you ever thought you needed someone elses approval, only to realize that it was for a stupid reason?  Have you ever hated yourself, only to realize that it was for no reason at all?  I want to hear about your experiences, your struggles, and your triumph to love yourself.


Anyone Craving Tacos?

So recently I’ve been on this super healthy diet which has caused me to lose 20 pounds in 7 weeks and go down a pant size, a shirt size, and my belly skin to be super elastic and cottage cheesy.  It’s kind of weird and awesome all at once.  I have the absolute sexiest muffin top around.

Add about 100 pounds and more cellulite and SEXY MAMA IS HERE TO PARTY!

Add about 100 pounds and more cellulite and SEXY MAMA IS HERE TO PARTY!

But a few weeks ago, I was just craving hard shell tacos.

I know, weird craving right?

No, I’m not pregnant.  I just wanted Tacos more than anything else in the universe.

But I had to keep it healthy.  Corn tortillas are healthier than flour tortillas, especially since I was trying to be low carb and low gluten for my diet.  So I made this slow cooker pork taco meat with lots of black beans, and I was trying to find a way to bake these corn tortillas.  Since I was struggling so horrifically, I decided to go everywhere in Shreveport to find a taco shell baker.

I thought that this would be super easy to find, considering Shreveport has just about every type of store imaginable.  I tried World Market, Target, Wal Mart, even a few local businesses, but to no avail.  I was getting frustrated.  Finally, I asked some random people where they thought I could find a magical device that could bake corn tortillas into perfect taco shells.

The guy at World Market told me there were four Mexican groceries in Shreveport.  So I went on a search for one of these magical Mexican groceries.

TWO HOURS LATER I finally found one.  Less than two miles from my house.  I was in the entirely wrong part of town.  Apparently I live right next to little Mexico.  I never even noticed.  Seriously.

I was nervous walking in there, so I stood outside and saw that it was a hole in the wall Mexican store.  The sign said “Fresh Tacos” and a bunch of stuff in Spanish that I couldn’t understand.

I walked in and everyone in the store was middle aged and Mexican.  From what I heard, they also didn’t speak English.  I heard no English spoken.  All five people in the store stared at me like I was a leprechaun or something.

What... The... Fuck...

What… The… Fuck…

So I start to peruse around the store, finding tortilla presses, tortilla salad bowl makers, tortillas, a bunch of different spicy candies… You know, lots of stuff that I would have no idea how to use.  The people in the store watched me very carefully.

Finally, after a few minutes, I walk up to the counter and the man behind the counter, who is very obviously from the homeland, says in a perfect, southern accent, “Hello Ma’am, how can I help you?”

I stared at him in total disbelief for a few seconds.  I almost got pissed from how surprised I was.  “Uh, yeah, I need a tortilla baker or warmer.”

Then he started speaking Spanish to me.  “Ah, si, ma’am we have tortilla warmer.  We have tortilla maker.  You no know how make tortilla though.  Here, this one is sombrero tortilla warmer.”  To which he handed me this weird Sombrero warmer.

I don’t remember exactly everything he said because every other word was Spanish, but I remember chasing him across the store trying to keep up with his frantic running.  I had to give him credit, he was trying to be very helpful. I ended up buying 100 corn tortillas for four dollars, because I felt bad not buying anything.  Then it wasn’t enough for my debit card so I bought a bottle of carbonated water to make it five.

Got home, used my muffin tin and made super weird shaped tortillas.

[              I then called my friend Val, who was raised by parents who were Mexican and she was raised with English as a second language.  I told her next time I’m calling her to translate for me, and she said no.

So that’s how I ended up with far too many tortillas and making tacos every night for a week.

And I’m still eating those damn tortillas.

Tacos, anyone?


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Awkward Dinner Conversations

So recently, Alex decided that we needed to make some friends.  While I totally and completely agree with him, I usually don’t like to leave my house.  If I am in a social situation, I usually like to have one or ten drinks to ensure that I stay interesting.  And also less anxious because I get very nervous in social situations.


Maybe not this desperate for a drink

Maybe not this desperate for a drink


So Alex invited one of his coworkers and his wife out.  I’ve been out with this particular couple before, and it ended up with me hitting on his coworker’s now wife.  Lucky for me, she had no recollection of me hitting on her.  Which was a huge lifesaver.

We went to a casino buffet for the seafood buffet, and naturally, we all ate around ten pounds of crab legs.  Half way through the meal, it felt like we were starting to run out of stuff to talk about, and somehow the topic of my degree program popped up.  In case any of you were unaware, I’m finishing up my Bachelor’s in Criminal Justice-Human Services currently.  I’m trying to drop a bunch of weight to be a probation officer, but heaven knows how well that’s going to work out for me.  But all in all, I’m working on it.

I was asked what interested me in criminal justice and I told them that instead of watching Disney movies and cartoons and girly movies like most girls, I watched Crime documentaries.  Not CSI, I mean I was watching Cold Case Files, Deadly Women, and so on.  I was watching actual documentaries about how people brutally murder people.  And I watch that shit like it’s going out of style.

To make things more interesting, when I was talking about how I love watching stuff about how wives murder their husbands, Alex began to tell me to shut the hell up.  Several times in fact.  He even interrupted me and said, “Leah, this is not proper dinner conversation.  Not with people that we’re just starting to get comfortable with.”

I shushed him.  “It’s totally fine.  You see, thanks to my evidence classes, as well as my criminal law procedure classes, I know how to get away with murder.”




They all just stared at me with this look of intrigue, horror, and curiosity.  At least, that’s how I interpreted it.  It was either that or they thought I was off my rocker.  Either way works.  So, since I’m horrible at taking hints when they’re thrown in my face, I continue to tell them how to get away with murder.

“There are so many ways to make it look like an accident. For instance, let’s say Alex was a gardener.  He was in the garden all the time and he was using fertilizer.  All I would have to do is put trace amounts of fertilizer in his water or his food and later doing the autopsy, they’d be like, ‘Oh! He somehow ingested too much fertilizer from gardening!  Accidental death!’ and then I’d be collecting on massive life insurance.”

More blank stares.

“But of course, I’d never murder Alex.  He’s going to be worth way more in the long run than if I murdered him now.”

Even more blank stares.  Finally, Alex speaks up.

“I’m not that good of a gardener.  If they find fertilizer in my body, she’s a prime suspect.”

Thanks Alex.


Disclaimer: I want everyone to know that committing murder is not that simple, nor do I endorse it.  Murder is bad, y’all.  And I love Alex way too much to even consider it.  I was sober and panicky about running out of dinner conversation so I talked about murder, because everyone loves to talk about murder.  Right?

Ever have a horribly awkward dinner conversation where you nearly wanted to crawl under a rock?  Ever say something so incredibly stupid that you wish you could take it back?  Let me know in the comments!


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Questions, comments or concerns?  I have an email now!  Transplantedtothesouth@gmail.com is my official email for this blog.  Feel free to email me anytime about anything in regards to my blog!

I’ve Discovered The Meaning Of Life

I have discovered the meaning of life. And no, it is not 42. It is not chocolate (Shocker, right?). It is Buttermilk.

That’s right, Buttermilk.

Butter to the Milk.

Om nom nom.

Let me back up and explain how I discovered this wickedly awesome fact.

Earlier this week I was craving chicken strips like they have at Popeyes and restaurants. I love super crispy chicken strips and I could not, for the life of me, figure out how to make them. I have tried everything.

I’ve double and triple battered them, I’ve used tons of egg, I’ve used no egg. I’ve baked, I’ve fried, I have tried everything. I was feeling hopeless about this entire endeavor and I decided that I would look at the Pioneer Woman’s website, with high hopes she would have a good chicken strip recipe.

She did. And it never occurred to me to use buttermilk.

I’m horrifically Midwestern, almost to a fault (We Midwesterners are perfect, I swear), and I hadn’t really discovered buttermilk until I came to the south, where it’s only sold in half gallon containers. And while Milk is rarely sold in gallons. Which confuses the hell out of me.

I had some buttermilk in the fridge that was about to go bad so I decided to take from her recipe. I soaked the chicken in buttermilk and hot sauce, and made a breading of just flour, tony’s seasoning, and a little bit of buttermilk. The batter ended up being really clumpy, which is supposed to happen. I threw the chicken in the batter and threw those bitches in the fryer.

Mother fucking chicken strips.

Mother fucking chicken strips.


Way better than a restaurants. Alex and I ate over five pounds of those bad boys.

Thank you Pioneer Woman. Thank you for being the Goddess of Cooking.

So, tell me internet.  What do you think is the meaning of life?


Like what you read?  Follow me on facebook!  I’ll be posting strange news stories and updates!

Questions, comments or concerns?  I have an email now!  Transplantedtothesouth@gmail.com is my official email for this blog.  Feel free to email me anytime about anything in regards to my blog!