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Dough Girl strikes again

Posted: Sunday, January 31, 2010

Since I started this crazy bit of ranting column, I've dis-clothesed some of the more ratty colorful attire my girlfriends and I lounge about the house in. I have spoke candidly regarding the poopies intestinal disruptions and the dire consequences of a product aptly titled, "Go Lightly."

I've told all when it comes to what we ladies eat, drink do when we have a chance to hang out for a while.

I've shared openly that I'm what my husband affectionately calls "domestically challenged." I've made many specific factual references to fact that my cookies could easily be mistaken for (and used) as hockey pucks, and I've spilled the beans about the "F' word (farts).

People who I don't even know (and many I do know) are well aware that my motto is, "If it can't be fixed with 10-pound test fishing line (it matches anything), duct tape, a staple gun, hot glue, a hanger or a welding torch, it simply cannot be fixed." And yes, it's also public knowledge that carpooling makes me nauseous and I only resort to clipping coupons if it's for frozen pizza rolls.

I have shared that I sometimes suffer from -- um,um,um, oh yes, temporary insanity memory loss and I c-r-i-n-g-e- can't always remember peoples names. I've fessed up that I'm an annoyingly antisocial, cantankerous curmudgeon not an overly cheerful zippie-do-da morning person, that I have the directional abilities of a gnat and that my house always, yes I do mean, a-l-w-a-y-s, has that ship-wrecked"lived in" appeal.

Once I even let it all hang out and shared that I felt fat and that I was am (in the most clinical definition) chub-i. Then I ranted went on for a bit about how I was happier when I was delusional (strike delusional) in denial and sincerely believed that weighing within 25 15 pounds of the estimate on my driver's license (provided that I grew three inches and had my left leg and thigh plastered to the bathroom counter and my hair was dry) that I was OK.

However, I'm still trying to suck up for having told the entire world the entire Kenai Peninsula about my hub buying that big red air compressor as well as a few other choice odd-servations I found amusing about being (and staying) married.

Thus far, I have also publicly aired my dirty laundry, rambled about booggers, kids, dogs, deteriorating eyesight, dust, worry and death.

Recently, I have even stooped to admitting that I am not only a middle-aged party queen, but also a compulsive, obsessive list-making bag lady (among other things) as well as a romantic, nostalgic and sometimes -- often -- outspoken sentimentalist.

In fact, every time I sit down to write something flattering, witty and generally ego boosting, I end up letting the proverbial cat (or possibly something more embarrassing) out of the bag.

If that's not bad enough, I've offered unsolicited parenting advice including, how to talk to your kids and how to say "no" to a teenager. I've told the tooth, the whole tooth and nothing but the tooth when it comes to children attempting to put the blame their parents and I've even gone as far as to talk about -- gasp --political correctness and -- gasp -- gasp -- my personal beliefs.

Yet, they continue to let me write. Amazing

Why? I haven't a clue.

It is however, fun to hear back from folks that tell me that they laugh and cry and care about the similar pedestrian stuff.

It makes makes me think. Isn't it amazing how hard we try to make ourselves look good? Yet, it seems that people to warm up and relate to us when we let our hair down and be our plain old selves?

Speaking of hair down, usually wear it that way. I tried putting it up and I fear it makes me look like one of those puffer fish on high alert my cheeks look fat. Honestly, I'm not wanting to give anyone any ideas about a new nick-name for me, however, I'm feeling a little like, Dough Girl, the fluffy-faced spokeswoman for the all you can eat buffet.

Really, what's with that? What? Did all my fat cells suddenly decide to have a meeting and congregate slightly below my under-eye circles thereby pulling my cheeks, and everything attached to them toward my navel? Do they even make jowl-minimizing makeup? And wrinkles. I don't even want to talk about them, or I'm afraid they'll revolt and multiply. When I was younger, I thought getting old(er) would be depressing, but it's not. I'm going to keep my chin up about the whole dreadful process, in fact, I'm growing a spare.

Recently, I saw a commercial for a new and improved, organic, scientifically proven facial enhancing cream that claims to lift, hydrate, even out skin tone, minimize pores, erase fine lines and fill in craters ... I wonder if it is sold by the gallon? If it is, I could just pour it out on the floor then roll in it like the dog gently apply it in a circular motion and wow -- instant face lift ... oh, promises, promises ... Ugh!

Tune in next month when Dough Girl tells all in "Sayings of the Wives"

Jackie Michels lives in Soldotna.



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