Reflections On A Middle-Aged Fat Woman (7 page)

I inquired to the mother if she was a writer because she kept writing on these note cards. "No, I'm not, but my son-in-law is. I see you didn't bring a chair with you, you're welcome to sit on my tailgate with me."

I walked over to where she was sitting and cautiously lowered myself to the tailgate. She was big, I was bigger and it was an itty bitty old Datsun truck. We bounced once or twice from the recoil of the shocks, gave a hearty chuckle and remarked that we could both lose a few pounds. I noticed that she was putting her note cards away from where she had been writing earlier. I couldn't resist, so I asked, "What are you writing?"

"I'm doing my Bible work for the Sabbath tomorrow." she said.

Since the day was only Friday, and knowing that I was raised to believe that the Sabbath was on Sunday, it was only natural for me to be curious as to why she thought the Sabbath was on Saturday, right? So, before I knew any better, I started asking questions.

"Are you Mormon?"

"No."

"Jehovah Witness?"

"No."

"Seventh Day Adventist?" I questioned.

Bingo!

Before you could say, Oh brother, where art thou? I was cornered. The daughter and son-in-law had come around on the other side of me carrying different sorts of books, pamphlets and cards. The grandmother moved in from the other side and had a black box containing audio cassettes that she was giving away. I glanced toward the mother and she whipped out a brochure that had the screaming headline, "Apocalyptic insurance needed now. Are you insured? The end is near."

I listened politely and accepted the literature. She told me that I could read it or pass it on. I'm not really into doomsday prognostications, and I don't believe in scaring people to death. However, my mother raised me to be polite and I will not and do not slam the door in people's faces even if we were sitting in the back of a truck.

I wasn't cornered for very long because interest in our tables had suddenly picked up. After all, we were all there to make a little money.

As the day wore on, the mother mentioned others in her family and how well they did financially. Specifically, her brother and how much he was able to tithe to the church. She said she tithed what she could but felt ashamed that she couldn't do more. Her mother had just walked back over to join us and had overheard her last statement. "What are you talking about?" she said. "Your brother just gives money; he isn't out here in the streets witnessing to people. You remember this; salvation isn't just measured by the amount or size of your tithe."

I believe that holds true no matter what you believe.

Working Out With Ross Perot — April 8, 2010

I joined a gym recently to see if there were any other fat people there. So far, I've met an eclectic bunch of folks including a local television personality (aren't you on the news), an Arab-looking fellow that let two people in during off-hours (made me very nervous), and a group of seniors from the Red Hat Society. (They always work out in purple outfits and red hats.) There's also a couple of beefed-up Hans and Franz’s that spot each other and I keep waiting for them to bust out with, "We vant to pump you up!"

You've also got your assortment of younger kids, athletes, tattooed and pierced twenty-somethings and two middle-aged fat people. (One of whom is me. I haven't met the other one yet.)

Another crowd that hangs out at the gym is those that are in really good shape. You know what I'm talking about—butts so high and tight that I can set my Diet Coke on one while I try and squeeze out three crunches. I haven't actually talked to any of those people yet, they sorta ignore me. (Oooohh, it's the fat girl. Better stay away from her, she's got the cooties.)

Anyhow, one afternoon I was taking a walk on the treadmill while my heel spurs were screaming at me when this fella walked in the door. He had on light blue, no name jeans, a light blue denim work shirt and white Velcro strapped tennis shoes that had certainly seen better days.

He was small in stature, white haired, had big ears and had an extremely high pitched voice that made you wince every time he spoke. He looked and sounded just like Ross Perot. (Remember him? He was a Presidential candidate back in the 90s that liked to say, “See, here’s the deal!”)

This guy gave me a nod, hopped up on the treadmill beside me and took off. No warming up for him—he had that machine a going and had his heart rate up in no time. The curious thing about him was the way he ran. It wasn't really a run, almost a shuffle, or a canter if you know anything about horses. I had to stop watching him shuffle along because I started unconsciously imitating him, tripped and almost fell off the treadmill. He grinned at me when this happened and told me to be more careful.

I had finished my time on the treadmill and had wandered over to the weight machines while the lookalike had finished his run. He was dripping in sweat and was about to leave the gym when one of the people that works there says, "Why don't you get a workout outfit, a pair of shorts or something?"

Now, I wasn't sure what to expect from this guy, a retort or something, but certainly not this. He cocked his head to one side, gave that fellow a quizzical look, pointed his finger at him and said, "Now, see here, here's the deal. Your name wouldn’t be Bush by any chance," and turned around and walked out.

Creamed Onions — May 11, 2010

Brother and I took Mom out to eat for Mother's Day. It wasn't just some local place either; it was the Dillard House in Clayton, Georgia. It's about as far north as you can get in Georgia without falling off the edge of the state. It was a two-hour drive and by the time we got there we were famished and ready to eat.

I'm not sure if it was fair to make Mom drive or not but the Mustang ain't really made for transporting folks; maybe two, but definitely not three. We got there at the same time that all of the local churches let out and it was certainly a race to get your name on the waiting list. Mom pulled a stunt that I am known for but I've never seen her do it. It's where you stop the car at the front of the restaurant and have somebody hop out to get your name on the waiting list.

We enjoyed a half-hour wait sitting out on the front porch, stomachs growling, rocking in comfortable high back rocking chairs, straining to hear what numbers they were calling over the loudspeaker. With each number called I was met with questioning glances from Mom and Brother both wondering what our number was and if it had just been called.

We were finally led to our table and had to go through the main dining room, out the back door, cross the yard and enter into a whole other building. We were all surprised by this unexpected detour and joked that you usually have to wash dishes after the meal, not before.

We were now in an old converted farmhouse and were elbow to elbow with our fellow diners. I was sticking out like a sore thumb. Mom and Brother were seated against the wall and I was seated on the outside of the table which was the only walkway from the kitchen to the dining area. There was also a loose board or something near my chair because every time someone walked past, I got a jolt, a goose and a lift up from my chair.

There were three bowls already on the table containing apple butter, relish, and a third bowl that we all sniffed but couldn't identify until Brother tasted it. It was horseradish sauce.

We were waiting for menus or something when suddenly three waiters arrived with three heavily laden trays of every country food dish imaginable. The three of us quickly loosened our pants and dug in. I was immediately drawn to the butter beans and Au gratin potatoes. Brother was enjoying the Prime Rib, fresh hot biscuits and some kind of cucumbers and onions dish. Mom, well, she was enjoying the creamed onions.

Creamed onions!

Sometimes, I wonder how we can even be related. I think it's well known that the MA Fat Woman doesn't do onions, creamed or not.

All in all, we had a fun trip and were all in agreement that Dad and Sister would have enjoyed the meal, too.

I'm not sure about the creamed onions, though. That's something only a mother could love.

Conversations Of The Unemployed — March 10, 2011

***The following is an ongoing conversation that I have been having with myself for almost two years.***

Loser.

You're kidding me? You still haven't found a job yet? Aren't you supposed to be one of the smartest people around? Why don't you go work at McDonald's or something? As Brother said, if you're hungry enough, you'll do about anything.

Well, you know I have applied to every restaurant and retail facility in town. I stood in line for four hours to be interviewed for a part-time position at a pizza joint and 500 other people showed up, too—all for a shot at twenty-five part-time opportunities.

What about the new Walmart?

I applied there too. Didn't even get called for an interview.

Loser.

I thought you had years of customer service experience. Plus, a degree in Management and a Real Estate License and you didn't even get an interview. Maybe, you're doing something wrong.

Like what? I'm looking for input....Input...Me, Johnny Five!

Can it with the impressions! Nobody probably remembers
Short Circuit
, anyway. Have you tried the Department of Labor?

Labor! HAH! That place should be called the Department of Rest. The only jobs listed there are for farm workers in the Deep South.

I know I used to work on a farm but I wouldn't even last two hours out in the field if I tried to keep up with those folks.

What about Craigslist?

Been there, done that. I've tried all of the online job sites: Career Builder, Monster, Indeed, Simply Hired, the local papers. Nothing.

Loser.

You can can it with the loser remarks too!

Sorry. Are you sorry you left the Post Office now? All your family wants to talk about when you get together is how you left the perfect job and you've done nothing since.

Well, family is family and nobody wants to hear your problems; everyone has their own to muddle through. I guess being a professional mystery shopper, a reseller at the flea market and a full-time blogger don't amount to much in some folk's eyes.

That sounds like a full time job to me. Mystery shopper, huh? I always thought they were scams. Can you tell me about it? I'd like to earn some extra money.

Nope! I'm not allowed to talk about it. It's classified!

Classified, huh? Maybe you aren't such a loser, after all.

In Through There — May 13, 2010

I talk a lot about my family and the adventures that we have. I've mentioned several times about growing up on a small farm on Cherry Fork Road and the struggles that Mom and Dad had to keep us clothed and fed. I can't say that I remember every little detail because I can't. Sometimes, at family gatherings, one of us will mention a story that we had long forgotten, bringing us to tears and cracking us up at the same time. Our family likes to tell stories.

Nobody could tell a story better than Dad. And every time he told a story each important part would be punctuated with saying “in through there.”

I don’t know why he said that. He probably didn’t realize he was saying it. Maybe, it was how he collected and ciphered through all of those tall tales in his head.

One such story might go like this:

“Back when I was a kid, in '43 or in through there, there was a boy lived up the holler that we scared so bad, that he lit up a tree and didn't come down for three days. Damn, chicken shit, what he was. See, one night we was coming home from coon hunting and he got distracted, in through there and got left behind. Us fellas decided to teach him a lesson and hid behind a rock down there on Island Creek. You 'member where that is, don't you? Shit, he come around the corner, in through there, and we all just jumped out at him and he jumped back, screamed and took off a running, straight up the holler and up that big old oak tree, pissing his pants and carrying on like a girl. That was the funniest damn thing I ever seen.”

I've heard this story many times and I still get a laugh out of it. Besides being a great story teller, here are some other things, in through there, about Dad.

He got drafted into the Army in the 50s and saw Elvis over in Germany.

He was scared of heights.

His nickname was Diddy.

Both of his pinky fingers had been cut off due to accidents as a child.

He loved Hudepohl beer.

He was a pattern marker for the Hercules Trouser Company in Manchester, Ohio, for twenty-five years.

He could out run anybody in the neighborhood, including Sheldon, the boy from Hawaii.

He loved his family deeply.

Lastly, he left us eight years ago today, on this date.

Wherever you are, in through there, we miss you very much.

Different Political Views — June 4, 2010

The following conversation took place a few days ago when Brother, Mom and I met for dinner to celebrate her birthday. I won't tell you which one of us is the respective party, I'll let the conversation speak for itself.

Ind: “Ha! I was busting your buddies' chops the other day about the Health Care vote. They were like all gloom and doom and that America was going to hell.”

Rep: “They're probably right. Obama and that Pelosi chick are gonna be the death of all of us freedom-loving Americans.”

Dem: “I would have thought you, heaven forbid, of all people would want reform. You got about every preexisting condition there is and even some that haven't been invented yet.”

Ind: “That's true.”

Rep: “Well, somebody needs to stand up and make these people start paying for some of these government programs. It's going to cost 44 quadrillion dollars, that's almost a googol, before we're debt-free.”

Ind: ”Google? Google is named after a number?”

Dem: “I don't know, but a googol is a number with a 100 zeros behind it.”