Rocket Holiday Tour

Posted by Read Drink and Be Bloggy
Darynda Jones would like to share a special story with you this December.

Welcome to the Rocket Holiday Event!
Exclusive Rocket Story and Giveaway!
During the entire month make sure to follow all the blogs listed on the Darynda Jones Blog Tours Home.  Each blog will be posting a special Christmas story written by Darynda Jones.  Exclusive art will accompany the story at each post. Each blog will have a different name on the wall within the art.  Viewers must keep each name or names found on each blog post in order to unravel the secret message.  Take note of the most prominent name(s) within the artwork.  Some blogs will have more than one name.  When viewers have found all the names they will then take the first letter of each name, these letters will need to be unscrambled in order to find the secret message.  Once you have the message, fill out the form below to be entered into an amazing Rocket Giveaway!

Win Big!


Darynda Jones will be giving away a $100 Dollar Gift Card to one lucky winner!
* (Note blogs will be added as their post goes live.)



(A Blue Christmas Below)

"A Blue Christmas"
by Darynda Jones

Rocket pressed his nose against the basement window and watched the lights twinkling across the way. Several houses around the abandoned asylum where he and his sister lived were decorated for the holidays, and the cheer reflected off the snow that blanketed the ground, just enough to cast a soft glow of color. Rocket stood transfixed. Names of the newly departed rushed through his head, bounced and collided with one another like atoms in the sun, but he didn't care. Not tonight. It was Christmas Eve. And Santa was coming.
“Hurry, Blue,” he said, calling out to his five-year-old sister. He was much older than she because she’d died long before he did, but she’d waited for him, followed his every move until he eventually succumbed to the conditions of the mental hospital their parents had placed him in during WWII and joined her in the afterlife. “He’s coming!” Rocket said, giggling to himself.
His sister Blue appeared in a far off corner, too far from the window to see the sparkling lights or the glittery snow. She wore her same outfit as always, denim overalls and a dirty shirt, with her dark brown hair cropped short and tucked behind her ears. When he beckoned her over in a series of excited gestures, she finally rewarded him with a cautious a smile, and for a moment she stopped wringing her hands and took a wary step forward.
He shook his head. “You’re going to miss him. I’m telling you, he’ll be here lickety-split and you’re going to be over there hiding in the corner.”
Of course, Rocket knew why she hesitated. She’d been hoodwinked before, so he understood why she thought maybe Santa wasn't really coming. But this year would be different. Miss Charlotte told him the truth about Mr. Claus. Said he was getting on up there and sometimes he forgot a few stops, but this year she’d make sure he remembered him and Blue. Rocket figured Santa didn't come because Blue Bell and Rocketman weren't their real names and maybe he didn't know where to find them, but Miss Charlotte said Santa was a lot like him. He knew all the names, real and pretend, of all the kids in all the world. Rocket wasn't a kid no more, but Blue was, and Santa needed to get off his keister and do his derned job.
Then he saw movement. He took in a breath and stilled. Widening his eyes, he watched as black boots with red pants tucked into them hurried past the window. His arms flailed out and he fell off the chair he’d been standing on, tumbling to the ground.
“He’s here!” he shouted, scrambling to his feet. “He’s really here, Blue. Hurry.”
Blue’s face brightened and she stood beaming at him. Or she was until he tackled her and scooped her into his arms, but he didn't have no time to be gentle. They had to get to bed. Miss Charlotte said in order for Santa to come, they had to be in bed fast asleep. They hadn't slept in years but that wasn't going to stop him. He had a job to do, and if he had to tie Blue to that derned bed, so be it.
“But I’m not sleepy,” she whispered to him.
“Just pretend then.” He rushed her down the hall to where the old spring cots were.
Blue chuckled softly in his ears and hugged him close. “Is that why Santa don’t come, you think? ‘Cause we ain't never in bed?”
He almost tripped but caught himself and carried on. He hadn't thought of that. “I bet you’re right. Dang it. No one ever told me Santa had rules. No breaking rules.”
Blue nodded, her porcelain face revealing the excitement she’d kept stored for far too long. “No breaking rules.”
He laid her on the springs of a cot, her body—tiny and depleted from the effects of dust pneumonia before she died—barely took up half the cot. He wished there’d been a mattress to lay her on, but the springs would have to do.
After getting her settled, he tiptoed over to his own cot, wiggled onto it, then pulled what had been a paper sack up over his face until only his eyes showed. Then he waited. And listened. As the first rustling sounds wafted down from one of the upper floors, Blue gasped. She bolted upright and gaped at him. He motioned her down, crinkling his paper.
“Sorry,” Blue whispered, but it took him forever to reposition the paper just so. She lay back down and cupped her hands over her mouth.
“Close your eyes,” he said in a hushed voice. “We have to be fast asleep.”
Blue nodded and closed her eyes, but he could see her peeking.
“Blue!” he said in a louder hushed voice.
Blue slammed her hands over her whole face to keep from peeking, but he saw her fingers part. He sighed. Santa was never going to fall for this. Or so he thought, until he heard boot steps on the stairs. He tensed to contain his excitement. Even when he heard the commotion of someone slipping and falling down the stairs or the loosing of a string of blistering curse words, he didn't dare move. But he did wonder about Santa’s inappropriate vocabulary choices and his voice. It was very . . . girly. Rocket thought it would be much deeper.
Slamming his eyes shut, he waited as the footsteps drew closer and closer. Santa paused at the door and turned off his flashlight. Rocket could see the light dim because his lids were almost clear nowadays. But he kept them closed anyway as Santa stepped toward him. Rocket held his breath. Santa stopped right beside his bed then walked to Blue’s and did the same beside hers before heading back up the stairs.
After the scraping of some furniture and another strings of curses that kind of resembled the names of his reindeer if Rocket concentrated really hard, Santa was gone. Rocket peeled open his eyes. The first thing he saw was Blue’s present. He bound off the cot and rushed to her side.
“Look, Blue!”
She lowered her hands and opened her eyes, the dark circles underneath making them look even bigger when she saw her present. A doll small enough for Blue to carry around without great effort lay on the floor in front of her. Blue blinked and her mouth formed a perfect O, even more stunned than Rocket.
“He came,” she said, her soft voice still husky from the pneumonia. She reached for the doll but missed, her hand swiping through it. Then she focused and reached again. She took hold of it that time. Cradled it. Her eyes watering with emotion. “He really came.”
Her doll looked almost exactly like the one she’d had back home. Santa really did know things. Lots of things.
“Rocket,” Blue said, her voice so soft, he could barely hear her.
He’d been lost in memories when he bound back to the present and turned to where Blue motioned. Beside his cot was a tin rocket. He hurried over to it, picked it up. It was a windup toy like in the dime stores. The kind they could never afford.
“He didn't forget us,” Blue said.
Rocket smiled. “I told you Miss Charlotte knew him. She even knows the Easter Bunny. And the president.”
Blue nodded, satisfied completely, and stroked her doll’s hair.



Clues below in the picture!


I hope you enjoyed the Rocket short above. Please read below for instructions on how to play with Rocket. There is one room in the asylum in which he doesn't want Charley to see the names, but he loves teasing Charley, and has decided to let you have a peek, to let you see the names in the room.  Once you have followed all the blogs listed HERE and have all the names posted on each, use the first letters in each name to create a new phrase. 
 Shhh!   Don't tell Charley!   
(*There may be extra letters and the letters are jumbled)  




~ Blogs ~

Remember the following:

1. Visit each blog listed in the link above for a name or names (no more than two nanes per blog).



2. Jot down the prominent name you see in each picture on each post. Just the first name will be needed.



3. Then take the first letter from each name to create the secret phrase. The phrase will contain exactly 22 letters.



4. Once you have unraveled the letters and have found the secret message, fill out the form below to sign up. You must know the secret message in order to have your entry validated.




Click on the "Entry Form" below to take you to the giveaway sign up sheet!


Thank you to all and the best of luck!



Secret Phrase:



_ _ _ _ _   _ _ _ _ _  






_ _ _ ­_  _ _ _

_
_ _ _ _








A special thank you to Jess Rissmiller, the artist responsible for Rocket’s rendition.

To view more of his amazing work please visit his site @ www.imaginextsoft.wix.com/2d#!







"A Blue Christmas" by Darynda Jones is in its entirety the sole property of Author Darynda Jones and may not be copied or used without sole permission from the author.

Unless otherwise noted, all of the material found in this post is property of Darynda Jones. All rights reserved. No part of this post or story may be reproduced, published, distributed, displayed, performed, copied or stored for public or private use in any information retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any mechanical, photographic or electronic process, including electronically or digitally on the Internet or World Wide Web, or over any network, or local area network, without written permission of the author, Darynda Jones.
Category: 8 comments

That's What She Said :: Darynda Jones Book Signing

Posted by Rhianna
Howdy, folks! I have come back with a blast and a new name: That's What She Said (which is, arguably, one of the best comebacks/lines ever). I have moved my book reviews over the The Geektastics, which goes live January 1st. I hope you will check it out as my section will cover parenting, books, geeky things, disney things, and crafting. So, what does that mean for Thats What She Said? It means TWSS will focus on whatever I am feeling or thinking in the moment; stream of consciousness over set writing with a specific goal or topic box. So, I'm going to give it a try and get started and see where this leads me :) ----- Last week was very exciting for me - I got to meet a favorte author of mine in person for dinner and then a public book signing. It was amazing! Cait and I had dinner with Darynda on Sunday night and were so caught up in talking that we didn't leave until 10:30pm (which is crazy late for me). The book singing was a lot of fun too, it was neat to hear an excerpt from her latest book be read by a fan, get my books signed, and hang out with other fans. Overall, a lot of fun.
Oh, and guess what! We found out that Colorado has an annual fan-centered romance novel convention in June! RomCon! Cait and I are thinking of going. Are any of you out there interested in meeting up while we are there? And/or any suggestions on what you want us, specificly, to focus on and write about? Until next time; Rhianna!
Category: , , , , , , , , , 0 comments
Location: Aurora, CO 80015, USA

Special Guest Post from Nathan Carson

Posted by Read Drink and Be Bloggy







     I'd like to introduce Nathan Carson! Over the past few months I've gotten to know him... well very little actually, aside from what I’ve read from him, but his candor about his struggles with Crones Disease and his amazing artwork caught my eye. I’m easily friendly with people so I like to consider him a friend. He has written about his experiences and put them on his webpage to share with the world as somewhat of a book. There’s several ways to experience DearPoery.com I chose to listen to it so that I can multitask, it’s a necessity of being a mother, it’s impossible to do just one thing at one time. Anyway! With out gilding the lily any further… Nathan Carson! (Oh! I've also included a few of my favorite pieces of artwork of Nathans, for your viewing pleasure.)




It was Saturday around 10:30 and I was trying to write a blog for someone else’s site. The previous day had been my birthday and I didn’t do shit. I was a loser in a new town and I had no friends. Actually, most of that wasn’t true. I was living with one of my pals, but he had a new girlfriend and couldn’t hang out, and the town wasn’t new, I’d graduated from its shitty college four years prior, then moved away. Now I was back, ostensibly to help take care of my grandpa after my grandma died, but that wasn’t going so well. When I got to town I’d found I wasn’t needed. My uncle and aunt had already moved in, they were taking care of the day to day and disapproved of the swear words I’d been writing and posting on the Internet. They didn’t want me hanging around my pops, soiling him with all that humanity. Suddenly I found myself in a new old town with a handful of friends and nothing to do on my birthday. It wasn’t so bad. As long as I had a keyboard I was happy. See, that summer I’d found my purpose.

 

My whole life I’d tried to be a writer and failed miserably. I’d written the beginnings of 3 sci-fi novels. They were mediocre at best. I was a 32-year-old man-boy washed up loser of a joke. Then I started throwing up blood.

 

The doctors would later tell me I had Chron’s and prescribe a steroid regimen. The pills were well intentioned but they drove me insane. In the midst of hallucinations, sleep deprivation and physical agony I began to write. It started out as a Facebook post letting my boss know why I’d been no-call no-showing to work, but it quickly become something more. The mental and physical agony had unlocked something fierce, and he wasn’t going away. That was good. I kind of liked the guy.

 

That summer I finished my first book. It wasn’t science fiction, I had not created a new world; the book was about me. It was as true as I could make it. Ten years prior I’d been enrolled at a college in a stinky cow town in northern Colorado. That was not an exaggeration, the place smelled exactly like burning cow blood, probably on account of the cow blood burning factory in town. It turned out, cow blood was exquisitely toxic and you couldn’t just send it off to the dump, you had to burn it. Greeley, Colorado was one of the few places in America where this sort of thing was done and every Tuesday and Thursday they fired up the kiln and got down to it. My friends and I called Greeley Stank Town and with good reason. I’d moved there because, at the time, there was a thriving music scene. Somehow I ended up attending the local college. My English professor was a giant of a man with a full head of graying hair and an old school ethic. He was imposing. He was astute. I wanted badly to impress him.

 

The class was English 110 and our one assignment was to write a 10 page research paper. My topic was anti-trust. Microsoft had recently come under allegations of monopolistic practices from their rival, Sun Micro Systems. It was a fascinating case. A week after we turned in our first draft, the intimidating professor called me into his office. I sat down amongst his tall stacks of Thick Books and waited for him to begin. We sat there for what felt like hours, just looking at each other. I was too afraid to speak. Finally, he broached the topic.

 

“I’m going to ask you a question and I want an honest answer. If you lie to me, I’ll find out. You will be expelled from this college and I’ll make sure you’re never admitted into another institution of higher learning.”

 

In retrospect I realized he was bluffing. The man was an English professor at a third rate community college in some back woods cow town, but I was 19 and his threat terrified me. “Have I made my self understood?” He asked.

 

I tired to say, “Yes,” but the word got stuck in my throat. What was he talking about? I nodded my head and tried to keep my legs from trembling.

 

The giant of a man reached into a stack of papers and pulled out my first draft, the one about the Microsoft anti trust suit. I looked at my little document and wondered where this was going. The professor placed his large finger tips lightly on the cover page and stared at me, searching my soul for hints of deceit. “Did you write this?”

 

I looked at the paper with his mighty hand spread neatly across it. Had I? I couldn’t remember. Nothing existed outside the office with its terrible professor god. I looked at the man, so handsome and strong. I was pretty sure I’d written it, but the question was so absurd I began to second guess myself. Imagine if someone asked you whether the sun had risen yesterday, the implication was that it had not.

 

“Yes?” I answered, uncertain if it was true.

 

“All of it?”  He wasn’t buying it. How could you prove that you had written a paper? How could you prove anything at all? I nodded my head. He was going to kick me out of college and make sure I never got into another and there was nothing I could do about it. Sorry mom, your son was a failure.

 

“Every word?”

 

“Yes.”

 

He wasn’t convinced, “I’ll need to see your sources. Bring them to me next class period with the pages you cited book marked. If I find even a hint of plagiarism you will be expelled.”

 

I got up and left, my limbs heavy and wooden. Every ounce of adrenaline had fired and was leaving my system in jittery shakes. I could barely walk. I’d written that paper, hadn’t I? I could have sworn I did. I didn’t have anything to be afraid of, right?

 

I rode my bike home and carefully bookmarked the pertinent sections. In truth I’d read each of the books all the way through. One of them had been written by the illustrious team of Alan Greenspan and Ayn Rand. They were both pretty smart. I liked what they had to say. Two days later I came to class with the books and handed them to the professor, then sat through his lecture with my stomach in knots. He made me wait a full week before passing judgement. Each day I’d attend classes and wonder if it was all in vain. Should I just goof off and get on with my life? I was pretty sure I’d written that paper, but one could never be sure.

 

A week later the enormous professor once again told me to follow him into his office. I sat in the same chair, surrounded by the same books. He stared through me with the same steady gaze. “You need to be more careful how you cite your sources.”

 

Shit. He was going to kick me out. I was a 19-year-old failure. Would the school refund my money?

 

Then he smiled, “But with that said, your paper is the best that has come across my desk in the 26 years I’ve been teaching.” That ass hole, why’d he have to lead with that ‘cite your sources’ crap? Did he want me to shit myself? “I can’t even show it to the rest of the class,” he continued, “they wouldn’t know what to do with it.”

 

My heart exploded. I’d gone from abject terror to everlasting pride in the space of a single sentence. His acclaim was relative. I was attending a terrible community college in a cow town the size of a postage stamp. The competition wasn’t exactly fierce, but a compliment was a compliment and 14 years later I was still talking about. He asked me if I’d written anything else. At the time I was halfway through my first terrible sci-fi novel. I’d been writing a page a day for 70 days in hopes of becoming the next Heinlein. Proudly I brought the tormentor-turned-mentor my manuscript. A week later he told me it was sub-par, that I was more of a non-fiction guy. He introduced me to his published,  non-fiction friends and tried to convince me to take freelance jobs with magazines, but I wasn’t interested. I wanted to be a world builder like my hero, Tolkien.

 

Then I decided to move to L.A. and pursue a career as a rock star. That big old professor begged me to stay, to finish my degree and be a musician in my spare time. I told him ‘no’ and rode off into the sunset. I never saw him again. 14 years later I couldn’t even remember his name.

 

Then I got sick. Really sick. So sick the doctors put me on a steroid treatment that drove me insane. I began running around Denver half naked and drooling; I hallucinated a dead rat where my penis used to be; I thought I was incarnating on earth as God; I began to write it all down. Something opened up inside of me. I had found my voice.

 

That professor had been right. I wasn’t a world builder, I was an historian, a boring old scribe. It took me 14 years to figure that out. For 14 years I fought my calling. I had a plan and it was going to be great. People would marvel at my creativity and shower me with acclaim. It didn’t work out so well.

 

The problem with playing against type was that you never got anywhere. I tried, for more than a decade to write the Next Big Thing, but it wasn’t meant to be. In 14 years I didn’t finish a single book. Then fate or god or circumstance forced my hand and in the space of a single summer I wrote a 90,000 word masterpiece. Masterpieces were relative. I wasn’t the next Salinger or Vonnegut, but for the first time in my life I had done Something Worth Doing. It was so satisfying.

 

Why am I telling you this? Because I want you to follow your heart.

 

You, no doubt, are like I used to be. You have an idea of who you want to be, but you’re not there yet. Your reasons are varied. Some of you are scared of failure, others success. Some are embarrassed by the simplicity of their dreams, others unsure of where to start. A few of you know what to do, but are ignoring it. I’m here to tell you that you can’t fight against your nature. You are a machine, adrift in the swirling chaos of life, and like all machines you were created for a purpose. God might be alive or dead or never have existed in the first place, but that doesn’t change the fact that you, dear reader, have a purpose. It sings to you. Every day you ignore it, but it won’t go away. It might be something bizzare, like recreating movie scenes in colored sugar or something important like volunteering at a homeless shelter, but there is a mountain inside of you and it must be climbed.

 

For 14 years I ignored my mountain. I knew it was there, but I wanted to climb other peaks. You know what your mountain is, just as well as I did. People have told you about it, professors have begged you not to leave, but you did any way. Fortunately mountains are tough creatures, they don’t go away.

 

Have you always wanted to travel? Do you like baking brownies or raking fall leaves? Then travel, bake, rake and live. Take with you no expectations. So often our dreams become clouded with misplaced ideas of success. The purpose of your purpose is not to make you rich or famous; the purpose of your purpose is to complete you, to join you to the universal song with its glorious symphony building ever on towards an unknown and unknowable destiny. You exist. What a wonderful thing! You stand on the shoulders of giants — men and women who lived and died while playing their part in the ever-expanding chain of desire and fulfillment that culminated in this very moment. What will you do with their beautiful gift? Will you squander it with dull routine, doing What You’re Supposed To rather than What You Want? No! You’re better than that. Carpe the mother fucking diem! Not because I told you to, but because you recognize your place in the song. Humanity needs you. I have no idea why, but we are moving towards something great. Slowly, to be sure, but everyone will play their part, whether they want to or not. You might as well enjoy the ride.

 

I’m a loser sitting at a computer in a town somewhere in Colorado. It’s Saturday night and I didn’t even do anything for my birthday. Despite all that I have never been more fulfilled, happy or certain that I am exactly where I need to be. That’s the thing about reveling in your purpose, the world can go to shit around you and you’ll still be happy; confident in the certainty that who you are is exactly where you need to be. Don’t stop, hesitate or surrender. Start today, you’ll be glad you did.

Nathan is a guy who wrote the blog you just read. For more of his obscene ramblings visit www.dearpoetry.com
Category: 1 comments

I Gotta Pick This Bone...

Posted by Read Drink and Be Bloggy

Well no shit sherlock

I'm probably going to get a lot of grief for writing this blog. I know it's not very empowering and probably not very nice, but every time I see one of these...

     I can't help but notice that, often, it's posted by a woman who is probably at least 4 sized bigger than the girl in the picture... Okay, I get it, we want respect for looking the way we do: we also don’t want to be compared to stick figure runway models. I'm right there with you. I'm no one’s idea of thin, I have absolutely no illusions that I'm even plus size model material... for starters I'm about a foot too short. My biggest peeve, though, ladies, is that you can't, you just can't look at a woman who looks like this...   
 And say "Yeah! This is what used to be beautiful! Jeez what's wrong with you people?" Well, what's wrong is that you don’t look like that, sweetie, you look like this...
     And the fact of the matter is, no matter how beautiful she may be, she's fat. Your goal in life shouldn't be convincing people that size 18 isn't fat, because it is. You shouldn't be asking people to just get over and accept it because you're poisoning your body with trash or you're just not moving enough to lose the weight. I get it, it's hard, it hurts, and it sucks. I'm not telling you to look like this...
VS                       VS




Look at her arms and legs, they aren't overly fatty
they are actually quite thin!!
      I'm telling you your goal should be to get to this --> ! If this is what you're telling the world to like, that's great! These women are beautiful; they're also like a size 8-10.
And look at Betty, I'm sorry, this chick is FIT
Not fat, not curvy, FIT





I don’t want you to be thin, I want to know that you, my lovely girl friends, are healthy and going to live long happy lives without heart attacks and type two diabetes. You can't eat and drink whatever you want and not MOVE and be healthy. You can't say, "I indulge myself" if you're doing it a little bit every day, or even every other day! Being fit and healthy is a lifelong commitment. It takes work and sacrifices, and it's a big red bitch, but it's so worth it!!

    

     Do you feel tired all the time? Do you have aches and pains when you do minor activities like shopping or moving or cleaning? Is it hard to get up and get moving in the mornings? Is it hard to find cute clothes in your size (and no I don’t mean, like, at Guess or Express where they don’t even really sell over the size ten and a size ten is really like a size eight)? Guess what, you're probably over weight.
 

      I'm not going to say it's okay, because it's only okay if you truly don't care about your health... It's really about what you see when you look, honestly, at yourself in the mirror. Do you like what you see? Could you run to catch your bus? Run up two flights of stairs? Or even chase your kid around the play ground for more than five minutes at a time? Don’t you want to say yes? Not so you look like a twig figure but just so that you know you're healthy!  

The chart below tells you if you're over weight or not. Take this with a grain of salt, though, because everyone knows muscle weighs more than fat


These women
    


are beautiful

    




because of their confidence... but, they are still fat



Look, I am fat.. you dont see me freaking out over it
I'm DOING something about it!
     My BMI is about a 27.5 but you know, I'm really working on it. I used to be a 34 and I promise you it was ALL fat. My 27.5 has quite a bit of muscle to account for. I keep trying to find one of those machines that can calculate body fat: that would be the best weight loss tool ever... if I could just get my hands on one. Look... I'll even post a picture of myself in a bikini...   Not a pretty picture, okay? And I've lost a bit more since then, so can you imagine what I would have looked like four months ago, before I started working out? You don’t wanna, I promise.


I would classify most of these women as healthy to moderately over weight
if you're bigger than this I would start with this as your goal for a body type..
So here's the break down, ladies, if you truly want to lose weight it's not going to be on some fad diet and it's not going to be from starving yourself either. Oh no, see, you can still have too much body fat and have a low BMI: it's still not healthy!! The only way to lose weight, and keep it off for life, is to fully commit to it. Sucks right? Because it means eating responsibly and getting your ass up and burning calories! If you want to eat, AWESOME, eat!! But choose healthier alternatives. 

Yes, she's a plus sized model, she's also not fat...maybe just compared to
her counter part in the photo.
Another plus sized model.
and more

No, they aren't greasy or even delicious, but they will someday save your life... that's worth it, right? You can make a million excused, God knows I did (and if I'm being totally honest, still do) about why you're the weight you are. It's simply because you take in too many calories and don’t burn them off. Period. Okay? There may be extenuating circumstances that make it harder, for instance, you've let yourself go for too long and now you're going to have to go Biggest Loser on your own ass... well, sorry, Love. Find something you like to do and someone to do it with and get out and do it! If it means paying someone to come stand over your bed every morning with an alarm clock and a horn and yell "Move your ass bitch!" then do it. I had to. Well... sometimes I still don’t make it to my work out, but when I do I know I would have failed a million times over if it weren't for the support of my Stroller Strides girls and Natalie Plant. She's my drill sergeant and she doesn't say quit! You know what she does say? She says "Move that ass bitches!!" And we do, because we want to look like her. Not skinny. Healthy. There are options out there, and billions of reasons why not get healthy, but the only one that will truly stop you is a little three letter word. YOU. So, how bad do you want it?



Take a look at these women closely. Would you still call these models stick thin when compared to your "curvy body" ideals? They look VERY similar to me!

Look at Marilyn, sorry ladies
she is curvy and skinny!
It's not the same thing as over weight
Modern day model


Same thing with Bettie Page, you can see her hip bones
 and the curve of her ribs.






Modern model




Now, compared to these runway models, yes! They are curvy and these women are gross! But this isn't a model standard! The average women is a size 14, that doesn't make a size 14 not fat! I'm sorry! That doesn't mean you need to look like them... but dont kid yourself, you're not healthy if you're that big. That doesn't mean you need to look like them... but dont kid yourself, you're not healthy if you're that big.
    
      
 























     The part that's going to be the hardest to deal with is that once you  lose the weight you'll never be able to consume the amount of calories you did before you got fat. Say, when you were 16 you could eat and eat and eat and never gain weight, no matter how much weight you lose now you'll never be able to eat and eat and eat. Someone who has always weighed 120 will always be able to out eat you and not gain weight no matter how much you work out. I dont remember the exact science behind this, but it's true. That is why fad diets dont work for the long term and it's why we gain the weight back when we stop the diet. Here is a great blog that talkes, a little more seriously, about weight loss and the affects it can have to your health:   http://gfrendz.com/main/?p=2546

Just remember...

No one expects you to look like this...
but dont kid yourself into thinking you look like this














or even this...
when you actually look like this.





     Oh, and just for the record… This poster is reserved for women who have carried a baby, we earned every line with every kick, every sleepless night, every nausious morning, every mad dash to the bathroom to pee... this is not for women who pound fast food or dont work out or just gained too much weight too fast or even just grew too fast.. Just saying. Let the mama's have their own damn photo of encouragement. Jeez!

     I say all of these things in love, but I'm a firm believer that sometimes you have to be slapped upside the head before truly getting it. I'm sure I'll still get heat for this though.



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