Amber Alert.. Queen Fattie escapes OBX?

No worries fellow fatties...I've relocated my fast clusters to MD for a job that actually pays real live money. Did I mention I left the husband, the house and the dogs behind? Yeah. Yeah I did that. Sometimes you gotta do what you gotta do to get good chain restaurants within walking distance. SIF loves TGIF. Anyway, due to high stress I have taken a break from blogging to concentrate on what really matters during this very difficult time...emotional eating. On the menu this evening is Smart Pop popcorn mixed with Peanut M&M's. It covers the food groups quite nicely. As is the case every Sunday night, I've vowed to change into "the new me" come Monday morning. Being that Monday morning is officially 5 hours away...I have some work to do. It's hard to cram in all of the "lasts" before dawn. The pressure...

Susan is prepared to act as my fat publicist in the event that people start talking. During the fat stage: "Kelly respectfully requests that you respect her privacy during this very difficult time." Then there's the post fat stage: "Kelly just woke up one day and stopped eating. It was the craziest thing." So as you can see I'm prepared on all levels for failure and success. That's key. Let's be clear. I have no plan. I left my beloved "crack" in the OBX. Can't get my hands on that til Friday. Shit. Then there's Thanksgiving. I reserve the right to "holiday eat." Anyway, I'll keep you posted on my success/failure as things progress. Until then, I need to get back to binge eating.

Scary Politics

I don’t know what disturbs me more…Halloween or Politics. Both scare me. Both require you to disguise who you are so that people will give you things. So it boils down to what disturbs you less…votes or candy. If you are reading this blog, I can only assume your vote has been cast in favor of candy. At least candy gives you some sort of pleasure without all of the drama. Just unwrap, savor and swallow. I guess the same could be said for Politics… except when you get caught unwrapping, savoring and swallowing, drama is surely going to follow! Maybe we should have the candidates dress up and trick or treat for votes. Think about it….if we just knew them for their agendas, we could make a legitimate vote on the issues. My sources tell me (gossiping at the office) that in the history of the Presidency, the better looking candidate has always won. This is why I think Brad Pitt should get on the ballot. He could ban junk food, sex and napping and still get my vote! I would make a wonderful First Fat Lady.

So no matter who or what you voted for just know there’s always candy. I know bcs I am still eating my way through a “pumpkin” of Halloween candy that was given to me undoubtedly bcs I am slightly over my BMI. You can’t hide everything under a Halloween costume. In fact, I don’t even dress up. No matter what I put on, I’d always be the fat version of it. “Oh yeah, it’s Plus Size Cinderella or maybe it’s The Wicked Witch of Weight Watchers.” Yeah. I don’t need that. I prefer to answer the door, give out some candy and eat my share until the next victim arrives. I can’t imagine what would happen if a real live politician showed up at my house. I guess I would push my own agenda…like taking the calories off of labels and telling me there’s no trans fat in Ho-Hos. If I’m eating something bad I don’t really need an actual breakdown of how bad it is. If found on an inner aisle, I assume no good can come of it. To that I add, no trans fat in a Ho-Ho implies that I am making a healthy choice. It should just say, “You won’t die as quickly.” Perhaps that’s what labels should do…list the years that will be added or subtracted from your life upon consumption. Umm…I think I’d be on my 14th life.

I am glad both Halloween and the Election are over. I am in full on preparation for Thanksgiving. Screw the pilgrims. This is a fatty holiday through and through! Whilst we are on my political agenda…I think triptaphan(sp) overload and Thanksgiving Coma should both be enough of a reason to make the day after Thanksgiving an official holiday. Can someone see to it that we get that on the ballot?

Sick and Tired

Just as I got rolling on the crack, sickness struck. It's like the Fatty Devil wants to keep me down. I went to the good doc to have my vitals checked and he informed me that the crack was making my blood pressure a little high....and?! Did I mention I could barely talk and happened to be coughing up a lung at the time. So I added a Z-Pack to my shopping list. I made the executive decision to go off the crack to let my body heal. What I thought would be a short detox is taking forever! I've now moved on to coughing like a veteran chain smoker. I proceeded to cough my way through lunch today. People were looking at me like I was a Leper. These are the times when I like to have a little fun. As I "felt" people staring I said things like, "Yeah so the test was positive...highly contagious....no cure." That followed by a few belly coughs ensured the best table in the restaurant. Funny, no one wanted to share an appetizer.

Life sans crack is laced with jelly donuts and cream cheese. Somehow my blood pressure failed in comparison to narrowing arteries! I don't know what the hell the crack does but I know one thing for sure...it divorces me from food without one minute of separation! Fair...very fair! I was told I could take the crack with the antibiotics but unbeknownst to my Dr...my body is under siege! Here are the current battles in progress: Upper respiratory infection, period, yeast infection and fat infusion. Conquering the first 3 will lead me to my final victory against the fat infusion. I will say that I haven't been as hungry with all of the germs invading my body. We know how much a SIF enjoys a good stomach flu when it works in our favor. That being said, I may have just eaten a jelly donut and a peanut butter bar. Or maybe that was my other personality. Can't be sure. Why would I have these things in the house? Why my husband of course. Why would I have him in the house. I just don't have an answer for that.

So I think next week will be my target date to get back on the crack. Perfect timing. It will be just in time to make me a "non-eater" for Thanksgiving. I am currently known for my second and third helpings. For once it will be nice to be known as "she barely ate." It will send shock waves through the family but they need some shock. Now that the time has changed I find myself sick, fat, tired and in my pj's by 6 pm. I just swallowed a vat of cough serum to ensure I sleep away any memories of the jelly donut and the peanut butter bar. All I have left of my my tryst is a good burp. I'm off to bed to dream of crack and skinny jeans. In that order.

Back on crack...

Well I finally did it. I went back on the "crack". By crack I am of course referring to the second best diet drug in the world. The first being Ephedra which the evil government took away. Why is government interfering with the fatties anyway? Don't they have enough problems? It would stand to reason that if the fatty crowd lost weight we would put less strain on the health care system. So we lose a few to heart attacks and some will grow extra appendages but all in all, crack saves! That's why you shouldn't give people like me drugs. I get way to happy. Don't worry, I'm not trying to jump over to the other side. There won't be pictures of me doing vinegar shooters in the Post or random sightings of me asking for a salad instead of fries. I haven't lost my mind for Gods sake! I just needed a little mask to get me through a rough patch. Boy if that doesn't sound like an addict I don't know what does!

So basically when I take the crack I don't look at food in the same way that I normally would....in other words I don't attack and inhale! I can look at a french fry and walk away. I know...this shit is good, right?! I also don't crave anything. Why just the other day I looked at a cookie, walked past it and then came back for two! I said I didn't crave anything...that doesn't mean I can walk past a warm oatmeal cookie and not show deference. In just three days I'm down 3 lbs. Yes, it's water weight but a SIF never questions a tip in the scale when it leans in the right direction. In fact, when I went to the doctor to get weighed for slaughter, I noticed something interesting about "doctor scales". If you lean slightly to the left, the numbers go down. I can't be sure my left butt cheek just doesn't weigh less than the right but I wanted to pass on the info anyway. We SIF need all the tricks we can get. Scales are evil after all. Just when you think you are down a pound or two along comes a new scale to tell you that you have gained 10! Scales were obviously invented by men.... Inconsistent, irritating and liars...who else could be responsible.

Sometimes when I blog "greatness" I can almost hear your cries through the computer. To this I say the following...No I will not tell you what the drug is! It's FDA approved for the fattest of the fatties, it does come with some risks and I probably shouldn't be allowed to take it as I do not fit the morbidly obese guidelines that accompany the script. I am a very careful diet drug person. Why just today I bought a blood pressure machine to monitor myself while on the pills. Now I feel like an 80 year old obese person. Next I'll be sticking my finger for glucose. The drug is perfectly safe. I just happen to be a psycho. So as I get ready to go home for lunch I'm left to wonder what I'll eat. I know I'm hungry but I want for nothing. It's very strange. Being skinny kinda sux. If there's no joy in eating...there's no joy! And don't try and convince me that turkey burger tastes like beef or that salad is a great substitute for fries. No, no and more no. Fat is fat. Once you've had it, nothing can replace it! I think my husband said that.

"World's Fattest Man is Getting Married"

All my hopes of a soul mate gone in one headline. Yes, I am already married but that will sour as my size increases. I've always held out hope for the perfect back up and I found him in the form of the World's Fattest Man. I've never gone so far as to confess my love for this larger than life creature but apparently someone else has. Call me crazy but I didn't imagine anyone would be beating down the door of a man who weighs over 1200 pounds and can't get out of bed. Brad Pitt, yes. World Fattest Man, not so much. Here's why this is such a big loss (no pun intended)... I'm a big fan of "marrying down." While few will admit to doing so, it's quite common. You find a mate that accepts you for "who you are...no matter what" bcs to him you are a step up from every other scandalous ho he's dated. If you don't understand the concept, you aren't qualified to carry out such elaborate schemes. Stay with me....No matter how fat you get, no matter how much of a bitch you become...you are his Angelina Jolie. That is until some dumb ass hoochie comes along and fills his head with lies about how hot he is and how he deserves better than your fat ass. Confused at first he stays the course. Given a second round of complimentary BS, the SIF are in trouble. Big trouble.

I'm not saying I've been in this situation nor will I admit to condoning such trickery when selecting a mate. Ok yes I will. Think about it. Men choose their mate by the size of their tits and by the size of their tits. Is it so wrong to choose a man by the size of his expectations? Thank you. The key is in the back up plan. Every good thing will come to an end so preparation is crucial. As SIF we are aware of what brings any good marriage down....food! Oh we may marry you as a size 2 but you can go ahead and put a 1 in front of that in the first year! 12 is tolerable. It's when we take out the charge card at Lane Bryant that things start to go South. We have sent a clear message..."It's a one way ticket on the Fatty Train. Aint no turnin back!" According to what I am reading, TWFM is setting up his new bride in much the same way that I have described. In preparation for the wedding he's lost 500 lbs. Let's have a processing moment for that last statement. Ok. He hopes to be able to actually get out of bed for the wedding. I ask you one thing..."How bad must HER self-esteem be that she found it necessary to marry a man who cannot in fact walk and whos claim to fame is being fatter than anyone in the WORLD?" Way worse than mine! He's dreamy!

I'm sure he's a nice man. All fatties are nice people with pretty faces. We know this. But deep down inside we just want to eat and be happy. Oh it's all fun and games when he gets down to 897 pounds but what happens when he balloons back to the world record holder that she fell in love with? I guess she either resigns to living the rest of her life in bed with fat rolls and bed sores OR...she sucks up the publicity for being the catalyst that made him lose the weight and then bails before People Magazine exposes the fact that she left him for the Worlds Skinniest Man! Typical hussy. Don't do it WFM! Hold out for a real SIF! Don't trust the skinnies. They aren't real people. They don't consider Little Debbie a delicacy or appreciate the contributions Ranch Dressing has made to...well everything! They swallow vinegar and tell you that you look good when you don't. I have some advice for TWFM....leave her at the alter and run for the border....Taco Bell won't let you down! Yo Quiero Taco Bell!

Strike a Pose

Have you ever discovered something about yourself that you, oh say, just failed to notice for the last 36 years? Well I did. I was hanging out on the deck with some friends drinking a beer (or 12)and having casual conversation. They were dressed very relaxed in skinny jeans and tops that doubled as dresses. No I was not wearing skinny jeans and a top that doubled as a dress. That alone would have been enough of a discovery to call the authorities. No I'm talking subtleties here. As we were laughing and talking I realized something... I was "posing." Pause for shock factor. There I was... standing tall, clothes perfectly positioned to cover the problem areas with my hands placed slightly above the muffin top. I was in fact, posing. The girls were too involved in random conversation to notice that standing in front of them was a bonified poser! I was visibly horrified but apparently not enough to stop. I found it necessary to promptly interrupt the smoking, drinking and laughter to acknowledge the red elephant in the room....me!

Who does this? I can't be sure. It's one thing to be a starving, statuesque model type who's qualified to strike a pose at any given moment. It's quite another to be an overweight, starving fatty type who poses to cover up the fact that her jeans are about to spontaneously combust. After acknowledging that they were in the presence bonified poser, they convinced me to go to dinner. Perhaps convinced is too strong of a word. Yes, yes it is. Let's just say we headed off to PF Changs and leave it at that. Does it really matter who's idea it was? We sat down to dinner and promptly ordered wine...a bottle. As the conversation picked up where it had left off, I was again amazed to notice that while the skinny chicks were flailing their arms across the table I was once again posing. I was sitting sideways, legs neatly tucked under my chair, top button of my jeans popped open, shirt pulled down over the jeans, hands neatly placed on the hips and head tilted slightly at a 90 degree angle. If one were looking to debunk the pose they would only have to look as far as what lay underneath the table... fat rolls, cankles and a button that use to belong to my jeans. Once again, I drew them into the pose. We laughed and got down to business...ordering food.

I was sure the more wine I drank the less likely I would be to continue this new found phenomenon called posing. This was a theory that would prove to be false. With one bottle down, I was still giving Madonna a run for her money. "Strike a pose there's nothing to it"... fact, not fiction. Here's a SIF revelation...it's quite possible to consume an appetizer, your entire meal, a bottle of wine and still make the overindulgence look good given the right pose.I won't lie and say that posing takes away the pain of jeans that shouldn't have left the closest. No. In fact, the "inner SIF" was screaming for relief from the jeans, the pose and the fiction but the "outer SIF" was whispering, "I am one of you." Whisper being the key word. If you were wondering about the "head tilted slightly at a 90 degree angle" comment...that's actually from the SIF rule book. SIF rule #7654....when posing always title the head slightly at a 90 degree angle. Doing so is guaranteed to eliminate at least one chin. I got more chins than a Chinese phone book so this is one rule I never break! At the end of the day, this new poser person that I am isn't so bad. I dare say fat never looked so good!

Those Pants

Ahhh...the change of seasons. The leaves in all of their autumn splendor, the crisp fall air, the buzz of the holidays...oh yeah...and all of the clothes from last season that don't freakin fit! Traumatic. Every SIF can relate to what I'm about to say. As we gain and lose weight, we tend to make a crucial SIF error. Rule #2315...don't throw away the fat clothes! Yes, it's nice to think that once we've lost the weight that we will not in fact "find" it again. Unfortunately, it always finds it's way back to us via our thighs and our closets. Riddle me this...I look at myself every day in the mirror. I'm no Angelina Jolie but she can't hope to be this good looking. Anyway, as I stare at myself, I always look for signs that I am may be putting on the pounds. Either I have trick mirrors or Steve Wonders vision bcs I just don't see it coming! Nope. I look for an extra chin, a neck roll, a banana roll or any sort of roll that shouldn't be there. Don't see a thing. Perhaps denial. Perhaps not. It's not until I switch out last seasons clothing that all hell breaks loose!

If there's one thing every SIF knows it's how "those pants" use to fit. I am no exception to this rule. Today was our first "cold" day here on the beach...(can't wear flip flops). So I reached into the closet for my black cords. When I last left them, they were hanging off of me. So I guess part of me knew to grab them bcs they would either make my day or confirm what my lying ass mirror would not. The latter would be the case. They certainly fit. However, that's not a good thing when they are 2 sizes bigger than you thought you wore! F'n mirror! Where is the disconnect between what I see and reality? Have I trained my eyes to see what I want them to see? All of my "friends" tell me I look great. Liars...all liars. Perhaps I need to break out my sales skills on them..."When you say I look great what do you mean? Spill it bitches." I tend leave off the latter portion when actually making a sales call. It's not nice to call the clients bitches. I reserve that for my friends. Anyway, so I stood in my closet frozen with shock. Part of me was happy that I had something to wear and the other part of me was apparently alot bigger than I remembered! So I did what any SIF would do...I found a nice top to match my pants and took my big ass to work.

More trauma is on the horizon. I have yet to pull down the rest of my fall clothing. Nothing good can come of this. I must have 20 pairs of cute, viable, fall pants. Apparently put there by someone I haven't seen in a while! As you might expect, I have a plan. A plan that involves me not eating. While never a good plan, a much needed one. I'm out of control. The "season" doesn't help the situation. Allow me to describe fall with the first words that come to a SIF's mind: Halloween candy, Thanksgiving dinner, Christmas cookies and my personal favorite...New Years Resolutions! So basically it's...eat, eat, eat and plan to never eat again. If I were to take those words and form a plan, I'd be as fat if not fatter until Jan 1st. While I would enjoying eating my way from September to December I fear I need a more viable plan. Like only eating foods that rhyme with skinny or chewing my food and spitting it out. Something like that. In the meantime, I'm getting a new mirror. A non-lying one. Perhaps one of those circus mirrors.

Red Red Wine...

Saturday was a big night on the town for this SIF. My friend Leslie took me out for a belated birthday dinner. I love Leslie bcs her and I are pretty much on the same wave length...good food, good wine...good times. Before we went to dinner we had a few cocktails at my crib. For some reason I felt the need to get all gussied up. Can't be sure what that was all about. Oh and Mom...wore the necklace and earrings you bought me...lovely! Except the part where my neck is so fat that it looks like the ring of diamonds is providing me life support. The "good" clothes are tight and that alone should have disqualified them. My sole mission for the evening was to eat well and get drunk. Gotta have goals. We went to a local fav...JK's. The food and wine are to die for. We didn't waste any time ordering up a nice bottle of red wine and an appetizer...most yummy! I should mention that I have no shame about adjusting said clothing to match said agenda. In other words...if one were so advantageous as to look under the table, they would have found my gut hanging out in disgust. I have to qualms about unzipping the pants to partake in more pleasure than the said outfit will allow. None at all. By the end of dinner I must say that even I was disgusted with me.

On that note....we called a cab. As if that weren't bad enough (showing up to a nice restaurant in a car and leaving in cab...hello ghetto fabs) I decided to meander by the bar and have a little chat with the bartender. You see my normal staple at JK's is their apple martini. It's beyond words. I asked them if ordering a bottle of fancy wine threw them off. Apparently not. They told me that when they saw me walk in they immediately made an Appletini....um...that's all I have to say about that but....My poor Appletini was still sitting there with no one to love it...to drink it...to make it feel wanted. Well I couldn't let that happen. While waiting for the shameful cab I threw back said Appletini. It was after all my civic duty...or something. To make matters worse, they didn't even charge me. Shameful....just shameful. Let's check the scoreboard shall we? 3 beers before dinner, bottle of wine at dinner and post dinner martini. I can't add at this point. Which presents a problem when leaving a tip. I distinctly remember being at the bar hugging people that I'm quite sure I didn't know when the waitress walked by, winked and thanked us for the tip. That's never a good sign. Let's face it, we can't add on a good day much less on a bottle of red and beer. I fear 20% may have taken on new meaning last evening...can't be sure. These are the casualties of friends letting friends tip drunk. SIFATWD....it's my new charity....Sisters in Fat against Tipping while drunk. Support the cause will you?

So we jumped in the cab and were off to see the husband at Awful Arthur's. There are advantages to having a bartender for a husband! We proceeded to terrorize him for a few hours until we passed out. It's now Sunday and time for redemption. I always feel guilty rolling into church with a hangover. My theory...better to flaunt your flaws than to drive around with a Jesus Fish on your trunk while nursing a hangover at home. Nothing a quick trip to McDonald's and a little prayer can't solve. I'm healed! Lot's of me taking a nap and doing a whole lotta nothing for the rest of the day. Oh except cooking my husband Thanksgiving dinner bcs he'll be gone for the holiday. Problem being...he's at work. Darn...have to eat it all by myself. Closet eating...something new...or not!

Forgot one thing...

Tricia looks amazing and the baby is pratically perferct in every way! I'll see if I can post a picture. I fear I'm not that smart but I'll try!

It's a Girl!

No, I did not have a baby. While I have in fact been accused of harboring a small child in my gut, this particular baby belongs to Tricia! She gave birth to a bouncing baby girl named MaKenna on 10/16. Very exciting! Of course that means I lose out on a free pedicure bcs I bet her that it was a boy. Let's face it...what makes you eat, stress out, retain water and generally angry...a man. Not a sweet baby girl. Tricia ended up having a C-section. Let's see...hours of painful labor that could result in an evil Dr. cutting my hoo hoo like a loaf of bread OR good drugs and out comes a baby sans cone head. Sold! Not to mention...you get two extra weeks of leave for going under the knife. Ghetto bonus. There's one thing every SIF counts on after after a delivery...weight loss. Even if you don't lose all of the weight...you lose the demon seed weight right away. That's 5-10lbs depending on the size of the critter! The last delivery I made was to the porcelain patio. I don't think I lost that much weight as a result of the said delivery. I tried weighing myself before and after. The scale read as follows..." Gross." Whatever. I don't do metrics.

For a brief moment it sounded like a good plan. I would trick my husband into having sex with me (that's the only hope I have of getting some), steal the seed, eat everything I wanted for 9 months (or forever..haven't worked that out yet) and then lose all of the weight in one glorious push! Reality set in. I realized something about that plan seemed too easy. Here's how it would roll out in my world: I would get a bad seed, gain 400 lbs, the baby would be a "tranny" and in the rarest of rare I would be the one mother known to have mutated her genes during childbirth resulting in the inability to lose weight...ever. That's the kinda shit that happens to me. So I decided to stay on the sidelines as a spectator fatty. Now I have my work cut out for me. I've been gaining sympathy weight throughout Tricia's pregnancy. Or maybe that was just the excuse I was going with bcs I knew it was good for 9 months. Now it's on! Tricia has an unfair advantage when it comes to losing weight...breast feeding. That's 500 calories a day! I can squeeze my saline sacks for months and not get those kind results! I'll need a real plan to keep up with her. I'm sure it will involve me giving up stuff. Why? Why is that always the plan?

As I mentioned in my previous posts, Tricia was kind enough to let me in on her pregnancy weight as she tipped the scale into SIF territory. It makes fatties feel better when new people come to town. Yes, I realize she was pregnant and shamefully the fatties are not. We are Equal Opportunity Fatties. You can move in and move out as needed...we aint mad at ya! So now I have one less excuse to be "me." However...it is comfort season (cold weather, football, crock pots, holidays) and that throws a serious wrench in any sort of real weight loss agenda. I guess I'll go with the pregnancy plan. I can see it now...me on Oprah...not as a famous writer...but as me. My intro would go something like this: "Today we welcome a very special guest. The mother is a morbidly obese woman who gave birth to tranny twins while shopping at Walmart. Since having the babies she has tripled in size and now requires a crane to lift her from her bed on the rare occasions she's able to go outside. Before today she hadn't been outside in 3 years. Here's Kelly, her twins Little Debbie & Capn' Crunch and the 90 year greeter from Walmart that delivered them."
-- be on the lookout for me!

Meet me in Fattyville

Meeting. A dirty word. I am of course speaking of a business meeting. As a fatty, I look for "food" in everything. So when I was told that I would be required to sit through a meeting on RESPA (evil mortgage laws) my first thought was to stick pins in my eyes until such time that I could obtain a Dr.'s note to relieve myself from said meeting. Realizing that blindness was not a viable option I decided to focus on managing my expectations. Being the stellar employee that I am, I arranged a meeting with my Manager to obtain crucial details that would be imperative to the successful completion of said oppressive meeting. I ran down my list of questions in order of importance. First, what's for lunch? Second, what time do I have to wake up? Third, when can I go home? I think that about covered the success related portion of my concerns. As you might imagine, I am often nominated for employee of the year.

Bottom line...I had to be up at the crack of my ass, the food was going to be heavy ass pasta and there was no hope of me getting home before happy hour. Perhaps I should refrain from managing my own expectations. Shock has it's benefits...like a non-pre-planned shitty attitude. Imagine you work in an industry that already hangs it handcuffs at the door and you are asked to attend a meeting where you are told that shackles are now all the rage! Polly Positive aint showin up for this meeting. Any fatty in this situation will revert to primal instincts. Eat as much as humanly possible and refrain from any sort of participation. Why talk when you could be eating brownies covered in powdered sugar or Tiramisu? My feral fatty gig worked well until the speaker asked us to close our eyes and imagine various scenarios where we were happy and successful. Unfortunately my imagination isn't quite that active so I closed my eyes and envisioned my own version of a happy place...Nap Time in the Land of Fatties. It's a wonderful place where you eat yourself into a food coma and no one asks you to wake up and listen to dumb suggestions like being successful. I wasn't too far into my happy place when the presenter commanded us to wake up....I mean open our eyes. In lieu of bitch slapping her, I smiled and pretended to be a new person. Actually I was a new person. I was now angry. Never wake a fatty from a food coma. Might lose a digit.

Now that I was awake, I realized that I had broken a crucial SIF rule. Rule #4321...never spill food on required reading material at a business meeting. Too late. My RESPA book now looked like a an ingredient from the chicken parm I had for lunch. Skinnies "doodle"...fatties spill food. What can I say. I tried to wipe it off but that just made it look like evidence from the scene of a mass murder. Sitting next to the manager probably wasn't a good plan given the current situation. I did what most guilty folk do, I pretended not to notice. Hard not to notice sauce on your book, the tablecloth oh and the back of your hand. The neat thing is, when you pretend it's not there, others pretend it's not there as well. It's a defense mechanism. I hated to break out my mad psych skills but it had to be done. So there I sat, covered in sauce pretending to be the newest resident in the Land of Happy and Successful People. I was kinda bitter that even in the land of everything good I was still fat. Seems like you'd get a break being that we all willed ourselves there. Apparently not the case. I knew this meeting was a bad idea. I decided to day dream my pain away. I wasn't too far into that when we were asked to close our eyes again. Damn! Who is this bitch? Miss Cleo?!

Around 3pm the presenter loosened the shackles and agreed to set us free. Although she had indicated that the torture would continue until 5 pm or later, we were being released on good behavior. I grabbed my saucy books and ran for the parking garage. She seemed the type to change her mind and I wasn't waiting around for that. In fact, I had dreams of tackling her and showing her what really happy people do when forced to dream of things that will never come to pass. Bad career move. Instead I drove to the Border Station to obtain lottery tickets from 2 states. I figured I had put in my time and Lady Luck might be shining on me. Yeah well Lady Luck must have been in her happy place bcs I didn't win big...or at all for that matter. I would make a great lottery winner. I'm semi-fat so people would instantly like me bcs of my imperfections and I would give money to starving people bcs that is just unimaginable. I have my posse in place for just such an occasion...Susan would be my PR person saying things like, "Kelly respectfully requests that you respect her privacy during this very difficult time." Not sure what that means but all of the important people say it. Emily would make sure that I am on page 6 with the likes of Brangelina....that's right cause I stole him from that baby buying freaky deek! Ok. I realize I have lost control of myself. Only one thing to do...eat.

Cart Attack

I'm not sure you'll buy this statement but...I don't like grocery shopping. It seems like a good venue for a fatty but it just doesn't thrill me. Who needs food shopping when there's take out? Let's face it, me alone in a food store...no good can come of this. I spend too much money on healthy food that I'll never eat and buy the bad stuff "for my husband." Riiiiiiggghhht. This in turn leads to me gaining weight, my husband starving and wasting of said healthy items. Perhaps this is why I am slightly cart aggressive. I find myself getting angry when other shoppers are blocking my path. Why would you park your cart in the middle of the aisle while you feel up the avocados? Why? To make me angry that's why. I realize that shopping for vegetables is a "process" that requires a fair amount of labor but that being said...park your cart off to the side and let the fatties through! I'm on your turf for maybe 2 minutes. As soon as I grab bananas for my hot fudge sundae, I'm outta there! Why must we make this a confrontational experience? Why?

There's a unspoken rule in the war of fatties vs. skinnies, as it applies to grocery store etiquette. The skinnies rule the outer aisles and the fatties reign over the inner aisles. It makes sense. On the outside aisles you'll find veggies, dairy and meat. On the inner aisles....paradise...donuts, cookies and Coco Puffs. I think we see who's living the good life here. Unfortunately we have to cross paths from time to time. For example, in my store they moved all of the organics to an inner aisle. While I don't appreciate the invasion, fine. I'm willing to give up one aisle because I like to go through that neck of the woods from time to time. I personally believe that organic Cheetos are a step in the right direction. And not to be whatever but I've seen my share of organic fatties. I suppose they are eating the Cheetos as well. That's neither here nor there. When I'm on their turf, I get my shit and roll out. Cheetos and Newman's Organic Oreos...check.

I'm not saying that I don't need to purchase meat and dairy. I rather enjoy a good fillet sauteed in butter. However, sensing the impending battle, the grocery stores have separated the meat into fat ridden and cardboard. You stay on your side and I'll stay on mine. I like cutting my steak with a fork...not a chain saw. However, there are the "dumb ones" who need the butcher to explain the difference between 80% and 93% fat. Simple....to the two "F's." Flavor and false teeth. 80% gets you flavor...93% gets you false teeth. Now roll on about your way. But that would be too simple now wouldn't it? Now we have to have organic meat and finer cuts of organic meat and meat raised by organic meat! Let me tell you that I always end up 1 cart behind the person getting their PHD in meatology! If your family is so meat sensitive that they can tell what the f'n cow ate before he was slaughtered, you should trade them in for a new family. A family of fatties perhaps. We like nice low end cuts of meat....no hassle.

Then comes the most controversial part of food shopping... check-out time. I work the check out like a NASCAR race. I make lap after lap analyzing the amount groceries in the carts of ahead of me x the perceived speed of the checkout person divided by the amount of time before they call for another cashier to come to the front. As soon as the ratios are in line, I come in for a pit stop. Just like a public toilet, people tend to take the line closest to where they are at the time. Simpletons. If I did that I'd be in line all day. You need tricks....like counting a 6 pack as one item to get in the Express Lane or playing dumb when they turn off the light to let the cashier take a break. You gotta be quick and angry. I've been known to run over some toes in my day. Hey, I can spend time buying food or spend time eating food. I think the choice is clear. I can feel the sneers from the other cart owners as I speed through the checkout. Don't hate the player hate the game. If you were paying closer attention to the "math" and less attention to the gossip mags on the check out aisle, you would be cool like me! I don't have time for these amateurs. Hate me bcs I'm fat...not bcs I reign victorious in the land of my people! If it involves food you better know I have a game plan. If you aint in it to win it...stay in your aisle!

Trick no Treat

After escaping the "Zone" I decided to celebrate by ordering Papa Johns from the Comfort Zone...my bedroom! I feel like I'm gettin one over when I can order up a pizza, pay for it and lay in wait for it's arrival. Even the husband was impressed by my keen ability to put food on the table. That's the kinda wife I am. Remember yesterday when I quoted the noted guru "Dr. Keith Abalow?"...bla bla what you are running from will appear in front of you? Well I was running from running...quite literally. All "too many pounds of me" (you're not getting my weight) is getting ready to run a series of two back to backs marathons. While I don't mind running marathons, the training sucks ass! Dr. Keith says I should tell you how I really feel. That's how I really feel. You may be scratching your head and wondering, "I thought she was fat? How can she run marathons?" Much like a gallon of gas can move a truck, a good pair of sturdy running shoes and a division called "Clydesdale" can move even the fattest of the fatties. Trust me...I've seen women with some serious junk in the trunk beat me to the finish. It's disturbing. The bottom line... you can burn over 3000 calories running a marathon! Imagine the joy of eating that back! I can't get to the drive-thru fast enough! As you might expect...there's skinny people trickery involved in everything that seems to good to be true. Bitches!

My friend Jen was kind enough to wake up early and ride her bike on my oppressive 13 mile training run. She carried the beverages and I carried my fat ass. Trust me when I tell you she got the better end of the deal! It had to be humid. I can't catch a break. There's nothing worse than a fatty all dressed up in running gear, dripping in sweat by mile 1. It started out just fine. In fact, I was wondering if someone had taken over my body. Well if they did they gave it back around mile 9! Jen was doing her job and making small talk to take my mind off of the pain. You see, it's usually the half way point in any run that triggers the "why the hell am I doing this" response. My answers to her questions got shorter and shorter. Finally the demon came out....I confessed that I didn't have enough energy to be fat, social and athletic. She understood and followed the trail of sweat leading to my ultimate demise. Somehow things got skewed and I thought I was done much earlier than my stupid lying ass GPS said I was. Invented by skinnies I'm sure. Nothing like running by your house for the 4th time. F'n torture. Jen's GPS had me at a full marathon so I was inclined to go with her figures! But like a good little egg I pressed on. Did I mention how evil I get when I'm tired? Yeah...yeah. So this guy from church (never a good start to any statement) sees me and says, "You're still running?" Much like someone asking you if you are having twins when you are not in fact pregnant....these statements require you to be witty and condescending all at the same time. I dug deep and found enough energy to say, "Yup...all 13 miles worth." It's the shock factor that thrills me. Besides, I was almost done and I needed to aquire a fan or two before I finished.

Here's the trickery part....somewhere along the way Jen asked me what I would eat when I finished. Running low on air it would have been easier to tell her what I wouldn't eat. However, this is where things get tricky. When you run any sort of distance you learn to dream of how you will replenish your fat stores. It keeps you happy in an otherwise painful situation. Not that my fat stores need replenishing but it seemed fair to play along. In fact, my fat stores should say "Closed for Inventory!" So I told her my favorite staple post run was PBJ. I could taste the chunks in the peanut butter as it rolled off my tongue. That's most likely why my tongue was then stuck to the roof of my mouth! I decided it was time to let the cat out of the bag...there would be no eating when I finished. I heard the brakes on the bike squeal like a whore in heat. Yes, I knew she wouldn't understand and that would have me using precious air to splain. It's pretty easy to understand when you really think about it. Your blood has been redirected from your stomach to your muscles to keep you moving. As much as I would like to command it back so that I can house some fries, it doesn't work that way. It's trickery.

As if the confession wasn't enough drama for one day, the husband has to add to my misery with his own version of torture. I was in the shower washing away the stench when my phone rang. Being a slave to the man I answered it. This is what came from the other end, "Hey honey I'm at McDonald's do you want anything?" We've been married 4 years. He knows I'll settle for anything from the left of the menu over. However, on this day, he got the following response "No thanks, I'm not hungry." Things got sketchy but I think he said, "Oh sorry wrong number!" Fries delivered for the asking and I say I'm not hungry. Second time today someone has invaded my body. So I started thinking...instead of all of these diet drugs that make your ass leak, why not find a way to drive all of the blood out of your stomach for a few hours and kill the hunger! Oh without the exercise part. I'd like to go on record and say that I will officially give up running when that drug hits the market. We may look pasty white and we may not have alot of energy BUT...I dare say it's a far cry better than Olestra running down your thong!

So now that I have solved the worlds problems it's time for me to get some food in me. I think the blood has officially re-entered the stomach thus opening the flood gates for whatever I can get my hands on. Oh and another thing....running kills the urge to nap! I know...skinny and awake....amazing! I did my best to overthrow the nap thing. I laid in bed and forced myself to sleep. You gotta give me something here! So the next time you feel a hunger pain, grab your running shoes and run until you are ready to puke. It's not ideal but neither is a frequent shopper card at Lane Bryant.....ooookkkkay!

Job Opening...The Comfort Zone

I just finished eating a Zone Bar. I'm not sure what Zone but I can't imagine it was from the Comfort Zone as it was kin to apple flavored cardboard. Who eats this crap? Here's the thing....I'm trying to be "normal." While I don't fully understand the job description, I am willing to accept my new position on a temporary basis. If things go as planned, I'll be a "no show" by Monday, living amongst the fatties in the Comfort Zone. Let's face it, things aren't so bad in the land of fried chicken and Ho Ho's. My first big outing as a normal person was FGLH. You can imagine the angst. Much to my own amazement, I followed the rules and ordered seared Mahi Mahi with beans and rice. Very civilized and quite tasty. Here in lies the problem....I was hungry exactly 12 minutes after leaving the restaurant! As if the healthy meal wasn't bad enough, I've been downing the Slimming Formula that I pedal by night (www.imreadytogetfit.com). I think that makes me a moonlighter but I'm willing to risk it. It's an all out push to the top just in case I like it here. So picture this....fat girl ordering said healthy meal downs drugs exactly 2 minutes prior to consumption while dreaming of fries and slurping Diet Coke. It's not a pretty picture.

Here's the crazy thing...drugs are legal in my new position. In fact, the normal people encourage them in an attempt to get you through the day. Translation...they cover their cravings with diet drugs while smiling and pretending to like the Normal Zone. Whatever. I've been in this position less than 2 hours and I have these people all figured out. Just like most minions...my level of intelligence has far surpassed the man at the top. I'll be running the Normal Zone by Tuesday...that's if I change my mind about "no show" Monday. If I do come back....fried chicken for everyone! Employee retention...a problem no more! Anyway, the not so filling lunch led to the Zone Bar which in turn led to anger. I decided to take advantage of another staple of the normal crowd....therapy. I tuned into an interview with Dr. Kieth Abalow to see what he knew. Apparently not so much as his TV show was cancelled a while back. I like the "down on their luck crowd" so I listened for anything I could use to get me through to quitting time. Prepare for greatness...or not. He said the following..."That which you run from will appear in front of you." Snap! Problem solved! Fries, candy bars and Helluva Good Dip should be arriving at any moment! I can get into this kind of running!

I waited, and waited, and waited but that which I was running from did not in fact appear in front of me, behind me or beside me. The only thing that made an appearance was a very loud growl from my stomach. Now I see why he was cancelled. He lies...he's a liar. I suppose it could have been worse as I am typically running from more than one venue. Perhaps ex-boyfriends, previous employers or my dentist will make an appearance. I'd prefer food but I am low on entertainment right about now so anything will do. Not to be whatever but if "they" don't fire me from my new position, I'm going to have to take an early retirement. That's what temps do...we come in and out of retirement for the right opportunities. The Normal Zone appears to be just another place that miserable fatties hide... under the cover of peer pressure. That's not any healthier than the fried chicken and Ho Ho's we serve up over in the Comfort Zone! At least we are happy people. We may have greasy lips and big thighs but the turnover is low and the benefits are good! I haven't made my decision on "no show" Monday but I'm leaning in the other direction. That could be gravity...can't be sure.

Fitness or Fatness

I'm back from my big "Bring your friend to Day" gig in DC. While there is no such official holiday, Susan and I like to make up holiday's that are convenient to our own agendas. When we last "spoke" I was hiding between three man made walls while spying on Susan's employees so as to have material for our lunch date. Lunch was CPK...I ordered pizza while good little egg Susan ordered salad. My pizza had lettuce and ranch on it. That's my version of salad...with crust...or something. I managed to hog down the entire thing with my signature Diet Coke in hand...all while giving Susan my take on the slackers vs. the workers. Then, after my big day in Cubeville it was time for a nap and then on to the Fitness Party. I needed to rest before presenting the anti-fat agenda to the crowd...which consisted of random employees of Susan's. Ahhh...there's nothing like being a boss and inadvertently forcing your employees to attend stupid parties bcs they live in fear of you. Good times!

Is it wrong to have beer, liquor and sandwiches at a Fitness Party? Not if you want people to come! You see in theory everyone wants to be "into" fitness as long as it means they can eat more! As close as two days before the party we were low on RSVP's. We made an Executive Decision and sent out an emergency email that went something like this: There will in fact be no working out...and we'll have lots of Booze!Amazingly...the RSVP's came rolling in. Needless to say the Fitness portion lasted about 20 minutes and the drinking portion lasted until midnight! I wore all black so as to confuse people. I have a theory about my body....everything is in the right place....there's just too much of it. Much like my plate I fear. I threw in alot of references to me exercising. When you say that you've run 50 miles, no one cares if you shop at Lane Bryant. Which I don't by the way but I am working on that. They have the cutest clothes. It's how the fatties revolt. They open cute clothing stores that the skinny chicks aren't allowed to shop at. Revenge at it's finest...I'll see your Forever 21 with Forever 2X! Needless to say the hostesses put away about 400 beers and I think maybe a shot. The highlight of the evening came in the form of this creature named Fitzy. Allegedly a client of Craig the trainer, we were confused as to whether he was in fact human or animal. He drank alot, had entire conversations in the bathroom and clearly settled for his hand after being turned down by every woman at the party. He was HIGHLY entertaining.

After fearing that all of the "cool people" had left, I started binging on chips. If they weren't going to buy anything, the remaining few might as well know that I was a sham! I prefer Closet Eater. I was counting on the fact that they were drunk and wouldn't remember details...like me dunking my head in the ranch dressing. My favorite person left at the party (aside from Fitzy) was Kim. She looked like your average housewife. Not so much. She was in fact the shocker of the evening! She sat on the couch looking like she could possibly break out a knitting needle at any time. Instead of knitting she threw out topics like sex and offered to find us all new husbands if our current ones were lacking! Loved her! After Fitzy and Craig left it was Susan, myself, alot of empty beer bottles and a table of fitness products. Downright shameful.

I left Susan's in the morning and headed to Virginia. I was off to present Fitness to the running club. Unlike the drinkie social types in MD, the VA crowd would have expectations. Luckily they meet in a pizza pub so my eating disorder would remained camouflaged in a table of hungry runners. True to form I downed 3 glasses of wine while telling everyone they were slackers. Mind you these people run about 100 miles a week. They all smiled and looked at me like most people do...very confused. I met up with my old running pal Ernie. He and I decided to do a run in the morning. He's the sweetest southern man you would ever want to meet. Oh and he has a smokin bod for an older guy. That's not why I ran with him...I just happen to know this bit of information. We ran around Burke Lake and it was great! Poor Ernie is bald and the weather was such that his head was steaming. So was my ass from all of the drinking but lucky for both of us I was able to conceal the bomb if you know what I mean. Then in a sad sort of way it was time for fatty to go back home. I enjoy road trips bcs I get to go through drive-thrus. Fries, fries and more fries. I think I may have even grossed myself out. But I am back now and fully prepared to torture you with my issues. Issue #1...new diet scheme.

Fatties on the move

So I'm in MD visiting Susan for the weekend. While here, I will be in charge of what else but a Fitness Party! <shameless plug: www.imreadytogetfit.com> Tonight I get to play skinny healthy person. Luckily I not only have the agenda to pull it off but the crazy workout regimen to back it up. The confusing part will come when they see me slamming beer and eating chips all while telling them they are lazy slackers who need to workout more and buy my products. Not to mention they get to stare at my big fat ass while I show them the life changing PowerPoint that I created. It hasn't in fact changed my life but I'm a "special case" now aren't I? I ride the short bus to fatville if you will. It would appear that my bus has a governor set at warp speed with a no return to skinnyville feature. On the flip side, I'm the thinnest one on the bus and I'm not required to wear a helmet. Fatties and helmets...not good. Fat neck rolls...unattractive.

Sometimes I think I'm the only one out there who has inappropriate relationships with people in the food industry. Susan has in fact proved me wrong. Let's go there...so I arrived at Susan's house late Sat. The plan was to order out and eat said food while lying on couch. Happens to be one of my favorite venues. While Susan was retrieving the food from the Asian delivery man, I was privy to some unusual banter. It went something like this: (Asian man) "Long time no see." (Susan)"Yeah." (Asian man) "Ok honey, have a good night." Where to begin. (A.) The fact that he remembers Susan would indicate that she orders way to much Chinese food. (B.) He called her "honey." Given the amount of money I spend on food and the fact that no one has ever called me "honey" is disturbing! Taking the evidence at face value one can only assume that Susan has been getting a little "beef" with her broccoli! All of this wouldn't be so bad if she wasn't shoving the skinny agenda down my throat 24/7! Bla bla we must hike, go to gym, eat bars instead of real meals and be healthy. I guess you can do that when you are banging the Chinese delivery man on the side! 1o minute!

Being with Susan is actually good for my health. Even before I pull into her parking space she has whole agendas that involve me not eating and not napping. It's like a trip to the fat farm disguised as fun. She'll allow drinking from time to time but you better be up at the crack of dawn ready to function. Today is in fact "Bring your friend to work day." We've declared it as such bcs Susan in fact borrows Internet from her neighborhood which doesn't work well with the banking laptop. Not that I have any banking to do but appearances are everything. So I'm here in corporate land mingling with the movers and shakers. We did the early morning gym workout, showered with the ladies who never shave their bush and then swapped parking garages to arrive at said destination exactly 1 hour after the hard working people. Here in the real world you can't even enter an office without a super secret code...very scary. Once you have broken the code, you enter the land of 40 flavors of coffee, water and 15 kinds of tea. If that isn't enough, there's a massage room and some sort of game room. Translation...you will be at work for a VERY LONG TIME and we recognize the need to entertain you so that you don't come back with your 9 and kill all of us. Or something to that effect. Who wants to get caught playing Guitar Hero between 8-5? Not me....I'll be in the kitchen with the vending machine.

So my plan is to "work" from 9:15 to 12:00 at which time the militant diet master will be taking me to the California Pizza Kitchen. That's almost a three hour stretch without food. I hope I can make it. I've been holding in my pee for fear of forgetting the super secret bathroom code and being trapped in the hall with the commoners. I could starve out there before Susan finds me. She offered to loan me her GPS so that I could roam around the big city and find my way back to militant diet central. I may need the GPS to get from the kitchen to my cube. Yes, I have my very own cube. I can't actually see anyones face, I can't see the outside and I hear voices. Lots of voices. I'm am oppressed in cube land. In my keen analysis of the various people that work here, I've identified a keeper. Lots of activity flowing from her cube. I like her. If I needed a job (which I very well may) she would be the one chosen to pimp my wears. One of those that could make a Lean Cuisine sound like fine dining at it's best. Perhaps I will grow so accustomed to my life as a cube dweller that I won't eat, sleep or leave. Ever. Yeah that's not happening. Within a week my cube would be filled with crumbs, wrappers and empty Diet Coke bottles. I don't do cubes. Ice cubes yes.

It's almost FGLH. You can imagine my angst. I need a break from the voices. Being a cube dweller is hard work. Maybe I'll have to get an appetizer to make me feel better. Then our day will end abruptly at 1pm to prepare for the fraudulent fitness party. I'll need to find something to wear that hides the lies. Can't be sure how I'll pull that off. Lots of me standing with my back to the wall I suppose. At an angle works best bcs the thighs look better when they aren't casting shadows. It's never a good thing when there's a giant shadow of my ass covering the slide noting my commitment to health and fitness. Scary. Alright I'm outa here. It's way to close to FGLH to function.

Retaliation...brown shirt style

Last night I had a strange craving for McDonald's. Unusual only because I had just eaten there the night before. I like to think that I am equal opportunity craver. Apparently not. I can only assume that my body was still celebrating the overthrowing of the chili from the previous night and wanted to go back for a victory lap. By the way, I didn't hear a peep from Tara after I posted the blog. I assumed she had read it and disowned me accordingly. Not the case. It seems she was busy and hadn't yet gotten around to reading it. I conveniently walked the dog by her house in order to have the privilege of watching her read about the coup in person. The shock factor was worth it's weight in burgers. SIF 1....Tara 0. I knew there would be retaliation, but I wasn't prepared for it to begin on my turf...24 hours later.

Before I get to the pay back, I must tell you how rude the little drive thru man at McDonald's was. Now I know he must hate his job... and wearing that nasty brown shirt with his name on it had to be enough to make him postal BUT...he took mad to another level. He was the condescending mad male drive thru person. Not my favorite among the mad genre. When I placed my order I was told to produce $5.73 at the first window. When I arrived at window #1...no one. I was willing to overlook the "no show" as I could smell the fries waffling through the parking lot. I pulled up to window #2 prepared with exact change. I handed angry, brown shirt condescending man the money. He looked at it and handed it back. He proceeded to tell me that $5.73 doesn't equal $6.14. Really? His keen math skills were surely responsible for landing him the management job at the drive thru window. That's what the brown shirt signifies...management. I know this. I got mad skills. So anyway, I told him that on this we could agree however, the chick who took my order said $5.73. He proceeded to tell me that they don't have any value meals that are that cheap. I'm sorry...that cheap? As he was schooling me on the pricing for every combination on the menu, I realized this was my punishment for being fat. I handed him $6.14 to shut him up. He gave me my bag full of goodies sans straw. When I asked for the straw he told me it was in the bag. I assured him there wasn't a straw in the bag. He assured me that he always puts a straw in the bag. I decided to call in the big guns and come at him with my own brown shirt skills. I picked up the bag, smiled, showed him the contents and said: "While I'm sure your record for straw stuffing is impeccable, you have surely tarnished it with this transaction...see no straw!" He handed me a straw with a look that said, "I know it must be in your car somewhere you evil, redheaded, overweight fast food eater. " That's me. Have a nice night.

It's now Friday and lunchtime. Emily and I decided we needed a little Mexican. Not "a" Mexican, Mexican food. We've eaten it every day this week and we didn't want to break the streak. We had our usual: chips, queso, salsa, guacamole and vegetarian combo #3. Muy Bien. I should mention that my neighbor owns the joint. Not that that's ever gotten me a free meal or a discount for that matter. I have to look at his pink house every day and not even a free cerveza. Whatever. About an hour after we left the restaurant my phone rang. It was the chili cook...Tara. She proceeded to tell me that she knew where I ate today and what I ate. Yeah and? Apparently she went to the Mexican joint after we did and my neighbor spilled the frijoles. He told her that I was just in for lunch and how great I looked after losing all the weight. Let's stop right there. I know I didn't pay him to lie and he doesn't wear glasses so he surely must have mistaken me for someone else! A. I've gained back about 10 of the pounds I lost. B. No one ever thought I looked that bad (I thought) and C. I'm on a strict don't ask don't tell policy with all the restaurants in town! So Tara (in an attempt to outwit me) proceeded to ask him what I ordered. Good move...I'll give her that. He told her Vegetarian Combo #3. Tara was excited by the news. She thought, "At least she ate healthy." Yeah, and I'm a blonde too! The word "Vegetarian" made it seem as though I had jumped over to the other side. What's next, vinegar shots?

I wanted to let her have her moment...but that's not my style. I "put on my brown shirt" and delivered the bad news in much the same way the belligerent McDonald's guy had done the previous night: "While I'm sure you think the VC #3 was a good thing, it wasn't. It's beans, cheese and basically grease smothered on a tortilla. Just no meat. Carne' less if you will. (Spanish) Oh and he left off the appetizer: the guacamole, the queso and the salsa although I suppose salsa plays for your team." Translation...I may have handed you a straw but the one I gave you is sitting on the car floor! I'll give her a point for keen interrogation skills but I'm taking away 1/2 a point for preying on the non-English speaking man who was only trying to call me skinny. Who by the way I will be having a talk with. Don't be tellin people what I eat! You never saw me hombre! Yo no se! Que? Rosita Moreno don't live here anymore! I plan to make the following deal with my neighbor: You get to keep your pink house pink AND your mouth shut! Are we are "good." I think that's fair. As for the score board: SIF 1...Tara 1/2. You could have earned extra points for digging a little deeper into Combo #3 but once again you placed your trust in a fatty....big mistake!!

Chile..an

So I was invited over to Tara's house for dinner and Beach Body training last night....shameless plug for fitness business: www.imreadytogetfit.com. Anywho, Tara offered to cook dinner in exchange for said information. Deal. So Renee and I called her about 5:30 to see what was on the menu. Did you catch that SIF trick? Call ahead thus allowing for strategic planning should the menu not agree with your pallet. Let's face it...Tara is known for cooking things I can't pronounce much less eat! Figs stuffed with mold and good wholesome melons suffocated by the Italian version of bacon! It's a crime is what it is. My pre-dinner call found Ms. Tara at the grocery store with our Chilean friend Jen. I figured Jen would convince her to cook some sort of cross-cultural, spicy number that would send me back to the porcelain patio for the 2nd time this week. Sort of but not exactly. I don't think "Chili" came across any border that I'm aware of! As I know it, it's the food of cowboys, truckers and football fans. None of these remotely describes Tara or Jen. I deduced that they must have been at a loss for something quick/easy and decided that a "Chilean"(said with a random Spanish accent for effect) should be able to cook "Chili" (said with a random Spanish accent for effect). All's I know...I was off to McDonald's!

I'll just say it, I'm a gassy person. The doctor said it's just how my body processes food. I take that to mean it aint my fault and expel as much gas as possible (in the comfort of my home of course). So medically speaking, me eating Chili could possibly solve the gas shortage in the south. Renee and I decided (out of respect for the invite) that we would sneak off to McDonald's and fill our bellies with selections that didn't pose such hazards to my health. We ordered at the drive-thru and pulled around like good citizens to retrieve our food when the unthinkable happened...they gave us an extra cheeseburger. Snap! Everyone knows as soon as the food crosses the window they can't take it back without throwing it away. As my loyal readers know, I am into the "green" movement and do not waste. So we would just tuck that extra burger away for a crisis...or not. True to SIF form we hid in the parking lot and housed our meals as quickly as possible. I was on my last bite when the phone rang. Can you guess who it was? Tara! Busted! I didn't answer. She's good. She would hear my chewing and know what I was up to. As soon as I finished I called her back. She was still at the grocery. Damn! That's one block from the McDonald's. This was a crisis! We quickly packed up and headed out the back entrance in hopes of getting home before she did. Did you expect any less of me?

Now that we were free of any evidence (except a little salt around the mouth) we could rest easy. It went off without a hitch. She suspected nothing. That is until I didn't eat the chili. A SIF not eating...I don't think so! I thought of eating a little bowl to avoid the interrogation that was about to unleash itself upon me but I just couldn't do it. One because I was full and two because I'd been holding in a toot all night! Surely the chili would release the demon from it's cave! Then it started... I was accused of unthinkable crimes...in front of the dog no less! She accused me of not eating bcs I was going to leave and go to Taco Bell. Nope. That's not it. Try again. Then the guilt angle. She apologized for cooking something I couldn't eat and offered to cook me a Lean Cuisine. Ummmm....I'd rather stick pins in my eyes thank you! I was starting to feel really bad. I had to get out of there. The guilt was eating at me. Or maybe it was the wine. Can't be sure. Either way, I had pulled off the coupe of century and I couldn't even celebrate. Other than some random eye contact with Renee, there was no mention of the crime. Luckily Renee ate the chili so random conspiracy theories were overted.

Renee and I agreed to keep our "outing"on the "dl" bcs telling Tara in person wouldn't have the same effect as seeing it on the web. That effect being a long "Tara lecture" on eating bad food and possibly being hit by various pots and pans. Yes Tara I am the master. Perhaps you didn't think I was that good. I am. I have all sorts of eating tricks up my sleeve, down my pant leg and and many other places you wouldn't want to go! Let's pontificate shall we? When someone invites you over for dinner, is it disrespectful to make a fast food run prior to your arrival? Quite the opposite. Sometimes it's necessary to be a little rude to spare others a from a situation that could erupt....well you get the picture. Riddle me this...Had I not been proactive, the scene would have looked as follows: there we were eating the Chili (accent) with the Chilean (accent) and suddenly the room was overcome by odoriferous emanations. I aint talkin Glade Plug In's sisters! It would have been tragic! Just tragic! So as to spare Tara her worst fear I ate greasy fast food in the parking lot with Renee. I think it's clear who's committed to this friendship. There's nothing I won't do for a friend...except Chili.

It's Holiday Time!

Well today brought about a very difficult decision for me. No I didn't divorce my husband. I laid the aforementioned 80's birthday cake to rest. Very sad. The only thing that remained was a tiny "L" shaped corner with a few random pieces of confetti stuck to the butter cream icing. I could have saved it and eaten the rest later but the novelty has worn off. Much like the novelty of marriage wears off. You still love the husband and the cake but they have more than worn out their welcome. The husband made out better than the cake which is currently swimming amongst coffee grounds in the bottom of my trash can. Where's the justice?

I decided to drown my sorrows over lunch with some friends. It started off with a big score...rock star parking! I was so close to the door that I could have hooked a tray to the window and placed my order. I use to love going to A&W for that very reason. You sit in the car, they hook a tray to your window, you order everything from the comfort of your car and some chick on skates rolls it right up to your mouth. Very civilized. That wasn't the case today. I actually had to remove my fat ass from the car, reach out and open the door. Man, the things I do for food. Then the real kicker, they only have healthy food. Who picked this place...person who's name rhymes with Kemily! My Diet Coke came in a bottle (unacceptable as I like tons of refills) and no fries. Ok you can pay extra for fries but 1. That's just embarrassing...trading healthy for fat and 2. They are glorified McCain waffle fries. I think not! If I'm going to walk the fatty road of shame those puppies better be the real thing. So I did what's been done to me on numerous occasions, I ordered healthy and stole fries from others. Score....SIF 1....others: 0

I should mention that I swallowed about 50 diet pills before I ate. They claim to help you lose weight 30% faster. I can't be sure how but does it really matter? 30% is way more than I'm willing to give! I think you are suppose to take 2 with your meal but I did some SIF math and figured out a way to make them 100% faster...I took 3.5. That's about as close to 100 as my elementary math gets me. That little stunt got me something else...a trip to the porcelain patio! Gheez! My hope is that everything I ate came out in the end. My fear is that I poisoned myself and my body revolted! Either way I was hungry again like 10 minutes later. The only thing in reaching distance was a powerbar. Fine. It's all about relative location now isn't it? Tonight I'm having dinner with some friends. Notice there is little to no reference involving me, a kitchen and actual cooking. That's how I like it. Fatties going out on the town.

So while I mourn the passing of the tacky 80's cake, have no fear... I will replace it with another sugary confection of my choosing. Do I just randomly keep cakes, pies and whatnot in my home? Of course not! Only for holidays and special occasions. After all it is Rosh Hashanah! Am I Jewish? In spirit of course! L'Chia'um! I can't back that up...

The Aftermath

I am a woman of my word. On Sunday (right after my visit with God), I went to the grocery store to purchase my birthday cake. I was a little dismayed at the selection. As a SIF, I can spot a fresh cake that's been frozen. I wanted a cake with frosting not a frosty cake! Then there was the issue of flavor...chocolate or vanilla. Easy solution...marble. I would have loved one of those Costco cakes filled with custard BUT...I live on an island with ghetto food stores. Custard is a fancy word in these here parts. I decided not to stare at them too long for fear that someone would come over and ask me if I needed help. That would lead to a tirade about how men are thoughtless animals. No one appreciates an irate birthday girl fresh outa church causing a scene in the baked goods section. They just don't.

So I placed my $10.99 ghetto cake in the cart and admired it momentarily. It was hideous! It had all sorts of confetti and bows hanging off of it! It was a tacky 80's cake for someone with big permed hair and bad clothes. I had a plan...I would doctor it up at home so as to make it suitable for consumption without regurgitation. In the meantime, I covered it up with bread and vegetables. When I got to the checkout line, I made sure that I didn't look the cashier in the eye. Either of them. I have a tendency to be overly friendly and I didn't want any questions about the Debbie Gibson cake. It was wrong on so many levels. When it was time to scan the cake, I looked away. As is the case in these situations, we needed a price check! Of course! Had they given me the mic it would have gone something like this, "We need a price check on one of the hideous frozen 80's cakes being purchased by a woman who's husband failed to come through on her birthday...followed by the chorus to Lost in your Eyes. Needless to say, they didn't offer up the mic. Instead I made small talk with Svelkta the Russian cashier about...you guessed it...the person having a birthday. I gave her the short version. She said that if she could, she would give me the cake for free. See...there are SIF strategically placed everywhere when needed. $10.99 later...

I decided to run a little recon on the husband for effect. Sunday's are his day to watch football until I arrive with the groceries. When he hears me bringing up the first load, he follows with the remaining items. Can you guess what I left in the car? The freakin cake! I knew if he had to carry it he would also carry with him enough guilt to trigger his memory for 2009. Worked like a charm. He set the cake on the counter and I went in for the kill. I was polite. "Would you like a piece of my birthday cake?" There wasn't an answer that would saved him and he knew it. "I didn't know you wanted a cake! You always complain about being fat. I would have gotten you one." I simply replied, "I am fat. Fat people love cake. All that other shit is for every other day of the year. Please make note of it." He went back to his man cave defeated. I proceeded to "de-Debbie" the cake. Yup, just a few minor adjustments and it was ready to meet my gut! It wasn't great but it didn't have to be. It was the principal. Don't worry, I didn't sing to myself. Ok maybe with my inside voice.

So I had my belated cake and ate it too. All in all a great birthday. Of course there's cake left over and now I'll have to eat it bcs it's a shame to waste. Maybe I'll change my theory...instead of being less than or equal to your shoes size let's make it your age. I fear that gives me some wiggle room. I like it.

No Cake

And we all know what that means....a call has been placed post haste to the attorney demanding an immediate dissolution of my marriage! Not only is cake a standard birthday staple...I'm a SIF! I eat cake for no reason at all. Given an occasion to cover up the aforementioned "crime", I'm going to take full advantage. He did good right up until dessert. We went to my favorite restaurant (JK's) and had: Salmon stuffed Jalapenos, shrimp, salad and Tobacco fried Flounder. Most yummy. Oh and a few too many martinis. I guess I was preparing myself for no cake. Better to be drunk than caught off guard. Then the unthinkable...he said he was too full for dessert. Surely it was a trick. I just knew somewhere, there was a cake, in a room full of my friends waiting to watch me dive in head first. Not so much. When the waitress asked if we were having dessert he said, "It's her birthday." I guess that meant, give fatty her cake.

She proceeded to bring me a slab of Brownie covered in hot fudge, dabbed with melted whipped cream and topped with candle wax. Not the Food Lion butter cream icing I was hoping for but whatever. So I will do what any SIF would do in this situation. I will carry my fat ass to the Food Lion and buy myself a cake. Not because I'm a spoiled brat who has to have cake on her birthday. No. Because I was deprived of my one "get out of jail free" cake. Do pass Go. Do Collect as much cake as you can eat. I may even have them write, "Happy Birthday" just so that no one thinks I am eating the cake. No one would buy themselves a cake right? Wrong. In fact, I may even sing to myself: "Happy Birthday SIF, Happy Birthday you big Fatty, Happy Birthday person who got no cake on your birthday..Happy Birthday to you. Sounds catchy.

Ok so maybe it's not enough to call for a divorce but it's certainly one to store away for future torment. I'll add it to the collection. To top it all off, I didn't win the $200million Powerball. There's no justice. No cake. No money. What's next? I'll learn that I am genetically pre-dispositioned to be fat forever. Perhaps I already know that. Thanks Milkman. So I'm off to church to ask God why I didn't win the Powerball and why I didn't get my cake. I can never seem to get a straight answer. I suppose it's my lot in life to live in poverty sans cake. Bla Bla...There are poor people everywhere who've never had cake. Whatever. I watched Little House on the Prairie. Even Maa made cake. Still can't figure out why she left her riches to live in poverty with Charles but perhaps she was previously married to a man who didn't give her cake on her birthday. They leave out all the good parts. I think this calls for a McDonald's biscuit. Yup.

Strawberry Milk & Vodka

Something miraculous happened on this day in 1972. My Mother lost somewhere between 6 and 8 pounds in 24 hours. Never to be repeated again. That's because she gave birth to what I like to call perfection...me. As she tells the story, she only gained 15 pounds with my brother. 35 with me. Once again, doomed at birth. There was a miscarriage in between my brother and I. While sad, it was God's way of saying, "In exchange for your loss, I give you perfection." Am I conceded? Hardly. Just a realist. As a birthday ritual, I call the woman who gave me life and ask her what time I was born. Every year the answer varies slightly. This year, a straight up confession. She never wrote it down! Let's recap. First she bangs the milk man to bear the only redhead in the family and then ridden with guilt she forgets to write down the hour that she bore her only daughter! Mother of the Year...I think not!

Mother says I was a "hard headed" child. Never did anything I didn't want to do. Perhaps a trait of the milk man? Can't be sure. Since we do not acknowledge his existence, answers are in short supply. There are only a few things we know for sure: I was born today (at some point), my hair turned red at 6 months and Gerald was listed as the Father. Beyond that, your guess is as good as mine. My worst fear? I become a famous writer and some old ass redheaded man hunts me down for my fortune and claims to be Daddy. There's hope. Gerald is in killer shape. He can still kick the milk mans ass. That's my Dad! Being a Dad is more than a seed. Being a Mom is more than donating eggs to the milk man. I have great parents. I left home 16 years ago. I think their worst fear was that I would return. I have yet to do so. I come for visits but the days of free labor are ova! Now when I go back to the home of my youth I am exceptionally lazy. Making up for lost time I suppose.

I like to torture my parents by telling them things I did as a youth that they were blissfully unaware of. Like how they think there's still Vodka in the Vodka bottle. Ha Ha! That's been water for...well a long time! They never disappoint me with the shock factor. I left home 16 years ago after tricking my mother into signing my early release from jail (high school). At what point was swapping water for Vodka a stretch?! I am the master! My Mother is still in denial. She likes to think she played no role in that scandal. Much like the Milk Man...there's no denying it. So as I celebrate my birth 16 years later, I realized that I should be thanking my Mother for three things in particular: Milk, Vodka and Parole. It may not be lunch meat and apple pie but it's my life! Does it really matter that I am overweight with suspicious roots and red hair? Nope. But if my husband doesn't produce a cake...he going down! It's the little things.

"Feliz Cupleanos a mi, Feliz Cupleanos a mi, Feliz Cupleanos a mi...that's three years of random jailhouse Spanish. See Mrs. Whatever Your Name was...Rosita Moreno is 36 and still going strong! Besa me nalges! (spellig errors I'm sure)

Pie on Life

I love me some pie. It seems like the older I get the more I like pie. Do you feel the same way? Old people love pie! If you go to a diner you'll most likely find the older set sipping on coffee and eating pie. What is it about pie that gets more attractive with age? Maybe it's that the older you get the more you appreciate the simple things in life like...refined sugar. To watch an older person eat pie makes me want to be old. Mostly bcs it's acceptable to eat pie when you are old. No one is judging your size or snickering at you for partaking in such sinful treats. They just know that you'll die soon and agree to let you have your last bit of pleasure in the form of a sugary confection placed neatly on top of a buttery piece of flaky crust. Pie is like death...it's so good, so sinful and then it all comes to and end when your crusty ass dries up and is laid to rest inside the soggy earth. Bitter sweet yet morbid.

Lemon Meringue happens to be my favorite. Here's a shocker... I don't like the crust. It's the sweet, lemony, gushy middle topped with light fluffy meringue that makes me wanna smack my Mama! When you leave the crust behind it almost like cheating death. You can sock away 10 maybe 12 pieces sans crust. My Mother tells me Lemon Meringue takes too long to make. Whatever. It's been 36 years (almost) since I was "made." I think we can agree it was worth the wait. No one from my generation eats pie. Perhaps I'm an old sole. Perhaps I'm just an old fatty. Can't be sure. I like pie. I make no excuses. The more the better. Typically pie comes at least one hour after dinner. Why? I always have room. I leave room. I make room. There's always room at the inn. Old people understand. I know bcs I push them out of the way to get to the pie at holiday dinners and all you can eat buffets. They think they can out smart me. Wrong. I am faster, smarter and able to strategically place myself at the head of the pie line. With age comes wisdom. With youth....pie.

I left room for pie at lunch today. Someone 10 years my senior ordered pie. Someone my age claimed to be full. There was a risk....get the pie and age 10 years. Stay with my generation and deprive myself a little sugary pleasure. I succumbed to the pressure. Bla bla, " I'm too full for pie." " How do you find room?" I had vacancy. I chose to leave my room empty and spare myself the untimely aging. So as I'm about to age another year I do so with the knowledge that I have years of pie ahead of me. However, my theory is that nothing in life is guaranteed. I will eat my pie before my time and pray that I live long enough to eat more!

Under The Weather and Over the Hill...

I always dream of getting good stomach virus to kill my appetite. It never happens. I get colds and sinus infections forcing me to stay in bed, watch TV and eat. Poor me! Some sort of something has invaded my nasal cavity and it aint pleasant! I'm fat, ravenous hot and sweaty. Bad combination all the way around. Good thing you can order Papa John's from your bed! To top it off...I turn one year older tomorrow....lovely! Every year I say, " I definitely won't be fat by my birthday next year." Yeah, I can't back that up. Fat seems to follow me. Perhaps I can blame my enabling husband. That sounds like a plan. There's always my Mother. She sent me $50 to go out for dinner on my birthday. Thanks Maa! Enabler #2! You should have sent me a gift card to the fat farm! Enablers come out of the woodwork around birthdays. Even work isn't safe. Just the other day this lady at work told me I looked skinny. Perhaps we should all avoid her Optician!

I'm a Libra. In an odd twist of fate my Zodiac sign is a scale! Doomed from birth I suspect. I do like everything in balance. Can't just have a sandwich...gotta have the fries. Can't just get the fries...gotta dip em in ranch. Once again I could go on all day. As of tomorrow I will have spent 36 years complaining about my weight and doing exactly nothing about it. That must qualify me in the Guinness Book of Fatties somewhere. Every year (on my birthday) I ask my mother what time I was born. I suppose I'm hoping to prolong the misery. Every year I get a slightly different answer. Sort of like when I ask who my father is. I am the only documented redhead in the clan. That alone is cause for suspicion. While she is still claiming it's Gerald, she can't be trusted. He often looks at me funny. I know what he's thinking. I know one thing for sure...Mary Nell is my mother! She likes to think that's bcs we look like sisters. That makes her happy...fine. That's not where I was going....I was going with the food hoarding and the hour glass figure thank you very much!

When next I post I will be a year older and none the wiser. At least I now have an outlet for my fat deposits. I appreciate you "listening" to my rants. I will leave you with the best thing about birthday's...CAKE. If the husband fails to produce the cake, I will divorce him. Amen

Follow the Fat Trail...

If you are checking out the blog regularly and like what you see...click on "Follow" to become a SIF stalker! We like stalkers. I'll be back soon. Running for the Border! Yo Quiero Taco Bell!

Fit Club for Fatties (FCFF)

Ok...so as more and more fatties join the "club", more questions arise. I have kept the key to membership (in the SIF club) a secret for some time now. Many of you are wondering, can anyone qualify to be a SIF? Yes. If you enjoy reading the blog, then you have issues. Issues are the foundation of a SIF. That along with strong ankles! Speaking of which, my cankles are killing me today. Must be that jelly donut put me over the edge last night. Do I enjoy making fun of "fat" people? Ahhh, yeah! Fat is a state of mind my friends! From the single digits to the sizes that have more digits than the Federal Deficit...we are all fatties at heart! If we can't laugh at the things we do, we shouldn't be doing them! If you have a serious eating disorder...puking, not eating (serious!), or you have to be removed from your bed by EMT's...this site isn't poking fun at you! In fact, it's sort of a public intervention to keep from becoming you. The SIF don't have serious medical or mental issues....well I've seen the roster...motion to strike mental. We are just a bunch of sisters who look in the mirror, are disgusted by what we see and think BMI stands for Bring More Icecream! That's not what it means? If you don't fit the mold, it's ok. You can still enjoy our self-loathing rants. Still not sure if you are a SIF? Here are the Top 10 Signs you might be a SIF:

1. You unbuckle your seat belt 2miles before pulling your car into the restaurant parking lot.
2. Your waitress looks at you and tells YOU your order.
3. You pull up to the drive thru, place your order and they respond, "Hello "your name here."
4. You have never heard the term "Doggie Bag."
5. If someone asks for a "bite"... you glare, say sure and then mentally stab them w/ your fork.
6. When asked what you'd like for a "side" you respond, "Ranch."
7. You order fried everything...with a Diet Coke.
8. You have fat clothes and skinny clothes...skinny being the ones with tags.
9. You can't make conversation when eating....aside from random grunts of pleasure.
10. You are a mood eater...happy, sad, and everything in between.
10.5 Lunch hour begins at high noon...FGLH!

I could go on and on all day, really. You get the idea. Just like the Hair Club for Men, FCFF is free and confidential. Entry is as simple as coming to grips with your inner fatty. We all know who you are. If you happen to see a strange woman wink at you in a restaurant, look deeply into her eyes for "fat deposits." You'll know the signs when you meet a real SIF!

Test of the Emergency Fatty System

So I just figured out how people can subscribe to the blog. You go to: http://sistersinfat.blogspot.com/ and in the middle of the page on the right hand side you'll see a place to subscribe. I use blogline bcs it's easy I aint that smart. No Mother you do not need to do anything...you are already on the list. This is for anyone who doesn't want to have to keep checking back for posts. I try and post daily but sometimes I'm eating. I have priorities.

Peace Out

Are you ready for some Fatball?

"Do you think I'm fat?" "Does this make me look fat?" Two questions no man should ever answer without a game plan. It doesn't matter what you say, it's quickly translated into "Yes, you are a fat whore and I hate you. In fact I've been cheating on you with your skinny friend such and such." Ok, maybe I heard that on Lifetime but you get the point.Tonight I'm looking to help the men behind the SIF. While I am fully aware that no good can come of this exercise, I'm running low on material and high on my agenda is the opportunity to help men everywhere understand what it takes to tackle a fatty head on. If my husband were reading this (mind you he won't bcs that would require him to not watch football for 5 seconds) he would tell you that when asked these sorts of questions, it's best to play a strong defense. When cornered, one should repeat the question to buy time. When faced with a line too strong to overcome, simply reply, " I don't answer those questions."You are not avoiding the fight, you are just tackling your SIF momentarily. Make no mistake, she will rise again...and with a line of questioning better than the first....like "No,really, I want an honest answer." DO NOT FALL FOR THIS...IT'S A TRAP! IT'S THE 4TH DOWN AND YOU ARE STILL AT THE 50 YARD LINE. YOU CAN'T KICK A FIELD GOAL, YOU AINT GETTIN A TOUCHDOWN...PUNT AND RUN BROTHERS! IF THE BALL LANDS ANYWHERE NEAR HER SHE WILL USE IT AGAINST YOU!

Deep breathe. A SIF loves a good game of "Do you think I'm fat." We play the game with ourselves on a daily basis. That's no fun. We bring you in for pure entertainment on the off chance that you'll say something dumb. Unfortunately the odds are stacked against you. You are the Redskins in a world of fatties. Your fans are loyal but there's just no hope for you. The best thing you can do is to sit the bench. The injured list. Perhaps I told you about the time my husband played "the game" with me. I guess he was feeling sporty because we have an unspoken understanding that he is no match for my psychosis. If you remember the story guess what, I'm telling it again. I bought these skinny jeans from the Gap. I'm not sure that they were actual "skinny jeans" but I got them a whole size smaller than I allegedly wore, so they were immediately put in the "skinny" category. I ignored the fact that they said "stretch" on the tag because that doesn't really mean anything. When I got home I danced around the house jumping from mirror to mirror trying to find a reason that I wasn't the bomb diggity in my new skinny jeans. When I couldn't find a reason, I found my husband. I politely asked, "Honey, do these jeans make me look fat." Silence. It's 3rd down on the 1 one yard line. Take it in honey. He turned and said, " No not at all." It appeared as if he had taken into the end zone for the score. But wait...I called in my Special Teams "Dumb Factor." As I turned to walk away (and admire myself some more)I distinctly heard the crowd yelling..."ooooooo." I listened closely as my husband added the statement that cost him the only touchdown of his career, " They are suppose to be that tight right?" You could hear a pin drop on the field.

You see, even armed with a good defense and an occasional offensive strategy here and there, you are no match for a fatty. We are winners that can't lose. Did you catch that? We are the Peyton Manning of fat. We control the ball while you run around blocking yourself. It's the Superbowl baby and you aint even on the team! The next time you suit up for a game of "Does this make me look fat", bring your running shoes. It just makes sense...

Size Matters

As I was getting dressed this morning I realized something...size matters. What if every woman aspired her dress size to be less than or equal to her shoe size? Take me for example... I wear a size 10 and my feet are a size 10. I have reached my maximum size allowance. Think about it...a size 22 woman with a size 6 shoe is a volcano waiting to erupt. Every part of those feet are screaming, "Help me!" It's just not meant to support double digit catastrophes such as this. So there it is...my epiphany for the evening....all women must "be" their shoe size or less. Ladies...shoe check. Aspire to be your feet. If nothing else, you are proportionality correct.

If we apply this same theory to men, we are not only thin but satisfied. We could walk into a bar and simply say, "Your shoes size please?" Ummm....size 8, I was looking for 16. Of course with men I'm not talking weight. I'm speaking plain and simple girl talk...inches ladies! One look at a mans feet and we know if we are having a good night or faking an orgasm like a champ! Most men are at least an 8. As far as I'm concerned that's enough to keep me entertained. I'm not greedy but a size 16 now and again....I aint mad at ya!

While my post this evening may be short, it should leave a SIF with something to think about. Bend down, look at your feet and aspire to be who they are. If all else fails, lie about your shoe size, head to the bar and score you a brotha with a big........

Shameless Plug

So when I'm not busy being a fatty, I'm working as an Independent Coach for a company called Beach Body. In theory it helps me stay straight so that I can help others get healthy. Being a bit of an addict poses a problem for me in such a profession. It's kinda like an alcoholic being a sponsor. If you know anything about alcoholism, that's exactly what happens....the former addicts treat the recovering addicts! So I do the best I can to help myself and others at the same time. Luckily for me the company has excellent products and services to help the fatty community. They've got everything from home video workouts (for the closet SIF) to fat burners and fish oil!

I'm going to ask my readers to go to www.imreadytogetfit.com and check out what they have to offer. If you find something that helps you, great! If not, pass the word on to other SIF. We need to help each other! You can click on "Play the Game" to log your workouts and get a chance to win $300-$1000 daily! The only thing that motivates a fatty more than food is money...works out well! Please know I love all of you that are struggling with weight loss. We joke to make light of our struggle but in the end no one really understands what it's like to use food as a crutch unless they've done it. I'd love to hear what you think of the site. Feel free to leave your comments on the blog. If they are scandalous, I will delete them.

Smile...it's almost Monday! Do you have a plan?

The Interogation

The past few nights have been a bit "out of the box" for me. Those who know me can attest to the fact that while I partake in overeating, I'm not known for excessive drinking. I do, however, partake in a little liquid pleasure from time to time. As you can imagine, if I'm hungry when I am not drinking, things escalate quite quickly when liquor is involved. I often find myself leaving the party early bcs the old belly is a callin...and it aint callin for salad with grilled chicken hold the dressing! Nope. My beer pangs are typically for Taco Bell or Wendy's. Here's the icing on the cake....it's bad food late at night! Do the math sisters....that's artery clogging loveliness with a side of sleep hold the time to burn! As my friend Susan would say, "Nothing good can come of this!" For this reason I usually decline happy hours and avoid parties. I got enough problems without adding mindless calories that encourage further deterioration of my organs. However, for the past two nights I did the unthinkable, I hung out and drank beer. Yes, that means I went to Taco Bell....and Wendy's. I don't like to show favoritism.


I was all about cutting back (this week) so I made sure I ordered less than usual. I only got three packets of hot sauce instead of four. I know...doing good right? When I got home from the Border my husband was waiting for me in the bedroom with a shrewd line of pre-planned questioning. No it wasn't, "Are you ready to have mind blowing sex?" or "Where have you been I've prepared a lovely dinner for you...in bed" it was a straight up interrogation! If I had to describe the look on his face, I would say it was a cross between comedic, horrified and shocked. Sort of like if you were to walk in on your mother holding a loaded gun to your fathers head only to find out they were acting out some kinky sex role play. Like that. As you can imagine I was baffled. I had the #4 combo hot and ready for him so I knew it wasn't about my cooking. He approached me slowly and asked, "Did you have a "chocolate problem" this week?' My face bore the look of, Who me?...first sign of guilt. I responded, "Not that I can recall." ( I learned that non-committal response from Court TV) He proceeded to tell me that he found 15 candy bar wrappers in the garbage. Picture a deer in headlights. It was clear that I was guilty but I had to come up with a quick rebuttal. While I was sweating out my next move he went on and on about....do I have a problem with chocolate, did I know how many wrappers there were and why I am hoarding food. I felt the shackles closing around my ankles. I don't look good in orange..this is bad.


I proceeded to tell him that yes, I did eat those candy bars as part of my cut back plan. Had he asked a bit nicer I would have informed him that the alleged incident happened over several days (2), that the aforementioned candy wrappers were "mini" not full sized and that I had just emptied the bedroom garbage into the bathroom garbage thus propelling the said evidence to the top of the can. "Cross Examination Counselor?" He quickly retreated. Thas right...you ain no match for a fatty brotha! Now that that was out of the way, "Can I eat my Taco Bell?" Gheez. I went out on a limb and got that new Volcano Taco. Bad move. They call it that for a reason. Shit's so hot it'll make you wanna smack your mama! Couldn't even eat it. Damn shame. We didn't say another word about the "incident." I was patting myself on the back for being such a quick draw when the tacos decided to make an exit. I headed to the bathroom to partake in my version of bulimia. Eat and poop. I don't force it, it just happens. Doesn't make a damn bit a difference on the scale so don't try it! As I reached for the latest issue of "Hot Rods" (husbands), I noticed the evidence in the waste basket. Damn! It sure enough looked like fatty went crazy on some suga! Seeing it lying there in a pile was like being at the scene of a mass murder. It made me want to remove my ass from the seat and position my mouth around the bowl as a mandatory sentence for a crime too horrific to replay ! I felt like I had lied under oath. I hadn't really lied. I just took the truth and made it easier to swallow...until now.


I decided I would wash away my sins...much like the Catholics wash away their sins with wine, I washed mine down with a run. Drinking had gotten me in enough trouble for one week. My husband was up and about when I left for my penance. When I got back I noticed that he was missing. Strange. I looked around the house to see what he was doing. Ok. Let me back up. I went looking for the following reasons: the Krispy Kreme donut box was lying empty on the counter, it was laying in an odd position (sort of a hurried crooked still open look) and I could smell melted icing waffling from the microwave. This was a 911. Wait...I was finding evidence of a crime in progress and I wasn't the prime suspect. Interesting. Like any fatty on the trail of a crime that involves donuts, I went in un-armed. There he was...my husband....nestled in the bed like Mommy herself had tucked him in. He was holding a plate of freshly warmed Krispy Kreme's and watching football. That's a crime in itself. Everyone knows those two don't go together. At least watch a trash talk show or Lifetime. The evidence was mounting. He was holding not one, not two but THREE freshly warmed donuts primed for his pallet! Sneaking donuts, pre-meditated warming of said donuts and consumption of more than one donut while in the act of watching man tv... straight up felony. The defense rests!