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!

Still calling for an Editor

I can't tell you how many times I read and re-read that last post for errors. I found zippo. This morning I found a bunch! So if your post is emailed to you and there are typos...oh well! You'll have to come back to the SIF website for the re-edited version. Writing these personal trials takes alot out of a sister! I certainly can't be accountable for a missing "y" here and there. This is a low budget operation. I'm alone here in the Ghetto.
Wurd

As Thick as I use to be....

Today is a high drama day for the SIF. It’s raining here on the Outer Banks. In fact, with the passing of “Hanna” the beaches have been temporarily “Red Flagged” due to the threat of Rip Currents. I have my own version of the“Red Flag” system. This website has been put on permanent "bad weather" alert due to the high threat of binge eating! Think about it...rainy days present serious obstacles for the SIF. You wake up, ready to start fresh with your “new diet” and then…rain. You can’t go outside so why not cook yourself a nice comfort meal like bacon and eggs. Sure! It’s low carb. So you change your old diet to the new diet bcs everyone loves Dr. Atkins! After pouring a vat of grease into your gut, it’s time for a mid-morning nap. After all, cooking is hard work. As you wake from your mid-morning siesta, you peer out the window to make sure the enabling rain is still keeping you down. Score…it’s a down pour! Now what? Mindless television perhaps? Hmmm….better shower first. A bacon smelling weave is the first sign of a SIF. Since we like to roll incognito, a shower it is. Well lookie here…it’s high noon! We all know what that is….Fat Girl Lunch Hour! Out of respect for the sisterhood, you must eat...even if you are not hungry. It's the law. Then Days of Our Lives comes on so it's off to the sofa to see who Stephano is stalking. We all know it's the Brady's but a SIF needs a little drama to settle her stomach. Downfall of drama... it's a prelude to slar phase #2 (nap). By now the sun has emerged but you choose not to acknowledge it. You have planned to be fat and lazy. Nothing will deter you from your mission. It's madness.

Glad I got that off my chest. If your rainy days don't "look" like that, you better check out the Skinny Bitch website. They run on their treadmills, eat carrots and pray for sunshine! They are clearly to blame for ruing my rainy day agenda. Luckily I have a job that won't allow me to call in sick for "weather related trauma." In fact, I have to go into a real office and pretend something is going on...that's how mortgage works in 2008. I must say it's hard work. So instead of thinking about the fun I could be having at home, I had a realization.... I am out of control. I know I said that 18 posts ago but rainy days bring revelations to the forefront. This week was the week I would gain back control. My grand master plan for dieting was what I'll call "cut back." No formal take aways just less of the bad stuff. Seemed realistic. By Monday night I had downed about 15 mini Butterfingers. Nectar of the Gods I tell ya. Anyway, they weren't full sized candy bars so I was on track for success. Tuesday I only ate ten. Wed, well I ran out. I may go into convulsions. I think I may be addicted to food...sugar in particular. Do you know anyone who works out 2x a day and then heads for the drive-thru? Allow me to introduce myself!

I decided to steer clear of my demons (home) and went to lunch with my friend Sharon. She wanted salad which of course traumatized me. Tell me what's so delicious about a bunch of lettuce with chicken on it when I could wrap that jam in a tortilla, throw in a side of fries and wash it down with a Diet Coke? Oh and don't forget a side of ranch for dipping. If you ask me, same amount of calories. No one really likes salads, do they? Are we rabbits people?! All things considered, I decided to take the plunge. I went against every SIF rule, and ordered a salad. I even got the dressing on the side like the skinny ones do. I ate "it" relatively
unenthused. I was hungry like 5 minutes later. There's no convincing me that carbs are the enemy. I had to down 15 pieces of salt water taffy to stop the shakes. Shakes are not so attractive....kinda like the bacon smelling weave. Dead give away to some form of addiction. Here's the other thing....I eat everything as though I will never eat again! I watch people eat salads and it fascinates me. They talk, they take a bite, they hover over the salad, they talk some more... it's a crime is what it is! My food has 4 maybe 5 seconds tops before it's on the fork and headed down the hatch. I don't care what it is...salad, Krispy Kreme...doesn't matter. Well if it was vinegar (sorry Skinegars) I might let it linger. I don't have time for talking. I'm on a mission!

Someone needs to call that show Intervention and tell them they are missing a large group of addicts right here on SIF! Next I did what all SIF do when they need some cheering up, I called my Mom. She offered the following motivational statement, "I think you look fine. I've seen you heavier." Somewhere hidden deep within that statement was a compliment. It made me hungry so I went looking for something to eat. If she's seen me heavier I might as well give her a flashback. I thought I would set my trainer up for failure by getting his opinion of my girly figure. (remember I'm a highly active fatty) He told me I was "thick." Tell me, did mother ever prepare you to be called "thick." It's thin minus the "n "add a "ck" but that offers little comfort when you envision men calling you "Thicky Ricardo." In some parts of the ghetto thick is a good thing. Translated loosely by a SIF, it's "I've seen you heavier!" Let's reflect on what I've done right as a "not as heavy as I use to be thick person." I had a salad. I should get an F'n Academy Award for eating that! Yes, I had to act like I liked it. I may have even thrown in "I'm so full. That was great." That was the only good thing I did. The rest of the day I've been sniffing for food like a blood hound on the trail of a triple homicide! There will be blood.

No mother I'm not mad at you for calling me not as heavy as I use to be. I prefer lies when possible but your not my husband so I'll let it slide. One day...one day I will buy clothes in the single digits again! Watch out Forever 21...fatties comin!

I'm Back...

Yes, I know it's been a while since Fatty has laid down some fat tracks. I will be back in full force today. Wonder where I've been? Eating of course! Check back later today...

I need an Editor

Yeah.. I know the last post had lots of typos. It's hard to type, eat, edit, eat and re-edit. You'll either have to visit the actual blog for a corrected version or just re-do the words in your head. Deal.

Kenyan to Cattle

What do you get when you bake an overweight runner at 85 degrees (full humidity) for 2:18:57? A Rock-n-Roll Half Marathon finisher for the 7th straight year! Yes, this is what I work so hard for all year long. It's exhausting I tell ya. I spend all year building my carb reserves (and then some) for those 13.1 miles. That takes some planning. How many calories to eat vs. calories burned vs. calories stored. I developed a pretty scientific equation that I will reveal for the first time here on the SIF blog. You take one part slow running to 10 parts binge eating, add in a titch or random walking and then 10 parts emotional eating. You quickly end up with a slow moving fat ass but you cross the finish line a happier fatty for it. This year brought all kinds of drama. It all started when "they" stuck me in corral 24 with the "bigins"....

So every year I sign up for the race as soon as I get back from the run. No, not out of excitement. You get $15 off. I'm cheap and let's face it...$15 is alot of super-sizin. As is always the case, I select my predicted finishing time by taking this years finishing time and subtracting 20 minutes. Why? Because I'll be 10-20 pounds lighter next year... of course! When I received my initial packet of info, I was horrified. Runners are corralled by their predicted finish. These corrals start with (1)-- Kenyans and end with 24-- Fatties. Who do you suppose got stuck in 24 this year? Me! I went to the Expo fuming mad. I had to make a case to break from the "cluster of fat cells"... but what would I say? Had they figured me out? Did they look back and see that not only did I not lose 1 pound but that I had in fact gained 20?! Put me in the Clydesdale division...fine... not corral 24 with the fatties! I arrived at booth #24 pissed off and ready to rage war. I had to wait in line behind women ranging from a 2x to 24x. Nice. My friend Tara got a good laugh. When I got up to the skinny bitch with the numbers I started going on and on about how there must have been some sort of drastic mistake bcs I did not in fact deserve to be herded with the rest of the cattle. She simply smiled and said, "Corral changes are across the way." Evil whore. So there would be no changing my actual race number from 24060 to something closer to my dress size. Nope. I would get a nice green sticker with a "14" to signify that this fatty was movin on up. Let's face it...14 was close enough to my dress size.

Now that all of that was out of the way, time to look for free goodies and food samples. Hint...when you get there early you get in on all of the good samples. Tara and I cleaned up. We left with everything from glow in the dark Glade lights to Snickers Marathon Bar samples. Just enough to make me hungry! It was time to carbo load. Off to Rudees for Bloody Mary's and burgers. I failed to mention that Tara and I were hungover from the night before. It's all about preparation. We didn't plan on getting drunk until her slow talking southern neighbor came by to share short stories that were equivalent in length to War and Peace. Have you have ever spoken to someone who can make HELLO a fourteen syllable word? It's quite painful. Add to that...she's 540 years old, looks better than me and has a perfect husband....now you see where the drinking came in. When she said he vacuumed, I had to go inside. I can't get mine to make friends with the garbage can much less small machinery. So Tara's idea of hangover food was more drinks and a salad. Mine was somewhat similar sans the salad add burger/fries. Then we took in the new Woody Allen movie and decided we needed to move to Barcelona for a tryst. Working on the details of that trip. Then it was back home for pasta and wine. It's a delicate balance.

Race day was craaaazy. Normally Tara's hubby gives us a ride to the start before the roads close. He was otherwise indisposed so we had to walk...2 miles to get to the start of a 13.1 mile race. Lovely. Our stomachs were nervous. Can't be sure why. As soon as we got there we jumped in line for the porta potties. If you haven't been to a running event and smelled the PP's, you are one lucky individual. Imagine this...take baby shit, rub it in dog shit, let it rot in the sun and then poor some piss on it. Ahhh...the smell of runners. Stank ass! The wait for relief took about 30 minutes. Then we rushed off to CORRAL 14 like civilized humans. Bla bla itwas really hot and we ran for a long time. Here's the down side...when you run in the heat for hours...you can't eat for a really long time bcs your stomach is mad at you! It's the only noted time in history when I am not binge eating. I think I should be left in the sun to rot more often. Did I mention the 3 mile walk back to Tara's house? Kelly's log book, race #7...that's 18 miles of foot to pavement! Enough! Got back to Tara's and hung out for a while. Rigamortus set in and it was time to roll. I had a plan...

Even though I wasn't hungry I would force myself to go to McDonald's bcs my Garmin said I burned 1636 calories and that wasn't counting all the walking. I was in a deficit for the first time all year. #2, super sized with a Coke please! It was heaven. That was followed by an entire day of carbo reload. It's medically necessary you see. All in all a great weekend! I brought the ratios into alignment and had a medal to prove it. Oh and I watched Tara eat 6 pieces of pizza. Fascinating. For the first time we agreed on something. Thin slice pizza only counts as half a slice. It's just a fact. I'm preparing for next year as we speak... let's hope that doesn't land me back in corral #24!