Ummmm.....yeah....so this how you become a Supermodel in an instant...know a great graphic artist! I prefer fat but it's fun to play around!

Fat Broke

As a SIF, I break all the rules. You only have to look as far as my last post...I used the "F" word and referenced buggars...all whilst hacking up a lovely Christmas Carol. It's just what I do. I take the "norm" and fatten it up a bit. I'm good at it...like it or not. We all pick our nose...even Santa. I can't help it if that particular piece of gossip didn't make the lyrics, but trust me, even Santa gets his dirty on. Furthermore, whilst I don't like using the "F" word in non verb form, when I'm hard pressed for a rhyme, I do what I gotta do. There, the guilt of my "Caroling" has left the building. The only person that blasted me was my Mother....for using the "F'" word of course. She still thinks I'm a virgin. Sorry Maa. Whilst I'm not clear on how long it's been since my initial deflowering, or his name or what he looked like... I'm quite sure I thought I would marry him. That counts right? Um...yeah...on to the business at hand....fat and broke...

It would stand to reason that if one didn't have alot of money, one would be thin, right? Wrong! Have you seen the clientele at Walmart?! Yes, I shop at Walmart. Leave it to the Culinary King himself, Ronaldo McDonald to help out the less fortunate by providing a simple solution for the low budget hungry types like myself. I give you the $1 menu. Clearly one of the greatest inventions....EVER! A family of 12 can eat for like $2...for 4 days...all at the expense of their arteries. But when you're broke there are two things that are always for sale: Your soul and your arteries! It's just how it is. Now, I love me a cheeseburger but DAMN...a Double Quarter Pounder with Cheese for a $1! For those of you who were held back in kindergarten, allow me to break this down for you....A Double Quarter Pounder for $1 in "Fatty" translates as follows: Double = more. More = value. Quarter Pounder = quarter of a pound...that's less than half so it's like...portion control. $1 = all of the change from husbands pants...so free. You see, fast food requires fast thinking. Add to that an entire menu of fine dining for $1 and you've gotta make some quick decisions. No time for putting sentences together...Double Quarter Pounder with cheese...that's so 1st grade and not for nothin...there aint even no verb in there. I got schoolin. I'm not suggesting that $1 for all of that meat isn't a deal... it's a deal until it shows up on your ass! I prefer the 2 cheeseburger meal myself. It'll cost you a few bucks more but the trickery of eating 2 little cheeseburgers instead of one huge cheeseburger that barely fits in your mouth...it's...well it's basically the same....it just looks and sounds better. Not to mention you can always pretend that you are taking one of the burgers to someone back at the office....yeah right! Not only does no such person exist, that cheeseburger won't outlast the parking lot. So there are some dangers in non-$1 menu selections but looks are way more important in these situations. So is hiding. Here's the hidden danger in cheap food: recognition by said shift workers. I always feel like I have to explain why I'm back...again. There's Mc'Muffin Monday, Two Cheeseburger Tuesday, Western Wrap Wednesday, Two Cheeseburger Thursday and my personal favorite....French Fry Friday! So I've got a reason to be there but it just gets weird when there's direct eye contact. Hence, the new shades.

Another trick of the down at out whilst patronizing McDonald's...the peely game piece thingies. Sometimes the fatty crowd gets soo excited to eat that we forget there is free food amongst us. Granted it's usually trash like "free small fries" but 6 or 8 of those are you're in business! You have to order the large size stuff to get the peely things to win the small fries, but it's not like ordering small was on the agenda anyway. I like waiting for the skinnies to throw out their trash bcs they NEVER remember to look at the peely things. Oh I'll jump in a trash can for some free shit. Hells ya! One foot in the garbage...one foot in the grave. Here's something only a classy fatty will admit...when you are broke and hungry it's best to eat at home. Why? Random grunting. If you've ever sat next to an obese person that's missed a meal (defined as more than 3o minutes without eating), you know what I'm talking about. There's this noise that resonates from their being that should be outlawed in all 50 states. It's an audio visual nightmare. It sounds like a hog feeding as seen on Animal Planet and it looks like something from Dirty Jobs on the Discovery Channel. Time to turn off the "TV" and get your shit to go....oookkkay! I eat at home for one reason. Well maybe two: 1. If you didn't see it it didn't happen and 2. I tend to bite my lip when I eat...excitement. Exiting the building with salty, bloody lips whilst pieces of napkin hold what little dignity I have left together...yeah....more than enough reason to use the drive through. *Random sign of the cross**

So why am I at McDonald's when I should be cooking healthy food at home? *Pause for laughter* So many reasons so little time. I'll stick with the theme...food is expensive. Let me give you my fiscally economic budgetary breakdown: 2 Quarter Pounders with Cheese = $2. You can't even buy 1/2 pound of ground beef without getting another 1/2 pound that you don't want thus forcing you to pay $4 for more meat than you need...and then you gotta cook that shizzle yo self! I aint even addin in the cheese. I think that makes me fiscally conservative. Can't be sure. Here's another example of why eating crap is all the rage amongst the poor....have you ever compared the price of Cheerios to the price of Fruity Pebbles? Uhuh. If it's whole grain it's a whole lotta money! Sugas cheap! $4 for a quart of fresh strawberries or $1 for a strawberry pie fully cooked and ready to be eaten in the car? The choices is clear. There's another Pioneer amongst us that is to the grocery store what Ronaldo is to fast food....I give you Lil' Debbie. *Pause for moment of silence.* Without this $1 version of Betty Crocker I dare say I'd never have a baked good in my home. Nutty Buddies, Ding Dongs....the bitch does it all! She's a SIF for sho! Hell she even bakes season appropriate goodies. Yup. Right around November the Ho's Ho's start showin up with red filling. I hope to meet her someday.

Let's recap....poor people are fat bcs: They shop at Walmart, eat at McDonald's and idolize Lil' Debbie. Seems to me it's a cultural thing. We should really feel sorry for rich people. They pay more and get less. Rich people eat rich food and claim that it fills them up faster. I got news for ya, if it only "comes" at a great expense, makes you think you are satisfied when you aren't and leaves you with a false sense of happiness....I do believe you may have eaten a man! Stick that in Pomme Frites and dip it!

Christmas...Fatty Style

So I've made an executive decision....since getting in the mood does me little to no good, I'm getting into the spirit....specifically the Christmas spirit. From now until Christmas, as the spirit moves me, I will slaughter traditional Christmas stories/songs for my amusement. Tis the season for the truth...

Twas the night before a Fatty Christmas

Twas the night before Christmas and all thru the house, the fatties were stirring popping seams on their blouse.

Their stockings were hung by the new Frigidaire, in hopes St. Nicholas would be bringing eclairs.

Then what to their sugar filled eyes did appear, a miniature Santa and eight plus sized reindeer.

A skinny ass Santa, what a cruel trick, they knew in an instant he must be a dick .

As reindeer go they pretty much sucked, they listened to him shouting knowing they were fucked.

Up to the housetop the reindeer did fly, sucking and tucking holding onto their thighs.

Down the chimney he came looking so mean, dressed in all fur like a Santa Drag Queen.

He spoke not a word but went straight to his work, rationing candy like a skinny ass jerk.

And laying his finger deep inside his nose, he pulled out a buggar that rivaled a hose.

I heard him exclaim as he hid it from site,"I'd leave you this buggar but it wouldn't be right. "

A Big Fat Lie...

Tis' the season for a fatty on the move. Wild holiday parties....shopping sprees....that's why everyone else travels between November and December. Me....not so much. I prefer to overeat/drink in the "womb" and I do my shopping online... it allows for anonymity when the numbers don't add up. My holiday traveling revolves around the gift that keeps on giving....my Vajayjay. Late November/Early December is when I head to the big city for my annual tune up. 5 hours of driving in exchange for months of riding. It's a fair trade off. I'm often asked, "Why do you insist on choosing a doctor that's so far away?" My response, "Do you service your Mercedes at Jiffy Lube?" Me either. Come on honey! In the grand scheme of things, it's the most important piece of equipment on this over sized frame! That thing harbors all sorts of magical powers. Not just anyone is qualified to work on it! Gheez. The way I see it, $30 (co-pay) gets me more action in 20 minutes than I get all year. And it's far enough away from home for me to enjoy it without making headlines. "SIF pays for sex." No one likes a scandal.

Add to the aforementioned equation one hot doctor and you have the makings for an all out affair. Except the part where he couldn't be less interested in me and he knows all of my dirt...and that my uterus is tipped backwards. That can't be attractive. Top that off with a mandatory weigh in, and it's safe to say the only affair we are having is the one I dream up whilst my ovaries are being realigned. However, comma, on this particular trip, the weigh in went from traumatic to tremendous without any help from me! Typically, I find a way to shed a few pounds before I see the mechanic. It excites him when the numbers go down and there's nothing like an excited Gyno now is there? Needless to say, he's very rarely excited when I come to town. In fact, I usually get the "Why aren't you doing your self breast exam/why are you soo fat" lecture. Why would I feel my own boobs when it's included in the co-pay? I'm just sayin is all. As far as why I'm soo fat....because I like to eat. It's really quite simple. I usually try and spice it up a bit with some tears and a random fake story to make him feel sorry for me. Last year's Emmy Nominated performance was, "I eat because I'm unhappy. I'm afraid if I was happy I'd be thin. Thin chicks are annoying and I don't want to be annoying. They also have way better lives. Starting over at my age is out of the question. Brad Pitt is already spoken for. I've missed my window. Besides...I rock miserably fat like no other." To that I usually get an extra squeeze on the ole saline sacks. Damn I'm good.

Before I get to the weigh in, I have to back up. Part of the allure of traveling is eating out. Having a legitimate excuse to eat at McDonald's is always better than my usual excuse, "Because I like the fries." On the way out of town I stopped by to pay a visit to an old friend...Ronald McDonald. As I was shoving Mc'loveliness down my throat, my phone rang. Damn! Why do people always call when I'm eating....umm maybe bcs I'm always eating. It was the Neurologist. No good can come of that. For him, I set down the nuggets and answered the phone. After all, he might reveal that I was dying. I would then have the prefect excuse to eat myself into the grave. Little did I know he had the best news ever. It seems my latest test results showed that I have low blood sugar. Really? I figured over saturation to be the case. It seems my body just plows right through sugar leaving me famished. I knew there was a medical reason I was hungry 24/7....this guy is a freakin genius! The cure? Eat more! He said it... and I almost wrecked the car in jubilation! I love this guy! Personally, I think he was rewarding me for not wearing underwear to the visit. What? I didn't think he'd be looking "there" so why dress her up? I learned that all Dr.'s do 2 things: #1 make you strip and #2 weigh you. I'm OK with #1 but #2 is downright disturbing. I hung up the phone wishing I had more to eat. Dr's orders n all.

I felt overly prepared for the "Why are you so fat" question when I arrived at the mechanic's office. There was now a medical reason for my insane obesity. My body needed a constant stream of everything to do anything....something like that. Imagine my surprise when "Dumb Nurse" came out to get my vitals. "Dumb Nurse" is the one I get about every other visit. I had lost track between her and "Mother Time"--she's no less than 156 years old and I get no benefit from her bad vision. That bitch can read a scale! Anyway, "Dumb Nurse" is sweet and....well dumb. She's so busy asking you about things that don't matter that she forgets about things that DO matter...like oh say your blood pressure and weight! But she sure knows where you are spending Christmas! After removing everything but my kidneys, I got on the scale. I knew the number, so I watched to see if maybe my scale was off by a few hundred pounds. No such luck. They use one of those old scales with the sliding bar and I find it doesn't err in my favor. As I turned to dismount the slaughter box I heard "Dumb Nurse" announce my weight to be 10 lbs lighter than what the scale actually said. I didn't think much of it considering her title. So I proceeded to the little white room to don the lovely paper robe that barely covers half a butt cheek. Luckily the damn thing ties in the front. I don't look so bad from that angle. I paid good money to look better up there...oookay! Anyway, the Dr. came in and said the following, " I am so proud of you!" My immediate thought was that he was finally coming around and this was his attempt to show interest. "Why," I asked. "You lost 10 lbs," he exclaimed! Oh good Lord. He went on to ask what I attributed my weight loss to. Ummm....your dumb ass nurse! That seemed harsh so I went with running....lots of running. "No changes in your eating," he asked. "Nope, not one single change." That would be the only factual part of our conversation that day. I wanted him to have his moment. Come on....I'm not gonna lose 10lbs again for at least 2 more years when "Dumb Nurse" comes back on rotation!

As he rearranged my innards, he reassured me that I had perfectly normal anatomy. Perhaps in my girly cavern, but behind that uterine wall lies about 6 buckets of fries that don't look too pretty without a paper robe covering them! He told me my eggs were good for about 7 more years. Really. I told my husband that carton expired a long time ago. Won't be sharing that tidbit. I don't even like eggs. Particularly ones that like fish and produce problems. As he exited the room, he winked at me and told me this was my best visit in years. Why? Did my "shit" look that good? I guess bcs of the 10 lb weight loss "Dumb Nurse" hooked me up with. I wanted to be happier about the weight loss but it was all too easy taking advantage of the system. I did what Mother made me do whenever I told a lie...I went to be alone and think about what had transpired. I came up with the following: A. A lie isn't a lie if you aren't the one who started it...B. It's ok to follow through on someone else's lie to spare them their dumb job and C. In the last 2 days I was told to eat more and that I lost 10 lbs....HOT DAMN!

You can only imagine what happened next...I went to Dunkin Donuts to celebrate! Don't worry, I got the holes. A dozen of those are only like 4 donuts. I couldn't imagine a better road trip...until it hit me....Next year, I would have to lose 20 lbs to make up for the 10 lbs that I didn't lose this year! That is, unless, I could somehow find a way to get "Dumb Nurse" promoted to full time liar. So I decided to write a letter commending her on a job well done. What should have read, " Dear Nurse, Thank you for being dumber than I am thin. Please continue to be outgoing and blind. Love, 10 ponds Less." Ended up as, "Dear Dr. Hottie, now that I am down 10, what do you say we kick that dumb ass nurse out of the room and work on crackin some of those rotten eggs?" I haven't decided if I'll mail it or not. I figure I've got 7 years to think about it. If you're wondering if I make this stuff up....step away from the computer and wash your mouth out with soap. There are 2 things I never lie about: Weight Loss and Vajayjays'. I have learned that with careful planning, they can come at the same time.

Leave it to Beaver

Ironically, that's how I describe modern day Thanksgiving. For a brief moment I was under the impression that Thanksgiving...aka "Fatty Freedom Day" was all about eating and napping. I have since learned otherwise. Rest assured... I am no June Cleaver. In fact, she would be right mortified (southern English) to meet the likes of me! I'm sorry to report that I do not run around the house in heels, pearls and a fluffy skirt whilst waiting on men folk as they sit on their lazy asses. Nah...my version of "Cleaverage" involves sweatpants, a gravy stained t-shirt and lots of me complaining about having to cook all freakin day whilst the men do what they do best....a whole lota nothin! I can't imagine the Pilgrims were this chauvinistic...and if they were, at least the chicks got to wear decent clothing. Do you have any idea how much of me I could fit into a Pilgrim frock? Hell, I could eat for days and still look like a supermodel...being that I have such a pretty face n all.

Let's revisit my Thanksgiving Day shall we? I went for a nice 6 mile run so that I could add a few hundred extra helpings of....everything. That went well. I came back hoping to get a nap before consumption. Nope. It seems that if you have a "beaver," you are required by law to work on the holiday...as an indentured servant to the penis living amongst you...and all his friends and family. Not that that varies so much from a normal work week... but the part where I spend hours cooking whilst men sit around and do whatever it is they do...well... it's almost enough to set off a round of random bitch slappin with the pearls I wasn't wearing but was willing to put on for ammunition. Instead of resorting to violence, I did what I do best....I complained about it ALL DAY AT THE TOP OF MY LUNGS. June Cleaver would be right proud (southern English again)...you know that bitch would have thrown a heel if she wasn't so damn oppressed. I got your back gurl...and for the record....it does exactly no good to retaliate. Men don't listen....not even to a beaver. Only for a beaver I fear.

I shant tell a lie...Mother did 99.9% of the cooking....except the super fattening stuff which I had to cook bcs...well let's just say bcs I'm highly qualified for the job. My Thanksgiving table is all about starch. All kinds of potatoes, bread and basically anything that sets me up for my post consumption slar phase (that's a nap to all you non Conehead fans). I need to sleep after I eat. If I remain awake I might be forced to kill myself...for various reasons:

1. It would be an easy way to lose weight. After they pull out your organs, your certain to shed a few pounds . I've been watching "Dr. G" (medical examiner) to learn how much my organs weigh so I can subtract that number from the erroneous digits produced by my lying ass scale....clearly I have no control over how much my liver weighs so why should I have to take on the extra pounds? I shouldn't.

2. I would have to listen to dumb men yell at the TV about a stupid ball carried by more dumb men who are too dumb to work together as a team. Imagine that.

3. I would have to do the dishes. That's all I have to say about that.

4. I would have to be alive to bear witness to this atrocity again next year. It's more than I can bear...even for 4,000,000 calories in a 24 hour period. There must be a binge eating corner in Heaven with my name on it.

So as you can see, what should have been my Caloric Christmas turned into a warped version of what life has become sans Cleaver's. Maybe I should move to TV Land. Life seemed ideal there. The men work. The women stay home and bang the Gardner...I mean cook and clean... and the children are all well behaved. I wasn't alive when all of this "fake life" crap was happening but I can't imagine the women back then were happy to have "Man Waiter" listed on their resume in exchange for watching Days of Our Lives on the regular. We all know what was really going on...Dad was nailing the Secretary, Mom was taking prescription crack to suppress her submissive role in life and the kids were smokin pot behind the garage. Now that's the show I want to see! Can you imagine Thanksgiving in that household! Little Johnny would be eating all of the food and giggling uncontrollably, Mother wouldn't eat a thing bcs she would too busy running laps around the house and Dad would have to "step out" for a quickie business meeting around dessert. That's reality TV. I'm pitchin that one to the networks.

Perhaps I haven't done my job in explaining to you the rage that takes over my body when dinner is finished and the men just up and leave the table whilst the women fall into place in the kitchen scrubbing and slaving over dirty dishes left behind by the Ward Cleaver's who still think it's ok to "Leave it to Beaver!" Well this Beaver aint havin it! See that shiny box over there...it's called a "dishwasher"....she right sized my ass and I'm O'freakin K with it so go ahead and introduce yourself bcs you're gonna become right good (more southern English) friends when you are single again! If that relationship doesn't work out...I'll introduce you to my other friend "Dixie"- she's a real "dish"-- paper plate to be exact! She's less work....just use her and throw 'er out. Should work out well for ya! As for who's gonna cook the dinner you place on your "dish"...better call the one responsible for making you so "chivaless"...Mama! Perhaps the longest run on paragraph in history. Made possible by the penis...forgive me.

When all is said and done, there's always dessert. Like the icing on the cake, having dessert after a rage filled Thanksgiving somehow returns life back to normal. It's easier to make, easier to clean up and easier to throw. I would never disrespect a pie by throwing it at a worthless cause. I'd rather put it towards a meaningful cause.... my mouth...cause I like it! If you are under the impression that I'm a man hater who overuses the word whilst, you are wrong. The word whilst is a beautiful word, that sounds way better than while and should be used as often as possible. That settles that. I hope you enjoyed your Thanksgiving. I did..in spite of my militant
anti-Cleaver views on the subject. I've moved on... to Christmas. My kinda holiday....fat man gets little slaves to make toys whilst random endangered species fly him across the world to eat cookies, drink milk and make Merry. Bout time a man did something worthwhile!

I swear I'm not a man hater...Thanksgiving was just a bit traumatic. If you are a "man fan" take notes and act right next year! SIF out!

Don't Eat and Drive...

Words cannot describe the joy I feel on this momentous day. I realize that there are many days of the year when we pause to reflect on greatness....Boxing Day... Flag Day....but when the world pauses to allow for uncontrolled binge eating...that my friends is Fatty Freedom Day!!! I vote to change the name of Thanksgiving to Fatty Freedom Day post haste! Pilgrims Smilgrims....I'm sure they were PIF (Pilgrims in Fat)...who else could be responsible for such a holiday! History isn't kind to the fatties....full disclosure would be nice for a change....hello. Before things get too out of control, let's take a moment to reflect on the true meaning of the day by putting some ridiculous rumors to rest:

1. Being the first one in the Thanksgiving line is rude. NOT. It's a sign of effective time management and careful execution. These are the qualities great world leaders. Go fatty.

2. Exercise portion control. In my opinion....those three words should never be used in a sentence, around each other or ever again. You kiss your mama with that mouth?

3. Chew your food slowly putting your fork down between bites. Not only is this quite possibly the dumbest thing I've ever laid ears on...it almost sounds like #2 and I'm not quite over the shock of that statement.

4. Don't be the 1st one to get 2nds. Huh....well we heavier sets don't come in first much, so let us have this one, ok? Yeah....we win!

One personal word of warning...don't let the excitement of the day lead to needless injuries: Biting of the lip, random fork wounds, roof of mouth burns and unexpected bouts of choking...chew SIF chew. Remember....it's a marathon not a sprint! Should anyone around you happen to fall into food coma....do not fear. Simply wave the gravy under the nose until such time that the fat once again rises. Happy Day!!!

Lost in the Crowd...

I promised you greatness and I shall deliver. From what species must one originate to possess the following DNA disaster...binge eater, marathon runner and Valium addict? Can't be sure but I do know the previous sentence pretty much brings you up to speed on my comings and goings over the last few weeks. As much as I like keeping you abreast of all my ridiculous behavior....I often get lost somewhere between eating to forget, forgetting to eat (umm yeah that just never happens but I've always wanted to say that so let's go with it) and just forgetting in general. I tried adding Yoga to the mix, hoping to improve my focus. I can't be sure there's room in my genes for Yoga. Let's face it, there's not much room in my "genes" period. I do try and give myself "focus type" projects every now and again...hoping it will help me with my Chi and Yang....or whatever. Take today for example....I spent 6 hours baking 4 dozen Christmas cookies and 2 loaves of bread... exactly 45 days before Christmas. That's planned, productive and premeditated behavior. Focus people focus. No one stares down an oven window like a fatty. I can single handily sense the browning of a cookie long before the buzzer goes off. Namaste.

One thing you should know about me....I may be fat but I don't often sit still. From a young age I learned that chasing the ice cream truck was the key to cancelling out calories....thus spawned my love of running. However, once again, Mother never told me that it wasn't appropriate to chase the ice cream truck at 37....oh and that I would basically have to chase it about 400 miles as my metabolism would come to a screeching halt after the age of 10! Thanks Mommy. You play the hand you are dealt so I kept up with the running. Except now, instead of chasing ice cream trucks, I run from my fat ass. I have yet to leave it in the dust... but that's a lot of dust. I fear public works isn't quite prepared for such a crisis. I like to run marathons. Why? Bcs then I can say, "I run marathons." It's that simple. It's especially fun to say it when you weigh a metric ton. You get the usual look of, "Wow, you ran a marathon" coupled with a look akin to Oprah revealing both of her parents are actually white. Yup. Just doesn't fit. So it's fun for me....in a painful sort of way. I pretty much use it as my response to, "What did you do this weekend?..for about 6 months. If I keep my audience limited to the reality TV/Crumbs in the Recliner Crowd, I can squeeze a good half a year outa one race. Productive, planned and premeditated.

Marathon logistics are no joke. At the start, runners are corralled like cattle according to their predicted finish. Much like fatties lie about their weight...the skinny types LOVE to lie about their estimated finishing time.... "Ah....yeah....I've been running half marathons in about 4 hours so put me down for 2:05 to finish the full!" Unless you are blacker than an Ace of Spades or running from the law....I call BS! The fatties....we play it cool. We position ourselves waaaaay in the back where one might expect to see spandex being worked over like a whore in church. However, I'm here to tell you that a fatty will come from behind and rise to the top, like a donut floating on top of the oil ready to be taken from the pot! Oh we may start in the fat pack but we know that 26.2 miles down the road awaits 3000 calories that need to be replenished! I'm not saying we'll get there with the Kenyans...but we'll scoot past a few quarter pounders along the way. When I say "we" I don't mean "me" per say. I'm working on tweaking my feral fatty gene to accommodate speed in relation to relative approximate time of maximum consumption as it relates to completion of satisfaction . You can't be expected to follow such technical runner jargon.

I must admit, I was thrown for a loop in the last marathon. Typically, I hang back with the "real" fatties....you know the ones who usually die in the marathon bcs they didn't realize they were actually too fat to go 2.62 miles much less 26.2...but it never occurred to them before race day....them. About half way in, I decided to take a look around for some "motivation"....maybe someone in biker shorts screaming to be set free or someone on their cell phone calling the "can't finish cab" and then I realized...there wasn't a fatty in sight. Umm....had I died and gone to Purgatory? Heaven isn't ready for all this ass so that's the best I could hope for at the time. I remember the confusion confusing me. That happens. I was fixated on this woman who may have weighed a buck o' five soaking wet. She kept walking. I'm no Rocket Scientist, however comma, some sort of rule must state that if I can keep all 678 lbs of me running...she can certainly do the same! It's not nice to judge but...I'm not nice and I always wanted to be a judge. So then I started thinking....hmmm...I must be running pretty fast bcs everywhere I look I see skin and bones. No old people...no fatties. It was the land of misfits and I was highly agitated. Where were my people? I, unlike most, don't mind when a fatty passes me. I only ask one thing of her/him, save me some fries. Being surrounded by so much skin and bones gave me cravings for fried chicken! That, in turn, gave me a side stitch bcs...you guessed it...we ran right by KFC! Could I snag a biscuit unnoticed? Hell no. These twigs on rubber would never appreciate such a fine maneuver.

Long story short....it was all trickery as usual. While my time oozed fat, I finished with skin, bones and vinegar. For once in my life, I had no appetite. Either I need to get fatter or faster. Working on both. I managed to injure my rib running the marathon. I have no answer except that being surrounding by so much bone damaged the only visible bone on my body. That costs me a shot in each butt cheek leaving me with what appears to be 2 black eyes on my ass. That'll help the sex life I'm sure. I think try my hand at Yoga one more time. Guys like fat and flexible. They don't really care for a fatty who can outrun them. Too often we have trouble letting go and it makes for an ugly scene. Yup...back to Yoga...story to follow. Namaste.

Fat is alive and well....

Hello to all! No worries...I have not eaten myself into a food coma (although the thought pleases me greatly)....just been a little busy. Will be posting again this week. What's to come? Fatty runs a marathon and does Yoga...lookout!

Scary Politics- Re-post from Oct 2008

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?

I'm about to...

Re-post my blog from last Halloween. Partly bcs I am very busy working on a large article that's due Friday... and partly bcs it happens to be one of my favorite blogs. You'll recall, last year at this time we were in the midst of an election that would change history. That's great n all but I don't appreciate it when news takes away from the true meaning of the October-November season...food. That's being said, I give you last year's post.

I'll be back over the weekend with more stories of over eating and stealing candy from the crumb snatchers. Until then, don't forget to stock up on the Halloween candy. Lock your door, turn off the lights and enjoy!

Trix are for Kids...

...and so are Froot Loops, Apple Jacks and Frosted Flakes! Says who? Why must everything I love be taken from me? What started with the demise of a solid sugar filled breakfast has now manifested itself into the banishment of adult pleasures. I'm more than willing to forgo my current life in exchange for the acceptable consumption of Pop Tarts and Tater Tots at any age. What happened to Saturday morning cartoons over a bowl of sugared cereal, toast and OJ? It's unheard of after the age of 2. Let's start teaching our children that sugar and carbs are the enemy whilst they are young, so that they can be fat, obsessed, overeating little f'rs before they enter kindergarten! I say, let the little bastards eat what they want and send them out to play until such time that you have to let them back in for fear of the law....I mean until they've worked off their meal...ugghum. Because of parents like you, I'm forced to wake up at the crack of my ass, run a few hundred miles and eat whole grain cardboard just to stay 100 pounds behind the Quarter Pounders (those are the skinny chicks in case you are a new reader). I can't take the pressure of having a love affair with the staples of my childhood. I know I should like baby calves reduced in a fancy sauces on a grassy plate...but I don't. Unless we are talking about 2 all beef patties, special sauce, lettuce, cheese, pickles, onions on a sesame seed bun... but I don't think those are baby calves....they taste pretty grown up.

It's a good thing I have a husband to blame for what appears in my grocery cart. "Uncrustables," Cheese Puffs, Nutty Buddies....I'm drooling all over the keyboard. Not only are these nostalgic nuggets of nectar considered classic treats of the worldly, the behind the scenes people have even started making them fat friendly. Yup. I can now enjoy whole grain Cheetos, French Fries and Beanie Weenies. Permission to side bar mid-paragraph? Riddle me this...is a fry is a fry by any other name. Perhaps. Apparently, if you call them by their socially acceptable name, Pomme Frites, you are looked upon as a cultured fatty with a distinguished pallet. However comma, when speaking of them in the "ghettonacular", French Fries, you are just plain...well, ghetto. I think the next time I go to McDonald's I'll ask them to super size my Pomme Frites and cringe when they shoot me a blank look...gold teeth glaring... Van Gogh nails scratching at the weave. Yes, that is what I'm going to do. Back on track now... You see what's going on here right? The snooty adult types are robbing the young at heart of their pleasures, turning around, renaming said treats in a foreign tongue and hoping that the we are too dumb to translate. I got news for ya....I'm fatlingual! If it involves food, I speak it sista.

For any of you doubters out there, I give you exhibit A: The rehearsal dinner. Recently I was asked to attend a rehearsal for a wedding I wasn't in. Translation...friendship = free food without laborious duties = happy SIF. As I sipped my beer and made small talk with people I believed to be looking upon me as "slutty" (not far off and proud of it, thank you), I noticed that we had been pre-seated with 2 couples and 2 kids. More beer please. I wasn't in the mood to drink but I also wasn't in the mood for pre-pubescent torture... so beer seemed the obvious choice to stabbing the midgets with my utensils. As I took my seat, I noticed that the kids had sippy cups filled, no doubt, with the likes of fruit punch....my personal favorite. Had I asked the waiter to replace my beer with Hawaiian Punch, I think we all know what would have happened...the looks...the gasps...the kiddie table for this SIF. So, I let it go. At some point, the waitress came over and asked what the adults would like to eat. The choices were slabs of beef, fish and potatoes. Fine. That is, until, without warning, the children were served pizza, fries and applesauce. Let me tell you how that felt to me....like watching the groom admit, in front of the entire wedding party that he's been shagging his 70 year mother-in-law and she's pregnant with their love child. Something like that. Are you freaking kidding me? That's a meal fit for a SIF who's tucked safely in her "womb" where she can't be judged. It took everything I had to watch those little rats dip their Pomme Frites in applesauce whilst eating the innards of their pizza and leaving the crust behind as a sign that they lead a much better life than I! Dammit! Shoulda stabbed um while I had the chance....

I dream of the days when I had "people" who would make me whatever I wanted whilst I watched Tom & Jerry and decided who would be the lucky recipient of my intolerable behavior.
The worst thing that ever happened to me was getting sent to my room. You'll recall, that's where Mommy stashed the peanut M&M's....not such a bad deal for a kid like me. Perhaps my "womb addiction" began in the days of Coco Puffs and Mac-n-Cheese. I'm no head shrink but I think someone should have a talk with Mother. I fear she may be to blame for my dependence on childlike substances. I'll leave you with a thought...I use to order fruit punch at business meetings whilst the professional types ordered coffee and tea. I thought they liked me enough to overlook my "Kool-Aid" issues. Apparently not...as I was terminated on the ride home with random strangers in the vehicle. "Your position has been eliminated," was the phrase of choice. Translation, "We gave your job to someone who drinks coffee, fatty." This is the corporate gospel according to "the man." Another day...another reason to binge eat.

The Womb...

The place where it all begins...for most of us. I must admit that I've met a few people along the way that have made me question this theory, but let's go with it for lack of a better answer. When most people hear the word "womb," they picture a warm, safe place somewhere inside the belly...perhaps behind the 400 pounds of chocolate that most pregnant women consume. When a SIF hears the word "womb," warm and safe take on a whole new meaning! Only a true SIF understands how closely related words like "conception" and "consumption" truly are. Picture animals in the wild...the kind who eat their young. I've often had such thoughts. That is why I, in fact, have no "young." I can't be trusted around a fridge, much less a tasty little brat. So I've done the next best thing...I have recreated the womb to accommodate my needs as a fatty...without fearing the long arm of the law. Good upstanding citizen...that's me.


My version of the womb does not require a fish or an egg. I like to keep it simple. Martha Stewart agrees with my theory, by the way. Smart lady...except the part where her theories got her thrown in jail. Not so simple, was it, hussie? However, I have allowed her into my womb...even with a rap sheet. I'm just gonna come right out and say it...Martha and I are sleeping together. No, I am not a Double Whopper (for you new readers...that's a fatty lesbian...and I love the gays so don't go there). I happen to enjoy rubbing my ass all over her 50,000 count sheets. In case you aren't as smart as I'd hoped you'd be, my womb is in fact my bedroom. I realize that some of my readers rode the short bus, so from time to time I like to give away the answers to my blatantly obvious riddles. That's about as compassionate as I get. Moving right along....yes, my bedroom is the womb. It's a palace of perfection fit for a fatty. I've got cable, candy, cock and clothing. I ask you...does it get any better than that? Why sure it does...those are only the "C's!" There's never a bad time of day to plant your fat ass on a Temperpedic mattress along side 400 of the squishiest pillows you've ever felt whilst melting under dim lighting to hide the dents. As if that isn't enough to make an embryo jump ship...the piece with little resistance...I eat in the womb. Granted, no one feeds me, but I'm in to cross training so it works.

Let's do some quick math shall we? Wasn't my best subject in school but I'm gonna give it a shot. If there are 24 hours in a day, take away the 5 hours that I work (clearly an over achiever)...bababababum...that leaves 19 hours...and I spend every minute of those 19 hours in the womb. There's nowhere else I'd rather be. Where else can you eat Taco Bell naked in bed while watching Fit TV? The living room perhaps? I don't think so! Aside from the fact that anyone who saw me naked would risk immediate death, the couch is leather...leather and a bare ass is not only painful but the acoustics aren't ideal for the gassy nights. It just doesn't work... under any circumstance. I also find the living room very open and cold. The womb has warm colors painted on the walls, expensive room darkening blinds to keep out the curious (clearly doing them a favor) and... well, the Rabbit. "He" is not allowed out without supervision. I have certain friends (you know who you are) who would take any opportunity to kidnap my purple penis of pleasure. Back off bitches. He likes the fatties. Yes, there are some draw backs to my womb. Crumbs in the bed, my husband, crumbs in the bed, my husband...you get the point. The benefits clearly outweigh the draw backs. I often wonder why it's so easy to get the crumbs out of my bed yet my husband refuses to budge? I can usually solve that problem by making him watch a few episodes of "Snapped" whilst giving him the crazy eye. Whoda thunk that antifreeze was the murder weapon of choice amongst housewives? I hear it tastes sweet...fatties beware! I'd much rather slip him Cialis and get a rise out of him....

If you haven't created a womb for yourself (and I suspect you have without knowing it), you really should. Every fatty needs a place to call her own. A place where she can binge, bang and belch without the fear of retaliation. I'm 2 out of 3 on that last statement. Someone once told me, "You fly I'll buy," whilst trying to get me out of the womb for a Taco Bell run. "That's a pretty good offer for a girl like me."---random Pretty Woman reference. However, not even monetary compensation can lure me from the depths of the womb. That's why they have delivery. Now if I could just get them to bring it into the womb all would be right with the world. Working on that....

New Blog

Coming tomorrow.....stay tuned.
SIF

Trash Talk

As you are well aware, I often watch TV with my husband. I remain steadfast in my quest for sex and not even "Man TV" can deter my efforts to fight for a bone every now and again. I sit through hours of everything from football to aliens waiting for the right moment to strike...aka half time or commercials. And you wonder why I choose food over men? It's called "ROI" sisters...Return on Investment. I can put in a good 10 seconds at the drive through and get hours of pleasure dipping my lovely golden nuggets in decadent honey mustard sauce OR I can spend hours watching aliens fly over the White House in hopes of 5 minutes of ecstasy. Damn nuggets win hands down! However comma, every so often my premeditated television agenda produces a nugget of it's own. I bring you, once again, to the Discovery Channel. Word of warning...if you are a freak...The Discovery Channel will find you! You never know what you are gonna see on that damn channel...parasitic twins (which for the record is what I believe to be growing under my arm...I shall name her "Little Debbie"), people who want to shag their kin due to some phenom called genetic attraction and the icing on the cake...people who think they have mastered the art of losing weight! It's just F'n disturbing...I know this.

Let's just cut to the chase and talk about the most disturbing of them all...the Fat Busters. Allow me to back up and say that there were three groups of "experts" profiled on this particular segment. Of the three, only two laid claim to weight loss genius. The 3 rd group was clearly eating the food left behind by the first two but I'll get to them later. Let's start with divine intervention shall we? Because apparently losing weight is all the rage in Heaven! Whodathunk?! According to the "Weigh Down" program..."why you can just eat whatever your little heart desires because Jesus himself will save you from your plate!"-- said very quickly with the thickest of southern drawls. Yes, the woman who said that makes all of her money from televangelism, wears far too much makeup, has enormous blond hair and cries on cue. Oh and can sing well. What is it about these overzealous Christian types having good pipes? If someone would have told me that loving the Lord meant I could sing like Lita Ford...I wouldn't have skipped out on Sunday school back in the day! Now I'm 37 and overweight. Not a good look for today's rocker. Shameful. Anyway, her theory is based on a belief called self-control. I know. I had to look that one up too. In "her world", you wear gaudy suits and pearls to the table, eat with at least 6 naive friends and fill up your plate with whatever you want to eat. Sound heavenly? It's about to. Let the trickery begin...before anyone is allowed to eat said food, everyone must pray to God for portion control. I swear I can't make this shit up! I've said that prayer more than the Hail Mary itself and it's gone unanswered more times than my cries for sex! ** Pause for sign of the cross as I fear I am being taken into the depths of hell**

Let's expand on the visual...you and your 6 dumb friends are sitting around a large table, overdressed, hand in hand, praying that you won't attack and kill whatever is on your plate. Then, after praying to the Lord for strength, you begin to shed a tear and realize that you really don't want those fries...and your burger...hell no! Umm...yeah...no. I don't know about you, but praying makes me hungry. In fact, the first place I go after church is to the grocery store. That is unless I'm really hungry. Then I go to McDonald's. "They" say not to go to the grocery store on an empty stomach. Just following the rules. Anyway, this lady is a whack job! As much as I believe in everything being possible through God, I am living proof that some things are just not possible! I attend church every Sunday. I pray. I am a fairly good person minus the drinking, cussing and the lust I carry for Brad Pitt. Sort of a "Mother Theresa" in black if you will. So if I can't get one prayer of portion control answered....NO ONE IS! However it appears there is money to be made in getting people to pray themselves thin. This hooka is makin a mint with her "Weigh Down" BS. If things get tight this winter I may have to shed a few tears and join her on channel 269 whilst leaving good food on the table and deceiving my fatty friends. Desperate time...desperate times.

Moving right along to the 2nd group of crazies. They believe in caloric restriction. Interesting. Fascinating. So they do the following: eat a small breakfast, smaller lunch and do jumping jacks instead of eating dinner. One word comes to mind....HUNGER! Is it a newsflash that caloric restriction results in weight loss? I don't think it takes a mental giant to wrap that one up in a bun! The problem is.....PEOPLE LIKE TO EAT AND NO ONE IS OPTING FOR JUMPING JACKS OVER APPLE JACKS, FLAP JACKS OR JACK IN THE BOX... F'RS! I shall waste no more time away from my late night snack talking about these caloric restricting cardio quacks. We have better things to talk about...like dumpster diving!

Have you ever heard of Freegans? In a nutshell they are eating all of the food that the last two groups of whack jobs walked away from! They are dumpster divers and I love them! They move in the middle of the night and prey upon unsuspecting bags of trash left behind by the wasteful. One woman said she hadn't bought groceries in years. She simply went out at night and found what she needed....in the trash. I don't know what your trash looks like, but I'm confident she'd be hard pressed to find any value in mine! Hell, what I don't eat I lick. What I can't lick I scrape. What I can't scrape I add to water and wait. About the only thing you'll find in my trash of any use are 3 free issues of Playboy that I'm keeping from my husband. As soon as he finds out that all women don't have pot holes in their ass...I'm done for. Stir that in your coffee. As much as I was impressed by the Freegans ability to live on the waste of others, I had my concerns. How could I incorporate this lifestyle to fit a fatty? Picture this...you are driving through the streets of NYC after attending the MET. You get caught at a red light. It's late and there's no one to call so your eyes start to wander. Off in the distance you see something emerging from a dumpster behind the local Krispy Kreme. You wait patiently trying to figure out what it is you are seeing. It's too big to be a rat and not big enough to be a garbage truck. It appears to have two sides, a split down the middle and 2 legs that get bigger at each end. As the figure pulls itself from the dumpster you can see two eyes and a face covered in glaze. Then, it lets out it's signature calling card, "Belch!" Mystery solved. I give you the Freegan Fatty. Who wants to see this? It's bad enough that we consume more than our fair share on a good day! Now we are being encouraged to steal leftovers from the less fortunate. I won't let the fatties go out like that. Until such time that we can no longer afford our 10,000 calorie a day habit, we will pay for our food. No one wins when a fatty goes Freegan. You could lose and eye looking at that.

I figure I'll be fat unless one of the following miracles takes place: Divine intervention, Cartwheels for dinner or a Freegan gives my husband porn from the dumpster. I'd say the odds are in my "flavor." I think God forgets to put in his miracle ear when it comes to my requests, I can't in fact do a cartwheel and I purposely fill the trash can with dog dung to keep away unwanted guests. Clearly I must be butter cause I'm on a roll! Badabumbum.

Rock this...

Imagine 18,000 people running through Virginia Beach, as fast as they can, at the crack of dawn to the tune of everything from old school rap to heavy metal. I bring you to the Rock-n-Roll Half Marathon 2009. What on earth does this have to do with food and fat...alot. If you know anything about running, you know that it in addition to having top notch running shoes, you must train endlessly... for pre and post race meals. "They" call it "loading" and "replenishing"....I call it... grazing. Trust me when I tell you that I've logged countless hours mastering this particular skill. It requires a delicate balance of non shock to the system (via too much healthy food) whilst replenishing fat stores. Of particular concern, post race skinny cells sending distorted messages of non-hunger. This is how many a fatty go down. If you retain nothing else, chew on this: "At no point in time is it acceptable to succumb to a message of
non-hunger!" I will provide you with a short yet effective rebuttal to such internal insults: RETURN TO SENDER! It's trickery and it's sick...just sick. A true SIF prepares for this sort of debauchery by meal planning at least 13 weeks in advance. You won't find that in Runners World, by the way. Why? Because that trash mag is run by the "other team" of course! I'd rather catch a fatty reading Cooking Light before I'd bear witness to readership of a mag run by pace making, seaweed eating Skinagers! Buy Oprah...she's a well seasoned fatty and I appreciate her willingness to exceed the caloric thresholds set forth by a society that clearly has no respect for the benefits of emotional eating. Jumping off my fat wagon...

If you've never run one of these races, you may not be able to grasp the concept of a fatty running a half marathon. Here's the trick...If you can get past the "What not to wear" crowd, the vision gets alot prettier... I promise. Yes, even the SIF struggle with exercise fashion conscientiousness. How does that old saying go...oil and water don't mix? Nor do a size 22 and spandex. Never. No matter which way you squeeze it, shake it or tuck it...it's still a foot long sub stuffed into a sandwich bag. It's nauseating, distracting and criminal all in one glance. Not for nothin....large contents in small packages sweat more than your average cargo and 13.1 miles is a long way to travel in solitary confinement. And that will serve as the "smellovision" portion of the story.

***Pause for puking in mouth and clearing of highly disturbing visions***

Now, where were we...oh yeah...fatties are runners too. I will freely admit to being beaten by runners with far more junk in their trunk than I'm sportin. Whilst it doesn't thrill me, I'm fat...so I "get it." They have trained their feral fatty to take over when hunger pangs strike thus propelling them forward at unimaginable Kenyan like speeds. So let's say they are at...oh I don't know...mile 1 for example ...and they catch a glimpse of the "Hot and Now" sign flashing at a nearby Krispy Kreme (these dangers lurk). Someone like myself may not notice such a landmark because...well probably bcs I was smelling the bacon waffling from some seedy breakfast joint where all the smart people were. Anyway, this vision sends a signal to their inner feral fatty, which in turn sends a signal to the brain to pick up the pace and then before you know it...the fatties have their own car following them to the finish (runners will "get that"-- all others should become runners if they want to get my jokes-- get crackin). As you can see, I don't stand a chance against a feral, spandexed fatty screaming, "Hot and Now" whilst running for the finish. Personally, I save that phrase for sex, and as you are well aware, I don't get to use it often. Moving right along...

I always enjoy the pre-race expo because...well because they give out free food! Granted we are talking power bars that taste like sand covered road kill and the crowd favorite....smoothies laced with everything you would never eat if you tasted it solo...but you gotta play the game. You walk slowly by these evil vendors and say things like, "Oh sorry, I'm allergic to nuts"
or "Yeah, gosh gee I wish I wasn't lactose intolerant." It allows for a smooth transition to the vendor with "my kinda power bar"...Snicka's! Yes, that's Snickers...as in the candy bar. Instead of taking cardboard and trying to make it taste like a candy bar, they take a candy bar and hide the cardboard! It's freakin genius. Don't even know that shizzle is in there! That's how ya do it folks! God I wish more runners were fat so they could appreciate these sorts of gems! Are you even processing the fact that you can eat a candy bar whilst you are running....OK I'm getting too worked up...must move along or I may have to run to the 7-11 for one...

After the grazing portion of the expo you have to do official stuff like pick up your T-shirt....the second reason I run. Why they give this out before the race has always baffled me. Feed me, cloth me and expect me to show up for the race...high unlikely. When I gave my credentials to the T-shirt man to retrieve said apparel he said the following, "Large?" Where does it end, I ask you? I decided he needed a good dose of my sarcasm, "Objects in front of you may appear smaller than they actually are." He wasn't amused. Nor was I. Then it was off to buy food in the form of "Goo." Liquid motivation if you will....for those of us who's feral fatty likes to nap whilst running, this sugar filled spooge provides a little kick until such time as post race grazing can commence. After consuming everything free, I decided it was time for some training...in the form of a pre-race graze. Typically, I eat 3 or 4 plates of pasta, a couple loves of bread and a salad drowning in Ranch. Failing to plan is planning to fail...as they say. However this year would be different as I was under the gun to make a 7 pm movie. I decided if I watched Julie & Julia, I would be adding a "food movie" to my pre-race training thus securing my position as the 17,999 finisher. I know...I am so FREAKIN good!

No part of my plan included entering a fine Italian restaurant that smelled of fresh bread and homemade pasta sauce, only to have a glass of water and leave! I dare say I'm still scarred by this experience. However, when you have 25 minutes to eat, you need a place where you can shovel and run. I bring you to the Golden Corral. I venture to guess that Tara and I were the ONLY runners patronizing this 5 star establishment. Look...with 10 bucks and 25 minutes things get ugly fast. To spare Tara's reputation as a cross over fatty I will only say this, "That bitch can eat!"...and I'll leave it at that. Ok I thought I could stop there but I can't....there were patrons (being kind) sitting adjacent to us... clearly without dental plans, making payments on pick up trucks with fly strips denoting their bitches, spending their last $10 on dinner... only to be mortified by the shit shoveling hussie across from me who drove to the Corizzle in a Beamer that refuses to make pit stops at Walmart! Me, I just ate my 10 plates under the cover of fat. Given the clientele, I run on the lighter side. Had to save room for the movie, so I forceably removed Tara from her plate.

The movie was great! Every other word was butter or writer! Harmonious. I failed to mention the pit stop I made at Target for movie essentials. Pretty much everything from Swedish Fish to Twizzlers. What's candy without popcorn? A crime! I ate my way through an entire bag of popcorn, a few hundred Junior Mints and half a pail of lemonade. I was as close to comatose as one could get. Of course I couldn't get my pre-race sleep on bcs I kept thinking about going out to breakfast instead of running. It didn't help that Tara agreed to the plan on race morning. Damn I need new friends! "You don't look fat....we don't have to run...let's go to breakfast." Who needs enemies with friends like this, I ask you?! Somehow we managed to pull off a great run. I've gone over it 100 times....must have been the Corizzle/movie combo. I'll be doing that again next year. 13.1 miles aint that far to go for a whole day of post race eating! My ritual is as follows: wake 5am, run 7am, McDonald's 12 pm and 12:10pm - midnight....everything from the left over! God I love running.

I certainly didn't finish first and I was fortunate enough not to be last. Every year I dream of running faster than the last. When that doesn't happen, I fall back on fatty logic for comfort. FAST is just FAT without an S. I can think of alot better things to do with an "S"...like sleep, sex and see Brad Pitt. And I'm spent!

Sniff on this...

As you are well aware, the grocery store is not a safe place for a SIF. I've made my position on cart aggression, inner vs. outer aisle and impulse eating prior to checkout quite clear. I had no immediate plans to revisit this issue, as I find it far too traumatizing. Thanks to a random "meat sniffing fatty", we are "going there" one last time. I warn you, what you are about to read is not appropriate if you are eating, want to eat or just ate. Names have been changed to protect the innocent who may have been in the process of binge eating whilst bearing witness to this crime. We must never speak of this again...

I bring you to Monday morning...the day I go to the supermarket for sandwich meat. Sound strategic? Good, because it is. Monday, as you know, is "New Me Monday" aka " Diet Day." Everything good begins and ends on Monday. What better day to buy sliced sandwich meat? In my world, no one else would be buying sandwich meat on Monday bcs they did their shopping on Saturday or Sunday. Or maybe their version of "New me Monday" involves salads or even worse not eating! My version...sandwiches instead of burgers. Simple yet effective. Whatever the case, I don't expect to hear a cattle call at the deli counter whilst I am in ear shot on "New me Monday." Remember me telling you what "Dr. So & So" said back whenever...."That which you run from will appear in front of you"...well SHE did! Let me be clear, as much as I love a good fatty, I don't seek them out on their turf! That's asking for trouble. That's how you get bit! Not to mention, I can easily hideout somewhere between FAT and PHAT if I wear the right outfit (CYAC-- Cover Your Ass and Cankles-- yes I have a dance to go with it just like the YMCA but no one likes to see a fatty get her groove on now do they?) However, if you get too close to FAT when you are PHAT...well then you are just fat. No two ways about that. That's why I keep at least 12 lbs of distance at all times. All times...except this time!

What disturbs me more than Splenda? I'll tell ya... the lack of an organized line at the meat counter! For the most part I believe that all people want to do the right thing most of the time. That is except when it involves food. Believe me when I tell you this particular moral dilemma crosses the line into skinnyville. I don't know what happens to people when they are waiting on food but I liken it to the feral fatty in all of us. No matter what the outside appearance, we all want our food NOW! Believe me when I tell you that I know precisely who got in line when, how long we've been waiting and who's most likely to jump the line. For that reason I prepare for battle long before the brawl. I typically hang back, grab some free bread and cheese samples and make small talk with the shift workers in an attempt to gain favor. That works about 22.5% of the time, fyi. As any good fatty would, I keep one eye on the line to make sure my scandalous behavior doesn't result in someone jumping ahead. I think we all know I'd sooner bitch slap the Pope than allow someone to eat before me! *Pause for random sign of cross** Let's talk about how this plan can backfire. I was gabbing with the chick who has my dream job (cake decorator) and thinking about how nice it would be to have her job (until I got fired for licking the icing off the knife), watching the potential line jumpers with one eye and rotating the other eye between the meat cutters (they must be watched at all times...they are known for picking the wrong person for the next round of slaughter). It always feels like I'm in complete control. In my mind the only potential hazard is ME line jumping for a cake. However, I soon learned that danger can lurk from behind!

As my tactical warfare was playing out, I heard random sniffles coming from just behind my neck. I wanted my meat as bad as the next fatty but tears? Nope. Not tears. Sniffles. Nope. Not sniffles of sadness. Sniffles of pleasure and I was the pleasure! What the F?! I turned around half hoping Brad Pitt had come to his senses only to find 274.3 pounds of woman sniffing my neck! "Mmm you smell good," she said. I assumed she was what I call a "Double Whopper" (Lesbian Fatty) and said, "Thanks." I turned back around hoping she would...I don't know...see the cake lady, figure it was her version of a BOGO and lose interest in me?! Not so much. Moments later, the sniffing...again. "You smell fresh... like you just got out of the shower," she said. Great. Now she was picturing me naked smelling good! "I did," I said. I figured if she was that into me I'd let her have her moment. "It's so light and fresh," she persisted. Finally I just went straight (no pun intended) 5th Avenue on her ass and said "It's Versace," and quickly turned my head. No one likes an snooty fatty, right? Wrong. She loved me even more.

I soon realized that whilst we were both in search of meat, one of us would be going home empty handed! My sticky note said "Honey Ham and Turkey" but when called upon to order I simply said, "I'll take 10 pounds of the thickest all beef wieners you have." It was a signal to the "Double Whopper" that I was not a "Vagatarian" no matter how good it smelled! I gave her a wink as I walked away from the meat counter. She returned my wink with a look that said, "Have it your way." If your a true fatty...you'll get that one!

Making Sense....

Just when I think I am running low on material for the blog, I manage to stumble upon someone or something that makes me stop eating long enough to take notice. That's no small feat. I'm known for watching FIT TV while consuming Taco Bell...I aint no rookie. So the husband was watching one of those dumb science shows the other night. If ever I needed a reason to binge eat, I certainly found it via the Science Channel! I don't really care to see the latest discoveries unless they directly benefit me. Allow me to elaborate: "Chocolate covered multi-vitamins", "Brad Pitt flavored Popsicles", the "do it himself husband"...just to name a few. But they never talk about cool stuff like that. They go on and on about a robot that vacuums (I think they call her "a woman!") and how they can grow appendages. I got news for you...I can grow appendages! Me and Little Debbie figured that one out years ago... Einstein! I can go from no ass to ghetto bootie in 30 days...yet the Science Channel has yet to ring me. Interesting how the fatties are shunned by the left brain community. Fatscrimination is what it is.

If I actually sit through an entire hour of the Science Channel, I do so for one reason and one reason only. The very reason I do everything as it relates to my husband...sex. While I am typically left holding an empty bag of Doritos and a rabbit, a girl can hope for change now can't she? However, this one night they did a bit on something that actually caught my attention. Apparently there are these people who senses are all jacked up. They hear in color. So if I say something like "Excuse me, are you going to eat that?"they see a big fat ribbon of colors. I assume fat translates across the senses anyway. To make matters worse (hold onto your ho-ho's), there are even people who hear in taste! If ever there was an affliction that had my name written all over it...this was it! For years I just knew I'd get AIDS or Cancer or worse yet...Cankles. Never did I dream of a genetic disorder that would allow me to taste words! Let's face it...words are the only thing on the menu I haven't tried! Being that I was born to the "Heavenly Hash Queen," it seemed I was a perfect candidate for this mutation! No such luck. The man being profiled said that when spoken to, he gets certain tastes in his mouth. He claimed the interviewer tasted like pineapple. I found that statement a bit racy for cable but I assumed he was speaking of her voice. I wondered what I would taste like. Grizzle. Clearly. I just couldn't imagine walking around all day tasting different flavors every time someone spoke to me. I guess it wouldn't be much different than my current daily routine... imagining what I'm going to eat every second of the day! Tasting it would just be a bonus! Mmmm.

I was only a few days into recovering from watching the Science Channel, getting no sex and realizing that I would never taste words when the left brainers bitch slapped me a second time. I was watching the news and praying for the announcement that my Asian pal Phen-Fen would be allowed back into the country, when they announced what was sure to be a blow to the fatty community....a tree that smells like chocolate chip cookies. Wonderful. Who da thunk Mother Nature to be a SIF? Perhaps this was her way of bringing the universe full circle. What better way to get the fatties to walk off some calories...why we'll line the woods with trees that smell like chocolate chip cookies! She's good! So if you happen to be out on a lonely trail in the woods and come across a large woman licking bark, you have your answer!

Food Fight

I never understood the concept of "the food fight." Who wastes calories by throwing food at someone for pleasure? Sure if it's something I don't like to eat, but that narrows the playing field down to brussel sprouts and blue cheese. Food is not a weapon. Food is the ultimate pleasure(aside from shagging Brad Pitt). If I happen to be eating (which I usually am) and a food fight breaks out, you can bet I'll be the first one to leave the room. I do not fear authority. I do not fear the schmear of green peas sliding down my gorgeous face. I FEAR...someone taking the food I intended to eat away from me....no matter what the reason. If I have mentally prepared myself to eat said food, it shall not leave my plate until it enters the cavernous hollows of the back of my throat. End of story. If someone were to take said food off of my plate, proceed to chuck it across the room and allow it to land anywhere in close proximity to another human, the feral fatty in me would take over. Picture Sissy Spacek in "Carrie"...replace prom scene with cafeteria scene, turn blood into catsup and imagine someone has just stolen my ham patty. Don't make me go "Carrie" on your ass.



As you can see, food is near and dear to my heart. However, I did not realize that food would be there for me in my time of need. I need you to stay with me on this one. I'm going to ask you to picture something that may seem like a bit of a stretch. Something that you may not imagine possible. Ready? Reach deep here...pretend that sometimes... for no apparent reason...your husband acts like an asshole. I know...it never happens...but it did...to me. I had just left church after praying for single digit returns. I know God isn't vain but I can't imagine heaven is big enough for the entire fatty clan. I wonder if Little Debbie will go to heaven... lying whore. Anyway, I decided I would cook my husband a really nice dinner bcs....no not bcs he had done something to deserve it... bcs I was hoping to get a little "sompin sompin" later and I definitely needed this dinner to use in the bartering process. That's what sex becomes when you get married...a trade off. I feed you...you bang me. Somehow that part wasn't explained to me at the alter when I was refusing to say "obey." Anyway, I figured the worst thing that could happen was that I would eat well and pass out from a food coma. Happy wife happy life.

Where there is a good deed in the making there's a man waiting to throw his wrench into the plan. Little did I know that my subliminal fatty had my back when it came to planning this meal. I had just returned from the store when said husband asked me to do him a favor. No, not that kind of favor. It's never that easy. I had $60 worth of food that would bring that fantasy to life...or so I thought. No, the husband wanted me to proof read something for him...and thank God he asks for help in that area. We all love a little spellcheck... but I'd venture to guess Stevie Wonder would have had more success correcting this document! Anyway, I didn't want to do it bcs I thought what he was doing was pointless. Imagine that, a man doing something pointless. Again, we are in our "special place"...stay with me. I must have been mumbling under my breath (so unlike me...hee hee) and he finally broke. "Don't F'n do it then!" Hark! Did my husband just drop the "F" bomb in my presence? He knows better. That word is only to be used as a verb....that's the standing rule in our house! How dare he? I began to panic. No not bcs of the looming tension. Put on your fatty cap...I just spent $60 on food and now who's gonna eat it?! Well I am of course! Problem solved. Except the part where the sex comes in. Oh well. Looks like Bugs Bunny and I will be meeting up in the spare room again.

As I prepared dinner I realized something....I was ready for this battle. The "enemy" had no idea that the very food I was preparing would be the perfect outlet for my anger. Let's review the menu shall we? Filet Mignon topped with jumbo lump crab meat, corn on the cob, twice baked potatoes, asagio cheese bread and a nice bottle of Chilean red wine. If you're not salivating, you are not human...or worse...you are skinny. Find another blog sista! I prepared his steak to perfection..."raw" just like his mouth and his attitude. Watching the blood drain from such a fine slab of meat made my eyes get all big and I chuckled in that "crazy" sort of way. To top off this menstruating piece of beef...Jumbo lump crab meat. Who says you can be a crab and eat it to? Not me! Moving onto the potatoes. I took great pleasure in scraping the guts out of his spuds only to return said parts to the respective potatoes laced with skim milk and low fat cheese. Yummy. He so loves the low fatties. I sampled the Asagio bread only to be left with a sour taste in my mouth. How fitting. As I boiled the water for the corn I wondered how it would fit into the scheme of things. Why yes, I would just imagine that I was shoving it up his ass while he shouted "F, F." Not in the verb form either. Why not? Everyone knows corn doesn't digest anyway. Might as well stick it where it ends up and save some strain on the ole digestive tract. Last but not least there was the Chilean red wine. I knew exactly how this particular piece fit into this puzzle. If one were so advantageous as to translate the name on the bottle, it would read as follows: "Cellar of the Devil." Where else would one find such a fine wine for the occasion?

He ate the bloody steak, the low fat baked potatoes, the bread and even the corn. Turns out he likes it raw, cuts his corn off of the cob and doesn't mind a sour taste in his mouth. Shocker. He did not, however partake in the wine. That's fine. I sat silently, ate my meal , drank with the Devil and met up with the rabbit sans a sour taste in MY mouth. Fatties: 1 Husbands: 0

Dead Weight

Last week was a very strange and busy week in Fattyville. Being a binge eater I can only take some much stress before I crack....open just about anything I can shove in my mouth. I've often wondered if I was a true stress eater or just an all out fatty looking for any excuse to gorge. So... I got a call on Monday night informing me that I guy I knew was killed while running (struck by lightening). That's three people I know who have died running in the last 7 years. Ummm...yeah. Not so random anymore. It's only gonna take 1 more of those phone calls before I trade in the running shoes for my fantasy sport of choice... competitive eating. My back up plan is to give the "Black Widow"a run for her money. For those of you who don't keep up on competitive eating ( and you should) the "Black Widow" is a champion on the hot dog eating circuit. Much like me, she weighs in at around 100 pounds and can pack away about 50 hot dogs in 10 minutes. Ok so maybe we only share in the latter part of that statement but if she's 100 pounds and can eat like that...I hereby crown her an official SIF! And not for nothing...if I was famous and in need of an alternative name..."Black Widow" would be high on my list. Any "woman" who's signature move is to have sex with her mate and then "dispose" of him is ok in my book. You go spida!

After receiving the news of the 3rd death in my running circle, I reacted much as you might expect. I made a huge bowl of popcorn, loaded it with butter/salt, engulfed the whole thing and topped it off with a Krispy Kreme. Tears are overrated in my world. When I woke up the next day, I decided to blow off some steam and go for a run. Given my desire to stay amongst the living, I'm not sure why running seemed like a good option but I went with it. Perhaps it was the Krispy Kreme burps that stuck with me from the night before that motivated me. Can't be sure. I was only about 1/4 mile down the road when I almost became "one of those phone calls." As I was crossing the street and a large dog decided to befriend me in the form of a tackle! There's only one person that's allowed to greet me in that fashion...Brad Pitt. Reality set in and I realized that unless Brad Pitt had rank smelling dog breath and walked on a leash with a woman quite a bit less attractive than Angelina, I was in trouble! There I lay in the middle of Bay Drive wondering what kind of car was going to take me out. I always wanted a Porsche so maybe that would be it. I would be killed by the car I always wanted to buy. Sorta fair I guess. Stress level high. If only I had a candy bar, I would have been eating it. Better yet, if I had been running with someone else they would have been in the middle of the road with everyone staring at their "wears." (Tip--I always run on the inside...it's like wearing black...makes you look thinner). Imagine that in one moment, through no fault of your own, the whole world could see your muffin top, banana rolls and cottage cheese thighs. Certainly enough to spoil anyone's appetite. Traumatized but not dead. Fatties: 1 Grim Reaper: 0

After that incident I decided that the rest of the week had to get better. That's what people say when they know it's about get worse! Since blowing off steam in the form of exercise was proving to be dangerous to my health, I decided to blow off steam by meeting my girlfriends for lunch. Ranch dressing has yet to harm me. *sign of the cross* So we met at one of my favorite places and even get a hot waiter. Score! I placed my usual order....bla bla with a side of ranch. When lunch came the hottie waiter started losing points as soon as he opened his mouth. He brought me this anorexic size side of ranch as if that was acceptable. Duh! Being that I was going to all but bathe in it, this was going be an issue. I asked that he come to his senses and rectify this situation immediately if not sooner. And he did....until he said the following, "Here's your BIG side of ranch." Perhaps this doesn't sound disturbing to you, but I don't like to hear the word big from a hot guy in relation to anything that pertains to me. However, there was no way around it. I needed the ranch worse than I needed his affection. Oh and I'm married so we were doomed from the start. Besides my husband loves me... ranch n all. I let the incident slide and continued dipping everything but my face into the BIG side of ranch. I ate until it hurt and summoned the hottie back to the table for the check. He couldn't just be a good hottie and do as I asked. He had to speak. "How about another diet?", he asked. Why? Is the diet I'm on not working for you?! Bastard! I proceeded to tell him that in the span of 40 minutes he had used the word "big" in my presence and suggested that I opt for another diet. He was confused....and hot...and that's just how a SIF likes them. I don't find any of this a coincidence by the way. A true fatty can pick out these subtle digs. And for the record I like everything BIG and I'm always in need of another diet! Hot guys should never speak and SIF should get all meals delivered to their home. Ughum.

I managed to survive the rest of the week thanks to M&M's...not the peanut or the plain...I speak of Martini's and McDonald's. There's nothing like paying $50 for Vodka and washing it down with a $5.99 #2 combo. I think more rich people would eat this way if they knew of the fine cuisine prepared by Ronaldo McDonald. They really need to get out more. In any event I've decided to keep running until I get run over by a car I can't afford to buy (translation...I'm being taken out buy a 89 mini van) or Brad Pitt. I can only hope Brad brushes his teeth before our next chance encounter!

MIA...in 80's

I know...where have I been?! Sorry for the lack of fat deposits. I've been...verging. I have so much going on and yet I seem to get nothing done. Translation...I've been over eating and hiding from you. Here's a rundown of my latest ventures:

Def Leppard Concert
If you think this is a musical ensemble of mute jungle creatures...you are partially right! Every year when Def Leppard comes to town I transform into the ultimate groupie. 80's hair bands are right up there with apple fritters... and if you don't like them... you are clearly stupid and skinny! My plan was to lose weight, bust out my leather pants, get back stage tickets and leave my husband for...well any one of them that would have me. I would profess my undying love for whichever one bit and live the rest of my life a rock stars wife. Let's see....I ended up in section 202, wearing jeans, weighing in at about 350, peed my pants, lost my friends and left a bartenders wife. Much like the rest of my life, a big FAT disappointment! I did manage to touch Phil Collin's hand (the guitar player) however I'm sure he washed his hand within 2 months of the event unlike me. I make no excuses for myself. There are just certain things from the 80's I refuse to part with: aforementioned Apple Fritters & 80's hair bands, Long John Silvers and Boo Berry cereal. Yes, I am quite a catch.

The Motherland
After barely surviving the Def concert, I headed to upstate NY with my Pork Chop (no I didn't transport the "other white meat" across state lines...he's my dog) to...well I'm not sure what we hoped to accomplish other than some E&E...exercise and eating. The combination of champions.
I always go home when the big fair comes to town because it provides me endless entertainment with a side of self-esteem! When I say "big fair" I should give you a visual: dilapidated rides operated by the "pens" finest, booths that fry everything from Oreo's to small children and a beer tent where the patrons out number the teeth. *Pause for puking in back of mouth* As gross as that sounds...I went every night! I love fried everything and not for nothing...I was actually one of the skinnies in that crowd! So, as I was wandering around the grounds I noticed that the fried dough peeps were looking for someone to travel with the show and make people fat up and down the east coast. The temptation was great but...after much thought (and a funnel cake) I realized that a fatty selling fried dough would be like Magic Johnson selling sex. Just doesn't work. On the last night of the fair there is a big parade that comes right by my parents house. So I plopped my lawn chair in the front yard, grabbed a beer and waited for the passing entertainment to start throwing candy. It's not often a fatty can get away with sitting on her big ass while someone chucks candy at her...and it's perfectly acceptable ta boot! That is until you start shoving small children out of the way to snag a Cow Tail...man I love those things! I must admit I shed a tear when the fair pulled out. Mostly bcs I knew it would be a whole year before I could enjoy funnel cakes and felons again. My Mom (you'll recall her as the M&M hoarding Heavenly Has Queen of the 80's) gave me some good material whilst I was home. Her new saying "I'm still burning." My Mother feels that if she walks 4 miles on Monday and wants a Ho Ho on Friday it's perfectly acceptable bcs...you guessed it "She's still burning." I'm not sure calorie burning extends over a week but I felt like I might could (southern vernacular) use that to my benefit at some point or another so I let it slide. Still burnin Maa!

Writing
So I stopped working in February because the voices in my head told me to do so. I'm not certifiable (well depending on who you ask)...just a writer. I want to write books about all of the crazy thoughts that flow freely through that little area I call my brain. So far the score is Book: 0 Fat: 350. I had one of my friends call a bunch of publishers thinking that if someone expressed interest in me it would get my big ass in gear! Kinda like when you see Jenny Craig commercials and think if she comes into your home you will lose weight. Secret: The food taste like wallpaper, you starve and those lying little bitches on TV gain all the weight back soon after you make the call. Some of the publishers wanted to see a manuscript and others weren't taking on new writers. That baffled me. What if I wrote the fatty version of Harry Potter...."Cherry Cobbler." Bet they wouldn't be turning down that money would they? The worst offenders were the trickster publishers. They act interested, call you, get you all excited and then inform you that you will have to pay THEM to get published! I mean to tell you it psychologically damaged me for a week! It took me back to that day in the 80's when I wanted to be a model. I applied to all of the top agencies. Of course they all said, "No" except one....Barbizon. They wanted me. I convinced myself that they knew they were in the presence of the next Cindy Crawford...sans mole add red hair and freckles. Well...sure enough when it came time to do my portfolio...you guessed it...they wanted $$$! I got news for you Publishers...nobody puts Baby in the corner and I aint paying to get published bcs this time I know I gots the goods! That being said I'm sure I'll be stroking a check any day now. "Deflected childhood model writes best seller"- look for that headline in your local paper.

From Here
I am sending my first 5 book concepts to 2 top publishers this week. As soon as they turn me down I'll be setting up a PayPal link to fund the publishing of my book...kidding! The books will be about women, the issues we face and always have a comedic spin. If you enjoy the blog, send me some feedback. It's your feedback that keeps me consistent. I try to blog (only) when I have something funny to say but I plan to blog at least 1x per week while I'm writing the book. You guys will be the first to know when it's finished and where to get it. I plan on the first one being a biggie...complete with a line of merchandise and errrything! Love you guys!

"Biggie Biggie Biggie can't you see...

Combo #2 just Hypnotized me." Ok so I'm no Biggie Smalls (RIP) but I do know a thing or two about hypnosis. When I said I've tried every weight loss strategy out there, I meant it! Actually there's one I haven't tried bcs the evil doctor won't let me...good ole bariatric surgery. Apparently my BMI hadn't quite tipped the scale far enough in the appropriate direction for such drastic measures. I'm working on that. However, the "crack" and the tremors were getting old so I sought out a new method in the battle of the bulge..... I went Holistic on yur ass! What? Yeah I said it. I decided (back about 2 years ago) that it would be way easier for me to blame my subconscious mind for all of my problems as opposed to me taking responsibility. After all, mother always said, "When in doubt cast blame about." Not my mother per say, but I'm sure someones mother said that at some point. Maybe one of those Lifetime TV cheerleader Mom's. Yeah that's it.

Anyway, this whole "revelation" came about on Valentines Day 2007. Or maybe it was 2006. Do we really care? Valentines Day = chocolate and no good can come of that. So instead of being a good wife and planning an elaborate shag fest starring me as an overweight, deranged Victoria Secret model...I opted for something much more creative.... hypnosis. Was my plan to hypnotize my husband into loving me at any size? Ahh no. Clearly he bears that burden on the regular. No, this was to be the Valentines Day when my husband and I would cast our burdens into the hands of a professional mind manipulator extraordinaire. Yup. I saw his ad right there in the free paper they give out at the Food Lion. Funny that everything would come full circle at the Food Lion but I guess it's an appropriate venue given the circumstance. My husband had no idea we would be giving up chocolate, wine and shagging for mind games but being a wife involves such trickery and I like to think of myself as the resident expert in that area. I should mention that my husband isn't in fact over weight. Actually we are both about the same size. Good for him... bad for me. No, his vice is the cig. Have you ever shared a passionate kiss with a really hot guy only to feel like you just chain smoked a pack of Marlboro's? Then, clearly you have made out with my husband and I don't appreciate it...not one bit...thank you very much!

So this hypnotist man was traveling from northern Virginia for one night only to revolutionize my life and the lives of all the fatties and smokers on the Outer Banks. Clearly he wanted a weekend at the beach and this was a good way to write it off but whatever. If my house smelled less like grease and cigarettes upon his departure, it was a well earned vacation of sorts. When I signed us up for the session I was most pleased to see that it was cheaper to transform one into a non-eater than into a non-smoker. Chalk one up for the fatties! I broke the news to my husband as gently as I knew how. To the best of my recollection it went something like this, "You have two choices for Valentines Day: Stop smoking or divorce." And we were off! I made him take a separate car. All you fatties out there know exactly why I did that! The last supper of course! If I was going to be duped into a life of non-eating I needed to say goodbye to someplace near and dear to my heart....Taco Bell. I knew it wouldn't be easy but it had to be done. I binged, shed a few tears and cleared the evidence from my teeth before entering the building. When I got out of my car, I saw what I thought was my husband exiting his truck. After the plume of smoked cleared I could see that yes, it was in fact him. Our demons were about to be behind us....or were they?

As the Marlboro Man and I entered the Ramada Inn (very sterile/clinical environment for mind trickery), we noticed that there was quite a crowd waiting to get in. I decided it was best to tell people I was there for the non-smoking portion and then run into the fatty session when no one was looking. Sad but true...it's way cooler to be a smoker than a fatty. Turns out...it was all in the same room. Fatties first and then the smokers. I'm sure they wanted to get the fatties in before the dinner bell and allow the smokers one last puff...or 12. Now when I say I'm fat it's true and not true. One wouldn't look at me and say I was "fat." However, if one were to watch me eat and take random dictation as to the number of times I referenced food from sun up to sun down, I think I could pass for a fatty no problem. So when I walked into the room I wasn't greeted with open arms by the other fatties. For once, I was the "skinny one." Doesn't mean all that much when the average weight in the room is 680! I had a plan. Full disclosure. No matter what the traveling mind man asked I would make a full confession and win over the fatties thus securing my right to be in their presence. Worked like a charm. His first question, "Did any of you binge eat today." I raised my hand and confessed that I downed 2 Chalupas, 3 Taco Supreme's and a Mexi-Melt about 30 minutes ago. The fatties sat slient quietly giving me the "eye of approval." The teacher wasn't as pleased with my full disclosure strategy. Nope. He kindly asked that we just raise our hands bcs he wasn't out to embarrass anyone. Ummm teacher....when you weigh a metric ton embarrassment is part of the deal! Freaky traveling mind man!

The mind man assured us that we wouldn't even know we were sitting on hard metal chairs when he was through with us. Nope. We would be so blissfully unaware that we would instantly forget we even had asses! I loved this guy! In my mind I had pictured all sorts of scenarios as to how this would play out: Laying hands on my head as I fall to the ground (no that was a crazy church experience...sorry), talking low and dirty until we all said, "Yes master", making us chant random phrases until we were comatose ...just to name a few. Luckily he gave us a bathroom break before the actual "knock you out" phase began. I didn't have to pee but I remembered I had a mini Snickers in my purse that needed to be "disposed" of. So I went into the bathroom to "dispose" of it. While I was taking care of business I made a bathroom fatty friend! She was alot like me in that she wasn't what one would call "fat." She would be my new hypno BFF. That is until she started interrogating me. "Where do you work? Where do you live? How long have you lived here? Why are you here?" Damn...can't a fatty get some anonymity?! I was very vague and suggested that we go back into the room before all of the good seats were taken. I use the term "good seats" very loosely. I chose to sit in the back of the room where people should sit when they plan to burp up Taco Bell for the next hour. I am, after all, a considerate fatty.

Bla bla ...the actual witch doctor portion was very disappointing. No hitting, no punching, no calling us fat slobs....very uneventful! A little action would have been nice for my $80! I will say that I was very relaxed and did not in fact feel the metal chair as promised. Full disclosure: My ass was asleep along with my brain. We signed a contract to never eat again and were given a CD that we were to listen to every night before we went to bed. Mind games...clearly. I left all my fatty friends promising to stay in touch with random progress reports. We all know that was NEVER going to happen. I would later find that letters and phone calls wouldn't be necessary as I would see them every where I went! Have you ever met someone for the first time and then realized that you have seen them every day for the last 10 years but just didn't know them? Now picture a large herd of cattle crossing the street in front of your house that you didn't notice until the day you chose hypnosis over sex! This is my life. I didn't wait for hubby to finish his anti-smoking torture. I decided it was imperative that I go out into the world and see if food was really dead to me. As I exited the "clinic" aka the Ramada....I was sure my husband would be sleeping with a new woman this evening. Translation...either the mind games worked or I was about to find out he was banging the neighbor!

When hubby arrived home I was happy to report that this fatty was food free! He said he hadn't smoked but...yeah he can't be trusted. That trickery costs more for a reason! We got ready for bed and popped in the traveling mind man CD. It went something like this: "Listen to the rhythm...the rhythm of your life." Umm... the rhythm of my life sounds something like an African drum core so maybe that's not the best venue for relaxing away the food noise! He kept on in his soothing sort of pervy voice and I started to get confused. I wasn't sure if I should grab my rabbit or make a mad dash to bathroom and start flushing Ho-Ho's down the tank! It's a fine line with these witch doctors. Before I knew it we were asleep. Nothing like waking up with big ass Re-Run headphones on and a witch doctor in your ear. I wondered what went on while I was sleeping and he was talking. Was he mentally molesting me? Perhaps. Let's face it... that's more action that I usually get....so I played it on my runs, at work, in the car and when I was alone. Even if I gained 1000 pounds...money well spent.

The end result....hubby is still smoking, I'm still fat and I'm on my 3rd rabbit. We would go back for another round of trickery a year later, pay our $80, see the same people and....well read the first sentence of this paragraph again and you are pretty much up to date! Oh except change the rabbit to 5. I highly recommend it his services.