Tuesday, December 21, 2010

Dear Santa...

Please get here soon. I'm one sugar cookie short of a metric ton. I read the box. Each cookie has 8 grams of fat...before the frosting. Multiply that by 22, divide by 8 carry the 7....yeah math isn't my thing. I can only assume the numbers aren't working in my favor. In addition to gorging myself beyond recognition, I'm sick of being nice to people I don't like in the name of holiday spirit. If I hate you between January and November...it's a safe assumption I'll feel the same way in December. Any outward displays of affection to the contrary should be taken as a futile attempt at scoring a gift. Much like my fake boobies, my tree is one of the genetically altered persuasion. I find fake trees to be perky and without sag. Funny, a $40 tree gets more action than $5000 worth of plastic surgery. Perhaps Santa can fix that. Is it wrong to ask for sex for Christmas? It's what you get the girl who has everything and gets nothing. Maybe he can send me an elf to bang. I can do short if it comes with a good package. I'm an EOF...Equal Opportunity Fatty for those of you who rode the short bus and still should. I'll make sure Santa sends you a shiny new helmet.

Being that I love to cook (about as much as I enjoy a raging case of crabs), I often watch the Today Show to see what everyone's cooking up for the holidays. Beyond annoying. Every food segment is about cutting calories.  It's the socially acceptable eating season! I don't want to hear about the takeaway! Save that shit for January when I reinvent myself for the 38th time. Mind you "old me" will linger into June but I definitely start planning in January. "Use a smaller plate . Have just one cookie and walk away (laughable). Pour your drink on your food when you are full" ( I am personally offended by this one...wasting a good drink to ruin good food all in the name of fullness). I don't need tricks. I gots mad skills. In the name of good will to men...I mean women...I could give a rats ass about willingly giving anything else to men...in any event...in the name of good will to women I give you my holiday secret: Elastic waist pants. Get you one of those disco ball shirts to cover up the band and eat until you are tired. Hell throw on a belt if you feel the need to have a waistline. I don't give a damn. That's how you cut calories....you cut them from the skinny bitches who try all those stupid tricks and end up in the bathroom gorging on the ham biscuits they stuffed in their pockets when they thought no one was looking. I was looking. When it comes to food I'm always looking. I see you. Caloric whores.

As I see it, I have about a week and a half to fit as many calories as humanly possible into what's slowly becoming a non-human like frame. I fear I'm beginning to resemble a Yettie. If I start seeing people randomly snapping pictures and making molds of my foot prints I shouldn't assume it's for a star on Hollywood Blvd?More like a segment on Sci-fi. Fame is fame sisters. I know I'm at the pinnacle of laziness when I get dressed to run in 30 degree weather, head out the door, run 1 mile, come back in the house and eat a donut. It must be December. It's hard to believe in just 1 month I'll be eating salads and reading Fitness magazine again. I hate fuckin salad! Why does every diet consist of stupid vegetables and dead game? Can't we all just get along? My friend Val knows a guy who makes homemade croutons. I think they are the enemy but I feel like I'm gettin one over when I sneak a few.  I hear he fries them in pig fat. Well I didn't say I was becoming a vegetarian did I? I know this, "New Me Monday" is going to be more painful than ever. I have spent the last 3 months working over the food pyramid. I fear it's more of a rectangle of carbs and fat at this point. Sort of like my figure. That's the great thing about being married (notice that statement is not plural)- if you don't give me sex... you get to spend the entire winter lying next to Orca the killer wife...complete with non-pedicured toes and full bush. Yummy. The not so endangered species around these parts.

 So I hope you all get what you want for Christmas. Remember the reason for the season....FOOD! Contrary to popular belief it is NOT better to give than to receive. Unless you are re-gifting in which case just make sure you aren't giving it back to the person who gave it to you. I've done that. My mother in law wouldn't take back her son. I wonder how much wrapping paper it will take to wrap my husband? I'm doing a gift exchange for Brad Pitt. Dr. Drew says Angelina is strung out on heroin so I figured now's my opportunity to show Brad what it feels like not to hit bone. A little fatty reverb is in order. Oh...yeah...mental note...do not include return address when shipping husband to cracked up A-Jo. Merry Christmas Fatties!

Tuesday, December 7, 2010


I don't presume to think Elizabeth Edwards knew what a SIF was...but I want to honor her anyway. She fought the fight. She battled cancer, an asshole husband and never flinched. I don't care if you are Democrat, Republican or fat...you gotta love you some E squared. When I learned (this morning) she had stopped treatment I remember thinking, "I would so run for the border and McDonald's until such time that I could no longer muster the energy." Very sad. Apparently she stopped treatment sooner than the media knew because by the time I came home she had passed. May God rest her soul... and may she strike that two bit cheating asshole of a husband who thought banging a crazy ass skinny chick was a good idea...dead. You have the power girl...use it. No politics here sisters. You fuck around on a fatty....we are comin for ya. Let that be a warning. May God bless you SIF E2 and your family.

Wednesday, December 1, 2010

Suckin Dirty Bird...

Tara says, "Two blogs about how you are going to blog isn't a blog." You can't get anything by her. This is for you Tara. Because you are always one step ahead of me....

So...let's chat, shall we? I (literally) haven't put my fork down in 3 weeks. I live in fear someone will take it away. During the socially acceptable eating season, I like to keep it close my person. I realized something. If I eat with a smaller fork...I can eat just as much. It looks better...but it's fucking irritating. Try stabbing poultry with a kiddie fork. Not pleasant. I became "Feral Fatty Gone Wild" at the Thanksgiving table. I distinctly remember someone saying, "Does she know the turkey is already dead?" Attractive I'm sure.  And all this shit about eating on a smaller plate. So the plate's smaller. Yeah and? Now I have to get up 15 times and refill it! Oh I get it, caloric expenditure. Whatever. Fancy words don't impress me. My kitchen is about 5 feet from the grazing grounds. Next. Whilst I was having trouble separating myself from my fork emotionally (OK & physically), I was taking notes on Mother's comings and goings. If I lived with her 24/7 for 1 week...bestseller on my hands. She lives in another dimension known only to her. Throw out the GPS (which by the way she calls DVR)... you're only hope of getting there is a one way trip down the "8 Shades of Crazy Expressway." The tolls are steep and non-refundable.

So Mother arrived for the Thanksgiving holiday accompanied by her husband 2x over (yes, he did it twice...clearly a saint) and my brother who sometimes doubles as my sister. Look...I have to run my outfits by him before we go out so he's definitely harbouring a vagina somewhere. The worst part, he knows more about fashion than I do. Do you know what Celdon is? I can't even be sure that's how you spell it. Well he does. And he knows what rouge is.  I asked my husband what rouge was. I believe the response was, "How the fuck would I know?" Translation: I think I know but if I say it you'll think I'm gay. Fine. I'm OK with that. No vagina. Back to Mother. She arrived on a Sunday. The Lord's day. Cruel joke. Rumor has it she was holed up in the back seat wrapped in a Spiderman blanket for the entire trip. Sorry Spidey. What else was she going to do? Navigate? Not unless you want to end up in CA. Besides...there was a DVR for that. Sing, perhaps? Suicide by car. She feels signing in school plays back in 1912 qualifies her for American Idol. Not. Picture Lady Gaga's voice...the theatrical version. Crashing the car now. They stopped for lunch. Salads. Who does that? They went on and on about some stupid salad with cranberries. Whatever. My car only stops for things killed & tortured in grease. I don't brake for vegetables. It's UN-American.

They showed up at my house starving. Of course. People on diets are starving, miserable tortured souls. Come running to the fatty for some saving grace. Whatever. I made them chili. Fart your ass off and then tell me all about your stupid salad. For some non-eatin peeps they sure did wipe out a crock a chili. And my septic system for that matter. Mother may appear sweet and innocent. Hook her ass to a tree and she would be just fine. That's all I have to say about that. Like a good Hostess with the Most..ASS...I planned a menu that would force them to eat something other than lettuce, pizza with "light" cheese and no salt. Who lives like this? Put me in a pine box and plant the pansies...for the love of God! I made shrimp scampi. Yum eee. I knew they were scared. They hate garlic. I only used 1...bunch. I knew my Dad would give it a try no matter what. Mother on the other hand was squishing her face into a bunghole about 6 hours before I started cooking. She doesn't like anything new. That's why she married my Dad twice. *random sign of the cross* I give you the one liner that doubles as a compliments/insult. "Mother, what do you think of the shrimp scampi?" "It's good but I'll probably never eat it again." Excellent. She has a way of making you scratch your head and say, "WTF?"

On Wednesday I refused to cook. We ordered pizza. Now I ask you...at what point do the children become the parents and the parents become the children? Why do I find myself telling my Mother, "Please do not talk with your mouth full of food." She gets angry and won't speak to me. Mission accomplished. Seriously! Imagine you are enjoying a juicy piece of cheese pizza and someone turns to you and says, "Kudddy, r u essciited fur thansgivun?"- mouth full of shit. It's quite attractive. It gets better when random pieces of dough land on me. Yum. Dad I see why you went back a second time. The poor man is leading a miserable existence. He secretly told me of an incident that took place prior to their visit. I'm glad I only have 2 readers bcs she wouldn't want the worldwide web to know this. Scene...early morning. Mother comes into the kitchen after hours of applying Mary Kay with a spatula. Dad notices something hanging off the back of her. She insists she hasn't tucked in her shirt yet. Upon further investigation....toilet paper. Yards of it. I think it's time for managed care.

Thanksgiving Day was a tease. My husband brined the turkey whlist bragging about how quickly it would cook. That's why we put it in the oven at noon and ATE AT MIDNIGHT! It's Fatty Christmas Mother F'r! Santa is almost 24 hours late! Attorney on speed dial. We did our annual...let's go out and "earn" our meal run. Had I known I was going to spend the day waiting, I would have sat on my fat ass and cross trained with anticipation...she's my BFF. You know I had appetizers. I can only go so long without eating. The best of both worlds....veggies and HELLUVA GOOD DIP! Ying & Yang. Back to the run. Turtle (my skinny friend who's thyroid hates food...why can't I get that ailment?!) and I took my brother and Dad on the trails. My brother is a new runner. Translation...annoying. It's all about the time & the distance divided by the approximation of the proximate. Yeah I know. Whatever. Here's what it's all about...another helping! No math needed. They even ran to the end of the street and had me pick them up. Fine. I'm driving. This bus makes frequent stops...at McDonald's....oooohhhkay! I settled for the coffee shop, a ham croissant and watching my brother try and mack chicks. Try being the key word. His dick never sleeps. Literally. That's how I know he's not really gay. Just confused. Off white if you will. I wish he were gay. I love the gays.

There was some confusion surrounding our turkey. Mother couldn't figure out why the "suckin" plug wouldn't pop. "Must be something wrong with the suckin a-hole," she said. That's her version of Christian holiday verbiage. By 8pm I was fillin in the blanks! Brine my ass! I think the turkey was angry because we didn't stuff it. I know how I feel when I don't get stuffed. Takes me a while to pop too. So I took a baster, filled it with juice, shoved it in the turkey's ass and released. Amazingly it popped. From one pent up "bird" to another...amen. I managed to drop the deviled eggs on the floor. Mother couldn't get the top on the "suckin" things and failed to share this tidbit with anyone. 10 second rule. *Mental note- don't eat at my house* She's convinced my Tupperware is faulty. She was also convinced they moved the "suckin" mile marker by my house bcs she just knew the 10.5 milepost was before the light when she was here the last time. That's what her notes said. And we never deviate from the notes. Yes Mother. Right before you came there was a massive construction project wherein as the entire Outer Banks was shifted a half a mile to the south. Problem solved.  Dad couldn't believe I made macaroni & cheese for Thanksgiving. I blame it on the south. Everything fatty has roots in the south. Hell, down here Lard is an adjective, verb and a noun. I aint mad at ya. As far as I'm concerned Mother conceived me by way of a fat, highly attractive black man raised in the south. It's the only logical explanation for all that is me.

In what should have been a cute moment between a Grandmother and her Grandogs, she revealed her true feelings...she hates them. Scene...Grandpa goes into the bedroom to read and leaves the door slightly ajar. Porkchop (my bully boy) nudges the door open with his nose to see what Grandpa is doing. As he's walking in, Applesauce (my bully girl) follows him. Mommy (aka me) is laughing and watching them check out Grandpa. Grandma gets wind of the altercation and give me her "gas" face. It's something like a cross between her without makeup, Freddie Kruger & Chuckie. I told her to chill...they were just checking things out. To this she said, "They are trashers. Get them out of there." Trashers? WTF is a trasher? They have never trashed anything. Apparently a trasher is a term reserved for anyone she doesn't want in her bedroom. Dad, I fear you are a trasher. Ahhh a Grandma's love is forever.

It was Mother's "suckin" 65th birthday while she was here. I would have celebrated with her (bcs I love an excuse to eat out and indulge in some cake) but I was otherwise incapacitated. That's code for hungover. I went out with my brother the night before and apparently lost all sense of 1st grade math. 6 martinis + 1 overweight person = 1 overweight drunk person. It wasn't premeditated. Just Manslaughter. My husband text me at 11pm asking if I was bored and should he come out. I told him to stay home...nothing was going on. Imagine his surprise when I rolled in at 3am stumbling drunk. Payback for the pent up "bird." So the gang went to brunch and I stayed home and tossed the cookies I didn't get to eat. It's my worst fear realized. No appetite. Can't eat. Can't drink. Hell must be something like that. I guess I better start sayin "suckin" and wearing toilet paper as an accessory if I have any hope of going to Heaven. Lord hear my prayer.

Wednesday, November 10, 2010


Tis the season. For what? I can’t be sure. Binge eating I suspect. For me, the ball starts rolling in September when I turn 25 for the 42nd time. I get better looking every year. It’s a fact. At least that’s what my husband says. He can’t be trusted. He has an agenda. No cake. That’s been my punishment since I met him. I’m fat. Fat people like cake. Why deprive me on the one day when it’s acceptable for me to indulge? I think he does it on purpose. Blah Blah…I took you to dinner on Saturday and the waiter brought you cake. That was one piece. After “25 years” I think I’ve earned the right to the whole cake, haven’t I? One piece? Who does he think he’s dealing with? I ate the entire top of our wedding cake myself. Well except for the one piece tradition dictated I smear in his face. Waste of good cake if you ask me. Buying me dinner and cake on Saturday doesn’t exempt you from celebratory protocol when my birthday falls on a Monday. There are rules regarding this sort of skewed male logic. If you choose to treat me to a little pre-birthday grazing, fine. I shall play along. However, I still expect to be taken to trough on Monday. And for the record…cake isn’t optional. I’m starting to think we should renew our vows and address this issue as it seems to come up every year. Thank God for the local chapter of Sisters in Fat. They came to the table with a chocolate cake dripping in chocolate icing. I dare say they baked it in a chocolate pan. Now that’s love.

Moving right along. October. Thirty one days of hell. All the deals on Halloween candy start at the beginning of the month. Yet Halloween is all the way at the end. Quite a pickle for a frugal fatty. To buy or not to buy? Buy of course. I just blame my husband. He likes the mini-sized candy treats, so I “say” they are for him. However, he never sees the writing on the wrapper. Unless he looks in the trash. That’s where I dispose of them. Right underneath anything large enough to cover the crime. I tried buying one of those bowls with the battery operated hand that grabs you when you reach for the candy. I guess it’s supposed to scare you into submission? Not so much. I got mad game. It takes the same size batteries as the remote to the TV. Given the state of the economy, we only have 1 set of batteries in the whole house. Suffice it to say the TV wins that battle. Besides, I don’t need a clammy hand grabbing at me whilst I am trying to watch “The Biggest Loser” and enjoy my evening “snack bar.” By the time Halloween rolls around I’m just….angry. At this point I’ve had to buy candy six times. The fruits of my labor are clearly visible. To make matters worse, it’s not appropriate to fight with people under 3 feet tall over sugar. It’s just not. They win by default and I end up looking like a deranged fatty. So unfair. Typically, I don’t allow people to come to my house without calling. Yet on October 31st, I willingly open my home and share chocolate. I must be high from the sugar because this just doesn’t happen to a Sister in Fat. Sharing chocolate? Sharing? I don’t share. Technically it’s not sharing because it’s not my candy. It’s my husbands. Remember?

Time to cleanse the pallet in preparation for Thanksgiving. I dare say the Pilgrims are first generation Sisters in Fat. Think about it. Who else would make a holiday out of eating? I’m sure the world would have you believe there was something more prolific going on there, but I choose to believe otherwise. It’s a SIF holiday. Case closed. I literally eat until it hurts. And then I nap until the hurt goes away. Repeat until midnight. While I am known more for my consumption than my cooking, I do “get my bake on” around the holidays. Mostly because my wallet cannot keep up with my veracious appetite. I bake all sorts of cookies, breads and confections. Mother thinks I go overboard. “How are you going to eat all of these cookies before they spoil,” she says. Since she lost all her weight the woman can’t carry a conversation. Who are you? I fear the brain cells went with the fat cells. Let this be a lesson to all, fat people are by far smarter than the average light weight. “How am I going to eat them before they spoil?” Have you seen my ass? Crisis averted. Christmas marks the end of my stint as Betty Crocker and the death of “old me.” After celebrating the birth of Jesus, I always ask for a parting gift. What? Like you don’t have a Christmas list? Mine is just delayed a bit. Out of respect. It’s the same every year. A miracle….the miracle of “new me.” God help me he must not have on his Miracle Ear because after all these year, “old me” has yet to leave the building! Lord, hear my prayer!

Sunday, November 7, 2010

Be thankful for the love of....

I feel like I am always waiting. Waiting for breakfast, sex, lunch, sex, dinner, sex, my ass to shrink, sex, snacks, my clothes to fit, dessert, Brad Pitt to come around, my husband to wise up & leave, a boyfriend, a bigger thong, elastic waist skinny jeans, bigger tits, a more powerful rabbit, scissors that don't cut into my beef curtains, toes that don't look like dicks, calves, fat free fried chicken, men who can't speak, a free maid, to see my feet, my neighbor to show up naked, a lottery win....I could go on forever. Notice I'm not waiting to lose weight. Mother said one should never aspire to be a loser. Just following instructions for once in my life. I know what you're thinking. "You should be thankful for what you have." Allow me to jump to the next paragraph to address that statement. I'll need the space.

It must be that time of year. All the do-gooders are blogging what they are thankful for. Be thankful for what I have? That leaves me with....two dogs that fart, who snore and get more sex than I do.  A husband who thinks every light in the house should remain on at all times, dirty dishes belong in the sink, cupboard doors look better open, it's appropriate to give himself expensive gifts on my birthday, sex is a 4 letter word, a mystery maid does the housework, random papers look better in piles around the house rather than a filing cabinet, peeing on the toilet seat is acceptable, man grooming is overrated (bcs pube soap is all the rage), toe nail clippings are great accessories for the bathroom sink, stuffing clothes in a drawer is better than folding them, smoking is good for your health, the TV needs to be at 5,000 decibels or he'll miss something, I should be faithful, aliens are coming for us, Fox news is fair and balanced, cleaning gives you the clap, to-do lists are to-do some other time, the garbage takes itself outside and rolls the cans to the curb, Edward Scissor Hands will come and take care of the yard work, a nice man from Harris Teeter comes home with me to carry in the groceries, the most important bill in the house is the NFL Sunday ticket and my personal favorite...that I'm not fat. Gee...I'm just gushing with gratitude.

I would bet my last donut some of you think I am this miserable fatty who'd rather be married to Kernel Saunders. While there are some obvious advantages to a union of this magnitude, you couldn't be farther from the truth. I feel quite a sense of empowerment in my current situation. It's like hanging out with ugly people. You are bound to look better. Mother always said, "Be humble. If people feel sorry for you, they will be more likely to give you things." If that were true I'd be fucking the neighbor. Once again her skewed ghetto logic has led me down the path of oppression.  What could anyone give me that's so different from what I have? Is there a man out there who cleans, cooks, puts away the dishes, does laundry, fucks on the regular AND doesn't mind a fair amount of junk in the trunk? I think not. And don't even think about emailing me stories about how amazing your man is or I'll be forced to send you pictures of him humping his admin. The truth shall set you free. There are 2 people who have the ability to change the course of my life....Jenny Craig and my Gay Husband. Here's the problem....I can't stand that bitch Jenny Craig and there are no gays on the OBX willing to come "out" for the reward of being my Gay Husband. I'm just gonna have to "out" one of those bitches my damn self.

If you think I am making this shit up...ask me about the view from my recliner at present. Hmmm...football is playing at 7k decibels on a TV bigger than our living room, I can see a dirty dish in the sink that's "soaking" according to it's owner (bcs ya know, milk tends to leave a stubborn stain without a good soak), there's a collection of crumbs, papers and tea stains on the coffee table conveniently situated next to the man of the house and my vagina is crying in anguish. To celebrate I'm drinking a bloody Mary and eating a foot long sub..extra mayo. Can't keep me down. At the end of the day is it all fact or fiction? Well, reflect for a moment on your situation and you tell me. I'm just as happy as the rest of you bitches.

Monday, November 1, 2010

Cave Girls & Cankles

I survived Halloween. The evil midgets dressed in drag were no match for me. Steal my candy? I came out swinging. A club that is. It was costume appropriate. I was a deranged cave woman. Not a far cry from accurate on most days. If I thought I could get away with grunting instead of speaking, killing at will and clubbing annoying people, I'd rock that shit 24/7. However, I would have a tailor make me a frock fitting of my SIFness. In a pinch I opted for the slightly used $5 thrift store version. Luckily somewhere there was a large woman willing to part with her size 12X leopard skin tent. I thoroughly enjoyed telling the cashier how I would have to alter it to fit me. I let her guess up or down. The only cutting I did was around the edges. Ventilation for the fat stores. For the record, whomever donated that hot mess did themselves a favor.
Fat + Leopard Print = Feral Fatty on the loose. Hide the children.

Being an OCD SIF, I was less than thrilled to be wearing someone else's trash. How do I know this fat heffa didn't have some random skin disease that would render me unable to marry Brad Pitt? Is Halloween worth that? I think not. I decided to wash it in order to avoid a life altering catastrophe. Not. Dry Clean Only. Because somewhere there's a 400 lb woman who not only felt the need to scare the free world into submission with her "What not to Wear" wardrobe selection, but also felt it necessary to put herself in a position to pay thousands of dollars to keep it clean with the inevitable spillage of chocolate and chicken grease. Not smart. Wash and Wear Fatties! I solved this problem with tights.Tights that came up to my chin. And a long sleeve shirt...just in case. Attractive I'm sure. Luckily no one goes digging in cave girls tights often enough to appreciate that "look." There was a slight issue with shoes. One would assume a cave girl to go sans footwear. Yeah. I'm just not that into it. My toes look like little dicks and I didn't want any "incidents" with the whorey types who dress up like slutty school girls. My toes, my choice. I say who I say when. Ok, enough. This cave girl opted for "Come Fuck Me Boots." Here's the problem with that. Cankles. I'd like to know who the fit  models are for these things. I can't zip those fuckers past my ankles! Mind you...they have to get all the way up to the knee! No small feat. That's what friends are for. 5 of them... and a vice. Had they been available back in cave days, I feel certain they would have been all the rage. As painful as they are to don, they are dual purpose. They cover up what no one needs to see (my porno feet) and uncover what every cave girl wishes to reveal... her pink taco.  Suffice it to say there's currently a ban on Mexican fare at my home. This cave girl went to bed hungry. Again. I ask you....what good are holiday's if you can't indulge? Every day is a holiday in my house. Perhaps why I am always hungry.

One crucial error. No dinner and too much beer. 18 or some number with 2 or 3 digits. Can't be sure. I managed to scarf down some ham biscuits and a cupcake at the party. Goes well with beer. Til around 2am when everything starts churning. Ham & frosting burps. Yummy. There was almost an "incident" with the cupcake. They had Halloween rings on them. I thought they were edible. Not so much. Luckily Valerie grabbed the ring before I bit her finger. Nobody wants to lose a digit on Halloween, now do they? I did manage to get in some cardio. I danced all night. Me and my club. I gotta tell ya, that club was thick, pliable and didn't talk back. All qualities I admire in a dancing partner. One issue...dancing in the "Come Fuck Me Boots." It not only got me no sex, it got me no right foot on Sunday morning. Woke up paralyzed. Apparently there's a weight limit on sexual propaganda. At one point I looked down and they were bunching around my ankles. How was this possible? My calves were sucking the life out of them yet there was room for bunching? Exciting and interesting all in one breath. All I know is that once you cross the threshold into plus size living, you can no longer stand at an angle for any period of time. As proven by my club feet the next day. My toes went from small dicks to giant dildos! Not attractive. Perhaps why I still haven't gotten laid. Or maybe the vision of me as on over sized prehistoric dancing queen was a bit much. Perhaps. Fat people get down too.

Add a $44 cab ride to the equation and you have the makings of an expensive sex free evening. A late evening as well. 2am. So not me. I'm always in by 1am. Taco Bell closes at 1am. Can't fuck around and miss that. It took me all day Sunday to recoup. Recoup meaning eating until I passed out and various trips to the porcelain palace. I had to be ready for the crumb snatchers. They came out after dark ready to steal my "Take 5" bars. Not. Lollipops. That's what they got. And then I get to tell everyone the kids didn't like the "Take 5's" and I will be forced to eat them. I gots mad Halloween tricks yo. Hot neighbor came by for a treat. I like to think of him as a "trick." Perhaps next year...when I'm thin. I can't imagine looking hotter than I did this year. Right?

Thursday, October 28, 2010

Tuesday, October 12, 2010

Fatty Flies Home

Given a choice, I’d opt for my period and a raging outbreak of crabs over flying. And no it’s not the cost. Driving is actually more expensive & time consuming when you factor in the amount of stops I make to eat and snack. Being trapped like a fat sardine at 10,000 feet with $40 sandwiches $400 beers keeps me sober, hungry and on budget. I wanna know who decided flying should simulate anal intrusion with pitch fork? Let’s see…I have to check in at home or pay a higher price to have a not so friendly pent up bitch in a tie help me operate a computer screen at the airport & then insult my luggage in the same way I am insulted every day….by putting it on the scale and charging more if it doesn’t abide by some anorexic vacation luggage weight standard. Whore. If you weigh in at 450lbs it would stand to reason you need more than 50 lbs of luggage to cover your ass. Dumb fucks. Imagine what they would charge me to fly if I got on the scale. I don’t have that kinda credit, thank you. To add insult to injury, after you’ve paid “Pat” to tell you what buttons to push and how fat you & your suitcase are….the bitch wants you to carry your oversized belongings over to another asshole so he can pull out your size 2x thong to ensure it’s not a security threat. I got news for ya, the only threat that piece of string poses is to whatever unlucky soul happens to be sitting next to me when the string finally concedes defeat! Have at it dickhead. Thus why I only pack dirty underwear. Who said scratch & sniff went out in the 80’s. I’m bringin it back.
This might explain why my unassumingly large self was selected for random screening. Whatever. I got nothing to hide. And what I do have you will never find without a jackhammer so have at it. I get no action at home. Having a middle aged “sister” all up in my pink taco is a welcome intrusion these days. I made a crucial error. I forgot to buy “snacks” before I crossed the threshold into million dollar candy land. Fuck. I like to give my jaw a good workout by consuming gummy creatures and then washing them down with a Diet Coke. I had to break down and do my shopping at one of those over priced wanna be airport Wally Worlds. When I brought my exercise equipment to the counter, the cashier looked at me and said, “You know these are $10 right?” What the fuck? Can a SIF ever workout on the DL? Shit! Yes I know they are $10. They are Swedish Fish. Imported. I’m willing to pay more for European fish, hooker. Then she asked if I wanted my receipt. Why? Can I regurgitate on the counter and get my money back? How about I leave it with you as a reminder to keep your pie hole in the locked position next time. Wannabe travel whore. I made my way to the gate hoping I could find a nice quiet spot to eat my well traveled sushi. Not so much. I must have a sign on my ass like those shorts that say “Juicy.” Except mine says, “Freak Lover.” Anyone missing teeth, personality or any form of hygiene welcome. My worst airport fear was realized. I was paged. And they called me Mrs. Byrd. How am I supposed to get into the mile high club if my potential suitors hear me being addressed like that? There should be some sort of rule against being called Mrs. when you only get sex on the days that end with Z. What could they possibly want? Blah blah the plane is late and we want to fly you through NYC just to make sure you get where you are going on time. Not happening. I’ve been waiting a year for a cheese steak. I will wait for the plane to Philly. Overnight if I have to. Time is just a number. Grease is forever.

When I arrived in Philly I did what every good traveler should do. Find the food court. It’s a big airport & you could starve without a plan. That’s why I researched the layout in the US Air magazine whilst I was trapped next to some Asian chick watching movies on her phone in subtitles. Whatever. I prefer to read like the cultured SIF I am. That Skymall is a-fuckin-amazing! I made out my Christmas list. I can’t decide what I want more…the massaging support bra or the heated panty liners. In an effort to save time on my way to the cheese steak place, I tried flagging down one of those shuttle things. Blah blah they are only for people who have trouble walking. Well fuck. My thighs rub together and frankly I can’t think of anything more troubling than that. It was a long walk but it gave me time to think….about which one of the fatties from my plane would be accompanying me. It was the one I thought. She was dressed all professional in an effort to cover up what I knew to be present….fat. And lots of it. Those poor high heels were being worked harder than a whore in church. I let her go ahead of me to see if we were from the same tree. Cheese steak, fries and a Diet Soda. Family fuckin reunion! I even sat next to her in the eating area to size up her plate to pallet ratio. I beat her. Only bcs I got a cheese steak wrap which decided to squirt meat juice down my tits. Tasty combination…wrong scenario. I didn’t have a napkin so I wiped down my jubblies with the receipt. Now I’m bloated and smell like cow gut. Yummy. I can’t imagine why the offers for membership into the mile high club weren’t piling in? I decided to go back to the gate and see which ingrate would be falling asleep on my shoulder on this leg of the flight. After I determined my flight to be on time, I noticed something peculiar. No plane. If its 9:25, your flight leaves at 9:30 and there isn’t a plane….I think that’s code for delayed. I mean, I’m not a bitch wearing a tie, with the worst fuckin attitude imaginable sporting a US Air badge, but I can tie my shoes. Since everyone flying on this leg was most likely on their way to Cornell, I decided to play a little game of…I didn’t go to college and I’m smarter than you. While they were all staring outside looking for the plane, running to the monitors and panicking I sat completely still reading a trash novel. I knew it would only be a matter of time before they required the services of one uneducated fatty. Sure enough. After explaining to the Ivy League crowd that we would take off when there was a plane at the gate, they seemed to settle a bit. They ate their apples and drank their bottled water while I tried to get the chocolate stains off the book I borrowed from the library. Damn granolas. For the record….very high in fat.

As I boarded the plane along side the PHD’s I was glad to know there were doctors on board. Even if that meant they were useless to anyone except their egos. I was fortunate enough to sit next to a pilot on this leg. Not in the cockpit. Coach. Apparently he had done his time and was headed back to his car. Seems like an expensive commute but whatever. I didn’t know if I should call him Sir or Satan. I always consider it an omen to sit next to airline employees. Almost guarantees the plane is going down. I ask only one thing. Let me be the lone survivor so I can finally make my debut on the Today show. Headline: “Fat credited for saving life of lone survivor of Philly Crash.” I’m ok with that. It’s better than my current famewhoring strategy of camping out at 30 Rock so I can jump up and down behind Al Roker in hopes the Biggest Loser producers will see me and have me on the show. By the looks of our plane I started to think this whole scenario was a possibility. I flew one of those “prop” planes. Ya know…the kind they wind up prior to take off and hope they did enough to keep it going until it lands. One of those. And not for nothing, prop in my world means “prop”…used to make something fake look real. Like my plastic surgeon. Not comforting. Don’t look for any mothering from those bitchy flying waitresses. They act like rolling a beverage cart 5 feet to the end of the aisle is so stressful. Stressful is pouring me half a drink and keep what’s left in the can! Bitches. At one point she asked me if my feet fit under the seat. I told her no just to see what she would suggest. Shall I stow them? Crotch face. I can’t help I have size 11 feet. I can lodge one up your ass and hope your personality comes out. I decided to look around the plane to see what everyone else was doing. As luck would have it, I happened upon a lady digging at her head. She had the genetic predisposition of Mr. Ed which made her digging habit that much more disturbing. She must have been perplexed by what she was finding bcs she kept going back for more and inspecting it each time. The lady sitting next to her reading her Kindle even stopped what she was doing to give her the “gas” face. As luck would have she opted to shake away her treasures. Not lucky for me as they landed on my side of the seat. Psoriasis. The gift that keeps on giving. Nasty whore. I was stuck in the land of recycled halitosis and DNA flakes. Yummy.

Most people look out the window for signs they are getting close to their destination. Vegas style lights, landmarks and traffic. Not where this SIF grew up. I look for total darkness and a lone man waving an orange flag to guide the prop onto the stage. For the record, I’m not one of those annoying fucks who jump up the minute we hit the tarmac. Fatties don’t like to appear anxious. Besides, I smelled like cheese steak. Angst doesn’t compliment that too well. Deplaning took forever bcs there was some old woman pretending she couldn’t walk so we had to wait for a moving stairway to meet the plane. I offered to throw her down the emergency slide. I was in that row and had already agreed to provide my services. In any event, I made it home just in time to tell Mother how hungry I was after some fat lady spilled cheese steak on my $5,000 boobies and I was forced to starve bcs I couldn’t afford buy a sandwich from the flying prostitutes. Gotta love Mom.

Wednesday, September 29, 2010

Exhibit "A"- Larry Birthed Kelly

All I got for my birthday was...

My period  and my house repossessed. Fitting and ghetto all in one day. However, comma, I wouldn't be half as bitter had my husband remembered to buy me a cake. Seems after 8 years still he thinks taking me out to dinner with a bit of song and dance at the table is enough. It's not. How many more years must pass before I am worthy of the cheap ass supermarket cake I so desire. Thank God for the local chapter of SIF. They baked me a cake. Granted it said, "Larry birthed Kelly." Larry was yummy. He was chocolate with chocolate frosting and yellow afterbirth (icing). I blew out the candles in one puff. Shocked? You shouldn't be. I wished for...more cake. 8 years and he still thinks paying the waiter to bring me treats 72 hours prior to the due date will suffice. Not. I need cake. Lots of it. Whilst I don't require gifts, I do require he not buy himself gifts on my birthday. Apparently too much to ax. So... a dinner date with the Mexicans and Sheila Boof it was.

Thank God for the sisters. As I arrived for my birthday evening sans spouse, I was greeted by the smell of a freshly baked boxed cake and the anticipation of queso. Perfecto. The sisters know what is takes to bring me to my happy place. I really should have rewarded them with sex. At least they work for it. They even threw a movie into the mix.  So what they think Shia Labeouf is a chick named Sheila Boof. They gave me cake and queso. IQ not required. Another birthday let down...Gordon Gecko. I so wanted you to be the mean, money grubbing ass of yesteryear....but no...you had to be...just like the rest of the men I know... uneventful. So in the midst of pouring rain, 38 years after perfection was proven plausible, there I was...with a card, a caked named Larry, breath smelling of chupalas (yes, I meant to say it that way) and Sheila Boof. The day of my birth played out as a horror movie. Nice. Whilst I am not "high maintenance", a little deference to all that is me once a year isn't so much to ax, is it? Is it so wrong to wish for sex and cake (in that order) in the same 365 day period? It's almost a BOGO...you give me cake and Viola...sex! Not even an expensive cake...a cheap supermarket butter cream frosting cake bearing the name of some unsuspecting freak goes a long way when your holding up the line at 180!

I wonder what birthdays are like on the other side. Do the 1/4 pounders wish for broccoli florets and skinny jeans? Broccoli gives me gas. Cake gives me inches. Not the inches I soo desire but replacement inches work wonders in a pinch. It's funny how we always want to celebrate our birthdays. Tell me what's so exciting about turning 38? I'm too young to stop bleeding, too old to get laid and too fat to think about being thin! Cake is the answer. I wasn't sure what to wear on my birthday. Not that I have alot of choices. 2 pairs of shorts that fit and a half a dozen shirts. Go crazy. So I went with the shorts that "poof" when I wear them. They make me feel saucy. When I squeeze my butt cheeks this large poof of air expands and exits via my waistline. Thank God for emergency exits. This is excitement at it's best in my world. No one knows what's going on. I just squeeze and poof...instant air conditioning. Skinny girls just don't get this kind of action. So I wore the "poof" shorts and a shirt that made my boobs look bigger than the $5,000 investment that got them to their current state. Hello birthday girl.

Birthday's are like one night stands. You shouldn't have expectations. If you are the lucky recipient of  a great piece of  cake....eat it...all of it...savor it sisters. If you are teased and left to wonder what happens next, run. You might be married.  I can hardly wait til 39.

Wednesday, September 22, 2010

The Boob & The Tube

Iditarod. I wish I could say "I did a rod." Hell I wish I could say "Idid"...something other than my usual sexual escapades with El Conjeo. Explain this "sport" to me bcs I think I may be a candidate for the Olympics based on what I saw on the Discovery Channel. So I get pulled across frozen tundra by a bunch of over jealous mutts that enjoy nothing more than carrying my big ass all over creation in an attempt to please me? I thought that's what husbands were for? Oh my bad...they are for not taking out the trash and keeping my vagina dusty. What was I thinking? Ughum. In exchange for open air transport through the frigid wilderness, all I have to do is avoid trees, feed them/me and pretend to be exhausted.  Sounds like what I do almost everyday...other than the frozen part. I prefer thawed. Seriously. Who thinks this is hard? Listening to the narrator, you would think the freaks driving these prehistoric snowmobiles were doing the running themselves! Bark orders. That's what they do...bark! I can bark. Ride. I can ride. I don't get much of a chance to practice either of these skills at my crib so this would be a good chance for me to brush up. Here's the best part...when the dogs fail to perform, you can trade them in for fresh meat. This is sounding better by the minute. I think they need to apply the principles of "Iditarod" to the institution of "I DO"...anyway...off to the Olympics I go.

So it's clear I watch too much TV. Disturbing. I get sucked in. What can I say. Last night I was watching the Biggest Loser trying to convince myself of impending death at the hands of that bitch Little Debbie when my concentration was broken by a Subway commercial. Imagine that.  It was the tag line. "Ride hard, eat fresh." Sorry. These options aren't currently available in my area. Next. KFC. Because it's normal during a show about morbidly obese people to promote a non-stop feeding frenzy! Of course this sort of propaganda has no affect on me. I was already eating KFC. That's my thing. I like to watch shows about fitness/weight loss whilst eating junk food. Makes me feel in control. I do not partake in the emotional side of these shows. Be truthful and emotion is not necessary. Don't tell me you got fat bcs your husband left you for another woman or bcs you accidentally shot your siblings and can never forgive yourself. Newsflash...your husband left you after counting one to many Ho-Ho wrappers in the trash. Perhaps he was channeling his inner Miss Cleo and figured he'd get out before you could do him bodily harm. I'm just sayin is all.  And don't fret over taking out of few siblings. We understand.You had hopes of a better room and more Christmas presents. We get it. But the part where you weigh a metric ton...that's all you sister! As my favorite housewife likes to say, "Own it." The leap from size 2 to 22 isn't a subtle one. The part where you traded your Gap card for Lane Bryant...not subtle! You've been running red lights all over the city and it's time to take you downtown! Sorry. I've always wanted to be one of those fatty boot camp instructors. Problem being, I spend most of my time on the wrong side of the whistle if you know what I mean. I will give the contestants this...most of the fatties had pretty faces (they always do). Except one. She crossed the double line to ugly a few times. Time to turn the channel...quickly. I was actually starting to believe I too could lose weight. Stupid dumb TV show.

Actually, it was about my bedtime but I had forgotten to floss. I had a dentist appointment in the morning and I had no idea what was lurking between my teeth. I have all 32 thank you. Don't ask me how. There must be some magical component in grease and sugar that keeps teeth healthy. I even have my wisdom teeth...that's why I'm so smart. God knew I would need a few extra teeth to support this frame. I like getting my teeth cleaned. Much like the dumb TV show, it gives me hope for new beginnings. Why? I have no fuckin idea. Clean reminds me of thin. That's why I take 8 showers a day. It's not working. But I think it will someday. Wash that fat right away. I felt the need to let the dentist in on some broken family promises. Why? Again, I have no fucking idea. He had sharp objects. Pity equals less pain. I distinctly remember 2 promises made to me by the people who call themselves "Parents." Skepticism looms. My father told me that when I became a big girl I wouldn't have to get fluoride anymore. Lies. All lies. If he meant big as in size, I would have been done with that shit at birth. If big meant "age," I am 38. Why am I still getting fluoride and big girl stickers? Why? Moving right along to Mother. You know this hussy well enough by now to know of her lying ways. I think I was around 10 when I asked her why my boobies itched. She told me they were growing. Well Mother I have scratched them to scabs and paid a nice man $5,000 to make that lie a reality. To this day she tells me., "Who cares if you have small boobs?" My vagina does Mother and she will certainly remember you on Mother's Day.

I guess I'll go to bed sans TV tonight. I have a big day tomorrow. Getting up to run. I'll partake in my usual morning ritual of a Dunkin Donut and a coffee. If it "Keeps America Running" I certainly don't want to deprive myself of necessary fuel.

Sunday, September 12, 2010


And no...not by "Hurricane" Earl. As previously predicted, he was true to his genetic predisposition for failure. All promises no action. Unless you include being just annoying enough for me to spend 4 hours cleaning up after him. Let's see...annoying, broken promises, dirty, blowing smoke and no follow through...perhaps we should start calling them husbands as opposed to hurricanes! Six one half dozen of the other. We'd never run out of names...that's for sure. In any event, displaced. In an effort to displace my fat cells, I somehow got off track and displaced my entire being. No small feat for sure. I come to you tonight from a new home. Traumatizing at best. However comma, it would appear I have a hot neighbor....situation immediately downgraded to critical. Had I known I was going to have a hot neighbor I might have moved sooner or lost weight or something. Sometimes these things just creep up on you. Who knew if you didn't pay your mortgage for a year they'd ask you to leave? My attempt at ghetto fabulousness failed. So here I am...in the land of eye candy. I prefer chocolate but he'll do for now. Only one problem...I'm just fat enough to ensure my new neighbor won't be peering at me with binoculars whilst I sunbath. He bought his house. I wouldn't want to scare him into a short sale.

New house equals new leash on life. It's a fatty trick. And I know you do it too so buck up little campers! Here are my personal favorites from the first week in the new house. Promise: " Now that I have a pantry I can organize my food better and lose weight." - Reality- Does it matter if you put little Debbie on top of or behind Cap'n Crunch? No. They are no good for each other...and for the record he likes it from behind. Anyway.  Promise: "I'm going to eat out less and cook more." Reality- Was there a random force seeping through the walls of my old house luring me to Taco Bell? No. I hated to cook there and I will hate to cook here. Promise: "Now that I live within walking distance of a gym I can run there and work out every day." Reality- In order to get to the gym I have to pass a Dunkin Donuts, a pizza place, a Mexican place and a Subway. I won't make it past Dunkin. Not to mention, I have no membership for said gym. Much like my mortgage, I believe they require payment to stay. Last but not least...and my personal favorite promise to myself: "I will befriend the women in the neighborhood for long walks and cookie baking." Reality: I wasn't Martha Fuckin Stewart a week ago and I'm certainly not looking for an alter ego with a rap sheet!
A.Housewifey types get on my last nerve. B. The only long walks I take are when my car breaks down or no one will drive me to Taco Bell. C. The day you see me baking cookies that end up anywhere other than my soft pallet....take a fuckin picture! This is why it took me 32 years to get married and no time to decide children weren't a good idea.

So my best guess has me at around 350lbs by Thanksgiving and banging the neighbor by Christmas. I love the holidays. I'm working off the theory that he'll be cold and bored by December and the combination of my sexless life and excess fat stores will be enough to win him over to the other side. Who doesn't love a fatty in winter? Fat is acceptable below 32 degrees. Once you get into the 40's you reach the danger zone....must lose weight here. Maybe I should move to Alaska. Sounds like a plan. I'll ask my new neighbor to come with. The new house has a working fireplace. I say working bcs the last house had a fireplace...it just didn't work. It required repair. Need I say more. To get my live in handy man back for all the nights I missed snuggling in front of the gas logs, I plan to burn this one every night. Even in the summer. My plan is to set the house ablaze with thousands of candles, fire up the gas logs, drop rose petals everywhere and wear a lace thong..nothing else...every night when he comes home....for 365 days...until he bangs me. It will be like a scene from "Carrie" minus the period part. I'm not into that. Gee... this new house could be revolutionizing my life after all.

Have I mentioned moving sucks? I hate getting use to new people. I know hot guy will be tons of fun but what about the geriatrics on the other side? Will they be offended when I blast Tupac and Biggie (RIP) whilst sitting on the front stoop with my double deuce? That's what I'm hoping for. If they think I'm an overweight gangsta type maybe they will be so afraid they won't come out of the house. Until they die. That could be any day now. This charade would only have to go on for a few weeks tops. I foresee only one problem...pork...pigs...po po...Johnny...lots a cops in this neighborhood! No wonder nobody wanted to rent this house! How I am suppose to "work my second job" with the law all up in the hood! I fear they already have their eyes on me. Let's face it, it's hard not to. 345lbs rolling down the street in a "do rag" attempting to jog. I'd call the papers if I wasn't the story line! Maybe hot guy can be my cover. That's it...I'll need to dig deep into him...his life to see if he's worthy. Strip search, cavity check...all of the above. You can never be too sure. Either way I can use him for something. I think I'll bake him some cookies and stop by for a quick....hello. Hello!

Tuesday, August 31, 2010

Hello....My name is Earl

and my name is Fatty. Nice to meet you. Earl. A male hurricane. This means one thing to me. Another man who blows into town, makes me wet and heads out until the mood strikes again. Fucker. Yes Mother, I'm back to saying Fuck. It's the jelly to my donut. What can I say. I ate 12 donut holes this morning...alone...in my car...so I wouldn't have to share. I did the math...it's like 1.5 donuts. *Pause for random shock factor* I'm getting off track.... If you must know, I prefer woman hurricanes. They don't just hang out on the radar threatening to do something like male hurricanes....or husbands. However, I can't say mine threatens to do much but that's beside the point. Katrina. Now there's a bitch. She blows into town, breaks the levy and sticks around long enough to brag about it. My kinda woman. Earl. A category 4. Categorically, men scare me for many reasons. Blowing hot air is not one of them. I consider that part of what I call the "Dumb Man Gene." Besides if Earl is true to his gender he'll be all talk no action. "I'm gonna mow the lawn. I'll take out the garbage in a minute. I was gonna put that dish in the dishwasher later." If Earl could speak, this is what we would be forced to listen to. I might actually tune into the Weather Channel to hear that. Which brings me to another Fucker, Jim Cantore...

He's about one inch from being a Roloff. For those who don't partake in quality TV programming, they are a family of little people...midgets...widgets..tater tots if you will....starring in their own show called "Little People Big World." However, my disgust for this wanna be Al Roker does not stem from his lack of height, hair or talent. That Fucker had the chance to put me on TV and didn't. Can you imagine?  He opted to allow a family of rednecks living under the pier.... with 2 teeth collectively (teeth not fit for a toothbrush I might add) to explain how they were going to be displaced by the hurricane! Do they own the pier? I think not. Just break into a vacant beach rental like everyone else and stop stealing my TV time....crisis averted! I had breaking news to report....My generator wouldn't start. How was I going to be able to keep my Helluva Good Dip cold...not to mention Tivo the Real Housewives? These are serious issues people! But the midget goes for the underdog and leaves me to bob up and down behind him like a desperate starlet. In a last ditch attempt for my shot at prime time I devised a fool proof plan. I would go running on the beach right after they called for a mandatory evacuation. Clearly headline news! I wasn't sure if he was partial to the fatties so I solicited my friend Tara to come with me. She is a SIF undercover. On the outside...tall, thin, pretty. On the inside...I personally watched her eat an entire pizza in one sitting. SIF. We ran right by him and all but tripped over that freakin stump in Levi's with a microphone. Do you think he batted an eyelash? Nope. He was probably fixing his lipstick.

Earl does give me random hope of binge eating. There's literally nothing else to do in a hurricane but eat and drink. Being drunk is not part of my plan however. When I drink I crave Taco Bell. Down here they close the border before they close the bridges. Good policy. Perhaps we can run with it in light of a little Cat5 I like to call "Illegal Immigration!" Yeah...close that border and throw the fatties a freakin bone! During the last Cat3, when I wasn't chasing the bald midget, I was eating like a champ. Not bcs I was hungry. Bored. Stare at your husband (sober) for 3 days and see how long it takes you hook up an IV of lard and start drinking mouthwash. Seriously, it took about 2 hours before I was staring at him, head cocked searching for anything that resembled a redeeming quality. That's why you have to have a generator. TV equals survival. Even if you have to watch a midget weatherman for days on end. TV really should be included on those "must have emergency lists." Right under batteries and water if you ask me. My chance at TV came after the storm had passed. The Weather Channel showed up on our porch wanting to film us taking the boards off the windows. I gave them a shot at headline news and this is what they want?! My husband taking down boards with the drill he forgot to charge....so we looked like the Farkels on national TV! Good thing they cut out the dull moan of the drill begging for juice. I'll have you know I did not partake in that parody! I was hiding in the bedroom like the high class hooker I am... I didn't have time for hair and make-up. Mother was a Mary Kay lady. We don't go down like that. National TV with no make-up and bad hair? I would sooner have stuck my naked ass out the window and spoke through my butt crack. That's how I feel about that. That about sums up my life and death experiences with hurricanes.

So as I await the arrival of another disappointing man in my life, I am putting together my own little survival kit:
                                                 Batteries: Check
                                                  Rabbitt: Check

Bring it on Earl. You are no match for El Conejo!

Monday, August 16, 2010

Dear Diary,

"F" you!
Perhaps why I don't keep a diary. I have nothing nice to say. Why would I want to relive my binge eating sexless existence on paper? It's traumatizing enough in real life.  Not to mention, every time I type the word "diary:" it comes out "dairy." Lactose intolerance has no place in my life...much like...sex. However forgoing ice cream is a voluntary decision. Forgoing sex was....lost in translation perhaps? Was it the "I do" or the person who forgot to break down the doors of God's palace when summoned by the call of, "Does anyone have just cause, any reason at all, big/small, why these two shouldn't call it a day and head on over to the reception for some truth serum?" Clearly someone sitting in the audience was suffering from life without dick. This "someone" most likely had a Rabbit in their pocket, while laughing and watching me swear away my vagina for life. Thanks whomever you were. F' you too.

Where was I? I get so emotional when it come to sex.Or lack thereof. Oh yeah. So now that Mother has me writing down everything I eat, it got me thinking. How come I don't keep a  diary...ya know...a good old fashion tell all diary. Seems like a very girly thing to do. Who am I kidding. I'm about 6 steps from being a lesbian. Let's discuss. I cuss like a sailor, I burp and fart at will, last night I dreamed I was a bridesmaid wearing biker boots and a tux, I stare at womens breasts constantly (mostly wondering why I paid $5k for mine) and I have an inordinate amount of sex with a plastic, purple bunny. Not sure where the cut off is but I fear border patrol could be coming to take me away at anytime. For the record, there's no way I could ever live with a woman. It's like shacking up with a human Mangina. I'd rather have Chlamydia or fleas. At least I can get rid of those in 7 days with no hard feelings. I wonder though....would I be the man or the woman. Not that I've given it alot of thought...well yes I have. What else do I have to do when forced to watch football and alien conspiracy shows? I think I would be the man. Only bcs I have such a dominant personality. Who would be my bitch? Guess I would have to go out to one of those all girl bars and wrestle me up some strange. Ok, yeah no. I'm willing to concede I'm not a shopper, a cook or anything that remotely resembles June Cleaver...but I am certainly not looking to date the Beav...if you get my drift. In any event...

Perhaps this is why I can't keep a diary...I have a touch of Mother's tick. I start talking about something and next thing ya know I'm the prehistoric creature better known as "Lickalotapuss!" Ok...focus. Let's just call it like it is...I can't have a diary bcs I'm a bad person. 99.9% of everything I say/do isn't fit for print. That's why I have this blog. No one reads it. I feel safe. What happens when Brad Pitt finally calls? I'll tell you--one, if not all of my not so loyal friends get jealous, finds the diary, turns it over to Brad who then learns of my fondness for nose picking,  Dutch Ovens and choco tacos. Then what? A great future gone at the hands of a bunch of wanna be lesbians who weren't willing to let me go. Bitches. So that's why I can't write it all down...I fear a lesbian rebellion. Not to mention if my husband found it he might divorce me. Mental note....write diary post haste and leave on nightstand with large sticky note saying, "Read Me." Let's play, shall we?

Dear Diary,
Hey Bitch. Today I woke up and tried to run off what I ate yesterday. Then it got dark, I was tired ,still fat and none of the cars would run me over to put me out of my misery... So I tried to have sex with my husband, but his vagina hurt. I think he was on his period. I called the Rabbit...he was available. I think I may have Toxic Shock Syndrome....not from tampons. From knowing I married a man and fuck a rabbit. Try explaining to the doctor that your vag is on fire bcs your man is plastic with pearl ears. Not an easy conversation. I think tomorrow I'll pick a fight around 4:30pm so I don't have to cook dinner. Then I'll randomly start packing which could result in me getting taken out to dinner and possibly even a night off from the Rabbit. One can hope. I think my husband may be kin to Stevie Wonder. (A). He married me and  (2). He can't seem to see trash, bills or things that require fixing. Is there a pill for that? I tried explaining to him that dirty dishes live in the dish washer, dirty clothes live in the hamper and dirty ho's live right under his nose- ready and willing at any time. None of which seemed to settle well with his current mental capabilities. Guess I'll go leave the trash on his pillow. Maybe he might see it there...or sleep in the guest room. Can't be sure. Well Bitch I gotta go.

No good can come of this. Diary's are not your friend. They are simply insurance policies to keep you from pissing off the people who love you and will clearly sell you down the river for the right price. I'm not goin out like that. I'm going to continue to be me.... in real life. If I don't write it down, I can deny it. Much like my weight, my family and of my friends. Take that and stick it in your Lesbian Lucky Charms. Silly Rabbit...tricks are for SIF!

Sunday, August 15, 2010

Hold on Sisters....

I'll be making another fat deposit very soon. Mother always said if you don't have something nice to say....don't say it. Mother...if I waited for that day I would officially be declared a mute. That being said, stayed tuned  for "Dear Diary." It won't top the "Mother Blog"- there's just too much material wrapped up in all those points.

Monday, August 2, 2010

Tick Tock Mom's off her rock...

Mother has a tick. And not the blood sucking kind. Nope...this would be a "One flew over the Cuckoo's Nest" kind. If you think my relationship with dieting and weight loss is dysfunctional....allow me to introduce you to the Jerry Springer of dieting dysfunction....my Mother! Yes, the one who hid 10lb bags of M&M's in my desk drawer and wore a 1970's green over every outfit to cover her sins. That Mother. The Heavenly Hash Queen. The woman who's blood type registered as "Apple Fritter" until she was 50 and chose life over saturated fat. The woman who taught me how to "Add a Plank & Extra Crispies" at Long John Silvers....bcs 2000 grams of fat just isn't enough when you can get more for less than a dollar. Her. The one who claims Gerald is my Father yet I am the only one with red hair and a strong resemblance to the milk man. That one. The sensitive soul I can always count on to tell me, "I don't look that bad" and You were bigger the last time I saw you. Her. Well...she's here for a visit...God help us all! She came complete with her Weight Watchers Points Calculator and an obsession for counting!

I'm just gonna say it. I hate diets and I hate people on diets. Of course I don't hate my Mother...but only bcs she managed to squeeze me out of her love canal with little to no damage to my perfect self. She said I was a difficult child. *Pause for random imaginary moment.* She can't be trusted. If what she's saying is true, she is certainly paying me back in the form of weight loss torture. She's on the points. She knows how many she has at any given moment, under what circumstances she is willing to part with them and what effect her strategic moves will have on her overall ratio. It's like living with a Mad Scientist. The slightest mention of anything edible and her head cocks slightly to the left, her eyes take on a strange gaze and she spouts off numbers quicker than the Rainman himself! Let's role play. I'll be "Me" and Mother will play the role of random psychotic points person. Ughum. "Good morning Mother. Would you like a glass of tea?" "Tea doesn't have any points you know. Nor does Jell-O, pudding, grapes or fat free Cool-Whip." "So does that mean you want tea?" "No. I'm going to have Froot Loops with hot fudge. It's only 6 points and I have 12 from yesterday, 30 extra this week, and 10 I won't use before lunch, so it all works out." *Pause for random demon like head spinning.* "You can eat Froot Loops and hot fudge?" "Yes. I can eat anything I want as long as I don't go over my points. I have 22 each day, 5 more if I exercise, 20 flex points and 10 I borrowed from your Dad (long "a" like add)." "Wow. Seems like a lot of work." (mistake) "Oh no Kelly...I have my calculator. I can count anything you want. I keep track of everything on it. I have a book where I write it down too. And another book for what's not in the calculator. And a book that tells me how to use the book about the book." *Random sign of the cross.* I need an old Priest and a young Priest.

As if the obsession with points counting wasn't bad enough, the random mumbling is cause for great concern. Have you ever watched someone when they don't know you are looking? It's amazing what you observe. I HIGHLY recommend this technique when choosing a mate. If all you hear are football stats and alien conspiracies.....RUN! In any event, Mother is a mumbler. She mumbles about the points she has, doesn't have and wishes she had. She's also a random justifier. "I can eat the triple Quarter Pounder & cheese fries bcs I haven't eaten in 3 days." It's all about balance. The sheer fact that I'm not stapled to a bed somewhere, in a padded room wearing a bleached white jump suit is a freakin miracle in itself! Just last night around 8pm she informed me she had 10 points to eat before midnight. I'm no dieting expert, but I'm thinking there's some skewed logic in there somewhere. So I decided to join in the crazy talk. "Are you hungry?" If you can't guess the answer you clearly don't deserve the fruits of my wit. "Well no but it's Sunday and the points don't carry over." Perhaps if I had paid better attention to the 'white noise" I would have been hip to this fact. I guess I better borrow my husband's EVP device (a tool he uses for ghost hunting...his hobby when he's not banging me....he see's alot of ghosts, fyi).

Can you guess how this ends? Yes. Yes you can. I ordered my very own points calculator last Thursday. Mother can't understand why it's not here yet. Hers came in 3 days. Perhaps the Fatty Gods are smiling down on me. Had she not been so obsessed with her own points, she might have offered to let me calculate my way to Skinnyville on her magic box. I suggested it this morning and she agreed to let me into her secret world of white noise and rain. I made it until 4pm...when I checked the mailbox and found my super secret box still wasn't there. It's a sign I still have more time on the dark side. My dark side. Where we don't talk about what we eat or verbalize it's value to our day. Success is measured in inches and stains. The more the merrier. Fat and Happy. Sane. Call me crazy.

Sunday, July 18, 2010

Spooge Bob Stupid Pants

Being fat in the middle of summer sucks. You would think the heat alone would be enough to scare off thoughts of fried chicken and macaroni...but no (just had it for dinner and the heat index is 120). I'm thinking that would take a hurricane....Cat 5. Scratch that...being trapped inside with death starring me in the face is more reason than ever to binge eat. I went through a Cat 3 and I gotta tell ya, I did not go hungry. Hubby made sure we had a generator and I made sure 2 things were hooked up post haste...the fridge and the TV. I'm a survivalist like that. In any event, there are no hurricanes in sight and no diets looming. I tried the crazy "you'll never chew again" diet and...well what can I say, I like to chew. I will reveal for the first time the name of said diet (drum roll please)...Medifast. Medi- implies doctors concocted this train wreck of starvation and fast means just that.....no eating! It was literally the only one I hadn't tried and now I know why. The food tastes like ass and I was literally starving. Which I suppose was the point...but you don't go from Pamela Anderson to Mother Theresa on a spur of the moment decision to abstain from sex and move into a convent. You have to carry a bible around for a while...see how it feels. Have sex with guys every other day and work your way back from Tommy Lee sized proportions (major withdrawals). Slowly drain the silicon sacks from EEE to A. That's all I'm saying.

So my immediate plan to lose 50 pounds by my 20th class reunion next Friday is as follows: buy a big dress. I can hide at least 20 with a fitted waist and flared bottom. Top that with the random genetic mutation story and I'm good until the 25th. That reminds me....my annual Vajay Jay appointment is right around the corner and I don't think I'll luck out and get dumb nurse 2 years in a row. That means I'll have to lose the 10 she lied about, the 10 I lied about and the 10 I gained since all the lying began. Or maybe I'll just get a new doctor. Seems easier. But...he's hot and I like it when he tells me I have a perfect uterus whilst rearranging my eggs. At least something on me is perfect. Too bad my uterus is the most unused part of my body...aside from the entrance. I'm getting off track. So I confided in my non-uterus loving husband that I was feeling a bit "off." I was getting ready to say, "Maybe it's bcs we haven't had sex this year," when he interjected, "Are you taking a multi-vitamin?" How soon I forget... since he decided to start working out at 39, he's now Mr. GNC. "Yes, I am. Prenatal to be exact. I figure I would let my body figure out why it's preparing to have a baby when it hasn't seen sperm since we started dating." That usually shuts him up. If not, I show him my back fat...ya know right under the bra clasp. One lump on each side....the twins. Maybe a multi-vitamin can help that.

It's bad enough when the law says you have to put up with shit from your husband (biblical law that is) but no where in any book does it suggest I have to put up with shit from random male assholes without appetites. Before heading to the beach (in my thong) to scare tourists, I stopped at Subway for some sustenance. Just what every beach goer needs to see....the latest thong from Lane Bryant plastered on a plus sized pale ass wolfing down a 12 inch sub with all the trimmings. Yummy. Hey, at least I get the $5 foot longs. I am a frugal fatty. So I'm ordering up lunch for me and the hubster... just minding my own business whilst Suzie (not her name at all...far too many vowels) from Slovakia cheaps me out of as many toppings as she can. It's disturbing. Has the price of lettuce and pickels gone up from the oil spill bcs Suzie sure thinks they have! I can't call her out bcs then I look like the fatty I'm trying to hide. I mentally bitch slapped the shit out of her though. That's why you go early in the morning....no one is in there and you can raise holy hell without calling attention to your fat stores. I'm gonna need a new paragraph for the rest of this story....

So...as I was saying, Svleka was depriving me of pickles when I heard someone order a sub from behind. Normally I like to turn at an angle when someone is that close...makes things appear more even. Some dumb guy ordering a 6 inch turkey with "spooge" of mayo. A. 6 inch subs are so last year. 2. "Spooge"- what are you a pedophile out for lunch....nasty word that should never be used around innocent food! So already I'm not liking this asshole. Meanwhile....Big Bertha (aka me) is bellied up to not one but 2 foot longs in the making. Being the nice fatty that I am, I told him he could go ahead of me since his mini-man pedophile sub was already prepared...spooge n all. (puking in back of mouth). He thanked me and for a minute I thought he was kinda cute. A minute....just a minute. A. I realized we could never be together due to his lack of appetite and fondness of spooge. C. I'm married (in theory) and E. He almost got tackled by this fatty for opening his spooging pie hole and saying the following: "Can you eat all of that?" (referring to just 1 of my 2 foot longs) My inside voice said, "Yes asshole. Or I can cram it up your ass and watch the mayo spooge out." My outside voice said, "Oh no, it's not for me."- I may be fat but I'm quick to deflect any remnits of it away from it's owner.....how dare he! This is a classic example of why men are so dumb! You NEVER ask a woman (fat or thin) if she can eat all of anything! Do I ask you that when you come face to face with my "Chuckie?" I think not. At the end of the day who really cares! A taste, a nibble an all out feast....leftovers...spooge....it's all good...until you start asking questions ....dumb ass stupid 6 inch man who will NEVER get laid with a mouth like that!

Now I was angry. I had to act "smuggy" or he would clearly know I was lying. Hell, all he had to do was peer under my bathing suit cover up and he would have answered his own question without opening his dumb guy mouth! Deep breath. The militant Subway worker ordered him back in line behind me (clearly some sisterly love) and I was most pleased. They have a system and as a customer you do not attempt to overthrow it.....got that spooge boy! I was keeping a keen eye on the "subs for others" when I noticed "Tupac"(he looks like him...RIP) put my BMT in a bag with a turkey sub. The turkey was for the girl in front of me who was thin and clueless....always keep your eye on the food sister! I let this go on until she was about to pay and walk out with my husbands sub. That can't happen....he would want to eat mine and I don't share. Mother taught me well. I quietly called this error in judgement to Tupac's attention. I forget the foreigners like to yell and quickly knew I was being outed. I don't know what it is about Subway but if you break the system they go Saddam on your ass! He decided to argue with me about the location of the BMT. Yeah...I have fatty GPS and you...you are a dumb guy. He swore he was right and made a scene only to find out....Fatty knows best. Do you think he apologized. No. In his country not only would a woman never speak up....my cover up would be covering up way more than in currently was. Whatever...I win hands down. Sister ahead of me thanked me...that was enough. That and knowing I wasn't getting her lame as 2 topping sub or spooge boys 6 inch meat molester.

I'll have you know I only ate half of my sub. I wanted to leave room for beer and ice cream. And that's how I ended my day...in the ice cream aisle of the grocery store explaining to my neighbor why I was buying 2 half gallons of full fat ice cream, hot fudge and whipped cream......party. Yup...party for the person who ate the subs I was buying earlier. I need to start ordering in again. I need privacy until such time that I can meet up with this thing they call self control. I don't even like how it sounds. See Mother, I made it through an entire blog without saying, "Fuck...or rabbit." You raised me up right....except for the eating disorder part... you were a real June Cleaver. See you Thursday for my 20 pound reunion!

Sunday, July 11, 2010

"The Woman who can't gain Weight"

Talk about a headline that will never...ever follow my name. So I woke up the other morning like I usually do...hungry. In an effort to calm the demons, I flipped on the Today Show and started guzzling water. Typically that combo holds off a random early morning binge for at least 2 0r 3 minutes. That is unless the formerly fat Al Roker and his clan happen to be chowing down on the random creations of a guest chef. Do I need to see a wanna be weatherman eating ribs at 7:30 in the morning whilst I have to walk 10 miles and drink liquid shit in an effort NOT to look like the former version of him? I think not. Clearly I need to start watching cartoons....scratch that...they make me crave Froot Loops and footed PJ's. Anyway, so I click on the TV and see her...."The woman who can't gain weight." Fascinating. She's 21 and weighs 61. Personally I would take any combination of that. None of those numbers exist in my world...unless we are recounting my personal best for trips to the buffet. Apparently she has some genetic disease that won't allow her to gain weight. "Excuse me, can a fatty get a transfusion around here?!" At birth she weighed 2 lbs. I fear I weighed that at conception. As usual, in an effort to check out quicker...I ended up in the wrong line.

I had an idea....if I could find this chick and befriend her, perhaps her issues would cancel out mine. At a combined weight of 460...we would look great together! I found out we have something in common...we both eat 5000 calories a day! Of course that is where the fork splits...whilst my calories hop on board the first train to Assville, I'm not quite sure where hers go. Maybe they are hitching rides from others. Does this make her a Fatimposter??! I think so! In any event, can you even imagine a life where you could eat that many calories and still shop at Gymboree? It's amazing at best! Froot Loops and Krispy Kreme's for breakfast (whilst watching Scooby Doo), McDonald's for lunch, a shopping spree for under $100 and a sleepover at Brad Pitt's house. It's my freakin dream life! I can live the life of a child, eat as much as I want without gaining a pound and bang Brad Pitt in my spare time! Who says Fatties can't win the lottery???!
Sidebar- whilst on my new diet I was confronted by an old demon that morphed into a superdemon...I give you the Cherrywine Krispy Kreme....limited edition. Being a fan of donuts and cheap soda, who was I to pass this up. After eating 3 I decided I should post a warning on my blog.....DANGER! THEY ARE SMACK GOOD AND YOU CANNOT EAT JUST 1 DOZEN...DO NOT BUY....IT'S CRACK SISTERS....CRACK! COVERED IN CHOCOLATE, FILLED WITH THE NECTAR OF CHERRYWINE AND COATED WITH RED, WHITE AND BLUE SPRINKLES...WHERE'S THE DEA (Don't Eat Alarm) WHEN YOU NEED IT?!

Sorry...I had to get that off my chest. Just saying Krispy Kreme in the last paragraph made me want to dig the other 3 out of the garbage. They are still in the box....24 hour rule. Anyway, clearly this Today Show story opens up doors for fatties everywhere. If doctor's can isolate the gene and get someone like big booty Kim Kardashian (or any of her big assed sisters for that matter) to market it....it's liquid gold I tell you. I won't hold my breath...since I've been banned from running I don't have that much to hold. Existing is taking every ounce of free oxygen I have....or maybe that's marriage. The lines get blurred after a few years of wedded bliss.

Diet update....yeah the pre-packed food from said diet didn't make it past day 2 in my world. I am now on a quasi diet...part what they tell me to do, part what Dr. Atkins tells me to do and part what the demons tell me to do. It's pure chaos. But it's working. Down 5 pounds. So, when I feel like behaving I eat the cardboard soaked in water with a splash of cinnamon, when I need fat I get back together with Dr. Atkins and when I pass Cherrywine Krispy Kreme's....all hell breaks loose. It's sort of like wearing elastic waist pants....if you cover them with a cute top no one knows and you have a little extra room to be you. That's my secret diet...elastic waist pants. I fear my 20 year reunion is in 2 weeks and I haven't quite made it to the aforementioned size 2. Guess I'll have to start concocting my story....rare genetic disorder...after 30 I can't lose weight....on Medicaid....and so on. I did have a nice bout of binge drinking last week. Whilst I thought Vodka was my friend...I think it may have to be dead to me. Thinking it had very few calories I found the need to drink it by the bottle. At 100 calories a shot I feel... dirty. Oh well. What one doesn't remember didn't necessarily happen now did it?

Let's hope this week brings less drinking, better morning TV and and the flu...I need to lose 30 pounds in 1.5 weeks. Come on MERSA...tell me where you are hiding!

Wednesday, June 30, 2010

A Midsummer Night's Diet

Just when you think there isn't a diet left on the market that my chubby little hands haven't touched....think again. I found one... in Fitness Magazine (ya know....the magazine of choice for verging fatties) complete with a coupon. We all know how I love to save a buck...especially on gross diet food! I placed my order...and actually contemplated paying $10 extra for the expedited shipping...it was a Sat and I wanted it by Monday....New Me Monday to be exact....take 2,182. Who knows, this might be the time it all comes together! However comma, common sense kicked in and I was gently reminded paying $10 extra to get a diet by Monday that I will clearly be cheating on by Tuesday is like pre-paying for a hooker and opting out of the sex part. It just doesn't make much sense. Not to mention...everyone knows faster shipping is a scam to call out the big girls. They laugh all the way to the bank with that $10 as they send your package out with all the other closet fatties. So I went with standard shipping and laid out my plan for massive binge eating until such time I could see the faint brown color of the UPS truck grazing my block. With a deadline like that, you can only imagine the amount of calories consumed between the time of impulse diet purchase and arrival of said impulse diet purchase. Ughum...

Said diet product arrived on a Wednesday....exactly 3 business days after I ordered it....without the extra $10....thank you very much. Everyone knows you don't keep a verging fatty waiting...we know the return policy when it's time to jump the fence!It was the Wednesday my husband was graduating from the fire academy. No way I could start it then. I would be expected to participate in post graduation consumption. I wouldn't want to be a party pooper. That leaves Thursday. Ughum. Thursday was his birthday. By now anyone who has read this blog knows of my inappropriate relationship with sugar....birthday cake to be exact. Does anyone think I was going to start my diet on a day when I had an excuse to take him out to dinner AND eat cake!? I think not! In fact, those around us were questioning who's birthday it was. Like a good wife I took him to a nice dinner, proceeded to get drunk, made him drive home and ensured I got the piece of cake with the most frosting. Wife of the year...creeping up on me again. In my defense, a woman getting ready to start her period or a diet can't be held accountable for her actions within 7 days of any sort of offense. At least one of those excuses was applicable. Then there was my next dilemma, leftovers. Oh...I should clarify....not my leftovers ( I don't even know what that word means quite frankly)....his leftovers. I could care less about the ribs he brought home. I find the eating of someone else's rib cages a bit barbaric...I meant the cake. Had it been a regular grocery store cake with the sugary icing that I love so, the problem would have had an expiration date....about 2-3 days. But no, the husband likes ice cream cake....as discussed at length in previous blogs. That shit lasts forever....unless no one knows it's there but me....then it's got an hour or two max. But he not only knew it was there, he knew how much he ate thus leaving me vulnerable to rationing. Damn! Diets, rationing, husbands....you kiss your Mama with that mouth?! So I was left with a counter full of diet food and a freezer full of cake. It's like choosing between having an affair with Brad Pitt or doing the right thing- getting a divorce, chasing down Brad Pitt and hoping he not only likes fat divorced chicks...but has given back all of those offspring with what's her name! It's just easier to sneak in the freezer for a quickie.

This brings us to Friday. I ask you, who starts a diet on a Friday. No one I know. Then again, no one I know weighs under 650. Friday's are for beer, pizza and sex. 2 out of 3 of those things happens 4 out 4 Friday's at my house. Let just say I never go thirsty or hungry and leave it at that. Friday was out....even though there was a very large woman I barely recognized staring back at me screaming for an intervention....it would have to wait until Saturday when I was off work and could focus. Who starts a diet on a Sat? No one I know. Saturday is for eating as much as possible and cooking as little as possible. I would put it off one more day....the Lord's day to be exact. Surely God would intervene and prescribe diet and rest on the 7th day. Not so much. If he did, he clearly should have stopped me prior to the chicken biscuit combo on my way to church. I'm a good person. I tithe. Can't a sister get a break!? The Lord spoke to me at church and told me that all good things happen on Monday (which I knew...duh!). That settled it. The new me would once again have to start on Monday. If only I had tithed a dollar for every calorie I ate that day....world hunger would be no more. Well except for my world hunger...I will NEVER stop being hungry. NEVER..NUNCA.

Monday morning arrived and I was all fired up. The new me was ready to come out and play. I woke up, walked 4 miles and drank one of the shakes from my new packet of astronaut food. It read, "Creamy Orange Shake." It should have read, " FRAUD." It was like drinking watered down Sunny D....minus the Sunny, the D and anything in there that would have made it taste good. Being a trained fatty, I have work arounds for these situations....no I didn't add ice cream (although that would have done the trick). I plugged my nose and swallowed. A technique that can be used for various painful experiences. The good news....I got to eat more crappy food in 2 hours. I literally watched the clock until it was time to eat again. I decided I would try a "bar." Who fucks up a bar? The instructions said, "Do not eat more than one of these bars as they are high in calories." 110 to be exact! Gheez! I expected to get a granola sized bar with some sort of flavor. I got the flavor...in the one bite it took me to finish it! It was the size of a postage stamp! Clearly this is the trick starvation diet! As you would expect, it took me exactly 2 hours, 34 minutes and 16 seconds to cheat. I carried my big ass to Subway for a footlong turkey. That shit was calling me! Food is my crack and I was back on the corner with Pookie! You know where this is going....as soon as I mess up....the flood gates open. I went on to eat non-stop until I went to bed at 10pm. New Me Tuesday?

Yes, I was so disgusted Tuesday that I promised myself I would try and get at least 1 day in without cheating. That's the cool thing about promising yourself something, I can only let me down and frankly I am quite forgiving! As long as I am rewarded with some "hair of the dog" things can once again be made whole. I sucked it up and ate as much of the nasty diet propaganda that I could stomach. I plugged my nose for the shake, pretended to love the one real food I got to eat....salad (sans Ranch...I know...unfair!) and tried to figure out a way to make 1.13 ounces of a somewhat tasty snack bar last longer than 1 second. I got an "A" until
9 pm. What happened at 9pm you ask? Well....of course the fat demon that lives inside me decided to started "speaking" to me. "There's no way you are eating enough. You are gonna pass out. You can't do any form of exercise and be on this diet. Your blood sugar will fall and you will convulse. You better add up the calories and make sure this is safe." I was in an all out panic. Because clearly my body couldn't tolerate any sort of calorie reduction! Gee....I might have enough fat stores to last me until...Oh I don't know....2017! But I listened to the Demon and started to add....feverishly. "I'm going to die. Being fat isn't so bad. I choose life!" Those were just some of the things going through my head when I reached my total caloric input for the day.....950! What?! My dogs eat more than that and they are lazy sluggos! I knew what had to be done. Popcorn. Air popped...light on the butter. A small sacrifice to keep me alive long enough to see Wednesday. Oh...and there was a bit of emotional eating in the mix. This weeks episode of Deadliest Catch was airing Captain Phil's death. It was very sad. He was a good man....not that I know him, have met him or know anything about him. It's just that we have been sharing Tuesday's nights from spring to summer for several seasons and I'll miss seeing him chain smoke and shake. Can't believe he's dead. RIP Phil.

So I almost made it through 1 day on this diet. That being said, it was time to jump on the scale and look for results! Keeping ones expectations in line is key to success on any diet. There it was...I had lost 3 pounds. Must have been the chicken biscuit I "let go of" at my am bowel movement. Good stuff. Now that I had confirmation it was working, it would be easier to follow through. Here we are at Wednesday. I have thrown out the boxed diet oatmeal, scrambled eggs and 1 thing of soup. I went online and ordered the fake fatty chips and brownies. If I have to eat cardboard I should at least pretend it started as something I would normally eat, right? Should be here in 3 days. At that point, my diet shall consist of shakes, chips, brownies and bars. Almost like it's not a diet at all! In the meantime, I will stay the course with what remains on my counter. Well...on my end of the counter. The other end has all the cool people, Lil' Debbie, Keebler, Cap'n Crunch and so on. I had to get new friends....and my new friends suck ass! In the end my new friends will make me a better person but I prefer to live on the edge and bear the consequences....such as clothing that ends in X and buying two seats on an airplane. It's so old me.

I know....you want to know what diet I'm on. I shall torture you until such time as 1 of 2 things happens: 1. I lose weight or 2. I fall off the wagon. I'd put my money on 2. It's a sure bet. I have my high school reunion in 25 days. I can't show up as twice the woman I was in 1989. It's not even cool to be fat right now. I'm so out. I guess if I can't lose my ass in 25 days I'll have to concoct some elaborate story of a genetic mutation causing me to double in size....I shall call her "Mother!" Kidding Maaa....and no I'm not telling you what diet I'm on. Keep counting your points and leave me to 950 calories of cardboard. Time for a bar....and not the kind with alcohol unfortunately.

Monday, June 21, 2010

Wife of the Year

This just in... the award for "Fatty Wife of the Year" .... goes to...my ass, (literally and figuratively) hands down. I'm fairly confident when it comes to categories such as "Use of Food as a Weapon, a Crutch, and a Friend...there isn't even a runner up. I feel like there should also be an honorable mention for the various forms of trickery I gracefully execute on a daily basis. Let's revisit some of my finer moments of the year and revel in all that is me, shall we?

2010 began with none other than a New Year's Revelation. My Revelation...If my husband accepts me 6 sizes bigger than when he married me, 2 things are very clear: 1. He has no other options 2. He's suppressing "fat stores" that will one day result in his spontaneous combustion ...thus leaving me free to marry Brad Pitt. Happy New Year to me.

In 6 months I have been on 6 diets and gained 6....tee pounds. 666. Clearly the diet God's are not hearing my prayers (male God's I'm sure). I know I'm a slutty, trash talking Rabbit lover...but these are Diet God's....they should only curse me for eating Taco Bell and Fried Twinkies....not judge me for colorful language and plastic "man friends." If I have to break up with Little Debbie, bury the Rabbit AND stop saying, "fuck" ....I'm fucked. Much like marriage, dieting gets more painful with age....I've single handily cussed out the fine folks at Weight Watchers ( Points suck! 22 points? I eat that in my f'n sleep!), went crazy on "crack" (for the record...the Phen in Phentremine that's "safe" is great if you enjoy staying up all night, never eating and a heart that beats more than Ron Jeremy- I choose life and rabbit) and spent 1 day carb free....(1 long painful day where I was forced to break up with the one thing my "whoo whoo" hates and I love...yeast.) If being fat is a crime, trying not to be fat is pre-meditated fucking murder. Sorry Diet God's. Where's Little Debbie when I need some defense? Back where I started....Forever 2x

I decided to sign myself up for Mission Impossible...find a place on my body that wasn't fat. Even if it was just a tiny crevice on the road map of me...I had to find it. When I located the aforementioned part, I decided it should available for viewing, unveiled if you will. That is why I no longer wear panties. Why keep the only thing on me that has remained unscathed for 37 years (give or take a few bad decisions) covered up? Why? I just don't know....thus why she is now free to roam about the cabin. I decided to attend a party (a coming out party of sorts) wearing a dress that allowed "her" to breath whilst the rest of me suffocated from random displaced fat. What's a fatty to do whilst wearing a flapper dress to hide what flaps whilst her very own "flapper" flapped in the breeze....stand there and look cute. 1 inch to the left, right, up or down and "Leave it to Beaver" would be an instant prime time hit once more. I don't know what scared me more...someone seeing my dimpled thighs or my "Chucky." Either way, someone would clearly be losing an eye. Good thing I'm not famous. The papz would have been all up in my pink taco. The only thing surrounded by fat that's good and good for you.

Now to my worst offense of the year. If you are close to a sink, wash your hands before reading. It's down right dirty and shameful. As many of you know, I am a frugal fatty. Why pay full price for Doritos when the simple use of a coupon can double the quantity, the calories and thus the pleasure . It's just common sense shopping. So... whilst I was out on one of my various grocery runs, I noticed not only were ice cream cakes on sale...but I also had a coupon! Who says the average girl can't win the lottery! Top that off with the perfect excuse for purchasing said cake....hubby's birthday. Here's where it gets dicey. Captain's logbook...February....Husbands birthday....June. We all know where this is going. In the cruelest form of trickery, I bought the cake as a "surprise" well ahead of the curve. Much like many of the "surprises" I bring home for "him," he would never see it. I have good intentions...just very bad morals. Fire/Ice. About the end of February (the start of ice cream season), I decided my husband might not like that cake after all. It was adorned with pink flowers. What was I thinking? What man would eat a cake with feminine undertones? No man of mine. So...I decided it would be best if I spared his masculinity by eating the section with the pink flowers. Allow me to scale that to size for you....that would be half the cake. Objects in mirror appear just as big as they are, thank you! Damn that frosting was good. What? It was February. Winter sucks and the spring flowers were calling. Then I got my period. Taking a sharp knife to a very frozen ice cream cake allowed me to release a certain amount of negative energy that I attribute to...marriage....and that was the end of the cake. I bring you to June. The birthday is 2 days away, we have no cake and no coupons. I'm torn. Should I just tell him how good the cake was back in February or come out of pocket with another $20 knowing he might see 1 piece of that cake before it enters the confines of my gut only to be seen again as a small (or large) pock on my ass. I got it...I'll get him a card and me a cake. Yes, I'm am the whore of the earth. Happy Birthday Honey.

I can't think of anything I've done in the last 5 minutes that tops that one. I did get drunk on Saturday (at the Beaver's coming out party...these things happen) and binge eat all day Sunday. That's so...common. Well, except for the part where I broke my long standing McDonald's record by going back 2 x in 2 hours. I know...even I get sick reading that. This is why fat people shouldn't drink....they could be eating.

Is it 2011 yet?