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!

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!

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.

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.