What the hell is a Sister in Fat? It's a bond uniting women everywhere. The inner fatty living deep within all of us. She convinces us supersizing is acceptable as long as we wash it down with a Diet Coke. Here at SIF we celebrate "New Me Monday" EVERY Monday, eat lunch at high noon and hide food from those who judge us. It's not about size sisters. If you have an inappropriate relationship with food and obsess over weight loss/gain...you ARE a SIF! Welcome Home!
Wednesday, September 29, 2010
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.
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.
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
Displaced...
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!
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!
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