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.