Tuesday, October 23, 2012

Still trying

Thank you to all my followers for continually checking back. I will write again. I just can't seem to do it yet.

Tuesday, July 31, 2012

I'm trying...

Still can't seem to bring myself to write. I'm trying...

Friday, June 22, 2012

I will write again soon...

Sorry to all my followers for not posting in a while. It's been very hard to think about writing following Tara's death. I know she would want me to. In fact I can hear her saying, "Homey when are you going to do another blog?" She loved reading them and would always call me to tell me how funny they were. Gonna miss that. I will write again. Soon. SIF

Sunday, May 20, 2012

I will...

When Tara passed away, the words "I will" immediately came to mind. As writers, we don't always know why certain things come to us. We just know it's what needs to be said and try to fill in the blanks. Now that a few weeks have gone by, I understand why. Because Tara never said "I can't." She just did. Her can do attitude extended to everyone she loved. If you couldn't fix it, she would. Even if it meant telling you to do something you didn't want to do. There are an endless amount of things I will miss about you "Homey", but most of all...."I will" miss you. I will...never forget your infectious laugh and beautiful smile. You're absouletly right...Those White Strips really do work. I will...never be able to emulate your jest for life. I'm just too lazy. You found happiness in the craziest things. Garlic? How is this cause for celebration? I can't be sure. I just know it went in everything...minimum 10 cloves. I will...never cook like you. You tried...I just love McDonalds Homey. That's where I went before every dinner you invited me to. Sorry. I was hungry. Who eats dinner at 11pm? You. I will...always eat at 6 o'clock in the "afternoon"...just to piss you off. By the way...that's actually evening. I will...continue to bring store bought 7 layer dip to every party. I'll await the strike of lightening. I will...never be able to run one step without wishing you were next to me. Even when you smelled like Shiraz at 7am. I will...always hear your voice yelling at me at 6:45am "Damn Homey! Are you ever late?! Why do we have to run so early?" I will...never be able to explain to you why everyone else works 8 hours a day. They just do Homey. They just do. I will...never let anyone else call me General Byrd. I'm changing my name just for you. Oh and the divorce n all. I will...always have drunken dance parties in the kitchen just for you. EZ-E, countertop dancing and dog humping. It's soo cute. NOT. I will...never let Yenny stop cleaning or cooking. She didn't take the yob at Lowes. No mas pancakas Y tocina. I will...never forget that early morning run when you said "You are my worst fuckin nightmare." I consider that a compliment. I will...never stop laughing at how you got people to do just what you wanted. Everytime. I never liked wine. Thanks. I will...always remember you trying to control my love life. The answer to your last email was "yes." -pinche I will...never stop laughing at your version of "being on the wagon." "That just means I'm switching to beer Homey." Love that wagon of yours. Gonna have to take a ride on it sometime. I will...never understand how you were the only realtor without a smart phone. You were a realtor right? :0) I will...never forget that day on the pier. It was a Saturday. A client called. You were appalled. "Who calls on a Saturday?" Realtor of the Year...that was you. As long as you called Mon-Fri, after the run, before lunch and not after happy hour. I will...never forget how you laughed at anything I wrote or said. I'm not that funny. You just needed new friends :0) I will...never dance like you. For the record that's not a compliment. I have soul, I know more than 1 move & I'm not allowed on the seam. I will...always remember showing you my boobs after I had them done. I think that was preceeded by, " Hi, I'm Kelly, nice to meet you." Peas and carrots. I will...never forget how you always told me how great I looked. At 200 pounds as well as 150. I'm sure this makes you a friend. Or a candidate for Lasick. Can't be sure. I will...add to the last statement by saying, telling me "You were gettin heavy" after the fact was not amusing. Follow that with "Doug said it's like takin (6) 5 pound bags of potatoes off your ass"...and I hear friend of the year calling. Never eating again. I will...make that stupid chicken dish you made Susan and I. Only bcs you said I couldn't. I can. I just prefer to have sex over grilling pine nuts for 12 hours. I'm sure you understand. I will...always follow the things I don't like to do with "I'd rather have the clap." You coined it. It lives on. I will...always refer to the food I love most in the following manner "It's like an orgasm in my mouth." I'm sorry to report this will most likely be some sort of fast food combo. But your spirit will be there all the same. Oh and this is why we never took you out to dinner. We understand it to be a compliment. The general public isn't quite there yet. That and we were afraid you'd bust out a coupon. I will...always wonder how you managed to like everyone. There are just some people I don't like. I don't care what you say. I will...thank you one day for keeping my secret. That's singular. Bcs it's the only one you ever kept. And it wasn't even a big one. Remind me to smack you around a bit when I see you again. I will...tell everyone how you ate an entire pizza. I watched you. Heffa. And still wore single digit jeans. I will...start returning my 10 year old jeans to Victoria Secret. I wouldn't want them to worry something might have happened to the one person who actually read the return policy. I will...admit to making sure your Mom reads the blog and tells me it's funny. You were my only fan. Now what? Mom has agreed to take over. I will...always be fascinated that you donated 6 organs. Only bcs we all believed your liver to be undesirable. I fear there's hope for mine. I will...or should I say I would...appreciate it if you stop haunting my dreams. If you wanted to get in bed with me you had the last 9 years to do so. I will...be watching "I'll Have Another" win the triple crown. Show off. Ok...I made that funny for you Homage. But I have some serious stuff to say. Don't worry...just a little... I will...no longer be afraid of death. I know you are waiting to run with me. One day sister...One day... I will...always appreciate every breath I take. I breathe for you. I will...never be unhappy. Life is too short. I will...never let anyone say a bad word about you. EVER. I will...write my book and dedicate it to you...promise. I will...make sure your animals are always loved. Yes, even the cat. I will...never forget being with you in the hospital during the last hours of your life. You looked so beautiful. Even in pain. I will...forgive myself for not being able to save you. You came to me. You set me free. Thank you. I will...never judge anyone again. You taught me to accept people for their good qualities. I will...take care of your family. They are my family now. I will...never forget you my SIF, my Homey, my Homage...my forever friend. I love you Tara Burlage! General Byrd aka Kelita aka whatever other crazy names you came up with for me :0)

Saturday, May 19, 2012

Blog Tribute to Tara Sunday

It's been a long time since I've blogged. You know from my last post I lost a very close SIF a few weeks ago. She was the reason I loved to write this blog. I haven't been able to touch it since she passed. I owe her a tribute...Stay tuned.

Sunday, April 29, 2012

A very special SIF

Tara, You loved this blog so much. You were my #1 fan and always made me believe I could do anything. I have a very special tribute planned for you on the blog. For now, rest peace my sister. I love you more than words. Eat on...

Sunday, April 15, 2012


Yeah I said it. And don't give me any shit for taking so long between blogs. As a newly single fatty I have quite a hectic schedule. Never taking off make up and pretending to only eat salad is exhausting. Who does this shit? I can't wait to move into Single SIF 2.0. I slide a little more onto the plate...stop hiding jerky snacks in the purse and reveal all that is me in soft white light. I find it to be most flattering. Yes, I carry spare bulbs in my purse and switch them out prior for the reveal. I didn't fall off the fat wagon yesterday. Duh. Get some game sisters. Be prepared. See your ass in cheap Dolla Store white light. Have your fat ass runnin to Wally World for some quality lighting. In any event. One of our fellow fatties tried to pull a fast one...on me...the original (well 2nd original behind Mother) SIF. I gots mad skills sisters. "Fatbotage" stands out like a Krispy Kreme at a Weight Watchers meeting. Or Fatty Hypnosis as it were....

You'll recall my trip to the magic man a few years back. He claimed he could hypnotize the fat right outa me. Me and 4 other people who were dumb enough to spend Valentine’s Day with him. What was the alternative? Spend it with my husband? I'll take the traveling freak show for $75 Alex. Clearly the most expensive fuckin nap I've even taken. Thinking back I really should have had better results. I was honest. I admitted to a pre-hypnotic binge. No one else did. I certainly don't believe for one nano second that anyone who pays to stop eating on the day they should be getting flowers and dick didn't run through a drive through for one last tryst. I know I did. Ate so many damn beans at Taco Bell I was certain my farts would be powerful enough to break the spell. Luckily that didn't come to pass. I remember 3 things about that night...hard metal chairs (which made me worry even more about the bean situation), fearing I was going to randomly admit to things no one ever needed to know...and HER.

I liked her. She was really nice. I suppose one shouldn't make friends at therapy. Like I need more fucked up friends. I have a plethora of them and they didn't cost me $75. But...fatties like chattin it up in these situations. I think I was secretly hoping she had some fucked up story that would trump mine and make me look like some sort of anorexic fat angel. I'm not sure what that looks like, fyi. I can't control my thoughts. You'll recall I was under the influence of the magic man. Who I believe to be a smoker. And he zapped people for that too. Interesting. He had wooden teeth. That's how I know. Ok so I remembered 4 things. I fear I am still under the influence. Anyway. She was really nice. And not outwardly fat. Like me. Fat trickery. You know I appreciate this quality in others. That's how I knew she had a closet full of bones. Chicken bones. Greasy ass half eaten chicken bones. It was an instant connection. On our break we chatted it up in the hallway. I was hoping to run out to my car for a Snickers. Nope. She must have given me the strength to just say no. Whatever. My car was parked 8 blocks away. The Snickers could wait until after I agreed to never eat again. Frugal fatties don't expend excess energy.

Revelation. We realized we were both emotional eaters. Happy, sad, angry...any emotion worked. The only time we didn't eat...when we were sleeping. My soul mate. No. I didn't get her number. She was the hot guy you meet at a bar and hope you never see again. Bcs you were dumb enough to marry someone not as hot or smart thus keeping you from eternal happiness. * This bitter moment has been brought to you by www.sistersinfat.com * Except she wasn't hot. Or fat. And I certainly didn't want to hook up with her. Grab a burger maybe. It's an inner connection thing. Anyway. No numbers. Just a one night stand of harmonious fat chat. That's it. Why would we need to call each other? I couldn't be her sober friend. God knows the magic mans evil spell was already wearing off. We would never see each other again. Never. Why would we? We'd gone all this time and never met. Why would we suddenly feel the need to be fatty BFF's? That's Big Friends Forever for you slower fatties. It just wasn't plausible.

That is why I saw her exactly everywhere I went for the next 6 months. In the grocery store. In the shopping mall. At the chiropractor. You name it. There she was. I had no aversion to seeing her. Other than the fact she knew all my fatty secrets. Things I wouldn't want the average person to know about me. New Me Monday. Fat Girl Lunch Hour. Binging. It was very Jerry Springerish...gone fatty. She was my Fat Baby Daddy. I gotta hand it to her though. She was always very complimentary. Lots of "You look great." As an addict you want to believe it's true. Now that I am semi-sober...I see right through that shit. The instantaneous sizing me up to see if I might weigh less than her. Peepin my grocery cart to see if I'm taking Lil Debbie home for the night. If I want to eat that Ho I damn sure will! And I don't care if your fat fucked up ass sees it or not! Debbie and I are togetha forever. Calm down. That's me talking to myself. It's what I do. I just don't think you should have to see your AA/OA buddies more than you see the bottom of an ice cream carton. It's not right. Had I been hip to her game back then...I would have been one skinny bitch for less than $75. Right under my front tire. Aint much room there for growth. Yeah I said it.

Let's bring this full circle shall we? Fatties like fullness. So I'm dating. That's hard enough to pull off on a good day. Calming the inner fatty so I don't bite my fingers or moan when I eat. It's hard work. I got a lot on my mind sisters. So the new beau wanted to take me for a nice dinner. Nice usually equals smaller portions so I hit up a drive through bout 4:30. Anyway. It was raining that night. Not ideal. Rainy nights are my emotional eating fried chicken nights. Yes, I have special nights reserved for the scalding of skin. I don't often veer off course. But he's hot and he doesn't want me to reproduce anything that walks or talks. Sometimes you just gotta compromise. He dropped me at the door and asked me to tell the hostess we had a 7:45 reservation. I can handle this. Or can I?

The hostess. Can you guess who the hostess was? I promise you it wasn't the Hostess I wanted it to be...the ones I call Twinkies with the creamy middle. No this hostess was more akin to a Ding Dong. It was her. And ya know she made it a point to hug me and tell me how great I looked. Except this time I did. 36 pounds lighter thank you. No thanks to the magic man. Or her ass for that matter. We did that whole fake conversation thing girls do when they secretly hate each other for no reason other than they had hoped you would look worse. I didn't think it could get any worse. And then it did. "So I know I should remember your name. What time is your reservation?" A. I never wanted or expected you to remember my name. B. I secretly fear I may have given you one of my fatty aliases. C. It's time to let this bitch know who's in charge. "Yeah...no that's ok....bcs my name has changed. I'm divorced and here with my boyfriend. My husband left when I lost all the weight. He just couldn't handle how hot I am." Or something along those lines. All I know is it was enough for my date (who I had now elevated to boyfriend status sans permission) to ask who she was. I suggested we sit down for this one.

How do you tell a new man on the scene that you once ate so much you had to pay a pedaling magic man to convince you to put the fork down and step away from the plate? You don't. You just tell him she's a friend from Curves and hope she doesn't out you. That's the cool thing about befriending people with as many chicken bones as you have...if they out you they out themselves. Check mate. I thought the nightmare was behind me. She was. Behind me and instructing our waiter to send me a piece of the fattiest cake on the menu and 2 Irish Cream coffees. Speechless. Fatbotage. Not only did she know I had already had one dessert...she wished for me to wash down another with a 2 fat coffees. I tried to explain the root of my anger to the new guy. He didn't get it. Of course not. Why would it be weird for my Curves buddy to send me cake? Um bcs we don't in fact have a Curves within 50 miles of us and everyone knows girls don't send girls cake! We send shots to dull the pain of not eating so you'll think I'm hot and fuck me. Deep breath.

I thanked her on the way out and told her I had to get a to-go box as I was just too full to partake in her conspiracy. Said with an evil smile. If I could have poured the coffee on her without the fear of no sex...I surely would have. Make no mistake. She knew what she was doing. 100%. Send a fruit tart...we're still friends. Send a piece of cake with custard oozing out of every layer. It's on. I'm working on my plan for retaliation. I'm weighing out the side effects of running her over with my car. Trying to come to terms with prison time. I don't look good in stripes. And you think I make this shit up?! Another page from the book of..."I can't make this shit up!" I AM the Larry David of the fat world. God puts me in these situations in hopes of me sharing them with you. It may take me some time between blogs...just know I am always hard at work! I am the fat defender!

Saturday, March 17, 2012

Fat Nap

Don’t act like you don't know. Cat Nap for fatties. Brought on by random binge eating. I take 2 or 3 of these a day. Involuntarily. Eat, sleep repeat. A fellow SIf thought it would be a good idea to take me on a free, all inclusive vacation. What does this mean to you? Free Vacation. Dumb ass. Find another blog to stalk. A true SIF translates as follows...food...and lots of it. I was all but salivating. I also do that 2 or 3 times a day. Involuntarily. Comes with food aggressive behavior. In any event. Who turns down unlimited amounts of free food? Let me answer that...no one above a size 6. That's right size 8's...bite me. Me miss the chance to don my 25 year old a bikini in the middle of Feb? *Slit wrists here* I'll get a new one when I lose weight. Yeah. The good news...I'm not sure there is any. No good can come of pasty white fat cells hanging out of a faded bikini. No good. I looked like a Hot Pocket. And no..not the Lean Pocket. The full on Fat Pockets. Pizza flavor. It's my favorite. If I have to go down, it should at least taste good. Words to live by. Mother won't get that one. I'll explain later Mother. Fuck. There...a word you love.

We flew first class. It was a mistake. They must have seen my ass and figured an upgrade was easier than replacing a seat. Here's what I enjoy about first class....liquor. All I can drink. Here's what I don't enjoy. Stupid parents who buy their screaming kids $10,000 first class tickets. Why? Why? Little Johnny won't even remember the trip. Perhaps an investment in his college fund would have been a better choice. Yes. It would have. It took exactly 10 Bloody Mary's to keep my inside voice inside. I attributed #11 to immigration. The form that is. Ya know the one you fill out to declare what you are brining in the country and why you are there. Let's see...it's February. I live in NC. I'm traveling to a 3rd world country where the average temperature is 85. Hmmm. Definitely a drug smuggler. Just a dumb all inclusive vacationer too fat to travel. I passed out. When I awoke, said over generous friend warned me of impending trauma. I feared the child was loose. Worse. There was a line on the immigration form asking me to identify my marital status. Waitress....

Married or Single. Those were my choices. Are you freakin kidding me? I'm still in America. What happened to divorced, widowed...verging? I required more choices. And Blood Mary's. I summoned the flying waitress. I told her of my quandary. Her advice. Another Bloody. Loved her. I was on my seperationcation ....not even 2 hours into the flight and already having to confess I'm still legally married. Unfair. I didn't want to be married. I wanted to be divorced. I knew I wasn't that but I certainly wasn't married. It's a good thing I don't eat plane food. There would have been a run on the flying pantry! Speaking of which...all I wanted was one of those cute tapas boxes with the fancy olives and the cheese. I don't even like fancy olives and cheese. But fancy people eat it. And I was fancy. First class fancy. I was told I wasn't allowed to have said snack as they were for purchase only by the commoners behind the curtain. I never. Had I known the toilet was going to break and I would be forced into Commonerville to pee out said Blood Mary's...I would have taken the plunge and paid for the box. Stupid toilet.

Ask me what I remember about my vacation. Champagne & food. Food everywhere. Champagne everywhere. I would equate this to paradise. However, I saw one too many naked utters...yes utters...bcs the only people who go topless at these places should be nursing small calves. And one too many men in Speedos. I don't care if you're European. If you show me your dick I will attack. Perhaps a "Beware of Dick" sign would solve this issue. And one too many married couples who never vacation bcs of their stupid kids. They need resort training. Just like the mini-scuba certification training. There should be the "I've never been on vacation and need to know how to act" training. Bermuda shorts and Hawaiian shirts should never co-mingle. Never. Over talkative and annoying. I don't care where you are from or why you are here. I am here to get away from people like you. Go have sex before your wife leaves you for someone who will fuck her and not ask stupid questions. Again, all the inner voice..but a voice nonetheless. Thank God for cheap all inclusive champagne.

My favorite moment of the trip...my friend trying to order a drink at the kiddy pool bar. Classic. Nothing like being scorned for needing alcohol to tolerate kids and their dumb parents. It became our Diet Coke & water haunt. Didn't get back there much. Breakfast was a fat girls paradise...the egg guy, the donuts, the waffles. Why did this have to coincide with me wearing a bikini? I needed to go to an all inclusive ski resort. Eat all day and wear a ski suit by night. Perfectly acceptable. It was loud. Very loud. Always someone calling to check on something they promised to do and didn't. Random migrant workers banging shovels at 11am. People are trying to sleep around here. Gheez. Never enough towels. It's like you are suppose to wrap yourself in a hand towel and hope it catches everything. Not likely. Wouldn't catch a tear. I use a hand towel as a washcloth. Clearly this resort needed SIF orientation. I got my fat naps in. Every day. 4pm. Right about the time the phone started ringing and the banging resumed.

Did I have fun? Of course! Everyone knows tanned fat looks way better than pasty white lard. A drunk SIF is way better than a sober SIF. I can tolerate so much more under the influence. That is unless you seat me next to the snoring foreign woman on the 4 hour flight home. Seriously. After standing in line for hours to LEAVE the country...my reward is Yaniqua the snoring illegal? Seriously. We saw her coming from a mile away. That person. The one you spot from afar and just know she's sitting next to you and it won't be pleasant. Didn't measure the carry on, over talker, snoring, constant pee-er, got the window seat...you know the one. Why was I Moni in the middle? However, I'll take the snorer over the TB patient sitting on the other side of my friend. How we got off the plane with CDC meeting us the gate...can't be sure. I just know I was fat, tired and tan.

What have I learned about all-inclusive vacations? Only cool fat people with no children should be allowed on the island. No utters. No Speedos. I'm so looking for an all inclusive trip to Alaska. I'm quite sure I could nap in peace there. No banging. No random chatter. Just fat naps and food. Paradise.

Wednesday, March 14, 2012

I swear a new blog is coming this week...

I can't force these things out of me. I need a certain ratio of carbs to sarcasm. I haven't been able to master the formula over the last couple of weeks. I'm verging...deal

Monday, March 5, 2012

Just back from all you can eat vacation...

New blog with details coming soon....as soon as I deliver my "fat baby"- stay tuned

Wednesday, February 22, 2012

Fat Wednesday...

Because that's how I rolls. I'll leave Fat Tuesday to the Cajuns. I don't like espicy. Gives me gas and makes me eat less. No good can come of this. I really have nothing to say about Mardi Gras. If you want to see my tits...ask. No beads required. No holiday needed. It's that simple. Welcome to singledom SIF. You're so desperate for someone to look at your tits, you flash at will. I'd prefer to not associate flashing the girls with any holiday starting with "Fat." Not to mention...Tuesday is dead to me. It's all about new me Monday. Duh. Covered this. As of today I'm down 36 pounds. The divorce diet is highly underrated. I feel like Dr. Oz should be talking more about it. Fuck water. Divorce is forever. Bra fat...gone. However, whatever one calls the fat under your ass cheeks...still there. Maybe it's waiting for the divorce to be finalized. I shall call it... stubborn. You can see how flashing my tits as opposed to my ass seemed like a good plan. No one likes ass muffins. Yes, I shall call them ass muffins.

Mother is still hoping I'll lose more weight... and El Conejo. One out a two aint bad. I will never leave El Conejo. He loves me and my muffins. Granted...he bites. I'm sorta into it. Who else is nibbling on all that is me? Allow me to answer that...no one. I wouldn't even know how to date at this point. I'd need to Swifter the Beav for starters. They don't currently make a "come fuck me" scent so I'm holding off on wet jetting. I'm sure you can understand my predicament. How does one market the following: overweight, single mother of 2 bulldogs with a virginal vagina seeks anyone with a non-battery operated penis to service her? I feel the virginal vagina bit is my only hope of a score. I'm ok with that. Time to dust.

So I'm sitting home. Alone. Watching the news. I know...no good can come of this. I could be eating. I should pay a visit to dirty hot neighbor. A lot of good can come of that. Manorexia. Seriously. This is news? First men try to keep us on our backs and in the kitchen...now they steal our only hope at being skinny?! I would say Brian Williams SHOULD be reporting this. I find myself being less than sympathetic. Why? I can't be sure. Bcs they are men. They are suppose to open doors and know better. Leave the non-eating to the bitches. The only ribs I wanna see on a man should be hanging out of his mouth with BBQ sauce. The bigger the better. Unless you have broad shoulders. We all know that equals small penis. Let's not go there. Non eating men are about as bad as the Skinnegars. If you don't know the term...catch up on your blog reading. I can't keep repeating myself. It's exhausting. Stay with me.

So if you can't make it to Nawlens for Fat Tuesday...no worries. You can be fat every day. It's all the rage. I have to go now. Some SIF just showed up at my door. I can only imagine they want to see my ass muffins. They look hungry. Peace.

Monday, February 20, 2012

Tuesday, February 14, 2012

To Mother With Love...

The following is a text exchange between the original Sister in Fat (My Mother) and myself.

*Background info- today is her wedding anniversary...that would be her fake wedding anniversary twice over... forced at the hands of the moral police we shall call "me"* Proceed

Me: Happy Anniversary Mother

Mother: Thank you

Me: I hope Dad gets lucky

Mother: Real nice. What about me?

Me: I assume this would provide some enjoyment for you as well.

Mother: You need to get a boyfriend

Me: Nice

Mother: I hope he doesn't require batteries

Me: Stop reading my blog

So...with that, I wish all the SIF Happy Valentines! Eat lots of chocolate and screw after dark. Fat rolls look better after sunset. Love

Monday, February 6, 2012

Mr. Sandman, bring me a......

Have you ever had a dream that made you jump out of bed and say, "What the Fuck?" Or as my friend Andie would say, "Oh my Gawd!" And I'm not talking about a "Someone stole my candy bar" kinda dream. Don't mess with a fat girl and her shugga. Even in my sleep I will take you out. Typically, my dreams involve 1 of 2 things...Brad Pitt or Fried Chicken. Sometimes these two dreams morph into one super dream. Me and Brad sharin a bucket a fried chicken. Greasy. Yummy. Scandalous. I know that bitch Angelina aint eatin no fried chicken. She always looks hungry. So unattractive Angie. So unattractive. Anyway, so that would be an average trip down REMory lane for this SIF. One would think I would dream about sex since my current love interest involves a plastic rabbit that bites. No one likes a biter. There wasn't a warning on the box, fyi. Why dream about sex when you can eat fried chicken with Brad Pitt? Duh. An orgasm is an orgasm. So mine is a little greasier than most. Don't be judgie. What would make me jump out of bed screaming bloody murder....why an orgasm at the grocery store of course!

I can't make this shit up. I'd like you to think I have this super vivid imagination that allows for endless material. However, my life is too vivid in and of itself to go out creating more fucked up shit. I'm kind of a big deal like that. You'll recall "This can't be my life" allows for many layers of fuckedupedness. Yes Mother. I am saying fuck a lot. I try and get all my fucking out of the way on days that end in "Y." In any event, I am about to reveal a dream that will change your opinion of me forever. I can't be sure that's a bad thing. I will preface this revelation with the following public service reminder...we can't control our dreams. That's why no one's judging you for sticking the cucumber up your ass and actually liking it. You were helpless to defend yourself. The part where you used it in your tossed salad...now that's just sick. But you dreamt it. No control over your dreams. If shitty cucumbers turn you on, have at it. Just remind me not to accept your dinner invitation.

I'm stalling. Ok. Here goes. Well...let me first say I don't remember what I ate for dinner that night and I don't know where I was in my monthly cycle. I wish I had something like that to grab on to. Or a nice juicy wein, as it were. I'm getting sidetracked again. I can only say I went to bed as I always do. Naked and loaded down with just enough drugs to make sure I slept well and rose on time. It's quite a science. It's getting tougher since they started carding for Benadryl. I swear I'm not mixing up crack. Just making sure my ass goes to sleep. In light of some recent developments pertaining to the demise of my marriage, I should be able to cut back on at least 12 to 14 pills a night. Maybe. I'm currently going to bed humming "All my exes live in Texas." I only have 1 and he is in fact in Texas. I hate country music. However, if the shoe fits...be thankful it's at least 5 states away. The upside...he didn't kill me before he left. I was sure that was eminent. The smell of gun cleaner waffled through our home from the time I announced it was over until he left the state. For a while I thought I got a bad lot of Airwick room fresheners. Then I realized they don't make a "time to kill your wife" scent. Scary. Good thing he used my bread pan to hold the cleaner. "SIF unravels plot on her life after discovering missing bread pan being used as gun cleaning agent." Clearly the only way I would ever unravel a death plot against my life. It would have to involve food. How did I get off track again? Can't be sure.

So I dreamed I was having an orgasm in front of Wegman's. In my car. In the parking lot. Watching people walk in and out. For those who don't know what Wegman's is...I'm sorry to reveal it's a grocery store. A very nice grocery store. With good kind employees. Great service. Good food. And freaks in the parking lot as it were. Why? Why would I be rubbin one out in the parking lot of Wegman’s? Why? We don't even have Wegman’s in NC. Not that it really matters. As a fatty, I've been known to travel for good food. I could see if I was masturbating over the donuts. That's perfectly acceptable. Especially the ones with sprinkles. I may get 2 out of that. But the parking lot? Watching people walk in and out. Maybe it was the in and out part. I don't have specifics. Such as, was the rabbit involved? Was I flying solo? Was some creepy guy waiting for his wife in the next car watching me? I don't know. I just know it was good, I got busted and drove off in a hurry. I wish I could tell you I woke up, grabbed a shower and asked the good Lord for forgiveness. That would be a lie. I was still asleep. Speeding out of the parking lot. I'm sure I wasn’t paying attention to the arrows. Sex felons tend to ignore things like that. I feared my picture would appear in Wegman’s everywhere. "Wanted. Fat Sex offender. Known to spontaneously rub one out. Anywhere." I would bring scandal to fatties everywhere. Good thing I drive fast...

In fact, I drove so fast...the next part of my dream almost makes less sense than the first. As I sped out of the Wegmans parking lot running from the sex police/shopping cart retrieval boy, I almost missed one of this country’s greatest landmarks. Long John Silver’s. They are a rare sight these days. I've been known to drive miles out of my way to enjoy some crunchies. Even though you actually have to ask for them now. SO barbaric. Anyway, I was driving down this big hill and over my right shoulder I saw the LJS. Yes, I drive looking over my right shoulder. Good damn thing I did. Mighta missed the Silver. Anyway, I did what any civilized human would do upon seeing such a historic treasure....SLAMMED ON THE DAMN BRAKES! I vividly recall pumping the brakes like I was gettin paid to do so! Yeah...you'll recall this is a dream. A dream where I just got chased out of the grocery store parking lot for perv like behavior. So what do you suppose happened next? The unthinkable. No brakes. No mother freakin brakes! What the hell kind of dream is this?! I pumped and pumped. Nothing. Down the hill I went... crunchies fading in the distance. It's a wonder I didn't have a massive heart attack and die in my sleep. Nope. Instead I had to wake up AND remember every detail of this nightmare. And share it with you. I'm an artist. Anything for my public.

What does this say about me? My husband should have shot me whilst he had the chance! I am a meat beatin Long John Silver's addict. I don't think there's currently a support group for this crowd. By crowd I mean me. I doubt anyone but me would come forward. "Hello my name is SIF. I like to masturbate in the grocery store parking lot and I have an inappropriate relationship with a man named Silver and his crunchies." Nope. Not another one out there. I need one of those dream people to tell me what it all means. Yeah, no I don't. Any idiot could decipher this one. I need to get laid immediately if not sooner and I'd prefer the evening to include my favorite fine dining fast food establishment. Simple as that.

Do you suppose I could write a country song that incorporates "All my exes live in Texas," public masturbation and Long John Silver’s? I'm gonna get to work on that. Grammy award winning song writer, fat and freak nasty? Well fuck! Yes Mother, that last fuck was for you. Have fun in Wegmans. I'll be in the car.

Saturday, February 4, 2012

Thursday, February 2, 2012

Thursday, January 26, 2012

Fatty Police are out in full force!

Watch out Paula..."they" are watching! This is the real reason I can't write my book. I fear the paparazzi will catch me eating a Combo #2 and washing it down with a Diet Coke. And use words like "wolfing." I aint mad at ya Paula. Wolf on. So ya got the sugar. Cheeseburgers are so worth death. I love the last sentence…classic.

Courtesy of Yahoo..
Last week, TV chef Paula Deen announced that she's been suffering from type 2 diabetes for the past three years. She acknowledged that a person has "to make changes in your life" but apparently, Deen hasn't apparently changed all that much. TMZ posted a photo of Deen wolfing down a cheeseburger on Monday while on a 7-day Caribbean cruise. The 65-year-old chef was hosting her annual Party at Sea vacation for 400 fans. TMZ says Deen also had fries on her plate.

Monday, January 23, 2012

What's in your wallet?

Not Peggy....that's for sure. If I'm going to steal someone's identity, it's certainly not going to be an overweight man, in a tacky sweater, calling himself Peggy. I'd go Oprah or Paula Dean. One part over eater, a gazillion parts money. Scratch Paula...she has to cook and she's got the sugar. I hate cooking and I only like powdered sugar. I'm quite sure Oprah throws her billions around in lieu of doing anything short of wiping her own ass. My kind of gal. Far as I know, she aint got the sugar. Where am I going with this? Somewhere. I was re-reading my blog about "what's in my cart" and realized this identity crisis extends far beyond the grocery store. In fact, I seem to be living as someone else in almost every aspect of my life. The only time I am legitimately me...in the womb (climate/stimulant controlled bedroom for you newbie’s) with my rabbit and some post climatic treats. I'm not sure why I ever leave the womb. Stupid work.

Checkout my purse. I am secretly bitter I even have to carry one. Dumb guys get to carry wallets. What's in their wallets? Condoms and money. What does that say about women? We are for sale as long as you protect us from your recent purchases. I'm ok with that. I wish it were that easy across the pond in Vagina land. Nope. We basically prepare for every fuckin thing that would/could/should ever happen in the next 20 years. Why? I have no answers. If I were Oprah, someone would carry my purse and this would be a non-issue. Since I am not in fact a successful, rich black woman, let's see if we can figure out who I am bcs I can't be sure. Should the contents of my purse fall on the ground for all to see, I'm quite sure it wouldn't reveal anyone who resembles me. The following items currently reside on my hip...ughum:

* A 40 pound wallet. Bcs I'm broke...but have lots of change.

* A business card for the local psychic. You'll recall my mantra, "This can't be my life." She's working on channeling New Me. I'll keep ya posted on that.

* Gum. I don't chew gum. I find it tacky. Sorry. I do. However, when one has stank breath, a couple of chews brings things back around. Downside...the fake sugar makes me hungry. Secretly bitter that the cost of good breath is hunger. I carry it in a ghetto Ziploc bag. It always falls out of the package. Don't be judgie.

* A tooth brush, tooth paste and floss. When I can't suck the goodness from lunch out of my teeth, I'm forced to let it go down the drain. Waste of money and leftovers. However, a good fatty knows to store leftovers in her teeth. Doggie bags are for amateurs.

* Almonds. Who am I? Almonds? Better off going outside and nibbling on tree bark. Bout the same flavor. Yes Mother, I know they taste great roasted in the oven on 350 for 15 minutes and that you just sent me a 50lb bag from BJ's....and no I won't waste them.

* Tot Wipes. No children. However, ass wipes for men and babies always seem to be cheaper than ass wipes for women. Women are expected to keep themselves clean no matter the cost. Men and babies need someone to wipe their asses for them. Apparently the extra labor warrants a discount. So I'm a frugal ass wiper. Babies....men..no shame.

* A bottle opener. Don't have me sitting across from a bottle of wine I can't open. Feral Fatty take 2.

* 8 stolen pens with no tops leaking ink all over my purse. Leakage. Never good.

...and last but not least...random crumbs. Not sure how they got in there. I'm not known for sharing. Not easy to get them out either. Ever vacuum a purse?

So who am I? If one were trying to piece it all together after a tragic accident wherein as the contents of my purse were the only thing left to identify me...who would I be? Jane Doe. A. My license looks nothing like me. It was taken in leaner times. Clearly I would be jailed for identity theft should I survive. That is unless my passport happened to be on my person. I had a fat watermelon head in that photo. B. If there was a tragic accident, I would surely shit my pants thus rendering the baby wipes fraud. C. Stolen pens. Picture all that is me chained to a hospital bed awaiting someone from HOJO to stop by and identify said stolen merchandise. It's all around ugly. This isn't me! I'm just an overly hygienic, non almond eating/gum chewing, pen stealing, tooth brushing, wine drinker, with an inordinate amount of spare change who desires to know what the future holds. It's all my personalities rolled into one. I really need to start naming them and carrying the appropriate identification.

**Amber Alert! Missing Fatty. Lost in her own madness. Not sure how to find her as she presents multiple personalities.** You can start by not posting my picture around town. Don't appreciate that at all. Unless it's from back in the day. In which case I would never be found. You'd be better off putting my mug on a grocery cart or at Taco Bell. They know me by name. Let's face it. I'm not trying to disguise myself physically. I'd just lose weight if I wanted to do that. Dumb. I'm perpetrating an elaborate fraud. Hmmm...she wakes up and runs 5 miles every day yet I swear I saw her binge eating burritos in the Taco Bell parking lot. Yet when we go to lunch she eats salads and can't finish her meal. She drinks water and Diet Coke. I saw her just last week buying Skim milk and apples. ....I'm good. I'm damn good. Serial Killers could learn a little something from this fatty. Always on the move. Never know who's gonna present.

Tell Amber to come on over if she wants to find this SIF. I have a drop drawer in the house I use to store snacks for the other personalities. I "use ta could" (southern vernacular also used by our state Senator..ughum) blame my husband. Since he's no more, I had to create alternate personalities for blaming purposes. Just like the crazies. I prefer to call them the fatties. Would you rather be fat or crazy? Why not both. They say fat girls are better in bed. Or at least give better blow jobs. I'm just repeating what I hear. It makes sense. If some hot guy agrees to overlook layers of doughnut damage, I'd be expecting a good BJ too. So what if she's a little crazy. Probably means she likes in the back door. You can't expect her to enter through the same entrance as the hot chicks. Duh

Lesson time. What have we learned? I have multiple layers of complex fat which even Dr. Henry Lee would have trouble deciphering upon my demise. I promise you one thing "Hank," unlike most; it won't be blunt force trauma to the head. I'm too big for that. More like death by fry...or something along those lines. Check the arteries. They are currently the only thing around me that's hard. Other than El Conejo. He doesn't count. He stays hard. Men should start carrying pocket books so we might further analyze their ridiculous behaviors. I fear it wouldn't end well for them. I am insane. Does anyone consider this news? I eat in bed and have sex with a plastic bunny....and my Mother reads this. I think that qualifies me for some sort of medication. If you want Grandchildren Mother, find me a man with more than one leg who doesn't run on batteries... post haste. My eggs are rotting. If you want to meet the "real me," call my psychic. She's currently the only hope I have of meeting me. "This can't be my life."

Monday, January 16, 2012

Lights Out...

Or back on as it were. Mine went out three years ago. And not because I failed to pay the power bill. I could care less about electricity quite frankly. My man runs on batteries. No monthly bill..no back talk. It's freakin genius. Perhaps you aren't hip to the light that should be shining between your legs? Should, being the operative word. And no, I'm not talking about dick. If you find a mind who illuminates your beav... please private message me his digits. I could use a surge right about now. In any event, stop what you're doing and look between your legs. No, not at your vagina. Damn you SIF have a one track mind! Put your feet together and look at the creases (between your legs) from your vag to your feet. For the record there should be 3. One between your ankles and calves, one between your calves and inner thighs and one between your inner thighs and vag. They should be oval shaped. In theory light should be shining through the holes. For those of you residing in total darkness, emergency power is available. I believe they call it P90X, as it were.

I don't know what enlightened idiot decided to share this piece of useless information with me years ago. If I happen to remember...I will cut you. In addition to jumping on the scale every 10 seconds, I now count creases. It's very "Rain Man." In the lean years I had more than enough light to go around. Then darkness descended upon all that is me. It's no fun keeping your pussy in the dark. The kitty likes light. I feel like there should be some sort of back-up beaver generator for the dark, depressing fat days. I've looked. There's not. Guys come up with so many useless gadgets. Of course they wouldn't have a clue about pussy illumination. That would make sense. Hell we might even be able to assemble it without calling in a specialist. Crazy talk. Anyway, let there be light! I'm happy to say my "girl" is basking in the sun once again! Three creases and 34lbs later I believe myself to be marketable.

 *Disclaimer- if you find yourself obsessively counting creases and measuring light fractions, don't blame me. I already told you, some other asshole is responsible. Appreciate the additional blow to your self esteem and move on*

Being that I am a solution based fatty (in addition to feral and food aggressive) let's take a look under the hood...or better yet...in the cart and see if we can't shed some light.

We are officially 2 weeks into the New Year.  I'm confident your first trip to the gym ended with a visit to some random drive-thru. It's hard to go from "Pookie" to "Snookie" overnight. And if your aspirations include "Snookie" you might as well just stay fat. Fat is much classier. I promise you. In any event. What's in the cart bitches? A friend once told me (not the crease asshole) that you can learn everything you need to know about a woman by what's in her cart. Panic here. Said friend was a grocery store clerk. Who knew they were so judgy? I would so be doing the same thing. Fat lady buying skim milk and Ho-Ho's. I fear I couldn't contain myself. I can only imagine what he thought of me. I guess it would depend on the day. Sunday's my cart is filled with half fat and half new me. You are highly trained at this point in the game... you know the reason. Binge Sunday in preparation for "New Me Monday." Sing it with me sisters. Macaroni & cheese, that ho Lil Debbie, apples and hummus. Complete cluster fuck of madness. Much like my life at present. However, catch me on a random Tuesday and things appear much more melodic. 100% fat. Look. I eat all the fatty food Sunday night, puke and vow to turn things around on Monday. I am literally reborn every Monday morning. It's very biblical. I'm not quite sure if that means I'll be heading due North or South. Either way I need a vacation. Monday I eat all the "right" things. Right according to the same asshole who has me counting creases. Tuesday...deals off. I'm over the hummus, apples and ab work. I'm back in bed with Lil' Debbie and the bitch tastes like Heaven! Take that and put it in your cart!

After giving it some additional thought, there is one day of the year when my cart is in complete harmony. Everything flows to the tune of someone I don't know. The person I want to be. I'm sure she's witty, charming and quite thin. I wouldn't know bcs we've never in fact met. The closest I've come is channeling her via my New Years day shopping cart. Every January 1st I single handily perpetrate the biggest fatty fraud on record. I shop for someone I don't know. Apples, bananas, grilled chicken, fresh veggies, whole wheat bread...I literally reached over to grab some triple stuffed, super sized caramel brownies and walked off with someone elses cart. How is this possible? Guilt propels me to the checkout and sanity insists I put everything in the freezer as there's no way I'm ever eating any of it. Showing up and putting forth the effort is essential to any solid identity theft. Just walk past the gym the first week in January. The landscape gets a bit scary. Fat drippings and grease stained T-shirts running on treadmills. I use the word "running" quite loosely.  Fraud is rampant in the fatty community. We need some sort of fatty McGruff to snuff out the perps.

What have we learned from all of this? I can't be sure. If I had to guess I would say, "Always leave a light on. You never know who may be cumming for dinner. No one likes to eat in the dark. It's a fact. Get a canopy for your shopping cart if you can't get your shit together! It makes sense. If you go to the trouble of covering your fat with baggy shirts....give your fellow shoppers the same level of respect and hide the evidence from the scene of the crime." I'm just making suggestions here people. If you're a balls to wall fatty...let it all hang out. Get a box of Ho-Ho's with no price. Let the cashier call you out. While your at it... have her announce a request for potent vaginal creme to clear up the mold in your girl. Let the light in sisters. Let it in.

Tuesday, January 3, 2012


Much like a dog, I've been shedding. Pounds, husbands....pretty much everything close enough to annoy me. Fortunately, I leave behind no visible evidence. You won't find a chunk of my ass on the sofa (unless I happen to be sitting there) or random appendages belonging to the man formally known as "husband" scattered about. I'm a closet shedder. 34 pounds and 9 years. Just like that. I think that makes me a procrastinating ball dropper. I like balls. I hang on to things longer than I should. Except balls. They tend to shrink if you hold on to them too long. I'm just repeating what the slutty girls tell me. I still own a Shawn Cassidy drum set. Don't judge. If I need to bang something ...it comes in handy. Gotta give El Conjeo a breather every now and again. Besides I'm tired of switching batteries between the remote and the rabbit. I'm not into cross training. One thing I'll never shed....Mother. I'm back from a visit and she didn't disappoint.

Let's start with my flight. Up at 2:30am bcs I'm too cheap to pay for a ticket at a civilized hour. I arrived at the airport wearing half my luggage to avoid paying another $400 in baggage fees. They didn't weigh my bag. Merry Fuckin Christmas. I had to perform a cheap rendition of "Striptease" to get everything back into the suitcase. Not one tip. Fuckers. Bet they wished they would have weighed it. Or me as it were. And you know...who gives a flyin fuck? If I take 2 bags that weigh 100 lbs or 1 bag that weighs a 100 lbs.... what's the difference? I freely admit to failing math. However, the numbers don't add up. Until you add in a $50 fee. Makes perfect sense. Commie bastards. Why not fly Southwest you ask? The Land that Time Forgot isn't currently a part of their flight schedule. So I fly US Air and do my best to protect my back side from too much penetration. Moving right along...

6:00am. Stripped, stripped searched and trying to take a nap before my flight took off. I was in REM 25 when I heard the following "Go get your treat boy." I was dreaming about shagging Brad Pitt at the time. The voice/smell combination wasn't creating the visual I'd imagined.  Easily explained by the large German Sheppard climbing over my seat! Not the kind of meat I had in mind. Can a sister catch a a break? The short answer is no. My canine suitor proceeded to try and snag some strange from everyone in the waiting area. Whore. Seems no one had a "treat" for him. Really? If your ass is dumb enough to bring drugs to an airport, the dog should be allowed to have sex with you until you bark! Back to napping. Not so much. We should have been in the boarding phase. I'm a clock watcher. I know these things. Precisely 30 minutes til take off = boarding. The non-flying, minimum wage, not hot enough to be a flying waitress person announced there was an issue. Drugs on the plane? Where's Fido? Nope. 1st Mate was a no-show. No shit. It's Christmas. He's clearly passed out, drunk on egg-nog and sparing all of us a dip in the drink. I for one, was grateful. Much like when they ask if anyone would be willing to give up their seat in exchange for free airfare anywhere in the continental US, I offered up my 1st Mate services for a round trip ticket to Hawaii. No takers. How hard could it be? All that fucker does is give the weather, treat the flying waitress like a bartender, sleep and let you know when you're 20 minutes out so you can sit with your seat straight up , annoyed whilst you circle your destination endlessly under the cover of a "traffic jam." Not hard at all.

At what point was the following statement suppose to invoke feelings of comfort...."Don't worry. We have a back-up 1st Mate waiting downstairs." Great. A temp. The unemployable 1st Mate who has so much ambition he failed to become a real pilot, enjoys hanging out in baggage claim swapping stories with TSA, and praying a real 1st Mate no shows. I'd rather the dog have filled in. He seemed to have some trouble with his goesintas. You know...3 goes inta 6 two times. Those. Except the more import ones, as it were. When the plane "goesinta" the sky it's making its ascent. When the plane falls out of the sky it's making it's descent. Even Google knows that. Dumb ass kept mixing them up. Let us all be thankful the real pilot stuck to a 3 drink minimum and got us in safely. 30 minutes late safely. Perhaps why my not so fat ass was doing an OJ across the tarmac to catch a plane of crunchy people before they left without me. The Granola crowd wasn't amused by my challenges. I decided it would be more advantageous to tell them about the benefits of scrapple in relation to the green house effect. They didn't speak scrapple. Whatever. They hated me bcs I was hot. I get that alot.

When I finally made my "descent" into the land that time forgot, I realized it was about to be on. You'll recall my last visit. Mother said, (and I quote) "You don't look that bad." Words to slit your wrists by. If 34 pounds didn't translate into a compliment I vowed to hook her up with the temp. I'm not sure Mother is so skilled with the goesintas either. She delivered. Over delivered. Clearly remembering her sins of late. "Wow. I almost didn't recognize you." Loosely translated, I fear, it meant... it's about time you started looking like one of us instead of something on Nat Geo. I'm OK with that. I am the only redhead. Who knows where I originated. One of the perks of losing weight is knowing people who haven't seen you in a while will be staring at you when you think you aren't looking. I have eyes in the back of my head. I'm a SIF. Gotta watch out for my fries. Never know when you'll need to slap a bitch. For the 1st time in my life I heard the following "She has no ass." Um...yeah. I always have ass. I don't get much but I always have alot. Mental note...start long term care plan for parents immediately if not sooner. Check.

In order to properly answer questions such as "Where is your husband" I went straight to the liquor store. 6 bottles of wine and a 6 pack later, I had what I needed. I invited my 86 year old Grandmother to spend the night. She likes her wine. Now I know who to blame for that. Still unsure about the red hair however. Anyway, Grams and I got all smacked up Christmas Eve. What? She's 86, she can't drive and I'm quite sure she's in love with my ex. She literally sent me an email (after Mother informed her I was divorcing) and said the following "If you don't want him I'll take him." If I thought it was that easy I would have called UPS. Not so much. So wine...good. Mother was not as cooperative as Granny. Made me watch Hallmark & Lifetime Christmas movies all weekend. Seriously? Not only does she believe in Santa, she actually believes my Dad may one day sweep her off her feet like Mark Harmon does to those social climbing whores in the movies. Let's be clear. My Dad isn't sweeping anything off it's feet unless it's a 5cent return or a not so used bungee cord on the side of the road. Mary Nell aint got a hope in hell. Unless I get him drunk. I like him too much to let him go down like that.

Grandma woke up on Christmas morning to Mimosas with her favorite drinking partner! Screw Santa! What did he ever bring me that didn't break or end up at a garage sale? The Shawn Cassidy drum set as it were. Besides that he's useless. Eats my cookies and only comes around once a year. Typical. Grandma didn't know what a Mimosa was. Does it really matter at 86? You can't feel your feet. Drink up! Mother was mortified. Whatever. I fed her cheap donuts and champagne. Made her life. Mother likes to yell when talking to Grandma. She has a hearing aide. She can hear you Mother. She pretends not to so as to know when you are talking behind her back. Never trust an old lady with a blank stare and a smile. Never. She didn't ask me...not even one time...where the ex was. Good Gram. Unlike the pizza guy who interrogated me for an hour whilst I was ordering a Stromboli. Really? Are we close? No, no we aren't. I went with...he had to work. I didn't want to bring scandal to the town while in the midst of binge eating. I thought word would have gotten out. Not so much. It's tradition for Mother to put tons of candy in my Dad's Christmas stocking. Yes, he still has one of those.  He complains about the saturated fat and proceeds to eat every bit of it. Classic. I know this bcs he and I downed a box of gummy bears in one sitting. And his personal garbage is filled to the brim with Russell Stover wrappers. It's OK Dad...get in touch with your inner fatty. She's squishy and lovely. You'll get more action from her than Mom. Promise.

In typical fashion, Mother had planned my arrival, itinerary whilst in town and my demise all before the plane landed. She wakes up planning. If she ever does something spontaneous I may shit myself. My Dad just wants to know when he's going to get sex again. I advised him to check Outlook...or maybe Facebook.  Dad was all upset about the hydrofracking going on in the area. Too bad they couldn't hydrofrack farts...my family would be rich. I've never heard more gas come out of a dozen people in all my life. Even Grandma. But it's funny when she does it bcs she doesn't know she does it. Always happens when she stands up. It's her turbo boost off the couch. Of course we all laugh at her like we're 12. It's funny. Mother has a hard time when I leave. She starts in about 48 hours out. Has to calculate what time we need to leave for the airport, if we'll have time to grab a bite on the way, how much she already misses me and so on. Dad delivered some good scoop on Mom prior to my departure. I honestly thought her SIF hoarding days were over. Appears not. He told me to look in the cupboard in the dining room. There I would find the remnants of a 2lb bag of mint M&M's and some peppermint patties. They are her favorite. Not to be shared with the common folk. We got the re-gifted Russell Stover BOGO candy. When I called her on it she said, "I wasn't hiding it. It's out there in the dish. " She was right. There sat 3 M&M's and a peppermint patty. Awe...it must be Christmas.

The flight home was uneventful. Everyone who needed to, showed up. Including me. Mother wanted me to stay for New Years. As much as I wanted to hang at the VFW, drink cheap beer and mix it up on the jukebox...I opted for home and wrist slitting. Why did I get married on New Years? Why did I get married? Why was there a "Happy Anniversary" card from Grandma waiting in the mailbox? I can't be sure I have the answers to these questions. I bought myself a hot dress and kissed no one at the stroke of midnight. Clearly I didn't drink enough. My New Years Resolution? To find the exact amount of alcohol it takes to make me not eat and get laid. It's all very scientific.

* This year Sisters In Fat is going global! We are revamping the site, more blogs coming your way weekly, video content of some of the best fatty foods in the country and SIF apparel! I hold the trademark on all of it so don't get any ideas! ....stay tuned!*