Can't touch this

If you think for one minute the aforementioned Fat Back incident kept me from the annual servicing of my “Mercedes,” think again. You’ll recall, this SIF doesn’t take her “Mercedes” to Jiffy Lube. That shit goes right back to the dealer. Said dealer happens to be in the Nation’s Capital. Very fitting, as she happens to be commander and chief of all that is me. Presidential Puss, if you will. In any event, it was time to hit the road. I make it a rule to never travel alone. No, not because I am afraid some random stranger posing as a cop will pull me over, hack me up and put me in a barrel never to be seen again. Ok maybe it crossed my mind. Clearly I need to ease up on the Dateline. No, because I need someone to blame when I end up at McDonald’s after endless conversations about needing to lose weight. It doesn’t exactly work when you talk to yourself about losing weight, yourself agrees, only to convince you it can wait until after a juicy combo #1, super-sized. I gave the leading role in this comedic tragedy to “Mandrea” (SIF/NIF/HIF). Much like me, she’s kind of a big deal.

“Mandrea” and I had been separated for quite some time due to my Fat Back. Whilst I was away, she was busy trying to create “New Her.” I didn’t appreciate that shit one bit. Nothing I couldn’t destroy in one weekend of binge eating. Bla Bla “I don’t drink and I’m counting points.” Not anymore sister. Not anymore. Road Trippin with Queen Fatty trumps all that shit. For reals? We hadn’t been on the road long before I got hungry. Shocking? I thought not. You should know by now, the sole reason I love driving anywhere is the thought of stopping for food that would otherwise be deemed unacceptable. I should back up and tell you I was supposed to be on the Atkins Diet. Key word being supposed to. Ughum. So “Mandrea” had her points to deal with and I had…my conscience. As if this has ever deterred me. SIF trick #4321: Always let the passenger pick the graze. This allows for guilt free consumption…on my part. She picked Wendy’s. Great…the little redhead demon with the pony tails and bad fries. For some reason people think Wendy’s is healthy. As much as the Chika Filet people are churchy, I suppose. In any event, I actually had a craving for a grilled chicken sandwich. Yes, I said grilled. I was equally as shocked. I knew we would be having a full on fat fest later that night with SIF #3. This allowed for a semi healthy flash of insanity. Part of me didn’t even want fries. Clearly a replacement part. Not wanting to eat up all her points, (bcs she still hadn’t figured out just how far she would be in the hole after a weekend with me), she ordered some sort of dollar wrap. I can’t remember the last time I ate something that cost a dollar. Oh, yes I can. Her name was Little Debbie and she was delicious. Don’t judge. It’s legal in several states.

As luck would have it, the Fatty God’s were not amused by my random brush with healthiness. So…they made sure I had a cheeseburger. A bacon double cheeseburger to be exact. I had broken SIF rule #6754: Never leave the drive through without checking your bag. This rule was designed to prevent a SIF from ending up with something healthy. And it worked…without even checking. I hadn’t even left the parking lot when I discovered the bait and switch. So, what’s a fatty to do? I picked the bacon off. That counts for something. I could barely hear over the sound of my own chewing. I needed something to get my mind off the fact I actually wanted something healthy and was knee deep in a double bacon cheeseburger…minus the bacon. So, I asked “Mandrea” to tell me all about the points. Mostly so I could figure out how I could derail her. And then she handed it to me. Another gift from the Fatty God’s. Two in one day. That’s pretty good. “Oh my Gawd (insert Pittsburgh accent)! I forgot my wallet.” Oh my Gawd is right! You are now at the mercy of this SIF. Every meal, every drink, every suckin (that’s for you Mother) point would be controlled by me. Screw you Weight Watchers. Queen Fatty calls check mate! Of course I said something to the effect of, “Don’t worry, I got your back.” Literally. And her back would be slightly larger after this mishap.

After hours spent in rush hour traffic, listening to the sounds of “How many cuss words can I spew in a 2 mile radius,” we arrived at SIF #3’s house. She wasn’t home from work yet. She text me the following, “I’ll be home at 5:45pm. Do you want to eat right away?” Clearly we had been separated too long. So I went with it. “Yes, I’ve hardly eaten anything all day.” I knew SIF#2 turned Weight Watchers trader couldn’t bust me. If you don’t say it out loud it never happened. Off we went to one of my favorite restaurants. And early enough not to wait for a table. As you are aware, food aggression is a problem for me. “Mandrea” was trying to figure out how many points were in this and that. I told her she could borrow some of my points to put with the 47 bonus points she gets per week. Problem solved. And you wonder why I can’t go on a diet? I drink more than 47 points in a single sitting. When they come out with a wine friendly diet for the food aggressive fatty, ring me up. In the meantime, I’ll have everything from the left over. We had sautéed muscles, Caesar salad, pasta, wine, wine and wine. To my dismay, no dessert. I never answer that question when asked. My answer is always yes. The rest of the general population claims they are too full. I call bullshit. The day you are too full for sugar is the day I go friend shopping. I realized it was what had to happen and insisted we go to the wine store so I could drink my remaining points. Clearly delusional. I had to be up early to “take my car to the shop.” The part where I gave no thought to binge eating the night before the weigh in, should tell you how much this fat back incident has affected my few remaining brain cells. I just didn’t care. I had the perfect excuse for weight gain. Fat back.

We woke at the crack of my ass to ensure we made it to the dealer on time. SIF#3 was kind enough to leave us an Atkins and a gluten free bar. Nice gesture but I never eat before a weigh in…unless it’s the night before, apparently. Besides, we had a whole eating agenda of Dr.’s that didn’t include Dr. Atkins or Dr. Gluten free. I warned “Mandrea” about evil receptionist at the “dealer.” I think she thought I was exaggerating, until I left her alone with her for 30 minutes to get my undercarriage analyzed. I travel 5 hours, once a year to have my girl serviced and she likes to tell me she won’t take an out of state check for my $25 co-pay or call me to remind me of my appointment because it’s long distance. If she wasn’t old and blind, I would have opened my robe in the front, walked into her area and exposed all that is me. She would then be a mute and all my problems would be solved. Instead, I just left her with “Mandrea.” I haven’t seen dumb nurse in 2 years. After yesterday’s binge eating incident, I certainly could have used her. Nope. I got reoccurring militant nurse. I asked her to weigh me in Kilo’s throwing in something about that’s how they do it at Duke. She wasn’t amused. While I lay there naked, with my socks on, robe opened in the front for penetration…I mean examination, I thought to myself, “No woman could possibly feel skinny in this getup. I don’t care who you are.” Bright lights, backless robes and metal puss openers lying around. No good can come of this. I decided to work on my “this is why I’m fatter than you’d like me to be” speech. In walks Dr. Hottie. I forgive him for his over talking because he’s handsome and knows stuff. My standards just aren’t that high. He said my blood pressure was good and I’d only gained 1lb since last year. I decided I wouldn’t go into my dissertation on the weight of fat vs. muscle and how I clearly should weigh less given my level of movement over the past 2 months. He was pleased and that’s all that mattered. Call me crazy, I’m a pleaser when it comes to the puss. He asked me about my Fat Back and I obliged with stories of venereal crabs running about in my back. He understood and agreed I should just keep eating as much as I wanted until I was healed. Or maybe I passed out from the cold specula in my…..
It was time to save Andrea from evil receptionist. Whilst she was highly traumatized, I will still high from the results of my servicing. Only 1 pound since last year! This meant I could eat the rest of the weekend away. I had extra points!! Off to Dr.#2. I shall call him “Club Foot Dr.” There were only 2 things he wasn’t allowed to say. Bunion and Hammer Toe. That’s it. Everything else was fair game. He looked at the aforementioned club foot and determined my issues were coming from the fat back incident. Fabulous. I was relieved not to hear the 2 words. I couldn’t leave well enough alone and went on to ask about the bone sticking out of my toe…that was actually a joint. A hammer joint! Fuuuuuck! I can’t have fat back AND Hammer time!!! This kills all my chances for sex. Fresh off a clean servicing only to realize I’d never see penis again! Being fat is one thing. They make soft lighting for that. There’s no disguising Hammer Time! Can’t touch this!

I was starving and traumatized. We headed for the trough. Better known as Sweet Water Tavern. They serve bread that tastes like donuts…all day long. 11 years since I lived in the area lest I forget who serves bread that tastes like donuts. My fat memory cells are in great working order, thank you very much. I couldn’t decide between pork bbq and fajitas. Secretly I was trying to figure out how I could squeeze in this meal and still be hungry for dinner. I would will myself into hunger should this problem arise. Mind you, it rarely arises. So I ordered the fajitas. Which would have been great…had they not brought me a giant mushroom fajita! Had I wanted fungus fajitas I would have dug them from the ground and made them myself. I said meat…as in chicken and steak. I switched to the bbq, keeping the fajita fixings they mistakenly brought me ahead of the meal. SIF 1…stupid donut bread restaurant 0. It was time to work off some food aggression. I was in search of German Schnapps. This would be the equivalent of a marathon. After traveling 3 states, unable to locate said Schnapps, it was time for a nap. Resting is key when creating a dinner appetite.
We made an executive decision to never leave the house again…until it was time to go home that is. We had grand visions of shopping. We nixed that citing the points would lead to random weight loss thus rendering our new wardrobe dead to us. When it doubt, drink wine. We had enough on hand to drink away the day and any points that were unaccounted for. We were one bottle in when the hunger pangs struck. Being that “Mandrea” is gluten free, we ordered pizza. It fit within the theme of insanity. Food Coma, wine buzz and no energy for the dance party we’d been threatening all day, we went to bed. After all, the best place to burn calories is in bed. I was missing a key component to this plan…penis. Which I would clearly never be getting ever again. I tucked my Hammer Toe between the sheets and turned on 48 hours. Watching stories of people in the less desirable position of being murdered made me feel better…somehow. I couldn’t wait for morning. We were going to the Silver Diner for chipped beef…woot woot! Shit on a shingle would be the climax of my weekend. Again, our timing was impeccable. No waiting means no one gets stabbed with a fork. Ideal.

Time to get on the road and bring the boyfriend up to speed. He would soon know he was hooking up with MC Fatty. Less than ideal. We were making one more stop along the way…for Schnapps. The things I do for my vices. Once again, we were stopped in traffic. This time, someone was actually dead…or they better be. Traffic was backed up for hours. I decided to take a super-secret back way to avoid the commoners. That worked for about 5 minutes. I was starting to have panic attacks. What if I had to pee? What if the shit on the shingle decided to rage war and needed an escape route? Even worse…what if I got hungry?!!! I decided to look around for something to take my mind off the madness. Instead, I found the very thing that would give me a seizure. If you are going to have a great big sign for your business, please employ a company that works with spellcheck. Whilst I can still figure out what Laundromat means when it’s spelled incorrectly, it serves as a reminder that someone who can’t spell owns their own business whilst I travel the roads working for the man sporting a hammer toe. Thank you for that. We made one last stop for the Schnapps. No go. So, we decided to eat. By now “Mandrea” was borrowing points from Jenny Craig. Not to mention, the amount of gluten in her gut was enough to put her in a coma. We made an additional stop to visit a good friend who lost her father the day before. She gave me a gem…apparently I’m allowed to refer to my Hammer Toe as “Surfer Toe.” It’s genius. A disfigured toe disguised as a sporting injury. This is why we as SIF must stick together. Can’t touch us...stop...Fatty time!