Sisters in Fat (SIF) © 2008

Fatty Police are out in full force!

2012-01-26T17:00:00.000-08:00

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.

What's in your wallet?

2012-01-23T16:42:00.000-08:00

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."

This would so be my child....tears, drama, lies....doughnuts!

2012-01-21T13:17:00.000-08:00

Finally...something I can use

2012-01-20T05:07:00.000-08:00

Lights Out...

2012-01-16T16:32:00.000-08:00

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.

Shedding..

2012-01-03T18:18:00.000-08:00

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!*

New Me Monday on Crack!

2011-12-31T14:57:00.000-08:00

That's what ringing in the new year means to a Sister in Fat. A whole new year. A whole new you. It all starts tomorrow. And ends shortly thereafter I fear. However comma, I leave you with 2 tidbits of hope:

1. Your head weighs 10 lbs...go ahead and subtract that off the top

2. You have 6 more hours of gorging before "New You" has to make an appearance

Eat, drink and be merry sisters! 2012 brings "Sisters in Fat" the book and matching fatty apparel. This is more than enough reason to forge on.
SIF

New Blog this week....

2011-12-29T14:40:00.000-08:00

I hope....just on my way back from Mother's. As you can imagine, my brain is on material overload. If I spent 30 days with her, the book would be done. I can't make this shit up. Assuming I don't slit my wrists on New Years, a new blog will soon follow. Stay tuned....

My Anthem....

2011-12-19T18:05:00.000-08:00

"This can't be my life." I find myself saying this no less than 100x a day. I shall declare it the 2012 Single Fat Girls Anthem. I have Lady Gaga working on lyrics as we speak. Seriously. If marriage sucks... being single is the itch you can't scratch. And not for the reasons you might imagine. Sure...there's action to be had. However comma, when you haven't seen action in years it's hard to pick it out in a crowd. Very confusing. Riddle me this, I'm in Walgreen's tonight looking for some relief. For what I can't be sure. I was random aisle surfing. A card, a bottle of Gatorade...hard core drugs. Can't be sure. The drug store just seems like a good choice when you're single and surrounded by stupid Christmas music at every turn. I'm so with the anti-Christmas crowd right now. For no reason other than I don't like crying in K-Mart. It's low-end and far from ideal. Am I sad to be single? No. I'm more than devastated to be in the throws of the holiday season and have no appetite for holiday fare. No cookies, no cakes, no random binge eating...all in the name of a new me in 2012. What's there to look forward to? New Years resolutions? Let's see...down 30lbs and a husband. What else can a girl wish for? Can't be sure.

So...I'm in Walgreen's. I feel compelled to buy a card for my ex. Why? He's a good person. So he made a bad choice in a wife. There are many in his shoes. Marry her hot and skinny...she gets fat...she divorces you thin and hot. Vicious cycle. I couldn't find a card category for the occasion. I went with "Christmas/ Special Person." It's the best I could do. As a writer one would think I could craft my own cards. Not. For $1.29 I'm willing to let someone else say what I don't mean. Even if it ends up in the trash. I don't like my work to end up there. Call me crazy. In any event. After picking out a card that said " Sorry I sprung this on you at Christmas but have a great holiday" (which wasn't easy mind you...thank you random lonely heart writer out there...owe you one) I went in search of relief. I'm beyond depressed to say I didn't find it in the chocolate aisle. Seriously. Those stupid exploding Hershey Kiss concoctions couldn't even excite me. I went straight for an aisle labeled "Pain Relief" I don't know what I expected to find. The Grinch? A bitter red faced recovering alcoholic Santa? Crack? I could have made a case for any of the above. Instead I found band-aides and aspirin. A bit tame. If I were in charge of Walgreen's....the pain aisle would be Shiraz and Shit Food. That's pain relief. Band-aides? Seriously? Isn't that what marriage is? I'm looking for relief here. Damn chain stores...

I moved to the solutions aisle...tampons and condoms. This flows. You don't need one without the other. Perhaps this is life's solution to marriage. If you wear a condom and she never has a period...pointless. If you have a period and he doesn't wear a condom...clearly an underachiever. Bitter? Perhaps. The holidays bring it out in me. Don't get me wrong. Under normal circumstances I'm throwing down Christmas cookies with the best of them. Typically I have a chocolate ring in the crease of my mouth from October to December. I've traded that for a red wine hallo. Red teeth look better than 40lbs of fat. Try it. It works. Nothing like a little drama to make your New Year's dress fit. I left Walgreen's with a card for the ex and a tube of triple anti-biotic ointment. Again, "This can't be my life." What does this say about 2012? Less guilt and germs. I can live with that.

If it all seems a little "slit your wrist" ...I give you my immediate circle of friends. By immediate I mean whomever is available to drink wine with me at the precise moment I am in need of "pain relief." Trust me...there's no aisle for this crowd. I use to come home to "What's for dinner?" A phrase that sounds like "@#$%^&* "to me. It confuses me to this day. What's on speed dial was my typical answer. I bring you to my current life. Whilst there isn't anyone suggesting I enter the kitchen.... there is a ghetto red wine crowd drinking 40's on the street corner going by the code name "friends." Seriously. When someone pulls up to your house in a Beamer and tells you they've been at social services all day trying to get on Food Stamps but couldn't bcs they didn't declare enough rent and chose to drink 40s based upon the delivery of this news....how am I not cutting my wrists with the knives I never sharpened bcs I didn't know any better? Add to that....the car broke down and we had to wait an hour so we drank the 40's in front of the very people who could have put food on our table but saw we drove a Beamer and could afford beer....I'll take a quick plunge off the dock for 2000.

"This can't be my life" is rolling off the tongue to the tune of "I'll have another." I'm a "something to look forward to" kind of person. So I'm going home for Christmas. Good times. Mother still believes in Santa and I've asked Grandma to spend the night so I have someone to drink with. *Insert catch phrase here* "This can't be my life." Does Hallmark make a card for this? I think not. My only hope at sanity is getting boxed Lifesavers from back in the day. Ah....back when I believed I wouldn't be 40, single and staring at 2 bulldogs for New Year's Eve. Mother never warned of the skinny, bitter single days. Exactly why she will be getting coal for Christmas. And I refuse to eat the cookies and tell her Santa stopped in for a quickie. Let's put it this way...if a man goes to the trouble of coming down the chimney of a working wood stove...he deserves all that is me. Fuck the cookies. I don't suggest looking for that sentiment in your local Walgreen's card or pain relief aisle. If Santa is a little late this year...blame me. Just know he had something good to eat for once. Merry Christmas.

There's no hope....

2011-12-05T15:45:00.000-08:00

Calling all SIF!

2011-12-05T15:01:00.001-08:00

I would love some feedback on the blog. Your comments are always welcome! Unless they are snarky... in which case I will delete them and talk bad about you. Don't be afraid. Thanks for the comment Ruby! Keep um comin. This SIF needs some love!

The Divorce Diet

2011-12-04T12:11:00.000-08:00

Yes. I said it out loud. The only diet I haven't tried. It's not readily available in all markets. Perhaps you are one of my many readers who stills holds a one way ticket on the short bus and has yet to figure out this is the key to instant weight loss. The diet pill blog? Ring a bell? Anyone home? In the spirit of Christmas I'll give you the super secret SIF decoder. Just like "A Christmas Story." Only this decoder won't tell you to "Drink your Ovaltine." More like "Get the Fuck Out." Not very merry I suppose. Perhaps a bit of a "Christmas Story" meets "Ammityville Horror." Whatever. Santa's not real anyway. Yeah, he's not. And if you still believe, there's a nice padded room and plenty of medication waiting for you. Yes Mother that means you. I know you still think he eats the cookies and fills your stocking. News flash...I eat the cookies and Dad takes care of the rest. If you chose to call this dynamic duo "Santa" so be it. He's grey and I'm fat. We make a tremendous effort if nothing else. Willard is calling. Answer the call. Dad & I need a break from watching Rudolph for the umpteenth time. Believe

Back to the best diet ever. Yes, it's a high price to pay for weight loss. However comma, I give you 7 pounds in 3 days. The pukers can't put up numbers like that. SIF 1 Pukers 0. Not to mention they have bad breath and residual issues. I just look committed to the cause and hot. I call it like I see it. In order for this diet to work you have to be unhappy enough to pull the trigger. Sold. In my case it didn't involve hate or anger. It involved loving ones self enough to know when it wasn't working. Like oh I don't know gaining 30 pounds over 7 years. Like that. The sisters would say I can't blame him for that. Why not? I believe in outsourcing guilt. It makes for a happy SIF. Granted, we all eat when we are happy. We eat when we are sad. The point of no return.... when we become numb. Like when your fat ass sits in a metal chair too long and you can't walk. You can't feel your ass. It's almost like it's not there. Dreamy. Like that. You stop worrying about what you can't feel. Yes Mother I just compared 7 years of marriage to ass numbing via a metal chair. I never suggested I offer up the best analogies. Just the ones that come to mind. In fact, when I was hypnotized in hopes of losing weight, my ass went numb from sitting in one of those very chairs. For $80 an hour you think there would have been some padding involved. Maybe it was a sign. I gained 10lbs after that session. Fuckin witch doctor.

Where was I going with this? Oh yeah...the divorce diet. The only point in my life where food has ever been dead to me. Numb. This is key. It's a journey not a destination. Yes I just used a cheesy cliche'. Click off. No one wakes up one day and says, " I think I'll just say fuck everything and walk away." It's suppressed emotion. Kinda like...it's June but I can't wait for the Peppermint Mocha shake at McDonald's. Like that. You know it's coming. You know it will make everything whole. You just have to wait for the season. Yes Mother I am now comparing my decision to divorce to a shake at McDonald's. I'm a SIF. Food is my soul. I make no excuses. Dr. Phil says not to make decisions when you are angry. I'm not angry. Just food aggressive. If I waited for that to subside I'd be cashing in life insurance policies not signing divorce papers. It's very surreal to put yourself before commitments, obligations, guilt and so on. It's numbing. To be selfish on the most extreme level of selfishness. It's stealing a happy meal from the homeless. Robbing the man ringing the bell for the Salvation Army. Seriously...I have yet to see him this year. Thank God. He should be giving me a loan. Don't have the heart to tell him. Who does this by the way? Are people really kind enough to freeze there ass off to beg for change to help others? Not me. Warm, fat & fed. Unless I can ring that bell from the comfort of my sofa....just aint happenin. Perhaps why I am going to hell. Whatever. I prefer warm climates anyway.

So let's get past the not eating resulting in making me look better than ever. This part good. Food is dead to me. I hope it doesn't rise from the grave to reclaim the 30lbs. The only other trump card to numbness is giving away my dogs. I'm not going there.... yet. For a size 2 I will reconsider. Let's talk about adult diaper rash. Yes, I just transitioned to that without any level of effectiveness. My blog. I say who I say when. Now that I'm single it's imperative I keep my "girl" in working order. You never know when she may be called to action. However comma, she decided to revolt and land me at the Cootie Dr. As you are well aware, I take the Mercedes to the dealer. That's 4 hours away. Scheduled on 1/13/12. Yes, I'm going on Friday the 13th. What else can happen? I'm down 30lbs. I'm soo getting a gold star. Even if I test HIV+ I'm clearly better off than last year. Dumb nurse... I see your lack of mental capacity and raise you 30. In any event, a quick trip to Jiffy Lube was in order. *Gasp* Taking such a fine piece of equipment to a drive through service is soo beneath me. However, red rash & constant scratching on the "the girl" aint bringing sexy back. So I made an appt for same day service. Can you imagine such a thing exists? Thank God. The next step was urgent care. I'd sooner cut my shit out than go there.

They didn't weigh me. Low end. Of course now that I've lost 30 lbs they keep me from glory. Bitches. Why are you here? Oil change. Not. Random rash. Check. "Pee in this cup." Seriously. Isn't there a box for "I've been married for 7 years there's no possible way this thing is rabid as it hasn't been used?" Apparently not. I peed in the cup. It sat next to several others that had already turned blue. Mine did not. I had no idea what this meant. I have egg beaters. I assumed all was good. Waiting for the PA- bcs getting real Dr. would just be out of the question. Praying whilst laying on a paper covered table in a half assed attempt at a nightie...classic. "Please Lord don't let me have the Clap. Lord hear my prayer." I'm sure someone out there has gone there. I knew it wasn't possible but I also knew my vag was en fuego! After poking, prodding, swabbing and a solid round of interrogation w/ an inappropriate level of TMI....adult diaper rash. Are you freaking kidding me? I don't wear diapers. Nope. But I do run, box and hang out in the dark wet zone. How is it I'm single 6 weeks and have already given myself some sort of crud? I would have loved a good story to go with the diagnosis. Nope. Instead I get... you work out to much and you're a breeder of all things bad. I know this. This is why I did not procreate. Nothing good can come of mini me.

So... 30lbs lighter, 6 weeks into singledom and 1 bout of adult diaper rash later here I am. Full disclosure. Why? So you can feel better about yourself. That next Ho-Ho, that next scratch on the vag, that next fight with your spouse...think of me. Here I sit 4 prescription & 30lbs later...alone. I'm ok with the alone part. The itching not so much. I can't run or box due to breeding issues. What's left? Eating. Seriously? My choices are to run and scratch or sit and eat. The Divorce Diet better result in me getting laid soon. Scratch or no scratch. I'm puttin my girl back in service!

Words to live by...

2011-12-02T05:02:00.001-08:00

"Never eat more than you can lift." - Miss Piggy

New Blog this week...

2011-11-30T18:12:00.001-08:00

Scandalicious...

Lil Thanksgiving SIF

2011-11-24T15:12:00.001-08:00

She licked the oven door.....

It's Fatty Christmas!

2011-11-24T12:22:00.000-08:00

Words of wisdom for a SIF on the holy of holiest eating day of the year: It's not what you eat between Thanksgiving and Christmas...it's what you eat between Christmas and Thanksgiving! And no I didn't make that up. It's 2011...I steal all my shit from Facebook. Put the fork down and step away from the table...come up for air sisters!

Random Madness

2011-11-20T12:01:00.000-08:00

Why the fuck is everyone so crazy? Yes Mother, I opened with fuck. I'm bringing it back...it's been too long. 1 blog and 7 years ago. It's Constitutional madness. Vegas has better odds. Random madness take 2. So the diet pills are out and fuck is in. *Random sign of the cross* So going to hell. Clearly even God given talents need monitoring. Do you ever sit back and think, "Why can't everyone be more like me?" Right...bcs your crazy and the world needs a little more of your kind. Do us a favor...stop thinking all together. Crazy is underrated in my book. If everyone would just admit they're insane we might be able to bottle it and sell it to the less fortunate. Where am I going with this? I have no idea. I'm sitting outside in a zero gravity chair (bcs that's what you do when your ass is too big for the standard spring chair) just contemplating madness. It's a nice day. What else do I have to do. Eat? Already did that. Mama don't miss a meal.

So the other day a friend of mine came to me with a "back in the day story" about her grandmother's pregnancy struggles. I can relate...I struggle for sex...the difference being I pray for sex not resulting in anything under 2 feet tall calling me Mommy. Anytime I hear a "back in the days story" it reminds of a time when a SIF didn't have to work and men did crazy things like open doors and respect women. Like 1776 or something. Normally I wouldn't even entertain any sort of pregnancy talk. It makes my ovaries hurt. I "get" there's no threat of me actually getting pregnant from talking about it. Besides, I'm almost 40... my eggs are now officially egg beaters. It's a shame they had to rot in the carton and then morph into something healthy. Goes against everything I stand for. When I hear the word pregnancy it reminds me, once again, someone else is getting laid, going the extra mile AND hitting the target. Is it wrong to pray for well endowed man with a bad aim? I think not. Random madness take 3. So the story goes Grandma had trouble with fluid retention. The Dr's solution...she wasn't allowed to eat anything that began with the letter "P." You know I was all over this right? New diet craze..."SIF says lose 100lbs in 5 minutes... simply stop eating anything beginning with the letter "P." I started mentally mulling over what this would mean to my daily life...no poop- not into that anyway, no potato chips- tortilla chips work, no pickles- I'll just eat cucumbers, no pizza-da da dum...LAIDES & GENTLEMEN WE HAVE A DEAL BREAKA! DIET OFFICIALLY OVA!

Being I'm more of a "glass half full" (completely full actually...flowing over...preferably with anything starting with the letter "W"- wine, whiskey, dick...oh wait that's a D...Wanker- problem solved..) kinda girl I decided to switch it up and focus on what I could eat. French Fries, Beer, Frito's, Beer, Helluva Good dip, Beer, Queso, Beer, Nachos, Beer, Mozzarella sticks, Beer, Guacamole, Beer. I shall call it the "Bar Lovers Diet." And no royalties to Grandma thank you very much. She's had the last 400 years to spin this shit into a money making scam. Capitalism Grandma. Do it. Think about it...Grandmas Dr. was well ahead of his time. He was targeting the #1 thing we fatties struggle with every day...water weight. I suspect it's more pizza and Rocky Road weight but I'm willing to deal in theory. Imagine...buried just under the pliable coating we call "skin" lives pounds of fluid begging you to break up with the letter P! Purge sisters! P! It's all about the P! Even Dr. Oz would agree... I'm a freakin genius! Or crazy as it were. Random madness take 4. If my theory is correct...fatties will be stampeding sports bars across the country in the name of water weight! I'll go one step further...lose weight whilst watching your wallet. Think about it...where does the good "Non P" food appear on the menu.... appetizers! Appetizers = cheap! Cheap & Sexy? Ok so it sounds a bit like a bad date that ends well. Work with me here.

Possible down sides? I came up with a one or two. Nothing major. Clogged arteries, heart attack, high blood pressure, stroke and.... gas. I was ok until the gas part. I'm newly single. I think the average man would be willing to give me CPR, rush me to the hospital or tie off an artery (I am kinda hot like that)...as long as I wasn't farting. It's a deal breaker. How to purge gas and water in the same bite. If I have any wanna be science like fatties out there with a solution...love to hear it. And don't send me emails entitled "Gas X." I'm not amused. If there's no good answer we shall do what everyone else does....put it in small print and hope the fatties are too hungry to read it. *warning use of the "Bar Food Diet" could be dangerous to your health. when we say "could be"..we mean it. consuming foods high in fat along with beer could result in high cholesterol, extreme pleasure, death, extreme pleasure and possible loss of sexual opportunities due to flatulence. if for any reason you do not see immediate results on the "Bar Food Diet" go directly to a full length mirror, take a long hard look and blame the person staring back. * Something like that. I couldn't find small blog font. I am a writer. Don't be judgey. You know you are on your way to the bar as we speak. Warnings be damned!

"The Bar Food Diet"- make it happen in a pub near you. Random madness take 5.

Diet Pills vs. Bacon

2011-11-11T12:43:00.000-08:00

Personally I consider it a crime against fatties to use bacon and diet pills in the same sentence. However, "they" combine bacon and almost everything these days. Chocolate, jelly...body parts. Love bacon. Not eating it out of anyone’s ass thank you very much. In any event, when one arrives at the difficult decision to dispose said diet pills, bacon should not be considered a suitable replacement. However comma, when such a life altering event also involves ripping the penis away from a SIF, bacon is a friend indeed. Not for that....dirty minded fatties. If I'm not eating it out of your ass I'm certainly not sticking it in my "girl." Gheez. Wash your mouth out and get back in touch with your inner fatty. I'm attempting to make a connection between diet pills, lack of penis and bacon. Not very successfully I might add. Now do you see why this blog took so long to write?

Let's pretend someone we shall call "Me" just had a major life change we shall call disposing of “diet pills.” Put on your analogy thinking caps and work with me here. I realize making a connection between “diet pills,” losing penis and bacon is a stretch for the average fatty. I also realize it’s difficult to complain about losing penis when you never in fact really had any. In any event, let’s go back to square one…disposing of said “diet pills.” What do you call a solider that carries a loaded weapon in anticipation of battle but is never called to fight? Prepared, capable and unchallenged. Sisters…the diet pills received an honorary discharge. They resigned gracefully in hopes of bringing pleasure to another random fatty. For the quick to catch on …. here’s a disclaimer as to why I am outing myself on a fat blog: I talk about my vagina, my dented ass, my bowel movements and my tendency to be food aggressive...everything’s fair game here on SIF. Don’t like it? Click off. That being said, love my diet pills. I just realized they weren't the catalyst to get me to a size 2. That would take a lot of puking. A lot of puking. Hook me to an IV kinda puking. It's hard when you realize something you thought should work doesn't. Sometimes you feel great, look great and even pat yourself on the back for being so f'ing great. Then the pills wear off, you realize you were in fact high on some random form of legalized crack and you start eating again. It's a vicious cycle. As a Libra I strive for balance. That's why my closest can outfit anyone from a size 2 to 22. Balance. You never know when you might make a swing in either direction. Much like my closet, the "diet pills" were protecting me from the key to balance...me.

I know what you are thinking...when does the bacon come into play? Wipe your fingers and settle down. I'm getting to it. And I'm food aggressive? A long hard look in the mirror is a scary thing sisters. Especially the full length ones. *Random sign of the cross* You suddenly realize your diet pills aren't working for one of two reasons: 1. You stopped taking them or 2. They are amazing at certain times and then they stop working for you all together. As previously stated on numerous occasions, my issue always seems to fall with #2. Be it a combo, a bowel movement or a hard decision, it sucks ass. Yes, that's how I really feel. And for the 2 people that stopped following my blog for such verbiage...eat me. I’m low in calories high in protein. Even Dr. Oz agrees that’s a winning combination. It's a hard realization for a SIF when she accepts the reason she has cankles, muffin top & back fat is bcs she isn't in touch with her inner fatty. Peeling back that many layers is exhausting. It's way easier to blame someone else...like the “diet pills.” At the end of the day...being a SIF on the inside takes hard work… and bacon...as it were. I told you I would get to it...

I've often wondered what exactly it would take for me to not want to eat. To look at food and say, “We aren't friends." It's a scary thought...but so is anal sex. And I have given that some thought from time to time. Yeah, no. Anyway, stress makes me eat, happiness makes me eat, thinking about eating makes me eat, waking up makes me eat, and eating makes me eat...can't really come up with anything to stop the cycle. Until I broke up with the “diet pills.” Strange isn't it? Eat like a horse with “diet pills” in tow...remove them and bye bye appetite. Ironic at best. To look at food and have 0 interest? If this can happen with food you know what this means? The possibility exists my attraction for Brad Pitt could come to a screeching halt sans warning! This can't be my reality. However… he just grew back that scruffy ass hair. And he still has that ugly ass wife & about 416 ankle biters. Hmm...A little manscaping, a power adoption session and I'm back on board. But the loss of love for all things caloric? Seriously? I should be handcuffed to the sweets kiosk at the grocery store without the possibility of conjugal visits from Lil' Debbie. Yeah…It’s that bad. It's funny what happens when you choose "you." "You" revolts. You says, "Look bitch, I've been on a rollercoaster of fat for 39 years. I aint lettin you off the ride without a little pain and suffering." Touché. I feel ya. It's not about mourning the loss of “diet pills.” It's about bacon...like everything should be.

What’s a SIF to do when nothing will go down the hatch? Fry up some bacon! Seriously…if you didn’t know the answer to that you don’t deserve to be fat. I’ll have you know, bacon is one of only a handful of stress resistant foods. It’s a fact. Prior to my decision to break up with “diet pills” I had been losing weight on my own. The hard way. Cold turkey. From a carton a day to salads. That kinda hard. Bought me 15 pounds in 3 months. Not bad. After removing the “diet pills”…4lbs in 4 days. Who knew? For the next 2 weeks I couldn’t even look at food. Just wine. Seemed like a fair trade. Wine has calories…gotta be in one of the food groups. And it makes you high so it’s a double score. That is until your body figures out it’s living off Shiraz. Apparently that’s not a good long term plan. What to eat? Burger? The bun on a hamburger seemed so overwhelming to me….like eating an entire house. No burgers. Salads are stupid. This statement applies to stressful as well as non stressful situations. Soup is for ¼ pounders. If I’m living off liquid I’m gettin a buzz thank you. That leaves…you guessed it…bacon. There’s something about the smell of bacon that sucks you in. It’s fairly easy to eat and reinforces why fat people are so freaking cool. That’s all I could eat. Bacon. I’m not complaining. My body was. Spent lots of time in the ladies room paying for a diet of bacon and Shiraz. Fine. In and out. I could use more in and out in my new life. Lots more.

The moral of the story? Can’t be sure. I’m short on morals at present. I would like to think it’s something like…if you are hanging on to your “diet pills” bcs they’ve been in the cupboard for years, they don’t harm you in any way and it’s comforting just knowing they are there….it’s time to let go and give them to a fatty who will utilize them to their fullest potential. Their will be a period of mourning wherein as your teeth will be stained red from over indulgence in Shiraz and yes, your breath will smell like bacon. This too shall pass. Have no fear…it’s just a matter of time before bacon flavored Shiraz hits the market. Just don’t stick the bottle in places bottles shouldn’t go. There are “Rabbits” out there fairly cheap with fewer side effects. No one likes a spicy smelling “girl.” No one. This, sisters, begins life after “diet pills.” One day at a time…

Bad Fatty

2011-11-09T12:59:00.001-08:00

I'm trying to get this blog up and it just isn't happening....need more time sisters. Promise I will make it worth your while when I get to it!
SIF

One more time...

2011-11-07T15:22:00.001-08:00

The blog will be up Wednesday at the latest...having technical difficulties. Sorry sisters!

Blog in the works

2011-11-06T16:15:00.000-08:00

Divorce vs. Bacon will be posted late tomorrow evening. The battle is underway and unfortunetly bacon is currently pinned down like a bitch. I need some additional time to compose my thoughts on the matter. Relax...fat will be available Monday evening.
SIF

New Blog coming this week!

2011-10-30T15:30:00.001-07:00

How to lose an ass in 4 days...

2011-10-15T14:29:00.000-07:00

And no I'm not speaking of a man. They are much more tick like in nature...tend to hang on a little longer than you'd like. Fuckin blood suckers. I'm literally speaking of your ass. The junk in your trunk. That large object with hail dents following you around everywhere you go. That one. Side bar- I find it very hard to concentrate on sharing such pertinent information whilst my neighbors partake in some sort of crack infested moon bounce party. The shot gun is loaded. Too bad I'm not such a great shot. However, I hear you don't have to be. I could probably take out at least one or twelve. Maybe if I go show them my uterus and tell them where babies really come from they will pack their shit and head off to military school. If you ever need a babysitter...don't call me. I will tell your children everything you don't want them to know, everything you really did when you were their age and then sell them to the gypsies for a profit. I'm an entrepreneur like that. You can imagine I don't get many calls.

Back to something I actually understand....ass. It's quite ironic... for someone who doesn't get any ass... I sure am packin. My theory...swelling caused by under use. There's really no other explanation. In any event, let's talk about disposing of the turd cutter. *Pause for shock factor* Yes Mother I am going to say fuck and horrible terms like turd cutter. It's what I do. Cover your eyes. Simply put, in order to lose your turd cutter you can no longer consume anything containing calories. It's that easy. I've tested the theory. I sort of went on a diet back in July. Sort of because I never really commit to anything accept non committal type things. And I can't call it a diet bcs there was no formal plan...except to consume less than the 4 billion calories I was currently consuming. "Why consume 4 billion when you can consume 4million"- Thank you Dr. Evil. Your logic actually makes sense in my world. "Bring in the laser!" The laser was not part of my 4 day plan FYI. Most SIF are low budget and could never afford such luxuries. Hell I can't even afford Hostess...I got hang with that Ho Little Debbie. That bitch is cheap. I can get 10x more Swiss Rolls outa that hooka than Hostess. Frugal Fatty wins again. Why do I get so side tracked. Must be those fuckin crumb snatchers. I know they have cake....cheap grocery store cake. Killin me.

Between July and the end of September I lost 12 lbs. I single-handidly blame those 12lbs and the other 250 on my husband. Were I happier I would certainly not be eating everything from the left over. Clearly his fault. I have since taken measures to make sure this never happens again. Story to follow. So I lost 12lbs. Ladeefreakin da. It left me too fat for a size smaller and too "skinny" to rock my big girl shit. Not a good position to be in. Why is it when we lose weight suddenly think we look so hot? Perhaps I should call to your attention to the fact that 12lbs is a bucket of water out of the ocean that is me. I was so pleased with myself until.....until I realized that at one time 12lbs less was fat to me. And I still managed to gain another 12! Fuckin madness. Yesterday's fat is today's skinny I suppose. It gave me great pause. Pause often turns to panic when you realize 12lbs is an 1/8 of what's needed to return to supermodel status. Fuck it...big girl models are all the rage now. They call them "Women." Really. Then what the fuck are all these 1/4 pounders plastered all over the TV? Oh that's right...I shall call them "Juniors." Even if they are 63 and look like chain smoking saddle leather.

I'm going to get side tracked once more. I can't help it. I'm fat, ADD and verging. So I went shopping at a place with a "Woman's" section and a "Everyone else" section. I figured between the 2 venues I could find something that fit me. This would require me to actually be able to try on something. I'm not your "leave the store and hope it works out" friend. I can't get shit to fit in on site much less in the confines of my womb. So I took my stack of hopeful sizes to the "Everyone elses" fitting room. And I waited...and waited...and waited. These skinny bitches take forever. Really? When your profile looks like a piece of drywall how hard can it be? Try looking like a lampshade. This takes time. Against my better judgement I headed to the "Woman's" fitting room. I literally entered the land of milk and honey. It had a concierge who hung your name on the door and there were 400 rooms as opposed to the 2 in the "Everyone else" section. As you can imagine I entered under an assumed named. Probably why my friends couldn't find me. I felt like a man in a strip club...not exactly guilty but happy to be serviced.

The fatty concierge was happy to get additional sizes and made me feel gorgeous. Lying whore. Fat people are so much happier than the skinny crowd. I made her get me another size in "normal people land" ....she seemed as displaced as whore in church. I know the feeling well. I felt bad for her. There was some lady trying on sequin party dresses. Glitter should be banned once you pass size 14. She couldn't have been more pleased to see herself lit up like a Vegas sign. It was time for me to head back to the other side. With the shirt I found. Shirts are never a problem since birthing the girls. Come to find out my sell out friends had taken a trip to the other side as well. What can we learn from this? Fat people are overly nice and shouldn't be forced to work outside of their comfort zone.

Back on track. How to lose an ass in 4 days...don't eat. Recently I took a girls trip which provided me an extreme amount of clarity and alot less calories. Unless you count wine calories in which case I failed on every level. In any event, when one is at an impasse and the light goes off...so too do the calories. Not being able to eat was as confusing as it was beneficial. I would lift food to my face and it simply couldn't make it down the hatch. 4 days of no eating = ass blasting. No infomercial equipment needed. 1 part crisis + 1 part clarity - 100% calories = a pound a day of ass down the drain. At this rate I'll need to phone the plumber. Don't say I never gave you any useful information here at the official site for SIF.

New Blog this week!

2011-10-11T16:24:00.001-07:00

Today is my birthday...

2011-09-27T17:25:00.000-07:00

This can mean only one thing...calorie free cake. I wished it so. Back with the details very soon. As you can imagine I am very busy with my caloric requirements n such...

Kirstie Alley is no longer a SIF...behatch!

2011-09-22T09:16:00.000-07:00

http://omg.yahoo.com/blogs/thefamous/kirstie-alley-wants-to-be-madly-deeply-in-love/2101?nc

Personally, my favorite quote from the article:

"I didn't like the way I looked, and I didn't want to have fat sex."

And they all said "Amen."

Suckin Scale

2011-09-18T17:23:00.000-07:00

I'm hot off a visit with the original SIF, my Mother. As you can imagine... she supplied me with endless material. It always makes me question when my real genes will kick in thus spawning her Mini Me. It's very Sci-Fi and quite frightening. Where to begin? The airport. My arrival always follows the same pattern. I deplane, grab the bags I paid an additional $400 to bring and then am attacked by a woman with spikey "blond" hair screaming "There's my baby!" Here are I am Mother...all 39 years and 459lbs of me. I'd run from the nursery if I was her. I feared random bystanders wondered how large ones vag would have to be to birth all of that is me. Large. Moving along... After the initial attack we did the meet and greet with the only sane member of my family...Dad. He waited in the car as to avoid another $400 in parking fees whilst I was being molested by the blond Yetti at baggage claim. He so gets the better end of the deal. Typically Dad says something like, "You look good Kelly." Look... he married my Mother...twice...he's sort of an expert in the "lying at the appropriate moment category" *random sign of the cross for forgiveness* Mother on the other hand could use some work in this department. As evidenced by past comments such as "You don't look that bad." Classic.

Fresh off a standard round of lies, I got in the car and hoped for more where that came from. Nothing. Silence. I should share a bit of news that may shock and amaze you...I've lost 12lbs. No, please...stop...you're embarrassing me. ( I hear virtual clapping...yes I do). In any event, one would think Mother, in all her diet obsessed ways would have taken notice and thrown me a bone (preferably with some grizzle left on it). But no. Instead I got, "So do you think you will get hit by that next hurricane....oh what's that doobie do's name...oh yeah "Kadia." Yes, she pronounced it that way. Just slay the Kings English Mother. Who needs "t's" when "d's" roll off the tongue like that. The woman did not birth me. I told her I was no Jim Cantore but given my track record of visits (9/11 & Princess Di's death) I'm sure something was bound to go down. And not on me unfortunately. Since the sight of me 12lbs lighter only seemed to spark tragic conversations, I threw the bone at her. "So Mother, you didn't tell me I looked like I lost weight." Fatty pause. "Oh yes Kelly you do. I can tell. I thought I told you that. Doesn't she look thinner Jerry?" Great...now we are involving the innocent in our web of lies.

At least I know where I get my keen ability to stretch the truth. What's 10lbs between me and the DMV? 10 would be fine. 50 is more accurate. And a few inches on the height. And perhaps the eye color I've always wanted. Let's put it this way...if I ever get pulled over on one of those rare occasions when I've had 15 glasses of wine (ughum), Officer such and such may have trouble connecting the dots between the super model stats on paper and the train wreck behind the wheel. We have to keep law enforcement on their toes. They are servants of the public after all. Just doing my duty. But you see I come by it honestly right? Mother made her Olympic debut back peddling the rest of the trip home. She reminded me she wouldn't be making the chocolate cake we discussed previously. It was her civic duty to rescind. I didn't need her stinking chocolate mayonnaise cake...I was headed to a baby shower. And you know what that means right? Cake, frosting, cookies and...babies. 3 outa 4 aint bad." Mama to be" supplied me with endless amounts of wine to keep me from discussing plans to sell my uterus on Ebay. What? People have needs.

Everything was going fine until the crossword puzzle. It's fair to say I'm not a game person... sober. Or drunk. Or...ever. So I decided a few glasses of Shiraz to dull the pain was a good idea. Glass size. I think that may have been the issue? Scene: Baby shower. Girls fluttering around feeling bellies telling stories of birthing and cervix and pain. Diaper cakes, rattles, baby powder...you know the drill. As you can imagine I was 1 fry short of a meltdown. A. I don't get sex so none of this makes any sense to me. B. The last shower I attended was me naked with a bar of Coast. C. I'm a big fan of the spiked sherbet punch. In any event, glass size. That was the issue. The lovely Mother to be....who you wouldn't know was prego if she turned 180 degrees hooked me up with a 40oz wine glass. Love her. It always sounds like a good idea unless I'm involved. Take 1 part over tired, 2 parts fat aggressive and throw in equal parts food aggressive. What do you get....Aunt SIF and the dirty crossword.

In my defense...the rules were as follows: Don't start until we say so and the first one done wins. I feared I'd win an embryo so my plan was to stay silent. Not so much. I am competitive. Problem being...not so well versed in baby lingo. When in Rome....get a nice hotel room and ring George Clooney. That's what I always say. My strategy was to answer all of the ones I knew and then cheat off someone quicker than they could cheat off me thus scoring the prize. Very wholesome. Here's where the ladies at my table got stumped: Daddy's best friend. Interesting. I got that one right off the bat. There was lots of "Oh I know it's Grandma. No no it's Mommy." Duh. Amateurs. Hooker. That's Daddy's best friend. It fit in every possible way. Hey I watch Jerry Springer for an educational moments just like this. Perhaps I should have said it softly? Or not at all? Can't be sure. It fit, I said it....game over. Don't think I'll be getting an invite to the next one. I'm worldly and honest. That Your Honor is self defense.

My strategy for the rest of the week was to be as lazy as I could possibly be in order to keep my caloric requirements down. Do not try this at home. One day I thought it would be adventurous to take Mother and my Aunt on a 3 hour walk. Uphill. Think she'll remember to tell me how thin I look next time? I think so. Half way down the hill....MIF came out. "You know Kelly, we can all go eat after this. We will be burning calories for hours" SIF logic at it's best. I know what you are thinking...she's right? If you don't read between the lines, yes she is correct. However, this woman raised me. I know the agenda. This walk was good for a week of non stop binging. I humored her with a nice fatty lunch for a job well done. Before the last chip grazed my lips it came to pass..."We should go get ice cream. We earned it. And we are still burning." I dare say the only time I burned more than this 3 hour walk was that trip to the gyno involving a one night stand and not enough information. However, I humored her and ate the ice cream. It was easier than listening to the burning agenda for the next 3 days. Of course Dad wanted ice cream later that night. So I volunteered to walk up there with him. Before you get judgie...it wasn't to get another cone and blame the burn. My flame was out. I like to hear my Dad order a baby cone and ask for the senior discount. The look is priceless. Then he scrapes half the ice cream off the cone and feeds it to lawn. *Random sign of the cross.* I guess the question is...where are these genes in me? Nowhere to be found. Only one reason...fraud. Mother...start talkin

I leave you with a little story about a scale. Mothers scale. She controls the over under on this thing better than a Vegas bookie. So I step on the scale 2 days into my vacation. When I left home my scale said I was down 6 lbs. Mothers said 10. Of course it did. The oldest trick in the book. 2 days later I tried again. Down 14lbs. God this woman is good. She had to be sneaking down in the middle of the night rigging the odds in my favor. It was her way of saying I'm sorry for the airport incident. I brought this matter to the attention of my Father and my Aunt. My Dad of course knew what was going on and simply smirked. My Aunt offered her scales which she claimed were in sync with the doctors. Excellent. I borrowed the scale. Why I didn't see this coming is beyond me. According to her scales I was 6lbs heavier than Mothers. Of course I was. I shared this tidbit with my bookie and you can only imagine what ensued. "What do you mean? I'm actually 6lbs heavier than I thought? How can that be right? I calculated those suckin points to a "T?" Well I am just depressed." Dad chimed in with logic. "If your scale said you weighed X when you started and now it says something else that means you lost that much weight right?" Oh Father, where art thou SIFness? Where was he going with this? We all know what comes next right? "Well that just pisses me off bcs I think I weigh one thing and I am 6 suckin pounds more than I thought." Madness...fucking madness.

The next day my other Aunt stopped by. I told her about the scale incident. She offered up her scales which she claimed were 3 lbs less than my other Aunts and in line with her doctors. Do you see a pattern here? The gene pool originated at a nuclear reactor! Dad chimed in and suggested we just stop weighing ourselves for now. Excellent plan. Mother sulked for days. That is until I got home, weighed myself on my scale which jived with her scale and counteracted the other scales....times 2 carry the four. She was most pleased. "I knew it was right. I could tell you lost weight the moment I saw you." Apparently Heaven put up the "No Vacancy" sign bcs Mother is surely headed south for the winter!!!

New Blog Coming soon!

2011-09-15T17:22:00.001-07:00

Check back on Sunday for the latest fat clusters....

Fategory 3

2011-08-27T05:18:00.000-07:00

In case you are wondering...I am sitting in the strike zone of hurricane Irene. What does that mean for this SIF? Chocolate chip cookies, chili, bacon & eggs, Mimosas and anything else I can get my hands on. SIF Rule #2345: All diets are off in a time of natural disaster. If I die, don't let my husband get the cookies. They should go to someone who will actually gain weight eating them. SIF out for now...

Fatty Goes to Bootcamp...

2011-08-21T14:30:00.000-07:00

And not this fatty. The only orders I take involve food. That being said, one of our most faithful SIF has debriefed me on her latest attempt to quiet her inner fatty. For reasons of anonymity (and bcs she's so sweet) we shall refer to her from here on out as "Honey bun." "Let sleeping fatties lie" is the moral of this story and it goes a little something like this...

Are you there God? It's me Fatty. Clearly calling in a favor before heading off to Fat Camp sounded like a good plan. "Pack a duffel with a change of clothes, a towel and some water," said the evil short man tasked with morphing muffins into muscle. Seemed reasonable. Honey bun could barely sleep the night before fat camp. She could sleep when she was dead. Which would surely come to pass at some point in the next 6 weeks. Perhaps sooner rather than later. She followed shorties instructions to a "T." One large plush white hotel towel. Check. Comfy yet fashionably coordinated outfit to include matching shoes. Check. Gallon of water to replace years of pent up bodily fluids sure to be lost during impending demise. Check. 20lb bag of M&M's for post workout carb loading/celebration of life. Check. Baby wipes to remove evidence of said chocolate from face. Check. Toothbrush to mask peanut breath from said short man trainer. Check. Hand sanitizer to remove any evidence of hanging with the 1/4 pound crowd. Check. Inhaler for treatment of "Fatasthma." (that's asthma brought on by non fat like behavior). Check. Success was eminent.

5:00am. Whilst all the feral fatties were asleep in their beds with visions of chocolate covered sugar cones dancing in their heads....Honey bun was taking on "New Me Monday" for reals this time. She arrived at boot camp proudly carrying her satchel of goods. "Can you run from here to there" asked the short man. "Sure!" belted Honey bun. It was New Me Monday. Anything was possible. Off she went...running with her suitcase of sustenance heading for her burial at sea. When she arrived on the beach one thing was clear...this was gonna get ugly fast. Everyone was broken into 3 groups: #1 Fat chicks, #2 Less Fat Chicks & #3 Why are you even here Chicks. Honey bun did not aspire to be anywhere but with her fellow SIF in group #1. Some, less committed to the cause of fatness, strayed into Group #2. I have your names. You are officially out of the club. Take that and slap in on your fried Bologna biscuit. That's not a random reference by the way...Bo Jangles is runnin a special on um right now. Get chu one. Anyway. I don't appreciate you leavin Honey bun hanging. Moving right along...

The first day was all about breaking up fat clusters. Running, swimming, pulling...so many words ending in in "ING" and not one sounded remotely appealing. Sleeping, eating and binging. Now those were some "ING'ers" she could get down with. Focus! New me Monday means new "ING's." Honey bun made it through the first day with a smile on her face. I fear it was shock and awe but it appeared genuine nonetheless. She raced back to base camp to shit, shower, shave and show off what she had been hiding in the backpack. (Minus the unmentionables of course). She asked short trainer man, "So where do we get changed?" "Changed, " he said in his tiny wanna be 6 foot voice. "We don't get changed." "Then why on earth did you have me pack a bag?" A former SIF (who shall remain nameless bcs she has since moved to the other side *random sign of the cross* RIP) jumped in to save said short man from losing another inch at the hands of Honey bun. Tip: Never tell a woman who's taller than you (in his case any woman over the age of 2), bigger than you and who missed a meal to spend time with you... there isn't a light at the end of the tunnel. No good can come of this. This is also applicable in sexual situations. No one like an aggressive feral fatty at 5am. No one. The transformed SIF removed Honey bun from the scene to let her in on a little secret. The backpack was to weigh you down. If there ever were an expert in weighting down it would be a SIF! The former SIF unzipped the backpack to see what she was dealing with. *Insert gasp & dropped jaw*. After removing said kitchen sink from backpack she advised Honey bun to pack a thong, a lace bra and some flip flops. If there wasn't a threat of actually having to wear this get up....it was all good. The minute she was asked to transform from SIF to beach hooker, the drop out rate for short mans boot camp would surely sky rocket. That is, unless, 6 weeks was enough time to transform from beer gut to beach slut. Who knows...it's possible.

If nothing else, the next 6 weeks proved one thing. The Devil is a short man sans manners. Day after day he would scream at Honey bun calling her by the wrong last name. In true SIF form she lashed out, challenging his every command. I for one, couldn't be more proud. "Wrong last name, get your ass to the ground. It's sticking too far up," screamed short man. "My ass doesn't go down any further than this dickhead. I'm laying flat on my stomach... which you might have noticed aint so flat!" screamed Honey bun. "Run faster Wrong Last Name." "I have asthma asshole. I'm going as fast as I can." As Honey bun lagged behind, short man forced the "Why are we even here" crowd to come back for her. He joked about his "No Twinkie Left Behind" policy. In an attempt to quiet his vertically challenged ass she looked around for something to stab him with. Better yet, why didn't she have duck tape in her back pack. She could have rallied the others and silenced him for good. Where was Little Debbie when she needed her. Clearly no one was stupid enough to leave her behind after a family beach outing. The birds would have devoured that bitch anyway. She pressed on.

As Fat Camp came to a close, everyone wore the same look on their face. Kool Aide Trance. Had a passer by been so bold as to sell Coca Cola and fried Twinkies on the beach, I fear the pledges would have gone AWOL. Honey bun was just days from graduation. Time to order a shirt for the "let's look like we had fun and love each other" graduation picture. Although it had been 6 weeks of hell, Honey bun still carried the one thing that won't shrink with exercise..."The Twins." These DD's weren't going away for nobody. She instructed short man to order her an XL. When the time came to transform from plebe to graduate, Honey bun was shocked to received a L shirt. She questioned short man and he instructed her to wear the L. Beach Hooker it is. As she ran the last run to meet her classmates atop the hill where they would all graduate, she had much to be proud of. She remained true to her SIFness while accomplishing things no SIF should ever have to. She could run 3 miles, do 60 sit ups in 2 minutes and more importantly she had understanding of why short man acted the way he did around the fatties. Clearly he feared for his life. Roll him in some flour, fry him up and you have the makins for a tasty little appetizer. And he knew it. Of course he would taste a little better with some fat on him but she was trying to be more health conscience n all.

So what did Honey bun get for waking up at 5am two times a week for six week whilst listening to a short man call her by the wrong last name while simultaneously torturing her....a blinking bracelet. Yes, a blinking bracelet. You can't eat it. You can't hang it on the wall. You can't snuggle up with it at night. The only thing you can do with this bracelet that makes it worth it's weight in gold is to look at it and remember: FAT IS WHERE IT'S AT! NO MORE WALKING ON THE OTHER SIDE! Nice job Honey bun!!

Fatties...we have a problem

2011-08-14T14:59:00.000-07:00

My guest SIF blogger wasn't able to meet up on Friday. "Fatty goes to Bootcamp" will be up next week. As for this SIF...I'm down 6lbs. Clearly getting kicked out of the club. I'm sure it will find it's way back to me. It always does. Stay tuned!

Coming soon....

2011-08-10T16:41:00.000-07:00

Yes....I am well aware it's been 1 month since I've blogged. I get it. However comma, I've had major drams. In any event, Friday I have a special interview in store. "Fatty Goes to Bootcamp" will be up by Sunday night. And it's not me. I know better. Nobody orders this fatty around. Unless they super sizin...oooohhhkay! Check back Sunday night!

Revelations: Fat.10:0

2011-07-10T14:14:00.000-07:00

Recipe for fat: Equal part thinking about food to equal part thinking of ways to keep it off your ass. Just like Grandma use to say, a pinch of this and a pinch of that. The part she left out...how much would be left to pinch when it was done. So I spend my days looking for ways to lose a little here and there. Let's face it, if it came off as quickly as it went on, I would have nothing to blog about and you would all die cold and lonely people. Yes, you would. In my quest to lose a quick 10lbs I'm left with a few choices. Stop eating and spend 23 of 24 hours at the gym. Scratch that. Go on random no carb, sugar or anything fun diet whilst holed up in the house until I look like Posh Spice. Scratch that. That bitch thinks jello is a food group. However comma, she is banging Beckham. Ok, I'll rethink that one. In any event, I found an easy way to lose 10 pounds. Ready for this? It could possibly revolutionize your life. Go to the beach...

Normally I wouldn't recommend something so potentially traumatic, however, given the speed of the results and the sheer simplicity of the task, this is now my go to plan for losing a quick 10. Step 1: put on a bikini. Yes, a bikini. You are about to be 10lbs lighter. I can't think of a better way to celebrate. Step 2: Park your big ass right next to an over sized family of 4. Step 3: Enjoy. You just lost 10lbs. I literally tested this theory today. Alone at the beach in my bikini I was a bit scared and quite large. I knew there was high potential for a 1/4 Pounder to plop down beside me and send this little experiment south, very quickly. However, my keen attention to detail assured my success. Although it was 9:15am, I noticed some key signs fatties were looming: Several cheap umbrellas strategically placed too close to each other far too early in the morning. Coverage issues. I can spot them a mile away. 1 umbrella won't cover 550lbs...I think they are rated to 120lbs actually. So the fatties stack them 1 on top of the other like a large crowd is about to take over...and they are. However, 4 doesn't qualify as a crowd. Perhaps in pounds. I'll give you that. Next, the beach chairs. While appearing new, you can clearly see stress fractures in the joints and large ass pockets in the seats that dip down to the sand. Clearly a sign something much too large has taken up residence. I fear we don't have Yetti's in these parts so the only conclusion....a fatty. Last but not least..the coolers arrive before the fat. Lots of coolers. Coolers with food stains. Fatties can't always be OCD like me. It takes all kinds people. Again, one might think a large family was on the way. They are. Large in volume. Not quantity.

As soon as their ass hit the sand, mine felt a shad lighter. Best I can figure to the tune of 10lbs. Am I mean? Yes. Am I fat? Yes. They cancel each other out so can it. This revelation could quickly tie into another...if I do say so myself. Fat IS a family affair. One by one they showed up to the dinner table (aka the beach) fatter than the next. The poor 1 year looked more like an afternoon snack than part of the clan. I feared for her safety around FGLH (Fat Girl Lunch Hour for you newbies to SIF). I would have called CPS but I was getting hungry myself and I was hoping they were sharers. So what to do after losing 10 lbs in a minute? Read. Not some trashy novel or God forbid something that might actually learn me something. I prefer good wholesome periodicals. So I was reading People Magazine and low and behold my favorite tidbit was included in this issue. How the stars lose weight.

I know what you are thinking. They buy their way to thin. Yes, yes they do. I'm trying to figure out how much they want for Brad Pitt. I've been saving my pennies for the day he realizes fat is where it's at. Skin and bones Jolie aint long for it if I do say so myself. I skipped over the stars who graze in pastures and do sun salutations at daybreak. Whatever. If I'm getting down on my hands and knees to eat anything it won't be grass. I told you before I don't swing that way. 100% meat eater thank you. And I refuse to salute anything that promotes me wearing a bikini. So that prettymuch leaves the salmon eaters, the non eaters and Paris Hilton. What on earth could she possibly be eating other than....well I'm just sayin. People talk. In any event, she had some great advice that I have decided to share with the SIF. I can't be sure why someone hasn't asked her on the Today Show or better yet put her in a Jenny Craig commercial. Got your big girl ears on? Paris said one day she realized she had gained 10lbs bringing her weight to an astonishing 120lbs. *random sign of the cross.* She blamed her boyfriend, which you know I love. A little game of "pass the fat" never hurt anyone. Her solution to this epic crisis, transform the nightclub at her house into a gym. Why haven't I thought of this? Instead of having my friends over for "club night" every Sat, we replace the turn table with a treadmill. My husband isn't really all about it. I'm not sure if it's bcs he's attached to the nightclub or bcs he doesn't know we have one. Guys are so dumb.

What can we conclude from these revelations? While there isn't an "I" in team, there is one on opportunity. And I an opportunist. If I have the opportunity to lose a quick 10 by standing next to your fat ass, I will. However, If I catch you doing it to me, I will bitch slap you. If I have the opportunity to pay for sex with Brad Pitt, I will empty the piggy bank. And the joint checking for that matter. Won't be needing it for long. If I have the opportunity to eat grass, I will starve until I nice hunk of meat presents itself. If I have the opportunity to turn my nightclub into a gym, I will dance on the treadmill, under the disco ball whilst drinking a PBR and eating a PBJ. Pure class. And this my friends is the gospel according to THIS SIF. And they all said, "Dig in!"

New Blog...this week..

2011-07-04T16:16:00.003-07:00

Hide the children...

Captains Log Book....

2011-06-15T18:14:00.000-07:00

Star date...O' Fat 30. Try as I might to capture random fat cells and share them with you, it's been too long. Let's start with a bit of recent trauma, shall we? Scene: Random mandatory fun in the form of a public birthday party for the town I live in. Translation...cake. Everyone knows how I feel about cake. In particular cheap over frosted grocery store birthday cake. Nectar of the Gods. One would assume if it was one's 50th birthday and that "one" was a large town... that would equate to a large birthday cake in need of consumption . Not so much. Instead, a room of strangers and random pint sized desserts. Tolerable but not ideal. Filling the sugar tank would require multiple trips to the fakey dessert bar. If you think I'm about to share some dramatic story about getting busted on my 18th trip to the banana cream pie table...think again. This trauma involves "Coochie." And it wasn't my coochie, for the record.

My friend Trish says people seek me out in order to provide me with material to share with the world. Normally I wouldn't subscribe to such a theory, however after tallying up the number of random strangers who approach me, over share and overwhelm me with amazing stories, I'm forced to agree with her. Plus she likes Def Leppard so that makes her an"Oz" like expert in my book. Anywho, Coochie. And I know exactly what you are thinking. No I did not flash my beav for cake. Only bcs there wasn't any cake. We covered this. Let's be clear, I would bare all for cake. In any event, I give you Coochie. The real deal coolest Coochie I've ever seen. And I don't go around looking for them, fyi. I told you I prefer Dick to Harry. Stay with me. So I walk up to this woman I think I know. Thinking always gets me in trouble. Most people who aren't sure of something ask others and cease to approach. Not me. When I want something I tend to bum rush and tackle. I'm food aggressive. It spills over into other areas of my life from time to time. Not ideal. So I approach said 75yearoldish woman, looking her up and down to reassure myself she is the lady from my neighborhood. Before I can get the words out of my mouth, she smiles and grabs my hair. Interesting. Never had that happen before. Let's see...I'm fairly confident I'm not sleeping with her husband, I don't have ghetto extensions or any extensions for that matter and I'm not into kinky shit with old ladies so why is this hussy pulling on my weave? Hmmm. She screams with excitement, "It's you! You have hair!" Both of these statements appear to be accurate and bizarre all at the same time. I reply, "Of course I have hair!" She says, "Oh bcs Linda and I see you running in the neighborhood and we thought you had cancer." However, my husband said he thinks you have hip issues bcs you limp when you run." Floored.

Stopped in my tracks, speechless for the 1st time in my life and wondering how 2 people with over 140 years between them have decided I have an incurable disease and bad hips...I change up the flow. "So what is your name anyway?" "Coochie." "Excuse me?" Did this woman just call me a pussy and cover it up with a youthful quip? "Coochie." Nice. Not only did she project the word "Coochie" across a room of over 100 people...she did it twice. Somehow I was getting blamed for this and for the first time ever...IT WASN'T MY FAULT! Hell I was just diagnosed terminal by an old vajayjay, her walking buddy Linda and her decrepit husband! That's a fine how do ya do! Coochie went on to explain that she sees me running in the morning in my "do rag." She thought I was wearing it bcs I had cancer. Clearly the only conclusion a civilized senior citizen would draw. When she shared this information with her husband he informed her of my limp like run. Instead of revealing my true SIF identity thus explaining the perplexing issues surrounding my very existence, I acknowledged stage 27 Beaver Cancer and how it caused my hips to give out. I'm not sure she even heard or saw me.I fear she lives in an alternate universe. But that hussy can yank on some hair! After sharing my new Coochie with friends, we learned she is also a raging alcoholic! The woman gives out jello shooters at Halloween and drinks in her garage! If loving Coochie makes me a lesbian...I am a full on Lickalotapuss. Love me some Cooch!

You think I make this shit up? I wish. I am the Larry David of the Outer Banks. Just the other day I was walking my dog and another one of my neighbors decided to "open mouth insert foot." I know what you are thinking...how can you handle all this running and walking with Beaver Cancer and a bad hip? Dedication. My beaver may have had a chance for survival had it been exercised. That just wasn't in the cards. I have accepted my fate as have my neighbors. Scandal. So...back to dog walking. There's a very nice lady who walks her dog at O' Dark 30 every morning. We usually exchange words about the weather and whatever else rolls off my halitosis laden tongue at that hour. On this particular day, I passed her, making a joke about her dog coming to me instead of to my dog. To this she responds "Yup..goes straight for the big girl." I'm sorry? I had to stop my right roundhouse from engaging and kicking her ass. I instantly convinced myself "Big Girl" meant "human adult like person" and smiled. I didn't get the chance to tell her I gained all my weight after contracting beaver cancer. That's how you get it you know...contraction. Some dumb guy sticking his dick all over town and Viola...beaver cancer/bad hips. I was sure the rumors had spread through the hood after Coochie got a hold of me. Apparently not. Apparently getting up and running at 530am, walking your dog and boxing at night still qualifies you to be code named "Big Girl." I now carry arsenic dog treats for her pooch. I got your big girl.

I'm starting to think it's not just the neighborhood I live in. I fear this madness is spreading to other neighborhoods in my town. I was having lunch with my friend Sharon who lives a few subdivisions down. She informed me her husband was bitten by a tick and is now allergic to meat. Fuckin tick! Now the vermin of the world are working against the SIF/BIF? What up with that? Bugs that bite you and make you allergic to food? I would like to request a giant chunk be taken out of my ass by whatever specimen makes me allergic to fried chicken and birthday cake! Come quick! While I feared the end of the world crowd to be militant and over jealous...this revelation has got me thinking. Bugs that make you unable to eat? It's very
Sci-Fi. And I don't appreciate it one bit. I'm sure Coochie knows all about them. She's probably breeding them in her garage whilst she knocks back a 12 pack and fifth of Vodka. I think when I see her next I will let my hair down and bare my Coochie. What will the neighbors say? "Oh that's just the girl with Beaver Cancer and a bad hip," I fear. Anything is better than being called fat.

Worst SIF Ever..

2011-06-13T16:41:00.001-07:00

Yeh that's me. I have so much fat to share and not enough time! However comma, a new blog with some serious fat cells will be posted Wednesday night. Put down your drumsticks and wipe away the grease sisters...Mama is ready to dish!

Fat Contagious?...and other random observations

2011-05-21T16:16:00.000-07:00

Before I go off on a fat tangent, I would be remiss in my duties if I did not acknowledge today to be the end of the world. Allegedly. According to someone who thought it would be a good day to call the whole thing off. Here's the problem. I'm still here, still fat and still hungry. Nice try. There's always 2012. You'll recall, the survival packs are ready. Mental note: gotta remember to throw in El Conejo (he likes his current survival plan. Hard to tear him away). Whilst we are on a current events, it seems Wills finally decided to give up on this SIF and marry that skinny bitch Kate. I'm over it. After I found out royal etiquette calls for everyone to stop eating when the queen stops, that sorta did it for me. I'm a speed eater n all but I prefer to eat sans pressure. Mighta stabbed that bitch with my fork or something. I don't know how their laws work but I don't look good in stripes. I could always wait around for Harry but....well I don't like Harry. The name is dreadful. Harry. It's just gross. Why not something civilized like Dick. Anyway...

While the CDC has yet to post a warning, I am here to tell you there is a deadly virus running rampant. Fat. It's everywhere. Grab your masks, hide the children. Have you looked in your rear view mirror lately? Muffin tops, spare tires, fat back, fat front, bra fat, cankles, triple chins....you name it! For those of you who lead a sheltered life...stop by your local Wal-Mart for an education in FRIGHTENING! I'm starting to believe you have to be this side of 250lbs to grab a roll of TP at Wally World. Speaking of rolls, why does the over 250 crowd feel it's acceptable to squeeze all that ass into some junior sized attire and make the rest of us suffer? It's a moving violation at best. I considered shopping elsewhere until I had a revelation...I am one of them. I may not show up to the prom with chicken grease on my chin wearing a Forever 21 frock, but I am still guilty as charged. Guilty of rockin a two piece bikini that clearly needs to be sottered into a wet suit. My sentence? An incurable virus I shall share with those around me for the rest of my life. Afterall, what fun is the fat equivalent of HIV if you can't share it with those around you? Responsible is my middle name.

If you think fat isn't contagious, you are stupid. Plain and simple. Have a fatty over for dinner and see how much more you consume whilst watching her put a dent in the dinner rolls. I know this to be true for reasons cited time and time again on this very blog. Fry thieves. Makes me shutter to even type the words. Fatty goes to lunch with the 1/4 pounders and they order salad. True to form, fatty orders something heart stopping with a side of fries and a Diet Coke. Pretty standard stuff. However comma, when the food arrives the 1/4 pounders reach in and nab the fries from the fatty. Good way to lose a limb. I guess they feel better about themselves if their plate looks socially acceptable. Let the fatty take the hit and move in for the kill. That's what friends are for. My point is as follows, well I'm not sure I have a point...at this point. I would just like to point out that a table full of 1/4 pounders wouldn't dare carry out such blatant atrocities. However, throw a fatty into the mix and it's fair game. I suppose the fatties should form their own minority. Seems everyone has a fat friend. I think that's the qualifier.

You should know the fat virus is not only multiplying...it's dividing. Dividing into some sort of super bug that's causing fatties to act like 1/4 pounders. I call bullshit. If Magic Johnson can fly to Europe and leave his AIDS across the pond, the fatties shall do the same. Here's what's going on. Fatty goes out to dinner with said 1/4 pounders. Instead of ordering the cardiac platter with a side of adipose, she orders almost healthy. Stay with me here. I know it's painful. When said food arrives, fatty eats slowly. Very slowly. Yes, this is serious. So slow the 1/4 pounders are waiting on her to finish. This is why I know the end of the world IS looming. Halfway through the steamed and grilled illusion, fatty summons the waiter. The unthinkable. A to-go box. Who even knew people had occasion to use such a thing? If you want it to go, call it in and wait in the designated parking area. Dining out means cleaning your plate. SIF rule #3425. Duh Winning. Anyway, fatty alleges she will take the other half home and eat it at a later time. Like on the way home...in the car...at the next stop light...before she hits McDonald's for some real food. Is there a pill for this? I fear not. The 1/4 pounders have forced the fatties into a shameful strain of fat HIV. It's a waste of time and money...and caloric expenditure if I may be so bold.

I fear I have the super bug. I have recently had occasion to get a to-go box and eat the leftovers whilst waiting for the check. I think that makes me terminal. I'm not saying fatties haven't always been about illusion. Mandatory tricks of the trade if you will. Showing up to work with a McDonald's coffee claiming that's all you got whilst wiping biscuits crumbs off your suit. Eating 8 plates at the holiday party bcs you ran 15 miles and forgot to eat before you came. Ordering 2 combos and telling the drive-thru guy your husband would like to super size his yet you are alone in the car and divorced. Stuff like that. I'm just sayin. Gotta watch the fatties. They are quick. They will sneak out after the check to make sure you don't see the fatty wagon hang a hard left for burger alley. If you are still in denial that this disease exists, invite me to dinner. I'm happy to infect you with all that is me. Hell, that would be the most excitement I've had in a long time. Vaginal closure is eminent. Sorry Mother. You lied to me about happily ever after. I'm airing the dirty laundry. That's how it works.

The next time you are out to dinner, be aware. Watch for the signs. Slow eating monstrosities. Random cries of fullness. Mini-vans peeling out of the parking lot with empty to-go boxes flying out the window. Requests to stop at Dunkin Donuts for coffee (news flash...no one goes to DD of coffee and no one goes to Hooters for the wings!)...stuff like that. You have been warned!

New Blog coming soon!

2011-05-15T18:03:00.000-07:00

Fatty has been on the road. I have an amazing amount of observations to share. However comma, I'm eating peanut M&M's in bed and I cant be disturbed. Cheating on my diet and my husband at the same. Multi-tasker, over achiever...that's me. Blog coming soon!

Happy Mother's Day To the original SIF...My Mother!

2011-05-08T06:46:00.000-07:00

Thank you for the little things... Heavenly Hash, The Green Jacket & 50lb bags of M&M's stowed in my desk. Clearly I would be nothing without your commitment to food hording.

Love you Mother.

Got some new SIF!

2011-04-28T16:52:00.000-07:00

Not only do I watch my waistline...grow...I watch for new Sisters in Fat following the blog. We had 4 new SIF join this week! Nice! We should go out to dinner y'all! I fear there's not a buffet in the world that could keep up....oooookkkkkay! I'm going out for ice cream to celebrate. Thanks for providing me with a reason to emotionally eat! Cheers Sisters!

Fat on a Hot Tin Roof

2011-04-24T12:41:00.000-07:00

It appears this epic tale is a biography based on my life as a summer fatty. Time for a revelation. It is Easter after all. Thank the Lord I wasn't chosen as the savior. I have trouble rising on a good day. In any event, the revelation... I fear I am larger than last summer. How is that possible? I can't be sure. It's not socially acceptable to be fat between June and August. Or anytime for that matter. However, if one were clever and good looking, such as myself, you could get away with it in the off season. Personally I feel summer should be the off season. I'm so much happier in the winter. There's Halloween, Thanksgiving and Christmas. What's summer got to offer but annoying half dressed skinny bitches and people pressuring me to bare all so they can feel better about themselves. Whatever. Heathens. I'm ashamed to even call you out on Easter. But I will. Because I can. Summer is clearly a 3 month skinny girl holiday. Overzealous whores. Given the revelation I'll be shopping at Forever 2X for my swimwear, I got myself a new bathing suit cover up...aka Dad's old car cover. It's like putting a band-aide on blunt force trauma to the head. Not so much...

Whilst out and about in the land of misfits sizes, I noticed something rather alarming and offensive all in the same gasp. Three pronged hangers. Why? When did 2 prongs go out? Whose idea was this? I realize I'm bigger than the average bear but it's not like a tank top warrants more than 2 prongs! Yet there it was....supported by multiple prongs screaming loud and clear, "You are a fat whore." Fuckers. Before rushing to judgment (ughum) I ran over to the juniors section to see what kinda hangers they were using. 1 prong. Of course they were. Teenage mutants and Forever 56ers wantin to be 21. I decided to take action. I grabbed a handful of fatty apparel (to include a size 22 tank top and biker shorts) and headed for the juniors fitting room. 3 prongs n all. On my way I grabbed a bunch of junior sized onsies. My reasons will become clear shortly. Wouldn't ya know it...their fitting room has its own bathroom! Clearly for purging when the sizes two’s get a little tight. Sick. I squeezed my fat ass in one of the tiny cubby holes realizing I had transcended into Wizard of Oz Land. Who chooses this lifestyle? Clearly not me. Relax. I wasn't there to try on size 2's and slit my wrists in the skinny girl urinal. I was on a mission. Operation Hanger Switch. I hung as many Junior onesies on 3 pronged hangers as time would allow. This is how the other half lives....

WWJD? Well it's Easter, its 85 degrees and I'm whiter than baby's ass so I vote go to the beach! That's just what I did. The unthinkable. I went to the beach in a bikini. It's April. The skinnies haven't come out of the closet yet. Just as dark meat has more flavor, my meat looks better slightly well done. It was horrific. Sand flies landing in my crevices, fat spilling out around me...I lasted an hour and had to exit the beach before regurgitating my breakfast. Bacon doesn't taste good the second time around. Yum. After I inhale my biblical feast of the day I'm sure I'll need to be on some random diet. New Me Monday represents an opportunity to rise again. I need a diet that won't kill me... with a side of I can lose 60 lbs in a week. If y'all know of one like that hit me up. In the meantime, I have put the bikini back in the drawer and am denying any reports of a killer whale sighting in Nags Head!

You might recall a slight mention of all that is me running a half marathon a few weeks back. Obviously I'm not dead, so yes, it is feasible to move 856lbs 13.1 miles and live to tell about it. I could spend hours telling the tales of a plus sized runner. But why? I don't care to rehash the horrific lengths I go to in order to justify the amount of calories I consume in one hour. You want to know how it feels? Wrap your ass in some Saran Wrap, walk outside, hoist your vehicle on your back and run for 2.5 hours. That's pretty much how it feels. It's always nice when your brother (running his first ever half marathon) and your Father (currently a card carrying member of AARP & Medicare) beat you. Yeh. Feels good. Thank God Mother was along for the trip. She is a constant reminder that skinny doesn't give you common sense. I give you race day. Mother is not running. Yet she is up 24 hours earlier than us in order to prepare her face for the finish line. Apparently Mary Kay has several stages of beauty that must be adhered to. In any event, my brother and I left to drop the car at the finish and come back to the house to pick up my Dad. A woman who appeared to be my Mother (wearing a turbo genie head towel) was privy to the following conversation, "I'll be right back. Just dropping the car and we'll be back to get Dad." To this she replied, "Ok." - signaling a mutual understanding. As Dad came out of the bedroom wondering where we went, Mother looked straight at him and said, "Are they coming back for you?" No Mother. They are coming for you!...

Moving right along...

Mother had 1 job and it didn't involve running or thinking. Allegedly we were safe. Allegedly OJ is innocent, ughum. Her job was to get to the finish line with an extra shirt for my Dad to wear post race. I even threw her a bone. We live .50 mile from the finish...yet I had my friend pick her up and take her there out of fear she would be kidnapped. You don't understand...this is completely plausible. I'm not saying she wouldn't be returned within th hour....but you get my point. So, Mother gets dropped at the finish holding Dad's shirt and waits for us. All appears to be in order. That is until Dad asks for his post race shirt. Imagine if you will what kind of shirt you would want after running in the hot sun for 13.1 miles. Are you getting a visual? A tank top? A nice cotton tee? Yes, that would have been nice. I give you a dress shirt. A button down full on striped dress shirt. Yup. That's what she brought him. A dress shirt. To go with his sweaty ass running shorts. You have to wonder, what crossed her mind when she grabbed it? Perhaps she thought we would be going out to dinner afterwards? Yeah...it's was 9:30am. Maybe she thought he would win his age group and would want a glamour shot? Perhaps. I'm going with she wanted him to do a post race strip tease to pay for gas on the way home. At least this option indicates brain activity. Love you Mother. If this keeps up I swear I'm going to put her on the road with Charlie Sheen and the Goddesses....Duh Winning!

New Blog this week...

2011-04-18T17:44:00.001-07:00

No good can come of this...

Irony...

2011-04-05T16:57:00.000-07:00

I find it ironic my Google login for this blog is "imreadytogetfit." I'll leave that one alone. In addition to failed cyber committments, all 867lbs of me is getting ready to run a half marathon. Why? Can't be sure.Why does anyone run? Post race consumption of course. I'm bankin at least 1000 calories. I'm a banker now n all. I can eat that back before noon easy. That's why those races start at 7am...need time to replenish whilst still socially accpetable to do so. Since the doctor made me break up with beans I've been whoring around town paying top dollar to graze on carbohydrates. I still don't know why the beans revolted. I'll find out next week when we get back together. Look..I have exactly 60 days to lose as many pounds. Bikini or a pine box? Either way I'll be comfortable. Actually I would prefer to be charbroiled upon my demise. The blacker the berry the sweeter the juice. Who knows who I'll meet on the other side. Could be chilly could be hot. Can't be sure. I wonder if they serve fries in Heaven? Sounds like a good book.

Allegedly it's going to be 150 degrees on race day. You know what that means? Spandex shorts. I apologize in advance to the spectators. Vanity goes out the window after 85 degrees. Me, my muffins and my honey buns will be showing all sorts of love. It's like a train wreck. Just stare, ask the appropriate questions and then remind yourself your fat ass is watching me run. Thank you. In any event, there's always a good story to follow plus sized running. Check back next week for "Fatty runs with a side of beans." HIde the children.

Revelations...

2011-04-03T17:23:00.000-07:00

And not of biblical proportion. So...as discussed I have been on the evil bean diet. Thus why it has taken me 4 weeks to blog. You try getting off the toilet to blog after baggin 20lbs of beans. It aint pretty. The good news is that I lost 10 lbs in 3 weeks. The bad news is I almost bit the big one. Apparently in addition to shitting out no fat and carbs, I also released the oil that keeps the engine running. Not ideal for life. However comma, ideal when stepping on the scale. So things were a bit blurry and 3Dish. I can be dizzy for a size that doesn't end in X. Visual. Fat chick hooked to electrodes sipping on cab. It screams dying to drink. What can I say? Apparently my heart rate wasn't syncing with my blood pressure. And? Nothing about me is in sync. So they hooked me to a bunch of shit only to determine I'm fat minus some crucial potassium. Instead of losing inches I lost the very gas I was ingesting. I'm no Toyota. Story of my life.

I was all about the evil beans until they tried to kill me. This is why I'm convinced I need to stick with the fatties. As a SIF I never complained of palpitations or dizziness. That's a 1/4 pounders disease. Life on the other side aint so grand. Since my impending doom I've gone back to my old ways. If it aint broke...leave it the fuck alone. So I'm at the McDonald's drive thru this morning with my husband. Why? I can't be sure. I prefer to binge alone. All I wanted was a decaf coffee black. Well...All I really wanted a biscuit but he was in the car so I went skinny on his ass. Black coffee no sugar no cream. Not only a song (thanks Heavy D) but my skinny girl anthem. Some dumb ass in front of me decided to order 2 parfaits and hold up the line. If you want yogurt...carry your ass to the grocery! I don't go to subway for french fries....don't be holdin me up at Mickey D's for some damn yogurt! My husband hears the voice behind the drive thru and decides she's of Asian decent. That's where I broke bad on his ass. Racial profiling in the drive through aint cool. Especially when I know the woman to be of Latino decent. So I went there. I told him not only was she not Asian, she was a middle aged Mexican woman, possibly from Jalisco, who wears her hair in a pony tail, she's about 4' 8" and does not like fried rice. To that I added, the woman who would be handing us our food would be one over friendly African American lazy eyed black woman who never puts the lid on the Coke tight enough. 1 outa 2 aint bad. Apparently my lazy eyed food lady was off for the day. He was visibly frightened. Yet, no divorce. There's always tomorrow... and Burger King.

So I'm working on a theory. Hole closing. You know how if you get your ears pierced and you don't wear earrings your hole closes? What if you don't get enough sex? What's up with that hole? I'm just sayin is all. It's a legit concern. I don't want to pierce it. I would prefer it be pierced. However comma, that doesn't seem to be in my control. My doctor says there is no threat of hole closure. He's the same one who hooked me up to electrodes and let me run and drink red wine. I fear he can't be trusted. I have my own theories. El Conejo is very reassuring at times like this. He's like a "clip on earring." Classless but sometimes necessary. So 10 lbs less isn't that impressive. It's like switching from Diet Coke to water. You feel somewhat better but no one cares. No one is running up to me to declare me skinny. Yet I see bones in my face that haven't surfaced in years. My muffin top has transformed into Sponakopeta. Figure that one out. If I wasn't running a half marathon this weekend I might take my chances with death and go back to the beans. Dead and skinny beats fat and alive. Scratch that. Fat and alive would be fine if it were acceptable. Although I must admit dents and dings would make me want a new model. I fear no amount of fat loss, botox and bullshit can fix this problem.

When you don't have the answer, switch jobs. That's what I did. I start a new one tomorrow. In my world I'm writing screen plays, doing stand up and making fun of fatties everywhere. In the real world I'll be happy to open your checking account. Bankers are fat. That's why I'm the perfect candidate. Open an account and I'll give you a toaster or a blender. Not a shake or a salad. That's how I roles. I come complete with candy on my desk and chocolate on my lips. If you can't trust a fat banker with toasters, candy and chocolate lips who can you trust?

New blog coming this week!

2011-03-27T16:55:00.000-07:00

Yes I know it's been a while. Dieting has sucked the life out of me. Fat is clearly the path of least resistance!

Fat Tuesday....

2011-03-08T18:17:00.000-08:00

Damn Cajuns trying to steal holidays from the SIF. Everyone knows the real meaning of Fat Tuesday. The same reason every Tuesday is Fat. It's the day after New Me Monday. 24 hours of dieting is more than enough reason to celebrate. Show my tits for beads? I think not. A Krispy Kreme maybe. Betta make those candy beads. Does anyone really desire to witness a flashing fatty? I didn't think so. My memories of New Orleans are as follows: Beignets, Muffalettas and bread pudding. No sex. No sight seeing. Pure Fat. Pure Bliss. Story time. Whilst in New Orleans my husband went out for a pack of smokes. He left me alone (in a public place) with his bread pudding (the public place part while true was thrown in for effect..I have no shame). Big mistake. Upon his return, he alleged he was "this" close to being mugged. I tried to seem sympathetic. I was just grateful he didn't ask what happened to his bread pudding...I mean that he returned safe and sound. Or something. That about sums up my trip to New Orleans. Moving along...

I have been cheating on you. There I said it. I have been doing the deed. No not that deed. I would take out a billboard in Vegas were that the case. A dirtier deed. A word that sounds like riot and begins with a "D." There I said it. Sort of. Why? I can't be sure. I was bored, read a book about a diet I haven't tried and decided to take a walk on the other side. It's called the "4 Hour Body" although I'm not sure why. It's been 240 hours and I have yet to visit the 1/4 Pounders. Beans. That's what this diet is all about. If I wasn't getting sex before this, I'm certainly not getting any now. Let's face it; I'm gassy on an empty stomach. Imagine 4 servings of beans a day. I have enough natural gas to launch the shuttle into orbit AND bring it back. Sexy. I wonder if farting is more acceptable when you weigh less? I'll let you know. If I get that far. I'm basically a feral cow. I eat lettuce, meat and beans. I can't be sure real cows eat beans but this one does. I don't even have to work out. A dream come true. I get to eat bacon. Very fair. It’s supposed to be organic bacon. I really don't care what my pig ate prior to slaughter as long as his loins are tasty. I buy the microwave kind. I can't be bothered with random cooking requirements. 20 seconds in the microwave is very fair when waiting on a side show of legumes. Oh and I get 2 glasses of red wine each night. Who needs sex with bacon and red wine? Apparently not me. The theory being...the bacon clogs my arteries, the red wine cleans them out and the beans...keep me from sex? I can't be sure.

The next chapter in the book..."The 15 minute Orgasm." I have yet to read it for all the obvious reasons. It's torture. I would take a 15 second orgasm at present. All of this nonsense would require the man to stop watching TV long enough to realize there was a vagina in need of something other than a mop and an apron. I do not believe this to be possible. I'll stick to the chapters about ficticious 4 hour weight loss. It's more feasible. I will say the following about the farting 4 hour diet...I am never hungry. That's what happens when you eat meat and beans. Gas moves into the empty space once filled by my ol pal Lil' Debbie. I miss her so. No cheese. Perhaps the biggest disappointment of all. It's like telling me to hang out with the nerdy kids. I know it will make me smarter but there's no pleasure in this knowledge now is there? I know this. Maybe I need to read the orgasm chapter. When I'm not eating beans and grazing on fat back I can fill the empty space with my other favorite meat...rabbit. Fat free and very satisfying. Yes Mother, that rabbit.

There is a slight glimmer of light at the end of the 4 hour tunnel. Cheat Day. A bit deceiving. You can eat anything you want for 24 hours. It's all an attempt to throw your body off track. My body never exactly got on track. It's fallen off so many times one leg occassionly grazes the edge. Of course that doesn't deter me. Cheating is cheating. I am a food whore after all. The book advises you to write down all your cravings throughout the week so you'll remember to indulge in them on your cheat day. A. I don't have a scroll big enough to list my cravings. B. 24 hours isn't enough time to cover the bases in the World Series of cheating I would indulge in and C. I have a memory like an elephant. I ate until I made myself sick. Typical as Saturday's go. The hard part...Sunday. There was no instruction on going from French fries and pizza to beans. Far from a smooth transition. 24 hours just wasn't enough time to spend with old friends. I feel like my body is on death row. I get a congecal visit with fat once a week. I want more. Please kill me now...

How much weight have I lost? I can't be sure. Let's just say I weigh less than I did last week. My septic system can back that up. Who needs a lying whore of a scale? So I'll continue drinking ice water at dawn, ice packs at night, beans throughout the day and cheat when permissible. That is until my SIF genes kick in and carbs rule my life once again. For now I will celebrate Fat Tuesday with the Fatties and the Frauds.
4 Hour Body

Chocolate Crack Cake a la pot... from a fellow SIF!

2011-03-01T18:38:00.000-08:00

Sisters,
It's not often I get recipes from fellow SIF. You know these bitches aint about no sharin' n all. However comma, Sandy from very cold upstate NY has been so kind as to cook up some chocolate crack in a crock AND share her super secret formula! (illegal in 58 states, fyi). Before attempting to cook crack in a crock Sandy warns, "Don't forget to oil the crock before inserting the Crack"... it's simple manners y'all. If you get nothing else from this, remember to keep your crock lubed and your crack clean! Enjoy!

Crack 101
mix together in a bowl....

1 box chocolate cake mix

1 pint of sour cream

1 small box of instant chocolate pudding

1 small bag of chocolate chips

3/4 cup oil

1 cup water

Pour into crockpot and cook for 6 hours on low.
In the meantime, write your will and kiss your cute little ass...goodbye!
Sandy

Well said Sandy! You make me proud to be a SIF.

My Deadly Valentine...or Valentime- I aint mad at ya!

2011-02-15T10:28:00.000-08:00

What is it with me and doctors? It's a conspiracy is what it is. Not only do they insist on weighing me for the slightest cough due to cold, they always manage to get in a fatty dig. I give you the allergist. Not my favorite person. Nothing personal. I just don't enjoy being injected with all things evil, waiting 20 minutes to see if I die and then being sent home to scratch for hours on end. I could accomplish all of this with a simple yeast infection sans the $30 "specialist" co-pay. Every 6 months they insist I need to come in for a check-up. Porque? You see me every week, I'm not dead and not for nothing we aren't friends. But I play along bcs I never know when I might need drugs. Yes, I am a drug whore as well as a fat whore. So what did they do....they scheduled my appointment on Valentines Day! Only the biggest fatty holiday next to Thanksgiving! Clearly this office is run by insensitive 1/4 Pounders! It would take a miracle to pry me me away from my giant heart filled with candy (that I bought myself mind you) for a visit with Dr. "I have the personality of paint drying" and her crew of mold spores! A miracle...or chocolate. When the nurse suggested I arrive at 10:45, I suggested she bring chocolate. Look...she weighs me. There are no secrets here. After marinating on the idea, I noticed a notation in her folder that read, "bring Kelly chocolate for 2/14 appointment." It's official. I have a Valentine.

I awoke on Valentines Day with a mission...sex and chocolate. I would get chocolate from the allergist and sex from...well I hadn't exactly figured that part out yet. Plenty of daylight left. However comma, no amount of daylight could have prepared me for an unexpected visitor....Aunt Flo. Bitch. The one day I have a 98% chance of getting guilt sex and she decided to pop in. I say pop in...she was somewhat expected. I take this miracle pill that warns me when unwanted guests are coming....within a day or 3. I wonder why it doesn't work on the rest of my relatives? Can't be sure. Like an unruly bitch she came a day early. I really need to tie off my uterus or sell it on Ebay or something. Clearly I don't need it. I won't be duplicating all that is me for all the obvious reasons and I prefer donating blood to the Red Cross vs. Tampax, thank you. It's useless. I wonder if the allergist can rip it out before she weighs me? It'd save me some embarrassment and another $30 copay. Frugal Fatty always thinkin. No such luck. I had barely crossed the threshold of all things itchy when the nurse said, "Kelly come on back on get on the scale. Oh and here's your chocolate. I didn't forget." It was like telling me to use the cross walk but failing to mention I might want to look for oncoming traffic! I had half a mind to inhale the chocolate heart and then jump on the scale! Instead I used SIF reverse psychology. I refused to play nice. I asked her if she would be so kind to take my blood pressure first. Getting on the scales tends to send the numbers due north. She agreed. Phase 1 of operation "take your chocolate and your scale and shove it up your ass...complete." 95/70. Amazing how the numbers fall into place when a SIF is in control. I had half a mind to phone the "Mercedes Mechanic" and tell him to update my chart. I feared mean nurse and decided to focus on the mission at hand. After scoring big with the BP it was time. The scale. I refused. I made her prick me with the evil serum first. The plan was...after being pricked with said evil serum I would step on the scale only to fall off as a result of severe allergic reaction...to the scale. I would just leave out that part and blame the dust mites. No one likes them anyway. She gave me the shots. Phase 2 complete. Once again I was ordered to slaughter. I refused. She threw me a look that said, "Look you fat bitch, I gave you chocolate, complimented you on blood pressure numbers that were most likely flawed and now you won't simply step on the scale?" That is correct. SIF powers activated! I just looked at her and said, " I weigh _____(8 digits). I know because I weigh myself every day like a good fatty." She agreed to go with my number. And then nothing. I'm use to everything from shock and awe to "you don't look like you weigh that much." Nothing. I wouldn't let her win this round. I said, " I know. I don't look like I weigh that much. There was this car accident and...well you understand." Yes, I am still using that. It's been a year now. It hasn't passed it's expiration until it leaves a bad taste in your mouth. And it doesn't. I fear it never will.

It was time to meet with the Dr. Very nice lady with a personality as dry as my nether region. As she was looking over my vitals I was dreading the snarky weight comments that were inevitable. She doesn't buy into my excuse driven agenda. Perhaps why I require chocolate to visit. She also doesn't believe drugs are the answer. Frankly I'm surprised they haven't taken her medical license. We went through the usual. "Has anything changed?" Gee I don't know...have you peeped my weight? I wasn't bringing it up. I went with a sure thing. "No not really. I'm still in some pain from the car accident but I'm trying to work my way back." She wasn't amused. I told her stories of my attempts to eat fruit, how my throat would close and the trauma of being limited to chocolate and cheese. Didn't even crack a smile. I had a half a mind to break out the allergic reaction scheme if she didn't budge. Instead I let her tell me stories of the latest and greatest advances in allergic medicine. When I awoke she was asking about acid reflux and if mine was under control. Of course it was. I take Prilosec every day as instructed. Seems she has changed her tune on that. Apparently she now feels it may cause esophageal cancer when taken for prolonged periods of time. Excellent. I love how medicine works. Take this until we do more research and figure out it will kill you. She wanted me to see a GI specialist. Something about him sticking something down into my stomach and how it would be less than pleasant. Not. She even said, "I know you won't go but..." But what? You are going to waste my time with the gory details of how you almost killed me and are now trying to make up for it by sending me to a Dr. who can actually SEE the french fries in my stomach. Ah no. I'll take a flaming case of crabs for $700 Alex. With that she came around to the place where all of my other Dr.'s had long since been. "You know. If you lose weight your acid reflux will get better." There it was. The dig I had been waiting for. The dig that made the paint not so dry.

As I was leaving the office I overheard her telling the nurse she was going to regift the chocolate she gave her. Of all things sacred! Is there no Fatetiquite in this world? Who regifts chocolate? Muderers. That's who.

New Generation SIF...

2011-02-08T05:56:00.000-08:00

Thas right...get it girl! When dinner is that good it's perfectly acceptable to trade in the fork for a shovel! The original SIF ate with their hands...Emma Grace is bringin it back! Go Girl! Note the milk tossed to the side and the extreme focus. Trainin her well Kimo!

A Miracle...Scaled Down

2011-02-01T17:49:00.000-08:00

Today I did the unthinkable. No, I didn't throw out a donut. It's more probable I would dumpster dive for a half eaten donut. Reminds me...I bought these scrumptious chocolate covered bear claws on Sunday. What??...It's not like it was "New Me Monday"...gheez. Who knew bears were so tasty? Not my husband. He didn't get his hands on a one of those. There were 12 in the box. 6 for me on Sunday and 6 more when I came up with a reason to eat them. Like..it's Tuesday. Or Wednesday or something. There are now 3 left. I'm actually hiding them from myself. It's tricky hiding things from yourself. You know where they are but you try and forget. I can't find my f'n car keys on a good day but I sure as hell know where to put my hands on 1200 calories in a hot minute! Damn! Anyway, back to the unthinkable. I'm more comfortable on that side of town. I stepped on the scale. Why? Who the hell knows. Why does any woman step on the scale? Hoping for a miracle perhaps? Sort of like when you get married. You know it's a train wreck waiting to happen but whatever Everyone's doing it. So I stepped on the scale not sure it would even hold me at this point. I have, after all, been on a non-stop holiday binge. Yes I realize the holidays ended months ago....in my world holiday's don't end. Fala freakin la.

So there I was... on the scale hoping my husband wouldn't burst into the bathroom and realize he's married to a zip code. I'd much rather have him watch me take a dump. At least that occurs naturally within the human species. I haven't quite figured out how I occurred. Not naturally. That's for sure. Sometimes when I hop on the scale it flashes a number so high I just know it can't be right. I'm good for about 4 pounds a month... of gain. Not 40! I wish I had that kind of ambition. Anyway, on this particular day the scale was plotting against me. It flashed a huge number. I dismounted the piece of trash to grab a knife and put and end to the madness when I realized it read, "Error." Can't get rid of me that easily bitch! I decided to press my luck and stepped on it one more time. My dream come true. It was dead. Gone. Right in front of my very eyes. I killed the scale. Under the pressure of all that is me it finally went home... to hell. Yes, scales have souls. Dirty, rotten souls. There I was. After 6 bear claws, 2 trips to McDonald's and no sex to burn it off hoping I would put up a good number. It's all about managing your expectations. It didn't say "Error." It didn't say, "You fat whore. Thanks for killing me." It simply said, 'Battery." So...now this bitch needs something from me? How interesting. My scale wants me to bring it back to life. Give it a reason to torture me some more. I'd have to think about this one...

So I'm in Walmart looking for a battery when I realized I needed new underwear. Mother convinced me Hipsters were all the rage back in December. I'd grown a size since then and it was time to move on to big girl panties. Attractive. Yet still not enough of a reason to stop eating. Instead I bought boy shorts. Who thought this was a good idea? I don't have a dick. I have a huge ass! Who wears these things? 1/4 pounders that's who! No part of my 10 gallon ass was fitting in these things. But...just like my scale, I assumed a miracle was on the horizon. I took my old battery to the section of Walmart that sells these sorts of things. Actually, I just asked the man with no teeth and a blue smock to snatch me one. I was getting hungry and I didn't have time for a dissertation on batteries. Shift workers. They always want to share their expertise on shit I could care less about. I had boy shorts to try on and a scale to revive. So I got home and decided to try on the boy shorts post haste. Yes, I thought maybe I would look hot and score some sex. Not even close. I looked like a large prepubescent boy born without a penis and an abnormally large ass. They would have to be exchanged for thongs immediately if not sooner. I was in need of a miracle. I dug in the bag looking for the battery. No battery. It was sabotage! That no tooth havin mother f'r forgot to put the most important thing in the flippin bag! Thanks! Send me home with man shorts and no way to counteract the man in the mirror! I looked on the receipt. It wasn't on there. Great. At least I wouldn't have to call and admit to buying scale batteries at my size. Back to Wally World it was. No one should have to go there twice in their life much less twice in one day. This frugal fatty loves a good bargain but not at the expense of the scenery...if you know what I mean. Surely you've gotten the emails...

I started thinking, this was a sign from God. He wants me to be fat so I can finally write the book that's going on 39 years in the making. Hell, if Snookie can write a best seller surely I can make some pocket change. Speaking of which.....outrageous! What world do we live in where a midget with big hair from NJ writes a book and it sells enough copies to be a NYT Best Seller?! WTF?! All you bitches better buy my book and I betta outsell that hooka or I'm outin all a y'all. I know who you are...I got tracking on this bitch! So anyway, was this a sign from the man above or just confirmation men who wear smocks are idiots? I swear I'll never know. God wants me to be fat? But I want to get laid. Just another round of Hail Mary's I suppose. It's the sweets. That's what keeps me fat. Sugar. Men are like sweets. They are no good for you yet you keep going back for more. Both deliver a slow agonizing death. At least sweets are all pleasure. I can live without men. Not sugar. Or my rabbit. I did this visualization exercise. Imagined myself thin. Who am I kidding? I don't have that kind of imagination. What would I be wearing? What would I look like? Well...I would be wearing all the clothes in my closet with tags on them and I would look just like I do now minus a few chins, half an ass and some love handles. Still hot. Just less heat. I don't know. Those clothes in my closet went out of style like 10 years ago. Apparently the diet has taken longer than predicted. I really should stop buying clothes for when I'm skinny. Hell, leg warmers are back. That's what sucks about being fat. Missing out on style. I see girls walking around in cute clothes that I could soo rock. Except the part where they don't come in Junior 22X. I know there's a market for that, fyi. Even shoes are a problem. Cute little flats all open and dainty. Not so cute and dainty when the cankles pour fat over the opening like a class 4 rapid. Not a good look at all. So I stick to stretchy jeans and long shirts. Dead give away. SIF. Yes, I could go to the big girl store. I could also stick pins in my eyes. I'll be doing neither.

I need to get out more. Maybe if I was more stimulated I wouldn't concentrate on food so much. My current level of stimulation involves looking for blackheads on my husbands back ripe enough for picking. Shocking? Gross? More than enough reason to stay single. Believe me....this is what married people do. They tell stories of wild parties, sex... all lies. "Backne." That's where it's at. All those years of watching Dallas I thought marriage would consist of knocking back Bourbon and banging a Bobby Ewing look alike. 1out a 2 aint bad. I like Bourbon. I did start running again. The Dr. told me not to. More reason to do it. He doesn't seem to understand my caloric bank is in foreclosure. I was a runner storing up calories for a rainy day. Or a sunny day. Or any day. Now I owe more than I can ever pay back! It's a caloric crisis! I need a loan! So I went running the other day and noticed my back wouldn't straighten. I felt like I was running with my back arched. I immediately knew something was wrong. I had gained so much weight my ass was causing my back to bow. Shit! More reason to keep running. It never occurred to me my back might be getting ready to spasm. So I ran some more. Then I drove 10 hours and slept in a foreign bed. And then my back said, "Screw you fat girl!" It stopped working. Darn I would have to lay in bed and my husband would have to do everything. Was this even possible? It had never been done before. Could I have willed my back to do such a thing? If so I need to take that shit on the road! I got good drugs. Of course at the expense of being weighed. At least this nurse didn't make a comment. She was too busy being a bitch. That's a big job. How can you be in the medical field and be evil? You can get drugs any time you want...be happy! I thought about going back on the crack. That whole stroke thing worries me a bit. I don't want to be skinny lying in the dirt. I don't do dirty.That's not to say I'm not dirty. Just out of practice...

SIF we have Competition...

2011-01-24T16:49:00.000-08:00

Fatty Beauty Pagent....

2011-01-19T15:07:00.001-08:00

Sisters beware...the law aint on our side...

2011-01-18T17:04:00.000-08:00

Courtesy of Perez Hilton....

http://perezhilton.com/2011-01-18-man-shoots-friend-for-eating-his-cake-without-asking

Man Shoots Friend For Eating His Cake Without Asking!

Filed under: Icky Icky Poo > Wacky, Tacky & True > Legal Matters
Well refrain from the obligatory 'let them eat cake' joke because this is actually pretty messed up, apart from its innate ridiculousness. A Philadelphia man is on the run today after he reportedly shot and severely wounded his friend - and all over a piece of cake!
According to authorities, the two men were in a car together late Monday morning when the passenger began eating a piece of cake that belonged to the driver. The man became so furious that after a heated argument, he got out of his seat and shot his friend in the chest!

The investigator reveals:
"They weren't supposed to be sharing. One was eating the other's food, they got into an argument and 'Bang! Bang!'"

The victim, a 31-year-old, is hospitalized and in critical condition. The driver has yet to be apprehended.

Holy shiz!

We know it's rude to take food without asking, but HELLO?! It's a lot more rude to shoot someone in the chest - and a lot more ILLEGAL!

We hope that this guy is caught quickly - if he's willing to fire a weapon over cake, we don't want to know what he's like when he's really upset!

***FYI Perez...the bitches on this site find it perfectly acceptable to kill for food.***

The used Merecedes..

2011-01-17T16:16:00.000-08:00

I'm back from my 20 minute oil change. As usual, whenever one dares enter the depths of my cavern, there's a traumatic story to follow. Let's begin at the beginning. I always arrive early for scheduled maintenance. That's how you get the good magazines. Arrive late and last year's issue of "Parenting Magazine" is all yours. That sort of literature puts my vag in emergency lock down. Besides, what use would I have for a magazine that clearly illustrates the consequences of sex? I'll remind you that verb is not used in my household. In any event, I got to the crotch doc 45 minutes early. Not planned. 20 minutes gets you the magazine. 45 gets you the cover of OCD Weekly. My plan was to get there a shad early and grab a bite to eat. However, memories of last year's oil change overthrew my urge to graze. I made an executive decision. Nix consumption until after the weigh in. As if this strategy was going to make a difference. I needed to lose 20 lbs in 45 minutes. Mind you I gained 30. I should have puked in the parking lot. I had at least 5 lbs of undigested french fries from the trip up. My only hope...Dumb Nurse. There was just no way that was happening. With 45 minutes to kill, pre-poke consumption nixed, and purging not plausible ...what's a girl to do? Why plan a meal of course! I can't think of a better thing to do when you can't eat than plot out your next binge. After all, the 5 hour drive to VA gave me an opportunity to do some research. I'm sorry to report my section of 95 North offers the run of the mill Burger King, "MacDonald's" and so on. It's like revisiting a one night stand. Why? Been there done that and the portions aren't suitable, thank you. I need the Brad Pitt of fast food. A hot meal with a boat load of meat hold the bun. Something to twinge my twat (it was that sort of trip after all). I give you...Long John Silvers.

So, there in the parking lot of the place where neither my legs or my weight loss would come together, there was hope. I pulled out my phone and began looking for LJS locations I may have missed along the way. Clearly there should have been a sign. Vegas style complete with flashing lights. "We have planks & Crunchies." On that note, if you are a true LJS fan, pause for reflection. Mother use to take me to LJS every weekend. Yes, I just said that. That was back when they gave you the crunchies for free. Now in the age of the food pyramid and stupid healthy people, you have to ask & pay extra for them "Um, yeah, I'll have the 3 piece chicken plank dinner, add a plank, super size, throw in the fried fat drippings and a Diet Coke." *random sign of the cross* Whilst the end result is sheer pleasure, ordering is a bit traumatic. As my humongous paws were pounding away at my keyboard I realized something...even if I found a LJS it would be 3 days before I could get to it! Panic. Focus. I managed to find every one within a 100 mile radius. My f'n mouth was watering for batter dipped chicken and it was just 7:30am. Somewhere along the way I lost track of the fact I was suppose to be losing weight in the parking lot not planning my next binge. It's a sickness people! As I Mapquested (Sarah Palin style word) the closest one, I realized I didn't have anything to write on. Crisis. I grabbed a used deposit slip and wrote frantically over the numbers that represented my worth to my employer. Too shameful to report I fear. A bad thought ran through my head. It would be just my luck. I would die in a car crash trying to find a LJS and the world would come to realize my obsession with eating via a blood stained deposit slip. I can't think of a more fitting exit.

After meal planning I thought it safe to head to Beaverville. I was still 15 minutes earlier than the 15 minutes early they had asked me to be. I wasn't sure there would even be magazines at this hour. I walked in and my heart sank. New Nurse. I don't like New Nurse. She was less than attractive and appeared to be a "by the book type." I don't like her kind. I prefer everything my way. She looked a little old. I prayed for blindness. Mean receptionist wasn't in yet. I was sure she would scold me for being too early. She scolds me for everything else. Having a long distance number, an out of state check and moving too much. Obviously I'm running from the law bitch. Go change your diaper. When mean old receptionist arrived, I decided to pick a fight with her. I was bored and I didn't feel like reading the latest literature on crabs. It was too early and I didn't want to spoil my post-poke appetite. My plan....when she asked for my co-pay I would tell her she was only getting $15- not the $30 on my card. Like a good fatty about to get fingered I filled out everything she asked me to. When I gave her the check for $15 she scowled. "Your card clearly says $30 for a specialist." I explained to her that the Mercedes was here for a routine check-up and wouldn't be going up on the lift. She backed down before I had a chance to impress her any further with my keen Blue Cross Blue Shield knowledge. Fatties 1, Mean Receptionist 0. A frugal fatty knows $30 is a bit steep for 20 minutes of prodding.

As New Nurse called me back I started thinking about something that would make me cry. This visit would require tears in order to explain how I went from heavy to morbidly obese. I started thinking about the 72 hours I would have to wait before I could munch on crunchies. Tears began to stream. Damn. It was too early. She would think I was crazy. Allergies. That's it. In the last 12 months I had random allergies to everything in the outer aisles and was forced to feed on Little Debbie until such time they could find a cure. It wouldn't be necessary. She didn't catch the tears. Instead she went straight for the gut. It was like, "Hi, how are...what do you weigh?" I didn't know which question to answer first so I went with, "Hello, I feel like shit and alot." She wasn't amused. I gave her the number she was digging for. In turn she gave me the death stare. She would go on to give me something of a compliment/insult. "You don't look like you weigh that much." Hmm. How does one respond to that? "And you don't look like the whore who's going to ruin my day." Nouf said. Moving on to blood pressure. I'm all for technology except when it works against me. "Your blood pressure is 138/83." No, that's my goal weight/the number of times I have failed to reach it this month. What?! My first thought was a one way ticket to the fat farm. Surely death was looming. I needed one last meal and then "New Me" would have to come out to play. Then logic kicked in and I asked for a recount. She looked offended. Whatever. You want to be offended? I'll drop my thong. I always get my way. She took it manually. Amazingly it dropped to 123/79. I chalked it up to one part nerves one part KFC within the last 24 hours. I'm OK with rising above the bar. It's what I do.

I made light of my weight gain to try and get her on my side before hot doctor got involved. I explained I had been hit by a car and wasn't able to run for months. I left out the part about me being in a car when I was hit and being able to do other exercises. Ughum. No need to get lost in the details. It worked. She grabbed my arm and asked me if I was doing ok now. Well right now, no. In about 20 minutes when I'm at Bojangles, yes. She took me into a room with cold utensils that would soon explore my nether regions while I laid patiently in my paper dress. Clearly there has to be a better way to declare my vag crab free. I think sex with the hot doctor should do it. But I played her game. I started undressing as she left the room. Much to my surprise, she came back in to retrieve a folder as I was prying the thong that claims it doesn't creep (and it does) from my ass. She will remember to knock next time. I'm sure of it. Of course like the non college grad I am, I put the "dress" on backwards. Whatever. Ties go in the back. Everyone knows that. You want it that easy, it'll cost YOU money. The doctor came in and I instantly attacked him with all that is me. "So I'm sure the nurse told you I was in a near fatal car accident thus resulting in this horrific weight gain." "It's fine. Certainly understandable in this situation. You'll bounce back." Of course I'll bounce. Did you peep the number? That's what I love about my doctor. I could tell him I have AIDS and he would tell me it's certainly a manageable situation and not to worry. Mind you we will never be having that conversation bcs it requires sex. In fact, I dare say I owe him a thank you note for dusting my cobwebs. He felt the need to address the fact that I could be 90 years old and still on the pill if I wanted to avoid menopause. Um yeah. I'm on the pill to avoid crumb snatchers. Not plausible at 90. Perhaps sex will be. Dreamer...

After all was said and done I realized, you can never have a bad day as long as you have a good excuse. Loser words to live by. I headed to Panera for a treat. What? Doctors don't give stickers to 38 year olds. I wanted to see my friend Laurie and she works by Panera. Strategic. Of course I gave her a courtesy call beforehand. "I'll be there at 10. I'll be the fat one in the 4Runner in case you don't recognize me." It's Fatty 101. Always forewarn friends of weight gain. It sets up the instant compliment, "You look great." Or in Mother's case, "You don't look that bad. I've seen you bigger." After visiting with Laurie for an hour it was time for lunch. You do the math. So I ate and ate and ate until I was time for me to go home....aka LJS. I thoroughly enjoyed my visit to DC. If you ever get the chance to go you should do what I did, sleep and eat. Thank you Susan. On the way back to NC I started to feel like I was getting sick. Sure. Now I can puke. Nothing would keep me from LJS. I scouted the exit like hunter honing it's prey. It wouldn't be easy. There was a reason it wasn't on the sign. It was about 40 miles off the exit. No matter. When I arrived I felt a bit climatic. I decided if I had come this far I would go inside like a civilized human. As I waited in line I noticed the booths were named after coastal towns. Nags Head. Virginia Beach. It was a sign. I was home. I stood there thinking...this is a fish place and I just went 40 miles out of my way to get here and....order chicken. Yes, yes I did. Like a true fatty I got my order to go and ate it in the car. I didn't want anyone to hear me moan. In a flash it was gone. Add a plank, crunchies, super size diet wondrous wonder gone. Depression set in. Maybe I could sneak up here once a month. My husband would think I was cheating, follow me and realize I was having an affair with plank of chicken. Meat is meat. I'd still get half. It's the law.

The Mercedes is back home safe and sound where it will remain unscathed for another year. A 38 year old Mercedes with 2 miles on it. It was used when I bought it....

New Me...is currently unavailable

2011-01-05T15:13:00.000-08:00

She doesn't want to come out and play. I tried bringing her out for "New Me Monday" (as per SIF protocol) but she opted for $1 drafts and pizza. Who am I to deny her Frugal Fattness? It's not like I was unprepared. At 11:59pm on Sunday evening I hung motivational statements on my mirror in an attempt to put the transition to the other side in perspective. "You are a fat whore. Fat people suck. Your husband won't bang you bcs weigh more than he does." I can't imagine why I wasn't fired up come Monday morning. In between making homemade "Successories" I saw something staring back at me I didn't recognize. It sorta looked like me but..... right above the top of my jeans was an inflatable disk that hung against my seams from front to back. It appeared to be extraterrestrial in nature. Aliens trying to get in my jeans? At least someone is. There also appeared to be some sort of handles underneath my shoulder blades? When I stretched my arms to flatten them I gained a cup size as they reformed in the shape of DD breasteses. I attempted to bend over but this mass inhibited me from touching my toes. Definitely some sort of stage 9 cancer. Not sure how I got it. The aliens must have brought it on the space ship. In case you haven't had the occasion to be in this "situation," I should warn you..."what lies beneath" is always scarier than what's staring back. As if one needed more motivation than Diabetes, Death and Divorce....I give you... THE HUGE VAG. Yes sisters I speak the truth. You CAN super size the pink taco without giving birth. Here's the recipe...1 part MacDonalds, 2 part KFC and 0 part sex. It's a wonder the thing doesn't spontaneously combust. Reason #1 to jump on board the "New Me Monday Express"- Big Beaver. That's all I can really say about that. Oh...except to say if you are a Brother in Fat...it's not a reciprocal issue. If I thought I could get me some mammoth willy by way of a BIF..I would have been there done thought. Myth busted.

Moving right along. Loser. That's me. I literally ate myself into a coma between Thanksgiving and New Years, in preparation for the big day of course. I was truly at the point of making myself sick with all the sugar and fat when January 3rd crept up on me. Letting go isn't easy. It's like breaking up with an asshole boyfriend. You know it's the right thing to do yet something compels you to let him linger in the background for rough sex and self pity. I find food very orgasmic. The word "lunch" makes me salivate. That's the most excitement I get these days. When the word "lunch" equals salad (and not with ranch dressing)...it's like sex with the hot older guy who forgot to pop the Viagra. What's the point? If I wanted to eat such trash I would get down on all fours, grow utters and graze with the cows. I think if I were an animal I would be a Chupacabra. Don't know what that is? Exactly. Hiding out. Eating what I want. People wondering if you are for real. That's my gig. For now, I'll have to live in the plus size plethora of phat that is me. It's out of control. I don't want to be photographed. For good reason. I saw pictures of me at New Year's and it looked like I was trying to eat my friends. When your face looks like a weather balloon and your fingers look like dick daggers, it's best to stay clear of the photogs.

Since coming to grips with my shortcomings, I started thinking about all of the things I "can't" do. I can't grow a beard, I can't grab my dick, I can't let someone wait on me hand and foot without giving them sex, I can't fight the Taliban, I can't cut my own hair and well...it would appear I can't lose weight. I watch the Biggest Loser. I keep thinking, "If they can do it so can I." That thought expires at the commercial break when I head downstairs for some Doritos and Peanut M&M's. What? Dorito breath doesn't get you sex? Nor does Dorito breath laced with Peanut M&M's. I was just trying to make a point. I just don't happen to recall what that point was. Ughum. My point is...do you know there are people eating tapeworms to lose weight? Really?! I eat worms. Gummy worms. I don't find they reciprocate. Fuckers. My point is...can I get on the Biggest Loser? I'm not 300 lbs but I can work on it. I think Bob is hot. I fear he's gay. I love the gays. Not sure he would love me at 300 lbs or with a vagina but you never know. I could be his mercy fuck. I'm okay with that. I know this...that Jillian has a penis.

You'll be pleased to know in the midst of "New Me Monday" which is now "New Me Next Monday," I am headed off to see my favorite doctor! It's time to take the Mercedes to Jiffy Lube! One problem. You'll recall last year's incident with "dumb nurse" wherein as she single handidly made me lose 20 lbs by reading the scale wrong. That one. My short term goal at that time (12.5 months ago) was to actually lose the 20 lbs and come out even. Goals are for losers. I gained 20lbs (at least). I plan to sell her down the river with some random story of her telling me I needed to gain weight as I was too thin. Or something. I don't know. Maybe she'll be working. Problem solved. Unless she got glasses or a clue. This will involve tears. My Dr. was so happy at my fake weight loss. I hate disappointing him. He's so freaking hot. I wonder if he enjoys looking at vag all day. I wouldn't. It's like looking at wrinkled neck fat. Yummy. My dick would be hard when I got home. Not. I wouldn't want to look at penis all day either. Unless it was hard, 10 inches and ready to strike. I would be ok with that. I'm getting off track...

So...due to "inclimate weather," New Me Monday has been rescheduled until January 9th. However comma, my Dr. may admit me after realizing I need to be weighed via horse scales. Should this happen, I request to be fed bacon grease by way of an IV. I'm sure my vitals are tragic. They say you should listen to your body. I can't hear a thing over my ass. Fucker won't shut up. In any event, if Susan is any sort of friend she will force feed me all weekend and send me home with all sorts of motivational advice to the contrary. Susan, hear my prayer.

Dear Santa...

2010-12-21T17:59:00.000-08:00

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!

RIP SIF

2010-12-07T17:32:00.000-08:00

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.
SIF

Suckin Dirty Bird...

2010-12-01T19:02:00.000-08:00

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.

Seasoning....

2010-11-10T18:04:00.000-08:00

Tis the season. For what? I can’t be sure. Binge eating I suspect. For me, the ball starts rolling in September when I turn 25 for the 42nd time. I get better looking every year. It’s a fact. At least that’s what my husband says. He can’t be trusted. He has an agenda. No cake. That’s been my punishment since I met him. I’m fat. Fat people like cake. Why deprive me on the one day when it’s acceptable for me to indulge? I think he does it on purpose. Blah Blah…I took you to dinner on Saturday and the waiter brought you cake. That was one piece. After “25 years” I think I’ve earned the right to the whole cake, haven’t I? One piece? Who does he think he’s dealing with? I ate the entire top of our wedding cake myself. Well except for the one piece tradition dictated I smear in his face. Waste of good cake if you ask me. Buying me dinner and cake on Saturday doesn’t exempt you from celebratory protocol when my birthday falls on a Monday. There are rules regarding this sort of skewed male logic. If you choose to treat me to a little pre-birthday grazing, fine. I shall play along. However, I still expect to be taken to trough on Monday. And for the record…cake isn’t optional. I’m starting to think we should renew our vows and address this issue as it seems to come up every year. Thank God for the local chapter of Sisters in Fat. They came to the table with a chocolate cake dripping in chocolate icing. I dare say they baked it in a chocolate pan. Now that’s love.

Moving right along. October. Thirty one days of hell. All the deals on Halloween candy start at the beginning of the month. Yet Halloween is all the way at the end. Quite a pickle for a frugal fatty. To buy or not to buy? Buy of course. I just blame my husband. He likes the mini-sized candy treats, so I “say” they are for him. However, he never sees the writing on the wrapper. Unless he looks in the trash. That’s where I dispose of them. Right underneath anything large enough to cover the crime. I tried buying one of those bowls with the battery operated hand that grabs you when you reach for the candy. I guess it’s supposed to scare you into submission? Not so much. I got mad game. It takes the same size batteries as the remote to the TV. Given the state of the economy, we only have 1 set of batteries in the whole house. Suffice it to say the TV wins that battle. Besides, I don’t need a clammy hand grabbing at me whilst I am trying to watch “The Biggest Loser” and enjoy my evening “snack bar.” By the time Halloween rolls around I’m just….angry. At this point I’ve had to buy candy six times. The fruits of my labor are clearly visible. To make matters worse, it’s not appropriate to fight with people under 3 feet tall over sugar. It’s just not. They win by default and I end up looking like a deranged fatty. So unfair. Typically, I don’t allow people to come to my house without calling. Yet on October 31st, I willingly open my home and share chocolate. I must be high from the sugar because this just doesn’t happen to a Sister in Fat. Sharing chocolate? Sharing? I don’t share. Technically it’s not sharing because it’s not my candy. It’s my husbands. Remember?

Time to cleanse the pallet in preparation for Thanksgiving. I dare say the Pilgrims are first generation Sisters in Fat. Think about it. Who else would make a holiday out of eating? I’m sure the world would have you believe there was something more prolific going on there, but I choose to believe otherwise. It’s a SIF holiday. Case closed. I literally eat until it hurts. And then I nap until the hurt goes away. Repeat until midnight. While I am known more for my consumption than my cooking, I do “get my bake on” around the holidays. Mostly because my wallet cannot keep up with my veracious appetite. I bake all sorts of cookies, breads and confections. Mother thinks I go overboard. “How are you going to eat all of these cookies before they spoil,” she says. Since she lost all her weight the woman can’t carry a conversation. Who are you? I fear the brain cells went with the fat cells. Let this be a lesson to all, fat people are by far smarter than the average light weight. “How am I going to eat them before they spoil?” Have you seen my ass? Crisis averted. Christmas marks the end of my stint as Betty Crocker and the death of “old me.” After celebrating the birth of Jesus, I always ask for a parting gift. What? Like you don’t have a Christmas list? Mine is just delayed a bit. Out of respect. It’s the same every year. A miracle….the miracle of “new me.” God help me he must not have on his Miracle Ear because after all these year, “old me” has yet to leave the building! Lord, hear my prayer!

Be thankful for the love of....

2010-11-07T11:17:00.000-08:00

I feel like I am always waiting. Waiting for breakfast, sex, lunch, sex, dinner, sex, my ass to shrink, sex, snacks, my clothes to fit, dessert, Brad Pitt to come around, my husband to wise up & leave, a boyfriend, a bigger thong, elastic waist skinny jeans, bigger tits, a more powerful rabbit, scissors that don't cut into my beef curtains, toes that don't look like dicks, calves, fat free fried chicken, men who can't speak, a free maid, to see my feet, my neighbor to show up naked, a lottery win....I could go on forever. Notice I'm not waiting to lose weight. Mother said one should never aspire to be a loser. Just following instructions for once in my life. I know what you're thinking. "You should be thankful for what you have." Allow me to jump to the next paragraph to address that statement. I'll need the space.

It must be that time of year. All the do-gooders are blogging what they are thankful for. Be thankful for what I have? That leaves me with....two dogs that fart, who snore and get more sex than I do. A husband who thinks every light in the house should remain on at all times, dirty dishes belong in the sink, cupboard doors look better open, it's appropriate to give himself expensive gifts on my birthday, sex is a 4 letter word, a mystery maid does the housework, random papers look better in piles around the house rather than a filing cabinet, peeing on the toilet seat is acceptable, man grooming is overrated (bcs pube soap is all the rage), toe nail clippings are great accessories for the bathroom sink, stuffing clothes in a drawer is better than folding them, smoking is good for your health, the TV needs to be at 5,000 decibels or he'll miss something, I should be faithful, aliens are coming for us, Fox news is fair and balanced, cleaning gives you the clap, to-do lists are to-do some other time, the garbage takes itself outside and rolls the cans to the curb, Edward Scissor Hands will come and take care of the yard work, a nice man from Harris Teeter comes home with me to carry in the groceries, the most important bill in the house is the NFL Sunday ticket and my personal favorite...that I'm not fat. Gee...I'm just gushing with gratitude.

I would bet my last donut some of you think I am this miserable fatty who'd rather be married to Kernel Saunders. While there are some obvious advantages to a union of this magnitude, you couldn't be farther from the truth. I feel quite a sense of empowerment in my current situation. It's like hanging out with ugly people. You are bound to look better. Mother always said, "Be humble. If people feel sorry for you, they will be more likely to give you things." If that were true I'd be fucking the neighbor. Once again her skewed ghetto logic has led me down the path of oppression. What could anyone give me that's so different from what I have? Is there a man out there who cleans, cooks, puts away the dishes, does laundry, fucks on the regular AND doesn't mind a fair amount of junk in the trunk? I think not. And don't even think about emailing me stories about how amazing your man is or I'll be forced to send you pictures of him humping his admin. The truth shall set you free. There are 2 people who have the ability to change the course of my life....Jenny Craig and my Gay Husband. Here's the problem....I can't stand that bitch Jenny Craig and there are no gays on the OBX willing to come "out" for the reward of being my Gay Husband. I'm just gonna have to "out" one of those bitches my damn self.

If you think I am making this shit up...ask me about the view from my recliner at present. Hmmm...football is playing at 7k decibels on a TV bigger than our living room, I can see a dirty dish in the sink that's "soaking" according to it's owner (bcs ya know, milk tends to leave a stubborn stain without a good soak), there's a collection of crumbs, papers and tea stains on the coffee table conveniently situated next to the man of the house and my vagina is crying in anguish. To celebrate I'm drinking a bloody Mary and eating a foot long sub..extra mayo. Can't keep me down. At the end of the day is it all fact or fiction? Well, reflect for a moment on your situation and you tell me. I'm just as happy as the rest of you bitches.

Cave Girls & Cankles

2010-11-01T16:56:00.000-07:00

I survived Halloween. The evil midgets dressed in drag were no match for me. Steal my candy? I came out swinging. A club that is. It was costume appropriate. I was a deranged cave woman. Not a far cry from accurate on most days. If I thought I could get away with grunting instead of speaking, killing at will and clubbing annoying people, I'd rock that shit 24/7. However, I would have a tailor make me a frock fitting of my SIFness. In a pinch I opted for the slightly used $5 thrift store version. Luckily somewhere there was a large woman willing to part with her size 12X leopard skin tent. I thoroughly enjoyed telling the cashier how I would have to alter it to fit me. I let her guess up or down. The only cutting I did was around the edges. Ventilation for the fat stores. For the record, whomever donated that hot mess did themselves a favor.
Fat + Leopard Print = Feral Fatty on the loose. Hide the children.

Being an OCD SIF, I was less than thrilled to be wearing someone else's trash. How do I know this fat heffa didn't have some random skin disease that would render me unable to marry Brad Pitt? Is Halloween worth that? I think not. I decided to wash it in order to avoid a life altering catastrophe. Not. Dry Clean Only. Because somewhere there's a 400 lb woman who not only felt the need to scare the free world into submission with her "What not to Wear" wardrobe selection, but also felt it necessary to put herself in a position to pay thousands of dollars to keep it clean with the inevitable spillage of chocolate and chicken grease. Not smart. Wash and Wear Fatties! I solved this problem with tights.Tights that came up to my chin. And a long sleeve shirt...just in case. Attractive I'm sure. Luckily no one goes digging in cave girls tights often enough to appreciate that "look." There was a slight issue with shoes. One would assume a cave girl to go sans footwear. Yeah. I'm just not that into it. My toes look like little dicks and I didn't want any "incidents" with the whorey types who dress up like slutty school girls. My toes, my choice. I say who I say when. Ok, enough. This cave girl opted for "Come Fuck Me Boots." Here's the problem with that. Cankles. I'd like to know who the fit models are for these things. I can't zip those fuckers past my ankles! Mind you...they have to get all the way up to the knee! No small feat. That's what friends are for. 5 of them... and a vice. Had they been available back in cave days, I feel certain they would have been all the rage. As painful as they are to don, they are dual purpose. They cover up what no one needs to see (my porno feet) and uncover what every cave girl wishes to reveal... her pink taco. Suffice it to say there's currently a ban on Mexican fare at my home. This cave girl went to bed hungry. Again. I ask you....what good are holiday's if you can't indulge? Every day is a holiday in my house. Perhaps why I am always hungry.

One crucial error. No dinner and too much beer. 18 or some number with 2 or 3 digits. Can't be sure. I managed to scarf down some ham biscuits and a cupcake at the party. Goes well with beer. Til around 2am when everything starts churning. Ham & frosting burps. Yummy. There was almost an "incident" with the cupcake. They had Halloween rings on them. I thought they were edible. Not so much. Luckily Valerie grabbed the ring before I bit her finger. Nobody wants to lose a digit on Halloween, now do they? I did manage to get in some cardio. I danced all night. Me and my club. I gotta tell ya, that club was thick, pliable and didn't talk back. All qualities I admire in a dancing partner. One issue...dancing in the "Come Fuck Me Boots." It not only got me no sex, it got me no right foot on Sunday morning. Woke up paralyzed. Apparently there's a weight limit on sexual propaganda. At one point I looked down and they were bunching around my ankles. How was this possible? My calves were sucking the life out of them yet there was room for bunching? Exciting and interesting all in one breath. All I know is that once you cross the threshold into plus size living, you can no longer stand at an angle for any period of time. As proven by my club feet the next day. My toes went from small dicks to giant dildos! Not attractive. Perhaps why I still haven't gotten laid. Or maybe the vision of me as on over sized prehistoric dancing queen was a bit much. Perhaps. Fat people get down too.

Add a $44 cab ride to the equation and you have the makings of an expensive sex free evening. A late evening as well. 2am. So not me. I'm always in by 1am. Taco Bell closes at 1am. Can't fuck around and miss that. It took me all day Sunday to recoup. Recoup meaning eating until I passed out and various trips to the porcelain palace. I had to be ready for the crumb snatchers. They came out after dark ready to steal my "Take 5" bars. Not. Lollipops. That's what they got. And then I get to tell everyone the kids didn't like the "Take 5's" and I will be forced to eat them. I gots mad Halloween tricks yo. Hot neighbor came by for a treat. I like to think of him as a "trick." Perhaps next year...when I'm thin. I can't imagine looking hotter than I did this year. Right?

The NEW SIF Logo!!! Thanks Jen!

2010-10-28T05:40:00.000-07:00

It's Trademarked!

Fatty Flies Home

2010-10-12T15:18:00.000-07:00

Given a choice, I’d opt for my period and a raging outbreak of crabs over flying. And no it’s not the cost. Driving is actually more expensive & time consuming when you factor in the amount of stops I make to eat and snack. Being trapped like a fat sardine at 10,000 feet with $40 sandwiches $400 beers keeps me sober, hungry and on budget. I wanna know who decided flying should simulate anal intrusion with pitch fork? Let’s see…I have to check in at home or pay a higher price to have a not so friendly pent up bitch in a tie help me operate a computer screen at the airport & then insult my luggage in the same way I am insulted every day….by putting it on the scale and charging more if it doesn’t abide by some anorexic vacation luggage weight standard. Whore. If you weigh in at 450lbs it would stand to reason you need more than 50 lbs of luggage to cover your ass. Dumb fucks. Imagine what they would charge me to fly if I got on the scale. I don’t have that kinda credit, thank you. To add insult to injury, after you’ve paid “Pat” to tell you what buttons to push and how fat you & your suitcase are….the bitch wants you to carry your oversized belongings over to another asshole so he can pull out your size 2x thong to ensure it’s not a security threat. I got news for ya, the only threat that piece of string poses is to whatever unlucky soul happens to be sitting next to me when the string finally concedes defeat! Have at it dickhead. Thus why I only pack dirty underwear. Who said scratch & sniff went out in the 80’s. I’m bringin it back.
This might explain why my unassumingly large self was selected for random screening. Whatever. I got nothing to hide. And what I do have you will never find without a jackhammer so have at it. I get no action at home. Having a middle aged “sister” all up in my pink taco is a welcome intrusion these days. I made a crucial error. I forgot to buy “snacks” before I crossed the threshold into million dollar candy land. Fuck. I like to give my jaw a good workout by consuming gummy creatures and then washing them down with a Diet Coke. I had to break down and do my shopping at one of those over priced wanna be airport Wally Worlds. When I brought my exercise equipment to the counter, the cashier looked at me and said, “You know these are $10 right?” What the fuck? Can a SIF ever workout on the DL? Shit! Yes I know they are $10. They are Swedish Fish. Imported. I’m willing to pay more for European fish, hooker. Then she asked if I wanted my receipt. Why? Can I regurgitate on the counter and get my money back? How about I leave it with you as a reminder to keep your pie hole in the locked position next time. Wannabe travel whore. I made my way to the gate hoping I could find a nice quiet spot to eat my well traveled sushi. Not so much. I must have a sign on my ass like those shorts that say “Juicy.” Except mine says, “Freak Lover.” Anyone missing teeth, personality or any form of hygiene welcome. My worst airport fear was realized. I was paged. And they called me Mrs. Byrd. How am I supposed to get into the mile high club if my potential suitors hear me being addressed like that? There should be some sort of rule against being called Mrs. when you only get sex on the days that end with Z. What could they possibly want? Blah blah the plane is late and we want to fly you through NYC just to make sure you get where you are going on time. Not happening. I’ve been waiting a year for a cheese steak. I will wait for the plane to Philly. Overnight if I have to. Time is just a number. Grease is forever.

When I arrived in Philly I did what every good traveler should do. Find the food court. It’s a big airport & you could starve without a plan. That’s why I researched the layout in the US Air magazine whilst I was trapped next to some Asian chick watching movies on her phone in subtitles. Whatever. I prefer to read like the cultured SIF I am. That Skymall is a-fuckin-amazing! I made out my Christmas list. I can’t decide what I want more…the massaging support bra or the heated panty liners. In an effort to save time on my way to the cheese steak place, I tried flagging down one of those shuttle things. Blah blah they are only for people who have trouble walking. Well fuck. My thighs rub together and frankly I can’t think of anything more troubling than that. It was a long walk but it gave me time to think….about which one of the fatties from my plane would be accompanying me. It was the one I thought. She was dressed all professional in an effort to cover up what I knew to be present….fat. And lots of it. Those poor high heels were being worked harder than a whore in church. I let her go ahead of me to see if we were from the same tree. Cheese steak, fries and a Diet Soda. Family fuckin reunion! I even sat next to her in the eating area to size up her plate to pallet ratio. I beat her. Only bcs I got a cheese steak wrap which decided to squirt meat juice down my tits. Tasty combination…wrong scenario. I didn’t have a napkin so I wiped down my jubblies with the receipt. Now I’m bloated and smell like cow gut. Yummy. I can’t imagine why the offers for membership into the mile high club weren’t piling in? I decided to go back to the gate and see which ingrate would be falling asleep on my shoulder on this leg of the flight. After I determined my flight to be on time, I noticed something peculiar. No plane. If its 9:25, your flight leaves at 9:30 and there isn’t a plane….I think that’s code for delayed. I mean, I’m not a bitch wearing a tie, with the worst fuckin attitude imaginable sporting a US Air badge, but I can tie my shoes. Since everyone flying on this leg was most likely on their way to Cornell, I decided to play a little game of…I didn’t go to college and I’m smarter than you. While they were all staring outside looking for the plane, running to the monitors and panicking I sat completely still reading a trash novel. I knew it would only be a matter of time before they required the services of one uneducated fatty. Sure enough. After explaining to the Ivy League crowd that we would take off when there was a plane at the gate, they seemed to settle a bit. They ate their apples and drank their bottled water while I tried to get the chocolate stains off the book I borrowed from the library. Damn granolas. For the record….very high in fat.

As I boarded the plane along side the PHD’s I was glad to know there were doctors on board. Even if that meant they were useless to anyone except their egos. I was fortunate enough to sit next to a pilot on this leg. Not in the cockpit. Coach. Apparently he had done his time and was headed back to his car. Seems like an expensive commute but whatever. I didn’t know if I should call him Sir or Satan. I always consider it an omen to sit next to airline employees. Almost guarantees the plane is going down. I ask only one thing. Let me be the lone survivor so I can finally make my debut on the Today show. Headline: “Fat credited for saving life of lone survivor of Philly Crash.” I’m ok with that. It’s better than my current famewhoring strategy of camping out at 30 Rock so I can jump up and down behind Al Roker in hopes the Biggest Loser producers will see me and have me on the show. By the looks of our plane I started to think this whole scenario was a possibility. I flew one of those “prop” planes. Ya know…the kind they wind up prior to take off and hope they did enough to keep it going until it lands. One of those. And not for nothing, prop in my world means “prop”…used to make something fake look real. Like my plastic surgeon. Not comforting. Don’t look for any mothering from those bitchy flying waitresses. They act like rolling a beverage cart 5 feet to the end of the aisle is so stressful. Stressful is pouring me half a drink and keep what’s left in the can! Bitches. At one point she asked me if my feet fit under the seat. I told her no just to see what she would suggest. Shall I stow them? Crotch face. I can’t help I have size 11 feet. I can lodge one up your ass and hope your personality comes out. I decided to look around the plane to see what everyone else was doing. As luck would have it, I happened upon a lady digging at her head. She had the genetic predisposition of Mr. Ed which made her digging habit that much more disturbing. She must have been perplexed by what she was finding bcs she kept going back for more and inspecting it each time. The lady sitting next to her reading her Kindle even stopped what she was doing to give her the “gas” face. As luck would have she opted to shake away her treasures. Not lucky for me as they landed on my side of the seat. Psoriasis. The gift that keeps on giving. Nasty whore. I was stuck in the land of recycled halitosis and DNA flakes. Yummy.

Most people look out the window for signs they are getting close to their destination. Vegas style lights, landmarks and traffic. Not where this SIF grew up. I look for total darkness and a lone man waving an orange flag to guide the prop onto the stage. For the record, I’m not one of those annoying fucks who jump up the minute we hit the tarmac. Fatties don’t like to appear anxious. Besides, I smelled like cheese steak. Angst doesn’t compliment that too well. Deplaning took forever bcs there was some old woman pretending she couldn’t walk so we had to wait for a moving stairway to meet the plane. I offered to throw her down the emergency slide. I was in that row and had already agreed to provide my services. In any event, I made it home just in time to tell Mother how hungry I was after some fat lady spilled cheese steak on my $5,000 boobies and I was forced to starve bcs I couldn’t afford buy a sandwich from the flying prostitutes. Gotta love Mom.

Exhibit "A"- Larry Birthed Kelly

2010-09-29T18:49:00.001-07:00

All I got for my birthday was...

2010-09-29T17:45:00.000-07:00

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.

The Boob & The Tube

2010-09-22T17:49:00.000-07:00

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.

Displaced...

2010-09-12T16:16:00.000-07:00

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!

Hello....My name is Earl

2010-08-31T20:28:00.000-07:00

and my name is Fatty. Nice to meet you. Earl. A male hurricane. This means one thing to me. Another man who blows into town, makes me wet and heads out until the mood strikes again. Fucker. Yes Mother, I'm back to saying Fuck. It's the jelly to my donut. What can I say. I ate 12 donut holes this morning...alone...in my car...so I wouldn't have to share. I did the math...it's like 1.5 donuts. *Pause for random shock factor* I'm getting off track.... If you must know, I prefer woman hurricanes. They don't just hang out on the radar threatening to do something like male hurricanes....or husbands. However, I can't say mine threatens to do much but that's beside the point. Katrina. Now there's a bitch. She blows into town, breaks the levy and sticks around long enough to brag about it. My kinda woman. Earl. A category 4. Categorically, men scare me for many reasons. Blowing hot air is not one of them. I consider that part of what I call the "Dumb Man Gene." Besides if Earl is true to his gender he'll be all talk no action. "I'm gonna mow the lawn. I'll take out the garbage in a minute. I was gonna put that dish in the dishwasher later." If Earl could speak, this is what we would be forced to listen to. I might actually tune into the Weather Channel to hear that. Which brings me to another Fucker, Jim Cantore...

He's about one inch from being a Roloff. For those who don't partake in quality TV programming, they are a family of little people...midgets...widgets..tater tots if you will....starring in their own show called "Little People Big World." However, my disgust for this wanna be Al Roker does not stem from his lack of height, hair or talent. That Fucker had the chance to put me on TV and didn't. Can you imagine?  He opted to allow a family of rednecks living under the pier.... with 2 teeth collectively (teeth not fit for a toothbrush I might add) to explain how they were going to be displaced by the hurricane! Do they own the pier? I think not. Just break into a vacant beach rental like everyone else and stop stealing my TV time....crisis averted! I had breaking news to report....My generator wouldn't start. How was I going to be able to keep my Helluva Good Dip cold...not to mention Tivo the Real Housewives? These are serious issues people! But the midget goes for the underdog and leaves me to bob up and down behind him like a desperate starlet. In a last ditch attempt for my shot at prime time I devised a fool proof plan. I would go running on the beach right after they called for a mandatory evacuation. Clearly headline news! I wasn't sure if he was partial to the fatties so I solicited my friend Tara to come with me. She is a SIF undercover. On the outside...tall, thin, pretty. On the inside...I personally watched her eat an entire pizza in one sitting. SIF. We ran right by him and all but tripped over that freakin stump in Levi's with a microphone. Do you think he batted an eyelash? Nope. He was probably fixing his lipstick.

Earl does give me random hope of binge eating. There's literally nothing else to do in a hurricane but eat and drink. Being drunk is not part of my plan however. When I drink I crave Taco Bell. Down here they close the border before they close the bridges. Good policy. Perhaps we can run with it in light of a little Cat5 I like to call "Illegal Immigration!" Yeah...close that border and throw the fatties a freakin bone! During the last Cat3, when I wasn't chasing the bald midget, I was eating like a champ. Not bcs I was hungry. Bored. Stare at your husband (sober) for 3 days and see how long it takes you hook up an IV of lard and start drinking mouthwash. Seriously, it took about 2 hours before I was staring at him, head cocked searching for anything that resembled a redeeming quality. That's why you have to have a generator. TV equals survival. Even if you have to watch a midget weatherman for days on end. TV really should be included on those "must have emergency lists." Right under batteries and water if you ask me. My chance at TV came after the storm had passed. The Weather Channel showed up on our porch wanting to film us taking the boards off the windows. I gave them a shot at headline news and this is what they want?! My husband taking down boards with the drill he forgot to charge....so we looked like the Farkels on national TV! Good thing they cut out the dull moan of the drill begging for juice. I'll have you know I did not partake in that parody! I was hiding in the bedroom like the high class hooker I am... I didn't have time for hair and make-up. Mother was a Mary Kay lady. We don't go down like that. National TV with no make-up and bad hair? I would sooner have stuck my naked ass out the window and spoke through my butt crack. That's how I feel about that. That about sums up my life and death experiences with hurricanes.

So as I await the arrival of another disappointing man in my life, I am putting together my own little survival kit:
                                                 Batteries: Check
                                                  Rabbitt: Check

Bring it on Earl. You are no match for El Conejo!

Dear Diary,

2010-08-16T17:30:00.000-07:00

"F" you!
Perhaps why I don't keep a diary. I have nothing nice to say. Why would I want to relive my binge eating sexless existence on paper? It's traumatizing enough in real life. Not to mention, every time I type the word "diary:" it comes out "dairy." Lactose intolerance has no place in my life...much like...sex. However forgoing ice cream is a voluntary decision. Forgoing sex was....lost in translation perhaps? Was it the "I do" or the person who forgot to break down the doors of God's palace when summoned by the call of, "Does anyone have just cause, any reason at all, big/small, why these two shouldn't call it a day and head on over to the reception for some truth serum?" Clearly someone sitting in the audience was suffering from life without dick. This "someone" most likely had a Rabbit in their pocket, while laughing and watching me swear away my vagina for life. Thanks whomever you were. F' you too.

Where was I? I get so emotional when it come to sex.Or lack thereof. Oh yeah. So now that Mother has me writing down everything I eat, it got me thinking. How come I don't keep a diary...ya know...a good old fashion tell all diary. Seems like a very girly thing to do. Who am I kidding. I'm about 6 steps from being a lesbian. Let's discuss. I cuss like a sailor, I burp and fart at will, last night I dreamed I was a bridesmaid wearing biker boots and a tux, I stare at womens breasts constantly (mostly wondering why I paid $5k for mine) and I have an inordinate amount of sex with a plastic, purple bunny. Not sure where the cut off is but I fear border patrol could be coming to take me away at anytime. For the record, there's no way I could ever live with a woman. It's like shacking up with a human Mangina. I'd rather have Chlamydia or fleas. At least I can get rid of those in 7 days with no hard feelings. I wonder though....would I be the man or the woman. Not that I've given it alot of thought...well yes I have. What else do I have to do when forced to watch football and alien conspiracy shows? I think I would be the man. Only bcs I have such a dominant personality. Who would be my bitch? Guess I would have to go out to one of those all girl bars and wrestle me up some strange. Ok, yeah no. I'm willing to concede I'm not a shopper, a cook or anything that remotely resembles June Cleaver...but I am certainly not looking to date the Beav...if you get my drift. In any event...

Perhaps this is why I can't keep a diary...I have a touch of Mother's tick. I start talking about something and next thing ya know I'm the prehistoric creature better known as "Lickalotapuss!" Ok...focus. Let's just call it like it is...I can't have a diary bcs I'm a bad person. 99.9% of everything I say/do isn't fit for print. That's why I have this blog. No one reads it. I feel safe. What happens when Brad Pitt finally calls? I'll tell you--one, if not all of my not so loyal friends get jealous, finds the diary, turns it over to Brad who then learns of my fondness for nose picking, Dutch Ovens and choco tacos. Then what? A great future gone at the hands of a bunch of wanna be lesbians who weren't willing to let me go. Bitches. So that's why I can't write it all down...I fear a lesbian rebellion. Not to mention if my husband found it he might divorce me. Mental note....write diary post haste and leave on nightstand with large sticky note saying, "Read Me." Let's play, shall we?

Dear Diary,
Hey Bitch. Today I woke up and tried to run off what I ate yesterday. Then it got dark, I was tired ,still fat and none of the cars would run me over to put me out of my misery... So I tried to have sex with my husband, but his vagina hurt. I think he was on his period. I called the Rabbit...he was available. I think I may have Toxic Shock Syndrome....not from tampons. From knowing I married a man and fuck a rabbit. Try explaining to the doctor that your vag is on fire bcs your man is plastic with pearl ears. Not an easy conversation. I think tomorrow I'll pick a fight around 4:30pm so I don't have to cook dinner. Then I'll randomly start packing which could result in me getting taken out to dinner and possibly even a night off from the Rabbit. One can hope. I think my husband may be kin to Stevie Wonder. (A). He married me and (2). He can't seem to see trash, bills or things that require fixing. Is there a pill for that? I tried explaining to him that dirty dishes live in the dish washer, dirty clothes live in the hamper and dirty ho's live right under his nose- ready and willing at any time. None of which seemed to settle well with his current mental capabilities. Guess I'll go leave the trash on his pillow. Maybe he might see it there...or sleep in the guest room. Can't be sure. Well Bitch I gotta go.

No good can come of this. Diary's are not your friend. They are simply insurance policies to keep you from pissing off the people who love you and will clearly sell you down the river for the right price. I'm not goin out like that. I'm going to continue to be me.... in real life. If I don't write it down, I can deny it. Much like my weight, my family and of my friends. Take that and stick it in your Lesbian Lucky Charms. Silly Rabbit...tricks are for SIF!

Hold on Sisters....

2010-08-15T17:00:00.000-07:00

I'll be making another fat deposit very soon. Mother always said if you don't have something nice to say....don't say it. Mother...if I waited for that day I would officially be declared a mute. That being said, stayed tuned for "Dear Diary." It won't top the "Mother Blog"- there's just too much material wrapped up in all those points.

Tick Tock Mom's off her rock...

2010-08-02T17:04:00.000-07:00

Mother has a tick. And not the blood sucking kind. Nope...this would be a "One flew over the Cuckoo's Nest" kind. If you think my relationship with dieting and weight loss is dysfunctional....allow me to introduce you to the Jerry Springer of dieting dysfunction....my Mother! Yes, the one who hid 10lb bags of M&M's in my desk drawer and wore a 1970's green over every outfit to cover her sins. That Mother. The Heavenly Hash Queen. The woman who's blood type registered as "Apple Fritter" until she was 50 and chose life over saturated fat. The woman who taught me how to "Add a Plank & Extra Crispies" at Long John Silvers....bcs 2000 grams of fat just isn't enough when you can get more for less than a dollar. Her. The one who claims Gerald is my Father yet I am the only one with red hair and a strong resemblance to the milk man. That one. The sensitive soul I can always count on to tell me, "I don't look that bad" and You were bigger the last time I saw you. Her. Well...she's here for a visit...God help us all! She came complete with her Weight Watchers Points Calculator and an obsession for counting!

I'm just gonna say it. I hate diets and I hate people on diets. Of course I don't hate my Mother...but only bcs she managed to squeeze me out of her love canal with little to no damage to my perfect self. She said I was a difficult child. *Pause for random imaginary moment.* She can't be trusted. If what she's saying is true, she is certainly paying me back in the form of weight loss torture. She's on the points. She knows how many she has at any given moment, under what circumstances she is willing to part with them and what effect her strategic moves will have on her overall ratio. It's like living with a Mad Scientist. The slightest mention of anything edible and her head cocks slightly to the left, her eyes take on a strange gaze and she spouts off numbers quicker than the Rainman himself! Let's role play. I'll be "Me" and Mother will play the role of random psychotic points person. Ughum. "Good morning Mother. Would you like a glass of tea?" "Tea doesn't have any points you know. Nor does Jell-O, pudding, grapes or fat free Cool-Whip." "So does that mean you want tea?" "No. I'm going to have Froot Loops with hot fudge. It's only 6 points and I have 12 from yesterday, 30 extra this week, and 10 I won't use before lunch, so it all works out." *Pause for random demon like head spinning.* "You can eat Froot Loops and hot fudge?" "Yes. I can eat anything I want as long as I don't go over my points. I have 22 each day, 5 more if I exercise, 20 flex points and 10 I borrowed from your Dad (long "a" like add)." "Wow. Seems like a lot of work." (mistake) "Oh no Kelly...I have my calculator. I can count anything you want. I keep track of everything on it. I have a book where I write it down too. And another book for what's not in the calculator. And a book that tells me how to use the book about the book." *Random sign of the cross.* I need an old Priest and a young Priest.

As if the obsession with points counting wasn't bad enough, the random mumbling is cause for great concern. Have you ever watched someone when they don't know you are looking? It's amazing what you observe. I HIGHLY recommend this technique when choosing a mate. If all you hear are football stats and alien conspiracies.....RUN! In any event, Mother is a mumbler. She mumbles about the points she has, doesn't have and wishes she had. She's also a random justifier. "I can eat the triple Quarter Pounder & cheese fries bcs I haven't eaten in 3 days." It's all about balance. The sheer fact that I'm not stapled to a bed somewhere, in a padded room wearing a bleached white jump suit is a freakin miracle in itself! Just last night around 8pm she informed me she had 10 points to eat before midnight. I'm no dieting expert, but I'm thinking there's some skewed logic in there somewhere. So I decided to join in the crazy talk. "Are you hungry?" If you can't guess the answer you clearly don't deserve the fruits of my wit. "Well no but it's Sunday and the points don't carry over." Perhaps if I had paid better attention to the 'white noise" I would have been hip to this fact. I guess I better borrow my husband's EVP device (a tool he uses for ghost hunting...his hobby when he's not banging me....he see's alot of ghosts, fyi).

Can you guess how this ends? Yes. Yes you can. I ordered my very own points calculator last Thursday. Mother can't understand why it's not here yet. Hers came in 3 days. Perhaps the Fatty Gods are smiling down on me. Had she not been so obsessed with her own points, she might have offered to let me calculate my way to Skinnyville on her magic box. I suggested it this morning and she agreed to let me into her secret world of white noise and rain. I made it until 4pm...when I checked the mailbox and found my super secret box still wasn't there. It's a sign I still have more time on the dark side. My dark side. Where we don't talk about what we eat or verbalize it's value to our day. Success is measured in inches and stains. The more the merrier. Fat and Happy. Sane. Call me crazy.

Spooge Bob Stupid Pants

2010-07-18T15:14:00.001-07:00

Being fat in the middle of summer sucks. You would think the heat alone would be enough to scare off thoughts of fried chicken and macaroni...but no (just had it for dinner and the heat index is 120). I'm thinking that would take a hurricane....Cat 5. Scratch that...being trapped inside with death starring me in the face is more reason than ever to binge eat. I went through a Cat 3 and I gotta tell ya, I did not go hungry. Hubby made sure we had a generator and I made sure 2 things were hooked up post haste...the fridge and the TV. I'm a survivalist like that. In any event, there are no hurricanes in sight and no diets looming. I tried the crazy "you'll never chew again" diet and...well what can I say, I like to chew. I will reveal for the first time the name of said diet (drum roll please)...Medifast. Medi- implies doctors concocted this train wreck of starvation and fast means just that.....no eating! It was literally the only one I hadn't tried and now I know why. The food tastes like ass and I was literally starving. Which I suppose was the point...but you don't go from Pamela Anderson to Mother Theresa on a spur of the moment decision to abstain from sex and move into a convent. You have to carry a bible around for a while...see how it feels. Have sex with guys every other day and work your way back from Tommy Lee sized proportions (major withdrawals). Slowly drain the silicon sacks from EEE to A. That's all I'm saying.

So my immediate plan to lose 50 pounds by my 20th class reunion next Friday is as follows: buy a big dress. I can hide at least 20 with a fitted waist and flared bottom. Top that with the random genetic mutation story and I'm good until the 25th. That reminds me....my annual Vajay Jay appointment is right around the corner and I don't think I'll luck out and get dumb nurse 2 years in a row. That means I'll have to lose the 10 she lied about, the 10 I lied about and the 10 I gained since all the lying began. Or maybe I'll just get a new doctor. Seems easier. But...he's hot and I like it when he tells me I have a perfect uterus whilst rearranging my eggs. At least something on me is perfect. Too bad my uterus is the most unused part of my body...aside from the entrance. I'm getting off track. So I confided in my non-uterus loving husband that I was feeling a bit "off." I was getting ready to say, "Maybe it's bcs we haven't had sex this year," when he interjected, "Are you taking a multi-vitamin?" How soon I forget... since he decided to start working out at 39, he's now Mr. GNC. "Yes, I am. Prenatal to be exact. I figure I would let my body figure out why it's preparing to have a baby when it hasn't seen sperm since we started dating." That usually shuts him up. If not, I show him my back fat...ya know right under the bra clasp. One lump on each side....the twins. Maybe a multi-vitamin can help that.

It's bad enough when the law says you have to put up with shit from your husband (biblical law that is) but no where in any book does it suggest I have to put up with shit from random male assholes without appetites. Before heading to the beach (in my thong) to scare tourists, I stopped at Subway for some sustenance. Just what every beach goer needs to see....the latest thong from Lane Bryant plastered on a plus sized pale ass wolfing down a 12 inch sub with all the trimmings. Yummy. Hey, at least I get the $5 foot longs. I am a frugal fatty. So I'm ordering up lunch for me and the hubster... just minding my own business whilst Suzie (not her name at all...far too many vowels) from Slovakia cheaps me out of as many toppings as she can. It's disturbing. Has the price of lettuce and pickels gone up from the oil spill bcs Suzie sure thinks they have! I can't call her out bcs then I look like the fatty I'm trying to hide. I mentally bitch slapped the shit out of her though. That's why you go early in the morning....no one is in there and you can raise holy hell without calling attention to your fat stores. I'm gonna need a new paragraph for the rest of this story....

So...as I was saying, Svleka was depriving me of pickles when I heard someone order a sub from behind. Normally I like to turn at an angle when someone is that close...makes things appear more even. Some dumb guy ordering a 6 inch turkey with "spooge" of mayo. A. 6 inch subs are so last year. 2. "Spooge"- what are you a pedophile out for lunch....nasty word that should never be used around innocent food! So already I'm not liking this asshole. Meanwhile....Big Bertha (aka me) is bellied up to not one but 2 foot longs in the making. Being the nice fatty that I am, I told him he could go ahead of me since his mini-man pedophile sub was already prepared...spooge n all. (puking in back of mouth). He thanked me and for a minute I thought he was kinda cute. A minute....just a minute. A. I realized we could never be together due to his lack of appetite and fondness of spooge. C. I'm married (in theory) and E. He almost got tackled by this fatty for opening his spooging pie hole and saying the following: "Can you eat all of that?" (referring to just 1 of my 2 foot longs) My inside voice said, "Yes asshole. Or I can cram it up your ass and watch the mayo spooge out." My outside voice said, "Oh no, it's not for me."- I may be fat but I'm quick to deflect any remnits of it away from it's owner.....how dare he! This is a classic example of why men are so dumb! You NEVER ask a woman (fat or thin) if she can eat all of anything! Do I ask you that when you come face to face with my "Chuckie?" I think not. At the end of the day who really cares! A taste, a nibble an all out feast....leftovers...spooge....it's all good...until you start asking questions ....dumb ass stupid 6 inch man who will NEVER get laid with a mouth like that!

Now I was angry. I had to act "smuggy" or he would clearly know I was lying. Hell, all he had to do was peer under my bathing suit cover up and he would have answered his own question without opening his dumb guy mouth! Deep breath. The militant Subway worker ordered him back in line behind me (clearly some sisterly love) and I was most pleased. They have a system and as a customer you do not attempt to overthrow it.....got that spooge boy! I was keeping a keen eye on the "subs for others" when I noticed "Tupac"(he looks like him...RIP) put my BMT in a bag with a turkey sub. The turkey was for the girl in front of me who was thin and clueless....always keep your eye on the food sister! I let this go on until she was about to pay and walk out with my husbands sub. That can't happen....he would want to eat mine and I don't share. Mother taught me well. I quietly called this error in judgement to Tupac's attention. I forget the foreigners like to yell and quickly knew I was being outed. I don't know what it is about Subway but if you break the system they go Saddam on your ass! He decided to argue with me about the location of the BMT. Yeah...I have fatty GPS and you...you are a dumb guy. He swore he was right and made a scene only to find out....Fatty knows best. Do you think he apologized. No. In his country not only would a woman never speak up....my cover up would be covering up way more than in currently was. Whatever...I win hands down. Sister ahead of me thanked me...that was enough. That and knowing I wasn't getting her lame as 2 topping sub or spooge boys 6 inch meat molester.

I'll have you know I only ate half of my sub. I wanted to leave room for beer and ice cream. And that's how I ended my day...in the ice cream aisle of the grocery store explaining to my neighbor why I was buying 2 half gallons of full fat ice cream, hot fudge and whipped cream......party. Yup...party for the person who ate the subs I was buying earlier. I need to start ordering in again. I need privacy until such time that I can meet up with this thing they call self control. I don't even like how it sounds. See Mother, I made it through an entire blog without saying, "Fuck...or rabbit." You raised me up right....except for the eating disorder part... you were a real June Cleaver. See you Thursday for my 20 pound reunion!

"The Woman who can't gain Weight"

2010-07-11T15:53:00.000-07:00

Talk about a headline that will never...ever follow my name. So I woke up the other morning like I usually do...hungry. In an effort to calm the demons, I flipped on the Today Show and started guzzling water. Typically that combo holds off a random early morning binge for at least 2 0r 3 minutes. That is unless the formerly fat Al Roker and his clan happen to be chowing down on the random creations of a guest chef. Do I need to see a wanna be weatherman eating ribs at 7:30 in the morning whilst I have to walk 10 miles and drink liquid shit in an effort NOT to look like the former version of him? I think not. Clearly I need to start watching cartoons....scratch that...they make me crave Froot Loops and footed PJ's. Anyway, so I click on the TV and see her...."The woman who can't gain weight." Fascinating. She's 21 and weighs 61. Personally I would take any combination of that. None of those numbers exist in my world...unless we are recounting my personal best for trips to the buffet. Apparently she has some genetic disease that won't allow her to gain weight. "Excuse me, can a fatty get a transfusion around here?!" At birth she weighed 2 lbs. I fear I weighed that at conception. As usual, in an effort to check out quicker...I ended up in the wrong line.

I had an idea....if I could find this chick and befriend her, perhaps her issues would cancel out mine. At a combined weight of 460...we would look great together! I found out we have something in common...we both eat 5000 calories a day! Of course that is where the fork splits...whilst my calories hop on board the first train to Assville, I'm not quite sure where hers go. Maybe they are hitching rides from others. Does this make her a Fatimposter??! I think so! In any event, can you even imagine a life where you could eat that many calories and still shop at Gymboree? It's amazing at best! Froot Loops and Krispy Kreme's for breakfast (whilst watching Scooby Doo), McDonald's for lunch, a shopping spree for under $100 and a sleepover at Brad Pitt's house. It's my freakin dream life! I can live the life of a child, eat as much as I want without gaining a pound and bang Brad Pitt in my spare time! Who says Fatties can't win the lottery???!
Sidebar- whilst on my new diet I was confronted by an old demon that morphed into a superdemon...I give you the Cherrywine Krispy Kreme....limited edition. Being a fan of donuts and cheap soda, who was I to pass this up. After eating 3 I decided I should post a warning on my blog.....DANGER! THEY ARE SMACK GOOD AND YOU CANNOT EAT JUST 1 DOZEN...DO NOT BUY....IT'S CRACK SISTERS....CRACK! COVERED IN CHOCOLATE, FILLED WITH THE NECTAR OF CHERRYWINE AND COATED WITH RED, WHITE AND BLUE SPRINKLES...WHERE'S THE DEA (Don't Eat Alarm) WHEN YOU NEED IT?!

Sorry...I had to get that off my chest. Just saying Krispy Kreme in the last paragraph made me want to dig the other 3 out of the garbage. They are still in the box....24 hour rule. Anyway, clearly this Today Show story opens up doors for fatties everywhere. If doctor's can isolate the gene and get someone like big booty Kim Kardashian (or any of her big assed sisters for that matter) to market it....it's liquid gold I tell you. I won't hold my breath...since I've been banned from running I don't have that much to hold. Existing is taking every ounce of free oxygen I have....or maybe that's marriage. The lines get blurred after a few years of wedded bliss.

Diet update....yeah the pre-packed food from said diet didn't make it past day 2 in my world. I am now on a quasi diet...part what they tell me to do, part what Dr. Atkins tells me to do and part what the demons tell me to do. It's pure chaos. But it's working. Down 5 pounds. So, when I feel like behaving I eat the cardboard soaked in water with a splash of cinnamon, when I need fat I get back together with Dr. Atkins and when I pass Cherrywine Krispy Kreme's....all hell breaks loose. It's sort of like wearing elastic waist pants....if you cover them with a cute top no one knows and you have a little extra room to be you. That's my secret diet...elastic waist pants. I fear my 20 year reunion is in 2 weeks and I haven't quite made it to the aforementioned size 2. Guess I'll have to start concocting my story....rare genetic disorder...after 30 I can't lose weight....on Medicaid....and so on. I did have a nice bout of binge drinking last week. Whilst I thought Vodka was my friend...I think it may have to be dead to me. Thinking it had very few calories I found the need to drink it by the bottle. At 100 calories a shot I feel... dirty. Oh well. What one doesn't remember didn't necessarily happen now did it?

Let's hope this week brings less drinking, better morning TV and and the flu...I need to lose 30 pounds in 1.5 weeks. Come on MERSA...tell me where you are hiding!

A Midsummer Night's Diet

2010-06-30T14:05:00.000-07:00

Just when you think there isn't a diet left on the market that my chubby little hands haven't touched....think again. I found one... in Fitness Magazine (ya know....the magazine of choice for verging fatties) complete with a coupon. We all know how I love to save a buck...especially on gross diet food! I placed my order...and actually contemplated paying $10 extra for the expedited shipping...it was a Sat and I wanted it by Monday....New Me Monday to be exact....take 2,182. Who knows, this might be the time it all comes together! However comma, common sense kicked in and I was gently reminded paying $10 extra to get a diet by Monday that I will clearly be cheating on by Tuesday is like pre-paying for a hooker and opting out of the sex part. It just doesn't make much sense. Not to mention...everyone knows faster shipping is a scam to call out the big girls. They laugh all the way to the bank with that $10 as they send your package out with all the other closet fatties. So I went with standard shipping and laid out my plan for massive binge eating until such time I could see the faint brown color of the UPS truck grazing my block. With a deadline like that, you can only imagine the amount of calories consumed between the time of impulse diet purchase and arrival of said impulse diet purchase. Ughum...

Said diet product arrived on a Wednesday....exactly 3 business days after I ordered it....without the extra $10....thank you very much. Everyone knows you don't keep a verging fatty waiting...we know the return policy when it's time to jump the fence!It was the Wednesday my husband was graduating from the fire academy. No way I could start it then. I would be expected to participate in post graduation consumption. I wouldn't want to be a party pooper. That leaves Thursday. Ughum. Thursday was his birthday. By now anyone who has read this blog knows of my inappropriate relationship with sugar....birthday cake to be exact. Does anyone think I was going to start my diet on a day when I had an excuse to take him out to dinner AND eat cake!? I think not! In fact, those around us were questioning who's birthday it was. Like a good wife I took him to a nice dinner, proceeded to get drunk, made him drive home and ensured I got the piece of cake with the most frosting. Wife of the year...creeping up on me again. In my defense, a woman getting ready to start her period or a diet can't be held accountable for her actions within 7 days of any sort of offense. At least one of those excuses was applicable. Then there was my next dilemma, leftovers. Oh...I should clarify....not my leftovers ( I don't even know what that word means quite frankly)....his leftovers. I could care less about the ribs he brought home. I find the eating of someone else's rib cages a bit barbaric...I meant the cake. Had it been a regular grocery store cake with the sugary icing that I love so, the problem would have had an expiration date....about 2-3 days. But no, the husband likes ice cream cake....as discussed at length in previous blogs. That shit lasts forever....unless no one knows it's there but me....then it's got an hour or two max. But he not only knew it was there, he knew how much he ate thus leaving me vulnerable to rationing. Damn! Diets, rationing, husbands....you kiss your Mama with that mouth?! So I was left with a counter full of diet food and a freezer full of cake. It's like choosing between having an affair with Brad Pitt or doing the right thing- getting a divorce, chasing down Brad Pitt and hoping he not only likes fat divorced chicks...but has given back all of those offspring with what's her name! It's just easier to sneak in the freezer for a quickie.

This brings us to Friday. I ask you, who starts a diet on a Friday. No one I know. Then again, no one I know weighs under 650. Friday's are for beer, pizza and sex. 2 out of 3 of those things happens 4 out 4 Friday's at my house. Let just say I never go thirsty or hungry and leave it at that. Friday was out....even though there was a very large woman I barely recognized staring back at me screaming for an intervention....it would have to wait until Saturday when I was off work and could focus. Who starts a diet on a Sat? No one I know. Saturday is for eating as much as possible and cooking as little as possible. I would put it off one more day....the Lord's day to be exact. Surely God would intervene and prescribe diet and rest on the 7th day. Not so much. If he did, he clearly should have stopped me prior to the chicken biscuit combo on my way to church. I'm a good person. I tithe. Can't a sister get a break!? The Lord spoke to me at church and told me that all good things happen on Monday (which I knew...duh!). That settled it. The new me would once again have to start on Monday. If only I had tithed a dollar for every calorie I ate that day....world hunger would be no more. Well except for my world hunger...I will NEVER stop being hungry. NEVER..NUNCA.

Monday morning arrived and I was all fired up. The new me was ready to come out and play. I woke up, walked 4 miles and drank one of the shakes from my new packet of astronaut food. It read, "Creamy Orange Shake." It should have read, " FRAUD." It was like drinking watered down Sunny D....minus the Sunny, the D and anything in there that would have made it taste good. Being a trained fatty, I have work arounds for these situations....no I didn't add ice cream (although that would have done the trick). I plugged my nose and swallowed. A technique that can be used for various painful experiences. The good news....I got to eat more crappy food in 2 hours. I literally watched the clock until it was time to eat again. I decided I would try a "bar." Who fucks up a bar? The instructions said, "Do not eat more than one of these bars as they are high in calories." 110 to be exact! Gheez! I expected to get a granola sized bar with some sort of flavor. I got the flavor...in the one bite it took me to finish it! It was the size of a postage stamp! Clearly this is the trick starvation diet! As you would expect, it took me exactly 2 hours, 34 minutes and 16 seconds to cheat. I carried my big ass to Subway for a footlong turkey. That shit was calling me! Food is my crack and I was back on the corner with Pookie! You know where this is going....as soon as I mess up....the flood gates open. I went on to eat non-stop until I went to bed at 10pm. New Me Tuesday?

Yes, I was so disgusted Tuesday that I promised myself I would try and get at least 1 day in without cheating. That's the cool thing about promising yourself something, I can only let me down and frankly I am quite forgiving! As long as I am rewarded with some "hair of the dog" things can once again be made whole. I sucked it up and ate as much of the nasty diet propaganda that I could stomach. I plugged my nose for the shake, pretended to love the one real food I got to eat....salad (sans Ranch...I know...unfair!) and tried to figure out a way to make 1.13 ounces of a somewhat tasty snack bar last longer than 1 second. I got an "A" until
9 pm. What happened at 9pm you ask? Well....of course the fat demon that lives inside me decided to started "speaking" to me. "There's no way you are eating enough. You are gonna pass out. You can't do any form of exercise and be on this diet. Your blood sugar will fall and you will convulse. You better add up the calories and make sure this is safe." I was in an all out panic. Because clearly my body couldn't tolerate any sort of calorie reduction! Gee....I might have enough fat stores to last me until...Oh I don't know....2017! But I listened to the Demon and started to add....feverishly. "I'm going to die. Being fat isn't so bad. I choose life!" Those were just some of the things going through my head when I reached my total caloric input for the day.....950! What?! My dogs eat more than that and they are lazy sluggos! I knew what had to be done. Popcorn. Air popped...light on the butter. A small sacrifice to keep me alive long enough to see Wednesday. Oh...and there was a bit of emotional eating in the mix. This weeks episode of Deadliest Catch was airing Captain Phil's death. It was very sad. He was a good man....not that I know him, have met him or know anything about him. It's just that we have been sharing Tuesday's nights from spring to summer for several seasons and I'll miss seeing him chain smoke and shake. Can't believe he's dead. RIP Phil.

So I almost made it through 1 day on this diet. That being said, it was time to jump on the scale and look for results! Keeping ones expectations in line is key to success on any diet. There it was...I had lost 3 pounds. Must have been the chicken biscuit I "let go of" at my am bowel movement. Good stuff. Now that I had confirmation it was working, it would be easier to follow through. Here we are at Wednesday. I have thrown out the boxed diet oatmeal, scrambled eggs and 1 thing of soup. I went online and ordered the fake fatty chips and brownies. If I have to eat cardboard I should at least pretend it started as something I would normally eat, right? Should be here in 3 days. At that point, my diet shall consist of shakes, chips, brownies and bars. Almost like it's not a diet at all! In the meantime, I will stay the course with what remains on my counter. Well...on my end of the counter. The other end has all the cool people, Lil' Debbie, Keebler, Cap'n Crunch and so on. I had to get new friends....and my new friends suck ass! In the end my new friends will make me a better person but I prefer to live on the edge and bear the consequences....such as clothing that ends in X and buying two seats on an airplane. It's so old me.

I know....you want to know what diet I'm on. I shall torture you until such time as 1 of 2 things happens: 1. I lose weight or 2. I fall off the wagon. I'd put my money on 2. It's a sure bet. I have my high school reunion in 25 days. I can't show up as twice the woman I was in 1989. It's not even cool to be fat right now. I'm so out. I guess if I can't lose my ass in 25 days I'll have to concoct some elaborate story of a genetic mutation causing me to double in size....I shall call her "Mother!" Kidding Maaa....and no I'm not telling you what diet I'm on. Keep counting your points and leave me to 950 calories of cardboard. Time for a bar....and not the kind with alcohol unfortunately.

Wife of the Year

2010-06-21T17:10:00.000-07:00

This just in... the award for "Fatty Wife of the Year" .... goes to...my ass, (literally and figuratively) hands down. I'm fairly confident when it comes to categories such as "Use of Food as a Weapon, a Crutch, and a Friend...there isn't even a runner up. I feel like there should also be an honorable mention for the various forms of trickery I gracefully execute on a daily basis. Let's revisit some of my finer moments of the year and revel in all that is me, shall we?

2010 began with none other than a New Year's Revelation. My Revelation...If my husband accepts me 6 sizes bigger than when he married me, 2 things are very clear: 1. He has no other options 2. He's suppressing "fat stores" that will one day result in his spontaneous combustion ...thus leaving me free to marry Brad Pitt. Happy New Year to me.

In 6 months I have been on 6 diets and gained 6....tee pounds. 666. Clearly the diet God's are not hearing my prayers (male God's I'm sure). I know I'm a slutty, trash talking Rabbit lover...but these are Diet God's....they should only curse me for eating Taco Bell and Fried Twinkies....not judge me for colorful language and plastic "man friends." If I have to break up with Little Debbie, bury the Rabbit AND stop saying, "fuck" ....I'm fucked. Much like marriage, dieting gets more painful with age....I've single handily cussed out the fine folks at Weight Watchers ( Points suck! 22 points? I eat that in my f'n sleep!), went crazy on "crack" (for the record...the Phen in Phentremine that's "safe" is great if you enjoy staying up all night, never eating and a heart that beats more than Ron Jeremy- I choose life and rabbit) and spent 1 day carb free....(1 long painful day where I was forced to break up with the one thing my "whoo whoo" hates and I love...yeast.) If being fat is a crime, trying not to be fat is pre-meditated fucking murder. Sorry Diet God's. Where's Little Debbie when I need some defense? Back where I started....Forever 2x

I decided to sign myself up for Mission Impossible...find a place on my body that wasn't fat. Even if it was just a tiny crevice on the road map of me...I had to find it. When I located the aforementioned part, I decided it should available for viewing, unveiled if you will. That is why I no longer wear panties. Why keep the only thing on me that has remained unscathed for 37 years (give or take a few bad decisions) covered up? Why? I just don't know....thus why she is now free to roam about the cabin. I decided to attend a party (a coming out party of sorts) wearing a dress that allowed "her" to breath whilst the rest of me suffocated from random displaced fat. What's a fatty to do whilst wearing a flapper dress to hide what flaps whilst her very own "flapper" flapped in the breeze....stand there and look cute. 1 inch to the left, right, up or down and "Leave it to Beaver" would be an instant prime time hit once more. I don't know what scared me more...someone seeing my dimpled thighs or my "Chucky." Either way, someone would clearly be losing an eye. Good thing I'm not famous. The papz would have been all up in my pink taco. The only thing surrounded by fat that's good and good for you.

Now to my worst offense of the year. If you are close to a sink, wash your hands before reading. It's down right dirty and shameful. As many of you know, I am a frugal fatty. Why pay full price for Doritos when the simple use of a coupon can double the quantity, the calories and thus the pleasure . It's just common sense shopping. So... whilst I was out on one of my various grocery runs, I noticed not only were ice cream cakes on sale...but I also had a coupon! Who says the average girl can't win the lottery! Top that off with the perfect excuse for purchasing said cake....hubby's birthday. Here's where it gets dicey. Captain's logbook...February....Husbands birthday....June. We all know where this is going. In the cruelest form of trickery, I bought the cake as a "surprise" well ahead of the curve. Much like many of the "surprises" I bring home for "him," he would never see it. I have good intentions...just very bad morals. Fire/Ice. About the end of February (the start of ice cream season), I decided my husband might not like that cake after all. It was adorned with pink flowers. What was I thinking? What man would eat a cake with feminine undertones? No man of mine. So...I decided it would be best if I spared his masculinity by eating the section with the pink flowers. Allow me to scale that to size for you....that would be half the cake. Objects in mirror appear just as big as they are, thank you! Damn that frosting was good. What? It was February. Winter sucks and the spring flowers were calling. Then I got my period. Taking a sharp knife to a very frozen ice cream cake allowed me to release a certain amount of negative energy that I attribute to...marriage....and that was the end of the cake. I bring you to June. The birthday is 2 days away, we have no cake and no coupons. I'm torn. Should I just tell him how good the cake was back in February or come out of pocket with another $20 knowing he might see 1 piece of that cake before it enters the confines of my gut only to be seen again as a small (or large) pock on my ass. I got it...I'll get him a card and me a cake. Yes, I'm am the whore of the earth. Happy Birthday Honey.

I can't think of anything I've done in the last 5 minutes that tops that one. I did get drunk on Saturday (at the Beaver's coming out party...these things happen) and binge eat all day Sunday. That's so...common. Well, except for the part where I broke my long standing McDonald's record by going back 2 x in 2 hours. I know...even I get sick reading that. This is why fat people shouldn't drink....they could be eating.

Is it 2011 yet?

Drivers Education SIF Style

2010-06-13T13:19:00.000-07:00

I decided to test a theory I have that technology is making me fat. Leave it to me...when I run out of people to blame, I start blaming the smart people. It's what I do. I give you the drive up window. Everyone who's anyone has one. I decided to be a "fatlosipher" and see how many things I could accomplish in one day without prying my fat ass from the drivers seat of the 4Runner...here goes:

* I started the day off like many Americans do.... with a coffee and donut from none other than Dunkin Donuts! Drove up, placed my order and drove off. I steered clear of the donut holes as my local DD likes to get a head count on each one....I'm not into that....but....it felt good knowing I was consuming what "Keeps America Running"....to the cardiologist. And currently that would be the only running I'm allowed to do....bitter at best. Moving on...

* Then it was time to turn over my slave wages to the evil bank. I drove up, handed off the money and bam.... I'll never see it again. Good thing they pay me .00000125% interest. Makes it all worth while. Super bonus score....I didn't have to wait behind any of the usual idiots who drive up sans deposit/withdrawal slips. They must be related to the people who think you have to wait until the cashier has scanned everything before you can swipe your card at the grocery store and then act like they've never used one before. Get a clue... technology is for people who graduated pre-k! Still bitter....still driving....

* Now it was on to the fuel that keeps me going....drugs! Walgreen's here I come! A dose of happy pills to take me to my special place, baby be gones to ensure this never happens again and a little allergy medicine to keep me from sneezing when my husband is around. Seems I might be allergic to....him. Interesting. I don't think they make a shot for that....other than a 9mm...which seems a little drastic at present.

* What to do next...well...all of this running around has given me an appetite...let's hit McDonald's! This is always a fun experience for several reasons....I like when the teleprompter chick says, "Welcome to MacDonalds would you like to cool off with a delicious Frappacino?"...makes me salivate but nope....I'd like to cool off with a delicious Double Quarter Pounder with cheese and fries...super sized please. What? It's all very logical when you think about it. Coffee makes you run to the bathroom. That would mean I would have to leave the comfort of my car. Not in the cards Sisters! 3000+ calories just makes you tired. I can deal with that from the confines of the 4Runner....moving on....

* All of the saturated fat has made me sleepy....time for a nap! Any parking lot will do. Find you a shade tree, park the car and bam...instant womb! I like to park where no one would expect to find me....yup....there's a lovely space reserved just for my slar phase at the local YMCA. What? It's very unassuming. Might I add it's mid-afternoon and I have yet to leave the vehicle. No goal is beyond my reach.

* Time for some gas...not too many places south of the border that still offer full service. That's why the north won y'all...we get that certain people like to be pampered and are willing to pay for it! (that was pay back for all of the times I've been called a Yankee since moving here). So anyway, down here in the land where the South truly believes they will rise again....You have to do a little work to get full service. Ya gotta press the mic, give them some random reason you need assistance (Like...I'm 450 lbs over weight and lazy!) and slip them a few bucks for their silence. I feel compelled to say that I like the state of NJ for one reason....and one reason only....they do not pump their own gas. Random sign of the cross.

* Now that the tank is full, I'll need something to wash down the baby be gones, the happy pills and the husband zappers. Nothing a quick trip through the Brew Thru can't cure! This is where the South gets credit...single greatest invention ever...drive up beer joint. It's a lazy fat drunks paradise. So, I drive in, place my order (Double Deuce in a brown paper bag....classy aren't I?) and pop the pills that keep my life harmonious. No babies, no problems and no itching from spousal unrest. Wait...why I am taking baby be gones? Rumor has it you have to have sex to make babies. I think I may be safer than Mother Theresa. Sign of Cross.

So, as you can see, my theory has proven itself factual.... the fine art of convenience is clearly what's keeping me fat. I can literally get everything I want without lifting my fat ass from the seat of my vehicle. Yes, this means sex too. Don't think I can't pull up on some hotties and score me a little sompin sompin if I need to. Hell I look good from the waist up. By the time they realize what's going on south of the border, they are trapped! 911 won't find a deprived SIF on the move! Lookout! I think if I am ever going to be thin I will need to replace my car with a bike. It would be hard to pull off my tricks in plain sight. Not to mention I would be burning calories whilst sabotaging myself. It's a theory worst testing. I bet I can eat and steer with one hand. I'm good like that....

Sex and the Fat City

2010-06-06T15:18:00.000-07:00

I realized something this weekend, when men decide to do something they go all the way. Yes, that includes sex...not that I would know anything about that post marriage. In any event, my husband decided he wanted to get in shape. Great. Nothing like a buff hot husband to make me and my rabbit closer than we already are. What's the point of looking good without intent? I can't be sure I know the answer to that. I do know this, my husband is popping all sorts of look better pills, working out and self tanning whilst I ponder which "Ho-Ho" is likely to have the most cream in it. All I have to say for myself is, "It's not my fault." Did I ask to be hit by a Census worker thus rendering me unable to do anything but keep pace 75 year old woman on my morning walks? I think not. And all this walking is getting old (no pun intended). It takes forever to get where I'm going and I feel very exposed. When I run, things are moving around, jiggling, bouncing...bruising...you get the picture. There's trickery involved...you can't really see where everything lands and that has allowed me to run under the cover of fat for years. When I walk, passers by have plenty of time to size up all that is me. No good can come of that. I almost feel them telling me to pick up the pace as they drive by. I got one tip for ya: Don't stare directly into the bootie...it's been known to talk back. Oh and don't let me see any sort of fat reference rolling off your lips. I know sign language...well one sign...and I aint afraid to use it.

So as I was saying, my husband is getting all buff and coating his new muscles in spray tan. Seems a bit strange to me. If I was all buffed out, I would buy a super small thong and lay on the beach....a sort of a "coming out party." But he looks good and hides it under his clothing whilst his 2 ton wife parades around in a bikini hoping the angles of the sun reach all of the creases. Something is very wrong here. Here's what's more annoying than living with a hot guy who has enough energy to lift a small car but not his (ughum)...he has now taken to telling me how to work out. "You know, they say you should only work out every other day. You know, most of the protein you eat isn't absorbed." I'm sorry.....I've been working out for 30 years (yes I started when I was 7...shut up)...you've been working out for 5 minutes and you are going to tell me how it's done!? Granted, the results he's achieved in 5 minutes far surpass my 30 years of nightly runs....to Taco Bell. Isn't that a bitch. A guy decides to work out and he can drop all his weight in a week whilst every woman in America has to buy People, Star, US, Jenny Craig and Weight Watchers to try and figure out how it's done... and maybe we get 1 pound in 6 months. If the key to losing weight is having a dick...sign me up! Currently, that would solve both of my problems. Thank you.

In an attempt to take some time off from being me, I went to see SATC this weekend with Kimo. I had already seen it once, but I prefer to do things in 2's....2 donuts, 2 helpings, 2 of everything is always better than one. Portion control is for "1/4 pounders." I NEVER go to the movies without getting popcorn. To me, that's like going to bed without your rabbit. It's just not comfortable without someone to love. However, comma, prior to deciding to go to the movies I drank about 900 beers and ate about 3000 calories....I can accomplish alot in an hour. There was no room at the inn. When we walked into the movie theater, I was pleased to see 2 other souls in the room. We took the "rock star" seats and got cozy. Then, like it always happens (and only to me)...the fatties rolled in! 4 of them to be exact. As you might imagine, with exactly 56 seats left in the theatre they decided to bring it home and sit right in front of this beer burping SIF and her cousin. Perhaps I could have forgiven them if they didn't have heads the size of water melons and tons of popcorn and candy to pass between them. In fact, they even left a seat open between 2 of them for....well I don't know what it was for....perhaps to squash the large shadows they were casting on the screen, maybe for spillover fat or maybe just as a table for the freakin buffet they had going on! Since I had seen the movie I became obsessed with watching their every move. Picture greasy buttered lips laughing whilst popcorn rolled into boob crevices so deep it would never to be seen again...random sucking and slurping of giant sized Cokes that were depositing about 4567 grams of sugar on each of their enormous asses. Every once in a while I heard laughter....I think that's when they came up for air. They also seemed to have a fetish for "Big" ....of course they did. As if sisters....as if.

Because we were too inebriated to drive ourselves to the movies, Kimo's husband picked us up after it was over. I felt exactly 13. I saw the fatties as we were leaving. They were smoking cigarettes and reliving the movie. I realized, at that moment, we had something in common....sex. Food is our sex. Let's face it, without food I might as well be a nun. If food is my sex I am certainly giving Ron Jeremy a run for his money! I would have gone over to smoke a post "sex" cig with them but that's where the fork divided us....I do not smoke. I make up for killing my lungs by killing....well everything else. A part of me wishes I could have run over there with my portable blood pressure machine (what? everyone should have one) and taken their numbers. Between the salt, the fat, the sugar and the smoking...I fear they would have thrown up some major digits. And let's face it, those digits are the only ones anyone will ever ask them for. Mean just mean. But I'm a nice person....so I just stood there and made fun of them until "Dad" showed up to take us home and remind us, for bigger or worse we have men who will bang us...one day....when the mood strikes them. It's no SATC but it beats being the "Rabbit Lady"for the rest of my life. I fear our odds of getting real sex are far better than the smoking fatties but who knows. That one was sucking the hell outa some Coke. All it takes is only lonely man who can overlook the fat for the sucking and she's in there. There's hope sisters....there's hope.

MERSA

2010-05-26T15:19:00.000-07:00

That would be my current diet plan after spending the weekend with my skinny friends. They say MERSA is everywhere, yet I can't seem to contract it. I need just enough to get off these last 400 lbs. But no....some schmekel from the burbs who weighs 110 lbs soaking wet can easily get my virus, die and I can't even get a solid week! Damn! Don't these people know how to work the system? Just enough to puke and lose the appetite. Dying is a clear sign of over achievement. Yes, things have taken a turn for the worse. The "sisters" came down for the weekend and failed to tell me they no longer eat OR shop at Forever 6x! A post card would have sufficed! Gheez. Lots of them wanting to go to the beach and pretend to eat. Whatever. I stuck to the sun coffin and naps in the womb. I can't be broken. Whilst I was awake, I held firm to my agenda by making small cuts to various appendages and rubbing them against public door knobs and such. Still...no Mersa. Perhaps my fat inhibits such lethal viruses from entering my body. Perhaps. Can a fatty get a break?!

You should know I haven't been able to run in over 6 weeks. Why? Oh bcs some nice man from the Census (as if stalking me in my home wasn't enough) decided to rear end me thus causing damage to the only place I should have been protected....my ass! One would think there was enough fat there to cover the SI joint/ligament whatever it is....but apparently not. 30 days from bathing suit season let's hit fatty and make her unable to do any form of cardio...unless you count inhaling as cardio in which case I am still going strong. So....I have been asked by the medical profession to "walk" as opposed to run. I'm sure some of my readers are walkers....and for that I am truly sorry. I am not a fan. Much like everything in my life, I like any form of cardio to be over quickly. If you give me too much time to think, I'll be the divorced cat lady in a week. Who wins in that scenario? The cat....until I have a craving for General Tsaos and then things just go down hill quickly. Anywho, walking. I have been walking. There I said it. The Dr. said I could "walk." To me, that means 5+ miles. To the Dr....1 mile. Who gets out of bed to walk a mile? Well maybe to KFC but not at 7am....unless they started serving breakfast and no one told me. Clearly the Dr. doesn't realize the kind of calorie deficit I'm up against! I'd have to walk to NY and back to get in the green! I'll have you know I once walked 31 miles....1x....never again. Walking sucks. To help ease the pain I enlisted Axel Rose. Most people walk to Bach...I walk to Axel..."Welcome to the Jungle" is the current theme of my life. Anywho, so today I'm moving along at what I believe to be Olympic speed when a 75 year old woman approaches me and motions me to take off my headphones. She better be dying. Nope. She decided it would be nice to tell me that we were walking at the same pace. Lovely. From marathon runner to Senior Games competitor in just 6 weeks. Only I would get hit by someone working for the gov't thus aging me 100 years and 100 lbs.

This is exactly what I mean...this shit only happens to me! Normal people get rear-ended by Johnny Redneck with no insurance...I get "Bob Smith" annoying Census worker. I shoulda popped a cap in his ass when he came to the house....I wouldn't be in this situation. So I have some free time on my hands for the sport of choice...channel surfing. Did you hear the one about the 2 chicks who tazed the Wendy's worker for not putting pickles and mayo on their sandwich?! Just hearing that makes me want to run out to the drive thru and score some free food with my 9! I'm a trained FATASSaign. I may be the only one taking their side. Leaving off key items such as pickles and mayo is...well it warrants violence quite frankly. Sisters....if you need me to testify....holla. Makes me wish I had a tazer for that F'r that hit me. His car is fixed and 60 days later I'm running from Dr. to Dr. getting my ass rearranged. I had to start wearing underwear to spare the medical profession shock blindness. Yes, I grew all of this on my own. I like the chiro assistant the best. She rearranges my thong just so before applying shock therapy to my nether region. I appreciate her defference to the amount of pressure that 1 inch piece of cloth I call "thong" is under. Anyway...

I've been trying to watch my carbs in light of my current situation. Watching them is annoying so I just eat them. It's easier to keep track of them when we are "one." All of this walking/thinking has me wondering...what idiot created the institution of marriage? Hmmm....I'm gonna go with "man" as they seem to be the primary beneficiary. Let's see....how can we get our laundry done, blow jobs AND a clean house....WE SHALL CALL HER "WIFE!" I told you....no good can come of this walking. Why just today someone asked me why I wasn't wearing my wedding ring. *Pause for "PC" answer"...oh it's so tight on my finger with this heat....or maybe....it's being re- sized or....I simply forgot as I was in a hurry. Common man isn't prepared to hear: " I have broken free of bondage if only for 1 day!" I need to get back to running... soon. It's like the more I walk the more I see. I have been shit "at" by birds and accosted by old ladies but nothing compares to the 20/20 marriage vision that comes with walking. If you are happily married...I recommend a gym membership. Time to sue the government for the demise of my ass and my marriage. In an odd twist of fate...my girlfriends husband told me if I needed a boyfriend his 2 friends think I'm hot. Translation: they are either kin to Stevie Wonder or they just don't care how fat they fuck. I think I'll stay married.

I guess for now I'll keep walking and rubbing elbows with MERSA. I wonder if MERSA is like too scared to be with me for fear of attachment...you know...like Brad Pitt. Maybe that's it. If you happen to be a reader who's currently infected, email me and I'll send you my address. I am set up to accepts specimens via email.

Jail Break

2010-05-14T14:46:00.000-07:00

As you might imagine, I have broken free of the chains that bind me. Yes. For exactly the 3rd time (in as many weeks), I have cancelled my little house arrest diet band. No worries. When I decide it's time to go back to jail, I will simply sign up under another name. You would think the peeps running this "quasi jail for fatties" would catch on to another 750lb redhead member who loses exactly no weight, cancels and reappears days later as a man. Why would I do that? It's called a free 30 day trial people! Let's face it....in exactly 30 days...scratch that...3 days I'll be back in cahoots with Little Debbie...why bother spending $12.95 when I already know the outcome. My inner Miss Cleo enables me to predict such failures and plan properly for post let down consumption. When it comes down to it, there are 2 reasons I hate the house arrest band: 1. Too many questions and 2. Lies

Too many questions: I don't like to think anyone knows I'm fat. Whilst I know this is about as impossible as bringing back the King of Pop (RIP), let me have my fantasies. Lord knows I don't have much in the way of real action...anyway. Where was I going with this...ahhh yes....so when I wear the house arrest band, everyone wants to know what it is. Nosey fuckers! Do I walk up to you and ask you why you are so ugly? Then don't ask me about my "fatsessories." "Oh, is that one of those things that counts your steps?". "No, it tazes people who ask me dumb questions. Would you like to see how it works?" - inside voice. When I try to explain what it really does, I find myself defending my little band. How dare they call this state of the art fat zapper a pedometer! No one likes an angry fatty so I usually just say, "Yes it counts my steps." But there's always that closet fatty who has to tell me how much she knows about "exercise" as she's wiping hot fudge from one of her 3 chins. "You know, they have phones with pedometers in them. Then no one can see it." "Thank you for that technology update. Maybe you should look on your phone and see if it has an application for "Go away you annoying bitch." I'm sure it's there....IPhone must have that. So...as you can see....interrogation looks about as good on me as the fat band.

Lies: Lots of them. Tell me, what is the point of paying $12.95 to wear a device to help you lose weight if you are going to spend $30 a day at McDonald's and tell the device you had salad? I feel like it knows I'm lying bcs when I start typing, it immediately wants to tell me my personal bests for the week. So I'm thinking it will say, "Hey, you ran 5 more miles than you did last week or ate 1200 less calories...but this is me...a SIF we are dealing with...here's what I get: My personal best for the week...I spent more hours lying down today than I have in the last 30 days.... 18 hours to be exact. Who thinks this should even be included in the PB categories? Clearly a man put it there....lying down means having sex.... which means burning calories. Clearly an unmarried man. Lying down in my house means watching the Science Channel and praying the batteries in my rabbit don't burn out before I fall asleep. And I wonder why I'm fat? Maybe if that band would slap a libido into my husband I'd actually use the thing! Hell I'd pay $12.95 a day! No lies! Where was I? Oh yeah...PB. You would think that after weeks of telling it I'm a man eating salad, a woman eating salad and a tranny eating salad and still no weight loss...there would be a box that pops up saying, "What gives fatty?" But no...I am rewarded for lying down. Story of my life...

There's actually a 3rd reason I hate that band...tan lines. Even after I have broken up with the damn thing, I am left with a constant reminder of another relationship gone sour. Don't worry, I'm not subjecting the general public to the sight of me in a bikini. I'm a fake n baker. Whilst the thought of skin cancer may be scary....seeing my fat dimpled ass in a thong is like an instant death ray! Not pretty. I'll take my chances in the sun coffin, thanks.

Now that I'm not under constant surveillance, I have some time on my hands. Time spent not lying is way less stressful. So here are some things I have learned this week:

1. If one were to order fries from McDonald's and those fries were to actuallybe hot upon arrival...there's a trick to keeping them that way until you get back to your "special place" to gorge. Gotta leave the bag open....I KNOW...CRAZY RIGHT?! All these years the masses have been closing the bag and coming home to soggy fries. Leave it to a SIF to solve on of the great problems plaguing the fat world. You're welcome.

2. Cheddar vs. Cheddar....all cheddar is not equal. I knew this girl (we'll call her Kelly for fun) who liked to go to Arby's for roast beef and McDonald's for fries. Anyway, she always orders a side of cheddar (from Arby's) for her roast beef. What's left after bathing her meat in cheese...you guessed it...goes on the fries. Well, just last week, the stupid drive-thru guy misunderstood and put a slice of cheddar on the sandwich. Ahhh...unacceptable. A. It doesn't melt and 2. You can't dip your fries in it. Since "Kelly" was accustomed to dealing with men who don't listen (very accustom....very), she knew to look in her bag before pulling away. Sure enough, the man who had been calling her "Sweetie" exactly every time she patronized the drive-thru, had screwed up. When she made him aware of his error he refused to fix it bcs he in fact included the side of cheddar in the bag. Typical. To a man...Cheddar is Cheddar and to a woman a dick is a dick. However comma, if the cheddar or the dick don't serve their intended purpose then they are essentially a garnishment for which one gets no pleasure. My life in a brown paper bag. It's all quite clear now. No more Arby's.

3. Birthday Cake has a shorter shelf life than expected. I bought my husband a birthday cake well in advance of his actual birthday. It was on sale...or maybe on I was on my period. It's all a little fuzzy. In any event, I decided about 3 days into my cycle that he might not like the pink flowers blooming on the frosting. I would just eat that section...to make it look more manly. Seemed like a good idea. Eating someone else's birthday cake 60 days before their birthday is always a good idea. Anyway, well....after eating the floral section I noticed some vines that didn't look right without their flowering companions, so I disposed of those as well. At this point I'm half way through the cake and birthday boy is none the wiser. He doesn't like sweets....should have found that out pre-nuptial. My immediate plan was to make the cake appear homemade by transferring it to a small pan , licking the sides down to make them equal thus having the appearance that I was something other than an out of control feral beast. Ok...here's the real reason I had to eat the cake...I had hot fudge and whipped cream in the fridge, no freakin ice cream and I was a raging PMS bitch! Yes, I put the hot fudge on the already fattening cake....and it was quite good thank you. Anyway, when I tried to piece together my downsizing plan, things didn't exactly turn out. You could definitely tell I licked the cake...oh and ate the other half. So I did what any SIF would do, I disposed of it for good. What cake? Silly husband, it's not your birthday yet.

As you can see, I am raging out of control. No shackles, no morals and no conscience. I left those at the alter thank you. Here's hoping "New Me Monday" brings an impostor playing on the appropriate team. For now, I have to get ready for my girls to come for a visit this weekend. As usual, they've all lost weight...and I found it.

Fatty on Death Row

2010-05-05T05:42:00.000-07:00

I can't think of a more appropriate place to keep decent food from an otherwise decent person. House arrest is far too liberal for the likes of me. Oh I wore the arm band but that didn't keep me from lying about what went down the hatch. Who pays $12.95 a month to lie to themselves.... nice to meet you! I'm convinced anything short of all out incarceration will result in a lifetime membership to Lane Bryant. I'm am spinning out of control...well spinning may not be the appropriate term at my size....wobbling perhaps. There's like 4 days til summer and I am still at my hibernation weight. Wake up fatty and smell the heat! Even if they make bathing suits in a 17X, I can't imagine anyone except the NIFA mixer freaks want to see that! (National Institute for Fat Awareness) How did I let myself get to this point? Well....if I knew that... I most likely wouldn't be at this point now would I?! I liken it to hair growth. When you are letting your hair grow out it seems to take forever. You look in the mirror each day and wonder if you have some mutated gene that keeps your hair from growing past your ears. You look and look... still nothing. And then one day you see a picture of yourself from 6 months ago and realize your hair is in fact growing! It works the same for fat....except my friends have been trained NOT to do 2 things....EVER....take pictures of my ass AND show them to me. I realize time is not on my side and much like my hair...whilst I don't see it happening...I am confident growth is imminent. With that, I called in the big guns.

I decided I needed a Warden of sorts....a gate keeper....a militant friend who wouldn't listen to my bullshit. Someone who would throw me in solitary confinement after hearing me bitch "my husband made me do it." Actually that might work. Scratch and save for future use...after listening to me complain about stress, the weather and any other reason I could come up with to land my ass at Taco Bell. Ughhum....I must point out that today is Cinco de Mayo. Whilst I am not Mexican, I plan to celebrate their holiday much like they celebrate the 4th of July and the Jews celebrate Christmas. I aint mad at ya....just pass me a cerveza and don't double dip in the queso and we are all good. So "New Me Monday" will actually be "New Me Thursday" this week as I have learned the Mexicans favor lard. I really need to defect. Wouldn't that be a switch....an American running south of the border...and not bcs I killed my husband...yet! I fear I would be stopped dead in my tracks bcs that's how the system works....against me...always. Anywho, back to the Warden. Whilst Susan lives exactly 5 hours from me, she has a talent for making me see I am an idiot without getting herself in trouble in the process. I'm not sure if it's the tone of her voice or the fact that the things I do are so blatantly fucked up that she's not in fact dead to me by now. She is very much alive....and in charge!

In true SIF form, I called her to talk about my psychotic behavior....on my way to a binge. That's the thing about a SIF...we think we can get away with anything! I live exactly 6 miles from Hamburger Alley. That would allow for 5 minutes of chatting about how I needed saving and 1 minute of, "Ooops I have a call coming in let me call you back," so that I could swing through the drive-thru unbeknowst to her. Then...6 miles back to the womb and, "Oh...damn another call. Let me call you back." 5 minutes to inhale and then resume fixing me. Who does this? For someone without a college degree I really should look in to the strategic development of something other than my ass! It's just sick! Sooo....I pulled into Arby's and cut the phone off just in time....hearing "Welcome to Arby's may I take your order" wouldn't have gone over really well. Had it ended there, I might have even let myself slide for slightly sane. But no. MacDonald's (that's what the drive-thru lady says) is about 2 blocks away and that's where I get my fries...oh and Coke...they have the best Coke. After ordering my usual large fry medium Coke, I felt guilt ridden. I called the Warden back to tell her what I was up to. I think she was extra bitter as she was forcing herself to eat fat free pudding and whipped cream while I was whoring myself across town! Sorry!

While she was very understanding of my "issues" she wasn't having any of my excuses. She did let me get off the phone for consumption. I fear the sound of hearing me slop down fries and cheddar laden roast beef would have been a bit much for anyone! I told her I'd call her back. When I didn't she text me...no doubt thinking I'd gone back for round 2. I was in the shower. I felt like a dirty whore who had just cheated on her husband with Osoma Bin Laden. At least if that had really happened we'd know where he was and could cut his balls off. You think with as many wives as he has one of them would have done that by now....anyway. I was dirty. I finally did call her back. She agreed to be my keeper. I honestly think she has NO idea what she's getting herself into. I need to be on Death Row...locked up...no contact with anyone...anything...throw away the key...my only food choices....raw veggies and sodium free chicken broth. Let's face it...I can't afford those fancy weight loss centers and I've paid enough in taxes to afford jail. I agreed to strap on the arm band and allow her full access. I haven't heard from her in a few days....I fear she may have been traumatized after seeing what I really weigh. Great...she most likely fell off her chair, sustained a massive head injury and now her death would be on my hands. Blunt force trauma to the head...Dr. Henry Lee would be proud. Worse yet...she would be a vegetable...the things she told me to eat more of and I didn't. I will eat them from now on in memory of my friend, the Warden who was only trying to save me from my fat.

Actually, we did speak on Monday. I believe the conversation went something like this, ME: "I have no desire to eat healthy." HER: "One meal at a time...eat more veggies." ME: "Can I start on New me Tuesday?" HER: "Oh I have something funny to tell you. I went shopping for new appliances and much like a SIF I was overly concerned with the size of my refrigerator. I wanted to make sure it would hold all my food." ME: "Are you there God, it's me Fatty." Whilst I can relate to the fear of an under-sized fridge, this was akin to the Warden telling me he did time for murder and has since been reformed. I can't have someone with criminal tendencies watching over me! Or could I? This could be the prefect plan. I will dig deep for hidden fat and allow myself an opportunity to break free of her....when the time is right. Look out!

Chewin the Fat

2010-04-24T07:57:00.000-07:00

So....Mother came for a visit and managed not to tell me, "I don't look that bad." It's a small victory but one worth celebrating. Mothers Day is just around the corner so I suspect that played into her agenda. What exactly do you say whilst gazing upon 456 lbs of what was once small enough to exit your body gracefully? Ahhh....thanks for getting out in the nick of time, perhaps? Wanna know what I got her for Mother's Day? It's the gift that keeps on giving...An "Ass Blaster" from QVC! It's a hand me down. Not because she needs it...because my husband, in his infinite male wisdom (aka...stupidity), decided it was the perfect gift for his not so perfect wife. Thanks Honey! I wanted to reciprocate but they don't currently have a gadget for the dumb man gene. I'm sure it's in the works....no doubt by a man....who is putting it off until after football season....who will set it down somewhere and forget where he put it...probably 2 inches from where it belongs....then his wife will throw it out thinking it's trash....so it may take a while but there's always hope.

I'm changing things up a bit to share some things I observed/experienced over the past few weeks:

1. Dunkin Donuts tag line "Keeps America Running"....I can't be sure the Presidents Council on Physical Fitness would agree that coffee and donuts keeps American running. Running to the cardiologist maybe.....or back to Dunkin Donuts....but literally running after eating donuts is nearly impossible....unless you are a SIF! I ate 3 this morning and while I did not go for a post consumption run...I could have. Commitment at it's finest. Strength in the face of adversity.... I give you.... a SIF

2. Running a Half Marathon whilst Fat...Not only have I been doing this for years....I'm getting quite good at it. I dare say I am the Queen of the Clydesdale Division....but I can't....bcs the tricky part about being a fat runner is...the fatter you are the faster you are! I kid you not...I'm what I like to call "middle of the road fat." You know...I can pass on either side of the double line when I have to. So the skinnies always like to ask me my time at the finish. Rude. Does it matter? I just ran 13 freakin miles with 2 of you strapped to my ass! Is there a time goal associated with dragging 1/4 pounders 13 miles?!!! I think not. So stop asking...bitches. When you are noticeably fat....no one asks these questions. You are simply congratulated on a job well done. UNFAIR! Here's the thing....they usually beat me! Perhaps they are fueling up at Dunkin Donuts pre-race...I don't know! Maybe they are reading into the slogan and running with it! All I know...I have yet to run a race where I am not passed by some chick in screaming spandex with an ass large enough to post her family tree dating back to...oh say...Jesus! *Pause for random sign of cross* Top that with my 67 year old Dad beating me by like an hour and winning 1st place in his age group and....well....it's just shameful. One of two things needs to happen...I need to get fatter or find a new hobby.

3. Running Expos...they irritate me beyond belief. No... I don't need any extra butt paste or nipple protectors. My ass has enough fry grease to keep it lubed and my nipples are the only part of my breasts that are real...I shant hinder them from shining. Perhaps I can buy some new running shorts that say "Runner Chick" on the ass. Yeah...that would keep people guessing. It would look like "Running for chicken" plastered on my ass....lovely. Mother came with Dad and I to the running Expo. This nice young man asked her if she wanted to make a sign for her runners. She obliged, handed him back the sign and walked off. Interesting. Thank God there was an egg AND a sperm involved in my creation. After explaining that we were in fact her runners and we would not be able to see the sign from the EXPO....something clicked, she went back for the sign and we were on our way.

4. Being Poor = Being Fat...at first this didn't seem logical. If you are broke... you can't afford to eat so that makes you skinny, right? Not. You can't afford GOOD food. Everything bad for you is affordable. Little Debbie (love you)...low class whore at just under a buck, Jimmy Dean...typical man...lures you in with the promise good things and ends up on your ass and my personal favorite Cap'n Crunch....he might wanna crunch some numbers bcs that sugar ferry will take you on a one way trip to Fattyville! Everywhere you look there's a Dolla Menu calling out to the poor! Hell, I clip coupons to save money and the only thing I can get dirt cheap is ice cream and soda. Nobody's handing out coupons for apples and lettuce....which by the way cost more than half of what a minimum wage worker make in one hour. Let's see....I worked all week, made $67 and now I need food...spend it on a one night stand with a Golden Delicious or enjoy a week long tryst with that no good hooka Little Debbie. The choice is clear. We are fat bcs we can afford it! Here's some food for thought: I don't like being poor, I don't like being fat but I do so enjoy eating the poor man's diet which in turn makes me fat. One word: Intervention. Make the call.

Well, it's high noon and you know what that means....Fat Girl Lunch Hour! My God it's like Christmas in April!!! SIF out!

The Final Countdown

2010-04-11T13:54:00.001-07:00

As usual, I waited until the last minute to notice I went from Forever 21 to Forever 6x in just one winter. I don't get it. I look in the same damn mirror for 12 months and nothing "looks" different. I'd still "do" me...according to my mirror. However, I have come to realize that mirror is a lying little bastard. My closet is the only truthful functioning thing in the house. When I want to wear my skinny jeans it quietly reminds me, "that's not in the cards" and I swiftly move to the "big girl" section. Don't even pretend you don't have a "big girl" section in your closet. Why throw out the size 22 's when the next crisis is right around the corner? Personally, I can't wait to get back in my not so biggie jeans. I hate the fat ones. The waist comes up to my throat and I feel like a fat nerd. But they support all the junk in my trunk and that's no small feat. So my plan is as follows: Find someone with Swine Flu and or HIV and consummate the union. That is the only 1.5 month diet plan guaranteed to make me Forever size 2....until fall.

As much as I hate buying "temporary fat clothes"...my 1985 size 26 jeans just weren't gettin it. There's nothing worse than seeing people you know whilst shopping and holding 8 sizes larger than their worst day. When caught, I like to pretend I grabbed the wrong size....in everything. I'm known to do a little, " Oh my Gosh I grabbed the wrong size. Silly me." Or, when caught with too many items, "Yeah, all the size 0's were gone so I thought I'd try on the 24's and order the 0's online." Deceptive yet effective. Then we move on to my next issue. If the clothing rack dictates a size 24, why does the fitting room mirror make me look like Angelina Jolie? F'n mirrors again! I'd suggest it was my eye sight, but I already wear contacts strong enough to make Stevie Wonder see things clearly. The way they make these sizes today (sound like my mother in the 80's)....you put your leg in what feels like a tarp, only to be strangled at the thighs with enough room to throw quarters down your ass! Now there's a visual. Here's a clue Mr./Mrs. designer persons...when someone is a 26....you don't need to call them skinny jeans and cut them for supersized fit models! Grab you a beach ball and start shaping! Gheez.

So as you can imagine, bikini shopping is impossible. Where to put it all? I refuse to wear onesies or tankinies. That would make me fat. (no disrespect to those who are thin and wear them...I just hate you is all...except you Turtle...cause you look great in yours!). Thongs are out so that leaves alota skin and a little material. It's funny...no matter how big I get....big girl rocks a bikini! Mostly bcs my friends have been trained to tell me I look great. I didn't train them...they just do it. They must be in cahoots with my mirror. Enablers at their finest. My favorite amongst the offenders, my mother of course. Her signature line, "You don't look that bad." Thanks mother...that's typically what they tell people when they've been malled by a bear or hit by a bus. A real compliment I'm sure. She's about to visit. If you are reading this Mother, I know I'm fat so could you maybe say, "How's my big fat daughter? Dad and I almost didn't recognize you since you gained back all the weight." That right there should be enough for me to leave you at the airport and tell people I was raised by wolves.

I put myself back on house arrest in an attempt to take off 1 trillion pounds in a month and half. I fear not even jail can jump that hurdle. The part where I tell it what I eat is always the issue...who goes on a diet and lies to themselves? Me. I like the numbers to look good. I'm truthful about what I eat....just not how much. Here's the reason...1 serving looks great on paper...12 is where it gets ugly. I need to look good on paper if nowhere else. It's amazing how it all adds up. Perhaps how I got into this situation. Maybe I should look before I eat? Nah...what fun would that be? While I'm on the lying subject, my husband grabbed my ass the other day after admiring it... in fat jeans. I don't think he realizes how many sizes it takes to hold all that ass but he sure was liking what he saw. Dumb guy. So...what did I do to return the favor? I apologized. Yup. Told him I was sorry it was soo big.. note to self....when one gets laid about as often as a Preist (excluding the Catholics...they get way more action than they should...random sign of the cross) you should run with the compliment and use it to your advantage. Well...in my defense it was broad daylight and I never get naked at my size in broad daylight...so apologies were in order.

I feel sorry for my husband...mostly bcs he's a man... but also for the things he's forced to witness...me complaining about my weight whilst guzzling Krispy Kreme's like liquid crack, random 400 lb weigh fluctuations, naked killer whale sighting in the shower...and so on. He's a trooper. He hangs in there bcs he knows the "new me" is always right around the corner. Oh and if he left me...he'd just get sucked into some other woman's fat trauma. Might as well stick with what he knows. Aint marriage grand? That should be a standard vow for every marriage, "I vow to stick around through "thick and thin" bcs where else would I go." I now pronounce you a husband for life. You may kiss the bride...any hurry up about it....there's a buffet waiting!

Silly Rabbit....Tricks are for Fatties

2010-04-03T13:39:00.001-07:00

I was laying in "the womb" contemplating how I would top last Easters post, "A Crack in the Eggs," when I felt my heart racing. No, not from angst. It was the foot long sub I just inhaled prior to laying down. I guess it's alot to ax your body to digest 3,000 calories just in time for a mid-day siesta but....shouldn't it be use to me ask for such things by now? Yes, on this bright sunny day whilst everyone in the free world was out enjoying Mother Nature, I was in fact binge eating and napping. My commitment is such that I don't take time off for holidays. I couldn't sleep, so I started thinking about how angry I was that Subway is no longer offering your pick of $5 Foot longs. Imagine stepping up to the register with exact change (a dead giveaway that I spend far too much time there) only to be axed for a $1.50 more. Guess it's back to the dolla menu and Ronaldo McDonald. The stress of the day left me wondering what I had to look forward to aside from McNuggets comprised of 37 ingredients sure to kill me. Then it hit me...tomorrow is the day when Jesus rose... I too shall rise....right off my fat ass! Not as prophetic but an effort all the same. So I got out of bed around 3pm and the womb was without it's savior....

I failed to mention, whilst laying in the womb digesting and meal planning, I was also reading the 12 Steps of Over Eaters Anonymous...no lie. You know how sometimes you read something and it jumps right off the page bcs you feel like it's speaking to you? That was pretty much the entire book.....you had me at hello kinda thing. However comma, there was one line that made me feel like an all out addict...."Do you dream of how perfect your life would be as a thin person whilst in the process over eating?" Ummmm yeah.... it goes something like....Me as a size 0, (bcs there's always enough of that size left on the rack) with mustard & ketsup on my face, shagging Brad Pitt whilst explaining to my husband he must have known this day was coming when I broke it off with Little Debbie. Something like that. It went on to talk about the guilt associated with post-binge eating. That's where the fried chicken breast split....I do not own that emotion. So I decided to focus on that little Fuckin Crack Rabbit who would be appearing on my door step in less than 24 hours. Luckily, "New Me Monday" comes after "Hide the candy Sunday." Timing is everything for addicts.

Here's my take on Easter:

1. Whilst a Cadbury Egg is somewhat lacking in protein, it goes "right nice" (southern vernacular) with bacon. You should try it. Be thankful...the fake yoke is saving you from swallowing chicken menstruation. Are we clear on my thoughts about eggs? I think so.

2. Jelly Beans are laced with crack. It's a fact. Have you ever found yourself, over the age of 30, digging for jelly beans between layers of fake grass only to be pissed off when you couldn't find any? That's how Ray Ray Jenkins feels when he's lookin for a hit. Have you ever eaten just one? Ray Ray neitha. And Ray Ray is white so don't go there. White people hit the pipe too. Crack is after all and equal opportunity offender.

3. Peeps. What the fuck are Peeps? Refined Sugar Rabbits laced with bad food coloring. That's what they are. If you want to be one of my "peeps" you gotta come harder than marshmallow melt in your mouth bullshit. No thanks. I prefer chocolate eggs dripping in fake yoke and biting appendages off unsuspecting sugar creatures in pretty boxes. I have no use for these Peeps. None at all.

Let this serve as a warning to the Easter Bunny (who isn't real by the way....stop reading my blog crumb snatchers....that'll serve ya right!)...if you come to my house...don't be hidin shit. Nothing pisses a fatty off more than a scavenger hunt for sweets. I can carry my ass to K-mart and get everything I need without the extra work, thank you. However comma, I have a sniffer of canine proportion... so don't mess with me. If there's chocolate in this house I'll find it. Just ask my husband. Each trip to the grocery store brings hope of goodies he'll never eat. I "say" they are for him....that simply means he must beat me to the punch. I'm fast and motivated. He's...a guy. Need a say more. His lips have yet to touch a Krispy Kreme. Shoulda married a skinny girl. I have no interest in your sob stories.

Before I close out this tirade I have one question...who turned Easter into bunnies and candy when it's suppose to be about Jesus rising from the grave to save us? *pause for random sign of the cross* Hallmark takes every opportunity to jump in and commercialize any holiday they can get their hands on? Do any of us think Jesus would be proud to see the Easter Bunny waving at us from the bypass whilst encouraging us to buy over-priced foot long subs? Shameful. Instead of painting eggs and hiding baskets from future SIF, how about explaining the true meaning of Easter over a nice meal. Jesus loves fat people and he knows we gotta eat. He also knows we do not have the cardiovascular stamina to find hidden sweets and fight small children for chocolate. If you are not a Christian....I aint mad at ya but DAMN...stop celebrating our holidays! Watching children in burkas sit on Santa's lap and pose with the Easter Bunny is beyond disturbing. If you don't believe in Jesus I hereby declare no ham, no bunnies and no candy until Monday at 4pm...when I fall off the wagon and join you. Happy Easter!

Aspirations

2010-03-25T15:20:00.000-07:00

Some aspire to become President. Some to become famous. Me...I just want to be Mrs. Brad Pitt. Obviously my goals are directly in line with my God given talents whilst the general population is just reaching for things they can't hope to achieve...but that's beside the point. My point is...who aspires to be fat? Nobody I know. I mean....I will admit to aspirations of inappropriateness with the likes of Little Debbie and trysts with everything from Helluva Good to Ho-Ho's... but never with the forethought I would be packing on the pounds. In fact, I believe in non-consequence eating. It's my Scarlett O'Hara diet plan..."I'll worry about that tomorrow." I'm not trying to be fat....just failing to be thin. Yeah that's it. I'm sort of a go getter like that. If you think it's inconceivable someone would aspire to be fat...think again. There's always someone out there ready to prove to the world the "pull out method" is not an effective way to produce intelligent offspring. I give you Donna Simpson.

Apparently life at 532 pounds was a little dull so Donna decided she needed to dream big. Wearing a size 7x wasn't big enough for you Donna? How does one dream bigger than that exactly? It seems she has set her sights on becoming the largest woman in the world. What can I say? When one is faced with losing 400 lbs or gaining 200 hundred...you do the math. It's much easier to eat your way into the record book than it is to be hailed the biggest loser. I never understood why anyone would want that title, "Biggest Loser." Just being the biggest sounds better to me...and apparently Donna agrees. Here's where the road splits....her grocery bill is over $3,000 a month! That's a mortgage! It gives new meaning to the term "Eat you out of house and home."....I think so Donna. However comma, Donna is a fatty entrepreneur at heart. She has come up with an ingenious way to fund her massive grocery bill. She has a website where men pay to watch her eat fast food.. Ughum. I always knew men were the weaker sex and um...not that smart... but really! Could they not hang out in the Taco Bell parking lot and achieve the same orgasmic pleasure for free? Hell I'm there 6 nights a week...I'd give um a BOGO! I bet Donna don't make deals like that! Once again proving my theory that ineffective birth control makes it possible for all of us to have a dream.

If you aren't having a "visually ill moment" by now, allow me to give you one. Donna holds the record for being the fattest woman to give birth. Congratulations. It took 30 medics, an industrial strength crowbar and a strong gag reflex to get that baby out! Damn. I have only one question, "Who's banging this 532lb Internet sensation?" It takes alot a man to enter into something like that and come out with....well with his life quite frankly. I'm not trying to be mean but... I've been trying to get with Brad Pitt for years. I'm half her size and I aint gettin no play. If I can't get with Brad Pitt how is a woman who wears a 7x, weighs 532 lbs and eats enough to pay my mortgage having a baby? How is it that she's famous, fat and fucked? I'm just curious is all. I hate to sound cliche but she does have a pretty face. Maybe that's it? Maybe she goes to those NAAFFA mixers I told you about? Either way...Donna is clearly getting more action than me. Reason #3324 to end my life immediately if not sooner.

I have a plan for Donna. I think she should start hanging out with Lecrecia. Remember her? The Surrrday morning drinker who got shot at the bar and now wants to gain as much weight as she can to protect her life. Remember her? I think they would get along great. Donna could web cast from the bar whilst she eats wings and fries and Crecia can pound shots whilst getting shot. I bet her profits would triple! Hell I might even tune in for that. Here's the trailer, "Two fatties alone in the ghetto on a Suurrday morning. Not sure what to do they head out for drinks and a few thousand calories. They enter the bar. Shots are fired and bones start flying." I may have to pitch that one to the networks. I'm starting to get a bit jealous of the fame I've created for Donna and Cre Cre. You better at least give me credit bitches.

What can we learn from people like Donna? Use birth control. An 'X" on your clothing label may be your ticket to fame. Being fat is expensive. Men will fuck anything. And no dream is too big...literally.

***Yes I "bit" (ghetto for stole) this story from the press at large. They have done me exactly no favors so they aint gettin no credit. I took your story and added some fat! That's why I am a SIF and you are ...not. ****

Fatty in the Middle

2010-03-22T16:35:00.000-07:00

Yes.... I know I haven't made a fat deposit in a couple weeks. I'm working on it in between meals. Be back soon....

Girl Scouts...

2010-03-07T14:54:00.001-08:00

Evil little green midgets is more like it. Back in the day, being a GS was a respectable way to earn a living outside the confines of parental slavery. In fact, parents did most of the work. They had to take that oppressive form, pass it around to unsuspecting co-workers in hopes that the guilt of having crumb snatching offspring forced into early labor was enough to secure an order. That transformed into tactical warfare via the home front...at just under 4'8" the peep hole proved an ineffective means of keeping the enemy off your front porch. What's a SIF love more than cookies delivered to the home? Not much... other than a naked Brad Pitt delivery boy. Now they have morphed into tiny prostitutes pedaling their wears at the precise spot where a box of Thin Mints is equivalent to Kryptonite....the grocery store! I know this because I almost hit one of those green rodents with my car. I won't go on record and say if it was intentional or unintentional but either way they should know better than to block a SIF from the front door of any establishment that carries food. Warning...objects in car appear as large as they actually are and can do serious bodily harm when hungry....back away from the door green bitches!

Now that I got that off my chest....I will admit to buying a box....or 5! Yes! Yes, I broke SIF rule #34567...shopping whilst hungry. I was a prime target. Before I even broke the threshold of the sliding glass door to the Food Palace, I had spent my entire grocery budget on Thin Mints, Samoa's and Tagalongs. The Mom's took one look at my ass and started telling me all about the healthy new options in GS cookies. Shut it Mommy....I'm a SIF...I know the menu, I don't need suggestions and by the way... your kids are butt ugly and yes they look just like you! Bag um and cut the small talk. No, I'm not a very nice person when it comes to healthy alternatives. I'll let you know when I jump on that band wagon. I do recall another rage filled trip to the grocery ruined by the likes of the GS. I was living in VA and had made a quick run to the store for...whatever I was craving. As is usually the case this time of year, the little green prostitutes were out in full force. This time, they got me on the way out. Had I seen it coming, I may have had a snack to offset the impending drool that follows the sighting of a box of Samoa's. But no, they got me head on. "You wanna buy some GS cookies," they said. "I want you to crawl back in the womb and make everyone happy," I said with my ever present inner voice. And then I bought 8 boxes. However, comma, hiding in the shadows cast by my size 53 figure, was a reporter...waiting to ask me why I chose what I chose. Lovely, busted. Luckily it was only the local paper. He asked, "Why Thin Mints?" "Because I'm going to take the home, dip them in the carton of ice cream I just bought, down some Diet Coke and pretend Brad Pitt is on the way over," my inside voice said snarkily. Luckily, my outside voice came to the rescue with, "Because they are thin and minty." Hey, the only thing I sugar coat are my cookies. I saved the article as proof that I was famous for being fat long before any of y'all knew me (southern vernacular creeping up on me again).

I hold no ill will toward the GS. They provide me with a sugar high like no other. Perhaps I should start referring to them as drug dealers instead of prostitutes. No...I'm confident they would sell their bodies for cookie sales. I can see it in their whorey little pre-pubescent eyes. I got news for ya girls: having a period sucks, getting married sucks worse and if you want to be a good little whore...stay single! If not them, I'm sure "Mom" would take one for the team. After all, mother's are just hookas with commitments. Hmmm...I do need sex and....well I do love cookies so maybe I can work something out with these little green cookie pedaling vermin. Perhaps a deal can be had. I do have experience. As you might expect...I was a member of one of these "cover groups for local pedophiles." I was in fact a BROWNIE! It was my dream job! I could actually be what I love most in this world...brownies! I don't recall having to act as a prostitute but who was banging me in that nasty brown dress anyway? Exactly no one. I had no aspirations of being a GS. Why would I? No one wants to eat a GS but everyone wants to eat a Brownie. Fat girls get all the action!

Have I lost it? Clearly...and long ago thank you. If only this brownie had known the following prior to marriage: Brownies with husbands are like leftovers....whilst they taste better everyday they are most often left to wilt and very rarely eaten. Isn't it amazing what one can learn from being a part of a group? Calling the GS as we speak....

Nailed- another repost bcs I can..I AM the SIF

2010-02-28T13:08:00.000-08:00

In addition to my not so healthy eating and exercise, I like to add a bit of relaxation to the mix every now and again. In case you haven't "had the pleasure,"unemployment is quite a job in itself. From time to time I need something cheap and satisfying to take the edge off of whatever it is I do. I'm too ADD for the beach, naps are already part of the daily regime and internet porn is...ummm...expensive. I decided a trip to the nail salon was in order. I use the word "salon" lightly. After all, when $25 buys you someone nice enough to drill your calluses while you relax in a massaging chair, there's not much left in the way of expectations. I could have gone to the fancy salon, dipped my dogs in wax and had some woman in a smock tell me how nice my feet are, but let's face it...A. My feet are often mistaken for paws B. Smocks are soooo 7th grade art class and C. I don't like liars... even when I have paid them for their services. So....off to the Asian nail salon it was! You may be wondering why someone who's unemployed would chose to part with $25 just to get their nails done. Allow me to splain: Getting your nails done when you are unemployed...$25, upgrading to a French Manicure...$30, being an overweight unemployed fatty with great feet....priceless. Moving on...as discussed, I don't have high expectations when it comes to a $25 pedicure. I have no need for said manicurist to speak the Kings English nor do I care to speak to her at any time. Nope. I'm happy to sit silently in the massage chair in attempt to get a back rub and great feet all for under $30. That being said, I do have some rules: A. It must be sanitary B. They are not allowed to talk about me in their native tongue and C. They must pretend to like me. That being said, I would expect them to greet me with open arms....not so much. I walked into said nail salon promptly at 9:30am. Being that they open at 9am I didn't want to appear anxious by arriving too soon. My 9:30am arrival was intended to send the following message: " Take some time, fire up the incense, put some fruit around the Buddha statue and relax before the customers arrive . Apparently it doesn't work that way. As I made my way through the door I was greeted as follows: "Why you here?" Far from the Kings English and a bit bitchy if I do say so myself but as a lover of words I understand the language barrier and responded politely with, "A pedicure please." Without so much as a smile, I received the next in a series of orders "You sign in." Right. Because I'm the only one here and I wouldn't want to confuse the 8 nail ladies (and the 1 guy who is clearly the husband of one of the nail ladies who is too meek to divulge said information thus allowing me and endless game "guess who's the wife"for the next few visits) that are waiting to bust their drill bits on my dogs. In a very militant fashion, I signed my name on the list just in case their was a rush. Fully prepared for these situations I started to sit down and rummage through gossip mags for entertainment. Not so much. Before my unusually large ass could brush the seat cushion I was again called to duty. "You pick polish." This was starting to seem like work. Maybe they didn't get the memo...I'm unemployed. After picking my polish I decided to wait for further orders before preceding with "my" plan. Good thing bcs as soon as the polish was in hand...the next order came. "You sit here." Well at least I was sitting and doing so without the fear of additional duties. After all, what could be asked of me in this position?" You pull up pants, give me foot...no other foot, turn on chair...too strong" just to name a few. I was exhausted. I decided to play a quick game of "Guess who the wife is" while my feet were being filed down to human proportions. There was really only one choice...the cute young girl who always smiled and said "Hi Kelly" when she saw me. If she was nice to me there had to be a reason...profit. In fact, I know for sure that they only way she could have known my name was bcs the militant worker made me put it on the sheet. Trickery. That's what that's all about. Pretending to know me so I'll like you and come back. I invented that one. Now that I had mastered the"wife game" and the "general" was busy sawing away, it was time to fire up the chair. I prefer a the rolling massage to the kneading. Actually it didn't seem to matter bcs every setting I tried felt like large women was doing the River Dance on my back. Bored, I decided to incorporate my daily nap into this experience. Bad idea as I was about to get in trouble. No, not for sleeping on the job. Apparently I cut my toenails wrong thus causing the General extra work. "Ouch!" No, I wasn't screaming. The General said it for me in preparation for the surgery she was about to perform on my ingrown toenail. Correct me if I'm wrong but the cosmetology licenses hanging on the wall don't include an MD! I smiled bcs she was smiling but clearly I was delusional. My smile was in response to a glimpse of joy from the General. Her smile was in response to the joy she would take in causing me great pain! Once again...language barrier. YOU don't say ouch before something is about to hurt ME....I say ouch to let you know that it hurts! Mentally mailing a copy of Rosetta Stone to said nail salon. In any event, the pain would end up being a result of my inability to "Cut nail straight across." That's when the "chatter" started. You want to know how you know when someones talking about you even when you don't speak the language? Simple. Listen for random laughter and sporadic eye contact followed by the burying of heads. In response to this attack, I decided I would seek revenge on the checkout lady (who I know for a fact doesn't speak a lick of English yet has been entrusted to money handling). They definitely trained her to say "No Credit...Cash Only" bcs I heard that no less than 14 times while under the command of the General. They like to refer to the handwritten 4x4 plaque posted on the wall that says, "No Credit...Cash Only." As if that's feasible when 9 out of 10 women in the salon are spending money that don't have. Nonetheless, they will gladly hold your child hostage while you run to the ATM. Luckily I had cash. When I got to the "register" (there really isn't a register...all the money goes into the drawer of the lady who sits closest to the front... who I'm convinced speaks fluent English and will one day make a break for it) the Money Lady" said, "25." I responded, "Que? Quanta Cuesta?" She looked around for help but the General and her troops were too busy giving orders to notice. Not sure what to do she placed a 20 dollar bill and a 5 dollar bill on the table. I politely responded, " Yo no se." Desperate, she picked up the 20 and the 5 and placed it in my palm. "Oooooh, gracias", I said as I handed her back the $25 and walked out the door. Being a fat girl who wants great feet...$25, being a fat girl who wants great feet while being treated like crap...$25, being a fat girl with great feet who was treated like crap and speaks another language....FREE!

Fat Saves Lives

2010-02-24T15:30:00.000-08:00

"I can't make this shit up" is wearing out it's welcome on the SIF blog! I swear, every time I turn around my SIF are providing me with enough material to re-write War and Peace as "Too Fat to Be True!" Good work sistas! So there I was...working like the enslaved wife my husband always wanted , when my home page popped up a story about a woman who was saved by her fat. Quite frankly, I think all things technical are pre-programmed to secretly let you know "they are watching." Like when I go to the grocery and buy a cart full of goodies only to be rewarded with register coupons for all things healthy. I don't appreciate it and I don't find it funny. Much like my homepage preparing me for random gang fire by beefing up my love handles, I wasn't amused...that is until I read the article. What? Did you think I was going to let such a treasure slip through my sodium swollen fingers? I shant!

Honestly, I don't know where to begin. I think the article was maybe 200 words, yet I felt like I was witnessing someone being hit by a train, head-on, one limb at a time and I couldn't look away. I just stared at the computer in amazement. I'm not sure if it was the ghetto fabulousness of it all or the fact it was a true story that will legitimately keep this woman from ever losing a pound...ever. I only wish someone would shoot me in the fat, thus sparing my life so I would have a legitimate excuse to maintain my inappropriate relationship with Little Debbie. But good things like that never happen to me... and even if they did, the bullet would be lost forever offering no proof of the crime and no defense for the victim. So unfair.

So...I give you "Lecrecia"(names have been changed to protect the fat)...your average SIF who simply wanted to have her a little drinky poo at the local watering hole one Saturday morning. Note...I said "morning." Hey, some like bacon some like booze...who am I to judge? As she walked into the bar, "BAM!" sista gets shot in the love handles! Bartender, make that a double! In true SIF form she didn't feel a thing...until she reached down and discovered blood coming from her side. Knowing she wasn't on her "menses" (for you mother), she wasn't quite sure what to make of the Type A situation. If it wasn't for those two pops she heard, she may not have even known her abdomen was equipped with handles. It's par for the course being a SIF. She told the police (and I quote), "I could have been dead." Yes, yes Lecrecia you could have. You also could have been thin... but you weren't. Thus, your life was spared. Cree Cree credits her love handles with saving her life. Oh for the Love of God! Who says that? Do you honestly think if I was shot in the ass I'd run around telling the press "The junk in my trunk was responsible for saving my life?" Ahh yeah I would bcs I'm a publicity whore... but I wouldn't be happy about it....

"Lecrecia" went on to say that she had been "Hollerin" about losing weight but now she wants to be as big as she can if it's going to stop a bullet. Ughhum. Take a moment and process that, will you? There are so many layers of dysfunction...allow me to break them down:

A. Who "Holla's" about losing weight. I prefer to whisper.
2. Who..at 350lbs...aspires to be as big as they can? Newsflash...you are already there.
B. Who thinks this is happening again? Apparently there is a hidden danger in Sat am drinking.

It's all so...real. There is actually someone out there who drinks on Saturday mornings whilst getting shot... before her shot... and endorses fat as a first line of defense in the war against being in the wrong place at the wrong time. What's next? Mary's Muffin Top saves her from Mayhem? Perhaps. As the story goes...the shooting suspect is still at large and Cree Cree is still...you guessed it...livin large...and Hollerin I suspect.

***Sidebar*** I'm not a biter (ghetto for plagiarism) so if you feel like you want to read the story you can go to http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/35545244/?gt1=43001 and see for yourself that I don't make this stuff up. There's even a picture to help you jump start that diet you've been putting off for fear of your life. Enjoy!

Crack in the Eggs...4/15/09

2010-02-21T17:04:00.001-08:00

I am going through all of my blogs as I put the book together. I found this one and was literally cracking up. Since it's so close to Easter I thought I would re-post it....enjoy

If little Johnny wakes up on Easter Sunday to a chocolate bunny that's missing certain critical appendages, what can one assume from this? Mommy is a SIF I suspect! Yes, I fear many SIF children wake up on Easter Sunday to find Cadbury Eggs over easy and Peeps minus one of their Peeps! It's one of the worst in a series of "Fat Girl Holiday's" and the seriousness of the occasion shouldn't be overlooked. Where was Daddy whilst Mommy stayed up until 2am "hiding Easter Baskets?" Surely he must have smelled her chocolate peanut butter breath when she climbed into bed after her big debut as Peter the "Crack" Rabbit! Nope. Daddy didn't even hear the premature cracking of the eggs or the rabbits screaming as their ears were being sucked into the jaws of a sugar crazed mother drooling on her footed pajamas. Nope. Instead, Daddy broke SIF rule #4567...never trust a crack addict to play drug dealer. Lesson learned.My father often made the same mistake over the years. Little did he know, every day was "Easter" in my top desk drawer. That's where mother hid the peanut M&M's and whatever else she could fit in between my algebra and history books. And they wonder why I wasn't the smartest egg in the basket? Mommy gave me crack Daddy. **pause and process** In an attempt to repent for said crimes, Mommy always took us to church on Easter Sunday. We were Catholic and guilt was met with open arms in the Catholic church. When I say "we" were Catholic I may not be able to include myself...**pause for confession**..."Forgive me Father for I have sinned (and continue to do so daily)it's been 36 years since my last confession. Here's the problem: I think I may not exactly be Catholic based on one incident in particular. Ummm...yeah... I sort of "took" first communion in the sense that one "takes" but I didn't exactly "take it" per say. Let me break it down for you father: I love me some bread but unleavened aint my thing. I'm quite sure If Jesus were to rise again he'd switch to Ciabatta or French. Anyway, I may have taken the body of Christ upon making my first communion but I sorta wiped it under the first pew...right side. **sign of cross** I didn't mean to but it could have used some butter or olive oil and well... I couldn't seem to get it down. It kept sticking to the roof of my mouth. Mother taught me not to chew with my mouth open and my tongue couldn't pry the unleavened disc away from the retainer that I was forced to wear in an effort to straighten the teeth that I'm confident I inherited from George Washington... So I reached in, peeled it off with my fingers, pretended to swallow and discretely wiped it under the pew. No one noticed a thing. I looked so cute and innocent in the white dress I borrowed from my cousin that no one saw the pasty body of Christ dangling underneath my butt. I guess the Catholic guilt thing never really worked on me bcs I smiled for the pictures and pretended to be one of the chosen ones. Forgive me Father."Wheeew! A weight has been lifted. I do believe that to be the only time in my life that I have walked away from food...willingly. Even back then I could spot a SIF from a mile away...even in church. There was this one lady who always sat right up front, took up 2 spots in the pew and carried a large purse. All signs that she was a SIF. Why you ask? Gotta be closest to the bread and wine at church? Is your big ass holdin up seats from other sinners? You got snacks in your over sized purse and crumbs to prove it?....you a SIF! Anyway, I know for a fact that she took at least two bodies of Christ every Sunday! Now I'm all for over eating and known for trying two of everything but never have I gone so far as to take more than my fair share of the body of Christ! SIF, we must pray for her. Now that I am older and of independent mind, I have chosen a church that better suits my needs. They offer unlimited sourdough and grape juice sans guilt! Thank you Jesus! I think we have learned an important lesson here. If you give a SIF an inch she'll gain an inch! How did the significance of Easter go from the Resurrection of Christ to Cadbury Eggs and Peeps? I dare say the SIF are to blame! Give us a holiday, we'll give you a reason to hide food and binge eat! Thanks Easter Bunny!

I believe I can fly...maybe not

2010-02-18T13:58:00.001-08:00

Flying...you kiss your mama with that mouth? Unfortunately that's what flying has become....a 6 letter word. For real! Who really enjoys flying these days? Anyone? The airlines do... I'm sure of that! For a few million dollars you can fly two hours away complete with a bitchy Flying Waitress, over priced cans of shitty beer and if you want to bring along extras like.... oh I don't know...clothes....that's another hundred! Sounds lovely, I'll have that! I mean really! I tried switching to 1st class thinking behind that little curtain was a friendly smile, a Bloody Mary and some decent eats...NOT! I got a bitchier Flying Waitress (in a dress as opposed to a skirt..and sometimes a bitchy gay guy which I prefer), Chex Mix instead of peanuts and a can of tomato juice I was able to convert to a Bloody Mary as soon as I unsnapped the bottle of Vodka fit for Mini-Me. Why pay double for a curtain to separate yourself from the commoners when they don't even close the damn thing! Apparently it's imperative that we see the terrorists entering first class so we can stab them with our sporks before they attempt to get at Kernel Saunders in the cockpit. Thanks Homeland Security...you're real pals. So instead of hob-nobbing with the other idiots who thought this was a good plan, I had to witness Daryl and his other brother Daryl relieving themselves in my 1st class Porta-John! How dare they cross the line into my over-priced kingdom? What does all of this have to do with being fat...apparently alot. It seems the airlines are now partaking in Fatscrimination....bastards!

By now you've seen the news about that famous Hollywood Director/Producer type being denied a seat on an airplane bcs he was too fat. Normally I could care less what happens to men but being that he's fat...I'll allow for an exception. So he books a seat on the plane and just when he gets all nice and cozy... the bitchy little Flying Waitress informs him that unless he buys 2 seats he will have to exit the plane....from either the front or rear exit (complete with the index finger hand signal)...ok I made up that last part but I'm at least 2.18% sure it happened. What's a guy to do? Stay and fight for his love handles? I think not! You exit gracefully and cause a scene over the phone where the evidence is "weighted" in your favor. You can't exactly defend your 765 lb ass whilst staring seats that barely hold a 1/4 Pounder! FYI, the other passengers will not rise to your defense. I got news for ya...they were all secretly hoping you'd be booted from the aircraft before they had to squeeze in between you, your 8 chins, back fat and cankles. It doesn't make for a pleasant ride. I know...I've had occasion to be stuck in the middle of "my people" and it can be down right painful. Forget the seat dividers....they were swallowed up at, "Hello." There'll be no napping unless you enjoy curling up with an appendage that has more crevices than the Grand Canyon. Whilst fat may appear comfy...it's not. I distinctly remember setting my allotted can of Coke on what I thought was a tray...not so much...it was a leg...I think. I believe my husband was on the other side of the adipose creature but I can't be sure bcs I didn't in fact see him until we landed and fatty deplaned. It's exhausting being fat. No matter which side of the aisle your on.

Whilst I don't condone how the airline handled the situation, what are they suppose to do? Place scales in the seats and weigh everyone prior to take off? Or maybe the mandatory line of questioning should include, " Have your saddle bags been in your possession at all times?" or "Did anyone unknown to you tell you you were too fat to fly?" I don't know...just a thought. Maybe they could ax when you make the reservation if you'll be needing an additional seat for your ass? Oh wait...can't make reservations over the phone...that's an additional $100. So maybe when you go online there could be something that states the weight limit of the seat you chose and then you could enter your weight and watch the screen blow up in your face and re-direct you to http://www.jennycraig.com/ or something. That might work. Seriously...so let's say you are one of the 2 fatties in the world who actually understands they are too fat to fly. How do you go about booking your "ass" a ticket? You would have to name it, buy it a passport and be prepared to show it at the gate. On the up side...that's another snack, can of Coke an a carry on. I'd show my fat ass for that.

You may be shocked to learn that I, too, was the victim of Fatscrimination whilst flying the not so friendly skies. I was headed out for a weekend on Martha's Vineyard...she's an old friend of mine. Anywho, you can either go by boat or plane. Fat people don't float so well, so I chose the plane. Long story short, this conglomeration of tin they called a plane was big enough for 6 people...under normal circumstances. We were instructed to give the pilot our luggage so he could arrange it in such a way that we wouldn't crash and die. So comforting. I should mention...I don't travel light...nothing about me is light...not my ass...not my luggage...and at that time...not my boyfriend! TMI. Anywho, when we stepped outside to board the plane the pilot summonsed me to the side. I was sure he was about to tell me that I needed to take some shit out of my suitcase or get a white boyfriend...I wasn't sure. Discrimination in this day and age...bastards! Much to my surprise it was neither. Thank God...can't live without my clothes or my dick....sorry. Anyway, he informed me that I would be sitting next to him on the plane. Surely he thought I was hot and this was his way of putting the moves on me. Exactly 1 second later... the fantasy was over as he stated, "It's a weight issue." Excuse me! I convinced myself I was either the skinniest one on the plane or that this was his cover up for membership into the mile high club. I wasn't amused. So much so, that upon take off I informed the passengers that there would be no in flight beverage service as I needed to keep my fat layers still or the plane would fall out of balance thus resulting in our untimely deaths. There were some looks but whatever...I got to wear the headset and pretend I was flying the plane. That made up for not hooking up with the pilot and him calling me fat n all. Not for nothing....no one should ever have to watch a plane land. I know one thing for sure....all 879 lbs of me was as still as 879 lbs can be and that damn plane was flying about as straight as Richard Simmons....okaaaay!

I don't know...maybe I should just drive from now on. If I get a bigger rental car no one will think it's bcs I'm fat...they'll just assume I have alot of junk...and I do...it's just in my trunk as opposed to the vehicles. Ah F it! I'm gonna fly and order up a seat for my fat ass! I'll make demands for my ass in the 3rd person and no one will be the wiser. "Ah yes, I would like a blanket. My ass is cold. And I'll need a Coke no ice...my ass hates a cold drink. Oh and can I have some nuts? My ass loves nuts." Whilst my flying neighbors will think there is an empty seat between us, I will be quick to inform them that my ass paid for this seat and no... they can't put their bags on my ass . Yup. That's what I'll do. Not sure about the passport and the whole gate thing so I'm open to suggestions. Does my ass have to think of everything?!

Why didn't Mother buy me this doll?

2010-02-13T14:23:00.000-08:00

If I were to re-create Barbie, this is exactly what she would look like...me as a blonde!

Cap'n Phil

2010-02-10T13:52:00.000-08:00

By now you know I am obsessed with random TV shows that I am forced to watch as a result of a small yet complex commitment I call "Marriage." Whilst the shackles most often bind me, on occasion I've been known to actually like a show or two. Mostly bcs I derive blog material after realizing I will once again be denied sex. Anywho I am a big fan of that show "Deadliest Catch." I have unexplained feelings for Sig and Andy ( you are hot as balls...except when you wear the Cowboy hat...not into that scene). Let's leave that alone. One of my other fav's is a salty seamen named Phil Harris...Captain of the Cornelia Marie. Unfortunately he passed away today. I was most sad to hear the news. He was a chain smoking, Red Bull drinking fisherman who cussed like a sailor and made no excuses for any of it. Kinda like me when I down a barrel of Krispy Kreme's. Anywho, when someone I like dies....I give them the floor on the SIF blog. I know Tara won't understand a word of this...except the no sex chain smoking part. It's ok girl. Enjoy your vacation.

Cap'n Phil....may God welcome you into Heaven where you can fish forever~!

As thick as I use to be 9/10/08 re-post

2010-02-06T14:03:00.001-08:00

Today is a high drama day for the SIF. It’s raining here on the Outer Banks. In fact, with the passing of “Hanna” the beaches have been temporarily “Red Flagged” due to the threat of Rip Currents. I have my own version of the“Red Flag” system. This website has been put on permanent "bad weather" alert due to the high threat of binge eating! Think about it...rainy days present serious obstacles for the SIF. You wake up, ready to start fresh with your “new diet” and then…rain. You can’t go outside so why not cook yourself a nice comfort meal like bacon and eggs. Sure! It’s low carb. So you change your old diet to the new diet bcs everyone loves Dr. Atkins! After pouring a vat of grease into your gut, it’s time for a mid-morning nap. After all, cooking is hard work. As you wake from your mid-morning siesta, you peer out the window to make sure the enabling rain is still keeping you down. Score…it’s a down pour! Now what? Mindless television perhaps? Hmmm….better shower first. A bacon smelling weave is the first sign of a SIF. Since we like to roll incognito, a shower it is. Well lookie here…it’s high noon! We all know what that is….Fat Girl Lunch Hour! Out of respect for the sisterhood, you must eat...even if you are not hungry. It's the law. Then Days of Our Lives comes on so it's off to the sofa to see who Stephano is stalking. We all know it's the Brady's but a SIF needs a little drama to settle her stomach. Downfall of drama... it's a prelude to slar phase #2 (nap). By now the sun has emerged but you choose not to acknowledge it. You have planned to be fat and lazy. Nothing will deter you from your mission. It's madness. Glad I got that off my chest. If your rainy days don't "look" like that, you better check out the Skinny Bitch website. They run on their treadmills, eat carrots and pray for sunshine! They are clearly to blame for ruing my rainy day agenda. Luckily I have a job that won't allow me to call in sick for "weather related trauma." In fact, I have to go into a real office and pretend something is going on...that's how mortgage works in 2008. I must say it's hard work. So instead of thinking about the fun I could be having at home, I had a realization.... I am out of control. I know I said that 18 posts ago but rainy days bring revelations to the forefront. This week was the week I would gain back control. My grand master plan for dieting was what I'll call "cut back." No formal take aways just less of the bad stuff. Seemed realistic. By Monday night I had downed about 15 mini Butterfingers. Nectar of the Gods I tell ya. Anyway, they weren't full sized candy bars so I was on track for success. Tuesday I only ate ten. Wed, well I ran out. I may go into convulsions. I think I may be addicted to food...sugar in particular. Do you know anyone who works out 2x a day and then heads for the drive-thru? Allow me to introduce myself! I decided to steer clear of my demons (home) and went to lunch with my friend Sharon. She wanted salad which of course traumatized me. Tell me what's so delicious about a bunch of lettuce with chicken on it when I could wrap that jam in a tortilla, throw in a side of fries and wash it down with a Diet Coke? Oh and don't forget a side of ranch for dipping. If you ask me, same amount of calories. No one really likes salads, do they? Are we rabbits people?! All things considered, I decided to take the plunge. I went against every SIF rule, and ordered a salad. I even got the dressing on the side like the skinny ones do. I ate "it" relatively unenthused. I was hungry like 5 minutes later. There's no convincing me that carbs are the enemy. I had to down 15 pieces of salt water taffy to stop the shakes. Shakes are not so attractive....kinda like the bacon smelling weave. Dead give away to some form of addiction. Here's the other thing....I eat everything as though I will never eat again! I watch people eat salads and it fascinates me. They talk, they take a bite, they hover over the salad, they talk some more... it's a crime is what it is! My food has 4 maybe 5 seconds tops before it's on the fork and headed down the hatch. I don't care what it is...salad, Krispy Kreme...doesn't matter. Well if it was vinegar (sorry Skinegars) I might let it linger. I don't have time for talking. I'm on a mission! Someone needs to call that show Intervention and tell them they are missing a large group of addicts right here on SIF! Next I did what all SIF do when they need some cheering up, I called my Mom. She offered the following motivational statement, "I think you look fine. I've seen you heavier." Somewhere hidden deep within that statement was a compliment. It made me hungry so I went looking for something to eat. If she's seen me heavier I might as well give her a flashback. I thought I would set my trainer up for failure by getting his opinion of my girly figure. (remember I'm a highly active fatty) He told me I was "thick." Tell me, did mother ever prepare you to be called "thick." It's thin minus the "n "add a "ck" but that offers little comfort when you envision men calling you "Thicky Ricardo." In some parts of the ghetto thick is a good thing. Translated loosely by a SIF, it's "I've seen you heavier!" Let's reflect on what I've done right as a "not as heavy as I use to be thick person." I had a salad. I should get an F'n Academy Award for eating that! Yes, I had to act like I liked it. I may have even thrown in "I'm so full. That was great." That was the only good thing I did. The rest of the day I've been sniffing for food like a blood hound on the trail of a triple homicide! There will be blood. No mother I'm not mad at you for calling me not as heavy as I use to be. I prefer lies when possible but your not my husband so I'll let it slide. One day...one day I will buy clothes in the single digits again! Watch out Forever 21...fatties comin!

Nostalgia

2010-02-06T13:58:00.000-08:00

I've been going through my old blogs on preparation for the assemblance of my soon to be best selling novel....ughum...and I came across a 2008 blog that made me laugh. I will re-post it for those of you who weren't smart enough to know me back then. Toodles

Dionne Warwick said...."That's what friends are for"

2010-02-03T18:36:00.000-08:00

When 2 of my running friends decided to bail on our run and not bother to call (no names... Jen and Tara...ughum)...they thought this peace offering would make up for it! Might I add this sign was posted on the back of their Jeep for all the world to see...

This SIF is officially out of the closet!!