Wednesday, November 10, 2010


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!

Sunday, November 7, 2010

Be thankful for the love of....

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. 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.

Monday, November 1, 2010

Cave Girls & Cankles

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?