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
What the hell is a Sister in Fat? It's a bond uniting women everywhere. The inner fatty living deep within all of us. She convinces us supersizing is acceptable as long as we wash it down with a Diet Coke. Here at SIF we celebrate "New Me Monday" EVERY Monday, eat lunch at high noon and hide food from those who judge us. It's not about size sisters. If you have an inappropriate relationship with food and obsess over weight loss/gain...you ARE a SIF! Welcome Home!
Saturday, December 31, 2011
Thursday, December 29, 2011
New Blog this week....
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....
Monday, December 19, 2011
My Anthem....
"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.
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.
Monday, December 5, 2011
Calling all SIF!
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!
Sunday, December 4, 2011
The Divorce Diet
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!
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!
Friday, December 2, 2011
Wednesday, November 30, 2011
Thursday, November 24, 2011
It's Fatty Christmas!
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!
Sunday, November 20, 2011
Random Madness
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.
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.
Friday, November 11, 2011
Diet Pills vs. Bacon
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…
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…
Wednesday, November 9, 2011
Bad Fatty
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
SIF
Monday, November 7, 2011
One more time...
The blog will be up Wednesday at the latest...having technical difficulties. Sorry sisters!
Sunday, November 6, 2011
Blog in the works
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
SIF
Sunday, October 30, 2011
Saturday, October 15, 2011
How to lose an ass in 4 days...
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.
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.
Tuesday, October 11, 2011
Tuesday, September 27, 2011
Today is my birthday...
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...
Thursday, September 22, 2011
Kirstie Alley is no longer a SIF...behatch!
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."
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."
Sunday, September 18, 2011
Suckin Scale
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!!!
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!!!
Thursday, September 15, 2011
Saturday, August 27, 2011
Fategory 3
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...
Sunday, August 21, 2011
Fatty Goes to Bootcamp...
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!!
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!!
Sunday, August 14, 2011
Fatties...we have a problem
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!
Wednesday, August 10, 2011
Coming soon....
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!
Sunday, July 10, 2011
Revelations: Fat.10:0
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!"
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!"
Monday, July 4, 2011
Wednesday, June 15, 2011
Captains Log Book....
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.
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.
Monday, June 13, 2011
Worst SIF Ever..
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!
Saturday, May 21, 2011
Fat Contagious?...and other random observations
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!
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!
Sunday, May 15, 2011
New Blog coming soon!
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!
Sunday, May 8, 2011
Happy Mother's Day To the original SIF...My Mother!
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.
Thursday, April 28, 2011
Got some new SIF!
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!
Sunday, April 24, 2011
Fat on a Hot Tin Roof
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!
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!
Monday, April 18, 2011
Tuesday, April 5, 2011
Irony...
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.
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.
Sunday, April 3, 2011
Revelations...
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?
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?
Sunday, March 27, 2011
New blog coming this week!
Yes I know it's been a while. Dieting has sucked the life out of me. Fat is clearly the path of least resistance!
Tuesday, March 8, 2011
Fat Tuesday....
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
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
Tuesday, March 1, 2011
Chocolate Crack Cake a la pot... from a fellow SIF!
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.
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.
Tuesday, February 15, 2011
My Deadly Valentine...or Valentime- I aint mad at ya!
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.
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.
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