Thursday, January 26, 2012

Fatty Police are out in full force!

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

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

Monday, January 23, 2012

What's in your wallet?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Monday, January 16, 2012

Lights Out...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tuesday, January 3, 2012


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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