A Big Fat Lie...

Tis' the season for a fatty on the move. Wild holiday parties....shopping sprees....that's why everyone else travels between November and December. Me....not so much. I prefer to overeat/drink in the "womb" and I do my shopping online... it allows for anonymity when the numbers don't add up. My holiday traveling revolves around the gift that keeps on giving....my Vajayjay. Late November/Early December is when I head to the big city for my annual tune up. 5 hours of driving in exchange for months of riding. It's a fair trade off. I'm often asked, "Why do you insist on choosing a doctor that's so far away?" My response, "Do you service your Mercedes at Jiffy Lube?" Me either. Come on honey! In the grand scheme of things, it's the most important piece of equipment on this over sized frame! That thing harbors all sorts of magical powers. Not just anyone is qualified to work on it! Gheez. The way I see it, $30 (co-pay) gets me more action in 20 minutes than I get all year. And it's far enough away from home for me to enjoy it without making headlines. "SIF pays for sex." No one likes a scandal.

Add to the aforementioned equation one hot doctor and you have the makings for an all out affair. Except the part where he couldn't be less interested in me and he knows all of my dirt...and that my uterus is tipped backwards. That can't be attractive. Top that off with a mandatory weigh in, and it's safe to say the only affair we are having is the one I dream up whilst my ovaries are being realigned. However, comma, on this particular trip, the weigh in went from traumatic to tremendous without any help from me! Typically, I find a way to shed a few pounds before I see the mechanic. It excites him when the numbers go down and there's nothing like an excited Gyno now is there? Needless to say, he's very rarely excited when I come to town. In fact, I usually get the "Why aren't you doing your self breast exam/why are you soo fat" lecture. Why would I feel my own boobs when it's included in the co-pay? I'm just sayin is all. As far as why I'm soo fat....because I like to eat. It's really quite simple. I usually try and spice it up a bit with some tears and a random fake story to make him feel sorry for me. Last year's Emmy Nominated performance was, "I eat because I'm unhappy. I'm afraid if I was happy I'd be thin. Thin chicks are annoying and I don't want to be annoying. They also have way better lives. Starting over at my age is out of the question. Brad Pitt is already spoken for. I've missed my window. Besides...I rock miserably fat like no other." To that I usually get an extra squeeze on the ole saline sacks. Damn I'm good.

Before I get to the weigh in, I have to back up. Part of the allure of traveling is eating out. Having a legitimate excuse to eat at McDonald's is always better than my usual excuse, "Because I like the fries." On the way out of town I stopped by to pay a visit to an old friend...Ronald McDonald. As I was shoving Mc'loveliness down my throat, my phone rang. Damn! Why do people always call when I'm eating....umm maybe bcs I'm always eating. It was the Neurologist. No good can come of that. For him, I set down the nuggets and answered the phone. After all, he might reveal that I was dying. I would then have the prefect excuse to eat myself into the grave. Little did I know he had the best news ever. It seems my latest test results showed that I have low blood sugar. Really? I figured over saturation to be the case. It seems my body just plows right through sugar leaving me famished. I knew there was a medical reason I was hungry 24/7....this guy is a freakin genius! The cure? Eat more! He said it... and I almost wrecked the car in jubilation! I love this guy! Personally, I think he was rewarding me for not wearing underwear to the visit. What? I didn't think he'd be looking "there" so why dress her up? I learned that all Dr.'s do 2 things: #1 make you strip and #2 weigh you. I'm OK with #1 but #2 is downright disturbing. I hung up the phone wishing I had more to eat. Dr's orders n all.

I felt overly prepared for the "Why are you so fat" question when I arrived at the mechanic's office. There was now a medical reason for my insane obesity. My body needed a constant stream of everything to do anything....something like that. Imagine my surprise when "Dumb Nurse" came out to get my vitals. "Dumb Nurse" is the one I get about every other visit. I had lost track between her and "Mother Time"--she's no less than 156 years old and I get no benefit from her bad vision. That bitch can read a scale! Anyway, "Dumb Nurse" is sweet and....well dumb. She's so busy asking you about things that don't matter that she forgets about things that DO matter...like oh say your blood pressure and weight! But she sure knows where you are spending Christmas! After removing everything but my kidneys, I got on the scale. I knew the number, so I watched to see if maybe my scale was off by a few hundred pounds. No such luck. They use one of those old scales with the sliding bar and I find it doesn't err in my favor. As I turned to dismount the slaughter box I heard "Dumb Nurse" announce my weight to be 10 lbs lighter than what the scale actually said. I didn't think much of it considering her title. So I proceeded to the little white room to don the lovely paper robe that barely covers half a butt cheek. Luckily the damn thing ties in the front. I don't look so bad from that angle. I paid good money to look better up there...oookay! Anyway, the Dr. came in and said the following, " I am so proud of you!" My immediate thought was that he was finally coming around and this was his attempt to show interest. "Why," I asked. "You lost 10 lbs," he exclaimed! Oh good Lord. He went on to ask what I attributed my weight loss to. Ummm....your dumb ass nurse! That seemed harsh so I went with running....lots of running. "No changes in your eating," he asked. "Nope, not one single change." That would be the only factual part of our conversation that day. I wanted him to have his moment. Come on....I'm not gonna lose 10lbs again for at least 2 more years when "Dumb Nurse" comes back on rotation!

As he rearranged my innards, he reassured me that I had perfectly normal anatomy. Perhaps in my girly cavern, but behind that uterine wall lies about 6 buckets of fries that don't look too pretty without a paper robe covering them! He told me my eggs were good for about 7 more years. Really. I told my husband that carton expired a long time ago. Won't be sharing that tidbit. I don't even like eggs. Particularly ones that like fish and produce problems. As he exited the room, he winked at me and told me this was my best visit in years. Why? Did my "shit" look that good? I guess bcs of the 10 lb weight loss "Dumb Nurse" hooked me up with. I wanted to be happier about the weight loss but it was all too easy taking advantage of the system. I did what Mother made me do whenever I told a lie...I went to be alone and think about what had transpired. I came up with the following: A. A lie isn't a lie if you aren't the one who started it...B. It's ok to follow through on someone else's lie to spare them their dumb job and C. In the last 2 days I was told to eat more and that I lost 10 lbs....HOT DAMN!

You can only imagine what happened next...I went to Dunkin Donuts to celebrate! Don't worry, I got the holes. A dozen of those are only like 4 donuts. I couldn't imagine a better road trip...until it hit me....Next year, I would have to lose 20 lbs to make up for the 10 lbs that I didn't lose this year! That is, unless, I could somehow find a way to get "Dumb Nurse" promoted to full time liar. So I decided to write a letter commending her on a job well done. What should have read, " Dear Nurse, Thank you for being dumber than I am thin. Please continue to be outgoing and blind. Love, 10 ponds Less." Ended up as, "Dear Dr. Hottie, now that I am down 10, what do you say we kick that dumb ass nurse out of the room and work on crackin some of those rotten eggs?" I haven't decided if I'll mail it or not. I figure I've got 7 years to think about it. If you're wondering if I make this stuff up....step away from the computer and wash your mouth out with soap. There are 2 things I never lie about: Weight Loss and Vajayjays'. I have learned that with careful planning, they can come at the same time.

Leave it to Beaver

Ironically, that's how I describe modern day Thanksgiving. For a brief moment I was under the impression that Thanksgiving...aka "Fatty Freedom Day" was all about eating and napping. I have since learned otherwise. Rest assured... I am no June Cleaver. In fact, she would be right mortified (southern English) to meet the likes of me! I'm sorry to report that I do not run around the house in heels, pearls and a fluffy skirt whilst waiting on men folk as they sit on their lazy asses. Nah...my version of "Cleaverage" involves sweatpants, a gravy stained t-shirt and lots of me complaining about having to cook all freakin day whilst the men do what they do best....a whole lota nothin! I can't imagine the Pilgrims were this chauvinistic...and if they were, at least the chicks got to wear decent clothing. Do you have any idea how much of me I could fit into a Pilgrim frock? Hell, I could eat for days and still look like a supermodel...being that I have such a pretty face n all.

Let's revisit my Thanksgiving Day shall we? I went for a nice 6 mile run so that I could add a few hundred extra helpings of....everything. That went well. I came back hoping to get a nap before consumption. Nope. It seems that if you have a "beaver," you are required by law to work on the holiday...as an indentured servant to the penis living amongst you...and all his friends and family. Not that that varies so much from a normal work week... but the part where I spend hours cooking whilst men sit around and do whatever it is they do...well... it's almost enough to set off a round of random bitch slappin with the pearls I wasn't wearing but was willing to put on for ammunition. Instead of resorting to violence, I did what I do best....I complained about it ALL DAY AT THE TOP OF MY LUNGS. June Cleaver would be right proud (southern English again)...you know that bitch would have thrown a heel if she wasn't so damn oppressed. I got your back gurl...and for the record....it does exactly no good to retaliate. Men don't listen....not even to a beaver. Only for a beaver I fear.

I shant tell a lie...Mother did 99.9% of the cooking....except the super fattening stuff which I had to cook bcs...well let's just say bcs I'm highly qualified for the job. My Thanksgiving table is all about starch. All kinds of potatoes, bread and basically anything that sets me up for my post consumption slar phase (that's a nap to all you non Conehead fans). I need to sleep after I eat. If I remain awake I might be forced to kill myself...for various reasons:

1. It would be an easy way to lose weight. After they pull out your organs, your certain to shed a few pounds . I've been watching "Dr. G" (medical examiner) to learn how much my organs weigh so I can subtract that number from the erroneous digits produced by my lying ass scale....clearly I have no control over how much my liver weighs so why should I have to take on the extra pounds? I shouldn't.

2. I would have to listen to dumb men yell at the TV about a stupid ball carried by more dumb men who are too dumb to work together as a team. Imagine that.

3. I would have to do the dishes. That's all I have to say about that.

4. I would have to be alive to bear witness to this atrocity again next year. It's more than I can bear...even for 4,000,000 calories in a 24 hour period. There must be a binge eating corner in Heaven with my name on it.

So as you can see, what should have been my Caloric Christmas turned into a warped version of what life has become sans Cleaver's. Maybe I should move to TV Land. Life seemed ideal there. The men work. The women stay home and bang the Gardner...I mean cook and clean... and the children are all well behaved. I wasn't alive when all of this "fake life" crap was happening but I can't imagine the women back then were happy to have "Man Waiter" listed on their resume in exchange for watching Days of Our Lives on the regular. We all know what was really going on...Dad was nailing the Secretary, Mom was taking prescription crack to suppress her submissive role in life and the kids were smokin pot behind the garage. Now that's the show I want to see! Can you imagine Thanksgiving in that household! Little Johnny would be eating all of the food and giggling uncontrollably, Mother wouldn't eat a thing bcs she would too busy running laps around the house and Dad would have to "step out" for a quickie business meeting around dessert. That's reality TV. I'm pitchin that one to the networks.

Perhaps I haven't done my job in explaining to you the rage that takes over my body when dinner is finished and the men just up and leave the table whilst the women fall into place in the kitchen scrubbing and slaving over dirty dishes left behind by the Ward Cleaver's who still think it's ok to "Leave it to Beaver!" Well this Beaver aint havin it! See that shiny box over there...it's called a "dishwasher"....she right sized my ass and I'm O'freakin K with it so go ahead and introduce yourself bcs you're gonna become right good (more southern English) friends when you are single again! If that relationship doesn't work out...I'll introduce you to my other friend "Dixie"- she's a real "dish"-- paper plate to be exact! She's less work....just use her and throw 'er out. Should work out well for ya! As for who's gonna cook the dinner you place on your "dish"...better call the one responsible for making you so "chivaless"...Mama! Perhaps the longest run on paragraph in history. Made possible by the penis...forgive me.

When all is said and done, there's always dessert. Like the icing on the cake, having dessert after a rage filled Thanksgiving somehow returns life back to normal. It's easier to make, easier to clean up and easier to throw. I would never disrespect a pie by throwing it at a worthless cause. I'd rather put it towards a meaningful cause.... my mouth...cause I like it! If you are under the impression that I'm a man hater who overuses the word whilst, you are wrong. The word whilst is a beautiful word, that sounds way better than while and should be used as often as possible. That settles that. I hope you enjoyed your Thanksgiving. I did..in spite of my militant
anti-Cleaver views on the subject. I've moved on... to Christmas. My kinda holiday....fat man gets little slaves to make toys whilst random endangered species fly him across the world to eat cookies, drink milk and make Merry. Bout time a man did something worthwhile!

I swear I'm not a man hater...Thanksgiving was just a bit traumatic. If you are a "man fan" take notes and act right next year! SIF out!

Don't Eat and Drive...

Words cannot describe the joy I feel on this momentous day. I realize that there are many days of the year when we pause to reflect on greatness....Boxing Day... Flag Day....but when the world pauses to allow for uncontrolled binge eating...that my friends is Fatty Freedom Day!!! I vote to change the name of Thanksgiving to Fatty Freedom Day post haste! Pilgrims Smilgrims....I'm sure they were PIF (Pilgrims in Fat)...who else could be responsible for such a holiday! History isn't kind to the fatties....full disclosure would be nice for a change....hello. Before things get too out of control, let's take a moment to reflect on the true meaning of the day by putting some ridiculous rumors to rest:

1. Being the first one in the Thanksgiving line is rude. NOT. It's a sign of effective time management and careful execution. These are the qualities great world leaders. Go fatty.

2. Exercise portion control. In my opinion....those three words should never be used in a sentence, around each other or ever again. You kiss your mama with that mouth?

3. Chew your food slowly putting your fork down between bites. Not only is this quite possibly the dumbest thing I've ever laid ears on...it almost sounds like #2 and I'm not quite over the shock of that statement.

4. Don't be the 1st one to get 2nds. Huh....well we heavier sets don't come in first much, so let us have this one, ok? Yeah....we win!

One personal word of warning...don't let the excitement of the day lead to needless injuries: Biting of the lip, random fork wounds, roof of mouth burns and unexpected bouts of choking...chew SIF chew. Remember....it's a marathon not a sprint! Should anyone around you happen to fall into food coma....do not fear. Simply wave the gravy under the nose until such time that the fat once again rises. Happy Day!!!

Lost in the Crowd...

I promised you greatness and I shall deliver. From what species must one originate to possess the following DNA disaster...binge eater, marathon runner and Valium addict? Can't be sure but I do know the previous sentence pretty much brings you up to speed on my comings and goings over the last few weeks. As much as I like keeping you abreast of all my ridiculous behavior....I often get lost somewhere between eating to forget, forgetting to eat (umm yeah that just never happens but I've always wanted to say that so let's go with it) and just forgetting in general. I tried adding Yoga to the mix, hoping to improve my focus. I can't be sure there's room in my genes for Yoga. Let's face it, there's not much room in my "genes" period. I do try and give myself "focus type" projects every now and again...hoping it will help me with my Chi and Yang....or whatever. Take today for example....I spent 6 hours baking 4 dozen Christmas cookies and 2 loaves of bread... exactly 45 days before Christmas. That's planned, productive and premeditated behavior. Focus people focus. No one stares down an oven window like a fatty. I can single handily sense the browning of a cookie long before the buzzer goes off. Namaste.

One thing you should know about me....I may be fat but I don't often sit still. From a young age I learned that chasing the ice cream truck was the key to cancelling out calories....thus spawned my love of running. However, once again, Mother never told me that it wasn't appropriate to chase the ice cream truck at 37....oh and that I would basically have to chase it about 400 miles as my metabolism would come to a screeching halt after the age of 10! Thanks Mommy. You play the hand you are dealt so I kept up with the running. Except now, instead of chasing ice cream trucks, I run from my fat ass. I have yet to leave it in the dust... but that's a lot of dust. I fear public works isn't quite prepared for such a crisis. I like to run marathons. Why? Bcs then I can say, "I run marathons." It's that simple. It's especially fun to say it when you weigh a metric ton. You get the usual look of, "Wow, you ran a marathon" coupled with a look akin to Oprah revealing both of her parents are actually white. Yup. Just doesn't fit. So it's fun for me....in a painful sort of way. I pretty much use it as my response to, "What did you do this weekend?..for about 6 months. If I keep my audience limited to the reality TV/Crumbs in the Recliner Crowd, I can squeeze a good half a year outa one race. Productive, planned and premeditated.

Marathon logistics are no joke. At the start, runners are corralled like cattle according to their predicted finish. Much like fatties lie about their weight...the skinny types LOVE to lie about their estimated finishing time.... "Ah....yeah....I've been running half marathons in about 4 hours so put me down for 2:05 to finish the full!" Unless you are blacker than an Ace of Spades or running from the law....I call BS! The fatties....we play it cool. We position ourselves waaaaay in the back where one might expect to see spandex being worked over like a whore in church. However, I'm here to tell you that a fatty will come from behind and rise to the top, like a donut floating on top of the oil ready to be taken from the pot! Oh we may start in the fat pack but we know that 26.2 miles down the road awaits 3000 calories that need to be replenished! I'm not saying we'll get there with the Kenyans...but we'll scoot past a few quarter pounders along the way. When I say "we" I don't mean "me" per say. I'm working on tweaking my feral fatty gene to accommodate speed in relation to relative approximate time of maximum consumption as it relates to completion of satisfaction . You can't be expected to follow such technical runner jargon.

I must admit, I was thrown for a loop in the last marathon. Typically, I hang back with the "real" fatties....you know the ones who usually die in the marathon bcs they didn't realize they were actually too fat to go 2.62 miles much less 26.2...but it never occurred to them before race day....them. About half way in, I decided to take a look around for some "motivation"....maybe someone in biker shorts screaming to be set free or someone on their cell phone calling the "can't finish cab" and then I realized...there wasn't a fatty in sight. Umm....had I died and gone to Purgatory? Heaven isn't ready for all this ass so that's the best I could hope for at the time. I remember the confusion confusing me. That happens. I was fixated on this woman who may have weighed a buck o' five soaking wet. She kept walking. I'm no Rocket Scientist, however comma, some sort of rule must state that if I can keep all 678 lbs of me running...she can certainly do the same! It's not nice to judge but...I'm not nice and I always wanted to be a judge. So then I started thinking....hmmm...I must be running pretty fast bcs everywhere I look I see skin and bones. No old people...no fatties. It was the land of misfits and I was highly agitated. Where were my people? I, unlike most, don't mind when a fatty passes me. I only ask one thing of her/him, save me some fries. Being surrounded by so much skin and bones gave me cravings for fried chicken! That, in turn, gave me a side stitch bcs...you guessed it...we ran right by KFC! Could I snag a biscuit unnoticed? Hell no. These twigs on rubber would never appreciate such a fine maneuver.

Long story short....it was all trickery as usual. While my time oozed fat, I finished with skin, bones and vinegar. For once in my life, I had no appetite. Either I need to get fatter or faster. Working on both. I managed to injure my rib running the marathon. I have no answer except that being surrounding by so much bone damaged the only visible bone on my body. That costs me a shot in each butt cheek leaving me with what appears to be 2 black eyes on my ass. That'll help the sex life I'm sure. I think try my hand at Yoga one more time. Guys like fat and flexible. They don't really care for a fatty who can outrun them. Too often we have trouble letting go and it makes for an ugly scene. Yup...back to Yoga...story to follow. Namaste.

Fat is alive and well....

Hello to all! No worries...I have not eaten myself into a food coma (although the thought pleases me greatly)....just been a little busy. Will be posting again this week. What's to come? Fatty runs a marathon and does Yoga...lookout!

Scary Politics- Re-post from Oct 2008

I don’t know what disturbs me more…Halloween or Politics. Both scare me. Both require you to disguise who you are so that people will give you things. So it boils down to what disturbs you less…votes or candy. If you are reading this blog, I can only assume your vote has been cast in favor of candy. At least candy gives you some sort of pleasure without all of the drama. Just unwrap, savor and swallow. I guess the same could be said for Politics… except when you get caught unwrapping, savoring and swallowing, drama is surely going to follow! Maybe we should have the candidates dress up and trick or treat for votes. Think about it….if we just knew them for their agendas, we could make a legitimate vote on the issues. My sources tell me (gossiping at the office) that in the history of the Presidency, the better looking candidate has always won. This is why I think Brad Pitt should get on the ballot. He could ban junk food, sex and napping and still get my vote! I would make a wonderful First Fat Lady. So no matter who or what you voted for just know there’s always candy. I know bcs I am still eating my way through a “pumpkin” of Halloween candy that was given to me undoubtedly bcs I am slightly over my BMI. You can’t hide everything under a Halloween costume. In fact, I don’t even dress up. No matter what I put on, I’d always be the fat version of it. “Oh yeah, it’s Plus Size Cinderella or maybe it’s The Wicked Witch of Weight Watchers.” Yeah. I don’t need that. I prefer to answer the door, give out some candy and eat my share until the next victim arrives. I can’t imagine what would happen if a real live politician showed up at my house. I guess I would push my own agenda…like taking the calories off of labels and telling me there’s no trans fat in Ho-Hos. If I’m eating something bad I don’t really need an actual breakdown of how bad it is. If found on an inner aisle, I assume no good can come of it. To that I add, no trans fat in a Ho-Ho implies that I am making a healthy choice. It should just say, “You won’t die as quickly.” Perhaps that’s what labels should do…list the years that will be added or subtracted from your life upon consumption. Umm…I think I’d be on my 14th life. I am glad both Halloween and the Election are over. I am in full on preparation for Thanksgiving. Screw the pilgrims. This is a fatty holiday through and through! Whilst we are on my political agenda…I think triptaphan(sp) overload and Thanksgiving Coma should both be enough of a reason to make the day after Thanksgiving an official holiday. Can someone see to it that we get that on the ballot?

I'm about to...

Re-post my blog from last Halloween. Partly bcs I am very busy working on a large article that's due Friday... and partly bcs it happens to be one of my favorite blogs. You'll recall, last year at this time we were in the midst of an election that would change history. That's great n all but I don't appreciate it when news takes away from the true meaning of the October-November season...food. That's being said, I give you last year's post.

I'll be back over the weekend with more stories of over eating and stealing candy from the crumb snatchers. Until then, don't forget to stock up on the Halloween candy. Lock your door, turn off the lights and enjoy!

Trix are for Kids...

...and so are Froot Loops, Apple Jacks and Frosted Flakes! Says who? Why must everything I love be taken from me? What started with the demise of a solid sugar filled breakfast has now manifested itself into the banishment of adult pleasures. I'm more than willing to forgo my current life in exchange for the acceptable consumption of Pop Tarts and Tater Tots at any age. What happened to Saturday morning cartoons over a bowl of sugared cereal, toast and OJ? It's unheard of after the age of 2. Let's start teaching our children that sugar and carbs are the enemy whilst they are young, so that they can be fat, obsessed, overeating little f'rs before they enter kindergarten! I say, let the little bastards eat what they want and send them out to play until such time that you have to let them back in for fear of the law....I mean until they've worked off their meal...ugghum. Because of parents like you, I'm forced to wake up at the crack of my ass, run a few hundred miles and eat whole grain cardboard just to stay 100 pounds behind the Quarter Pounders (those are the skinny chicks in case you are a new reader). I can't take the pressure of having a love affair with the staples of my childhood. I know I should like baby calves reduced in a fancy sauces on a grassy plate...but I don't. Unless we are talking about 2 all beef patties, special sauce, lettuce, cheese, pickles, onions on a sesame seed bun... but I don't think those are baby calves....they taste pretty grown up.

It's a good thing I have a husband to blame for what appears in my grocery cart. "Uncrustables," Cheese Puffs, Nutty Buddies....I'm drooling all over the keyboard. Not only are these nostalgic nuggets of nectar considered classic treats of the worldly, the behind the scenes people have even started making them fat friendly. Yup. I can now enjoy whole grain Cheetos, French Fries and Beanie Weenies. Permission to side bar mid-paragraph? Riddle me this...is a fry is a fry by any other name. Perhaps. Apparently, if you call them by their socially acceptable name, Pomme Frites, you are looked upon as a cultured fatty with a distinguished pallet. However comma, when speaking of them in the "ghettonacular", French Fries, you are just plain...well, ghetto. I think the next time I go to McDonald's I'll ask them to super size my Pomme Frites and cringe when they shoot me a blank look...gold teeth glaring... Van Gogh nails scratching at the weave. Yes, that is what I'm going to do. Back on track now... You see what's going on here right? The snooty adult types are robbing the young at heart of their pleasures, turning around, renaming said treats in a foreign tongue and hoping that the we are too dumb to translate. I got news for ya....I'm fatlingual! If it involves food, I speak it sista.

For any of you doubters out there, I give you exhibit A: The rehearsal dinner. Recently I was asked to attend a rehearsal for a wedding I wasn't in. Translation...friendship = free food without laborious duties = happy SIF. As I sipped my beer and made small talk with people I believed to be looking upon me as "slutty" (not far off and proud of it, thank you), I noticed that we had been pre-seated with 2 couples and 2 kids. More beer please. I wasn't in the mood to drink but I also wasn't in the mood for pre-pubescent torture... so beer seemed the obvious choice to stabbing the midgets with my utensils. As I took my seat, I noticed that the kids had sippy cups filled, no doubt, with the likes of fruit punch....my personal favorite. Had I asked the waiter to replace my beer with Hawaiian Punch, I think we all know what would have happened...the looks...the gasps...the kiddie table for this SIF. So, I let it go. At some point, the waitress came over and asked what the adults would like to eat. The choices were slabs of beef, fish and potatoes. Fine. That is, until, without warning, the children were served pizza, fries and applesauce. Let me tell you how that felt to me....like watching the groom admit, in front of the entire wedding party that he's been shagging his 70 year mother-in-law and she's pregnant with their love child. Something like that. Are you freaking kidding me? That's a meal fit for a SIF who's tucked safely in her "womb" where she can't be judged. It took everything I had to watch those little rats dip their Pomme Frites in applesauce whilst eating the innards of their pizza and leaving the crust behind as a sign that they lead a much better life than I! Dammit! Shoulda stabbed um while I had the chance....

I dream of the days when I had "people" who would make me whatever I wanted whilst I watched Tom & Jerry and decided who would be the lucky recipient of my intolerable behavior.
The worst thing that ever happened to me was getting sent to my room. You'll recall, that's where Mommy stashed the peanut M&M's....not such a bad deal for a kid like me. Perhaps my "womb addiction" began in the days of Coco Puffs and Mac-n-Cheese. I'm no head shrink but I think someone should have a talk with Mother. I fear she may be to blame for my dependence on childlike substances. I'll leave you with a thought...I use to order fruit punch at business meetings whilst the professional types ordered coffee and tea. I thought they liked me enough to overlook my "Kool-Aid" issues. Apparently not...as I was terminated on the ride home with random strangers in the vehicle. "Your position has been eliminated," was the phrase of choice. Translation, "We gave your job to someone who drinks coffee, fatty." This is the corporate gospel according to "the man." Another day...another reason to binge eat.

The Womb...

The place where it all begins...for most of us. I must admit that I've met a few people along the way that have made me question this theory, but let's go with it for lack of a better answer. When most people hear the word "womb," they picture a warm, safe place somewhere inside the belly...perhaps behind the 400 pounds of chocolate that most pregnant women consume. When a SIF hears the word "womb," warm and safe take on a whole new meaning! Only a true SIF understands how closely related words like "conception" and "consumption" truly are. Picture animals in the wild...the kind who eat their young. I've often had such thoughts. That is why I, in fact, have no "young." I can't be trusted around a fridge, much less a tasty little brat. So I've done the next best thing...I have recreated the womb to accommodate my needs as a fatty...without fearing the long arm of the law. Good upstanding citizen...that's me.


My version of the womb does not require a fish or an egg. I like to keep it simple. Martha Stewart agrees with my theory, by the way. Smart lady...except the part where her theories got her thrown in jail. Not so simple, was it, hussie? However, I have allowed her into my womb...even with a rap sheet. I'm just gonna come right out and say it...Martha and I are sleeping together. No, I am not a Double Whopper (for you new readers...that's a fatty lesbian...and I love the gays so don't go there). I happen to enjoy rubbing my ass all over her 50,000 count sheets. In case you aren't as smart as I'd hoped you'd be, my womb is in fact my bedroom. I realize that some of my readers rode the short bus, so from time to time I like to give away the answers to my blatantly obvious riddles. That's about as compassionate as I get. Moving right along....yes, my bedroom is the womb. It's a palace of perfection fit for a fatty. I've got cable, candy, cock and clothing. I ask you...does it get any better than that? Why sure it does...those are only the "C's!" There's never a bad time of day to plant your fat ass on a Temperpedic mattress along side 400 of the squishiest pillows you've ever felt whilst melting under dim lighting to hide the dents. As if that isn't enough to make an embryo jump ship...the piece with little resistance...I eat in the womb. Granted, no one feeds me, but I'm in to cross training so it works.

Let's do some quick math shall we? Wasn't my best subject in school but I'm gonna give it a shot. If there are 24 hours in a day, take away the 5 hours that I work (clearly an over achiever)...bababababum...that leaves 19 hours...and I spend every minute of those 19 hours in the womb. There's nowhere else I'd rather be. Where else can you eat Taco Bell naked in bed while watching Fit TV? The living room perhaps? I don't think so! Aside from the fact that anyone who saw me naked would risk immediate death, the couch is leather...leather and a bare ass is not only painful but the acoustics aren't ideal for the gassy nights. It just doesn't work... under any circumstance. I also find the living room very open and cold. The womb has warm colors painted on the walls, expensive room darkening blinds to keep out the curious (clearly doing them a favor) and... well, the Rabbit. "He" is not allowed out without supervision. I have certain friends (you know who you are) who would take any opportunity to kidnap my purple penis of pleasure. Back off bitches. He likes the fatties. Yes, there are some draw backs to my womb. Crumbs in the bed, my husband, crumbs in the bed, my husband...you get the point. The benefits clearly outweigh the draw backs. I often wonder why it's so easy to get the crumbs out of my bed yet my husband refuses to budge? I can usually solve that problem by making him watch a few episodes of "Snapped" whilst giving him the crazy eye. Whoda thunk that antifreeze was the murder weapon of choice amongst housewives? I hear it tastes sweet...fatties beware! I'd much rather slip him Cialis and get a rise out of him....

If you haven't created a womb for yourself (and I suspect you have without knowing it), you really should. Every fatty needs a place to call her own. A place where she can binge, bang and belch without the fear of retaliation. I'm 2 out of 3 on that last statement. Someone once told me, "You fly I'll buy," whilst trying to get me out of the womb for a Taco Bell run. "That's a pretty good offer for a girl like me."---random Pretty Woman reference. However, not even monetary compensation can lure me from the depths of the womb. That's why they have delivery. Now if I could just get them to bring it into the womb all would be right with the world. Working on that....

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Coming tomorrow.....stay tuned.
SIF