Aspirations

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fatty in the Middle

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

Girl Scouts...

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fat Saves Lives

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I believe I can fly...maybe not

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

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

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

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

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

Why didn't Mother buy me this doll?

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

Cap'n Phil

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

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

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

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