I realized something this weekend, when men decide to do something they go all the way. Yes, that includes sex...not that I would know anything about that post marriage. In any event, my husband decided he wanted to get in shape. Great. Nothing like a buff hot husband to make me and my rabbit closer than we already are. What's the point of looking good without intent? I can't be sure I know the answer to that. I do know this, my husband is popping all sorts of look better pills, working out and self tanning whilst I ponder which "Ho-Ho" is likely to have the most cream in it. All I have to say for myself is, "It's not my fault." Did I ask to be hit by a Census worker thus rendering me unable to do anything but keep pace 75 year old woman on my morning walks? I think not. And all this walking is getting old (no pun intended). It takes forever to get where I'm going and I feel very exposed. When I run, things are moving around, jiggling, bouncing...bruising...you get the picture. There's trickery involved...you can't really see where everything lands and that has allowed me to run under the cover of fat for years. When I walk, passers by have plenty of time to size up all that is me. No good can come of that. I almost feel them telling me to pick up the pace as they drive by. I got one tip for ya: Don't stare directly into the bootie...it's been known to talk back. Oh and don't let me see any sort of fat reference rolling off your lips. I know sign language...well one sign...and I aint afraid to use it.
So as I was saying, my husband is getting all buff and coating his new muscles in spray tan. Seems a bit strange to me. If I was all buffed out, I would buy a super small thong and lay on the beach....a sort of a "coming out party." But he looks good and hides it under his clothing whilst his 2 ton wife parades around in a bikini hoping the angles of the sun reach all of the creases. Something is very wrong here. Here's what's more annoying than living with a hot guy who has enough energy to lift a small car but not his (ughum)...he has now taken to telling me how to work out. "You know, they say you should only work out every other day. You know, most of the protein you eat isn't absorbed." I'm sorry.....I've been working out for 30 years (yes I started when I was 7...shut up)...you've been working out for 5 minutes and you are going to tell me how it's done!? Granted, the results he's achieved in 5 minutes far surpass my 30 years of nightly runs....to Taco Bell. Isn't that a bitch. A guy decides to work out and he can drop all his weight in a week whilst every woman in America has to buy People, Star, US, Jenny Craig and Weight Watchers to try and figure out how it's done... and maybe we get 1 pound in 6 months. If the key to losing weight is having a dick...sign me up! Currently, that would solve both of my problems. Thank you.
In an attempt to take some time off from being me, I went to see SATC this weekend with Kimo. I had already seen it once, but I prefer to do things in 2's....2 donuts, 2 helpings, 2 of everything is always better than one. Portion control is for "1/4 pounders." I NEVER go to the movies without getting popcorn. To me, that's like going to bed without your rabbit. It's just not comfortable without someone to love. However, comma, prior to deciding to go to the movies I drank about 900 beers and ate about 3000 calories....I can accomplish alot in an hour. There was no room at the inn. When we walked into the movie theater, I was pleased to see 2 other souls in the room. We took the "rock star" seats and got cozy. Then, like it always happens (and only to me)...the fatties rolled in! 4 of them to be exact. As you might imagine, with exactly 56 seats left in the theatre they decided to bring it home and sit right in front of this beer burping SIF and her cousin. Perhaps I could have forgiven them if they didn't have heads the size of water melons and tons of popcorn and candy to pass between them. In fact, they even left a seat open between 2 of them for....well I don't know what it was for....perhaps to squash the large shadows they were casting on the screen, maybe for spillover fat or maybe just as a table for the freakin buffet they had going on! Since I had seen the movie I became obsessed with watching their every move. Picture greasy buttered lips laughing whilst popcorn rolled into boob crevices so deep it would never to be seen again...random sucking and slurping of giant sized Cokes that were depositing about 4567 grams of sugar on each of their enormous asses. Every once in a while I heard laughter....I think that's when they came up for air. They also seemed to have a fetish for "Big" ....of course they did. As if sisters....as if.
Because we were too inebriated to drive ourselves to the movies, Kimo's husband picked us up after it was over. I felt exactly 13. I saw the fatties as we were leaving. They were smoking cigarettes and reliving the movie. I realized, at that moment, we had something in common....sex. Food is our sex. Let's face it, without food I might as well be a nun. If food is my sex I am certainly giving Ron Jeremy a run for his money! I would have gone over to smoke a post "sex" cig with them but that's where the fork divided us....I do not smoke. I make up for killing my lungs by killing....well everything else. A part of me wishes I could have run over there with my portable blood pressure machine (what? everyone should have one) and taken their numbers. Between the salt, the fat, the sugar and the smoking...I fear they would have thrown up some major digits. And let's face it, those digits are the only ones anyone will ever ask them for. Mean just mean. But I'm a nice person....so I just stood there and made fun of them until "Dad" showed up to take us home and remind us, for bigger or worse we have men who will bang us...one day....when the mood strikes them. It's no SATC but it beats being the "Rabbit Lady"for the rest of my life. I fear our odds of getting real sex are far better than the smoking fatties but who knows. That one was sucking the hell outa some Coke. All it takes is only lonely man who can overlook the fat for the sucking and she's in there. There's hope sisters....there's hope.
What the hell is a Sister in Fat? It's a bond uniting women everywhere. The inner fatty living deep within all of us. She convinces us supersizing is acceptable as long as we wash it down with a Diet Coke. Here at SIF we celebrate "New Me Monday" EVERY Monday, eat lunch at high noon and hide food from those who judge us. It's not about size sisters. If you have an inappropriate relationship with food and obsess over weight loss/gain...you ARE a SIF! Welcome Home!
Sunday, June 6, 2010
Wednesday, May 26, 2010
MERSA
That would be my current diet plan after spending the weekend with my skinny friends. They say MERSA is everywhere, yet I can't seem to contract it. I need just enough to get off these last 400 lbs. But no....some schmekel from the burbs who weighs 110 lbs soaking wet can easily get my virus, die and I can't even get a solid week! Damn! Don't these people know how to work the system? Just enough to puke and lose the appetite. Dying is a clear sign of over achievement. Yes, things have taken a turn for the worse. The "sisters" came down for the weekend and failed to tell me they no longer eat OR shop at Forever 6x! A post card would have sufficed! Gheez. Lots of them wanting to go to the beach and pretend to eat. Whatever. I stuck to the sun coffin and naps in the womb. I can't be broken. Whilst I was awake, I held firm to my agenda by making small cuts to various appendages and rubbing them against public door knobs and such. Still...no Mersa. Perhaps my fat inhibits such lethal viruses from entering my body. Perhaps. Can a fatty get a break?!
You should know I haven't been able to run in over 6 weeks. Why? Oh bcs some nice man from the Census (as if stalking me in my home wasn't enough) decided to rear end me thus causing damage to the only place I should have been protected....my ass! One would think there was enough fat there to cover the SI joint/ligament whatever it is....but apparently not. 30 days from bathing suit season let's hit fatty and make her unable to do any form of cardio...unless you count inhaling as cardio in which case I am still going strong. So....I have been asked by the medical profession to "walk" as opposed to run. I'm sure some of my readers are walkers....and for that I am truly sorry. I am not a fan. Much like everything in my life, I like any form of cardio to be over quickly. If you give me too much time to think, I'll be the divorced cat lady in a week. Who wins in that scenario? The cat....until I have a craving for General Tsaos and then things just go down hill quickly. Anywho, walking. I have been walking. There I said it. The Dr. said I could "walk." To me, that means 5+ miles. To the Dr....1 mile. Who gets out of bed to walk a mile? Well maybe to KFC but not at 7am....unless they started serving breakfast and no one told me. Clearly the Dr. doesn't realize the kind of calorie deficit I'm up against! I'd have to walk to NY and back to get in the green! I'll have you know I once walked 31 miles....1x....never again. Walking sucks. To help ease the pain I enlisted Axel Rose. Most people walk to Bach...I walk to Axel..."Welcome to the Jungle" is the current theme of my life. Anywho, so today I'm moving along at what I believe to be Olympic speed when a 75 year old woman approaches me and motions me to take off my headphones. She better be dying. Nope. She decided it would be nice to tell me that we were walking at the same pace. Lovely. From marathon runner to Senior Games competitor in just 6 weeks. Only I would get hit by someone working for the gov't thus aging me 100 years and 100 lbs.
This is exactly what I mean...this shit only happens to me! Normal people get rear-ended by Johnny Redneck with no insurance...I get "Bob Smith" annoying Census worker. I shoulda popped a cap in his ass when he came to the house....I wouldn't be in this situation. So I have some free time on my hands for the sport of choice...channel surfing. Did you hear the one about the 2 chicks who tazed the Wendy's worker for not putting pickles and mayo on their sandwich?! Just hearing that makes me want to run out to the drive thru and score some free food with my 9! I'm a trained FATASSaign. I may be the only one taking their side. Leaving off key items such as pickles and mayo is...well it warrants violence quite frankly. Sisters....if you need me to testify....holla. Makes me wish I had a tazer for that F'r that hit me. His car is fixed and 60 days later I'm running from Dr. to Dr. getting my ass rearranged. I had to start wearing underwear to spare the medical profession shock blindness. Yes, I grew all of this on my own. I like the chiro assistant the best. She rearranges my thong just so before applying shock therapy to my nether region. I appreciate her defference to the amount of pressure that 1 inch piece of cloth I call "thong" is under. Anyway...
I've been trying to watch my carbs in light of my current situation. Watching them is annoying so I just eat them. It's easier to keep track of them when we are "one." All of this walking/thinking has me wondering...what idiot created the institution of marriage? Hmmm....I'm gonna go with "man" as they seem to be the primary beneficiary. Let's see....how can we get our laundry done, blow jobs AND a clean house....WE SHALL CALL HER "WIFE!" I told you....no good can come of this walking. Why just today someone asked me why I wasn't wearing my wedding ring. *Pause for "PC" answer"...oh it's so tight on my finger with this heat....or maybe....it's being re- sized or....I simply forgot as I was in a hurry. Common man isn't prepared to hear: " I have broken free of bondage if only for 1 day!" I need to get back to running... soon. It's like the more I walk the more I see. I have been shit "at" by birds and accosted by old ladies but nothing compares to the 20/20 marriage vision that comes with walking. If you are happily married...I recommend a gym membership. Time to sue the government for the demise of my ass and my marriage. In an odd twist of fate...my girlfriends husband told me if I needed a boyfriend his 2 friends think I'm hot. Translation: they are either kin to Stevie Wonder or they just don't care how fat they fuck. I think I'll stay married.
I guess for now I'll keep walking and rubbing elbows with MERSA. I wonder if MERSA is like too scared to be with me for fear of attachment...you know...like Brad Pitt. Maybe that's it. If you happen to be a reader who's currently infected, email me and I'll send you my address. I am set up to accepts specimens via email.
You should know I haven't been able to run in over 6 weeks. Why? Oh bcs some nice man from the Census (as if stalking me in my home wasn't enough) decided to rear end me thus causing damage to the only place I should have been protected....my ass! One would think there was enough fat there to cover the SI joint/ligament whatever it is....but apparently not. 30 days from bathing suit season let's hit fatty and make her unable to do any form of cardio...unless you count inhaling as cardio in which case I am still going strong. So....I have been asked by the medical profession to "walk" as opposed to run. I'm sure some of my readers are walkers....and for that I am truly sorry. I am not a fan. Much like everything in my life, I like any form of cardio to be over quickly. If you give me too much time to think, I'll be the divorced cat lady in a week. Who wins in that scenario? The cat....until I have a craving for General Tsaos and then things just go down hill quickly. Anywho, walking. I have been walking. There I said it. The Dr. said I could "walk." To me, that means 5+ miles. To the Dr....1 mile. Who gets out of bed to walk a mile? Well maybe to KFC but not at 7am....unless they started serving breakfast and no one told me. Clearly the Dr. doesn't realize the kind of calorie deficit I'm up against! I'd have to walk to NY and back to get in the green! I'll have you know I once walked 31 miles....1x....never again. Walking sucks. To help ease the pain I enlisted Axel Rose. Most people walk to Bach...I walk to Axel..."Welcome to the Jungle" is the current theme of my life. Anywho, so today I'm moving along at what I believe to be Olympic speed when a 75 year old woman approaches me and motions me to take off my headphones. She better be dying. Nope. She decided it would be nice to tell me that we were walking at the same pace. Lovely. From marathon runner to Senior Games competitor in just 6 weeks. Only I would get hit by someone working for the gov't thus aging me 100 years and 100 lbs.
This is exactly what I mean...this shit only happens to me! Normal people get rear-ended by Johnny Redneck with no insurance...I get "Bob Smith" annoying Census worker. I shoulda popped a cap in his ass when he came to the house....I wouldn't be in this situation. So I have some free time on my hands for the sport of choice...channel surfing. Did you hear the one about the 2 chicks who tazed the Wendy's worker for not putting pickles and mayo on their sandwich?! Just hearing that makes me want to run out to the drive thru and score some free food with my 9! I'm a trained FATASSaign. I may be the only one taking their side. Leaving off key items such as pickles and mayo is...well it warrants violence quite frankly. Sisters....if you need me to testify....holla. Makes me wish I had a tazer for that F'r that hit me. His car is fixed and 60 days later I'm running from Dr. to Dr. getting my ass rearranged. I had to start wearing underwear to spare the medical profession shock blindness. Yes, I grew all of this on my own. I like the chiro assistant the best. She rearranges my thong just so before applying shock therapy to my nether region. I appreciate her defference to the amount of pressure that 1 inch piece of cloth I call "thong" is under. Anyway...
I've been trying to watch my carbs in light of my current situation. Watching them is annoying so I just eat them. It's easier to keep track of them when we are "one." All of this walking/thinking has me wondering...what idiot created the institution of marriage? Hmmm....I'm gonna go with "man" as they seem to be the primary beneficiary. Let's see....how can we get our laundry done, blow jobs AND a clean house....WE SHALL CALL HER "WIFE!" I told you....no good can come of this walking. Why just today someone asked me why I wasn't wearing my wedding ring. *Pause for "PC" answer"...oh it's so tight on my finger with this heat....or maybe....it's being re- sized or....I simply forgot as I was in a hurry. Common man isn't prepared to hear: " I have broken free of bondage if only for 1 day!" I need to get back to running... soon. It's like the more I walk the more I see. I have been shit "at" by birds and accosted by old ladies but nothing compares to the 20/20 marriage vision that comes with walking. If you are happily married...I recommend a gym membership. Time to sue the government for the demise of my ass and my marriage. In an odd twist of fate...my girlfriends husband told me if I needed a boyfriend his 2 friends think I'm hot. Translation: they are either kin to Stevie Wonder or they just don't care how fat they fuck. I think I'll stay married.
I guess for now I'll keep walking and rubbing elbows with MERSA. I wonder if MERSA is like too scared to be with me for fear of attachment...you know...like Brad Pitt. Maybe that's it. If you happen to be a reader who's currently infected, email me and I'll send you my address. I am set up to accepts specimens via email.
Friday, May 14, 2010
Jail Break
As you might imagine, I have broken free of the chains that bind me. Yes. For exactly the 3rd time (in as many weeks), I have cancelled my little house arrest diet band. No worries. When I decide it's time to go back to jail, I will simply sign up under another name. You would think the peeps running this "quasi jail for fatties" would catch on to another 750lb redhead member who loses exactly no weight, cancels and reappears days later as a man. Why would I do that? It's called a free 30 day trial people! Let's face it....in exactly 30 days...scratch that...3 days I'll be back in cahoots with Little Debbie...why bother spending $12.95 when I already know the outcome. My inner Miss Cleo enables me to predict such failures and plan properly for post let down consumption. When it comes down to it, there are 2 reasons I hate the house arrest band: 1. Too many questions and 2. Lies
Too many questions: I don't like to think anyone knows I'm fat. Whilst I know this is about as impossible as bringing back the King of Pop (RIP), let me have my fantasies. Lord knows I don't have much in the way of real action...anyway. Where was I going with this...ahhh yes....so when I wear the house arrest band, everyone wants to know what it is. Nosey fuckers! Do I walk up to you and ask you why you are so ugly? Then don't ask me about my "fatsessories." "Oh, is that one of those things that counts your steps?". "No, it tazes people who ask me dumb questions. Would you like to see how it works?" - inside voice. When I try to explain what it really does, I find myself defending my little band. How dare they call this state of the art fat zapper a pedometer! No one likes an angry fatty so I usually just say, "Yes it counts my steps." But there's always that closet fatty who has to tell me how much she knows about "exercise" as she's wiping hot fudge from one of her 3 chins. "You know, they have phones with pedometers in them. Then no one can see it." "Thank you for that technology update. Maybe you should look on your phone and see if it has an application for "Go away you annoying bitch." I'm sure it's there....IPhone must have that. So...as you can see....interrogation looks about as good on me as the fat band.
Lies: Lots of them. Tell me, what is the point of paying $12.95 to wear a device to help you lose weight if you are going to spend $30 a day at McDonald's and tell the device you had salad? I feel like it knows I'm lying bcs when I start typing, it immediately wants to tell me my personal bests for the week. So I'm thinking it will say, "Hey, you ran 5 more miles than you did last week or ate 1200 less calories...but this is me...a SIF we are dealing with...here's what I get: My personal best for the week...I spent more hours lying down today than I have in the last 30 days.... 18 hours to be exact. Who thinks this should even be included in the PB categories? Clearly a man put it there....lying down means having sex.... which means burning calories. Clearly an unmarried man. Lying down in my house means watching the Science Channel and praying the batteries in my rabbit don't burn out before I fall asleep. And I wonder why I'm fat? Maybe if that band would slap a libido into my husband I'd actually use the thing! Hell I'd pay $12.95 a day! No lies! Where was I? Oh yeah...PB. You would think that after weeks of telling it I'm a man eating salad, a woman eating salad and a tranny eating salad and still no weight loss...there would be a box that pops up saying, "What gives fatty?" But no...I am rewarded for lying down. Story of my life...
There's actually a 3rd reason I hate that band...tan lines. Even after I have broken up with the damn thing, I am left with a constant reminder of another relationship gone sour. Don't worry, I'm not subjecting the general public to the sight of me in a bikini. I'm a fake n baker. Whilst the thought of skin cancer may be scary....seeing my fat dimpled ass in a thong is like an instant death ray! Not pretty. I'll take my chances in the sun coffin, thanks.
Now that I'm not under constant surveillance, I have some time on my hands. Time spent not lying is way less stressful. So here are some things I have learned this week:
1. If one were to order fries from McDonald's and those fries were to actuallybe hot upon arrival...there's a trick to keeping them that way until you get back to your "special place" to gorge. Gotta leave the bag open....I KNOW...CRAZY RIGHT?! All these years the masses have been closing the bag and coming home to soggy fries. Leave it to a SIF to solve on of the great problems plaguing the fat world. You're welcome.
2. Cheddar vs. Cheddar....all cheddar is not equal. I knew this girl (we'll call her Kelly for fun) who liked to go to Arby's for roast beef and McDonald's for fries. Anyway, she always orders a side of cheddar (from Arby's) for her roast beef. What's left after bathing her meat in cheese...you guessed it...goes on the fries. Well, just last week, the stupid drive-thru guy misunderstood and put a slice of cheddar on the sandwich. Ahhh...unacceptable. A. It doesn't melt and 2. You can't dip your fries in it. Since "Kelly" was accustomed to dealing with men who don't listen (very accustom....very), she knew to look in her bag before pulling away. Sure enough, the man who had been calling her "Sweetie" exactly every time she patronized the drive-thru, had screwed up. When she made him aware of his error he refused to fix it bcs he in fact included the side of cheddar in the bag. Typical. To a man...Cheddar is Cheddar and to a woman a dick is a dick. However comma, if the cheddar or the dick don't serve their intended purpose then they are essentially a garnishment for which one gets no pleasure. My life in a brown paper bag. It's all quite clear now. No more Arby's.
3. Birthday Cake has a shorter shelf life than expected. I bought my husband a birthday cake well in advance of his actual birthday. It was on sale...or maybe on I was on my period. It's all a little fuzzy. In any event, I decided about 3 days into my cycle that he might not like the pink flowers blooming on the frosting. I would just eat that section...to make it look more manly. Seemed like a good idea. Eating someone else's birthday cake 60 days before their birthday is always a good idea. Anyway, well....after eating the floral section I noticed some vines that didn't look right without their flowering companions, so I disposed of those as well. At this point I'm half way through the cake and birthday boy is none the wiser. He doesn't like sweets....should have found that out pre-nuptial. My immediate plan was to make the cake appear homemade by transferring it to a small pan , licking the sides down to make them equal thus having the appearance that I was something other than an out of control feral beast. Ok...here's the real reason I had to eat the cake...I had hot fudge and whipped cream in the fridge, no freakin ice cream and I was a raging PMS bitch! Yes, I put the hot fudge on the already fattening cake....and it was quite good thank you. Anyway, when I tried to piece together my downsizing plan, things didn't exactly turn out. You could definitely tell I licked the cake...oh and ate the other half. So I did what any SIF would do, I disposed of it for good. What cake? Silly husband, it's not your birthday yet.
As you can see, I am raging out of control. No shackles, no morals and no conscience. I left those at the alter thank you. Here's hoping "New Me Monday" brings an impostor playing on the appropriate team. For now, I have to get ready for my girls to come for a visit this weekend. As usual, they've all lost weight...and I found it.
Too many questions: I don't like to think anyone knows I'm fat. Whilst I know this is about as impossible as bringing back the King of Pop (RIP), let me have my fantasies. Lord knows I don't have much in the way of real action...anyway. Where was I going with this...ahhh yes....so when I wear the house arrest band, everyone wants to know what it is. Nosey fuckers! Do I walk up to you and ask you why you are so ugly? Then don't ask me about my "fatsessories." "Oh, is that one of those things that counts your steps?". "No, it tazes people who ask me dumb questions. Would you like to see how it works?" - inside voice. When I try to explain what it really does, I find myself defending my little band. How dare they call this state of the art fat zapper a pedometer! No one likes an angry fatty so I usually just say, "Yes it counts my steps." But there's always that closet fatty who has to tell me how much she knows about "exercise" as she's wiping hot fudge from one of her 3 chins. "You know, they have phones with pedometers in them. Then no one can see it." "Thank you for that technology update. Maybe you should look on your phone and see if it has an application for "Go away you annoying bitch." I'm sure it's there....IPhone must have that. So...as you can see....interrogation looks about as good on me as the fat band.
Lies: Lots of them. Tell me, what is the point of paying $12.95 to wear a device to help you lose weight if you are going to spend $30 a day at McDonald's and tell the device you had salad? I feel like it knows I'm lying bcs when I start typing, it immediately wants to tell me my personal bests for the week. So I'm thinking it will say, "Hey, you ran 5 more miles than you did last week or ate 1200 less calories...but this is me...a SIF we are dealing with...here's what I get: My personal best for the week...I spent more hours lying down today than I have in the last 30 days.... 18 hours to be exact. Who thinks this should even be included in the PB categories? Clearly a man put it there....lying down means having sex.... which means burning calories. Clearly an unmarried man. Lying down in my house means watching the Science Channel and praying the batteries in my rabbit don't burn out before I fall asleep. And I wonder why I'm fat? Maybe if that band would slap a libido into my husband I'd actually use the thing! Hell I'd pay $12.95 a day! No lies! Where was I? Oh yeah...PB. You would think that after weeks of telling it I'm a man eating salad, a woman eating salad and a tranny eating salad and still no weight loss...there would be a box that pops up saying, "What gives fatty?" But no...I am rewarded for lying down. Story of my life...
There's actually a 3rd reason I hate that band...tan lines. Even after I have broken up with the damn thing, I am left with a constant reminder of another relationship gone sour. Don't worry, I'm not subjecting the general public to the sight of me in a bikini. I'm a fake n baker. Whilst the thought of skin cancer may be scary....seeing my fat dimpled ass in a thong is like an instant death ray! Not pretty. I'll take my chances in the sun coffin, thanks.
Now that I'm not under constant surveillance, I have some time on my hands. Time spent not lying is way less stressful. So here are some things I have learned this week:
1. If one were to order fries from McDonald's and those fries were to actuallybe hot upon arrival...there's a trick to keeping them that way until you get back to your "special place" to gorge. Gotta leave the bag open....I KNOW...CRAZY RIGHT?! All these years the masses have been closing the bag and coming home to soggy fries. Leave it to a SIF to solve on of the great problems plaguing the fat world. You're welcome.
2. Cheddar vs. Cheddar....all cheddar is not equal. I knew this girl (we'll call her Kelly for fun) who liked to go to Arby's for roast beef and McDonald's for fries. Anyway, she always orders a side of cheddar (from Arby's) for her roast beef. What's left after bathing her meat in cheese...you guessed it...goes on the fries. Well, just last week, the stupid drive-thru guy misunderstood and put a slice of cheddar on the sandwich. Ahhh...unacceptable. A. It doesn't melt and 2. You can't dip your fries in it. Since "Kelly" was accustomed to dealing with men who don't listen (very accustom....very), she knew to look in her bag before pulling away. Sure enough, the man who had been calling her "Sweetie" exactly every time she patronized the drive-thru, had screwed up. When she made him aware of his error he refused to fix it bcs he in fact included the side of cheddar in the bag. Typical. To a man...Cheddar is Cheddar and to a woman a dick is a dick. However comma, if the cheddar or the dick don't serve their intended purpose then they are essentially a garnishment for which one gets no pleasure. My life in a brown paper bag. It's all quite clear now. No more Arby's.
3. Birthday Cake has a shorter shelf life than expected. I bought my husband a birthday cake well in advance of his actual birthday. It was on sale...or maybe on I was on my period. It's all a little fuzzy. In any event, I decided about 3 days into my cycle that he might not like the pink flowers blooming on the frosting. I would just eat that section...to make it look more manly. Seemed like a good idea. Eating someone else's birthday cake 60 days before their birthday is always a good idea. Anyway, well....after eating the floral section I noticed some vines that didn't look right without their flowering companions, so I disposed of those as well. At this point I'm half way through the cake and birthday boy is none the wiser. He doesn't like sweets....should have found that out pre-nuptial. My immediate plan was to make the cake appear homemade by transferring it to a small pan , licking the sides down to make them equal thus having the appearance that I was something other than an out of control feral beast. Ok...here's the real reason I had to eat the cake...I had hot fudge and whipped cream in the fridge, no freakin ice cream and I was a raging PMS bitch! Yes, I put the hot fudge on the already fattening cake....and it was quite good thank you. Anyway, when I tried to piece together my downsizing plan, things didn't exactly turn out. You could definitely tell I licked the cake...oh and ate the other half. So I did what any SIF would do, I disposed of it for good. What cake? Silly husband, it's not your birthday yet.
As you can see, I am raging out of control. No shackles, no morals and no conscience. I left those at the alter thank you. Here's hoping "New Me Monday" brings an impostor playing on the appropriate team. For now, I have to get ready for my girls to come for a visit this weekend. As usual, they've all lost weight...and I found it.
Wednesday, May 5, 2010
Fatty on Death Row
I can't think of a more appropriate place to keep decent food from an otherwise decent person. House arrest is far too liberal for the likes of me. Oh I wore the arm band but that didn't keep me from lying about what went down the hatch. Who pays $12.95 a month to lie to themselves.... nice to meet you! I'm convinced anything short of all out incarceration will result in a lifetime membership to Lane Bryant. I'm am spinning out of control...well spinning may not be the appropriate term at my size....wobbling perhaps. There's like 4 days til summer and I am still at my hibernation weight. Wake up fatty and smell the heat! Even if they make bathing suits in a 17X, I can't imagine anyone except the NIFA mixer freaks want to see that! (National Institute for Fat Awareness) How did I let myself get to this point? Well....if I knew that... I most likely wouldn't be at this point now would I?! I liken it to hair growth. When you are letting your hair grow out it seems to take forever. You look in the mirror each day and wonder if you have some mutated gene that keeps your hair from growing past your ears. You look and look... still nothing. And then one day you see a picture of yourself from 6 months ago and realize your hair is in fact growing! It works the same for fat....except my friends have been trained NOT to do 2 things....EVER....take pictures of my ass AND show them to me. I realize time is not on my side and much like my hair...whilst I don't see it happening...I am confident growth is imminent. With that, I called in the big guns.
I decided I needed a Warden of sorts....a gate keeper....a militant friend who wouldn't listen to my bullshit. Someone who would throw me in solitary confinement after hearing me bitch "my husband made me do it." Actually that might work. Scratch and save for future use...after listening to me complain about stress, the weather and any other reason I could come up with to land my ass at Taco Bell. Ughhum....I must point out that today is Cinco de Mayo. Whilst I am not Mexican, I plan to celebrate their holiday much like they celebrate the 4th of July and the Jews celebrate Christmas. I aint mad at ya....just pass me a cerveza and don't double dip in the queso and we are all good. So "New Me Monday" will actually be "New Me Thursday" this week as I have learned the Mexicans favor lard. I really need to defect. Wouldn't that be a switch....an American running south of the border...and not bcs I killed my husband...yet! I fear I would be stopped dead in my tracks bcs that's how the system works....against me...always. Anywho, back to the Warden. Whilst Susan lives exactly 5 hours from me, she has a talent for making me see I am an idiot without getting herself in trouble in the process. I'm not sure if it's the tone of her voice or the fact that the things I do are so blatantly fucked up that she's not in fact dead to me by now. She is very much alive....and in charge!
In true SIF form, I called her to talk about my psychotic behavior....on my way to a binge. That's the thing about a SIF...we think we can get away with anything! I live exactly 6 miles from Hamburger Alley. That would allow for 5 minutes of chatting about how I needed saving and 1 minute of, "Ooops I have a call coming in let me call you back," so that I could swing through the drive-thru unbeknowst to her. Then...6 miles back to the womb and, "Oh...damn another call. Let me call you back." 5 minutes to inhale and then resume fixing me. Who does this? For someone without a college degree I really should look in to the strategic development of something other than my ass! It's just sick! Sooo....I pulled into Arby's and cut the phone off just in time....hearing "Welcome to Arby's may I take your order" wouldn't have gone over really well. Had it ended there, I might have even let myself slide for slightly sane. But no. MacDonald's (that's what the drive-thru lady says) is about 2 blocks away and that's where I get my fries...oh and Coke...they have the best Coke. After ordering my usual large fry medium Coke, I felt guilt ridden. I called the Warden back to tell her what I was up to. I think she was extra bitter as she was forcing herself to eat fat free pudding and whipped cream while I was whoring myself across town! Sorry!
While she was very understanding of my "issues" she wasn't having any of my excuses. She did let me get off the phone for consumption. I fear the sound of hearing me slop down fries and cheddar laden roast beef would have been a bit much for anyone! I told her I'd call her back. When I didn't she text me...no doubt thinking I'd gone back for round 2. I was in the shower. I felt like a dirty whore who had just cheated on her husband with Osoma Bin Laden. At least if that had really happened we'd know where he was and could cut his balls off. You think with as many wives as he has one of them would have done that by now....anyway. I was dirty. I finally did call her back. She agreed to be my keeper. I honestly think she has NO idea what she's getting herself into. I need to be on Death Row...locked up...no contact with anyone...anything...throw away the key...my only food choices....raw veggies and sodium free chicken broth. Let's face it...I can't afford those fancy weight loss centers and I've paid enough in taxes to afford jail. I agreed to strap on the arm band and allow her full access. I haven't heard from her in a few days....I fear she may have been traumatized after seeing what I really weigh. Great...she most likely fell off her chair, sustained a massive head injury and now her death would be on my hands. Blunt force trauma to the head...Dr. Henry Lee would be proud. Worse yet...she would be a vegetable...the things she told me to eat more of and I didn't. I will eat them from now on in memory of my friend, the Warden who was only trying to save me from my fat.
Actually, we did speak on Monday. I believe the conversation went something like this, ME: "I have no desire to eat healthy." HER: "One meal at a time...eat more veggies." ME: "Can I start on New me Tuesday?" HER: "Oh I have something funny to tell you. I went shopping for new appliances and much like a SIF I was overly concerned with the size of my refrigerator. I wanted to make sure it would hold all my food." ME: "Are you there God, it's me Fatty." Whilst I can relate to the fear of an under-sized fridge, this was akin to the Warden telling me he did time for murder and has since been reformed. I can't have someone with criminal tendencies watching over me! Or could I? This could be the prefect plan. I will dig deep for hidden fat and allow myself an opportunity to break free of her....when the time is right. Look out!
I decided I needed a Warden of sorts....a gate keeper....a militant friend who wouldn't listen to my bullshit. Someone who would throw me in solitary confinement after hearing me bitch "my husband made me do it." Actually that might work. Scratch and save for future use...after listening to me complain about stress, the weather and any other reason I could come up with to land my ass at Taco Bell. Ughhum....I must point out that today is Cinco de Mayo. Whilst I am not Mexican, I plan to celebrate their holiday much like they celebrate the 4th of July and the Jews celebrate Christmas. I aint mad at ya....just pass me a cerveza and don't double dip in the queso and we are all good. So "New Me Monday" will actually be "New Me Thursday" this week as I have learned the Mexicans favor lard. I really need to defect. Wouldn't that be a switch....an American running south of the border...and not bcs I killed my husband...yet! I fear I would be stopped dead in my tracks bcs that's how the system works....against me...always. Anywho, back to the Warden. Whilst Susan lives exactly 5 hours from me, she has a talent for making me see I am an idiot without getting herself in trouble in the process. I'm not sure if it's the tone of her voice or the fact that the things I do are so blatantly fucked up that she's not in fact dead to me by now. She is very much alive....and in charge!
In true SIF form, I called her to talk about my psychotic behavior....on my way to a binge. That's the thing about a SIF...we think we can get away with anything! I live exactly 6 miles from Hamburger Alley. That would allow for 5 minutes of chatting about how I needed saving and 1 minute of, "Ooops I have a call coming in let me call you back," so that I could swing through the drive-thru unbeknowst to her. Then...6 miles back to the womb and, "Oh...damn another call. Let me call you back." 5 minutes to inhale and then resume fixing me. Who does this? For someone without a college degree I really should look in to the strategic development of something other than my ass! It's just sick! Sooo....I pulled into Arby's and cut the phone off just in time....hearing "Welcome to Arby's may I take your order" wouldn't have gone over really well. Had it ended there, I might have even let myself slide for slightly sane. But no. MacDonald's (that's what the drive-thru lady says) is about 2 blocks away and that's where I get my fries...oh and Coke...they have the best Coke. After ordering my usual large fry medium Coke, I felt guilt ridden. I called the Warden back to tell her what I was up to. I think she was extra bitter as she was forcing herself to eat fat free pudding and whipped cream while I was whoring myself across town! Sorry!
While she was very understanding of my "issues" she wasn't having any of my excuses. She did let me get off the phone for consumption. I fear the sound of hearing me slop down fries and cheddar laden roast beef would have been a bit much for anyone! I told her I'd call her back. When I didn't she text me...no doubt thinking I'd gone back for round 2. I was in the shower. I felt like a dirty whore who had just cheated on her husband with Osoma Bin Laden. At least if that had really happened we'd know where he was and could cut his balls off. You think with as many wives as he has one of them would have done that by now....anyway. I was dirty. I finally did call her back. She agreed to be my keeper. I honestly think she has NO idea what she's getting herself into. I need to be on Death Row...locked up...no contact with anyone...anything...throw away the key...my only food choices....raw veggies and sodium free chicken broth. Let's face it...I can't afford those fancy weight loss centers and I've paid enough in taxes to afford jail. I agreed to strap on the arm band and allow her full access. I haven't heard from her in a few days....I fear she may have been traumatized after seeing what I really weigh. Great...she most likely fell off her chair, sustained a massive head injury and now her death would be on my hands. Blunt force trauma to the head...Dr. Henry Lee would be proud. Worse yet...she would be a vegetable...the things she told me to eat more of and I didn't. I will eat them from now on in memory of my friend, the Warden who was only trying to save me from my fat.
Actually, we did speak on Monday. I believe the conversation went something like this, ME: "I have no desire to eat healthy." HER: "One meal at a time...eat more veggies." ME: "Can I start on New me Tuesday?" HER: "Oh I have something funny to tell you. I went shopping for new appliances and much like a SIF I was overly concerned with the size of my refrigerator. I wanted to make sure it would hold all my food." ME: "Are you there God, it's me Fatty." Whilst I can relate to the fear of an under-sized fridge, this was akin to the Warden telling me he did time for murder and has since been reformed. I can't have someone with criminal tendencies watching over me! Or could I? This could be the prefect plan. I will dig deep for hidden fat and allow myself an opportunity to break free of her....when the time is right. Look out!
Saturday, April 24, 2010
Chewin the Fat
So....Mother came for a visit and managed not to tell me, "I don't look that bad." It's a small victory but one worth celebrating. Mothers Day is just around the corner so I suspect that played into her agenda. What exactly do you say whilst gazing upon 456 lbs of what was once small enough to exit your body gracefully? Ahhh....thanks for getting out in the nick of time, perhaps? Wanna know what I got her for Mother's Day? It's the gift that keeps on giving...An "Ass Blaster" from QVC! It's a hand me down. Not because she needs it...because my husband, in his infinite male wisdom (aka...stupidity), decided it was the perfect gift for his not so perfect wife. Thanks Honey! I wanted to reciprocate but they don't currently have a gadget for the dumb man gene. I'm sure it's in the works....no doubt by a man....who is putting it off until after football season....who will set it down somewhere and forget where he put it...probably 2 inches from where it belongs....then his wife will throw it out thinking it's trash....so it may take a while but there's always hope.
I'm changing things up a bit to share some things I observed/experienced over the past few weeks:
1. Dunkin Donuts tag line "Keeps America Running"....I can't be sure the Presidents Council on Physical Fitness would agree that coffee and donuts keeps American running. Running to the cardiologist maybe.....or back to Dunkin Donuts....but literally running after eating donuts is nearly impossible....unless you are a SIF! I ate 3 this morning and while I did not go for a post consumption run...I could have. Commitment at it's finest. Strength in the face of adversity.... I give you.... a SIF
2. Running a Half Marathon whilst Fat...Not only have I been doing this for years....I'm getting quite good at it. I dare say I am the Queen of the Clydesdale Division....but I can't....bcs the tricky part about being a fat runner is...the fatter you are the faster you are! I kid you not...I'm what I like to call "middle of the road fat." You know...I can pass on either side of the double line when I have to. So the skinnies always like to ask me my time at the finish. Rude. Does it matter? I just ran 13 freakin miles with 2 of you strapped to my ass! Is there a time goal associated with dragging 1/4 pounders 13 miles?!!! I think not. So stop asking...bitches. When you are noticeably fat....no one asks these questions. You are simply congratulated on a job well done. UNFAIR! Here's the thing....they usually beat me! Perhaps they are fueling up at Dunkin Donuts pre-race...I don't know! Maybe they are reading into the slogan and running with it! All I know...I have yet to run a race where I am not passed by some chick in screaming spandex with an ass large enough to post her family tree dating back to...oh say...Jesus! *Pause for random sign of cross* Top that with my 67 year old Dad beating me by like an hour and winning 1st place in his age group and....well....it's just shameful. One of two things needs to happen...I need to get fatter or find a new hobby.
3. Running Expos...they irritate me beyond belief. No... I don't need any extra butt paste or nipple protectors. My ass has enough fry grease to keep it lubed and my nipples are the only part of my breasts that are real...I shant hinder them from shining. Perhaps I can buy some new running shorts that say "Runner Chick" on the ass. Yeah...that would keep people guessing. It would look like "Running for chicken" plastered on my ass....lovely. Mother came with Dad and I to the running Expo. This nice young man asked her if she wanted to make a sign for her runners. She obliged, handed him back the sign and walked off. Interesting. Thank God there was an egg AND a sperm involved in my creation. After explaining that we were in fact her runners and we would not be able to see the sign from the EXPO....something clicked, she went back for the sign and we were on our way.
4. Being Poor = Being Fat...at first this didn't seem logical. If you are broke... you can't afford to eat so that makes you skinny, right? Not. You can't afford GOOD food. Everything bad for you is affordable. Little Debbie (love you)...low class whore at just under a buck, Jimmy Dean...typical man...lures you in with the promise good things and ends up on your ass and my personal favorite Cap'n Crunch....he might wanna crunch some numbers bcs that sugar ferry will take you on a one way trip to Fattyville! Everywhere you look there's a Dolla Menu calling out to the poor! Hell, I clip coupons to save money and the only thing I can get dirt cheap is ice cream and soda. Nobody's handing out coupons for apples and lettuce....which by the way cost more than half of what a minimum wage worker make in one hour. Let's see....I worked all week, made $67 and now I need food...spend it on a one night stand with a Golden Delicious or enjoy a week long tryst with that no good hooka Little Debbie. The choice is clear. We are fat bcs we can afford it! Here's some food for thought: I don't like being poor, I don't like being fat but I do so enjoy eating the poor man's diet which in turn makes me fat. One word: Intervention. Make the call.
Well, it's high noon and you know what that means....Fat Girl Lunch Hour! My God it's like Christmas in April!!! SIF out!
I'm changing things up a bit to share some things I observed/experienced over the past few weeks:
1. Dunkin Donuts tag line "Keeps America Running"....I can't be sure the Presidents Council on Physical Fitness would agree that coffee and donuts keeps American running. Running to the cardiologist maybe.....or back to Dunkin Donuts....but literally running after eating donuts is nearly impossible....unless you are a SIF! I ate 3 this morning and while I did not go for a post consumption run...I could have. Commitment at it's finest. Strength in the face of adversity.... I give you.... a SIF
2. Running a Half Marathon whilst Fat...Not only have I been doing this for years....I'm getting quite good at it. I dare say I am the Queen of the Clydesdale Division....but I can't....bcs the tricky part about being a fat runner is...the fatter you are the faster you are! I kid you not...I'm what I like to call "middle of the road fat." You know...I can pass on either side of the double line when I have to. So the skinnies always like to ask me my time at the finish. Rude. Does it matter? I just ran 13 freakin miles with 2 of you strapped to my ass! Is there a time goal associated with dragging 1/4 pounders 13 miles?!!! I think not. So stop asking...bitches. When you are noticeably fat....no one asks these questions. You are simply congratulated on a job well done. UNFAIR! Here's the thing....they usually beat me! Perhaps they are fueling up at Dunkin Donuts pre-race...I don't know! Maybe they are reading into the slogan and running with it! All I know...I have yet to run a race where I am not passed by some chick in screaming spandex with an ass large enough to post her family tree dating back to...oh say...Jesus! *Pause for random sign of cross* Top that with my 67 year old Dad beating me by like an hour and winning 1st place in his age group and....well....it's just shameful. One of two things needs to happen...I need to get fatter or find a new hobby.
3. Running Expos...they irritate me beyond belief. No... I don't need any extra butt paste or nipple protectors. My ass has enough fry grease to keep it lubed and my nipples are the only part of my breasts that are real...I shant hinder them from shining. Perhaps I can buy some new running shorts that say "Runner Chick" on the ass. Yeah...that would keep people guessing. It would look like "Running for chicken" plastered on my ass....lovely. Mother came with Dad and I to the running Expo. This nice young man asked her if she wanted to make a sign for her runners. She obliged, handed him back the sign and walked off. Interesting. Thank God there was an egg AND a sperm involved in my creation. After explaining that we were in fact her runners and we would not be able to see the sign from the EXPO....something clicked, she went back for the sign and we were on our way.
4. Being Poor = Being Fat...at first this didn't seem logical. If you are broke... you can't afford to eat so that makes you skinny, right? Not. You can't afford GOOD food. Everything bad for you is affordable. Little Debbie (love you)...low class whore at just under a buck, Jimmy Dean...typical man...lures you in with the promise good things and ends up on your ass and my personal favorite Cap'n Crunch....he might wanna crunch some numbers bcs that sugar ferry will take you on a one way trip to Fattyville! Everywhere you look there's a Dolla Menu calling out to the poor! Hell, I clip coupons to save money and the only thing I can get dirt cheap is ice cream and soda. Nobody's handing out coupons for apples and lettuce....which by the way cost more than half of what a minimum wage worker make in one hour. Let's see....I worked all week, made $67 and now I need food...spend it on a one night stand with a Golden Delicious or enjoy a week long tryst with that no good hooka Little Debbie. The choice is clear. We are fat bcs we can afford it! Here's some food for thought: I don't like being poor, I don't like being fat but I do so enjoy eating the poor man's diet which in turn makes me fat. One word: Intervention. Make the call.
Well, it's high noon and you know what that means....Fat Girl Lunch Hour! My God it's like Christmas in April!!! SIF out!
Sunday, April 11, 2010
The Final Countdown
As usual, I waited until the last minute to notice I went from Forever 21 to Forever 6x in just one winter. I don't get it. I look in the same damn mirror for 12 months and nothing "looks" different. I'd still "do" me...according to my mirror. However, I have come to realize that mirror is a lying little bastard. My closet is the only truthful functioning thing in the house. When I want to wear my skinny jeans it quietly reminds me, "that's not in the cards" and I swiftly move to the "big girl" section. Don't even pretend you don't have a "big girl" section in your closet. Why throw out the size 22 's when the next crisis is right around the corner? Personally, I can't wait to get back in my not so biggie jeans. I hate the fat ones. The waist comes up to my throat and I feel like a fat nerd. But they support all the junk in my trunk and that's no small feat. So my plan is as follows: Find someone with Swine Flu and or HIV and consummate the union. That is the only 1.5 month diet plan guaranteed to make me Forever size 2....until fall.
As much as I hate buying "temporary fat clothes"...my 1985 size 26 jeans just weren't gettin it. There's nothing worse than seeing people you know whilst shopping and holding 8 sizes larger than their worst day. When caught, I like to pretend I grabbed the wrong size....in everything. I'm known to do a little, " Oh my Gosh I grabbed the wrong size. Silly me." Or, when caught with too many items, "Yeah, all the size 0's were gone so I thought I'd try on the 24's and order the 0's online." Deceptive yet effective. Then we move on to my next issue. If the clothing rack dictates a size 24, why does the fitting room mirror make me look like Angelina Jolie? F'n mirrors again! I'd suggest it was my eye sight, but I already wear contacts strong enough to make Stevie Wonder see things clearly. The way they make these sizes today (sound like my mother in the 80's)....you put your leg in what feels like a tarp, only to be strangled at the thighs with enough room to throw quarters down your ass! Now there's a visual. Here's a clue Mr./Mrs. designer persons...when someone is a 26....you don't need to call them skinny jeans and cut them for supersized fit models! Grab you a beach ball and start shaping! Gheez.
So as you can imagine, bikini shopping is impossible. Where to put it all? I refuse to wear onesies or tankinies. That would make me fat. (no disrespect to those who are thin and wear them...I just hate you is all...except you Turtle...cause you look great in yours!). Thongs are out so that leaves alota skin and a little material. It's funny...no matter how big I get....big girl rocks a bikini! Mostly bcs my friends have been trained to tell me I look great. I didn't train them...they just do it. They must be in cahoots with my mirror. Enablers at their finest. My favorite amongst the offenders, my mother of course. Her signature line, "You don't look that bad." Thanks mother...that's typically what they tell people when they've been malled by a bear or hit by a bus. A real compliment I'm sure. She's about to visit. If you are reading this Mother, I know I'm fat so could you maybe say, "How's my big fat daughter? Dad and I almost didn't recognize you since you gained back all the weight." That right there should be enough for me to leave you at the airport and tell people I was raised by wolves.
I put myself back on house arrest in an attempt to take off 1 trillion pounds in a month and half. I fear not even jail can jump that hurdle. The part where I tell it what I eat is always the issue...who goes on a diet and lies to themselves? Me. I like the numbers to look good. I'm truthful about what I eat....just not how much. Here's the reason...1 serving looks great on paper...12 is where it gets ugly. I need to look good on paper if nowhere else. It's amazing how it all adds up. Perhaps how I got into this situation. Maybe I should look before I eat? Nah...what fun would that be? While I'm on the lying subject, my husband grabbed my ass the other day after admiring it... in fat jeans. I don't think he realizes how many sizes it takes to hold all that ass but he sure was liking what he saw. Dumb guy. So...what did I do to return the favor? I apologized. Yup. Told him I was sorry it was soo big.. note to self....when one gets laid about as often as a Preist (excluding the Catholics...they get way more action than they should...random sign of the cross) you should run with the compliment and use it to your advantage. Well...in my defense it was broad daylight and I never get naked at my size in broad daylight...so apologies were in order.
I feel sorry for my husband...mostly bcs he's a man... but also for the things he's forced to witness...me complaining about my weight whilst guzzling Krispy Kreme's like liquid crack, random 400 lb weigh fluctuations, naked killer whale sighting in the shower...and so on. He's a trooper. He hangs in there bcs he knows the "new me" is always right around the corner. Oh and if he left me...he'd just get sucked into some other woman's fat trauma. Might as well stick with what he knows. Aint marriage grand? That should be a standard vow for every marriage, "I vow to stick around through "thick and thin" bcs where else would I go." I now pronounce you a husband for life. You may kiss the bride...any hurry up about it....there's a buffet waiting!
As much as I hate buying "temporary fat clothes"...my 1985 size 26 jeans just weren't gettin it. There's nothing worse than seeing people you know whilst shopping and holding 8 sizes larger than their worst day. When caught, I like to pretend I grabbed the wrong size....in everything. I'm known to do a little, " Oh my Gosh I grabbed the wrong size. Silly me." Or, when caught with too many items, "Yeah, all the size 0's were gone so I thought I'd try on the 24's and order the 0's online." Deceptive yet effective. Then we move on to my next issue. If the clothing rack dictates a size 24, why does the fitting room mirror make me look like Angelina Jolie? F'n mirrors again! I'd suggest it was my eye sight, but I already wear contacts strong enough to make Stevie Wonder see things clearly. The way they make these sizes today (sound like my mother in the 80's)....you put your leg in what feels like a tarp, only to be strangled at the thighs with enough room to throw quarters down your ass! Now there's a visual. Here's a clue Mr./Mrs. designer persons...when someone is a 26....you don't need to call them skinny jeans and cut them for supersized fit models! Grab you a beach ball and start shaping! Gheez.
So as you can imagine, bikini shopping is impossible. Where to put it all? I refuse to wear onesies or tankinies. That would make me fat. (no disrespect to those who are thin and wear them...I just hate you is all...except you Turtle...cause you look great in yours!). Thongs are out so that leaves alota skin and a little material. It's funny...no matter how big I get....big girl rocks a bikini! Mostly bcs my friends have been trained to tell me I look great. I didn't train them...they just do it. They must be in cahoots with my mirror. Enablers at their finest. My favorite amongst the offenders, my mother of course. Her signature line, "You don't look that bad." Thanks mother...that's typically what they tell people when they've been malled by a bear or hit by a bus. A real compliment I'm sure. She's about to visit. If you are reading this Mother, I know I'm fat so could you maybe say, "How's my big fat daughter? Dad and I almost didn't recognize you since you gained back all the weight." That right there should be enough for me to leave you at the airport and tell people I was raised by wolves.
I put myself back on house arrest in an attempt to take off 1 trillion pounds in a month and half. I fear not even jail can jump that hurdle. The part where I tell it what I eat is always the issue...who goes on a diet and lies to themselves? Me. I like the numbers to look good. I'm truthful about what I eat....just not how much. Here's the reason...1 serving looks great on paper...12 is where it gets ugly. I need to look good on paper if nowhere else. It's amazing how it all adds up. Perhaps how I got into this situation. Maybe I should look before I eat? Nah...what fun would that be? While I'm on the lying subject, my husband grabbed my ass the other day after admiring it... in fat jeans. I don't think he realizes how many sizes it takes to hold all that ass but he sure was liking what he saw. Dumb guy. So...what did I do to return the favor? I apologized. Yup. Told him I was sorry it was soo big.. note to self....when one gets laid about as often as a Preist (excluding the Catholics...they get way more action than they should...random sign of the cross) you should run with the compliment and use it to your advantage. Well...in my defense it was broad daylight and I never get naked at my size in broad daylight...so apologies were in order.
I feel sorry for my husband...mostly bcs he's a man... but also for the things he's forced to witness...me complaining about my weight whilst guzzling Krispy Kreme's like liquid crack, random 400 lb weigh fluctuations, naked killer whale sighting in the shower...and so on. He's a trooper. He hangs in there bcs he knows the "new me" is always right around the corner. Oh and if he left me...he'd just get sucked into some other woman's fat trauma. Might as well stick with what he knows. Aint marriage grand? That should be a standard vow for every marriage, "I vow to stick around through "thick and thin" bcs where else would I go." I now pronounce you a husband for life. You may kiss the bride...any hurry up about it....there's a buffet waiting!
Saturday, April 3, 2010
Silly Rabbit....Tricks are for Fatties
I was laying in "the womb" contemplating how I would top last Easters post, "A Crack in the Eggs," when I felt my heart racing. No, not from angst. It was the foot long sub I just inhaled prior to laying down. I guess it's alot to ax your body to digest 3,000 calories just in time for a mid-day siesta but....shouldn't it be use to me ask for such things by now? Yes, on this bright sunny day whilst everyone in the free world was out enjoying Mother Nature, I was in fact binge eating and napping. My commitment is such that I don't take time off for holidays. I couldn't sleep, so I started thinking about how angry I was that Subway is no longer offering your pick of $5 Foot longs. Imagine stepping up to the register with exact change (a dead giveaway that I spend far too much time there) only to be axed for a $1.50 more. Guess it's back to the dolla menu and Ronaldo McDonald. The stress of the day left me wondering what I had to look forward to aside from McNuggets comprised of 37 ingredients sure to kill me. Then it hit me...tomorrow is the day when Jesus rose... I too shall rise....right off my fat ass! Not as prophetic but an effort all the same. So I got out of bed around 3pm and the womb was without it's savior....
I failed to mention, whilst laying in the womb digesting and meal planning, I was also reading the 12 Steps of Over Eaters Anonymous...no lie. You know how sometimes you read something and it jumps right off the page bcs you feel like it's speaking to you? That was pretty much the entire book.....you had me at hello kinda thing. However comma, there was one line that made me feel like an all out addict...."Do you dream of how perfect your life would be as a thin person whilst in the process over eating?" Ummmm yeah.... it goes something like....Me as a size 0, (bcs there's always enough of that size left on the rack) with mustard & ketsup on my face, shagging Brad Pitt whilst explaining to my husband he must have known this day was coming when I broke it off with Little Debbie. Something like that. It went on to talk about the guilt associated with post-binge eating. That's where the fried chicken breast split....I do not own that emotion. So I decided to focus on that little Fuckin Crack Rabbit who would be appearing on my door step in less than 24 hours. Luckily, "New Me Monday" comes after "Hide the candy Sunday." Timing is everything for addicts.
Here's my take on Easter:
1. Whilst a Cadbury Egg is somewhat lacking in protein, it goes "right nice" (southern vernacular) with bacon. You should try it. Be thankful...the fake yoke is saving you from swallowing chicken menstruation. Are we clear on my thoughts about eggs? I think so.
2. Jelly Beans are laced with crack. It's a fact. Have you ever found yourself, over the age of 30, digging for jelly beans between layers of fake grass only to be pissed off when you couldn't find any? That's how Ray Ray Jenkins feels when he's lookin for a hit. Have you ever eaten just one? Ray Ray neitha. And Ray Ray is white so don't go there. White people hit the pipe too. Crack is after all and equal opportunity offender.
3. Peeps. What the fuck are Peeps? Refined Sugar Rabbits laced with bad food coloring. That's what they are. If you want to be one of my "peeps" you gotta come harder than marshmallow melt in your mouth bullshit. No thanks. I prefer chocolate eggs dripping in fake yoke and biting appendages off unsuspecting sugar creatures in pretty boxes. I have no use for these Peeps. None at all.
Let this serve as a warning to the Easter Bunny (who isn't real by the way....stop reading my blog crumb snatchers....that'll serve ya right!)...if you come to my house...don't be hidin shit. Nothing pisses a fatty off more than a scavenger hunt for sweets. I can carry my ass to K-mart and get everything I need without the extra work, thank you. However comma, I have a sniffer of canine proportion... so don't mess with me. If there's chocolate in this house I'll find it. Just ask my husband. Each trip to the grocery store brings hope of goodies he'll never eat. I "say" they are for him....that simply means he must beat me to the punch. I'm fast and motivated. He's...a guy. Need a say more. His lips have yet to touch a Krispy Kreme. Shoulda married a skinny girl. I have no interest in your sob stories.
Before I close out this tirade I have one question...who turned Easter into bunnies and candy when it's suppose to be about Jesus rising from the grave to save us? *pause for random sign of the cross* Hallmark takes every opportunity to jump in and commercialize any holiday they can get their hands on? Do any of us think Jesus would be proud to see the Easter Bunny waving at us from the bypass whilst encouraging us to buy over-priced foot long subs? Shameful. Instead of painting eggs and hiding baskets from future SIF, how about explaining the true meaning of Easter over a nice meal. Jesus loves fat people and he knows we gotta eat. He also knows we do not have the cardiovascular stamina to find hidden sweets and fight small children for chocolate. If you are not a Christian....I aint mad at ya but DAMN...stop celebrating our holidays! Watching children in burkas sit on Santa's lap and pose with the Easter Bunny is beyond disturbing. If you don't believe in Jesus I hereby declare no ham, no bunnies and no candy until Monday at 4pm...when I fall off the wagon and join you. Happy Easter!
I failed to mention, whilst laying in the womb digesting and meal planning, I was also reading the 12 Steps of Over Eaters Anonymous...no lie. You know how sometimes you read something and it jumps right off the page bcs you feel like it's speaking to you? That was pretty much the entire book.....you had me at hello kinda thing. However comma, there was one line that made me feel like an all out addict...."Do you dream of how perfect your life would be as a thin person whilst in the process over eating?" Ummmm yeah.... it goes something like....Me as a size 0, (bcs there's always enough of that size left on the rack) with mustard & ketsup on my face, shagging Brad Pitt whilst explaining to my husband he must have known this day was coming when I broke it off with Little Debbie. Something like that. It went on to talk about the guilt associated with post-binge eating. That's where the fried chicken breast split....I do not own that emotion. So I decided to focus on that little Fuckin Crack Rabbit who would be appearing on my door step in less than 24 hours. Luckily, "New Me Monday" comes after "Hide the candy Sunday." Timing is everything for addicts.
Here's my take on Easter:
1. Whilst a Cadbury Egg is somewhat lacking in protein, it goes "right nice" (southern vernacular) with bacon. You should try it. Be thankful...the fake yoke is saving you from swallowing chicken menstruation. Are we clear on my thoughts about eggs? I think so.
2. Jelly Beans are laced with crack. It's a fact. Have you ever found yourself, over the age of 30, digging for jelly beans between layers of fake grass only to be pissed off when you couldn't find any? That's how Ray Ray Jenkins feels when he's lookin for a hit. Have you ever eaten just one? Ray Ray neitha. And Ray Ray is white so don't go there. White people hit the pipe too. Crack is after all and equal opportunity offender.
3. Peeps. What the fuck are Peeps? Refined Sugar Rabbits laced with bad food coloring. That's what they are. If you want to be one of my "peeps" you gotta come harder than marshmallow melt in your mouth bullshit. No thanks. I prefer chocolate eggs dripping in fake yoke and biting appendages off unsuspecting sugar creatures in pretty boxes. I have no use for these Peeps. None at all.
Let this serve as a warning to the Easter Bunny (who isn't real by the way....stop reading my blog crumb snatchers....that'll serve ya right!)...if you come to my house...don't be hidin shit. Nothing pisses a fatty off more than a scavenger hunt for sweets. I can carry my ass to K-mart and get everything I need without the extra work, thank you. However comma, I have a sniffer of canine proportion... so don't mess with me. If there's chocolate in this house I'll find it. Just ask my husband. Each trip to the grocery store brings hope of goodies he'll never eat. I "say" they are for him....that simply means he must beat me to the punch. I'm fast and motivated. He's...a guy. Need a say more. His lips have yet to touch a Krispy Kreme. Shoulda married a skinny girl. I have no interest in your sob stories.
Before I close out this tirade I have one question...who turned Easter into bunnies and candy when it's suppose to be about Jesus rising from the grave to save us? *pause for random sign of the cross* Hallmark takes every opportunity to jump in and commercialize any holiday they can get their hands on? Do any of us think Jesus would be proud to see the Easter Bunny waving at us from the bypass whilst encouraging us to buy over-priced foot long subs? Shameful. Instead of painting eggs and hiding baskets from future SIF, how about explaining the true meaning of Easter over a nice meal. Jesus loves fat people and he knows we gotta eat. He also knows we do not have the cardiovascular stamina to find hidden sweets and fight small children for chocolate. If you are not a Christian....I aint mad at ya but DAMN...stop celebrating our holidays! Watching children in burkas sit on Santa's lap and pose with the Easter Bunny is beyond disturbing. If you don't believe in Jesus I hereby declare no ham, no bunnies and no candy until Monday at 4pm...when I fall off the wagon and join you. Happy Easter!
Thursday, March 25, 2010
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. ****
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. ****
Monday, March 22, 2010
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....
Sunday, March 7, 2010
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....
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....
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