And no...not by "Hurricane" Earl. As previously predicted, he was true to his genetic predisposition for failure. All promises no action. Unless you include being just annoying enough for me to spend 4 hours cleaning up after him. Let's see...annoying, broken promises, dirty, blowing smoke and no follow through...perhaps we should start calling them husbands as opposed to hurricanes! Six one half dozen of the other. We'd never run out of names...that's for sure. In any event, displaced. In an effort to displace my fat cells, I somehow got off track and displaced my entire being. No small feat for sure. I come to you tonight from a new home. Traumatizing at best. However comma, it would appear I have a hot neighbor....situation immediately downgraded to critical. Had I known I was going to have a hot neighbor I might have moved sooner or lost weight or something. Sometimes these things just creep up on you. Who knew if you didn't pay your mortgage for a year they'd ask you to leave? My attempt at ghetto fabulousness failed. So here I am...in the land of eye candy. I prefer chocolate but he'll do for now. Only one problem...I'm just fat enough to ensure my new neighbor won't be peering at me with binoculars whilst I sunbath. He bought his house. I wouldn't want to scare him into a short sale.
New house equals new leash on life. It's a fatty trick. And I know you do it too so buck up little campers! Here are my personal favorites from the first week in the new house. Promise: " Now that I have a pantry I can organize my food better and lose weight." - Reality- Does it matter if you put little Debbie on top of or behind Cap'n Crunch? No. They are no good for each other...and for the record he likes it from behind. Anyway. Promise: "I'm going to eat out less and cook more." Reality- Was there a random force seeping through the walls of my old house luring me to Taco Bell? No. I hated to cook there and I will hate to cook here. Promise: "Now that I live within walking distance of a gym I can run there and work out every day." Reality- In order to get to the gym I have to pass a Dunkin Donuts, a pizza place, a Mexican place and a Subway. I won't make it past Dunkin. Not to mention, I have no membership for said gym. Much like my mortgage, I believe they require payment to stay. Last but not least...and my personal favorite promise to myself: "I will befriend the women in the neighborhood for long walks and cookie baking." Reality: I wasn't Martha Fuckin Stewart a week ago and I'm certainly not looking for an alter ego with a rap sheet!
A.Housewifey types get on my last nerve. B. The only long walks I take are when my car breaks down or no one will drive me to Taco Bell. C. The day you see me baking cookies that end up anywhere other than my soft pallet....take a fuckin picture! This is why it took me 32 years to get married and no time to decide children weren't a good idea.
So my best guess has me at around 350lbs by Thanksgiving and banging the neighbor by Christmas. I love the holidays. I'm working off the theory that he'll be cold and bored by December and the combination of my sexless life and excess fat stores will be enough to win him over to the other side. Who doesn't love a fatty in winter? Fat is acceptable below 32 degrees. Once you get into the 40's you reach the danger zone....must lose weight here. Maybe I should move to Alaska. Sounds like a plan. I'll ask my new neighbor to come with. The new house has a working fireplace. I say working bcs the last house had a fireplace...it just didn't work. It required repair. Need I say more. To get my live in handy man back for all the nights I missed snuggling in front of the gas logs, I plan to burn this one every night. Even in the summer. My plan is to set the house ablaze with thousands of candles, fire up the gas logs, drop rose petals everywhere and wear a lace thong..nothing else...every night when he comes home....for 365 days...until he bangs me. It will be like a scene from "Carrie" minus the period part. I'm not into that. Gee... this new house could be revolutionizing my life after all.
Have I mentioned moving sucks? I hate getting use to new people. I know hot guy will be tons of fun but what about the geriatrics on the other side? Will they be offended when I blast Tupac and Biggie (RIP) whilst sitting on the front stoop with my double deuce? That's what I'm hoping for. If they think I'm an overweight gangsta type maybe they will be so afraid they won't come out of the house. Until they die. That could be any day now. This charade would only have to go on for a few weeks tops. I foresee only one problem...pork...pigs...po po...Johnny...lots a cops in this neighborhood! No wonder nobody wanted to rent this house! How I am suppose to "work my second job" with the law all up in the hood! I fear they already have their eyes on me. Let's face it, it's hard not to. 345lbs rolling down the street in a "do rag" attempting to jog. I'd call the papers if I wasn't the story line! Maybe hot guy can be my cover. That's it...I'll need to dig deep into him...his life to see if he's worthy. Strip search, cavity check...all of the above. You can never be too sure. Either way I can use him for something. I think I'll bake him some cookies and stop by for a quick....hello. Hello!
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, September 12, 2010
Tuesday, August 31, 2010
Hello....My name is Earl
and my name is Fatty. Nice to meet you. Earl. A male hurricane. This means one thing to me. Another man who blows into town, makes me wet and heads out until the mood strikes again. Fucker. Yes Mother, I'm back to saying Fuck. It's the jelly to my donut. What can I say. I ate 12 donut holes this morning...alone...in my car...so I wouldn't have to share. I did the math...it's like 1.5 donuts. *Pause for random shock factor* I'm getting off track.... If you must know, I prefer woman hurricanes. They don't just hang out on the radar threatening to do something like male hurricanes....or husbands. However, I can't say mine threatens to do much but that's beside the point. Katrina. Now there's a bitch. She blows into town, breaks the levy and sticks around long enough to brag about it. My kinda woman. Earl. A category 4. Categorically, men scare me for many reasons. Blowing hot air is not one of them. I consider that part of what I call the "Dumb Man Gene." Besides if Earl is true to his gender he'll be all talk no action. "I'm gonna mow the lawn. I'll take out the garbage in a minute. I was gonna put that dish in the dishwasher later." If Earl could speak, this is what we would be forced to listen to. I might actually tune into the Weather Channel to hear that. Which brings me to another Fucker, Jim Cantore...
He's about one inch from being a Roloff. For those who don't partake in quality TV programming, they are a family of little people...midgets...widgets..tater tots if you will....starring in their own show called "Little People Big World." However, my disgust for this wanna be Al Roker does not stem from his lack of height, hair or talent. That Fucker had the chance to put me on TV and didn't. Can you imagine? He opted to allow a family of rednecks living under the pier.... with 2 teeth collectively (teeth not fit for a toothbrush I might add) to explain how they were going to be displaced by the hurricane! Do they own the pier? I think not. Just break into a vacant beach rental like everyone else and stop stealing my TV time....crisis averted! I had breaking news to report....My generator wouldn't start. How was I going to be able to keep my Helluva Good Dip cold...not to mention Tivo the Real Housewives? These are serious issues people! But the midget goes for the underdog and leaves me to bob up and down behind him like a desperate starlet. In a last ditch attempt for my shot at prime time I devised a fool proof plan. I would go running on the beach right after they called for a mandatory evacuation. Clearly headline news! I wasn't sure if he was partial to the fatties so I solicited my friend Tara to come with me. She is a SIF undercover. On the outside...tall, thin, pretty. On the inside...I personally watched her eat an entire pizza in one sitting. SIF. We ran right by him and all but tripped over that freakin stump in Levi's with a microphone. Do you think he batted an eyelash? Nope. He was probably fixing his lipstick.
Earl does give me random hope of binge eating. There's literally nothing else to do in a hurricane but eat and drink. Being drunk is not part of my plan however. When I drink I crave Taco Bell. Down here they close the border before they close the bridges. Good policy. Perhaps we can run with it in light of a little Cat5 I like to call "Illegal Immigration!" Yeah...close that border and throw the fatties a freakin bone! During the last Cat3, when I wasn't chasing the bald midget, I was eating like a champ. Not bcs I was hungry. Bored. Stare at your husband (sober) for 3 days and see how long it takes you hook up an IV of lard and start drinking mouthwash. Seriously, it took about 2 hours before I was staring at him, head cocked searching for anything that resembled a redeeming quality. That's why you have to have a generator. TV equals survival. Even if you have to watch a midget weatherman for days on end. TV really should be included on those "must have emergency lists." Right under batteries and water if you ask me. My chance at TV came after the storm had passed. The Weather Channel showed up on our porch wanting to film us taking the boards off the windows. I gave them a shot at headline news and this is what they want?! My husband taking down boards with the drill he forgot to charge....so we looked like the Farkels on national TV! Good thing they cut out the dull moan of the drill begging for juice. I'll have you know I did not partake in that parody! I was hiding in the bedroom like the high class hooker I am... I didn't have time for hair and make-up. Mother was a Mary Kay lady. We don't go down like that. National TV with no make-up and bad hair? I would sooner have stuck my naked ass out the window and spoke through my butt crack. That's how I feel about that. That about sums up my life and death experiences with hurricanes.
So as I await the arrival of another disappointing man in my life, I am putting together my own little survival kit:
Batteries: Check
Rabbitt: Check
Bring it on Earl. You are no match for El Conejo!
He's about one inch from being a Roloff. For those who don't partake in quality TV programming, they are a family of little people...midgets...widgets..tater tots if you will....starring in their own show called "Little People Big World." However, my disgust for this wanna be Al Roker does not stem from his lack of height, hair or talent. That Fucker had the chance to put me on TV and didn't. Can you imagine? He opted to allow a family of rednecks living under the pier.... with 2 teeth collectively (teeth not fit for a toothbrush I might add) to explain how they were going to be displaced by the hurricane! Do they own the pier? I think not. Just break into a vacant beach rental like everyone else and stop stealing my TV time....crisis averted! I had breaking news to report....My generator wouldn't start. How was I going to be able to keep my Helluva Good Dip cold...not to mention Tivo the Real Housewives? These are serious issues people! But the midget goes for the underdog and leaves me to bob up and down behind him like a desperate starlet. In a last ditch attempt for my shot at prime time I devised a fool proof plan. I would go running on the beach right after they called for a mandatory evacuation. Clearly headline news! I wasn't sure if he was partial to the fatties so I solicited my friend Tara to come with me. She is a SIF undercover. On the outside...tall, thin, pretty. On the inside...I personally watched her eat an entire pizza in one sitting. SIF. We ran right by him and all but tripped over that freakin stump in Levi's with a microphone. Do you think he batted an eyelash? Nope. He was probably fixing his lipstick.
Earl does give me random hope of binge eating. There's literally nothing else to do in a hurricane but eat and drink. Being drunk is not part of my plan however. When I drink I crave Taco Bell. Down here they close the border before they close the bridges. Good policy. Perhaps we can run with it in light of a little Cat5 I like to call "Illegal Immigration!" Yeah...close that border and throw the fatties a freakin bone! During the last Cat3, when I wasn't chasing the bald midget, I was eating like a champ. Not bcs I was hungry. Bored. Stare at your husband (sober) for 3 days and see how long it takes you hook up an IV of lard and start drinking mouthwash. Seriously, it took about 2 hours before I was staring at him, head cocked searching for anything that resembled a redeeming quality. That's why you have to have a generator. TV equals survival. Even if you have to watch a midget weatherman for days on end. TV really should be included on those "must have emergency lists." Right under batteries and water if you ask me. My chance at TV came after the storm had passed. The Weather Channel showed up on our porch wanting to film us taking the boards off the windows. I gave them a shot at headline news and this is what they want?! My husband taking down boards with the drill he forgot to charge....so we looked like the Farkels on national TV! Good thing they cut out the dull moan of the drill begging for juice. I'll have you know I did not partake in that parody! I was hiding in the bedroom like the high class hooker I am... I didn't have time for hair and make-up. Mother was a Mary Kay lady. We don't go down like that. National TV with no make-up and bad hair? I would sooner have stuck my naked ass out the window and spoke through my butt crack. That's how I feel about that. That about sums up my life and death experiences with hurricanes.
So as I await the arrival of another disappointing man in my life, I am putting together my own little survival kit:
Batteries: Check
Rabbitt: Check
Bring it on Earl. You are no match for El Conejo!
Monday, August 16, 2010
Dear Diary,
"F" you!
Perhaps why I don't keep a diary. I have nothing nice to say. Why would I want to relive my binge eating sexless existence on paper? It's traumatizing enough in real life. Not to mention, every time I type the word "diary:" it comes out "dairy." Lactose intolerance has no place in my life...much like...sex. However forgoing ice cream is a voluntary decision. Forgoing sex was....lost in translation perhaps? Was it the "I do" or the person who forgot to break down the doors of God's palace when summoned by the call of, "Does anyone have just cause, any reason at all, big/small, why these two shouldn't call it a day and head on over to the reception for some truth serum?" Clearly someone sitting in the audience was suffering from life without dick. This "someone" most likely had a Rabbit in their pocket, while laughing and watching me swear away my vagina for life. Thanks whomever you were. F' you too.
Where was I? I get so emotional when it come to sex.Or lack thereof. Oh yeah. So now that Mother has me writing down everything I eat, it got me thinking. How come I don't keep a diary...ya know...a good old fashion tell all diary. Seems like a very girly thing to do. Who am I kidding. I'm about 6 steps from being a lesbian. Let's discuss. I cuss like a sailor, I burp and fart at will, last night I dreamed I was a bridesmaid wearing biker boots and a tux, I stare at womens breasts constantly (mostly wondering why I paid $5k for mine) and I have an inordinate amount of sex with a plastic, purple bunny. Not sure where the cut off is but I fear border patrol could be coming to take me away at anytime. For the record, there's no way I could ever live with a woman. It's like shacking up with a human Mangina. I'd rather have Chlamydia or fleas. At least I can get rid of those in 7 days with no hard feelings. I wonder though....would I be the man or the woman. Not that I've given it alot of thought...well yes I have. What else do I have to do when forced to watch football and alien conspiracy shows? I think I would be the man. Only bcs I have such a dominant personality. Who would be my bitch? Guess I would have to go out to one of those all girl bars and wrestle me up some strange. Ok, yeah no. I'm willing to concede I'm not a shopper, a cook or anything that remotely resembles June Cleaver...but I am certainly not looking to date the Beav...if you get my drift. In any event...
Perhaps this is why I can't keep a diary...I have a touch of Mother's tick. I start talking about something and next thing ya know I'm the prehistoric creature better known as "Lickalotapuss!" Ok...focus. Let's just call it like it is...I can't have a diary bcs I'm a bad person. 99.9% of everything I say/do isn't fit for print. That's why I have this blog. No one reads it. I feel safe. What happens when Brad Pitt finally calls? I'll tell you--one, if not all of my not so loyal friends get jealous, finds the diary, turns it over to Brad who then learns of my fondness for nose picking, Dutch Ovens and choco tacos. Then what? A great future gone at the hands of a bunch of wanna be lesbians who weren't willing to let me go. Bitches. So that's why I can't write it all down...I fear a lesbian rebellion. Not to mention if my husband found it he might divorce me. Mental note....write diary post haste and leave on nightstand with large sticky note saying, "Read Me." Let's play, shall we?
Dear Diary,
Hey Bitch. Today I woke up and tried to run off what I ate yesterday. Then it got dark, I was tired ,still fat and none of the cars would run me over to put me out of my misery... So I tried to have sex with my husband, but his vagina hurt. I think he was on his period. I called the Rabbit...he was available. I think I may have Toxic Shock Syndrome....not from tampons. From knowing I married a man and fuck a rabbit. Try explaining to the doctor that your vag is on fire bcs your man is plastic with pearl ears. Not an easy conversation. I think tomorrow I'll pick a fight around 4:30pm so I don't have to cook dinner. Then I'll randomly start packing which could result in me getting taken out to dinner and possibly even a night off from the Rabbit. One can hope. I think my husband may be kin to Stevie Wonder. (A). He married me and (2). He can't seem to see trash, bills or things that require fixing. Is there a pill for that? I tried explaining to him that dirty dishes live in the dish washer, dirty clothes live in the hamper and dirty ho's live right under his nose- ready and willing at any time. None of which seemed to settle well with his current mental capabilities. Guess I'll go leave the trash on his pillow. Maybe he might see it there...or sleep in the guest room. Can't be sure. Well Bitch I gotta go.
No good can come of this. Diary's are not your friend. They are simply insurance policies to keep you from pissing off the people who love you and will clearly sell you down the river for the right price. I'm not goin out like that. I'm going to continue to be me.... in real life. If I don't write it down, I can deny it. Much like my weight, my family and of my friends. Take that and stick it in your Lesbian Lucky Charms. Silly Rabbit...tricks are for SIF!
Perhaps why I don't keep a diary. I have nothing nice to say. Why would I want to relive my binge eating sexless existence on paper? It's traumatizing enough in real life. Not to mention, every time I type the word "diary:" it comes out "dairy." Lactose intolerance has no place in my life...much like...sex. However forgoing ice cream is a voluntary decision. Forgoing sex was....lost in translation perhaps? Was it the "I do" or the person who forgot to break down the doors of God's palace when summoned by the call of, "Does anyone have just cause, any reason at all, big/small, why these two shouldn't call it a day and head on over to the reception for some truth serum?" Clearly someone sitting in the audience was suffering from life without dick. This "someone" most likely had a Rabbit in their pocket, while laughing and watching me swear away my vagina for life. Thanks whomever you were. F' you too.
Where was I? I get so emotional when it come to sex.Or lack thereof. Oh yeah. So now that Mother has me writing down everything I eat, it got me thinking. How come I don't keep a diary...ya know...a good old fashion tell all diary. Seems like a very girly thing to do. Who am I kidding. I'm about 6 steps from being a lesbian. Let's discuss. I cuss like a sailor, I burp and fart at will, last night I dreamed I was a bridesmaid wearing biker boots and a tux, I stare at womens breasts constantly (mostly wondering why I paid $5k for mine) and I have an inordinate amount of sex with a plastic, purple bunny. Not sure where the cut off is but I fear border patrol could be coming to take me away at anytime. For the record, there's no way I could ever live with a woman. It's like shacking up with a human Mangina. I'd rather have Chlamydia or fleas. At least I can get rid of those in 7 days with no hard feelings. I wonder though....would I be the man or the woman. Not that I've given it alot of thought...well yes I have. What else do I have to do when forced to watch football and alien conspiracy shows? I think I would be the man. Only bcs I have such a dominant personality. Who would be my bitch? Guess I would have to go out to one of those all girl bars and wrestle me up some strange. Ok, yeah no. I'm willing to concede I'm not a shopper, a cook or anything that remotely resembles June Cleaver...but I am certainly not looking to date the Beav...if you get my drift. In any event...
Perhaps this is why I can't keep a diary...I have a touch of Mother's tick. I start talking about something and next thing ya know I'm the prehistoric creature better known as "Lickalotapuss!" Ok...focus. Let's just call it like it is...I can't have a diary bcs I'm a bad person. 99.9% of everything I say/do isn't fit for print. That's why I have this blog. No one reads it. I feel safe. What happens when Brad Pitt finally calls? I'll tell you--one, if not all of my not so loyal friends get jealous, finds the diary, turns it over to Brad who then learns of my fondness for nose picking, Dutch Ovens and choco tacos. Then what? A great future gone at the hands of a bunch of wanna be lesbians who weren't willing to let me go. Bitches. So that's why I can't write it all down...I fear a lesbian rebellion. Not to mention if my husband found it he might divorce me. Mental note....write diary post haste and leave on nightstand with large sticky note saying, "Read Me." Let's play, shall we?
Dear Diary,
Hey Bitch. Today I woke up and tried to run off what I ate yesterday. Then it got dark, I was tired ,still fat and none of the cars would run me over to put me out of my misery... So I tried to have sex with my husband, but his vagina hurt. I think he was on his period. I called the Rabbit...he was available. I think I may have Toxic Shock Syndrome....not from tampons. From knowing I married a man and fuck a rabbit. Try explaining to the doctor that your vag is on fire bcs your man is plastic with pearl ears. Not an easy conversation. I think tomorrow I'll pick a fight around 4:30pm so I don't have to cook dinner. Then I'll randomly start packing which could result in me getting taken out to dinner and possibly even a night off from the Rabbit. One can hope. I think my husband may be kin to Stevie Wonder. (A). He married me and (2). He can't seem to see trash, bills or things that require fixing. Is there a pill for that? I tried explaining to him that dirty dishes live in the dish washer, dirty clothes live in the hamper and dirty ho's live right under his nose- ready and willing at any time. None of which seemed to settle well with his current mental capabilities. Guess I'll go leave the trash on his pillow. Maybe he might see it there...or sleep in the guest room. Can't be sure. Well Bitch I gotta go.
No good can come of this. Diary's are not your friend. They are simply insurance policies to keep you from pissing off the people who love you and will clearly sell you down the river for the right price. I'm not goin out like that. I'm going to continue to be me.... in real life. If I don't write it down, I can deny it. Much like my weight, my family and of my friends. Take that and stick it in your Lesbian Lucky Charms. Silly Rabbit...tricks are for SIF!
Sunday, August 15, 2010
Hold on Sisters....
I'll be making another fat deposit very soon. Mother always said if you don't have something nice to say....don't say it. Mother...if I waited for that day I would officially be declared a mute. That being said, stayed tuned for "Dear Diary." It won't top the "Mother Blog"- there's just too much material wrapped up in all those points.
Monday, August 2, 2010
Tick Tock Mom's off her rock...
Mother has a tick. And not the blood sucking kind. Nope...this would be a "One flew over the Cuckoo's Nest" kind. If you think my relationship with dieting and weight loss is dysfunctional....allow me to introduce you to the Jerry Springer of dieting dysfunction....my Mother! Yes, the one who hid 10lb bags of M&M's in my desk drawer and wore a 1970's green over every outfit to cover her sins. That Mother. The Heavenly Hash Queen. The woman who's blood type registered as "Apple Fritter" until she was 50 and chose life over saturated fat. The woman who taught me how to "Add a Plank & Extra Crispies" at Long John Silvers....bcs 2000 grams of fat just isn't enough when you can get more for less than a dollar. Her. The one who claims Gerald is my Father yet I am the only one with red hair and a strong resemblance to the milk man. That one. The sensitive soul I can always count on to tell me, "I don't look that bad" and You were bigger the last time I saw you. Her. Well...she's here for a visit...God help us all! She came complete with her Weight Watchers Points Calculator and an obsession for counting!
I'm just gonna say it. I hate diets and I hate people on diets. Of course I don't hate my Mother...but only bcs she managed to squeeze me out of her love canal with little to no damage to my perfect self. She said I was a difficult child. *Pause for random imaginary moment.* She can't be trusted. If what she's saying is true, she is certainly paying me back in the form of weight loss torture. She's on the points. She knows how many she has at any given moment, under what circumstances she is willing to part with them and what effect her strategic moves will have on her overall ratio. It's like living with a Mad Scientist. The slightest mention of anything edible and her head cocks slightly to the left, her eyes take on a strange gaze and she spouts off numbers quicker than the Rainman himself! Let's role play. I'll be "Me" and Mother will play the role of random psychotic points person. Ughum. "Good morning Mother. Would you like a glass of tea?" "Tea doesn't have any points you know. Nor does Jell-O, pudding, grapes or fat free Cool-Whip." "So does that mean you want tea?" "No. I'm going to have Froot Loops with hot fudge. It's only 6 points and I have 12 from yesterday, 30 extra this week, and 10 I won't use before lunch, so it all works out." *Pause for random demon like head spinning.* "You can eat Froot Loops and hot fudge?" "Yes. I can eat anything I want as long as I don't go over my points. I have 22 each day, 5 more if I exercise, 20 flex points and 10 I borrowed from your Dad (long "a" like add)." "Wow. Seems like a lot of work." (mistake) "Oh no Kelly...I have my calculator. I can count anything you want. I keep track of everything on it. I have a book where I write it down too. And another book for what's not in the calculator. And a book that tells me how to use the book about the book." *Random sign of the cross.* I need an old Priest and a young Priest.
As if the obsession with points counting wasn't bad enough, the random mumbling is cause for great concern. Have you ever watched someone when they don't know you are looking? It's amazing what you observe. I HIGHLY recommend this technique when choosing a mate. If all you hear are football stats and alien conspiracies.....RUN! In any event, Mother is a mumbler. She mumbles about the points she has, doesn't have and wishes she had. She's also a random justifier. "I can eat the triple Quarter Pounder & cheese fries bcs I haven't eaten in 3 days." It's all about balance. The sheer fact that I'm not stapled to a bed somewhere, in a padded room wearing a bleached white jump suit is a freakin miracle in itself! Just last night around 8pm she informed me she had 10 points to eat before midnight. I'm no dieting expert, but I'm thinking there's some skewed logic in there somewhere. So I decided to join in the crazy talk. "Are you hungry?" If you can't guess the answer you clearly don't deserve the fruits of my wit. "Well no but it's Sunday and the points don't carry over." Perhaps if I had paid better attention to the 'white noise" I would have been hip to this fact. I guess I better borrow my husband's EVP device (a tool he uses for ghost hunting...his hobby when he's not banging me....he see's alot of ghosts, fyi).
Can you guess how this ends? Yes. Yes you can. I ordered my very own points calculator last Thursday. Mother can't understand why it's not here yet. Hers came in 3 days. Perhaps the Fatty Gods are smiling down on me. Had she not been so obsessed with her own points, she might have offered to let me calculate my way to Skinnyville on her magic box. I suggested it this morning and she agreed to let me into her secret world of white noise and rain. I made it until 4pm...when I checked the mailbox and found my super secret box still wasn't there. It's a sign I still have more time on the dark side. My dark side. Where we don't talk about what we eat or verbalize it's value to our day. Success is measured in inches and stains. The more the merrier. Fat and Happy. Sane. Call me crazy.
I'm just gonna say it. I hate diets and I hate people on diets. Of course I don't hate my Mother...but only bcs she managed to squeeze me out of her love canal with little to no damage to my perfect self. She said I was a difficult child. *Pause for random imaginary moment.* She can't be trusted. If what she's saying is true, she is certainly paying me back in the form of weight loss torture. She's on the points. She knows how many she has at any given moment, under what circumstances she is willing to part with them and what effect her strategic moves will have on her overall ratio. It's like living with a Mad Scientist. The slightest mention of anything edible and her head cocks slightly to the left, her eyes take on a strange gaze and she spouts off numbers quicker than the Rainman himself! Let's role play. I'll be "Me" and Mother will play the role of random psychotic points person. Ughum. "Good morning Mother. Would you like a glass of tea?" "Tea doesn't have any points you know. Nor does Jell-O, pudding, grapes or fat free Cool-Whip." "So does that mean you want tea?" "No. I'm going to have Froot Loops with hot fudge. It's only 6 points and I have 12 from yesterday, 30 extra this week, and 10 I won't use before lunch, so it all works out." *Pause for random demon like head spinning.* "You can eat Froot Loops and hot fudge?" "Yes. I can eat anything I want as long as I don't go over my points. I have 22 each day, 5 more if I exercise, 20 flex points and 10 I borrowed from your Dad (long "a" like add)." "Wow. Seems like a lot of work." (mistake) "Oh no Kelly...I have my calculator. I can count anything you want. I keep track of everything on it. I have a book where I write it down too. And another book for what's not in the calculator. And a book that tells me how to use the book about the book." *Random sign of the cross.* I need an old Priest and a young Priest.
As if the obsession with points counting wasn't bad enough, the random mumbling is cause for great concern. Have you ever watched someone when they don't know you are looking? It's amazing what you observe. I HIGHLY recommend this technique when choosing a mate. If all you hear are football stats and alien conspiracies.....RUN! In any event, Mother is a mumbler. She mumbles about the points she has, doesn't have and wishes she had. She's also a random justifier. "I can eat the triple Quarter Pounder & cheese fries bcs I haven't eaten in 3 days." It's all about balance. The sheer fact that I'm not stapled to a bed somewhere, in a padded room wearing a bleached white jump suit is a freakin miracle in itself! Just last night around 8pm she informed me she had 10 points to eat before midnight. I'm no dieting expert, but I'm thinking there's some skewed logic in there somewhere. So I decided to join in the crazy talk. "Are you hungry?" If you can't guess the answer you clearly don't deserve the fruits of my wit. "Well no but it's Sunday and the points don't carry over." Perhaps if I had paid better attention to the 'white noise" I would have been hip to this fact. I guess I better borrow my husband's EVP device (a tool he uses for ghost hunting...his hobby when he's not banging me....he see's alot of ghosts, fyi).
Can you guess how this ends? Yes. Yes you can. I ordered my very own points calculator last Thursday. Mother can't understand why it's not here yet. Hers came in 3 days. Perhaps the Fatty Gods are smiling down on me. Had she not been so obsessed with her own points, she might have offered to let me calculate my way to Skinnyville on her magic box. I suggested it this morning and she agreed to let me into her secret world of white noise and rain. I made it until 4pm...when I checked the mailbox and found my super secret box still wasn't there. It's a sign I still have more time on the dark side. My dark side. Where we don't talk about what we eat or verbalize it's value to our day. Success is measured in inches and stains. The more the merrier. Fat and Happy. Sane. Call me crazy.
Sunday, July 18, 2010
Spooge Bob Stupid Pants
Being fat in the middle of summer sucks. You would think the heat alone would be enough to scare off thoughts of fried chicken and macaroni...but no (just had it for dinner and the heat index is 120). I'm thinking that would take a hurricane....Cat 5. Scratch that...being trapped inside with death starring me in the face is more reason than ever to binge eat. I went through a Cat 3 and I gotta tell ya, I did not go hungry. Hubby made sure we had a generator and I made sure 2 things were hooked up post haste...the fridge and the TV. I'm a survivalist like that. In any event, there are no hurricanes in sight and no diets looming. I tried the crazy "you'll never chew again" diet and...well what can I say, I like to chew. I will reveal for the first time the name of said diet (drum roll please)...Medifast. Medi- implies doctors concocted this train wreck of starvation and fast means just that.....no eating! It was literally the only one I hadn't tried and now I know why. The food tastes like ass and I was literally starving. Which I suppose was the point...but you don't go from Pamela Anderson to Mother Theresa on a spur of the moment decision to abstain from sex and move into a convent. You have to carry a bible around for a while...see how it feels. Have sex with guys every other day and work your way back from Tommy Lee sized proportions (major withdrawals). Slowly drain the silicon sacks from EEE to A. That's all I'm saying.
So my immediate plan to lose 50 pounds by my 20th class reunion next Friday is as follows: buy a big dress. I can hide at least 20 with a fitted waist and flared bottom. Top that with the random genetic mutation story and I'm good until the 25th. That reminds me....my annual Vajay Jay appointment is right around the corner and I don't think I'll luck out and get dumb nurse 2 years in a row. That means I'll have to lose the 10 she lied about, the 10 I lied about and the 10 I gained since all the lying began. Or maybe I'll just get a new doctor. Seems easier. But...he's hot and I like it when he tells me I have a perfect uterus whilst rearranging my eggs. At least something on me is perfect. Too bad my uterus is the most unused part of my body...aside from the entrance. I'm getting off track. So I confided in my non-uterus loving husband that I was feeling a bit "off." I was getting ready to say, "Maybe it's bcs we haven't had sex this year," when he interjected, "Are you taking a multi-vitamin?" How soon I forget... since he decided to start working out at 39, he's now Mr. GNC. "Yes, I am. Prenatal to be exact. I figure I would let my body figure out why it's preparing to have a baby when it hasn't seen sperm since we started dating." That usually shuts him up. If not, I show him my back fat...ya know right under the bra clasp. One lump on each side....the twins. Maybe a multi-vitamin can help that.
It's bad enough when the law says you have to put up with shit from your husband (biblical law that is) but no where in any book does it suggest I have to put up with shit from random male assholes without appetites. Before heading to the beach (in my thong) to scare tourists, I stopped at Subway for some sustenance. Just what every beach goer needs to see....the latest thong from Lane Bryant plastered on a plus sized pale ass wolfing down a 12 inch sub with all the trimmings. Yummy. Hey, at least I get the $5 foot longs. I am a frugal fatty. So I'm ordering up lunch for me and the hubster... just minding my own business whilst Suzie (not her name at all...far too many vowels) from Slovakia cheaps me out of as many toppings as she can. It's disturbing. Has the price of lettuce and pickels gone up from the oil spill bcs Suzie sure thinks they have! I can't call her out bcs then I look like the fatty I'm trying to hide. I mentally bitch slapped the shit out of her though. That's why you go early in the morning....no one is in there and you can raise holy hell without calling attention to your fat stores. I'm gonna need a new paragraph for the rest of this story....
So...as I was saying, Svleka was depriving me of pickles when I heard someone order a sub from behind. Normally I like to turn at an angle when someone is that close...makes things appear more even. Some dumb guy ordering a 6 inch turkey with "spooge" of mayo. A. 6 inch subs are so last year. 2. "Spooge"- what are you a pedophile out for lunch....nasty word that should never be used around innocent food! So already I'm not liking this asshole. Meanwhile....Big Bertha (aka me) is bellied up to not one but 2 foot longs in the making. Being the nice fatty that I am, I told him he could go ahead of me since his mini-man pedophile sub was already prepared...spooge n all. (puking in back of mouth). He thanked me and for a minute I thought he was kinda cute. A minute....just a minute. A. I realized we could never be together due to his lack of appetite and fondness of spooge. C. I'm married (in theory) and E. He almost got tackled by this fatty for opening his spooging pie hole and saying the following: "Can you eat all of that?" (referring to just 1 of my 2 foot longs) My inside voice said, "Yes asshole. Or I can cram it up your ass and watch the mayo spooge out." My outside voice said, "Oh no, it's not for me."- I may be fat but I'm quick to deflect any remnits of it away from it's owner.....how dare he! This is a classic example of why men are so dumb! You NEVER ask a woman (fat or thin) if she can eat all of anything! Do I ask you that when you come face to face with my "Chuckie?" I think not. At the end of the day who really cares! A taste, a nibble an all out feast....leftovers...spooge....it's all good...until you start asking questions ....dumb ass stupid 6 inch man who will NEVER get laid with a mouth like that!
Now I was angry. I had to act "smuggy" or he would clearly know I was lying. Hell, all he had to do was peer under my bathing suit cover up and he would have answered his own question without opening his dumb guy mouth! Deep breath. The militant Subway worker ordered him back in line behind me (clearly some sisterly love) and I was most pleased. They have a system and as a customer you do not attempt to overthrow it.....got that spooge boy! I was keeping a keen eye on the "subs for others" when I noticed "Tupac"(he looks like him...RIP) put my BMT in a bag with a turkey sub. The turkey was for the girl in front of me who was thin and clueless....always keep your eye on the food sister! I let this go on until she was about to pay and walk out with my husbands sub. That can't happen....he would want to eat mine and I don't share. Mother taught me well. I quietly called this error in judgement to Tupac's attention. I forget the foreigners like to yell and quickly knew I was being outed. I don't know what it is about Subway but if you break the system they go Saddam on your ass! He decided to argue with me about the location of the BMT. Yeah...I have fatty GPS and you...you are a dumb guy. He swore he was right and made a scene only to find out....Fatty knows best. Do you think he apologized. No. In his country not only would a woman never speak up....my cover up would be covering up way more than in currently was. Whatever...I win hands down. Sister ahead of me thanked me...that was enough. That and knowing I wasn't getting her lame as 2 topping sub or spooge boys 6 inch meat molester.
I'll have you know I only ate half of my sub. I wanted to leave room for beer and ice cream. And that's how I ended my day...in the ice cream aisle of the grocery store explaining to my neighbor why I was buying 2 half gallons of full fat ice cream, hot fudge and whipped cream......party. Yup...party for the person who ate the subs I was buying earlier. I need to start ordering in again. I need privacy until such time that I can meet up with this thing they call self control. I don't even like how it sounds. See Mother, I made it through an entire blog without saying, "Fuck...or rabbit." You raised me up right....except for the eating disorder part... you were a real June Cleaver. See you Thursday for my 20 pound reunion!
So my immediate plan to lose 50 pounds by my 20th class reunion next Friday is as follows: buy a big dress. I can hide at least 20 with a fitted waist and flared bottom. Top that with the random genetic mutation story and I'm good until the 25th. That reminds me....my annual Vajay Jay appointment is right around the corner and I don't think I'll luck out and get dumb nurse 2 years in a row. That means I'll have to lose the 10 she lied about, the 10 I lied about and the 10 I gained since all the lying began. Or maybe I'll just get a new doctor. Seems easier. But...he's hot and I like it when he tells me I have a perfect uterus whilst rearranging my eggs. At least something on me is perfect. Too bad my uterus is the most unused part of my body...aside from the entrance. I'm getting off track. So I confided in my non-uterus loving husband that I was feeling a bit "off." I was getting ready to say, "Maybe it's bcs we haven't had sex this year," when he interjected, "Are you taking a multi-vitamin?" How soon I forget... since he decided to start working out at 39, he's now Mr. GNC. "Yes, I am. Prenatal to be exact. I figure I would let my body figure out why it's preparing to have a baby when it hasn't seen sperm since we started dating." That usually shuts him up. If not, I show him my back fat...ya know right under the bra clasp. One lump on each side....the twins. Maybe a multi-vitamin can help that.
It's bad enough when the law says you have to put up with shit from your husband (biblical law that is) but no where in any book does it suggest I have to put up with shit from random male assholes without appetites. Before heading to the beach (in my thong) to scare tourists, I stopped at Subway for some sustenance. Just what every beach goer needs to see....the latest thong from Lane Bryant plastered on a plus sized pale ass wolfing down a 12 inch sub with all the trimmings. Yummy. Hey, at least I get the $5 foot longs. I am a frugal fatty. So I'm ordering up lunch for me and the hubster... just minding my own business whilst Suzie (not her name at all...far too many vowels) from Slovakia cheaps me out of as many toppings as she can. It's disturbing. Has the price of lettuce and pickels gone up from the oil spill bcs Suzie sure thinks they have! I can't call her out bcs then I look like the fatty I'm trying to hide. I mentally bitch slapped the shit out of her though. That's why you go early in the morning....no one is in there and you can raise holy hell without calling attention to your fat stores. I'm gonna need a new paragraph for the rest of this story....
So...as I was saying, Svleka was depriving me of pickles when I heard someone order a sub from behind. Normally I like to turn at an angle when someone is that close...makes things appear more even. Some dumb guy ordering a 6 inch turkey with "spooge" of mayo. A. 6 inch subs are so last year. 2. "Spooge"- what are you a pedophile out for lunch....nasty word that should never be used around innocent food! So already I'm not liking this asshole. Meanwhile....Big Bertha (aka me) is bellied up to not one but 2 foot longs in the making. Being the nice fatty that I am, I told him he could go ahead of me since his mini-man pedophile sub was already prepared...spooge n all. (puking in back of mouth). He thanked me and for a minute I thought he was kinda cute. A minute....just a minute. A. I realized we could never be together due to his lack of appetite and fondness of spooge. C. I'm married (in theory) and E. He almost got tackled by this fatty for opening his spooging pie hole and saying the following: "Can you eat all of that?" (referring to just 1 of my 2 foot longs) My inside voice said, "Yes asshole. Or I can cram it up your ass and watch the mayo spooge out." My outside voice said, "Oh no, it's not for me."- I may be fat but I'm quick to deflect any remnits of it away from it's owner.....how dare he! This is a classic example of why men are so dumb! You NEVER ask a woman (fat or thin) if she can eat all of anything! Do I ask you that when you come face to face with my "Chuckie?" I think not. At the end of the day who really cares! A taste, a nibble an all out feast....leftovers...spooge....it's all good...until you start asking questions ....dumb ass stupid 6 inch man who will NEVER get laid with a mouth like that!
Now I was angry. I had to act "smuggy" or he would clearly know I was lying. Hell, all he had to do was peer under my bathing suit cover up and he would have answered his own question without opening his dumb guy mouth! Deep breath. The militant Subway worker ordered him back in line behind me (clearly some sisterly love) and I was most pleased. They have a system and as a customer you do not attempt to overthrow it.....got that spooge boy! I was keeping a keen eye on the "subs for others" when I noticed "Tupac"(he looks like him...RIP) put my BMT in a bag with a turkey sub. The turkey was for the girl in front of me who was thin and clueless....always keep your eye on the food sister! I let this go on until she was about to pay and walk out with my husbands sub. That can't happen....he would want to eat mine and I don't share. Mother taught me well. I quietly called this error in judgement to Tupac's attention. I forget the foreigners like to yell and quickly knew I was being outed. I don't know what it is about Subway but if you break the system they go Saddam on your ass! He decided to argue with me about the location of the BMT. Yeah...I have fatty GPS and you...you are a dumb guy. He swore he was right and made a scene only to find out....Fatty knows best. Do you think he apologized. No. In his country not only would a woman never speak up....my cover up would be covering up way more than in currently was. Whatever...I win hands down. Sister ahead of me thanked me...that was enough. That and knowing I wasn't getting her lame as 2 topping sub or spooge boys 6 inch meat molester.
I'll have you know I only ate half of my sub. I wanted to leave room for beer and ice cream. And that's how I ended my day...in the ice cream aisle of the grocery store explaining to my neighbor why I was buying 2 half gallons of full fat ice cream, hot fudge and whipped cream......party. Yup...party for the person who ate the subs I was buying earlier. I need to start ordering in again. I need privacy until such time that I can meet up with this thing they call self control. I don't even like how it sounds. See Mother, I made it through an entire blog without saying, "Fuck...or rabbit." You raised me up right....except for the eating disorder part... you were a real June Cleaver. See you Thursday for my 20 pound reunion!
Sunday, July 11, 2010
"The Woman who can't gain Weight"
Talk about a headline that will never...ever follow my name. So I woke up the other morning like I usually do...hungry. In an effort to calm the demons, I flipped on the Today Show and started guzzling water. Typically that combo holds off a random early morning binge for at least 2 0r 3 minutes. That is unless the formerly fat Al Roker and his clan happen to be chowing down on the random creations of a guest chef. Do I need to see a wanna be weatherman eating ribs at 7:30 in the morning whilst I have to walk 10 miles and drink liquid shit in an effort NOT to look like the former version of him? I think not. Clearly I need to start watching cartoons....scratch that...they make me crave Froot Loops and footed PJ's. Anyway, so I click on the TV and see her...."The woman who can't gain weight." Fascinating. She's 21 and weighs 61. Personally I would take any combination of that. None of those numbers exist in my world...unless we are recounting my personal best for trips to the buffet. Apparently she has some genetic disease that won't allow her to gain weight. "Excuse me, can a fatty get a transfusion around here?!" At birth she weighed 2 lbs. I fear I weighed that at conception. As usual, in an effort to check out quicker...I ended up in the wrong line.
I had an idea....if I could find this chick and befriend her, perhaps her issues would cancel out mine. At a combined weight of 460...we would look great together! I found out we have something in common...we both eat 5000 calories a day! Of course that is where the fork splits...whilst my calories hop on board the first train to Assville, I'm not quite sure where hers go. Maybe they are hitching rides from others. Does this make her a Fatimposter??! I think so! In any event, can you even imagine a life where you could eat that many calories and still shop at Gymboree? It's amazing at best! Froot Loops and Krispy Kreme's for breakfast (whilst watching Scooby Doo), McDonald's for lunch, a shopping spree for under $100 and a sleepover at Brad Pitt's house. It's my freakin dream life! I can live the life of a child, eat as much as I want without gaining a pound and bang Brad Pitt in my spare time! Who says Fatties can't win the lottery???!
Sidebar- whilst on my new diet I was confronted by an old demon that morphed into a superdemon...I give you the Cherrywine Krispy Kreme....limited edition. Being a fan of donuts and cheap soda, who was I to pass this up. After eating 3 I decided I should post a warning on my blog.....DANGER! THEY ARE SMACK GOOD AND YOU CANNOT EAT JUST 1 DOZEN...DO NOT BUY....IT'S CRACK SISTERS....CRACK! COVERED IN CHOCOLATE, FILLED WITH THE NECTAR OF CHERRYWINE AND COATED WITH RED, WHITE AND BLUE SPRINKLES...WHERE'S THE DEA (Don't Eat Alarm) WHEN YOU NEED IT?!
Sorry...I had to get that off my chest. Just saying Krispy Kreme in the last paragraph made me want to dig the other 3 out of the garbage. They are still in the box....24 hour rule. Anyway, clearly this Today Show story opens up doors for fatties everywhere. If doctor's can isolate the gene and get someone like big booty Kim Kardashian (or any of her big assed sisters for that matter) to market it....it's liquid gold I tell you. I won't hold my breath...since I've been banned from running I don't have that much to hold. Existing is taking every ounce of free oxygen I have....or maybe that's marriage. The lines get blurred after a few years of wedded bliss.
Diet update....yeah the pre-packed food from said diet didn't make it past day 2 in my world. I am now on a quasi diet...part what they tell me to do, part what Dr. Atkins tells me to do and part what the demons tell me to do. It's pure chaos. But it's working. Down 5 pounds. So, when I feel like behaving I eat the cardboard soaked in water with a splash of cinnamon, when I need fat I get back together with Dr. Atkins and when I pass Cherrywine Krispy Kreme's....all hell breaks loose. It's sort of like wearing elastic waist pants....if you cover them with a cute top no one knows and you have a little extra room to be you. That's my secret diet...elastic waist pants. I fear my 20 year reunion is in 2 weeks and I haven't quite made it to the aforementioned size 2. Guess I'll have to start concocting my story....rare genetic disorder...after 30 I can't lose weight....on Medicaid....and so on. I did have a nice bout of binge drinking last week. Whilst I thought Vodka was my friend...I think it may have to be dead to me. Thinking it had very few calories I found the need to drink it by the bottle. At 100 calories a shot I feel... dirty. Oh well. What one doesn't remember didn't necessarily happen now did it?
Let's hope this week brings less drinking, better morning TV and and the flu...I need to lose 30 pounds in 1.5 weeks. Come on MERSA...tell me where you are hiding!
I had an idea....if I could find this chick and befriend her, perhaps her issues would cancel out mine. At a combined weight of 460...we would look great together! I found out we have something in common...we both eat 5000 calories a day! Of course that is where the fork splits...whilst my calories hop on board the first train to Assville, I'm not quite sure where hers go. Maybe they are hitching rides from others. Does this make her a Fatimposter??! I think so! In any event, can you even imagine a life where you could eat that many calories and still shop at Gymboree? It's amazing at best! Froot Loops and Krispy Kreme's for breakfast (whilst watching Scooby Doo), McDonald's for lunch, a shopping spree for under $100 and a sleepover at Brad Pitt's house. It's my freakin dream life! I can live the life of a child, eat as much as I want without gaining a pound and bang Brad Pitt in my spare time! Who says Fatties can't win the lottery???!
Sidebar- whilst on my new diet I was confronted by an old demon that morphed into a superdemon...I give you the Cherrywine Krispy Kreme....limited edition. Being a fan of donuts and cheap soda, who was I to pass this up. After eating 3 I decided I should post a warning on my blog.....DANGER! THEY ARE SMACK GOOD AND YOU CANNOT EAT JUST 1 DOZEN...DO NOT BUY....IT'S CRACK SISTERS....CRACK! COVERED IN CHOCOLATE, FILLED WITH THE NECTAR OF CHERRYWINE AND COATED WITH RED, WHITE AND BLUE SPRINKLES...WHERE'S THE DEA (Don't Eat Alarm) WHEN YOU NEED IT?!
Sorry...I had to get that off my chest. Just saying Krispy Kreme in the last paragraph made me want to dig the other 3 out of the garbage. They are still in the box....24 hour rule. Anyway, clearly this Today Show story opens up doors for fatties everywhere. If doctor's can isolate the gene and get someone like big booty Kim Kardashian (or any of her big assed sisters for that matter) to market it....it's liquid gold I tell you. I won't hold my breath...since I've been banned from running I don't have that much to hold. Existing is taking every ounce of free oxygen I have....or maybe that's marriage. The lines get blurred after a few years of wedded bliss.
Diet update....yeah the pre-packed food from said diet didn't make it past day 2 in my world. I am now on a quasi diet...part what they tell me to do, part what Dr. Atkins tells me to do and part what the demons tell me to do. It's pure chaos. But it's working. Down 5 pounds. So, when I feel like behaving I eat the cardboard soaked in water with a splash of cinnamon, when I need fat I get back together with Dr. Atkins and when I pass Cherrywine Krispy Kreme's....all hell breaks loose. It's sort of like wearing elastic waist pants....if you cover them with a cute top no one knows and you have a little extra room to be you. That's my secret diet...elastic waist pants. I fear my 20 year reunion is in 2 weeks and I haven't quite made it to the aforementioned size 2. Guess I'll have to start concocting my story....rare genetic disorder...after 30 I can't lose weight....on Medicaid....and so on. I did have a nice bout of binge drinking last week. Whilst I thought Vodka was my friend...I think it may have to be dead to me. Thinking it had very few calories I found the need to drink it by the bottle. At 100 calories a shot I feel... dirty. Oh well. What one doesn't remember didn't necessarily happen now did it?
Let's hope this week brings less drinking, better morning TV and and the flu...I need to lose 30 pounds in 1.5 weeks. Come on MERSA...tell me where you are hiding!
Wednesday, June 30, 2010
A Midsummer Night's Diet
Just when you think there isn't a diet left on the market that my chubby little hands haven't touched....think again. I found one... in Fitness Magazine (ya know....the magazine of choice for verging fatties) complete with a coupon. We all know how I love to save a buck...especially on gross diet food! I placed my order...and actually contemplated paying $10 extra for the expedited shipping...it was a Sat and I wanted it by Monday....New Me Monday to be exact....take 2,182. Who knows, this might be the time it all comes together! However comma, common sense kicked in and I was gently reminded paying $10 extra to get a diet by Monday that I will clearly be cheating on by Tuesday is like pre-paying for a hooker and opting out of the sex part. It just doesn't make much sense. Not to mention...everyone knows faster shipping is a scam to call out the big girls. They laugh all the way to the bank with that $10 as they send your package out with all the other closet fatties. So I went with standard shipping and laid out my plan for massive binge eating until such time I could see the faint brown color of the UPS truck grazing my block. With a deadline like that, you can only imagine the amount of calories consumed between the time of impulse diet purchase and arrival of said impulse diet purchase. Ughum...
Said diet product arrived on a Wednesday....exactly 3 business days after I ordered it....without the extra $10....thank you very much. Everyone knows you don't keep a verging fatty waiting...we know the return policy when it's time to jump the fence!It was the Wednesday my husband was graduating from the fire academy. No way I could start it then. I would be expected to participate in post graduation consumption. I wouldn't want to be a party pooper. That leaves Thursday. Ughum. Thursday was his birthday. By now anyone who has read this blog knows of my inappropriate relationship with sugar....birthday cake to be exact. Does anyone think I was going to start my diet on a day when I had an excuse to take him out to dinner AND eat cake!? I think not! In fact, those around us were questioning who's birthday it was. Like a good wife I took him to a nice dinner, proceeded to get drunk, made him drive home and ensured I got the piece of cake with the most frosting. Wife of the year...creeping up on me again. In my defense, a woman getting ready to start her period or a diet can't be held accountable for her actions within 7 days of any sort of offense. At least one of those excuses was applicable. Then there was my next dilemma, leftovers. Oh...I should clarify....not my leftovers ( I don't even know what that word means quite frankly)....his leftovers. I could care less about the ribs he brought home. I find the eating of someone else's rib cages a bit barbaric...I meant the cake. Had it been a regular grocery store cake with the sugary icing that I love so, the problem would have had an expiration date....about 2-3 days. But no, the husband likes ice cream cake....as discussed at length in previous blogs. That shit lasts forever....unless no one knows it's there but me....then it's got an hour or two max. But he not only knew it was there, he knew how much he ate thus leaving me vulnerable to rationing. Damn! Diets, rationing, husbands....you kiss your Mama with that mouth?! So I was left with a counter full of diet food and a freezer full of cake. It's like choosing between having an affair with Brad Pitt or doing the right thing- getting a divorce, chasing down Brad Pitt and hoping he not only likes fat divorced chicks...but has given back all of those offspring with what's her name! It's just easier to sneak in the freezer for a quickie.
This brings us to Friday. I ask you, who starts a diet on a Friday. No one I know. Then again, no one I know weighs under 650. Friday's are for beer, pizza and sex. 2 out of 3 of those things happens 4 out 4 Friday's at my house. Let just say I never go thirsty or hungry and leave it at that. Friday was out....even though there was a very large woman I barely recognized staring back at me screaming for an intervention....it would have to wait until Saturday when I was off work and could focus. Who starts a diet on a Sat? No one I know. Saturday is for eating as much as possible and cooking as little as possible. I would put it off one more day....the Lord's day to be exact. Surely God would intervene and prescribe diet and rest on the 7th day. Not so much. If he did, he clearly should have stopped me prior to the chicken biscuit combo on my way to church. I'm a good person. I tithe. Can't a sister get a break!? The Lord spoke to me at church and told me that all good things happen on Monday (which I knew...duh!). That settled it. The new me would once again have to start on Monday. If only I had tithed a dollar for every calorie I ate that day....world hunger would be no more. Well except for my world hunger...I will NEVER stop being hungry. NEVER..NUNCA.
Monday morning arrived and I was all fired up. The new me was ready to come out and play. I woke up, walked 4 miles and drank one of the shakes from my new packet of astronaut food. It read, "Creamy Orange Shake." It should have read, " FRAUD." It was like drinking watered down Sunny D....minus the Sunny, the D and anything in there that would have made it taste good. Being a trained fatty, I have work arounds for these situations....no I didn't add ice cream (although that would have done the trick). I plugged my nose and swallowed. A technique that can be used for various painful experiences. The good news....I got to eat more crappy food in 2 hours. I literally watched the clock until it was time to eat again. I decided I would try a "bar." Who fucks up a bar? The instructions said, "Do not eat more than one of these bars as they are high in calories." 110 to be exact! Gheez! I expected to get a granola sized bar with some sort of flavor. I got the flavor...in the one bite it took me to finish it! It was the size of a postage stamp! Clearly this is the trick starvation diet! As you would expect, it took me exactly 2 hours, 34 minutes and 16 seconds to cheat. I carried my big ass to Subway for a footlong turkey. That shit was calling me! Food is my crack and I was back on the corner with Pookie! You know where this is going....as soon as I mess up....the flood gates open. I went on to eat non-stop until I went to bed at 10pm. New Me Tuesday?
Yes, I was so disgusted Tuesday that I promised myself I would try and get at least 1 day in without cheating. That's the cool thing about promising yourself something, I can only let me down and frankly I am quite forgiving! As long as I am rewarded with some "hair of the dog" things can once again be made whole. I sucked it up and ate as much of the nasty diet propaganda that I could stomach. I plugged my nose for the shake, pretended to love the one real food I got to eat....salad (sans Ranch...I know...unfair!) and tried to figure out a way to make 1.13 ounces of a somewhat tasty snack bar last longer than 1 second. I got an "A" until
9 pm. What happened at 9pm you ask? Well....of course the fat demon that lives inside me decided to started "speaking" to me. "There's no way you are eating enough. You are gonna pass out. You can't do any form of exercise and be on this diet. Your blood sugar will fall and you will convulse. You better add up the calories and make sure this is safe." I was in an all out panic. Because clearly my body couldn't tolerate any sort of calorie reduction! Gee....I might have enough fat stores to last me until...Oh I don't know....2017! But I listened to the Demon and started to add....feverishly. "I'm going to die. Being fat isn't so bad. I choose life!" Those were just some of the things going through my head when I reached my total caloric input for the day.....950! What?! My dogs eat more than that and they are lazy sluggos! I knew what had to be done. Popcorn. Air popped...light on the butter. A small sacrifice to keep me alive long enough to see Wednesday. Oh...and there was a bit of emotional eating in the mix. This weeks episode of Deadliest Catch was airing Captain Phil's death. It was very sad. He was a good man....not that I know him, have met him or know anything about him. It's just that we have been sharing Tuesday's nights from spring to summer for several seasons and I'll miss seeing him chain smoke and shake. Can't believe he's dead. RIP Phil.
So I almost made it through 1 day on this diet. That being said, it was time to jump on the scale and look for results! Keeping ones expectations in line is key to success on any diet. There it was...I had lost 3 pounds. Must have been the chicken biscuit I "let go of" at my am bowel movement. Good stuff. Now that I had confirmation it was working, it would be easier to follow through. Here we are at Wednesday. I have thrown out the boxed diet oatmeal, scrambled eggs and 1 thing of soup. I went online and ordered the fake fatty chips and brownies. If I have to eat cardboard I should at least pretend it started as something I would normally eat, right? Should be here in 3 days. At that point, my diet shall consist of shakes, chips, brownies and bars. Almost like it's not a diet at all! In the meantime, I will stay the course with what remains on my counter. Well...on my end of the counter. The other end has all the cool people, Lil' Debbie, Keebler, Cap'n Crunch and so on. I had to get new friends....and my new friends suck ass! In the end my new friends will make me a better person but I prefer to live on the edge and bear the consequences....such as clothing that ends in X and buying two seats on an airplane. It's so old me.
I know....you want to know what diet I'm on. I shall torture you until such time as 1 of 2 things happens: 1. I lose weight or 2. I fall off the wagon. I'd put my money on 2. It's a sure bet. I have my high school reunion in 25 days. I can't show up as twice the woman I was in 1989. It's not even cool to be fat right now. I'm so out. I guess if I can't lose my ass in 25 days I'll have to concoct some elaborate story of a genetic mutation causing me to double in size....I shall call her "Mother!" Kidding Maaa....and no I'm not telling you what diet I'm on. Keep counting your points and leave me to 950 calories of cardboard. Time for a bar....and not the kind with alcohol unfortunately.
Said diet product arrived on a Wednesday....exactly 3 business days after I ordered it....without the extra $10....thank you very much. Everyone knows you don't keep a verging fatty waiting...we know the return policy when it's time to jump the fence!It was the Wednesday my husband was graduating from the fire academy. No way I could start it then. I would be expected to participate in post graduation consumption. I wouldn't want to be a party pooper. That leaves Thursday. Ughum. Thursday was his birthday. By now anyone who has read this blog knows of my inappropriate relationship with sugar....birthday cake to be exact. Does anyone think I was going to start my diet on a day when I had an excuse to take him out to dinner AND eat cake!? I think not! In fact, those around us were questioning who's birthday it was. Like a good wife I took him to a nice dinner, proceeded to get drunk, made him drive home and ensured I got the piece of cake with the most frosting. Wife of the year...creeping up on me again. In my defense, a woman getting ready to start her period or a diet can't be held accountable for her actions within 7 days of any sort of offense. At least one of those excuses was applicable. Then there was my next dilemma, leftovers. Oh...I should clarify....not my leftovers ( I don't even know what that word means quite frankly)....his leftovers. I could care less about the ribs he brought home. I find the eating of someone else's rib cages a bit barbaric...I meant the cake. Had it been a regular grocery store cake with the sugary icing that I love so, the problem would have had an expiration date....about 2-3 days. But no, the husband likes ice cream cake....as discussed at length in previous blogs. That shit lasts forever....unless no one knows it's there but me....then it's got an hour or two max. But he not only knew it was there, he knew how much he ate thus leaving me vulnerable to rationing. Damn! Diets, rationing, husbands....you kiss your Mama with that mouth?! So I was left with a counter full of diet food and a freezer full of cake. It's like choosing between having an affair with Brad Pitt or doing the right thing- getting a divorce, chasing down Brad Pitt and hoping he not only likes fat divorced chicks...but has given back all of those offspring with what's her name! It's just easier to sneak in the freezer for a quickie.
This brings us to Friday. I ask you, who starts a diet on a Friday. No one I know. Then again, no one I know weighs under 650. Friday's are for beer, pizza and sex. 2 out of 3 of those things happens 4 out 4 Friday's at my house. Let just say I never go thirsty or hungry and leave it at that. Friday was out....even though there was a very large woman I barely recognized staring back at me screaming for an intervention....it would have to wait until Saturday when I was off work and could focus. Who starts a diet on a Sat? No one I know. Saturday is for eating as much as possible and cooking as little as possible. I would put it off one more day....the Lord's day to be exact. Surely God would intervene and prescribe diet and rest on the 7th day. Not so much. If he did, he clearly should have stopped me prior to the chicken biscuit combo on my way to church. I'm a good person. I tithe. Can't a sister get a break!? The Lord spoke to me at church and told me that all good things happen on Monday (which I knew...duh!). That settled it. The new me would once again have to start on Monday. If only I had tithed a dollar for every calorie I ate that day....world hunger would be no more. Well except for my world hunger...I will NEVER stop being hungry. NEVER..NUNCA.
Monday morning arrived and I was all fired up. The new me was ready to come out and play. I woke up, walked 4 miles and drank one of the shakes from my new packet of astronaut food. It read, "Creamy Orange Shake." It should have read, " FRAUD." It was like drinking watered down Sunny D....minus the Sunny, the D and anything in there that would have made it taste good. Being a trained fatty, I have work arounds for these situations....no I didn't add ice cream (although that would have done the trick). I plugged my nose and swallowed. A technique that can be used for various painful experiences. The good news....I got to eat more crappy food in 2 hours. I literally watched the clock until it was time to eat again. I decided I would try a "bar." Who fucks up a bar? The instructions said, "Do not eat more than one of these bars as they are high in calories." 110 to be exact! Gheez! I expected to get a granola sized bar with some sort of flavor. I got the flavor...in the one bite it took me to finish it! It was the size of a postage stamp! Clearly this is the trick starvation diet! As you would expect, it took me exactly 2 hours, 34 minutes and 16 seconds to cheat. I carried my big ass to Subway for a footlong turkey. That shit was calling me! Food is my crack and I was back on the corner with Pookie! You know where this is going....as soon as I mess up....the flood gates open. I went on to eat non-stop until I went to bed at 10pm. New Me Tuesday?
Yes, I was so disgusted Tuesday that I promised myself I would try and get at least 1 day in without cheating. That's the cool thing about promising yourself something, I can only let me down and frankly I am quite forgiving! As long as I am rewarded with some "hair of the dog" things can once again be made whole. I sucked it up and ate as much of the nasty diet propaganda that I could stomach. I plugged my nose for the shake, pretended to love the one real food I got to eat....salad (sans Ranch...I know...unfair!) and tried to figure out a way to make 1.13 ounces of a somewhat tasty snack bar last longer than 1 second. I got an "A" until
9 pm. What happened at 9pm you ask? Well....of course the fat demon that lives inside me decided to started "speaking" to me. "There's no way you are eating enough. You are gonna pass out. You can't do any form of exercise and be on this diet. Your blood sugar will fall and you will convulse. You better add up the calories and make sure this is safe." I was in an all out panic. Because clearly my body couldn't tolerate any sort of calorie reduction! Gee....I might have enough fat stores to last me until...Oh I don't know....2017! But I listened to the Demon and started to add....feverishly. "I'm going to die. Being fat isn't so bad. I choose life!" Those were just some of the things going through my head when I reached my total caloric input for the day.....950! What?! My dogs eat more than that and they are lazy sluggos! I knew what had to be done. Popcorn. Air popped...light on the butter. A small sacrifice to keep me alive long enough to see Wednesday. Oh...and there was a bit of emotional eating in the mix. This weeks episode of Deadliest Catch was airing Captain Phil's death. It was very sad. He was a good man....not that I know him, have met him or know anything about him. It's just that we have been sharing Tuesday's nights from spring to summer for several seasons and I'll miss seeing him chain smoke and shake. Can't believe he's dead. RIP Phil.
So I almost made it through 1 day on this diet. That being said, it was time to jump on the scale and look for results! Keeping ones expectations in line is key to success on any diet. There it was...I had lost 3 pounds. Must have been the chicken biscuit I "let go of" at my am bowel movement. Good stuff. Now that I had confirmation it was working, it would be easier to follow through. Here we are at Wednesday. I have thrown out the boxed diet oatmeal, scrambled eggs and 1 thing of soup. I went online and ordered the fake fatty chips and brownies. If I have to eat cardboard I should at least pretend it started as something I would normally eat, right? Should be here in 3 days. At that point, my diet shall consist of shakes, chips, brownies and bars. Almost like it's not a diet at all! In the meantime, I will stay the course with what remains on my counter. Well...on my end of the counter. The other end has all the cool people, Lil' Debbie, Keebler, Cap'n Crunch and so on. I had to get new friends....and my new friends suck ass! In the end my new friends will make me a better person but I prefer to live on the edge and bear the consequences....such as clothing that ends in X and buying two seats on an airplane. It's so old me.
I know....you want to know what diet I'm on. I shall torture you until such time as 1 of 2 things happens: 1. I lose weight or 2. I fall off the wagon. I'd put my money on 2. It's a sure bet. I have my high school reunion in 25 days. I can't show up as twice the woman I was in 1989. It's not even cool to be fat right now. I'm so out. I guess if I can't lose my ass in 25 days I'll have to concoct some elaborate story of a genetic mutation causing me to double in size....I shall call her "Mother!" Kidding Maaa....and no I'm not telling you what diet I'm on. Keep counting your points and leave me to 950 calories of cardboard. Time for a bar....and not the kind with alcohol unfortunately.
Monday, June 21, 2010
Wife of the Year
This just in... the award for "Fatty Wife of the Year" .... goes to...my ass, (literally and figuratively) hands down. I'm fairly confident when it comes to categories such as "Use of Food as a Weapon, a Crutch, and a Friend...there isn't even a runner up. I feel like there should also be an honorable mention for the various forms of trickery I gracefully execute on a daily basis. Let's revisit some of my finer moments of the year and revel in all that is me, shall we?
2010 began with none other than a New Year's Revelation. My Revelation...If my husband accepts me 6 sizes bigger than when he married me, 2 things are very clear: 1. He has no other options 2. He's suppressing "fat stores" that will one day result in his spontaneous combustion ...thus leaving me free to marry Brad Pitt. Happy New Year to me.
In 6 months I have been on 6 diets and gained 6....tee pounds. 666. Clearly the diet God's are not hearing my prayers (male God's I'm sure). I know I'm a slutty, trash talking Rabbit lover...but these are Diet God's....they should only curse me for eating Taco Bell and Fried Twinkies....not judge me for colorful language and plastic "man friends." If I have to break up with Little Debbie, bury the Rabbit AND stop saying, "fuck" ....I'm fucked. Much like marriage, dieting gets more painful with age....I've single handily cussed out the fine folks at Weight Watchers ( Points suck! 22 points? I eat that in my f'n sleep!), went crazy on "crack" (for the record...the Phen in Phentremine that's "safe" is great if you enjoy staying up all night, never eating and a heart that beats more than Ron Jeremy- I choose life and rabbit) and spent 1 day carb free....(1 long painful day where I was forced to break up with the one thing my "whoo whoo" hates and I love...yeast.) If being fat is a crime, trying not to be fat is pre-meditated fucking murder. Sorry Diet God's. Where's Little Debbie when I need some defense? Back where I started....Forever 2x
I decided to sign myself up for Mission Impossible...find a place on my body that wasn't fat. Even if it was just a tiny crevice on the road map of me...I had to find it. When I located the aforementioned part, I decided it should available for viewing, unveiled if you will. That is why I no longer wear panties. Why keep the only thing on me that has remained unscathed for 37 years (give or take a few bad decisions) covered up? Why? I just don't know....thus why she is now free to roam about the cabin. I decided to attend a party (a coming out party of sorts) wearing a dress that allowed "her" to breath whilst the rest of me suffocated from random displaced fat. What's a fatty to do whilst wearing a flapper dress to hide what flaps whilst her very own "flapper" flapped in the breeze....stand there and look cute. 1 inch to the left, right, up or down and "Leave it to Beaver" would be an instant prime time hit once more. I don't know what scared me more...someone seeing my dimpled thighs or my "Chucky." Either way, someone would clearly be losing an eye. Good thing I'm not famous. The papz would have been all up in my pink taco. The only thing surrounded by fat that's good and good for you.
Now to my worst offense of the year. If you are close to a sink, wash your hands before reading. It's down right dirty and shameful. As many of you know, I am a frugal fatty. Why pay full price for Doritos when the simple use of a coupon can double the quantity, the calories and thus the pleasure . It's just common sense shopping. So... whilst I was out on one of my various grocery runs, I noticed not only were ice cream cakes on sale...but I also had a coupon! Who says the average girl can't win the lottery! Top that off with the perfect excuse for purchasing said cake....hubby's birthday. Here's where it gets dicey. Captain's logbook...February....Husbands birthday....June. We all know where this is going. In the cruelest form of trickery, I bought the cake as a "surprise" well ahead of the curve. Much like many of the "surprises" I bring home for "him," he would never see it. I have good intentions...just very bad morals. Fire/Ice. About the end of February (the start of ice cream season), I decided my husband might not like that cake after all. It was adorned with pink flowers. What was I thinking? What man would eat a cake with feminine undertones? No man of mine. So...I decided it would be best if I spared his masculinity by eating the section with the pink flowers. Allow me to scale that to size for you....that would be half the cake. Objects in mirror appear just as big as they are, thank you! Damn that frosting was good. What? It was February. Winter sucks and the spring flowers were calling. Then I got my period. Taking a sharp knife to a very frozen ice cream cake allowed me to release a certain amount of negative energy that I attribute to...marriage....and that was the end of the cake. I bring you to June. The birthday is 2 days away, we have no cake and no coupons. I'm torn. Should I just tell him how good the cake was back in February or come out of pocket with another $20 knowing he might see 1 piece of that cake before it enters the confines of my gut only to be seen again as a small (or large) pock on my ass. I got it...I'll get him a card and me a cake. Yes, I'm am the whore of the earth. Happy Birthday Honey.
I can't think of anything I've done in the last 5 minutes that tops that one. I did get drunk on Saturday (at the Beaver's coming out party...these things happen) and binge eat all day Sunday. That's so...common. Well, except for the part where I broke my long standing McDonald's record by going back 2 x in 2 hours. I know...even I get sick reading that. This is why fat people shouldn't drink....they could be eating.
Is it 2011 yet?
2010 began with none other than a New Year's Revelation. My Revelation...If my husband accepts me 6 sizes bigger than when he married me, 2 things are very clear: 1. He has no other options 2. He's suppressing "fat stores" that will one day result in his spontaneous combustion ...thus leaving me free to marry Brad Pitt. Happy New Year to me.
In 6 months I have been on 6 diets and gained 6....tee pounds. 666. Clearly the diet God's are not hearing my prayers (male God's I'm sure). I know I'm a slutty, trash talking Rabbit lover...but these are Diet God's....they should only curse me for eating Taco Bell and Fried Twinkies....not judge me for colorful language and plastic "man friends." If I have to break up with Little Debbie, bury the Rabbit AND stop saying, "fuck" ....I'm fucked. Much like marriage, dieting gets more painful with age....I've single handily cussed out the fine folks at Weight Watchers ( Points suck! 22 points? I eat that in my f'n sleep!), went crazy on "crack" (for the record...the Phen in Phentremine that's "safe" is great if you enjoy staying up all night, never eating and a heart that beats more than Ron Jeremy- I choose life and rabbit) and spent 1 day carb free....(1 long painful day where I was forced to break up with the one thing my "whoo whoo" hates and I love...yeast.) If being fat is a crime, trying not to be fat is pre-meditated fucking murder. Sorry Diet God's. Where's Little Debbie when I need some defense? Back where I started....Forever 2x
I decided to sign myself up for Mission Impossible...find a place on my body that wasn't fat. Even if it was just a tiny crevice on the road map of me...I had to find it. When I located the aforementioned part, I decided it should available for viewing, unveiled if you will. That is why I no longer wear panties. Why keep the only thing on me that has remained unscathed for 37 years (give or take a few bad decisions) covered up? Why? I just don't know....thus why she is now free to roam about the cabin. I decided to attend a party (a coming out party of sorts) wearing a dress that allowed "her" to breath whilst the rest of me suffocated from random displaced fat. What's a fatty to do whilst wearing a flapper dress to hide what flaps whilst her very own "flapper" flapped in the breeze....stand there and look cute. 1 inch to the left, right, up or down and "Leave it to Beaver" would be an instant prime time hit once more. I don't know what scared me more...someone seeing my dimpled thighs or my "Chucky." Either way, someone would clearly be losing an eye. Good thing I'm not famous. The papz would have been all up in my pink taco. The only thing surrounded by fat that's good and good for you.
Now to my worst offense of the year. If you are close to a sink, wash your hands before reading. It's down right dirty and shameful. As many of you know, I am a frugal fatty. Why pay full price for Doritos when the simple use of a coupon can double the quantity, the calories and thus the pleasure . It's just common sense shopping. So... whilst I was out on one of my various grocery runs, I noticed not only were ice cream cakes on sale...but I also had a coupon! Who says the average girl can't win the lottery! Top that off with the perfect excuse for purchasing said cake....hubby's birthday. Here's where it gets dicey. Captain's logbook...February....Husbands birthday....June. We all know where this is going. In the cruelest form of trickery, I bought the cake as a "surprise" well ahead of the curve. Much like many of the "surprises" I bring home for "him," he would never see it. I have good intentions...just very bad morals. Fire/Ice. About the end of February (the start of ice cream season), I decided my husband might not like that cake after all. It was adorned with pink flowers. What was I thinking? What man would eat a cake with feminine undertones? No man of mine. So...I decided it would be best if I spared his masculinity by eating the section with the pink flowers. Allow me to scale that to size for you....that would be half the cake. Objects in mirror appear just as big as they are, thank you! Damn that frosting was good. What? It was February. Winter sucks and the spring flowers were calling. Then I got my period. Taking a sharp knife to a very frozen ice cream cake allowed me to release a certain amount of negative energy that I attribute to...marriage....and that was the end of the cake. I bring you to June. The birthday is 2 days away, we have no cake and no coupons. I'm torn. Should I just tell him how good the cake was back in February or come out of pocket with another $20 knowing he might see 1 piece of that cake before it enters the confines of my gut only to be seen again as a small (or large) pock on my ass. I got it...I'll get him a card and me a cake. Yes, I'm am the whore of the earth. Happy Birthday Honey.
I can't think of anything I've done in the last 5 minutes that tops that one. I did get drunk on Saturday (at the Beaver's coming out party...these things happen) and binge eat all day Sunday. That's so...common. Well, except for the part where I broke my long standing McDonald's record by going back 2 x in 2 hours. I know...even I get sick reading that. This is why fat people shouldn't drink....they could be eating.
Is it 2011 yet?
Sunday, June 13, 2010
Drivers Education SIF Style
I decided to test a theory I have that technology is making me fat. Leave it to me...when I run out of people to blame, I start blaming the smart people. It's what I do. I give you the drive up window. Everyone who's anyone has one. I decided to be a "fatlosipher" and see how many things I could accomplish in one day without prying my fat ass from the drivers seat of the 4Runner...here goes:
* I started the day off like many Americans do.... with a coffee and donut from none other than Dunkin Donuts! Drove up, placed my order and drove off. I steered clear of the donut holes as my local DD likes to get a head count on each one....I'm not into that....but....it felt good knowing I was consuming what "Keeps America Running"....to the cardiologist. And currently that would be the only running I'm allowed to do....bitter at best. Moving on...
* Then it was time to turn over my slave wages to the evil bank. I drove up, handed off the money and bam.... I'll never see it again. Good thing they pay me .00000125% interest. Makes it all worth while. Super bonus score....I didn't have to wait behind any of the usual idiots who drive up sans deposit/withdrawal slips. They must be related to the people who think you have to wait until the cashier has scanned everything before you can swipe your card at the grocery store and then act like they've never used one before. Get a clue... technology is for people who graduated pre-k! Still bitter....still driving....
* Now it was on to the fuel that keeps me going....drugs! Walgreen's here I come! A dose of happy pills to take me to my special place, baby be gones to ensure this never happens again and a little allergy medicine to keep me from sneezing when my husband is around. Seems I might be allergic to....him. Interesting. I don't think they make a shot for that....other than a 9mm...which seems a little drastic at present.
* What to do next...well...all of this running around has given me an appetite...let's hit McDonald's! This is always a fun experience for several reasons....I like when the teleprompter chick says, "Welcome to MacDonalds would you like to cool off with a delicious Frappacino?"...makes me salivate but nope....I'd like to cool off with a delicious Double Quarter Pounder with cheese and fries...super sized please. What? It's all very logical when you think about it. Coffee makes you run to the bathroom. That would mean I would have to leave the comfort of my car. Not in the cards Sisters! 3000+ calories just makes you tired. I can deal with that from the confines of the 4Runner....moving on....
* All of the saturated fat has made me sleepy....time for a nap! Any parking lot will do. Find you a shade tree, park the car and bam...instant womb! I like to park where no one would expect to find me....yup....there's a lovely space reserved just for my slar phase at the local YMCA. What? It's very unassuming. Might I add it's mid-afternoon and I have yet to leave the vehicle. No goal is beyond my reach.
* Time for some gas...not too many places south of the border that still offer full service. That's why the north won y'all...we get that certain people like to be pampered and are willing to pay for it! (that was pay back for all of the times I've been called a Yankee since moving here). So anyway, down here in the land where the South truly believes they will rise again....You have to do a little work to get full service. Ya gotta press the mic, give them some random reason you need assistance (Like...I'm 450 lbs over weight and lazy!) and slip them a few bucks for their silence. I feel compelled to say that I like the state of NJ for one reason....and one reason only....they do not pump their own gas. Random sign of the cross.
* Now that the tank is full, I'll need something to wash down the baby be gones, the happy pills and the husband zappers. Nothing a quick trip through the Brew Thru can't cure! This is where the South gets credit...single greatest invention ever...drive up beer joint. It's a lazy fat drunks paradise. So, I drive in, place my order (Double Deuce in a brown paper bag....classy aren't I?) and pop the pills that keep my life harmonious. No babies, no problems and no itching from spousal unrest. Wait...why I am taking baby be gones? Rumor has it you have to have sex to make babies. I think I may be safer than Mother Theresa. Sign of Cross.
So, as you can see, my theory has proven itself factual.... the fine art of convenience is clearly what's keeping me fat. I can literally get everything I want without lifting my fat ass from the seat of my vehicle. Yes, this means sex too. Don't think I can't pull up on some hotties and score me a little sompin sompin if I need to. Hell I look good from the waist up. By the time they realize what's going on south of the border, they are trapped! 911 won't find a deprived SIF on the move! Lookout! I think if I am ever going to be thin I will need to replace my car with a bike. It would be hard to pull off my tricks in plain sight. Not to mention I would be burning calories whilst sabotaging myself. It's a theory worst testing. I bet I can eat and steer with one hand. I'm good like that....
* I started the day off like many Americans do.... with a coffee and donut from none other than Dunkin Donuts! Drove up, placed my order and drove off. I steered clear of the donut holes as my local DD likes to get a head count on each one....I'm not into that....but....it felt good knowing I was consuming what "Keeps America Running"....to the cardiologist. And currently that would be the only running I'm allowed to do....bitter at best. Moving on...
* Then it was time to turn over my slave wages to the evil bank. I drove up, handed off the money and bam.... I'll never see it again. Good thing they pay me .00000125% interest. Makes it all worth while. Super bonus score....I didn't have to wait behind any of the usual idiots who drive up sans deposit/withdrawal slips. They must be related to the people who think you have to wait until the cashier has scanned everything before you can swipe your card at the grocery store and then act like they've never used one before. Get a clue... technology is for people who graduated pre-k! Still bitter....still driving....
* Now it was on to the fuel that keeps me going....drugs! Walgreen's here I come! A dose of happy pills to take me to my special place, baby be gones to ensure this never happens again and a little allergy medicine to keep me from sneezing when my husband is around. Seems I might be allergic to....him. Interesting. I don't think they make a shot for that....other than a 9mm...which seems a little drastic at present.
* What to do next...well...all of this running around has given me an appetite...let's hit McDonald's! This is always a fun experience for several reasons....I like when the teleprompter chick says, "Welcome to MacDonalds would you like to cool off with a delicious Frappacino?"...makes me salivate but nope....I'd like to cool off with a delicious Double Quarter Pounder with cheese and fries...super sized please. What? It's all very logical when you think about it. Coffee makes you run to the bathroom. That would mean I would have to leave the comfort of my car. Not in the cards Sisters! 3000+ calories just makes you tired. I can deal with that from the confines of the 4Runner....moving on....
* All of the saturated fat has made me sleepy....time for a nap! Any parking lot will do. Find you a shade tree, park the car and bam...instant womb! I like to park where no one would expect to find me....yup....there's a lovely space reserved just for my slar phase at the local YMCA. What? It's very unassuming. Might I add it's mid-afternoon and I have yet to leave the vehicle. No goal is beyond my reach.
* Time for some gas...not too many places south of the border that still offer full service. That's why the north won y'all...we get that certain people like to be pampered and are willing to pay for it! (that was pay back for all of the times I've been called a Yankee since moving here). So anyway, down here in the land where the South truly believes they will rise again....You have to do a little work to get full service. Ya gotta press the mic, give them some random reason you need assistance (Like...I'm 450 lbs over weight and lazy!) and slip them a few bucks for their silence. I feel compelled to say that I like the state of NJ for one reason....and one reason only....they do not pump their own gas. Random sign of the cross.
* Now that the tank is full, I'll need something to wash down the baby be gones, the happy pills and the husband zappers. Nothing a quick trip through the Brew Thru can't cure! This is where the South gets credit...single greatest invention ever...drive up beer joint. It's a lazy fat drunks paradise. So, I drive in, place my order (Double Deuce in a brown paper bag....classy aren't I?) and pop the pills that keep my life harmonious. No babies, no problems and no itching from spousal unrest. Wait...why I am taking baby be gones? Rumor has it you have to have sex to make babies. I think I may be safer than Mother Theresa. Sign of Cross.
So, as you can see, my theory has proven itself factual.... the fine art of convenience is clearly what's keeping me fat. I can literally get everything I want without lifting my fat ass from the seat of my vehicle. Yes, this means sex too. Don't think I can't pull up on some hotties and score me a little sompin sompin if I need to. Hell I look good from the waist up. By the time they realize what's going on south of the border, they are trapped! 911 won't find a deprived SIF on the move! Lookout! I think if I am ever going to be thin I will need to replace my car with a bike. It would be hard to pull off my tricks in plain sight. Not to mention I would be burning calories whilst sabotaging myself. It's a theory worst testing. I bet I can eat and steer with one hand. I'm good like that....
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