Exhibit "A"- Larry Birthed Kelly

All I got for my birthday was...

My period  and my house repossessed. Fitting and ghetto all in one day. However, comma, I wouldn't be half as bitter had my husband remembered to buy me a cake. Seems after 8 years still he thinks taking me out to dinner with a bit of song and dance at the table is enough. It's not. How many more years must pass before I am worthy of the cheap ass supermarket cake I so desire. Thank God for the local chapter of SIF. They baked me a cake. Granted it said, "Larry birthed Kelly." Larry was yummy. He was chocolate with chocolate frosting and yellow afterbirth (icing). I blew out the candles in one puff. Shocked? You shouldn't be. I wished for...more cake. 8 years and he still thinks paying the waiter to bring me treats 72 hours prior to the due date will suffice. Not. I need cake. Lots of it. Whilst I don't require gifts, I do require he not buy himself gifts on my birthday. Apparently too much to ax. So... a dinner date with the Mexicans and Sheila Boof it was.

Thank God for the sisters. As I arrived for my birthday evening sans spouse, I was greeted by the smell of a freshly baked boxed cake and the anticipation of queso. Perfecto. The sisters know what is takes to bring me to my happy place. I really should have rewarded them with sex. At least they work for it. They even threw a movie into the mix.  So what they think Shia Labeouf is a chick named Sheila Boof. They gave me cake and queso. IQ not required. Another birthday let down...Gordon Gecko. I so wanted you to be the mean, money grubbing ass of yesteryear....but no...you had to be...just like the rest of the men I know... uneventful. So in the midst of pouring rain, 38 years after perfection was proven plausible, there I was...with a card, a caked named Larry, breath smelling of chupalas (yes, I meant to say it that way) and Sheila Boof. The day of my birth played out as a horror movie. Nice. Whilst I am not "high maintenance", a little deference to all that is me once a year isn't so much to ax, is it? Is it so wrong to wish for sex and cake (in that order) in the same 365 day period? It's almost a BOGO...you give me cake and Viola...sex! Not even an expensive cake...a cheap supermarket butter cream frosting cake bearing the name of some unsuspecting freak goes a long way when your holding up the line at 180!

I wonder what birthdays are like on the other side. Do the 1/4 pounders wish for broccoli florets and skinny jeans? Broccoli gives me gas. Cake gives me inches. Not the inches I soo desire but replacement inches work wonders in a pinch. It's funny how we always want to celebrate our birthdays. Tell me what's so exciting about turning 38? I'm too young to stop bleeding, too old to get laid and too fat to think about being thin! Cake is the answer. I wasn't sure what to wear on my birthday. Not that I have alot of choices. 2 pairs of shorts that fit and a half a dozen shirts. Go crazy. So I went with the shorts that "poof" when I wear them. They make me feel saucy. When I squeeze my butt cheeks this large poof of air expands and exits via my waistline. Thank God for emergency exits. This is excitement at it's best in my world. No one knows what's going on. I just squeeze and poof...instant air conditioning. Skinny girls just don't get this kind of action. So I wore the "poof" shorts and a shirt that made my boobs look bigger than the $5,000 investment that got them to their current state. Hello birthday girl.

Birthday's are like one night stands. You shouldn't have expectations. If you are the lucky recipient of  a great piece of  cake....eat it...all of it...savor it sisters. If you are teased and left to wonder what happens next, run. You might be married.  I can hardly wait til 39.

The Boob & The Tube

Iditarod. I wish I could say "I did a rod." Hell I wish I could say "Idid"...something other than my usual sexual escapades with El Conjeo. Explain this "sport" to me bcs I think I may be a candidate for the Olympics based on what I saw on the Discovery Channel. So I get pulled across frozen tundra by a bunch of over jealous mutts that enjoy nothing more than carrying my big ass all over creation in an attempt to please me? I thought that's what husbands were for? Oh my bad...they are for not taking out the trash and keeping my vagina dusty. What was I thinking? Ughum. In exchange for open air transport through the frigid wilderness, all I have to do is avoid trees, feed them/me and pretend to be exhausted.  Sounds like what I do almost everyday...other than the frozen part. I prefer thawed. Seriously. Who thinks this is hard? Listening to the narrator, you would think the freaks driving these prehistoric snowmobiles were doing the running themselves! Bark orders. That's what they do...bark! I can bark. Ride. I can ride. I don't get much of a chance to practice either of these skills at my crib so this would be a good chance for me to brush up. Here's the best part...when the dogs fail to perform, you can trade them in for fresh meat. This is sounding better by the minute. I think they need to apply the principles of "Iditarod" to the institution of "I DO"...anyway...off to the Olympics I go.

So it's clear I watch too much TV. Disturbing. I get sucked in. What can I say. Last night I was watching the Biggest Loser trying to convince myself of impending death at the hands of that bitch Little Debbie when my concentration was broken by a Subway commercial. Imagine that.  It was the tag line. "Ride hard, eat fresh." Sorry. These options aren't currently available in my area. Next. KFC. Because it's normal during a show about morbidly obese people to promote a non-stop feeding frenzy! Of course this sort of propaganda has no affect on me. I was already eating KFC. That's my thing. I like to watch shows about fitness/weight loss whilst eating junk food. Makes me feel in control. I do not partake in the emotional side of these shows. Be truthful and emotion is not necessary. Don't tell me you got fat bcs your husband left you for another woman or bcs you accidentally shot your siblings and can never forgive yourself. Newsflash...your husband left you after counting one to many Ho-Ho wrappers in the trash. Perhaps he was channeling his inner Miss Cleo and figured he'd get out before you could do him bodily harm. I'm just sayin is all.  And don't fret over taking out of few siblings. We understand.You had hopes of a better room and more Christmas presents. We get it. But the part where you weigh a metric ton...that's all you sister! As my favorite housewife likes to say, "Own it." The leap from size 2 to 22 isn't a subtle one. The part where you traded your Gap card for Lane Bryant...not subtle! You've been running red lights all over the city and it's time to take you downtown! Sorry. I've always wanted to be one of those fatty boot camp instructors. Problem being, I spend most of my time on the wrong side of the whistle if you know what I mean. I will give the contestants this...most of the fatties had pretty faces (they always do). Except one. She crossed the double line to ugly a few times. Time to turn the channel...quickly. I was actually starting to believe I too could lose weight. Stupid dumb TV show.

Actually, it was about my bedtime but I had forgotten to floss. I had a dentist appointment in the morning and I had no idea what was lurking between my teeth. I have all 32 thank you. Don't ask me how. There must be some magical component in grease and sugar that keeps teeth healthy. I even have my wisdom teeth...that's why I'm so smart. God knew I would need a few extra teeth to support this frame. I like getting my teeth cleaned. Much like the dumb TV show, it gives me hope for new beginnings. Why? I have no fuckin idea. Clean reminds me of thin. That's why I take 8 showers a day. It's not working. But I think it will someday. Wash that fat right away. I felt the need to let the dentist in on some broken family promises. Why? Again, I have no fucking idea. He had sharp objects. Pity equals less pain. I distinctly remember 2 promises made to me by the people who call themselves "Parents." Skepticism looms. My father told me that when I became a big girl I wouldn't have to get fluoride anymore. Lies. All lies. If he meant big as in size, I would have been done with that shit at birth. If big meant "age," I am 38. Why am I still getting fluoride and big girl stickers? Why? Moving right along to Mother. You know this hussy well enough by now to know of her lying ways. I think I was around 10 when I asked her why my boobies itched. She told me they were growing. Well Mother I have scratched them to scabs and paid a nice man $5,000 to make that lie a reality. To this day she tells me., "Who cares if you have small boobs?" My vagina does Mother and she will certainly remember you on Mother's Day.

I guess I'll go to bed sans TV tonight. I have a big day tomorrow. Getting up to run. I'll partake in my usual morning ritual of a Dunkin Donut and a coffee. If it "Keeps America Running" I certainly don't want to deprive myself of necessary fuel.

Displaced...

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!

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!

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!

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.

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.

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!

"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!