Suckin Dirty Bird...

Tara says, "Two blogs about how you are going to blog isn't a blog." You can't get anything by her. This is for you Tara. Because you are always one step ahead of me....

So...let's chat, shall we? I (literally) haven't put my fork down in 3 weeks. I live in fear someone will take it away. During the socially acceptable eating season, I like to keep it close my person. I realized something. If I eat with a smaller fork...I can eat just as much. It looks better...but it's fucking irritating. Try stabbing poultry with a kiddie fork. Not pleasant. I became "Feral Fatty Gone Wild" at the Thanksgiving table. I distinctly remember someone saying, "Does she know the turkey is already dead?" Attractive I'm sure.  And all this shit about eating on a smaller plate. So the plate's smaller. Yeah and? Now I have to get up 15 times and refill it! Oh I get it, caloric expenditure. Whatever. Fancy words don't impress me. My kitchen is about 5 feet from the grazing grounds. Next. Whilst I was having trouble separating myself from my fork emotionally (OK & physically), I was taking notes on Mother's comings and goings. If I lived with her 24/7 for 1 week...bestseller on my hands. She lives in another dimension known only to her. Throw out the GPS (which by the way she calls DVR)... you're only hope of getting there is a one way trip down the "8 Shades of Crazy Expressway." The tolls are steep and non-refundable.

So Mother arrived for the Thanksgiving holiday accompanied by her husband 2x over (yes, he did it twice...clearly a saint) and my brother who sometimes doubles as my sister. Look...I have to run my outfits by him before we go out so he's definitely harbouring a vagina somewhere. The worst part, he knows more about fashion than I do. Do you know what Celdon is? I can't even be sure that's how you spell it. Well he does. And he knows what rouge is.  I asked my husband what rouge was. I believe the response was, "How the fuck would I know?" Translation: I think I know but if I say it you'll think I'm gay. Fine. I'm OK with that. No vagina. Back to Mother. She arrived on a Sunday. The Lord's day. Cruel joke. Rumor has it she was holed up in the back seat wrapped in a Spiderman blanket for the entire trip. Sorry Spidey. What else was she going to do? Navigate? Not unless you want to end up in CA. Besides...there was a DVR for that. Sing, perhaps? Suicide by car. She feels signing in school plays back in 1912 qualifies her for American Idol. Not. Picture Lady Gaga's voice...the theatrical version. Crashing the car now. They stopped for lunch. Salads. Who does that? They went on and on about some stupid salad with cranberries. Whatever. My car only stops for things killed & tortured in grease. I don't brake for vegetables. It's UN-American.

They showed up at my house starving. Of course. People on diets are starving, miserable tortured souls. Come running to the fatty for some saving grace. Whatever. I made them chili. Fart your ass off and then tell me all about your stupid salad. For some non-eatin peeps they sure did wipe out a crock a chili. And my septic system for that matter. Mother may appear sweet and innocent. Hook her ass to a tree and she would be just fine. That's all I have to say about that. Like a good Hostess with the Most..ASS...I planned a menu that would force them to eat something other than lettuce, pizza with "light" cheese and no salt. Who lives like this? Put me in a pine box and plant the pansies...for the love of God! I made shrimp scampi. Yum eee. I knew they were scared. They hate garlic. I only used 1...bunch. I knew my Dad would give it a try no matter what. Mother on the other hand was squishing her face into a bunghole about 6 hours before I started cooking. She doesn't like anything new. That's why she married my Dad twice. *random sign of the cross* I give you the one liner that doubles as a compliments/insult. "Mother, what do you think of the shrimp scampi?" "It's good but I'll probably never eat it again." Excellent. She has a way of making you scratch your head and say, "WTF?"

On Wednesday I refused to cook. We ordered pizza. Now I ask you...at what point do the children become the parents and the parents become the children? Why do I find myself telling my Mother, "Please do not talk with your mouth full of food." She gets angry and won't speak to me. Mission accomplished. Seriously! Imagine you are enjoying a juicy piece of cheese pizza and someone turns to you and says, "Kudddy, r u essciited fur thansgivun?"- mouth full of shit. It's quite attractive. It gets better when random pieces of dough land on me. Yum. Dad I see why you went back a second time. The poor man is leading a miserable existence. He secretly told me of an incident that took place prior to their visit. I'm glad I only have 2 readers bcs she wouldn't want the worldwide web to know this. Scene...early morning. Mother comes into the kitchen after hours of applying Mary Kay with a spatula. Dad notices something hanging off the back of her. She insists she hasn't tucked in her shirt yet. Upon further investigation....toilet paper. Yards of it. I think it's time for managed care.

Thanksgiving Day was a tease. My husband brined the turkey whlist bragging about how quickly it would cook. That's why we put it in the oven at noon and ATE AT MIDNIGHT! It's Fatty Christmas Mother F'r! Santa is almost 24 hours late! Attorney on speed dial. We did our annual...let's go out and "earn" our meal run. Had I known I was going to spend the day waiting, I would have sat on my fat ass and cross trained with anticipation...she's my BFF. You know I had appetizers. I can only go so long without eating. The best of both worlds....veggies and HELLUVA GOOD DIP! Ying & Yang. Back to the run. Turtle (my skinny friend who's thyroid hates food...why can't I get that ailment?!) and I took my brother and Dad on the trails. My brother is a new runner. Translation...annoying. It's all about the time & the distance divided by the approximation of the proximate. Yeah I know. Whatever. Here's what it's all about...another helping! No math needed. They even ran to the end of the street and had me pick them up. Fine. I'm driving. This bus makes frequent stops...at McDonald's....oooohhhkay! I settled for the coffee shop, a ham croissant and watching my brother try and mack chicks. Try being the key word. His dick never sleeps. Literally. That's how I know he's not really gay. Just confused. Off white if you will. I wish he were gay. I love the gays.

There was some confusion surrounding our turkey. Mother couldn't figure out why the "suckin" plug wouldn't pop. "Must be something wrong with the suckin a-hole," she said. That's her version of Christian holiday verbiage. By 8pm I was fillin in the blanks! Brine my ass! I think the turkey was angry because we didn't stuff it. I know how I feel when I don't get stuffed. Takes me a while to pop too. So I took a baster, filled it with juice, shoved it in the turkey's ass and released. Amazingly it popped. From one pent up "bird" to another...amen. I managed to drop the deviled eggs on the floor. Mother couldn't get the top on the "suckin" things and failed to share this tidbit with anyone. 10 second rule. *Mental note- don't eat at my house* She's convinced my Tupperware is faulty. She was also convinced they moved the "suckin" mile marker by my house bcs she just knew the 10.5 milepost was before the light when she was here the last time. That's what her notes said. And we never deviate from the notes. Yes Mother. Right before you came there was a massive construction project wherein as the entire Outer Banks was shifted a half a mile to the south. Problem solved.  Dad couldn't believe I made macaroni & cheese for Thanksgiving. I blame it on the south. Everything fatty has roots in the south. Hell, down here Lard is an adjective, verb and a noun. I aint mad at ya. As far as I'm concerned Mother conceived me by way of a fat, highly attractive black man raised in the south. It's the only logical explanation for all that is me.

In what should have been a cute moment between a Grandmother and her Grandogs, she revealed her true feelings...she hates them. Scene...Grandpa goes into the bedroom to read and leaves the door slightly ajar. Porkchop (my bully boy) nudges the door open with his nose to see what Grandpa is doing. As he's walking in, Applesauce (my bully girl) follows him. Mommy (aka me) is laughing and watching them check out Grandpa. Grandma gets wind of the altercation and give me her "gas" face. It's something like a cross between her without makeup, Freddie Kruger & Chuckie. I told her to chill...they were just checking things out. To this she said, "They are trashers. Get them out of there." Trashers? WTF is a trasher? They have never trashed anything. Apparently a trasher is a term reserved for anyone she doesn't want in her bedroom. Dad, I fear you are a trasher. Ahhh a Grandma's love is forever.

It was Mother's "suckin" 65th birthday while she was here. I would have celebrated with her (bcs I love an excuse to eat out and indulge in some cake) but I was otherwise incapacitated. That's code for hungover. I went out with my brother the night before and apparently lost all sense of 1st grade math. 6 martinis + 1 overweight person = 1 overweight drunk person. It wasn't premeditated. Just Manslaughter. My husband text me at 11pm asking if I was bored and should he come out. I told him to stay home...nothing was going on. Imagine his surprise when I rolled in at 3am stumbling drunk. Payback for the pent up "bird." So the gang went to brunch and I stayed home and tossed the cookies I didn't get to eat. It's my worst fear realized. No appetite. Can't eat. Can't drink. Hell must be something like that. I guess I better start sayin "suckin" and wearing toilet paper as an accessory if I have any hope of going to Heaven. Lord hear my prayer.

Seasoning....

Tis the season. For what? I can’t be sure. Binge eating I suspect. For me, the ball starts rolling in September when I turn 25 for the 42nd time. I get better looking every year. It’s a fact. At least that’s what my husband says. He can’t be trusted. He has an agenda. No cake. That’s been my punishment since I met him. I’m fat. Fat people like cake. Why deprive me on the one day when it’s acceptable for me to indulge? I think he does it on purpose. Blah Blah…I took you to dinner on Saturday and the waiter brought you cake. That was one piece. After “25 years” I think I’ve earned the right to the whole cake, haven’t I? One piece? Who does he think he’s dealing with? I ate the entire top of our wedding cake myself. Well except for the one piece tradition dictated I smear in his face. Waste of good cake if you ask me. Buying me dinner and cake on Saturday doesn’t exempt you from celebratory protocol when my birthday falls on a Monday. There are rules regarding this sort of skewed male logic. If you choose to treat me to a little pre-birthday grazing, fine. I shall play along. However, I still expect to be taken to trough on Monday. And for the record…cake isn’t optional. I’m starting to think we should renew our vows and address this issue as it seems to come up every year. Thank God for the local chapter of Sisters in Fat. They came to the table with a chocolate cake dripping in chocolate icing. I dare say they baked it in a chocolate pan. Now that’s love.

Moving right along. October. Thirty one days of hell. All the deals on Halloween candy start at the beginning of the month. Yet Halloween is all the way at the end. Quite a pickle for a frugal fatty. To buy or not to buy? Buy of course. I just blame my husband. He likes the mini-sized candy treats, so I “say” they are for him. However, he never sees the writing on the wrapper. Unless he looks in the trash. That’s where I dispose of them. Right underneath anything large enough to cover the crime. I tried buying one of those bowls with the battery operated hand that grabs you when you reach for the candy. I guess it’s supposed to scare you into submission? Not so much. I got mad game. It takes the same size batteries as the remote to the TV. Given the state of the economy, we only have 1 set of batteries in the whole house. Suffice it to say the TV wins that battle. Besides, I don’t need a clammy hand grabbing at me whilst I am trying to watch “The Biggest Loser” and enjoy my evening “snack bar.” By the time Halloween rolls around I’m just….angry. At this point I’ve had to buy candy six times. The fruits of my labor are clearly visible. To make matters worse, it’s not appropriate to fight with people under 3 feet tall over sugar. It’s just not. They win by default and I end up looking like a deranged fatty. So unfair. Typically, I don’t allow people to come to my house without calling. Yet on October 31st, I willingly open my home and share chocolate. I must be high from the sugar because this just doesn’t happen to a Sister in Fat. Sharing chocolate? Sharing? I don’t share. Technically it’s not sharing because it’s not my candy. It’s my husbands. Remember?

Time to cleanse the pallet in preparation for Thanksgiving. I dare say the Pilgrims are first generation Sisters in Fat. Think about it. Who else would make a holiday out of eating? I’m sure the world would have you believe there was something more prolific going on there, but I choose to believe otherwise. It’s a SIF holiday. Case closed. I literally eat until it hurts. And then I nap until the hurt goes away. Repeat until midnight. While I am known more for my consumption than my cooking, I do “get my bake on” around the holidays. Mostly because my wallet cannot keep up with my veracious appetite. I bake all sorts of cookies, breads and confections. Mother thinks I go overboard. “How are you going to eat all of these cookies before they spoil,” she says. Since she lost all her weight the woman can’t carry a conversation. Who are you? I fear the brain cells went with the fat cells. Let this be a lesson to all, fat people are by far smarter than the average light weight. “How am I going to eat them before they spoil?” Have you seen my ass? Crisis averted. Christmas marks the end of my stint as Betty Crocker and the death of “old me.” After celebrating the birth of Jesus, I always ask for a parting gift. What? Like you don’t have a Christmas list? Mine is just delayed a bit. Out of respect. It’s the same every year. A miracle….the miracle of “new me.” God help me he must not have on his Miracle Ear because after all these year, “old me” has yet to leave the building! Lord, hear my prayer!

Be thankful for the love of....

I feel like I am always waiting. Waiting for breakfast, sex, lunch, sex, dinner, sex, my ass to shrink, sex, snacks, my clothes to fit, dessert, Brad Pitt to come around, my husband to wise up & leave, a boyfriend, a bigger thong, elastic waist skinny jeans, bigger tits, a more powerful rabbit, scissors that don't cut into my beef curtains, toes that don't look like dicks, calves, fat free fried chicken, men who can't speak, a free maid, to see my feet, my neighbor to show up naked, a lottery win....I could go on forever. Notice I'm not waiting to lose weight. Mother said one should never aspire to be a loser. Just following instructions for once in my life. I know what you're thinking. "You should be thankful for what you have." Allow me to jump to the next paragraph to address that statement. I'll need the space.

It must be that time of year. All the do-gooders are blogging what they are thankful for. Be thankful for what I have? That leaves me with....two dogs that fart, who snore and get more sex than I do.  A husband who thinks every light in the house should remain on at all times, dirty dishes belong in the sink, cupboard doors look better open, it's appropriate to give himself expensive gifts on my birthday, sex is a 4 letter word, a mystery maid does the housework, random papers look better in piles around the house rather than a filing cabinet, peeing on the toilet seat is acceptable, man grooming is overrated (bcs pube soap is all the rage), toe nail clippings are great accessories for the bathroom sink, stuffing clothes in a drawer is better than folding them, smoking is good for your health, the TV needs to be at 5,000 decibels or he'll miss something, I should be faithful, aliens are coming for us, Fox news is fair and balanced, cleaning gives you the clap, to-do lists are to-do some other time, the garbage takes itself outside and rolls the cans to the curb, Edward Scissor Hands will come and take care of the yard work, a nice man from Harris Teeter comes home with me to carry in the groceries, the most important bill in the house is the NFL Sunday ticket and my personal favorite...that I'm not fat. Gee...I'm just gushing with gratitude.

I would bet my last donut some of you think I am this miserable fatty who'd rather be married to Kernel Saunders. While there are some obvious advantages to a union of this magnitude, you couldn't be farther from the truth. I feel quite a sense of empowerment in my current situation. It's like hanging out with ugly people. You are bound to look better. Mother always said, "Be humble. If people feel sorry for you, they will be more likely to give you things." If that were true I'd be fucking the neighbor. Once again her skewed ghetto logic has led me down the path of oppression.  What could anyone give me that's so different from what I have? Is there a man out there who cleans, cooks, puts away the dishes, does laundry, fucks on the regular AND doesn't mind a fair amount of junk in the trunk? I think not. And don't even think about emailing me stories about how amazing your man is or I'll be forced to send you pictures of him humping his admin. The truth shall set you free. There are 2 people who have the ability to change the course of my life....Jenny Craig and my Gay Husband. Here's the problem....I can't stand that bitch Jenny Craig and there are no gays on the OBX willing to come "out" for the reward of being my Gay Husband. I'm just gonna have to "out" one of those bitches my damn self.

If you think I am making this shit up...ask me about the view from my recliner at present. Hmmm...football is playing at 7k decibels on a TV bigger than our living room, I can see a dirty dish in the sink that's "soaking" according to it's owner (bcs ya know, milk tends to leave a stubborn stain without a good soak), there's a collection of crumbs, papers and tea stains on the coffee table conveniently situated next to the man of the house and my vagina is crying in anguish. To celebrate I'm drinking a bloody Mary and eating a foot long sub..extra mayo. Can't keep me down. At the end of the day is it all fact or fiction? Well, reflect for a moment on your situation and you tell me. I'm just as happy as the rest of you bitches.

Cave Girls & Cankles

I survived Halloween. The evil midgets dressed in drag were no match for me. Steal my candy? I came out swinging. A club that is. It was costume appropriate. I was a deranged cave woman. Not a far cry from accurate on most days. If I thought I could get away with grunting instead of speaking, killing at will and clubbing annoying people, I'd rock that shit 24/7. However, I would have a tailor make me a frock fitting of my SIFness. In a pinch I opted for the slightly used $5 thrift store version. Luckily somewhere there was a large woman willing to part with her size 12X leopard skin tent. I thoroughly enjoyed telling the cashier how I would have to alter it to fit me. I let her guess up or down. The only cutting I did was around the edges. Ventilation for the fat stores. For the record, whomever donated that hot mess did themselves a favor.
Fat + Leopard Print = Feral Fatty on the loose. Hide the children.

Being an OCD SIF, I was less than thrilled to be wearing someone else's trash. How do I know this fat heffa didn't have some random skin disease that would render me unable to marry Brad Pitt? Is Halloween worth that? I think not. I decided to wash it in order to avoid a life altering catastrophe. Not. Dry Clean Only. Because somewhere there's a 400 lb woman who not only felt the need to scare the free world into submission with her "What not to Wear" wardrobe selection, but also felt it necessary to put herself in a position to pay thousands of dollars to keep it clean with the inevitable spillage of chocolate and chicken grease. Not smart. Wash and Wear Fatties! I solved this problem with tights.Tights that came up to my chin. And a long sleeve shirt...just in case. Attractive I'm sure. Luckily no one goes digging in cave girls tights often enough to appreciate that "look." There was a slight issue with shoes. One would assume a cave girl to go sans footwear. Yeah. I'm just not that into it. My toes look like little dicks and I didn't want any "incidents" with the whorey types who dress up like slutty school girls. My toes, my choice. I say who I say when. Ok, enough. This cave girl opted for "Come Fuck Me Boots." Here's the problem with that. Cankles. I'd like to know who the fit  models are for these things. I can't zip those fuckers past my ankles! Mind you...they have to get all the way up to the knee! No small feat. That's what friends are for. 5 of them... and a vice. Had they been available back in cave days, I feel certain they would have been all the rage. As painful as they are to don, they are dual purpose. They cover up what no one needs to see (my porno feet) and uncover what every cave girl wishes to reveal... her pink taco.  Suffice it to say there's currently a ban on Mexican fare at my home. This cave girl went to bed hungry. Again. I ask you....what good are holiday's if you can't indulge? Every day is a holiday in my house. Perhaps why I am always hungry.

One crucial error. No dinner and too much beer. 18 or some number with 2 or 3 digits. Can't be sure. I managed to scarf down some ham biscuits and a cupcake at the party. Goes well with beer. Til around 2am when everything starts churning. Ham & frosting burps. Yummy. There was almost an "incident" with the cupcake. They had Halloween rings on them. I thought they were edible. Not so much. Luckily Valerie grabbed the ring before I bit her finger. Nobody wants to lose a digit on Halloween, now do they? I did manage to get in some cardio. I danced all night. Me and my club. I gotta tell ya, that club was thick, pliable and didn't talk back. All qualities I admire in a dancing partner. One issue...dancing in the "Come Fuck Me Boots." It not only got me no sex, it got me no right foot on Sunday morning. Woke up paralyzed. Apparently there's a weight limit on sexual propaganda. At one point I looked down and they were bunching around my ankles. How was this possible? My calves were sucking the life out of them yet there was room for bunching? Exciting and interesting all in one breath. All I know is that once you cross the threshold into plus size living, you can no longer stand at an angle for any period of time. As proven by my club feet the next day. My toes went from small dicks to giant dildos! Not attractive. Perhaps why I still haven't gotten laid. Or maybe the vision of me as on over sized prehistoric dancing queen was a bit much. Perhaps. Fat people get down too.

Add a $44 cab ride to the equation and you have the makings of an expensive sex free evening. A late evening as well. 2am. So not me. I'm always in by 1am. Taco Bell closes at 1am. Can't fuck around and miss that. It took me all day Sunday to recoup. Recoup meaning eating until I passed out and various trips to the porcelain palace. I had to be ready for the crumb snatchers. They came out after dark ready to steal my "Take 5" bars. Not. Lollipops. That's what they got. And then I get to tell everyone the kids didn't like the "Take 5's" and I will be forced to eat them. I gots mad Halloween tricks yo. Hot neighbor came by for a treat. I like to think of him as a "trick." Perhaps next year...when I'm thin. I can't imagine looking hotter than I did this year. Right?

The NEW SIF Logo!!! Thanks Jen!

It's Trademarked!

Fatty Flies Home

Given a choice, I’d opt for my period and a raging outbreak of crabs over flying. And no it’s not the cost. Driving is actually more expensive & time consuming when you factor in the amount of stops I make to eat and snack. Being trapped like a fat sardine at 10,000 feet with $40 sandwiches $400 beers keeps me sober, hungry and on budget. I wanna know who decided flying should simulate anal intrusion with pitch fork? Let’s see…I have to check in at home or pay a higher price to have a not so friendly pent up bitch in a tie help me operate a computer screen at the airport & then insult my luggage in the same way I am insulted every day….by putting it on the scale and charging more if it doesn’t abide by some anorexic vacation luggage weight standard. Whore. If you weigh in at 450lbs it would stand to reason you need more than 50 lbs of luggage to cover your ass. Dumb fucks. Imagine what they would charge me to fly if I got on the scale. I don’t have that kinda credit, thank you. To add insult to injury, after you’ve paid “Pat” to tell you what buttons to push and how fat you & your suitcase are….the bitch wants you to carry your oversized belongings over to another asshole so he can pull out your size 2x thong to ensure it’s not a security threat. I got news for ya, the only threat that piece of string poses is to whatever unlucky soul happens to be sitting next to me when the string finally concedes defeat! Have at it dickhead. Thus why I only pack dirty underwear. Who said scratch & sniff went out in the 80’s. I’m bringin it back.
This might explain why my unassumingly large self was selected for random screening. Whatever. I got nothing to hide. And what I do have you will never find without a jackhammer so have at it. I get no action at home. Having a middle aged “sister” all up in my pink taco is a welcome intrusion these days. I made a crucial error. I forgot to buy “snacks” before I crossed the threshold into million dollar candy land. Fuck. I like to give my jaw a good workout by consuming gummy creatures and then washing them down with a Diet Coke. I had to break down and do my shopping at one of those over priced wanna be airport Wally Worlds. When I brought my exercise equipment to the counter, the cashier looked at me and said, “You know these are $10 right?” What the fuck? Can a SIF ever workout on the DL? Shit! Yes I know they are $10. They are Swedish Fish. Imported. I’m willing to pay more for European fish, hooker. Then she asked if I wanted my receipt. Why? Can I regurgitate on the counter and get my money back? How about I leave it with you as a reminder to keep your pie hole in the locked position next time. Wannabe travel whore. I made my way to the gate hoping I could find a nice quiet spot to eat my well traveled sushi. Not so much. I must have a sign on my ass like those shorts that say “Juicy.” Except mine says, “Freak Lover.” Anyone missing teeth, personality or any form of hygiene welcome. My worst airport fear was realized. I was paged. And they called me Mrs. Byrd. How am I supposed to get into the mile high club if my potential suitors hear me being addressed like that? There should be some sort of rule against being called Mrs. when you only get sex on the days that end with Z. What could they possibly want? Blah blah the plane is late and we want to fly you through NYC just to make sure you get where you are going on time. Not happening. I’ve been waiting a year for a cheese steak. I will wait for the plane to Philly. Overnight if I have to. Time is just a number. Grease is forever.

When I arrived in Philly I did what every good traveler should do. Find the food court. It’s a big airport & you could starve without a plan. That’s why I researched the layout in the US Air magazine whilst I was trapped next to some Asian chick watching movies on her phone in subtitles. Whatever. I prefer to read like the cultured SIF I am. That Skymall is a-fuckin-amazing! I made out my Christmas list. I can’t decide what I want more…the massaging support bra or the heated panty liners. In an effort to save time on my way to the cheese steak place, I tried flagging down one of those shuttle things. Blah blah they are only for people who have trouble walking. Well fuck. My thighs rub together and frankly I can’t think of anything more troubling than that. It was a long walk but it gave me time to think….about which one of the fatties from my plane would be accompanying me. It was the one I thought. She was dressed all professional in an effort to cover up what I knew to be present….fat. And lots of it. Those poor high heels were being worked harder than a whore in church. I let her go ahead of me to see if we were from the same tree. Cheese steak, fries and a Diet Soda. Family fuckin reunion! I even sat next to her in the eating area to size up her plate to pallet ratio. I beat her. Only bcs I got a cheese steak wrap which decided to squirt meat juice down my tits. Tasty combination…wrong scenario. I didn’t have a napkin so I wiped down my jubblies with the receipt. Now I’m bloated and smell like cow gut. Yummy. I can’t imagine why the offers for membership into the mile high club weren’t piling in? I decided to go back to the gate and see which ingrate would be falling asleep on my shoulder on this leg of the flight. After I determined my flight to be on time, I noticed something peculiar. No plane. If its 9:25, your flight leaves at 9:30 and there isn’t a plane….I think that’s code for delayed. I mean, I’m not a bitch wearing a tie, with the worst fuckin attitude imaginable sporting a US Air badge, but I can tie my shoes. Since everyone flying on this leg was most likely on their way to Cornell, I decided to play a little game of…I didn’t go to college and I’m smarter than you. While they were all staring outside looking for the plane, running to the monitors and panicking I sat completely still reading a trash novel. I knew it would only be a matter of time before they required the services of one uneducated fatty. Sure enough. After explaining to the Ivy League crowd that we would take off when there was a plane at the gate, they seemed to settle a bit. They ate their apples and drank their bottled water while I tried to get the chocolate stains off the book I borrowed from the library. Damn granolas. For the record….very high in fat.

As I boarded the plane along side the PHD’s I was glad to know there were doctors on board. Even if that meant they were useless to anyone except their egos. I was fortunate enough to sit next to a pilot on this leg. Not in the cockpit. Coach. Apparently he had done his time and was headed back to his car. Seems like an expensive commute but whatever. I didn’t know if I should call him Sir or Satan. I always consider it an omen to sit next to airline employees. Almost guarantees the plane is going down. I ask only one thing. Let me be the lone survivor so I can finally make my debut on the Today show. Headline: “Fat credited for saving life of lone survivor of Philly Crash.” I’m ok with that. It’s better than my current famewhoring strategy of camping out at 30 Rock so I can jump up and down behind Al Roker in hopes the Biggest Loser producers will see me and have me on the show. By the looks of our plane I started to think this whole scenario was a possibility. I flew one of those “prop” planes. Ya know…the kind they wind up prior to take off and hope they did enough to keep it going until it lands. One of those. And not for nothing, prop in my world means “prop”…used to make something fake look real. Like my plastic surgeon. Not comforting. Don’t look for any mothering from those bitchy flying waitresses. They act like rolling a beverage cart 5 feet to the end of the aisle is so stressful. Stressful is pouring me half a drink and keep what’s left in the can! Bitches. At one point she asked me if my feet fit under the seat. I told her no just to see what she would suggest. Shall I stow them? Crotch face. I can’t help I have size 11 feet. I can lodge one up your ass and hope your personality comes out. I decided to look around the plane to see what everyone else was doing. As luck would have it, I happened upon a lady digging at her head. She had the genetic predisposition of Mr. Ed which made her digging habit that much more disturbing. She must have been perplexed by what she was finding bcs she kept going back for more and inspecting it each time. The lady sitting next to her reading her Kindle even stopped what she was doing to give her the “gas” face. As luck would have she opted to shake away her treasures. Not lucky for me as they landed on my side of the seat. Psoriasis. The gift that keeps on giving. Nasty whore. I was stuck in the land of recycled halitosis and DNA flakes. Yummy.

Most people look out the window for signs they are getting close to their destination. Vegas style lights, landmarks and traffic. Not where this SIF grew up. I look for total darkness and a lone man waving an orange flag to guide the prop onto the stage. For the record, I’m not one of those annoying fucks who jump up the minute we hit the tarmac. Fatties don’t like to appear anxious. Besides, I smelled like cheese steak. Angst doesn’t compliment that too well. Deplaning took forever bcs there was some old woman pretending she couldn’t walk so we had to wait for a moving stairway to meet the plane. I offered to throw her down the emergency slide. I was in that row and had already agreed to provide my services. In any event, I made it home just in time to tell Mother how hungry I was after some fat lady spilled cheese steak on my $5,000 boobies and I was forced to starve bcs I couldn’t afford buy a sandwich from the flying prostitutes. Gotta love Mom.

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!