Captains Log Book....

Star date...O' Fat 30. Try as I might to capture random fat cells and share them with you, it's been too long. Let's start with a bit of recent trauma, shall we? Scene: Random mandatory fun in the form of a public birthday party for the town I live in. Translation...cake. Everyone knows how I feel about cake. In particular cheap over frosted grocery store birthday cake. Nectar of the Gods. One would assume if it was one's 50th birthday and that "one" was a large town... that would equate to a large birthday cake  in need of consumption . Not so much. Instead, a room of strangers and random pint sized desserts. Tolerable but not ideal. Filling the sugar tank would require multiple trips to the fakey dessert bar. If you think I'm about to share some dramatic story about getting busted on my 18th trip to the banana cream pie table...think again. This trauma involves "Coochie." And it wasn't my coochie, for the record.

My friend Trish says people seek me out in order to provide me with material to share with the world. Normally I wouldn't subscribe to such a theory, however after tallying up the number of random strangers who approach me, over share and overwhelm me with amazing stories, I'm forced to agree with her. Plus she likes Def Leppard so that makes her an"Oz" like expert in my book. Anywho, Coochie. And I know exactly what you are thinking. No I did not flash my beav for cake. Only bcs there wasn't any cake. We covered this. Let's be clear, I would bare all for cake. In any event,  I give you Coochie. The real deal coolest Coochie I've ever seen. And I don't go around looking for them, fyi. I told you I prefer Dick to Harry. Stay with me. So I walk up to this woman I think I know. Thinking always gets me in trouble. Most people who aren't sure of something ask others and cease to approach. Not me. When I want something I tend to bum rush and tackle. I'm food aggressive. It spills over into other areas of my life from time to time.  Not ideal. So I approach said 75yearoldish woman, looking her up and down to reassure myself she is the lady from my neighborhood. Before I can get the words out of my mouth, she smiles and grabs my hair. Interesting. Never had that happen before. Let's see...I'm fairly confident I'm not sleeping with her husband, I don't have ghetto extensions or any extensions for that matter and I'm not into kinky shit with old ladies so why is this hussy pulling on my weave? Hmmm. She screams with excitement, "It's you! You have hair!" Both of these statements appear to be accurate and bizarre all at the same time. I reply, "Of course I have hair!" She says, "Oh bcs Linda and I see you running in the neighborhood and we thought you had cancer." However, my husband said he thinks you have hip issues bcs you limp when you run."    Floored.

Stopped in my tracks, speechless for the 1st time in my life and wondering how 2 people with over 140 years between them have decided I have an incurable disease and bad hips...I change up the flow. "So what is your name anyway?" "Coochie." "Excuse me?" Did this woman just call me a pussy and cover it up with a youthful quip? "Coochie." Nice. Not only did she project the word "Coochie" across a room of over 100 people...she did it twice. Somehow I was getting blamed for this and for the first time ever...IT WASN'T MY FAULT! Hell I was just diagnosed terminal by an old vajayjay, her walking buddy Linda and her decrepit husband! That's a fine how do ya do! Coochie went on to explain that she sees me running in the morning in my "do rag." She thought I was wearing it bcs I had cancer. Clearly the only conclusion a civilized senior citizen would draw. When she shared this information with her husband he informed her of my limp like run. Instead of revealing my true SIF identity thus explaining the perplexing issues surrounding my very existence, I acknowledged stage 27 Beaver Cancer and how it caused my hips to give out. I'm not sure she even heard or saw me.I fear she lives in an alternate universe. But that hussy can yank on some hair! After sharing my new Coochie with friends, we learned she is also a raging alcoholic! The woman gives out jello shooters at Halloween and drinks in her garage! If loving Coochie makes me a lesbian...I am a full on Lickalotapuss. Love me some Cooch!

You think I make this shit up? I wish. I am the Larry David of the Outer Banks. Just the other day I was walking my dog and another one of my neighbors decided to "open mouth insert foot." I know what you are thinking...how can you handle all this running and walking with Beaver Cancer and a bad hip? Dedication. My beaver may have had a chance for survival had it been exercised. That just wasn't in the cards. I have accepted my fate as have my neighbors. Scandal. So...back to dog walking. There's a very nice lady who walks her dog at O' Dark 30 every morning. We usually exchange words about the weather and whatever else rolls off my halitosis laden tongue at that hour. On this particular day, I passed her, making a joke about her dog coming to me instead of to my dog. To this she responds "Yup..goes straight for the big girl." I'm sorry? I had to stop my right roundhouse from engaging and kicking her ass. I instantly convinced myself  "Big Girl" meant "human adult like person" and smiled. I didn't get the chance to tell her I gained all my weight after contracting beaver cancer. That's how you get it you know...contraction. Some dumb guy sticking his dick all over town and Viola...beaver cancer/bad hips. I was sure the rumors had spread through the hood after Coochie got a hold of me. Apparently not. Apparently getting up and running at 530am, walking your dog and boxing at night still qualifies you to be code named "Big Girl." I now carry arsenic dog treats for her pooch. I got your big girl.

I'm starting to think it's not just the neighborhood I live in. I fear this madness is spreading to other neighborhoods in my town. I was having lunch with my friend Sharon who lives a few subdivisions down. She informed me her husband was bitten by a tick and is now allergic to meat. Fuckin tick! Now the vermin of the world are working against the SIF/BIF? What up with that? Bugs that bite you and make you allergic to food? I would like to request a giant chunk be taken out of my ass by whatever specimen makes me allergic to fried chicken and birthday cake! Come quick! While I feared the end of the world crowd to be militant and over jealous...this revelation has got me thinking. Bugs that make you unable to eat? It's very
Sci-Fi. And I don't appreciate it one bit. I'm sure Coochie knows all about them. She's probably breeding them in her garage whilst she knocks back a 12 pack and fifth of Vodka. I think when I see her next I will let my hair down and bare my Coochie. What will the neighbors say? "Oh that's just the girl with Beaver Cancer and a bad hip," I fear. Anything is better than being called fat.

Worst SIF Ever..

Yeh that's me. I have so much fat to share and not enough time! However comma, a new blog with some serious fat cells will be posted Wednesday night. Put down your drumsticks and wipe away the grease sisters...Mama is ready to dish!

Fat Contagious?...and other random observations

Before I go off on a fat tangent, I would be remiss in my duties if I did not acknowledge today to be the end of the world. Allegedly. According to someone who thought it would be a good day to call the whole thing off. Here's the problem. I'm still here, still fat and still hungry. Nice try. There's always 2012. You'll recall, the survival packs are ready. Mental note: gotta remember to throw in El Conejo (he likes his current survival plan. Hard to tear him away). Whilst we are on a current events, it seems Wills finally decided to give up on this SIF and marry that skinny bitch Kate. I'm over it. After I found out royal etiquette calls for everyone to stop eating when the queen stops, that sorta did it for me. I'm a speed eater n all but I prefer to eat sans pressure. Mighta stabbed that bitch with my fork or something. I don't know how their laws work but I don't look good in stripes. I could always wait around for Harry but....well I don't like Harry. The name is dreadful. Harry. It's just gross. Why not something civilized like Dick. Anyway...

While the CDC has yet to post a warning, I am here to tell you there is a deadly virus running rampant. Fat. It's everywhere. Grab your masks, hide the children. Have you looked in your rear view mirror lately? Muffin tops, spare tires, fat back, fat front, bra fat, cankles, triple chins....you name it! For those of you who lead a sheltered life...stop by your local Wal-Mart for an education in FRIGHTENING! I'm starting to believe you have to be this side of 250lbs to grab a roll of TP at Wally World. Speaking of rolls, why does the over 250 crowd feel it's acceptable to squeeze all that ass into some junior sized attire and make the rest of us suffer? It's a moving violation at best. I considered shopping elsewhere until I had a revelation...I am one of them. I may not show up to the prom with chicken grease on my chin wearing a Forever 21 frock, but I am still guilty as charged. Guilty of rockin a two piece bikini that clearly needs to be sottered into a wet suit. My sentence? An incurable virus I shall share with those around me for the rest of my life. Afterall, what fun is the fat equivalent of HIV if you can't share it with those around you? Responsible is my middle name.

If you think fat isn't contagious, you are stupid. Plain and simple. Have a fatty over for dinner and see how much more you consume whilst watching her put a dent in the dinner rolls. I know this to be true for reasons cited time and time again on this very blog. Fry thieves. Makes me shutter to even type the words. Fatty goes to lunch with the 1/4 pounders and they order salad. True to form, fatty orders something heart stopping with a side of fries and a Diet Coke. Pretty standard stuff. However comma, when the food arrives the 1/4 pounders reach in and nab the fries from the fatty. Good way to lose a limb. I guess they feel better about themselves if their plate looks socially acceptable. Let the fatty take the hit and move in for the kill. That's what friends are for. My point is as follows, well I'm not sure I have a point...at this point. I would just like to point out that a table full of 1/4 pounders wouldn't dare carry out such blatant atrocities. However, throw a fatty into the mix and it's fair game. I suppose the fatties should form their own minority. Seems everyone has a fat friend. I think that's the qualifier.

You should know the fat virus is not only multiplying...it's dividing. Dividing into some sort of super bug that's causing fatties to act like 1/4 pounders. I call bullshit. If Magic Johnson can fly to Europe and leave his AIDS across the pond, the fatties shall do the same. Here's what's going on. Fatty goes out to dinner with said 1/4 pounders. Instead of ordering the cardiac platter with a side of adipose, she orders almost healthy. Stay with me here. I know it's painful. When said food arrives, fatty eats slowly. Very slowly. Yes, this is serious. So slow the 1/4 pounders are waiting on her to finish. This is why I know the end of the world IS looming. Halfway through the steamed and grilled illusion, fatty summons the waiter. The unthinkable. A to-go box. Who even knew people had occasion to use such a thing? If you want it to go, call it in and wait in the designated parking area. Dining out means cleaning your plate. SIF rule #3425. Duh Winning. Anyway, fatty alleges she will take the other half home and eat it at a later time. Like on the way home...in the car...at the next stop light...before she hits McDonald's for some real food. Is there a pill for this? I fear not. The 1/4 pounders have forced the fatties into a shameful strain of fat HIV. It's a waste of time and money...and caloric expenditure if I may be so bold.

I fear I have the super bug. I have recently had occasion to get a to-go box and eat the leftovers whilst waiting for the check. I think that makes me terminal. I'm not saying fatties haven't always been about illusion. Mandatory tricks of the trade if you will. Showing up to work with a McDonald's coffee claiming that's all you got whilst wiping biscuits crumbs off your suit. Eating 8 plates at the holiday party bcs you ran 15 miles and forgot to eat before you came. Ordering 2 combos and telling the drive-thru guy your husband would like to super size his yet you are alone in the car and divorced. Stuff like that. I'm just sayin. Gotta watch the fatties. They are quick. They will sneak out after the check to make sure you don't see the fatty wagon hang a hard left for burger alley. If you are still in denial that this disease exists, invite me to dinner. I'm happy to infect you with all that is me. Hell, that would be the most excitement I've had in a long time. Vaginal closure is eminent. Sorry Mother. You lied to me about happily ever after. I'm airing the dirty laundry. That's how it works.

The next time you are out to dinner, be aware. Watch for the signs. Slow eating monstrosities. Random cries of fullness. Mini-vans peeling out of the parking lot with empty to-go boxes flying out the window. Requests to stop at Dunkin Donuts for coffee (news flash...no one goes to DD of coffee and no one goes to Hooters for the wings!)...stuff like that. You have been warned!

New Blog coming soon!

Fatty has been on the road. I have an amazing amount of observations to share. However comma, I'm eating peanut M&M's in bed and I cant be disturbed. Cheating on my diet and my husband at the same. Multi-tasker, over achiever...that's me. Blog coming soon!

Happy Mother's Day To the original SIF...My Mother!

             Thank you for the little things... Heavenly Hash, The Green Jacket & 50lb bags of M&M's stowed in my desk. Clearly I would be nothing without your commitment to food hording.

                                                                 Love you Mother.

Got some new SIF!

Not only do I watch my waistline...grow...I watch for new Sisters in Fat following the blog. We had 4 new SIF join this week! Nice! We should go out to dinner y'all! I fear there's not a buffet in the world that could keep up....oooookkkkkay! I'm going out for ice cream to celebrate. Thanks for providing me with a reason to emotionally eat! Cheers Sisters!

Fat on a Hot Tin Roof

It appears this epic tale is a biography based on my life as a summer fatty. Time for a revelation. It is Easter after all. Thank the Lord I wasn't chosen as the savior. I have trouble rising on a good day. In any event, the revelation... I fear I am larger than last summer. How is that possible? I can't be sure. It's not socially acceptable to be fat between June and August. Or anytime for that matter. However, if one were clever and good looking, such as myself, you could get away with it in the off season. Personally I feel summer should be the off season. I'm so much happier in the winter. There's Halloween, Thanksgiving and Christmas. What's summer got to offer but annoying half dressed skinny bitches and people pressuring me to bare all so they can feel better about themselves. Whatever. Heathens. I'm ashamed to even call you out on Easter. But I will. Because I can. Summer is clearly a 3 month skinny girl holiday. Overzealous whores. Given the revelation I'll be shopping at Forever 2X for my swimwear, I got myself a new bathing suit cover up...aka Dad's old car cover. It's like putting a band-aide on blunt force trauma to the head. Not so much...


Whilst out and about in the land of misfits sizes, I noticed something rather alarming and offensive all in the same gasp. Three pronged hangers. Why? When did 2 prongs go out? Whose idea was this? I realize I'm bigger than the average bear but it's not like a tank top warrants more than 2 prongs! Yet there it was....supported by multiple prongs screaming loud and clear, "You are a fat whore." Fuckers. Before rushing to judgment (ughum) I ran over to the juniors section to see what kinda hangers they were using. 1 prong. Of course they were. Teenage mutants and Forever 56ers wantin to be 21. I decided to take action. I grabbed a handful of fatty apparel (to include a size 22 tank top and biker shorts) and headed for the juniors fitting room. 3 prongs n all. On my way I grabbed a bunch of junior sized onsies. My reasons will become clear shortly. Wouldn't ya know it...their fitting room has its own bathroom! Clearly for purging when the sizes two’s get a little tight. Sick. I squeezed my fat ass in one of the tiny cubby holes realizing I had transcended into Wizard of Oz Land. Who chooses this lifestyle? Clearly not me. Relax. I wasn't there to try on size 2's and slit my wrists in the skinny girl urinal. I was on a mission. Operation Hanger Switch. I hung as many Junior onesies on 3 pronged hangers as time would allow. This is how the other half lives....

WWJD? Well it's Easter, its 85 degrees and I'm whiter than baby's ass so I vote go to the beach! That's just what I did. The unthinkable. I went to the beach in a bikini. It's April. The skinnies haven't come out of the closet yet. Just as dark meat has more flavor, my meat looks better slightly well done. It was horrific. Sand flies landing in my crevices, fat spilling out around me...I lasted an hour and had to exit the beach before regurgitating my breakfast. Bacon doesn't taste good the second time around. Yum. After I inhale my biblical feast of the day I'm sure I'll need to be on some random diet. New Me Monday represents an opportunity to rise again. I need a diet that won't kill me... with a side of I can lose 60 lbs in a week. If y'all know of one like that hit me up. In the meantime, I have put the bikini back in the drawer and am denying any reports of a killer whale sighting in Nags Head!



You might recall a slight mention of all that is me running a half marathon a few weeks back. Obviously I'm not dead, so yes, it is feasible to move 856lbs 13.1 miles and live to tell about it. I could spend hours telling the tales of a plus sized runner. But why? I don't care to rehash the horrific lengths I go to in order to justify the amount of calories I consume in one hour. You want to know how it feels? Wrap your ass in some Saran Wrap, walk outside, hoist your vehicle on your back and run for 2.5 hours. That's pretty much how it feels. It's always nice when your brother (running his first ever half marathon) and your Father (currently a card carrying member of AARP & Medicare) beat you. Yeh. Feels good. Thank God Mother was along for the trip. She is a constant reminder that skinny doesn't give you common sense. I give you race day. Mother is not running. Yet she is up 24 hours earlier than us in order to prepare her face for the finish line. Apparently Mary Kay has several stages of beauty that must be adhered to. In any event, my brother and I left to drop the car at the finish and come back to the house to pick up my Dad. A woman who appeared to be my Mother (wearing a turbo genie head towel) was privy to the following conversation, "I'll be right back. Just dropping the car and we'll be back to get Dad." To this she replied, "Ok." - signaling a mutual understanding. As Dad came out of the bedroom wondering where we went,  Mother looked straight at him and said, "Are they coming back for you?" No Mother. They are coming for you!...

Moving right along...

Mother had 1 job and it didn't involve running or thinking. Allegedly we were safe. Allegedly OJ is innocent, ughum. Her job was to get to the finish line with an extra shirt for my Dad to wear post race. I even threw her a bone. We live .50 mile from the finish...yet I had my friend pick her up and take her there out of fear she would be kidnapped. You don't understand...this is completely plausible. I'm not saying she wouldn't be returned within th hour....but you get my point. So, Mother gets dropped at the finish holding Dad's shirt and waits for us. All appears to be in order. That is until Dad asks for his post race shirt. Imagine if you will what kind of shirt you would want after running in the hot sun for 13.1 miles. Are you getting a visual? A tank top? A nice cotton tee? Yes, that would have been nice. I give you a dress shirt. A button down full on striped dress shirt. Yup. That's what she brought him. A dress shirt. To go with his sweaty ass running shorts. You have to wonder, what crossed her mind when she grabbed it? Perhaps she thought we would be going out to dinner afterwards? Yeah...it's was 9:30am. Maybe she thought he would win his age group and would want a glamour shot? Perhaps. I'm going with she wanted him to do a post race strip tease to pay for gas on the way home. At least this option indicates brain activity. Love you Mother. If this keeps up I swear I'm going to put her on the road with Charlie Sheen and the Goddesses....Duh Winning!

New Blog this week...

No good can come of this...

Irony...

I find it ironic my Google login for this blog is "imreadytogetfit." I'll leave that one alone. In addition to failed cyber committments, all 867lbs of me is getting ready to run a half marathon. Why? Can't be sure.Why does anyone run? Post race consumption of course. I'm bankin at least 1000 calories. I'm a banker now n all. I can eat that back before noon easy. That's why those races start at 7am...need time to replenish whilst still socially accpetable to do so. Since the doctor made me break up with beans I've been whoring around town paying top dollar to graze on carbohydrates. I still don't know why the beans revolted. I'll find out next week when we get back together. Look..I have exactly 60 days to lose as many pounds. Bikini or a pine box? Either way I'll be comfortable. Actually I would prefer to be charbroiled upon my demise. The blacker the berry the sweeter the juice. Who knows who I'll meet on the other side. Could be chilly could be hot. Can't be sure. I wonder if they serve fries in Heaven? Sounds like a good book.

Allegedly it's going to be 150 degrees on race day. You know what that means? Spandex shorts. I apologize in advance to the spectators. Vanity goes out the window after 85 degrees. Me, my muffins and my honey buns will be showing all sorts of love. It's like a train wreck. Just stare, ask the appropriate questions and then remind yourself your fat ass is watching me run. Thank you. In any event, there's always a good story to follow plus sized running. Check back next week for "Fatty runs with a side of beans." HIde the children.

Revelations...

And not of biblical proportion. So...as discussed I have been on the evil bean diet. Thus why it has taken me 4 weeks to blog. You try getting off the toilet to blog after baggin 20lbs of beans. It aint pretty. The good news is that I lost 10 lbs in 3 weeks. The bad news is I almost bit the big one. Apparently in addition to shitting out no fat and carbs, I also released the oil that keeps the engine running. Not ideal for life. However comma, ideal when stepping on the scale. So things were a bit blurry and 3Dish. I can be dizzy for a size that doesn't end in X. Visual. Fat chick hooked to electrodes sipping on cab. It screams dying to drink. What can I say? Apparently my heart rate wasn't syncing with my blood pressure. And? Nothing about me is in sync. So they hooked me to a bunch of shit only to determine I'm fat minus some crucial potassium. Instead of losing inches I lost the very gas I was ingesting. I'm no Toyota. Story of my life.

I was all about the evil beans until they tried to kill me. This is why I'm convinced I need to stick with the fatties. As a SIF I never complained of palpitations or dizziness. That's a 1/4 pounders disease. Life on the other side aint so grand. Since my impending doom I've gone back to my old ways. If it aint broke...leave it the fuck alone. So I'm at the McDonald's drive thru this morning with my husband. Why? I can't be sure. I prefer to binge alone. All I wanted was a decaf coffee black. Well...All I really wanted a biscuit but he was in the car so I went skinny on his ass. Black coffee no sugar no cream. Not only a song (thanks Heavy D) but my skinny girl anthem. Some dumb ass in front of me decided to order 2 parfaits and hold up the line. If you want yogurt...carry your ass to the grocery! I don't go to subway for french fries....don't be holdin me up at Mickey D's for some damn yogurt! My husband hears the voice behind the drive thru and decides she's of Asian decent. That's where I broke bad on his ass. Racial profiling in the drive through aint cool. Especially when I know the woman to be of Latino decent. So I went there. I told him not only was she not Asian, she was a middle aged Mexican woman, possibly from Jalisco, who wears her hair in a pony tail, she's about 4' 8" and does not like fried rice. To that I added, the woman who would be handing us our food would be one over friendly African American lazy eyed black woman who never puts the lid on the Coke tight enough. 1 outa 2 aint bad. Apparently my lazy eyed food lady was off for the day. He was visibly frightened. Yet, no divorce. There's always tomorrow... and Burger King.

So I'm working on a theory. Hole closing. You know how if you get your ears pierced and you don't wear earrings your hole closes? What if you don't get enough sex? What's up with that hole? I'm just sayin is all. It's a legit concern. I don't want to pierce it. I would prefer it be pierced. However comma, that doesn't seem to be in my control. My doctor says there is no threat of hole closure. He's the same one who hooked me up to electrodes and let me run and drink red wine. I fear he can't be trusted. I have my own theories. El Conejo is very reassuring at times like this. He's like a "clip on earring." Classless but sometimes necessary. So 10 lbs less isn't that impressive. It's like switching from Diet Coke to water. You feel somewhat better but no one cares. No one is running up to me to declare me skinny. Yet I see bones in my face that haven't surfaced in years. My muffin top has transformed into Sponakopeta. Figure that one out. If I wasn't running a half marathon this weekend I might take my chances with death and go back to the beans. Dead and skinny beats fat and alive. Scratch that. Fat and alive would be fine if it were acceptable. Although I must admit dents and dings would make me want a new model. I fear no amount of fat loss, botox and bullshit can fix this problem.

When you don't have the answer, switch jobs. That's what I did. I start a new one tomorrow. In my world I'm writing screen plays, doing stand up and making fun of fatties everywhere. In the real world I'll be happy to open your checking account. Bankers are fat. That's why I'm the perfect candidate. Open an account and I'll give you a toaster or a blender. Not a shake or a salad. That's how I roles. I come complete with candy on my desk and chocolate on my lips. If you can't trust a fat banker with toasters, candy and chocolate lips who can you trust?