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?

New blog coming this week!

Yes I know it's been a while. Dieting has sucked the life out of me. Fat is clearly the path of least resistance!

Fat Tuesday....

Damn Cajuns trying to steal holidays from the SIF. Everyone knows the real meaning of Fat Tuesday. The same reason every Tuesday is Fat. It's the day after New Me Monday. 24 hours of dieting is more than enough reason to celebrate. Show my tits for beads? I think not. A Krispy Kreme maybe. Betta make those candy beads. Does anyone really desire to witness a flashing fatty? I didn't think so. My memories of New Orleans are as follows: Beignets, Muffalettas and bread pudding. No sex. No sight seeing. Pure Fat. Pure Bliss. Story time. Whilst in New Orleans my husband went out for a pack of smokes. He left me alone (in a public place) with his bread pudding (the public place part while true was thrown in for effect..I have no shame). Big mistake. Upon his return, he alleged he was "this" close to being mugged. I tried to seem sympathetic. I was just grateful he didn't ask what happened to his bread pudding...I mean that he returned safe and sound. Or something. That about sums up my trip to New Orleans. Moving along...


I have been cheating on you. There I said it. I have been doing the deed. No not that deed. I would take out a billboard in Vegas were that the case. A dirtier deed. A word that sounds like riot and begins with a "D." There I said it. Sort of. Why? I can't be sure. I was bored, read a book about a diet I haven't tried and decided to take a walk on the other side. It's called the "4 Hour Body" although I'm not sure why. It's been 240 hours and I have yet to visit the 1/4 Pounders. Beans. That's what this diet is all about. If I wasn't getting sex before this, I'm certainly not getting any now. Let's face it; I'm gassy on an empty stomach. Imagine 4 servings of beans a day. I have enough natural gas to launch the shuttle into orbit AND bring it back. Sexy. I wonder if farting is more acceptable when you weigh less? I'll let you know. If I get that far. I'm basically a feral cow. I eat lettuce, meat and beans. I can't be sure real cows eat beans but this one does. I don't even have to work out. A dream come true. I get to eat bacon. Very fair. It’s supposed to be organic bacon. I really don't care what my pig ate prior to slaughter as long as his loins are tasty. I buy the microwave kind. I can't be bothered with random cooking requirements. 20 seconds in the microwave is very fair when waiting on a side show of legumes. Oh and I get 2 glasses of red wine each night. Who needs sex with bacon and red wine? Apparently not me. The theory being...the bacon clogs my arteries, the red wine cleans them out and the beans...keep me from sex? I can't be sure.

The next chapter in the book..."The 15 minute Orgasm." I have yet to read it for all the obvious reasons. It's torture. I would take a 15 second orgasm at present. All of this nonsense would require the man to stop watching TV long enough to realize there was a vagina in need of something other than a mop and an apron. I do not believe this to be possible. I'll stick to the chapters about ficticious 4 hour weight loss. It's more feasible. I will say the following about the farting 4 hour diet...I am never hungry. That's what happens when you eat meat and beans. Gas moves into the empty space once filled by my ol pal Lil' Debbie. I miss her so. No cheese. Perhaps the biggest disappointment of all. It's like telling me to hang out with the nerdy kids. I know it will make me smarter but there's no pleasure in this knowledge now is there? I know this. Maybe I need to read the orgasm chapter. When I'm not eating beans and grazing on fat back I can fill the empty space with my other favorite meat...rabbit. Fat free and very satisfying. Yes Mother, that rabbit.

There is a slight glimmer of light at the end of the 4 hour tunnel. Cheat Day. A bit deceiving. You can eat anything you want for 24 hours. It's all an attempt to throw your body off track. My body never exactly got on track. It's fallen off so many times one leg occassionly grazes the edge. Of course that doesn't deter me. Cheating is cheating. I am a food whore after all. The book advises you to write down all your cravings throughout the week so you'll remember to indulge in them on your cheat day. A. I don't have a scroll big enough to list my cravings. B. 24 hours isn't enough time to cover the bases in the World Series of cheating I would indulge in and C. I have a memory like an elephant. I ate until I made myself sick. Typical as Saturday's go. The hard part...Sunday. There was no instruction on going from French fries and pizza to beans. Far from a smooth transition. 24 hours just wasn't enough time to spend with old friends. I feel like my body is on death row. I get a congecal visit with fat once a week. I want more. Please kill me now...

How much weight have I lost? I can't be sure. Let's just say I weigh less than I did last week. My septic system can back that up. Who needs a lying whore of a scale? So I'll continue drinking ice water at dawn, ice packs at night, beans throughout the day and cheat when permissible. That is until my SIF genes kick in and carbs rule my life once again. For now I will celebrate Fat Tuesday with the Fatties and the Frauds.
4 Hour Body

Chocolate Crack Cake a la pot... from a fellow SIF!

Sisters,
It's not often I get recipes from fellow SIF. You know these bitches aint about no sharin' n all. However comma, Sandy from very cold upstate NY has been so kind as to cook up some chocolate crack in a crock AND share her super secret formula! (illegal in 58 states, fyi). Before attempting to cook crack in a crock Sandy warns, "Don't forget to oil the crock before inserting the Crack"... it's simple manners y'all. If you get nothing else from this, remember to keep your crock lubed and your crack clean! Enjoy!

Crack 101
mix together in a bowl....

1 box chocolate cake mix

1 pint of sour cream

1 small box of instant chocolate pudding

1 small bag of chocolate chips

3/4 cup oil

1 cup water

Pour into crockpot and cook for 6 hours on low.
In the meantime, write your will and kiss your cute little ass...goodbye!
Sandy


Well said Sandy! You make me proud to be a SIF.

My Deadly Valentine...or Valentime- I aint mad at ya!

What is it with me and doctors? It's a conspiracy is what it is. Not only do they insist on weighing me for the slightest cough due to cold, they always manage to get in a fatty dig. I give you the allergist. Not my favorite person. Nothing personal. I just don't enjoy being injected with all things evil, waiting 20 minutes to see if I die and then being sent home to scratch for hours on end. I could accomplish all of this with a simple yeast infection sans the $30 "specialist" co-pay. Every 6 months they insist I need to come in for a check-up. Porque? You see me every week, I'm not dead and not for nothing we aren't friends. But I play along bcs I never know when I might need drugs. Yes, I am a drug whore as well as a fat whore. So what did they do....they scheduled my appointment on Valentines Day! Only the biggest fatty holiday next to Thanksgiving! Clearly this office is run by insensitive 1/4 Pounders! It would take a miracle to pry me me away from my giant heart filled with candy (that I bought myself mind you) for a visit with Dr. "I have the personality of paint drying" and her crew of mold spores!  A miracle...or chocolate. When the nurse suggested I arrive at 10:45, I suggested she bring chocolate. Look...she weighs me. There are no secrets here. After marinating on the idea, I noticed a notation in her folder that read, "bring Kelly chocolate for 2/14 appointment." It's official. I have a Valentine.

I awoke on Valentines Day with a mission...sex and chocolate. I would get chocolate from the allergist and sex from...well I hadn't exactly figured that part out yet. Plenty of daylight left. However comma, no amount of daylight could have prepared me for an unexpected visitor....Aunt Flo. Bitch. The one day I have a 98% chance of getting guilt sex and she decided to pop in. I say pop in...she was somewhat expected. I take this miracle pill that warns me when unwanted guests are coming....within a day or 3. I wonder why it doesn't work on the rest of my relatives? Can't be sure. Like an unruly bitch she came a day early. I really need to tie off my uterus or sell it on Ebay or something. Clearly I don't need it. I won't be duplicating all that is me for all the obvious reasons and I prefer donating blood to the Red Cross vs. Tampax, thank you. It's useless. I wonder if the allergist can rip it out before she weighs me? It'd save me some embarrassment and another $30 copay. Frugal Fatty always thinkin. No such luck. I had barely crossed the threshold of all things itchy when the nurse said, "Kelly come on back on get on the scale. Oh and here's your chocolate. I didn't forget." It was like telling me to use the cross walk but failing to mention I might want to look for oncoming traffic! I had half a mind to inhale the chocolate heart and then jump on the scale! Instead I used SIF reverse psychology. I refused to play nice. I asked her if she would be so kind to take my blood pressure first. Getting on the scales tends to send the numbers due north. She agreed. Phase 1 of operation "take your chocolate and your scale and shove it up your ass...complete." 95/70. Amazing how the numbers fall into place when a SIF is in control. I had half a mind to phone the "Mercedes Mechanic" and tell him to update my chart. I feared mean nurse and decided to focus on the mission at hand. After scoring big with the BP it was time. The scale. I refused. I made her prick me with the evil serum first. The plan was...after being pricked with said evil serum I would step on the scale only to fall off as a result of severe allergic reaction...to the scale. I would just leave out that part and blame the dust mites. No one likes them anyway. She gave me the shots. Phase 2 complete. Once again I was ordered to slaughter. I refused. She threw me a look that said, "Look you fat bitch, I gave you chocolate, complimented you on blood pressure numbers that were most likely flawed and now you won't simply step on the scale?" That is correct. SIF powers activated! I just looked at her and said, " I weigh _____(8 digits). I know because I weigh myself every day like a good fatty." She agreed to go with my number. And then nothing. I'm use to everything from shock and awe to "you don't look like you weigh that much." Nothing. I wouldn't let her win this round. I said, " I know. I don't look like I weigh that much. There was this car accident and...well you understand." Yes, I am still using that. It's been a year now. It hasn't passed it's expiration until it leaves a bad taste in your mouth. And it doesn't. I fear it never will.

It was time to meet with the Dr. Very nice lady with a personality as dry as my nether region. As she was looking over my vitals I was dreading the snarky weight comments that were inevitable. She doesn't buy into my excuse driven agenda. Perhaps why I require chocolate to visit. She also doesn't believe drugs are the answer. Frankly I'm surprised they haven't taken her medical license. We went through the usual. "Has anything changed?" Gee I don't know...have you peeped my weight? I wasn't bringing it up. I went with a sure thing. "No not really. I'm still in some pain from the car accident but I'm trying to work my way back." She wasn't amused. I told her stories of my attempts to eat fruit, how my throat would close and the trauma of being limited to chocolate and cheese.  Didn't even crack a smile. I had a half a mind to break out the allergic reaction scheme if she didn't budge. Instead I let her tell me stories of the latest and greatest advances in allergic medicine. When I awoke she was asking about acid reflux and if mine was under control. Of course it was. I take Prilosec every day as instructed. Seems she has changed her tune on that. Apparently she now feels it may cause esophageal cancer when taken for prolonged periods of time. Excellent. I love how medicine works. Take this until we do more research and figure out it will kill you. She wanted me to see a GI specialist. Something about him sticking something down into my stomach and how it would be less than pleasant. Not. She even said, "I know you won't go but..." But what? You are going to waste my time with the gory details of how you almost killed me and are now trying to make up for it by sending me to a Dr. who can actually SEE the french fries in my stomach. Ah no. I'll take a flaming case of crabs for $700 Alex. With that she came around to the place where all of my other Dr.'s had long since been. "You know. If you lose weight your acid reflux will get better." There it was. The dig I had been waiting for. The dig that made the paint not so dry.

As I was leaving the office I overheard her telling the nurse she was going to regift the chocolate she gave her. Of all things sacred! Is there no Fatetiquite in this world? Who regifts chocolate? Muderers. That's who.

New Generation SIF...

Thas right...get it girl! When dinner is that good it's perfectly acceptable to trade in the fork for a shovel! The original SIF ate with their hands...Emma Grace is bringin it back! Go Girl! Note the milk tossed to the side and the extreme focus. Trainin her well Kimo!