Yesterday, we put up Christmas lights on the outside of the house. This was my first time doing this (at the ripe age of 38), btw. There was some yelling, complaining, and arguing, but endless Clark Griswold references so that evened it out. It took a couple of hours because my boyfriend had to measure the distance between every gutter hook to the exact 12 inches. He also had to count out the same amount of lights between each hook. I would have just slapped the shit up there and hoped for the best. (It would have looked just fine and it would have taken 20 minutes.)
One of our neighbors stopped to comment on the arduous task it is to put up lights, people walked by with their dogs and children, and countless cars drove by in this span of time.
When we were finally done and back inside, I caught a glimpse of myself in the guest bathroom mirror, and I was shook.
I screamed, “Why didn’t you tell me I looked like this?”
From the other room, I heard, “Looked like what? That’s what you always look like.”
That’s what you always look like.
So, this is it. This is when I finally give up on looking even half-decent at home. This is when I don’t apparently care anymore about what my neighbors think of me, because when I say I looked a sight. I looked a sight.
I had regrettably not put on a bra because I was wearing my stained Old Navy sweatshirt from 1994. People aren’t supposed to know you aren’t wearing a bra when you wear a sweatshirt. Those are lies, ladies. LIES. How I know this is because I had no boobs at all in my putting-up-lights-attire. Literally looked like a pre-pubescent 12-year-old boy up top. Where were my bewbs? Well, those assholes had gone off to join up with my fat gut. I guess years of not wearing my bra in the house has not toned my pec muscles after all.
Next on the hot mess runway, we had my “festive” white and black buffalo plaid leggings that showed off some turquoise Hanes Care Comfort underwear that has zero crotch courtesy of my puppy. Too bad I wasn’t wearing them ironically because maybe this could be the next style trend? Also, I should probably throw that pair of underwear away.
The effort I had to expend while barking orders from the ground at my boyfriend who had to climb up and down a ladder repeatedly caused oil production on my face that could rival ExxonMobil.
Finally, we had the hair. I had it in a high messy bun. When I say ‘high’ I mean I had a unicorn horn made of a mess of frizz and tangles on my forehead. My inch-long gray roots made my hair appear to be floating over a bald head. It was a masterpiece of “You okay?”
Special mention to my worn-out plaid slippers that clashed so expertly with the rest of my you-look-homeless-how-do-you-live-in-a-three-bedroom-house look.
So this is how I know. This is how I know that I have unequivocally given up on my looks.
What do you wear at home and where you can be seen by the neighbors? Give me the tea.
To the precisely two followers left here, hello. I am alive. I am still fat. Still living the leggings and cupcake life. Still self-deprecating. Still living the dream.
I thought I would get on here and post something, anything because I am actually seriously working on my satirical memoir. I am a little rusty in the writing department so I figured I should practice writing by posting more often than every other two years.
As I write, I’m anxiously awaiting my Raley’s grocery order. The good people working at Raley’s have been so overwhelmed with pick up orders that the requested orders have been taking a week. A week. Those poor people. I can’t even imagine the chaos and attitudes they are getting from every Ultimate Karen.
I put my order in Saturday and my reserved time slot to pick it up is Sunday (today) between 11 AM and 11:30 AM.
All week I’ve been second guessing my choices and feeling worried they won’t have some of my items.
I ordered some non-grocery things from Target for the first time using their delivery service a couple days ago, and in the special instructions section I wrote a plea. I said, “I know there isn’t any TP, but just in case you happen upon some, like, maybe, someone hid a pack for later (I don’t even know why they’d do that but hear me out) behind the men’s khakis hanging on the wall and they forgot about it- that’s fair game- can you get me some?
I knew it was a stretch so I wasn’t holding my breath. Of course, my “shopper” didn’t find the khaki contraband toilet paper, but he did throw in a bottle of hand sanitizer as a consolation prize. Not all angels wear wings, some work for Shipt and drive a Geo Metro.
I didn’t even know what to add to my e-cart for my Raley’s order. What does one need during the apocalypse? Apparently, three tubs of ice cream. And dry beans. Nothing making sense anymore.
Planning a grocery list during a pandemic is like trying to order off a Cheesecake Factory menu when you’re tripping balls*. There are too many options and you feel like your choices are really, really, really important and you can’t mess up.
My first try at this pandemic panic buying happened Thursday, March 12th. I had the next day off because we were supposed to be preparing to go to Europe, so it felt like my Friday except not really because it also felt like the End Times.
I tried to make a Disaster Prep Food Shopping list before I left school and all I could come up with was:
Alcohol (isopropyl and beverage kind)
My friend and I just panic wandered aimlessly, throwing random shit we thought was smart into our cart. We ended up both spending $150 on what can only be explained as the items a high af college student might buy.
I bought frozen pizzas, mug cake mixes, chips and salsa, and candy. I did buy two books to make it a more well-rounded shopping trip, but wtf? My shopping cart was filled with PMS-ing-something-fierce-food-items and nothing wholesome or healthy in the slightest.
I should, probably, cut myself some slack, because this is my first pandemic. I don’t know how one is supposed to prepare for worldwide chaos because that’s only supposed to happen in the movies.
So, here I sit socially isolating in my day pajamas, hoping to the pandemic gods that Raley’s hasn’t run out of ice cream because who needs rice and chicken when the world is ending?
*I’ve never tripped balls but I have a pretty good imagination and I’ve been wine drunk, so
I really need to type me up one of those fancy schedules we’ve all seen floating around social media because I’ve been an absolute slug of a human these last few days.
While my friends are out there braving the work world or being altruistic, I’m eating all my quarantine snacks. Someone’s gotta do the good work.
This was my big day yesterday. Hold on tight because this’ll be sure to blow your socks right off.
8:00 Alarm goes off but I can’t hear it because I have my earplugs in. Boyfriend has to poke me with his toe claws repeatedly before I realize I’m not actually in line at Subway deciding between a Classic Tuna or a Cold Cut Combo.
Don’t @ me with why I have an alarm set either. I don’t even know.
8:30 Teeth have been brushed, face has been washed, and my oily hair has been dry shampooed with half a can of the good stuff- Batiste.
8:32 Mini anxiety attack when I realize I’ve been too liberal with my dry shampoo and it’s bound to run out. I then remember that all I’m doing is sitting my fat ass on the couch so who cares if my hair looks like I brushed it with a greasy pancake*?
8:45 The bare minimum with makeup has been slapped on, because I can’t give up entirely just yet.
(My current quarantine makeup routine involves foundation and too much setting powder that settles almost entirely on my eyebrows so they look like ghosts. With no mascara and powder coating my eyelashes, my eyes look like tiny pebbles. And the look is complete.)
8:45 to 10:00 I mean to start my coffee and eat something but several internet fights trump sustenance. This is the point at which I realize this is my new diet plan and I feel a renewed sense of meaning.
10:10 Completely forgetting my new diet goals, I add extra Cinnamon Toast Crunch CoffeeMate in my World Market Texas Turtle coffee because this is what I have to take joy in now.
10:10 to 12:35 I resume my fights on the internet with people who have mush for brains and obsessively scroll through articles on COVID-19, hoping someone will report that this has all been a big joke, haha.
12:40 I decide I need a phone break, and with my keyboard warrior-ing, my battery is at 27% so I charge it in the other room while I eat a Velveeta Shells & Cheese cup. It’s the last one, and I know it’ll start a fight but the fake cheese that coats my teeth is worth it.
1:45 I’m knee deep into the first episode of Love is Blind and wondering why there are no ugly people on the show if the point is to show people that looks aren’t everything. Kinda bullshit if you ask me. Maybe I’ll write a post about it on Facebook.
2:00 Upon passing the hall mirror I realize I never brushed the dry shampoo out of my hair and I look like George Washington after a bender. The thought that it doesn’t even matter that I’ve had chunks of dry shampoo coating my hair all day and my face appears to be sucking in my makeup-less pebble eyes floors me for a minute.
2:06 I decide to make myself feel better by watching women who appear to have zero pores on their faces because nothing I do makes any sense.
2:10 I start grazing through our quarantine snacks, wondering how much I can eat without my boyfriend noticing. I decide 18 M&M’s**, 30 crackers, and 15 pistachios won’t be missed.
2:30 Feeling major cabin fever, I walk outside to get some fresh air and instantly feel like I’m in a war movie about WWII France. Not sure why it’s now a war movie and not a post-apocalyptic movie set in Soviet Russia.
2:35 The fresh air motivates me, and I decide to do something productive. Also my butt is sore from all the sitting. I randomly decide I need to vacuum under the bed.
2:45 I vacuum up a sock and three lost dryer sheets and about halfway into the job, I lose steam because if we are going to die from Coronavirus, do I really want to be vacuuming under my bed? Um. No.
2:45 to 4:25 This time is lost to searching for deep web Coronavirus theories because I’m still hoping this is all fake and the government has the anecdote.
4:25 The boyfriend gets home and we discuss the developing news on businesses set to close in our city. We wonder if the business he works for falls under the category of “non essential” and then we both fall silent for a good hour as we let it sink in that we will be together every day, all day, until we die.
5:30 We have a civil discourse fight over the best meal to prepare since we need to start rationing. We agree to disagree that Rice-A-Roni and plain rice are basically the same thing.
6:30 After cleaning up dinner we have another civil discourse about what we should watch on Netflix for the evening. After a nearly 20 minute debate, we decide on Hunters because during uncertain times, a dark show about Nazis is a sure fire way to feel better.
6:30 to 11:00 We spend the rest of the evening taking turns yelling at each other for being on our phones.
“You’re not even watching.”
“Yes, I am” *takes one last sneak peek at my Instagram feed.
“Babe, get off your phone. You just yelled at me for being on my phone!” *as I have my phone hidden under a throw blanket so I can scroll through Facebook.
“I’m not! Just pay attention to the show!” *as he is, very clearly, scrolling through the comments of a news article.
This is going well.
11:30 I fall into bed, exhausted by my day of doing literally nothing productive and wondering how much better or worse it could get tomorrow.
What are ya’ll doing to pass the time? How’s staying at home with your loved ones going? Be honest.
*I can’t claim this as my line. My friend’s dad said this to her when we were in high school. While funny, it’s admittedly pretty mean.
**He 100% noticed the M&M’s. I can’t get away with anything around here.
I used to love post apocalyptic movies because it was fun to scare myself shitless about the world ending because I was fairly confident it was all fiction. I felt safe knowing it wouldn’t be in my lifetime that we would have mass panic over toilet paper and hand sanitizer while a novel virus made its way around the globe. But here we are.
I’m pretty convinced we are starring in Contagion 2: Shit Gets Real Real. I imagine that, at this point in the movie, our audience is thinking, “Those poor fucks. They have no idea what’s coming.”
It’s at that crucial stage in the movie and in life where we can actually make moves to stop this virus from completely obliterating our lives (I’d kind of like to go back to Saturdays filled with racking up my credit card on shit I don’t need at TJ MAXX, thank-you-very-much), but we got Bubba and Ultimate Karen who think it’s fake news that this is a big deal.
As the drama builds in the movie, there are a few brave, headstrong people who choose to self-isolate, giving up their grande iced soy chai lattes with three pumps to be part of the solution not the problem, while the majority of the world goes about their lives like they don’t watch the real news. This is the most frustrating, maddening aspect of this sure-to-be-an-Oscar winner. The audience is yelling obscenities at the noobs who don’t think they are capable of sitting their asses on their couches for a bit to help the greater good.
In a crucial scene, the protagonists brave the grocery store and its like Soviet-Russia-bleak but make it fashun because the heroine is wearing her new rain boots she bought for rainy Edinburgh. It’s tragic, but beautiful because she risks her sanity (she’s an extreme germaphobe) to buy groceries for her family (the camera quickly pans over the Coffee Nut M&M’s, wine, and Velveeta Shells & Cheese to the heroine’s resolute face to remind the audience how brave she is). Meanwhile, Bubba and Ultimate Karen carelessly have lunch at BJ’s like the world isn’t mere weeks away from imploding.
It sounds like every post apocalyptic movie but the twister is that this is real. It’s.really.happening.
Today in Contagion 2: Shit Gets Real Real:
My boyfriend and I got in a fight about how to walk through the grocery store full of infested people.
I had an absolute meltdown over how many M&M’s said boyfriend had eaten since Friday but it turned out I had eaten the M&M’s.
My state canceled school until April 6th, and the boyfriend and I don’t know what that means for our pay.
I realized that it’s not fair this is happening this year because my class is the sweetest I’ve ever had and I already miss them.
I started precisely 15 internet fights with complete idiots because I’m triggered. Yes, I am, ma’am.
So, how was your day? How are you feeling about the insane movie we’re starring in?
Anyone else legit concerned about the toilet paper situation right now? If Coronavirus wasn’t scary enough, I now have to wonder if I truly will need to resort to wiping with an odd sock or some McDonald’s napkins. We’ve all seen the memes and we all laugh, but in the back of my mind, I’m holding it together just barely. All that spins through my brain anymore, like a record on repeat, is the worry I’ll have to just.get.in.the.shower.after.a.poo like a DAMN HEATHEN.
WILL THERE EVER BE TOILET PAPER AGAIN?
NO, REALLY? WILL THERE?
On top of the toilet paper chaos that is, quite fucking frankly, appalling and I’m embarrassed to be part of the human race right now, people are buying out ALL THE FOOD.
Like, does anyone think of others? Along with my dead cold fear I will soon start to whittle away to nothing, I’ve been close to tears thinking of the elderly people all around the world who are being left to fend for themselves. They can’t compete against Bubba Joe and Ultimate Karen with their 18 carts full to the brim with toilet paper that will last a lifetime while the remaining part of society that is sane would just like the normal amount of toilet paper. Mothers can’t even get wipes for their babies because these fools think their 18,456 rolls of TP won’t quite cut it.
So instead of being in the plane that was supposed to be taking me to Paris for spring break, I’m in my sweaty pajamas, wearing a hole in the couch with my ever-expanding ass, while I just sit and worry and worry and worry some more.
The real insanity, though, is how I’m scared we will starve while at the same time I’ve eaten through half our quarantine snacks in just two days.
In all seriousness, though, this virus and the absolute unraveling of society that is happening right before our very eyes has my OCD on red alert.
To try to combat the obsessions and worry, I’m trying to do my small part by staying in as much as possible. I know there are still people who think this is all a big over-exaggeration and then there are the people who are right- ahem- the ones who don’t want to panic but we realize it’s not all “business as usual”, and we know we need to flatten the curve LIKE LAST MONTH.
Whatever your opinion, shits about to hit the fan all over the world. I figured I better bring Fatty back for the time being because, I don’t know about you, but a bit of humor makes shit times feel a bit less shit. So in between my absolute freak outs, I’m going to try to channel my humor and find the bright side, even though it feels like hiding right now.
I’ll check back in soon to let you know how self-isolating is going after I’ve eaten all my snacks and the excitement of “It’s like we are in a movie about the end of the world” wears off.
So, like, you know how heavy whipping cream is like a staple of the keto diet? Sure, lots of greens and grass fed meats are pretty key, but
HEAVY WHIPPING CREAM
Have you ever just had a spoonful of heavy whipping cream (of course the fuck not because the majority of you- the odd three or so followers I have left- aren’t psychos)?
Heavy whipping cream is legit heavy. It sticks to the roof of your mouth and blankets your tongue in a thick coat of fat. It somehow makes it into your brain’s pleasure receptors, where it does the version of the Macarena where you just flail your arms around and laugh like a hyena because you have no idea what you’re doing, but YAY, HEAVY FUCKING WHIPPING CREAM.
Once you try a spoonful, it only makes sense to use it in place of your 1% Lactaid when you make yourself an entire box of Pasta Roni. And by you, I mean me.
Oh, I’m sorry.
Did you think I was doing keto, finally?
Excuse me while I laugh in fat and desperate, but still ain’t trying keto.
So, once I learned how absolutely mind-blowing heavy cream is in boxed pasta (like, no joke, better than any of the pasta I ate in Italy), I knew I had to try it in my Chocolate Peanut Butter Cheerios.
Heavy whipping cream in cereal should be outlawed, in case you were wondering. It’s just not fair to regular milk.
These are just some of the delights I ate tonight, along with two mini bags of popcorn, a pudding cup topped off with a giant dollop of marshmallow cream, and some canned corn because I’m not a savage.
What makes this all the more oh-no-baby-what-is-you-doin was that just this past Monday, the day we returned from winter break, I chose to wear jeans to work.
Jeans, after two solid weeks of sweatpants and fists full of homemade Chex Muddy Buddies.
I figured… what did I figure? Was I even figuring?
If you must know, I still have an indent in my stomach from the waistband, and I couldn’t sit at a 90 degree angle the entire day. In case you weren’t aware, most sitting is done at a 90 degree angle.
So, what’s new with me? As you can see, not a damn thing.
What’s new with you two?
(I’m speaking to the two stragglers I have left here).
Have you ever tried heavy whipping cream in your cereal? Did it blow your pants off (just literally, unfortunately) like it did me?
Holy shit, I’m literally the worst. I haven’t blogged in what feels like foreeeeeeever. I also haven’t read any blogs in probably even longer. I’ll be amazed if any of you are still here. I wouldn’t blame you if you weren’t.
I had a long list of several excuses for my behavior, but I figured I’d spare you. Let’s just get to it!
Today, as it’s Thursday, can you guess what I have for you? Yup. A travel post. And not just a travel post, this is the travel post.
Why is that, you ask?
Well, I got to meet one of my absolute favorite bloggers and one of the nicest humans on this planet while on my latest travel adventure.
Josy from A Walk and a Lark so very kindly offered to host my friend, Melissa and I when we were in Vancouver over spring break. So not only did I get to meet this fine lady, she put us up in her super cute condo for two nights. It was amazing, ya’ll.
We had such a blast on our trip. We flew to Seattle for a night, took the ferry to Victoria, stayed three nights there, and then it was finally time to get to Vancouver to meet Josy.
(I’ll be blogging about our time in beautiful Victoria, so stay tuned. You might have to wait another year, though, so don’t hold your breath. You’ll die.)
We arrived in Vancouver by ferry (Which had a fucking buffet on it, ya’ll. A BUFFET) and Josy picked us up. It was so exciting to see her happy face in real life for the first time!
We first went to her condo to drop off our bags, say ‘hello’ to her hubby Marc, give her super cute kitty, Monty a pet, and then we were quickly off to see our first site.
I think it’s here where I can announce that I’m still recovering from the walking we did in Vancouver. I used to think I was a pretty good walking tourist. I’m fucking not. Like not by a really slow, sweaty mile. There were a few times I truly didn’t think I’d make it and I’d have to embarrassingly ask Josy if she would kindly call me an ambulance.
Melissa felt pretty much the same as me – like an utter wimp compared to Josy. In fact, she remarked, “If you need me when we get home, I’ll be in bed for three days.”
I’m fairly certain Josy didn’t even break a sweat or get out of breath the entire two days of our heavy walking.
And get this, people. She bikes to work and it takes nearly an hour.
This girl is pretty much hero status to me at this point.
Despite how hard us fatties got worked, we had SO MUCH FUN. We’d have never done half of what we did had we not had Josy. She truly made our trip!
Here’s where we went and what we did:
Did you know this isn’t even an island? When I first did research on Vancouver and I saw that Granville Island was a must-do, I envisioned a literal island.
Even though Granville isn’t an island, we did take a boat there. Confused yet?
Granville Island is a peninsula (it took me three tries to write ‘peninsula’, because my phone really wanted it to be penis) along False Creek (which isn’t really a creek, but an inlet) and across from downtown Vancouver.
It’s known as a shopping district with a lively public market that I think rivals Pike Place in Seattle.
We took a boat, because you can take a water taxi from the part of Vancouver where Josy lives to Granville and why the hell not take a boat whenever possible?!
Our first stop was to find some lunch (That’s all that’s ever really on my mind when I’m on a trip, to be honest- “When is it time to eat something new again that will be delicious af but will most assuredly give me a bad case of the travel trots and/or heartburn?” It’s my favorite. The food, not the runs.)
We settled on trying some Polish fare, where I got some smooshy, cheese-filled pierogi smothered in sour cream and onions. Josy and Melissa settled on sausages. It all tasted pretty amazing to me.
Next, it was time to find a sweet treat, because your dessert stomach is in your heart and mine was empty and aching for something naughty.
We found an amazing crack dealer in the lively market area. Just look at the delectable choices we had:
Guess what I chose?
Biking Being a Hot Mess at Stanley Park
I learned how to ride a bike right into a prickly bush just like every other five year old first time rider. Also, I own a bike. It hasn’t moved from its spot in the basement in three years, the tires have disintegrated, and there’s a foot of dust covering it, but I own a bike. So, I’m not a total newbie when it comes to biking, but you know that widely known phrase, “Like riding a bike” when referring to something you never forget how to do? Well, when it comes to Inepts it should be “Like wrecking your diet” or something.
It was like I’d never ridden a bike before.
After eating our way through Granville Island, Josy took us to the gorgeous Stanley Park where breathtaking views of the Vancouver skyline and English Bay can be had.
The path winding along the water looked relatively flat, so when renting a bike was mentioned, I momentarily forgot I was not the best on a bike anymore.
(The first time I took my bike out after buying it, I rode around the block precisely once and then had to lay on the couch for the rest of the day.)
Long story short, I almost ran a pedestrian down, because braking, steering, and staying upright all at the same time is impossible for me; I dropped my bike and lost my cake on the road, but I scooped it up and ate it later (not ashamed), and I felt like I was going to legit puke from the exertion of having to pump up two slight inclines (and we hadn’t even started drinking yet). Meanwhile, Josy was just biking along looking like a fucking goddess. She had to constantly stop so her fat tag alongs could breathlessly catch up. Not once did she act like she was embarrassed to be associated with us, even when we looked like this in the helmets (and on the bikes):
WHY DO THE HELMETS LOOK LIKE THAT ON OUR HEADS, THO?
Drinks in Elizabeth Park
After our biking adventure, we really worked up an appetite. We (Melissa and I) smelled like our fat was on fire, so we cleaned up a bit at Josy’s and headed out again. We settled on El Camino- South American street food- for dinner and man, it did not disappoint. We shared three different entrees to maximize the experience for our taste buds, and they were oh-so-very happy, indeed. Along with a cocktail each, we feasted on a charred corn and cotija cheese salad, a barbecued jackfruit sandwich, cheese balls straight from heaven, and cauliflower “wings”. I’m literally considering booking a flight just to go back and eat every single one of those delicacies again.
After one of the most satisfying food experiences of my adult life, we headed to the special place Josy told me we would have to go for amazing views of the city.
I think we got into a bus, but after a cocktail, my memory was a little fuzzy. What I do remember is hiking what felt like Mount Everest to get to our long-awaited views. But, it was just a walking path up a hill through Queen Elizabeth Park and I totally allowed my full ineptness to show. I really didn’t want Josy to know the full extent of my spastic abilities, but here we are.
When we finally made it to Seasons in the Park, it was cocktail time again.
On the way back to Josy’s we had happy hearts, warm bellies full of alcohol, and giggles for days.
When we got on the bus (they don’t wait for everyone to find their seats, because they’ve got places to be and people to see, OK?), I didn’t fully ground myself by grasping at anything sturdy-looking like I was new to walking when the bus took off, and I almost landed in a strange man’s lap. Then, after I bounced against every surface of the bus as I made it back to where Josy and Melissa were sitting, we dared Josy to say “Marc” in an American accent and we officially lost it. I’m still laughing. We were those annoying drunk girls on the bus and it was awesome.
The next day, after a delicious smoothie Josy made us (and toast with my first taste of Marmite, which I don’t hate), we were off again on another day of hijinks. Once we made a pit stop for some craft coffee, we were on the bus bound for the mountains.
Perhaps one of the best things about Grouse Mountain is that you get to ride a gondola up to the resort. I hadn’t been on a gondola since my childhood summers in northern Idaho. It was such a gorgeous ride up. You could see for miles. It was stunning. My pictures 100% don’t do it justice.
The first thing we did on Grouse Mountain was go on a fun, pretty short walk on a loop path. What made the whole process longer was the fact that it took me literally 20 minutes just to make my way down the first half of the walk, because the entire path was in the packed-down snow. Josy just bee-bopped along like she was walking on straight, not slippery ground. She kept looking back and saying, “You’ll be OK. I promise.”
She really hadn’t learned from the previous day that, no, I’d not be OK. The second I thought I could walk on snow like a normal person would be the second I’d be flat on my fat ass.
So, Josy took some snaps of my slow descent, because she had to fill her time waiting for me somehow.
After what, I’m sure, felt like an eternity to Josy, I had finally slipped, slid, and crawled the 50 yards down the hill and we came upon an igloo. An igloo, ya’ll. Naturally, we had to crawl in. It was pretty cold and wet and I had to take my backpack off to squeeze my fat ass in through the hole, but how many people can say they’ve climbed into an igloo? It was totally worth the wet knees and freezer burned palms.
After chilling (literally) in the igloo, we hiked back and had drinks and some lunch, but not before a quick selfie:
And did you even have lunch drinks if you don’t do a Boomerang and share it all over social media?
After lunch, it was time to head down the mountain. Instead of waiting for the bus, we took off on foot and walked down to a gorgeous spot for pictures:
Lonsdale Quay Market
After a lot more walking and another bus ride, we stopped at Lonsdale Quay Market. There, we got some interesting dipped ice cream and a different view of the Vancouver skyline.
Then, we got on a sea bus to get back to the “other side” of Vancouver (I’m still confused about the three distinct clusters of skyscrapers that look like three separate cities) to snap pics at the wings in Kitsilano:
From here we walked to the beach. We went from snow and mountains to the sand and sunny beach all in one day! What a truly epic day.
At this point, we were half dead, so Josy paid for a taxi that took us to a sushi joint. It was the perfectly delicious way to end two picture perfect days in Vancouver with someone I don’t consider merely a blogger bud anymore, but a true friend.
My memories of this incredible trip will remain forever in a special place in my heart while the ache in my fat ass will (hopefully) fade.
So can we talk a minute about food prepping? Um. I hate it. Like so, so much. I hate cooking and since food prepping is like cooking on kale-flavored crack, I’d literally rather clean the moldy hair goblins out of the shower drain than chop shit for hours on one of my precious days off.
Due to my utter distaste for preparing food, I do quasi- prep. I do the absolute fucking bare minimum and then wonder why I end up eating a brownie for lunch instead of garlic butter salmon on a bed of quinoa with steamed organic green beans on the side or whatever fancy shit ya’ll are eating.
I don’t have time for this. Like at all.
I “prepped” a can of peas and a frozen spicy black bean burger as my lunch the other day. Impressive, I know.
Between looking for a side hustle I can do on the couch in my holey leggings, working nine hour days, planning an epic European adventure, trying to maintain this stink hole of a blog, and getting some sleep, food prep just doesn’t fit into the equation.
I’m fully of the impression that if you religiously food prep and this takes up a good majority of your Sunday, this is your hobby, man. Your hobby is preparing healthy fare that all too often ends up tasting like rabbit food for your future self.
I’m not even hating, but that’s literally the worst-sounding hobby ever (really, I’m just jealous you have enough commitment to lose weight and be healthy that you dedicate time to proactive practices that help you be successful).
If you full-on food prep and do anything else besides go to work and sleep, you’re a Goddamn superhuman and I’ll pay you to do my food prepping.
Thanks a million!
(Can you just make sure to pan sear the chicken with lots of seasoning? Leftover blah baked chicken makes me gag.)
Are You Fucking Kidding Me?
Why do I lose weight first in the lamest possible places on my body before any real dent is made in the obvious places?
So like, thanks, body for thinking I needed to lose the fat from my forearms before getting to work on my fat stomach that people think is housing a baby. Sounds right.
Or maybe we could have started with my flabby arms that knock art off the walls when they get carried away?
What’s that? My knee caps were first priority? Oh…
Where’s My Xanax
Speaking of flabby bits.
I’m in need of a new bathing suit for the Cinque Terre and I’m low-key dreading it like the plague (I know, poor me).
The thought of trying on bathing suits with the paper crotch protectors that never make me feel protected from the last person’s crotch makes my skin crawl. I know you try on bathing suits without your underwear WHICH IS HIGHLY FROWNED UPON, KAREN.
I’m also not looking forward to seeing the fat I was going to lose 18 different times over the years seeping out of every edge of the only bathing suit I could find that didn’t scream “64 year-old overweight retiree living the dream in Boca Raton, Florida”.
Now I feel bad for the person who has to try on the bathing suit after me (because you know I’m not buying that floral-couch-pattern-from-the-70s monstrosity).
I’m really fucking annoyed that I haven’t found freelance writing work. I’m really displeased that every moment of my free time during the last month or so I’ve spent looking for writing jobs that either don’t really exist or are total scams.
What annoys me the most about this is that I set a goal around New Years to write 100 words a weekfor my “book” (I’m putting this in quotes, because until I am seriously working on a book, said book does not really exist). Guess how many of the 800 words I’ve written?
If you guessed zero, You win a rotisserie chicken! Huzzah!
Yes, zero fucking words.
And 800 words since New Years is a pitiful goal. I’ve written longer blog posts than that in one sitting.
So, now, not only am I still not a freelancer, I’m also not really a writer, because I’ve yet to actually write anything of substance, because all I’ve been doing is looking for writing.
Are You Fucking Kidding Me?
So, I was recently asked, “Why don’t you look for a real side job.”
That’s a good question, Karen.
I guess I have a follow up question to your question. What is a “real” job, Karen?
Is cleaning the slushy machine and taking customer’s sweaty dollar bills the kind of real job you’re referring to?
Maybe you see me as more of a burger flipper?
Is that a more real job for you?
Or, maybe you’d get a real kick out of my fat ass doing manual labor?
I guess my answer to your question is I don’t want another real job as I already have a real job teaching and planning lessons for a solid 9 hours a day.
Why is it so insane to people that I’d prefer to sit on my couch in my pizza-stained sweats while I’m using my minimal free time to make some extra money?
And, yes, the fact that the elusive freelance writing job hasn’t landed in my lap just yet but that I could probably start at the neighborhood 7-11 tomorrow isn’t lost on me, but it doesn’t mean that writing jobs don’t exist and aren’t real jobs. I just need to find one is all. So, get off my back fat, Karen.
Where’s My Xanax?
Let’s now do a complete 180 and turn up the crazy a bit.
Ya’ll, I’m legit freaked out about bed bugs.
Super psycho, I know, but once a worry makes itself comfortable in my brain like it owns the damn place, it takes what could be a normal concern and makes it into something neurotic and insane.
So, it started years ago when my boyfriend at the time and I were looking for a hotel in NYC. We kept reading these freaked out reviews about bed bugs.
At first I thought they were ridiculous. “Like, how did one bug ruin your life, Linda?” *serious eye roll*
I legit thought bed bugs weren’t real and they just lived in that weird song all of our grandparents sang while tucking us into bed, but then Google searches became my worst nightmare.
So, what did my insane brain do with my newly acquired knowledge?
IT TOOK IT AND RAN WITH IT NAKED AND SCREAMING UP THE STREET, YA’LL.
So, now I’m the freak who does a complete hotel room inspection when I stay somewhere. I’m also that weirdo who puts her bags in the hotel shower when it’s not being used. I’ve also been known to throw out perfectly good luggage because it could have been infiltrated by nasty bugs. Maybe also I’ve sprayed things down obsessively with 91% isopropyl alcohol (and yes, I know that’s a huge fire hazard).
And, now I don’t know how to be a normal, ignorant-to-the-world-of-creepy-crawlies person when I travel.
What are ya’ll annoyed or worried about lately? Make me feel less crazy, people.