Author: fattymccupcakes

Diet-ish Day 1

The first day of my healthier, clean-ish, no artificial sugar (except some sugar-free gum, or my mouth feels like the Sahara and smells like Epoisses on a hot day) diet-ish started today. I consumed two protein balls, baby carrots, raw almonds, hard-boiled eggs, turkey, strawberries, a sweet potato, asparagus, and an apple with natural peanut butter. Before anyone hates on me because one or more of these food items is not really “clean”, take note of the “ish”. Also, take note of my opinion that eating clean kind of sucks, and there is no one I know yet who has succeeded doing this long term. I mean, the thought of eating like this is only made tolerable because I know it’s ending soon. 
Not surprisingly, I was as ravenous as a Cougar housewife first thing this morning. Surprisingly, my balls did the trick. I was hardly hungry at lunch, but my hard-boiled egg and cottage cheese was just too tempting to resist. 
Because I feel weird not eating when it’s Eating Time, and I’ve heard you should eat every 3 hours, I choked down some raw almonds and more effing baby carrots after school. I also did not get into my candy horde. How I was able to abstain is unknown. 
I’m actually quite shocked I so easily bagged up my candy and bid adieu to my only school-appropriate way to self-soothe. Katie took my bag of Kisses, Dum Dums, Smarties, and Jolly Ranchers to keep it safe from my monstrous gob WAY too easily. I’m sure I’ll never see that candy again. I’m still numb. 
I don’t know why this was so easy today. I’m sure It’ll be a different story tomorrow when the novelty wears off and Katie comes in to co-teach with my chocolate still in the corners of her mouth. I will most likely want to pounce on her, and by the end of the day, I can see myself shaking like a coke fiend, desperate for a fix. 
As I’m writing this, my sweet potato is still hard as a rock in the oven. Why does it take 5 hours to bake a potato? All the directions saying, “45 minutes to an hour” are blatant lies. Lies. Also, I’ve been prepping, cooking, and washing since I’ve been home. This is bullshit. I have got to figure out a way to make this easier, because I am way too lazy and unmotivated for the work required to eat like this. I’m also super grouchy that I’m not eating a Skinny Cow ice cream bar right now. Balls. 

Health Balls 

So, it’s no secret that food is the culprit for my fatness. It’s also no secret that I have zero control when it comes to food. If something is tasty, there is no just sampling it, or eating a normal, decent amount of it. No, I eat something until it’s gone. I eat it until my insides are crying out in agony. I eat it until I drown out the voice of reason, the voice saying, “Er, I think that’s good. Enough. Stop”. Shut up, you deceitful bitch, and take this cheesecake like you want it. You know you want it. 
Anyways. 
In a nutshell, I’ve always struggled with food. My cupboards are bare, and not because I can’t afford to stock them, but because I can’t have any temptation just lying around. You would think I was a crackhead. In a sense, I am, just my drug of choice is kettle corn and caramel cookie crunch gelato. 
Since Amy and I are getting all physical with our yoga and plank challenge, (I think the squat challenge has been dismissed for reasons of “fuck that”) we decided to go all the way and try to eat clean for a whopping 3 days. Yes, I know. “Go us”, in a really haughty, sarcastic way, “3 whole days, I don’t think we will make it”. In defense, I don’t think we will make it. Or, I won’t. I can’t speak for Amy. Let me explain, we are teachers. Chocolate, and large doses of it, is practically prescribed by our physicians. I have a drawer in my desk, specifically reserved for my chocolate horde. I have decor made of Dum Dums in my room. I will have to cart all of that crap out of my classroom to be successful with this no-eating-sweets business. That’s the plan, actually. Another 3rd grade teacher will be “watching” our chocolate for us. I can pretty much just kiss it ‘goodbye’. 
After a fair amount of tears and mourning for my chocolate, I got on good ol’ Pinterest and pinned “clean” and Paleo-ish shopping lists and recipes. I can’t say we are going all gangbusters as far as eating 100% clean or Paleo, just drastically cutting down on highly processed foods and sugars. One area in which I intake far too much artificial sugar is with my morning coffee and granola bar. Instead of my usual chemical-laden coffee creamer, I made my own with almond milk, honey, and vanilla. I can’t take credit for this recipe as its all thanks to Pinterest, but I can take credit for the cute fabric flower on top of the jar. That was all me. It was also very necessary, obviously. 
  
Coffee creamer recipe: http://pinterest.com/pin/113997434294579075/
Next, I knew I would need a “sweet” fix, outside of my morning coffee, so I made protein balls. I would like to say I’ve been a total adult, in regards to the naming of this health “treat”, but alas I’ve been making jokes all day about my balls.  I don’t really have balls, but I made them. They started out too small, and I felt so bad for them. No one wants small balls, and they just wouldn’t satisfy. So, I made my balls bigger. Also, I thought that they resembled Snuffleupagus’ balls, if he had any, that is. I mean, don’t they? 
  
PB Granola Bites: http://pinterest.com/pin/113997434294561989/
I found this recipe on Pinterest, as well. I did not add the mini chocolate chips, as I felt they were the direct opposite of what I should add to health balls. I also nixed the chia seeds, because that is the only thing Winco does not have in their bulk section. Oh well. I used Adam’s natural peanut butter and raw honey. I ate one ball, and wowza. I never knew balls could be so tasty!
Tomorrow, these health treats will be the most exciting thing I will eat, outside of the raw almonds and zero taste Greek yogurt on my menu. I will really have to start beginning to live for something other than food. I’m getting the shakes just thinking of it. Perhaps, I won’t make it one day this week, or maybe it will be so fantastic to eat this way, it will be a total lifestyle change. Either way, it will make for great material for my blog. Stay tuned. 
*The lack of commas in the ecard image in no way signifies my knowledge (or lack there of) of commas. It was too funny, and too true to not include. 

Is That Me? 

I am always aiming to be more zen. When I want to rip into our neighbor after the tenth scrape of his chair across the kitchen floor (who sits down and gets up so often in a span of 20 minutes? As a concerned neighbor, I think he should see someone about that). When the driver in front of me is deliberately driving under the speed limit, like they are purposely trying to hold me up. When my boyfriend eats my last Skinny Cow salted caramel diet bar (the only thing I look forward to some days). When I’m asked the same questions over and over and over all day long, and then, “What should we eat for dinner?”, when I get home. I need more zen in my life. It’s certain. Coincidentally, I also need more fitness in my life, so yoga it is. 
My friend and coworker, Amy and I purchased Groupons for The Studio in Midtown. We decided that last Thursday would be the day to start. The only class we could both attend was Heated Vinyasa. If that didn’t terrify me enough, Katie, another friend and coworker, thought Thursday would be a fine day to start a squat and plank challenge. I would just like to go on record stating that whomever makes a squat challenge with 50 squats on Day 1, does not, in fact, need to do a squat challenge, and therefore does not know how many squats the layperson can actually do right out the gate. 
Immediately following our 50 squat nightmare, my students came in for the start of their day. I was sweating and could hardly catch my breath. I was asked six times if I was alright by my concerned 3rd graders. Then, upon sitting down to take roll, my leg gave out and I almost fell on the floor. I’m just glad my students are still super innocent, or it could have appeared I was drunk. I’m honestly gonna give it my all with this squatting business, but the last day requires 250 squats. I wonder if I could get a good deal on wheelchairs on Amazon? 
Because I’m a masochist, I actually didn’t bail on Amy and our yoga date. Throughout the day, we stole glances at each other that communicated, “Do you really want to do this? Should we go get Cold Stone instead?”, but not an actual word of protest was uttered, so we both found ourselves removing our shoes upon entering The Studio, and wondering how gross the floor might be. 
Heated Vinyasa yoga is a type of yoga that connects breath with movement in a room heated to 95 degrees. Basically, heated Vinyasa means sweating your balls off while you ignore the fact you have done so, because you must always concentrate on your breath during movement. I cannot do this. I can either breathe or move, not both, especially when I’m sweating from places I did not know existed.
It should also be known that this heated room will stink. Like so, so bad. So bad. I kept smelling a horrible stench that I thought had to be the men in the room; I couldn’t possibly smell like that. Well, during a stretch that brought me too close to my feet, I discovered the smell was, in fact, me. It was my sweat. It was the stank of my feet because I wore my Toms all day. It was the smell coming from crevices that aren’t usually sweaty. It was ME. That was a very humbling moment. 
The stretches spanned from beginner (I felt like a total pro when I was able to meet my knee with my elbow) to Never In My Life Will I Bend That Way. When your ankles are sweating, they are kind of hard to grab. Finally, those sweet words, “One more set and we will move into our floor series” were uttered. I love horizontal fitness! New to yoga, but not to Pilates, I’ve always been a huge fan of any exercise that is spent, for the most part, on the floor. Can it get any better for an über lazy person? 
It was during the floor series that I came up close and personal with my neighbor’s sweaty taint. There really ought to be a proximity rule in yoga. If I can taste your balls, you’re too close. I felt mildly violated, so I got into child’s pose and thought only of happy things. 
Despite the high temps and the fact that the sweat coming off of everyone’s body seemed to hang in the air, my first heated yoga experience was pretty positive. The Studio is clean, welcoming, and close to home. Amy and I both agreed that we got a positive vibe, and we will be back this week. 
The thing I know I need to work on the most is my “ohm”. I have always had a hard time with the “ohm”. I get the giggles big time, because everyone is so serious and their “ohm” sounds so zen, while I just sound like a gutted pig. I doubt I’ll actually practice this guttural yoga staple, but maybe I’ll just mouth it next time. 
Here’s to being zen. Maybe soon, I won’t care about everyone who annoys me, because I will be a calm yoga person, the kind who can say ‘Namaste’ seriously. Someone who has more peace and joy. Here’s hoping I can become a ‘yoga person’. 
If you want to read more about my experience and my review of The Studio, you can find me on Yelp. I’m Katie “Eh” P. I can’t figure out how to change that, or how or why I’m “eh”…

Me's


Today, the fine Alice Reno posted this picture with the above question (I’m shocked they spelled “you’re” correctly). Of course, because I like to speak my mind, I posted my opinion on the topic. And, of course, some uber-sensitive person declared that I was shaming my fellow woman with what I had to say.
I’m sure I’ve spoken via Facebook on this topic before, and since it’s a heated one, and I’m feeling a little hot under the collar today, I felt a blog post was necessary.
Let me get a few things out of the way first. Does this woman have a beautiful body? Yes. Am I slightly jealous of her taut, seemingly stretch mark-free tummy? Does a bear shit in the woods? Do I want her body? Yes (if possible, since this is fantasy and almost like ordering off a menu, I would like slightly larger bewbs too).
Now, can I be honest here, and say I’m growing tired of our incessant need to photograph ourselves and post it all over social media?
Disclaimer: I am in no way indicating I am an innocent party to the selfie. I have my fair share of embarrassing duck-lipped selfies and an even larger collection of pictures that didn’t make the cut. Before “duck lips”, it was “the Katie” and I’m not even barely joking. I’m not perfect, and I, too, suffer from the Me’s.
Thanks to our ever-growing technological age, our generation has the luxury of having information, any and all kinds of information, at the tip of our fingers. Where should we eat? Let me check Yelp. How do I get there? Let me open the Map app. What is the best way to remove grass stains from Toms? Google. It’s exciting and easy.
Remember when you loaded film into a camera, took pictures on your trip, and then had to wait until you got home to see how hideous you looked in your bathing suit on the beach? Now, you can delete, try another angle, or stand behind a sand dune, or something.
Taking pictures of ourselves and the term “selfie” are concepts bred from narcissism and easy access. No one took pictures of themselves with a camera needing film, too many could have been fails, and you would have had to wait until you could get to the store to drop off the film…etc. I’m not even going to finish the list, it’s already too much work.
Thanks to Instagram, Facebook, and the like, everyone is a model, and they all honestly believe we want to take a look. Let’s be honest, did you all really care I got a new #supercute shirt? I think not. Don’t even get me started on the Free the Nipple movement and how too many people think it just means that it should be alright to go topless at Raley’s. (Oh! Were you just in the freezer section?)
It’s just a theory, but I think this woman might be screaming behind her hair, “Look at how hot I am! #jealous”. Yeah, we are, but you also seem quite transparent and shallow. Notice I said, “seem”.
As women, we should be supporting each other, but I’m having a hard time getting behind the “Let’s take pictures of ourselves half naked and post it on social media” movement. It’s shallow. It’s offensive. It’s putting Kim Kardasian stank all over the work done by Elizabeth Cady Stanton, Susan B. Anthony, and every other woman activist who fought so hard for us to be respected. I think these women would want better and because it’s saying, “this is my value, this is all I have to offer”, and that’s not true (or maybe it is, if you just a ho).
In ending, we all suffer from the Me’s. We all want to be accepted, loved, desired. Perhaps finding that validation won’t come in the form of how many likes you get for your boobs. Perhaps.

Harvey

Harvey: I’m-m-m-m gonna w-w-w-whoop yer a-a-a-ass at cards.
Wayne: OK, sir. I bet you will. That’s a mighty fine hat you have there (referring to the man’s fabulous, pointy Andes-style earflap hat colored pink and turquoise)  Can you tell me about it?
Harvey: Oh, this h-h-h-hat is, is mighty f-i-i-i-ne. It covers m-m-m-my bald spot!
Wayne: That does make a hat pretty useful.
Attendant: Harvey, tell him what your hat is really for.
Harvey: It’s r-r-r-really (as he moves in close to whisper) a ch-ch-ch-chick m-a-a-agnet.
Harvey laughs so hard, the attendant caring for him has to turn his oxygen back on.
This was an honest-to-goodness coversation had between my boyfriend and an elderly man who had to be pushing 100.
My grandma passed away two years ago after years of battling dementia, a cruel, truly demented disease. My grandma died many years before we laid her to rest. Dementia robbed her of her memories, her ability to reason, her ability to know her own children. It wasn’t until the grandma I knew and loved was gone from her blue eyes did I realize what I had lost.
Every single day, I drive downtown and I see elderly men and women living on the streets. I watch, long before I pass, to make sure they make it, slowly, across the street. They are in rags held together by their own filth. They are cold, hot, confused and beyond mistreated.
Why are our elderly living on the streets, abused in retirement homes, and left to rot in the back bedroom? Being of advanced age should be an honor, not a curse feared worse than leprosy (or is ebola a more relevant disease?). Being the elder should come with built-in respect and hospitality. We should be housing our grandparents in accomodations far better than our own. We should be teaching our youth to revere them like gods. They are our past and our future. They are old and wrinkly. They can be as mean as a dog shitting tacks, and they are painfully slow. They are also brilliant and worldly. They know what it means to do without and still find happiness. They understand and love a world without TV, without smartphones, a world in which you sat down and wrote a damn letter. In cursive. We have so much to learn from our elderly, yet they are withering away in our streets and in dusty rooms under lock and key.
I would give anything to go back to my 8-year-old self, during the summer it was just me and Grams at the cabin. I would slow down and really taste her tomato and noodle soup. I would take off my discman headphones and listen to her story about Grandpa. I would make my bed and vacuum without being asked. I would scoop her a bowl of ice cream and add the dry Nesquick she liked so much. I would wash the Ziplock baggies without complaining. I would take her dry, soft, wrinkled hand in mine and say, “Let’s go pick honeysuckle, Grandma, just you and me”.
To have been able to witness the exchange between Harvey and my boyfriend would have been a real treasure. Just two young lads relating about the trials of life, love and the pursuit of women. Just two young lads.

Damn 

Ever have one of those days when you want a piece of cake or really anything with a cake-like consistency, such as those Hostess cupcakes, the one with the frosting hats, so bad you could cry? The want is deep, deep in your bones. I always feel this way after I’m reminded how much I weigh or after I have to throw away a pair of jeans because my thighs burned a hole in them the size of Jonah Hill’s face. 
I went to get a B12 shot at the Shot Spot today after a good year of not getting my shots or being weighed. The last time I was weighed was at my lady doctor appointment and I told the nurse to not tell me my weight upon penalty of death. Sometimes it’s better not to know. Ignorance really is bliss and it tastes like cinnamon gelato. 
Today, I just had to know. Without spilling my deepest, darkest secret, I will say I’m 10 pounds away from being at my previous heaviest. What did I immediately want to celebrate the momentous occasion? I wanted a BBQ chicken pizza from Blind Onion washed down with a red velvet cupcake from Mix. An entire bottle of Framboise would have only helped me choke down my disgust. 
My response, my way to self-soothe has always been to eat. Whether I’m stressed, sad, happy, anxious, bored, really any basic human emotion, it’s always a reason to celebrate with food. Bad day? That calls for an entire bottle of wine and the rest of the Costco-sized bag of chips. Having a fabulous, inspiring day? That just means I have to celebrate with a s’mores Frapp. Why not? You’re only fat once. 
Around March, every year, without fail, I set my mind to being bikini ready before, well, the next year I aim to lose weight for the same goal. My M.O. is to start out with a set plan, really gung-ho-like that starts out super hopeful (grocery list complete with kale and sweet potatoes) and the promise I will never let a soda, diet even, pass my lips. Around early June, I wake up in the middle of the night, surrounded by chip crumbs, in a cold-sweat realizing I’ve actually gone in the opposite direction and gained 10 pounds. I count how many days until the first day I will have to be in a bathing suit. I think, “Two weeks? I can lose at least 10 pounds in that amount of time”. In two weeks I realize I’m no longer 20 and not a tweaker, so that was an impossible goal. At this point, I realize being bikini-ready is futile, so I exhale, put on my fat pants and walk to 7-11 for a donut and a slurpee. All that anxiety calls for some serious sugar. 
Maybe ya’ll think I’m crazy or maybe you are sympathy-gnawing on a French baguette. I’m not really sure. I do know that food is good and eating less of it really, really sucks. I also know that the key to success with weight loss is almost 100% mental. I just have to find my motivation and my mental strength. Where did that go? I know I had it around here somewhere. I have to discover what’s better than gluttonous fettuccini Alfredo and gooey caramel wrapped in chocolate. Ugh. I really want a double caramel Magnum right now. 

Her

Everyone has a blog. I know. Almost just as many people have a blog about their journey from fat life to one of self-acceptable (or sadness, because being thin almost always means no more cupcakes). Despite this, I’m beginning a blog about my journey. How cliche. Whether it will be told from the perspective of a fat girl trying to accept her jiggly arms or through the eyes of a 32-year-old woman who has almost no idea what she is doing with her life has not been decided at this point. I’ll write about my fatness. I’ll write about my need to feel accepted in whatever form. I’ll write about my opinions from “fat acceptance” to the state of our crumbling world, both literally and figuratively. I’ll write about my life experiences, both past and present. I’ll write about the joys and pains of educating our future. I’ll just write, funny, thought-provoking, controversial, whatever.
A total aside-every ‘her’ I’ve typed thus far has auto-corrected to ‘Her’. Her wants to be capitalized. I’m not sure if this means anything, but I really, really want it to. Maybe it means I’m an important, inspiring, worthy woman and my blog will actually be read by others? Maybe it will inspire others? Maybe I’ll make you laugh, cry, or even make you eternally grateful you’re not me. Even if this little sign doesn’t mean anything and my blog is a total bomb or a total unknown in a world full of writers trying to find their way via WordPress, I will continue to write. I am writing for me. Writing is therapeutic, calming, exciting, inspiring and it’s something I will do regardless of how many followers or comments I receive. I’m really not writing for the exposure. I’m writing because I physically have to. When you wake up in the middle of the night to write down a thought so you don’t forget it, or when you park your car after just driving home from work and you have no idea what streets you took or how you even got home because you were mentally writing your next Facebook post or Yelp review, it’s time to start writing a blog again. For the safety of all people on the road, for my sanity, I’m writing again.
Thanks to Facebook and our over-sharing generation most of my readers (I’m already assuming I’ll have readers) know who I am. I’m not yet decided on whether who I am on Facebook or who I am at work or with friends is really who I am. Maybe I’ll find out someday.
Obviously, my name gives it away, I’m a voluptuous cupcake-lover (that’s being kind. I’m fat and I inhale Mix cupcakes in my closet and then I burn the evidence). I’m anal retentive. I’m funnier on paper. In person, I’m likely suffering from Aspergers. I hold on to everything (no, not in a hoarder way, more in an OCD-way). I beat a dead horse. I’m a germaphobe and I guess the secrets out? How did everyone know? I hate being looked at, but I usually feel ignored. I live in the past far too much. I have massive wanderlust, but I’m terrifed of the dangers and uncomfortable aspects of travel. I’m petrified of death, that death is just darkness. I collect Bath & Body Works products, but I hate materialism and have considered living more simply (it’ll never happen…). I notice and remember people, feelings, memories and details fair too perfectly. I’m either an excellent candidate for the Scotland Yard or I’m a creeper. I have only started discovering who I am. Haven’t we all just begun?
I’ve already lost most of you. I’m rambling at this point. I will stop for now. One tiny hint before I go: reading my words outloud might come easier, as I write how I think- a jumbled, mess of thoughts, feelings, desires and fears all wrapped up in a pretty pink bow, because I’m also a neat freak. Welcome to my world.