Free Advice Friday From Your Aunt Fatty

For Fat Agony Aunt (Love what you’ve done with my name),

A neighbour (yuk) has stopped to chat at the gate on occasion when walking their dog. (A friend of the husband from years ago) the last twice he has spoke about an open marriage … they are naturists and have just returned from their villa in a naturists villiage in Spain. Yesterday he asked the husband (he hasn’t said these things to him) if we would go for supper next week, p.s. they have a hot tub. Question: what if he brings holiday snaps out … or strips for natural hot tub?

Freaking Out About The Freaks

Dear Freaking Out About The Freaks,

You mean you’re not into a freaky deaky neighborhood partner swap? All the good kind of neighbors are open to buck naked and hairy hot tubbing and sharing their spouses like their favorite casserole recipe. Aren’t they?

Oh, I’ve just been informed that this is, in fact, not normal behavior and you have every reason to be a little put off by being stopped by them for fear they will show you pics of their wrinkly parts!

So, this is what you do…

You get to them first. Be a bigger Freak a Leak by showing them your holiday pics at the even nude-ier naturalist village (just print pics off of some nudist site that don’t show faces, only bare asses) and maybe even ask them their opinion on homemade German dungeon porn. Without a doubt and in no time they will be the ones avoiding you, you freaky dog you. *wink*

Or…not and you will have created an even more awkward situation, but it could be fun trying.

In all honesty, I’d just try to avoid them like the plague. Figure out their schedule of leaving the house and never leave your house at the same time. You know, be a real mature adult about it.

I feel like you need to update us on how this all transpires. Write back, Freaking Out. We all want to know if you got roped into nekkid hot tubbing or not.

Love, Your Aunt Fatty (who thinks this conundrum is really hilariously amazing. Sorry not sorry)


Dear Aunty Fatty,
I have an umh ‘delicate’ problem. My cute little fur baby has gas. All the time. Bad, smelly, horrible, silent bombs. Help! Should I collect it to fuel my car?

Watering Eyes

Yeah, you did that. Gross, huh?

Dear Watering Eyes,

ABORT! ABORT! ABORT!

Just kidding, you can’t just pack up and leave your beloved shit-smelling fur baby.

So, story time.

My aunt and uncle had a dog once who had the most rancid farts, they could legit melt the varnish off furniture. They were so bad, you could taste them hours later. (This dog also loved to eat all of the bad things that made him fart, then puke, so he could eat his puke and then fart puke-smelling gas bombs. It was a vicious, noxious cycle.) Yet, this was one of their most beloved fur babies.

Moral of the story?

No matter how many nose hairs they singe, we still love them. We make accommodations to make them and ourselves as comfortable as possible.

What I would suggest is to first make sure it is, in fact, your defenseless fur child. In all likelihood, it could be the dude at home. For years, Aunt Fatty’s own father got away with blaming, at least, half of his farts on the poor dog.

If it is your poor pup, just cover your nose and mouth with a pillow or spray some essential oil air freshener (my favorite is Fuck Me, My Eyes Are Burning) to cover the horrific smell, while reminding yourself that your fur baby eats the crumbs you drop on the floor and sometimes they make your life easier by eating their own poop. Sacrifices.

Your idea of collecting the gas to fuel your car is genius. I’d legit start working on how you can make that happen (hook a fatty up if you ever become rich and famous on your fart fuel).

Love, Your Aunt Fatty (who is retching a bit)


Dear Aunt Fatty,

How do I ask my boss for a raise to allow me to buy lunch for my co worker everyday, because she can’t remember to throw away her Tupperware? There’s enough penicillin growing in our staff fridge to cure a small country’s syphilis outbreak. Please advise.

Worried About Contracting Syphilis From the Staff Fridge

Dear Worried About Contracting Syphilis From the Staff Fridge,

Ah, the joys of workplace refrigerator sharing. I bet the microwave is an equally horrifying place.

Honestly, I wouldn’t even waste your raise on some chick who has zero regard for everyone at your place of employment opposed to having their food mingling with mold spores.

I’d pack my damn lunch in a mini cooler that I know isn’t growing bacteria and forget the cesspool of contagion that is your kitchen at work if it were me.

Yo, this is $13 on Amazon! Snatch it up before it’s gone!

You will almost certainly look like a construction worker lugging your bulky, plastic job, but it’s better than getting the plague from your hazmat work refrigerator.

Love, Your Aunt Fatty (who is really sensitive to smells or just the thought of smells so she repeatedly dry heaved writing this response, as she imagined how nasty that heathen’s two month old leftovers probably are)


I know ya’ll are a messed up group of people (who isn’t messed up in today’s world?), so get those questions in!

Contact me here, my weirdos!

The Dieting Chronicles of Dumpy von Marshmallow Waist and Duchess McMilkshakes: Week Two

What was your biggest diet disappointment this week?

A: I have several so be patient with me:

1.) A single serving of Oreos according to the WW app is 3 cookies. Just 3.

2.) 3 cookies is 7 (!!) points.

3.) Even though Oreos are vegan, they are in no way healthy.

4.) Try as I might, I am not at my goal weight this week.

5.) I won’t be at my goal weight next week either.

6.) Vegetables still taste like vegetables.

K: On Fridays, along with my coffee, I treat myself to a scone or some other decadent delight from Starbucks. Since I’m counting now, I had to look up how many points the pumpkin scone is. I figured it couldn’t be much more than 15. I mean, it’s pumpkin. Pumpkin is healthy.

I didn’t end up getting the damn pumpkin scone, because it’s 22 mother fucking points. For anyone totally unfamiliar with Weight Watchers, let me paint you a really hideous picture. My daily point allowance is 28 points and my weekly “cheat points” are set at 42.

Because I wanted to eat the rest of the day, I had to pass on the pumpkin scone for the first time in three years of Friday Starbucks cheats.

I died a little inside when the barista, who knows me way too well, said, “You’re not getting your pumpkin scone today?” and I had to make myself say, “No, Alex. Just the coffee.

What was your biggest diet success or win this week?

A: I know there are people who eat only when they are hungry and stop once they are satisfied, so I won’t break my arm patting myself on the back for a week of eating like a normal person. I am, however, a little proud of the moments I was able to walk away from the treats in the break room. Or, when I walked places I normally would have driven to. Lastly, I’m grateful I didn’t give up the second day when I really wanted to… because I really, really wanted to.

K: I didn’t kill anyone in the name of hunger. That’s all I got.

What is a diet/Weight Watchers injustice you faced this week?

A: I’m not sure if I’d call it an injustice really, but I went to an actual meeting and it was insanely annoying. If you are STILL fatter than me you do not get to tell me how to do this. How ’bout you follow your own advice there, Patty? Isn’t that the pot calling the kettle fat? I’ve decided to keep my interactions very limited from here on out.

K: When reading through the Weight Watchers app for ideas for low point snacks (I was really hoping I’d happen upon a monster brownie only clocking in at two points) I caught an article on FAQs. Let me just share a screenshot:

Fruit, ice (Thanks, WW, for making ice zero points. That’s big of you), and nonfat, unsweetened yogurt are all zero point foods, but, somehow, magically, when they are blended into a smoothie, the smoothie is not zero points.

I am no math whiz, but I’m fairly confident that 0+0+0= MOTHER FUCKING ZERO*.

What is a diet tip or hack you learned this first week?

A: For me this whole weight loss thing can’t be black and white; perfection or failure. Don’t get me wrong, it’s real easy for me to be a stickler for every bite, point, step taken, and to make myself batshit crazy until I give up. In all reality though, I don’t want to live like that. On the flip side, it’s also really easy to eat whatever I want with reckless abandon and then get pissed when my jeans don’t fit. If I am going to make this a true lifestyle change I need to live somewhere in the middle- that grey area where most of my choices are good, but sometimes I eat three donuts for breakfast in the bathtub, and skip the gym all together.

K: La Croix the shit out of your day. Want a bag of M&M’s? FALSE. Drink a La Croix. Feeling like you need a milkshake and a side of fries to dip in said milkshake? FALSE. Your fat ass can drink a La Croix and it can like it.

If you don’t know what La Croix is just imagine a fruit-flavored soda but without any of what makes a soda taste good. That’s La Croix. It’s disgusting, but the skinny bitches drink it, so I’m hoping to be let in on the secret sometime soon.

How about an “ah ha” moment or sudden moment of clarity?

A: Right now my life is an absolute dumpster fire.

This past week, I ended two jobs I LOVED in exchange for a job out of necessity, and it has made my heart so sad. I want(ed) to eat all the things because I needed to feel better, and I did slip a few times:

Me to Katie- “ Sooooo you’re my accountability buddy and here we go. I just used all 26 of my daily points, PLUS 10 exercise points and TWENTY MOTHER FUCKING NINE flex points on dinner because my heart is sad and I hate my life and I miss my mom. That is a 65 point DINNER dude. 65 points. I’m gonna let that sink in for you.”

Yea… that’s real life. But I got back on. I didn’t keep eating everything that didn’t try to eat me first for days upon end. The “aha” in all of this is that I don’t need to be a complete lunatic to make progress in the right direction. I lost 4.6 pounds this week- not a bad start. I just need to be consistent most of the time and be brave enough to get back on when I screw it all up. Perfection isn’t realistic and my goal this week is to spend more time in the grey area. It feels more doable, and there’s Oreos in there.

K: It feels good going to bed not feeling like a fat piece of shit. I mean, I’m still fat, but I feel less “piece of shit”. Some nights, before the Weight Watchers Awakening, I would go to bed right after eating 18 bags of popcorn, an entire pint of Halo Top, and half a watermelon. It’s pretty alright to not feel like my food choices are literally and figuratively choking me out.


What are you struggling with this week? Any fun diet tips for Dumpy and McMilkshake? What would you like to see us cover? Let us know in the comments!

*There are a lot of ‘mother fuckers’ in this post. Excuse our French, we’re just REALLY FUCKING HUNGRY.


Don’t forget to send in your questions to Aunt Fatty here. And, check out the first post here! I’m handing out advice that’s wanted like candy at a Weight Watchers meeting, so you don’t want to miss out!

The Dieting Chronicles of Dumpy von Marshmallow Waist and Duchess McMilkshakes*

Ya’ll, the weight loss motivation is finally getting serious up in here! (Right in time for all of the delicious Thanksgiving and Christmas season goodies. Smart.)

I’ve found me a Weight Watchers girlfriend and she’s funny lady, Amanda AKA Duchess McMilkshakes. She doesn’t have a blog yet, but I’m slowly chipping away at her apprehension to put her funny out into the world. For the time being, we are going to collab on a Weight Watchers weight loss adventure.

We each signed up for Weight Watchers (again) and took our ‘before’ photos (that, for the time being, will live in the privacy of our phones and in the minds of our lucky men). We are so ready to take this bitch DOWN.

Well, at least we are ready to not eat cake for breakfast *everyday*.

Because all of you lucky people already know so too much about me (and it’s about to get even more TMI) I’m just going to share Amanda’s bio. But, here’s my selfie in case you forgot what I looked like:

My two chins and my sassy cousin.

Throwback to when my daughter stayed in one spot for more than 10 seconds, and I could get my hair and makeup done. It’s one or the other now and I almost never pick makeup. I’m grateful every single morning for eyelash extensions.

My name is Amanda, and I’m a 36 year old mom to the sweetest angel on the planet, who inadvertently destroyed my bladder and waistline. I’m currently on a mission (with the help of my friend, Katie) to get fit, which hasn’t been easy because I love food and hate exercise. Let’s be honest, I didn’t get this round by eating apples and walking everywhere. Oh, and did I mention that my dude is a chef? Like an actual, classically trained chef who makes delicious food and couldn’t care less how fat I am as long as he gets to see me naked once in a while? It feels insurmountable some days, but I’ve mustered up the courage to give it another shot. This journey isn’t going to be easy, but I’m excited to share it with everyone- the good, the bad, and the funny. Let the hilarity ensue.

I don’t care that there is a mystery period in the middle of the sentence, this meme is our brains on bacon, ya’ll.

Random fun facts:

K: *I’m obnoxiously long-winded. Oh wait, we all knew that already.

*When I was a toddler, I used to get into the splits to stand up. I went on to do gymnastics for several years. You’d never know any of this after seeing me get off the couch or out of bed in the morning, though.

A: *I am 8 months postpartum and I still weigh over two bills. ‘How far over’ you ask? Far enough that I’d need to be seven feet tall for me to have a healthy BMI.
*I have contemplated teaching my baby and or dogs how to tie shoes so that I don’t have to pass out every time I bend over because I can’t fucking breathe.

Why are you losing weight?

A: I want to Beverly Goldberg the shit out of my daughter, and I can’t do that if my heart explodes because I can’t stop putting half and half on my Apple Jacks. Seriously though, you gotta try it.

K: I’m pretty sick of my bingo wings swinging like huge bull balls when I write things on the board at work. I’m really worried one or both might get carried away and knock a kid out one day.

What makes this time different?

A: Honestly, I don’t know if this time will be the magic time I get my shit together and stick to a diet, but I do know that I’m not comfortable settling for elastic waistbands and angled selfies so that only 1.5 chins show. Unfortunately, Snapchat hasn’t made a flower wreath to flatter my waddle, so I need a new plan of action.

K: I’m just gonna be real TMI here. Last weekend, I was getting into the shower. It wasn’t a hair-washing day, so I had my super sexy shower cap on. I look completely and utterly ridiculous in the thing, but it does the job, so I guess I’ll have to accept looking like a beached whale at the salon.

I was leaned down, completely naked, getting the water temperature right. All of a sudden, I hear a noise that sounded exactly like Tina Belcher saying, “Butt”, so, naturally, I figured it was a serial killer who somehow managed to break in in broad daylight while the dude and I were at home. A split second later, I realized it was my boyfriend imitating Tina Belcher and I screamed, “Don’t, you asshole!” and slammed the door in his face.

From the other side of the door comes his voice, “What the hell? I just said ‘butt’. I saw your butt, so I said ‘butt’.”

Yeah, he saw my totally-in-need-of-a-serious-waxing-job butt in the bright light of morning. He probably also noticed my second ass (more on that later) and the fact that my back rolls have back rolls. Thankfully, since my rear end was facing him, he didn’t see my stomach eating my entire lower half.

That’s what I thought in my head. He probably just saw the ass he (for some strange reason) loves, but in my head what he saw was something so frightful, so grotesque, it pissed me off that he snuck up on me when I wasn’t prepared or almost fully clothed and in the dark.

That mental narrative needs to stop.

What was the breaking point? The cherry on top? The straw that broke the camel’s back?

A: Some of the kids in my Pre-K class asked when I’m having my baby. Granted, they’re 4 and 5 years old, but the fact they think I’m 72 weeks pregnant is a real problem.

K: Probably when I saw my second ass for the first time. What is a second ass you ask? Well, it’s a secondary butt within one’s primary butt. Usually, at least in my case, your second ass looks like two chicken cutlets with a bad case of cellulite that have been glued smack dab in the bottom middle part of the dominant ass. I noticed it while I was leaning on the counter brushing my teeth (because that task is really tiring, obvi) and because the full-length mirror was lined up perfectly with the vanity mirror, the stars aligned and- bam- I saw it, clear as day. I always thought I only had one butt.

Biggest irrational diet fear?

A: I believe, wholeheartedly, that being fat is God’s way of keeping me humble. If I were thin, I’d run around in two tassels and a leaf in the middle of winter with zero fucks given. I’m afraid that if I ever get in shape I’m going to have to have my ho phase at 36, with a new baby. It’s not gonna be a good look.

K: My most irrational fear is that I’m going to like this diet thing and turn into someone who prefers bullshit like kale brownies over fried Devil’s food cake donuts. Like, what if I become that annoying person someone made the meme “Just shut up and eat your salad, you whore” about? (I added that last part. I think that meme needed an extra touch of sass.) I can’t become that person. Fatty McSpaghetti Squash just doesn’t have the right ring.

What do you think you’ll miss most when you change your lifestyle?

A: I think I’ll miss the comfort that comes with old habits. Sometimes, the need to feel better outweighs the need to fit into skinny jeans.

K: I’m gonna miss just being a total fool about food. There’s something really freeing about not knowing or caring about how many calories or points something is. As awesome as it is to wake up and know your food plans for the day are limitless, it becomes a problem by the end of the day when you’re eating as much as a running back that does zero running and gets out of breath doing the brownie dishes.


We have some exciting weight loss topics to explore and some insane ideas for fitness in store. Let us know what you want to know more about. What would you like to see us do in the name of getting fit (because we are pretty much down to do anything ridiculous if we can write about it)? How can we embarrass ourselves to help you? Let us know in the comments.

*Amanda found this website where you can find your weight loss name to um…inspire you. If being named Greasy McBacon Thighs doesn’t get someone to eat a salad, I don’t know what will.

WTF Wednesday: Why Your Man Won’t Touch Your Diet With a Ten Foot Pole

I think it’s pretty safe to say I’m a serial diet killer. I’ve been on one successful “diet” in my whole life (I actually lost 50 pounds and kept them off for several years- hard to believe, since that was many, many pounds ago). I truly have no clue what drove me to stick to that diet. One theory is that I was possessed by the spirit of Richard Simmons (yes, I know he’s still alive, but he’s so exuberant, his spirit is alive in all of us).

Image

I imagine if Richard Simmons could be available to me today to keep me from being food naughty, I’d be pretty successful. Like, if he could jump out of a bush and yell, “OMG! No!” just as I’m about to take a big ol’ bite of chicken and waffles, that’d be good.

One of the first diet fads I tried was Slim Fast. That lasted precisely 12 hours.

Low carb eating went on for a week until I found out sugar-free candy and cookies still have carbs (what’s the point even?).

So, let’s just say I’ve had a lot of I’m-starting-my-diet-tomorrow-so-let’s-go-hard-at-Cold-Stone Sundays (because diets can only start on a Monday, dontcha know).

My poor boyfriend has gone through so many conversations with me about food that usually go something like, “It’s OK if I eat this entire bag of Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups, because I’m going to start counting my points/calories on Monday,”, that he *barely* rolls his eyes anymore when I say something like, “I’m really going to get serious about eating healthy come Monday!”

Literally the boyfriend

Almost always he steers entirely clear of my “diets” and turning over a new leaf speeches, because he knows exactly what’ll happen in exactly four days when it’s not new and fun to add kale to everything and the cravings for anything but kale hit hard.

For several years now, my dude has been in charge of the grocery shopping and he so is not into my sporadic dietary changes, demands, and needs.

I majorly lucked out and got grandfathered into a deal where I don’t need to take part in the weekly grocery shopping when I started my first year of teaching. We decided it wasn’t super fun for me to have to spend the entire week in my classroom and then in a grocery store with screaming children and cranky parents.

It’s been positively lovely to never have to step foot into our crazy ass grocery store that I’m convinced is a portal straight to and from the depths of Hell.

So, despite grocery shopping being his job, he really isn’t a fan of:

Get me oat milk, but not the one in the green box. That kind was just a little too oat-y.

Don’t forget to look for the organic agave nectar (at a store that rarely stocks organic). I’m 62% sure it’s in the sugar aisle.

Like, by any chance, is there ever diet Ben & Jerry’s?

I know they never have spaghetti squash, but just check.

How inconvenient would it be to buy a horse-sized bag of carrots? Like, the bag you’d buy to feed a horse?

Make sure the ketchup has no more than two grams of sugar.

If you forget my chocolate cream pie, don’t even come home.

The grocery store we the boyfriend goes to has a million different varieties of All-American Pies right by the checkout for those last minute impulse buys.

If this image has made you feel a real hankering for one of these excellent cream carb bombs, you can actually buy a *new* 6-pack on Amazon for $14.19. Since they are like 50 cents-tops, I don’t think this is one of Amazon’s best deals.

The chocolate cream pie ones are pretty damn tasty with their gritty factory-flavor pudding and stale sugar-coated pie crust.

The boyfriend got in the habit of impulse-buying one for each of us every week.

At first, it was a fun and different way to ruin my diet. After awhile, though, I decided that shitty chocolate cream pie every week was not doing much for my figure, so I requested that he not get me one. Then, I’d sit seething and envious in the bedroom, where I couldn’t see, but could, unfortunately, hear him breaking into his pie.

(Due to the thick, but crinkly wrapper, Mars can hear when one of those bad boys are being torn into.)

So, it got to be too much knowing he was getting a cream pie and I wasn’t, so I requested that he purchase two cream pies until he heard otherwise.

“Are you sure?” He asked.

“I thought you were counting your points again?” He said.

I responded accordingly with:

He started getting two chocolate cream pies again without another word.

Like a predictably psychotic cycle, I decided the chocolate cream pies were to blame for my bloat, so I said a few weeks ago, “Babe, you have got to stop buying me those damn chocolate cream pies!”

“Are you fucking serious?” He replied.

I answered with:

I mean, don’t you know by now that I’m crazy?

I sorta kinda forgot that I had said no more cream pies, and after a particularly hellish day (that also happened to be Grocery Shopping Day), all I could think about on the drive home was sinking my teeth into a crusty, creamy pie for my dessert.

When I got home, I excitedly, expectantly opened the cupboard to discover NO CREAM PIE. NO.CREAM.PIE

“WHEREISMYCHOCOLATECREAMPIE?!”

“You’re joking right? You have to be joking. Please tell me you’re joking.” He answered.

The words “chocolate cream pie” are not allowed in our house. They are referred to henceforth as “those individually packaged chocolate pastry delights that I’m never buying you again”.

So, at least in my case, this is why my boyfriend won’t go near any diet talk. If you’re anything like me and your man balks at even the slightest mention of keto, carb-cutting or whatever diet buzz word is popular at the time, check yourself before you wreck yourself. It might not be because he hates your avocado smoothies like you’ve always suspected…just sayin.

What about your significant other? What can they just not even with you? Let me know in the comments!

Bitty Blog Break

Hey, ya’ll!
Let’s just cut right to the chase.
I’ve been majorly stretching myself too thin. I’ve been trying to plan a huge, five week-long trip while teaching and working a side hustle.
Add trying to keep my home decent-looking, trying to eat healthier, attempting to get my 10,000 steps in everyday (epically failing, btw), running a Facebook group, and trying to have enough passion and energy to write and you have a pretty epic shit show.
Really, I’m managing fine, but I’m not enjoying the writing process and I’ve not felt inspired to write. I’m also not crazy excited with what I’ve put out there.
When this happens (because it happens, ya’ll) I have to just take a step back, recharge, and work on a little self care.
And, if I’m being candid here, I just need plenty of time to sit on my couch thinking about nothing, being a fat piece of poop in order to feel like myself.

I just need a little binge-a-show-I’ve-seen-a-million-times-time
Source
I’m hoping I’ll be able to write some more travel-themed posts before the big trip, but I’m not making any promises.
I hope ya’ll don’t give up on me.
Love and Cupcakes!

Tomato Poop

I have missed complaining about how fat I am (while doing fuck all about it) so much. So much.
I’ve been pretty focused on my travel posts, because of my trip coming up (in two months-cue the obsessive worrying about literally every possible eventuality), that my I’m-a-failure-at-adulting-because-I-can’t-be-assed-to-put-my-registration-sticker-on-my-license-plate-for-four-months-until-I’m-pulled-over-and-I-eat-entire-tubs-of-Cool-Whip-in-one-sitting posts have kind of been put on the back burner.
But, good news (or not, depending on who you are) I’m finally getting around to trying to lose some weight before my trip, so I’m posting a diet fail post!
I think I’d have really shocked myself and disappointed you all had I attempted to get my dieting shit together in a timely manner.
No, just as can be expected with Fatty McCupcakes, I’m due to depart the states in two months, so now, when it’ll be next to impossible to make much of a dent in my blobby body, I decide it’s finally time.
I’m a fucking genius and I’m winning at life SO HARD.
So, I think I’ve mentioned that I’m a hardcore fan of Weight Watchers. Not only have I had success on the program (I lost 50 pounds 10 years and 60 pounds ago), I’m not keen on restrictive diets that don’t allow me a fucking doll-sized piece of cake even.
I LOVE that I can basically eat anything (within reason and expertly portion controlled) and still lose weight.
However, with the latest WW program, the points are less and the good stuff is worth more. Sugar is more of a sin than fat now. However, there are loads more zero point foods (chicken, eggs, beans, fruit, most vegetables, plain Greek yogurt, etc.). So, I guess it’s supposed to be easier or whatever.
Y’ALL, I CAN BARELY EAT ANYTHING.
If I want to eat my favorite Naked granola with my Greek yogurt for breakfast, there’s no way I can have carbs for lunch or dinner AND eat half a pint of Halo Top ice cream (Halo Top, your deliciously sinful, yet low-cal ice cream is my SALVATION).
So, choices.
It really blows I can’t eat granola AND ice cream. It’s not like I’m asking for donuts and whole pints of Ben & Jerry’s, damn.
I’ve decided that I’d rather eat Halo Top and popcorn like a fat piece of shit in the evenings than eat carbs during the day.
Thus, I’ve had to get creative.
Tuesday night I had beef stroganoff over broccoli, ya’ll. BROCCOLI. I got to *enjoy* my broccoli masterpiece while my boyfriend ate his stroganoff with egg noodles. The fucker.
As if that wasn’t bad enough, we had stroganoff for leftovers last night and since I’d eaten all of the broccoli like a starving sugar addict on day five without the white stuff, all I had left were Brussel sprouts.
Brussel sprouts and stroganoff DON’T MIX. It was not my favorite.

Brussel sprouts are not pasta. As my boyfriend says, “Barfel sprouts are the devil’s nads.”
I’ve also had to get more creative for lunch. I’ve been eating nitrate-free salami, cheese sticks, and cherry tomatoes. I swear it tastes almost nothing like antipasto salad.
But, it’s not terrible.
Well, yesterday, my organic greenhouse-grown cherry tomatoes were still a little wet from when I rinsed them that morning.
I was absentmindedly wiping them off onto a paper towel as I popped them into my mouth, eyes glued on my phone.
When I went to wipe my mouth, I did a double take. It was covered in yellow-green-brown stains.

The offending stain

I thought something smelled funny. I knew it wasn’t that fart.
Wait.
That doesn’t look right.
Fuck.
I knew I should have scrubbed them, instead of just splashed water over them.
Oh.Gawd.
At this point, I was obsessively smelling my paper towel, while one of my students, inside working on make up work, kept stealing “What-the-hell” glances at me.
Then, I smelled my fingers, the inside of the tomato tub, and the paper towel 34 more times.
Poop. It smells like poop.
Instant fucking panic.
While I was wondering how long it’d take for the tomato poop to make me get sick and die, I messaged my boyfriend.
His response, “Baby, I highly doubt your tomatoes are covered in poop.”
Because he had to be wrong, I took to a Facebook group I started to get a woman’s opinion. I shared a picture of the paper towel and basically asked how long I had.
Then, I sat at my desk, just waiting to die.
Oh no. My stomach is gurgling.
I probably have some deadly intestinal disease now.
I better just be proactive and put in for a substitute.
I wonder if the hospital would like a heads up?
*ding*
I got a response to my picture from a very professional-sounding person who regularly grows tomatoes in a greenhouse.
The green-yellow-brown stains from the tomatoes were tomato tar.
I’m still not excited that I ingested something called ‘tomato tar’, but it wasn’t poop. It.wasn’t.poop.
Another near death crisis averted.
See what perils I am faced with when dieting?
#donutsdonthavetar

I don’t know who said this, but they are my people

Food Baby

Because I just got back from Apple Hill and haven’t given “birth” to my current food baby yet, I felt this was an appropriate flashback post. I have no shame…
Ya’ll…
I don’t even know where to start. 
I think there’s no hope for me. 
I try to be good. 
No. 
No. That’s a boldface lie. I’ll be real. I don’t try. Not at all. 
My “trying” is remembering to ask for nonfat milk in my venti salted caramel mocha. 
This past week it’s been fall break for us teachers over in my neck of the woods. Because I had no solid, established plans to go somewhere cool, I knew I’d be making the rounds at my favorite eating establishments. 
Because it isn’t fall break unless I eat my weight in carbs and almost slip into a diabetic coma. 
So, I thought I’d share with you some of the ridiculousness I put into my fat gob this past week. It’s like a really pathetic travel picture slideshow, but instead of pictures of me in front of the Grand Canyon, you get to see exactly why I’m struggling to button my new stretchy jeans. 
How fun! 
But, first, I have to share with you just how much of a lost cause I am. It’s been a minute since I’ve shared a diet woe or food foible, so it was bound to happen that I’d find myself knee deep in embarrassment or ridiculousness.
On Saturday, I attended a family member’s baby shower. I was super excited to go, because I heard that they were ordering bundtinis from Nothing Bundt Cakes. Their cakes are just ungodly good. They must use a metric ton of sugar, butter, and unicorn blood in just one cake. That has to be why they’re so good. 
I also heard that if you didn’t RSVP and you just showed up, you wouldn’t get a bundtini, because they were ordering just enough for the attendees and no extra. 
I made sure I RSVP’d by phone, email, snail mail, and telegram. 
It was so hard waiting for cupcake o’clock. Pure hell.
When the time finally came to have our bundtinis, it was utter agony to choose just one
I could have eaten one entire cupcake tier and still had room for a steak dinner.
Eventually, I settled on red velvet.

It was delectable, but quite small. I really needed another bundtini, or 7… 
There were still, at least, 15 little morsels of heaven left. I reported this interesting discovery to my mom. I told her I was most definitely going to eat another one. 
She said, “Well, what if some people haven’t gotten theirs yet?” 
To this, I responded:
“Ya snooze, ya lose, ladies!”
Cupcakes, just sitting out in the open, after a good 20 minutes, are fair game in my book. 
Still, it made me question the possibility of just grabbing one and eating it right in front of God and everybody.
So, I scoped the cupcake spot out for a good 10 minutes until the coast was clear. Once there was no one in sight, I snatched one, and made a beeline for the bathroom.
Yes, I felt the need to have more than my fair share of cupcakes, and in utter disgrace, I scarfed down someone else’s designated cupcake as I hid in.the.bathroom.


The fact that my gut is resting ever so elegantly on the counter is evidence that I didn’t even need ONE cupcake. 
#whenyourfoodbabyisbiggerthanthemothertobesbump
This short aside ended up being a little more long-winded than I had first intended. So, I’ll share my gluttonous menu from this past week in a separate post. 

Just sitting in line to get gas, taking pics of my food baby. 
*Mother-to-be: If you read this, know you positively glowed with happiness and impending motherhood. I, in no way, wanted to upstage you with my food baby belly. This was unplanned, unintended, and rather uncomfortable. Please accept my sincerest apologies. 

Apple Hill: Where Diets Go to Die

I’m about to embark, yet again, on the yearly event that single-handedly is the reason I’m fat. I’m hoping that while ya’ll are reading this, I’ll be on my third apple cider donut or nose deep in a sprinkle-covered caramel apple. Mmmm. Yes. 
Check out how I went ape shit last year at Apple Hill. 
I blogged last year about my time in Glutton’s Paradise AKA Apple Hill. This post basically outed me as a food whore. It’s not like we didn’t already know that with the type of posts I write, but this was my first post involving any type of visual proof. 
Since, I’ve been pretty IDGAF about what my pictures I post here and on social media portray.
I’m fat and I’m addicted to rainbow sprinkles. 
Get over it. 
So, without further ado, here are this year’s pictures of the annual Eat-Until-You-Are-Comatose-And-Then-Eat-Some-More trip. 

Aside from my “Oh Poop” sign, this is my favorite thing ever purchased at the Hill.
The first meal 🙌
If this were the only thing I got to eat the whole weekend, I’d have been good.
Attempting a sexy “Getting Down on My Caramel Apple” look.
This was how much I predicted I’d weigh after the Weekend o’ Gluttony.
Why are these so entertaining? We had to do all of them!
What a quaint, little creek.
 
We got to enjoy a beautiful view as we got stupid drunk at the brewery.
#cloudporn
The best Vanilla Stout EVA!
The offerings that we got to partake in, quite happily!
We tried to take a picture showing how sad we were that some of our girls weren’t with us this trip. Are we convincing?
The best sight in all creation. Apple cider crumb donut. I couldn’t even.
SPERNKLES!!
Would you think less of me if you knew I ate all of these in one morning?
When this llama realized I had nothing to give it, it had no time for me, and, I SWEAR I heard it say, “Bitch, please!”

#yolo
How you doin’?
Just sippin on my diabeetus juice.
In hindsight, an apple cider float AND a blackberry treat was overkill…
THIS is an Arkansas Black, and the only healthy thing I ate the entire weekend.
Purty
Chillin with my homies.
Wine tasting and hard apple cider-where it all went downhill.
So.much.quaint
Had my “sunglasses” been centered, this would have been THE PERFECT I’m-so-deep-but-adorable Instagram snap. Shucks.
Cute AF
I felt holding my baked treats up in the sky for a picture evoked an almost spiritual experience. It didn’t look lame at all.
Adorbs
We are HAWT!
All weekend I kept seeing a “pig hole” (what are these called?) and we never seemed to be able to do it. FINALLY, I got to be the pig. It was everything I had hoped it would be.
The last goody we ate before leaving Apple Hill. I was able to squeeze it in, because I had my fat pants on #prepared
And, because I wasn’t done being ridiculous, I decided I’d be an actual cupcake for Halloween. Here’s my attempt at being a cupcake for my students:

In ending, here is my promo photo for LuLaRoe leggings.  If you haven’t gotten sucked in yet, RUN…to the nearest pop up. They are the best leggings I’ve ever sucked my fat into. The.best.
Notice how stretchy they are. Notice how they delicately caress my bottom butt. Notice how busy they are so you can’t see my bumps and lady lumps. 

So, even after a weekend of eating my weight in food, I can still rock a semi-decent look. 
#winning

The Leggings Spread

You might have noticed that I was MIA on Wednesday (my usual new-post-day). I’ve been so busy that I’ve hardly had time to write. This makes me entirely too sad, so I’m planning on getting my writing shit together in a massive way. 
For this week’s #flashbackfriday, I thought I’d share my post about the Leggings Spread. I’m sharing this particular post, because I need to be reminded of my own advice.
#stillcantfitintomyjeans
It’s no secret that I believe leggings are life. They are insanely comfortable, they don’t cut painfully into your fat, and they don’t feel the need to remind you every time you yank them on that you’ve been laying the butter on pretty heavy lately. 
I seriously have a definite love affair with my collection of leggings. It’s almost sick, guys. 
I treat them better than my poor boyfriend. 
I never dry them. I bought a deliciously scented fabric softener to make them smell irresistible (is it weird I feel the need to have my pants smelling irresistible?). I also bought special hangers, because you don’t put these babies in a drawer. 
Because I’ve been so comfortable and happy, I’ve hardly noticed it. 
Noticed what, you ask? 
The Spread.
Due to the forgiving nature of leggings, it’s easy to not realize when your girth starts to spread in all directions. 
I’ve been ignorantly blissful about my weight these past few months. 
That is, until I decided to wear jeans to school. Whatever possessed me to think this was a good idea is beyond me. 
Because all of my jeans have a ridiculous amount of stretch, I didn’t really notice it until I sat down in my chair at school. 
Thank you, Baby Jesus and all that is holy, that this occurred before my class was present. 
When I sat down, due to the sheer force of my stomach, my pants jumped ship as said stomach spilled over the top, like overflowing bread dough in the oven. 
It happened in slo-mo and I just sat, stunned, watching my overflowing fat. 
The rest of the day I spent sucking as much in as possible as to not knock an unsuspecting kid in the face with my fat. 
Fuck. I’m disgusting. 
I’ve figured out what the real purpose of jeans are-they are your First Alert Weight Gain System. If you can still breathe in your buttoned jeans, you’re golden. If you need an inhaler after buttoning, you fat, friend. 
Real pants are assholes, but they are like those true friends who don’t feed you any bullshit. They both won’t hesitate to tell you you’re looking like a polar bear in a puffy jacket. 
Maybe real pants aren’t as useless as I’ve been believing. As soon as I can fit into my jeans again, I’ll maybe put them back into the wardrobe rotation. But, just so we’re clear, I’m still wearing leggings the majority of the week. I’m not about jean-everyday- life anymore. 

Bend your knees for the added power and energy you’re gonna need to cram yourself into your neglected jeans.
When the button doesn’t take the first try…
Jump. Because jumping into your jeans is the obvious answer. Sorry, neighbor. No, I’m fine. No, a large piece of furniture didn’t fall over. Just fuck off, OK?
Is it just me, or does this look like my butt is on backwards?! Something doesn’t add up here.
Screw it. I’ll just wear my leggings.

An extra special “thank you” to my boyfriend, who just said, “You want me to do what?” and “OK, let’s do this” when I told him I wanted to recreate squeezing into my jeans. 
Ladies, learn from me. Even if you don’t plan on actually wearing those asshole jeans, try them on at least once a month to monitor how far your Leggings Spread has grown. 
You’ll thank me later. 

Flashback Friday: Fat Clap

What the hell is wrong with me? Why can’t I be like normal people? Why can’t I be a calm, cool, collected individual? The anxiety, the rash decisions, the guilt. It’s all too much.
I’m useless, mental, insane, compulsively-driven at the very sight of…of cupcakes. I know. What the fuck is wrong with me?
The other day we had a staff meeting where cupcakes were present. They were brought out at the very start of the meeting. They were for a birthday, so tradition dictates that you don’t partake until ‘Happy Birthday’ is sung. Um. Why you people gotta play with me like that?
The.whole.time I sneaked peeks over at those beautiful confections of sugar goodness. It was mean, really.
They were taunting me.
How can you expect anyone, particularly one with an unhealthy relationship to cake, to actually pay attention to the matters at hand when there are cupcakes RIGHT OVER THERE? 
I think I know what we discussed at the staff meeting, but really, all I was concerned with was whether or not I would have time to eat my cupcake before the school day started.
During the height of my anxiety, when I was contemplating how bad it would look if I just snatched one and ran out, I began to notice everyone else.
They were all just casually drinking their coffee and jotting down notes.
I’m having the sweats and I’m feeling like an animal in heat and these people are cool as fucking cucumbers. Really.
It’s moments like these, during staff meetings where I have to abstain, with temptation taunting me, when I wonder how I’m not 400 pounds.
The fact that a fucking cupcake can mentally control me to such a degree is embarrassing. Normal people want one, but they don’t salivate like a starving dog begging for scraps.
My many, fervent, stolen glances over at the rainbow cake bombs, did the trick and it was finally time to get one! *Fat clap*
I basically mowed everyone down to get to them first. I’m that person.
I was instantly ashamed, but my regret didn’t stop me from checking the teacher’s lounge, at lunch, to see if there were any left.