In case you’re new here or have been on a blogging hiatus like me, you know I went on a pretty epic trip this summer.
I’m sure you’re all thinking, “Yes, bitch, we know. Shut up about it already.”
Well, I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but ya’ll are gonna be hearing a lot about it in the coming months. Sorry not sorry.
I went to Amsterdam, Scotland, England, Wales and Ireland. In that order. It was amazing and I’m still coming down from the cherry Bakewell tart high.
I have a journal *almost* filled to the brink with what we did every day and a page in my Notes with random observations, delicious food I didn’t want to forget I ate (as if) and funny tales of tonight-we-aren’t-gonna-drink-wine-again fails.
I’m not going to post in order of what event happened first. Whatever I’m inspired to write about will be written about first. I’m not a very organized writer at all. So, bear with me.
First up, hopefully arriving in your inbox and/or reader on Tuesday or Thursday, is a post about my experience on the Isle of Skye. Prepare yourselves, this won’t be just another sunshine and unicorn farts Pinterest post on Skye that just skims over what to expect. It’s about to get real up in here (Toilet paper and goats in the road and people everywhere, OH MY).
You thought this would be a real post, didn’t you? I’m such a fucking disappointment. Or, a tease. Sorry.
Before I leave, here’s my favorite picture I took while on Skye. I don’t want you thinking I didn’t like it or anything…
The Quiraing. Impossibly beautiful.
See ya’ll on Tuesday…or Thursday!
Category: satire
Vaarwel and Chì Mi Fhathast Thu
Look at how fancy pants I am with my super cool post title in, not one language, but two.
Fancy like this
Bonus points if you can tell me what two languages and what it says. I’m really counting on Google Translate for not messing this up and making me look like an idiot.
So, yeah, I’m leaving on a jet plane. It’s possible that while you’re reading this, I’m on a plane, squeezing the armrests as if that will somehow help steer the plane in any direction that will get us to our destination in one piece. I’m not a good flyer (sorry for the nervous farts).
So, yeah, I’ll be out of the country for a little more than five weeks.
This means I will, likely, not have time to read, comment on, or like your blog posts. I’ll try, but I can’t make any promises.
I might also not have much time to post, other than updates here and there.
So hang in there, don’t give up on me, and wish me luck in returning safely, ready to blog about my adventures.
Bye, babies!
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How to Worry About Your Upcoming Trip in Four Easy Ways
Want to hear something certifiably insane? It’s less than one month until my big trip this summer and I’m obsessing over every conceivable eventuality. I’m not 100% crazy, so in between night sweats and uncontrollable fingernail biting, I’m daydreaming of the lush English countryside and some Patat Frites with a massive dollop of mayonnaise in Amsterdam.
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But, yeah, the majority of my headspace right now is straight up looney tunes. Here, have a little look-see:
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What if I made a mistake and I can’t really afford this like at all?
Is five weeks an insane time to be away?
What if the plane crashes?
What if my baggage is lost forever and I forget emergency underwear in my carry on?
What if I forget my leg (mustache) shaver?
What if I can’t bring my leg (mustache) shaver on the plane?
Are we all, including our luggage, going to fit in the Vauxhall we’re renting?
What if the plane crashes?
What if all the clothes I’m planning on bringing look hideous on me?
What if I get diarrhea in the middle of the English countryside?
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What if our houseboat in Amsterdam sinks in the night?
What if every one of the 3,492 times I looked at my passport expiration date, I looked at it wrong and it really is expired?
What if I get really bad gas on the plane?
What if I get a migraine or cramps right before going into Anne Frank’s house and I can’t fully appreciate the life-altering experience?
What if I can’t sleep on the plane?
What if one or more of our house-stays have bed bugs?
What if we all just want to kill each other?
What if I contract Ebola on the plane?
What if someone steals my phone and I can’t take pictures of the rest of the trip?
What if…
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If you really want to enjoy your trip planning just like me, worry about every single inconsequential detail to the point of madness. Here’s how:
Step 1: Second Guess Every Choice
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From plane ticket buyer’s remorse to vacation locale, second guessing every single choice you’ve made while planning your trip is a sure fire way to drive yourself to spend all of your saved trip money on drink. It’s not a successful vacation unless every single detail of it has been picked apart and turned inside out. It doesn’t say I’m-having-the-time-of-my-life-planning-my-dream-vacation like obsessively wondering how much you could have saved on your plane tickets had you booked a week later or earlier (or if you had booked on a Tuesday at 2 PM like every travel blog says to do) or compulsively checking for a better hotel after you’ve made non-refundable reservations.
Step 2: Procrastinate All Planning Tasks
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When you have a lot to plan, your time would be much better spent binging on The Office (which you’ve watched in entirety 18 different times) or cleaning your oven. It’s not like planning for a trip isn’t fun, but it’s overwhelming af to compare train tickets with Easy Jet tickets or trying to figure out air travel time and time zones. Even worse is figuring out which historic pass covers which historical site you want to see, because, naturally, they don’t cover all of the places you want to see, so to make buying the pass cost effective, you need to figure out entrance fees for all of the 874 sites you want to see (because that’s some tedious shit, you just buy all of the passes and hope for the best). This is why travel agents are still a thing.
Step 3: Worry About Every Single Hypothetical Situation
Travel anxiety almost always stems from one of three major fears (in no particular order)-
- Plane, train or some other transportation freak accident/death
- Becoming ill due to sickness or food poisoning during a really inconvenient time (like in the middle of the Brooklyn Bridge in standstill traffic, for example)
- Losing or having your luggage, your camera/phone, money and/or an important document, like your passport stolen
These sound like pretty logical things to be concerned about and prepared for. Any savvy traveler would have procedures and plans in place to help minimize any of these things occurring (Well, except planning to avoid a fiery plane death. I don’t think there’s anything you, as a layperson, can do to influence fate like that. It there is, please message me with every single detail).
If you’re losing sleep over worrying if you’ll be suddenly struck with diarrhea on a crowded underground train or in the middle of the Scottish Highlands, so you start hoarding Imodium, you’re worrying about your trip the right way.
If you come across a story about a freak accident on a plane, so you google for more plane accidents that include the same keywords and suddenly it’s 2 AM and you’re in deep in some really serious conspiracy theories you found after digging through the deepest, most clandestine corners of the dark web, you’re basically winning at being the right kind of savvy traveler.
If you’ve Googled “can houseboats easily sink while you’re sleeping and you won’t know it”, you’re a downright pro.
If the majority of the items in your carry on bag are mini bottles of Lysol spray, travel Clorox wipes, a year’s worth of Airborne, and more than one surgical face mask, you’re basically the travel worrier god.
Traveling is exciting and so, so worrisome. Don’t forget the Xanax!
4. Obsess About Every Single Travel Purchase Decision
Do you like how I moved the text up so you could see Karl’s magnificent boots?
Its a big deal picking out something you need/want to use on your travels. One of these crucial purchases you will need to make is travel sandals (well, if you’re traveling somewhere warm, anyway). If you want comfort without Velcro and style without flat soles, prepare yourself to really go unhinged.
In order to properly stress yourself out during sandal shopping:
1. Ask for recommendations from people that you won’t listen to at all, but still waste everyone’s time, because it’s all part of the process.
2. Find one “comfort” pair of sandals that look stylish enough that are insanely expensive, but rationalize that your feet deserve better than $2 Old Navy flip flops.
3. When you receive your order of $800 sandals, go into a deep depression because they are just made of cheap plastic and are not, in fact, gold-plated.
4. Return the sandals by mail, which will include finding/buying a box that will fit the shoebox (because, naturally, you threw the box it was delivered in away), forgetting the return slip that needs to be placed in the box, and taking no less than two trips to UPS.
5. Buy the cheap pair of sandals you were going to get anyway.
6. Repeat above steps with LITERALLY EVERYTHING ELSE YOU BUY FOR THE TRIP.
The above steps can and will stress out even the most calm, savvy traveler. If the preparations are getting you down and you need an escape from the stress and you’re getting nowhere with your mantra of “WHAT THE FUCK WAS I THINKING?”, try one of these handy ways to de-stress below:
1. Drink heavily.
2. Take a whole Xanax (halvesies are for wimps)
3. Inhale any available carb (cake is particularly medicinal)
4. Binge trashy reality TV (because basically any show on TLC will make things seem a lot brighter in your own world)
I hope you’re able to be all-consumed by every one of the minuscule details of your trip just like I am. It’s really the only way to “do” travel.
Bon voyage!
Trip anxiety is a real bitch, ain’t it? Obviously, this is a highly exaggerated account of my own trip worries and concerns, but I’d be lying if I said one or more of these thoughts haven’t raced through my head multiple times over the course of the last few months. If you really are anxious about your upcoming travels, talk it out with someone. Hell, message Fatty. We’ll talk it out. I’ve also found going on walks through my neighborhood, blasting music that gives me feels while I take a drive right after the sun sets, and funny dog videos helps me ease my anxiety. Travel is one of the greatest experiences in life, but only when you’re sane enough to appreciate it. Love and cupcakes.
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Planes, Trains and Automobiles: More Idiot Travel — Part 2
Trains
On the same trip I’ve referenced a million times (because it was the only overseas trip I’ve ever gone on), we took the train only a handful of times. For the majority of our trip, we had a car, but we weren’t crazy enough to drive in London, so we took the train to and from Oxford when we didn’t have our car.
The train trip to Oxford from London was so pleasant. Idyllic even. The train was barely at half capacity, and we were seated across from a friendly couple from Denmark. We had a great time chatting and it made the trip really quick and painless.
The train from Oxford to London was a whole other story.
The train station in Oxford was balls to the walls insanity. It was packed. There wasn’t one seat to sit in and if I’m remembering correctly, you had to pay to use the restrooms. It was not my favorite.
When we finally got onto the train, we saw that, just like the station, it was packed.
I had booked our seats in advance and upon seeing the Mad Max situation that was our train, I was pretty grateful for my forward thinking.
However, when we had finally clawed our way to our seats, dragging our bags with us as there was no more room in the baggage compartment, we saw that an older couple was in our seats.
They were adorable. I mean, gray hair perfectly coiffed, matching linty sweaters, and they totally had Kleenex up their sleeves for later. They were the epitome of what every loving grandparent has ever looked like since the beginning of time. Well, ever since easy wear sweaters came into fashion.
We were in a real conundrum. We had two choices: Kindly ask the couple to move or schlepp ourselves and our bags all over the train looking for two empty seats that didn’t exist.
Even worse, there were people behind us trying to get by and there was nowhere to sidle over to as we discussed our game plan. It was act or be eaten by the angry, over-it people lining up behind us.
“OMG. What do we do?” I asked with a deer-in-headlights look on my face.
“I don’t know! What do we do?” Answered Friend, looking pretty freaked himself.
“I don’t know. What should we do?” I repeated with more desperation in my voice.
From somewhere nearby came a voice that said, “If there are people in your seats, bloody well tell them to get out of them!”
We both looked at each other like, “OH GAWD”.
“OK. Go tell them. It’s your turn to do something embarrassing, ” I asserted (It was me who had to ask the cop in Blackpool for directions).
“No way. You’re closer and I don’t want to be an asshole. Look at them. They are Mr. and, the less well known, Mrs. Rogers!” He exclaimed.
“But, I was the one who had to go out of my way to reserve seats so that we would be sure to have seats. It’s your turn.” I proclaimed.
Another phantom voice rang out, “OMG. Sit or MOVE!”
“I’ll just go sit on my luggage by the door,” decided Friend.
Out of nowhere, a voice again, “You can’t do that. You’ll get caught and told to find a seat.”
The people behind us were, at this point, ready to murder us.
It looked like we really had no other viable option as we were blocking the aisle and the man to my left had had enough of having the side of his face smashed into the ten-days-not-washed ass of my jeans.
Just like always I had to be the adult in the situation.
I sheepishly cleared my throat and tapped the woman, who looked just like my grandmother, on her shoulder, prepared to be forever cursed by karma.
They ended up being really sweet, which only made things TEN MILLION TIMES WORSE.
I still, to this day, think of them and hope they found a seat or someone who wasn’t as big of a cunt as my friend and I offered their seats to them.
DON’T HATE ME. I WAS A TRAIN VIRGIN UNDER PRESSURE.
While I was majorly feeling the effects of being a terrible person, my friend seemed pretty lost in his thoughts, too.
Once we were situated, the only place left to put our bags was right next to the exit as this was as close to the baggage compartment as physically possible.
Instead of worrying about what an asshole he was for making me kick grandma and grandpa out of their seats, he was more concerned for our luggage.
“Look at our luggage. The next time the door opens, they’ll all go tumbling out. Just watch.” He ruminated.
“Mmmhmm,” I was too wrapped up in silently chastising myself.
“OK. I’m going to go stand by our luggage. I can’t take the stress anymore,” Friend said, throughly wrought with worry.
I didn’t even care about my luggage, because kicks-old-people-out-of-train-seats people don’t deserve luggage.
“I’m gonna do it,” he said again.
“You’ll get in trouble by the train police, but have at it, dude,” I said totally not caring.
For the first time in my life EVER, I was not the one who was worrying and obsessing.
It felt amazing.
I didn’t give two shits if my luggage full of dirty underwear got kicked out of the train or stolen by someone who would be very, very disappointed by my Target-special clothing.
My friend piled up our luggage, biggest to smallest and leaned on them the whole way to London. If someone walked by, he’d hug his body closer to the tower of American Tourister like he was guarding the secret to the afterlife in between his barf-stained jeans (hang tight for that post) and his questionably clean socks.
When we were nearing Paddington Station, he sidled up to me as I was peacefully resting my eyes (I’d finally accepted my dishonorable deed as a necessary evil of train travel, because the mean train people made me), and whispered in my ear, “I have an idea.”
I almost jumped clean out of my stretched-from-too-many-Magnum-bars-and-cheese-and-tomato-sandwiches skin.
“WTF is wrong with you? Only creeps whisper in people’s ears while they’re resting on trains minding their own business,” I hissed.
My comment didn’t faze him.
“I know how we can both get ourselves and our luggage off the train in one piece.”
“Kinda like how we got on?” I didn’t understand why he thought this needed a game plan. We’d trip over our luggage and our feet like we had getting on like total tourists. Duh.
“No. It’s genius. First, I’ll take my big bag-that’s the size of your small bag, by the way, and your big bag-the one I vehemently swore I’d never help you carry, because you just keep cramming new stuff into it and it already weighs more than a standard-sized car. Then, you’ll grab my small bag and your small-not really small, though, bag and we will all get off this god-forsaken train together,” he said resolutely, but with a noticeably twitching eye.
The rest of the ten or so minutes of the train ride, he kept pantomiming, with overly expressive eyes and wild arm movements, how this “genius” plan of his was going to look. He legit looked like that crazy person every train has.
Crazy person*
Someone even asked, “Who the fuck is that idiot gesturing to? Do you think he’s dangerous? Should we be worried?”
I just sat back and reveled in not being the worried, crazy one for once.
We did get ourselves and our luggage off the train, but I almost didn’t “mind the gap” and our attempt to not look too much like tourists, was wrecked by yours truly.
Looking a lot less psycho-on-a-train
Looking like someone who is happy to not be on a train with a psycho
*I’m not some asshole who posts embarrassing photos of others for my own selfish gain. I was given express permission** to share any photo and/or embarrassing story, because friend-in-story would “probably find it funny too”. That’s a pretty solid assurance if I ever heard one.
**For real, I really have permission!
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WTF Am I Even Thinking?
It’s no secret I am currently conspiring to write a book. Well, not simply conspiring. I’ve actually got *most* of it written. It’s just a messed up hodgepodge with almost no direction or central idea/theme/vision, is all.
No biggie.
Excuse me while I go throw up.
Actually, excuse me while I go procrastinate by doing literally anything other than write for my book.
*sits on edge of bed, staring off into nothing for the better part of an hour*
I’m struggling to find a central theme for my ramblings.
Not only that, I’m struggling to write solely for the purpose of someday maybe publishing my words.
I love me the instant gratification that is blogging.
Don’t even lie and say you totally weren’t shaking your head in agreement. You were. I saw you.
I write a post and, almost instantly, I’m met with feedback that feeds my soul (and that ever-present need to be validated).
It’s a really great rewards system.
“Writing” a book is the direct opposite of this.
I *have* to write and then afterwards no one rings a bell or gives me a high five or anything. It’s really disheartening.
So, I’m struggling, ya’ll.
Further, I don’t know what posts to save for my book and which to go ahead and publish on my blog.
So, not only do I have no direction whatsoever in terms of my “book”, I have no blooming idea what I should blog about.
A good example of this conundrum would be an idea I have for a travel series in honor of my upcoming trip to Amsterdam, the U.K. and Ireland.
Many moons ago, I went to the U.K. and Ireland for the first time, and it was, single-handedly, the most amazing thing to ever happen to me. Not only was it epic to experience being in another country, having the time of my life, but also, so.many random and hilarious things happened while there.
Now that I’ve gotten serious (and by gotten serious, I mean I’ve saved some Word documents with some possible already-written blog posts) about actually maybe putting a book together, I don’t know if I should include my travel stories in my book or on my blog.
And then, there’s the crippling self-doubt.
There’s always that.
I don’t want to rush-procrastinate and ruin my only future memoir. It’s not like I have a whole other secret double life that I can write about if I totally bomb telling the first life.
Would anyone notice if I tried to write it again?
Really, WTF am I even thinking?
This is the epitome of first world problems in case anyone needed a good psychotic example for a college paper or whatever.
I’ve been anxiously awaiting the perfect time to use my favorite Andy from Parks & Rec meme. I think it fits. Every time I sit down to write, it’s like wiping a poop marker- “Still poop, still poop”.
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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.
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
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My Hairy Life
Happy I’m-Not-Shaving-For-At-Least-Four-Whole-Months Season!
In honor of this very special occasion, I wanted to #FlashbackFriday my post about my trials with wanted and unwanted hair.
I’m taking you back to when I thought one good perm was all I needed to be as cool as Cher Horowitz. As with all of my genius ideas, it didn’t exactly work out. Perms, “I’d Like to Speak to the Manager Hair”, and awkward eyebrows, oh my!
A woman’s hair is very much a part of who she is, it’s practically a part of the soul. You identify with your hair, it identifies you. I’m confident that every single woman on this planet has had the obligatory “life altering bad haircut”. We’ve all also had that “hair epiphany” when we were finally introduced to the flat iron, or when we realized that shaving side burns off don’t make them go away.
My hair life has always been a total shit show. When you have always had thick-as-Redwood-tree hair, that’s also stick straight and a smorgasbord of unwanted body hair, traumatic hair events are as much a part of life as doctor check ups and seeing the dentist.
Growing up, bath time was always a time of great strife. When time came to tackle my mess of damp tangles, all hell broke loose. When my hair wasn’t being snagged into a comb by a beyond-over-it-mother, it was long, shiny, and beautiful. My 3 year-old self knew I had to be descended from Snow White or Princess Jasmine. It was princess hair.
After one too many crying fits after bath time, my mom finally did what she promised she’d do. I never thought she was serious. Never in a million years did I think she was serious.
I’m so pissed, I won’t even look at the camera. I looked like Toad from Mario Bros. I looked like a fucking mushroom top.
What my dad and I thought of my new Dorothy Hamill hair.
I have a lot of faith in my mom’s hairdressing skills. Can you tell?
After cutting my hair, my mom realized there was absolutely nothing she could do with thick, straight, fine, short hair. She got the wise idea to perm my hair. I don’t have an ‘after’ photo because I didn’t have a perm after enduring 3 hours of noxious perm fumes. Nope. Even nuclear waste perm chemicals wouldn’t touch my stubborn horse hair.
After the perm incident, we just gave up on trying. I pretty much looked like a boy with a bad haircut for most of my formative years.
Helmet head doesn’t even do it justice.
Because it wasn’t already bad enough, my mom thought cutting off even more would do the trick. If the trick was to scar my self-image for life, well done, ma!
My brother and I liked to play this game called, “Little Lady and Minature Man”, because I knew I already looked like a middle-aged mom with too many kids. I could totally have been Kate Gosselin’s, pre-cosmetic surgery twin!
As I got older, I felt like I was never quite with the times. I’d show up with giant Aqua Net bangs, to find the look was to plaster your bangs to your head. I’d finally learn how to work my curling iron, and everyone started ironing their hair.
The Perm Incident happened the summer before my eighth grade year. I was ready for a big change. My mom had just started letting me wear blue mascara, I got a second hole pierced in my ear, and I got to get my nails done at the beauty school (they looked like 4th Street hooker nails. That was the first and last time I got to have tips. My mom was appalled).
But…nails and mascara were for 7th graders. I wanted a perm. I had salivated for months over the crunchy waves I was seeing everywhere. My best friend and I convinced our moms and before we knew it, we were on our way to Trendsetters.
One of the stipulations of our perms was that we had to get them done by my best friend’s mom’s hairdresser, because she “knew what she was doing”. She was also in her 60’s and had a preference for the Curly Sue look.
When she went for my bangs, I thought it was odd, but I was 12. I was basically clueless. As she freed my friend’s blond locks from the curlers, they were tight spirals. My heart stopped. I secretly prayed she had only messed up her hair, not mine too. As her hair air-dried while my hair was finishing, she looked more Pollyanna than Delia’s model.
After the 99th curler was finally removed and my hair had time to air dry a bit, I was turned around in the chair, to face the mirror. In that one second, I knew my chance at ever being remotely cool and stylish was over. Glancing at my poodle friend, I could see she had the same dreadful realization. Our genius idea to get a perm from a woman who specialized in blue hair and tight finger curls, sealed our middle school fate. I looked like a mix between Bob Ross and my cocker spaniel mutt, Buttons. It was not the look I was going for. It was terrible.
This was even after several months of solid taming. On a side note-I’m ashamed to see I was the kind of person who wore Looney Tunes attire. I must have repressed that memory.
I mean, my cousin, Colton’s face says it all, “Woof!” We were barkers.
It took an entire year for my hair to not look God-awful. Just as my hair started to tame itself, my eyebrows grew in. EYEBROWS NOT ON FLEEK.
And because my life wasn’t embarrassing enough, it was, apparently, an entire family affair when I first shaved my legs. Why? Please tell me I wasn’t shaving with foaming bathroom cleaner.
Any woman can tell a story through the experiences she’s had with their hair. Most of those stories will be harrowing, terrifying, and life-altering. It’s not just hair, it’s who we are.
This is why I have every hair product known to man in my bathroom. The quest continues. FYI I’ve given up on the perm. I can confidently, assuredly say, I’ll never attempt to perm my hair again.
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My Brother's "13th Birthday"
When we turn 13 in our family, tradition dictates that you get to have a big birthday celebration- one you won’t ever forget. This momentous occasion may or may not include naked hippies.
The year my brother turned 13, my mom planned a trip to the bay. San Francisco is only 3.5 hours away from us, and we grew up visiting the eclectic Crazy Street People City quite a lot.
You must know that my mom is quite thrifty. Before Expedia or Trivago were even a wild idea, my mom obsessively scoured the discount travel brochures and books. Part of what made all of our travel adventures so memorable is due largely in part to my mom’s awesome motel finds in her travel books (I’m saving her best find for the last post in this series).
My mom swore she found the hidden gem of all hidden gems in the heart of the city.
So, Mom, Dad, Brother, Grandma, and I packed into the car and schlepped over the hill.
The motel was a gem, alright. It was not only located in the center of the city, but it was smack dab in the middle of the worst neighborhood, on the worst street and it was the worst motel on said street.
Because we are budget travelers through and through, we all slept in the same room-Grams and me in one bed, Dad and Brother in the other. My mom ordered a cot from the front desk, and slept with it right up against the door, because she was concerned the homeless man peeing right outside our room might try to come in to use an actual toilet.
Throughout the night, we were serenaded with the sounds of men moaning, shrill female laughter, and the sound of a cat dying… or mating. And, it all sounded like it was right outside our window.
It was sketchy with a capital how-did-we-not-get-bed-bugs.
In the morning, on our way to see Alcatraz, there was a woman going absolutely bat-shit-crazy on top of a guy’s car. Like, she was on all fours on the hood, screaming and pounding her fists into his windowshield. The poor guy looked like he had no idea what to do as he was just sitting in the driver’s seat with his mouth agape.
I would have just turned on my windshield wipers to try to wipe her off.
Ain’t nobody got time for that.
That same trip, we almost met our demise at the rest stop on top of the summit.
The entire weekend was stormy and rainy. As we headed back home, the rain was immense. We felt like Noah’s ark as we parted the waters on the highway home.
As we crested the summit over Donner Pass, it began to snow. Tradition dictates that we always stop at the rest stop on the top of the mountain.
Forget that it was dark, snowing, and the rest stop was seemingly empty, no, we had to stop-it was TRADITION (someone probably really had to go: MOM).
The vibe at the rest stop was bad. In hindsight, we should have just driven the hour more until home.
My mom walked my brother and me into the main area, out of the snow. From there, we went our separate ways to the restrooms.
As my mom was waiting, she noticed two shady-looking men in the shadows. What normal, pure of heart and mind kind of person just lurks around an empty, freezing rest stop in the middle of nowhere, late at night?
She said later that a ferocious chill went down her spine. Something just wasn’t right.
At this point, another vehicle pulls up, and my dad gets out of the car to retrieve something from the trunk.
As the lights from the car pulling up shine into the rest stop doorway, my mom glances over at the two men. From across the room, they give each other a “Not-this-one” look and they subtly shake their heads.
They then disappear.
She’s still convinced to this day that those two men were waiting around to do something bad. She thinks that they noticed that there were two other people in our car and then, when the other car pulled up, they figured whatever they had planned would not work on us.
We all majorly had the creepies the whole way home. The entire car was silent as we counted our blessings/reevaluated our direction in life/cursed whoever’s idea it was to stop at the rest stop (MOM’s).
That, kids, is why you don’t go into rest stops-especially at night! Shady people try to do shady things at rest stops. Always find yourself a Starbucks restroom. Or a tree. Anything is better than an “empty” rest stop in the dark of night.
When we finally arrived home, exhausted, but grateful to all be in one piece, my brother says, “Next year, on my 13th birthday, can we just stay at home and do our usual thing?”
MY MOM FORGOT HOW OLD HER ONLY SON WAS.
My mom felt pretty ridiculous having to admit that she miscalculated and thought he was turning 13, and thus, why he got such a big, super special Birthday.
I think the next year for his birthday we did just what he wanted, and we were all pretty grateful.
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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.
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Flashback Friday: Whip My Ass Ass
Just today, I thought I’d finally join in on my student’s Just Dance brain break video. They always ask if I’ll dance with them, but I just say, “Oh, I don’t want to scare you.” That seems to make them stop asking, so I can continue to sit like a fat lump, wondering where my childhood energy and zest for sudden movements went to. I don’t know what came over me today, but I wanted to Kung Foo Fight like funky Billy Chin for some reason.
Well…
It was a terrible idea. When I started “swinging with the hand”, I knocked over a stand, my coffee, and stumbled into the map on the wall, which made it roll up with a deafening, thunderous roar.
All of my students stopped dead in their ninja tracks.
Their eyes said it all: My teacher is so not cool.
This is why trying to find my non-existent moves is best when behind closed doors.
I’m just so glad I didn’t let anyone talk me into joining the teacher talent show group.
*shudders*
Behold, my last attempt at Just Dance:
So, my boyfriend has been going to personal training kickboxing three times a week (he’ll probably look like a white, mustachioed Oscar de la Hoya in a month-f*%#ing men), and while he’s gone, I hork out on junk and watch Netflix.
It occurred to me that it’s not really in my best interest to get even fatter while my boyfriend beefs up. It’s one thing if you’re polishing off a package of Oreos, together, in stained, oversized t-shirts, in front of American Horror Story, and a whole other nasty animal to glutton alone, while the other is being punched in the stomach by an MMA fighter. It’s kinda not fair.
So, I thought- what better time to drag out my dusty yoga mat and bust out a couple sloth-like moves.
Side note- anyone remember the reason I started this blog-the yoga journey I kicked off like a bat out of hell? Or, more like a fat girl with no real idea that it would require an immense amount of effort I wasn’t ready to give? Yeah…that’s not embarrassing or anything.
So, my yoga mat wasn’t just dusty from little use, it literally was crusty-hard from old sweat from my last yoga session, 45 years ago. It actually almost cracked in two.
Well, I promptly threw it back into the closet and about gave up, until I remembered that I’ve always meant to be a breakout dance star, a la Flashdance (or more realistically, MTV’s Made). So, what better idea than to Whip/Nae Nae my way to fitness?
I don’t really have anything to say about my solo dance party, other than if you’re going to sweat it out to Just Dance, and you have as much rhythm as a flag pole, close your blinds, your curtains, and turn your lights off. Ain’t no one ready to see what you think is “dancing”.
My Whip Nae/Nae looked more like “Quick/Call 911/I Have Whip Lash.
FYI: flexibility is a prerequisite to whipping your whatever.
I fear I’ll never be able to turn my head, freely, to the right again.
This is why eating the rest of my Mom’s cream cheese pumpkin bars was a better idea.
It’s like I never learn.
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