In honor of my big how-am-I-already-thirty-five-and-still-fat-and-poor-day, I’d love it if you’d share one of your latest/favorite/needing love posts.
My cousin knows how to celebrate a birthday!
I’ve never done this before, but I love the “giving back” idea of it.
In fact, I hope that you get the love your post deserves and you gain some new followers, even.
I don’t have thousands of followers, but I do have quite a few amazing people you may not know about yet!
I have been given so much by my readers in the form of support, love, and even amazing care packages.
Now, today is all about you beautiful people.
Besides, I need to be distracted by the fact that I’m probably not getting 10 million dollars as one of my gifts this year.
Have a cupcake (or ten) in my honor!
Category: Uncategorized
Wintertime Fun
Since temperatures are in the FREAKING 50s and 60s over here, I’ll just have to reminisce about the time I got my ass handed to me by a baby snow hill. Happy Flashback Friday to all you people having a real winter. I hope you stay safe and warm, though, because as much as I’d like anything that resembles winter up in here, I think I’ll pass on the -20 degree weather!
While driving home after lunch with a couple work friends, I saw some kids attempting to make a tiny mound a sledding hill. They appeared to be having loads of fun. It’s funny how, when you’re a kid, anything that makes even the tiniest bit of a slope, instantly becomes fun. Like, regular, level ground is dumb, but if you can roll in a downward direction, even for just a second, it’s the.best.thing.ever.
Hell, even just yourself and a substantial hill makes for a good time. You know what I mean, and if you don’t, I’m sorry, your childhood must have sucked.
This quick, drive-by snapshot reminded me of a time I thought sledding was a good time. It also recalled a time I must have had shit for brains because there was zero thought involved in any decision made that night.
Let me share with you why, today, I won’t go sledding. I won’t go, even for a cupcake. I won’t. Just no.
One winter, years ago, when I lived in little ol’ Elko, Nevada, it snowed absolute buckets. I have a post planned about my city girl adjustment to a little cow town, where it snowed for longer than 5 minutes, and it was so cold your snot froze in your nose the second you stepped outside. This little city slicker wasn’t prepared for country living, that’s for sure. But, that’s for another time.
Well, there was this hill. It was the renowned sledding hill. It also wasn’t for amateurs, pregnant women, or children under 5. This hill meant bizzness.
Now, before I go on, I have to explain that I’m the biggest, most unadventurous wimp you ever did meet. Roller coasters make me nauseous. I almost crapped my pants (like seriously) the first (and last) time I rode on the back of a dirt bike. I cling to my oversized flotation device, praying I don’t die in speed boats. I white knuckle it when I have to cross major intersections on my bike. I’m a dweeb when it comes to adventure sports, in that 10 times out of 10, I’ll wholeheartedly pass.
My time in Elko must have been spent certifiably insanely bored, because not only did I go sledding, it was my brilliant idea.
My boyfriend at the time, a friend, and I decided to go at night, so that the hill wouldn’t be crammed with snot-nosed middle-schoolers. We also decided at night no one would see the overweight idiots on too-small sleds.
Because everything I do must be a production, I had to wear my cutest knock-off Uggs, furiest ironically-ugly-hat, most stylish gloves, and my skull leggings. I was still too young and stupid to realize that snow was cold, and that fashion doesn’t matter when it’s -2 degrees.
While, this is a very cute outfit (and likely almost the exact one I wore), it is not what you wear sledding in Arctic conditions.
I had precisely one good trip down the hill, the first attempt. It was stupid fun. After that, it all went downhill, literally.
Because I chose to wear my “cute Uggs”, and not the sensible boots my boyfriend’s mom offered me, I had zero traction getting up the hill. If you don’t know, Uggs and many others like them, have very little tread, as in none. So, I looked like a hefty hamster in a wheel. I was definitely moving, but going absolutely nowhere.
It was pissing me off. My boyfriend and friend had gone up and down the hill numerous times, laughing like fools at all their fun, and there I was clinging to an exposed branch, halfway up the hill, praying I wouldn’t face plant again.
I had had it.
The next time my friend came by me, trailing her sled behind her, I made her privvy to my plan to get myself up the hill. She was hesitant at first, but agreed after feeling a sudden pity for the girl who was still not back up the hill 20 minutes later. Besides, if it all went crashing and burning, it wouldn’t be her hurting.
So, I steadied one foot, then knee into her sled, while praying the other foot wouldn’t go rogue.
See, my plan was to have my poor, weak, 5-foot-tall, diabetic friend pull.me.up.the.hill. Herself.
My boyfriend must have been off fucking some sagebrush, because why he wasn’t my first choice, I’ll never know.
Obviously, the second I got my other leg into the sled, and allowed all of my weight to settle firmly into the plastic vehicle of death, she let go. How in fucks sake I ever thought she could hold my obese self in a sled with a measly rope, makes me question my intelligence.
So, there I went.
Careening, hurtling, literally flying down the hill. Backwards.
Now, what I haven’t mentioned yet, because I haven’t even gotten to the part where I got to even fucking sled, is that the snow was so packed down due the traffic on the hill that it was hard as a rock. Due to the frigid temps, it was also pure ice. For future reference, there’s a very real, credible reason most people don’t sled at night.
Back to my terrifying trip to my eventual death.
I was screaming down an ice hill. BACKWARDS.
As if that wasn’t enough, I was heading straight for the jump. Yes, a jump. On my best, most adventurous, wearing-all-the-padding-and-protective-equipment-in-broad daylight-day, I would not have even let going off that jump ever, ever cross my mind. And there I was, going probably 200 MPH, backwards, speedily advancing on that death trap.
I think, in my near shock-induced stupor, I faintly recall hearing my boyfriend and friend yelling, “Fall off! Fall off, ya dummy!”
Well, there was no time to do that, as I caught impressive air when I hit that sweet spot. It was all ass-in-the-air-red-butt-crack-flapping-in-the-wind-snot-flying-fuzzy-hat-peace-ing-out ridiculousness.
Obviously, I survived my harrowing trip over the jump. Barely. On the other end? Soft snow? A soft, dying patch of grass? A gymnast’s pad left by a concerned parent? No. Shit no. Dirt. Frozen ground. I hit like an obese blow up doll filled with marbles.
Friend and boyfriend came running, concern mixed with laughing. Assholes.
Why didn’t you roll off?
I had exactly 2 seconds to realize what was happening, excuse me if I’m not Tom Cruise in Mission Impossible.
Aside from scrapes, a few bruised ribs, and an even more damaged ego, I emerged fairly uharmed.
I’m actually pretty impressed with the air I caught. Tony Hawk would be jealous. I guess there are some positives to being fat-greater momentum!
Weeeeeeeeeee
source
Fatty McCupcakes has been nominated in the Funniest Blogger category for the Annual Bloggers Bash Awards. If this gave you a chuckle, I’d really appreciate the vote! You can vote HERE! Love and cupcakes!
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Poop Happens
What is the most embarrassing thing that’s ever happened to you?
Maybe it was that time you didn’t notice your skirt was caught in your underwear after using the restroom, so everyone in the office saw that you were wearing your faded, hole-y Tuesday underwear on a Wednesday.
Maybe it was when you thought your crush was waving to you from across the hall at school, so you thought you’d be daring and give a seductive, yet girly pouty wave, but he was waving to Marci. The bitch.
Maybe it’s a series of moments, like every time the box office assistant says, “Enjoy your movie!” and you respond with, “You too.”
My most embarrassing moment, up until a few days ago, was the time I got my lady business in 6th grade and didn’t know what to do. I had to wear my huge puffy jacket around my middle all while playing it off like I meant to wear a hot pink polar bear around my waist, as I moved around the classroom accidentally brushing people’s papers and pencils off their desks.
A few days ago, I went to the chiropractor for the first time. A local chiropractor was offering a $20 spine assessment, so I thought, “Why the hell not?”
Surprisingly, my most Embarrassing Moment of 2017 did not occur in the chiropractor’s office (which is a real shocker, because I was sure I’d choose the exact moment he was pulling on my feet to really embarrass myself. I was sure that’d happen to me).
No. The moment that will be forever etched on my mind and played in a loop in my subconscious, occurred precisely five minutes after leaving the chiropractor’s office.
I don’t know if the manipulation he did on my lower back set something in motion, or loosened things up too much, or what, but as I was driving down a quiet, gas station-lacking street, it hit me.
I’m sure you all know the feeling.
You know.
The feeling when your bowels suddenly have a seizure or a rave or whatever, and the need to get to a bathroom is sweaty and urgent.
I’ve had this happen to me before while driving.
I’ve always been able to simultaneously find my inner zen while driving like an Indy 500 driver on crack.
I’ve always made it home to the comfort and judgement-free environment of my own bathroom.
This time was different.
I don’t know if it’s age. Or karma. Or just luck. But I was left frantically scanning the street for a private-looking tree.
It was that bad.
Can I really resort to pooping behind a tree in a neighborhood? What if someone sees me and calls the police? Is there such a thing as a public defecation law? What if I get arrested? WHAT IF I GET ARRESTED FOR POOPING BEHIND A TREE IN A NICE NEIGHBORHOOD?
Then, I wondered how bad it’d be if I didn’t make it to an actual bathroom and it happened in my car.
Jeezus.
Bad. Real bad.
I’d have to throw the whole car away.
As my sweaty hands were sliding off my steering wheel, and my hair was matting to my head, and my bowels were imitating a whale’s mating call, I came upon a luxury apartment complex.
I’d been there once before when looking for an apartment with a friend. They were laughably beyond our price range.
They’d have to do.
I veered off the road and into a “future tenant” parking spot on two tires. I don’t think I even put my car in park.
Shit.was.dire.
It was far past regular business hours, so I figured I’d just have to find a big rock or a large bush. Or, maybe I’d just black out.
Somehow, beyond all understanding, the door to the lobby was open.
In my peripheral, I saw a woman in an office to the right. She was talking on the phone.
I didn’t say a thing. I didn’t look. I just prayed that if I didn’t see her, she wouldn’t see me.
As I was practically flying across the room, I had a very profound realization that it was entirely likely that, despite how close I was to salvation, I was probably going to poop my pants.
I was going to poop my pants.
I tried not to think about how I looked literally holding my bottom (like that’d make any difference) as I was racing across the lobby of a ritzy luxury apartment complex.
Somehow, my survival instincts (or just good memory) helped direct me to where I needed to go.
Glory be to God, I made it to the restroom.
I.didn’t.even.use.a.seat.cover.
It was that close.
Guys, since we’ve come this far, and I’ve been so candid up till now, I might as well tell you that I was 100% sure that I had crapped my pants. Literally sure of it.
Well, all of those times I took my cart back to the cart corral, all of the recycling I’ve done, and all of the times I didn’t yell at incompetent drivers really racked up my karma.
My pants were safe.
Just as the realization and relief that I was still someone who could honestly say they’d never pooped in their pants sunk in, the reality of my situation smacked me right in the face.
What’s that sound? Oh.my.god. It sounds like an alarm. The woman in the office thinks I’m a crazy street person and she’s set off the alarm. The police are going to come.
I was shaking and sweating buckets as I sat on the toilet, terrified, waiting for security to bust in.
They’ll be sickened. Disgusted. Maybe they’ll just feel sorry for me and leave me to my shame?
As I sat and waited for my fate, I realized nobody was coming, at least not immediately. I heard no voices. No doors opening. Nothing.
So, maybe that’s not the alarm? Maybe I’ve lucked out? But, how am I going to explain myself when I need to make my eventual walk of shame?
I needed a good excuse for why I practically busted down their door and then ran, pinched cheeks, for the bathroom.
I’ll act like I’m interested in an apartment. Yeah. That’s it.
I figured it was the only viable excuse. I imagined myself leaning against the doorway, hair still matted to my forehead, as I said, mid-burp, “Uh. Yeah. I was wondering if you had any one bedrooms available?”
Totally buyable.
I realized that whoever was in the office was likely waiting for me, so I begrudgingly readied myself to be seen.
After I scrubbed up like a surgeon (it was the only way I’d feel half clean), I apprehensively cracked the door and peered out.
No angry office woman in a Liz Claiborne pant suit. No Super Burrito security guard. No one.
In fact, the lobby area looked rather dark, and it was at this point I realized the door to the bathroom was through another set of doors that led into said lobby. In my frenzied poop panic, I must not have noticed that I opened an additional door before entering the bathroom.
I bet she’s gone. Thank you, Baby Jesus. I’ll never think a bad thing about the bums who pee in our alley ever again. I promise.
I was in pretty high hopes as I made to open the door that would release me out of my poop nightmare.
It was locked.
THE DOOR WAS FUCKING LOCKED.
That woman locked me in.
Either she never saw a half-crazed woman fly by doing the poop dance or she did and she purposely locked the door.
You have to be freaking kidding me. I’m locked in here. OMG. I’m going to panic. I’m not even a resident and I’m locked in their lobby bathroom.
HALP!
As it turns out, there was a door further down the hall that lead me outside. I was sure an alarm would go off when I opened the door, but so far, I haven’t made it on the news.
(I keep thinking I’ll be scrolling through Facebook and I’ll see a local news story titled “Police Still Looking For Woman Who Broke Into Luxury Apartment Complex To Completely Defile Custom Bathroom”.)
As for the “alarm” I heard? It was the air freshener alerting anyone who cared to the fact it was out of freshness. I lost several minutes of my life believing cops would be coming for me, when actually the Odor Blaster 1000 was out of Hawaiian Breeze.
To completely exit the complex, I had to wait for a car to come in through the gated entrance, and then I ran like the wind to my car and burned rubber out of there.
When I got home and had to confess to my boyfriend that why I didn’t have the buns I was supposed to pick up for our chili cheese dogs was because I got momentarily locked in a random apartment lobby bathroom, he asked if he should add Depends (to keep in my car) to the grocery list.
I’m highly considering it.
I thought I’d start the new year out with a bang, ya’ll.
I really needed to know why I almost pooped my pants. I’m kind of scared that spontaneous poop attacks will be my life now. I’m also planning a trip to the Bay Area, so I’m engaging in my usual OCD research.
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We're Not Allowed There Anymore
Over the Thanksgiving holiday, my Uncle Gary and Aunt Renee came to visit. This is the same Uncle Gary of WTF Family Photos, Pure Gold, and The Cabin fame.
If you don’t know already, he’s our family’s John Candy.
Even though time and that slippery son-of-a-bitch-health hasn’t always been too kind to him, he’s still the funny, snarky, wisecracker he’s always been.
He may still love to crack a joke, but he isn’t into shopping as much anymore.
Back in the day, he’d be right there with my mom, grandma, and aunt, digging through marked down Christmas bows and wrapping paper in the after-Christmas-sales. He’s the only man I’ve yet to know who truly enjoys shopping and finding good deals on a car-load of Christmas wrapping essentials.
On Black Friday, Aunt Renee wanted to hit up Junkee, which is a very popular thrift and antiques shop in Reno. It used to be the only place I’d *have* to shop at when I lived in Elko and came to Reno (Well, and Target. Lord Almighty, how’d I almost forget Target?)
However, after Junkee bought out all of the ugly Christmas sweaters from every local thrift store and marked them up an ungodly amount a few years ago, I stopped giving them as much business.
They completely took the fun out of looking for and finding some positively horrendous mauve and cream colored poinsettia Christmas sweater at a thrift store for $1.
Here, check out the Yelp review I wrote about my disdain:
So, I usually avoid the place, because I know it’ll just be a bunch of overpriced crap someone found on a dusty rack in another thrift store, but since Junkee is cool with the hipsters, that late 90s era coffeemaker is now worth $25.
ANYWAY.
I decided to push aside my bitter disdain, so I could join the Always A Party, But Also Kind of a Shit Show party train.
Uncle Gary’s socks. We aren’t afraid to admit it.
Also, the independent artists who sell their handmade wares are always worth a look-see.
Because, as I mentioned earlier, Uncle Gary is not much for shopping these days (which is good, because we might have been there three additional hours had he also been one of the look-at-positively-everything-and-then-talk-about-each-item-for-twenty-minutes shoppers), he planted himself in the seating at the front of the store.
After quite some time, as in hours, most of our group was done.
At the front of the store, there was an elaborate Christmas backdrop for pictures. On hand were ugly Christmas sweaters, funny hats, and wigs.
Surprisingly, Aunt Dana (and not yours truly) begged us all to take a picture.
My mom flat-out refused at first, saying she doesn’t like to pose and doesn’t know how to make silly faces (I have an entire album on my phone that completely proves her wrong on both fronts).
My uncle, bored to tears waiting for the shopping to be over, eagerly agreed for something to do.
I’m always game for anything Insta-worthy, so that just left Aunt Renee.
Aunt Renee was still standing in line with her 38 treasures she couldn’t pass up.
As she was paying, a store clerk helped us get into all of the outlandish gear. My mother was helped into a flamboyant green and red monstrosity. I was given a vest that I swear I saw hanging in my mother’s closet not too long ago. Aunt Dana was given a super sweet pair of hipster glasses. And, Uncle Gary got an Afro wig.
The sight of my aged uncle with his salt and pepper beard, Sasquatch Sighting shirt, and an Afro wig was just too much.
As I was peeing my pants in absolute donkey-impression-worthy laughter, my aunt informed the clerk that one member from our group was still paying. She explained that she was the one in the pink sweater.
When I finally came to, some random woman in a pink sweater was being forced-with-a-smile into a glittery reindeer number. The look on her face was pure confusion and unadulterated fear. She cooperated with the clerk, who was insisting she’d look, “Awesome!”, despite the fact that she was eyeing us like we had rabies.
When we started to get situated, Aunt Dana realized a stranger was being forced against her will into our impromptu family Christmas photo straight from Honey Boo Boo’s family picture album and said,
“Oh! Not her! We don’t know her. The other woman in the pink sweater!”
The woman, released from the Crazy Train, tore off like a bat out of hell.
When Aunt Renee was finally located and locked down with an ugly sweater, the photographing of our craziness commenced.
This was the outcome:
I made the same face in all 82 pictures.
With all of the ruckus we caused and the general shenanigans we created, I wouldn’t be surprised if they printed one of our pictures and they have it up in a staff room with the description: Just Say No.
Merry Christmastime from the Clampetts, ya’ll !
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Haircuts From Hell
If you’ve been reading my crazy ramblings for some time now, you know that it’s no secret that my family and I have had almost zero luck in the attractive hair department. In case you haven’t caught the posts I’ve done on hair fails, I’ll link to those AND provide photographic evidence later on.
What almost no one knows, however, is that total epic hair fails also extended to my dad and to a major motion picture. As in, The Godfather II. Intrigued? Maybe even more appalled?
Well, come along. I’m warning you, though. It’s gonna get hairy.
Back when my brother was nine or ten, my dad decided that he’d cut his son’s hair instead of drive two miles to have a professional do it. I’m sure he figured it would be easy. I mean, the professionals make it look pretty damn effortless, don’t they?
I was not present during the actual cutting of the hair and the two who were, do not speak of it to this day. If prodded, my dad merely says, “I cut his hair. What can I say?”
I recall that when I arrived home, I thought someone had died, because it appeared that my mom, dad, and grandma were in mourning.
All three were sitting in their places at the kitchen table with their heads down. I was actually quite concerned, because I didn’t think I was emotionally prepared for them all three to be crying.
“Uhh…” is all I said.
My mom “shushed” me and went back to their weird mourning/devil worshipping/group napping.
It was then that I noticed their shoulders moving up and down. If they weren’t crying, they had to be laughing.
“Mom…” I implored.
“Just. Don’t.” She was able to get out.
Upon further observation, they were crying, but because they were laughing. Silently. They were sitting around the kitchen table, red-faced, silent cry-laughing.
I just figured they must have started Wine o’ Clock early, so I moved on from their weirdness into the living room.
That’s where I saw it.
He was laying on the floor, watching TV. Even from behind, I could see the dejection in his shoulders and in the way he propped his head up with his hands.
The form appeared to belong to my brother. But, it was…not right.
He looked like some creature from Goosebumps. He looked like he was infectious. He looked shocking.
His head was part red, naked scalp and a smattering of one-inch tufts of hair.
There was no order to the madness. The random clumps of hair looked as if they were just glued, helter skelter, onto his angry, raw skin. Yet, in some places, instead of bare skin, there appeared to be what was likely the desired outcome- a short buzz cut.
It was simultaneously grotesque and comical.
All of the above I took in in a split second and I responded accordingly.
I responded with my trademark, “WHOA!”
(In my, I Was An Asshole post I explain a little more about my natural “whoa” reaction to all things fucked, funny, and far-fetched.)
I’m obnoxious like that.
Well, my “whoa” set off the fools in the kitchen. They couldn’t contain themselves anymore and they each lost their collective shit.
I swear, to this day, that amidst the snorting and crying and laughing, my brother’s head made a complete 180, he stared at us with exorcist eyes, and he yelled, “LEAVE ME ALONE!”
I swear.
Don’t fret, though. My mom took him to a Supercuts the second she was able to contain herself, and my dad was forever disallowed to even look at the clippers.
My mom did admit that the entire ride to Supercuts, she tried really damn hard to do the Good Mom thing by reassuring him. But, “It’s OK. It’ll be alright. It doesn’t look that bad.” is not one bit convincing between snorts and ugly cry-laughing.
This could totally be us reenacting the Clipper Incident of 1997.
Our second Haircuts From Hell story involves a different set of electric clippers, another beauty school reject, and The Godfather II.
Back when my mom was in college, she was friends with a guy who played the violin professionally. He actually started the Reno Chamber Orchestra. So, he was legit.
Not only was (is) he super musically talented, he was apparently a real hoot to hang around. Some of my favorite stories my mom tells of her college days include this guy.
A kinda related aside:
I arranged for him to come to my mom’s surprise retirement party that I planned a few years ago. They hadn’t seen each other for close to a decade. So, the look on my mom’s face when she saw him was absolutely priceless. Well, now that I’m thinking, I wonder if she was simultaneously elated to see him and worried he was there to finally seek vengeance with a rusty hair clipper.
So, the story goes…
Close to midnight one night, my mom heard frantic knocking at her door.
Brave, or delirious from sleep, she opened the door to find her buddy, all in a tizzy.
He was scheduled to play with the Reno Musicians’ Union Local 368 for The Godfather II the very next day.
He needed a haircut to look professional for this incredible opportunity.
(My mom still chides him for waiting until all the salons and barbers were closed to get such an important haircut done.)
The only problem was- my mom was most definitely not Rhonda from Tousled Tresses.
Here’s some proof to back up that my mom is not exactly the first person you’d ask for a late night, last minute hair job (too bad these horrendous hairdos happened after the Clipper Catastrophe of 1973 and were of no help to her pal):
Now, mind you, my mom can’t be held totally responsible for all of these, but she approved these looks, so there you go.
Because it was a big deal to have a part in a major motion picture, she acquiesced and went to town with electric clippers.
My mom recalled how often she saw her mother clip her brothers’ hair. She said it looked incredibly effortless and easy.
“Your grandma just went ‘Buzzzz’ with the clippers and–‘Voila!’–they had snazzy new ‘dos!”
What my mom didn’t realize was that, unless you want next to no hair left, one uses a guard on the clipper head.
After just one swipe it was clear that she had made a huge mistake.
“Shit.”
Without the guard, she sheared a landing strip clear down to his scalp.
I’m sure there was a lot of yelling and freaking out, but in the end they just left it, because my mom had done enough.
When the movie finally came out, my mom, excited to hear her friend play in such a big time movie, almost choked on her popcorn and Charleston Chews.
There, very clearly in the Tahoe party scene, was the back of her friend’s head. His awkward strip of scalp practically glowed.
In the words of my mother’s very good-natured friend, when I sent him the screenshot of his head, “My bad haircut can live on in posterity!”
At least he’s a good sport.
Here’s the scene in the movie where Haircutz By Judy has a starring role:
Here’s the screenshot:
Before I go, I have to share one more haircut fail. It’s actually more of a hairstyle fail.
The night my family and I were laughing about the above stories, we were also looking through family albums. My aunt came upon this picture:
She said, “That’s weird. Why is Mark decorating the tree with Jarrett?”
My uncle: “Why is Mark wearing a Betty Boop shirt?”
My boyfriend: “Whoever Mark is, he’s a real dweeb.”
I take a look at this, now infamous, shot of elusive Cousin Mark, who, apparently, made an appearance at Christmas in a Betty Boop sweatshirt and then go, “WHAT THE ACTUAL HELL? THAT’S ME!”
They then proceed to debate about whether or not it’s really me or Mark for the next ten minutes.
What a bunch of assholes.
It’s no wonder I’ve had such a hard knock hair life- look at where I come from!
My Hairy Life
Where My Hairy Ladies At?
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21 Minute Survival Challenge
Just in case we needed more proof that I’m inept and would be 100% useless in a survival situation. Happy Flashback Friday, folks!
It all started with this picture:
Actually, it started with Silver Donkeys at The Depot. Day drinking never, ever makes for a dull time.
Add some binge watching of Naked and Afraid, mix in my crazy friend, Alyssa, and you have our insane 21 Minute Naked and Afraid Challenge in the wilds of Oxbow Park, in the heart of Reno. It was intense.
In all seriousness, this started with her idea to spoof the above picture. Obviously, the woman above is quite talented and lithe. We are not. We are the direct opposite. She thought it would be hilarious to go out into nature and take ridiculous pictures of our pudgy bodies, attempting to contort into serious yoga positions. It was insanely entertaining. Either we are hysterical, or just really, really immature 30-somethings. Well, here are our yoga spoofs:
This is Alyssa’s version of the tree pose. It’s called, “Ride Em Cowboy”.
This one is called, “Smelly Poop Lip”.
I’m becoming one with Mother Nature. I need to work on my “serious face”, because it’s the same as my “pooping face”.
These are called, “We Can’t Believe We Didn’t Break the Bridge!”
These are “The Warrior”, but because it took us 10 minutes to get to the rocks we stood on, these have been renamed, “Take the Damn Picture, I’m Done, and the Rocks Are Burning My Fucking Feet”.
Now, at this point, we are incredibly winded and tired, but we have more poses to do, so we forge on. Along the path, we are accosted by flying insects and there are red ants everywhere. It’s hot, we are sweating, and our mouths are parched. Suddenly…it turns into Naked and Afraid (Except, we didn’t get naked. Getting arrested for public nudity is usually frowned upon amongst the responsible adult crowd I’d like to say I’m a part of).
We decide to make shelter, find weapons, and pretend to make fire, all in the name of survival. We know we would hardly make it an hour in serious wilderness, so we named our wilderness attempt, the “21 Minute Survival Challenge”.
We took photos of our attempt to survive our harrowing journey through a city park. Enjoy.
Just chilling in our shelter. We scored and found a busted guitar. It will provide great rain coverage. Two minutes in and we are really feeling the effects of dehydration. We are sweating too much. It must be 88 degrees, and the walk-in was exhausting. I don’t know if I can do this.
Attempting to make fire and I break a nail. I was close to my breaking point here, and if it wasn’t for Alyssa’s support, I would have tapped out. It was that close.
8 minutes in and we are still in search of food. We are dying of hunger. The energy we are exerting in search of nourishment is depleting our fat stores. We can feel our body eating our fat. We also almost died crossing this dangerous canyon. It had to be at least 2 feet down. It was the most terrifying moment of our ordeal.
Alyssa’s breaking point. Crotch sweat. Unacceptable!
We decide to not expend any more energy in search of water and food. We cuddle in our shelter to stay warm. Except, it’s almost 90 degrees, and what was that? Your walking stick?
Red ant attack! Additionally, cuddling proved awkward.
Desperate for protein, we shamefully, hungrily consider the used condom caught while fishing. That was our low point. 12 minutes in, and things are bleak. Morale is low. Our stomachs are growling and our lips are cracking from dehydration.
Success! Alyssa catches a water-logged, half-eaten hamburger encased in its wrapper. It looks to be only a few days old. In desperate times, one must take desperate measures. We still have diarrhea, and we are afraid we have caught a sexually communicable disease from the river. This survival shit isn’t for the weak.
Weak from exertion and lack of food and water, I cannot make it back up the hill from the river. Alyssa uses her last bit of strength to rescue me. I thought she was a bossy bitch at first, but we have built a bond that can’t be broken through this experience.
Operation Retrieve Flip Flop was a success. We really needed this win for our morale.
Silly times! Look! We’re dirty!
Due to vicious red ant attacks, we resort to resting on a log. Lesson learned: red ants live in logs too. Only 6 minutes left. We are running on empty and are motivating each other by reminiscing about our favorite meals. What I wouldn’t do for some ribs!
My joints are stiff from lack of water, and it takes me almost 3 minutes to exit log. We are almost late to hike to extraction!
I have never been so happy to hear a train in my life! We are so ecstatic, we cry, and hug, and cry some more!
After our grueling 21 minutes in the wild, Alyssa and I have learned a lot about ourselves and nature. First, nature sucks, and it messes up your manicures and pedicures. It also makes you sweaty and dirty. Ick. Second, we are both confident that given an opportunity to travel to some remote location as a part of the show, Naked and Afraid, we would survive for precisely 10 minutes. Nature isn’t for the weak or lazy, and we are lazy as fuck.
The chick at Starbucks acted like we were rabid, or on crack. We forgot we smeared charcoal on our faces. Oops.
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Zombie Apocalypse Fail
In preparation for the new season coming up, I am crack-addict binging on The Walking Dead, and all I’ve been thinking about is how I’d be dead on the very first day of a zombie apocalypse.
When the boyfriend and I got to the episode where the group makes it to Alexandria, I said, “OMG. How has Darryl not taken a shower yet? That’d be the first thing I’d do. And brush my teeth!”
(Now the running joke during every episode is: “Has Darryl taken a shower yet?”)
My super sweet boyfriend responded with, “Babe, you would have been dead months ago.”
Indignantly, I protested, but when it came time to detail the myriad reasons he was wrong, I had nothing. Nada.
Holy shit. If there was ever a zombie apocalypse, I’d last precisely an hour, if that. I’d be that inept idiot in the first episode no one even remembers.
Since my asshole boyfriend was right (don’t tell him I said that, he’ll take it and run with it), I thought I’d share the reasons why I’d never last in a zombie apocalypse:
1. My asthma
I get out of breath walking around my classroom and talking at the same time. Really, I could just stop here. Asthma is reason enough for why I’d be one of the first people to be eaten alive by zombies.
It took me two months to get to the point where I could jog (and by jog, I mean move at a slightly quicker pace than walking) nonstop for two blocks. So, if the time ever came for me to run like my life depended on it for more than a minute, I’d be done just like that.
2. My sciatica
I first had a flare up with my sciatica when I was in middle school. The pain from my big ass all the way down my leg was like nothing I’d ever felt before. I recall barely making it out of the fast-paced school halls alive. Once home, I milked it for all it was worth-Advil around the clock, Mom’s special Home Sick Sherbet and Ginger Ale, and hand delivered meals.
It was simultaneously one of the best and worst times of my life.
Occasionally, my sciatica flares up and quick movements just ain’t happening. I tried to show off my sweet Tae Bo skills to my boyfriend the other night and I pulled a muscle and pissed off my sciatic nerve. And, just like that, I was infirm.
So, if my sciatica were ever to act up during the apocalypse, I wouldn’t be able to run or karate chop a zombie in the head. Anyone I’d be with would quickly realize what a dud I was and they’d leave me for dead as soon as they had a proper excuse. I mean, I wouldn’t blame them.
3. My acid reflux and digestion issues
I’m an absolute mess in the guts. If I ever run out of Tums, probiotics, Imodium, or acid reflux medicine, you might as well just leave me for dead.
Not only am I not exactly fit for zombie battle when my stomach acid coming up my esophagus feels like hellfire, my bowel movements when stressed could potentially attract a horde of zombies from miles away.
4. My germaphobe rituals
When you’re running for your life from zombies and terrible, evil people, warm running water and soap aren’t exactly a priority. Hand sanitizer would never be on the grocery list between water and food.
As such, I’d probably never make it to my first meal of road kill surprise. Not only would I have the hardest time not gagging while eating hastily cooked raccoon, I simply would not be able to eat with zombie brains under my finger nails.
Nope. Just leave me for dead. I couldn’t.
5. My beauty essentials/routine
And, let’s not forget the benefit to being appealing-looking and how that might aid in the continuation of one’s life. I would not be a looker after just a week without my electric razor, dry shampoo, and foundation.
I know that beauty is not exactly essential for survival, but when the broad with a beard and noxious gas needs your help again, you just might be tempted to leave her in the woods.
Honestly, I’m really disappointed in myself and quite terrified that I’ll never be a Carol or a Maggie, but an Idiot Girl-Episode 1.
So, do y’all have any tips for me to beef up my zombie survival skills? Or, am I a lost cause, so I should just keep doing what I do best-avoiding any and all physical exertion and marathon eating Skinny Cow desserts?
That’s what I thought, too…
*unwraps a Skinny Cow Simply Amazing Salted Caramel Pretzel bar*
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How Fatty Got Her Groove Back-The Journey
I was going to post a satirical piece about how I’d fare in a zombie apocalypse, but I felt that topic and type of humor would be in poor taste in light of recent events. To that, my thoughts are with those who have been forever affected by the shooting in Vegas.
I will save the zombie post for another time.
In its place is a throwback post about an experience I had with a friend in a Warm Flow yoga class.
This is a humorous post, and I’m choosing to share this, because laughter is what gets me through tough times. I wish no sufferers and family members of victims any disrespect, and I only hope that they find again some happiness and humor in this scary world.
Last week, A and I decided to give yoga at The Studio another shot, as our heated Vinyasa experience wasn’t the shit show we had envisioned it would be. We have a very limited availability while school is still in session, so our time frame in which to subject ourselves to exercise misery is tough to manage.
We have both admitted that if we went home prior to working out, upon entering our respective homes, the pull of our couches and fat pants would be too great.
Because we both understand the large scope of our eternal laziness, we felt it best to not even go home, but to drive straight to the studio. Do not pass “go”, do not collect any slurpees at 7-11 on your way, just get there before the tiny, minuscule flicker of desire has died. That’s been the game plan.
A different class was offered at our preferred time called, Warm Flow. The name calls to mind a nice warm bath, a calm breeze on a summer day, the natural ebb and flow of the tide. In fat girl speak, it sounded easy.
However, we quickly found out it was anything but. What I didn’t notice upon signing up, was the level of this particular class. The level was a 2-3. In case you aren’t yoga literate, that level means: DA-FUQ.
Yes, we attended a far too advanced-way hotter than heated Vinyasa-I’m glad I’m still alive to tell about it-yoga class. If heated Vinyasa was hot, this was the pits of hell unbearable. To make matters so much more uncomfortable, I noticed halfway through the class that we were directly underneath the heating vent. It was not even halfway pleasant. The only positive thing I could think of was, “At least I’m sweating my fat off. At least that.”
Now, as this was a higher level yoga class, the moves were embarrassingly out of reach for us both. A faired slightly better than I, but overall we were both sweaty piles of disgrace. With the heat and the impossible contortions happening, I was actually not even embarrassed that I spent 99% of that class in child’s pose, or sitting slumped over on my mat, in a stupor.
That was, at least, until the “Starer”.Yes, folks, we had an ogler.
It was always my understanding that yoga was a kind of private experience. I always thought everyone would be too busy “ohm-ing” and listening to their breath to notice the ineptitude of others. Well, the “Starer” did not get that memo.
When there were only 15 glorious minutes of the class left, the instructor told us we would have time to practice our hand stands. After a snort and an eye roll, A and I decided we would just continue standing awkwardly in the middle of the room. The instructor must have thought that wasn’t kosher, because she actually moved our sweaty mats to the wall in a you’re-gonna-still-try-ya-fatties way.
We tried the downward dog jumps in place of handstands, because, come on, I saw a broken nose in my immediate future. It was after this that we all found ourselves seated (yes!) on our mats, more or less, facing each other. It was at this point, I noticed the “Starer”.
The way this person looked at me was more “OMG I can’t believe I’ve just seen the rare Pygmy Three-Toed Sloth” and less, “Wow, it’s a fat person attempting yoga.”
The “Starer” seemed shocked, curious, amused, and slightly disgusted all at the same time. What I wanted to say to this person was: “I know I’m not your usual level 3 Warm Flow yoga participant, but maybe you need to worry more about yo’self and your breathing or that really painful looking camel toe you have going on.”
I knew saying that wouldn’t have made me any friends, and I still have eight classes left on my Groupon for The Studio. I would actually like to show my sweaty face there again.
And…I’ve discovered I actually want to continue this “yoga thing”. It seems unbelievable, but I used to be a fairly limber child. When I was just learning to get up as a baby, I would do the splits. My mom thought something was wrong with me, but maybe I’m just naturally flexible?
Before I got super awkward and tall, I did dance and gymnastics. My body actually used to be able to contort into a handstand backbend. I think I lost my flexibility, but Imma get it back.
So, to the “Starer”, just you wait. Just.you.wait. *fist waving in air*
“How Fatty Got Her Groove Back” my journey will be called.
Update: I have yet to get my “groove” back.
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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.
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.
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Travel Tuesday- The Point Reyes National Seashore
I was inspired by An Historian’s post on the Aran Islands, and by my continual wanderlust to write about my recent trip to the Point Reyes National Seashore in California.
Now, it’s not Ireland or anywhere near as exotic as Croatia (read The Wandering Flamingo’s post about her holiday on Šipan Island), but if you’re on the west coast of the United States, and anywhere near San Francisco, it’s a must-do!
My good friend, Holly and I had originally wanted to drive a piece of the Oregon Coast during our summer vacation girls’ getaway. When we realized that our busy schedules and dwindling teacher bank accounts wouldn’t support such a venture, we looked into checking out the redwoods. I’ve been through the Redwood National Park a couple of times, but not Holly. But, again, we were faced with time constraints.
Before packing it in, and putting off our trip for another time (Don’t do this, ya’ll. Time is fleeting, and you never know if you’ll get around to seeing everything you want to in one lifetime), Holly suggested we head just north of the Bay Area to the Point Reyes National Seashore.
Being in Reno means quick access to the San Francisco Bay Area. On a good day, with minimal traffic, one can find themselves perusing the funky shops in Chinatown in 3.5 hours.
Finding our way to the Point Reyes National Seashore took about the same amount of time, and bonus: no crazy city traffic and hobo street sprinters.
Our first stop along the national seashore was the famous shipwreck in Inverness, California. (I loved being in Inverness *again*!) Often described as “Instagrammable”, it was a fun place to stop and take pictures we, of course, posted on Insta.
The strange shipwreck was cool to see, but what was most beautiful was the drastic drop in temperature. It was so nice to leave the 100-degree temperatures behind, even if the humidity gave me an insta-perm.
The first major stop we made was to the Point Reyes Lighthouse. If you plan on checking out the lighthouse, make sure you visit the National Park Service website for operating hours, as the lighthouse is closed after 4 PM Monday through Friday. Also, if the wind is too strong, the steps leading to the lighthouse will be closed.
It’s important to be aware that the climb to and from the lighthouse is incredibly challenging. Not only will you be climbing the equivalence of 30 floors, the wind is intense. On more than one occasion I felt like I could easily be carried off the cliff by the wind.
Read more about my epic climb in my Trail Fails post.
Be prepared with extra water, walking shoes, wet wipes and a full tank of gas, as amenities are lacking. Speaking of amenities, the bathrooms are not fabulous and there is no running water to wash your hands.
All that said, the views of the shoreline, surrounding landscape, and ocean are breathtaking.
After nearly being blown clear off the coast at the lighthouse, we continued along the seashore. As we drove winding roads that cut through tall fields of grasses being whipped around by the relentless wind, the contrast between the wheat-colored grass and the ever-changing aegean and teal blue water was striking.
After a brisk hike along an expanse of the seashore that seemed entirely untouched, we continued on to another location that was eerily desolate.
Maybe it was because it was late in the afternoon, or it was due to the fact that there was no one else around, but the Marconi radio facilities building felt so incredibly creepy to me. I think, maybe, it was also the long, tree-canopied lane that leads to the decades-old building. I envisioned myself alone in that building, at night, watching as my untimely demise came slowly, but assuredly down the road.
*shudders*
On the second day of our girl getaway we hung out in some huge trees:
Ate a picnic lunch on Stinson Beach:
And, got a killer view of San Francisco from reeeeeally far away:
I’ve seen the otherworldly Scottish Highlands, the impossible green that is Ireland, and the patchwork perfection that is the English countryside, but the Point Reyes National Seashore is another kind of beautiful.
Really, there is no comparing one beautiful place with another. There are so many kinds of beautiful, that no matter how hard you try, you’ll never see them all in one lifetime.
Point Reyes is a rugged kind of beautiful, and despite the tourists, remains, somehow, wild and untouched.
Have you ever been somewhere that reminded you of someplace else, even if you’ve never been to that someplace else? Ever been to a beautiful place that feels undiscovered and wild? Let me know in the comments!
