Tag: blog

British Columbia, Blogger Buds, and Busted Biking

Holy shit, I’m literally the worst. I haven’t blogged in what feels like foreeeeeeever. I also haven’t read any blogs in probably even longer. I’ll be amazed if any of you are still here. I wouldn’t blame you if you weren’t.

I had a long list of several excuses for my behavior, but I figured I’d spare you. Let’s just get to it!

Today, as it’s Thursday, can you guess what I have for you? Yup. A travel post. And not just a travel post, this is the travel post.

Why is that, you ask?

Well, I got to meet one of my absolute favorite bloggers and one of the nicest humans on this planet while on my latest travel adventure.

Josy from A Walk and a Lark so very kindly offered to host my friend, Melissa and I when we were in Vancouver over spring break. So not only did I get to meet this fine lady, she put us up in her super cute condo for two nights. It was amazing, ya’ll.

We had such a blast on our trip. We flew to Seattle for a night, took the ferry to Victoria, stayed three nights there, and then it was finally time to get to Vancouver to meet Josy.

(I’ll be blogging about our time in beautiful Victoria, so stay tuned. You might have to wait another year, though, so don’t hold your breath. You’ll die.)

We arrived in Vancouver by ferry (Which had a fucking buffet on it, ya’ll. A BUFFET) and Josy picked us up. It was so exciting to see her happy face in real life for the first time!

We first went to her condo to drop off our bags, say ‘hello’ to her hubby Marc, give her super cute kitty, Monty a pet, and then we were quickly off to see our first site.

I think it’s here where I can announce that I’m still recovering from the walking we did in Vancouver. I used to think I was a pretty good walking tourist. I’m fucking not. Like not by a really slow, sweaty mile. There were a few times I truly didn’t think I’d make it and I’d have to embarrassingly ask Josy if she would kindly call me an ambulance.

Melissa felt pretty much the same as me – like an utter wimp compared to Josy. In fact, she remarked, “If you need me when we get home, I’ll be in bed for three days.”

I’m fairly certain Josy didn’t even break a sweat or get out of breath the entire two days of our heavy walking.

And get this, people. She bikes to work and it takes nearly an hour.

This girl is pretty much hero status to me at this point.

Despite how hard us fatties got worked, we had SO MUCH FUN. We’d have never done half of what we did had we not had Josy. She truly made our trip!

I was double-chin-smile-excited to meet Josy, ya’ll

Here’s where we went and what we did:

Granville Island

The super Instagram famous Love Wall

Did you know this isn’t even an island? When I first did research on Vancouver and I saw that Granville Island was a must-do, I envisioned a literal island.

Even though Granville isn’t an island, we did take a boat there. Confused yet?

I will use any excuse to use this fantastic Britney face

Granville Island is a peninsula (it took me three tries to write ‘peninsula’, because my phone really wanted it to be penis) along False Creek (which isn’t really a creek, but an inlet) and across from downtown Vancouver.

It’s known as a shopping district with a lively public market that I think rivals Pike Place in Seattle.

We took a boat, because you can take a water taxi from the part of Vancouver where Josy lives to Granville and why the hell not take a boat whenever possible?!

Our first stop was to find some lunch (That’s all that’s ever really on my mind when I’m on a trip, to be honest- “When is it time to eat something new again that will be delicious af but will most assuredly give me a bad case of the travel trots and/or heartburn?” It’s my favorite. The food, not the runs.)

We settled on trying some Polish fare, where I got some smooshy, cheese-filled pierogi smothered in sour cream and onions. Josy and Melissa settled on sausages. It all tasted pretty amazing to me.

Next, it was time to find a sweet treat, because your dessert stomach is in your heart and mine was empty and aching for something naughty.

We found an amazing crack dealer in the lively market area. Just look at the delectable choices we had:

CANADIAN MAPLE CHEESECAKE
I mean, are those even real?

Guess what I chose?

Yes, I am eight years old. Thank you for asking.
Happy fatty with her prize

Biking Being a Hot Mess at Stanley Park

I learned how to ride a bike right into a prickly bush just like every other five year old first time rider. Also, I own a bike. It hasn’t moved from its spot in the basement in three years, the tires have disintegrated, and there’s a foot of dust covering it, but I own a bike. So, I’m not a total newbie when it comes to biking, but you know that widely known phrase, “Like riding a bike” when referring to something you never forget how to do? Well, when it comes to Inepts it should be “Like wrecking your diet” or something.

It was like I’d never ridden a bike before.

After eating our way through Granville Island, Josy took us to the gorgeous Stanley Park where breathtaking views of the Vancouver skyline and English Bay can be had.

The path winding along the water looked relatively flat, so when renting a bike was mentioned, I momentarily forgot I was not the best on a bike anymore.

(The first time I took my bike out after buying it, I rode around the block precisely once and then had to lay on the couch for the rest of the day.)

My face says, “I’m 100% crashing this thing into a tree.” Also, how flipping cute is Josy? This is her photo, obviously…

Long story short, I almost ran a pedestrian down, because braking, steering, and staying upright all at the same time is impossible for me; I dropped my bike and lost my cake on the road, but I scooped it up and ate it later (not ashamed), and I felt like I was going to legit puke from the exertion of having to pump up two slight inclines (and we hadn’t even started drinking yet). Meanwhile, Josy was just biking along looking like a fucking goddess. She had to constantly stop so her fat tag alongs could breathlessly catch up. Not once did she act like she was embarrassed to be associated with us, even when we looked like this in the helmets (and on the bikes):

You know how when you see other people on bikes, you want to start biking because you want to look exactly like that? Well, you don’t look like that. #hoponthehotmessexpress

WHY DO THE HELMETS LOOK LIKE THAT ON OUR HEADS, THO?

Drinks in Elizabeth Park

After our biking adventure, we really worked up an appetite. We (Melissa and I) smelled like our fat was on fire, so we cleaned up a bit at Josy’s and headed out again. We settled on El Camino- South American street food- for dinner and man, it did not disappoint. We shared three different entrees to maximize the experience for our taste buds, and they were oh-so-very happy, indeed. Along with a cocktail each, we feasted on a charred corn and cotija cheese salad, a barbecued jackfruit sandwich, cheese balls straight from heaven, and cauliflower “wings”. I’m literally considering booking a flight just to go back and eat every single one of those delicacies again.

Check out Josy’s foodie Instagram page for waaaaaay better pictures of our yum yums.

Our deeeeelicous drinks

After one of the most satisfying food experiences of my adult life, we headed to the special place Josy told me we would have to go for amazing views of the city.

I think we got into a bus, but after a cocktail, my memory was a little fuzzy. What I do remember is hiking what felt like Mount Everest to get to our long-awaited views. But, it was just a walking path up a hill through Queen Elizabeth Park and I totally allowed my full ineptness to show. I really didn’t want Josy to know the full extent of my spastic abilities, but here we are.

When we finally made it to Seasons in the Park, it was cocktail time again.

On the way back to Josy’s we had happy hearts, warm bellies full of alcohol, and giggles for days.

When we got on the bus (they don’t wait for everyone to find their seats, because they’ve got places to be and people to see, OK?), I didn’t fully ground myself by grasping at anything sturdy-looking like I was new to walking when the bus took off, and I almost landed in a strange man’s lap. Then, after I bounced against every surface of the bus as I made it back to where Josy and Melissa were sitting, we dared Josy to say “Marc” in an American accent and we officially lost it. I’m still laughing. We were those annoying drunk girls on the bus and it was awesome.

Grouse Mountain

The next day, after a delicious smoothie Josy made us (and toast with my first taste of Marmite, which I don’t hate), we were off again on another day of hijinks. Once we made a pit stop for some craft coffee, we were on the bus bound for the mountains.

Perhaps one of the best things about Grouse Mountain is that you get to ride a gondola up to the resort. I hadn’t been on a gondola since my childhood summers in northern Idaho. It was such a gorgeous ride up. You could see for miles. It was stunning. My pictures 100% don’t do it justice.

The first thing we did on Grouse Mountain was go on a fun, pretty short walk on a loop path. What made the whole process longer was the fact that it took me literally 20 minutes just to make my way down the first half of the walk, because the entire path was in the packed-down snow. Josy just bee-bopped along like she was walking on straight, not slippery ground. She kept looking back and saying, “You’ll be OK. I promise.”

She really hadn’t learned from the previous day that, no, I’d not be OK. The second I thought I could walk on snow like a normal person would be the second I’d be flat on my fat ass.

So, Josy took some snaps of my slow descent, because she had to fill her time waiting for me somehow.

Saying a silent prayer for my tailbone
It was steeper than it looks! I swear!
Slow and whatever-isn’t-offensive-to-say-about-being-physically-not-good-at-anything-that-requires-effort wins at being dead last

After what, I’m sure, felt like an eternity to Josy, I had finally slipped, slid, and crawled the 50 yards down the hill and we came upon an igloo. An igloo, ya’ll. Naturally, we had to crawl in. It was pretty cold and wet and I had to take my backpack off to squeeze my fat ass in through the hole, but how many people can say they’ve climbed into an igloo? It was totally worth the wet knees and freezer burned palms.

How did the Inuit do it??

After chilling (literally) in the igloo, we hiked back and had drinks and some lunch, but not before a quick selfie:

And did you even have lunch drinks if you don’t do a Boomerang and share it all over social media?

https://fattymccupcakes.net/wp-content/uploads/2019/05/3c74e106-3007-4f90-830c-3e58c898928c.mov

After lunch, it was time to head down the mountain. Instead of waiting for the bus, we took off on foot and walked down to a gorgeous spot for pictures:

I’m STRAIGHT OBSESSED with these mountains, y’all!

Lonsdale Quay Market

After a lot more walking and another bus ride, we stopped at Lonsdale Quay Market. There, we got some interesting dipped ice cream and a different view of the Vancouver skyline.

Then, we got on a sea bus to get back to the “other side” of Vancouver (I’m still confused about the three distinct clusters of skyscrapers that look like three separate cities) to snap pics at the wings in Kitsilano:

From here we walked to the beach. We went from snow and mountains to the sand and sunny beach all in one day! What a truly epic day.

Um, hi. I think I love you, Vancouver.

At this point, we were half dead, so Josy paid for a taxi that took us to a sushi joint. It was the perfectly delicious way to end two picture perfect days in Vancouver with someone I don’t consider merely a blogger bud anymore, but a true friend.

My memories of this incredible trip will remain forever in a special place in my heart while the ache in my fat ass will (hopefully) fade.

Josy: Let’s take a cute jumping photo. Katie: *Doesn’t hear ‘cute’*

Free Advice Friday From Your Aunt Fatty

Dear Auntie, 

The new president of the board where I teach is a passive aggressive power hungry bitch. She keeps praising me to my face and then going behind my back and saying nasty things to my co workers. And then she denies it. How can I deal with her and keep my sanity? And if that isn’t possible, how can I kill her and not get caught?

-Anonymous Idiot (who should have said no)

Dear Anonymous Idiot,

I once briefly worked at a place that shall remain nameless that had a board that was almost entirely run by moms of students attending. I think that was a major conflict of interest, but what do I know?

(I had way more to say here, but figured it’d be better for me to watch my big mouth.)

One of these moms hated me simply because she assumed I was too young to be responsible for her child’s education. She actually said to a teacher who worked there, “I don’t want that 18 year-old know-nothing around my son.”

No way! You think I’m 18?!”

I was 28.

So, all that to say, I know what you’re going through.

As far as I’m aware, school board members are elected to their positions. Next time she comes up to be re-elected, you know what you need to do. Until then, just be your amazing self and pay no mind to people like that. If you know you’re doing your job well and her comments are unfounded, it’s her problem not yours.

Also, it wouldn’t hurt to document the ever-loving shit out of every interaction and record every snippet of gossip you hear her quacking. You may need it, because if karma truly exists, ample evidence from the sane party will work in your favor big time.

Besides, if she’s doing this to you, she’s probably talking behind other backs as well. She might piss off the wrong person and your documentation could be the cherry on top of getting her removed from the board.

Best of luck and don’t do murder.

Love, Your Aunt Fatty (who is really, really mad about this bullshit for you)

Dear Aunt Fatty,

Can you help me find my calling? I see people around me who know what they want to do or are happy with what they are doing. From the moment I started searching for a job and a career, everyone asks me what I want to be…. and I don’t know. I don’t know who or what I can be. I’m average on everything including translating for the looks of things (didn’t get the translating job I applied for) and all I can see myself doing is retail, but I know that I can’t keep my big mouth shut anymore. If a customer pisses me off I will slap him with the keyboard or my hand. Depends what’s easiest at the time. How should I go about finding what I’m meant to do in life?

Sincerely, A Very Knowledgeable and Talented Queen Who Can Do Anything and Everything She Sets Her Mind To (I wrote this, because I only speak the truth)

Dear A Very Knowledgeable and Talented Queen Who Can Do Anything and Everything She Sets Her Mind To,

First, I think it’s really awesome (and also kinda like playing with fire) that you trust me enough with this serious issue.

Next, I’d like all of my readers to know that I know you personally, so when I say you can literally do anything, I damn well mean it and I’m qualified to say it.

You are too legit to quit and genuinely one of the kindest and most thoughtful people I know.

You impressed the hell out of my family when you took us on a personal tour of the Lincoln Cathedral. You knew so much and presented it to us in such an engaging way, I was in awe.

You know a handful of languages, dude. That’s like four fingers less than most people.

What I truly see you doing is working at a museum or important historical site. I see you being a director. I see you being responsible for all the important shit that goes on at these places (whatever that shit is, because I don’t know). I see you speaking your myriad languages to the other important director people of other important museums and/or historical sites. I see you wearing super smart lady suits that look killer on you (You’ll spice them up with a peekaboo lace camisole underneath and sky high heels. Or sensible flats, because let’s be real- heels blow).

You will be K-I-L-L-I-N-G I-T, girl.

If this is not what you want to be and you end up working the till at Tesco, I’ll be equally proud of you, because that’s just one step closer to being able to travel the world with your Soul Sister (me).

I know you’re feeling down right now, but don’t you dare ever say you’re average. Don’t you ever say that again.

Love, Your Aunt Fatty (who is #crossingherfingersandtoesbecausesicilyandobviouslyforyoutooimnotcompletelyselfish)

Dear Auntie:

Now that the cold weather has arrived, us girls need a little extra warmth on our bodies. Like most, I love the colder months because I don’t have to use a weed wacker on my legs to get them touchable smooth. How often should a lady shave those stems in the winter?

Much love,

Going to run in an Abominable Snowwoman contest

By Abominable Snow Woman, did you mean this?

Dear Going to Run in an Abominable Snow Woman Contest,

I’m so glad you brought up this very important issue. This is so something that needs to be covered every year when the temps drop and the chill hits.

Despite what every man on Earth may say, it is not at all necessary to shave for the entirety of Sweater Weather season. Like, there’s not one single reason to get your razor wet once.

If your body is covered head to toe in warm stuffs why shave? Even if you were rocking a tank and booty shorts, what’s a little butt hair poking out? We all have it. Right, ya’ll have an abundance of butt hair, too. Right??

Coming from someone who likes to look decent, I sure as fuck hate the process. I positively hate shaving because it takes so long my fingers are pruney and the water has run cold. I only shave for my massage therapist and only the places she will have to touch (and I’m only doing this as a courtesy, as I imagine rubbing down legs with a million porcupine spines has to be unpleasant).

I can just hear my dude groaning subconsciously. Sorry, boyfriend. You have hairy armpits, too.

So, rock on with your hairy bad self. Your built-in insulation will save on heating costs too, so I see this as a total win-win situation.

Love, Your Aunt Fatty (who is also participating in No Shave Octembanuaryarch)

Thank you so much to Giggling Fattie, who submitted her question above and also kindly posted on her blog about my Ask Aunt Fatty series! Check out her fantastic blog that I know you’re gonna love here.

A few of you sent in submissions (thank you, thank you, thank you) that I didn’t get to this week. Stay tuned for next week’s post to read your answer from Aunt Fatty.

Keep sending in your problems, people. I know you got ’em!

You can contact me here! Or, if you follow me on Twitter, Instagram or Facebook, you can message me there, as well!

Oops, My Bad

I’m posting today to apologize for not posting my usual on Wednesday and today. The Christmas crazies have kicked in and I’m finding myself overwhelmed trying to fit in all the fun. Maybe one year I’ll slow the shit down and actually enjoy the holidays.

I’m fully expecting that you will see an update on how Dumpy and McMilkshakes are doing. Spoiler alert: We’re struggling and dieting during the holidays can suck our sagging back fat.

Check out the first posts in the Diet Chronicles of Dumpy Von Marshmallow Waist and Duchess McMilkshakes:

The First Post

Week Two

The Thanksgiving Edition

I’m positively loving writing ridiculous advice from Aunt Fatty, but I only have one submission waiting for my anti-advice, so I decided to wait and see if more of you felt the need for crappy life lessons from a wholly unqualified individual (to the person waiting: I hope it wasn’t, like, a time sensitive issue. If so, my bad).

So, in order for Free Advice Friday From Your Aunt Fatty to work, I kinda need people seeking advice. I considered just writing fake submissions, but I want to bring real life fuckery to you, not made up bullshit.

So, get to writing in. You can submit your queries here.

Check out the posts I’ve already done thanks to your submissions:

The First Round of Ridiculousness

More Non-Advice

The Last Post?

In going back through these previous posts I’ve done, I’m noticing that each new post got less likes than the last. Maybe you’re all busy with Christmas crap like I am or I was mistaken and ya’ll actually really hate this series?

Well, on that depressing note, I’ll take my leave. Hope to *see* y’all next week.

Anti-Advice From Aunt Fatty

I was so incredibly blown away by the amount of suggestions I got from my last post (I really thought I’d get next to no responses). One of the suggestions I received touched on an idea that has been swirling in my brain for some time. It being suggested was the impetus to get this ball rolling.

Thank you to See It With Your Own Eyes for suggesting I take questions for an advice column post/series.

The absolute most absurd aspect of this and why I think it *could* be pretty amazing is that it’ll be advice from an utter inept failure of an adult.

It’ll be like anti-advice.

It’ll be the kind of unsolicited advice you might get from your drunk uncle. Most of it’ll be complete nonsensical garbage, but there might be a gem of worldly wisdom hidden amongst the empty pizza boxes and beer cans.

The only way this’ll work, though, is if I get questions from you, my lovely readers.

I think the best way to do this will be to have ya’ll send me a private message via my Contact Page with your question or topic you’re seeking advice on.

You can choose to reveal yourself or be completely anonymous.

If you send me an alarming, tragic, or deeply personal question, it won’t be featured because this is all about being ridiculous and lighthearted (I will talk you through it and be there for you, because even though I may not be a very adulty adult, I’ll never leave anyone in need hanging).

If you submit a question, you agree to my response potentially being stupid/weird and/or not actually helping you with your problem. As such, you understand that I am, by no means, an expert on almost all matters.

I really hope ya’ll are some huge hot messes, in need of some good ol’ anti-advice, because I think this could be something pretty magical.

I’d like to post my first “advice column” on Friday as Aunt Fatty’s Free Advice Friday, so send me those burning questions!

(Also, share the shit out of this. Pretty please.)

I hope to hear from you soon.

Special Request Sunday

Hey, y’all! It’s come to my attention that bloggers ask their readers for suggestions on content they’d like to read and their readers actually give them some great ideas and feedback.

I never thought to do this.

I mean, this could epically fail and no one will want to suggest anything. Maybe someone might even say, “That ain’t my job to tell you, the writer what to write *insert eye roll*.” Or, this could get awesomely weird and entertaining.

Sundays are my chores-and-dread-Monday days, so save me from that sad existence with some special requests or content you’d like to see more of here at Fatty McCupcakes.

I’d insert a poll, but I don’t know how and I’m too lazy to figure it out. Honesty is the best policy…

Some themed days and other content I’ve done past and present are:

WTF Wednesday

Travel Tuesday (or Thursday depending on how much I don’t have my shit together)

Storytelling of various epic family adventures and fails

Rants and Ramblings

Stories about the many different ways I’m inept at life

Other Bullshit

So, if you are also procrastinating cleaning your toilet today, let me know in the comment section what you’d like to read more of here. If you want to suggest something privately, send me a direct message via my contact page.

Can’t wait to hear from ya’ll!

Picture of caramel apple for attention

Those Elko Feels

Elko 2
Fall means I think of Elko. A smell, the orange color of the leaves, a vivid memory, or just a fleeting thought ignites a chain reaction of intense longing. It happens every so often and when it does, it nearly cripples me for a brief, cathartic moment.
Elko is a place I had a love-hate relationship with for many years. Now, I just long for it in my bones.

It can’t be explained by one key event or moment. It was a series of moments, feelings, awakenings. It was carried by the electrically charged breeze during a thunderstorm. It was kicked up and then settled, into the cracks and crannies of my brain, like the dirt from the road. It came to me, pungent, in through the window, smelling of wet sagebrush and desert. It was changing oak leaves in the fall. The smell of coffee and wet pavement. It was the green hills in the spring. The thick, silent snowflakes in the winter. It was stillness. Jackrabbits. The moon and the stars. It was fresh, plump grapes. Fried chicken and biscuits. It was peace. Sleep. Renewal. It was far away, twinkling lights, signaling home. It was something, somewhere, everything, always. It was Elko.

WTF Wednesday- What a Sell Out

I used to think that some people who monetized their blogs were sell outs and/or fake bloggers.

I KNOW

I’m sure you’re saying to yourself right now, “I don’t know about this Fatty McCupcakes chick. She’s kind of a snatch.”

Let me point out the word ‘some’ that I used above. Many of my most favorite blogs are self-hosted and are working on monetizing.

The people I viewed as fake sell outs were those people who didn’t seem like real humans behind their blazing advertisements and affiliate linked half-assed posts glaring with grammatical errors.

After some time pondering the way of the world in Blog Land and doing my own wretched writer soul-searching, I’ve come to realize that there are still a hell of a lot of fake-seeming bloggers and total sell outs, but there are also a lot of people who realized long before I did that blogging can be a full time job and who the fuck with half a brain works for free?

Me, that’s who…

Words, actions, thoughts- if they’re stupid, they’re coming from me.

You might have noticed that my site was down or private for a time a few days ago. You might also have noticed it looks or feels a bit different. (Sorry about that.)

This is because I’m finally self-hosted, ya’ll.

After all those years of thinking that only “real” writers blog for the joy until they magically make it big after a publisher stumbles onto their blog (yeah right), I’ve realized that published writers do it for the joy and because it pays off debt/funds travel/supplements and/or replaces income from a more tedious/sucky/soul-sucking job.

So, because I feel like *maybe* my writing is worthy of a paycheck one day and because I’m a broke ass teacher, you’ll be seeing this hypocrite working to monetize this shizz.

Maybe you’ll be seeing me do some affiliate links (but, I swear I won’t sound like a fucking car salesman).

For pretty sure, you’ll be seeing some ads (sorry, they’re a necessary evil that’ll earn me $0.35 a month, so.)

For absolute sure, you’ll be seeing my brand-spanking-new logo that Oriana from Oriana’s Notes did up for me!

Hopefully, you’ll be seeing some better (perhaps even semi-funny) and more regular content.

So, please bear with me as I learn to navigate self-hosting and (I’m sure) some of the problems that can come from it.

While you’re hopefully still supporting me (or not- whatever then), remember that I was wrong and everyone else who was smart enough to eek out some pennies by doing something they enjoy, were right.

At least I’m willing to admit it.

So, tell me while I continue to work out the kinks on my site, are you self-hosting? What’s your experience? Have you monetized? How is it going? How do you balance being real and affiliate links?

Thanks, ya’ll!

Throwback Thursday to When I Actually Blogged

Strangely, and for reasons I still don’t understand, I gain new followers every day (and here I am, still not rich and famous). To those of you who are new here, I swear I don’t always suck. I used to post religiously every week. Sometimes I posted twice. I was inspired. I was hopeful. I was excited. I was preparing to rule the world.
Something happened, yo.
This post could have been alternatively titled: Throwback Thursday to When I Actually Gave a Fuck.
It’s not that I don’t care about you. Every time I get a notification that I have a new like, comment, follower, a tiny voice inside me says, “Someone loves me. They really do love me.”
(Typing that out makes it sound so profoundly pitiful. *opens Google app to google, “Is it bad to think that strangers love me when they follow my blog even when I know it’s not possible they can love me and I only think it for, like, a split sentence?* Google wasn’t sure.)
I love the essence of blogging. I love writing. I love finding and reading good writing. I love the connections.
But, as much as I’d love to be that lucky bitch in every chick flick who has a mental epiphany/breakdown and leaves everything for a rundown, centuries old house in the middle of France and spends her days consuming goat cheese and red wine while writing her fifth novel on her antique typewriter at a table that looks out on a picturesque lake while wearing an oversized cable knit sweater that doesn’t make her look as big as a house, because she’s maybe a size four, I can’t because I live in the real world.
In the real world, I work a full time job, have debt, and spend an ungodly amount of time wondering how I’ll ever fund my next vacation, a house, or my next overpriced hipster donut.
For some time now I’ve considered the possibility of monetizing my blog. Only recently have I realized that I’ve been working my ass off at a part time gig and getting nowhere in the process.
I shouldn’t say ‘nowhere’, as I’ve actually gained something greater than Ellen hosting me on her show and then surprising me with money to pay off all of my debts*–I’ve gained loyal readers, many of whom I call true friends.
But, it’s finally time for me to put my efforts into ways to better my standing, my life, my writing game.
In the coming months, I hope to move to self-hosting. That’s just the first step in my Make Actual Money From Writing/Blogging plan.
Until then, you’ll have to bear with me and the construction zone mess this place will likely be.
If you are one of my newbies (or oldies, I’m not discriminating) and you’re still reading this mess, here are some of my older posts that I wrote when I was still young and full of writing zest. I hope they’ll keep you going until I figure my shit out:
I love sharing embarrassing personal stories about toilet disasters
Geez, poop AGAIN?
Now farts? Come on…
Because everyone likes to laugh at the inept one
I’m really hairy (Speaking of which, I skipped my mid-week chin plucking to write this. You’re welcome.)
Tell me more about your own writing struggles. Misery loves company and all…
*Well, actually, if Ellen would have me, I mean…I wouldn’t say ‘no’…

Just a pic my grandma took of our family dog taking a shit on our lawn, because I couldn’t think of any other pictures for this post.

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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Third Funniest Blogger, Baby!

I’m still positively shocked that anyone other than my mom thinks I’m funny. I mean, I occasionally make myself laugh, but sometimes I think I’ll eventually wake up. But, I don’t think this is just a dream, guys. I was voted 3rd Funniest in the Annual Bloggers Bash Awards. That must mean it’s really true. I’m kinda officially funny.
I’m so incredibly honored and excited to have made 3rd, ya’ll.

I was so excited and apprehensive the night before the awards (that happened in London, btw), I had horrible nightmares all.night.long.
They ranged from your usual holy-shit-I-forgot-pants-and-I’m suddenly-on-stage-in-front-of-a-room-full-of-people to the nightmare that I didn’t place.
See, these awards mean so much to me. Like, so.much. The excitement and anticipation leading up to the event was even better than a cupcake high.
Not only does winning an award help validate the fact that I call myself a humor blogger, the ABBA originated from the U.K. My Anglophile self is geeking out big time.
Not only do I feel pretty dang proud, I feel so lucky to have the readers I do. This was all thanks to YOU.
To those who took the time to vote for me, to those who take time out of their lives to read my words, to those who have liked, commented, shared, spread the word, THANK YOU.
THANK YOU, THANK YOU, THANK YOU!
I’m immensely lucky for you all.
I also want to say a huge thank you to the ABBA committee. You have spent an immeasurable amount of time, heart, and thought into putting these awards together. Not only that, you’ve created an event that so many people have to look forward to and be excited about. So, thank you.

This is how I celebrated. Maybe I should be Fatty McDonuts.