Tag: blogging

Inverness 

  
The sun was lazily peeking around the steeple of a church and through the turrets on the top of a century old building. There was no breeze and just a hint of coolness ticked my sun-drenched arms and face. The air smelled of fresh cut grass and fried fish and on top of that was a hint of something different, something foreign and strange. The ample sized river cutting through the village was dotted with specks of sun and there was a clear reflection of the cloud dotted sky. The green grass aside the gentle river looked so inviting, but there was no time for rest, no stopping the adventure. There were places to see, new and exiting things to eat and different people to meet. I snapped a picture of the perfect scene so that I would never forget that moment. I fondly look at the picture I took of that beautiful river and village in Inverness, Scotland all the time. Looking at that scene makes me feel an intense longing to relive every moment that took my breath away on that trip. That village scene, along with so many others, will forever be stamped on my heart, to never, ever forget. Ever.
 
In honor of my upcoming trip, I thought to share a little ditty I wrote years ago about a distinct memory of a trip to Scotland. 
I yearn to return to the British Isles. How does one feel an intense longing and homesickness for a place that’s not their home? Maybe in a past life I lived in England, or Scotland, in a quaint village, or up in the otherworldly Scottish Highlands? Maybe. 
“We travel, some of us forever, to seek other places, other lives, other souls” -Anais Nin

Nervous Poos

3 more sleeps and I will be heading to visit my sister from another mama. This will be the first time I’ve traveled further than one state over since my trip to London in 2010! To say I’m nervous about the flight is like saying, “I’m just a little in love with baked goods.” 
I adore travel. I want to see the world, yet flying is so, so fucking scary. I am a control freak to the nth degree. If I could sit in the cockpit, I would feel a little better. I would feel a little more at ease if I could be on the lookout for birds or other planes, or whatever else there is to watch out for in the sky. I would feel more in charge, and thus safer, if I could say, “A little to the left”, “Whoa, let’s ease up on that throttle”, and “Are you sure you checked the landing gear?” 
I would be that person they want to tie up and store in the cargo hold. 
This time around, I’ll be traveling with just me, myself, and Ivana (she’s my alter ego). I’ve never flown alone. I’ve always had someone to annoy with my constant questions and worries, “Are you really sure we aren’t going to die?”
I feel like a super, take the Bulls by the horn, independent woman. That is, until the morning of my flight. I’ll most likely be having to use the restroom every 10 minutes, and I’ll question whether or not to take my “huggy pillow” with me on the flight-to keep me safe, obviously. 
I’m not a real chatty person when it comes to talking to strangers. When some random person says something like, “The weather has been crazy lately”, my response is usually something along the lines of, “I don’t like hot dogs”. And then I want to kick myself for not saying something easy, like, “Hasn’t it?”
So, I’m dreading the inevitable flight talk. 
Basically, I’m dreading the flight, in its entirety. 
Someone reassure me *sucking thumb in fetal position*

Testing the Waters-"Body Positivity"

Methinks I’ve made it pretty clear that I’m not skinny. I mean, my body size is in the name of my blog. If you’re shocked right now, you have not read one thing I’ve written. If you have read at least a few of my blog posts, you know I specialize in self-deprecation (no, not defecation-that’s an entirely different animal). I love making fun of myself. Calling myself names and poking fun at my body is how I take life not so seriously. No one wants to be the fat girl who cries about being fat. No.  
There are days I hate my body, days when I find 6,452 things wrong with my appearance. Some days, I check myself out in the mirror and say, “You look pretty alright. Alright, alright”. If I spent as much time as I do on worrying about when my next meal will be, on how I look, I would be a very miserable person. I look to my other strengths when my jeans fit a little too tight, or my new bra gives me back boobs. There has to be more to this life than how I look.   If I cared too much about my appearance, I would be one sad person, because I will definitely never be mistaken for Angelina Jolie. 
And that’s OK. We can’t all have huge breasts, a tiny waist, and Brad Pitt. Some of us look decent in black yoga pants and have even teeth. It isn’t fair, but who ever promised it would be? 
Now that I’ve stated my own personal attempt at “body positivity”, I have to give my opinion on the “Body Positive” movement. 
Wait for it…
I effing hate it. I’m so over it. It’s all about looks and that is not what is most important in life. On the other side, it is nice to feel good about yourself, but at what cost? 
I want to lose weight because I don’t feel healthy, my feet hurt, and yes, I want to look good naked. So, I don’t really appreciate Tess Holliday and all those other “Body Positive” representatives telling me, “It’s OK you’re fat. Don’t change who you are. Fat is beautiful”. No *holding up stop sign*. 
Please do not give me one more reason to not put down the cupcake and get off my ass. Do not. 
How many women really feel beautiful having unwanted fat? Come the fuck on. That’s not to say someone who is fat isn’t beautiful, or lacks worth because they don’t fit into society’s cookie cutter beauty terms. 
No. 
I’m not saying I am not worthy or not beautiful. What I am saying is I don’t feel beautiful when I can’t find tights for a costume, because “one size fits all” fits up to a size 8. No. And finding tights in the “fat section” doesn’t make me feel any better either. 
Thus, I’m practicing yoga and trying to be a healthier, more beautiful me. 
I have to share a comment on a post that Tess Holliday shared (Her social media posts are becoming more and more negative. Soon, she will just be another hater). This young man was positively attacked for his comment. He was not rude, he was not “fat shaming”, nor was he unreasonable. The pack of wolves who tore him down were vicious. The same women who don’t like people judging them. The same women who don’t like being bullied. 
  The above responses were some of the kinder ones. 
  
  
Just take a moment and let this marinate. 
I’m testing the waters with my opinion on this matter. I don’t want to scare away all of the beautiful people who read my blog, because this is a heated topic, and my opinion is the unpopular one. At the same time, I don’t want to stifle my desire to write about what I’m passionate about. 
So, I’ll just leave it at that, for now. Like just one bite of a cupcake, I’m leaving you with annoyance, dissatisfaction, and wanting. 

Shameless 

I have been a pretty shameless glutton most of my summer break. Weekends are hard for me to stay on track, let alone an entire school break. Give me almost 2 months of freedom, and endless hours to meet friends and family for breakfast, brunch, elevenses, lunch, afternoon tea, linner, dinner, cocktails, and late night binge-fests, and you pretty much have a recipe for disaster with a chocolate ganache and cherry on top. 
I fully plan on getting my act together when school, and a regular schedule commences. Until then, I’m trying not to be too bad. I got a half sandwich, instead of feeling satisfied at Greatful Gardens the other day. Last night, I ate only one bag of kettlecorn popcorn. Most astonishingly, I imbibed in one, count em’: one Moscow Mule at The Depot yesterday. 
After lunch, I usually want something sweet. Yesterday, I was craving some frozen yogurt with cookie dough and marshmallow topping something fierce. I told myself, “No, Fat Katie!”, and went home and ate a Popsicle instead (I’m also quickly running out of money-summer break, and being a fatty is EXPENSIVE). 
Additionally, I am working hard at not drinking my calories (I mean, unless it’s alcohol. Because alcohol). I’m also trying to drink green tea a couple times a day. I know it’s not a miracle fix, but it has been shown to boost metabolism. Disclaimer: I am, by no means, against “quick fixes”. I will, usually, buy in to any weight loss fad that requires absolutely zero effort. 
Another reason I’ve decided to not end my summer break in “Super Glutton” mode is: I spent $160 on It Works products. I purchased a month’s supply of wraps and fat inhibitors, hair, skin, and nails vitamins, and firming gel. My hard-earned credit card purchase just can’t be in vain. It doesn’t seem right to wash fat inhibitors down with a donut. Well, maybe it does, but I don’t want the donut to cancel out the hard work the supplement is doing. I’m not simply trying to maintain. Oh no. This lard has got to go. 
  My Fat Fighting Box of Shame 
  These are some real horse pills. And they taste like horse sweat. 
  Because ain’t nobody want to see my front butt. Here is another area that has got to get with the program and tighten up. I’m sick of my swinging arm flab. 
  Totally unedited and deelicious! 
  At least I remembered to shave my armpits for ya’ll. 
I know firming gel and supplements are not the only answer. I’m doing yoga, too. Remember? I bet you forgot, as I haven’t posted any embarrassing yoga pics lately. Stay tuned. 
*The little red mark on my arm is from my very first boyfriend, Karl Martin. We were having a pinching contest (we were 12). He won. 

TP

As I mentioned in a previous post, I used to run the blog bigcitybetty. I didn’t only write about living in a small town, I would also make observations about the absurdity of life. One of my favorite posts was about toilet paper. Anyone surprised? I have been mentally preparing a blog post about all of the ridiculous things that happened to me when I lived in Elko, so until then, I thought I would share this post I wrote in December 2011. Enjoy.
I just had a very confusing trip to the bathroom while at my parent’s house. I did my business, read a little ditty about high blood pressure in Woman’s Day and then went for the white stuff…That’s where the confusion started. There were two rolls on the holder. The holder was large enough to fit, perfectly, two rolls of TP. Two rolls. They were brand-spanking-new and so fat, soft and inviting. I sat there a minute completely lost. Which roll should have the distinct pleasure of meeting my ass? I decided the right one was easier to access and the right side just seemed…well, right. I took a few squares, did my thing and then realized the two rolls looked off balance. I decided to take my new handful of TP from the left to balance it out. After close inspection, it seemed I took a little too much off the left side and would have to take more from the right to compensate. This went on for another 5 minutes. My arse was clean, but the rolls still needed to look even. I couldn’t leave one more unused than the other, that just wasn’t right. Two whole rolls of toilet paper and 30 minutes later, I was finally satisfied.
In closing, I have to ask, “Why in the fuck does one need TWO rolls of toilet paper? Is it merely to confuse your bathroom guests or is it to torment people with OCD? Either way, one roll will suffice. Now, I need to buy my dad some new toilet paper and my butt is really chafed from all the unneeded wiping. Sometimes I feel like I am the only one in the world with any sense. Good grief.

Dog Days

I have been house and dog sitting for my aunt and uncle for a week. One long week. It’s necessary to point out that I’m childless, by choice and dog-less, due to circumstance. If I lived in an apartment that allowed dogs, I would have become a dog mama a long time ago. Forget “baby fever”, I have “puppy fever” something fierce. The second I see floppy ears, awkward paws, and big puppy eyes, I melt. I become that annoying, squealing girl, the kind of girl who says, “OMG, it’s a POOPY! WANT!”
So, I used to have puppy fever. I think I’m good for at least another 5 years before I will think I want a dog again. Maybe that’s being dramatic, but in my exhaustion, I have lost all desire to wake up to puppy breath. For those of you thinking of getting a puppy, let me tell you, puppy parenting is some serious, life-altering shit. 
The dogs I am watching are actually total sweethearts. The younger one, Pepper, loves to cuddle. The old guy, Marley, loves to be by you at all times. With being alone in a big house, these traits are much appreciated. They also, for the most part, come when they’re called (unless they are in the middle of eating a turd, you can’t just leave a perfectly good poop uneaten like that), and they don’t bark at all. 
This is where the easiness comes full halt. I am reminded why I don’t want children: I adore my sleep. Guess what? Dogs are like babies, in that they don’t give two shits if you get sleep or not. I’ve probably slept a total of 5 solid hours this entire week.
The first night, both dogs must have felt unsettled, as all I heard all night was toenails clicking on the hardwood floor and collars going “jingle-jingle”. They apparently didn’t need their sleep, like I needed mine. The next night, I got smarter, and moved to a room with carpet and I took their collars off. This was the only night I got any real sleep. 
Marley has never really seemed thrilled his mom and dad have been gone. To self-soothe, he has been obsessively licking his butthole. He won’t stop and it’s red and irritated. Instead of calling and freaking out his parents, I asked my mom what to do. She said to make sure he poops and “just tell him to quit licking”. I’ve spent an ungodly amount of time yelling at a dog who is going down on his asshole. 
3rd Night: Pepper decided the human bed was a better place to be than the dog bed. She slipped under the covers and literally slept with her nose between my buttcheeks all night. I was so scared she would suffocate, so all night long, I checked to see if she was still breathing. 
4th Night: Both dogs woke me up no less than 3 times to go outside. Their potty breaks must not have been enough, as Marley unleashed farts all night that made me cry. Sleep was filled with nightmares and night sweats. 
5th Night: The temperature dropped drastically and I was able to sleep with the window open. I woke up with a start to Marley having a nightmare. After I spent 10 minutes reassuring him and petting his belly, I worried that he was too cold. I found a blanket and covered him. I checked on him throughout the night, as I didn’t want him to freeze to death. Pepper was warm, as she still felt the need to sleep directly on top of me. 
6th Night. I smelled poop. Pure poop. I guess that happens when a dog’s asshole is directly in your face. I still feel dirty. 
7th Night: At 3:00 AM, I hear barfing. I hope it’s a nightmare, but it’s not. Marley is barfing in the corner. I can’t even, so I just go back to sleep. At 7:00 AM, I check to see if maybe, hopefully it was a nightmare. Nope, there’s puke in the corner. I resolve to be fully awake before I have to clean up dog vomit, so I go back to sleep again. 8:00 AM comes around and I let the dogs out, and, the puke is gone. HE ATE HIS OWN BARF. While I’m eternally grateful that he cleaned up his own mess, I’ve been dry heaving all day at the thought that he ate his own barf. 
While it’s been nice to hang with some legit pups and drink free beer every night, I have bags under my eyes and I have 80 new gray hairs. I’m exhausted, and I can’t wait to get back to my bed. A bed that doesn’t smell of dog asshole and farts (well, at least dog farts). 
Pepper and Marley are sweethearts, but just like with babies, I prefer to squeeze their cheeks, ogle over them, and then hand them back. 
  Pepper says, “Blogging is boring. Pay attention to me!”
  “You weren’t in the room, and we thought you would never come back, so we helped ourselves”. 
  “If my eyes are closed, I can’t see you, so you can’t see me on the bed I’m not supposed to be on”. 
  Marley is over your shit, Pepper. 
  “We are handfuls, but we sure are cute little shits”.

Awkward Moment #1

  
That awkward moment you are attempting to sit on a stool at the cupcake shop, you shouldn’t be at, and the bastard feels very, very untrustworthy. After coming too close to breaking a chair made out of metal, at a cupcakery, it’s only necessary to swear your friends to utter secrecy. You take it one step further by threatening bodily harm if your secret gets out. You didn’t break the chair, but in the “fat world” almost breaking it is just as damn bad. 
The next realization you have is that if you didn’t feel it necessary to suggest cupcakes right after eating an entire meal (as if that wasn’t satisfying enough), you wouldn’t be in the predicament of almost breaking a chair while biting into a massive cupcake adorned with marshmallows, graham cracker crumbs, and chocolate sauce. No one suggesting hikes after lunch break chairs. 
Then, you wonder when it will be that the awkward moments become too frequent and you actually make a change. How many chairs at specialty bakeries does your ass have to dismantle until one is done with the bad choices? 
Awkward Moment #2 happens when you realize, probably never. Because cupcakes. 
  
Shut up, Ryan Gosling, you don’t know me! 

Simply, Thank You

I was hoping to reblog the post When bloggers go MIA by Aunty Cath, but she must not have the “reblog” setting. I will share a screen shot of her post instead:
image
I am extremely humbled and honored that I’m being recognized in other writer’s blogs. After doing this blogging thing for precisely 58 days (WordPress counts in days, I guess), I never would have thought I’d have the amount of followers and attention I have presently.
I am not entirely new to blogging. As many of my Facebook friends know, I started blogging when I moved to BFE, AKA Elko, way back in 2007. Saying it was hard for me to leave my friends, family, and favorite Cold Stone, is putting it mildly. I decided to write about the foibles of a “city girl” living in a cow town. It was met with loads of support from my loved ones, but I had not one “outside” follower. I didn’t really understand how to put myself “out there” or network at all. I wrote as a therapeutic way to handle my new life of falling into cattle guards and being held up on the main road by slow-as-molasses ranchers. It was a way to express myself, yes, but more so a way to remain sane. I miss that small, comfortable, infuriating town more than I can express (that’s a totally different story, though).
As mentioned, I had loyal followers who were close family and friends. Secretly, I wondered if they were so supportive merely because they loved me, not based on my literary merit. Sure, my mom laughed so hard she cried upon reading my posts, and my best friend said she “peed a little” while reading my writing, but was it really because I was good? I want to emphasize, that I, in no way, am discrediting the opinions and comments of loved ones, just sharing a little of my innate insecurity. One of my longtime loyal followers is a writer herself, so I suppose I didn’t need to feel too insecure.
I guess I always believed I wouldn’t be a “real writer” until I began garnering support from strangers. More importantly, from other writers. Most humbly, I have gotten an immense amount of support from the blog world. It was terrifying to put myself out there, in such a naked and real way, which was why I played like I didn’t care how many followers I got. So, in the case that I would totally fall on my face, I could brush it off like I wasn’t doing it for the attention. Now I sound like I really am doing it for the attention *back peddling*.
Let me be real, there is a delicious spark of electricity that runs up my spine, that creates a euphoric high as I start reeling in the “likes” and followers after posting. It’s addictive and probably as good as a cocaine high (notice how I said, “probably”?). I have been trying not to let myself get so wrapped up in the “likes” and the amount of followers. Yet, how does one get their writing seen without readers? Skating the fine line between blogging for the enjoyment versus the attention is treacherous, and I’m still learning how to keep my balance.
With all this said, I’m eternally grateful to my loyal, longtime followers, those who have been reading my work since Elko. I am also so excited for the connections I’m making in the blogging world. I get to read posts from people all the way from India to Australia. I am also very lucky that such a diverse group of people relate to the crazy topics I write about.
I have been told that I am not a real writer until I get a book published, and my ex couldn’t stand my humor, but you can’t win them all. I’m simply going to cherish the people who support me, and continue to write, and create. It’s all I can do. It’s all I must do.

Why? No. Just Stop! 

So, this morning, on my way to brunch, I saw a dude, walking down the street, wearing a bathrobe. A bathrobe. Strangely, he did not appear to be nude under said robe. He was wearing a Led Zeppelin shirt and jeans. And a bathrobe. If it were winter, or chilly at all, maybe this wouldn’t be as weird, but it was 90 degrees. What would posses someone to:
A. Wear a bathrobe in public, and…
B. Wear a bathrobe in public in 90 degree weather? 
And, no, he was not a street person, he was talking on his iPhone 6. 
Like, did he think, “I may get lost going down the street, so, in case I’m lost well into the night, I better be prepared, by wearing…a nice, fuzzy, warm bathrobe”?
Except, this bathrobe wasn’t nice and fuzzy. It was colored shit brown, had numerous holes, and was adorned with curious stains, and I don’t even want to imagine the amount of porn that poor piece of terry cloth has seen. 
What possesses people to wear items of clothing in public that should never see the light of day? Additionally, and even more curiously, why do people wear winter weather items in the summer? 
I know you have a mad case of swamp ass in those black leather skinny pants, don’t even lie. And, who can even stand to be around the genius who sweats buckets in their Ugg boots and then takes them off, in a room with other people, like no biggie? Also, is it not common knowledge that if your head is hot, the rest of your body will be too? Why then all the beanies, people? Why???? 
Next person I see wearing a sweatshirt in the heat of another 90 degree day, I’m going to stop and ask about their clothing choice. I’ll pretend I’m a fashion writer in search of the latest trend. I’ll ask them why they chose a long-sleeved, fleece-lined, sweat factory, usually worn in the snow, on a day where most people try getting away with wearing next to nothing.
I have to know why. Do they not get hot? Does the heat not bother them? If so, what’s their secret? Is it a weight loss or cleanse thing? Are they going for boob and crotch sweat of epic proportions on purpose, to lose weight? Are they not of the human race? Were they sent here from a planet where the thermostat is always set to 68, and they are just cold, always? Fucking why? 
Also, I’m kind of tired of the “Wear Anything in Public Because This is America” trend. No, just because you have the right, you should not wear your sweat-stained, used-to-be-white negligee as a dress. We all know it’s not a dress, it’s from Suzy’s, and it’s for the bedroom. It’s not trendy, no one is envious of your attire, and your nipples are showing. Go put on an actual dress, mmmkay? 
If I start sweating just looking at you, you’re probably wearing a beanie or knee high boots with shorts. STOP THAT. TAKE IT OFF.
If my cheeks are flushed and I start sweating upon looking at you, it’s probably because I’m embarrassed for you, no one wants to see your beef curtains, hanging out of your shorts, swaying in the summer breeze. STOP THAT. PUT THEM AWAY. 
Well, I don’t really have much more to say after that. Good day. 

Ugly Sleep

Don’t get me wrong, I adore waking up to my boyfriend’s adorable sleeping face. Most days. Yes, I love feeling his warmth against me as he peacefully dreams, and all that mushy shit. But, let’s be real here. Those memes that paint the picture that love is sleeping like you’re one big romantic pretzel are bullshit. 
  This looks fucking awful. I bet his breath smells like hot Limburger cheese. 
Let’s be honest, here. I’m going to paint a true portrait of what it’s like to share the same bed with someone. 
First, I’m going to break it down to how sleeping with your significant other changes during the different stages of your relationship. 
In the beginning, during that fateful “first sleep”, you don’t actually sleep. Instead, you lay perfectly still so as to not wake the other person. You don’t want to portray, so early on, that you sleep like an epileptic Tasmanian Devil. Not yet. Additionally, you fail to sleep because you must concentrate on never opening your mouth. No one likes a mouth breather, especially after you’ve had chicken cesear salad for dinner. 
Not only must you keep your mouth odor to yourself, you can’t, for a second, allow your body to relax. You don’t want your bowels to believe it’s “a go” to expel any gas. Farting on your first night together, especially if your fart smells like hot salad, would be the absolute worst thing to happen. 
Eventually, you relax enough to actually sleep and you feel euphoric that you shared such an intimate, beautiful thing together. Cuddling sometimes occurs, as does morning kisses. Either you don’t smell each other’s breath, because you both secretly brushed your teeth prior to “waking up”, or you’re too happy to care your breath smells like something died. 
Somehow, your communal sleeping habits move from nose-breathing picturesque statue and sickeningly romantic, to something so ugly. So scary. 
When my boyfriend and I first started dating, I was so scared to pop the fart cherry. You know, getting past that first fart in front of the same person you don’t let know you pluck hairs from your chin? It was so scary, and so painful. If the gas was too intense, I would pretend I left something in my car, so that I could go outside to let them fly. I recall a time when he, too, used to be embarrassed to fart in my presence and would actually say, “Oh! Excuse me!” Gone are those days. 
Like easing up on farting in each other’s presence, so has our sleeping-with-someone-new-rituals. Nose breathing all night long is just not realistic, so full-on-gaping-mouth breathing complete with drool is what’s happening now. You don’t really know someone until you’ve smelled breakfast, lunch, and dinner on their breath. 
The idea to write on this topic came the other night when, while rolling over, I almost lost an eye to the corner of my boyfriend’s man-sized pillow. It’s this behemoth down pillow with really poky corners, sharp as tacks. I secretly think that’s how he’s going to do me in. Who will ever be charged with murder by pillow corner? 
As I laid there, feeling grateful I still had two eyes, I pondered how the way we sleep is the direct opposite of how every “love meme” says its done. As I listened to his even breathing, mixed in with a fart here, and a fart there, I wondered how we got past that too-embarrassed-to-be-a-real-human stage. I figured it all comes down to the fact that it hurts to hold farts in, and breathing your morning breath into someone’s face, is just another way of saying, “I love you”. 
When your relationship has made it past the first, surreal, romantic “get a room” months, sleeping gets real and it gets ugly. If you can honestly say you or your significant other has not farted in bed, laughed, and said, “I was just warming up the bed for you, because I’m romantic as shit”, you’re a fucking liar. If you don’t wake up looking like Amy Winehouse, after a binge, you’re an alien. If you still sleep with your mouth as far away from your lover as possible, give it up. Pretty sleep is no way to live. I don’t love my boyfriend any less because I recoil when his frigid toes touch me in the night. He doesn’t find me less attractive even when dried drool cakes my eye shut. We both understand we don’t have to sleep like horny teenagers to be in love. “Ugly sleep” wins over shitty “pretty sleep” every time. 
  
We all wish we looked like Snow White while sleeping. Just like having Kylie Jenner “asshole lips” is unrealistic, so is looking pretty while snoring.