I’ve been feeling so IDGAF about things lately.
Anyone else?
I have an actual, honest-to-goodness post almost finished and ready for Friday. It was supposed to be my post for tomorrow, but, life.
Ya know?
All I have to do for this post is add pictures, links, and do some fact checking- all the shit that really sucks when you’re getting a post ready to *publish*.
Am I right?
Also, I’ve been wondering why I feel it necessary to “have to have a post done by *insert day of the week here*” like my life depends on it.
It doesn’t.
This isn’t a job. No one is supervising me. I won’t be receiving an evaluation for my work (or lack thereof).
I’m sure my loyal followers will be around whenever I decide to grace them with my presence. Or they won’t.
I keep seeing people all around me with incredible side hustles, and here I am just doing my regular full time job and blogging whenever the mood strikes me.
Sometimes, I feel insanely stupid for spending so much of my time doing something that yields absolutely zero income. I’m aware enough to know that money doesn’t always buy happiness, but it does pay off debt and allows for luxurious travel and isn’t that the same thing?
I have been really needing a side job, but I know that if I do, my writing and blog will suffer.
(Or, I just need to write a book, but how will that ever happen when I can barely get a new post out every week?)
Whenever I realize this, I feel utter panic. This blog, my writing, my incredible followers mean a lot to me. They mean everything.
Unfortunately, these beautiful, wonderful, necessary-for-my-sanity things aren’t helping me pay off my debt or save for my upcoming trip to the U.K.
Well, that was depressing.
Let’s move on to another topic.
Along with the supremely deep pondering I’ve obviously been doing, I’ve decided I have an unhealthy relationship with popcorn.
I’m not even joking.
I legit eat three mini bags a night. It used to be two bags, but that didn’t bloat my stomach quite enough, so we’re on to three effing bags now.
Also, I feel I need to be totally transparent-I don’t just eat the popped kernels…
I…I eat the un-popped kernels.
They are probably growing a massive popcorn tree in my bowels as I type this. I might as well draft up a will.
But, seriously? Is eating kernels hazardous to one’s health?
Another awesome thing going on right now is that I’ve mysteriously hurt my ankle.
It’s swollen and puffy and sore.
Almost two weeks ago, I engaged in a 5k for the program Girls on the Run. I say “engaged”, because I sure as hell didn’t run and “walked” sounds even more lame.
Looking pretty decent, but this was 100% because this was taken before the race started.
So, somehow, while merely walking I hurt myself.
As if that’s not enough, my eczema is flaring up. I have itchy splotches of diseased-looking rashes all over my already-gorgeous body.
There ain’t anything sexier to a man then, “Babe, can you come put some cream on the eczema I can’t reach?”
You might as well just take me and my popcorn-growing eczema guts out back, because what in the actual fuck?
Meh.
Tag: blogging
Apple Hill Shenanigans
This is a rant and a dedication. So, buckle your seat belts, people. It’s gonna be a bumpy ride.
After yet another carb-filled and merrymaking trip to Apple Hill, I’ve learned more than just how far I can push the load-bearing limit of my clothing or exactly how many fruit-filled pastries I can eat before my stomach implodes. I learned this year that:
1. People are assholes, even when they are surrounded by apple pastries, alcohol, and an endless assortment of exciting crap to buy.
2. Surrounded by said assholes, if you’re among non-assholes, you are far richer than the dick in the Tesla who thought it was cool to park in the pick-your-own apple orchard.
This Apple Hill year, I brought along my childhood best friend. We’ve legit been friends since we were two. Some years we’ve hated each other, but, somehow, we always find each other again.
The first time this friend attended our Apple Hill shenanigans, my mom almost lit the motel bathroom on fire trying to light a Hostess Sno Ball turned into a birthday cake fireball from hell. My aunt almost didn’t see her 45th year.
Since, my friend has admitted that her trips to Apple Hill without us are just not the same.
We left for The Hill in the morning on a sunny, way-too-warm-for-fall Friday. Despite the fact that the weather report said it’d be almost 80, I wore a scarf and ankle boots, because, HELLO, it’s practically a basic bitch law that if you go to a pumpkin patch, you wear a scarf and boots. Bonus points if the pattern on your scarf is chevron.
Our first lunch was spent at a popular spot, so it took almost an hour to stand in line and get our food. Because it was still early, the wait and the endless people didn’t affect my mood too much.
Right after devouring a cheeseburger and garlic fries, it was sprinkled caramel apple time! It’s tradition!
After I got my sprinkle fix, I was pretty much over walking around in the heat, looking at the same stuff, different farm.
While my mom and aunt looked at every single item, at every single booth, making friends with every single crafter as they went, my friend and I parked ourselves in the shade with an apple cider slushy.
After way too much time in the sun and heat, we decided it was beer o’clock, so we headed to the Jack Russell Brewery. It’s the only brewery in the area, so it is a must-do every time we go to Apple Hill.
Without a doubt, every visit to Jack Russell is memorable, and this time was no different.
This year, though, we decided that we very much dislike the people who own/run this establishment. They are rude with a capital bitch-eat-a-Snickers.
Due to the unseasonably warm weather, the umbrellas were a hot commodity. After a table full of college-age girls near us had left, we tried to position their umbrella so we could get some shade. As we were trying (and failing) to make the umbrella grace us with sweet shade, one of the Cave Bitches (their meadery is in a cave-like room and they are serious bitches, thus their apropos nicknames) started going around closing the umbrellas.
Um, are you blind?
This incredibly unfriendly lady wouldn’t know customer service or kindness if they each, in turn, smacked her upside her RBF.
So, after being so kindly assisted with the umbrellas, we decided to just move one over to our table. In the process of doing this, we struggled a bit as the umbrella was awkward and there were quite a few trees.
From the meadery cave, about 20 yards away, the Cave Bitch started screaming at us.
“WHAT ARE YOU DOING?! YOU’RE HURTING THE TREES!”
This terrible person couldn’t even crawl out of her rotting crypt to speak in a regular voice level or to, gee, offer to HELP US?!
I hope we ruined your tree, Cave Wench.
I had had just enough alcohol to feel brave, so in order to not make a scene, we moved to the other side of the outdoor seating area and drank an ungodly amount of beer.
The next morning, it was Apple Cider Donut Time. Along with Beer o’ Clock and Cupcake Thirty, it’s one of my favorite times of the day!
I was pretty much in heaven as I devoured my fried cake and coffee. But, then, some asshole’s dog wouldn’t stop barking.
If you know me personally, you know I’m obsessed with dogs. I love the shit out of their drooly, adorable faces, but sometimes dogs can be left at home.
I know that’s a novel concept for some people.
This particular dog, the one who majorly interrupted my enjoyment of the sound of my gluttony, simply could not handle the sight of other dogs.
So, one must ask…
WHY THE FUCK DID YOU BRING YOUR OTHER-DOG-HATING DOG TO THE MOST CROWDED RANCH, WHERE OTHER DOGS ARE SURE TO BE FOUND?
Because I’m an asshole (that’s Asshole speaking). That’s why.
After this, I had a mediocre apple treat that contained, precisely, one slice of apple, bought a metric ton of fudge, and drank even more cider.
When we were attempting to leave the 80th farm of the day, a woman, unearthing her child from underneath all of the crap she bought and was storing in her stroller, decided a fine place to do this was smack dab in the middle of the narrow roadway.
At this point, I was still hungover, sweating profusely, and had killer acid reflux from all of the apple I had eaten.
I couldn’t even.
After six hours, she was finally done unloading the stroller and we were able to leave.
I may or may not have rolled down my window to thank her for making us late for more eating.
Don’t keep this fatty from her eighth apple brownie. Don’t even.
Despite the rude and pretentious people we encountered, the bullshit heat, and the unbearable indigestion, being with people who made my food baby bump jiggle from infectious laughter made it all worthwhile.
My favorite part of the trip was leaving the brewery, drunk and laughing obnoxiously at the spaceships we found by the Porta Potties (they were bee catchers). We piled into the car (don’t worry, my aunt was driving and totally sober and capable), excited for impending Chinese dinner (as if we had not had enough). My mom kept yelling, “Look out, Dana, there’s a car!” every time we passed every reflective sign on the road. I was laughing so hard, I could barely breathe, as I sang along (horribly) to Eric Church’s Springsteen, head back, staring at the endless stars in the sky through the moonroof.
So, take that Idiot Dog Owner, Stroller Simpleton, and Cave Bitch, you were no match for 10,000 calories all from carbs, fabulous, but unnecessary junk, and 100% necessary-for-my-sanity ladies who know how to party.
Apple Hill 2017 is one for the books.
I won Apple Hill!
When I think about 17, I think about my best friend.
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Just Call Me 'Prudence the Procrastinator'
I’m the biggest procrastinator. I put things off until the bitter end- blog posts, car registration renewals, diets. You name a task and I’ve done literally everything else there is to do before starting on said task.
At the same time, I overthink things to the point of obsession. When it comes to my writing, even though I don’t have numerous posts written ahead of time, scheduled and ready for publishing, I have ideas, phrases, and themes constantly swirling and developing in my head.
Getting my thoughts into a blog post is always my biggest challenge. It’s not that I don’t like to write, in fact, it’s the direct opposite (obviously). I fear that if I’m not in the perfect frame of mind or mood, my writing won’t come out the way I hear it in my head and feel it in my heart.
Thus, the endless ideas swimming around, stuck inside my obsessive, yet lazy mind, never seeing the light of day.
So, all of this rambling to say my post I was working on for today is not ready. I didn’t devote the time needed and now it’s nearly 10 PM. I can’t half-ass it just to have something to post on my usual post day.
I’m better than that and you all deserve better than that.
So, instead of a *real* post, I want to hear from you. What does the creative writing process mean to you? Do you struggle with producing? What about any writer insecurities? What do you do to ignite inspiration?
Talk to me!
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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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My First FabFitFun Box
Ya’ll! I finally broke down and joined every other basic bitch and got me a FabFitFun box. It was a splurge (even at the discounted price of $39.99) that I really didn’t need, but TREAT YO SELF!
I love, love, love the excitement that exists when you know a package is headed your way. It’s why I do Snack Crate and Ipsy, and why I order far too often from Amazon Prime, Zulily, and many others I’m too ashamed to list.
I decided to spare everyone a cringe-worthy Tori Spelling-esque “unboxing” video. I’m super awkward on film, and so many other *greats* like Snooki and Teresa Giudice are doing video “unboxings” for your viewing pleasure.
So, let’s just get on with it, eh?
The very same day I received my box, my darling guy got me this sweet and quite apropos treat, and somehow, my FabFitFun box didn’t seem quite as fabulous.
So, when I was done feeling all the feels, I finally got around to opening my box.
The packaging is nice, and I like how they add the paper “grass” (what is that shit called?).
What I didn’t like is that these “high end” items come in mass-produced-feeling plastic. This type of packaging takes away the “expensive” feel of the items.
Now might be the time, especially if you’re not familiar with the concept, to mention that FabFitFun profess that their $49.99 box is worth $200+.
More on that as we continue.
Let me show you my perfectly staged photo of the contents. Aren’t I so talented in such a basic-bitch-taking-a-photo-for-Insta-way?
Now, let’s review each item and their supposed cost.
The MER SEA & CO scarf is one of the items in the box that I feel lives up to its apparent cost. Even so, there is no way in hell I’d ever intentionally buy a $98 scarf. With Target, Marshall’s and TJ Maxx’s amazingly low priced on-trend pieces, I can get a decent scarf for $12.
I asked my live-in photographer (boyfriend) to snap a couple shots of me in my new scarf. What you will notice in the images is that the scarf is behemoth (maybe that’s why it’s so expensive-each one is made from 50 polyester trees) and that my Blog-Instagram Boyfriend was not having it, as I now have 82 random, blurry images of me getting ready to pose. Great job, Babe!
Also pictured in the above images is The Jetset Diaries cable knit beanie. This is probably my favorite item, because my day 4 hair loves the crap out of beanies. This came-in-plastic beanie is supposed to be worth $49, and I just can’t. I bet you all that right now, this very minute, in any Target across the nation, sits a black beanie, almost identical to the one from the box and it’s $10. Again, why is a thin cable-knit beanie $49? Who are the idiots buying $50 beanies?
Next up is the Mytagalongs hot and cold pack ($15). I am actually really excited about this, because I totally needed another ice pack to add to the 20 already in the freezer. The reason: IT SAYS, “ICE ICE BABY”.
This was totally appreciated, because BUTT WIPES ARE EVERYTHING, YO.
I can’t speak too much for these products, as I have yet to use them. I am totally excited to try the apple cider vinegar hair rinse, though! I’m also really looking forward to never using the lipstick, because I don’t wear lipstick. The Whish Beauty mud mask is valued at $48, the DPHue rinse at $35, and the Trèstique lipstick at $28.
The Deco Miami lavender cuticle oil is just too cute. When I was first opening the box, I thought it was nail polish. I was so bummed, because I get gel manicures, so nail polish is useless to me. When I used my reading decoding skills and saw that it was cuticle oil, I was giddy. My cuticles are inexcusably ghastly! The oil is priced at $12.50 and is the only reasonably priced item in the box (save for the Cottonelle buttwipes).
The imm-Living ceramic and wire geometric heart jewelry holder is the exact thing I’d use my last $5 to buy at Ross. It really is adorable and is already proudly on display on my vanity. That said, IT’S A PIECE OF GARBAGE.
When I got it, there was a nub of ceramic in one of the holes where the wire base goes. I had to take some skinny scissors and jam it loose. Even then, the hole was too tight (that’s what he (?) said) and upon jamming the metal into the hole some of the “metal” flaked off.
This cheaply made piece of poo is priced at $33. Fuck me.
Well, in my box I got a Walmart special that reads, “Meet Me at the Barre”. I’ve never been to a barre fitness class, and this bodacious bod has never, ever been confused for that of a ballerina’s. There’s no way I’d ever carry this bag. Just embarrassing.
Not only this, FabFitFun is claiming that the thin canvas Private Party bag is worth $59. Excuse my French, but FUCK YOU VERY MUCH.
I don’t shop at Walmart and haven’t for a solid four years, but I guaran-fucking-tee that they have a similar bag for no more than $10. If not Walmart, Wish is guaranteed to have it for $1.50.
So, I’m still laughing that Private Party and FabFitFun thinks this bag is worth $59.
Final Thoughts
I have a really, really, really effing hard time believing the items that came in my box truly total $377.50. If this is indeed an accurate sum, I’m appalled at what is deemed high quality just because it has a high price. If this is the true state of the world now, maybe I can start harvesting my boyfriend’s belly button hair and sell it as “organic inner ear warmers”. I bet I could get 40 bucks per pair.
I do believe I got my $40 worth, though. For sure. I just don’t like being taken for a schmuck.
***When I realized that I didn’t get the cupcake bag, I immediately emailed FabFitFun and asked if I could make an exchange. I explained that I was Fatty McCupcakes and that I needed the cupcake bag. I said I’d write a blog post about my box and everything.
They got back to me very quickly and said that they’d exchange the bag “as a one time courtesy”. No, “We’d love for you to write a blog post about us, and not only will we send you the “Will Workout For Cupcakes” bag, we’d like to offer you a job as a paid blogger for FabFitFun” or anything. Rude.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m grateful they are exchanging the bag, but the wording “as a one time courtesy” sounded kinda bitchy.
Don’t let me discourage you. It really is a fun way to spend $39.99-$49.99. Just remember, it’s Reba Fancy, not Real Fancy.
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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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Emetophobia? Say What?
I think I’ve mentioned here a couple thousand times or two that I’m a germaphobe. If you know me personally, you would most definitely say that hand sanitizer is the one item I’d choose to take to a desert island.
It’s true.
I always try to play it cool, like I’m not afraid germs will jump right off surfaces straight into my mouth.
When I first started at my school, I tried not to be the token germaphobe teacher. I thought I was doing well until our old (as in, not-at-our-school-anymore-old) counselor made some joke about me almost certainly having a black light app on my phone (We were in a really shady bus. I’d explain why we needed a black light, but I think you know).
I remember thinking, “How did she know?”
After some self-reflection, I realized she knew, along with everyone else who’s come into contact with me, because I put on hand sanitizer precisely 537 times a day.
I really thought I was stealth about my hand sanitizer use.
Also, I’m that person sending death glares to adult you-should-know-better creeps who don’t cover their mouths.
Additionally:
1. I have to be minutes from death before you see me in an ER.
2. If someone close to me looks like they’ll be sick, I’ll run for the hills/call for an adultier adult/point to somewhere far away from me, indicating that’s where I’d like them to be.
3. I use my shirt to open doors with questionable handles.
4. I ask my boyfriend if he washed with soap after he uses the bathroom.
5. I’ve been known to put hand sanitizer in my nose if forced to breath in someone’s sneeze or hot death fart.
In all seriousness, I have problems.
I’ve always had a fear of vomiting-hearing it, seeing it, smelling it, doing it. Nope times ten million.
Also, I hate having someone see or know I’m sick. Just leave me alone. Better yet, let me hide in the hole I’ve just dug until I’m human again.
Shit got real about 10 years ago when I worked at a daycare during college. There was a huge norovirus outbreak, and it fucked with my mind in a major way. Like I mentioned before, I’ve never been a fan of puking, but when we went so far as to bleach crayons and books to prevent the spread of a virus, something clicked in me.
This is bad shit. Literally. I don’t want to puke and poop, involuntarily and simultaneously. How long does this illness from Hell last? Will I have to go to the ER with a puke bucket? OMG. No. We’re all gonna die. HELP. We’re.All.Gonna.Die.
So, during the great Norovirus Outbreak Freak Out of 2006, I would go to serious OCD extremes to “protect” myself from getting sick. Really, these were just compulsions that made me feel safe.
When I got home after being stuck in the hot box of germs all day, I’d strip at the door. Before scalding myself in the shower, I’d wipe my purse, keys, and phone down with Clorox wipes.
This was an everyday thing and I didn’t feel *OK* until my routine was done.
So, yeah.
*coughs
Whenever an illness starts making its rounds, I try to play it cool. Even after I hear of the 58th person I know to bite the dust, I try to act like I’m not about the worrying life, but then I find myself spraying my face down with spray hand sanitizer whenever someone’s breath comes a little too close to my face holes.
As much as being sick sucks, I realize that vomiting is not the end of the world (I mean, if you are vomiting due to Ebola, that might mean the end of the world. But, that was so 2014).
I’m not as OCD about getting sick anymore, but that doesn’t mean I want to spend two days on my bathroom floor.
So that I’m not the only freak in the room, tell me what you’re phobic about. Any fellow emetophobics? If so, how do you calm yer tits when shit gets real? Let me know in the comments!
Remember this from my But Don’t Do That post? Even this is a lie. If you’re puking in my house, I’m packing and heading for Mexico. NOPE.
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Don't Be a Debbie Downer
Blog comments-I live and breathe by them. I mean, my life would obviously go on, and I’d figure out how to get oxygen the good, old fashioned way if I suddenly didn’t have WordPress. But, no shit, my day is made exponentially better when I see a slew of love waiting for me to read in my WordPress app.
That is, unless it’s an unnecessarily rude/bitchy/salty/passive aggressive comment.
Those aren’t my favorite.
Way back when I first started putting my ridiculous thoughts out *there* for God and everybody to read and critique, I was scared out of my ever-loving-mind.
What if my humor doesn’t translate well to others?
What if my use of the word “fuck” offends the majority of those who attempt to relate to me?
What if the only person who thinks I’m funny is me?
What if what I write about is too TMI, and the people in my life start regarding me as a loud, unfunny, crass imbecile?
These were very real concerns.
The response over the years, however, has been incredible.
Somedays, I don’t even believe that I’m able to put together some words and those words mean something to others.
Somedays, I have to check to make sure it’s me who’s getting the laughs about unfortunate yoga flatulence and insane vacation fails.
The love has been real, immense, and supportive.
Except, when it hasn’t.
There’s always gotta be that person. You know who I mean:
The guy who has to ruin the good time with their overly concerned beliefs or their inability to get a joke, even when it slaps them in their dopey face.
Only very recently have I had run-ins with some haters making their presence known on my blog.
I’ve always heard or read stories about relentless haters from other blogs and bloggers. To be honest, I only half believed that someone was being harassed by strangers over their content, language, or grammar usage.
Really? Does that *really* happen? (There’d always be an eye roll, too, for good measure.)
Well, I’m just a little late to the game, ya’ll.
Yes, people actually take time out of their day to comment on minor grammatical errors.
Yes, people actually miss the entire main idea of a post and then make their disdain of a tiny kernel of an idea known in your comment section.
Yes, people actually make it a point to sound as bitchy and passive aggressive as possible when commenting on a harmless subject, like book suggestions.
I can’t even.
Now, don’t get me wrong, I’m always first in line to spread some bitter all over the comment section of dumb articles or videos on social media. I have too big of a mouth to not.
And, I’d be lying if I said I was never tempted to comment on terrible grammar or topic choices when reading blog posts.
But, here’s the difference between myself and your average Comment Creep:
I understand that blog posts are off limits in regards to unhelpful, just plain salty opinions.
A Facebook post took seconds, and likely, very little thought. Yet, a blog post, almost certainly, took hours/days/weeks, tons of creative energy, and a shit ton of guts to post.
I feel pretty confident that fellow bloggers understand this code of conduct, but the “others” obviously don’t.
I know excuses for constructive criticism might come up. My opinion on “helpful” suggestions is that they aren’t welcome unless specifically asked for by the author/blogger.
Also, respectful dialogue and discourse on a topic that is controversial is fine. There’s nothing better than having a lively discussion with someone who believes differently than you do.
I’m strictly speaking of rude-ass comments that make you feel stabby, yet, instantly self-conscious.
The.worst.
So, here’s where I need your help.
What do you do when you come across a rude comment? Do you delete it? Do you ignore it/not approve it? Do you comment back? Do you dust off your voodoo doll?
How do you deal with Debbie Downers? Let me know in the comments!
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We Were Stupid AF
“Um. Dude. You might want to leave work…”
“Uh…why?”
“Well, we have to be out of the apartment by five tonight, or they’ll be calling the police to escort us out…”
At some point in everyone’s lives they’ve had a stupid-af-era. If you’ve never had one of those, you’re the exception, not the rule. Count yourself lucky, too, because you probably have minimal debt, own an appliance larger than a blender, and you know what an annuity is, and you likely have one.
So, none of the above is me. I’ve had my stupid-af-era, and to be quite honest, I’m not sure I ever left said time in my life.
Back when I moved out of my parents’ for the first time, I lived with two of my best friends.
We were all almost 21, and so idiotic it was a wonder anyone was brave enough to give us our own apartment.
We apartment hunted for a long time, wanting a cheap apartment in a not cheap neighborhood. Finally, we had to settle on a two bed, one bath. Best Friend #1 and I had to share a room, but it was worth not being woken up by my dad banging on my door, looking for the crusted-over bowls hiding under my bed.
Living on our own was better than I had ever dreamed it would be. On the first night, I overflowed the toilet. The second night, our secondhand dryer broke. On the third night, we spilled Sour Apple Pucker on the carpet. Really, we should have stopped while we were ahead. Yet, every moment was magic, because independence was a beautiful thing.
It was simply glorious being footloose and anal-retentive-parent-free.
We stayed up till all hours, drinking Bartles & Jaymes Wine Coolers and watching Santa Clause 2.
No one (Mom) ever yelled at me for hogging up the phone line so I could change my AIM away message twenty times in one day.
If all we wanted in the fridge was a jar of questionable pickles and eight varieties of Boones Farm, so be it.
We were independent ladies, forging our way in the world.
Along with the wild 8-and-up card game nights, we also had nights when we fought.
My two best friends, while being my good friends, didn’t exactly love each other.
One was too over-bearing and motherly. The other left her thongs, crotch up, in the bathroom.
Some nights, we’d throw keyboards, curling irons, or said thongs at each other.
Other nights, we’d drown each other out with loud mariachi music.
During the six months that we lived in the apartment, we never once got a complaint from a neighbor. I’m not really sure how that was even possible. Maybe our downstairs neighbors were as loud and obnoxious as us? Or, they were stone-deaf.
This gorgeous chaos soon came to a head after Best Friend #2 brought home a cat, which was against our lease agreement (it also didn’t help that the little fucker’s favorite thing to do was hide under the couch or behind the bedskirt and then attach itself to our flesh when we least expected it).
Best Friend #1 and I were a lot of annoying, juvenile things, and one of those things was we were big rule followers (I guess that didn’t apply to underage drinking, though). As soon as we could, we returned the cat to the humane society.
Obviously, hijaking someone’s cat and taking it back to the cat store doesn’t sit well with some people (most people).
This single act started an epic war between three extremely petty, passive-aggressive bimbos.
Because living at the apartment was becoming awkward as fuck, Best Friend #1 went back home and I sought refuge at the new boyfriend’s house.
When the portion of the power bill owed by Best Friend #2 wasn’t paid, we snuck into the apartment and removed every single lightbulb. Our not-quite-fully-developed brains figured this was the obvious solution to an issue that could have been handled by simple communication.
Best Friend (or Enemy, at this point) #2, went to management and told them all about our drama.
Turns out, shady apartment managers don’t like dealing with dumb college girl drama.
They didn’t even want to hear it and told us we all had to be moved out before 5 PM that same day.
After quite a few years under my belt, and some serious renting experience, I realize now that what they did was likely illegal.
Well, after the phone call from Best Friend #1, suggesting I maybe come home to completely vacate in less than 5 hours, I called my mom.
(Shamefully, I’m pretty certain that every gray hair and wrinkle on my mother’s body is thanks to my brother and I.)
Her response was: “Well, that’s just fabulous. You better call every Goddamn person you know to help you. You also better call your father, because I’m not. Good luck with that and goodbye.”
At some point during the Great Pack Up, Best Friend #1’s mom was on her hands and knees, in the kitchen, frantically throwing kitchen items into a box while simultaneously yelling about how disgusting we were.
My brother was vacuuming for the first time in his life, going over and over every square inch of carpet like his life depended on it.
My aunt was asking what she thought we should do about the moldy towels in our 6-months-broken dryer.
My mom was yelling orders at all of our family and friends, and even some random people she caught walking down the street.
My cousins were hauling loose items like lamps, throw pillows and towels to our cars, while cursing us under their breath.
Best Friend # 1 and I were throwing belongings into boxes, not caring whose crap it was. I think there’s still some random storage shed somewhere with our priceless Anne Geddes art and plastic blow up lounge chairs.
And, Best Friend #2? What was she doing? At precisely T-Minus two hours, she was still crying in her room.
After attempts by my mom and Best Friend #1’s mom, my dad had to finally pound on her door and threaten her with his dad voice. Eventually, she appeared with 85 garbage bags, filled to the brim with her stuff, ready to be hauled out.
Somehow, we all (Mom, Dad, Brother, Best Friend #1’s mom, dad, and brother, Best Friend #2, a handful of friends, my cousins, and random passerby) managed to leave the place looking spotless (not even a random hanger or a half-used roll of TP was left) with only two minutes to spare.
I learned a lot of lessons from my first time living on my own. Namely, don’t live with friends and don’t leave bitchy notes for your roommates that read, “I love waking up to your bowel movements everyday. Can you please run the fan and courtesy flush? Also, the phone bill is due. K thanks.”
I’m still learning.
I just learned the other day that disposals aren’t made to mash up large quantities of food. They are just for those odd bits. Who woulda thunk?
Also, don’t prop up your feet that have been in your sweaty shoes all day on the coffee table within five feet of someone. Especially when they’re eating.
So, even though I’m doing slightly better than I was when I first lived on my own, somedays, I think I’m still firmly planted in the stupid-af-era. And, some days, I change the batteries in the smoke detector all on my own.
These days, Best Friend #1 is winning at life. She owns her own home and seems to always be jetting off on some trip. The bitch.
Best Friend #2 is married with two beautiful children. I don’t think she owns a cat.
For some reason, this is the only picture I could find of our first apartment. Notice the message board, where super friendly (bitchy) messages were written. I have no idea who the half-naked guy is, but a poster of a wet/greased up/sweaty guy in the kitchen is always a good idea. Also, WTF is happening with my “bangs”?
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 love! You can vote HERE! Thank you, and as Leslie Knope would say, “I love you and I like you.”
