So, like, you know how heavy whipping cream is like a staple of the keto diet? Sure, lots of greens and grass fed meats are pretty key, but
HEAVY WHIPPING CREAM
Have you ever just had a spoonful of heavy whipping cream (of course the fuck not because the majority of you- the odd three or so followers I have left- aren’t psychos)?
Heavy whipping cream is legit heavy. It sticks to the roof of your mouth and blankets your tongue in a thick coat of fat. It somehow makes it into your brain’s pleasure receptors, where it does the version of the Macarena where you just flail your arms around and laugh like a hyena because you have no idea what you’re doing, but YAY, HEAVY FUCKING WHIPPING CREAM.
Once you try a spoonful, it only makes sense to use it in place of your 1% Lactaid when you make yourself an entire box of Pasta Roni. And by you, I mean me.
Oh, I’m sorry.
Did you think I was doing keto, finally?
Excuse me while I laugh in fat and desperate, but still ain’t trying keto.
So, once I learned how absolutely mind-blowing heavy cream is in boxed pasta (like, no joke, better than any of the pasta I ate in Italy), I knew I had to try it in my Chocolate Peanut Butter Cheerios.
Heavy whipping cream in cereal should be outlawed, in case you were wondering. It’s just not fair to regular milk.
These are just some of the delights I ate tonight, along with two mini bags of popcorn, a pudding cup topped off with a giant dollop of marshmallow cream, and some canned corn because I’m not a savage.
What makes this all the more oh-no-baby-what-is-you-doin was that just this past Monday, the day we returned from winter break, I chose to wear jeans to work.
Jeans.
Jeans, after two solid weeks of sweatpants and fists full of homemade Chex Muddy Buddies.
I figured… what did I figure? Was I even figuring?
If you must know, I still have an indent in my stomach from the waistband, and I couldn’t sit at a 90 degree angle the entire day. In case you weren’t aware, most sitting is done at a 90 degree angle.
So, what’s new with me? As you can see, not a damn thing.
What’s new with you two?
(I’m speaking to the two stragglers I have left here).
Have you ever tried heavy whipping cream in your cereal? Did it blow your pants off (just literally, unfortunately) like it did me?
It has been discovered, after myriad messages (some really embarrassing and many most wouldn’t send their best friend) sent back and forth between Amanda “McMilkshakes” and I, that we are certified garbage grownups. What is a garbage grownup, you ask? Well, just keep reading. You will soon either feel an equal amount of disgust and pity for us or you will feel like you have found your people.
Hell being the DMV or the grocery store on a Sunday…
How Does One Clean an Oven? Asking For a Friend
A: What’s an oven? As a Garbage Grownup, I have to tell everyone that I do less than half of the cooking at my house. I can microwave my ass off, and do okay with snack type things (think peanut butter and celery). And, I can make eggs. Otherwise, the cooking isn’t up to me. No one in my house wants to die of food poisoning, so we just leave it to Chef John. My other classic move when it comes to food is to spend a fortune on groceries and then eat out all week because we don’t have any convenience food in the house. I don’t know how Chef John hasn’t driven me into the wilderness and left me for dead yet.
As far as other household chores are concerned, I have one word for you all: Febreze. You’re welcome. I use it on EVERYTHING and it helps to mask the fact that I haven’t cleaned my couches in at least 6 months (and that’s being generous).
Strangely, I think I know what happened here…
K: I have never cleaned my oven, because I am too afraid the self-cleaning function will stink up the place (This happened to my parents when they were readying their house to be sold. We are all fairly certain the smell permeated the walls and will remain for all eternity). I am also concerned the chemical cleaners will be baked into our frozen chicken cordon bleu.
So, I read on Pinterest that you can make your oven like new with just, in my case, three boxes of baking soda and a gallon of vinegar. No mention on the article how you are supposed to get the dried mixture out. So, this is now our oven:
NEVERMIND
It’s just too embarrassing. I couldn’t share a picture. I just couldn’t do it.
It has been like this for a year (just use your imagination), because, oh well.
(Who does this? Who starts a big production of cleaning and then just stops in the middle for a whole year?)
One last teensy way I fail at being a real adult in the arena of Householding is that I don’t own an ironing board. I’m sure many people don’t own ironing boards, because who the fuck irons anymore? But, sometimes (like two times a year) you’ve just got to bite the bullet and pull out your rusty dusty iron.
So, what do I do to iron, then, since I don’t own an ironing board? Well, I’m glad you asked, Karen.
I use every flat surface in my house.
Subsequently, every flat surface has been ruined permanently by my too-hot iron. The real kicker here? Our coffee table has a stainless steel topper on it. Did it ever even once cross my mind to use that before, during, or after ruining my kitchen table, dresser, my duvet cover, or the wall? No. No, I did not.
Why Our Razors Are a Year Old, But Still Brand New and Other Hygiene Things
A: Shaving is a pain in the padded ass. I always get out of the shower with all the cuts bleeding, looking like I got into a fight with a small but ferocious alligator while I was in there. And have you ever gotten antiperspirant in a newly sliced armpit? Pass. Hard pass.
Another fun fact for lackluster hygiene is I have enough hair for three people, and I’m not washing this thing every day. It makes my arms tired and gives me a bad attitude. Well, a worse attitude. I firmly believe that God invented dry shampoo and gave it to us because he loves us and wants our arms to be rested. It would be bad manners not to take advantage of such a thoughtful gift.
K: I am a terrible excuse for a female*. I have a love-hate relationship with all forms of beauty. Don’t get me wrong, I love makeup and the perfect beach wave and I have more trendy beanies and chambray shirts than is even close to normal, but I hate the process.
Ya’ll know what I mean by the process.
I often dream of the Jetsons and the robots they had for everything. I want to live the robot life, ya’ll. If someone or something would shave my pits every day, I wouldn’t have armpits that could rival those of my boyfriend. I would also not have to warn said boyfriend- every six months or whenever I think the situation downstairs is getting ridiculous- that there are pubes everywhere and he may just want to burn the bathroom down, because like glitter, pubic hair never.goes.away.
You’re Supposed to Have Money in Your Savings Account?
A: About four years ago I got really sick with no insurance -another example of how I’m a horrible adult because you’re never supposed to not have insurance- and I still owe that hospital a lot of money. The last bill they sent was for $132,000.00 As a result we were completely wiped out and just when we were starting to recover, I got pregnant. The mature grownup thing to do would have been to go back to work right away and start building our nest egg back up, but this post isn’t about how I make terrific decisions is it?
I stayed home for 8 glorious months and loved the absolute shit out of my daughter while it was still an option. I’ve since gone back to work full time and am finally seeing some progress but it will take time to be on top again. My bi-weekly eyelash appointments are making it slower of course, but those are the breaks and my lashes are fabulous.
K: I am full on a moron when it comes to money. Well, let me clarify for anyone feeling aghast right now- I pay my bills, OK? And, I actually have excellent credit. Like, really excellent. I am not just using ‘excellent’ as my adjective of choice. By some strange miracle, I have been able to maintain truly excellent credit, all while balancing an idiotic amount of credit cards. When I am still living in a tiny apartment at the ripe old age of 78, I will have to tell myself, “Well, at least I had good credit…”.
I think it is pretty ridiculous that all around me there are people my age and even younger buying homes, appliances larger than a crockpot, and nicer cars than a used 2010 Hyundai. I actually have friends who own two refrigerators. I own zero refrigerators.
It isn’t ridiculous that people are smarter with their money than I am, but that I spend my money on an inane amount of soap from Bath & Body Works (that I am having a hard time fitting in my tiny apartment). Or, that I spend actual money on a home design game (I am not even shitting you- I have spent real monies on decorating a fucking designer entryway FOR A GAME ON MY PHONE). Or maybe it’s just a lot ridiculous that I have been paying for a monthly succulent subscription (while at the same time wondering why I don’t have a garden of my own). I have eight succulents so far. How many is too many succulents?
How I Almost Shit My Pants in My Car and Other Tales of Woe
A: Once upon a time about 8 years ago, I danced and performed hula with my niece. The shows were short, so our costumes had to be ready in advance, allowing for quick changing between songs. Her mama was out of town and mine was in the hospital, so the baton of preparedness was passed to me. I promptly dropped it twice and then gave it to my 11 year-old niece because I was ill-equipped. “Why is the steam button on this iron broken??!!!” It wasn’t. You just have to add water to the fucking basin if you want it to make steam.
Good thing my sister made her daughter ready for real life because we would have had some messed up outfits for the Reno High show. I still don’t iron very well, but I do know where the water goes. I’d call it a win.
K: I actually wrote the full tale of what-the-fuck here, but long story short, I was mere seconds from shitting my pants in my car. It came out of literally NOWHERE. I had just had my first ever chiropractor adjustment and I was on my way home and BAM- situation.was.dire.
I was in the middle of a residential neighborhood and was actually *silent inner scream* contemplating squatting behind a rhododendron.
I don’t know about any of you, but the realization that you are going to almost certainly defile the seat you sit in everyday, is something that changes your very psyche.
I ended up making it, but I had to run into a luxury apartment complex that was just closing. There was a lady behind a desk and I am not even sure if she saw me sprinting as I desperately clutched my ass (as if that has ever helped) or not, but the thought that she might come into the bathroom after what happened in there, and I’d have to make eye contact with her through the stall gap and say, “Yeah…I don’t live here… but… as you can see… it was an emergency,” made me clammy as fuck.
To make matters even better, I got locked in. I got locked into the apartment complex office I busted into to take an emergency poo. I eventually found a way out through the gym door that led outside. I then had to wait, like a wild half woman/half animal freak, for a car to enter through the outer gates to make my hurried, shameful escape.
I swore I’d find myself on the evening news. I was nervous for a least a week after.
You know shit like this never happens to Jill, with the bleached asshole, Range Rover, and yoga addiction.
#1 Garbage Mom
A: Let’s just get it out in the open: I am the worst mom on the face of the earth. It isn’t on purpose, I’m just not good. I don’t like being judged for not being good, so I cheat and then I get caught, and it makes me look a hundred times worse. I could tell so many stories here but I am the most embarrassed about just one.
So, I was supposed to be making Ava’s baby food at home. I made a huge production of it and pinned all kinds of recipes. I even got a special silicone mold to hold all the different foods I was planning to make. It was going to be epic.
Well friends, sorry to disappoint you, but it did not go down like that. It didn’t taste good, it didn’t smell good, and it took way longer than I anticipated.
My sweet girl has never been a sleeper, and what little free time I did have I wasn’t interested on spending it making baby food. I wanted to spend it sleeping. But, I wasn’t going to let the people who told me I would hate it win, and so I went and bought all the baby food flavors I could have made on my own if I had been inclined to do so, and I put it in my own containers.
The problem is, I left the store bought containers where they were found and my secret was discovered and mocked for a long time. I should have just told the fucking truth but hearing “I told you so” just really makes me mad, and as a Garbage Grownup I’m more comfortable lying than I probably should be.
PS: There’s a reason Gerber is a million dollar company.
So, tell us, how are you a garbage grownup? Come on, ya’ll know you’ve burned an iron shape into your curtains too.
This is the way to Starbucks and the answer to all of my adulting questions, right? Yeah, this is it. (It was not it.)
*Being a female means a lot of different things, but I was referring to the run of the mill, girly female here.
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!
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:
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:
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.
I’ve been deciding it’s high time to get my act together, diet-wise (Want to guess how many times I’ve said that exact statement? Hint- a fuck load). I haven’t quite come down from my vacation eat-everything-I-possibly-can mode. I’ve totally been living the vacation food life sans the walking miles everyday aspect of that life, so the pounds really have the ability to pack on.
Literally me every time food was in front of my fat face on my trip.
I’ve probably gained at least five pounds since I’ve been home. I have no idea, though. My scale is propped behind my bathroom door with two inches of dust on it, because The Boyfriend doesn’t sweep behind the door, if we’re pointing fingers here, AND because I’m Anti-Scale. When my jeans fit again, I’ll know I’ve lost weight.
My blog buddy and sister from another mister, Cinzia, suggested we be diet accountability partners on MyFitnessPal.
Because I love the ever-loving-shit out of Cinzia and because I finally deleted my Weight Watchers app that I’ve been paying $20 a month for for the better part of a year, yet wasn’t even using, I was happy to agree.
We arranged to share each other’s food diary by way of a passcode. Essentially, she was able to see all of the ridiculous shit I put in my mouth and I could see how many pieces of lettuces she ate and miles she ran in a day.
It was great fun. Here is a rundown of some of the things I might have said to her about her diet:
“Wow. No dessert again. You’re doing that everyday now? Is that a thing?”
“You ran five miles? Are those the same kind of miles we have over here in the states?”
“AREN’T YOU EVEN HUNGRY?”
Now, here are some things she probably said (I can’t be certain. People say a lot of things to me everyday. So…):
“Girl, did you really eat a donut for breakfast on the first day of tracking?”
“You did so good all day. Well, except somewhere around ‘Taco Bell Nachos and Large DQ Cookie Dough Blizzard’.
And…
“What exactly does ‘small bite of entire Cheesecake Factory Chocolate Hazelnut Crunch cheesecake’ mean?”
Basically, I’m utterly failing.
Here’s the deal, and I’m just gonna be real forthright and candid with ya’ll.
When do I ever get a cupcake, though?
With MyFitnessPal, you get the calories you get and you don’t throw a fit (Except, I did throw a fit. I threw a full blown fatty fit, complete with legit crying over not getting to eat a chocolate cream pie * ever again).
This is why these kinds of diets and eating plans don’t work with me. I need to know that eventually I can have a cheat fry or two. Or, that the cupcake I inhaled on one of my students’ birthdays doesn’t mean my entire diet for the day/week/month is derailed.
I need some wiggle room, ya’ll.
I’ve mentioned quite a few times the success I had on Weight Watchers (like, 50 pound-weight-loss-success).
This is why:
You get extra weekly points.
This may sound like an excuse to eat what you shouldn’t on a “diet”, but hear me out…
If you strictly follow your daily allotted points, your weekly points don’t hurt your progress.
They don’t make hurt your progress, ya’ll.
As long as you track and don’t go balls to the wall insane, you can lose weight while enjoying the occasional french fry or 20 or the odd cupcake or three.
So, what I’m really saying is restrictive af diets aren’t my jam and life is way too sucky to not eat cupcakes.
I mean, right?
So, if you’re reading this, and I kinda think you are, I have a question for you, Cinzia…
Will you be my Weight Watchers Girl Friend?
I totally will only be a little sad if you want to stay with MyFitnessPal since he’s done a body good. I just don’t think he’s that into me and I miss my cupcake points.
Now, I just need to find the willpower to sign back up with Weight Watchers and count my points without cheating, and I’ll be on the right track to losing this is-she-preggers-or-just-fat belly.
The struggle is real, folks.
What diets or food plans have worked for you and if you say paleo or keto totally works without cheating ever, I want your proof! For realz, show me it’s doable and I’ll maybe consider it…
In case you haven’t caught the 872 times I’ve mentioned my trip coming up, I’m heading across the pond in just a little more than a week!
Way back in January, after making our first of many house stay reservations and the like, I remember thinking, “Well, shit, I can’t go on this trip with these fat rolls and bingo wings!”
Thus began what I call The Fatty in Denial Diet Shtick.
It’s a cyclical shit show of epic proportions. It’s something I do every time I have a reason to “finally” lose the weight. It’s a really fun game, amusement, joke. Step 1: Realization OMG! Amsterdam can’t know I’m fat!
It’s not like my thighs conducting heat when they are rubbed together as I walk or the fact that my jeans (when I wear the fuckers) have cut a permanent line into my fat don’t remind me of my overly bodacious bod, but the realization that I’ll be fat in another time zone and completely out of my comfort zone usually snaps me right back to cold, hard reality. Step 2: The Game Plan It’s time to finally get serious and open the Weight Watchers app I’m paying $20 a month for. No more soda. No more white bread. No more sugar. No more happiness. Quit crying. Join a damn gym or at least go to a yoga class once a week, shit. Walk every day. Literally, rain or fucking shine. Do leg lifts and squats while my students are testing. They won’t think I’m weird. I mean, they pick their noses literally while staring me down, so we’ll be even. Buy diet pills on Amazon. All of the legit diet pills come from Mexico. Take B-12 drops. They give me horrific gas, but too.freaking.bad.
All of the diet and fitness ideas and quick fixes found on Pinterest are explored. No obese stone can be left unturned. Step 3: Actually Acting on the Plan
After making really big plans and promises that totally aren’t unrealistic at all, I settle on just counting Weight Watchers points and walking. It’s what worked ten years ago, when I was young. It’ll totally work now.
I usually set off with gusto, buying pounds of $60 coconut flour, enough carrot sticks for a horse show, a pallet of eggs, and 18 spaghetti squash (squashes?). I was taking-a-fitness-picture-for-Instagram-serious about getting my fitness on. Step 4: Going Hard and Heavy
…for a week.
Right as it starts getting really shitty and downright depressing that my days start with farty eggs and boring coffee, I start to relax the rules a little bit give up completely. That totally looks like a cup. Well, maybe just a little more and it’ll be a cup (it’s usually three cups) Granola is better than a glazed cake donut, so… One bite is like no points at all. Yes, even when I take 15 bites. 15 zero point bites is still zero. I know math. Step 5: Counting the Amount of Days Remaining Before the Event
If I have several months before I need to lose the weight, I can relax on the diet, because losing 20 pounds in a month is totally doable. Why the hell am I already making myself miserable? I don’t need to start really getting serious for at least another month or two. Step 6: An Upper Cut to the Double Chin AKA Sabotage
After months of telling myself I have “x amount of months” until I need to really get serious, it’s now D-Day. Inevitably, the following will occur to derail any semblance of the perfect diet plan I made so many moons ago, when I was still young and full of hope:
Birthdays
Holidays
Teacher Appreciation Week
Movies
Donuts in the staff lounge
National Pizza Day
The kick off to Food Truck Friday
92 I-had-a-bad-day-Costco-sized-popcorn-and-Reese’s-Pieces pig outs
Sunday Brunch
Friday
Monday
A new donut shop within walking distance I can’t go to the movies and not get popcorn. Like, it’s against the natural order of things. The popcorn is not in the picture, because I ate it before the movie even started. Step 7: Defeat and Denial
Once the day that I-can-still-maybe-lose-a-few-pounds-if-I-really-try-hard comes and goes with a cloud of Cheetos dust, the defeat and denial sets in. I mean, it’s pointless now, so I might as well eat those cupcakes I saw in the staff lounge. Half of a watermelon in one sitting is healthy. I gave it the old college try. Step 8: Fuck Yo Couch So what if I didn’t lose any weight? I didn’t gain any either. So, I basically met my goal. Europe is gonna get whatever body I give it, dammit. Step 9: There’s Always Next Time
This one doesn’t even need a description.
In order to not disrupt the fragile space-time continuum, these steps are on an infinite loop until the end of time.
Do you follow the same steps? Did I miss one? Share your tips for not losing weight or getting in shape for an important event or milestone in your life. I can’t wait to hear how else I can fail miserably!
OK, so it’s not quite a train wreck, per se, it’s just total and utter crappola.
I’ve been working on my latest travel post that’s supposed to be posted today for a couple days now, but it’s just shite. It doesn’t have that oomph, that pizzaz (or pizza, as my phone really wanted me to say).
Between my regular full time gig, my side hustle, trip planning, trying to keep up with the bare minimum in household duties, and a few scheduled naps here and there, tapping into the writing passion that usually makes the magic (or poop, depending on who you ask) happen has been tough.
So, I’m sorry to disappoint you, folks (I know you’ve all been waiting with bated breath), but my Travel Tuesday post is going to be a Travel Wednesday post this week. I know that doesn’t have the same ring to it, but it is what it is, que sera, sera and all that.
Until then, here’s an image that will give you a possible idea of what my travel post will be about (can you guess?):
In the comments, tell me where you’ve always wanted to travel to, because I totally need another reason to be distracted!
The First One
It was totally a gag gift. I swear. The second I got it home, after digging it out from the deepest depths of my purse, I threw it under my bed to never be seen again. I swear.
I’ll just come right out and be frank.
It was a massive pink dildo. It was huge. It was highly detailed, complete with a ginormous pink, wrinkly ball sack.
It was fucking terrifying.
My friend thought it’d be funny to put batteries in it so it’d be raring to go. When turned on, the pink bastard shook my brain three feet away.
So, that terrifying hot pink freak of nature lived under my bed, with the dust bunnies, a random sock, and strangely, a frying pan (so, that’s where it went).
If you ever care to know more about the events that led to what happens next in my story, head over to We Were Stupid AF.
I was at work the day I got that fateful call. I was working at a used online book company. It was, hands down, the easiest job I’ve ever had. The eight or so of us data entry temps all sat in the same room, at our respective computers. It was mindless work, so all we had to do was sit, enter ISBNs and listen to each other’s gossip.
It was nearing the lunch hour when I got a call from my friend on my work phone.
“We are getting kicked out, dude. You better leave work, because we have until 5 PM to be out.”
“Come again?” I asked, shocked.
“It’s serious, my mom’s here and everything. If we don’t leave by 5, they will call the cops!”
My goody-goody ass didn’t like the sound of that.
“Shit. I’ll have to ask to leave! OMG.OMG.OMG,” I said, trying to whisper my hysteria.
“You better! My mom and I are going to start on our room.”
Seven sets of ears were trained on my conversation. Their eyes were glued to their screens, their fingers flew across the keys, but they were keenly aware of every word I spoke.
Suddenly, my blood went cold. Her mom. Moving out. Our room. The Pink Dildo. Her mom is going to see my pink dildo and then I’ll promptly die.
“So, yeah, if you could leave work NOW, that’d be great.”
“Wait. Wait! So, umm. Remember my “Liberated From the Cheating Bastard Party” we had?” I whispered.
“Yes, why does that matter, right NOW?”
“Well, the thing is, I got a thing. You didn’t know about it, because Mary* thought you’d be a prude about it,” I mumbled.
“I hate Mary.”
“I know, I know. Well, there’s something under my bed.” I tried to sign over the phone.
The ears listening in on my private dildo conversation were now complete with judging, edge-of-your-seat eyes.
“OH, MY FUCKING GOD! What is it?!”
“Just please get it and hide it somewhere before your mom sees it,” I breathed.
“WHAT is it?”
“It’s a…dildo,” I murmured.
*click*
My friend was endlessly saving me, preventing me from dire fates, and always felt the need to be my second mother, because I was constantly being a dumbass.
The Dildo Incident almost did her in. She did, however, get to it before her mother (she wore gardening gloves to fling it into a box with my high school yearbooks and a long-dead philodendron.)
The Second One
For some inane reason, I kept the terrifying pink monstrosity for years. I reasoned that all independent, adventurous women needed to own a dildo of their own, even if all it did was live in the back of a closet under a pair of mangy late 90s era Steve Madden sandals.
Circa 2005, my boyfriend at the time and I moved into our first place together. His mom planned to visit as soon as we were all settled.
Now, let me just tell you a little thing:
Before she got to know me, I’m fairly certain she thought I was the (she)devil incarnate.
They were a ranching family from a small cow town. However, after the first year of college, her primed-to-be-a-Wrangler-wearing-Honky-Tonk son came home with black eyeliner, black hair, black band tees, and obviously, a black soul.
Not long after this, he brought home a girl with a lip ring and tattoos. She also happened to be an older woman. That girl was me.
She was pretty convinced I was corrupting her son, but she learned pretty quickly that he had plans to corrupt himself and I was just along for the ride.
So, back to her visit. We had a lovely day out lunching and shopping. When time came to get settled in for bed, she expressed her worry that she’d be a bit chilly with just the one blanket we had provided for her.
We both offered to get her another, but because she’s the kind of independent woman who never needs assistance from someone else (even when she seriously does), she insisted she could get one if we told her where.
We pointed her in the right direction and just when it was dawning on me that something didn’t feel right about the whole thing and flashing, red lights were going off inside my head, we heard it.
A sound like nothing I’ve ever heard before rang out. It sounded like the combination between a screech one might make when attempting to dodge a ball to the head that you know is coming no matter what you do and the long, low, pitiful moan of a dying soul.
Immediately after the most terrifying sound I’ve yet to ever hear in all my life, a thud. Then, a steady, whirring, vibrating that you could feel in your brain.
Finally, silence, as we all three contemplated the meaning of life.
The rest of her time visiting, she didn’t look at us once. Not once.
I guess that’s a pretty tame reaction, because usually the response from one who has been hit over the head** by a flying dildo from the heavens, belonging to a corrupt girlfriend of your only child, is usually so much worse (so, that’s where it went).
*Not her real name
**Years later, she was able to speak of the incident. That’s how I know it hit her square in the forehead.
All images courtesy of imgflip. 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.”
Since the voting for the blogger awards has officially gotten in my head and now I’m practically incapable of being funny right when it’s the most important, I thought what better way to get back into the groove than with revamping some of my (likely) never before seen early blogging attempts fails.
So, each week on #ThrowbackThursday before voting closes, I’ll be sharing an OG post that I’ve revived and corrected (all of the terrible grammar has, hopefully, been remedied*) just for your reading pleasure.
I truly hope you enjoy this lame, half-assed attempt at showing you what I’ve got.
The post I’m sharing today is nearly three years old and, I believe, the fifth blog post I wrote on Fatty McCupcakes. I think it got maybe three likes. Enjoy.
The rain had stopped, but for a few random drops here and there that danced on newly formed puddles. The air was heavy with moisture and the sweet aroma of grass, wet earth, and grateful flowers. It was the perfect opportunity to throw on the forgotten I’m-finally-going-to-get-serious sneaks and take a walk.
(I’ve really set the scene here, have I not?)
The boyfriend and I set off down the street, dodging puddles and catching raindrops on our tongues. We were child-like in our glee. I felt it the perfect time to start anew. The clean air filled my dusty lungs. My calves felt stronger with every stride.
I made up my mind that this beautiful, hopeful Sunday would be the day I set my mind to certain changes.
(For the 3,567,473 time I was going to really get serious about shit.)
We kept up a brisk pace, and with every step, I felt my muscles grow stronger and stronger still. I imagined my fat melting off. I was practically 20 pounds lighter. It was glorious.
As we neared 7-11, our pace grew quicker still, in anticipation of some healthy water or sugar-free gum. Healthy, responsible options.
(Because, those are the kinds of things that really make me want to break a sweat.)
As we pranced into the store, I repeated my mantra, “We’ve come for sugar free gum and water. That’s all you want. Mmmmm water.”
My eyes were fixed on the gum on the top shelf, but I was keenly aware that one false move would direct my gaze straight to the Kit Kat bars and gummy bears.
“Don’t look down, don’t look to the right, don’t look to the left, LOOK NOWHERE,” I whispered to myself.
I had expert tunnel vision, eyeing only the Orbit Bubble Mint like a good fat girl.
Then, a flash of gold to my right. Gleaming gold. Gold and creamy brown. I knew without looking, it was temptation at its rawest. It was a Magnum Double Caramel. No. No. No. I came for gum. I came for fitness. I came to say I walked to 7-11 and didn’t buy a donut.
The boyfriend also saw what I was trying not to see, and the devious ice cream bar pulled him in as well. The draw of the Magnum is a force greater than love, magnetism, gravity.
Without actually feeling or knowing, I opened the sliding door, selected two bars, placed them on the counter and then somehow, I was outside, panting, sweating, shaking.
Without saying a word and with only a knowing glance, we both realized we needed to make it home with our spoils in one piece. Walking and eating ice cream like some kind of lame scene in a herpes commercial was absolutely out of the question. One can’t enjoy ice cream while wheezing and sweating. How were we going to prevent meltage?
We.ran.like.hell.
(Never before had we run with such conviction, such determination.)
My lungs burned. My feet pounded the pavement with the force of the gods. My calves seized, my belly shook, and my knees buckled. I can’t be sure what kept me going, but my guess would be the fear that the inevitable melting of the ice cream bar would compromise its integrity. This would compromise my enjoyment. And you absolutely can’t have that.
We made it home in record time to enjoy our ice cream the only way I know how- on the couch in previously ice cream-stained sweats and a good Netflix binge.
#WillRunForDoubleCaramelMagnums
*I’m almost certain that this post is riddled with grammar mistakes and incorrect verb tenses. I tried.
Trains
On the same trip I’ve referenced a million times (because it was the only overseas trip I’ve ever gone on), we took the train only a handful of times. For the majority of our trip, we had a car, but we weren’t crazy enough to drive in London, so we took the train to and from Oxford when we didn’t have our car.
The train trip to Oxford from London was so pleasant. Idyllic even. The train was barely at half capacity, and we were seated across from a friendly couple from Denmark. We had a great time chatting and it made the trip really quick and painless.
The train from Oxford to London was a whole other story.
The train station in Oxford was balls to the walls insanity. It was packed. There wasn’t one seat to sit in and if I’m remembering correctly, you had to pay to use the restrooms. It was not my favorite.
When we finally got onto the train, we saw that, just like the station, it was packed.
I had booked our seats in advance and upon seeing the Mad Max situation that was our train, I was pretty grateful for my forward thinking.
However, when we had finally clawed our way to our seats, dragging our bags with us as there was no more room in the baggage compartment, we saw that an older couple was in our seats.
They were adorable. I mean, gray hair perfectly coiffed, matching linty sweaters, and they totally had Kleenex up their sleeves for later. They were the epitome of what every loving grandparent has ever looked like since the beginning of time. Well, ever since easy wear sweaters came into fashion.
We were in a real conundrum. We had two choices: Kindly ask the couple to move or schlepp ourselves and our bags all over the train looking for two empty seats that didn’t exist.
Even worse, there were people behind us trying to get by and there was nowhere to sidle over to as we discussed our game plan. It was act or be eaten by the angry, over-it people lining up behind us.
“OMG. What do we do?” I asked with a deer-in-headlights look on my face.
“I don’t know! What do we do?” Answered Friend, looking pretty freaked himself.
“I don’t know. What should we do?” I repeated with more desperation in my voice.
From somewhere nearby came a voice that said, “If there are people in your seats, bloody well tell them to get out of them!”
We both looked at each other like, “OH GAWD”.
“OK. Go tell them. It’s your turn to do something embarrassing, ” I asserted (It was me who had to ask the cop in Blackpool for directions).
“No way. You’re closer and I don’t want to be an asshole. Look at them. They are Mr. and, the less well known, Mrs. Rogers!” He exclaimed.
“But, I was the one who had to go out of my way to reserve seats so that we would be sure to have seats. It’s your turn.” I proclaimed.
Another phantom voice rang out, “OMG. Sit or MOVE!”
“I’ll just go sit on my luggage by the door,” decided Friend.
Out of nowhere, a voice again, “You can’t do that. You’ll get caught and told to find a seat.”
The people behind us were, at this point, ready to murder us.
It looked like we really had no other viable option as we were blocking the aisle and the man to my left had had enough of having the side of his face smashed into the ten-days-not-washed ass of my jeans.
Just like always I had to be the adult in the situation.
I sheepishly cleared my throat and tapped the woman, who looked just like my grandmother, on her shoulder, prepared to be forever cursed by karma.
They ended up being really sweet, which only made things TEN MILLION TIMES WORSE.
I still, to this day, think of them and hope they found a seat or someone who wasn’t as big of a cunt as my friend and I offered their seats to them. DON’T HATE ME. I WAS A TRAIN VIRGIN UNDER PRESSURE.
While I was majorly feeling the effects of being a terrible person, my friend seemed pretty lost in his thoughts, too.
Once we were situated, the only place left to put our bags was right next to the exit as this was as close to the baggage compartment as physically possible.
Instead of worrying about what an asshole he was for making me kick grandma and grandpa out of their seats, he was more concerned for our luggage.
“Look at our luggage. The next time the door opens, they’ll all go tumbling out. Just watch.” He ruminated.
“Mmmhmm,” I was too wrapped up in silently chastising myself.
“OK. I’m going to go stand by our luggage. I can’t take the stress anymore,” Friend said, throughly wrought with worry.
I didn’t even care about my luggage, because kicks-old-people-out-of-train-seats people don’t deserve luggage.
“I’m gonna do it,” he said again.
“You’ll get in trouble by the train police, but have at it, dude,” I said totally not caring.
For the first time in my life EVER, I was not the one who was worrying and obsessing. It felt amazing.
I didn’t give two shits if my luggage full of dirty underwear got kicked out of the train or stolen by someone who would be very, very disappointed by my Target-special clothing.
My friend piled up our luggage, biggest to smallest and leaned on them the whole way to London. If someone walked by, he’d hug his body closer to the tower of American Tourister like he was guarding the secret to the afterlife in between his barf-stained jeans (hang tight for that post) and his questionably clean socks.
When we were nearing Paddington Station, he sidled up to me as I was peacefully resting my eyes (I’d finally accepted my dishonorable deed as a necessary evil of train travel, because the mean train people made me), and whispered in my ear, “I have an idea.”
I almost jumped clean out of my stretched-from-too-many-Magnum-bars-and-cheese-and-tomato-sandwiches skin.
“WTF is wrong with you? Only creeps whisper in people’s ears while they’re resting on trains minding their own business,” I hissed.
My comment didn’t faze him.
“I know how we can both get ourselves and our luggage off the train in one piece.”
“Kinda like how we got on?” I didn’t understand why he thought this needed a game plan. We’d trip over our luggage and our feet like we had getting on like total tourists. Duh.
“No. It’s genius. First, I’ll take my big bag-that’s the size of your small bag, by the way, and your big bag-the one I vehemently swore I’d never help you carry, because you just keep cramming new stuff into it and it already weighs more than a standard-sized car. Then, you’ll grab my small bag and your small-not really small, though, bag and we will all get off this god-forsaken train together,” he said resolutely, but with a noticeably twitching eye.
The rest of the ten or so minutes of the train ride, he kept pantomiming, with overly expressive eyes and wild arm movements, how this “genius” plan of his was going to look. He legit looked like that crazy person every train has. Crazy person*
Someone even asked, “Who the fuck is that idiot gesturing to? Do you think he’s dangerous? Should we be worried?”
I just sat back and reveled in not being the worried, crazy one for once.
We did get ourselves and our luggage off the train, but I almost didn’t “mind the gap” and our attempt to not look too much like tourists, was wrecked by yours truly. Looking a lot less psycho-on-a-train Looking like someone who is happy to not be on a train with a psycho
*I’m not some asshole who posts embarrassing photos of others for my own selfish gain. I was given express permission** to share any photo and/or embarrassing story, because friend-in-story would “probably find it funny too”. That’s a pretty solid assurance if I ever heard one. **For real, I really have permission!
