Tag: fails

British Columbia, Blogger Buds, and Busted Biking

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

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

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

Why is that, you ask?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Here’s where we went and what we did:

Granville Island

The super Instagram famous Love Wall

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

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

I will use any excuse to use this fantastic Britney face

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CANADIAN MAPLE CHEESECAKE
I mean, are those even real?

Guess what I chose?

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

Biking Being a Hot Mess at Stanley Park

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Drinks in Elizabeth Park

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

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

Our deeeeelicous drinks

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

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

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

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

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

Grouse Mountain

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

How did the Inuit do it??

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

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

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

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

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

Lonsdale Quay Market

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Garbage Grownups

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.

I Can’t Be Allowed to Adult Unsupervised

Somehow, someone deemed me fit to be an adult.
WHO APPROVED THIS?
Someone in the Adulting Main Office must have had no more fucks to give the day I was being reviewed. So, when my file came across their desk, they just stamped “ADULT”, without even reviewing it and, thus, allowed my incompetent ass to slide right through into fully verified adulthood.
That’s the only way I can figure I’ve been allowed to adult for this long. I’m wholly unqualified.
If the garbage disposal confusion wasn’t evidence enough (I never knew it wasn’t meant to ground up fully intact foods, like an entire chicken breast), I reckoned they’d figure me out when I failed to ever check my engine oil. On more than one occasion in the not-so-distant-past, the service station attendant has had to deliver the shocking news, “Ma’am, you have no oil. Like, none.”
I knew the Adulting police had to bust me for not owning an ironing board and ruining my kitchen table trying to hastily iron a dress for a wedding I was running late for, because I was playing Words With Friends, instead of watching the time.
Yet, no one has come to revoke my Adulting license.
HOW CAN THIS BE?
Had someone interceded, or, at the very least, monitored my every day Adulting charade, perhaps I’d have learned that leaving a candle burning for too long is not only a fire hazard, but a smoke stain disaster waiting to happen.
HOW DID I NOT KNOW THIS?
I wanted to get rid of a winter-themed candle from Bath & Body Works that I have in my bathroom, because spring is bound to show itself eventually.
I figured I’d let it burn for an evening and I’d be well on my way to having room for my spring-appropriate bathroom candle (this is a very important thing, obviously).
What I found when I went to brush my teeth for bed was nothing short of shocking.
First, the candle was on fiiiiiiiiiiya. Like, duh, it was burning, so fire. But, it was raging. It was also hot to the touch (and on the top of a cabinet), so I’d have to stand on the toilet to blow it out.
Because I didn’t want to rip the toilet out of the wall, I sort of stood and half-leaned with my right hand on the bathroom counter.
At this awkward position, I couldn’t really get at the top of the candle to blow the son-of-a-bitch out appropriately.
I decided one, quick stand on the toilet to blow it out would have to do the trick. Crossing my fingers for the safety of my toilet, I stood, blew, and was thanked with a splatter of hot wax all over my face (how it didn’t splatter the wall really just explains how things go in my life).
On the way down, I noticed the wall above the candle looked curiously dark.
When I looked closer, I realized the wall next to the candle was also a nice shade of charcoal.
As my gaze widened, my shock went much like this:
First, I was all:

Then, I was like:

And, finally, I went:

(I wanted these all to be gifs, but my WordPress app wasn’t having that for some reason.)
The candle I had burning for hours, spit out a coat of black soot on all four walls and the entire length and width of the ceiling.

The offending candle. My mom says only cheap candles coat entire rooms with soot. Hmmm. What do you have to say for yourself, Bath & Body Works?
In panic mode and since I’ve been binging on Nightmare Tenants and Slum Landlords, I quickly wet a rag and went to town wiping off every square inch of the bathroom walls and ceiling. I can’t ever be confused for the disgusting pigs that destroy other people’s property.
After cursing, re-wetting and wringing-out a now black rag, scrubbing furiously, and basically having a FREAKING heart attack for a good half hour, I felt my bathroom had been returned to its former glory.
I sheepishly went out to the living room, sweaty, covered in soot, and sat calmly on the edge of the couch. I turned to my boyfriend (WHO WAS MERRILY WATCHING TV THE WHOLE TIME) and asked him if I was the only 30-something who didn’t know burning a candle for too long would turn a small, confined room into the inside of a chimney.
He just responded, “Baby….how did you not know that?”
I DON’T KNOW.HELP.I DON’T KNOW WHAT I’M DOING.

If anyone reading this has some pearls of wisdom they think I need, please, share them in the comment section. I need all the help I can get.

Travel Tips For Idiots

If your passport has more stamps than my Cold Stone Creamery punch card (hint: a lot of stamps), you are always jetting off to some exciting city, or you fly to Iceland every year for a private viewing of the Aurora Borealis, this maybe won’t be your jam.
(Or, maybe you want to stick around for the inevitable comic relief? Everyone’s welcome.)
Either way, this post is for newbie travelers and the truly inept who never seem to learn (I fall into both categories, BTW).
So, here are some super obvious (to Tammy Traveler) travel tips for the amateur or idiot traveler:
1. Not only do you need a plug adaptor, but you also need to check the voltage on your appliance

I thought I had done extensive research on how to work my can’t-leave-for-the-weekend-let-alone-the-country-flat iron for my first trip to the U.K. I knew for certain that I’d need a plug adaptor to be able to use it and all of my other necessary hair appliances and other electronics.
What Rick Steve’s travel forum and other travel sites need plastered on their front pages in gigantic, glaring letters is “YOU ALSO NEED DUAL VOLTAGE APPLIANCES, UNLESS WHAT YOU’RE GOING FOR IS THE FRIED LOOK, DUMBASS!”*
This’ll be mind-blowing to anyone who wasn’t already aware, but there is this thing (some kind of force) called voltage that varies from country to country. In the US, we use 120V and much of Europe 230V.
What happens if you try to use your flat iron only meant for 120V in an outlet meant for 230V is you’ll burn up your device and your hair will be hideous for 95% of your trip (because you might get in a day or two before you almost burn down your hotel).
I’m not sure you’ll actually really explode anything, but you will ruin your $100 hair appliance and isn’t that just as bad?

I had to wear this stupid hat almost every day after I blew out my flat iron.
2. You don’t need to buy everything new before a trip
I’m the kind of traveler who feels compelled to buy an entirely new wardrobe, new toiletry bags, state-of-the-art sound canceling headphones, and a Mulberry silk neck pillow before a big trip.
I’m also the traveler who wonders why she can never afford to travel.
I try to think if I had the opportunity to travel to one of my wanderlust sites like right this very second, so I had to take the horrific clothes that I own currently, along with my old luggage, would my trip really be made less awesome?
No, man. It would still be amazing.
For the upcoming trip I’m planning for this summer, I’m trying really hard to validate with a normal person’s rationale if I really need a $20 eye mask just because it says, “Wake me up when we get there” or another cross body purse when I already have 15. I ask myself if the purchase will make or break my trip.
Sound canceling headphones so I can try to get some shut-eye on the flight? Yes. Proceed.
New, snazzy luggage when my battered, but perfectly usable suitcase will do? No. Put the floral-print Jessica Simpson suitcase down and back away.
(Besides, luggage is practically mauled to death during its voyage to your location. Buying gorgeous luggage that might get some dings and too much wear and tear gives me heart palpitations.)
Super cute mint-colored packing cubes? No. Get your extra ass out of Target and on a travel site where they offer free packing advice.
Comfortable, yet stylish Adidas walking shoes found at TJ MAXX? Yes, girl. You’re thrifty and your feet will thank you. (Converse are cute, but they have no arch support and they’re flatter than a gluten-free pancake.)

OK, so I bought a new bag for my toiletries, too.
3. Learn how to read a damn map, yo
Back before everyone and that homeless man on the corner had a smartphone and a GPS device, people had to actually rely on paper maps.
In 2010 (right around the time that poor woman showed the world her AT&T iPhone bill that weighed 83 pounds), my boyfriend at the time and I bought a Blackberry specifically for our trip abroad because we were explicitly told it would work in the U.K. Guess what, folks? It didn’t.
Even if it had, it wouldn’t have helped us much in getting from point A to B, because the Google Maps app for phones wasn’t even a thing at the time.
The first purchase we made when we got our rental car was a road atlas. That wrinkled, coffee-stained God-send really came in handy (that is when the boyfriend was using it. My other travel friend did not have map reading skills at all, thus a very comical drive into Blackpool late in the night. Wait for a post on that adventure).
Again, even in our über modern literally-everyone-owns-a-smartphone 2018, the first purchase we will be making at the very first petrol station we come to will be a paper road atlas.
(I’m really going to need to bone up on my map reading skills which are basically non-existent, currently.)
Want to know why we won’t be running our Map apps during our five weeks of car travel all over the British Isles? Because we aren’t bazillionaires, that’s why.
The very helpful assistant at Verizon told me that a travel plan would cost me $40 extra for the month I’m abroad (not bad at all), but that would only cover calls and texts, not data! He very emphatically urged me not to use my phone for anything other than calls or texts unless I’m on WiFi because if I do, I’ll be receiving a really expensive bill for overseas roaming. Unless the entirety of the British Isles is a WiFi hotspot, I think we are going back to 2010, baby!
So, even though we all now own truly “international” phones, that doesn’t mean your phone will be as useful as it is in your home country.**
4. Check the amenities that may or may not be offered at your hostel or house stay
I hate to break it to you, ya’ll, your house rental MIGHT NOT PROVIDE TP!
When my mom and I realized the houses we will be renting won’t likely have toilet paper, she wrote down in her travel journal, “Costco in U.K.?????? *shocked face*”. I fully understand her fear as I’m a massive toilet paper over-user.
It’s just a good thing we read the fine print and we can be adequately prepared by buying a pallet of TP once we arrive.
Even if house rentals don’t typically provide paper products, most do provide towels, linens, and washing machines, which is a lot more than hostels can say.
Our first hostel stay during our 2010 British Isles trip was an independent hostel. Because I was not exactly gung-ho on the idea of hostels, I had done zero research on them. So, for your convenience, I’ll just say that with independent hostels you’ll be lucky if they provide you with sheets, let alone the damn bed.
DO YOUR RESEARCH.
So, needless to say, this hostel was a real trip. I can’t wait to write up the experience I had at The Rainbow.
I’ll just give you a little sneak peek:

Do you see the towels drying on the back seats? Those are car towels (you know, the kind that has scrubby mesh on one side and is the size of a hand towel) bought at a petrol station. We had to use those to dry off after showering in a coed shower room. Fun.times.
5. Don’t forget to pack extra underwear in your carry on for the trip back
Maybe this is a huge NO DUH from most, but I’m an idiot. Also, I’ve always figured, I’m heading home to where more underwear lives, so it’s no big deal.
Well, let me tell you, at least from my experience, the trip home is always ten times more painful, uncomfortable, and much longer than the everything-is-still-so-exciting trip to wherever you’re going.
On the return of the previously mentioned trip, our plane was a little delayed getting into Toronto. Then, due to an exceptionally long wait in the customs line, we almost missed our flight to Denver. Almost to Denver, our flight had to be re-routed to an abandoned landing strip in Adobe, otherwise known as the middle of nowhere, for hours due to a severe thunderstorm. Thankfully, all flights were delayed going out of Denver, so when we finally made it to Denver, we didn’t miss our connecting flight. Still, we didn’t get into Reno until the early morning hours when it was originally scheduled to arrive around 10 PM.
What does this long-winded story have to do with needing underwear in a packed bag?
Well, after a hell trip home, the cherry on top was that they lost my baggage and I was still four hours from home, as I was living in Elko at the time.
Ya’ll, I had to wear a pair of my mom’s granny panties.
Sure, they were clean, but, *shudders* sharing underwear gives me the heebie-jeebies.
So, if you don’t want to have to wear a pair of your mom’s Hanes Cotton Comforts, pack a damn pair of underwear for the return trip!
6. If you’re squeamish about sitting bare-assed on a public toilet seat, prepare yourself now
I discovered while in the U.K. that toilet seat covers are essentially non-existent there. I had brought with me ONE travel-sized seat cover, so that was basically useless. After a few trepidatious days of testing the waters of sitting bare-assed on an alien seat, my butt cheeks did not spontaneously explode, so I started living the way the locals did.
My travel friend? He never mastered the art of just letting it rest. One afternoon in a pub in Oxford he was in the restroom no less than 45 minutes. I had finished two ciders before he came out sweaty and looking like he had just been given a diagnosis of Toilet Seat Hepatitis.
I said, “What in the hell were you even doing? I’ve just finished two ciders and now I’m too day drunk to go site-seeing!”
His response, “You know how there are no seat covers? Well, I kept trying to lay toilet paper on the seat, but it kept falling in. I used up all of the toilet paper.”

Day drunk in Oxford! There’s that hat again!
Folks, if you’re like my friend, you better start training now if you have a trip abroad coming up!
I hope this has been even a tiny bit helpful to someone out there. If not, I hope it was at least mildly entertaining to read while you tried to gag down your kale salad on your lunch break.
*This really would only apply to those living in countries, like the US, that have such different voltage when compared with other nations.
**This might be entirely different depending on the country you’re from or your phone carrier. Maybe Verizon just hates me.
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.”

Zumba, Zumba

You know, I really ought to finally give up on my dream to be a surprise breakout dancer.
I never learn from past fails, because time goes by and I forget all about when I was drunk dancing and thought I was the sexiest, smoothest dancer on the dance floor, but then I see the video one of my asshole friends took and I just look like a meth head really enjoying some fresh meth*.
THEN, I see a movie, like The Greatest Showman, and BAM! I’m determined to be the next America’s Got Talent breakout star.
I’d totally be a viable contender on Dancing With the Stars, too, except:
I’m not a star.
I have as much rhythm as a flag pole.
My body is entirely incapable of quick movements.
Well, since I have dance-shame amnesia, I took a Zumba class with a friend on Sunday. The only saving grace this time was that said friend is just as coordinated as I am.
Not surprisingly, we claimed a spot in the back corner, behind some old mats and a mop bucket. Absolutely not in front of the mirror and definitely not where anyone else could see us.
The class started out promisingly well, because they turned the lights off and added some strobe effects. Even better to disguise ourselves.
As soon as the music came on, the instructor busted out moves straight from a Shakira/Rihanna/J. Lo/Zendaya collaboration music video, choreographed by the dance gods.
Uhhhhh.
Back when I first did Zumba in Elko, the instructor would teach us the steps. I think she figured we were all inept, or maybe Zumba used to be more about actually learning a few moves versus trying to mimic a professional dancer with our strange, not-even-close movements.
Honestly, I think Zumba is now all about the instructors really feeling themselves and not caring that the fat chick in the back is 20 steps behind and looks exactly like Tina Belcher from Bob’s Burgers.

My friend and I just looked at each other and laughed, like, “NOPE!”
We tried (for awhile). We really did, but my hips do lie and they are never going to be mistaken for the hips of a gay Latin Zumba instructor.

During one of the songs, the group shifted so that half of the room faced the other half. Pretty quickly, I realized that we were taking part in a dance off.
Oh, hell no. Nope. NERP.
Not only did we have to engage in a dance off, the instructor started pointing at people, which meant, “OK, now let’s ALL look at this ONE person while they do a made up move they they come up with RIGHT ON THE FUCKING SPOT.”
I almost hyperventilated and fainted from fright right there.
For self-preservation purposes, I stood right behind a woman who looked like she knew what she was doing. I was literally on her heels and mimicking her every move so as not to be seen. I’m fairly certain a bead of her sweat flew straight into my eye, but it was worth it to not be called out.
Eventually, the asshole instructor was done giving the inept people cardiac arrest and the *dancers* moved back to their original spots.
That’s when I noticed him.
Now, I must preface what I’m about to say with the urging that I’m not making fun of this person. I’m really not. He just looked like the opposite of someone who would be at Zumba on a Sunday. This just goes to show that even when you look like you’d be the absolute worst twerker, you can really surprise people with your expert booty popping.
So, this awesome guy…he had curly, but thin-on-top hair and coke bottle glasses (on purpose). He was chubby, but it looked really good on him. He had on one of those “Straight Outta…” shirts.
I really wanted it to say “Straight Outta Nachos”, but when I finally got a good look, it said “Straight Outta Rehearsal”. That’s not even half as awesome.
He also could move his body in the most amazing way. I was jealous and felt instantly self-conscious. He was truly glorious and I was just a sack of potatoes rolling down a steep staircase.
I think what this all boils down to is that when you’ve got it, you’ve got it. When you don’t, it’s time to quit embarrassing yourself at Zumba.
*I have no clue what being on meth is called. Is it a trip? A high? Help me out, people.
The following are some really blurry stills from a video taken during the wine walk. We were dancing in a cage, if that’s not immediately obvious. It was the direct opposite of talented or sexy. In fact, we’re only allowed back if we promise not to drunk dance ever again.


We're Not Allowed There Anymore

Over the Thanksgiving holiday, my Uncle Gary and Aunt Renee came to visit. This is the same Uncle Gary of WTF Family Photos, Pure Gold, and The Cabin fame.
If you don’t know already, he’s our family’s John Candy.
Even though time and that slippery son-of-a-bitch-health hasn’t always been too kind to him, he’s still the funny, snarky, wisecracker he’s always been.
He may still love to crack a joke, but he isn’t into shopping as much anymore.
Back in the day, he’d be right there with my mom, grandma, and aunt, digging through marked down Christmas bows and wrapping paper in the after-Christmas-sales. He’s the only man I’ve yet to know who truly enjoys shopping and finding good deals on a car-load of Christmas wrapping essentials.
On Black Friday, Aunt Renee wanted to hit up Junkee, which is a very popular thrift and antiques shop in Reno. It used to be the only place I’d *have* to shop at when I lived in Elko and came to Reno (Well, and Target. Lord Almighty, how’d I almost forget Target?)
However, after Junkee bought out all of the ugly Christmas sweaters from every local thrift store and marked them up an ungodly amount a few years ago, I stopped giving them as much business.
They completely took the fun out of looking for and finding some positively horrendous mauve and cream colored poinsettia Christmas sweater at a thrift store for $1.
Here, check out the Yelp review I wrote about my disdain:

So, I usually avoid the place, because I know it’ll just be a bunch of overpriced crap someone found on a dusty rack in another thrift store, but since Junkee is cool with the hipsters, that late 90s era coffeemaker is now worth $25.
ANYWAY.
I decided to push aside my bitter disdain, so I could join the Always A Party, But Also Kind of a Shit Show party train.

Uncle Gary’s socks. We aren’t afraid to admit it.
Also, the independent artists who sell their handmade wares are always worth a look-see.
Because, as I mentioned earlier, Uncle Gary is not much for shopping these days (which is good, because we might have been there three additional hours had he also been one of the look-at-positively-everything-and-then-talk-about-each-item-for-twenty-minutes shoppers), he planted himself in the seating at the front of the store.
After quite some time, as in hours, most of our group was done.
At the front of the store, there was an elaborate Christmas backdrop for pictures. On hand were ugly Christmas sweaters, funny hats, and wigs.
Surprisingly, Aunt Dana (and not yours truly) begged us all to take a picture.
My mom flat-out refused at first, saying she doesn’t like to pose and doesn’t know how to make silly faces (I have an entire album on my phone that completely proves her wrong on both fronts).
My uncle, bored to tears waiting for the shopping to be over, eagerly agreed for something to do.
I’m always game for anything Insta-worthy, so that just left Aunt Renee.
Aunt Renee was still standing in line with her 38 treasures she couldn’t pass up.
As she was paying, a store clerk helped us get into all of the outlandish gear. My mother was helped into a flamboyant green and red monstrosity. I was given a vest that I swear I saw hanging in my mother’s closet not too long ago. Aunt Dana was given a super sweet pair of hipster glasses. And, Uncle Gary got an Afro wig.
The sight of my aged uncle with his salt and pepper beard, Sasquatch Sighting shirt, and an Afro wig was just too much.
As I was peeing my pants in absolute donkey-impression-worthy laughter, my aunt informed the clerk that one member from our group was still paying. She explained that she was the one in the pink sweater.
When I finally came to, some random woman in a pink sweater was being forced-with-a-smile into a glittery reindeer number. The look on her face was pure confusion and unadulterated fear. She cooperated with the clerk, who was insisting she’d look, “Awesome!”, despite the fact that she was eyeing us like we had rabies.
When we started to get situated, Aunt Dana realized a stranger was being forced against her will into our impromptu family Christmas photo straight from Honey Boo Boo’s family picture album and said,
“Oh! Not her! We don’t know her. The other woman in the pink sweater!”
The woman, released from the Crazy Train, tore off like a bat out of hell.
When Aunt Renee was finally located and locked down with an ugly sweater, the photographing of our craziness commenced.
This was the outcome:


I made the same face in all 82 pictures.
With all of the ruckus we caused and the general shenanigans we created, I wouldn’t be surprised if they printed one of our pictures and they have it up in a staff room with the description: Just Say No.
Merry Christmastime from the Clampetts, ya’ll !

Haircuts From Hell

If you’ve been reading my crazy ramblings for some time now, you know that it’s no secret that my family and I have had almost zero luck in the attractive hair department. In case you haven’t caught the posts I’ve done on hair fails, I’ll link to those AND provide photographic evidence later on.
What almost no one knows, however, is that total epic hair fails also extended to my dad and to a major motion picture. As in, The Godfather II. Intrigued? Maybe even more appalled?
Well, come along. I’m warning you, though. It’s gonna get hairy.
Back when my brother was nine or ten, my dad decided that he’d cut his son’s hair instead of drive two miles to have a professional do it. I’m sure he figured it would be easy. I mean, the professionals make it look pretty damn effortless, don’t they?
I was not present during the actual cutting of the hair and the two who were, do not speak of it to this day. If prodded, my dad merely says, “I cut his hair. What can I say?”
I recall that when I arrived home, I thought someone had died, because it appeared that my mom, dad, and grandma were in mourning.
All three were sitting in their places at the kitchen table with their heads down. I was actually quite concerned, because I didn’t think I was emotionally prepared for them all three to be crying.
“Uhh…” is all I said.
My mom “shushed” me and went back to their weird mourning/devil worshipping/group napping.
It was then that I noticed their shoulders moving up and down. If they weren’t crying, they had to be laughing.
“Mom…” I implored.
“Just. Don’t.” She was able to get out.
Upon further observation, they were crying, but because they were laughing. Silently. They were sitting around the kitchen table, red-faced, silent cry-laughing.
I just figured they must have started Wine o’ Clock early, so I moved on from their weirdness into the living room.
That’s where I saw it.
He was laying on the floor, watching TV. Even from behind, I could see the dejection in his shoulders and in the way he propped his head up with his hands.
The form appeared to belong to my brother. But, it was…not right.
He looked like some creature from Goosebumps. He looked like he was infectious. He looked shocking.
His head was part red, naked scalp and a smattering of one-inch tufts of hair.
There was no order to the madness. The random clumps of hair looked as if they were just glued, helter skelter, onto his angry, raw skin. Yet, in some places, instead of bare skin, there appeared to be what was likely the desired outcome- a short buzz cut.
It was simultaneously grotesque and comical.
All of the above I took in in a split second and I responded accordingly.
I responded with my trademark, “WHOA!”
(In my, I Was An Asshole post I explain a little more about my natural “whoa” reaction to all things fucked, funny, and far-fetched.)
I’m obnoxious like that.
Well, my “whoa” set off the fools in the kitchen. They couldn’t contain themselves anymore and they each lost their collective shit.
I swear, to this day, that amidst the snorting and crying and laughing, my brother’s head made a complete 180, he stared at us with exorcist eyes, and he yelled, “LEAVE ME ALONE!”
I swear.
Don’t fret, though. My mom took him to a Supercuts the second she was able to contain herself, and my dad was forever disallowed to even look at the clippers.
My mom did admit that the entire ride to Supercuts, she tried really damn hard to do the Good Mom thing by reassuring him. But, “It’s OK. It’ll be alright. It doesn’t look that bad.” is not one bit convincing between snorts and ugly cry-laughing.

This could totally be us reenacting the Clipper Incident of 1997.
Our second Haircuts From Hell story involves a different set of electric clippers, another beauty school reject, and The Godfather II.
Back when my mom was in college, she was friends with a guy who played the violin professionally. He actually started the Reno Chamber Orchestra. So, he was legit.
Not only was (is) he super musically talented, he was apparently a real hoot to hang around. Some of my favorite stories my mom tells of her college days include this guy.
A kinda related aside:
I arranged for him to come to my mom’s surprise retirement party that I planned a few years ago. They hadn’t seen each other for close to a decade. So, the look on my mom’s face when she saw him was absolutely priceless. Well, now that I’m thinking, I wonder if she was simultaneously elated to see him and worried he was there to finally seek vengeance with a rusty hair clipper.

So, the story goes…
Close to midnight one night, my mom heard frantic knocking at her door.
Brave, or delirious from sleep, she opened the door to find her buddy, all in a tizzy.
He was scheduled to play with the Reno Musicians’ Union Local 368 for The Godfather II the very next day.
He needed a haircut to look professional for this incredible opportunity.
(My mom still chides him for waiting until all the salons and barbers were closed to get such an important haircut done.)
The only problem was- my mom was most definitely not Rhonda from Tousled Tresses.
Here’s some proof to back up that my mom is not exactly the first person you’d ask for a late night, last minute hair job (too bad these horrendous hairdos happened after the Clipper Catastrophe of 1973 and were of no help to her pal):

Now, mind you, my mom can’t be held totally responsible for all of these, but she approved these looks, so there you go.
Because it was a big deal to have a part in a major motion picture, she acquiesced and went to town with electric clippers.
My mom recalled how often she saw her mother clip her brothers’ hair. She said it looked incredibly effortless and easy.
“Your grandma just went ‘Buzzzz’ with the clippers and–‘Voila!’–they had snazzy new ‘dos!”
What my mom didn’t realize was that, unless you want next to no hair left, one uses a guard on the clipper head.
After just one swipe it was clear that she had made a huge mistake.
“Shit.”
Without the guard, she sheared a landing strip clear down to his scalp.
I’m sure there was a lot of yelling and freaking out, but in the end they just left it, because my mom had done enough.
When the movie finally came out, my mom, excited to hear her friend play in such a big time movie, almost choked on her popcorn and Charleston Chews.
There, very clearly in the Tahoe party scene, was the back of her friend’s head. His awkward strip of scalp practically glowed.
In the words of my mother’s very good-natured friend, when I sent him the screenshot of his head, “My bad haircut can live on in posterity!”
At least he’s a good sport.
Here’s the scene in the movie where Haircutz By Judy has a starring role:

Here’s the screenshot:

Before I go, I have to share one more haircut fail. It’s actually more of a hairstyle fail.
The night my family and I were laughing about the above stories, we were also looking through family albums. My aunt came upon this picture:

She said, “That’s weird. Why is Mark decorating the tree with Jarrett?”
My uncle: “Why is Mark wearing a Betty Boop shirt?”
My boyfriend: “Whoever Mark is, he’s a real dweeb.”
I take a look at this, now infamous, shot of elusive Cousin Mark, who, apparently, made an appearance at Christmas in a Betty Boop sweatshirt and then go, “WHAT THE ACTUAL HELL? THAT’S ME!”
They then proceed to debate about whether or not it’s really me or Mark for the next ten minutes.
What a bunch of assholes.
It’s no wonder I’ve had such a hard knock hair life- look at where I come from!
My Hairy Life
Where My Hairy Ladies At?

The Happy Teacher Challenge

A couple weekends ago, my teacher friend and I engaged in a fun day of learning on a Saturday. I had to get up at 6:30 on a Saturday and had to put on a bra and makeup on my day off. I totally did not have a shot of whiskey in my coffee or a super sugary filled donut for breakfast. 
One of the break out sessions we signed up for was all about Social Emotional Learning for the educator. They sold the class like we would learn skills to feed our souls and regenerate our purpose. 
Pretty quickly, we called bullshit. 
After reading an article that stated my teacher burnout was due to my low social emotional intelligence, I pretty much mentally checked out.  
At the end of the session, we were handed a gorgeous color copy (you know you’re a teacher when a piece of paper has more value solely due to it being printed in color) of The 30 Day Happy Teacher Challenge. 
We looked at each other like, “Holy shit, yes!” 
We both need more happiness in our lives in regards to our school year, so we were so down for the challenge. 
That is, until we actually read the “challenges”. 
Double lame with some “fuck that” sprinkled on top is what this challenge consisted of. 
Most of the “challenges” are things I do every single day, because they are what good teachers, who have a solid pedagogy, do. And, some of them, like assigning an exit ticket (one or two questions to gauge understanding) depress the ever-loving crap out of me a lot of the time.  
When we saw, “Happy Teacher Challenge”, we both thought it had to involve alcohol, days off, and lots of chocolate. Not one of those things are included. 
For shame.
Here’s the challenge:

I blurred out the copyright name, because I don’t want to shame this teacher. I’m sure they meant well, but, well, just, no. 
So, after being utterly disappointed and underwhelmed, I decided to make my own “Happy Teacher Challenge”. 
In case there are any fuddy-duddies reading this, or people who have not one ounce of humor, know this is satire. It’s not literal. 
I’m not fancy and also have way too much shit to do, so I didn’t make this into a pretty calendar, so you get a list. Quityerbitchin. 
1. Pull a trusted colleague aside to whisper all of those ‘fucks’ to that you have been holding in.
2. Have your students partner up and organize a section of your room. Call it OCD: Beginner’s Edition, or just Life Skills.
3. Finally strike up a conversation with the idiot who keeps jamming the copier and leaving it for someone else to deal with. Getting how you feel off your chest first thing in the morning will make you feel ready to tackle a day of holding in how you feel all over again.
4. Spend your entire prep period sending teacher memes to your teacher friends. These might be especially apropos:


Michael Scott knows! 
5. Take a short walk down to the vending machine in the teacher’s lounge for a much-needed soda during lunch. When everything but Dasani water is sold out, take another short walk to your car where you have a nice, little scream.
6. Calm yer tits, paper. Organize the stacks of papers on your desk labeled “to be graded” by sweeping them into the garbage can. They’ll just end up crumpled around a moldy bag of apples in the back of their desk anyway, so…
7. Think of a student who is always well behaved and really smart. Pick them to lead your math lesson for a day.
8. Fill out a staff appreciation for your fellow teacher in arms. Luckily you have a really good one this time: “Mr. Walton is a real star for cleaning the word, ‘sex’ off of the boys’ bathroom wall during his only break last Tuesday”.
9. Buy this shirt for yourself (and wear it to school immediately upon receiving it):zyrwrgt
Buy here
10. Take an Ambien and a nap under your desk during lunch.
11. Ask your students to draw a portrait of you, and laugh all the way to the wine aisle at your nearest liquor store.
12.Download a fun desk planner, attempt to laminate it, and when the laminator is broken AGAIN, just buy one on Amazon.
13. Bribe your custodian with a Starbucks gift card so that they will keep providing you with those paper ass gaskets. When you share a bathroom with 20+ eight- and nine-year-olds, they make all the mental difference.
14. Make a very serious effort to smile more. Even while saying, “It goes in the turn in basket” for the nine billionth time. Bonus: your excessive smiling with creep them out.
15. Take a goofy picture with your students-it’s super cute. Just crop out the kid throwing up gang signs.
16. Do a compliment circle with your students to start your morning. Maybe they’ll notice your new Kate Spade earrings or overly-expensive Tieks that they’ll scuff after three days. 
17. It’s Life Skills day again! Provide a Swiffer duster and a push vacuum, and they will actually want to clean the room.
18. Play some Enya, add some lavender essential oil to your diffuser and transport yourself during Guided Reading. Hey, it’s better than nodding off. Calgon, take me away!
19. Drink your double espresso out of your World’s Okayest Teacher mug, and remind yourself that you are doing your very best, dammit. 
412u4j8o7yl
But it here
20. Make time to sit on your fat arse at the end of day. In fact, make time to sit accompanied by a glass of wine, loaded nachos, and some Netflix. Getting up 20 times a day from the kidney table counts as exercise. Thighs of steal, man. Thighs.of.steel.
21. Bring home the contraband notes they write to each other that you find on a daily basis. Laugh over their spelling choices and sweet innocence with a glass of wine and your dwindling sanity. Math sux bols! 
22. Organize your files on your teacher computer with fun new folder names like, “Important Shit”, “Crap I Will Never Look At Again”, and “Bullshit I Have to Deal With”. 
23. Share passwords to Teachers Pay Teachers, HBO Go, Discovery Ed, Match, and Flocabulary. Sharing is caring. 
24. Encourage students to bring cupcakes for their birthdays. It’ll create positive memories for them and you won’t have to fund your cupcake habit. But, store-bought only, and remind them not to forget the Capri Sun (organic tropical punch pairs nicely with a good white cake and vanilla cream cheese frosting). 
25. Bring a bottle of wine to weekly planning with your grade level. Watch how your lesson plans are utterly transformed.
26. Download a countdown app and set the date for the next school break. Watch the seconds count down as you get closer and closer to freedom. 

Get the same app here.
27. Do you work with an overly harried colleague who needs some “chill the fuck out” time? Buy them this mug, if they have a sense of humor, it’ll make their year:

Buy it here. 
Don’t forget to include some mini booze bottles and a couple Xanax. Bonus: You basically own them now. 
28. Make sure you plan “Coffee/Wine Bitch Hours” with your teacher friends. These people and the moments you spend commiserating is a huge part of why you might remain sane during your career. 
29. DON’T assign an exit ticket so that you can briefly, blissfully believe your students understood what you were going on about for 40 minutes.
30. Stand at the door and give your students a high five as they leave for the day, knowing you don’t have to see them for another 18 hours.
So, what do you think of the challenge? Did I forget anything? Let me know in the comments. 

In Case There Was Any Question…


Source
I don’t know about you, but I sped right on out of 2016 in my cupcake delivery truck from Glutton hell, high on rocky road fudge and bleu cheese biscuits and crashed right into 2017 in a carb-induced coma, complete with egg nog dried into the corners of my mouth.
Whew. What a ride.
I spent most of my winter break carb-loading and comatose, covered in powdered sugar, next to an empty cookie tin. Cookie Monster doesn’t have shit on me. 
The result? 
Other than a blotchy, puffy face, I really couldn’t tell.
Thanks to my latest obsession of wearing leggings literally everyday, I never had to have the usual after-the-Holidays-can’t-fit-into-my-pants-crying-fit. 
My boyfriend would like to say that he’s eternally grateful to LuLaRoe and their leggings that keep his fat girlfriend half sane. 

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And, because I’d rather just not know, I don’t weigh myself. Even when I go to the doctor, I say, “Don’t tell me!”, as I anxiously get on the scale. I think they have, “Doesn’t want to know the extent of her fatness” written on my chart, because I don’t usually have to remind them. 
Normally, the way I can tell that I’ve overdone it and thus gained some weight is that some of my fat comes back up when I bend over to tie my shoes. 
Gross, I know. 
I’m just being honest. 
Because I’ve been the height of laziness over the last few weeks, I haven’t even put on real shoes. 
So, all of this to say- I couldn’t tell how much holiday weight I had gained. 
It was actually really refreshing at first to live blindly unaware of how much more stress I was putting on my overworked couch. 
I felt lighter, with each step to the refrigerator, thinking the damage couldn’t be that catastrophic.
However, behind my new lighthearted, unaware approach to my fatness was a nagging feeling that something would show me the truth. 
I figured my new leggings would finally give in to the pressure and the seams would come undone.
Or, while leaning on the door of the refrigerator, the whole thing would come crashing forward with the weight of my shitty food choices and my massive body. 
But…
No signs. Nothing.
That is, until I went to the bathroom at the salon where my masseuse rents a massage room. 
I was just sitting there, like any other normal person, doing their business. I was probably noticing the appalling state of my holey underwear or picking at my cuticles. 
Until.
Until I looked up and into the mirror directly in front of me. 
How I didn’t die of shock right then and there is a profound mystery to me. 
If at any point you feel the need to be slapped in the face with the reality of your fatness, just sit on a toilet in front of a fucking mirror.
After that terrible shock to my heart, it’s been green beans and chicken broth every day.
No, I’m lying. 
After my massage, I went straight to the store and bought a 12 pack of cupcakes and drowned my sorrow in frosting. 
Here’s my Yelp review of the salon and their asshole mirror:

So, in case any of you really need to know how far your weight gain has gotten out of control, or you’re a masochist, just get naked and sit down on a toilet in front of a full length mirror. 
#dead 💀
I’d like to thank one of my Facebook friends, followers, and old high school classmate for giving me the idea to turn my Yelp review into a blog post. Thanks, girl! 

How to Know Your Brain Is Going

I think I can post this, as I can already relate perfectly well.

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Guys, I’m a little worried my brain is going. I think I need to download one of those apps that keeps your brain strong to prevent dementia. 
Today, we were 12 hours (and 10 minutes) early to our movie. 
I still don’t know how it happened. Seriously.
My boyfriend and I love going to the Galaxy luxury theater, because reclining seats. 
Another perk, other than the fact that I can fall asleep in my popcorn, is that you can reserve your seat ahead of time. So, last night, I reserved two seats for the 11:20 showing the next day. 
We got up early, stopped at 7-11 for candy and drinks-i.e. contraband, and when we got to the theater, I got my usual popcorn slicked with that delicious fake butter. 
I realized I didn’t have the confirmation email ready on my phone so we could check in, so we had to step aside and search on my phone for the emailed tickets. 
I couldn’t find the email.
I knew that was no biggie, as all you have to go do is go tell the box office, and they print you your barcode. 
As I sidled up to the counter, juggling my huge popcorn, and trying to hide my bursting purse, that obviously contained outlawed drinks (because who can eat an entire large popcorn with nothing sugary to wash it down with? I’m waiting for the day someone asks me why I’m not buying a drink to go with my mammoth popcorn), I told the young man working that I never got my confirmation email for the movie we were seeing that morning. 
Attendant: What movie are you seeing?
Me: Rogue One, the first showing.
Attendant: Um, you’re a little early. 
Me: Well, I guess, if you mean we’re just in time to see the previews…
Attendant: *blank stare*
Me: So, how do we get the little printout so we can get into the movie? 
Attendant: What time was the showing you purchased? 
Me: 11:20, and now I’m not going to be able to check in on Yelp before the previews start. 
Attendant: Uh. We don’t have a showing at 11:20 this morning. 
Boyfriend: Yes, you do. It’s right up there on the board. 
Attendant: That’s PM. That’s tonight. 
*Two dumbasses, slowly realizing they fucked up, just staring, open mouthed*
Attendant: What’s your name?
Me: Fatty Cake. Two words (just kidding, I gave my real name).
Attendant: Yup, you have tickets for the showing tonight at 11:20.
Me: Well, damn.
After it was all said and done, we got the movie switched to a more reasonable hour for tomorrow. 
After feeling like total tools, we left, grumbling about, “Who goes to a movie at 11:20 at night?!” 
I mean, really. That’s how I messed up when ordering. My geriatric mind couldn’t even fathom that the showing would be at 11:20 PM. 11:20 AM is a far more reasonable time to see a movie. I fall asleep during movies in the middle of the day. If I even attempted to see a movie that late, I’d be kicked out for snoring and drooling all over the leather seats. 
So, in conclusion, we have decided that Galaxy needs to put freaking AM and PM after all of the show times. 
I’m officially now that old person who needs special accommodation so that I don’t get confused by the technology. 
Happy New Year, folks! By the looks of it, this one’ll be a dandy for me! 
When you fuck up your old-person-early-movie time, you go get donuts to eat with your cold movie popcorn.