Ugh, Monday again. Didn’t we just have Monday last week?
If you are feeling like you can hardly bring yourself to get out of bed, or the thought of expending the energy it takes to bring your coffee cup to your lips makes you wish it was, at the very least, Tuesday, you might need a little boost. A boost in the form of a good, hearty belly laugh. Check out my latest post on Shopper Lottie. I can guarantee that it will at least make you chuckle. Also, don’t forget to let me know if I forgot anything in the comments over at SL.
Spanx A Lot
Tag: fatty
Yoga and Cupcakes
Hello All! It is me again. I have some exciting news! The pictures I took for the magazine have finally been edited and sent to me to use on my blog! This was way back in November, and I thought the day that I would get to share these on my blog would never come!
These pictures are the ones I wanted to be featured in the magazine. They were not the ones chosen, but, oh well, because even more importantly, I get to share them with my lovely readers!
I believe I shared already that modeling ain’t for no punk bitch. Let me reiterate, I give massive props to models. They are incredibly resilient and strong. I was exhausted after 4 hours of shooting in the same position!
The photographer actually took my crazy venture seriously, and he took some 400 pictures. He spent an hour just setting things up to look ‘just right’. I am eternally grateful.
Because, obviously, I am no model, I assumed he would snap a couple pictures and then move on to more serious projects. No, he was incredibly professional and kind.
Without further ado, I present to you the fruits of my “modeling” labor.
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Fatty Fo' Life
Fatty McCupcakes here (well, no shit. Who’d I think you would think it would be? Freaking Richard Simmons? Come to think of it, a guest spot by Richard Simmons would be absolutely fanastic.
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Well, that was weird.
I guess I’ll get to the point. For the past couple months I’ve been hiding behind the guise of Fatty McCupcakes. I’ve literally been living my tag line-I’ve been busily eating my way through all the baked foods I can find. It’s been delicious, but too much of a good thing gives you cankles.
I can’t do this to my body anymore.
Gone are the days when I could eat half a large pizza, a whole coop full of chicken wings, and steak-cut fries, dripping in ranch , and bounce back after eating a salad for lunch, for a week.
No.
Now, if I overindulge, I feel like a freight train hit me the morning after, and if I could, I’d attach myself to a Pepto IV. And, a continuous stream of calming pink bismuth would only make me feel half human.
I’ve been worried, lately, that if I stopped living the fatty life, Fatty McCupcakes would be gone. There’s no use for that kind of alter ego when your life revolves around kale salad and yoga. How can I be Fatty McCupcakes AND not slowly kill myself one delicious bite of cupcake after another?
In all seriousness, if I don’t emerge from winter break with diabetes, I’ll be damn impressed.
I have problems with food, guys, if you didn’t already guess that. Gee, what gave me away?
I don’t see why I can’t be Fatty McCupcakes AND get healthy, because the real meaning behind Fatty is that I aim to decriminalize the word ‘fat’. Yes, you’re practically a criminal when you’re fat. It’s also a “bad word”. Worse than ‘fuck’.
This fatty be like, “Fuck that.”
No matter how thin, fat, attractive, ugly, or willing to be flexible to the changing whims of society you are, you will never be enough something to someone, somewhere.
And, why is it anyone’s aim to be enough for anyone other than themselves?
I am loving the blog, When I Thought I was Fat, because there’s so much truth contained there. How many times have you looked, fondly, back on a time when you thought you were fat, but you would, maybe, give up bacon to go back to that body? Because you weren’t fat?!
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So, what is fat? Who defines whether or not you’re fat? Who says the way you are isn’t good enough? No one should have that kind of control over your perception of self, but you.
Back “when I thought I was fat”, I went out, in a rather…creative outfit, to attend a superhero beer crawl. This was probably 40 pounds ago. I felt sexy, powerful, ready to take on the villains in my leather, fish nets, and cape (don’t ask). I felt great until some drunk creep, who was probably just growing pubes, called me, “Super Thighs”. Secretly I was just relieved he didn’t call me, “Super Double Chin” or “Mighty Double Belly”. Still, after that comment, I didn’t feel much like taking on the world that night.
Why did I let someone like that have control over my emotions and perception of myself? Why, after more than 4 years, I remember that comment?
Who cares if I have large thighs? “More strength to crush your head like a pimple, you assknuckle!” is what I should have said to him (thanks, Stephanie).
There’s also this:
Can We Stop Talking About the Thigh Gap Already?
I’m going to continue being Fatty McCupcakes, because there’s nothing wrong with being who I am, in all my voluptuous glory, while I work to better myself. Let’s make the word ‘Fatty’ a positive word like, ‘yum’, ‘love’, or ‘cheese’. I mean, it only makes sense.
Here’s to a healthy 2016, filled with fitness, lettuce, and the ocassional cupcake (there’s no way in food hell I’ll completely deprive myself)!
Fatty Fo’ Life
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A Picture is Worth a Million Why Me's
I knew I would look fat. I mean, I would be wearing a one piece, with nowhere to hide. I knew I would look like an obese candy cane. I was prepared. It was part of the humor in wearing pajamas that 3 year-olds normally wear. But, nothing prepared me for what everyone was seeing from behind. Nothing.
The front view wasn’t so bad
And then we thought it would be cute to take a picture of our behinds, because that’s always cute. Good lawd, nothing prepared me for this:
I can’t even. My ass is huge. Huge. Not even sexy Kim-Kardashian-huge. Pregnant-Kim-huge. I mean, how come no one has never told me I had that trailing behind me? It’s terrifying. I think I might have an extra ass below my main ass. Can you see it? Meanwhile, my friend looks like Marilyn Monroe reincarnated.
I thought maybe it was just taken from a poor angle. Perhaps I wasn’t prepared. So, I tried again:
I didn’t get the sexy memo. In fact, I think I had an itch mid-picture. Notice how I’m not even turning my head around, in a sexy, “I know you’re looking” way, because I can’t. The girl on the left is a professional model, apparently. What a bitch.
Can you suck your butt in like your stomach? If so, I need to learn how.
I went home that night and drank an entire bottle of moscato, because sugar wine will help my cause. I might also have eaten the rest of the package of holiday Oreos (and by ‘the rest’ I mean almost the whole thing). Then, I realized that I didn’t buy footy pajamas to look sexy, but to be funny. I bought them to look ridiculous, then got upset when I was successful. That’s lame. So, I said, “fuck it”, and wore them again to the Ugly Sweater Wine Walk this past Saturday. I had a blast, Pregnant Kim Ass and all.
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Glutton's Paradise AKA Apple Hill
It’s been fall break over in my neck of the woods. Us educators call this time, “Thank Baby Jesus We Made it to October”. I swear these breaks aren’t really for the kids, they’re for the teachers, for our sanity.
Every fall, since I can remember, we have gone to Apple Hill. Nestled between South Lake Tahoe and Sacramento, Apple Hill is a labyrinth of orchards, pumpkin patches, wineries, and family-owned farms, open to the public.
Apple Hill has always meant eat all the apple treats, drink all the cider, and buy all the crafts to me. You can’t bring enough money, because saying ‘no’ to your tenth caramel apple and a bunch of overpriced, homemade crap is impossible.
Since I’ve been a destitute teacher, I only buy the best of the best; no more hand-painted pumpkins and doilies for me. What is worth my money is this sign that I had to buy for my bathroom. I mean, there was no question.
I also wanted to buy every single candle from B&B Candles. Not only are they the most delicious, long-lasting candles I’ve ever purchased, the older gentlemen who sells them for his wife is the cutest. #supportgrandmaandgrandpa
OK, let’s get down to it, I know you’re waiting to hear. Exactly how naughty and gluttonous was I? If success is becoming a diabetic on vacation, I went for the gold. It was bad, but so damn good.
Not even an hour in, and I found myself a cherry apple empanada. Delicioso!
Photo op tip: Always stand behind the other people in the photo. Instant diet! Wearing black will optimize your results!
This was lunch. They were called “Hog Fries”. How apropos.
“Cyser”: hard cider, mead, and honey. I had two. They were that good (I’m also a serious lightweight, and these bad boys were like 13%. You do the math). I didn’t capture my Chinese dinner, because I was drunk. What I did do was have a snorting, laughing fit in the Peking Duck, because apparently egg rolls are hilarious when you’re on a drunken, sugar-high binge.
Morning in Apple Hill means freshly-fried hot apple pie donuts and hot coffee! Look at those fat, hungry fingers!
Warmed Dutch apple sour cream pie for second breakfast. Yes, really.
Of course, I had to take a selfie! Come to mama!
This is an apple cider float. It was at this point that I began feeling my two days of absolute gluttony. When I bent over to tie my shoes, my apple treats and regret almost came up. My last words before my coma: “And…I now have diabetes.”
The whole ride home was spent trying not to throw up.
I went hog wild because Monday starts a new chapter. When people take pictures of the fat girl taking a selfie of herself eating baked goods, it’s time. Back on the wagon I go.
I’ll let you know how God-awful Monday after a break, on a diet, goes.
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I Give
I had every intention to hit up Cinnabon when I went to the mall to look for a gift. When I attempted to purchase my gluttonous gooey bread-of-shame, my wallet was nowhere to be found in my purse. My forever-fat, anxious self even looked in my tiny change purse for my wallet. Nope, not in there. I never forget my wallet. Who does that when they own a purse to keep it in? I had to walk away from Cinnabon, with nothing.
I decided to try again at the Starbucks in Target. I purchased my cake pop and gleefully walked out of the store, like a fat kid with a lollipop. Oh,and my wallet? It was in the back seat. Deceptive bastard.
As I went to take my second bite of the cake pop, it fell off the stick. It actually rolled down my chin, over my fat gut, hit my shoe, and rolled into the gutter.
I fucking give up, alright?
I think the universe is trying to tell me something, ya think?
At Least I Have Ice Cream
Am I the only one who has those kinds of days where amidst the crap and absolute fuckery, you realize there is a carton of ice cream in the freezer, the same ice cream you bought the other day and actually forgot about, and…
It makes everything OK?
Then, every time the stress starts creeping like the neighborhood weirdo, you remember that frozen goodness and it’s OK again?
You think, “At least I have ice cream.”
Am I the only one who is reassured by the promise of gluttony?
Please tell me I’m not…
Either way, I can’t wait until it’s Ice Cream Time.
The actual ice cream I dreamed about all day.
Yes, that’s a cereal bowl that I plan to eat my ice cream out of. Yes, that’s a piggy spoon. Don’t judge me.
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Cold Stone Ice Cream-Eating-Machine
Yesterday was a momentous day! July 16th marked 4 years that my boyfriend and I have not murdered each other in our sleep. Also, I became a regular on Yelp at Cold Stone Creamery. Nothing says you have a problem with food like publicly becoming an ice cream shop frequent flyer.
I had to take a screenshot of this exciting new level of fatness. I have to say, it was totally my boyfriend’s fault I became a Yelp regular. He wanted to go get ice cream, I did not. OK. That’s a boldfaced lie. I wanted ice cream.
To celebrate this crowning achievement, I thought I would share my mental process when getting ice cream at Cold Stone. First, I have to explain that I’m a very anxious person by nature. I’m always “go, go, go”, and “hurry the hell up”. I hate waiting, and I despise being held up by incompetence. Most importantly, I hate having to waste my precious time on someone who can’t decide what kind of ice cream they want. Life is way too short and precious to mess around with not understanding your relationship with frozen sugared cream. Get it together, world.
Approaching the last major intersection before the shopping center that houses Cold Stone:
I mean, really. Can we drive any fucking slower? Are you trying to be the only one who gets through the damn light?! Gaaaah. Yup. I hate everyone.
*This may or may not be merely an angry thought. I may or may not be yelling the above out my window.
OK, here we go. There’s Cold Stone. Only 20 yards away. Come to Mama. Here I am.
Who are all these people taking up these parking spots? Why are there always so many people out and about? Don’t you have jobs? Go to work. Go home. Jeez. Now I have to park like a mile away.
Addressing my boyfriend:
“Shit! Look at that family of like 50 approaching the door? Hurry! Let’s run! We have to beat them! They will ALL want to try ALL of the flavors! Hurry!”
Because my boyfriend fully endorses NOT running towards your ice cream, the family beats us.
*Sending death glares to my jerk boyfriend as we wait for Mom, Dad, and their 48 children to try every fucking flavor.
Really? You want to try vanilla? Now you’re just being an ass. You’re doing it on purpose.
Why is that person staring at me? Oh, in my mad rush to get here, I forgot to put on my bra. Again?! This can’t keep happening, Katie.
Finally, it’s our turn! I’m going to be sensible and try ONE flavor, and I’ll be quick. I’ll show everyone how it’s done.
My boyfriend: “Really, Katie. Why do you insist on trying Oreo cream-filling every time when you know you’re getting Cake Batter with rainbow sprinkles?”
*Sending death glares again.
I indicate to the employee, who I know like the back of my hand, that I will, indeed, have my regular. Our ice cream is done and waiting in a paper bag, but 50-member-family is holding up the entire line trying to pay for their $500 worth of ice cream.
Great, just great. My ice cream is melting while you allow your 5 year-old to count change for you. Why do bad things happen to good people?
As my boyfriend and I walk/run to the car:
Me: “If we go out this first exit, we could bypass all of the people crossing from Marshall’s.”
Boyfriend: “Yes, but there isn’t a turn lane, we might get stuck behind someone going straight!”
Me: “You’re right. OK, here’s the game plan…”
On the drive home, I run 2 lights and almost hit a garbage can that some idiot left too far out into the street. All I can focus on is the speed at which my precious ice cream is melting.
Finally, home! Fat pants, Netflix, and a pint of ice cream so thick, I have to chew it! Heaven!
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Shameless
I have been a pretty shameless glutton most of my summer break. Weekends are hard for me to stay on track, let alone an entire school break. Give me almost 2 months of freedom, and endless hours to meet friends and family for breakfast, brunch, elevenses, lunch, afternoon tea, linner, dinner, cocktails, and late night binge-fests, and you pretty much have a recipe for disaster with a chocolate ganache and cherry on top.
I fully plan on getting my act together when school, and a regular schedule commences. Until then, I’m trying not to be too bad. I got a half sandwich, instead of feeling satisfied at Greatful Gardens the other day. Last night, I ate only one bag of kettlecorn popcorn. Most astonishingly, I imbibed in one, count em’: one Moscow Mule at The Depot yesterday.
After lunch, I usually want something sweet. Yesterday, I was craving some frozen yogurt with cookie dough and marshmallow topping something fierce. I told myself, “No, Fat Katie!”, and went home and ate a Popsicle instead (I’m also quickly running out of money-summer break, and being a fatty is EXPENSIVE).
Additionally, I am working hard at not drinking my calories (I mean, unless it’s alcohol. Because alcohol). I’m also trying to drink green tea a couple times a day. I know it’s not a miracle fix, but it has been shown to boost metabolism. Disclaimer: I am, by no means, against “quick fixes”. I will, usually, buy in to any weight loss fad that requires absolutely zero effort.
Another reason I’ve decided to not end my summer break in “Super Glutton” mode is: I spent $160 on It Works products. I purchased a month’s supply of wraps and fat inhibitors, hair, skin, and nails vitamins, and firming gel. My hard-earned credit card purchase just can’t be in vain. It doesn’t seem right to wash fat inhibitors down with a donut. Well, maybe it does, but I don’t want the donut to cancel out the hard work the supplement is doing. I’m not simply trying to maintain. Oh no. This lard has got to go.
My Fat Fighting Box of Shame
These are some real horse pills. And they taste like horse sweat.
Because ain’t nobody want to see my front butt. Here is another area that has got to get with the program and tighten up. I’m sick of my swinging arm flab.
Totally unedited and deelicious!
At least I remembered to shave my armpits for ya’ll.
I know firming gel and supplements are not the only answer. I’m doing yoga, too. Remember? I bet you forgot, as I haven’t posted any embarrassing yoga pics lately. Stay tuned.
*The little red mark on my arm is from my very first boyfriend, Karl Martin. We were having a pinching contest (we were 12). He won.