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!
Tag: funny
Yoga Farts
Guys, don’t go to yoga when you have gas. It’s a really, really bad idea. Also, it’s nearly impossible to meditate when you are trying really hard to hold in air that desperately wants out. I know this is graphic, and somewhat crude, but it’s real life.
Last night I attended a reiki yin yoga session. After dinner. After lunchtime sushi. After cereal with milk. It truly was a recipe for disaster. I should have told my friend I couldn’t go because I needed to sit on the couch and fart all night. Instead, I thought it would be fine, the gas would go away, and it would be all zen and Namaste.
Not only did I have horrible gas, I also had acid reflux in a major way. Nothing says ‘you’re 32’ like regretting you didn’t eat 10 Tums before physical exertion. Remember Jeff Foxworthy’s, “You Might Be a Redneck…” routine? I totally need to make a ton of memes with, “You Might Be In Your 30’s If…”.
Some examples would be:
You might be in your 30’s if you actually consider buying Dr. Scholl’s, because they look comfortable. Instead, you buy the really stylish shoes, and are rewarded with your first corn.
You might be in your 30’s if you catch yourself mentally chastising young’ins and their inappropriate fashion choices.
You might be in your 30’s if prepping for a big night of drinking means steering clear of greens all day and popping Prilosec like its the end of days.
You might be in your 30’s if you constantly tell yourself you need to get your shit together, but you still buy the purse you can barely afford. Because purses.
You might be in your 30’s if the thought of going home to watch The Office reruns in your fat pants genuinely gets you through your day.
So, after I’m made rich with all of the tee shirt royalties and jazz, I’ll create an anti-gas pill that actually fucking works.
Not only was I trying not to throw up stomach acid the entire yoga session, my stomach was making obnoxious gas noises. Quite audibly. Even worse, this yoga session was a reiki one. Reiki basically means the instructor comes around and puts their hands on you. I think it’s so you can feel their warmth or something. I’ll have to do further research, obviously.
Well, when she got to me, my bowel party was in full swing. The room was quiet, except for my intestines. They were gurgling, rolling, squeaking, and popping. I knew she could hear it. People in the next state over could hear it. I actually had to flex my toes to keep it in. Instead of going to my happy place, I kept imagining the absolute nightmare it would be if I relaxed and let it go. It would obviously be a silent, but deadly bastard. I would be able to count the seconds until it reached her. She would recoil, and I would promptly die. There is no coming back from farting on your yoga instructor.
In ending, I will not be attending yoga when I have gas. Because I have gas basically everyday, I’m in real trouble.
I have to know, people, do you toot at yoga? What is your method? Please tell me your strategy, as I desperately, painfully need to know.
Bloatedly Yours,
Moi
My absolute favorite ecard of all time.
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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.
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Awkward Moment #3
That awkward moment when you come face to face with your fat foe at the hair salon. Your hair stylist can’t put the cape on quick enough.
I know I have extra fat in the way my pants groan when I squeeze them on, and when I’m asked how far along I am by complete strangers. I get it. I know.
The absolute worst reminder you’re fat is when in the seated position in front of a mirror. Maybe I’m out of practice with sitting in front of mirrors, but it’s always a huge surprise when I sit in the hot seat at the salon. I guess I forget the extent at which I’m fat. My thought process, when faced with this fabulous reminder, usually goes something like this:
Before leaving for the salon:
I need to wear something that sucks all of my fat in, but is also flowy. Something that doesn’t cling to every crevice and stretch mark. It also has to be something I don’t care too much about, in case I get dye on it. Do I have something like that? No, of course I don’t, you fool. If I did, all of my fat problems would be solved.
I guess it’s the leggings I yank up to my boobs, a layering tank, and a moo moo. It’s stylish, it has chevron print *sigh*
At the salon, upon sitting in the hot seat:
Just don’t look, the cape is coming soon. Just don’t look.
Jesus.
I looked.
How is it possible my body spreads out like Jabba the Hutt upon sitting? Where is all of this fat when I’m standing? It must go where my boobs jet off to when I lay on my back. Backstabbing, bitch body.
Where is the damn cape that hides all of this? Where is the cape? Where is it? The cape! Gah. I can’t avert my eyes anymore. Put.On.The.Cape.
Oh, here it comes. It’s like a long-lost Blanket of Denial. It feels good. It feels right.
The entire time my hair is getting done, I forget what is under the cape.
I look fabulous in a cape. I wonder if I could start a new fashion trend. Fellow fat ladies would love me. I could call it “The Cape of Denial”. It would be very forward and en vogue.
When my hair is done:
My hair says, “I’m sexy. I’m unstoppable. I’m fucking fierce”. My body says, “I like long walks to the refrigerator and I’ve given up”. My hair is gorg. At least I have my hair.
That’s usually how I self-soothe, the “At least” thought pattern. At least I can still see my vagina. At least I have pretty eyes. At least I usually know how to dress my fat. At least.
The struggle.
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TP
As I mentioned in a previous post, I used to run the blog bigcitybetty. I didn’t only write about living in a small town, I would also make observations about the absurdity of life. One of my favorite posts was about toilet paper. Anyone surprised? I have been mentally preparing a blog post about all of the ridiculous things that happened to me when I lived in Elko, so until then, I thought I would share this post I wrote in December 2011. Enjoy.
I just had a very confusing trip to the bathroom while at my parent’s house. I did my business, read a little ditty about high blood pressure in Woman’s Day and then went for the white stuff…That’s where the confusion started. There were two rolls on the holder. The holder was large enough to fit, perfectly, two rolls of TP. Two rolls. They were brand-spanking-new and so fat, soft and inviting. I sat there a minute completely lost. Which roll should have the distinct pleasure of meeting my ass? I decided the right one was easier to access and the right side just seemed…well, right. I took a few squares, did my thing and then realized the two rolls looked off balance. I decided to take my new handful of TP from the left to balance it out. After close inspection, it seemed I took a little too much off the left side and would have to take more from the right to compensate. This went on for another 5 minutes. My arse was clean, but the rolls still needed to look even. I couldn’t leave one more unused than the other, that just wasn’t right. Two whole rolls of toilet paper and 30 minutes later, I was finally satisfied.
In closing, I have to ask, “Why in the fuck does one need TWO rolls of toilet paper? Is it merely to confuse your bathroom guests or is it to torment people with OCD? Either way, one roll will suffice. Now, I need to buy my dad some new toilet paper and my butt is really chafed from all the unneeded wiping. Sometimes I feel like I am the only one in the world with any sense. Good grief.
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Dog Days
I have been house and dog sitting for my aunt and uncle for a week. One long week. It’s necessary to point out that I’m childless, by choice and dog-less, due to circumstance. If I lived in an apartment that allowed dogs, I would have become a dog mama a long time ago. Forget “baby fever”, I have “puppy fever” something fierce. The second I see floppy ears, awkward paws, and big puppy eyes, I melt. I become that annoying, squealing girl, the kind of girl who says, “OMG, it’s a POOPY! WANT!”
So, I used to have puppy fever. I think I’m good for at least another 5 years before I will think I want a dog again. Maybe that’s being dramatic, but in my exhaustion, I have lost all desire to wake up to puppy breath. For those of you thinking of getting a puppy, let me tell you, puppy parenting is some serious, life-altering shit.
The dogs I am watching are actually total sweethearts. The younger one, Pepper, loves to cuddle. The old guy, Marley, loves to be by you at all times. With being alone in a big house, these traits are much appreciated. They also, for the most part, come when they’re called (unless they are in the middle of eating a turd, you can’t just leave a perfectly good poop uneaten like that), and they don’t bark at all.
This is where the easiness comes full halt. I am reminded why I don’t want children: I adore my sleep. Guess what? Dogs are like babies, in that they don’t give two shits if you get sleep or not. I’ve probably slept a total of 5 solid hours this entire week.
The first night, both dogs must have felt unsettled, as all I heard all night was toenails clicking on the hardwood floor and collars going “jingle-jingle”. They apparently didn’t need their sleep, like I needed mine. The next night, I got smarter, and moved to a room with carpet and I took their collars off. This was the only night I got any real sleep.
Marley has never really seemed thrilled his mom and dad have been gone. To self-soothe, he has been obsessively licking his butthole. He won’t stop and it’s red and irritated. Instead of calling and freaking out his parents, I asked my mom what to do. She said to make sure he poops and “just tell him to quit licking”. I’ve spent an ungodly amount of time yelling at a dog who is going down on his asshole.
3rd Night: Pepper decided the human bed was a better place to be than the dog bed. She slipped under the covers and literally slept with her nose between my buttcheeks all night. I was so scared she would suffocate, so all night long, I checked to see if she was still breathing.
4th Night: Both dogs woke me up no less than 3 times to go outside. Their potty breaks must not have been enough, as Marley unleashed farts all night that made me cry. Sleep was filled with nightmares and night sweats.
5th Night: The temperature dropped drastically and I was able to sleep with the window open. I woke up with a start to Marley having a nightmare. After I spent 10 minutes reassuring him and petting his belly, I worried that he was too cold. I found a blanket and covered him. I checked on him throughout the night, as I didn’t want him to freeze to death. Pepper was warm, as she still felt the need to sleep directly on top of me.
6th Night. I smelled poop. Pure poop. I guess that happens when a dog’s asshole is directly in your face. I still feel dirty.
7th Night: At 3:00 AM, I hear barfing. I hope it’s a nightmare, but it’s not. Marley is barfing in the corner. I can’t even, so I just go back to sleep. At 7:00 AM, I check to see if maybe, hopefully it was a nightmare. Nope, there’s puke in the corner. I resolve to be fully awake before I have to clean up dog vomit, so I go back to sleep again. 8:00 AM comes around and I let the dogs out, and, the puke is gone. HE ATE HIS OWN BARF. While I’m eternally grateful that he cleaned up his own mess, I’ve been dry heaving all day at the thought that he ate his own barf.
While it’s been nice to hang with some legit pups and drink free beer every night, I have bags under my eyes and I have 80 new gray hairs. I’m exhausted, and I can’t wait to get back to my bed. A bed that doesn’t smell of dog asshole and farts (well, at least dog farts).
Pepper and Marley are sweethearts, but just like with babies, I prefer to squeeze their cheeks, ogle over them, and then hand them back.
Pepper says, “Blogging is boring. Pay attention to me!”
“You weren’t in the room, and we thought you would never come back, so we helped ourselves”.
“If my eyes are closed, I can’t see you, so you can’t see me on the bed I’m not supposed to be on”.
Marley is over your shit, Pepper.
“We are handfuls, but we sure are cute little shits”.
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Awkward Moment #1
That awkward moment you are attempting to sit on a stool at the cupcake shop, you shouldn’t be at, and the bastard feels very, very untrustworthy. After coming too close to breaking a chair made out of metal, at a cupcakery, it’s only necessary to swear your friends to utter secrecy. You take it one step further by threatening bodily harm if your secret gets out. You didn’t break the chair, but in the “fat world” almost breaking it is just as damn bad.
The next realization you have is that if you didn’t feel it necessary to suggest cupcakes right after eating an entire meal (as if that wasn’t satisfying enough), you wouldn’t be in the predicament of almost breaking a chair while biting into a massive cupcake adorned with marshmallows, graham cracker crumbs, and chocolate sauce. No one suggesting hikes after lunch break chairs.
Then, you wonder when it will be that the awkward moments become too frequent and you actually make a change. How many chairs at specialty bakeries does your ass have to dismantle until one is done with the bad choices?
Awkward Moment #2 happens when you realize, probably never. Because cupcakes.
Shut up, Ryan Gosling, you don’t know me!
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Why? No. Just Stop!
So, this morning, on my way to brunch, I saw a dude, walking down the street, wearing a bathrobe. A bathrobe. Strangely, he did not appear to be nude under said robe. He was wearing a Led Zeppelin shirt and jeans. And a bathrobe. If it were winter, or chilly at all, maybe this wouldn’t be as weird, but it was 90 degrees. What would posses someone to:
A. Wear a bathrobe in public, and…
B. Wear a bathrobe in public in 90 degree weather?
And, no, he was not a street person, he was talking on his iPhone 6.
Like, did he think, “I may get lost going down the street, so, in case I’m lost well into the night, I better be prepared, by wearing…a nice, fuzzy, warm bathrobe”?
Except, this bathrobe wasn’t nice and fuzzy. It was colored shit brown, had numerous holes, and was adorned with curious stains, and I don’t even want to imagine the amount of porn that poor piece of terry cloth has seen.
What possesses people to wear items of clothing in public that should never see the light of day? Additionally, and even more curiously, why do people wear winter weather items in the summer?
I know you have a mad case of swamp ass in those black leather skinny pants, don’t even lie. And, who can even stand to be around the genius who sweats buckets in their Ugg boots and then takes them off, in a room with other people, like no biggie? Also, is it not common knowledge that if your head is hot, the rest of your body will be too? Why then all the beanies, people? Why????
Next person I see wearing a sweatshirt in the heat of another 90 degree day, I’m going to stop and ask about their clothing choice. I’ll pretend I’m a fashion writer in search of the latest trend. I’ll ask them why they chose a long-sleeved, fleece-lined, sweat factory, usually worn in the snow, on a day where most people try getting away with wearing next to nothing.
I have to know why. Do they not get hot? Does the heat not bother them? If so, what’s their secret? Is it a weight loss or cleanse thing? Are they going for boob and crotch sweat of epic proportions on purpose, to lose weight? Are they not of the human race? Were they sent here from a planet where the thermostat is always set to 68, and they are just cold, always? Fucking why?
Also, I’m kind of tired of the “Wear Anything in Public Because This is America” trend. No, just because you have the right, you should not wear your sweat-stained, used-to-be-white negligee as a dress. We all know it’s not a dress, it’s from Suzy’s, and it’s for the bedroom. It’s not trendy, no one is envious of your attire, and your nipples are showing. Go put on an actual dress, mmmkay?
If I start sweating just looking at you, you’re probably wearing a beanie or knee high boots with shorts. STOP THAT. TAKE IT OFF.
If my cheeks are flushed and I start sweating upon looking at you, it’s probably because I’m embarrassed for you, no one wants to see your beef curtains, hanging out of your shorts, swaying in the summer breeze. STOP THAT. PUT THEM AWAY.
Well, I don’t really have much more to say after that. Good day.
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Sweet Moves, Yo
Tomorrow I am planning on attending a workout Burlesque dance class with a friend. I simply cannot wait to see how much material I can get for my blog. I am about as talented dance-wise as your bald, middle-aged uncle, who thinks he has moves (he also still thinks his cellphone belt clip is what the cool kids have). If I wanted to, I could make a video of my dancing, upload it onto YouTube and, easily, I could be the next William Hung. I am BAD. BAD.
Why am I doing this then? Well, I would actually like to find my sexy. I know it is in there. It’s just hiding under my insecurity, my spastic muscles, and my inability to find anything resembling a rhythm. If I try hard enough, learn to count and move at the same time, and allow my body to move to the beat, it is possible that someday I will not look like I am having a seizure when I am attempting to dance. Maybe.
In honor of this dance class tomorrow, I am re-posting a piece I did on my blog I began while living in BFE Elko. I took a Zumba class and the result was pure hilarity.
I am such a masochist. I am also a really horrible dancer. Yes, I tried Zumba for the second time, despite the fact that I can’t dance for anything. I actually stepped on my own two left feet. Let me try to express to the fullest of my ability how bad I am at moving my body in an even remotely sexy manner…
First, I thought that the people I was going with were amateurs, like me. WRONG. One girl minored in dance in college. She looked better than the instructor. Now I know why she wanted to be in the front! What was I thinking agreeing to that?! Seeing myself front and center next to JLO did nothing for my self esteem. Then, to my right, another dancer who was counting the steps. Counting the what? You mean there are steps in dancing? And you have to count them? Behind me, a friend who was not afraid to let out her sexy wild woman self and let me tell you, she was truly shaking it. Me? I was stiff as a board and I had as much rhythm as an albatross. I looked like I was having a stroke at one point. It was bad, really bad. There was this move where you had to bend your knees and jump forward, sexily…LORD. Probably the worst move involved shaking our asses as we bent forward. I felt like I should apologize to the person behind me. My ass didn’t stop shaking for an hour after class.
Besides being surrounded by supposed “amateurs”, again, thanks guys… I was also surrounded by mirrors. As I mentioned above, I was persuaded to stand front and center, in front of the mirror. It would have been half alright if I didn’t have to be reminded every second how truly awful I was. I had to WATCH myself. It was truly nightmarish. At one point I decided it would be best to just laugh instead of maintain my determined face; that way no one would think I was actually serious with my ridiculous moves.
Next, dancing is EXHAUSTING, folks! What the hell? I understand now why all those club addicts are so skinny. Oh, and why Britney Spears has thighs the size of my big head. I was in agony. My thighs and calves were burning and my knees wanted to give in. I was dripping sweat and just looked a mess. I made the mistake to look over at “Miss Minored in Dance” and she was glistening beautifully with sweat. Grrr. I was so exhausted that I soon couldn’t do two things at once. Move my arms and legs? At the same time? Forget it…
HOWEVER, and this is a big however (notice how it is capitalized), I actually enjoyed myself and got a hell of a workout. I looked physically challenged, yes, but there were others similar to me (none quite as bad, but close). The third (most recent) time I attended I went with a friend who was more like me and we laughed and laughed and laughed at each other. My abs got a good workout as well as my growing thighs.
So, if you attend the Zumba class Fridays, in Elko, I apologize in advance. My spastic ass will be in attendance and my advice to you is to try not to look too much. I think I am getting better…