Free Advice Friday From Your Aunt Fatty

Dear Auntie, 

The new president of the board where I teach is a passive aggressive power hungry bitch. She keeps praising me to my face and then going behind my back and saying nasty things to my co workers. And then she denies it. How can I deal with her and keep my sanity? And if that isn’t possible, how can I kill her and not get caught?

-Anonymous Idiot (who should have said no)

Dear Anonymous Idiot,

I once briefly worked at a place that shall remain nameless that had a board that was almost entirely run by moms of students attending. I think that was a major conflict of interest, but what do I know?

(I had way more to say here, but figured it’d be better for me to watch my big mouth.)

One of these moms hated me simply because she assumed I was too young to be responsible for her child’s education. She actually said to a teacher who worked there, “I don’t want that 18 year-old know-nothing around my son.”

No way! You think I’m 18?!”

I was 28.

So, all that to say, I know what you’re going through.

As far as I’m aware, school board members are elected to their positions. Next time she comes up to be re-elected, you know what you need to do. Until then, just be your amazing self and pay no mind to people like that. If you know you’re doing your job well and her comments are unfounded, it’s her problem not yours.

Also, it wouldn’t hurt to document the ever-loving shit out of every interaction and record every snippet of gossip you hear her quacking. You may need it, because if karma truly exists, ample evidence from the sane party will work in your favor big time.

Besides, if she’s doing this to you, she’s probably talking behind other backs as well. She might piss off the wrong person and your documentation could be the cherry on top of getting her removed from the board.

Best of luck and don’t do murder.

Love, Your Aunt Fatty (who is really, really mad about this bullshit for you)


Dear Aunt Fatty,

Can you help me find my calling? I see people around me who know what they want to do or are happy with what they are doing. From the moment I started searching for a job and a career, everyone asks me what I want to be…. and I don’t know. I don’t know who or what I can be. I’m average on everything including translating for the looks of things (didn’t get the translating job I applied for) and all I can see myself doing is retail, but I know that I can’t keep my big mouth shut anymore. If a customer pisses me off I will slap him with the keyboard or my hand. Depends what’s easiest at the time. How should I go about finding what I’m meant to do in life?

Sincerely, A Very Knowledgeable and Talented Queen Who Can Do Anything and Everything She Sets Her Mind To (I wrote this, because I only speak the truth)

Dear A Very Knowledgeable and Talented Queen Who Can Do Anything and Everything She Sets Her Mind To,

First, I think it’s really awesome (and also kinda like playing with fire) that you trust me enough with this serious issue.

Next, I’d like all of my readers to know that I know you personally, so when I say you can literally do anything, I damn well mean it and I’m qualified to say it.

You are too legit to quit and genuinely one of the kindest and most thoughtful people I know.

You impressed the hell out of my family when you took us on a personal tour of the Lincoln Cathedral. You knew so much and presented it to us in such an engaging way, I was in awe.

You know a handful of languages, dude. That’s like four fingers less than most people.

What I truly see you doing is working at a museum or important historical site. I see you being a director. I see you being responsible for all the important shit that goes on at these places (whatever that shit is, because I don’t know). I see you speaking your myriad languages to the other important director people of other important museums and/or historical sites. I see you wearing super smart lady suits that look killer on you (You’ll spice them up with a peekaboo lace camisole underneath and sky high heels. Or sensible flats, because let’s be real- heels blow).

You will be K-I-L-L-I-N-G I-T, girl.

If this is not what you want to be and you end up working the till at Tesco, I’ll be equally proud of you, because that’s just one step closer to being able to travel the world with your Soul Sister (me).

I know you’re feeling down right now, but don’t you dare ever say you’re average. Don’t you ever say that again.

Love, Your Aunt Fatty (who is #crossingherfingersandtoesbecausesicilyandobviouslyforyoutooimnotcompletelyselfish)


Dear Auntie:

Now that the cold weather has arrived, us girls need a little extra warmth on our bodies. Like most, I love the colder months because I don’t have to use a weed wacker on my legs to get them touchable smooth. How often should a lady shave those stems in the winter?

Much love,

Going to run in an Abominable Snowwoman contest

By Abominable Snow Woman, did you mean this?

Dear Going to Run in an Abominable Snow Woman Contest,

I’m so glad you brought up this very important issue. This is so something that needs to be covered every year when the temps drop and the chill hits.

Despite what every man on Earth may say, it is not at all necessary to shave for the entirety of Sweater Weather season. Like, there’s not one single reason to get your razor wet once.

If your body is covered head to toe in warm stuffs why shave? Even if you were rocking a tank and booty shorts, what’s a little butt hair poking out? We all have it. Right, ya’ll have an abundance of butt hair, too. Right??

Coming from someone who likes to look decent, I sure as fuck hate the process. I positively hate shaving because it takes so long my fingers are pruney and the water has run cold. I only shave for my massage therapist and only the places she will have to touch (and I’m only doing this as a courtesy, as I imagine rubbing down legs with a million porcupine spines has to be unpleasant).

I can just hear my dude groaning subconsciously. Sorry, boyfriend. You have hairy armpits, too.

So, rock on with your hairy bad self. Your built-in insulation will save on heating costs too, so I see this as a total win-win situation.

Love, Your Aunt Fatty (who is also participating in No Shave Octembanuaryarch)

Thank you so much to Giggling Fattie, who submitted her question above and also kindly posted on her blog about my Ask Aunt Fatty series! Check out her fantastic blog that I know you’re gonna love here.


A few of you sent in submissions (thank you, thank you, thank you) that I didn’t get to this week. Stay tuned for next week’s post to read your answer from Aunt Fatty.

Keep sending in your problems, people. I know you got ’em!

You can contact me here! Or, if you follow me on Twitter, Instagram or Facebook, you can message me there, as well!

An Ode to Hairy Women

Courtesy of Buzzfeed via Pinterest[/caption]
Except, this isn’t an actual ode. It’s more like a dedication, but the word ‘ode’ sounded so much more interesting. I can’t write poetry in any form, but I can write one hell of a dedication to hairy women, because I have a lot of experience with unwanted body hair. I would call myself a Purple Heart recipient veteran of the War on Body Hair, but I’m still in the trenches, fighting.
Before I go any further, if you’re a man…a man who happens to be disillusioned about women, in regards to them being similar to hairless Sphynx cats, stop reading now. If you’re brave, be warned. I am about to rock your world, in a really, really bad way. If you care to remain in blissful ignorance, go read literally anything else. 
My first experience with unwanted body hair happened in the bathtub at my grandmother’s cabin, the summer before 4th grade. Pretending I was a mermaid grew boring, and I suddenly felt compelled to look at my armpits, and good thing I did. I looked like a chia pet. It was terrifying. My mother introduced me to the razor that day. I didn’t know yet that that single instrument would be the bane of my entire existence. Why didn’t my boy cousins grow armpit hair? It was so unfair.
Soon after the dreaded pit hair, came loads of leg hair. I mean, loads. I had hairier legs than my dad (I’m not sure that’s saying much, though. Last we counted, he had, literally, three precious hairs left). My mom started buying razors in bulk at Costco. She also bought a lot of band aids. I had still not mastered the art of not bleeding to death during shaving. I looked like a 10 year-old cutter.
Next came the worst decision of my life. Do you ever look back on an event in your life, regardless of how many decades ago it was, and still cringe, like the pain of bad decisions is still a fresh wound? I still feel this bad decision, and if I were ever able to go back in time to change one thing it would be this. Not getting to go back and change how awful my first kiss was. Or, change farting in class the first day of freshmen year. No. I would go back and grab the razor out of my stupid, stupid hand the day I decided it would be smart to shave the baby hairs growing below my belly button. I had a smooth, beautiful, hairless belly for precisely one day. The next day my stomach looked like Robin William’s shoulders. I cried harder for the loss of my womanly belly than when my hamster, Rascal, died. It was traumatic. 
During my formative years, I discovered Nair. The day I discovered that a product could literally melt my mustache away was one of the best of my life. That is, until I failed to read the directions properly. I left that nasty shit on for 10 minutes longer than is suggested (I mean, the box specifically states to, “Under no circumstance leave on longer than 10 minutes, unless you want to melt your lips off, dumbass”). My mom actually let me stay home from school, because no one in the house could stand looking at me longer than a few seconds before dissolving into a big pile of ugly laughing. “Fuck-You-I-Hate-My-Life” pretty much said it all. After this incident my mom hid her Nair, and just a whiff of that noxious chemical would send me reeling.
During college, I struggled with additional unwanted hair. As if a hairy belly button, man legs, and a Burt Reynolds ‘stache wasn’t bad enough, I discovered I had hair sprouting on my chin. The day I found my new unwanted friends was the same day I had a blind date planned, because that’s how being me goes. I asked my best friend to pluck those deceiving bastards. After she plucked the few I had seen, she started in below my chin. I said, “Wait, what’re you doing? Are there more?” She just said, “Um”. In a state of utter panic, I asked how many more. She said, “Well, most of them are white, so we won’t have to pluck them. So…if I had to guess, 25?” I died a little inside that day.

Courtesy of YouTube via Pinterest

This will be me one day. I think she’s seriously adorable. I’m serious. I want to hug her. After the panic of that recent discovery, I resorted to accepting the fact that my life would now revolve around waxing trips to the salon. Because I have sensitive skin, I always looked like I had a sunburn in the shape of Middle-Aged Man. So, of course, the guy I was dating called me, in a panic, right after my monthly waxing appointment. His car had broken down and he was stranded. I literally had a red mustache and beard, but he was hot, so I had to go get him. I should have just called that one a loss, because tying a shirt around the bottom half of your face, because, “it was cold”, looks crazy. Eventually, because he wasn’t an imbecile, he put two and two together and discovered I had waxed my face. I just dumped him. It was better than knowing he knew
Presently, I am struggling with how to shave my man arms without getting razor burn. Do you know what razor burn on your arms looks like? It looks like Please Don’t Sit By Me. It looks like a fucking disease.
The second I’m a millionaire, I’m getting full-body electrolysis. Ladies Who Get It, am I right? Is that not the exact same thing you would do? Of course it is.
So, this isn’t really a dedication either, more of a really sad, true tale, that is dedicated to the Ladies Who Get It. To the Ladies Who Don’t Get It, you aren’t part of the club, so there (don’t get your panties in a twist, you’re already part of the Non-Manly Woman Club, so go be hairless, and let us hairy ladies have this).
Well, I gotta go. My 5 o’clock shadow is already coming in, and my boyfriend still doesn’t know I shave more than him. Shhhhh. 
I found this on Pinterest years ago, and it still makes me laugh

Really though…