So, like, you know how heavy whipping cream is like a staple of the keto diet? Sure, lots of greens and grass fed meats are pretty key, but
HEAVY WHIPPING CREAM
Have you ever just had a spoonful of heavy whipping cream (of course the fuck not because the majority of you- the odd three or so followers I have left- aren’t psychos)?
Heavy whipping cream is legit heavy. It sticks to the roof of your mouth and blankets your tongue in a thick coat of fat. It somehow makes it into your brain’s pleasure receptors, where it does the version of the Macarena where you just flail your arms around and laugh like a hyena because you have no idea what you’re doing, but YAY, HEAVY FUCKING WHIPPING CREAM.
Once you try a spoonful, it only makes sense to use it in place of your 1% Lactaid when you make yourself an entire box of Pasta Roni. And by you, I mean me.
Oh, I’m sorry.
Did you think I was doing keto, finally?
Excuse me while I laugh in fat and desperate, but still ain’t trying keto.
So, once I learned how absolutely mind-blowing heavy cream is in boxed pasta (like, no joke, better than any of the pasta I ate in Italy), I knew I had to try it in my Chocolate Peanut Butter Cheerios.
Heavy whipping cream in cereal should be outlawed, in case you were wondering. It’s just not fair to regular milk.
These are just some of the delights I ate tonight, along with two mini bags of popcorn, a pudding cup topped off with a giant dollop of marshmallow cream, and some canned corn because I’m not a savage.
What makes this all the more oh-no-baby-what-is-you-doin was that just this past Monday, the day we returned from winter break, I chose to wear jeans to work.
Jeans.
Jeans, after two solid weeks of sweatpants and fists full of homemade Chex Muddy Buddies.
I figured… what did I figure? Was I even figuring?
If you must know, I still have an indent in my stomach from the waistband, and I couldn’t sit at a 90 degree angle the entire day. In case you weren’t aware, most sitting is done at a 90 degree angle.
So, what’s new with me? As you can see, not a damn thing.
What’s new with you two?
(I’m speaking to the two stragglers I have left here).
Have you ever tried heavy whipping cream in your cereal? Did it blow your pants off (just literally, unfortunately) like it did me?
It has been discovered, after myriad messages (some really embarrassing and many most wouldn’t send their best friend) sent back and forth between Amanda “McMilkshakes” and I, that we are certified garbage grownups. What is a garbage grownup, you ask? Well, just keep reading. You will soon either feel an equal amount of disgust and pity for us or you will feel like you have found your people.
Hell being the DMV or the grocery store on a Sunday…
How Does One Clean an Oven? Asking For a Friend
A: What’s an oven? As a Garbage Grownup, I have to tell everyone that I do less than half of the cooking at my house. I can microwave my ass off, and do okay with snack type things (think peanut butter and celery). And, I can make eggs. Otherwise, the cooking isn’t up to me. No one in my house wants to die of food poisoning, so we just leave it to Chef John. My other classic move when it comes to food is to spend a fortune on groceries and then eat out all week because we don’t have any convenience food in the house. I don’t know how Chef John hasn’t driven me into the wilderness and left me for dead yet.
As far as other household chores are concerned, I have one word for you all: Febreze. You’re welcome. I use it on EVERYTHING and it helps to mask the fact that I haven’t cleaned my couches in at least 6 months (and that’s being generous).
Strangely, I think I know what happened here…
K: I have never cleaned my oven, because I am too afraid the self-cleaning function will stink up the place (This happened to my parents when they were readying their house to be sold. We are all fairly certain the smell permeated the walls and will remain for all eternity). I am also concerned the chemical cleaners will be baked into our frozen chicken cordon bleu.
So, I read on Pinterest that you can make your oven like new with just, in my case, three boxes of baking soda and a gallon of vinegar. No mention on the article how you are supposed to get the dried mixture out. So, this is now our oven:
NEVERMIND
It’s just too embarrassing. I couldn’t share a picture. I just couldn’t do it.
It has been like this for a year (just use your imagination), because, oh well.
(Who does this? Who starts a big production of cleaning and then just stops in the middle for a whole year?)
One last teensy way I fail at being a real adult in the arena of Householding is that I don’t own an ironing board. I’m sure many people don’t own ironing boards, because who the fuck irons anymore? But, sometimes (like two times a year) you’ve just got to bite the bullet and pull out your rusty dusty iron.
So, what do I do to iron, then, since I don’t own an ironing board? Well, I’m glad you asked, Karen.
I use every flat surface in my house.
Subsequently, every flat surface has been ruined permanently by my too-hot iron. The real kicker here? Our coffee table has a stainless steel topper on it. Did it ever even once cross my mind to use that before, during, or after ruining my kitchen table, dresser, my duvet cover, or the wall? No. No, I did not.
Why Our Razors Are a Year Old, But Still Brand New and Other Hygiene Things
A: Shaving is a pain in the padded ass. I always get out of the shower with all the cuts bleeding, looking like I got into a fight with a small but ferocious alligator while I was in there. And have you ever gotten antiperspirant in a newly sliced armpit? Pass. Hard pass.
Another fun fact for lackluster hygiene is I have enough hair for three people, and I’m not washing this thing every day. It makes my arms tired and gives me a bad attitude. Well, a worse attitude. I firmly believe that God invented dry shampoo and gave it to us because he loves us and wants our arms to be rested. It would be bad manners not to take advantage of such a thoughtful gift.
K: I am a terrible excuse for a female*. I have a love-hate relationship with all forms of beauty. Don’t get me wrong, I love makeup and the perfect beach wave and I have more trendy beanies and chambray shirts than is even close to normal, but I hate the process.
Ya’ll know what I mean by the process.
I often dream of the Jetsons and the robots they had for everything. I want to live the robot life, ya’ll. If someone or something would shave my pits every day, I wouldn’t have armpits that could rival those of my boyfriend. I would also not have to warn said boyfriend- every six months or whenever I think the situation downstairs is getting ridiculous- that there are pubes everywhere and he may just want to burn the bathroom down, because like glitter, pubic hair never.goes.away.
You’re Supposed to Have Money in Your Savings Account?
A: About four years ago I got really sick with no insurance -another example of how I’m a horrible adult because you’re never supposed to not have insurance- and I still owe that hospital a lot of money. The last bill they sent was for $132,000.00 As a result we were completely wiped out and just when we were starting to recover, I got pregnant. The mature grownup thing to do would have been to go back to work right away and start building our nest egg back up, but this post isn’t about how I make terrific decisions is it?
I stayed home for 8 glorious months and loved the absolute shit out of my daughter while it was still an option. I’ve since gone back to work full time and am finally seeing some progress but it will take time to be on top again. My bi-weekly eyelash appointments are making it slower of course, but those are the breaks and my lashes are fabulous.
K: I am full on a moron when it comes to money. Well, let me clarify for anyone feeling aghast right now- I pay my bills, OK? And, I actually have excellent credit. Like, really excellent. I am not just using ‘excellent’ as my adjective of choice. By some strange miracle, I have been able to maintain truly excellent credit, all while balancing an idiotic amount of credit cards. When I am still living in a tiny apartment at the ripe old age of 78, I will have to tell myself, “Well, at least I had good credit…”.
I think it is pretty ridiculous that all around me there are people my age and even younger buying homes, appliances larger than a crockpot, and nicer cars than a used 2010 Hyundai. I actually have friends who own two refrigerators. I own zero refrigerators.
It isn’t ridiculous that people are smarter with their money than I am, but that I spend my money on an inane amount of soap from Bath & Body Works (that I am having a hard time fitting in my tiny apartment). Or, that I spend actual money on a home design game (I am not even shitting you- I have spent real monies on decorating a fucking designer entryway FOR A GAME ON MY PHONE). Or maybe it’s just a lot ridiculous that I have been paying for a monthly succulent subscription (while at the same time wondering why I don’t have a garden of my own). I have eight succulents so far. How many is too many succulents?
How I Almost Shit My Pants in My Car and Other Tales of Woe
A: Once upon a time about 8 years ago, I danced and performed hula with my niece. The shows were short, so our costumes had to be ready in advance, allowing for quick changing between songs. Her mama was out of town and mine was in the hospital, so the baton of preparedness was passed to me. I promptly dropped it twice and then gave it to my 11 year-old niece because I was ill-equipped. “Why is the steam button on this iron broken??!!!” It wasn’t. You just have to add water to the fucking basin if you want it to make steam.
Good thing my sister made her daughter ready for real life because we would have had some messed up outfits for the Reno High show. I still don’t iron very well, but I do know where the water goes. I’d call it a win.
K: I actually wrote the full tale of what-the-fuck here, but long story short, I was mere seconds from shitting my pants in my car. It came out of literally NOWHERE. I had just had my first ever chiropractor adjustment and I was on my way home and BAM- situation.was.dire.
I was in the middle of a residential neighborhood and was actually *silent inner scream* contemplating squatting behind a rhododendron.
I don’t know about any of you, but the realization that you are going to almost certainly defile the seat you sit in everyday, is something that changes your very psyche.
I ended up making it, but I had to run into a luxury apartment complex that was just closing. There was a lady behind a desk and I am not even sure if she saw me sprinting as I desperately clutched my ass (as if that has ever helped) or not, but the thought that she might come into the bathroom after what happened in there, and I’d have to make eye contact with her through the stall gap and say, “Yeah…I don’t live here… but… as you can see… it was an emergency,” made me clammy as fuck.
To make matters even better, I got locked in. I got locked into the apartment complex office I busted into to take an emergency poo. I eventually found a way out through the gym door that led outside. I then had to wait, like a wild half woman/half animal freak, for a car to enter through the outer gates to make my hurried, shameful escape.
I swore I’d find myself on the evening news. I was nervous for a least a week after.
You know shit like this never happens to Jill, with the bleached asshole, Range Rover, and yoga addiction.
#1 Garbage Mom
A: Let’s just get it out in the open: I am the worst mom on the face of the earth. It isn’t on purpose, I’m just not good. I don’t like being judged for not being good, so I cheat and then I get caught, and it makes me look a hundred times worse. I could tell so many stories here but I am the most embarrassed about just one.
So, I was supposed to be making Ava’s baby food at home. I made a huge production of it and pinned all kinds of recipes. I even got a special silicone mold to hold all the different foods I was planning to make. It was going to be epic.
Well friends, sorry to disappoint you, but it did not go down like that. It didn’t taste good, it didn’t smell good, and it took way longer than I anticipated.
My sweet girl has never been a sleeper, and what little free time I did have I wasn’t interested on spending it making baby food. I wanted to spend it sleeping. But, I wasn’t going to let the people who told me I would hate it win, and so I went and bought all the baby food flavors I could have made on my own if I had been inclined to do so, and I put it in my own containers.
The problem is, I left the store bought containers where they were found and my secret was discovered and mocked for a long time. I should have just told the fucking truth but hearing “I told you so” just really makes me mad, and as a Garbage Grownup I’m more comfortable lying than I probably should be.
PS: There’s a reason Gerber is a million dollar company.
So, tell us, how are you a garbage grownup? Come on, ya’ll know you’ve burned an iron shape into your curtains too.
This is the way to Starbucks and the answer to all of my adulting questions, right? Yeah, this is it. (It was not it.)
*Being a female means a lot of different things, but I was referring to the run of the mill, girly female here.
I’m posting today to apologize for not posting my usual on Wednesday and today. The Christmas crazies have kicked in and I’m finding myself overwhelmed trying to fit in all the fun. Maybe one year I’ll slow the shit down and actually enjoy the holidays.
I’m fully expecting that you will see an update on how Dumpy and McMilkshakes are doing. Spoiler alert: We’re struggling and dieting during the holidays can suck our sagging back fat.
Check out the first posts in the Diet Chronicles of Dumpy Von Marshmallow Waist and Duchess McMilkshakes:
I’m positively loving writing ridiculous advice from Aunt Fatty, but I only have one submission waiting for my anti-advice, so I decided to wait and see if more of you felt the need for crappy life lessons from a wholly unqualified individual (to the person waiting: I hope it wasn’t, like, a time sensitive issue. If so, my bad).
So, in order for Free Advice Friday From Your Aunt Fatty to work, I kinda need people seeking advice. I considered just writing fake submissions, but I want to bring real life fuckery to you, not made up bullshit.
So, get to writing in. You can submit your queries here.
Check out the posts I’ve already done thanks to your submissions:
In going back through these previous posts I’ve done, I’m noticing that each new post got less likes than the last. Maybe you’re all busy with Christmas crap like I am or I was mistaken and ya’ll actually really hate this series?
Well, on that depressing note, I’ll take my leave. Hope to *see* y’all next week.
Strangely, and for reasons I still don’t understand, I gain new followers every day (and here I am, still not rich and famous). To those of you who are new here, I swear I don’t always suck. I used to post religiously every week. Sometimes I posted twice. I was inspired. I was hopeful. I was excited. I was preparing to rule the world.
Something happened, yo.
This post could have been alternatively titled: Throwback Thursday to When I Actually Gave a Fuck.
It’s not that I don’t care about you. Every time I get a notification that I have a new like, comment, follower, a tiny voice inside me says, “Someone loves me. They really do love me.”
(Typing that out makes it sound so profoundly pitiful. *opens Google app to google, “Is it bad to think that strangers love me when they follow my blog even when I know it’s not possible they can love me and I only think it for, like, a split sentence?* Google wasn’t sure.)
I love the essence of blogging. I love writing. I love finding and reading good writing. I love the connections.
But, as much as I’d love to be that lucky bitch in every chick flick who has a mental epiphany/breakdown and leaves everything for a rundown, centuries old house in the middle of France and spends her days consuming goat cheese and red wine while writing her fifth novel on her antique typewriter at a table that looks out on a picturesque lake while wearing an oversized cable knit sweater that doesn’t make her look as big as a house, because she’s maybe a size four, I can’t because I live in the real world.
In the real world, I work a full time job, have debt, and spend an ungodly amount of time wondering how I’ll ever fund my next vacation, a house, or my next overpriced hipster donut.
For some time now I’ve considered the possibility of monetizing my blog. Only recently have I realized that I’ve been working my ass off at a part time gig and getting nowhere in the process.
I shouldn’t say ‘nowhere’, as I’ve actually gained something greater than Ellen hosting me on her show and then surprising me with money to pay off all of my debts*–I’ve gained loyal readers, many of whom I call true friends.
But, it’s finally time for me to put my efforts into ways to better my standing, my life, my writing game.
In the coming months, I hope to move to self-hosting. That’s just the first step in my Make Actual Money From Writing/Blogging plan.
Until then, you’ll have to bear with me and the construction zone mess this place will likely be.
If you are one of my newbies (or oldies, I’m not discriminating) and you’re still reading this mess, here are some of my older posts that I wrote when I was still young and full of writing zest. I hope they’ll keep you going until I figure my shit out: I love sharing embarrassing personal stories about toilet disasters Geez, poop AGAIN? Now farts? Come on… Because everyone likes to laugh at the inept one I’m really hairy (Speaking of which, I skipped my mid-week chin plucking to write this. You’re welcome.)
Tell me more about your own writing struggles. Misery loves company and all…
*Well, actually, if Ellen would have me, I mean…I wouldn’t say ‘no’… Just a pic my grandma took of our family dog taking a shit on our lawn, because I couldn’t think of any other pictures for this post.
Sometimes, I look at the lives of really successful, happy people and I wonder what I’m doing wrong.
All around me, people are purchasing their first homes, buying appliances and custom cabinets for said home, adopting pets, traveling, investing in IRAs.
And, here I am, buying a coat rack and feeling like that means I’m an adult.
It’s not like I haven’t tried.
I have.
It’s not like I sit around feeling sorry for myself all the time.
Sometimes I do, though. And, when I do, you better believe I really go all out with crying over dog videos in my onesie pajamas.
I tried really hard last year to find an affordable home to purchase that would provide me with the next step: adopting a dog.
I never found that home.
Maybe I was too picky, too hesitant, too scared of a major first step, but I’m going to give myself the benefit of the doubt on this one.
I chose one of the worst times to look for a home to buy in my area, as home prices are at a record high. I also wasn’t comfortable buying an overpriced home in a bad area. I’m no home buying expert, but that didn’t seem a wise investment.
Yet, still, I see people my age buying homes in my area. What the actual fuck?
I’m planning a trip for this summer to the U.K., while at the same time, I can barely afford the gas to get across town during my monthly “week of poverty” before payday.
How are people, with huge families no less, able to travel so much? What the genuine fuck?
I wonder sometimes if it’s my outlook. I try to have a positive outlook on things, but that’s hard when you feel like life is constantly beating you at some game you never knew you were playing.
I know a great many people will say that the power of positive thought truly exists. I’m not here to say I necessarily disagree.
But…until positive thought pays off my student loan debt, I’ll probably be a semi-skeptic.
Sometimes, I wonder if I’m not a hard enough worker or I lack gumption.
I’ve been looking for a side hustle to help pay for aforementioned trip.
I’ve looked into VIPKID, which is an online tutoring company. You tutor kids in China, so that means I’ll have to tutor with my Flock of Seagulls bed head hair and with sleep crusties still in the corner of my mouth, because the time slots for my time zone are un-Godly-early.
(I’m still highly considering VIPKID. I’ll just be a total sleep-deprived grouch is all.)
I’ve gone so far as to schedule a vehicle inspection with Lyft, but I keep getting this text message:
I’ve rescheduled twice, and Lyft doesn’t like to give out a phone number so one can problem solve using spoken words.
I didn’t even want drunk people puking in my car anyway, Lyft.
I should probably just figure out a way to make a side job happen and quit my bitching, but a very dominant, stubborn part of me knows I already work my ass off as a teacher, so I’m not thrilled at the realization that my career isn’t cutting it in the having-money-department.
So, all this to say, my goal for this year is to learn the secret to making shit happen.
Maybe it really is positive thinking? Maybe it’s not being more concerned about binging on Call the Midwife, but binging on bringing in some Benjamins? Maybe it’s not worrying how old I’ll be when I finally own my own refrigerator?
In fact, my first order of business is to quit worrying about everyone else.
(Maybe I can get this tattooed on my forearm?)
So, do you know the secret to making shit happen? Sharing is caring!
What is the most embarrassing thing that’s ever happened to you?
Maybe it was that time you didn’t notice your skirt was caught in your underwear after using the restroom, so everyone in the office saw that you were wearing your faded, hole-y Tuesday underwear on a Wednesday.
Maybe it was when you thought your crush was waving to you from across the hall at school, so you thought you’d be daring and give a seductive, yet girly pouty wave, but he was waving to Marci. The bitch.
Maybe it’s a series of moments, like every time the box office assistant says, “Enjoy your movie!” and you respond with, “You too.”
My most embarrassing moment, up until a few days ago, was the time I got my lady business in 6th grade and didn’t know what to do. I had to wear my huge puffy jacket around my middle all while playing it off like I meant to wear a hot pink polar bear around my waist, as I moved around the classroom accidentally brushing people’s papers and pencils off their desks.
A few days ago, I went to the chiropractor for the first time. A local chiropractor was offering a $20 spine assessment, so I thought, “Why the hell not?”
Surprisingly, my most Embarrassing Moment of 2017 did not occur in the chiropractor’s office (which is a real shocker, because I was sure I’d choose the exact moment he was pulling on my feet to really embarrass myself. I was sure that’d happen to me).
No. The moment that will be forever etched on my mind and played in a loop in my subconscious, occurred precisely five minutes after leaving the chiropractor’s office.
I don’t know if the manipulation he did on my lower back set something in motion, or loosened things up too much, or what, but as I was driving down a quiet, gas station-lacking street, it hit me.
I’m sure you all know the feeling.
You know.
The feeling when your bowels suddenly have a seizure or a rave or whatever, and the need to get to a bathroom is sweaty and urgent.
I’ve had this happen to me before while driving.
I’ve always been able to simultaneously find my inner zen while driving like an Indy 500 driver on crack.
I’ve always made it home to the comfort and judgement-free environment of my own bathroom.
This time was different.
I don’t know if it’s age. Or karma. Or just luck. But I was left frantically scanning the street for a private-looking tree.
It was that bad. Can I really resort to pooping behind a tree in a neighborhood? What if someone sees me and calls the police? Is there such a thing as a public defecation law? What if I get arrested? WHAT IF I GET ARRESTED FOR POOPING BEHIND A TREE IN A NICE NEIGHBORHOOD?
Then, I wondered how bad it’d be if I didn’t make it to an actual bathroom and it happened in my car.
Jeezus. Bad. Real bad.
I’d have to throw the whole car away.
As my sweaty hands were sliding off my steering wheel, and my hair was matting to my head, and my bowels were imitating a whale’s mating call, I came upon a luxury apartment complex.
I’d been there once before when looking for an apartment with a friend. They were laughably beyond our price range.
They’d have to do.
I veered off the road and into a “future tenant” parking spot on two tires. I don’t think I even put my car in park. Shit.was.dire.
It was far past regular business hours, so I figured I’d just have to find a big rock or a large bush. Or, maybe I’d just black out.
Somehow, beyond all understanding, the door to the lobby was open.
In my peripheral, I saw a woman in an office to the right. She was talking on the phone.
I didn’t say a thing. I didn’t look. I just prayed that if I didn’t see her, she wouldn’t see me.
As I was practically flying across the room, I had a very profound realization that it was entirely likely that, despite how close I was to salvation, I was probably going to poop my pants. I was going to poop my pants.
I tried not to think about how I looked literally holding my bottom (like that’d make any difference) as I was racing across the lobby of a ritzy luxury apartment complex.
Somehow, my survival instincts (or just good memory) helped direct me to where I needed to go.
Glory be to God, I made it to the restroom.
I.didn’t.even.use.a.seat.cover.
It was that close.
Guys, since we’ve come this far, and I’ve been so candid up till now, I might as well tell you that I was 100% sure that I had crapped my pants. Literally sure of it.
Well, all of those times I took my cart back to the cart corral, all of the recycling I’ve done, and all of the times I didn’t yell at incompetent drivers really racked up my karma.
My pants were safe.
Just as the realization and relief that I was still someone who could honestly say they’d never pooped in their pants sunk in, the reality of my situation smacked me right in the face. What’s that sound? Oh.my.god. It sounds like an alarm. The woman in the office thinks I’m a crazy street person and she’s set off the alarm. The police are going to come.
I was shaking and sweating buckets as I sat on the toilet, terrified, waiting for security to bust in. They’ll be sickened. Disgusted. Maybe they’ll just feel sorry for me and leave me to my shame?
As I sat and waited for my fate, I realized nobody was coming, at least not immediately. I heard no voices. No doors opening. Nothing. So, maybe that’s not the alarm? Maybe I’ve lucked out? But, how am I going to explain myself when I need to make my eventual walk of shame?
I needed a good excuse for why I practically busted down their door and then ran, pinched cheeks, for the bathroom. I’ll act like I’m interested in an apartment. Yeah. That’s it.
I figured it was the only viable excuse. I imagined myself leaning against the doorway, hair still matted to my forehead, as I said, mid-burp, “Uh. Yeah. I was wondering if you had any one bedrooms available?” Totally buyable.
I realized that whoever was in the office was likely waiting for me, so I begrudgingly readied myself to be seen.
After I scrubbed up like a surgeon (it was the only way I’d feel half clean), I apprehensively cracked the door and peered out.
No angry office woman in a Liz Claiborne pant suit. No Super Burrito security guard. No one.
In fact, the lobby area looked rather dark, and it was at this point I realized the door to the bathroom was through another set of doors that led into said lobby. In my frenzied poop panic, I must not have noticed that I opened an additional door before entering the bathroom. I bet she’s gone. Thank you, Baby Jesus. I’ll never think a bad thing about the bums who pee in our alley ever again. I promise.
I was in pretty high hopes as I made to open the door that would release me out of my poop nightmare. It was locked. THE DOOR WAS FUCKING LOCKED.
That woman locked me in.
Either she never saw a half-crazed woman fly by doing the poop dance or she did and she purposely locked the door. You have to be freaking kidding me. I’m locked in here. OMG. I’m going to panic. I’m not even a resident and I’m locked in their lobby bathroom. HALP!
As it turns out, there was a door further down the hall that lead me outside. I was sure an alarm would go off when I opened the door, but so far, I haven’t made it on the news.
(I keep thinking I’ll be scrolling through Facebook and I’ll see a local news story titled “Police Still Looking For Woman Who Broke Into Luxury Apartment Complex To Completely Defile Custom Bathroom”.)
As for the “alarm” I heard? It was the air freshener alerting anyone who cared to the fact it was out of freshness. I lost several minutes of my life believing cops would be coming for me, when actually the Odor Blaster 1000 was out of Hawaiian Breeze.
To completely exit the complex, I had to wait for a car to come in through the gated entrance, and then I ran like the wind to my car and burned rubber out of there.
When I got home and had to confess to my boyfriend that why I didn’t have the buns I was supposed to pick up for our chili cheese dogs was because I got momentarily locked in a random apartment lobby bathroom, he asked if he should add Depends (to keep in my car) to the grocery list.
I’m highly considering it.
I thought I’d start the new year out with a bang, ya’ll. I really needed to know why I almost pooped my pants. I’m kind of scared that spontaneous poop attacks will be my life now. I’m also planning a trip to the Bay Area, so I’m engaging in my usual OCD research.
Ya’ll, I’ve been thinking it’s about time for a good ol’ random observation post (let’s add a random musing while we’re at it). It’s been a time since I’ve done this kind of post, and since I’m either trying not to lose my shit among the madness that is Christmas Shopping, or dealing with self-inflicted acid reflux due to excessive holiday eating, I seem to not have the time to write a proper post.
When I say ‘proper’, I mean a real, polished work of art (or a polished turd depending on who you ask) that I feel could truly be published.
Speaking of publishing-I think I might be getting serious about the writing a book thing. But, like, don’t tell anyone. I want to keep it on the DL.
This is another reason I’m not posting my “real” posts to my blog for the foreseeable future-they just might end up in a book!
HOLY SHITBALLS.
Now I really have to do it.
I can feel my acid reflux gearing up for another round, so let’s just move on. The Musing
I’ve recently discovered I’m an utter shit show. I mean, I’ve always known, in some respects, that I’m a walking shit show, but now I’m one in all the ways.
I used to be that person who is annoyingly, embarrassingly early to any and every event that has a time associated with it. In fact, I’d stress about being late (on time) so much that my morning/get ready routine was much like that of a person who’s perpetually late (harried, sweaty, and cursy), but without the added benefit of sleeping in or extra couch time.
Somehow, there was a shift in the space-time continuum, and now I’m that person screeching into the parking lot with the bottom of my skirt hanging out of the car door.
This past weekend, a good friend of mine got married. The wedding was in Tahoe, which is a good hour away, but was in the late afternoon, so I had plenty of time.
I sat my fat ass on my couch the entire day, blogging, playing Words With Friends, and just generally enjoying my slothness.
About 45 minutes before our planned departure time, I lazily began my I-just-want-to-look-decent routine. Upon putting on the dress I planned to wear, I discovered I must have grown a few inches up, instead of the usual out.
That dress, unless I was going for the bottom butt look, was not going to work.
My second option, was a flowy number that was so wrinkled it would appear I had it bunched up between two couch cushions for years, instead of innocuously hanging in my closet.
If there’s one thing my mom taught me, it was “Dear God, just don’t show up in wrinkled clothing!”
Because I’m such a winner at adulting, I don’t own an ironing board. Whenever ironing is necessary, like once in a freaking lifetime, we just iron on the bed, against the wall, you know, whatever surface is available.
At this point, we had five minutes and the stress of having to iron, had me perspiring pretty heavily.
In my crazed-what-the-fuck-kind-of-ironing-is-that-job, I knocked over a half empty cookie container. As I frantically ironed more wrinkles into my shit show dress, I was stepping on (and spreading all over the floor) shortbread cookie crumbs.
Once I decided I’d done enough damage to my permanently wrinkled dress, I turned off the iron, folded the towel, and saw that while I was ironing more wrinkles, I was also removing the finish on the table.
I don’t even know if I’ll ever be an adult at this rate. The Random Observation
The wedding previously mentioned in Tahoe was a picture perfect winter wonderland. It was just beautiful.
The wedding and reception was held at a resort and spa. The ceremony took place in an open area that looked out onto the lake and surrounding mountains. The guest rooms also looked out onto this patio. The beautiful bride and a wedding crasher.
Do you see the woman in the top right corner of the picture?
She looks pretty easy to miss, right?
Wrong!
I almost missed the entire wedding ceremony, because I was trying to figure out a way to get a good shot of her without being rude or too obvious.
By the time the ceremony was over, so was my opportunity to snap a picture of her, because she went back into her room. The free wedding entertainment was over. Duh. Here’s a zoomed-in version.
This woman made my entire life. It looks like she’s kind of far away in the picture, but she was practically on top of the entire wedding procession. And, she was every bit #goals with her Russian kubanka hat, glass of champagne, and zero fucks.
So, I iron towel patterns into kitchen tables, but maybe someday I’ll just live in a resort, drink champagne all day, and own a sublime Russian fur hat? If that’s the case, I’ll send my clothes out for ironing.
Forget adulting. Source
“Um. Dude. You might want to leave work…”
“Uh…why?”
“Well, we have to be out of the apartment by five tonight, or they’ll be calling the police to escort us out…”
At some point in everyone’s lives they’ve had a stupid-af-era. If you’ve never had one of those, you’re the exception, not the rule. Count yourself lucky, too, because you probably have minimal debt, own an appliance larger than a blender, and you know what an annuity is, and you likely have one.
So, none of the above is me. I’ve had my stupid-af-era, and to be quite honest, I’m not sure I ever left said time in my life.
Back when I moved out of my parents’ for the first time, I lived with two of my best friends.
We were all almost 21, and so idiotic it was a wonder anyone was brave enough to give us our own apartment.
We apartment hunted for a long time, wanting a cheap apartment in a not cheap neighborhood. Finally, we had to settle on a two bed, one bath. Best Friend #1 and I had to share a room, but it was worth not being woken up by my dad banging on my door, looking for the crusted-over bowls hiding under my bed.
Living on our own was better than I had ever dreamed it would be. On the first night, I overflowed the toilet. The second night, our secondhand dryer broke. On the third night, we spilled Sour Apple Pucker on the carpet. Really, we should have stopped while we were ahead. Yet, every moment was magic, because independence was a beautiful thing.
It was simply glorious being footloose and anal-retentive-parent-free.
We stayed up till all hours, drinking Bartles & Jaymes Wine Coolers and watching Santa Clause 2.
No one (Mom) ever yelled at me for hogging up the phone line so I could change my AIM away message twenty times in one day.
If all we wanted in the fridge was a jar of questionable pickles and eight varieties of Boones Farm, so be it.
We were independent ladies, forging our way in the world.
Along with the wild 8-and-up card game nights, we also had nights when we fought.
My two best friends, while being my good friends, didn’t exactly love each other.
One was too over-bearing and motherly. The other left her thongs, crotch up, in the bathroom.
Some nights, we’d throw keyboards, curling irons, or said thongs at each other.
Other nights, we’d drown each other out with loud mariachi music.
During the six months that we lived in the apartment, we never once got a complaint from a neighbor. I’m not really sure how that was even possible. Maybe our downstairs neighbors were as loud and obnoxious as us? Or, they were stone-deaf.
This gorgeous chaos soon came to a head after Best Friend #2 brought home a cat, which was against our lease agreement (it also didn’t help that the little fucker’s favorite thing to do was hide under the couch or behind the bedskirt and then attach itself to our flesh when we least expected it).
Best Friend #1 and I were a lot of annoying, juvenile things, and one of those things was we were big rule followers (I guess that didn’t apply to underage drinking, though). As soon as we could, we returned the cat to the humane society.
Obviously, hijaking someone’s cat and taking it back to the cat store doesn’t sit well with some people (most people).
This single act started an epic war between three extremely petty, passive-aggressive bimbos.
Because living at the apartment was becoming awkward as fuck, Best Friend #1 went back home and I sought refuge at the new boyfriend’s house.
When the portion of the power bill owed by Best Friend #2 wasn’t paid, we snuck into the apartment and removed every single lightbulb. Our not-quite-fully-developed brains figured this was the obvious solution to an issue that could have been handled by simple communication.
Best Friend (or Enemy, at this point) #2, went to management and told them all about our drama.
Turns out, shady apartment managers don’t like dealing with dumb college girl drama.
They didn’t even want to hear it and told us we all had to be moved out before 5 PM that same day.
After quite a few years under my belt, and some serious renting experience, I realize now that what they did was likely illegal.
Well, after the phone call from Best Friend #1, suggesting I maybe come home to completely vacate in less than 5 hours, I called my mom.
(Shamefully, I’m pretty certain that every gray hair and wrinkle on my mother’s body is thanks to my brother and I.)
Her response was: “Well, that’s just fabulous. You better call every Goddamn person you know to help you. You also better call your father, because I’m not. Good luck with that and goodbye.”
At some point during the Great Pack Up, Best Friend #1’s mom was on her hands and knees, in the kitchen, frantically throwing kitchen items into a box while simultaneously yelling about how disgusting we were.
My brother was vacuuming for the first time in his life, going over and over every square inch of carpet like his life depended on it.
My aunt was asking what she thought we should do about the moldy towels in our 6-months-broken dryer.
My mom was yelling orders at all of our family and friends, and even some random people she caught walking down the street.
My cousins were hauling loose items like lamps, throw pillows and towels to our cars, while cursing us under their breath.
Best Friend # 1 and I were throwing belongings into boxes, not caring whose crap it was. I think there’s still some random storage shed somewhere with our priceless Anne Geddes art and plastic blow up lounge chairs.
And, Best Friend #2? What was she doing? At precisely T-Minus two hours, she was still crying in her room.
After attempts by my mom and Best Friend #1’s mom, my dad had to finally pound on her door and threaten her with his dad voice. Eventually, she appeared with 85 garbage bags, filled to the brim with her stuff, ready to be hauled out.
Somehow, we all (Mom, Dad, Brother, Best Friend #1’s mom, dad, and brother, Best Friend #2, a handful of friends, my cousins, and random passerby) managed to leave the place looking spotless (not even a random hanger or a half-used roll of TP was left) with only two minutes to spare.
I learned a lot of lessons from my first time living on my own. Namely, don’t live with friends and don’t leave bitchy notes for your roommates that read, “I love waking up to your bowel movements everyday. Can you please run the fan and courtesy flush? Also, the phone bill is due. K thanks.”
I’m still learning.
I just learned the other day that disposals aren’t made to mash up large quantities of food. They are just for those odd bits. Who woulda thunk?
Also, don’t prop up your feet that have been in your sweaty shoes all day on the coffee table within five feet of someone. Especially when they’re eating.
So, even though I’m doing slightly better than I was when I first lived on my own, somedays, I think I’m still firmly planted in the stupid-af-era. And, some days, I change the batteries in the smoke detector all on my own.
These days, Best Friend #1 is winning at life. She owns her own home and seems to always be jetting off on some trip. The bitch.
Best Friend #2 is married with two beautiful children. I don’t think she owns a cat.
For some reason, this is the only picture I could find of our first apartment. Notice the message board, where super friendly (bitchy) messages were written. I have no idea who the half-naked guy is, but a poster of a wet/greased up/sweaty guy in the kitchen is always a good idea. Also, WTF is happening with my “bangs”? 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.”
Whenever summer starts to loosen its death grip on the weather, and crisper mornings start to require a little more clothing, I feel my heart become lighter, brighter.
Surely, we all know, since I’m Fatty McCupcakes, that part of why I love autumn so much is because it means no more exposed chub. Hands down, autumn and winter fashion is my favorite, not only because more of my body is covered, but because I love what I get to cover my body in-cardigans galore, plaid scarves, and every type of boot imaginable.
Pumpkin-flavored-everything starts to be available, and my inner, wannabe-baker starts to stockpile sprinkles, sugar skull cupcake liners, and bags of baking sugar. And, sometimes, I actually get around to baking something delicious.
Warm, rich stews appear in the dinner rotation, and suddenly, homemade hot apple cider sounds like a good idea.
I start to purchase huge bags of candy for trick or treaters (no, these never get busted into before Halloween), and I start creating my next, too-involved Halloween costume for school.
So, essentially, I’m just like every other basic, white bitch, dusting off her Uggs.
And, so-fucking-what?
If it’s basic to love a season so much that you go hog wild on doing positively everything that makes said season fun as shit, then label me Basic AF, with a capital Chambray and Chevron.
I don’t even care.
But, if you love autumn and all that comes with it with every fiber of your being like I do, it’s likely due to something deeper than PSLs and artsy wet leaf Instagram shots.
You probably had loving, involved parents who pointed out the changing leaves and talked to you about why the seasons change.
You likely had a family who took you to pumpkin patches to pick the *perfect* pumpkin to carve. And then you went home to make hot apple cider.
Maybe your mom took you on Sunday drives in the rain, so that you could witness, first hand, the changing season in all its resplendent glory.
So, it’s settled. I’m a basic, but Canva-graphic-deep, autumn-obsessed bitch.
I’ve said in earlier posts that when the seasons change, I think of Elko. I don’t know what it is about that place. Especially since I positively hated living there the better part of the first year.
Still, after so many years, when autumn arrives, it reminds me of the beauty that is Elko.
Ready for the deep, artsy wet-leaf-Canva-graphic part?
Here’s what really sings in my heart when autumn rolls in with the dry leaves and fireplace smell:
Muddy roads and slanted rain on dusty windows.
The smell of rich earth, wet leaves. An old heater. Burning wood.
Heavy, low-lying clouds, blanketing brown sagebrushed hills. Wet, dark, slate.
The blue-tinged sunshine. Crisp blue skies. Orange, brown, red.
The taste of cinnamon and cloves. Pumpkin. Yeast.
Enveloping darkness and lighted windows projecting warmth and a story.
This is autumn. This is autumn, bitch.
I was inspired by An Historian’s post on the Aran Islands, and by my continual wanderlust to write about my recent trip to the Point Reyes National Seashore in California.
Now, it’s not Ireland or anywhere near as exotic as Croatia (read The Wandering Flamingo’s post about her holiday on Šipan Island), but if you’re on the west coast of the United States, and anywhere near San Francisco, it’s a must-do!
My good friend, Holly and I had originally wanted to drive a piece of the Oregon Coast during our summer vacation girls’ getaway. When we realized that our busy schedules and dwindling teacher bank accounts wouldn’t support such a venture, we looked into checking out the redwoods. I’ve been through the Redwood National Park a couple of times, but not Holly. But, again, we were faced with time constraints.
Before packing it in, and putting off our trip for another time (Don’t do this, ya’ll. Time is fleeting, and you never know if you’ll get around to seeing everything you want to in one lifetime), Holly suggested we head just north of the Bay Area to the Point Reyes National Seashore.
Being in Reno means quick access to the San Francisco Bay Area. On a good day, with minimal traffic, one can find themselves perusing the funky shops in Chinatown in 3.5 hours.
Finding our way to the Point Reyes National Seashore took about the same amount of time, and bonus: no crazy city traffic and hobo street sprinters.
Our first stop along the national seashore was the famous shipwreck in Inverness, California. (I loved being in Inverness *again*!) Often described as “Instagrammable”, it was a fun place to stop and take pictures we, of course, posted on Insta. Everything looks better after filters. Amiright?
The strange shipwreck was cool to see, but what was most beautiful was the drastic drop in temperature. It was so nice to leave the 100-degree temperatures behind, even if the humidity gave me an insta-perm.
The first major stop we made was to the Point Reyes Lighthouse. If you plan on checking out the lighthouse, make sure you visit the National Park Service website for operating hours, as the lighthouse is closed after 4 PM Monday through Friday. Also, if the wind is too strong, the steps leading to the lighthouse will be closed.
It’s important to be aware that the climb to and from the lighthouse is incredibly challenging. Not only will you be climbing the equivalence of 30 floors, the wind is intense. On more than one occasion I felt like I could easily be carried off the cliff by the wind.
Read more about my epic climb in my Trail Fails post.
Be prepared with extra water, walking shoes, wet wipes and a full tank of gas, as amenities are lacking. Speaking of amenities, the bathrooms are not fabulous and there is no running water to wash your hands.
All that said, the views of the shoreline, surrounding landscape, and ocean are breathtaking.
After nearly being blown clear off the coast at the lighthouse, we continued along the seashore. As we drove winding roads that cut through tall fields of grasses being whipped around by the relentless wind, the contrast between the wheat-colored grass and the ever-changing aegean and teal blue water was striking. I don’t know why, but this view evoked an Eastern European or Middle Eastern feeling in me. I’ve never been to either, so…I dunno?
After a brisk hike along an expanse of the seashore that seemed entirely untouched, we continued on to another location that was eerily desolate.
Maybe it was because it was late in the afternoon, or it was due to the fact that there was no one else around, but the Marconi radio facilities building felt so incredibly creepy to me. I think, maybe, it was also the long, tree-canopied lane that leads to the decades-old building. I envisioned myself alone in that building, at night, watching as my untimely demise came slowly, but assuredly down the road.
*shudders*
On the second day of our girl getaway we hung out in some huge trees:
Ate a picnic lunch on Stinson Beach:
And, got a killer view of San Francisco from reeeeeally far away:
I’ve seen the otherworldly Scottish Highlands, the impossible green that is Ireland, and the patchwork perfection that is the English countryside, but the Point Reyes National Seashore is another kind of beautiful.
Really, there is no comparing one beautiful place with another. There are so many kinds of beautiful, that no matter how hard you try, you’ll never see them all in one lifetime.
Point Reyes is a rugged kind of beautiful, and despite the tourists, remains, somehow, wild and untouched.
Have you ever been somewhere that reminded you of someplace else, even if you’ve never been to that someplace else? Ever been to a beautiful place that feels undiscovered and wild? Let me know in the comments!
