Tag: satire

Let Katie Eat Cake

Seriously.
Where there is cake, you will find me salivating like a rabid dog with ADHD. I just cannot resist the pull of cake. Cannot. I have tried, dammit. I have avoided social gatherings. I have declined birthday party invites and event offerings. I have specifically planned my grocery store trips in order to avoid the baked goods section. I have been good. Seriously.
But cake happened.
Continue reading “Let Katie Eat Cake”

But Don't Do That

Guys, I’m freaking out. Today, when I was at the factory outlet mall, I needed to use the restroom. Generally, I tend to avoid public restrooms like the plague, because, well, they are filled with foul smells and people with leprosy. I’m not even kidding. Just ugh. Even Starbucks bathrooms are questionable these days. There’s just nothing quite like your own bathroom, your own germs, and your own smells. 
There’s something more. It isn’t just that every single time, I shit-you-not, every.single.time I walk into a public restroom someone just unloaded their barrio burrito from hell, it’s that I have a fear of vomitting. Hearing it, seeing it, smelling it, knowing it’s happening. Just no. 
I’m the kind of teacher who, when one of my students throws up, looks like they are about to throw up, or comes out of the bathroom a sickly shade of green, I’m out the door, down the street, gone. Nope. Nope. Nope. 
I’m the friend who will leave your drunk ass in the bar bathroom if you’re puking. I don’t even care. Maybe it sounds cruel, but I always tell the bartender to hail you a cab. So, it’s OK. 
I’m also this girlfriend. Yup. 
I had my boyfriend help me recreate one of my favorite memes. Even getting this close is questionable. To add to the effect, he made pretend gagging sounds and all that fun stuff. Great work, babe. 
So, back to the bathroom nightmare today. There was a woman in the bathroom making extremely questionable noises. I’m always hypersensitive to the noises that go on in the stalls next to me. So much as a cough, and my heart starts beating faster and I break out into a sweat. When I hear anything other than tinkle tinkle, I freak the fuck out. 
Forcing myself to accept the very real fact that a foot away from me someone was upchucking was unthinkable. Thus, I decided to make up what she was doing instead. So, the woman in.the.very.next.stall was either:
A. Dropping bowling balls into the toilet, which would account for the impressive splashing sounds
B: Plunging the toilet, exuberantly, which would account for the heaving breathing
C: Having a watermelon seed spitting contest, which would account for the spitting
I practically flew out of that bathroom. The damn bathroom at the mall is at the end of this winding, endless hallway. The whole way, I ran, breathless, sweating, shaking. 
It felt like I was never going to see the light of day again. Finally, finally, I saw the light, exited, found Bath & Body Works and tried to forget about my worst nightmare come true. 

Flashback Frightday

Yesterday, I shared some old pictures of when I went to Washington D.C. in the 8th grade with my students. Among the images of famous landmarks and monuments, were a couple pictures of me. I was not prepared for their responses to my awkward 13-year-old self. I mean, I knew I had some serious Mom jean action going on, but damn, kids can be brutally…honest. 
Some of their responses/reactions:
1. Open-mouthed shock 
2. “Why are your jeans so tight at the bottom, but baggy?”
3. Snickering 
4. Why is your hair so pouffy? 
5. Which one is you? 
6. “Your face isn’t red like that anymore. Good job, Ms. P.!”
7. Why are you matching? 
8. Whispering
9. “Why do your eyebrows look so different?”
10. “Are you missing teeth?”
Jerks. Wow. Payback will be in the form of zit-covered-too-big-for-their-face-teeth-adolescence. Don’t say you weren’t warned, little darlings. 
 

Is it really that bad? Yeah, yeah it is. Woof.
 

Quit Judging Me, Fitbit

Damn, Fitbit. Why you gotta play me like that? Between Friday and Saturday, I logged 33,806 steps, walked 14.91 miles, was active for 258 minutes, and I have a blister on my toe in the shape of Owen Wilson’s nose, yet my Fitbit is still harping on me today to get my steps in? What’s that you say? You mean, I have to move everyday? I should log 10,000 steps everyday? You mean…I’m not done?
*blank stare*
So, in order to do this thing called, “fitness”, and to be successful at said fitness, I have to do it everyday?
Never mind. I’ll just be returning this here Fitbit, if you don’t mind.
*Rustles in cabinet looking for Crack Cup*
Only half kidding. In all seriousness guys, 10,000 steps a day for someone whose favorite pastime is savoring rainbow sprinkles with a dollop of Cool Whip while watching past episodes of Biggest Loser on Hulu is asking a lot.
My grand weekend of getting in some killer steps was thanks to a quick trip over the hill to San Francisco. Not like, a marathon or anything (obviously, that was your first guess). 
If you have ever been to San Francisco, you know transportation in the city is either: a horror-themed roller coaster-like driving experience, with hobos popping out when you least expect it and you’re honked at for not mowing down pedestrians or it’s a serious walking nightmare experience. I chose walking, and damn those bunions hurt (just kidding, I don’t have bunions. I don’t even know what they are, but I bet they’d be hurting if I had them).
So, I guess my grand walking adventure in San Francisco where my thighs almost ignited due to rubbage did not, in fact, make me instantly fit and svelte. 
Oh, the pain and suffering! 
 

One of my favorite cities, the City by the Bay.

 
How you doin?
 
Getting my steps in by crossing The Golden Gate Bridge.

 
Garlic with pasta from The Stinking Rose. Amazing.
 
  
A view of the city from Alcatraz.

 
So.much.rain.
 
 
Clam chowder in a bread bowl from Boudin’s.
 
Pure effing Heaven. Funfetti. Cake batter. Rainbow sprinkles.
 
 
Walking up Lombard Street almost did me in. I had to stop every other house to catch my breath. Seriously.
  
My how-come-I’m-not-skinny-yet-face.
 
My rant about my demanding, asshole Fitbit turned into some pictures from the trip. You’re welcome. 
  

Hooha

Lemme explain. OK, that’s exactly what it means. Yes. 
Well, I’ll just get to the point, then. *clears throat*
So, my Toilet Talk post was published on the hilarious site, HaHas for Hoohas! I’m super thrilled. It’s a right hooha over here. 
If you’re so inclined, check out my little ditty found HERE. 
Let me know what you think on the Hooha site, so people will think I’m cool and not just a freak who writes about poop. 
Love you all. 

Wherefore* Art Thou, Cupcakes? 

Damn it all to Carb Hell. Why is it so hard to make good food choices? Why does movie theater popcorn taste so damn delicious? Why does a piece of Boston cream pie at 2 AM always sound like a good idea? Why do carbs make you feel warm inside, like you’ve found the promise land of gluttony and instead of guilt, all you feel is sweet or salty goodness on your tongue? 
I mean, really. Sure, eating healthier has long-term benefits. I can attest to the fact that eating better makes you healthier in that I haven’t had a single migraine since I’ve been eating better. Not one. Before, during the height of my Cup O’ Crack days, I was having a migraine once a month. Once a month. Anyone suffering from true migraines (I say, “true” migraines, because a regular take-two-Ibuprofen-and-you’re-good headache ain’t no migraine, ya hear?) would understand why this is so monumental, so joyous, so motivating. 
So, why isn’t it motivating when I’m faced with a decision- to sneak a pink sprinkle donut into the early-geriatrics-only movie, or not, and I choose to be that person inhaling a donut that, more or less, made it into my mouth, the rest melting between my fat boobs? 
Why? 
Why, Diet Gods? With all that is good and Holy, why? 
I have made some positive gains. It hasn’t all been disappointment and let down. I’ve found that eating more than two pieces of rich fudge practically sends me into a diabetic coma. So, I have started eating only one 5 inch square piece of fudge. Progress. 
I’ve found that cabbage steaks are actually really good (not the same as actual steak-dripping with salty, bloody garlicky goodness. Erm, excuse me a minute, while I…). 
I’ve found that chocolate protein pancakes with banana and sugar-free syrup almost tastes like the real thing. 
I’ve found that baking an egg in half of an avocado is the most disgusting fucking thing I’ve ever eaten (do not be fooled by those beautiful Pinterest images of a beautiful egg inside of an inviting avocado, all lightly sprinkled with pepper. It’s horrible. Don’t do it. 
I’ve found that drinking more water makes me have to pee every 15 minutes, but I actually do feel more alive. 
These are just some of the discoveries I’ve made. What remains glaringly obvious, however, is that resisting a vanilla cupcake with rainbow sprinkled frosting will almost certainly take the strength of the gods. 
Sometimes I might be feeling Herculean, most other times I might be feeling like a damn cupcake. 
*sigh*
 

Oopsie-daisy. I accidentally got two donuts.

 
*’Wherefore’, despite the common misconception, does not mean ‘where’. It roughly translates to “Why the actual fuck, cupcakes?” 
You can read about it here. 

Leggings All Day, Erryday

Hey, Lovelies! My latest post is up over at Shopper Lottie. Let me know if I forgot something in the comment section. The layout and features at Shopper Lottie are fabulous. If you already enjoy reading articles over there, join to make sure you never miss a thing. Also, you would be supporting me- total win-win.
leggings

So It Begins 

Because I am starting this new and improved Fatty McCupcakes Lifestyle, I’ve decided to be unrelentingly annoying about it. Why? Because eating healthier, food prepping, planning, and actively deciding to not eat all the cupcakes is hard. It sucks. So, I’m here to bring it to you real-like. No  sugar-coating, no building myself up to be this super human who can do it all, because I can’t and I won’t.
Continue reading “So It Begins “

What Fresh Hell Is This?

“Toto, I’ve a feeling we’re not in Kansas anymore.” Except, you’re not talking to your dog, but your thighs, and instead of a magical land, you’ve arrived in some kind of fresh hell. Yes, yes. These are your 30s.
Continue reading “What Fresh Hell Is This?”