So, it turns out that I’m not only completely inept in the Eating Healthy and Working Out arena, I’m also a hot mess in the Saving (Having) Money department.
I’d like to reassure any and all who think I’m somewhat of a productive, responsible member of society by saying I always pay my bills on time, and despite having more debt than I’d like, I have excellent credit.
This is where the positives end and the what-are-you-some-kind-of-moron-or-something begins.
Without fail, the week leading up to my monthly payday, I am firmly living under the poverty line.
So, that’s why right now I’m on the struggle bus careening straight toward Mental Breakdown Town.
I’d really like to blame my monthly financial crises on my lowly teacher pay, but, no, it’s 100% me.
(That’s not to say I don’t think teachers all across the world deserve pay that accurately depicts the jobs they perform, because they do.)
True talk, my monthly salary is totally enough to pay my bills, buy groceries, spend on occasional fun, and put aside some (meager) savings. Now, I can’t go all crazy and buy a house or go on a trip or anything…
So, why am I washing our paper plates and rinsing and drying out paper towels, you ask?
(Speaking of fucking paper towels, Target recently halved what they give you on their 99¢ rolls and thought we wouldn’t notice. Assholes.)
Well, let me just plainly list the reasons why I’m forever transferring money from my savings and overdraft to my checking account:
1. I am paying for too many monthly subscriptions (Ipsy, Snack Crate, Weight Watchers, Netflix, Hulu, and numerous educational related apps and services).
2. I have an addiction to Starbucks. My “Once a Week” deal has turned into, “Manic Monday”, “Friyay”, and far too many trips over the weekend. If it has a cute, made up name for the excuse and it’s easier than pushing the Keurig button, I’m game.
3. I go to Target every weekend. I am firmly anti-Walmart, so our non-grocery essentials are bought by moi at the Happiest Place on Earth. It’s just that I’m-going-for-toothpaste, turns into shit-fuck-how-did-I-spend-$100?
I got $99 problems
4. I need, like, I’m not joking that it feels like needing-to-breathe-need bullshit things like these:
Amazon
RoseGoldRebel
FabFitFun
If I don’t buy/have a rose gold Starbucks travel cup, I don’t know how I can go on living.
Our Earth is really just a spinning globe of garbage, but I feel an intense need for endless crap that I’ll forget I own in 6 months.
It’s pathetic, really.
5. I will have a fridge full of food, but cooking sounds like hard labor, so I’ll pick up food whenever I’m feeling lazy. And that’s all.the.time.
Source
Me, when I have to cook literally anything.
6. I can’t start walking, hiking, doing yoga, or journaling without buying the latest and greatest accoutrements. When someone told me about the “envelope method” for spending money, my first thought was, “Well, I’ll have to get a really cute envelope. I wonder if they have fake leather ones in a gorgeous mint color?” WHAT THE FUCK EVEN IS A “CUTE LEATHER MONEY ENVELOPE”? (Google didn’t know either.)
Really, I could go on, but I’ll just quit while I’m not even close to being ahead.
So, I know. I need therapy, Dave Ramsey, and Shoppers Anonymous in a major way.
Because I don’t spend my money on things that will actually prove useful in time (*Ahem* addiction therapy), I’m going to list the ways I’m planning to attempt to straighten up my money act.
1. I’m finally quitting Ipsy (along with Snack Crate). I know it’s only $10 a month, but, holy shit, did you know that 10 times 12 is $120? Also, I already have 82 black eyeliners and 45 mini tubes of mud mask. How many black eyeliner pencils does one need in a lifetime? Because I think I have that many. Not to mention, this month’s ugly bag was just…I can’t.
This is not my favorite.
2. I’m going to get serious about Acorns. Haven’t heard of it yet? Y’ALL. It’s awesome. Basically, what they do is round up to the next dollar all of your debit purchases and that amount is “invested” into your Acorns account. You can also arrange to have a monthly payment invested into your account. I legit saved over $80 the last month (you better believe Homegirl wears out that debit card).
The beauty of this is that you hardly notice 23 cents being taken out at a time.
The downside? You can withdraw your funds at.anytime.
So, what I meant by “get serious” is I need to start actually leaving my savings the eff alone. Had I just not touched it from the moment I downloaded the app, I’d have so much money saved.
Ugh. I can’t even think about it.
P.S. If you like the sound of Acorns and you want to set up an account, follow this link so I can get credit for referring you. If 10 friends start using Acorns, I get a $500 bonus. (I’m not being compensated in any way by Acorns, it’s just legit one of my favorite apps).
P.P.S Thank you to Angela at Hot Mess Memoir for introducing me to Acorns.
3. I’m going to slowly back away from Starbucks. Not only is their coffee grossly overpriced, unless you do the sugar-free thing, the sugar in their drinks is through the roof. I hate how convenient they are, though. I have one so close to home and on the way to work. I can slip in and out of the drive thru and be on the freeway to work, before I realize I did it again.
My new deal is one Starbucks visit a month. It gives me heart palpitations just typing that. Also, I’m on the market for a shock collar that’ll give me a good wringing the second I start heading to the ‘Bux.
SEE I CAN’T SAVE MONEY WITHOUT SPENDING IT.
4. I’m going to give myself a weekly spending allowance of $80. This will include spending for dinner out or other entertainment on the weekend. On Sunday, I’ll withdraw the cash and only allow myself to use that cash for any and all purchases.
$80 sounds like a lot, but it’s mind blowing how much I spend when left unsupervised.
Maybe at some point I’ll be able to live off even less per week?
I mean, stranger things have happened.
So, what are your budgeting strategies? How do you save money? What’s something you struggle with not spending money on? Let me know in the comments!
Tag: satire
Haircuts From Hell
If you’ve been reading my crazy ramblings for some time now, you know that it’s no secret that my family and I have had almost zero luck in the attractive hair department. In case you haven’t caught the posts I’ve done on hair fails, I’ll link to those AND provide photographic evidence later on.
What almost no one knows, however, is that total epic hair fails also extended to my dad and to a major motion picture. As in, The Godfather II. Intrigued? Maybe even more appalled?
Well, come along. I’m warning you, though. It’s gonna get hairy.
Back when my brother was nine or ten, my dad decided that he’d cut his son’s hair instead of drive two miles to have a professional do it. I’m sure he figured it would be easy. I mean, the professionals make it look pretty damn effortless, don’t they?
I was not present during the actual cutting of the hair and the two who were, do not speak of it to this day. If prodded, my dad merely says, “I cut his hair. What can I say?”
I recall that when I arrived home, I thought someone had died, because it appeared that my mom, dad, and grandma were in mourning.
All three were sitting in their places at the kitchen table with their heads down. I was actually quite concerned, because I didn’t think I was emotionally prepared for them all three to be crying.
“Uhh…” is all I said.
My mom “shushed” me and went back to their weird mourning/devil worshipping/group napping.
It was then that I noticed their shoulders moving up and down. If they weren’t crying, they had to be laughing.
“Mom…” I implored.
“Just. Don’t.” She was able to get out.
Upon further observation, they were crying, but because they were laughing. Silently. They were sitting around the kitchen table, red-faced, silent cry-laughing.
I just figured they must have started Wine o’ Clock early, so I moved on from their weirdness into the living room.
That’s where I saw it.
He was laying on the floor, watching TV. Even from behind, I could see the dejection in his shoulders and in the way he propped his head up with his hands.
The form appeared to belong to my brother. But, it was…not right.
He looked like some creature from Goosebumps. He looked like he was infectious. He looked shocking.
His head was part red, naked scalp and a smattering of one-inch tufts of hair.
There was no order to the madness. The random clumps of hair looked as if they were just glued, helter skelter, onto his angry, raw skin. Yet, in some places, instead of bare skin, there appeared to be what was likely the desired outcome- a short buzz cut.
It was simultaneously grotesque and comical.
All of the above I took in in a split second and I responded accordingly.
I responded with my trademark, “WHOA!”
(In my, I Was An Asshole post I explain a little more about my natural “whoa” reaction to all things fucked, funny, and far-fetched.)
I’m obnoxious like that.
Well, my “whoa” set off the fools in the kitchen. They couldn’t contain themselves anymore and they each lost their collective shit.
I swear, to this day, that amidst the snorting and crying and laughing, my brother’s head made a complete 180, he stared at us with exorcist eyes, and he yelled, “LEAVE ME ALONE!”
I swear.
Don’t fret, though. My mom took him to a Supercuts the second she was able to contain herself, and my dad was forever disallowed to even look at the clippers.
My mom did admit that the entire ride to Supercuts, she tried really damn hard to do the Good Mom thing by reassuring him. But, “It’s OK. It’ll be alright. It doesn’t look that bad.” is not one bit convincing between snorts and ugly cry-laughing.
This could totally be us reenacting the Clipper Incident of 1997.
Our second Haircuts From Hell story involves a different set of electric clippers, another beauty school reject, and The Godfather II.
Back when my mom was in college, she was friends with a guy who played the violin professionally. He actually started the Reno Chamber Orchestra. So, he was legit.
Not only was (is) he super musically talented, he was apparently a real hoot to hang around. Some of my favorite stories my mom tells of her college days include this guy.
A kinda related aside:
I arranged for him to come to my mom’s surprise retirement party that I planned a few years ago. They hadn’t seen each other for close to a decade. So, the look on my mom’s face when she saw him was absolutely priceless. Well, now that I’m thinking, I wonder if she was simultaneously elated to see him and worried he was there to finally seek vengeance with a rusty hair clipper.
So, the story goes…
Close to midnight one night, my mom heard frantic knocking at her door.
Brave, or delirious from sleep, she opened the door to find her buddy, all in a tizzy.
He was scheduled to play with the Reno Musicians’ Union Local 368 for The Godfather II the very next day.
He needed a haircut to look professional for this incredible opportunity.
(My mom still chides him for waiting until all the salons and barbers were closed to get such an important haircut done.)
The only problem was- my mom was most definitely not Rhonda from Tousled Tresses.
Here’s some proof to back up that my mom is not exactly the first person you’d ask for a late night, last minute hair job (too bad these horrendous hairdos happened after the Clipper Catastrophe of 1973 and were of no help to her pal):
Now, mind you, my mom can’t be held totally responsible for all of these, but she approved these looks, so there you go.
Because it was a big deal to have a part in a major motion picture, she acquiesced and went to town with electric clippers.
My mom recalled how often she saw her mother clip her brothers’ hair. She said it looked incredibly effortless and easy.
“Your grandma just went ‘Buzzzz’ with the clippers and–‘Voila!’–they had snazzy new ‘dos!”
What my mom didn’t realize was that, unless you want next to no hair left, one uses a guard on the clipper head.
After just one swipe it was clear that she had made a huge mistake.
“Shit.”
Without the guard, she sheared a landing strip clear down to his scalp.
I’m sure there was a lot of yelling and freaking out, but in the end they just left it, because my mom had done enough.
When the movie finally came out, my mom, excited to hear her friend play in such a big time movie, almost choked on her popcorn and Charleston Chews.
There, very clearly in the Tahoe party scene, was the back of her friend’s head. His awkward strip of scalp practically glowed.
In the words of my mother’s very good-natured friend, when I sent him the screenshot of his head, “My bad haircut can live on in posterity!”
At least he’s a good sport.
Here’s the scene in the movie where Haircutz By Judy has a starring role:
Here’s the screenshot:
Before I go, I have to share one more haircut fail. It’s actually more of a hairstyle fail.
The night my family and I were laughing about the above stories, we were also looking through family albums. My aunt came upon this picture:
She said, “That’s weird. Why is Mark decorating the tree with Jarrett?”
My uncle: “Why is Mark wearing a Betty Boop shirt?”
My boyfriend: “Whoever Mark is, he’s a real dweeb.”
I take a look at this, now infamous, shot of elusive Cousin Mark, who, apparently, made an appearance at Christmas in a Betty Boop sweatshirt and then go, “WHAT THE ACTUAL HELL? THAT’S ME!”
They then proceed to debate about whether or not it’s really me or Mark for the next ten minutes.
What a bunch of assholes.
It’s no wonder I’ve had such a hard knock hair life- look at where I come from!
My Hairy Life
Where My Hairy Ladies At?
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Meh, Blah, Eh
I’ve been feeling so IDGAF about things lately.
Anyone else?
I have an actual, honest-to-goodness post almost finished and ready for Friday. It was supposed to be my post for tomorrow, but, life.
Ya know?
All I have to do for this post is add pictures, links, and do some fact checking- all the shit that really sucks when you’re getting a post ready to *publish*.
Am I right?
Also, I’ve been wondering why I feel it necessary to “have to have a post done by *insert day of the week here*” like my life depends on it.
It doesn’t.
This isn’t a job. No one is supervising me. I won’t be receiving an evaluation for my work (or lack thereof).
I’m sure my loyal followers will be around whenever I decide to grace them with my presence. Or they won’t.
I keep seeing people all around me with incredible side hustles, and here I am just doing my regular full time job and blogging whenever the mood strikes me.
Sometimes, I feel insanely stupid for spending so much of my time doing something that yields absolutely zero income. I’m aware enough to know that money doesn’t always buy happiness, but it does pay off debt and allows for luxurious travel and isn’t that the same thing?
I have been really needing a side job, but I know that if I do, my writing and blog will suffer.
(Or, I just need to write a book, but how will that ever happen when I can barely get a new post out every week?)
Whenever I realize this, I feel utter panic. This blog, my writing, my incredible followers mean a lot to me. They mean everything.
Unfortunately, these beautiful, wonderful, necessary-for-my-sanity things aren’t helping me pay off my debt or save for my upcoming trip to the U.K.
Well, that was depressing.
Let’s move on to another topic.
Along with the supremely deep pondering I’ve obviously been doing, I’ve decided I have an unhealthy relationship with popcorn.
I’m not even joking.
I legit eat three mini bags a night. It used to be two bags, but that didn’t bloat my stomach quite enough, so we’re on to three effing bags now.
Also, I feel I need to be totally transparent-I don’t just eat the popped kernels…
I…I eat the un-popped kernels.
They are probably growing a massive popcorn tree in my bowels as I type this. I might as well draft up a will.
But, seriously? Is eating kernels hazardous to one’s health?
Another awesome thing going on right now is that I’ve mysteriously hurt my ankle.
It’s swollen and puffy and sore.
Almost two weeks ago, I engaged in a 5k for the program Girls on the Run. I say “engaged”, because I sure as hell didn’t run and “walked” sounds even more lame.
Looking pretty decent, but this was 100% because this was taken before the race started.
So, somehow, while merely walking I hurt myself.
As if that’s not enough, my eczema is flaring up. I have itchy splotches of diseased-looking rashes all over my already-gorgeous body.
There ain’t anything sexier to a man then, “Babe, can you come put some cream on the eczema I can’t reach?”
You might as well just take me and my popcorn-growing eczema guts out back, because what in the actual fuck?
Meh.
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Apple Hill Shenanigans
This is a rant and a dedication. So, buckle your seat belts, people. It’s gonna be a bumpy ride.
After yet another carb-filled and merrymaking trip to Apple Hill, I’ve learned more than just how far I can push the load-bearing limit of my clothing or exactly how many fruit-filled pastries I can eat before my stomach implodes. I learned this year that:
1. People are assholes, even when they are surrounded by apple pastries, alcohol, and an endless assortment of exciting crap to buy.
2. Surrounded by said assholes, if you’re among non-assholes, you are far richer than the dick in the Tesla who thought it was cool to park in the pick-your-own apple orchard.
This Apple Hill year, I brought along my childhood best friend. We’ve legit been friends since we were two. Some years we’ve hated each other, but, somehow, we always find each other again.
The first time this friend attended our Apple Hill shenanigans, my mom almost lit the motel bathroom on fire trying to light a Hostess Sno Ball turned into a birthday cake fireball from hell. My aunt almost didn’t see her 45th year.
Since, my friend has admitted that her trips to Apple Hill without us are just not the same.
We left for The Hill in the morning on a sunny, way-too-warm-for-fall Friday. Despite the fact that the weather report said it’d be almost 80, I wore a scarf and ankle boots, because, HELLO, it’s practically a basic bitch law that if you go to a pumpkin patch, you wear a scarf and boots. Bonus points if the pattern on your scarf is chevron.
Our first lunch was spent at a popular spot, so it took almost an hour to stand in line and get our food. Because it was still early, the wait and the endless people didn’t affect my mood too much.
Right after devouring a cheeseburger and garlic fries, it was sprinkled caramel apple time! It’s tradition!
After I got my sprinkle fix, I was pretty much over walking around in the heat, looking at the same stuff, different farm.
While my mom and aunt looked at every single item, at every single booth, making friends with every single crafter as they went, my friend and I parked ourselves in the shade with an apple cider slushy.
After way too much time in the sun and heat, we decided it was beer o’clock, so we headed to the Jack Russell Brewery. It’s the only brewery in the area, so it is a must-do every time we go to Apple Hill.
Without a doubt, every visit to Jack Russell is memorable, and this time was no different.
This year, though, we decided that we very much dislike the people who own/run this establishment. They are rude with a capital bitch-eat-a-Snickers.
Due to the unseasonably warm weather, the umbrellas were a hot commodity. After a table full of college-age girls near us had left, we tried to position their umbrella so we could get some shade. As we were trying (and failing) to make the umbrella grace us with sweet shade, one of the Cave Bitches (their meadery is in a cave-like room and they are serious bitches, thus their apropos nicknames) started going around closing the umbrellas.
Um, are you blind?
This incredibly unfriendly lady wouldn’t know customer service or kindness if they each, in turn, smacked her upside her RBF.
So, after being so kindly assisted with the umbrellas, we decided to just move one over to our table. In the process of doing this, we struggled a bit as the umbrella was awkward and there were quite a few trees.
From the meadery cave, about 20 yards away, the Cave Bitch started screaming at us.
“WHAT ARE YOU DOING?! YOU’RE HURTING THE TREES!”
This terrible person couldn’t even crawl out of her rotting crypt to speak in a regular voice level or to, gee, offer to HELP US?!
I hope we ruined your tree, Cave Wench.
I had had just enough alcohol to feel brave, so in order to not make a scene, we moved to the other side of the outdoor seating area and drank an ungodly amount of beer.
The next morning, it was Apple Cider Donut Time. Along with Beer o’ Clock and Cupcake Thirty, it’s one of my favorite times of the day!
I was pretty much in heaven as I devoured my fried cake and coffee. But, then, some asshole’s dog wouldn’t stop barking.
If you know me personally, you know I’m obsessed with dogs. I love the shit out of their drooly, adorable faces, but sometimes dogs can be left at home.
I know that’s a novel concept for some people.
This particular dog, the one who majorly interrupted my enjoyment of the sound of my gluttony, simply could not handle the sight of other dogs.
So, one must ask…
WHY THE FUCK DID YOU BRING YOUR OTHER-DOG-HATING DOG TO THE MOST CROWDED RANCH, WHERE OTHER DOGS ARE SURE TO BE FOUND?
Because I’m an asshole (that’s Asshole speaking). That’s why.
After this, I had a mediocre apple treat that contained, precisely, one slice of apple, bought a metric ton of fudge, and drank even more cider.
When we were attempting to leave the 80th farm of the day, a woman, unearthing her child from underneath all of the crap she bought and was storing in her stroller, decided a fine place to do this was smack dab in the middle of the narrow roadway.
At this point, I was still hungover, sweating profusely, and had killer acid reflux from all of the apple I had eaten.
I couldn’t even.
After six hours, she was finally done unloading the stroller and we were able to leave.
I may or may not have rolled down my window to thank her for making us late for more eating.
Don’t keep this fatty from her eighth apple brownie. Don’t even.
Despite the rude and pretentious people we encountered, the bullshit heat, and the unbearable indigestion, being with people who made my food baby bump jiggle from infectious laughter made it all worthwhile.
My favorite part of the trip was leaving the brewery, drunk and laughing obnoxiously at the spaceships we found by the Porta Potties (they were bee catchers). We piled into the car (don’t worry, my aunt was driving and totally sober and capable), excited for impending Chinese dinner (as if we had not had enough). My mom kept yelling, “Look out, Dana, there’s a car!” every time we passed every reflective sign on the road. I was laughing so hard, I could barely breathe, as I sang along (horribly) to Eric Church’s Springsteen, head back, staring at the endless stars in the sky through the moonroof.
So, take that Idiot Dog Owner, Stroller Simpleton, and Cave Bitch, you were no match for 10,000 calories all from carbs, fabulous, but unnecessary junk, and 100% necessary-for-my-sanity ladies who know how to party.
Apple Hill 2017 is one for the books.
I won Apple Hill!
When I think about 17, I think about my best friend.
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Food Baby
Because I just got back from Apple Hill and haven’t given “birth” to my current food baby yet, I felt this was an appropriate flashback post. I have no shame…
Ya’ll…
I don’t even know where to start.
I think there’s no hope for me.
I try to be good.
No.
No. That’s a boldface lie. I’ll be real. I don’t try. Not at all.
My “trying” is remembering to ask for nonfat milk in my venti salted caramel mocha.
This past week it’s been fall break for us teachers over in my neck of the woods. Because I had no solid, established plans to go somewhere cool, I knew I’d be making the rounds at my favorite eating establishments.
Because it isn’t fall break unless I eat my weight in carbs and almost slip into a diabetic coma.
So, I thought I’d share with you some of the ridiculousness I put into my fat gob this past week. It’s like a really pathetic travel picture slideshow, but instead of pictures of me in front of the Grand Canyon, you get to see exactly why I’m struggling to button my new stretchy jeans.
How fun!
But, first, I have to share with you just how much of a lost cause I am. It’s been a minute since I’ve shared a diet woe or food foible, so it was bound to happen that I’d find myself knee deep in embarrassment or ridiculousness.
On Saturday, I attended a family member’s baby shower. I was super excited to go, because I heard that they were ordering bundtinis from Nothing Bundt Cakes. Their cakes are just ungodly good. They must use a metric ton of sugar, butter, and unicorn blood in just one cake. That has to be why they’re so good.
I also heard that if you didn’t RSVP and you just showed up, you wouldn’t get a bundtini, because they were ordering just enough for the attendees and no extra.
I made sure I RSVP’d by phone, email, snail mail, and telegram.
It was so hard waiting for cupcake o’clock. Pure hell.
When the time finally came to have our bundtinis, it was utter agony to choose just one.
I could have eaten one entire cupcake tier and still had room for a steak dinner.
Eventually, I settled on red velvet.
It was delectable, but quite small. I really needed another bundtini, or 7…
There were still, at least, 15 little morsels of heaven left. I reported this interesting discovery to my mom. I told her I was most definitely going to eat another one.
She said, “Well, what if some people haven’t gotten theirs yet?”
To this, I responded:
“Ya snooze, ya lose, ladies!”
Cupcakes, just sitting out in the open, after a good 20 minutes, are fair game in my book.
Still, it made me question the possibility of just grabbing one and eating it right in front of God and everybody.
So, I scoped the cupcake spot out for a good 10 minutes until the coast was clear. Once there was no one in sight, I snatched one, and made a beeline for the bathroom.
Yes, I felt the need to have more than my fair share of cupcakes, and in utter disgrace, I scarfed down someone else’s designated cupcake as I hid in.the.bathroom.
The fact that my gut is resting ever so elegantly on the counter is evidence that I didn’t even need ONE cupcake.
#whenyourfoodbabyisbiggerthanthemothertobesbump
This short aside ended up being a little more long-winded than I had first intended. So, I’ll share my gluttonous menu from this past week in a separate post.
Just sitting in line to get gas, taking pics of my food baby.
*Mother-to-be: If you read this, know you positively glowed with happiness and impending motherhood. I, in no way, wanted to upstage you with my food baby belly. This was unplanned, unintended, and rather uncomfortable. Please accept my sincerest apologies.
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Zombie Apocalypse Fail
In preparation for the new season coming up, I am crack-addict binging on The Walking Dead, and all I’ve been thinking about is how I’d be dead on the very first day of a zombie apocalypse.
When the boyfriend and I got to the episode where the group makes it to Alexandria, I said, “OMG. How has Darryl not taken a shower yet? That’d be the first thing I’d do. And brush my teeth!”
(Now the running joke during every episode is: “Has Darryl taken a shower yet?”)
My super sweet boyfriend responded with, “Babe, you would have been dead months ago.”
Indignantly, I protested, but when it came time to detail the myriad reasons he was wrong, I had nothing. Nada.
Holy shit. If there was ever a zombie apocalypse, I’d last precisely an hour, if that. I’d be that inept idiot in the first episode no one even remembers.
Since my asshole boyfriend was right (don’t tell him I said that, he’ll take it and run with it), I thought I’d share the reasons why I’d never last in a zombie apocalypse:
1. My asthma
I get out of breath walking around my classroom and talking at the same time. Really, I could just stop here. Asthma is reason enough for why I’d be one of the first people to be eaten alive by zombies.
It took me two months to get to the point where I could jog (and by jog, I mean move at a slightly quicker pace than walking) nonstop for two blocks. So, if the time ever came for me to run like my life depended on it for more than a minute, I’d be done just like that.
2. My sciatica
I first had a flare up with my sciatica when I was in middle school. The pain from my big ass all the way down my leg was like nothing I’d ever felt before. I recall barely making it out of the fast-paced school halls alive. Once home, I milked it for all it was worth-Advil around the clock, Mom’s special Home Sick Sherbet and Ginger Ale, and hand delivered meals.
It was simultaneously one of the best and worst times of my life.
Occasionally, my sciatica flares up and quick movements just ain’t happening. I tried to show off my sweet Tae Bo skills to my boyfriend the other night and I pulled a muscle and pissed off my sciatic nerve. And, just like that, I was infirm.
So, if my sciatica were ever to act up during the apocalypse, I wouldn’t be able to run or karate chop a zombie in the head. Anyone I’d be with would quickly realize what a dud I was and they’d leave me for dead as soon as they had a proper excuse. I mean, I wouldn’t blame them.
3. My acid reflux and digestion issues
I’m an absolute mess in the guts. If I ever run out of Tums, probiotics, Imodium, or acid reflux medicine, you might as well just leave me for dead.
Not only am I not exactly fit for zombie battle when my stomach acid coming up my esophagus feels like hellfire, my bowel movements when stressed could potentially attract a horde of zombies from miles away.
4. My germaphobe rituals
When you’re running for your life from zombies and terrible, evil people, warm running water and soap aren’t exactly a priority. Hand sanitizer would never be on the grocery list between water and food.
As such, I’d probably never make it to my first meal of road kill surprise. Not only would I have the hardest time not gagging while eating hastily cooked raccoon, I simply would not be able to eat with zombie brains under my finger nails.
Nope. Just leave me for dead. I couldn’t.
5. My beauty essentials/routine
And, let’s not forget the benefit to being appealing-looking and how that might aid in the continuation of one’s life. I would not be a looker after just a week without my electric razor, dry shampoo, and foundation.
I know that beauty is not exactly essential for survival, but when the broad with a beard and noxious gas needs your help again, you just might be tempted to leave her in the woods.
Honestly, I’m really disappointed in myself and quite terrified that I’ll never be a Carol or a Maggie, but an Idiot Girl-Episode 1.
So, do y’all have any tips for me to beef up my zombie survival skills? Or, am I a lost cause, so I should just keep doing what I do best-avoiding any and all physical exertion and marathon eating Skinny Cow desserts?
That’s what I thought, too…
*unwraps a Skinny Cow Simply Amazing Salted Caramel Pretzel bar*
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My First FabFitFun Box
Ya’ll! I finally broke down and joined every other basic bitch and got me a FabFitFun box. It was a splurge (even at the discounted price of $39.99) that I really didn’t need, but TREAT YO SELF!
I love, love, love the excitement that exists when you know a package is headed your way. It’s why I do Snack Crate and Ipsy, and why I order far too often from Amazon Prime, Zulily, and many others I’m too ashamed to list.
I decided to spare everyone a cringe-worthy Tori Spelling-esque “unboxing” video. I’m super awkward on film, and so many other *greats* like Snooki and Teresa Giudice are doing video “unboxings” for your viewing pleasure.
So, let’s just get on with it, eh?
The very same day I received my box, my darling guy got me this sweet and quite apropos treat, and somehow, my FabFitFun box didn’t seem quite as fabulous.
So, when I was done feeling all the feels, I finally got around to opening my box.
The packaging is nice, and I like how they add the paper “grass” (what is that shit called?).
What I didn’t like is that these “high end” items come in mass-produced-feeling plastic. This type of packaging takes away the “expensive” feel of the items.
Now might be the time, especially if you’re not familiar with the concept, to mention that FabFitFun profess that their $49.99 box is worth $200+.
More on that as we continue.
Let me show you my perfectly staged photo of the contents. Aren’t I so talented in such a basic-bitch-taking-a-photo-for-Insta-way?
Now, let’s review each item and their supposed cost.
The MER SEA & CO scarf is one of the items in the box that I feel lives up to its apparent cost. Even so, there is no way in hell I’d ever intentionally buy a $98 scarf. With Target, Marshall’s and TJ Maxx’s amazingly low priced on-trend pieces, I can get a decent scarf for $12.
I asked my live-in photographer (boyfriend) to snap a couple shots of me in my new scarf. What you will notice in the images is that the scarf is behemoth (maybe that’s why it’s so expensive-each one is made from 50 polyester trees) and that my Blog-Instagram Boyfriend was not having it, as I now have 82 random, blurry images of me getting ready to pose. Great job, Babe!
Also pictured in the above images is The Jetset Diaries cable knit beanie. This is probably my favorite item, because my day 4 hair loves the crap out of beanies. This came-in-plastic beanie is supposed to be worth $49, and I just can’t. I bet you all that right now, this very minute, in any Target across the nation, sits a black beanie, almost identical to the one from the box and it’s $10. Again, why is a thin cable-knit beanie $49? Who are the idiots buying $50 beanies?
Next up is the Mytagalongs hot and cold pack ($15). I am actually really excited about this, because I totally needed another ice pack to add to the 20 already in the freezer. The reason: IT SAYS, “ICE ICE BABY”.
This was totally appreciated, because BUTT WIPES ARE EVERYTHING, YO.
I can’t speak too much for these products, as I have yet to use them. I am totally excited to try the apple cider vinegar hair rinse, though! I’m also really looking forward to never using the lipstick, because I don’t wear lipstick. The Whish Beauty mud mask is valued at $48, the DPHue rinse at $35, and the Trèstique lipstick at $28.
The Deco Miami lavender cuticle oil is just too cute. When I was first opening the box, I thought it was nail polish. I was so bummed, because I get gel manicures, so nail polish is useless to me. When I used my reading decoding skills and saw that it was cuticle oil, I was giddy. My cuticles are inexcusably ghastly! The oil is priced at $12.50 and is the only reasonably priced item in the box (save for the Cottonelle buttwipes).
The imm-Living ceramic and wire geometric heart jewelry holder is the exact thing I’d use my last $5 to buy at Ross. It really is adorable and is already proudly on display on my vanity. That said, IT’S A PIECE OF GARBAGE.
When I got it, there was a nub of ceramic in one of the holes where the wire base goes. I had to take some skinny scissors and jam it loose. Even then, the hole was too tight (that’s what he (?) said) and upon jamming the metal into the hole some of the “metal” flaked off.
This cheaply made piece of poo is priced at $33. Fuck me.
Well, in my box I got a Walmart special that reads, “Meet Me at the Barre”. I’ve never been to a barre fitness class, and this bodacious bod has never, ever been confused for that of a ballerina’s. There’s no way I’d ever carry this bag. Just embarrassing.
Not only this, FabFitFun is claiming that the thin canvas Private Party bag is worth $59. Excuse my French, but FUCK YOU VERY MUCH.
I don’t shop at Walmart and haven’t for a solid four years, but I guaran-fucking-tee that they have a similar bag for no more than $10. If not Walmart, Wish is guaranteed to have it for $1.50.
So, I’m still laughing that Private Party and FabFitFun thinks this bag is worth $59.
Final Thoughts
I have a really, really, really effing hard time believing the items that came in my box truly total $377.50. If this is indeed an accurate sum, I’m appalled at what is deemed high quality just because it has a high price. If this is the true state of the world now, maybe I can start harvesting my boyfriend’s belly button hair and sell it as “organic inner ear warmers”. I bet I could get 40 bucks per pair.
I do believe I got my $40 worth, though. For sure. I just don’t like being taken for a schmuck.
***When I realized that I didn’t get the cupcake bag, I immediately emailed FabFitFun and asked if I could make an exchange. I explained that I was Fatty McCupcakes and that I needed the cupcake bag. I said I’d write a blog post about my box and everything.
They got back to me very quickly and said that they’d exchange the bag “as a one time courtesy”. No, “We’d love for you to write a blog post about us, and not only will we send you the “Will Workout For Cupcakes” bag, we’d like to offer you a job as a paid blogger for FabFitFun” or anything. Rude.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m grateful they are exchanging the bag, but the wording “as a one time courtesy” sounded kinda bitchy.
Don’t let me discourage you. It really is a fun way to spend $39.99-$49.99. Just remember, it’s Reba Fancy, not Real Fancy.
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How Fatty Got Her Groove Back-The Journey
I was going to post a satirical piece about how I’d fare in a zombie apocalypse, but I felt that topic and type of humor would be in poor taste in light of recent events. To that, my thoughts are with those who have been forever affected by the shooting in Vegas.
I will save the zombie post for another time.
In its place is a throwback post about an experience I had with a friend in a Warm Flow yoga class.
This is a humorous post, and I’m choosing to share this, because laughter is what gets me through tough times. I wish no sufferers and family members of victims any disrespect, and I only hope that they find again some happiness and humor in this scary world.
Last week, A and I decided to give yoga at The Studio another shot, as our heated Vinyasa experience wasn’t the shit show we had envisioned it would be. We have a very limited availability while school is still in session, so our time frame in which to subject ourselves to exercise misery is tough to manage.
We have both admitted that if we went home prior to working out, upon entering our respective homes, the pull of our couches and fat pants would be too great.
Because we both understand the large scope of our eternal laziness, we felt it best to not even go home, but to drive straight to the studio. Do not pass “go”, do not collect any slurpees at 7-11 on your way, just get there before the tiny, minuscule flicker of desire has died. That’s been the game plan.
A different class was offered at our preferred time called, Warm Flow. The name calls to mind a nice warm bath, a calm breeze on a summer day, the natural ebb and flow of the tide. In fat girl speak, it sounded easy.
However, we quickly found out it was anything but. What I didn’t notice upon signing up, was the level of this particular class. The level was a 2-3. In case you aren’t yoga literate, that level means: DA-FUQ.
Yes, we attended a far too advanced-way hotter than heated Vinyasa-I’m glad I’m still alive to tell about it-yoga class. If heated Vinyasa was hot, this was the pits of hell unbearable. To make matters so much more uncomfortable, I noticed halfway through the class that we were directly underneath the heating vent. It was not even halfway pleasant. The only positive thing I could think of was, “At least I’m sweating my fat off. At least that.”
Now, as this was a higher level yoga class, the moves were embarrassingly out of reach for us both. A faired slightly better than I, but overall we were both sweaty piles of disgrace. With the heat and the impossible contortions happening, I was actually not even embarrassed that I spent 99% of that class in child’s pose, or sitting slumped over on my mat, in a stupor.
That was, at least, until the “Starer”.Yes, folks, we had an ogler.
It was always my understanding that yoga was a kind of private experience. I always thought everyone would be too busy “ohm-ing” and listening to their breath to notice the ineptitude of others. Well, the “Starer” did not get that memo.
When there were only 15 glorious minutes of the class left, the instructor told us we would have time to practice our hand stands. After a snort and an eye roll, A and I decided we would just continue standing awkwardly in the middle of the room. The instructor must have thought that wasn’t kosher, because she actually moved our sweaty mats to the wall in a you’re-gonna-still-try-ya-fatties way.
We tried the downward dog jumps in place of handstands, because, come on, I saw a broken nose in my immediate future. It was after this that we all found ourselves seated (yes!) on our mats, more or less, facing each other. It was at this point, I noticed the “Starer”.
The way this person looked at me was more “OMG I can’t believe I’ve just seen the rare Pygmy Three-Toed Sloth” and less, “Wow, it’s a fat person attempting yoga.”
The “Starer” seemed shocked, curious, amused, and slightly disgusted all at the same time. What I wanted to say to this person was: “I know I’m not your usual level 3 Warm Flow yoga participant, but maybe you need to worry more about yo’self and your breathing or that really painful looking camel toe you have going on.”
I knew saying that wouldn’t have made me any friends, and I still have eight classes left on my Groupon for The Studio. I would actually like to show my sweaty face there again.
And…I’ve discovered I actually want to continue this “yoga thing”. It seems unbelievable, but I used to be a fairly limber child. When I was just learning to get up as a baby, I would do the splits. My mom thought something was wrong with me, but maybe I’m just naturally flexible?
Before I got super awkward and tall, I did dance and gymnastics. My body actually used to be able to contort into a handstand backbend. I think I lost my flexibility, but Imma get it back.
So, to the “Starer”, just you wait. Just.you.wait. *fist waving in air*
“How Fatty Got Her Groove Back” my journey will be called.
Update: I have yet to get my “groove” back.
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Emetophobia? Say What?
I think I’ve mentioned here a couple thousand times or two that I’m a germaphobe. If you know me personally, you would most definitely say that hand sanitizer is the one item I’d choose to take to a desert island.
It’s true.
I always try to play it cool, like I’m not afraid germs will jump right off surfaces straight into my mouth.
When I first started at my school, I tried not to be the token germaphobe teacher. I thought I was doing well until our old (as in, not-at-our-school-anymore-old) counselor made some joke about me almost certainly having a black light app on my phone (We were in a really shady bus. I’d explain why we needed a black light, but I think you know).
I remember thinking, “How did she know?”
After some self-reflection, I realized she knew, along with everyone else who’s come into contact with me, because I put on hand sanitizer precisely 537 times a day.
I really thought I was stealth about my hand sanitizer use.
Also, I’m that person sending death glares to adult you-should-know-better creeps who don’t cover their mouths.
Additionally:
1. I have to be minutes from death before you see me in an ER.
2. If someone close to me looks like they’ll be sick, I’ll run for the hills/call for an adultier adult/point to somewhere far away from me, indicating that’s where I’d like them to be.
3. I use my shirt to open doors with questionable handles.
4. I ask my boyfriend if he washed with soap after he uses the bathroom.
5. I’ve been known to put hand sanitizer in my nose if forced to breath in someone’s sneeze or hot death fart.
In all seriousness, I have problems.
I’ve always had a fear of vomiting-hearing it, seeing it, smelling it, doing it. Nope times ten million.
Also, I hate having someone see or know I’m sick. Just leave me alone. Better yet, let me hide in the hole I’ve just dug until I’m human again.
Shit got real about 10 years ago when I worked at a daycare during college. There was a huge norovirus outbreak, and it fucked with my mind in a major way. Like I mentioned before, I’ve never been a fan of puking, but when we went so far as to bleach crayons and books to prevent the spread of a virus, something clicked in me.
This is bad shit. Literally. I don’t want to puke and poop, involuntarily and simultaneously. How long does this illness from Hell last? Will I have to go to the ER with a puke bucket? OMG. No. We’re all gonna die. HELP. We’re.All.Gonna.Die.
So, during the great Norovirus Outbreak Freak Out of 2006, I would go to serious OCD extremes to “protect” myself from getting sick. Really, these were just compulsions that made me feel safe.
When I got home after being stuck in the hot box of germs all day, I’d strip at the door. Before scalding myself in the shower, I’d wipe my purse, keys, and phone down with Clorox wipes.
This was an everyday thing and I didn’t feel *OK* until my routine was done.
So, yeah.
*coughs
Whenever an illness starts making its rounds, I try to play it cool. Even after I hear of the 58th person I know to bite the dust, I try to act like I’m not about the worrying life, but then I find myself spraying my face down with spray hand sanitizer whenever someone’s breath comes a little too close to my face holes.
As much as being sick sucks, I realize that vomiting is not the end of the world (I mean, if you are vomiting due to Ebola, that might mean the end of the world. But, that was so 2014).
I’m not as OCD about getting sick anymore, but that doesn’t mean I want to spend two days on my bathroom floor.
So that I’m not the only freak in the room, tell me what you’re phobic about. Any fellow emetophobics? If so, how do you calm yer tits when shit gets real? Let me know in the comments!
Remember this from my But Don’t Do That post? Even this is a lie. If you’re puking in my house, I’m packing and heading for Mexico. NOPE.
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Don't Be a Debbie Downer
Blog comments-I live and breathe by them. I mean, my life would obviously go on, and I’d figure out how to get oxygen the good, old fashioned way if I suddenly didn’t have WordPress. But, no shit, my day is made exponentially better when I see a slew of love waiting for me to read in my WordPress app.
That is, unless it’s an unnecessarily rude/bitchy/salty/passive aggressive comment.
Those aren’t my favorite.
Way back when I first started putting my ridiculous thoughts out *there* for God and everybody to read and critique, I was scared out of my ever-loving-mind.
What if my humor doesn’t translate well to others?
What if my use of the word “fuck” offends the majority of those who attempt to relate to me?
What if the only person who thinks I’m funny is me?
What if what I write about is too TMI, and the people in my life start regarding me as a loud, unfunny, crass imbecile?
These were very real concerns.
The response over the years, however, has been incredible.
Somedays, I don’t even believe that I’m able to put together some words and those words mean something to others.
Somedays, I have to check to make sure it’s me who’s getting the laughs about unfortunate yoga flatulence and insane vacation fails.
The love has been real, immense, and supportive.
Except, when it hasn’t.
There’s always gotta be that person. You know who I mean:
The guy who has to ruin the good time with their overly concerned beliefs or their inability to get a joke, even when it slaps them in their dopey face.
Only very recently have I had run-ins with some haters making their presence known on my blog.
I’ve always heard or read stories about relentless haters from other blogs and bloggers. To be honest, I only half believed that someone was being harassed by strangers over their content, language, or grammar usage.
Really? Does that *really* happen? (There’d always be an eye roll, too, for good measure.)
Well, I’m just a little late to the game, ya’ll.
Yes, people actually take time out of their day to comment on minor grammatical errors.
Yes, people actually miss the entire main idea of a post and then make their disdain of a tiny kernel of an idea known in your comment section.
Yes, people actually make it a point to sound as bitchy and passive aggressive as possible when commenting on a harmless subject, like book suggestions.
I can’t even.
Now, don’t get me wrong, I’m always first in line to spread some bitter all over the comment section of dumb articles or videos on social media. I have too big of a mouth to not.
And, I’d be lying if I said I was never tempted to comment on terrible grammar or topic choices when reading blog posts.
But, here’s the difference between myself and your average Comment Creep:
I understand that blog posts are off limits in regards to unhelpful, just plain salty opinions.
A Facebook post took seconds, and likely, very little thought. Yet, a blog post, almost certainly, took hours/days/weeks, tons of creative energy, and a shit ton of guts to post.
I feel pretty confident that fellow bloggers understand this code of conduct, but the “others” obviously don’t.
I know excuses for constructive criticism might come up. My opinion on “helpful” suggestions is that they aren’t welcome unless specifically asked for by the author/blogger.
Also, respectful dialogue and discourse on a topic that is controversial is fine. There’s nothing better than having a lively discussion with someone who believes differently than you do.
I’m strictly speaking of rude-ass comments that make you feel stabby, yet, instantly self-conscious.
The.worst.
So, here’s where I need your help.
What do you do when you come across a rude comment? Do you delete it? Do you ignore it/not approve it? Do you comment back? Do you dust off your voodoo doll?
How do you deal with Debbie Downers? Let me know in the comments!
