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!
My rant about my demanding, asshole Fitbit turned into some pictures from the trip. You’re welcome.
Tag: travel
This Is Elko
I just got home from visiting Elko after nearly five years since I fled. I left Elko after a very nasty, unexpected, but much-needed breakup. It had taken the almost four years that I lived there to grow to love the place. For the first few months I lived in Elko, I ate my sadness through the entire McDonald’s menu (because that’s all I found acceptable to eat). Every moment my brain was free to recall that I was permanently situated in a tiny cow town in Nevada, I was depressed. I devised every possible flight plan to get myself out of my living hell while I double fisted Oreos and everything ever made by the Keebler Elves. It took months for me to finally accept that if I wanted to see a movie, I would have to sit on a rickety, bodily fluid-soaked chair in their ancient theater. Whenever I got the opportunity to make it back home, I spent long hours wandering the posh isles of Target, lamenting how Elko was too ass backward to ever understand how beautiful a Target would be up on the hill instead of the nasty Kmart. What I didn’t realize until I looked up, out of my KFC Bucket of Shame, was that Elko was more than a Target. More than a comfortable movie seat. More than what you see at first glance. Before I knew it, I had established a very comfortable, happy life in Elko, enjoying the beauty that can be found when you open your heart and clear your mind of any preconceived notions.
I was going to list the things that I love about Elko, but instead, I will just leave you with the following pictures. A few of you asked, about my previous post, “What is Elko?” Well, this is Elko.
A lot the first pics are actually of Lamoille and Lamoille Canyon, but those places still mean Elko to me.
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Inverness
This is a post I wrote years ago about a beautiful spot I discovered in Inverness, Scotland. There is not a day that goes by that I do not think of that trip. I yearn to go back. I left a piece of my heart in the British Isles, that’s for sure.
Continue reading “Inverness”
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Air Travel is Fun
Here I sit, at the Philadelphia airport, not a fucking happy camper. I would like someone to explain to me why the trip home is always so fucking merry…
*I’m warning any virgin ears now, I’ll probably be using ‘fuck’ a lot in this post.
My trip over was seamless, a breeze. There was barely any turbulence, I didn’t have to sit next to a smelly man with long fingernails, and it was just easy. Get on, get off, get on, get off-all on time.
I’m hoping my complaining now will create a situation whereby I was just overreacting and it actually won’t be as bad as I’m making it out to be in my head *knocks on cheap vinyl, sticky with soda and greasy fingertips, because there’s no wood in an airport*
It’s just that, I know how traveling by air usually goes. We all do. Unless you have been living off the grid, in a mole hill, you know.
Right now, my flight is delayed by an hour and 10 minutes. I have already been here for 2 hours and 15 minutes, because the drive into Philly is always full of standstill traffic. You never know if the drive will take an hour or 3, so best to be anal-retentive-early. So, here I sit.
Since I’ve already hit up the last-minute-oops-I-forgot-you-souvenir-shops. Since I’ve already had an overpriced lunch. Since I’ve already had a coffee, and a beer, and made 3 trips to the bathroom, I have time to recall and share my trip back from London.
It was every traveler’s worst nightmare with a why-do-I-even-travel-cherry on top.
The flights over to London, on my first-ever international flight went extremely well. It was full of excitement, anticipation, and wonder. The plane had screens in the back of every seat with music, movies, and a map showing our plane’s location. I took a picture of whatever was below us about halfway to London, and I got a picture of Greenland. It was cool as shit. We arrived at Heathrow stinky and tired, but elated to be starting our adventure.
The flight home? A whole different animal.
It started out fine. We breezed through check-in and security at Heathrow and boarded our plane on time. I was seated next to a nice, older English couple. My friend? The friend who had an entire row to himself until the last second, yet was an ass and wouldn’t let me sit next to him, got to sit next to a child who puked the whole way to Toronto. I still laugh at that quick, and concise delivery of karma.
When we got to Toronto, I had to poop so bad. I decided I’d just come right out and be crass and say it. I figured our layover of an hour would be enough to use the restroom, but instead we almost didn’t make our flight because customs was a fucking nightmare. I was uttering horrible things under my breath. I wanted to scream the mean things, but asshole friend suggested that I shouldn’t threaten death upon custom agents.
When we finally got on our plane, after last call, I got sandwiched between a man who smelled of feet and another man who had long, yellow fingernails, who hummed the.whole.fucking.plane.ride. I’m surprised I didn’t need my barf bag. It was horrible.
About 30 minutes outside of Denver, we were told there was a massive thunderstorm over Denver, so we were being rerouted to a landing strip in BFE Colorado. It was literally just a landing strip, seriously in need of weeding. The entire 2 hours we sat there, I went from fearing I would have to poo in an airplane with no AC and worrying we were going to miss our connecting flight from Denver. It was an OCD sufferer’s nightmare.
Finally, we got to take off. When we landed in Denver, we found out we didn’t miss our flight, as all flights were pushed back. It was a freaking miracle. I found the nearest bathroom and thought another miracle would happen. Nope.
I spent the entire last flight miserable.
We finally arrived home at 2 AM. All I wanted was my bag and sleep, but, of course, my bag didn’t arrive with our plane. Of-fucking-course.
I was still 4 hours from my home, so I got to wear my mom’s granny panties, until I got my bag back, and I didn’t even care.
That was the worst travel experience up to this point.
I’m currently sitting in the plane from my last connection in Chicago. We’ve been flying for maybe 15 minutes. I’m still sweating, breathing hard, coughing, and my nose is running down my greasy face. Why, you ask? My flight was boarding while I was still on the first plane. I ran, a la Home Alone from Gate 19 to Gate 5. I am sure I was a sight, in my gut flapping-asthmatic-face-wheezing glory. When I got to the gate, the door was closed and everyone was already boarded. I have never been late like that in my life. But I fucking made it. Hooray.
I have one more stop, but I don’t have to get off the plane. I can finally relax and order 8 alcoholic beverages.
Its events like these that make me wonder why I even try to travel by air. I guess it’s because you can’t just get in the car and drive to Europe, or take 3 weeks off so you can drive cross-country.
Le sigh.
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Vacay Babay
If you didn’t infer from my last post, or you missed the one about my sister, you don’t know I’m on vacation.
So, yeah, VACATION.
I know I feel bummed when some of my favorite bloggers disappear for too long (they probably work, or have actual, real-life stuff to do), so I figured I’d make it clear that I haven’t given up on Fatty McCupcakes! Don’t you love how I’m assuming I might be one of someone’s favorites? Oy!
I’ve been having a blast, and I’ve been experiencing all that I can. It’s all fodder for new blog posts, of course. Most importantly, though, I’ve put the iPhone and iPad somewhat away and I’ve just lived, watched, breathed, and engaged. It’s been refreshing as all hell.
I’m still vacationing, so I don’t anticipate an actual post until I get back and sleep for a whole day (jet lag is worse as you get older, I swear)!
Hopefully some vacation pictures will keep my loyal followers satiated enough until I get back. Don’t give up on me, guys! I love you all.
Goodbye land, goodbye sanity, goodbye lunch. Flying gets you to cool places, but it’s nerve-wracking as fuck.
What you do after traveling for 9 hours and you’re ravenously hungry, and you’re alone in a big city-for the first time (more on my newfound independence soon). Room service, baby!
Obviously, I tracked down a cupcakery while in Philadelphia. It’s like my fat gut has a built-in honing device for baked goods.
Some resident of the City of Brotherly Love loved their city so much, they felt the need to tag an iconic landmark. Way to go, asshat! It’s why we can’t have nice things *hangs head in disgrace*.
If I could make one suggestion/comment/bit of feedback to whoever planned the structure housing the Liberty Bell, it’s that the natural light coming from behind the bell makes it really hard to capture the famous crack. Oh, you’re just supposed to reverently view and move on? Gotcha…*slowly puts selfie stick back in bag*
Residents of the East Coast are different people entirely. I had never seen anything like this before. Apparently, I’M the weird one for not being familiar with edible curved manhood. BTW it is NOT like Bologna at all.
After a nice little jaunt through Delaware, we made it to Ocean City, MD. We promptly put our feet in the surf. Because ocean.
We drove all the way to Maryland to eat at a Jamaican-themed restaurant, complete with real palm trees and jerk chicken-everything, just so I can show people this picture and say I went somewhere exotic.
Yes, the views are priceless, but our $300 a night hotel room is…well…upon getting a towel, the towel rack promptly fell off the wall. Classy. I simply cannot wait to write my Yelp and Trip Advisor reviews.
Our piggy toes are obviously genetic. You’re welcome.
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Travel Movements
Am I the only one who stresses about the bathroom situation at airports and in *gasp* airplanes?
Is it just me who plans, or tries to plan “movements” so as to avoid the flying germ coffin in the sky?
I positively detest using the airplane bathroom. I don’t think detest is a strong enough word. Loath? Does that emphasize my hate and horror enough? I think I’ll go with ‘detest’, it sounds more full of disgust.
What I despise about the bathroom is that it’s more like an entryway coat closet, in a home for small people, than a restroom.
It’s absolutely not a restroom, anyway. There is no resting once in its claustrophobic grip. Just to get your pants down, you practically have to molest all four walls, with every part of your body.
I’m the kind of person who prefers to have no part of my body touch any part of a bathroom. It’s a challenge. It’s an art form. I hover, I flush with my foot, I will kick the door down to get out. Anything to touch nothing.
Why are the bathrooms so fucking small? I mean, really? I could easily give up the snack station for a larger bathroom. Who needs shitty peanuts and the worst watered-down soda when you could use a bathroom that you don’t have to have sex with to use? I’m for a larger bathroom, hands down.
Right along with my fear of public bathrooms, be it a horrifying porta poop or a nasty shit box in the sky, I fear pooping in public. Period. I want to get in and out as fast as humanly possible. Diddle doddling around waiting for the deed to be done, is far, far too dangerous in a bathroom where someone else, a stranger, is also doing the deed right next to me. No thanks.
I can’t relax enough to poop when someone could possibly hear the dreaded ‘splash’. Nope. No way. I’m already feeling the anxiety coming on.
Call me a freak. Call me high maintenance. Call me what you will, but I can’t poop comfortably unless I have my In Touch, my Costco toilet paper, my room spray, and my personally cleaned toilet.
You can say vacations are a bitch in regards to the bathroom situation.
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Sister
It was just a usual Sunday evening, you know the kind…homemade spaghetti, repetitive arguments, and loving banter. Every Sunday evening, without fail, I would join my parents and brother for a family meal. It was tradition, and a necessity (I always had tons of laundry to do).
On this ordinary Sunday, 7 years ago, the phone rang. I was lounging on the couch, not wanting to move, for fear I would explode from the copious amounts of carbs consumed. My brother was sneaking a cigarette on the back porch. My parents were having their after dinner guilt cigarette in the garage. The call went to the machine. Out of nowhere, a voice.
Dad, pick up. I know you’re there. Dad…
I sat up stick straight. Surely it was a mistake, a wrong number? But, something felt familiar about that voice. It was my voice. How many times had I called my parents and left the same exact message?
My brother came around the corner from the living room, and just stared at me. I stared back.
In a trance, we walked together to the garage. We just stared at our parents. They knew. They knew we knew.
Well, here we go, they said.
Here we go.
From then on, my life was drastically altered. On that lazy, regular, nothing-special-Sunday, I found out that I had two sisters. Sisters.
I don’t want to get into the why’s and how’s of the happenstance that one who had yearned for the connection of a sister all her life, in fact, had sisters all along, yet didn’t find out until the ripe old age of 25. I will say that my dad was married before my mother and he had two daughters. The divorce from his first wife was not pretty and thus, you have two seperate families, existing a continent apart from each other.
How can a mother tell her daughter that she has sisters, sisters she will likely never meet due to the circumstances surrounding their father’s estrangement? Especially when that daughter really wanted a sister named Summer and she cried as if the world were ending when she found out her new sibling was a brother, named Jarrett (does that make me a bad person?)
I never connected with the sister who called looking for our dad, but through her, I found Tracy.
How can I express how I felt during the hours, days, months after first speaking to the sister I always wanted, until that humid day in Philadephia when I first laid eyes on her? I don’t think I have the literary ability, or its impossible to articulate into words the emotion felt when you finally find your kindred spirit.
We spoke every day. Our conversations were filled with questions, so many questions.
What is your favorite food? What kind of music do you like? What is your favorite color? Who are you? Who have you been all these years I didn’t know you?
Despite never being raised together, Tracy and I share likenesses that are uncanny. Despite the fact she’s 16 years older than me, we are like long-lost twins. I could go into every way we are the same, but it may not mean the same to you as it does to us.
I was sweating profusely and didn’t sleep a wink during the entire red eye to Philadelphia. Meeting someone for the first time is always scary, but to meet your sister for the first time? Maddeningly nerve-wracking. Doubts plagued my thoughts.
What if we don’t get along? What if it’s awkward? What if…
The second I laid eyes on her, a sense of knowing crept though my veins.
Why of course, there you are.
I knew her. She was my sister. Never having met her, yet she was always there, being my sister. Through every lost tooth, knee scrape, broken heart, she’s always been there.
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Inverness
The sun was lazily peeking around the steeple of a church and through the turrets on the top of a century old building. There was no breeze and just a hint of coolness ticked my sun-drenched arms and face. The air smelled of fresh cut grass and fried fish and on top of that was a hint of something different, something foreign and strange. The ample sized river cutting through the village was dotted with specks of sun and there was a clear reflection of the cloud dotted sky. The green grass aside the gentle river looked so inviting, but there was no time for rest, no stopping the adventure. There were places to see, new and exiting things to eat and different people to meet. I snapped a picture of the perfect scene so that I would never forget that moment. I fondly look at the picture I took of that beautiful river and village in Inverness, Scotland all the time. Looking at that scene makes me feel an intense longing to relive every moment that took my breath away on that trip. That village scene, along with so many others, will forever be stamped on my heart, to never, ever forget. Ever.
In honor of my upcoming trip, I thought to share a little ditty I wrote years ago about a distinct memory of a trip to Scotland.
I yearn to return to the British Isles. How does one feel an intense longing and homesickness for a place that’s not their home? Maybe in a past life I lived in England, or Scotland, in a quaint village, or up in the otherworldly Scottish Highlands? Maybe.
“We travel, some of us forever, to seek other places, other lives, other souls” -Anais Nin
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Nervous Poos
3 more sleeps and I will be heading to visit my sister from another mama. This will be the first time I’ve traveled further than one state over since my trip to London in 2010! To say I’m nervous about the flight is like saying, “I’m just a little in love with baked goods.”
I adore travel. I want to see the world, yet flying is so, so fucking scary. I am a control freak to the nth degree. If I could sit in the cockpit, I would feel a little better. I would feel a little more at ease if I could be on the lookout for birds or other planes, or whatever else there is to watch out for in the sky. I would feel more in charge, and thus safer, if I could say, “A little to the left”, “Whoa, let’s ease up on that throttle”, and “Are you sure you checked the landing gear?”
I would be that person they want to tie up and store in the cargo hold.
This time around, I’ll be traveling with just me, myself, and Ivana (she’s my alter ego). I’ve never flown alone. I’ve always had someone to annoy with my constant questions and worries, “Are you really sure we aren’t going to die?”
I feel like a super, take the Bulls by the horn, independent woman. That is, until the morning of my flight. I’ll most likely be having to use the restroom every 10 minutes, and I’ll question whether or not to take my “huggy pillow” with me on the flight-to keep me safe, obviously.
I’m not a real chatty person when it comes to talking to strangers. When some random person says something like, “The weather has been crazy lately”, my response is usually something along the lines of, “I don’t like hot dogs”. And then I want to kick myself for not saying something easy, like, “Hasn’t it?”
So, I’m dreading the inevitable flight talk.
Basically, I’m dreading the flight, in its entirety.
Someone reassure me *sucking thumb in fetal position*
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A Blogger Award?
Golly gee! I do believe I have been awarded a blogger award by one of my new favorite bloggers, Carrots In My Carryon. This chick is hilarious. I mean, who couldn’t simply adore a blogger with such a clever name? I am “blogger-smitten”.
I have learned quite a bit about this whole blogging thing over the past couple of months.
First, I had no idea how to even add tags to my blogs, and now I am adding links to blogs in my posts. This is an impressive feat for someone who once thought their laptop was broken because the volume button wouldn’t turn the stupid thing on. So, go me!
Second, I had no idea there were “blogging awards” and that I would ever in a million years be nominated to participate in one. I feel quite important right now. I am trying to keep a lid on my glee so as to not annoy simply everyone who comes into contact with me now.
Third, the WordPress blog world is full of insanely talented, amazing writers and people. I simply hoped to connect to those in my life, and yet, here I am connecting with people all over the globe. I am feeling all the feels right now.
As I am learning, there are rules to participating in the blogging award business. These are the rules, copied and pasted from Carrot’s blog:
THE RULES:
- DISPLAY THE AWARD CERTIFICATE ON YOUR WEBSITE
- ANNOUNCE YOUR WIN WITH A POST AND LINK TO WHOEVER PRESENTED YOUR AWARD
- PRESENT 15 AWARDS TO DESERVING BLOGGERS
- DROP THEM A COMMENT TO TIP THEM OFF AFTER YOU’VE LINKED THEM IN THE POST
- POST 7 INTERESTING THINGS ABOUT YOURSELF.
I think the award certificate is this:
I am not quite sure why it is picture of a dragon, and I am immensely relieved that I do not have to write a fantasy story about a dragon. Or, that my facts have to be dragon-themed. Other than my breath in the morning, I am not very dragon-y. I like watching the Mother of Dragons with her babies on GOT, but that is the extent of my dragon-ness.
I am supposed to nominate 15 people. Let’s see if I can round up 15 fellow bloggers.
Drum roll please…I nominate:
1. babysteps22 because she is adorably hilarious. She is my blogger friend hailing from India. I am learning so much reading her posts. She is super funny, a great writer, and simply lovable.
2. AuntyCath because she is funny as hell and super supportive. She lives way over in Australia, and that is just rad as shit.
3. albuslepus because she commented on my latest post and it made me happy that someone new relates to what I have to say. Also, because I want to learn more about this person!
4. RobynChristi because she is my British doppleganger, in that we share the same humor. She is adorable and just funny as hell. Twinsies!
5. sfarnell because his comments on my posts are funny and I know very little about him! I know how men like these kinds of things *evil laugh*.
6. ACoupleTalks because their blog is very very funny and thought-provoking. Also, their angle is interesting: a husband and wife co-writes this amusing and insightful blog. Check it out.
Whew, I am getting tired. Do I really have to nominate 15 bloggers? Do you know how much work goes into tagging people? 6 is almost 15, right? I think 6 is good.
OK, here we go. I know ya’ll have been chomping at the bit to read these super random facts about me. It has taken most of my mental energy today to come up with 7, somewhat interesting facts about yours truly. Everyone better enjoy this, and consider these facts the most interesting factoids learned in quite awhile! Ready? Here we go!
1. I didn’t know I had a sister until 7 years ago. Straight out of Maury, we have the story of how Katie met Tracy. Actually, our story is precious to me, and I will be writing about it soon. Stay tuned.
2. I am directionally-challenged. It took me the entire 4 years of high school to be able to find my locker on the first attempt. When I started college, I relied on my friend to get me to class. Every.Single.Day we would exit class and I would start heading in the wrong direction. Every day.
3. I am forever worried about all of the old people of the world. Did they take their pills? Did they cross the road safely? Have people been holding doors for them? If I see an elderly person crossing the street, I slow my car, and wait until I know they got across safely. Don’t mess with my elders! I will eff you up.
4. I am super OCD. No, not “counting or checking compulsive”, (although I have been known to check to make sure I unplugged my flat iron or coffeemaker more times than is sane), but in a, “Is-my-nail-art-the-exact-same-on-every-nail-tell-me-for-the-54,847,643-time-why-you-are-not-mad-at-me-anymore-and-OMG-that-person-across-the-room-sneezed-and-now-I-am-going-to-die way. Yeah.
5. I have intense wanderlust, but I also have a fear of the danger present in all new experiences. When I was in England, we rented a car to be able to have more flexibility with our destinations. After a harrowing trip on the motorway, through tiny village streets, and finally into the parking lot of the Quality Inn, literally the first hotel I saw outside of Birmingham, I never wanted to drive in England ever again. I was sure I would die in England, and my family would find out because someone would happen upon some obscure story about the End of American’s Jolly Holiday. That damn car was parked for two days until we had to get to Wales, to get the ferry to Ireland. I had to get back on the horse, and I got over my fear of dying in a tiny Peugeot. By the end of my trip, I was an expert “wrong side of road driver”. Getting over the scary shit in life has always been a challenge for me.
6. I have an insane attention to detail. It is why I remember faces, not names, and why I remember scary details about you, details you didn’t think you told me. I also have a keen sense of reading body language. I can tell when someone is anxious, worried, or uncomfortable. I react to people’s body language more than the words that come out of their mouth.
7. I am a 3rd grade teacher, and I adore every stressful, time-consuming, and inspiring moment of every day. However, my dream job is to be paid to travel and stay at weird hostels and hotels, and to just experience the hilarity that travel can be. You know where I am going with this, right? Yup. Then, obviously, I will write genius reviews of my experiences. I am sure there are millions of people who would love this gig. Dreamers can dream.
Well, I can’t wait to learn more about the fabulous bloggers I have nominated. Ya’ll better do it!!