Tag: vacation

British Columbia, Blogger Buds, and Busted Biking

Holy shit, I’m literally the worst. I haven’t blogged in what feels like foreeeeeeever. I also haven’t read any blogs in probably even longer. I’ll be amazed if any of you are still here. I wouldn’t blame you if you weren’t.

I had a long list of several excuses for my behavior, but I figured I’d spare you. Let’s just get to it!

Today, as it’s Thursday, can you guess what I have for you? Yup. A travel post. And not just a travel post, this is the travel post.

Why is that, you ask?

Well, I got to meet one of my absolute favorite bloggers and one of the nicest humans on this planet while on my latest travel adventure.

Josy from A Walk and a Lark so very kindly offered to host my friend, Melissa and I when we were in Vancouver over spring break. So not only did I get to meet this fine lady, she put us up in her super cute condo for two nights. It was amazing, ya’ll.

We had such a blast on our trip. We flew to Seattle for a night, took the ferry to Victoria, stayed three nights there, and then it was finally time to get to Vancouver to meet Josy.

(I’ll be blogging about our time in beautiful Victoria, so stay tuned. You might have to wait another year, though, so don’t hold your breath. You’ll die.)

We arrived in Vancouver by ferry (Which had a fucking buffet on it, ya’ll. A BUFFET) and Josy picked us up. It was so exciting to see her happy face in real life for the first time!

We first went to her condo to drop off our bags, say ‘hello’ to her hubby Marc, give her super cute kitty, Monty a pet, and then we were quickly off to see our first site.

I think it’s here where I can announce that I’m still recovering from the walking we did in Vancouver. I used to think I was a pretty good walking tourist. I’m fucking not. Like not by a really slow, sweaty mile. There were a few times I truly didn’t think I’d make it and I’d have to embarrassingly ask Josy if she would kindly call me an ambulance.

Melissa felt pretty much the same as me – like an utter wimp compared to Josy. In fact, she remarked, “If you need me when we get home, I’ll be in bed for three days.”

I’m fairly certain Josy didn’t even break a sweat or get out of breath the entire two days of our heavy walking.

And get this, people. She bikes to work and it takes nearly an hour.

This girl is pretty much hero status to me at this point.

Despite how hard us fatties got worked, we had SO MUCH FUN. We’d have never done half of what we did had we not had Josy. She truly made our trip!

I was double-chin-smile-excited to meet Josy, ya’ll

Here’s where we went and what we did:

Granville Island

The super Instagram famous Love Wall

Did you know this isn’t even an island? When I first did research on Vancouver and I saw that Granville Island was a must-do, I envisioned a literal island.

Even though Granville isn’t an island, we did take a boat there. Confused yet?

I will use any excuse to use this fantastic Britney face

Granville Island is a peninsula (it took me three tries to write ‘peninsula’, because my phone really wanted it to be penis) along False Creek (which isn’t really a creek, but an inlet) and across from downtown Vancouver.

It’s known as a shopping district with a lively public market that I think rivals Pike Place in Seattle.

We took a boat, because you can take a water taxi from the part of Vancouver where Josy lives to Granville and why the hell not take a boat whenever possible?!

Our first stop was to find some lunch (That’s all that’s ever really on my mind when I’m on a trip, to be honest- “When is it time to eat something new again that will be delicious af but will most assuredly give me a bad case of the travel trots and/or heartburn?” It’s my favorite. The food, not the runs.)

We settled on trying some Polish fare, where I got some smooshy, cheese-filled pierogi smothered in sour cream and onions. Josy and Melissa settled on sausages. It all tasted pretty amazing to me.

Next, it was time to find a sweet treat, because your dessert stomach is in your heart and mine was empty and aching for something naughty.

We found an amazing crack dealer in the lively market area. Just look at the delectable choices we had:

CANADIAN MAPLE CHEESECAKE
I mean, are those even real?

Guess what I chose?

Yes, I am eight years old. Thank you for asking.
Happy fatty with her prize

Biking Being a Hot Mess at Stanley Park

I learned how to ride a bike right into a prickly bush just like every other five year old first time rider. Also, I own a bike. It hasn’t moved from its spot in the basement in three years, the tires have disintegrated, and there’s a foot of dust covering it, but I own a bike. So, I’m not a total newbie when it comes to biking, but you know that widely known phrase, “Like riding a bike” when referring to something you never forget how to do? Well, when it comes to Inepts it should be “Like wrecking your diet” or something.

It was like I’d never ridden a bike before.

After eating our way through Granville Island, Josy took us to the gorgeous Stanley Park where breathtaking views of the Vancouver skyline and English Bay can be had.

The path winding along the water looked relatively flat, so when renting a bike was mentioned, I momentarily forgot I was not the best on a bike anymore.

(The first time I took my bike out after buying it, I rode around the block precisely once and then had to lay on the couch for the rest of the day.)

My face says, “I’m 100% crashing this thing into a tree.” Also, how flipping cute is Josy? This is her photo, obviously…

Long story short, I almost ran a pedestrian down, because braking, steering, and staying upright all at the same time is impossible for me; I dropped my bike and lost my cake on the road, but I scooped it up and ate it later (not ashamed), and I felt like I was going to legit puke from the exertion of having to pump up two slight inclines (and we hadn’t even started drinking yet). Meanwhile, Josy was just biking along looking like a fucking goddess. She had to constantly stop so her fat tag alongs could breathlessly catch up. Not once did she act like she was embarrassed to be associated with us, even when we looked like this in the helmets (and on the bikes):

You know how when you see other people on bikes, you want to start biking because you want to look exactly like that? Well, you don’t look like that. #hoponthehotmessexpress

WHY DO THE HELMETS LOOK LIKE THAT ON OUR HEADS, THO?

Drinks in Elizabeth Park

After our biking adventure, we really worked up an appetite. We (Melissa and I) smelled like our fat was on fire, so we cleaned up a bit at Josy’s and headed out again. We settled on El Camino- South American street food- for dinner and man, it did not disappoint. We shared three different entrees to maximize the experience for our taste buds, and they were oh-so-very happy, indeed. Along with a cocktail each, we feasted on a charred corn and cotija cheese salad, a barbecued jackfruit sandwich, cheese balls straight from heaven, and cauliflower “wings”. I’m literally considering booking a flight just to go back and eat every single one of those delicacies again.

Check out Josy’s foodie Instagram page for waaaaaay better pictures of our yum yums.

Our deeeeelicous drinks

After one of the most satisfying food experiences of my adult life, we headed to the special place Josy told me we would have to go for amazing views of the city.

I think we got into a bus, but after a cocktail, my memory was a little fuzzy. What I do remember is hiking what felt like Mount Everest to get to our long-awaited views. But, it was just a walking path up a hill through Queen Elizabeth Park and I totally allowed my full ineptness to show. I really didn’t want Josy to know the full extent of my spastic abilities, but here we are.

When we finally made it to Seasons in the Park, it was cocktail time again.

On the way back to Josy’s we had happy hearts, warm bellies full of alcohol, and giggles for days.

When we got on the bus (they don’t wait for everyone to find their seats, because they’ve got places to be and people to see, OK?), I didn’t fully ground myself by grasping at anything sturdy-looking like I was new to walking when the bus took off, and I almost landed in a strange man’s lap. Then, after I bounced against every surface of the bus as I made it back to where Josy and Melissa were sitting, we dared Josy to say “Marc” in an American accent and we officially lost it. I’m still laughing. We were those annoying drunk girls on the bus and it was awesome.

Grouse Mountain

The next day, after a delicious smoothie Josy made us (and toast with my first taste of Marmite, which I don’t hate), we were off again on another day of hijinks. Once we made a pit stop for some craft coffee, we were on the bus bound for the mountains.

Perhaps one of the best things about Grouse Mountain is that you get to ride a gondola up to the resort. I hadn’t been on a gondola since my childhood summers in northern Idaho. It was such a gorgeous ride up. You could see for miles. It was stunning. My pictures 100% don’t do it justice.

The first thing we did on Grouse Mountain was go on a fun, pretty short walk on a loop path. What made the whole process longer was the fact that it took me literally 20 minutes just to make my way down the first half of the walk, because the entire path was in the packed-down snow. Josy just bee-bopped along like she was walking on straight, not slippery ground. She kept looking back and saying, “You’ll be OK. I promise.”

She really hadn’t learned from the previous day that, no, I’d not be OK. The second I thought I could walk on snow like a normal person would be the second I’d be flat on my fat ass.

So, Josy took some snaps of my slow descent, because she had to fill her time waiting for me somehow.

Saying a silent prayer for my tailbone
It was steeper than it looks! I swear!
Slow and whatever-isn’t-offensive-to-say-about-being-physically-not-good-at-anything-that-requires-effort wins at being dead last

After what, I’m sure, felt like an eternity to Josy, I had finally slipped, slid, and crawled the 50 yards down the hill and we came upon an igloo. An igloo, ya’ll. Naturally, we had to crawl in. It was pretty cold and wet and I had to take my backpack off to squeeze my fat ass in through the hole, but how many people can say they’ve climbed into an igloo? It was totally worth the wet knees and freezer burned palms.

How did the Inuit do it??

After chilling (literally) in the igloo, we hiked back and had drinks and some lunch, but not before a quick selfie:

And did you even have lunch drinks if you don’t do a Boomerang and share it all over social media?

https://fattymccupcakes.net/wp-content/uploads/2019/05/3c74e106-3007-4f90-830c-3e58c898928c.mov

After lunch, it was time to head down the mountain. Instead of waiting for the bus, we took off on foot and walked down to a gorgeous spot for pictures:

I’m STRAIGHT OBSESSED with these mountains, y’all!

Lonsdale Quay Market

After a lot more walking and another bus ride, we stopped at Lonsdale Quay Market. There, we got some interesting dipped ice cream and a different view of the Vancouver skyline.

Then, we got on a sea bus to get back to the “other side” of Vancouver (I’m still confused about the three distinct clusters of skyscrapers that look like three separate cities) to snap pics at the wings in Kitsilano:

From here we walked to the beach. We went from snow and mountains to the sand and sunny beach all in one day! What a truly epic day.

Um, hi. I think I love you, Vancouver.

At this point, we were half dead, so Josy paid for a taxi that took us to a sushi joint. It was the perfectly delicious way to end two picture perfect days in Vancouver with someone I don’t consider merely a blogger bud anymore, but a true friend.

My memories of this incredible trip will remain forever in a special place in my heart while the ache in my fat ass will (hopefully) fade.

Josy: Let’s take a cute jumping photo. Katie: *Doesn’t hear ‘cute’*

From Gaerwen to Blackpool: The Never-Ending Road Trip — Part 1

I was going to post a rant about airfare prices and the bullshit song and dance you have to go through to not be ripped off royally by the airline industry, but it wasn’t helping my eye twitch. Thus, I decided to write about the time a road trip from Gaerwen, Wales to Blackpool, England turned into one of the most memorable moments of my 2010 British Isles trip.
Because I’m long-winded, this’ll be a two-parter, folks!
My travel friend and I had seen a commercial for Britain’s “Jersey Shore” while in Ireland. We just looked at each other and it was decided*. After picking up our third and final rental car in Gaerwen, Wales, we’d stay a night in Blackpool on the way to Scotland.

(In hindsight, choosing where to go in a country with so many beautiful places to see based on its similarity to the reality TV show, Jersey Shore is kinda dumb.)
I’m fairly certain that some of the troubles we encountered can be blamed on the wild ferry ride from Dublin to Wales (well, and on my friend’s almost non-existent map reading skills). It was pouring rain and the waters were choppy. Actually, that’s an understatement. What’s 100 times worse than choppy?
Our Vegas showboat ferry swayed and groaned and rocked for the entire 3 hours and some odd minutes of the journey.

Go ahead and tell me this doesn’t look exactly like a showroom at the Flamingo.
I wasn’t too worse for wear, miraculously, but my travel friend never even attempted to lift his head off of my travel pillow that I so kindly lent him and watched over worriedly. I was pretty concerned he’d get pre-barf drool on the pillow I’d still need to use for the remainder of the trip.
To get my mind off of the potential demise of my pillow, I decided to head to the bathroom before it was filled with sea sick passengers. My attempt at *walking* to the toilets was pretty comical, because I’m fairly certain my body was completely sideways as I groped at chairs, walls, (and maybe one nice-looking lady), as I climbed to the bathrooms.
When we finally docked and set foot on land, it felt like we were still swaying for hours. Then we had to get in a car.
It was not my favorite.
(In fact, I’ve had to take a break from writing this as I’m literally feeling the nausea- kind of like reminiscent sympathy pains.)
We were picked up in Holyhead by Paul, the friendly, but erratic Enterprise driver who liked to test the limits of his passenger’s underwear. He had driven my boyfriend and I a week prior to the ferry when we were on our way to Ireland to meet our travel friend.
(In case you’re confused, this travel friend is the same one mentioned in this post. My boyfriend, the friend, and I all traveled together in Ireland. When my boyfriend had to go home, our friend continued to travel with me so I could stay longer and have a companion.)
He looked at me and then my friend, with a “I know what’s going on here” look on his face and said, “Got yourself an upgrade, eh?”
When he had us all ready to zip off in our feisty-looking cherry red Vauxhall, he asked, “Know how to drive one of these?”

Once I got the hang of it, I LOVED driving this thing!
I was confused as he very clearly remembered seeing me a week before when we dropped a car off that we had been driving for nearly a week.
“Well, yeah. I’m pretty much an expert now!” I responded, thinking he meant driving a car with the steering wheel on the other side of the car.
“Well, that’s good, because this is our last car.”
Still confused, but not too fazed, we got into the car, and I immediately realized what he had meant.
It was a fucking stick shift.
Now, I was taught to drive with a stick shift. I can drive one of those sonsabitches as good as any trucker, but to shift with my left hand?
I had specifically requested automatic cars for the entirety of the trip for the very credible reason that operating a steering wheel on the opposite side of the car while driving on the opposite side of the road was going to be no small feat in itself.
Almost hyperventilating, I checked to see if the clutch was also on the “wrong” side.
“Well, at least there’s that! The clutch appears to be the only thing I recognize in this car!”
My friend just responded with a quick dry heave.
I remember thinking, “We are going to die on the way to Blackpool. And, for what? To see the British Pauly D?”
The rain started pelting the roof and the Enterprise office turned off its lights.
It was time to get a move on.
Despite the nearly blinding rain, the not-so-subtle relentless swaying feeling from the boat, and the fear my friend would yak all over us, the actual driving wasn’t so bad.
What was bad was the fact that my friend was too sea sick and now car sick to even read the map properly.
(We could have switched drivers, but he felt he’d fare better as the passenger.)
A drive from Gaerwen to Blackpool is a 2.5 hour drive, give or take traffic and weather conditions.
It took us nearly five hours and I can’t even blame the weather, as the rain had let up a bit not long after leaving Gaerwen.
Every time he had to look at the map, WHICH WAS A LOT BECAUSE WE HAD NO IDEA WHERE WE WERE, he’d act all dramatic and pukey.
We missed exits off the motorway, got back on the motorway going in the opposite direction and didn’t realize for miles, and had to stop for rest breaks more often than is needed for an old lady with a nervous bladder.
He’d belch up a barely coherent set of directions and I’d yell, “DON’T TALK TO ME, I’M TRYING TO SHIFT/CHANGE LANES/BLINK!”
Somehow, and I don’t even know how, we made it into Blackpool in the pitch black dark of night.
If you live in the U.K. or you’ve been, you’ll know that it doesn’t get dark until like 10:30**at night in the dead of summer.
That’s how I knew we had been driving forever. It’s not like our car didn’t have a clock or my ass wasn’t entirely numb, but the fact that we were driving in darkness for the first time during our whole trip stood out to me.
We had made it into Blackpool, but we had yet to locate our B&B. Stay tuned to find out how we finally made it to our über strange B&B. It may or may not have involved some friendly policemen and a way-too-perky-is-she-going-to-kill-us-in-our-sleep B&B owner.
*I was in no way a fan of Jersey Shore (I may have watched just a couple episodes to see what it was all about. My friend never watched one single episode, nor did he ever even contemplate watching them, either. I’m sure he’d appreciate my clearing that up.
**Maybe it’s not that late, but it sure felt like it.

Travel Tuesday- The Point Reyes National Seashore 

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! 

Food Baby Part Two

So, as I mentioned in my previous post, I meant to share pictures of my food dalliances, but got too carried away with the story of my cupcake ninja moves at a baby shower. 
Last week, on break, I had a permanent food baby. In fact, now that I think of it, I have always had a permanent food baby. Oy vey.
I guess, without further ado-Why I’m Fat #3,456:

Mmmmm almond gelato is most definitely winning!
Hot-crossed-pulled-pork-deliciousness-bun!
Pink marshmallow s’mores skillet #fattyparadise
Apple and pear crisp skillet with melting vanilla bean i-scream-for-fuck-yes!
Demolished! I was too hungry to get pictures of the sushi. #hangry #impatient
 
Strawberry mochi. My friend didn’t like hers, so I ate those too…
Asparagus, red pepper, and provolone croissant. What isn’t pictured is the peanut butter pie I ate for dessert breakfast.
Dirrrty chai #thatshowwedo
While this seemingly innocuous-looking quiche would be the obvious healthy choice, it was just far too buttery and cheesy to be innocent.
Life tip #87: Do not make eye contact with anyone while eating an ice cream cone. Especially when you shouldn’t be eating one…
The most amazing taste sensation in all the land. I give you-Mug o’ Forever Fat (I put it all in a giant mug. Get it?)
GET IN MA BELLY
 
I thought I took more pictures of what I ate. It doesn’t even look that bad….
But, it was. I’m still hurting. 
I’ve been taking a shot of Pepto with a Kaopectate chaser before bed for four nights. 
#helpme

When You Know You Need a Vacation

teaching
Image courtesy Buzzfeed
Yesterday, I got a new student. He’s a spunky, sweet kid from the south. I am sure he will be a wonderful addition to our classroom. As for his opinion of me? I am going to have to be extra awesome-teacher for the next few days, let’s just put it that way.
When you get a new student, it behooves any good teacher to make a great first impression. I made sure we got all of our dedicated brain breaks throughout the day-“Hey, this is a really fun classroom-we get to do a YMCA kids Just Dance video between math and reading?!”. I made sure to emphasize the positive reward system and incentives-“If I make good decisions, I get to eat lunch with the teacher? Baller status!” I made sure my students really showed what they have been learning about ancient Rome-“Wow! They know so much about an ancient civilization. I want to be like these kids!”
After that, it all went downhill. Clark Griswold-sledding-like-a-fool-downhill-like.
Every day, I do a read-aloud about our social studies topic. In the middle of reading about Julius Caesar’s ultimate demise, someone farted.
I know, I know. What the hell is it with farts? I know.
I have always been excellent at ignoring fluffs. If you don’t, you lose instruction time, there is the potential for embarrassing the culprit, and it is just not good role model behavior. This year, however, farts have become exponentially funnier. I don’t know why.
But, I am a freaking human, alright?
I could feel it building inside. I tried to ignore it. I tried to focus on Brutus killing Caesar, “Et tu, Brute” and all that.
There wasn’t a single laugh or even any acknowledgement that it had happened.
But…it went “Bloop”.
Bloop
I couldn’t hold it in. I started laughing. I didn’t dare look at anyone. Maybe it would stop. I kept my face behind the book.
Reading…long pause…expectant re-positioning. Silent laughing. More reading. Longer pause. Not-so-silent laughing. 
Fuck. I cannot believe this is happening to me. AGAIN.
OK. STOP.
I can’t.
Because, it went “bloop”.
Bloop.
At this point, I am too far gone. You know when you are not supposed to laugh? During funerals? When someone is telling you something sad? When you are getting bad news of some sort? But, someone told you a joke before the bad news and you are still laughing, or the person talking to you has a crusty booger and you just can’t even?
It was like that. I knew I shouldn’t laugh and so, that is precisely when I can’t control laughing. 
My best friend in high school will relate, because we were the most hated students in Ms. Gibb’s class. We had laughing fits, on a daily basis, over stupid shit, like Ms. Gibb’s flock of seagulls hair. Once we started, we could.not.stop.
It was like that as my poor students sat, wide-eyed, watching their demented teacher lose her shit.
A few brave souls attempted apprehensive, “hehe’s”.
One student said, monotone, teacherly, “Are you OK, Ms. P?”
No. I was not OK.
Eventually, I did collect myself and we carried on, but not until we discussed why I was laughing. I was not laughing at the person who farted. We went over that it is a natural bodily function that is funny. Right?
The same student who asked if I was done losing my shit said, “Ms. P, that wasn’t even a fart, that was my shoe…”
It.wasn’t.even.a.fart.
What an excellent first impression for my new student. Teacher of the year right here.
fart
Image courtesy of wm-n.glb.shawcable.net
teacher2
Image courtesy of housetalkn.com

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.

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*