Tag: weightloss

#MyFirstPostRevisited #fbf

I was tagged by Stomper Dad to participate in #MyFirstPostRevisited. It sounded like fun and it goes along nicely with the Flashback Friday thing I’ve got going on. 
Here we come to the rules:
Obvious rules:

  • No cheating. (It must be your first post. Not your second post, not one you love…first post only.)
  • Link back to the person who tagged you (thank them if you feel like it or, if not, curse them with a plague of ladybugs).

Other rules:

  • Copy and paste your old post into a new post or reblog your own bad self. (Either way is fine but NO editing.) 
  • Put the hashtag #MyFirstPostRevisited in your title. 
  • Tag five other bloggers to take up this challenge. 
  • Notify your tags in the comment section of their blog
  • Feel free to cut and paste the badge to use in your post.
  • Include the rules in your post.

People who should also do this: 
An Historian About Town
Charlotte Graham 
No Love For Fatties
Hot Mess
Carrots in My Carryon 


Without further ado, here’s my first ever Fatty McCupcakes post. 
I’m still cringing at my grammatical errors and rambling. The horror. 

I’m actually fatter than I was when I started my blog and “weight loss journey”, my downward dog probably looks more like upended orangutan now, and what was I watching? It looks like Richard Simmons??

Everyone has a blog. I know. Almost just as many people have a blog about their journey from fat life to one of self-acceptance (or sadness, because being thin almost always means no more cupcakes). Despite this, I’m beginning a blog about my journey. How cliche. Whether it will be told from the perspective of a fat girl trying to accept her jiggly arms or through the eyes of a 32-year-old woman who has almost no idea what she is doing with her life has not been decided at this point. I’ll write about my fatness. I’ll write about my need to feel accepted in whatever form. I’ll write about my opinions from “fat acceptance” to the state of our crumbling world, both literally and figuratively. I’ll write about my life experiences, both past and present. I’ll write about the joys and pains of educating our future. I’ll just write, funny, thought-provoking, controversial, whatever.
A total aside-every ‘her’ I’ve typed thus far has auto-corrected to ‘Her’. Her wants to be capitalized. I’m not sure if this means anything, but I really, really want it to. Maybe it means I’m an important, inspiring, worthy woman and my blog will actually be read by others? Maybe it will inspire others? Maybe I’ll make you laugh, cry, or even make you eternally grateful you’re not me. Even if this little sign doesn’t mean anything and my blog is a total bomb or a total unknown in a world full of writers trying to find their way via WordPress, I will continue to write. I am writing for me. Writing is therapeutic, calming, exciting, inspiring and it’s something I will do regardless of how many followers or comments I receive. I’m really not writing for the exposure. I’m writing because I physically have to. When you wake up in the middle of the night to write down a thought so you don’t forget it, or when you park your car after just driving home from work and you have no idea what streets you took or how you even got home because you were mentally writing your next Facebook post or Yelp review, it’s time to start writing a blog again. For the safety of all people on the road, for my sanity, I’m writing again.
Thanks to Facebook and our over-sharing generation most of my readers (I’m already assuming I’ll have readers) know who I am. I’m not yet decided on whether who I am on Facebook or who I am at work or with friends is really who I am. Maybe I’ll find out someday.
Obviously, my name gives it away, I’m a voluptuous cupcake-lover (that’s being kind. I’m fat and I inhale Mix cupcakes in my closet and then I burn the evidence). I’m anal retentive. I’m funnier on paper. In person, I’m likely suffering from Aspergers. I hold on to everything (no, not in a hoarder way, more in an OCD-way). I beat a dead horse. I’m a germaphobe and I guess the secrets out? How did everyone know? I hate being looked at, but I usually feel ignored. I live in the past far too much. I have massive wanderlust, but I’m terrifed of the dangers and uncomfortable aspects of travel. I’m petrified of death, that death is just darkness. I collect Bath & Body Works products, but I hate materialism and have considered living more simply (it’ll never happen…). I notice and remember people, feelings, memories and details fair too perfectly. I’m either an excellent candidate for the Scotland Yard or I’m a creeper. I have only started discovering who I am. Haven’t we all just begun?
I’ve already lost most of you. I’m rambling at this point. I will stop for now. One tiny hint before I go: reading my words outloud might come easier, as I write how I think- a jumbled, mess of thoughts, feelings, desires and fears all wrapped up in a pretty pink bow, because I’m also a neat freak. Welcome to my world.

WTF Wednesday #2


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For this week’s installment of WTF Wednesday, it’s all about those dick diets that we all love so much (In no way am I insinuating that a particular body part is for lunch. I am using ‘dick’ like ‘jerk’. Got it?)
If you ever wondered why dieting sucks so much and it’s so damn hard (shit, I really shouldn’t have used the word ‘dick’, because now every other word has another meaning), it’s because diets taste freaking disgusting. 
For real. 
If I could, without guilt or consequence, continue eating marshmallow fluff and Nutella sandwiches for breakfast, till my dying day, I’d be a very happy, agreeable, and stress-free person.
But, because Heaven on Earth sandwiches make me fat and unhealthy, I get to eat unsweetened oatmeal and farty hard-boiled eggs for breakfast now. 
Yay. 
Along with finally trying to get my eating back on track, I’ve recently purchased organic colon cleanse pills and doTERRA Slim and Sassy. 
Because anything that’s quick and easy is my game. 
Let’s start with the colon cleanse. 
Never have these two words together ever sounded like a good time to me. Sure, it sounds like it’s maybe a good idea, because it’s supposed to rid you of the nasty sludge that gets built up in the intestines. But, the actual process of a colon cleanse? 
Just no.
When I bought these pills, I specifically asked if they’d make me poop my pants. I was assured it was a slow, not unpleasant process.
As much as I’d like to share some embarrassing story about how I was lied to and that I did actually crap my pants at school, it’s just not what happened. 
In fact, nothing has happened. Like, nothing. 
Maybe they are magic pills and they cleanse unknowingly, invisibly, magically. Or, I got scammed. 
I could have performed a more successful cleanse by eating from the shady roach coach that parks across from the strip club downtown. 
Next, let’s discuss Slim & Sassy by doTERRA. 
First, I have to make it clear that I am a hardcore fan of doTERRA essential oils. I know and love a couple consultants, and they are why I’m addicted to the amazing Past Tense for my headaches. So, I’m in no way dissing the company at all. 
But, Slim & Sassy is straight up “I’ll Just Stay Fat & Nasty”. 
This morning, I excitedly dropped a couple drops in my water, did a sniff test, and nervously took a tiny sip. 
I CAN’T EVEN EXPLAIN THE FLAVOR. 
It’s like your water has been tainted with grass-flavored peppermint grapefruit bark. 
And, now, my brand new “Boss Lady” metal water bottle will never be the same. 
Needless to say, S&S is not my jam.
Not only did it taste just incredibly odd, it mildly burned my lips and then left them numb.
In the middle of my light and sound read aloud, I started slurring my speech and drooling down my chin. 
As a teacher, this is just not a good look.
I don’t think I can stand trying Slim & Sassy again. My gag reflex is activating just thinking about it. Anyone want an almost-full bottle? 
In ending, I’m literally a walking billboard for the fact that almost all diet “tricks” do.not.work. 
The only thing that works is to stop pounding cake into your fat gob as if it were the end of days. 
This is why I struggle, because feeding Bertha* tastes a million times better than tainted water, sulfur eggs, and grass pills that just make my belch-y breath smell like fertilizer. 
#cakeme
*Bertha is my belly 

In Case There Was Any Question…


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I don’t know about you, but I sped right on out of 2016 in my cupcake delivery truck from Glutton hell, high on rocky road fudge and bleu cheese biscuits and crashed right into 2017 in a carb-induced coma, complete with egg nog dried into the corners of my mouth.
Whew. What a ride.
I spent most of my winter break carb-loading and comatose, covered in powdered sugar, next to an empty cookie tin. Cookie Monster doesn’t have shit on me. 
The result? 
Other than a blotchy, puffy face, I really couldn’t tell.
Thanks to my latest obsession of wearing leggings literally everyday, I never had to have the usual after-the-Holidays-can’t-fit-into-my-pants-crying-fit. 
My boyfriend would like to say that he’s eternally grateful to LuLaRoe and their leggings that keep his fat girlfriend half sane. 

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And, because I’d rather just not know, I don’t weigh myself. Even when I go to the doctor, I say, “Don’t tell me!”, as I anxiously get on the scale. I think they have, “Doesn’t want to know the extent of her fatness” written on my chart, because I don’t usually have to remind them. 
Normally, the way I can tell that I’ve overdone it and thus gained some weight is that some of my fat comes back up when I bend over to tie my shoes. 
Gross, I know. 
I’m just being honest. 
Because I’ve been the height of laziness over the last few weeks, I haven’t even put on real shoes. 
So, all of this to say- I couldn’t tell how much holiday weight I had gained. 
It was actually really refreshing at first to live blindly unaware of how much more stress I was putting on my overworked couch. 
I felt lighter, with each step to the refrigerator, thinking the damage couldn’t be that catastrophic.
However, behind my new lighthearted, unaware approach to my fatness was a nagging feeling that something would show me the truth. 
I figured my new leggings would finally give in to the pressure and the seams would come undone.
Or, while leaning on the door of the refrigerator, the whole thing would come crashing forward with the weight of my shitty food choices and my massive body. 
But…
No signs. Nothing.
That is, until I went to the bathroom at the salon where my masseuse rents a massage room. 
I was just sitting there, like any other normal person, doing their business. I was probably noticing the appalling state of my holey underwear or picking at my cuticles. 
Until.
Until I looked up and into the mirror directly in front of me. 
How I didn’t die of shock right then and there is a profound mystery to me. 
If at any point you feel the need to be slapped in the face with the reality of your fatness, just sit on a toilet in front of a fucking mirror.
After that terrible shock to my heart, it’s been green beans and chicken broth every day.
No, I’m lying. 
After my massage, I went straight to the store and bought a 12 pack of cupcakes and drowned my sorrow in frosting. 
Here’s my Yelp review of the salon and their asshole mirror:

So, in case any of you really need to know how far your weight gain has gotten out of control, or you’re a masochist, just get naked and sit down on a toilet in front of a full length mirror. 
#dead 💀
I’d like to thank one of my Facebook friends, followers, and old high school classmate for giving me the idea to turn my Yelp review into a blog post. Thanks, girl!