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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!
Tag: women
5 Reasons Why I'm Failing at Adulting
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1.When my students do or say something turdly, I really, just once, want to say, “I know you are, but what am I?” I know… but it would be so awesome to give them a little dose of the ridiculous excuses/responses/attitudes they give me every.single.day.
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2. Every year when I renew my car registration, I don’t put the new sticker on my license plate until I get pulled over. It’s like tradition. It is just so hard and takes too much effort to wipe the dust and grime off of my license plate and place the new sticker over the 10 that are already there, about to fall off. Pure unadulterated laziness.
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3. Every month, since I was 11 (why, God?) Aunt Flo has visited. One would think that after three decades of this ridiculousness, I would know to be prepared. Yet, every month, I ruin a pair of panties and I have to waddle into the store, with an entire roll of toilet paper wrapped around the crotch of my underwear.
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4. I love to wait until the bitter end before a credit card payment is due. That way, the extra money I was planning on using to pay down some of the debt can be used to buy new shoes or way too many Salted Caramel Mocha Frappuccinos far before I have to make the payment. Winning.
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5. I buy bananas for one sole purpose: I like to watch things slowly wither and die. For what other purpose do bananas serve? I sure as hell never eat them.
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Sudden Summer Shame
Hey! It’s been a minute, but I finally have a new Shopper Lottie post up. I guess I was too busy getting my summer body on. Haha. Just kidding. I was too busy figuring out how best to eat my latest addiction (Tru Whip and rainbow sprinkles) without gaining any more weight. Losing the Winter of ’02 Weight for Summer Campaign ended when I couldn’t quit Taco Tuesday. Ya’ll know. You know.
Check it out here:
Sudden Summer Shame
I’d love to know if you have any good tips for cleverly disguising or proudly displaying your not-ready-for-summer-bod. Let me know in the comments over at SL!
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Independence Day
I think most have surmised that there’s been some recent changes in my life. I almost went off to England. Alone. And now I’m apartment searching. Alone.
Yup.
I’m single and ready to mingle.
Just kidding. I’m single and ready for some peace, and some much needed soul searching.
Right now my priority is finding a place to live.
It has not been easy due to some uncertainty surrounding the whens, hows, and the that-costs-how-muchs. The rental market where I live right now is slim and what you see is what you get. If you don’t jump right on the first half decent place you see, it’s gone the next day. I’m not exactly too picky, but I also don’t want to live in my city’s equivalent of Compton.
So, I’ll just say it’s been…interesting, the search for an apartment. I think I’ll add disappointing, scary, and fun, just to mix it up.
Yesterday, I got to tour a studio apartment in one of the oldest complexes in the city. The vintage charm was just oozing out of the Art Deco windows. There were even little milk delivery boxes. I couldn’t even.
The apparent charm and ideal location were the only two pros with this place. There were holes in the walls, the lobby and hallway carpets were filthy, and the wood was just being left to rot. It was sad.
The search for the perfect apartment is, of course, disappointing because $425 a month in one of the most coveted areas is, in fact, too good to be true.
Also, it’s scary to think that someone actually thinks anyone sane would want to rent a place that houses one of the seven gates of hell. There was a crawl space door located in the closest that went forever into the abyss of your worst nightmares. *NERP.
I love looking at houses and apartments, even when they end up being a big “nope”. I don’t know if it’s a woman thing, but every potential home I go into is an empty canvas that I can envision putting my mark on. Unless it’s scary and crack den-ish (I’ve never been in one, but I think it would be hard to work, decoratively, around the crack).
Here’s a video I took of the apartment from yesterday.
For some reason, my voice sounds kind of Valley Girl-ish. Forgive me.
Wish me luck on my continued search!
*Thanks, Lori!
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Beware the Unpadded Sports Bra
*Disclaimer: this post is about bewbs. Most specifically nipples. Yup, I just came right out and said it. If you think you’re not ready for this level of honesty, maybe pass on this one. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.
I must be the only woman left on this planet who didn’t know that sports bras, minus added padding, is a recipe for disaster. In case you are also a nimrod and didn’t know this fascinating fact, don’t do it. That is, unless you are at home or for some strange reason you are missing your nipples.
Let me reiterate, don’t wear an un-padded sports bra in public. DON’T DO IT.
Learn from me, ladies.
Last week, it was necessary to wear a sports bra to work. We were having a fun-filled day of being outside. In the sun and 90-degree weather. All day. My most favorite part of this special day is being hot, sweaty, and stinky all.day.
So, I decided my only decent bra didn’t deserve swamp boob level grossness. Thus, my decision to wear my deceiving, bitch of a sports bra.
So, there I was thinking I was being extra smart because I was going to be extra comfy all day. Also, my sports bras tend to reign in my back boobs a bit more than a regular bra, with a regular back strap. So, there’s that.
After spending a good 20 minutes outside where it was still a little chilly in the morning air, after speaking to at least half of the staff and teachers at my school, after smiling like a fucking idiot at everyone I saw, I looked in the mirror.
To my absolute horror, my headlights were standing at full mast, front and center.
OMG. I COULDN’T EVEN.
It looked like I had taped stale, hard mini marshmallows to the front of my bra. Why anyone would ever want to do that is beyond me, but that’s what it fucking looked like.
Why body? Why?
How do you undo something that’s already been done? How do you make someone unsee something they’ve already seen?
Um, you don’t, jackass.
What the fuck am I gonna do? I can’t run home, I’ll never get back in time. What am I gonna do???!
My Mod Mate suggested tissue, but I was not buying it. Under the thin material of my bastard bra, tissue would look lumpy. People would think I had unsuccessfully tried to pad my bra. Um, no.
Then, I was struck with pure genius! I would cover my extra stubborn unmentionables with Post It notes! Pure genius, I tell you. Genius.
The denser consistency of the paper would surely keep those bad boys in place. Also, the sticky strip would ensure the Post It stayed were it needed to. Win.
My Mod Mate was unconvinced, but I was undeterred.
After successfully covering the last Captain Crunch Berry* (that kind of makes it sound like I have myriad berries. I assure you, I do not), I inspected my job in the mirror in the bathroom.
I thought it looked fine. I really did. Because I had to show my Mod Mate what a fine job I did with the Post Its, I went next door to show her I was probably going to have to patent my idea.
“Well, what do you think? You can’t see those two beacons of embarrassment anymore, right?”
Her response:
“OMG. No. No. No. Girl, you don’t have two nips anymore! No.”
I answered:
“Well, duh. That was that point. No more inappropriate nippage. No?”
She then said:
“No.”
I was at a loss. What could possibly be wrong with my Post It note nipple covers? They were genius.
She clarified:
“Well, for starters, you now you have eight nipples. Is that what you were going for? If so? Well done.”
The four corners of the Post It notes made weird octi-nipples under my sports bra. So, instead of two innocent, albeit, unpredictable doo-das, I had something going on that was straight out of the personal fetish collection of some freak.
Nope.
The Post It notes came out, and tissue was put in their place, and all was well.
I should probably listen to my friend and colleague a lot more. She’s pretty old and worldly like that.
In ending, ladies, never fashion nipple covers using Post It notes or other office supplies. Further, if this is ever a necessity, it’s time to buy a padded sports bra (preferably not one from the $1 bin at Walgreens).
This post is dedicated to my Mod Mate, the Oscar to my Felix, and the best damn colleague and friend I’ve ever been lucky enough to share a year-long “camping” adventure with. I’ll miss your random pop ins, how we could communicate with a single eyebrow raise, and the way you always “got” me. I love you. Enjoy your new school, ya bitch.
*Oscar coined this phrase to name a friend’s nips, and it was pure hilarity. I had to sneak it in.
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Memories
“Memory is a way of holding onto the things you love, the things you are, the things you never want to lose” The Wonder Years
We all remember our first taste of freedom-that time in your life when the tight grip of the metaphorical fist loosens up and you break free. The time in your life when you feel no fear in saying goodbye, because what awaits you is too exciting to feel homesick. I remember that time vividly, and wish I could relive it on a daily basis. It was a time of momentous change in my life. I was single for the first time in years. and my life was decidedly going to be all about me for once. I was young, carefree and I no longer had to hear my father say 100 times a day, “Rinse your dish when you are done.” If I didn’t want to rinse my dish, guess what? I didn’t have to (I did, however, come to find that a sink full of dirty dishes pretty much smells like death, so I ended up just rinsing the damn dish). It was an indescribable feeling to be on my own for once. I don’t think I could properly explain in words the way it felt, but you all know. You know.
My first roommates were my two best friends. The first night in our apartment was spent drinking vodka straight out of the bottle while we watched Santa Clause 2. Oh yes, we knew how to party. The next night was spent drinking half a bottle of watermelon Pucker, because the other half I spilled on the carpet. Best friend number dos made her famous waffles and poached eggs for dinner. We ate A LOT of waffles and poached eggs. I am 100% certain it was not because waffle ingredients and eggs were cheap; it was because those were the only two things in the world she could make (pretty impressive if you ask me. I still have to read the macaroni and cheese box for instructions). To this day, I do not know how we survived on our diet. The only liquid in our apartment was the alcoholic variety and the only food found in the fridge was an odd jar of pickles and some butter. Nutritious, yeah? The third night in our first place I found out that a whole roll of toilet paper generally does not flush well. I also found out that if Daddy and his plunger aren’t there, you have to do it yourself. Also, an over-flowing toilet travels fast…The fourth night in our apartment we broke our dryer. Let me tell you, a panty chandelier is quite the conversation piece.
Oh and…we thought we were so damn cool. We found a convenience store that would sell us booze and then we would go home with our prize and play drunk Skipbo. We would drag main in my ‘86 Mazda 626, with purple tinted windows, blaring Adam Sandler’s “Piece of Shit Car”. We thought we were hilarious. We would blast music and dance half naked on the coffee table (Poor coffee table, RIP). We would get in huge fights, throw clothes, keyboards and play mariachi music to piss each other off, and then the next day we would laugh at our stupidity. We would forget to pay the bills and rack up the credit cards. We were young and stupid, but we were wild and liberated. Yes, I still feel the brunt of my young stupidity, but, damn, was it the time of my life.
As I said before, I was single and ready to mingle. I met new love interests and had fun going on myriad dates. I began to feel like a new, sexier version of me. I developed a swagger that said, “Yeah, you can’t touch this!” I got inked and pierced and said, “How do you like this?” to people who told me I couldn’t be me. I rebelled. I danced. I lived.
I recall, vividly, a walk around the marina on an early spring day, a few months after day 1 of freedom. The air was cool and crisp, but the sun was warm. I was recalling all the good times spent with my new self, my friends-my roommates, and I felt this overwhelming feeling of complete, total, utter, unadulterated happiness. So, this is what it feels like to be independent and fancy-free!
I can thank my wild ways during this time for being a college graduate at the ripe old age of 27, but with no regrets. It was worth it. I still love the girls I shared that time with. They belong to a time in my life that has a special place in my heart, right up on the shelf full of “never forgets”. I still can’t help laughing whenever I hear “Everybody in the Club Gettin’Tipsy” by Chingy, and think of how we would shake our bums to that song in our socks and panties, with twinkling eyes, full of big dreams.
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Toot Toot
Ladies, why do we feel the need to not graciously accept compliments? Why do we feel guilty for admitting when we look fierce? Why do we feel we are bragging when asked to list our achievements on resumes and college applications? What is this overly-humble bullshit about? Ya’ll know what I’m talking about. If you aren’t guilty of it lately, you have been at one point or another. We all have. We have all said, “Oh, this old thing?”, when given a compliment. Don’t lie.
Recently I was at a school district training. The trainer was the kookiest woman I have ever met. She was spunky, loud, and pretty much the most hilarious woman I’ve ever met coming out of our district (that’s really saying something, because usually education sucks the life out of you). At one point she started going off on a tangent. She asked us women to make it out goal to never poo-poo a compliment again. The class was on poverty, but someone how she got the topic of self-deprecation in. Pretty amusing. Well, she really got me thinking. She also got me paying more attention to how I respond to compliments.
I guess I should admit that the way I respond, depends on the person. If my boyfriend pays me a compliment, I flutter my lashes, smile pretty, and coyly say, “Oh yeah? You think I’m pretty? What else?” Pretty much this is why my boyfriend is annoyed with me 99% of the time. Compliments from men turn me into the worst version of myself ever. I’m the annoying insecure, attention-seeking psycho all men attempt to avoid. I hate that me.
With literally everyone else, I vehemently deny my pants are nice, and “No, I didn’t do anything new with my hair”- stop looking at me.
I’ve noticed that the compliments I’ve had the hardest time accepting come from other women. Far too often, we are pitted against one another in a competition of wits, and of who has the best, basically, everything. Yet, when it comes down to admitting we have “won” a tiny battle and we’ve been noticed, we deny ever making any effort made on ourselves.
Ladies, as I’m a fellow lady (well, sometimes), I can honestly admit we find it annoying when our fellow woman plays dumb when being paid a compliment. We know it comes from a deep sense of insecurity and the inability to celebrate ourselves, but this bullshit needs to stop! We are all smart, beautiful, and accomplished in some way (unless you’re not, and in that case-get your act together). If a friend, or even a complete stranger tells you they like your lip color, don’t suck your lips into your mouth like a self-conscious vacuum, and passionately regret trying a different color, SMILE and know your teeth look über white. Know you’re hot and others see it too.
The inspiration came to write on this topic when I was emailing a woman from the graduate admissions department at Sierra Nevada College. I was inquiring about the letter of recommendation that was required. Her email response let me know that the letter wouldn’t be required if I have an undergraduate GPA of 3.0 or higher. I felt elated, and was happily typing, “That won’t be a problem, I graduated with honors,” Then, as I hastily tapped, ‘delete, delete, delete…’, I said aloud, “NO, NO, NO! Imma toot my own horn a little bit, dammit”.
“Toot toot.”