The Fatty in Denial Diet Shtick

In case you haven’t caught the 872 times I’ve mentioned my trip coming up, I’m heading across the pond in just a little more than a week!

Way back in January, after making our first of many house stay reservations and the like, I remember thinking, “Well, shit, I can’t go on this trip with these fat rolls and bingo wings!”

Thus began what I call The Fatty in Denial Diet Shtick.

It’s a cyclical shit show of epic proportions. It’s something I do every time I have a reason to “finally” lose the weight. It’s a really fun game, amusement, joke.

Step 1: Realization

OMG! Amsterdam can’t know I’m fat!

It’s not like my thighs conducting heat when they are rubbed together as I walk or the fact that my jeans (when I wear the fuckers) have cut a permanent line into my fat don’t remind me of my overly bodacious bod, but the realization that I’ll be fat in another time zone and completely out of my comfort zone usually snaps me right back to cold, hard reality.

Step 2: The Game Plan

It’s time to finally get serious and open the Weight Watchers app I’m paying $20 a month for.

No more soda. No more white bread. No more sugar. No more happiness. Quit crying.

Join a damn gym or at least go to a yoga class once a week, shit.

Walk every day. Literally, rain or fucking shine.

Do leg lifts and squats while my students are testing. They won’t think I’m weird. I mean, they pick their noses literally while staring me down, so we’ll be even.

Buy diet pills on Amazon. All of the legit diet pills come from Mexico.

Take B-12 drops. They give me horrific gas, but too.freaking.bad.

All of the diet and fitness ideas and quick fixes found on Pinterest are explored. No obese stone can be left unturned.

Step 3: Actually Acting on the Plan

After making really big plans and promises that totally aren’t unrealistic at all, I settle on just counting Weight Watchers points and walking. It’s what worked ten years ago, when I was young. It’ll totally work now.

I usually set off with gusto, buying pounds of $60 coconut flour, enough carrot sticks for a horse show, a pallet of eggs, and 18 spaghetti squash (squashes?).

I was taking-a-fitness-picture-for-Instagram-serious about getting my fitness on.

Step 4: Going Hard and Heavy

…for a week.

Right as it starts getting really shitty and downright depressing that my days start with farty eggs and boring coffee, I start to relax the rules a little bit give up completely.

That totally looks like a cup. Well, maybe just a little more and it’ll be a cup (it’s usually three cups)

Granola is better than a glazed cake donut, so…

One bite is like no points at all. Yes, even when I take 15 bites. 15 zero point bites is still zero. I know math.

Step 5: Counting the Amount of Days Remaining Before the Event

If I have several months before I need to lose the weight, I can relax on the diet, because losing 20 pounds in a month is totally doable.

Why the hell am I already making myself miserable? I don’t need to start really getting serious for at least another month or two.

Step 6: An Upper Cut to the Double Chin AKA Sabotage

After months of telling myself I have “x amount of months” until I need to really get serious, it’s now D-Day. Inevitably, the following will occur to derail any semblance of the perfect diet plan I made so many moons ago, when I was still young and full of hope:

Birthdays

Holidays

Teacher Appreciation Week

Movies

Donuts in the staff lounge

National Pizza Day

The kick off to Food Truck Friday

92 I-had-a-bad-day-Costco-sized-popcorn-and-Reese’s-Pieces pig outs

Sunday Brunch

Friday

Monday

A new donut shop within walking distance

I can’t go to the movies and not get popcorn. Like, it’s against the natural order of things. The popcorn is not in the picture, because I ate it before the movie even started.

Step 7: Defeat and Denial

Once the day that I-can-still-maybe-lose-a-few-pounds-if-I-really-try-hard comes and goes with a cloud of Cheetos dust, the defeat and denial sets in.

I mean, it’s pointless now, so I might as well eat those cupcakes I saw in the staff lounge.

Half of a watermelon in one sitting is healthy.

I gave it the old college try.

Step 8: Fuck Yo Couch

So what if I didn’t lose any weight? I didn’t gain any either. So, I basically met my goal. Europe is gonna get whatever body I give it, dammit.

Step 9: There’s Always Next Time

This one doesn’t even need a description.


In order to not disrupt the fragile space-time continuum, these steps are on an infinite loop until the end of time.

Do you follow the same steps? Did I miss one? Share your tips for not losing weight or getting in shape for an important event or milestone in your life. I can’t wait to hear how else I can fail miserably!

Bitty Blog Break

Hey, ya’ll!

Let’s just cut right to the chase.

I’ve been majorly stretching myself too thin. I’ve been trying to plan a huge, five week-long trip while teaching and working a side hustle.

Add trying to keep my home decent-looking, trying to eat healthier, attempting to get my 10,000 steps in everyday (epically failing, btw), running a Facebook group, and trying to have enough passion and energy to write and you have a pretty epic shit show.

Really, I’m managing fine, but I’m not enjoying the writing process and I’ve not felt inspired to write. I’m also not crazy excited with what I’ve put out there.

When this happens (because it happens, ya’ll) I have to just take a step back, recharge, and work on a little self care.

And, if I’m being candid here, I just need plenty of time to sit on my couch thinking about nothing, being a fat piece of poop in order to feel like myself.

I just need a little binge-a-show-I’ve-seen-a-million-times-time

Source

I’m hoping I’ll be able to write some more travel-themed posts before the big trip, but I’m not making any promises.

I hope ya’ll don’t give up on me.

Love and Cupcakes!

Tomato Poop

I have missed complaining about how fat I am (while doing fuck all about it) so much. So much.

I’ve been pretty focused on my travel posts, because of my trip coming up (in two months-cue the obsessive worrying about literally every possible eventuality), that my I’m-a-failure-at-adulting-because-I-can’t-be-assed-to-put-my-registration-sticker-on-my-license-plate-for-four-months-until-I’m-pulled-over-and-I-eat-entire-tubs-of-Cool-Whip-in-one-sitting posts have kind of been put on the back burner.

But, good news (or not, depending on who you are) I’m finally getting around to trying to lose some weight before my trip, so I’m posting a diet fail post!

I think I’d have really shocked myself and disappointed you all had I attempted to get my dieting shit together in a timely manner.

No, just as can be expected with Fatty McCupcakes, I’m due to depart the states in two months, so now, when it’ll be next to impossible to make much of a dent in my blobby body, I decide it’s finally time.

I’m a fucking genius and I’m winning at life SO HARD.

So, I think I’ve mentioned that I’m a hardcore fan of Weight Watchers. Not only have I had success on the program (I lost 50 pounds 10 years and 60 pounds ago), I’m not keen on restrictive diets that don’t allow me a fucking doll-sized piece of cake even.

I LOVE that I can basically eat anything (within reason and expertly portion controlled) and still lose weight.

However, with the latest WW program, the points are less and the good stuff is worth more. Sugar is more of a sin than fat now. However, there are loads more zero point foods (chicken, eggs, beans, fruit, most vegetables, plain Greek yogurt, etc.). So, I guess it’s supposed to be easier or whatever.

Y’ALL, I CAN BARELY EAT ANYTHING.

If I want to eat my favorite Naked granola with my Greek yogurt for breakfast, there’s no way I can have carbs for lunch or dinner AND eat half a pint of Halo Top ice cream (Halo Top, your deliciously sinful, yet low-cal ice cream is my SALVATION).

So, choices.

It really blows I can’t eat granola AND ice cream. It’s not like I’m asking for donuts and whole pints of Ben & Jerry’s, damn.

I’ve decided that I’d rather eat Halo Top and popcorn like a fat piece of shit in the evenings than eat carbs during the day.

Thus, I’ve had to get creative.

Tuesday night I had beef stroganoff over broccoli, ya’ll. BROCCOLI. I got to *enjoy* my broccoli masterpiece while my boyfriend ate his stroganoff with egg noodles. The fucker.

As if that wasn’t bad enough, we had stroganoff for leftovers last night and since I’d eaten all of the broccoli like a starving sugar addict on day five without the white stuff, all I had left were Brussel sprouts.

Brussel sprouts and stroganoff DON’T MIX. It was not my favorite.

Brussel sprouts are not pasta. As my boyfriend says, “Barfel sprouts are the devil’s nads.”

I’ve also had to get more creative for lunch. I’ve been eating nitrate-free salami, cheese sticks, and cherry tomatoes. I swear it tastes almost nothing like antipasto salad.

But, it’s not terrible.

Well, yesterday, my organic greenhouse-grown cherry tomatoes were still a little wet from when I rinsed them that morning.

I was absentmindedly wiping them off onto a paper towel as I popped them into my mouth, eyes glued on my phone.

When I went to wipe my mouth, I did a double take. It was covered in yellow-green-brown stains.

The offending stain

I thought something smelled funny. I knew it wasn’t that fart.

Wait.

That doesn’t look right.

Fuck.

I knew I should have scrubbed them, instead of just splashed water over them.

Oh.Gawd.

At this point, I was obsessively smelling my paper towel, while one of my students, inside working on make up work, kept stealing “What-the-hell” glances at me.

Then, I smelled my fingers, the inside of the tomato tub, and the paper towel 34 more times.

Poop. It smells like poop.

Instant fucking panic.

While I was wondering how long it’d take for the tomato poop to make me get sick and die, I messaged my boyfriend.

His response, “Baby, I highly doubt your tomatoes are covered in poop.”

Because he had to be wrong, I took to a Facebook group I started to get a woman’s opinion. I shared a picture of the paper towel and basically asked how long I had.

Then, I sat at my desk, just waiting to die.

Oh no. My stomach is gurgling.

I probably have some deadly intestinal disease now.

I better just be proactive and put in for a substitute.

I wonder if the hospital would like a heads up?

*ding*

I got a response to my picture from a very professional-sounding person who regularly grows tomatoes in a greenhouse.

The green-yellow-brown stains from the tomatoes were tomato tar.

I’m still not excited that I ingested something called ‘tomato tar’, but it wasn’t poop. It.wasn’t.poop.

Another near death crisis averted.

See what perils I am faced with when dieting?

#donutsdonthavetar

I don’t know who said this, but they are my people

Food Baby

Because I just got back from Apple Hill and haven’t given “birth” to my current food baby yet, I felt this was an appropriate flashback post. I have no shame…

Ya’ll…

I don’t even know where to start. 

I think there’s no hope for me. 

I try to be good. 

No. 

No. That’s a boldface lie. I’ll be real. I don’t try. Not at all. 

My “trying” is remembering to ask for nonfat milk in my venti salted caramel mocha. 

This past week it’s been fall break for us teachers over in my neck of the woods. Because I had no solid, established plans to go somewhere cool, I knew I’d be making the rounds at my favorite eating establishments. 

Because it isn’t fall break unless I eat my weight in carbs and almost slip into a diabetic coma. 

So, I thought I’d share with you some of the ridiculousness I put into my fat gob this past week. It’s like a really pathetic travel picture slideshow, but instead of pictures of me in front of the Grand Canyon, you get to see exactly why I’m struggling to button my new stretchy jeans. 

How fun! 

But, first, I have to share with you just how much of a lost cause I am. It’s been a minute since I’ve shared a diet woe or food foible, so it was bound to happen that I’d find myself knee deep in embarrassment or ridiculousness.

On Saturday, I attended a family member’s baby shower. I was super excited to go, because I heard that they were ordering bundtinis from Nothing Bundt Cakes. Their cakes are just ungodly good. They must use a metric ton of sugar, butter, and unicorn blood in just one cake. That has to be why they’re so good. 

I also heard that if you didn’t RSVP and you just showed up, you wouldn’t get a bundtini, because they were ordering just enough for the attendees and no extra. 

I made sure I RSVP’d by phone, email, snail mail, and telegram. 

It was so hard waiting for cupcake o’clock. Pure hell.

When the time finally came to have our bundtinis, it was utter agony to choose just one

I could have eaten one entire cupcake tier and still had room for a steak dinner.

Eventually, I settled on red velvet.

It was delectable, but quite small. I really needed another bundtini, or 7… 

There were still, at least, 15 little morsels of heaven left. I reported this interesting discovery to my mom. I told her I was most definitely going to eat another one. 

She said, “Well, what if some people haven’t gotten theirs yet?” 

To this, I responded:

“Ya snooze, ya lose, ladies!”

Cupcakes, just sitting out in the open, after a good 20 minutes, are fair game in my book. 

Still, it made me question the possibility of just grabbing one and eating it right in front of God and everybody.

So, I scoped the cupcake spot out for a good 10 minutes until the coast was clear. Once there was no one in sight, I snatched one, and made a beeline for the bathroom.

Yes, I felt the need to have more than my fair share of cupcakes, and in utter disgrace, I scarfed down someone else’s designated cupcake as I hid in.the.bathroom.


The fact that my gut is resting ever so elegantly on the counter is evidence that I didn’t even need ONE cupcake. 

#whenyourfoodbabyisbiggerthanthemothertobesbump

This short aside ended up being a little more long-winded than I had first intended. So, I’ll share my gluttonous menu from this past week in a separate post. 


Just sitting in line to get gas, taking pics of my food baby. 

*Mother-to-be: If you read this, know you positively glowed with happiness and impending motherhood. I, in no way, wanted to upstage you with my food baby belly. This was unplanned, unintended, and rather uncomfortable. Please accept my sincerest apologies. 

Apple Hill: Where Diets Go to Die

I’m about to embark, yet again, on the yearly event that single-handedly is the reason I’m fat. I’m hoping that while ya’ll are reading this, I’ll be on my third apple cider donut or nose deep in a sprinkle-covered caramel apple. Mmmm. Yes. 

Check out how I went ape shit last year at Apple Hill. 

I blogged last year about my time in Glutton’s Paradise AKA Apple Hill. This post basically outed me as a food whore. It’s not like we didn’t already know that with the type of posts I write, but this was my first post involving any type of visual proof. 
Since, I’ve been pretty IDGAF about what my pictures I post here and on social media portray.

I’m fat and I’m addicted to rainbow sprinkles. 

Get over it. 

So, without further ado, here are this year’s pictures of the annual Eat-Until-You-Are-Comatose-And-Then-Eat-Some-More trip. 

Aside from my “Oh Poop” sign, this is my favorite thing ever purchased at the Hill.
The first meal 🙌
If this were the only thing I got to eat the whole weekend, I’d have been good.
Attempting a sexy “Getting Down on My Caramel Apple” look.
This was how much I predicted I’d weigh after the Weekend o’ Gluttony.
Why are these so entertaining? We had to do all of them!
What a quaint, little creek.
 
We got to enjoy a beautiful view as we got stupid drunk at the brewery.
#cloudporn
The best Vanilla Stout EVA!
The offerings that we got to partake in, quite happily!
We tried to take a picture showing how sad we were that some of our girls weren’t with us this trip. Are we convincing?
The best sight in all creation. Apple cider crumb donut. I couldn’t even.
SPERNKLES!!
Would you think less of me if you knew I ate all of these in one morning?
When this llama realized I had nothing to give it, it had no time for me, and, I SWEAR I heard it say, “Bitch, please!”

#yolo
How you doin’?
Just sippin on my diabeetus juice.
In hindsight, an apple cider float AND a blackberry treat was overkill…
THIS is an Arkansas Black, and the only healthy thing I ate the entire weekend.
Purty
Chillin with my homies.
Wine tasting and hard apple cider-where it all went downhill.
So.much.quaint
Had my “sunglasses” been centered, this would have been THE PERFECT I’m-so-deep-but-adorable Instagram snap. Shucks.
Cute AF
I felt holding my baked treats up in the sky for a picture evoked an almost spiritual experience. It didn’t look lame at all.
Adorbs
We are HAWT!
All weekend I kept seeing a “pig hole” (what are these called?) and we never seemed to be able to do it. FINALLY, I got to be the pig. It was everything I had hoped it would be.
The last goody we ate before leaving Apple Hill. I was able to squeeze it in, because I had my fat pants on #prepared
And, because I wasn’t done being ridiculous, I decided I’d be an actual cupcake for Halloween. Here’s my attempt at being a cupcake for my students:

In ending, here is my promo photo for LuLaRoe leggings.  If you haven’t gotten sucked in yet, RUN…to the nearest pop up. They are the best leggings I’ve ever sucked my fat into. The.best.

Notice how stretchy they are. Notice how they delicately caress my bottom butt. Notice how busy they are so you can’t see my bumps and lady lumps. 

So, even after a weekend of eating my weight in food, I can still rock a semi-decent look. 

#winning

The Leggings Spread

You might have noticed that I was MIA on Wednesday (my usual new-post-day). I’ve been so busy that I’ve hardly had time to write. This makes me entirely too sad, so I’m planning on getting my writing shit together in a massive way. 

For this week’s #flashbackfriday, I thought I’d share my post about the Leggings Spread. I’m sharing this particular post, because I need to be reminded of my own advice.

#stillcantfitintomyjeans

It’s no secret that I believe leggings are life. They are insanely comfortable, they don’t cut painfully into your fat, and they don’t feel the need to remind you every time you yank them on that you’ve been laying the butter on pretty heavy lately. 

I seriously have a definite love affair with my collection of leggings. It’s almost sick, guys. 

I treat them better than my poor boyfriend. 

I never dry them. I bought a deliciously scented fabric softener to make them smell irresistible (is it weird I feel the need to have my pants smelling irresistible?). I also bought special hangers, because you don’t put these babies in a drawer. 

Because I’ve been so comfortable and happy, I’ve hardly noticed it. 

Noticed what, you ask? 

The Spread.

Due to the forgiving nature of leggings, it’s easy to not realize when your girth starts to spread in all directions. 

I’ve been ignorantly blissful about my weight these past few months. 

That is, until I decided to wear jeans to school. Whatever possessed me to think this was a good idea is beyond me. 

Because all of my jeans have a ridiculous amount of stretch, I didn’t really notice it until I sat down in my chair at school. 

Thank you, Baby Jesus and all that is holy, that this occurred before my class was present. 

When I sat down, due to the sheer force of my stomach, my pants jumped ship as said stomach spilled over the top, like overflowing bread dough in the oven. 

It happened in slo-mo and I just sat, stunned, watching my overflowing fat. 

The rest of the day I spent sucking as much in as possible as to not knock an unsuspecting kid in the face with my fat. 

Fuck. I’m disgusting. 

I’ve figured out what the real purpose of jeans are-they are your First Alert Weight Gain System. If you can still breathe in your buttoned jeans, you’re golden. If you need an inhaler after buttoning, you fat, friend. 

Real pants are assholes, but they are like those true friends who don’t feed you any bullshit. They both won’t hesitate to tell you you’re looking like a polar bear in a puffy jacket. 

Maybe real pants aren’t as useless as I’ve been believing. As soon as I can fit into my jeans again, I’ll maybe put them back into the wardrobe rotation. But, just so we’re clear, I’m still wearing leggings the majority of the week. I’m not about jean-everyday- life anymore. 

Bend your knees for the added power and energy you’re gonna need to cram yourself into your neglected jeans.
When the button doesn’t take the first try…
Jump. Because jumping into your jeans is the obvious answer. Sorry, neighbor. No, I’m fine. No, a large piece of furniture didn’t fall over. Just fuck off, OK?
Is it just me, or does this look like my butt is on backwards?! Something doesn’t add up here.
Screw it. I’ll just wear my leggings.

An extra special “thank you” to my boyfriend, who just said, “You want me to do what?” and “OK, let’s do this” when I told him I wanted to recreate squeezing into my jeans. 

Ladies, learn from me. Even if you don’t plan on actually wearing those asshole jeans, try them on at least once a month to monitor how far your Leggings Spread has grown. 

You’ll thank me later. 

Namast’ay Fat

As I was standing in the line at the grocery store, wearing my “Namaste In Shape” tank, I pondered how bad it looked that I was buying two pieces of cake, a bottle of Moscato and a bag of Cheetos. 

I mean, I know people were judging the chubby chick buying, at least, 4,000 calories worth of junk, in a shirt that proclaims she’d rather stay in shape. 

I’d be judging me too. 

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not delusional. I know this tank doesn’t magically make me look like a yoga-obsessed health freak. As much as I’d like it to camouflage all of my lumps and bumps, and be the fat person’s version of the magical Cloak of Invisibility, I know it’s not. 

Apparently, my fake look-like-I’m-working-out-with-my-vices-joke pose is the same as my poopin’ face. For shame. Utter fail.

I just like the color and the fit. It doesn’t cling to my stomach and it doesn’t get wedged between my back fat rolls. 

It’s the perfect compliment to my fat pants. 

It just so happens to make a false statement.  Extremely false. A bold-faced lie. 

I have no idea what I’m doing. I’ll just lift my beer and the remotes a few times and count that as my fitness for the day. BTW, WHAT’S WITH MY FACE?

I’ve never been fit. Literally never. I’ve gone from baby fat to teenager fat to adult fat. 

So, as I stood, balancing my evening of fuck-it-I-had-a-bad-week, I got to thinking about all of the ridiculous things I’ve done in my favorite tank o’ lies:

1. Walked to 7-11 to purchase chocolate and peanut butter cupcakes. At least I walked. (If you’ve never had these cupcakes and you like peanut butter, you’ve been majorly missing out.)

2. Stood in line outside at our neighborhood burger and wing stand. Drool stains. No bra. Zero fucks. 

3. Sat on the couch with a paper towel bib as I balanced half a watermelon on my lap.

4. Made a tray of no-bake Reese’s diabetes bars that I hid in my sock drawer and inhaled over the next two days. 

5. Rode the elevator up two flights of stairs to the gym, where I just used the bathroom. 

6. Laid on the couch with Netflix and three beers, not getting up to do the dinner dishes  or even to get first dessert. 

7. Drove, not even two blocks, to mail a letter- a letter officially cancelling the gym membership I had for a year but never used. 

It’s been super fun going over all the fun I’ve had in my trusty tank. Maybe, at some point, before it becomes more chocolate syrup stain than cotton, I’ll wear it to exercise. 

Nah. 

If y’all ever see a shirt that says “Namast’ay Fat”, let me know ASAP. 

Flashback Friday: Fat Clap

What the hell is wrong with me? Why can’t I be like normal people? Why can’t I be a calm, cool, collected individual? The anxiety, the rash decisions, the guilt. It’s all too much.

I’m useless, mental, insane, compulsively-driven at the very sight of…of cupcakes. I know. What the fuck is wrong with me?

The other day we had a staff meeting where cupcakes were present. They were brought out at the very start of the meeting. They were for a birthday, so tradition dictates that you don’t partake until ‘Happy Birthday’ is sung. Um. Why you people gotta play with me like that?

The.whole.time I sneaked peeks over at those beautiful confections of sugar goodness. It was mean, really.

They were taunting me.

How can you expect anyone, particularly one with an unhealthy relationship to cake, to actually pay attention to the matters at hand when there are cupcakes RIGHT OVER THERE? 

I think I know what we discussed at the staff meeting, but really, all I was concerned with was whether or not I would have time to eat my cupcake before the school day started.

During the height of my anxiety, when I was contemplating how bad it would look if I just snatched one and ran out, I began to notice everyone else.

They were all just casually drinking their coffee and jotting down notes.

I’m having the sweats and I’m feeling like an animal in heat and these people are cool as fucking cucumbers. Really.

It’s moments like these, during staff meetings where I have to abstain, with temptation taunting me, when I wonder how I’m not 400 pounds.

The fact that a fucking cupcake can mentally control me to such a degree is embarrassing. Normal people want one, but they don’t salivate like a starving dog begging for scraps.

My many, fervent, stolen glances over at the rainbow cake bombs, did the trick and it was finally time to get one! *Fat clap*

I basically mowed everyone down to get to them first. I’m that person.

I was instantly ashamed, but my regret didn’t stop me from checking the teacher’s lounge, at lunch, to see if there were any left.

WTF Wednesdays: Black Bean Brownie Botch

I’ve been logging my Weight Watchers points for a month now. Amazingly, I have not yet starved to death. Who would have thought I could survive on less than 80,000 calories a day? 

As much as I’m enjoying not feeling positively disgusting as I eat my way through a large triple cheese pizza, I also miss the days when I would inhale a package of Zingers, or hyperventilate over a warm brownie, smothered in caramel sauce and melting cake batter ice cream.

Last weekend, I went to the Cheesecake Factory with a friend. I had a salad like a good fat girl. Just for shits and giggles, I calculated how many points my favorite slice of cheesecake would be. 

For those of you not familiar with Weight Watchers, just know that a grande Caramel Light Frappuccino is 7 points, so is a 1/2 cup of ice cream. Just for comparison, you know.

Now, are you sitting down? Have you had your morning movement? I wouldn’t want anything unfortunate to happen when you’re blown clear out of your seat. 

A piece of Cheesecake Factory’s Reese’s Cheesecake is 67 mother-effing points. 

(And, it clocks in at a whopping 1,480 calories!) 

I get 37 points for one day. I couldn’t even eat anything else for the entire day and I’d be 30 friggin points over my daily allotment. 

I’m still reeling from this news. It’s no freaking wonder I have an ass the size of Texas. I’ve probably been eating 7,000 calories a day! Who knew things had so many calories! Doh! 

So, in the spirit of eating healthier, I looked into what I could eat/make that would be not so calorie-laden and still a “treat”. 

Also, I’m not gonna lie, I wanted to bake some ridiculous, kale-infused gluten-free, vegan, hipster monstrosity that I could satire the hell out of. 

I searched “healthy brownies” on Pinterest, and this is the recipe I settled on:


source

Not only do these “brownies” contain black beans, they also call for avocado

Avocado.

Now, let me just say that I’m kind of (and, by “kind of”, I mean I’ve never gotten on the hipster-led bandwagon) over the kale, coconut oil, and gluten-free everything that’s still all the rage. 

I didn’t set out to make these “brownies” because I enjoy, or pretend to enjoy, eating “treats” that are more vegetable than what they claim to be replacing. 

Nope. 

I made these to, hopefully, find an alternative to my usual carb- and sugar-laden goodies that are making me more fat. 

I just want something to satiate that bitch, Martha (my fat gut).

Before I continue, I feel I must point out that I’m not, by any stretch of the word, a photographer. So, I’m definitely not a food photographer. My unfocused, off-center photos were taken with my scratched rose gold iPhone 6. 

Also, I didn’t follow the ingredients exactly. The recipe called for a large flax egg. What in the hell is a flax egg? I know one kind of egg, and that’s egg. 

I also didn’t go out and buy expensive-as-hell coconut oil just to use a teaspoon for this recipe. No, I don’t just have coconut oil on hand. 

I was supposed to use organic, all natural cocoa powder. It says “natural” right on the Hershey’s box of unsweetened cocoa powder (that I already had). So, I felt pretty pleased with myself that I didn’t have to spend half of my paycheck at Whole Foods or Trader Joe’s just to make 12 brownies. 

I had light brown sugar, but the recipe called for dark brown sugar. Again, I deviated from the recipe, but how different could the two be?? 

My “organic” ingredients

After I gathered all of the necessary ingredients together, I readied the tools needed for the job. 


It was then that I realized I hadn’t seen my 8×8 pan in quite some time. In order to see all of the cabinet space where we keep our kitchen appliances, I have to get down on my hands and knees and take a picture of inside the cabinet, due to the positioning of the cabinet, and because I can’t get my massive head inside to look all the way back and to the right. With the picture as my guide, I can blindly reach for whatever I’m after. This is 100% why I never make anything. 


There was no 8×8, but I did spy a muffin pan. After thinking long and hard about my missing 8×8 pan, I realized I have never owned an 8×8 baking pan. That must be why I couldn’t figure out when I last saw it. 

A muffin pan would have to do!

Before I could even get down to business, I somehow knocked the open bag of chocolate chips right into the garbage. I was off to a fabulous start.

The recipe said to use a food processor. I’m not adult enough to own one of those, so I used my Magic Bullet. 


I figured the black beans were the only ingredient that really needed to be processed, despite the fact that the recipe said to process all of the ingredients. I do what I want! 

Mainly, I was more concerned about the black beans, because I didn’t want to bite into a brownie to be surprised by a whole bean. That would have just killed the mood. Amiright? 

The Magic Bullet did a decent job of processing the beans.

This just looks absolutely barftastic, doesn’t it? When is it ever OK to pair avocado and black beans with sugar. I guess when you’re making healthy “brownies”, obviously. But, *shudder* 


After adding the cocoa powder and mixing real well, the batter actually looked and smelled just like real brownies. I wanted to take a little taste, but salmonella. 

Here the batter is, decorated with my garbage can chocolate chips.
I must admit that while they were baking, they smelled exactly like real brownies. I was really salivating like crazy. 
It was divine

Sadly, that’s about as brownie as these “treats” got. 

Ya’ll, these are not brownies. 

They aren’t disgusting, but I will never waste an avocado like this again. Criminal.

Part of why I love brownies is the texture. My favorite kind of brownie is the kind that is almost underbaked (Paul Hollywood voice), so they are chewy, and you can taste what differentiates them from vegetables-freaking gluten. 

Not only was the texture more baked refried bean than ooey, gooey goodness, they were way too dark chocolate-y. 

I told you I was no photographer!

Also, after my first and only bite, I got a bit of black bean skin stuck in my teeth. 

Just no. 

I gave some to my neighbor, because he’s dieting right now. He said he liked them. I’m fairly certain he’s a lying bastard.  

Verdict: Unless you like pasty brownies that are dark chocolatey enough that one bite will send you into a migraine of epic proportions, don’t try this at home. 

WTFW: Pasta-palooza Pity Party

Ya’ll.

Ugh.

OK. I started my “food plan” (I was going to put “dick diet” in parentheses to emphasize my utter disgrace for this food plan I’m on, but, well, “dick diet” could send the wrong message. Phew. Glad I caught that before publishing.)

So, I feel like any time I start a food plan, I ought to send out a mass message. You know, like, a PSA.


This message would serve a dual purpose: to warn and to implore.

A warning, because ain’t no one seen hangry like this kind of hangry.

It starts around 8 AM, when I realize I don’t have a glazed pastry for second breakfast.

It continues when I’m rabidly hungry before my feeding time while monitoring the lunchroom as 100 students stuff their faces with food, and I can’t ask anymore if they’re going to finish their obviously-unloved-food.

I get really effing hangry when I all have to get me through the after-lunch-slump is water instead of 15 Hershey Kisses.

When I get home, and I’m positively famished, don’t even try to look at me unless you’re sprawled out in front of the refrigerator, buck naked, seductively balancing a burrito on your balls.

Don’t.EVEN.

A plea, because as much as I want a gooey, carby, chewy, sweet donut in my mouth, I can’t anymore. My leggings are starting to get stretched out. I just can’t, ya’ll.

Please, please, please do not tell me there are muffins and bagels in the staff lounge. I’ll run my fat ass down there and eat one of each while the rest of my sensible colleagues eat half of either/or.

Please don’t invite me to any parties, celebrations, or special eating functions. The second I see more than one kind of dip, mayo and cheese-based anything, and an over-frosted Costco birthday cake, I’m not giving two shits how many points the 80th dip-covered-chip I’m cramming in my gob will clock in at.

I.have.no.control. 

It’s not that I don’t want to help you celebrate. I’ll FaceTime you and sing you Happy Birthday/Congrats/Good Luck, while I eat my Laughing Cow cheese and cucumber. Just don’t let me see any of the food. 

Sweet baby Jesus and all that is holy, don’t let me see the food. 
(Actually, I hate talking on the phone, and FaceTime is the devil. I’ll just text you.)

I would like to point out that I DO NOT like the fact that I cannot be trusted at parties and get-togethers. I, too, wish that I could attend events without eating enough for three people. I am sorry I suck.

So, as per usual, the week I finally start to get my fat act together, there’s a staff luncheon. Unless you weren’t already aware, teachers, despite being overworked and overextended, know how to work it in the kitchen. The staff luncheons are one of my favorite days of the month. Not to mention, there is usually a Costco cake to celebrate the birthdays that month. There ain’t anything better in this world!

This month, the grade level hosting is doing a Pasta-palooza.

A FUCKING PASTA EXTRAVAGANZA. 

I seriously think I will need to get a sub that day.

How in all-that-is-good-and-right-in-this-world will I resist loading my plate with carby goodness and luscious sauce?

Sure, I could always just not go to the staff lounge and be sad eating my salad. But, that only works when I have not one clue that there is food to be had.

It has already been advertised.

This is my problem-the fact that, like a crack addict, I can’t even be within a mile radius of my drug of choice. When your drug is food, that is flat-out impossible.

It is going to take the power of the gods and every ounce of whatever tiny shred of willpower I have in my body to not participate in Pasta-palooza.

Pray for me.

What are YOUR methods for resisting temptations? Let me know in the comments, and maybe I can be helped. Maybe.

Enjoy these memes that I made here. Weight Watchers uses points to track food. Fuck points right now. 




All of the memes I generated here were done on imgflip