My First FabFitFun Box

Ya’ll! I finally broke down and joined every other basic bitch and got me a FabFitFun box. It was a splurge (even at the discounted price of $39.99) that I really didn’t need, but TREAT YO SELF! 

I love, love, love the excitement that exists when you know a package is headed your way. It’s why I do Snack Crate and Ipsy, and why I order far too often from Amazon Prime, Zulily, and many others I’m too ashamed to list.

I decided to spare everyone a cringe-worthy Tori Spelling-esque “unboxing” video. I’m super awkward on film, and so many other *greats* like Snooki and Teresa Giudice are doing video “unboxings” for your viewing pleasure. 

So, let’s just get on with it, eh? 

What a beautiful fucking sight. This is totally staged, btw. How I really found my box was dented, dirty, and wedged into the bushes. I think our mail delivery people just toss our packages from their truck. It’s the only explanation.

The very same day I received my box, my darling guy got me this sweet and quite apropos treat, and somehow, my FabFitFun box didn’t seem quite as fabulous.

10000% my kind of gift

So, when I was done feeling all the feels, I finally got around to opening my box. 

The packaging is nice, and I like how they add the paper “grass” (what is that shit called?).

What I didn’t like is that these “high end” items come in mass-produced-feeling  plastic. This type of packaging takes away the “expensive” feel of the items.

Now might be the time, especially if you’re not familiar with the concept, to mention that FabFitFun profess that their $49.99 box is worth $200+.

More on that as we continue.

Let me show you my perfectly staged photo of the contents. Aren’t I so talented in such a basic-bitch-taking-a-photo-for-Insta-way?


Now, let’s review each item and their supposed cost. 


The MER SEA & CO scarf is one of the items in the box that I feel lives up to its apparent cost. Even so, there is no way in hell I’d ever intentionally buy a $98 scarf. With Target, Marshall’s and TJ Maxx’s amazingly low priced on-trend pieces, I can get a decent scarf for $12. 

I asked my live-in photographer (boyfriend) to snap a couple shots of me in my new scarf. What you will notice in the images is that the scarf is behemoth (maybe that’s why it’s so expensive-each one is made from 50 polyester trees) and that my Blog-Instagram Boyfriend was not having it, as I now have 82 random, blurry images of me getting ready to pose. Great job, Babe! 

Had to pick off all of the paper confetti from the box that was stuck on the scarf.
After spending “10 minutes” positioning the scarf in the mirror. 67 of the 82 images are of my wide ass at said mirror.
What an awesome, artistic action shot of my three chins!
Really glad he got such a great shot of my Bingo Wings!
After all of the prep, I was not pleased with the photo, but the photographer was 100% not having it anymore.
But, guess what? This beast of a scarf can totally be worn as a shirt! Fucking score!

Also pictured in the above images is The Jetset Diaries cable knit beanie. This is probably my favorite item, because my day 4 hair loves the crap out of beanies. This came-in-plastic beanie is supposed to be worth $49, and I just can’t. I bet you all that right now, this very minute, in any Target across the nation, sits a black beanie, almost identical to the one from the box and it’s $10. Again, why is a thin cable-knit beanie $49? Who are the idiots buying $50 beanies? 

Next up is the Mytagalongs hot and cold pack ($15). I am actually really excited about this, because I totally needed another ice pack to add to the 20 already in the freezer. The reason: IT SAYS, “ICE ICE BABY”. 


This was totally appreciated, because BUTT WIPES ARE EVERYTHING, YO. 


I can’t speak too much for these products, as I have yet to use them. I am totally excited to try the apple cider vinegar hair rinse, though! I’m also really looking forward to never using the lipstick, because I don’t wear lipstick. The Whish Beauty mud mask is valued at $48, the DPHue rinse at $35, and the Trèstique lipstick at $28. 


The Deco Miami lavender cuticle oil is just too cute. When I was first opening the box, I thought it was nail polish. I was so bummed, because I get gel manicures, so nail polish is useless to me. When I used my reading decoding skills and saw that it was cuticle oil, I was giddy. My cuticles are inexcusably ghastly! The oil is priced at $12.50 and is the only reasonably priced item in the box (save for the Cottonelle buttwipes). 


The imm-Living ceramic and wire geometric heart jewelry holder is the exact thing I’d use my last $5 to buy at Ross. It really is adorable and is already proudly on display on my vanity. That said, IT’S A PIECE OF GARBAGE. 

When I got it, there was a nub of ceramic in one of the holes where the wire base goes. I had to take some skinny scissors and jam it loose. Even then, the hole was too tight (that’s what he (?) said) and upon jamming the metal into the hole some of the “metal” flaked off. 


This cheaply made piece of poo is priced at $33. Fuck me.

I saved the coup de grâce for last.
When I first saw the fall box on Instagram, I saw a gym bag that read, “Will Workout For Cupcakes”. That sealed the deal. I had to have it.

Well, in my box I got a Walmart special that reads, “Meet Me at the Barre”. I’ve never been to a barre fitness class, and this bodacious bod has never, ever been confused for that of a ballerina’s. There’s no way I’d ever carry this bag. Just embarrassing. 

Not only this, FabFitFun is claiming that the thin canvas Private Party bag is worth $59. Excuse my French, but FUCK YOU VERY MUCH. 

I don’t shop at Walmart and haven’t for a solid four years, but I guaran-fucking-tee that they have a similar bag for no more than $10. If not Walmart, Wish is guaranteed to have it for $1.50. 

So, I’m still laughing that Private Party and FabFitFun thinks this bag is worth $59. 

Final Thoughts 

I have a really, really, really effing hard time believing the items that came in my box truly total $377.50. If this is indeed an accurate sum, I’m appalled at what is deemed high quality just because it has a high price. If this is the true state of the world now, maybe I can start harvesting my boyfriend’s belly button hair and sell it as “organic inner ear warmers”. I bet I could get 40 bucks per pair. 

I do believe I got my $40 worth, though. For sure. I just don’t like being taken for a schmuck. 

***When I realized that I didn’t get the cupcake bag, I immediately emailed FabFitFun and asked if I could make an exchange. I explained that I was Fatty McCupcakes and that I needed the cupcake bag. I said I’d write a blog post about my box and everything.

They got back to me very quickly and said that they’d exchange the bag “as a one time courtesy”. No, “We’d love for you to write a blog post about us, and not only will we send you the “Will Workout For Cupcakes” bag, we’d like to offer you a job as a paid blogger for FabFitFun” or anything. Rude.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m grateful they are exchanging the bag, but the wording “as a one time courtesy” sounded kinda bitchy. 

Don’t let me discourage you. It really is a fun way to spend $39.99-$49.99. Just remember, it’s Reba Fancy, not Real Fancy. 

Autumn-Loving and Basic AF

Whenever summer starts to loosen its death grip on the weather, and crisper mornings start to require a little more clothing, I feel my heart become lighter, brighter. 

Surely, we all know, since I’m Fatty McCupcakes, that part of why I love autumn so much is because it means no more exposed chub. Hands down, autumn and winter fashion is my favorite, not only because more of my body is covered, but because I love what I get to cover my body in-cardigans galore, plaid scarves, and every type of boot imaginable.

Pumpkin-flavored-everything starts to be available, and my inner, wannabe-baker starts to stockpile sprinkles, sugar skull cupcake liners, and bags of baking sugar. And, sometimes, I actually get around to baking something delicious. 

Warm, rich stews appear in the dinner rotation, and suddenly, homemade hot apple cider sounds like a good idea. 

I start to purchase huge bags of candy for trick or treaters (no, these never get busted into before Halloween), and I start creating my next, too-involved Halloween costume for school.

So, essentially, I’m just like every other basic, white bitch, dusting off her Uggs. 

And, so-fucking-what? 

If it’s basic to love a season so much that you go hog wild on doing positively everything that makes said season fun as shit, then label me Basic AF, with a capital Chambray and Chevron. 

I don’t even care. 

But, if you love autumn and all that comes with it with every fiber of your being like I do, it’s likely due to something deeper than PSLs and artsy wet leaf Instagram shots. 

You probably had loving, involved parents  who pointed out the changing leaves and talked to you about why the seasons change. 

You likely had a family who took you to pumpkin patches to pick the *perfect* pumpkin to carve. And then you went home to make hot apple cider. 

Maybe your mom took you on Sunday drives in the rain, so that you could witness, first hand, the changing season in all its resplendent glory.

So, it’s settled. I’m a basic, but Canva-graphic-deep, autumn-obsessed bitch. 

I’ve said in earlier posts that when the seasons change, I think of Elko. I don’t know what it is about that place. Especially since I positively hated living there the better part of the first year. 

Still, after so many years, when autumn arrives, it reminds me of the beauty that is Elko. 


Ready for the deep, artsy wet-leaf-Canva-graphic part? 

Here’s what really sings in my heart when autumn rolls in with the dry leaves and fireplace smell: 

Muddy roads and slanted rain on dusty windows.
The smell of rich earth, wet leaves. An old heater. Burning wood. 

Heavy, low-lying clouds, blanketing brown sagebrushed hills. Wet, dark, slate.

The blue-tinged sunshine. Crisp blue skies. Orange, brown, red. 

The taste of cinnamon and cloves. Pumpkin. Yeast. 
Enveloping darkness and lighted windows projecting warmth and a story. 

This is autumn. 

This is autumn, bitch. 


Some Teaching Truths

In honor of Back to School, I decided to drop some fun teaching truth bombs (Also, I’m swamped this week and list posts are the easiest #sorrynotsorry). Even if you’re not a teacher, you’ll likely relate. If your job is high stress, but also high reward, you’ll for sure relate. Because I really should be labeling all the things instead of writing a blog post, let’s just begin:

1. Unless you’re crazily devoted to a fitness plan or you have a superhero’s will and control, you will eat every carb in your house after a bad day. 

2. Forget about the college “Freshmen Fifteen”. There’s such as a thing as the “Teacher Twenty”. Or, sometimes, the “Educator Eighty”. Also, this can happen during year one or year ten. 

3. You will eat your weight in mini-size chocolate candy. Sometimes in one day. 

#goals

Source

4. If the day after Valentine’s/Christmas/Easter clearance candy has been cleaned out, you can thank a teacher. 

5. You will get fat. So fat.

6. If food isn’t your happy place (congratulations on not being “pregnant” every year), you will drink copious amounts of wine and at some point in your career, consider rehab, but only the facilities that are more like spas and only because it would be the best sanity-saving vacation ever. 

7. If it comes down to toilet paper or a shiny new pack of Expo markers at the end of the month, markers win-hands down. 


Source
8. You save straws, bits of fabric, tissue boxes, and one 3 inch piece of string, because it all just may come in handy at some point. 

9. They never come in handy. 

10. Your teacher cabinet/closet/cupboard is a portal to Narnia or another dimension, because it’s where all of your supplies go to never be found again. 

I Googled “messy teacher cabinet” and this popped up. Two things: 1. Ya’ll lyin’ and 2. Ain’t nobody got time for that. Maybe someday I’ll be brave and share my Closet o’ Shame.

Source

11. No matter how poor you are, you always find a way to buy $80 worth of crap from the Target Dollar Spot. 

12. No matter how frustrating your students can be sometimes, you’re fiercely protective of them when they’re criticized by another teacher who doesn’t know them as well as you. 

13. Your students are your family. Your tribe. You love them. Every year, your heart opens up to allow for 20 more spaces. 

14. You crop dust. It’s only fair. 

15. If you weren’t an emotional person or crier before becoming an educator, you can kiss your shyness/pride goodbye. 

16. You will cry over everything.

17. You will have to kindly remind your students that, “Maybe someone needs to go to the restroom” after toxic waste lunch bombs are dropped all afternoon. 

18. If your student’s book order money is short, you pay what they’re missing without a second thought. 

19. You only go to the bathroom during the day once a week, but during that exact time, admin will walk in. It’s basically a scientific fact. 

20. Your teacher look is such a work of art that an eyebrow raise, lip purse, and nose wrinkle can mean 875 different things and no matter the day, the kid, or the teacher friend, the message is always received loud and clear. 

Trainer at inservice day says, “Pick a partner”-Teacher Bestie and I look at each other like…

Source

Tell me, who was your favorite teacher and why? Or, make me laugh and tell me an hilarious school or teacher story. 

The Mattole River Resort

You might remember that before we started this crazy little road trip down memory lane I suggested you bring along a spare tire, a life vest and rat poison. 

Have you been wondering where rat poison* was going to come in? No? You didn’t read that part? You just skimmed. OK. Well, we’re going to need it today. I guess you will just be eaten alive by monster rats. Sorry not sorry. 

(Actually, I am sorry, because I love you all, and I wouldn’t want to lose anyone of you in such a terrifying way.)

So, as we have all learned, my mom was an ace at finding great motel deals. 

These budget hovels saved money so that we were able to afford the expensive treatment for scabies that we’d need when we got home.

One of the absolute best, or rather, most memorable trips we took was to the Mattole River Resort.

Straight out of the California Chainsaw Massacre, this “resort” is situated along the Mattole River in Nothern California.

For those of you not familiar with Northern California, it’s good to be aware that it’s absolutely filled to the brim with hippie hill people. 

I don’t want to offend any potential hippie readers I might have. I’m a huge supporter of the notion, “You do you, boo”. So, I’m not hating on hippies, per se.

I’m just accurately painting the scene, people. I’m just setting the stage.

So, after a long day of winding roads, weird little backroad towns, and uncomfortable back seat living, we finally made it to our “resort”.

(I have to mention that before we made it to the resort, we stopped at a convenience store. The whole drive there it got foggier and foggier every mile we drove. If that wasn’t creepy enough, my mom said there were two men sitting out in the front of the store who were straight out of Deliverance. She said we don’t remember this part of the trip, because they wouldn’t let us get out of the car!)

Mind you, when one hears “resort”, especially one who watched their Dirty Dancing VHS on repeat, they think rustic, but posh, nicely furnished and expertly appointed “glamping” cabins. 

We all should have known better, for it was my mom (and aunt-I can’t leave her contribution out of this) who booked the place using her discount travel bible.

Again, Grandma is not having any of our shit.

The Mattole River Resort was far from being a resort. 

I remember little snippets from our stay at the Mattole Cult Compound. I think that I blanked out some of the memories to save myself from developing multiple personalities. 

I recall that, as we were bringing our belongings in from the car, doubt set in. The cabins were filthy. Positively disgusting. 

The woman running the place had promised enough beds, because there was a hide-a-bed in the couch. 

When we pulled it out, one of the necessary legs was missing, and instead of a mint on the pillow, there were mouse turds. 

Mouse turds, ya’ll.

In the bed.

When my mom and grandma were looking for another set of sheets, a blanket, hell, even a tarp at this point, they opened a closet to find an unexpected surprise. 

They had no clue what it was, but it was behemoth and a nest of some sort. My mom said they just shut the door and didn’t open it again the rest of the stay. 

I don’t even remember sleeping at this place. As in, I don’t recall being in a bed, covered with a blanket, nothing. I probably slept standing up or in the car. I don’t know how I didn’t just straight run away from my family at this point. 

Apparently, we stayed two or three nights. The first night we arrived it was late, so it’s understandable why we stayed. I’m not quite sure why my mom and aunt subjected us to this horror-story-waiting-to-happen for more nights than were necessary. 

My mom said it was because there was nowhere else to stay for a bajillion miles in all directions. We’d booked our stay, driven hundreds of miles, and it was going to be fun, damnit. 

My mom said, as beautiful as the surrounding landscape was, the Mattole River Resort was, “…horrible in every way.”

Three people who didn’t quite mind the Mattole River Resort were my two cousins and brother.

The daughter of the owner (who, my mom swears, couldn’t have been more than ten years old) took them down to the river and introduced them to pot for the first time.

My brother and two cousins recall that trip being pretty groovy, man.

Every picture from this trip is blurry. Our minds were probably negatively affected by all of the mouse poop. Also, in looking at how young my brother was, I’m wondering if only my cousin was involved in the Mary Jane incident?

As for me, I’m fairly certain my weird neurosis about germs, vermin, and motels with anything less than a four star rating is directly related to our typical Smith** Family stay at the Mattole River Resort. 

I hope my Family Vacations From Hell series has been enjoyable and at least mildly amusing. I hope my stories bring back funny and warm memories from your own past. 

Because I’m a satire writer, everything I write has some sass and asshole to it. These posts were no different. 

It’s important for me to point out, however, that as much as these true accounts sound horrifyingly hilarious, they are some of my most beloved memories.

Had my parents been like every other Dick and June, my memories wouldn’t be nearly as wonderfully ridiculous. 

This series is dedicated to my parents, because thanks to their annoyingly thrifty ways, my brother and I were afforded a childhood filled with amazing trips and experiences. Not only did we go somewhere exciting (or slightly terrifying) every spring break, we spent every summer at our family’s lake cabin, AKA Heaven on Earth. On top of that, they sent us both to Washington, D.C. on a school trip our 8th grade year, and it was my parents who funded the most rewarding experience to date-my trip to the U.K. and Ireland. 

Mom and Dad, you do you, boo. You’re perfectly imperfect just the way you are, sleazebag motels and all. Love you both. 

*Apparently, the cabin was only infested with mice and not rats. That makes it so much better.

**Not our real family name.

My Brother’s “13th Birthday” 

When we turn 13 in our family, tradition dictates that you get to have a big birthday celebration- one you won’t ever forget. This momentous occasion may or may not include naked hippies.
The year my brother turned 13, my mom planned a trip to the bay. San Francisco is only 3.5 hours away from us, and we grew up visiting the eclectic Crazy Street People City quite a lot.

You must know that my mom is quite thrifty. Before Expedia or Trivago were even a wild idea, my mom obsessively scoured the discount travel brochures and books. Part of what made all of our travel adventures so memorable is due largely in part to my mom’s awesome motel finds in her travel books (I’m saving her best find for the last post in this series).

My mom rocked the early 90s so hard.

My mom swore she found the hidden gem of all hidden gems in the heart of the city.

So, Mom, Dad, Brother, Grandma, and I packed into the car and schlepped over the hill.

The motel was a gem, alright. It was not only located in the center of the city, but it was smack dab in the middle of the worst neighborhood, on the worst street and it was the worst motel on said street. 

Because we are budget travelers through and through, we all slept in the same room-Grams and me in one bed, Dad and Brother in the other. My mom ordered a cot from the front desk, and slept with it right up against the door, because she was concerned the homeless man peeing right outside our room might try to come in to use an actual toilet.  

Throughout the night, we were serenaded with the sounds of men moaning, shrill female laughter, and the sound of a cat dying… or mating. And, it all sounded like it was right outside our window. 

It was sketchy with a capital how-did-we-not-get-bed-bugs. 

In the morning, on our way to see Alcatraz, there was a woman going absolutely bat-shit-crazy on top of a guy’s car. Like, she was on all fours on the hood, screaming and pounding her fists into his windowshield. The poor guy looked like he had no idea what to do as he was just sitting in the driver’s seat with his mouth agape. 

I would have just turned on my windshield wipers to try to wipe her off. 

Ain’t nobody got time for that. 

My Grandma was thinking, “Who are these crazy fuckers, and why did they bring me along for the Worst Side of San Francisco Tour?”

That same trip, we almost met our demise at the rest stop on top of the summit. 

The entire weekend was stormy and rainy. As we headed back home, the rain was immense. We felt like Noah’s ark as we parted the waters on the highway home. 

As we crested the summit over Donner Pass, it began to snow. Tradition dictates that we always stop at the rest stop on the top of the mountain. 

Forget that it was dark, snowing, and the rest stop was seemingly empty, no, we had to stop-it was TRADITION (someone probably really had to go: MOM). 

The vibe at the rest stop was bad. In hindsight, we should have just driven the hour more until home. 

My mom walked my brother and me into the main area, out of the snow. From there, we went our separate ways to the restrooms.

As my mom was waiting, she noticed two shady-looking men in the shadows. What normal, pure of heart and mind kind of person just lurks around an empty, freezing rest stop in the middle of nowhere, late at night? 

She said later that a ferocious chill went down her spine. Something just wasn’t right.

At this point, another vehicle pulls up, and my dad gets out of the car to retrieve something from the trunk.

As the lights from the car pulling up shine into the rest stop doorway, my mom glances over at the two men. From across the room, they give each other a “Not-this-one” look and they subtly shake their heads. 

They then disappear. 

She’s still convinced to this day that those two men were waiting around to do something bad. She thinks that they noticed that there were two other people in our car and then, when the other car pulled up, they figured whatever they had planned would not work on us. 
We all majorly had the creepies the whole way home. The entire car was silent as we counted our blessings/reevaluated our direction in life/cursed whoever’s idea it was to stop at the rest stop (MOM’s).

That, kids, is why you don’t go into rest stops-especially at night! Shady people try to do shady things at rest stops. Always find yourself a Starbucks restroom. Or a tree. Anything is better than an “empty” rest stop in the dark of night.

When we finally arrived home, exhausted, but grateful to all be in one piece, my brother says, “Next year, on my 13th birthday, can we just stay at home and do our usual thing?”

MY MOM FORGOT HOW OLD HER ONLY SON WAS. 

My mom felt pretty ridiculous having to admit that she miscalculated and thought he was turning 13, and thus, why he got such a big, super special Birthday. 

I think the next year for his birthday we did just what he wanted, and we were all pretty grateful. 

Monday Musings: What Are Your Blog Reading Requirements? 

I was just talking with a friend about the purpose of reading blogs. She’s a devoted reader of mine and, apparently, I’m the only blogger she reads. She was saying that unless she’s friends with or related to the blog writer, she’s probably not going to spend her time reading their personal stories. I can totally respect that some people have to know the blogger/writer to want to read about their embarrassing encounter with the Porta Potty or their personal preference when it comes to stand mixers. 

I totally get that. 

I’m pretty much the opposite of my friend when it comes to online reading preferences. 

I love reading about someone’s awesome vacation to some exotic locale or reading about how they make a mean enchilada casserole with a recipe they got from their crazy Aunt Marge. 

Maybe that’s totally weird? 

Maybe I’m entirely too interested in complete strangers’ fun family stories or how they studied abroad in Ireland (read about one of my favorite blogger’s experiences doing just that here)?

Whatever it may be, I can definitively say that I’m a devoted blog reader, and I appreciate my committed readers more than words can express.

Throughout the last two years and some odd months, I’ve connected with, gotten to know, and enjoyed reading so many bloggers. 

I love you all. I truly do. We are a tribe, and I’m so fortunate to be a part of it.

Just like my friend, however, I have some requirements that must be met in order for me to spend so much of my time reading blogs. 

These are some of them:

1. You’re a real person who responds to comments and engages with your readers. If you never respond to comments, or it takes you far too long to respond, and I’ve long since forgotten about your post, I will grow weary of dedicating time to read and comment. 

2. Posts are well-written and purposeful. We all make grammatical errors (like that one time I made a massive one in the title of a post *cringe*), but if the mistakes take away from the message, this teacher can’t even. 

3. The topic is one in which I can relate to in some way, shape, or form. This is a pretty straightforward one. If you write about something I can hardly come up with a comment for, then your topic is best left to those who can. There’s nothing wrong with that. I write about back fat, rogue chin hairs, and how I have a tendency to inhale baked goods. Those topics aren’t for everyone, either. 

And, that’s it, really. If you respond to comments I spend time crafting, you don’t have grammatical errors every line, and your posts keep me wanting more, I’m hooked. 

So, I’m curious-what are your blog reading preferences and requirements? Let me know in the comments. 

Ain’t It Purty?

Happy Monday! Yesterday, I spent ages customizing a new theme for my blog page. I felt my page needed some updating and a fresh new look. Mostly, I want my blog to be easy to navigate and fun to look at.

I would love feedback about the new look. Specifically, is my fat gob too much right there, front and center? I feel like it is a little shocking, especially for those who visit my blog upon just waking up.

Since customizing this new theme, my “about” and “home” links have disappeared. My “about” page still exists, but I don’t know how to get to it!

(I know it still exists, because I followed the link provided on the Bloggers Bash post.)

This is no bueno! Since Wordpress support has been so expeditious in their replies as of late, I am likely not going to get the help I need from them this year.

Anyone have any idea why this might have happened?

Let me know what you think about my new theme and layout, along with why I might have a missing menu!

Many thanks!

 

WTF Wednesday #12

It’s 9:15 PM and I just realized that I haven’t put together my post for tomorrow. I think I just outed myself as the kind of blogger who does not have their shit together. I almost never have blog posts planned days in advance. I usually get a wild idea the night before I post, and then I spend a few frantic hours piecing it together. Not always, but almost always. 

Anyway, this week has moved as slow as an eight-year-old when you’re late for anything, but at the same time, it’s speeding by far too fast. 

How I feel about everything this week!

Amidst a full week of state testing at school and trying to walk enough so I can eat dessert, I’m working on something that could be the most epic thing I’ve ever done. That, or it could be all for naught. No pressure. 

I promise I’ll be back to my usual crazy rants and ravings next week, so forgive me this one really lazy attempt at a post. 

Also, as soon as I can, I’ll share what I’m earning more gray hairs and an extra eye twitch for when possible. 

Since I might as well wrap this up as lamely and lazily as possible, I’ll now hand it off to you. Since reading comments are my absolute favorite pastime, let me have it. 

How is your week going? Any juicy gossip? Got any rants you need to get off your chest? Did you learn an awesomely random new piece of trivia? Anything. Let me know in the comments. 

Sorry I’m lame. 

WTF Wednesdays #7: You Whore 

Ahh, blogging. Where do I even begin? I guess from the beginning. 

Way back, like seven years back, I started my first blog. It took a lot to get to the point where I finally hit “publish”. I sent writing samples off to my mom, who, obviously, said I was funny. I worried that she was biased, so she sent off my writing samples to colleagues and friends, never hinting at who I was. The response was incredibly positive and was the impetus to finally put myself out there for the world to read. 

Only, I had NO clue how to blog. Not one fucking iota. The only people who ever read my posts were close friends and family via Facebook and relentless “hints”. 

Not everyone and their halfwit brother had a blog then, so there weren’t articles all over social media about how to blog. I don’t think it was a “thing” then. I also think this was before the WordPress reader. Hashtags, Pinterest, and Twitter weren’t even in existence. It was the Blogging Stone Age. 

Pretty much no one outside of my small circle read my blog. 

What’s crazy is that I was OK with that. I was doing what I loved to do, and it didn’t really matter that I had to beg my ex to post supportive comments to make it look like I had a “following”. 

My second attempt at blogging has been a completely different experience. Completely. 

I’ll never forget the day I got my first “like” from a stranger via WordPress. 

What is this? Someone found my post? And, they read it? 

Wha??? 

From that point on, my following has steadily increased to numbers I never thought possible. 

I love being a “blogger”. Don’t get me wrong. My most favorite part of the blogging experience is connecting with people all over the world, from the United Kingdom to Kenya. That part is amazing and often the only reason I open my WordPress app. 

However, what I am finding to be a challenge is the ever-growing influence to whore myself out for followers, likes, shares, you name it. 

When I started Fatty McCupcakes, I promised myself that I wouldn’t get caught up in the inevitable obsession if all I focused on was how many likes I was getting. 

Don’t get me wrong, following your stats, managing your comments, and knowing what it takes to get your material in front of more readers is an important part of blogging.

But. 

After having an interesting conversation with my blogger bud, Charlotte, I discovered why all of the bullshit involved with blogging has been getting me down:

I’m first and foremost a writer

Blogging comes second to writing. Every.single.time. 

I’m not the kind of blogger who is solely in it for the potential money-making and free product opportunities. I’m definitely not one of those beauty/travel bloggers who seem to  always be jetting off to exotic locale after exotic locale, donning their free swag they got writing positive reviews. It’s just not my jam (I’m also not a ridiculously good-looking, independently wealthy, lucky bitch).

I have nothing against those kinds of bloggers. You do you, boo. If that’s your thing and you’re making money doing it, hell, maybe you’re smarter than I. 

However, some (as in, not all) of these bloggers don’t seem like “real” people. Even more, they don’t seem like writers. They seem to be computers that communicate (if at all) with their followers in a very sterile, impersonal way.  

How far can you fully engage in blogging until you’re a computer prostitute, begging for the opportunity to gain a follower, all just for the price of a risky blow job and a huge hit to your dignity? 

I don’t know about any of you, but there are some aspects of blogging that feel dirty to me. 


This leads me to the conundrum I’m in. Despite the fact that I don’t blog to actually blog, I do blog to gain more exposure. I want people to read what I write and to enjoy it and maybe, just maybe this will lead me to a paying gig at some point. 

I was recently introduced to Go Read, which is an online book club, but also a platform for authors to share their posts and articles. As an author, you have the opportunity to make money depending on clicks, shares and the like. I hear that many authors can make $250 plus a month. In order to get started, you pay a minimal fee of $25 and you have to buy a book and then you get to post. There are groups popping up that one can belong to where you share each other’s articles to up your payable shares. 

Maybe I’m being the dumbest, densest idiot on the block, but this just sounds like the not-good-kind of hustling and exactly the opposite of what I’m about as a writer. 

I’m not sure whether or not I’m ready to whore out my writing to boost my income. 

Tell me: Am I being stupid not taking advantage of an easy, albeit sleezy-feeling money-making opportunity? Do you ever feel like a blogging whore? Let me know in the comments. 

WTF Wednesdays #6

I’m going to start out this WTFW with a haiku:

House hunting sucks balls

All I can afford are dumps 

Ghetto life, here I come 

I have never in my life written a haiku. Even when we had to write them in high school, I somehow got out of doing it. I really don’t enjoy poetry, nor am I good at it. However, this was quite therapeutic. I rather enjoyed it. Thank you, Traci York and your Coffee Haikus. You inspired me to get creative and write my own haiku based on the fabulous house hunting experience I’ve had thus far. 

Don’t get me wrong. I love, like, LURVE looking at homes. In fact, I’ve spent more weekends driving around looking for open house signs in my favorite part of town than I’d care to admit. I’ve whiled away hours looking at homes online, hoping, dreaming. 

My absolute favorite part of this whole process of looking for a house to buy was getting to look at potential homes, Starbucks in hand, paint color ideas swirling in my brain. It’s legit one of my favorite ways to spend a Saturday. 

However, I’ve grown to not like the part where most of the nice homes I’ve looked at are, in fact, over budget (I don’t even want to get into how that happened). So, now, my potential homes are really quite stressful and disappointing to view. 

Some I haven’t even stepped foot in, because the overwhelming scent of cat urine almost knocked me out. Some I was afraid of contracting some disease from, because they were nasty enough for an episode of Hoarders. Some had boarded up doors, falling down kitchen cabinets, and enough dirt on the baseboards to build a baseball diamond. It blows my mind how people don’t feel the need to, at the very least, vacuum up the stale chip crumbs and nail clippings when they know their home will be viewed by potential buyers. It’s just disgusting and shockingly eye-opening to see how some people live. 

It’s almost comical. I mean, I would laugh if I wasn’t racing the clock, trying to find an affordable home, where I might not get shot in a drive by in, before a very generous teacher grant of $10,000 runs out. Yes, right now, in the state of Nevada, teachers can take advantage of a $10,000 grant to use on a new home and a lower interest rate.

So, here I am, looking to buy when the time is right to sell, so I can take advantage of the only way I’ll have a sizable down payment. 

When this whole process began, I knew I’d have to leave my beloved neighborhood, as the home prices have been off the charts expensive for a long time, because it’s a very hip area that’s being revitalized. 

So, I knew that. 

In the beginning, I refused to look anywhere outside of a very select “second best” group of neighborhoods. Once I realized that homes that used to be exactly in my price range, were now out of reach, I begrudgingly allowed my search criteria to be wider spread. 

That was just the beginning of the madness that is now my reality. 

At this point in the game, the only place that’s off limits is our pride and joy, the world renowned “Largest Trailer Park in America”. It may or may not be factual, but there is a community just north of Reno that has been called this for years by locals. 

No offense to anyone living there, as I’m sure it’s lovely, but I don’t wanna live there.

I’ve succumbed, in utter loss of any other options, to areas that I used to be dead set on never considering, due to commute, safety, and pride. 

This tiny home is only $80k, but it’s a no-go, because it doesn’t qualify for an FHA loan. This is likely due to it not passing some inspection. My guess is that it was used for a meth lab and there’s massive damage due to an explosion not showing in the image. Or, maybe, the floor is dug up, because some serial killer buried bodies there. Despite it being in a very undesirable location, and Google street view tells me the neighbors like to collect old appliances, I keep going to back to the listing. It has a certain charm.  

When I first saw this listing, I legit thought that what was on the roof was a stroller. Upon further inspection, it is actually, in fact, Santa and Mrs. Claus riding a lawnmower. The listing says that the junk around the home may or not be leaving with the current tenants. I really hope they decide to leave the rolling food cart. I have a cute crafting idea for it. 


This next one is a foreclosure, selling for $85k. It’s a whopping 336 square feet. What a steal. And, since it’s a foreclosure, the previous residents have probably started the remodeling process for me, with holes in the walls and bashed in appliances. This one is a forerunner.  

You’re gonna poop your pants on this next one. I even looked at a condo, with wall-to-wall neighbors *shudders*, in my least favorite location in town. That’s not even the kicker. You ready for this? One of the pictures has an orb in it. 

I looked at a property, knowing that it is most certainly haunted. 

Someone call a head doctor. Stat. 


This condo was actually really well taken care of, had a high-end, front-loading washer and dryer, and more than one bathroom, but it also comes with the spirit of a previous tenant. 

Nope. 

I’ve even looked at homes just down the street from my school. 

I love my students and all, but I see them all day, five days a week. I don’t need them knowing where I live, or to risk seeing them at a grocery store, while I’m buying a box of wine in my weekend apparel that usually consists of no bra, hole-y sweats, and my Zero 🦊 Given shirt. 

Just no.

So, as it stands, The Haunting is the property with the most potential, but I’m not convinced it’s a smart investment to purchase a condo in a less than ideal location. And, despite loving the show Paranormal Witness, I really don’t want to be a sad tale that people watch, thinking, “Thank God that’s not me!” 

The search continues. 

I’m really not that big of a snob. A true snob wouldn’t have thought twice about some of the properties I’ve added to my “favorites” folder on MLS before deleting them, and calling their realtor for a reminder on what’s acceptable and what’s not. So there.