Vaarwel and Chì Mi Fhathast Thu

Look at how fancy pants I am with my super cool post title in, not one language, but two.

Fancy like this

Bonus points if you can tell me what two languages and what it says. I’m really counting on Google Translate for not messing this up and making me look like an idiot.

So, yeah, I’m leaving on a jet plane. It’s possible that while you’re reading this, I’m on a plane, squeezing the armrests as if that will somehow help steer the plane in any direction that will get us to our destination in one piece. I’m not a good flyer (sorry for the nervous farts).

So, yeah, I’ll be out of the country for a little more than five weeks.

This means I will, likely, not have time to read, comment on, or like your blog posts. I’ll try, but I can’t make any promises.

I might also not have much time to post, other than updates here and there.

So hang in there, don’t give up on me, and wish me luck in returning safely, ready to blog about my adventures.

Bye, babies!

Source

Third Funniest Blogger, Baby!

I’m still positively shocked that anyone other than my mom thinks I’m funny. I mean, I occasionally make myself laugh, but sometimes I think I’ll eventually wake up. But, I don’t think this is just a dream, guys. I was voted 3rd Funniest in the Annual Bloggers Bash Awards. That must mean it’s really true. I’m kinda officially funny.

I’m so incredibly honored and excited to have made 3rd, ya’ll.

I was so excited and apprehensive the night before the awards (that happened in London, btw), I had horrible nightmares all.night.long.

They ranged from your usual holy-shit-I-forgot-pants-and-I’m suddenly-on-stage-in-front-of-a-room-full-of-people to the nightmare that I didn’t place.

See, these awards mean so much to me. Like, so.much. The excitement and anticipation leading up to the event was even better than a cupcake high.

Not only does winning an award help validate the fact that I call myself a humor blogger, the ABBA originated from the U.K. My Anglophile self is geeking out big time.

Not only do I feel pretty dang proud, I feel so lucky to have the readers I do. This was all thanks to YOU.

To those who took the time to vote for me, to those who take time out of their lives to read my words, to those who have liked, commented, shared, spread the word, THANK YOU.

THANK YOU, THANK YOU, THANK YOU!

I’m immensely lucky for you all.

I also want to say a huge thank you to the ABBA committee. You have spent an immeasurable amount of time, heart, and thought into putting these awards together. Not only that, you’ve created an event that so many people have to look forward to and be excited about. So, thank you.

This is how I celebrated. Maybe I should be Fatty McDonuts.

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!

Travel Tuesday Train Wreck

OK, so it’s not quite a train wreck, per se, it’s just total and utter crappola.

I’ve been working on my latest travel post that’s supposed to be posted today for a couple days now, but it’s just shite. It doesn’t have that oomph, that pizzaz (or pizza, as my phone really wanted me to say).

Between my regular full time gig, my side hustle, trip planning, trying to keep up with the bare minimum in household duties, and a few scheduled naps here and there, tapping into the writing passion that usually makes the magic (or poop, depending on who you ask) happen has been tough.

So, I’m sorry to disappoint you, folks (I know you’ve all been waiting with bated breath), but my Travel Tuesday post is going to be a Travel Wednesday post this week. I know that doesn’t have the same ring to it, but it is what it is, que sera, sera and all that.

Until then, here’s an image that will give you a possible idea of what my travel post will be about (can you guess?):

In the comments, tell me where you’ve always wanted to travel to, because I totally need another reason to be distracted!

Double Caramel Magnum

Since the voting for the blogger awards has officially gotten in my head and now I’m practically incapable of being funny right when it’s the most important, I thought what better way to get back into the groove than with revamping some of my (likely) never before seen early blogging attempts fails.

So, each week on #ThrowbackThursday before voting closes, I’ll be sharing an OG post that I’ve revived and corrected (all of the terrible grammar has, hopefully, been remedied*) just for your reading pleasure.

I truly hope you enjoy this lame, half-assed attempt at showing you what I’ve got.

The post I’m sharing today is nearly three years old and, I believe, the fifth blog post I wrote on Fatty McCupcakes. I think it got maybe three likes. Enjoy.


The rain had stopped, but for a few random drops here and there that danced on newly formed puddles. The air was heavy with moisture and the sweet aroma of grass, wet earth, and grateful flowers. It was the perfect opportunity to throw on the forgotten I’m-finally-going-to-get-serious sneaks and take a walk.

(I’ve really set the scene here, have I not?)

The boyfriend and I set off down the street, dodging puddles and catching raindrops on our tongues. We were child-like in our glee. I felt it the perfect time to start anew. The clean air filled my dusty lungs. My calves felt stronger with every stride.

I made up my mind that this beautiful, hopeful Sunday would be the day I set my mind to certain changes.

(For the 3,567,473 time I was going to really get serious about shit.)

We kept up a brisk pace, and with every step, I felt my muscles grow stronger and stronger still. I imagined my fat melting off. I was practically 20 pounds lighter. It was glorious.

As we neared 7-11, our pace grew quicker still, in anticipation of some healthy water or sugar-free gum. Healthy, responsible options.

(Because, those are the kinds of things that really make me want to break a sweat.)

As we pranced into the store, I repeated my mantra, “We’ve come for sugar free gum and water. That’s all you want. Mmmmm water.”

My eyes were fixed on the gum on the top shelf, but I was keenly aware that one false move would direct my gaze straight to the Kit Kat bars and gummy bears.

“Don’t look down, don’t look to the right, don’t look to the left, LOOK NOWHERE,” I whispered to myself.

I had expert tunnel vision, eyeing only the Orbit Bubble Mint like a good fat girl.

Then, a flash of gold to my right. Gleaming gold. Gold and creamy brown. I knew without looking, it was temptation at its rawest. It was a Magnum Double Caramel.

No. No. No. I came for gum. I came for fitness. I came to say I walked to 7-11 and didn’t buy a donut.

The boyfriend also saw what I was trying not to see, and the devious ice cream bar pulled him in as well. The draw of the Magnum is a force greater than love, magnetism, gravity.

Without actually feeling or knowing, I opened the sliding door, selected two bars, placed them on the counter and then somehow, I was outside, panting, sweating, shaking.

Without saying a word and with only a knowing glance, we both realized we needed to make it home with our spoils in one piece. Walking and eating ice cream like some kind of lame scene in a herpes commercial was absolutely out of the question. One can’t enjoy ice cream while wheezing and sweating. How were we going to prevent meltage?

We.ran.like.hell.

(Never before had we run with such conviction, such determination.)

My lungs burned. My feet pounded the pavement with the force of the gods. My calves seized, my belly shook, and my knees buckled. I can’t be sure what kept me going, but my guess would be the fear that the inevitable melting of the ice cream bar would compromise its integrity. This would compromise my enjoyment. And you absolutely can’t have that.

We made it home in record time to enjoy our ice cream the only way I know how- on the couch in previously ice cream-stained sweats and a good Netflix binge.

#WillRunForDoubleCaramelMagnums

*I’m almost certain that this post is riddled with grammar mistakes and incorrect verb tenses. I tried.

Dingle Town

Lately, I have really been feeling the wanderlust. I am a travel blogger, by heart, who does not have the means to travel near as much as is requisite to be an actual travel blogger. Adulting and all that crap… So, when I prefer to be strolling the cobblestoned streets of Edinburgh instead of participating in the usual grind, I take a mental vacation back to the best vacation I have ever taken. Back in 2010, I got to spend three glorious weeks in the U.K. and Ireland (the parts not belonging to the U.K., hence why I said ‘Ireland’ separately-just thought I needed to clarify that). There are days I can still smell the curry take-aways in London, feel the salty Dublin Bay air on my skin, and see the smiling faces of my friends in Edinburgh. In honor of my intense longing to be anywhere but here, I am posting from my first blog, BigCityBetty, a post I made about Dingle, Ireland. I will be writing up a long-awaited review of the hostel we stayed at there, The Rainbow Hostel, because this funky place popped our hostel cherry, and what better way to do that than with stray, mangy cats, nude men, and pooping Frenchmen. Without further ado, my Dingleberry post:

On the way to Dingle. C
On the way to Dingle.
Dingle Town. Gaelic is taught at school as a means to preserve the dying language.
Dingle Town. Gaelic is taught at school as a means to preserve the dying language.
I mean, it is almost too beautiful.
I mean, it is almost too beautiful.

While planning our week in Ireland, my travel friends came upon a most amusing name for a town. This town? Dingle. Yes, Dingle. First thing my boyfriend says? “We HAVE to go to Dingle, so we can pick some berries!” I rolled my eyes and told him there was no way we were going to go clear across the whole of Ireland just because the name loosely referred to a poop crusted piece of toilet paper hanging from butt hairs. Did he think that was a silly reason to go somewhere? Heck no. So, obviously, from the get-go, I was not too keen on the idea of Dingle. Not only did I think of stinky butt crack adornments every time it was mentioned, it was incredibly far from anywhere else we were planning on visiting. Regardless, I had two whiny men simply begging to put Dingle on our itinerary. Just to silence the “picking berries in Dingle” and “shall we make a dingleberry pie” jokes, I caved and Dingle was to be a future destination. The jokes, however, did not stop. Men.After some research on Dingle, it didn’t really sound all that bad. In fact, Rick Steves, himself, calls it, “The epitome of Ireland”. I decided if Rick Steves liked it, I would too.

As I mentioned in a previous blog post, we almost died on the road to Dingle. Several times. Well, maybe that is an exaggeration, but the entire time spent white-knuckling it to Dingle, I was growling that it better damn well be worth it. As we passed green, luscious, rolling hill after green, luscious, rolling hill to the far western coast of Ireland, I began to see why Dingle was the epitome of Ireland, and we hadn’t even gotten there yet. By far and wide, the area in the 100 mile radius of Dingle was the most green and gorgeous of all we had seen. It was almost too much. As we drove slowly into the town of Dingle, we saw row upon row of quaint shops and pubs, all squeaky clean and perfect. The town was nestled in the same green, rolling hills we had oohed and aahed over for hours. Dotting the hills were cream and yellow colored homes that looked straight out of a storybook; the entire town looked like one I had seen in one of my childhood fairytale stories. It was dusk and getting dark as deep, gray, foreboding rain clouds kissed the hills. As I exited the car, I could taste the sea and feel the wetness of rain yet to come on my face. We decided exploration of this incredible town was in order. Everything was in Gaelic; people walking past spoke the strange, beautiful tongue. This place was amazing. This place was Ireland. This place was worth it.

Our time spent in Dingle was too short and the hostel we stayed at was, well, let’s save that one for a later blog post…Despite our strange lodgings and the terrifying drive in, Dingle was one of the most beautiful and untainted places I have ever been. If I ever make it back to Ireland, Dingle will be my first stop.

Oh, and yes, there were berries to be picked, but they never ended up in a pie.

For Shame, Fatty: The Annual Bloggers Bash Awards

Yesterday, the Annual Bloggers Bash Awards nominations were announced, and I legit had to take a Xanax before bed, because I was so keyed-up and excited. Not only was I nominated in the category for Funniest Blogger, but so many of my fabulous blogger friends were also nominated in the various categories. The excitement was palpable. It was electric-I could feel it through my phone as I checked various social media outlets for all of the posts about the nominations.

I am over the moon. The nomination in itself is enough for me to be happy for the foreseeable future, but I’d be lying if I said I wouldn’t love to be “crowned” the Funniest Blogger.

To make things easier for anyone potentially checking out my material, I thought I’d link to some of the posts I had the most fun writing and sharing with my readers.

Without further ado…

Because you need to know who I am:

It’s All About Yours Truly

I Was An Asshole

You also need to know that I fail at adulting and embarrass myself a lot:

Toilet Talk

Yoga Farts

Lipstick

Aerial Antics

Poop Happens

Additionally, I am still in love with Jeff Goldblum, 22 years later:

I Heart Jeff Goldblum

I’m a hairy mofo, to boot:

My Hairy Life

An Ode to Hairy Women

You should know about my fitness and healthy eating fails, as well:

Cup O’ Crack

21 Minute Survival Challenge

These Hiking Boots Were Made For Quittin’

The Leggings Spread

Finally, some WTF Family Stories:

My 13th Birthday

Felony Stop


You probably need the link to vote, huh? I almost forgot that pertinent detail in all of my excitement. You can check out the categories, nominees, and VOTE HERE!

Below are some of my super talented blogger friends who have been nominated in the other categories. Please check them out and don’t forget to vote! (Choosing who to vote for in these categories is going to be some of the hardest decisions I’ll ever have to make. I literally love you all!)

Best Overall Blogger

Gin & Lemonade

A Brummie Home and Abroad

But I Smile Anyway

I’m Sick and So Are You

Most Inspirational Blogger

Unfold and Begin

You Are Awesome

Most Informative Blogger

An Historian About Town

Global Housesitter X2

Best Book Review Blog

Lisa’s Ramblings

Services to Bloggers

Em Linthorpe

Hidden Gem

A Mindful Traveler

Deb’s World

Unbound Roots

Wheelescapades

Newcomer Blogger

Losing the Plot

Best Pal

The Wandering Darlings

From Michigan to Germany

A Walk and a Lark

Just Another Blog From a Woman

Fancy Paper

And, best of luck to my fellow funny pals! You make me laugh, and I love you!

Hot Mess Memoir

Midlife Smarts

Judy E Martin

Lutheranliar Looks at Life

I am so sorry if I missed your link. There are so many amazing bloggers to consider that my head is spinning!

Wintertime Fun

Since temperatures are in the FREAKING 50s and 60s over here, I’ll just have to reminisce about the time I got my ass handed to me by a baby snow hill. Happy Flashback Friday to all you people having a real winter. I hope you stay safe and warm, though, because as much as I’d like anything that resembles winter up in here, I think I’ll pass on the -20 degree weather!

While driving home after lunch with a couple work friends, I saw some kids attempting to make a tiny mound a sledding hill. They appeared to be having loads of fun. It’s funny how, when you’re a kid, anything that makes even the tiniest bit of a slope, instantly becomes fun. Like, regular, level ground is dumb, but if you can roll in a downward direction, even for just a second, it’s the.best.thing.ever.

Hell, even just yourself and a substantial hill makes for a good time. You know what I mean, and if you don’t, I’m sorry, your childhood must have sucked.

Image courtesy of someecards.com

This quick, drive-by snapshot reminded me of a time I thought sledding was a good time. It also recalled a time I must have had shit for brains because there was zero thought involved in any decision made that night.

Let me share with you why, today, I won’t go sledding. I won’t go, even for a cupcake. I won’t. Just no.

One winter, years ago, when I lived in little ol’ Elko, Nevada, it snowed absolute buckets. I have a post planned about my city girl adjustment to a little cow town, where it snowed for longer than 5 minutes, and it was so cold your snot froze in your nose the second you stepped outside. This little city slicker wasn’t prepared for country living, that’s for sure. But, that’s for another time.

Well, there was this hill. It was the renowned sledding hill. It also wasn’t for amateurs, pregnant women, or children under 5. This hill meant bizzness.

Now, before I go on, I have to explain that I’m the biggest, most unadventurous wimp you ever did meet. Roller coasters make me nauseous. I almost crapped my pants (like seriously) the first (and last) time I rode on the back of a dirt bike. I cling to my oversized flotation device, praying I don’t die in speed boats. I white knuckle it when I have to cross major intersections on my bike. I’m a dweeb when it comes to adventure sports, in that 10 times out of 10, I’ll wholeheartedly pass.

My time in Elko must have been spent certifiably insanely bored, because not only did I go sledding, it was my brilliant idea.

My boyfriend at the time, a friend, and I decided to go at night, so that the hill wouldn’t be crammed with snot-nosed middle-schoolers. We also decided at night no one would see the overweight idiots on too-small sleds.

Because everything I do must be a production, I had to wear my cutest knock-off Uggs, furiest ironically-ugly-hat, most stylish gloves, and my skull leggings. I was still too young and stupid to realize that snow was cold, and that fashion doesn’t matter when it’s -2 degrees.

Image courtesy of qtpiekelso via Polyvore

While, this is a very cute outfit (and likely almost the exact one I wore), it is not what you wear sledding in Arctic conditions.

I had precisely one good trip down the hill, the first attempt. It was stupid fun. After that, it all went downhill, literally. 

Because I chose to wear my “cute Uggs”, and not the sensible boots my boyfriend’s mom offered me, I had zero traction getting up the hill. If you don’t know, Uggs and many others like them, have very little tread, as in none. So, I looked like a hefty hamster in a wheel. I was definitely moving, but going absolutely nowhere.

It was pissing me off. My boyfriend and friend had gone up and down the hill numerous times, laughing like fools at all their fun, and there I was clinging to an exposed branch, halfway up the hill, praying I wouldn’t face plant again.

I had had it. 

The next time my friend came by me, trailing her sled behind her, I made her privvy to my plan to get myself up the hill. She was hesitant at first, but agreed after feeling a sudden pity for the girl who was still not back up the hill 20 minutes later. Besides, if it all went crashing and burning, it wouldn’t be her hurting.

So, I steadied one foot, then knee into her sled, while praying the other foot wouldn’t go rogue.

See, my plan was to have my poor, weak, 5-foot-tall, diabetic friend pull.me.up.the.hill. Herself.

My boyfriend must have been off fucking some sagebrush, because why he wasn’t my first choice, I’ll never know.

Obviously, the second I got my other leg into the sled, and allowed all of my weight to settle firmly into the plastic vehicle of death, she let go. How in fucks sake I ever thought she could hold my obese self in a sled with a measly rope, makes me question my intelligence.

So, there I went.

Careening, hurtling, literally flying down the hill. Backwards. 

Now, what I haven’t mentioned yet, because I haven’t even gotten to the part where I got to even fucking sled, is that the snow was so packed down due the traffic on the hill that it was hard as a rock. Due to the frigid temps, it was also pure ice. For future reference, there’s a very real, credible reason most people don’t sled at night.

Back to my terrifying trip to my eventual death.

I was screaming down an ice hill. BACKWARDS. 

As if that wasn’t enough, I was heading straight for the jump. Yes, a jump. On my best, most adventurous, wearing-all-the-padding-and-protective-equipment-in-broad daylight-day, I would not have even let going off that jump ever, ever cross my mind. And there I was, going probably 200 MPH, backwards, speedily advancing on that death trap.

I think, in my near shock-induced stupor, I faintly recall hearing my boyfriend and friend yelling, “Fall off! Fall off, ya dummy!”

Well, there was no time to do that, as I caught impressive air when I hit that sweet spot. It was all ass-in-the-air-red-butt-crack-flapping-in-the-wind-snot-flying-fuzzy-hat-peace-ing-out ridiculousness.

Obviously, I survived my harrowing trip over the jump. Barely. On the other end? Soft snow? A soft, dying patch of grass? A gymnast’s pad left by a concerned parent? No. Shit no. Dirt. Frozen ground. I hit like an obese blow up doll filled with marbles.

Friend and boyfriend came running, concern mixed with laughing. Assholes.

Why didn’t you roll off? 

I had exactly 2 seconds to realize what was happening, excuse me if I’m not Tom Cruise in Mission Impossible.

Aside from scrapes, a few bruised ribs, and an even more damaged ego, I emerged fairly uharmed.

I’m actually pretty impressed with the air I caught. Tony Hawk would be jealous. I guess there are some positives to being fat-greater momentum!

Weeeeeeeeeee

About right

source

Fatty McCupcakes has been nominated in the Funniest Blogger category for the Annual Bloggers Bash Awards. If this gave you a chuckle, I’d really appreciate the vote! You can vote HERE! Love and cupcakes!

Random Why Wednesday

Why do I have all the time in the world to binge watch shows on Netflix, play Words With Friends, and spend hours scrolling through a comment section on a video about rat tails as a hairstyle, but when someone mentions working out, I’m all, “Ain’t nobody got time for that.”

Why do bank tellers and cashiers ask people what their plans are for the night or weekend? I really don’t want to tell you my only plans for the entire weekend are to not shower, eat an entire pint of ice cream, and work on a Thomas Kinkade puzzle, OK? SO, QUIT ASKING.

Why do people pick their noses in their cars like we can’t see them? Your windows are tinted, not translucent.

Speaking of cars, why do I still worry people know I’m talking to myself when I could easily be speaking to someone on the phone through the Bluetooth in my car?

Why you no share our Facebook Friendsaversary? I don’t care we’ve only been friends for two months. CELEBRATE IT.

Why does IKEA shape their rugs like squatty penises, and when will I eventually unsee a penis rug every time I look at it?

Why do I recently sound like I’m giving birth when getting into bed every night? It’s like the weight of my day is being expelled from every pore and orifice and I need to be really vocal about that.

Why do I feel the need to take 18 different vitamins every day like they will somehow counteract the 20 Hershey Kisses, three bags of popcorn, and two pounds of pasta that I eat on the daily?

Why was I not born a Pygmy three- toed sloth?

Why is collecting enough Bath & Body Works hand soap for all of humanity to wash their hands for all eternity more important than paying my debt down?

Why are there always umpteen old people in every aisle at the grocery store when you’re running late?

Why did I look like this when I was 12…

…but twelve years olds today know how to contour their faces and draw on an expert-looking set of eyebrows? SHIT AIN’T FAIR.

Why are my leggings always inside out when they come out of the laundry when I put them in right side out? WHY? HOW?

Got any burning questions you’d like to share? Have any good answers for mine? Share in the comment section, because sharing is caring (unless it’s lice, the clap, or something you want me to eat that you touched with your bare hands).

Poop Happens

What is the most embarrassing thing that’s ever happened to you?

Maybe it was that time you didn’t notice your skirt was caught in your underwear after using the restroom, so everyone in the office saw that you were wearing your faded, hole-y Tuesday underwear on a Wednesday.

Maybe it was when you thought your crush was waving to you from across the hall at school, so you thought you’d be daring and give a seductive, yet girly pouty wave, but he was waving to Marci. The bitch.

Maybe it’s a series of moments, like every time the box office assistant says, “Enjoy your movie!” and you respond with, “You too.”

My most embarrassing moment, up until a few days ago, was the time I got my lady business in 6th grade and didn’t know what to do. I had to wear my huge puffy jacket around my middle all while playing it off like I meant to wear a hot pink polar bear around my waist, as I moved around the classroom accidentally brushing people’s papers and pencils off their desks.

A few days ago, I went to the chiropractor for the first time. A local chiropractor was offering a $20 spine assessment, so I thought, “Why the hell not?”

Surprisingly, my most Embarrassing Moment of 2017 did not occur in the chiropractor’s office (which is a real shocker, because I was sure I’d choose the exact moment he was pulling on my feet to really embarrass myself. I was sure that’d happen to me).

No. The moment that will be forever etched on my mind and played in a loop in my subconscious, occurred precisely five minutes after leaving the chiropractor’s office.

I don’t know if the manipulation he did on my lower back set something in motion, or loosened things up too much, or what, but as I was driving down a quiet, gas station-lacking street, it hit me.

I’m sure you all know the feeling.

You know.

The feeling when your bowels suddenly have a seizure or a rave or whatever, and the need to get to a bathroom is sweaty and urgent.

I’ve had this happen to me before while driving.

I’ve always been able to simultaneously find my inner zen while driving like an Indy 500 driver on crack.

I’ve always made it home to the comfort and judgement-free environment of my own bathroom.

This time was different.

I don’t know if it’s age. Or karma. Or just luck. But I was left frantically scanning the street for a private-looking tree.

It was that bad.

Can I really resort to pooping behind a tree in a neighborhood? What if someone sees me and calls the police? Is there such a thing as a public defecation law? What if I get arrested? WHAT IF I GET ARRESTED FOR POOPING BEHIND A TREE IN A NICE NEIGHBORHOOD?

Then, I wondered how bad it’d be if I didn’t make it to an actual bathroom and it happened in my car.

Jeezus.

Bad. Real bad.

I’d have to throw the whole car away.

As my sweaty hands were sliding off my steering wheel, and my hair was matting to my head, and my bowels were imitating a whale’s mating call, I came upon a luxury apartment complex.

I’d been there once before when looking for an apartment with a friend. They were laughably beyond our price range.

They’d have to do.

I veered off the road and into a “future tenant” parking spot on two tires. I don’t think I even put my car in park.

Shit.was.dire.

It was far past regular business hours, so I figured I’d just have to find a big rock or a large bush. Or, maybe I’d just black out.

Somehow, beyond all understanding, the door to the lobby was open.

In my peripheral, I saw a woman in an office to the right. She was talking on the phone.

I didn’t say a thing. I didn’t look. I just prayed that if I didn’t see her, she wouldn’t see me.

As I was practically flying across the room, I had a very profound realization that it was entirely likely that, despite how close I was to salvation, I was probably going to poop my pants.

I was going to poop my pants.

I tried not to think about how I looked literally holding my bottom (like that’d make any difference) as I was racing across the lobby of a ritzy luxury apartment complex.

Somehow, my survival instincts (or just good memory) helped direct me to where I needed to go.

Glory be to God, I made it to the restroom.

I.didn’t.even.use.a.seat.cover.

It was that close.

Guys, since we’ve come this far, and I’ve been so candid up till now, I might as well tell you that I was 100% sure that I had crapped my pants. Literally sure of it.

Well, all of those times I took my cart back to the cart corral, all of the recycling I’ve done, and all of the times I didn’t yell at incompetent drivers really racked up my karma.

My pants were safe.

Just as the realization and relief that I was still someone who could honestly say they’d never pooped in their pants sunk in, the reality of my situation smacked me right in the face.

What’s that sound? Oh.my.god. It sounds like an alarm. The woman in the office thinks I’m a crazy street person and she’s set off the alarm. The police are going to come.

I was shaking and sweating buckets as I sat on the toilet, terrified, waiting for security to bust in.

They’ll be sickened. Disgusted. Maybe they’ll just feel sorry for me and leave me to my shame?

As I sat and waited for my fate, I realized nobody was coming, at least not immediately. I heard no voices. No doors opening. Nothing.

So, maybe that’s not the alarm? Maybe I’ve lucked out? But, how am I going to explain myself when I need to make my eventual walk of shame?

I needed a good excuse for why I practically busted down their door and then ran, pinched cheeks, for the bathroom.

I’ll act like I’m interested in an apartment. Yeah. That’s it.

I figured it was the only viable excuse. I imagined myself leaning against the doorway, hair still matted to my forehead, as I said, mid-burp, “Uh. Yeah. I was wondering if you had any one bedrooms available?”

Totally buyable.

I realized that whoever was in the office was likely waiting for me, so I begrudgingly readied myself to be seen.

After I scrubbed up like a surgeon (it was the only way I’d feel half clean), I apprehensively cracked the door and peered out.

No angry office woman in a Liz Claiborne pant suit. No Super Burrito security guard. No one.

In fact, the lobby area looked rather dark, and it was at this point I realized the door to the bathroom was through another set of doors that led into said lobby. In my frenzied poop panic, I must not have noticed that I opened an additional door before entering the bathroom.

I bet she’s gone. Thank you, Baby Jesus. I’ll never think a bad thing about the bums who pee in our alley ever again. I promise.

I was in pretty high hopes as I made to open the door that would release me out of my poop nightmare.

It was locked.

THE DOOR WAS FUCKING LOCKED.

That woman locked me in.

Either she never saw a half-crazed woman fly by doing the poop dance or she did and she purposely locked the door.

You have to be freaking kidding me. I’m locked in here. OMG. I’m going to panic. I’m not even a resident and I’m locked in their lobby bathroom.

HALP!

As it turns out, there was a door further down the hall that lead me outside. I was sure an alarm would go off when I opened the door, but so far, I haven’t made it on the news.

(I keep thinking I’ll be scrolling through Facebook and I’ll see a local news story titled “Police Still Looking For Woman Who Broke Into Luxury Apartment Complex To Completely Defile Custom Bathroom”.)

As for the “alarm” I heard? It was the air freshener alerting anyone who cared to the fact it was out of freshness. I lost several minutes of my life believing cops would be coming for me, when actually the Odor Blaster 1000 was out of Hawaiian Breeze.

To completely exit the complex, I had to wait for a car to come in through the gated entrance, and then I ran like the wind to my car and burned rubber out of there.

When I got home and had to confess to my boyfriend that why I didn’t have the buns I was supposed to pick up for our chili cheese dogs was because I got momentarily locked in a random apartment lobby bathroom, he asked if he should add Depends (to keep in my car) to the grocery list.

I’m highly considering it.

I thought I’d start the new year out with a bang, ya’ll.

I really needed to know why I almost pooped my pants. I’m kind of scared that spontaneous poop attacks will be my life now. I’m also planning a trip to the Bay Area, so I’m engaging in my usual OCD research.