Flashback Friday: Be Cool, Alright?

I’m re-blogging this post for #fbf, because I almost wrecked my diet the other day with Boston Market Cinnamon Apples and mashed potatoes. Like, it was so.close. Too close. As in, I circled the whole of Boston Market five times, drooling, staring, frothing at the mouth. I can never be seen there again. So, I’ll just live vicariously through my past foodscapades. Is it bad that this post doesn’t make me feel shameful, but hungry for macaroni and cheese, and nostalgic for my bacon grease sweats? 

Dear Boston Market Yeller, 

My boyfriend and I visited your establishment this past Saturday, around 6:00 PM. You greeted us by yelling, “Welcome to Boston Market. What can I help you with?” from behind the counter, at least 15 feet away, before we were even in the door. While the gesture was, thoughtful, semi-courteous, it was a little overwhelming, as every single individual in the restaurant turned to watch us come in. I’m sure realizing it wasn’t the Queen of England entering, but a couple in their fat pants, was quite disappointing. Had I known I would have been welcomed so warmly, I would have worn a more supportive bra and my fancy sweats, the ones without paint and bacon grease stains. 

I want to say I appreciate your tenacity, but it just came off as abrasive. My boyfriend and I ordered the meal for 3, and we really didn’t appreciate your need to repeat this fact no less than 10 times to your coworkers and what appeared to be the lady behind us. Yes, we were two people ordering the meal designed for three people. We had on elastic pants, was that not evidence enough that we were planning on eating heartily? Also, I would like to point out that it was highly probable that we had an adult or two waiting at home. We could have been being thrifty and mindful of our diets. This could have easily been the case. It wasn’t, but it could have been. 

Furthermore, we were taken aback by your method of checking customers out. Instead of doing it yourself, you yelled our order, repeatedly, across the entire kitchen to the young man, who must have been hard of hearing, because Sparks heard what we had for dinner, while he didn’t. After the 3rd time this young man had to ask you to repeat yourself, perhaps it was time to just take over. I’m so glad that our choices, the most fattening sides possible, were repeated for all to hear. Just for future reference, when two people come in, in oversized sweatshirts and they don’t take off their sunglasses, they would like their poor life choices kept between you and them, not shared with the entire restaurant. 

I am only writing this letter to you because you have potential. The passion you have for your product is evident, but I would suggest you work on your voice level and tact. You have zero tact. None. I would like to assume that most people visiting a Boston Market have serious plans of wrecking their diets. These people are already low, don’t assist them with their impending demise. Do you want to be an accessory for death by cookie dough? I don’t think so. Just be cool, alright? Sheesh. 

Signed, 
The Couple Who Bought a Meal For Three, and Ate It ALLLLLL 

***As an aside…

If hearing…
“Mashed with gravy, Mac and cheese, and cinnamon apples for THREE!”

“How many?” 

“THREE!”

“You said, mashed, apples, and spinach?” 

NO, mashed potatoes, gravy, MACARONI AND CHEESE, and cinnamon apples!” 

OK, I think I got it. And that was the meal for three?”

YES, the meal for three”

….doesn’t make you want to reevaluate your life, I don’t know what will. It’s time for a change. My “last resort” pants are tight and I’m certain my fat is trying to suffocate me in my sleep. Help. 

Flashback Friday: Bike Seats and Fannies of Steel

I almost forgot to post a #FBF post, so this one is coming to you late. It is almost time to dust off the old bike that I have used a total of five times. I can’t wait for the spring-I-am-totally-riding-my-bike-this-year-except-that-is-a-boldface-lie-season. Whoohoo! 

While living in Elko, I tried various workout classes and regimens, for no other reason than there was literally nothing else better to do. I did Pilates for nearly two years (yup, this fatty). I took a weights class in the old high school gym. I tried Zumba numerous times, despite being a spastic with no rhythm.  I took a Body Pump class and very nearly died. Lastly, I took one kettle bells class, and almost knocked the instructor out cold (whoever thought swinging heavy metal balls between between your legs was a good idea, anyway?). Despite my utter failures with fitness, I wasn’t giving up. I had yet to do spinning. 

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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 Wednesday #5

Just me and my best friend (not a random dog I borrowed to snap a pic for Instagram).


As many of my followers know, I’m on the hunt for a house. I couldn’t have chosen the absolute worst time to do that, too. It’s a seller’s market in my area, and home prices are climbing to new heights. Homes that would have been right up my monetary alley are not even within reach. 

Probably you’re wondering, “Then, why are you choosing to buy right now, dumbass?”

Well, it’s simple. I’m sick and tired of paying someone else’s mortgage. I’m sick of having to share the communal laundry area in the basement that reeks of weed and stroganoff. I’m sick of forgetting to get quarters to do said laundry. I’m sick of not having a garden I can swear I’m going to use for planting an herb garden, but I’ll likely neglect. I’m sick of not having private outdoor space that I never use, but it’s there if I ever do decide to enjoy some fresh Reno cigarette air. Most of all, I’m sick of not having a dog.

I’ve had more people than is even reasonable who respond to that desire in a way that would insinuate that I’m not “ready” for that responsibility. Maybe they are just putting a really rude spin on the classic, “There, there. It’ll happen in time.” Either way, it pisses me the hell off. 

First, I’m 34-fucking-years-old. Sure, I can’t keep a house plant alive to save my life, but an animal is completely different.

Second, I could have gotten a dog like other irresponsible college kids do when I was young, living in a cramped apartment, and I sometimes couldn’t even afford to feed myself, but I didn’t. I didn’t because I knew that kind of lifestyle and my idiocy was not fair to any animal. 

Third, who are you, the Everything You Could Possibly Know About Dogs expert? Who says you’re the best dog mom/dad ever? I know you feed your dog expired hot dogs and clearance tinned cat food in secret. That organic dog food you made and posted on Instagram happened once. Three years ago. Sit down. 

Lastly, needing/wanting a dog in your life is almost as legit as the need to have a child. It’s all about the biological need for a woman to nurture something. 

Maybe it seems silly to you, but I was born with puppy ovaries. I yearn for a furry, milk-breathed baby. I need something to love and care for. Since I’m not planning on having human children, my desire for a puppy feels legit to me. 

Don’t belittle that desire, because it seems silly to you. 

Might I remind you again that I’m well into my adult years, I am responsible for 20 human lives on a daily basis, and I’m pretty damn dependable. 

Quit acting like I don’t know what kind of huge responsibility it is to have a dog. 

Just stop.

So, the search continues for a non-crack den house that’s crack-den-cheap so I can have a dog. Keep your eyes peeled for my next WTF Wednesday, which will likely be on the myriad options I have for housing (hint: I’m being sarcastic, and most of my options come on wheels).

Tell me: Has anyone made you feel like you were too inept for a dog, or even a houseplant? Let me know in the comments. 

My dog cousin, Pepper. She was cold. See? I know what to do.

#MyFirstPostRevisited #fbf

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

Here we come to the rules:

Obvious rules:

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

Other rules:

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

People who should also do this: 

An Historian About Town

Charlotte Graham 

No Love For Fatties
Hot Mess
Carrots in My Carryon 



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

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


Everyone has a blog. I know. Almost just as many people have a blog about their journey from fat life to one of self-acceptance (or sadness, because being thin almost always means no more cupcakes). Despite this, I’m beginning a blog about my journey. How cliche. Whether it will be told from the perspective of a fat girl trying to accept her jiggly arms or through the eyes of a 32-year-old woman who has almost no idea what she is doing with her life has not been decided at this point. I’ll write about my fatness. I’ll write about my need to feel accepted in whatever form. I’ll write about my opinions from “fat acceptance” to the state of our crumbling world, both literally and figuratively. I’ll write about my life experiences, both past and present. I’ll write about the joys and pains of educating our future. I’ll just write, funny, thought-provoking, controversial, whatever.

A total aside-every ‘her’ I’ve typed thus far has auto-corrected to ‘Her’. Her wants to be capitalized. I’m not sure if this means anything, but I really, really want it to. Maybe it means I’m an important, inspiring, worthy woman and my blog will actually be read by others? Maybe it will inspire others? Maybe I’ll make you laugh, cry, or even make you eternally grateful you’re not me. Even if this little sign doesn’t mean anything and my blog is a total bomb or a total unknown in a world full of writers trying to find their way via WordPress, I will continue to write. I am writing for me. Writing is therapeutic, calming, exciting, inspiring and it’s something I will do regardless of how many followers or comments I receive. I’m really not writing for the exposure. I’m writing because I physically have to. When you wake up in the middle of the night to write down a thought so you don’t forget it, or when you park your car after just driving home from work and you have no idea what streets you took or how you even got home because you were mentally writing your next Facebook post or Yelp review, it’s time to start writing a blog again. For the safety of all people on the road, for my sanity, I’m writing again.

Thanks to Facebook and our over-sharing generation most of my readers (I’m already assuming I’ll have readers) know who I am. I’m not yet decided on whether who I am on Facebook or who I am at work or with friends is really who I am. Maybe I’ll find out someday.

Obviously, my name gives it away, I’m a voluptuous cupcake-lover (that’s being kind. I’m fat and I inhale Mix cupcakes in my closet and then I burn the evidence). I’m anal retentive. I’m funnier on paper. In person, I’m likely suffering from Aspergers. I hold on to everything (no, not in a hoarder way, more in an OCD-way). I beat a dead horse. I’m a germaphobe and I guess the secrets out? How did everyone know? I hate being looked at, but I usually feel ignored. I live in the past far too much. I have massive wanderlust, but I’m terrifed of the dangers and uncomfortable aspects of travel. I’m petrified of death, that death is just darkness. I collect Bath & Body Works products, but I hate materialism and have considered living more simply (it’ll never happen…). I notice and remember people, feelings, memories and details fair too perfectly. I’m either an excellent candidate for the Scotland Yard or I’m a creeper. I have only started discovering who I am. Haven’t we all just begun?

I’ve already lost most of you. I’m rambling at this point. I will stop for now. One tiny hint before I go: reading my words outloud might come easier, as I write how I think- a jumbled, mess of thoughts, feelings, desires and fears all wrapped up in a pretty pink bow, because I’m also a neat freak. Welcome to my world.

It’s All About Yours Truly 

I was tagged by The Gay Stepdad in his Get to Know Me post. He listed me as a blogger he’d like to get to know more. I hope he knows what he has done, because I’m a massive over-sharer. Ya’ll ready for this? Brace yourselves. Hold onto your socks. Maybe, use the restroom first, because this is gonna get weird. Actually, it’s probably going to be boring, but I don’t have my other posts ready to publish yet. So, sorry not sorry. 

1. Who are you named after? 

Oh boy. Are ya’ll ready for some complicated shit? So, I’m named after my maternal and paternal grandmothers. Here’s where it gets fun. My “actual” name is Dorothy Catherine. Not once have I ever gone by Dorothy. Not once. My parents never even intended on calling me Dorothy, but they did intend on calling me Katie. However, they wanted to honor my mother’s mother first and foremost. So, instead of making it simple by calling me Catherine Dorothy (making the name “Katie” make more sense) they decided to stick with Dorothy Catherine “Katie”. I know. 

Every first day of school was a nightmare. When I got to middle school, I had to explain the convoluted way my name ended up as Katie eight different times in the course of one day. 

Thanks, Mom and Dad. 

2. Do you like your handwriting?

My handwriting changes depending on the day, the writing utensil I’m using, the surface I’m writing on, and my mood. I like my handwriting on the 82,567 anchor charts I have in my classroom, so I’d say I’m pretty happy. Dang, I don’t know how I’d sleep at night if my handwriting looked like crap and I had to see it all day long, on every wall and surface. What a potential nightmare that’d be! 

3. What is your favorite lunch meat?

I know you all have wanted to know the answer to this particular question for some time. As much as I’d like to share, I feel this is an incredibly personal question that only my boyfriend should know. 

Oh, I misread this question. 

Salami.

4. Longest relationship? 

Seven Years’ War. It ended in a battle wherein I almost cut an 18 year-old midget and her bearded fool. It wasn’t a pleasant time in history. 

5. Do you still have your tonsils?

Yes, and if I wasn’t such a scaredy cat who needs her voice for her career, I’d get  them removed by choice. Why you ask? Well, sometimes I get those nasty tonsil stones that smell like death. When I first got one, I put it in bag; made an appointment with an ear, nose, and throat doctor; and spent the day mentally drafting my will, convinced I was dying. 

#poopchunkssuck*

6. Would you bungee jump? 

Hell to the I’d-shit-my-pants-NOPE. 

7. Do you untie your shoes when you take them off?

Actually, yes. Most of my shoes don’t just slide off of my fat feet. It’s one of the many inconveniences of being plump. Also, I dare anyone to just slip off Converse. It ain’t happening. 

8. Favorite ice cream?

OH SNAP. Where do I even start? When I’m feeling naughty, a good cake batter ice cream with an icing ribbon and cake pieces is the only thing that will do. If I feel like I need to tone it down a bit, I am all about TruWhip and rainbow sprinkles. SHIT. I need some now. 

9. What is the first thing you notice about people? 

I’m going to break this down by sexes. The first thing I notice about women is their eyebrows. If their eyebrows are not on point, I judge the hell out of them. Every other YouTube video is an eyebrow tutorial. Get with the program. 

Is that bad? 

The first thing I notice about men is their height. When a man is really short, I always wonder how they feel about that. Like, are they insecure about it? Do they only like women smaller than them or are they into being the small spoon? Clearly, these are important questions. 

10. Football or baseball? 


Source

Baseball too…

11. What color pants are you wearing? 

Wouldn’t you like to know? Actually, I’m wearing my black leggings with the holes in the inner thigh area. It’s laundry day. 

12. Last thing you ate?

Oh, man…

Well, I ate a bowl of cereal. Only, it wasn’t with milk, but TruWhip. And, instead of cereal, there were sprinkles. It’s kind of like cereal, if you think about it. 

This is TruWhip:


13. If you were a crayon what color would you be?

“Black is ‘Slimming'”

14. Favorite smell?

Baking bread. A fresh bottle of wine. Lavender. 

15. Who was the last person you spoke to on the phone?

I try never to answer my phone. I also try to send an email whenever possible. Despite this, I still had to call to get a refill on my Xanax. It’s that kind of year.

16. Hair color? 

A little bit of brown. A little bit of balayage blond. A little bit of bastard gray. 

17. Eye color?

Baby blue, baby. 

18. Favorite foods to eat?

I really don’t have enough battery on my phone to answer this question. Let me just make it easier by saying: all the foods, except lima beans. 

19. Scary movies or happy endings? 

Happy endings? I think you mean chick flicks or feel good movies, because happy endings are strictly XXX and I’m not about that life. 

I like all movies, except Oscar-nominated flicks. Blech. 

20. Last movie you watched? 

I actually got The Arrival from Redbox Friday night. It was too boring and slow for me. I didn’t even finish it. I also forgot to return it until today, so I’m basically winning at life. 

21. Favorite holiday? 

ERMAGERD CHERSMERSE (you have to say it out loud). 

22. Beer or wine? 

Both. A lot of both. 

23. Night owl or early bird? 

I’m a teacher. I haven’t seen 11 o’clock in years. 

24. Favorite day of the week? 

Friday. I love me some Friday so much. 

24 1/2: Which three of your favorite bloggers do you want to know more about? 

BlairAn Historian About Town, and Charlotte 
25. Who were the latest three people to follow your blog (link to their about page)?

Jennifer’s Kitchen Blog

Traci York

Old House in the Shires

*My friend Alyssa describes her hubby’s tonsil stones as “poop chunks”. This is such an appropriate name, so it’s what I call those foul creatures now, too. 

Unbeknownst to me, this tag was started by Stomper Dad. Go give him some love! 

A Day in the Life of Fatty

Taking a cue from one of my most favorite bloggers, Charlotte, I decided to take part in a “photo an hour” post. Of course, this will be a glimpse into the life of a fatty, not a beautiful, professionally photographed portrayal of someone anyone would be envious of.

So, you’ve been warned. 

Today is the perfect day to do this as school was cancelled due to possible flooding. This means that the opportunities to get into some serious fatty predicaments are positively endless.

Let’s see what I ate (did):


My morning started as it always does, fancy-ing up my fat. This morning, however, I got to sleep in as it began as a two hour delayed start! So, this was around 8 AM. 


I was really looking forward to wearing this bad boy to school, but the school district called a “flood day”. I was already dressed, and since my shirt rings true anywhere I go, I kept it on. This was taken around 9 AM as I headed to my favorite coffee/bakery/ultimate temptation shop. 


Because cookies are a perfectly good breakfast food. I was still hanging out, blogging, eating endlessly, and using their WIFI at 10 AM. 


I left around 11, because coffee makes me have to poop. I warned you this was going to get real. 


When I got home, I checked the mail (this is real riveting stuff. Are you at the edge of your seat right about now?). To my delight, the mailbox wasn’t just full of bullshit don’t-bend-card-inside-just-kidding-made-ya-look mail. I got a Valentine from both my mom and my aunt. My mom knows how much my boyfriend and I like vintage stuff, so she sent two adorable cards from what looks like the 50s. 


I decided to take advantage of today’s free day off instead of what I did last time. Last “snow day” I accomplished taking a nap and eating us out of house and home. So, I started the bajillions of laundry loads that always await me on the weekend. Three of those loads are merely comprised of sheets. I.hate.laundry.so.fucking.much. 


Pizza Pringles are what all mature, physically fit, health conscious adult women buy and eat for lunch. (Spoiler alert: I’m not eating a real lunch so that I can be extra hungry for Texas Roadhouse later. An entire cylinder of Pringles is practically nothing). 


I got caught open-mouthed napping. As you can see by the bottom right photo, someone almost got cut. Laundry, bed making, and eating way too many Pringles left me flat-out spent. 


After I was so rudely disturbed during my beauty sleep, I decided to be productive and put the clean dishes away. Can you see that I’m just a walking cliche? 


Because I’ve had Typhoid Fever for a week now, I made myself some delicious herbal tea with Coffeemate coconut-flavored creamer. I know how to make literally anything unhealthy. If you ever need any help with that, I’m your gal! 


At this point in my day, I’m positively famished. Like the fatty geriatrics that we are, we left for dinner at precisely 4:27 PM. My fat pants were practically falling off of me after my agonizing fast. 


What I had dreamed about and waited for all day. There’s really nothing more that needs to be said.


My boyfriend was positively appalled that I would sneak hot, buttered biscuits out in my purse, stuffed inside of a student loan bill. I thought it was entirely apropos and ingenious. 


Just taking a little peek to see if these naughty things want to come out to play. 

And…I think that’s a wrap, folks.

If this taught me anything, it’s that I have a really fucking boring life. I need to start going to the gym or something. Good gracious. 

The Happy Teacher Challenge

A couple weekends ago, my teacher friend and I engaged in a fun day of learning on a Saturday. I had to get up at 6:30 on a Saturday and had to put on a bra and makeup on my day off. I totally did not have a shot of whiskey in my coffee or a super sugary filled donut for breakfast. 

One of the break out sessions we signed up for was all about Social Emotional Learning for the educator. They sold the class like we would learn skills to feed our souls and regenerate our purpose. 

Pretty quickly, we called bullshit. 

After reading an article that stated my teacher burnout was due to my low social emotional intelligence, I pretty much mentally checked out.  

At the end of the session, we were handed a gorgeous color copy (you know you’re a teacher when a piece of paper has more value solely due to it being printed in color) of The 30 Day Happy Teacher Challenge. 

We looked at each other like, “Holy shit, yes!” 

We both need more happiness in our lives in regards to our school year, so we were so down for the challenge. 

That is, until we actually read the “challenges”. 

Double lame with some “fuck that” sprinkled on top is what this challenge consisted of. 

Most of the “challenges” are things I do every single day, because they are what good teachers, who have a solid pedagogy, do. And, some of them, like assigning an exit ticket (one or two questions to gauge understanding) depress the ever-loving crap out of me a lot of the time.  

When we saw, “Happy Teacher Challenge”, we both thought it had to involve alcohol, days off, and lots of chocolate. Not one of those things are included. 

For shame.

Here’s the challenge:


I blurred out the copyright name, because I don’t want to shame this teacher. I’m sure they meant well, but, well, just, no. 

So, after being utterly disappointed and underwhelmed, I decided to make my own “Happy Teacher Challenge”. 

In case there are any fuddy-duddies reading this, or people who have not one ounce of humor, know this is satire. It’s not literal. 

I’m not fancy and also have way too much shit to do, so I didn’t make this into a pretty calendar, so you get a list. Quityerbitchin. 

1. Pull a trusted colleague aside to whisper all of those ‘fucks’ to that you have been holding in.

2. Have your students partner up and organize a section of your room. Call it OCD: Beginner’s Edition, or just Life Skills.
3. Finally strike up a conversation with the idiot who keeps jamming the copier and leaving it for someone else to deal with. Getting how you feel off your chest first thing in the morning will make you feel ready to tackle a day of holding in how you feel all over again.

4. Spend your entire prep period sending teacher memes to your teacher friends. These might be especially apropos:


Michael Scott knows! 

5. Take a short walk down to the vending machine in the teacher’s lounge for a much-needed soda during lunch. When everything but Dasani water is sold out, take another short walk to your car where you have a nice, little scream.
6. Calm yer tits, paper. Organize the stacks of papers on your desk labeled “to be graded” by sweeping them into the garbage can. They’ll just end up crumpled around a moldy bag of apples in the back of their desk anyway, so…

7. Think of a student who is always well behaved and really smart. Pick them to lead your math lesson for a day.

8. Fill out a staff appreciation for your fellow teacher in arms. Luckily you have a really good one this time: “Mr. Walton is a real star for cleaning the word, ‘sex’ off of the boys’ bathroom wall during his only break last Tuesday”.

9. Buy this shirt for yourself (and wear it to school immediately upon receiving it):zyrwrgt

Buy here

10. Take an Ambien and a nap under your desk during lunch.

11. Ask your students to draw a portrait of you, and laugh all the way to the wine aisle at your nearest liquor store.

12.Download a fun desk planner, attempt to laminate it, and when the laminator is broken AGAIN, just buy one on Amazon.

13. Bribe your custodian with a Starbucks gift card so that they will keep providing you with those paper ass gaskets. When you share a bathroom with 20+ eight- and nine-year-olds, they make all the mental difference.

14. Make a very serious effort to smile more. Even while saying, “It goes in the turn in basket” for the nine billionth time. Bonus: your excessive smiling with creep them out.

15. Take a goofy picture with your students-it’s super cute. Just crop out the kid throwing up gang signs.

16. Do a compliment circle with your students to start your morning. Maybe they’ll notice your new Kate Spade earrings or overly-expensive Tieks that they’ll scuff after three days. 

17. It’s Life Skills day again! Provide a Swiffer duster and a push vacuum, and they will actually want to clean the room.

18. Play some Enya, add some lavender essential oil to your diffuser and transport yourself during Guided Reading. Hey, it’s better than nodding off. Calgon, take me away!

19. Drink your double espresso out of your World’s Okayest Teacher mug, and remind yourself that you are doing your very best, dammit. 

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But it here

20. Make time to sit on your fat arse at the end of day. In fact, make time to sit accompanied by a glass of wine, loaded nachos, and some Netflix. Getting up 20 times a day from the kidney table counts as exercise. Thighs of steal, man. Thighs.of.steel.

21. Bring home the contraband notes they write to each other that you find on a daily basis. Laugh over their spelling choices and sweet innocence with a glass of wine and your dwindling sanity. Math sux bols! 

22. Organize your files on your teacher computer with fun new folder names like, “Important Shit”, “Crap I Will Never Look At Again”, and “Bullshit I Have to Deal With”. 

23. Share passwords to Teachers Pay Teachers, HBO Go, Discovery Ed, Match, and Flocabulary. Sharing is caring. 

24. Encourage students to bring cupcakes for their birthdays. It’ll create positive memories for them and you won’t have to fund your cupcake habit. But, store-bought only, and remind them not to forget the Capri Sun (organic tropical punch pairs nicely with a good white cake and vanilla cream cheese frosting). 

25. Bring a bottle of wine to weekly planning with your grade level. Watch how your lesson plans are utterly transformed.

26. Download a countdown app and set the date for the next school break. Watch the seconds count down as you get closer and closer to freedom. 


Get the same app here.
27. Do you work with an overly harried colleague who needs some “chill the fuck out” time? Buy them this mug, if they have a sense of humor, it’ll make their year:


Buy it here

Don’t forget to include some mini booze bottles and a couple Xanax. Bonus: You basically own them now. 

28. Make sure you plan “Coffee/Wine Bitch Hours” with your teacher friends. These people and the moments you spend commiserating is a huge part of why you might remain sane during your career. 

29. DON’T assign an exit ticket so that you can briefly, blissfully believe your students understood what you were going on about for 40 minutes.

30. Stand at the door and give your students a high five as they leave for the day, knowing you don’t have to see them for another 18 hours.

So, what do you think of the challenge? Did I forget anything? Let me know in the comments. 

Being a Blogger-Bitch Sesh

They have a point…


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When I decided to start my second blog, I promised myself that I wouldn’t get obsessed with followers and ‘likes’. I didn’t want it to be about that-the competive rat race to get as many ‘likes’ and followers as possible. Writing is my passion and I feel whole when I’m actively engaging in my passions. I don’t feel good being a how-many-people-are-following-me-whore. 
But, let’s be real. A huge part of blogging is attaining followers and garnering ‘likes’ on your blog and across all social media. The more ‘likes’ and shares the more your content is read. 

It’s just how it is. 

Part of growing a blog is giving as much, if not more, than you are receiving. Just like in a healthy relationship, it’s all about an organic balance between the give and take. 

Over the last, almost two years, I have developed relationships with amazing bloggers and people via WordPress. The talent out there is beautifully, abundantly full. It’s inspiring to read and interact with other blogs and bloggers. 

So, it really burns my bitchy biscuits when I spend my rare free time to interact with other bloggers’ content and they don’t reciprocate. 

Don’t.be.an.asshole.

It’s all about the give and take, people. If you want other bloggers to read your blog, read theirs. At the very least, give them a ‘like’. If you’re on the reader, it couldn’t be simpler to do this. 

Like, really. 

Another thing that kills me (since we’re being honest) is the amount of blogs out there that merely contain post after post of stock photos with quotes that may or may not belong to the blogger. 

These blogs sometimes get loads of attention. You stole content from someone else, and that’s what people ‘like’? 

Figures.

The bloggers I adore the most are those who you can tell spent time, energy, heart on what they post. 

I’m sharing some of my favorites, because it’s been too long since I last did this and these fabulous writers and bloggers deserve the attention and praise:

Charlotte Graham 

Kate 

No Love For Fatties

Stephanie 

When I Thought I Was Fat

I Will Not Live In Vain

Deb

The Revenge Wogger

Donkey Bytes

The Gay Stepdad 

Suzie Speaks 

The Shameful Sheep

Soul Gifts

I am so sorry if I forgot anyone. I went through my email and used the most recent posts from blogs I follow to find the blog addresses of the blogs above. Please let me know if we interact frequently on WordPress and I failed to list you here. I’ll make it up to you. 

Despite the hard work it is to gain legit followers, I think the hardest part of being a blogger is finding the balance between sharing your work on social media in a refrained it’s-cool-if-you-want-to-read-my-post-also-cool-if-you -don’t and being way too in everyone’s face about it. 

Because of this, I rarely remember to post on my Fatty McCupcakes Facebook page and Instagram. I do not want to be that person who people unfollow on every social media site for being way too overbearing and pushy. 

With that said, another one of my blogging annoyances is the lack of support from people you would think should be more supportive. 

I read an article awhile back about the struggles most budding writers face, and one of the biggest ones was the fact that you won’t always have the support of your close friends and family. Whether it’s because your content is disagreeable to the people you know, they don’t understand how to access your writing, or they simply don’t have the time or don’t care, it’s never fun to not be supported. 

I’m lucky that so many of my family and friends actively read my blog and support me in any way they can, but the absence of some makes me wonder. I know it shouldn’t matter, but it does. It does. 

I also wonder how I can have 400 some Facebook friends and not even 200 likes on my blog page. How hard is it to hit ‘like’? I’m not selling you something. I don’t bombard your feed with annoying, repetitive garbage. I don’t pester you for attention. 

So, what gives? 

These are just some of my personal struggles and annoyances that come with being a blogger. 

What are some of yours? I’d love to hear! 

 

Wintertime Fun

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

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