WTFW: Pasta-palooza Pity Party

Ya’ll.

Ugh.

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

Don’t.EVEN.

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

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

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

I.have.no.control. 

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

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

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

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

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

A FUCKING PASTA EXTRAVAGANZA. 

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

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

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

It has already been advertised.

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

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

Pray for me.

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

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




All of the memes I generated here were done on imgflip

The Five Stages of Thanksgiving 


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We all know about the five stages of grief, but did you know there are five stages of Thanksgiving? No? Well, sit down and unbutton your pants. It’ll be a bumpy ride along the lumpy gravy train to Food Coma Town. All aboard! 

Anticipation-

Stage one begins at the first sight of a fallen leaf. This glorious sight means pants weather. Fat pants weather. Fat pants weather means Thanksgiving is a-coming. With Preparing-for-Thanksgiving-Fat-Pants, comes the ceasing of any and all grooming below the groin area. The growing hair provides warmth as the nights grow colder. Also growing, is the instinctual need to add a layer of blubber to the body for insulation. Diets begin to fizzle out; PSLs begin to replace protein smoothies; and an anticipation for what’s to come makes even the most sensible of ladies strike up a pumpkin baking frenzy before September is even said and done. 

As the days get shorter and the big day gets closer, the more competitive of eaters begin training their stomachs for the massive meal with marathon eating that includes, but is not limited to: the better part of large cheese pizzas, pints of Cherry Garcia, and entire bags of wasabi kettle chips. 

Dreams are feverish, wanting, longing. 

Delirium-

Stage two occurs during the day in question. The anticipation of mounds of gravy soaked carbohydrates and creamy cocktails to wash it all down has finally come to fruition. Despite a meals-worth of gherkins, deviled eggs, and shrimp dip,  plates are piled high and inhaled with wild abandon. Oh, the rapture. The exhaltation. The delirium. 

Food is consumed at an alarming rate, and fabric is pushed to max capacity. 

Disgust-

Somewhere between buttering a fifth dinner roll and the unbuttoning, unzipping, and unraveling of anything constricting, a realization that “filthy pig” doesn’t even come close begins to weigh on the psyche. For only a split second, “Maybe I should stop?” crosses the mind, but someone says “pumpkin cheesecake”,  and any and all semblance of humanity is lost amidst belches tasting of turkey giblets. 

Depression-

Stage four generally comes during the requisite food-induced coma directly following the unadulterated eating frenzy that went down like something normally reserved for the animal channel. After realizing that a five gallon bowl of jello salad has been demolished by only one person, in a span of four hours, a deep depression is expected.

The depression stage is especially bad if pant buttons are blown off due to the sheer force of an expanding gut, or expensive Spanx can’t even, so they jump ship. 

Phrases like: 

“What the actual fuck is wrong with me? You promised yourself you wouldn’t eat six potatoes worth of mashed potatoes again!” And, “Did I even enjoy that half a pie I inhaled?” is common self-talk. 

Usually, one must ride out this disastrous depressive stage at home, on the couch, with plenty of Maalox, hobo hair, and possibly Depends. 

Amnesia-
The last stage of Thanksgiving is amnesia, as anyone who survives Thanksgiving forgets the killer heartburn, diarrhea rash, and shame in less than a year’s time. 

Unlike the five stages of grief, the five stages of Thanksgiving are cyclical and incurable. 

Some scientists and theorists believe that there is something about the falling of leaves, the arrival of layered clothing weather and the ripening of squash that sparks something animalistic, ugly, and shocking. 

The only way to be temporarily relieved of the pressures of Thanksgiving and too-tight fat pants is to participate. One must accept that eating your weight in stuffing is just going to happen. It also helps to remember that after the holiday season, you still have a solid five months to procrastinate starting your 20th attempt at a “Summer Body Diet”. 


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Enjoy drenching your plate in gravy. Take pleasure in numbing your fat pain receptors with booze. Be mindful of how delicious pumpkin pie feels sliding down your gizzard. Enjoy the glorious gluttony! 

Happy Thanksgiving from Fatty Cake! 

Food Baby Part Two

So, as I mentioned in my previous post, I meant to share pictures of my food dalliances, but got too carried away with the story of my cupcake ninja moves at a baby shower. 

Last week, on break, I had a permanent food baby. In fact, now that I think of it, I have always had a permanent food baby. Oy vey.

I guess, without further ado-Why I’m Fat #3,456:

Mmmmm almond gelato is most definitely winning!
Hot-crossed-pulled-pork-deliciousness-bun!
Pink marshmallow s’mores skillet #fattyparadise
Apple and pear crisp skillet with melting vanilla bean i-scream-for-fuck-yes!
Demolished! I was too hungry to get pictures of the sushi. #hangry #impatient
 

Strawberry mochi. My friend didn’t like hers, so I ate those too…
Asparagus, red pepper, and provolone croissant. What isn’t pictured is the peanut butter pie I ate for dessert breakfast.
Dirrrty chai #thatshowwedo
While this seemingly innocuous-looking quiche would be the obvious healthy choice, it was just far too buttery and cheesy to be innocent.
Life tip #87: Do not make eye contact with anyone while eating an ice cream cone. Especially when you shouldn’t be eating one…
The most amazing taste sensation in all the land. I give you-Mug o’ Forever Fat (I put it all in a giant mug. Get it?)
GET IN MA BELLY
 

I thought I took more pictures of what I ate. It doesn’t even look that bad….

But, it was. I’m still hurting. 

I’ve been taking a shot of Pepto with a Kaopectate chaser before bed for four nights. 
#helpme

So It Begins 

Because I am starting this new and improved Fatty McCupcakes Lifestyle, I’ve decided to be unrelentingly annoying about it. Why? Because eating healthier, food prepping, planning, and actively deciding to not eat all the cupcakes is hard. It sucks. So, I’m here to bring it to you real-like. No  sugar-coating, no building myself up to be this super human who can do it all, because I can’t and I won’t.

Continue reading “So It Begins “

Shopper Lottie-Those Damn Diets

Happy Monday, ya’ll! My latest post is up on Shopper Lottie. Check it out below:

5 Things That Happen When You’re On a Damn Diet

Let me know what you think over at Shopper Lottie. Did I forget anything? Let me know in the comments!

Photography credits for featured image go to Michael Artemis of Artemis Photo Works.