Pure Gold 

My mom is a great storyteller. Family stories have been passed down, retold countless times, and loved since I can remember. On Sunday, my mom told us a story I had never heard before, and how it’s even possible she never told us this doozy, I do not know. 

Because it’s pure gold. 

Back in the time of Mom Jeans, VHS, and Kenny Loggins cassette tapes, my mom and her brother had a battle of epic proportions. 

It was Christmastime, and my uncle was visiting, as he did every year. My cousin and I were young, and likely we were the reason the whole fam bam was at the park in the middle of December. 

For some insane reason, the topic of who was faster on foot between my mom and my uncle came up in conversation. My uncle swore he’d literally beat the pants off of my mom. 

Well, that pretty much sealed the deal. 

My mom and uncle readied themselves for a foot race that would easily rival that of Usain Bolt…if he were middle aged, out of shape, and if he considered tight Lee jeans appropriate running attire. 

Quite handy for the two marathon runners was that the particular park where we were had parallel bridges, not too far away from each other. My grandmother, humoring her two always-picked-last-for-sports-children said she’d call “ready or not”. 

I guess now is a good time to paint the scene.

My good ol’ Uncle Gary, or, My Own Personal John Candy was one of the best parts of my childhood. If my mom was a good storyteller, it’s only because she learned the craft from the king of all storytellers-her older brother. 


He was round, and, just like Santa, when he laughed, his belly shook like a bowl full of jelly. (And he laughed a lot, because he always had a new, mildly inappropriate joke up his sleeve.)


In essence, he was pleasantly, perfectly plump (he wouldn’t have been Uncle Gary had he been any different). 

As for my mom, it was she who I inherited my overly curvaceous bod, cellulite, and body hair from, so…

I think the picture is fairly clear. 

They were 100% the kids who cheated on running the mile in PE class (or walked the entirety, coming in with a record time of 12 minutes). 

Basically, we had a pair of real marathon winners.

I don’t think my mom even took the race seriously. She probably figured she’d have to embarrass him by beating the pants off him in front of God and everybody, or that he had a cheat or a trick ready and waiting. 

This was why she was far more concerned with what he was doing at the starting line, instead of readying herself for moving more quickly than she had in years. 

She was staring him down, incredulity and an ounce of fear growing, as his Rocky-esque stance proved he was ready and actually serious. 

Suddenly, Grandma called, “Go!” and it was all just a blur of color block windbreaker and handlebar mustache. 

My mom was glued to her spot. Stunned. 

Pretty quickly, she couldn’t contain her laughter and broke down in hysterics. 

She said, “At the starting gate, I collapsed in laughter. I saw him there, this 300 pound man, with his 32 year-old shoes flapping, going like the wind.”

As my mom was dissolving into a puddle of tear-soaked Jordache, Grandma was yelling, “Go, Judy! Just go a little bit, Judy!” 

After listening to this story, it was only natural that I dared my brother to our own relay race. 

I was fairly certain I’d beat the crap out of him. I’d only been an aerial yogaist for five weeks straight, and all of my walks to 7-11 had to make me more capable of movement than him. 

The last time I was witness to him doing anything that resembled physical exertion was when we went on a family picnic five years ago, and I dragged him on a “hike” up to a lookout, barely half a mile away. It was not his favorite. 
I figured I’d finish and have time to bake a cake before he came across the finish line. 

As he confidently, unwaveringly got into his runner’s stance, I began to doubt myself as a shoe-in for first place. 

Maybe he runs during his time off? Had I somehow completely missed that aspect of his life? 

I said to my mom, “I think I’m kinda scared!” 

She replied, “Maybe you should be. Sometimes fat people surprise you and they run like the wind!”

Spoiler Alert: I lost miserably.

Not only did I lose, I came incredibly close to eating asphalt. 

You know when you are trying to go faster than your body can catch up and your head has literally a head start? Well, that was me the entire 20 or so feet we ran. 

Not only did he beat me by running a hell of a lot faster than me, he did so with bare feet. 

When my dad yelled, “Go!” (BTW, my dad was excited enough to watch this spectacle, that he actually paused the golf he was watching, and said, “Now, I gotta see this.” as he practically ran outside), I thought my body would be moving quicker than it did. It was like I was in slo-mo, shlepping through molasses. Before I could even start actually moving, he had propelled his body through the finish line with his Fred Flinstone feet. 

It wasn’t even a competition. 

The two expert sprinters

Moral of the story: Don’t underestimate people carrying around some extra weight, because they can move. With the exception of this fat chick. I can’t move quickly for anything. 
Also, family stories are better when you don’t try to reenact them. Don’t let history repeat itself, people!  

Flashback Friday: Sudden Summer Shame

Happy Flashback Friday! 

I just realized that some of my newer readers might not know that I used to write for the U.K.-based online magazine, Shopper Lottie. It got to be a little much on top of working and coming up with content for my blog, because the Shopper Lottie content had to be original and not previously published. I guess I’m really not the writing machine that I would like to be. Still, it was a really awesome experience, and I still adore the magazine creator, Charlotte. 

Since it’s almost summer break, I thought I’d share a post I wrote for Shopper Lottie about that fun realization when you’re super not summer body ready. 

Let me know what you think in the comments! 

Six Summer Fashion Tips For When You “Forgot” to Get That Summer Bod

WTF Wednesdays #16

I have at least three posts sitting in my drafts folder just waiting to be finished. My excuse for not having a polished piece this week is that I’m a teacher and it’s the last week of school.

I’m just feeling lucky that my brain hasn’t melted.

Yesterday was spent out in the sun all day for Field Day. I could barely even.

I silently mouth or say outright, “WTF?!” at least 20 times a day in response to a wide assortment of inconveniences, ridiculous happenstances, strange personal choices, and annoyances. 

It’s basically my go-to response, because I’m a lady like that. 

So, for this week’s installment of #WTFW, I am sharing some WTFs with you. Ready or not, here they come! 

1. How is it that one minute I’m watching a video on how to make strawberry cheesecake macarons, and then, somehow, it’s three hours later and I’m in deep, searching through a rando’s Facebook pictures of their dog? Or, why is it I spend an ungodly amount of time scrolling the comment section of a video on how to fold a shirt? Why do I waste my time like this? I think I need therapy. 

2. When, after walking precisely 20 miles round trip to the work room, staff lounge, admin’s office, back to the work room for the tape I forgot, and back to my classroom, I realize my Fitbit is still charging on my computer. None of those steps counted. Might as well just go home and go to bed. The day is a wash. FML.

3. When one second I am peacefully, albeit horribly, singing to my latest favorite tune in the car, and the next, I am screaming obscenities, that would make a sailor blush, at the idiot who is driving 30 miles an hour on the FUCKING FREEWAY. 

Check out this video on YouTube:

source

This is 1,000% me. 

4. Sometimes I start my makeup on the opposite side of my face that I always start with, and I wonder if I’ve somehow entered a parallel universe. Or, I worry I’m losing my mind, because what kind of routine-driven person does that kind of thing?

5. Sometimes (always) I ask my boyfriend really ridiculous, inane questions that, most likely, make him question his undying love for me and are, 100%, why he has more gray hairs and some new wrinkles. I’ve personally aged the poor man. Some examples would be:
“Did you wash your hands?”

“Do you think it’s safe to eat this salami I left in my bag all day?”

“Did you lock the doors (for the 8,563rd time)?”

“Can you smell my breath from over there?”

“Do you think anyone at Panda Express will notice I’m not wearing a bra?”

“What do you think it means when someone’s pee is green? Asking for a friend.”

And, his absolute favorite: “Can you hold my purse while I use the restroom?”

 I don’t know why I’m crazy, I just am.  

6. When I buy my Friday Treat Donut at Starbucks (for $2, might I add) and there are freaking free donuts in the staff lounge. Fatty don’t play. WTF! 


7. This:


So, tell me: What makes you go “WTF”? I need some humor to get me through this last week, people! 

Weight Loss and Body Positivity

I decided to repost this for #fbf, because it’s still relevant, and I’m finally advocating for my health. Yup, I’m finally getting serious about losing some extra weight. What are your views on body positivity? Let me know in the comments. 

I have changed my view so many times on the topic of body positivity in relation to weight loss. I started out thinking body positivity was just another excuse for attention (the very existence of millions of Instagram accounts created for the sole purpose of the vapid need for praise and acceptance from strangers is just one tiny piece of evidence) and just one of the many ways people make it all about looks and appearance. Yes, I really felt this way (and if I am being honest, still feel this way about selfies and Instagram accounts filled to the brim with egocentric pictures). I also had a hard time watching people promote being unhealthy. Then, I changed my tune after learning more about the meaning behind body positivity. After this, I started to believe that being overweight doesn’t always mean being unhealthy. Thus, began my intense eating-everything-streak, simply in the name of being big and beautiful.

Continue reading “Weight Loss and Body Positivity”

Flashback Friday: Seven Minutes in Heaven-Help-Me

Image courtesy of Popsugar Fitness

I am, quite possibly, the laziest, weakest bish on this planet. You think you might be the crowning winner of this coveted title? Just wait, you will be voting for this fatty real soon. 

I was sitting at a work training a few weeks ago. As usual, I was eavesdropping. Two super fit women were discussing this free app that follows you through a seven minute workout. Seven minutes. 

Gurrrrrl, that’s so my kind of workout. Forget those hour long, sweat and puke sessions at the yoga studio. Forget the bike rides around the block that take me the rest of the night to recover from. Forget spending my hard-earned Netflix and chill with Ben & Jerry time on being uncomfortable and sweaty. Eff.that.noise. 

So, obviously I downloaded the app and gave it a whirl. 

I imagined myself looking exactly like the fit chick in the video, because in seven minutes I can do anything. 

Anything. 

Actually, seven minutes is a long time. I can’t do anything in seven minutes. 

Well, I did something, but it looked nothing like the stupidly svelte girl in the video. I didn’t look a thing like the girl who didn’t even break a sweat. The girl who doesn’t even need to do seven fucking minutes of fitness. 

This was the breakdown of my seven minutes of shame:

Oh, this is easy!! I can do a million of these over-the-head-body-ball-things.

I can feel my abs growing stronger and stronger. Also, my arms are stupid strong. 

Actually, my arms are limp noodles and I don’t like this. 

My arms are going to fall off and I’m going to die. 

*looks at app timer on phone*

No effing way it’s only been 45 seconds. 

Hold up. 

My timer has to be glitching. *spends 30 seconds checking*

Oh, phew! The next exercise. Thank God. I almost puked. 

Um, I can’t balance on a ball on my side and lift my leg. Like, that’s humanly impossible. 

*awkwardly spends entire time devoted to ball balance exercise trying to get on ball*

What a friggin joke. I’d like to see anyone but Extreme Exercise Girl balance on a ball like that. 

Oooh, a lay down one! I totally rock the socks off lay-down-fitness. 

Ow. These hurt my virgin tailbone. 3 is good. 

Yussss! Another lay down one and all I have to do is lift my legs into the air as I hold myself up, balancing my gut on the ball. 

Simple. 

Not simple. 

OK. That was a barf burp. 

Gross. 

I’m feeling insanely sweaty. I’m gonna skip the push ups to take off my bra. I don’t want to sweat in my bra. I just washed it two months ago. 

*exerts more energy in taking off sweaty bra than in the entire workout*

I’m feeling much better. That break gave me the oomph I needed to get me through. 

I bet I only have a minute or two left. I can do this and finish strong! 

*glances at phone*

It’s been three fucking minutes???? 

I think I’ve given this all I’ve got. Besides, I’ve worked so hard, I’m literally seeing stars. 

I bet it’s not medically safe for me to workout.

Well, I think I’m done. Seven minutes is the maximum amount, and it takes time to get to that level of endurance. 

Exactly. 

I’ll get there eventually. 

Guys, I half-assed my way through three minutes of a seven minute workout. 

I couldn’t even make it through seven minutes of physical activity.

I’m a lost cause. 

Seven minutes of exercise can suck it when there can be s’mores instead (Don’t even start with your, “But, you can have both” BS. Shhh. Let people enjoy things).

The biggest bold-face lie I’ve ever told. My favorite is when I wear this shirt to Cold Stone.



Flashback Friday: Whip My Ass Ass

Just today, I thought I’d finally join in on my student’s Just Dance brain break video. They always ask if I’ll dance with them, but I just say, “Oh, I don’t want to scare you.” That seems to make them stop asking, so I can continue to sit like a fat lump, wondering where my childhood energy and zest for sudden movements went to. I don’t know what came over me today, but I wanted to Kung Foo Fight like funky Billy Chin for some reason. 

Well…

It was a terrible idea. When I started “swinging with the hand”, I knocked over a stand, my coffee, and stumbled into the map on the wall, which made it roll up with a deafening, thunderous roar. 

All of my students stopped dead in their ninja tracks. 

Their eyes said it all: My teacher is so not cool.

This is why trying to find my non-existent moves is best when behind closed doors. 

I’m just so glad I didn’t let anyone talk me into joining the teacher talent show group. 

*shudders*

Behold, my last attempt at Just Dance:

So, my boyfriend has been going to personal training kickboxing three times a week (he’ll probably look like a white, mustachioed Oscar de la Hoya in a month-f*%#ing men), and while he’s gone, I hork out on junk and watch Netflix. 

It occurred to me that it’s not really in my best interest to get even fatter while my boyfriend beefs up. It’s one thing if you’re polishing off a package of Oreos, together, in stained, oversized t-shirts, in front of American Horror Story, and a whole other nasty animal to glutton alone, while the other is being punched in the stomach by an MMA fighter. It’s kinda not fair. 

So, I thought- what better time to drag out my dusty yoga mat and bust out a couple sloth-like moves. 

Side note- anyone remember the reason I started this blog-the yoga journey I kicked off like a bat out of hell? Or, more like a fat girl with no real idea that it would require an immense amount of effort I wasn’t ready to give? Yeah…that’s not embarrassing or anything. 

So, my yoga mat wasn’t just dusty from little use, it literally was crusty-hard from old sweat from my last yoga session, 45 years ago. It actually almost cracked in two. 

Well, I promptly threw it back into the closet and about gave up, until I remembered that I’ve always meant to be a breakout dance star, a la Flashdance (or more realistically, MTV’s Made). So, what better idea than to Whip/Nae Nae my way to fitness?

I don’t really have anything to say about my solo dance party, other than if you’re going to sweat it out to Just Dance, and you have as much rhythm as a flag pole, close your blinds, your curtains, and turn your lights off. Ain’t no one ready to see what you think is “dancing”. 

My Whip Nae/Nae looked more like “Quick/Call 911/I Have Whip Lash. 

FYI: flexibility is a prerequisite to whipping your whatever. 

I fear I’ll never be able to turn my head, freely, to the right again. 

This is why eating the rest of my Mom’s cream cheese pumpkin bars was a better idea. 

It’s like I never learn. 


source

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: Cup O’ Crack 

For this week’s #fbf, I decided to re-post my Cup O’ Crack craziness. Currently, I’m on spring break and steadily eating my way to This-Isn’t-Even-Funny-Anymore-Get-a-Grip town. On my way home from brunch yesterday, I almost stopped at the store to get the ingredients for Cup O’ Crack. Thinking it wasn’t wise to have more than one serving of Cup O’ Crack in the house, I got a king-sized Reese’s and a bag of BBQ sunflower seeds. When I got home, I ate my loot, fell asleep on the couch, and woke up an hour later to sunflower seed shells everywhere. EVERYWHERE. I can’t even right now. So, how about I just wrap this up and get on with it…

When I’m stressed, worried, tired, happy, celebrating, mourning, or basically, whenever I’m breathing, I eat. I eat in a big way. I’m not proud of this, but it is what it is. Until I figure out how to separate my emotions from food, I’ll continue digging into a pint of Ben & Jerry’s Peanut Buttah Core after a shitty day.

Sidebar: If you like peanut butter, you must go, right now, and buy this. I’m not shitting you. Slap on your wrinkly jeans, get your coat, car keys, and get your ass to 7-11. It’s that good.

So, I’ve recently taken to enjoying nightly, almost-instant microwaved marshmallow heaven, and its mind blowing. 

Let me tell you just how fucking fat I am. 

Are you ready?

OK, I pour enough mini marshmallows to fill a large mug about halfway. Then, I get my Chex Mix ready (I’ve thought about using something far tastier, like Fruity Pebbles, but those would most assuredly send me into a diabetic coma. So, I go with the healthier, smarter, er…least ridiculous option of plain corn cereal).

Pro tip: Only microwave the marshmallows for about 30 seconds. Any more than that and you will have a sticky, gooey explosion of epic proportions. Then, your boyfriend will attempt to microwave his leftovers and there will be an altercation. Apparently, marshmallow and spaghetti don’t pair well.

Once the sweet, sugary, pillowy clouds of fluff are nicely melted, I pour in about a 1/2 cup of Chex Mix and mix carefully. Gotta get those little tasteless shits covered in goodness.

Then, I eat that shit.

It’s sticky, sweet, crunchy, warm, satisfying. It satiates Martha*.

Oh, didn’t I tell you I’ve named my stomach fat? Her name is Martha. The fucking bitch.

When I’m eating this Cup O’ Crack, I’m in another world. I’m riding technicolor stripper boot-wearing unicorns. The sky is dotted with cupcake clouds and cotton candy snow floats down around me.

No, that’s crazy.

I’m actually sitting on the couch in my stretched out skull-print pajama pants, watching Drop Dead Diva, with marshmallow strings hanging from my chin.

Such a glamorous life I lead.

Jealous?

 

I wasn’t even playing. THIS is Cup O’ Crack!

*Apparently, my fat used to be called Martha. I must have forgotten I’d already named her. Eh. Martha…Bertha…pretty much the same name.

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.