I can’t believe my little trip down food memory lane is almost over. What was your best travel meal or treat? Let me know in the comments!
I have missed complaining about how fat I am (while doing fuck all about it) so much. So much.
I’ve been pretty focused on my travel posts, because of my trip coming up (in two months-cue the obsessive worrying about literally every possible eventuality), that my I’m-a-failure-at-adulting-because-I-can’t-be-assed-to-put-my-registration-sticker-on-my-license-plate-for-four-months-until-I’m-pulled-over-and-I-eat-entire-tubs-of-Cool-Whip-in-one-sitting posts have kind of been put on the back burner.
But, good news (or not, depending on who you are) I’m finally getting around to trying to lose some weight before my trip, so I’m posting a diet fail post!
I think I’d have really shocked myself and disappointed you all had I attempted to get my dieting shit together in a timely manner.
No, just as can be expected with Fatty McCupcakes, I’m due to depart the states in two months, so now, when it’ll be next to impossible to make much of a dent in my blobby body, I decide it’s finally time.
I’m a fucking genius and I’m winning at life SO HARD.
So, I think I’ve mentioned that I’m a hardcore fan of Weight Watchers. Not only have I had success on the program (I lost 50 pounds 10 years and 60 pounds ago), I’m not keen on restrictive diets that don’t allow me a fucking doll-sized piece of cake even.
I LOVE that I can basically eat anything (within reason and expertly portion controlled) and still lose weight.
However, with the latest WW program, the points are less and the good stuff is worth more. Sugar is more of a sin than fat now. However, there are loads more zero point foods (chicken, eggs, beans, fruit, most vegetables, plain Greek yogurt, etc.). So, I guess it’s supposed to be easier or whatever.
Y’ALL, I CAN BARELY EAT ANYTHING.
If I want to eat my favorite Naked granola with my Greek yogurt for breakfast, there’s no way I can have carbs for lunch or dinner AND eat half a pint of Halo Top ice cream (Halo Top, your deliciously sinful, yet low-cal ice cream is my SALVATION).
It really blows I can’t eat granola AND ice cream. It’s not like I’m asking for donuts and whole pints of Ben & Jerry’s, damn.
I’ve decided that I’d rather eat Halo Top and popcorn like a fat piece of shit in the evenings than eat carbs during the day.
Thus, I’ve had to get creative.
Tuesday night I had beef stroganoff over broccoli, ya’ll. BROCCOLI. I got to *enjoy* my broccoli masterpiece while my boyfriend ate his stroganoff with egg noodles. The fucker.
As if that wasn’t bad enough, we had stroganoff for leftovers last night and since I’d eaten all of the broccoli like a starving sugar addict on day five without the white stuff, all I had left were Brussel sprouts.
Brussel sprouts and stroganoff DON’T MIX. It was not my favorite.
Brussel sprouts are not pasta. As my boyfriend says, “Barfel sprouts are the devil’s nads.”
I’ve also had to get more creative for lunch. I’ve been eating nitrate-free salami, cheese sticks, and cherry tomatoes. I swear it tastes almost nothing like antipasto salad.
But, it’s not terrible.
Well, yesterday, my organic greenhouse-grown cherry tomatoes were still a little wet from when I rinsed them that morning.
I was absentmindedly wiping them off onto a paper towel as I popped them into my mouth, eyes glued on my phone.
When I went to wipe my mouth, I did a double take. It was covered in yellow-green-brown stains.
The offending stain
I thought something smelled funny. I knew it wasn’t that fart.
That doesn’t look right.
I knew I should have scrubbed them, instead of just splashed water over them.
At this point, I was obsessively smelling my paper towel, while one of my students, inside working on make up work, kept stealing “What-the-hell” glances at me.
Then, I smelled my fingers, the inside of the tomato tub, and the paper towel 34 more times.
Poop. It smells like poop.
Instant fucking panic.
While I was wondering how long it’d take for the tomato poop to make me get sick and die, I messaged my boyfriend.
His response, “Baby, I highly doubt your tomatoes are covered in poop.”
Because he had to be wrong, I took to a Facebook group I started to get a woman’s opinion. I shared a picture of the paper towel and basically asked how long I had.
Then, I sat at my desk, just waiting to die.
Oh no. My stomach is gurgling.
I probably have some deadly intestinal disease now.
I better just be proactive and put in for a substitute.
I wonder if the hospital would like a heads up?
I got a response to my picture from a very professional-sounding person who regularly grows tomatoes in a greenhouse.
The green-yellow-brown stains from the tomatoes were tomato tar.
I’m still not excited that I ingested something called ‘tomato tar’, but it wasn’t poop. It.wasn’t.poop.
Another near death crisis averted.
See what perils I am faced with when dieting?
I don’t know who said this, but they are my people
This is me limbering up for The Big Meal.
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!
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 belt. 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 individuals start to prepare their stomachs for the absurd amount of food that they’ll be stuffing into them.
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.
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 pure delight.
Food is consumed at an alarming rate, and fabric is pushed to max capacity.
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.
This is a bonus stage that only the truest of fat pants champions ever reach. This is when you become truly drunk on food. Instead of blood, you’ve got Grandma’s famous gravy in all it’s sodium-induced glory coursing through your veins. Incoherent babbling and hallucinations are common. If you’ve ever thought you were eating a piece of pie, but upon sobering up, you realize you ate half of a fabric leaf napkin ring, you’ll know you reached this challenge level.
Additionally, if you become food, you’re delirious af.
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.
Usually, one must ride out this disastrous depressive stage at home, on the couch, with plenty of Maalox, hobo hair, and possibly Depends.
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 availability of pumpkin spice everything that sparks something animalistic, ugly, and shocking in usually sensible individuals.
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 your favorite Fatty!
This is a rant and a dedication. So, buckle your seat belts, people. It’s gonna be a bumpy ride.
After yet another carb-filled and merrymaking trip to Apple Hill, I’ve learned more than just how far I can push the load-bearing limit of my clothing or exactly how many fruit-filled pastries I can eat before my stomach implodes. I learned this year that:
1. People are assholes, even when they are surrounded by apple pastries, alcohol, and an endless assortment of exciting crap to buy.
2. Surrounded by said assholes, if you’re among non-assholes, you are far richer than the dick in the Tesla who thought it was cool to park in the pick-your-own apple orchard.
This Apple Hill year, I brought along my childhood best friend. We’ve legit been friends since we were two. Some years we’ve hated each other, but, somehow, we always find each other again.
The first time this friend attended our Apple Hill shenanigans, my mom almost lit the motel bathroom on fire trying to light a Hostess Sno Ball turned into a birthday cake fireball from hell. My aunt almost didn’t see her 45th year.
Since, my friend has admitted that her trips to Apple Hill without us are just not the same.
We left for The Hill in the morning on a sunny, way-too-warm-for-fall Friday. Despite the fact that the weather report said it’d be almost 80, I wore a scarf and ankle boots, because, HELLO, it’s practically a basic bitch law that if you go to a pumpkin patch, you wear a scarf and boots. Bonus points if the pattern on your scarf is chevron.
Our first lunch was spent at a popular spot, so it took almost an hour to stand in line and get our food. Because it was still early, the wait and the endless people didn’t affect my mood too much.
Right after devouring a cheeseburger and garlic fries, it was sprinkled caramel apple time! It’s tradition!
After I got my sprinkle fix, I was pretty much over walking around in the heat, looking at the same stuff, different farm.
While my mom and aunt looked at every single item, at every single booth, making friends with every single crafter as they went, my friend and I parked ourselves in the shade with an apple cider slushy.
After way too much time in the sun and heat, we decided it was beer o’clock, so we headed to the Jack Russell Brewery. It’s the only brewery in the area, so it is a must-do every time we go to Apple Hill.
Without a doubt, every visit to Jack Russell is memorable, and this time was no different.
This year, though, we decided that we very much dislike the people who own/run this establishment. They are rude with a capital bitch-eat-a-Snickers.
Due to the unseasonably warm weather, the umbrellas were a hot commodity. After a table full of college-age girls near us had left, we tried to position their umbrella so we could get some shade. As we were trying (and failing) to make the umbrella grace us with sweet shade, one of the Cave Bitches (their meadery is in a cave-like room and they are serious bitches, thus their apropos nicknames) started going around closing the umbrellas.
Um, are you blind?
This incredibly unfriendly lady wouldn’t know customer service or kindness if they each, in turn, smacked her upside her RBF.
So, after being so kindly assisted with the umbrellas, we decided to just move one over to our table. In the process of doing this, we struggled a bit as the umbrella was awkward and there were quite a few trees.
From the meadery cave, about 20 yards away, the Cave Bitch started screaming at us.
“WHAT ARE YOU DOING?! YOU’RE HURTING THE TREES!”
This terrible person couldn’t even crawl out of her rotting crypt to speak in a regular voice level or to, gee, offer to HELP US?!
I hope we ruined your tree, Cave Wench.
I had had just enough alcohol to feel brave, so in order to not make a scene, we moved to the other side of the outdoor seating area and drank an ungodly amount of beer.
The next morning, it was Apple Cider Donut Time. Along with Beer o’ Clock and Cupcake Thirty, it’s one of my favorite times of the day!
I was pretty much in heaven as I devoured my fried cake and coffee. But, then, some asshole’s dog wouldn’t stop barking.
If you know me personally, you know I’m obsessed with dogs. I love the shit out of their drooly, adorable faces, but sometimes dogs can be left at home.
I know that’s a novel concept for some people.
This particular dog, the one who majorly interrupted my enjoyment of the sound of my gluttony, simply could not handle the sight of other dogs.
So, one must ask…
WHY THE FUCK DID YOU BRING YOUR OTHER-DOG-HATING DOG TO THE MOST CROWDED RANCH, WHERE OTHER DOGS ARE SURE TO BE FOUND?
Because I’m an asshole (that’s Asshole speaking). That’s why.
After this, I had a mediocre apple treat that contained, precisely, one slice of apple, bought a metric ton of fudge, and drank even more cider.
When we were attempting to leave the 80th farm of the day, a woman, unearthing her child from underneath all of the crap she bought and was storing in her stroller, decided a fine place to do this was smack dab in the middle of the narrow roadway.
At this point, I was still hungover, sweating profusely, and had killer acid reflux from all of the apple I had eaten.
I couldn’t even.
After six hours, she was finally done unloading the stroller and we were able to leave.
I may or may not have rolled down my window to thank her for making us late for more eating.
Don’t keep this fatty from her eighth apple brownie. Don’t even.
Despite the rude and pretentious people we encountered, the bullshit heat, and the unbearable indigestion, being with people who made my food baby bump jiggle from infectious laughter made it all worthwhile.
My favorite part of the trip was leaving the brewery, drunk and laughing obnoxiously at the spaceships we found by the Porta Potties (they were bee catchers). We piled into the car (don’t worry, my aunt was driving and totally sober and capable), excited for impending Chinese dinner (as if we had not had enough). My mom kept yelling, “Look out, Dana, there’s a car!” every time we passed every reflective sign on the road. I was laughing so hard, I could barely breathe, as I sang along (horribly) to Eric Church’s Springsteen, head back, staring at the endless stars in the sky through the moonroof.
So, take that Idiot Dog Owner, Stroller Simpleton, and Cave Bitch, you were no match for 10,000 calories all from carbs, fabulous, but unnecessary junk, and 100% necessary-for-my-sanity ladies who know how to party.
Apple Hill 2017 is one for the books.
When I think about 17, I think about my best friend.
Because I just got back from Apple Hill and haven’t given “birth” to my current food baby yet, I felt this was an appropriate flashback post. I have no shame…
I don’t even know where to start.
I think there’s no hope for me.
I try to be good.
No. That’s a boldface lie. I’ll be real. I don’t try. Not at all.
My “trying” is remembering to ask for nonfat milk in my venti salted caramel mocha.
This past week it’s been fall break for us teachers over in my neck of the woods. Because I had no solid, established plans to go somewhere cool, I knew I’d be making the rounds at my favorite eating establishments.
Because it isn’t fall break unless I eat my weight in carbs and almost slip into a diabetic coma.
So, I thought I’d share with you some of the ridiculousness I put into my fat gob this past week. It’s like a really pathetic travel picture slideshow, but instead of pictures of me in front of the Grand Canyon, you get to see exactly why I’m struggling to button my new stretchy jeans.
But, first, I have to share with you just how much of a lost cause I am. It’s been a minute since I’ve shared a diet woe or food foible, so it was bound to happen that I’d find myself knee deep in embarrassment or ridiculousness.
On Saturday, I attended a family member’s baby shower. I was super excited to go, because I heard that they were ordering bundtinis from Nothing Bundt Cakes. Their cakes are just ungodly good. They must use a metric ton of sugar, butter, and unicorn blood in just one cake. That has to be why they’re so good.
I also heard that if you didn’t RSVP and you just showed up, you wouldn’t get a bundtini, because they were ordering just enough for the attendees and no extra.
I made sure I RSVP’d by phone, email, snail mail, and telegram.
It was so hard waiting for cupcake o’clock. Pure hell.
When the time finally came to have our bundtinis, it was utter agony to choose just one.
I could have eaten one entire cupcake tier and still had room for a steak dinner.
Eventually, I settled on red velvet.
It was delectable, but quite small. I really needed another bundtini, or 7…
There were still, at least, 15 little morsels of heaven left. I reported this interesting discovery to my mom. I told her I was most definitely going to eat another one.
She said, “Well, what if some people haven’t gotten theirs yet?”
To this, I responded:
“Ya snooze, ya lose, ladies!”
Cupcakes, just sitting out in the open, after a good 20 minutes, are fair game in my book.
Still, it made me question the possibility of just grabbing one and eating it right in front of God and everybody.
So, I scoped the cupcake spot out for a good 10 minutes until the coast was clear. Once there was no one in sight, I snatched one, and made a beeline for the bathroom.
Yes, I felt the need to have more than my fair share of cupcakes, and in utter disgrace, I scarfed down someone else’s designated cupcake as I hid in.the.bathroom.
The fact that my gut is resting ever so elegantly on the counter is evidence that I didn’t even need ONE cupcake.
This short aside ended up being a little more long-winded than I had first intended. So, I’ll share my gluttonous menu from this past week in a separate post.
*Mother-to-be: If you read this, know you positively glowed with happiness and impending motherhood. I, in no way, wanted to upstage you with my food baby belly. This was unplanned, unintended, and rather uncomfortable. Please accept my sincerest apologies.
I’m about to embark, yet again, on the yearly event that single-handedly is the reason I’m fat. I’m hoping that while ya’ll are reading this, I’ll be on my third apple cider donut or nose deep in a sprinkle-covered caramel apple. Mmmm. Yes.
Check out how I went ape shit last year at Apple Hill.
I blogged last year about my time in Glutton’s Paradise AKA Apple Hill. This post basically outed me as a food whore. It’s not like we didn’t already know that with the type of posts I write, but this was my first post involving any type of visual proof.
Since, I’ve been pretty IDGAF about what my pictures I post here and on social media portray.
I’m fat and I’m addicted to rainbow sprinkles.
Get over it.
So, without further ado, here are this year’s pictures of the annual Eat-Until-You-Are-Comatose-And-Then-Eat-Some-More trip.
In ending, here is my promo photo for LuLaRoe leggings. If you haven’t gotten sucked in yet, RUN…to the nearest pop up. They are the best leggings I’ve ever sucked my fat into. The.best.
Notice how stretchy they are. Notice how they delicately caress my bottom butt. Notice how busy they are so you can’t see my bumps and lady lumps.
So, even after a weekend of eating my weight in food, I can still rock a semi-decent look.
Whenever summer starts to loosen its death grip on the weather, and crisper mornings start to require a little more clothing, I feel my heart become lighter, brighter.
Surely, we all know, since I’m Fatty McCupcakes, that part of why I love autumn so much is because it means no more exposed chub. Hands down, autumn and winter fashion is my favorite, not only because more of my body is covered, but because I love what I get to cover my body in-cardigans galore, plaid scarves, and every type of boot imaginable.
Pumpkin-flavored-everything starts to be available, and my inner, wannabe-baker starts to stockpile sprinkles, sugar skull cupcake liners, and bags of baking sugar. And, sometimes, I actually get around to baking something delicious.
Warm, rich stews appear in the dinner rotation, and suddenly, homemade hot apple cider sounds like a good idea.
I start to purchase huge bags of candy for trick or treaters (no, these never get busted into before Halloween), and I start creating my next, too-involved Halloween costume for school.
So, essentially, I’m just like every other basic, white bitch, dusting off her Uggs.
If it’s basic to love a season so much that you go hog wild on doing positively everything that makes said season fun as shit, then label me Basic AF, with a capital Chambray and Chevron.
I don’t even care.
But, if you love autumn and all that comes with it with every fiber of your being like I do, it’s likely due to something deeper than PSLs and artsy wet leaf Instagram shots.
You probably had loving, involved parents who pointed out the changing leaves and talked to you about why the seasons change.
You likely had a family who took you to pumpkin patches to pick the *perfect* pumpkin to carve. And then you went home to make hot apple cider.
Maybe your mom took you on Sunday drives in the rain, so that you could witness, first hand, the changing season in all its resplendent glory.
So, it’s settled. I’m a basic, but Canva-graphic-deep, autumn-obsessed bitch.
I’ve said in earlier posts that when the seasons change, I think of Elko. I don’t know what it is about that place. Especially since I positively hated living there the better part of the first year.
Still, after so many years, when autumn arrives, it reminds me of the beauty that is Elko.
Here’s what really sings in my heart when autumn rolls in with the dry leaves and fireplace smell:
Muddy roads and slanted rain on dusty windows.
The smell of rich earth, wet leaves. An old heater. Burning wood.
Heavy, low-lying clouds, blanketing brown sagebrushed hills. Wet, dark, slate.
The blue-tinged sunshine. Crisp blue skies. Orange, brown, red.
The taste of cinnamon and cloves. Pumpkin. Yeast.
Enveloping darkness and lighted windows projecting warmth and a story.
This is autumn.
This is autumn, bitch.
As I was standing in the line at the grocery store, wearing my “Namaste In Shape” tank, I pondered how bad it looked that I was buying two pieces of cake, a bottle of Moscato and a bag of Cheetos.
I mean, I know people were judging the chubby chick buying, at least, 4,000 calories worth of junk, in a shirt that proclaims she’d rather stay in shape.
I’d be judging me too.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m not delusional. I know this tank doesn’t magically make me look like a yoga-obsessed health freak. As much as I’d like it to camouflage all of my lumps and bumps, and be the fat person’s version of the magical Cloak of Invisibility, I know it’s not.
I just like the color and the fit. It doesn’t cling to my stomach and it doesn’t get wedged between my back fat rolls.
It’s the perfect compliment to my fat pants.
It just so happens to make a false statement. Extremely false. A bold-faced lie.
I’ve never been fit. Literally never. I’ve gone from baby fat to teenager fat to adult fat.
So, as I stood, balancing my evening of fuck-it-I-had-a-bad-week, I got to thinking about all of the ridiculous things I’ve done in my favorite tank o’ lies:
1. Walked to 7-11 to purchase chocolate and peanut butter cupcakes. At least I walked. (If you’ve never had these cupcakes and you like peanut butter, you’ve been majorly missing out.)
2. Stood in line outside at our neighborhood burger and wing stand. Drool stains. No bra. Zero fucks.
3. Sat on the couch with a paper towel bib as I balanced half a watermelon on my lap.
4. Made a tray of no-bake Reese’s diabetes bars that I hid in my sock drawer and inhaled over the next two days.
5. Rode the elevator up two flights of stairs to the gym, where I just used the bathroom.
6. Laid on the couch with Netflix and three beers, not getting up to do the dinner dishes or even to get first dessert.
7. Drove, not even two blocks, to mail a letter- a letter officially cancelling the gym membership I had for a year but never used.
It’s been super fun going over all the fun I’ve had in my trusty tank. Maybe, at some point, before it becomes more chocolate syrup stain than cotton, I’ll wear it to exercise.
If y’all ever see a shirt that says “Namast’ay Fat”, let me know ASAP.
Last week, my boyfriend and I went on a quickie road trip up through Portland and on to Mount Saint Helens (I almost typed “Mount Rushmore”, and that’s where I said we went when the gas station attendant asked us where we were off to the morning we left. It’s a wonder I can even function).
Mount Saint Helens is an active stratovolcano located in Washington state, about 50 miles northeast of Portland (thanks, Wikipedia). It last erupted in 2008, but it’s most famous eruption was on May 18, 1980. Growing up, I heard stories of how the ash from the 1980 eruption found its way nearly 400 miles to the deck at my grandparent’s cabin on Coeur d’ Alene Lake in Idaho. My mother said the ash blocked out the sun and it looked like the end of days.
Since I always heard the stories of the eruption growing up, and I teach my students every year about the cause and effect of volcanos, it was decided that it would be our summer destination.
We left Reno around 7:30 AM, stopped in Klamath Falls for some Taco Time lunch and a Dutch Bros. coffee, and arrived in the Portland area around 5:30 PM. It was a long day of straight driving, but it was the start of our vacation, so there was no bloodshed yet.
We stayed with my aunt, who was gracious enough to host us. She had her pool ready and raring to go, so we definitely took advantage of that luxury. Our TBs (tired butts) were very grateful.
We stopped at Tom’s Pancake House to fill up, as we planned on doing some hiking (to be honest, I was really hoping there’d be less hiking and more sitting in a scenic spot, eating the “hiking” snacks we packed). When I saw that Tom’s had an option to top your waffle with Oregon marionberries, it was an easy choice! I’m not really sure what a marionberry is, but since we don’t usually see them in Nevada, I had to try them.
When we got back into the car, we used Google to get the directions to the mountain.
Before we had left Reno, we did a small amount of research and knew that there was an observatory and plenty of hiking trails to choose from on and around the mountain (I liked the sound of the 1.5 mile one and the one that had no incline).
So, back to Google. Via maps, we were given the directions to Cougar, WA. So, we merrily made our way to where we’d hoped to find a spunky grandma who’d take a picture by the town sign.
After we wound our way through a quaint rural community, the road became very twisty and turny (yes, that’s a word) underneath a thick blanket of trees. We were climbing a mountain, just not the mountain we had come to see.
The landscape was not at all what I had expected. We also saw not one sign indicating we were headed toward the mountain, an information center, or the observatory. In fact, there were some signs, but they were stangely covered up.
Eventually, we made our way to the first hiking spot. We were hoping there would be further information at the trail head that would help us glean where the heck we were. But, no such luck.
Also, the hike was an eight-miler, so that was a no-go.
We got back into the car and continued up the mountain. Not long after, we got sight of Mt. Saint Helens and it was glorious, but, worryingly, still pretty far away.
While we were admiring the volcano with our 10x magnifying binoculars, a friendly German couple came up to talk to us.
They remarked on the beauty of it all, and we asked them if they were headed to the observatory. The woman said the road to the observatory was closed due to a late winter.
(The jury is still out on that).
We felt pretty defeated and downright lost, as we had zero service on our phones and no paper maps to help guide our way.
We decided to get back into the car and continue further. Almost at the very end of the road was another spot to hike. We decided it would have to work.
I’m sure by now you’re realizing that we were lost or just completely mixed up. Well, right you are!
It wasn’t until we headed back down the mountain and to Ape Cave did we come across an information kiosk/gift shop where people with factual information could be found.
When I asked how we could get to the observatory, the young man working the gift shop said it was some three hours away, but we could still make it, as they didn’t close until six.
Three hours away.
We were on the complete opposite side of the mountain.
We had spent our entire day, dedicated to seeing Mount Saint Helens, like total dopes on the wrong side of the mountain.
So, how did two college-educated individuals mess up so royally?
It’s all Google’s fault. Yes, just like a tattletale seven-year-old, I’m blaming it on someone/something else.
When you Google, “Johnston Ridge Observatory”, Google has you go to Cougar, WA.
Notice how, in the first website under the egregious misinformation, it says, “Toutle, WA”? Yeah, that’s (closer to) where the observatory is.
Our trip wasn’t all in vain, however. The hike we took was through utterly stunning terrain (honestly, I think it was way prettier on the wrong side of the mountain). We also went in Ape Cave, and I crossed a suspension bride just like the one in Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom. It was just like that one (don’t listen to my boyfriend. He doesn’t know what he’s talking about).
We hit up the world-renowned Voodoo Donut and the Deschutes Brewery.
Donuts and beer totally made up for not getting to the observatory.
So, kids, learn from Aunt Fatty. Do not rely on Google, it’s not all-knowing. Go to the actual website for the location/landmark/attraction you are going to visit. Do some damn research before you go, and don’t rely on your phone for everything-you might not have service where you’re going!
Know before you go:
Johnston Ridge Observatory, last stop on HWY 504, 52 miles from Castle Rock. NOT in Cougar, WA.
For Flashback Friday, I thought I’d share one of the first posts I wrote when I first started this blog. I think it got a measly two likes. It’s pretty much terrible, but it’s so incredibly accurate when it comes to my best friend, Cupcake and I.
The back story behind this little exchange is that I was attempting to diet, and I was in the I’m-so-starving-I’d-lick-the-remnants-from-a-chocolate-wrapper-found-in-the-garbage-yeah-I’m-serious-so-fuck-you-and-your-judgy-eyes stage.
I’d asked my teacher friend and classroom neighbor to help me resist the myriad treat situations that occur constantly at our school (really, any school, anywhere).
She was also “dieting”.
Two weakling, enablers trying to help each other diet.
It was comical.
Also, she had no idea the extent of my gluttony, or that I could sniff out a cupcake from three miles away.
Without further ado: The Cupcake Incident
Sitting at desk. The whiff of cupcake starts wafting in from room next door.
Phone call is urgent, sweaty palms.
Child: “This is Ms. S’s room. How may I help you?”
Me: “Well, aren’t you just the most professional-sounding 3rd grader I’ve ever heard. May I speak with Ms. S?”
No response. Phone is dropped on table.
Ms. S: “This is Ms. S…”
Me: (whisper voice, barely audible) “Cupcake? I smell.”
Ms. Silver: “Uh, this is Ms. S. Hello?”
Me: (slightly more audible) “Birthday cupcake? Cupcake?”
Ms. S: “I don’t know who this is. I don’t have cupcakes. You are mistaken. Good day.”
Me: (yelling voice) “You know who this is, and I want CUPCAKE!”
Running for the door just as a darling child delivers very roughed-up cupcake.
Drool is now escaping.
Ms. S appears at door, tries to intercept, unsuccessfully.
Cupcake frosting already entering mouth.
Ms. S (the bitch) tries to swat frosting out of mouth.
Instead of cupcake, the smell of revenge is now pungent.
Ms. S is more elderly, thus, escape successful.
Entire cupcake is lodged in mouth.
Exchange ends with both Ms. S and culprit crouching over frosting remnants on tray, greedily licking fingers. Animals.
*It is necessary to note that no child was injured in cupcake incident. Nor were children present during bloody exchange. They were outside getting exercise, like civilized human beings.