I was nominated by the lovely, Carrots In My Carryon to participate in the Love-Hate Challenge. I am pretty freaking stoked to do this, because there are so many things I hate. Yup. Hate. This doesn’t make me a horrible person, it makes me particular and tasteful, just in case anyone was wondering. Also, hate is just a word to describe a particularly strong emotion. If anyone feels things too strongly, it’s this gal.

Don’t forget: I will be listing 10 things I love as well, so calm down.

I guess I’m supposed to list the rules before I begin my assault at all horrible things.

1. List 10 things you love

2. List 10 things you hate

3. Nominate others to do the same thing


I will be starting with the things I hate, so I can end with sunshine and rainbows.

So, here we go…

1. I freaking hate, HATE repetitive throat clearing. It grates on my nerves and tests my patience. It also makes me wonder if the throat-clearer is doing it on purpose distinctly to annoy others. Why else would one need to clear their throat 80 times in 10 minutes?

2. I hate when a stranger burps in close proximity to me. On the airplane the other day, a dude sitting next to me belched and didn’t cover his mouth. I almost went ape shit all over him. I DO NOT want air, laced with your stomach contents, entering my nostrils, or any opening on my body. Cover it up or swallow your nasty face fart. Please and thank you.

3. I hate, detest being hot. It makes me sweaty. It makes me cranky. It makes me feel like poop. If I could walk around with a fan, constantly blowing cold air on me, I freaking would. I don’t even care how insane it would look. Quite unfairly, I always run hot. When most people are bundling up in their cardigans inside a movie theater, I am suffering from boob, and every other kind of crevice sweat you can imagine. I don’t even want to think about how monstrous I will behave when going through the “change” *shudders*.

4. I hate Walmart. I mean, who doesn’t, but I would win, hands down, for haterest of the haters. I am very proud to say, I have not been in a Walmart for a year. I could say it’s been a lot longer, if it weren’t for a certain friend who convinced me I’d find what I was looking for if I just broke down and went. She was right, but I hated every snotty-nosed-child-screaming-adult-pant-shitter-inept-employee-picking-their-ass second of it. It’s just a more peaceful world when Katie doesn’t have to frequent that hellhole, mmkay?

5. I hate people who pretend like they’re listening, but they’re mentally making their grocery list instead. Don’t ask me about my weekend, or upcoming plans if you have no intentions on really listening. If you don’t really care, that’s cool. I don’t really care for small talk either, if we are being honest. Let’s not waste each other’s time. Just don’t ask, if you aren’t really good at feigning interest. Some people can tell. Alright?

6. I hate the smell of latex. I’m gagging right now, as I type. Eckgrr…I hate that I have to choose between latex stanky hands and prune fingers when doing the dishes. Both are curses from the devil. Life really is unfair.

7. I hate polish sausage. Growing up with a Polish (oh, excuse me, Lithuanian) father, meant polish sausage at least once a week. I.cannot.stand.that.ish. Cannot. It’s made with fried potatoes and onions, which are otherwise quite tasty, but when cooked with the sausage, they taste like feet with a side of bad breath. I started hating polish sausage when after asking my dad what we were having for dinner once, he said, “Pig snouts”. I had JUST seen pig snouts at the grocery store and I thought he was serious. I had nightmares consisting of snout-less pigs dancing on potatoes that night and that was it for polish sausage and me.

8. I hate doing laundry. It’s the most depressing, endless chore, hands down. You can spend an almost entire day, one of your precious days off from work, doing mountains of laundry. Once the last sock has found its mate and the last wrinkled shirt is hung, you feel satisfaction for precisely 30 seconds. You then realize that you will be needing to do this arduous bullshit again in just a week’s time. Deflated is putting it mildly. Then, your boyfriend finds a pile of clothes hiding under the bed, and you wonder why you even try to be an adult. It’s too much work.

9. I hate autocorrect. With a fucking passion. 9 times out of 10 it’s so far from being right, it’d be laughable, if it weren’t for the fact I’ve been trying to type “irreversible” for 10 ducking minutes, to no avail. Smartphone, my ass! Shut!

10. I hate people who smoke right outside stores or places where other people need to walk. I make it a choice to not smoke and fill my body with toxins. When asshole in the Nascar jacket feels the need to smoke right next to the entrance to 7-11, I want to fart directly in his mouth and see how he likes it. I bet it wouldn’t be so enjoyable.

Now for the freakin sunshine and rainbows.

1. I love being pampered. I’m all about massages, pedicures, manicures and scalp treatments. If I could afford to get a massage and a pedicure every week, it would so be happening! If I could hire someone to give me a head massage every night, well, better start applying!

2. I love talking to myself. I don’t answer myself, so it’s OK. I’m not that loony. If I’m particularly stressed, I talk it out. It’s no biggie. Except when you get caught…years ago when I was living in BFE, I was driving home after a pretty craptastic day. I was going at it, in the car, calling out all the stupid people and things I had to put up with that day. I thought it had been a pretty successful chat. I got home, parked, and resumed my afternoon without thinking about my little tirade in the car again. Later that evening, a friend posted on my Facebook that she saw me driving home and, “You must have been listening to a really great song, you were singing and dancing like there was no tomorrow”. I bet that was a fucking sight. Now, I reserve any talking it out for home, when no one is home.

3. I love freaking sprinkles! LOVE THEM. Most normal people think they are disgusting and taste like chalk. I think they are the prettiest, tastiest, most lovely little morsels ever created. To me, the most beautiful sight to behold is a cupcake with light-as-air buttercream frosting bespeckled with rainbow sprinkles. Pure perfection.

4. I love being at home. I am an introvert at heart, so where I am happiest is in my fat pants, on my couch, with my Netflix. I love going out for lunch with friends, going shopping, lounging at the lake, but those things are really only fun because I know that after them, I get to go home and take my bra off.

5. I love getting new, feel-all-the-feels music and getting in my car and driving. For some reason, new music sounds best in the car. I turn it loud, roll the windows down, and let it go.

6. I love talking to my mom. She listens, like really listens. So many people, and i am guilty of it too, don’t listen to listen, but to respond. Most people don’t really listen, because they are waiting for their turn to speak, or they are thinking up what they want to say next. My mom is a rarity, in that she listens with not just her ears, but also her eyes and heart.

7. I love the shit out of watermelon. I can easily eat half a small watermelon in one sitting. They are sweet and so satisfying. I also don’t feel too guilty about horking out on an entire watermelon, because they are like 90% water. Right??

8. I love carbs. If I could subsist on bagels, pasta, cupcakes, belgian waffles, sticky rice, and fries, I totally would. I know I could survive on these tasty-as-shit carb bombs, so I guess I meant to say, if I could eat these things and not get more fat, I would be the happiest girl in the world.

9. I love clouds. Like, I am obsessed with them. I take pictures of clouds, on the daily, add filters, and the hashtag “cloudporn” like that annoying person we all try to ‘unfriend’ on Faceboob. I am sure no one looks at my cloud pictures like they are works of art. They are pictures of clouds with an unnatural tint to them, thanks to Instagram. They are nothing special to anyone else but me. I love them. They are my babies.

10. I love teaching, because kids are funny little things. They don’t mean to be funny, and that is precisely what makes them so damn funny. One of my favorite quotes from my students was from a 3rd grader I had last year. She loved to write and tried to use phrases she didn’t yet understand how to use properly. it was incredibly endearing. She was writing about something unbelievable that happened to her over the weekend and said, “Teacher, it was so crasy, it blew my mind off”. That is pretty crazy! There is truly a never dull day in the life of a teacher.

There you have it, folks, my top 10 loves and hates. Now, I nominate Cat in the Cactus because her and Carrots In My Carryon are my faves!

Cold Stone Ice Cream-Eating-Machine

Yesterday was a momentous day! July 16th marked 4 years that my boyfriend and I have not murdered each other in our sleep. Also, I became a regular on Yelp at Cold Stone Creamery. Nothing says you have a problem with food like publicly becoming an ice cream shop frequent flyer. 

I had to take a screenshot of this exciting new level of fatness. I have to say, it was totally my boyfriend’s fault I became a Yelp regular. He wanted to go get ice cream, I did not. OK. That’s a boldfaced lie. I wanted ice cream. 

To celebrate this crowning achievement, I thought I would share my mental process when getting ice cream at Cold Stone. First, I have to explain that I’m a very anxious person by nature. I’m always “go, go, go”, and “hurry the hell up”. I hate waiting, and I despise being held up by incompetence. Most importantly, I hate having to waste my precious time on someone who can’t decide what kind of ice cream they want. Life is way too short and precious to mess around with not understanding your relationship with frozen sugared cream. Get it together, world. 

Approaching the last major intersection before the shopping center that houses Cold Stone:

I mean, really. Can we drive any fucking slower? Are you trying to be the only one who gets through the damn light?! Gaaaah. Yup. I hate everyone. 

*This may or may not be merely an angry thought. I may or may not be yelling the above out my window. 

OK, here we go. There’s Cold Stone. Only 20 yards away. Come to Mama. Here I am. 

Who are all these people taking up these parking spots? Why are there always so many people out and about? Don’t you have jobs? Go to work. Go home. Jeez. Now I have to park like a mile away. 

Addressing my boyfriend:

“Shit! Look at that family of like 50 approaching the door? Hurry! Let’s run! We have to beat them! They will ALL want to try ALL of the flavors! Hurry!” 

Because my boyfriend fully endorses NOT running towards your ice cream, the family beats us. 

*Sending death glares to my jerk boyfriend as we wait for Mom, Dad, and their 48 children to try every fucking flavor. 

Really? You want to try vanilla? Now you’re just being an ass. You’re doing it on purpose. 

Why is that person staring at me? Oh, in my mad rush to get here, I forgot to put on my bra. Again?! This can’t keep happening, Katie. 

Finally, it’s our turn! I’m going to be sensible and try ONE flavor, and I’ll be quick. I’ll show everyone how it’s done. 

My boyfriend: “Really, Katie. Why do you insist on trying Oreo cream-filling every time when you know you’re getting Cake Batter with rainbow sprinkles?” 

*Sending death glares again. 

I indicate to the employee, who I know like the back of my hand, that I will, indeed, have my regular. Our ice cream is done and waiting in a paper bag, but  50-member-family is holding up the entire line trying to pay for their $500 worth of ice cream. 

Great, just great. My ice cream is melting while you allow your 5 year-old to count change for you. Why do bad things happen to good people? 

As my boyfriend and I walk/run to the car:

Me: “If we go out this first exit, we could bypass all of the people crossing from Marshall’s.”

Boyfriend: “Yes, but there isn’t a turn lane, we might get stuck behind someone going straight!” 

Me: “You’re right. OK, here’s the game plan…”

On the drive home, I run 2 lights and almost hit a garbage can that some idiot left too far out into the street. All I can focus on is the speed at which my precious ice cream is melting. 

Finally, home! Fat pants, Netflix, and a pint of ice cream so thick, I have to chew it! Heaven! 

Bad Cupcakes! 

Yesterday was the last day of school (Schools…out…for…SUMMER). I have exactly 58 Saturday’s ahead of me (more about that blessed dilemma later). I started my summer vacation off in a very positive, good-Samaritan way. Let me explain. 

Naturally, one of my students brought cupcakes to celebrate the last day of school (I’m not only known as a cupcake-lover on my blog). As it was the last day, my students were leaving early left and right. When we finally had our room cleaned up, things packed, and I finally participated in a Just Dance video for my students’ amusement (more on that later, too…), it was Cupcake Time. The 24 cupcakes were more than enough, there were 8 left. Of course, the student who brought them was fully planning on taking them home. I would like to make it amply clear that I would never stoop so low as to beg a nine-year-old for their leftover cupcakes. I’m not that far gone. 

The mad rush to collect all of their precious end-of-year goodies and give me hug after hug, coupled with their desire to get the hell out of school, made for a whirlwind ‘goodbye’ with my students. Yearbooks were left. Data folders, that they would have trashed anyways, were left. Their had-to-have, homemade letters from their friends were left. And, the cupcakes. They were left. Two, almost empty, boxes of vanilla cupcakes were left. I figured she would be back. I waited a few, anxious minutes. Guilt-ridden, I went outside, hopefully, albeit reluctantly, to try to find her. 3 minutes after the bell had rung, and it was a ghost town outside. “Lost” report cards, confetti, and papers littered the ground. All was still, but for a tumbleweed that blew across in the breeze. She was gone. They were mine. 

I felt a sudden internal glee that only fat people, who have an unhealthy love for baked goods, ever feel. I knew it was bad news that I now possessed 8 entire cupcakes, cupcakes topped with the sweetest confection of sugar ever created, but my unhealthy addiction and glee overwhelmed my sense of good judgement. 

If anyone saw me leaving school with all of my treasures, they surely videotaped it and uploaded it onto YouTube with the heading, “Watch Fatty Teacher Leave School and Almost Drop Two Boxes of Cupcakes Exactly 32 Times”. I can just see the comment section now: “Damn, she dropped her phone, purse, bag of whatever, and her keys, but she didn’t drop the cupcakes-no words”. That would have been the nicest thing said. 

When I finally got home, lugged in all of my shit, along with my prize, I felt victorious. I made it home, and not one cupcake was injured. 

My boyfriend was aghast that I brought two boxes of cupcakes home, as he shares my love (and obvious addiction) of anything remotely sweet. He, too, envisioned us sitting on the couch, in our fat pants, devouring them all. All he had to say was, “Babe…” and it all became clear. I have serious problems. We did NOT need 8 cupcakes, like at all. The cherry on top: my boyfriend then asked me, “Why didn’t you put them all in one box?” Good God. Not only am I fat, I’m a fucking genius too. 

So, to address how I began my summer vacation in a Good Samaritan way, I put all 8 cupcakes (in two boxes) out by the dumpsters in the alley, for the bums. Almost daily, we have homeless people digging in the dumpsters. All they ever find is moldy spaghetti leftovers and black bananas. Last night, one lucky vagrant came upon a gold mine. I’m such a saint. You’re welcome. 

Here is the proof:

And, the proof that our local homeless people have more smarts than a teacher. Whomever took the cupcakes likely transferred them all to one box. Doh! 

So, there you have it. I have started off my summer on a positive, healthy note (I won’t mention that I attended our school’s happy hour, devoured a food truck Philly cheesesteak, and ended the night with a Double Caramel Magnum-I can only give up so much!) 

Free Donut Day 


This shit, THIS SHIT right here is why I’m always gonna be fat. Friday is “National Doughnut (donut? Why are there two spellings??) Day”. Every damn day is some “National Excuse to Eat Day”. Every damn day. Do you know what this bullshit does to an impulsive eater? It isn’t pretty. Today is “National Chocolate Macaroon Day”. Did you know that? Basically, this means that I need a chocolate macaroon now. I mean, it’s only patriotic to celebrate, right? It would be un-American to not participate. I think the macaroon is French though, so now I’m all confused. I’ve never had a macaroon and have no idea where to purchase one, but it’s on my to-do list to find out. I bet you’re saying to yourself right now, “You mean the chubby girl has never had a macaroon?” I know, right?! 

Let’s get real about this donut business. Donuts are my absolute weakness. I would probably sell my soul for the right donut. I’m very particular about my favorite naughty food, however. A dry 7-11 donut just won’t do. I also don’t like the fluffy ones. My donut needs to have some meat on its bones. I like the really dense cake donuts. You know, the kind you have to be careful not to eat too fast or you get it stuck in your throat, and it feels like it’s knifing you on its way down (why you gotta play me like that, donut? I love you and all you do is hurt me). My absolute ideal donut is a dense, yellow cake with pink frosting and sprinkles delight. I don’t even know what the flavor of the frosting is supposed to be, but it’s pink, and it’s fucking delicious. The sprinkles add some grit, and sometimes crunch, if some stray sugar sprinkles hop aboard. Sometimes, I can find the rare purple frosting donut, and that’s like seeing a unicorn. It’s so beautiful, rare, and just magnificent to behold. This past autumn, Raleys had a blueberry cake donut with blueberry frosting, and it far surpassed any of my donut expectations. I was more sad to see that go when the season passed than the PSL. My dream is to visit Voodoo Doughnut in Portland, Randy’s Donuts in L.A., and Top Pot Dougnuts in Seattle (keeping my obsession contained in the west). I’d like to go on a donut road trip if anyone cares to join me…I told you I take my donuts seriously. 

In actual seriousness, this constant temptation all around me makes for a really hard time. I can’t even log into Facebook without seeing some sinful thing I want in my mouth. I honestly make a huge effort to eat right. Every morning I bag up my healthy food I spent hours prepping, I make coffee at home to put my homemade creamer in, and I count every calorie that goes into my mouth. Then, advertisements for S’mores Frappuccinos happen. Or, I get asked to go to sushi. Sometimes even, I smell McDonald’s breakfast on the way to work and my willpower is demolished. Just like that. It sucks. Unless I want to spend my life unattached to the outside world, I need to learn control. I need to learn how to not allow myself to be tempted. I need to learn that, while Cherry Garcia does make all the stress go away in such a sweet, sweet way, eating the whole pint in one sitting is disgusting. 

If anyone has any pointers, I am all ears. I’m really close to buying the food addiction hypnosis class on Groupon, if all else fails (which it will, and I’m ALL about trying to not eat whilst sleeping). I do believe that choosing to not eat or exercising control is 100% mental. I do know enough to understand that my stomach isn’t calling the shots. As my new experience with yoga is a journey, so is my relationship with food. Maybe someday I can actually buy a box of Girl Scout cookies and have them around longer than 2 hours. Maybe. 

Just in case anyone was curious, I did celebrate “National Chocolate Macaroon Day” with an It’s It. It’s like a macaroon in shape, only its bigger and not coconut and there’s ice cream. So, not a macaroon at all, but delicious just the same. 

Also, I will attempt to not claim a free donut on Friday, or eat one in any way, but if I happen into the staff lounge, all bets are off. I call the pink donut, bitches! 

*The fact there was an ad for KFC on the page about “National Dougnut Day” was not lost on me. While I know full well that move was the media intentionally sabotaging every chubby girl’s diet, I can’t help but find it genius. Everyone knows that after three donuts, you’ll be wanting some salty gravy. Brilliant. 


Do you ever get to that point in your diet when you could ravenously eat anything in sight? That point when anything sounds better than spaghetti squash? Preferably, that “anything” would be something that is a direct opposite of what is on said diet. Like, I could really go for some movie theater popcorn, drenched in warm, fake butter. Even better, movie theater popcorn with Reese’s Pieces mixed in (they get all soft and warm, and the sweet and salty together is practically orgasmic…)


I am in the super-ridiculously-hungry-for-really-bad-choices stage of my “diet”. I am currently “hangry”. Yes, I am angry because I can’t eat Cheesecake Factory for dinner tonight. Hangry. It’s a real thing. 

I may sound ridiculous right now, but wait until you get a load of my thoughts on the ride home today. This is my brain. My brain on hunger pangs. 

OMG, I’m coming up on Ijji Sushi. Tempura shrimp, sticky rice, dripping soy sauce. Fuck. I can literally eat my weight in sushi. All You Can Eat is a challenge, not a suggestion for me. I get down to business when it’s Sushi Time. 

OK, I can’t see Ijji anymore, phew. But, there’s Applebee’s. I can smell them cooking. Like, through my car vents, 50 yards away, I can smell them cooking. They know I’m driving past. They know I’m hungry. Assholes. I haven’t been to Applebee’s in ten years, yet I could really go for some of their baby back ribs right about now. I don’t even really like ribs, they’re too messy, but I want them. Now. 

Thank God I can’t smell ribs anymore. Oh, of course it’s KFC. It’s like the world wants me to be fat. It’s all a big game, it’s sabotage. *Practically licking imaginary grease off fingers*. I know no less than eight people who have gotten food poisoning from various KFC restaurants, but I would risk it for their gravy and mac and cheese right now. I don’t even care. 

Finally, I’m on the freeway, and I believe I’m clear. There aren’t many food places along the freeway, as in there are none. However, I pass by The Nugget. The damn Nugget. I don’t know how they do it, but you can always smell their buffet as you pass. It smells like coming home. 

OMFG. I smell room temperature prime rib. I smell soggy pasta. I smell unseasoned steamed veggies. I smell runny soft-serve ice cream. I smell…I smell *almost exits, but remembers buffet food always smells better than it tastes*. 

When I’m finally home and exhausted from my hungry ride home, I see that my boyfriend has eaten the last of the six My Favorite Muffin muffins I got for free last weekend (I’m part of their rewards program. It really says a lot that I got a whole $12 worth of muffins for free after only being a reward member for a month). Normally, I would be happy that he has removed the temptation. Today, I’m hangry. I see red, I start to shake. I count down from 20, practice my meditation, and lick every last dry, crunchy, stale crumb from the box. I’m not even ashamed. 

*Thanks to Ms. Friend, who reminded me today of my favorite word, hangry. 


Ever have one of those days when you want a piece of cake or really anything with a cake-like consistency, such as those Hostess cupcakes, the one with the frosting hats, so bad you could cry? The want is deep, deep in your bones. I always feel this way after I’m reminded how much I weigh or after I have to throw away a pair of jeans because my thighs burned a hole in them the size of Jonah Hill’s face. 

I went to get a B12 shot at the Shot Spot today after a good year of not getting my shots or being weighed. The last time I was weighed was at my lady doctor appointment and I told the nurse to not tell me my weight upon penalty of death. Sometimes it’s better not to know. Ignorance really is bliss and it tastes like cinnamon gelato. 

Today, I just had to know. Without spilling my deepest, darkest secret, I will say I’m 10 pounds away from being at my previous heaviest. What did I immediately want to celebrate the momentous occasion? I wanted a BBQ chicken pizza from Blind Onion washed down with a red velvet cupcake from Mix. An entire bottle of Framboise would have only helped me choke down my disgust. 

My response, my way to self-soothe has always been to eat. Whether I’m stressed, sad, happy, anxious, bored, really any basic human emotion, it’s always a reason to celebrate with food. Bad day? That calls for an entire bottle of wine and the rest of the Costco-sized bag of chips. Having a fabulous, inspiring day? That just means I have to celebrate with a s’mores Frapp. Why not? You’re only fat once. 

Around March, every year, without fail, I set my mind to being bikini ready before, well, the next year I aim to lose weight for the same goal. My M.O. is to start out with a set plan, really gung-ho-like that starts out super hopeful (grocery list complete with kale and sweet potatoes) and the promise I will never let a soda, diet even, pass my lips. Around early June, I wake up in the middle of the night, surrounded by chip crumbs, in a cold-sweat realizing I’ve actually gone in the opposite direction and gained 10 pounds. I count how many days until the first day I will have to be in a bathing suit. I think, “Two weeks? I can lose at least 10 pounds in that amount of time”. In two weeks I realize I’m no longer 20 and not a tweaker, so that was an impossible goal. At this point, I realize being bikini-ready is futile, so I exhale, put on my fat pants and walk to 7-11 for a donut and a slurpee. All that anxiety calls for some serious sugar. 

Maybe ya’ll think I’m crazy or maybe you are sympathy-gnawing on a French baguette. I’m not really sure. I do know that food is good and eating less of it really, really sucks. I also know that the key to success with weight loss is almost 100% mental. I just have to find my motivation and my mental strength. Where did that go? I know I had it around here somewhere. I have to discover what’s better than gluttonous fettuccini Alfredo and gooey caramel wrapped in chocolate. Ugh. I really want a double caramel Magnum right now.