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. 

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

WTF Family Photos

In honor of my mother’s birthday yesterday, I thought I’d share my WTF Family Photos post for this week’s #fbf. Enjoy looking at some noob stranger’s family photos. But, really, you might find that they’re symbolic of your collection of weird family pictures before the advent of Instagram and other social media. You know, before everyone had hundreds of pictures of their lunch on their phone. Ah, the good ol’ days! 

In looking through some old family photo albums for pictures of my mom for my last post, Rein It In, I found some completely random, hilarious, and just plain WTF pictures. I took pictures of old pictures for hours, like a total noob, just so I could share them with all of you. 

I’m sure you are just thrilled to look at some random blogger’s family photos, but too bad. They were too good to just keep hidden in dusty books, never to be seen. 

I’d love it if some of you would share your most favorite WTF family photo. Let’s keep it weird. 

When showing this photo of my grandpa with a thong cake to my mom, she said, “We also made him a boob cake and my dog, Sadie, ate one of the tits. Just wow.

Every single person in this picture looks positively stunning, except for my uncle, who, apparently, thought it was a chance for a glamour shot #stunna

My uncle’s favorite part of Christmas was forgetting it was Christmas by taking a nap during most of it. 

My cousin played the part of “devil” far too well. If that’s not the face of up-to-no-good, I don’t know what is. Also, my mom said she made his costume out of an old bathrobe. My mom had skillz. 

Too cool for school. Crazy eyes really made my Spock hair pop. 

I love how, instead of rescuing their son/nephew/grandson from an evil goose chasing him, they instead took a photo for memory’s sake. 

This was my “whoa” face. You can read about it here. 

Another example of how ridiculous my family was. Apparently, capturing on film your darling child being attacked by the family dog was more important than saving her. Actually, our psycho dog was trying to eat the face off my doll. Regardless, my mom felt this a momentous enough event for this pic to have a place in a photo album. 

“Mom, are you watching me? I’m practically Mary Lou Retton!” as the dog is barfing in the background…

There were about 82 pictures of my dad’s sleep face. I’m not sure if that’s a VHS box or a box of chocolates. Either way, not one thing has changed today. 

Either my dad liked to wear his hats perched ever-so-slightly on the tippy top of his hair, or we now know where I got my immensely tall head. 

I can’t even right now with the glasses 😂😂😂

And my dad couldn’t even either. The joys of parenting, as can be read on his face. 

I wonder which asshole took this? Now ya’ll know being obnoxious with the camera is a learned trait. 

My mom: “I always felt I needed to have my hair as big as my body.”

Yup. 

Can you see the want in my eyes for alcohol? Where it all started. 

My mom said that I escaped to the kitchen and told everyone to leave me, “Boot”, and “Oonie” alone.  

“Dudes, who’s the beast using my head so she can stand? Who is allowing this?”

Here she is again. What the fuck?



I don’t even know. 

There were approximately twelve family members stuffed into this beauty. That’s how we rolled (barely). 

Look at how insanely thrilled my grandma was to get a toaster oven for Christmas. 

I shared this in my previous post, but what I didn’t divulge was that that hairy creature sitting on the bookshelf, looking all innocent, had a dick and balls. His girlfriend (not pictured) had you-know-whats. The most disturbing part about all of this was that my grandma and second cousin, Bonnie made them



Remember Doris and the tack-in-the-butt incident? This is Doris! You can see the murder in her eyes in this picture. 

I was always quite the fashionista. 

And, a family photo album is just not complete without a photo of the family dog taking the inaugural shit on the new grass. 

Toilet Talk 

When your week goes to poop, it’s only natural to #fbf to when it was worse. Here’s to having some really shitty luck. Literally. 

Nothing strikes more fear into my heart than rising water in a toilet bowl. Even realizing my alarm clock failed me, or discovering I’ve worn my black panties that say, “Only if You’re Lucky” on the ass, with my white skinny slacks, to school doesn’t hit me as hard and sudden as realizing poop water is about to run like Niagara Falls all over my linoleum. 

Am I right? Or, am I the only one who uses half a roll of toilet paper AND forgets to courtesy flush? Surely I’m not the only tool who has felt this cold fear. Surely. 

Let me tell you what is worse than an overflowing toilet onto linoleum: an overflowing toilet onto carpet. Before I move on, can I express my utter disgrace for whoever thought carpet in a bathroom was a good idea? IT’S A HORRIBLE IDEA. 

Years ago, I lived with my boyfriend’s mom. Not only was the bathroom adorned with 80’s-special red counter tops, and gold finishes everywhere, the entire floor was carpeted. It was terrifying. 

How can one confidently use a bathroom with carpet under their feet? Not only did my skin crawl wondering how many pee germs, courtesy of my boyfriend, and God-knows-what creepy crawlies were inhabiting the carpet circling the toilet, but the fear of overflowing the toilet was a very real, daily emotion. 

I’m known among my family and friends as the Toilet Paper Monster. I know, glamorous. Basically, I can easily use half a roll of toilet paper in one trip to the bathroom. My dad says every time, and I’m not shitting you, every time, I come over, “Better make a run to Costco, Katie’s here”. Not funny anymore, Dad. 

I see not one thing wrong with wanting an extra clean derrière. 

Not only was I known, in my childhood home, as one who possibly ate toilet paper-for what other explanation was there-I was a professional toilet overflowerer. All I had to do was yell, “Mom!”, in a panicked tone for her to come, immediately, running with the mop, a plunger, and bleach. 

Well, back to the 80’s bathroom nightmare. After an especially long crappy day (see what I did there?), I was running, pinched cheeks, to the bathroom (what a wonderful visual. I’m trying to make this as minimally unsavory as possible, but we are talking toilet paper and overflowing toilets here). 

After I had done my business and used my usual half-a-roll share, the time came to flush. I stopped. A hot sweat immediately dampened my skin. 

Had I flushed? Did I courtesy flush? 

I looked.

*shudders* 

Nope. 

What do I do? What do I do? 

I’m just going to have to flush and pray. 

OK. Here we go. 

Nope. I can’t do it. Maybe we can just forget about this toilet. It’s a loss. 

No. Flushing has to happen. It must be done. 

*Deep breath*

3, 2, 1, FLUSH

I think it’s going to go down. 

Momentary relief flows through my veins. That is, until…

That doesn’t sound right. Wait. No. 

No, no, please, Lord Jesus, no! 

I jump up-pants around ankles-and whip around to face the pain. 

DEAR GOD AND ALL THAT IS HOLY. 

Bile is rising, my stomach is clenched firmly in fear’s fist, and my mind is blank. 

I’m not here. This isn’t happening. I refuse to believe it. 

Nope, this is very real. What are you waiting for, asshole? 

I frantically lift the top to the tank. I pull the bobber-ma-jiggy, like my exasperated mom taught me. It does nothing. 

Racing against the clock, I get on my hands and knees, onto the ill-fated carpet, and reach for the water valve. 

It’s not going to stop. 

THAT is going to be all over the carpet. 

How will I tell Linda? 

How will I ever live this down? I will forever be The Girl Who Stained My Carpet With Her Poo Water. 

I almost faint. It’s all too much. It’s bare-assed, primal fear. I can only   imagine what the scene would look like if someone walked in. Anyone witness to the mess I was, would immediately be struck blind. *shudders*

With the water shut off, the offensive contents have finally ceased rising. Precisely a millimeter above the edge-the point of no return-it’s stopped. 

I’m stunned, relieved, physically and mentally exhausted, numb. 

With a sweat-lined lip, I mouth, “Thank you, baby Jesus. Thank you”. 

What do I do now? 

The water level wouldn’t allow a plunger, even a mere pube would reverse what my fervent prayers and sweating worked so hard to prevent. 

By the utter grace of God, the water starting draining, and a white bowl dotted with my disgrace started to show. 

I am the luckiest bitch on this planet. 

No one has ever heard my story. It was a very hard, embarrassing story to tell. Maybe my words can help save someone’s dignity, or at the very least, their flooring. 

Public service message of the day: FLUSH BEFORE YOU WIPE AND DON’T EXPECT AN ENTIRE ROLL OF TOILET PAPER TO FLUSH. 

It won’t. 


WTF Wednesdays #9: I ❤️ Jeff Goldblum 

You mean, I’m the only girl, in all of history, to have ever had a crush on Jeff Goldblum at the tender age of 13? 

Ya’ll missed out. Big time. 

In 1996, the original Independence Day movie came out. Like every other red-blooded American, I saw it in the theater approximately 80 times. Each new time I saw it, I grew more and more infatuated with Jeff Goldblum. 

I don’t know what it was. Maybe it was those massive ears. Or, his ginormous nose? Maybe his awkward, bumbling speech. I think it was his brain, to be perfectly honest. 

But, 

What 13-year-old girl would be into that?

While my friends were losing their proverbial shit over Jonathan Taylor Thomas and Devon Sawa, I was privately panting over a man who was only two.years.younger.than.my.parents. 

I was a really weird kid.

After drooling in my Milk Duds over him on the big screen one too many times, I set about finding other movies he did, so I could pant in private. 

It is totally beyond me how I could have researched him without the internet and IMDb. I’m seriously at a loss-how did people research pop culture in the 90s? Someone, help! 

Pretty quickly, I realized he was in Jurassic Park. I watched that VHS so many times, I burned up the tape. 

I also somehow found out he was in a really weird movie that came out when I was three, called The Fly. The fact he was a human-sized fly didn’t matter, because he was naked in that one. I “lost” The Fly when it was time to return it to Blockbuster. I had to pay the fee, but it was so worth it. 

Because I was not exactly nonchalant about my weird girl-crush-obsession with Jeff Freaking Goldblum, my mom caught on pretty quickly. 

She always aimed to raise dorks, because, “Dorks go to school, hang out with their dork friends, don’t do drugs or drink, and never get in trouble.” 

My mom couldn’t have been more elated that my first crush was on an intelligent and nerdy-looking man I’d never meet. She was thrilled. (Never mind the fact that he could have been my father. Nope. Not weird at all.) 

For Christmas that year, my mom seemed to have a certain gleam in her eye. It was almost devious. I just figured she was pretty stoked about getting me that Discman I wanted. 

When it was finally Christmas Day, my mom was practically doing the Fat Clap. Instead of making my brother, because he was small and low to the ground, pass out the presents, my mom was on the carpet, fervently throwing presents to everyone. 

She handed me a lumpy, odd shaped one that was definitely not my Discman, to open first.

As I started peeling back paper, she was sitting upright, alert, face aglow. 

She seemed extra excited. Was I getting my own phone? A car three years early?? OMG! What could it be?! Her excitement made my mind wander to all sorts of amazing, unrealistic gifts.

When I finally unveiled the Most Exciting Present in the World, I was utterly confused. It was an action figure. 

“Mom, I think this is for Jarrett. This is an action figure-thing.”

I flung it over to my brother, who had opened all of his presents in under a minute, so the prospect of an extra gift was everything. 

My mom was not discouraged at all by my utter lack of interest in a boys’ toy. 

Now, wait a minute. Jarrett, that’s your sister’s. Hand it back.”

Christmas was officially over for my brother. 

When I had it back in hand, utterly confused, and quite embarrassed that my mom felt an action figure a proper gift for her 13-year-old daughter, my mom said, 

“But…lookie who it is. Who is it?”

It was then that I looked, for the first time, at the toy. 

She bought me a freaking Jeff Goldblum Independence Day action figure.

“Mom!”

“But, isn’t he so cute? You can put him on your nightstand!”

And then she winked at me. 

Hubba, hubba!


Source

WTF Monday?

Yup, you read that right. Because I couldn’t think of anything wittier, WTF Monday it is. 

I already have my WTF Wednesdays post planned for this coming week, but I absolutely couldn’t wait for the following week to share a review with ya’ll. So, you get two WTF posts this week. Do you feel special? 

My boyfriend went out of town for the weekend, so I pulled out all the stops. I slept in the middle of the bed. I ordered in from all of the places he isn’t too keen on. I left my bra, gossip magazines, and girl products positively everywhere.

I also did a face mask. 

I don’t know why I felt the need to do this when he was gone (I mean, it could be that every time I do one, he acts like I’m a ghost and I’ve frightened him clean out of his shorts), but it just felt like a girl-on-her-own-for-the-weekend thing to do. 

So, I’m sure you’ve seen the videos and testimonials for the Shills black mask that’s supposed to be so magical that many don’t even recognize themselves after. 

No? 

You know. The one that’s supposed to pull off a layer of skin to reveal the real you underneath. 

Still no? 

The one that pulls out black heads, showing a close up view of the pretties, and it’s oddly satisfying to watch. It’s disgusting, but you instantly have to do it. 

Yup. That one. 

So, I’m totally not the type to jump on the bandwagon and buy every product that’s featured in videos that Facebook, so helpfully, pops into my feed. 

But, my direct deposit had just dropped and I was feeling like a baller. 


Source

This video:

Is the real reason I spent $15 whole dollars on a face mask. I want to know this woman. I want to be her best friend. Mostly, I wanted a mask that would remove my mustache!

Full disclosure: When I first saw this video, I was sitting on the toilet. I was full-on ugly-cry-laughing. My boyfriend knocked on the door to see if I was OK, as I’m sure I sounded like a dying seal. When I shared the video on Facebook, I mentioned this and my next door neighbor responded, “So, that’s what that noise was!” 

Dead. 

Gosh, I sure know how to do a preamble, don’t I? Let’s get to the actual review now. 

It took more than a week to get the mask (after ordering it on Amazon Prime), but lucky for me, I got it just in time for Girl Weekend. 

To prep, I washed my face with really warm water to open up my, already Grand Canyon-sized, pores. 

I used one of my makeup brushes, just like the pros, and applied the mask pretty thinly. Perhaps, this was because the tube is pretty dang small, and I could have easily used the whole thing on my giant face. That’d be a pretty expensive one-time-use mask, if you ask me. Also, there are zero instructions on how to apply it. 


Once it had dried completely, I was pretty giddy in anticipation of seeing all of my nasty black heads and bad choices being ripped out of my face. 

I started from the bottom, just like I’d seen countless times. It didn’t hurt at all. I was hoping all of my chin hairs would be pulled out, much like the rooting up of trees during deforestation. Nope. Those assholes stayed firmly rooted in place. 

As I started to pull my way up my cheek, it felt like it was pulling pretty good, but when I looked, there were maybe three black heads. Three.

I don’t even want to get started on my upper lip. I was so hopeful, yet it was so anticlimactic. While utterly disappointed, I was enlightened to what it surely feels like being that dude who can never seem to score, no matter how close he gets. Just disappointing. 

Also, IT DID NOT PULL OUT MY MUSTACHE. WTF. 

I guess you have to have one of those non-mustaches that are just baby hairs to qualify for hair removal.  

When I got to my nose, I got excited. Surely, there’s enough nastiness to be had there that I’ll have a major success. No such luck. It barely pulled up anything.  

At this point, I’m pretty damn mad. What a freaking waste of $15 that could have gotten me three days worth of Starbucks.

As I neared my eyes, they watered and snot promptly started rolling down my face – I finally felt the pain everyone goes on about. 

It was terrible. 

Excruciating.

I realized it was pulling out hairs-the baby ones that don’t count around my eyes. 

What.in.the.actual.eff.

So, now it decides to actually work. 

Watch me be the only one to grow full-on, thick, black hairs around my eyes now that I’ve messed with the baby hair that once peacefully, invisibly existed there. We all know what happens when you mess with those baby hairs

Also, it didn’t all come off in one nice, clean mask. I spent ages picking tiny pieces off until I just gave up. 

When I stepped back to take a look at the mess I had made of my face, it was pretty clear that I had failed at the black mask fad. 

I’m calling my face mask ‘stache the 360 Degree John Waters. 

Just wait and see, I will grow facial hair on my entire face*. I will either have to spend a fortune on hair removal or I’ll have to resort to joining the circus as the female version of Lionel the Lion-Faced Man. 

It maybe would have been worth it had more than three blackheads been removed. 

Next. 

*I edited and filtered the shit out of my face. You’re welcome. 

Flashback Friday: Bike Seats and Fannies of Steel

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

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

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WTF Wednesdays #8

How in the crap have I been doing WTFWs for eight weeks already?! It feels like just yesterday that I chose to make my bitching a weekly, written thing (I had to distinguish written from spoken, because I vocalize my rants hourly).

Time flies when you’re being a bitch.

Today, my post is going to contain a lot of choice words. Brace yourself. Delicate flowers, you might want to go watch a cat video. 

Today is about the “Realization”. You know, when you finally realize you really can have too many cupcakes. 

Sometimes, it takes a lot. Sometimes, it takes getting into your car, in a pair of work pants that you haven’t worn in eons, and, as you squeeze into your seat, the button barely holding your pants closed, pops off and pings and ricochets off of every hard surface in your car, before it hits you in the eye, and finally, comes to rest in your fat crotch. 

Yes, this actually happened. Except, not to me (my Realization came in the form of a student being concerned about me falling on my belly, because, naturally, it’s got a baby growing in it. That’s why it looks the way it does. FML). It happened to my naturally thin, kick-boxing-obsessed boyfriend after we both gained our happy-to-not-be-in-the-dating-scene-anymore-weight. 

After he almost lost an eye to a Dockers Relaxed Comfort button, he thought about losing some weight. And, I shit you not, that’s all it took for him to go back to his Glory Days weight (watch for this to be a WTF Wednesdays rant. Men, the fuckers). 

Since I’m not a man, and my body hasn’t magically become a specimen of superhuman genetics, all of my cupcake eating has resulted in some added cushion. 

I’ve resorted to, again, getting on the Weight Watchers bandwagon. 

Years ago, I was super successful with WW, and lost damn near 50 pounds. I kept it off for close to four years doing the program off and on, and being somewhat resonable with food. 

Lately, all semblance of reason has gone out the window. Like, thrown out the window with my good arm. 

Thus, why I found myself on Saturday night, paying for three months of WW, while crying into a large Dairy Queen Reese’s Extreme Blizzard (just typing that, I’m fucking salivating and in heat). 

This first week I’m treating as a weaning period. Also, I just need some practice not eating everything in sight and I need fair warning for how much I’m going to be starving and dreaming of cake. 

The reason I loved Weight Watchers before was that I never felt truly deprived. Yes, my better-part-of-a-half-gallon-of-ice-cream-binges had to stop, but I still got to enjoy the occasional thimble-full of my favorite frozen treat. 

I’ve heard that “the fatties are in an uproar” over the new Weight Watchers points system, because it’s very restrictive. 

It’s only Tuesday, and I can confidently say, this Fatty is not happy. I’ll be positively starving on the new SmartPoints plan. It’s as restrictive as my no-longer-elastic bra strap. 

Here’s what sucks so far:

1. 12 tortilla chips are now five points, instead of three. Salsa and chips are now dead to me. 

2. TWO FUCKING TABLESPOONS of my favorite coconut cream creamer are three points. Now, I definitely can’t put my usual half cup into my English Breakfast. My mornings are ruined. 

3. This is SEVEN SHITTY POINTS:


These taste like fruit strudel. And, there’s frosting on top. But, these are no good to me anymore. I won’t be wasting seven whole points on a tiny fruit bar that I can down in two bites. R.I.P. 

4. The cream cheese chicken chili we are planning for dinner tomorrow will probably be 567 points, without the tortilla chips (I’m too scared to calculate it, so that’s just a rough estimate). 

5. And, this:


I.can’t.even. That’s practically half of the points I’m allowed in an entire day. 

I might as well just each dirt, or kale, they both taste the fucking same. 

Fuck.it.all. 

Flashback Friday: Felony Stop

The other day, my mom and I went driving around looking for a decent place for me to buy. After seeing one too many former crack dens, we decided to give up for the day. On our way home, we decided our feeble bodies needed sustenance after our arduous day. Four Lil’ Chickies and two cream slushes from Sonic later, and I was reminded of the time a trip to get ice cream almost landed us in jail. Read all about it in this week’s #FBF post:

All we wanted was ice cream. Dairy Queen Chocolate Chip Cookie Dough Blizzards, to be exact. But, it’s never that simple when you’re a couple of fatties going for ice cream you really don’t need. Oh no.

Let me tell you the story of how an innocent trip to the local DQ ended up in a felony stop. Yes, you read that right.

Read More

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.