The Flub Trub

 

I know I can't be the only person in the world who realizes that there's is a difference between fat and thick, but this shit needs to be addressed immediately. Ladies, you need to get over yourselves already and call it like it is. So, maybe you don't like the word fat (I know I sure as hell don't) which is why I coined the term "flubalicious" some years ago. But if that doesn't work for you, there are an array of other fabulous words one can use:

• Enormous
• Chunky
• Large
• Huge
• Flabby
• Heavy
• Tubby
• Portly
• Blubber-butt

Truly, the sky is the limit, so knock yourselves out and find one that defines you.

 

We have become so sensitive to what is real that we have become a society of lazy, lame-asses who can't do anything for themselves. This isn't exclusive to weight either; kids aren't allowed to play dodge ball anymore because "it's mean", and even though little Johnny is a fucking moron, he will get a blue ribbon anyway because "it's fair". No, you know what's fair? Failing, knowing you failed, and then working your ass off so you don't fail again. It's called character building. I digress.



You are not "thick"

I think the problem is words like "thick" were conjured up in this grey area to make people feel better about themselves. I'm not saying that you're not beautiful, or special, or awesome, or funny, or smart. I'm sure you are. I'm just saying, if you're fat, then be fat! If you don't like being fat... then change being fat. Don't just choose an adjective that holds your hand while you skip into the magical world of self-delusion.

The same goes for skinny women - please stop calling yourselves fat when you're a size 6. You're normal-sized (I won't say healthy, because weight and health have absolutely nothing to do with each other). I hate to break it to you, but you're a woman. Women are built different than men. Women are designed to have curves. We have wide set hips because we bear children. We have breasts because that's how those children we bear get their sustenance. This was all part of the master plan - it's in the blueprints.

Before you start cursing my name under your breath "she doesn't get it - my man loves the way I look - I think I'm sexy - I feel great about myself". The thing is, I do get it - I'm not skinny, nor am I regular-sized or thick. I am one hefty, self-insulated bitch, and that won't change until I decide to change - not because I started using an emotionally friendly adjective. People come in all shapes and sizes; we're not all supposed to look the same and we're not attracted to the same kinds of people either. I know I can't date men with tiny heads (mainly because my head is so abnormally large it becomes the main attraction in all photos). I'm greatful that no matter what size I have been, there have been men who are attracted to me. Granted, my winning personality glistens and sparkles no matter what I look like.

I may be fat, but I can change that. You'll always be a douchebag. 

The Weight Game

Any person who claims that they "love" their body no matter what their size isn't exactly telling the truth. There's a little lie in that statement because I have yet to meet someone who isn't on some kind of weight loss diet. Thin and heavy alike, no one is ever satisfied. We might love ourselves, which we all should, but there is always a human need to get to the next goal: to be better, to do bigger, to conquer the next goal. From the big girl's point of view, I have little belief that other big girls love the way their bodies look. It's a delicate balance though, because while I do have confidence (most days) and I love the person that I am on the inside, my outside doesn't reflect that. Sure, there are days where I look great - my jeans are hugging my curves in all the right places and my waist looks slimmer than usual, but let's face it - I'm not happy with my outer appearance. Anyone who says a size 18 looks just as good as a size 8 is fooling themselves.

I will say that I am proud of myself in recent months. I finally got the inner kick in the ass that I needed to get my life together. I decided it was time to make the necessary life changes to lose weight - not for vanity reasons, but for health reasons. I think that makes the difference from my mindset to the mindset of those who just want to fit into that perfect summer bikini. My motivation isn't fitting into a piece of string you wear at the beach - my motivation is to live a long, happy and healthy life and you simply can't do that when you're overweight. The nice trade off is that you end up looking hotter and hotter with every pound gone.

With 30 pounds behind me, I'm not going to say it's been easy, but it's been extremely gratifying to see my progress, my inner will-power develop and my self esteem blossom. There are some things about this adventure that piss me the hell off though...

• Every skinny girl around me eats like utter shit and remains skinny. Why oh why didn't that happen to me?! Genetics? I doubt it. God's evil little plan if you ask me. Naturally you would think that these skinny people would be working out to maintain their size, but I reassure you, most aren't. They are just naturally tiny sized. And for that I say you can all kindly fuck off.
  
• Since we're talking about skinny bitches who don't try to be skinny, I hate that I'm always going to have to monitor my weight. My lifelong journey of maintaining my goal weight will be something that I diligently have to watch forever. I'm at such a high risk of gaining weight back that I have no choice but to eat bananas for my snacks and work out 6 days a week to keep myself at an even keel.  Un-mothereffing-fair.
  
• Have you ever noticed just how many commercials on television are about junk food? KFC, McDonald's, Domino's, Papa Johns and every sugary cereal you can imagine come on back to back to back every single commercial break. No wonder when you're laying down watching TV you get this overwhelming desire to dive into a pool of chocolate milkshake with a side of french fries. Seriously though, when was the last time you saw a commercial about a fruit cocktail?
  
• Friends and family constantly telling me "oh you can't eat that" or asking me "what are you allowed to eat?". I will smack someone if another person tells me what I can and can not eat. If I budgeted a small snack sized bag of Cheetos to accompany my otherwise very healthy lunch, then leave me to it. I know exactly what I'm doing and I can eat anything that I want within moderation. You, my dear friend, can go dive into a volcano if you try to stop me.

I guess these scenarios just come with the territory. I am in love with the fact that so many people in my life are going through there own life overhaul and losing the weight that has been holding them down for years. Congrats to all of us; and cheers to the next 30 pounds gone!

You've Got it Made

The battle of the sexes has been a long standing debate for decades. Longer actually. I'm pretty sure Freud had his own take on the gender battle (penis envy anyone?). Books have been popping up on Barnes and Noble's shelves for as long as I remember. Men are from Mars; Women are from venus, right? So, here comes the age old question: whose life is easier and whose life is harder? I don't want to point fingers at men about how easy their lives are; they've got their own set of issues. I certainly wouldn't like to know what it feels like to get kicked in the balls. I just don't think men truly grasp just how much more pleasant life is for them. I know I hear men complaining about having to foot the bill on dates, and about juggling multiple women at a time without them finding out about one another, and about learning how to fix things around the house so their penis feels bigger, but really, none of that compares to what it's like to live with a yeast infection.

Call me biased, but I definitely think women have the short end of the stick, and I'm not just saying that because I own a vagina. I asked a number of men to name things that suck about being a man and all of their responses were so typical and superficial.

Complaints from men:
1. Having to be the first one to go out and check for danger - we ruined our once flat stomachs and tight asses to house and birth your children. Grab the baseball bat and take your ass downstairs to see what that noise was.

2. Not being able to stay home and take care of the kids - by all means, please stay home. Guaranteed you'll resent me working all the time, and for not spending enough time with the family and you will inevitably feel like less of a man for staying home and changing diapers. Don't worry honey, I promise you that your penis is still the same size. It'll be okay.

3. Insurance is higher and we die younger - I just spent the past 12 hours huddled into a ball full of nausea and unbearable cramps. Fuck you and your higher insurance. I'd also gladly shave a couple of years off my life if it meant I didn't have to go fake labor every single month for three quarters of my life.

4. Inevitable, irreversible loss of hair - last time I checked, women lose their hair too. Plus we can't get away with shaving our heads without looking like a cancer patient. Bald men are cool. Look at Bruce Willis. Suck it.

5. Pressure to provide for your family - in these times, both parents are full-time working adults, yet it's still typically the woman who gets the kids to school, gets home on time, cooks for the family, cleans up the house, does homework with the children and gets pulled away from life every time Junior has a tummy ache. You get no sympathy!

6. That damn "honey-do" list - I'm pretty sure we're making you feel more like a man by solving our household problems and opening the pickle jars. Don't act like you hate it. We're really doing you a favor by stroking your super manly and insecure egos.

7. Sexual satisfaction is solely on us - trust me, if it was as simple as a breeze hitting my vag in just the right way to satisfy me too, I wouldn't need your help.

8. The expectation to be "manly" all the time - I can't speak for other women, but a man whose vulnerable enough to be emotional in front of me is sexy and inviting. This shows me that you might be one of the few that actually has a soul. Maybe it'll also mean you'll listen to me when I'm talking. I don't want to get ahead of myself though.

9. Expectation from society - oh pah-leeeeze! Women don't have societal expectations?! I was raised to be just as educated as you. I went to school like you. I developed a well rounded sense of being like you. I have an amazing career like you. Yet, I'm still obligated to maintain our house, raise our children, and look like a super model while doing it. Plus sized models are now a size 6. Does anyone realize how detrimental this is to a woman's self esteem? I'd be quick to stab you in the jugular to obtain a size 6 waistline.

10. Having to deal with women, who are by nature, annoying and irrational - how can I put this politely? Go fuck yourself. When was the last time you bled for a week and felt rational? Get back to me when that happens.

Okay - I know women are hard to tolerate sometimes. I will be the first to admit that dealing with a woman who doesn't think she's nuts is probably the worst kind of woman to be around. I would like to point out that I am not in denial, nor am I ignorant to the cold hard fact that I am out of my fucking mind, and absolutely annoying. I mean, if I can annoy myself, I can only imagine how other people are tolerating me. Keep something in mind though (and I've mentioned this before): this isn't exactly our faults. This is biology. Our hormonal cycle changes literally every, single day that we are alive. Men don't have to deal with this. You'd be all emotional and batty too if your hormone levels were at a civil war inside your uterus.

And as if ruining our bodies for babies, dealing with cramps, shoving mounds of cotton inside to stop the  blood festival, and developing an array of horrifying vaginal infections every time we take an antibiotic wasn't bad enough. Let's keep in mind that cancer causing STD's are from men. They host the disease and infect unsuspecting uteruses (uteri? uteruses? I digress) with cancer causing HPV. Not okay. I don't see how that is sexually satisfying at all. I'll take that cold breeze any day now.

Happy Seasonal Affective Disorder

I'm still a little taken aback that Thanksgiving is weeks behind us and there are only a few days left until Christmas. I, for one, never cared for the holidays; mainly because growing up any holiday that revolved around giving or receiving presents turned into a guilt festival for not being helpful or grateful enough. As I've grown up though, I've noticed that all Christmas has turned into is "go into debt buying shit for people you only talk to once a year" day. Call me cynical, but I think that defeats the whole concept of celebrating baby Jesus's birthday. Granted, I'm not a religious individual, but I personally think any holiday, especially Christmas, should be spent eating good food and spending time with people you actually like.

I feel like I've used the word 'Christmas' entirely too many times already.

The first year I celebrated "Christmas Alone with a Dog" I was rocking in the fetal position, crying on the couch, while watching Marley and Me and clutching my puppy. I wanted to make the best of the evening since I spent the entire day acting like a character from Girl, Interrupted, so I devised a plan to go get drunk and make some bad decisions... only to get side swiped on the highway... on Christmas day... in the rain. My car has never been quite the same since. I have since given up on trying to keep my car ascetically presentable. He never gets washed, unless the cloud gods have opened the skies and poured water down upon him. The inside of my car looks even worse; I haven't seen the passenger side floor in months. 

And yes, my car is a 'he', because if I have to sit down and ride something all day... wait, I'm not even finishing this sentence. 

The second annual "Christmas Alone with a Dog" wasn't planned to happen, but life just seems to know when to keep a good thing going. I was recently unemployed, broke and full of self wallowing woe. A friend of a friend asked me to stay in her giant house and dog sit for two weeks while she frolicked around South America with her diamonds and rubies. Had I not been so desperate for money, I would have realized just how far she bent me over with how much she actually paid me. As it turns out, I would have made more in 4 days at my current dog sitting job than what she paid me. Nature then decided to slap me in the face by snowing. Not once, but twice. It wouldn't have been so terrible had I not owned a car with low profile tires that did nothing but maliciously cackle and flip me off during snowy conditions. I had no choice but to shovel the entire front of her property, including the quarter mile long driveway. Not that I could really go anywhere, because she lived in the woods; full of hills, twists and turns. So, I spent Christmas drinking rum and watching hours of Intervention, which is a contradicting statement in and of itself. I'd like to point out that watching hours of Intervention makes you want to shrivel up and die, which isn't the outcome you want to go for when you're already bathing in misery.

The third annual "Christmas Alone with a Dog" has crept up on us and this year I'm going all out. Not only do I have my dog to spend this holiday season with, but I have my roommate's dog and I have a giant golden retriever to walk all weekend long. I figured since this is what the universe has bestowed upon me every year I might as well embrace it at this point. While I haven't quite worked out all the details yet, I'm thinking my celebration should include things like:

• Take a stab at lasting more than 20 minutes doing my Xbox Zumba - so far, I've felt like imploding every time I've tried
• Give myself a pedicure. I may not be able to reach my feet that well, but I'm sure I can improvise by attaching a Ped-Egg to a yard stick
• Have an invite only wine tasting party - Even if I'm the only one invited, it sounds a lot fancier than "drink the pain away alone" 
• Watch Bad Santa and take a shot every time Billy Bob Thorton says "fuck"
• Take a shot every time my roommate's dog cries from separation anxiety
• Take a shot every time my anti-social dog leaves me alone in the living room
• Take another shot just for the hell of it

So far, my celebration includes a lot of drinking, but it's still a work in progress. Happy Fesitvus!

Driving is Overrated

For my 27th birthday this past July, I made a few resolutions; just a few things I wanted to accomplish during the descent into my 28th year of fabulousness. With almost 6 months behind us, I thought it might be a good time to check in on my progress.   

• Start tanning - I got suckered into a monthly subscription at a tanning salon, that I only used once, and didn't cancel for at least 3 months. I also bought $100 worth of tanning lotions. Money well spent if you ask me. 
• Keep a hair color for more than a month - that didn't work out so well. I'm already on color change #17
• Lose some weight... again - finally, something I accomplished! 13 pounds down, 4780 to go. 
• Stop trying to kill myself in the middle of the night - I decided that I was going to cure my sleep apnea all on my own and not waste money on one of those fancy face vacuums. I'm still working out the kinks.
• Date more non gay men - I just gave up on dating all together - problem solved. 
• Stop playing bumper cars in real life - so far, I have yet to add more dents and scratches to my once pristine vehicle. I'm still plotting on having someone steal it, and burn it in the woods so I can collect insurance money. Oh wait... that's illegal isn't it? Forget everything you just read. 
• Maintain my sanity while working 7 days a week - this was a lost cause; I don't even know why I added this to my list in July. Maybe the voices made me do it. 
• Escape the shanty townhouse - DONE! 
• Become a world renowned writer - yeah, about that...
• Stop donating money to the richest county in America - *sigh*

Earlier this year I seemed to have developed a fetish for donating my funds to Fairfax County for a variety of different traffic violations. First off, I would like to say that this county is far from needing assistance from me. In fact, I shouldn't even be living in such a classy county. With the money I make, and the insane amount of debt I have (which is having a tailgating party at the foot of my bed right now, if you're interested), I should be living somewhere like Newark, NJ. Who cares if Newark has the highest crime rate in the country? Minor details. 

I made a vow that I would stop finding ways to hand over hundreds of dollars to the courts, but on the day I escaped the shanty house for good, I got pulled over for speeding... again. Can I just point out that I have been driving for over 10 years and was never pulled over for anything until this year? I'm convinced that I'm being racially profiled. I graciously accepted my ticket and went on my way. Earlier this week I received two letters from the DMV. Letter number one stated that I currently have 11 points on my license and could be suspended if I hit 12 points during a one year span. Letter number two stated that my license has actually been suspended for two weeks already due to failure to pay my speeding ticket. 

I did what any rational adult would do: texted a friend with an abundance of obscenities, wished for a vat of alcohol, and reluctantly reached for my wallet. There were three steps necessary to get this situation taken care of: pay the court the amount of the ticket, pay the DMV a reinstatement fee and take a trip to the DMV with proof of payment. After paying nearly $400, I illegally drove myself there the next morning ready to take action. Apparently, the receipt on my cell phone wasn't proof enough because the court website still reflected an outstanding balance. I was told to come back at a later time. It seems that I'm expected to ride my bike around the construction zone that is my entire neighborhood. I got in my car, suspended license in hand, and drove to work. Later that day, I received an email from my bank my checking account was weeping. I'm still wishing for that vat of alcohol.

Pass the Serotonin

A lot of people have a legitimate fear of getting older. We want to hold onto our youth, smooth skin and non-saggy asses for as long as possible. And while I understand the rationale, I've learned to embrace the art of getting older. To me, getting older has provided me with a keen understanding of who I actually am as a human. I strongly embrace the impending smile lines, grey hairs, crow's feet, and upper arm flab. Who cares if my pasty Irish skin shrivels up and I look like a glow in the dark raisin by the age of 52? That's what plastic surgery is for. Yet, a lot of people I know would love to turn back time, head back to high school and do it all over again. As for me - I'd sooner swim through a swamp filled with fire breathing dragon babies than head back to 2001.

The only thing I really don't like about getting older is that I've somehow been kicked back into puberty. The only difference now is that I have bills I can't afford, a sex life that is less than enviable, and three jobs that have completely killed my social life. I don't know about you, but this seems like a really unfair trade off. At least the first time I went through puberty all I had to worry about was staring at the crush I had on in homeroom without getting caught and figuring out how to apply makeup.

I blame my uterus: she is the bain of my existence. I know of no man who has to suffer like me and the rest of 20-something woman. It's come to a point where I'm fairly certain that my brain lacks some kind of neuron processor. Why else would I be spontaneously crying while watching Jeopardy? 

I know that my monthly hormone cycle is to blame for the majority of my life issues, and I have come to accept the fact that every single day until menopause is decided for me by the fluctuations of estrogen, testosterone and progesterone. Do I feel bad for men for having to put up with women? Yes - most days. Are we all nuts? Yes, we are - but I will reassure you all that we have virtually no control over being crazy - our hormones made us do it.

I'm in the dreadful baby-bearing years of my life and I am going through the fight of my life ignoring the glow inside of my womb whenever I hold a baby or see a pink tutu specifically designed for a 6 month old. I have my hands full at this stage of my life. What I don't need right now is a second round of acne that has slowly taken over my face within the past two years. I'm pretty sure I took the strongest acne pill known to man to take care of this problem a decade ago. I remember those 6 months vividly, including the giant warning on the box that, if I got pregnant while taking, would cause my baby to come out with 4 eyes and no limbs. I went through months of nose bleeds and chapped lips in the journey of acne curing hell. Someone please explain to me why the Bertha of all pimples has rented a summer timeshare on my chin.

I also really don't appreciate the inconsistent mood swings. Within a matter of 20 minutes, I can go from being happy to completely homicidal and then back to happy as if nothing has happened. Who wants to be friends with someone like that? No wonder its hard for women to keep other women friends - we're all plotting to kill each other and then share a bowl ice cream over pedicures 2 seconds later. While watching No Strings Attached last night, the most light hearted and lame "romantic-comedies" of 2010, I found myself bursting into tears while eating pickles. I then laid in bed for hours, unable to sleep, cell phone in hand, plotting to text disgusting mushy words I knew was too soon to utter. Hormonal texting is way more dangerous than drunk texting. God, someone please put me out of my misery. 

The Decline

Birthday's are a funny thing. I know a lot of people who don't like to celebrate getting older, but I've always been gung-ho about getting my party on, even though as I've gotten older I can't exactly hold my liquor any more. What's not to celebrate though? You're another year older, another year wiser, and another year's worth of shoes have been bought! So, now that my official plummet into my late twenties is upon us, I'd like to take this time to reflect on what I've accomplished within the past year, and what I'd like to do differently during my 27th year of life:

List o' Accomplishments:

• I grew my first wrinkle - thank you pasty pale Irish skin.
• I got fired for the first time in my adult life - best Thanksgiving/Christmas/New Years present ever!
• I managed to date only one closeted gay man - vast improvements, people.
• I got my heart broken and smooshed - awesome!
• I gained back every single pound I lost before I turned 26 - mmm flubtastic.
• I hit a guard rail and cement block with my car - scratches and dents galore!
• I developed my sweet ability to choke almost to death in my sleep - bring me my face vacuum!
• I've obtained not just one job to replace the one I lost, but three! - who needs sleep? I keep trying to kill myself anyway while I'm sleeping.
• I moved, not once, but twice - because the first time wasn't quite fun enough
• I got my first speeding ticket ever, on top of my second HOV violation - I really just felt like donating money to Fairfax County because they aren't quite rich enough.

I've accomplished a good amount since my last birthday, but in an effort to keep the momentum going, I would like to set some new goals for this next year coming up.

List o' Goals:

• Start tanning - because if I'm going to develop wrinkles, I might as well look like a leather hand bag while I'm at it
• Keep a hair color for more than a month - this might be really difficult for me
• Lose some weight... again - you know, as much as I enjoy the flub, I enjoyed being less squishy more
• Stop trying to kill myself in the middle of the night - fingers crossed!
• Date more non gay men - I like men who like vagina the best
• Stop donating money to the richest county in America - I prefer my money where I can see it, you know, in my closet
• Stop playing bumper cars in real life - let's keep my ride alive!
• Maintain my sanity while working 7 days a week - wait... you don't hear those voices?
• Escape the shanty townhouse - my soul has died because of this house
• Become a world renowned writer - it could happen!

Unfortunately, there are certain things that are completely beyond my control from year to year. I can not control that it's always about 115 degrees out when it's time to celebrate my birth, which causes me to develop a delicious Mufasa mane. I can not control that toothless men at gas stations love to point and stare at my ass. I can not control that I sweat more than the imaginary lovechild of Whitney Houston and Richard Simmons would. Last, but not least, I can not control that people still continue to buy Jennifer Lopez's music. Why does she still make music? I can't figure it out.