I believe you know what this means....

AND IT'S ONLY NOVEMBER 10th!

And to think...I just found my running shoes in the bottom of the latest box that I unpacked. I'll start working out now...right after I finish straightening all of those deck chairs on the Titanic.

Sorry Sexy Strippers

First I was hustled into this.....

because I am not that smart.

The other day, I couldn't sleep.  As a result, I foolishly bought this...

and I have yet to try them.

This infomercial is on right now, but sorry ladies, I don't think I'll  be purchasing this one.



Fat white girl, hip-hop is where I draw the line. I can shake it like a white girl, but not stripper style......not for now anyway.

I need this....and I need this NOW

So one of my smarty pants friends, you know, the one that is all doctoral and everything......the one that I went to Puerto Rico with? Well she came to California for Labor Day weekend but sadly our schedules didn't match up, and I didn't get to see her. Upon looking at the the blog of things that she accomplished this weekend, I am drastically regretting not rearranging my schedule. I clicked on the link to The Donut Man and found this

Dear Sweet Mother of All That is Good and Holy in this World, I don't even know what this is, but I am fairly CERTAIN that I need to have more than one of these before the weeks end....and those stupid hip-hop abs videos show up.

B@$tards Got Me Again

You know all those sayings,

"Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me."

"There's a sucker born every minute"

"A fool and her money are soon parted"

"Kill two birds with one stone."

Well, they all apply to me right now.....except for maybe that last one, I just felt like I needed one more cliche and that was the only one that came to mind, but that's neither here nor there. Actually, there may be death involved, but certainly not the death of any aviary type animal. The death will most likely be my very own....and not by stone, but by DVD.

Remember this, this,  that, maybe this, or the fact that I have permanently switched to dresses and clothes that have absolutely NO buttons or zippers....cause I like to breathe? But most importantly, and most recently, do you remember this?Well- to my credit I wasn't stupid enough to fill out THAT survey, cause I know that would have ended in a string of obnoxious emails and phone calls 'encouraging me to dig deeep' when really, I am quite, quite shallow. However, we went to the fair this weekend, and I was up late watching TV in the hotel when a certain infomercial came on. I got suckered into watching it, mostly just for the sake of reestablishing some shred of dignity. "Those girls are probably like 20 and freaking starving. I bet they have never known the joy that comes with a fried Oreo, or a cream cheese dog on a stick. There is no other way they would have six-packs like that! Bull crap, you lying (fill in the blank with whichever mean adjective you choose, but mine starts with bas- and ends in a synonym for poos). Plus,  they probably haven't menstruated in years being that they have like zero body fat and might be slightly androgynous....but for the boob jobs."

Then low and behold what did I find myself doing? Reaching for my wallet and phone and ORDERING THE DAMN VIDEOS RIGHT THERE ON THE SPOT!

So no- I guess I won't be killing two birds with one stone....I will be killing one fat white chick (with very little coordination and even less rhythm)  with a series of  "Hip-Hop" workout videos.

I am proof positive that Darwin was wrong. Not only the strong survive, the stupid have a pretty good fighting chance too.

*but in my defense, I only had to pay $40 bucks for them....and no shipping, since I bought them before to infomercial was over. I may be a sucker, but I'm no dummy. So suck on that bad economy!

We want to hear what you think!

Remember that Insanity workout debacle....that was recommended to me by an anti-friend, which I sold to another unsuspecting friend, who made no bones about delivering it RIGHT back to me. Well- I made the mistake of giving them my email address and I got this email this morning.

 Beachbody’s constantly striving to help people achieve their goals and lead healthy, fulfilling lives . . . and we'd like your help!


You've been invited to take this short survey on online diet, fitness and motivation tools that could help you achieve your goals. The survey will only take a few minutes. Just click below to get started.



Thank you,

Your Friends at Beachbody®

They want the truth? I'm not sure they can handle the truth.

Bastards.

Stick to the Script

I know that the party is pretty much over, and normally, it is against my character to feel bad about a well deserved celebrity grilling, but I really do feel bad for Kathy Ireland.

Whose idea was it to put her on the Oscar red carpet for her first stint as an interviewer anyway? It seems to me that a trial run in the minor leagues might have been a good idea. Top ten most awkward and stiff red carpet debacles...EVER.

However, that was not the only head scratcher of the evening. Lara Spencer asked Mo'Nique about whether or not she would be losing her jiggly bits now that she has entered the Hollywood big time? Seriously?

In the spirit of fair play, I would like an interviewer to ask one of the many waif-like, bobble headed women how they keep their manicures so nice in spite of the pre-Oscar binge and purge rituals.

Crap No One Needs: Volume 3 (a.k.a Totally Honest Tuesday)

You would think that this would be a prime candidate for, Crap No One Needs, but in actuality, it's the exact opposite. Crap I TOTALLY Need. How I have considered myself a responsible dog owner for the past 4 years? I've been lying to myself, and my dog. Obviously.

And in case my posts of late have yet to convince you that I am indeed the chubby, snarky, stuck in a rut high school teacher and spinster aunt, in need of a change, that you thought I was, let me offer you another example. Crap I Totally Need. As much as it displeases me to admit it, my Great Buns Jeans have become my, Holy Moly Muffin Top Jeans. My Fat Jeans, have become my, Dear Sweet Jesus* Just Allow Me One Last Breath Jeans. I would like to blame this seemingly endless expansion and my ever growing ennui on clumsiness, the economy, and innate characteristics that are beyond my control.

But seriously, it's been 5 months. My knee is fine. I need to get my fat can on the treadmill, start applying for jobs in places I would rather live (regardless of how fruitless the market seems), put my big girl panties(pun semi-intended) on and get on with it. You know, take control over the few things that you can control and quit freaking out about the rest. That sort of thing. But when have you ever known me to do what is rational?

P.S. Please know that, I love you for the intent behind pep talks about, The Power of Positive Thinking. But if you actually suggest this to me, I most certainly will have to physically restrain myself from flicking you in the forehead.

P.P.S. Please don't give me the, "What are you talking about? You look great!" line. Because between the two of us, I've seen me naked. I adore you for your delusion, but a treadmill needs to be involved here.

P.M.S. (because P.P.P.S would be obnoxious and this seemed more appropriate)Please know that if you give me any version of, "I can't believe you still live in that hell hole. What have you been there this long for?" I may not talk to you for a while, because A) get off my back and quit being condescending B) If you're actually reading this, we are probably friends (or friendish). You know what I've been doing. And you know how much it annoys me when people ask questions that they already know the answer to. C) I've tried. Trust me when I say that I've tried...more than once.

I think I need to go get a cupcake and quit with this


* After careful consideration and various conversations with friends much wiser than I, this does not count as taking the Lords name in vain. In this case, it was an honest, sincere, pleading for oxygen. Therefore, totally kosher.

Hey Yo, Fat Girl! Come Here, Are You Ticklish?

I found the Christmas balls! I ate the Christmas balls. And even though I am not feeling real hot, my Christmas cheer is officially back on. In spite of the fact that I am now transitioning from clothes with actual structure, buttons, and zippers, to shall we say, less restrictive clothing....I am still felling very, Fa-la-freaking-la.

But all I really want to know is...are you singing the Humpty Dance? Then, my work here is done.

Lesser of Two Evils

The decisions that plague my days.


OPTION 1- Give in to my true chubster nature and be happy, yet unhealthy, whilst sitting on my couch eating cookies and watching TV.

OPTION 2- Continue working out with my 'so chipper and fit I want to strangle him' trainer and waddle away my days cranky, sore and just plain angry inside because every single part of my body aches.

Tough Call.

Officially Dumped

I should have seen it coming, but I was completely blindsided. I didn't even really want a personal trainer to begin with, but that didn't take any of the sting out of being dumped by him. Looking back, I may have played a pretty large part in being dumped, but I think my excuses for cancelling were more than reasonable.

"My dog swallowed a corn cob and I have to take him to the vet."

"I have to go to the doctor and get a typhoid shot."

And my personal favorite, which, I believe was the straw that broke the trainers back, "I just got a pedicure."

Monday, with all of my excuses exhausted, I went to the gym and ended up getting "the talk." I got all of the standard dump lines. "I think this is for the best," followed up with, "I'm no good for you," blah blah blah. He swears that he wasn't dumping me. As he put it, he was setting me up with someone who would be better for me.

Basically, I find the entire concept of personal training wildly awkward. It doesn't matter who the trainer is. I am a chubby girl at heart. Always have been, always will be. Being the center of attention is not my cup of tea. The idea of a person just standing around watching and commenting on my workout is horrifying. Fictitious or not, all I can hear is the trainers interior monologue, "Man this chick is a mess. I can't believe she is so out of shape. Does squishy have a mascot?"

Anyhow- The first couple of half hour workouts with Newby weren't that bad. Then came the first of our one hour sessions. Newby knows how I feel about working out, and is aware of my self consciousness whilst at the gym...and yet still he had some ridiculous new ideas that he tried to trot out and see how they would fly.

I really think that he came up with the most humiliating and demoralizing exercises possible, just for kicks and giggles. First thing I had to do was jump rope with the SHORTEST rope in todo el mundo. Newby, while he is cute as a bugs ear, is about 2 inches shorter than I am and fit as a fiddle, so he had no problem demonstrating how this all should go. That made the hunched over, sweaty, uncoordinated, bouncing boob fiasco all the more humiliating.

Then we moved on to crab-walking, followed that up with bear crawls, with push-up's every couple of steps, and the cherry on top of the humiliation sundae was WHEELBARROW'S!!

My interior monologue went a little something like this, "Seriously, does this fool not know how much I weigh? Has he no soul? This is precisely why I nearly got an F in jr high PE. I can remember exactly, to the day, when it was that I last did wheelbarrow races. I was in 3rd grade with Danior Martin and that didn't end well. I have successfully avoided any semblance of such activities since then, and that is by no means of chance. There is no freaking damn way I am doing this."

What this train of thought translated into was me sitting Indian style on the floor of the aerobics room with my arms folded and shaking my head, "Absolutely not. I refuse to do this. With all do respect, you have got to be eff-ing kidding me. Under no circumstance am I doing wheelbarrow's with you. No way."

Yeah-I didn't win that battle and it was every bit as horrible as I thought it would be. If I didn't remember why I stopped going to the gym in the first place...I can kind of remember now.

Diet Coke and a Pizza, Please.

That's exactly what I ordered for lunch today.
And I shimmied a little when I ordered it.

I've Got Balls

I'm not what you would call an exercise fanatic. I wish I was. I really do.

Every now and then I get the idea that I am going to become a runner. Couch potato to 5k, that's me. The couch potato.

It doesn't take me very long to realize that I am just plain not built for running.

My last adventure in running, which was approximately a year ago, had me out on the road at about 5:30 am. I had my dog with me, the 23lb miniature schnauzer. A truly imposing figure, I know. Shockingly, I was actually in pretty good shape at the time, so we were moving along quite nicely.

Typically, Freddy is pretty good at staying at heel, but this morning things were different. Across the street appeared a jack rabbit straight from the depths of purgatory, who apparently, was hell bent to ruin my becoming a runner. Freddy took OFF after the stupid rabbit going roughly 75mph. To his defense, he didn't take very long to recognize that he was in the wrong and promptly corrected himself. The problem was that when he took off, he ran in front of me. When he came back, he ran behind me, effectively tying my ankles together.

It was all so quick. I was flat on my face in no time. My knees didn't buckle. My arms didn't brace my fall. Nothing. I really do wish someone had it on video. I'm sure it was hilarious, but it was 5:30 in the bloody a.m., so there's little chance of that. I dusted myself off, picked the stones from my palms and hobbled home, all the while cursing in my head, and contemplating selling my pup on e-bay.

I didn't worry about my foot too much. I've been raised with the 'walk it off' mentality. No bones or blood showing? You're fine. I got dressed, in high heels, and went to work. Around 4th period one of my students asked me what the heck was wrong with my foot. (I actually believe the F- word was involved, but that is neither here nor there. And once I saw my foot, I realized that the F-word was actually a pretty reasonable response.) I looked down and saw that my whole foot was completely misshapen, swollen out the top of my shoe and all kinds of black and blue. Turns out I re-cracked an old break along the edge of my foot...that was it for my most recent stint at becoming a runner.

Jump to today- As an act of international diplomacy, I have revisited the thought of trying to become the runner that I know deep down, I am not. Thailand is neither ready for, nor has she done anything to deserve my current swimsuit body.

A secondary part of this plan involves a sit-up or fifty. As it turns out, every time I get on this workout kick, I get it in my head to employ the aid of a workout ball. When my steam runs out and/or I get annoyed with the gigantic ball rolling around my house, I deflate it. Inevitably, the pump and the plug get lost and rather than actually look for them, I just buy another ball.

Long story.......long. I've got balls, about 7 of them.

Chiropractor....Take 2

There are two chiropractors at the doctors office that I frequent. The one that I see and the one that I avoid at all costs.

This is the one that I like to see. Call it neurosis, call it self loathing, call it what you will. This doctor is comfortable for me. I really don't care that he gets all up in my business. Makes me roll around and cracks my back and neck, at will. I don't worry that his arms barely even touch when he makes me reach my arms around my own body, and then basically hugs me and rolls my back over some foam tube. I don't worry about that....cause he's old. And he's friends with my dad.


This is the doctor that I saw yesterday.....against my will and my better judgement. When I left, the pain was gone from my neck. It had entered chubby little my soul.

Namaste, My.....Butt

Every once in a while I have to do things that I absolutely hate just to remind myself the degree to which I hate them.


Hot yoga. One of those things.

One of my younger, thinner, more energetic friends was all jazzed about it. Having done it before, I knew that it sucked. Hard. Regardless, it seemed easier to tell her yes once than to be badgered about it, from here to eternity.

I am not sure how or why yoga people are so serious, but how do you not laugh when someone asks you to basically stick your head up your own butt? I should not be invited to yoga. EVER. So friends, please know that I am who I am. I am not the yoga studio type. I ruin the 'energy.' I can't take myself that seriously. Especially when it is 103 degrees and I am sweating like ...*something very sweaty!

*I had a few options of things to put there, but they seem a little more vulgar than is appropriate in print.


And fire breathing? Don't even get me started on fire breathing.

Glutton for Punishment

I have spoken before about how one of my biggest fears is lighting my hair on fire.

I realize now that the runner up to Grand Fear Numero Uno is grating my fingers/knuckles with a peeler.

On Sunday, while making this delectable little treat, I did that very thing. It was probably God's way of telling me that I had no business making these twice, in as many day's....but I didn't let that little set back detour me.

However, Wednesday, three days later, my finger still throbs as a testament to the evils of gluttony.

Team Diet.....BUSTED.

Due to vacation plans, I have been flirting with Team Diet. Some days are better than others, but today, Team Diet is not doing so well. Turns out that I was not as committed to the team back when the Girl Scout Cookie order forms were being passed around.
I was delivered a box of every single one of the cookies pictured above. (Except for those nasty cinnamon apple ones. Don't mess up my cookie with your fruit. Sick) I blame the delivery of doom on my friends interminably adorable kids. They are blonde, and cute, and one of them even sounds a little like Minnie Mouse.

How can you say no to that and not have your heart shrink to two sizes two small? It's unfair, really. Guerilla warfare on the swimsuit front. They may as well paint their faces and hide in my bedroom switching all of my clothes for ones that are just a smidge too small. Sneaky little devil's.

Those pesky kids won't get me next year with their pig-tails and bubbly little schpeel. I'm on to their game.