Archive | February, 2013

Sometimes I Like to Drink Naked in My Lobster Suit

27 Feb

Well, I can no longer take all the fat on my stomach and smoosh it together with my hands to create an enormous pouch of jelly.

So that’s nice.

For those of you unacquainted with my fatness, allow me to introduce you to Project Fat Ass 365, wherein yours truly has committed to work out every single day of 2013 for at least 20 minutes. For someone who just posted last week about how all her dreams could come true if she were allowed to make money to lie in bed and do nothing while NASA pokes and prods her for the betterment of society, working out is kind of epic.

So I’m two months in and I have a bit of a confession: I skipped a day.  For one entire day I didn’t do anything workout related. I tried to make up for it by doing two Jillian Michaels workouts back to back the next day and then going for a jog.  If you know anything about Jillian Michaels workouts, I hope you see that this was a worthy punishment.  At any rate it made me feel terrible enough to never want to have to do it again.

I’m glad I got that off my chest.  I hope we’re still Interwebz friends.

I’m starting to finally notice some pretty nice byproducts of exercise, primarily the aforementioned lack of a kangaroo pouch full of lard.  I also went to an interview recently only to find that my smallest tool costume ( AKA office clothes) don’t stay on my hips, which is both exciting and annoying because I’m currently riding a steady wave of poverty. 

It would be more cost effective to buy 4 bags of Doritos and keep the pants I have than to invest in smaller pants. Fact.

But alas, I made a pact with myself and made it public, so I shall trudge on. Let us not forget that it’s been four years since I’ve been in a body of water at summertime for fear of my own spectacularly thunderous thighs.  I wore cardigans all summer long because I’d rather sweat than vex others with the sight of my flappalicious arms. If I sat on furniture, I would reach for the nearest pillow and place it over my stomach so that others couldn’t see the pile of pudge that would shift forward to rest on my lap like a lard kitten. It would be really nice to not have to do those things anymore.  If I keep trucking ahead and let Jillian Michaels yell at me for just twenty minutes a day, I might actually throw on some arm floaties and jump in the deep end this summer.

Not to mention run that 10K that’s looming over me in September. That’s a killer. Why did I say I’d do that?

A typical day in my apartment with my fatness. And my cat. And my lobster suit.

A typical day in my apartment with my fatness. And my cat. And my lobster suit.

For those following along at home, I frequently tweet about my hatred of Jillian and all things pudgy on myself, so you can click the fancy button on the right to follow me on Twitter.  Occasionally I will check in with progress in my weekly posts, but for the most part I would rather spend this time focusing on the nuances of human behavior and society that make me want to board myself up in my apartment and never leave.

That’s been the tradition around here, anyway.

I’ve been courting the idea of a contest here on the bloggity blog.  It’s been quite some time since I’ve raffled a t-shirt or offered a gift card for various input. Except this time, I wouldn’t ask for Lollipop Tuesday ideas or macaroni and cheese recipes; I would challenge you to attempt a Lollipop Tuesday yourself or to do something every single day for one month to compete for a prize.

I’m not sure if this is a way to motivate you to go outside your comfort zone or a way to motivate me to keep doing what I’m doing.  Either way, we all win – yes? 

But before I put all that effort into things, let’s do a little market research. Let me know if you’d be interested in participating by answering the two snazzy surveys at the bottom of this post, and if you have any thoughts, ideas, or objections, feel free to spam the comment section – especially if you have a suggestion for a prize that would motivate you.  Be reasonable; suggestions for iPads will be scoffed at.  As you know by now, I love and adore each and every one of your squishy little brains and never let a comment go unreplied to.  

So take the survey, leave a comment, and/or follow me on Twitter to harass me with tweets like “run fatty, run!”  It’s not mean; it’s motivation.

Sprinkles and Puppies,

Jackie ♣

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My Contribution to Humanity

20 Feb

Guys, this is the moment we’ve been waiting for.  Well, me.  I’ve been waiting for.  But I know that deep down all along you’ve been rooting for me and so this will mean almost as much to you as it does to me.

Guys. NASA  hires people to stay in bed all day and let them study the effect it has on your body. They pay a lot, too.  Like $5,000 a month for three months.

THREE MONTHS.  That’s $15,000.  That’s a down payment on a house or a car or the best vacation of my life or helping 15 of my friends do something amazing or a wedding or any link to the next step in my life I want it to be.  And all just to sit in a bed.

So hear me out.  NASA needs subjects.  They’re willing to pay them handsomely for their participation.  The first two weeks is prep, the 60 days in the middle are all in bed, and the last two weeks are recovery. That’s 60 days of performing all bodily functions in bed, including using the restroom and bathing.  You have access to television, movies, and video game consoles. I’m serious.  Here’s proof.  And more proof. AND MORE PROOF.

Do you know what this means? Do you!? This means that I could get paid to play World of Warcraft.

As many longtime readers know, I have spent the last several years as a recovering WoW player.  At the lowest point in my journey, I could eat an entire pizza and a pint of Ben and Jerry’s ice cream and go unshowered for five days before it started to bother me. I was so holed up in my addiction that in order to spend time with me, a friend in college carried his desktop computer from his dorm to my apartment so that he could plug it in and play computer games at the same time as me. It was the only way  I would entertain notions of social engagement.

Of course, a part of my soul was truly happy there in Azeroth, but I was a smelly pile of zombie-brained raid-driven flesh accomplishing nothing and spending all my money on pizza I hid under my bed instead of putting in the fridge downstairs.  So I can’t really say it was a positive life choice.

For those of you unacquainted, it wasn’t unlike this:

from South Park "Make Love, Not Warcraft". Check it out here: http://www.southparkstudios.com/full-episodes/s10e08-make-love-not-warcraft

from South Park’s “Make Love, Not Warcraft”. Full episode here: http://www.southparkstudios.com/full-episodes/s10e08-make-love-not-warcraft

I quit cold turkey twice.  The second time I was actually successful, mostly because I had uninstalled it from everything I owned and gotten rid of the only computer I had capable of handling the graphics.

I have existed WoW-free all these years mostly because I cannot make the argument that it is helping me achieve my goals in life, that it doesn’t pay the bills, and that I get to dangerous levels of hermit-like social interaction when under its power.  But then NASA announced that they want to pay me to stay in bed and play Warcraft all day for 60 days straight and that when I’m done they would hand me enough cash to do something big and adult-like in my life, thereby propelling the timeline of my adulthood forward and making family and relatives more comfortable about my life choices.

I need to play WoW to serve my country. People want to go to Mars and stuff.

Of course, in order to qualify for patriotic astronaut testing duty, I have to pass a fitness test.  So it’s a good thing I’ve been doing my Project Fatass 365, because I might actually be able to now.

It’s like this opportunity was meant solely for me.

All right, I’m off to do my last session of hateshredding with Jillian Michaels before I step it up and find a program that will make me suitable for a space mission.  Well, a space mission in bed. With Cheetos.

God Bless America. ♣

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The Best Baby Shower Ever

13 Feb

Man, I hate baby showers.

I pretty much hate all showers that don’t include water. It mostly has to do with the idea of so much estrogen stuffed into a room together, and a little to do with the fact that it’s a social engagement and requires me to leave me apartment.

So I was forced into the light of day this past weekend to celebrate the inevitable arrival of my next nephew, already dubbed David. This presents an awkward problem for me, since my David is named…David. I feel very strange calling a very small human who is related to me by blood the same thing I call a very large human who I find attractive.  I’m trying to come up with a nickname for the squirt, but I also call my form of the human David both “Davey” and “Dave”, so those are out as alternatives. Someone suggested “Li’l D” but that’s  too mediocre-white-rapper for my taste. I could go by his middle name, but the middle name is a tribute to my brother, so that’s another hot mess.

Anyway I was at a baby shower celebrating the almost fully baked muffin and was the only female in the room who had not had a child. Or snagged a husband.

For those of you unawares, when you’ve been with someone for five years and/or you’re closing in on 30, it’s virtually impossible to attend adult social engagements without being badgered about when the big day is.  And now that America is all willy-nilly about the importance of getting married before having babies, I’m not even asked when I’m getting married anymore; they just hop right to “so when do you think you’ll have kids?!”

For the record, both of these questions are rude.  And annoying. Please stop it.

But that’s just the surface of why baby showers are so awful.  The real reason is that when you’re trapped in a room with a bunch of moms who haven’t had a chance to get out in a while and connect with other moms, they want to talk about mom stuff.  In my case, pretty much everyone was a relatively new mom and were the proud owners of wobbly toddlers. With the topic of the day being an impending birth, it was only a matter of time before conversation veered toward the inevitable: the miracle of  childbirth also known as the disgusting process of labor.

I have a lot of questions about labor that I don’t really want to know the answer to.  They didn’t cover the details in my health class. All I remember is a video that had absolutely no warning attached to it showing me things I never dreamed I would be shown against my will.  I try to avoid discussion surrounding labor because I’m afraid that when it’s confirmed that you really do poop yourself in the process, I’m never going to allow myself to have children.

At a baby shower, labor-related discussions are inevitable.  Because just when you’re ready to hunker down with a meatball sub and some cake, everyone starts talking about the pain of pushing a watermelon-sized human out their hoo-has like it’s no big deal.

It’s not their fault, really.  It’s just that they’re moms; the things they’ve seen in the process of caring for a creature that is unable to eat, clean, or poop on its own has turned them into unflinching warriors of bodily functions.  I admire it, really.  There’s something to be said for someone who can discover a human turd on the floor and clean it up without protest or surprise. That’s the kind of warrior moms are. I’m just not there yet.  I don’t know if I’ll ever be there. I find turds to be quite alarming.

In the spirit of inclusion, I should note that dads are capable of turd removal as well, but they are not emphasized in this post because I’ve never been to a baby shower that includes men.  And I’ve never known one who has gone through labor and lived to talk about it.

So for lots of reasons, I would prefer to not have to attend showers ever again.  Unless, that is, the nature of the shower changes. Perhaps instead of playing baby-related games and showering someone with presents, we could all go play paintball together.  The expectant mother could hole up in a fort with snacks and her friends could divide up into two teams and play Capture the Expectant Mother. Or everyone could go play laser tag together and to make it fair for the soon-to-be-mom, everyone could wear fake bellies.

Capture the unborn child.

Capture the unborn child.

I’m not really sure why these haven’t already become social sensations.

So I guess I’ll throw it out there.  The next shower I attend should employ these simple suggestions or something in the same spirit. 

Even if I have to wait ’til my own. ♣

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Ooooh, Shiny.

6 Feb

It has been quite some time since I’ve done any housecleaning or upkeep around here.  Last year I was all “let’s add a custom header” and “yay widgets!” and this year I’m, well, lazy.

Enough of that.  So I’m starting small with a shiny, new widget on the right hand side labeled “Down the Rabbit Hole”.  There, you can click to go out to a random post somewhere in the deep recesses of my brain of yore.  Don’t get too excited, but I might even add a picture there eventually.

Today, I shall encourage you to use it for your weekly fix. 

And I’m still working out, by the way. In case you were curious, I have not yet suffocated under a pile of Ranch Doritos in front of my computer, scrolling the Health and Fitness category of Pinterest, wishing I could be doing the things in the picture instead of shoving my fat face.

Operation Fat Ass 365 is still a go. 

Fat Ass, out. ♣

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