Food For Thought

I’m not having a good day.

I’m feeling so crummy right now, I wish I never got out of bed. In fact, the whole world can all go suck it!

I’m in a real quandary because I’m not normally like this. My outlook is usually so bright, and cheery, but this morning… nah.

I nearly ran over this old guy and I didn’t even care, that’s how bad this is.

I was about to turn onto the road and I was looking to my left for any oncoming cars, but I forgot to look to my right, and as I started turning, I see this old guy standing at the corner with this grimace on his face. Apparently he was irritated I didn’t see him, and I got startled because I didn’t expect to see some moron standing there.

So I waved a “sorry”, you know, that little hand gesture you wave to someone, acknowledging their presence and that you’re sorry you almost ran their sorry-ass over? Yeah, one of those. But he just stood there with this shitty look on his face, like he was expecting something more. Of what, I have no idea, because a wave was all I had, I didn’t have anything else to give to the old fucker.

What the hell else do you want, dude? Do you want a written apology? How about ten bucks, would that work? What about if I say I’ll never do it again? which would be stupid because I would never commit to something so stupid like that, so why are you still standing there with that look on your face?

And anyway, why, since you saw me coming and I didn’t see you, didn’t you just walk around the back of my car and keep going on your walk, so that it wouldn’t have mattered that I didn’t see you?

I’ll tell you why: because he’s a fucking moron, that’s why. Because people like that don’t want to take responsibility for themselves, they’d rather play the victim so they can blame the other person for making their life just that much more difficult.

Shall I go on? I think so.

Because for him walk around the back of my car to avoid any mishaps would mean he wouldn’t have anything to be angry about. It would mean his morning walk went off without a hitch, and then what would he have to complain about?

I sped off, tires screeching.

You know, when I’m feeling this crummy, all I want to do is console myself with something yummy to eat. Experts refer to this as “emotional eating” and I refer to it as: Shut the fuck up and let me eat whatever I want, you morons, why do you have to put a label on everything?

Anyway, I wanted to get a delicious deli sandwich from this particular Italian deli, but the problem is, they always have a long line and it takes forever to get your order. Okay, these are really delicious sandwiches, so I can understand that, but I didn’t want to drive over there and wait.

So, I thought I’d be smart by calling ahead, but I got a busy signal, so I hung up and dialed the number again. But again, I got a busy signal. I got nervous as dialed once more, my palms growing sweaty, my breath deepening, and my heart beating quickly… what if I never get through? But I finally did… only to be put on hold… damn it!

No music whatsoever, just blank on the other end. And as I was waiting, I started to worry that I wouldn’t be connected at all, that I’d be on an eternal, no-music hold while all the people who actually waited in line, got their sandwiches, one after another, until there were no more sandwiches.

But finally someone got on the phone to take my order and by then, I was so thankful, I didn’t yell or scream… I cried… tears of joy, and I blubbered my delicious sandwich order into the phone.

Vegetarian sub, if you must know.

Do The Right Thing

Saturday night I was back in Hollywood to perform. It’s always an adventure going to Hollywood because you never know what you’re gonna get. There’s so much to see, and do… and smell.

Los Angeles has this image in the media of glitz and glamour, but it’s not glamorous when you see it up close. Firstly, it stinks of urine because people pee everywhere. It’s not just the homeless either, I’ve seen countless comedians whip out their dicks to pee outside… the disgusting little monkeys. The streets are filthy because it never rains in Southern California, so nothing gets washed off, the quality of residents has significantly decreased, and despite the exorbitant cost of living, people keep moving here in droves… and most likely end up homeless. 

Hollywood used to be an exciting part of the shithole I call L.A., but not anymore. Actually, parts of it were always rundown and crappy, but there was a time when some of it still held that magical glamour of old Hollywood, like the kind you see in Film Noir. I used to hang out on the Sunset Strip, which, back in the day, had a vibrant scene. Now it’s just a tacky version of its old self. 

Even the homeless have attitude. Don’t get me wrong, I love the homeless, I really have a soft spot for them. Whenever I exit the freeway and see them standing on the corner with their signs asking for money, I always roll down my window and hand them a couple… trash bags, and tell them if they want to make money, they should clean up a little, make their area nice and presentable. 

You guys ever rate the homeless? You know, size them up to see if they deserve the money? I do. If they look like they just got a haircut… hmmm, probably not gonna give ‘em anything, but if they don’t have shoes on, they’re gonna get a fiver.

After I left the club, I promised a friend that I’d stop by his place. He’s a long time comic so I wanted to pick his brain. When I pulled up his address on my navigation, I saw he lived in a really nice area. On the way over, I saw this giant billboard that read “Gentrification in California Sucks” which is a very thought provoking statement, don’t you think?… and the thought it provoked for me was “Well, not if you’re white.” and I also thought “Isn’t it ironic this billboard is in one of the nicest sections of Los Angeles?” 

I arrived at my comedian friend’s house and as soon as I entered, I was overcome by the stench of what I could only describe as tear gas. Now, I’ve never been bombed before because I’m Caucasian, but I would imagine this is what tear gas would smell like if I were bombed. Turns out it was only his dog.  

His dog stank so badly, it permeated the entire house. It was so bad, the smell stuck on me until I got home and stripped off my clothes. Come to think of it, I never saw any dog. Maybe it wasn’t a dog at all, maybe that was a total assumption on my part. Maybe his dog is dead and he just keeps it around because he can’t bring himself to get rid of it. I should probably give him the number to my taxidermist, just in case. 

My friend is what you’d refer to as “someone you could really take advantage of”. He’s not mentally strong enough for a grown woman like myself; I could eat him for breakfast. For some reason, I’m really good at seeking out the weak, and if I weren’t the kind of person I am, I could really fuck up their lives. I mean, c’mon, who hasn’t thought of taking advantage of someone before? It would be like ignoring the ripest fruit on the tree. 

There are some people out there who, when they encounter a weak person, crush ‘em like a tomato without hesitation, but I’m not like that at all. I mean, not face to face. I’ll do it on my blog like a normal person, but I can’t look someone in the eye while crushing them, it’s too painful for me. That’s because I have what you call “self-restraint”, “good genes” and a “moral obligation”, whatever the fuck that means. 

I just love it when I do the right thing, you know?


In honor of my friend, fellow hiker, and all around exceptional human being.

You will be missed.


All That Jazz…

I think I may have just put the last nail in the coffin…

…I participated in a Jazzercise class yesterday.

I danced, jumped, pumped my fists, swiveled my hips and yelled “Woohoo!” when the instructor yelled “Woohoo!” and now I have to live with that decision for the rest of my life. I’m absolutely sick about it! I can’t believe I would ever stoop to that level, but I did, so I have to face the facts, admit what I did, and try to reconcile where everything went wrong.

It all started when I went to use the bathroom at the park’s community center before I headed out for a hike. I heard music coming from the large rec room and curiosity got the better of me. I slowly opened the door and saw a bunch of middle-aged women in  workout clothes dancing around in what I can only describe as suburban hell in exercise form. 

I was about to about-face and head back out (does this sentence even make sense?) when I was approached by an angelic looking lady in pastel leggings asking me if I was going to take the class, and when I told her “Um, no, I was just wondering what this was.” she smiled beatifically and said “Jazzercise” in the sweetest tone you ever heard.   

Then she grabbed a class schedule, handed it to me and proceeded to tell me the best classes to take, who the best instructors were, and that she hoped I’d come back real soon, beaming that beatific smile again, and for a moment, I thought I was in an episode of The Andy Griffith Show. 

She was so warm and her enthusiasm so infectious, I felt like I was going to be part of something very extraordinary; one that only the specially chosen belong to, so I made up my mind right then and there I would be attending a class the following week. She thanked me for stopping by, turned on her golden sneaker-clad heels to join the class and I could’ve sworn I saw a glow of light follow her. 

During my entire hike all I could think about was Jazzercise, Jazzercise, Jazzercise… and a weird sort of smile spread across my lips. I wasn’t really focusing on where I was going, it was like I was hypnotized somehow, like Jazzercise was the messiah and I was enraptured.

Well a week went by and it was time for the class, but by then, the appeal (spell) had mostly worn off, so I was on the fence about going.  See, I’m an avid hiker; I climb mountains and scale vast expanses of open space in all kinds of weather, what on earth was I doing thinking about going to Jazzercise?

Aerobic exercise isn’t my thing, I like to be outdoors in nature, not inside wrapped in spandex. But the voice inside my head took over and said, “Just go, you might have a really great experience, meet great women and make new friends.” Admittedly, I have been thinking about expanding my already vast social circle as I’m running out of people to offend.

Well fuck that voice, because I did go, and as soon as class started, I immediately regretted my decision. These community group classes suck ass. You can read about my previous experience with one of ’em here

It was… it was… well I don’t know how to explain it other than I felt like I was being indoctrinated into the worst kind of religion: A suburban housewife’s afternoon activity. I mean c’mon, I already made jam over the summer… twice, what the hell else do you want from me, suburbia?!! 

Look, I know it’s about me, not them. It’s the fact that I cannot stand mediocrity, suburban lifestyles and pastel workout clothes. I have no patience for dogma, whether in the form of a congregation or Jazzercise class. I’ve always been that way and I always will… thank God.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to go to a bake sale.

Have a Seat, Dumbass

I don’t know what you guys had planned last weekend, but I’d bet good money it wasn’t to be a dumb-ass. 

You know how I know this? No one ever plans on being a dumb-ass, it’s inadvertent (inherent for some, but that’s an entirely different post). It happens because of some choice or action which turns into a mistake. Not to say that every time someone makes a mistake, they’re a dumb-ass. We all make mistakes and it’s not to be looked down upon. 

But some mistakes do make you a dumb-ass; it’s a universal law, and just how much of a dumb-ass is determined on a sliding scale. Let’s say it’s from one to ten, with one being only a very slight mistake, so no dumb-ass, and ten being an oh boy, are you an ever-loving fucking dumb-ass… you dumb-ass! 

Hey, I don’t make this shit up.

Anyway, I don’t know if this happens to you, and if it does, whether you’re even aware of it, but have you ever had a thought about something that you wanted or needed, and then you let it go and kind of forgot about it, but then it shows up in your life? This happens to me frequently. Some call it coincidence, some call it the law of attraction, some, serendipity.  

Whatever thoughts one cultivates, their life experiences reflects those thoughts. If you have a positive mindset and tend to see things on the bright side, your life experiences will reflect that, and you will have mostly positive things happen in your life, where if you think life is shitty and full of assholes, more assholes will come into your life to make it more shitty and you’ll have negative experiences.

Personally, I can’t relate to the latter because I always see the glass as half full… or even, refillable.

“Get out of my way, asshole!”

Sorry, I’m driving while writing this and some dumb-ass is gesturing wildly in my direction. 

Where was I? Oh yes, a couple months ago I thought about how nice it would be to add a big, comfy chair to my room; somewhere I could sit and read instead of reading in bed, which always puts me to sleep, and as I was driving down my street, I saw a big, comfy chair sitting curbside with a sign on it that said: Free. 

Literally, this happened just days after my initial thought, it was amazing! The only thing was, the chair didn’t really match my decor, so I passed on it. Well lo and behold, a week later, I see another big, comfy chair in my neighborhood. Yes I’m totally serious! I passed on that one too though because I thought it was just a little too big.

Well after that, I was anticipating the next big, comfy chair coming into my life, but nothing happened. Zippo, zip, niente, nada.  

Then it occurred to me that the Universe had responded to my wish, but then I rejected it not once, but twice, so no more big, comfy chairs and I thought perhaps the Universe was giving me the finger for rejecting the first two. 

Well I let it go and hadn’t really thought about it since, until this past weekend, when I was perusing online garage sales and saw this big, comfy chair on sale for only twenty bucks, and I thought to myself “I’m going to get that chair before I fuck this up again.” I looked at is as a sign, and for twenty bucks, I’d be a dumb-ass to pass it up. I arranged to go look at it right away. 

It was big and comfy looking and although I really did not like the color (it was a poopy brown), I decided to take it because I didn’t want to piss off the Universe again, which I found out later, is not a good basis for making a decision. When I got home, I struggled to get this large, awkward chair onto my patio so I could vacuum it and remove the pillow covers for washing, then I struggled to get it into my bedroom and once it was there, that’s when I noticed the smell.

Note: Do not buy used furniture from people who have dogs.

I was looking at this shit-brown sofa chair sitting in my room, thinking “What the hell did I just do?” I tried to make the best of it. I thought once I wash the pillow covers, it would help with the smell, then I could buy a slipcover for the thing, which would hide the hideous color, and it would all work out just fine.

Well try sleeping in a small room with a piece of furniture that smells like a dog’s ass all night. 

That was it, it had to go. I would never get rid of the smell, it was all a big mistake, and the Universe was getting a big ‘ol laugh outta me. So the next morning I put the pillow covers back on, hauled the fucking thing out of my bedroom, and over to the local Goodwill store, the whole time praying they wouldn’t reject it because then what? Dump it somewhere? 

Well they took it, thank God (suckers) so it was gone, out of my life for good! However, the Goodwill store, no matter how much good will they offer, could never take away the fact that I was a dumb-ass.

Let me break it down for you: I paid twenty bucks to haul away someone’s shitty smelly chair for them, plus time and gas. 

On the dumb-ass scale, I’d rate this a solid fiver. 


Smells Like Man Spirit

I wish I had the luxury of self-confidence that men have.

You know, the kind that comes with living in a patriarchal society where you can behave anyway you want, anytime you want and flaunt a negative aspect of yourself without any blowback.

You can be the biggest crook, or jerk, or aggressive, or narcissistic, or selfish, or a total weenie, or sooooo not fucking funny, and still get away with it because you’re a man (mainly a white man, but any man, really).

Our president is the perfect example of this.

You’re a “bro”, dude! You’re part of that special group of human species where you can get away with practically anything. You can guzzle beer and vape and grow a beard on your face that looks like a mountain goat’s ass and still get a promotion because no one is gonna look down on you. That’s because you’re already above the glass ceiling.

You can have an enormous gut spilling over the top of your pants, and you’ll still think you’re hot shit because society won’t judge you like they would a woman with the same physique.

It’s not self-confidence more than it is hubris, ignorance, and flat out blind to just how privileged men are. Not that I want to have any of those character defects, but still, I like the idea that if I were to have them, I wouldn’t be judged for having them while simultaneously being called a bitch or a cunt.

Being called a whore would be alright though.


Like this guy, who I don’t even really know, asked me out on a date the other day, through social media, which, by the way, is not the way a proper whore wants to be asked out on a date. He has no car (which he posted about on Facebook), but that didn’t give him pause; he still had the hubris to ask me out. Naturally it would imply that I would need to pick him up for our date if I agreed to one, which I would not… ever.

Okay, in all fairness, I was without a car last week and posted about it on Facebook, so he probably saw it and said “Eureka! I found my soul mate!” Or maybe I should say “sole mate” as we’d probably be walking.

Hahahahaha… hahahaha…. aha… aha… ha… ahem, sorry.

Who asks someone out on a date when you have no car and live in the suburbs? How are you supposed to get around, bus? Bicycle? Okay, there’s Uber but then it left me wondering if he would ask me to pay half. The guy works as a barista too. Not a bad occupation if you’re in your twenties. I mean, you can hardly support yourself on that wage, much less be on the dating scene.

I’m not knocking the guy for his lifestyle, but… wait, I am knocking him for his lifestyle, and why shouldn’t I? He asks me out when he doesn’t have any transportation and nothing to show he has more to offer; he doesn’t even know me and is probably making all kinds of assumptions about me based on my Facebook postings, which is what I’m doing with him right now, but never mind that, let me finish my point…

My point is… my point is…

Oh yes, my point is that he assumed a woman would just accept him and his situation without demanding he try harder. He’s a man, he doesn’t have to try harder so why wouldn’t he just put himself out there? No matter how he comes across, society won’t hold him accountable. He’ll probably get a back slap, a high-five, and a “Hey buddy, good job for trying!” from his beer-swilling man friends!

He would be better off focusing on improving his situation before seeking out dates, but men don’t have to think twice about that before hitting on a girl because they’re the cat’s dinner no matter what their situation is… at least, in their own minds.

My reply to him was “I’m going to say no, but thanks.” and then I was irritated that I felt the need to soften my bluntness by adding that “thanks” at the end because I wasn’t even thankful he asked me out! But I didn’t want to be thought of as a bitch or a cunt or a whore because I rejected him. 

Have something to offer besides just your bro-ness and the need to get laid, for fuck’s sake. And shave those hideous beards while you’re at it. There’s food stuck in there!

Thanks, But No Thanks

Do you ever have a difficult time handling compliments?

Yeah, not me.

Okay, that’s not completely true; I’m not very good with handling compliments when it comes to my writing. It’s not that I don’t appreciate them, it’s just that I get shy about it. I know, hard to believe I’d be shy, but… anyway, I find it difficult to respond with something other than a simple “thanks” or, “it’s appreciated”, and most likely without punctuation or an emoji, because if I add anything, it’ll feel like I’m fawning.

I really dislike it when anyone oozes with insincerity; I want to have a shower afterwards.

I like getting compliments that are original. If someone’s going to say, “You have beautiful hair” it’s boring, who cares? I’ve heard it a million times. Now if you said something like, “You have beautiful nose hair”, well now, that’s original.  

I would appreciate it if the complementor (yes, that’s a word) would compliment me on my sick sense of humor rather than my outer appearance. The exception would be saying I look really skinny… that never gets old… because it’s not true, but in the other person’s mind it is, so who’s to argue they’re being insincere? Saying something like “Wow, you have the tightest pussy” would get my attention (and yours too, probably).

Do you ever have a difficult time handling someone who tries to tell you what to do? 

Yeah, not me.

I’m adamantly opposed to having someone telling me how to live my fucking life or giving me unwanted “advice” which turns out to be criticism thinly veiled as advice. It drives me nuts.. suck it, okay? Don’t tell me what to do.

Well, it happened yesterday, so it’s fresh in my mind. This woman, who I never really gelled with, would come on my hikes (I run a hiking group) and would talk my friggin’ ear off, which was annoying because she never engaged me in conversation, it was always her vomiting onto me about herself and her life, and I could barely get a word in edgewise… another thing that drives me nuts.

If you want to have a conversation, great! If you want to go on an incessant monologue, go see a therapist (or write a blog like this one). She had no concept of respecting the personal space of others; she was just all over the place… no boundaries. 

Anyway, I send out a monthly newsletter to my group, and this last one was a bit snarky, so she took it upon herself to send back an email lecturing me, telling me how I should edit myself because she was offended; how I need to hold myself to a higher standard because I have an obligation to her and my group, and then proceeded to tell me what and to whom I should say things, and my immediate reaction was “Seriously? Go fuck yourself.” 

But then I thought about how responding with that phrase would be such a waste of my talent with words, so I crafted an exquisite response. It wasn’t difficult, I just laid out my boundaries and spoke honestly. I was proud of myself and how I used the English language without cussing. 

Among other things, I told her to use the delete button if she didn’t like it, or leave the group, which she ended up doing, and you know what? It made me really happy. Not because I want to be mean, but because I would feel so put off  whenever she came to one of my events. I dreaded it, because as much as I tried to set boundaries with this person, she would inevitably find another way to try to cross them. And I would feel irritated and frustrated having to deal with her, so it’s a relief.

But as irritating as it was dealing with her, I came to a realization: I need to thank this woman, not be upset with her. Every time I had to interact with her, she was teaching me, giving me examples of what I was willing to put up with and what I wasn’t. It was strengthening my resolve. 

Wait a second… I sound like friggin’ Tony Robbins again, this is bullshit! What’s wrong with me? Listen, thanks for the “lesson” you freaky, annoying lady, but you know what? I’m good. I don’t need to learn that shit from you or anyone. I’m over it. Goodbye. Fuck off.

That’s better.

Feelin’ Hot Hot Hot

I have yellow fever.

No, I’m not into Asians in the sexual sense, unless you count food as porn, then I’m definitely into Asian sex. 

I don’t know what it is, but I’ve been eating a lot of Asian food… almost daily, and not the shitty Chinese take-out either. Wait, I take that back… I did have really shitty Chinese take-out a couple weeks ago but I’m trying to forget the experience. How can you fuck up rice and vegetables? Go to this restaurant, they’ll show you.

I’m seriously loving spicy, spicy food and Asians really know how to blow your fucking taste buds out of your mouth with the spicy: Vietnamese, Thai, Japanese, Chinese, Korean, Indonesian… all of it.

I think as I’m getting older, I’m losing my sense of taste (especially in men, but let’s not go there). Okay, let’s go there… there’s a very narrow scope of available men who have any sense of quality, integrity and looks, who are in my age group. Plus I live in suburban hell, so the good ones are married and have a bunch of kids, and who the hell wants that? 

Not me.

So I may or may not be seriously compromising my taste in men… I don’t know. I haven’t had a lot of action as far as dating, so I’ll have to get back to you on that one. 

So let’s get back to the deliciousness of spicy Asian food because it’s way better than sex: It’s not as messy and it tastes better… and it’s free…


No, I do not pay for sex.

Not only do I pay for sex, I watch it on video!


That’s not what I meant! I meant sex as in food, okay? Let’s not confuse the two. I pay for spicy Asian food (sex) and I watch it being prepared on the internet (porn). See? There’s a difference.

I don’t know if you knew, but there’s a bunch of fuckin’ weirdos out there who make these Asian food videos and there’s a bunch of fuckin’ weirdos who watch them.

Do you know what Mukbang is? (just Google it). It means Monster Eating in Korean and I’m totally obsessed! Whenever I feel like a fat pig, I watch these videos and I don’t feel so badly. 

There are the two Cambodian girls who live in the country and they eat everything. And when I say everything, I mean everything. They eat every single part of whatever poor creature they’re preparing. I’m talking feet, innards, beaks… plus insects, reptiles… you name it. It’s gross; it’s truly horrible and disgusting and it’s like watching a train wreck; I can’t take my eyes off it. But it’s their culture, that’s what they eat. They’d probably be disgusted watching an American eat fast food full of sodium and preservatives.

Not me, by the way. I don’t eat that stuff. 

I’m not saying I’m perfect. Okay, I am saying I’m perfect… and better than you, because I’m a vegetarian… almost vegan, if you will. 

Mostly… sort of.

My fridge is full of spicy sauces, spreads, and pickles. Every time I see something that looks good, I’ll buy it. Now, is that strange considering I have the weakest digestive system on the planet? Maybe. But it doesn’t bother me for some reason. You know what bothers me? The fact that I can’t eat chocolate or ice cream without my digestive tract getting revenge. 

There are a lot of things that bother me, come to think of it. I’ll have to get back to you on that though. I’m hungry.




Well Read

I live in the suburbs about 35 miles northwest of Los Angeles. We’re not that hard to find, and if you happen to be a flat-earther it’s even easier: just head north on the 101 freeway and right before you drive off the face of the planet, take a hard right. I go to L.A. a lot, but I avoid certain parts, like Venice Beach, because I eat carbs, exceed the weight limit and am considered fat. 

Okay, I’m not really fat, I’m chubby. I certainly don’t fit into the L.A. stereotype of a woman (or the entire North American continent’s stereotype of a woman): the type who exercises and starves herself to death just to fit into someone else’s ideal of what a woman’s body should look like.

Fat was in the cards for me. I was a fat kid, which was difficult because no one likes fat kids. I got fat-shamed by pretty much everyone: schoolmates, teachers, my parents, and especially the media.

School was difficult also. I hated it because it had nothing to offer me. Kids were mean, teachers were mean, what was the point? The only thing I was learning was to hate myself even more. I didn’t fit into the narrow mindedness of school administrators and teachers; I was a round peg and they were square, rigid, and tried to fit me into their square holes. 

No thanks. 

I ended up dropping out of high school. Yep, I’m a high school drop out. They really should change that phrase though, it makes it seem like I was the failure, when really, it was high school that failed me, so I left. 

In elementary school, I did have this one teacher who, although wasn’t the nicest person, was really into books and reading, and I loved that because I did too; books were my escape. I was a voracious reader, I always had a book with me. I would hole up in my room, safely tucked away from all the heartbreak the world was offering me, my nose inches from the pages that were capturing my attention. 

So this teacher would read to us every day for an hour after our lunch break, which was my absolute favorite part of the school day. I remember her reading us The Hobbit, which would not necessarily be one of my preferences, but she made it magical. Every day I looked forward to resting my head on my desk, closing my eyes, and listening to her bring Tolkien’s characters to life. 

One day, she thought it would be a good idea to have her students learn speaking skills by reading aloud from a book in front of the class, like she did, which would be a good idea if you weren’t a fat introvert like I was. She brought in a big pile of books and told us she would go through a stack, call out the title of the book, and when you heard one you liked, to raise your hand and she’d hand you the book to read.

Well, the way my mind worked, there was always a delay in processing any information I would receive, so it would take me a moment to capture it, process it, and then respond. The teacher called out this one book that sounded really good to me, but because of my mind’s delay process, it took me a moment before I excitedly raised my hand. 

By that point, she has already moved on to the next title, which ironically, was called The Fat Cat… and can you get where I’m going with this? As the title suddenly registered with me, the enthusiastic hand that was suspended above my head slowly sank, and any joy I had about the task completely drained out of me. 

I sat there frozen.

My teacher, the one I counted on to guide and educate me, asked out loud, in front of the entire class, “Do you want to read The Fat Cat?” To say she was insensitive is like saying Kim Jong-un and Donald Trump have bad manners. 

You could hear a pin drop. The entire class was staring at me, waiting in anticipation for my answer, because they knew my life at that moment was over, and they wanted to bear witness.

It was a lose-lose situation: If I said no, I was going to be humiliated because everyone was gonna know I didn’t want to read a book titled The Fat Cat… but if I said yes, I was going to be humiliated because I’d be reading from a book titled The Fat Cat.  

See what I mean?

The pressure was building. I sat there contemplating my fate, and I could sense my teacher’s impatience, so I blurted out a shaky “Yes.” Then I had to get up in front of the entire class and read from this fucking book! I could’ve said no. I could’ve ran out of there crying, hopefully garnering some sympathy in the process, but I didn’t. I stood up, took the book from my teacher’s hand, and proceeded to read it out loud. 

It was a kid’s book, sorta like Dr. Seuss, so every other sentence was talking about the goddamn Fat Cat. I must have said that phrase 20 times, and each time I said it, the class snickered and guffawed. To make matters worse, the boy I secretly had a crush on was sitting in the front row. 

I was inadvertently fat-shaming myself.  

It was one of the toughest days of the school year. But you know what? I finished the book, walked back to my desk with my head held high, pretending I wasn’t humiliated and that it didn’t hurt me to the core to have my fellow classmates laugh in my face, and took my seat with as much pride as I could muster.

I did it, and I survived, and I found out I had a propensity for public speaking. It made me a little stronger, and I believe I made a tiny dent that day, momentarily taking the shame out of the word fat. Not for them… not for my classmates or my teachers or my parents or anyone else that was cruel towards me… but for me. The kids could snicker and point and laugh at me, but they couldn’t take away my my resolve… my bravery and courage.

And to me, that lesson is more valuable than anything that comes out of a school book. 




In a Jam

If you’re a man and you’re confused about us women and how and why we operate the way we do, I can totally understand because I do shit all the time that confuses me.

For instance, I was in the market yesterday during my lunch hour buying some items I didn’t need, to fulfill something that isn’t there. Along with those items, I bought a bag of pretzels, which I did need, because I had an upset stomach, and pretzels always ease my upset stomach. 

But I was debating whether I should buy them or not because this particular market only had large bags of pretzels, not small bags, and they were almost four dollars… for fucking pretzels?! (is what I said to myself), so I almost didn’t get them. But I did.

After I ate a couple, I wished I hadn’t gotten them because they weren’t that good. You’d think you couldn’t screw up a pretzel, but you can. Anyway, as I got back to work, I remembered our office vending machine sells small bags of pretzels and I laughed about it because if I had just waited ‘til I got back to work, I could’ve saved a few bucks. 

I forgot to bring some of those mediocre, expensive pretzels to work with me today, and I was craving some, so I went downstairs to the vending machine and bought a small bag.

It seems I have a problem remembering pretzels. 

Anyway, what’s my point? Well, my point is… I was taking issue with how much the bag of pretzels cost at the market, but I didn’t hesitate to buy some from the vending machine, which are .85 cents for a very small bag, and I could buy two large bags of expensive pretzels for how much I spend weekly on the small ones from the vending machine. So I’m not only buying a large bag of pretzels I don’t even like, I’m spending extra money on the small bags at work; money I could use to just buy a large bag of pretzels I do like* 

You follow?

If you’re a man and you don’t follow, or are perplexed about my reasoning, I just want to say… I fucking get it. I get you, man. 

*This may not be a gender issue. There may be plenty of men out there who would do the same pretzel thing I do, but I can’t be too sure. 

But it doesn’t stop there. I bought some jam jars online because if you can fucking believe it, I’m making more fucking jam because my life sucks right now!!!*

ahem… I’m making more jam. 

*Confused? Read my post from a couple weeks ago.

Yeah, I found this peach tree down the street from my work and this time, I wasn’t stealing the fruit. No, not at all… I was helping myself to the fruit because the branches of this fruit tree were hanging over the wall of the owner’s property and California law states that “Any fruit that is hanging over the wall or fence of the owner’s property is fair game for anyone to take”… or something like that (I’m paraphrasing), so that wouldn’t make me a thief, I’m a… I’m a…

Okay, okay, okay… I stole the fucking peaches!

I’m a fruit thief.

Say that five times quickly.

So I made some peach jam when a few weeks ago it was apricot jam. Where I am going with this anyway?

Oh, yes… I bought more jam jars online, which cost more than the ones I initially bought at the dollar store a few weeks ago. I hesitated buying all of the dollar store jam jars because I didn’t want to spend too much money, so when I made this second batch of fucking delicious homemade jam, I needed more jars, and by the time I went back to the dollar store to get them, they were all gone. 

I could’ve saved time and money by just buying all the goddamn dollar store jam jars in the first place. 

Now, one could argue that this is really a money issue, not a “you’reafuckingcrazylady” issue, but I can’t be too sure.

Want some jam?

%d bloggers like this: