Saturday, August 17, 2019
Big girl is back. Fat, miserable and extra bitchy. I can’t imagine why I’m still single. I’ve been frozen like some sort of dysfunctional popsicle without a stick. Which for the record, I prefer. Who wants to taste that nasty tongue depressor flavor after licking the hell out of a creamsicle? That’s a hard no right there. In any event, I’ve thawed my snarky self out and am ready for random overshares as the mood strikes me. Let’s pause for a visual: Picture a large half naked woman, hair flying all over, make up smeared on her face, lips shining brightly with chicken grease and a 2-week-old red wine stash. She’s exercising… running down the street in search of a post consumption sugar buzz. That’s me on a good day. Now, let’s add an obstacle course of cancer, death and stress to the mix. That’s me for the last…oh say 5 years. So I froze. And now I’m unfreezing. Yes, I am aware I slay the Kings English quite often. Get over it. If you are looking for proper grammar and punctuation, go read a book. I speak the way I think. And my thoughts can be frightening at times. They come from the inner fatty living inside all of us. Oh, and I cuss a lot, ramble on and no I don’t think your fat. You do. That’s why you are reading this. You are being ruled by your inner fatty and that hooker is intense. If you haven’t read my musings before, buckle up bitches.
I’d like to tell you whilst on hiatus I found Jesus, Little Debbie or any of the pounds I’ve been trying to lose for the last oh 46 almost 47 years. None of that in fact happened. I did not need to find Jesus. As far as I know he’s not missing. No need to look for Debbie either. She’s currently in my pantry in the form of Swiss Cake Rolls. I’m of European decent. You understand. Speaking of cake, I won one. Yes, that happened. I often throw my name in the hat for various raffles. Boats, cars, exercise equipment…you name it. Let’s talk about how many boats, cars and pieces of exercise equipment I’ve actually won. Right. So it’s only fitting I would win a cake. It’s pointless, bad for me and affords the giver a rare opportunity to call out my inner fatty in public. Picture the winner of the multimillion dollar Powerball who bought one ticket, on a whim at a gas station they never go to. That kind of enthusiasm. But for cake. Listen I can’t keep that bitch in when she hears her name and cake in the same sentence. She’s a sleeping butter cream beauty. If memory serves you, you’ll recall how much I LOVE cheap grocery store cake. The cheaper the better. I’m low end and proud. Sugar is my crack and Pookie’s freak flag is always flying high.
To make matters extra interesting, I won the cake at a work event. An event I didn’t really want to go to. Lots of “people-ing.” Too much small talk and overpromising whatever it is I do during daylight hours. I’ve developed some sort of strange hermit like tick that typically keeps me from attending such functions. Turns out this would be my lucky day. I threw my name in the hat for several items I felt I deserved. Wine, vacations, gift baskets etc. I would never willingly attach my name to cake in public for fear of…well exactly what happened. However, the local grocer was peddling cake samples and suggested I throw my name in to win a free custom cake. What I heard was: “You know you want this cake. I can almost see you eating it on your couch whilst watching the Biggest Loser talking about what you are going to do differently on Monday.” I know this to be true because he approached me exactly one too many times with various sugary samples signaling, he knew who I really was. Fucker. I’d like to think I do an outstanding job hiding my inner fatty. Apparently not. I declined the first few samples citing my healthy lifestyle. What? I powerwalk, thank you very much. After watching everyone suck the icing off their fingers for the hundredth time, I broke down. Is it inappropriate to have an orgasm at a work event? I should think so. I opted for the HR friendly option and ate the damn sample cake. Sample cakeS. And yes, just like an addict one bite had me throwing my name into a drawing for what felt like a lifetime supply of cake. I had lost my shit. As names were called for various prizes, I was secretly plotting what diet would help me shed a quick 60 for my impeding trip to Aruba by way of the overly chatty man to my right who was raffling it off. Nope. Not in the cards. Ok Plan B. Where was I going to put all the wine I was about to win? I mean, I try to hide the good stuff from my friends citing the comeback of boxed wine. Nope. No need to hide anything. Yet. Never heard a word from the cake crowd so I assumed I had been spared public humiliation and unfortunately the sugar coma I dreamed of. Or so I thought.
I bring you to two weeks later when the thought of cake…well I was still thinking of cake just not that cake…had left my mind. Imagine my surprise when the grocer called to tell me I’d won. What I heard: “We are doing you a hot favor fatty and calling to privately inform you of your win.” Ouch. Am I not worthy of going down in a blaze of glory behind a cheap supermarket cake? Apparently not. I may have screamed “I won I won” a bit too loudly. My co-workers assumed I had finally won the Powerball and were vying for my corner office. I never win anything. It was cause for much excitement. Don’t judge. And not for nothin’ I wasn’t trying to share said cake so I really needed to tone it down a shad. This wasn’t any free cake. It was a free CUSTOM cake. Whoa. Like winning the penny slots. Things don’t instantly compute causing undo excitement. All the “people-ing” had paid off. I ended up taking the cake to a family function bcs I couldn’t come up with an excuse to sit in the closet long enough and eat the whole thing myself. True story. This would have been a good place to end my version of winning the lottery. However, the madness continued.
Because of my mad “people-ing “ skills that particular evening, the grocer knew my name. A name he would soon change, much to my dismay. I kindly thought of him as “The Cake Man.” Thoughts = Inside Voice. Meaning I never verbalized this to him. The “Cake Man” worked in the produce section. Not dreamy enough for the bakery I suppose. Every time I went to said grocery store he was there….waiting to greet me affectionately as “The Cake Lady.” Dare I say at a volume used exclusively when announcing her Royal Highness. Less than ideal. The Queen of Fat is not currently seeking followers, thank you. Inside Voice Cake Boy. I’m confident I didn’t accept any sort of proposal other than the free cake, so merging our names in wedded confection did not please me. And for all the obvious reasons I didn’t want to be referred to as the “The Cake Lady” in front of the judgey supermarket crowd. I work damn hard to keep all that is me between the seams and I don’t need the grocer outing me in the veggie aisle. Did I mention they put nuts on my cake? Pissed me off. I’m not your nut friend. Do not put nuts in or on my cake. It gave me cause to ask for a replacement but even I thought that a shad food aggressive. I mentally dropped him down a notch after outing me and putting nuts on my cake. I assumed he was responsible based on his reckless disregard for my FAT-animity. Lest I dredge up the trauma of the pet name I could have gone my whole life without hearing again. So, what have I learned from my brush as a big winner? I will continue ordering cakes online under the guides of “someone’s birthday” knowing the “Cake Lady” prefers closet eating to “people-ing.” The only door prize I need is the door closing behind me so I can eat my cake in peace. Amen