The Fat and The Fury

Okay, so this piece was originally written for my Oprah-Drunk book:  How to Detox in an Oprah-less World.  It deals with the weight issues all of us broads have.  It also deals with my father, the man who constantly drives me just a little bit crazier day after day.  I’ve been looking for a place for some of these to live and I’m very happy to have found a group of wonderful readers here.  Enjoy this piece, while Wifesy and I go and look for apartments today.  It goes with this article and a nice pinot noir, if you really want me to pair things up for you.  Or coffee, it goes with coffee too, and sh*t it may be early in the morning for some of you.  With love, Sweet Mother.

 

Post Script:  A proposal – I’m going to be rolling out my blogroll very soon.  I am so grateful to my regulars on here.  As such, my blogroll will be called the “Reggies” list – short for the Regulars.  It is a list of great people who have been here from the beginning and of course, I know your blog well and have read it.  (You know who you are.)  Reggies are the consistent people.  Consistent bloggers and consistent readers.  Since, being “regular” also has a second connotation – the Japanese say, “the colon is the key to overall health” – ANY reggies category blogger who takes a picture of him or herself or their dog next to a product that aids in colon health – think fiber rich bread, metamucil, prunes, etc, WILL GET AN ENTIRE ORIGINAL POST WRITTEN BY ME, ABOUT YOU.  You can put these photos in the comments section or you can email them to me at sweetmotherlover@gmail.com.  And if no one plays, no one plays, but, if you DO play…some traffic and a sparkly post written about you and your blog.  Could be fun.  Are you up to the challenge?

 

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The Fat and The Fury

 

HI, MY NAME IS REBECCA AND I’M AN OPRAH-DRUNK.

During every recovery program, it’s important to hear the story of your fearless leader.  It’s important to know that your role model has been there.  That’s why the Big Book in AA opens with Bill’s Story.  Bill, a crazy drunk who played the stocks and drove his wife to hell and back with his gin benders.  Eventually he finds salvation and sobriety, not to mention co-founding the modern AA.  So, here we are mid-swig of an Oprah-Detox, naked and shaking at Camp Becky and I realize that the moment has arrived for me to fully reveal myself.  That means it’s time.  Time for my biggest issue to come into the light.  Only through sharing can we truly heal.

There is supposed to be a reason why a person can’t get their weight under control.  Someone died or touched you inappropriately, you’ve been neglected, or misled, or totally ignored, or misunderstood.  Oprah says she’s hungry for balance.  Her thyroid has her out of whack.  All she does is work, work, work.  So, the pounds came back with a vengeance.  What’s my problem then?  No one has ever touched me.  Well, not in that creepy way, at least.  So, what am I hungry for?  I suppose, I’m hungry for a pencil skirt.  They are hot – pencil skirts.  I want to look like Maggie Gyllenhaal in “Secretary” or Jennifer Beals as Bette Porter, or Reese Witherspoon in “Election” – smart, but sexy.  Attractive and together.  Buttoned up, but in a way that makes you want to unbutton.  Yes!  But, with my giant ass, I will never wear one.  If I were to put on a pencil skirt right now it would look as if a baby had somehow slid down my body from his Baby Bjorn sack and now he’s trapped sideways and wrapped around my ass like a baby-slug.  I can’t even imagine the “jaws of life” it would require to release that baby from my ass and the humiliation I would feel once the rescue workers cut away my skirt only to reveal that there is no baby.  That all of THAT IS, in fact, just my ass.

Let’s talk “Monster’s Ball” for a second.  There’s a pivotal scene where Leticia (Halle Berry) is making love to creepy Billy Bob Thorton and she’s crying about her dead son.  She just keeps saying over and over again, “He’s fat.  He’s so fat.  Why?  Why’s he so fat?!” as Billy Bob gyrates his creepy and pasty frame into her.  Maybe this is sex therapy, but whatever it is, I don’t like it.  It’s obvious why the kid was fat.  His father went to the electric chair.  His mother barely talks to him except for slapping the shit out of him for being a fat cow and now, while his fat spirit hovers over the room, his unbelievable mother is making sex therapy with one of the corrections officers who killed his father.  Wtf?!  Let him have a Snickers!  Now my weight issues are much more murky than the cut and dry reasons that led Tyrell to hiding packs of candy bars under his bed sheets.  So, why do I have a weighty ass?  Why do black men call out to me as if I’m a walking video ho when I’m just trying to get soy milk from the store?  My ass bridges a racial divide simply by being herself.  She’s like Eminem and Nelson Mandela combined – both provocative and peace-making!  And while I celebrate her ability to cross culture boundaries, at times, Ms. Booty just plain annoys me.  So, I wonder, how did I get here and like any good child of the modern age, I blame my parents.

We all have a fury valve.  A release switch that gets triggered when your insides just might overheat.  My fury valve leads to eating a bag of blue, olive oil potato chips while sipping on an intoxicating frothy beverage or two.  My frustrated and exasperated valve is constantly being tripped.  It’s been going off my whole life.  Quite frankly, it’s a family affair.  My father releases his fury valve by yelling and then hammering a nail into something.  My mother releases hers by drinking margaritas and sitting there.  My brother releases his by moving across the country and avoiding things all together.  No one approach is better, but the triggers are the same.  There was the time I finally had a good job and bought my father a pair of Nike sneakers for jogging.  He complained about them.  He said, “These are too expensive.  The shoes I’m wearing are perfectly good for jogging.  They have rubber soles.”  He was wearing moccasins!  MOCCASINS!  He is NOT native american.  In response, I retreated to the kitchen and finished off a plate of brie.

There was the time I bought my father a new dvd player.  My father tends to buy brands no one has ever heard of.  I believe his old dvd player was the NOWERKS brand.  You had to point the thing due east, sit it on top of a pile of books, stick a pen into the disc slot, and then maybe, maybe it would work.  So, I bought my father a SONY.  I thought I was doing a good deed.  But, like the saying goes, “no good deed goes without tripping your fury valve.”  My dad sat on the couch with my grandmother and watched my brother and I set up the player.  In the meantime, my mother sipped margaritas and my father commented in an extremely panicked staccato.

Dad:    “YOU’RE / GOING/ TO/ MESS/ UP/ MY/ WHOLE/ SYSTEM!”

 
My brother and I pretend not to hear him.

 
Dad:    “WHY/ CAN’T/ YOU/ JUST/ LEAVE/ WELL/ ENOUGH/ ALONE!”

 
Me:    “We’ve got it under control.”

 
Dad:    “THAT/ DOESN’T/ GO/ THERE. YOU’RE/ GOING/ TO/ CAUSE/ AN/ OUTAGE!”

 
Me:    “Dad, would you just not yell at me.  I can do this if you would just give me some space.”

 
Dad:    “I’M/ NOT/ YELLING!”

 
And at this point I want to jam a Paxil down his throat.

 
My brother and mother chime in, “Actually, yes, you were yelling.”

 
Dad:    “EVERYONE/ IN/ MY/ FAMILY/ YELLS. THAT’S/ HOW/ WE/ COMMUNICATE.”

 
Me:    “Well, grandma’s sitting right there.  SO/ BREAK/ THE/ CYCLE!”

 

I'm not the Maytag guy, but I can handle this!

 

 

And with that my brother and I turn on the brand new, name brand, working, dvd player and I retreat to the kitchen to finish off a pack of chocolate macaroons and a nice glass of shiraz.  It’s a vicious cycle.

 
Again, this doesn’t compare to Oprah.  She was raped by a cousin and then molested by a friend of her uncle’s.  How big of a release valve would you need for that?  Jesus.  So, what she has a quasi-lesbo, best friendship, and a beard of a beau that she may or may not have paid 250 million to keep silent about their split.  That’s a lot to handle.  So, she eats and she works.  Leave her alone.  Adolescent sexual abuse entitles you to as many Frito-Lay binges as you want.  But, I know, I know, maybe that’s not healthy.  You know what is healthy?  Being the world’s first black and female BILLIONAIRE!  That’s what’s healthy.  Now, of course, if I were a billionaire, I’d handle the weight thing quite differently.  I’d pay a person to be my personal, “Oh, No You Don’t!” chaperone.  All they would have to do is follow me around and knock the bag of avocado oil, potato chips right out of my hands.  (Have you had these friggin‘ things?  They’re like a spiritual experience.)  I go for the second glass of wine or the second helping of buttery mashed potatoes with rice on cornbread with a side of noodles and you tackle me from across the room.  It’s that simple.  Why not?!  They do it for alcoholics!  Alcoholics who are famous have boozy chaperones.  I’ve seen many comedians with this kind of paid confidante.  They look like a secret service agent and they go with you from gig to crappy gig and they make sure you don’t drink a thing.  It’s like a paid friend, only better because they actually care about what happens to you.  Everyone should get a chaperone like this for at least a moment in their lives.

 
Here’s the truth, if you don’t REALLY enjoy your food, I don’t trust you.  If you’re eating the best turkey sandwich of your life, it better sound like you’re fucking that turkey sandwich.  I want that level of enjoyment.  I want sex noises that come from food pleasure.  There’s something about those skinny, perfectly preened, no-body-fat, people who make me squint my eyes and think, “Ok, you look perfect, so something has to be wrong.  Are there bodies in your basement?  I think we should check for carcasses in your cellar.”  That’s why we love Oprah.  She’s just like us – fat, at times and skinny, at times.  Who else could suck down an entire bag of Doritos, complete their day with a fabulous, life-affirming, night conversation with their best friend and still get up in the morning to help us all live our best lives?  Only Oprah is capable.  BUT, NOW SHE IS GONE.  What are we all supposed to do now?  WHO IN THE HELL ARE WE SUPPOSED TO SOB WITH ABOUT OUR FAT?  If you are like me, than you saw yourself in Oprah’s jelly rolls and cream pie thighs.  She was your fat reflection.  Oprah was where you scurried to for your fat commiseration.  Now what?  I mean, come on.  Oprah was perfect.  Oprah was a woman who once wheeled out a little, red, children’s wagon filled with her excess fat and displayed these obscene plastic bags to her studio audience.  “Can you believe I was carrying this around?” Oprah preens.  “Oh, we understand.  We understand!”  Who will be our champion now?
Well, as you can see, this issue is very personal for me.  So, I’ve come up with some ways to deal with your fat without -gasp- Oprah.  Keep in mind, these are not country-club-remedies like the food assailant who attacks you when you slip off your diet.  I created that strictly for the Housewives of Atlanta.  I can assure you that remedy is expensive.  (Would you want to deal with those bitches without a hefty price tag?)  These tips are more like every day fixes to make sure you stay on the straight and narrow.  Our only hope is that we can keep you from being buried in a piano case or getting so obese that your skin starts to graft to your couch.  We understand that this is a difficult quest during these Oprah-less times, but -damn it- by hook or by crook, we WILL succeed together!

 
Oprah-Free Ways to Deal with Your Fat:

 
Perpetual Pregnancy
Get pregnant.  Now and forever.  If you have one baby approximately every one to two years between now and your death at around 80 or 90 years old, you should be able to pop out around 25 or so babies.  The idea is to have people say, “Oh, have you gained a little weight?” and you can answer in all truthfulness, “Oh, no.  I’m pregnant.”  Or “Oh, no.  This is baby weight.”  If you tire of having babies or if you reach menopause, buy one of those fake pregnancy suits at a costume store and tell people that you are still pregnant.  The benefit of this ruse is that no one ever sees your muffin top or judges that third chin you’ve been sporting.  You are never forced to wear uncomfortable jeans or slutty shoes.  You can remain in any pant with an elastic waistband for all of eternity and you can enjoy as many Dunkin’ Donut stops as you like.  (Please note: alcohol drinking is much more difficult if you choose this plan.  We suggest implanting a Camelback, water container into your pregnancy suit and feeding the straw up through your bra strap.)

 

Yes, Virginia, now you too can become a Sumo
With Oprah gone, there is no club for the zaftig girl.  Who will look curvy like we do, hold her head up high, and win award after award?  The mold has been broken!  Or has it?  Enter the female Sumo.  That’s right the ancient Japanese art of fighting fatties.  Well, now they’re taking women.  So, sign up!  Enjoy the company of a group of ladies who skip breakfast and then enjoy a large lunch, wash it down with a beer, take a nap afterwards, a little roll around on the mat with another fat broad in the afternoon, and then a heavy dinner.  Now, that’s living!  Think of the carefree calories.  Think of the prestige.  Sure you can never touch a male dojo.  Sure, your female fingertips will desecrate all that the Japanese, male, Sumos hold dear, but who cares!  You have fans.  You can eat.  Your fellow, lady, Sumos – they understand you!  Just like Oprah once did!  You cry at night and you crack open a beer and it’s all part of the dang job description.  Don’t want to wear the Sumo diaper?  Well, that may be the one drawback.  Never fear, Becky is here for you.  If Sumo fashion is not your thing, why not try the shot put?  You’ll be the hottest broad in all of Eastern Europe.  That I can guarantee you.

 

If none of the above fits your future vision of yourself, then I have one more option for you…

 

Move to Antarctica
In Antarctica, fat may just save your life or keep you from freezing while you perform your own breast cancer surgery.  In Antarctica, no one wears “skinny jeans” with a spaghetti strap tank top.  Hypothermia suits are all the rage in this winter wonderland.  If you happen to trip the light fucktastic with one of Antarctica’s 1,000 winter residents, he will be thrilled that you’re packing a little extra to keep him warm under the duvet.  You’ll be sought after.  People will refer to you as, “The only woman in Antarctica who can keep a man warm when naked.”  Men will travel from far away research stations just to get a chance at your sleeping bag and no one will think twice if you have a second, chocolate chip, muffin.

 

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75 thoughts on “The Fat and The Fury

    1. oh, they will! of course, they will! i’ve got two so far… it’s never too late, travel lady, never to late… for yours… one with you with a middle finger up, perhaps? no pressure, there’s never any pressure with mother — unless, of course, i need to apply a cloth to a bleeding wound…much love, sm

  1. Holy White Jesus, Mother…
    This was sooo fucking long. Couldn’t wait to reach the final period…
    Happy Fool’s Day, too.
    Le Clown

    1. It is sooo too kind, but it saved me from writing today, April fools or no April fools….I’m in the car looking at apts so its going to take much later for momma to answer comments. But, if u and Sara don’t take me up on the fiber photo, ill be furious. Furious! Cause I want to write a post about u two. XOXO

    2. i knew you were joking! but, i still stand by the post was too long… i have to get ahead of this blog-a-day-beast somehow and i’m not sure how, other than to use my old book…but, the answer will come to me soon…like all good things do, it can’t stay away from my love!

      AND WHERE IS THE PICTURE OF YOU AND SARA AND THE BRAN BREAD OR LEP AND STOOL SOFTENER? WHERE IS IT?

      1. SM,
        I have a special blog for the Fiber idea for tomorrow…
        Stay tuned, I will submit my idea via my own blog, tagged appropriately for your viewing pleasure…
        Le Clown

  2. I’m so disappointed to not be considered a reggie since I only recently started reading. I was ready to stick my head into a vat of Metamucil and clear up 10 years of constipation, and then take a picture of the beautiful results.

    The baby slug description was amazing. Even better than avocado oil potato chips.

    1. you are a reggie! man, i really boxed myself in with that whole, ‘and you have to have been reading my blog’ blah blah blah. bottomline, i’m the queen of this ridiculous, fake, interenet oligarchy at this particular url. so, if you want in – YOU’RE IN. especially because i think you have AMAZING content and i’d love to do a post about you – most of it will be made up and completely fantastical, but i promise it will be fun! now, send over that pic, or post it here in ze comments or sweetmotherlover@gmail.com — come on-ze, others are playing – speaker 7, we have tagged you… moms

  3. I was gunna write a Fat Post, but now I feel inadequate. I wonder if there’s any peanut butter cookies left…
    (and because it’s AFD, I don’t know if your colon health thing is a joke or not, but my wheels are turning).

    1. i had to look up AFD and i came up with ‘airport facility directory’ and ‘appetite for destruction’ both just didn’t feel right and then i landed on april fools day. oh, oh, oh!! no, i didn’t pay attn to april fools day, much like i don’t pay attn to ground hog day. when is it? feb? and if this post had been better planned, i would have, but i’m a tard, so i didn’t. i posted it in a rushed fashion with wifesy screaming in my ear, ‘COME ON’ – which i interpret to mean, ‘i don’t give a feck about your blog.’ i have recovered though and i’m TOTALLY serious about the colon aids thing. i would like a pic of you and clowny next to a piece of bran or a counter full of bran muffins or some kind of high fiber cereal or prunes, or next to a pack of cigarettes, as those can also aid in the de-junkification of ones intestinal junk. anyway, i want a pic, ’cause i want to write a post about you two. xoxoxo, moms

  4. I used to have a 28 inch waist… now it’s a ginormous 31″- but I turned 34 on March 23rd, so I’ve forgiven myself. GayMan years are like dog years, so 34 is actually like a straight man’s 60 something, I’m allowed to let go. I did do the vodka/strawberry diet last year, only to find “it’s part of my diet” isn’t a valid defence in court for driving over the legal limit. Result? 30 days of community service at the Red Cross with people who shouldn’t have a license in the first place because I’m pretty sure they couldn’t read or write.
    BTW, how in the world has Oprah not died yet from choking on a cliché?

    1. P.S. No one does more for colons than gay men (oh wait, I think that’s rectum, who cares they’re neighbours). I’d send you pictures but I don’t think that’s what you’re looking for.

    2. lol, pinky. i too have been on the vodka/ strawberry diet, but then i drink enough that i need a cheeseburger afterwards and that never helps anyone’s ass. that’s the difference between gay men and women – i’ve seen gay men drink oodles of vodka and eat nothing, but turkey slices to stay in the no-body-fat range, while women do more of the – i’m on this extreme fast to be followed by this hysterical binge of nothing, but doritios and pizza. gross. anyway, i can still shop in the normal girls store, so i’m sure to get back on the bike and then back in the bikin soon. because i refuse to wear one of those two pieces with a skirt… REFUSE!

  5. you have a great sense of writing …loved this post

    Dad: “EVERYONE/ IN/ MY/ FAMILY/ YELLS. THAT’S/ HOW/ WE/ COMMUNICATE.” ..hahaha… so funny :D

    hope the apartment search went fine…
    i know im new and probably do not fit in the “reggies category “… but i really like this idea of yours… sounds so interesting …

    1. I thought that line was funny, too. My last name’s O’Connor so we all yell, too. The Irish are comfortable with our anger or that’s what my shrink told me.

    2. hey, i’m sort of an ‘everyone can play’ sort of girl. so, if you send me a pic… chances are you’ll get a piece written about you…i’m just saying… as long as you have a good dozen or so posts on your blog and i can get a feel for your writing or a sense of you, consider it done, now all you have to do is snap away on your camera phone in the cereal aisle of the supermarket… i’m just sayin’ – balls in your court. ;) moms

      1. yay i can play… now all i need is a picture…bread and my dog…not a difficult task i think..i hope…cause while cereal boxes and breads are friendly with camera..doesn’t move …my dog has camera issue :)
        oki Moms …would love to play..
        ;)

    1. awesome, thank you, rob! i just commented over there and you’ll be on the reggies page, but remember – it’s never too late to get an entire post written about you…only send in the photo… xo, mother

  6. I’m so there. Please provide the twelve steps….1. acknowledge no power over chocolate; 2. ask forgiveness for stealing children’s birthday cake;…..

    1. lol, chlost, it’s so hard, isn’t it? so hard. i fight everyday. and if people would stop upsetting me, yes, it’s their fault, their fault. not mine. no, never, not mine. lol. :) sm

  7. With the “perfect body” crowd – particularly actors/models and their ilk – it’s always fascinating to watch their relationship with food. It’s often (not always, but often) far more hostile and desperate than even someone who’s using food as a coping mechanism.

    1. such a great comment, byronic, such a great comment. i always think of it as they have willpower in that area and i don’t. but, i love what you’ve said and it really made me think of it in a different way… i mean does an aneorexic have willpower? i suppose they do, but that doesn’t mean it’s healthy… anyway, thanks for stopping by here. it was really cool to read what you had to say.
      – mother

  8. -gasp- -snort- -dies laughing- Mum, you have described /my/ mother to perfection! My only quibble is with the Antarctica solution – I believe the extreme cold may actually make your body burn fat to keep you warm so maintaining that snuggly physique may require an intravenous drip of olive oil chips!

    1. oh, god, you just gave me a reason to move to antarctica, if i can get one of those olive oil chip drips!! lol. as always, love seeing you here, ac. love it. xoxo, me

    1. thank you, gills, thank you. and thank you for that award!! don’t think i didn’t notice it, wifesy and i were losing our minds yesterday looking at apartments. i promise to repay the favor by making sure you’re on the reggies list. xoxo, me

    1. lol. glad you liked it, clio. yep, ‘baby’s got back’ and it’s okay most of the time, but if those guys keep following me around with the drums, well, i just might…i oughta…lol. xo, sweet mom

  9. Awww… I only started reading recently so it appears I am ineligible for reggie status. Bugger. There are so many things that give me the shits it would take me some time to find a photo suitable for publication.

    Consider your ample rear to be your friend. If your fury valve drives you to eat chips that is a far more socially acceptable choice than strangling people which is exactly what you want to do. Or maybe that’s just me……

    I noticed a flaw in your pregnancy scenario, at some point people are going to notice that your child-to-pregnancy ratio is out. Stick with it if you don’t mind the neighbours wondering if you are selling children on the black market though.

    Enjoy your apartment hunting, I expect that will also aid you in maintaining your colon heath…

    1. metan, never say never. you are perfectly welcome to apply to the ‘reggies – featured profile program’ — i think i meant more, ‘make sure you have some content on YOUR blog so i can read a slew of it before i write something’. honestly, i wrote that fast, so i don’t know what in the hell i was saying. bottomline, i’m more of a ‘everyone can play’ sort of girl…so, if you take that pic, you’re in. and yes, the chips stop me from strangling people, but wifesy may strangle me if i keep eating them. ay yay yay. anyway, as always, LOVED your commentary and loved seeing you here. – sm

  10. My wife is a total Oprah Drunk. She was an emotional wreck during Oprahs farewell year. The whole year. She started Weight Watchers after Jennifer Hudson was on Oprah. I started a week later.It’s been just over a year, she’s lost 47 lbs, and I’ve lost 60 lbs. Just by not eating like a dummy. Which is what I used to do. I keep reminding my wife that even though Oprahs show is done, she did just start her own network, so she’ll be around.

    1. most women with a working vag are oprah drunks. that is why oprah is a bazillionaire. i always laugh when people go after that male demo, the 18-24 year old men model. i’m like, ‘those guys have no money’ — go after the old broads like oprah and twilight sort of do and you’ll be swimming in money. lol. anyhoo, i can NOT believe you two lost that must weight on w.w. – who are you – jennifer hudson? or was that jenny craig? i’m so confused. and pic received and salivating to write that post…it’s a coming this week! :))))) – mother

    1. where’s the photo, jen… where is it… where is it, lady friend… momma wants to do a post on you. it will be funny, it will be fun, and it will probably get you a whole two new followers! i also can not wear skinny jeans, they make me look like an ice cream cone. skinny jeans make me furious. i’m just sayin’. xoxo, moms

  11. I sat down with a box of bon-bons to read this. You’ve driven the guilt right out of me like an exorcist. I couldn’t be more grateful.

  12. Jeezus, how funny!!! Baby Bjorn BWAHAHAHAHA! In praise of your amazing ass that brings ebony and ivory together in perfect harmony, if I could add to Option #3: I would suggest NOT moving to Vietnam. I’m a Talbot’s (that’s how I roll chickee) Petite 8 and NOTHING fits me here. If they do happen to have it in my size – it’s an XL or 2XL!!! WTF? Everyone tells me I am fat/I got fatter/or living in the US most of my life had changed me physically. (Yes, let’s blame America!) My dad has given me running shoes, weights, track suits, money for more running shoes for many Christmases. Upon seeing me at my island destination wedding for the first time, my stepmom said “You’re supposed to LOSE weight for your wedding!”. Everyone else has a problem with my weight except for me. I run and I take a weekly cardio hip-hop class. I’m a petite 8 for Christ’s sake.

    Oh, I’m sorry for hijacking this … me, me, me. You’ve just got that personality where people just want to spill (note previous post that you wrote)- tmi? Oh, my point is: I do instill in my boys and girl that they should eat for nutrition and energy. Size doesn’t matter. It really doesn’t. …. So THANK YOU for this most wonderful – and wonderfully funny – post!

    1. oh, winn, as much as i would LOVE moving to an asian country, i never could because i know they would praise me as the great god — jisutolectizx — which of course directly translated means – GREAT GOD OF THE AMERICAN FAT ASS. they would be half right. they would, damn it, they would. plus, i don’t think my ego can take it — all asian women are attractive. i mean this. i’ve even talked about it in my act – i have NEVER seen an unattractive asian broad and they’re all a size 8 or under, like you! it’s infuriating in a jealousy sort of way. and i don’t know how they do it with all that rice. I FECKIN’ LOVE RICE. I WOULD NEVER SURVIVE. NEVER. ay yay yay. something tells me you’ll always be okay in the weight category, winn, so don’t listen to those people. for god’s sake, you’re an 8!!!!! you know who else would like to be a size 8? me and kirstie alley. well, kirstie would like to be my size, but we all have our demons. that’s just how it is. lol. as always, LOVE seeing you here. xoxo, momma

      1. I’ve been accused of not being “really Vietnamese” because I don’t eat rice. I haven’t for 20 years. That white Jasmine rice just goes right to my thighs leaving a dimply footprint. *Attractive* So no rice for me. And the most attractive Asian women, IMHO, are the Thai! When I was in Bangkok, it felt like I was in one big commercial for Thai Airlines. *swoon* BTW, you just made my day. Sending love your way! xo

  13. See, and -that- is why I started belly dancing. The more you have, the easier you jiggle and shimmy. Skinny girls don’t have all that fat about and if it’s wobbly anyways, you might as well wobble it to the beat of some eastern funky tunes.

    Hell yeah!

    1. hell yeah, indeed, intermittante! i would love to belly dance, but i think california has enough problems being on that whole san andreas fault line and what not. lol. anyway, i completely admire that you belly dance. how cool. really, really cool. xo, sm

      1. lol. true dat. true dat. don’t worry, i still think i’m hot. it’s a crazy mix in one person – a self deprecating sort who still thinks she’s sexy, it’s just nuts, but it’s how i landed my wifesy, so it can’t be all bad…lol.

    1. down with the skinny cooks, down!!!! up with the paula deens! diabetes be damned! lol. i used to get those avocado oil chips at this deli across the street from me in lower manhattan. i swear to you, you can get anything in manhattan and those things were outstanding. they were like crack and potato all mixed together. truly unbelievable. truly. lol. thanks for stopping by here, irish, it is always good to see you! :) – mother

  14. Really? Not one Reggie photo? I like that there are plenty of explanations of why there aren’t any, how much people would like to see them, how sad readers are not to be Reggies. Well I just started reading, too but I’m reading regularly so I’m counting myself as a Reggie.

    Now I’m too stupid to copy into this email but I will send it to you and I will post it on my blog so people know I’m telling the truth. It’s a bad photo taken this morning by my sister who seems to have the shakes somethin’ fierce. It is me, Maggie with my giant dog Mudd and my sister’s bully, Bobo and a box of Kashi Go Lean Crunch. My children actually get upset when I buy this cereal because they know there are repercussions.

    Go here to see a blurry picture of me:
    http://somethingfathappened.wordpress.com/2012/04/02/kashi/

    1. i’ve got one… and now two with yours. and don’t think i didn’t immediately run over to your blog to screen capture it because i did, i did!! and i LOVE it and i can’t wait to do the post on you. it will be fun and funny. this, i promise you. and i LOVE that you took it with kashi, i have the perfect thing in mind for just that… love, loved. and very excited about this. very excited. i’ll be doing yours this week sometime and i’ll let you know when i do. xoxo, me

      1. Stacie – The coconut doesn’t work for me! I drink 2 full coconuts a day (as in freshly picked, hacked opened with the corner of my cleaver, with a crazy straw inserted – sadly, no mini umbrella) and nuthin’. I’m still looking around for prunes.

  15. Definitely a newbie more than a regular or consistent. i think my first real post was the day before this one, so I don’t expect any write up. but I do have a picture of my Golytely bottle that I unfortunately had to to drink decades sooner than I expected. will pass it along. hope all is well!

  16. Okay, on the followers thing: I love the idea of your blogroll taking pictures of themselves with colon health products, but there’s just one problem, and this rolls over into your post: I’m fat and ugly and my mother dresses me funny, so I never let anyone take my picture, and when I do, I immediately grab the prints and cut off any semblance of my flabby arms. My god. My avatar is photoshopped and cropped to within an inch of its life. Have you lost your freaking mind?

    Okay, on the fat ass post . . . I have another fat mantra that my family knows well and tolerates: “I cannot leave the house as this (skirt/dress/sweater/sweatpants made for a 300-pound man) makes me look like a sausage. I look like a sausage, don’t I? Just go ahead and tell me. Sausage casing.” And then I change clothes ten more times, which causes me to be late for graduations, births, and funerals.

    Oprah had reasons to carry around her weight, but I agree that with her money, I would have hired a personal bitch slapper to knock the Ben and Jerry’s out of my puffy hand. You and I would use our billionaire status in the right way, not building some dumb school or something like that. Geez.

    By the way, Sorry I’ve been remiss in commenting, but I’ve been, well, me. But it’s good to see that you have so many damned followers now. I can say I knew her when . . . whenever. Will you still read me when you become rich and famous? Needy, too needy?

    Sausages.

    1. no, never, needy, sweet poietes and you know you can do that photo ‘anonymously’. i accept pix of dogs with colon enhancing products and masks and costumes are allowed. the more elaborate the better – well, not really, but that’s just for my personal enjoyment. lol. anyhoo, you comment here when you like. you are always welcome and i promise to get by your place very soon. xoxo, sm

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