From Fat to Thin to Pregnant

There is a benefit to being a fat teenager (although when you’re a teenager it probably doesn’t seem that way): if you are a fat teenager who becomes a skinny adult, you have first-hand knowledge of how much it can suck to not be considered attractive, and that tends to keep you humble. Most of the people I know – myself included – who have slimmed down considerably since those awkward high school years are infinitely more confident than we were…but we never really evolve in to self-absorbed, vain assholes.

Assholes like that made us miserable during a very vulnerable time in our lives. We don’t want to be them. Ever.

But as difficult as it is to be overweight (in myriad ways), it’s devastating to get thin and develop a  sense of pride when you look in the mirror…and then fatten up again.

Now I’m not saying being thin is a requirement for having self esteem. I’m just saying for some people, it sure as shit helps. I am one of those people, and I’m not ashamed of it. I am happier when I am at a smaller size.

So when I not only got pregnant but got pregnant with twins, I got big. And I got big quick. And I got bigger than I probably should have because after the girls were born, I still had sixty pounds to lose. I was basically the same weight I had been in high school and one by one, I packed away the articles of clothing I was once able to wear, telling myself I’d wear them again. When life wasn’t so hectic. When the girls were walking. When my schedule at work changed. After the holidays.

Three years later, I wasn’t any smaller. I wasn’t any bigger either, but I definitely wasn’t any smaller.

I thought about it every day, wavering between telling myself  I was okay with it, that I had kids so it was understandable, and being thoroughly disgusted with myself. It consumed me.

And then, one day, I stopped. I stopped thinking about it. I stopped beating myself up. I stopped focusing on every bulge and roll and how wide my thighs were when I sat. I just stopped giving a shit because I didn’t seem to have the motivation to fucking do anything about it. I stopped having internal conversations with myself that mirrored the things all those fucking cunt girls used to say to me when I was fifteen. I just…stopped. Because the more I tormented myself over how I looked, the less I cared about changing it.

But then I changed anyway. I dressed up more. Wore makeup more. Put more effort in to myself. I wore jewelry, perfume, and smiled when I entered a room like I owned that bitch. I wasn’t dieting or exercising. I was just not giving any self-pity steeped fucks. And the bulges and rolls and and thighs and belly were all slowly, gradually, little by little…going away. And they went away because I stopped giving so much of a shit about them. I stopped letting them control me. They were just one facet of myself. They were fixable, should I get the will to fix them through hard work and dedication – but if not? Well fuck you, I’m still pretty. Maybe not to you, or her, or him, or them, but to me? I’m still fucking pretty.

Four years after my girls were born, I was nearly back down to the size I was before I became a mother. Not quite, but almost. I could probably be there again if I lost a measly ten pounds…but I don’t give a shit. Five years ago, I hated my body as much as I did in high school and it wrecked me. It made me sad and bitter, and that made me dislike who I was as a person. And that’s not in the least bit motivating.  Today, I am perfectly comfortable with the way I look – even knowing I could stand to do a few crunches.

Now I’m pregnant again, and I’m aware I’ll probably have around 15-20 pounds to lose after my son is born. Bring it the fuck on. At 24 weeks, I can still fit in (most of) the clothes I wore six months ago. I still wear makeup and perfume and dresses (without heels). I still look in the mirror and see one good-lookin’ broad, with or without the giant basketball I appear to be smuggling under my shirt. There’s a good chance I’ll never have the body I had at nineteen, and you know what?

I don’t want it. I’m not nineteen anymore. I’m almost 30, I’ve had three kids, I partied in my early twenties, I love the fuck out of high quality, rich food, I don’t like physical activity, and fuck you, I’m cute anyway. If you don’t agree, that’s cool.

I’m the only one who needs to believe it to be happy.


dec13Little Black Dress – December 2013


Same Little Black Dress – 22 weeks


How Women Should Respond to Criticism

Statement: You don’t have the body to wear a bikini.

Response: You don’t have the vocabulary to understand half the shit I say.


Statement: Women belong in the kitchen.

Response: Sexists belong in shallow graves in my backyard.


Statement: You’re a slut.

Response: No, I’m attractive and charming. You should try it sometime.


Statement: You aren’t very ladylike.

Response: I have tits and vagina. Those are the only requirements to be a lady, last I checked.


Statement: You’re fat.

Response: Go fuck yourself.


Statement: You’re a bitch.

Response: Cool, I’ll be sure to file that under Shit I Already Knew.


Statement: Wouldn’t you rather be working than at home with your kids/at home with your kids than working?

Response: Wouldn’t you rather be minding your own fucking business?

Stop Posting This On Facebook

Exploiting the Children of Strangers
You understand that if you post stuff like this, you’re an asshole, right? That someone basically took a stock photo of a REAL deformed/injured baby and added a bunch of lies to the bottom (like I just did with the above image in MS Paint)? You know that Facebook isn’t giving anyone a fucking dime, don’t you? And did you know if you took, like, five seconds to use Google you could have found this out for yourself?

Promoting Fear Campaigns

Again, do your goddamn research. If you want to hate Pop Tarts for valid reasons like the fact that they’re disgusting and over-processed and don’t even remotely resemble a traditional tart, more power to you. But don’t go spreading nonsensical bullshit that has absolutely no basis in reality.

Misquoting Dead Hollywood Starlets
As much as you would like to believe that Marilyn Monroe was constantly spouting nuggets of truth to justify the actions of crazy bitches, you are mistaken. Marilyn Monroe may have embraced her nuttiness, but she was also fucking a president and knew how to keep her goddamn trap shut. You should try it sometime, after you stop posting these nonsense memes.

Memes that Inspire Me…to Kill MyselfImage
Your Facebook wall should never look like the drab, beige walls of a call center manager’s office. I’m all for inspiration and uplifting crap but I’d also like to make it through the day without throwing up in my mouth if you don’t mind.

Asinine Shit Masquerading As Real News

For every idiot article like this that you share, I demand you share at lease three articles of relevance. Politics. Economics. Human rights. Science. Technology. Something that actually makes a difference in the world. This kind of shit is not what journalism was supposed to be about. Then again, neither was making up arbitrary lists about shit that pisses you off on Facebook.

This Stupid Fucking Candle
Much like the deformed baby, you are doing nothing for any cause whatsoever by sharing a stock picture of a cylindrical bit of wax that someone has lit on fire. There are millions of ways you can help the causes you hold dear, and if you’re not doing any of those things, then stop sharing this kind of shit to make everyone think you are. It takes effort to give back to the world, and that effort goes beyond the scope of clicking a link.

I Like to Live Dangerously

I live on the edge, you guys. I’m crazy. Wild. Daring. The fucks I give are nonexistent.

Get like me.


order french fries, but grab slightly fewer ketchup packets than you’ll actually need and see if you can make that shit stretch. Thug life.

-don’t use a coaster. YOLO!

-flip off that person who cut you off, even if they’re bigger than you. Dickheads.

-buy the shitty, plastic, 99 cent lighters instead of a Bic at the gas station. BECAUSE FUCK CAPITALISM.

-put your mascara on at a red light. Corneas are fucking overrated.

-while showering, decide at the last minute you’re going to wear a dress so now you have to shave your legs. Schedules are for punks.

-paint your nails and don’t use a clear coat. I ain’t afraid of no chips.

-eat a bag of M&Ms in front of your kids and don’t share. Fuck those greedy bastards.

-wear white after Labor Day. I don’t subscribe to societal norms.

-hug your mailman. The fuck’s he gonna do about it?

-put a nickel in a the “take a penny, leave a penny” tray. I’m rich, bitch.

-let your phone die and don’t recharge it for like, an hour. These hos ain’t shit.

Don’t Be A Girlfriend – Be A Bro!

Ladies, if you haven’t heard, men are no longer interested in girly girls with painted toes and pretty dresses. Men want a girl who can drink. Men want a girl who likes camping and fishing and getting dirty. Men want a girl they can show off to their friends and party with.

Men don’t want to date a woman. They want to date a bro.

Here’s how to give them what they want.

1. Burp and fart a lot.

Men love a gassy woman. In fact, if you can find a way to fart on them, that’s even better.


2. Enjoy sports.

It doesn’t matter if you don’t care about them, don’t have a favorite team, or can’t tell the difference between an orange bouncy ball and the oblong brown one. If you want him to put a ring on it, you jump on his team’s bandwagon and you fucking like it.


3. Drink beer, preferably from a tube or funnel.

Real women don’t use glasses and they sure as shit don’t drink wine. They drink the fizzy, delicious man nectar otherwise known as beer, and they drink a lot of it at once. Then they kick ass at beer pong and throw up in a potted plant. Then they start taking shots while listening to Lil Jon.


4. Fuck manners.

Only pussies don’t act super obnoxious in public. Don’t use your napkin! Remember to burp! Impede on the conversations of everyone nearby by loudly discussing tits and how smashed you got last weekend!



5. Stop putting so much effort in to your looks.

A bro can be showered, dressed, and ready to go in under thirty minutes, especially if he has the complete line of Axe products. Shower, shit, and shave, then throw on whatever doesn’t smell like last night’s vomit. Deodorant optional.


6. Rid yourself of all girly paraphernalia.

Fuck your fluffy pillows and your Egyptian cotton sheets; get yourself a futon for fucksakes You don’t need vases of flowers, you need ashtrays and all of the liquor bottles from previous parties on full display. Is that a fucking chaise lounge? What the fuck is a chaise lounge? Get a goddamn tiki bar and take down any pictures of Marilyn Monroe that don’t show titties.


7. Watch better movies.

No one wants to see “White People Fall In Love Then Someone Dies” based on the novel by Nicholas Sparks. Drop all your bitch-made notions about movies and go watch SuperMegaFuckYou Lords of Domination and Dat Ass, Part IV. You’ll thank me later.


(Chuck Norris doesn’t need a fucking meme, bitch.)

Fellas, if you don’t really find any of that to be particularly appealing when it comes to your mate, maybe you should start appreciating the other ways in which your partner can be your best friend.


Why Home Depot Is Popular On Memorial Day

Yesterday I made a wrong turn and decided to flip myself around in a parking lot. This parking lot just so happened to belong to Home Depot

This place was fucking poppin’. There were goddamn people everywhere. And I’m going, “sweet Jesus, is it suburbanite Christmas?”

I don’t personally spend any amount of time in or around Home Depot unless it’s to flip a bitch in their parking lot or I’m there with my friend Jessica who is one of those committed do-it-yourselfers that always wants to go get coffee and then look at tile and flooring. (And you go, because you want coffee.) So naturally, I have no idea what the fuck could possibly compel people to go to Home Depot on a holiday.

Which means the obvious thing to do is for me to dream up scenarios that would necessitate going there.

1. Your alcoholic cousin Jim decides the meat would taste better grilled in shots of Johnny Walker. He ends up setting the grill on fire and the only way to save your Memorial Day barbecue is to go buy a brand new grill, stat.

2. Ancient Aunt Betsy decides to leave the house for the first time in a fucking decade, but she wants to bring all 4 of her labradoodles with her. This would be fine, except she insists that little Muffin is deathly allergic to pansies, which is the flower you’ve chosen to border your patio. Aunt Betsy is rich as shit and you definitely want to be in the will so you rip out all your pansies and make a run to Home Depot to buy a more hypo-allergenic plant, thus securing your potential inheritance.

3. Your brother-in-law wants to bring his new girlfriend to the festivities, and you agree without knowing this bitch has like, eight kids. You don’t have enough seating and must dash to the Depot to grab some lawn chairs.

4. You accidentally wind up poisoning all of your guests and need to bury the bodies in the backyard. This requires a wheelbarrow, a shovel, and wine. The first two you can get at Home Depot; the latter you will hopefully have on hand so you don’t have to make two stops.

5. Your next door neighbor is super hot, so you invite her to your barbecue/pool party so you can see her in a bikini. The pool filter stops working just hours before the festivities, so you run to Home Depot to buy an above-ground pool because, seriously, this chick is hot.

6. A swarm of hummingbirds are attacking your guests. You buy 15 hummingbird feeders to placate them.

7. Your husband hates mowing the lawn so much he left you the night before Memorial Day but for some reason he took the lawnmower with him, probably out of spite because he was always a malicious dickhead. You need another lawn mower. And another husband.

8. There’s a  huge thunderstorm and you’re stubborn. Rather than disband or take the party inside, you go to Home Depot and buy all of their patio umbrellas then demand that your guests have fun.

9. You really want your deck rebuilt and your new neighbor is a contractor. You buy a shit ton of lumber and nails and whatever else you need to build a deck in hopes that he’ll see all the shit is already there so, pfft, why not just build it for you!

10. The little asshole kid down the street came in to your yard in the dead of night and stole all your garden lights. It’s an evening party so you have to replace them. Seven-year-olds suck.

The Top Ten Crises That Pregnant Women Face

1. Dropping something.

If you’re alone in the house and an object goes flying out of your hands, there is a 70% chance it’s going to stay right the fuck where it is until someone happens by.

2. Shaving your legs.

Far more horrifying for a woman carrying through the summer months, since you winter bitches can just wear pants and take a weed-whacker to your legs for your monthly OB visit.

3. Extreme thirst during the third trimester.

It’s cool, I already have to pee every ten minutes anyway. I would love to also be parched. You know what? I’ll be on the toilet. Just bring me a pitcher of ice water and some Kleenex and leave me the hell alone.

4. Having to sneeze and pee at the same time.

Yeah. That pee is not staying in there. Just let it happen.

5. Getting up.

Except you don’t really get up anymore, do you? You may roll, heave, scramble, claw, push, wiggle, or squirm. But you do not simply rise to your feet. Not anymore.

6. Sleeping.

You can’t sleep on your back or your stomach, and it’s preferable to sleep on your left side for the benefit of the baby. You probably can’t share a bed with someone because they either radiate so much heat you are convinced they are made of hellfire or they grow fed up with you getting up every hour to piss and cry.

7. Can I do that?

Because everyone becomes a gynecologist when they see a pregnant girl, we face a constant barrage of old wives’ tales interspersed with legitimate medical truths. Can’t eat sushi, can’t swim in lakes, can’t drink water bottled anywhere in the north of France…how about you give me a list of what I can do, asshole.

8. Guard the belly.

Whether it’s a runaway kid, a wayward puppy, or an unforeseen countertop, our tummies are under constant attack by the world around us. We can’t even turn around quickly for fear of knocking over a lamp. Or running our of breath, you know, whatever.

9. Taking off a bra.

This is some excruciating shit right here. I don’t know why we think taking it off slowly will somehow trick our tits in to not being throbbing, aching globes of milk-filled agony, but immediately after removing a bra, we instantly regret the decision and wind up cupping our own lady bits. A wise man knows to look away when this happens. This is not sexy. This is Sparta, motherfucker.

10. Stranger danger.

Please stop touching us. Please. It’s creepy and we don’t like it. Stop. Just stop.