Valentine’s Shmalentine’s

13 Feb

Apparently, I only blog on holidays. Not that I consider Valentine’s Day a holiday or anything, but some of you do and who am I to judge? (I’m totally judging you)

Don’t get me wrong, I’ll never say “no” to some chocolate and a free present–I am my frugal father’s child after all–but Valentine’s Day doesn’t get me pumped like it does for some of you. It could be that my parents didn’t celebrate it (cheap father, remember?) It could be that in almost all of my past relationships the holiday yielded nothing but ugly stuffed animals, nasty dollar-tree chocolate, and a pink pen with feathers on top(because feathers equal love). Or maybe it could just be that in my head, 24/7, my eyes are constantly rolling in mock at everything going on around me and Valentine’s Day is no different.

From what I’ve heard, Valentine’s Day is a day to show someone you care. That is SO sweet. From what I’ve seen, Valentine’s Day is a day for couples to get into fights. And There’s nothing more I love to see then a panicked, sweaty forlorn-looking man in CVS racing up and down the isles using a crane arm to sweep everything pink and red into his basket. Glorious. Especially glorious because it’s most certainly not going to be enough and a fabulous fight, that I only wish I could watch,is going to happen. Which makes me think there should be boxing rings set up on Valentine’s Day in every city so we can all enjoy. Now THAT’S my kind of Valentine’s Day.

Once, I was lucky enough to have front row seats to one of these said fights and it’s still my favorite story to bring up to the now-marred couple. They roll their eyes and I gleefully outline every detail and word said. I hear it’s healthy to look back on your relationship to see how far you’ve come and I’m only dutifully doing my part as a friend. It went like this:

Her: I will BET you he hasn’t gotten me ANYTHING. We said we weren’t going to do presents to save money, but there should still be something for me. He hasn’t even called yet!
Me: He’ll probably get something. Hey, are you going to eat the rest of that?
Her: Seriously I can’t even believe him. I’m going out and turning off my phone. Don’t tell him where I am.
Me: Okay, but only if you give me the rest of that slice and some of your V-Day candy.

2 hours later:
He walks into house and passes by:
Hey, Corey.
Me: Heyyy. (watching Bridget Jones as she was my only Valentine)
Him: Where is she?
Me: Oh…out. What’d ya get her for V-day?
Him: Nothing.
Me: WHAT? What do you MEAN nothing??
Him: What? She said we were doing presents?
Me: You got her no card?? No flowers? No chocolate?? (I’m clearly being a really good friend here. Yet, I was never thanked. Rude).
Him: Was I supposed to? Is she mad? She’s mad? SHE’S MAD. (starts sweating)
Me: Yes. Go get her something now. (It was midnight)

Next morning:

Me: Hey. So what did he get you?
Her: Stupid,ugly,wilted last-minute flowers.
Me: [Pause] Oh. (Did this mean I had failed as a friend? Did I still get chocolate?)
Her: We had a huge fight. I threw them in the trash right in front of him.
Me: Happy Valentine’s!

And that folks, is the beauty of this holiday. Luckily, I’m here for you and want to let you know you can avoid these fights by not giving any of the below. Thank me later. And in the words of Liz Lemon, “Happy Valentines, no one.”




Elf on a Shelf Gone Wrong

10 Dec

Apparently, children these days have lost the ability to use their imagination and their parents are encouraging it. But then again, that’s what happens when you have Justin Bieber to look up to.

Back in my day, mom and dad said hey-there’s a stranger coming in the house with presents. Of course I believed them. Know why? Because my mom told the story of Santa with a belt in her hand, while my dad acted out the whole bowl-of-jelly stomach thing using his own. I simply used my imagination to turn my father into a bearded white man in a tacky red outfit (for fear of being whacked with a belt). And there you had it. The magic of Christmas was born.

But it’s not enough for the new generation. Santa is beneath them now. Santa is for the mere common five-year-old who only has one PS3 and iPhone. For everyone else, there’s Elf on Shelf.

Have you seen it? Of course you have. That little shit is creepy–very Chucky the doll/Christina Aguilara-esq. Supposedly, it travels every night to report back to Santa (or Satan). Christmas is supposed to be a joyful, loving time– not a fear-fueled month. But what do I know? I’m from the Santa era. I’m outdated.

But like any good parent should, some parents accidentally take it too far. Or too funny. Same difference. And by the laws of the universe, these accidental funnies made their way to me. Which means they eventually had to make it to my blog (I use that term loosely). Merry Christmas.

Now you know why little Sara keeps sitting on all the little boys' laps at school. Thanks, Mommy.

Now you know why little Sara keeps sitting on all the little boys’ laps at school. Thanks, Mommy.

He probably deserved it; let's be honest.

He probably deserved it; let’s be honest.

Much improved.

Much improved.

And people wonder why their kids still aren't potty trained.

And people wonder why their kids still aren’t potty trained.

Well... we know which parents aren't invited to the next PTA meeting (but are invited to the next AA meeting)

Well… we know which parents aren’t invited to the next PTA meeting (but are invited to the next AA meeting)

Missed Connections Mondays

15 Oct

If there’s one thing I love more than eating, it’s eavesdropping on juicy bits of people’s lives. I can’t help it. My mother was all about children being seen and not heard so in order to do the whole survival of the fittest thing, I learned to eavesdrop like a champ. Eventually, it became boring–just not enough to get me back to that original thrill (I happened to find out what my mother really thought of me by putting my ear up to the bathroom wall. Sidebar: It wasn’t that great. Apparently, I was lazy and drove up the grocery bill.). I needed more. MORE.

So I turned to diaries. Yeah, I said it.Diaries. And I’m not ashamed. Well, I am a little, but when you start at such a young age,eventually the remorse goes out the window. Left and right I snapped up diaries belonging to not too bright people who left them out. Which is how I found out my 10-year-old classmate hated me for digging my nails into her arm until she let go of my princess rings. What a bitch. Who talks about people behind their backs like that? Whatever.

Sadly, my thirst for reading diaries and all things not meant to be read by me, was dampened when I found a letter my Dad wrote to my mother when they were dating. It was graphic. It was horrible. It talked about my mother’s legs. It was scarring. And I never want to get to that low point again.

But I still need my fix.

Enter Missed Connections.

Yes. Missed connections. It’s like the motherland of diaries. The jackpot. It’s soap operas, Honey Boo-Boo, the Bachelor, Fifty Shades of Grey and Disney movies all rolled in one. I’ve cried a little bit reading some. From disgust and laughter, mostly. But I’ve wept tears of sorrow too for the 6 ft, 45-year-old male wearing a red sweatshirt who lost the love of his life when she walked out of 7eleven and got into her pickup truck after winking. They really had something. And now we’ll never know.

Sigh. Craigslist how, HOW can you be SO romantic.

So, in order to brighten your Mondays and restore your faith in humanity, you’ll get a Missed Connection every Monday. Or Tuesday if I forget or just don’t care. Or just remind me. We’re all in this together, ya’ll.

Seriously, how can you resist this? Who is this person? What happened? Who is Kat? DID YOU HAVE GOOD SEX TOGETHER?! I can’t take it.

It’s over. She’s moved on. Their season is done. There’s Titanic music in my head. Ignore Barney Stinson screen saver over there. How else is a gal supposed to get through tough work days?

The original is X rated and wild. Like move-over-worst-book-ever-Fifty Shades of Grey wild. Like too wild to post because I might have future children who might find it. But honestly, who ARE these people?

Because glassy-eyed druggies need love too.

If you thought you were having a bad day, think about this Missed Connection infant who might have a father that uses your and you’re incorrectly.

To Richmond, With…Ahem…Snark & GIF.

12 Oct

Dear Richmond,

How do I put this? Where do I start?  I’ve been wanting to write you this for a while, but just didn’t want to hurt your feelings… Wait. Let’s be honest. I was actually just too wrapped up in all your glorious gluttonous events. But now, Richmond, it’s cold out. And I’ve turned on my sounds and am ready to write how I really feel about you.

Oh, Richmond. Can I call you Rva? Of course I can. In fact, you want me to. You want me to so much, that you’ve printed out bumper stickers for all your residents to proudly (cultish-ly) display and you’ve coyly created banners with the logo to humblebrag around town.

Anyway. Here’s the thing, Rva, dearest. I LIKE you. I just don’t LOVE you. And I know that line hurts. It does. I know because once an ex-boyfriend used it on me and right after, I became acquainted real good with $4 bottles of wine from Walmart for a week or two.

Don’t judge me. Or I’ll judge your Broad street.

When I first moved,  I had faith that we were really going to like each other. So I settled right in the Fan to watch and experience all you had to offer. I told all of my friends and family—gushed over you, raved, got excited, said this was IT.

I couldn’t contain myself.

So we jumped into bed together, you and I, Rva. And honey, it was hot. It was hot like Gilles Marini hot. Like Halle Berry-Monster Ball hot. Like take off your shirt, swing it around your head,  whip your hair, guzzle some tequila, and…whatever. You get it.

I went to your festivals (OH, FOLK FEST AND BRUNSWICK STEW!!), I checked out the river views( so gorgeous, so big, so above average. ), I ran outside in the Fan (and struggled not to high five every runner I passed in the price is right style), I went to your clubs and meet ups,I wrote a piece or two for a local mag, I chatted up new people, I found a cool church, I networked like a pro, I drank till I found a favorite bar (Whiskey),  I partied with freaken Richard Branson. I praised the awesomeness of VCU. I went out for cocktails when I found out if I  was ever attacked by my friendly local crackhead ,I could go to VCU med center and be raised from the dead. I was all up on you Rva, like a dirty whore. But..I still had to you write you this letter.

Why, you ask? Oh, stop. Don’t look at me like that .

So, here goes.

Rva, you’re kinda like Regina George. Plastics included. And all us transplants are the girl that doesn’t even go here.

Okay. Fine. Maybe a bit harsh.

Ask any non-native living here what it’s like to make friends in you, Rva. You’re not exactly Mother Theresa welcoming. Unless we’re all wearing pink shirts on Wednesday and sitting at the right table.

Sure, sure, Richmonders will at first be friendly. They’ve no choice; they’re required by the laws of the South to wave and offer sweet tea (PBR). But let the poor unsuspecting transplant say, “Drinks on me! Let’s hang out later!” and you can be sure the drinks will be on him (hello, have you seen the bars per capita?). But that’s where the shot stops. That is, unless you know the secret handshake or find someone who will give it you. But if not, you’ll most likely stick with your other fellow transplants. There’s safety in numbers, they say.

And word on the street is, there’s a little bit of of Regina George in the restaurant playground too–foodies, food bloggers, food writers, and some media. I was just talking to a kitchen manager who I’d just met a week ago when he brought this up.

“It’s political and like a high school. And if you don’t play by the rules, you could get left behind.” His words, not mine. Except I’m sure this doesn’t apply to Peter Chuck Norris Chang who probably doesn’t give a shiz and eats with one chopstick.

But listen. I’m not asking for everyone to sing kumbaya. I’m not asking for there to be a welcome committee. I’m asking for your gang to be open and not require a 14 step secret handshake and secret word and a pink shirt on Wednesdays with the Rva logo on it.

Secret handshakes are too hard for me. Seriously.

But wait, there’s more. There’s that oh-so-strange thing that you do with festivals and events. It’s weird. At first I just thought you were trying to show off for me. Kinda cute. Caught my eye.  Made me blush. Then when I asked about it, you were all sheepish and sidestepped it.

But I’m askin’ again–why do you keep having multiple festivals and events in one day or weekend, Rva? And why are 50 percent of your festivals badly planned, with long unbearable lines and bad execution? Like that wine fest behind VMFA in the middle of summer, with lines so long that eventually I looked like I had just run through a slip n’ slide covered with canola oil (read: sweaty Betty). Or how about that Hardywood festival a few months back where I stood in line for almost an hour to get a beer (I never even got that beer)? Or how about this past weekend when FOUR festivals were on the same Saturday along with the State Fair? It’s so bad that I’ve thought about  shopping for engraved flasks to hide in my bra so I can drink while standing in line for more drink. Survival of the fittest, ya’ll. I’m in it to win it.

Every time I go to a long lined, badly executed festival this comes out.

I know you’re proud of your festivals and whatnot, dear Rva, but maybe you should check that out. Focus on your motion of the ocean, k? By the way, the Watermelon Festival is, in my book, a level of Dante’s hell. Take a poll. I know I’m not the only one.

And while we’re at it, can we please talk about your ego?

I mean, you’re attractive,fun, and real good romp, but the ego is ruining it for me. Seriously, Rva, if you tweet ONE MORE time about the lists that you’ve made it on to, I will die. Which might be why you’re still doing it. The latest word on the street is that you’ve ranked 9th in the list for America’s most promiscuous cities . It’s kinda like if a  man ever tells me about the number of women he’s slept with as a selling point. Not cute. And I.Don’t.Care.

Ask me if I care  that you won Best Town Ever. You voted for yourself! It hasn’t changed much since elementary elections.Writing yourself in for class president and then voting for yourself is the equivalent of talking in the third person.Weird. Ask me if I care that you placed on some random list as an innovative city (can you PLEASE stop using that word? Don’t you have a vocabulary beyond innovative and creative?), or a bicycle city, or a city with a sky and buildings? I don’t.

Oh? Rva ranked on the list of “Cities with 8 letters in their name?” Great.


But if you really want to stick to the lists, please don’t forget that in 2011 you were named the top asthma capital. Cute. And at the beginning of the year you were ranked in the top cities decimated by the global recession. And you also ranked as one of the top cities for worst integrity. Why didn’t anyone send a tweet about it? Oh. Okay. Maybe I missed it. Well how about you just let me find out how cool you are without you telling me every two seconds, would you?

Now back to your overuse of the words innovative and creative. I’m sorry–I now have verbal blogger diarrhea. It won’t stop.

I can’t. I just can’t:

Look, I get it. You ARE those things–sometimes. Not all the time. Because if you were, you’d figure out that we don’t  need  four groceries stores in one section of Carytown. Having more meetups and hackathons and forums can only be so creative if you keep having them with the SAME people.

The point is, if you’d just stop talking with the same people over and over about innovation and creativeness or some other buzz word,and branched out and found other spicy people to work with, maybe something would actually happen. And maybe we kinda get back together, Rva. Maybe.

We’re not the same we promise. We’re creative:

Let’s put it this way.You’re charming, Rva, you’re charming. Besides the fact that you’re small (you can’t help it, chin up.) and that it’s impossible to go into a grocery store and not run into your ex’s ex or your mailman or @rvalover234 from Twitter who you know-but-don’t-know, you have some great things going on about you.

Your low cost of living is rad. Your river is sexy. The way you cook for me is a turn on. Your fun events make me wanna show you my goods and let my parents come to meet you.

At this point, the date was great…but the kiss…well it was like this:

I want to be hopeful, but maybe we should just be friends. Not lovers. If you’re really upset we can discuss. I’d say call me, but… I’m going out to Short Pump. No reception there, you know.

The Art of the Fake Laugh

18 Sep

When you’re a kid, your parents teach  you the basics. Or at least they SHOULD teach you the basics. One look at Lindsey Lohan dispels that theory, but whatever. She was great in Parent Trap. I applaud Dina Lohan for that one.

So parents teach kids manners, how to eat, how to wipe their asses, etc. And if your parents have an extra measure of love, they’ll teach you how to go get wine for them from the Franzia box in the fridge. Or maybe that was just my childhood, but it was useful in college when  trying to figure out the classiest wine to buy. But if parents REALLY REALLY love their kids and want them to succeed, they’d teach their kids the art of the fake laugh.

Did your parents not teach you? It’s okay. I hired this Grandma to help you. Skip to .37:

Yeah. The fake laugh. It’s as vital to life as french toast. You wouldn’t send your kid off to college without a safe sex lecture, so why in the hell would you send your kid off to float in the seas of life without equipping them with a fake laugh?

It baffles me.

My parents taught me the FL early on. In fact, I’m pretty sure I heard it on the way down the birth canal. Or maybe it happened when they put me in my mom’s arms and she realized I looked like a cross between E.T. and a Gremlin. Nervous fake laughter. And the doctors just thought she was overwhelmed with love and adoration for me. Wrong. One point for fake laughter.

Exhibit B. This girl has her FL down perfectly. Take note, my friends:

Fake laughing is what gets people to the next level. It’s the social equivalent of Mario getting a mushroom. Bloop, bloop, bloop (laugh, laugh, laugh)—you made it through that awkward moment! The silence was filled!  The slaying of the lambs prevented! John Smith  saved from beheading! That naked breast was a mere prop! That moment where you made eye contact with your boss picking his nose and eating it never happened!

Exhibit C. Ross pulls out the most amazing FL at around .50.

And it’s usually followed with a “yeah. That’s funny.” And a quick darting of the eyes to the left and right. Anywhere but the face of the person you’re talking to. Because the eyes are the window to the soul. And your soul is drowning in a sea of I-want-to-get-the-eff-out-of-here.

It’s not funny. It almost never is. Ever.

Those jokes the VP makes? Everyone pulls out those beautiful well honed fake laughs. And the one guy who doesn’t laugh? Fired the next day.

That mom that keeps retelling “funny” stories about her kids or showing you “funny”(tragic) pictures of them? Enter fake laugh. The person who doesn’t laugh? The baby gods grant your future babies the face of a reptile.

Your father-in-law who is retelling the same joke about two Mexicans, a bar, and a Oprah Winfrey? Enter the fakest laugh you have. No laughing? No sex for two weeks.

So like I said, kids. If you want to succeed, perfect your fake laugh. And if you can’t do that, just record this on your phone and play when necessary(get past the baby and on to the black man). *NOTE* I cried when I watched this video for the first time. In my office. Alone. Laughing so hard, I cried.  So, if you can’t laugh by watching this, you have no soul.

This is your brain on drugs: A larceny gone wrong

12 Sep

Smokey the Bear always said, “Just say no to drugs.” Or maybe it was Boo Boo the Bear. Or that hound dog? Whatever. All I know is during the tender era of peanut butter & jelly sandwiches and Sesame Street lunch boxes, it was drilled into my head that drugs were bad. From then on, I relished watching shows like Intervention and Jersey Shore where I could nod my head and say “See? Smokey was right. Pass the wine. Smokey was freaken right.” But never have I ever been more sure that Smokey was right until Sunday.

There I was, all by my tired lonesome, pondering the devastation that would  occur in my life if I didn’t get pho for dinner,  when I heard some sort of loud noise. I looked up and saw through my private fence that there was some man in a striped shirt near my car. Before I had time to react I heard glass shattering and I paused for a split second before running out my back gate to see my non-existent car window  and a red corolla driving away.

This is what a Sunday Funday on drugs looks like.

I wasn’t sure which part I was more upset about: the fact that my window was broken or that the getaway car was a red corolla. As I stood in the middle of the alley screaming obscenities and shaking my fist to the heavens– Scarlett O’Hara style, I realized God was probably punishing me for the many times I’ve mocked small children . And in my mind, that was just a little bit harsh.

I then called my manfriend (the first of 8657 times. He was on a farm at a festival that day with no reception. A FARM. Yee-freaken-haw), because you know, he’s owns a startup and that’s obviously much more helpful than calling the police. No answer. So I then call my Dad. Because he lives 3 hours away and has the ability to do something helpful while sitting on the couch in Chesapeake. I’m very smart in tragic situations; it’s true.  My faithful father picks up and then hangs up on me (This is a normal occurrence). Is this the part where I reevaluate the men I deem important in my life?

I digress. My next call was to the Po-po. I don’t know what it is about calling the police. They strike the fear of God into my heart even when I need help. I could be held at gunpoint and take an extra five minutes to analyze whether calling the cops would benefit me. I blame watching episodes of Cops when I was five. A strategic move by my parents, no doubt.

Anyway,  up drives the police a few minutes later. Ah, Officer Yancy. Stout, brown, round, Officer Yancy was extremely unimpressed by the whole situation. It was all he could do not to roll his eyes as I sat and frantically explained what went on. And I’m dramatic, so I was doing a great job.

See? Smokey is talking about the shameful waste of your brain cells. Okay fine. He’s talking about fires and I got it wrong. But he has the same angry eyes as Officer Yancy.

30 minutes later, they were caught.

Ha, yeah right. If we lived in Richard Scary’s busy perfect world. But in real life,  30 minutes later, my neighbors realized their car had been broken into and I realized my purse was stolen. And the thieves had left a pair of keys inside my neighbors’ car… . Not to mention, there was a little vial of xanex attached to the key chain. This is the point in which the Smokey inside my head is nodding grimly saying “See? I told you. You can’t be a good criminal when you’re smoking the crack pipe and popping Xanex all fancy.”

So I give Yancy a call. Once again, he looks at me with his unimpressed eyes and reaches for the keys. K. Bye, Yancy.

Fast forward 30 more minutes and here comes a  thin looking gal  with glassy eyes around the corner searching for something. And not just searching. It was more of a Charlie Chaplin mime searching act. She finally makes her way over to me and it went something like this:

You haven’t seen any keys have you? I think I left them inside your car after I smashed a brick through the window. But, that wasn’t me.

Her: “I lost my keys last night. Have you seen them?”

Me: (in my head: You must be kidding. Jinkies, Scoob) “Really? What do they look like?”

Her: “It was a corolla key.”

me: (in my head: Dear Jesus, I know you died for my sins. And I am about to commit the biggest sin I’ve ever committed, so I’m thankful for that. Please see commandment number 6.) “Oh. No, I haven’t seen it. That sucks”

Her: “Yeah it does. I needed it.

me: (in my head: I bet you do need it. To commit more crimes. And calm yourself with  Xanex) “Well, if I see it can you  give me a number I can call to let you know?” (or hand you over to the police?)

Her: Hesitates. One beat. Two beat. Three beats. We’ve almost got a song here. “I don’t have a phone but here’s a number.”

me: “Well, hope you find it! “(Where are these words coming from? How am I being so nice? This is like Obama & Romney teaming up )

As she walks around the corner, I follow her. Pretty closely, but I’m sure whatever drugs she was taking prevented her from noticing that. And there, around the corner, was the red corolla and the SOB who broke my window. He was dorky looking and was cleaning his glasses. Proof that dorks can be thugs too. And  breaking into cars is hard work. Gotta keep those specs nice and clean, kids.

As I wrote down their license plate, it dawned on me.  Finally. All those years of watching Scooby Doo , reading Box Car Children, and Facebook stalking paid off. I have some serious skills and if anyone wants to hire me as their PI, I take MasterCard and Visa. Not American Express. Sorry.

I’m like the gang all rolled up in one. But with cats and Facebook on my side. Hire me.

So, for the third time I called the police and for the third time Big Yance ( yeah, we were on a nickname basis at that point) pulled up. This time, less unimpressed and with more of a smile. I considered asking if I could ride shot gun and jumping in Cousin Luke style, and slapping his belly, but there was something in his deep brown cop eyes that stopped me from that. Something dangerous. Something wild. Or maybe it was just the gun. Or that toll that I haven’t yet paid. Or maybe I just needed some drugs to fuel the fire.


But Smokey** said no. Just say no to drugs.

Note: I just found out the spokesanimal for the D.A.R.E. campaign is a Lion. And he looks like the lion version of Dawson from Dawson’s Creek. No wonder Americans are so hopped up on drugs.


16 Aug

Listen up people of the interwebs. I want you all to know that I’m tired of logging on to various social media sites and seeing 465793 random people posting about the 146 mile run and 789 rounds of HIIT( I don’t even know what that is?)  they did, in addition to the raw kale and eggs they ate for breakfast. And oh-by-the-way, hashtag  #getonmylevel #here’smysoapbox #ijustran3moremilesinplaceatwork #fitfluential #i’mglenncocoyou’regretchenweiners

I mean what is this? Am I’m missing out on something? Do you get prizes for posting the most healthy recipes with the most steps possible? If you post more pictures of you exercising do you get to lick John Stamos abs? Because if so, I’m in. Maybe.

It’s not that I’m totally against all this sharing of exercising, challenges, recipes, etc. I mean, even I too, have posted about runs (mostly in disbelieve that I finished the whole thing) and stopped some friends from biting into jelly donuts.

But people… WHAT ABOUT THE REST OF US WHO ARE MERE MORTALS? AND WHEN DID EVERYONE BECOME SUCH AN INFLUENTIAL FITNESS AND HEALTHY FOOD EXPERT? Let’s be honest here. You were eating Ramen out of cups in college just like me. And you went back for thirds.

And furthermore, ( yes, furthermore was necessary)  I can barely use a knife to cut a piece of bread( that I will later dip in cheese sauce or marinara sauce followed by pasta and cake). Do you think then, that I can follow your recipe on grilled tilapia with toasted pine nuts, tomatoes, spinach, glazed bananas topped with fish sauce, followed by  blanched kale, and a lemon butter sauce with sprigs of rosemary on top? NO. I don’t even know what rosemary looks like. And adding an #eatclean hashtag doesn’t make me want to try it. It makes me want to roll my eyes and dig into my  mac and cheese. Actually, that’s what I want to do 98 percent of my time.

So I’m proposing a solution. First, everyone get off the  humblebrag fitness train and get in our if-it-tastes-good-and-has-calories-i-want-it wagon. The rest of us don’t want to know about your runs, dead lifts, pushups, or squats…

Unless it looks like this:


Or this:

And then we definitely want to see pictures. But if not, we just want to know if you’re having problems in your home life and if so, are they as entertaining as TLC’s Here Comes Honey Boo Boo( and can you tell us about it in detail?)

Secondly, I propose that I become the president of the Sometimes Fatfluential Club. Key word is sometimes. Because I need to live long enough to see if the Victoria Secret’s models age (I just need to know that they didn’t sacrifice a small child and drink a unicorn’s blood. I need to know if they’re mortals). And if they do, I assure you, I’ll be doing this.

As president of the Sometimes Fatfluential Club, I do solemnly promise to tweet you pictures of non-healthy carb loaded treats that make your mouths water. I promise to Facebook you recipes that involve Nutella and gummy bears. I promise to Instagram pictures of wine drinking and delicious brunches, not my running route. But I also have to remind you this is a sometimes club. So sometimes, I have to explain to you about how awesome barre class is and how idiotic Kim Kardashian looks when she “works out.”

Kim, please. Your hair is down. Enough said.

Because I want to prove my worthiness as club leader, I’ve included some examples of how it’s going to be from now on.

Fatfluential at your service.

Thank me later.

I’m already imagining your eyes lighting up with delight.


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