Tag Archives: Did You Just Call Me Fat?

She Is Her Mother’s Cat

The vet told me my cat was fat. At 11 pounds, he said she should be 9. So I put her on a diet, and she’s not happy about it.

I wish I could be more like Esme. She’s completely happy in her slightly chunky skin and wants nothing to do with the dieting.

Recently, she’s taken to doing the following:

  • Drinking the leftover milk from my cereal.
  • Picking the ham out of my scrambled eggs while it’s cooking on the stove.
  • Pawing at me until I give her my chips. (Ok, ok, she’s always done this.)

The chip thing is really helping me with my portion control. I can only eat about 3 chips before Esme hears the bag comes running.

But last week, she did something that brought a tear to my eye.

At first, I thought she was raiding my vodka stash.

At first, I thought she was raiding my vodka stash.

To celebrate our new house, I made The Domestic Rebel’s Birthday Cake 7-Layer Bars. And Esme tried to eat my dessert! It broke my little heart to scream “No!” at her and cover it.


I’ll let you caption this picture:

  1. You are getting very sleepy. Now take off the lid, biatch.
  2. Please, please, take off the lid.
  3. Why do you hate me?
  4. Damn you, opposable thumbs.
  5. Other:

Favorite Comment from Last Post: “The poster creeps me out. Her eyes are like the sea. And I can’t swim. So yeah… Makes perfect sense to me. Just thought… Was I meant to type something nice about the play rather than my own idiosyncracies? Ahh well. What’s done is done.”—AndTodayFolks

Me No Share Cookies…or Cupcakes…or Anything

When I first started dating the Cupcake Dangler, I had to come out of the blog-closet to him:

CD: How long have you been blogging for?

Thoughtsy: About 3 years.

CD: Wow! So I have a lot of reading to do.

Thoughtsy: Awww…. That’s so cute that you want to read it. But you can’t. Not now. Maybe not ever.

To soften the blow, I offered to let CD pick his name. That was a mistake.

CD: I’ve always liked the name “David.”

Thoughtsy: That’s…so…boring. (Author’s Note: No offense to people named “David.”)

CD: How about Lance?

Thoughtsy: Isn’t that a Backstreet Boy? I mean, NSync. You’re not allowed to pick your blog name anymore. You can’t be trusted.

How could I be with a guy who possibly secretly liked boy bands?

Then…he bought me this cupcake. (Translation: I snuck it into his grocery cart, and he pretended not to notice.)

A cookie and a cupcake!

A cookie and a cupcake!

Two desserts. In one dessert! I thought the tables had turned in his favor.

Then he suggested we split it. Split. It.

Which is pretty much the same thing as…

  1. Calling me “fat.”
  2. Questioning my dessert-eating ability.
  3. Taking food right out of my mouth.

That’s when I first realized I made a horrible mistake. It was the beginning of the end for him.

The Trifecta: Fat, Old, and Small Boobs

This story I’m about to tell all happened within 30 minutes. I shit crap you not. Look. I cussed. You know it’s real.

Recently, I stopped by my old job to visit Matchmaker Coworker. Someone else was there that I hadn’t seen in awhile.

Forever-Single Old Guy: You look…different.

Co-Worker: It’s her eyelashes. She looks cute.

Me: Do I look old? I’m almost 32.

Forever-Single Old Guy: I think you’ve put on a few pounds.

Me: ::mouth drops open::

Forever-Single Old Guy: You filled out. It’s good. You look more…mature.

Me: So I’m fat…and old. Fantastic.

I’ve put on 3 pounds since I worked there. Three pounds. Obviously, it’s 3 pounds of muscle. Grrrr….

After this exchange, I decided to hide in my cubicle for the rest of the day. But back in my new building, I found a bake sale in the lobby.

Unsuspecting-Victim-of-Poor-Timing: Would you like to buy something from our fundraiser?

Me: No, thank you.

Unsuspecting-Victim-of-Poor-Timing: We have healthy stuff, too: fruit, granola bars…water.

Me: Seriously?

Back at my desk, I showed Ddot the t-shirts Matchmaker Coworker and I were wearing for a special event.

We mispelled "Ddot."

We mispelled “Ddot.”

Ddot: So these are Matchmaker’s boobs?

Me: No…. They’re mine.

Ddot: They look….

Me: Too big to be mine. I know. It’s the font.

Ddot: No, the hair…looks like….

Me: Just let it go….

Who knew all of that was possible before 10 AM? That, my friends, is why I blog.

Favorite Comment From Last Post: “I say go with every opportunity. Best case you meet the man of your dreams. Worst case you get a blog post. Ok, almost every opportunity. I just got a random flash of slasher movie still shots.”—Skipping Stones

I Do Whatever the Chocolate Tells Me

Tuesday and Wednesday work was hot. And when I got home after work…my apartment’s AC was broken. Of course. Welcome to my life.

The heat sent me into an extreme sloth-like state. Because it was too hot to make my own decisions, I decided to put the responsibility on someone else.

Remember when the Dove chocolate gave me a sign? Well…I’ve decided to let chocolate dictate my life.

That’s right: a dessert dictator. It was that or the Magic 8 Ball.

I’m saving all the wrappers from my Dove chocolate, and I’m doing what the chocolate tells me to do.

This is the first wrapper:

Do what feels right.

Do what feels right. Obviously, it felt right to eat the lower left corner of the wrapper.

What feels right is…to have another piece of chocolate.

The next wrapper said:

Indulge your every whim.

Indulge your every whim.

This confirmed that the second piece was ok.

I think I’m going to like this challenge.

Have a great weekend! I’ll be in Pittsburgh, so let me know what to check out while I’m there.

Favorite Comment From Last Post: “Be careful, Thoughtsy. One minute you’re posting a pic of your hot, sweaty thighs, the next you’re addicted to sexting. Slippery slope….”—BluzDude

I’ve Got Rhythm, I’ve Got Music, I’ve Got Your Pancreas

I love musicals. My musical fascination began when, as a youngster, I visited my grandmother. We always watched Shirley Temple movies.

Soon I wanted to be Shirley Temple. The fact that I was a fat, straight-haired brunette who could not sing and had only 1 year of tap-dancing experience were my only obstacles. All minor.

Now I want to be Sarah Brightman. I can’t sing like her, but really, who can?


Sarah Brightman is bee-u-tiful. And she can sing.

Anyways, as I got older, I found a new love: horror movies. Which is weird. Because…

  • Horror movies are the exact opposite of musicals.
  • Psychokillers never break out into song as they’re hacking someone up.
  • Victims are too busy choking on blood to sing.

I recently discovered a movie that blends the horror and musical genres: Repo! The Genetic Opera.

The movie takes place in the future when human organs start failing, and people have to buy new organs. If you can’t afford them, your organs get repossessed….and you die. Duh.

Here’s what I learned:

  • I need an eyelash transplant (see the pic above).
  • “It’s what’s on the inside that counts” takes on a whole new meaning when it’s used for organ advertising.
  • To be a bad guy in an opera, you don’t have to be able to sing.

Most importantly, don’t get cosmetic surgery. If you do, your face will fall off.

Favorite Comment From Last Post: “So here’s what you do: Accept friend request(s) / Accept cupcake(s) / Enjoy Cupcake(s) / Remove “friend(s)” / Repeat (or block…whichever is more rewarding).”—SandyLand