Monday, June 29, 2009

Chokin' It Down

I know what y'all thought! Pervs, the lot of you & I love you all more than cheesecake!

So, I'm currently choking down the first bottle of this chalky white contrast, for a CT Scan this afternoon. The bottle says it has a pleasant taste. The bottle is fucking lying to me. Straight in my grimacing face - lying.

Why the CT Scan? Well, P. Mama has some issues. (Physical, as well as mental.)

I have some lipomas. Fatty tumors. Balls of fat. Little donuts of fat. (I'm thinking of ways to describe these that make me happy.)

Anyway, I have a couple cake donuts with cute pink sprinkles of fat in my abdomen. I had one before but it was like, hmm.. a big bear claw type of pastry. Big enough that it had to be surgically removed, years ago. Apparently, before the Dunkin Donut Exorcism, it spawned donut holes and now they have grown.

Apparently, my prayer: Dear baby Jesus, please let all of my fat evenly disperse throughout my body so no one part feels cheated. All my love & pudge, P. Mama. - Didn't work.

Today, we're looking to see if these new ones need to be removed. The good news in this 'ass tasting drink/donuts in my bellay' fiasco is that the surgeon - he's hot. Mmmhmm.

P. Mama: (lifts her shirt to show off her lumps, and tits) "Soo, I recently flew and the pilot.. he thought I was dead sexy. What do you think?"

Doctor Do-Me: (feels me up.. I mean feels the lumps) "I think you need a Cat Scan."

P. Mama: "Uh-huh, all the better to see me with."

So, I'm gagging this drink down, all to impress him.. and off I go!

P.S. If any of you return the immense love that I have for you - can you please either make or find a very cute award for me to give out every Sunday to my most fave blog posts of the week.. so I can get that show on the road??


Thursday, June 25, 2009

Awe-Summ - Six Lungs.

I'm an idiot. I was trying to practice this linking the words and clicked publish post instead of Save As Draft. So, if any of you just clicked on this post in the last little bit, all you saw was this:

This chick is awesome: Sam!!


Of course, she is!! And yay me, the linking worked! But anyway - Sam gave me an award! See that cute pink Queen over there on the right?? Whoot!

So, rules are - I have to list seven things that are awe-summ about moi. I did that once on a post, for zelzee. (Love her too, she's great.)

I'm going to repost from that because I honestly have not much clue what is awe-summ about me!

So, here it is:

The seven things that I think make me Awesome:

1) I can streak my daughters hair better than any salon could.

2) I'm an amazing cook.

3) I'm a pretty decent writer.

4) I'm a great dancer & could do the 'tootsie roll' like nobodies business!

5) I'm a music trivia goddess.

6) I once rented a movie to Mike Tyson & didn't get a body part bitten off.

7) This is hard. I just asked my daughter what was awesummm about me and she replied, "Everything." :)

Now, for the next part. Seven women that I think are Queens of Awe-summ!


Calling People Names!

Fragrant Liar!

Two For One! Holy Crappers!



What I Should Have Said!

Seriously, I could do at least twenty more! But I hope to showcase some of my favorite blogs on Sunday nights!

So, make sure to check in for that, y'all. :)

Side story:

My daughter, Darling Bitchy, is 18. She's had sinus infection, ear infection (both ears) and bronchitis, for the last two weeks. The original medications didn't seem to be working so I took her back to the Doctor this week.

They found that she's not getting oxygen to the bottom of her lungs so gave her an inhaler. Last night, her brother, Rebel Boy - decided to just randomly spritz the inhaler around. She threw a fit and screamed at him that she needs that because her bottom set of lungs arn't getting air.

He said - "Bottom set of lungs?"

Darling Bitchy: "Yes, I have two lungs at the top, by my shoulders, two in the middle and two down here." (She very seriously points out where her six lungs are to him.)

He is nearly on the floor, laughing hysterically as he gives her an anatomy lesson.

Later on that night, she comes to me, nearly in tears. Her ears still hurt. I tell her to put the pain drops in. She again, very seriously, says to me:

"If I put them in this ear, tilt my head and shake it hard, maybe they'll go through to the other ear and unplug them both."

*le fuck* Someone switched my baby with Chrissy's from Three's Company.

God love her, she's so adorable, sweet and wonderful that we forgive her for her freakishly weird six lungs.

Tuesday, June 23, 2009

Fave Blog Posts & Picasso

Do y'all remember the fab idea I had to do a 'fave blog posts of the week'? Where I read all of your blog posts for the week, picked my faves and showcased them right here on mine - lovingly dry humping them like a Price Is Right model!?

There's a problem.

I have no idea how to make text and/or pictures into clickable links. Persay, if I wanted to make the words "Comedy Goddess" into a clickable link.. or.. if I wanted to use a picture of an apple for Martini Mom, to click on and go to her site..

How do I do that?? Please, for the love of cunnilingus, tell me!

So that I can begin shouting out to all of you, the blogger friends that keep me from accidentally running over Big Daddy, shifting to reverse, running over him again, etc, etc, ad infinitum - on the John Deere death machine. (It still works. I had to mow again yesterday. No wheelies this time but I'll tell y'all about the 'PBR' sometime soon. Noo, not Pabst Blue Ribbon, rednecks. Pretty Big Rock!! Oy.)

Also, a short side story:

We were going out for dinner last night & Big Daddy was rushing me, per usual. He cannot seem to grasp that Phat Mamas take a bit O' time to get sexalicious. We know that we have to make the best of our ASSets so that they jiggle just right (apply enough body lotion that we slide into something lycra (granny panties) to squeeze our navel up to our nipples) and it was pissing me off that he was bitching about being late.

*Side note: Granny panties they may be, but mine have lace, polka dots, cute little hearts and devils with pitchforks. Hawwt.

So anywho..

He's rushing me. I'm ready to use my cigarette lighter with a can of Aqua Net hair spray to torch him the fuck out of my 'Cover Girl' face when it happened. Due to lack of desperately needed concentration, I shaved half my eyebrow off.

Here is the Picasso I just drew, to show y'all:

Tonight, I'm going to shave half of Big Daddy's goatee off while he sleeps. Because I clearly recall the vows of marriage saying: "For Better or for Worse."

This is one of those worse moments & the sonofabitch should match.

Thursday, June 18, 2009

Fat Girls Can Win Olympic Gold Too!

Have any of you ever remodeled a home? If so, feel free (after reading this stunner of a blog post) to tell me all about it in comments. Because I want (need) to feel not so alone in the following stories of good (fifth ring of hell) times.

Story One: "Fork Over Some Cash"

Big Daddy & I go to the house to be remodeled. Hence forth to be known as: The Shithole.

Upon getting there, we look through it. We lived in this exact same house before the move to North Carolina. But now, we're buying it. Before leaving, we painted everything a lovely, generic, flat white. We Rug Doctored the carpets. We left things nice.

P. Mama: (sniffing the air) "Did the house always smell like.. wet dog?"

Big Daddy: "Yes, we were used to it back then with both dogs here. It'll be fine - just Rug Doctor again and sprinkle some of that good smelling powder on the floors and vacuum it up."

P. Mama: "I think we're going to need new carpet, El'Cheapo."

Story Two: "I'd Like To Shove This Bush Up Your Ass"

A few days later, we were at The Shithole and decided to do yard work. The former owners must have missed their homeland in the Amazonian jungle because they planted every bush, shrub, flower, plant (fucking weed) known to man. Oh, except pot - which could have financed the remodeling if the fuckers would have had some courtesy towards future owners.

After one too many times of having to step into camoflage panties and shit kicker boots to get through the front door, I announced that all of it had to go.

P. Mama: (Sitting on the tailgate of Big Daddy's truck, happily swinging my legs, smoking a Marlboro while supervising him sawing down the rain forest.)

Big Daddy: (staring at me through the droplets of sweat dripping into his eyeballs) "You could come stand here, take the branches from me and put them in that pile so I wouldn't have to keep crawling out from underneath this lilac bush."

P. Mama: (takes a long drag from the Marb, tilts my face to the sun that adores me and exhales, making lovely plumes of grey-blue smoke then slowly sliding off the tailgate, I make my way over to him) "Do you have any gardening gloves?"

Big Daddy: "Yes, just under the tire iron - bring that to me too."

P. Mama: (That sounded like a threat. Cranky Bastard. Guess he doesn't have any gloves.)

Story Three: "John Deere Dead"

It was time to mow the lawn that hadn't seen a chopping in months. So, Big Daddy shows me how to run the riding lawn mower and says, just before I take off in 'Richard Petty speed':

"Don't try to mow the ditch. It's steep. I'll do that when you're done."

I'm having a good time mowing - because why? I can sit my fat ass on a machine that has a built in cup holder. That's why. And then I come to the ditch. I gawk around, trying to locate Big Daddy. I start pondering why I'm not supposed to mow the ditch. Was that a slanderous remark about my chubby?! Is he saying that my weight may tip the mower over?! Dickhead! I shall mow this ditch and show him!

So, up and down I go. Down the slope, swivel around, back up it. I was -almost- finished, he hadn't caught me, I was full of fat bitch pride when all of a sudden..

I was climbing the steep slope and the mower did a wheelie. I was the Evil Keneivel of riding lawn mowers. And allll of my weight suddenly shifted straight to my ass. It was going to flip over and crush me!

My life and the picture of my little, pudgy hands & feet sticking out from the underneath the John Deere death machine, on the front page of the local paper, flashed before my eyes.

Adrenalin shot through me and in a dismount worthy of perfect 10's at the Olympics - I spread my legs wide enough to clear the seat and launched backwards, landing on my flip-flops, neatly pivoting to the right in time to watch the lawn mower flip over twice and land wheel-up.

*le fuck* (Where is Big Daddy?)

Awww, there he is, sprinting towards me on his bum knee, terrified because he almost lost the love of his life in a horrific lawn mowing accident.

Big Daddy: "Didn't I tell you not to mow the ditch?! Shit, look at the lawn mower!"

P. Mama: Lawn mower?! LAWN. MOWER?? What about me?? Didn't you see that amazing jump off of it?? Have you ever seen a fat girl move that fast?? How about NO." (Fucker.)

Wednesday, June 17, 2009

My Connection Screws My Anus Slowly

Hey, y'all!

So, a few things here:

1.) I'm mad busy trying to remodel the house we're going to live in while maintaining the house we're currently living in. I think I inhaled enough paint fumes in the last week to make me a glow in the dark fat chick.

So, my posts have been less frequent with all this *gasp* work. Which leads me to number..

2.) I also live in the sticks now. The boonies. I have to slow down for (and scream profanities at) the Amish folks driving a horse a buggy. And I have... dial-up. (Curls into a fetal position and sobs.) Some of you may have never heard of dial-up connection to the internet. It's what we used back in the days when Bill Gates was selling MicroShit out of his basement.

Because of this slowwww connection, I have been unable to post comments to blogs. It takes forever to load the comment form and when I finally do get it up (I've had time for dinner, movie, sex (oral - not for him, for me - he's still being punished) and a shower while waiting to tell each of you how much you're lovered by moi. And then, I write a nice, long comment and half the time it doesn't post!

So, here is my fab idea! Get ready for it, honies!

Every Sunday night, I am going to write about my fave blog posts of the previous week! A shout out for all you wonderful bloggers that I have grown to love and adore. :)

So make me laugh or cry, or both - make me think, or want to try out your recipes - make me want to rent the movie you Siskel & Ebert'd on your blog, make me listen to a song you love and talked about, make me shake my fist with you at some fuckwit bohunk that stole your parking spot - any and all of it, and I'll shout out to you right here on my blog, every Sunday night!

Okay, I'm off for now to go pick 'semi-gloss white' boogers out of my nose before my kids stage an intervention over my apparent coke habit.


Wednesday, June 10, 2009

I Wonder If The Pilot Knows My Butt Is Puckered?

After Big Daddy had a mental shit re what time my flight left, it was time to finish breakfast and head to the airport. Once there, of course we had to walk completely through the airport to get to my ticket area. At the end. In the basement. BumfuckEgypt. Half way through the walk, he looks down at my cute little face and says, "You need to quit stressing."

Was this said in a compassionate, 'I know you're terrified of flying, my poor beloved' voice?

Hell no it was not.

It was said in his Clint Eastwood 'toughen up, you pussy' voice.

So, I canted my head up at him, arched a brow and responded, "Why do you think I'm stressing?"

Big Daddy: "Because you're breathing hard."

Phat Mama: "I'm stressing because I'm breathing hard?? It couldn't be because you had to park out in the back 40 and sprint through this motherfucker, Bruce Jenner? It couldn't be that one of your strides equals three of mine? It couldn't be that I have a big, luscious, spectacular ass (if I do say so myself, and I DO) in case you havn't noticed since the last time you wanted to mount up doggie and girls with big butts don't run anywhere.. it's against the fat ass religion. I'm not stressing, I'm waiting to have a McHeartAttack!"

Big Daddy: "Look, we're at your boarding gate and there's a bench. I'll sit with you until you quit stressing."

P. Mama: (Too bad tazers aren't allowed in airports.)

So, it was time for me to go, alone, back to the boarding area. With a kiss and a tight hug (choke), off I went. And there I sat, for two hours. Because.. I WAS EARLY. I talked to everyone that came and sat, waiting for our flight. I wanted to know who I was going to crash with. On a first name basis. So I could be polite when I screamed, "You go through the escape exit first, Bubba.. you're fatter than I am so you'll make a cushy landing for me."

And I was hoping, fingers crossed, that I didn't sit beside anyone with a baby. I didn't want to chance any of those irritating heroic feelings creeping up on me if it came down to me or the kid.

Finally, we were called to board the super huge jet that looked like big death on little wheels. And of course, someone in front of me has to stop and stow their carry on cow in the overhead.

And while waiting, I just happened to stop right in front of the open cabin door where the pilot stood greeting people. Mayhap he noticed my peering around him into the teeny place full of NASA instruments. Or maybe he noticed the look on my face that suggested full on anal-puckering. Either way, he asked how I was doing, to which I replied, "Terrified."

Pilot: "First time flying?"

P. Mama: "No, but it was years ago."

Pilot: (winks) "I promise to get you there safely."

P. Mama: "Was the winking to signify flirting or that safe is a big freakin' joke?"

Pilot: (laughs) "You're beautiful."

P. Mama: (blushes, possibly preens) "It's the chubby face - it makes me look younger. That's why I stay fat - wrinkles or chub, guess which wins my vain war?"

Pilot: (laughs) "Beautiful and funny. I like curvy women."

P. Mama: "So does my husband. He told me to shut up recently. Pilots make good money, right?"

And the line starts to move because Passenger 57 finally got his fucking heifer stowed away safely. So I start walking towards my seat. The pilot calls after me, "Where are you going?"

P. Mama: "Milwaukee."

Pilot: "What's your name?"

(By this time, everyone is watching the exchange - you know, all those people that I talked to so I knew who I was dying with.)

P. Mama: "Jody."

Pilot: "Well Jody pretty girl, I promise to get you safely to Atlanta."

I smiled and climbed into my seat, ass backwards, struggled for ten minutes with the seat belt that Paris Hilton couldn't fit into while looking over the shelf I call my boobs and finally settled, we prepare for take off.

Pilot: (over the intercom) "I'd like to welcome everyone today to Flight #6969 headed for Atlanta and a special welcome to Jody, whose going to Milwaukee and is nervous. It'll be just fine, Jody."

Humiliation. Head buried in the puke bag to hide from all the stares. Dear Almighty, why did I talk to these people? Anonymous carnage is really just fine.

P.S. If you get me there safely, God.. I'll quit smoking.

And then I looked to my left. At the woman sitting next to me with a precious baby boy on her lap.

Shitdamnfuck, I'm going to have to save the kid. I need a Marlboro.

Thursday, June 4, 2009

Phat Mama Goes Home - No More Kegels.

Recently, I had a choice to make.

Mountains or flying.

I've flown before but it was years ago and it's simply not my favorite thing to do. But the alternative was making my kajillion'th trip through both the Smokies & Appalachians. And I'm terrified of heights, traffic, interstates, take offs and landings.

*le fuck* Rock and a hard place.

The reason for this choice & the reason for my long time away from all you fab bloggers?

Our family has moved from North Carolina to back home - Illinois. I either climbed into the UHaul or a Jet - and the hugeness of both modes of transporting my phat ass did not escape my notice.

So which did I choose? Flying. And here's the story:

Big Daddy: (two weeks before departure) "What time are you flying out?"

P. Mama: "10:30 a.m."

Big Daddy: (one week before departure) "What time are you flying out?"

P. Mama: (Um, didn't he already asking this?) "10:30 a.m."

Big Daddy: (6 days before departure) "What time are you flying out?"

P. Mama: (Is 41 too young to have fucking Alzheimers?) "10:30 a.m."

Big Daddy: (4 days before departure) "What time are you flying out, again?"

P. Mama: (Damnit, he DID have a stroke that night at McShitty's when he told me to shut up!) "10:30 a.m."

Big Daddy: (2 days before departure) "So what time does your flight leave?"

P. Mama: (He's doing this to irritate me. He has to be. Sonofabitch.) "10:30 a.m. cripes!"

Big Daddy: (The night before I fly out.) "What time do you fly out in the morning?"

P. Mama: (I'm going to staple the fucking flight itinerary to his forehead.) "10:30 a.m."

Big Daddy: "Well, I'll wake you up at 5 a.m. to get ready."

So, I sat there thinking about his time schedule for a minute.

P. Mama: "If that's supposed to be a smartass remark about how long it takes me to lay flat on the bed, suck in my stomach, say a prayer and then use a pliers to zip my jeans.. it's really shiteous of you and I'm hoping you enjoyed the last BJ I gave you because not only do I feel a month long headache coming on but suddenly, my jaw hurts too - like lockjaw bad - and also, I'm not doing anymore Kegel exercises because I believe that having buff vagina muscles is profane when the rest of my body is a walking advertisement for Waffle House."

Big Daddy: "I wonder if Icy-Hot would work on a sore jaw."

P. Mama: "No."

So, the next morning he wakes me up at 5 a.m. I was so tired from not getting much sleep because of nerves, I didn't even fight it. Just showered, dressed (in lounge pants) and off we went. About half an hour from the airport, he stops at McDonald's for breakfast. We're sitting inside, eating breakfast (I advise the Steak, Egg & Cheese bagle) when he actually says to me:

Big Daddy: "What time does your flight leave?"

I am not even shitting y'all.

P. Mama: (I would stab him with this spork but the F'n thing would break.) "10:30 a.m."

Big Daddy: "Why did you tell me 9:30 a.m. then - you're going to be way too early."

P. Mama: (Dear baby Jesus, please stop me from jumping my fat ass across this table to choke him out - please help me to keep reminding myself that he's a good man that gives me his check every week - please press the Almighty Mute Button so that I don't spew obscenities that involve a lot of F-words at him - please help my jaw to quit hanging so this yummy McD's bagle quits falling out of my gaping mouth. All my love, Amen.)

So there ya have the first of many 'Phat Mama Goes Home' stories. I missed y'all and look forward to catching up on blogs and finishing this saga for everyone!

Friday, May 15, 2009

Big Daddy Breaking Bad

Big Daddy told me to shut up. SHUT. UP. Did the Fucker fall down & bump his head?!

Oh. By the way. *Caution* P. Mama is pissed, this post may contain excessive use of profanity.

Yes, the love of my life, the man that vowed to worship me like the GODDESS I am, told me to shut up, last night.

We were on my way home from work and stopped at McShitty's to get me a sweet tea. I was telling him all about this woman who was on Oprah for shooting her husband eleven times after suffering years of abuse.

And all of a sudden, out of the wild blue yonder, out of left field, out of his fucking ass, obviously, he thinks that telling me to 'shut up' is a good plan.

Big Daddy - *aggravated voice* "Shut up now & tell me what you want me to order for you."

My head whipped to the side, the look on my face priceless, I'm sure. The look that was a combination of shock and wtf. A look that clearly conveyed - Have you lost your F'N mind?! Did you just have a stroke?! Look at me, quick - is half your face drooping?? Nope, you still look like the dickhead that just told me to SHUT UP.

P. Mama - *cold, going to duct tape your balls in your sleep voice* "Sweet tea. I want tea. Thank you." (Motherfucker.)

So, then, while we're waiting to get the drink, he tries to continue with the Oprah conversation. Like he gives a shit. No.

I made grunting noises and gave monosyllabic answers. He needed to recognize my passive aggressive pissed off. Which he did. It took a minute (to see me flipping him the bird in the dark of the car) but he did. And this is what he said:

Big Daddy - "I'm sorry for telling you to shut up but I needed to know what you wanted and you would have just kept going on and on and on."

Is that his idea of an apology?? FAIL. FAILFAILFAIL!!

P. Mama - "I always get a sweet tea. Every night - just a sweet tea. Was I going to go buck ass wild tonight and order a Big Mac extra value meal, super sized, hold the pickles, extra onions, no lettuce, more tomato, extra salt on the fries so I can have back to back heart attacks because I know I just had the first one when this SOB told me to SHUT UP! oh and two cherry pies for a dollar, please??"

Big Daddy - Silence. (Smart.)

When I woke this morning, he was cuddling me close. I remained aloof. I'm waiting for him to bring me an entire gallon of sweet tea today. If he does, I shall once again think he's the most perfect man in the universe.

Thursday, May 14, 2009

One Ass Cheek Is Higher Than The Other

I woke late, yesterday morning and was frantically trying to get ready for work. Finally ready, I sprinted (lazily shuffled while picking out my eye boogers) into the living room, slammed my feet into flip-flops and headed for the door. It was then that I noticed one foot seemed.. wrong. But with a backpack (laptop) on my shoulder, a huge homeless woman purse on the other shoulder, I didn't bother to look down.

I thought to myself - I must have stepped on gum and it's making this flop feel wrong - and off I went!

Because I'm an incredibly nice caregiver (too lazy to cook), I stopped at the grocery store to pick up a rotisserie chicken & slaw for lunch. I started noticing that quite a few people were staring at my feet. How rude! And yet, even that didn't make me look down.

See y'all, I had both big toenails removed, years ago. Ingrown toenails are a hurty bitch. And while in surgery, they found bone curvature so whacked off about 1/4 an inch from each big toe. I've had years of people staring at my feet/toes. I barely notice this anymore. And yes, I am redneck enough to still wear flip-flops and sandals to show off the weird of my toes. Sometimes, I even have my daughter paint a little pink 'nail' on the skin to match the rest of my polished toes. :)

But back to the Flip-Flop Disaster of '09.

I started giving these staring people looks back. The -glare-. You know the one, Mama's. The glare you use on your breaking bad kids. The one that says - "If I have to pause my blogging & come up offa this chair, someone is gettin' an ass whoopin'."

Or the glare that says to the much prettier, sexier, thinner single woman checking out your husband for a bit too long - "I will cut you, hooker."

So, they're staring, I'm glaring and finally, I make my way to the check out. Where a teenaged boy is waiting to pay, too. A teenaged boy whose face looks like acupuncture gone wrong, he has so many piercings. His F'n earlobe is hanging lower than my boobs do because he has a spinner tire rim wedged into it.

And he is staring, fixated even, on my feet. I begin to have a heated, silent conversation with myself.

*this little shit wants to even glance at my poor, ugly toes and look disgusted?? This here was involuntary body modification, unlike that booger crusted tin skewered through your nose, heathen. Didn't his Mama teach him that staring is rude?? I should take my flip-flop off and smack him in the back of the head. Does this kid have a foot fetish, I wonder? I've heard about people like that..*

Finally unable to stand it a second longer, I hissed through clenched teeth, "WHAT are you staring at?!"

And he drawled, "Mayumm, you have two different flip-flops on."


A look down (finally) assured me that yes, I had one white, dressy flip flop with a wedge heel and one brown, everyday hillbilly on.

Here people.. was the reason why there was a hitch in my giddy-up. The reason why one of my ass cheeks was higher than the other. And WHY people were staring at my fucking feet!

I quickly hid my utter humiliation and leveled pierced boy with a snotty look before replying, "Obviously you didn't see the HUGE layout in Rolling Stone where Beyonce/Bono/Lil' Wayne/AND OPRAH were wearing their flip-flops just like this!

And then I stalked (gimped) off, leaving the chicken and slaw behind.

Monday, May 11, 2009

Chick Flick Epiphany

I was finally able to get a few hours off of work. Just enough that Big Daddy & I could make dinner for two, together. And then to watch a movie I have been -begging- him to watch with me, for months.

P.S. I Love You.

He's not much for chick flicks. Thus, the necessary begging. And a possible promise of my singing (and humming the instrumental sections) all 985,623 minutes of 'Stairway To Heaven' on his tool of menace.

*rubs chapstick onto her lips before continuing with this post*

He ended up really liking the movie. As do I. You know a movie is super good when tears burn your eyes like the smoke from a Marlboro, when your nose bubbles snot and your throat clogs with tears to the point that you suck a breath like a beached (whale) really cute, skinny fish.

Maybe that's why men don't want to watch them with us. -I have had an epiphany!- They know we will want some sweet lovin' when it's over and during the whole movie, they are looking over at us, tears, snot, hiccuped sobs, blotchy faces full of adoration as we slobber out how we love him just like Kate loves Leo.

Of course I would share the slab of ice floating in the frozen sea, Big Daddy! And when you (are shoved) fell off the side, just like you do our bed, because there's only room for Phat Mama, my 'heart might go on' but I would be inconsolable for a good while. At least until I got the insurance check from the dickheads that said Titanic couldn't sink.

Anyway. Yes, my epiphany is that men may not want to chick flick with their beloved woman because she is giving him lovestruck, teary 'fuck me' eyes while snot is rolling from her nose to her trembling lower lip.

So we were watching P.S. I Love You & I sat there thinking to myself - God, please let me go first (like in 40 years or so - no rush, really) because I could not bear to live without him. He is every best moment of my life.

*makes moo eyes at Big Daddy & snuffles up dripping snot - I'm in the mood, lets make out.*

Friday, May 8, 2009

All Dogs Go To Heaven

I was suprised yesterday with a couple of comments I got on the MeMe's post. I had mentioned one of the things I love is the velvet bag of my dog's ashes. I know that having your dog cremated is not sooo.. usual. Or at least I thought I knew that. Maybe I was wrong.

I've mentioned to people since it happened that we had her cremated & got the 'weird looks' from them, too.

But those comments got me to thinking. And thinking about that is not something I allow myself to do often. I've never lost anyone I love. The closest I came was watching Big Daddy go through the loss of his Dad. And when our son was critically ill for a very long time, having to come to grips with the possibility of losing him. But we didn't. God is good.

So when it came time to put our dog down - I was wrecked. Does that seem melodramatic? I don't know. I just know that I miss her still, every day.

What made her so special? She was my Dad's dog - he got her as a puppy from his neighbors. A wolf had gotten into the family pet's pen and bred their Chow Chow before they could run the wild animal off. And when our son was very ill, my Dad moved 2,000 miles to be with us, to help his only daughter through the worst time in her life.

The night he got to our house, this scary looking dog walked in with him, went to our son who was drugged on pain killers, sleeping on the couch. She sniffed him from his face to his toes and back up & then laid down next to the couch. She would not leave him from that point on - except to go to the bathroom & eat.

I believe, to this day, that she knew how ill he was & thought she was his Momma.

Over the years, he and I were here favorites. She loved Big Daddy & darling bitchy bitch - but it was obvious to everyone that the boy & I were everything to her. The adoration of us could be seen in her eyes and silly, loving smile as she looked at us.

The day we put her down because she was old, because she had cancer - my son & I took her in to the vet. I held her head to my chest while Colton slowly petted her back. And then in just one moment, she was gone.

I wrote about her, the night before we had her put down, and then a few days later. I'd like to share that now.

This was the blog post I did (elsewhere) the night before:

To preface this blog post, I will say that.. I'm going to sound like a crazy person. I know this, aware of it & I don't care. But for the animal lovers out there, I will sound completely sane.

I should be asleep right now. I have to wake up early in the morning, but I cannot sleep. Not yet.
In seven hours, I will be standing in the vet's office, with my son and the dog we both love so much. We will both hug her close, kiss her face, tell her how very loved she is while she is being put down.

She is a dog. A pet. Not human. But she is family.

She is unconditional love and dedication.

She is this huge puff ball of fur that keeps my toes warm when she curls at my feet. She is the licorice eater.

She is my protector at night when I'm afraid of the dark. She is the lick on the tip of my nose that says without words - I love you too.

She is my shadow, wherever I go. No matter how many times I move my fat ass, she never fails to wake up & follow.

She is the silly smile face & the wiggly one in the grass, scratching her back.

She is the one that sat with me for hours, days and months, watching over my son. She's the paw in my hand when I say.. Friends?

She cannot hug me but when I hug her, I feel better, no matter what's wrong.

She is my Katie, my grizzly bear, my baby. And I am heartbroken beyond words to say goodbye to her.

I'm 38 years old & I've never lost someone I love.

Until my dog.

Three days later, I tried to do a blog post about how I felt afterwards. I couldn't even type, I was sobbing so hard.

So while I have cried during this post, it's not as bad as then. Maybe I finally am getting to that place where I can remember her without it hurting my heart so very much.

Thank y'all for taking the time to read this while I shared a few moments with her.

Thursday, May 7, 2009

MeMe - zelzee & GI.

Good Morning, y'all. :)

zelzee tagged me and so did GI, with MeMe's. *smooch* to both of you. Here are the answers:

7 Things I Love:

1. The baby blue blanket that a woman knitted for me when I was young.
2. The collection of books I've been saving since childhood.
3. Sheets that have been hung out on the line to dry. They smell sooo good.
4. Flip-flops.
5. Watching movies with Big Daddy & the kids.
6. The soft, velvet bag that holds my beloved dog's ashes.
7. My computer.

The seven things that I think make me Awesummm:

1) I can streak my daughters hair better than any salon could.
2) I'm an amazing cook.
3) I'm a pretty decent writer.
4) I'm a great dancer & could do the 'tootsie roll' like nobodies business!
5) I'm a music trivia goddess.
6) I once rented a movie to Mike Tyson & didn't get a body part bitten off.
7) This is hard. I just asked my daughter what was awesummm about me and she replied, "Everything." :)

Wednesday, May 6, 2009

Dearly Beloved, Blame Pru.

*Caution: The following story is stinky. Read at your own risk.

Dearly Beloved, we are gathered here today..

To tell a shiteous story that Prunella reminded me of, a couple of weeks back with a post she did.

You don't know Pru? Oh, for shame! She is awesome, hysterical and terminally fucking sexy. You must go to her site and follow along. Trust me, you must!

So, a couple of weeks ago, Pretty Pru did a post about what happens when you eat the wrong mix of foods and then have to go to the Booby Barn to strip for a livin'. It is one of the top five funniest posts that I've ever read. Go look through her archives for it - so worth the time!

I left a comment at the time telling her that someday soon, I would do a similar post and lay the credit at her feet, homage to the most fantastic girl on blogger! (Though she is tied with GI & Vodka Mom.)

Now where was I? Oh, the shiteous story.

Once upon a time,

(Do you like how I'm mixing the first line of the wedding ceremony with the first line of a fairy tale in this post?)

There was a very well hung man that P. Mama had the good sense to marry.

Ohhh, how she loved him. He was tall and strong, smart and funny, he worked hard to give her money for (clothes, shoes, purses, electronics) bills and food. He was so good looking he took her breath away and he was very (orally gifted) good at visiting Brazil. Daily. Frequent flier miles like a mofo.

Years went by and P. Mama felt very blessed. She never regretted saying, 'I Do' to the man of her dreams.

Until one awful day. One day that was to be the tornado, the famine, the blight, the natural disaster, visited upon her marriage.

On this day, she was sitting at her desk, chatting happily with online (perverts) friends when Big Daddy walked in. And walked right past her. Actually, sprinted right past her like the bill collectors were hot on his heels.

*stops here for a second to show off her loverly Coach bag*

Now Big Daddy had a schedule upon getting home to his castle. And it was always to show the love to his Queen, first. About 30 minutes later, Phat Mama looked away from the computer long enough to realize that Big Daddy had not given her kisses on her face. He had not shown proper adoration, at all! It was then that she vaguely recalled his crazed sprint towards the back of the house.

Just as she was wondering if he were okay, she heard the most horrific scream. High pitched and much like a girl, her Man of Steel was screaming her name!

She jumped up and followed the sound to the bathroom and there, she stopped, frozen, her hand on the doorknob, not yet twisting, eyes big and round, filled with fear at what she might find.

Had he fallen in the shower and cracked his skull open?

Had he cut himself while shaving his pork & beans??

With monumental effort, she jerked on the knob and THREW open the door, prepared to save the man she loved!

Big Daddy had come down with the flu. And he was spinning in circles (picture Exorcist, please) unable to decide if his ass or his head should be in the toilet. At the moment, still spinning with indecision, he was repainting the bathroom with a mixture of hot doody and projectiled chalupa.

And in return for her bravery, her devotion.. Phat Mama was sprayed with a tsunami of shit.

Never one to give in, in the face of adversity, she dripped her way over to the miserable man, got them both into a shower and then him to bed. (After demanding he sleep on a Hefty trash bag.)

She mixed a cocktail (Xanax & zinfandel in a box) and once suitably fucked up enough to get through what was coming, she scrubbed the bathroom from floor to ceiling with bleach and the yard hose. And she *may* have called Big Daddy some names.

Like.. sonofabitchmotherfuckerdickheadwhydidimarrytheAK-47ofassholes. But she was drunk so she doesn't really remember.

Only later was he able to tell her that he started ass on the can and when the overpowering urge to vomit came upon him, he didn't know what to do so spun around to use the toilet he was just seated on. She asked him why he didn't just lean over a wee bit and use the bathtub?

His Einstein response? "Do you know what chunks of food do to a drain? I didn't want to have to fix that!"


Tuesday, May 5, 2009

Orange, Hairy, Arrested - Tool.

Dear Hugh,

I have been in (whorish lust) love with you ever since I watched the movie, "Something About You" with Ashley Judd. The moment I saw you in those boxer briefs, I knew we were meant to be, Hugh. Your smartass humor in the film and obvious intelligence only sweetened the deal your (huge package) smile promised me. And only me.

However, I must write to express a concern. I watched you on Oprah Live, last Friday & noticed something startling, Hugh. You glowed. Like a pumpkin on Halloween. You were orange, Hugh. The picture I've included doesn't really show just -how- orange, but I wanted to call you my sweet potata.

Wolverine cannot be orange, Hugh. You are naked and almost full monty in the film, or so I hear. You need to be a color not found in a box of Crayola. Please quit taking the dickhole advice of your minions when they tell you that a spray tan is where it's at. Tell them that you're the sexiest man alive and to shut their man pleaser, Hugh. For the sake of my happiness & because it will be stipulated in the prenup, I must insist you always look like this:

P.S. You can keep the Wolverine facial hair - I like a lil tickle on my thighs.

All my love,

Your future alimony payment

Dear Kid,

You're not really that handsome. It's just that you're so naughty. So delightfully filthy. Shamelessly trailer trash. You look like the best all night ride at the rodeo. Yeehaw, giddy-up Mr. Cock!!

But please quit getting arrested at Waffle House, Kid. Your mug shots are taking the big poo on my pornofantasies.


P. Mama, Yo.

Dear Viggo,

I confess to not loving you enough to watch that flop trilogy you did with the hobbits. However, you deserve an award (Oscar) for having the 'balls' to do this film not only completely naked but.. limp. You're a star, Viggo. You could have demanded a fluffer. You could have also demanded someone (dreadlock) trim that Amazon bush down yonder.

P.S. Call me when you've got that (weed whacked) managed.


Loved your Dom/Sadistic self in G.I. Jane.

Sunday, May 3, 2009

Trailer Trash Crib

I was perusing blogs this morning and came upon one that featured pictures of blogger's who had created the 'dream' nursery for their babies. Chandeliers, silk drapes, four inch pile white carpet.

The problem is that I instantly felt inferior as I looked at those -GORGEOUS- pictures. Why inferior? Because I was transported back 20 years to my own kid's nurseries.

No antique rocker passed down from kin that rowed over on the Mayflower.

I wedged my fat ass onto the seat of the plastic horse, held on to the handle sticking out the side of its head, planted the baby on a knee, clamped my lips together to hold the Marlboro tight and we took off at a gallop!

*Caution: These suckers are spring loaded. If you have a big ass and rock too fast, you -will- do a header over the handlebars and crush your ciggie between your face and the floor.

And those custom painted cribs?! Hand made stencils, carefully cut out, swirls of baby-safe paint mixed on a palette with mink-hair brushes.

I totally missed the Mama Picasso classes held next door to the Lamaze classes I didn't give a shit about. "Uhh yeah.. I'ma big girl, I've been doing that 'hoo hoo hee' breathing for a while now, thanks. Like on my once a year jog. Now quit trying to hand me more natural child birth literature, crazy bitch. I'm all for the Morphine/Quaalude/Xanax/Jack Daniels cocktail to get through this vajayjay nightmare."

But back to nurseries!

When my daughter was a baby, I bought a crib at a garage sale, hitched her to my hip and spray painted it & her hair a lovely shade of Pepto-pink. Then I stuck some Scratch & Sniff stickers all over it (not only pretty but fun too!) and called it a day.

And keeping with the 'I turned into an artist the moment I was inseminated' theme of these nurseries - trees painted on the walls? Really? Done in silvers and taupes, dreamy abstracts of a tree.. what the fuck, Monet! You're making those -other- Moms feel inferior. You know.. The ones that consider their toddler's room a beautiful place when they keep the finger-painted doody off the walls.

Nicely organized changing tables? Everything in those cute little wicker baskets? How about somewhere to put my bottle of wine when I had to dig around in the twenty baskets of unfolded clothes for a onesie and a matching sock? My 'elegant' contribution to the nursery? Strawberry Hill - $2.99 a bottle, stuck in the cup holder screwed into the ass end of the rocking horse.

Thursday, April 30, 2009

Inspired By Zibbs

So days go by, even weeks, and I cannot think of a single thing to blog about. And then 5 billion ideas come rushing into my head, screaming, "Write this, talk about that!" Piss me off.

I don't like to write more than one post a day even when I'm chock full of those ideas because I am a needy comment whore. I love people commenting on my posts. It makes me feel loved, wanted (not always in a sexual way but yeah, sometimes) and worthy. So make sure y'all read the post prior to this one and comment lots there too!


Every night, I come home from work and make myself a salad. (It goes well with the serving platter of pasta.) I sit down, eat, sip of my sweet tea and read blogs. Tonight, Zibbs has inspired me with his fart video.

I try not to talk about ass so much even though it is the source of many a funny moment and blog worthy. Tonight, in this long fucking post, Phat Mama is going to tell a story. If it makes you need to 'yak', I suggest you do so on Hot Zibbs. It's all his fault.

I am a creature of habit. I like things my way or no way and this includes how I position myself to sleep, each night. I must have almost the entire bed - not because I have a fat ass but because I'm a (beautiful Queen) selfish bitch. I sprawl out on my side, wrap an arm around Big Daddy who is holding onto the mattress for dear life, and tuck my face between his shoulder blades.

This position makes it look like I'm hiding behind him. Which I am. Because if anyone wants to break in and rob all of our money (change jar), they need to shoot him first, please. (While this may seem awful of me, no.. it is not. I know he couldn't live without me so I'm saving him the trauma of that.)

*Side note: I've spent 18 years trying to fatten the skinny bastard up so that the bullet won't reach me too.

One night, I go to bed, get into my sleeping position and drift off to dream that Sean Connery is in love with me. (Okay, Sean was screwing me - Fuck Harlequin.) I wake up, hours later, gagging. Retching. My mouth salivating as mouths do when they're preparing to lube up for a volcanic vomit.

My tongue was lurching around in my mouth, sticking to the roof, trying to hide against my tonsils and it was then that I noticed the awful stench clinging to me. To my face, specifically. In my mouth. The worst bad breath ever. It was like I ate ass.

Just then, as I was still half asleep, trying to figure out why I wasn't smelling burnt toast instead of ripe asshole, if I were stroking out - Big Daddy lets rip again. Not loud. Nono, just that slow, whispering whizzz of air. Making its way up between our spooned bodies, his back and my tummy, over my stellar rack, straight into my gaping, drooling piehole.

I had eaten a fart. Actually, two of them.

Retching more furiously, I leapt out of bed and into the bathroom, squirted half a bottle of toothpaste into my mouth, rammed the toothbrush in and went crazy getting the taste and smell of deuce out.

Minty fresh but still gagging now and then, I went back to bed, gave him my back and fell asleep, dreaming of revenge.

The next morning, I made sure to tell him what he had done. After laughing, he apologized.

Mmhm, funny fucker, we'll see.

What was my perfect revenge, you ask? I'll blog about it soon, promise. Let me just say, for now, that he'll never ask me to shave his balls again. :)

(And if you read the prior post, you now know why this is the -secret- blog.)

The Secret Blog

Today is going to be a longer post, one that took a lot of thought to write and one of a serious (blogging) nature so everyone grab a glass of sweet tea (Jack Daniels) and settle in at Casa de Phat Mama.

I first started blogging months ago, on my Myspace page. Funny little stories, updates on how we were doing, etc. - mostly meant for friends and family in real life. And then a chat friend of mine, Nyx, gave me the URL to her blog here on Blogger.

An idea was born. Two seperate blogs! One for real life people and one for all the friends I've made while chatting over the years. This new blog would be the place I could let it all hang out, every bitchy, sexy, lewd, sassy and insecure bit of me, splashed across the blank page. A secret, private blog - ohh how delicious!

But over time, it became tiresome. Keeping up with two blogs, feeling like a split-personality, wondering why I had to hide certain aspects of myself with people in my real life. Wondering if my online friends actually knew me better than the people I surrounded myself with, did.

A blog is supposed to be our journal, a diary - our little corner of this infinite online world, where we can express anything we choose. Any thought, opinion, emotion, moment of our lives. With complete freedom from judgement and inhibition.

But what I've learned is:

Real life is the place where people who actually see me, can touch me(kick my ass) are at. They are the people that I may have to answer to. These are the people that because they are 'real life' - I have to edit myself with, verbally and textually, as their opinions can and possibly will affect my day to day life.

My children - Those two beloved spawn that could break my heart if they ever read something on my blog and looked at me with disappointment in their eyes.

My husband - Who I joke about, I may poke fun of, but always suffuse it with so much love because I couldn't bear to hurt him if I crossed some line, he read it and didn't know it was just a funny and he will always be my rockstar.

My parents - Who I never want to know that their daughter is a bit of a kinky freak. One that says the 'Fuck' word too often and with wayyy too much flava!

My siblings & In Laws - Who piss me off on an almost daily basis and I must rant here on my private blog, to get by each day without choking them or beating them down with the turkey leg at Thanksgiving.

My boss - That person who pays me and thus, I can only tell the truth about having a hangover from the glass of wine and calling out sick with the (entire F'n bottle) flu, here on my secret blog.

Just recently, my favorite blogger - Vodka Mom - shut down her blog for a few days. It was obvious that something had happened, something that had made her question herself. I wondered if it had to do with her blog and now, it seems so.

I read the comments on her last post, I read other people's blog posts at that time, crushed over her leaving. This woman has made such an impact with her blog that her leaving caused a sad ripple effect across the medium.

I wanted to reach out and say to her - Your blog is like you opening your front door and inviting all of us to share a cup of coffee (martini) with you each morning, when we click on it. It makes us smile, laugh, relate, feel not alone in the insanity of life, in short, it touches us. Please don't turn away, no matter what happened, we'll miss you.

But what if she had that happen - that moment where our personal blog becomes the issue. That something said here in our little corner of the world is turned sideways and judged. Taken out of context. Or just found.. wrong.

Each of us has to decide how much to share of ourselves and with whom. Sometimes, that decision is pretty damned difficult because it comes down to this: Is this -my- space to be free or not?

There is a saying by Marshall McLuhan - "Publication is a self-invasion of privacy."

That is so very true. Each time we click publish post, we have allowed others in. We hope they tread lightly. We hope they understand that.. We just want to have others laugh with us - we just want someone to relate - we just want to not feel alone in this vastness of space - we just want to have someone cheer us on - we just want to cheer them on in return - we don't want to hurt anyone, we just want to share our moments.

Friday, April 24, 2009

And It's Not Even Mothers Day

Good Morning, y'all!

Forgive me for not posting in over a week. It's been hectic at Casa de Phat Mama. Alas, not much funny has been happening.

But in the last two nights, something has happened that I had to write about.

Our son, rebel boy, has moved back home. That happened about a month ago. To give a little history - We moved to North Carolina, for the second time, in October of last year. Colt didn't want to move so after a month here with us, chose to move back to where our families & his girlfriend live, in Illinois & Wisconsin.

(Yes, I'm fully aware that the girlfriend was the -real- reason, family be damned!)

Allowing him to leave us at 17 was devastating. But we knew it was the best choice. There were lessons for him to learn that only going would teach him. Another aspect of it being so hard for us was that he was ill for a very long time and will have issues for the rest of his life.

He finally returned to us after six months.

Last night, he and I were talking & he said to me: "We make fun of you and Dad a lot, but honestly, the love you two have is what I dream of, with my wife, when I get married. You two are really awesome, just to watch, because the love is actually visible in a million ways."
I could have cried.

Tonight, after work, I took him to Waffle House. (Yes, we are rednecks.) And on the way home, somehow death was brought up. I told him that after caring for elderly people, I didn't really think I wanted to live to a very old age.

He replied, "I think I would just die if I lost you. Not unless I'm married to a woman I love so much, someone a lot like you.. then I could maybe get through it. Yanno Mama, when men are looking for the girl they want to marry, they look for someone as great as their Mom, if they have a good one.. and I'm lucky, I have the best Mom. I just can't stand the thought, to even think about you dying. Sometimes I wish you were a really shitty Mom, like yours.. so it wouldn't be such a big deal."

I could only laugh and blink back the tears - realizing that my rebel child is finally growing up. That the day I wished for has come, my son telling me that I did it right.

Wednesday, April 15, 2009

I'm Not Sorry I Gagged

A text message woke me bright & early (noon), three days ago and this is what it said: "U hav until 2day 2 pay ur bill trailer trash or we will bingo ur celly." I stumbled out of bed, pulled clothes on over my nightie, jammed feet into flip-flops and dashed to the local 'Turn your change into dollars' machine.

I tried once (five times) to shove the extra large lint ball through while muttering, "Cummon, let me cheat, that's as big a nickle, you asshole."

Then I drove to my federal bailout institution and deposited the money/lint ball.

I called the phone company & pressed '1' for some anal penetration, then '8' for the circle jerk (we sang Kum Bah Yah), then '3' to give them a BJ and because I didn't swallow, I was told to press '8' to go back to the main menu and start over.

After humping Sprint's collective ass to beg forgiveness for the error of my late paying ways, they deigned to put a real, live, breathing customer service rep on the phone so that I could be berated and robbed in person.

I apologized for my hair-trigger gag reflex, paid the bill and hung up after thanking them profusely for the anal penetration.

Today, I logged into my bank account and see that this payment is still pending. Three days later. PENDING.

"We will disconnect your phone if you do not pay today." Fucking liars. I know they just wanted to see how fast the fat ass could get to the bank. I should have pressed '3' and bitten their dick off.

Tuesday, April 14, 2009

You Know You Want It

I have a 15 minute drive home from work, each night. It's always eventful. Here is my textual & pictorial explanation of tonights excursion:

First stop sign: I wait behind another car so that I can turn while wondering wtf is taking so long. I honk the horn. I see the driver do an irritated 'talk to the hand' movement. Knowing sign language too, I raise my middle finger, obvious sign language for 'I'm number one'. I then bother to look to the left and notice the oncoming semi-truck.

Oh. Umm yeah, don't try to shoot the gap for me, Grandma.

As I leave town, I notice the license plates on the car in front of me.

I think (talk) to myself: Does that hooker realize that license plates are forever? Unless you want to pony up $125.00 or your first born, you keep those mofo's until you die. What happens when Krissy leaves Asshole? Hm? She may as well have gotten his name tattoo'd on her butt cheeks, it would have been cheaper. I hope her next boyfriends name starts with an 'A' too. Dumbass.

As I was turning the corner onto my road, I had to dodge the piece of mobile home siding. Can someone please get out of their fucking vehicle and clean up after themselves? Jim Bo? Bubba? Anyone?

Finally, I get to my house. I was (tail-gating) following a minivan. Apparently, Soccer Mom's Mapquest took a huge shit at that exact moment because she whips a U-turn in my drive-way.

This is what I looked like:

I say a little prayer to JC (remember, he's not a cuss word, people) for getting me home safely & dash into my house. Make my way to our bedroom. Crawl in bed. Possibly horny. (It happens twice a year wether I want it to or not.) And upon this happening, I remember that Big Daddy worked 13 hours today.

The end.

Satan Loves My Ass.

So last night, darling bitchy bitch's friend came over. Jen, 20, pretty. And rebel boy scurried through our bedroom to the master bath to have a quick shower , change into his best 'boxer showing' jeans and 'I'm A Pimp' tshirt.

As he was mad dashing back through our room, leaving a cloud of cologne & teenaged testosterone behind, I thoughtfully watched his departure and wondered if I would be a bad Mom, throwing condoms at him.

Also, while I'm discussing the most (humiliating) every day happenings at Casa de Phat Mama..

I have IBS. Do y'all know what that is? Does anyone have it? (If so, please leave a comment so I don't feel so alone, and so everyone else knows your ass hurts.) It's Irritable Bowel Syndrome. Now before everyone shuts this window, here's a funny mixed with a health lesson:

When one (me) has IBS, they may eat a (1/2 a pan of lasagna) salad and also consume (3 bottles) a glass of wine and be fine. The next day, they might eat (the other half pan of lasagna) an apple.. and not be fine. Today is one of those not fine days. I'm reading all of your blogs from my throne (princess waves) and I daresay, it feels like Satan himself is giving me a rim job, my ring piece is burning so terribly.

The health lesson is this: Don't eat an entire lasagna (a salad, damnit!) and (3 bottles) a glass of wine or your ass will mount a full on revolt.

The overall lesson of the day is: Having to consider which size condoms to buy for your son so your fabulous 38 year old self isn't a Grandma too soon.. not priceless. At all. It will give you the shits too.

Monday, April 13, 2009


It's been 28 days straight at work. I'm tired & I am chronically lazy, thus I share an old journal post. It is the beginning of a story. Over time, I will tell it to completion. It's not funny, not even a little bit. But sometimes, that's okay too.


Tuesday, December 30th, 2003

I was watching "The Horse Whisperer" tonight. I had been wanting to see it for a long time but had never gotten around to it. When the movie begins, there is a scene after the girls accident, when she is laying in the hospital, her leg partially amputated. The girls Mother is ordering the Nurse's around. You can tell that she is about to lose control and hanging on by a very thin thread.

John looked at me and said that the Mother in the movie reminded him of me, when Colton was sick and in the hospital. Right at that moment, I had an epiphany. I realized with utter clarity that when a Mother is faced with her child being sick or injured, in pain, they simply cannot begin to handle their own lack of control over it.

It's not something they sort through in that moment. It's not something they understand themselves. They don't rationalize what their own brain is doing to compensate for not being able to make their child well or pain free.

What happens is that without thinking, they grasp at every small thing they can control. The childs medication needs. A drink of water. Checking to make sure the I.V. is still dripping. Asking the Nurse and Doctor a hundred questions. Tucking blankets and fluffing pillows.

There are a million things that a Mother will do to keep herself believing that she has control of the situation. To cacoon herself from the horror of watching their child go through some hellish illness or injury and not being able to take their place.

As I was having this epiphany, Kendall's friend says, "If I were that Momma, I'd be crying so hard." I only responded with, "You would be surprised, Sunny. It's actually quite rare that you cry in those first moments."

And it is. Rare. I think at times that people ask themselves what they would do in this situation or that one. How would I react? It's natural to give themselves worst case scenarios and plan out reactions to them, all in the name of being prepared in case the situation were ever to happen.

We feel safer when we do that. Like by thinking about it, planning for it, we can somehow anesthize ourselves to the pain we know would come along with the situation.

I relate it to terminal cancer. I've often thought that to lose someone to cancer, although emotionally and mentally draining, would be easier than losing them in an abrupt way, like a car accident. You have time within a terminal illness to grieve preemenintly. You have time to think about life without that person. You have time to say goodbye.

The reality of it is that there is no preparing for a childs illness or injury. You can assume and suppose every possible thing that could happen at some unknown date in the distant future. You can soothe yourself with thinking you would know how you would deal with it. You won't. You can't.

Life does not come with a crystal ball and if it did, would you really have the nerve to take a long look into it? What I can share with you is this: Everyone is different. How they handle tough situations, what emotions they can mute and what one's will refuse to be silenced. You will only have the answers if or when it happens to you.

In the first moments of a child's critical illness or injury, you may hear a whooshing noise that turns into thunderous cacophony. You fidget, wipe sweaty palms over your jeans. You may tug at your hair, fingers raking through the strands until they are as knotted as your stomach. You could pace back and forth, unable to remain in one place for long.

Biting your lips and blinking back tears, you fight for each and every breath. You long to clap your hands over your ears, just as you did as a child, blocking out the words that make a dream turn into a nightmare. You argue. You demand more tests be done. You may swear and rage and finally, slump into a chair, weak from the emotion and thoughts battling for supremacy.

And then.. your brain usually goes into a state of shock. It numbs you to the devastation. The confusion, pain and sadness. You can feel a sense of icy control. Everything inside of you stills until you can hear the steady beat of your own heart. One thought congeals and it is, "What can I do to make this better?"

Therein lies the need for control over what is controllable. The need to fill each moment with the mundane, the quest for answers so that you are not forced to realize that the life you brought into this world can be taken back.

Wednesday, April 8, 2009


Yesterday, I did a post about love. Thank y'all for your comments - they inspired me! Today though, we're going to have a peek into another facet of a long-term marriage. The sex! This will be some of my funniest blog material so it will be a recurring theme, folks. (Which he will never know about, of course.)

The following is a conversation that happened between myself and JBaby, last night.

This mojo music was playing. In his mind only.

Phat Mama: *cuddles in bed with him, a drawn out sigh of bliss to stretch out after a long day. Studmuffin may have taken it as a moan of pleasure at his mere presence.* "I'm soo tired. This is my 22nd day in a row at work & I need a day off, badly. I'm bone-deep tired, Baby."

JBaby: "Take your shirt off."

Phat Mama: (Mental Response - Mofo, do you have your selective hearing aide in again? Because I know I just said I was exhausted.)

*Okay all you newlyweds, we're going to take a break from the big happenings in my bedroom last night, for this next part. Pay attention. This right here is some really good advice (possibly me talking out of my ass) that you will not see in 'Men Are From Mars But Want In Uranus'.

Your words - I'm too tired.
His translaterion - To give a BJ?

Your words - I have a headache.
His translation - The area between your tits and ass feels okay though, right?

Your words - My jaw hurts.
His translation - Is the Anbesol still in the kids' room? Just numb it up, Baby. Maybe it'll work on your gag reflex too!

Your words - I'm having cramps.
His translation - Let me give you a massage from the inside out.

Okay, so back to me now! I'm stretched out, exhausted and he tells me to take my shirt off. There, caught up.

Being the good wife I am, even whilst calling him names (horndog) silently, I take off my shirt.

JBaby: *blinks, confused* "Ummm, okay, take your nightgown off too."

*I had to run to Wal-Mart earlier and here in the south, we just pull our shirt and pants on over our nightie, k?

Phat Mama: *Taking off the nightie* (Mental Response - if his love pickle is getting happy right now, I'm going to be so pissed. Maybe I can hunch forward and make my boobs look saggy so he doesn't want any of this tonight. Can't he see I'm tired!? Blind fucker.)

JBaby: *pats the bed* "Lay here, on your belly."

Phat Mama: *mutters & rolls over* (Mental Response - I wonder if he'll notice the little nap I take as long as I'm face down, ass up.)

And then.. he gave me a back massage!

Phat Mama: *lots of purr purr noises* (Mental Response - Oh please, don't let him not have an ulterior motive.

JBaby: *Slowly and connivingly moves his hand towards my boob*

Phat Mama: (Mental Response - Damnit, I didn't make them look saggy enough. Now he's going to prod me with his tool of menace.)

Tuesday, April 7, 2009

A Different Kind of Thang

I'm going to a different kind of post today & I hope y'all don't read it and think - Holy Crap, Phat Mama just went Hallmark on us!

I love to write - it's my meditation, my time just for me, it's even therapeutic. I write poetry, short stories, letters to those I love and really, just whatever I'm thinking and feeling in that moment or that time in my life.

My dream is to someday be published but 1. I'm too much a wussy to try & be rejected. 2. I'm too lazy to actually send anything off. 3. I read a lot & can see true talent - I'm not it! lol

So now and then, here on my blog, I'm going to share some of that writing. I hope y'all enjoy it or can even relate in some way. If not.. pretend you do & leave comments saying, "Wow, P Mama, you are amazing!" That way, I can happily scarf down my Cheez-Its and princess wave to y'all.

"Missing You"

Everything will be obscure and off balance until you return to me. What was important is meaningless. My eyes glaze over from watching this screen. I'd rather close my eyes and see your laughing face reflected from memory. I keep sniffing the air but your scent left with you. I dread our bed because it's cold, lonely and to big. Is it pathetic that I bury my face in your pillow to catch that last tantalizing whiff of lingering cologne?

I roam around this house, lost. You would swear it's a fifty room mansion the way I lose myself from room to room. I think I'm looking for you on some base level of my being. I watch the door, the sundown is mesmerizing thru the panes of glass. I would give up a weeks worth of sundowns to see you walk through it. Missing you is always hardest at this hour, when your arms would reach for me in sleep, tug me close until I fit in your embrace like I was created to be there.

Don't you know that you own my soul, my heart, my every memory? Yes, I think you do know. Maybe that's why you reach out to touch me at every oppurtunity. Fate can be cruel but sometimes it brings two lives together to form one. Every song that I listen to tries to describe love. There are no words, not those and not these I write tonight.

A lifetime of little moments that would never fit into any scrapbook. I wish I could write our love story but those words wouldn't be good enough either. How do we tell our children, how do we share with them this incredible history, the fragments of life and emotion?

How can I show them the completeness of their parents? I want to do that, you know. I want them to see it all and take it with them, long after we are gone. Love like ours is rare in this chaotic reality. To stand the test of time, to walk through each tragedy and triumph, hand in hand, is a little piece of miracle.

How is it possible to fall in love with the same person with each new dawn? How can I sit here with you so far away and feel tears of loneliness and blissful love slide down my cheeks? When I leave this plane of existence where eveything and everyone is less than perfect, where I cry and laugh and live with my imperfection.. if I leave it tomorrow, I just want to know that I loved you best. I just want to know that you felt it this deep.

Maybe these words are coming from that lonely place that will only be full again when you come home. Maybe it's dramatic, emotional. And maybe, someday our kids will go through some papers in an old box and find this and know the completeness of their parents and take it with them, long after we are gone.

Saturday, April 4, 2009

Hot Southern Kittay.

As a born & bred yankee, transplanted in the south, I've come to learn all kinds of things. Some of them have been mentioned on an older blog post. These are 'new' lessons:

1. Don't ever talk shit about Lynyrd Skynyrd. It's much like burning the flag. 'Sweet Home Alabama' is THE anthem in these parts. I learned this recently while simply mentioning that while watching a concert video of this song, I was squicked by how many men were in their underwear at said concert.

The Suth'ner that I was speaking to about this ugliness spit his chew within inches of my flip-flop and just stared at me.

2. You can get flip-flops for a buck at the 'Everything's A Dollar' store. These are the shoes of choice. For your church socials at Southern Baptist, have some class! Spend $5 for a nicer sandal (a big fake rose on the toe & some rhinestones) at Wal-Mart.

3. Flip-flops also make good child beaters - they don't leave marks and can fly in a boomerang fashion to knock naughty child down when thrown with appropriate skill and wrist action. I learned this from the Minister at the Southern Baptist ice cream social.

4. When people say, "Quit being ugly!" to their children, they do not actually mean - Man, this kid belongs on the set of Deliverance. They are simply telling their child that if they don't stop doing what they're doing, they are going to be beaten with the flip-flop.

5. An acceptable method of greeting one another down here is by passing the lit joint.

6. Do not offend your new neighbor when he passes you the lit joint over top his razor fence by saying, "Oh, not thank you, I don't do drugs. I belong to D.A.R.E!" This will get you chew juice spit into your eye and a flip-flop up your ass.

7. The correct way to decline illegal drugs is to mention the upcoming piss test mandatory with probation after a doing a nickel in the state pen for assault & battery. (Flex muscles while making this statement. Having a rebel flag tattoo'd on your bicep produces best results.)

8. Never, ever, ever make a joke to Jim Bob about how the north won the war so you don't understand why he's still flying a rebel flag in front of his trailer. This will get you hung from a tree. A hog will be roasting, they will have their hands over their hearts, singing 'Sweet Home Alabama', the whole trailer park will turn out for your (lynching) party.

9. 'Texas Pete', the hot sauce, goes on everything. Wings, grits, greens - everything. I'm almost sure redneck men sprinkle a bit on the va-jay-jay before eating southern kittay.

More.. as I learn the culture!

Friday, April 3, 2009

Tits Up.

Another riveting glimpse into my life/morning:

As mentioned in prior blog posts, I take care of an 89 year old, ex-Navy vet. I am his Nurse. I am a professional. And last night, I had to take the over night shift. Here's where it turns terribly wrong.

Having not had dinner, I took some McD's to work with me. I scarfed it down whilst watching Walker, Texas Ranger with him. (I'd like to kick Chuck Norris's ass, just to show him that Phat Mama's don't play, bitch.)

Sam went to bed & shortly thereafter, I went to the 'Nurse's bedroom' because I was so tired from the night before. (Read previous blog post.)

I woke up, every hour on the hour, feeling awful, sweating until my hair was soaked. (I know I'm F'n sexy, people!)

And sometime during the night, in a half-asleep, sickly haze, I forgot that I wasn't at home, in bed with my beloved Fuckmuffin and took off my tshirt. I was hot! Like I woke up in Hell & Satan was breathing on me, Hot.

I woke up for the last time, one minute before my shift was over. I heard noises from other areas of the house. Sam was awake, brushing his teeth. The morning nurse was already there. And horror, the cat had been let out of her room - right next to mine - and my bedroom door was wide open, just like I left it!

I had an entire minute of wondering.. Did Sam see me sleeping tits up? (Can 89 year olds get wood?)

(No pictures, sorry, Maelstrom! - Check out his blog today, people - too damn funny! It's on my sidebar as - Nothing To See Here, Move Along.)

To add to the never ending craptafic that is my life, I'm trying to decide wether I should go in for my next shift today or go to the E.R.

I have a sixth sense at self-diagnosis. (Another of my many talents.) So if I choose the E.R. option, I'll have to say things like:

"The 25 pound bag of McD's that I ate last night may have triggered my Irritable Bowel Syndrome, Doc."

"I think it may have because of the nuclear explosion in my ass this morning."

"I also had to hold a trash can between my thighs this morning. Do I look bulimic to you - vomiting is not my friend. I'm obviously sick, like on my death bed."

"Do you really have to look at my tonsils with that light thingmabob? The problem is in my stomach/ass region in case you wern't listening. I don't have a french fry caught in my throat, dude."

"My breath stinks? Well I didn't have time to brush my teeth before calling 911."

"Hey, you're kind of hot, Dr. IKnowYou'reRich. If I ever get divorced, let's hook up."

Thursday, April 2, 2009

Tweeter on my blog!

2:00 a.m. - Woken by my laughing like hyena teenagers & a friend, whispers that sounded more like shouting, hissing at each other to be quiet & then an apparent farting contest (started by someone laughing so hard they farted) that devolved into more hysterical laughter.

I lay there, investigating, and realize that darling bitchy bitch and her friend, Jen, are dying their hair. I wonder why the boy rebel isn't hiding in a dark corner, playing his XBox, while this female bonding is going on & then realize.. Ohh, Jen is 20, very pretty! He's decided that he can gut his sister to flirt with her friend. (I am brilliant.)

2:05 a.m. - Me, crawling out of bed & giving the 'Mom-eye' to the culprits & shouting at them to be quiet before they wake their Dad who works like a dog to make money for me.

2:10 a.m. - (I'm long winded.) Boy rebel says, "You're the one that's going to wake him with that yelling."

2:16 a.m. - (Scrubbing my itching to give him a smack palms.) "I don't give a crap, better that I wake him than you!"

2:17 a.m. - Boy who wants a beating: "That made no sense."

2:18 a.m. - "I don't have to make sense you little shit, I'm the Momma!"

2:20 a.m. - Stomping back to bed, looking fab for being woken so early. Fall back to sleep in 30 seconds flat. (It's a talent.)

9 a.m. - Gently nudged right off the side of the bed by darling bitchy bitch. (Daughter.) "Momma, do you like my hair?"

9:20 a.m. - I took me that long to stare at her out of one bleary, booger crusted eye and wonder exactly what Clairol calls that color orange. And since my brain to mouth filter doesn't work with lack of sleep, I say - "What the hell is that color orange?"

9:22 a.m. - Agape with shocked hurt, she nearly screams, "It was bleach blonde!"

9:23 a.m. - "Find the receipt & get (your Dad's) my money back. Show them your hair while you're at it, they'll worry about getting sued & give you a Wal-Hell gift card."

9:24 a.m. - "You don't know what's cool! You're old!"

9:25 a.m. - Obviously she's pulled out the big guns so I feel safe in doing the same. "Well, your hair looks like an Easter egg so if cool is being festive for the holiday, you nailed it, Pippi."

We're off for breakfast. I'm sure I'll be back later for more happy blogging!

Saturday, March 28, 2009

WTF is Twitter?

I'm new to this blogging thing.

Look at how many followers I have & you might notice that. (But thanks Dr. Zibbs for the shout out on your blog, you brought a bunch of people over to me & got me some new fellow lunatiks! And btw, I love your blog more than rare steak.)

Since I'm new, I thought that I should just start clicking on everyone else's fave blogs (to steal ideas) see what's out there, see how to go about this, etc.

I'm addicted. Like a crack whore with a $20 to spend on a rock, addicted. There are so many talented writers, funny & intelligent people in blogland! I'm so addicted that I keep forgetting to write in my own blog as I read other peoples and comment!

But being me, I have favors to ask of y'all:

How do you link video? How do you put a line through words/strike them? How do you make them so cool and/or pretty looking with the headers, graphics, sidebars? What is Twitter & will it make me sexier? How do I get more people to come read my profanity?

Thanks in advance for any help given and welcome everyone to Phat Mama!

Friday, March 27, 2009

I Fear The Geriatric.

So, I'm sure all of my readers (8) wonder what someone as funny, smart, and charming as I am does for a living.

Well, ponder on it no longer! I take care of an 89 year old man who was in the Navy for 30 years. He's also a born and bred, redneck southerner. (Is that redundant?)

His name is Sam and he thinks the KKK is a public service organization that helps folks out in times of need. He's completely politically incorrect on almost every subject & doesn't care. He's outspoken, hysterical, very intelligent and God bless him, he still wipes his own ass.

The reason Sam is coming up today for the first time (of many, I suspect) is because as I peruse the offerings of the blogospere this afternoon, he is sat next to me at the dining room table, patiently cleaning, oiling and adjusting both his binoculars and one of his many guns.

He just lifted the binoculars up to his face and peered at me.

He has cataracts and can barely focus on Walker, Texas Ranger each night as Chuck kicks everyone's ass while singing his own theme song.

But I -promise- y'all, if he sets down the binoculars and picks up the gun to shoot whatever or whoever has pissed him off today, I'm going to get my first exercise this year when I dive for the floor.

Because someone (possibly the yankee girl with the big butt & boobs and smart mouth) burnt his fucking grits this morning.

Wednesday, March 25, 2009

Bald Bush.

It took me four days of seeing this 'lady razor' commercial to get the message behind the visual.

Women would walk by a bush or bushes and magically, the bush would transform to a neatly trimmed circle or triangle or rectangle.

It's a razor on one end and a 'bush trimmer' on the other end.

The commercial is tacky and yet.. clever.

When it finally hit me last night, (because while tacky, I'm not so clever) what the green, trimmed bushes were signifying, I turned to my 18 year old daughter and said in my best (shocked) soccer mom voice, "Do you GET what that commercial is saying?!"

She looked up from banging away a text message on her phone and replied, "Yeah, they should have made one bush with no leaves.. like bald."

*mutters to herself & goes to borrow some booze from Vodka Mom*

Sunday, March 15, 2009

Chin Hair.

I woke this morning (11 a.m.'ish) to an 'in the mood' hubby. It's Sunday, no kids at home, so okay - he gets some of my hotness.

And then.. I remembered that I forgot to pluck the teeny little hairs out of my chin. So the whole time, I couldn't focus on his umm, abilities. Instead, I was hoping he didn't think I was having a seizure as my hands kept flailing up around the offending area.

I had the quick mental conversation with myself - Which is worse, double chin or hairy chin? - and then pushed my head down, thinking double chin.. way better than bearded lady.

Sadly, he didn't take the hint when I tried to flip over. (Perfect position for hiding the chin, right.) "No baby, this is good, stay right there." (My mental response: Can't you see the F'n hairs & when the hell did you start popping Viagra, porn star?)

I couldn't use Kegels to end things sooner (so I could dash and pluck) because I'm so lazy that I won't even work out -those- muscles.

I may be exaggerating the amount of stubble. It's really just a stray hair (tiny damnit) here and there. A sign of aging. A sign that my estrogen has slowed to a trickle. But it was bugging me. Even after 18 years of marriage, I still want to be a sex kitten for him.

It was only later, while removing the offenders that I remembered him telling me he needs to see an eye Doctor. Apparently, he is having trouble seeing things that are close to his face. Next time this happens, I'm going to be all up in his grill so that all he sees is blurred perfection.

Addicted to Bathing.

At any given time of day, no matter what I'm doing, I'll have the overwhelming urge to take a bath.

Hot - steaming hot - water.
The scent of Japanese Cherry Blossom body bath foaming into outrageously huge bubbles.
Candles lit.
Music playing in the background.
Me - submerged, hair floating, that water soothing a body that is creeping towards the aches and pains of middle age.

I will stop what I'm doing and the need for all of that washes over me (excuse the pun) and if I'm at home, I rush for the tub.

When my children were younger, they would sit on the toilet and talk to me. I learned some of the most important things about the process of them growing up while I rested back in the bubbles and listened to them chatter at me.

Now they are not around much. They are nearly grown. I close my eyes & listen for them and hear laughter, words whispering around me, like when you sing in the shower.. that echo it leaves behind. That is what I hear now. It's bittersweet. It's my perfect moment of solitude.

Tuesday, March 3, 2009

The South Will Rise Again

The craziest thing I've heard since being back in North Carolina:

While watching 'Family Feud' with an 89 year old man and upon repeating the question back to him - "What organization helps people in times of trouble?" - he replied, completely seriously, "The KKK."

The oddest thing I've seen since being back:

An El Camino monster truck with spinner rims and a rebel flag paint job, parked at 'Pig Pickin BBQ'.

The least sexy thing I've seen since being back:

A guy with a full on mullet, dressed in cut off Levi shorts (I could see he had an itty bitty package), a cut off AC/DC tshirt that showed his abs of flab, flip-flops and a dangly skull earring. My daughter actually yelled, "Look, Joe Dirt!"

The most sexy thing I've seen since I've been back:

My husband. What can I say? He's yummy.

My worst experience since being back:

The 89 year old man formerly mentioned telling me that I really have to eat some 'greens', they're good for you, Jody! And a day after eating them, realizing that if he meant they clean you out from esophagus to asshole, sure.. they're the damn redneck colonic.

A fact about NC:

Gravy goes well on everything. Bisquits, pork tenderloin, grits, deep fat fried twinkies.. yep, ladle some on there because yanno, the deep fat friend twinkie by itself just isn't enough. We need some gravy on that mofo!

Another fact about NC:

Fat girls are HOT!

My favorite things about NC:

Bojangles dirty rice, the sweet southern drawls, Concord Mills, Lowes Motorspeedway, Chinese food at midnight, sweet tea, high speed internet!! Waffle House!

My least favorite things about NC:

The excess traffic. Obviously people do not understand the interstate system was put into place for me. Just me. Move. Move your fucking piece of shit El Camino, Joe Dirt.

A Pig Butt BBQ joint on every corner. I hate BBQ. Mow them all down and put up more Chinese places. Preferably buffets. Unless Pig Butt serves breakfast all day, then they can stay.

How Southerners think every place is just '5 minutes down the road.'

No, it's an hour away! Just say it straight. Tell me you need me to meet you in damn Georgia because you found a hot sale on Nascar stuff and your car isn't big enough to haul it back.When they give you directions to meet them, they use the church on the right as a marker for you to look for.

It's the SOUTH - there is a church on every block. Sometimes four of them, one on every corner to save the redneck hooker standing out there trying to make a 20-spot to buy her a crack rock in the back of Pig Butt. It's like an extra value meal they have. Super size the rock.

I'm sure this list will grow, more soon.

Wednesday, February 25, 2009

Hey Mr. Panda.

I ordered food from Panda before I left work tonight. Shrimp fried rice & shrimp with chinese veggies. All the way home, I was grateful it was dark so nobody could see the drool pooling on my lower lip. It smelled like a slice of heaven.

Once home, I dish up my trough.. erm.. plate and settle in at the desk/computer. Because everyone knows that surfing the net while eating makes the food tastier. Mid-way through the feeding frenzy, I look down and study my dinner.

Fried rice. Check. Shrimp. Check. Chinese veggies - where the hell are they? Leeks? That's it. Leeks.

I get pissy.

I make a mental note to self: The next time I order from Panda, ask the little chinaman to throw in some baby corn, peapods, a fucking broccoli floret or two. I'm good for it, Hung So Low.

Tuesday, February 24, 2009

Chirp - McD's.

Last night, while on my way home from work, I two-wayed my husband. He will be known as 'J' from this point forward.

By two-way, I mean that obnoxious feature that Nextel phones have - the walkie talkie.

I told him I was on my way and asked him if he needed anything.

In the few seconds it takes for him to mash the button and for me to hear the cute chirp, I thought.. Wouldn't it be nice if he said he just needed me? And then I laughed at myself. We've been married for a coon's age. (That's a long fucking time in non-hillbilly speak.) No way was he going to say something sweet like that. Rather, he was going to ask me to stop at McD's for a heart attack, hold the pickles. Super sized.

I hear the chirp. His voice. "I just need someone to hold."

The Kodak moment would have shown me, smiling a sappy, stupid, Hallmark smile.

I reply, "That would be me. I love you too so much."

*insert approximately 45 seconds.*

Chirp. J. - "If you feel like it, you could stop by McD's and get me a double cheeseburger, hold the pickles and a strawberry shake. Get yourself one too, we'll cuddle and drink them."

Who says romance has to end after the honeymoon?

Phat Life.

So, I was looking at my myspace page before coming to blog & I notice that the advertisement banner at the top was.. beat up. It’s divided into three areas - more bang for the space, I guess. One part is advertising Waylon Jennings ringtones for your celly. I’m down with that. Got me some Waylon on my cell already. But another part was about how to lose weight. Like what.. they know I’m chubby? How?!

*looks around for the spycam, knowing it’s somehow hooked up inside the fridge*

I’m riding the phat rollercoaster, y’all. Allow me to break down how this works.

Every night, when I’m blogging my little heart out for people to read (but is anyone really out there?), and I’m pleasantly full (see stuffed to the point of vomiting), I think to myself - Jody, tomorrow morning you are going to start on your diet again. First of all, you will not eat for a week, to clean out your system. And you will take diarrhea pills & drink lots of water, the whole time. Because yanno, I want to be REALLY, REALLY clean.

And then you will eat yogurt, cucumbers and one lettuce leaf a week. The next morning when I wake up at noon.. I am still dead set on this plan of action. Until 2:00 p.m. Appromimately. Then I’m hungry. I eat a pickle. No calories. Check the jar.

Then I remind myself that my husband super likes yogurt & I should save that yummy treat for his work dinner. So I have some cookies. I don’t want them to get stale & the package is still open from the night before. (Do recall I said stuffed to the point of tossing my.. well.. cookies.)

I do regret for the next couple of hours and give hate eye to the lettuce leaf. By then, it’s dinner time, and I am a stellar cook. Thinking that surely the cookies I hoover’d only had the caloric value of what I would have eaten for breakfast (had I been awake anywhere near the morning hours), I know that yes, I do deserve a decent dinner.

*insert a picture of me ladeling asparagus in cheese sauce over top a ribeye the size of Texas - it’s called Steak Oscar & if I were on death row, it would be my last meal so I could fry happily.*

The next few hours I spend content, if filled with a regret that I ignore. Then it’s time for web surfing, playing Pogo!, watching Big Brother, SVU, The Tudors, Will & Grace (depending on night, time, and courtesy of my loverly Dish Network package.) Speaking of which, the bill is due. I wonder if they would give me a free month based on my myspace shoutout.

But anyway, none of those shows would reach their full entertainment potential without a bowl of popcorn. Right? Right.

Now my daily intinerary has went full circle. Stuffed, bed, dedicated to tomorrow being the first day of the rest of my skinny life. Pft. And don’t even get me started on Sundays - the Sabbath for Diet Promises to myself. Somehow, myspace knows my dirty little secret. (That I sway back & forth between a ghetto booty/mass choco eating & forgetting to eat due to stress while dropping weight at an alarming pace.) & they are advertising - to ME - on MY myspace profile, diet.. crap.

The nerve.

The twisty turn on this rollercoaster is that at times, I think it’s perfectly okay to be on the phat ass side. I’m not a teenager anymore. I’ve had two children, c-section, so my stomach is the Rand McNally of scars. I really am a great cook & enjoy my food. My husband prefers voluptuous (isn’t that the best word for fat, ever) women. And I’m kind of pretty so surely that makes up for jiggly ass & tits, no?

But then I think about my health. Like.. a heart attack at freakin’ 40. Diabetes Type Two. My joints screaming at me to put down the coconut cream pie, right fucking now. And I know that it’s not about looking good in a bikini anymore. It’s not about sashaying my arse around in a pair of Apple Bottom jeans. (It is, however, about fitting into this sexy lingerie my hubby bought me about ten years ago.)

It’s okay to be chubby, plump, phat, voluptuous. A woman can be truly beautiful & sexy no matter her size. And it’s okay to bite into Steak Oscar & think that it’s almost as good as sex. I am guilty of enjoying, sensually even, life in the moment and worrying about the consequences later.

But I think there is a compromise.

To live life that way, with full & rich enjoyment, but in moderation. To lick the spoon clean of brownie batter & then go take a walk on the perfect Spring day. To eat a slice of strawberry pie & then go make love to your husband & burn off the calories. Maybe that’s the secret of life.

Or maybe that's me rationalizing the Cheezit's I'm scarfing down right now.