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!