I know what you are all thinking…

It has been quite a while since I last posted, and I know that there have been rumors of “Oh, Fatty’s fallen off the wagon (wheel)!” and “I knew she couldn’t do it!”.   Well. No need to be rude. Fat people still have feelings!

Over the past couple of months, I have had my SIL’s family stay, the planning stages of a complete restructure at work (yes, it is unbelievable that someone would hire this mammoth of a woman! I guess my sparkling personality and hilarious jokes are worth my pay cheque!), my mother’s wedding <3, dramas with my BH’s job and the general day to day irritations of being an overweight blonde city girl.

So, to update you on the past month or so, I had Halloween dress ups at work (we dress up a lot… It’s a fun job!) and while I wanted to dress as a petite little Tinker Bell, I hadn’t yet lost enough weight, and had horrible images of looking like the love child of Kermit the Frog and Sally Struthers. Not. Hot.   So I channeled my inner goth, and went as Morticia Addams. I thought I had lost a bit of weight around the boobie area, but every single man kept saying: “Oooh! Elvira! Great costume!”. I guess maybe my shirt was a little low cut…….

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The Melbourne Cup was next, and I wore a cute (but professional) dress to work. I had heard an urban myth circling my weight loss group, but was skeptical… Until…… Let me start from the beginning.

I currently share an office with my Managing Director. He is a lovely guy, and we spend a lot of time joking and laughing. And working (if he happens to read this). This particular day, I reached for a folder and felt a fresh breeze across my buttocks. Unusual. I looked down, and to my complete horror, my underwear had migrated south, and were dangerously close to heading into Cankle Territory. JESUS CHRIST!

Had it not been for the fact that it was “washing day” and I was wearing those undies that used to be cute and lacy, but are now grey from too many washes and are barely held together from the elastic now masquerading as dental floss, AND that my boss was offsite at a meeting, I am sure I would have been done for sexual harassment*.

The moral of the story is, even though you don’t HAVE to wear stockings anymore…. It is probably a good idea to do so. And buy some new undies.

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The last event was my mothers wedding – or “THE EVENT OF THE YEAR”, if you will.  I had purchased my dress while I was still grossly obese, and as I had shrunk it began looking nicer and nicer. Maybe it is my reverse-body-dysmorphic-disorder, but I think I looked quite nice!

The wedding was absolutely wonderful, my mother looked stunning and the food was DELICIOUS! Ha! Tricked you! I can’t eat any “normal” food.

I was so busy on the day that all I could do was gobble down a Cohen Friendly hamburger pattie whilst bending over to reduce the chances of dripping burger juice on my dress and hiding behind the boot of the car so the other guests didn’t notice me being a freak.

A realisation that came from the wedding, however, was that I am waaaaaaaaaaaaay out of practice for rejecting men’s advances, as I have not been hit on in FOR. EVER.

Unfortunately it was a drunken member of my new step-father’s family, (hey, even though he was blind drunk, I was still picked up. I’ll take whatever I can get these days!) who wanted to dance all night and take photos with me. I had to keep reminding him that “We are family now!” and pointing him in the direction of some other not so related guests. Good times!

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*Just kidding. I work in the film industry. We don’t have any rules or laws against Sexual Harassment. In fact, it is highly encouraged!

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Prepare for the new photos!

It is Thursday morning, and I have 2 days until my first official weigh in! I hope you are all counting down with me!

In the past, I would usually try to “trick” the scales with little schemes and plots to ensure that I weighed in as light as possible. Let me give you some examples:

 

Not drinking water the day of the weigh in – VERY bad for you! And seeing that we have to drink 2-3 liters of water a day, it makes for an afternoon running to and from the bathroom.

 

Eating “light” foods, or skipping meals – This excuse used to be a favourite technique of this serial dieter.

I would think: Well, if I can hold off on breakfast until my 5:15pm weigh in… Then I can have a delicious dinner afterwards. Because then it is, what I like to call, “limbo”. You have just weighed, and you don’t start again until tomorrow. This equals FREE CALORIES!

By the time I arrive at the community center, I am so starving that I end up yelling at the lady recording my weight, who, may I just say, always seems to be eating something! Can’t you tell there are starving fatties in the line, Beryl? I don’t care if you have hit goal weight, I will jump over this table and smack that Weight Watchers bar straight out of your skinny hand! Come on!

 

Going to the bathroom as many times as you can before hand – Ooooh, this is a great trick. Go to the bathroom before you leave home. Stop at the petrol station to go to the bathroom on the way to the clinic. Go to the bathroom when you arrive at the clinic. Have a chat with your “Weight Loss Professional” (no peeing during this part), and most importantly go to the bathroom the second before you jump on that hateful chrome weighing station of disappointment.

I don’t care if you are sitting in the bathroom for 45 minutes trying to squeeze out those last of yesterdays water – those little yellow drops seem to weigh 45kgs each! You make sure you sit there and push like you are giving birth to Andre The Giant’s first child. It will be worth it. Promise.

 

Insisting that there is something “wrong” with the scales – The floor isn’t flat, the scales are on the carpet, the battery is dying, I had a different number on my scales at home, the lady in front of me obviously terrified the scales and they retained the number from her weigh in, etc.  I have seen many a scale hurled into the rubbish bin over my many years of dieting. I just can’t seem to find an accurate one!

 

Heavy clothes – You would not believe how many ridiculously deceiving weighty cardigans and scarves I own. Seriously. You would think that a beautiful, floaty Thai silk scarf would only way a few grams – but I am telling you, I have seen them as heavy as a small child! And don’t get me started on jeans! They are at least 5kgs a leg! Worse if you are wearing a belt. Oh, and I’m happy to deduct another kilo for the energy expended walking from my car (YES, I DROVE! Stop judging me!) to the community center – that weight wouldn’t have been taken from my Fat Bank yet, but I am sure it will come off over night. So lets count that in tonight’s weigh in.

 

Rest assured, if all else fails, you can just suck your tummy in on the day 🙂

Fat Chef – Skinny Chef

My better half has a real job. A real, serious, adult job. Not in the adult industry, but adult like earning enough to keep your overweight wife in the lifestyle to which she has become accustomed.  (My chocolate addiction costs more than you could imagine)

My BH is the BIG boss (that wasn’t a fat joke, I just meant that my BH is the Head Honcho) at a BIG military base that includes looking after the grounds (including several sports fields with handsome, single – I assume – military personnel running around in slow motion with sweat glistening off their sculpted, tanned……. I’m getting off track.), a pool, a gym, security, the cleaning, accommodation, and several kitchens. When we met all those years ago, my BH was a pastry chef. It’s little wonder we got along so well – I LOOOOOOOOVE CAKE!

I work in the film industry.

No, I do not make a million dollars a year. Yes, I do know “celebrities”. No, I will not have them autograph something for you. Yes, there are a lot of premieres and red carpets and lunches with producers and directors, but mainly it is an office job. Lots of looking after high maintenance clients and making sure my boss is happy.  The main benefit of my job is that I get to wear jeans to work. I know this might not sound super exciting, but to me, being comfortable is paramount. Especially at my size. I used to teeter around in sky-high heels, but since reinventing myself as Carnie Wilson before the by-pass surgery, my shoes have taken a sharp turn to very-flat-and-supportive-middle-aged-woman town.

Because of my daily casual attire, my BH doesn’t believe I have a “real” job. Apparently it is a “play” job. I get paid to gossip, drink coffee and socialise. Apparently someone at a bowl full of sour grapes. Technically, I *do* gossip and drink coffee (replaced now with peppermint tea) and socalise, but that is what I am paid to do. I found the perfect job. WINNING!

Anyway, back to the big important job at the military base. So, about 2 nights ago, the Bat-phone rings – it is always such a scary jolt awake when the phone goes off in the middle of the night! It turned out to be the Executive Chef calling in sick. Ok, lets be honest here. It was the Executive Chef’s MOTHER calling in sick on behalf of their offspring! At 4am. So, ever-responsible-adult-job-BH gets up, has a shower and trots off to work to cover for Mr Sicky.

As if being woken up in the middle of the night and not being able to drink a caffine laced sugary drink to keep you awake wasn’t bad enough, that particular morning there was a breakfast function for One. Hundred. And. Eighty. People. 180. Nearly 200 non-Cohen-ites who were banging on the door trying to break in for their hot breakfast like it was the Boxing Day sales at Myer.

My BH is perfectly qualified to cater to this group, however, this time, the Cohen Lifestyle Clinic decided to rrreeeeeeeeeeeally test out the commitment and motivation of the Little Chef That Could.

Let me tell you about the menu.

Eggs. Fine. They are included on the program. However, these were scrambled eggs, mixed with cream, and delicious flavouring. There were two other ways that the eggs were cooked, but I stopped listening after the creamy scrambled eggs.

Sausages. Greasy, fatty, yummy sausages.

Mushrooms. I could have eaten those – if they weren’t covered in truffle oil.

Hash Browns. Crumbled up potatoes dunked in the deep fryer until they are crunchy on the outside and soft in the middle. Amazing. Surely I could convince Margaret that Hash Browns are a vegetable!

Toast. Oh to have a piece of toast. Such a simple creation. So versatile, so comforting, sooooo off-limits.

Baked Beans.  Beans, beans, good for the heart, the more you eat, the more you….. Well you get the picture.

Yoghurt and Museli. Yup, I’ll be happy to leave that to the people that think they are being healthy.

And last, but definitely not least. Bacon.

Soft bacon. Crispy bacon. Strips and rashers spreading their delicious, delicious scent all over the facility. Taunting BH, saying “EEEEEEAAT MEEEEEE”.

Now, I have heard from several reliable sauces (see what I did there) that BH did not even TASTE the food, let alone dive in to the vat of crumbly, greasy goodness and die a sweet, fat filled death like I am sure I would have.

As a chef, I believe that it is illegal not to taste the food, but it just shows to my that BH is supporting me all the way down to 47kgs. That is true love.

Grandmother Guilt

My grandmother lives out near the Blue Mountains and my sister, better half and I went for a visit last night. I had left work early and prepped dinner at home, because I knew I would be hungry by the time we arrived home.

We drove the hour and a half out to Nanny and Grandad’s house and I ate a mandarin on the way, because grandmothers are renowned for spoiling their grandchildren with far too many sweets and treats (perhaps this is the reason I am in this predicament… Thanks Nanny!).

When we arrived, there was something quite different about my grandparents. They had shrunk. They were both SO thin! They looked amazing, and my Nanny who is little like me (height wise) told us that she was down to 47kgs!!! 47! That is HALF my weight! She looked amazing and attributed it to veggies, lean meat and an hour of yoga in front of the telly each morning.

If you’re expecting a nice warm, fuzzy, grandmother-y story you should stop reading here.

Nanny has always been a wonderful cook, and without fail always has something delicious only 3 minutes away from being ready. Urgh.

The smell hit me as soon as I walked in. That sweet, spicy smell of herbs and meat and roasted tomatoes. Absolutely delicious! She was cooking Spaghetti Bolognese, (yes, capital letters are warranted here) because “her girls love it!” Yes. That is correct Nanny, your two fat granddaughters would break into an Italian restaurant after hours just to get a hit of carbohydrates. My sister and I LOVE spaghetti bolognese. Love. We would stab our own grandmother to get a bowl. I advised Nanny of this, and she wasn’t very happy.

However… This little fat duck is on a clear path to becoming a sexy chick, and said no. Several times. So much in fact, that it was beginning to get embarrassing. I excused myself to go to the bathroom for the 48th time that day, and I found out later that Nanny had cornered my better half to threaten the following guilt trips:

  • Oooh, I wish I had have known that you weren’t going to stay for dinner.
  • If you don’t stay, I will be eating spaghetti for the rest of the week!
  • Oh, I’ve just made so much, it seems like a real waste.

All this coupled with the big pleading grandmother eyes, the amazing aroma and the fact that we knew that it was dry, wilted salad waiting for us at home. Urgh.

I struggled to reach the front door. (which is, of course, next to the dining room and adjacent to the kitchen – the main source of my pain). Resisting was like holding onto a fern for safety during a hurricane, or as if a giant magnet was pulling my fat cells towards the dining room. But my feet pulled the rest of my body away from the brief satisfaction and subsequent food hangover and escaped out the front door.

Good work feet, you deserve a nice new pair of boots.

We left my sister there to stay the night and bask in her carb-coma, and kissed everyone goodbye. We apologised profusely while trying to squeeze out of the bat-wing grip-hold that Nanny had on the back of my arm (seriously, grandparents have those delicate, arthritis-y, wrinkled hands that can’t open a pickle jar, or grab those little coins in the bottom of their purses, but they sure turn into Geriatric Super Heroes when they want you to do something!) and drove away still feeling incredibly guilty, but pleased that we had resisted temptation.

During the ride home, my better half had said that while the dinner looked and smelled AMAZING, if we were going to deviate from the plan, we would be purchasing a bathtub-worth of these, and parking our greasy fat bodies on the lounge in front of the TV for the weekend.

These Boots Are Made For Waddling…

I spent this past weekend at Westfield looking for some nice boots to replace my very worn ones. To be fair, they have stood up to months of dragging around 100kgs, and they had done their job quite well.

Unfortunately all the shops were clearing out old stock to make room for summer sandals and sky high heels – so my hopes for something decent were pretty low. At this time of year the only boots available are in a women’s size 15, or looked like this. No. Thank. You.

As a delicate size 5 girl (only in the shoe department), I can always find a gorgeous little pair of something spectacular to cheer myself up after a bout of failed clothes shopping 😦 UNLESS it is Boot Shopping. Boot shopping sucks.

The problem is if the shoe fits, then the calf bit is crumpled down around my ankle, or only zips up 2 centimeters and I look like I’m taking inspiration from this woman. The alternative is, if the calf fits, the shoe part looks like I am a three year old trying on my fathers shoes. Either option does not provide satisfaction for this young lady.

In the past I have been known to get my own way. Please don’t misunderstand, I am not one of those awful women waving their Louis Vuitton handbag around screaming at sales assistants, however I DO believe that if you want me to spend $300+ in your shop, then you gotta work for it!

So, I walked into Wittner at Westfield, and asked the 12 year old assistant (who actually looked a little scared for her life when I zeroed in on her to serve me) for all of her flat, black, leather boots, 1. that aren’t too butch* and 2. that will fit around my “power calves”. Good luck Miss.

The poor young thing trotted off on her stick thin legs to find the un-find-able. She came back with 2 pairs. Both in size 6. Fail. But, because of her efforts, I agreed to try them on. As I suspected, they didn’t go up past my ankle. Or cankle as she was thinking. Bitch. The other pair were the ‘pull on’ style. Or they would be if I wasn’t so voluptuous. I started the challenge. Right foot in. Calf leather bunched up around the cankle area, but I persevered. Then the most horrifying thing happened. The once shy and naive pre-teen assistant decided to help. NOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!

She wedged her fake, too long, french manicured fingernails between the expensive leather and my sweaty, fat calves. And then…. she tugged and pulled and heaved trying to pull those damn boots up. I could see the sweat beads pooling on her over-foundation-ed forehead. This girl was really earning her $12.50 an hour. By this time, a small crowd had gathered and I am sure someone took a photo on their iPhone (My better half says that there was not a crowd and no-one took a picture – but I was the one in the war zone. I was the one experiencing the embarrassment and physical pain.).

After about 45 minutes (or 1 minute, if you believe my better half’s version of events), the boots were as ‘on’ as they were going to get. I nervously stood up and looked at myself in the mirror.

No. Just no.

No to the muffin top I had developed below my knee. No to the insistence of the torturous teen that the “leather would stretch”. Lets be honest; the leather was not even that taut when it was on the cow. And definitely no to going through this every morning before work.

But, perhaps from embarrassment, perhaps because my feet had swollen and I wouldn’t have been able to pry the boots off without the assistance of the fire brigade or perhaps because all of my blood had pooled in the areas that weren’t squeezed into those leather devils, I waddled to the counter and woozily handed over my hard earned credit card and paid for those suckers.

I’m returning them tomorrow. Promise.

*NOTHING against girls who love girls, I am just a little more “Lipstick Lesbian” than “Stone Cold Dyke”.

5 Reasons I Don’t Want To Be A Fat Girl

We all know the numerous positive reasons to lose weight and become healthier – but my Top 5 have nothing to do with those reasons.

Counting down from number 5.

5. Shopping at “Fat Girl” Stores.

I’m fine walking into these stores. The plump sales assistant always smiles at me, and when she looks me up and down I don’t feel like I am being judged as a fatty, I feel like she is looking at my outfit and handbag thinking “Wow, that fat girl dresses well!”. I feel like I am part of a secret society where fat women go to bond. My problem with these stores is walking out. For me, it is like walking out of the Tool Shed on Oxford St with a black plastic bag full of sex toys that would make Ron Jeremy blush. I want to pull my trench coat up around my face, don dark glasses and pretend like I don’t fit in there, that I didn’t just come from there.

4. Underwear (including stockings).

My issue with fat girl underwear is that Myer, David Jones, and even Bra’s & Things is that the bra’s go up to a 8AA – at the moment, I am barely fitting into an 18G… And that is only because I refuse to buy a bigger one. And don’t get me started on “below the belt”! Why does anyone think that a 30 year old would like to wear these cottontails?? I don’t. I plan to one day, when I can keep up the pace for more than 20 seconds, have relations of the sexy kind again. And I don’t think my better half would like the look of those monstrous nappies. Although, G-strings aren’t too flattering with my big ol’ butt either. Kinda reminds me of a chicken roulade wrapped up in string. These aren’t a few of my favourite things.

Stockings. Stockings deserve their own section. Stupid f%#king stockings. If I am not wearing jeans (elastic waist-ed) or leggings (also elastic waist-ed), then I MUST wear stockings. Without stockings, my chicken-drumstick thighs start rubbing together in the way that starts fires. And with all that heat comes moisture (or tears, as I like to think of it), creating a sore, red, bushfire-y situation that no-one except me knows about. Hopefully.

If the next time I am running* to the shop to grab a couple of Mars Bars because my blood sugar is dropping, and there is smoke trailing from my loins behind me, please do let me know.

*truffle shuffle-ing

3. Fat Jokes.

Oh, ho, ho. Now fat jokes. Fat jokes form a big part of my life. I have a relatively close male friend that I share that special brotherly-sisterly relationship with. You know, the relationship that you try to gross each other out, and pick on each other non stop? Well, I can usually give as good as I get, but there was one time where he crossed the line. Well, he didn’t so much cross the line as Usein Bolt it past me throwing cupcakes. We were discussing what we wanted to be when we grew up (ignoring, of course, we were all very much established in our careers and some of us on the darker side of 30), and I mentioned that I always had wanted to be a lawyer. This smart ass came up with “Yeah, you could be Fatty McBeal”. Or something as eloquent. Needless to say, he had one very bruised and tender arm for a week following.

2. Having a skinny best friend.

Having a slim best friend is the pits. The absolute worst. Not only do they look amazing in everything, they are your best friend for a reason. They are lovely and caring and supportive of your weight loss efforts and even eat salad with you at lunch so you don’t feel like a lepper, even though you know they are scoffing down chicko rolls and hot chips with too much chicken salt as soon as they get back to their desk.

My best friend is a particular kind of awful. For breakfast she usually enjoys a strawberry doughnut, the big kind. Lunch will be a toastie, or some huge sandwich, or something delicious from the lunch lady who always looks at you with those judging eyes when you try to buy some of her wares. Whenever I have dinner at her house, we always have pizza, so I am going to assume she eats that every night of the week. Sometimes twice on weekends. And she washes this all down with 40 can’s of coke each day. That may be an exaggeration…

Another horrible thing is that she is beautiful. She has lovely skin, an amazing figure, and was the most gorgeous pregnant woman I had ever seen. She should have been modelling for Victoria’s Secret rather than working in an office all day.

But the MOST horrible thing is that because she is very slim, this creates the illusion that I am even BIGGER than I am in real life.

I hate her.

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1. The relaxation robe at the spa.

Now this is a major pet peev of mine. I love to be treated to a delicious massage, have my feet scrubbed and the even occasional facial. However there is one issue. Those damn robes. One size fits all, my ass. One size fits like a long cardigan on me. And when you have stripped down to your cotton tails, or chicken roulade outfit, you really need more of a moo moo than a robe to stay modest. I often spent those hours lying on the massage table being rubbed and scrubbed thinking that next time I would DEFINITELY bring my own robe, or perhaps even wear their robe backwards – you know, hospital style. Not great from the back, but at least the poor girl wouldn’t have Brittany Spears staring back at her while she finishes my pedicure.

And those form the Top 5 reasons that I don’t want to be a fat girl any more.