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…….

Screen Shot 2013-11-19 at 1.55.56 pm

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.

Screen Shot 2013-11-19 at 1.56.06 pm

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!

Screen Shot 2013-11-19 at 1.57.55 pm

*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!


Month 1 “keep it up, baby!” present

As you may have noticed over the past couple of posts, I may, sometimes be a bit of a princess. But not often.

My lovely sister-in-law and her family have been staying with us over this past week (hence the lack of blogs). As sisters-in-law do, we have been spending a fair bit of time shopping. Yesterday we went into Myer and I steered my BH towards the watch section as I needed some inspiration for a very special birthday coming up in December. While I was asking the (very unhelpful and uninterested) sales girl to show me some of the big chunky male watches, I eyed off a beautiful gold and “diamond” Armani Exchange watch.

Before I knew it, Miss Slow and Uninterested had wrapped up my watch and we were on our way!

What? What just happened?? BH didn’t even get to try on a watch! – It turned out later that a very clever BH knew EXACTLY what I was doing… And decided to throw a spanner in the works. A pretty, shiny, Armani spanner!  Who’s a lucky girl?!

Screen Shot 2013-10-06 at 7.03.47 PM

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.


Apologies for the lack of contact over the past few days. This Skinny Girl has had a very busy week.

My sister is going through a bit of a rough time at the moment and has been staying with us, and let me just say, she is NOT on the Cohen’s plan. In fact, she is on the complete opposite of the Cohen’s plan. She is in holiday mode. You know where you stay in your jammies all day, and binge in front of the tv? Don’t say no..  You know what I am talking about.

Before I started the plan, my better half (BH) and I threw out all the food from the fridge and pantry that would not be in our program. We were not going to risk temptation. HOWEVER – I could not throw out the rashers of bacon in the freezer. Seriously. One girl can only do so much.

So, being the lovely sister that I am, I donated the Bacon (<3) to my sister. And let her cook it. In my small apartment. F.A. I. L.   You have never smelled bacon like this.

So, completely oblivious to how much I hated her at that moment, she sat at the dining table eating her gift from Heaven – squashed between 2 pieces of thick white fresh bread, smeared with my favourite butter (although, lets be honest… EVERY butter is my favourite butter), and I ate my minced chicken with a few leaves of lettuce. Gift from Satan.   I’d like to think my manners are well above this level, but I am 99% sure I snarled at her during that meal.

As you may have already read – my BH took me on a weekend away, so I advised my sister that she would have our apartment to herself over the weekend. She was very excited and called her best friend – lets call him Big Gay Al – so they could have a Ru Paul’s Drag Race Marathon.

As all good best friends do, Al arrived carting bags and bags of goodies for them to consume. URGH! I hope they get diabetes (not really but I hated them until I left the house).

A funny thing happened when I returned from the weekend away.

My sister said “I feel so bloated and disgusting – I’m going to go on a diet, starting tomorrow”.   This was great news, and I took her off to the grocery store expecting her to load up the trolley with fruit, vegetables and lean meats. No such luck. We headed straight to the deli where my sister ordered what could only be considered a butcher’s shop quantity of hams, chicken loaf, roast pork slices devon and …. cabanossi. What? This isn’t a diet! This is a vegetarian’s nightmare! – Granted, devon has no actual meat in it… We all know that this diagram makes up hotdogs – devon is the poor sister of hotdogs. Much worse.

Ok. So you want to lose weight. I’ll be the encouraging sister. But those foods are NOT going to get you there.

Unfortunately my sister is as stubborn as a mule – which, incidentally, makes up a good proportion of diet! – and decided that she would do what she wanted, and stick to her “plan”. Ok.

So my BH decided to grill her (no pun intended har, har, har) on this “diet plan”.

BH: Where did you find this diet?

Paige: Al gave it to me.

BH: Is he doing it too?

Paige: Yes.

BH: Explain a normal day for me.

Paige: 50g of protein in the morning, 100g of protein mid morning, 50g protein for lunch, 100 for afternoon tea and 50 for dinner.

BH: ………………….. So………. Where did Al find this diet?


BH: What do you drink?

Paige: Water. But I can have Coke Zero if I want.

BH: Oh, you can have Coke Zero?

Paige: Well not really, but I will. And I can have english muffins on the third day too.

BH: Have you made this diet up yourself?

Paige: NO!! Al is on it to! It’s called the “Body Trim Diet”.

BH: Riiiiiggghhhhhtttttt….. I’ll have to google it when we get home.

Here are the results: BODY TRIM DIET

Now, each to their own, and I am sure this has worked for some people, but it is not something you could keep up forever!

Will keep you posted on my little sisters weight loss.

PS. Here is a photo of my sister and I illustrating how sweet and supportive I am.


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”.