As I sit perched on the couch, under my lap blanket, watching the season finale of Law & Order: SVU, I can feel my thighs slowly expanding. I haven't been to the gym in over a week as I've been battling a combination of a cold and allergies. Hard to run when you can't breathe. I feel terrible. Like I've broken some sort of pact with myself... like I've betrayed my cellulite. Damn Catholic guilt.
A year ago, I wouldn't have thought twice about skipping them gym for a week or even a month. But I've had a rough couple of weeks with food. I've dealt with birthdays, team lunch outings at work, and a charity bake sale. I consider myself to be somewhat of a punk-rocker Betty Cracker as I can whip up pretty much anything from scrap or recipe! So, when asked to cook for a company bake sale to support a sick baby charity, well, I just couldn't resist! Why not show off my amazing culinary skills and do a bit of good at the same time?!? Baking for babies = bliss.
However, as the day of the bake sale grew near, I was running out of time. Unforeseen car problems earlier in the week meant having to work a short day and then make up the hours later on... a couple of 10 hour days and I didn't feel like making anything from scratch. So, I did what any efficient woman would do... pre-made cookie dough... in the tube of course, I'm not so lazy that I have to break 'em and bake 'em. So, at 7:45pm the night before the bake sale, I trekked my way to Hyvee and began perusing the cookie dough, looking at prices as I am also economical. I mean, I know it's for charity but that shit can get expensive.
As I stood looking at both prices and calories (I'm trying to be health conscious for others as well), I hear a woman's voice.
"DON'T DO IT! CHOOSE WATERMELON INSTEAD!"
Looking over my left shoulder, I see an empty aisle. A small giggle comes from the right. Whipping my head around, I find myself face to face with a man slightly older than my father. He has a mortified look on his face, as if he'd just shit his pants in public or something. Standing next to him was his wife. As she picked up some full fat coffee creamer, she continued giggling. "Who am I to judge? I'm just looking out for you." The man looked at her with shock and disbelief on his face, mouth dropped open.
It took me a moment to realize that this wasn't a joke. This bitch was serious. She just looked at me and told me to eat a piece of fucking fruit! (Now, this may be karma for the amount of times I've told skinny bitches to eat a fucking sandwich, but still, it's fucking rude.)
"Excuse me," I said, "but I'm baking for a charity bake sale. These aren't even for me."
"Uh huh," she said.
Remember the look I had on my face when I could see that woman's thong through her ultra tight pants? That's pretty much the same look that I had on my face at this moment as well. I recognized the feeling. My mouth open wide like a snake trying to devour a small rodent. The snake was the other woman though... the other white bitch, not unlike pork.
Now, obviously there are lots of things that come to my mind on a very regular basis, many offensive, all honest. However, I would never walk around a grocery store commenting on what people are buying... well, not out loud anyway. (I did once yell that Martha Stewart could eat my asshole in the middle of a grocery store, but I was on vicodin at the time so it doesn't really count.) I'm a firm believer in freedom of speech, freedom of press and freedom of expression. If it weren't for those things, I wouldn't be able to write this fucking blog for your fucking entertainment. And yes, I just used the word fucking twice in that sentence because I could. However, just because those freedoms exist doesn't mean that you have to use them.
I know that I'm lacking the filter between my brain and my mouth, but I think for the most part, I have tact even when that filter doesn't work. To all the rude women out there, I would generally tell you to say it loud and say it proud but when it comes to commenting on peoples weight, looks or anything else that is generally controlled by genetics, I think you all should keep it to yourselves. That is, unless you really wanna see my fat ass take my earrings off and find out why they call it a ghetto booty.
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