Name this photo...

of a deep fried White Castle burger. Personally I'm at a loss for words. From Grocery Eats.


What I learned at Family Court.

When boys fight, a great deal of it is about posturing and marking one's proverbial territory.

When girls fight, it's all about destruction.

Boys go for the body. Girls go for the face. Boys prefer fists. Girls prefer sharp objects. Boys will tangle. Girls will slash.

Why is this relevant, you may ask?

I am one telegenic fattte!

Joy! It's Fattie Day on Discovery Health! It's the 627 pound woman, the morbidly obese teenager, the fattest man, and plastic surgery galore! Watch the skin fly! I plan on tucking into a steaming plate of chicken enchiladas in front of the telly before the night is through. Yum-o!


I am one colossally bored and saline fattie.

Before I make another Cup O'Soup, before I read about construction liens, and before I wander off into thought about how pathetic my creative life is at the moment, I'm going to post pictures of Images From my Phone:

1. Empire State Building, the King Kong Ascendant Night View:

2. Adorable Nephew, or Highly Effective Mother's Day Decoy, Tompkins Square:

3. Pom juice handed out by girls dressed as pomegranates, if pomegranetes wore black tshirts and pants and lumpy magenta felt:


I am one broke-down fattie.

Whine, whine, whine. That's what sucking down horse-choking antibiotics and associated goodies will do to ya. My delicate constitution is revolting, as am I (as a result of my delicate constitution revolting-verb, making me revolting-adjective. Got that, grammar fans?) I am exhausted, thirsty and not as functional as I'd like to be (lots of highly necessary domestic tasks falling by the wayside as I 'lounge' on the sofa attempting to crochet a horse which looks like a pregnant fish.)

The only thing amusing me at the moment is flipping between Reality Shows of Thing I Would Not Like to Attempt, including Project Runway, America's Next Top Model, and my new besties at Cheerleader U.

These girls and boys are Very Serious about cheerleading. The only person on the show with a sense of humor is the slyly masochistic trainer who loves dunking the kiddies into a 50-degree cold pool post-practice. Her, I like. The rest are Very Serious Indeed.

I'm going to have a nice bowl of acceptable herbal tea (Yogi brand Chai, without the syrupy nastiness of 'chai lattes') with some soymilk (just sweet enough). Otherwise, avert your gaze from me at all costs, or you will turn into a pile of ick.


I am one veiny fattie!

Man, that sounds gross! But, a pattern is a pattern and it's not time to break it yet.

The point is, I went to get some blood drawn today, and the nurse told me my veins were 'great' as opposed to 'terrible.' Great meaning 'not buried under ten layers of flab.'


McNulty! D'oh!

The Wire cast as Simpsons characters.

I am one sore fattie.

Two days in a row at the gym? Wow! Yes, I went yesterday - 20 minutes of sheer aerobic joy on the treadmill, just me and Mr Green Jeans 2.0 listening to my "HARSH" (depressing/angry) mix and watching snippets of ESPN on the TV and poorly captioned news feeds on CNN. I have to ask people I know who have captioned - isn't one supposed to know the basics of what's going on in the world as they transcribe? I know transcription's a bitch, but Michelle Obama is newsworthy enough for her name not to be spelled "My Shell Obama" in the captioning. And why the hell doesn't the gym screen their TV programs better? I don't want to watch "30 Minute Meals" while I'm trying to drain the starch from my body.

Whew, that was a five calorie rant at least.

Unfortunately, I couldn't dodge Mavis. I actually ran into her at the gym shop where I was looking for a pair of shorts (I'd managed to pack four upper-body garments and no lower-body garments into my sweaty silver gym bag.) I was despairing over the (expected, to be fair) lack of big gal clothes, and found a pair of men's XL shorts among the tiny tanks and hoodies. Mavis stuck her face next to mine (why does she do that? Her neck appears to telescope like a goose-neck iMac) and gravelly make no sense to me:

"Oh I left ya here last night! Good, yer shoppin." And then she was gone. It looks like she had a haircut this weekend; she had a shorter, straighter more straw-like blond coating on her head.

Mavis, please go away. Maybe I'll get the counterman to feed her some slightly toxic Gatorade Tiger (which according to him, tastes slightly toxic anyway).

Good news - the shorts looked dandy, I got sweaty, took a lovely shower and had a delightful evening at the theatre, listening to men talk about what pathetic athletes they were.