I believe every person needs their own personal theme song. That song that exemplifies you, and when you hear it, you think of yourself.

There was a bit of a debate on the Twitter on Tuesday night during and after the airing of Glee when the some of the cast covered Queen’s “Fat Bottomed Girls.” To be honest, I’ve yet to see the episode where Puck tries to woo Lauren with his rendition of the song, but I know the song. From what I’ve read, the character Lauren was upset after Puck sang the song to her in front of the other classmates.

“Fat Bottomed Girls“ is my theme song. It’s my ringtone, it speaks to me, it speaks about me.

I’ve always liked Queen (maybe it’s my deep-seeded life-long love for the gay man, closeted Freddy Mercury included), and growing up, I would listen to Queen on my parent’s stereo on tapes and records… waaaaaay waaaaaay back in the 80s. My favorite song was always “Fat Bottomed Girls,” even before I was a girl with a fat bottom. My mom has always had junk in her trunk, so I felt a kinship with the song because I loved my mom and thought she made the world go ’round.

Now as a fat bottomed girl, I own the song. I am the song. The song is about loving a woman with a fat bottom (never mind the part about her being his nanny and under-age love and all that), and the world revolving around women with lovely lady lumps.

We are people who are loved, too. We deserve to be sung to. We deserve anthems in our name.

We own “Fat Bottomed Girls.”

I don’t understand the other side of the debate that is offended by this song or “Baby Got Back” by Sir Mix A Lot. When those songs come on at a party, I’m the first one to get my fat ass out onto the dance floor and OWN it.

Besides, I don’t know of any “Acne Faced Woman” songs being sung any time soon, because, obviously.

© Angie [A Whole Lot of Nothing] for A Whole Lot of Nothing • Your Favorite Blog, 2011. | Permalink | 15 comments | Add to del.icio.us
Post tags: ass, fat, fat bottomed girls, glee, queen, song

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I broke down and shelled out $3 for the Couch to 5 K app for my phone.

It takes me less than 1/2 a second to decide on buying a dozen mini cupcakes, but it took me about 6 months to finally justify spending 3 dollars on an exercise app.

I’ll succeed in finishing off the cupcakes, but I may fail at actually using the exercise app.

I know. Crazy town.

I quit soda in December thinking I’d instantly drop a few hundred pounds. Didn’t happen.

Apparently I have to actually get up and do more than walk to the toilet to equal actual exercise.

That’s just stupid.

Exercise is hard. And it’s hot outside. And I don’t like the hot. It makes sweat. And sweat is stupid.

It takes too many steps to turn on the Wii Fit Plus.

THAT is a sign of fucking lazy.

I’ve told you before that I take lazy to a whole other level. Now do you believe me?

But now I guess being fat is stupid. And that’s just dumb.

________________________________________

Pee Pee Ess: I lied.

© Angie [A Whole Lot of Nothing] for A Whole Lot of Nothing • Your Favorite Blog, 2010. | Permalink | 36 comments | Add to del.icio.us
Post tags: exercise, fat, girl

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Who the crap cares about basketball?

OK, so maybe some of you crazies do, just like I care about football, but since I’m not a fan of any basketball unless it involves Dwight Howard cradling me like his sweet, sweet baby, I did my own bracket.

CAKE VS. PIE

Over at Jezebel (I’d never heard of them either), they’ve set up a very scientific system for determining the all-out winner of the age-old battle between confections. (I know that the uber HIGHlarious Hyperbole and a Half did her own cartoony Battle of the Noms last week. She is Awesome. I bow to her Awesomeness.)

Personally, if it were a “baked goods” battle, the brownie would have won out. But since this is Cake v. Pie, I had some more thinking and painful decisions to make.

There’s not an all-out winner. I can’t make my final decision.

Here are my thoughts on Round 1:

Clearly, someone lost their brains when they included Funfetti on the list. They already had Birthday Cake. How is Funfetti NOT Birthday Cake. stupid.

And Fruitcake? I guess they figure my grandmother may do a bracket.

So far, easy choices.

On to Round 2:

Come on. Wedding Cake? Sure, Wedding Cake is technically “cake,” but you can’t go to the store and BUY Wedding Cake. It snot It’s not available on any given late-night run to the bakery. That alone should kick it out of the running.

And Rhubarb? Without strawberries, there would be no Rhubarb Pie. They didn’t even list “strawberries” as part of the ingredients. Am I to assume make an “ass” out of “u” and “me” and pick Rhubarb because I think there MIGHT be strawberries? I SAY NAY.

Note regarding Pecan Pie: My mother makes the best Pecan Pie in the world. No competition. None. I don’t care what you say about your own Mama’s Pecan Pie, my Mama’s Pecan Pie is better. I’m going to go ahead and imagine the Pecan Pie to which they are referring is my own Mama’s. That will make a big difference in later rounds.

My belleh is growing into Round Three:

The choices are more daunting than expected. I’m a girl who needs details. SPECIFICS.  What FLAVOR Bundt Cake? What FLAVOR Cheesecake? This makes a huge difference. You can’t put up a chocolate Bundt Cake up against a German Chocolate Cake. The clear winner is chocolate Bundt Cake. But if it’s vanilla Bundt Cake? The clear winner is German Chocolate Cake. Just for the lack of specifics, I had to choose German Chocolate.

I can’t willy-nilly pick a Cheesecake over Cherry Pie. There’s only one “flavor” of Cherry – DONE. There are kajillions of Cheesecakes. Just look at any Cheesecake Factory Cheesecake menu. It’s a Book of Nom. Again, just for the lack of specifics, I had to choose Cherry Pie.

The Pumpkin Pie v. Pecan Pie battle came down to one factor: my internal excitement for said pie. I love them both. Both are made from scratch by my Mama. But if a gun was to my head, and that’s what it took, I’d pick Pecan Pie.

Fatty McEatsalot Round Four:

It comes down to

In the Cake arena: GERMAN CHOCOLATE v RED VELVET

As I age into a mature woman of 33, I’ve come to appreciate German Chocolate as a moist chocolate cake topped with gooey coconutty goodness. When done right, the German Chocolate cake can be an all-out winner. HOWEVER, if the cake is dry, it’s a complete fail.

90% of all Red Velvet cakes and cupcakes I’ve ever eaten have been yumyumyumyumyum delicioso.

In the Pie corner: PECAN v CHERRY

This is definitely a difficult decision. I get to have my Mama’s Pecan Pie twice a year, but when I do have it, it’s beyond.

Cherry Pie is for sure a good-to-eat dessert year-round, and with the right flaky crust, heavenly.

Sooooo…

Finally, Round Five:

WHAT GOES IN MAH BELLEH???

I CAN’T DECIDE!!!11!!ONE!!!

RED VELVET? OR PECAN PIE?

Seriously.

Friends, I need your help.

WHICH ONE DO I CHOOSE?

© Angie [A Whole Lot of Nothing] for A Whole Lot of Nothing • Your Favorite Blog, 2010. | Permalink | 60 comments | Add to del.icio.us
Post tags: cake, dessert, fat, food, pie

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I’ve admitted before, I have lovely lady lumps and I don’t mean my boobies. I mean the cheesy lumps on my arse and my thighs. Being that I am a plumpalicious girl, I am standing up and protecting my fellow larger ladies and the rest of the world.

How? By calling a moratorium on shorts that are wider than they are long.

Unless you are in the top .01% of the ladies in the U.S., YOUR SHORTS SHOULD BE LONGER THAN THEY ARE WIDE. If this ratio is on the negative side, DON’T SQUEEZE YOUR FAT ASS INTO THE SHORTS.

Just because some clothing store makes the clothes and you can pull up the screaming zipper, DO NOT buy the shorts.

Oh, Sweet Baby Jeebus and Oprah. Here is my evidence from Old Navy*:

Allowing Old Navy (and others) to sell shorts at a 4 1/2″ inseam in a size 6 or up should be criminal. Allowing us larger ladies think it is OK to leave the house, much less purchase, any shorts less than a 5″ inseam (and still you gotsta have some NICE legs to pull those off) is a travesty.

And who are they joking with this picture of the shorts with a space between the legs? No woman who is a size 14 or up has any space between her thighs. You nasty nasty marketing picture-taking people are trying to make us think that those shorts (with pleats BTW) will allow our crotches to breathe.

Sorry, ladies, but wearing these shorts will only allow your ass to have a snack on some denim.

So, please. For the love of Sweet Baby Jeebus and Oprah. Stand UP and show your lovely legs! Just wear your shorts a little longer.

________________________________________________________________

*Originally published March 30, 2008 but still ever-so-awesome.

© Angie [A Whole Lot of Nothing] for A Whole Lot of Nothing • Your Favorite Blog, 2010. | Permalink | 35 comments | Add to del.icio.us
Post tags: fat, girl, legs, shorts, style, thighs, women

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Most people have a “most regrettable moment.”

Not me.

Except for all those times I used a credit card when I should have, said something really dumb, or said yes when I should have said no.

But specifically, that ONE regrettable moment?

Is an entire year.

I have a year of regret.

An entire year that has made me fat who I am today.

How, pray tel, does a year make me fat who I am today?

Let me be more cryptic specific.

The year after I graduated high school and before I met Patrick was a very exploratory year, and not the kind of exploration that required spelunking gear. Though it totally could have.

I wasn’t, we’ll say, focused on my school work. I was still living at home going to the local community college, but I really wasn’t home much. At 18, I was so friggin smart! and free! and a girl! and I was cute! and I had a job!

and I was HOT!

Oh, damns was I the shit. Long blond curly hair, size 28 men’s jeans shorts (they were cool back then), weighed 123 pounds cause when you weigh 123 pounds once you remember, had a cool new tattoo, and then another.

I was pretty much the one that brought all the boys to yard.

And they came for me.

I think a small part of me knew this, but a more conscious part of me just wanted the attention. That part of me ruled the rest of me. I was wanted.

Kind of like how I want freshly baked brownies right now.

Which brings me back to how that year made me fat today.

I met Patrick when we were both 18. We immediately stuck to each other and never let go. He loved me like no other guy had ever loved me. He respected me, he doted on me, he listened to me.

He didn’t want to let me go.

So I stayed. Thankfully.

He made me feel wanted. Special. Needed.

But I still noticed all the other boys in the yard. And they still noticed me.

To keep Patrick and to keep myself sane and to keep myself from making the other guys notice me, I subconsciously made myself fat.

Now, at 33, a mom, a wife, a woman. I’m not noticed. My husband loves me, I know this.

But subconsciously, I don’t want to be noticed because then, THEN, I might want them to be noticed.

Nobody notices a fat, 33 year old, mom, wife.

And, like that carton of milk in the back of my fridge with the expiration date of Sept 08, I just recently realized this.

Spoiled milk can become cheese, right? I’m pretty much the cheese.

mmmmm… cheese…

© Angie [A Whole Lot of Nothing] for A Whole Lot of Nothing • Your Favorite Blog, 2010. | Permalink | 39 comments | Add to del.icio.us
Post tags: fat, girl, mom, teenager, woman

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Warning*

The older and wiser I get, the lower my inhibitions become. Or maybe that’s the vodka. Whatever the case, I’m pretty much willing to do a lot of stuff without being embarrassed as long as I get paid.

Except…

Wear a bikini.

Ever.

Even if/when/in my dreams when I’m skinny, I will never, ever wear a bikini.

Even if I was paid by Jenny Craig to go on the Oprah show and got to wear some weird binding pantyhose deal that put an bizarre line down the middle of my belly (I’m looking at you, Kirstie Alley).

Oh, Kirstie. The crazy looked good on you then.

Even if I was skinny in the real world, but in Hollywoodland I was considered fat.

Oh, Love. You're beautiful in my book, even if my sister finds you extra annoying.

Even if you just take a picture from behind.

Oh, sweetheart. No. Just, no.

Even if I weighed 76 pounds.

If you add 140 pounds, this me.

Even if it were for a joke at my expense.

That's pretty much me, just without the dark hair & belly scar

I am definitely too chicken shit to put on a bikini.

*Warning: This post contains photographs that may or may not make your eyes bleed, your stomach turn, and/or make you put down that donut.

© Angie [A Whole Lot of Nothing] for A Whole Lot of Nothing • Your Favorite Blog, 2010. | Permalink | 23 comments | Add to del.icio.us
Post tags: bikini, fat, girl talk thursday, skinny

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