Lose a Fatty

In the Loseafatty world, we get paid once a month. Some months, you get lucky and direct deposit hits around the 28th or 29th -- if the last day of the month is Sunday or Monday, for example, our money hits Friday. Then other months, you fight it out to the bitter end. March is a bitter end kind of month. So here are actual signs from my real life that my paycheck hits in about four hours. Keep in mind that I'm a single-income homeowner with student loans, so making one check stretch for all the things ain't easy. I have $8 in my checking account and $1.50 in cash/coins. This doesn't count change in my VW bug bank, though. I only roll that when things get really bad. I didn't have anything to take for lunch today, so I had to find the cheapest campus food that would keep me full the longest. Or just not eat. I chose the first option, but it also sort of made me sick, so tonight I'm just sitting around moaning. I'm out of popcorn. (Gasp!) I'm out of

I had to break up with my physical therapist today. Talk about awkward. I started PT for my old lady knee (I call her "Edna") about a month ago. I've seen some improvement, but I felt like the therapist was a little ... off. She seemed rushed if I had to leave my 9 a.m. appointment by 10:30. She continued to give me more and more exercises to do at home, while doing little more than ultrasound and some electro-stimulation moves in the office. How did she fill that 90 minutes, you ask? Well, I'm a talker myself, but she took the cake. So much information. So much justification of treatment decisions. So. Much. Talking. She's a nice woman so I kept it up, but I reached my tipping point on Monday. My knee had started catching weirdly. I'd be walking all confident and normal, and my knee would catch and jerk. I can easily walk it out, but it was new and weird. I thought for sure she could help. After about 20 minutes of watching me walk and talking about hamst

Since birth, I've been a "bad sleeper." Mom would work for hours when I was an infant to get me down, just to have the slightest thing startle me awake again. (Note: 'Slightest thing' was often my sister, who liked how I'd throw my hands over my head and scream when I was startled.) Apparently I fussed a lot and I breathed strangely. They tell stories about propping the crib mattress up so I'd wheeze less. I snored like my dad, didn't sleep through the night, frequently woke up in a cold sweat from nightmares. Sleeping, the most restorative thing we can do for our brains and bodies, has been the bane of my existence. Despite promises from my pediatrician that I'd grow out of all this, nothing has changed for me as an adult except that I'm old enough to know that I'm chronically exhausted. I wear a sexy Darth Vader mask every night that's supposed to keep me from suffocating in my sleep. But even with the mask, I'm pooped. The sl

Friday night, I broke my own "nothing but jammie pants and the couch on Fridays" rule and headed downtown to meet a friend for a talk by some editors of "The Onion." After an amusing opening schtick and a way-less-interesting Q&A with the audience, we hit up a nearby restaurant for a snack and drink before parting ways. That ways-parting happened a lot later than I'm used to downtown, but since it was one of our first really lovely spring-like nights, the streets were still pretty busy within a block of the restaurant we'd gone to. I'd lucked out on parking and had snagged a spot in the garage in that block -- kind of a miracle because I generally have terrible luck parking, my feet were super sore from standing for two hours in pinchy boots at a retirement party earlier that evening, and the ballet, symphony and Public Theater were all in business that night. Unfortunately, the elevator with the easiest access to my car was around the block, and

For a little less than a year, I've been helping two amazing tweenage boys become better writers and readers. I still feel like the world's worst teacher -- I don't have formal lesson plans, and sometimes we just work on homework assignments together. But the experience has offered up enough wins that I keep at it. The best day, by far, was when the three of us acted out a scene from "Much Ado About Nothing" and the kids actually GOT the humor. Their laughs and smiles played through my head as I left their house that night, and I gotta say, I had a little swagger in my step. Obviously, I am awesome. Another win? The fifth grader, who just wrote an essay a few weeks ago about how much he wants to be a mathematician, now wants to be a journalist. I'm not saying I'm a miracle worker, but I'm just about the only writer he knows. So...I'll take it. At the same time, I don't want to be the reason the kid ends up in a dead-end, no-promotions-on-th

It's been three weeks since last we were together, Facebook. And in my breakup letter, I offered the old platitude that it wasn't you, it was me. Truth is, it really was you all along. Some distance has helped me see that you're a time-waster. A black hole of lost energy and effort. You put people into my life who didn't need to be there. You wielded unyielding, gleeful control over me. Your constantly fluctuating "What should we show people today?" algorithm meant that every encounter I had or post I saw was what you wanted me to see. You manipulated my reality. You're like the worst boyfriend in the history of the world. Really. I know. I won't say that being without you has been easy. In fact, I caved at the one-week mark and used my work account -- where I have no friends, no photo and exist only to post things on one page -- to slip through a back door and stalk someone. And of course, I saw what I didn't want to see and I felt terrible

Being female in the workplace ain't no picnic. Sometimes it's such a challenge that I even use words like "ain't." In my 16 years out in the world, I've had four situations with male colleagues that have necessitated managerial, HR or police intervention. And in each instance, I always spent days or weeks or even months thinking "I bet I'm overreacting. I'll just wait and see what happens." I'll wait and see what happens after a colleague stands two inches from me and screams in my face, spittle splattering my skin as veins throb in his bald head. I'll wait and see what happens after a coworker uses his body mass to pin me against a wall so I can't escape from him at a work party. I'll wait and see what happens when a former intern appears in my office to physically intimidate me, follows up with an angry email about my failings as a human being, and then begins calling my office extension endlessly and hanging up. I

From my last post, you'll know that I attended the memorial service for my aunt today. What I didn't tell you in that post was that my family ALMOST BOKE THE PEW during the service. No one owned pews growing up, obviously, but my family always sat in the fourth row of the left center section, sandwiched in between two other rows of family members. Pap's older brother and his wife and kids and grandkids sat in front of us; his younger brother, whose wife just died, played the church organ, but his kids always sat behind us. We were a row behind where we used to sit, so I'm going to blame the pew's weakness on my cousin, who deserves it for tickling me with palm fronds every year well into my 20s, when he was a grown-ass man. But I digress. I don't come from small people, and we were shoulder-to-shoulder in our row. Big shoulders. Some big people, myself included. Before the service began, a pew in the far left section of the church gave a huge CRACK and the

I walk through the world feeling like a mutant sometimes. Between my short, stocky build and my curly hair, I certainly stand out in a crowd. I have no neck, sort of like Fred Flintstone. I have giant shoulders. My eyebrows, left unchecked, meet in the middle and arch like Dracula's. I have flat feet that are notoriously icky. Both my laugh and my voice carry for miles. But today we celebrated the life of my dad's aunt, who died about 10 days ago after six months of pain and suffering. She's one of my favorite relatives — married to my pap's little brother for 58 years. She directed the children's choir at church when I was so small that I tripped over my robe. (I'd go on to sing with her in different capacities until just a few years ago.) Her kids, all way older than I am, tormented me during church well into our adulthoods. They're a great family, full of kindness and compassion (aside from tormenting me). To see their grief and experience it with them

It's strange how much drama a seemingly harmless philodendron can cause. The one I'm talking about takes up a small shelf in a corner near my sink, but it wasn't always mine. It lived at Email Dumper's place, but wasn't thriving there. He didn't give it the light or water it needed, then tried to throw the poor plant away. But it wasn't even close to dead! Just a bit wrinkled. If the plant could have talked, it would have been all "I'm not dead yet! I'm feeling better!" But alas, it was heading for the dead wagon when I stepped in to save it. I think everyone has a weakness for something. For a woman I work with, it's stay cats. My sister is a sucker for sad dogs. I've never been that way with critters, but god help me if I walk near the clearance plant rack at Home Depot. I'd buy them all if I could, and give them the good soil and sunlight they deserve. The poor plants don't ask to be neglected and then rejected becaus

Or, How I Spent My Sunday Carrie Bradshaw set every woman up for disappointment. Well, maybe not every woman. But if you were, say, in your 20s when Carrie was living it up in NYC as a fabulous single gal in her 30s, there's some degree of letdown the morning you wake up, check your Sunday Staying at Home outfit in the mirror and realize that not only are you older than Carrie was during the show's run, but your life has taken a sharp turn away from anything resembling glamorous. Take, for example, my aforementioned Sunday Staying at Home outfit: yoga capris, t-shirt and a sweatshirt because my house felt like a meat locker. Not too bad, but my green and red plaid socks definitely clashed with my brown Aztec-print slippers. And my unwashed curly hair exploded out of my beat up headband in an untidy mess. My Old Navy-meets-Kohl's ensemble? A far cry from Monolos and Gucci. Then there's my Sunday routine. While Carrie might have had some pretentious "brunch&quo

Everyone has sad days. Today is one of mine. Since my new recliner joined the household two weeks ago, I've relished its warmth and comfort. I've (almost nightly) napped in its embrace. I've gone so far as to call it a hug for my butt.  But that doesn't mean I've forgotten my old La-Z-Boy.  We were together 12 years, which is the longest relationship of my life, I think. I paid a coworker $40 for it, and my family helped me haul it up the 32 steps to my apartment. Covered in cat hair (achoo!), it looked older than it really was, and I worried that maybe I'd made a bad deal. But I borrowed a Little Green Machine and cleaned the hell out of that sucker. Once it dried, it was my go-to seat in my apartment. (I had a couch, too, but the chair was comfy!)  When I bought my house, the chair made the three-mile trek over from my apartment with my hand-me-down couch — the extent of my living room seating options. God only knows how many hours I sat in that

No really. Daylight saving time. These guys know. Believe them. It's not daylight savings time or daylight-savings time or even (though it used to be the case) daylight-saving time. It's daylight saving time. Period. (Just like it's not Paneras, a personal pet-peeve. Why do people pluralize or possessive-ize stores and restaurants?? GAH!) If you're writing to someone to ask them about a meeting and need to clarify time zone, you're now in EDT if you're on the east coast — Eastern Daylight Time. I think if you're in the state of Indiana, you're still on Eastern Standard Time. When everyone bitches about losing an hour in November with all their "OMG! I hate daylight savings! It's so dark when I leave work!" what they really hate is transitioning back to standard time. I take a lot of razzing for being OCD about this stuff, but when you've spent as much time as I have editing other peoples' news stories — often with embargo

Hello readers! My blog analytics tell me interesting things. First of all, hardly anyone reads this thing. And that's fine. I'm doing this for me and as a way to collect my writing, ship it to an agent and try to pay off my credit card debt before I die. But it also tells me that something like 15 percent of you access this page via Internet Explorer. I can only assume that you're in some kind of parallel universe time-travel situation where it's 1997 where you are, but you can still access things in the future. Maybe you're a special agent sent back in time, stuck with their technologies but empowered to read what's happening in 2017? I have no idea. But for the love of god and all that is holy, find a different browser. Please. No really. IE stinks. Even writers like me know it. Thanks, Loseafatty

I had a big day out this past Saturday, so I treated myself to a big night in with popcorn and a movie from Amazon. (Side note: How awesome is it that we can rent movies without even leaving the house? It seems like not that long ago I stalked the video store in my hometown like a poacher hunting rhinos, waiting for someone to return "A Few Good Men" so I could rent it for the umpteenth time.) Back to my story. Because I'm 100 years old and still recovering from the horror that is "Manchester by the Sea," I rented "The Secret Life of Pets." In those glorious 90ish minutes, I found my spirit animal: Gidget, the Pomeranian.  You're probably thinking, "Hey, I know you in real life, and you're not small and you're not fluffy." But that's not why I think she's my spirit animal. For starters, she's perky. She's got spunk. She's tiny but she doesn't let big obstacles get in her way. She talks really fa

A bitch lives in my brain that no one ever sees. She very rarely reveals herself to the outside world. But she's always talking to me, about me, against me. She hates the shit out of me. And I have a helluva time shutting her the fuck up. I don't know where she came from, but I'm pretty sure she's the love child of Fat Kid and Small Town. Bitch Brain came to life as my protector. She knew it would be easier for me to navigate the (horrible, cruel) waters of elementary and middle school if she was always one step ahead of the insults. How in the world could I be hurt by real people if Bitch Brain kept up a steady stream of negative chatter about how ugly I was? How could anyone ever make me feel insignificant if she was always telling me that I would never be good enough anyway? Bitch Brain served her purpose and got me through school without too much damage from other people. But by the time I left both Fat Kid and Small Town behind, we'd become so close tha

It's literally one of the prettiest things I've ever created. Just look at this thing. I've had an overly Mondayish Monday. I'm overwhelmed by personalities at work.  No matter how hard I try to project an outward appearance of nonchalance, the best neutral look I can muster really screams "YOU ARE A COMPLETE MORON, YOU MORON." Or I just avert my eyes completely and concentrate on my notebook.  Family stuff? That's rough too. On top of all that, I also realized that the only people of the male persuasion who seem interested in me are uninteresting. They like to talk about themselves. They could have the same conversation (monologue) regardless of whether or not I'm even in the room. I've had too damn much of that. Yet I keep finding myself in situations where I feel trapped into making decisions to spend time with people like this.  In short, everything seems like a big fucking disaster some days. Today was one of them. But ye

I spent my first Facebook-free day at home. I did what I thought was a pretty solid day's work: edited a client's website. Fixed another broken web thing. Read and responded to a ton of emails. Carefully checked a layout of a new publication against the master version with comments and changes, and then proofread it and compiled yet another set of changes. Whew! That's a good day's work. Except when I looked at the clock, it had only been four hours. FOUR HOURS. Somehow, Facebook had been stealing half my day. In addition to being more productive at work, I've also found better ways to spend my time. I've texted friends instead of reading their social media updates. I've met up with people in person. I've made more plans to get together with other people. I've started exploring new music. (Panic! At the Disco!). I went shopping with my sister and I never once took my phone out of my pocket. (Wait. I did once. Because I got a text message confir

Or How I Really Hate Salespeople Who Work on Commission Last week, my sister kicked her significant other to the curb. Since they lived together for years, he had to get his crap out of her house. When all was said and done, she had the place to herself but she also had no bed. So off we went to the furniture store for a mattress-buying adventure. From the start, we had zero seconds to ourselves in the store. A salesman stuck to us like glue, making it nearly impossible for her to actually try the mattresses. Everything I've read about buying a mattress says you should lay on the darn thing at least 20 minutes (I know, that's crazy) so you know how your body will settle into it. But this dude shepherded us through the mattress section of the store like he was in a hurry to get to a better commission. Of course, he started her out on the $3,000 adjustable model ("But it's half off!"), then he used her preference for it's firmness to guide what other models

Oh, La-Z-Boy, so aptly named! You warm my bum in hugs of softness. You ease my aching bones with springs and pillows. You're gloriously framed. Together, you and I shall explore All the wonders of the Amazon (Prime) Wander the streets of (Rick Steves') Europe And glory in the golden (girls) of yore. You throne to idleness and sleep! You bastion of rest and repose! The days and evenings we will enjoy! The endless comfort that we'll keep. Together, we'll grow old and gray, And oh, my buttocks will spread. From hours spent in your embrace From whence I will not stray. You're so freaking great. Better than any date. The end.

Facebook, we're breaking up. It's not your fault, really. It's mine. I'd sit around at night, staring at you, waiting for things to happen. I'd search out posts I knew would make me sad. I'd look at photos of peoples' travels and babies and fun nights out while I sat around in my pajamas despising myself -- yet I still couldn't look away. I wasted hours of my life that I'll never get back comparing myself to the strategically created realities of 334 people who weren't really the friends you said they were while I let my actual friendships falter. And don't get me started on the news, Facebook. I'm either a horrible "libtard" to half of my friends, or not doing enough and "part of the problem" to the other half. The stress of existing in your universe made my life a misery So we're breaking up. Well, more accurately, we're taking a break. I'm not Catholic -- I don't even go to church anymore -- bu