Monday, March 29, 2010

The Dying Wishes of a Fat Ass

I'm a fat-ass. I weigh 20 pounds more than I want to weigh. And that sucks. It sucks ass.

So I have to get all fit and whatnot. The problem is, there are seemingly only two ways to lose weight: exercise, or a healthy diet (or both). My diet's pretty healthy already (sans Granola bars), so we're good there.

But there is something you may not know about me, and it is this: I fucking hate exercise.

I would rather murder a drifter and be skinny for life than have to work out ever. Really. Well, okay, maybe not murder. But I would fuck that drifter UP.

I just can't stand it. I hate sweat. I hate smelling bad. I hate hair in my face. I hate sticky feet and tank-tops riding up and short shorts tangling up between my legs. I even hate the WORD. Exercise. It's so hard to type. I ALWAYS spell it wrong. It's completely illogical. It should be spelt excersise.

Anyways, as a consequence of this, I have never been much of a work-out-er. I figure, I walk a shit-ton all over school, and to the bus stop, and to my house, all while lugging like 20 pounds of bags (school bag, purse, lunch box, and sometimes my laptop). But apparently not. I got FAT over winter. YEAH. Fucking seasonal climates. You can get fat without even realizing it. Then the snow melts and you wear skimpier clothes and realize your stomach looks like a HIPPO'S and how incredibly screwed you are.

So I have to start working out. In the incredibly likely case that this shit will actually kill me, I present to you,

My Last Will and Testament
  • Menzie is in charge of my Facebook account, including taking care of my Happy Aquarium fishies. This is under the condition that she never delete the following fish: Roger (goldfish), Omen (clown fish), and Phil (long skinny one).
  • She also gets my books (except the sentimental childhood ones, see point #3), in the hopes that she further her chick lit education.
  • My dearest mother gets all my childhood stuff, including the boxes stashed in my closet.
  • My stationary and office supplies are to be buried in the crypt next to me, as is my makeup, earrings, and bags.
  • I am to be buried in my jeans, Converse, and grey hoodie, under my turquoise comforter, surrounded by the strips of photo booth pictures that are stuck on my mirror.
  • My alarm clock is to be smashed into pieces by my brother, a fellow sufferer of sleep deprivation. Burn the pieces and chuck the ashes in an ocean.
  • My clothes, with the exception of those that apply to point #3, can go to any friend who wants them, and after that, to children in Bangladesh.
  • All of my school papers are to be recycled and made in to other kid's school papers.
  • My laptop, Flamingo; my printer, Louise; my camera, Jefferson; and my iPod, Carmella are to be left egg-friggin'-zactly where they are. Seriously. Hands off.
  • My brother gets anything he wants, which won't be much, as do Kelshall, Mahabir, Feeney, Boccara, Armour, Wilkins, and Holder. [PS: these are friends from my last location. Get with it, reader.]
  • My dad gets any pictures of me that are in my room. That'll stop his bitching.

Sunday, March 28, 2010

Artists I Have an ISSUE With

  • Vampire Weekend. Okay, I love these guys. Their songs are cute. Fun. Their lyrics are wacky but enjoyable to sing along to. But I do not recommend you plop all of their songs in one playlist and listen to them all jumbled together. THEY ALL SOUND THE SAME. I swear to god. I can't tell them apart. I love Oxford Comma and Diplomat's Son, but I can't get over the repetitiveness.
  • Dido. She is fucking amazing, and I only have one album from years ago. BUT WHY ARE HER SONGS ALL SO SAD?! They all make me want to CRY. Maybe it's because we got her CD right after my childhood dog, Tessa, died, and so now I associate all of her songs with that. But it's seven years later and they're still sad. Sing something HAPPY. Take a page out of Corinne Bailey Rae's book, Dido. Make me smile.
  • Gorillaz. Again, I love you. I love the mystique and I love the animated thing and I especially love Noodle. I've been a fan of these guys since the early 2000s when I was in 7th grade, grooving to edited versions of Rock the House and trying to remember which is the one with the bag of sunshine bit. My bone to pick lies in the fact that they have some WEIRD ASS SONGS. We don't really want to hear a dude screaming "...Hello? ....Can anybody hear me?!...Helloooo?" for seven minutes. We want to hear your awesome music. Really.
  • Rihanna. I have an album and a half of hers and don't know how many times I've danced to her stuff at parties and in my own bedroom. But post-Chris-Brown-scandal Rihanna I do not like. I want her to go back to her cute, happy, Music of the Sun stuff. Not this Rated R, chopped off hair, chain-mail-on-SNL-wearing Rihanna who's all agressiiiive. Get sweet.
  • Justin Bieber. You're 16, and you look 12. 'Nuff said.

Wednesday, March 17, 2010


This is Britain. It's colorful and all-natural. But it rains. Like a bitch.

Few people know I'm actually half British. I used to flaunt the fact, and when people asked where I was from, my go-to answer was always "I'm half American, half British". Over the years, I dropped the British bit, mostly because a) I didn't have the accent, passport, or citizenship to back it up, and b) because I started identifying more with the States. Before this summer (when I took those pictures) I hadn't been to the UK for three or four years. But I was in the US every few months. I got involved in American politics, fell in love with Obama, and then, here in Canada, the fact that I have British blood is ignored for the "Oh. My. God. You're AMERICAN" comments I get.

But I still have a quiet pride for Britain.

Friday, March 5, 2010

Friday, Saturday, and Sunday: The Fatties Take Over

And so begins the Trinidad chronicles.

I'm a bit late, so I'll try and remember all the details. I hope my dear friends will correct me as I go along.

So. Let's do this thing.

You wouldn't think it would take three days to get from Winnipeg to Port of Spain, but for us, I did. Friday afternoon, when I got home from school, I packed my bags and waited in anticipation for my mom to get home from work. She did, and a few hours later, when the car was stuffed and cleaned out (to the best of my ability in the freezing cold, trekking back and forth from car to house while being WATCHED by our creepy, annoying, fat-arm neighbor), we piled in and were off.

Eight hours later, at around 1 in the morning, we were in Minneapolis, at the Hilton Hotel. Nice digs, right? We spent the night there, and woke up Saturday morning fresh as daisies. First item on the agenda: shopping. We caught the hotel shuttle and took it to, you guessed it, The Mall of America, in all its glory.520 stores, 4 of which are massive department stores, with an entire amusement park in the middle of it all - if you wanna take on this Mall, you had better have a plan. And we did. We carefully studied maps, we used landmarks and anecdotes to find our way around, and we hit five or six stores. Yes, five or six, out of 520. But we were commando shopping. If you go into the MOA thinking you'll just puts around for an hour, you are completely fucked. You will get lost deep within the bowels of the Mall, and never be seen again by your loved ones.

Anyways, we went to Penney's (surprisingly disappointing), Macy's (annoyingly expensive), Old Navy (spacey and smelly), and got a few good things. We were mostly shopping for swimsuits (I ended up not swimming. I know, right? More on this later), and my mom got a cute one, but I couldn't help but feel like the Size L that I am. I love swimsuits. But I hate shopping for them. There are bikins as far as the eye can see, and for someone whose tummy has seen the light of day a total of one time, the whole prospect can be a bit of a downer. But, ironically, I got a cute cover-up, and later, a nice Spring-y dress. So it all worked out.

Saturday night we spent in the Hilton again. Then verrrry early Sunday morning, we woke up, and started our day of travelling.

We flew from Minneapolis to Miami. The flight was uneventful, until the following. (I wrote this for a Creative Writing assignment. But it works. True story.)

I had dreaded my seat assignment as soon as I got on the plane and glanced up at the seating charts. 22E meant hours of discomfort, meant fighting for the armrests, and meant missing out on the window views. 22E meant the middle seat. As my mom and I sat there, me in my dreaded middle seat and her in the luxurious aisle, we were both thinking the same thing, but neither of us said it out loud. The pilot had warned that it was a very fully flight. Was it possible that the window seat to the left of me would be empty for the entire four hour flight? We pulled out our magazines and packets of gum, adjusted the air conditioning vents and buckled our seatbelts, not daring to make eye contact. The plane was slowly filling up. Fewer and fewer people were shuffling down the aisle past us, and the flight attendants were walking up and down the cabin, slamming closed the overhead bins and passing out blankets. The anticipation grew. An authoritative voice came over the loudspeaker and announced that we would be taking off soon. I still couldn’t look at my mom. I repeated a mantra to myself – it’ll be taken. It’ll be taken. The speakers ponged. The safety demonstration video was about to begin. A pan shot of an American Airways plane in midair, and I unclenched. They close the door after the video starts, don’t they? As the pre-recorded message reminded us that our seat cushion could be used as a flotation device, I began to relax. I pulled up the armrest on my left and leaned over to look out at the Minneapolis airport, happily letting my thighs splay into the neighbouring seat. Watching the plane ahead of us taxi around the tarmac, I was momentarily distracted by my surroundings, but I perked up when I saw her. She was a big woman, in a white shirt, with sweaty, red cheeks, and she was heading straight for me. Every muscle in my body tightened. No, no, no! I stared at the seatback in front of me. Fasten seat belt white seated. Life vest under seat. Fasten seat belt white seated. Life vest under seat. There was some fumbling going on in the row behind me. I heard shuffling, the opening and closing of an overhead bin, and some mumbling from the man in the seat. “Excuse me,” the fat rolls asked me and my mom. “That’s my seat.”
Yeah. So. That was that story.

We got to Miami mid-morning. They've just finished some big renovations at MIA, and it was uber-confusing to navigate. Plus, our flight out wasn't until late that night, so they hadn't posted the gate number on the boards yet, so we couldn't go to our gate, so we didn't have a home base. And I like having a home base. But after a hearty meal, we found what had kept us going the last two days - the spa. We both got pedicures and had the long days massaged away out our feet. We eventually got settled at our gate and were there for four or five hours, before we finally boarded our plane.

At this point, we got giddy. We had a near-fatty experience as the exact same thing that happened at the start of the Minneapolis-Miami flight: an empty seat next to us, the growing anticipation. Finally, a suave looking guy sat there, explaining that he would "only be here for a couple minutes". I was too annoyed to process that, but a few minutes later, right on cue, a flight attendant waved him up to first class, and we had a row of three seats all to ourselves for the flight. The Gods were happy with me. The giddiness comes in when the flight was about to take off. We kept imagining that fat bitch coming back and taking our extra seat, even after we were up in the air. I had been excited about this trip for a while, but for some reason, when we took off in Miami was the first time it really hit me. I got the jitters and they didn't go away for hours and hours.

We landed in Trinidad. We got our bags in no time, found our lovely driver Jason who we missed, and headed for Jamie's house. We got some top-ups for our phones on the way, and before we knew it, I was pulling up to Jamie's and mauling her.

I took a well-deserved shower and Jamie and I talked for a few hours. We caught up on everything, from the state of teachers at school to people in our grade, and planned how we would surprise Eddie the next morning. I was never happier to be in Jamie's spare single bed.