Me And Jennifer Lawrence, We’re Practically the Same Person

The young new goddess of the silver screen and I have so much in common that I half expect her to show up on my doorstep any second now. She has hair, I have hair. She speaks English, I speak English. And if that wasn’t enough we were both subjects of “The Fappening*”. Oh sorry, that was a spelling error, I only experienced “The Fattening” this past year.

Jennifer wears clothes, I wear clothes. Honest to goodness sometimes it's like we're twins. (Photo Credit : justjared.com)

Jennifer wears clothes, I wear clothes. Honest to goodness sometimes it’s like we’re twins. (Photo Credit : justjared.com)

That was my way of saying Erasmus and Jeremiah my food babies that I made out of gummy worms and sitting on my butt, are still here. I feel a bit like the mother from the Roald Dahl novel “Matilda” whom the author describes as being encased in a layer of fat. That’s me; I’m wobbling, wibbling, and jiggling my way through life. I don’t even have winter to blame any more, even up here in the frigid, remote North, the snow has been gone for weeks. I mean admittedly it is still the North so if you hunted around a particularly shady tree, one could still build a wicked snowman, but I don’t think that counts.

At the very least I can content myself knowing that JLaw has occasionally been considered heavy by Hollywood standards. Perhaps we can bond over kale sundaes or whatever it is that movie stars eat after taking a belly busting class together. Or snack on algae and wheat germ crackers while power walking our way through a hiking trail. I can see it- this is going to happen. Perhaps I shall hang onto my extra weight a while longer just in case so Ms. Lawrence and I can get rid of it together.

*Dear Mom,

I know you have no idea what “The Fappening” is. It’s because you aren’t a teenage boy. For Pete’s sake don’t Google it though. I imagine the search would turn up pages and pages of men with their tongues and various other parts out. Suffice to say my good friend Jennifer may have lost some racy photos to the wilds of the internet.

Advertisements

We Need to Talk About Jeremiah

For those of you who are new to my discussions of weight gain, Jeremiah is my food baby. I make him out of butter and gummy worms. He generally appears somewhere around the end of January, after I’ve spent months sitting around on my bum, watching the world become snowier and snowier. Jeremiah, my food baby, is named after a particularly good looking man that I once went out on a date with. (We are still working out the custody terms.)

My food baby didn’t return last year. My grandmother pulled me aside last Thanksgiving and told me in no uncertain terms that I was not to gain weight that winter. So I didn’t. Let it be known that my Gran cuts a forbidding figure when she wants to.

By contrast, this year, because of all of my sitting and studying, Jeremiah is back, and bigger than ever. One might even say that I’m carrying twin food babies if my newly enormous bottom counted; if so then I shall name him Erasmus. However, I didn’t realize how large my weight problem had become until yesterday.

Meredith, my new roommate and I are the same height, have the same shoe size, and we both have knockers so large that if we turn around too quickly while standing next to a child under the age of eight, they could be knocked unconscious. This especially applies to me, as my brassieres resemble Medieval fortresses; heavily constructed battalions, able to withstand the siege of walking quickly or running. The difference in our figures, is that Meredith has a tiny waist, which has become tinier compared to mine of late.

Though Meredith is uncomfortable with showing skin around me, I’ve taken to dashing down to the laundry room in only a bra and a skirt to search for an appropriate top. Prior to yesterday, I had been covert about this, peeking out of my bedroom to see if my roommate was in the kitchen and then sprinting for the stairs. I was running late Wednesday morning, so I burst out of my room and headed for lower, more-clothed ground, without nary a glance to see if Meredith was watching.

Apparently she was because when I returned from my half-naked search for a sweater, I found a pair of pants draped over the chair in my room. “I left a pair of pants for you to try on”. Meredith called cheerily from the kitchen. “They’re too big for me. I don’t know why I thought I was that huge.”

It would seem that Jeremiah is making his presence known to the world, or at the very least to my roommate, as I make my jiggly way to the basement every morning.

Attack of the Bulge! Jeremiah Returns!

In September, the days become shorter and colder to herald the long awaited return of Jeremiah.  For those of you who are new to The Great Unwashed, Jeremiah is my food baby.

English: Chocolate Zingers

I make Jeremiah out of so many of these. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

I make him out of tortilla chips, cupcakes and sitting on my butt every winter. I very carefully grow him in the dark Canadian cold and then sweat him off every spring. I look forward to eating wheels of cheese with Jeremiah, yet I never miss him when he’s gone.

In an act of poor judgment I named my winter pudge after a model that I used to date. In a fit of even poorer judgment I decided to inform said ex boyfriend that he was a (food) daddy. The original message is below.

Dear Jeremiah*,

Once upon a time I was young and lovely, and you were significantly older than me but also still lovely. And we went out on a date. I thought you were hot stuff.
Now I am married. And I have a blog. I just wanted you to know I named my food baby after you.
I always really liked the name Jeremiah.

Sincerely yours,

The Great Unwashed

A while ago, the actual Jeremiah not my chubby mid section emailed me back.

Oh my god! The Great Unwashed! How’s it going?? How are things? And what’s a food baby??

Jer*

*Names have not been changed to protect the identity of my (food) baby daddy because not only was his response tardy, but he didn’t even bother to inquire about little Jeremiah’s well being. He’s gone, extremely hot man who I went on a two hour date with exactly once- thanks for asking. I might have kept him had you offered child support.

No that’s a lie. I never intentionally hold on to my winter weight.

 

If you love chocolate and sour cream and the resulting the pleasant curve of a food baby named Jeremiah too, you can read more about him below.

https://iamthegreatunwashed.com/2013/02/25/im-not-pregnant-im-just-fat/

https://iamthegreatunwashed.com/2013/02/27/travesty-tuesdays-by-the-way-youre-a-food-daddy/

Bring On Munch!

Man am I happy to see the back end of Fatuary. For those of you who just arrived, due to the food baby I made out of doughnuts, licorice candy and too much sitting around on my butt, I rechristened February Fatuary.

I’m relieved it’s over, not only because it means that I’m one step closer to getting rid of Jeremiah, my food baby, but also for the majority of Fatuary I was in a really bad mood.

No, that’s not an adequate description. For most of Fatuary when I wasn’t consuming junk food, I was on a tear, I was the kind of grumpy that people cross to the other side of the street to avoid, I was the antichrist.

And sometimes during Fatuary I spoke French and so I became the French antichrist. Then I’d revert to English and go back to being just the antichrist.

Also, I’d like to announce that I have a new favourite word- antichrist. I find it’s a versatile word, applicable to every situation. Have a pair of socks with those little threads that cut between your toes? Simply sum up your discomfort with a succinct “These socks are the antichrist”. Hate mayo on sandwiches? Express your true feelings with by stating “This sandwich is the antichrist.” As a descriptor its uses are endless.

But back to the original purpose of this post, goodbye Fatuary, with your grey, sunless days and long snowy nights, I’m elated to see you go. Bring on March*!

 

*Names of months may be changed due to the fact that I continue to sit on the couch and consume sugar, an event which Roscoe observed and commented on, saying “If you keep eating like this March will be known as Munch”. Thank you dear husband, I love you too.

Travesty Tuesdays- By The Way You’re a (Food) Daddy

So I wasn’t planning on posting this Tuesday because I didn’t feel Travesty Tuesdays needed to be a weekly occurrence for my blog, but then I wrote “I’m Not Pregnant, I’m Just Fat”. Which led to my ponderings of -is it acceptable to message an ex-boyfriend to say that you’ve named your food baby after him?

And because Roscoe wasn’t home to stop me from doing wildly inappropriate things like messaging my ex-boyfriends about their newly created food offspring, my strange started running rampant over Twitter which led to the following message which was sent to the Jeremiah in question.

Dear Jeremiah*,

Once upon a time I was young and lovely, and you were significantly older than me but also still lovely. And we went out on a date. I thought you were hot stuff.
Now I am married. And I have a blog. I just wanted you to know I named my food baby after you.
I always really liked the name Jeremiah.

Sincerely yours,

The Great Unwashed

*Names have not been changed because not surprisingly, Jeremiah has not gotten back to me, Also he wasn’t actually an ex-boyfriend, I believe we only went out on one date. I did however think he was good looking what with him being a male model and all. That concept alone blew my nineteen year old mind, the fact that he was seven years older than me was just delicious icing on a sweet, sweet male model cake.

I’m Not Pregnant, I’m Just Fat

Not even days after posting Belly Button Watch 2013, someone asked me if I was pregnant. To which I had to answer, “No It’s Fatuary, I’m just heavier”.

What is Fatuary you might ask? Well once upon a time this month was known as February. But in recent years it’s come to my attention that this month has a lot of darkness, very little sunlight, an excess amount of cold and a plethora of snow.

All of this grey, bleak weather makes me want to sit on the couch. And eat bags of potato chips. Now the thing is, this is not my natural state. I’m a walker. I walk to the library, to the bus, to the grocery store, to the hair stylist. Anywhere possible I walk. But in Fatuary I sit. I sit until my seat spreads , until my skirts get tight and my belly looks round.  

And since no other month has this type of effect on me, I christened it Fatuary, a celebrated time for Canadians, where the only exercise we get is from shoveling the endless amounts of snow from our driveways and running quickly to and from the convenience store for more licorice and donuts.

So yes I am pregnant. With a food baby, I made him out of deep fried dough and licorice candies. I’m going to call him Jeremiah. I figure I’ll let him grow until April at which point I’ll want to be rid of him. Thus I’ll extract myself from my couch and start to run and walk and do all of the activities I love again and gradually Jeremiah will disappear, only to return next Fatuary.

Revolutionary Diet Secrets of the Great Unwashed

It’s the New Year! Oprah and Doctor Oz have decided that everyone is too fat. But before you get upset, read on, because they’re willing to help you!

 Now I would post what Doctor Oz and Oprah recommend for a “Newer, Healthier You” but that would be plagiarism. And it would also severely detract from advertising my diet plan. Now I haven’t patented it yet, or copyrighted it, or whatever you’re supposed to do to prevent people from stealing your brilliant dieting secrets but since you are all fans and avid lovers of my Unwashed wisdom, I will share my slim down strategy with you.

My diet is called the “Would Tori Spelling Eat That?” diet. For those of you who don’t spend hours perusing the 791.45 section of the library also known as the “Biographies of D-list movie stars and the cast of Jersey Shore” section, Tori Spelling is Aaron Spelling’s daughter. I can’t tell you much about Aaron mostly because he was a somewhat respectable character and I only read poorly written biographies about people who probably really shouldn’t have biographies. On that note I’ve read all four of Tori’s books and her mother’s.

Anyway, so Tori was on a big TV show in the 90’s but mostly she’s known for being very,very skinny and not having much acting ability. This doesn’t prevent me from watching the majority of her work including the very mediocre and disturbing “House of Yes”. Let’s just say the theme of incest figured prominently into the movie. Roscoe thinks that she looks like a cross between an alien and a praying mantis. Personally I think she’s pretty- potato, potahto, same thing.

Anyhow, on with the weight loss!

 

The “Would Tori Spelling Eat that?” Diet

Step 1.

Find multiple pictures of Tori Spelling. Ideally she should be pursing her lips so her cheekbones all but slice through the paper you’re going to print the picture on.

Step 2.

Print the picture. Now some people might lump this in with step one however I enjoy checking off steps and our printer also HATES me. Almost as much as the photocopiers at my work. It waits until I need to print something vital and then abruptly stops working, or prints it backwards and upside down or on polka dotted paper. Now admittedly the last one might be partially my fault for loading the printer with polka dotted paper however it works so infrequently for me that I’m going to shift the blame onto the obviously faulty technology. You may want to have a bit of Printer Crack on hand to complete this step.

 Step 3.

Post pictures of Tori Spelling’s head all around your living space, wherever you eat. You could even put her picture in the bathroom because even toothpaste has calories and everyone loves being watched while they pee. Note I may be making the toothpaste calorie thing up.

Step 4.

Cut out large speech bubbles then take a thick Sharpie marker and write the following messages in block letters “Would I eat that?”,  “That doesn’t look like thin air”,  “I exist entirely on lettuce and my love for the children that I’m constantly having.”  Then put the speech bubbles next to the disembodied Tori heads that you’ve posted around your apartment.

 

 

Allright you caught me, this isn’t actually a diet plan but a ruse to make people cover their houses with pictures of Tori Spelling’s head with odd quotes next to them. If truth be told you’re better off with the Oprah magazine. Unless you have a thing for reality TV décor, in which case, I think you’ll really like my blog.