You Are Aware Of How Rude It Is When You Stare At My Burgeoning Winter Babies, Jeremiah and Ezekiel, Right?

Jeremiah and Ezekiel are my fat babies- I made them out of chocolate brownies and Nutella. I swear that there is some sort of biological response that FORCES everyone to stock up on adipose for the cold months. Sometimes, one can avoid it, for example last winter, I spent a lot of time strapping my tiny toddler baby to my back, throwing a parka rated for -40 Celsius over the both of us and traipsing about our rough northern town. Something about regularly hauling around almost a quarter of my body weight prevented me from putting on excess weight.

This winter? Not so much. For starters, my baby is a baby no more; he’s all but outgrown his carrier and can no longer fit comfortably in the parka with me. Meaning that going out involves shoving Mini-Tex into HIS parka, a garment he loves, and by loves I mean despises with the wrath of a thousand shrieking toddlers, if my son knew what matches were, he’d play with them in an attempt to rid the world of his evil blue snowsuit. As you might imagine, getting a disgruntled two year old into a full body parka is a challenge, one that ended with me receiving a black eye after a particularly forceful headbutt earlier this winter.

Even our ever hopeful, ever perky, twelve year old babysitters won’t take on the task- and they are up for anything. Consequently, my son and I have spent a lot of time inside. Like a lot a lot. During the day, I gaze out onto the snow covered mountain top that is our view and think “someday” and then I eat some goldfish crackers and wonder when I developed a mommy butt.

Once upon a time, when I spent my evenings doing, well to be honest I can’t remember what I actually did in my late twenties but rest assured it wasn’t singing “Old MacDonald” over and over a thousand times while I cooked dinner, anyway, once upon a time, when I was young, well youngish, during the winter, I’d name the winter weight on my butt. The belly pooch was “Jeremiah” after an obscenely attractive model that I once dated. And bringing up the rear was Erasmus. It’s been a number of years and one child since then, so I’ve since accepted my new posterior which moves both side to side AND somehow back to front. There’s a lot more butt which extends beyond my hips, thus allowing the forward and backward motion. At least that’s my personal theory on my newly mobile bum.

In light of the fact that this newly shaped butt is unlikely to go away, I’ve ceased calling it names, especially one so unfortunate as Erasmus. But in the meantime, the front of me is looking so large, that Jeremiah now has a twin- Ezekiel. And I’d prefer if everyone would stop looking at them, or at least stop caressing them and asking about my “good news”.


I’ve Become a “Yo’ Mamma” Joke

Despite not being one of those glowy, happy women who loves being pregnant and has never felt better in their life, I’ve felt good about the experience thus far.

Not me, not even a little. Photo Credit :

Not me, not even a little. Photo Credit :

Despite the fact that most days I’ve felt like a combination between a swamp monster

In fact this picture was taken while I walked to work this morning. Photo Credit:

In fact this picture was taken while I walked to work this morning. Photo Credit:

And a pumpkin.

 Not like this pumpkin, it’s far too cute and reasonably sized. Photo Credit :

Not like this pumpkin, it’s far too cute and reasonably sized. Photo Credit :

Like an over-sized pumpkin advertised on signs for a fair, that people buy tickets to gawk at.

There comes a point when one needs to ask “Should this get bigger?” Photo Credit :

There comes a point when one needs to ask “Should this get bigger?” Photo Credit :

I mean, I stopped being able to get up off of the futon by myself about a month ago. Admittedly our futon is awkwardly shaped and low to the ground and ultimately a futon, which is to say it’s a piece of furniture that makes neither a nice bed nor a nice couch. Somehow I was able to move past this fact, although not physically obviously; Tex has frequently cupped one of my buttocks while saying “Alley–oop”, to help me off the couch. But mentally, I forgave the futon, well not so much forgave as routinely beat the living daylights out of, when I left the bed to sleep on the aforementioned uncomfortable not-bed, because Tex and my bed was too soft, hard, warm, small, smooth, or whatever other conclusion my crazy pregnant brain had come to at 2 am. I would then release my insomniac frustrations on the futon by kicking and punching my way back to sleep.

That was before last week when I realized that I was too fat to get out of bed. If I’m being honest, I’ve probably been too fat to exit the bed for some time now, however I wasn’t aware of this until my mountain of pillows rearranged itself to form a kind of barricade.

You know, I think I’d be more comfortable if I had just one more….Tex give me your pillow- the time has come. Photo Credit :

You know, I think I’d be more comfortable if I had just one more….Tex the time has come- give me your pillow. Photo Credit :

And I was unable to use my patented, pregnant technique of rolling sideways out of the bed so my feet landed on the floor. “Uuuurrggghhhh” I cried. “Ahhhhh”

“What’s wrong?” Tex asked, bolting straight up in the bed just because he could, what with not being six months pregnant.

“I’m too fat to get out of bed” I cried plaintively as my sweet husband reached over to help me to a sitting position.

So that’s it then. I’m now a “Yo’ mamma” joke, I shall commence my muumuu wearing tomorrow.

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 :

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

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.

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.

Down in the Dumps over my Derrière

I have a sneaking suspicion that my butt is becoming flatter. Not falling, just transitioning from 3D to 2D. I blame it on all the sitting I’ve been doing recently; in cars, on buses, on planes. And the sheer amount of studying I’ve been doing isn’t helping matters, no matter where I am, I seem to be seated. The end result is a smushed tush.

Don’t get me wrong, I’ve never had great rear-end aspirations, the next J Lo or Kim Kardashian, I am not. However for the most part I liked my butt. It was mine. It looked like a slightly larger version of my extremely, physically-fit mother’s butt.

This is what my Mom’s bum looks like. (Photo Credit :

This is what my Mom’s bum looks like. We are not a people noted for having shapely posteriors.(Photo Credit :

A photo of my butt, again I’m not in as good shape as my mother. (Photo Credit:

A photo of my butt, again I’m not in as good shape as my mother. Actually if I’m being honest, my bum isn’t that tanned. (Photo Credit:

Because this is her stomach. (Photo Credit:

Because this is her stomach. (Photo Credit:

This sedentary lifestyle is getting to me. I find myself turning sideways every morning to check in the mirror that my posterior hasn’t disappeared altogether. In public, I’m tempted to offer my hiney to strangers who need a surface to write on.

The worst part is, that as it becomes flatter, my bum seems to be getting wider, as though the weight of my body is slowly moving all of the fat in my rump outwards. I’ve debated wearing a wet suit underneath my clothes to keep the limited junk in my trunk centralized. I got the idea after watching my mother zip herself into her wetsuit in preparation for a triathlon. Even though my mother is composed of only muscle, somehow the tightness of the wetsuit managed to gather her minimal body fat into a lump in the middle of her back so she looked like a Quasimodo in training. In my dire, almost 2D state I’d settle for that solution. Having something that resembles a third butt cheek might even make me trendy, what with the popularity of the tri-boobed woman on American Horror Story.

At the very least, I’m comforting myself with the fact that the semester is almost over, so I can return to my formerly active lifestyle and my original bottom soon.

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??


*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.

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.