Fat Bottom Girl Said What

It's not about the ass, it's about the attitude!

Party Cake Party Cake

Photo Credit: 24.media.tumblr.com

Photo Credit: 24.media.tumblr.com


You baked me a fucking cake??  Do I look like I NEED a fucking cake??  Fuck the cake and bring me another Jack and Coke.  And run out and get me another pack of smokes while you’re at it!


**On a side note, I feel miserable and bloated, as a medication has really thrown me for a loop.  I feel like this gal looks.  Happy Fucking Tuesday Fat Bottom Peeps!!

Office Mourning

Yesterday I wore all black to work. My boss wanted to know if someone died. I told him a little piece of me, every day I come to work.

Happy Fucking Friday!!!

Happy Tears

“What the hell are happy tears?” My Man asked.

“Those are tears you cry when you’re happy. Haven’t you ever cried happy tears? Didn’t you cry happy tears when your kids were born?” I asked, knowing how dedicated My Man is to his children, evidenced by the numerous activities he delivers them to weekly, and by his ability not to choke them out when they don’t want to get out of bed in the morning.

“Ummmm. . . no, because if I did I’d have a vagina,” My Man said.

Interesting, I thought. Is it only the fairer sex who cries happy tears?

I needed to do more research on this subject.

So I posed the same question to a bunch of the guys I work with while sitting around the lunch table yesterday. They all screwed up their faces in the same quizzical way, and cocked their eyebrows at me like I was nuts for even insinuating there might be even a drop of ocular saltwater shed over happiness.

“If I was really happy and I had a tail, I’d wag it. But happy tears? Oh hell no,” said my boss.

“If I had cried “happy tears” when my kids were born, my wife would’ve kicked me out of the room and told me not to come back until I had that shit fixed,” said the operations manager.

“Don’t they make a pill for that?” said another one.

So I’m getting the picture that most guys don’t cry happy tears. I think in general most guys reserve crying for emotions on the opposite side of the spectrum, and only take them out when they really need them—like when they get their dick caught in their zipper, or when the really hot chick they’ve been dying to bone finally agrees to a rut-fest, but not without a condom, and the one they’ve been carrying around in their wallet for just such an occasion is dry and brittle and crumbles in their sweaty hands.

But I’ll tell you what. I’m good with the fact My Man doesn’t cry happy tears. I much prefer a happy slap on the ass from him anyway.

Birthday Presents from the Heart

I think I was 8. The age doesn’t matter.

I ran downstairs, excited at the prospect of my birthday present.

My mom was sitting at the kitchen table with a cup of coffee, smoking a Marlboro Light. She looked up and saw my grin and excitedly told me Happy Birthday!!

My gift was laying on the table and she told me to open it. I knew it was clothes just by the feel.

I ripped the paper off and unfolded a dream!

They were perfect!! Light blue, brushed denim bell bottoms with embroidered butterflies. They took my breath away. Every last stitch made with love by my mother.

It’s one of my best birthday present memories ever.

And now I have another best birthday present memory to add to it.

It also took my breath away.

My Man wrote me a poem. It’s not his normal style of writing, but he ventured there for me.

It was beautiful, constructed of his feelings in meter, and it made me cry. My Man said it wasn’t supposed to make me cry.

But they were happy tears. They were tears that said My Man knows my heart, and he speaks to my soul.

I think I was almost 45. The age doesn’t matter.

You Say It’s Your Birthday?

It’s my birthday too. So sayeth the Beatles.

I just realized this morning while putting makeup over laugh lines, and skin that’s not so taut anymore, that in about a week, I will be 45.

Throughout the day I contemplated. I didn’t contemplate my entire life up to this point, just this last year. It’s been a doozie.

What did Dickens say? They were the best of times. They were the worst of times. Or something similar. A year of extremes. A study in contrasts. That’s what my 44th year has been.

The worst of times because I found myself in a physically abusive relationship.

The best of times because I decided I was worth more than I thought and I deserved better than being someone’s punching bag.

The worst of times because my son decided he wanted to try living with his dad, after I’d had him with me for his first 12 years.

The best of times because my son returned home to me only a few shorts months after moving in with his dad, albeit with some painful lessons under his belt.

The worst of times because I found myself alone, and quite lonely, and thinking that possibly, I should come to terms with the fact I might spend the rest of my life that way. But, also figuring out that being alone, was better than being beat or emotionally abused.

The best of times because I met a wonderful man. I had sent wishes out to the universe for this man for years. I had hoped in vain for this man for years. But I now believe that it wasn’t until I decided, until I truly believed inside of me, that I deserved better for myself, that the universe sent him. Strange how that works, huh?

Life is yin and yang, and a whole lot of other shit in between. And as I stand poised, ready to slide into my 45th year, do I think it’s going to change? Do I think it’s going to get any easier? No. I’ve learned enough to know that anything worth having doesn’t usually come easy. Plus, I’m kind of one of those girls who has to learn things the hard way. Some lessons it took me 44 years to learn.

I know there are more grey hairs and more wrinkles and tears and frustration in store for me. But there’s also more laughter and love and adventure in store for me too. You need the dark and the light, both sides of the coin, the rain and the sun. You have to have one in order to truly appreciate the other. I’ve figured that out in my 44 years too.

So 45 is only a few days away I told him, and My Man reminded me it’s only a number.

And I in turn reminded myself I have a hot, younger man. 45 can kiss my fat bottom!

Photo Credit: deviantart.com

Photo Credit: deviantart.com

The Breath of Life

“And can you handle that which you’ve awakened in me? All the passion, the inspiration, the love?” she asked him. “All those things I feared dead, you have breathed life into.”

Note To Self


A Letter to my Grandma

Tric over at My Thoughts on a Page, recently asked for letter submissions. The letter could be written to anyone and about anything. I took the opportunity to write a letter to my grandmother. I miss her and think of her often on days like today, when the weather begins to turn warm and my thoughts drift to planting flowers and  I hear the birds singing.

Sometimes writing a letter to loved ones who are gone gives us a chance to tell them things we never did while they were still of this earth., and can be quite therapeutic.  Who would you write to if you had the chance?

My Thoughts On a Page

Newton’s Law


She knew as the word was forming in her throat, at the exhale of the breath that carried the sound, as it passed her lips, that it was the wrong thing to say. She had said yes.

She had told him yes, and it made her feel just a little bit sick to her stomach. Why had she said yes? She knew she didn’t love him that way; not in the way you should love someone you want to spend the rest of your life with, so why would she tell him yes?

It wasn’t fair to tell him yes and not mean it. It set things in motion.  What external forces were going to stop what that word had set in motion?

That yes led to another yes and another and another. Until she no longer knew how to say anything else. It’s not that she didn’t want to. She wanted to scream “NO!” at the top of her lungs and stop the stream, but her throat had grown so accustomed to saying yes, she couldn’t form an “n”.

So she started small. She changed the tone of how she said yes. She changed the inflection of how she said yes. She changed the pitch of how she said yes. And he noticed. And he didn’t like it.

Then she stopped saying it so regularly. One less yes per day and before she knew it, she was down to one final yes. She saved that yes, just in case she needed it some day.

And finally the time came when he said to her, “I don’t love you anymore, and I don’t think you ever really loved me like I loved you. I want to be free to find another who will love me like I deserve to be loved, and you can be free to find that too. Will you give me a divorce?”

And she said yes. And this time, she really meant it.

*This was written in response to a post I read the other day on The Things I See Up Here, regarding The Yes Movement. It got me thinking about all the times I have said yes in my life, and all the things that simple word sets in motion.  I wish I could’ve come up with a really uplifting, positive yes story, but the first thing that came to my mind was a time when I had said yes and didn’t really mean yes. Such a double-sided coin is yes, that it reminds of some of my favorite Rush Lyrics, “If you choose not to decide, you still have made a choice”.  In other words, if you don’t say yes, then in essence you are saying no.

Yes can be scary as hell sometimes.  Yes means taking a risk and jumping without a safety net.   Yes can be exhilarating. You never know how yes is going to wind up, or where yes might take you. Yes may turn out to be a very valuable lesson, or yes may be the love of your life.  I am saying yes a lot more these days; yes to my happiness, and yes to knowing I deserve good stuff in my life.  What do you want to say yes to?  Just say yes, and set some things in motion in your life!

Hazardous Waste

Photo Credit:  nutracenter.com

Photo Credit: nutracenter.com









like a broken thermometer
so many tiny balls of poison(my insecurities)


hither and yon

gather them before anyone sees
the malignancy

it seems impossible to contain them
just when I think I’ve got them all gathered
the pieces shatter

into more pieces

the number seems. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . infinite. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .


run and fetch the eyedropper
to suck up the toxic little balls
before they infiltrate
what’s good

sprinkle the sulfur and contain
every minute trace of the

seal them all up in a bag

dispose of them


like the hazardous waste
that they are

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