I went to see my 84-year-old grams a few weeks ago, and I’m not saying that it's a good thing she has a semi-clogged artery that sort of stifles the oxygen to her brain, making her a little bit “off” at times--
--I would never say that, because that’s terrible.
What I would maybe say is that this fact does somewhat soften the blow when she blurts out something kind of rude to you, something that she probably otherwise would not have said—like, say, if she wasn’t an 84-year-old that, at times, wasn’t getting enough oxygen to her brain.
When this happens, you can kind of use shifty eyes to look around at everyone else while you twirl your finger in a circular motion at the side of your head and say, quietly, “Oh, she’s kind of screwy. Must be the lack of oxygen,” and then, more loudly, “GRAMS? Are you not getting enough oxygen again? Shall I fetch the tank?”
Except something went wrong a few weeks ago because it didn’t work. Here’s what happened:
Upon my arrival, she looked up at me and goes, “Are you sure you’re not pregnant, Shay? Why, you’re the heaviest I’ve ever seen you!”
So I did the thing, you know? I looked toward my sister and mom and twirled my finger around, making sure that Grams couldn’t see it and further clarify my fatness for everyone, and I said, “Oh, she’s just feeling screwy again. Let me get her tank.”
But my older sister rolled her eyes. “No, she’s thinking clearly,” she said. “You’ve gotten pretty tubby this summer, Shay.”
I sighed, throwing my hands in the air in defeat. “Dammit, I know. I know!”
It was due to my 2:30 AM feedings, peeps.
Because, like I do every summer, I had reduced my work hours so that I could spend more time playing with my kids while they were off of school. And it became a vicious cycle, because no 4:45 AM wakeup call meant that I could stay up as late as I want. I’m a night owl, so many nights that meant that I was still watching DVR’d Real Housewives at 2:30 AM and dammit, when you’re up that late, you get hungry for your 2nd…and 3rd…dinner.
And what’s better at 2:30 AM than tortilla chips topped with sprinkled cheese, melted in the microwave (for about 40 seconds), squirted with exactly one packet of Taco Bell’s mild sauce (I always ask for extra when we go), smothered in sour cream, and lightly salted?
Nothing. There’s NOTHING better, I tell you.
I’ll lose those 5 pounds now that I’m back on a stricter schedule and have to go to bed on time. In the meantime, it was worth it.
I normally post a picture of my Trashy Recipe Recommendations, but I can’t right now because I’m not allowing myself to eat them anymore—at least for the time being. And it hasn’t been hard to stick to my guns; I have the stubbornness (and the face) of a mule, and when I decide something, I stick with it.
So in lieu of the picture, just imagine that huge pile of tortilla chips topped with cheese, salt, Taco Bell mild sauce, and enough sour cream to feed the entire Duggar family. Minus Josh, because he’s an asshole.
OR you could just imagine the fat roll—the same one I’m trying to get rid of by abstaining from this delicious treat—hanging over the top of my shorts as I type this, because that’s what that pile of chips turns into almost as soon as it hits the belly. Thus the name Fat Chips.
But dammit, they’re so fcking good. As soon as I drop the extra 5-10 pounds I’ve been carrying around since summer, I’m rewarding myself with a plate.
**Update: Since I originally sat down to write this post, I have lost most of the weight. And guess how I rewarded myself...with some Fat Chips! So I do have a picture for you, peeps...I do!
Maybe don't make them a nightly habit like I did over the summer, though...
**ALSO, today was the day I picked a winner for the book giveaway I did about a week ago. That winner is blogger CHill Thoughts, and she has been notified. THANK YOU ALL SO MUCH FOR PARTICIPATING. It made the giveaway so much fun for me, and I will definitely do it again--after I've read enough secondhand books to make it worthwhile! THANKS AGAIN, everyone!**