The Great Crockpot Incident of 2011

You know, I’m a bit of a mad scientist in the kitchen. Okay, I’m a bit of a mad scientist in general. Shut up. :p

I just find the need to try something different! 9 times out of 10 they turn out fantastic. It’s that one time, Just the one! That I regret for days on end.

Today was that one time.

They Tried to Kill Me!

It actually started 2 nights ago. I Decided I was going to attempt my very first Red Beans n’ Rice Crockpot recipe! I followed it to the letter! Instead of adding chicken, my roommate suggested we go with this fantastic sausage she found at Big Lots? The 99 Cent Store? I can’t remember which but I will always stand by my roommates as well as my own crazy purchasing of discounted foods and dented cans.

I soaked the entire bag of red beans over night to find they were dyed. LOL But that’s beside the point. I decided I would get up and do the rest in the morning!

This is how I pictured it:

Awake at 8am! Bright Eyed & Bushy Tailed! (please refrain all references to my bushy tail) Cut the Meat! Mix the seasonings! add the rice! shower! put on new fancy Philosophy makeup I got for my birthday! Look sexy for work! Do my hair! Turn on crockpot! Leave!

This is what actually happened:

Fall out of bed (literally). Grumble over dirty room. Bitch about my bookshelf not being finished. sit and stare at wall for 20 minutes as brain refuses to work. go out and talk to new roommie in living room for no reason. Forget all about beans. On the way out discover soaking pink beans. Curse up a blue streak in the kitchen. I’m late. Leave beans soaking another 8 hours.

Yeah.

I got home and decided we’d finish this nonsense if it killed us! So my roommate and I did everything in the “How I Pictured It” section above, turned it on and went on our marry way.

5am:

I decide god hates me for granting me my pansy ass bladder. The house smells like an amazing southern kitchen. I”M EXCITED! I walk over, lift the lid, and stir the beans. and the rice.

Oh! did I say Rice!?

I meant mush.

Meh, I shrug, stick the lid back on and head back to bed for another 4 hours of sleep hoping the rice would get less mushy.

I wake up 9am to find red beans and rice pudding with sausage in it. I flinch when I open the lid and look at the Elvira like concoction I’ve created. I worry that a demon will pop out and attempt to eat my cleavage ala the mistress of the dark. This does not happen! I decide “LADYBALLS TO THE WALL!” and serve myself a bowl. It’s not bad! I had to ladle on the salt but it really wasn’t horrible. My roommate takes most of it to lunch for work and to spread around the office.

10am… Inner intestinal destruction ensues.

10:30am … I am cursing life in general as I clutch at the toilet.

11:00am … I’m going through the different phases of grief.

11:30am … I pray that I throw up one last time as I can still taste the concoction on my tongue.

Noon: i’m passed out sweating through it like it were scarlet fever.

This is why i never eat anything spicy or pork-ish. LOL

Mental Note: NEVER MAKE RED BEANS AND RICE AGAIN!

as I edit this blog before posting I just realized I forgot my roommate took it to work. excuse me while I text her!

My outter fat girl ate my inner thin girl.

I had a strange dream last night that I don’t quite remember. I was at work, but not doing my job. Doing something else. It was a typical day. When I woke up, only one thing stuck with me. I was thin. Moderately thin. Not like Kate Moss’ skinny sister. I mean healthy. Curvy for al intensive purposes.

I started to think about it. When I look at myself, what do I see?

I see curves but I don’t see backfat. or my belly. or my flying squirrel arms. I just see curves and mounds upon mounds of unruly curly hair. As a matter of fact I cannot even describe the face I see but it’s not mine!

Have I lost my mind?? No.

…

Okay maybe a lil. But that’s beside the point. I have an affliction that most women suffer from and go without proper diagnosis. It infects the mind, the senses, and eventually functionality. It’s called:
DENIAL.

I don’t quite know when I stopped picturing the real me but what i do know is when i lay in bed an look down all i see are boobs (thank you god for those!) and if visible, legs. But not my thick hamhock legs. I see sexy curvacious gams that would make a pinup queen envy me. I see dainty feet with pretty toes, not the massive clodhoppers attached to my usually swollen kankles.

I don’t see me.

It’s kinda sad. If you took me, the real me, all 309lbs (today was weigh in day for me, first time in over a month) and stand her next to DENIAL ME, you’d find a vast difference in size. It’s something I started to do subconsciously and haven’t been able to stop. I do it without realizing it, no longer seeing the difference between me and my thinner friends. I’m not saying they are prettier than me. Not by any means.

I am simply saying sometimes fat chicks are blind. We choose not to see what the world sees out of shyness, embarrassment, DENIAL, and sometimes plain old mental survival. Sometime I wonder if my addiction is pushing this blind spot into my mind. I wonder what would happen if my blinders were completely torn off and I saw nothing but the real me. I would dream of a fat me who couldn’t keep up. A fat me who sweats at the drop of a hat (or picking the hat up anyway). A fat me who eats when she’s not hungry and suffers through the pain of it rather then stop.

I want the blinders removed but I’m afraid I’m not strong enough to handle seeing the real me all the time. It would drive me insane. Into a suicidal depression of epic proportions. I think they are their to save my life.

I see just another woman living her life.

You see this: