Memoirs of a Fat Girl

I am a Fat Girl. I am also a bridesmaid, involuntary wedding planner, impromptu interior designer, writer, amateur cook and emotionally challenged typist for the deaf. To slam the fucker that once said “all writing is fiction,” let me assure you that all of the above is, most hilariously, true.

The writer and cook part aren’t so bad, but since my budget isn’t quite allowing me to fiat around Europe to experience & write about the culinary wonders of the universe, I’m more or less screwed. This in turn doesn’t quite go with the amateur cook part; I’m dead convinced that no one will buy a cookbook from someone who’s had a) no professional kitchen skills whatsoever, and is b) nowhere near as sultry as Nigella.

As for the rest of my list/sorrows, I have gone as far as I can go at my job and would like another. My sister is unofficially engaged to a communist rebel and will marry him within weeks of my best gay friend’s wedding, and he is coercing me into planning the entire event. At the very least I will be his sounding board, and let me assure you that’s not much difference. I have a miniscule, empty loft to make beautiful, my relationship is in emotional hell and wonder of wonders, miracle of miracles, I have to go on a diet. Wait, let me rephrase that: lifestyle change. I do believe that’s the more modern method of choice. It sounds less German, anyway.

Welcome to the freak show that is my life. While it has become apparent to me that I am in extreme need of martinis and a shrink, I have opted for the cheaper option that is Active Writing Therapy. The Writing part is in inspiration of my pretty literary friends who have been endlessly telling me to “get a fucking blog already”; the Active part is in honour of the great and noble Julie Powell who gave herself a project and a time limit, and the Therapy part is to keep myself from going completely bonkers.

And so, I am dedicating the next year of my life, more or less, to General Repairs. My pre-New Year’s Resolution List of the Damned, in no particular order:

1) get a new job

2) lose 60 (odd) pounds

3) decorate my loft without Debbie Travis

4) survive my sister’s wedding

5) plan & survive my best friend’s wedding

6) finish the cookbook that has been idling for 1148 days (and counting)

7) achieve emotional and romantic peace, if there is such a thing

… all while living in my parent’s basement. After all, if I have you to face at the end of every day, things will start to happen… right?

Oyvey. Buckle up. It’s going to be a bumpy ride.