It’s been two years of ups and downs since I started White Girl With a Fat Ass.  And as of late the ups and downs still keep coming, but it’s nice to have this tiny coded domain to come home to as a check-in.  As a way to keep things in check.

On this my blog’s two year anniversary, I am going to re-share where the name came from.

Here is the story of how my blog got this name:

One of my first memories of New York City is getting up really early one morning to go be an extra for the worst indie movie of all time.  At the time I lived in the back of a hair salon on 45th& 8th.  That’s right a hair salon, the cool spinning chair, the big alien looking blow drier that comes over your head.  As I walked through Time’s Square at 5 a.m. – I realized THIS was the worst time to be out.  Because every body around me were not early risers,  they were still up from the night before.

As I walked along, so hopeful in my New Life in the City.  My hair freshly groomed with products stolen from my apartment/hair salon. I was in that total hat-throwing-I’m-gonna-make-it-after-all moment when from behind me I heard low faint chants.

‘white girl with a fat ass, white girl with a fat ass, white girl with a FAT ass’

What can only be described as a your classic 80’s movie drunken homeless wino, was following me chanting.  And as I walked faster, hoping to God he wasn’t following me, my hurried movement only emphasized the jiggling momentum of said ASS and his chant reached a fevered pitch.

‘WHITE GIRL with a fat ass WHITE girl with a FAT ASS white girl WITH a FaaaTTTT ASSSSSSSS’

And no matter how fast I hauled my now infamous ass, I could not escape those words. I have continued to run but those words have followed me.

Two years later,  White Girl With a Fat Ass has a whole new connotation. Sure, most of my hits still come from people surfing for porn.  Sure, sometimes when I meet people for the first time and we have mutual friends I’m always taken aback to hear them proclaim, ‘Oh you’re that Fat Ass Girl’ Sure, now when I’m on a first date I think how fun for them when they inevitably google my name and find many hits that read: White Girl With a Fat Ass

But this blog has also raised over $3000 for hunger relief, produced two live events, got me to perform improv again, and lead to countless friends.

Thank you to everyone who has read, commented, played free rice, donated and forwarded WGWaFA.  Please CLICK HERE to keep it going and donate to NYC’s CITY HARVEST this holiday season.  1.5 million New Yorkers currently live in poverty, struggling to afford basic necessities such as rent and medical care and put food on their tables.  If you are looking for other ways to support City Harvest this Holiday Season you can CLICK HERE to check out a guide to NYC’s most generous restaurants and support them as they support City Harvest.

Does this font make me look fat?

Disclaimer:  White Girl With a Fat Ass has been suffering from a deathly head cold and apologizes for the lack of posts this week.  She is also heavily medicated and cannot be held accountable for whatever she writes in this one.

There was a time in high school where I had, let us just say, a severe lack of friends.   I have one particular memory of a school field trip to Williamsburg, VA.  I was sitting on the bus by myself with a book.  Which was fairly normal.  As the bus rolled along its merry way I was descended upon by 3 guys.  Jason and Brian, twins, and Jason’s best friend Matt.  They did not leave my side the entire trip.  I was completely overwhelmed by the attention.  The were loud, funny, and one of them (I will never admit which one) I’d had a crush on for about a year.   Back then, I thought they were the coolest guys ever.   For some reason that I can’t recall, on the trip back they serenaded me with an impromptu performance of  ‘Fly Me to the Moon’

Recalling this years later was when I first realized that the Boys perhaps had their own coolness issues in high school.  But I always smile when I hear that song.

I soon figured out that the Boys were paying me so much attention because they wanted me to get them a job at the movie theater where I worked.   But I didn’t care.  I basked in their false glories because I was  secretly desperately lonely.  However, I also quickly saw how these sharp, charming fellows used girls’ crushes on them to get what they wanted, how they would sort of ‘adopt’ other geeks to elevate their coolness, and then often quickly move on.  I was determined not to be one of these wide-eyed girls or pet dork.   There is one distinct moment not too long after that field trip which I later pinpointed as the turning point in my personality.  The birth of the smartass GuyGirl.

One day I was sitting with one of the twins (again not saying who) in their car. We were waiting for his brother to get out of band practice.  Did I mention the  coolness issues?  In the middle of rambling about random teenage things all of a sudden he blurts out,

The first time I fingered a girl, I was shocked at how much hair there was down there.

And without missing a beat, these are the very words that came out of my virginal mouth.  A mouth that had yet to even kiss a guy,

Yeah, I know.  The first time I went down on a guy I didn’t know if I should brush my teeth after or not.

We both laughed.  Aha!  I could be funny.  I didn’t have to be pretty, or popular or even all that smart.  Oddly, the coolest girls in my high school were all three.  Especially smart, like AP Calculus smart.  While I was overweight, lonely, and struggling in my AP classes.  (Hello irony)   But I could dish it out.  Keep up with the Boys.  I soon learned how to hang.  I wasn’t really a tomboy because I wasn’t good at any sports or anything really.  I was the GuyGirl.  I slept over their house.  We would watch Cool Hand Luke, play poker, and chew on candy cigars.  Coolness issues.

And I pretended it didn’t bother me when they talked about girls.  About who looked hot, who had junk in the trunk, who let them do what, where, and how often.    I just kept up, whipped out crass zingers, found my place.  Meanwhile inside, I was often mortified.  If they could find all these faults with girls that I would kill to look like, what hope did I have?  But it didn’t matter, as long as I was the funny GuyGirl friend I was safe.   It was my niche and I carved the hell out of it. To this day, I am still more comfortable being the Dude.  But I’m working on that.  At first ‘working on that’ translated to ‘insert scotch until slutty.’  But now I’m actually working on it, for reals.

And thus one of my major strengths, my sense of humor, was born directly from coping with insecurity.  I think that’s the way it usually happens though, right?  And as the Boys grew up and became the Men, they have shown themselves to be wonderful husbands, fathers, and some of the truest friends I’ve ever had.  I meanwhile write a blog about my Fat Ass, but let’s not think too hard on that one.  But hey, I have raised over $3000 for Feeding America.  Speaking of which, if you have laughed at all by this point please CLICK HERE TO DONATE. This shit ain’t free.

Years later, I was surprised when one of the Boys shared with me his own body issues in high school.  The concept of men being insecure about their bodies was something I had never even considered.  Since I started WGWaFA, I have been touched by the number of men who have commented or written to me about their own body issues.   How joyous that we can all be completely f’d up together!

I thought this The Mind of Man column, GUYS HAVE INSECURITIES, JUST LIKE WOMEN! from The Frisky is a wonderfully snarky take on this topic.  Just think, how many less truly slaptastically funny people would there be if it wasn’t for insecurity?

I have been very careful all season to wish people Happy Holidays.  But I woke up this morning genuinely happy on Christmas.  Happy and healthy, and with all respect to the holiday that you celebrate,  on this Christmas I wish the same for all of you.   Merry Christmas.

In the midst of a season of office holiday parties, Santa Cons, and overall eclectic revelry I found it oddly fitting that this Saturday night I found myself at a “Holiday Skivvy Soiree” hosted by the Slacker Club.  Because what better way could there be for a WGWaFA who spent the year raising money for hunger relief while overcoming body issues to celebrate a holiday that has traditionally royally sucked than in her underwear?   The party was your standard Christmas party with roasted chestnuts, hot buttered rum, even a karaoke machine.  Except everyone was in their skivvies. 

 

I was completely unprepared for this party phenomenon when I left my snug house on Saturday night and ventured out into the snow to meet my friend for ‘one drink.’  Having heard rumors of this event a few weeks back I laughed to myself, yeah have fun there is no way I’m doing that.   Then assuming the rest of the world was as rigid in their faith in clothing at parties as myself, I assumed this skivvies party plan had never come to fruition.   I was wrong.  After some wine, my friend was like ‘Oh yeah, it’s totally happening want to go by and say hello.’ 

 

At that moment it occurred to me, how does one just drop by to say HI at an underwear only party?  Turns out, the answer is you don’t.  The second you walk in the door and you are faced with a group of drunken people in their underwear suddenly clothing seems an awkward and completely useless option.  So for the first time in my life, I stripped down to my skivvies and felt fine.  Impossibly comfortable even. 

 

Although, to add to the fun some of the girls were wearing high heels and donning various wigs.  After putting on a wicked cute, rocker hot pink, Run Lola Run wig I gained a new air of confidence.  Like I was someone else completely, who no longer cared what her ass looked like in those pants.  Some of it was blatantly using the wig as a safety blanket and some of it was that I wasn’t wearing pants!

 

Now, the ironic part is that if I had known I was going to an ‘in your underwear’ party I

A.      Wouldn’t have gone in the first place but besides that fact;

B.      I would have worn something a little nicer than a tanktop bra and faded Victoria Secret cotton underwear that had ceased being pink about 20 washes ago and;

C.      I would have shaved! 

 

For me, I was actually pretty good as far as my legs go.   But at the ‘in your underwear’ Olympics I would have definitely lost points in the bikini category. Uneven dismount.  I do remember drunkenly explaining to a gentleman later that evening how the Catch-22 of feminine body hair maintenance is that the more hair you let grow the better the shave or wax job turns out on the flip side.   He was fascinated by my diploritory dissertation as only a drunk dude in his boxers could be.  And I wonder why I’m single. 

 

The best part of the evening was when one of the other girls, who was not only prepared for this “Holiday Skivvy Soiree”she had been prepping for weeks, offered me alternate undies.  She had given herself options and this brand new pair had not made the cut.  Zebra print with a white lace band, they were totally hot. And fit! Something that definitely would not have been possible a year ago. Thanks Dr. Whaa? you made my night.

 

Maybe it was because it was so cold outside, or that the apartment was only lit by the rosy glow of Christmas lights, or that the group of people besides being in their skivvies were totally cool, but out of all the Holiday parties I have been to in the last couple of years ironically this was the one where I was the most at ease.  Not only did I not have to be ‘on’, I had the best time once it was all ‘off.’  Well not ALL, and I’m sure the rum helped a great deal.  I even sang Karaoke which is another first and turned out to be far more embarrassing than being in my underwear.   

 

A couple of us left at the same time, and we commiserated over our reluctance to bundle back up into our clothes.  Being that it was the middle of the night, I cabbed it home and stripping back down to the safety of my underwear passed out asleep on my couch. The next morning, I groggily woke up with a pounding headache due to dehydration (and lets not fool ourselves, rum) and, looking down, my brain presented itself with these two thoughts simultaneously

 

1.       Where on earth did these zebra undies come from?

2.       Crap, did I leave my pants at the party?

 

I shook off sleep and reminded myself that I logically had to have put my pants back on to travel home (thank god this turned out to be true) and that I was wearing Dr. Whaa?’s passed over panties.  I took a moment to appreciate the uniqueness of coming home from a night out in NYC wearing a completely different set of panties than I left the house in.  And trying to be more ‘glass half full’ I didn’t dwell on the fact that I had no torrid sex story to acompany this fact.   If any torridness had occurred at the party, much like all of the torridness that occurred in college, I was completely unaware. 

 

I’m not even sure if I looked as hot as I felt at the party.  Lord knows I really appreciated the dim lighting.  But I will always remember that it was only after I was forced by the very nature of the event (and the rum) to not care what I looked like that I had the most fun.  

 

Please drink and shave responsibly kids.  And have a wonderful whatever you so choose to celebrate.  If you don’t celebrate anything, then I suggest you check out the next Slacker Club’s “Skivvy Soiree” and *celebrate the beauty that is yourself. 

 

Only 10 days left for BareAss 2008!  CLICK HERE TO DONATE  Help Feeding America with their goal to raise enough money to fill 23.8 million bags of groceries. They still have 12.6 million left to fill. Right now a matching grant DOUBLES your gift! If you are having any trouble or concerns donating on line email me at wgwafa@gmail.com and I will answer any questions you have. 

 

*Please note I in no way meant for celebrate the beauty that is yourself to sound like a euphemism for masturbation. Not that there is anything wrong with that.