The day the boys compared me to a little potato

This weekend, the Dynamic Gay Duo referred to me as Tater Tot. Like that was my name. In place of Rhonda. The minute I heard it linger in the air, I snapped my head and said, ummm, WHAT.

I’d put this head on my body but I have no ambition tonight.

Umm what was code for, DIDYOUJUSTCALLMEFUCKINGTATERTOT??? Like a fat, little, fried potato snack? One that goes in the oven and is better when greasy you tend to eat when you’re either poor or drunk? Like a rounded little square filled with mushy, lumpy potato with a crunchy, hard shell outside? You just compared me to a tater tot?

The tater tot isn’t even ZESTY. I’d like to at least think I am.

Yeah, they seriously did. I think when they saw me go dead eye, they went all, OHMYGODNOOOOO! Like you’re cute like a little tater tot. Like a little nugget. Cute. Cute, cute, cute.

There was no amount of times the word CUTE could have been used. Cute like a nugget was worse. Even my sister’s cat named Nugget has a weight (and attitude) problem. I was going to losemyshit.

“TATER TOTS ARE NOT CUTE.” I stated and I haven’t heard it since.

So last night I looked back to 500 pictures from two weekend trips in a row and I’ve come up with the following analysis. I can take the same picture three times and one I look skinny as all get out. That one gets posted. One I look awkward like I’m slow mentally and that one does not get posted, unless it’s super funny in which I will take one for the team and let you all have a good laugh. The third looks like it’s my Biggest Loser application picture and I look two hundred pounds heavier than picture 1. And I have no chin. And I gained a face full of bad skin. So out of 500 pictures, I had 400 good ones (most of houses), 70 awkward ones and 30 that made me look like a tater tot.

So I’m confused but thought best not to focus on my confusion but instead ask a friend from back home how her detox is going, because obviously this comparison to me and a fried treat is not optimal.

“How’s your detox going,” I ask, totally wanting her to succeed and hoping it’s as easy as eating butter, because if that’s the case, I’m totally in.

“Great. I lost 12 pounds and I can eat meat and cheese now!” After a week. A week of just vegetables and fruit and she doesn’t even sound like she wants to stab me through the computer. That and she bakes all damned weekend and didn’t even try her creations.

“Umm, 12 pounds in 7 days? And you’re doing this for 21 days? And you really ate NO CUPCAKES THIS WEEKEND?” I ate 5 macaroons half asleep at 6pm last night and GOD, do I need a damned juicer and then I remembered this detox is also alcohol free. Ugh. Now that is more problematic than not having a juicer.

“No, 12 weeks. And yeah, I didn’t have any cupcakes this weekend.” And she’s serious because she is always so responsible. Damn her and her sober and responsible hobbies and ambition.

“Did you say 12 weeks?? God. I’ve never done anything for 12 anything. Not even 12 days.” I would have said 12 hours but god, that really highlights my love of lazy.

But seriously? I can’t think of anything I’ve given up for 12 days. Except tater tots, as of Sunday. You can count on that.