Memoirs of a Phat Chick


“I hate dances.”

“How would you know?”

“I’m not going.”

“It’s for your own good.”

“No, it’s for your good! You can’t go if I don’t go with you.”

“I never ask you for anything!”

“Just social suicide, that’s all.”

“Don’t be dramatic!”

That was something coming from her. She was already Oscar worthy with her professional pouting.

“Why do you want to go so bad?”

She lit up like a Christmas tree. She new she had me.

“Because Eric Burns asked me and he is so cute. Please!”

“Fuck, Lis! You get to go with Eric and I get stuck with Mitchell “man breasts”. This is not exactly fair.”

“He has a car and a fake ID. A few sips of Boons farm and you won’t care.”

“A few sip’s my ass and I’m not wearing a fucking dress.”

There I was, in a fucking dress. A God awful one at that. Black with pleats, like a giant black accordion. My Grandmother picked it out; while she repeatedly mentioned if I weren’t so fat I might be able to find something more flattering. It would come in handy for her swiftly approaching funeral, I hoped. Lisa, in a desperate salvage attempt, tied a pink ribbon around my neck. I know people wondered if it kept my head attached.

Lisa looked pretty, as usual, like Cinderella.

“I can’t go out like this, Lis.”

“You can and you will! I did not spend all day getting ready for nothing.”

Perfect. I was stuck in my accordion dress, a pink ribbon around my neck, waiting for Mitchell “man breasts”. What had my life come too?

“You look pretty, Erin.”

“Whatever, Mitch. Take a deep breath, dude, no need to make a spectacle of yourself, okay? Let’s quietly ruin my life. Ready Lis?”

“Stop being such a baby.”

“There better be booze.”

As it turned out they do not manufacture enough Boons Farm wine to make Mitchell “man breasts” appealing but they do make enough to cause Eric Burns to throw up on Cinderella. He’s not so cute anymore and should rethink the amount of macaroni and cheese he eats prior to drinking…just a suggestion.

We were back at Lisa’s by 9 p.m.

“I wish I had a chance to dance.”

I got up and offered Lisa my hand.

“I know I’m not Eric Burns but I promise I won’t throw up on you.”

Lisa stood up and we started to tango. We had no idea how to tango but we didn’t care. We laughed and tangoed. From that point on we tangoed at every party, wedding, funeral, or any event, appropriate or not. We didn’t care and we laughed just like the night of our first tango and I never threw up on her, although I did poke her in the eye with a rose stem once.

She bitched about it for a decade.

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