Alright, yes, it has been three weeks since my last post and nearly two months since my wedding and I have been side stepping complaints from a certain luncheon meat who will remain unnamed but guys. I got my dream job. A few weeks ago I started working for an animal welfare nonprofit and it rocks. It also kind of makes me feel like I’ve never worked a legitimate day in my entire life because the work is demanding and brain-energy consuming and interesting for once. I’m doing a lot of real writing which is completely different from blogging because instead of recounting the slapstick routine that is my daily existence, I’m tearing out hearts with sob stories about abused puppehs. I mist at my desk all the time. I shit you not.
So, it should come as no surprise that this one-time vegetarian is struggling with meat again (even bacon) and now refuses to consume it unless I am absolutely certain that the animal it came from was humanely raised. It should come as less of a surprise that this development has gotten me into trouble.
Two weeks ago was the wedding of Beau’s cousin in Florida. Starbucks wasn’t even open yet when we got to the airport at the ungodly hour of 4:30am that Saturday. We huddled at their gates peering through the bars to no avail until his parents found an open Dunkin Donuts further into the terminal. In addition to my new wariness of meat products (even bacon), my situation has been compounded by renewed interest in getting back into shape to avoid eventually having a TLC special made about me when they have to use a fork lift to remove me from my condo. That pretty much crossed everything on the Dunkies menu off of the list of possibilities for breakfast.
I wandered to a snack kiosk and found a stash of Fiber One bars. At 150 calories a piece, I reasoned that two would make a satisfactory and responsible meal. I ate one while paying for them and the other somewhere over Delaware. By 9am we had landed in Tampa, collected a rental car and were on our way west to a beach front hotel.
Sometime after checking in and eating lunch, Beau’s sister She-Ra and her husband arrived. We were splitting the room with them in a cost-saving measure. Her husband retired to the room for a little golf tournament surveillance while we basked around the pool. Mere pages into a new book, I realized how exhausted I was. Severe sleepiness often makes my stomach ache so between a rumbling tummy and lack of rest, I was cranky. I excused myself to the room where I figured I’d get a jump start on the shower line up before the wedding that evening.
As soon as I was out of ear shot of about a dozen in-laws, a bit of gas escaped me. I giggled in that way that you do when you are actively flatulating behind a bush in public. It ceased to amuse me by the time I reached the elevator and was making wind like a tropical storm. I greeted She-Ra’s husband and retreated to the safety of the bathroom when I could attempt to silently detonate my digestive system.
Cleaned, refreshed and partially deflated, I snuggled into my bed for a power nap. When Beau woke me later that afternoon, I knew without a doubt that I was in trouble. Tropical storm Dangerous K had upgraded to a full-fledged category one hurricane and was gaining strength on the coast of the gulf. I threw myself out of bed and poked my head into the hallway where there was a lone housekeeper slowly pushing her cart down the never ending hall. I turned around, slammed the door and hurtled across the room as fast as I could at a controlled geisha step to my last sanctuary: the balcony overlooking the tennis courts.
As soon as the glass sliding door shut, I farted like nobody’s business (yet here I am telling the internet all about it so I guess that makes my business everybody’s business actually). Sheepishly, I slunk back into the room and confessed to Beau who already knew due to my constant whining earlier that day. News travels fast in a 12’ x 12’ room. Especially when you've been tooting along in your sleep. She-Ra inquired after what I’d eaten that day and a look of horror passed across her face when I got to the Fiber One bars that I’d had for breakfast, “Aren’t each of those 35% of your daily fiber? That’s 70% of your daily fiber that you ate in one sitting.”
Well. Fuck.
That didn’t change the fact that I had to fit my bloated abdomen into a cute little dress and march myself down to a gathering of in-laws and complete strangers where we’d all sit in closs proximity and in complete silence while watching a solemn, major life event unfold before our eyes. At least it was outside.
I managed to last through the blessedly brief ceremony without embarrassing myself further than a few moments of doubled over agony and the occasional sound of reuptake – that horrendous gurgling that your intestines do when you have a fart on deck that you REFUSE to release into the wild. Even my own body is bent on my complete and utter humiliation.
After the ceremony, I tried to sneak away but was retained for family photos. I lagged behind the group that was heading for the sand dunes and snuck a few silent-but-deadlies. My newly free-range ass air swirled about and I shuffled towards the sea grass before the guy collecting the folding chairs had detected anything was amiss.
Having mastered the art of silent release, the reception was much more comfortable. I passed gas near a volley ball court, at the bar, at a cocktail table while stuffing my face with baby quiches, in at least three hallways, in the bathroom after greeting the bride at the sink, in line at the buffet and, God help me, at the dinner table seated next to a previously estranged family member. Beau, if he stops speaking to you guys again, I may know why.
So, that’s what I’ve been up to lately. Jet setting to southern states, attending family events and tirelessly lobbying for the freedom of farts, puppehs and meat. Even bacon.
Showing posts with label feeding time. Show all posts
Showing posts with label feeding time. Show all posts
Wednesday, July 28, 2010
Wednesday, March 24, 2010
It’s Gone Now. I Ate It While Trying to Think of a Title.
After a post-lunch trip to the vending machine today, I settled back into my cubicle with a prized bag of Cheez-Its. The lunch crowd was emptying out of the kitchen which is directly behind my desk, so I had to wait before opening Facebook and continuing to scrutinize Beau’s profile (listen, I am marrying this man. I need to make confirm that what he puts out into cyberspace is an approved representation of his person. Sometimes he wears stripes and plaid together. It makes me nervous).
I clicked on my favorite pretend-I’m-working screen which is my loaded and color-coded work calendar. Coworkers continued to filter out of the break room individually. I opened my bag of snacks and began munching. Two girls stopped to wrap up a conversation. I squinted at my computer in that way that suggests concentration and serious thought. Really, I was looking at the list of alternate calendars and thinking, “I wonder if I still have access to the President’s calendar” because I thoroughly enjoy putting my nose where it doesn’t belong. My right hand continued to dig through the contents of the bag which was firmly held by my left hand. Then the President’s calendar opened up. I almost choked on a Cheez-It.
I immediately closed his calendar and informed Bologna that I have telekinesis because being able to control things with your mind is more interesting than my boss’ doctor’s appointments. After 26 years, Bologna has grown accustomed to my reports of brain aneurisms, bird flu symptoms and Sasquatch sightings so she tends to approach my claims with a reserved tone. This time I got a “wow” with TWO exclamation points. That’s how moving my proof was.
She demanded scientific testing. I put a cracker on my desk and worked on levitating it to my mouth by making the same squinty face. After a few seconds of wasted energy, I gave the Cheez-It a little boost by putting it on my keyboard (don’t judge – it’s my first exercise in levitation). I hovered menacingly and opened my mouth really wide but to no avail. I moved the cracker to higher ground again and continued concentrating.
Bologna and I kept talking while the stubborn cracker refused to fly into my mouth. Maybe telekinesis is like one of those Magic Eye pictures. You can burst a blood vessel straining your eyes or you can kind of let them cross and the picture will appear. But how to distract myself while a lush Cheez-It, the last of the bag, sits unmolested and easily within reach? I checked my email. I lined up other objects on my desk. I wrote an entire blog entry. Still, 45 minutes later, the cracker remains steadfastly on my stapler like Mufasa overlooking his kingdom. That is the longest that an undefended food product has ever remained on my desk.
I clicked on my favorite pretend-I’m-working screen which is my loaded and color-coded work calendar. Coworkers continued to filter out of the break room individually. I opened my bag of snacks and began munching. Two girls stopped to wrap up a conversation. I squinted at my computer in that way that suggests concentration and serious thought. Really, I was looking at the list of alternate calendars and thinking, “I wonder if I still have access to the President’s calendar” because I thoroughly enjoy putting my nose where it doesn’t belong. My right hand continued to dig through the contents of the bag which was firmly held by my left hand. Then the President’s calendar opened up. I almost choked on a Cheez-It.
I immediately closed his calendar and informed Bologna that I have telekinesis because being able to control things with your mind is more interesting than my boss’ doctor’s appointments. After 26 years, Bologna has grown accustomed to my reports of brain aneurisms, bird flu symptoms and Sasquatch sightings so she tends to approach my claims with a reserved tone. This time I got a “wow” with TWO exclamation points. That’s how moving my proof was.
She demanded scientific testing. I put a cracker on my desk and worked on levitating it to my mouth by making the same squinty face. After a few seconds of wasted energy, I gave the Cheez-It a little boost by putting it on my keyboard (don’t judge – it’s my first exercise in levitation). I hovered menacingly and opened my mouth really wide but to no avail. I moved the cracker to higher ground again and continued concentrating.
Bologna and I kept talking while the stubborn cracker refused to fly into my mouth. Maybe telekinesis is like one of those Magic Eye pictures. You can burst a blood vessel straining your eyes or you can kind of let them cross and the picture will appear. But how to distract myself while a lush Cheez-It, the last of the bag, sits unmolested and easily within reach? I checked my email. I lined up other objects on my desk. I wrote an entire blog entry. Still, 45 minutes later, the cracker remains steadfastly on my stapler like Mufasa overlooking his kingdom. That is the longest that an undefended food product has ever remained on my desk.
Wednesday, August 12, 2009
The Jalapeno
**PARENTAL ADVISORY: consider yourself warned**
Beau is damn near a gourmet-level of chefery. When we started dating and lived on opposite sides of the city, I looked forward to visiting his South Boston apartment because, among other things, it meant one less night of eating ramen, salad, or my infamous bachelorette chili (one can of black beans, sprinkle of taco seasoning packet, ground turkey, sometimes a little shredded cheddar on top if I felt fancy). I’ve considered submitting his name to Hell’s Kitchen but I don’t want to be responsible for showing up at Gordon Ramsey’s house with a flaming bag of my own feces should he abuse my Beau.
Instead, I graciously allow Beau to cook all of my dinners thereby providing him with time to hone his art form and only occasionally berate him for making me fatter. Last night was chorizo and rice with a fantastic mango-avocado-tomato salsa. Awesome. I was in the middle of licking my plate when he started whining about jalapeño juice burning his upper lip. I nodded as best I could while maintaining eye contact with the television and mouth-vacuuming my dish. As I set it down on the coffee table with an appreciative belch, he leapt up from the couch and ran upstairs. I took the opportunity to similarly clear his plate.
Moments later, the floor shook and the sounds of “owwwww, ow, ow, ow” trailed down the staircase. I followed the wailing and found him in the bathroom, jumping up and down with a wash cloth pressed to his eyes. He very helpfully told me, “OWWWWW.”
“But what is the matter, Beau?” I calmly queried (no, really. I call him Beau at home. I barely remember his real name at this point. They’re going to have to use that nickname in our wedding vows).
He squinted from his hunched position and said, “I have jalapeño juice in my eyes. OWWWW.” Normally, this sort of calamity would earn a mute head shake as I left the room and closed the door behind myself. Like the time he fell down the steps 10 seconds after I said, “Remember they redid the back stoop. Watch your step.” Normally I’m used to that kind of clumsiness. But this incident occurred on the coattails of a conversation about a pepper so hot, there are laws banning outdoor cultivation in the US because if an animal gets the oil in its eyes, it will literally scratch them out. In a characteristic fit of paranoia, I didn’t see Beau hopping around my bathroom. I saw a panicked squirrel gouging out its eyes with a stick. There was only one reasonable course of action: chemical shower.
I got the water running while he stripped, pushed him into the shower stall, and instructed him to flush his eyes out with water and to scrub the oil off his hands with soap. While he followed orders, I perched nervously on the nearby toilet. Finally, the water turned off and he popped his head out, blinking cautiously. I retrieved his towel and enjoyed the descending calm. It didn’t last. Suddenly he was shrieking and flailing and hopping around my bathroom again. He shoved past me and jumped back in the shower. I settled on the toilet again and reprimanded, “Really wash your hands or you’re going to keep getting it in your eyes!”
“It’s not in my eyes,” he called back.
I’d settled on the toilet again. From there, I leaned over to peer into the shower stall. What I saw was Beau, face planted against the wall with his back side in the water. I asked, “What are you doing?! Where did you…”
“It’s on my bunghole.”
There’s so little in this world that makes me speechless. But when I saw my darling fiancé flayed, spread-eagle, using his hands to pry apart his butt cheeks to best flush the jalapeño oil from his anus, my mouth dropped open and I was without words. Usually, I recover from those rare moments quickly and return with some witty turn of phrase. Last night, I just laughed until I cried and clutched the bathroom counter convulsing with waves of laughter until I could finally breathe again. By then, he was drying off, scowling at me and asking if I was quite through laughing.
But I didn’t finish laughing until this morning when I realized that mango salsa is probably no longer on the menu.
Beau is damn near a gourmet-level of chefery. When we started dating and lived on opposite sides of the city, I looked forward to visiting his South Boston apartment because, among other things, it meant one less night of eating ramen, salad, or my infamous bachelorette chili (one can of black beans, sprinkle of taco seasoning packet, ground turkey, sometimes a little shredded cheddar on top if I felt fancy). I’ve considered submitting his name to Hell’s Kitchen but I don’t want to be responsible for showing up at Gordon Ramsey’s house with a flaming bag of my own feces should he abuse my Beau.
Instead, I graciously allow Beau to cook all of my dinners thereby providing him with time to hone his art form and only occasionally berate him for making me fatter. Last night was chorizo and rice with a fantastic mango-avocado-tomato salsa. Awesome. I was in the middle of licking my plate when he started whining about jalapeño juice burning his upper lip. I nodded as best I could while maintaining eye contact with the television and mouth-vacuuming my dish. As I set it down on the coffee table with an appreciative belch, he leapt up from the couch and ran upstairs. I took the opportunity to similarly clear his plate.
Moments later, the floor shook and the sounds of “owwwww, ow, ow, ow” trailed down the staircase. I followed the wailing and found him in the bathroom, jumping up and down with a wash cloth pressed to his eyes. He very helpfully told me, “OWWWWW.”
“But what is the matter, Beau?” I calmly queried (no, really. I call him Beau at home. I barely remember his real name at this point. They’re going to have to use that nickname in our wedding vows).
He squinted from his hunched position and said, “I have jalapeño juice in my eyes. OWWWW.” Normally, this sort of calamity would earn a mute head shake as I left the room and closed the door behind myself. Like the time he fell down the steps 10 seconds after I said, “Remember they redid the back stoop. Watch your step.” Normally I’m used to that kind of clumsiness. But this incident occurred on the coattails of a conversation about a pepper so hot, there are laws banning outdoor cultivation in the US because if an animal gets the oil in its eyes, it will literally scratch them out. In a characteristic fit of paranoia, I didn’t see Beau hopping around my bathroom. I saw a panicked squirrel gouging out its eyes with a stick. There was only one reasonable course of action: chemical shower.
I got the water running while he stripped, pushed him into the shower stall, and instructed him to flush his eyes out with water and to scrub the oil off his hands with soap. While he followed orders, I perched nervously on the nearby toilet. Finally, the water turned off and he popped his head out, blinking cautiously. I retrieved his towel and enjoyed the descending calm. It didn’t last. Suddenly he was shrieking and flailing and hopping around my bathroom again. He shoved past me and jumped back in the shower. I settled on the toilet again and reprimanded, “Really wash your hands or you’re going to keep getting it in your eyes!”
“It’s not in my eyes,” he called back.
I’d settled on the toilet again. From there, I leaned over to peer into the shower stall. What I saw was Beau, face planted against the wall with his back side in the water. I asked, “What are you doing?! Where did you…”
“It’s on my bunghole.”
There’s so little in this world that makes me speechless. But when I saw my darling fiancé flayed, spread-eagle, using his hands to pry apart his butt cheeks to best flush the jalapeño oil from his anus, my mouth dropped open and I was without words. Usually, I recover from those rare moments quickly and return with some witty turn of phrase. Last night, I just laughed until I cried and clutched the bathroom counter convulsing with waves of laughter until I could finally breathe again. By then, he was drying off, scowling at me and asking if I was quite through laughing.
But I didn’t finish laughing until this morning when I realized that mango salsa is probably no longer on the menu.
Tuesday, June 23, 2009
Weakness of the Flesh
Upton Sinclair made me a vegetarian when I was 15. Or, more specifically, that terrible scene in The Jungle did. The socialist content went completely over my head but the thought of people-meat being mixed in with my sausage products was too much for me to handle. I went down to dinner that night, looked at the freshly carved chicken on the counter and announced, “I think I’m not going to eat meat anymore” to which my father called from the next room over, “There’s peanut butter in the cabinet.”
That carried on for a few years until one particularly grueling day in Disney World when I ordered a taco salad sans beef and was presented with a taco salad WITH beef. I knew it would take longer to get a fresh one than it would to wait for a gun license in New Hampshire (around 20 minutes) (which was unacceptable in my famished state) so I sat down with the intention of pushing the offensive substance to the side and consuming the slightly tainted lettuce beneath. Several minutes later, I came up for air with my face covered in delicious beef and then proceeded to sample a meat product at each country in Epcot. Now I own that shirt made famous by Heather Armstrong that says “Meat is Murder. Tasty, Tasty Murder.”
Still, I have a soft spot for animals. I cut six-pack rings before recycling to save the dolphins. I incessantly try to rescue lost dogs. I cry during those horrific animal abuse commercials with the Sarah McLachlan music in the background. So, when Beau told me that Father’s Day dinner would involve fresh lobsters, I may have panicked a little.
When it came time to cook them, I remained in the kitchen. For solidarity. Like how William Wallace’s friends came to his execution. The little troopers emerged from their refrigerated bag, kicking and futilely flailing their bound fists of fury. They continued struggling until they were lulled into a false sense of security with back pets though I’m quite sure I heard one of them whisper, “No. It will numb my wits, and I must have them all. For if I'm senseless or if I wail, then Longshanks will have broken me.” Just before being lowered into the Pot of Death, one of them looked me directly in the eye and I was forced to run into the next room. They died gracefully without the alleged screams I had been led to expect.
At dinner I choked down the steak that Beau’s mother had thoughtfully made for me in lieu of lobster, all the while thinking, “I will courteously eat this animal carcass and then I will remain steadfastly vegetarian for the foreseeable future.” I spent the rest of the evening in bed, nauseated by what I had seen.
Come morning, I woke late and had a bowl of soggy cereal, stewing in my self righteousness at the breakfast table. Because I was determined to carry on the Good Fight for which my comrades had so valiantly perished. I would not let those martyrs be forgotten by the barbarians who slew them for their savory innards. Oh no. I WOULD NOT LET THEM GO QUIETLY INTO THE NIGHT. WHO’S WITH ME?!
Then Beau’s family showed me the two crisp, succulent strips of bacon that they had saved specifically for me. As it turns out, the foreseeable future is less than 18 hours.
That carried on for a few years until one particularly grueling day in Disney World when I ordered a taco salad sans beef and was presented with a taco salad WITH beef. I knew it would take longer to get a fresh one than it would to wait for a gun license in New Hampshire (around 20 minutes) (which was unacceptable in my famished state) so I sat down with the intention of pushing the offensive substance to the side and consuming the slightly tainted lettuce beneath. Several minutes later, I came up for air with my face covered in delicious beef and then proceeded to sample a meat product at each country in Epcot. Now I own that shirt made famous by Heather Armstrong that says “Meat is Murder. Tasty, Tasty Murder.”
Still, I have a soft spot for animals. I cut six-pack rings before recycling to save the dolphins. I incessantly try to rescue lost dogs. I cry during those horrific animal abuse commercials with the Sarah McLachlan music in the background. So, when Beau told me that Father’s Day dinner would involve fresh lobsters, I may have panicked a little.
When it came time to cook them, I remained in the kitchen. For solidarity. Like how William Wallace’s friends came to his execution. The little troopers emerged from their refrigerated bag, kicking and futilely flailing their bound fists of fury. They continued struggling until they were lulled into a false sense of security with back pets though I’m quite sure I heard one of them whisper, “No. It will numb my wits, and I must have them all. For if I'm senseless or if I wail, then Longshanks will have broken me.” Just before being lowered into the Pot of Death, one of them looked me directly in the eye and I was forced to run into the next room. They died gracefully without the alleged screams I had been led to expect.
At dinner I choked down the steak that Beau’s mother had thoughtfully made for me in lieu of lobster, all the while thinking, “I will courteously eat this animal carcass and then I will remain steadfastly vegetarian for the foreseeable future.” I spent the rest of the evening in bed, nauseated by what I had seen.
Come morning, I woke late and had a bowl of soggy cereal, stewing in my self righteousness at the breakfast table. Because I was determined to carry on the Good Fight for which my comrades had so valiantly perished. I would not let those martyrs be forgotten by the barbarians who slew them for their savory innards. Oh no. I WOULD NOT LET THEM GO QUIETLY INTO THE NIGHT. WHO’S WITH ME?!
Then Beau’s family showed me the two crisp, succulent strips of bacon that they had saved specifically for me. As it turns out, the foreseeable future is less than 18 hours.
Friday, February 27, 2009
Ella Ella Eh Eh Eh
There’s pretty much NO way I can work today because:
a) It is currently 59° outside.
b) It’s Friday.
c) We made an offer on a house this morning and I’m waiting to hear back from the owners.
d) One of my oldest Jersey friends, Pilipoy, is visiting Boston tomorrow.
e) Beau and I are hosting a dinner party (read: shit show) tomorrow night and when my liver hears the word “party” it starts sending chemical signals out to my brain that say “HOLLAHHH - CRANK UP UMBRELLA AND START DANCING AROUND!!”
I’m forcibly resisting the urge to take my swivel chair outside in order to tailgate in the parking lot. It’s taking all my will power just to stay in this cubicle. I have no energy left over for silly tasks like counting or filing or doing anything else that I’m currently being paid to do. So instead, I'll tell you a random story.
Earlier this afternoon, the controller, president, and vice president took me out for lunch (technically my welcome lunch which has been postponed for a couple of months because they have real jobs, which I totally understand). Here’s a sample of our conversation which may help explain why I love this freakin’ place:
VP: So what kind of wines do you like?
Me: Cheap ones… pretty much anything with an animal on the label. I bought an expensive one recently that tasted horrible so, now I pretty much stick to Yellow Tail.
Controller: I love Yellow Tail!
VP: Are you more of a cocktail person? What’s your signature drink?
Me: Bacardianddietcoke [Yes, I told this to senior management without any hesitation whatsoever and practically before the vice president had finished his sentence]
President: I love Mt. Gay rum. I could drink that stuff straight.
Then the conversation turned to a discussion of rum and rum-based drinks for the next 5 minutes and I kept grinning from ear to ear and thinking “I am never going to leave this place.” At the end of our meal, we clinked our sodas together in cheers and they welcomed me to the company again.
Me: Just pretend there’s rum in here
President: We should start bringing flasks to lunch.
LOVE THIS PLACE. Anyway, have an awesome weekend! Full report of party shenanigans on Monday. And for any of the invitees who read this, don’t you dare flake out! We have Guitar Hero and a camera all set up.
a) It is currently 59° outside.
b) It’s Friday.
c) We made an offer on a house this morning and I’m waiting to hear back from the owners.
d) One of my oldest Jersey friends, Pilipoy, is visiting Boston tomorrow.
e) Beau and I are hosting a dinner party (read: shit show) tomorrow night and when my liver hears the word “party” it starts sending chemical signals out to my brain that say “HOLLAHHH - CRANK UP UMBRELLA AND START DANCING AROUND!!”
I’m forcibly resisting the urge to take my swivel chair outside in order to tailgate in the parking lot. It’s taking all my will power just to stay in this cubicle. I have no energy left over for silly tasks like counting or filing or doing anything else that I’m currently being paid to do. So instead, I'll tell you a random story.
Earlier this afternoon, the controller, president, and vice president took me out for lunch (technically my welcome lunch which has been postponed for a couple of months because they have real jobs, which I totally understand). Here’s a sample of our conversation which may help explain why I love this freakin’ place:
VP: So what kind of wines do you like?
Me: Cheap ones… pretty much anything with an animal on the label. I bought an expensive one recently that tasted horrible so, now I pretty much stick to Yellow Tail.
Controller: I love Yellow Tail!
VP: Are you more of a cocktail person? What’s your signature drink?
Me: Bacardianddietcoke [Yes, I told this to senior management without any hesitation whatsoever and practically before the vice president had finished his sentence]
President: I love Mt. Gay rum. I could drink that stuff straight.
Then the conversation turned to a discussion of rum and rum-based drinks for the next 5 minutes and I kept grinning from ear to ear and thinking “I am never going to leave this place.” At the end of our meal, we clinked our sodas together in cheers and they welcomed me to the company again.
Me: Just pretend there’s rum in here
President: We should start bringing flasks to lunch.
LOVE THIS PLACE. Anyway, have an awesome weekend! Full report of party shenanigans on Monday. And for any of the invitees who read this, don’t you dare flake out! We have Guitar Hero and a camera all set up.
Wednesday, April 23, 2008
Pressing Matters
There's something poking my boob from inside my bra.
I suspect it’s a cracker crumb. It’s usually a cracker crumb. I mean it’s not a persistent issue but yes, it's been known to happen from time to time. One poor choice this morning, and I’m wearing a shift dress with no easy access to the boobal region. There’s no convenient, sly way to get in there and poke around. My laziness prevents me from journeying to the bathroom for a proper frisking.
Instead, I've been playing Russian roulette for the past hour, shifting around and jabbing a finger down the front of my dress, but it’s only a matter of time before someone comes along and I'm once again that weird receptionist who puts her hands in her clothing.
I suspect it’s a cracker crumb. It’s usually a cracker crumb. I mean it’s not a persistent issue but yes, it's been known to happen from time to time. One poor choice this morning, and I’m wearing a shift dress with no easy access to the boobal region. There’s no convenient, sly way to get in there and poke around. My laziness prevents me from journeying to the bathroom for a proper frisking.
Instead, I've been playing Russian roulette for the past hour, shifting around and jabbing a finger down the front of my dress, but it’s only a matter of time before someone comes along and I'm once again that weird receptionist who puts her hands in her clothing.
Tuesday, April 22, 2008
Tapas: Ur Doin It Wrong
In the general vein of trying activities other than drinking, Beau and I went ventured into the city on Saturday to meet one of his friends for dinner at Bar Lola, a trendy tapas restaurant in Back Bay. For those living under a rock, “tapas” is a Spanish word roughly translating to “shnacks” or “nachos during happy hour” but much fancier. Much fancier. And much more pretentious.
What should been a 30-minute car ride turned into an hour long ride because half of downtown Boston was already closed for Monday’s marathon. Could someone explain this to me? Is it because I’m from Jersey? 20,000-some-odd people gather together in a herd and … run? All day? For no prize? With no bulls or zombies chasing them? I’ve come to terms with joggers (solitary or in small packs of a dozen or so), but I’m not alright with several thousand people shutting down the streets on what would otherwise have been a perfectly good shopping day. Get a treadmill. But I digress.
Beau dropped me off out front to before parking the car and instructed me to find his friend at the bar area. Immediately, I was aware this place was bad news bears – the dim lighting, the size 2 girls, the hand bags worth a small fortune. When I couldn’t find her, I stopped by the front desk to ask the host if she’d checked in. I waited for several minutes until a frantic looking young gentleman ran by and stopped long enough to tell me yes, she had checked in; no, he didn’t know where she was; no, I couldn’t have a table until my entire party arrived.
I understand table-withholding when a place is packed and/or you don’t have a reservation but neither applied. Actually, it appeared our reservation was totally unnecessary considering how empty the place was. I’m still not sure why the host was hysterically running around and seemed too busy to pay attention to me, a paying customer. Perhaps he was training for the marathon.
Beau sauntered in with his friend in tow a few moments later but by then it was too late. Bad first impressions are hard to shake. The host agreed to seat us after I flagged him down from his frenzied scurrying. We were given a table about the size of a night stand and handed one pint glass ¾ full of warm tap water.
A waitress appeared moments later (granted with more water) to take our drink order which turned out to be mojitos and sangria. The sangria arrived but we were told the bar had no mint. Nope, no mojitos available in this Spanish sham. At which time I said “Fuck it” and got a rumndietcoke.
When it came time to order, we each put in for 3 dishes knowing full well that each one would be itsy-bitsy. As previously mentioned, tapas are really more of a light meal meant to eaten in early evening because the Spanish eat a full dinner around 9 or 10. If you’re going to make tapas into an actual meal instead of a snack, you need to order quite a few.
What we didn’t expect was to have the wait staff act so incredibly disdainful and offended that we would dare order so much. They seemed truly irritated each time they stopped by with a different dish. We even caught a couple of snide remarks. Ew. Don't judge me!
Again, if it had been a particularly busy night, I would be more understanding of there grumpiness and complete inability to smile, but considering the place was near empty, my sympathy runs low. The dates wrapped in bacon were divine, but the attitudes were such a turn off, I don’t think I would ever go back.
Note to wait staff at Bar Lola: Life is short and your dishes are small. Dislodge the tapa from your rectum and attempt to enjoy yourself.
What should been a 30-minute car ride turned into an hour long ride because half of downtown Boston was already closed for Monday’s marathon. Could someone explain this to me? Is it because I’m from Jersey? 20,000-some-odd people gather together in a herd and … run? All day? For no prize? With no bulls or zombies chasing them? I’ve come to terms with joggers (solitary or in small packs of a dozen or so), but I’m not alright with several thousand people shutting down the streets on what would otherwise have been a perfectly good shopping day. Get a treadmill. But I digress.
Beau dropped me off out front to before parking the car and instructed me to find his friend at the bar area. Immediately, I was aware this place was bad news bears – the dim lighting, the size 2 girls, the hand bags worth a small fortune. When I couldn’t find her, I stopped by the front desk to ask the host if she’d checked in. I waited for several minutes until a frantic looking young gentleman ran by and stopped long enough to tell me yes, she had checked in; no, he didn’t know where she was; no, I couldn’t have a table until my entire party arrived.
I understand table-withholding when a place is packed and/or you don’t have a reservation but neither applied. Actually, it appeared our reservation was totally unnecessary considering how empty the place was. I’m still not sure why the host was hysterically running around and seemed too busy to pay attention to me, a paying customer. Perhaps he was training for the marathon.
Beau sauntered in with his friend in tow a few moments later but by then it was too late. Bad first impressions are hard to shake. The host agreed to seat us after I flagged him down from his frenzied scurrying. We were given a table about the size of a night stand and handed one pint glass ¾ full of warm tap water.
A waitress appeared moments later (granted with more water) to take our drink order which turned out to be mojitos and sangria. The sangria arrived but we were told the bar had no mint. Nope, no mojitos available in this Spanish sham. At which time I said “Fuck it” and got a rumndietcoke.
When it came time to order, we each put in for 3 dishes knowing full well that each one would be itsy-bitsy. As previously mentioned, tapas are really more of a light meal meant to eaten in early evening because the Spanish eat a full dinner around 9 or 10. If you’re going to make tapas into an actual meal instead of a snack, you need to order quite a few.
What we didn’t expect was to have the wait staff act so incredibly disdainful and offended that we would dare order so much. They seemed truly irritated each time they stopped by with a different dish. We even caught a couple of snide remarks. Ew. Don't judge me!
Again, if it had been a particularly busy night, I would be more understanding of there grumpiness and complete inability to smile, but considering the place was near empty, my sympathy runs low. The dates wrapped in bacon were divine, but the attitudes were such a turn off, I don’t think I would ever go back.
Note to wait staff at Bar Lola: Life is short and your dishes are small. Dislodge the tapa from your rectum and attempt to enjoy yourself.
Thursday, April 3, 2008
The Richter’n’DietCoke Scale
Wednesday night is quickly becoming Girls’ Night Out. So, following precedent, we ate at Fajitas & ’Ritas last night which features an extensive tequila menu, pitchers of flavored margaritas, and a table that you can write on. All speak in favor of the restaurant, but to be honest, I prefer Chili’s food and presentation. My quesadillas came to the table slapped on a plate with a pathetic lettuce leaf holding my guac and sour cream. And as Master Debater pointed out, the salsa was of the “gallon” variety [*New Character Alert* Master Debater is Face’s boyfriend. He’s very nice and tall, but made the fatal error of making fun of me for having been in the high school marching band after telling me he was on the debate team. Let this be a lesson to all those out there that they should be nice to me lest I give them mean pseudonyms]. But at under $10 an entrée, who’s really going to complain?
3 pitchers of frozen margaritas later, we decided to nix the idea of putting me on the (very reasonable) 8:10 train home and go to a dive bar instead. Face led us around the corner to what she claimed was one of her favorite pubs in Boston. Behold, The Tam, where we immediately found seats, Grasshoppah attacked the juke box, and there was much merriment all around.
So, the drinks. Let’s get something straight if it isn’t already. I am a rumndietcoke connoisseur. If there’s anything that I know inside and out, it’s rumndietcokes. As such, I’ve generated a general scale to assess the quality/quantity of my drinks:
Fuckin’ Dixie Cup: An overpriced tiny cup of diet coke with a splash of rum; available at my least favorite bar in Boston, The Liquor Store.
Meh, Tumbler: A decent size drink for the price but nothing to really write home about; probably the most common variety.
Eyebrow-Flick Tumbler: A “Meh, Tumbler” that has been vastly improved by a nice bartender who is a little more generous with the liquor; available at our usual hangout, The Cellar, in Cambridge.
Big Girl Drink: A glorious pintful of deliciousness; first found at the greatest bar in America, The Spoke, of Amherst, MA; also available upon request at many other fine dives.
The Lethal: A medium size glass filled 3/4 of the way with rum and topped off with Diet Coke; the exact opposite of a Fuckin’ Dixie Cup; first experienced at The Tam which has already won a place in my heart.
I had 2 lethals last night and I’m paying the price via my brain. I also paid the price via my wallet after the girls dropped me off at South Station to catch the 10:10 train home… which turned out to be the 10:30 train home… and at 9:40 I was too drunkenly impatient to wait that long so I hit the ATM and headed for the taxi queue only to be waylaid by a polite limo driver who offered me a ride home for a flat rate (which exceeded my usual fare by about $15). And you know how I like to ride in style when I’m tanked. So I said yes… with my lunch money. I’ll be stuck eating a homemade wrap today but I’ll still have the memory of my drunken bottom being carted home on a leather seat last night instead of in the back of a smelly cab. And no one can take that away from me.
3 pitchers of frozen margaritas later, we decided to nix the idea of putting me on the (very reasonable) 8:10 train home and go to a dive bar instead. Face led us around the corner to what she claimed was one of her favorite pubs in Boston. Behold, The Tam, where we immediately found seats, Grasshoppah attacked the juke box, and there was much merriment all around.
So, the drinks. Let’s get something straight if it isn’t already. I am a rumndietcoke connoisseur. If there’s anything that I know inside and out, it’s rumndietcokes. As such, I’ve generated a general scale to assess the quality/quantity of my drinks:
Fuckin’ Dixie Cup: An overpriced tiny cup of diet coke with a splash of rum; available at my least favorite bar in Boston, The Liquor Store.
Meh, Tumbler: A decent size drink for the price but nothing to really write home about; probably the most common variety.
Eyebrow-Flick Tumbler: A “Meh, Tumbler” that has been vastly improved by a nice bartender who is a little more generous with the liquor; available at our usual hangout, The Cellar, in Cambridge.
Big Girl Drink: A glorious pintful of deliciousness; first found at the greatest bar in America, The Spoke, of Amherst, MA; also available upon request at many other fine dives.
The Lethal: A medium size glass filled 3/4 of the way with rum and topped off with Diet Coke; the exact opposite of a Fuckin’ Dixie Cup; first experienced at The Tam which has already won a place in my heart.
I had 2 lethals last night and I’m paying the price via my brain. I also paid the price via my wallet after the girls dropped me off at South Station to catch the 10:10 train home… which turned out to be the 10:30 train home… and at 9:40 I was too drunkenly impatient to wait that long so I hit the ATM and headed for the taxi queue only to be waylaid by a polite limo driver who offered me a ride home for a flat rate (which exceeded my usual fare by about $15). And you know how I like to ride in style when I’m tanked. So I said yes… with my lunch money. I’ll be stuck eating a homemade wrap today but I’ll still have the memory of my drunken bottom being carted home on a leather seat last night instead of in the back of a smelly cab. And no one can take that away from me.
Tuesday, March 25, 2008
Congratulations on the Birth of Your New Psychosis
Before launching into the title subject of this entry, I’d like to take a moment to curse a once beloved source of clothing: Fie, Banana Republic! Fie, I say! The inappropriately expensive pants that I bought from you mid-winter have developed a fatal fault. The zipper refuses to stay zipped meaning yesterday I was forced to constantly check on my fly status making me look like some kind of crotch-obsessed weirdo (which I’m mostly not!) in the presence of others lest I expose my brightly colored underthings. Furthermore, Banana Republic Pants, how dare you impugn my favorite pair of polka dotted underwear as the offender in past events! They aren’t broken at ALL! It was you all along, you useless, selfish bastard(s). Fie. Grumble.
In other news, I have developed a new neurosis in addition to my hypochondria and my continued dialogue with inanimate objects such as tweed pants. I am officially Squeamish Towards Foods Past Their Prime Which Are Maybe Not So Past Their Prime After All. Mind you, I am the woman who found an M&M behind her college roommates’ desk once, ascertained that it had been there for approximately 7 months and then proceeded to eat it. I have extracted a fly from a bowl of soup before to avoid the hassle of returning it to the kitchen.
Regardless, the progression has been slow but steady and now merits official status in my arsenal of psychiatric issues. I started by throwing away any vegetables that had developed a soft spot or wilted at the edges. Then I tore apart dairy cases looking for the products with the absolute latest expiration date. Soon I was unable to eat poultry that had sat in the fridge for more than 2 days. And now, in this darkest of hours, I have tossed a (probably) perfectly good turkey wrap because the cold cuts smelled funny this morning. That’s reasonable, you say? I bought them fresh yesterday, I say.
I intend on labeling the deviant deli item “Exhibit A” this evening and leaving it for Beau’s final judgment this weekend. He is my voice of reason in most things except reasonable driving speeds. And besides, I’ve already lost the receipt, so I can’t demand my money back. It occurs to me that this may be a genetic phenomenon as Bologna refuses to drink milk more than a day after the bottle has been opened but as it currently stands, this hypothesis is strictly conjecture pending further investigation.
In other news, I have developed a new neurosis in addition to my hypochondria and my continued dialogue with inanimate objects such as tweed pants. I am officially Squeamish Towards Foods Past Their Prime Which Are Maybe Not So Past Their Prime After All. Mind you, I am the woman who found an M&M behind her college roommates’ desk once, ascertained that it had been there for approximately 7 months and then proceeded to eat it. I have extracted a fly from a bowl of soup before to avoid the hassle of returning it to the kitchen.
Regardless, the progression has been slow but steady and now merits official status in my arsenal of psychiatric issues. I started by throwing away any vegetables that had developed a soft spot or wilted at the edges. Then I tore apart dairy cases looking for the products with the absolute latest expiration date. Soon I was unable to eat poultry that had sat in the fridge for more than 2 days. And now, in this darkest of hours, I have tossed a (probably) perfectly good turkey wrap because the cold cuts smelled funny this morning. That’s reasonable, you say? I bought them fresh yesterday, I say.
I intend on labeling the deviant deli item “Exhibit A” this evening and leaving it for Beau’s final judgment this weekend. He is my voice of reason in most things except reasonable driving speeds. And besides, I’ve already lost the receipt, so I can’t demand my money back. It occurs to me that this may be a genetic phenomenon as Bologna refuses to drink milk more than a day after the bottle has been opened but as it currently stands, this hypothesis is strictly conjecture pending further investigation.
Wednesday, March 5, 2008
These Are a Few of My Favorite Things
1) Making plans with the ladies to grab dinner near Boston Common and see Atonement in the chichi movie theater with the escalators.
2) Meeting Face before Grasshoppah gets out of work to troll through H&M in search of an umbrella while discussing the rain/poofy hair situation.
3) Leaving H&M with a little, retarded umbrella that breaks a block later and also an accidental cardigan (for some people, gum is an impulse purchase – for me, it’s sweaters).
4) Settling into a table at the Beantown Pub with a nice, funny waiter who promptly brings me a rumndietcoke while I peruse the menu and watch commuters get drenched by the downpour.
5) Being happily surprised when Grasshoppah, who is physically incapable of finding her way around the city, makes it to the restaurant without incident.
6) Watching Grasshoppah order a beer and a shot of Jack Daniels with a straight face.
7) Discussing books classified as guilty pleasures with Face only to discover that she secretly loves the works my favorite trashy novelist’s other penname (I’m a fan of Barbara Michael’s daunting ghost/romance thrillers while Face prefers Elizabeth Peters’ Egyptological mysteries. Doesn’t matter. Same person. Very exciting. I squealed. People stared).
8) Watching Grasshoppah order a grilled cheese, a beer and another shot of Jack Daniels with a straight face.
9) Eating a reasonable Greek salad with grilled chicken (and only a few of Face’s nachos) to balance the caloric content of the jumbo popcorn in my near future.
10) Hearing the words “So, I have something I need to tell you guys…” come out of Face’s face followed by a brief explanation that she is [now freshly censored because SOOO many people read my blog some have begun to fear social fall out and political upheaval].
11) Scrapping the movie and immediately ordering another round of drinks.
12) Outpacing the girls’ drinks by a 2 to 1 ratio because tumblers of rumndietcoke are much smaller volume-wise than beers.
13) Demanding the first cab that pulled up due to a state of mild inebriation and actually getting it because I have the most wonderful, patient friends on earth who understand my complete lack of social etiquette (especially when intoxicated) and, dare I say, even find it a bit charming at times.
14) Having a cabbie who actually knows where he’s going in Suburbia.
15) Coming home to veggie tempura and an episode of Family Guy.
16) Having a fitful sleep of nightmares consisting of a dream in which the house catches fire and I have to rescue my downstairs neighbors’ dogs which ends with the ceiling collapsing, thereby trapping me in the house with an armful of assorted terriers. Then having another nightmare in which I’m on a Food Network challenge show where they’ve teamed me up with my evil ex-boyfriend and he keeps yelling at me because I don’t know how to cook goose livers properly. (Note: this is not actually one of my favorite things but for sequential continuity, I’ve included it anyway and for that, I apologize).
17) Waking up with a headful of big, bouncy curls as a result of going to bed with wet hair.
18) Realizing as I walk out the door that I already lost my little, retarded umbrella because I am a little, retarded person.
2) Meeting Face before Grasshoppah gets out of work to troll through H&M in search of an umbrella while discussing the rain/poofy hair situation.
3) Leaving H&M with a little, retarded umbrella that breaks a block later and also an accidental cardigan (for some people, gum is an impulse purchase – for me, it’s sweaters).
4) Settling into a table at the Beantown Pub with a nice, funny waiter who promptly brings me a rumndietcoke while I peruse the menu and watch commuters get drenched by the downpour.
5) Being happily surprised when Grasshoppah, who is physically incapable of finding her way around the city, makes it to the restaurant without incident.
6) Watching Grasshoppah order a beer and a shot of Jack Daniels with a straight face.
7) Discussing books classified as guilty pleasures with Face only to discover that she secretly loves the works my favorite trashy novelist’s other penname (I’m a fan of Barbara Michael’s daunting ghost/romance thrillers while Face prefers Elizabeth Peters’ Egyptological mysteries. Doesn’t matter. Same person. Very exciting. I squealed. People stared).
8) Watching Grasshoppah order a grilled cheese, a beer and another shot of Jack Daniels with a straight face.
9) Eating a reasonable Greek salad with grilled chicken (and only a few of Face’s nachos) to balance the caloric content of the jumbo popcorn in my near future.
10) Hearing the words “So, I have something I need to tell you guys…” come out of Face’s face followed by a brief explanation that she is [now freshly censored because SOOO many people read my blog some have begun to fear social fall out and political upheaval].
11) Scrapping the movie and immediately ordering another round of drinks.
12) Outpacing the girls’ drinks by a 2 to 1 ratio because tumblers of rumndietcoke are much smaller volume-wise than beers.
13) Demanding the first cab that pulled up due to a state of mild inebriation and actually getting it because I have the most wonderful, patient friends on earth who understand my complete lack of social etiquette (especially when intoxicated) and, dare I say, even find it a bit charming at times.
14) Having a cabbie who actually knows where he’s going in Suburbia.
15) Coming home to veggie tempura and an episode of Family Guy.
16) Having a fitful sleep of nightmares consisting of a dream in which the house catches fire and I have to rescue my downstairs neighbors’ dogs which ends with the ceiling collapsing, thereby trapping me in the house with an armful of assorted terriers. Then having another nightmare in which I’m on a Food Network challenge show where they’ve teamed me up with my evil ex-boyfriend and he keeps yelling at me because I don’t know how to cook goose livers properly. (Note: this is not actually one of my favorite things but for sequential continuity, I’ve included it anyway and for that, I apologize).
17) Waking up with a headful of big, bouncy curls as a result of going to bed with wet hair.
18) Realizing as I walk out the door that I already lost my little, retarded umbrella because I am a little, retarded person.
Tuesday, January 29, 2008
Ode to the Days When My Bottom Was Smaller
Once upon a time, I rented a room in the student ghetto of Boston where I cohabitated with two girls, two boys and two dogs, not to mention the ever shifting group of hippies in the first floor apartment and the creepy guy that lived in a tent next to the washing machine in the basement.
Storing enough food for five humans and two animals in one refrigerator is tricky at best. Luckily for my roomies though, I can’t cook. Since leaving my father’s household, I’ve subsisted mainly on salad, veggie burgers, and couscous. These fantastically yummy treasures are conveniently healthy enough to curb the effects of excessive alcohol consumption. But times have changed. This has not been my diet since Beau and I moved in together last summer because – and my mouth waters just at the thought – Beau cooks like the dickens.
Now life is full of meat and carbs and the occasional side dish of something green. I’m a spoiled, ruined woman. Despite Beau’s absence in the house this week (he’s in Florida to start that project that will steal him away again in February) and a grocery trip consisting entirely of veggies, faux-meat products and Lean Cuisines, I am unable to go back to my old ways. In the 36 hours following Beau’s departure, I consumed: an entire bag of chips, an unmentionable amount of ice cream, half a bottle of wine, two cups of white rice, all the leftover burrito fillings in the last remaining tortilla and four waffles. What about the broccoli in the crisper yearning for consumption? It’s still there. Oh. It’s very much still there.
And what did I do with my new found freedom from the oppressive presence of Man? Did I put on a little Kelly Clarkson and shake my money maker in front of the mirror? Did I do pilates? Did I pluck my eye brows and paint my nails and slough the dead skin from my elbows? No. I was too busy ingesting EVERYTHING in the house to do any of that. I sat on the couch inhaling approximately a week’s worth of calories and giving myself a tummy ache.
As I’ve said before, I’m not hatin’ on my fabulous chubbiness. I’ve been plump since I was a kid and I’ll be damned if I drop below a size 10. That said, I must reiterate: a girl has her limits. Eating chicken parmesan once a week, GOOD. Eating entire contents of the fridge once a week, BAD. What I’m hatin’ on is this bizarre spell that cohabitation has cast on me. I think other women refer to it as “letting yourself go.”
It would seem I am in sore need of some disciplinary action. As such, I have decided to run a little experiment. I have set the following goals for this evening:
Storing enough food for five humans and two animals in one refrigerator is tricky at best. Luckily for my roomies though, I can’t cook. Since leaving my father’s household, I’ve subsisted mainly on salad, veggie burgers, and couscous. These fantastically yummy treasures are conveniently healthy enough to curb the effects of excessive alcohol consumption. But times have changed. This has not been my diet since Beau and I moved in together last summer because – and my mouth waters just at the thought – Beau cooks like the dickens.
Now life is full of meat and carbs and the occasional side dish of something green. I’m a spoiled, ruined woman. Despite Beau’s absence in the house this week (he’s in Florida to start that project that will steal him away again in February) and a grocery trip consisting entirely of veggies, faux-meat products and Lean Cuisines, I am unable to go back to my old ways. In the 36 hours following Beau’s departure, I consumed: an entire bag of chips, an unmentionable amount of ice cream, half a bottle of wine, two cups of white rice, all the leftover burrito fillings in the last remaining tortilla and four waffles. What about the broccoli in the crisper yearning for consumption? It’s still there. Oh. It’s very much still there.
And what did I do with my new found freedom from the oppressive presence of Man? Did I put on a little Kelly Clarkson and shake my money maker in front of the mirror? Did I do pilates? Did I pluck my eye brows and paint my nails and slough the dead skin from my elbows? No. I was too busy ingesting EVERYTHING in the house to do any of that. I sat on the couch inhaling approximately a week’s worth of calories and giving myself a tummy ache.
As I’ve said before, I’m not hatin’ on my fabulous chubbiness. I’ve been plump since I was a kid and I’ll be damned if I drop below a size 10. That said, I must reiterate: a girl has her limits. Eating chicken parmesan once a week, GOOD. Eating entire contents of the fridge once a week, BAD. What I’m hatin’ on is this bizarre spell that cohabitation has cast on me. I think other women refer to it as “letting yourself go.”
It would seem I am in sore need of some disciplinary action. As such, I have decided to run a little experiment. I have set the following goals for this evening:
- Do not snack pre-dinner
- Eat something healthy instead. This does not include: condiments eaten from the jar with a spoon, ice cream straight from the container or cheese in any form.
- Dance around in underwear or exercise otherwise for a minimum of 20 minutes.
- Drink a cup of tea while reading. Just because it sounds quaint.
Now that the bag of Tostidos is no longer a threat, I feel optimistic as to the outcome. Full report tomorrow.
Tuesday, December 25, 2007
Tuesday, November 6, 2007
Dieting = Concussion
I'm back on solid foods but am being punished for making fun of mine and Beau's collective chins, of which there are several more than should be allotted for 2 individuals. He shamed me last night by going for a run in the cold, dark night while I watched "Family Guy" and ate leftover Chinese food. To make amends, I exchanged my normal post-lunch snack of Something-From-The-Vending-Machine-But-Specifically-A3-Which-Is-Doritos for an apple... with a reasonable amount of cheese. GIVE ME A BREAK. Anyway, I was very proud of myself until about 5 minutes ago when a small enclave of gnats figured out there's a fruit core in my garbage can. Now I will spend the rest of the day engaged in battle which is unfortunate. The last time this happened, my boss walked over at the exact moment I was scaling a filing cabinet in a pencil skirt in order to whack a fly with a newspaper. At least the trash is on the floor so I have a shorter distance to fall this time.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)