…That is all. When you’ve been rejected in La Perla and “being hot” is used in past tense to describe you … you’re officially fat. Hypothetically speaking of course.
I’ll be in the gym tonight with a sprained ankle – better skinny & limping than fat & wobbling I always say! Then I’ll be drowning my sorrows in approximately 300 calories of wine (aka 3/4 a sh*tty bottle I have left). THEN I’ll be working on convincing myself that I have some disease that means I’ll die if I eat OR researching stomach-stapling, belly-banding, liposuction, and whatever other form of getting skinny there is out there…. Other than moderate, healthy dieting and regular exercise of course… because, you know, that’s just too easy.
FMFL
(F*ck My Fat Life)
Time to seduce you with my erotic photos… of food! Check out my new Food Porn section, basically filled with bad photography on paper plates of food I eat a lot, like a lot, or wish I could make. I take pictures of food ALL the time; sometimes proud that I actually cooked (read: nuked) something, at a restaurant of a super sexy-looking dish, of my daily eats (simple and relatively healthy), my faves (read: pizza), etc. Figured I’d share them with you! Keep in mind, I’m not much of what we’d call a good cook, or a cook at all, so I give what I think are good things to put in these dishes but I’ll be sharing my disasters as well. Hopefully we can learn together… check it out and PLEASE post some of your own food porn too! Dressing optional…
Age ain’t nothin’ but a number… right? I am turning 28 and what I’ve learned that’s different between 27 and 28 is one very important thing: I cannot hold my liquor. I used to be a marathon-partier and now? I’m passed out fully clothed by 11. My mini-party I had last night showcased this entirely. Everyone else I know went out for Santacon all day long and then drunk texted me for the rest of the night saying they’re on their way… after drinking for 12 hours. I didn’t receive any of those texts after 11pm seeing as I was too busy being sprawled half on my bed, half on the floor. I found one of my heels in the sofa this morning. Classy. Another fantastic example of my not-so-stellar liquor-holding record was the night I went out in Tempe, Arizona over Thanksgiving. Boyfriend and I thought hey! It’s a Monday night, let’s go party with the ASU kids! And we did. Danced on podiums in a half empty bar, took shots of whiskey with bad beer chasers, took a swing around the pole in the middle of the ‘hot Monday night club’…. until I puked. Yup. Puked outside a “western themed bar” in front of a bouncer like a freshman who had too much jungle juice. Good thing my ex-frat boy was there to take me home… and by home I mean a different bar where I could get a beer to wash my puke-mouth out with.
What’s the moral of the turning-28 story? Embrace the old. Drink water in between beers, go home early from brunch and take a nap, don’t fill up your beer pong cups halfway, take the little shot, take the girly shot, just don’t take the shot. Prepare and take care of your body for the onslaught of alcohol like you never had to when you were 21. It’s ok, this happens to everyone. And if you need to vent about it, I’m here….
Le sigh. So maybe this blog is about to get more “dear diary” on everyone. It’s Saturday night. After 3am. And I’m watching Enough on Lifetime (even though I’ve seen it probably 18 times already). In my defense, at least it’s not Gigli? Which btw I have watched at some point in my college-hazed years…
So even though I have been sick this week and shouldn’t go out, I desperately wanted to do something tonight. Like just grab a glass of wine out with some friends. That’s when I realized it… in this great big city where I have tons of acquaintances… I have very very few friends. My go-to girl(s) are unavailable and therefore I am stuck indoors, writing this blog, snuggling with Feival, and watching J-Lo get beat up and feeling like I want to order pizza. But I really don’t want pizza. I want a wine-guzzling career girl to go out with and talk about how we’re going to take over the world then retire on a beach by the time we’re 50. Is that too much to ask for? Maybe I’ll try a book club…
The best thing about Irene was I had an excuse to eat chips and dip, whoppers, and sour worms for dinner. And that I just ate Ruffles and ranch dip for breakfast. YUM. I think I may have drifted off into a wine-induced coma somewhere around the time Irene started being a beatch. Vague memory of boyfriend moving the bed away from the window… with me in it. I did, however, manage to pack an emergency bag. At first it just had wine and makeup in it, but then I figured I should add some clothes, cat food, water, and other normal essentials.
So the good news is that we still have power, t.v., wifi, windows. Wishing all my manhattanites (and otro boroughs) a happy hurricane! I’ll leave you with this little diddy…. peace out, Irene!
Hey folks! Or folk… I’m sure at least ONE person reads this blog 
So Hurricane Irene is tearing its huge fat a$$ across the East Coast right now. I feel super prepared. I have about 700,000 calories stocked up in the form of candy, chips, dips, ramen, popcorn, 3 bottles of prosecco, and 9 bottles of various wines. I also managed to get 7ish gallons of water, you know, in case the wine runs out. The sensible part of me is hoping that Bloomberg is being a drama-queen and that Irene’s going to be more like a timid night of rain rather than the end of the The Shore as we know it. Theeeeen there’s the part of me that wants to wake up in the morning feeling like P Diddy and brush my teeth with a bottle of Jack because there’s no more water after 3 days of being home and resorting to drinking the filled-up bathtub. But that’s just me. Okay, gotta go pop some bottles and feed the cat… If you’re reading this, make sure you pour a little bubbly out for Irene… think of it as a sacrifice to the hurricane/earthquake/possible tornados gods. Stay safe and drink heavily inner fatties!!!
Meet Fieval. My fat and furry cat. He is truly the most seductive distraction ever. Got an 11am Cardio Boxing gym class that I TOTALLY am going to? Maybe after just a little kitty-snuggling time on the couch. And oooo the furry-snuggles are soooo gooood. And oooo look! There’s a new Real Housewives and So You Think You Can Dance on my DVR! And I can’t really get up and just leave my little furry animal all alone, can I? He’s all curled up as the little spoon with me on the couch. With his little paw over my hand and he’s just so soft and FLUFFY… can’t. leave. the fuzz.
Sigh. Maybe I’ll just order a bagel and call it a lazy Sunday morning…
Cheers to the chics going through PMS right now. And stress. Lots and lots of stress. Which deserve lots and lots of calories. So I know I said I was laying off the sauce but… f*ck. that. I have been working non-stop on various super-impressive-but-not-that-interesting BS for like 189472 hours straight. So at this point I am feeding my ovaries since they dictate every emotion/feeling that I have right now. Ovaries want cheap 1 liter Cabernet and half a pint of Ben and Jerry’s Phish Food with a side of The Closer and a Harry Potter movie marathon for dessert. So that’s what I’ll give them.
Since I just got ADHD and switched from The Closer to Intervention, I kind of want a cigarette. But that’s the one thing I can’t give the ovaries, as the lungs wheeze in protest. ANYWAY, for anyone out there who gets super stressed and wants a glass or 5 of wine but feels like maybe it’s alchy to have that on a nightly basis for a week or so… just do it. Just go get that giant cheaper bottle of wine and treat yourself to a night of comforting yourself. Watch the sh*t shows on your DVR that you normally skip over, read the book that you found in the “young adult sci fi” section. Skip your workout. Watch Bridget Jones after you’re significantly tipsy… maybe wonder why what’s-her-face thinks 137 pounds is that “fat” then turn it off and watch Biggest Loser and marvel at your thin physique even though you don’t workout 7 hours a day. Go you. You’re awesome. I’m awesome. We’re all awesome enough to feel empowered by our ovary-ridden-over-eating evenings. So fat cheers to the ovaries, the Yellow Tail GIANT bottle, the Ben and Jerry’s (which by the way is sold in Whole Foods so it is TOTALLY HEALTHY!), the good/bad/ugly/fabulous television in our DVRs, and to ourselves for being women of the future with less guilt and more functional hangovers.
Seriously, WTF? That’s how I woke up this AM after an insane evening of going away drinks for a coworker. Not only did I miss kickball, currently my only form of exercise, but I also pissed off boyfriend. Apparently drunk babbling and slurring is not acceptable any more. Oh and yes, you heard me right, kickball. I joined for the beer after and the extreme competitive nature of the sport (not the kickball… the taps aka “flippy cup” played after at the bar). Basically all I’ve established lately is my ability to drink and eat massive amounts of carbs. I need a new hobby otherwise this fatness is going to move from inner to outer.
Should I pick up knitting? Guitar-playing? Going to the ::gasp:: gym? I feel like poop. Hangovers should not last until 8:30 at night. I am swearing off the sauce for real…
All I know right now is that I haven’t even looked at jeans for over 3 years. First, I am SO relieved that leggings came back into style right around the time that I decided I could eat like a beast, drink like a frat boy, and watch 4 hours of TV a day but was “too busy” to go to the gym. However, it’s a little ridiculous that I am ordering American Apparel leggings by the 3 pack on a regular basis. Part of me blames the leggings. Maybe it’s their generic sizing structure that was the worst enabler in my weight gain denial. Or their blissfully merciful stretch fabric that covers all kinds of lumps. I mean who cares about getting to the gym if I can throw on a loose shirt over black leggings and wear the highest stilettos possible (because, you know, that totally makes my legs look “skinny”)?
What’s my point? Not really sure, going back to my Intervention and Ben & Jerry’s half-baked now. And no, it’s not the fro-yo kind either. My Saturday night is really about to get WILD…