Damn it all to Carb Hell. Why is it so hard to make good food choices? Why does movie theater popcorn taste so damn delicious? Why does a piece of Boston cream pie at 2 AM always sound like a good idea? Why do carbs make you feel warm inside, like you’ve found the promise land of gluttony and instead of guilt, all you feel is sweet or salty goodness on your tongue?
I mean, really. Sure, eating healthier has long-term benefits. I can attest to the fact that eating better makes you healthier in that I haven’t had a single migraine since I’ve been eating better. Not one. Before, during the height of my Cup O’ Crack days, I was having a migraine once a month. Once a month. Anyone suffering from true migraines (I say, “true” migraines, because a regular take-two-Ibuprofen-and-you’re-good headache ain’t no migraine, ya hear?) would understand why this is so monumental, so joyous, so motivating.
So, why isn’t it motivating when I’m faced with a decision- to sneak a pink sprinkle donut into the early-geriatrics-only movie, or not, and I choose to be that person inhaling a donut that, more or less, made it into my mouth, the rest melting between my fat boobs?
Why?
Why, Diet Gods? With all that is good and Holy, why?
I have made some positive gains. It hasn’t all been disappointment and let down. I’ve found that eating more than two pieces of rich fudge practically sends me into a diabetic coma. So, I have started eating only one 5 inch square piece of fudge. Progress.
I’ve found that cabbage steaks are actually really good (not the same as actual steak-dripping with salty, bloody garlicky goodness. Erm, excuse me a minute, while I…).
I’ve found that chocolate protein pancakes with banana and sugar-free syrup almost tastes like the real thing.
I’ve found that baking an egg in half of an avocado is the most disgusting fucking thing I’ve ever eaten (do not be fooled by those beautiful Pinterest images of a beautiful egg inside of an inviting avocado, all lightly sprinkled with pepper. It’s horrible. Don’t do it.
I’ve found that drinking more water makes me have to pee every 15 minutes, but I actually do feel more alive.
These are just some of the discoveries I’ve made. What remains glaringly obvious, however, is that resisting a vanilla cupcake with rainbow sprinkled frosting will almost certainly take the strength of the gods.
Sometimes I might be feeling Herculean, most other times I might be feeling like a damn cupcake.
*sigh*
*’Wherefore’, despite the common misconception, does not mean ‘where’. It roughly translates to “Why the actual fuck, cupcakes?”
You can read about it here.
Tag: funny
Leggings All Day, Erryday
Hey, Lovelies! My latest post is up over at Shopper Lottie. Let me know if I forgot something in the comment section. The layout and features at Shopper Lottie are fabulous. If you already enjoy reading articles over there, join to make sure you never miss a thing. Also, you would be supporting me- total win-win.
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What Fresh Hell Is This?
“Toto, I’ve a feeling we’re not in Kansas anymore.” Except, you’re not talking to your dog, but your thighs, and instead of a magical land, you’ve arrived in some kind of fresh hell. Yes, yes. These are your 30s.
Continue reading “What Fresh Hell Is This?”
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5 Ways I'm Killin' It As A Grad Student Teacher
I’m losing it, dudes. I don’t know if “doing it all” is quite my speed. I’m usually more sloth-like motivated when it comes to being busy. The idea of being highly occupied with more than one really important thing sounds like something that might come with rewards, but I usually regard those kinds of notions with a wary-eye-sneaking-around-my-bag-of-Cheetos-caution/disdain. What was I thinking believing I could do this. I don’t know if I can teacher AND student.
Following is how awesome I’m playing the part of Grad Student Teacher.
Continue reading “5 Ways I'm Killin' It As A Grad Student Teacher”
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Pedicure Etiquette
Today I went to get my hooves polished. It occurred to me during the pedicure that there ought to be a list of things to do and not do when you go for a pedicure. Touching someone else’s feet is almost an intimate thing, and like when you are readying for a passionate night of lovin’, it is always a good idea to do some prepping beforehand. Thus, my list of Pedicure Etiquette was born.
Do:
- Shave your legs the day prior (it is misinformation to shave the day of a pedicure-unless you want to look like you have the plague the next day. Fresh skin and salt or sugar scrub don’t mix).
- Shave your legs at least a week beforehand. No one wants to rub lotion into your leg-fro.
- Perhaps do a little pruning before your appointment. Whipping out 3 inch-long toe nails is just dangerous for everyone involved.
- Maybe shave your toes. Pretty mint and gold polish on Burt-Reynolds-toenails is the epitome of an oxymoron.
Don’t:
- Stare blindly, in massage ecstasy, at the pedicurist while they are gently massaging between your toes. It brings to mind the line, “It rubs the lotion on its skin, or else it gets the hose again.” Just no.
- Sit spread eagle. I have never had to sit down wind, so I am just assuming when I say- it has the potential to be unpleasant.
- Wear leggings with a hole in the crotch, because, it shouldn’t be obvious that your legs aren’t the only thing you are letting go au naturel.
- Eat a burrito beforehand.
Really, I just feel bad for my pedicurist, because I never follow these rules. I just want to apologize now to whoever has the distinct pleasure of working with my old man ankles for feet. I really am truly sorry. I would say I feel your pain, but feet are nasty, and I would never do what you do. You are all basically saints.
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The King of Keystone Avenue
Most amusingly, and you will see why soon, is that there is a street perpendicular to Keystone called, Kings Row. All of the streets feeding off that street have king-related names. Oh, the irony!
Following, is a random observation I wrote, years ago, about a man I saw everyday as I drove to and from work. This awesome dude is still roaming the royal streets of Keystone. Without further ado, I give you the royal tale of the reign of the King of Keystone!
I had to write a blog post about the most amazing random observation, quite possibly, of my life. Above, you will find a picture of a man. This man is sitting, outside of a 7-11, on some electrical box that is flanked by two cement columns. This man sits here, literally, everyday. Usually, he has his arms resting, royally, on the cement columns. He sits on this dirty plastic box like it is his throne and that Keystone Avenue and the surrounding area is his Bumdom. If you look at him, and hell, who wouldn’t, he nods at you, nobly, as if to say, “Yes, you may gaze upon my glorious self, but don’t get any ideas, this here throne is mine. No one sits on it, but me (and if you try, I will cut you).”
He is quite possibly the coolest hobo I have ever seen. He has to be crazy, but hell, if crazy means you are a king and you get a throne and loyal subjects, who feed you their left over Slurpees and Burrito Rollers, sign me the hell up!
I only hope one day I am as cool as King Vagrant the Valiant.
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Shopper Lottie-Those Damn Diets
Happy Monday, ya’ll! My latest post is up on Shopper Lottie. Check it out below:
5 Things That Happen When You’re On a Damn Diet
Let me know what you think over at Shopper Lottie. Did I forget anything? Let me know in the comments!
Photography credits for featured image go to Michael Artemis of Artemis Photo Works.
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Yoga and Cupcakes
Hello All! It is me again. I have some exciting news! The pictures I took for the magazine have finally been edited and sent to me to use on my blog! This was way back in November, and I thought the day that I would get to share these on my blog would never come!
These pictures are the ones I wanted to be featured in the magazine. They were not the ones chosen, but, oh well, because even more importantly, I get to share them with my lovely readers!
I believe I shared already that modeling ain’t for no punk bitch. Let me reiterate, I give massive props to models. They are incredibly resilient and strong. I was exhausted after 4 hours of shooting in the same position!
The photographer actually took my crazy venture seriously, and he took some 400 pictures. He spent an hour just setting things up to look ‘just right’. I am eternally grateful.
Because, obviously, I am no model, I assumed he would snap a couple pictures and then move on to more serious projects. No, he was incredibly professional and kind.
Without further ado, I present to you the fruits of my “modeling” labor.
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Throwback Thursday-Why, Mom?
My mom recently gave me the school album she created when I first started preschool a bajillion years ago. It chronicles the years from preschool all the way to awkward 8th, with pictures, report cards, letters, and some of my first writing pieces (I wanted to be a teacher, and I didn’t want to grow up because you “hav to do taxs”). I guess she doesn’t want all of those precious, priceless memories anymore. I’m kinda hurt by that, Ma.
Anyway, I really have no place for the thing at home, so I took it to school. My students were dying to see what I looked like at their age. So, I gave them, what they deem, the most amazing “I’m Done” activity in all the history of “I’m Done” activities. They freaking love it. They love laughing at the fact I got a D in math in 7th grade. They find it amusing I had a problem with pushing my friends in preschool. They think the haircut my mom gave me in 4th grade is just a real laugh riot. It’s too bad they don’t know who Sally Jesse Raphael is, because then the joke would be really funny.
I’ll quit rambling and get on with my two Throwback Thursday photos I’ve titled, “Why, Mom??”
This is adorable-albeit-awkward-toothed-fabulous-haired-me. I adored my long, thick, Princess Jasmine hair. It was my most prized possession.
This is my-mom-was-sick-of-brushing-the-hair-of-a-screaming-crying-8-year-old-who-should-have-grown-some-balls-and-had-her-shit-together-enough-to-brush-her-own-damn-hair-but-she-didn’t-so-instead-she-got-Sally-Jesse-Raphael-hair-fuck-you-too-mom me.
Can you see the pain and anguish in my eyes?
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Hump Day Ha-Ha's and Little People
I have taken everyone’s suggestions into consideration for when the best time to post is. It was pretty split between evening and morning. Someone made a very good point that depending on where you are in the world, it could be afternoon/evening OR it could be morning/early. Thus, posting late or early in the day is a good idea, because either way, you are catching someone during their preferred reading time. Only a few people said they read off and on all day. So, in order to “catch” the majority of my readers, I have decided to post in the morning on Wednesdays. One of my friends had the great idea to post on Wednesday as a you-can-make-it-you’re-almost-there-have-a-laugh-boost! So, here we are!
I am a tad overwhelmed with my first 7-week masters class. The required reading makes me wonder what the fuck I was thinking. So, I am being lazy and posting a blog post from my old site, that I wrote years ago about my first time seeing a dwarf. Yes, you read that correctly. I did revise it, so there.
Before you read, know that this is satire, humor. I, in no way, feel our smaller counterparts are less. In fact, people of short stature are fascinating and wonderful people. Did I ingratiate myself properly? Now, onto the fun.
There are thousands of firsts in our lives-first kisses, first paychecks, first rolls in the hay, first midgets…oh… yes.
*Midget is not the politically correct term, so I have edited any further “midgets” to be more respectful.
I had my first little person experience this past summer in all places: Nottingham, England. Before this monumental first, I had never seen a dwarf in the flesh. Sure, I had seen them on TV, in magazines, in porn (don’t even act like you have never seen dwarf porn), but never right before my very eyes.
I am surprised I even saw her. I was standing in line to get a room at a motel and my leg suddenly had a crazy itch. I bent down to scratch and there she was, clad in wranglers and a cowboy hat. I had to pinch myself to make sure I was not in a crazy dream, or in Texas, or something. The luck in finding not only a little person, but one clad in western gear, in ENGLAND!
I was quietly amused, and as I mentally checked off ‘dwarf in funny clothes’, another thought struck me cold. See, I find humor in pretty much anything, but I am not extremely obvious about it, especially if it has the potential to offend or hurt someone’s feelings. But, my friend, the one who was currently, most likely, on his way into the motel lobby, was not so, shall we say, sedate about the things he finds amusing. I made a pact with God that if He somehow locked my friend in the car until I got a room, and the little person was safely out of sight, I would never again laugh at the vertically challenged.
God must have been busy that day, because between fervent promises and prayers, a voice whispered in my ear, “It’s a MIDGET!”
That was all it took for me to lose my I-didn’t-even-notice-you-standing-there-no-I-was-not-staring-cool. I responded with the most forceful whisper I could muster, “Shut up, go back to the car!” His response, “Look at her little wranglers!”
At this point, I could no longer keep the rolling laughter that had been building momentum in any longer. The attempt to keep a straight face looked like the combination of an almost sneeze face and a seizure. People were starting to stare at us.
We bolted before we made total and complete, utter asses of ourselves. In hysterics, we decided the best option was to hide behind the car, because getting in the car and driving off would have been too easy.
So, there we were, crouched behind our rental car, literally rolling on the ground with laughter. It was the kind of laughter that you try to hide and stop, because it is mildly wrong and inappropriate in the given situation, but that exact thing makes it even more hilarious. It was the kind of laughter that makes you cry and gag a little, because you can’t get enough air and you forget to swallow. I have never laughed so hard in my life. Between gags and wild laughter, I somehow made out a string of remarks, pleading requests, and queries, “Stop, I am going to pee! She is going to look out the window, and since she is a dwarf in a cowboy hat, she will know why we are laughing! Stop making that face! Don’t look at me, I can’t stop! I wonder what size hat that is?!”
It was awful, awful in a knowing-you-shouldn’t-laugh-at-others-but-you-can’t-help-it-because-it-was-a-little-person-in-toddler-sized-wranglers way.
It was inevitable that someone would take notice of the two spastic imbeciles laughing like hyenas on crack. “Are you two OK? Are you on the drugs?” a little old lady asked as she headed toward the car parked next to ours. That was our cue to move on from the Welcome Break.
Knowing how I usually react to anything of surprise (pointing and loud “whoa’s”), I am quite pleased with how I reacted to my first dwarf sighting. And to be fair, she WAS wearing western gear. I mean, come on. It is undeniable that if it were not for my friend, I would have never had a laughing fit behind a car in the middle of England, we would not have had to drive on for another hour looking for another cheap motel, and I would not have peed in my last clean pair of pants. BUT, I can honestly and with fond memory, say my first little person was an unforgettable one.
