Friday, April 2, 2010

Wanted: A 4 Day Stomach Flu

Last year, Gina and I were on a self-imposed diet consisting of dehydrated food particles and yogurt. True Story. This is an actual picture of an actual meal we convinced ourselves was “pretty decent. Almost like real food.”

This is the Three Cheese Pasta. The smell alone made me want to vomit when I took the picture today. Gross.

Yes, we ate this on a daily basis. Actually, here are the two favorite meals of which comprised almost my entire 30 day order. Yes, math geniuses, this means I had each meal 2-3 times a week, at least.

OMG, my throat just closed up out of sheer fear that I would go down this dieting path again. Ugh.
Well, actually, as gross as it looks, I lost like 8 pounds in 3 weeks, which is super amazing for me. I typically go on diets and lose 3 pounds then hover at the same weight until I forget I am on a diet and go onwards and upwards from there.
My personal reason behind the diet was my wedding which took place last spring. The diet did its job, but it should have come with a warning label that read CAUTION: by consuming real found in nature foods, such as enchiladas and margaritas, will cause you to gain back at least 2 times the weight you worked so hard to lose through this diet. Which brings me to my current dilemma.
Next weekend, I have to shove my spanx clad rolls into this dress:

Picture this in a shiny taupe color

Actually, this bridesmaid dress is actually fairly forgiving, but I can’t take a picture of me in it yet because it is currently being re-altered to fit my ginormous bazongas. No really, for the first time in my almost 29 years my boobs are causing a problem. They have grown a whole cup size which is like 3 whole sizes for normal people boobs, and they have hurt like hell for two straight months. So painful in fact I was convinced I was pregnant (the adult onset acne also caused several friends to convince me that I might be with-child), which I am NOT according to EPT, but for some reason I feel like they weigh an extra 10 pounds and have kept me from sleeping on my stomach for most of 2010.
*Also I refrained from a real life pic as the dress is about 1 shade away from my twilight inspired skin tone, and until I go visit the creepy man with the spray tan wand next week, you are better off not seeing me in this dress.
Anywho, I can spanx my way into this dress for the actual wedding, but I really want to wear this dress for the rehearsal dinner:

I MS Painted the COPS-eque blacked-out eyes. Sorry for the rough version. Also, I am not Gigantor, the cutie next to me is my niece.

I wore this at my rehearsal dinner. (is it tacky to wear it to another rehearsal dinner? Side note: I have been sworn away from shopping for a month, so no new clothes) I got a ton of complements on the color and the dress, and haven’t worn it since. I love it. The problem is that the above picture of me was taken post diet last year. A whole ten, *cough*sixteen*cough*, pounds ago. Right now I look like this:

Please don't judge. And don't stare too long at the pasty white skin tone, it causes cornea searing!

No bueno.

So basically, I am begging you for ideas of where I can find a temporary magic pill. Or a tapeworm. I am willing to consider almost anything.
Also, I took this picture today at Baskin Robbins (which I know is the reason I need a miracle right now, whatev). It’s called the Double Header cone. Seriously.

Chat Roulette Part 2

Okay, remember when I was all "Dont do Chat Roulette! It's full of weirdos, creeps and awkward conversations!"? Yeah, me neither. Which is why last night, when I was bored during Grey's Anatomy, I remembered reading an article at work that said Ben Folds is on Chat Roulette like all the time. I wouldn't mind chatting with Ben Folds and Meredith and Derek are making me throw up in my mouth, so I went back in.

I didnt want to end up on or anything though, since I am a semi-respectable lady so I took precautions this time

So armed with the Mardi Gras mask I won by dominating a musical chairs contest, I logged back in and started chatting with some random guy:
Me: Nice beard. (He was wearing a long black wig and a bandana, but he was drinking a beer so I thought we at least at that in common.)
Osama: Thanks. Nice mask. Can you show me your boobs? I am playing Chatroulette bingo and I still have that space open.
Me: Oh, that's probably not going to happen. I'm a lady (he doesn't know better).
Osama: Eh that's okay. You can't blame me for trying. (He's got me there.)
Me: yeah (this isn't awkward at all)
Osama: What about a dog?
Me: You want to see my dog's boobs? Because she's spayed so they are pretty unremarkable.
Osama: No, one of my free bingo spaces is find a dog.
Me: Oh! Here ya go! (Lucy makes her internet debut and is P-I-S-S-E-D about it. She's all WTF, mom?! Where's my GD mask, you selfish wench?)
Osama gives me a virtual high five and we move on. I land on another guy (that's what she said) and he immediately tells me "I'm not going to pull my pants down, so don't bother asking." Mmmkay....Next!
What happens when I click the Next button is the reason I will never. ever. in my life again. be visiting Chat Roulette. It's a erect penis. Like a close-up of a penis. So at first I am all "what is that? it looks a little like...OMG." There doesn't even seem to be anyone attached to this penis. And it is standing up all on its own. At first, I am totally grossed out. Then I am impressed in spite of myself and wondering how long this person has been standing in front of their webcam like this. Then I returned to grossed out. This all happened in about 4 seconds and then I quickly shut my laptop, unplugged it, hid it under my sofa and took a shower where I scrubbed my skin until it was red to try and erase the image from my mind.
You win, Chat Roulette. You win.
P.S. If you need me I'll be huddled in the fetal position in the corner of my office.

Wednesday, March 31, 2010

My Project Runway Phase

I may have a problem. What is it called when you see something cool on TV or on the internet and then you tell yourself "I can totally do that" and then you decide that this thing will be like your new hobby for life and will define you in years to come? {I think it is called inspiration. But I could be wrong. It doesn't happen to me often} I am sure it is something in between watching-too-much-TV and being-totally-awesome-and-creative but I can't decide.

I am left-handed so my theory is that I spend my days being boring and counting crap so I need a creative outlet. In reality I may have adult ADD but I can barely remember to take my birth control pills so adding more pills to the mix would just confuse me. I'll give you some examples. (There are a few so if I get bored in the middle of writing this, I'll probably just make this a series and pretend that's the way I intended on writing this post all along and we will all deal with it.)

Project Runway Phase:

For Halloween the only couples costumes my boyfriend, N, would agree to were for us to be Fred and Wilma Flintstone. This is not the creative part, obvs. Especially since I really wanted to be Super Mario and Princess Toadstool. Anyway, I couldn't find any suitable and reasonably priced Flintstone costumes and was really into Project Runway at the time, so what do I do? I go to my favorite place in the world (Target) and buy a sewing machine for $29.95. I even go to the fabric store and buy some fabric and, get this, a pattern. In my head I am all "Holy shit, I am going to make my own costume and it's going to be amazing and people are going to ask me to make all their costumes. Well, if those bitches expect me to make their costumes they better expect to pay me for my services. I don't F'ing work for free. Those whores." In the middle of all this N calls me:

What are you doing?

I'm at the fabric store. Which do you think more closely resembles animal fur: felt or velvet?

Why are you at the fabric store?

All the costumes at Party City were overpriced and totally unrealistic. As if Wilma would ever wear a poly/nylon blend with those huge rocks around her neck. Anyway, I'm making them instead.

Isn't that alot of trouble? Do you even know how to sew?

Well, there are instructions in the box. And I am trying to be more domesticated. I mean, after this, we won't ever have to buy clothes again. I'll just design and sew all of our clothes from now on.

You're ridiculous. {You are my F*ing hero is what you are. Seriously, when you learn how to hem, I can keep you in business for like a week or two}

In my head, every time someone says something is ridiculous, I assume they mean amazing. I told N all he had to do was show up and since N is super mega cheap and completely uninterested in Halloween, he goes with it. Here is the result:

I've blacked out our eyes to protect our privacy like they do in COPS.
Please don't make fun of my f'ed up boob and less than flat tummy.
And if N looks like he hates life it's only because he was in the military reserves in college and apparently they teach them that smiling in pictures is equivalent to terrorism, and it's most definitely not because he is wearing a large felt sack.

I have not used that damn sewing machine since. {I will give you $10 for it? $15 if it includes lessons, or the very least the original directions. Maybe its time for me to go into phase - project runway? Currently, I am in phase - be more domestic, which includes ironing and baking and actual dirt removing cleaning. It sucks, I need a new hobby.}


How My Mom Ruined My Engagement Story

Well not so much ruined, more like spoiled.

A little background: My now husband, then b/f, likes to be the grand master gift-giver and HATES to not know exactly what you want before he buys. I know, he is awesome. This carried over into the engagement arena as clearly he wasn't picking out a ring without my prior approval. Fine by me, surprises be damned.
Also, he has enough respect for my parents to know that although they didn't need to give their permission, they would think all the more highly of him if he asked. So he made the call to my Dad.
My Dad, in turn, calls me and says. "That b/f of yours just called and said he wants to go to dinner. Does he want to marry you?" Cat, meet outside of bag.

So anywho, the story goes as follows:
My b/f sets a date for a random Tuesday night with my parents. As usual, b/f is on time when my Dad answers the door and leads him into the living room. I don't really know the details of what happened next, only that Dad says yes, and they are 5 minutes into the evening. next order of business, he asks Mom for the name of a diamond guy (who I would meet weeks later when b/f sent me to approve of the diamond before the purchase). Now b/f is completely out of conversation topics, so Dad says, lets call C and have her meet us for dinner. So I meet them for dinner, its awkward because I am fully aware that my Mom is planning our wedding in her mind and my Dad is having visions of me wearing ponytails and playing basketball in the driveway, even though we didnt have a basketball hoop set up at our house and I prefered a ponytail over pigtails. Grand.
The next morning, I am sitting at my desk at work at 9 am when my office phone rings and its my Mom. Mom says, "Honey, I took your Dad to the hospital this morning. He is having heart problems. It may be another heart attack. Please don't worry, but try and get here as soon as you can." My. Heart. Sinks. I grab my purse, head out of work and call b/f who doesn't answer, what a surprise, so I call his secretary and tell her to please find him and tell him it is a semi-emergency.
Phone rings 5 seconds later (his secretary LOVES me). I tell him what is happening and he replies "He could have said no," as though his giving the approval to marry me caused the heart attack.
Later that day, at the hospital, my Mom gets good news from the doctor and replies, "oh thank God, now you can tell b/f that it wasn't his fault". Doctor gives Mom a strange sideways glance, and she proceeds to tell him how b/f asked to marry me yesterday and then thought that was what brought on the drama. Doctor laughs and my Mom decides this is the best story ever. And goes on to tell at least 15 people that day how b/f asked to marry me and isn't that great, but then Dad got sick and b/f thought it was his fault, yada yada.
Until I cry.
Mom gives me the sideways glance, and I have to explain to her how b/f proposed to them, but hasn't yet proposed to me. See, I hold up my left hand, no ring! Mom then continues retelling the story but in a hushed whisper on the phone, which I guess she thinks makes it better.
My Mom is amazing, but her engagement story with my b/f is better than mine. Mine involved a parking lot. No, not like that.
I bet she could really block-out other bridesmaids in pursuit of the bouquet back in the day.

Tuesday, March 30, 2010

Chat Roulette

Everyone has heard of this Chat Roulette business by now right? Where you are randomly matched up with random people and if you dont like their face or if they are boring you can click "next"? Well, since I have no life I decided it was my responsibility to give all 8 of our readers a first-hand account of my experience. Which means I have to actually experience it. So here we go.

When you first go to Chat Roulette, they give you the rules. They are as follows (no lie):


• 16+
• Please stay clothed
• Please click "Report (F2)" if you don't like what you see

You would think this would be enough to deter a mild mannered accountant. I mean, I don't often go to websites where they have to explicity tell the user to stay clothed. But like the pioneer woman I am, I trudged on. Here we go:

#1: Girl lying in bed. Looks depressed. I have my own problems. Next.
#2: Guy smoking cig. "Oh look how cool I am with my truckers hat from last season and indoor cigarette smoking." Lame. Next.
#3: Fat guy dancing with his shirt over his head. Now we're in business. Hmm, how shall I initiate conversation? Should I wave, or just type a friendly gree-.....OMG. I just got nexted by Fat guy dancing with his shirt over his head. New low? I think yes. {NB2 comment - you probably weren't weird enough for him. I assume you were looking straight into the computer, jaw-dropped and normal looking? Not karaoke-ing in your bathing suit? Right? Please?}
#4 Nice normal guy from rome. Super nice and kinda cute, but I am not here to hook up. I am here for the weirdo's. See ya later nice normal guy from Rome. {He probably cried after you hit next}
#5 - #8 Shirtless old guys. Gross.

This whole process took less than 5 minutes, during which time I came into contact with one normal person out of eight. So, basically, my review is this:

If you are not weird and don't really like seeing old guys not wearing shirts, you will probably be freaked out by this whole thing. I will definitely not be making this a new hobby of mine because I think it's kind of creepy that random people can look into your room, but I am still glad that I did it so that I could see for myself what the buzz was all about. {I thank you for taking one for the team. I have ZERO desire to get onto this site. I don't think my ego could take someone next-ing me.}


Shoesday Tuesday

It's SHOESDAY! I know this only because NB2 has reminded me about 16 times within the past two days. {NB2 note - it was only 4 times. I have the emails to prove it.} I think she is jealous because I took a half day from work. {True, I am jealous} But I promise it wasn't for anything exciting, unless you call taking my dog to vet so they could stick a finger up her butt exciting. If you do, I am not sure this is the blog for you.

Back to the shoes. Ah glorious shoes. I am a Shoedazzle girl. I absolutely love it. I am ridiculously excited for the first of the month because instead of being just "mortgage day" it's also "new shoes day," and not only do I get to live in my house for another month, I get to choose and own a pair of beauties like these:

Don't even think about making fun of my bowlegged-ness. Or my left cankle.

Here is another angle, in case you couldn't imagine all their shoesy glory in the first pic:I just realized I have a slight obsession with gray and black. I swear I'm not depressed. I think.

Anyway, I am happy with my choice. Even if they do feed my obsession of living in and dressing like a rain cloud.

P.S. I am currently watching Julia & Julia. Has anyone else watched this? Is it me or is there an insane amount of masticating and chewing noises in this movie? Am I crazy?

P.P.S. I think NB2 should be named Boo after her two pets named Boo. Not that she is an animal. Or that she makes me want to say "boo" as in "boooo, NB2! boooo!" Hmm, maybe not. Back to the drawing board.

Monday, March 29, 2010

Two lies and a truth, or why you should never send texts or voicemails if trying to cheat on your spouse

My mother always said there were two sides to every story, and then there was the truth.

Take, for example, the recent headlines of married celebrities having affairs.

One side, the celebrity: I am so sorry, it was a mistake, I have an addiction, I never thought I would be exposed (pun intended), yada yada yada.

Then the other side, the mistress: He told me he loved me, he was divorcing his hot, rich and successful wife, I truly cared about him and thought our love was real *cough-BS-cough*!

And then there's the truth: Man meets hooker/porn star, Man sleeps with hooker/porn star, Hooker/porn star saves voicemails and texts, Hooker/porn star decides she wants to be famous and calls the Star to sell story. It is truly the American love story. {*edited to add: Also, really, Star Magazine? When did the Star become the place where people told the truth? It reminds me of a scene from one of my fav movies ever:
Charlie: Hey mom, I find it interesting you refer to the Weekly World News as *the paper*. The paper contains facts.
Mom: This paper contains facts. And, this paper has the eighth highest circulation in the whole wide world. Plenty of facts. 'Pregnant man gives birth.' Thats a fact.
Oh, and little did she know many years later, that too would be true. But still disturbing altogether. Name that movie anyone?}

Here is what annoys me. I am more than willing to watch an hour or so of coverage on your exposed affair for the pure entertainment value of creating an office pool of how many days apart mistress 4 and mistress 5 appear in the media. But, I am human, and a married woman, so I do feel bad for the wives you completely screw over. So I turn off Access Hollywood every time your name is mentioned on day 2. But the worst part, the absolute most horrible part to me, is that you think I am an idiot. This morning I read how the tatted up woman in the Jesse James scandal apparently thought she was an item with James until watching the Oscars. What? You did not you stupid wench. You knew you weren't an item way back at the Golden Globes when Sandy (Ok, that's weird, I prefer Sandra) was gushing about how hot he was from the podium upon accepting her award. You just waited until everyone was talking about how amazingly wonderful she was to completely crush her world by exposing your affair. Don't act like you were Blindsided (hehe) by this.

And the 2 dozen women with Tiger...saving text messages? You don't save text messages for a year when you are in love with someone. You save text messages because you know one day you will use them to your advantage to gain 15 minutes of fame. And saving voicemails? What a horrible thought. Each time you call to check your voicemail you hear "No unheard messages, 324 saved messages." You saved these to use as blackmail. Don't deny it. You were never in love.

The cheating men are just as dumb. If you text or leave a voicemail, of course it will be saved. You have money and fame, while they don't, remember? Stupid.

Don't try to make yourself the victim. No one believes it. And it insults my intelligence, which granted is continually deteriorating based on the hours of TV I watch weekly, but still.

Also, I need a new name, any thoughts?

Sunday, March 28, 2010

Note to Self

Dear Me,

You are not 22 years old anymore. In fact, you haven't been 22 for quite some time. Even though you think you are still young and vibrant and resilient, you are not.

And so when your friends call you up to say "Would you like to play in a sand volleyball tournament on Sunday?" you have to remember the following things:

1. You have not played volleyball since middle school, which was 14 years ago. That's a shitload of years ago. And yes, you may have been the tallest of all the girls and therefore the best player back then, but that's because most of them were still going to puberty. You, on the other hand, had full grown knockers (yes, I said knockers) by the age of 11 and tried to hide them from your mom so that you wouldn't have to go through the embarrassing task of bra shopping and instead chose for them to flop around during gym class until they started hurting your back.

2. You should not under any circumstances dive for the ball. This is not negotiable. Not only will it take you weeks to get the sand out of your ass, your ankle has still not fully healed from the karaoke incident. Your team sucks anyway and diving for the ball will just cause you more pain the next day for no reason. I understand there is beer involved, but that only numbs the pain while you are drinking it and you cannot drink beer perpetually until your wounds heal because that is socially unacceptable.

3. You have not gotten off of your lazy ass in about a month and your diet consists exclusively of boxed mac and cheese. How you are winning your Biggest Loser contest is an effing mystery and has absolutely nothing to do with how in shape you are (or in this case how in shape you aren't).

Since you have failed to acknowledge the above, you will without a doubt be sore and tomorrow you will not be able to walk around like a normal human, but like one that does not have control of her bowel movements and just shat her pants. In fact, you know that throbbing you feel in forearms and groin? That, my friend, is early onset soreness reserved only for the laziest-ass-sittingest of people and is punishment for thinking you are some kind of volleyball all-star. Please remember these items for the next time you want to act like a competitive bitch.

Thank you,