Pictures Are The Devil

So I had an entire post written for today about how I quit my job last week and how I keep promising people in current job that I will work as hard as I can for these last two weeks, when in reality I have no intention of doing any substantial work.  And how I fear this attitude will cause Karma to bitch slap me with adult acne followed by a plague of crickets and maybe I will even be struck by lightning.  But last night, who am I kidding, yesterday, during work while I was on facebook I had an ugly realization.  I am the human equivalent of this:

The view from straight ahead gives the illusion of width Kate Moss would envy.  The building, not me obviously, although my baby boobs blow hers out of the water any day.

Then you change the angle slightly and BAM:

The backside is like the Kim Kardashian of buildings.  You never see it coming, but you can't escape it walking away.

Exhibit A and B:

 

I am pleased with these two photos as A) my spray tan looks decent, B) I don't look as intoxicated as I really was and C) a world class Carnie Weight Guesser would probably put me at something near my actual weight.

Exhibit C:

WTF happened here? Let me point out a few *problem* areas I was completely unaware of:

1. Arm fat.  Seriously?

2. No, I am not pregnant.  I may eat like I am with child, but I am not.  The good news is, my friend R said he thought every single one of us were pregnant as we walked down the aisle in this dress.  I choose to blame the dress as well.

3. That?  Is my ass.  Just like the Flatiron, I have quite a lot hidden back there.  My ass applied for its own zip code this morning, although seeing as the IRS says they don't know me, I assume the city will deny my zip code application as well. 

So this is what I have learned. I am perfectly fine with my self in real life, but I think Kodak has it in for me.  It appears as though I need to take a class in the *diva stance* in order to maximize my assets and minimize my ass flaws. 

Somehow though, I just don't think it is realistic to stand like this in wedding photos:

Apparently my only *good* side is the front side.

Chunky hugs,
C

Throwback Thursday Edition One: 1993/1994

Gina and I realized that while we may not have anything jaw-droppingly interesting to post about on a daily basis, we have a combined 56 (Holy Crap!) years full of odd and embarrassing episodes we can write about to bring you up to speed on our particular brand of crazy.  Se we hereby dedicate all Thursday posts as Throwback Thursdays.  So slip on your saddle oxfords and tighten up your scrunchies, because today we are heading back to 1993/1994.

It was the best of times; it was the worst of times.  Scratch that.  7th grade was just about the absolute worst of times for me... Searching the memory vault for a good time...

...still thinking...

...moving on.  Let's be honest, what 7th grade girl isn't on a collision course with Xanax when she is 1 foot taller than 90% of the boys in her class.  AND, how much does this girl hate life when her mother teaches 7th grade history at the same school?  You get the picture.  I was a medicated giant.  The muse for Lewis Carroll's Alice Grows Too Tall for the Room.

7th grade is the time in a girl's life when fashion choices begin to matter.  Not like elementary school when we are all pleasantly surprised to remember to put on underwear.  What this didn't happen to you?  Deodorant was starting to become a necessity and Seventeen Magazine advertised Sun In as the *it* product of the year.  ** side note - I was completely ignorant to the fact that Sun In was permanent.  Major Orange Hair Fail.**

As I mentioned before, Mom taught 7th graders at my school, and had been teaching there for years, so you would think that she would have her fingers on the pulse of 7th grade fashion.  Screw that, her classroom was in the middle of the 8th grade lockers, she was certain to be fashion forward, right?  Wrong.  But I didn't know this yet.  And I wouldn't figure this out until it was almost too late.  There is a bad memory involving me, leather, and high school that will certainly make an appearance on Throwback Thursdays, stay tuned. 

During the fall of that year, my Mom took me on a shopping trip to buy new pants.  I had a ridiculous growth spurt in September of 4 inches in 30 days, which also led to the 3 year use of bright blue knee braces.  My pants had become capris before capris were *in style*.  We went to the Esprit store in the outlet mall and I ended up leaving the store with the 1993 equivalent of the following:

Stylish *rust* colored jeans

Bonus! Second pair of olive green jeans as well!

Textured paint shirt to match both pairs of jeans.  And by textured, think *puff paint* with a little less emphasis on the *puff*

I was da bomb (too 1998?).  Or, at the very least, I stood out from the crowd.  Which is obviously what I wanted to do in 7th grade.  Thanks Mom.  And I wondered why I sat around my house waiting for this bad boy to ring:

Embarrased and humiliated,
C

Is drinking a glass wine after a workout the same as drinking a glass of water? I'm going to say yes.

So I have a busy day today but I am taking a second to give up a very important message about Zumba. I’ve been working out about once a week and it seems to be confusing my body just enough to give me a decent weigh-in on Fridays. Go me.




Yesterday my workout of the week was Zumba. If you haven’t done Zumba I totally recommend it. Zumba is the love child of Jane Fonda and J. Lo. And maybe Richard Simmons. It’s like aerobics to the tune of Pitbull. The problem is that the class is full of old ladies who have amazing rhythm while I, on the other hand, have the rhythm of Liz Lemmon if I am lucky.



Plus I think I am not proportioned correctly, like I have ridiculously long arms and freakishly long legs and a regular sized torso. So while all the old ladies and the instructor look like Shakira during all the pelvic thrust moves and whatnot, I look like Gumby.

!!!!

Guess how much I don’t care? This Gumby got a one hour workout and successfully did not hit anyone in the face with my wayward hands and feet. At least not on purpose.

 
Gumby hearts and post-workout glasses of wine,
 
Gina

Shoesday Tuesday: The I Owe You Chewed Up Shoes Edition

I have new Shoedazzle shoes, which I love and I will get to, but they are boring and black rain cloud shoes, so I decided that in addition to my boring and black rain cloud shoes I will do blog-version of a montage of shoes that my puppy has attacked. You might be wondering what the hell is my problem that I can't keep a 30 lb. beagle in check, but she is one determined super ninja shoe-seeking dog. So when I leave her alone during the day (and sometimes at night if happy hours are involved), she gets pissed off and goes after my most prized possessions:

 

These shoes actually had real furries on them like a real leopard. *Tears*

Purple leather with fabric rosettes. They were going to be my new neutral shoes.  *Heavy sigh of sadness*

The infamous silver shoes

The shoe-seeking culprit after a long day of tearing up my heart. And my shoes.

The new soon-to-be victims...

I am sorry the pics suck because I am too lazy to drag out my real camera and prefer to use my phone camera instead. And I did not take pics of the shoes on my cavewoman feet because for some reason my camera phone makes my legs look like tree stumps and I don't want to be unfairly judged for distorted cankles.

Also, I am watching Sex and the City and they just showed a trailer for Sex and the City 2. I am thinking they jumped the shark with this one. Vacation in New Delhi and bringing back Aiden?? I am worried that Sex and the City 2 is the equivalent of that Karate Kid movie with the girl or Legally Blonde 2: Red, White & Blonde. I mean I'll probably still watch it, but I'm just saying.

Love,

Gina

P.S. Super excited about our new theme day - Throwback Thursdays. We decided our collective lives are not adventurous to provide daily material, which is depressing for us but hopefully entertaining for you.

Wedding 1 : Me 0

Afternoon interwebs, hope you are all feeling better than I am right now.  I am curled up on the couch watching DVR-ed tv from last week trying desperately to type this post without having to sit up. 
Last night I was a bridesmaid in one of my oldest friend's wedding *event*, and it was a night I wish I remembered.  Well, actually, I do remember most of the night, what I don't remember is the moment the ghost of my drinking past showed up and inhabited my body for the remainder of the night.  Last night I thought I was 22 again, and drank like I had never even heard of such a thing as a hangover.  I tried, I really did, but I think it is time I officially bury 22 year old me, and fully embrace mostly boring and sober 29 year old me. Thoughts?
I showed up at the reception site yesterday, spray tanned to perfection and makeup-less in preparation for an entire afternoon of hair coiffing and eyeshadow applying entertainment.  I wish I could say the metallic taste of the 12 cans of hairspray I inhaled yesterday was no longer affecting my food choices 24 hours later, but it is. Also, I really wish I had asked what mascara they used, I cannot get this stuff off my eyes! After being fully transformed into one of 8 Stepford Bridesmaids, we headed to the church and performed our maidly duties of smiling with the occassional oohing and ahhing thrown in for good measure. 
Cocktail hour begins and this is the time I hear the 4 words that sealed my drinking destiny: Seated Dinner Drinking Game.  Never heard of it?  Neither had I.
Seated Dinner Drinking Game is all kinds of awesome.  The table number determines the drinking schedule.  Table 6 drinks at 8:06, 8:16, 8:26, etc.  Higher numbered tables are modified to use only the ones digit, so table 24 drinks at 8:04, 8:14, etc.  The slap in the face part of the game is when the clock strikes the actual table number, say 8:24 for table 24, you have to finish your drink.  Last night, it was virtually impossible to keep a half empty glass on the table.  I think the waiters were on to our game, or maybe just super awesome, and continually refilled my wine and my husband's drink.  So once an hour we were slamming a full drink and then every ten minutes after we were socially drinking.  About 2 hours into the dinner, I was cross-eyed.  About this time, I heard the band playing Don't Stop Believing, which I am pretty sure began the next 3 hours of socially unacceptable gyrating and persitent storming of the stage to display our (the entire wedding party's) singing abilities.  I am pretty sure there are about 200 black-tie clad socialites who may or may not have gone to church early this morning to pray for the sins of today's youth.  For that I am thankful.  Clearly, God intended for me to spend the morning in bed followed by a hangover induced food orgy of queso and Huevos Rancheros, conlcuding with another 2 hour nap.  I will take all the prayers I can get. And more sleep.
Hope the weekend was good to you all!
C