The one where I am rendered worthless by yoga

At 6:20 this evening I looked at the clock on my work computer and started to close down the open applications.  I grabbed my pink bag and headed to the restroom to change into my yoga gear.  I was meeting Gina at Bikram and due to the class rules, the ones that were shouted at Mr. Bikram from a burning bush somewhere on a mountain, I had to be flat on my back in class at exactly 6:59.  I don't want to rock the yoga boat you know.

I realize left my flip flops at home.

So... I put my heels back on and headed towards my car.  Wearing inappropriately short shorts, a workout top, and heels.  Did I mention that I had to walk across one parking lot and through the loading dock, past 3 waiting semis with large burly men who probably haven't showered in 2 days?  The security guard gave me the once over, but not the "damn girl, where you goin?" look, the "damn girl, what are you thinking?" look. 
Really short shorts.  Shorts that highlight the abundant pasty flesh of my legs that I make me want to apologize to anyone and everyone who has the misfortune of seeing me in.  But Bikram is hot y'all.  Like summer day in hell hot with the humidity of say, Houston.  H.O.T.  So the shorts are the next best thing to a bathing suit, and I have a tad bit more respect for those in my yoga class than to subject anyone to me bending in ridiculous poses in a bikini.  For now at least.

So I walk as swiftly as I can to my car and head out. 

I call my husband to make sure he remembers I wont be home to make dinner.  Mid conversation I get a really awful feeling and as if the last five minutes haven't been humiliating enough, I start my period.
Ugh, I inform my husband because, well I was on the phone with him and wanted him to share in my misery.  I also inform him, I have no feminine products with me, and OMG what the hell am I going to do for 90 minutes bending and stretching in the heat without a tampon?
Husband says I should stop by the gas station.  He clearly doesn't understand the cardinal rule of Thou Shalt Not Be Late To Class This Is A DISCIPLINE YOU ASSHAT!!! 
I don't bother explaining just mention that I should get off the phone and call Gina to see if she has a spare tampon.
She does.  Thank God.

So Bikram starts.  I sweat.  A lot.  And I spend the next 75 minutes wondering why this bending hurts so damn much and how many days in a row I have to do this until I look like the instructor.  Serious body envy.  I am pretty certain it will take more than my next 6 free classes to look like her.  Oh well.

And then somewhere in between the rabbit pose and the roadkill pose, pose #205 of 26, my uterus decides to fight back.  And it hurt like hell.  And I started to focus on praying to be relieved of this pain either through a well-timed fire alarm or death.  My death or the instructor's death, it didn't matter.

The class finally ends and I escape to the outdoors.  A quick drive home and one lime coconut water later, I thought I was feeling better.  And then I buckled over in pain. 

Husband brought me 3 Tylenol and a cookie and I took my dinner of champions outside because I was cold in the air conditioning, and proceeded to promptly puke.  Seriously.  Bikram will f*ck with your system.  I think this is where the weight loss comes in.  The inability to consume anything for 12 hours after class.

And then I did the most logical thing I could think of.  I dyed my hair. And showered.

So now I am going to call it a night and pray to sweet baby Jesus and possibly Mr. Bikram to please please let this entire day have been a dream.  Or at the very least to remind me to pack my flip flops tomorrow.

Desperate Times Call For Drastic Measures

I had started a whole post about a throwback to when SATC was awesome and how if Carrie wore a ridiculous flower on her sweater or a stupid bird on her head you better believe my ass was at Claire’s the next day trying to find a cheap version ASAP. I was going to go on and on about how I am nervous for the SATC2 movie because I am sure it is going to be awful but I’ve already invested like 10 years of my life in this franchise and am therefore obligated to go watch it. But I am not going to do that because there are more pressing matters at hand.


I just realized that I leave for my South Beach vacation in 10 days. Why I thought vacationing somewhere that has a diet named after it is beyond my reasoning right now. All I know is that I am going to have to be in a swimsuit in 10 days and things are not looking too pretty right now. This calls for drastic measures so today I started the Master Clease, also known as the Lemonade Diet or the Beyonce Diet. Yes, yes, yes I know my digestive tract will hate me and I’ll probably be reduced to wearing a butt plug on my vacation but as long as I lose like 5 lbs it’s totally worth it. I just started this morning but I’ll let you know how it goes without going into any toilet discussion unless it’s absolutely necessary.

My biggest challenge is keeping myself busy during this time. I’ve done it once before and I realized how much eating consumes my life because I got so bored that I started inventing things to do and places to go. Which is how I got my dog. So I have a whole list of things on my agenda for the next 10 days: Spanish lessons, making homemade karaoke CDs, fashioning a championship belt for N’s birthday party, etc... Wish me luck.
Hungry hungry hearts,

Gina

Why Texas Rocks

Sorry for the no-post Friday.  We couldn't be dragged away from the requisite beer drinking, fried food eating euphoria known as Fiesta. 
And...it was also my last day at my old job, so I spent the day celebrating with my two new besties, Marg and Rita.  We had some serious quality time.  It continued into the morning. 
Also, for the record, Marg & Rita have a serious out-of-no-where sucker punch that causes migraine like pain many hours later.  Don't say I didnt warn you.
Back to Fiesta.
Last week I worked the Armadilla Egg booth at NIOSA, pronounced {n-eye-o-sa}, if you say {knee-o-sa} we can no longer be friends.  NIOSA, to tourists and ticket holders is the crowd equivalent of hell, outpopulated only by the ticket booth at a Bieber concert pre-sale.  Don't believe me?

And this is only a small portion of the 4 square blocks of booths and madness.  Seriously, its a claustrophobic nightmare.  And the best thing ever. 

'Dilla Eggs come from the vag of armadillos.  See picture below:

If it is true that happy cows make good cheese, happy armadillos make some damn good eggs.  And what sombrero wearing 'dillo is anything but lovin life?

Just kidding about the eggs being pushed from the vagine of senior felicitades here.  'Dilla eggs are fried jalapeno poppers, and are quite possibly the lifeblood of most South Texans. 

 Note, it was really the Armadilla egg booth.  We Texans like to uncomplicate our words and spell phonetically.  Arm A Dill A. 

Fiesta in general has the world's best food, and NIOSA didn't disappoint.  Basically, anything you have ever wanted is battered, deep fried, and coated with powdered sugar. 

 

Or salsa

You gain like 5 pounds the moment you buy your ticket.  And you smell like beer for at least 3 days.  Like I said the.best.thing.EVER.

But, in case you are somehow not completely entranced in an alcohol induced coma, and you dare to think NIOSA is a poor man's version of Mardi Gras, you would be wrong.  Stupid wrong.   We got class, baby.  Like blinged-out class:

Cartier and Tiffany encrusted 80 pound trains and crowns and sparkly fabulousity. Beer smell included.

Seriously, if you haven't already booked your trip to Texas for the 4th week in April 2011, you are missing out. I will save you a sangria slushie... maybe.

Cholesterol laden hugs -
C

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

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.

What not to say to a person on a diet

NB1 and I are 2 people in a much larger group participating in a "Biggest Loser" challenge (Larger as in number of people, not necessarily in pounds. Although we do have the lowest BMI's in the group. And we both lost the most during week 1. Being skinny is extra important to us.). Today marks day 7, and thus a weigh in is necessary.

This morning began like most other mornings, I was hit with the urge to stay in bed and face my true calling as a TV show critic, but unfortunately I remembered I had a real job and as I got out of bed, I noticed my stomach flattened out just a little bit more than usual. There may or may not have been a small but tasteful celebration in my mind which included a multicolored fireworks show. I tend to overreact. Then, I remembered it was weigh in day, and suddenly I felt as if my entire body expanded and I suddenly resembled the Fat oompa-loompa bridesmaid from hell I encountered this past weekend (story to come on this crazy bitch in a later post) and I realized today was probably not the day my scale and I became BFFs.

I moped to the bathroom, stripped myself of anything I thought could add extra weight (my watch could totally weight 0.5 pounds, its old and made out of like steel or something) and stepped on the scale praying the number at least didn't go up. I held my breath and looked down, and holy balls I lost 2.5 pounds. I totally could have lost 2.7, but my scale measures in 0.5 pounds, so I assume if I lost 2.7 pounds, it would round to 2.5. I am an accountant, I round numbers all day long.

Anyway, 2.5 pounds was like winning the lottery. I was so excited, I did a little happy dance and jumped in the shower.

Later, after Husband had finally woken up, I stood before him and proudly pronounced "I lost 2.5 pounds, Bitch! What do you think about that?"

Husband replied with a very confused stare, probably because he knows I am not a morning person and rarely even speak before I have a cup of coffee, or large Diet Coke. And then he said the words any wife wants to hear: "Good job, honey that's great. But I never thought you were fat."

Me (in my head) - God I love you. You are so sweet....wait, are you still talking?

He continues with "You are just sturdy." What. The. F. (I totally had to edit NB2. Insert curse words of your choosing here.)

Seriously men, stop when you are ahead. Your response to your girlfriend/wife/mother/any female acquaintance who is openly dieting should be "You look wonderful, why would you want to lose weight?" And when they tell you success stories "That's great, but careful, don't lose too much, you look fantastic as is."

Never. Ever. Use any synonym for fat, including sturdy.