You might not agree with that equation, but I submit to you that you would, if you had been at the one I was just at. Or not just at. At a few hours ago. Obviously, my ability to speak English has not yet returned.
I’m pretty sure I had a pitcher of mimosas. I had to help. The mom-to-be obviously couldn’t. Duh.
And posting will still commence, because I love you. However, in case you’re wondering what my plans are, they are as follows:
1) Sleep
2) Yoga
3) Drink (mimosas, and possibly other wine-based beverages)
4) Eat (eggs and other breakfast-oriented meals)
5) Nothing of any socially-redeeming value
My to-do list is even to-done. It’s a miracle!
Via Jezebel:
“Dieters in Sweden got a nasty scare during a weighing in at a Weight Watchers clinic when the floor collapsed underneath them. The 20 participants had gathered to measure the amount of weight they had lost when employees heard a loud thud and saw part of the room give way. Fortunately, on one was injured and they finished weighing everyone in a nearby room.”
I have said it before and I’ll say it again, I do not “do” weight-loss clubs. I did [international dieting organization redacted] for awhile, and I didn’t have a good experience. The lady who ran our group was very nosy and judgmental. She did not, for example, believe that it was possible for someone (say, me) to gain 3-5 pounds every month right before ol’ Aunt Flo came to visit.
Pictured: Me with my banjo.
Recently, I was diagnosed with hypothyroidism, which, if you’re not familiar with it, is pretty much the worst. I gained 30 pounds in the course of a year, even while going to the gym and eating 1200 calories a day. It was like Thinner, in reverse.
Now I’m all medicated and shit, and I’m not gaining anymore, but I still have to lose all this weight, preferably before I, ha ha, GET MARRIED. So weight loss has been on my mind, as you can imagine.
Ma Smash, however, is a big fan of the meeting-based weight-loss plan and in a recent phone conversation, she made her case.
Ma Smash: Why don’t you try [same organization, redacted.]
Me: Because I fucking hate them, that’s why.
Ma Smash: It works, though.
Me: It might work, but they’re all bad people who smell. They looked at my weight and judged me.
Ma Smash: Oh my God, they did NOT.
Me: They did, too. They judged me, and they didn’t believe me, and I hate them, and so does God.
Ma Smash: Well, I think maybe you just had one bad experience with that particular group.
Me: I’m never going to another group.
Ma Smash: OK.
Me: If I went back, I would punch them.
Ma Smash: Oh, no! Surely not. You wouldn’t.
Me: I would. I would punch them, so hard, and right in the fucking neck.
Ma Smash: The fucking neck! No! You would never.
Me: Right in the fucking neck, Mum. AND THEN WE’D SEE WHO HAS THE THYROID PROBLEM.
What I like about myself most as I get older is how much calmer and more centered I am.
Photo via eBaum’s World.
Via Mrs. Piddington:
In the realm of Oz’s favorite words, “ketchup” has been replaced with “butt.” From his mother’s son to his father’s.
I, too, find butts funny.
Sgt. Lucky: Are you wearing my socks?
Me: Oh. Um. Yes. Yes, I am.
Sgt. Lucky: Nooo! You’ll stretch them out. They’re be GIRL-SHAPED.
Me: OK, OK. How exactly do socks become girl-shaped?
Sgt. Lucky: They get … foot boobs.
And that, ladies and gentlemen, is why we’re getting married.
So Friday, during yoga, I threw up in my mouth a little.
People used to say that as a joke: “That’s so gross, I threw up in my mouth a little.” “Don’t even [blank.] I threw up in my mouth a little.”
One assumes they didn’t actually throw up in their mouths. I, however, did. It was particularly hot in the studio. I was a little dehydrated and dizzy-feeling. There was that urg-urg-urg involuntary throat contraction and then blurp, I threw up. But only in my mouth, thank God. Otherwise, I’d have to leave the studio, my neighborhood, and possibly the state.
I don’t embarrass easily, but I have my limits.
Back to the yoga tomorrow, I hope. This time, well-hydrated.
…is that sometime there’s not that much to say.
Today, for example, is Saturday. I slept late, ate food that wasn’t great for me, went to a museum, ate meatloaf, drank some wine. The only really interesting thing that happened is that both Sgt. Lucky and I agreed that it’s painful to stand for too long, especially it it’s at the Guggenheim, which forces you to stand on a sloping floor for three hours. And that’s not all that interesting.
We did discover that it’s football season, which neither of us knew. We learned this, because the dive bar we were at didn’t feature TVs, and many people complained about it.
Sgt. Lucky did come up with several interesting names names for the Kandinskys viewed, including:
1) Find the Pony!
2) Bowler Hats in Windstorm
3) Sharp Bumholes at the Top of the Stairs
The latter we hope to secure in reproduction for our home. Also, we hope to get the elevator that took us from the top of the spiral back down to street.
Today is Day Five of the 30-Day Challenge and I am ready to pack it in. For one thing, I feel like I need about twelve hours of sleep.
I’m not going to pack it in just yet, because I know myself well enough to know that if I bail on this, I’ll stop going to yoga altogether in a matter of, oh, about one week. I really think pushing through with this dealie is the best way for me to start exercising again. And exercising needs to happen. Not just for my vanity. For the sake of the people around me.
I already notice that my back feels a ton better. Also, I’m twice as pleasant directly after yoga, perhaps due to being too exhausted to bitch.
Frankly, that in itself is a miracle, and I could probably get Sgt. Lucky to pay for my yoga classes if I point that out to him. He’s already cautiously impressed with my new, more exhausted, less persnickety attitude.
I have an idea for a video game, and I think it will be huge. It will feature an exterminator (played by you.) He will do battle with all sorts of pests, starting with, say, fruit flies, and continuing on to roaches and mice, and then finally, at the last levels, rats and bed bugs.
The vermin will die horribly, perhaps clutching their little vermin chests and begging for mercy. The exterminator will ascend to his reward, a giant YOU WIN! screen, emblazoned across an entirely pest-free cloud. There will be fruit, left out and unpestered, and bedding unmolested by any bugs.
Basically, at the end, the exterminator goes to heaven.
I can think of several people who would pay dearly just to play this game. I would personally buy an entire gaming system just to kill some effing bed bugs.
