Liberace Knows

I don’t know how it happened, but I lost 3 pounds!  THREE POUNDS!!  How can that even be possible when I’ve been basically shoving food in my mouth at every possible opportunity?

I can only attribute it to one thing.  A little form of exercise called “Surviving the Jersey Mall”.  Until you’ve successfully navigated your way through a Jersey Mall during holiday madness, you have no right to call yourself a woman.  Or a (gay) man.

My goal is to not just lose ten pounds (or more), but my goal is to get so skinny that someone tells me to eat a burger.  NAY—until a gay man tells me to eat a burger.  Because we all know there are two kinds of skinny in this world--there is straight skinny which is normal and healthy and then there’s gay skinny, which is emaciated and heroine sheik.  I’ll admit it, I want to be gay-skinny, gay-skinny looks hot in a bikini.  Ask a gay man.  He speaks the truth. 

Daily Goal Assessment:

Goal: Lose 10 lbs.

Pounds Lost: -3

SPANX You Very Much

This holiday cheer is seriously out of control.  How much food can I possibly fit into my body?!  As per usual, we took about 3000 pictures and documented every single second of the Christmas cheer.  And my face looks fat in every single one of them.

I need SPANX for my face.

Daily Goal Assessment:

Goal: Lose 10 lbs.

Pounds Lost: +1

Ho Ho Ho.

My Sister is the Macgyver of Shopping

In NYC I consider it a total victory if I spend $100 and get one, maybe two items.  And finding those two items is a painstakingly brutal task because I hate shopping, I just hate it.  Unfortunately, I love new clothes and pretty things.  It’s an awful dilemma living in New York City being constantly surrounded by super skinny, super fashionable girls.  What choice do I have but to make a very lame attempt to keep up?

So I go to Jersey, and my sister is my weapon of mass destruction.

When I walk into a store in New Jersey I get completely overwhelmed and become miserable and mope around like a big fat baby.  My sister, on the other hand, lights up and turns into a complete shopping machine.   I don’t know how she did it, but I walked out of Bloomingdales with a new coat (rabbit trim—yeah yeah, sorry PETA), 3 new dresses, a pair of black jeggings, a wallet, a pair of really nice stockings and some SPANX (a girl’s best friend) for $278.  SERIOUSLY.

She was pulling coupons out of secret compartments and dropping all kinds of madness in every store we went to--I actually think we might have MADE money while shopping, but I can’t be sure, it all happened so fast.

Then, because my sister told me my purse made me look like a homeless person, I was forced to buy a new purse from TJ Maxx for $29 and was later asked by a gay man if I was carrying the new CHANNEL. (correction: Chanel)

Why yes, yes I am. 

Effective Filmmaking

The year is almost over and I feel like I’ve been running a marathon and I’m just trying to stumble across the finish line.  If I can just make it to the end of the year, everything will be okay.

Last night I was out for yet more holiday celebrating, and I got into a conversation about morning routines.  Mine consists of me desperately trying to drag myself out of bed at the last possible second, showering, putting on some make-up, drying my hair and then trying on ten different things before I settle on something to wear…usually something I’m pretty unhappy with because I have a closet FULL of nothing to wear.  Getting dressed is pretty much the hardest part of my day.

This morning was no different from any other morning.  It was a scramble to get here just barely in time.  And then I did what I always do in the morning, I check my email, and then stalk facebook and that is when I saw this video:

  5 second film

This sums up my entire year.

The Evolution of Kmart in My Brain

I don’t know if this is true everywhere, but it was certainly true in central jersey.  As a kid the most horrifying, embarrassing, awful thing that could ever happen to you is that someone from school would see you at Kmart.  Of course it didn’t matter that if someone saw you at Kmart then they, too, would also be there, this was the 80’s, nothing made sense back then.

My parents are immigrants.  Immigrants LOVE Kmart.  My mother was always dragging me there and making me try on the most horrifying clothes.  My mother and I have yet to recover from the ensuing arguments about how acid-washed jeans from Kmart DID NOT fit like acid-washed jeans from Guess.  Kids of immigrants are dumb.  We don’t care that we’re going to grow out of those expensive Guess jeans in a month, we want to be cool and American.  But kids of immigrants lack a back-bone when it comes to their parents because immigrant parents are no joke.  You do not fuck with a middle-eastern mother, you just don’t.  And if you do…well, it will be the last time you try that.  Trust me. 

Now, many many years later, I’ve discovered something very disturbing.  I am turning into my immigrant mother.  I went to one of the only Kmart’s in Manhattan last night for the first time in 10 years and it was like stepping into heaven paved with incredible deals at every turn.  It’s the most wonderful place on earth!  There were so many things I wanted to buy—knives, hand towels, plants—they have it all!  And it’s so so cheap!  Living in Manhattan for so long you forget that normal people do not pay $5 for a cup of coffee. 

From now on, Kmart and I, we’re BFF’s.  But don’t tell my mother.

HO HO HO

I love the holidays.  NYC turns into a really special place in December—it’s the only time of year you can drink for free for almost an entire month.  Someone, somewhere is throwing a holiday party every single night and you’re invited and it’s open bar and it’s awesome.

Not only do you drink for free, but you eat for free and people give you presents!  For instance, during a particularly interesting game of “white elephant” or “naughty santa” or whatever you want to call the game where you steal gifts from other people, I became the proud owner of these beautiful PIMP and BITCH glasses.  I know you’re all jealous.

The other very interesting thing that happens this time of year is everyone is on the prowl.  Free booze + festive spirits can only result one thing: lots and lots of hook-ups.  And also lots and lots of break-ups.  Which of course leads to lots and lots of rebound hook-ups. 

Unfortunately (or fortunately), for me, I’ve abstained from that sort of activity this year; however I did reluctantly give out my number to a few different guys.  But I was cornered.  You know when a guy latches himself on to you the whole night, but he’s your friend’s friend that you’ve never met before, and he’s really nice so you don’t want to be mean or rude, but you really aren’t interested and then he asks you for your number at the end of the night and you can’t say no or give him a fake one because he’s your friend’s friend?  Well, it’s kind of like that.  So instead I will do something even more rude, I will just ignore their phone calls.

Daily Goal Assessment:

Goal: Lose 10 pounds

Pounds Lost: 1.5

I got 99 problems but Mac-N-Cheese ain't one

On Wednesday night I was absolutely determined to go to the gym.  Really get this thing started, because I have a goal and my goal is to lose 10 pounds.  That might not sound like a lot, but when you’re 5 feet tall…it’s a lot.

So I bundled up against the cold, left work and made my way home.  And then I was home.  Inside.  Far away from the cold.  And there was just nothing appealing about leaving the boiling hot steam heat of my nyc apartment to go out into a windy, blistery 20 degree night.  To run on a treadmill.

Instead I discovered something completely mind-blowing: EXERCISE TV ON DEMAND!!  OH HAPPY DAY!

So I selected a Pilates Core Training Class and got right down to it.  And then I even went ahead and did a “Sexy Legs” class.  Because that’s the whole point to all this working out thing is to get myself some seriously sexy legs.  I will admit that more than a few times I thought, "am I really doing anything here?" but I am, in fact, quite sore even two days later.

Or maybe I’m in a lot of pain because I’m incredibly hung over.  

Last night was yet another holiday party with an open bar.  I don’t remember a whole heck of a lot, but what I do remember is that the night ended at a little restaurant called Eatery where I decided that ordering the mac-n-cheese with bacon was the solution to all of my problems.

 

And I am here to report, that yes.  Yes, it was. 

My Biggest Loser Conspiracy Theory

Okay, so I didn’t work out last night.  Which makes this day 3 of the blog, and day ZERO of working out.  Yes, yes, I know, the terrorists are winning.  However, I actually do have a good excuse (this time)--I was at work until 10pm last night, and the gym was the last place you were going to find me after a day like that.

Instead I went directly home and watched The Biggest Loser Finale.  While shoving food in my mouth the entire time.  That’s how I like to watch that show--full of guilt, self-hatred and fried chicken.  Okay, so I didn’t eat fried chicken, but I felt just as guilty.

But this post isn’t really about that, this is about The Biggest Loser and my Biggest Loser Conspiracy Theory.

There is something dark happening over there in the world of BL, something very very dark.  It is quite obvious that the producers have only two criteria when choosing the contestants, which results in breaking down the audience into heart-wrenching sobs EVERY SINGLE EPISODE:

1.     You have to have a really HOT skinny face.  I don’t know how they know this ahead of time, I can only assume they have some magical wizard person who can see the future on their pay-roll.

How else would they know THIS GUY:  

Would turn into this guy—I mean, look at those dimples!

2.     Also, you have to have a serious sob story and be able to cry on cue.  

But I’m on to you BL, no more tears from me, NO MORE.  Instead, I am turning you into a drinking game.  Every time someone cries, I will take a swig of beer.  I am only mildly concerned that I’ll slip into an alcohol induced coma, but at least I’d prove my point.  

Sabotage!

After narrowly avoiding lunch at The Burger Joint (which gave me an awesome case of food poisoning this summer) I made my way over to Hale and Hearty and picked up a healthy medium soup.  I was all proud of myself for making a smart lunch choice, particularly when everyone around me is totally hung over and eating McDonalds.  Nothing says "hangover" better than a 6 piece chicken nugget, a Big Mac and Large Fries, I'll be the first to admit that.  But I am not hungover--I'm happy, I'm healthy, and I'm making smart choices.

So I casually stroll back to my desk and find THIS staring up at me:

Why would they do this to me?  Have they no heart?  A whole cake?  Why would I need a whole cake?  Of course I’m totally going to have to eat it!  I mean, it’s a coffee cake made by someone’s grandma!  How do you say no to that?

The cake disaster was immediately followed with a co-worker dropping off a homemade truffle at my desk.  Which was followed by a personal delivery of homemade oatmeal cookies.

I hate Christmas.  And Christmas hates my backside.   

'Tis the Season

I'm a bit worried this blog is going to turn into 365 excuses to not go to the gym, rather than some sort of motivational tool.

So no, I did not go to the gym last night.  

But before everyone gets all huffy, last night was my company holiday party and I couldn't very well miss that, could I?  Don't worry, I was very very good.  I only had two vodka & sodas (also known as "the skinny bitch") and I was SO proud of myself!  Until I proceeded to eat 6 (or 8) mozzarella sticks for dinner.  And an egg-roll.  And several pieces of fried calamari.   I had a completely orange and completely fried dinner and I know there is something very wrong with that.

But I only had two drinks, which is an amazing feat of self-control on my part, and in my relative sobriety I learned a few things I'd missed at holiday parties past.

1. I work with a bunch of drunks.

2. Anytime you label a department as "creative" and give them free alcohol, anything goes and they should not be held responsible for their actions.  

3. This younger batch of hires do not know how to party like we used to back in the day.  I was not impressed by the debauchery.  

4. Despite observation #3, I saw some shit go down, and it was awesome.

5. There was a very cute new guy in attendance.  

As you might expect, Cute New Guy got a LOT of attention, and you better believe I was totally scoping him out.  At first I just observed him very discreetly...you know, by standing with my back to him and laughing really loudly.  Then I maneuvered my way into facing him and stealing little glances.  Which he pretty much ignored while he basked in the attention from 50 other girls.  But I am not discouraged, I take that moment to really get a good look at Cute New Guy, and notice that although CNG is absolutely adorable, his head is about ten times the size of his little 5'4" body.  Is this enough to walk away?  No.  CNG is really that cute.  

So then I did what every girl does at a time like this, I began to imagine our cute little babies who would have his blonde hair, my green eyes, and we'd inject them with growth hormone so they'd break the 5'4" barrier.  Oh, and they'd be brilliant!  And successful!  And funny!  And we'd submit their photos into those baby gap contests and win!  

Finally, I summed up the courage and made my friend introduce me to CNG, otherwise known as the father of my future children.  My heart was racing, my palms were sweaty, I felt giddy with the excitement of our perfect future together.  He held out his hand and said "Hi..I'm Cute New Guy," with the most disarming smile...which is the exact moment I realized CNG is a total frat boy.  And not a day over 24.  

Fantasy. Destroyed.

Costa Rica Here I Come

Okay, so I'm lazy.  Like really really lazy.  And I have a problem.  I need to get myself into a bikini in time for my Costa Rican adventure at the end of February.  I mean, sure, I could technically wear a bikini right now, but no one needs to see that, especially not me.

So what choice do I have but to get my lazy ass over to the gym that I pay $90 in guilt money a month to never go to?  I have no choice.  Not after I caught a glimpse of what's happening back there while I was in The Gap dressing room yesterday.  How does one bounce back from that kind of crushing blow to the ego?  How??

You don't.  You really just don't.

So I've decided the best way to force myself into physical activity is to write about it.  So here I am writing about my adventures in attempting some kind of normal gym routine that I have to fit into my insanely chaotic schedule while trying to eat healthier and drink less.

(Okay, well, let's not get too crazy, no one's going to be drinking less, that's just absurd.) 

We live in a world of Skinny Jeans and Jeggings and deep fried Oreos, so it's time to take a stand against unsightly flab before it's too late.  And you, my very few readers who are probably related to me or owe me some kind of favor, will get to read all about it.  Here.  In my new blog.