Ok, Bitches.

Not to be a total OCD bride, but somehow I managed to pick out a dress that, while totally gorgeous and stunning, isn't necessarily the most *ahem,* forgiving.

Let's just say that I'll look like Catherine Zeta Jones' slightly taller cousin in it if I manage to cut out the bottles of wine and wheels of cheese while also waking up early enough to do something other than eat peanut butter by the spoonful in the mornings.

If I don't accomplish those things - I've unfortunately selected a dress that will not only provide ZERO support for an increased bust size, but also highlight any folds of back fat for all the world to see with the added bonus of making my hips look like a baby hippo (aw, cute!).

You'd think that with nuptials approximately 9 months away, and a dress fitting looming in only 4... that I'd have my ass firmly in gear.  Or that I'd at least be reacquainting myself with the large, scary trainer man of my past... but NO.

Nothing of the sort.

Instead, I've moved back in with my parents (who cook large well rounded meals daily, and also have a massive wine cellar which is tapped every evening..), quit the gym, and allowed myself to foolishly purchase pants in a larger size (dammit!).

This leaves me in a diminished state and not nearly as toned, firm, or confident as I was exactly this time last year.

So, what does a desperate white female do when faced with such a situation?

She watches infomercials.

Yup, infomercials.

Then she googles, said miracle product and manages to do a "thorough" online search to qualify the likelihood that somehow a skinny blond bitch bouncing around to b-list hip hop will somehow be motivating enough for me to do 374 jumping jacks and 82 minutes of lunges.

Even as I hit "purchase" I knew that I was doomed.  When the skinny bitch can't see that I've opted to take a 8 minute break in the middle of her "inferno" workout.. how am I supposed to be held accountable?

Regardless, I've purchased it.  I feel that if I don't stop for a snack in the middle of the first workout, I will have been moderately successful.

But seriously, who wouldn't want to jump around with this crazy chick?

Reheating

Generally I am proficient at food preparation, specifically when I'm preparing left overs.  I know how long to microwave garlic mashed potatoes to get the cheese stretchy without drying out the butter... how long to bake lasagna back to perfection and how long it takes to reconstitute chowder on the stove with a little extra wine and milk..

Burgers, however - are difficult.

Sunday night the boy and I made DELICIOUS sliders on the grill (yay! the grill is back in use for the season), and we had leftovers.  Which I wanted.  badly.  However every method I consdiered sounded crappy.

Microwave?                ew, rubber
Oven?                         crispy..
Back on the Grill?        dry, dry, DRY

So, I started texting.  Texted the boy - "microwave with cover?"  Uhhhh no, thanks though! Texted my mom - "uhhhh eat it cold?" and miss out on the fatty juices!? no thanks! (did I mention I put blue cheese crumbles IN the patties, cause I did!)

Finally McCloud had a stroke of brilliance, "Call Lindsay."

Lindsay! of course! why didn't I think to call the only girl I know who a) lives in the heartland, b) owns a grill and c) can generally be considered the proud owner of over 200 lbs of buffalo meat in her freezer.

Lindsay.  Lindsay will DEFINITELY know how to solve my hunger problem.

She didn't answer, so I sent the SOS text that garnered an immediate reply "S.O.S. Domestic issue, call!"

She called. immediately.

I repeated the issue, conditions and concerns (burgers, cold, grill, microwave, oven and stove at my disposal, don't want them dry or gross). She pondered for approximately 1.2 seconds before declaring:


"Skillet on high, use beer."


Obviously.  Obviously there is beer involved, why didn't I assume that was the solution? I usually assume that beer is the solution, I must be losing my touch...

So I went for it. cracked a coors light, put about 1/4cup into the hot skillet and tossed my little patties in there.  It worked like a dream.  The steam kept the patties moist, the skillet kept the outside "grilled" and the cheese got perfectly gooey!

I only had one bun left, so I had to improvise with lettuce tops for the little guys, but all in all it was a delicious success. A delicious, juicy, melted success.

One that I regretted only slightly at my 5:45am wake up call for the gym. 

Office Apparel

It's monday. its raining. and I have a cold. 

Not a lot going for the day so far aside from the caramels and Thin Mints that I shoved in my congested face for comfort (even though I could barely register their taste).  kudos me, I don't even have to taste junk food to justify it!

Anyway, McCloud mentioned that she was wearing the same outfit as last night, which immediately reminded me that I am am wearing the same thing I wore out on Saturday night.  Granted I traded mine in for sweats and a blankie yesterday (along with a box of tissues and some sudafed).  But it did get me wondering.  How in the hell did I say to myself "nice outfit Gingham, go paint the town!" on Saturday, then wake up this morning and think "gee I look professional." about the exact. same. outfit. same shoes. same shirt, same scarf. SAME SAME.

Questionable?

The real alarm is I can't tell if it's a great saturday night outfit, and a ridiculously inappropriate office ensemble, or vice versa. Or what if it's neither? and its just a sad boring outfit regardless of the time of day??

This cold is seriously messing with my ability to think clearly.

snoodles. time for more tasteless candy.

Tennis, anyone?

McCloud and I have come to the shocking realization that we often have an easier time making plans (and friends) with folks we don't know, than we do convincing our current acquaintances to join us for an event.  Sure, we're strong personalities, and sure that's not everyone's cup of tea.  But it does seem like at some point it should be easier to convince current friends to come out and play than to convince total strangers to buy us a drink.

On more than one occasion we have had space (in the hotel, on the plane, in our bed) for someone, and struggled to get anyone from the current roster to partake, whereas we seem to easily garner attention (and presents!) from random folks around town (on the street, at the bar, in our bed...).

Is this another red flag? what does is say about our friends, ourselves or our choices??

hmm.

in other news, anyone want in on a lecture with us this evening?

Job. Interviews.

So, I'm applying for my boss' job. Yup. Hoping to join the ranks of big kids as a manager.

Odds? Completely questionable.

The internal interview process has been, well...extended. And I'm suited (or should I say skirted?) up for the final one. Today.

According to my co-worker, "you look much better wearing what you are today than for your first one and the second one in your wool sweats."

Thanks? You are the BEST at backhanded compliments. And, those aren't sweats. The waistband rarely fits and they were expensive. Asshole.

In good news, I'm fairly certain I'll be able to keep a smile on my face as I just saw a woman moon most of 4th avenue. At first I wasn't sure it was a woman ass I had just seen . In fact, I kinda thought it was a dude's UNTIL I looked again (yes, I stare at car crashes, and anything vaguely grotesque: I consider it to be one of my human "conditions") and I saw her flashing her tits for everyone on 4th. So it's a chick. Nice. Awesome. I saw multiple people do U-turns on the sidewalk.

And yup, I laughed out loud. Like a guttural belly-laugh. I'm resigned to the fact that I'm going to hell, so it only seemed appropriate. In fairness, I know this woman is most likely severely mentally ill (or just awesome!) and I wish her all the best in her pursuits. And I thank her unjudgingly (I may have made this word up) and unconditionally for putting a smile on my face today.

Wish me luck. Please.

Bachelorette Backslide...

So, I've been attempting to process the mountain of baked goods and phallic paraphenalia that was the bachelorette trip last weekend.

While it resulted in good times for all and some serious dancing (uh.. .my quads are sore?) there are a few moments that stand out in my memory and should be relived so as to make sure that I learn all possible lessons from them.  Ok, maybe just one.  

Strip Tease Aerobics.

Every party needs it's stereotypical "stripper" event, and I for one, considered some sort of aerobic activity a good counterbalance to the cookies, and a creative way to check this bachelorette box.  After a morning of gluttony, and a surprisingly beautiful walk on the sunny beach, all the girls (maybe a bakers dozen of us..) changed into yoga pants and sports bras so as to be suitably dressed for our cardio session.

As it turns out, any level of "athletic support" was totally unnecessary, since what walked through the door at the bride-to-be's beautiful beach home was less "sports club fitness trainer" and more "Hartford-Hooker."  Three of them in fact. three really, really tired looking... strippers?

They were dressed to impress.. short-shorts, yellowed lucite heels (what makes lucite yellow?) and of course, seriously tragic wet look curls.  I gave a cohort a panicked look, and we immediately dashed for the fridge, desperate to swipe the last bottle of prosecco and hopefully alleviate the stress of what was most certainly NOT going to be a glorified step aerobics class...

It started with Stripper #1 (the attractive one) explaining to us that her business "Goddess-N-Motion" was meant to inspire confidence and "swagger."

Really.

At this point all it was inspiring me to do was drink more, and make a mental note to ask The Boy about strippers.

We were then introduced to Stripper #2 (the squishy one), who was to be our "instructor" for the afternoon.  Stripper #2 was incapable of speaking up (I know we're loud, but still), incapable of keeping her shorts zipped (weird, are those trick shorts?) and also totally revolting.  She kept claiming that stripping had "Totally transfoooooormed" her body which was accompanied by really ridiculous self touch/rub moves.

Really.

At this point I was wondering a) what could it possibly have transformed from. and b) was this the sort of transformation that I was personally looking for...

Then we "danced" or rather, we crawled.  We were told to move slower and constantly touch our bodies, ideally our boobs, but also our thighs (uh, k). The crawling was ok, but I really wished that I had made less of an effort to pack a sportsbra and more of an effort to pack knee pads. they would have been helpful for the hard tile floor, and "approach" that we were instructed to take when approaching our "lover" or.... teddy bear?

The Strippers had convienently brought I gigantic, stuffed, state-fair-sized teddy bear.  He was our "client."

Really.

Client. Where exactly had Teddy been? who had he been with and when (pray tell) was the last time we thought that Teddy's plush exterior got the gift of a good cleansing? My assumption was, NEVER, so I chose to ignore teddy, and his stubby extremities in favor of a good long time friend who had the unfortunate experience of me climbing all over her, crawling, turning and attemping a seductive "leg routine" from the floor which I can only imagine looked less like an enticing dance, and more like a beetle struggling to right itself in the middle of a sidewalk.

From there it was downhill.  Poor Stripper #2 kept trying to anoint us with her "skills" but no one cared. at all.  This was when I started to feel guilty.  12(ish) girls, giggling and mocking their livelihood can't feel good.. I felt a twinge of over-privileged guilt sneak up on me, which is when I noticed Stripper #3 (the sad one).  Stripper #3 looked like she needed some love.  or at least some sleep, and possibly some rehab.


While I really wanted to chat the girls up when we were done learning the "exotic art of striptease," It seemed a little rude to question them like specimens at a World's Fair, but I really didn't know what else to talk about.. options included:

"nice... heels..."

"is that L.A. Look in your hair?"

"where did you find Teddy"

or

"What's that scar from?"

None of them seemed like good options and I felt sorta like a bitch for constantly making sure none of them wandered off in the house, but hey, I judge. Its what I do.

Anyway, I'm fairly certain that the "aerobics" did nothing to lift, tone, or transform my backside.  Hence, I'm fairly certain that I brought some of those baked good home with me (on my ass).  But what's a weekend among friends if not fattening.

Why hello

lovely.

My girl scout cookies have ARRIVED! Thin Mint abundance for all.

YAY!