New Year's Absolutions

Assuming that we ever stick to the "thematic" content of this blog and actually discuss diet and exercise, the New Year offers plenty of opportunity for discussion, goal setting and general measurement...

As you would have it.  I am not in the sort of mindset that allows for much of any planning, and certainly not embracing any sort of accountability whatsoever.

For posterity, here are some boring, though applicable goals for 2010:

1) stop eating Ruffle potato chips dipped in ranch
(this will be hard)
2) regain my ability to deadlift 120lbs for three sets. (currently lifting 60lbs)
3) regain the knowledge of where  exactly my hip bone lives... (hipbone currently MIA)
4) Either increase ass, or decrease love handles, such that love handles are no long the "most promient" feature in that region. (ew.)
5) abstain from drinking 2 nights each week
(also will be hard... I might exempt wine spritzers from this..)
6) Abstain from drinking for 2 weeks straight before June (why not shoot for the stars, right??)

In point of fact, I'm less concerned with "resolutions" and more concerned with "absolution."  I hope that 2010 brings with it a renewed sense of vigor and enthusiasm for life and the things I chose to put in it.  I expect increased freedom from self consciousness, be it body, emotional or otherwise and at least two steps forward in terms of my contribution to the rest of society (assuming that my helpful snarkiness and judging of others isn't nearly as helpful as I think it is).

Something about the last part of 2009 has been very, very entrapping.  Nothing tragic, no big loss, no big changes, but something akin to a slow, comfortable suffocation.  I've gotten complacent (and puffy) with regard to most things and am now feeling the effects of that approach. It's time to start walking my talk and owning my actions (thanks McCloud) and raising my standards.  My intention is to identify habits that ultimately make me sad (ie those delicious ruffles coated in ranch) and steer my life away from them.  Only I make those choices, so only I can free myself from their obnoxious results.

Not to get too sappy, but it seems worthwhile to at least pay some attention to what I am thankful for this year, since this forum tends to see more of my cynical rage than my thankful appreciation for everything that's really pretty decent in my life (including my lovehandles.. they could be worse as an unfortunately shaped lady at the gym made very, very obvious to me yesterday).

My hot list from 2009:

Serious good fun with work and trying to make people play nice (/reducing hate crimes)
Driving the coast in The Boy's fun new car
Phenomonal girl getaways (vagas, scottsdale, san juans, fire island, seattle..)
My Parents' 35th Anniversary - ta-da! (and I still have liquor left over from that party!)
Coaching the volleyball girls back to Tri-Districts for the first time since I was in a high school uniform..
Clocking some serious time up at the Cabin (/ My Happy Place)
A triumphant return to the gym, complete with new shoes, and headphones so I can watch trashy tv while I "work out"

Ok, that's enough retrospective, emo ranting from me.  Time to pound out some work, read some other blogs then get my pretty self back up to the cabin where I plan on ringing the new year in with lots of bubbles, hot tubbing and a probably new year baptism in the pacific ocean.

Cheers to the new year, I hope that it is full of delicious champagne and good people to drink it with!

xoxo

Fight.

So, I'm fully in the habit of a coffee and a cigarette for breakfast. In a word: amazing. In another word: Gross McCloud.

Anyway, this staves off breakfast for sometime whereby I typically nibble on almonds at my desk or poach eggs. But this morning I had to drive NORTH. like Canada north. SO, at noon I am starving and only half way home. Luckily for me the outlet malls (hey, they are the premium ones...) are next exit and I'm about to pee myself anyway. So I stop, pee, buy pillow cases...naturally and avoid visa havoc by not even going to the side with kate spade, cole haan and burberry, kudos me.

But I'm still hungry. I manage to avoid the obvious Auntie Anne's pretzel stop but I get hung up at the vending machine (ooh, it takes $5 bills too!) So I put in a fiver and opt for beef jerky. Protein is much needed. The little metal squiggle spins. And stops. And no beef jerky falls.
And then it spins again.
I'm hopeful.
It stops.
I'm hungry and confused.
It spins again!
I'm thrilled!
The machine continues to do these little spins (to which I can only imagine my facial expressions looked like something Lucile Ball would do), but eventually gives up and spits out 12 quarters. Awesome. So I put 8 quarters back in the machine and press the beef jerky button again. It reports to me: selection no longer available cell broken. Well this screen has about as big as a vocabulary as I do and more emotional wherewithal than some dudes I've dated but goddamn it I'm really hungry. So I opt for peanuts. E7 to be exact. $1.25. But something bad happens when I hit E7. The peanuts don't move but the meat sticks next to it do. EW. Enter another $1.25. E8. E8 is what I want. The peanuts fall. Finally. I left the meat sticks.

Old Friends.

Right. I must second McCloud’s sentiment that gorging on nachos and extra guac in front of The Trainer is not exactly ideal. For one thing it significantly lessens our credibility when we assure him that we are “definitely eating well” and also “doing lots of cardio.” Oops.

I mean, there’s probably an advantage to him knowing our secrets, because ultimately the skinny jeans don’t lie and neither does my wheezing when I try to support my own body weight. Though realistically, at this point I’d be thrilled if my fat pants fit nicely and I could jog for 60 seconds straight without getting a side ache. 

The working out is coming and going in fits and spurts. What was exceptionally productive last week-crashed, burned and then exploded over the Christmas weekend. I exercised some restraint during holiday festivities with the family, but the real issue came during the weekend after the holiday when we decided to catch up with “old friends” (there were some actual old friends present, but really I think this means we caught up with Jameson and cheap champagne). 

The weather has been GLORIOUS recently, which prompted The Boy and I to start on a trademark “long walk” with an initial stop for brunch someplace. This obviously featured more mimosas than “meal” and McCloud joined us part way through. We finally ousted ourselves from the friendly French Café (sitting outside in the sunshine no less!) and wandered through a few shops en route to our next watering hole (another café come bar where you can drink in the am guilt free..). 

Obviously we continued the mimosa train (though we removed the unnecessary “orange juice” after the first round… wasted space) and stumbled through a few small plates here and there. Fries… meat plate… roasted carrots (read: butter sponges)… cheese boards… and before we knew it we had been there for 6 hours. 

Whoops.

Now, the good news is that we managed to squeeze some high quality socializing between the rounds, but the bad news was that our cocktail waitress found us none too charming even though she was set up for the tip of a lifetime. 

Anyway, we mobilized... in an effort to make it to a different neighborhood hill to see yet another visiting holiday friend, but got distracted by the reopening of an old bar/rock club venue with a distinct amount of curtains and upholstered chairs now filling the windows. Not people to let anything related to food or drink occur in our hood without our knowledge; we obviously popped in to test out the new surroundings... It was cute. Dark, nice furniture, lots of good nooks to hide in with friends, but a distinct presence of “shitty dance music” in the background as well as a strong ratio of gay guys to straight anything. Now, I love me some shitty dance music and I DEFINITELY love me some gay men, but the last 3 bars that have opened within walking distance to the condo have gone gay or gone shitty dance scene, or gone shitty-gay-dance-scene in approximately 1.2 weeks after their opening. So while I enjoy the big bar, exposed brick and nod to an English manor, I’m a little nervous that the new spot might soon become hostile to anyone not gay, not dancing (to shitty music), or both. We shall see.

Anyway, we finally made our way to our destination which was fun. Lots of people, drinks and chatting. And clearly there was plenty of Jameson and Tequila (ouch, really? Was I the asshole that ordered that!??) . After clocking a substantial 13 hours of consumption, The Boy and I dragged ourselves out, leaving McCloud behind (whoops, loss of 10 friend points). Upon entering the cab we hailed, it became obvious that we needed something in our tummies aside from Irish whiskey, so we quickly exited the cab in favor of “Dick’s Drive In” for what are unquestionably the BEST drinking sponges in the world. I typically hold myself to a reasonable ONE deluxe burger, but the boy grabs two and I added an extra fry before we repositioned ourselves back in a second cab.

Realistically, a burger at 1:30am is not the brightest contribution to my waistline, but the silver lining is that it ALWAYS prevents a hangover, and seeing as how McCloud did not join us on our hamburger adventure (loss of another 20 friend points.. ALWAYS feed drunken friends burgers. Always), she was less than thrilled to see me as we headed to see The Trainer the next morning.. But we survived, and shortly after we enjoyed the delicious, delicious nachos.

In typing all of this, I feel even grosser about my decisions this weekend, but all of them were fun, entertaining and most importantly DELICIOUS.

Hopefully this week sees a little more restraint, but as I look at my calendar and a scheduled trip up to the Cabin looming for the long weekend, I doubt I’ll see much in the way of good decisions OR restraint as we head into the new year. 

I guess that’s why I’ll be getting my ass handed to me by Trainer man every day between now and then. It’s one of those masochistic efforts that makes me think that the Catholic Church and I might get along better than I think.

Buuuuut, I’m not going to be exploring THAT little road anytime soon.

Boundaries.

I consider myself fairly self-aware. With this self-awareness has come the realization that I am not much of one for boundaries. Turns out it appears as though I was born without a moral compass (potentially to the detriment of my entire relationship with my mother: if she even only knew) and without this fancy little thing my dear friend refers to as a "ticker". The ticker prevents you from talking about sex, shit and most basic bodily functions in front of people that probably don't need to hear it: co-workers, aunts/uncles, boyfriends, quite frankly random strangers. My ticker is GONE. You might see an ad for it on those flyers with the missing persons.

But I digress. So I have boundary issues, big deal. Some girls have Daddy issues. We all get over it somehow. However, a line was CROSSED yesterday, even for me and in an unexpected way.

After a relatively easy workout (read: hangover)I proceeded to invite my trainer to join us for lunch (wrong McCloud). Due to said hangover it wasn't much of a salad day. So instead, I naturally ordered the NACHOS, in front of my trainer! The guy who listens to my constantly bitch about my lovehandles, and my thighs, my stomach rolls and my back fat and anything else I can think of at the moment as I'm in weird positions in front of the mirror (yes, I wish it was for some other reason other than the workout).

And I don't really just mean eat, I mean gorge. I mean peel the melted cheese off the skillet, dip it in guacamole gorge. I even ended up with guacamole on my sleeve...and pants. In fact, apparently I looked so ravenous he even gave me his black beans (aw, is it love?!)

Alas we parted ways. If only my trigger wasn't missing along with my ticker maybe I'd feel better about myself today. Or seeing my trainer again, ever.

It's the hap-happiest time of the year....

As mentioned in yeterday's less than charitable post, this Holiday Season that has snuck up on me like a stealthy, secret ninja ambushing me with cocktail parties, shopping lists and general stress (with a distinct lack of good tidings or cheer of any sort).  Aside form the unseasonably warm weather, which makes it feel more like a crappy day in March than a crisp December evening, I really cannot believe that Christmas is right around the corner. As in here.

Which means that its time to stop complaining, start drinking and enjoy myself.  :)

So our best to you and yours.  Hopefully you are celebrating with people you love (or who at least share your love for whiskey...) and taking a day or two to gorge on food and beverages.

On the docket for tonight?  A couple bottles of wine, pomagranate martinis, cheeses and bread pudding. 

What more can a girl ask for?

Christmas Shopping (or why the general public freaks me out)

it's only slightly ironic that I just deleted a draft for a post on "good cheer" and "christmas spirit" in order to write this one, but I guess that speaks to the fleeting nature of my patience/tolerance/interest in humanity. 

I just returned from what is (thankfully) my one and only trip to the Mall this holiday season. I can remember that in years past I used to love the hustle and bustle of shopping.  I liked the lively hum of happy people trotting through the shopping centers while all of the decorations and christmas music made life feel a little more festive.  usually not one to enjoy shopping in droves (sample sales, clearance racks? no thanks.  I learned long ago that THIS consumer is more than willing to pay for manicured racks and polite and informed sales people fighting to help guide my purchasing decisions..) christmas time was the one exception.  Sure, parking's a bitch, but why worry? what else did I have to do??

I realize now that part of my cheery seasonal outlook was due to the fact that until very recently all holidays were associated with some sort of extended vacation.  Christmas always meant time off and free food while I snuggled like a spoiled bug in a rug down in their basement.  Sleeping in, fresh homemade lattes and long walks to the park were about all I ever had to fit in around my "holiday shopping" in years past.  It also meant that I usually hadn't seen my family for months so any and all quality time was cherished and novel. 

Things have changed.

I'll be the last one to pretend that I am lacking in free time or flexibility in my life, but the whole notion of living in the same city as my family has sort of taken the sparkle out of the festivities.  Holidays just don't feel "rare."  I see my parents daily (they watch my dog while I "work"/shop/blog), and my desk LITERALLY touches my brothers... Plus we descend on mom for lunches, stop by on weekends for help with projects and regularly have family dinners.  Its just sort of hard to feel excited about going out of my way to shop/cook/dress up for just another family dinner...

Now, the optimisitc side of me says  "Gee Gingham, what a blessing! you work with your family, see parents every day, and regularly have lovely, entertaining dinners all together.  Everyday is like Christmas for you!" 

But the tired, local, cynical side of me questions why I even bother. Well as I've learned in the past week, it turns out that apparently, I don't really "bother" at all.   This year brought record unpreparedness in terms of gift buying and an all time low with regard to inspriation.  Fortunately I've caught up with myself and as of the most recent (unfortunate) trip to the Mall, I am DONE. 

The Mall:

Now, this is a nice Mall, its bright, airy, has fancy shops with 'fancy' patrons and recently underwent a makeover that greatly increased the sophistication associated with clomping around from store to store.  In theory this should have been easy.  I enlisted my mother to take me, so as to avoid holiday parking fiascoes and having to stalk exiting shoppers laden with bags back to their cars then wait (with blinker on) as they slowly load up the trunks of their Lexus SUVs and struggle to shove their requisite adorably dressed toddler into some sort of child seat, while what feels like hundreds of cars line up behind me impatiently. So thanks mom, I appreciate you helping me avoid that particular pitfall of shopping. (really. I do.)

You can appreciate then, that since I had a chauffeur and had called ahead to have my item held and ready for pick up, that I figured this would be a brief, low stress encounter. 

Which, for the most part it was.  I suppose the trauma came from being completely unprepared for the scene of people which was more reminiscent of a rural county fair circa 1987, than high end shoppers calmly looking for their perfect holiday packages...  First of all, people are gross.  For the most part everyone was either sneezing, coughing, drooling or by some other measure secreting some sort of liquid.  I was instantly grossed out.  Also, as I entered at an end of the mall not usually frequented by me, I was forced to walk by the indoor McDonald's (this is gross on its own.. where do they pump all their sick grease fumes? I swear to god its muggier and stickier near that McDonald's than anywhere else inside the shopping complex... sicker).  But today, my first challenge was negotiating my way around the extensive line of people anxiously awaiting their reconstituted meat sandwiches.  Trying to cut through a line of angry hateful hungry shoppers is difficult as most of them are willing to first assume that you are attempting to cut in  line.  This is confusing for people and I think that I only managed to enrage a few grown men as I found a small gap and dashed through attempting to not look anyone in the eye or look back at the carnage.

Next up was the SANTA LINE.  Holy Crap.  Usually the Santa line has cute kids with their cute moms all lined up and ready to go.  Well not this close to game time.  This close to the midnight hour, all that's left are the moms and dads who can't get their act together and their unorganized, ADHD kids OR the sick, extra snotty children who delayed their Santa visit due to H1N1 like symptoms... 

A December 23rd Santa line is possibly the most REPULSIVE thing I have ever seen. 
It is also unending. 
I tried to renegotiate my path so as to avoid the Santa line, but I underestimated it and every turn required at least one (if not two) crossings of gross, snotting, sneezing, liquid-secreting little kids and their manic, crazed looking, desperate parents. 

Screaming Child (note the liquid secretion) 

----------------------->

The rest of my dash was a blackout.  I remember only stepping on a squeak toy and making an unfortunate realization that a lady's shirt had a horizontal zipper across her chest in order to provide immediate access for her slobbery kid to attach itself to her breasts.  This also explained why her breasts appeared to be secreting liquid, as indicated by her somewhat damp shirt...

I purchased my one and only treasure from the trip without instance (safe in the quiet, calm walls of a luxury goods store) and used the newly accquired high quality (and firm) shopping bag to clear my path as I scurried out of the craziness.  Emerging back into the daylight I felt a little like an action hero at the end of a movie when they are safely helicoptering away from some swirling, screaming tangle of mummies, zombies and terror behind them. 

If I am ever to attempt that crap again it will not be without McCloud at my side as a competent tackle and a flask of Jameson on my hip for courage.

Now its time for some serious wrapping...

Contractual Obligations

I make a point of entering into very few contracts, or situations whereby I'm somewhat obligated to perform.  I find that I manage to keep most folks happy and my "free time" maximized by moving through the world with soft expectations and so far everyone seems fine with that. 

I have made a few exceptions, and they continue to remind me that if something seems too good to be true, it really probably is. and it'll probably end up causing me pain in the end...

My first major contract began when I was 12 years old and in negotiations with my father for my first pony.  Mind you I was a horse-crazy, pony-obsessed girl and only now do I realize what a strong negotiating position my dad held.  My 12 year old self would have easily agreed to a life of servitude, household chores and any other distasteful compensation if he would just give me that god damn adorable pony.

In exchange for the pony, Dad required only three promises in exchange for the pony and none of them had anything to do with me ending up like Cinderella... I was convinced that my father had foolishly squandered his opportunity and that I was basically getting my pony for free. 

All I had to swear to was:

1) No French kissing until high school.
2) No sex until College
3) Grandchildren by 30.

I'm not sure that they have clocks capable of recording the nearly nonexistent amount of time that passed before I shouted "YES!" and fetched my promised pony, but as far as I was concerned, I hit the jackpot.  Big time.

For one thing, boys were gross (and even if they weren't I had no intention of french kissing anything. ever).
Secondly, who needs sex when you have a pony (I consider this statement to still be relevant).
And lastly, who turns THIRTY.  I mean really, I'm pretty sure that at the time, I considered 30 to be the age at which you have one foot in the grave... so who cares if I'm popping out kids by then anyway.

The moral of the story is that, my dad is a sneaky, sneaky man and only now am I realizing the consequences of such an agreement - as I am now nearing 30, do not feel as though one foot is in the grave yet, and definitely haven't produced any of the required grandchildren.  I give my dad a lot of credit for his long term planning and general cunning nature, and also blame him for my skepticism in making contractual agreements.

Flash forward several years and I unwittingly entered into another one.  The Boy has an obnoxious ability to maintain serious amounts of lean muscle mass on not much more than whiskey, chewy sprees, cheddar, ramen and pepperoni.  Every once in a while I get on a soap box and bitch that its not fair, but I usually muzzle myself fairly quickly since his good fortune does me no harm and who am I to complain if he stays pretty and useful for lifting things without hours and hours in a gym?

Realistically, my only worry is that at some unforeseen point The Boy's magic metabolism will slam to a stop, and the mysteriously prominent abs will fade away...

Enter Contract #2 - The Boy promises to maintain his stomach definition if I promise to never let that pretty line on my leg (you know the one between your quad and hamstring that makes you look shapely and athletic?) fade away under triple-cream cheeses and cured meat plates.

EASY.  even at my worst (freshman 15.. err. 30..) my legs looked great.  My body has proven that it will find REALLY odd places to stick excess cheese/fat/grease before it attaches it to my legs.  Its resulted in some strange shapes, and difficultly buying jeans, but ultimately the leg-line has always survived.

Until now.

A few weeks ago I crossed my legs while out for drinks (not helping the situation, I know) only to realize that the leg crossing, which usually exaggerates the leg-line, failed to produce even a hint of quad, or hamstring underneath my (mostly) tan and (somewhat) smooth skin. 

CRAP.

Further inspection later revealed that some cellulite is beginning to show itself which has NEVER, EVER EVER even thought to show its ugly dimply head anywhere near my (relatively) skinny stick legs.

CRAP CRAP CRAP.

so its been lots of cardio and lots of lunges and lots of sprints on the bike.  I will tolerate a squishy stomach, I will even tolerate losing nicely defined arms, but I REFUSE to lose my leg-line, it not for my self esteem then definitely as my collateral regarding The Boy's lovely stomach.

So the legs are getting attacked.  They hurtt, there is pain, and once again these stupid effing contracts are turning out to be more work on my part than I would have ever thought....

                                                   

The stick legs --------------------->

(Pictured here in an early 2007 heyday)

 They will return.

'Tis the season...

To get wasted with your coworkers. This will begin in approximately 20 minutes when I crack a beer at the office. It will most likely quickly disintegrate into Jameson (yes that is actually my office)

I used to try and stay mostly sober, preserve my dignity, reputation, etc. But with time and job security one tends to let her guard down. It's been one hell of a week and I am ready for it to be over. Well over. As in, let's not remember this week over.

Happy Holidays!


p.s. speaking of jobs, I took this photo when I was out in the field yesterday. Let's just say I was deep in the field. If anyone has any explanations, I'd be excited to know what the hell is going on here...

(I can't help but think of the Lion King when Simba and Nala go to the elephant graveyard)

Oh Dear.

So, you know that point when you're watching TV late at night (or at 11am on a weekday) usually in sweats and looking nothing short of disheveled when you see ads or infomercials or whatever and you find yourself watching them for WAY longer than you should? 
Well I've decided that as body dysmorphia increases, willingness to entertain gadegets/crash diets/fat absorbing pills increases exponentially. I'm sure there's a quadradic formula to be solved somewhere in there, but I don't care.

Basically, in my current mental state I am very susceptible to anything that may (however minimally) contribute to any sort of fitness or weight loss.  Combine this with a hungover trip to Nordstrom on Sunday with the girls and you've got a desperate girl in the women's shoe section eyeballing those new walking shoes that promise to lift your ass, tone your thighs and make you generally smarter with every step you take in them.  Obviously I purchased them, and although I know that I wasn't thinking totally clearly (other purchases include gray suede pumps made by FERGIE, really?!) I'm confident that these new ass toning-thigh tightening-smarter making shoes are significantly less retarded looking than the ones on the market a few years ago (let's hope).  I chose the darling option of silver/gold in the hopes that I might actually wear them and not just throw them in the back of my closet...

As with most new things I've been wearing them almost exclusively (still haven't rocked the Fergie pumps.. but I'm sure that has nothing to do with their soft, shiny trashy selves, I'm just waiting for the right "occasion"... maybe stripping?). Anyway, I was brave enough to wear them to the gym yesterday with The Trainer, which was a bit of a risk.  Mostly because The Trainer has a total shoe fetish and is a little judgey-judgey when it comes to athletic footwear and these shoes, while an improvement might still look a little ridiculous.  Fortunately they passed the test (I think it was the metallic sheen that saved me..).  UNfortunately, while they are really super comfy to walk in and feel like normal shoes with a little extra squish, they are HELL to workout in.  I guess I mean "hell" in a good way, because whatever "balance ball technology" is on the bottom of these god damn shoes make weight lifting and any other balance exercise 20x more difficult. 

One leg deadlifts are somewhat painful on my best days, but in these things I almost died.  My poor calf muscles nearly melted off trying to keep my big fat legs upright and not rolling off to one side or the other. The Trainer was remarkably unapologetic, but I think I got back at him when we did "pull ups" because I"m fairly certain that I forced him to support 95% of my body weight while I struggled with the last 20lbs or so.. take that big strong black guy, YOU can support my expanding self for 4 sets of 8 pathetic attempts to lift myself up.... 

These days I usually leave hte gym in a significant amount of pain, but yesterday was a new low/high depending on how you look at it.  I literally could not stand up straight for the rest of the day, and this morning was no improvement. 

As of now the shoes are off and I'm plotting my next meal, but I must say that I'm somewhat surprised that this particular gadget kicked my ass so hard.  Maybe I should explore other products that appear to over promise and under deliver?  So far I've only been wearing the shoes, but maybe they'll still work if I just snuggle with them like this girl..

Can't hurt, right?

Bring it back

It's interesting.  The weekend was a wonderful one.  Filled with endless champagne, food and friends, yet everyone seems a bit worse for the wear on the flipside.

And I don't mean in the "oops I ate and drank all weekend and now I feel like crap" way - I mean, in the "oops my life as I know it seems to be exploding and now I have to deal with it" way. Which, all things considered is less desirable than the food/booze hangover which always resolves itself in 36 hours MAX.

let's start with the good:

Friday - lovely ladies arrive and we immediately sprint back to the Eastside for a suburban retreat complete with pizza (DELICIOUS) and wine. I call this "the introduction" (which is similar to that sleezey guy, "the situation" but this is better).  "The Introduction" means that we basically have an unwind time. No makeup, no getting dressed, no going out, just food and good red wine and crappy television.  "The Introduction" is critical for setting up the tone and camaraderie of a girls weekend.  Also, this is the all important time when you catch up on drama, upset, intrigue and any juicy details that will need to be joked about/referenced/fixed during the rest of the weekend.  Basically "The Introduction" always rocks.

Saturday - Awake, caffeinate, walk suburban roads to DELICIOUS cafe and eat delicious things.  well, mostly delicious things.  McCloud and I experimented with "Eggs Rodolfo" which aside from sounding a little dirty involved plantains in our scrambled eggs.  It was AWFUL.  Thank god everything at the aforementioned cafe comes with a full bagel, cream cheese and jam.  We did not go hungry.

 Big breakfasts warrant "walking them off" so walk we did.  Right down the block to our favorite boutiques.  We successfully navigated the totally drool inducing show store without any damage, but fell face first at the ever lovely "La Ree" and managed to walk out with jeans, sweaters, vests and other delicious things. Kudos us. Apparently, whenever we aren't eating we're consuming in another manner...

Since the walk home was mostly uphill and we had precious loot in tow, a "ride" seemed prudent so we popped into a brunch spot for some champagne while we waited for our chariot (read: my dad) to show up.  Once home it was two more bottles of bubbles, a hot tub overlooking the water and for McCloud and one brave guest a polar bear dip in the lake (thank YOU champagne..).  So ended our relaxed suburban retreat, and we headed to the city for a night at the W, food, shots, and dancing.



It's important to note that one of the best parts of a girls weekend is the opportunity to "get dressed" as a group.  I say "get dressed" because getting dressed is a minor part of it. there's much more dancing, jumping, clothes swapping, drinking (bubbles - POP) and shenanigans than there is actually getting ready to go.  I think this instance clocked in at around 3 hours.  it was great.  Two MORE bottled of bubbles, one makeshift flask of gin, and an emergency nail file later we were (mostly) ready to go, and for the most part everyone was in borrowed clothing (another massive benefit of multiple-girl-dressing-events).

First it was steak and shots at a local grill where we know the bartender all too well (she has an uncanny ability to make a shot out of whatever food or drink you're craving.. its sort of like Willy Wonka, and I know it sounds gross, but its a GREAT talent).  We ended up dancing the night away at a local dive and dealing with big drunk dudes all night.  Sometimes that's fun, sometimes it not.  Also, I almost punched a lesbian.  I'm considering it a victory that I did not.  About the time the DJ started playing songs from the Grease soundtrack, we took our leave.

Sunday required lots of recovery.  Thankfully for us, McCloud had purchased tickets to Dina Martina's Christmas Show.  Because if there's anything that cures a hangover, its a drag queen singing carols and lil' smokies in your bloody mary.

I need to pause on this for a moment: LIL SMOKIES + vodka. WHO KNEW.  It's terrifying at first, but then delicious and genius.  AND ultimately it fulfills the need for a street dog later on!.   I can't even count how many birds I just killed with that stone, but I'm sure that it constitutes a small flock. 

After our matinee entertainment, attention turned to preparing for YET ANOTHER big dinner out (back to our local foodie hotspot) and another opportunity for a multiple-girls-dressing-event.  This time the prep happened back at my condo, and the boy (who is still sick, though mostly better) commented that the place looked like a "Lady Bomb" had gone off.  Apparently a "Lady Bomb" means that there are at least three pairs of shoes, 2 skirts, 1 dress, 4 tops and 3 pairs of jeans (or "jaeggings if you're boldly embracing the stretch pants comeback) strewn about my 850sf space for every "lady" who is getting ready.

I'm fairly certain that we all looked stunning, and I wish I took a picture of the damage done in the process but my camera was apparently buried under the aforementioned Lady Bomb.

The next several hours were comprised of delicious cocktails, treats and multiple courses and it looked something like this -

Holy crap we ate a lot, and just as before, it was always delicious.  Apparently it's also good that we ate a lot since this was about the point in the weekend when things started to unravel.  I'm less concerned with the details as this point, but do know that another went according to plan after oooh, let's say the second course and it resulted in the girls weekend disseminating across a 10 block radius.  Oops. oh well, it was good while it lasted?


Flash forward to the cold hard week.  Everyone's home safe and sound but unfortunately the good vibes of the weekend haven't lasted.  One of us returned to a strained (estranged?) relationship, the other is currently preparing for her spouse to undergo invasive facial surgery, another is currently receiving legal threats from an ex, and i'm bumbling along trying to figure out what the hell I do to help (from afar? close? why is everyone sad!?)

My only recourse is to keep my wine supply stocked, cookies in the cabinet and wrap up some god damn Christmas cheer before something else happens.

Oh Holidays.

It's Hard.

To stick to my mantra of Own Your Actions when I can't seem to remember my actions.

I can't seem to remember my actions due to the first line in the mantra which is: Live in the Moment. Shit, my mantra is in a fight with itself.


What's a girl to do?!?

Quit drinking delicious bourbon? Quit drinking my emotions? (seems better than eating them...until you try and kiss with your married friend: Oreos, Ice Cream, hell, even straight bacon fat no longer sound so detrimental)

I give myself a week of abstaining 'til I get bored and immediately goldfish it and forget the lessons of this week...which my therapist is trying to convince me are not actually "failures." (read: line 3 of the mantra).

xoxo,

broken McCloud.

Ditto.

Two out of the past three meals have been spinach salads. This is impressive. I feel one hell of a bender fast approaching. YAY for out-of-town guests.

Ouch. (round II)

I'm trying to think of something witty, but I can't because everything on my body hurts.  Abs, legs, arms, eyeballs... they are all sore.  Which is good, I think.  Though I can't be certain. 

So far the workouts are going ok.  I'm currently be wrecked by literally HALF the weight that I used to lift, which is a sad sad statement on how bad 'the situation' has gotten. 

McCloud is indulging me by joining the morning workouts which is great, because even though we aren't actually eating or drinking, we still talk about it, which makes the time pass faster.  Is that a red flag? I can't even figure THAT out right now....  ow.

Good thing all this good behavior is about to slam to a stop.  In exactly 7 hours our long lost friend (currently lost in Kansas) is flying in for a much needed weekend of debauchery.  So far the itinerary has nothing but restaurants, wine, spa-ing and a drag show on it.   what more can a girl ask for?

So, if we're on radio silence for a few days its because the three of us are busy either causing a ruckus, or resting up for the next round of ruckus-ness (a la the scene to the left). 


Happy Weekend!

P stands for...

(em)Panadas
Passion. Pit.
Pot
Pong
Party
Passout (8 hours later...)
Productive? Nope.

Ouch.

So today was the day.  I got up (on time, thanks to one VERY sick boy shivering and coughing which eliminated the option of falling back asleep) and went to the gym.  I WENT TO THE GYM.  (Sometimes I just have to say it a few times so that I know I actually did it...)

So I went to the gym, and I saw The Trainer.  Most trainers are excited when a currently lazy client calls up (mid panic attack) and demands multiple sessions a week and refuses to hang the phone up until enough punishment has been placed on the calender to counteract at least a few of the Christmas cookies.. However this trainer doesn't like getting up before 8am, or working past 5pm, which makes for a tricky time trying to schedule gym time around... oh you know... my JOB. 

Basically anytime The Trainer is at the gym before 10am he's doing YOU a favor and full unfiltered torture ensues.  But that's a good thing.  I need my butt kicked, and I need the torture dial turned all the way up. 

So I'm not complaining.  Not at all.  Not even complaining that my legs are already sore and walking is getting more difficult....

Which would be great except for the fact that today we did arms and abs.  How my legs got sore I'll never know, but it can't be a good sign....

and now a picture:

oh hei boyz.  mine look like that too?

Game. Time.

Alright. so maybe it took a month, but fitness will be had god damn it.  I feel like I have been watching people all around me get off their whiskey soaked asses and actually be somewhat active, so it was only a matter a time before I freaked out.  and freak out I did.  this morning. in my office (luckily with no witnesses).

Inspired by a certain friend who is currently driving through snowstorms for her daily 6am BOOTCAMP I figure the least I can do is 30 minutes on the elliptical while watching the Today Show, right?  Nevermind that BOOTCAMP may be the only source of sober entertainment for a small town Kansas girl, but I'm ignoring that one particular detail and plunging forward with inspriation. 

So, I called the trainer. and BOOKED THE DAYS (eek!).  Hopefully today is the last day that I wake up in 2009 without being seriously sore from endless lunges, push ups and other atrocities. It all starts, 7:30am tomorrow.

Go Team.

Dis.As.Ter.

There might be no other word that more aptly describes my present state. I can't even think of some witty topic to post on. And I just ended that sentence with a preposition, and I see no way around it at this juncture and I have few coping mechanisms to problem solve with. Damn it. Again.

Fuck, I hope a glass of wine in 40 minutes helps my sad, sad state. Otherwise, I'm turning to narcotics, and quickly. Maybe they will provide a fleeting but hopefully restorative break for my liver. A kind soul suggested a liver-detox juice. HA. It's going to take a hell of a lot more than juice or even a potion for that matter.

xo,

McCloud (soaked in Jame-o)

all I want for christmas is....

a muzzle. 

Some girls lust after iconic jewlery.  I am not one of them, but I understand that there's quite a group out there clammering for items like Tiffany & Co's lockets, or keys or whatever and Cartier trinity rings or their "love" series. 

However, there is something about the "love" collection that's somewhat appealing.  The fact that your bracelet gets "locked" onto your wrist and only your (financially bolstered) significant other has the key with which to remove it... There's a charm to that I suppose.  But while I am fully capable of removing my own jewelry, thank you very much, I could use an external locus of control when it comes to my consumption.  Which is why I think that Cartier is overlooking a huge potential market by not adding a "muzzle" to their commercially successful love collection.

I think that if anyone could overcome the social stigma of being muzzled, its Cartier.  I'm sure that they could work their classic lines and simple detailed magic on something as initially barbaric as a muzzle.  I mean, if Victoria's Secret and finagle a functional bra (not to mention other "undies") out of gemstones and metals, Cartier with its infinite class and tradtion should be able to give the good 'ol muzzle a much needed makeover.

Because realistically, if there's one item I wear that requires my loving boyfriend's assistance in removal, its not a bracelet (or even glittering bra set), it's a god damn muzzle. 

Maybe that would prevent carb catastrophes like our table's record NINE bread baskets last night.  whoops.

Just a thought.

sometimes life saves you from yourself?

Soo just about the time when I started thinking about my dinner plans (10:30am) and what deliciousness I might indulge in this evening, I got the haunting question from my father (yes the same father who accused my figure of not being from the dress) "who wants to go to the cabin today?" 

Now this is not a question that gets asked 'day of' without some urgent, generally painful project needing to be done.  Usually the scenic drive and relaxing ferry ride to the cabin is nicely planned out and snacks and beverages are acquired...

Of course today Dad stayed true to course and offered up the explanation that the "dock needs fixing, only low tide is midnight tonight"

Oh goody. 

Fortunately for me The Boy is generally amused by crappy projects and agrees to do most of the heavy lifting.  Also fortunate for me is the fact that McCloud is usually pleased by fun projects so long as there is wine, beer or sweet potato fries afterward.  Luckily, there is a nearby brewery with all three readily available.  In a way I'm also fortunate that this "opportunity" came just about the time I was starting to justify another repeat 6 course meal since wine pairings go oh-so-nicely with a frosty evening.

So we're excited.  we've got an emergency project, some brains, more brawn, plenty of sweet potato fries to help us through it and I'm highly confident this will turn out ok.

Or rather I was - until our friends up at the cabin sent us this preview of what we're working with:

CRAP.
WHAT. do we DO with THAT. (blank mind..)

I'm fairly certain I'm not going to have any better ideas as to how we should resolve this dock situation when the "magical" low tide rolls around at midnight.  Good thing the water is frigid and freezing temperatures are in the forecast...

But I'm sure that the beer and sweet potato fries will help..

ciao.

so far so good?

This week has been an impressive (short) example in moderation.  Since sunday I've had a meger two glasses of wine, no fried food (GASP) and actually done my lunges. 

I'm chalking it up to sushi. which I have decided I am allowed to eat whenever I want.  It's delicious and usually not that bad for me, assuming I stay away from that evil, evil spicy mayo.

In other uninteresting news, McCloud and I braved the throngs to see "New Moon" on Monday only to be shocked and surprised that we were the only two in the theater until three 15 year old girls finally giggled their way in during the previews..  Apparently, we are not nearly as cool or connected as we thought.  Maybe that explains all of the drinking? or maybe we just feelso much cooler once we're two bottles in. 

Either way, potatoes/potaaahtoes.

Also, its finally crisp and cold which I enjoy but it makes me miss this..... I'd like to pretend its just the sunshine but I have a feeling I miss how delicious a Pacifico tastes right in that spot... with chips. and salsa. and hot dogs...

Come back summer! We love you!

Well, as the saying goes, all good things must come to an end.  Which, in this case, the "good thing" appears to be me fitting into any of my clothing.  I mean god god dammit dammit, I am seriously indulging myself in not only consuming things but also in my delusional self perception. 

Well no more.  Friday was a doozey and hopefully I enjoyed it because that glorious, delicious, opulent indulgence simply CANNOT be repeated.  Last week was a seriously exhausting gambit of exploding relationship grenades and extended family time.  Both of which (similar to baking soda/vinegar volcanoes) fizzed into a really remarkable black hole of cocktails, cooking and comfort (generously provided by Miss McCloud).

By the time Friday rolled around, both McCloud and I were perfectly ready to let go and unwind.  In order to accomplish this as efficiently as possible, we tromped down to a favorite hot spot where (thankfully) we seem to have secured a standing reservation at the bar in full view of the kitchen where we can banter cleverly with the staff and reassure ourselves that we aren't just being gluttonous, but rather "saying hi to friends."  (Yeah, right. just saying hi to friends who happen to create buttery smooth foie gras steaks and juicy braised short ribs). 

Basically what was justified as "small bites and glass of wine," turned into the (easily predictable) 8 course tasting menu with wine pairings...  Whatever, its not the first time I've blatantly lied to myself to justify an action.  Lord knows I've convinced myself that it's ok to date an asshole because "it's different with me" or that it's ok to buy that ridiculously pretty designer dress because "I won't go shopping again for 10 months."  If anything I've learned that I only have to lie to myself until I'm gratified by the eventual sin.  Rarely do I actually experience any serious regret, it's more that I just have to trick my far too rational, moral, upstanding brain into obliging.  :)

Anyway, after being plied with delicious bites and phenomenal wine (usually I try to avoid drinking anything older than I am..) we rolled off our bar stools and tottered home to sleep it off on the couch. Not the most sophisticated end to our indulgence, but anything involving more activity just wasn't realistic.

The rest of the weekend was recovery.  Sushi, Sashimi, water, water, water and a grocery store run which included lots of fiber one, veggies and lean protein. 

here goes nothing... 

ps- our receipt for the damage on Friday.  Thank god our lovely kitchen friends indulges our delusions of "small bites and only recorded our consumption as "hot wings and nachos" and not the culinary masterpieces that we mowed through... 

Moderation? Nope.

Remember your 21-run? How you most likely kicked it off as the clock struck midnight and your birthday began?

Well, let's just say Gingham and I "kicked-off" Thanksgiving at midnight on Wednesday with burgers, fries and milkshakes at the delicious Dick's Drive-in. Yes it's called Dicks, yes there are endless jokes: "your breath smells like Dicks", "All you want is Dicks", etc. These were all VERY funny while stoned in High School. Needless to say, on Wednesday we made a taxi smell like Dicks, lots of Dicks.

I managed to only put back french fries and a milkshake. I'm pretty sure that milkshake will NOT bring all the boys to the yard. When I woke up on Thursday I did notice the oddly sticky nature of my telephone screen, which I can only imagine means that my phone and my milkshake had a little make out session at some point on Wednesday night (I'm sure I was asleep).

Thursday was relatively moderate for me with the exception of one small item. You see, my little sister is living abroad and as an homage to her (and her love for trashy food items) We made cheese weenies wrapped in crescent rolls. Let's just say I ate enough for at least a trailer somewhere in Kentucky.

I'll leave Friday to Gingham. In a word: woof. In two words: fat camp.

Oh, and last night? I had a second Thanksgiving at my Aunts' house. Kudos me.

I hope my date won't think me weird if I fast tonight.

UnAcceptable

We have been a sorry lot of bloggers this week.

HOWEVER,

given A. a computer crash on Friday night that crept through mid-day Monday and an inability to focus at work (hey! look at that, people ARE right: you shouldn't shit where you eat. I can only imagine what sort of hell would ensue at work if one of my coworkers stumbled across my gchat conversation).
B. A bit of a relationship snafu.
and C. a trip to Costa Rica, which involves mega-yachting (Gingham explained to me that this means the yacht is OVER 100 feet: yes, please!) we have been slightly out of commission.

All I can say is that I just walked to work with my coffee in one hand and a cigarette in the other. It's amazing the clarity that comes forth when you literally have two of your three vices in hand. Needless to say I must stop smoking: I miss smelling, but goddamn it goes well with coffee. So does Jameson for that matter, but 6:30 a.m. is a little early for that, even for me.

A recap of the week in regards to food and workout: I managed to squeeze in two workouts with the trainer over the past four days and I am still walking around like I have a stick up my ass from the 240 lunges on Sunday. TWOHUNDREDANDFORTY. Was he trying to kill me? Maybe.

Yesterday I had what I can only assume was a 5 lb burrito with wine around 2 p.m. followed by a tofu and broccoli scramble around 11 p.m. OH, and another glass of wine. In good news I can't even remember what I ate on Sunday and Monday. I'm sure it was mostly spinach and lean proteins and pomegranate seeds.

I am certain that tomorrow will be yet another day of gluttony, followed by regret and then more gluttony: The only situation in which I willingly slather mayo on anything is for a turkey sandwich made with those delicious little buttery rolls.

The holidays are upon us: Cheers to over indulgence and fantastically awkward family interactions!

It's beginning to look a lot like rehab...

Due to the generosity of a local radio station, McCloud and I ended up with tickets to one of the showings for Warren Miller's new film at McCaw Hall on Friday night. Now, I haven't seen a ski movie (let alone gone to one in public) since high school when I still pretended to be moderately interested in snow sports that don't involve whiskey and hot tubs. Not totally sure of what to expect, my only guess was that I should probably dress up and I should certainly have some delicious wine beforehand since the movie was showing at the big opera/ballet house.

After snatching McCloud off the street downtown, we headed straight for the preferred happy hour location near the City Center with a glimmer in our eyes and a slight growl in our tummies.
Perfect scene. Crisp fall day, blustery wind. Each of us in a charming seasonal outfit and fully accessorized- striding toward the certain salvation of wine and 1/2 price appetizers... until we found the doors to be locked.

what?? locked?! we pushed, we pulled.. the doors were definitely locked. I'm sure the abrupt end to our purposeful arrival was somewhat amusing the sizable crowd standing next door waiting for the bus...

Fortunate for us, it was 4:23pm, which meant that we only had 7 somewhat embarrassing, cold, windswept minutes to wait before we could realize our happy hour dreams.

Once inside we engaged in moderate gluttony. 3 glasses of vino each, and a conservative sharing of (life changing) beef tenderloin taco concoction and some decent mushroom risotto. DELIC.

Once sufficiently buzzed we tromped down the street to the pre-show aspect of the film. After procuring another glass of wine and a prime spot on the railing to people watch, it was extremely evident that we were the only ones NOT wearing fleece/soft shell/puffy vests so we downed our wine and headed for our seats. The movie was great - Ridiculous footage of gorgeous mountains and pretty people rocketing down them... Frankly it was almost enough to allow skiing to replace my currently preferred hobby of "apres ski" which, admittedly involves MUCH cuter boots.

Even with all of the inspiring athleticism, McCloud and I bailed at intermission and headed to a current hot spot/(fake) speakeasy closer to home. Three delicious frothy gin drinks later we rolled ourselves home at an extremely reasonable hour. (one perk of Daylight Savings is feeling like I've stayed out all night, when it is in fact only 10pm. Though that could also be a side effect of showing up at bars before they open..)

Dearest Bartender,

The other night I had aperitifs' at a lovely hole in the wall with my date. We decide it is time to mosey homeward. In a completely confusing girl move, I send my date packing (after having a sleepover on Saturday night: poor, poor boys). I grab my car from the garage. I'm moving it literally 5 blocks: is it a good idea to drive? In hindsight, no, no it is not. I dig through my purse to pay the parking attendant. No wallet. Hmmm. Pay with check? Check? Check.

I drive back to said hole in wall. Ask if wallet is around (look on floor, look on bar, etc), nope.

In a strange turn of events which at the time I interpret as general concern for a cute girl, the Bartender takes my keys, dashes out to my car (which is in a state of disarray, by the way), finds my wallet IN my car: on the floorboard no less. Weird, I do not remember putting it there. Bartender stashes keys next to the Bourbon and pours me water. Lots and LOTS of water. The next morning I felt fairly bashful regarding the events of the previous evening. As such, I wrote him a thank you note (as if this makes me classy). It goes something like this:

Dearest Bartender (okay, I'm fairly certain your name is Marcus),

1. Thank you for the delicious wine and generous pours.
2. Thank you for finding my wallet. Presumably in my car.
3. Thank you for taking my keys
4. Thank you for the copious amount of water
5. Thank you for eventually giving my keys back to me.

With Appreciation,

A Grateful Patron



The ever classy McCloud strikes again. Here is to eating more and drinking less.

Hmm. I can't quite figure out what the theme of the day is aside from falling short of good intentions.

despite the fact that my alarm has been set at "6:05am" for the last several months, it's been a while before I actually got myself up and to the gym at 6:05am instead of the wild arm slapping that comes with desperate repeated attempts to just hit snooze for the better part of an hour.

Yesterday I actually bounced out of bed on time and figured I'd make the bold step of attempting to work out. I clearly wasn't that committed to it when as I was driving through the dark morning drizzle I had already justified abandoning the gym if street parking wasn't IMMEDIATELY available.

But, as luck would have it parking was readily available which meant I was probably going to have to break a sweat after all.

You'd think I'd be more excited about gym adventures. Just this week I enthusiastically extended my contract for another two years (not because I love the gym, but they send me semi-weekly emails with ridiculous offers. free year of membership, free membership for a friend! free food! free towels! free ponies!!!! really?)

Anyway, this is a lot of lead up for almost NO workout. The good 'ol ankle totally crapped out in minute 12 of my LIGHT ellipticalling. What was more disappointing than my apparent total lack of physical fitness was the fact that The Today Show was doing all sorts of wildly stupid 'Twilight' crap, and I was actually enjoying the morning shot of pop culture.

Not a lot else happened (also sort of a fail) until I went home. In a FLURRY of motivation I attacked a corner of the condo that had been steadily collecting crap. Paperwork, files, notes, photos, dvds... all somewhat tidily shoved into a pile. I sat down, sorted, organized, trashed stuff, saved stuff and got my act together. This (small) accomplishment lead me to believe that I was capable of handling more.

SO, up I went, into the loft to extract the box spring from under my mattress. Why? because I've convinced myself that what's making my back hurt isn't my weird discount-off-brand-brooklyn mattress, OR my incredible lack of core strength, or EVEN my still broken post-volleyball body, but rather the "much" more likely issue of a crappy box spring. (don't ask, I'm rolling with it).

I concluded that right then was exactly when I needed to shove crap around and attempt to 'fix' the bed. ideally before the boy got home (just think how proud and surprised he would be!).

This was a bad idea. The loft doesn't have room for a box spring AND a mattress to be side by side (faaar too much other furniture and crap for that). And the lowered ceiling height means that all of the shoving and tugging has to happen in a hunched over position (which doesn't help the sore back situation much). Basically I ended up making a massive mess of of everything, and blocking my only exit with the weird-discount-off-brand-brooklyn mattress. dangit.

After 20 minutes of shoving and tugging the whole area looked like those little puzzles that kids play with where there's only one empty space and you slide all the tiles around trying to unscramble the picture? well as it turns out I'm TERRIBLE at those and just make them worse... not dissimilar to the mattress/box spring situation.

I'm not sure how long I was up there by the time the boy wandered through the door, but it was long enough to realize that a) I couldn't get down b) I didn't have my phone and c) I DEFINITELY didn't have any snacks.

I'll skip over the fact that the boy was able to solve the spatial dilemma in about 3 min and tidy everything back up. not an important part of the story.

The rest of the night included the third dinner straight of taco salad leftovers. Still delicious, but getting a little boring, some candy, 1/2 a bottle of wine (It felt deserved) and one lone packet of nutella that I scrounged up in the cupboards left over from a LONG gone party.

It was still delicious and yes I ate it with my finger. So.... no workout, re injured ankle, little work done, slight tidying followed by total home failure and gorging on refried beans, sour candy, wine and chocolatey condiments.

Cheers.

Jolly Rancher, the Gate Way Candy

I work at a place that produces food... therefore, I get fed sometimes, and it's high quality deliciousness. They also have picked up this moral boosting activity called CANDY FRIDAYS, where the receptionists have two full bowls of candy on the counter at all times.... Well, when you have a strategic alliance with the receptionist, you find out where the reserves are, bottom drawer, behind the Head Receptionist. Usually on my way back from lunch, I will pop in there to get a jolly rancher or two. Blue Raspberry or Grape, I never deviate from my standard course.

Given that the receptionist and I have a strange yet phenomenal bond, she has now started to sort my favorite treats for me and has them ready to go when I roll in. Sometimes, and I am embarrassed to admit this, she will stash an inventory just for me of purple and blue when she sees that we are running low. This is all fine and dandy, how bad can a few jolly ranchers possibly be for the waste line?

Remember in DARE class in 5th grade and learning about "gateway" drugs? Jolly ranchers are the equivalent in Candy. First it's 3 grapes and 2 blue raspberry's, next I am sneaking into the COO's office, grabbing handfuls of M&M's and ohhh that Reese's sure looks tasty too.

Around 5pm, I start to pack up my laptop and my file folders to bring home... and a GRAVEYARD of candy wrappers catches my eye in the trash... 5 jolly ranchers, led to 11 jolly ranchers, 3 fun size bags of M&M's, 1 mini snicker, and 2 reese's... so much for those squats this morning!

My only summaztion?
Jolly Ranchers are the gateway candy to the hard stuff... the stuff that can derail anyone from will power and self control. FML.

today's revalations

1) Hint o' Lime chips are absolutely deadly delicious when frosted with jalapeno/artichoke dip.

2) My sprained ankle is NOT getting better.

Now, the chip thing is not all that shocking since most chips are delicious, and most anything is better in jalapeno/artichoke dip... but this combo seems like a slight improvement from September's obsession with plain Ruffles smothered in ranch dip.

progress? I think so.

The ankle thing is somewhat alarming, mostly because my level of activity has been close to zero. The only possible stresses my ankle has seen recently are the (static) lunges every other day or so, and the slow ambling walks around town on the weekends.
Aggressive walking, working out, jumping and any dance parties of any sort have been on complete hold since the totally unfortunate injury (you know, the one that happened while showing the high school girls "how its done").

I suppose I didn't help matters when I determinedly stuffed the swollen ankle into an adorable boot (albeit an adorable boot with 4" heels) and stomped off to the bars... I mean, it's fall! and I have cute coats and cute boots that need to be paired together on blustery days..

I guess I *could* do that less, but otherwise I'm being really, really nice to my ankle... What's a modern woman to do...

Before I forget....

Before I forget the rest of the weekend's consumption (or at least the consumption that I haven't forgotten due to OVER consumption...) I thought I'd get a diary up before either Miss Mc or FLIMH distract me with their own shenanigans. I'll keep this brief, though I'm not sure that brevity makes me look any better...

Saturday:
Brunch with the ladies - including but not limited to:
2 toasted baguettes (that's whole baguettes, not girly slices)
2 pitchers of mimosas (pitchers look HUGE when the bevie is opaque)
countless cups of coffee

Brunch seemed to stave off the hangover... at least long enough to suit up for a walk (CARDIO!!!) on a brisk afternoon.

As usual the "CARDIO!" led straight to more consumption. (oops)
2 glasses of Sauv Blanc
1 (not two!) baskets of chips and salsa courtesy of Cactus...

The walk home led to hunger pains (slogging uphill's a bitch that way) which resulted in picking up dinner ON THE WAY.
2 quarts of soup
1 (not 2!) giant loaf of french bread, beer and some salad fixin's.

Firmly planted on the couch, the boy and I managed to consume both quarts of soup, the ENTIRE loaf of bread and most of the beer. Which obviously left no room for the salad.

figures.

SUNDAY!

after waking up I did my lunges and headed to the barn to teach some lessons. which doesn't involve a lot, but I do usually walk around in circles while I teach, so that's better than nothing, right? oh, but I stopped at starbucks for coffee on my way and stumbled onto some coffee cake by accident. oops.

once home, the decision was made to go to the car show (wha? how's THAT for branching out), which led quickly to beers afterward, followed by a GIGANTIC order of thai food to pick up on our way home.

I've discovered that restaurants reliably include at least twice the number of utensils that I require. I think that's a red flag, but secretly I hoard the extraneous chopsticks and plastic forks should the event arise that I ever DON'T finish my food in one sitting and actually need a second set for leftovers the next day. It could happen... someday. Maybe...

Wanted: Chaperone. (needed?)

While Gingham rummages through her weekend stories I'll ignore my questionable endeavors throughout the entire weekend and jump right into Monday night. Yup. Monday.

It start out innocently enough: a glass or two of wine at the Four Seasons to stave off being in bed at 6 p.m. on a dreary night. I texted the suitor a la moment: he joined and I ordered my third glass of wine...otherwise known as the gateway drink for Miss McCloud (Gingham cleverly refers to such moments as "red flags")

He wanted dinner, to which I immediately called Matt's in the Market (yes, the number is in my phone). Reservation at 7:30. Perfect. See you then. I LOVE sitting at the bar at Matt's. After the foie and octopus (nope, still don't like it) the shared order of short ribs arrived and was delicious. So delicious that I emphatically told the waiter that they were superior to the ones at Crush. In hindsight this was technically a lie because they weren't as rich which consequently just meant I could consume more. It's more likely that the compliment was an attempt to flatter the waiter, or even more likely the chef. Turns out I may have a bit of a thing for chefs...

Desert? No Thanks. I'll take Port though (read: TIME FOR MCCLOUD TO GO HOME). Is this why people have boyfriends?! So that someone takes you home before you suggest going to another watering hole?

So, I suggest going to another watering hole. We walk in the rain, it's great. He loves the spot. Turns out I find it immensely gratifying when people like the establishments I frequent. The bartender is lovely and I continue on with the wine...

In good news I made my way home and had the typical post-outing dance party. In better news, I welcome FLMH to the blog (I initially wrote bog, LOL) as she made me nearly pee my bed when I finally crawled into it last night.

Extra Dirty Grey Goose Martini Please, Filthy Dirty, Like My Hott Tub

You are probably thinking, no one in their right mind would actually order a drink like that at any sort of respectable establishment.... well, 1. I am not in my right mind, and 2. my favorite watering holes of choice are not respectable... not even close.

But when I want a drink, I want it now and I want it dirty. Filthy Dirty... Like my hott tub!

I have even been known to order my "usual" and ask for a little extra "dirty dirty" on the side (olive juice in a shot glass? don't mind if I do). The looks I get from the bartenders can be ones of horror, fear, and straight confusion, but the smile I have on my face when he slides my martini across the bar and into my hand with a little extra murky and 3 olives speared, makes the embarrassment all worth while. It's the sweet sweet goodness of the Filth, and it's what has me coming back for more... weekly.

Although I am sure this drink is good for my soul given the happiness it brings, it can't be good for my blood pressure given the sodium content, but this is the way I see it : I am about to embark on sailing away from my first quarter century, I'm single, and I am barely holding on to the depths of winter in Seattle, if there is one thing I can count on it's my dirty and I don't give a damn about it.

So, to my partners in crime, Gingham and Miss McCloud, I raise a Dirty to you two!
Cheers!

monday, question mark?

I'm at a bit of a loss as to where I should start today. Do I blog each day of the weekend separately? together? monster blog? break things off into small bits??

I'm going to try (or at least try to try) to make this smaller posts. Mostly because, as the rest of my life indicates, moderation or stopping while you're ahead is most certainly NOT a strong suit of mine. The weekend displaying (yet again) just how bad I am at reining myself in. Blogging seems like a good baby step of self control...

So let's back it up to Friday:

Friday was a good enough day. I treated myself to a repeat manicure, which was yet again, intensely satisfying. I'm operating under a subset of the "if you can't tone it, tan it" philosophy and doing my best to keep nails pretty/legs shaved/makeup on/etc. The idea of maintenance as a ego boost is working so far - and its WAY easier than getting up early and going to the gym...

Friday afternoon led to a intense HH trip to Sazerac, which remained a TOTAL zoo, but provides cheap enough food and liquor that I am willing to tolerate the chronically long waits, slow service and remote location of the bathroom. Miss McCloud, myself and our (yet to be seen) new girl "Filthy Like My Hottub" started off right with some sparkling wine.

Sorta.

I'm not sure if it's because the waitress was stoned, stupid, or just swamped with tons of tables, but by the time we received our "beverages" they were warm, small and lacking any "sparkle" whatsoever. This was extremely disappointing, but really not unwelcome since I took the cup of grape juice as an excuse to dive right in to Jameson. on the rocks. at 5:30pm. (red flag #1).

After a few hours of waiting for drinks, we gave up and moved on. Miss Mc and FLMH to their respective social engagements and me with my gorgeous escort over to a hometown institution for some classy beverages and delicious oysters (as well as my favorite bread basket in town). (red flag #2).

2 martinis, 2 dozen oysters and 2 breadbaskets later (not joking) The boy and I were having a lovely time at the bar and engaged in lively discussion with an older couple visiting from Phoenix. At first I thought their inquisitive nature was friendly and parental. Sure, as they got drunk the question got more pointed. How happy are we? are we engaged sexually? do we love each other every day? how do we know that we are happy? (and my personal favorite) What's keeping us from marriage? (and the boy's adorably honest answer? "a two carat cushion cut ring".. at least he knows?)...
As I switched myself straight gin to wine (does that count as restraint??) It became increasingly obvious that this couple was not actually intrigued with our young love and and effervescent energy.

It occurred to me that they had asked us for our suggestions for their next drinking stop more than two hours ago about the same time that Mrs. Phx announced that the secret to marriage is more than just good sex. its good sex with more partners than just your husband.

oh my.

oh my, that's your hand upon my thigh. (red flag #3).

I'm not sure how polite I was in the chugging of my remaining wine (you can't WASTE it), snarfing of the last bit of delicious flat bread-cracker-thing and scooping up the remarkably drunk boyfriend (wasn't HE easily plied with liquor...).

But I do know that I made a hasty exit out the front, into a cab and found myself home in front of TV in a matter of moments.

I really didn't see Friday night coming. In hindsight, there were more than a few clues that the night could turn out less than classy (in spite of oak paneled surroundings), but apparently I was either not interested, or too focused on complimentary bread baskets to see the wild red flags..



oops.

Ooops.

McCloud: 0 Gummi Bears: 1 (or should I say won...or 8,700?)

buffets.

Buffets present an array of emotions for me. the first is excitement, at the near certainty that food is endlessly available and that I don't have to worry about anything running out.

The second is something akin to horror. "Crap", I say to myself. "I need a plan. I can't just walk up to 30' of tables filled with options without a PLAN!" for one, I need to organize my plate, and for two I try to have a "plan" so that I don't just end up with heaps of mashed potatoes and three slices of cheesecake for dinner.

confusing right? such internal conflict.

Anyway, this brings us to last night. End of season celebration for the team I coach.
There are things to be expected with this:
Lots of high pitched squeals and shrieks as the girls discuss the latest social drama. Tears from the seniors. tears from parents of the seniors... baked goods aaaaaand usually a nice generic toast with some group photos and if I've been a good little coach, some sort of gift certificate. All in all these are fun events (win!).

So I was all jazzed to go, (even though the event was at a shopping center) when, as I entered the restaurant I see (gasp) a GIGANTIC buffet. and this was no ordinary buffet. this was a MEXICAN buffet. My brain instantly fried.

"hi coach!" says a cute parent. "great season, thanks!" says another.
I hope that i mustered a "yeah... thanks..nice job.. you're kid's great" between my mental SHRIEKS of "GUACAMOOOOOOOOOOOOOOLE! BLACK BEANS!!! ohh! better, REFRIED BEANS!!!!! CHIPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPS."

Just about the time I got my head about me I realized that I would be sharing this buffet with the scariest of all co-diners - teenage girls.

CRAP. So just as I start complaining about how full I'm getting off chips and about to make some gross comment about tucking my stomach into the top of my jeans, I realize that I am in fact (in this specific situation) considered a "role model." Unfortunately, this means that self deprecating/body conscious comments are totally not allowed.

DOUBLE CRAP! Now I have to get through a gigantic Mexican buffet (with guacamole, re-fried beans AND chips) without complaining about my body, how full I am (while continuing to eat) OR making disparaging comments about the 6 fun size mr goodbars I consumed before even getting to the giant buffet. Tough work.

I think I managed my way through, might have even put in a few positive comments to the girls who were making the snide remarks that I so DESPERATELY wanted to be chiming in on. "You're beautiful! and guacamole is not going to make you fat..."

when you can't lie to yourself... its best to lie to impressionable youth.. the honest "yeah honey, keep eating guac with a spoon and you're end up like me, pushing the upper limits of designer denim sizing..."

role model indeed.

Here's to small victories...

So, after an incredibly awkward date (um, after two beers that I paid for there is NO WAY I'm going home with you. period. ever). I wandered home at the oh-so-reasonable hour of 10. I was hungry given that he had mentioned something about dining (also, please don't offer to feed me and then not). Anyway, when I arrived home I pulled out a package of ramen. delicious ramen. I had the foresight to check the calories, probably because I'd only had two beers and thought: "hmm, 400 calories at 10 pm, necessary?" not really. I put the ramen away. Kudos me.

hmm...

Well, it seems as soon as I say something I immediately have to contradict myself. In an unexpected twist, both Miss McCloud and I managed to have only ONE glass of wine, and a simple salad without indulging in too much cheese, creamy anything or additional cocktails. (ok FINE, so we put steak on the salad and ate all of the "complimentary" bread...details details)

I'd be super impressed with us if the wine/steak/bread/salad consumption wasn't for lunch. on a workday. downtown. oops.

I guess I'll be repeating those lunges again tonight... cheers.

"Chef said to take care of you..."

Ohhhh GOOD. thanks chef.

As Miss McCloud noted, we have been making a serious go at raising our level of consumption. I'm slowly coming to the honest realization that no matter how many times I say let's grab a "glass of wine and a salad" what I'm really setting myself up for is 2 *bottles* of wine and at least four kinds of cheese.

Last night however, we skipped all charades of moderation and went balls out for six courses of deliciousness. At least our adorable server had it right when he completely inappropriately described one course (possibly the pork belly?) as "better than sex" as he presented it- then blushed - tried to take it back but then rocked the comparison further and proclaimed "well it definitely SMELLS better".

I know I was pretty inebriated at the time, but in the cold hard office light of day, I think it's still funny. in fact, I'm impressed that after being plied with countless glasses of wine/bubbly/liquor I didn't totter off my bar stool like a weeble placed on much too high of a shelf.

Turns out we learned a few things last night.
1) bacon is always delicious, as we had it in several novel forms

2) sitting at the bar watching/fraternizing with the creators of delicious cuisine is not likely to encourage me to exercise ANY self restraint.

3) the 46 lunges that I did while staring slack jawed at the "Tyra" show aren't going to put even a dimple in the pecan pie, basque cheese or bacon ice cream. Let alone the whipped potato puree that I gobbled then stole what little Miss McCloud left behind on her plate.

At the end of the night I couldn't decide if the giant tip on our meager bill (which in NO way was an accurate list of what was actually consumed) was a good idea, or terrible idea given that I'm not sure I can survive ongoing generosity from those lovely, lovely people with the fabulous wine and cheese...

A week in review (as of Thursday a.m.)

Presently I'm skinny. For me. Turns out when you end your long term relationship (6+ years) it makes you kind of nauseated. All the time. Turns out when you start meeting potential suitors (Chris Rock IS right, a man is only as faithful as his options: who knew!?) it makes you kind of nauseated. All the time. As such, food hasn't been a priority over the past few months. But then I slowly came to accept chaos as the norm and regained that appetite: you know the one. Let's just say the recent food choices are not going to result in a smaller waistline for much longer. For example:

Sunday Funday: I ate most of a basket of tots. Yes, tater tots. They come in baskets. Call me Napoleon Dynamite. He was on to something. Delicious.

Monday: French Fries doused in bacon renderings and truffle popcorn. YUM.

I had high hopes for Tuesday given the stomach pains from the past two days. I felt I was being prudent and decided to drink my dinner (read: Jameson and Coors Light, classy I know) UNTIL I arrived home from the concert and had wine and kettlecorn in bed. At midnight, or later. Hard

to say what time exactly, given the above beverage choices.

Wednesday. Wednesday was BAD. After finishing a bottle of wine with Gingham we trotted to the local foodie spot and ate: savory flan, pork belly, pumpkin deliciousness (I think they call it tortellini), sweetbreads, HUGE scallop, short ribs (who am I? the fucking hungry caterpillar of meat products?) OH, and a watermelon sorbet and a cheese plate AND a chocolaty pecan pie with ice cream and bacon flecks on top. OH and two shots of boozy concoctions; in espresso cups, naturally. And that does not even account for the wine and cocktails.

Needless to say, I'm still full from last night...and seriously considered coming to work in my juicy pants so my distended belly would have somewhere to hide.

Game on is right.