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.

It's not the dress...

There are two soul crushing moments that threw me from the comfortable naive womb of childhood ignorance into the glamazon idealized world of self doubt (also known as "adulthood). The first was seeing a horrifying picture of my fourteen year old self in our yearbook wearing a less than flattering spaghetti strap tank on retreat during freshman year.
That was a quick lesson. teeny-tiny straps make large boobs look Orca fat.
check. got it. Not to be repeated.

The second came in the same year when I asked my father the dreaded question. "Does this dress make me look fat?"

The answer of course was "yes, dear god, yes." (in fairness a overall topped-gingham-print-babydoll jumper shouldn't be worn by anyone). Instead Dad murmmered the caustically true response "It's not the dress...."

It took me a while to pick my jaw back up and change my clothes in a huff, but of course, I knew that he was right.

If I lived my life without my general self assurance or confidence, the seared memory of that comment might be crippling. But it's not. instead its morphed into the mantra that I attempt to slap myself with when I find myself trying on look after look in a store/in my bathroom/in my car and frustrated with the result. It's not the dress.

Of course sometimes it IS the dress (remember those haunting spaghetti straps that did me no favors?), but right now I have come to the formidable conclusion that for the moment, it most certainly is NOT the dress and I should probably get my act together. And so it begins. Hardly a tragic quest, but certainly a quest. One to figure out how to get active again, have fun doing it, and look hot even if I'm wearing that god awful overall/gingham atrocity.

Cheers ladies. Game time.