I want a glass of milk, you bastards!

Sunday, July 24, 2011

It’s hard to believe I’ve been able to survive this week. I think it was one of the hardest weeks of my life (insert dramatic sigh & arm thrown across forehead here). I tried to get rid of everything I’m not supposed to eat for the next six weeks (by eating it all) before I jumped on this 6 week medieval torture train, but I still have half a jar of Nutella in my cabinet, and I swear I can hear it screaming my name at night. “EAT ME, BITCH! GRAB THAT SOUP SPOON AND DIVE IN, YOU CHOCOLATE WHORE! LICK IT LIKE YOU LOVE IT!” It hurts my heart when chocolate yells at me.

Good news is, I’m down 10.5 lbs. And that, my friends, is the ONLY thing keeping me going. Well, that and the discovery of chocolate extract, brown sugar twin, and pumpkin pie spice. If I didn’t have those three, I’d most likely be flavoring everything with beer (and probably Nutella, too) and justifying my actions by saying, “Well, it’s not fucking SALT, is it? That’s right! It’s NOT! Fuck YOU!”

Honestly, it’s the no salt and no dairy that’s killing me. Don’t tell Guinness & Jagermeister, but I think I’m breaking up with them, maybe for good. I admit I miss that head-rushy, stumbling, off-kilter feeling when we’re all three cuddled up on the couch squinting through the double-vision as we bawl through weepy chick-flicks while schkoffing bon-bons at night, but I surely do NOT miss the bloating and gas they leave behind under the covers when they sneak out in the morning. And I haven’t had any heartburn in 9 days. That’s kinda awesome.

Yeah… kinda awesome. Yeah.

Er, just out of curiosity, do they make salt-free, wheat-free, sugar-free beer and/or chocolate? And if so, who do I need to bribe/sleep with/beat up to get some?


Gotta go, gotta go, gotta go right now!

Monday, July 18, 2011

So I started a new diet this weekend. And now I feel the need to buy stock in Depends. Seriously. I drink a lot of water anyway, but this diet has me drinking twice what I normally drink. I’m at work and I’ve had to RUN to the bathroom no less than 5 times so far. It’s that feeling like you might have to go, so you wait a little while, and then you know you have to go, but it’s not too, too bad. And then… then once you get to the toilet you’re about to pee your effin’ pants and can’t get them unzipped fast enough. I’ve had some close calls today, fer sure, man.

Am I the only person that happens to?

For the next six weeks, I’m giving up, salt, fat, and dairy. What this means (and I have to write it down again just to force myself to comprehend the magnitude of what I’ve gotten myself into) is that I can’t have: salt, olive oil, alcohol, bread, pasta, milk, yogurt, cheese, cottage cheese, or eggs. These are the staples of LIFE, fer chrissakes! I mean, an average evening meal for me consists of Guinness, Jagermeister, bread/pasta (or both), cheese, and ice cream of some sort (to cleanse the palate, of course). Am I supposed to subsist on greenery alone?! That’s madness, I tell ya! I must’ve been out of my gourd to do this to myself! In fact, from looking at the other things I can’t have, I’m quite certain I must be cracked.

No diet soda unless it’s no sodium – I can live with that because I can have crystal lite. Canned or frozen meats & other veggies have to be NSA (no sodium added). So far, I’ve only found one place that carries NSA tuna, and one can was $4.29! Highway robbery! And do you know how bland most veggies taste without salt? Ugh! I never realized the amount of flavor a little amount of salt brings out in veggies until I tried them without. I need to make friends with Ms. Dash pronto. I’m three days in, and all I can think about is salt, beer, and cheeeeeeeese, glorious cheeeeese.

If the scales hadn’t shown a loss of 5 lbs this morning, I might be ordering a pizza & a six pack right now.


That sounds reeeeeeally good.

Bah! I don’t know if I can make it six days, much less six weeks!

I like my noodles on the al dente side

Wednesday, June 22, 2011

So my thoughtless, evil sibling calls me up yesteday and leaves me the following voicemail: “Mom’s been rushed to the hospital again. She’s bleeding profusely (he actually used the phrase “bleeding like a mutha-fuckin’ sonofabitch”) from her nose and ears.” Click. The end. No explanation. No follow up.

So naturally, I’m freaking out. I’m thinking, “It’s a toomah!” I’m thinking brain hemorrhage. I’m thinking alien parasites. I’m thinking nanite-sized Hobbits are using their big-ass crusty, hairy feet to turn me mums noggin of al dente spaghetti into soggy pasta pudding. (Sounds like Orc mischief to me!) But mostly I’m thinking, “I don’t wanna drive 4 hours! Waaahhhhh! I’m tired!”

Does that make me a bad daughter? Yeah. I thought so.

By the time I arrived, it was nearly over. She had lost 3 pints of blood (from her nose!) and looked like a homicide victim. Turns out it was a ruptured blood vessel in her nose, and her new arthritis med (which shall remain nameless, but is in the NSAID category) was keeping her blood from clotting. And she was NOT bleeding from her ears. My brother is a squeamish drama-queen.

Aside from losing a new robe & nightgown to unsightly stains which will NEVER come out, the mumster is fit as a fiddle. She even got a nice set of scrubs out of it.

What did I get? Nothing. Nada. An aching back from driving 4 hours there and 4 hours back. Well, that and my mom’s okay. So I guess that’s something. Heh. Bad daughter!

Happy Misjudgement Day!

Sunday, May 22, 2011


If you’re reading this blog, you’re like me: a big, fat, warty, nasty, vile sinner, who eats babies for breakfast! Congratulations! Welcome to the club! Have some cake! It’s free! We unrepentant heathens looted goodies from all of the empty bakeries! Because, everyone knows, all bakers go to heaven. Where else would someone who knows how to make cake, pie, and pastry go? Hell hath no need of sugar! Or so the scriptures sayeth.

What’s that? No one was saved? God didn’t drop by for tea? Are you sure? Because it was a preacher who said he was coming today, and well, you know, men who claim to be of God are never wrong. Or so the scriptures that they themselves wrote sayeth.

Seriously, could someone please tell the religious nutbars of the world to just man up and drink the punch? It would be totally awesome if there were fewer asshats getting my hopes up about the post-rapture looting. Sigh. I sooo wanted a new flat screen TV. For FREE.

I thought my mom, being the devout Christian she is, would have jumped on that shit-wagon holding high the cross of Christ, but apparently, once 6pm rolled around and she discovered that the Jesus Train had passed her by, she saw the sham for what it was, and finally laughed at my “don’t drink the koolaid” message on her answering machine.

This Rapture, it would seem, was a quantum faux pas. Like this blog.

You wanna know what the true Rapture is? It’s this life. It’s this fucked up, messy, hard, emotional shit we all go through on a daily basis. It’s family who loves you even if they think you’ve screwed up your whole life, and possibly theirs, too. It’s my totally amazing cat, Princess Fuzzybuns Beardlicker, who I love with a fierceness that rivals that of any parent, and who loves me just because I pet her and feed her, and makes me smile every single fucking day just because she’s awesome. It’s friends who love you unconditionally, even if you fight and argue more often than not, and won’t abandon you even if you can’t agree on something as mundane as who should win American Idol.

That’s TRUE Rapture. Fuck anyone who says it isn’t.

Ahem. I really didn’t mean to get all serious, but I’m celebrating my rapture with Jagermeister, Guinness, and pancakes. I think it’s the Jager (diva!) talking. I know it’s not the pancakes ’cause they’re all fluffly and shit.

I hope that cabana boy is worth the $5k

Sunday, May 15, 2011

I took out a loan on my 401k in order to pay off some bills. I’ll have a little over $5k left after paying off those bills (check!), getting a sweet new computer (check!), and getting some work done on my car (almost check!).

Now, the goal was for me to put any extra cash toward my student loan (yes, I’m still paying it off! shut yer pie hole, mom!), but I’m not sure I can make myself do it. When I close my eyes, I see islands, and cabana boys. I see mountains, and camping with cabana boys. I see cruises, and cabana boys holding my hair back while I puke because I forgot to take my dramamine. Ok, not so much on that last one, but you get the drift.

I haven’t had a REAL vacation in years. When I say real, I mean one in which I go far, far away and forget about e-v-e-r-y-t-h-i-n-g I’ve left behind (except Princess Fuzzybuns Beardlicker – she might have to come with) – especially work. My last semi-real vacation was in 2008 (I think?) to my friend’s awesome vacation home in Sarasota, but I got calls from work while I was there, so even though I enjoyed it immensely (that house is AMAZING!), I don’t count it as a REAL vacation.

I want a REAL vacation. I NEED a REAL vacation. But I also want to be free of debt, and my fucking student loan is the last of it. I should really just hold off on the vacation and do the right thing. Right? Sigh. I need a sign. I really need a sign.


Does someone walking by in a green hat count as a sign? Yes! I thik it does! Huzzah! I think Ireland just stomped the frikka-frakin’ student loan’s arse! Hey, Blarney Stone! I’m coming’ to kiss you on the lips! (Not really – that thing hasn’t been cleaned in, well, ever. And I do have SOME standards. Sort of.) Put down that shillelagh, you half-baked leprechaun! I just paid $5k for a crack at yer pot o’ gold! This is gonna be the best vacation EVER!

Gasp. Do they have cabana boys in Ireland?

Bunnies! (with a side of taters)

Sunday, April 24, 2011

Happy Easter, Blogiverse!

I hope you’re enjoying your food induced coma while I’m slaving away at work on this beautiful Easter Sunday. You’re probably watching TV, too. I think you suck sooo much for not being here to share in my misery. I’ve been debating whether or not to use my corporate powers for evil and leave early. But I’ve got vacation coming up next week (WOOT!) so I’m trying to stick it out. Sigh. It’s hard. I really want to leave. I’ve got a terminal case of the ITIS. If you loved me, you’d pull the fire alarm. But you don’t love me. I want a divorce. Chocolate might make me love you again.

the bunneh cometh
and bringeth candied delights
he makes me arse fat

i like colored eggs
and bunnehs taste like chicken
or so kitteh says

One more week ’til Beltane! Anyone up for some sky-clad pole-dancin’? No?

may day approacheth
put ye celtic accent on
feeleth medieval!

lighting a bonfire
in the navel of ireland –

Chirp. I feel all eggy now.

Faces of FIRE!

Sunday, April 17, 2011

Earlier this year, I self-diagnosed myself with Rosacea. I’m sure when I next go to the doctor, she will confirm my expert diagnosis, because I researched the shite out of my symptoms… and if you saw my face without makeup (sometimes even with), you’d have to agree.

It’s not pretty. When it flares up, I look like a pizza-faced tween. In fact, I originally thought I was suffering from adult acne. But all of the products designed to treat acne burned my skin (more than they should have), made my color an even brighter red, and caused the bumps that I thought were pimples to multiply. Soooo not cool.

In researching this condition, I found that there are certain foods, conditions, and products that can trigger flare-ups. Here are some of those things.

Cheese. Just knowing that makes me want to eat a whole block of sharp cheddar – by itself. I hanker for a hunk of, a satisfying chunk of, I hanker for a hunk of cheese! Stinky!

Chocolate. Huh. Expect a flare up, like, now.

Beer. Sigh. I will forever look like I’m going through puberty.

Spicy foods & vanilla. Is vanilla not the polar opposite of spicy foods… AND chocolate?! WTF?

Sun. Wind. Cold. Humidity. When the fuck is it okay to go outside? And who’s gonna tell my boss I have to work from home now because the outside is bad for me?

Hot baths. So are cold showers okay? Nope. THAT can cause a flare up, too. Of course, not being able to bathe pretty much cements the need to work from home.

Excessivley warm environments. Hello? I live in the deep south!

Stress & anxiety. So much for working from home. Or working period.

MENOPAUSE. Can someone please tell me how to avoid THIS?

You can see I’m gonna be a whiny little beyotch about this this is going to be a nightmare for me. Sure, it’s not some terminal illness, but, right now, it feels like a too-mah.

That said, there IS a shining beacon of hope in this otherwise dark and dismal time. There is yet one more thing I must avoid in order to limit flare ups. And that thing is… EXERCISE!!

I have a legitimate, medical reason for not working out now! I have a license to be a fatty-fatty-booma-latty! I can be a card-carrying member of the honkey-tonk ba-donka-donk club – guilt free! My face might look like a Santa suit on fire (after all that chocolate I just ate… along with the beer to wash it down), but I feel like I just hit the jackpot.


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