animal cracker o'clock

I have always been a pretty huge pig when it comes to food. When I was younger and other girls my age were daintily picking at their meals, I was scarfing down plate after plate of everything edible at the buffet. A woman actually came up to my sister and I after a fairly monstrous eating frenzy at the 94th Aerosquadron to say how much she'd enjoyed watching us shovel the food down in huge quantities. So yeah, you could say I like food.

I have no problem with my little food obsession, but lately I have been noticing something bordering on the alarming: when I wake up in the morning, the first thing I think of is what I'm going to eat that day. Like, "ooh I get to have my coffee in an hour and a half!" or maybe "Yes! Today is the day I am trying that new steak salad at work!" And it's not like I'm constantly eating new and exotic things; my food schedule has been the same for months. Coffee at 8:30, Special K (with strawberries!) at 10, salami sandwich with goldfish somewhere between 12:30 and 2, a piece of fruit at 3 and animal crackers at 4. You could literally set the clock by my snacking throughout the workday. And for dinner? I can work myself into a froth thinking about my options. This can't be normal.

With all that eating, I would easily be 300 pounds if it weren't for all the exercising I do to support my habits. Spinning to work off the cheese and crackers, kickboxing to counteract the effects of the ice cream sandwiches. But now that I'm (gasp!) 30, it seems like the scales are tipping more to the food side. A three mile run doesn't exactly work off that pound of macaroni and cheese anymore (did I mention I love cheese?), so I'm left with a really depressing choice. Either I work out even more - which would be hard to do since I'm already going to the gym 6-8 times a week, or I cut back on what I'm stuffing into my face. I'm not really sure I'm capable of making that decision.

Now if you'll excuse me, I have some cereal to eat.

there should be a law

The more I learn about childbirth and child-rearing, the less I feel like it's for me. But then, I read stories like this one and think, "Sweet jesus, if this person was allowed to procreate, then why not me??" I promise not to let MY child get behind the wheel to cart my drunk ass home until it's at least ten years old, which makes me better than this woman. (Except, of course, that I refer to all potential children as "it" which I have been told makes me seem less than motherly.)

With all the stories in the news lately, I really think there should be a law that requires all prospective parents to pass at least some basic competency tests/ mental health assessments before being allowed to take off that condom. Or maybe show that they can successfully raise a pet to its normal life expectancy...

but that mouse I left outside to its unfortunate demise doesn't count.

all grown up and responsible-like

I just realized I haven't written anything in 2 months. I'd like to say a lot has happened in that time, but most likely it hasn't. The most exciting turn of events is that this Monday, I turned 30 and am now officially an adult! I thought it would be more upsetting than it was, but so far it feels just like 29, only with more gas. But that is probably from all the fruit I've been eating. Laura and I celebrated our coming of age together with a double quinceanera, which was fun and exciting and not like a real quinceanera at all. But we had lots of beer and a fantastic "under the sea" photo backdrop, which made it all better. And JC Penney really came through with a sweet orange dress for a mere $25. I knew it was perfect when, as I was coming out of the dressing room with it lovingly draped over my arm, a real live Mexican woman quietly commented "Pretty..." as she walked by. Score!

Behold:



The boyfriends really made the day magical by playing along and dressing to match their old ladies. You know a guy's a keeper when he is willing to wear convict-orange pants or a royal purple vest and bowtie to please you on your special day. Thanks, chambelanes!

Fourth of July was also pretty great, hosted by the lovely Erica and the handsome Dave. Their apartment is awesome to have the Fourth at because their balcony has a great view of three sets of fireworks. Plus, we had sparklers to wave around over the dry shrubbery below. Fire hazard! This year I curbed my tendency to overeat (understatement of the year) and only had a hot dog and half a burger. I was forced to eat two corns because after the first one, I learned that Maria had hurled her eaten cob across the parking lot below to land on the roof of the industrial building 100 yards away. And really, how can you not attempt to match that feat? Result: complete failure as my cob pathetically landed on the awning about 10 feet short of the roof. I will practice for next year. Here's Maria's first corn:



And I will say this: the next time someone goes up on that roof they are going to be in for a nice surprise, as eventually as the drinking progressed, we graduated from chucking corn cobs to hurtling empty bottles across the lot. Very few of them made it.

There was a contest for "most patriotic", and although Laura took home the apricot preserve grand prize at the party, I think if Francis had been there he would have been the recipient of a delicious apricot treat.



(Photo courtesy of my dad, who graciously watched the puppies on the 4th and never misses an opportunity to immortalize his grandchildren on film.) Here's one of Sheba, and please note how my father made no attempt to insert the flags in her collar, as she couldn't even be bothered to look up for the camera.



And what fourth of July celebration would be complete without the cheese ball eating contest? Brian won again this year, with Janessa, Maria and I warming up early but ultimately falling short.



Next year...

skeletor

I've been watching the Biggest Loser all season, which is a first for me since in the past I've been content to just watch the finales. They show the before pictures anyway so you can get the idea of how far they've come. But this year, I invested in the contestants. I formed my snap judgments and denounced the ones who refused to push or who cried constantly. I cheered when my favorites lost a ton of weight and shouted at the TV when Ron was an asshole or when Laura/Shannon/Helen/Aubrey cried for the ten-thousandth time.

I won't get into all the things that pissed me off about the finale, after I spent so much time getting emotionally involved in the series (read: eating pizza/fried chicken/cake in front of the TV every week and feeling momentarily motivated to work out afterwards) but I was furious...FURIOUS when Helen came out looking like a sack of bones and ended up winning the entire thing. I was pleasantly shocked when Mike came out looking really svelte (but still healthy) and I thought Tara looked great, if a little strange looking in the face, but that could have been because of her overdone makeup. Tara should have won. She was the best competitor in the entire series, and she actually looked healthy in the finale. Helen looked like she had aged at least 10 years and hadn't had a drop of water in the last week. Seriously, the show took a turn for the worse with this win I think, since to me the message that Helen's win sends is that it's ok to overexercise and undereat/drink if it's for $250,000. Of course she lost the most percentage of body weight, pretty much all that's left of her is bone! Janessa and I were taking turns shuddering during the last 30 minutes of the finale, every time they would zoom in on Helen's haggard face. Considering how selfish she was during the entire show, I wouldn't be surprised if all her daughter will see of the winnings is a value meal at McDonalds. Congratulations, Helen!

and they said it couldn't be done

It's no secret that I have a problem with food, and that problem is that I eat way too much of it. I have had people watch me in disgust as I pack away entire sides of beef, panfuls of macaroni, or bucketloads of popcorn just so none of it gets thrown away.

This weekend, we went camping and I ate more than I should have. I brought a block of pepper jack cheese to eat with salami (reduced fat, so it's not entirely bad!) and roasted garlic triscuits. Side note: that shit is delicious.

Anyway, halfway into the cheese I started to feel full. But there was still cut cheese on the plate that no one was eating. So I soldiered on...and on...and on. Berta's mom mentioned that maybe the plate should be taken away from me, but Berta wisely cautioned that it wasn't a good idea, since I have been known to bite when hands get near my food. All told, I ate about a half pound of cheese and who knows how many servings of triscuits and salami. The sad part of that story is that it's not all that uncommon.

Last night, I noticed that I still had half of my footlong Subway sandwich I had bought when we moved last weekend, hidden in the refrigerator door. That would make the sandwich 9 1/2 days old as of today. Janessa said I shouldn't eat it, with worry in her voice. Hector said to throw it away. But after working out at lunch in the 80 degree exercise room for our building, that aged sandwich tasted terrific. Jared would have been proud.

mama was a rollin' stone

I'm moving next week. In the past 5 years, if I include this time, I'll have moved three times. That might not seem like that many times to some (like say, a transient) but I absolutely hate moving and this third time that I have to pack up all my crap and figure out how to get it 8.1 miles from A to B is about as not fun as it can be.



I'm sick of the same old things I've had since I first moved out on my own, but too broke to buy newer, fancier things to get sick of. However, despite all the trials and annoyances of packing, I am definitely excited to be moving out of the ghetto. The other night, as I was drifting off to sleep, I was awakened by not one (which is alarming enough), not two (getting a little scarier) but FOUR gunshots in rapid succession, which signifies to me that the shooter meant business and/or had a semi-automatic weapon, and the shootee probably at the very least pissed his pants and at the very most got killed. At my new apartment, (if first impressions count for anything) the most troubling sound I'm going to hear at 11:30 PM will be those of the local geese getting gangbanged by some ganders. For that, I might even make popcorn.

In the spirit of getting rid of stuff that I've had around the house and not used for the past two years, I threw away a few dozen shampoo/conditioner/lotion samples that have been collecting in my bathroom, and have put some things up on Craigslist to see what might even make me a few bucks out of the deal. You know what they say about one man's shit being another man's treasure? Well, I sold a box of my childhood troll dolls for $30. It don't get more shit than that.

I also sold my couch last night, since I'll be taking Brian and Janessa's urine-soaked leather one instead. There is no better illustration of the way things have been going for me lately:

Brian: Do you want my sofa bed? It's leather.
Me, looking at my current ratty blue/tan/brown striped sofa bed covered in an ill-fitting black couch cover made white by the abundance of Shebe hairs: YES!
Janessa: Tibbsy has been pissing on it daily.
Me: ... what color leather?

Since I didn't really trust the guy coming to buy my couch and was slightly worried I'd only be inviting a stranger into my home to have the place cased and then robbed, I asked my dad to come over to look menacing. He failed when he immediately threw himself on the floor next to Sheba and started cuddling with her. But it was ok, because the guy showed up with his brother-in-law and a 2 year old. No robber/rapist brings a kid along, right? Unfortunately, the guy expected me to hold his child as he attempted to shove the couch out of my door. The last time I held a baby was in high school and that didn't go well either. The only way I know to hold anything over 6 pounds is the way I hold Sheba, so needless to say by the end of the ordeal, both me and the little boy were tearstained and crying for our daddies. But only one of us got $100 out of it, so take that, little Carlito!

I am now in the process of attempting to advertise the eleven Girls Gone Wild dvds left behind by an ex 21/2 years ago in a way that doesn't get them immediately pulled from Craigslist. I've gotten some nibbles...but if the buyer wants to come to my house to pick up, something tells me I'm not going to be able to ask my dad to chaperone.

sweet jesus!

this lobster is 50 to 90 years old. I don't even think I'll be able to live that long...