I have given up on the gym. I hate the gym. I will never learn to love or even tolerate the gym. The gym is dead to me.
But I can take the stairs. And I can learn aerobic striptease from Carmen Electra. (You are so jealous of my hip rolls right now, I know it.) I can jump rope. I can walk to the park and swing on the swings for a while. I can swim in the summer. I can take short walks on a daily basis. I can be French. Watch me. I'm so being French right now.
My one solid, old-fashioned resolution this year is to kick the Coca-Cola habit. I found a helpful news article today on that subject. One 20 oz. Coke, my usual suspect, is the same as eating 17 spoonfuls of sugar. I cannot eat 17 spoonsful of sugar. (Like how I use variety in my measuring? I can't be bothered to look it up.) If I sat down with a bowl of sugar and a spoon, I bet I could only eat five. I could only eat three maybe if it was brown sugar. Seventeen would make me sick. So no more 17 spoonsfuls of sugar for DisRespecca. And especially not 34 spoonsfuls on the days I drink two! One 20 oz. Coke is the same as 80 baby carrots! That's 160 baby carrots on a two-coke day! Jeesum Crow! Baby carrots galore!
If you catch me drinking the contraband coke, slap it out of my hand or make me eat sugar until my tongue swells up or something. Coke is dead to me.
Wednesday, January 04, 2006
Tuesday, January 03, 2006
I'm Already Eating the Caribou, Man.
First, check out Pattoons (http://pattoons.blogspot.com/) for his toon of yours truly. Thanks for making my boobs so huge, Patt!
Second, I made out with another stranger!
After cocktails with Bogda, I stopped off on the way home at The Balcony Club to hear a little music before bed. Except they quit early since it was Thursday. So I talked to some random people and overshared about dating dudes in bands and made everyone tell me a story. Next thing I know, I was kissing Sam, the jazz piano player from Egypt who loves Chick Correa. I don't know who Chick Correa is, but that name is in crossword puzzles all the time so it's familiar to me.
Anyway, this guy was a little too aggressive. Like when I was done kissing him and tried to pull away, he kind of wouldn't let me for a second. Flag on the play, man, flag on the play. Then he tried to use some philosophical crap on me to get me to sleep with him. Some sort of "seize the day" garbage about living in the moment or somesuch nonsense. I didn't buy it. So he requested another act without actually saying the words "Well then, how about a hand job?" but that's what he meant.
What a marroon. There's no way to romanticize a quick wank in a parking lot.
Then he wanted to go to my place so he could go to the bathroom. I told him there was no way he was getting in my house and he tried to make me feel guilty, which didn't work because I am such a bitch and don't care if people have to pee, but he didn't know me so he tried the "I have to go" ruse anyway. So I gave him a fake number and went home. He so picked the wrong girl.
Jersey Frank was a better kisser and more fun. He never gave me the heebie jeebies.
P.S. Jazz still makes me nauseous. Seriously, what the hell is going on with that crap?
Second, I made out with another stranger!
After cocktails with Bogda, I stopped off on the way home at The Balcony Club to hear a little music before bed. Except they quit early since it was Thursday. So I talked to some random people and overshared about dating dudes in bands and made everyone tell me a story. Next thing I know, I was kissing Sam, the jazz piano player from Egypt who loves Chick Correa. I don't know who Chick Correa is, but that name is in crossword puzzles all the time so it's familiar to me.
Anyway, this guy was a little too aggressive. Like when I was done kissing him and tried to pull away, he kind of wouldn't let me for a second. Flag on the play, man, flag on the play. Then he tried to use some philosophical crap on me to get me to sleep with him. Some sort of "seize the day" garbage about living in the moment or somesuch nonsense. I didn't buy it. So he requested another act without actually saying the words "Well then, how about a hand job?" but that's what he meant.
What a marroon. There's no way to romanticize a quick wank in a parking lot.
Then he wanted to go to my place so he could go to the bathroom. I told him there was no way he was getting in my house and he tried to make me feel guilty, which didn't work because I am such a bitch and don't care if people have to pee, but he didn't know me so he tried the "I have to go" ruse anyway. So I gave him a fake number and went home. He so picked the wrong girl.
Jersey Frank was a better kisser and more fun. He never gave me the heebie jeebies.
P.S. Jazz still makes me nauseous. Seriously, what the hell is going on with that crap?
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