You know. Sometimes there's nothing to write about and then sometimes ... Wham! 50 topics all at once. And what do I pick? Can I have multiple topics in one post?
I think I should do one thought per post. That way when one of my fans is referencing my blogs in their master's thesis, it will be easier to pinpoint the entries they want to use.
Look. I'm rambling already and I haven't even started with one topic yet. So. I'm long winded. And who wants to read 8 pages for one post? No one. That decides it.
Ok. Keep an eye out for future posts:
Nipple Ring Girl and Other Characters from the Gym
Jose and Jorge Need a Good Home
Baby Got Bible
and coming up next ...
Dear Netflix, Can I please get my porn back?
10.31.2007
10.30.2007
Beware the Diet Monster
This morning as “A” and I left my house, he offered to give me a ride to a more convenient train station. As I opened the passenger door, he swiftly reached across the seat to grab a bag that was sitting there. Needless to say, I had to know what was in that bag. You will never believe what it was, Popeye’s. Yes, that’s right apparently when I PMS freaked out at him about bringing Popeye’s into the house, I so traumatized him that he is afraid for me to even see the bag. Obviously, he suspects that the mere mention of fast food will send me into some diet induced rant, where I begin listing all the foods I am no longer consuming and how unfair I think it is that he still gets to eat them. After a brief moment of silence “A” confessed that he ate it in the car before he came over last night because he didn’t want to bring it into the house. I have now turned Popeye’s into contraband. I also have to admit that in some ways I thought that was the sweetest thing he’s ever done for me. Oh, “A” you’re so cute when you are frightened of me.
I have no idea how other addicts feel, but as a food addict (who will always be in recovery) I know that at times my behavior towards food could qualify as obsessive. I’m not certain if the former smoker (given that I did smoke but certainly never loved cigarettes more than food, so I can’t really make this judgment) watches those around her smoking and obsessively thinks about the cigarette, with absolute fascination, wondering things like how does it taste and how can the smoker still continue to smoke with such abandon. Only a former smoker need never smoke again, whereas a food addict must eat every day. Which is why, I ask that should you be standing next to me while you are ordering your bacon, egg and cheese on a roll and I am ordering my egg whites on whole grain bread, that you please forgive me for staring. It’s just I’m fascinated. I’m like Audrey Hepburn standing at the window of Tiffany’s; I recognize its comfort but know that I can’t go in. This morning as I stood at the Starbucks counter waiting for my Grande Skim Latte (which I consider to be a treat) there was this gorgeous, super skinny woman standing next to me waiting for her hot chocolate. Here’s the kicker, when the barista (yes, I know) handed her the hot chocolate, skinny girl opened her cup drank for a second and proceeded to hold out her cup asking for more whipped cream. I’m telling you, I stood there, my mouth open and watched as the barista swirled on a huge serving of whipped cream. I can not imagine this. What is it like to live in a world where whipped cream is a thing of enjoyment and not viewed as a T of D? I can only hope that the skinny hot chocolate with extra whipped cream drinking woman has to suffer in other ways. I might be a royal but I am no saint. I ask you, why should I suffer alone?
Oh, and to the dear loyal gentleman fan that passed by me today and called me “Princess” I do realize that The Princess and I are very similar but we do like to maintain our own identities, so please in the future it’s HRH, thank you very much.
I have no idea how other addicts feel, but as a food addict (who will always be in recovery) I know that at times my behavior towards food could qualify as obsessive. I’m not certain if the former smoker (given that I did smoke but certainly never loved cigarettes more than food, so I can’t really make this judgment) watches those around her smoking and obsessively thinks about the cigarette, with absolute fascination, wondering things like how does it taste and how can the smoker still continue to smoke with such abandon. Only a former smoker need never smoke again, whereas a food addict must eat every day. Which is why, I ask that should you be standing next to me while you are ordering your bacon, egg and cheese on a roll and I am ordering my egg whites on whole grain bread, that you please forgive me for staring. It’s just I’m fascinated. I’m like Audrey Hepburn standing at the window of Tiffany’s; I recognize its comfort but know that I can’t go in. This morning as I stood at the Starbucks counter waiting for my Grande Skim Latte (which I consider to be a treat) there was this gorgeous, super skinny woman standing next to me waiting for her hot chocolate. Here’s the kicker, when the barista (yes, I know) handed her the hot chocolate, skinny girl opened her cup drank for a second and proceeded to hold out her cup asking for more whipped cream. I’m telling you, I stood there, my mouth open and watched as the barista swirled on a huge serving of whipped cream. I can not imagine this. What is it like to live in a world where whipped cream is a thing of enjoyment and not viewed as a T of D? I can only hope that the skinny hot chocolate with extra whipped cream drinking woman has to suffer in other ways. I might be a royal but I am no saint. I ask you, why should I suffer alone?
Oh, and to the dear loyal gentleman fan that passed by me today and called me “Princess” I do realize that The Princess and I are very similar but we do like to maintain our own identities, so please in the future it’s HRH, thank you very much.
10.29.2007
Priorities
HRH and I have an idea for a book.
First of all, let me say, that this blog and dated entry serve as proof that it was our idea. Basically it's an etiquette lesson for New Yorkers and NYC tourists.
HRH & I have written quite a bit over the past few years and I expect that now that I've revealed to the masses our plans, our publishers will be pushing us even harder to complete it.
Well, as I was riding the train this morning, I came up with an etiquette rule that may warrant it's own chapter.
When sitting or standing next to other people -- especially strangers -- it is absolutely mandatory that you do everything in your power to keep your fingernail clippings, your stray hairs and, most importantly, your psoriasis scabs to yourself.
Actually -- this applies to every possible human interaction, mass transit related or otherwise.
This morning, on my way to work (the most entertaining part of my day, if you judge by my blog postings .. oh. And the nightime. When I talk to ... mmMommy.) this guy walked on the train and came over to sit next to me. As he was approaching, I noticed that this poor boy had the worst case of psoriasis I have ever seen. It was all over him and my first thought was, I swear to you people, empathetic. I thought, "How awful must it be to deal with that every day of your life? Not only do you have an awful, certainly itchy and painful skin disease, you have it on your head and face." This was before.
By the end of the train ride, I wanted his scabbed little head on a platter. But wrapped in a plastic bag so I never had to touch it.
People, this horribly afflicted man proceeded to pick at the skin on and around his ear ... the ear next to me. Now. It's rush hour. We're at Fulton Street on the 4 headed uptown. I am going all the way to 86th Street. So I am subsequently forced to decide between riding for 25 minutes with an ever growing pile of scabby guy skin on my left leg, or suffer the horrors of having to stand all the way to 42nd Street as well as deal with the insufferable pushing and shoving that ensues as soon as the doors open at that station.
I stayed in the seat.
First of all, let me say, that this blog and dated entry serve as proof that it was our idea. Basically it's an etiquette lesson for New Yorkers and NYC tourists.
HRH & I have written quite a bit over the past few years and I expect that now that I've revealed to the masses our plans, our publishers will be pushing us even harder to complete it.
Well, as I was riding the train this morning, I came up with an etiquette rule that may warrant it's own chapter.
When sitting or standing next to other people -- especially strangers -- it is absolutely mandatory that you do everything in your power to keep your fingernail clippings, your stray hairs and, most importantly, your psoriasis scabs to yourself.
Actually -- this applies to every possible human interaction, mass transit related or otherwise.
This morning, on my way to work (the most entertaining part of my day, if you judge by my blog postings .. oh. And the nightime. When I talk to ... mmMommy.) this guy walked on the train and came over to sit next to me. As he was approaching, I noticed that this poor boy had the worst case of psoriasis I have ever seen. It was all over him and my first thought was, I swear to you people, empathetic. I thought, "How awful must it be to deal with that every day of your life? Not only do you have an awful, certainly itchy and painful skin disease, you have it on your head and face." This was before.
By the end of the train ride, I wanted his scabbed little head on a platter. But wrapped in a plastic bag so I never had to touch it.
People, this horribly afflicted man proceeded to pick at the skin on and around his ear ... the ear next to me. Now. It's rush hour. We're at Fulton Street on the 4 headed uptown. I am going all the way to 86th Street. So I am subsequently forced to decide between riding for 25 minutes with an ever growing pile of scabby guy skin on my left leg, or suffer the horrors of having to stand all the way to 42nd Street as well as deal with the insufferable pushing and shoving that ensues as soon as the doors open at that station.
I stayed in the seat.
Paula Deen is Out to Get Me
The mornings in New York have finally become crisp and chilly and the idea of getting out of bed is pure torture. This morning all “A” would have had to say is “stay” and I would have stayed. Oh, “A” if you only knew the power you have over me. I mean seriously, there is nothing more inviting then staying in bed wrapped up next to another warm body. The only thing that would have made it even better would be a Grande Skim Latte and a stack of magazines. Sadly, “A” is in no way an errand runner, so I would have had to procure these things myself.
As I sit here sipping my hot-chocolate (60 calories, I count everything people, everything), actually, I have a hot-chocolate, a coffee and water. This is what I call a beverage sampler… anyway, as I sit here sipping my hot-chocolate I am reminded of my semester abroad in Paris. Every morning we would wake-up before class, go down to the hotel’s dinning room and eat pain du chocolate while drinking au chocolate. The amazing thing is that I actually lost weight when I was in Paris. This was thanks to the sudden activity in my life. Being from Michigan I barely walked anywhere, so suddenly being in Paris and walking everywhere, not to mention having to take five flights of stairs to get to my room, attributed to my not ballooning to an even greater volume from my daily chocolate croissants. And this is a miracle given that on discovering that McDonald’s in France still served fried apple pies (many years ago the US McDonalds starting baking theirs, of course they also started selling 2 for a dollar, which makes me think why really does anyone need to eat 2 apple pies? I’m guessing that one fried one is still less calories than two baked ones. And don’t even bother lying to me and saying you only eat one. If you’re the kind of person who buys apple pies at McDonalds you’re eating both), anyway with the fried apple pies calling to us, my roommates and I, like the good Americans we were, would walk over there (honestly practically run sometimes) in order to get our fried pastries before McDonald’s closed at 11PM.
This last week has been one of the more challenging for me when it comes to the gym. I just haven’t had my mental game there. Honestly, I hate that, knowing that somehow my mind is trying to sabotage me and keep me from wanting to workout. Why brain why are you trying to keep me fat? I’m sure some therapist would have a theory on my desire to remain unhappy or maybe my pathetic laziness. No matter what it is, I did drag my butt to the gym on both Saturday and Sunday (go me!) and proceeded to not only let Carl (yes, I love you but hate you Carl, really why are you so obsessed with making my arms ache?) kick my butt on Saturday morning. Not to mention suffering through the hell that was cardio.
Now, I’m certain you’ve been reading this post and have been thinking yes, HRH, your lack of desire to get out of bed, your enjoyment of a pain du chocolate, your reminiscing about Paris all make for fascinating reading, but what has Paula Deen done to you? Well, people I will tell you, she’s trying to torture me. Paula Deen is attempting to sabotage all my hard work. Yes, Paula you think you’re slick but I am on to you.
Yesterday, despite the fact that even as I was climbing the stairs to the treadmill I felt I did not want to run, I still got my butt on that thing and did it. And the whole time, the entire time I’m there trying to focus, telling myself lies like, you only have to run for 5 more minutes and then you are done, there is Paula Deen up on the screen cooking and eating. Yes, because it isn’t enough for Paula to cook away adding sticks of butter and heaps of sugar to her recipes she also has to stand there and eat them. Thankfully Paula does not have a body I envy, so as I watch her dip her fingers into her lemon bars I try to think, “see Paula this is why you look that way” (that’s right, not only do I judge but I’m mean and shallow). The bigger question here, is why? Why does the gym play the Food Network? Shouldn’t they be broadcasting something that is motivational? My theory is that there is a bitter fat girl responsible for choosing the programming and that she gets a good laugh out of watching me practically cry as Paula whips up on of her zillion calorie treats. It’s so bad that I have to just look away, even if it means I end up watching sports.
As I finish writing this blog, I sit here eating my high-fiber, low-sugar oatmeal and I can’t help but think about the oatmeal I ate growing up. My mother would make us a nice little packet of Quaker oats and on top she would add a pat of butter, a few teaspoons of sugar and a little milk, I think Paula would approve.
As I sit here sipping my hot-chocolate (60 calories, I count everything people, everything), actually, I have a hot-chocolate, a coffee and water. This is what I call a beverage sampler… anyway, as I sit here sipping my hot-chocolate I am reminded of my semester abroad in Paris. Every morning we would wake-up before class, go down to the hotel’s dinning room and eat pain du chocolate while drinking au chocolate. The amazing thing is that I actually lost weight when I was in Paris. This was thanks to the sudden activity in my life. Being from Michigan I barely walked anywhere, so suddenly being in Paris and walking everywhere, not to mention having to take five flights of stairs to get to my room, attributed to my not ballooning to an even greater volume from my daily chocolate croissants. And this is a miracle given that on discovering that McDonald’s in France still served fried apple pies (many years ago the US McDonalds starting baking theirs, of course they also started selling 2 for a dollar, which makes me think why really does anyone need to eat 2 apple pies? I’m guessing that one fried one is still less calories than two baked ones. And don’t even bother lying to me and saying you only eat one. If you’re the kind of person who buys apple pies at McDonalds you’re eating both), anyway with the fried apple pies calling to us, my roommates and I, like the good Americans we were, would walk over there (honestly practically run sometimes) in order to get our fried pastries before McDonald’s closed at 11PM.
This last week has been one of the more challenging for me when it comes to the gym. I just haven’t had my mental game there. Honestly, I hate that, knowing that somehow my mind is trying to sabotage me and keep me from wanting to workout. Why brain why are you trying to keep me fat? I’m sure some therapist would have a theory on my desire to remain unhappy or maybe my pathetic laziness. No matter what it is, I did drag my butt to the gym on both Saturday and Sunday (go me!) and proceeded to not only let Carl (yes, I love you but hate you Carl, really why are you so obsessed with making my arms ache?) kick my butt on Saturday morning. Not to mention suffering through the hell that was cardio.
Now, I’m certain you’ve been reading this post and have been thinking yes, HRH, your lack of desire to get out of bed, your enjoyment of a pain du chocolate, your reminiscing about Paris all make for fascinating reading, but what has Paula Deen done to you? Well, people I will tell you, she’s trying to torture me. Paula Deen is attempting to sabotage all my hard work. Yes, Paula you think you’re slick but I am on to you.
Yesterday, despite the fact that even as I was climbing the stairs to the treadmill I felt I did not want to run, I still got my butt on that thing and did it. And the whole time, the entire time I’m there trying to focus, telling myself lies like, you only have to run for 5 more minutes and then you are done, there is Paula Deen up on the screen cooking and eating. Yes, because it isn’t enough for Paula to cook away adding sticks of butter and heaps of sugar to her recipes she also has to stand there and eat them. Thankfully Paula does not have a body I envy, so as I watch her dip her fingers into her lemon bars I try to think, “see Paula this is why you look that way” (that’s right, not only do I judge but I’m mean and shallow). The bigger question here, is why? Why does the gym play the Food Network? Shouldn’t they be broadcasting something that is motivational? My theory is that there is a bitter fat girl responsible for choosing the programming and that she gets a good laugh out of watching me practically cry as Paula whips up on of her zillion calorie treats. It’s so bad that I have to just look away, even if it means I end up watching sports.
As I finish writing this blog, I sit here eating my high-fiber, low-sugar oatmeal and I can’t help but think about the oatmeal I ate growing up. My mother would make us a nice little packet of Quaker oats and on top she would add a pat of butter, a few teaspoons of sugar and a little milk, I think Paula would approve.
10.28.2007
Shoot.
E and I went to a Halloween party last night.
She's Plug 2 from De la Soul. I'm Black Eyed Susan.
Now, I had prior plans to go to a beloved HRH&LP reader's birthday and backed out because I was having a breakdown which leads into this story. (Especially the fact that I took Klonpin before going out.) Erica talked me into going to try to cheer me up. Turns out, it was a bad idea. Anyway.
Fun! We love costumes and we had such a great time. Well, Erica had a good time at first. Then I proceeded to do five Jell-o shots like I was 17 years old. Best part of me getting so ridiculously drunk ... besides falling on the dance floor ... it was all of her friends who she's been begging me to hang out with for months. In a way, it was my first true interaction with all of them.
Excelent.
Then! This morning we have plans to meet her family to look at our new apartment and I reek of vodka ... and rum punch, and beer and grape Kool-aid. And we go to brunch afterwards where I order biscuits and gravy (why? ick.) and have to leave it on the plate and subsequently admit my hangover that I am sure they had been smelling all morning.
Who's classier than me? No one.
Know who I'm blaming it all on? My mother.
That's right. Your beloved Princess has reached her breaking point with her mother and 10 minutes before I was going to shower to get ready for the party she called. But I hadn't spoken to her since she was released from the hospital, so I thought I would get it over with. The conversation started out with Pitiful mom, then went on to Accusatory mom, then Disgusted and Defeated mom. "Well, I guess I should never say anything again. I thought I could talk to you."
Now go back and read it outloud while trying to sound like a Southern woman trying to sound sick enough to call in to work at a voice barely over a whisper. That's what I heard. So Pitiful mom told me the entire story of the CT scan interaction with her doctor -- while not mentioning the report that she could have Pancreatic and Liver cancer. Enter Accusatory: "Did you tell A (my sister) that I said she was only staying at the hospital for three hours?"
"Yep."
Mom: Oh Susan ... why would you do that? Were you getting on her about being with me at the hospital more?
[That comment was so loaded that I ducked.]
Me: I was talking to her about the different versions I'm getting
Mom: What do you mean?
[Oh so innocent.]
So, I brought up the fact that they can't get even the simplest details straight. Details that are fact. Not hypothesis. Thursday? or Friday. For fuck's sake people. If you want me to play, I have to have all of the pieces. The cards, the card tray, the buzzer, or no Taboo.
Mom: Did you tell her that I thought she was using my illness as an excuse to not to to work?
Me: I don't know probably.
Mom: Susan! Why would you do that?
Me: You said it.
Mom: A and I already have a bad enough relationship. This is great. I wish you wouldn't have said that.
Me: Well, you shouldn't have said it if you don't stand by it.
Mom: [sick voice returns] Well, I guess I should never say anything again. I thought I could talk to you.
I guess not.
And we left the conversation that way. I said I had to get ready for the party and I got off the phone.
So, what I want to explain to Erica's friends who have probably told the "that girl who got so drunk and fell on the floor" 18 times, I wasn't drunk. I was self medicating.
She's Plug 2 from De la Soul. I'm Black Eyed Susan.
Now, I had prior plans to go to a beloved HRH&LP reader's birthday and backed out because I was having a breakdown which leads into this story. (Especially the fact that I took Klonpin before going out.) Erica talked me into going to try to cheer me up. Turns out, it was a bad idea. Anyway.
Fun! We love costumes and we had such a great time. Well, Erica had a good time at first. Then I proceeded to do five Jell-o shots like I was 17 years old. Best part of me getting so ridiculously drunk ... besides falling on the dance floor ... it was all of her friends who she's been begging me to hang out with for months. In a way, it was my first true interaction with all of them.
Excelent.
Then! This morning we have plans to meet her family to look at our new apartment and I reek of vodka ... and rum punch, and beer and grape Kool-aid. And we go to brunch afterwards where I order biscuits and gravy (why? ick.) and have to leave it on the plate and subsequently admit my hangover that I am sure they had been smelling all morning.
Who's classier than me? No one.
Know who I'm blaming it all on? My mother.
That's right. Your beloved Princess has reached her breaking point with her mother and 10 minutes before I was going to shower to get ready for the party she called. But I hadn't spoken to her since she was released from the hospital, so I thought I would get it over with. The conversation started out with Pitiful mom, then went on to Accusatory mom, then Disgusted and Defeated mom. "Well, I guess I should never say anything again. I thought I could talk to you."
Now go back and read it outloud while trying to sound like a Southern woman trying to sound sick enough to call in to work at a voice barely over a whisper. That's what I heard. So Pitiful mom told me the entire story of the CT scan interaction with her doctor -- while not mentioning the report that she could have Pancreatic and Liver cancer. Enter Accusatory: "Did you tell A (my sister) that I said she was only staying at the hospital for three hours?"
"Yep."
Mom: Oh Susan ... why would you do that? Were you getting on her about being with me at the hospital more?
[That comment was so loaded that I ducked.]
Me: I was talking to her about the different versions I'm getting
Mom: What do you mean?
[Oh so innocent.]
So, I brought up the fact that they can't get even the simplest details straight. Details that are fact. Not hypothesis. Thursday? or Friday. For fuck's sake people. If you want me to play, I have to have all of the pieces. The cards, the card tray, the buzzer, or no Taboo.
Mom: Did you tell her that I thought she was using my illness as an excuse to not to to work?
Me: I don't know probably.
Mom: Susan! Why would you do that?
Me: You said it.
Mom: A and I already have a bad enough relationship. This is great. I wish you wouldn't have said that.
Me: Well, you shouldn't have said it if you don't stand by it.
Mom: [sick voice returns] Well, I guess I should never say anything again. I thought I could talk to you.
I guess not.
And we left the conversation that way. I said I had to get ready for the party and I got off the phone.
So, what I want to explain to Erica's friends who have probably told the "that girl who got so drunk and fell on the floor" 18 times, I wasn't drunk. I was self medicating.
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