Oh blog – it sure has been a long time. Why is that every post starts like this? We are in a doomed relationship you and I … I want it to work so badly, yet I won’t put the time in. These long breaks make me miss you terribly though, so that must count for something.
Anyway, I must be forgiven because in the next few days I will be celebrating my twenty-fifth birthday. This post is a bit premature (but that has been my style since birth … literally) and the thought of being a quarter century old is as petrifying as it is liberating. I feel like now everyone is making their big life plans. There are some people, who at this age, already have a failed marriage under their belt. Well not this gal, I am ripe for the picking and can’t wait to screw up what I am sure will be SEVERAL marriages. It seems like every conversation I have recently has been about weddings. Who is getting engaged? Who is getting married? Whose wedding was a shitshow? And whose wedding I got so crunk-a-lunk at (sorry Em!) that my wedding date thought he was sharing a room with a chainsaw. Note to reader: martinis at 1pm and an endless supply of champagne makes your wedding guests F-U-N!
Maybe this first quarter century was just for jokes and these next 25 years are when things start getting really good. I think about how much you (can’t) really know in your first 25 years. Important things like qualities that are deal-breakers in friendships, boyfriends, husbands, etc. And also how waaaayyy off base you could be about other things like not mixing navy blue and black … can someone say MISTAKE? I was staunchly opposed for too long, now I envision myself wearing no other colors. Clearly I was not reaching my full fashion potential at such a young age.
At any rate, I think that these next years will provide a new lease on life. Who knows what they will bring – maybe a new job, more money, and new friends to share my days and booze with, maybe even my first (again, not necessarily last) husband … I guess we can all strive for something!
Not that my old friends, job, and boozing partners are all bad, but you know, I am feeling the age of a woman living in her second quarter century … wise, optimistic, yet still scared shitless about what the future will hold for this lady.
So who knows? Drink up to another twenty-five.
Friday, August 27, 2010
Tuesday, December 8, 2009
Hot Ass Yoga
This morning I was running a bit late. Two factors contributed to my tardiness – first, my tea was exceptionally hot and I couldn’t slug it back per the usual, and second, I was reading the new issue of O magazine and one article in particular struck my fancy. It was about a gal who, in an effort to change her life, took up Bikram yoga. I didn’t get a chance to finish the whole thing (I will be doing so this evening) but it struck me as humorous because I related to her story, for I, in a moment of stupidity, decided to take a Bikram class.
It was the summer of 2007 and I had just graduated college. I didn’t have a job and I thought to myself, why not take advantage of all this spare time and attempt to get myself into some type of shape. This was referred to as the Summer of Love, as I spent many a morning with my more physically fit family members at the gym.
One day I was persuaded to go to a ‘special class’ at a special studio with my fitness companions. It was to be a 5pm Bikram Yoga class and I was given a few guidelines - It would be hot and I should cease all eating at least 2 hours before class. No stranger to yoga, I thought no problemo … I’ll do what I can and if a maneuver is too difficult, I will just go right into child’s pose and wait for the next one.
As soon as I got there, I could start to feel the heat in the room and knew this was going to be more difficult than I had anticipated. Most of the people, including some men, were so sculpted it brought a tear to my eye and as the room heated to a stifling 105 degrees, it became very clear that I was not cut from the same cloth as all the other people. The instructor came over to me and tried to help. She corrected 95 percent of my poses, but I think she gave up on me eventually – I was truly a lost cause. Every part of my being was sweating. Knees, ankles, elbows … things that I didn’t even know could sweat were sweating.
At one point in the class, they gave out towels to put over your face to decompress. I was so thankful for this short moment and I took the opportunity to start sobbing. It must have been apparent, because my workout buddy got off her mat and kissed my sweaty forehead in an attempt to comfort me. Needless to say, it was not a pretty sight.
As the class wrapped up, I hobbled into the locker room to gather myself after the mid-class breakdown. I didn’t feel well and I looked even worse. The other women looked at me like I was a shooting victim and their faces told me I should be rushed to the hospital. I was sporting my frizz halo and my sister was bottle feeding me water.
It was a workout never to be forgotten or replicated, for that matter.
It was the summer of 2007 and I had just graduated college. I didn’t have a job and I thought to myself, why not take advantage of all this spare time and attempt to get myself into some type of shape. This was referred to as the Summer of Love, as I spent many a morning with my more physically fit family members at the gym.
One day I was persuaded to go to a ‘special class’ at a special studio with my fitness companions. It was to be a 5pm Bikram Yoga class and I was given a few guidelines - It would be hot and I should cease all eating at least 2 hours before class. No stranger to yoga, I thought no problemo … I’ll do what I can and if a maneuver is too difficult, I will just go right into child’s pose and wait for the next one.
As soon as I got there, I could start to feel the heat in the room and knew this was going to be more difficult than I had anticipated. Most of the people, including some men, were so sculpted it brought a tear to my eye and as the room heated to a stifling 105 degrees, it became very clear that I was not cut from the same cloth as all the other people. The instructor came over to me and tried to help. She corrected 95 percent of my poses, but I think she gave up on me eventually – I was truly a lost cause. Every part of my being was sweating. Knees, ankles, elbows … things that I didn’t even know could sweat were sweating.
At one point in the class, they gave out towels to put over your face to decompress. I was so thankful for this short moment and I took the opportunity to start sobbing. It must have been apparent, because my workout buddy got off her mat and kissed my sweaty forehead in an attempt to comfort me. Needless to say, it was not a pretty sight.
As the class wrapped up, I hobbled into the locker room to gather myself after the mid-class breakdown. I didn’t feel well and I looked even worse. The other women looked at me like I was a shooting victim and their faces told me I should be rushed to the hospital. I was sporting my frizz halo and my sister was bottle feeding me water.
It was a workout never to be forgotten or replicated, for that matter.
Monday, November 30, 2009
Happy Anniversary!!
Hello Blog,
I want to say Happy One Year Anniversary. I am a few days late, but I have been in a turkey induced coma and I am just coming to on this dreary Monday. I can’t believe that we have been together a year. So much has not happened; I haven’t gotten a haircut, a cavity, or a job since we started our relationship. This will all be changing soon, I am sure of it. Also, Amy Winehouse is still kicking, plus she got a new pair of boobs, so I was really wrong with my initial predictions regarding the remainder of her life.
I hope we have another good year together. One that brings me the things I dream of … fortune, travel, and shoes, all in wild abundance. I’ve also been dreaming of a certain Gucci G Wave medium leather shoulder bag in grey, but perhaps Santa will deliver on that one.
Love ya, mean it.
I want to say Happy One Year Anniversary. I am a few days late, but I have been in a turkey induced coma and I am just coming to on this dreary Monday. I can’t believe that we have been together a year. So much has not happened; I haven’t gotten a haircut, a cavity, or a job since we started our relationship. This will all be changing soon, I am sure of it. Also, Amy Winehouse is still kicking, plus she got a new pair of boobs, so I was really wrong with my initial predictions regarding the remainder of her life.
I hope we have another good year together. One that brings me the things I dream of … fortune, travel, and shoes, all in wild abundance. I’ve also been dreaming of a certain Gucci G Wave medium leather shoulder bag in grey, but perhaps Santa will deliver on that one.
Love ya, mean it.
Tuesday, November 3, 2009
Me and The Babe
There are certain people that I know I could have been or could be friends with. Perhaps I have World Series fever, but I have no doubt that back in the day, me and George Herman Ruth were BFF and we were totally tearing up the town prohibition style.
Me and Babe Ruth would have hit if off famously and he would have been wowed by my extensive knowledge of Yankees baseball. And when I say extensive knowledge, I mean the Richter Scale of Hotness that I rank all the players on. Matsui? He's for the birds, I prefer a more rugged man … Swisher is definitely a 10.0. Dip, mohawk, and all.
Also, I could have totally been his wingman doing the late-night thing. He was known for being a playboy of sorts and enjoying the hooch and the love of a lady friend or two. I am sure he worried if the ladies loved him for 'George', or if they loved him for being 'The Babe.' I sympathize with the man because I know what it's like to have people throw themselves at you because you are so rich and beautiful. I do have a fur jacket and not to toot my own horn, but I was a Paul Mitchell hair model.
Come to think of it, perhaps there is more to this fictitious friendship than I originally suspected. Our lives most certainly overlap … there is our love of the good life, the rubenesque figure we both share, and of course our appreciation for the greatest baseball team ever. The House that Ruth Built is kind of like a home to me, I've spent quite a few hours there over the years. Now, I am not saying that in another life I was Babe Ruth, I'll leave that up for you to decide, but I will say that there is nothing that is making me believe otherwise. Period. End of story.
Go Yanks!
Me and Babe Ruth would have hit if off famously and he would have been wowed by my extensive knowledge of Yankees baseball. And when I say extensive knowledge, I mean the Richter Scale of Hotness that I rank all the players on. Matsui? He's for the birds, I prefer a more rugged man … Swisher is definitely a 10.0. Dip, mohawk, and all.
Also, I could have totally been his wingman doing the late-night thing. He was known for being a playboy of sorts and enjoying the hooch and the love of a lady friend or two. I am sure he worried if the ladies loved him for 'George', or if they loved him for being 'The Babe.' I sympathize with the man because I know what it's like to have people throw themselves at you because you are so rich and beautiful. I do have a fur jacket and not to toot my own horn, but I was a Paul Mitchell hair model.
Come to think of it, perhaps there is more to this fictitious friendship than I originally suspected. Our lives most certainly overlap … there is our love of the good life, the rubenesque figure we both share, and of course our appreciation for the greatest baseball team ever. The House that Ruth Built is kind of like a home to me, I've spent quite a few hours there over the years. Now, I am not saying that in another life I was Babe Ruth, I'll leave that up for you to decide, but I will say that there is nothing that is making me believe otherwise. Period. End of story.
Go Yanks!
Friday, August 21, 2009
Fashionably Fat
Hello blog, it has sure been a while. One of my many legions of fans called me to tell me that she was quite sad that I had not posted in while. Well, have no fear … the blog is back. So much has happened since my last post. Most importantly, I have not dropped dead due to the oppressive heat wave that has hit the city. I am sweating as I write this because I am envisioning myself walking to Grand Central and through the slums back to my house tonight. I might meet my maker on Lexington Avenue … at least I'll be fully clothed, the only appropriate way to bite the bullet.
Speaking of clothes, Project Runway was on last night! I am so happy to have this little show back in my life. I didn't watch the entire episode (I fell asleep like a loser), but there was one designer who said she makes clothes for ALL women, many who are Plus-Sexy. Well, that is a novel idea. I had to laugh at this lunatic because she is obviously going nowhere fast in the competition. Since when is it fashionable to be a chubster? As a chubster, I feel like I don't want to see Two-Ton-Tilly strutting down the runway. It must go against nature or something. A while back a bunch of designers came out and said that they didn't want to use really skinny models in their shows (I think it was in Spain … they love churros and pork, so I can kind of understand). That's a personal preference, I guess, but I think that if you make a statement like that, then you better make those leather cigarette pants fit Star Jones' pre-surgery ham hock legs. You want fatties on the runway, you have to make clothes for fatties, buster.
It's no surprise that, for the most part, clothes look good on smaller people. There are some gals who pull off crazy looks with panache. Beth Ditto, my girl from The Gossip, is quite fearless and that is commendable. However, I was reading Vanity Fair last night and the interviewer showed a picture of Beth Ditto to Oscar de la Renta and he cringed. Like shuttered when he saw her picture. It is shocking to see someone of that girth jammed into a Herve Leger bandage dress. I mean I saw Hilary Duff in one and even she wasn't looking in top form.
Bottom line is, when I scour over Vogue or W, or any fashion magazine for that matter, I don't want to see some woman who looks like me. I want to see skin and freaking bones. I want a size 00 lady to have the skirt pinned in the back to make it fit. If all of a sudden larger gals are in my beloved fashion mags, I am going to have to find other ways to hate myself … and I just don't have time for that kind of nonsense.
Beth Ditto from The Gossip
Speaking of clothes, Project Runway was on last night! I am so happy to have this little show back in my life. I didn't watch the entire episode (I fell asleep like a loser), but there was one designer who said she makes clothes for ALL women, many who are Plus-Sexy. Well, that is a novel idea. I had to laugh at this lunatic because she is obviously going nowhere fast in the competition. Since when is it fashionable to be a chubster? As a chubster, I feel like I don't want to see Two-Ton-Tilly strutting down the runway. It must go against nature or something. A while back a bunch of designers came out and said that they didn't want to use really skinny models in their shows (I think it was in Spain … they love churros and pork, so I can kind of understand). That's a personal preference, I guess, but I think that if you make a statement like that, then you better make those leather cigarette pants fit Star Jones' pre-surgery ham hock legs. You want fatties on the runway, you have to make clothes for fatties, buster.
It's no surprise that, for the most part, clothes look good on smaller people. There are some gals who pull off crazy looks with panache. Beth Ditto, my girl from The Gossip, is quite fearless and that is commendable. However, I was reading Vanity Fair last night and the interviewer showed a picture of Beth Ditto to Oscar de la Renta and he cringed. Like shuttered when he saw her picture. It is shocking to see someone of that girth jammed into a Herve Leger bandage dress. I mean I saw Hilary Duff in one and even she wasn't looking in top form.
Bottom line is, when I scour over Vogue or W, or any fashion magazine for that matter, I don't want to see some woman who looks like me. I want to see skin and freaking bones. I want a size 00 lady to have the skirt pinned in the back to make it fit. If all of a sudden larger gals are in my beloved fashion mags, I am going to have to find other ways to hate myself … and I just don't have time for that kind of nonsense.
Beth Ditto from The Gossip
Monday, June 29, 2009
The Unhappiest Place on Earth
I know people that love Disney World … or is it Disney Land? I don’t know and it really makes no difference, they are both terrible. Some people flock to Disney and it makes them really happy. It is supposedly ‘the happiest place on Earth.’ Well Walt, I beg to differ. I went to Disney World once and it was the worst trip of my entire life. As a matter of fact, if God ever does the opposite of blessing me and somehow I end up with a child, or gross, more than one, they will never go to any Disney park and they should consider it a gift from me to them.
Before I get into the story of why I harbor such hatred towards Disney World, I will say that I went when I was 9 or 10 under the guise of a dance trip with my mom and sister. Dance was never a really good thing for me to get involved with. Sequins and spandex never have been, and never will be, a look that works for me. Also, during a particularly heated argument at Magic Kingdom, I think my mom got so mad at me and Sissy that she left us there. That could be gross exaggeration, but in my mind, Sissy and me had to fend for ourselves and make it back to our hotel room sans any parental guidance.
There are certain things that stand out in my mind as being particularly heinous from our first (and only) trip to Orlando. First, those pre-historic looking turkey legs ... WTF. Why someone would make a spectacle out of them self and eat that thing in public is beyond my comprehension. And if you are eating said turkey leg and wearing a fanny-pack, I mean honestly, shoot yourself now. Second, I am not a fan of rides. I was too afraid to go on Space Mountain and I don’t think my family has ever fully forgiven me for ruining that magical moment. I did go on the Tower of Terror and I think my equilibrium has been askew ever since.
That being said, if for some reason I do ever go back to Disney, I don’t even know if they would even let me in the park. See we had a bit of a run in with Snow White. I didn’t know that my mom liked her so much, but when she saw her from about 200 feet away, Lynno charged her and pushed many young girls out of the way. She was reprimanded by Snow White who had to ask her to please calm down … I was scarred for life.
So if for some reason there are hungry mouths that I am legally obligated to feed and care for, they will not be hitting Disney World. They are going to experience the world the same way that I did … by watching a lot of trashy TV including General Hospital and Jerry Springer. That’s what I did and I think I turned out OK. I mean I DO have a blog.
Before I get into the story of why I harbor such hatred towards Disney World, I will say that I went when I was 9 or 10 under the guise of a dance trip with my mom and sister. Dance was never a really good thing for me to get involved with. Sequins and spandex never have been, and never will be, a look that works for me. Also, during a particularly heated argument at Magic Kingdom, I think my mom got so mad at me and Sissy that she left us there. That could be gross exaggeration, but in my mind, Sissy and me had to fend for ourselves and make it back to our hotel room sans any parental guidance.
There are certain things that stand out in my mind as being particularly heinous from our first (and only) trip to Orlando. First, those pre-historic looking turkey legs ... WTF. Why someone would make a spectacle out of them self and eat that thing in public is beyond my comprehension. And if you are eating said turkey leg and wearing a fanny-pack, I mean honestly, shoot yourself now. Second, I am not a fan of rides. I was too afraid to go on Space Mountain and I don’t think my family has ever fully forgiven me for ruining that magical moment. I did go on the Tower of Terror and I think my equilibrium has been askew ever since.
That being said, if for some reason I do ever go back to Disney, I don’t even know if they would even let me in the park. See we had a bit of a run in with Snow White. I didn’t know that my mom liked her so much, but when she saw her from about 200 feet away, Lynno charged her and pushed many young girls out of the way. She was reprimanded by Snow White who had to ask her to please calm down … I was scarred for life.
So if for some reason there are hungry mouths that I am legally obligated to feed and care for, they will not be hitting Disney World. They are going to experience the world the same way that I did … by watching a lot of trashy TV including General Hospital and Jerry Springer. That’s what I did and I think I turned out OK. I mean I DO have a blog.
Wednesday, June 3, 2009
I'm one sick puppy.
I was just writing an email to a friend and I have thoroughly disgusted myself. I have a tendency to become obsessed over the smallest and most insignificant things. Below is an excerpt from said email which I am totally embarrassed by:
Case closed, I am a sicko who is not fit for this world.
What are you up to? I am getting crazy with the Internet stalking. This time it's all aimed at my latest obsession, Robert Pattinson. I watched Twilight and now I am thinking of turning vampire. Hope we can still be friends. I was thinking, they don't eat real food, so I'll definitely get skinny (maybe only because I'll be dead, but whatevs). It will suck though because I can't get tan anymore. He is in the city, and my stalking has gone to the next level. I got dressed this morning thinking, 'what should I wear if we run into each other.' My sources tell me he was in midtown yesterday ... I am sure he doesn't make it a point of trolling around these parts (Midtown is so un-hip), but you never know.
Case closed, I am a sicko who is not fit for this world.
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