Tuesday, January 27, 2009

New Year's Resolutions Gone Awry...Already

Lets quickly recap the gist of my New Year's celebration:

I ended 2008 looking like this:

And I began 2009 looking something like this:

I don't quite remember walking upstairs to the hotel room, but I miraculously woke up in my pajamas, which nobody helped me put on. Except I definitely still had my tights on underneath. My hair was still somewhat in the little updo except since it wasn't professionally done, industrial strength lacquer was not applied to my hair by the quart to make it stay, so we'll just call it a "messy" updo. The red lipstick is L'OREAL Infallible brand, you know, the stuff that doesn't come off. After about a bottle and a half of champagne, a vodka with a splash of Red Bull for color and 65 Dixie cups of keg beer, I was walking around the little hotel party kissing people on the cheeks while they went,
"Wait! Isn't that going to come off all over me?"
And I'm all, 'noooooo schilly, ist's that schit that sctaays oooooooonnn forEVERRRR!'

Except Infallible is no match for drunken face plants into hotel pillows. When I sat up in bed and found myself staring down a beast in the dresser mirror, then realized it was me I was staring at after my eyes came into focus, I noticed that along with my smeared eye makeup, half of my lips were bare while the other half were still red. I looked behind me at the pillow and saw a perfect outline of half my face complete with black eyelashes, liner, blush and half a red pout on the white pillow case. I was Mimi straight out of the Drew Carey Show except worse...and reeking of stale booze.

Some of my best friends at the end of 2008 were these people:

My best friend at the beginning of 2009 was this guy:

If you are sick more than once before hotel checkout, have to practically crawl down the hallway, must sit rather than stand in the elevator, crawl out the door, request assistance into the vehicle then abort the original plan of being taken home and opt for being dropped off at your parents' house to barf and die on their couch for several hours because it's closer than your own apartment, you might have had a fabulous New Year's Eve celebration...or you might be a binge drinking, lushy alcoholic.

If the first day of 2009 is any indication of how well I will follow through with my New Year's Resolutions, I'm screwed. I always make the resolution to stop biting my nails and have at the very least decent looking nails, but it's nearly impossible. I've had this resolution for a good 15 years if not more and I've found that the habit is more addicting than smoking...more addicting than CRACK. I've tried everything. I even took a new approach this year and started taking prenatal vitamins just before the New Year since my nails suck all on their own without me gnawing them down to nothing and prenatals are supposed to help make them stronger. I was doing OK for a couple of weeks, but now this New Year's Resolution falls under EPIC FAIL, since they pretty much look like this now:

Just kidding...they totally aren't that long.
As far as other resolutions - back to the gym (wait, do I even still have a gym membership?), eat healthier (who wants pizza?) and get published somewhere, anywhere...I don't even care, maybe Highlights Magazine? Hmmm, probably not since my frequent usage of the word fuck, though often utilized in such colorful, original ways, might be frowned upon.
Well shit, in the meantime, at least until I get that last one figured out, who wants a slightly used bottle of prenatal vitamins?

Saturday, January 24, 2009

In The Pink

I've learned thus far in my 25, nearly 26 years of life that you should take advantage of all opportunities to experience something new unless there is scientific research that shows doing so will only result in negative consequences (i.e. drug use), so even when I heard myself tell Whitney that I just wasn't ready to splay my hoo-ha out for a perfect stranger who hasn't earned a medical degree if it wasn't completely necessary, I knew, with my "seize the day" attitude, that I would eventually find myself laying on a table, naked from the waist down, staring at the ceiling, biting a leather strap saying, why, why, WHY in the FUCK did I feel the need to seize this "opportunity?"
Yes, I'm talking about the taboo art form known as the Brazilian wax, which I once thought was reserved only for strippers, porn stars and that one episode of Sex and the City, but have quickly learned that many, many women, sometimes the most unlikely of candidates, are secretly smuggling the fully waxed vag. Who knew?
What is it about our culture and generation that makes us feel we need to be completely hairless with the exception of our heads? Shit, I know women that shave their arms, men that shave their legs and I've heard horror stories of Nair left on balls too long - feel the burn - too much information I know, but I'm trying to prove a point. Long gone are the days of the '70s afro bush and people will do anything, including baring it all (and I do mean ALL) for a chick wielding a waxy popsicle stick, strips of cloth and tweezers, just to make sure they're "fashionable" in every way possible.
I suddenly and unknowingly joined this club the day I woke up and decided to challenge Whittah's proclamation of "you'll never shave again." My first thought was, 'yes, I'll never shave again because with my luck, the entire thing will be torn off in the process and I will then be vag-less - tragic.' My second thought was, 'I'm just that sick of shaving with the time it takes, the razor bumps, the growing back in 30 seconds anyway (and just retarded enough) to give this thing a try.' And, so, the planning - and the bush growing party - began.
Although I've grown out of the come-with-me-to-the-bathroom-because-I'm-a-chick-and-I-can't-go-by-myself shit, this was going to be an experience far too hilarious and far too horrendously painful not to share with a close friend because, ya know, what are friends for? If anything, I'm going to need someone to drive me to the hospital afterwards to get my vagina sewn back on. Surprisingly the gravelling was minimal because Kate joined the Bush Growing Party as if I had mentioned there was going to be punch and pie or Miller Lite and chocolate ice cream served.
Being the ring leader of this debacle, I heeded Whittah's advice of "do not just go into some nail salon where they don't speak English to get it done," which is what she apparently did the first time and which I would never do anyway because I'm far too neurotic and protective of my ladyparts for such shenanigans, and started researching salons. I wanted the experience of having all the hair ripped violently from my 'gine to be as pleasant as possible, so in other words I didn't want to go to some inexperienced teenager that was all, "Eww! I have to do another one of those?" nor did I want linebacker Helga and her unibrow manhandling my specialness. And, of course, this turned out to not be so easy. First of all, the median price for this "procedure" is about $70. Kate was all, "wait, I have to pay $70 for somebody to hurt me?" And I'm all, "yeah, who knew bald vag was so expensive?" Of course if I was the one staring at strangers hoo-has all day, I'd probably charge way more.
Second of all, it's difficult to find reviews or recommendations for salons/estheticians that do it. It's not like a doctor or a hair stylist that clients constantly talk up. Nobody says, 'Oh yes, I just love my pussy waxer,' so I was a little overwhelmed.
Just as I was about to throw up my hands and say fuck it, Jim of all people said (while we were in the middle of a bar, by the way) he knew somebody that specializes in Brazilians, then whipped out The Pitch and showed me Beth Ann Corbett's "In The Pink" ad.

With not only female, but male Brazilian waxes at the top of the list all while sitting spread eagle in coochie shorts - quite fitting and quite evident that she practices what she preaches, hehe - plus, when I saw the ad right around Christmas, there was a Santa hat superimposed on top of her head. I'm thinking, OK, this just added a whole other level of hilarity to this fiasco. Then, when I called to check prices, she said it only cost $60 to be put through voluntary excruciating pain. SOLD!
So, the appointments were made, the Bush Growing Party continued and the nerves began. Let me tell you, when you're used to living by the motto, "nearly bald is beautiful," it is horrendously difficult to host the required two week long Bush Growing Party. Every time I got in the shower I was like, 'can't handle this; must shave,' then I'd stop myself and try to think of the benefits of waxing rather than the pain. It's like having a hangnail, or a crack in your ceiling or an animal pelt in your pants. I was wringing my hands and pacing non-stop by the time the day of our appointments came not just from the fear of losing body parts, but the anxiety of carrying around the extra weight of a fur coat.
There were three simple steps to our evening-of preparation:
1.) Locate In The Pink
2.) Locate nearby bar
3.) Chug vodka
I've never downed a vodka and Sprite that fast in my life and unfortunately there was only time for one, so I faced the music sorely un-shitfaced - not part of the plan!
After a few minutes of sitting in the Zen-like waiting room listening to lovely "don't worry, we're not going to hurt you" music, Beth Anne came to fetch us and brought us into a nicely decorated office with a "procedure" table set up at one end of the room. We were confused because she brought us in together, since, you know, this isn't like childbirth (thought it may feel like it) where you want to squeeze somebody's hand while screaming through the pain. But, apparently we were mistaken when we assumed we'd be getting any sort of privacy because, lets face it, you can't really claim modesty once you decide you're OK with having a strange lady that is not your gynecologist grope your vag for the sake of beauty and convenience.
The whole modesty-out-the-window thing really set in when she asked who was first, which was me, then patted the table and said, "OK, up here, bare butt!"
Um, heh? Wait...What?
After about 30 seconds of shifting my weight from one foot to the other and wondering, 'am I just supposed to strip now?' She chimed in again in mid conversation, "Bare butt!" She said while patting the table.
I clumsily completed the task I wasn't prepared for, and hopped bare butt onto the table, while Kate sat across the room just out of "procedural view." Before I knew it, the waxing had begun and I hadn't died yet. Miss Corbett kept the candid conversation going - you'd expect nothing less from your Brazilian wax artist, yes? - which involved encouraging us to yell 'fuck' if needed and to bring wine in next time instead of going to a bar for cocktails.
I clenched my teeth while my eyes watered a bit, but surprisingly it wasn't that bad. Just as I was exclaiming to Kate, "it's so not as bad as we thought!" One knee went up and it was like, hey, Beth Anne, here's my VAGINA in case it wasn't all up in your face enough already. Then I felt wax spreading dangerously close to sensitive territory, and I then proclaimed, "OK this one might hurt a little..."
I was correct.
After a few more strategic "FUCK!" squeals, it was all over and time for Kate's turn. Several "FUCK's" from Kate and the pelts in our pants were officially replaced with red, angry, yet smooth, monsters - and I couldn't have been happier...since everything was still attached and all. Here we were, all prepared for a Chinese torture chamber complete with bamboo shoots under the fingernails and we ended up with something comparable to a couple of bad toe stubs. Although having a leather strap to bite onto might have been helpful if just to add a little more color to the story.
To celebrate our new down-there-'dos, we headed straight to the opening day of the Victoria's Secret Semi Annual Sale to spend ridiculous amounts of money on teeny tiny stitches of clothing. As we walked in the door, Kate goes, "this is by far the most vag-tastic day of our entire friendship."
And, although this was spoken by the woman who has changed my drunken ass into my pajamas a handful of times and accompanied me to the Vagina Monologues freshman year where we celebrated all things vagina including naming ours and enjoying the culinary masterpiece which is the cookie decorated to look like a va-jay-jay, I didn't even hesitate a second before agreeing. Like I said, what are friends for?
Apparently Whittah's claim of "you'll never shave again" was right or else I wouldn't have made another appointment to see Beth Anne, which is now less than a week away. And, since I have such a hard time remembering appointments, Beth Anne was kind enough to write the date and time on the back of one of her handy appointment reminder cards:

That's. Fucking. AWESOME.

Wednesday, January 14, 2009

Don't Be Jealous of my Awesome Shit

While I was preoccupied with being sick and boozin' it over the holidays, I also took a little time to stop and admire all the glorious gifts that were showered upon me because hey, that's what Christmas is really about, right?
The girls and I met before Christmas like we always do except this year was toned down since it was a Monday night although I still choked down a pint of my favorite Raspberry Wheat - choked only because that was the exact moment my tonsils decided to spontaneously combust - the very beginning of what was described in the last post.
I joked and said, 'well I hope we can do presents before Christmas. Here's hoping the shit I ordered online about two seconds ago arrives before then.' Then Lacey fired back - 'yeah, at this rate, you guys might be getting Target gift cards...and I'm only halfway kidding.'
Guess what?

She totally wasn't kidding. But, that's cool because I have no problem using it since I have this little problem called I-like-to-visit-Target-on-a-daily-basis-and-try-to-match-the-number-of-useful-items-with-useless-shit-for-purchase.

A few good reads are also now in my possession:

"Are You There Vodka, It's Me Chelsea," by none other than my hero Chelsea Handler from Kate, "Me Talk Pretty One Day," by David Sedaris from my aunt and uncle, who are fabulous at fulfilling specific Christmas list requests and "The Know-It-All," by A.J. Jacobs from Whittah, who was reading it when she was my wife during Thanksgiving and throwing out details of the book at me as she read making me want to read it. I love reading, especially funny stuff that you hesitate to read any place besides home because you know you're going to do that snorty trying-not-to-laugh-out-loud-in-public-to-myself-like-a-jackass-but-can't-help-it thing. And I'm quite leisurely about it. I've been reading the same book since this summer and just cannot find time to finish it so I can move on to one of my new ones. I'm just not one of the those voracious readers that can read an entire book in one day or read more than one book at a time. I used to be when I was like, 9, had no other responsibilities and wasn't quite as neurotic. Now I'm like:
"Oh shit! Work; Oh shit! The dog; Motherfucker! Why am I always doing laundry?; Fuck! I put too many towels in the washer again and now it stopped working and smells funny; Goddammit! There is stuffed animal filling all over the floor again and clothes in the kitchen; Mmmm, pizza; Seriously? Why am I checkbook balancing-retarded?; Wait, I haven't seen my family who lives down the street in like a week; Fuck! My computer is a dick!; Awww, Boyfriend ; ); KICKBOX!; DANCE!; Goddamn non-working Internet!; I need these tights that I dreamed up in my head RIGHT NOW; Awww, friends ; ); OK, what's broken now?; And I'm seriously thinking about putting a diaper on the dog; NEED ALCOHOL; Where the fuck is my *blank*?; STARVING, NEED TO FEED SELF; Shit! I'm late!; How in the hell does this dog even have any hair left on his body since it's all stuck to every surface in this apartment including my face?!"
Daily routine: Wake up - bitch about having to wake up - spit mouthful of dog hair into sink - blow dog hair out of nose - look in mirror and freak out because I think I spy many white hairs - relax when realize they are just dog hairs mixed in with my hair - shower - clean dog hair out of drain - lint roll freshly washed pants that have been hanging in closet yet still have dog hair on them because they are within 600 yards of dog - lint roll sweater - cuss at lint roller because it fucking sucks at its one job in life - lint roll coat - drive to work/other destination - get to destination and realize wasted time lint rolling - cuss - wish would have brought lint roller - realize this is losing battle - seriously think about having electrolysis done on dog while cussing...
I need one of those life coach/organizer people to help me, but they would just look at me and say, "Miss Hastings, you are a fucking freak and we can't help you. Nobody can," then run away cackling. Assholes.
OK, what was I talking about? Oh yeah, and the best part about the "Vodka" book is this:

Yes, signed by the bad girl herself at some book signing event last July in L.A., then purchased off eBay by Kate. Some Jane Doe may have taken a Sharpie and scribbled in the front cover for all I know, but I'm totally buying the first story. Awesome. I can't wait to read this one. I thoroughly enjoyed her other book.

Most women wouldn't hang clocks with hot women on them in their bedroom, but I'm not like most women:

Also from Kate. I've been a Gwen Stefani fan since junior high - 1995 baby. What a cool, hot ass biotch. I'd seriously consider turning les-bi-nan for her.
Speaking of, I've also been wearing her LAMB perfume for about a year and got a fresh stock for 2009:

The bracelet came with purchase according to my aunt, who thought it was a crazy coincidence that it had "L's" all over it for "Lara." Yeah, I'm pretty sure it's for "LAMB," but we'll pretend that I was Gwen's inspiration.

This right here is proof that Jim actually listens to me when I blah, blah, blah about the most important things in life:

Shoes and accessories, preferably vintage or vintage inspired. Both the book and the hat are from Anthropologie. And, the sock monkey? Yeah, Jim's still a little too new to know about my irrational fear of them which stems from a seemingly harmless gift from my grandpa when I was about 7, which I swear came to life in the middle of the night and tried to steal my tiny soul like Chuckie in Child's Play except in sock monkey form. But I decided to keep this little guy since Jim presented him to me the night of Christmas Day after we had been drinking heavily at a bar...and the wee stocking around his creepy neck contained a little white box, which contained 1/2 carat diamond stud earrings. I almost pissed myself. Then, instead, my drunk ass blurted out, "Wow! You must really like me!" So eloquent and refined...We all must face our fears someday...especially when those fears wield diamonds.
Here I am, ever so gracefully modeling them since my camera couldn't take a good close up:

Now, you're probably too distracted by the glare of the beautiful rocks of Exhibit A, but if you get a chance, take a look at Exhibit B, a.k.a. my woolly and fancy free left brow. You can't buy that kind of quality hotness.

Other fabulous notables includes these two little things from Kate:

A metal airplane luggage tag engraved with my initials because hey, if the assholes are now going to charge us for check-in luggage, then you might as well travel in style and add a little extra weight to that $15+ bag just to make sure it's worth the money.
The Larabar - something Sam noticed in the store prompting Kate to throw it in with the rest of my gifts even though it's an "all natural" health bar. And, by all natural I mean dirt, rocks and deer vomit were lovingly smashed together to make this tasty treat. I took a bite and immediately spat it into the trash can, but kept the wrapper in hopes that one day I'll be inspired to re-invent a Larabar that more accurately suites my style - something like a Take 5 (Mmmm, Take 5), but far more superior.

And this collection is the direct result of passing one of my favorite Web sites, The Happy Woman Store, onto my sister with a few hints:

This stuff is the epitome of me. Nothing is more funny than a 1950s model saying hilarious sexual innuendos and other choice funny phrases. Magnets: "It's so exhausting being fabulous!" and "How much fun can I have before I go to hell?" This is why I love Anne Taintor stuff. The little frog prince watering can on top may just save my hanging plants from certain death this summer. Now that I have the proper equipment and that equipment is absolutely ridiculous looking, all I have to do now is remember to use it.

The grand finale? A round of visits to Ideal Image Laser Hair removal from Mom and Dad. I'm hairy. Don't judge. A strange request, I know, but I'm just so done with dealing with it. The only thing is, the commercials make it seem so mainstream now, but the truth is, it really is for the rich and famous such as Miss Handler who often refers to herself as "smooth as a baby seal." If you're just a normal human and want something done, you have to be willing to live in a cardboard box for the rest of your life and give up your first born child or get very lucky with one of their promotions, so I'm lucky to have gotten this. I'll share more once the treatments are done and it looks fabulous. The good thing is, the first and only treatment I've had so far took two minutes and barely hurt especially after the little somethin', somethin' I had done the day before, but that's a whole other blog.

Stay tuned.

Tuesday, January 6, 2009

It's the Most SHITASTIC Time of the Year!

Now that I can halfway breathe out of both nostrils without spewing forth green slime (sort of) and my lymph nodes have shrunk down to a respectable walnut size, I'd like to take a minute to reflect back to my Christmas Eve which was full of joy, food and me being a giant, raging sick bitch.
I made a trip to the MinuteClinic at CVS on my lunch break on Tuesday the 23rd because it looked like a couple of mutant bees stung me on either side of my neck and it felt as though my tonsils had set themselves on fire. I was convinced I had strep throat, then I could just take the rest of the day off and the half day that I was required to work on Christmas Eve, get some kick ass antibiotics (Yea Z-Pak!) and feel better in about 18 hours. Of course the fucking test was negative and all I could weasel out of the nurse practitioners was a bullshit throat spray prescription, which I never picked up anyway because I'm sick and lazy and would rather piss and moan about paying a $25 copay only to end up not getting my goddamn Z-Pak instead. So, in honor of knowing that it was all downhill from there, I went out Tuesday night mostly to meet up with some old friends, including Becca mentioned in the earlier post, but also because I'm fairly certain that chocolate martinis cure all ailments.
And by cure I mean every gland in my body - neck, armpits, legpits - swelled to the size of grapefruits by the next morning and I wanted to run off and join the circus freak show to earn some extra cash to help pay off that wasted copay *BITTER* except that would require, I don't know, energy, which I had none of. Just stuff me in one of those big green garbage cans in my community garage and leave me for dead you MinuteClinic bastards.
As a result of it hurting to live, I was late to work where I sat through the longest and most pointless 4 hours of my life, then headed straight to the Walgreens by my apartment to pick up some vitamin C supplements. People swear by the Emergen-C shit, so I thought it couldn't hurt. Except as soon as I stepped into the store the skinny heel of my beloved, beautiful brown boot snapped, which I'm pretty sure only happens in the movies and to me. So, not only could I not really walk correctly already because of my freakishly humongous legpit lymph nodes, but now I was hobbling through a Christmas Eve Walgreens crowd with a broken heel while mourning the loss of said brown boot, my sanity and my health and to top it off I couldn't find the goddamn, piss, ass, shitty bitch Emergen-fucking-C! While the voices in my head screamed 'WHERE IN THE MOTHERFUCKING HELL IS THE EMERGEN-C YOU WHORES!,' I calmly gimped over to a display and settled on some other off brand called like Mega Ultron Awesome-C or something instead.
Since the benefits of this so-called miracle elixir haven't been approved by the FDA, I'm pretty sure us fools are just dumping a mixture of orange flavored Kool-Aid, fairy dust and powdered cow shit into a glass of water, but hey, all you really need is the placebo effect right?
So, I downed a glass and waited for the instant cure while wrapping Christmas presents, waiting for my last package of x-mas presents from UPS and watching Maury. Yes, 16 negative paternity tests and "I am 110 percent sure he 'da baby daddy!" is quite appropriate for Christmas Eve, but sadly he had a bunch of kids and that one animal dude showing a bunch of lion cubs and stuff instead. Awww, Maury does have some decency...unfortunately. However, a giant turtle did projectile piss all over the stage, so it wasn't a total loss. It brought back memories of Murtle (R.I.P. : () - the box turtle that walked around our house like a dog when I was growing up and used to pee all over you if you held her at any angle other than perfectly level. She finally died at the age of 32 about 6 years ago. And people wonder why I'm such a freak...Who the fuck lets a turtle roam around their house? It's like having a car, but choosing to ride a llama to work on occasion instead. The best part was, we thought we were normal and everybody else was retarded when they'd freak out about it. Weird, yes, but really fucking cool? YES.
I ended up passing out for three hours and it was after 6 p.m. by the time I woke up - I was late to Christmas at Mom and Dad's, I hadn't showered, my limbs felt like they were made of wood, I was growing fruit in my armpits, I looked like a crack head and the goddamn UPS man hadn't showed up yet. Then, my mom called me to see where I was and I burst into tears. What a pansy.
She attempted to calm me down while holding back laughter as I sobbed about my broken heel in Walgreens and the UPS man voodoo doll I had just finished making. I hung up with her, pulled it together, then 47 seconds later the UPS man showed up on my doorstep and I proceeded to rip off all my clothes and jump into his arms. He said he'd been getting that response all day. Perhaps if UPS would have shown up before 6:45 p.m. on Christmas Eve my head wouldn't have threatened to explode and I wouldn't have had to resort to public indecency with a stranger in an ugly brown uniform. Oh the things you do to spread a little Christmas cheer.
I did finally make it to Christmas Eve with the fam where I inhaled massive amounts of food (at least I still had my appetite right?), but had to avoid holding any babies so I wouldn't give them "fiery-throat-huge-lymph-noid-snottastic-itis."
And, while I did NOTHING except live the life of a drunken crack whore for a week and a half afterwards, the snot still isn't completely gone. I wonder why...

Monday, January 5, 2009

Heeeeey FATTY!

This is what I say to myself everytime I catch a glimpse of my naked ass in the mirror. Grooooooss.
I just spent the last 11 and a half days being the laziest, most unproductive slug of a human being ever. I slept well into the afternoon daily, nursed probably close to a dozen hangovers and ate every made-with-real-butter, gravy soaked, deep fat fried and frosted with lard item I could get my hands on. I even ate a piece of fruit cake, which arguably may not have actually been edible since it had the exact consistency and flavor of Play-Doh with some mysterious, crunchy pieces of crusty asshole thrown in (c'mon, don't act like you've never eaten Play-Doh...and crusty pieces of asshole), yet I still ate it.
And now here I am, back at work, back to the daily grind, back to a productive life, with my pants suction cupped to my ass while I rub my beer belly for good luck in the new year. I'm not complaining about the extra vacation time. When they told me about this glorious concept of closing the office completely between Christmas and New Year's thus creating an extra week to week and a half of vacation for all the employees during my interview I was all, 'wait, you mean I get to spend more than a morning with my family this Christmas and I'm not going to be so stressed out that I want to curl up in the fetal position and shiver until a hot fireman rescues me while I do it? I'm in.'
Shit, I didn't complain, I reveled in it. I made people jealous with my freedom. I wallowed around in it like a fat stoned cat in a vat of catnip. And, now, I'm just that...FAT. I've survived many an extended vacation before. I mean, shit, they were a month long in college, yet I never came back to reality looking like Fat Albert - minus the whole black guy part...details...Now I finally understand why people always bitch about gaining weight during the holidays and the reason why the Special K commercials where the little girl mistakes her mother's big ass in a red robe for Santa were created.
My weight has never been a concern. I've always been so active that I never had to worry about what I ate. I don't even own a scale because I've always just judged my health, my weight, my appearance on the way I saw myself in the mirror and ease of physical activity. And, perhaps 'fat' is a strong word since I know I'm still in better shape than the majority even after Lazy Fest '08, however the image I see in the mirror now is very scary and I don't like it. It's just an important lesson learned: In order to continue being a hot piece of ass as my metabolism slows throughout my 20s, there must be minimal sitting on that ass.
So, getting back to work is not all bad, minus dragging my ass out of bed at the crack of dawn, because I'll get back into the gym routine and most importantly, back to dance class and my teeny tiny metallic spandex shorts wearing friend. Then I'll be back to normal mentally and physically...or lets hope so...

I mentioned hangovers, which means I did manage to pry my face away from food just long enough to go to a bar and reattach it to a drink...many bars and many drinks. A few important out-of-towners came to Kansas City for a visit, so martinis were in order. My Katherine Heigl look-a-like friend, also known as Lisa and one of my oldest friends was here an entire week and I took the liberty of entertaining her with a tacky Christmas sweater pub crawl and taking her Power & Light District virginity by dancing like retards at Shark Bar.
Becca, my get-in-trouble-in-junior-high-history class, cartwheel through the mall partner in crime also popped into town for a few days which allowed me to catch up on her crazy life - just passed the bar, living, clerking and cocktailing her way up to lawyer status in Chicago all while maintaining a long distance relationship with her boyfriend in Cincinnati and living in a 320-square-foot studio apartment. Damn.
However, I think my favorite minutes, hours, DAYS of the break were spent with a certain guy mentioned at the end of this entry - also known as Jim. He impressed the fam, he cooks...and loves it, he busts out bottles of wine and two Styrofoam cups from his coat at the movies, he has bacon and eggs tattooed on his biceps and he entertains with tales a writer like myself dreams of experiencing just for the material. I guess that's what happens when you date someone who's lived a lifetime before you. Plus, he's just the right mixture of eccentric, even keeled, smart ass and kind to get along with my tard ass. We're having us a good 'ole time.

Along with hanging out and plumping up, much hilarity ensued during my break yet I was too lazy to lift my fingers to a keyboard and write about it, so it looks like I'll have a lot to talk about in the next few days such as Christmas presents (nothing is more important you know), the Christmas Eve from hell (oh yes, I thought things like this only happened in the movies), my trip to In The Pink Skincare (hmmmm...) and, of course, New Year's resolutions.

OK, now it's time to go run my ass off...literally.

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