Saturday, April 30, 2005
Stalling
Mm. Worse than Wasa. Kind of. Different. More fibrous, less easy to mask the cardboard-ness with laughing cows, if you know what I mean. But half the calories and twice the fiber--it all goes back to sometimes you need that. If yer interested, they have a website, singing their praises and magic benefits to dieters and diabetics ever'where, although I am certain you can find them at some health food store in Gotham. (where did that nickname come from? I always thought it was Batman, but that origin does not satisfy me. I'll go hunting, but I thought I'd check with you first.)
As for me, last night was an abomination. I think we should declare a moratorium on eating while talking on the phone to each other. We're just as bad as when we're on the loose together in damn near anywhere--why does food seem to be at the foundation of our friendship? Is it the nourishment factor? yes, methinks. Out friendship is fun, delightful and nourishing--exactly our relationship with food, save for when it goes awry and the food becomes a crutch and a destroyer--oh no! does our friendship do that? Sometimes I worry that when we love each other and try to ease each others pain at times, we're only making it manageable to continue in the path that doesn't fulfill. Am I making any sense? Why do i have to go so goddamn deep? Sheesh. Did I tell you about the bunny in the road? And no this is not a bad bar joke (back to the bar in a minute, though). Two nights ago I discovered a bunny in the middle of the road, so I slowed my car and watched it wriggle and writhe, unable to get out of the road. I didn't know what to do to help the poor, beautiful thing. So I parked the car and turned on my flashers, just so no one else could squish little Peter cottontail. I thought if I had a gun I'd shoot the little critter, put it out of its misery. Then I thought, do I scoop him up in a box and bring him to a 24 hour vet? What about Darwin? If I saved it, would I only be helping doom it to a slow death later . . . and on and on until a couple of burly guys came out of a garage and asked me what the hell I was doing. When I pointed out the half-dead bunny (that's exactly the phrase I used) one of the flannel-clad men went over, picked Peter up by his ears and proclaimed he had a broken leg. Then the guy carried Peter, by his ears off into the darkness. I got in my car, distressed, and drove home. I’ve had that bunny’s brown eyes and skeered look on his face in my head ever since. I believe I kept him from thoroughly getting squished by an oblivious (or just plain cruel) driver, but I don’t know if I did enough. Now I’m left thinking, am I the bunny? Is this one of those lucid metaphors placed in front of us to help on the journey to self-realization? Can’t wait to see Pam next week. . . .
Now, back to the issue at hand. No more eating together on the phone. I took out 10 fiber crackers with various spreadables on top, a package of fake crab, three smart dogs, two slices of fat free bologna, two servings of cheesecake pudding and three spoonfuls of peanut butter straight from the jar, totaling somewhere around 900 calories, is my guess. And I should have been finished eating for the day! What I really wanted was a piece of banana cake from Water Street Coffee Joint, but denied myself the sinful pleasure on my drive home from the theatre. Damn giant slice of cake probably would have been half the calories. Sheesh. It all goes back to sometimes you just want what you want. But then again, sometimes—in fact all the time—I want a French toast bagel from panera toasted with butter on top, and once I have one, I’m a goner for the day. Seriously, yeasty delicious, warm breads are my crack. That’s why I eat fibrous Norwegian crackers that taste like ass. Although I went fucking hog wild with those last night, too.
Aargh. And god Damn.
I did get my Core Secret giant bouncy ball pumped full of air. I even bounced it around for fun and drove Nick wild. He was like a doggy Alice in wonderland, wondering, in fact, how he could get his jaws around such a delight to retrieve. He even scrunched up his nose in anticipation like he does for all delectable things. Oh how I love himself!
And I’m writing like a mofo cuz I still haven’t written the review, which also has everything to do with my—let’s face it—binge last night. Deadlines make me eat. Nerves. Perhaps I’ll dance instead. No more eating the nerves down, I’ll dance them away. I’ll let you know how that goes.
As for New Year’s your Scottish idea is a grand one, frankly. Do you know about (and I don’t know how to spell it, so I’ll write it phonetically) Hog-men-ay? It’s a great Celtic ritual for New Year’s in Edinburgh—apparently it’s crazier than Mardi Gras in New Orleans, and better I’m sure because it involves lots and lots of drunken Scots, who, yes, can be dangerous, but what truly marvelous thing isn’t? Last time I was in Edinburgh (10 years ago, mind you) I ended up hooking up with a blonde Irish boy (and I have some explicit sexual note about it but I know how squeamish you can be about such things so I’ll leave it out for your mental health today). Anywho, Edinburgh? For New Year’s? Whatever we do, let’s aim to ring in the New Year with someone a step above Mr. Stand Up Comic on the roof of O’Duffys. Let’s just send that request right out to the universe. IN fact, let’s aim even a little higher than that. I’ll work on it.
Okay. Now I really have to write that review. And no more eating until it’s done (omelet plus three cups coffee plus grapefruit following by (as the deadline pressure mounts) half a coconut chocolate bar. It’s not even 10:30 a.m.! I think I’ll be running and walking Nick lots and playing with my bouncy ball today. Plus, and this will horrify you and make you cry a little, I discovered I can get 12 half hour sessions with a trainer for $240 dollars, and I think I might do it. Hire someone to kick my ass and jumpstart this old wagon. I just don’t want to lose anymore muscle. It starts in our early 20s, you know. I don’t know if my subscription to Fitness mag is helping or hurting with all this information. I guess it all depends on what I do with it.
A request: think of ways we can truly support each other in our fit+flabuless quest rather than commiserate in our food+flabbiness. Also, please kick my ass when I need it. I am not making you responsible for my insanity, but a shove into reality is always helpful, and you always do it in a most delightful way. Xoxoxox.
As for me, last night was an abomination. I think we should declare a moratorium on eating while talking on the phone to each other. We're just as bad as when we're on the loose together in damn near anywhere--why does food seem to be at the foundation of our friendship? Is it the nourishment factor? yes, methinks. Out friendship is fun, delightful and nourishing--exactly our relationship with food, save for when it goes awry and the food becomes a crutch and a destroyer--oh no! does our friendship do that? Sometimes I worry that when we love each other and try to ease each others pain at times, we're only making it manageable to continue in the path that doesn't fulfill. Am I making any sense? Why do i have to go so goddamn deep? Sheesh. Did I tell you about the bunny in the road? And no this is not a bad bar joke (back to the bar in a minute, though). Two nights ago I discovered a bunny in the middle of the road, so I slowed my car and watched it wriggle and writhe, unable to get out of the road. I didn't know what to do to help the poor, beautiful thing. So I parked the car and turned on my flashers, just so no one else could squish little Peter cottontail. I thought if I had a gun I'd shoot the little critter, put it out of its misery. Then I thought, do I scoop him up in a box and bring him to a 24 hour vet? What about Darwin? If I saved it, would I only be helping doom it to a slow death later . . . and on and on until a couple of burly guys came out of a garage and asked me what the hell I was doing. When I pointed out the half-dead bunny (that's exactly the phrase I used) one of the flannel-clad men went over, picked Peter up by his ears and proclaimed he had a broken leg. Then the guy carried Peter, by his ears off into the darkness. I got in my car, distressed, and drove home. I’ve had that bunny’s brown eyes and skeered look on his face in my head ever since. I believe I kept him from thoroughly getting squished by an oblivious (or just plain cruel) driver, but I don’t know if I did enough. Now I’m left thinking, am I the bunny? Is this one of those lucid metaphors placed in front of us to help on the journey to self-realization? Can’t wait to see Pam next week. . . .
Now, back to the issue at hand. No more eating together on the phone. I took out 10 fiber crackers with various spreadables on top, a package of fake crab, three smart dogs, two slices of fat free bologna, two servings of cheesecake pudding and three spoonfuls of peanut butter straight from the jar, totaling somewhere around 900 calories, is my guess. And I should have been finished eating for the day! What I really wanted was a piece of banana cake from Water Street Coffee Joint, but denied myself the sinful pleasure on my drive home from the theatre. Damn giant slice of cake probably would have been half the calories. Sheesh. It all goes back to sometimes you just want what you want. But then again, sometimes—in fact all the time—I want a French toast bagel from panera toasted with butter on top, and once I have one, I’m a goner for the day. Seriously, yeasty delicious, warm breads are my crack. That’s why I eat fibrous Norwegian crackers that taste like ass. Although I went fucking hog wild with those last night, too.
Aargh. And god Damn.
I did get my Core Secret giant bouncy ball pumped full of air. I even bounced it around for fun and drove Nick wild. He was like a doggy Alice in wonderland, wondering, in fact, how he could get his jaws around such a delight to retrieve. He even scrunched up his nose in anticipation like he does for all delectable things. Oh how I love himself!
And I’m writing like a mofo cuz I still haven’t written the review, which also has everything to do with my—let’s face it—binge last night. Deadlines make me eat. Nerves. Perhaps I’ll dance instead. No more eating the nerves down, I’ll dance them away. I’ll let you know how that goes.
As for New Year’s your Scottish idea is a grand one, frankly. Do you know about (and I don’t know how to spell it, so I’ll write it phonetically) Hog-men-ay? It’s a great Celtic ritual for New Year’s in Edinburgh—apparently it’s crazier than Mardi Gras in New Orleans, and better I’m sure because it involves lots and lots of drunken Scots, who, yes, can be dangerous, but what truly marvelous thing isn’t? Last time I was in Edinburgh (10 years ago, mind you) I ended up hooking up with a blonde Irish boy (and I have some explicit sexual note about it but I know how squeamish you can be about such things so I’ll leave it out for your mental health today). Anywho, Edinburgh? For New Year’s? Whatever we do, let’s aim to ring in the New Year with someone a step above Mr. Stand Up Comic on the roof of O’Duffys. Let’s just send that request right out to the universe. IN fact, let’s aim even a little higher than that. I’ll work on it.
Okay. Now I really have to write that review. And no more eating until it’s done (omelet plus three cups coffee plus grapefruit following by (as the deadline pressure mounts) half a coconut chocolate bar. It’s not even 10:30 a.m.! I think I’ll be running and walking Nick lots and playing with my bouncy ball today. Plus, and this will horrify you and make you cry a little, I discovered I can get 12 half hour sessions with a trainer for $240 dollars, and I think I might do it. Hire someone to kick my ass and jumpstart this old wagon. I just don’t want to lose anymore muscle. It starts in our early 20s, you know. I don’t know if my subscription to Fitness mag is helping or hurting with all this information. I guess it all depends on what I do with it.
A request: think of ways we can truly support each other in our fit+flabuless quest rather than commiserate in our food+flabbiness. Also, please kick my ass when I need it. I am not making you responsible for my insanity, but a shove into reality is always helpful, and you always do it in a most delightful way. Xoxoxox.
// posted by divine m @ 10:21 AM 
