I have officially moved my blog over to it's grown-up address. Check me out at:
whathadhappa.com
Tuesday, May 4, 2010
Sunday, April 11, 2010
Adventures in Vacationing Part 4 - How to Have a Proper Vacation
I've probably recovered all the memories I'm going to recover without going into some sort of psychiatric treatment like the people who go into hypnotherapy to recover suppressed traumatic experiences or past lives. Suffice it to say all the memories I do have point to the fact that I had a kick-ass vacation.
From what I've pieced together I've been able to come up with a list of things for a great vacation.
1. Pace yourself
If you're going to start drinking at 10:30 am that's perfectly acceptable. After all, it's 5 o'clock somewhere. Don't however, start off with the hard stuff pounding shots like an 18 year old on Spring Break in Mexico finally able to legally drink. Start off slow and remember to eat lots of protein to absorb the alcohol. Plus you'll need the energy you get from food to dial all your friends, family and exes when you're completely wasted and tell them the business.
2. Chillax
There are vacations you take where you go visit family. There are vacations you take with the intent to sightsee and cram as much as humanly possible into the time you have. Then there are the vacations where you just want to chill and relax. If you are on one of these vacations, don't stress. You may be in a new town but more than likely this place ain't going anywhere and you can see the sights on your next time here. For now, pick up the phone to have room service bring you another bucket of beer and find a hottie to rub some more sunscreen on you. This ain't a L'Oreal commercial but you are worth it. Act accordingly.
3. Deny everything
I probably picked this up from years of watching Star Jones on The View but I now add "allegedly" to damn near every sentence that comes out of my mouth. When I'm drunk I like to tell my friends that "one of us may possibly be drunk but I'm not at liberty to name names." (Read that last sentence in a very slurred voice.) Admit to nothing. This comes in especially handy when your friends call you out on the secrets you spilled. I didn't spill anything. I said allegedly.
4. Bring your own camera
You can't exactly deny everything if you've got pictures of you snorting coke floating on the Internet, just ask Kate Moss. Bring your own camera. Take a few pics and then pass it on to a friend. This way all the incriminating pictures of you will be on your own camera and you decide what exactly gets posted to Facebook. You definitely don't want your shenanigans tagged so that your family in Mexico sees what you're really like. There is no need for your 80 year old aunts to see pics of you wearing bunny ears and singing karaoke.
From what I've pieced together I've been able to come up with a list of things for a great vacation.
1. Pace yourself
If you're going to start drinking at 10:30 am that's perfectly acceptable. After all, it's 5 o'clock somewhere. Don't however, start off with the hard stuff pounding shots like an 18 year old on Spring Break in Mexico finally able to legally drink. Start off slow and remember to eat lots of protein to absorb the alcohol. Plus you'll need the energy you get from food to dial all your friends, family and exes when you're completely wasted and tell them the business.
2. Chillax
There are vacations you take where you go visit family. There are vacations you take with the intent to sightsee and cram as much as humanly possible into the time you have. Then there are the vacations where you just want to chill and relax. If you are on one of these vacations, don't stress. You may be in a new town but more than likely this place ain't going anywhere and you can see the sights on your next time here. For now, pick up the phone to have room service bring you another bucket of beer and find a hottie to rub some more sunscreen on you. This ain't a L'Oreal commercial but you are worth it. Act accordingly.
3. Deny everything
I probably picked this up from years of watching Star Jones on The View but I now add "allegedly" to damn near every sentence that comes out of my mouth. When I'm drunk I like to tell my friends that "one of us may possibly be drunk but I'm not at liberty to name names." (Read that last sentence in a very slurred voice.) Admit to nothing. This comes in especially handy when your friends call you out on the secrets you spilled. I didn't spill anything. I said allegedly.
4. Bring your own camera
You can't exactly deny everything if you've got pictures of you snorting coke floating on the Internet, just ask Kate Moss. Bring your own camera. Take a few pics and then pass it on to a friend. This way all the incriminating pictures of you will be on your own camera and you decide what exactly gets posted to Facebook. You definitely don't want your shenanigans tagged so that your family in Mexico sees what you're really like. There is no need for your 80 year old aunts to see pics of you wearing bunny ears and singing karaoke.
Tuesday, March 30, 2010
Adventures in Vacationing Part 3 - Feel the Beat Within Your Heart
This is the third entry in the ongoing series to piece back the memories of one of the greatest vacations I have ever taken. As the Dixie Chicks sang back in 2001 "Some Days You Gotta Dance". A good one-man dance party in your living room after a bottle or two of the finest Target wines can do wonders for the soul. One-man dance parties have been keeping me sane for years.
At the party I attended on this last vacation, while the majority of the attendees were playing Rock Band and singing a collection of white folk songs I was only vaguely familiar with, I played for my friend V. the song that has taken up permanent residence in my heart for the past month. Young Money's "Bed Rock". There's just something about hearing the line "Call me Mr. Flintstone, I can make yo' bed rock" that brings an unbridled joy to my heart that rivals that of a child's when let loose at Toys 'R' Us. Every single time that song plays I can't help but sing along with the chorus. Whether I'm at home, in my car or at CVS Pharmacy picking up some Drano for the sink, any time that song is playing I am throwing my hands up and singing along.
My friend V.'s music choices differ from mine, so I took this opportunity to give her a taste of some of my own musical preferences. I am good at many things and have many accomplishments under my belt in my 29 years of age. Having good taste in music is not one of them. I have come to terms with this in the past few years and the Good Lord has taken my shame from me. I still have *Nsync on my iPod and know the dance moves to the Spice Girls' songs like we were back in 1995. I am ok with this.
I played for V. the Paradiso Girl's "Patron, Tequila" off my iPhone while we sat in the living room, each of us sharing an iPod earpiece. As we were both tipsy from our own tequila shots (Not Patron. We drank the good stuff from south of the border.) we started swaying to the music and throwing our hands up while still sitting down. By the time we got to the new Trina mixtape "Million Dollar Girl" we were not only standing but shaking our money makers harder than any video ho in one of Ludacris' latest hits. We'd time our 'drop it like it's hot's perfectly to make sure the shared earbuds did not fall out of each other's ears. We were the 2-Man Dance Party that all other 2-Man Dance Parties aspire to be.
Our friends pointed at us and I assume questioned what the devil we were doing as they couldn't hear what we were dancing to. I'm not exactly sure what they said as V. and I were too into the groove and I only vaguely noticed people were pointing and staring. Blame it on the alcohol or the beat within my heart but at that point I did not care what others thought.
That is the sign of a truly epic dance party.
At the party I attended on this last vacation, while the majority of the attendees were playing Rock Band and singing a collection of white folk songs I was only vaguely familiar with, I played for my friend V. the song that has taken up permanent residence in my heart for the past month. Young Money's "Bed Rock". There's just something about hearing the line "Call me Mr. Flintstone, I can make yo' bed rock" that brings an unbridled joy to my heart that rivals that of a child's when let loose at Toys 'R' Us. Every single time that song plays I can't help but sing along with the chorus. Whether I'm at home, in my car or at CVS Pharmacy picking up some Drano for the sink, any time that song is playing I am throwing my hands up and singing along.
My friend V.'s music choices differ from mine, so I took this opportunity to give her a taste of some of my own musical preferences. I am good at many things and have many accomplishments under my belt in my 29 years of age. Having good taste in music is not one of them. I have come to terms with this in the past few years and the Good Lord has taken my shame from me. I still have *Nsync on my iPod and know the dance moves to the Spice Girls' songs like we were back in 1995. I am ok with this.
I played for V. the Paradiso Girl's "Patron, Tequila" off my iPhone while we sat in the living room, each of us sharing an iPod earpiece. As we were both tipsy from our own tequila shots (Not Patron. We drank the good stuff from south of the border.) we started swaying to the music and throwing our hands up while still sitting down. By the time we got to the new Trina mixtape "Million Dollar Girl" we were not only standing but shaking our money makers harder than any video ho in one of Ludacris' latest hits. We'd time our 'drop it like it's hot's perfectly to make sure the shared earbuds did not fall out of each other's ears. We were the 2-Man Dance Party that all other 2-Man Dance Parties aspire to be.
Our friends pointed at us and I assume questioned what the devil we were doing as they couldn't hear what we were dancing to. I'm not exactly sure what they said as V. and I were too into the groove and I only vaguely noticed people were pointing and staring. Blame it on the alcohol or the beat within my heart but at that point I did not care what others thought.
That is the sign of a truly epic dance party.
Sunday, March 28, 2010
Adventures in Vacationing Part 2 - The Fine Art of Lounging
This is the second in my multi-part series about how hard I can vacation. The memories have gotten less hazy now and as each day passes I'm slowly piecing together the events that happened. There are still some unexplained bruises that I may never fully figure out how I got, but that just comes with the package of an awesome vacation.
Growing up in a single-parent, Mexican household I never took vacations like the ones I saw on TV shows. All of our family vacations were to visit family in Mexico or Arizona so staying at a hotel was reserved for that one time my mom got completely lost on the way and refused to drive the Arizonian desert at night any more. My mom always liked when a relative moved because it gave us a chance to visit someplace new. The idea of visiting a town where we did not have a relative whose house we could stay at was unheard of.
Just before my first trip to Las Vegas I had several relatives ask me who I was going to visit. "Vegas. I'm going to visit Vegas," I responded and received more than a few side-eye glances. "But do you know anyone there?" and "You're going alone?" were favorite follow-up questions. I did go alone, stayed at the New York, New York Hotel & Casino and ordered room service the first night I was there. I was an adult and I'd do as I damn well pleased with my hard-earned money. It was on this trip that I would meet the woman who would one day teach me the fine art of "lounging."
On my most recent vacation to San Diego I'd made plans to go around San Diego and see the sights with friends and family. All I managed to take in was the beautiful view from the side of the pool with my friend B. Saturday morning my plan was to see my friends B. and her husband A. and then head out for some sight-seeing. I should have known I wouldn't make it that far when I was greeted with champagne at 10:30 in the morning. Instead of going out to a brewery tour with A. and our other friends, B. and I decided we'd hang by the pool for a while and relax.
This turned into 8 hours of relaxing and were the absolute best hours I've spent that still involved me wearing some sort of clothes. Who knew that being able to pick up the phone to call Kurt at the front desk to have Frank bring us another bucket of Coronas and limes would be so goddamn amazing?
I really need to start investing in the lottery. After years of searching for the perfect career path I finally found it -- Professional Lounger. Granted this career doesn't pay much but the benefits are astounding! I could intertwine this with another similar career path, Professional Bruncher. I challenge you to find a crew that brunches harder than me and my Brooklyn Boos. Go ahead, I dare ya. You can look high and low but you won't find one.
As a way to subsidize the money I'd need for All-You-Can-Drink mimosas and an endless supply of suntan lotion I could tour the country giving lectures on how to properly lounge. I can set up shop at a learning annex and give panel discussions on how to conduct the perfect brunch. I'll write a series of books on lounging, brunching, and shenanigating. My book tour would be the perfect way to gain more experience and write the sequels: vacationing, dining and perfecting the art of the catwalk strut on the streets of your city.
Why don't guidance counselors let their students know about these types of careers? Lord knows they beat silly things like doctor and lawyer any day.
Growing up in a single-parent, Mexican household I never took vacations like the ones I saw on TV shows. All of our family vacations were to visit family in Mexico or Arizona so staying at a hotel was reserved for that one time my mom got completely lost on the way and refused to drive the Arizonian desert at night any more. My mom always liked when a relative moved because it gave us a chance to visit someplace new. The idea of visiting a town where we did not have a relative whose house we could stay at was unheard of.
Just before my first trip to Las Vegas I had several relatives ask me who I was going to visit. "Vegas. I'm going to visit Vegas," I responded and received more than a few side-eye glances. "But do you know anyone there?" and "You're going alone?" were favorite follow-up questions. I did go alone, stayed at the New York, New York Hotel & Casino and ordered room service the first night I was there. I was an adult and I'd do as I damn well pleased with my hard-earned money. It was on this trip that I would meet the woman who would one day teach me the fine art of "lounging."
On my most recent vacation to San Diego I'd made plans to go around San Diego and see the sights with friends and family. All I managed to take in was the beautiful view from the side of the pool with my friend B. Saturday morning my plan was to see my friends B. and her husband A. and then head out for some sight-seeing. I should have known I wouldn't make it that far when I was greeted with champagne at 10:30 in the morning. Instead of going out to a brewery tour with A. and our other friends, B. and I decided we'd hang by the pool for a while and relax.
This turned into 8 hours of relaxing and were the absolute best hours I've spent that still involved me wearing some sort of clothes. Who knew that being able to pick up the phone to call Kurt at the front desk to have Frank bring us another bucket of Coronas and limes would be so goddamn amazing?
I really need to start investing in the lottery. After years of searching for the perfect career path I finally found it -- Professional Lounger. Granted this career doesn't pay much but the benefits are astounding! I could intertwine this with another similar career path, Professional Bruncher. I challenge you to find a crew that brunches harder than me and my Brooklyn Boos. Go ahead, I dare ya. You can look high and low but you won't find one.
As a way to subsidize the money I'd need for All-You-Can-Drink mimosas and an endless supply of suntan lotion I could tour the country giving lectures on how to properly lounge. I can set up shop at a learning annex and give panel discussions on how to conduct the perfect brunch. I'll write a series of books on lounging, brunching, and shenanigating. My book tour would be the perfect way to gain more experience and write the sequels: vacationing, dining and perfecting the art of the catwalk strut on the streets of your city.
Why don't guidance counselors let their students know about these types of careers? Lord knows they beat silly things like doctor and lawyer any day.
Tuesday, March 23, 2010
Adventures in Vacationing Part 1 - I'ma Do Me
This is the first in a multi-part series about how hard I can vacation. I call it a multi-part series since I don't yet know how many parts there will be. That all depends on how many memories I can piece back together from my Facebook status updates, Tweets, outgoing text messages and calls I receive from friends recapping the drunk messages I left them.
That's right. I'm 29 and still leaving drunk messages. In my defense, I didn't start drinking until about 26 or 27. If you think about it, my drinking age would put me somewhere between 18-22, the perfect drunk dialing age. Stop judging.
Other than church wine like the good Catholic altar boy that I was raised as, I never drank alcohol until about 3 weeks after my 21st birthday. I just wasn't that interested in it. At 29 things are very different. I have recently discovered that just like grief, my drunkenness has different stages.
Stage 1: Giggly Aldo
A couple of drinks in I start giggling for no apparent reason. This is the stage most of my friends are familiar since it's so easy to tell. I sound like an 8 year old girl. Not the best look on a 29 year old man but it's out of my control.
Stage 2: Sassy Aldo
A few more drinks in I develop an accent that is a mixture of Brooklyn and Madea. I start sassing people in louder tones, being more aggressive and telling it how it is. The misspelled text messages filled with poor grammar start pouring out of my fingertips at this point. The iPhone is a wonderful invention but spellcheck can only do so much. Once you start putting X's in the middle of champagne, iPhone can't keep up and just let's you do you.
Stage 3: Alejaandro
Alejaandro was recently named after the Lady Gaga song "Alejandro" but being the Latino that I am I really wanted to make sure white folks stretched out that middle A sound. Hence, the extra A. At this stage I am known to break into a fierce catwalk strut that contestants on America's Next Top Model wish they had. This is especially amazing to watch on the streets of Manhattan. At this point I have no problem in telling people all about themselves whether in person, via text message or drunk dial.
Stage 4: Jack Grey, the assistant
This weekend, after 2 bottles of cahnpahne, some tequila and two buckets of Coronas with lime by the pool I reached a new level of drunkenness that I did not know I had. Jack Grey was an alter-ego that I invented years ago that I was going to use after I faked my own death, had massive amounts of plastic surgery to change my appearance and became an international jewel thief. I was going to be a manly Catwoman, complete with sexy black leather outfit and a motorcycle on top of which I would do Justin Timberlake after having saved his life. I'd be a good-hearted international jewel thief after all.
Saturday afternoon after spending 6 glorious hours lounging by the pool and drinking with my friend like it was our job, my assistant Jack Grey started calling people in my contact list and letting them know that Aldo would not be calling them and leaving drunk messages anymore because Aldo was now 'grown'. My assistant Jack then proceeded to tell people all the shenanigans I had gotten into during my 8 hours of drinking. (We started hours before we got to the pool.)
Where Alejaandro's speech pattern can sometimes be hard to understand with all of his slurring, Jack Grey remained absolutely professional during each and every call. I was told Jack didn't even sound drunk. The scary part is that I have almost no recollection of Jack picking up my phone and dialing people. The only part I remember is taking Jack's drunk ass to the shower, the only place he wouldn't take the iPhone into, sitting on the floor of the tub while water ran down him. It was the only thing that made Jack sit down and behave himself.
If you were one of the lucky ones to receive a drunk call or text message from any of the four individuals mentioned above consider yourself lucky. They are good for hours of entertainment and if the whole Tiger Woods debacle has taught us anything it's that those messages can someday be worth something. At the very least they might get you on the cover of People.
That's right. I'm 29 and still leaving drunk messages. In my defense, I didn't start drinking until about 26 or 27. If you think about it, my drinking age would put me somewhere between 18-22, the perfect drunk dialing age. Stop judging.
Other than church wine like the good Catholic altar boy that I was raised as, I never drank alcohol until about 3 weeks after my 21st birthday. I just wasn't that interested in it. At 29 things are very different. I have recently discovered that just like grief, my drunkenness has different stages.
Stage 1: Giggly Aldo
A couple of drinks in I start giggling for no apparent reason. This is the stage most of my friends are familiar since it's so easy to tell. I sound like an 8 year old girl. Not the best look on a 29 year old man but it's out of my control.
Stage 2: Sassy Aldo
A few more drinks in I develop an accent that is a mixture of Brooklyn and Madea. I start sassing people in louder tones, being more aggressive and telling it how it is. The misspelled text messages filled with poor grammar start pouring out of my fingertips at this point. The iPhone is a wonderful invention but spellcheck can only do so much. Once you start putting X's in the middle of champagne, iPhone can't keep up and just let's you do you.
Stage 3: Alejaandro
Alejaandro was recently named after the Lady Gaga song "Alejandro" but being the Latino that I am I really wanted to make sure white folks stretched out that middle A sound. Hence, the extra A. At this stage I am known to break into a fierce catwalk strut that contestants on America's Next Top Model wish they had. This is especially amazing to watch on the streets of Manhattan. At this point I have no problem in telling people all about themselves whether in person, via text message or drunk dial.
Stage 4: Jack Grey, the assistant
This weekend, after 2 bottles of cahnpahne, some tequila and two buckets of Coronas with lime by the pool I reached a new level of drunkenness that I did not know I had. Jack Grey was an alter-ego that I invented years ago that I was going to use after I faked my own death, had massive amounts of plastic surgery to change my appearance and became an international jewel thief. I was going to be a manly Catwoman, complete with sexy black leather outfit and a motorcycle on top of which I would do Justin Timberlake after having saved his life. I'd be a good-hearted international jewel thief after all.
Saturday afternoon after spending 6 glorious hours lounging by the pool and drinking with my friend like it was our job, my assistant Jack Grey started calling people in my contact list and letting them know that Aldo would not be calling them and leaving drunk messages anymore because Aldo was now 'grown'. My assistant Jack then proceeded to tell people all the shenanigans I had gotten into during my 8 hours of drinking. (We started hours before we got to the pool.)
Where Alejaandro's speech pattern can sometimes be hard to understand with all of his slurring, Jack Grey remained absolutely professional during each and every call. I was told Jack didn't even sound drunk. The scary part is that I have almost no recollection of Jack picking up my phone and dialing people. The only part I remember is taking Jack's drunk ass to the shower, the only place he wouldn't take the iPhone into, sitting on the floor of the tub while water ran down him. It was the only thing that made Jack sit down and behave himself.
If you were one of the lucky ones to receive a drunk call or text message from any of the four individuals mentioned above consider yourself lucky. They are good for hours of entertainment and if the whole Tiger Woods debacle has taught us anything it's that those messages can someday be worth something. At the very least they might get you on the cover of People.
Sunday, March 14, 2010
We Are All Precious, but Some More Than Others
Last week was the 82nd Oscar Awards. Millions of Americans tuned in to watch but I was not among them. They're really long and I prefer catching all the highlights and fashion on endless E! coverage the next day. Anything that happened that was worth watching will be plastered all over the Internet the next day anyway. Case in point, on the red carpet Gabourey Sidibe made this fabulous comment about her blue, diamond encrusted Marchesa gown.
"If fashion was porn, this dress is the money shot."
I need that on a t-shirt yesterday!
Gaby Sidibe seems like just the type of person you want to hang out with. She's full of energy, she's loud, she speaks her mind and just seems like an overall fun person. Her recent appearance on Chelsea Lately solidified my desire to hang out with her. She loves Justin Timberlake apparently as much as I do. She's afraid of little people, where I have a love/hate relationship with them. I love them in theory and would like one of my own but if I ever encountered one alone in a dark alley I'd quickly run in the opposite direction. And she threatened to wear a tiara to the Oscars for no reason other than why not? Chelsea Handler even expressed her desire to roll up in bed with her to eat and watch Lifetime movies.
I would so love to have brunch with her one day. The brunches I attend are epic. I was taught how to brunch proper by the best and I just know Gaby would fit in perfectly at our brunches.
Gaby, please consider this blog post an open letter to you. I would love to have brunch with you. I just know once you have brunch with me we'll become BFFs.
"If fashion was porn, this dress is the money shot."
I need that on a t-shirt yesterday!
Gaby Sidibe seems like just the type of person you want to hang out with. She's full of energy, she's loud, she speaks her mind and just seems like an overall fun person. Her recent appearance on Chelsea Lately solidified my desire to hang out with her. She loves Justin Timberlake apparently as much as I do. She's afraid of little people, where I have a love/hate relationship with them. I love them in theory and would like one of my own but if I ever encountered one alone in a dark alley I'd quickly run in the opposite direction. And she threatened to wear a tiara to the Oscars for no reason other than why not? Chelsea Handler even expressed her desire to roll up in bed with her to eat and watch Lifetime movies.
I would so love to have brunch with her one day. The brunches I attend are epic. I was taught how to brunch proper by the best and I just know Gaby would fit in perfectly at our brunches.
Gaby, please consider this blog post an open letter to you. I would love to have brunch with you. I just know once you have brunch with me we'll become BFFs.
Sunday, February 7, 2010
I Can't Has Cheezburger
It's been 46 days since my last slice of pizza. To say I want it so bad I can taste it would be an understatement.
I long to smell it's tasty aroma, to run my fingers along it's crisp, hard crust. I want to bring it to my lips and lick the drops of grease that fall from the tip of the slice as I pull it free from the cramped box that has been keeping it hot and ready for me. I don't even need to swallow. I just want to lick it and feel the heat in my mouth, no matter how bad the roof of my mouth will be burnt afterwards. I want it in me... if only for a moment.
After 30 days of the P90X exercise plan and I lost 7.6 lbs. Apparently the weight loss came from the part of the brain that controls common sense. I'd made a deal with myself. If I lost 10 lbs. after the first month I was allowed a cheeseburger. Close but no cheeseburger. I blame The Biggest Loser for my unrealistic weight loss expectations. If Two-Ton Tony can drop 13 lbs. in a week, surely I could drop 10 in a month. No such luck. However, I do have the luxury of being able to look down and still see my toes, something Two-Ton Tony doesn't.
I have now taken to asking my friends about the cheeseburger they had for lunch and wanting descriptive details about the garnishing on said cheeseburger. I dream about cheeseburgers while my steamed chicken, veggies and rice heat up in the community kitchenette at work. My new fantasies include me, Channing Tatum and a large cheese pizza with a side order of Little Caesar's cheese bread that I eat off his naked torso. Yup, I've lost it. My brain is going through High-Fructose Corn Syrup withdrawal symptoms.
As much as I want a cheeseburger, a slice of pizza or a frappuccino I know that anyone one of those items is enough to cancel out an entire workout session. I am not sweating through an entire hour of that sadistic fitness "expert" just to throw it away, no matter how delicious that melty cheese would feel in my mouth. Now if you'll excuse me, I have some cheesebread to go think about...
I long to smell it's tasty aroma, to run my fingers along it's crisp, hard crust. I want to bring it to my lips and lick the drops of grease that fall from the tip of the slice as I pull it free from the cramped box that has been keeping it hot and ready for me. I don't even need to swallow. I just want to lick it and feel the heat in my mouth, no matter how bad the roof of my mouth will be burnt afterwards. I want it in me... if only for a moment.
After 30 days of the P90X exercise plan and I lost 7.6 lbs. Apparently the weight loss came from the part of the brain that controls common sense. I'd made a deal with myself. If I lost 10 lbs. after the first month I was allowed a cheeseburger. Close but no cheeseburger. I blame The Biggest Loser for my unrealistic weight loss expectations. If Two-Ton Tony can drop 13 lbs. in a week, surely I could drop 10 in a month. No such luck. However, I do have the luxury of being able to look down and still see my toes, something Two-Ton Tony doesn't.
I have now taken to asking my friends about the cheeseburger they had for lunch and wanting descriptive details about the garnishing on said cheeseburger. I dream about cheeseburgers while my steamed chicken, veggies and rice heat up in the community kitchenette at work. My new fantasies include me, Channing Tatum and a large cheese pizza with a side order of Little Caesar's cheese bread that I eat off his naked torso. Yup, I've lost it. My brain is going through High-Fructose Corn Syrup withdrawal symptoms.
As much as I want a cheeseburger, a slice of pizza or a frappuccino I know that anyone one of those items is enough to cancel out an entire workout session. I am not sweating through an entire hour of that sadistic fitness "expert" just to throw it away, no matter how delicious that melty cheese would feel in my mouth. Now if you'll excuse me, I have some cheesebread to go think about...
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