February 23, 2009

Oranges are like a fucking diet superfood.

Why? 85 calories and it took me like 1 hour to peel and consume. Those bitches are work! I am too tired now to hold a spoon and dig into the ice cream I was planning to eat.

Fucking oranges.

February 18, 2009

Love letters.

Real email exchange between us today:

JJ: 9:13 PM (1 hour ago)
SUBJECT: New diet food

Get frozen okra. defrost. Put it in a skillet with a pat of butter or a good glug of olive oil. Cook the crap out of it! Seriously, cook it until all the okra slime is gone and it's crispy and almost black. Grind salt over the top (from the special salt grinder I bought when we were in San Francisco and that reminds me of you).

No fatty carbs - only veggie carbs.

Decorno: 10:19 PM
SUBJECT: re: New diet food

Jesus christ. I totally lost my hard-on as soon as you said, "Frozen okra." I didn't even read the rest of this. You're just trying to crush my soul. Fuck you and the 15 pounds you have lost.

And I say that with love.

February 12, 2009

From the Desk of...

Things I hate

1. Necklaces that create rolls of fat.  
Fuck you necklaces.

2. Slash-style pants pockets that bulge out and create unflattering lumps of what appear to be more rolls of fat.  
Fuck you slash pockets.

3. Panties that shimmy down and almost fall beneath the hem of your skirt while you're walking into work so that you have to take tiny baby steps with your thighs glued together until you can pop into the bathroom to remove them.  
Fuck you panties. 

February 8, 2009

ugh. double ugh.

You know what I'm sick of? 

1. cooking.  I have cooked up a week's worth of chicken, a ranch's worth of beef and endless salads.  (Yes, I consider making salads to be cooking.  Don't fuck with me.  I'm off peanut butter cups and this whole ship could blow at the slightest provocation.)  My house stinks of burned flesh.  I am sick of cooking.  And I'm sick of figuring out a vegetable to eat.  What's the point of vegetables anyway?  Why don't they taste AWESOME?  I can say I like baked cauliflower but let's be honest, it's not fabulous.  I mean, it's fabulous as far as vegetables go, but seriously, Not Fabulous.

You know what else I'm sick of?

2. cleaning.  Cooking means dishes.  And when you burn everything to a tasty 
crisp, every single fucking dish has to be cleaned with like steel wool (which is basically an extra workout so I should shut the hell up.)  I am running the dishwasher every single day and sometimes TWICE a day depending on how ever many science experiments I conduct over the course of a day.  Sick of it.  Done. Over it.

I want a cook and a maid.  And Jozette, if you're reading this, I would take Sawyer first.   Except right now imagining Sawyer delivering me a piping hot dinner of hamburger patty and tomatoes ENRAGES ME, and his smirky fuckface attitude makes me even madder so I think I would slap him and then fire him (a la Miz Helmsley).  And then I would hire Jack to bring me eggs in the morning and I would feel sorry for him because he used to be so cute and now he's a whiny little bitch that doesn't deserve any action at all.  I would let him make my eggs and my baked cauliflower (and clean up afterwards, natch) and I would happily eat it because I'd think, "Poor Jack.  What a pathetic loser.  I'm so much better than him even if I can only eat chicken and salad."  (Fortunately, my husband is smoking hot so I can sleep with him and won't need whinypants for anything other than cooking and cleaning.)

And now I feel so much better that I can go to bed.  After I finish the dishes.

February 5, 2009

We're doing it.

Jen and I are cutting the fat.  

Since I've been back on my food plan I've lost 12.5 pounds.  I know it's water weight and the weight of the hair I shaved off my legs and I.  don't.  care.  

40 more pounds to happy slut times!

P.S.  I'm not going to attribute any of my success to hot yoga but I will say that I've been 4 times in the last week.  mm hmmm.
oh, I also played soccer once but since I started a fight during that game, I'm not counting it as exercise.