"Do you want some nog with lunch?"
"Sure!"
"Alright, well, we've only got egg. I hope that's okay."
Tuesday, December 25, 2007
Monday, December 24, 2007
"They may be bitches, but they are skinny bitches."
I gave up coffee nineteen days ago.
And just this moment I successfully walked away from a coffee percolator that looked suspiciously as though it were about to drip the sweet nectar of consciousness into my favorite mug.
I can't imagine how it became so precariously perched. Maybe it had something to do with me putting it there.
Yes. I was about to throw nineteen days worth of withdrawal jitters and obtundent lecture attendance to nurse once more at the teat of blessed caffeination.
But I didn't. I walked away and came to the keyboard instead.
My very sweet and ridiculously gorgeous cousin decided she and I should have our own personal book club spotlighting the "no nonsense tough love guide for savvy girls who want to stop eating crap and start looking fabulous": Skinny Bitch.
It reads like something I would write if I were a hungover drill sergeant on my period paging through science fiction (read: REALLY, REALLY CRANKY) and had no regard for my readers' capacity for human emotion. There's a certain, "C'mon you fat, lame fools, stop wrecking your body and wasting my time," tone to the prose. The sarcasm leaps off the page and lambastes any preconceived notions of decency regarding my diet CLEAR OUT OF MY HEAD. The only way it could be more effective is if the sharp wit could come to life and actually slice the fat off my booty.
In short, the narrative manhandling scares the ever loving shit out of me. They aren't kidding when they say, "no nonsense."
I have read only Chapter One.
There were so many things within the "Give It Up" chapter that I need to work on I don't think I yet deserve to go on to the rest of the book. Or rather, I don't know that I can take the shame onslaught that will inevitably result if I read on and have to sustain more acerbic slaps to the face as I confront the truth that my diet suckity suck suck sucks.
So, because I want to keep reading the book, but don't feel I can face the authors again until I've made some changes, I gave up coffee.
I realize as a member of both the medical profession and the Starbucks generation this effort amounts to sheer blasphemy. But the Skinny Bitches say that coffee's acidity goads the body to produce fat cells to emulsify the coffee. The fat cells surround the uh, absorbed coffee, or what I envision as little piranha like Pac-men, and bar their destructive jaws from hurting the body. Now, this is all well and good, Go Body! with its adaptive mechanisms and all that, but I sure don't need extra fat cells circulating about.
Particularly if they're coming from something as second string luxurious as coffee. I'd rather save my fat cells for cheesecake. Or pizza. Mmmm... pizza...
So... I don't know how effective this has been, because it's but one small change I've made of about eighty three thousand I probably should, but that first week I gave up coffee... I WAS pretty bitchy. I assume that means it's working. I had half of the skinny bitch-dom down.
Since parting with the dark roasted temptress I have also been getting fewer headaches and I've started sating my hot beverage cravings with all manners of tea that claim to be antioxidant laden. Overall these seem like two positives and... perhaps more valid measures of the authors' advice.
To those of you who wonder why I'd listen to a book that makes me feel awful about myself I'd like to point out that I am a medical student. Masochism is how I roll.
In all honesty though, there's promise of applicability. It cuts the crap and speaks to me in chick-lit language I can relate to and be influenced by. If you're still looking for a stocking stuffer for someone who won't be offended if you say, "Oh, the title made me think of you!" I highly recommend it.
And just this moment I successfully walked away from a coffee percolator that looked suspiciously as though it were about to drip the sweet nectar of consciousness into my favorite mug.
I can't imagine how it became so precariously perched. Maybe it had something to do with me putting it there.
Yes. I was about to throw nineteen days worth of withdrawal jitters and obtundent lecture attendance to nurse once more at the teat of blessed caffeination.
But I didn't. I walked away and came to the keyboard instead.
My very sweet and ridiculously gorgeous cousin decided she and I should have our own personal book club spotlighting the "no nonsense tough love guide for savvy girls who want to stop eating crap and start looking fabulous": Skinny Bitch.
It reads like something I would write if I were a hungover drill sergeant on my period paging through science fiction (read: REALLY, REALLY CRANKY) and had no regard for my readers' capacity for human emotion. There's a certain, "C'mon you fat, lame fools, stop wrecking your body and wasting my time," tone to the prose. The sarcasm leaps off the page and lambastes any preconceived notions of decency regarding my diet CLEAR OUT OF MY HEAD. The only way it could be more effective is if the sharp wit could come to life and actually slice the fat off my booty.
In short, the narrative manhandling scares the ever loving shit out of me. They aren't kidding when they say, "no nonsense."
I have read only Chapter One.
There were so many things within the "Give It Up" chapter that I need to work on I don't think I yet deserve to go on to the rest of the book. Or rather, I don't know that I can take the shame onslaught that will inevitably result if I read on and have to sustain more acerbic slaps to the face as I confront the truth that my diet suckity suck suck sucks.
So, because I want to keep reading the book, but don't feel I can face the authors again until I've made some changes, I gave up coffee.
I realize as a member of both the medical profession and the Starbucks generation this effort amounts to sheer blasphemy. But the Skinny Bitches say that coffee's acidity goads the body to produce fat cells to emulsify the coffee. The fat cells surround the uh, absorbed coffee, or what I envision as little piranha like Pac-men, and bar their destructive jaws from hurting the body. Now, this is all well and good, Go Body! with its adaptive mechanisms and all that, but I sure don't need extra fat cells circulating about.
Particularly if they're coming from something as second string luxurious as coffee. I'd rather save my fat cells for cheesecake. Or pizza. Mmmm... pizza...
So... I don't know how effective this has been, because it's but one small change I've made of about eighty three thousand I probably should, but that first week I gave up coffee... I WAS pretty bitchy. I assume that means it's working. I had half of the skinny bitch-dom down.
Since parting with the dark roasted temptress I have also been getting fewer headaches and I've started sating my hot beverage cravings with all manners of tea that claim to be antioxidant laden. Overall these seem like two positives and... perhaps more valid measures of the authors' advice.
To those of you who wonder why I'd listen to a book that makes me feel awful about myself I'd like to point out that I am a medical student. Masochism is how I roll.
In all honesty though, there's promise of applicability. It cuts the crap and speaks to me in chick-lit language I can relate to and be influenced by. If you're still looking for a stocking stuffer for someone who won't be offended if you say, "Oh, the title made me think of you!" I highly recommend it.
Sunday, December 23, 2007
7 Random Things About Me
Apparently I decided that after posting every single day in November I was absolved from writing for the whole of December.
As my holiday gift to you, I've returned early.
You're welcome.
Now, on to business. I've been tagged. Nevermind that the tag-age was nearly three weeks ago, I was still tagged. And if there's one thing I've learned from the blogosphere, it's that you don't eff around with OldMDGirl ;)
So, without further ado...
1. My ears have been pierced since I was three months old. Evidently three months was the cap on how long my mother could have a non-bedazzled infant. By three months it was high time I started earning my keep by being a more attractive accessory for her hip. And if my face wasn't going to do it, well, jewels in my ears would have to suffice.
2. I keep every piece of personal written correspondence I receive. Now... this might be better listed in a future edition of "7 Creepy Things About Me," but either way it's still true. I have six file boxes in my closet with assorted categories of folders labeled, "Aunts," "Birthday Cards," "Pen Pals 1996-1997," etc. They may or may not be color coded.
I'm not sure what this says about me (I mean, after our ears stop ringing from the PACKRAT PACKRAT PACKRAT alarm), but I just feel too guilty throwing away something someone has taken the time to write me. Admittedly, some cases are more justified than others. The letters I received when I was young from my grandmother? Invaluable. The personalized birthday newsletter from the Muffy VanDerBear fan club? You decide.
3. My high school valedictory address centered around the Britney Spears single "Not a Girl, Not Yet a Woman," thereby cementing in everyone's mind the disconnect between book smarts and... actual smarts.
4. In the seventh grade I crafted a Happy Meteorologist's Day (February 4th or 5th, I can't remember exactly) card out of yellow and orange construction paper (it may or may not have been a sun...) and mailed it to the channel five weather man who I was convinced was my soul mate. I believe the inscription read along the lines of, "Thank you for brightening the greater viewing region's mornings even when the forecast is partly cloudy. Your Biggest Fan, Pants."
After mailing it I was extremely smug and pleased with myself, wondering how long it would take for him to write me back and tell me that he had never before witnessed such construction paper wizardry, and clearly with skills like that I HAD to be his wife. Also, for some reason I remember congratulating myself for pulling off this scheme without my parents knowledge. Why they would've cared that I was stalking a minor local celebrity, I'm not sure, but their awareness seemed an imminent catastrophe back then.
Thus, imagine my horror when one February morning I hear my dad shout from the family room, "PANTS TAILORED MCSLACKS. Did you send Weather Man a Valentine?"
I was in the other room putting together some cereal and I remember pouring and pouring the Cheerios, unknowingly overflowing them onto the counter.
I went into the family room. "What?"
"You sent the weather man a Valentine?"
"NO. It was a card for National Meteorologist's Day. How did you... how did you know?"
"He just thanked you on the air for your thoughtful card. My daughter mailed a valentine to the weather man."
I remember thinking, MY GOD. Did my weather man SAY it was a Valentine!? It was just a meterologists' day card! HE MUST LOVE ME. (Yep. Over analysis and decryption of men's thoughts were rampant even way back when.)
And then he never wrote back.
He's now the nightly five o'clock weather man and the station's chief meteorologist. I like to think my early boost to his ego gave him the confidence to pursue the prestigious appointment.
5. I can wiggle both of my eyebrows independently. I regularly twitch them asynchronously in the rhythm of popular songs and try to make my friends guess the melody.
6. One time in the fifth grade I went over to my neighborhood friend's house to play after school. We knew our time was limited because I had to be at ballet practice by 5, so we dove right into her expansive Barbie collection and imagineered the day away. By 4:30 we realized our time was drawing to a close. Neither one of us wanted to stop playing so we decided I just needed to skip ballet.
The only way my mother would let me skip anything (school, ballet, piano, etc.) was if I either had a temperature or was throwing up.
We didn't know a fool proof way to get my temperature up, because as a nurse my mother didn't rely on the forehead touch, she always whipped out the thermometer, so our only option was to make me throw up.
I downed a jar's worth of dill pickle juice, while managing to consume an entire can of Redi-Whip between sips. We thought such a volatile combination would surely make me ralph by the time I had to leave for ballet.
Nope.
And I had to go to practice weighed down by what I would later recognize as the world's greatest pregnancy cocktail (Not because I've been pregnant myself, but because I became aware of the pickles and ice cream craving stereotype, but ho, wouldn't THAT have been a random thing about me.).
7. I was an avid member of my high school's speech and debate team. My category was a state category so the highest I could ever hope to place was #1 at the state level. I qualified to state all four years and made it to the semi-finals twice. My senior year I placed seventh in the state, missing the final round (wherein the top six competitors compete against one another, vying for their final placements) and my shot at #1 by 2 points. I have never gotten over it.
As my holiday gift to you, I've returned early.
You're welcome.
Now, on to business. I've been tagged. Nevermind that the tag-age was nearly three weeks ago, I was still tagged. And if there's one thing I've learned from the blogosphere, it's that you don't eff around with OldMDGirl ;)
So, without further ado...
THE SEVEN MOST RANDOM THINGS ABOUT ME I CAN THINK OF OFF THE CUFF EVEN THOUGH I'VE HYPOTHETICALLY HAD THREE WEEKS TO GENERATE A LIST
1. My ears have been pierced since I was three months old. Evidently three months was the cap on how long my mother could have a non-bedazzled infant. By three months it was high time I started earning my keep by being a more attractive accessory for her hip. And if my face wasn't going to do it, well, jewels in my ears would have to suffice.
2. I keep every piece of personal written correspondence I receive. Now... this might be better listed in a future edition of "7 Creepy Things About Me," but either way it's still true. I have six file boxes in my closet with assorted categories of folders labeled, "Aunts," "Birthday Cards," "Pen Pals 1996-1997," etc. They may or may not be color coded.
I'm not sure what this says about me (I mean, after our ears stop ringing from the PACKRAT PACKRAT PACKRAT alarm), but I just feel too guilty throwing away something someone has taken the time to write me. Admittedly, some cases are more justified than others. The letters I received when I was young from my grandmother? Invaluable. The personalized birthday newsletter from the Muffy VanDerBear fan club? You decide.
3. My high school valedictory address centered around the Britney Spears single "Not a Girl, Not Yet a Woman," thereby cementing in everyone's mind the disconnect between book smarts and... actual smarts.
4. In the seventh grade I crafted a Happy Meteorologist's Day (February 4th or 5th, I can't remember exactly) card out of yellow and orange construction paper (it may or may not have been a sun...) and mailed it to the channel five weather man who I was convinced was my soul mate. I believe the inscription read along the lines of, "Thank you for brightening the greater viewing region's mornings even when the forecast is partly cloudy. Your Biggest Fan, Pants."
After mailing it I was extremely smug and pleased with myself, wondering how long it would take for him to write me back and tell me that he had never before witnessed such construction paper wizardry, and clearly with skills like that I HAD to be his wife. Also, for some reason I remember congratulating myself for pulling off this scheme without my parents knowledge. Why they would've cared that I was stalking a minor local celebrity, I'm not sure, but their awareness seemed an imminent catastrophe back then.
Thus, imagine my horror when one February morning I hear my dad shout from the family room, "PANTS TAILORED MCSLACKS. Did you send Weather Man a Valentine?"
I was in the other room putting together some cereal and I remember pouring and pouring the Cheerios, unknowingly overflowing them onto the counter.
I went into the family room. "What?"
"You sent the weather man a Valentine?"
"NO. It was a card for National Meteorologist's Day. How did you... how did you know?"
"He just thanked you on the air for your thoughtful card. My daughter mailed a valentine to the weather man."
I remember thinking, MY GOD. Did my weather man SAY it was a Valentine!? It was just a meterologists' day card! HE MUST LOVE ME. (Yep. Over analysis and decryption of men's thoughts were rampant even way back when.)
And then he never wrote back.
He's now the nightly five o'clock weather man and the station's chief meteorologist. I like to think my early boost to his ego gave him the confidence to pursue the prestigious appointment.
5. I can wiggle both of my eyebrows independently. I regularly twitch them asynchronously in the rhythm of popular songs and try to make my friends guess the melody.
6. One time in the fifth grade I went over to my neighborhood friend's house to play after school. We knew our time was limited because I had to be at ballet practice by 5, so we dove right into her expansive Barbie collection and imagineered the day away. By 4:30 we realized our time was drawing to a close. Neither one of us wanted to stop playing so we decided I just needed to skip ballet.
The only way my mother would let me skip anything (school, ballet, piano, etc.) was if I either had a temperature or was throwing up.
We didn't know a fool proof way to get my temperature up, because as a nurse my mother didn't rely on the forehead touch, she always whipped out the thermometer, so our only option was to make me throw up.
I downed a jar's worth of dill pickle juice, while managing to consume an entire can of Redi-Whip between sips. We thought such a volatile combination would surely make me ralph by the time I had to leave for ballet.
Nope.
And I had to go to practice weighed down by what I would later recognize as the world's greatest pregnancy cocktail (Not because I've been pregnant myself, but because I became aware of the pickles and ice cream craving stereotype, but ho, wouldn't THAT have been a random thing about me.).
7. I was an avid member of my high school's speech and debate team. My category was a state category so the highest I could ever hope to place was #1 at the state level. I qualified to state all four years and made it to the semi-finals twice. My senior year I placed seventh in the state, missing the final round (wherein the top six competitors compete against one another, vying for their final placements) and my shot at #1 by 2 points. I have never gotten over it.
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