2000-09-05

Rocksteady Rag

9 more days until I turn 30. This weekend I put myself through the most discouraging task of purging from my closet all clothing items falling under the category of That Which Will Never Fit Over My Sagging, 30-year-old Butt Ever Again (the shorter form of said category being File Under: Stop Kidding Yourself).

Oh, sure, I could really buckle down and commit myself to a diet&exercise regime that would return me to those size 6 days, but here's the thing: I like beer. I like curry fries, jalapeno poppers, and those little Entenmann's chocolate chip cookies. I'm not exactly a couch potato, but the amount of exercise I'd need to do in order to reverse the nice, comfy layer of padding I've accumulated since I shacked up with the houseboy (we like to call it my "happy weight") just isn't worth it. I don't expect that the networks will be banging on my door anytime soon to cast me in the latest Friends ripoff, and besides, a size six in Hollywood equals "full-figured." Fuck that noise - hand me that bag of potato chips.

I have gone off the deep end again as far as buying bath products goes. My big thing now is putting myself through a weekly Biore routine. I have a theory about nosestrips: people use them not because they want clean pores, but because they thrill to that weekly reminder of just how imperfect the human body really is. I personally love ripping off a nosestrip and examining it under every light source in the house, to see just how much filth I've absorbed and harbored over the course of a week. I wash my face twice a day with Noxema and yet my Biore nosestrips tell me again and again that despite my careful ablutions, I am heavily soiled - I'm a dirty, dirty girl.

I think it's a Catholic thing.

Poor Kev. The things he has to put up with being married to me. This past Saturday night I was on the rocksteady rag, y'all: slumped across the sofa with a heating pad on my middle, prescription Motrin and M&M's never far out of reach, watching the Beach Boys biopic on VH-1 and yelling at the television set:

"Ugh. Lookit that Mike Love. Him and his transcendental meditation. �Hi, I'm Mike Love. I'm going to do transcendental meditation and go write Kokomo.' That's what being �enlightened' will do for you - you'll write the shittiest Beach Boys song ever and get John-fucking-Stamos to appear in your video. Give me the agoraphobic alternative any day. Mike Love. Pffft..."

"Lees? Are you okay in there?"

"I hate Mike Love. He's too damn happy."

"He's laughing all the way to the bank."

"I don't care. He's a tool. Too - Ull. Tool."

"When's the last time you took a Motrin, hon?"

And so on. Poor guy. So patient, ever at the ready with a Handiwipe in case my head starts spinning and spewing pea soup...

lisamcc at 16:38:34

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