The Healing Power Of Cheese Bagels & How to Know When It's Been A While Since You Got "Some"

I am sick. I would say "sick as a dog" but I don't know what that means. My symptoms are sneezing as if I were allergic to everything, coughing as if I had a two pack a day habit, a lack of energy (which, strangely, isn't so different than any other day) and an overall "BLAH" feeling.

One symptom I don't seem to have is a lack of appetite. So since soup isn't really a breakfast food and I would certainly feel foolish eating a food for breakfast that WAS NOT a breakfast food and since I'm quite sure there is a saying, "FEED A COLD, STARVE THE NEIGHBOR WHO LET'S HIS DOG POOP ON YOUR LAWN AND DOESN'T PICK IT UP," the only remedy I could see for BIG COLD, BIGGER APPETITE WAS:

Eat a cheese bagel.

It was delicious. I'm already feeling better in fact. I've stopped sweating and my hair is shinier, so I'm thinking I should call the American Medical Journal and report on the healing powers of cheese bagels.

HOW TO KNOW IF IT'S BEEN A WHILE SINCE YOU GOT "SOME"

We are all clear on what "SOME" means, right? If you don't know, PLEASE CALL A FRIEND, one that won't laugh at you. Anywhoo, I'm at a place where there is a sign demonstrating what to do if someone should need CPR (strangely, there was NOT a picture of someone running away, as I have done the last two times someone started choking in front of me.)

What catches my eye on the poster, is A MAN prying a WOMAN'S MOUTH open with his fingers in a manly and authoritative way, and I become BOTH JEALOUS AND AROUSED. (But mostly, jealous... and aroused.)

And that my friend, is how you know it's been a while since you got some.

The Healing Power Of Cheese Bagels & How to Know When It's Been A While Since You Got "Some"

HAPPY BIRTHDAY to Me !!!

Even though I woke up with a massive head cold and even though I woke up spooning with the bum of my 9 pound Chihuahua, I just know THIS IS GOING TO BE THE BEST YEAR EVER.

Thanks for sharing it with me! I'm going to blog later, for sure. Right now, I must partake in being worshiped by one of my BEST-IES while eating a BIRTHDAY CHOCOLATE CHIP PANCAKE. (The lady behind the Weight Watchers counter with the perpetual puss would SO be frowning on me right now :)

HAPPY BIRTHDAY to Me !!!

The Biggest Loser

If I could have any wish in the world (and that wish could not be for world peace, to end the genocide in Darfur, to end all wars, stop the world from melting, get a job, bring my cousin back, make my Mom sane again, clone and freeze the DNA of my dog), I would wish to weigh what a girl weighs and not a man weighs.

Right now, I most certainly WEIGH WHAT A MAN WEIGHS. (And Ladies, he's not a thin man, either.)

Today, I took a step to end that. Last week, me and my friends L & S went and joined Weight Watchers. I always imagined the kind of woman that joins Weight Watchers was gigantic, wears loud sweaters a la Cliff Huxtable and has 8 or more cats. What's weird is, it's the total opposite. It's a bunch of hip girls with their cool clothes, rockin' handbags who speak in a foreign language of "points," "flex or core" and "activity points."

Every time I've been on a diet it has involved shame, embarrassment and pre-eating before I go out to dinner as not to attack a bowl of Fettucine Alfredo at a restaurant. Now there's gabbing about sensible snacks, morning smoothies and success stories!

This morning I got on the scale at Weight Watchers. I had a whole speech prepared to the lady running the machine, "Listen, I'm not trying to lose any weight before the holidays, okay? Just maintain, so when you see the scale has not budged since last week you can save me the SAD EYES and the PEP TALK, okay?"

But before I could say that, she said, "You lost 2 pounds." Then she stamped my card with three, COUNT 'EM, THREE "Bravo" STAR STICKERS.

I almost cried. And had we not been separated by a 2 foot counter, I might have lept over it an HUGGED HER, I WAS SO FRICKIN' HAPPY. (Which is probably precisely why that counter is there.)

Somethings I know for sure, today. I'm always going to bet on myself - I might just lose which means I win. When I do lose all this weight - it will be for the last time. I don't care who dies, who goes crazy or who dumps me. When I am at my goal weight, like I was just 2 years ago, I will not THINK ABOUT "MAYBE IF I JUST LOSE 10 MORE." I will not think about "MORE," I will think about how lucky I am that I am at A HEALTHY AND GOOD AND SKIRT WEARING WEIGHT and that I don't want to waste anymore time NOT appreciating where I am at THIS MOMENT RIGHT NOW.

Like this moment right now. Two pounds lighter. To someone else, it might not seem like much. To me, it's a miracle.

The Biggest Loser

Thinking About Death is Fun!

UPDATE: Getting Truth-y
I wrote this entry because I had one too many glasses of red wine. Okay, that's a lie. I had one glass of red wine. Which is even worse, because I wasn't even drunk enough to justify why I would write a post like this. EXCEPT: It was a great, fun way to avoid Part 3 of "How It All Began" which I swear, I will get too shortly, unless I can think of some other embarassing INNER WORKINGS OF MY MIND

I don't know why I always think about death this time of year. It's two days before the celebration of me shooting out of my mother's loins (my birthday. What? I was trying to be colorful.)

Anyway, a few weeks ago I said to my friend L, "If I die, I want to have my spec sitcom scripts paper mached around my feet like boots and then I would like to be SHOT OUT OF A CANON. Make that happen." (Which, if she comes up against my mother, she WILL NEVER MAKE THAT HAPPEN.)

Then I was looking through old emails of exactly this time last year and found one to L, again, requesting what I would like to happen to me if I died. (WARNING: MUCH WINE WAS CONSUMED IN THE MAKING OF THIS EMAIL, as I had by now, spent over one month, unexpectedly in my childhood twin bed after my mother's glorious, tragic and somewhat entertaining nervous breakdown.)

HERE'S THE EMAIL:

"If i die, i would like to lie in state in a cascde of broken ice chips (not cubes, cubes will not be right for the occasion.)  In the ice there will be stations for fresh rolls, then roast beef, turkey, ham, assorted salads and dressings. Should there be a hot station, too? If so, that's where the rolls should be. Also, a rotissere chicken or a tri-tip might be nice. Let's talk soup, too. Something in a bisque, a crab or tomato. The last stop, would be my feet, is where people will help themselves to one or several imported beers. So in essence, if we can steal one of those huge salad bar stations Whole Foods, I'm good."

I know, I'm bizarre. If you haven't figured that out yet, really, what can I do?

Thinking About Death is Fun!

Can You Die Of Humiliation???

So last night I'm at my weekly "Project Runway" Party where we all gather for dinner and wine and gossip and overall fashion cattiness. It has become the highlight of my week and as my friend R put it, "The weekend officially starts on Wednesdays." (Which for me, being unemployed, it could offcially start at 10:45am on a Monday... not that I'm bragging.)

Anyway, one of the beauties brought this gorgeous box of Christmas chocolates and it was passed around until it came to me in which the hostess swooped in and said, "NO CANDY FOR YOU, I'VE READ YOUR BLOG." At which point, I was really humiliated because for 1, don't really want my blog used againist me and 2, I know the blog IS OUT THERE FOR THE WORLD TO SEE, but some people there were strangers and I really don't want them knowing that I AM OBSESSED WITH MY FAT ASS.

The Hostess then metaphorically wagged her finger in front of me, letting me know, I, MYSELF, THE POSSESER OF SAID FAT ASS, had blogged about wishing my friends had said something to me while I was in my deepest depression and couldn't see for myself that my OWN ASS WAS GROWNING IT'S OWN ASS. To which I say, GO REREAD the entry, "OH, MY GOD, YOU'RE SO FAT, CONGRATULATIONS!"

Because I'm pretty sure for all it said, IT DID NOT SAY, YANK A BOX OF CHOCOLATES AWAY FROM ME and embarass me in front of strangers.

That said, those fancy chocolates weren't that good so I stole a Santa Hershey bar from one of Hostesses' kids and ate it on the way home.

Can You Die Of Humiliation???

How It All Began Part 2 aka "Gimme Some Damn Drugs!"

The day I found out that David died, I immediately left work and went home. I laid or lay on my bed (which ever is grammatically correct) and stared at my ceiling fan. I FELT THE MOST ALONE I EVER HAD IN MY LIFE. Alone. I can't tell anyone what really happened. Alone. I can't let anyone see me cry (my secret fear). Alone. How do I go back to a job AS A SITCOM WRITER where I get paid TO BE FUNNY after this?

I will get fired.

They will see me when I come back to work and they will see right through me. They will see the sadness and the grief and they WILL GO BEHIND CLOSED DOORS and say "she will never be the same," "she cannot pull her own weight," "we should just cut our loses."

And then they will fire me.

Which in a weird way brought me relief... because I was in a deep black cold dark ocean with waves coming at me in both directions and everything they would say would be right and true. BUT THEN, the fact that if I DID NOT have that job and I had to lie or lay here in bed, all alone, staring that that ceiling fan with nothing but envisioning my cousin's murder, OVER AND OVER AND OVER again in my head, that's what might be THE END OF ME.

SO I PICKED UP THE TELEPHONE. Where I called a doctor after formulating a plan. That he would give me drugs. Happy pills, anti-depressants, not get fired from your job pills, horrible inexplicable situation pills, SOMETHING TO CUSHION THE BLOW pills.

Good idea.

I called and made the appointment. Now I just had to stare at the ceiling for eighteen more hours.

(To Be Continued - Right Now I'm Thing the Title Will Be "How To Act and Dress When You Are Asking A Reputable Doctor For MASSIVE AMOUNTS of Drugs."

How It All Began Part 2 aka "Gimme Some Damn Drugs!"

Why Bloomingdales Must Immediately Install Treadmills In Their Dressing Rooms

If you are having trouble starting your diet, going to the gym or putting the figgy pudding down, HERE'S MY ADVICE TO YOU: Get thee to the nearest mall and try on, oh, say, a festive holiday blouse, sweater, shrug, top or cardigan. It can be silk, cotton, acrylic (though I hope it's not), wool, spandex or rayon.

In preparation for the biggest holiday of the year, MY BIRTHDAY, (this Saturday, mark your "Hello Kitty" calendars) I went to the mall to buy a new top. WHAT I FOUND OUT ONCE in my most VUNERABLE STATE OF UNDRESS in the dressing room is almost too HORRIFYING TO ADMIT.

NOTHING FIT. (Not even the Spandex). Not even with sucking in, hardly breathing or imagining certain parts of the body BEING TAPED DOWN WITH DUCT TAPE. NOTHING.

That's when I came up with this BRILLIANT IDEA. (I needed to have brilliant idea or I was going to have a screaming, crying, why did I eat a crossiant nearly everyday for two years hissy fit.) My idea is, Bloomindales or (Insert name of Favorite Department Store here) needs to IMMEDIATELY INSTALL TREADMILLS IN THE DRESSING ROOMS.

I swear, I would have paid $25 bucks to work out right then and there. MAYBE MORE! The stores would make a killing. The treadmills could be coin operated like washers and dryers! And after a workout, I would spend, spend, spend, knowing my 30 minutes on a fifty dollar rent-a-treadmill had given me hope that maybe some of my purchases might fit in 3 - 5 weeks. (Results may vary)

Perhaps, too, like a ride at DisneyLand, they could also take a photo of me ON THE TREADMILL, in the dressing room, wearing the shirt I picked out BUT DOESN'T FIT but I have still insisted on cramming over my head and shoulders and I am probably going to have to be cut out of it in order to give it back. MAYBE IF I SAW MYSELF like that, my stomach peeking out of too tight jeans with a top that looks like a half-shirt because I can't get it over my round-y stomach, I would keep running and running and running and fit into this top in 3- 5 weeks (Results are not typical.)

Okay, I gotta get cooking on this idea. Treadmills! Coming to a mall near you!

Why Bloomingdales Must Immediately Install Treadmills In Their Dressing Rooms

I Am Both Things

Sometimes, I close my eyes and I imagine someone trying to EXPLAIN THIS BLOG to a friend and I imagine them say, "It's this girl and she talks about her big butt and how she wishes she could excercise more, lose weight and be attractive to every man she meets, especially THE CUTE ONES who still have THEIR OWN HAIR. Especially if it could be in front of her Old Bad Boyfriend who she swears she doesn't want to get back together with but if he could be so INSANELY JEALOUS of her new SMALL BUTT being cupped by a new attractive guy who most likely resembles David Beckham IN BOY SHORTS, that he (OBB) would spurt beer out of his nose in a fit of JEALOUS RAGE, I think she'd be okay with that, too.

Oh, and then she sometimes talks about her dead cousin and how her mother went crazy." This someone's voice would trail off as if they were trying to figure how how the two parts of my life go together. "Yeah... it's weird."

It is weird. But, I am both things.

I am the girl who likes pink and glittery eyeshadow especially with gloss (only if you are doing a subtle cheek). I like fake furs on a cold day with a Vogue and a Vanity Fair tucked in close on my way to a pedicure. I like gossiping about co-workers, dreaming about boys, praying that my ass will be smaller when I wake up in the morning and taping pictures of skinny girls in bikinis on my bath room mirror (in a non-lesbian way) as motivation to eat all the vegetables on my plate.

I am also my cousin's murder and my mother's nervous breakdown. I am the girl who can't sleep. I am the girl with nightmares and unexpected crying jags, who hurts and is afraid to get hurt, who wants to love but sees no point in it, who, at one time, (but not anymore) mixed prescription medication with lots of wine in order to only have to lay in bed for .5 seconds before sleep would come because THERE IS NO WAY I CAN BE AWAKE WITH ALL THESE THOUGHTS IN MY HEAD ALONE IN THE DARK.

I am both things. If I could save you from it, I would. I would type BAD THINGS in black and GOOD THINGS in pink. But I can't save myself from it, I can just... well, I don't know, I'm still figuring out that last part. So bear with me, I'll get there. I will get there... to a day it's all in pink.

I Am Both Things

Look What I Can Do !!!!

So I finally figured out how to work it so if you guys want, you can email a post to a friend. Just click on that little envelope at the end of a post.

You should do this if you want to: Make someone else laugh, MAKE SOMEONE FEEL BETTER ABOUT not going to the gym, eating those dozen Christmas cookies, not having a sex prospect (yet) for '08, hating their boss, having back fat& a muffin top, having a crazy family, missing their Bad Old Boyfriend or getting drunk and doing something embarrassing. BECAUSE I HAVE/DO ALL THAT AND MORE!

Look What I Can Do !!!!

How It All Began

There's a reason I dread when the phone rings late at night and there's a reason I freak when my Dad leaves me voice mails that don't end with, "And everything is okay," even after we made a pact that he must always end voicemails with, "And everything is okay."

We made this pact because my Dad NEVER calls me unless it's really, really bad news. Although, lately, he's caught me off guard, sometimes just calling to say "hello." This really throws me... as he has an incredible aversion to even using a telephone to the point that if it is ringing in the house he will walk over to it and pick it up and hang up on whomever is calling.

I can only guess it's because my family has learned that in a day YOUR WORLD CAN BE TURNED UPSIDE DOWN, it might be last time you speak to someone you love, that you can look away for a moment and then the unspeakable can happen.

On the day that I learned David had died, everything was okay. I was sitting in my office on the TV show I was working on and looking over my notes on a script and would it be funnier if she said this or would it be funnier if she said that, when I decided to call home and I knew because my father has an aversion to even picking up the telephone that the fact that he had indeed picked up the telephone that something was very, very wrong.

"What's wrong?" And he told me. And I started not so much immediately crying as howling and wailing and tears were not just streaming but spouting. I know I kept screaming, "What? What?" even though, I knew very much what was what. David had been murdered. The police had found his ID in his pocket and called our home, thinking my Dad was his Dad, thus making it my father's responsibility to call my uncle and tell him that his son had been killed. "Whatttttt?"

I have never had this feeling before. Not through all my father's surgerys, donating my kidney to my dad, my cousin Michael's death when I was fourteen, not even when my younger cousin had cancer when I was sixteen.

The room came up on it's side. The wheelie office chair I was in smashed into my desk. I stood up but the floor beneath me was giving way, tipping more and more on it's side. I was shaking so hard I couldn't keep my balance. There were attempts at calls to bosses and co-workers and assistants and "I have to leave NOWs!" I ran out of the building not even quite sure where I would go.

And the howling wouldn't stop.

I walked by co-workers, writers, production people, costumer designers wheeling their costumes, electricians pushing their cable carts, caterers laying out their morning spreads and I did not care and I did not stop howling. All the way to my car and all the way home.

I got in my bed and thought, "This nightmare is just beginning."

How It All Began