Thursday, January 17, 2008

More drinking

I am trying out Drunkorexia. At least, I did. The other night, when I went out drinking irresponsibly and drank many beers (oh, double foul) without eating a single thing all day.

Turns out, 6 pints + > 24 hrs. of no food = drunk as hell. You'd think I'd have figured it out, but I'm going to be honest with you, I have not really ever been the kind of girl to skip meals.

I've lost like, 7 pounds though, so that's good, right?

My husband and I are planning on starting a running regime. We will get to be lucky little cookie cutter couple in running shoes together. It's very romantic.

Thursday, January 10, 2008


Well, so far so good.

Which is not to say that I'm not availing myself of the occasional beer (when hanging out with the in-laws, I'm afraid the "no beer, no cigarettes" rule does not apply. I am not made of stone). But, for the most part, I am trying to turn myself both into a classy broad who makes herself a martini and screams at the television during the New Hampshire primaries, and also become a better alcoholic. How soon before the taste of vodka does not make me shudder like a 16-year-old drinking her first non-Zima?

So far, the vodka's we've tried:

Grey Goose. First, I'm not linking to the original site because it makes you say if you're 21 or not and for some reason alcohol websites are full of flash animation, and it's like, hey dopes, way not to understand your audience - someone who's that committed to look up a brand of booze on the internet does not have the patience or single vision to click on the tiny little "skip intro" sign. Second, Grey Goose is totally the Bose Stereos of vodkas. There is no reason on earth that this vodka should cost as much as it does. It is mediocre at best.

Second: Ciroc which is distilled from grapes, is in a very nice bottle and taste like someone dipped a medicine-tainted ballbag in it. My husband likes this vodka, because he likes ballbags and medicine.

Third (and currently): Finlandia. This has more of the vodka benefits, which is to say that the gross rubbing alcohol flavor is at least slightly drowned out by the olive juice that I am currently making my martinis with in a 1:1 ratio with vodka. I will experiment around until I find something ideal.

Please do not mention gin to me. I went through a gin phase and I just don't have the patience for that anymore. If I wanted to drink a Christmas wreath, I would.

I almost choked to death on the olive toothpick last night. I might have been playing the PS3 and zoned out on Benadryl, and tried to eat the last olive off the toothpick no-handed, thinking it would be frictiony but instead it flew off the toothpick in the opposite way and I almost inhaled a festive red little wooden stick of death.

Hooray martinis!

Wednesday, January 2, 2008

New Year

Just a couple of thoughts:

I am not a big enacter of resolutions. Why set myself up for failure? thinkest I. I am, in my heart, a lazy, underaccomplished Lothario with less drive than desire, and resultions just go to show how little I grow in a year-upon-year scenario.

My spouse and I have begun writing letters to ourselves at the new year, establishing things we're concerned about, achievable goals, etc., and then read them the previous year. We're supposed to wait until the new year but we usually read them when we're taking out the Christmas decorations (which is, in fact, the handiest place to store them).

No letters this year, although I am sure I will be forced into it, like I am with many things that end up being worth it.

A couple of things on my plate for attempted resolution:

1) I caught a glance of myself on New Year's Eve wearing red Adidas capri-length track pants and a blue-and-white-striped t-shirt. I looked like a braless tubby American Flag. Also, I looked like my mother, a little bit (although to be fair to her, she has less clashing taste). I should point out that I was at home, drinking some champagne and lounging about indolently, and nothing says indolent like my fat ass in clashing clothes and lack of supportive undergarments.

It's time I take matters into my own hands. I'd like to perhaps have the option of giving birth to a non-Maury baby at some point, and also not lose, like, my feet.

So, it's all Weight Watchers and martinis, and no beer and pasta for Tubsy over here.

It's a good thing that I have discovered the true and firm glory that is the extra-dirty vodka martini. I know, I know, it's so very 1997 of me. It's just, you should really see this belly.