Tuesday, May 15, 2012

Oh Fuck, I Just Ate Half A Bag Of Chips And My Dinner's On The Stove

Oh fuck, I just ate half a bag of chips and my dinner's on the stove.  I'm not even hungry anymore.  It's 9 o'clock at night and I'm not going to be hungry for another hour.  I have to work tomorrow!  I can't eat at 10 o'clock at night.  But I don't want to starve!  God dammit.  And I can't eat late and sleep on a full stomach either?!  God I'm an idiot.  This fucks everything up.  I can't believe I did this again.  Yesterday with the hummus and today with the green "mojo" wholegrain tortilla chips.  Does anyone even know what "mojo" is?  Some dried green chili pepper powder or something?  Whatever, it doesn't matter, but you're not supposed to eat that for dinner.  It could be a casual app maybe with a beer, but this is crazy. 

A whole dinner cooking over there, for nothin'.  Think of the energy I'm wasting.  My gas bill's not outrageous, but that's no reason to waste all that energy.  What if we all acted this way?  What if we all decided to cook a bunch of food we wouldn't even eat?  Cook some food, then realize you've no use for it: dump it.  Look, I'm going to put it in some Tupperware and I'll eat it later, so it won't REALLY go to waste.  But you know what I'm saying.  Look, it's just I have ballet tomorrow night and "mojo" chips are not an energizing food source or something that makes me look good in a leotard.  There.  I feel fat.  Are you happy now?  I feel like a fatty.  Eatin' all those chips.  LIKE A GLUTTON.  Go ahead, oh sure, take some more--shove 'em down!  There you go, you happy now?  Are you?  Are ya?  Happy now?  Oh, well that's just great, because now your clothes don't fit and you feel like shit.  Bravo.  Just, braaaavo, Pamela.  Slow clap. 

No, I KNOW--I'm KIDDING.  I'm just kidding about the fat thing.  I don't really feel fat, c'mon.  I'm fucking kidding.  I know I look good.  I think I could make at least a two ex-boyfriends miss me right now if they saw me.  So it's fine.  It's just all that food, it's embarrassing.  There was just such a lack of ceremony to those chips.  I wasn't even thinking, I just pushed them in there.  No ceremony at all.  With the lentils at least, they'd have been in a proper bowl and garnished with a little spring of parsley.  It would have been nice.  I would have sat down, checked Facebook, ate.  But now it's just Facebook and my lips scraped raw from the mojo powder.  Fuck!  I shouldn't have done that.

Tuesday, January 24, 2012

The Glamorous Wardrobe of the Professional Writer

Fact: writers cannot dress themselves. I am no exception. And, because I spend a lot of time at home alone, and because I pay for my own heat (meaning the thermostat never goes above 65), this winter has resulted in several baffling and hilarious sartorial combinations. To wit:

- thermal underwear twin set from Kmart, size 1X (for that sexy kurta effect) worn under quilted, checkered construction worker shirt

- grey "sweater leggings" from Target rendered unwearable in public due to extreme knee-bagginess, thermal undershirt and flower-print summer dress under turquoise cowl-neck sweater

- thermal underwear set again, avec quilted down vest that is exactly the same as the one worn by the old Chinese lady at the fruit store

- grey sweatpants, grey cashmere sweater with holes in it, long, black-and-grey Dorothy Zbornak-esque sweater (to be honest I wear this most days)

- same thermal underwear set, this time paired with a pink bathrobe for that stay-at-home mom look

- completely naked except for a blue hooded sweatshirt and my husband's bedroom slippers, no socks (laundry day)

- same blue hooded sweatshirt, paired with heart-patterned granny undies from the Gap, fuzzy bathroom slippers (laundry day variant)

Most of the time, these wardrobe choices are accessorized with a pair of taupe gloves from H&M that I cut the fingers off of so little balls of taupe synthetic wool scatter like tumbleweeds across my desk when I wear them.

On a related note, I just found a Museum of the Moving Image sticker on the back of my calf.

That's all. Carry on.