Caitlin

James told me it’s post about anything week. And I just found my notes from the Republican National Convention. I think I had a glass of wine beforehand…maybe a glass of vodka.

Dear Senator McCain,

Your face terrifies me. In addition, its oldness, combined with the age apparent in your voice, makes you appear slash sound a bit batty (respectively). Lastly, you are severely bald. [click to continue…]

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The three flights of stairs up to my apartment have left me winded as of late.  I am especially worried because I’ll be heaving my furniture and various and sundry boxes up and down steps in the very near future…ah, moving day.  The last time I moved, I had a nervous breakdown and was in tears (Maren can attest to this).  While I have frequent nervous breakdowns, I do not cry.  Those three flights of stairs combined with cumbersome furniture and clunky manuvering can really take a toll on you.  On a positive note, my arms were like crazy, Madonna style toned for like two days.  Considering this, I would like to extend an invitation to all the paunchiness authors for moving day help.  Especially Maren, who I helped move and who has crazy woman strength.

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In South Saint Louis, there is a gem of late night dining called Uncle Bill’s Pancake House.  It wouldn’t rank all that high on Zagat’s, but it is my own personal mecca.  The staff is clad in tapered white denim and enough electric blue eyeshadow to put any lady of the night to shame, and my own unfounded theory is that it’s the veritable Genco Olive Oil Company to the Korean Mafia of Greater Saint Louis.  But more importantly, there is the food.  Biscuits and gravy, bacon and eggs, pancakes topped with a heart-stopping amount of whipped butter.  [click to continue…]

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To avoid potential lawsuits, I make sure to tell everyone who enters my dojo that several of the chairs provided were rescued from the alley and were not actually made for sitting slash adjusting your weight on.  Par instance, there is a leather arm chair whose springs have come through the seat and threaten to leave the mark of Zorro on any ass blind enough to sit in it.  And then there is the very dangerous pink chair, whose wrath I felt first hand when I last changed a light bulb.  The connects of the chair are loose, and if too much pressure is placed toward the back, it will break in two.  They’re the most beautiful chairs, though.  I can’t get rid of them, and I was thinking that I’d do the place up like a historical home, putting signs on everything that say, “please do not touch or sit on the furniture”.  But this is what actually happened: [click to continue…]

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Bob Greene and Ellen tell us having a drink is bad for our waistline.  I disagree.  Last night at the mans, we were having a cocktail or three, and came up with these fun activities to counteract any negative effects your rum and Coke might have on your paunch.  I mean if there aren’t cocktails, it really isn’t a party and it’s certainly not going to be any fun.

• Pillowcase/Potato-sack races in the hallways (A NOTE: it is a good idea to decide on a finish line beforehand, but if you forget, simply declare yourself the winner)
• Put on a play in which someone plays Whitney Houston and the other is Bobby Brown.  When executed properly, the players should be drenched in sweat by the end of Act One.
• Design a crown for the Soul Caliber Tournament Championships.  When there’s pride and prize involved, you’ll be way into it and flail a bit.  (A NOTE: our Soul Caliber Tournament Champion crown was a tiara atop a brown, curly wig.  Also, I was the champion)
• Put the West Side Story record on the old phonograph and act out the scenes.  You should make costumes ahead of time. 
• Pretend that you’re on a soap opera and get catty.  This is especially funny if no one else knows what you’re doing.  Just keep yelling - they’ll catch on eventually.
• Bring cocktail hour to the treadmill.  Multitasking! 

So the next time a dieter or a weight-watcher tries to extol the virtues of sobriety, take the opportunity to extol the virtues on sweating out a hangover.

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For the sake of Paunchiness research, I did something ridiculous.  I physically exerted myself on the first date.  Heathen!  Two reasons why this is a bad idea.  One: I do not look normal when I exercise.  I look like a lobster upon entry to boiling water.  Two: It worries me because all I can think of is those couples who have pictures of themselves after climbing a mountain or completing a marathon, and have subscriptions to Outdoor Magazine.  Those people are disgusting.  As Shania Twain says, “Okay, so you’re athletic.  That don’t impress me much.”  (Shania Twain is my own personal hero and demi-god, and her lyrics occasionally speak to me)

So I am preparing for this “tennis date” and thinking alright, does it look like I’m trying to be precious with this tennis skirt and these pink high-tops?  For any sporting event, I try to look as fierce as possible to distract from a sub-par skill set.  However, since I only have the high tops, I decide to apply some mascara for added Tyra Banks fierceness.  I look good.

We are playing the tennis, I am kicking ass, he has brought Gatorade, everything is wonderful.  Then all the sudden there is sweat happening, and my face is hot.  Still kicking ass, but a little nervy.  In fifteen minutes, my eyes are burning with sweaty teardrops, and my bangs are sticking to my forehead.  I curse Shania Twain’s name.

I can’t even explain how mortified I am when I return home to see my lobster face with my raccoon eyes.  I look like some defeated beauty queen after a particularly grueling talent competition.  It’s awful.

The lesson learned is this: Never do it on the first date.  They never call you afterward.

Technorati Tags: diet, exercise, Running, tennis, weight loss

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