Hot People Clean Up Their Acts

Once upon a time, about a year and a half ago, I excused my drunkenness and the occasional resulting blackouts by saying that...hey, I remember the IMPORTANT things. I think I continue to excuse that behaviour in my slightly-younger-than-now self because it was occurring at a time in my life when I was emerging from a lengthy period of hazy mediocrity and the fun I was having on those evenings was bordering on legendary. And, to be honest, it was shortlived; I think that was the last (or at least, amongst the last) time that I blacked out.

Until last weekend. And for some reason, I'm not really inclined to excuse myself from that particular blackout. Perhaps because I'm slightly older...but probably not. It happened innocently enough. I accepted a few drinks made by a trustworthy friend (I say trustworthy to absolve him of any culpability here. Everything that happened here is my fault). I knew what was in them...including the sizeable shots of tequila. I also, in an effort to be gregarious, imbibed one or two shots of tequila. And then we cabbed to the dance bar. And then I don't remember anything afterwards. The rest of my night has been pieced together by a series of witnesses. And it causes me to shake my head. Vigorously.

A friend demonstrated my dancing (?) that evening. Face. Palm. I like to think of myself as a pretty good dancer. And when I'm in my usual state of comfortable buzz at the bar, I frequently enjoy myself by laughing at people who just haven't got it going on. Examples of this might include the cougars two-stepping to Will.i.am last Friday, or the trio of girls awkwardly grinding with each other when my boyfriend and I went to hear the final performance of one of the djs in the area we think is kinda fly. Those are the people I laugh at. And I became one of those people on that decidedly uncrowded Saturday night.

Also, I drunk-dialed my boyfriend who was sleeping soundly after a hard day of work while I pickled my liver and gyrated awkwardly. I think I did this from a snowbank I'd fallen in. I suggested that if he were awake, then he should call me. If he were not awake, then he should remain asleep and forego the phone call. Clearly, I'm a genius. I may have waited for him to call back for a few minutes. Thank goodness I gave up and walked home, because if I'd waited there all night, I'm sure the blue-haired biddies tottering off to church the next morning would have discovered a splayed-out Miss T Popsicle.

The pièce-de-resistance of the whole evening, thank goodness, was witnessed only by my cat. I vomited. But where? I'm actually too ashamed to say. Rest assured, though, that it was not in a garbage can or a toilet or any other receptacle appropriate for vomit. I don't remember the actual act of vomiting, but I was horrified to find it when I woke up. Ugh.

And this is what I KNOW happened. To whom did I speak? WHAT DID I SAY TO THEM? Gawd! When I was doing my undergrad, a guy I knew in residence produced a number of business-card-looking things. They were apology cards, with a generic apology to account for the usual amnesia associated with the binge-drinking. And I feel like I need a stack of them right now. And I don't think that's acceptable. Or hot.

Now, the general response to an evening like this is the ol' faithful "...and I'll never touch another drink ever again." I think we all know that would be false. But I think a certain amount of responsibility is in order so that I can maintain that comfortable buzz without the uncomfortable awkwardness I'm feeling every time I see someone who might have been there. I hate weeks like this.

Hot People are ON A BOAT

It's time for some good shit, hey? I thought so too. It is for this reason that I am pleased to announce that I can conclusively say I recently experienced one of the top 20 weekends of life a few weeks ago.

So here's the deal. I have this friend. He likes to call me on the fly. This often works out for him because I frequently have very little to do. This one Saturday evening was no exception. I was all ready to settle in for ANOTHER night of DVD, wine and candy I don't need to eat. Then he called. Within 30 minutes we were speeding across the Ontario/Quebec border. Within an hour, we were eating delicious local food & wine under a giant tent.

The tent was hot, so we went for a digestive consitutional outside. My friend, while spontaneous, is also "a lifer," in that he's spent most of his life in the area. This meant we met lots of people he knew in and around the tent. One of them just happened to be a friend with a 29' sailboat. Well, you know how much I love sailboats? I love them even more when they have gallons of sangria on board.

We drank, we caroused, we went for a midnight sail...but that's really not the point of this story. I don't know if it was the sangria or my new "don't analyze, just act" attitude (probably both), but a lot of shit went down that I was really proud of.

1. I spoke French. For serious. Well...Franglais. But my friend said he was impressed with me, so I'll take it. I've discussed with my boss the possibility of keeping a jug of sangria in the insulin fridge at work so I can see our francophone clients (I think that's the magic). She's considering it.

2. I danced my ass off. I garnered what I think were genuine compliments about my dancing skill. This means I should keep doing it...which is good, because it really is my first love.

3. I made out with a delightful Quebecois stranger on the dancefloor. I saw him, he saw me, we had a moment, some skinny blonde chick (bitches!...they are my nemeses) tried to cut in on my moment and, for the first time ever, I said "NO! This my MY moment" and blocked her path.

Further to this, I declined his suggestion that we move on to more comfortable surroundings. And I'm proud of that. My usual attitude is that THIS might be the LAST guy ever to want to sleep with me so I'd better go for it (Dad, I know you're reading this and cringing...keep reading...I'm making progress!). THIS TIME I thought: what would I rather do? Have sloppy drunk-sex with an attractive guy I'm never going to see again or sleep on a sailboat? I made what I think is the obvious choice, SLEEPING ON A MOTHERF---ING BOAT! We exchanged numbers instead. Then I forgot his. I'm not waiting anxiously by the phone either, rest assured.

4. I went swimming in my underwear. The fact that I was willing to bare my midriff in front of people I just met made sleeping in my clammy undies totally worthwhile. I don't even care whether it was enjoyable for everyone around me. 6 months ago, I would never have let so many strangers at a time see so much of my skin. I guess that means I like it better. Huzzah!

...And the magic just kept on coming. Though I had to drive to Sudbury on 4 hrs sleep the next day, I got to see my cousin win gold in his event at the provincial canoe/kayak competition. Also, the radio keeps playing songs I dig.

Oh, and did I mention I went to Scotland right after that? No? Well, it was awesome. It had castles and shit. More on this later, I'm sure.

So, everything's coming up Miss T these days. Whoever's in charge of this: keep up the good work. Let the good times roll.

Hot People Like Diet Cherry Cola

I've had two things on my mind lately. Well...three things...but the third one is really more of a private conversation than a public mind-drool, so I'll wait until the time is right for that one.

1. Stuff that I want.

2. Stuff that I like.

So, I had a wicked jones for a diet Dr. Pepper tonight.

***This is not the point. This is that thing I do where I talk about something mundane and then relate it to some deep part of my internal being and then blow everyone's mind (or, maybe just mine)

Anyway, I had a wicked jones for a diet Dr. Pepper tonight. I was eating some homemade shortbreads (be jealous!), and they were a little too short for the hot weather and I needed to wet my whistle with something other than expired milk. As I walked over to the Mac's, I thought the good Dr. might have a delicious blend 23 flavours that would do the job. I was really hoping one of those flavours was aspartame. Unfortunately, Mac's milk could not deliver. I knew I was asking too much; who am I to think that I should be able to get a calorie-free beverage in my preferred flavour at the only retail establishment open after 10 p.m. four nights a week? I'm currently drinking the full-sugar version, which is, as we speak, boring tiny holes in my teeth and then somehow depositing the excavation materials on my waistline.

The same thing happened when I tried to make hot artichoke dip a few months ago. Canned artichoke hearts? Hilarious notion! I had to settle for hot spinach dip. It was tasty, but not exactly what I was looking for.

Ok...so, what I'm getting at, is that this town just doesn't seem to deliver on exactly what I want. I can get what-I-want-adjacent, or two complementary halves of what I want...but never the genuine article, it seems. And I think you know what I'm talking about here. I've been pretty relationship-focused lately. Even when I let good ole rational brain in to say something cogent about trying to make friends and have a good time, underneath it all, I'm really hoping that every interaction I make is going to lead to something lasting (by this, I mean, more than a few weeks) and, let's face it...coital.

Alas, I recently came to the conclusion that this isn't going to happen. At least, not in the foreseeable future. All signs point to the apparent reality that I have entered a period in my life that I've lovingly monikered the ERA OF EFFED UP PLATONIC RELATIONSHIPS. A bird's eye view of my recent dealings with the opposite sex will show you this: it's LIKE we're dating...except we're definitely not dating. This is despite the fact that sometimes their self-described physical type looks an awful lot like me. This is despite the fact that sometimes their self-described personality type sounds an awful lot like me. And for a long time, this was really confusing to me. WHY would people more or less describe me, to my face, as the kind of person they really want to date, if they don't actually want to date me?

So, on the weekend, a friend of mine clarified it for me. I described one of these effed-up platonic situations, and he said, "Huh, so you're the incase of emergency, break glass girlfriend."

And then the lights turned on. And suddenly, I was enraged. I am the safety girlfriend. When all other options have been exhausted, they know I'll do a reasonable job as a pinch-hitter girlfriend. And that's why these dudes keep dangling carrots in front of me and then pulling them out of my reach just before I grab onto them.

On to the stuff I like. In particular, I mean stuff I like about me. I've been thinking a lot about that question my friend asked back when I couldn't cry (Problem solved, btw. This song did the trick. Bawled my face off).

I think it's an important question to be able to answer. So important that I was discussing it with a few members of my family. My mother disagrees. She thinks that people shouldn't be able to answer that question unless they want to admit they're full of themselves. In fact, her response was so visceral that she had to get up out of her chair, to illustrate that she hates people who haven't got a problem saying "I am SOOO great! I LIKE myself! I'm good at walking (she marched on the spot to illustrate this point), and I'm good at smiling, and I'm a good person!" And frankly, I think I wouldn't like them either. Because I'd be jealous of them.

But that's because I'm not very good at smiling. Observe. (In the interest of full disclosure, the drink beside me is mine. And it was tasty. The bottle of pills is not mine. That's cat medicine. I don't know how it tastes).

Seriously, though. I'm already full of myself. I have almost 100 pages of text broadcast through cyberspace devoted wholly to myself. Wouldn't it be great if that full-of-myself-ness had a positive spin to it?

So, instead of thinking of all the things I don't like about myself (like my smile, and my acne, and my fat ass, and...wait, right...that's what I'm NOT doing this time), I really should think about the things I like.

So, at first I thought I liked the fact that I'm 100% genuine. I do not know how to bullshit. But then I remembered how my 0% bullshit policy gets me into trouble A LOT. So, I scratched that idea. Then, I realized that the thing I like best about myself is the fact that I'm pretty effing resilient. I've had a lot of shitty life, and a particularly bad run the past few months, but I keep getting up and coming out swinging. I like a lot of other things too. I'm looking pretty curvy these days, and I have really nice eyes. And hair. And boobs. (Please ignore the mess on my coffee table. And my shitty furniture)

Ok - back to that back-up relationship thing. Yeah, that makes me mad. And I'm realizing that I ought to like myself way too much to be THAT girl. So, while a small bit of me still burns a candle for some of these dudes, when and if whatever emergency arises and they decide they want to break that glass, I've gotta think long and hard about whether being behind that glass is EXACTLY WHAT I WANT.

And in the meantime, I'm going to have to resign myself to going without exactly what I want. I can compromise on my chilled cherry-flavoured cola beverages every once in awhile, but I'm pretty sure I don't want to compromise on this anymore.

So, good sirs, I am pleased to be friends with you. But there's no need to continue to lead me on. I'm going a different way.

Hot People Don't Paint Themselves Into Corners

When I was a student, I learned a lot about behaviour change. That's basically what dietitians do, actually. We help people change one of the first (and therefore, most habitual) behaviours they adopt. If it was easy, I'd be out of a job. Or at least, that's what I tell my clients so they feel more at ease with me.

Well...the thing about hotness, I think, is that it's not really about the way I look. If it was just about that, I'd have stopped writing this long ago. Or at least, I'd have stopped around the time that I moved here...since my downstairs neighbour tells me on a semi-daily basis how good-looking I am. I do not tell him how much he looks like John Wayne's long-lost cousin from Hicksville in return, but I think it every time. Anyway, the hotness thing must really be about my behaviour and my attitude. And I know better than most how hard those things are to change.

Case in point: My discussion of my listing tendencies crossing wires with my romantic life really got me thinking about how the lists are kind of getting in the way of the rest of my life as well. Last week, I sat at home, mourning the fact that all of my friends had plans that night. In order to fill the time, I made another list. Actually, it's way more ridiculous than that. I filled in my brand-spanking new daytimer. Seriously. I spent my Thursday night planning each day of the next year of my life. And sometime midway through that evening, I realized that what I was doing was REALLY effed up. Really. This obviously made me really upset. I frequently lament the fact that I don't have the social life I wish I had. I don't think it's because I'm some socially inept creeper (although, I did spend 8 years doing intercollegiate competitive debate...so perhaps I'm entirely wrong about that). I think it could have something to do with the fact that when I get into a social situation (except, of course, when I'm already a little bit tipsy), I feel like I have nothing to add to the situation. When I realized this, I also realized that rather than keeping the daytimer as a contingency for a dry spell in my social life, I was doing it as an excuse not to get myself out there. This is a depressing notion, and I've been pretty sad lately as a result.

Let me tell you a seemingly unrelated story. I thought of it the same night, as I was chopping jalapenos to put in a delicious mango salsa. The last time (or at least the most memorable time) I was chopping jalapenos, I was home alone back in Halifax. I was making supper for me and my then-boyfriend who was working until 10 or so at a restaurant just around the corner. The knife I was using must have been kind of dull, because as I was chopping, jalapeno juice was flying everywhere. And a big juicy drop of it landed directly in my eye. I'm sure you can guess that the resulting pain was, well, excruciating. And I'm not even sure excruciating really covers it. It was...AAAAAAAUGH...pain. And I panicked. I didn't know WHAT to do. I grabbed an ice cube, stuck it directly on my eye, and staggered my way, depth-perceptionless, around the corner to the burger joint where my boyfriend was working. Since he was working for at least another half hour, and I felt as though this was something that needed to be dealt with immediately, I stole his tips for the night and grabbed a cab to emerg. I could have gotten the cab for free, as it turned out, because a girl holding ice to her eye and asking to be driven to the ER in the evening just begs to be pitied. Probably because she looks like someone's taken the boots to her, and not because she's a culinary dolt, though. When I got to emerg, the triage service asked what had happened and upon hearing my story responded with "Ouch, that's gotta suck." Yes, I thought, it sure does. Now please get me to some kind of eyewash station. Give me some kind of antidote to this burning, burning pain. I learned that night that there is, and I quote, "no medical treatment for jalapeno juice in the eye." This was the last straw. I turned, stomped out, possibly flipped the bird to the triage service for failing to take pity on me, and promptly began to sob. With the first teardrops to leave my eyes, the burning pain immediately subsided. Huh...so there's no MEDICAL treatment for jalapeno juice in the eye, but there is a perfectly natural, holistic treatment. Just start bawling.

As I was remembering this story, I realized I couldn't remember the last time I actually cried. I came very close, a couple of times, recently. Once was when a friend asked me what my favourite thing about myself was and I genuinely couldn't think of an answer. The other was when I considered that, though my current dating situation has hurled me into a kind of tumultuous tug-of-war with myself, it is immensely better than the given-up, dead-feeling person I was towards the end of my last relationship. And perhaps a good cry would be just the thing to release all this pent-up depression I've been feeling. But, I don't know if that would get to the root of the problem. I've got a (this time, emotional) burning feeling again, and I know something's gotta give if I'm going to get rid of it.

So here we are back at the daytimer. I feel like I need to break out of my protective shell of plans and lists. And I don't know how the heck to do it. I'm really not good at being impulsive, and when I am, it's usually not very good for me (I'm REALLY good at buying candy on impulse, for example). On the other hand, if I consider my romantic life - in an effort not to have that dead-feeling again I've been making a conscious effort not to do things the same way. In fact, I'm considering dating in ways I never, ever thought I would. See: not wearing the proverbial pants ALL THE EFFING TIME, and obviously, also, restraining from labeling and listing. And I think my strategies are working there, to at least some extent. Perhaps I can use this success to motivate me to change in other areas of my life. At least, that's what I'd suggest to my clients if I wanted to help them decrease their potato portion.

One thing I know for sure is that I have to break down some walls, or I'm never going to get out of this corner and get what I want.

Hot People Contain Their Glee

First of all, I'm learning that not a lot of heterosexual males around these parts share my devotion to that television show. Alas, I indulge that guilty pleasure alone, ensconced in the comfort of a throw blanket in my office staring, eyes-wide, at my computer screen.

But that's not really what I mean. I had a date last night (this time I KNOW it was a date). I was pretty effing excited about a. the date in general...cuz...I mean, well, you know how it's been, and b. the person with whom I was having the date. He's pretty cute. And pretty sweet. And I'm pretty sure the date went really well. And...well, see here's the problem.

I am having a REALLY hard time playing it cool. I feel as though my previous experience hasn't really prepared me for this "dating" thing. Having had one major relationship spanning ages 20-25, much of my formative dating years were missed. And that relationship began kind of like this: First, we didn't know each other. Then we knew each other and we were (more-or-less) in a relationship. There wasn't really that getting-to-know-you dating period where you know you like each other but you don't spend every waking minute together, which is where I'm pretty sure I am now. Since that relationship ended, sure, I've had dates, but since I think REALLY highly of myself and have super high standards (maybe THAT's why I'm still single) I really just wanted those dates to be over and never happen again. So I can't even draw from previous fledgling dating experience because it nearly always flopped from the first moment.

I'm also a little concerned about the hotness goal now. I've been as much as told that I've "attained hotness," but as I've said before, I don't feel really good about deciding that I've reached a goal because someone (even a boy I really like) else told me I'd done it. That's not to say I didn't REALLY enjoy hearing it, but I think you know what I mean.

As a result, I'm pretty much totally at a loss. I am simultaneously deliriously happy, terrified, tentative and reckless. And I'd really like all those feelings to ensconce themselves within my psyche in a manner similar to my ensconcement of myself for private Glee viewings. I think they're failing at this.

Hot People Have Their Reasons

Maybe it's the perpetual cycle of cruel teasing sunniness followed by inexplicable snow, rain and cloudy weather. Maybe it's the cosmic coincidence that I woke up both slightly hungover AND with my monthly inconvenience and could do little more this morning than haul my sorry ass from the bed, to the bath (standing up in the shower was just too much for me today), to the couch to watch a children's film and drink copious amounts of milky tea. Maybe it's because my new hairdresser alerted me to the presence of grey hair in my coif last week, and now every time I look at myself in the mirror, I keep thinking I see huge chunks of grey. Maybe it's the fact that, though I was invited to something party-esque last night (social life! huzzah!) and got pleasantly tipsy, tipsiness yesterday always results in feelings like this today.

I don't know what it is, but I'm kind of in an emo funk (imagine the fusion of THOSE musical genres...blech...well, that's how I feel). I've been writing this stuff for over a year now - and I think I have improved on the hotness front. I think I'm a lot more interesting than I was just over a year ago...for serious. It's been hard work, too - or at least painful - what with the brazilian waxes, unfortunate skin reactions due to experiments with makeups, face creams, and cleansers, and constant attempts to get my bicycle up hilariously steep hills in an effort to make my ass look sweet. But what am I doing this for? And for whom?

This whole thing started as a way to feel good about myself - and to a certain extent it's worked. But I still find myself feeling like this a little more often than I'd like. And what have I really got to show for it, anyway? A handful of slightly regrettable one-night stands (some only regrettable because they never got past that one night), a few pounds melted away (but really, only a few), a better handle on the application of makeup, slightly more flattering clothing and a seriously twisted co-dependent relationship with online dating sites.

And when feeling good about myself didn't seem to be motivation enough, I added spite to the mix - remember plan ab-tastic? I'm 100% sure that decision was all about making dudes who'd taken a pass on me experience palpable regret when they realize they missed out on the hot, hot bod I will, of course, one day have.

But now I'm pretty sure that I'm measuring my self-like by how much boys like me. And I think it's been that way for quite some time. AND I think that's not really very hot at all.

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Incidentally, I think I discovered, through observational study of behaviour, the secret to my not really caring if particular boys like me. Guy friends: if you suspect I'm interested in being more than friends with you and you'd like to leave that particular queue (cuz I'll be honest, there are more than a few of you out there), here's what you should do. Do something forgivably dick-ish to me. Seriously. I mean, not super dick-ish - unless you also want to stop being friends altogether. "Accidentally" tell me I look fat in those pants, then subsequently apologise. That kind of thing. I'm pretty sure this is a no-fail plan.
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So, back to the original question - why am I doing this? For whom?

I think it's kind of a cliché and sell-out-y to decide I'm hot when some guy I think is kind of cute decides I'm hot for me. It's got to be for some other reason.

In the last four months, almost 500 people have read this blog almost 1500 times. I'm not adept enough with my analytics program to know if that's a lot of people or not, but those are pretty astounding numbers to me. But why? Seriously, what are you reading this for? Because if I'm inspiring people, then I think that's hot. Even if it's just because I'm funny - that'd be ok too. Hot people are funny. Could I get some help with my crisis of conscience, or should I just pack it in?

Hot People Definitely Don't Go Cougar Clubbing

While there's something to be said for being one of the five prettiest girls at the club, sometimes it just doesn't mean that much.

For example, last night my roommate and I were invited out by a woman nearly twice our age to go out with some of her friends. My roommate unknowingly accepted an invitation out to the club because she thought she was being invited for dinner...not one to pass up free food, she accepted before she knew what she was getting into. Since we've been pretty much caged up in our apartments for the last few weeks, I thought it would be fun to tag along anyway...you know, see the sights of our new city.

Ok, so I should start off by letting you know that we were looking pretty fine (I think so anyway...). Observe. I was pretty proud of my outfit choice and my continued makeup skillz (note my use of blending brush in this gratuitously narcissistic self-portrait)
Don't I look intense? Yeah...but anyway, I understand that I may not look hot just yet by many people's standards, but you really just have to understand where we were. First, meet our chaperone.
We were greeted first by her mushroom cloud of perfume (I say mushroom cloud because it was strong enough to knock us over when we opened the door to her car), then by her delightful hairdo. From this angle it looks almost reasonable, but let me tell you, from the back view you can see that parts of it stand a full four inches above her head. FOUR INCHES!!! It was amazing to behold...not to mention nearly impossible to smother my gleeful laughter at beholding it. She, and she alone, must be the driving force behind Vidal Sassoon's continued success in the world of hairspray.

Upon realizing who we were spending our evening with, I decided that there was really nothing for it but to get completely drunk'd. This may have been my greatest mistake. By the time we got in the cars to go from our hostess' fine abode (it really was quite nice) to "the club" I'm pretty sure walking (let alone anything that might involve any sort of gross motor skill) was more or less out of the question.

I said at the beginning that we were among the five hottest people in the bar. I think your introduction to my hostess has put that into perspective, but if it does not, perhaps the fact that the result of me trying to look sexy (at least I think that's what I'm trying to do here...the two drinks in one hand really adds to my appeal, no?) had only negligible effect on my standings in the hotness rankings.

That being said, I learned many things last night.

1. The DJs here will play anything you want if you first bait them about how the DJs where you're from do it better, then subsequently provide them with hugs (I'm not really sure that EVERY hug was worth the songs he played).

2. The stripper pole is harder to use than hoe-bags in shresses make it seem.

3. Even if you dance with the best looking single guy in the club, it doesn't really count for much if he's clad head-to-toe in denim. (I actually also danced with another man who was much better looking, but my roommate was too intoxicated to use my camera properly, so unfortunately, no record was kept of that delightful encounter). I'm not sure what we're doing here...

4. ALWAYS have a quarter in your pocket for when shit gets real (or in this case, you start to realize that you're not only among the prettiest, you're actually also among the youngest people around, by a sizeable margin). It's also helpful to remember a cab number or two.

So in conclusion, our first night on the town was a moderate success, but I think we'll try somewhere a little more age appropriate next time...and possibly will forego hearing Flo Rida's "Get Low" if it means I can keep my hugs to myself.

Hot People Kick the Habit

I have a pizza problem. Like, for serious. Pizza is like heroin to me (not to minimize the plight of heroin addicts - if Trainspotting has taught me nothing else, it's taught me that the life of a junkie is dirty and shitty, and rife with really sick-making hallucinations, all set to a killer soundtrack). Seriously, though. If I'm not eating pizza, I'm thinking of when I'm going to eat pizza next. When I run out of pizza, I'm hatching plans to get more pizza.

I think I hit an all-time low this past week. On Monday, I was at a luncheon at which they served pizza (does anyone else have a problem with the juxtaposition of a classy word like luncheon and a greasy, cheese-smothered word like pizza?). There were leftovers, so of course I totally took some home. I had it mostly for lunches - once for breakfast when I was in too much of a hurry to spoon my usual vanilla yogurt into a bowl and then spoon it into my mouth (it's the extra step, you see...I can just stuff the pizza directly into my mouth, bypassing the spoon altogether). Instead I just grabbed the last slice of Adriana Pesto.

I thought that was the end of it, too. But then I had a party on Saturday. In addition to the copious amounts of cake (copious! with hilarious icing-writing inscriptions), we also ordered enough pizza to feed the standing army of a small country like Andorra or Lichtenstein. The result of this overorder was that Sunday morning left me with almost three full extra-large pizzas. Extra-delicious on the second day, I had some for lunch, all the while fully planning on cooking an actual supper made from foods from the four food groups later that evening.

As luck would have it, though, my power went out at suppertime. No power means no stove means no wholeseome dinner :( But, there was still some perfectly good cheese pizza on the counter...voilà! Dinner for one! I had some more as a midnight snack. And then some more for breakfast the next day. I think I had consumed nearly an entire extra-large pizza when I realized that I wasn't sure if it was me or somebody else who had eaten the other half of the half-eaten slice of pepperoni I picked up off the coffee table to nibble on that afternoon. THAT's when I decided this pizza thing had gone too far!

I'm off pizza now. There's just no two ways about it. I don't think I can ever have another piece of pizza as long as I live. This is good, because it was just another one of those foods contributing to my inability to hunt down skirts in my size (and probably also pants and tops). Now when I think of pizza my stomach gets a little queasy. I can't think of pizza. I'm sure if I see another hot, greasy, tomato-ey, melty cheesy slice....mmm....slice....

A wedge or two after the bar isn't cheating, now...is it?

Hot People Set and Achieve Goals

I just ended a five year relationship. It was my decision, and I think it was the right one, but I've just recently come to the horrifying realization that I'm single now.

I don't know how to be single. I've never known how to be single (this might explain a. why I was single for so long before my relationship, and b. why I stayed in the relationship for so long). But all these people keep telling me they love being single (you know...single and loving it?)...so maybe I should give it a try, right? Don't I look excited at this prospect?

Problem is, I'm painfully bad at meeting new people. I'm not good at making small talk, or being interesting. One might wonder, then, why I'm blogging. Well, here's why: I've noticed that hot people have no trouble meeting new people (mostly because new people are VERY interested in meeting them). So I've decided to become hot. I realize this is not a SMART goal...so I'm putting a deadline on it. I'm going to be hot in six months. For reals. I'm blogging about it because frankly, if there isn't anyone to keep me in line, I just won't do it (See: Miss T does the dishes every day) - and I also think that my misadventures (and they WILL be misadventures) in becoming hot will make for a delightful sense of schadenfreude (I can laugh at my own expense, right? That way it comes out even).

So, how am I going to do this. Well, I know I have piles of room for improvement. Par example (...sometimes I like to pretend I'm French), last night was my first night alone. I was very scared. Supper of champions: Pillsbury Pizza Pops, Ben & Jerry's Ice Cream, Smirnoff Ice. Obviously, hot people don't have this for supper. Nor do they go for the leftover ice cream for breakfast, like I did this morning. That would just be too indulgent. I understand this is a bad start...but I was scared to be alone, and there's really nothing like alcohol and trans-fats to make you feel comfortable. Dancing my ass off at the club (instead of sitting alone on my couch and watching chick flicks all night, which is what I chose to do) might also be a potential change.

So here I begin my quest for hotness, and we'll see where we end up in six months. I'm pretty optimistic about how this is going to go (but I was just as optimistic when I tried to do the dishes every day). I think my determination is obvious, though. Just look at me staring off into the distance, envisioning my future hotness and the wonderful life it will bring me!