Yesterday, one of the Jezebel’s said something about how after she stopped eating refined sugar her skin was transformed into something beautiful and glowing, and her efforts were finally justified by a study published by the British Journal of Dermatology. So I made the decision to quit sugar.
Then I realized I just couldn’t quit sugar when without a thought I slid a package of E.L. Fudge sandwich cookies into my basket at the grocery store three hours later. Cripes!
Joe asked me, incredulously, if I actually thought I was going to be able to quit sugar. He’s right. I’m the girl who used to say if I could only have one food to eat for the rest of my life I hoped it would be candy corn. Halloween is my favorite holiday. There are currently four different types of ice cream in my freezer. Crap!
Anyway, in my miserable failure today I ate four E.L. Fudge cookies only to discover on number four that one of those stupid elves had forgotten to squirt in the chocolate middle. Criminy!
Wednesday, October 24, 2007
Thursday, October 11, 2007
Unfortunately, I’ve developed an unreasonable hatred of Burt’s Bees. Or, I don’t know, maybe it’s fortunate—who knows what time will tell? But the hatred is just like all my other unreasonable hatreds, a wide assortment that includes Perez Hilton, people that walk too close to you on the sidewalk, the smell of spearmint, Russell Crowe, and white men over 65.
I know there’s tons of good stuff about Burt’s Bees. They use all natural ingredients, fair labor, good business practices, etc. But their hand crème feels like sticky, messy crap on my hands. And the smell is just okay. One time a lady at a mall kiosk tried to peddle me an almond lotion that smelled better than this.
I’ve always thought of hand lotion as a delightful, decadent experience but this stuff sure takes the fun out of it. I’ve been suffering through just so I don’t feel like I got ripped off for $8; if you put it on at night and don’t touch anything, in the morning the stickiness is gone and your hand-skin is a little softer.
27 Stars. Come to think of it, Burt probably falls into that over 65 category, the damn bee-keeping bastard.
Tuesday, October 9, 2007
After work, I stopped by my house to pick up my computer so I could finish my homework at a nearby coffeehouse (I must say, I am not as impressed by the iced chai as everyone else seems to be). When I left my house, my roommate and his girlfriend had been there enjoying a sickeningly romantic dinner. When I returned home, they were no longer there.
However, something was sitting on our kitchen counter, by the microwave just inside the door. That something was a glow-in-the-dark condom. I immediately thought to myself, sick! Then I thought about it a little longer. It was still wrapped, so it wasn't like it had been used. And, as previously mentioned, it was glow-in-the-dark which is as hilarious as the flavored or colored ones my friends and I used to buy from gas station bathrooms for a quarter. Remembering those days of childhood antics, leaving those condoms on friends' windshields, I thought how can I use this against him in some sort of practical joke? Should I blow it up and tape it to his door? Should I have sex on his bed with someone and use it? Or should I act like a mature adult and do nothing?
73 stars: I finally decided to hide it in his hint of lime Tostitos bag. I really hope I am there when he finds it, so I can feign no knowledge of how it got there.
Friday, October 5, 2007
Squeegee-style is when, after showering, in that moment before you step out of the shower, you form your hands into flat panels and run them quickly against your body in a downward motion, essentially scraping away most of the water before reaching for your towel. This is Joe’s preferred method of beginning the drying process (he thinks he’s validated because the main character in a Nicholson Baker novel does the same thing.)
Maybe it’s just one of those things I don’t get because I’m not a man. My body has more curves, making the quick downward motion difficult. It seems kind of comparable to the differences in shaving between men and women. Besides for the knees, women have a pretty easy task in shaving their legs. Heck, I can probably shave my legs in less than 2 minutes. But men have a tougher time shaving their faces, owing to the angles and curves of their features.
So, I don’t know, maybe my review of this process is unfair, like a man reviewing tampons, but at least I’m making room for that possibility. For the ladies, however, the squeegee just doesn’t cut it.
Wednesday, October 3, 2007
I know I was all advocating Heather last week, but even I was totally touched when Bret Michaels picked Jes to be his rock of love on VH1. It’s like, even when I am on a side I don’t usually find myself on (like majorly loving the Colin Farrell version of Miami Vice) my better judgment tries to make its way through. And besides, Heather is way better off. A tattoo of a guy you aren’t actually with is so much more rock & roll. I’ve been debating it myself for years.
Tuesday, October 2, 2007
Last night when he went to brush his teeth, Joe opened the bathroom cabinet (ever since that Dateline that showed how far germs travel when you flush the toilet I keep the toothbrush cup behind a closed door) and my toothbrush fell out of the cup and on to the floor. He quickly picked it up and dropped it back into the cup.
Whoa, I said, standing behind him.
He claimed it was the 5 second rule, which I said was bullshit, which he said he had seen on Mythbusters, which I said yeah they busted that one, which he said no they confirmed it.
2 Stars. New toothbrush question: is Crest's tongue scraper worth the extra dollar?
Monday, October 1, 2007
I’m an angst junkie. Unrequited love--even if it’s a Lifetime movie starring Ian Ziering from Beverly Hills 90210 or Pacey Witter—and I’m a total goner. I’m a sucker for human drama, which is why I recently started TiVo-ing General Hospital against my better judgement.
I’ve gotten all tangled up in two simultaneous love stories—Jason and Liz (who fans call Liason), and Lulu and Spinelli (who I’m going to call Spinulu.) But Liason is the real story. I don’t know if their exchanged looks could get more tortuous. They love each other, but are kept apart because of secrets and lies and the danger of his job (hitman for the local crime boss) plus her marriage to the man who believes he is the father of her son (he’s not, Jason is.) I can’t wait until they get together, even though I know today’s episode is just going to end with another stare-at-me-while-I-stare-at-you cliffhanger. I mean, come on, he’s saved her from kidnapping, being trapped inside an exploding crypt, near death from pre-term labor, a hostage situation and a precariously lodged elevator in the aftermath of a bomb.
This stuff is intense. This is human drama in its purest form. This is the way our lives would be if we weren’t so boring.
39 Stars. Steve Burton, I rented The Last Castle because of you, and I wish it had been better.