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Archives from 2002-2006

March 26, 2007

I’ve started recording “Inhale”, the Oxygen channel yoga show with relaxed-and-groovy instructor Steve Ross, in order to spend each evening winding myself into complicated, painful bendy-straw positions. After the first workout, I noticed certain parts of my body were sore (“certain parts” meaning “every single muscle fiber between the top of my scalp and the tip of my big toe”), but now I’m really enjoying it. It’s so, so relaxing and my entire body feels tingly and happy afterwards. I even managed to convince JB to give it a try, and while he would like to know what in the hell Steve Ross does with his balls during the “Happy Cow” position because jesus, he’s tried tucking up and he’s tried tucking down and there’s just no way to avoid self-squashing goddamnit, he grudgingly admitted that he felt “very stretchy” afterwards.

My past week has involved multiple Turbo Jam workouts, some challenging yoga routines, and a diet that—excepting Friday’s lustful dalliance with the box of Junior Mints—consisted mainly of greens, fiber, lean protein, fruit, and freaky non-foods such as sugar-free Jello. And yet when I stepped on the scale this morning, its beshitted little digital readout displayed a number two pounds heavier than last Monday.

Do you remember the scene at the end of True Romance when the big gunfight is going on and Michael Rapaport’s character screams this howl of frustration over all the trouble the case of stolen coke has brought into their lives and he violently hurls the case into the air? That is exactly what I wanted to do with my scale this morning, ideally while pumping it full of .223 bullets, their cases falling onto the bathroom floor in a metallic tinkling clatter drowned out by my own rage filled battle cry and the ear-shattering explosive sounds of my Mini-14 rifle releasing round after round of deadly force into its stupid fucking 2-pound-weight-gain FACE.

Ahem.

Or maybe I should just stop weighing myself, because it kind of seems to be working against that whole yoga-relaxation effort.

March 24, 2007

Thanks in part to some of your suggestions, we went with 300 on Friday, and I’m glad we did. I enjoyed it for what it was: a heavily stylized badass war-porn movie starring some fantastic-looking abdomens, the Toxic Avenger, and some dude with too much eyeliner.

I think 300 is one for theater-viewing vs. DVD-viewing, if only to wallow in the visual smorgasbord of rippling muscles, graphic blood spatters, and macho—yet so obviously cosmetically whitened!—bared teeth. Plus, there’s all the stabbing to consider—don’t you want to see someone’s midsection gorily punctured with spears on the BIG screen? I know I do! FOR SPARTA!

The rest of our weekend isn’t shaping up to be nearly as exciting as watching dueling manbeef. It’s raining, and not in a tolerable let’s-all-don-our-North-Face-jackets-and-forge-onward kind of way. It’s gray and soaking wet and generally icky outside and as either a unhappy coincidence or direct result Riley seems to have had a giant stick surgically implanted up his ass. Even with JB’s presence as a buffer, being trapped inside with a pissy toddler can suck every last molecule of fun out of your Saturday, let me tell you.

In other annoyances, I am battling a lingering sense of guilt over the box of Junior Mints I decided to allow myself last night—I told myself that I was going to eat them, enjoy them, and continue on my merry dieting path, so why am I still thinking about them and feeling bad, as though I had done something far more adulterous and illegal with the contents of that green-and-white box than licking, sucking, and generally orgasmically reveling in each and every creamy, smooth, chocolatey, minty morsel of—

ANYWAY. Fuck you, Junior Mints. You weren’t even that great.

(Oh my god you were unbelievable. I wanted to shake you out onto the sticky, popcorn-matted floor and roll on you naked.)

So other than watching JB high pressure-spray the patio (THRILLING), holding a screaming child while he sobs “Da Da! Da Da! Da DAAAAAAA!” (REWARDING), and entertaining lustful thoughts of boxed candy, I’ve got a whole lot of nothing going on between now and Monday. Therefore, you must help distract me by playing a comments-box game. If you could be anywhere in the world this weekend, where would it be, who would it be with, and why?

I’ll go first: I’d be in Phuket, Thailand, on the same beaches we visited on our trip in 2004. The weather would be perfect and the Andaman Sea would be like bathwater. I’d be there with JB and Riley and our families would be there too, because that would be so cool, and plus of course we would need someone to take care of the boy while JB and I have amazing, three-hour dinners late into the night. The air would smell like flowers and transsexuals, and I would take a million amazing photos.

Your turn!

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