Weight Loss, Crypt Keeper, Trainwreck, Lipstick, and “La-di-da”

A while back I asked y’all to come kick me if I didn’t lose some weight, because my clothes didn’t fit anymore and I hate shopping.

Turns out all I needed was a (prescription) drug that fucks up my appetite and makes me so thirsty I drink tons of water and always feel full, plus family, friend, and boy issues. I’m running on bananas, almonds, and kettle chips because that’s all my body is accepting.

I feel like hell, I get wobbly, and my face looks like The Crypt Keeper, but I lost 5 lbs in one spectacular shitshow of a week.

I spent most of the past 2 days in bed (took a sick day yesterday), but eventually getting up, cleaning my house, then cleaning ME. It’s remarkable how an irresponsibly hot shower and clean sheets can improve your outlook. (Plus watching “Trainwreck” again.)

I am going to be fine.

We’re good, now, right, Brain? My family is still fucked, but you’ll let me pine for just the ONE guy (the one who’s actually worth even a passing thought)? And my friends are OK? And we’ll be more mindful of eating at least enough that standing isn’t so challenging and daylight doesn’t hurt our eyes?

Right, then. Onward. Lipstick. Sushi. Power song!

All about that baseline

I don’t remember where I heard that the way you bring in a new year sets the tone for the entire year. And I know, the way some people celebrate New Year’s, that would be ridiculous: “I want to spend 2016 drunk and freezing my balls off in Times Square, wearing a stupid corporate-branded hat and squished against a bajillion other people!”**

Still, if that idea is even a little true, I’m kind of OK with spending this year employed (two jobs, even), well rested, well sheltered and warm, reasonably attractive, and having a group of bad-ass, supportive people who love me.

See also: coffee, bourbon, hugs from friends’ kids, lipstick, and cookies.

Sure, there are elements of my life I’m trying to change. But if the above is my baseline, I’m not mad at it.

Happy official new year, you guys. I’m glad y’all are here.

** From a less snarky perspective, “I want to spend 2016 having memorable, once-in-a-lifetime adventures in exciting places with people I love” isn’t such a terrible plan.

Those hats are still the worst, though.

Residual effects of being raised by the Wakefield twins. 

OK, look, I try my best to be all body-positive rah-rah. I’m working on it, and I do think I’m…cute. I do OK — I’m not hideous, I give enthusiastic blowjobs, and I don’t make my men watch The Notebook. So yay, me.

But sometimes… Goddammit, there’s a woman in my office I would make a weird Twilight Zoney pact to look like. She’s tall, but not TOO tall, and lithe and blonde and her hair is perfect and her nose is adorable. She’s a woman you’d watch The Notebook for, just so you can sit near her and bask in her beauty. In fact, maybe I just use that Notebook thing as a defense mechanism to compensate for my averageness. And oh, God, what if my blowjobs are enthusiastic but AWFUL?!


I know, I KNOW. I’ve already told myself that we’re all special lady snowflakes, blah blah blah. I understand my brain is not currently accepting logic — all those Sweet Valley books I read as a kid can still infiltrate occasionally. In the time it took me to type this, I kicked that gremlin in the face, put on some lipstick, and charged ahead like the fine-ass lady I am. Still not 100% on my blowjobs, but…men keep letting me do it, so I can’t be THAT bad at it.

Bitchy McBitchface

Texting with a friend:

Me: “It’s not even ‘resting bitch face’ at this point. I have active bitch face.”

Friend: “And it’s only 9:15. Not a good preview of what today could entail.”

Me: “I have applied lipstick and coffee to the situation. (Bitchuation?) Results pending.”