It's A Good Day For Imaginary Birthday Gifts

Today was a good day in Rainey-land.

First, I got an award! From one of the true loves of my life, Jordan at Now If You'll Just Turn Your Kaleidoscope... Thanks FACE! More to come on this award in a later post. It comes with rules and such!

Secondly, I snuck out of work a half hour early. (Actually, revise that. I blatantly left. There's really no such thing as a 'break' when you work at a methadone clinic, I gotta take em where I can get em.) No matter. There is nothing like the deliciously naughty feeling of leaving work before your shift is over, and peeking at the clock an hour later to realize that you would just be getting home NOW. I had time to get a milkshake, moving boxes and take the Wall-dog out on a walk all before I would have been expected home. How's that for productivity?

Thirdly relates to firstly. Today is Jordan's birthday! Yay! I am realizing that she didn't write about this on her blog and possibly does not anyone to know that it is her birthday in bloggerville, but too bad. I thought of this post a week ago and I'm not letting it go to waste.

Without further adieu:
Birthday Presents I Would Totally Get You If I Was ______

1) If I Was...overly practical. Socks. Obviously. Or a million phone chargers for when your cat gnaws the ones you have to shreds.

2) If I Was...impractical and really really wealthy. I would install a helipad in your apartment complex for your non-existent helicopter. Preferably with an added impracticality bonus of a tennis court, because you don't play tennis.



3) If I Was...super unique and capable of doing illegal (but great) things. I would legally change your first name to a (kinda) phonetic spelling: Uh-mand-uh. Uhmanduh. Alternative pronounciation 'Hoooo-Manh-Dooo-Ahhhh'.

4) If I Was...capable of kidnapping someone with six pack abs and diesel arms then carting his beautiful body half way across the world:



5) If I Was...drunkenly stumbling through the streets of Niagara Falls. I would bestow upon you a bucket o' drunk. Oh, wait. We've done that.

6) If I Was...someone with a dissociative idenity disorder. Well, I would imagine that would probably go something like this:

Me: "Meh. It's a birthday again. Meh. I don't know what to do."
Me: "I'm gonna get her a Snuggie! She'll looooovveee a Snuggie! It's so waaarm and comfortable and snuggly and warm and....!"
Me: "SHUT UP MOTHERFUCKERS! I AM THE BEST! I KNOW WHAT TO DO!"
Me: "I wanna get an elephant! But not for her, for me."

Clearly nothing would ever get done if I had multiple personalities.

Happy Birthday my FACE!

Hungry? Ask Google.

Here I sit among an ever towering skyline of boxes, so thoroughly exhausted that I'm not even sure of what I want to eat.

Of course my technologically savvy brain decided that the practical (aka: terribly lazy) thing to do would be to ask google for the answer. I've had many a satisfying experience entrusting google with important (and also sometimes quite trivial) decisions before, so I figured 'what the hey, I'll give it a whirl'. What I got was a Mad-Libs mash up of a 'hole in the bucket' type conversation I have with my boyfriend every single day:

The What-Do-You-Want-For-Dinner I-Don't-Know-What-Do-You-Want? Dialog Generator Results:
Erin: So, what do you want to eat?
Christian: I don't know what do you want to eat?
Erin: I guess I'm not really that hungry.
Christian: Yeah, me neither.
Erin: How does pasta sound?
Christian: Hmm, we have that a lot.
Erin: yeah.
Christian: So you're really not hungry?
Erin: Well, I could probably eat something.
Christian: Like what?
Erin: Just about anything, really.
Christian: How about mayo?
Erin: Yeah, I guess that's ok.
Christian: I don't know now.
Erin: You don't know? Come on.
Christian: We could order Chinese.
Erin: You're too lazy to go out and get food?
Christian: No, I guess not. Where do you want to go?
Erin: I was thinking that new pasta place.
Christian: That's all the way downtown!
Erin: It's supposed to be good.
Christian: I guess I'm just not in the mood.
Erin: Well, what are you in the mood for?
Christian: You said just about anything.
Erin: Anything but pasta.
Christian: You suggested that earlier.
Erin: I did? hmmm.
Christian: I always feel like mayo, but we never go.
Erin: That's fine..
Christian: I guess I'm just not in the mood.
Erin: Well, I could probably eat something.
Christian: We could order Chinese.
Erin: yeah.
Christian: You said just about anything.
Erin: I was thinking that new pasta place.
Christian: You suggested that earlier.
Erin: We could flip for it.
Christian: What are we arguing over?
Erin: pasta or hamburgers.
Christian: heads.
Erin: I don't have a quarter.
Christian: mayo.
Erin: Yeah, I guess that's ok.
Christian: Let's get a pizza.
Erin: Yeah, ok.
Christian: What's your favorite number?
Erin: 7.

You (yes you!) can visit this hella random website here. The results don't really vary that much, but stumbling upon this site did so delight my sleepy little mind that I wanted to share it with the world!

I am still sitting here hungry but now I can add confused to my cornicopia of moving-induced emotions. I think I'm gonna try searching yahoo instead.

Oh, and for the record I would never ever ever in a million years eat mayo. I can confidently say if it was between eating mayo or never eating again, I would choose slowly starving to my eventual demise. I don't care what anyone says, I cannot place any trust in an amorphous blob of fat that wobbles unpredictably and may very well be an alien life form planning a hostile takeover of my beloved intestinal tract.

Why Can't My Car Have A Flux Capacitor Instead?

So I have to apologize for yesterdays post.

It was most definitely the product of too little sleep, and too much driving.

I have gotten far more sleep since the horrific mouse post debacle, but have done WAY more driving than I would care to admit. More driving on the docket for today as I slowly continue to cart massive amounts of STUFF from Old Apartment* to New House.

Last night as I drove back from New House at 3:30am, I was looking at the speedometer on the car:

EXHIBIT A:


(Yes, I'm a total daredevil, picturephoning while driving at speeds of 67mph!)
Notice how fast I'm going? Now, notice what top speed the little gauge allows for. That's right. 150mph. That is hella fast.

Where does Honda think I'm going? The Autobahn?! Could this car even really get UP to speeds of 150mph? And then I remembered, that in the past I have tempted fate and tested the tantalizing limits of the speed-dial. "To dreeeeam the impossible dreeeeeam!!!"

But, I must tell you. I did it in this:



Oh yes my friends. That is a bright-yellow New Beetle. The car my little sixteen year old self learned to drive in.

I would take the car to and from work, 25 minutes away. As I worked as a waitress, I often left work at late night hours and would have the road to myself when I left. That's when I decided I was a Nascar racer.

I would slowly increase the pressure on the gas pedal, the car beginning to wobble at around 88mph. Doc Brown was wrong, there was no flash. I didn't make it back in time. However, the Beetle wasn't equipped with a flux capacitor so I guess that was too much to wish for.

A crazy singing noise coming from a combination of the whipping winds and the engine at 104mph. "WooooooHeeeeeeeAhhhhOOohhhhhIIIIIAmmmmmFlyyyyiinngggIIIICaaannnn'tStooooppppppppppp!!!"

Violent shaking and a knocking noise from the engine at 117mph. Even at the immortal age of sixteen, I knew that was enough. Well, besides that, the car wouldn't go any faster. I would slow the car down, probably a little too quickly weaving dangerously in and out of lanes. It's quite amazing that I never got snagged by a cop. Maybe at speeds of 117mph a car becomes invisible? That must be it.

Quite frequently I would make the 25 minute trip home from work in 12 minutes. But even though I flew close to the sun, I never made it to the end of the speedometer. I don't think I ever will. Especially not with a car full of my prized possessions, such as my juicer and lei collection.

* As I typed that, I got a flash of the Barenaked Ladie song 'Old Apartment'. Note to self: Must remember to listen to that song in self-indulgent nostalgia trip prior to completely moving....

To Avoid Any Confusion, I Use A Plastic Mouse

My, my, now what do we see here?

I am exhausted, as today Chris and I started the arduous process of schlepping (did I spell that right?) all our worldly possessions from point A to point B. Thats right kids, time to move.

Also time to listen to radio at 5am and be thinking you heard things because the guy on the airwaves just said that people are making computer mice out of REAL, LIVE MICE.

My heart screamed out to me. "No, that can't be true!"

But my brain, no matter how tired knew better and googled that ridiculousness when I got home.

The fabulous people at instructables.com have provided any aspiring taxidermist/murderer with detailed and gruesome instructions.

I wonder what will happen to them in hell....

Snippets of Life at the Methadone Clinic: Coffee, Frankenberry and Jail TIme

Scene One:

I come in to work this morning and there is a message on my voice mail from a client that has just been recently released from jail. I call her back immediately. thinking that she is going to be upset and frantic because she had been arrested in the middle of an important phase of treatment.

Me: "Hey lady! I got your message. How you holding up?"
'Lady'*: "I got bailed out this morning. I'm looking to get into this other program now, but I wanted to touch base with you."
Me(slightly baffled at Lady's chipper tone of voice): "Oh, okay? Uhmmmmm....do you need any numbers?"
Lady: "Yeah, maybe one for a detox. They kept me on my medication in jail, and I loved that they had coffee. It was fun."
Me(fighting the urge to ask if Lady is, at this moment, high): "Fun, hmm?"
Lady: "Well, you know, not fun fun, but coffee always makes everything better."

Damn. She had me there. Personally I've never been to jail so I have no clue. I have however consumed copious amounts of coffee, so I do know that it has the amazing ability to make the world shine brighter.

However, I really couldnt tell you how much coffee I would have to consume to make it 'fun' to wear an orange jumpsuit or take a shit in a miniature room full of other people. Probably enough to make me hallucinate an alternate reality where those things weren't happening.


Scene Two:

After my 'Lucky Charms' themed post yesterday, it was only fitting that childrens cereal came to find me again today.

My co-worker Deb came into my office and we started talking about one of our supervisors in the clinic. Now, let me explain for one second. My supervisor is a fabulously calm, kind, centered and positive thinking man. He also happens to be bald, has very large moony eyes and a crooked smile.

Deb told me that the clients were referring to our supervisor as 'Frankenberry'. She made me look it up on Google.



Can you imagine Frankenberry helping you through a bad trip? Interacting with him when you had a hangover? Bringing your mom to hash through the countless times you stole a C-Note from her purse to go cop in New York City? I would never look at cereal the same again.



*Names and identifying features of my clients will ALWAYS be changed to protect anonymity. For all you people know, this could be a tranny granny from Cincinatti.

Lucky Charms and Leprechauns: Will We Ever Find Out What's At The End of the Rainbow??

Today has me wondering about my storied history with leprechauns.

Thats right. I just said 'storied'. I'm serious about this leprechaun business.

Where to start? Okay, how about the summer of 1989? Little Rainey is six years old, taking an art class. Her impressionable little mind has the Lucky Charms theme song running on a repeat loop. "Hearts, stars and rainbows! Clovers and balloons!" The red balloon has just been added to the roster of her favorite cereal (who are we kidding, her favorite marshmallows), and she scribbles out a crude picture of little Lucky the leprechaun with a pot of his famed charms. Marketing companies everywhere rejoiced in the success of the updated cereal jingle.

From what I recall, I was quite obsessed with finding this pot of...well...basically randomness. Those were back in the days where my silly little mind was happy with the concept of a large pot of colorful, pleasantly shaped objects guarded by a miniature man in a green suit. Now I say, "Hearts stars and rainbows?" No way. Gimmie the cash and jewels. And the little man? Probably a pedophile. Unfortunately the passage of time has made me greedy and pessimistic.

Anyways, back to unimpressionable little me. I would fervently seek the skies for rainbows during recess. When I did happen to spot one, I would run full tilt until I ran out of playground space. Foiled by the elementary school fence time and time again!

What I really wanted to find was this:



Back in reality what I actually found was some patchy grass at the end of a sad soccer field next to a highway. So, I didn't think about the leprechaun much until I moved to Dublin for a semester in college.

During my time in Dublin, I drank a lot of beer, ate a lot of cheese, and kissed a lot of Irish boys. I dated one particular Irish boy named Eoghan for a portion of my time there, and no one was more shocked than I when he told me that he had leprechauns living in his backyard.

Eoghan: "The older people in the family told us not to go in the backyard as children because the leprechauns would come and get us."
Me (spit-taking some Smithwicks): Whaaat?! Buwhahahahahaha!!!!

Someone my age still believed in leprechauns?! For reals? It seemed so far fetched and ridiculous to me that it's one of the few things I still remember of Dublin despite my self-induced 3 month long Smithwicks-and-Irish-cheddar haze.

In all reality, I don't think of leprechauns often. All of these memories didn't come rushing to me until today when I went to Subway with a co-worker. As we stood in line, my co-worker pointed out a very tiny man in a green-ish tinted suit and mouthed 'elves' to me.

I wonder what we would have found if we followed him?

Meh, probably just a restraining order.

Ramblings Brought On By A Bought of Exhaustion

Well of course the inevitable happened.

I got close to zero sleep last night. If I'm generous to myself I would say I got two and a half hours of sleep. Now, to be clear, I am not saying this with an air of superiority or bragging like I used to do all the time in college. Not even in the 'I just discovered the magical powers of coffee and I am going to ride this train until I collapse motherfuckers!' This is more in the 'I'm bleary eyed and still have creases on my face from the pillow as I walk out the door, but people are waiting on me to go to a really important meeting at another agency' way.

Now when faced with the situation of having to get up early as a semi-adult, why the hell does it always involve me getting dressed up for some reason? I either have to go to a wedding (fun!), funeral (can't even be placed near a category meaning 'fun' or any derivative thereof), meeting (NOT FUN), or job interview (jangles the ol' anxiety nerve, so not fun either).

Of course, trying to be a sensible adult I placed my clothing out the night before so that I would have something all picked out and raring to go when I got out of the shower.

My mistake was not picking out my shoes. And this is where exhaustion said "I think you're going to make some really crazy choices today!"

Between stylish matching rainboots (in consideration due to recent flooding in the area) and Mary Jane stiletto-like heels, what did I select? Oh, that would be the stiletto. Why? I dont know. Here is a picture comparsion of the two shoes:



You can clearly see that this choice was not made by a sane human being. Especially not one that values dry feet.


Next crazy choice. Impulsively purchasing a coffee mug at Starbucks.



Methinks this was a good and sane choice. Score one for exhaustion.



Last crazy choice was perhaps to NOT take this sign that has been lying on the ground on my street since hurricane-force winds knocked it off the hinges three days ago:



You see, even my dog is looking at me like 'Why don't you just take it??!!"


But, alas. At this point my exhaustion became too much for me and I couldn't even muster the energy to carry the sign home. Not sure what I would do with it.

If it's still there in the morning perhaps I will reconsider.

I'm Cranky And Googly Today. Aka: I F#$%ING HATE Daylight Savings Time!!!

It's that time of year again. Something was stolen from me. I feel violated. I feel cheated, angry, tired and most of all cranky.

This is the day that the powers that be just snip an hour away from us at 2AM (when most people are presumably sleeping, but being nocturnal I am usually not) and the clock rolls from 1:59AM to 3:00AM.

Where the hell's my hour?! It's just gone. Vanished. It's not like those zillions of times where you say 'I want those one/two/three/etc hour(s) of my life back'! For example when you see a really bad movie, or that time when you were stuck on the subway for an hour next to a man that smelled like cheese and couldn't stop scratching himself. At least you would have a damned story to tell after that hour!

Last night I dolefully watched as the clock rolled forward and sealed my terrible fate for the next week.

Because my friends, I do not only get tired and cranky when Daylight Savings Time approaches. No, no. I get googly.

Let me explain. I have a condition called 'strabismus', which causes my eyes to focus differently instead of together. As a result, I cannot see 3-D (so sad), and have relatively poor depth perception when dealing with finite objects. Usually when I am not super stressed, suffering from exhaustion, inebriated or a combination of the three, my eyes can focus together thanks to a team of talented surgeons that have operated on me several times during my 26 years of life. But not on Daylight Savings. And today the googly eye was the cause of horror in not only my life, but the lives of others.

To stave off some of the DST crankiness, I went to go get my eyebrows done. At one point I thought the adorable Korean lady sculpting my brows had finished, and I looked up and around at the room. Adorable lady gasps: "Your EYES!!!".

This is likely what she saw:

I made this image smaller so as to not horrify you dear reader or any small children or pets you may have in the room. It's the GOOGLY EYE! Brought to you courtesy of sleep deprivation.

Thanks Daylight Savings. I hope the fucking farmers are happy. I am not.

Curious Grocery Frog

Sometimes I like to wonder about inanimate objects....

Lone plastic frog on the floor of the grocery store. At midnight. Where did he come from? Where was he going? Why is he so damned happy?

I'll never find out because I just snapped a picture of him and went on my merry way to get a frozen pizza.

Also, plastic frogs can't talk.

You Have Strange Teeth

Last night I had a conversation that I had never thought of having in my whole life.

I overheard my boyfriend Chris ordering something on the phone, and in doing so he needed to give a confirmation code that consisted of letters and numbers. He was using male names to get the point efficiently accross.

"B as in Brian, G as in Gary, C as in Chris, G as in Gary...."

You get the (quite boring) picture.

We then had a forgettable conversation that basically consisted of me saying that I usually get stuck when I need to do something like that. I feel like I am totally on the spot to come up with words that not only sound like no other word, but also are somewhat interesting. What happens is that I stumble through words like 'E as in Elephant' or 'U as in Umbrella'. Generally I end up sounding like a kindergarten teacher with an awkward stutter. (Eeeeee.....Elllllll....Ellllaaaappphaaant? Elephant. E as in Elephant! Yes, also the seventh letter of that confirmation code.)

As this ridiculous issue becomes more and more of a nuisance in my life, I suppose I'll just have to come up with some sort of system like the Armed Forces utilizes. Maybe I could memorize it. I could smartly sound off on words such as Alpha! Bravo! Charlie! My favorite (and, yeah, I totally googled that shit) is W as in Whiskey. Whiskey? Really? Do we really want our troops screaming about whiskey when life and death could potentially be on the line? Do I really want to say Whiskey when confirming a code in my office?

Maybe it's because I am repulsed by whiskey. I can almost definitely say that if it was V as in Vodka I would be whistling a different tune.

But I digress.

I didn't think about my personal representative-word alphabet again. Until I came home today.

Chris was laughing in front of the computer, and showed me an e-mail of another confirmation number on his computer screen. In speaking to a representative on the phone today, he blurted out "YHSL.....as in You Have Strange Teeth".


I couldn't stop laughing. How ingenious! Just use standout sentences! Thankfully the woman on the other end of the line did not in fact have strange teeth and was quite amused instead of enraged, which I imagine someone who actually did have dental problems would be. Or all paranoid, like, WHY ARE YOU WATCHING ME??

I am totally adopting a new system.

A Post in Which I Liken Soccer Moms Taking Their Children to Practice to Me Bringing My Dog to Obedience Training

Before I get started on my new writing endeavor, I would like to take this time to tell the tale of tonight.

The Wall dog and I went to training class.

And I got a small but very palpable glimpse of what I might be like as a working mother. Yikes.

5:15pm: Need to leave work. Needed to leave work 15 minutes ago. Client calls me about being medicated early tomorrow. Shit. Need to get approval from a Coordinator.

5:17pm: Get approval. Call front desk to confirm, call client. Start to walk towards the mail room to clock out. Stopped by client with some crazy crisis. Can't stop. Then he mentions one of a few magic words that always makes me halt in my tracks. I stop. Double shit.

5:22pm: Another counselor walks by and I extract myself from the conversation saying that I will see this client tomorrow.

5:23pm: Get stopped by creepy and inappropriate fellow counselor who tries to give me a light-up rose from Valentines Day. I am too tired and too much in a rush to be polite, so I say "What the hell would I do with that?" Well, truth be told, first I asked if it was candy. It wasn't. So I got snippy.

5:25pm: Try to slip out door to only get approached by a client in the parking lot who missed his appointment today. He approaches me saying "I have pneumonia, but I'll see you tomorrow." I quickly back away and tell him 'okay' while making a mental note to make sure to have Lysol stocked in my office tomorrow.

5:30pm-5:55pm: Get in car. Race home. Get home.

6:00pm: Say hi to Wallster. Get together his stuff while quickly doing a few training exercises from last week. It is at this point that I have the sinking feeling that A) We are going to be late and B) Ask myself if this is what working moms feel when faced with the dreaded after school activity.

6:10pm - 6:40pm: Drive while practicing 'down' at red lights. Not only am I negligent for not having arrived home in time to help him practice his homework, but I am also recklessly endangering him by trying to make up for that negligence by multi-tasking while negotiating rush hour traffic. Not exactly quality time.

6:45pm: Walk into training class 15 minutes late. Seven pairs of eyes lock squarely on the 'bad' mommy and her charge. Wally is apprehensive because last class (at which I was on time! I swear!) we were the only students and the trainer reminded me of Mister Rogers sans zip-up cardigan, but with a wide variety of doggie treats. This time we walk into a room of three dogs and women of varying ages and sizes. The new trainer is a no nonsense stocky female. With no treats. Triple shit.

6:50pm: Wally is barking at the other dogs and farting.

6:51pm: We are asked to stand at the end of the room like the dunces of the class that we are. Wally is still farting.

6:52pm: The trainer asks us to walk with the dogs in a circle around the room. Wally decides that this would be a good time to flop belly down to the floor and grip with his claws, which basically equals me dragging him like a sack of rocks around the room. Begin to understand mothers that drag their children on leashes. Kind of. Wally lunges and barks at a Golden Retriever three times his size. Understand the impetus behind leashes a bit more.....hopefully my someday-child will not bark.....

6:53pm-7:30pm: Intermittent farting, barking and dragging. Mostly from Wally.

7:31pm: Trainer lady ends the class and says that I did a good job and that Wally improved throughout the class. This makes me feel good about me, but bad about my encourageable child-dog. We are still asked to wait until all the dogs leave before walking out. Like being kept after class for a mini-detention. She gives us a handout that Wally instantly tries to eat.

Walking to the car, I can briefly imagine what this must be like for a mother with one child. I CANNOT on the other hand imagine this with mutilple children, much less with varying tasks at hand. How does one help their child practice the flute or Korean without knowing it themselves? Oh the horror. That's why I'm sticking with my flatulent pup for now. No flatulent children for awhile.

Now For Something (Kind Of) Different

Having 13 posts was annoying me.

Hello 14!

So, I am completely off the wagon. On the wagon? Off the wagon is 'bad', right? Okay, that term is just ridiculous and generally just makes me think of that ancient 'Oregon Trail' game aka: You have dystentery! Your wagon just broke an axle, bad thing, bad thing, etc etc. I guess we could say in that case its better to be off that damn wagon! I say let someone else lead the way when dystentery is involved!

Wait, where was I? Oh yeah, back to eating crap. As I sit here with a stomachache from OD of garlic knots (which should really be classified as an addictive substance. If we as a society are going to ban marijuana, I say please please PLEASE for the love of God ban the garlic knot instead! I am sure there have been just as many ill effects of the garlic knot, including mishaps from greasy hands and productivity lost from inevitable grease comas. Well, for me anyways. More on that on another post I suppose....)

Where was I again? Garlic knots. Couch. Bye bye good intentions. But, despite it all, hello size 14. Yep, I will disclose. I was rockin' the size 16 for awhile there. And truth be told the size 16 was getting a little tight. However, my size 14s now fit (Post 14, Size 14....what a coincideeeenceeee)! Yippee! Happy day! Certainly not a reason to give up this weight loss endeavor, but not a reason to let it continue to consume my writing which I am growing to love.

So, now for something (kind of) different. I have been thinking that I would like to share stories about my work as a counselor. Past and present. And oh boy I have some people I would like to bring to life in the printed word. I'm sure they can't wait to meet you. Well....of course not because I'm creating them. And believe me, those fuckers can't wait to get out of my brain and bask in their time to shine.

Deceptive Diet Brain

So, as I continue my weight loss struggle (Yeah I just ordered a pizza, but the crust is whole wheat....wanna fight about it? Well, don't you worry because AB and HB just did have a little tiff. Apparently whole wheat pizza is the compromise between a healthy salad made from leftovers in the fridge and sucking down a large vanilla Frosty from the Wendy's drive thru. Drive thru = special added lazy bonus.) I have started to think about how I spend all of my life managing the removal and addition of things to my body.

As I try to shed my extra poundage, my mind generally starts to drift to all the things I can remove from my body to add loss without actually doing anything substantial. Unless you count chopping off all of my hair 'substantial'...but that's another story.

* Hair. Oh dear God all sorts of hair. Women deal with hair removal, men less so, but they still do unless they want to look like a mountain man (I myself like that look, too bad my love does not agree....). Women, we pretty much remove or attempt to tame our regions of hair that consistently threaten to run wild. Now, I do have to say that while on a diet I am compulsively inclined to keep all these regions at bay, including my eye brows in a futile attempt to 'weigh less' when I step on the dreaded scale at the gym.
* Nails. Same deal here. Nails are so useful, but just get too long for weigh-in time. So they must be trimmed and generally kept free of polish to avoid adding those pesky nano-grams.
* Moisture. Yes, I will admit that sometimes I intentionally dehydrate myself prior to visiting my local gym scale in order to feel like I have accomplished something amazing by magically losing two pounds overnight. Maybe my sleep is getting more efficient. Yeeeeeah, that's not it.

And then all of the things I add.....clothing, makeup, nail polish, jewelry, shoes, oh the list goes on. All of which can serve to make me look like I am skinnier or heavier.

I know I am only fooling myself. AB and HB both know this. We are not crazy in this brain. Only constantly craving and looking for an easy fix.

Now if you'll excuse me, HB and AB need to duke it out to see exactly how much of this whole wheat pizza I will eat.

Crack is to Sugar as Blank is to Blank

Why, when one is on a diet does every little thing you can't have look so wonderful?

Case in point: Someone at work today brought in a large box of peppermint candies. Now, I like peppermint. I am even known to be somewhat of a peppermint fiend during the holidays, however, the beginning of March just does not seem to be the time for Starlite peppermint candies.

What did I do? Of course I ate one, and then two....and then seven. In passing I told one of my favorite clients about my lapse today, and she likened it to starting to use crack after getting on methadone (methadone can virtually eliminate cravings for heroin/other opiates). What?! Am I getting to the point where all sugar and white flour is the same to me? I mean, they are crack-like in the fact that they alter my mood and are generally followed by a cataclysmic crash. Am I just looking for a high? Is the next step eating year old candy I find in my cabinet when I move out of my apartment (I'll keep you posted on that one) or, even worse, the candy at the doctors office?

Those aren't really rhetorical questions. I think the answer is yes. Well, maybe not so much for the forgotten cabinet trash or the germ infested sweets. But, yes of course I am looking for a high. After not eating pure sugar for weeks, that one little peppermint disc sent me on a wonderful high, I was in a smiley mood, offering assistance to anyone who passed by my office. Making calls I hadn't made in weeks, and singing along to David Bowie on my iPod. Until the crash. Of course that's when I ate another peppermint.



And the cycle continues.....