Thursday, November 08, 2007

How Rude!

Location: Trader Joe's on Pico in Santa Monica
Props: One lemon, one jar of pure desert honey, and one container of mascarpone cheese.

Stupid Checkout Dude: Uhh, so are you like, getting over being sick?

Me - no make up, glasses, ponytail, on my way home from work: (sheepishly) Yeah, that's it.

PS - Thanks fucker. I made the best damn banana muffins with mascarpone honey frosting. What do you say to the girl who gets tampons and vodka?

PPS - I broke out the contacts and mascara today.

Wednesday, November 07, 2007

Crazy, Party of One

Who had a total mental breakdown last night? Me. That's right, I sat in the bathroom for 30 minutes or so and cried myself into a sloppy puddle.

Why you might ask? Oh because I was watching 20 Wedding Dos and Donts, realized I wasn't even engaged, so I better change that shit before J gets home. Well, then I felt guilty for lying to him (since when is omitting information lying...good question) so I fessed up to my new addiction to all wedding shows. Platinum Weddings, Whose Wedding is it Anyways, and my favorite, Bridezilla. I've also started watching the travel channel religiously so I can make sure to pick the sexiest, most delicious honeymoon location EVER.

WTF is wrong with me? I'm in no rush to get married. I mean, it's not like I've planned out the location, my bridesmaids, what they're wearing, what my favors will be, what my dress will look like, how I'll wear my hair...because I HAVEN'T. Of course I have my ideas, and if you get me drunk enough I'd tell you what my colors are, what song we'll dance to (not telling, you might steal them), and some other stuff that I've seriously thought about.

I'm officially wedding obsessed. And that's long as I don't start bringing wedding magazines home.

Tuesday, November 06, 2007

A River Running Between my Breasts

Yoga last night was quite possibly the most cumbersome exercise I've done in like the past...since I've moved here. Em, Kel, and I started taking classes on Mondays and Fridays at Power Yoga in Santa Monica. There are two studios, and both run on a donation system; which is great because while most yoga classes are $20 a session, I'm paying around $5 - $10.

Our class is with Mister Bryan Kest himself, and a line forms around the corner of the block, filled with people waiting to get in. They pack the old loft with upwards of 50 students, creating a sauna like atmosphere that makes your sweat glands start to work as soon as you ascend the stairs. About 30 minutes into the 90 minute class, you're sweating buckets, and praying that the man next to you doesn't douse you with his nasty, stanky sweat during the next asana (that's pose).

Last night, after 60 minutes of cobra, down dog, and warrior poses, I realize Mister Kest's voice has an uncanny resemblance to Adam Sandler's in Billy Madison. In addition to the Billy impression, he uses fuck and shit more times than I do. Which I mean come on, that's a really fucking difficult thing to do. However, I noticed last night, that in addition to the impersonation, and the cursing, our amazing yogi rhymes EVERY SINGLE SENTENCE for the entire class! It's like taking yoga with a foul mouthed Dr. Seuss.

Love it!

Thursday, November 01, 2007

Off the Booze...For Serious

So I may have gained some weight since moving to LA. And maybe by some I mean 20 pounds. Twenty freaking pounds on short little me, does not make a hot James. No, it in fact makes me want to stick my tongue out at cameras because if I'm going to look fat, I might as well look angry too.

Indeed, James has gotten so pudgy that even Grandpa-pa pulled her aside and said, "I think you need to start watching what you eat."

Tangent - Why is James referring to herself in the third person?

Watch what I eat? WATCH WHAT I EAT?

OK, so my jeans are a little tight, my abs aren't flat, and my ass is grande. (Who am I kidding, my ass has always been grande.) I may have fallen off the gym wagon, but seriously it wasn't walking distance once I moved, and I'm not about to pay $3 to park on the Promenade. Yes, I would pay to park there for shopping, but not sweating.

Let's do the math shall we...If I go to the gym 5 days a week (like I should), how much will I spend per week? Per year?
x = $3 for Promenade Parking
y = $$$ that I can spend on more important things, like new jeans.
v = a varied amount of $$$ I may spend per gym visit at Jamba Juice & Anthropologie
y = 52(5x) + v
y = 260x + v (Yeah, distribution property!)
y = 780 + v
Ok, so $780 a year on parking alone...That's like 4.8 pairs of Joe's Jeans, and not even the ones I like with the trouser pockets. That's not even including the cute Ella Moss and Susana Monaco dresses that I adore at Anthropologie, or the Passion Berry Breeze (with Fiber Boost!) that I will most definitely reward myself with for a sweat well done. Plus another $600 for my membership. Essentially, I saved myself over $1400 a year by quitting the gym. Go me!

No booze for serious, at least until J's parents come for Thanksgiving...

Wednesday, October 31, 2007

I'm trying, really I am

Wow, I started this project as an outlet for my writing. Obviously I need to work on this more. There's some bitching, some half assed attempts, and some more bitching.
I feel like I don't have anything exciting to write about. I'm not living a crazy single life...I'm not even living a crazy couple life. I work everyday, I come home and take the dog for a walk, I make din, and I watch TV. Go ahead and say it, James = Lame-o.
So my new goal is to try and write about something new each week. Does this count?

Wednesday, January 24, 2007

You know what really frosts my cookies?

When people are in a parking garage, specifically my parking garage; and they have to get a spot as close to the elevator as possible. They park their car in the middle of the lane, and I can't get by, and then they get all meanie head with me when I honk my horn. And these are the stinkers that go to the gym! Why can't their lazy bums drive 10 spaces down and WALK to the elevator? I mean that's an extra 10 calories or something, right?

I also can't stand when girls who are pregnant, refer to themselves as preggo and preggers. Do they know how white trash they sound?

"Aw well you know I got knocked up 'bout 5 months ago, and now I got this big 'ole preggo belly."

Do you even realize how uneducated you sound? Seriously, you sound like a country bumpkin that spends her entire day sitting around watching soaps and eating bon-bons. I mean, I'd love to loll around on my bum all day doing nothing, but I highly doubt that includes allowing my vocabulary to regress to that of a bonafide hillbilly.

Ok, that's enough...I'll stop now.