Back At It

(The bottle, in case you were confused as to what 'it' was.)

After a lengthy hiatus, I've decided to give the ol' blog another go. As predicted, I got lazy, and quit. Surprised? Who's surprised? Quitting things is my MO.

Since the fall, I have made some changes, albeit small and ultimately inconsequential.

I joined GoodLife. Ugh. I know. I know. I already prefer the Ottawa clubs though, people look normal here. I also acquired a personal trainer thanks to a friend's generosity (see: my friends must also think I'm fat).

I uh, also...

Okay, so two changes. Two. And not surprisingly, nothing has really happened. No results. I don't feel better. I don't look better. In fact, I feel worse.

Why? How about a little anecdote?

Last night (please note that last night was a Wednesday night), I bought a case of beer.

Some chums came over. 

And we drank it all.

Okay, so at least no one was killed. Unless you count millions upon millions of brain cells. But what possesses three adults to drink like a bunch of Germans at Oktoberfest on a week night?

This morning at about 7 a.m. was a hellish nightmare of Biblical proportions. I literally thought I was going to die. Since I've been up, I've ingested more Advil than food. I've been experiencing the phenomenon known as 'the hangover spins'. My cats have been giving me the stink eye, which begs the question: did one of us throw up on them?

Drinking beer (see: pounding pints all the f*cking time) is not condusive to healthy living. Thanks Captain Obvious.

On the real, I have to cut this out. And by 'this', I mean my increasingly alarming binge drinking habit.

BBC's Radio 1 website has a fantastic gadget called the Booze Calculator that really puts things into perspective. Let's assess the damage, shall we? 

Okay, so last night I drank 8 beers (what? shut up. I'm a girl). That equaled:

• 18 units of alcohol.
• This is 128% of the weekly recommended intake for a woman (14 units).
• I ingested approximately 1600 calories, or the food equivalent of
• 2 slices of pizza
• 3 donuts
• 2 pastries 
• 1 burger
• It is going to take 18 hours for the alcohol to leave my system (only 6 more to go at the time of posting!)

So as you can all see, it's fairly obvious what needs to be done here.

Just kidding.

Stay tuned.

KD: It's What's For Dinner

For supper last night, I made for myself the true champion of meals: Kraft Dinner.

That's right, instead of preparing a healthy, delicious (see: not delicious) salad, or baking up some fish, or preparing anything else that had even a pinch of redeeming nutritional value, I made ... Kraft Dinner.

Not ONLY did I make myself Kraft Dinner (and nothing else), I made the entire box.

And. I. ate. it. all.

Cooking for one person is inconvenient. And frankly, laziness wins over putting in any considerable effort every time. Besides, I'm going to fuck you up with some serious truth right here: Kraft Dinner is god damn delicious.

I don't care that it comes with pre-packaged powdered cheese. It doesn't even really bother me that it requires a 1/4 of butter/margarine. Give me buttery, fake cheese particulate any day of the week over something that tastes like I just pulled it off my neighbour's tree.

But all of the above should bother me. I mean, isn't the point of this ridiculous blog exercise to motivate me into becoming something slightly better than the degenerate, unhealthy nefarious mess that I am? Shouldn't recording and broadcasting last night's atrocious dinner choice make me just embarrassed enough that I opt to change?

I'll admit, I'm not particularly proud of eating an entire box of Kraft Dinner for supper. I mean, all I really needed to do was put in a little effort, and it would have never happened.

But I didn't.

And just like eating a Big Mac, or anything else where you easily ingest the maximum calorie intake you should for the day, you feel like a giant sack of excrement afterwards.

Will it prevent me from doing it again? Probably not. Should I refer back to this blog post if I ever get the inclination to?

Why the lack of motivation? I obviously know what I should be doing, I just don't do it.

There's no easy answer. After all, there's no convenient magical, powdered boxed meal that is even remotely nutritious.

The answer is simple, and it's awful:

Get. off. your. ass.

And stop buying KD.

Seven Layers of Taco

I was all set to brog (that's brag+blog) about the fact that I have worked out every single day this week at work, but then I went ahead and made this for dinner:

That's seven (7) layers of flour (whole wheat, mind you) tortillas, ground beef, cheddar cheese, onions, green peppers, garlic and cayenne baked in the oven until warm and slightly (but not too) crispy and served with a side of sour cream.

Eating just one slice tonight has easily negated every single workout I've put myself through this week. Contender for http://www.thisiswhyyourefat.com?

Your move, heart.

Sarah Jessica Parker Has Alien Arms

During my audition for the laziest, most hungover, repugnant human being on the face of the earth this weekend, I suffered through 145 minutes of Sex and the City 2.

That's right. I watched a Sex and the City movie instead of exercising. Instead of showering. In fact, I watched Sex in the City instead of doing anything.

Just give me the blue ribbon right now.

Don't get me wrong. I'm a fan of the franchise. I'm a little embarrassed to admit that given the intolerable writing and the obvious impracticality of nearly every single facet of its production. I am however, entitled to this one of many one vice, given that I also enjoy other widely acceptable programs such as that one about the coked-out former baseball player and the popular drama featuring a family man who also moonlights as a serial killer.

              

Fiction aside, one simply cannot ignore the fact that Sarah Jessica Parker has alien arms. Especially when you are forced to stare at them for 145 minutes on a rainy Sunday afternoon while ingesting what is surely an unhealthy dose of Advil.

C'mon with those things!

At what point did she say to herself, "Sarah J, you flabby ghoul, your arms aren't nearly as veiny and chiseled as they should be, let's get you on that weight machine for the next four hours"?

Seeing photographs like this make exercise amateurs such as myself confused and frustrated. Fact: I have avoided doing free weights for two days after seeing this movie.

Is this the pinnacle of health? Is this what women should strive to look like? Is this healthy?

In the same vein (Get it? Vein?) of this unprovoked SJP attack, I'd like to answer the above questions by avoiding them entirely and distracting me you with the following video:

How Do You Like Me Now?

Normal, bitch.

PS - My Mii is smokin' hot, no?

Even My Nintendo Thinks I'm Fat

My Wii has sworn at me before:

But yesterday, our relationship sunk to a new low. Yesterday, my Wii told me I was ...

...overweight.

You couldn't have said I'm at the 'high end of normal', could you? You bastard. For what it's worth, anyone can clearly see it's on the line. But whatever.

The truth hurts. The truth is also good motivation. Today, I went super-hard on the elliptical to the point where I nearly passed out. But I pushed through the vertigo. I conquered lethargy. I made exhaustion my bitch!

And it felt great. Not at the time, don't get me wrong. I felt disgusting, and probably looked about as hopeless as old Gil as I stumbled around afterward, trying desperately to regain my breath.

But after my heart rate slowed, the sweat had absorbed, and my work clothes were back on, I felt like a new woman.

Hear that, Wii? 

I'm coming for you first.

Already an Epic Failure

Well Becca, you tried and failed. The lesson is, never try.

I suppose a five-day a week workout routine is far too lofty a goal for this broad. Although in my defense, it's not entirely my fault that I missed my workout today. Work kept piling up, and I'm going to level with you: I'd rather be a bulging fat ass with a good job than some skinny thing who gets her ass grabbed at The Oak during the lunch time rush because that's all you can really get with a Bachelor of Arts degree in this town.

Work comes before workout. I get it. Growing up sucks because you have to set priorities. Growing up also sucks because one day you wake up and find your metabolism is giving you the finger.

To make up for my workout loss, I could have gone for a run walk after work today. I could have pumped out a ton of few sit-ups in my basement before dinner. I could have been starting up some Wii Fit at this very moment instead of sitting here writing in my diary griping to my laptop about how much of an abject failure I am.

Frankly, I could have done a lot of things. And if I've learned anything from going to church, and I haven't, it's that girls should stick to girl sports, like hot oil wrestling, and foxy boxing, and such and such.

If anyone needs me, I'll be filling up the pool.