This morning hath begun the day that diets forgot.
First off, it snowed. Not a little bit of snow, something that one could use a clever meteorological euphemism with, like “a light dusting” or “a little winter frosting”. No…. this was more like “the big dump after a night of heavy drinking and mexican food consumption”. As I stood in a 30 inch drift, knocking the snow off the Monte in the sixteen degrees above zero winter chill, I thought bitterly about the fact that thirteen days ago, I was traipsing around in shorts in Atlanta. I decided that Mother Nature hated me for exposing my fishbelly white legs and was punishing me, shouting “First day of spring??? I’ll show you first day of spring! Bwahahahaha! You might have had the decency to slap some bronzer on those winter butt white Michelin legs, huh?” And then she put on her game face and set out to kick my spring loving ass.
Because it’s all about me, you know.
So I finally made it out onto our street (still unplowed) and then eased out onto the main drag, which was a sheen of ice. My wheels were spinning and I was creeping at three miles an hour. I decided to forego Starbucks, because we have a morning meeting which starts ten minutes before 8 o’clock and I was nervous about traffic. Stupidly, I decided that it would be safer on the highway than through town (and this might have actually been the case, as the roads were all ice but at least we didn’t have to stop on the highway). I passed no fewer than six cars spun out in the ditch, many of them facing the wrong direction from whence they had come. “Whence”… Nothing like a little black ice to bring out the Middle English in me, apparently.
Highway travel was a sensible 30 miles an hour over the black ice (which is road that looks dry but your wheels are spinning if you apply more than the tiniest bit of gas and you’ll kill yourself if you try to stop), fifteen miles per hour when passing cars which had spun out so that we could all point and laugh at the people in the ditch. I made it across town but then was bereft without my morning cup of mocha. Instead I opted for fast food and then was seduced by their sexy breakfast menu. I’m a sucker for eggs, cheese and ham.
I got into work right at 8:00 and everyone was late, so I didn’t feel so bad. And because we celebrate Thursdays at my office with various treats (as well as any day ending in “Y”), there were some baked goods and two bags of KitKats. Oh dear. My kryptonite. Sitting nary three feet from my desk no less. I only had one…normal size candy bars worth of mini Kit Kats. The shame.
And a very tiny piece of the homemade baked goods. Because my drunken mama raised me not to be rude and I didn’t want to hurt the girl’s feelings.
And then I found out that it was Nacho Day, which is a charity event where my department, along with a few others, cooks up this huge nacho feast for $3 a plate. With a dessert.
I did put fat free sour cream on the nachos. And only ate half of the gargantuan helping.
Of course, I ate the lemon square. Because I didn’t want to be rude. You know, this is exactly how fat polite girls happen. And it totally explains the term “skinny bitch” as well.
So at 1:00 I declared that I was eating healthy from that point forward. And then proceeded to assuage my guilt with a bag of caramel corn rice cakes. And water.
And then my lunch hour came and I spent it getting a manicure from a 21 year old twig who had just finished throwing up her lunch in the bathroom. “I’ve been sick” she said as she popped a Tic Tac, then excused herself to purge again.
She gave me a lovely French manicure and I feel all white trash now. People keep asking me if I have a special event to go to this weekend. I’ve been resisting the urge to answer “My baby’s daddy’s getting out of prison!” It made me wish that I hadn’t worn the houndstooth blazer with leather accents but rather wore my red croc pleather jacket. I wish I could talk all bling bling like Pink. When she comes up, you better get dis party started. To offset the slow deterioration of my life, I put in James Taylor. It is literally impossible to be stupid when listening to James Taylor. It makes me like a 50 year old history professor with a timeshare in the Vineyard and a wine cellar in the basement. It makes me want to eat whole grains and raw foods and watch PBS while weaving a hemp hammock.
James Taylor is my Anti-White Trash.
Tonight, I have more Quilt Nazi. I’m going to be late because I have to work until 7:00, so I’m sure this will incite her ire. I’ll likely have to sew 50 straight seams in penance, but there’s no way to get around it as I could talk not a single member of my team to sub for me. I even broke out the bribes of homemade cookies. I knew I should have offered oral sex, but honestly, the Quilt Nazi just isn’t worth it.
Afterwards, we’re going to the cute boy bar to sing karaoke with Joel, Cheri and the gang. Or at least Jason. I have no idea. But I do know this… I’ll be fluffing up my hair and shedding my houndstooth blazer for my croc jacket, so my nails should fit right in.
