Monthly Archives: November 2009
Cary Randolph continues to post her riveting experiences – not on one blog, but two. Between marathons, depantsing in bathrooms, and buying the stunning gravy boats on her feet above, I really don’t see how she has the time. And yet, she somehow manages to churn out post after amazing post:
Last week I received a couple emails inquiring after my recent dearth of running posts.
After my marathon in September I reduced my weekly mileage almost by half. I did so for two reasons: one, I picked up two jobs (one part time and one temp) and no longer have time or energy, and two, I was sick and tired of running.
So I cut back, like a boyfriend might* when his lady gets all up in his grill, and I only made dates (with the trail) twice or three times a week instead of four or five. My Asics looked up at me longingly from my closet floor. “Don’t you love us anymore? You’ve changed.”
“Damn it, sports bra, I need my space!”
I just couldn’t handle the commitment. We didn’t break up, but things got rocky.
And then on Monday night I felt lonely so I dialed the East River promenade and said, “Hey, look, I know I’ve been giving you the run-around (pun!), but I think I’m ready to talk.” So I double-knotted my kicks, threw some Jay-Z in the iPod, and hit the pavement to reclaim my sole-mate (pun!). Ten miles (and some Phil Collins) later, we rekindled the flame.
*The reason I am perennially single probably has a lot to do with the fact that I speak of my running regimen like an errant suitor.
Sure, Cary. That’s what it is…your obsession with running. Not the fact that your conversation makes your dates look for the snooze button for your mouth, it’s the running. Not all your talk of how you’re a writer, or how you LUUUUV the flea market, and like, uh, doing stuff like drinking a brojim’s…zzzzz sorry what? Oh right. Yeah, guys hate chicks who run, you nailed it.
Julia Allison, respectful privaty type, wrote a Strangely Capitalized Snore-O-Gram about some dumbshit date she had at 13. Thirteen years old. Why she felt the world would benefit from hearing about her awwwwwkwaaaard arm situation I really do not know.
At any rate, the poor unaware guy she used as fodder for a not even good “story” found it and left a few comments for Princess Footface. She posted screencaps (OBVIOUSLY) and added her own ignorant aside:
More Joey Lekas. See? I’M A NORMAL DATE, THANKYOUVERYMUCH.
I’m going to have to get him to sign some sort of affidavit that Future Dates can read.
Or you could just be a normal person and a normal date, and you wouldn’t need 5 references just to get a date. You’re a dating columnist? You’re pathetic. My cat gets more action than you. Just stop it. Move back to Chicago and marry Dr. Gary Glickman DDS already.
With all the sanctimonious finality of the rail thin straight edge vegan, David Karp posts yet another article informing us all that we are fat, lazy, disease riddled couch pork bites:
“A study in the January-February 2009 issue of the journal Health Affairs concluded that 75 percent of the country’s $2.5 trillion in health care spending has to do with four increasingly prevalent chronic diseases: obesity, Type 2 diabetes, heart disease and cancer. Most cases of these diseases, the report stated, are preventable because they are caused by behaviors like poor diets, inadequate exercise and smoking.” — NY Times: Health Care Savings May Start in Employee Diets
Thaaaaz right. If you work at tumblah you better get your ass off your couch, put down the block of new york extra sharp cheddar and raspberry beer, and prepare yourself for a miserable life. I can’t wait till Citizen Dave announces that employee insurance will now be adjusted according to a sliding scale based on who eats a french fry.
These articles come out about once a month for what, 11 years now? Thanks docs, I get it. America is full of fat lazy people and we are all hurtling toward an early death. An early death by delicious bacon. SUCK IT!
Continuing the tumblove celebration, Jake Lodwick steps in, not with a proposal but with this pic and a simple:
You may now choose between crying the tears of a bitter cat lady, vomming in your mouth a little, or air high fiving Loddy on his happiness.
I’m getting requests to talk about some soup guy. Who is he? Why should we care? Help me out GOMIBLOG!
So I actually had this to post a few days ago, never queued it, then forgot about it, because that’s how bored I am of Cary. But I did want to satisfy the readers who wanted to know what she was wearing when she de-pantsed the last Friday night:
Choosing my get-up for the Pop Up was of course a code red crisis, but in the eleventh hour I managed to pull together an ensemble that, in all its chino glory, evoked safaris and hunts and stiff scotch swilling – absolutely perfect for stealth reporting in the sartorial trenches. With the exception of the French Connection blouse (which later became a dress), all pieces are by J. Crew. The phenomenal tiered brass and wood bead necklace I scooped up last summer at Irvington, Virginia’s Dandelion.
Zzzzzzz DOG ATE HOMEWORK! Oh, she’s done. So yeah, there you have it. Another thrilling head to know from a “fashion blogger”. You may now resume pretending to nap so you don’t have to clear the table.
While this great nation slides into elastic waistbands and fills their garage fridge with Miller Lite and boxed wine, Mary Rambin will be nibbling a green bean and sipping one drink. For you midwestern fatties looking forward to gorging on the only day it’s socially accepted to reenact a Roman block party, Mary has some tips:
One of my fitness mentors (and the best trainer I have ever worked with) Sam Upton gives you rules to eat by for Thanksgiving.
If there’s one man who can keep us skinny when faced with a table of pie, it’s Sam.
Sam Says –
•Never arrive hungry.
You are less likely to overeat and more likely to feel relaxed and ready to enjoy the festivities if you have a healthful snack or mini-meal before a party.
Decide ahead of time exactly what and how much you will eat and drink. Then stick with your plan.
If you convince yourself you’re going to pack on pounds, you’ll give up and binge or stress-eat. Don’t let a 300-calorie slip turn into a 3,000-calorie blowout.
Strap your watch on the wrong wrist as a visual reminder of your goal; you’ll automatically eat less.
•JUST SAY NO
However many times your relative pleads or cajoles, reply with “No, thank you.” Repeat as needed. When she sees you’re sticking to your guns, she’ll abandon the effort.
Grab what you want, but reduce the amount you eat by reducing your plate size. Smaller plates = smaller portions. Simple!
•ALCOHOL = NO DEFENSE.
Decide BEFORE hand how many drinks you will have (if at all) Stick to it. Alcohol inhibits your decision making process, giving you a huge case of the “f**k ITS.” Would you like a fourth helping of peach cobbler with heath bar ice cream Sam? “Sure! (hiccup) why not? f**k IT!”
•Don’t Starve yourself the next day.
Make sure you get right back on track with a clean eating program the very next day. Getting on track is more crucial than fretting over last night’s calorie overload.
If you want more of Sam on a daily basis, you can email him about personal training and nutrition (LA only). He will kick your ass into jeans you never thought would fit!
So tomorrow, instead of sitting dead eyed in front of your tv or trying to convince your parents that you aren’t a lesbian while holding a box of franzia under one arm, go treat yourself to a three hour workout and then mince at a carrot. You’ll get in jeans you haven’t seen since you went in GAPKids by mistake!