1. It’s making me feel hungry ALL the time.
2. I will never now be able to meet Rachel Ray, and not punch her in the face.
3. Still hungry.
Watching the Food Network 24/7 is the equivalent of being bashed repeatedly over the head with a large grill pan.
It’s making me feel a real life (S)pinata.
Look! My guts are on the floor.
I’m not sure how much more I can take.
*throws remote at Rachel Ray’s colander-shaped head*
*cries Kosher salty tears of despair*
…your morning run takes you past a Holocaust museum, a TV studio and a nail salon.
Let’s take a beautiful woman – and the world’s number one female comic book hero – and turn them into a grotesque Kardashian/drag queen mash up.
Did they get that costume from the 99c Only Store?
WHAT WERE THEY (aka NBC & David E Kelley) THINKING?
I’m so mad, I can’t even be erudite.
This looks rubbish.
…the first conversation of the day includes the words ‘Groupon’, ‘botox’ and ‘Urth cafe’.
When I’m running, I tend to think of myself as Jello in flight.
I’m a soft dimply ball of skin and squidge, and it’s precisely because of this dimple to squidge ratio that I’ve started running.
Post-40, my metabolism has slowed to a Southern drawl, and no amount of dieting seems to shift my excess poundage.
My first run on January 5th lasted approximately 12 seconds. It was brief and I almost passed out from shock.
Today I ran non-stop for 22 minutes, so yay me.
It’s still doesn’t feel natural though.
This morning I found myself being lapped by a young girl who was all sunshine, sinew and sylph.
Lumbering behind her, staring enviously at her perky backside, I worked out that I could comfortably fit a satsuma between her upper thighs. If I’d had one to hand, who knows what chaos may have ensued?
As she pulled away, I picked up speed determined not to be outdone. But I was merely a plump pretender to her Olympic throne.
My chunky thighs pounded into the ground, my arm flaps screamed out for mercy, and my round head turned purple from over-exertion.
I was a Botticelli angel in flight.
Did you know that Botticelli was also known as ‘Il Botticello’, which means ‘The Little Barrel’?
As a curious woman with artistic pretensions, I’m proud to say that I have inherited his singular crown. I barreled after that be-arch, like I was the last barrel in the universe.
Only, about a minute into my attempted sprint I found myself clinging to a railing, folded in half like wasted origami.
Through my melodic wheezing I started to laugh. And I couldn’t bloody stop.
Hysterical with Botticelli fever, I walked back to the car.
It’s safer that way.
…you find yourself walking around a supermarket on Sunset Boulevard late at night with nothing but cat food in your cart.
Sitting here, trying to picture myself with a, oh hold on, what are they called again? Oh yes, a MAN. I’m remembering some of the worst dates of my life.
This story is about ‘Stephen’, the writer for SNL.
We met when I answered his ad on Craiglist, advertising tickets for the Academy Awards. We emailed a few times and then arranged to meet for a drink.
He had a head shaped like a frying pan, and a voice louder than an American Idol contestant trying to sing like Beyonce.
Our first, and only, date took place at the Library Alehouse in Santa Monica. Only we couldn’t get a seat so we moved to the bar next door.
He kept looking over my shoulder. Talking to thin air. I turned around to see him fixated on a girl drinking at the bar.
Without taking a breath, he then yelled a story about his dad playing golf with Bill Clinton, and some other non-funny anecdotes, that made me realise just how right he was for SNL.
My hairline receded as his foghorn voice exfoliated my face and my soul to the very core.
Still, he remained goggle-eyed at bar-girl. It was irritating and rude, and his head seemed to expand as the hour wore on.
I went to the restroom and on the way back paused by the girl he’d been checking out. I tapped on her shoulder, and told her that that guy I was on a date with hadn’t stopped staring at her all night.
I gave her the heads up that I was about to leave, and that she could make her move but to be warned: his voice was very loud.
Sliding my jacket off the back of my chair, I told him what I’d just done, and left. He looked shocked and then – probably the only honest reaction from him all night – pleased that I’d smoothed the way to bar-girl.
And me? Well, I left happy in the knowledge that I had another crappy dating story to tell.*