Sarah Santucci

Today, despite all the Christmas presents I still need to buy and credit cards I still need to pay off, I managed to spend 30 dollars for breakfast and lunch.

This is enough of a ~zomg~ on its own, with regards to my raging stupidity.

(I mean…I even spent three dollars and fifty cents for a crappy fountain Diet Coke.) (Which is outrageous on its own, but especially so when you consider the endless amounts of fountain Diet Coke I can drink at work. Every day. At our very own Diet Coke fountain in the break room. For FREE.) (To say nothing of my Starbucks/Dunkin coffee habits, which also fail to consider the endless amounts of coffee available at work. For FREE.)

This is my ridiculous disconnect. Yesterday I went to CVS and spent 15 minutes in the soap aisle trying to find the cheapest body wash and face cleanser, ending up with a CVS brand neutrogena knock off that was on sale for only $2.43, WHOO!). But what is the purpose of this spendthriftery when I am going to waste all of my available funds on coffee and thai food while I’m at the office?

I am a financial fail. I even tried to turn over my financial life to the boyfriend, now that we live together. But that hasn’t really happened yet, as we’ve had other crap going on for the last few weeks, including multiple family visits and Thanksgiving.

And in the meantime, I’m faced with my own pathetic weaknesses, which boil down pretty much thusly:

Things I Would Have Very Much Liked To Do Today*:

- Clean my apartment

- Talk a walk

- Go grocery shopping

- Get a pedicure

- Clean my car

Things It was Too Damn Hot To Do Today:

- All of the above

* It is likely I would not have cleaned my car or apartment regardless of the heat, but it’s nice to have a scapegoat

I despise the heat. Despise. The feel of a bead of perspiration making its way down my back. Damp hair sticking to my neck and forehead. The sting of my car’s piping hot “leatherette” interior as it fuses to the backs of my thighs. Pit stains. Sunburns. The way sweat pools under my eyes as the heat gets trapped behind my giant sunglasses, which are foggy with humidity.

Relief, found in chilly movie theaters and frequent cool showers, is merely temporary. If I were ever to embrace objectum sexuality, the object of my most sincere affections would without question be an air conditioner. Or, perhaps, a meat locker. But the window units in my rather old fashioned apartment are woefully inadequate. As they work overtime trying to satiate my desire, they sputter moisture out onto the window sills, which drips down the wall, causing the paint to bulge and crack. All in the service of bringing the temperature in the room from “unfathomably unbearable” to “at least I’m not actively perspiring (so long as I lay very still)”.

I long for ice-cold central air with an almost carnal passion. I simply cannot bear to be hot. We can’t all look “glistening and sexy” like Ashley Judd in “A Time to Kill” (probably the world’s sweatiest movie; the make-up department had to have been working overtime misting Judd down with a dewy, Southern glow).

I tend to look more like Oliver Platt’s character when the mercury heads above 95, as it has been for weeks. Fat, sweaty, and uncomfortable:

So please, God, if your’e out there, I know I take your name in vain too often and, frankly, only ever appeal to you for selfish reasons, seeing as how I’m not even remotely religious. But if you wouldn’t mind taking things down a notch, perhaps from “Hellfire and Brimstone” to something in the neighborhood of “Kitty Cat Relaxing in a Spot of Warm Sunshine,” I’d be ever so grateful. I may even show up at church.

Provided it has air conditioning.

I’m about to lay down a very important piece of life advice. It is vital to your future sanity. Are you ready for it? In fact, it’s not even going to come from me. It should come from someone with the appropriate amount of gravitas.

This ought to do it:

Listen up kids, because I am about to lay down some knowledge.

Now that I have your attention, and a spokesman with the right amount of gravitas, listen carefully to Morgan Freeman:

Never, ever, loan your books or movies to friends. And if you do, be prepared to never see them again.

Sarah! Morgan! How can you say such a thing? Don’t you trust your friends? You’re implying that your friends will maliciously make off with your possessions so they don’t have to shell out $12.99 at Target? That’s terrible!

Settle down, I’m not saying that at all. I’ve certainly loaned books and DVDs and gotten them back in a timely fashion. I’ve also loaned them and never seen them again. I’ve also borrowed books and DVDs and returned them, and in turn borrowed books and DVDs that remain in my collection to this day.

None of this is malicious. It’s just that a certain amount of time passes, and unless the borrower or lender make a specific effort, sometimes you just don’t return something, and then you move away, and then 5 years have passed and you’re like “Hey, I didn’t know I owned ‘The Big Lebowski’, let’s watch this Dude!” all the while some poor friend of yours back in New Hampshire is probably all “what mofo made off with my Lebowski DVD?”

Or you know, something to that effect.

Which is what was running through my head last week when I was attempting to track down my “Good Will Hunting” DVD. I know I had one. I remember watching it about 1,000 times before its mysterious disappearance. (I can’t decide if it’s the allure of a young and occasionally shirtless Matt Damon, Ben Affleck sporting an inexplicable pompadour and tracksuit combo throughout as if he were a Sopranos extra despite obviously portraying a Boston Irish type, or the math professor’s gay assistant–one of the most underrated performances in the whole movie…I just can’t resist Good Will Hunting.)

The movie is no longer in my possession. And that’s okay, because it’s my own fault, because if “Good Will Hunting” is not around despite the fact that I apparently own two copies of “What Dreams May Come” (on VHS no less), then I know that’s because I loaned it out. I am certain the person I loaned it to did not mean to steal it, any more than I intended to steal Lebowski. This stuff happens.

Which brings me back to my point: Never, ever loan out your books or DVDs unless you’re prepared to bid them a fond farewell. And go to Target and spend $12.99 on a movie you already own.

(And if it’s your copy of The Big Lebowski that made its way into my DVD cabinet, well…I kinda hope you don’t read this, because that was a pretty good get. )

From now on, I’m going to stop crowing about how I never get sick.

I honestly don’t usually get sick though! I mean, I get a couple colds and coughs and sniffles per year, just like most people. But I rarely get so sick that I need “to be seen” (as my mom puts it) and take medicines, and miss three days of work, and constantly have people telling me how awful I look.

The last time that happened was when I had mono when I was 23. Mono was terrible in the sense that I had to sleep sitting up in my dad’s easy chair for 3 weeks or risk death by snot suffocation, but wonderful in the sense that I ate nothing but ice cream and liquid painkillers for a month, and lost 25 pounds.

If you ask me, mono is a walk in the park next to bronchitis, because with mono you’re basically just passed out. Sure, when you wake up you’re in unbearable pain, and your spleen might explode, but guess what? A few spoonfuls of ice cream, a mugful of ThermaFlu and a swig of liquid painkillers later, and it’s back to Happy Dream Easy Weight Loss Land for the next 12 hours. What’s wrong with that?

Bronchitis is basically the opposite of mono in every way:

You’re still sick for a month, but in that month you will likely get about a half an hour of sleep.

Instead of your spleen exploding, which most people could probably live through, your lungs might explode, which would probably be bad.

You can’t eat ice cream due to the fact that dairy products exacerbate a cough, but you probably won’t lose 25 pounds without trying like with mono. At least not if you’re me. This is probably due to the lack of sleep and inability to do much more exercise than, well, coughing. And even that will kill you, as I learned that several week’s worth of violent coughs can mean strained muscles and an inflamed rib cage.

This means, on top of the steroids and the inhaler and the antiobiotics and liquid hydrocodone, I also got to take naproxen and percocet and muscle relaxers! This was not as much fun as it sounds.

Oh, and did I mention I was on vacation for part of this ordeal? In New Orleans? And that I was so tired from merely dragging myself out to sightsee each day that I couldn’t even bring myself to hit up Bourbon Street and party down properly? Yes. That is all true.

This entire post about my ailments is, naturally, meant to serve as a very viable excuse for not posting for two months.

“But I thought you said you were only sick for a month??”

Hush, you.

In the interests of firing up the old blog engine again after my usually scheduled four week break (which I take once every two weeks–blogging is hard work you guys), I am pulling a topic from the illustrious (in both esteem and hair) Meg Fowler. Nothing gets the writing juices flowing like a good old fashioned peeve-a-thon!

Therefore, here are Six Things That Will Always Annoy Me.

1) Incompetent Starbucks Baristas – I am not a person who berates those who work in the food service industry. My boyfriend works in this industry. My sister works in this industry. I almost always leave a 20% tip regardless of service at restaurants, becuase a) it’s easy math (math is hard!), and b) I don’t punish people financially for having a bad day or being grumpy and/or forgetful. If I myself were punished financially for grumpiness and forgetfulness, I’d be destitute.

(Here comes the but!) BUT–what’s up, Starbucks baristas??? It’s a Venti. Skim. Misto. Sugar-free caramel. And yet?

“Can I get a venti skim Misto with sugar-free caramel?”
“Sure. Calling bar! I need a venti Misto with vanilla!”
“Uh, no, it’s a SKIM, and that’s sugar-free caramel.”
“Oh whoops–Make that skim! And make it sugar-free vanilla!”
“NO. CARAMEL.”
“Caramel!”
“Sugar Free! Sugar Free Caramel!!!!!”

And even after all that they still hand me my finished drink without the caramel 3 times out of 5.

(Dunkin on the other hand, is right every time. *wistful sigh*)

2) Skinny People Who Complain About Their Weight – This one is tough, because some of my  best friends are Skinny People Who Complain About Their Weight. And yes, here is my obligatory admission that everyone from size 0 to size 300 will feel crappy about the way their butt looks in a particular pair of pants at some point in their lives. But for the most part? Cram it, Skinny People Who Complain About Their Weight! I think what bothers me most about this peeve is the silent understanding between me and the Skinny Person Complaining About Their Weight that if they woke up one day and looked like me, they would probably not even leave the house, except maybe to throw themselves in front of traffic. I just never really know what to say, so I usually go with the silent fume.

3) Message Boards – I got flamed for the first time last week, and I still can’t believe it took me 15 years of being online for this to happen. Long story short, I raised the ire of a regular commenter on the board I was posting on, and it resulted in a day-long event in which everyone thereafter posted HUNDREDS of comments questioning my moral fiber, level of attractiveness, intelligence, maturity, ability to read, and potential for finding a life mate. In short, message boards are, anthropologically speaking, bat$h!t CRAZY places. They are generally self-ruled by gangs of “regulars.” These regulars apparently don’t have jobs, because all they do all day long is post to their message board of choice. If you are new to the board and say something they don’t like, they will insult, taunt, and bully you endlessly. Trying to defend yourself only makes it worse; the only way out of it is to relent and admit they are your master, or post a final angry message about how you are taking your ball and going home. The second option is potentially more infuriating, because you will inevitably go back to this message board and wait for the flood of responses begging you not to leave and apologizing for how bat$h!t crazy the regular posters are, but you will instead be met with the Internet equivalent of that “Na-na-na-na hey hey hey good bye!” song. It stings. Avoid these places like the plague.

4) Reading Over My Shoulder – The easiest way to send me flying irrationally off the handle? Read over my shoulder, or ask me what I’m reading. Poor Chef Jon is obviously the most common victim of this one, as he can never help but ask me what I’m reading when I’m sitting with my laptop.

“Whatcha reading???”
“A blog.”
“What blog?”
“It’s a review of that movie we saw.”
“Oh, what are they saying?”
“OMFG LEAVE ME ALONE!”

And then he gets all hurt. I’m not saying it’s reasonable to yell at someone for this infraction. Nor is it necessarily polite to sit on your laptop and ignore your boyfriend when he’s at your house. I never said these peeves were rational, people! But damn. If I’m reading something, just let me be. Then maybe in the car later, “Hey have you read anything interesting lately? Can you recommend a funny blog?” Then I will be nice, because I am not being interrupted. Simple!

5) People Who Put You On The Phone With Their Children – This is self explanatory (one would think). Also, people who post photos of their kids as their Facebook picture. Yes, I’m an evil witch who eats babies for breakfast. But like I said, not all of these peeves are rational. It’s like people who hate Christmas. HOW CAN YOU HATE CHRISTMAS!? I exclaim. But they can’t explain it, they just do. That’s how I feel about Facebook profile photos of your admittedly cute baby. I’m sorry, really.

6) Sanctimonious Vegetarians/Workout Addicts/Ex-Smokers -

“I don’t understand how people can eat that! I don’t put anything into my body that wasn’t grown in the turd pile in my backyard. And can I just tell you how great I feel? And you should see my poop! Before I put it into my turd garden, I always check it thoroughly to make sure I’m digesting properly. And can I just tell you, do not get that generic brand of the pro-biotic poo-yogurt, only Pay$$$WhenYouAlreadyPooForFree! Yogurt will work. And ever since I gave up smoking and started 5am spinning and yoga every day, I am just so energetic! And did I tell you we got rid of our TV? We’re all just so much happier.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t hear you. I was distracted by the ‘Real World’ marathon that’s on and this ginormous bag of cheez-its. Also, can we talk later? I’m out of cigs. Byeee!”

Facebook ads are a near constant source of blog posts when you have nothing else to say.

I used to complain about how Facebook used my single status to taunt me with ads questioning whether I was “29 and alone again?” or “Worried he’s not out there?”

Or they’d try to sell me on birth control pills while simultaneously claiming to “accept” my Virginia baby.

And then there’s the incident with the man-boobs.

The latest? They are trying, like an 80s soap opera villain with a faked pregnancy, to drive a wedge between me and my boyfriend:

This is a good point. Where IS my boyfriend!???? He’s in Chevy Chase, according to this very reliable Facebook ad. WHO DOES HE KNOW IN CHEVY CHASE???

Thanks Facebook. I’ll take care of this immediately and then you can get back to taunting me with singles ads. But this time, I’m 30! So they’ll be like “Hey Old Maid, worried about your womb cobwebs? Freeze what few eggs you have left today!”

My first feminist role model was, undeniably, Julia Sugarbaker of “Designing Women”.

This character knew her way around a takedown, whether expressing her point of view on sexual harrassment or standing up to a bitchy beauty queen.

In short, Julia Sugarbaker didn’t take any crap from anyone; nor did she suffer fools easily.

I think I can say with authority that the smart and talented women in social media, particularly those at Podcamp Boston 4 last weekend, all have a little Julia in them. How else can we describe the spirited and thoughtful posts springing out of the Podcamp discussion on gender and social media?

So why do I still feel so disheartened?

I think it’s because by and large, the women on the lawn that day seemed to fall in step behind Chris Penn’s conclusions. To wit, that sexism, or a “glass ceiling” effect, has nothing to do with the lack of women on the social media “A-list.” That anyone who thinks so is just falling victim to “self imposed limitations.”

The idea seems to be that if women aren’t succeeding, they have only themselves to blame. Quite a convenient theory, I’d say.

The argument that claiming sexism plays a part in any challenge we face is encouraging women to “play the victim” is far from new. It’s a straw man that’s tapped repeatedly in debates about feminism. And it positively reeks of privilege. Male privilege specifically, although the number of women adhering to it also hints that it might also be privilege of experience. That is, if you haven’t experienced something personally, it must not exist.

In an old but good post about privilege, Barry Deutsch quotes a paper on white privilege. Its author argues that white people are “taught to see racism only in individual acts of meanness, not in invisible systems conferring dominance on my group.”

With regards to sexism, it’s the “invisible system” that was the crux of my comments during the Podcamp gender discussion. It’s not always about some tangible, moustache-twirling man making a conscious decision to discriminate against women, or keep them off the stage at conferences. I argued that cultural issues are at play here, unspoken “rules” that we’re taught from a young age, and the constant messages we receive about women in the public eye. We are scrutinized far more closely, and judged much more harshly. We’re bombarded with messages that our appearance matters more than anything.

I mentioned at the sesssion popular livecaster iJustine as a woman who has “made it” in social media. Is it a coincidence that, along with being very smart working very hard, she is also a blonde bombshell? On the flip side, someone should ask her how much disgusting, sexual, or harassing email she gets. Someone should read about Julia Roy’s experiences being an attractive woman at the top of the social media game. Better yet, go back and read the story of what happened to Kathy Sierra.

Something tells me the men on the A-list aren’t dealing with these types of issues. Is it any wonder we might be somewhat reluctant to promote ourselves? What are the auto-suggestions when you type “iJustine is” into Google?

Naturally. As a woman if you’re hot, you’re golden. Unless of course you have opinions. Then you’re also annoying. Can’t have that.

Penn’s major comment during the session was that it “doesn’t care what’s between your legs, just between your ears.”

I was shocked at this statement, and moreso that the group actually erupted into applause after he said it. I basked in the irony that everyone seemed to think he was making some sort of statement on equality by using provocative language that dismisses the entire feminist movement as, basically, a bunch of whining vaginas.

Have there not ALWAYS been women with plenty going on between their ears? Are there not currently TONS of women in social media who are incredibly smart, incredibly accomplished, and incredibly under-represented everywhere–from the stage at SxSW to the Power 150?

Chris says we need to just “be awesome.” I’m sorry, I was unaware that we weren’t already awesome. I can name at least 100 awesome women right now. Why is it the responsibility for changing the state of affairs all on us?

Continuing his odd inclination to use language in this debate that boils women down to their genitals, Chris says of Michelle Wolverton, the terrific lead organizer of Podcamp Boston, that she “didn’t become lead organizer of the first and oldest PodCamp by demanding a chance because she’s got a vagina.”

Excuse me, but what? Find me one example of any woman who has written or spoken about this issue who has claimed that women should be given more speaking roles becuase of our “vaginas.”

This seems to be a consistent confusion, so let me clear it up right now. No one is saying that conference organizers just pick any old women off the street and give them a mic just because they’re women. No one.

We’re saying that women who are already equally deserving of these chances, women who ARE “awesome,” have been overlooked. And we’re asking that it be corrected.

Honestly. WHY?

Harry and Sally are looking for a proper housewarming gift for their friends who’ve just moved in together. They go to the Sharper Image, where Harry suggests the battery operated pith helmet. (”With fan!”)

Sally: “WHY is this necessary in life?”

Word, sister. The biggest problem with the progress made by technology, innovation, etc, has been the onslaught of utterly useless inventions. Places like Brookstone and the Sharper Image only contribute to the idea that my dad needs a barbeque fork that can take the temperature of meat. A gift I actually purchased for him one Christmas. He was VERY excited about it…I honestly don’t think he’s ever actually informed me what the internal temperature actually was for any bit of meat he has served to me since. It’s completely unnecessary!

Which is why Matt’s topic is so excellent. I mean, Cheetos lip balm? Delicious? Probably. Necessary? No.

And so, my contribution. The Axe “Shower Tool.” I actually snapped this pic with my iPhone at Safeway a few days ago. I couldn’t comprehend why, when a loufa, sponge or washcloth will do just fine, Axe thinks they can get men to spend SEVEN DOLLARS (I checked) on a “shower tool” to wash themselves. Why? Becuase it’s more “manly” than a loufa? IT DOES THE SAME THING.

Sorry, consumers of this product. But the only tool in your shower is you.

And this is not just a crazy feminist complaining about the idea that marketers are using the notion that things used by females (see: loofas) are some how not “manly” enough for men to use.

(I’m sorry, “detailer”? What are you, a Chevy?) (Well, according to the commerical, I guess you actually are.)

But really, I have the same issue in reverse. I get a ten times better shave when I borrow a boyfriend’s razor on my legs than on any of the chi-chi ridiculous “female” razors that they charge us WAY too much money for.

See: (I mean, honestly! What the hell IS this?)

No really. What the hell?

Don’t even get me started on the Comfort Wipe.

Sarah would rather hang with us than run uphill.

Washington? Built on a swamp. Me? Violently ill if I spend too much time in humidity at all, let along while exerting myself. My plan to train for a freaking marathon during a Washington summer? Possibly, probably, ill-advised. And yet, here I am.

I ran four miles tonight at my usual awesomely slow pace and the trail had like three incredibly minor incredibly short uphill sections (six total, I suppose 2 miles out and 2 back). The inclines are short and not steep. Not exactly Heartbreak Hill I’m talking about. And yet, I was wimpy and pwned and used them as an excuse to walk for a minute. It was kind of a sad display.

But it was raining! (Actually that should have made it easier. It was also 68 to 70 degrees max, and breezy. Good lord woman.)

But my ipod was making my pants fall down again! (Actually no it wasn’t, you bought one of those arm band thingies at Best Buy literally right before your run, because you were tired of the constant fear of exposing half of Alexandria to your big white butt.)

But my fingers were the size of Johnsonville Brats! (Actually…this is true. And now I’m hungry.)

*Not my actual fingers, but a solid representation.

No one hates “The Hills” more than me. I could cheerfully toss Spencer Pratt into a vat of honey and then roll him around in some fire ants.

And yet? I’d rather watch an all day marathon (heh) of that crapfest than ever run uphill. I must find a way around this in the coming months, methinks.

So I know all I ever talk about anymore is running and the marathon and such. My friend Dan informed me that my self-deprecating posts about how crap I am at this undertaking are “not as funny as [I] think they are.” (Thanks, DAN! Appreciate the feedback! Have you met my friend, Mr. Suckitdan, yet?)

But this is…pretty much all that’s going on in my life lately that doesn’t involve cats (already widely covered), work (not something I really blog much about), or beer (and that’s happening less and less what with me actually doing exercises that are not “lift drink to mouth, repeat”). And it’s my blog, so if you gotta problem with that, I would like to politely introduce you to a little something I call “The Hand,” and urge you to converse with it.

Ahem. Anyway…

Week four was pure crap. It marked the first time I didn’t cop out on any of the runs or workouts (yay!), but also the first time I really started wondering whether or not I can actually do this thing. I was tired. I walked most of my mileage, bitching all the while, and had some major heat issues on my long run that left my head dizzy and my hands sausage-esque.

My sister also informed me this week that if you can’t make it across a bridge at Mile 19 by a certain time, they re-open the bridge to traffic and you have to take a humiliating “Losers Shuttle” back, effectively forfieting the rest of the race. My new goal, aside from just “finishing alive,” is to not end up riding the Fatty Bus back to Loserville.

So all in all, a demoralizing week. Saturday, I went out on the Mt. Vernon trail to do the four miles round trip up to Reagan Airport and back. It’s a beautiful trail, not very hilly, I can see it being really enjoyable to those who aren’t in danger of keeling over and dying on the ground alongside it, unlike me.

The worst part was the entire second mile, when I was trailing a family out for a pleasure walk. They were flip-flopped tourists, strolling along, carrying shopping bags, conversing. I was behind them, and could not. catch. the eff. UP. No matter how much I gasped or how hard I tried to add a little actual “power” to my power-walking (having abandoned jogging after the first half mile, during which I lost more fluids in the 90 degree heat than that gross guy with the armpit sprinklers in the new Axe deodorant ads). Just a bit unsettling, particularly since they kept looking over their shoulders at me, no doubt confused as to why the drenched tomato making all the racket with the huffing and the groaning couldn’t just pass them already. Eventually they stopped to take pictures, which I interpreted as a pity move. “Let’s just pretend to take a picture so the sweaty dying girl can get by us…cheeeese!”

Then, there’s nutrition. Sigh.

The good news is, I’m officially pissed. The bad news is, after heading to Maine and New Hampshire to visit friends and attend a wedding last weekend, consuming along the way approximately my weight in fried foods and drinks, I managed to lose exactly 0 weight last week. The cheerful lady at Weigth Watchers assured me this was a GOOD thing, as I had babbled to her all my excuses prior to getting on the scale, and I’m sure that running actually did stave off a massive uptick in LB’s….but damnit. i kind of thought I’d get off the hook. This is the most I’ve exercised in months, I can’t have one bad weekend of booze and junk-food consumption without punishment?

I am now ranking my metabolism somewhere in the vicinity of my Mr. Suckitdan, in terms of affecting the mood of this update. So, onto the Facts n Figures:

Week 4 of this Godforsaken Why Did I Do This And Where’s the Emergency Exit Training:

Day 1: Rest
Day 2: 2 miles, 29:50, walk/jog, hurt like a sonofabitch.
Day 3: 2 miles, 30:30, walk/jog, followed up with Jillian Michael’s Shred, which coincidentally? Also hurt like a sonofabitch.
Day 4: Rest (swapped out the rest day this week)
Day 5: 2.3 miles, 35:00, walked all of it, and not much different than my walk/jog pace, interestingly. Also did 20 minutes of hills training on staitionary bike, which was a LOT harder than I thought it’d be)
Day 6: Cross day, got up early to do the Shred before work. Decided Jillian can also suck it, along with Dan.
Day 7: 4 miles, a billion hours, as I had to walk the last mile at around the pace of a paralyzed snail, so as not to, you know, actually die, as opposed to just making jokes about same repeatedly to torment Dan. Must, must, must start doing long runs early in the morning–the 90 degree weather absolutely destroyed me, and my hands swelled up to the size of catcher’s mitts. Also got a bit lightheaded. Very bad day.

Weight: 100 lbs (see previous entry for explanation on this entirely fictional starting weight!). That’s right, after getting all fired up, I lost NO weight. How embarassing. But this week has gone much better on nutrition, except for some missteps this weekend and maybe a bit too much to drink a couple times. Memorial Day weekend during week 2 of a new nutrition plan? Is balls.

(New Mantra: Next week will be better, you will not end up on the Fatty Bus to Loserville, you will not actually die on the side of the Mt. Vernon Trail and end up a bloated corpse floating around in the Potomac and frightening the tourists on the water taxi…you will NOT.)