Filed under: The Lawyer, those chimichangas better be goddamned DELICIOUS, weight loss is hard
Since November, The Lawyer and I have been informally attempting to get back in shape by exercising more and making better food choices. Not really as a resolution, but more like an I’m Sick Of Being Pudgy, I Want To Look Good Naked, and My Motherfucking Clothes Don’t Fit type thing. It’s been a slow process, but we’re still at it.
Well, I guess I’m still at it.
We brought home a treadmill last month, and so far Lawyerman has only used it once. I’ve managed to keep it semi-active about 3 times a week. That isn’t godly by any stretch of the imagination, but I feel as if at least I’m trying . . . whereas Lawyerman’s preferred activity of choice lately is playing Creeper World and pouring bourbon over ice.
Now, I love my Lawyerman. And his extra poundage doesn’t make me love him any less (I’ve always been into teddy bear types). But it puts me in a right stabby state when he pretends that he is this adonis of a man who doesn’t need exercise because he’s got “muscle under the fat” and instead ends up yelling things like “That wasn’t very long!” to me from the computer room when I get off the treadmill, sweating and panting profusely.
So I think things like, “Fine. He doesn’t want to get in shape anymore, apparently. Well I still do. Even though my results have been virtually naught, I’m not going to give up on this again.“
And then I make peace with it.
And then I continue to make healthier meals, hoping Lawyerman will become accustomed to this way of eating and not feel like he has to eat seventeen pounds of food to feel full.
And then he tells me my dinner was great, and admires how healthy food can still taste delicious.
And then I go to bed, feeling good about my exercise and my food choices.
And then I wake up to find two XXL Chimichanga wrappers in the trash can from Lawyerman’s apparent “late night snack” the night before.
I felt a strange combination of anger, confusion, disappointment, and resentment in the moments when I discovered that Lawyerman, after I went to bed, felt it necessary to eat not one but TWO EXTRA EXTRA LARGE CHIMICHANGAS.
In case you’re wondering, not only are these motherfuckers INSANELY HUGE:
I don't think I could even eat this in a day.
Just one of these babies almost exceeds your fat content for A SINGLE DAY.
Let’s have a looksee, shall we?
Holy Testicle Tuesday!
Almost 1,000 calories in this bitch! Also, the El Monterey website doesn’t want you to know the actual percent daily value of the total fat content, as evidenced by this screen shot. Want to know why? Because one of these monstrosities takes up EIGHTY SEVEN PERCENT of your daily fat intake!
EIGHTY. SEVEN. PERCENT.
For ONE.
And my boyfriend ate TWO.
As a SNACK.
It just made me red in the face when I found the evidence. I know, I know . . . guys eat more than girls, the sky is blue, and Julia Allison is an absolute toolbag. Yada yada yada. I get it. But when you’ve been eating cottage cheese, drinking green tea, and forgoing meat when it isn’t necessary over the past few months so your body will look good and your boyfriend will want to fuck you, then you find evidence that he consumed 174% of his daily recommended fat intake after you went to bed, it doesn’t exactly make you want to have an impromptu dance party.
And impromptu dance parties are fun, damn it.
My point is, it’s hard for me to feel empowered in my decision to lead a healthier lifestyle if the person I spend 89% of my free time with won’t get on board with me. It’s a lonely feeling, and it just makes me want to eat a half gallon of Drumstick ice cream in defeat.
Filed under: Little known fact: Voldemort knows how to drop it like it's hot, not tagging any more because it's lunchtime and I'm hungry
I don’t know if you know this yet or not, but I’m awesome.
Also, modest.
Seriously though. I’m the freaking SHIT.
My handwriting is fucking beautiful. My ass is amazing and elves apply my makeup every morning. My hair shines like the tears of Guatemalan orphans and my teeth are as white as Voldemort’s ass.
My farts smell like lavender and I turn women gay. I have never had a bad hair day. I make it rain on them hoes without thinking twice about it. Men worship me and women envy my shoe collection.
I never answer my cell phone because I’m too awesome to talk to you. I don’t text because texting is so 2009. I invented the iPhone. And porn.
Angelina Jolie calls me when she’s having trouble deciding which country to adopt an underprivileged child from next. But I never answer the phone. That’s why she hasn’t exploited adopted any chirrens lately. Lady Gaga direct messages to me on Twitter. Snooki writes on my Facebook wall daily.
Clearly, I win at life.
BUT I STILL GET MY HOUSE KEY STUCK IN THE DOOR. EVERY. SINGLE. DAY.
I guess you can’t be awesome at everything.
Filed under: BrownEyes, I feel like there should be a Peter Cetera song in the background of this post, New York, The Lawyer, alcoholism: I has it.
Because I’m an extremely unique individual, I decided to give a recap post of my Year In Blogging.
Oh wait, everyone’s already doing that?
Balls.
Well, there is something to be said for conformity.
Try conformity. Everybody’s doing it!
Here goes.
January
- I tried sushi for the first time (yay!), but it was with New York (boo!). I have since developed a love affair with it and attempt to get some every time I visit a new city.
- I told a horror story about an old job (if you haven’t read it yet, CLICK THAT MOTHER EFFING LINK. It’s a good one. You will laugh. You will cry. You will want to hug your boss immediately after reading it.)
- I attended a Redneck River Party, at which a dude named Clem asked me for my phone number. Let me repeat that. A DUDE NAMED CLEM.
February
- I vlogged. And then my IQ points dropped 73 points in your minds once you heard my Southern accent.
- A flying rodent MERCILESSLY ATTACKED ME AND ATE MY FAMILY, CAUSING GRAVE TRAGEDY AND TREMENDOUS SORROW. Or, a bat flew at my head. Same diff.
March
- I gave up on New York and BrownEyes tried to get back together with me. THAT WAS BOATLOADS OF FUNSIES!
April
- I played around with online dating and, as a result, went out with a dude who worshiped at the altar of Nickelback. I DIDN’T KNOW, Y’ALL, UNTIL IT WAS TOO LATE.
- I wrote about the worst gift I ever received.
- I went on my first date with The Lawyer! Bless!
May
- The Lawyer and I had our first beach trip together!
- I wrote some angry letters.
June
- I practiced the art of seduction.
- I was a hater and a Photoshop master (mistress? To me, mistress just sounds like ADULTERESS WHORE) all in the same post.
July
- I gave you the dire consequences you will face if you do not cry at my funeral, during which point you all found out I legitimately enjoy Miller Lite and, consequently, lost a little respect for me.
August
- I decided that I didn’t want Lawyerman and I to be one of those couples.
September
- My boyfriend had to get closer to my bodily functions than he ever thought possible.
October
- I turned the big two-six (I actually never posted about my birthday, but there’s a post about farts. You’re welcome).
November
- I complained. A LOT. About my jiggle in the middle. About colleagues who piss me off. About the unfortunate address I grew up with.
- I VISITED BLOGGING BARBIE!!!!!!! Epic.
December
- I enjoyed my Christmas holidays with my Snuggie and lots of red wine.
- I weighed in on important topics.
- I discovered, once and for all, that New York is, indeed, an asshat.
It’s funny going back through my blog, trying to find the highlights (and lowlights [wait, there should be a better word than “lowlights” . . . can someone get on that?) of 2009. It was 100% crazy, every bit of it. And while, at times I was drowning my sorrows with 12 packs of Coors Light listening to my Man Hatred playlist while getting grease stains on my sweatpants (new low, LRC. New low.) . . .
2009 kicked 2008’s ass. Hands down.
And I honestly believe that 2010 will be even better.
Filed under: New York, RAH RAH AH AH AH ROMA ROMA MA GAGA OH LA LA, men make me want to take a cheesegrater to my eyeball
Have you ever had a moment when someone’s ugly side was revealed to you in an instant? When you realized the person you thought you knew was actually not that person at all?
It’s jarring, to say the least.
When it happens, it’s like getting the wind knocked out of you. You can’t think or speak.
And then, once you get over the initial shock, you get angry. Angry with that person for being such a goddamn wanker (oh, how I wish I were British so I could pull off wanker. . . or git). And you get angry with yourself for having believed in that person for so long. Wasting so much time on a shitty, selfish person.
Okay, so I’m getting a little specific here. Allow me to back up.
Remember when I was all butt-crazy about New York? And then do you remember when someone told me some unfortunate things about his past? And when I decided to give him the benefit of the doubt because he seemed to have changed his ways? And do you remember when it didn’t work out between us and we decided to stay friends anyway?
Yeah, me too. Unfortunately.
(SIDEBAR: I know I’ve got a few new readers here—and I think a lot of my old readers abandoned me when my blog changed tone—but this blog used to be RULL Single Girl In A Small Town! What Dating Adventures Is She Going To Encounter Next? TEE HEE! in nature with a heaping helping of OH MY GOD FUCK MEN and a dash of Crying In A Corner With My Cat. But now I have a boyfriend so this here blog has gone the way of . . . basically me talking about Snuggies and Harry Potter.)
Well, this week? All the credit I had been giving New York for being “reformed” and “different” came crashing down all over me. And I realized that those horrible things I heard about him were 100% true and STILL COMPLETELY APPLICABLE.
And now, I am going to tell you something that will probably make you want to slap my hand and say FOR SHAME, LRC. But I have my reasons so just go with me here.
Up until this week, New York didn’t know I had a boyfriend.
I KNOW!
But like I said, I had reasons. Which did not in any way include: “I want to keep my options open and I still want NY to want me.” NOT. EVEN. That is completely not the case, so don’t go all judgey-pants on me.
My reasoning is this:
- My conversations with NY are seldom, and primarily by means of texts and Twitter direct messages. “Bee tee dubs, I have a boyfriend! LOL” just seemed like a rude thing to tell someone via electronic means. Plus, our conversations rarely get personal. The opportunity simply did not present itself.
- I planned to tell him in person this week, while he was in town, at a party we were both planning to attend.
Which I did. After catching up for a bit (which included him tricking me into imitating someone else and then recording it on video. BASTARD!), I pointed out my boyfriend to him.
He didn’t say anything. In fact, he pretty much ignored me for the remainder of the evening and left with a girl (whom I know he has, in fact, boned before, and I’m pretty sure she still crushes on him) whom he had barely talked to all evening. At least, until he found out I had a boyfriend.
So there you have it. NY doesn’t value my friendship after all. He just wants a girl he can take home so he can touch her boobs, and then ultimately not fuck her (because he doesn’t fuck girls he’s not in a relationship, REMEMBER?).
So yeah, all this time I’ve wasted trying to be his friend?
Totally not worth it.
It’s a slap in the face, but it’s made me realize that I don’t need toxic people like him in my life in any way, shape, or form.
I’m not lacking in friendships. I don’t need this one.
Filed under: Yes I like Twilight now shut the eff up, fancy a wanding?, five minutes of your life you'll never get back
I’m about three weeks behind on this (as I am on prreeeetty much everything else. I win at life.), but I thought I would weigh in on the situation anyway. For your enjoyment. I must truly be in the Christmas spirit this year!
With the semi-recent release of the second installment of the Twilight saga, New Moon, and the DVD release of the sixth Harry Potter film Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince, my gears have been turning.
It seems that if you like one, you don’t like the other.
Why can’t we exist in a world where Edward Cullen and Ronald Weasley can exist peacefully together? Can vampires and wizards be cronies? Is one better than the other? WHY HATERS BE HATIN’?
Since this is my blog, I’m going to give you my opinion on these two franchises.
I like them both.
While I do think that one is superior to the other (I will let you know which at the end of this post. I know you’re about to cream your panties in anticipation) (oh my God I hate the word cream) (seriously, it’s creepy), I do legitimately enjoy both.
I like Twilight because… well, I don’t actually know why I like Twilight. I don’t live with my parents and I’m not desperate and obese, and Robert Pattinson doesn’t excite my lady parts. I just like it.
I don’t think Stephenie Meyer has terrific writing skills (mediocre at best, but still better than me), and I don’t want to go spend my bi-weekly paychecks on TEAM EDWARD paraphernalia. I just like it.
I’m not obsessed with werewolves or dudes that sparkle. I haven’t read each book in the series eleventeen times (even though I’ll probably re-read Eclipse because I can’t for the life of me remember what the HAIL happened in it).
I.
Just.
Like it.
I like Harry Potter, too (even though Half-Blood Prince was my second least favorite of the Harry Potter movies, despite the fact that the book was one of my favorites in the series). Wizardry! Mythical creatures! Awkward teenage dry humping! It’s got everything!
I didn’t get on the HP bandwagon until this year (I know, I’m SO two thousand and late), but I’ve found my new brand of crack in the form of a British boy wizard and his companions (oh Harry, what kind of shenanigans will you, Ron, and Hermione get into next? Tee hee!)
The point of this disjointed post was really to tackle two issues:
- I’m tired of all the Twilight haters AND those girls who throw their stank TEAM JACOB panties at Taylor Lautner and make the rest of us look bad. Have some self-control, damn.
- It’s possible to legitimately enjoy both Twilight and Harry Potter and still be a semi-functioning grown ass woman.
To wrap up, I will leave you with this. From the franchise I prefer.
Filed under: I'm gonna need a strong drink after this one, five minutes of your life you'll never get back, inexplicable rage and you
Picture this.
You’re walking back to your desk from the cafeteria, styrofoam container of hamburger steak and broccoli casserole in hand.
Your stomach has been growling for hours because you skipped breakfast, but you felt the need to wait for a socially acceptable time to eat red meat.
You’re about to tear into this gravy-covered goodness as quickly as you can break out a plastic fork and knife. You can’t wait for this dining experience.
Hell, at this point you’d probably eat porcupine intestines if they were covered in enough gravy.
You open your office door.
And there are FOUR Goddamn people in your office.
FOUR.
Let me back up a bit. I work in the marketing department of a college. We have a “marketing closet” that contains all our logo slash promotional items.
The Closet is frequently visited by people who are So! Excited! About! Their! Jobs! and can’t WAIT to give away our logo items to prospective students. Give these people a couple umbrellas and some plastic tumblers and the excitement makes their nipples get so hard they could cut glass.
This magical closet of wonders is only accessible through my office.
If anyone wants a generic version of a ShamWow with our logo on it (yes, we have those), they have to come through my office.
When this happens, my boss has to “supervise” so people don’t take too much. And since my boss is A Large Woman, she supervises while the skinny Secretary gathers the items for whoever is in need.
This means that at any given moment when someone needs something from said closet, there are anywhere from three to five people in my office at a time, not including myself.
My office ain’t that big.
Now, I told you all of that to tell you this.
I.
FUCKING.
HATE IT.
When people watch me eat.
I don’t know why. When someone watches me eat, though? I experience extreme internal rage. My face may show marginal frowning, but in my brain I AM YELLING AT YOU AT THE TOP OF MY LUNGS TO STEP AWAY FROM ME AND MY VITTLES LEST I THROTTLE YOU.
And it’s not that I’m afraid someone is going to steal my food off my plate or anything. I just prefer it when people refrain from hovering over my lunch to breathe swine flu germs all over the food I am about to ingest.
Of the four people in my office today while I was preparing to eat my lunch, ALL of them said two of my least favorite words in the English language (at least, combined as a pair of words to create the phrase):
WHATCHA EATIN?
I guess, technically, that’s three words when said correctly… and “whatcha” and “eatin” aren’t actually words, but just go with me on this one.
Oh my God, I cannot justify the pure ANGER I experience when someone asks me that question. And the Secretary does it ALMOST EVERY SINGLE DAY.
If I bring something to eat back from the breakroom, she’s in my office faster than it took Jay-Z to come out of retirement, standing behind me and peering over my shoulder.
“Whatcha eatin?”
And then I shoot her.
Do you have an inexplicable pet peeve?
*If you can tell me where the title of this post came from, I would like for us to go ahead and become besties.
. . . and everyone loves a Photoshop drawing, so here we go!
At my workplace, instead of taking certain holidays we defer them to the end of the year. This year, it just so happens that we will be getting TEN days in a row (including a furlough, boo) of work-free wonderfulness!
Go ahead and be jealous of me. This is really the only thing I have going for myself over here.
Here is how I plan to spend my ten-day holiday.
(Click to embiggen)
Y’all.
You folks just don’t understand.
Yes, you have been ridiculing the Snuggie for its ridiculous commercial and inherent hideousness for a year or so. Someone put a hilarious parody of it on YouTube (Ruin your child’s self-esteem by wearing it in public!), and anyone seen purchasing a Snuggie from the local Walmart is be subject to public ridicule.
And to that, I say,
HATERS TO THE MOTHER.
FUCKING.
LEFT.
You heard me. I’m a proud Snuggie owner.
Lawyerman bought me a Snuggie for our 6 month anniversary (it’s PINK for breast cancer awareness!). And yes, I realize there are all kinds of things wrong with that sentence.
It’s so WARM! And SOFT! And I can keep my thermostat on 60 and not freeze my nonexistent balls off!
IT’S A PERSONAL WARMTH MIRACLE!
(Heh. “Personal warmth.” That sounds dirty.)
I cannot even begin to do justice to the fuzzy awesomeness that is the Snuggie. I anxiously await 4:30 every weekday so I can go home and put on my enormous pink post-work uniform.
I call that time, “Snuggie O’Clock.”
Sometimes when I leave my precious (the Snuggie, not the boyfriend) on the couch, Lawyerman steals it from me. I have found him many a time sitting on the couch watching West Wing, shirtless under a Snuggie with his man mane poking out of the top.
My animals are batshit insane obsessed with it, too. At any given moment while wearing the Snuggie I can expect up to 3 animals to sit on top of me. I wash it constantly because of the dog hair, and also because I love pulling it out of the warm dryer and putting it on (Lawyerman says, “That has got to be the most frequently washed Snuggie in all the land.”)
I don’t like sharing it. So you can bet your ass that my dogs are getting their own Snuggies for Christmas.
In no way is that dog really sitting on that couch. Photoshop Disaster!
I just wish I’d kept the box so I could wrap one of my Mom’s Christmas presents in it. Just to piss her off. She’s previously said, “You better not buy me a fucking Snuggie!”
Seriously though. Get thee to a Walmart and purchase a Snuggie. At the very least, you can have tons of fun walking around your house with your arms straight out in front of you like a ridiculously warm zombie. Not that I do that or anything…
Also, I was not compensated by Snuggie for this post (but Snuggie people? Wanna make that happen? Mama needs to pay her light bill).
Filed under: I can't believe I just wrote an entire blog entry in third person, alcoholism: I has it., blog love is the shiz, hetero chick love
Once upon a time, a beautiful little girl was born in New England. Then, a few short weeks later, a second beautiful little girl was born (it’s my blog, I’m taking liberties, damn it) in the South.
These two beautiful little girls grew up to be fabulous twenty-something women. Their sheer awesomeness was so unparalleled, that they had to go and each start their own blogs to tell about each of their awesome lives.
The first woman, a sophisticated/sexy/smart/funny type dubbed herself Blogging Barbie, and wrote hilarious tales of dating and life in general. All who read her fell in love with her adorableness and her fantastic writing ability.
The second woman, Long Red Cape (that’s me!), was more of a nerdy type with a very dry, inappropriate sense of humor whose tales of failed relationships made everyone who read her blog dry heave in unison. But somehow, miraculously, they kept coming back. Masochists?
One day, the two girls started commenting on each others’ blogs. Then, the comments turned to e-mails, and the e-mails turned into drunken texts and the occasional phone call.
After about a year of this activity, the two girls decided they should finally meet. At the time, BB lived in Philly and LRC lived in Bum Fuck Egypt. LRC decided to fly into Philly and visit BB for a weekend of awesomeness.
When LRC got off the train in Philly, she saw the beautiful BB walking down the sidewalk, wearing a perfectly coordinated outfit, natch. BB ran up to LRC and exclaimed “You’re here! You’re here!”
Immediately the two ladies hit it off.
Also immediately? The two ladies began hitting the sauce.
BB and LRC shared a pitcher of vodka/pink lemonades in BB’s kitchen and LRC talked way too loudly because she wasn’t used to, uh.. roommates. And neighbors who share walls. Oopsie.
The night continued with a BYOB sushi bar, a double bottle of wine, and LRC’s first Irish Car Bomb (BB’s curdled!). Those are delicious, by the way.
The girls didn’t JUST consume alcohol the entire weekend, however. What, do you think they’re a bunch of drunks or something?
No, they didn’t just drink. They ATE. And ate and ate and ate and ate.
Fatty fried bar food was consumed. Football was watched. Some annoying Stanford fans were glared at. A pigeon was shooed by LRC because birds are feared by BB.
It was a lovely weekend indeed.
LRC can’t speak for BB, but LRC definitely can’t wait to do it again.
Despite their differences (highlighted perfectly, it seemed, by their ringtone choices. BB’s was the Sex and the City theme song, and LRC’s was the theme from Super Mario Bros.), the ladies had a friendship that transitioned seamlessly from web to “real life.”
This goes without saying, but blog friends? Are the shit.
Love you, BB 
Filed under: The Lawyer, aren't you glad you're not me right now?, the past
You probably grew up on some normal-sounding street somewhere, didn’t you?
Cherry Lane? Lexington Avenue? Or even the horrifyingly normal MAIN STREET?
If so, I pity you. You, my friend, did not have the distinct pleasure of growing up on a uniquely named street. Others honored and revered my address. My family was the envy of the entire county.
What street did I live on, you ask?
I lived on Rat Nest Road.
Okay, so I made up that whole first part, in case you didn’t catch on by now. But not the name of my street. No, that’s a frightening reality. Rat Nest Road.
WHAT THE FUCK?
Who wants to live on Goddamned Rat Nest Road?
Not this girl. Especially in my formative teenage years.
I envisioned my rejection letter every time I filled out the “address” section of a college application. What respectable university would grand admission to a hillbilly who lived on Rat Nest Road?
In case you ever had any doubts as to what region of the country I inhabit, well . . . now you know. The dirty, dirty South.
What makes it even worse is the fact that my Dad named the street himself.
Yes, you read that correctly. My Dad bestowed that horrible fate upon us of his own accord.
Let me ’splain it for ya. We sold our house and decided to build a new one. As you can imagine, building a house takes a loooooong fucking time. So in the mean time in between time, we lived in sort of a “halfway house,” if you will. And I mean “halfway house” in the way that we were “in between houses,” not that we were “halfway from crippling drug addiction to sobriety.”
It was a three room cabin on my grandparents’ land, a cabin that my grandfather (rest in peace, Papaw) lovingly dubbed his “rat nest.”
My father served on the zoning committee for our area at the time, and I’m sure you can put two and two together on that one.
I’m sure you’re thinking, Awww, how sweet! He named it for his Daddy!
Yes, it was sweet. But you’re not the one who lived on fucking RAT NEST ROAD.
Moving right along . . .
Not only was my address embarrassing, my living arrangements were as well.
Like I said, it was a three room cabin. Not meant for being inhabited by a small family. There was a bedroom, a living room, and a kitchen (and of course a bathroom, but that doesn’t really count as a “room”—and when you have a Dad with such…er… active bowels as mine does, the smell of the bathroom permeates the entire house at least twice a day). My parents slept in the bedroom, and I slept in the living room.
I distinctly remember one night while I was trying to go to sleep (it was a school night!) and my parents were watching TV in the living room/my bedroom. I politely asked if they could watch TV in their bedroom, seeing as how they had a perfectly good TV in there. And my Mom said, I shit you not, “Well, we want to still feel like we have a living room.”
Seriously?? And I don’t want to feel like I have a Goddamned BEDROOM?
Sadly, the rat nest is no more. We moved out my senior year of high school and shortly thereafter my family sold the land to a rich developer who wasted no time in tearing it down. I managed to get into a decent university despite my mortifying address and my parents now live in a beautiful home and don’t have to share a living room with me.
EVERYBODY WINS!!!!!
On an unrelated note, HAPPY BIRTHDAY, LAWYERMAN! Even though you’re not reading, I love you to pieces and I want the whole internets to know it!
