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Rabid Bears Love Coffee Shops

20 Feb

We’ve been watching The Biggest Loser. Watching reality television makes me a loser? Whatever. We looked on YouTube to find previous seasons, but the only seasons on there were Australian. Surprisingly, Bob and Jillian were the trainers for the Aussie version, too. The format is a bit different, but really a bit better. Except that now I’m pronouncing everything like I’m Australian. Suddenly my Os are more rounded. Booooooob. And, I don’t mean boob. Jeeeeeliiiiiiaaaan. And, I don’t mean like Magellan. Suddenly, tremas everywhere.

We’re losing weight. Mostly, my partner is. This week apparently I gained. Considering the workouts and (mostly) on-plan eating, I’m sure it’s muscle or water weight more than anything, but it’s aggravating. I stood on the scale with my hand on the nearby doorknob and lifted myself until the scale told me I was 10 pounds lighter. I can’t be the only person in the history of dieting who’s done that. Do wish I’d see those lower numbers, though. I’m not overweight, actually, but I used to be thinner.

Had the one cheat meal this week. Just, wow. Right after weigh-in for the week I had a croissant sandwich with cheese and mushrooms. Except this time the guy making it put sprouts in it. Sprouts. Wish I’d have picked up on that before bringing it home. I picked them out of the cheese. Was pretty wack. G-d knows I eat a ridiculous amount of veggies during the week, so I’d really like it if my one free meal wasn’t ruined with sprouts of all things. Ick.

For the record, I’m also not a big fan of spaghetti squash. I gagged on it once growing up, never again. Wonder if I’d gag on a dick and think the same thing. At least I didn’t do that as a child. That’d have made my interesting childhood all the more colorful.

My partner had muffins and a weird frap mocha double shot vanilla pump half whip whatever whatever. Life with my partner is an exercise in patience at the coffee counter. On our first date, within the first five minutes of meeting, she took a good 10 minutes deciding what to order. I should have known, then. Recently on vacation we went to a breakfast diner that sold specialty hot chocolate. All the flavors you can imagine. We’d arrived a bit late and she was cranky from hunger. Lots of pissing and moaning about the hole in her stomach. She still took 10 minutes to order her hot chocolate. We could be chased by bears, run into a coffee shop to take refuge, and she’d still make sure she got just the right coffee. Even as nearby patrons were being mauled by a rabid grizzly. It’s gotta be just right, you know. 196 degrees. Or whatever.

Some country artist has a song out about not minding waiting on a woman. It’s more proof in the pudding that country music is marketed to suburban women. And, probably republicans, too. Ann Coulter is a huge Montgomery Gentry fan, after all. True story.

I don’t mind waiting for my partner, so long as there aren’t bears. It’s a fair compromise.

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Posted by on February 20, 2011 in Uncategorized

 

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