Nic Notes

If not for the joy...

I'm throwing some really unhealthy karma into the universe. Really unhealthy. I'm damn near giddy that Star Jones has been fired.

Never should someone find as much joy in someone else's misery as I am finding with Star Jones. I love it. Love it. I can't contain myself. The poor girl who works with me, yesterday, I think I blurted it out five separate times that I'm just THRILLED.

Why? I can't put my finger on it.

I don't know Star Jones, and have no intention of meeting Star Jones because I'd probably shove a Twinkie up her nose or run and scream in horror.

Maybe it's because not only is she not funny, she has no sense of humor.

Maybe it's because she's not interesting.

Or maybe it's because she finds herself extremely interesting.*

Or, quite possibly it's because she's useless, with no personality, no sense of humor and she's not all that nice. Yes, that's it.

Maybe because this is kind of like Karma bitch-slapping some sense into her.

And now I'm a little afraid of Karma bitch-slapping me.**

*She who blogs shall not throw stones. Shoot.

** But I've said nice things about Britney Spears!

Showers

Today, at approximately 2:30 PM I took a shower. Despite the deluge the Midatlantic states have experienced in the past week, and well, the flooding, it appears we are in a water shortage. We finally got water back after nearly 36 hours without, around 11 AM. The time delay on my end is due entirely to reruns of Alias on TNT that I had TiVo'd.

Also, I looked through my last post and realize that I didn't clarify that the shirts I posted were not club-whory. I may have been a little trigger happy after looking through VS's website. I'd probably, under the right circumstances and in the right body, wear those. This, this, this, and this, well, not so much.

Chihuahua

I may have just sent a ransom note to my mother about her dog. Her chihuahua, actually. She is very cute and sweet and I want her to come and live with me instead. She will love it. I'd probably need to bring her partner in crime, sumo dog (who conveniently would be a nifty purse dog if not for the sumo factor, but would probably be best suited on TV like Eddie on Frasier because he is a Jack Russell Terrier and mighty cute). But no, I asked for the dog the other day and she has not arrived on my doorstep.

She's cute and sweet, but I think her best feature may be that I'm not allergic to her.

Oh, and that she would require some shopping in the purse arena, which I generally love.

Oooh, come to think of it, I have a new Lilly Pulitzer purse that was a gift from my mom that she will fit perfectly in. Next time I'm at the house, she's mine.

It is raining right now. A lot. Which, if you live on the east coast is just kind of understood this week. It's the topic of conversations everywhere: WHEN WILL IT END?

But, the good news, the very, very good news is that the mystery rash covering my arms and my legs is gone! It appears to have been contact dermatitis. However, you know how I was complaining about my stupid surgery incision from my stupid surgery eight and a half stupid weeks ago? Yeah, I got a staph infection in it. Now I have antibiotics that hate my stomach.

I went to my second Weight Watchers meeting tonight and got a red ribbon. Yay! I lost 5 pounds. I am spectacular. And cheating mightily. But it's hard, with my job and all. And you know, the food obsession. But really, my job. I'm surrounded by food all the freaking time. And not just any food. Good food. Cake. Lots and lots of cake. And do you know what comes with cake? ICING. Icing, dammit. And what else? Chocolate mousse filling. Grr...

I want to be skinny enough to wear this and not look like I should be on What Not To Wear. Or this, and not make the people at JCrew cry. Or maybe this. No no, this one. My goodness, Victoria's Secret is like Whores R Us. The stuff I like is tame. Tame. Barely there outfits on skinny, skinny, skinny models. Holy hell. Maybe I can wear something like that once I'm skinny. Yes, because I shall be skinny and hot. HOT.

Okay, so no.

Yes to the skinny, though.

But I understand the problem. The problem is not in my weight or the clothing item. It's in my lack of gonads. As in, "I'd never have the 'nads to walk out of the house with my cleavage falling out like like I'm Britney Spears in a nursing bra."** But anyway. I can't think of an occasion I would ever have to wear a blouse where my nipples were moments away from making their debut. I obviously need to spice up my life. Maybe I need to go someplace. Where this type of thing is the accepted norm. Where I can keep my nipples from seconds from the edge of my shirt. Where I won't look like an out of place whore, I'll look like an in-place whore. Yes. I need to go clubbing. I'll just ignore the fact that my idea of a fun evening involves friends, a teensy bit (haha, no) of alcohol and a game of Trivial Pursuit. Oh, and the fact that hot, loud, crowded places make me want to vomit. Or that the only friends I have who would go clubbing live a thousand miles away, at least. No, I will ignore those facts. I will go clubbing, wearing a subtly inappropriate-for-public-consumption outfit that will no doubt be quite tame to what those other dirty, dirty club whores are wearing, drink a little, dance far less than I drink, and have an okay time. But I will do it because I will be skinny. Skinny and hot. And if I'm going to be skinny and hot, I should do it at least once. So there.

**(When in truth, there was one instance that I did in a very, very expensive dress because I had the dress, a big event, little time, and nothing else to wear. And keeping the girls in check involved duct tape. Never. Again.)

Oh Ina Garten, how I love thee!

Dear Ina Garten,
In cooking class tonight I was unable to resist your new Barefoot Contessa Pantry. I shall now shake my fist in the air and curse your name for I am on Weight Watchers. WEIGHT WATCHERS. Watching my weight, my calories, fat grams and fiber. How could you do this to me? Why? WHY?!

I had no choice, I could not resist. I'm afraid that I am a food whore. Your food whore, actually.

They had samples. They were the death of me.

I bought lemon curd. I have no reasonable need for lemon curd. I eat egg whites on high-fiber English Muffins every morning. And now I have lemon curd. High calorie lemon curd with zero nutritional, well, anything.

But that's not all, I also have mixed berry preserves which are fine and dandy because I can easily work those in on the program.

Your Indonesian Ginger Marinade is fantastic as well, so I bought it. That was actually an act of self-preservation. While I usually do the cooking, there are nights when I work late (and we're talking about the ones where I'm able to be home for dinner, not the middle of the night ones) and I live with a person who believes a plain piece of baked chicken breast served with plain rice is a dandy meal, though he usually does better than that, sometimes not. I can't complain though. He doesn't bitch about my cooking (because it's AMAZING!).

But back to you, Ina Garten. Back to you and the way you scheme to pack the weight right onto my body that I'm trying to lose. You know what I'm talking about, your grand scheme to control the world through a subversive food product: Coconut Cupcakes with Cream Cheese Icing.

My fat ass is not going to be able to sleep tonight because I'm going to be thinking about those damn cupcakes.

And let us discuss the cost. I paid six bucks for jelly. I'm obviously an irresponsible food whore and you have taken advantage of me. And now you're controlling my mind with the thoughts of the damn cupcakes. Coconut cupcakes with cream cheese frosting. For ten dollars. For a cupcake mix!

But HA! I got you. I did not purchase the magical cupcake mix because I know that once I do I will never be able to go back. I will eat your cupcakes with joy and passion and love and purely piggish manners. And then my fat ass will curse you. I know once I eat those cupcakes I will never be able to experience real love with a human being because I will have found it in a food. DAMN YOU INA GARTEN!

Love,
Nic

Ikea.

Tomorrow I am going to Ikea.

I love Ikea.

I know you love Ikea.

You have to. Cheap and kinda cool wrapped up in one great big store with a wickedly awesome food court.

LOVE it.

I'm trying to write a shopping list so I don't go too far overboard. It's tough.

I also have to try and hit a Borders or B&N to pick up a knitting book.

I'd like to find a yarn store. Just 'cause that would be fun. Do I have a definitive idea of what I want to knit? Nope. Not a clue. There are lots of things that I like, but I keep making excuses for myself not to knit. There's something tempting about Scoop Du Jour and of course, something interesting about Something Red (which my friend Tracy wants me to do). It's a lot. But maybe I'll be able to decide tomorrow and Thursday because I have two whole days off in a row!

Star Magazine

I was checking out in the supermarket (with a shopping cart full of healthy items that are low in Weight Watchers points but are in now way healthy because one should not sustain oneself on fat free cool whip with sugar free jello because whilst low in points, is fucking nasty and very unhealthy and not fit for sustenance) I noticed Star Magazine's cover with Laura Bush's pretty, pretty face. The headline referred to how she was pissed at Sir Prez for doing the deed with Condoleeza Rice.

I can't go there.

I have a degree in psychology. In one of my favorite classes, we watch an MTV special on Plushies and Furries. Yeah. Plushies and Furries. I took human sexuality where we discussed BDSM and numerous other things I can't write about in my blog for fear that people will find me via google and fall in love with me, a fatty, because they'd just be switching fetishes, and well, I'm a commitment-phobe. But anyway, after learning about plushies and furries, I went back to my dorm room and barraged my roommate with questions (she was in a bad mood, it helped) about cartoon animals and their sex lives. Were Kermit and Miss Piggy intimate? Did April ever hook up with a Turtle? Did Minnie ever cheat on Mickey with Goofy? How exactly would the Little Mermaid have sex? What if Jessica Rabbit were the pimp for all cartoon characters? Was Beast really a beast in the bedroom after he was transformed? Why can't Eeyore find a date? You know he'd be so much happier... These were very, very important, life-altering questions.

Obviously.

We never did figure out if Barney or the teletubbies are really gay. Or if Bert and Ernie were really just good friends, or if Snow White had some questionable motives.The conversation lasted for hours, was not induced by any mind-altering substances, and merely left us in giggles.

But there were certain places we just would never go. They would just be inappropriate. Well, beyond inappropriate. And then there were places that were too graphic, too vulgar, or just plain too nasty for us to ever be able to close our eyes peacefully at night again.

Today, there it was. One of the worst nightmares right in the supermarket checkout lane. The though of The Prez gettin' it on. I think I'll be able to move past it this, but if I ever see someone like Dan Rather, Tim Russert, Rev. Jesse Jackson, Martha Stewart, etc,. with their names associated with a sex scandal, I'm going to need sleeping pills.

My Itchy Life

(First, I can't find my USB cable. Stupid moving.)

I'm still itchy. I have to apply prescription cream to the itchy spots twice a day. I saw the doctor on Friday, the itchyness is still a mystery and he gave me a super strength steroid cream. Which, you know, yay. Apparenlt I shouldn't use it too often because I run the risk of my breasts growing breasts or some weirdo things like that. Seeing as how I already have enough breast tissue for all of the plastic surgeon waiting rooms in LA, I haven't gotten it filled. (I'm also not keen on growing body hair, or quite frankly, applying anything to my body that my doctor says, "I really wouldn't use a lot of this," with a grimacing look on his face.

I'm on my first week of WeightWatchers trying to lose a couple pounds. It's going like one would expect torture to go well. The plan is easy to follow even if it's entirely devoid of food with flavor and texture and bulk, oh my!.

I did go off program on Thursday night, which I expected to do because of cooking class. We made Scotch Eggs which were good, but not worth going off program for. For hard boiled eggs wrapped in sausage and then deepfried, I expected a bit more. I should have stayed on program and hooked myself up to an intravenous lard drip. But that's okay, we also made Bilbao style shrimp, which is shrimp in a garlic, white wine and crab broth mixture   served over crusty bread. Yum. My task for the evening was working on a fresh spinach salad with a warm vinaigrette dressing with bacon, roasted red peppers and pinto beans. It was divine. And ridiculously easy to make. We finished the evening off with an apple tart in a Basquaise sauce. The tart wasn't special, but the sauce was divine. Of course, any cinnamon infused cream sauce is divine. And precisely why I have to experiment with Weight Watchers.

The whole watching my weight thing would be a hell of a lot easier if I didn't work so heavily with food. While I talk about other things in my job, the food is a pretty big component. And then, of course, all weekend long I have to look at food. Lots of food. Good food. Trays of fresh mozzarella and tomatoes just about did me in yesterday. But it wouldn't have been very professional had I just pulled out a fork and started digging in. Which is a good thing. Though now I'm thinking about that mozzarella...

I should probably occupy my time with other things, like wondering if Heather Mills McCartney really was a hooker, if baby Suri really exists and why the coverage of the new Messiah aka Shiloh Jolie-Pitt is really unsettling or why my life is so empty that I actually watched an entire episode of My Fair Brady: We're Getting Married and hoped that Adrienne Curry would find someone else and leave that pathetic Chris Knight or what color I should paint my toes next.

So, I'm just going to go and paint my toes, and watch TV, and count down to when I can work out again. Oh, and eat dinner.

(This entire thing would have been easier if my doctor would have listened to me when I was going in for surgery and removed my abdominal fat because I am certain it was aggravating the cysts on my ovaries. But no. No. He just removed the crap that was growing on the ovaries.)

pictures! tomorrow!

At Amie's request, I will be featuring a picture of Count Dracula, although only half of him so you won't get to see his rad furry shoes. I know, you're sad, but he's, uh, counting. Yes, he's counting the number of boxes from the old attic. He's very handy that way. To cheer you up I will also feature pictures of the gypsy moth invasion of the front door, my fully finished and totally hated Clapotis, and if that's not enough, I can regale you with pictures of the mystery rash that is taking over my body formerly thought to be started by the gypsy moths but according to the doctor is "weird" and in no way related to the gypsy moths, and if you're very good, I may even show you a picture of my incision, reopened in a new spot a-freaking-gain because it doesn't give a flying hoot that it's been SEVEN DAMN WEEKS since my surgery.

But for now, I've only taken the picture of the Count and a nice hefty dose of Benadryl so I probably shouldn't be trusted with the camera. Or a blog.

Establishing a Summer To-Do List

I'm going to create a summer to-do list for myself. I don't know why, I'm not really a to-do list kinda gal, and summer is my busy season at work, but I'm going to do it anyway.

So far I have:
-Join Weight Watchers to lose a wee bit of weight to bring me into the perfection realm
-Reorganize all of my clothing
-Go to the library more
-Finish things I start knitting
-Read 5 books
-Watch less TV
-Actually go to the gym
-Be happy for the main portion of each day (instead of sarcastic, which may or may not be a problem)
-Find a suitable alternative to the phrase "What the fuck?"
-Go swimming once
-Lay out in the sun, slathered in sunblock, but lay out in the sun no less than three times (will not commence until after the gypsy moth season)
-Be a better blogger
-Keep in better touch with college friends
-Keep my toenails painted.

Some are a little more feasible than others. Depending how things go, I may need to start adding things like "brush my teeth", "bathe", "eat breakfast" just so I can feel like I'm accomplishing something.

The gypsy moths

I am currently living under an infestation of gypsy moths. It is horrible. I feel like the locusts are coming. The gypsy moths are everywhere. When I go outside to get in my car, I end up with one in my hair. When the furniture was moved out of the old house and into the new, the gypsy moths fell on all of the pieces, preferrably the ones with nooks and crannies where they could hide, and are continually emerging from out of nowhere when all I try to do is simpy sit down. It doesn't help that my skin is super reactive to them and I ITCH. ITCHY. EVERYWHERE. I have welts on my hands, my feet, my legs, my face my back. It's insane, disgusting and unnerving and I HATE them.

I hate them so much that yesterday I was cursing mother nature, quite ironically because the stupid fuckers have eaten all of the leaves off the trees and it looks like it's January (which is also interesting because we had the same, mild weather in January), and my 11-year-old cousin filled me in that it wasn't nature or God who created the gypsy moths, it was man. A man who tried to create a better silk worm failed, and some of his prototype worms escaped, and low and behold, over a hundred years later, I ITCH.

Of course it was a damn man. Pantyhose, tampons and now gypsy moths. Jerks.