Content to come...
 Content to come ...
 It appears that no one is going to lock me in a crate and feed me an allotted amount of kibble and force me to walk around the block on a leash until I lose an appropriate amount of weight for my species. And honestly, I think my dogs would be fat if they had prehensile thumbs or could figure out how to open the fridge. Like me, they really love their chow.
I believe the human equivalent requires one to be Oprah-rich in order to pay for a personal chef and trainer. Yeah, I don’t got that. I’ve managed to keep off the 8 pounds I lost, but when it comes to weight loss, I tend to be one of those glass half-empty girls. It just never seems good enough. And the holidays are just around the corner, which means seeing all the relatives and realizing that, once again, I am the heaviest of my clan, which is, unfortunately, populated with Skinny Bitches of all ages. My mother, even at 85, can be kinda judgey. I am at this point, a plus size woman. That’s hard for me to believe because I’ve never really considered myself to be plus size. But when that Jessica Rabbit costume came from Amazon in a size “large,” I had to send that baby right back for an “extra large,” and even then, I had to starve and spanx myself into fitting into that XL sequined sucker. Honestly, if I lose 20 lbs, that costume might still fit. I suspect my costume was made for tiny Asian ladies. Here’s a good story about tiny Asian ladies. I live in the O.C. where there is a significant Asian population. Actually, we’re pretty well populated by many ethnicities, which I love--so much good food (Again, plus size). But this story involves tiny Asian ladies. And boobs. Once, at Victoria’s Secret, I was waiting for my turn to see the bra specialist. As all women know, one of most trying things in the world is finding the right bra. It can be a hot sweaty mess in the fitting room grappling with those octopus-like straps and fasteners. And god help you if you’re looking for any special needs like strapless or plunging back. So yeah, you need a specialist and every Victoria Secret store has one. So I’m waiting for my turn and there’s this youngish woman in front of me. She’s probs in her mid-thirties (Yes, that’s youngish--ah, perspective), and she tells the specialist that her bra size is a 32DD. Now, if you know your bra sizes, that’s like some serious Barbie shit there. And hers looked like they were naturally occurring breasts, so, whoa. Have you seen L.A. Story? The scene where Sarah Jessica Parker whips around with a measuring tape, talking non-stop while provocatively measuring every inch of Steve Martin, including his inseam? Well something pretty much like this ensues. The specialist, who is dressed all in black and has a measuring tape around her neck and looks super fierce, gives the woman this shrewd once over and shakes her head. While skipping around SJP style, she says, “Oh, no, honey. My only 32DDs are my Asian girls with boob jobs.” So I stand by my opinion that my Jessica Rabbit costume was made for a tiny Asian woman, which translates to say that particular XL might still keep me out of the plus size here in the U.S. Maybe. By the way, did you know those costumes that you buy at Halloween, the ones hanging in those plastic bags are called, “Slut in a Bag?” Mine was strapless and did have a rather high slit. This is my year of change. I hope you join me. Please feel free to comment below.  Not to state the obvious but, I love dogs. I currently live with four: three Rhodesian Ridgebacks and a beagle. I say “currently” because only two of the Ridgebacks are mine. I am dog sitting the third RR while his super famous celebrity owners travel abroad. It’s all very hush-hush (like TMZ kinda stuff), because his owner is married to an internationally famous artist and said internationally famous artist is doing something, well, artsy, somewhere, well, internationally. The owners will be gone for a month.
So I currently live with four dogs. And I’m remodeling. And they are sandblasting my house. If you haven’t had the pleasure of hearing what a sandblaster sounds like try to imagine standing next to a rocket before it blasts off. We’re not taking jackhammer loud. We're talking Delta IV-expendable-launch-vehicle-and-you’re-the-launch-director-huddled-in-a-bunker-a-mere-3-miles-away-waiting-for-that-satellite-to-liftoff-into-space loud. Yeah, sandblasters and rocket ships are the reason we have earplugs. To my knowledge, no one has made doggie earplugs. It’s hard to know what the dogs are thinking huddled in the den with me as Armageddon befalls us. They seem okay, if not a bit ... frozen? I am concerned there might be some trauma but despite all the books I’ve read on communicating with dogs, I am clueless as to what they are feeling right now. And I can’t give them Chardonnay. In the past, to communicate with my dogs, I have used a doggie psychic and a dog behaviorist. The doggie psychic told me that my dog was, “very laid back. Like if he were a human, he might surf and smoke weed.” I thought she completely nailed this dog’s personality. Especially the smoking weed part. But then she also knew I was from Huntington Beach and he was a blond dog so, who knows. I used a dog behaviorist when a dog was returned to me and I had to evaluate whether or not he could be safely repatriated to another family. This happened because I work with a breeder and have whelped and raised 3 litters in my house. The breeder is my BFF, which is how I got talked into whelping 3 litter--something I would never, ever have agreed to otherwise. My anxiety disorder can barely support having raised two children and these litters are like having 7-14 kids at once. Yes, 14. In the same litter. We’re talking some 101 Dalmatians shit. There are things that are pretty cool about a litter of puppies. They move as one, reminding me of the Borg Collective in Star Trek. I even named one of the puppies Seven after Jeri Ryan’s Seven of Nine. They literally swarm toward any sound or movement. And they are fast! And the first time I saw a puppy learning to walk, I thought he was having a seizure but the poor little guy was just kinda launching himself. And they fall asleep in a pile and start humming and the sound is so strange and eerie that it makes me think they are hailing the Mothership. The thing that is not cool about having puppies is trying to find each and every puppy a good home. To me, dogs are the furry children who don’t need a college fund. It’s difficult to find people with the same point of view. At 9 months old, Triple was returned as unmanageable--which basically meant this owner wasn’t ready to deal with 80 pounds of muscle with no impulse control. The first year of your Ridgeback’s life is kinda like raising a teenager. Let me tell you, if I could have returned my teenagers, I would have. Here’s what a typical teenager does. They tell you they hate you, maybe even drop the F-bomb because that’s how much they hate you. They are secretive and disdainful. They crush your heart, letting you know that you are a complete and utter idiot and anything you have to say is just plain stupid. In fact, they are embarrassed by you. They can’t wait to graduate and finally get away from the horror that is you. And that’s just the tolerable parts because it can get, much, much worse. This is when you remind yourself that this ungrateful piece of DNA has never dealt with a mortgage, paid taxes, tried to find a doctor covered by their insurance or even tried to get their insurance to pay for anything! Or had one of those phone calls where twenty minutes in you’re finally talking to a live person and, just when you’ve given them all the information, you get cut off so you have to call back and start over? Haha--hahahahaha! Well, unlike a teenager, you can return a dog. And Triple came back to us courtesy of a clause we put in every puppy contract stating that if you ever can’t handle or don’t want your dog, you call us first. You don’t give him away to your Aunt Mildred or the kid down the block or take him to the pound, because if you do and we find out we will sue you and you will pay us $10,000. It’s called a liquidation of damages clause. That law degree sometimes comes in handy. This was the first and only time I’d had a dog returned. I’m pretty sure I always tell my puppy buyers that the first year with a Rhodesian Ridgeback is pure hell. They will destroy whatever you let them have access to, which can include pricey furniture, the bumper to your Mercedes, or the Thanksgiving turkey you left cooling on the counter--they are huge counter surfers. They will make you look stupid in puppy training class. They will dig holes to China in your yard and when you leave them alone they will try to convince you that you are the worst person in the world and they are having a mental breakdown from the abuse of your abandonment. They will smell the crouch of every single houseguest--their nose is conveniently at the average crouch height. That last part will probably never change. You just need to power through the first year, I say. Then, around the time they turn 3, they become the best dog you have ever had, and, like child birth, you forget how horrible that first year was and you will want another one. To be clear, this is not a Chihuahua or a dog who waits patiently for instructions from his master. This is a dog who was bred to do their job when no one is around. They act on instinct, able to keep a lion at bay, fearlessly dodging claws and teeth while putting their life at risk as they wait for the hunter to show up with the big guns. They also herd, guard, and track--those Dutch people needed a lot of help to farm the African veldt. A large, powerful and smart, active dog--they’re not for everyone. Apparently, this puppy buyer didn’t hear my very extensive list of why-you-don’t-want-a-Ridgeback-puppy because Triple was returned for, “barking excessively and being destructive.” Yeah. In any case, when Triple came back, I had him evaluated by a dog behaviorist to make sure it was safe for me to find him a new home. I felt bad for Triple because, when I’d had him as a puppy, he was the liveliest of the litter and very self-assured, but when he came back to me at 9 months old, he was standoffish and seemed--not to anthropomorphize--well, sad. After observing him, the behaviorist told me that she thought he’d been bullied, perhaps by other dogs. I knew the owner who’d returned Triple had two other dogs, so, okay. He just needed to get his confidence back. And I had kept his brother, Denzel (named after my favorite actor of all times!). And if Mr. Denzel Washington couldn’t get Triple to believe in himself, well, it just wasn’t gonna happen--have you watched Remember the Titans? Three months later, Triple found his new forever home, a woman who didn’t mind when he ate the blinds in her house because she’d had an Akita, and if you can raise an Akita, you can raise a Ridgeback. So Triple is now the dog of celebrities. I would tell you who they are but they are super private people and I signed a non-disclosure agreement (I made that last part up). But like a lot of internationally famous people, these guys travel. And when they do, Triple stays with me. Mr. Denzel Washington does love a good sleepover with his brother. On this particular occasion, I noticed that Triple was a little on the heavy side. He’d gained a few pounds and given the athletic silhouette of a Ridgeback, even a few pounds is noticeable. I got right on that shit, cutting back on his kibble and adding some high fiber wet food and pumpkin to keep his tummy happy. I made sure he and Denzel (who, like his namesake, is in fabulous shape) had lots of time to race around the backyard despite the intrusive remodel. By the time his internationally famous celebrity owners returned to the States, he was going to be in tip top shape. And that’s when it hit me. All of my animals, the four dogs, the cat--possibly even the bird, thought it’s hard to tell (I mean, it’s a bird)--are in fantastic shape. And I am completely responsible for that. I put effort into it. I make sure it happens. Because I want them to have long healthy lives. Like the song says: Things that make you go hmmm. This is my year of change. I hope you join me. Please feel free to comment below.  Dear readers, there seems to be some blow back from my last two posts. Apparently, Skinny Bitch 1 and Skinny Bitch 2 feel that they were misrepresented. They want a redo.
Also, this call from my daughter, who lives in New York. Daughter: OMG, Mom! You’re not bathing? Me: Oh, come on. It was an exaggeration. I was trying to be funny-- Daughter: Mom, you are not French and you live in America. America! Me: Well, technically, I live in North America, because, as you know there is a South America and Central-- Daughter: You know what happens to old people who don’t bathe? They become smelly old people! I am not taking care of a smelly old person. You lock that shit down! Me: Actually, I’m 55, so, not really thinking you’re taking care of me real soon-- Daughter: Lock that shit down, mother! I gotta go. I’m filming. Lock it down! I am very proud of my children. So I am just gonna say that my daughter is beautiful, extremely smart and talented, and super driven. New York is the cog to her wheel. And since I picked on the French on my last post, I will refrain from saying anything about New Yorkers being mean. Here are the redos. Skinny Bitch No. 1 It’s not that I need a redo. This is more of a clarification. I mean, I don’t want to give the impression that it’s easy to be this hot--I am the “template for the marvel comic book heroine,” after all. Her words. And while there are some exaggerations for the sake of comedy on the prior post, she’s dead on about the fact that I am super hot. That’s for real. So I don’t want to confuse people into thinking it’s not hard work to look like me. It’s a lot of work. I exercise like a fiend and I eat very little. But I have my splurge days! That’s what I wanted to clarify (Shadow here. Please understand that my friend would never say any of these things about herself. She talked about the usual crap, drink lots of water, exercise, eat right, blah, blah, blah. But I read between the lines and was forced to do some subtle editing. Very subtle.) Like the other day. I started with my usual. I prepared my 6 liters of water--two liters with fizzy tabs--and took my SeroVital tablet (Shadow again. What is in that shit and why isn’t it piped into the water supply like fluoride?). I picked up my venti chia tea latte, no foam, 8 pumps of chai, soy milk and I ate six egg whites for lunch, preparing for what I knew was a splurge day later because I’d asked one of my slacker client to go to Disneyland (That would be me, the Shadow). Honestly, this client can be a real pain in the ass to train--whenever I talk to her about water intake and the importance of protein and cardio, I swear she just hears, “Blah, blah, blah.” But she can be fun outside of the gym and has a Disney pass. And this is my way to slip in some cardio into the poor woman’s life. I keep it at a brisk pace walking between rides. The point is, I want people to understand that I don’t live a weird life of deprivation. I love to eat! Like at Disneyland, where that lazy client and I split a bottle of wine and appetizers in Napa at California Adventure (The Shadow notes that she ate most of the food. Just saying), and I wanted to order an ice cream but, imagine my surprise when my client actually said she was on a diet! Diet? Wow. I’ve been trying to get that bitch to eat right for five years and the night I want to splurge she’s on a diet? Whatever. I ordered my ice cream, a large soft swirl dipped in chocolate (Despite the diet, the Shadow ate most of that, too). And later, exiting the park, I even bought another large ice cream cone! (Probably because the Shadow ate most of the first one ... and yes, finished off the second. I have come to realize my trainer is a bit of feeder. It’s the German in her). I ate so much, I woke up in the middle of the night with an ice cream stomach ache! (The Shadow did not have a stomach ache. Apparently, like the participants in the Nathan’s hot dog eating contest, the Shadow has built up a tolerance). So maybe I overdid it a bit. That’s okay. That’s the point I’m trying to make here. Life doesn’t have to be so buttoned down. Just drink your water and eat protein and do your cardio, even on splurge days--that’s the Skinny Bitch way! Skinny Bitch No. 2. Sunday is my straight tequila day. I have my coffee, which is super fattening because I put cream in it and top it off with whipped cream (Shadow here. That’s less than 100 calories for breakfast. On a Sunday. I mean, where’s the bacon?) At noon I take my first shot of tequila, put on super tight jeans, high heels and a tank top. I saddle up on my husband’s Harley and we go to our local biker bar (Shadow again. Let it be known that I do not have boring friends). This weekend was special because my favorite band was playing. It’s always baking hot, and I take another shot of tequila before I go in. I get another shot at the bar and start dancing. I plan to dance for the next seven hours. I am going to dance and I am going to drink tequila because this is my splurge day. Because I love this band so much and because I’m pretty buzzy, I go right up to the front of the stage and start dancing and singing along with the lead singer. It’s early so there’s not a lot of people on the dance floor, but I don’t care. I’m having a fabulous time. But then this really cute older woman comes up and whispers in my ear, “Could you pick another one?” When I turn to her, confused, she says, “Just pick another one. Because that’s my best friend’s husband. Could you pick him?” She points to the guitar player. Well, I am mortified! I do my own pointing--to the big-ass diamond on my wedding finger and explain that I am happily married and I don’t need to pick anyone. I also point to my super hot husband who bought the big-ass diamond (Shadow confirms that her husband is super hot, and that indeed, she wears a blindingly large diamond on that Skinny Bitch finger). My darling hubby looks up long enough from his iPhone to wave back and snap a pic. But I don’t want to cause trouble, so I leave the dance floor. You can’t imagine what happened next! Five minutes later, this same cute older woman comes over to where I am sitting and says, “I’m sorry, but could you go back to dancing? The lead singer is really mad at me now because, well, it’s pretty dead out there without you.” (The Shadow understands that bands do not appreciate it when super hot women stop dancing to their music). “I never should have said anything but it’s just that you’re so hot, I was worried for my friend.” (The Shadow reiterates that she has extremely attractive friends.) Well, after the cute older woman and I had our little bonding moment, we ended up dancing together! Can you imagine? And okay, she made a bit of a move on me, but, again, I pointed to the big-ass diamond. (The Shadow made that last part up). I dance so much that I forget to eat. I’m not even hungry. So my friends force me to eat. I end up gorging myself on onion rings (The Shadow understands this means she ate 4 onion rings. Skinny Bitch confirms the number but says that they were 4 really large onion rings). I toss back one more shot of tequila, close down the bar, put on my leathers and ride on home into the sunset with my husband, the hot one who bought me the big-ass diamond. Tequila and onion rings! Woohoo! So, dear reader, it all appears to be a matter of perspective. If I analyze the amount of calories consumed and expended, I fear that our Skinny Bitches Day Off is actually not all that different from the days spent toiling to keep hot bodies, well, hot. The splurge becomes the choices made on those special days of indulgence that allow the forbidden fruit of ice cream and onion rings. But the point remains: it ain’t easy being a Skinny Bitch. This is my year of change. I hope you join me. Please feel free to comment below.  It’s been a few months since I visited Mars, the planet where Skinny Bitches thrive, and so, dear reader, I am either a size 4, jacked up on fizzy tabs (natural caffeine!), or I’ve thrown in the towel and crawled back into my womb of the couch and the remote control, which would account for my absence here.
The fact is neither. Dear readers (all seven of you), the Dreaded Remodel has commenced. And I have turned into a French woman: I drink a lot and I barely bathe. A bit of a backstory here. I completely, without reservation, abhor the disruption and cost of remodeling, which I believe is an unnecessary and sybaritic exercise. Refresh, sure. Buy some new appliances? Pull up that musty carpet and install some engineered hardwood floors? Absolutely. But knock down walls--hell to the no. And I had plenty of warning of what hell it would be. A friend, who was in the middle of remodeling a 5 million dollar home in Brentwood (dear reader, this is NOT my area code), spoke of soaring costs, delays, and crooked contractors. “I swear to god, I can feel his hand in my back pocket and I can’t do a damn thing about it!” Red-faced and sweating, the poor man had lost weight and looked like he’d aged ten years. Clearly, this was something to be avoided. Unfortunately, just as my husband has never met a spa treatment he doesn’t love, the man is addicted to remodeling. It’s like those women who get a nose job and--like that first hit of cocaine--systematically move on to every other body part. He started with a modest budget and a reasonable time table, threw some water on it, fed it after midnight, and watched that little gremlin go. It is a testament to the great love I have for this man that our marriage has survived through Phase 1 (kitchen, den, master bedroom suite) and Phase 2 (entry, dining and living room). Three months ago, we embarked on Phase 3. Stay tuned. This marriage thing is gonna be a cliffhanger! Let me now set forth my bone fides for my intimate knowledge of the French. Back in the day, I lived in Paris as an exchange student in college. I did the whole thing--smoked menthol cigarettes, ate snails with garlic sauce, lived in a castle, and got a French boyfriend. So I think I’m pretty solid on my observations about French women, who seem to speak in what singers refer to as their “head voice,” so they all sound like different incarnations of Julia Childs. Bon appétit! Only, these chicks are thin as rails, extremely stylish, and start drinking with lunch--and can make their own vinaigrette by pouring oil, vinegar, with a little mustard on the side of their plate and, with their fork, blend the ingredients into a smooth emulsion. Et violá! No huge generalizations here, I promise (ok, these are all huge generalizations). Or maybe French women don’t really drink that much (They do), and I was just indulging because, well, I was an exchange student. In Paris! These days, I pour my first glass of Chard at noon and finish off the bottle by dinner. Very French. As for the bathing, I know you’re cringing and thinking, “Ewww!” Because you are all so Américain! (Said with an uppity French accent.) And are so privilégié, with your unlimited ressources! (Again, the accent). But when burly men are traipsing in and out of your home at all hours it seriously cuts down on your private time. So I run around like some yappy Chihuahua at their heels, glass of Chard in hand, worrying about every inch of trim and each piece of hardware, overwhelmed with decisions about grout and paint, too tipsy and spent to even think about a shower at day’s end ... and, the next morning, too hung-over to wake up before the burly men start traipsing through my house again. So yeah, I am now a weekend bather (Though sometimes I'll sneak in a quickie shower on weekdays). Luckily, my trainer (who, if you read the prior post, you know is extremely clean), has gifted me with several lovely perfumes throughout the years. Like my French peeps, I love my perfume. And, yes, I choose to believe that her gifts are not some subtle hint-hint. She just wants me to smell extra nice. Maybe Americans over-bathe. Destroying la terre with our surconsommation! (The French really don’t like us). And it’s not as if I don’t wear deodorant--I am totally into my aluminium chlorohydrate, despite dire warning of cancer and/or Alzheimer's. You may recall that I am a pansy-assed slacker, so when I work out I barely break a sweat. Plus, I live in California, so I’ve decided this is my contribution to the water shortage. The good news is that, just like my friend who warned against remodeling, I, too, have lost weight. The hard way. But it’s about eight pounds, so, silver lining. This is my year of change. I hope you join me. Please feel free to comment below.  Welcome to Mars, the planet where skinny bitches thrive.
First, a word about our stalwart examples of how-I-wish-to-be. Both are extremely attractive with bubbly personalities. Neither seems inclined toward melancholy or other issues that seem to haunt my tortured artist soul (Side note: Perhaps there is something to those endorphins and exercise. I always thought that was a scam perpetuated by the fitness industry). They are both super passionate people. One is a mother, one is not. One is single, one is married. One is blonde, one is brunette (not sure the relevance of that, except that I’m a redhead so maybe we should do hair product commercials together). They are both younger by a good 10-15 years. But, wait! Fifty is the new forty, you say. I fit right in! Only ... doesn’t that means forty is the new thirty, so they are still pretty much younger by a decade, even in illusory math. Damn. Welcome to Mars! I have two tours set up for your enjoyment. Sit back and learn! Tour One: Super MILF 6:00 am: I wake up and dive into my coffee pot. I splurge by adding half and half and a dollop of whip cream, but I use Truvia instead of sugar, a recent addition to my regime. 6:30: I record Good Morning America to watch after I check my email and read a couple of the self-help articles from my inbox. (Shadow here. This is, of course, my neighbor, the one with the house chock-full of those books, all tastefully displayed--she’s kind of an interior deco freak--books on meditation and learning to love yourself and the power of positive thinking. The fact that I actually get tired just reading the titles says a lot about my journey--but I do a lot of therapy, so giving myself props for that). 7:30: I eat breakfast. 1 salmon burger with a cup of quinoa and kale, 1 cup of Greek nonfat vanilla yogurt with a teaspoon of psyllium husks. (The Shadow notes it’s time to up the fiber). I input breakfast into my Lose It! app, which charts protein, carbs, and fat. Breakfast falls into the perfect balance of 40% protein, 30% carbs, and 30% fat (The Shadow thinks this app looks like something a rocket scientist might be comfortable reading. The Shadow knows a lot about rocket scientists because she happens to be married to one. And she’s also a bit of a technophobe). 8:00: I do laundry and other work around the house, then lay out poolside for an hour. (The Shadow knows she can pretty much do this year-round because it’s Southern California. Don’t be hatin’ rest of the country). 12:00 pm: I eat lunch: a Honeycrisp apple and a protein drink, then go to a friend’s house to help her pick out curtains (That would be me, the Shadow, who is remodeling and is happy to take advantage of the fact that her neighbor is a genius with interior decoration. And she’s free). 2:00: I pick up my daughter from school and help her with applications for college (The Shadow notes that those college apps are a bitch and that she’s very happy to be past this particular stage of motherhood--and that one application from a certain Ivy League school misused the word “which” while asking applicants to write their essay, which made the Shadow feel kinda superior. See how I did that?). 3:00: I go to the gym. I start with 5 minutes walking on the treadmill or warming up on the stairmaster, then do free weights and/or cables (The Shadow does not know what cables are, but they sound really intimidating), along with squats, jumping squats and lunges, for 30 minutes. (The Shadow notes her neighbor has a really great ass). I work out until I am red-faced and sweating, losing my breath and have an elevated heart rate (The Shadow wonders if she is describing an impending heart attack). I finish with 10 minutes of stretching. 4:00: I have a snack of 2 oz. of chicken, a 1/3 of a cup of black beans, and a slice of jalapeño yogurt cheese before running errands (The Shadow is happy that there is finally more food). 5:00: I go over to a neighbor's for wine, 8 oz (This is where The Shadow happily participates, plus she likes that her neighbor is into the generous pour. That’s how we roll.) 6:00: I make dinner, usually 2 oz. of chicken (Again with the 2 oz? The Shadow notes this does not sound like very much), 1/2 cup of beans, and another slice of cheese, making sure that my Lose It! app shows I am still in the desirable ratio of 40/30/30. I eat dinner with the family, shower, and watch television before going to bed. Tour Two: Could Be the Template for Marvel Comic Book Heroine. 4:00 am: I shower and begin drinking the first of six bottles, a liter each, of Smart Water, which I will finish drinking throughout the day. I take my SeroVital tablet and head to work. I pick up a Venti chai tea latte, no foam, 8 pumps of chai, soy milk. I start training clients at 5:00 but don't drink the Venti until 6:00 because I must take the SeroVital on an empty stomach (Shadow here again. I will be looking into this supplement for reasons that become obvious later in this little journey). 11:00: I train a particularly difficult client who bitches and moans like some pansy-assed slacker (Yes, you’ve guessed it. I, The Shadow, am this pansy-assed slacker, although my trainer never actually calls me that, she’s much too positive and up-beat--but I can read it in those piercing blue eyes. Weak!). I, again, counsel on the benefits of cardio and feel ignored by this pussy of a client. God knows why I keep training this dead weight (Again, she never actually says these things out loud. It's the eyes talking. But The Shadow knows that my trainer still loves me). 2:00 pm: I do an hour of cardio on the stairmaster, or until I reach 800 calories burned (The Shadow notes that her trainer has a really great ass). 3:00: I go home and walk my dog. I do some light housecleaning and laundry, and eat lunch: 6 egg whites from hardboiled eggs and a carb (The Shadow would like to add that the “carb” is usually potato chips. Yes, potato chips! Albeit she only eats a handful. If we have lunch together, I usually finish the bag for her.) I shower and run errands. I stop by that pansy-assed client's house to help her pick out club chairs for her husband’s new study (The Shadow is lucky to have yet another woman in my life who is freakishly good at interior decor. She cautions me against the dangers of faux leather). 5:00: I return to the gym for my afternoon clients. By now I have drunk at least 4 of the 6 liters of water, 2 with fizzy tabs from Arbonne that have natural caffeine (The Shadow has tried these pill. They are the bomb! Picture Lorraine Bracco prancing alongside Sean Connery through the Amazon jungle in Medicine Man on her natural caffeine high! But then I had to go on blood pressure meds and had to lay off. Hmm. I really liked those pills...) 6:00: I meet up with my boyfriend and we workout 2 body parts for 40 minutes (The Shadow has met the BF. He, too, looks like an action figure. In fact, I’m pretty sure I heard her call him "my little action figure." He is not little.) 7:00: I return home and shower, then eat dinner with my boyfriend. I drink the last of my water bottles. I eat only protein: 2 turkey and swiss rolls, no bread (Again, The Shadow is noticing the paucity of food. Maybe she should have finished off that bag of chips instead of eating only a handful. Honestly, how is this woman still standing? Oh, yeah, all that natural caffeine...). Then my boy friend and I enjoy an after-dinner drink, two shots of either tequila or vodka for me, Goldschläger for him (The Shadow had to look this up. Goldschläger is a Swiss cinnamon schnapps with gold flakes floating in it. Sounds like a very fancy and expensive Fireball, but what do I know? I only drink Chard). We have sex for a couple of hours, after which I shower again (The Shadow notes that her trainer is extremely clean ... and is refraining from commenting on 2 hours of sex). We watch television in bed and fall asleep around 11:00 or midnight. If he spends the night, we have sex in the morning, a quickie. I call it our “snack” (What the hell is in that SeroVital? Or does this speak to the benefits of endorphins? I bet that other Skinny Bitch is having just as much sex!) And there you have it, two paths that lead to the same place: IHH--Intense Hotness and Health. Here is the simple pattern I perceived while shadowing my two Skinny Bitches.
This is my year of change. I hope you join me. Please feel free to comment below.  Dear readers--I can call you that, right? All seven of you (which includes the blood relatives). It took me most of April to get through Simone’s first step: What do I want to get out of my goal? Roll Patricia Heaton, slow-mo strutting down the street with her peeps, flipping up the collar of her stylish leather jacket like a super model in the movie Mom’s Night Out. Now I plan to live at least a few days with Step 2: Understand what I want and where I am and notice the difference. Which means, I need to go to Mars.
Remember Mars? That planet far, far away? A planet where ten-pound-lighter-me exercises and eats right? Well, if as Simone instructs, I want to get “completely, impeccably, bullshit-free clear,” I will need to visit that far-off Red Planet. See how the other half lives. Though, actually, probably more than half of us don't eat right or exercise or at least I see a lot of PSA stuff on television and I am an avid watcher of competitive weight loss shows. So, correction. I want to see how maybe, probably, the other 20 percent live. This is just off the top of my head, although I am tempted to give it a goog. Maybe later. I have a planet to visit. Day One. I woke up early. I figured it was early enough that I could turn on the television and watch a DVRed show while I ate breakfast. Just the one. Like a potato chip. I made myself an expresso and toasted half a whole-wheat English muffin and scrambled three egg whites. I took my breakfast into the den to eat while watching Bethany Frankel tear open a new one for our poor unsuspecting “Holla!” queen, Heather Thomson. Unfortunately, my 85 pound Rhodesian Ridgeback male, Denzel, shifted on the couch and my coffee and fluffy, super healthy egg white scramble landed on my lap. Lesson learned. Second breakfast attempt, this one at the kitchen counter, was an English muffin, an egg, sunny side up (all out of the egg whites) and another expresso. I wrote a blog post, ran errands, and worked out at the gym. It was now 10:30 am. I had accomplished more than I usually did in two day. And it wasn’t even lunch time. You would think I'd be all fired up now. Look at me! So productive! So capable! Look at all the crap I got done! Before lunch! But I actually felt strangely flummoxed. Like someone had let the air out of the balloon and I was flat on the floor staring longingly at my television, which was now off (only the one chip, dammit!) Here it was, late morning, and I had all these hours stretching endlessly ahead... H’oh boy. That’s when I decided I couldn’t create a Mars for myself and then come crashing down for a landing in a world I had no feel for or sense of because, let’s be honest, my life had arced from teenager with body issues to neurotic attorney to writer living off the crack highs and lows of deadlines, reviews, and bestseller lists to chardonnay wheeling empty nester. I didn’t even take vitamins, just the occasional Xanax. And if I haven’t mentioned it before, my four food groups are caffeine, alcohol, fried foods and salsa. But I’m a writer, you say. I’m supposed to be able to produce out of thin air worlds inhabited by characters and drama so real they can make you laugh and cry. Only, this turned out to be more of a tactile journey. It required the kind of real-life experience I could not recreate on my own. It was like Disneyland--you think you know what it’s about and then you go on Indiana Jones and it’s like whoa! Who knew! So yeah. I needed to find a "real" Mars to visit. Like Disneyland. Enter the Skinny Bitch and the Shadow. I knew a couple of Skinny Bitches well enough to beg, borrow, and steal their lives for a day or two. I, of course, would be the Shadow, watching their every move, taking notes. Which I did. Which lead me to this realization: It ain’t easy being a Skinny Bitch, people. And that’s no bullshit. H’oh boy. This is my year of change. I hope you join me. Please feel free to comment below. |
AuthorOLGA BICOS Archives
January 2016
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