I’m having an affair with the Whole Foods salad bar

Fresh, trembling veggies. Exotic pastas. Savory salad dressings. Glistening cubes of moist mozzarella cheese. Melt-in-your-mouth orzo, tastier than hot fudge on a warm summer’s day. Ripe, round olives, as far as the eye can see. Oh, Whole Foods, I love you.

Oooooh, weekends

I ate like a pig this weekend.  I also may have EATEN a pig this weekend.  A whole one. Mmmmm, bacon.

Sara Faith on Le Radio again

Your weekly dosage of “Cares/Who Cares?”  You’re welcome.

http://fnxradio.com/shows/sandbox/attachment/50706.ashx

Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad (Valentine’s) Day.

Day? Try week. Month. Couple of years?

The ONLY good thing about today was actually a pretty awesome thing, and that’s my amazing Valentine. Who doesn’t read this or any of my other blogs (or even know they exist, I don’t think), but I still wanted to crow, even though nobody’s listening, because were it not for you, babe, I’d be pretty damned miserable. And I am, most of the time, except when you’re around.

How’s THAT for a sappy Valentine’s post?

top ten things that are pissing me off today

1. It is disgusting outside.

2. It is 4:30pm, I am wearing a stained T shirt and pajamas, and have no will to change.

3. I have a throbbing, pulsating zit on my forehead.

4. My computer is working at a glacial pace, and randomly loses Internet connectivity at inopportune times.

5. I’m pretty sure I smell funny.

6. My house is a mess and smells of moist feet.

7. My bank of america savings account, which I have not used in well over a year, suddenly became overdrawn for no apparent reason, by $4.12. I tried to rectify this, and was on hold for a half hour, only to be hung up on by a Southern bimbette named Dawnee.

8. I was a half-hour late for a meeting yesterday and, in my haste, managed to pull into a parking spot in immense haste and scrape my car against a large powder-blue Oldsmobile. Now my pristine yellow Matrix has a gigantic blue streak across it.

8. My lovely fellow blogger Sara’s paperwork for Lola went missing from her mailbox, from which I was supposed to retrieve said paperwork but couldn’t due to being late (see above post), and now someone has her tax forms, for which I feel responsible, even though of course it was not I who took her things.

9. I haven’t been to the gym in well over a week and I look like a bloated sea creature.

10. I’m running out of Zoloft (can’t you tell?) and I don’t have a psychiatrist here who can prescribe me more, so I’m precisely seven pills away from total insanity.

Ain’t life grand?

I’m not fat, bitches, I’m healthy.

And yet, tonight, at a rehearsal for a burlesque show, which is SUPPOSED to feature BUXOM women, I was handed a handful of dresses made for a fucking TEENAGER and basically stared at, speechless, when I couldn’t stuff my size-10 ass into them.

(This, mind you, is a week after a coworker “jokingly” referred to me as “husky”)

I’m standing there, trying not to cry, when the skinniest girl in the cast, PICKS UP one of the things that doesn’t fit me, slides into it like she’s greased with Crisco and the damned thing is made of Teflon, and starts dancing around like she’s Jennifer Beals, it’s 1985*, and the whole room just paid a bucket of money to brave the cold in their Members Only jackets to watch the hottest woman of the decade get a bucket of water dumped on her while she’s wearing a leotard.

The big shitter in all of this? I just lost 12 pounds.

Shall I drown my sorrows in whiskey (and become a drunk), ice cream (and get fatter), or whiskey AND ice cream (and become a fatter drunk)?

*I have no idea what year Flashdance actually came out.

I was in a fashion show. *I* was in a fashion show?

So I attempted to post this last week, but apparently my catwalk-strutting skills are far superior to my blog-posting skills. I posted on the eve of the Go Red Fashion Show, at which I was a “celebrity” model. Oh, dear…
Me? A celebrity model? Visions of Carrie Bradshaw, the girl-about-town-writer, danced in my head. In all, my ego felt inflated for approximately five minutes, until I crept into the hair/makeup room and saw actual local celebrities being fitted for gorgeous gowns, festooned with loaned jewelry and glamorous handbags. As for me? My hair was curled within an inch of its life by a perky stylist from Salon Red. My forest of chin zits were spackled away by a sympathetic makeup artist (“Eet is becauze you have-ah the women’s problems!” he told me in a thick accent), and then I was presented with the outfit I was supposed to model.

A tiny white jacket ringed with red fur cuffs, a red miniskirt, and a paisley shawl. Hmm.

The outfit, dear reader, did me no favors, as my mother might say. Bearing in mind this was for charity (or was I the charity case?), I gamely suited up and strutted my stuff on the runway. If I was going to wear red fur cuffs, I had to own it, right? The other women, many of them heart-disease survivors, looked absolutely amazing. The other models looked incredibly gorgeous, especially local news grand dame Natalie Jacobson, who weighs approx. three pounds. All in all, I had a lot of fun. I didn’t trip on the runway. I was tempted to throw one of my red fur cuffs into the audience, Gia-style, but held back. I am 5′1 and fierce. Work, supermodel, work!

You’d think I’d remember

Is it a sign when you’re so insanely busy that you don’t even realize that you’ve been published in a book? A book with Stephen Colbert, and other funny people I’d like to have sexual relations with?

Check it out, I’m on page 131

“Not Quite What I Was Planning: Six-Word Memoirs by Writers Famous and Obscure”

Am unclear as to whether I count as “famous” or “obscure”.

On the Radio. Again

This week’s “Cares/Who Cares”.  Only this time, I’d only had an hour of sleep, and that hour was on the couch in the WFNX studio, because I’d done an overnight on-air shift.  Listen at your own risk.  I’m not sure how much sense I made.  Wheee!

http://heyspecialed.com/audio/for%20phx/cares020808.mp3

I am totally hot

I am a the result of lots and lots of self-help, self-discovery, and now total self-absorption.

There once was a time where I didn’t feel so cool and cute. Between ages 12 and well into my 20’s I grappled with self-doubt and self-love. I thought I was pretty-ish but didn’t comprehend why I didn’t have countless suitors begging for my affection. I thought I was smart-ish, but assumed everything I knew or did was common, contrived and wrong. And although my sweet jr high dance moves seemed to tell another tale…

…I hardly felt remotely sexy-ish.

I assume this tale of woe rings true for many. But now I am moving away fromthe period of one’s life where you are getting comfortable in your skin, style and sense of being. Those formative years where your try on various persona’s hoping for the perfect fit. The years in which you try so hard to love yourself, which is fiercely challenged since you hardly know who you really are.