Week One: Status Report

This month's resolution to lay off sauce and be as disciplined as James Bond on a mission is in tatters.

May 3rd: I dine at Ruth's Chris Steakhouse. (Most annoying restaurant name ever. I don't give a damn if you are Ruth or Chris or Ruth Chris. Just pick a fucking name, lady.) Being the classy broad that I am, I begin with bubbly and then switch to good red wine. I leave the restaurant tipsy, but stayin' classy, San Diego.

Lacking the funds to keep drinking top shelf, I drift to a friend's Irish bar with a solid beer list. No problem. Trying to remain vaguely presentable in my mini Ann Taylor sundress, I order a fleet of high-falutin' microbrews . . . which inevitably devolves to cans of PBR, a trip over a step, and a barful of opinionated strangers viewing my blindingly white ass.

The wise old saying is true: opinions are like asses--best when kept to yourselves, drunkos.

Last night: I consume 3/4 bottle of wine as a kudos for being sober four days. I leave the last 1/4 to prove I am no longer the sort of boozebag that downs an entire bottle of wine.

This morning: Down the remaining 1/4 bottle with brunch (or whatever you wish to call a Triscuit eaten between breakfast and lunch).

Tonight: I eat a Lean Cuisine, handful of almonds, and half a bowl of Life cereal. Not bad. Then make unwise decision to go to a fund-raising carnival. I hold my own pizza-chips-soda-brownie (with surprise!--a cream cheese center),-oatmeal cookie-and more chips freak sideshow. By the time I come home, the damage is done, so why not add an 100-calorie pack of Pringles and more wine? (I'd happily forgo square meals for a salt lick and IV of Cab.)

The gym portion of my mission is going exceedingly well, however. I looove working out. I sweat til I bleed. In the city, I was one of many. But at the suburban YMCA, I am the youngest, skinniest bitch in the joint. The old men love me. (The old women need to stop parading nekkid around the women's dressing room. C'mon, ladies. Your pants are in the locker in front of you. There's no need to migrate. Your pants also lack buttons and zippers. What's the fucking holdup?)

Score:
alcohol--cheated 3 days
diet--cheated 2 days
exercize--banging!

I'm no James Bond. I'm just a squirrel trying to get a nut to move your butt.

Audi.