The Baddest Bitch

If you watch this whole video, you will receive a pleasant surprise.

As with Justin, your patience will be rewarded.



So there's that,

Laura

A Crime Most Heinous

I was eating my favorite, amazing salad for lunch today - the "Lo-Cal" Salad from Pompei, an Italian restaurant that I can only unjustly describe as "cafeteria-style."

 

What's so great about this salad?  Well...

 

• It's huge.  YOOOOGE.  Falls off the plate when I try to cut it into manageable chunks.
• Spring Mix and Romaine lettuces - not iceberg (boo), nut just romaine (blah), but the pretty green and red lettuces, too.
• Big, grilled veggies:  thick tomato slices, up to FIVE spears of asparagus, 3 thick potato slices.
• Salty kalamata olives
• The lemony, red-wine-vinegary, tangy dressing.  It has too much oil in it, but I skim it from the top as best I can, then dip veggies.  But this salad is so good, it barely requires 1/4 of the dressing they give you.
• Grilled chicken that's kind of dry, but still good and grilly.  It's the kind of chicken that makes you think, "It's dry, but at least I know it's chicken and not hacked-up-and-plastered-back-together chicken parts (read:  McDonald's, Subway).
• One hard-boiled egg.

This thing...it's just beautiful.  It's what a restaurant salad should be - lots of veggies, no cheese, no croutons.  In fact, I personally feel ripped off by the Caesar Salads of the world.  Just romaine lettuce, croutons, cheese and dressing?  Oh yeah, big salad.  BIG health food.  It's practically a fucking deconstructed lettuce sandwich.

 

Why don't you get some balls, Caesar Salad? 

 

Caesar Salad?  More like, "tosses the salad."

 

Et tu, Brute?  Well, I'd fucking stab you, too, you pussy-ass excuse for a salad.  And I wouldn't do it with a fork.

 

Man!

 

Anyway...what was my point?  Oh yeah.

 

While I was eating this salad, I considered the grilled chicken and the hardboiled egg.  I was eating both the mama and the baby.  Isn't that perverse?

 

Now I'm no vegetarian, and I never will be, even if it comes to light that all meat is made of people.  Like, what if unwanted people are being put through a machine to come out looking like chicken parts and delicious pork tenderloin?  What if all them second-borns in China who aren't fit for the Olympics are put into spring rolls?  Delicious spring rolls?  And The Machine has been feeding us this big line of bullshit for years that "beef comes from cows, and cows look like this..."  How 'bout, "beef comes from the forgotten, housebound elderly."

 

No, I wouldn't believe that.  Because it's truly...unbelievable.  My imagination is farting or something today.

 

But anyway, what kind of world is this where a person can eat both mother and child on the same plate?  Granted, the chicken I was enjoying probably wasn't the parent of this egg, but that didn't stop me from thinking it.  I must be some kind of blessed to be able to enjoy two life-stages of beast in one moment.

 

Slide a little piece of boiled egg white onto my fork, then some (dry) chicken breast, then asparagus.  It's truly a top-of-the-food-chain experience.

 

So there's that,

 

Laura

 

ICanHasCheezburger.com

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see more crazy cat pics


You will be there for hours.

So there's that,

Laura

Dear Subway

I went to Subway's website to check out the nutritional value of the sandwich I'm planning to pick up for lunch (the Melt...mmm).  While I was there, I thought I should say something about the lack of lite mayo in some of their stores.  I like me some mayonnaise, but a girl's gotta shave calories where she can.  I don't need full fat.  So I ended up ranting a little in the letter.

 

This was a long time coming.

 

Hello!

 

I commend Subway for emphasizing healthy eating, but to that end, why don't all stores replace full-fat mayonnaise with light mayo?  It doesn't really make sense to have both on hand; they both taste so similar (and obviously look so similar) that it would be easy for a negligent employee to fill one bottle with the other.  I know I would hate to get regular mayo when I specifically request light.

 

While I'm writing you, I used to work at Subway when I was a teen, and you know what I miss most about the way you used to do things?  I miss the U-Gouge - the method of slicing the bread in which the top is separated from the bottom.  And I miss having my sandwich built from the bottom up:  cheese, meat, onions, lettuce, tomato, pickles, peppers, olives.  Now with these side-sliced, meat-on-top sandwiches, I feel like I'm eating an unwieldy taco.  I have to instruct my sandwich artist to build it the way I want it, and when I do, they look at me like I've got a straightjacket on and pee running down my pant leg. 

 

I mean, is it so shocking to order a normal sandwich?  I don't want my meat sliding around over the top of my vegetables; I want it on the bottom, where it's a stable foundation. 

 

All right, there's my rant.  In short, I'd love to have light mayo in all stores, a sandwich built from the bottom up, and the u-gouge as a bread-slicing option.  All these breads with fancy sprinkles don't mean anything if its contents slide out onto your lap when you take a bite.

 

Sincerely,

 

Laura Meyer

 

So there's that,

 

Laura

Shoo...SHEW!

First of all, I'd like to thank my family for giving me a great Easter weekend!  Second of all, I'd like to apologize to my family for getting inebriated on Good Friday. 

 

Notice, I didn't say "completely inebriated."  Because we all know from Easter 2005 what a completely inebriated Laura is like.

 

Hey Michelle and Mike - you 'member when we were laughing at Steak and Shake, and the management hassled us by asking us sardonically if it was "really that funny?"  Yeah, I know - fucking bitch.

 

 

 

Hey Michelle - QUACK wack wack wack wack!  QUACK!!!  Mighty Ducks?  More like Naughty Ducks.

 

Hey Manda - All Aboard Choo Choo Soul!!!

 

I got to go to Long John Silver's and Homestead Pizza.  I got to hang out with Ella and Cody.  I got to hang out with Dad, and had minimal interaction with Mom.  And she was sober for 75% of those moments.

 

Dad and I talked about poop, just like old times.  And thanks to Michelle, the catch phrase for the weekend was "Shooo!  SHEW!"  Which is apparently what you should say in a stinky bathroom, especially when the source of the stink is still in there, lest she not learn her lesson.

 

I'll post some recipes from the tapas party, but for now I gotta get back to it.  I love you guys.

 

So there's that,

 

Laura

Cocktease

Yeah. I know. I said I was going on a hiatus. Whatevs. I just had one more thing to bring to the table.

'Member when my doctor asked me if I thought about gastric bypass, when I was all distraught about my widely fluctuating weight? 'Member?

Well guess what? He had me get a blood test to make sure my thyroid was okay and and if I wasn't diabetic, etc. Looks like I'm pretty healthy.

I KNOW! I say this all the time.

He called me yesterday with the results and was like, "Your thyroid's where it should be, so we don't need to change your dosage. blah blah blah. Your cholesterol is shockingly low. It's amazing."

That's what he said - "shockingly...amazing." I have good-ass cholesterol. I ain't going anywhere. I defy all odds!

I'm not surprised about this, because I know I don't eat crap. And I don't drink all that often. And that's my choice.

Yet...I know from my body analyses that I have a couple dozen pounds of pure fat hanging on my frame. I'm not comfortable with that. Not because it could eventually do some damage to my joints or that it gives people reason to judge me, or it makes me uncomfortable on public trans. But because that shit is freeloading on my body.

That's right. I've come to see my fat as nothing but a stowaway. It's not hurting me - now - but it's not exactly helping me, either.

In Philip Roth's story, Goodbye, Columbus, the main character - Neil Klugman - lives with an aunt who has a strange aversion to pepper. Because she once read that black pepper has no nutritional value, she does not cook or season with it; she doesn't like the idea of a food product that gets a free ride through the digestive tract.

I always thought that this was laughably insane reasoning, but I think she and I have something in common. As of this moment, I see my fat the way she sees black pepper: It's just along for the ride.

Why should I spend the rest of my life bailing water out of a sinking boat while the fat sits back eating the rations? I should be sailing smoothly toward the horizon.

So there's that,

Laura

Hiatus

You know, it's a short week at work since I get Good Friday off.  With the three-day weekend sparkling on the horizon, I can't quite concentrate my attention on much else beyond going home to Indiana for a blissful weekend with my big family.

 

That said, I'm not very focused on posting this week, but check back with me on Monday March 24 for more posts.  I'm sure I will be a lot more interesting after a long weekend.

 

But before I leave you, I want to mention this:  Lane Bryant knows where I live.

 

Lane Bryant knows where I go when I'm online.  I know this, because every page I visit has an LB advertising banner on it.  If I were naive, I would believe that LB has just upped its marketing to a broader audience by advertising on cnn.com or theonion.com.  I know better than that; there's no way thin people would put up with full-figured advertising on their favorite pages.

 

Because my searches and interests are what prompt these ads to reveal themselves to me everywhere I go, I have grown ever-frightened of the internet over the past few years.  They're keeping tabs on me.  I'm not surprised, though; it would be foolish of me to think that this could never happen.  I mean, the world is run by advertising and media, right?

 

But the thing that gets me is, if someone were to search the web on my computer, they might be bombarded by a pair of triple-D's in a Cacique Intimate Wear ad.  This would practically shout to them, "Laura buys bras and panties!" which while completely normal, is kind of embarrassing.  I choose to not think about such things, instead pretend that people are naturally shapely and do not need underwires and cotton crotches.  I would expect others to suffer under the same illusion in regards to my underthings.  Heck, I can't even walk through a lingerie department without blushing.  I have to take shots of vodka to build up my courage before I go shopping for unmentionables.  Okay, not really, but still...

 

So, they're watching you.  Whether you're interested in Old Navy, PF Changs, or Dewar's Scotch, they will put a banner on you before you even realize it.  Then everybody will know your secret love of ugly Fair Isle sweaters, spicy chicken in soothing lettuce cups, and drinking alone.

 

So there's that,

 

Laura

Quick Updates

Sorry I haven't been posting for a few days; I've been super busy at work, and I just can't look at a computer when I get home.  In the meantime, here are some quick updates that I plan to detail in future entries:

 

1. I joined Crunch.  Love it.
2. Lost 4 pounds last week.
3. I upset my personal trainer after my final free session (hint:  I told him I didn't want to continue personal training right away, but I'd consider it if/when I hit a plateau.)
4. I love two more dried fruits from Trader Joe's:  White Peaches and Granny Smith Apple Rings.
5. I ditched a date on Saturday night.  Literally.  Left him in the middle of a movie, texted him when I was safely on the train.  You'll understand.

Now I'mma get back to work!

 

So there's that,

 

Laura

Hot Dog, We Have a Wiener

I had to share this with you all because it's hilarious, but at the same time just awful.



I've never been here this late at night, but I love this place nonetheless. I used to live just down the street from here, and I never knew that things like this happened after all the drunk yuppies left the bars.

So there's that,

Laura

Strike One, Rock of Love

I never thought I'd say this, but I'm in love with a Vh1 reality show.

I know. They're so tacky (Flavor of Love) and desperate (Flavor of Love) and filthy (Flavor of Love). But I made the lucky mistake of watching Rock of Love for the first time a few Sundays ago, and it just took 60 minutes with the trashy bimbos vying for Bret Michaels' love to figure out who I liked, who I loved to hate, and who needed to die immediately. That's what reality shows do, right? Make you want to make God's decisions about someone else's life?

Anyway, these shows tend to pull me in based on the lowest common denominator - that is, once I figure out who I hate, I have to keep watching to see those assholes kicked off. I watched American Idol last season to see Sanjaya voted off, and by the time he was, I grew to love Blake. This season I watch the Idol results just to see that little jerk Danny Noriega get voted off. I squealed on Thursday when they kicked him to the curb. I told my sister as much over the weekend, and I was surprised (disappointed?) to learn that she was actually rooting for him. I...I just don't know about you anymore, dear sister. Your kind teacher's heart is starting to dissolve your better judgment, hate to say.

But alas, I love Rock of Love. I want Kristy Jo to win. I think Destiney is pure trash and I want her out, now. I think Daisy has had so much collagen injected into her lips that she looks like she was present at the opening of the Lost Ark. I don't like her, but nevertheless, I can't decide if I like to hate her for throwing a monkeywrench into the works, or if I just like watching her look so stupid, which in and of itself is revenge enough. I mean, have you seen her "singing" the "national anthem?"

I have come to look forward to my lazy Sunday mornings, cooking up a good breakfast, brewing a pot of coffee, and snuggling up under a ragged quilt on my love seat to watch Scott Baio is 46 and Pregnant (a cheap knock-off of Curb Your Enthusiasm) and My Fair Brady (not bad - Adrianne Curry just reminds me of Anne Rutledge, one of my old college roommates who was very extravagant and mouthy, but you couldn't help but liking her). But those are just warm-ups for the main event.


So you can imagine my surprise when, yesterday morning, Flavor of Love started up right after Brady. I nearly had a fit - the Rock of Love girls were going to make music videos this week! - until I looked at my TV's guide screen to see that my show was coming up next...and it was going to be a little marathon! I could see the episodes I missed at the beginning of the season! A whole Sunday of Bret Michaels and whores!


BUT, as I scanned through the program descriptions, I noticed that they weren't going to air the new episode this week. WHAT? You put me through 6-7 hours of this, but you can't at least end the marathon with the latest and greatest episode? Boo, Vh1. Boo.


I have to wait another week to root for my grrl, Kristy Jo, to yell at Destiney for being a bisexual trick who can't make up her mind, to laugh at how much Daisy looks like a tranny. I won't like the wait, but I'll be there, for these are the things that truly matter on a holy Sunday morning - sitting in judgment of desperate people.


So there's that,


Laura

Meat Head

I've gone and done it.


I signed a contract for a gym membership at Crunch on Tuesday night.




I prepared for the worst going in, since the only other experience I had with touring a gym (Bally's) ended in tears. The membership coordinator, Courtney, wasn't in perfect shape, so I felt a little better when I met her. Then I saw the machines, the boxing ring, the classroom studios, equipment, yoga studio, locker room with showers (including body wash, shampoo and condish), steam room and clothes steamer. How could I refuse?


Classes are free, and they include things like pole dancing and pilates - two things I've wanted to try to make me sexy (in addition to my kegels). I get an assessment and a training session, too.

Last night I went in for my first workout, and it was great! I worked the elliptical machine for 35 minutes, did some weight training for another hour, then I took a shower. And here's the earthquaking news: I walked around in my bra and underwear in front of people.

I never thought the day would come. I am actually very bashful, and like a true Catholic, ashamed of my naked self. But when I realized that I couldn't get to the shower from my locker any other way, I had to make a decision. Skip the shower, even though I felt gross; or walk to the shower in the most clothing possible. I couldn't exactly hang my clothes over the curtain rod, so that was out. The baby towel barely covered my ass, and I wasn't going to strut around buck naked in front of everybody.

So I did it, and it was very freeing. If skinny girls can do it, why can't I? I did keep my head down the whole time to avoid eye contact, but still...

My thighs look like this.

So there's that,

Laura

Big Man, Rittle Camela

My dad, Lurch, came up to visit on Friday night and left on Monday morning.  It was the best weekend I've had in a long while, not because it was terribly exciting but because it was just a good time to live with Dad for a few days and find fun things to do.

 

Friday:  Enjoyed sushi at Jai-Yen.  He never had it before, and he liked it.

 

Saturday:  Attempted to ride the Red Line to its terminus on the north side, but work on the tracks made us head back south.  We went to the Museum of Science and Industry, where we toured an old-timey train, a captured German u-boat, watched an Omnimax film on dinosaurs, and ate expensive museum food.  I took him to Piece for dinner, a brewery with a nice little pizza menu.  He enjoyed a pitcher of dark ale, and we talked about Mom.  It was good.  We came back to the apartment and I made him a couple of mix CDs.  He was astounded that I could find certain songs on iTunes so readily.

 

Sunday:  We rode the El.  All.  Day.  Took the brown line south around the loop, then all the way north, then back south.  Connected to the green line in the loop and took it to both ends on the south side, then took the raunchy 63rd street bus to Midway airport to take the orange line train back to the city.  It sounds pretty boring, but it was a lot of fun and a good way to see the city.  Then we took a bus to Thai Aroma, a hidden treasure Thai restaurant by my apartment.  We were hungry, and ate way too much.  We came home to watch the end of the NASCAR race and look up aerial satellite views of places on Google Earth.  He totally loved that.  I think it convinced him to get high speed internet.

 

He left at 6:00 am on Monday morning.

 

The events of the weekend as listed above don't sound too exciting, but within the context of the weekend, I learned some pretty interesting things.

 

• Dad refused a pedicure.  Though he grew more accepting of the idea as the weekend progressed (until he heard the price - "Thirty dollars?!"), his initial response was "I don't like a woman touching my feet...unless it involves a sexual situation, heh heh."  The little laugh at the end is his classic bashful, eyes-down laugh that just makes you love this guy.
• He did say that if he ever would get work done in a salon, he would get his back waxed.  I told him he doesn't have a backhair situation.  He insisted he does, and it makes him self-conscious.  "How long does the hair stay off?"  "Probably a couple of weeks"  "That's it?!"
• He brought a disposable camera.  Though neither of us care about not having a digital camera, together we joked that someone with a digital camera - say, a Japanese tourist - would make fun of him and take pictures of his shame.  "Fong, rook at big Amelican man.  He have rittle camela."  "Big-u man, rittle camela!"  "He have-uh baby camela!"  "Rook!  He cry!  Big-u man cry about rittle camela."
• I learned how he met my mom (in a parking lot at "The Rustic" - a dance hall - she just came up and kissed him), and that he hadn't dated anyone else in his life, even though he was 21.  He told me he was in a car once with his friends and some girls; the girls asked when they were going to "park" and "get handled."  He said his jaw just dropped and he didn't know what to say.
• Mom had been seeing a guy.  Dad later played softball against him.
• When working on his mix CDs, I jokingly asked if he wanted Belinda Carlisle's "Heaven is a Place on Earth."  To my surprise, he said, "Yeah, she has a great voice."  So somewhere in the mix of classic rock songs I put together for him, a track is going to click on with "Oooh baby do you know what that's worth?  Oooh heaven is a place on earth." 
• He doesn't like "city prices," so we tried our best to avoid falling into tourist traps.  On one occasion when he complained about prices, I said with force, "But it's worth coming here, right?  Because you're with me, your daughter...right?"  Then I made him give me his hand, instructing him to flinch and squeal out "Yes!" in weakness.  (You have to know that my dad is what some would call an intimidating 6' 4", and his hand is like twice the size of mine.  It's funny to see him being intimidated, really.)  So after that, every time I would say, "But it's worth it for me, right?" I would take his hand, pretend to squeeze and he would play his cowardly part.  It was our little routine for the weekend.
• Before he left town, he wanted to get "one of those milkshake things from Starbucks," which is what a barista would call a Grande Caramel Lite Frappucino with Whip and Caramel Sauce.  That's right.  Lurch won't get a pedicure, but he likes Belinda Carlisle and Caramel Lite Frappucinos.  This is my dad.
• In his defense, while we were drinking the Fraps on the train platform, he admitted to it "making him look like a fag."  I told him I don't think that's possible.

When he left, I told him to call me when he stopped on the road, so I could make sure he made it home all right.  When at 11 am he hadn't yet called, I tried calling him, only to get his voicemail.  After about 6 more tries before 4:00 pm, I started to get worried.  I called Mom, but she hadn't seen him.  We both started to freak out.  An hour later, Mom had tracked him down at Oasis, his favorite watering hole.  We agreed that I would chew him out for not calling me.

 

He called me about a half an hour later.

 

Dad:  Yeah?

 

Me:  You scared me!

 

Dad:  You know how I am with phones.  I don't like 'em.  Heh heh.  And I know how to drive; nothing's going to happen.

 

Me:  Well, I told you to call me.  You said you would.

 

Dad:  Yeah...you know how I am with phones.  Sorry.

 

Me:  (half-joking, just happy to find out he's okay)  You better be...

 

Dad:  You can't squeeze my hand now, can you?  Heh heh.

 

No, I can't.  I already miss you.

 

So there's that,

 

Laura

Hips Don't Lie

Okay.

 

I will take full responsibility for my last pity party post.  I tend to go through phases in which I lose all hope - it happens.  But after talking to my cousin Michelle and after reading all the supportive responses after my last post, I decided that I should stop whining and take charge of this lifestyle change again.

 

I've booked a couple of gym tours for this week, trying to make an informed decision before I invest in something that might not be right for me.  I kept thinking about how I probably looked like a jerk when I talked to my doctor; if I've been "doing everything right," then I would be losing weight.  The numbers don't lie, and these hips don't lie.  I can cut out some excess calories, I can bump up my excercise routine - I mean, 30 minutes per day over my lunch break, while good for me, won't make up for the rest of my sedentary day.  I need to get out after work for a couple more hours.  Maybe if I invest my time and money in a gym, I'll spend less time idolizing healthy food and thinking about what I'll eat next.

 

And I need to clean out my pantry.  By that, I mean I need to eat what I have and quit buying new stuff all the time.  I feel like I'm turning into my mom - buying and preparing way too much food.  I don't want to be a compulsive shopper anymore.

 

So I'm taking the steps.  Hopefully in 2 weeks I'll have a second home in a gym that's good for me. 

 

So there's that,

 

Laura