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There's this recurring dream I keep having as of late in which I'm sitting down to dinner and my food wants to eat me. By food, I mean some broccoli and asparagus drizzled in fake butter just chillin' on my plate. Every week or so it's the same: Vegetable assassins just dying for a piece of me.
I wake up in a panic. Then realize I'm still fat and was better of sleeping.
It seems rather ironic that after months of ignoring this series of weight loss posts I committed myself to writing, I'd push one out the weekend after devouring enough food for ten contestants on The Biggest Loser.
So it's best if we're honest with each other, right? This is the hardest, most agonizing thing I've ever attempted to do. It's as if my mind is at a constant war with itself and its desire for sugar cookies.
I guess I thought like any other task you set out to do in life, getting fit was about patience and strategy. Wrong! Someone once told me nothing of great meaning is accomplished overnight. Losing sixty pounds, quitting smoking, running a marathon, controlling your gas at an office meeting after too many cups of coffee... Such things take skill. Yet I'm afraid it's these skills I don't exactly possess.
For the past few months the gym has been my only lover and I've been doing all the things healthy people are supposed to do (minus the excessive partying during the weekends, of course). I've abstained from the sweets I love so much. I've woken up at the asshole of dawn for hour long walks. I've drank enough green tea to turn my urine blue. Yet still the scale refuses to march to the beat of my drums.
Then the one day (okay, two) I eat like a pigazoid during Thanksgiving weekend betrays me and I'm greeted to a five pound weight gain on Saturday morning. So I conclude that, If I already messed up these past few days I might as well start up again on Monday.
Then Monday rolls around and I've gained a total of seven pounds so the only plausible solution is to weep uncontrollably into a blueberry muffin.
Conclusion: Losing weight is more depressing than watching a marathon of Hoarders while plowing through a box of twinkies on a Saturday night.
(Not that I've ever done such a thing.)
There's this unspoken rule all over the internets in which people start sharing what they're thankful for on Thanksgiving Day (as if anyone really gives a shit - don't hate me because I'm frank).
The blog posts. The Facebook statuses <--- Is this a word? The tweets. The emails. What is it about the holidays that makes us all a little bit cornier and prone to niceties?
Necessary sidenote: As you probably know, I'm Cuban. With that said, Thanksgiving in my parents' place is celebrated with pork instead of turkey. With rice & beans instead of mashed potatoes. With yuca instead of stuffing. With coconut flan instead of pumpkin pie. With Heineken and pina coladas instead of cider and champagne. This is all delicious and worthy of swallowing but here's the problem: I really fucking love pumpkin pie. And turkey and stuffing and mashed potatoes and cranberry sauce and sweet potato casserole.
What else is a girl to do but build a loophole? Every year I drive to Boston Market and eat a plate of all the American goodies I love-oh-so-much before dining at my parents' place. I guess without even knowing it I've built my own little tradition for one.
Today I went to the grocery store to buy some pumpkin pie in the hopes my mom wouldn't be too offended once I brought it over, when I realized the entire city of Miami was there. Apparently this was the only store open within a ten mile radius and I wasn't the only person craving baked goods. Once I finally found a spot, it was incredibly tight because some dickwad had decided to park over the lines and not give a shit that some people really want to eat pie!
So it's the holidays... Let it go, Annah, I said to myself. But I couldn't. I squeezed my big fat Camry into the spot and out of the car. Then I pulled out a scrap piece of paper and a Sharpie out of my purse and left this note on the windshield of their BMW:
Because what are the holidays for if not honesty?
Now here's a list of the things I'm thankful for:
Bruno, Mikey, Beba, and my latest rescue whom I've named Kingston (anyone want to adopt a Chow/German Shepherd mix?).
my mom. her bitchy attitude. my dad. his easygoing ways. the starbucks around the corner. its cute and possibly underage barista. pumpkin lattes. pumpkin beer. pumpkin pie. anything fucking pumpkin. miguel. his killer karaoke skills. penelope. her incredible ability to drink all my booze in one sitting. my roommate. her predisposition to always believe in love. big brown eyes. a job that pays the bills. a blog that feeds dreams. good hair days. this song. tomorrow. the day after. kindness and forgiveness. yesterday's fuckups and today's wisdom. departures and arrivals. lights at the end of each tunnel. friends that last a lifetime.
you. me. and dupree (duh).
Sometimes you come across people who are blessed with good looks. Others you meet those who are not only good looking, but sickeningly sweet and kind to others. People like that should be made an example of. My friend Carlos is one of them.
Carlos doesn't live in Miami anymore, so when he called asking if I wanted to go out for a little DDD action this past Friday night, I couldn't reply with anything other than an emphatic Yes!
It had been a particularly long day at work. A political campaign in the middle of combusting, a strike, phone calls to Senators, and an onslaught of other bullshit for only ten peanuts an hour had my brain ready for the vodka monster to attack. When my co-worker Nate suggested we go to the billiards place around the corner for "a few cervezas," the choice was simple.
I knew I had to be ready by 10 p.m. and that I needed a nap at some point before then but weekends were made for fun with a side of questionable behavior and I'll be damned if anyone convinces me otherwise. We arrived at Pepito's Billiard at six and by eight it was evident there'd be no nappage taking place that evening. Nate had already left and I was on my third vodkaseltzer with a complete stranger when a few other friends arrived. The effects of some incredibly strong drinks made by a bartender that was at least 76-years-old and an empty stomach were beginning to take its course. Surprisingly, I decided to be responsible and cut my billiard's experience short, heading home after drink #3. I walked and fed my dogs and somehow made myself presentable. Carlos was at my door exactly at ten (punctual people are so... punctual).
I sat on top of my bar counter and we started commiserating over some Stoli vodkas. By the time we'd babbled about everything from failed relationships to Facebook drama to being broke and an upcoming trip to Savannah, I was three vodkaseltzers in.
And off we were.
I'd be lying if I said things weren't already hazy once we arrived at Trio. We talked and talked and talked and laughed 'til tears streamed down my face and my cat eye make-up looked more like a sad clown mask. We didn't care if people were looking at us funny or if the food we ordered ever came. I can't exactly say I recall what my surroundings looked like, but I do remember the smell of the water. And the wind in my hair. And mayyyyyybe three more vodkaseltzers and a shot of Patron. Couldn't say for sure...
And then:
I wake completely naked, my head pounding a thousand storms on a rocky shore. I close my eyes willing it all to go away with no luck. My throat feels like there's a second tongue shoved in there. Something is terribly wrong and I have no clue what it is. I go to the mirror and open wide.
Holy fuck, what happened last night?
I peel the covers off slowly and look around as my dogs placidly dream still. There doesn't seem to be anyone home as I tip toe into the living area. There I find my clothes in a trail leading to my room. Leopard heels. Black dress. Red underwear. Leather hand cuff. There's a pile of candy wrappers on top of the bar and what seems like an unfinished bottle of soda. Disgust takes over me and I feel like throwing up. I pick up the phone instead and take in some water with aspirin as I text Carlos.
Me: Good God almighty, what the hell happened last night?
It's eleven a.m. and unlikely he'll reply right away so I lie back down after picking up the mess that's my apartment and immediately fall asleep. When my brain turns on again there's a blinking light emerging from my phone and the following text:
Carlos: Good morning, sunshine. lol
Me: Oh my God, you're alive! What the hell happened last night?
Carlos: How did I know you were going to ask me that? No pleasantries, I see. Hi, Carlos. Good morning, Carlos. How are you doing today, Carlitos? Oh, I'm doing fine, Annah. Thank you for asking.
Me: Spill it!
Carlos: You obviously had one too many. I tried to get you to eat something but the portions in that restaurant were meant for toddlers instead of growing adults.
Me: Okay...?
Carlos: Then you got up and said you had to go to the bathroom. When you returned to the table there was a guy with you. You introduced him as Marcus and said you were going home with him. And that's what you did, babycakes. There was no stopping you.
I didn't even know what to say. I called him to apologize profusely. I explained I'm usually great about holding in my liquor. I expressed that I *never* take strangers home and my only one night stand had been in my early twenties. He said he understood but didn't sound too convinced. I hung up, questioning my life choices and on the verge of tears when the phone rings.
Me: Hello?
Stranger: Hey... How are you feeling?
Me: Who is this?
Stranger: It's Marcus. (laughs)
Me: Oh. Um. Hello, I guess.
Marcus: Still a little intoxicated, I see.
Me: Uh... Not really. More like, trying to piece everything together.
Marcus: Well it's a good thing you have all day for that. Sorry I didn't say goodbye this morning. But I had to go to work.
Me: (Not a clue what the hell he's talking about but play along for the sake of his ego). Yeah, sure. No problem.
Marcus: Call you when I get out?
Me: Uh-huh. Ciao.
Marcus: (Makes a kissing sound). Bye.
My world was crumbling around me. How was it possible the first time in months I was partaking in the horizontal mambo it would be with some stranger I picked up at a bar like some cracked out prostitute? I sat down on my couch -still naked- and began to cry. Five minutes later Carlos called to see if I wanted to join him and some friends for lunch. I told him I didn't want to leave my house ever again and sobbed into the phone.
He took this as the perfect moment to tell me it had all been a big prank, and "Marcus" had just been something he made up to fuck with me for passing out on top of the dinner table an hour after we got to Trio. He then asked his friend to call me and pretend to be Marcus to see if I'd bite. He was surprised I believed the whole thing and was enjoying torturing me too much to tell me right away.
If there was an app for stabbing people through the phone it would've come in handy at that point. In the meantime I'll wait patiently for Carlos to return to Miami so I can exact my revenge.
You've been warned.
If like me you've been disappointed in the lack of Dannah action around here lately, you can blame it on Dan, whose decision to become an adult and get a real job with real responsibilities and all the nonsense that follows has hindered his ability to poke his head into (pun not intented) my side of the world.
We will forgive him because I adore writing these posts with him. And because I really need a drinking buddy asides from Natalie when I go to New York. And duh, because his blog is also hilarious and completely inappropiate (click here and be blown away).
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The last time we did this, we talked about how to tell how if a girl likes you. This time we attempted to turn it around, only to end up shriveled in a corner panting with confusion.
And by we, I mean me.
Some girls say that they don't know whether or not guys like them. Apparently the fact that we're male and scientifically proven to want to bang the majority of you all the time isn't enough of a sign. But not all guys are dirtbags. (Lie # 1).
See... Nice guys are like Jews: They take up about 1% of the world's population. But think about it, you know some Jews, don't you? One percent appears minuscule but in reality there's a shitload of fucking Jews all around. And the same applies with us nice guys... Yeah... I wrote "us."
But if I may digress, the basic idea behind what I wrote above is that it shouldn't be so difficult for women to pick up on the signals guys send. Unfortunately it obviously is, mostly because neither of us seem to be able to grasp what the fuck is going on in each gender's collective brain.
So am I someone who can be of assistance to women in regards to how to read the male body language? Definitely not.
I mean I've hooked up with some chicks, but it's not like I get it in like that. Is that okay, Annah? I feel like you want me to write something more enlightening. What should I say, that if a guy looks you in the eyes and tries to make you laugh it means he's into you? That if he asks for your name and profession it's actually code for, "Come back to my place and give me a rockin' blowjob?" You know that already.
HOWEVER, there's something I'd like to bring to your attention:
A good wingman could completely fool a girl into thinking he likes her. For example, let's say I'm hosting a party and I'm in a situation where a girl wants my roommate but her friend is lingering and someone needs to give her attention. If no one talks to this girl, she brings her friend home with her and that's that... Wingman can't let that happen.
That's where I come in: The primary objective of the wingman is simply to distract the not-attractive friend. How did I accomplish this? I don't know... I guess I just showed genuine interest, and before I knew it I was getting a handjob on the couch. I know, I know... Who gets handjobs? That girl was rather prude. It was also a good thing no one walked into the room because my wiener was exposed.
So ladies, have you ever considered that perhaps there was a time you got wingmanned? It's not your fault if it happened. There's nothing you could've done. Sometimes a man will falsely woo for the sake of his friends, and a true wingman executes to perfection. Part of that execution is making sure the girl never finds out he wasn't very attracted to her. When I was a wingman it wasn't particularly enjoyable, but it was a necessary beast. I mean the act of being a wingman of course, not the woman I hooked up with.
In terms of tips on picking up signals and stuff like that, I feel like the more I think about it the more I don't know anything. Each specific scenario really just revolves around two things: timing and confidence. It's difficult for me to explain to women what it is that shows them I'm attracted to them. I just am, and when I see them I want to talk to them. And then hopefully bang. I tend to think girls aren't all that different.
If anything my advice is that you should probably steer clear of trusting most dudes because they just want your breasts in their mouths. Or become a lesbian. I'm not being cynical, really. Just merely realistic.
Good luck with the 1%.
On that note I will go stick my head in a bucket of gasoline and light it on fire. I thought Dan would shed light on my current existential crisis, but now see I'm left to my own devices. Which of course means I'm going to dismiss the idea the dude from work is winking at me during office meetings, but rather just has a twitch in his eye.
Or dirty contact lenses.
Bad news: I'm not writing a real post today because I'm more exhausted than my favorite pair of heels and trust me, those bitches have been around.
Bad news ii: This post took me an hour to write. One. Fucking. Hour. It's literally like two sentences long and I could not formulate them for the life of me without an intravenous shot of Red Bull to the face.
Good news: Tomorrow's post is a Dannah post. And you should be excited. Because Dan is hilarious and I love every part of his big, sexy, throbbing brain.
(What did you think I was going to say?)
Good news part ii: Sometimes my friend Miguel chooses to partake in a little thing called photobombing. This weekend he inserted himself into one of my pictures and this image was born:
Because the employment situation in Miami is so precarious... And because my current place of employment has yet to hire me full time even though I'm kicking ass and have been for seven months and counting, I sometimes take a leap of faith and apply for job openings on craigslist.com.
Before you say anything, I realize most postings on this site are decoys to get decent women like myself to prostitute themselves on a street corner. But just like a shoe sale at your local thrift shop, something really good will pop up if you look long and hard.
Three days ago, I found just that.
The job description was detailed and nothing struck me as odd about the contact information provided. It did however, seem a little weird that the ad asked for a picture of the applicant, yet I decided to bypass that and chalk it up to my extreme xenophobia. I applied for the assistant position to "Otto Fisher - Chief Operations Officer at Bla Bla Bla Medical Company" and hoped for the best.
That same night, Mr. Fisher himself sent me the following:
Silly me! I'd completely forgotten to include a photograph of myself. I thought, Hmmm, maybe someone would like to remind dear ol' Otto that requesting pictures for a job that doesn't entail stripping or serving wings at Hooters is kind of illegal.
Instead, I snapped this and emailed it to him with a link to this post.
So it took me an eternity after returning from Puerto Rico to post these pictures from La Isla del Encanto, where my friends David & Sosi got married less than two years after meeting on Twitter.
Visiting foreign lands for the first time is exciting and you want to get it all in while being a responsible and diligent tourist and taking five hundred pictures you'll never look at again once you go back home. The truth remains that vacations are made special by the crazy shit that happens off the beaten path when you're too busy planning hikes and trips to old cathedrals and waterfalls.
Between everyone being there with a date and me refusing to give up the good fight, I made an awesome friend from New York City which we'll call Layla in an effort to save her integrity. While the couples spent the majority of their nights in bed doing the horizontal mambo or farting under the covers after one too many plates of rice and beans; Layla and I took to the nightlife like sparkly vampires hunting for blood in a Twilight movie.
Funny shit happens when vacationing with friends who turn into hermits while their boyfriends are around. Hilarity ensues when you hit the town with a nutjob gringa who knows no boundaries when it comes to mischief and good-God-almighty did I love her for it.
It's somewhere around five a.m. and I'm slipping out of my heels and getting into bed after Layla forced ten shots of Patron XO (among other spirits) down my throat. There isn't a bottle of vitamin water or Gatorade in sight and my liver needs some major restoration sooner than later. I close my eyes for a second and in she stumbles, laughing hysterically at something only she understands.
Layla: Oh my God, Annah. You have to see my bill.
Me: Erhhm? What bill?
Layla: From the bar, duh.
Me: Let me see that.
Me: Please say you're joking. $520.00 on a bar tab?!
Layla: Well $150.00 of that were for tipping the bartender.
Me: I hope he went down on you for a tip like that. Holy shit.
Layla: Not yet but soon. (mutters this under her breath)
Me: Say what?
Layla: He's coming here after the club closes.
Me: What the heck for?
Layla: What do you think, dumb dumb?
Me: And what am I supposed to do?!
Layla: Hide in the closet. Go to the lobby bar. Sleep on the balcony. You have an array of options, my dear.
Me: I'm going to go with, "Sleep on my bed." You two can go to the balcony.
I remember thinking, Please God don't let this bartender dude be a serial killer, right before passing out on my bed and praying Layla fell asleep before he arrived.
She says I snored loudly through the lengthy olympic marathon that was their sexual encounter. That sometimes I'd choke on my own spit and they thought for sure I'd caught them in the act. That I'd inhale sharply for a few seconds then resume the rhythm of my snore fest peacefully. That despite the earsplitting noises resounding next to me I never did wake up.
It appears I've once again underestimated my acting abilities...
Can we pretend I wrote a real post tonight instead of sat on my couch eating ice cream from the carton whilst watching Water For Elephants and swooning over Robert Pattinson? Awesome.
