LIBRA HOROSCOPE (from astrology.com): Expect more than a few questions throughout the day from colleagues, customers and friends. Your social energy is on point, and you’re almost certainly seen as the right person to ask.
Laura’s Log:
I hate drama. Even in movies. Give me “Devil Wears Prada” Meryl over “Sophie’s Choice” Meryl every time. The problem is women can be overly dramatic. Something happens when we hit fifth or sixth grade. Random comments become fodder for killing a friendship. And we never grow beyond that. Why can’t we be (a little) more like men, sit down, watch a hockey game and forget whatever the heck it was that pissed us off? Sure, I’d go crazy if my life revolved on memorizing players’ scoring stats but a dispute about Henrik versus Ovechkin, while intense, isn’t going to doom a relationship. (Talking favorably about the Toronto Maple Leafs is an entirely different matter when you live on the West Coast.)
Nadia and I hadn’t spoken since Sunday night when I mentioned that seeing her boyfriend Bradley once in a weekend was plenty, thank you very much. Best to take dumbasses in small doses. So when Nadia called during her lunch break today to INSIST we go for drinks—just me and her—I braced for an ugly showdown. Hard to focus on work the rest of the afternoon. (Thankfully, the office pace would have made a sloth on antsy as Carmen’s quadruple chocolate cake put everyone in a sugar coma.) While they crashed, I shook.
Women’s intuition is overrated. Or, at least, mine is. Might as well return the damn thing and redeem it for a complimentary packet of Starbucks instant coffee. I’d expected Nadia to attack me as soon as I saw her perched on a stool at the bar at Cactus Club. She’d already ordered my standard lime margarita, no salt, a kind gesture that set me off my defensive game plan. And then she startled me more with the first words out of her mouth: “Bradley’s an ass, isn’t he?”
Dem’s choppy waters we’re headin’ into! What do you say when a friend is down on her boyfriend? It’s always such a risk. I lost Gloria by agreeing with her when she started ragging Milo, her loser of a husband. In the moment, she was grateful for my honesty and support. For two weeks, we were best buds. Then they reconciled and I was unceremoniously shredded along with the divorce papers.
I played therapist, responding with “Why do you say that?” Thankfully, Nadia had plenty of her own evidence. So much so that it was pointless for me to jump in. Her examples were much more offensive. Bradley calls her into the bathroom when he’s taking a shit just to freak her out. (The fact he never flushes after either number was disgusting enough.) Bradley yells in her ear when she’s on the phone too long (in his opinion) with her mother. (The fact Nadia’s mom is going through chemo only makes his infantile Notice Me behavior all the more egregious.) Bradley is relentless about the five pounds Nadia’s put on since Christmas.
I wanted desperately to say, “So why are you still with him?” Instead, I asked, “What are you going to do?”
To my astonishment, Nadia said, “I don’t know.”
As we left, she hugged me and thanked me. And I felt like the worst friend ever.
KEN’S JOURNAL:
MARTY WAS HAVING A SLOW DAY SO HE CALLED ME FOR DRINKS AT 2. WE WOUND UP HITTING MALONE’S DOWNTOWN. SURPRISINGLY CORPORATE CROWD FOR MID-AFTERNOON. VANCOUVER IS NO TORONTO WHEN IT COMES TO WORK ETHIC. MARTY SEEMED DOWN, WHICH IS RARE FOR HIM. HE’S USUALLY THE ONE TRYING TO SNAP ME OUT OF A FUNK. STILL, IT WAS LIKE A GAME OF 21 QUESTIONS TRYING TO GET HIM TALK. MARTY’S ALL ABOUT SPORTS STATS, STOCKS, REAL ESTATE PRICES, WOMEN’S MEASUREMENTS. HE’S AN OPEN BOOK WHEN IT COMES TO NUMBERS. FEELINGS? NOT SO MUCH.
AFTER THIRTY MINUTES OF FISHING AND REELING IN NOTHING, IT CAME DOWN TO WOMEN. MARTY, THE GUY WHO STILL SCORES A COUPLE TIMES A WEEK, WAS TIRED OF ONE-NIGHTERS. “LAST TIME I DATED A GIRL MORE THAN A WEEK? COULDN’T TELL YA. I HAVE ONCE OR TWICE, HAVEN’T I? I WENT OUT WITH CONNIE FOR A WEEK AND A HALF OR TWO, DIDN’T I?”
“WHO?” WRONG RESPONSE. MARTY PUT HIS HEAD ON THE TABLE. I’D ONLY UNDERSCORED THE PROBLEM.
“I THINK I MIGHT PERHAPS POSSIBLY BE SORTA READY TO MAYBE START SOMETHING LIKE A RELATIONSHIP.” WELL, THAT WAS PUTTING IT ALL OUT THERE. HOW BOLD!
OK, BABY STEPS. HE’D ALWAYS SAID RELATIONSHIPS WERE FOR WIMPY-ASSED GUYS WHO MISSED THEIR MOMMIES. HE COULDN’T EXACTLY COME RIGHT OUT AND SAY HE ENVIED THE WIMPY ASSES NOW, COULD HE? THERE WAS NO CHANCE TO ASK ANY KIND OF FOLLOW-UP. MARTY SWITCHED IMMEDIATELY TO LAYING INTO ME ABOUT BEING “THE PICKIEST HEMORRHOID OF A CONDO CLIENT” HE’D EVER HAD. FROM THAT, WE WENT ON TO GIVING OUR SCOUTING REPORTS FOR THE CANUCKS GAME. STILL, BY MARTY OPENING HIS RELATIONSHIP WINDOW JUST A CRACK, I SENSED THAT MY FUCK ’EM & LEAVE ’EM PAL WAS LOOKING TO GROW UP, EVEN SEE WOMEN AS MORE THAN THEIR MEASUREMENTS.
IT JUST GOES TO SHOW, CHANGE IS ALWAYS POSSIBLE…EVENTUALLY.
Showing posts with label Toronto Maple Leafs. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Toronto Maple Leafs. Show all posts
Friday, April 23, 2010
Sunday, January 31, 2010
PAST IS PRESENT
January 31, 2010
LIBRA HOROSCOPE (from astrology.com): If you really want something, figure out how to frame the question before you ask. Try to indulge your social urges a little more today -- if that’s possible! You may meet someone new who sets you in a new direction or rediscover an old flame who’s dying to see you again.
Laura’s Log:
Family brunch at Mom & Dad’s. Of course, Mom doesn’t get the fact that “brunch” allows you to sleep in. (“What do you need to sleep in for?” she shot back when I complained about the 8:30 start time. “You’ve got all this time on your hands now. Best thing for you is to be out of your apartment pronto and doing things. In fact, Dr. Phil says—”)
Lucy and Carl(a) were no-shows. Mom had made the mistake of saying she’d gone to The Bay and bought each of us a pair of those cute red Canada Olympic mitts. At the mention of the Olympics, they were compelled to boycott brunch. Mom was terribly upset, but I tried to explain that’s how their brains were wired. They needed their daily protest in order to find purpose.
Apparently, Estelle and Curtis showed up half an hour early. (“For the first time ever, Sven and Gretel were ready in a snap. Once everyone’s zipped, snapped and bundled, you just go.”) Made my twenty-minute late entrance more glaring. Mom tried to guilt me—“The waffles are hardening in all the wrong places”—but Marella’s stumbling in at 9:15 diverted all the etiquette lecturing and the more generalized “you-just-don’t-love-me” diatribe. One minute after her arrival, Marella stormed out to the back deck, Mom yelling “You lawyers…” to her back.
I decided to join Marella. We hadn’t talked much since New Year’s. She was always working. Well, not always, apparently. Lighting up a cigarette—“You’re smoking again?!” “Shut up!”—she confessed, “I only got home an hour ago. Had an intense fuck with a guy I met at Rosie’s last night. Monty. Or Marty. Maybe it was Dwayne. Anyway, you gotta try it. The energy at that pub was pretty somber, but then when the Canucks came back in the third, every guy in the place was eager to celebrate. I had my pick. You should come with me next time.”
The thought of selecting a one-nighter alongside my sister was too far removed from The Waltons for me. “See you inside,” I said, escaping one awkward moment for another. Mom was unbuttoning and rebuttoning Dad’s shirt in the kitchen in front of the rest of us. “Honestly, you’re sixty-three and you don’t know how to button a shirt. Where was your mind? You can’t go getting Alzheimer’s. We turfed those aluminum pots years ago.” Dad just stood there looking no different than three-year-old Gretel, getting (s)mothered. Sometimes I hate Mom for how she treats him; other times, like that moment, I hate him for allowing it.
When we all settled for brunch, after another five-minute delay for Curtis to change Sven’s loaded diaper—How is it that Curtis is that perfect a daddy? Estelle’s got him whipped more than Mom has Dad.—Mom enjoyed two mouthfuls of her quiche before spilling the big news that quite possibly was the excuse for the entire get-together. “Guess who’s getting a divorce?” she beamed. None of us had the time to process her gleeful grin, much less guess. “Harvey Burns! Isn’t that wonderful, Laura?”
Harvey. My boyfriend from UBC and two years beyond. “The one that got away,” as Mom regularly referred to him. Nothing I ever said could taint that status. A successful banker with a condo overlooking English Bay and a Mercedes, he was great on paper, but a bore who couldn’t contribute to any conversation that drifted too far from a connection to The Wall Street Journal, “The Rachael Ray Show” or mountain biking. Yes, that’s right. Rachael Ray.
“Mavis Benson ran into Harvey’s mother—you remember Doris, don’t you, Laura?”
“Mom,—”
“Oh, of course you do. What am I saying? She was practically your mother-in-law. Well, it turns out that Harvey’s wife put on eighty pounds after the wedding and started blowing all Harvey’s money gambling at The River Rock and everything went bust.”
“Mom…”
“After only two years. I say it just shows he’s still in love with you, Laura. And how could he not be?”
She continued to rattle on, even as Gretel threw waffle bits at Mom. (No doubt, poor Gretel’s way of saying Make it stop.) I had to take a stand and get Mom to butt out. I had no choice but to say, “Marella’s started smoking again!”
I have a grapefruit-sized bruise on my right arm, thanks to Marella’s horrified reaction, but it was worth it. Can’t have my big sis getting lung cancer, can I?
KEN’S JOURNAL (via Blackberry):
WHAT A GAME LAST NIGHT! ALL WEEK I’D BEEN SENDING SNARKY EMAILS TO FRIENDS IN TORONTO, LETTING THEM KNOW THE LEAFS WERE GOING DOWN. AND THEN LUONGO DIDN’T SHOW UP FOR THE FIRST PERIOD. STILL ON PACIFIC TIME? GOD, THOSE SEDINS AND BURR ARE AMAZING! HOW RIGHTEOUS TO HAVE BURROWS RULE THE NIGHT IN CBC CENTRALE! JUST WISH RON MacLEAN HADN’T BEEN FARMED OUT TO STRATFORD. NEEDED TO SEE HIM EAT SOME HUMBLE PIE.
MARTY & I WENT TO ROSIE’S ON ROBSON FOR THE GAME. GREAT ATMOSPHERE. MARTY, OF COURSE, ONLY STUCK AROUND FIFTEEN MINUTES AFTER THE GAME. HOOKED UP W/SOME LAWYER, OLDER THAN HIS NORMAL CONQUEST. THERE’LL BE A STORY THERE. SHE WAS DRESSED TO SCORE IN A LOW-CUT THING THAT MADE IT LOOK LIKE HER BREASTS WLD POP OUT ANY SECOND. CAN’T IMAGINE THE RIDE HOME!
ME, I STUCK AROUND FOR SOME OF THE OILERS-FLAMES. GOT A SENSE THAT THERE WERE WOMEN LINGERING…AND NOT FOR ANOTHER DOSE OF HOCKEY. WHAT’S WRONG W/ME? WHY CAN’T I JUST BANG SOMEONE? SAD THING IS, I KNOW WHAT’S WRONG W/ME. I’D BE THINKING ABOUT CLARA THE WHOLE TIME.
THINK I NEED TO SEE ABOUT GETTING 2 SESSIONS A WEEK W/THE THERAPIST.
LIBRA HOROSCOPE (from astrology.com): If you really want something, figure out how to frame the question before you ask. Try to indulge your social urges a little more today -- if that’s possible! You may meet someone new who sets you in a new direction or rediscover an old flame who’s dying to see you again.
Laura’s Log:
Family brunch at Mom & Dad’s. Of course, Mom doesn’t get the fact that “brunch” allows you to sleep in. (“What do you need to sleep in for?” she shot back when I complained about the 8:30 start time. “You’ve got all this time on your hands now. Best thing for you is to be out of your apartment pronto and doing things. In fact, Dr. Phil says—”)
Lucy and Carl(a) were no-shows. Mom had made the mistake of saying she’d gone to The Bay and bought each of us a pair of those cute red Canada Olympic mitts. At the mention of the Olympics, they were compelled to boycott brunch. Mom was terribly upset, but I tried to explain that’s how their brains were wired. They needed their daily protest in order to find purpose.
Apparently, Estelle and Curtis showed up half an hour early. (“For the first time ever, Sven and Gretel were ready in a snap. Once everyone’s zipped, snapped and bundled, you just go.”) Made my twenty-minute late entrance more glaring. Mom tried to guilt me—“The waffles are hardening in all the wrong places”—but Marella’s stumbling in at 9:15 diverted all the etiquette lecturing and the more generalized “you-just-don’t-love-me” diatribe. One minute after her arrival, Marella stormed out to the back deck, Mom yelling “You lawyers…” to her back.
I decided to join Marella. We hadn’t talked much since New Year’s. She was always working. Well, not always, apparently. Lighting up a cigarette—“You’re smoking again?!” “Shut up!”—she confessed, “I only got home an hour ago. Had an intense fuck with a guy I met at Rosie’s last night. Monty. Or Marty. Maybe it was Dwayne. Anyway, you gotta try it. The energy at that pub was pretty somber, but then when the Canucks came back in the third, every guy in the place was eager to celebrate. I had my pick. You should come with me next time.”
The thought of selecting a one-nighter alongside my sister was too far removed from The Waltons for me. “See you inside,” I said, escaping one awkward moment for another. Mom was unbuttoning and rebuttoning Dad’s shirt in the kitchen in front of the rest of us. “Honestly, you’re sixty-three and you don’t know how to button a shirt. Where was your mind? You can’t go getting Alzheimer’s. We turfed those aluminum pots years ago.” Dad just stood there looking no different than three-year-old Gretel, getting (s)mothered. Sometimes I hate Mom for how she treats him; other times, like that moment, I hate him for allowing it.
When we all settled for brunch, after another five-minute delay for Curtis to change Sven’s loaded diaper—How is it that Curtis is that perfect a daddy? Estelle’s got him whipped more than Mom has Dad.—Mom enjoyed two mouthfuls of her quiche before spilling the big news that quite possibly was the excuse for the entire get-together. “Guess who’s getting a divorce?” she beamed. None of us had the time to process her gleeful grin, much less guess. “Harvey Burns! Isn’t that wonderful, Laura?”
Harvey. My boyfriend from UBC and two years beyond. “The one that got away,” as Mom regularly referred to him. Nothing I ever said could taint that status. A successful banker with a condo overlooking English Bay and a Mercedes, he was great on paper, but a bore who couldn’t contribute to any conversation that drifted too far from a connection to The Wall Street Journal, “The Rachael Ray Show” or mountain biking. Yes, that’s right. Rachael Ray.
“Mavis Benson ran into Harvey’s mother—you remember Doris, don’t you, Laura?”
“Mom,—”
“Oh, of course you do. What am I saying? She was practically your mother-in-law. Well, it turns out that Harvey’s wife put on eighty pounds after the wedding and started blowing all Harvey’s money gambling at The River Rock and everything went bust.”
“Mom…”
“After only two years. I say it just shows he’s still in love with you, Laura. And how could he not be?”
She continued to rattle on, even as Gretel threw waffle bits at Mom. (No doubt, poor Gretel’s way of saying Make it stop.) I had to take a stand and get Mom to butt out. I had no choice but to say, “Marella’s started smoking again!”
I have a grapefruit-sized bruise on my right arm, thanks to Marella’s horrified reaction, but it was worth it. Can’t have my big sis getting lung cancer, can I?
KEN’S JOURNAL (via Blackberry):
WHAT A GAME LAST NIGHT! ALL WEEK I’D BEEN SENDING SNARKY EMAILS TO FRIENDS IN TORONTO, LETTING THEM KNOW THE LEAFS WERE GOING DOWN. AND THEN LUONGO DIDN’T SHOW UP FOR THE FIRST PERIOD. STILL ON PACIFIC TIME? GOD, THOSE SEDINS AND BURR ARE AMAZING! HOW RIGHTEOUS TO HAVE BURROWS RULE THE NIGHT IN CBC CENTRALE! JUST WISH RON MacLEAN HADN’T BEEN FARMED OUT TO STRATFORD. NEEDED TO SEE HIM EAT SOME HUMBLE PIE.
MARTY & I WENT TO ROSIE’S ON ROBSON FOR THE GAME. GREAT ATMOSPHERE. MARTY, OF COURSE, ONLY STUCK AROUND FIFTEEN MINUTES AFTER THE GAME. HOOKED UP W/SOME LAWYER, OLDER THAN HIS NORMAL CONQUEST. THERE’LL BE A STORY THERE. SHE WAS DRESSED TO SCORE IN A LOW-CUT THING THAT MADE IT LOOK LIKE HER BREASTS WLD POP OUT ANY SECOND. CAN’T IMAGINE THE RIDE HOME!
ME, I STUCK AROUND FOR SOME OF THE OILERS-FLAMES. GOT A SENSE THAT THERE WERE WOMEN LINGERING…AND NOT FOR ANOTHER DOSE OF HOCKEY. WHAT’S WRONG W/ME? WHY CAN’T I JUST BANG SOMEONE? SAD THING IS, I KNOW WHAT’S WRONG W/ME. I’D BE THINKING ABOUT CLARA THE WHOLE TIME.
THINK I NEED TO SEE ABOUT GETTING 2 SESSIONS A WEEK W/THE THERAPIST.
Saturday, January 30, 2010
LOSING IT
January 30, 2010
LIBRA HOROSCOPE (from astrology.com): You are closer than ever to your goal. Stick with it. It’s almost in your hands.
Laura’s Log:
I don’t know what to think of today’s horoscope. I’ve never really been a goal person. When someone asks me what my five-year plan is, I know that’s a person to avoid—for at least the next five years. Setting goals assumes you have control over things. With me, things always just happen. Like my firing. I suppose I should’ve seen it coming since Ann-Marie and the girls had officially shunned me, but since when in the adult world did mean girls get to run a company? Hopefully, when I find a new career, I’ll be able to look back and view the firing as a gift, but all I can feel right now is total humiliation.
Tamara actually showed up last night and decided I needed to be consoled with a visit to Death by Chocolate. She ordered the Heavenly Dilemma and I had the Devil in Disguise, our own good versus evil feast. I drifted more toward “heaven” when Tamara pointed out that my supersized chocolate cake with the dollops on either side looked phallic. She proceeded to devour it while rhapsodizing about the sex she was having with Andy, her muscled black boyfriend. “The dessert doesn’t do him justice,” she cooed. (I guess we’d moved on from consoling, but the diversion was welcome.) The visit was much like the food: highly anticipated, but ultimately a letdown.
“So does this mean we can go back to our get-togethers a couple times a week?” I asked on the way back to my apartment.
Something snapped in Tamara. “Christ, Laura! Can’t you see how happy I am with Andy? I’ve been single for so long, can’t you try to be supportive? I swear, you’d be doing cartwheels if we broke up!”
“That’s not true. Cartwheels hurt my wrists.”
“Fuck you.” And she stormed off the other direction. Typical Tamara. She’d have to turn around sometime to retrieve her car, but it looked like she had a 10K race-walk in her first. I’d only tried to keep it light. Should’ve known I’d piss her off. She’d completely surrendered her life to Andy. Why do so many women do that?
I walked the final blocks to my place solo. Had to console myself. Job gone, friend gone (for the next three months at least). Hey, but it’s the weekend. Oh, joy.
KEN’S JOURNAL (via Blackberry):
GOTTA HIT THE GYM W/MARTY THIS MORNING. HE CALLED & PUSHED IT BACK TO 11:00. STILL GOT A GIRL OVER & SHE’S INSISTING ON MAKING HIM CINNAMON TOAST. HOPE SHE CUTS OFF THE CRUSTS AND CUTS IT INTO A HEART. THAT’LL FREAK HIM OUT.
I’M LOOKING AT KNOCKING OFF TWENTY POUNDS BY THE END OF MARCH. I COULD BLAME MY GUT ON THE BREAKUP, BUT IT HAD BEEN GROWING FOR YRS WHILE W/CLARA. BECAME COMPLACENT I GUESS. AND FOOD STARTED STICKING AROUND ONCE I HIT MY THIRTIES. I LIKE THAT COMMERCIAL: NEVER FORGET IT’S NOT YOU. IT’S YOUR METABOLISM. WHO THEY KIDDING?! BOTTOM LINE: MY METABOLISM IS STILL ME. GOTTA WORK OFF THE GUT. HOPEFULLY I CAN DO IT W/O GIVING UP BEER. SIPPING CARROT JUICE WHILE WATCHING THE CANUCKS JUST WON’T CUT IT.
I’M STILL A FREE MAN. MY THERAPIST DIDN’T HAVE ME COMMITTED YESTERDAY. ACTUALLY CRIED IN THE SESSION. I’M SUCH A WUSS! HE DID SAY, “WE’RE MAKING PROGRESS” WHICH IS BUSINESS-SPEAK FOR COME ON BACK AGAIN NEXT WEEK & DROP ME ANOTHER CHECK. GOT ME A NASTY CAR PAYMENT TO THINK ABOUT. MAYBE I SHLD LOOK FOR A SELF-HELP BOOK. WHO AM I KIDDING? WHEN DID I LAST EVEN OPEN A BOOK?
‘NUCKS THIS AFTERNOON. HOPE THEY TKO TORONTO!
LIBRA HOROSCOPE (from astrology.com): You are closer than ever to your goal. Stick with it. It’s almost in your hands.
Laura’s Log:
I don’t know what to think of today’s horoscope. I’ve never really been a goal person. When someone asks me what my five-year plan is, I know that’s a person to avoid—for at least the next five years. Setting goals assumes you have control over things. With me, things always just happen. Like my firing. I suppose I should’ve seen it coming since Ann-Marie and the girls had officially shunned me, but since when in the adult world did mean girls get to run a company? Hopefully, when I find a new career, I’ll be able to look back and view the firing as a gift, but all I can feel right now is total humiliation.
Tamara actually showed up last night and decided I needed to be consoled with a visit to Death by Chocolate. She ordered the Heavenly Dilemma and I had the Devil in Disguise, our own good versus evil feast. I drifted more toward “heaven” when Tamara pointed out that my supersized chocolate cake with the dollops on either side looked phallic. She proceeded to devour it while rhapsodizing about the sex she was having with Andy, her muscled black boyfriend. “The dessert doesn’t do him justice,” she cooed. (I guess we’d moved on from consoling, but the diversion was welcome.) The visit was much like the food: highly anticipated, but ultimately a letdown.
“So does this mean we can go back to our get-togethers a couple times a week?” I asked on the way back to my apartment.
Something snapped in Tamara. “Christ, Laura! Can’t you see how happy I am with Andy? I’ve been single for so long, can’t you try to be supportive? I swear, you’d be doing cartwheels if we broke up!”
“That’s not true. Cartwheels hurt my wrists.”
“Fuck you.” And she stormed off the other direction. Typical Tamara. She’d have to turn around sometime to retrieve her car, but it looked like she had a 10K race-walk in her first. I’d only tried to keep it light. Should’ve known I’d piss her off. She’d completely surrendered her life to Andy. Why do so many women do that?
I walked the final blocks to my place solo. Had to console myself. Job gone, friend gone (for the next three months at least). Hey, but it’s the weekend. Oh, joy.
KEN’S JOURNAL (via Blackberry):
GOTTA HIT THE GYM W/MARTY THIS MORNING. HE CALLED & PUSHED IT BACK TO 11:00. STILL GOT A GIRL OVER & SHE’S INSISTING ON MAKING HIM CINNAMON TOAST. HOPE SHE CUTS OFF THE CRUSTS AND CUTS IT INTO A HEART. THAT’LL FREAK HIM OUT.
I’M LOOKING AT KNOCKING OFF TWENTY POUNDS BY THE END OF MARCH. I COULD BLAME MY GUT ON THE BREAKUP, BUT IT HAD BEEN GROWING FOR YRS WHILE W/CLARA. BECAME COMPLACENT I GUESS. AND FOOD STARTED STICKING AROUND ONCE I HIT MY THIRTIES. I LIKE THAT COMMERCIAL: NEVER FORGET IT’S NOT YOU. IT’S YOUR METABOLISM. WHO THEY KIDDING?! BOTTOM LINE: MY METABOLISM IS STILL ME. GOTTA WORK OFF THE GUT. HOPEFULLY I CAN DO IT W/O GIVING UP BEER. SIPPING CARROT JUICE WHILE WATCHING THE CANUCKS JUST WON’T CUT IT.
I’M STILL A FREE MAN. MY THERAPIST DIDN’T HAVE ME COMMITTED YESTERDAY. ACTUALLY CRIED IN THE SESSION. I’M SUCH A WUSS! HE DID SAY, “WE’RE MAKING PROGRESS” WHICH IS BUSINESS-SPEAK FOR COME ON BACK AGAIN NEXT WEEK & DROP ME ANOTHER CHECK. GOT ME A NASTY CAR PAYMENT TO THINK ABOUT. MAYBE I SHLD LOOK FOR A SELF-HELP BOOK. WHO AM I KIDDING? WHEN DID I LAST EVEN OPEN A BOOK?
‘NUCKS THIS AFTERNOON. HOPE THEY TKO TORONTO!
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