On Sunday night Buzz cooked me an amazing dinner: steak, potato and cheese pancakes and the best garlic bread I have ever eaten in my life. I washed it down with some fruit punch Gatorade and went to sleep with a full and happy tummy. Little did I know he was trying to poison me. At three a.m. on Monday morning, the alarm went off for me to get my man out of bed and on his way back to the whale's vagina. Apparently, that same alarm set off something awful in my tummy. For the next twenty minutes, I evacuated everything in my body from both ends.
I spent most of yesterday either sleeping or watching Bones Season 2 on the couch being hugged by the quilt that my mother-in-law-to-be made with her own wee hands. I rested. Didn't budge really from the horizontal position. All day in my jammies. It has been a long, long time since I've done that and it was truly refreshing. I felt like that was a good spot to call Day 1, yet again.
So many Days 1, huh? You're probably thinking to yourself, "Damn this bitch will not commit." And it's true. I'm very flaky when it comes to dieting. But since I purged everything from my body and have gone almost two weeks without sweets (aside from the weekend treat of a blended iced coffee or an Icee at the movies), it's time to kick it into high gear.
This week my goal is to not drink beer until the weekend arrives and to forget about drinking sodas, like ever again. Oh, soda. What am I? 12? My sweet tooth will have to be satisfied by low-calorie G2 Gatorade now. I have 23 days until my next dress fitting and I will lose that fucking inch.