Oh the signs! I hate the signs! Hopefully you won’t have to worry about any of these signs this Valentine’s Day. But if reading the list leaves a pit in your stomach, chances are he doesn’t consider you his girlfriend. So maybe we should add an additional sign to the list: * If you read “Signs That You’re Not His Girlfriend” and get a pit in your stomach, then chances are he doesn’t consider you his girlfriend. BAM!
For the last few months I’ve been “phoning it in,” (a Jillian Michael’s phrase) in regard to putting in effort to lose that last 15 lbs. But when the New York snow blew in, I changed my attitude. I shut off the rolling questions and negativity in my head and went all Nike on myself: “Just Do It.”
I just lost 4 lbs. in two weeks and while some of you may think thats not a lot, know that as you get closer to your goal weight, it becomes more difficult to lose weight.
Have you ever heard that one pound is the same as a block of butter? No, not a stick of butter, a block. A block is four sticks of butter in one of those tiny flimsy boxes. Work-off two of those from your butt and you’ll be jumping with excitement like I am right now.
I have a friend who already worked off over 66 lbs. on her own. Thats unreal to me. Find her on Instagram: pmpjourney
If you’d like to join me on MyFitnessPal – which is an awesome weight-tracking app: 1YearOfSingle
See you there!
Roses are red,
Bacon is red,
With a week to go until Valentine’s Day my social networking feeds are becoming filled with sweet messages of love and ideas for gifts…
Before I begin, I would like to make it clear that I love love. I love being in love, reading romantic stories and watching romantic films. I’m an advocate for all things heartfelt and passionate and while I don’t believe in the idea of ‘soulmates’ I truly believe that there is somebody out there for everybody. I love celebrations and holidays and I look forward to them every year.
However, there is one particular celebration that I dislike: Valentine’s Day. I am the Valentine’s Day Grinch.
I’ll never forget the jealousy I felt when my friend received an enormous anonymous card on her doorstep. It was beautiful, with ‘Will you be my Valentine?’ carefully written on the…
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I really can’t complain about a cheesy butt and thighs if I’m specializing in the Couch Potato Arts. And yet for the last hour I’ve been planted on my Pier 1 Imports cushion, tippity-tapping on my keyboard, hoping to get tired enough to ignore the carb-induced guilt as I make my way to bed. It seems such a short time ago when watched The Biggest Loser and purchased two Jillian Michaels workout DVDs. In the last two days I killed my buns and cracked a 6-pack, but today I feel like I was smacked with a pain bat.
Ever have a cardiologist tell you your veins were incompetent? I’ve known morons that were incompetent and some men that were incompetent, and even some moronic men that were incompetent, but my veins? Scary!
One of my Bucket List items is the removal of some incompetent veins in my leg. For God’s sake I’d like to be able to wear a skirt in the summer without scaring small children. This is basically a sterile way of saying my leg looks like someone beat it with a Louisville Slugger.Now, because I am prone to exaggeration, I will tell you that it’s really not that bad – so maybe not a Louisville Slugger – a Sur La Table meat tenderizer, perhaps.
Welcome the endless cardiologist visits to Huntington Medical Group on Long Island, New York. Because after all, if you’re going to have cardiology issues, what better place to go than a town apply named similarly to the sunny beaches of California?
But alas, no sun and surf in Huntington Medical Group, just sunny receptionists and a very knowledgeable cardiologist who explained why my vein is as useless as a soggy balloon animal. And that before surgery I have to try a “compression stocking.”
Have you ever tried to put on a compression stocking? What about a tourniquet? Tried a tourniquet?
A compression stocking isn’t like anything you’ve ever stuffed your body into before. Picture Spanx on steroids. Then make it tighter. Apparently compression stockings are supposed to squeeze the life out of you so much so that it forces any remaining body liquids back up to your heart. This can’t possibly be good, but the insurance company thinks it’s fabulous. Probably because they’ve never tried to wear tourniquets.
So I sat on my bathroom floor with what I thought was going to be a helpful pile of sturdy nylon, when in reality it was a torture device that terrorists use in order to bring on sudden panic attacks of the likes of which no war hero has ever seen before. After struggling with the thing for a good ten minutes, I was only able to get it up to my knee. At that point I felt like a surgeon was going to bust into my bathroom and sever my leg. I had to remind myself that I’m not diabetic and my leg is fine, but nervous panic sweat kept popping out on my forehead.
Most nylon-wearing folks already know that with typical stockings, you can stretch them open enough to pull them up your leg, then insert your other leg into the remaining stocking hole. With compression stockings, you can’t do that. You can’t “spread” them or stretch them because they’re already tight as hell. In fact, I’m pretty sure if you looked up “tight as hell” in the Urban Dictionary, there would be a picture of compression stockings. And possibly a secondary image of me on the bathroom floor covered in a panic sweat.
Can you imagine paying $60 for nylons that do nothing better than send you to a psych ward? And to think that psych wards would wrap people in arm-tight jackets. No wonder patients rarely recovered. I know the Kings Park Psychiatric Center in Kings Park, New York is closed, but I would still consider checking around the decaying closets for any remaining compression stockings. Needless to say, I had to rip mine off before my mind punctured the barrier between sane and schizoid.
Jillian Michaels’ “Killer Buns & Thighs,” then a New York snow storm, and Jillian Michaels’ “6 Week Six Pack.” I’m like the walking dead. Except I can’t really walk.
Does anyone else feel the need to find a place to party on Superbowl Sunday? Thank God I have friends, because if no one asked me to party with them, I’d feel like an unloved outcast! How is it that one day of football can make people feel loved or unloved! Thoughts?