Tomorrow evening I will gladly post last week's overdue "Five Things Learned..." column, but I leave you this evening with a critical life lesson learned this very Labor Day Monday.
Never, ever, ever (EVER!) eat more than one FiberOne Oats & Chocolate chewy bar in a single day. (Or any FiberOne chewy bar flavor, for that matter. I just happen to prefer Oats & Chocolate.) For the first time since beginning Weight Watchers eight and a half months ago, I decided to eat two bars in one day. Why would I think this would be acceptable, when deep down inside I had vowed never to do such a horrible thing to my temple of a body I have worked so hard to create?
Poor planning. Extreme hunger. Incredible desperation. Two bars within arm's reach. Hours apart, yes, but not noticed when churning in my stomach. My dinner at Outback with a friend from college may have been the catalyst to the commencement of my intense stomach pain. By the time I left the restaurant at 9:00 tonight, I was barely able to walk. I felt as if I had appendicitis in every quadrant of my body. I could not make the agony dissipate, and was considering an emergency lobotomy to sever the nerves in my brain that control pain like I was experiencing.
FiberOne bar + FiberOne bar = an inner struggle like nothing documented in our country's fine history.
I am relieved to say I have since recovered from my fiber overdose, but know that I felt less weary after three consecutive nights of binge drinking in college than I do right now.
Please take this lesson to heart and stomach and enjoy the remaining minutes of your holiday weekend.
- Elyssa
Should you still desire a FiberOne bar...
Monday, September 7, 2009
My Triumphant Return or Cookies and The Death of Michael Jackson, Take Two or A Cautionary Tale... or "I'm Gonna Choke You, Grandma"
Yes, my friends and comrades, I have returned. Triumphantly. So triumphantly in fact, that I chose to give this blog entry four separate, but related titles as I prepare to unleash a post with more random bits of information than Jeopardy. (A thought. Why do contestants on Jeopardy choose the most pointless fact about themselves to share with a national television audience? When trying to unwind after a long day at the firm, I simply do not care how you came to love painting with animal droppings or how your mother-in-law was suppossed to only live in your basement for a year, but has managed to stretch that year into ten. Please find something exciting to say before you return as champion the following evening. Ken Jennings' anecdotes were always insightful, which is the true reason why he was so successful. Don't let anyone tell you otherwise. His intelligence had nothing to do with his record-setting run.)
(Note: With regards to the last title, "I'm Gonna Choke You, Grandma", I feel no need to explain its inclusion. Only one other person in my life will even appreciate this chosen title. Imagine it being spoken by a seven-year-old boy with an incredibly high-pitched, raspy voice and you will have no trouble relating.)
You may have found yourself wondering why I have not blogged in almost a week. Well, life threw me a giant curveball, a major bump in the road (all metaphors are apropos in this particular situation) Wednesday evening. On with my cautionary tale...
First, I back up to Tuesday morning. (Who hates when I do this?) The lawyer I find most appealing in my firm walks by my desk and hands me something wrapped in wax paper. I open it to find a homemade chocolate chip cookie he had baked himself. Had he not just explained these premier baking skills of his, I would have presumed it came directly from Mrs. Field's or some other glorious bakery-type establishment. It was perfection. The requisite ratio of cookie dough to chocolate chip. What fine craftsmanship! (It is a true shame this lawyer is in a serious relationship and will be leaving the firm to follow his girlfriend out-of-state in a few short months. He could have been a contender.) It took me a second longer than it should have to realize that he had baked these cookies for the entire office and not just for my own personal enjoyment.
Nonetheless, I instantly found myself in a predicament. While aesthetically pleasing, I knew that enjoying this cookie would cost me three critical Weight Watchers points from my day of dining. But to offend my potential lawyer husband? I could not sacrifice his feelings for my own health and well-being. I wouldn't dream of it. The pain would be too great to endure. Alas, I ate hottie lawyer's homemade treat as slowly as possible, attempting to invoke maximum enjoyment from an ordinary dessert. I made the correct choice, and in turn, formed a bond with this lawyer I only hope he remembers as being one he wishes never to break by moving thousands of miles across the country.
On to Wednesday... I get in my car a touch after 11:30 in the evening to drive home after a long day of life - a morning gym session, an eight-hour work day, dinner with my aunt, a quick errand or two, an eye doctor appointment, a visit to the children of a good friend (perhaps to the child who uttered the infamous grandma-choking quote above and his sister?), and a few games of bowling with a different friend whom I had not seen in many years.
I am only the slightest bit tired when I begin my drive, but am hungry and in need of a snack. I stop for an Apple Cinnamon Nutri-Grain cereal bar at a gas station, having only had a few Weight Watchers points left in my day. (FYI - The bar is two points.) I didn't intend to use these points at all because I no longer eat late at night, even if I do occassionally feel hungry in the evening after dinner. I am getting close to home and am looking forward to blogging my new "Take It or Leave It" column and heading to bed.
I am awoken to the sound of my car, Michael Jackson Goldstein (or MJ, as he is affectionately known), going up onto a curb and mere moments later, flopping back down on the road with a significant thud. I narrowly missed smashing into a telephone pole. I am not sure whether I feel asleep behind the wheel or passed out behind the wheel. This topic is open to debate. (People are already forming strong opinions one way or the other, so be sure to choose a side and hop on the bandwagon.) Thankfully, I walk away without injuring myself or anyone else in any capacity whatsoever. It was a truly scary situation, as I am forever grateful to be alive and typing these words to you.
MJ was not so lucky. Two flat tires, two bent rims, and one serious alignment later, MJ underwent plastic surgery for a meager $605. (And I do mean meager. I had been expecting a price tag in the thousands. Thank you, Jerry, at Paul Miller Honda in Caldwell, New Jersey for your gracious and economically-friendly service.)
I, of only minor car troubles past, began to wonder if naming my car in tribute to the deceased King of Pop could somehow have been a bad omen. Since I got the car this past July 11th, my aunt has backed into its front bumper in her driveway, I have smashed my head into the door frame (while parked), causing a bloody abrasion above my eye that required a hospital visit, I have "skimmed" another car while driving the narrow streets of Clifton, New Jersey (and would have had to pay to repair the few scratches incurred had Jerry at Paul Miller Honda not fixed them free of charge because he felt incredibly sympathetic towards me), and now, this latest incident.
I have decided to change MJ's name to The Artist (formerly known as MJ), now known as Jermaine Tito Goldstein. (JT, to those who love him best.) I feel like this is far less ominous, because both Jermaine and Tito Jackson are presently alive and well. I gladly accept any other names you may think of, but will most likely ignore every single one of them and remain with JT. Initials are fun.
I now conclude The Death of Michael Jackson, Take Two. I hope you will forgive me for not updating as promised and will take into consideration the extenuating circumstances of this past week before calling me a liar and a fraud. I may turn out to be both of those things later in life, but for the present time, I believe that cutting me some slack is just what the doctor ordered.
It feels good to be back in the blog routine, and not riding shotgun in a tow truck to the Honda dealership in the middle of the night. Let me know if you agree.
- Elyssa
(Note: With regards to the last title, "I'm Gonna Choke You, Grandma", I feel no need to explain its inclusion. Only one other person in my life will even appreciate this chosen title. Imagine it being spoken by a seven-year-old boy with an incredibly high-pitched, raspy voice and you will have no trouble relating.)
You may have found yourself wondering why I have not blogged in almost a week. Well, life threw me a giant curveball, a major bump in the road (all metaphors are apropos in this particular situation) Wednesday evening. On with my cautionary tale...
First, I back up to Tuesday morning. (Who hates when I do this?) The lawyer I find most appealing in my firm walks by my desk and hands me something wrapped in wax paper. I open it to find a homemade chocolate chip cookie he had baked himself. Had he not just explained these premier baking skills of his, I would have presumed it came directly from Mrs. Field's or some other glorious bakery-type establishment. It was perfection. The requisite ratio of cookie dough to chocolate chip. What fine craftsmanship! (It is a true shame this lawyer is in a serious relationship and will be leaving the firm to follow his girlfriend out-of-state in a few short months. He could have been a contender.) It took me a second longer than it should have to realize that he had baked these cookies for the entire office and not just for my own personal enjoyment.
Nonetheless, I instantly found myself in a predicament. While aesthetically pleasing, I knew that enjoying this cookie would cost me three critical Weight Watchers points from my day of dining. But to offend my potential lawyer husband? I could not sacrifice his feelings for my own health and well-being. I wouldn't dream of it. The pain would be too great to endure. Alas, I ate hottie lawyer's homemade treat as slowly as possible, attempting to invoke maximum enjoyment from an ordinary dessert. I made the correct choice, and in turn, formed a bond with this lawyer I only hope he remembers as being one he wishes never to break by moving thousands of miles across the country.
On to Wednesday... I get in my car a touch after 11:30 in the evening to drive home after a long day of life - a morning gym session, an eight-hour work day, dinner with my aunt, a quick errand or two, an eye doctor appointment, a visit to the children of a good friend (perhaps to the child who uttered the infamous grandma-choking quote above and his sister?), and a few games of bowling with a different friend whom I had not seen in many years.
I am only the slightest bit tired when I begin my drive, but am hungry and in need of a snack. I stop for an Apple Cinnamon Nutri-Grain cereal bar at a gas station, having only had a few Weight Watchers points left in my day. (FYI - The bar is two points.) I didn't intend to use these points at all because I no longer eat late at night, even if I do occassionally feel hungry in the evening after dinner. I am getting close to home and am looking forward to blogging my new "Take It or Leave It" column and heading to bed.
I am awoken to the sound of my car, Michael Jackson Goldstein (or MJ, as he is affectionately known), going up onto a curb and mere moments later, flopping back down on the road with a significant thud. I narrowly missed smashing into a telephone pole. I am not sure whether I feel asleep behind the wheel or passed out behind the wheel. This topic is open to debate. (People are already forming strong opinions one way or the other, so be sure to choose a side and hop on the bandwagon.) Thankfully, I walk away without injuring myself or anyone else in any capacity whatsoever. It was a truly scary situation, as I am forever grateful to be alive and typing these words to you.
MJ was not so lucky. Two flat tires, two bent rims, and one serious alignment later, MJ underwent plastic surgery for a meager $605. (And I do mean meager. I had been expecting a price tag in the thousands. Thank you, Jerry, at Paul Miller Honda in Caldwell, New Jersey for your gracious and economically-friendly service.)
I, of only minor car troubles past, began to wonder if naming my car in tribute to the deceased King of Pop could somehow have been a bad omen. Since I got the car this past July 11th, my aunt has backed into its front bumper in her driveway, I have smashed my head into the door frame (while parked), causing a bloody abrasion above my eye that required a hospital visit, I have "skimmed" another car while driving the narrow streets of Clifton, New Jersey (and would have had to pay to repair the few scratches incurred had Jerry at Paul Miller Honda not fixed them free of charge because he felt incredibly sympathetic towards me), and now, this latest incident.
I have decided to change MJ's name to The Artist (formerly known as MJ), now known as Jermaine Tito Goldstein. (JT, to those who love him best.) I feel like this is far less ominous, because both Jermaine and Tito Jackson are presently alive and well. I gladly accept any other names you may think of, but will most likely ignore every single one of them and remain with JT. Initials are fun.
I now conclude The Death of Michael Jackson, Take Two. I hope you will forgive me for not updating as promised and will take into consideration the extenuating circumstances of this past week before calling me a liar and a fraud. I may turn out to be both of those things later in life, but for the present time, I believe that cutting me some slack is just what the doctor ordered.
It feels good to be back in the blog routine, and not riding shotgun in a tow truck to the Honda dealership in the middle of the night. Let me know if you agree.
- Elyssa
Tuesday, September 1, 2009
I Can't Make This Shit Up... #2
Another installment of ridiculous and truthful moments in the life of yours truly... Let's start with the "good" and end with the "bad", because the latter is far more entertaining.
You should all be jumping up and down in front of your computer screen right now (causing it to quiver just a bit, like a candle blown out suddenly by the wind - a simile, for my literary-conscious friends) because I GOT MY FIRST PAYCHECK yesterday afternoon! A warmth enveloped my entire being as one of the partners handed me that glimmering, powder blue piece of paper with a thrilling combination of numbers prefaced by a gorgeous, bold dollar sign, signifying that - indeed - I had earned a week's worth of wages from our fine law firm. I was so shocked by this generous symposium of numbers that I literally had to wipe drool from the corners of my mouth and tears from the corners of my eyes. Will I have a full-on seizure when I actually receive my first check with the entire pay period amount enclosed? I rushed to the bank, rolling through stop signs like I was OJ in his infamous white Ford Bronco. Depositing this check was a rush I had never felt before. Forget base jumping! This is living on the edge!
(I am aware the writing above had nothing to do with the original premise of this column, but I had nowhere else to express my joy and needed a happy lead-in for my tale of overwhelming stupidity.)
Still on a high from yesterday's check, I decided that my seventh official day of work would be a perfect time to forget all ethics, manners, and levels of respect and play it casual with every single employee in our firm - including the lawyers themselves. As I was sorting mail, one of the younger lawyers in the firm jokingly asked why his mail was not receiving special treatment over everyone else's mail. (Note: We have four secretaries in the firm, each assigned two lawyers to assist. When I open, stamp, and sort the mail, I make four piles, one for each secretary, who know best what to do with the contents of these envelopes. This is how I was trained to perform this task, and it seems to work best for all involved parties.)
This lawyer was on his way out for the afternoon and found it rather difficult to sift through the pile of mail housing his letters, resulting in his request for special treatment. My reply, ladies and gentlemen: "I can give you special treatment if you want." Fabulous. I may have emphasized the word "you" a bit too much, because the look he gave me in return was a perfect blend of fright, embarrassment, intrigue, and insult. I meant no harm, and only wanted to be helpful, but I didn't realize the magnitude of my semi-sarcastic comment. Was I TRYING to end up in some sort of sexual harassment court case in which Mr. Lawyer claims I made inappropriate advances towards him in an effort to rise up the corporate ladder? (Does that even really work nowadays with the crumbling economy? Can a few innuendos determine job security? If yes, then I'm changing my tune and embracing my remark.) I have now learned to be careful with my speech, avoid puns (I made none, but find them increasingly annoying, so I threw it on this list for good measure), and get my mind out of the gutter.
My office romance thwarted, the lawyer excused himself, as he was already late for a meeting. I may be reading far too much into our brief exchange, but had you been there yourself, you would have wondered these same thoughts well into the night, as I find myself doing now. As I lay me down to sleep, I also find it safe to assume all will be well in our office tomorrow. I will wear a turtleneck and make sure the mail is sorted quickly and efficiently. No subpoena necessary.
- Elyssa
You should all be jumping up and down in front of your computer screen right now (causing it to quiver just a bit, like a candle blown out suddenly by the wind - a simile, for my literary-conscious friends) because I GOT MY FIRST PAYCHECK yesterday afternoon! A warmth enveloped my entire being as one of the partners handed me that glimmering, powder blue piece of paper with a thrilling combination of numbers prefaced by a gorgeous, bold dollar sign, signifying that - indeed - I had earned a week's worth of wages from our fine law firm. I was so shocked by this generous symposium of numbers that I literally had to wipe drool from the corners of my mouth and tears from the corners of my eyes. Will I have a full-on seizure when I actually receive my first check with the entire pay period amount enclosed? I rushed to the bank, rolling through stop signs like I was OJ in his infamous white Ford Bronco. Depositing this check was a rush I had never felt before. Forget base jumping! This is living on the edge!
(I am aware the writing above had nothing to do with the original premise of this column, but I had nowhere else to express my joy and needed a happy lead-in for my tale of overwhelming stupidity.)
Still on a high from yesterday's check, I decided that my seventh official day of work would be a perfect time to forget all ethics, manners, and levels of respect and play it casual with every single employee in our firm - including the lawyers themselves. As I was sorting mail, one of the younger lawyers in the firm jokingly asked why his mail was not receiving special treatment over everyone else's mail. (Note: We have four secretaries in the firm, each assigned two lawyers to assist. When I open, stamp, and sort the mail, I make four piles, one for each secretary, who know best what to do with the contents of these envelopes. This is how I was trained to perform this task, and it seems to work best for all involved parties.)
This lawyer was on his way out for the afternoon and found it rather difficult to sift through the pile of mail housing his letters, resulting in his request for special treatment. My reply, ladies and gentlemen: "I can give you special treatment if you want." Fabulous. I may have emphasized the word "you" a bit too much, because the look he gave me in return was a perfect blend of fright, embarrassment, intrigue, and insult. I meant no harm, and only wanted to be helpful, but I didn't realize the magnitude of my semi-sarcastic comment. Was I TRYING to end up in some sort of sexual harassment court case in which Mr. Lawyer claims I made inappropriate advances towards him in an effort to rise up the corporate ladder? (Does that even really work nowadays with the crumbling economy? Can a few innuendos determine job security? If yes, then I'm changing my tune and embracing my remark.) I have now learned to be careful with my speech, avoid puns (I made none, but find them increasingly annoying, so I threw it on this list for good measure), and get my mind out of the gutter.
My office romance thwarted, the lawyer excused himself, as he was already late for a meeting. I may be reading far too much into our brief exchange, but had you been there yourself, you would have wondered these same thoughts well into the night, as I find myself doing now. As I lay me down to sleep, I also find it safe to assume all will be well in our office tomorrow. I will wear a turtleneck and make sure the mail is sorted quickly and efficiently. No subpoena necessary.
- Elyssa
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