Stephanie, You Sick, Sick Girl

I promised I'd do something heinous and horrible this weekend. And since there weren't opportunities for bestiality, child abduction or getting facial tattoos, I did the next worst thing. I ate Taco Bell four times in one weekend.

And believe me, I'm as appalled with myself as you are. While others were sticking to their lean-meat-and-vegetables regiment, I was setting the world record for most Grade-D ground anus beef consumed in a 72-hour period (yes, I know there is a 'g' in angus. That was not a typo). What's worse, I ate the same thing every time. A frickin' Cheesy Beefy Melt. Not a "gordita" or a "fajita" or anything with a slightly petite-sounding moniker, but a Cheesy Beefy Melt--the morbidly obese member of the Taco Bell Value Menu.

I must say one thing: I did not intend to eat this much Taco Bell in one lifetime, let alone one weekend. It just happened. Let me explain.

It's Friday. It's late. I'm hungry. There's a Taco Bell on the way home. Seems innocent enough, right? And despite dry-heaving every time I see the commercial featuring a bunch of people with CGI cheese drooping out of their disgusting little mouths, I am intrigued by the Cheesy Beefy Melt. It's got all of my favorite things in it: beef, cheese, sour cream, rice, more cheese and sauce. It's also packed with remorse and self-hatred, but they don't advertise those. So I order two of them, not realizing how gut-busting this combination of livestock-feed quality ingredients would be. The second Cheesy Beefy Melt goes in the fridge.



Saturday Afternoon: my lowest moment. In the interest of not being wasteful, I reheat and consume the second Cheesy Beefy Melt. It tastes acceptable, which makes me want to cry a little. I take a long, hot shower.


Out with the girls Saturday night. As the bars are closing, my best friend packs me into the car and heads back to her place. On the way, she stops at a Taco Bell. What do I do? I ask for a "Sheeeezy Bihffffffy Melled," naturally.


Sunday morning, I wake up with horrific stomach pains. One theory: three Cheesy Beefy Melts in less than 48 hours will upset your stomach. Another theory: the last shard of my shattered dignity was boring through the sides of my intestines, trying to get out of its mild-sauce-drenched prison.

Playing cards Sunday night, and one of our friends disappears to pick up some food. He returns with a Taco Bell feast, and a special Cheesy Beefy Melt, just for me. I want to die. But I was hungry, and it was a nice gesture. So I ate it. And while it was soft, and melty and generally good-tasting, it settled in my stomach like barbed wire marinated in napalm.




"Then why do you hurt me?"

So in a single weekend, I ate four Cheesy Beefy Melts. For a grand total of 120 grams of fat. 60 grams of saturated fat. And 4 grams of trans fat, which isn't even allowed to be in food anymore, I thought. They say that food takes three days to show up on your body as weight. Well somebody better come to my house Wednesday with a wrecking ball and a flatbed truck, because that's the only way I'm getting my ass out of bed.

My organs hurt. I am sweating cheese product. Basically, I'm going to need a holy water colonic session to exorcise the cheesy, beefy, melty demons out of my system.

So how was your weekend?

I Know, I Know

I'm fully aware that it's been over a week since I've posted anything. What can I say? I've been extremely busy, what, with my modeling career taking off and everything. No, actually I've just been tied up with all this philanthropy stuff I'm involved in. Not buying that? Okay, how about I've been busy writing the equivalent of the New Testament on window and door flashing tape and haven't felt like trying to crap out some semblance of a funny anecdote or come up with another muppet conspiracy theory just to say that I've posted something? WOULD THAT BE ALRIGHT WITH YOU??

Sigh. Sorry gang. Posts are coming. I promise to dedicate myself to doing only humiliating, horrible, henious things for the next few days in hopes of coming up with a tale deserving of you all. In the meantime, please accept this video of a woman who clearly didn't make the dance team but was going to show those mean girls that, yes, she could dance--just at the skill level of a blubbery sea creature.

Thanks for your patience. Talk to you soon!

Steph

St. Buttlick’s Day

I suppose we all got a little spoiled in 2007 when St. Patrick’s Day fell on a Saturday. People had the entire day to not be able to find a seat, not be able to get a drink, not be able to find a cab, not be able to see the parade, not be able to find their pants—and then we had all day Sunday to not be able to remember any of it.

This year, St. Patrick’s Day is on Monday, which means I will be working. I could take a vacation day, but for what? So I can get a head start on fighting my way through some crowded downtown “pub,” enduring a chorus of bagpipes (whose idea was it to invent an instrument that sounds like you’re squeezing a bag full of horny cats?) while trying to keep down an Irish traditional breakfast that tastes like a malignant ass tumor? Only to have to drag myself into work the following day and pretend that I haven’t just shipped a hefty percentage of brain cells down the green beer river the day before?

Nah, I can wait until afternoon to begin celebrating. There’s just one drawback to having a late start: by the time I will be done saving the world one trifold brochure at a time, most of my friends (and everyone else I come in contact with) will have already transformed themselves into annoying, belligerent asshats.

Now, I’m not criticizing—I would be doing the same thing if I had the day off and could afford a 15-hour bar tab. But I have reservations about taking a vacation day to celebrate St. Patrick’s Day. It’s like having your boss ask you, “Hey Stephanie, could you take care of this assignment today?” and replying “Hm, sounds fun, but I’d actually rather spend the day getting crap-my-pants drunk, a-thank you.”

So instead I will be celebrating in company of funny-hat wearing drunken buttlicks who have had the luxury of a full-day head start on me. I suppose I’ll just have to be patient and keep in mind that I was once in their green-puke-splattered shoes. And perhaps—even if it’s only for one St. Patrick’s Day—I won’t be the buttlick who’s falling out of chairs or hanging out in an alley, talking to that nice police officer’s horse.

Happy St. Patrick’s Day!

Mother Nature Is A Sadist

So turns out the third plague wasn't boils or diseased livestock. Nope, it was thirty-six straight hours of snow, culminating in me getting my car stuck in the middle of a street in West Park. As I feverishly tried to shovel myself out, an old man ambled up. Look at this, I thought! Seventy-something and he wants to give me a hand. How sweet.

Or...not. Good Elderly Samaritan just stood there with his arms crossed and watched me dig, helpfully reminding me to "keep shoveling" if I paused to catch my breath. Gee, thanks, you old asshole. I should bring you to the gym with me (okay, I don't actually belong to a gym...I personally don't believe in cults.)

My friends actually had to push me to the end of street and into traffic. That was fun--especially the part where my life flashed before my eyes. Still, I fared a lot better than a lot of other drivers, so I shouldn't really complain (I shouldn't, but why have a blog if you're not going to be all self-important and whiny?)

In other news, the ants are back and boy, are they pissed! Apparently a broom and a dust pan isn't effective pest control. And while squishing them one by one is effective, I think I'm finally outnumbered. So I bought those ugly-ass ant traps...you know, the ones that are trying desperately not to look like ant traps? They are seriously the most unattractive things I've had on my floor since I told my brother he couldn't hang up his deer head and he left it lying around for months in protest. I suppose the only thing uglier than the traps is the huge band of ants doing the "script Ohio" in my foyer.

Anyway, I'm going to run home and inspect the carnage. These traps better do something other than making my entryway look like a truck stop bathroom

The Next Plague Arriveth

All plumbing problems have been resolved for the moment, and somehow I managed not to get third-degree pinkeye after having my ocular cavities baptised in crapper-water. So I can sit back and relax knowing all is well on the home front, right?

Noooooooooope.

Because if I stay in one place for too long, I will be carried away by the legions of miniature ants who have invaded my townhouse.

Why all of this? Why all at once? Did the ants wait until I was distracted with another home improvement nightmare to mount their attack? The timing is just unbelievable. The toilet water in my hair hadn't even dried when I noticed that someone had spilled an entire box of chocolate sprinkles in my foyer and had magically given said sprinkles the ability to move around.

I wasn't in the mood to be reminded that I'm a college-educated girl and I can handle this, so I opted to not put in a call to Dad. Instead I simply grabbed a broom and a dustpan and proceeded to sweep up an entire civilization of mini-ants. Then, for poetry's sake, I marched upstairs and drown them in the very toilet water that had just assaulted my face.

Of course, by the time I got back down to the foyer, a few straggler sprinkles were ambling about, searching for their lost brethren. "Your friends are on their way to Lake Erie after I gave them the ol' Swirly of Death!" I boomed, daintily squishing them one by one with my shoe. Sure, I know they make sprays and traps and all sorts of other ant control products. But there was something very therapeutic about personally executing the critters, especially given the week I'd had. Hell, if the sun ever came out in Cleveland, I'd burn the little bastards with a magnifying glass while cranking an old Enya cassette.

So now I'm left wondering--what plague is next? First floods. Then bugs. Dead livestock? Fiery lightning? Boils?

God, I hope it's not boils. I hate when my face breaks out right before the weekend.