Say it loud and say it proud: I AM NOT TOO PROUD

Disclaimer: Don't expect to learn anything from this blog. It will most likely be non-stop self-indulgent poppycock. 

Though my lifestyle involves considerably more pride than it did in say, the early 2000’s when I lived primarily on vodka and Boca burgers and co-parented a dog who was like a crystal ball of how fucked up my children were going to be, I still think a fair amount of Not Too Proud living is a good thing. Say it loud and say it proud (because it’s the only thing I’ll be doing with any amount of pride for a while): I am not too proud to admit the following: 

 I love me some Michael Bolton. And not ironically. Not even in a "Oh he's a terrible singer...he's one of my favorites" sort of way. No,  I think he’s very talented and am very much looking forward to seeing him in concert with Miss Beckie Bohannon on my birthday day! I was going to try and guilt my boyfriend into going with me, but it will be a lot more fun to go with someone who isn't planning my demise the entire time for forcing him to go see A LIVING LEGEND.

On weekends, I rotate between like four pairs of “yoga pants” or as I like to call them couch-sitting-vodka-drinking-pants. In a tight spot, I also occasionally dress them up with a cardigan and some jewelry to disguise them as professional wear and wear that shit to work. Which is also what I plan to do once my pajama jeans arrive. Yeah, you heard me PAJAMA JEANS (Jeans that are also pajamas. I know, I can't believe my luck either). 

If the love of my life wasn’t allergic, I’d already be well on my way to collecting a full set of cats. I am cat lady, hear me meow. And I know he can’t help it, but I consider his allergy to be a character flaw.

I recently learned that Mississippi was the most obese state in the union. Then I considered moving there because it might help me look thinner by comparison. Some day, I'd really like to be skinny. If only for a couple minutes of my life, I’d like to know what it feels like. I know I will never be one of those people who eat whatever they want only when they’re hungry and stop eating when they’re full. I am one of those people who will eat the entire dozen Krispy Kremes (or two if it happens to be Two Dozen Tuesdays), or the whole wheel of Brie, and all four rows of cookies, and keep eating, like a goldfish, even after I feel physically ill. I think about ancient Roman royalty and how they used to have huge feasts where they’d eat and eat and eat and drink and drink and drink and then excuse themselves to the Vomitorium (which I know isn't it a real thing, but I can still pretend, can't I?) with their gold-plated vomiting wands, and then come back to the table refreshed, and ready for another round. Part of me realizes this is just culturally accepted bulimia, in the same way that the Greek-man-boy relationship was basically culturally accepted pedophilia, and part of me thinks it is completely ingenious.


I have seen every last episode of Law & Order Special Victims Unit (or as I like to call it: Law & Order: Molested Corpse) and am currently rewatching them all in order because it seems like too much work to commit to a completely new program with a new plot and characters that I don't know as well as Benson and Stabler. I also pay the $7.99 for Hulu Plus (which is otherwise a total rip-off. Why do I still have to watch commercials?) solely so I can have access to all 333 episodes. I like a lot of other terrible television shows, but none with the passion of this particular romantic procedural.

I have never met a sentence that I didn't think could be improved by a good parenthetical (really, I just love them.) If this makes me a lazy writer, so be it. 

Okay, that's all I have for now, but I really just wanted to get this blog started, so I did. I promise they'll be lots more from the Not Too Proud Life Archives.