Thursday, July 30, 2009

"Cheeseburger in (Suburban) Paradise" or "Two (Thousand) Steps Forward, One Step Back"

Today, I had a cheeseburger.

I saw it coming. I even thought about "willing" myself over the craving, but I caved.

And, sadly, it wasn't even a decent cheeseburger. I had high hopes, since it was from one of those cute, small town drive-in places that often have actual hand shaped "real" hamburgers, but when it arrived, wrapped in silvery paper, it was one of those frozen, pre-shaped affairs. COMPLETELY un-noteworthy.

Of course, I still scarfed it down like deranged wolf with a serious case of Prater-Willi syndrome.

A male friend of mine -- not a boyfriend, mind you, just a male -- once said, "Pizza is kind of like sex. Even when it's bad, it's good."

This guy's twisted love life aside, I think the line applies to cheeseburgers, too. And, incidentally, given the choice, I'd rather sleep with bad pizza, bad cheeseburgers, or even moldy brussel sprouts than this particular friend. Let's just say I wouldn't let him date any sane woman I know.

Anyway, back to the actual -- non-perverse -- cheeseburger. I ate it. The WHOLE greasy, nasty thing. In about two minutes flat.


And then, there was the fried cheese. What kind of nutritional masochist decided it was okay to take little balls of cheddar fat, slather them in refined carbs, and fry them in boiling, artery clogging, death grease??

They were amazing.


So, I dove off the dietary wagon, fat-arse first, and drove my chubby carcass the rest of the way home. By the time I got there, I felt like there was a boulder lodged firmly between my floating ribs and my currently unoccupied uterus. Seriously, it was like my small intestine had suddenly sprouted a five hundred pound internal torture device.

I. Thought. I. Was. Going. To. Die.

In COMPLETE honesty, I laid down on the bed, said a decade of the rosary (that's my penance for the sex talk, Mom), crossed my arms over my chest and waited for the light.

While I waited patiently to enter the great hereafter, my mind started to wander. (Clearly, I'd never make a good Buddhist.) "I could lie here," I mentally mused, "and wait to die. OR I could get up out of this grease-laden death heap, and get back on that damn wagon."

This thought process, my dear Internet, is PROGRESS.

Two months ago, I would have come home after slamming the cheese burger/balls fest, launched into a round of self-loathing and mental battery, and cracked open a pint of Chubby Hubby.

WITH my chubby hubby.

Instead, I got up. I put on some ugly gym socks and a pair of barely used running shoes, and I got my schlumpy self outside. I walked the neighborhoods surrounding my house for a full hour, at a pace swift enough to get my heart pumping, my arms swinging, and my fingers swollen to the size of Polish sausages.

(Mmm . . . sausage.)

Anyway, on my recovery walk, I noticed a few things about my neighborhood:

A: There are apparently some folks in my neighborhood who have SERIOUS mail box issues. Starting with the 1.5 million dollar uber-casa (Yes, I realize I'm mixing linguistic heritage here. Relax.) on the corner, my neighbors mailboxes are encrusted in individual brick fortresses apparently designed to withstand nuclear attack or an insurgent uprising. I realize I've never been the highest brow lady on the block, but, seriously, what gives with the mailbox forts?

B. There are significantly more houses for sale in the wealthy part of my neighborhood than in the early 80s multi-level peasant-ville paradise block on which I live. I have no idea, of course, whether or not my McMansion-ite neighbors are really that wealthy, but I start to get nervous when I see the mailbox fortresses and the little security system signs designed to make burglars opt for the next house down the street. I'm betting Mr. Rodgers would love those. Nothing says "Won't you be my neighbor??" like a sign screaming "Rob the next guy's 80 inch flatscreen, not mine!!"

C. There is, however, at least one house in my 80's big-hair "hood" that is apparently in foreclosure. Sad. It's a cute house, too, but it's getting to be an eyesore. (Wow. Did I just use the word "eyesore?" When did I get this old??)

D. One of my neighbors, a short, portly man probably in his sixties, likes to work on restoring his classic car, in his driveway, with no shirt on. Now, I'm really not one to judge, but he really should NOT do this. Aside from obvious burning and chaffing hazards, the aesthetics are just downright creepy.

And, that was when I stopped checking out my neighbors' houses . . . .

By the time I got home from the walk, the boulder was gone. I kicked off my shoes, ran 64 ounces of water into my daily "jug," and put the rosary away.

Dylan Thomas would be proud. I did not go gently into that good night.

Of course, a girl my size can't really go gently ANYWHERE.

So, what were my lessons in all this??

A. I should never go all day without anything to eat but a six am apple. By the time five pm rolls around, willpower and rational thinking are a thing of the past.

B. "Working through lunch" is an evil, destructive concept.

C. I hope NEVER to resort to topless car restoration in my driveway as a hobby. Seriously, if it ever comes to this, PLEASE, someone, force me to join a homeowners' association (BLECH!) and have me arrested by the beige siding police.

PS: My apologies to Jimmy Buffet and Paula Abdul (the early 90s version) for the heinous title.

Clearly, It's been a rough night . . .

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