Squats, Ab-Crunches, Tricep-Lifts…Seriously?

Q: As a Canadian and recent survivor of another gruelling winter, why are my fingers crossed for more chilly weather?

A: Because the Summer demands the temporary extinction of big wooly sweaters (you know, the ones that hide all the fat we’ve been storing since Christmas? I love wooly sweaters…).

Q: Once the wooly sweaters are out of the equation, what’s next on the clothing menu?

A: Thin cotton (which is just thin enough to expose the outline of the average nipple (if you’re whorish enough to go bra-less in public)), baby-tee’s, and varying degrees of “short shorts”

This poses a problem for my “RED-HOT body of 2008″.

The thing is… my “red-hot body” is still very much in the construction phase.

I was doing pretty well a while back, with my committed workouts and fear of getting (gasp!) “too skinny” (lest my already small and sand-baggish boobs disappear), but these days I’m not quite as fearful of boob-loss via “sveltness”. 

On a positive note, I’ve been striking a decent balance between ”hog-in-trough” eating binges and dates with the exercise bike (is it wrong to enjoy how the seat feels?).  Even so, the slimmage is hovering at the “barely noticeable” point.

Before I continue, let me address the topic of “self esteem”:

-YES I look alright, YES Oprah loves me, and YES with a bit of Photoshop I can be a serious hottie (and other additional motivational “blah, blah” stuff).  With all of that being true, each person’s journey to hotness is their own, so while a stranger might aspire to have my current butt, I naturally covet someone else’s bouncy bottom, and that’s just life.

So now that the ”love-yourself” puke-fest is over, it’s time to get back to business:

Q: The bulky sweaters are in lockdown until October, so what’s a girl to do?

A: Exercise, and adopt healthy eating habits.

Hmm…that’s an awesome plan, but do I really have time for such a massive life-swing?

My current state is very much like this: wake up at 6am, eat cereal/”de-grossify” (90% of this process involves removing crusty drool from my cheeks), sit in a car for 10 minutes, sit on a commuter train for 35 minutes, sit on a subway for 15 minutes, walk to Starbucks (yay, exercise!), and sit in a cubicle for approx. 8 hours, until the commuting process reverses itself for the journey home.

And the food component?

Well when it comes to healthy eating I really try, but I’m usually thwarted by that faceless whore named Chocolate, a whore who changes flavour/form to woo me each and every time.  I hate when whores do that…

So that’s my typical day, and though I manage to hop on the exercise bike for a few nights a week, my efforts are usually low on the sweat and high on the droopy eyes…

…So now you can see why ”HOT Body 2008″ has yet to present itself.  It’s quite understandable, so, uhh…do you think I could get a break?  Maybe a doctor could write me a letter addressed to all men:

-Due to my patient’s lack of motivation busy life, you are not to judge her on a physical basis (i.e. the fact that her bum isn’t perfectly cuppable or that her abs don’t resemble igneous rock), but instead you will court her for her other worldly charms.

I could laminate the letter and flash it at the bar, kind of like a business card (though this one would allow for “All You Can Eat” nachos…).

So all I need to do is find a “doctor” who’s shady enough to write me this letter…if that doesn’t work I could always do the “shove ‘n forge”  (if you don’t immediately know that the “shove ‘n forge” means shoving the doctor’s stationary down my underwear and forging the letter myself, you have a lot to learn about me…)  

 

Kitchen Sex-capades

I have this recurring “kitchen fantasy” in my head, and because I’ve seen it in movies, I know I can make it happen.

It’s a classic scene from an everyday romantic comedy; it’s the one where the guy and the girl are baking together in the kitchen. They’ve only been friends up ’til now, but they’re up to their ears in sexual tension. As the girl is busy kneading the dough for the cookies, the guy starts to get “excited” (naturally). Feeling that a “move” is in order, he grabs a handful of flour and tosses it at the girl (*gasp!*). She responds with an assault of Hershey’s chocolate chips. The next thing you know, they’re pouring buttermilk all over each other’s bits, and having sex on the kitchen counter (oh wait, I think that’s a different kind of movie…).

Okay so maybe I need to calm down a little, but I still want my “kitchen moment” in the sun. I’m not even sure why the “kitchen fantasy” stands out against the rest. Maybe it’s because it’s super-sexy when a guy helps out in the kitchen. And then when you add “ingredient fights” to the mix, all bets are off.

The closest I ever came to a “kitchen sex-capade” was in 2004.  It was my last year of university, and I was totally in love with this dude in my Marketing class. One afternoon we decided to have a “cutesy” date at his house (and yes I was skipping class, but whatever, I earned my degree so it’s all good).  Not a lot was happening between us “action wise”, so we started to make some popcorn, and that’s when things heated up . It was the kind of popcorn that comes with a packet of “cheese sauce”.  Well you all know the best way to stir in the cheese sauce don’t you?

You mix it in with your hands, your bare freakin’ hands!

And so, we mixed, together.

OH…MY…GOD.

What can I say? It was hot, and no I’m not talking about the sauce.

Just when it seemed that some “kitchen-love” was on the menu, in walked his roommate with a rude disposition and a craving for popcorn.

And just like that, our kitchen romp was tossed to the curb like yesterday’s trash…

…Well that was then, but today I face a challenge of a different sort. The truth is, there’s no one who I’ve been seeing/crushing on, and believe me it’s hard to just kidnap a random fella and force him to bake some bread.

Which means my home-base kitchen is out…but what about the kitchen at work?

Well I know we have a microwave in the office-kitchen, so that’s a start. I even think there’s a decrepit oven that hasn’t been opened since 1996 (and possibly has an emaciated “oven troll” living inside it).

So I’ve got the setting, but what should I cook? Well considering I’ll be at work, it’ll be really weird if I start to whip up a batch of cookies. I need something a lot more sensible…like a lunch-food item.

Whatever it is, it better be sexy, ’cause my goal is the following:

-Get a male co-worker to stop in his tracks, observe my sexy cooking, offer to help me out, and after a couple of minutes of inappropriate touching, carry me away to an abandoned office.

So what’s a good “sexy cooking food?”…

…Well when I was a kid, I always remember how my mom would huddle over the kitchen sink, and skin the raw chicken that would later become the meat in her delectable curry sauce. And no I’m not saying I was “turned on” by my mom, but as I picture the texture of the chicken and the motion of the skinning, I realize just how sexy it is.

Just think: you’re a worker-dude and you stroll by the office kitchen, only to find a cool-looking chick skinning juicy hunks of slimy meat, and occasionally wiping the sweat from her brow…pretty hot right?

Yeah I know.

And if anyone questions me for hijacking the kitchen to cook myself some meat, I’ll bust out a doctor’s note, the one that describes my dangerously “low iron” (the sheer uncomfortableness of discussing medical issues will prevent anyone from asking me why I don’t cook the chicken at home…HA!).

Ahhh…another perfect “Romi Approved” plan.

Well anyway tomorrow’s Monday and I’m fresh out of raw chicken, so I better make my way to the grocery store…

SUPER-Embarrassing Moment #5: Oh Crap.

The Year: 1989….

It was a time to rejoice, feast, and drape ourselves in richly-coloured silks…

It was a time for an Indian Wedding .

The princess was my aunt, and the prince…well…he was some dude who had recently arrived on a sugar-cane boat (hurray for marrying immigrants you’ve never met! )

Now this was my very first wedding (Indian or otherwise), so you can totally imagine my excitement.

My mom was the one who was planning the “Arranged Parade”, so I found myself right in the thick of it.

As you may or may not know, Indian weddings are known for the FOOD. Seriously, brown people know their stuff.  It’s not even the food at the reception that makes the event. If anything, it’s the night-time feasts leading UP to the wedding day…that’s what the people remember.

And for me (the round-bellied girl with excessive saliva), it was ALL ABOUT the food.

Our “night-before-the-wedding-feast” was lavish. I mean obviously there was a “party” happening around the food, but you coulda fooled me. I couldn’t even hear the music, or see the people, or feel the “old-lady hugs”…

Instead, I was overwhelmed with a single thought:

food + belly = HAPPY

The entire event was nothing more than my very own deep-fried, syrupy, pistachio-filled playground.

Magnificent .

For most of the evening, I was eating up a storm and dancing on a cloud.

At some point in the night, I must’ve O.D.-ed on all the food, ’cause I awoke the next day in a state of “confused user”.  I found myself curled up in a ball on the floor, knee-deep in crumbs and damp from all the “calorie-sweat”. 

As I finally tried to get up, I stopped for a moment and listened: my stomach was rumbling fiercely, what was it trying to tell me?

Before it could even answer, I felt something…

SOMETHING was hurdling down the chute.

UH-OH…..

I raced to the bathroom “Canadian drugged-up-sprinter”-style, breaking my own world record, and arriving just in time.

Do you need any further detail??? Shudder…

I certainly would have liked to solve my ”issue” with some meds (or a diaper for 8-year olds), but it was already time for the wedding!

Sooo…even though I was dripping with sweat, I managed to wrap myself in layer-upon-layer of (seductive) silk, and I forced myself to the ceremony (is it wrong to refer to an 8-year-old as seductive?).

Now the thing about weddings (whether Indian or not), is that you pretty much have to watch attentively, and also shut the hell up.

And to add a little colour to the Indian affair, everyone sits on the floor, positioning themselves in a big human maze.

So basically there was no getting out of that place.

This was a MAJOR problem, since ”crap attack” #2 was well on its way.

After a few vain attempts to “hold it in”, I was out of luck.

Do I even have to go any further, or is that quite enough in the “imagery” department?

Well…I already brought you halfway here, so why not continue?

Okay

……

So basically I crapped my pants (and not “logs’ mind you, but more like the liquidy-diarrhea stuff (I KNOW, wtf? I’m wanting to puke as I write this…)).

Now don’t be fooled, I didn’t have a big ol’ sac of “liquid-crap” in my undies, but the damage was pretty apparent.

This was a tough situation, and not just in the sense of sitting in a warm bowl of “poo-stew”.  What I mean is, I’m sure all the people around me could smell it…right?

RIGHT.

In order to avert the ”stink bomb blame”, I had to think fast.

So like a crafty con-man, I immediately “turned that shit around” (no pun intended), by pointing to a DAMN ugly baby: “ewwww, gross smelly baby!“ I exclaimed, in my innocent 8-yr old voice. 

The trickery worked like a charm, ’cause it’s universially known that ugly babies have the smelliest poo (same goes for ugly adults).

So with the smell-crisis over, the ceremony finally ended. 

At this point I was thinking “yo, what’s next?”

I had to clean up all the “poo stew”, so I hobbled on over to the women’s public bathroom.

I didn’t really know what to do once I got there…

I couldn’t tell my mom that I was walking around with crap-filled undies, ’cause it surely would’ve ruined the “big day”.

So I kinda just hung around, all confused-like, for about…20 minutes (I guess I should’ve cleaned myself up, but the mess was way too big for me to handle on my own). 

After what seemed like 20 hours, a friend of my mom’s came into the bathroom.  She took one look at my “soiled derriere”, and responded with shock and disgust.

Quickly though, her “it doesn’t matter if you are gross and damaged, I’ll look after you” maternal instincts kicked in (phew!). 

Needless to say, she dropped my pants and undies, and cleaned me the fuck up.

But here’s a problem: I was now in a public bathroom with no pants or underwear.

What next?

Well like a true embarrassing spectacle, my mom’s friend “called for reinforcements”.

They raced right home to get me another outfit.

As I waited for my new set of clothes, I basically crapped my ass off (only now I was in the right place at the right time).

Other than that, I just sat in a corner of the public bathroom, stick-legs shivering, bum-crack raw from all the wiping.

When the reinforcements finally returned with my outfit, 10 or 12 people followed them in (you can call them ”curious bystanders”, but I’m gonna call them assholes..)

As word of  my “accident” spread, my mom had suddenly arrived, sporting her meanest “I’m gonna slap the teeth out of you” face.  Luckily for me, she was way too busy with the wedding details to deliver the actual slap.

Instead, she just re-told the story about A MILLION times afterwards (i.e. “I TOLD her not to eat so much!”)).

Fast forward to today, and anytime someone in my family poos their pants (a couple times a year), my mom will bust out the tale once again (and that’s exactly how I wanted to be immortalized…Sure…)

And so….what’s the moral of the story, this last in my ”Embarrassing” series?

Well it’s simple:  Indian food is a two-faced whore, so be careful (and for the love of God use protection)

———————————————————————————————————————

On a completely different note, wonderful Red gave me an award this week (yes, she feels that I’m bodacious )

I was SO flattered, and in an effort to pass along the goodness, I’ve identified two bodacious bloggers on my ‘roll who MUST be named.

Like me, these two chicks are Canadian, but more different from one another they could not be.  Despite the contrast, each makes me laugh in her own special way. 

Their writing speaks volumes of their wicked personalities, and I hope they keep it up in ’08.

So here they are, my bodacious bloggers:

Greenie at “Christmas Time in the Emerald City”

Talea at “No Really, It’s Just My Face”