And I know you’re barking down on me from Heaven
Thursday, 17 April 2008R.I.P. Zachary. I love you.
Sure beats a video of someone stirring a bowl of yogurt
Sunday, 13 April 2008Remember when I had abs?
Thursday, 10 April 2008I am 192 pounds. I took progress pictures tonight of my upper body and my legs. I will start cutting when I hit 200 in May.
AmbreLake.com
Thursday, 10 April 2008
Still, keep ‘em comin’
Wednesday, 9 April 2008On Monday night my best friend from high school texts me the following: “omg emergency you must check your gmail asap.” Tragically, I am in a restaurant with my boyfriend and unable to access my iPhone because I don’t have one yet. However, I’m certain that someone from my high school got pregnant, got cancer, got fat, or died, because my friend would have no reason to text me otherwise.
I obsess about this text message throughout the duration of our meal, wondering what exciting tidbit my friend has in store for me. The last time this happened, I was simply told via text message, “Ellen has cancer.” Assuming Ellen DeGeneres was diagnosed with breast cancer, I logged onto Google News and found nothing. Turns out she meant Ellen, a mutual high school friend. Perversely, I was relieved.
My boyfriend and I finally get back to his apartment, where I show considerable restraint as he hops onto the lone computer and does a Google Image search for Roger Lodge. Once that’s out of the way, I push him aside and log into Gmail, where I see several new Google Alerts, something from Citibank about paying taxes with your credit card (hmm, seems responsible), and - yes! - an e-mail from my friend, WITH PHOTO ATTACHMENTS. This is going to be good.
But oh, it was not good. Quite the opposite, actually. Living 300 miles away, my friend isn’t quite filled in on my body dysmorphic tendencies and surely had no idea that sending me photos of a high school classmate who is now a bodybuilder would send me into a spiral of despair. This person looked better than me in high school (soccer and wrestling star) and looks better than me know, despite my efforts. And in my pathetic world where all I have time for is my job and the gym, that’s all that matters to me.
So I delete the e-mail and I remind myself that he is 5′4″ and orange and looks like a squat Super Mario, which didn’t help nearly as much as the pint of Haagen Dazs Sticky Toffee Pudding that I ate two minutes later while curled up on the couch with my boyfriend watching the new “Samantha Who.”
I give it 36 months - just kidding
Monday, 7 April 2008I went to my boyfriend’s best friend’s wedding on Saturday, where, predictably and somewhat disappointingly, the ceremony went off without a hitch, the cocktail hour featured shrimp, and the wedding-goers danced to “Sweet Caroline” during the reception. Much like my cousin’s recent wedding in Staten Island, it was a standard affair, although “Sandstorm” was not used as the bride and groom’s entrance song this time around.
From the moment I entered the church to the moment I passed out in the lobby of a Crystal City hotel, I did what my Italian family does best at weddings, which is to ungratefully criticize all aspects of the ceremony and reception and to point out (in my case, unironically) how I would have done things differently had it been my wedding. Oh, how freely the criticisms flow from one who will never have the opportunity to plan and pay for a wedding of his own.
Actually, the best part of the wedding was my rowdy reception table, populated by some of my boyfriend’s college friends, the guy who first introduced the bride and groom to each other, and two people from Ireland. (Unable to resist, I asked them if the Corrs were indeed the jewel in Ireland’s pop cultural crown. Evidently, no.)
It certainly beat the table reserved for the bride and groom, who were seated alone and surely had run out of things to talk about by the time they had walked back up the aisle. “So, um, how’s your prime rib?” “Oh, it’s good - medium-rare. How’s yours?” “It’s OK - I wish they would have sprung for the filet. Oh, wait…”
Despite the inherently heteronormative nature of such things, and the fact that I was made to socialize with strangers for 12 hours and subsequently became a raging, cranky, intoxicated bitch by the reception’s end, I had a very good time. However, at my commitment ceremony (gag), the DJ will in fact be a Britney Spears impersonator and the caterer will serve ziti, sausage and peppers, and flaming shots of Sambuca.
Back in a week, everyone
Tuesday, 1 April 2008I’m boarding a direct flight to Heathrow this afternoon. Hopefully London Preppy sorted out my guest pass to his gym, as we discussed.
Talk soon.
xo Tobes
Addendum: FYI, this was my sad attempt at an April Fools Joke.
My T-shirts feel neglected
Sunday, 30 March 2008I went to my friend Pat’s birthday party last night wearing my pink Martin + Osa button-down, a pair of Nudie jeans that fit just fine in the waist but are too small in the ass, and my boyfriend’s 500-year-old ankle high boots that sound like heels when worn on tile. I’m telling you this not because I find it particularly interesting but because London Preppy regularly details his wardrobe choices and I feel as if I need to keep up with the Joneses.
(On a side note, L.P. is really into jumpers. What’s a jumper?)
It should also be noted that I went to Pentagon City yesterday and purchased two additional button-downs - a white one and a blue one. I also bought collar stays. I think I’m going to wear ties every day this week to work, because I’ve found that a well-dressed Toby makes my coworkers nervous.
Twitter in Plain English
Thursday, 27 March 2008See the “What I’m Doing” widget in the sidebar? That’s my Twitter feed. The video below explains Twitter, in plain English. (Via Demo Girl.)
