Each week I will force myself to post a set of numbers on just about anything that occurs to me. This way, I will force myself to write at least once per week, even if it's just a bunch of shite about how many iced coffees I've consumed in the previous seven days. I know this makes you extremely excited, as there isn't much more exciting than reading a Bridget Jones style rundown of a girl's caloric intake.
But never fear, I'm rather clever when motivated (which, if you equate my cleverness motivation to my "going to the gym" motivation, is somewhere in the vicinity of "next to never," which hopefully won't make you too pessimistic on the forthcoming quality of this blog), so I hope to make the Weekly Numbers an entertaining feature if at all possible. That, and I figure they are as good a thing as any for the first posting here.
Without further ah-doo:
Number of times Sarah had to punch in the code to the garage door opener before the (fucking) thing finally (fucking) opened: 6, due to the difficulty of doing, oh, anything these days due to super-expensive, super-unneccessary, super-taking-food-out-of-the-mouths-of-Sally-Struthers'-children fake nails (see also: computer keyboards, atm machines, blackberry, cell phone, bags of marshmallows, feminine hygeine products, Lean Cuisine boxes, remote controls). But oh well, because, pretty!
(You knew it was coming eventually and you're surprised I didn't lead with it; also if you think it won't be in the Numbers every week, well, you'd be wrong) Number of Dunkin Iced coffees consumed by Sarah this past week: I think about 5. Sarah runs on Dunkin'.
Gym visits: 4
Jack and Cokes: 8, all on Saturday night at McG's with Kelly, which coicidentally leads us to the next number,
Poorly sung karaoke renditions of "Don't Stop Believin'": 1 (Kelly held the microphone about 4 feet from her face while serving as my "backup singer," thanks for that babe.)
New pairs of shoes purchased: 2, if you count the frakkin adorable ankle boots my mommy bought me for Christmas but then rudely announced that I could not wear until AFTER Christmas. But they are cute nooooooow!!!!!! ~pouts~ I also picked up my very first pair of stripper shoes from a line by none other than Jessica "He's Dating Miss Maxim 2006 And I've Got Pudgy Geeks Denying Our Relationship" Simpson. They are stripper in the sense that they have plasticky platforms (leopard print, rowr!) and heels, and AWESOME in the sense of, well, their awesomeness. This picture does them zero justice.
Guys with mullets and questionable facial hair that attempted to pick me up with stories of their 15 year old son getting them stoned on their 30th birthdays (yeah, I did the math too): 1, but dang if he didn't do a helluva rendition of "Copa Cabana" a little while later.
And finally, number of pounds shed since returning to the Granite State:
Inser your town "Ta daaaaaaaaaa!" here.
Now if you'll excuse me, "Gilmore Girls" is on. I have to go into the living room and confuse the hell out of my father by yelling out things like "No! NO! Christopher is a JACKHOLE!" at the television.
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