The Weekly Numbers, Trebek Style

Ah the Weekly Numbers. That's why I enjoy running features. When my lazy ass has absolutely dick-all to say, I can always just fire off a few "Weekly" numbers for you. There's actually a mishmash of crap to discuss from recent weeks, so the Numbers also provide a good medium to barf out all the potpourri ("Your mother's a whore, Trebek!") in my overloaded keppy.

Onto the numbers...

1: Number nights I got to stay in my beloved D.C. for a business trip a couple weeks back, and, incidentally, number of people who gave me "poor" feedback on the presentation I conducted while on said trip. How dare they. Don't they know I hardly worked at all on it and didn't practice that much?

Approx 13: Number of drinks I had in me before getting on board my flight home, after an after-work happy hour and a two-hour airport delay (that I of course spent in the handy bar right next to my gate). How is it that people are always getting thrown off planes for being intoxicated? I mean, unless you're on the side of the road in the middle of the night trying to recite the alphabet between the letters "L" and "T," it's really not that hard to disguise utter smashedness. Just keep your mouth shut (unless you're sticking gum in it).

2: Number of guys I met at the airport bar during said delay.

1: Number of guys I met at the airport bar during said delay that were actually on my flight, AND asked for my phone number (look at Fu, picking up dudes in an airport!).

1:30: Time in the MORNING the Airport Guy called me (SIX days after our Airport Meet-Cute), drunk and surrounded by hooting friends, wanting to know "what I was doing." I'm sure the response he was hoping for was not "What am I DOING? It's 130 in the morning, DICKSLAP!" but rather, "Well pretty soon I'm gonna be doing YOU, Airport Guy! Purrrrr!"

243: Approximate number of bottles of booze on the counter at my fourth of July party, I think we made it through about 156 of them.

3: Attempts it took before I figured out how to work my dad's grill. (I may be leaving out the fact that I had to call him up in Phoenix and ask him to tell me how to work the grill, for fear that after my first two attempts I might actually vaporize the deck, the house and the surrounding property and be left standing in the middle of it with soot all over my face and my hair standing on end, like when Wile E. Coyote's Acme bomb goes very, very wrong.)

3: Attempts it took before I actually figured out how to cook a hamburger on said grill. (I may be leaving out that after the first two burgers incinerated and fell apart in gooey chunks respectively, I had to call up Dad again to ask advice on proper burger cookage.)

1: Number of blind dates my parents' best friends have offered to set me up on with their neighbor, who may or may not be an ex-con.

0.0002: number of seconds after hearing this offer that I began to feel reeeeeeally pathetic.

2: Number of planes it's going to take me to get to New Orleans for my brother-in-law's birthday party-slash-girls' weekend with my sister and many friends tonight.

141483:1 : Odds of me actually getting on second leg of journey, as am flying standby and may end up curled up in an airport all night. You ever wonder why homeless people don't just go live at the airport, like that Tom Hanks movie? No one ever hassles people sleeping on the ground in an airport, they just assume they are stranded. Not like staying in an airport is awesome, but at least it's warm in the winter and stuff. Plus they could probably score a lot of those little mini liquor bottles, and pretend they are giants!

5: Time in the morning it was on Sunday when a friend and I rolled back into her apartment in Boston after partying all night on Saturday.

4? Approximate number of times I barfed after the lethal combination of "Many (delicious blueberry) Beers," "Many Shots," "334 Cigarettes," "Tragic Loss at Wii Bowling," and "2 Cupfuls of Turpentine Red Wine at 4 a.m." This is only a guess, as I hardly remember it, I remember only the horrendous splitting headache I woke up with on her futon at 7 a.m. after curling up there in a pathetic heap with no blanket or pillow.

28: My age in years, in about two months. Now go back and read the previous paragraph again. Now come back and slap me upside my stupid head for continuing to act so foolishly. Then make me repeat: "Just because my friend is 22 does NOT mean I am too" 50 times. Then slap me in the head again. Then hit me with a shovel to remind me how I felt that morning and why I should never, ever, ever, do that again.

25: Number of minutes until I leave work. I'd better wrap things up....

The Weekly Numbers, Hawkeye Style

I was doing really well there for a while. But since I once read research indicating that something like 148% of all blog posts begin with the words "sorry I haven't posted in a while," I'm going to avoid that particular bit of dreck and just get right into the What Fu Has Been Up To in the Last 20 Days.

Semi-Weekly Numbahs Style:

Dates with potential new (old) FuMan, who I don't even really like all that much but who was cute and hey, a sister is hard-up: 7 (I know! We should practically be picking out china patterns.)

Except...

Number of Sexual Encounters with Potential New (Old) FuMan): Unless you count kissing, zero. ZERO. So the first three times we went out, fireworks, then the next few...nothing?

The FuManchCrew (see how I am coming up with the clever nicknames? If by "clever" you mean "absurd and contrived.") has come up with several definitive theories as to why there has been no below the belt action since date number three:

1) He is not attracted anymore, but enjoys my company well enough and knows that I am usually willing to swill beers with his alcoholic ass on a school night when no one else will.
2) Dick Fungus

Honestly? I'm not sure which would be worse. But either way, he's out. Maybe we'll still be friends. He wants to catch "Pirates of the Carribean" this weekend (do you say CARRI-bean or cah-RIB-bean?).

Speaking of Pirates...

Number of Fu-gasms during last night's Daughtry performance on "Idol": 349. Holy crap, I am still such a sucker for that ungrateful bald bastard. HOTT!!!! Although really, he was wearing enough eyeliner to give even Jack Sparrow conjunctivitis. If the show were on Disney-owned ABC I would have thought it was cross-promotion.

Moving right along..

Number of trips to Iowa (or, as we drunkenly called it while sitting in the Cedar Rapids Chili's: I! O! Waaaaaah!!!): One. And oh yes, that's the great, flat, Hawkeye State pictured, as photographed by me out my airplane window with my camera phone--and before I had flight attendant permission to turn it on! Que scandlo!

On a scale of 1-10, how out of place Fu felt traipsing through the small Iowa airport among the cornfed, freshly scrubbed locals and other visitors, while wearing the magenta sundress I'd picked out for the rehearsal dinner, a hot-pink head scarf thing, giant dangly turquoise earrings, giant white sunglasses and a massive hangover from the previous night's festivities with FuMan: 1,486

I mean for god's sake, between my ensemble, my hangover, my bright blonde hair and my fake-n-bake tan I must've looked like a Fat Paris Hilton. Truly embarassing.

Number of feet away from my bag I walked while waiting for the hotel shuttle, and number of minutes I waited to be accosted by security: 50 (approx) and 15.

Iowa must have a threat level of like...whatever's lowest. There was also a woman who parked her car (!!!!) in the loading area to walk in and help her visitor with bags. She'd be booted and then anally probed in a back room at Reagan if she tried that shit in DC. You can't even pull that off in Manch. I tried it once, and was greeted with a barking mad po-po and a 100 dollar ticket (that I am not sure I ever paid, to be honest with you), and informed that the only reason he wasn't "taking me in" and having my car towed was that it was Christmas. No lie! So Iowa, I salute you and your lax airport security regulations.

Of our group of four attending the wedding, Number who vomited: Three. Quite a showing!

Might have had something to do with the fact that we went to the Chili's next door to our hotel at noon, drank until it was time to leave for the wedding at 530, then drank from the time the ceremony ended (6 or so) until passing out (two-thirty or so) after the obligatory after-party. That's 13 and a half hours of booze, folks. Everything from margaritas to Irish coffees to Jack&Cokes to the Dreaded Red Bull and Vodka. If we managed to sneak some shots in there as well, I think I may have returned to Manch Vegas an actual corpose, instead of merely corpsesque.

Speaking of which, our airport shuttle left at 830 a.m. Good times. I seriously contemplated asking the gate agent whether the severity of my hangover qualified me for pre-boarding.

Number of gas station purchased, ridiculously AWESOME cowboy hats I picked up while stopping for more beer (they also, along with the low threat-level airport, sell beer in Iowa gas stations after midnight, who knew!? I'm moving there next week) on the way back to the hotel post-reception: One.

Number of gas-station purchased, ridiculously AWESOME cowboy hats I forgot in my hotel room in my vomitous hungover fog the next morning: one.

Number of times I've bitched mightily about this to the point where my friends are ready to actually fly to Iowa and take a cab to the same gas station to buy me another one and then fly back just to shut me the hell up since I returned: 3,872

So there you have it. I will make an honest effort to blog more, but don't you know how busy I am? What with all the social commitments and boyfriends and non-cat-related activities?

Oh, wait.

Okay, so I'll probably post again tomorrow.

The Weekly Numbers, Idol Edition

Ah, The Numbers. At least I didn't wait another four months before hauling them out again. So this is really almost good, even if they've yet to re-achieve "weekly" status.

And really, aren't you just glad I'm blogging again? It's been like, a week! And what better way to come back than to live-blog "Idol Gives Back," Weekly Numbahs style?

118: Number of times I've rolled my eyes since this 13-hankie sobfest started.

3: Number of minutes ago it started.

4: Number of times I've teared up. (Damn you, Idol.)

15,000: Times I managed to yell out, "Fuck right off and take your damn Match.com commercials with you, Dr. Phil." during his 30-second segment. That's 500 times a second, y'all.

1: Small squirts of laughter-induced pee that escaped during Jack Black's rendition of "Kiss from a Rose."

10,000: Number of goosebumps that erupted from the first note of Carrie Underwood's African-Children-Themed version of "I'll Stand By You." (Yes, I know. But I'm already a complete sucker for The Underwood--as in, I honestly CRY when I hear "Don't Forget to Remember Me" (no really, I KNOW)--but I am an even bigger sucker for The Pretenders, and a still BIGGER sucker for that particular song, which has been putting Seacrest-sized lumps in my throat since 1995.

10,000: Number of close-ups of tears rolling down sad, sad, African children's faces during said song.

7,348: Approximate number of Chicken McNuggets the lead singer of Rascall Flatts ate before tonight's show, from the looks of things. Coincidentally, also the number of grams of mousse in his Idiot Hair. You're like, 35, Tubby. Maybe time to lose the Jonathan Lipnicki 'do.

123: Honest approximation of the number of times I said the words, "No really guys, I need to move back here." while in D.C. this weekend (hey, it's a commercial break!).

3: Number of words I could understand from the "Save the Redneck Mountain Children" segment. Those kids sound like Cletus' kids from the Simpsons.

1: Number of tickets to Hell I just booked. I'll bring the beer!

3: Number of years the "Stayin' Alive" video appeared to last....Oh, Gwyneth. Charity is wonderful, but isn't this just a little beneath you? Can't you just adopt 300 kids or something like Angelina? You don't see HER shaking her ass to the Bee Gees on American fucking Idol.

0: Number of jokes I can make about the "People Dying in Africa while Ryan and Simon Watch" segment. Jesus Christ. And oh my god people. Josh Groban and little African kids and I swear to GOD, the same violinist who made me cry from "Titanic" doing the "You Raise me Up" song.

1,000,000: Official count of sadly falling tears from THIS chick right now. What? There are little African children singing with fucking Josh Groban. I am not made of STONE!!! Fu has a freaking HEART people! Sometimes! I'm like the Grinch right now with that little teensy heart breaking the Heart Magnifyer Thingie. Tears!!!! TEARS!!!

0: Number of people I think are getting the boot tonight. THAT is going to be the shocking results. How can they kick someone off on charity night? They said "most shocking result in our history," right? That would've been Melinda, and we know she's safe already. So that's that, no one goes home.

20: Number of dollars I obviously am going to have to donate in order to not feel like an asshole. It ought to be 50, but I went shoe-shopping this weekend.

(They are red gingham! So cute.)

24: Approximate number of pounds Kelly Clarkson has gained since the last time I saw her on television. I feel you, sister. And I like your hair extensions a lot. But tell the director not to shoot you from behind next time. I love a girl who isn't disgustingly thin (looking at you, Underwood), and you've got a great bod. But? You've also got back fat. Hey, I totally know how you feel! That's why no one shoots me from behind either. (Heheh, "from behind," heheh...I'm 12.)

14,817,955: Number of ways the Celine Dion and "Elvis" duet was just....so very wrong. The King would be rolling in his grave if he weren't banging Asian hookers in a South Pacific hut somewhere right now.

14,817,961: Number of new ways it's wrong once the top six join them on the stage and sing along with Ghost Elvis. Now he IS rolling in his grave, becuase if he weren't dead before, he IS now.


9: Aside from the number of times Annie Lennox just made me say "holy god, she is SO good," it is also the number of minutes left in the show. Where's Bono???

Ha!!! No one goes home, Fu was totally right. It wasn't that hard a guess, frankly. But I still feel awesome.

2: Number of Idols going home next week. I didn't call that one!

So Bono shows up to promote his big "One" campaign. But doesn't sing? Jeez, Bono.

The Weekly Numbers, Easter Edition

Good god! Didn't I invent the weekly numbers to be...weekly?

It's been months! Which, I suppose, ought to be the first official number of this, the reinstatement of the Weekly Numbahs.

4: Number of months since the last Weekly Numbers. For shame, Fu, for shame....

8: Current number of episodes of "The Wonder Years" stored on my DVR. But come on! I found out it was coming out in syndication, I figure I will record all the episodes from the very first one, figure out how to burn them on DVD's, sell them on Ebay and make a fortune! It's gold, GOLD I tell you! They won't ever come out on DVD, apparently, because the music rights are so hard and expensive to obtain. I'm not sure, but I feel like it's Michael Jackson's fault.

3: Number of times I've watched the pilot of "The Wonder Years" since I first recorded it last week. Man, this show was probably my all-time favorite show growing up. It was so much better than freaking "Full House" or "Growing Pains" or any of that other shite. Too bad Kevin Arnold grew up to be so dorky looking, but his involvement in both this and "The Princess Bride" cements him in my official "Fu Will Always Love Forever" group.

(Oh my god, though, seriously, this show is so f'n good. The one that was on tonight was when Kevin broke up with Becky Slater--who was so badass, by the way, so much better than that prissbag Winnie Cooper--and she punches him in the face. Then he has a "Star Trek" dream sequence with him as Kirk, Paul as Spock, and Becky and Winnie dressed up as go-go pussycat Fem-Bot alien life forms that attack them. It was SO good.)

6: Approximate number of inches taller Winnie Cooper was than Kevin Arnold in these first season episodes.

About 20: Number of cigarettes smoked in the first three months of the year...which is actually pretty good when you consider that about 18 of them were smoked all in one bad weekend.

About 20,000: Number of cigarettes smoked over Easter weekend. Man, oh, man. On the Stairmaster tonight it felt like my lungs were going to leap up into the back of my throat and start seeping out through my ears.)

2.5: Number of days in a row I went without feeding my cats this weekend. I was distracted! One of them could use it, too. They're fine. Shut up!

48: Number of hours it took between me meeting a really cute guy that told my friend Alicia he liked me, and him being all over one of my best friends instead. Good times!

1: Pounds of chocolate consumed in the last two days since the no-candy Lent period ended.

18: Minutes until I give up candy again, for at least another two weeks. It's clearly just necessary.

12: Number of times I voted for "American Idol" tonight. I know, I know.

8: Days until I get to go to D.C. for the weekend!

134,487: Number of cigarettes I will probably smoke, with or without the damn smoking ban.

5-10: Inches of snow expected Thursday night. (Seriously? SERIOUSLY???)

21: Confirmed Jack Bauer kills on the season. Can you even imagine actually being Jack Bauer? "Jack, what'd you do yesterday?" "I killed 21 people, including my own brother and former colleague, in about the first 18 hours I was awake...and god knows how many after that. What did YOU do?"

0: Number of things I have left to say....

Will try to make the next set of numbers more interesting...when they come out. Next quarter.

Sign Says, Stay Away Fools

Haven't done the Numbers in quite sometime.

6: Number of times I got on a plane and flew somewhere in the last month.

1: Number of times I got so scared that I cried during takeoff.

4: Average drinks per flight.

2: Number of times I got to go first class, whoooohoooooo! Me gusta mucho free booze.

0: Number of times the plane came crashing out of the sky in a fiery death explosion, killing all aboard (Not that this matters in terms of "Lowering My Rampant Fear of All Things Aeronautic."

0: Number of times I've been to the gym in the past MONTH (oy, I was doing SO well, fucking holidays.)

[Redacted]: Number of pounds I gained over Christmas. OY. Well I guess that's what New Year's resolutions are for.

9: Cigarettes smoked last night.

13143185903185310: Cigarettes I intend to smoke tonight...becuase...

0: Number of cigarettes I get after tonight. Wail! Sob!

(sniffle...)

(No, you guys don't get it, it's SO fucking good.)

(Just so good, what the hell am I thinking?)

2:1 <- Odds of my breaking this resolution on the first Friday.

12,314,917,477: Number of dollars I spent last night on booze.

10: Perfect ten for the awesomest Khrissy birthday party since the infamous Deano Strip Tease of 2001 incident.

3: Number of times I had to re-read that last sentence before I accepted that the Deano Strips for Khrissy's Birthday (and puts a sock on his penis) (seriously) was actually five damn years ago. Holy mackerel.

0: Motivation I have to get ready to go out tonight.....

Happy New Year!

The Weekly Numbers, Late As They Are

I totally forgot about the Numbers. Dang, three weeks blogging and I already suck at updating. You know, back when I had my very first blog, on the illustrious Diaryland way back in 2001 (before blogging was cool, chickens. We're talking the stone-ages of blogging. And yes, I am aware that blogging still isn't really considered cool. But really aren't I cool enough for you to overlook that fact?), I would update approximately 4,000 times a day. Seriously, it was an update fest.

And here, I am like 10 entries in and already writing one of those dreaded, hacky, "sorry I never update enough" posts.

Oh well, deal with it, fuckers.

Onto the numbers....

Number of signs advertising kissing balls I've seen since the one I snapped a pic of at my spa: Three! And I still have no idea whatsoever what these are, if not a sex act. And I'm assuming they are not, considering New Hampshire isn't necessarily the sort of state where mom and pop shops on the side of the road display signs advertising the sex acts available within. I'd post more camera-phone shots of the kissing balls signs, but I was a lazy bitch and did not take any. Again, deal with it.

Items I have packed for my trip to DC this weekend: 0

Dirty items of laundry that I plan on bringing with me, but that I have yet to wash and probably won't until midnight THursday: 4

Number of Items I intend to pack for my 4 day trip: Well let's see. Jeans, a couple sweaters, pj's, workout clothes (heeeeeheheheheeee, *breathes*, heeeeeeeeee!!!!! Yeah, right.), 2 pair going out shoes, 2 work outfits, 2 going out shirts. 4 pair underwear. So what is that? 15 items? Not including toiletries? 15 it is.

Number of items I will no doubt ACTUALLY pack for my 4 day trip: Every single item of clothing in my closet and dresser, as well as two different pairs of underwear for every day (one comfy and one sexy..hey, you never know!), flip flops I won't wear, 4 different pairs of jeans, 3 different pajama bottoms for no apparent reason, Britney's panties, my wok, a fire extinguisher, my neighbor's cat, all the dishware from my cupboards including my 23 wine glasses, and a hat. Actually two hats, one Red Sox cap and one warm and fuzzy. Oh, and some cheese. So, how many is that?

Number of casualties incurred during my move this weekend: Only one, thankfully, and it figures it was my dad, who cut the back of his hand putting my kitchen table together. He always manages to find new and interesting ways to injure himself. He had already drawn blood once this week during a run-in with a teacup Maltese "killer," and went around complaining about feeling faint the rest of the week. The best part is that my mom actually gets mad at him every time he hurts himself. This tickles me pink. It's like when she gets mad at him for traffic. "WHY are we stuck behind this TRUCK? You just HAD to get behind the TRUCK, didn't you???" "None of the other lanes are moving either!" "But now we can't SEE." It kills me. Like he can do anything about traffic? Women are crazy, I heart us.

Number of Dunkin Donuts iced coffees consumed since last numbers update: 1. Hurrah! I seem to have settled down my rampant addiction. Actually, it's that I have not had any cash on me. My local Dunkin drive-thru doens't take cards, as I discovered while counting out several quarters and dimes for the long-haired 50 year old hippie guy that always serves me my coffee.

Number of ridiculous vanity plates noticed: 50,000. Seriously, what's UP, New Hampshire? This state is officially cuckoo for vanity plates. Granted, I myself had a vanity plate on my car in high school, and I just thought I was the cat's pajamas. It said "SARAH&", as "SARAH" was already taken. I thought it was mysterious..."Sarah& who????", people would think to themselves as I drove by. But folks, that's when I was 16 damn years old, and the car was a shit-ass Toyota. I was not some pompous ass in an Escalade with the license plate (seriously) "3CADDYS". That one did make me chuckle though. That douche is so lucky he lives in New Hampshire. How fast would Mr. 3Caddys get carjacked down in DC? Oh my gosh.

Number of drinks I'm going to need before I can get on the plane Friday: 40,000. I hate flying. HATE. "But the flight's only an hour, just relax!" You say. Guess what, chachi, the amount of time the plane is in the air before it comes CRASHING OUT OF THE SKY is not a factor in how dead such a catastrophe would make me. The last time I flew, my ticker was averaging 240 beats per minute. I'm going to try and use my old friend Mr. Jack Daniels to bring that number down to a nice, panicky 200 this time around.

Wish me luck.

The Weekly Numbers, Thanksgiving Edition

Ah, the Weekly Numbers. It's like I said, they force me to write. Good thing, too, because I have been circling my computer all morning in the same manner that I circle my gym bag when I am feeling particularly lazy.

"Yeah, it's there, yeah, I know I ought to....oh look, something shiny, better go check that out!"

Number of Pies Baked By Yours Truly Last night: 3, but only if you count the huge-ass bowl of bread-pudding as a pie. Okay, I'll amend it, "Number of desserts baked by yours truly." The Great Dessert Debate is the same in my family each year, with my dad protesting the amount of desserts we make and my mother insisting they are necessary:

"We don't need 2 pumpkin pies."
"There will be 5 of us!"
"Yeah, 5 people, with 2 pumpkin pies, bread pudding, tapioca pudding--which, yeah, EW, butter pie, pecan pie and maybe even baked apples. There are officially enough desserts for everyone to have their own individual pie, after all the other food."
"People LIKE pumpkin pie, they're going to want a lot of it."
"People LIKE to not perforate their stomachs too, you know..."
"Shut up."
"YOU shut up!"
"Get me a beer."

And so on.

Number of Gym Visits: Since the last weekly numbers...I have been to the gym 5 times. I know you are all duly impressed, but...

Number of Times Veered Off Healthy-Eating Plan: 15,184

Hence...

Pounds Shed Since NH Return: Sticking at 7. Oh well, at least I did not go up, that would have been far more traumatizing. But who knows what will happen after...

Calories Consumed so Far for Thanksgiving: 315,154,017

(And we haven't even EATEN yet...damn pumpkin bread.)

Number of Dunkin' Donuts Iced Coffees consumed: Okay, this is embarassing. Eight. Once again, Sarah Runs on Dunkin'.

By the way, did any of you see John Goodman on Studio 60 last week? Another blogger, who I'd link to but I don't remember where I read it, speculated that Dunkin' Donuts has been paying him for those voiceover commercials in bear claws, and I can't say I disagree. I'd better watch out, becuase after the past couple days of this holiday week...

Number of pounds less than John Goodman I weigh: Approximately 3.

Number of (fucking) $75 fake (fucking) nails that have come (fucking) off since I had them applied: 2 These are supposed to be the GOOD ones, that's why they cost $75!!! Honestly.

Jack&Diets consumed: 10, all at a birthday party that was sadly open bar on Saturday night. Open "Buffet of Fred Foods Which Sarah Is Unable To Avoid When Shitfaced" too. Oy.

Moving right along.

Estimated "Dinner to POPU" time tonight (POPU is "Passed Out, Pants Undone"): 20 minutes, tops.

I love Thanksgiving. Except for the parade, GOD, there is nothing more painful to me than a parade.

Number of times I tried to change the channel from the parade this morning: 7

"Don't change that!"
"I hate the parade!"
"How can you hate the parade?"
"Um, I'm not 7?"
"Don't get smart!"
"Want me to get stupider? Pass the mimosas, no problem."
"Brat. Don't change that!!!!"
"Damnnit!"

And finally, the thing I am most thankful for:

Number of Days Before the Return of Jack Bauer: 52 <-- Here's hoping it passes quickly!

HAPPY THANKSGIVING!

The Weekly Numbers

Occasionally on my MySpace blog I would post a little rundown of numbers on mundane things. I always enjoyed this, so I've decided to make it the first official feature of Fu Manch Shoes.

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.