Juice Fast, Day Two: The Shaming

Tags

Fat Sick and Nearly Dead, Joe Cross, Juice Fast, juicer, weight loss

It is with a heavy heart that I inform you all I ate solid food last night.  After realizing that walking was becoming an arduous task that required holding on to things, I felt that I needed the nourishment.  Before you get all judgy and holier than thou, please ask me what I ate.  Did I binge on random bags of chips while filling my face with cookies and french fries?  No, dear friends.  I had a carrot.  It was glorious.  After a day of pureed bullshit, there was nothing more mouth-wateringly delicious than taking a crunchy and satisfying bite of…a vegetable.

In my defense, I did not do this “fast” to lose weight.  I just wanted to see what would happen.  What I learned is that vegetables are way more filling when they haven’t been pulverized and I am way more awesome (and nice) when I’ve had my coffee.

How’s Eric doing, you ask?  Well, he’s still staying strong (with the exception of a very minor slip-up that may or may not have included noodles…WHOLE WHEAT THOUGH…AND I PORTIONED THEM!!!) and I think he’s gonna make it.  Waking up at 6 am to help him make juice for us is something I could do without but, you know, I love him and shit so I guess it’s okay.

At this point, I think I’m still drinking juice for breakfast because I can’t stand spending money on something and not using it (Why yes, I AM Jewish!  How did you know?).  So despite the horrendously messy kitchen and bits of kale strewn all over the apartment, I think that this one-day journey has been a great success and I learned a lot.  Now pass the cheetos!

It Tastes Like Barf: The Joys of Juice Fasting

Tags

barf, Fat Sick and Nearly Dead, Joe Cross, Juice Fast, weight loss

Lately, there have been a lot of people talking about the documentary “Fat, Sick and Nearly Dead” (currently streaming on Netflix) and Eric and I decided to see what all the hype was about.  On a cold Thursday we watched Joe Cross go from being a portly mcChubster who had a auto-immune disease that required daily medication, to a trim marathon runner who was able to live his life sans meds.  How did he accomplish this tremendous feat?  He drank juice for 60 days.  Now before you get all excited, steaks do not go in the juicer…neither do french fries (bummer, I know).

Seriously inspired, Eric and I trudged to our nearest Bed, Bath and Beyond to purchase a juicer on Saturday and we decided that starting Monday (that would be today) we would embark on our own 10-day journey to see what happens when you live on juice and water alone (first world problems, I know).

The first thing that we noticed Sunday night when we started making the juice is that this little endeavor is going to be hella expensive!  We each need to drink around 50-64 ounces of juice daily and a carrot produces like a teaspoon of juice and a shit ton of kale?  Like, one cup.  After using a garden’s worth of vegetables and fruits, it was time to go to bed in anticipation of Monday’s adventure…and after three long episodes of some other documentary series (Netflix is addicting!) we did just that.  I mean who needs adequate sleep before a long fast?  Clearly, not us.

So this brings me to today, which is Monday.  I have decided that the only way I am actually going to get through this is if I document it daily.  So here goes…

8 am (after consuming the first 16 oz.): Hey!  This isn’t so bad.  I feel energetic since I usually have fruit for breakfast anyway.  Whoo-hoo!  Day one, you are MINE bitch!

8:15 am: I want to punch someone and take their coffee.

10:30 am: Ugh just one and a half more hours until lunch.  What’s for lunch??  FUUUUUUUUUCK!

12:00 pm (second 16 oz. cup): Mmmm, juice!  I call Eric to see how he’s doing: “It’s alright…it definitely looks like barf and I’m really hungry for solid food but we can do this together.”

2:25 pm: Research fasting online and realize that some people call it “juice feasting.”  These people are clearly idiots.  Decide that I will write a blog post to document these ten days.

So there you have it.  I’m hungry, kind of lethargic, I’ve pee’d like a million times (at least), I’ve had to drink water, which I hate (seriously, clean drinking water is soooo overrated…well, except in Africa), I’m planning to go to the gym tonight AND I’m not looking forward to dinner.

Next time Eric and I should skip documentaries about fasting…especially when we’re eating copious amounts of snacks while watching them.

It all looks so innocent...

A Starbucks Story

Tags

Christmas, pretentious, starbucks

First an explanation about why I am in Denver and spending my day rotting at a starbucks:  My boyfriend Eric is taking his Muscle Activation Technique certification exam (feeling weak?  have any aches?  feel muscle tightness? Interested in your overall health and well being? give me a call.  I’ll refer you!) here and I decided to tag along.  His two-day, super grueling and intense exam is over tomorrow and we will spend the rest of the week vacationing in downtown Denver.  In the meantime, I have been spending the last 7 hours glued to an uncomfortable wooden chair listening to the most horrendous renditions of Christmas songs imaginable (I can perfectly recite lyrics to most Christmas songs on demand but “dreidel, dreidel” is a toughie.  Such a bad Jew).

Despite the fact that my ass has been asleep for the majority of the day, I have certainly been awake and alert due to the intensive people-watching I have done so sit back and enjoy as I walk you through the plethora of pithy people who will pay $4 for a cup of poffee (I had to keep the alliteration going, sorry).

7:50 am- I order my tall soy sugar-free vanilla latte hoping that because it is such a unique order, no one will steal it when it’s called.  Eric gets a practical breakfast sandwich.  Note: I get soy milk because I am lactose intolerant, not because I’m an asshole.  However, I AM an asshole because I paid $4 for a cup of coffee, absolutely.  Also, I didn’t mean to say sugar-free but the woman in front of me did so I decided to go with it (yes, I would TOTALLY jump off a bridge if my friends did).

8:00 am- Some chick swoops in OUT OF NOWHERE and steals my tall soy sugar-free vanilla latte when it is called.  I retract my former statement.  I knew I should have gotten it with real sugar!  I kiss Eric goodbye and wish him luck.  Find a table that is close to an outlet, plug my computer in, and pretend to do work.  The morning rush is picking up and my ears are ready, willing and open.

8:30 am- CAN’T ANYTHING EXCITING HAPPEN???!!!

9:00 am- Get approached by a dude who wants to know if there is anyone sitting two tables away.  I don’t know but I decide to say that no one is in anticipation of some dramatic exchange when the actual table patrons return.  UPDATE: no one was sitting at the table.  Serves me right.

10:00 am- Another business professional interviewer man says to me, “Excuse me, are you Karen?”  No, sir.  I am not.  I’m pretty sure interviewee Karen wouldn’t be sitting at a table in jeans looking at fashion blogs, reading “Allure” and skimming “The Girl Who Played with Fire” simultaneously.  And if she were, then I would hope the interview would be canceled.

12:00 pm- Eric picks me up for lunch.  We go to Noodles and Company AKA his Mecca.

1:00 pm- I’m still here.

3:00 pm- Yup stiiiiiiiiiill here…and I’m pretty much the only one.

4:00 pm- STARBUCKS IS STEALING MY SOULLLLLLLLLLLLLLLL

Happy Birthday Daddy!

Tags

mullet, Birthday, dad, daddy's girl, flight simulator

Today is my dad’s birthday and I don’t know what to get him. What kind of gift or gadget can you possibly buy for a man who helped create you (both literally and figuratively)? I really don’t think a shitty tie or “World’s Best Dad” mug will suffice and that is why I am turning to the adult equivalent of a finger painting. Look dad! I wrote this just for you!!! But I did it with love!!!!

The last time I attempted to paint something, it looked like one big sneeze on a canvas so I will have to use writing to express my love for this dude who made sure that my life was great just by being in it. I feel that the term “daddy’s girl” has such a negative connotation because it conjures up images of high-maintenence girls who think paternal love is a credit card with no limit. I was never that kind of daddy’s girl because I was chubby, had an awkward mullet-esque situation on my head (thanks mom!) and our credit cards most certainly had a limit and that limit was “DON’T SPEND WHAT YOU DON’T HAVE!!!” Ohhh the perks of immigrant parents! Instead, the bond I have with my father comes from his ability to give a HUGE shit about me and my life…thankfully, not literally. Also, he still loved me when I was fat and unfortunate-looking (not an easy feat, I have photos to prove it).

Over the years my dad has been my therapist, my life coach, my math tutor (when mom would give up on trying to help and we’d both be screaming at each other), a referee (mom’s math tutoring…enough said), and my best friend. He has helped me through my darkest moments and has seen me at my best. He is full of original quotes (ex. you will never achieve the extraordinary if you take the ordinary way) that I live by and he always badgers me to read “The Alchemist” because it changed his life…and it’s probably the only book he’s ever read ;P  Despite his love for flight simulator (it’s so dorky, he has all the gears and pedals and plays on a ginormous screen) I still think he’s super cool and I’m proud that we have some of the same personality traits.  Well, except for our stubborn nature.  Two stubborn people arguing is about as productive as…playing flight simulator.

I don’t think some people realize that being a dad is a big fucking deal. It is not a job to take lightly and even though my dad was only 25 when I was born (he might as well have been an infant) he learned very fast. Despite the fact that he has probably changed three diapers in his life (my poor mom!) he can recall every meltdown I’ve ever had and what he did to fix it. When I lived at home, I always looked forward to our Saturday morning “coffee talks” and our long philosophical discussions about the universe (we weren’t even high!)

I wish you a very happy birthday, dad, and while this blog post is NEVER going to accurately describe how amazing you are, at least it’s not a shitty tie.

Seriously, don't mess with us. (Side note: this photo was taken about 19 pounds ago)

I love you, dude

Thoughts on an Epic Loss

Tags

Celine Dion, Ravens, sports fail, Steelers, Terps, University of Maryland

When I was younger, I was always immersed in various physical activities.  These included gymnastics (lasted about a month until my crippling fear of the trampoline overcame my desire to be flexible), karate (white belt represent!), modern dance (my pudgy fourth grade self wore a blue leotard/layered tulle dress and danced her heart out to a very emotional performance of Celine Dion’s ”my heart will go on”) and basketball (I made two baskets in two seasons…pretty impressive stats in my opinion).  If there is anything this comprehensive list of fail teaches me, it’s that perseverance is not always a good thing.  Sometimes you just gotta hang in the physical activities towel and accept failure…or obesity.  Whichever comes first.

And hang in the towel I did.  Fortunately, I stayed fit on my own terms…at the gym…where no would ever count on me to score the winning basket.  Oh, who am I kidding.  No one would ever count on me to score any basket. 

Apparently, this aversion to sports was not appreciated by most people in my life including my brother, various co-workers, friends, and my loving boyfriend.  My parents, fortunately, were too European to care.  If I wanted to survive football season without succumbing to death by boredom, I would have to actually give a shit.  Now, I had never watched a full football game before.  When I went to the University of Maryland, I went to a Terps football game once, and it was only to watch the marching band (hey, some of their formations look REALLY hard).  I left after that and never came back.

Today I can proudly say that thanks to hours of exhaustive and patient coaching and explaining by the boyfriend, I can bring you this colorful conversation:

Eric: Alisa, what did the Steelers just do to the Raven’s quarterback?

Alisa: Ummmm…hit him?

Eric:  Where are my balls located?

Alisa: In skin?? Duh!

Eric: SACK!!!!!!  THEY SACKED HIM!!!! ARGHHHH!!!!

This ultra classy conversation with my beloved only proves that I still have a little bit to learn.  Sadly, the Ravens lost today in an epic battle against the Steelers and after stressing about the game for over three hours because it really WAS exciting and interesting, I don’t think I have it in me to root for a losing team again.

It brings back too many painful childhood memories.

In case you were wondering why I was so bad at sports...I may or may not have owned this CD. I also may or may not have enjoyed singing along to it...alone in my room.

Growing Pains

Tags

adulthood, dancer, doctor, hollywood, naps, parties, sitcoms

So I had an epiphany today.  And that definitely doesn’t happen often because I’m usually too lazy or tired to have any profound thoughts that go beyond “I’m hungry” or “I would really like to take a nap right now.  How does one get away with taking a nap in the workplace?” 

But anyway, my epiphany was this: I will never again have the opportunity to be ages 1-21 again.  And you know what?  Those are the best fucking ages.  I am 22 years old and do you know what that leads to???  23.  That’s all.  No one ever takes a moment to tell you that you’re essentially fucked after 21…which probably explains why your 21^st birthday is often hazy and pukey because it’s basically your grand send-off.  You know where you’re being sent?  The grave.  Only you have about 60-70 years to really think about your inevitable demise and oh by the way, you get wrinkly and saggy on top of it so you start watching infomercials and hosting lame skincare parties to prevent said wrinkles and generally sagginess.  Sounds like fun!

My life used to consist of parties, trashy campus bars, and drinking…oh, and classes.  I went to some of those too…when I wasn’t hungover or sleepy or hungry (Maslow’s hierarchy of needs, dudes).  Now my life consists of bills.  When you are younger, you accept the fact that bills must be paid…by your parents.  You see the hilarious sitcoms where the mom forgets to pay the bills and the lights go out.  In this Hollywood-fueled reality, it is understood that this is merely a comical mishap that was caused by a lovable but forgetful mailman who accidentally lost the bills (actually, this sounds like a pretty shitty sitcom but you get my point).  In the real world, the lights stay off if you forget to pay the bills.  It is this fear that prevents me from falling asleep at night (when, coincidentally, the lights are off) and forces me to be slightly anal-retentive when it comes to finances.  This is also fueled by my crippling fear of credit card debt…even though it seems like all the cool kids are doing it!

I remember a time when I was constantly being asked what I wanted to be when I grew up.  I wanted to be a dancer (which is probably every chubby little girl’s dream), a doctor, a writer, an actress (which is probably every attention-starved, chubby little girl’s dream), and an artist.

Do you know what I became?

An adult.

UPDATE:  The boyfriend would like me to point out that he is my silver lining in the massive shit storm known as aging since I met him after I turned 21.  Also, I am posting this of my own free will and I am in no way being forced to do this.  Kinda. 

It's all butterflies and roses now, isn't it? Just you wait.

The Art of Domestic Bliss

Tags

adult, boyfriend, cleaning, job, martha stewart, tequila, tilex, vodka

I have a lot of personal heroes who I aspire to be like.  However, Martha Stewart, with her homemade ornaments and reusable organic centerpieces (why the fuck do you need to put a bunch of random shit in the middle of a table?  Why??)  has never been one of them…well, except when she went to jail.  That totally upped her street cred and made her the most badass doily-wielding motherfucker I have ever seen.

But anyway, even though I consider myself to be ultra girly (Shoes! Clothes! Shopping!) and neat (for the most part), I have never felt the need to exclaim, “Let’s spend Friday night cleaning!” which is primarily why my mom and I used to get into arguments.  Sorry I don’t want to clean the bathroom when I’m deathly hungover on a Saturday morning.  Does that REALLY make me such a bad person?

Apparently it does.

However, recently I decided to make some huge life changes.  As you all know, I moved back home in 2009 when I graduated from college and quickly realized that my degree didn’t come with an automatic paycheck.  During my exhausting and totally lame job search, my parents completely supported me and even when employment smiled down on me from healthcare heaven, I decided to keep living at home so I could save money.

Fast-forward to July 2010: I moved into my own apartment with the boyfriend and realized that I actually love to clean!  Yeahhhh, just kidding.  However, I did realize that if one does not keep their surroundings neat, then one must deal with impending infestation and weird moldy shit in their fridge.  Also, when friends come over to see your new place, it is crucial that they do not get the impression you are running a suburban crack den.  Rats (and crack, for that matter) not included.

I guess this means I’m becoming an adult.  I have replaced tequila with tilex and vodka with vacuuming and I really don’t mind.  I enjoy having my own home and I want to keep it (relatively) clean and neat…

…which is why I’m glad I have the boyfriend. 

Hi Eric!

Alisa Gets a Tattoo: A True Story

Tags

dieting, Russian, tattoo, tattoo artist, weight loss

If you have been keeping up with this blog regularly (well, until I became a huge butthead and stopped updating it) then you know that I have wanted a tattoo for quite some time now. I find tattoos to be extremely interesting when they have significance and meaning and I have been carrying around my tattoo design (“mad props” go to my grandfather for creating it) for about 8 months now while patiently waiting for the scale to finally get to my magic number. 

This number (it’s greater than 100 but less than 200 so hopefully that quells your all-consuming curiosity about how much I weigh) was the reason I went to the gym regularly and subsisted on a diet of fruits, protein, vegetable purees and even less delicious “edible” ingredients Monday through Thursday of every single effing week.  Actually, I realize I just said that in past tense.  I am still eating healthy shit and going to the gym (although not as regularly) because I don’t want to be that person who reaches their weight goal and then goes on an epic thee-day binge only to be found dead a week later due to a piece of cake lodged in their throat.  Yup, that definitely won’t be me…unless it was red velvet cake…with vanilla frosting…and sprinkles.  Must. Not. Drool. On. Desk.

Anyway, a year ago my dad promised me that if I reached my number, my parents would finance my tattoo.  My mom was, understandably, troubled by this development because she does not believe that getting pictures or words etched permanently in one’s skin is a productive use of one’s time.  Weird, right?  However, she was consoled by the fact that I had 25 pounds standing in the way of me and my ink and it would take me a while to reach it…if I even succeeded.

Well two weeks ago, I finally did.  The euphoria quickly faded when I realized that while I could get my tattoo, I’d have to sit through the process of actually getting it done.

Now, I am hardly a badass.  I almost passed out when I got my nose pierced in college and I don’t handle needles well.  Not to mention, the internet is rife with assholes who try to scare the shit out you with their own tattoo experiences. Case in point, “It hurtz lik a bitch.  The wrist is the worst!  The pain is exkrusiating…blah, blah, blah.”  Did I mention I was planning to get a wrist tattoo? Perhaps I should have refrained from reading these eloquent reviews but I couldn’t help it.  I needed to be educated so I could prepare myself for the “intensze stabbing pain that makes u want to dye.” For the record, I did not pass out…well I almost did but then my tattoo artist told me to stop breathing like that because “you’re not having a baby!”  Bedside manner was clearly not her greatest attribute, although to be fair, she let Eric (the bf) sit beside me even though technically no one was allowed to go beyond the front desk if they weren’t planning to be mutilated in some way.

Now I will proceed to explain what a tattoo feels like for a huge pussy, who is deathly afraid of needles but gets them shoved into various parts of her body anyway.  The first line is the scariest because you expect that you are about to feel intense pain.  In the poignant words of Dwight Shrute, “FALSE.”  The first thing I said after the tattoo pen thingie (the technical term for it, obviously) touched my skin is “people on the internet are assholes” and you can quote me on that.  Does it tickle?  No.  But it definitely isn’t excruciating.  I might have made some interesting faces but it really wasn’t that bad.  It feels like someone is scratching a sunburn on your skin.  The whole process lasted about ten minutes and I was left with an amazing tattoo that I worked hard for.

…also, the look on my mom’s face when I came home proudly waving my body art was priceless.  TOTALLY WORTH IT.

"Dream" in Russian with a quill at the top

“Drag Me to Hell” confirms that Alisa does, in fact, still hate scary movies

Tags

Alison Lohman, balloons, Baltimore, cat, Drag me to hell, gypsy, Justin Long, scary movies, The Notebook

I don’t understand why anyone would pay money to sit in a cold theater for two hours and be scared shitless.  I can be scared for free in many parts of Baltimore City at night, for example.  I can be scared when I’m driving and have no idea where I am.  I can even be scared when I forget about a huge assignment or project and get slammed with a wave of anxiety.  However, love makes you do crazy things apparently so that is how I found myself watching “Drag me to Hell” on a Thursday night instead of doing, oh, I don’t know…ANYTHING ELSE.  Actually, my eyes were closed for 2/3rds of it but I still managed to spaz out like an epileptic at a techno concert on more than one occasion.

Sidenote: I know, I know.  I don’t write for about three months and then I just swoop back in here with my random topics and huge life changes.  Okay, he’s cute, I no longer have to be a crazy cat lady (even though he has a cat) and he’s mine.  And that’s all I have to say about that.  Step off, bitches! 

Anywayyy, back to my rant.  So here is the premise of “Drag me to Hell” (from what I gathered in my fifteen or so minutes of watching it).  There was some curse put on this Mexican kid and this spiritual healer lady sucks at her job so he dies and the floor opens and he is literally dragged into hell (poignant title, no?).  Then this batshit crazy gypsy lady who just happens to be RUSSIAN (aka me in 60 years) needs another extension on a loan for her house or she’s going to be kicked out and Alison Lohman plays this mousy bankteller who has no balls (and just happens to be dating Justin Long who is his usual adorable cinematic self) and she is trying to impress her boss and tells the lady that she cannot help her and the dirty gypsy who is CREEPY AS SHIT starts begging her but she refuses to acquiesce (you all still with me?).  THEN, Alison Lohman gets in her car, which just happens to be in the darkest and scariest parking garage ever and the crotchety gypsy is in the back seat so they start fighting and then a button is cursed and I have never been more uneasy in my whole life.  Like, I now constantly check the back seat of my car.  I felt like I was going to vom.  It was that intense.  I think at that point I just tried to block it all out by thinking about happy things like balloons and pez dispensers.  (In fact, I can’t even go further with the synopsis because I’m having PTSD flashbacks right now and it’s not pretty) So basically, while I’m practically convulsing, the boyfriend is just LOVING my seizure-esque reactions and keeps trying to convince me that “the scary parts are over.”  Yeah, okay asshole.  Sure they are.

To make things worse, when the movie ended and my heart rate started to go back down, I still couldn’t be calm because SOMEBODY decided it would be hilarious to pretend to be the psycho gypsy and terrify me with his facial contortions.  Note to SOMEBODY: Definitely NOT hilarious.

So thanks to “Drag me to Hell” and SOMEBODY, I showed what a huge pussy I am AND I no longer like gypsies and (surprise, surprise) I still hate scary fucking movies.

However, there was somewhat of a happy ending because I got to choose the next movie.  “The Notebook,” anyone?

Alisa for two hours

The Five Stages of Grief…for Sandra Bullock

Tags

A&E, forehead tattoo, Jesse James, Joseph Stalin, Kubler-Ross, Michelle McGee, Sandra Bullock, sex kitten, sluts

Remember the good ole’ days when a man cheated on his wife with only ONE woman?

It was usually his hot secretary or some other sex kitten who provided an escape from his marital problems and while it was emotionally damaging for the wife, at least she only had one chick to worry about.  Now the “sex kitten” has been replaced by a conveyor belt of sex rodents.  These are women who will fuck anyone as long as it somehow makes them famous or noticed.  Jesse James (the name REALLY should have been a red flag) isn’t the first dude to profit off of these salacious skanks but he is the most recent.  Like many women, I went through the five stages of grief when I found out about his numerous affairs.  I generally try to stay out of the love lives of celebrities because I don’t really give a shit but with Sandra it was different.  Everyone would do Sandra Bullock.  Not only is she super hot, she’s also a decent human being and those are really hard to find…especially in LA.

Following the Kubler-Ross model, naturally the denial came first.  “Ummm, no fucking way.  Not possible.  Absolutely not.”  It was followed by the anger: “How could he cheat on her with that gross girl who looks like a bad Ed Hardy t-shirt???  She calls herself a bombshell?  Yeah, according to “Jersey Shore” terminology, she’s more of a grenade launcher.  She has a forehead tattoo?  What an asshole!  I skipped past the bargaining stage and went directly to depression: So if Sandra Bullock aka the coolest girl ever was cheated on, doesn’t that mean that every guy I meet will cheat on me?  What’s the point of dating?  WHAT IS THE POINT??  I should just let myself go and start hoarding a bunch of shit until A&E does an Intervention/Hoarders 2 hour special on me.  Luckily, this stage did not last long because acceptance finally settled in:  Not all men are bad.  Sandra deserves better and I shouldn’t compare every potential love interest to Jesse James because that could lead to really awkward first date conversations ex. “Soooo, fuck any aspiring fugly models lately?”  I choose to believe that not every guy wants to bang a girl with a forehead tattoo and if he does, then maybe I shouldn’t date him.  Enlightening, right?

So the moral is this: NEVER get a forehead tattoo…because they make it hard for anyone to take you seriously AND don’t date someone named Tiger Woods, Jesse James…or Joseph Stalin for that matter.

Sup Joey?