My Saturday Ritual

If I would've known myself two years (or more) ago, I probably would've not liked myself a whole lot. That's not true. I would've liked myself until I started mentioning calories and exercising and then in my head I would've thought "rub it in my face, bitch."

Mostly I say that because I've started getting up when Chef does on the weekends. He gets up at 4 or so to get into work (he preps until the restaurant opens). I get up and go running. That's right. Not only is my ass up before the sun, but it's up and running. I started doing this a few months ago when it got blazing hot and I was reluctant to run past sun up.

So now, I get up, run, feed the cats, empty litter boxes, take a shower and then curl back up into bed knowing that I have 4 more hours of sleep. Seriously, perhaps it's working against itself, but getting up and then knowing you have plenty more time to sleep is a luxury that I never knew existed. Sometimes I take advantage and sleep. Other times I take advantage and watch horrible chick flicks that I know Chef wouldn't care to see. Either way, I'm the winner.

When I finally get up, I vacuum. Four cats and despite the fact that three don't shed very much, one does and that's enough. So, vacuum, eat some cereal (all done in my underwear) and wait for Chef to come home. However, underwear has become a problem this week.

We don't have the luxury of a washer/dryer or hook ups. We do, however, have pay machines a mere 50 yards away. They require quarters and in this day and age of debit cards, I rarely have the silver. We got the majority of our clothes washed with a roll I got at the bank last week, but Chef forgot to wash my undies (I'm thinking this was not an accident). So, I'm in those last few pairs that are smashed under a bra that fit 80 pounds ago. Luckily, (and this is probably too much info, but I'm going for it) these are undies that I bought in a sentimental state. They look like Underoos. Supergirl Underoos nonetheless. It was kind of liberating to have them on under my suit pants the other day. Gave me a boost of confidence.

Underwear aside, I then spend the majority of my Saturdays hanging out with Chef. Today we watched movies and ate Hungry Girl Kung Pao Chicken (delicious). Of course, my time is limited as he goes to bed early to accommodate his work schedule (he doesn't have the extra four hour luxury). I better get back to my spot on the couch before the other lady fo the house (Mila) takes my spot on Chef's lap.

What's Real Anymore?

Last night I watched bits and pieces of "I'm a Celebrity! Get me Out of Here" before wondering if everything in my life that's supposed to be real is actually fake. Not a "Matrix" freakout, but certainly something worth contemplating.

Like that show, for instance, which swears that no one knows what's going on and that it's the "celebrities" being real. I have a hard time believing that Spencer Pratt is that much of an out of touch asshole in real life. At least, I'd like to believe that there are few people who are so delusional that they think being on an MTV "reality" show grants them higher celebrity than Lou Diamond Phillips. I mean, come on.

Maybe I'm cynical. Maybe I'm just skeptical, but there are very few things that I feel are organic these days. Not like, all natural organic, but like happening on their own. One thing I did have pointed out to me twice on the same day (thank you Chef and Laura) was this great amazon.com review. I think it's probably real, but now that the company has seen it's orders for the shirt rise, I'm sure there's a marketing agency out there trying to replicate it with one of their products.

Not even the sugar I eat is real. It's splenda and therefore supposedly better for me, but it's still scary. I love Hungry Girl because she makes fattening foods less so, but most of her recipes don't use "real" ingredients.

What is real anymore?? Am I missing out on anything or just having a 21st century crisis of reality?