Week 71: down 0 pounds (-60.5 pounds total!)

Good morning Hot Man Dieteers!  Yet another Monday a.m. finds me strapped for time enough to fully bring the Hotness.  My most heartfelt apologies.  But rest assured, when we do meet again the good times, good times will flow.  Don’t believe me?  Take another look at today’s title.  Yeah, I’ve got a great story for ya’ll!

Especially since I have no desire whatsoever to talk about how frustrated I am with my results this week (weekends are killing me!) or how I feel completely stuck in this 60 pounds lost wasteland (not the worst place to be, but still!) or how I am also feeling completely invisible to boys lately.  (Can a sister get an occasional second glance?  Damn!)  Nope.  Don’t wanna talk about it. 

Okay kids, have a good one, and I’ll see you back here later this evening (tomorrow for you East Coast-ers).  Toodles!

And we’re back…

Since I made my life public fodder people have been coming to me with their own various and sundry tales of dieting, Hot Manspirations and poor boy choices.  The latter, in particular, finds its way into many conversations.  I suppose the disclosure of my own checkered past has a good deal to do with their candor…posts such as Great Sexpectations, When Hot Men Go Bad and Being American apparently indicate that I am unfazed by most Mancounters, even if (when?) they go horribly awry.  Such is the case with the story I am about to tell you, one that I have held in my confidence for the better part of eight months and one that I can keep to myself no longer.

My poor friend!  Let me begin by saying that certain specifics have been altered/omitted/embellished to protect the innocent, though you may be hard pressed to use the word innocent once the tale is told.  My poor friend, a single lass living in a major metropolitan city, was on the brutal side of a six month long dry spell with the menfolk.  According to her own words, she was feeling “dead inside”.  A random work party put her in the company of many new and interesting men.  A flirting rebirth led her to an especially long conversation with one especially new and interesting man.  He was Hot.  He was Hot for her.  He was older and established, professionally successful and, at first, oozing of Hot Manspiration.  He was also married.  Yikes!  She resisted his advances as long as she could, having learned the hard way that she could look but should not touch.  (Like Her Hotness, this one was/is a magnet for married men.  We neither of us know why!)  He didn’t let up.  He lavished her with good Manttention.  She was hooked.  What had started as Hot Manspiration had quickly become a poor boy choice extraordinaire.  But she was hooked.  He was Hot!  She was hooked.

The makeout session began in a dark corner of the rented bar.  You may ask, as I did, why so much so quickly?  Remember - she was on the brutal end of a six month long dry spell with the menfolk.  Her judgement was shot to hell, and her body was bewitched, bothered and bewildered with quivering need.  The makeout session that began in a dark corner of the rented bar soon found itself transplanted and in full tilt in the back of her car.  Yes, I said the back of her car.  (No judgement here, people!  Need is need is need is need…no one ever said this stuff was pretty!) 

Things were going great.  They were doing everything but and having a great time of it.  The thought crossed her mind to take him home but bad choices in ones car seemed infinitely more palatable than bad choices in ones boudoir.  So in the car they remained until the wee hours of the morning, when doing everything but had left them with everything but energy.  The night was winding to a pleasing (thought not completely satisfactory, if’n you know what I mean) end, with the couple enjoying the last few moments of their naked reverie.  As she described it, she was comfortably positioned underneath him as they continued kissing.  Her hands were still exploring him and had come to rest on his buttcheeks.  She noticed that his behind felt odd to the touch, weirdly cool and slightly…viscous.  In her confusion, she brought one hand to her face, though the darkness prevented her from seeing a thing.  At that exact moment, a pungent smell erupted in the confines of her sedan, instantly confirming the horrific thought that had just crossed her mind.  She had been shit on!!!!!  He had soiled himself and her hands had been innocent victims! 

He lifted his head, drunkenly wondering what the hell smelled so bad.  She screamed and kicked him out of the car (she is still amazed she was able to negotiate this move so quickly and…ummm…cleanly with her few remaining shit-less digits), sending him out into the night ass-first and covered in poo.  She doesn’t know where he went or how he cleaned himself.  She only knows that for the first time in her life she was grateful for McDonald’s, their glovebox napkins providing her with enough temporary sanitation to make it home. 

She would call it the worst car ride of her life, the ten minutes it took to rid herself of the backseat companion she had warned herself against but allowed herself to fall for.  She had fallen prey to her basest instincts and suffered for it.  And then she got shit on.  She literally got shit on. 

Was it karma?  Was it punishment?  Or was it merely the weakening strength of a middle-aged sphincter?  Does it really matter?  Perhaps it is just enough to say that sometimes…you know…shit happens.

Literally.

Hot Manspirations of the Week: In honor of his birthday (and because ever since I heard it was his birthday on the radio this morning I’ve been unable to think of little else) I’m giving another shout-out to Law & Order’s Jeremy Sisto.  He just gets Hotter with age and I loves it!  And in honor of his father’s pretty stellar outing last Thursday night (and because ever since I first spied him during last month’s Democratic National Convention I’ve been unable to think of little else) I’m giving a HMD shout-out to Beau Biden, son of our soon-to-be (cross your fingers and VOTE!) Vice-President, Joe Biden.  Political Hotties are few and far between…this one’s a young stunner and I am a HUGE fan!

Week 72:  down…aw hell, kids, you caught me.  YOU CAUGHT ME!  I did not dare look at, step on or get near that blasted scale this morning.  Un uh, no way, no how and you can’t make me!  Why?  One word - Oktoberfest. 

Seriously, that’s the only word I’m giving you.  Oktoberfest.  You know how much Her Hotness loves herself some Oktoberfest!  So just imagine her unleashed upon the poor, unsuspecting citizens of Pismo Beach, CA.  It was a sausage fest…in every sense of the word… 

(Hats off to the peeps at Old Vienna Restaurant!  After two disappointing LA area Oktoberfests, it was a hearty change of pace to attend one that was both authentic and serious good times, good times.  The band was incredible, the beer delicious, the crowd lively and lovely!  It was worth the drive!)

Also on last week’s agenda - New Kids on the Block at the Staples Center!!!!!!  HMD’ers, there are almost no words.  I cannot tell you how much I loved, loved, loved these boys when I was but a teen me.  Words fail me.  Perhaps I could upload the many pics from my sweet sixteen party…apart from the brilliant color scheme (green and pink, then my fave combo), amazing cold cut platter and gorgeous four-tiered birthday cake (can you say spoiled?) the memory that stays with me the most is the fact that every gift I received, EVERY single one, was NKOTB related!  Perhaps I could come to your house and do the entire dance routine from the Right Stuff video because I still remember every stinking move!  Kids, kids, kids…I was at their mercy.  They were my teen dreams and I was at their mercy.  Turns out I still am.

The Staples center was teeming with the barely untethered pulsating libido of thousands of adult women hoping to give their teen selves the ultimate gift - a chance to land the man of their teen dreams.  Oh, you should’ve seen the tight jeans and the sequined tees and the did hair and the painted nails and the musky scent and the cougar eyes…it was ON!  I know because I was one of ‘em!  I was ready and prepped for anything…anything!  Those boys, umm umm, they’ve grown into some fine looking men!  They’re all ridonkulously built and Hot and good white boy dancers and Hot and incredibly charismatic and Hot and looking like their having the time of their lives and HOT!  What a reunion!  SO much better than the Jacksons Victory tour and the Monkees reunion tour, both of which I enjoyed.  (You may make fun of my musical tastes later.)  

Twenty years later and better than ever, Hotter than ever and enjoying the hell out of themselves…it seems the boys and I have MUCH in common these days!  Woo hoo! 

(Curses to the damned competent security team at the Staples Center with their damned rules and regulations and their damned polite requests to please leave the premises now, ma’am and their damned need for proof that you totally have backstage passes you just left them in the car.  Whatever.)

Hot Manspirations of the Week:  With my most sincere apologies to Jonathan Knight and Danny Wood, this week I gotsta give it up to the three men who were Hot enough to almost get me permanently 86′ed from the Staples Center - Jordan “I can bench press you my chest is so ripped” Knight, Joey “I’m the Hottest super religious guy up in this piece (yeah, I’m talking to you, Kirk Cameron, so step off before I knock the ecclesiastes out of you!)” McIntyre, and my main man, my numero uno since age 14, Donnie “I conveniently filed for divorce just before this tour so that you and I can finally be together, Leah” Wahlberg. 

Damned competent security team! 

Week 73: down 2 pounds (-62.5 pounds total!)  Woo hoo! 

Hola people!  Happy Monday morning to ya’ll.  I am happy as a clam this (very) early a.m.  2 pounds down!  Woo hoooooo!!!  Plateau, thy name is no longer Leah.  OMFG!  WTF?  T.G.I.HOT!

So I realized something this week, kids.  After plunking down a good bit of my hard-earned paycheck on a haircut (finally!), a manicure (finally!) and an eyebrow wax (FINALLY!) I had an epiphany.  A revelation.  An awakening.  It’s hard to be a girl, ya’ll.  Really, really, really hard!  There’s so much to contend with…every time you turn around something needs to be plucked or tweezed or trimmed or shaved or painted or buffed or lasered or covered or concealed or lifted or separated or dyed or permed or straightened - ARGH!!  It’s enough to make one go running for the hills, the blissful freedom of the hairy, split-ended, Birkenstock clad hills!  The running of one’s body, the upkeep of it, the maintenance of it, it is a full time freaking job.  And I, for one, am OVER it!  I can’t keep it all straight.  At any given point in time there is something on my person that requires professional attention (and I’m not even referring to the voices in my head).  At no point in time do I EVER feel completely and utterly “done”.  The eyebrows might look fantastic, but don’t let me near a sleeveless blouse.  The hair might have been did, but don’t even glance at my feet.  Ladies - do ya feel me?  Or am I the only jacktard out there who cannot manage to keep this shite together?  And am I the only one whose pursestrings seem intent on sabotaging all pursuits of aesthetic happiness?  Speaking of, WHEN THE HELL DID REALLY GOOD BRAS BECOME SO EFFING EXPENSIVE?!?!?!?

(As you can well imagine, HMD’ers, Talent and Ambition are very hard to house.  My mother, who for many years spent a good deal of her hard-earned paycheck on the maintenance and upkeep of my rapidly expanding bustline, still contends with vicious glee that my breasts have teeth, otherwise HOW do I go through bras so voraciously?  My answer to this tit-ular slur is thus: there are just some jobs that are too much for cotton.  My bubs are among them.  But still, why so expensive?!?!)

Anyhoo, I bring all of this up only to say that last week was one those weeks where I just felt…unpretty.  I felt uncool, unattractive, unkempt and unnecessary.  The skin was rough, the hair (pre-cut) was rough, it was all just rough!  And I felt overwhelmed.  The part of ”girl” just felt way too demanding and had WAY too many close-ups.  I wanted to quit.  Give up.  Wanted to turn in my script and let the understudy take over.  Too hard, too hard, too hard….

And then Saturday morning I went for a walk.  And halfway through that walk I started to run.  You  heard me.  Run.  And my legs, my legs that desperately needed a good shave, my legs became beautiful to me because they were strong.  My thighs, my thighs that I have been battling since the onslaught of puberty, my thighs became beautiful to me because they were strong.  My arms, my arms that have been so neglected and ignored for most of my life, my arms became beautiful to me because they were strong.  And my heart, my heart that was pumping, thumping, beating fast and steady in my chest as I ran, my heart that was so fragile for so long until I changed everything so that it might have a chance to survive AND thrive, my heart that has been through so much but is ready for so much more, my heart became beautiful to me because it was STRONG.  And then it occurred to me - forgetting all of the outside worries, letting go of all of society’s expectations, how do I really, really feel about myself when I’m all alone, when there’s no one to judge but me, and when all there is to judge is the purest, clearest, most heartfelt version of Leah that can be gifted to the world?  How do I feel then?  Is it too hard?  Too demanding?  Too overwhelming?  No.  No.  Not at all.  Thank god, not at all.  It is simply thus: 

I am beautiful because I am strong.   

And then I smiled.  And I just kept running…

Hot Manspirations of the Week:  I’ve had some really random thoughts of Hotness this week, kids.  The weirdest Hot Men have been popping in and out of my thoughts, and in honor of my two pounds lost I bring you two of the Hottest.  First up we’ve got Josh Brolin.  He hosted SNL this week, though Sarah Palin stole ALL of his thunder.  (My vote for best SNL cameo actually goes to Mark Wahlbeg, a previous HMD HM of the W…if you have not seen the sublimely brilliant “Mark Wahlberg Talks to Animals” SNL sketch you must watch it immediately, as well as the hilarious follow-up two nights ago.  Awesome!)  Anyhoo, Josh Brolin is Hot, ya’ll!  He was in No Country For Old Men, he’s in W right now, and his step-mother is Barbra Streisand.  And he’s Hot.  Hot! 

Also on my mind lately, and this is really out of left field, is actor Bradley Cooper.  I’ve had a crush on this one since I was a slavish devotee of the first few seasons of Alias.  His face has been popping up on my tv screen in ads for the new Jim Carrey movie and I can’t stop thinking of him.  This dude is smoking Hot and super talented…why is he still second fiddle to the likes of Jim Carrey?  Not good.  Not good!  

And MAJOR HMD kudos to General Colin Powell!  A well deserved endorsement that is also perfectly timed.  Thank you, sir.  Thank you, thank you, thank you! 

Week 73:  up .5 pound (-62 pounds total!)

Good evening, HMD’ers.  I know, I know…just call me Slacky Slacker, Mayor of Slacktown.  I’m sorry!  I took a quick weekend jaunt to lovely Sacramento, CA and got in way too late to put pen to paper pre-work.  I’m sorry!  I feel like I owe you all a fantastic, shimmering ode to Hotness, an epic work of effing brilliance, a virtuosic Manifesto of Mantacular proportions, a freaking Hottie Hot Hotfest!  And yet…

May I be frank, kids?  (Yes, Frank!) 

I am SO NOT IN THE MOOD!

I’m not!  I don’t wanna.  I can’t.  And you can’t make me!  Kids, I am not in the mood to discuss the thoughts crashing through my head right now because they are all over the place…I’m not in the mood to talk about me and vacations and food, a disastrous trio if e’er there were…I’m not in the mood to discuss the surprising amount of Hotness I uncovered (discovered?) in Sacramento, because it was truly a sight to behold…I’m REALLY not in the mood to discuss how this No Cal Hotness was quite depressing, actually, as every single specimen presented himself to me with his wagon already hitched to a less than deserving star (an observation based solely on looks and fashion sense and as seen through the less than objective and completely snarky eye of a ragingly jealous Los Angeleno singleton)…I don’t want to even get started (don’t get me started!) on the why-the-pardon my language-why-the-fuck-am-I-still-single conversation because it will undoubtedly make me seem “bitter” and ”angry” and “potentially homicidal”…and yes, I suppose this is the moment where Carrie Bradshaw would go to Bergdorf’s for another pair of Manolos but even Macy’s is too pricey for this gal and yes I’m broke (although aren’t we all?) and I am not in the mood to talk about that either!…and seriously, are you guys completely over my fanatical use of ellipses…I really wish that sometimes I could read my entries out loud for you guys cause I’m worried that I’m losing some of the funny in the translation from my head to your lips and now of course I’ve insulted your comedic timing but let’s face it, some people have good timing and some don’t and it is NOT a skill that can be taught, sorry guys…and I’m sitting in my apartment drinking decaf coffee when I am REALLY in the mood for a bottle of red wine…yes, I said bottle…I mean, when do I decide to throw in the towel…when do I give up and get cats and begin naming them after Jane Austen characters…Darcy…Willoughby…Knightly…and I’m still so pissed about the Yankees I can’t even FATHOM writing my promised World Series of Hotness, I can’t do it, I can’t do it, I can’t do it…but seriously though, who does a girl have to sleep with around here to get a date, aaargh…Colonel Brandon…Captain Wentworth…and now I’m totally worried that ya’ll are gonna think that I’m really crazy and undateable…that’s my nickname at work - Leah the Undateable…it’s a long story…but my other nickname is Black Lightning and I like that one better…and, ugh, when do I actually get a job that utilizes my talents and skills…I am REALLY not in the mood to even think about that one, cause that one will seriously send this pot of Dunkin’ Decaf through the mothertrucking kitchen window and will have me reaching for the tequila, screw the wine, hand me the tequila…it’s failing me, ya’ll, it’s failing me…Hot Manspiration is failing me!…I’m not in the mood to keep busting my hump in order to lose my hump and make what is left of my rump more appealing to…to whom?…TO NO ONE!!!…I do not exaggerate…that is what I am honestly and truly not in the mood to discuss…because it hurts…it stings…I an NOT in the mood to discuss how very much I really am in the mood…not for sex, get your mind out of the gutter!…no, no, no…I am not in the mood to discuss how very much I really am in the mood…for love.

Aw crap.  Whatever.  I’m getting another cup of decaf.  Here’s a picture of some Hot Firemen.