I’m very excited about Saturday. The biggest fattest most awesomest thing ever, in the history of, well, boring little me, is that we’re going shopping for a king-size bed. And not just any king-size bed. We’re going for a Tempurpedic -- a squishy, comfy, cozy, gorgeous beast of a bed.

We had been waiting to buy a new bed until we purchase a home, but you see, Steve has the dreaded PLMD, which means that each jerk of his big toe and kick of his leg sends movement through the springs and then the bed jiggles and shimmies. As a result, I have had very, very little sleep this week.

This can’t be. I have way too much work to do over the next five months to be walking around half-awake. I need to be on my A-game, since how I perform will have life-long consequences in terms of my success, and the success of the people around me at work. There’s a lot at stake, and if I do well, then the returns are exponential. And if I do a shoddy job, I risk becoming replaceable, and that is simply not an option.

Today? Today is not an A-game type of day for me, and I feel pretty darn terrible and muddy-headed and unfocused. This is an impairment that I don’t have the luxury of tending to.

So tomorrow. Tomorrow I will get my new bed, and I will spend as many hours in it as possible this weekend, except when I’m watching the Super Bowl. Go Giants!

It’s funny how I can spend all this time spouting off about healthy food, and then last night, I managed to go home and sit in front of the TV with a glass of rosé and a box of petifores. I know I was actually using my illegitimate feast as a way of procrastinating writing thank you notes. So it actually had very little to do with health and food and everything to do with being a procrastinator. Once I realized what I was doing, I got down to work.

I wrote to one friend that if a meat thermometer could be cherished, then her gift would earn that honor. I hope that she doesn’t take that the wrong way. Because what I meant by that was, I adore this freakin’ meat thermometer. Our oven is a lazy good-for-nothin’ and cooking times mean jack squat to it. Now we can scoff at our oven’s propensity to disobey because we have a wireless, digital meat thermometer to thwart the oven’s efforts to dry out our roasts.

Anyway.

We’re going to Vegas! WOOO! Not until June though. Wah.

I sent this email out to some of my lady friends, (and I still need to forward it to a few more because I’m a dunder head and I forgot):

------------------
Hello my ladies,
Steve and I are going to have a joint bachelor / bachelorette party in Vegas this year. Now, I know what you're thinking. It sounds like it might be expensive, and you might actually have to talk to people you don't know. You're right that it's not free, but rest assured, you are all fabulous and I promise that you will enjoy sunning yourselves poolside by day and wandering aimless and drunk around a casino by night, and by god we'll have a damn good time doing it. Last time I went to Vegas, I got lucky at the roulette table and walked away a whole 80 dollars richer. This could be you! Plus the wedding will be a much better party, since you will have already bonded with the other leading ladies in my life, plus you'll meet the men in Steve's life.

Of course if anyone cannot make it due to financial constraints, then I fully understand and I will of course still love you just as much, if not more, for being a reasonable human being. One of you will already have been on a honeymoon that month, and another will have recently given birth. Vegas might sound like a terrible idea, and you're right. It is. I tried to argue against it myself before succumbing to the inescapable funness. So again, to those of you who can't make it, then I respect that 107.25%.

For those of you who want to party like it's 1999 and you think consequences are for suckers, then read on.

[Details, shmetails, blah blah blah, end of story.]
------------------

Why does June have to be so very far away?

I remember those carefree days when the early bird special was something to be laughed at, but never eaten. But today, for the first time in my life, the early bird special makes perfect sense to me. Naturally, I find this disturbing on many levels. But first, let me back up a second here and explain how I’ve come to my newest conclusion about the worth of the early bird.

Since I’ve started my new job, I work much longer hours than was formerly habitual. This means that these days, we finish dinner close to 9 and we get ready for bed soon after that. Sometimes we even bring dessert to bed, which is a really terrible idea. If you’re lying in bed, this should signal that you don’t need anymore fueling up for the day and you need to retire the moon pie for when you really need it, although I’m not sure when that would be. But I know it’s definitely not when you’re getting ready to go to sleep.

This reminds me of a story that I heard years ago about Jack Nicholson. Apparently, he would bring peanut butter sandwiches to bed to fuel his lovemaking. Sorry for forcing that visual upon you, but I shouldn’t be the only one to suffer. Okay, tangent over.

The last several nights, my body has decided that this whole late night full-on dinner routine does not suit us. Not one bit. And my surly body, blessed with the attitude of a ‘tween, is letting its feelings be known by disrupting my sleep so that I can experience a tummy full of last night’s dinner in the wee hours of the morning. This, as you can guess, is not my favorite pastime.

This morning, I was sick of lying there by 5 a.m., although I tried some more with feeling until about 5:15 when I realized that there were better things I could do with my time than lie there and feel bitter about my lot in life as an insomniac. So I got up, threw on ye olde gym clothes and grabbed “In Defense of Food” (yes, bloggergirl, it IS awesome) and then I did an hour on the elliptical while I read my book and digested some chicken.

As I was getting ready for work, I realized that my fooded-up-fouled-up system wasn’t even ready for breakfast after my hour of cardio, and so I threw my packet of oatmeal in my bag so I could eat it at work. I had to pass on the chicken sausages, since they require a skillet and stove for preparation, instead opting for a frozen soy ‘sausage’ patty.

When I got to work, I nuked my oatmeal and sausage and sat down to breakfast. I tried to stir the oatmeal, which resembled a vat of glue. I took a bite of the ‘sausage’ and cringed at a taste that resembled nothing out of nature. When I’m at home, I boil water in my electric kettle and then pour it over my oatmeal, which results in all-natural, oaty tasting goodness. But the nuking turned my darling oatmeal into a gelatinous, bland paste. And don’t get me started on this ‘sausage’ crap. I’ve had some that taste good, and these, my friend, these are not those.

So not only did my dinner ruin my night’s sleep, it even went so far as to ruin my breakfast. This morning, I’ve been trying to figure out how to solve the problem. Since going for the early bird special isn’t possible, I will instead have to concentrate on eating a mini-dinner. I’ll have to do a little experimenting to see if I’ll need to have a bigger lunch or not to make up for it.

I’ll also have to come to terms with why I find this all so disturbing: 1) I’ll need to learn how to enjoy eating a lot less at night, which is a (formerly) beloved diversion from all my cares and worries. 2) Dinner is my favorite meal. You can cook and eat wonderful things. Lunch kind of sucks, as it usually involves a freezer and a microwave. And 3) this whole eating late / sleep disturbance thing means I’m officially, um, not getting any younger.

I’m actually sitting here at my desk wearing my coat today. It’s freakin’ cold in here. Considering next week I will be shipped off to a locale that practically borders Canada, this does not bode well for my physical comfort. In case you haven’t guessed by now, I’m a whiney wussie when it comes to wintriness. I’m now trying out typing with gloves on. Not easy, but more comfortable than sitting on my hands for warmth every few minutes.

While I’m whining, that whole annoying attack-of-the-eyeballs from sitting in front of my computer all day just cropped up again. I hate that. Whine whine whine.

Now for the good news. I discovered that Kashi Heart to Heart Raisin Spice Oatmeal is golldang delicious, and I am actually craving it right now. That’s been my breakfast of champions the last few mornings, and I think I could make it my lunch on occasion as well. It’s especially scrumptious accompanied by a couple of chicken sausage links.

The funny thing about my quest to start eating healthier is that I started reading that book “In Defense of Food” and as it turns out, there’s no clear link between consuming dietary fat and having high cholesterol. The only thing scientists have been able to conclude of late is that restricting fats and replacing them with carbs has coincided with higher rates of obesity and more heart attacks in the American population. Hilarious.

So I’m just concentrating on adding more fruits and vegetables to my diet, which means I will naturally cut back on meat and cheese just because I’m making room for other foods. I’m not going to sweat it.

In fact, I will probably succumb to the occasional pizza spree or go on a three-day ice cream bender, or like last night, I will actually eat a cupcake as an appetizer, and then go on to eat the contents of a barnyard for dinner. Maybe I don't have the right to feel proud that I skipped dessert, but that’s okay. Because I do anyway. As long as I get my exercise and scale back when I’m feeling prudent so that I can fit into my pants on a semi-consistent basis. Because at the end of the day, it’s all about the ability to pull on your pants in the morning without running out to buy a new pair first.

My eyeballs hate me today. I wear contact lenses, and there are some days, after staring at a computer monitor for hours on end, that I want to pinch my corneas and pull them off my eyeballs. Today is one of those days. So the length of this post is going to reflect the fact that my eyeballs are not cooperating.

I need to travel for work next week, and while I’m not at all thrilled with the city I’m heading to, I am comforted by the fact that I will be staying in a luxury hotel that has a spa. In light of the fact that I love a good spa treatment, my feelings on the trip are a bit divided. On the one hand, traveling to crappy cities to attend all-day meetings with your fellow coworkers can promote bonding and a sense of “we’re all in this together” type camaraderie that breaks down walls and fosters chumminess long after the trip is over.

On the other hand, when I’m overwhelmed by work commitments and I’m tired from travel, sometimes I feel anti-social at night and I would prefer an oily massage followed by holing up in my room with a glass of red wine and a fluffy magazine made soggy by a warm bath.  

Something tells me that these options are not mine to choose and I will have to be like a piece of grass bent in the wind, or more like a pixie stick squashed in the chubby grip of a sweaty 10-year-old. Either way, I’ll just have to stay positive.