Operation Miniskirt: -36 lbs.
State of Mind: I'm crabby. My uterus has taken my hormones hostage, and I'm retaining enough water to float a small boat.
It's amazing how losing a few hours of sleep can make you face the world spitting and ready to rip out some eyeballs.
Saturday was Mandy's housewarming party. Because she accidentally drank herself into a stupor the night before, she called on me to come to the rescue the next day. After I finished laughing at her, I went to her place about noon, and together we cleaned and prepared food all day long. I stayed there that night, and didn't end up going to sleep until after four in the morning, as a few of us stayed up talking. Then, last night was the Oscars, so I stayed up late for that and then had to get up extra early this morning... So it comes down to having had about 9 or 10 hours of sleep in two days, and aren't we supposed to aim for 8 hours a night? Inconceivable, really. Who has time to sleep 8 hours a night? I mean, I don't have that much of a life, and I don't get to sleep 8 hours a night! Imagine those do-ers that actually have super-duper, hyperactive schedules! Now, normally, I could survive - hell, even be peppy - on a few hours loss of sleep... but upon arriving home yesterday, I got some maggot into my head about getting on the treadmill. I aimed for 20 minutes, and then extended it to 40. At forty, I decided I still had some life in me, and pushed myself to 60. Do you know how proud I was of myself? I kept up a nice sweaty pace for a full 60 minutes!
However, because my poor and flabby body rebels against any form of exercise and general movement, when you add that hour-long workout to the lack of sleep and the hormone-annexed brain, what you end up with is a quivering mass of pissiness that can only be assuaged with her own body's weight in chocolate. And of course, that's a mortal sin right now because of the bloody Op:MS.
Shaddup. Lemme complain. 's'my diary and I'll cry if I want to.
Speaking of crying - didja all see the Oscars last night? It was the first year I've watched the Academy Awards at home in about 6 or 7 years. I usually go to Mandy's parent's Oscar watching party, but I was far too exhausted to be anywhere but on my own sofa yesterday. Here's my take, in a nutshell.
Peter O'Toole was the epitome of graciousness and class in his thank you speech. Halle Berry, take note.
Gael Something-Something-Hottie-Latin God-type who introduced Frida as one of the Best Picture nominations... well, he's my new boyfriend.
Michael Moore had a point.. but mostly, I think he just likes to hear himself talk. Susan Sarandon was far more effective with her simple bow and peace sign. Plus, she looked gorgeous.
Meryl Streep finally did something with her hair, which was nice.
I love Barbra Streisand with all my heart and inner diva, but even I'm grateful that she finally learned enough to not wear an off-the-shoulder.
Adrien Brody is lovely. He's my new boyfriend, too.
Salma Hayek looked like she had a pickle lodged in an uncomfortable place all night long. Really, a smile now and then would increase your face value, Salma.
I guess you could call Renee Zellwegger cute, in that maimed animal kind of way. And can she not attend an awards show without being on something?
I think Julia Roberts was a little on something, too. She kind of had that Marilyn-Monroe-singing-happy-birthday-to-the-President thing going on. Charming. Really.
I really should get around to seeing Chicago, shouldn't I? I've been resisting because I only saw in on stage in November, in London with Jude, and I don't want to cloud the memory.
Olivia de Havilland looks lovely, doesn't she?
On that note, I'm off. I've got to somehow get through the rest of this day. Those of you who'd like to send me warm wishes that will keep me happy through the rest of the day will be rewarded with my having saucy dreams about you.
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