The man on the radio greeted me with that line this morning, and followed it up with “the temperature is -40 with the windchill today.”  Fuck you, radio man.

I am currently in my sweet-jesus-just-hold-out-for-a-few-more-days-til-Mexico countdown – we leave at 7:00 a.m. Saturday morning for a week in sunny, hot, relaxing, wonderful Mexico.  I couldn’t be more excited.  The beach and a few good books and cold beers and delicious fruit and snorkelling…I’m ready to burst with anticipation!  That, and food.  Good lord this weekend has essentially consisted of eating, eating, self-shaming, and then more eating to cure the feelings of shame.  Gross.  I got back from a four-day sales conference in Toronto on Thursday night – at which I essentially ate my way through the presentations of new books coming out this season – and then this weekend we had a family dinner extravaganza: a Christmas dinner at our place on Saturday night, and Hanukkah dinner on Sunday night.  Both were lovely and went really well, but both consisted of eating my weight in all things health-related (read: cheese, potatoes, more cheese, and dessert).

This is going to make for an interesting bathing suit-related Christmas vacation.

Two weekends ago I took part in a 5K run at the Forks to raise money for the Salvation Army.  This run takes place annually around the country, and Winnipeg had the highest turnout this year, second only to Toronto.  Pretty impressive for a town that is currently frozen solid at -40.  Granted, it was only -10 that morning, so it was bearable – although the first 15 minutes or so were painful as I have vents in the bottoms of my runners and snowy feet make for a painful run.  While I completed the run at about 7 minutes slower than my usual pace, I was pretty happy overall, considering that I only got out for four runs in preparation for the 5K, and hadn’t run outside since the flowers were still in bloom.  It’s pretty amazing how much your body can remember.  Equally amazing is the amount of progress I can undo in such a short period of time!  Hot diggity.  Now that the mercury has hit “Unholy” I won’t be running outside that much, but I still have the remnants of an overpriced gym membership, a pass to a hot yoga studio, and a few more classes left on my boxing pass – not to mention a goddamn elliptical trainer in my very own home.  Time to make use of this shit, for my sake and the sake of those spending a bathing suit-clad week in Mexico with me.  I can almost hear the stampede.

While I have a hard time focusing on more than one major goal at a time, this week work is taking a back seat to ME.  Bring on the hot yoga, massages, and pedicures.  It’s the Winter of Jessica.

So I’m at work yesterday afternoon, and my Dad gets a call from the woman that rents the business unit that’s attached to the front of our house.  I can hear from my Dad’s responses to her that she’s bitching about Matt and I – my Dad’s saying things like “Okay well I’m happy to talk to them about that” and “Yes and they have to have privacy too” and the like.  I walk over to the desk of the student that’s working for us and let him know that Dragon Lady is bitching about me on the phone to my Dad and eavesdrop from there.  I poke my head into my Dad’s office and make eye contact with him and he smiles and rolls his eyes.  When he gets off the phone I ask “Alright so what’s her problem this time?” and am completely surprised by his response: “Well it seems that she can smell pot smoke all the time and is concerned because one of her clients is a cop and has been asking about it.”

Woah…what?

My Dad continues, “She says that she smells it most during the week, and particularly on Monday mornings.  She saw Matt as he was leaving for work at 9:00 a.m. a few Mondays ago, and when she went into the office she was overwhelmed with the smell of marijuana.”

The idea that Matt’s doing bong rips before work is hilarious.  But, that doesn’t really make sense since he starts work at 8:30 a.m. and also he’s not a fucking degenerate.  We’ve figured out that she can smell it Monday mornings the most since the weekends is generally when we partake the most in our medicinal rituals, and now that the furnace is on, it recycles the air from our deviant pot-fueled drug parties into her office (as the building is all connected – it was one big house renovated into a smaller house and business unit).  Apparently she’s been spraying Febreeze like nobody’s business to try and cut out the stench of our out-of-control habit.

So now I guess we have to hotbox the bathroom or blow it through a toilet paper roll with a dryer sheet wrapped around one end (ahh, memories of yesteryear).  We certainly don’t want her cop clients busting down our door and breaking up our hippie love circles.

This weekend we had our first party in the new house: a belated birthday party for me, and a housewarming party for the two of us.  It was sooo fun.  Both Matt and I were nervous about whether or not people would show up, but it turns out we had a full house: about 30 people came.  We were both so happy that everyone seemed to have a good time.  I know I sure as hell did.  We managed to get rid of some shot glasses, too – Matt’s collection has grown to over 300, so we made everyone choose a shot glass and take a shot of Jagermeister as soon as they arrived, and then they had to take their shot glass home as a souvenir. My parents even came!

We went to town on the apps.  Well, for us, anyway.  We made a bunch of dips and delicious things, and friends brought their own dips and things: Breccan and Deirdre both brought birthday cakes, and Rachel brought cupcakes!  They were delicious.

The night was amazing, and we felt totally loved.  Lots of good friends, tons of booze, and a Michael Jackson dance party at 2am.  What more could you ask for?  I love having people over, and the party this weekend just made me realize that we need to have people over more often – especially now that we can accommodate so many different groups of friends at once.  Living in this new place is going to be so much better for my social life, seeing as people won’t be scared of getting bedbugs when they come over.  Everyone was so incredibly thoughtful – bringing gifts and singing a boisterous rendition of ‘Happy Birthday’ in the kitchen for me.  It was great.  If this is a sign of things to come, then I’m in like Flynn.

The house has finally started to feel like a home.  We’ve spent the summer cleaning, painting, and decorating, and we’re both really happy with how it’s turned out.  The paint colours that were originally a bit of a gamble have turned out to be just fine, and we’re so happy to be in a space that is so big and comfortable, compared to our little apartment.  We still have a lot of work left to do – the windows need to be replaced, the backsplash in the kitchen needs to be installed, the toilet and bathroom floor need to be replaced, the basement needs to be finished – but, for the most part, we’re done stage one of the reno/move-in process.

So here’s a taste of what we’ve done so far (please forgive the poor photo quality).  On the main floor we have the kitchen and dining room, and on the second floor there are two smaller rooms, the bathroom, and our bedroom (complete with amazing walk-in closet).  You can see the before photos here.

The kitchen

The breakfast nook

New panels in the dining room

The bathroom – new counter top and sink

One of my favorite pieces in the upstairs hallway

Our office

The ‘multi-purpose’ room

Our living room

The bedroom

The closet of all closets

One of the ‘projects’ that I was maniacally excited about was creating a piece of artwork for the living room.  We have lots of big, huge walls that are empty, and both Matt and I like the look of big ol’ paintings to fill up those walls.  Seeing as we’re both unwilling to part with our hard-earned money for legitimate artwork, we decided to do it ourselves.  Considering that neither of us are artists, we did the old painters-tape-and-dollarama-paint deal, and came up with something that I think looks pretty goddamn good.  I’m proud of it like a mother is proud of her kid’s stupid fingerpainting.  Like, irritatingly proud.

Stage one: smoke a joint and get to tapin’

It went remarkably smooth, as we had the same idea of what we wanted to do (geometric box-like design), and we each just put down a piece of tape at a time, without arguing about it!  I think the weed probably helped.  We were, like, so laid back, man.

Stage two: get yer paint on

After discussing which would be highlight colours and which would be more primary colours, we each chose a bottle of paint and started painting a square.  After we did a few of them, we went through and marked the rest of them with a pencil so that no two neighbouring squares were the same colour. We only managed to mess up once.  But I’m not going to point it out.  Like I said, totally laid back, man (also: do we have any chocolate?  I’m hungry.  And this music is tripping me out…).

Stage three: second coat and tape removal

I’ll admit, before we took the tape off, I was a bit skeptical.  I didn’t like the dark colour (which started as red, then brown, then purple), and I was afraid it looked too busy and weird.  But then we took off the tape, and voila!  A fucking masterpiece!  I was amazed.  I think it looks pretty fucking fantastic hanging in our living room.  Huge canvases like that one are just so goddamn great.  I want to get one for every other room in the house now.  Just all canvases, all the time.  One right next to the other.  Covering every square inch of our house.

My faith in our ability to come up with an idea and actually carry through with it has officially been restored.  I can’t remember the last time I thought of something, then went to the store to get the supplies, and then actually did what it is I had thought up.  And to think that this idea was spawned and created all while stoned, without the end product looking like a four year old’s finger painting!  Sacrebleu!

We’re all moved in, with the amazing help of our friends and family.  Schlepping two couches, a bed, many book shelves and tables up a precarious fire escape never would have happened if Matt and I were left to our own devices.  Well, maybe it would have, but we’d still be somewhere on that fire escape trying not to be crushed by our couch.

Thank fuck it’s over.  Now for the unpacking.  The sweet, sweet unpacking.

Crossing my fingers that Smokey hasn’t scratched the shit out of the new paint job by the time we get home.

I used to watch “This Old House” with my Dad when I was a kid, and loved seeing Bob Vila turn disasters into dreams in such a seamless, seemingly effortless fashion (and in 22 minutes!). This is no Bob Vila project extraordinaire, but the first stages of the renovations to the new house are almost complete.  There is still a lot left to be done, but after painting every day after work and on the weekends, we’ve made some serious progress.  My parents bought this house, which is across from my old high school (Go Panthers!), to accommodate both Fernwood and a living space for Matt and I.  Matt and I truly lucked out in this situation as the living space is 2000 square feet and our rent is only going up another $200 from the bug-infested, ramshackled gong show of an apartment that we live in now.

The only major renovations needed to the living space are a few new windows, new kitchen counters, and a new bathroom vanity that our contractor is going to build for us.  The rest was simply cleaning and painting.  And by ’simply’ I mean ‘painstakingly’ because this place was a fucking pit when we got possession.  Picture this, if you will: a two-storey house in which four dudes lived that was not once cleaned or vacuumed, had been outfitted with apparently the Pentagon’s security system, and had been used for the sole purpose of watching hockey games and what appears to have been spraying grease on the ceiling of every room.  Awesome for a frat party, not so hot for when you want to take a shower without getting salmonella.

We cleaned our hearts out for a few days, and set to paint every single surface in the place.  The bathroom, in particular, was a nightmare.  My Dad took the task of ripping out the old shower insert and replacing the damp giprock behind it.  He referred to entering that tub or using the toilet as “taking your life in your own hands.”  I don’t understand how a person could get naked and then step into that tub to have a shower – it was covered in what can only be described as a mixture of blood, diarrhea, and rust.  Sexy!

The whole place was painted “apartment white” – you know, that creamy, off-white colour that you can buy in huge vats for the price of a happy meal?  So we changed that mighty quick.  Here are some before shots:

The kitchen – main floor

The dining room – main floor – complete with the outline left after I ripped off the foam-mounted Monet poster that was stapled to the wall.

The pink bathroom – second floor

You can’t have a pink bathroom without a pink toilet now, can you?

The living room – second floor

Another view of the living room from the master bedroom – that door is a fire escape with such serious security bars we refer to it as “Cell Block D”

The bedroom, complete with GIANT CLOSET

In addition to the bathroom, living room, and master bedroom, the second floor also has two smaller bedrooms – one of which will be the office, and other the “guest room” (read: empty room because we have no furniture).  We’ve painted each room a different colour, and while we tried not to move into crazy territory with our colour choices (and tried to avoid drab country), there are a few that we weren’t super pleased with.  The guest room, for one, turned out to be a much darker shade of blue that we had expected.  The living room turned out to be much more purple than plum, unfortunately.  But, we’re so painted out that we’re not prepared for any do-overs, so we’re just going to move our stuff in and make it work.  Purple living room be damned.

The carpets are going to be cleaned on Thursday, and Matt and I are going to move in Sunday and Monday (with the help of his friends, thank god).  The windows, countertops, and bathroom likely won’t get started until sometime in July, given that this is apparently home reno ‘busy season’, but hopefully at that point I’ll be on a beach in the Dominican and it will all be done by the time I get back.

But our work doesn’t end at the living space.  We’re praying that the woman occupying the business unit in the front moves before her lease is up at the end of February, and that we can get the cleaning, painting, and wall-removing on that place done in a timely enough fashion that we avoid complete exhaustion.  This is the first time since we got cable that I cannot even stand the sight of Mike Holmes.  Bob Vila, though, I’ll never tire of.

Holy fucking shitballs.

That’s pretty much the summation of my thoughts and feelings these days.  Jesus creepin’ shit.  I cannot wait until this course is over, until winter is over, until this cold comes and goes.  Hot damn.  Things have been so incredibly busy – or, at least, busy enough that I can’t survive on my regular schedule of living life by the seat of my pants – and it appears that it has all caught up with my body, which is now aching and sore like the morning after a night of beer bongs.

That could have something to do with the weekend of debauchery I just endured – which seems to happen only when my weeks are filled with work and, come Saturday, I feel the overwhelming desire to get as drunk as I possibly can, have slurred and likely embarrassing conversations with people I don’t know, dance like I’m having a seizure, and abruptly leave when my body tells me it’s time to cap off the night with some violent retching.

Keeping it real.

Classes have been getting more and more difficult to manage with work life.  It’s sales season right now, which means that I have to schlep myself out to the universities and meet with professors all day and try to sell them books for use in their fall courses.  Most of the time the meetings are pleasant – I don’t meet with professors who wouldn’t be interested in the kinds of books we sell – but sometimes it can be a little trying.  And, always, it is exhausting.  Not that I’m doing that much walking around, unless I’m at the University of Manitoba (the campus which is considered the third largest ‘city’ in Manitoba), but being ‘on’ all day long and being able to think on my feet in meetings with professors from all different disciplines gets to be a wee bit grating.  Luckily, after March, I should be done.  I really only spend about six or seven days at the universities, but it still manages to tire me out.  More importantly, though, it means that sales keep me from the regular goings-on at the office, and things start to pile up, emails start to collect unanswered, and things start to fall under the radar (like an upcoming conference for which I forgot to order books: eff).

There are only seven more classes left in the term.  Seven.  Hot diggity.  Today was a bit of a gong show as I’m starting to feel the sickness set in.  Matt had it last week, and now I’m getting it.  After spending yesterday walking around the U of M in my new boots (heels for 8 hours: I’ve made a huge mistake) and coming home to spend five hours marking papers, today I had little to no energy to get dressed, let alone lecture (I did manage to clothe myself, though).  Luckily, however, they didn’t give a rat’s ass, and were happy to have me let them leave early.  The remainder of the course is structured around the students writing a final research paper, so these last few classes should be less stressful to prepare than, say, 30 minutes on comma uses (again: I’ve made a huge mistake).

Bright side?  Oh yes, there is one.  My Dad finally called the real estate agent yesterday, and he’s going to start hunting for a duplex for us.  Matt and I are so ready to move – apartment life is the shits, particularly when you live in a building that seems to derive its heat from what feels like a single match burning in the basement.  Our apartment is unbelievably cold.  Even criminally cold, if you ask me, and it’s time to get the eff outta here.  I think Matt will be happy to save all the money he’s been spending on new socks as our uneven floorboards are apparently out to get him.

For now, it’s TMZ and mint tea.  (Note: that sounds weird if you say it out loud.)  My body hurts and I’ve purposefully neglected the gym today, opting instead to buy some fancy cheese and olives with the intention of watching home reno shows and celebrity trash while I stuff my face with gouda and brie.  Course prep tonight involves brainstorming ways in which I can help the junior mints perfect their research questions, which may all come out sounding something like “How does Mike Holmes consistently rule so hard?” or “Why does TMZ hire staff that have no knowledge of pre-2001 celebrities?” or “Who is that sassy little dude on Sarah’s House and how can I become friends with him?” 

Time to get to work.

My parents have often mentioned, if not full-out argued, that Valentine’s Day was created and perpetuated by Hallmark.  It’s a bogus holiday.  We don’t get a day off, and feel obligated to eat waxy chocolate (or buy the discount waxy chocolate at Shopper’s the day after, like me).  Wikipedia’s entry notes:

The day is most closely associated with the mutual exchange of love notes in the form of “valentines”. The sending of Valentines was a fashion in nineteenth-century Great Britain, and, in 1847, Esther Howland developed a successful business in her Worcester, Massachusetts home with hand-made Valentine cards based on British models. The popularity of Valentine cards in 19th century America was a harbinger of the future commercialization of holidays in the United States.

The U.S. Greeting Card Association estimates that approximately one billion valentines are sent each year worldwide, making the day the second largest card-sending holiday of the year, behind Christmas. The association estimates that, in the US, men spend on average twice as much money as women.

Yikes.  So not only is Valentine’s Day likely such a prominently advertised holiday because of its revenue-generating mastery for U.S. Greeting Card companies, but it’s also the monster responsible for the gross commercialization of every other holiday in the West.  Quite the culprit.

Despite these unfortunate repercussions, I enjoy any holiday that gives me the opportunity to make a card (take THAT, Hallmark!).  I love making cards.  Actually, if I could start a side business making greeting cards out of old magazines and photographs and glitter pens, I would be ecstatic (something to think about?  Boozy Best Wishes by Jessica?).  I’m a firm believer that a card makes a gift, or that a card is a gift in and of itself.  If you can’t afford to buy someone a gift, make a card – it shows that you’ve taken the time and effort for that person, and you aren’t just a lazy, broke bastard.  But this year, I must admit, I wasn’t really on my game.  Instead, I used My Pet Monster valentines from Dollarama (reminiscent of the valentines shared among classmates in elementary school) because they were funny (who remembers My Pet Monster?) and quick (busy week, I swear!).  But they really didn’t have the same effect as a handmade card, so I’ve learned my lesson on that one.  Perhaps I should start making cards in anticipation of holidays, or have a collection of emergency handmade cards?  Is that getting a little too I-live-with-eight-cats?

Matt and I are not really the type of couple to go apeshit over holidays like Valentine’s Day.  We went out for dinner and to a movie on the 12th to avoid the crowds that would be flocking to the theatres on the 14th.  We saw Taken, which was a pretty decent, no-bullshit action movie that I enjoyed until the ending (why do they have to pull that on you minutes before the credits roll?!).  On Saturday we spent the day laying around watching Mantracker episodes (from the first season DVD that I gave Matt for the faux-holiday), made lasagna for dinner, and rented a few movies (The Foot Fist Way – not your typical Danny McBride/Will Ferrell movie, but worth the cost of renting it for a stoner afternoon; and W – boring!).  It was all very laid back.  In fact, our entire weekend was a pajama-wearing, movie-watching, weed-smoking, bad food-eating extravaganza of epic proportions.  Needless to say, I’m a little groggy today.  And my pants are a little on the tight side.  I kinda feel like I just got out of a scumbag competition and now I have to detox my poor, abused body.

At any rate, the long weekend is over, what with the extra “Louis Riel Day” off (“Family Day” if you’re in Ontario or Saskatchewan, “Heritage Day” if you’re in Alberta, or “Regular Ass Monday” if you’re anywhere else in the country), and now I’m regretting, just the littlest bit, that I did nothing by way of ‘work’ or ‘exercise’ this weekend.  My course could use the defibrillators, but I’ve done nothing to shock that puppy back to life as of yet.  Thank god it’s reading week.  And, in fact, I’ve missed not just this weekend, but an entire week at the gym, which is exacerbated by the fact that my stomach (and probably thighs, by now) is filled with waxy Shopper’s discount chocolate.

But this gets me thinking about/over-analyzing stupid bullshit holidays: is it odd to anyone else that the tradition of Valentine’s Day essentially amounts to a glorification of mainstream, arguably heterosexual, consumerist ‘love’ – yet if you consumed as much shit as these corporations are peddling you’d balloon out to a version of yourself that is socially unacceptable? As the ever-so-helpful (but not academic, remember that, kids!) Wikipedia tells us, the U.S. Greeting Card Association estimates that, in the U.S., men spend on average twice as much money as women on Valentine’s Day crap, including chocolate or ‘confectionery’.  But if girlfriend chows down on those candy hearts/edible undies/chocolate flowers and starts to gain a few, she enters the dreaded No Fat Chicks zone of female body classification.  Not to mention the ways in which Valentine’s Day has been advertised as one that is specifically the responsibility of men: you better get her some goddamn flowers or heart-shaped candy or SOMETHING, you idiot, or she’s not gonna wear that ridiculously uncomfortable lingerie and fuck you while wearing heels.  And it’s become ingrained in a lot of women, I think, to expect something for Valentine’s Day – not just a card, but something big, a PRESENT.  It seems that V-Day is the one special day when the cries of Independent Women are turned down a couple notches in favor of Buy Me Stuff to Prove Your Love.  What about paying your own bills and all that shit?  Right?  Beyonce?  What about using a measure of appreciation other than a new bag/ring/pair of shoes/wine-making kit (okay, so that last one would actually be awesome).

Okay, so maybe I’m exaggerating a bit, and in all honesty, I see nothing wrong with doing something special together or making each other gifts or cards – especially given that, in my experience, it becomes harder and harder to find the time to spend with one another as jobs and life get in the way.  But this preoccupation with getting and receiving gifts?  At the core, it’s a little ridiculous.  And I say that knowing that 1) I bought a gift for Matt and failed to give him a handmade card this year, and 2) who am I kidding?  I’m a huge fan of receiving gifts, particularly if they involve making my own moonshine.  But there’s something to be said for over-analyzing holidays that are designed to make you spend too much money on flowers that will die in a week, eat bad food (which you will eventually feel bad about), wear terrible holiday-themed clothing, or feel bad about yourself if you aren’t in a relationship with someone who will buy you said wilting flowers or bad food or terrible holiday-themed clothing.

I suppose, at the least, being aware of the hypocrisy and ridiculousness of it all is a step toward holiday sanity.

This past weekend was all kinds of fun.  However, I feel as though I’ve completely burned myself out and now I need another weekend just to recooperate.

Long weekends usually surprise me.  I am lucky to have a job that I don’t dread going to every day, so when I find out that I get an extra day off, it’s never something I’ve been anticipating for weeks, that’s been marked on my calendar, or that I really have any knowledge of.  I’m spacy like that.

So, this long weekend was a lovely surprise (I also don’t really find Thanksgiving Day to be anything other than another Sunday Night Dinner with the family).  Friday night Matt and I basked in our newly redecorated apartment, in our new media-friendly office, and watched Doug Benson’s Super High Me (we were on a Spurlock-related kick, it seems).  We came across a link to the film that was being streamed on some site, so we decided what the hell, it might be worth it.  I’m not that familiar with Doug Benson’s stand up comedy, but after seeing the film I can say that he is one funny fucker.  And the film was surprisingly hilarious.  It came about as a joke in his act about Spurlock’s Super Size Me, and someone offered to take Benson up on the idea to smoke weed for 30 days straight (after 30 days of obstaining from weed), testing to see its effect on him.  What one would imagine to be a harrowing 30 days of being stoned – from the minute you wake up to the moment you go to sleep – Benson, who expressed concerns about smoking that much, didn’t really seem to have any problems with it.  It also had little effect on his health (lung capacity, sperm count, memory, and general health were tested before and after, much like in the Spurlock movie).  In the end it made me feel less guilty about smoking so much myself.  Thanks, Doug, for allowing me to hold my head up high (heyoo!).

Saturday was the long-anticipated Pajama Day that Meghan and I have been planning for a few weeks.  Matt’s Mom and brother told us about the day they spent in their pajamas watching movies, and when I told Meghan how great that sounded we decided to do it up right.  She got to my place some time after 10:00 a.m., we made banana pancakes, watched the entire second season of 30 Rock, fell asleep on the futon to Super High Me, ate some delicious chili for dinner, and later in the evening we went to Deirdre and Antonio’s for an impromptu party.  It was a glorious day.

The impromptu party came about because Matt and I had invited people to come over Saturday night, but while Matt was stripping the bed that morning so I could do laundry, he found a rogue bed bug.  We put it in a film container and he took it to Poulin’s, where they told him that it was likely a left over that was disturbed after we moved back into the bedroom.  We have a box spring cover, and Matt bought some powder-form poison that we’ve sprinkled around the baseboards in the bedroom, and so far we have yet to see any other bugs or have any bites whatsoever, so I’m pretty confident that we’re safe.  Although, sleeping within a perimeter of poison would calm anyone’s nerves.  Come and get me, you motherfuckers!  Alas, the mention of another bug worried a few of our friends (rightfully so, as I wouldn’t wish a shit show of that magnitude upon anyone), so Deirdre and Antonio graciously offered their place for the night – complete with halloween-themed decorations, treats, chips, and board games.  Deirdre will make an awesome Mom; the kind that is known for bringing you and your friends snacks and plates of munchies when you have them over after school (much like her Mom did for us).

Sunday night was the big turkey dinner – for which I had a tofu chicken breast in lieu of bird.  I haven’t eaten meat in a few weeks now and, even more surprising for someone like myself, I haven’t touched candy in ages.  I can’t even remember the last time I got a bag of 5cent candies from 7-Eleven.  Hell must be cold right about now.

So what am I thankful for?  I’m thankful that I have an attack plan for any rogue bugs that try to fuck up my shit.  I’m thankful for a comfortable apartment that I’ve fallen in love with again.  I’m thankful for Matt being on exactly the same page as me at pretty much all times.  I’m thankful for friends who are generous and just as surprised as I am that we stayed up past 2:00 a.m. for once.

Today is Day One of Operation: CubaBody.

Matt and I are going to Cuba with his entire family – a trip paid for by his Grandmother – for the week after Christmas this year.  There will be 12 (14?) of us staying at an all-inclusive resort together.  I’m excited for this because a) holy shit it’s CUBA; b) Matt and I have yet to travel abroad together and I’m excited at the prospect of day trips, just the two of us; and c) we’ll be in fucking Cuba.  It will also be nice to spend so much time with Matt’s family, as I rarely see his aunts, uncles, and cousins, and his immediate family are awesome and fun.  Adventure!  Sun!  Fidel Castro!  It’s going to be a good time.

However, despite the good times bonding with family and tanning my near-translucent ass, there is the small issue of the bathing suit and/or summer clothes during what will be a third of the way in to a cold, horrible winter.  I’ve decided that, as goals are a good thing to set, Cuba will be my next fitness-related goal.  Well, in reality, it has less to do with fitness and more to do with NOT causing a stampede when I walk out onto the beach in next to nothing.

In preparation for Operation: CubaBody, I spent last night at Matt’s comedy show (the Alternative Comedy Lounge) with Meghan and my brother drinking pints of beer and eating nachos.  It was like the last supper, and I drank it in, people, I drank it in.  I am now battling a bit of a hangover and the overwhelming desire to fall asleep on my keyboard, but it was worth it.  I found myself last night, in a drunken haze during our cab ride at the end of the night, excited about going home to watch more episodes of Three’s Company with Matt – a show that at one point I hated but now, it would appear, have come to know and love.  At any rate, this morning was a bit of a rough one, but I’m ready to start being a healthy person and I’m happy to avoid the brewskies if it means no more foggy-headed mornings.  In the middle of the week, no less.

I have neglected the gym for the entire month of September.  My trainer was away in Australia for three weeks in August, and while regular appointments with him usually reminded me to book more each month, his being away and my absentmindedness caused me to forget to book more appointments until the end of August.  At that point, he was already booked until the end of October.  Having only three more appointments left with him, and not planning on buying anymore (as my membership is up at the end of November and I’m switching to a more convenient, and cheaper, gym), I booked my remaining three appointments for the end of October and told him I’d see him in a month.  Since then, I’ve found it incredibly difficult to build up the motivation required to bike the 30 minutes it takes me to get to the gym (surrounded by drivers who treat cyclists like speedbumps), and thus I’ve neglected the gym altogether, opting to either run outside or pay the drop-in fee at the new, closer gym at which I’m excitedly waiting to register.

Today is no different.  I bought a bus pass for the month, thinking that it would help get my lazy ass to the gym, but I didn’t even bring my gym bag to work today.  It’s as though my conscience knows, ’shit, she isn’t going to the gym today, who are we kidding?’ and I didn’t even THINK to pick up my gym bag on the way out the door this morning.  There’s also the nagging desire to complete, in one mad, Debbie-Travis-esque fury, all of the little things that I have written down on my list of Things To Do To Make This Apartment Prettier Now That We’ve Decided Not To Move.  I have never been so excited to get home and organize, paint, rearrange, and redesign.  I want to do it all RIGHT NOW.

So, while Day One may not be off to the best start, and I quite clearly have no intentions of going to the gym today, I am confident in my newest mission’s successful outcome.  I’ve already managed to put on, and do up, the ‘goal jeans’ that I recently found packed away in a garbage bag with the rest of the clothes we had stored in my parents’ garage since the infestation of Summer 2008.  It may have not been pretty, and there may have been some serious muffin top, but hell, I did those fucking jeans up and awkwardly strutted around in front of my mirror with pride (and a little discomfort).  I’m just gonna keep on truckin’.

But for now, between working on Sales Information Sheets and answering the phone, I need to research ways to make our place look nice without a) spending money, or b) painting.  Hot diggity.