What's a girl to do when she enjoys a few beers here and there over some good conversation and wishful thinking? Ahh, yes. The answer to that, my friend, is: give it up, fatty! Wait a minute... give it up? What dat means? Nahh... an ice cold bottle of Amstel light, or a tall pint of Brooklyn Lager after a few hours at the panty palace just puts a smile on my face and lifts the spirits.
How can one resist a tall, svelte glass of Sam Adam's Boston Lager perfectly drenched in the soft white foam floating atop the beautiful, golden-browness... and with a sexy piece of red meat no less? How can one say no to the divine sensations one experiences while sipping a NewCastle straight from the bottle while waiting for the bacon potato skins to arrive? How can one prevent herself from cracking open six Red Stripes because the temperature outside hit 80 degrees and water just won't do the trick? On the beach? Fugetaboutit! Beach = Beer... and for me, a frosty Corona in a crisp, brown paper bag, sucked through one of those long, red straws from 7-11... holy matrimony.
All right. So maybe I don't have to drink 3 rounds of 2fer's right before bedtime. 3 x 2... six beers? Maybe I don't have to drink a 22 oz. bottle of Corona to wind down, chillout, and release the stress. That'll give you the blubber belly fo' sho.
Run, Forest. Run.
It's starting to show, and although beach does equal beer, no one really wants to see it. I need to get a grip, so my plan to combat the beer belly before summer is as follows: maybe a glass of pinot noir instead? Or perhaps a chilled glass of pinot grigio with a grilled chicken and baby spinach salad? The liquor store in Hempstead has a special: Recession Merlot only $3.49. I can certainly afford that. Shit, who can't? I think I have that much change on the floor of my car. Only thing is, if it doesn't taste like rancid salad dressing, it probably tastes like nail polish remover.
If I go out, I'll have a Vodka soda, with a splash of cran... sounds like a plan 'eh? Shots! A lemon drop has never let me down.
Part deux of my plan is to run. This is the real part. Cardio to the max. And I am going to run like the fucking wind just like my ancestors did across the plains while hunting buffalo. I've been to the gym, a few times a week, but it's crunch time, baby.
Disclaimer: This is NOT an Obama blog. It's my blog about whatever is on mah mind, yo.
Dear friends, I expect that you will unwaiveringly support me in my battle of the bulge to help me achieve my goal; however, I will never let you down and will never say no to sipping decadent beers together. Basically, if I say no to the gym it is your duty to encourage me to go. Thank you in advance.
I've never tried a Purple Hooter before. You? Sounds like a great shot to have... not that I will be going out after work taking shots to the face or anything...
1 1/2 oz. Vodka of your choice
1/2 oz. Rose's Lime Juice
1 dash Chambord Raspberry Liquer
Serve it up in a quirky shot glass, and bon voyage, bitches.
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