Mercedes vs Ferrari vs pizza

In our office building there is a cantine run by an Italian caterer who is skilled at making everything sound delicious, which indeed it is. Tests my willpower, he does. A few months ago, he hired a young dude (19-20 years old?), a good-looking charmer. This kid clearly enjoys his job, as evidenced by the enthusiasm with which he describes the menu of the day, and makes tailored suggestions to all the clientèle.

On Friday, Charmer pitched his home-made custom pizza as my top choice for lunch. It sounded decadent, as everything with bacon must. I sighed, recognizing defeat. “Yes, fine, I’ll take it. I’m gonna regret this!” Charmer paused as he put my pizza in the oven, completely stumped as to why I’d regret eating something so yummy? I explained: like every woman ever, I am trying to diet, to shed 10.

Diet?! But why? You look great! You could always look better? Well, yes, that’s true, in theory…. but I mean… if you drive every day a Mercedes, are you really gonna be saying “Dammit, if only I was driving a Ferrari”? No, right? A Mercedes is freaking nice car. Enjoy it. Be proud of it. Pretty much everyone would love to drive a Mercedes.

Someone get this boy -almost young enough to be my son – a job in sales, STAT. I’ve been averaging 1 gym workout per month, working too much, haven’t been on a date in months, wouldn’t remember how to flirt if I was presented with all of the opportunities on the planet, spend my weekends sleeping in to offset my sleep deprivation, find the motivation to wear mascara 2 days out of 7, and feel like an unattractive blob… is it obvious I am PMSing?

I ate the entire damn pizza, and had a goofy smile all day.

Behold the newest Vanilla-class Mercedes. #noselfieskills

Kuduro cucumber

I’m PMSing, y’all. Because that is obviously a topic of general interest, I have detailed various symptoms about my PMSing here and here and here.

This past weekend was not a weekend of moderation. On Saturday, I worked out for the third time in 2017 (yay, traveling! So much fun, except so much jet lag, and bloating and delicious but unhealthy foods). Of course, one hour of intense exercise with Coach Dr. Booté warrants me eating ALL of the food ever, right? Recovery diet, and all that. Sunday: brunch with a friend, followed by supper at a resto with my Pops, and wine, and cider, and chocolate because TREAT YO’SELF ITS THE WEEKEND!

Yesterday, I woke up feeling bloated. I decided: New Monday, New Day, New Me. Imma go on a diet. All morning at work, this happened. Then, I had a business lunch with a key consultant, fancy stakehouse, and why not? Entrée, bigass meal, chocoholic dessert.


I was so bloated my nylons and underwear were cutting off circulation in my lower body. It was so uncomfortable, I considered going commando at the office, but I opted not to and suffer in almost-silence (I only updated my team about the status of my bloating every 15 minutes, including but not limited to such descriptions as “I’m as bloated as a cucumber!” “I’m never eating food again, I swear” “Being a woman suuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuucks”), not because I felt it was scandalous, but because I felt that was the ultimate sign of defeat. I had to learn to live with my poor life choices.

I googled “death by water retention”.

Imagine my horror when, at dance class, I realized that of ALL the days… yesterday I had packed a crop top as my dance outfit.

I considered going home. #piorities

I didn’t bail on dance class. But I did sweat scary amounts, and turned the dance floor into a swimming pool. #sexy

Today, did I learn from my mistakes and eat healthily? HAHAHAHAHAHA no. I woke up craving a grilled cheese sandwich, and waited impatiently till noon to go and buy one for myself, which I scarfed down in approximately 34 seconds, and here I am sitting at my desk, debating if eating an entire chocolate bar counts as a serving of protein. I’m not sure, the science is out, but I’m thinking the answer to that legit question is “obviously”.



Boxing while PMSing

So I am PMSing badly. Like BADLY. So badly, I am using the word “like” like a Kardashian, on purpose. IT’S CALLED ARTISTIC LICENSE, YALL.

Not only have I become slightly crazy, but I am more bloated than a whale, which is rather problematic considering I need to make weight for my fight in 18 hours. Of course, I’ve been talking about this extensively with Coach and anyone else who will listen to me (will 4lbs of water retention be offset by 1lb of intense blood flow which should begin anytime now. You thought the Red Wedding on GOT was intense? HA HA, my uterus thinks that was a cute scene. BLOOD EVERYWHERE!!) #femaleboxerproblems

Worse than the physical consequences of PMSing are the emotional and mental ones. The countdown to my fight is on, and what kind of music am I listening to? A lot of Taylor Swift. Some Diana Krall (seriously, though, have y’all ever heard this cover of hers? Makes me weep, even when I am not psycho). Not exactly the kind of music that primes a person to fight. More like the kind of music that makes me wanna hug my opponent and commiserate about how all men are stupid and true love is a myth. That is the type of wordy discussion that is easy with mouthguards, fo sho.

I suppose that if I can face that I am doomed to a life of loneliness and broken-heartedness, the possibility of getting a few punches in the face or a concussion really ain’t that bad.

Conclusion: a PMSing boxer is the scariest kind. Dead inside, and fearless.

In other news: it is Coach‘s birthday today! Here is the post that I wrote for his bday last year. One year later, and my love and appreciation for that man is exponentially greater. I will show him I care by only mentioning my period once a day during this boxing tournament. Restraint = love.

Off to listen to Bad Blood. Gotta channel all that anger.

I become a stereotype when PMSing

I like to believe I am an adorable, unique, precious, unusual unicorn. There is no one like me, the world would forever duller should I disappear. I fart rainbows and fairies dance along side me singing joyful hymns.


Unfortunately, I’ve recently acknowledged that occasionally, I exhibit some fairly stereotypical behaviour. And by occasionally, I mean on a monthly basis when PMSing. During the week preceeding the evacuation of all of my body’s red blood cells, I become a caricature of a hormonal woman.

Case in point:


I was chatting at the gym with a girl who is also single about our hopes and dreams and dating struggles and inevitable cat-less cat-lady destiny. As the conversation progressed, we both became a little emotional – a tad sad. So, we went next door for ice cream, which we scarfed down as we pondered why our lives had passed us by.

I am not making this up. But wait, it gets worse.

I decided to walk home, despite the cloudy skies and occasional drizzle. The weather matched my mood… and so did my playlist. Blank Space, by Taylor Swift – on repeat. Mumford & Sons. Francis Cabrel (for all you non-French speakers, this song is possibly the cheesiest most romantic song EVER. Translated lyrics are here.)

I walked slowly, uncaring of the rain drops on my face. I may have even been so overwhelmed with sadness that I cried as I walked. Luckily nobody witnessed that.


Back at the gym. I’d lost a total of 6lbs of water retention since landing in Montreal on Friday night (I bloat like crazy when I travel). You’d think that would make me feel good, right? WRONG. I felt bloated, and icky. My ovaries were beating their way out of my body. I was fat. No, I was FAT. EVERYBODY STOP TRYING TO MAKE ME FEEL BETTER, CAN’T YOU SEE I AM FAT?!?!?

In the silence that followed my empassioned plea, I started to giggle. Then I started to cry. Weepy-giggles.

I refuse to write how much chocolate I ate that night.


The list of fighters participating in the boxing tournament this weekend was finally published online. I immediately stalked the girl I’ll be fighting online, relieved to find myself prettier than her. Because that will definitely help me when I fight her, right? Right.

I seriously hope my symptoms subside quickly. I can’t handle my absence of originality much longer.

Introducing Bob

Bob is one of those guys. The kind that takes all the space, draws all the attention to himself. Cocky as fuck. A bit of a dick, always careening about, trying to take up as much space as possible. “Look at me” seems to be his motto.

Bob comes and goes as he pleases. He’s usually angry, very red-faced, looking like he’s a volcano about to erupt. Sometimes I wonder if he has rabies. He rarely gives any warning before showing up, just bursting on the scene, wrecking any plans already in place.

So frustrating, except I’ve known him so long, I actually get concerned if he doesn’t make an appearance for a few months. Dysfunctional relationship, right there.


Bob is a pimple. He likes to hangout right in the arch of my left eyebrow, so swollen it looks like I got a whopping punch to the eye socket. 

I fucking hate Bob.