Weekends and Me

I told you I’d let you know just what it is I eat on the weekends. So here we go:

Saturday Morning: Toast with low-fat peanut butter and ‘I Can’t Believe It’s Not Butter!’ spray. And a big glass of milk. And vitamins. When I was a child I used to eat peanut butter and butter (really margarine, because of the whole cholesterol thing). I have high cholesterol. It’s not a big deal. It just means that most of the food I eat is pretty bland, so, consequently, having a sandwich with real mayo on it is a heavenly experience.

Sunday Morning: Oatmeal. That’s it. One bowl. There’s no protein in there, not really. I used to eat eggs on Sunday, be they scrambled or part of French Toast (or as the Brits who laid me off call it: ‘Eggy Bread’. Yeah, lay me off. The rest of the country will totally understand that), but it kept making me nauseous. So I stopped eating eggs. But then I kept getting nauseous on Sunday’s anyway! So then I came to regard Sunday’s as an evil day . . .

The other day, though, Tuesday, I believe it was, I had eggs in a tortilla with cheese and ground turkey, and even though the eggs were expired, I felt perfectly fine.

Oh. I get it. Expired eggs on Tuesday, fine. Regular eggs or no eggs on Sunday: Barf City, USA.

You should go there sometime. It’s nice. Great weather. Just wear your galoshes.

Uh. So. What was I talking about?

I can’t really call it OCD because the things I do are not actually necessary. It’s really more an intense mapping out of my life. I don’t actually have any other weekend food mapped out, not snacks or lunch or anything like that, mostly because I have no idea where I’ll be most weekends. My weekends for this past year were mostly full of running errands or wandering around the neighborhood listening to my iPod, but since getting a bf, I spend weekends with him. And let me tell you, hanging out with a cute boy all weekend kicks any errands ass.

Except maybe picking up Harrison Ford’s dry cleaning. Harrison: if you’re reading this, I will pick it up whenever you want. Hell, I’ll even sell a kidney to pay for the stuff. Just to touch the clothing that touches your sweet ass and then to personally deliver it to you . . .

Wow. Okay. I need a job, you guys.