Sitting in my car, twisted around all cattywompus, with my laptop perched half on my lap and half on my arm rest while the rain pours outside. The hotness of my breath and the steam from my venti drip — half hot water with room for extra cream, please —

I don’t know how to describe my weekend. From pathetically boring to fabulously invigorating, maybe. The pathetically boring part? Sleeping until noon on Saturday, waking up to throw in a load of laundry and watch the “Dish Nation” and “Watch What Happens Live” episodes I’d recorded the night before, and

I cannot explain to you the depths of pain I felt during my emergency massage today. YES. You can have an emergency massage! It hurt so bad it almost made me wish I had experienced natural childbirth and could recall the Lamaze breathing techniques to get me through to the

I. CANNOT. WALK.  I curse Jillian Michaels and all that woman stands for. You know how you just sorta stop caring every once in a while and you do what you want? And you seem to be getting away with it because all your jeans still zip up and the