Current Mood: Cold and Hungry

It's that time of year again. The holidays have come and gone. The local pharmacies have traded the aisles of tinsel garlands and broken candy canes for heart shaped boxes of sub-par caramels and slouching teddy bears. 'Tis the season to be sorry when you suddenly realize that none of your jeans fit. Well, you can get them on after doing the jumping denim dance and making it work, zipping up so the waistband aggressively embraces your sides, resulting in what is known as the "muffin top." So, in order to avoid a year of wearing Lycra stretch pants while other women stare at my thighs with an "nnnn-nnnn giiiiirl" shake of the head, I have voluntarily joined forces with three other women and taken on the "21 day diet". Is this a real diet? By "real," I mean one endorsed by some yo-yo dieting Opra-esque mouthpiece. I am not sure, but here are the rules:

1. No meat

2. No cheese

3. No refined sugar

4. No simple carbs

5. No alcohol

21 days. Today is day two. Zwei. Deux. Outside, an impassioned storm. Cold and wet. Fervent rivers of murky Hotel Luxe alley water. Raining domesticated animals. I munch on cold Persian cucumbers (an awkwardly phallic snack, FYI) as I watch people walk around happily eating plates of steaming pasta and overstuffed burritos. This is not celery weather. It is panini weather. Caaaaaarb weather! You never really notice how Beverly Hills is completely infested with Italian restaurants until you are unable to partake in the gluttony. Il Fornaio, Il Pastaio, La Scala, Trattoria...

Adding to my misery is the fact that I do not own an umbrella. Today is especially disheartening, as it is apparently tornado weather (though I'll believe that when I see it). See, not owning an umbrella is my way of taking a stand and saying "fuck you" to bad weather. Were I to cave and purchase one, I am certain the annual rainfall in Los Angeles would double. My mother used to say, "The world doesn't revolve around you!" I disagree. Three obnoxious do-gooders with clipboards want to know why I don't want to help homeless children. Well, because I'd rather save my millions for the old lady in a wheelchair who sells Israeli chocolate bars. They are pure magic. I bought some once when I was walking about Beverly Hills with the Lebanese Brothers (I'll tell you about them in my next post).

Hopefully this will all be worth it. 19 more days of lettuce and black coffee.