Operation Shit Robot is a go! I repeat, Operation Shit Robot is a go!
After last week’s frustration over the Shit Robot and its attendant expensive accessories, Graham did some research on how to acclimate a cat to a self-cleaning litter box. It’s working so far, enough so that I think I can toss the old litter box tomorrow and The Cat won’t be too terrified to use the new one for good. I’m torn between very excited that I get to have a self-cleaning litter box and very disappointed that I am so excited about something like this. Even more so now that I’m writing about it, because lately, this blog has become all about cats and calories*, and you should know that in my nearly ten years of writing it, I never intended for things to get this bad.
But while we’re on the topic, I’ve managed to eat well – that is, below the standard recommended calorie level for my height, weight, gender, and activity level – while also burning more calories than I’ve consumed every single day for more than a week. I mean, granted I’ve had to do living room aerobics a few times to bump up that calorie deficit, and while I’m admitting things, you should know that it’s not real aerobics. Like, I didn’t find a YouTube video or do an actual workout. It’s really an ecstatic flailing, a demented, rhythm-less Muppet dance if you prefer, and I’ve done it for extended periods of time and once while watching a BBC documentary about the history of the British monarchy. The music wasn’t great, but I did get to hear a very stodgy historian pronounce “years” like “yhurrrs.” Repeatedly.
A few of the women in my office joined Weight Watchers after New Year’s, and while they have been dutifully counting points and comparing their efforts (every goddamn day), I’ve noticed that they fall off the wagon a lot, and since they’ve commented about how they can already notice their own weight loss, I’m wondering if this means they’ll backslide because they’ve become overly confident.
It’s interesting to watch because I am a) competitive and b) an asshole, and although I’m not part of their little weight loss club, I do enjoy a private little smirk at what happens when it’s someone’s birthday and the conference room is full of pizza and cookies from Costco.
I don’t eat Costco pizza. Not because of its separate parts, anyway; I have nothing against pizza and I hear Costco is okay to its employees. But Costco pizza tastes terrible. I’ve eaten it a couple of times at work, and both times, I wanted to scrape my entire tongue because it felt coated in industrial lubricant. Although it’s not surprising that they all love it, since they’re Seattle natives and pizza here is an abysmal subject (prove me wrong, I will accept suggestions in the form of free pizzas).
Anyway, after spending about 20 minutes talking about why they shouldn’t eat the pizza and the cookies, someone switched and spent about 10 minutes saying that they’d done so well that it was okay to eat – no, they deserved to enjoy! – the pizza and cookies, and then they spent the rest of the day talking about how they ate too much pizza and cookies. But girlfriend, it was worth it.
Just. Just eat the goddamn pizza and cookies. Stop justifying what you already know you’re going to do, and stop validating the decision you made days ago by claiming you deserve to do it. And if you follow through with your decision, fucking own it. Don’t spent several hours whining and regretting what you did. Just eat the goddamn food. Put that garbage in your mouth. Enjoy it if you’re into that.
But you don’t need to tell me all about it, and you should know that deep down inside, I’m using everything you say to think of reasons why I’m better at this than you.
*I promise that someday I will talk about something other than cats and calories. However, you should be prepared to read all of the nonsense batshittery I’ve been brewing in my brain about that missing plane and apocalypse theories (unrelated to planes but still plenty scary) and a whole host of other stuff that I’m a little bit afraid to tell people in real life.