The Cleanse: The Worst Thing I Ever Consumed

I thought starting off my day with a Sweet Greens juice drink was horrifying (I miss my soy Misto), but that was until I tasted the second “Green Juice” in my cleanse arsenal, Essential Green.  It’s like drinking rotten spinach juice, combined with what I image is fermented dog piss. It’s a shame Essential Green is so bloody awful because it’s terribly good for you.

The other juices aren’t that bad. The almond drink has the consistency of a smoothie and grapefruit and mint juice tasted just like grapefruits and mint leaves. Fingers crossed the other juices are just as delightful to consume. 

I’ve got 50 hours left in my cleanse and 15 drinks to go. I pray to the cleanse goddess (Gwenyth Paltrow) and maybe Venus, the goddess of love, that by the end I can still claim that Essential Green is the worst thing that has ever been in my mouth.

Have you had a good or bad cleanse experience? I’m dying to know about the other options out there. Please share your stories!

The Cleanse: Two Hours in, 70 More to Go

I don’t think there’s enough virtuous juice on the planet to cleanse my soul, but for a cool $200, I can purchase 18 bottles of raw and unpasteurized juice that will cleanse my body.

Or so the website says.

I figured I’d give it a shot; give my liver a break and jump start the ole metabolism.

I just finished my first bottle, Sweet Greens, which includes kale, spinach, parsley, watercress and apple.

Essentially it’s a salad in liquid form, minus the balsamic vinaigrette. And feta. And tomatoes. And olives. Okay, so it’s all the boring ingredients in a salad, none of the good stuff. But despite that, it wasn’t half bad. Going down anyway.

I glance over at the empty bottle and a feeling of betrayal overwhelms me. Post-drink I’m nauseous. Damn you, Sweet Greens. A pox on your family!

Only 17 more bottles and 70 more hours to go. I’m already dreaming of scarfing down a Clif Bar. It’s going to be a long three days…

A Conversation Via Text About Zac Efron

Friend: What’s your address?

Me: [Discloses address] Why? Are you sending me anthrax?

Friend: More like a brick from Fort Sumter, which is a federal offense. Have fun in jail.

Me: Be careful when starting your car tomorrow. Boom. Have fun in Hell.

Friend: I went to Fort Sumter today and Zac Efron was there planking a cannon.

Me: Did he try to have sex with you?

Friend: No, he’s too busy doing all the 18 year-old whores in Hollywood. But the only sex he’s going to have to worry about having is the anal sex he’s going to receive at Sing Sing since planking a cannon at Fort Sumter is a federal offense. Don’t worry though, I sent the brick to [other friend] so she will be joining Zac Efron in prison.

To prove I didn’t make this up, here’s a lovely photo my friend sent me post conversation:

The photoshopped image of Zac Efron planking a cannon at Fort Sumter. My friends are so talented.

My kind friend sent me this postcard from Charleston, South Carolina, the scene of the beginning of the Civil War and where she officially lost her sanity.

Drunkenness V. Sobriety

People change when they drink. Some become angry. Others funny. Jane cries. John fights. Leslie gets slutty. Alvin goes bi.

Normally, I care what people think. Probably way more than I should. But when I’m on a bender, well, I stop caring about people’s opinions…

My response to Dude in Bar who tells me that he thinks I’m cute.

Sober Brie: [Shakes head] “No, I’m not. I’m awkward. Or funny. Not cute.”

Drunk Brie: “Ummm, yeah. I know.” [Gives look that says “Duh. Tell me something that isn’t completely obvious.”]

Tattoos

Sober Brie: Debate for months the kind of tattoo I should get, along with color, placement and artist.

Drunk Brie:

• Location: Bleecker Street
• Time: 3:30 a.m.
• Occasion: Younger brother’s 21st birthday
• Date: May 29, 2009

That’s a brand new tattoo of a pink skull on my right wrist.

Money

Sober Brie: “I’m spending $20 tonight guys.”

Drunk Brie: “Hey guys, I think my AmEx card was stolen last night. I’m showing a charge for  $800 for tickets to a show called “Quackety Mac and his Flying Chimpanzees.” Oh wait, my card is right here. Guys, what happened last night?” [Insert friends chuckling here.]

My response to the command: “Brie, go ride that bronze horse statue.”

Sober Brie: “I don’t think so.”

Drunk Brie: [see photo below]

How do you change when you drink?

Please be civilized, or else…

A friend of mine sent me this photo. It’s from Fairway Market in New York.

My question is, what would Fairway management do to embarrass violators? Pants the offenders? Call their mothers and paper the city with violators’ fifth grade class photos (hello lingering baby fat, braces and coke-bottle glasses)?

What do you think? What’s the most embarrassing thing Fairway could do to customers who get too intimate with the olives?

Rational? Who you calling rational?

I always thought that women were more irrational than men, which would somewhat explain my recent absurd reaction to something completely out of my control. But according to psychologist Albert Ellis, both men and women are equally rational. In fact, he found no evidence to contradict that statement.*

If a leading psychologist has evidence showing that men and women are similarly rational, then why do women get the unfortunate label “irrational”? I’ll tell you why (and this answer has absolutely no basis in fact, but is just a hypothesis of an apparently rational woman).

In general, women show more emotion than men.

If we are feeling a strong emotional reaction, many of us are programmed to show it.

Example 1: “What do you mean you can’t come to my niece’s first birthday party?!?! Oh no, that’s fine. That’s just fiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiine!”

Example 2: “Wahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!” (crying)

Example 3: Silent rage, which constitutes of only physical reactions, such as smashing plates, kicking scrotum or throwing things out windows.

Most men, on the other hand, don’t show emotion. They prefer playing golf. Or masturbating. Or drinking with their buddies. This doesn’t mean they think differently than women.

I repeat: Men and women are equally rational.

Duh.
*Of course, this could have changed since he passed away a few years ago.

.3 Miles in a Marathon

Last week someone asked me what I really love to do.

That’s easy. I love running. Working out. Dancing. Teaching dancing. Reading. Yoga. Writing. Learning. Skiing. Traveling. Figuring things out. Solving puzzles. Physiology and the way a body works. Music.

Then, that same person asked me if I could redefine my career and choose a path, what would that look like? And I am terrified of this answer, because the answer is not what I’m doing now.

So how did I, at the still somewhat young age of 28, get stuck? So stuck that I’m terrified to breaking out. What if I make a move and the rocks that are precariously stacked around me in my personal little cell called my career start shaking and then fall, burying me, crushing me, pushing me into a place that is 10 times worse than the one I was in before?

That could happen.

But what would I do if I didn’t do what I do? I have no idea. And believe me, I’ve been thinking of little else over the last week. I wanted to start 2012 with an answer to that question. Since that clearly didn’t happen, I am going to figure it out. I will determine, this year, what I really want to do. I will make a move. Not sure what that move will be, but there will be some kind of move. Of that, I promise.

It may me equivalent to .3 miles in a marathon, but I vow to take at least one small step in the right direction.

Let’s do this together. Determine what we want to make of our livelihood and change something to get there. Yes, it’s scary. It’s downright terrifying. But do you want to spend the rest of your working days stuck in a cubical, writing for someone else, advising leadership on what to say and when to say it? Oh wait, that’s my career.

So I leave you with that loaded question: If you could do anything, what would that be?

Suggestions for me are welcome as well.

Happy 2012! Here’s to starting an interesting marathon!

Hey, New Jerseyans! What are you?

According to this map of New Jersey, I’m a former Hill Person and Drunk RU Student, but currently a Middle Class Raritan Valley Line Commuter and aspiring Working Class People and Beach House homeowner. What about you?

Who’s Guilty of Misusing These Words?

I may be pretty darn perfect (I kid, I kid), but even I learned something from this virtual bulletin board.

Why I Probably Won’t Remember Hurricane Irene

In my attempt to be a responsible adult, I went shopping this evening to stock up for the natural disaster that is currently spinning off the coast of North Carolina. I came home with a bevy of products.

20-pound Kettlebell

Floor Cleaner

“I Know Why The Caged Bird Sings” by Maya Angelou and “A Game of Thrones” by George R.R. Martin

Wintergreen LifeSavers

Whipped Cream Vodka and Diet Orange Soda

One Banana

Tissues

Condoms

Pretzel M&Ms

Now, let me explain to you how all of these seemingly unrelated products will help me survive Hurricane Irene.

After many hours of being locked in my apartment, I will begin to feel like a fat lump and want to do something physical. Hence the kettlebell. Kettlebell workouts burn many calories (about 20 per minute) and build muscle, so working out with this 20-pound weight for 3o minutes will make me feel much better about not leaving my apartment all day.

Following my kettlebell workout, I will be energized and keen to keep moving. So I thought that cleaning my wood floors would be a good next activity.

After doing something good for my body and my home, I’ll want to do something that’s good for my mind while enjoying a delicious (and addictive) Wintergreen LifeSaver. (Note: This is the peak of my day as a prisoner in my own home, a la Lindsay Lohan.) So I will start reading a book by one of the most influential authors of modern American literature, Maya Angelou. I will abandon this book for a guilty pleasure, a fictional story of lords, ladies, dragons and make-believe lands called “A Game of Thrones.”

At this point, reading about drinking mead and wine and feasting on pigs and stuff will make me want to fix my own snack. Here’s where the whipped cream vodka, diet orange soda and banana come into play. I will inevitably drink too many creamsicles, get rip-roaring drunk and want to have a dance party. Sure, my MacBook will spit out plenty of Britney, Queen and the Killers dance tunes, but I’m positive Adele’s “Someone Like You” will play. My manic dancing will come to a hard stop and Adele’s lyrics will resonate with my single and unlucky-in-love self; I’ll start feeling bad about myself for being alone during a hurricane. I will cry. Tissues will come in handy.

And usually what happens when I get upset about being single is that I’ll eventually pull myself together and try to find a man. So at this point in the day, the low, I’ll shove a few condoms in my pockets, mix another cocktail and wander the halls looking for the cute guy I’ve run into at the mailbox several times this past month.

When I don’t find him, or any other suitable man, I’ll shuffle back to my apartment, curl up on the couch and shove my face with M&Ms before passing out and weathering the storm in a productive way…by sleeping.