A girl's gotta eat.

Below is a real conversation that was had with a coworker of mine:

D: Hey Sadie, can you come take a look at this?
Me: Sure, let me get a couple hard-boiled eggs and make my flax oatmeal right quick.
D: ...do you eat anything that tastes good?

To some, I tend eat things that resemble cardboard and moss. While my body chooses to love an unreasonable portion of fruits and vegetables over a tall salty stack of McDonald's hashbrown pucks - my mouth begs to differ. Thus, I bring you my [shortened] list of scrumptiously horrible foods that my mouth could eat for the rest of my life.

Behold:

My man.

• Fletcher's Corny Dogs.
Really, any brand of corn dog. But there's a special time of year when my family and I venture to the State Fair. Upon arrival of that redneck playground, my eyes widen like Jesus is coming and I run with both hands fiercely stretched out in front of me as if Fletcher himself were going to issue me a hug and a lifetime supply of Corny Dogs. After my fat girl dash, I revel in that little fried delight. Then, hours later, I will have a second Dog to end my trip to the State Fair of Texas and begin my week-long digestion battle. 
• Taco Bell's Crunchwrap Supreme. My love affair with these little saucers of Tex-Mex glory first began in high school. Specifically, when I realized I was starving at the end of every volleyball game. After each game, there was a brief time where I would retrieve food, and eat it at my then-boyfriend's house. There was a mini "restaurant row", so to speak, and among those dining establishments was a KFC/Taco Bell combo. What would my high-school self order nearly every single game night? A Crunch Wrap Supreme, potato wedges, a steak Grilled Stuff'd Burrito, and a sweet tea - for good measure. How am I alive? 
• California Rolls. Ah, the universal roll in the sushi world. While a Rainbow Roll typically wins me over on the menu, there's no escaping that the base of that colorfully delicious masterpiece is, in fact, a Cali Roll. "But Sadie, sushi is fish and rice and seaweed and avocado. That's pretty healthy!" Yes my readersan, normally you'd be right. But 99.9% of all California Rolls are made with crab stick. Which is mostly composed of 3 parts random white fish, 2 parts food dyes, 1 part incomprehensible chemical, and 10 parts tasty. 
• Chocolate covered almonds. If ever I wander away from you in the grocery store, you will either find me reading labels of obscure foods - or staring at the bulk chocolate covered almonds tube that you can pour into a large bag at your leisure. There might have been a time last month where I filled a 2 pound bag as a "road trip snack" and ate it for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. One is just never, ever enough. 
• Lil Smokies. If you bring me to a barbecue or house party that is serving these little weens on a toothpick, it is probable that I will consume no fewer than 35 smokies in one sitting. That is all.
• And lastly, A fat Chipotle burrito. Many of you are aware of my mild obsession with Chipotle. But it may come as a surprise to most of you that every time I open those faux chrome doors and see the beautiful assembly line of Mexican goodness - I weep. I weep, because I know I cannot order that warmed flour tortilla, I cannot order that cheese, and I cannot add the dollop of sour cream. Instead, I order the stupid salad with no dairy. Someday soon, I'm going to order that perfectly crafted burrito that I first fell in love with (tort, white rice, black beans, peppers and onions, steak, pico, lettuce, cheese, sour cream, guac, and a sprinkle of green sauce. Omg.), and my mouth will love every bite. Then, my mouth will laugh in the face of my soon-to-be-unsettled bowels. 

This is what it feels like I'm eating when I finish my dream burrito.

I'll spare you the details that I know would accompany a Chick-fil-a breakfast bagel sandwich, a medium rare filet from Ruth's Chris Steakhouse, glass upon glass of Ovaltine, and a heaping bowl of Oatmeal Squares - for I know the longevity of this post could far surpass just 6 bullet points.

Note: during this post I have since completed nearly a pound of chocolate covered almonds. I would say I have a problem, but I don't. So shut up.

It costs more money for me to work, than it does to play.

So, as most of you know, I am gainfully employed at a little company that is responsible for publishing two magazines tailored toward professional women and men here in Austin. As you can probably imagine, my distant dreams of working in a fast-paced, political, obviously not eco-friendly, and inconveniently located office have finally come true!

While seemingly unfortunate, working for a local publication has its perks. For instance, we garner a lot of attention from various community-sponsored events and/or big wigs in a number of societies within Austin. Every month, once our magazine has been put to bed, we host a launch party for all of our advertisers, prospective clients and obsessive readers. Basically, we throw a party and give each other alcohol-induced high fives for doing our job. Moreover, on top of our own soirees, companies and organizations alike invite us  to galas, benefits, parties, happy hours, sporting events, showcases and any other affair that would forge even the slightest social scene.

"Sadie, would you mind telling me what your humble-bragging point is?"

Observe:

Prior to the monthly closing date of our magazines, the art director, fashion editor and a photographer all assemble their stupid talent into a whirlwind of creative splendor and style a product shoot.

1. I hate them all for being my age and having my dream job(s).
2. During these shoots, I am absolutely not working due to my fierce staring laser beams of jealousy getting in the way of my computer.
3. The more I gaze drool longingly at our fashion editor while she brings in the bags upon bags of luxuriously expensive couture from Saks Fifth Avenue the more I am aware of what is fashionable/trendy/not in my closet*. 

*Often, on the evening of these wonderful wonderful shoots, I will go home and I will stand in my closet. I will stand in my closet and I will shake my head in utter disgust. Then, I will stew over my apparel timeline and try to pinpoint the exact moment that I crossed over to the world of unfashionable. Now, obviously, when I partake in this self-loathing I'm drunk off of unattainable, expensive trends. Otherwise, if anyone else stood in  my closet they would label me an ensemble-glutton with a bad habit of buying Little Black Dresses.

Basically, unless my salary goes up considerably - I won't have the income to foot the bill for all this shit! I'm braving the catty world of social elitists and I cannot be seen in the same dress twice. These people are straight-up Real Housewives of Austin status. Except, replace "Real Housewives" and insert "Bewilderingly Successful & Self-Established Socialites".

So, the financially tumultuous point I'm trying to make is this:

Lest I buy a dress, a pair of shoes and - for accessory's sake - the occasional necklace, bi-monthly, for the rest of my career...

I'll die.

Let's get physical, physical.

As I sit on our plush couch with no legs, admiring our near-fully furnished apartment and digesting the mass amount of fibrous food I just consumed, I observe my roommate Erin. At the moment, she's removing her shirt in a sweaty haze and scouring the kitchen for sustenance. For the hunt, she's donned in a sports bra and knee-length running pants that are pulled up to her belly button. "Excuse my fat rolls," she says.

Let us remember, Erin is a 5'11" stalk of celery; long, lean with a heap of hair on top.

After I avert my eyes, I attempt to rise from the world's lowest couch... But... I don't. My legs are too sore to stand up. After living  being a sloth in Austin almost 2 months, I've only recently started working out again. And what have I done? I've conned Erin into buying a gym membership to be my workout buddy. And this Sunday marks the end of week 1. And with that, marks the end of the first week of Erin's Hell.

One time, I played college soccer. That brief stint taught me a little bit about how to work out. One other time, I discovered I had an immune deficiency. That precious blessing taught me a little bit about how to eat. With my vault of nutritional knowledge now open, I'm pulling a Mr. Miyagi and enlightening Erin about the dangers of eating Conversation Hearts for dinner, and how detrimental it can be to your liver if you replace water with Blackstone Merlot.

We're working on it.

Anyway, our athletic endeavors began last week and I was thrilled, THRILLED to have someone to be miserable alongside as I lay my cellulite to rest in cottage cheese hell. Though, on the inaugural session of Mission: Sexy Celebrity Body Double we discovered that Erin, immersed in her classic novel reading and adolescent poetic composing, was never introduced to the wide world of pushups. Or split jumps. Or shoulder presses. Or anything that sorority sisters everywhere can't bob up and down upon. So, I have taken it upon myself to nurture this newborn gym baby. We spent a lot of this week just learning how to do things. And considering I've begun growing a front-ass orb, I didn't mind the easing-into-things.

Now, earlier this week we put pushup-position rows into one of our circuit workouts. Unfamiliar with exactly how to do it, Erin asked I watch to make sure she was executing the exercise at peak athletic performance. Mind you, we had already done about 150 reps of other things so our muscles were already burning. But in the middle of her pushup-position row I see Erin slowly fall to the ground. On the way down to her death, I hear her desperately wheeze out the phrase, "My arm, Sadie... my arm won't hold up my body." And just like the waning moments in the renowned scene of Titanic when a weary Rose lets go of popsicle Jack, down Erin went.

Disclaimer: Erin is a champion. She's been pushing through these workouts with an intense amount of reluctance, but determination to accomplish. And that's admirable. Plus, the counselor who signed Erin up for her membership is spicy hot. Motivation City, population: Celery Stalk.

At the end of every workout, we limp out of the gym as if our brain isn't sending the message "bend" to our knees, all the while discussing how many ripped cut abs we're going to have and how many quarters we will bounce off each other's firm badonks. We are living the lives of real twentysomethings; we have 9-5 jobs, a church we frequent, an apartment that resembles a knockoff Anthropologie store, virtually no money, and a workout regime.

Now, someone to come over and slap this delicious chocolaty treat out of my hand before I eat it and it's 9 other friends.

I will no longer be smelling like a deep-fried onion: I'm employed!

Hello, my name is Sadie. You might remember me from such careers as "Wild Bill's Burgers' Scene/Emo High School Waitress", "From Lifeguard to Headguard Then Demoted Back To Lifeguard" or "Lesbian UPS Truck Driver's Package Runner". I'd like to inform you today that as of November 28th, 2011, I have hung my part-time-job hat (knock on wood, touch a screw, hold your breath while driving through a graveyard, keep your freaking umbrella closed indoors and rub that lucky rabbit's foot raw).

I'm on day 8 as AW Media's Office Manager (plug), and while I would rather impale myself into a pit of letter openers than write invoices and manage payroll - I'm beyond thrilled (THRILLED) to have this job. Not only do I plan to kick the ass of all things administrative, but I plan to do it with the swiftness of a ninja so I can wiggle my way into the pages of the magazine. I want to contribute less to the filing cabinet, and more to the final product.

In light of my recent career-switch. I'd like to take this time and dedicate this blog post as a written memorial highlighting my soul-sucking, part-time past job life. Let the pitiful hilarity ensue.

The Early Age: Wild Bill was never really that wild.

I'm sure all of my high school friends can agree that Wild Bill was about as wild as a jar of pickles. But despite his resemblance to Bill Nye the Science Guy, the man knew burgers. My most fond memory of my working stint at Wild Bill's was getting the esteemed pleasure of serving one particular gluttonous contestant of the Monster Burger Challenge. First of all, the Monster Burger Challenge was a time-sensitive competition that summoned eaters to scarf down 3 1/3lb patties and 1 whole bun in 10 minutes or less. Second of all, disgusting. If you successfully achieved the goal (of which my dear friend Cameron Gregory puked and paled in comparison. 3 times.) you got your picture on the wall (sadly, Cameron never did). As I said, the walking seventh-sin came in and asked for the Monster Burger. With fries. I brought it out to him and we started the timer. After folding each patty into quarters and soaking the bun in his glass of water, Porky the Pig managed to finish the burger and fries in 2 minutes. 

2 gargling, snorting, panting minutes. 

He then wiped off his sweatstache and asked for a dessert menu.

The Demotion Age: I should have pooped in the pool while I had the chance.

Due to the longevity of my employment as a Wendy Peffercorn stand-in with the City of Hurst at the Central Aquatics Center (RIP Skin Cells: 2004-2010), I have concocted a list of favorite daily tasks/events/pastimes that seemed to never get old despite my ending salary being $9.97 and my age of resignation being 22. The list goes as follows:

• Babies, toddlers, children, tweens, pre-teens and foreigners never understanding that every time they take a fat dump in the pool, we have to evacuate the water for 30 minutes, giving them a self-established timeout and us an opportunity to do even less work.
• Having a tab at the concession stand and not paying it the entire summer.
• Asking women of all shapes, shades and sizes to wear a City of Hurst t-shirt because we can see their saucer nipples through their sheer thong bikini. 
• That summer Cameron and I had a crush on each other. While not an impressive burger-eater, he always had those chiseled pecs and an endearing incapability to effectively serve a volleyball.
• Playing an intense game of sand volleyball on rainy days. Also, watching Kathryn Wren do rain dances to the tune of "When The Thunder Rolls" by Garth Brooks while everyone else played volleyball.
• Hating the Asian family of 42 that came in 30 minutes prior to closing time. Every single night.
• Playing baseball, a sophisticated game of fencing, or jousting my arch nemesis with the Children's Pool measuring sticks.
• My amazing, beautiful, Brazilian-like tan.
• When patrons would clap after I heroically saved a drowning child or stereotyped adult.
• The inservices when I was Guard of the Week.
• The inservices when my best friend Whitley would rant about lifeguards less perfect than she.
• The inservices when we would go down the slides naked.
• Summers when my closest friends were my superiors.
• The summer I was promoted.
• The summer I was demoted.

And it all kind of went downhill from there.

The Lezbiazoic Age: What can brown do for you?
For a couple of Christmas breaks during college, I worked as a package runner for UPS. Actually, Cameron got me the job. Add "in the vocational know" to his list of qualities. Anyway, from 8am until 8pm I was running boxes (probability of the boxes being full of drugs: high) from a giant brown truck to various locations. Some of these locations included my friends' houses, some of these locations included the mall. You can imagine my 19-year-old dismay when I would catch eyes with people I knew who, unfortunately, noticed that it was indeed me sprinting through the mall, or hurdling up and down front walkways, donned in a dook-colored outfit made for a man who was shaped like a rhombus.

One Christmas, though, I had the spicy titillation of working with Gretchen Vandyke.*

*I can't remember her name, but I will work through my depression/early onset Alzheimer's and create a pseudonym for story's sake.

To sum up my lesbian UPS adventures, Gretch would often discuss her personal life with her mistress of 20 years prior. Seeking my womanly wisdom, she and I would go to lunch at any of these family-friendly locations:

• Buffalo Wild Wings
• Hooters
• Chili's Too!

One particular afternoon, as we were delighting in our boneless wings, she received a "hella funny" text from one of her "dudes." Why I gave her my personal cell number I will forever wonder, but the message was instantly forwarded. A picture message! How fun. A picture message with sounds that reached the loudest decibel that could measure utter embarrassment immediately upon opening! How mortifying. It's a hazy memory, but I know the text said a variation of: "HEY EVERYONE, I LIKE GAY PORN. ALL THE TIME. EVERY DAY, Y'ALL!" And with the push of the down button, there lay a graphic picture of something to the Brokeback effect on my Nokia Brick's screen. 

Gretch wound up tipping me 100 extra dollars after my seasonal schedule ended. I wound up blocking any more forwarded texts from her hella funny dudes. 

The Dark Age: Outback and Outofmymind.

We all remember The Outback Chronicles, hmm? While I feel I was employed with that corporation for far too long, I will say I gained some sodium-laden weight, and some valuable insight from my relationship with waitressing. Such key knowledge includes:

• Knowing just how disgusting restaurant kitchens are.
• Understanding that butter is the main dish, and vegetables are the garnish.
• Servers who spit in your food are real. And they are rampant.
• If you order something that comes in multiples (fries, chips, vegetable medleys), you're likely missing 4 or 5 pieces from your plate before you even get your plate.
• Ordering drinks that don't come straight from the fountain (excluding the bar), or ordering 2 drinks at once is a spit-worthy offense. 
• Does your plate look immaculately displayed? Your food was probably been poked and prodded by bare, unwashed fingers. 
• Realizing that there is at least 1000mg of sodium in everything you order.
• If I ever catch you not tipping the appropriate amount, I will impale you into the aforementioned pit of letter openers.
• And lastly, grasping that no matter how much you complain, you still don't matter. You're an amoeba in the restaurant world. And, again, spit-worthy. 

But I digress.