Sugar daddy.

Sugar:  15 calories per tsp.

Real sugar:  15 calories per tsp.

People need to stop getting a boner over companies whose products are made of “real sugar.” It’s like all of a sudden people think drinking new Pepsi throw-backs is somehow healthy because they boast of using “real sugar.” In case you nimrods were really stupid enough not to realize this on your own, they have always used sugar. It’s just….sugar. Putting the word “real” in front of it does not magically make it “healthy” or “organic” or “better for you.” Same with the word “natural.” If you ask one of these advocates of the “real sugar” soda fans what was in their soda before, they have no idea. I’ll give you a hint: it was sugar.

Real sugar.

Oh, by the way, “high fructose corn syrup” is “sugar.”

Moving on.

I’m not sure what it is about cherries that scream “skank,” but they just do. As soon as I see a Chevy Cavalier with cherry themed seat covers, I automatically know that the driver has S’ed a lot of D’s. Cherries and sleeping around just go hand in hand. Cherry pajamas (a la Deb), cherry air fresheners, cherry themed fuzzy dice—-skanky. It’s just the way it is.

.

Jared Blake, contestant on NBC’s The Voice, is a walking definition of a poser. It’s like he found the how-to handbook on being a poser and took every step to prepare. Is there a “Nickelback for Dummies” book out there that I don’t know about? Has he not caught wind that everyone hates Nickelback? Nice bicycle chain around your neck, Jared. The other two hanging from your pants serving absolutely no purpose whatsoever are really, really cool too. Look at all the bracelets and rings he is wearing. He has on like four watches. Nobody needs four watches at once. The dude is wearing like 11 rings. He doesn’t even have that many fingers. How many bandanas is enough? Well, during his performance tonight, he had on three. One straight across his bald ass head, one tied around his wrist, and one tied to his pants. The one on the wrist really bothers me, because you know he can’t tie it on by himself. He literally has to go ask for someone to tie it on his arm for him. So lame. Don’t get behind this guy in airport security. He’s wearing more unnecessary metal than a medieval knight.

Douche.

Keep your pants on,

Rebecca.

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“What topics can you use for small talk?”

“Ummm…golf! Stock market. Dave Matthews.”

“Yes, what else?”

“Ah, small things—peas, ball-bearings, dimes—“

The skinny on fat.

I’m tired of these online ads claiming to have the secret to the “one magic food that cuts down on belly fat!”  There is no mysterious secret. Weight loss is very, very simple. Actually, it’s elementary math. Eat less, exercise more. That’s it. If there is any food that can actually magically cut down on belly fat, it’s Indian food. You barely finish your chicken tikka masala and out it goes, via the other end.  It doesn’t even have time to stick. So yeah, I guess if there’s one magical food that cuts down on belly fat, Indian food is it.

I would really love it if clicking on one of those online ads actually directed me straight to Taj Mahal Restaurant. Haha. Then I would applaud them. While we’re on the topic (of fat-burning, not Indian food), I’d like to clear something up for people: You cannot target fat loss on your body. Doing one million crunches every day will not burn your “belly fat.” It will build ab muscle, for sure.

…Under your gut where no one can see it.

You have to lose weight overall for your gut to shrink, kids. That means cardio. Lots of it. And calorie-control. Every day. There’s no secret. Stop searching for it. Use the ELF method: eat less food. (Copyright Rebecca Switzer).

I went shopping for some denim shorts this afternoon, seeing as the temperature is rapidly rising from mild springtime weather to molten lava exploding from the crust of the earth summer weather. My shopping results were…interesting. Shorts are only two years from no longer existing. And I don’t mean they’ll be obsolete as far as fashion is considered; I mean they’re going to be phased out entirely, because year by year, they get shorter and shorter.

They’re going to disappear. It won’t be long before “shorts” are just a piece of denim with a button and some belt loops with a price tag on them. The pockets on these shorts are hanging almost entirely out the bottom of the “legs.” I’ve seen longer inseams at a midget convention.

Does Skechers really think that marketing their Shape-Ups tennis shoes as the key to a fit, svelte body is accurate? “Step into YOUR new body with Skecher Shape Ups,” they say. Is Skechers trying to claim that wearing their tennis shoes will morph you into an Eva Mendes physique? Get real. Anyone in their right mind understands that donning a magical pair of shoes will not make you drop 6 dress sizes. ELF.

I am really in love with the Kia hamster commercial. They’re so gangster. I mean, they really made those hamsters bigger than hip, hop.

Their dancing? I love their dancing. Clearly Chris Brown coached these rodents.

“You can deal wit, DIS, or you can deal wit, DAT.”

Keep calm and ELF on, boys and girls.

Your amigo,

Rebecca.

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“Okay. That face is going to set us back in the bedroom.”

“I’m pumped! I can’t help it!”

“Yeah, I noticed that when you karate-kicked my makeup mirror.”

Dead or Alive.

I don’t like that Facebook took the liberty of making hitting “enter” automatically post my commentary. Listen up, Zuckerberg minions—I am a punctuation, indentation, and properly spaced text user and abuser, and I don’t appreciate not being able to separate my thoughts into appropriate, respective paragraphs. No one wants to read big fat blocks of text. No one. The “comment” button was just fine. Bring it back.

Naturally, however, I found a way around it for those of you who are also bothered by this new adjustment: hold the shift key while pressing enter, and you can start a new paragraph. And please do. The shit most of you type on Facebook is annoying enough already. I can’t imagine how bothersome it’s going to be when it’s stupid AND long-winded.

It’s going to be really difficult adjusting to eating like 1200 calories a day again instead of 3,000 like I have been due to my extreme levels of daily activity here in the mountains. I have somehow actually managed to weigh 4 pounds less than I did at my wedding, which I spent at least six months eating nothing but ice cubes and lettuce for. I am not exaggerating when I tell you that my diet has been made up completely of frozen microwaveable burritos, multiple bowls of Cinnamon Toast Crunch at a time, bread, spaghetti, Velveeta, ice cream, and Chinese food since I arrived in Colorado December 7th, over three months ago. In theory, I should weigh approximately as much as a calf.

 

Literally.

But when you’re snowboarding 4-6 hours a day, five or six days a week, hiking, and running around dog parks on the daily, you burn that shit off. Efficiently. I haven’t had this many carbs since college, and we all know how that turned out.

 

St. Patdrink’s day is 2/3 of the way over. I presume most of you are pooping out cucumber-looking terds that smell like Keystone Light, and throwing up cream of broccoli into the porcelain god, if you did things right. If you have been partying with your entourage, and were the first one to wake up, peel your face off the sticky linoleum floor, throw up in the kitchen sink, check your outgoing text messages and then log onto Facebook for clues as to what happened to you last night, you  might be wondering where your friends are, or if they are even still living. You know at least half of them made it back to wherever it is you are staying without getting arrested for public urination or sexual harassment, but you haven’t heard any of them stir in the other rooms. If you are worried that your friends have died, here’s a few tests you can run to find out:

1. Turn on Wheel Of Fortune. No matter how physically ill you are feeling, nothing except two broken legs can prevent someone from making their way to the couch in front of the television when they hear Wheel Of Fortune on the air.

2. Bang pots and pans together at an inappropriate decibel. Act like you are cleaning to avoid getting punched square in the face if this technique works. No one with a hangover from hell is going to allow this to go on for more than 30 seconds before launching out of bed, charging into the kitchen, and bulldozing the offender into the ground and beating them with a cheese grater.

3. Brew some deliciously aromatic coffee. It’s the best part of waking up.

If you’ve tried all of these techniques and nobody has stirred from the thick, dank darkness of their rooms, the last and final thing you can try is this:

4. Sneak out and bring back a hot, steaming bag of McDonald’s breakfast items. Even the dead will spring up and bash their faces into the roof of their coffins at the smell of a bacon, egg & cheese McGriddle. If you bring a sack of gloriously golden fried hash browns, delicious, hot breakfast sandwiches and pancakes, and nobody gets up to investigate/mooch, your friends are dead. Every last one of them is d.e.a.d.

Sorry.

Welp, bye.

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T: “Ah yeah, the Connecticut Ocean.”

B: “….what?”

T: “Isn’t that where this was? Connecticut?”

B: “…Yeah, but it’s definitely not ‘The Connecticut Ocean.'”