Just out of curiosity, I took a look at her website this morning, which features her daily newsletter, The Zoe Report. We can save the discussion that I should be ghostwriting all of her editorial content for her for another time,  but for now, I just have to share yesterday’s story with you: This Gucci edition of the Fiat 500 is so totally major.

If I had it my way, I’d be entrenched in Gucci all day, everyday. Sadly, my budget doesn’t warrant that when it comes to the brand’s iconic suits and loafers, but if you ask me, $23,000 for a Gucci car doesn’t sound that expensive-meaning my fantasy could be a reality. Personally, I’ve always dreamed of a Mercedes with seats swathed in Louis Vuitton monogram (yes, I can be very Hip Hop at times), but I will totally take this. Check out these specs of the soon-to-be released car, in addition to the line of accessories Gucci has produced to accompany it. Matching car, wardrobe and luggage? I die.

Drive Designer.

It’s almost as amazing as this sensational tableau:

I would have taken shots of more characters, but I didn’t want to run the risk of getting shot because we aren’t exactly dealing with the upper echelon of New York society here. But this is pretty great, no? Where does one even buy an outfit like this? Whores ‘R Us? I’m dying to know what Anna Wintour has to say about this one.

It’s almost as ridiculous as the heading under Cha Cha’s:

In any case, our first stop was lunch, where I cheated on “the system” by having a pizza at Totonno’s:

That glistening pie just calls to you like the songs of the sirens, does it not? I’m still dreaming of that hot coal oven crust topped with dollops of fresh mozzarella cheese and sweet plum tomato sauce. Totally worth burning the roof of my mouth over.

After lunch, Lady Levy and I headed to the beach, which was literally a hot mess. Not being very proud of my current physique, I opted to keep my shirt on. Sadly, most of the other men at the beach did not choose to do as I did, and they really should have: Some of these guys were so hairy I could have sworn they were wearing sweaters (both front and back). And the beer bellies? I hadn’t seen so many since I was 14 at Wet ‘N Wild waterpark in Las Vegas. This is not to say that the women were any better with their fashion choices; we should really start teaching how to dress for your body type in elementary school so we don’t end up with a bunch of female muffin tops hanging over G-string bikinis. Oh, and the middle aged Hispanic woman belting out an off-key karaoke rendition of “Under the Boardwalk” on the actual boardwalk? Priceless.

Also priceless? Riding the Cyclone. Well, actually, that’s not true; I had to fork over $8 for my ride. This was my second time riding the famed coaster and I had the same reaction as my maiden voyage several years ago: “I am NEVER riding the Cyclone AGAIN!” Now look, I love rides. I especially love roller coasters. And the woodies are the best! El Toro at Six Flags Great Adventure may be the best wooden coaster that exists on the planet, and I could ride it over and over again. The Cyclone, on the other hand, is an accident waiting to happen. While we were standing in line, I could see some of the wooden support beams wobbling and the whole thing looks like a three year old nailed it together. It’s been around since before World War One, for crying out loud. In retrospect, we were crazy to have gotten on it. It should really be condemned.  It is the most rickety, uncomfortable ride I’ve ever had in my entire life and I found myself praying for it just to be over. Lady Levy and I were seriously screaming and holding on for dear life. It took poor Lady Levy a good half hour to regroup after the terrifying experience.

As for me, I’ll regroup once my face is no longer the color of a lobster. In the meantime, I’m calling it a night because I am completely EXHAUSTED.

Until we meet again…

Pumpkin and I decided to Zipcar it up and head to the country. I never thought I would describe New Jersey as “the country” (or as “pretty,” for that matter), but there you have it. It could be the L.A. in me, but it just feels good to get out of the city and drive somewhere.

Naturally, lunch was at our preferred roadside destination, the Cracker Barrel. No matter where you are in America, you can take comfort in the fact that if you visit a Cracker Barrel, the setup is exactly the same. It’s almost the Holiday Inn of theme restaurants.

Due to “the system,” I had to somewhat behave, so I ordered a salad. But this is the Cracker Barrel afterall, and I would be damned if I didn’t leave without ingesting one (in reality, two) of their delicious biscuits. But biscuits aside, the other reason I always enjoy a trip to the Cracker Barrel is that Pumpkin and I always seem to be the hottest people there. And I feel hot as often as it snows in Vegas.

So why Jersey? Aren’t we trying to eschew Bridge and Tunnel on a constant basis in the city and also trying to avoid being victims of freak table flippings? Well, courtesy of Time Out New York, we thought it would be fun to tour the Valley Shepard Creamery, a dairy farm and cheesemaking facility in rural New Jersey. Plus, we have a thing about choosing vacation/day trip destinations based on being able to buy jam on the side of the road.

It was hard to stay focused on the tour with the denizens of screaming misbehaved children on the tour, but these gleaming pyramids were especially distracting.

The children weren’t the only wild animals, though. The cheesemaking and automated milking areas are surrounded by the various sheep, goat and cow pens.

What was truly special, however, was getting acquainted with this little lady, who is a mere three days old!

Isn’t this photo of Pumpkin and the little girl just absolutely precious?

As I held the babe in my arms, I was worried she might suddenly start urinating or even God forbid go number two all over me. Luckily, I escaped unscathed, but that’s not to say we left the farm without our fair share of contact with doody. Just look at what was for sale in the farm gift shop, the Sheep Shoppe.

Cute, huh? And you thought this was going to be shitty ending.

Lady Levy, Ali G and I took the 7 train two stops out to previously uncharted territory in Long Island City (which is really Long Island Shitty). With desolate streets and nothing but warehouses abounding, we all thought we were about to get raped and peed on, and then we smelled it… As much as I love cheese, this was not an aroma, my friends. This was a stench! A type of air perfumed with barnyards, wet dog and stewed prunes that couldn’t help but be detected a mile away. Nonetheless, we held our noses and followed the thumping music and gangs of hipsters inside the Larkin Warehousing & Trucking Facility, where the event was taking place.

While the event was most certainly a celebration of cheese, the focal point was supposed to be the competition among international cheesemongers who came from as far as England and Australia. All the big time players were here: Neal’s Dairy from England, Di Bruno’s in Philly, and of course our very own New York City gems Murray’s Cheese and Saxelby Cheese-mongers, just to name a few. The blind cheese guessing games, cheese plating competitions and timed cheese slicing rallies were taking place center stage, but how could anyone possibly pay attention to that when faced with a spread like this?

It was upon viewing this site that Lady Levy declared “this was the best idea ever. I want to go to here.” The plates were so small and the cheese was in such abundance that I found myself eating cubes as we meandered through the bountiful S-shaped smorgasbord that no joke, took about an hour to complete. Otherwise, I would have run out of room on my plate.

I definitely ran out of room in my stomach because we had it all: soft ripened, washed rind, aged, oozing, stinky, firm and even a few rolled slices of Serrano ham in there, too. I promise you’ve never seen anything like this; it was uncurd of. (Yes, I make joke. It’s funny, no?) The three of us found ourselves in a delirious cheese coma, sitting on some sort of a trucking gate, complete with cheese in our hair. It’s not over when the fat lady sings, folks. It’s over when you realize you have cheese in your hair.

With that in mind, and with enough gas inside each of us to propel ourselves back to our respective homes in Manhattan and Brooklyn, it was time to go…both home and to the nearest bathroom.

So imagine my happiness when I found out that “the system” would require me to eat quite a bit of yogurt as part of the program. “You know what?” I said to myself, “it’s time to be a big boy and get over the yogurt aversion. You love 40 Carrots (the Bloomingdale’s precursor to Pinkberry…I highly suggest a visit; if not for the orgasm on a spoon, then for the people watching alone), so if you can handle that, you can do this.”

I must have spent five or ten minutes staring at the many varieties of nonfat yogurt when I went to do my grocery shopping for week 1 on “the system.” Miss Hayward’s father is obsessed with Yoplait’s Boston Cream Pie, so I grabbed a few of those, along with Red Velvet Cake, Cinnamon Roll and that Greek Fage yogurt everyone swoons over.

My experience with Boston Cream Pie was highly pleasant: I found the texture to be a lot more congealed than I had assumed it would be, and the flavor was marvelous; I almost felt like I was eating a slightly more viscous rendition of crème caramel. I didn’t love the Red Velvet quite as much, but I was able to eat the whole carton without gagging, so I’d say I did pretty well.

I was really excited to try the Fage, which has been a total rage the past few years. Sadly, I did not take to it like I took to the flavorful Yoplait options. Maybe I missed something and I was supposed to add something sweet to it, but the Fage tasted like someone whipped a bunch of sour milk into a frenzy and stuck it into a container. The thick, fluffy texture was almost like a mousse, but with nothing to taste but that lactic yogurt tang, all I have to say is “ick!” Here’s hoping the vanilla-flavored Chobani chilling in my fridge fares much better than that ferkakta Fage. Blech!

Due to laziness, convenience and my social life, I eat almost every dinner either at a restaurant or from a take-out box. As someone who frequents restaurants as a hobby, telling me that I can’t eat out for the next few weeks is a huge lifestyle adjustment for me. What am I going to do with all the time that’s usually occupied in one of the city’s many dining rooms? With dining out and grabbing drinks out of the equation (booze is a no-no; all I’m allowed is either one 5 oz glass of wine or a Skinny Girl Margarita, and it has to be in place of a snack), I honestly don’t know what the Hell I am going to do with my friends for the rest of the summer. Not that there’s no substance beyond food regarding my friendships, but when a majority of your social life revolves around activities such as sampling the lamb burger at the Breslin or throwing back a few expertly crafted cocktails at Employees Only, it’s a shock to the system.

I’m proud to report that in the past month, I’ve lost 12 pounds. I only started on “the system” a week ago, so I can’t attribute the total loss to the professional organization that’s helping me, but the one week on the program has obviously given me quite a boost. I’m getting to eat ziti marinara, cinnamon French toast and beef sliders, and I’m getting positive results! I’m finding that I don’t feel deprived of anything, and the variety of food I’m able to enjoy satiates my desires for various flavors and textures. And that’s so important to me, as I don’t feel like I’ve given anything up. “The system” isn’t the fastest way I could possibly lose weight, but it’s going to be the most effective in the long run because it’s teaching me how to integrate splurge-worthy foods into a pattern of healthy eating; all I need is a little bit, of the “forbidden” dish and I just satiate the rest of my hunger with tons of salad and/or healthily-prepared vegetables.

If I stick to it and keep it up, I’ll be having my “I fit into my white pants again” party by Labor Day…

Reminiscent of something served on an airplane, my entree this morning was a calzone-like contraption filled with scrambled eggs, diced ham and a touch of cheddar cheese. Sounds pretty good, right? Four ounces of cottage cheese, a serving of fruit and a glass of nonfat milk were also on the menu.

As a mid-morning snack, I was given what was basically a mini Balance Bar, which was chewy and surprisingly satisfying enough to pass for a dessert. I could possibly give up cake for this!

Speaking of cake, when a client emailed me today that I should expect a cake from “Snooky’s Bakery,” I almost died. I know Nicole Polizzi spells her alias differently, but just the image of Snooki in a chef’s hat, covered in flour and rolling dough had me hysterical. What would even go in a Snooki cake? Ron Ron juice and pickles? But that’s beside the point. As a cake aficionado who knows every noteworthy bakery in the city, I had never heard of Snooky’s Bakery. Naturally, I googled it.  Maybe it’s just me, but I think these are some of the most ghetto-looking “professional” cakes I’ve ever seen. Not that I can construct anything more complicated than a delicately frosted sheet cake, but come on…”Arrivederci” is spelled incorrectly on the Italy cake, most of the inscriptions on the other cakes are crooked,  “Baby Shower Cake” is lopsided and the “Oscar” cake is so totally the Cookie Monster. I understand we can’t all be Margaret Braun or Sylvia Weinstock, but seriously Snooky? This is how you choose to represent your business?

In any case, lunch was a bust: chicken salad and applesauce. Mister Mouth does not do mayonnaise. It’s one of the Forbidden 8 (mustard, horseradish, coconut, anything in the onion family, garlic, sour cream and ranch dressing are the remaining seven). So I instead tossed it and ate what was supposed to be my afternoon snack, an apple and a six ounce nonfat yogurt.

Dinner is going to be mesquite-seasoned chicken, broccoli and roasted red bliss potatoes in additional to a cup of minestrone. And, I even get to have an after dinner snack of white cheddar popcorn! I think I’m totally going to dig this rendition of “Operation: Get Hot!”

While the two do pair together as seamlessly as Justin Beiber and Selena Gomez, here’s the absolute naked truth: I want to misbehave one more time before I wake up tomorrow and start anew. Three years later and forty pounds none the wiser, it’s time for something drastic. And it begins tomorrow morning.

The reason I haven’t minded my mouth in a long time is because I’ve been too busy feeding it: From doughy Neapolitan pizza pies, to juicy Shanghai soup dumplings, to moist red velvet cupcakes, I’ve ingested it all over the last few years. And not in moderation. That pesky Seamless Web app on my iphone, which enables me to order takeout from my bed, certainly didn’t help matters.

So what the Hell happened? I stopped caring. I stopped caring about myself, I stopped caring about my health and I stopped caring about my priorities. There are a lot of reasons behind the downward spiral, but instead of getting into them, I’m putting the gear shift in reverse and ascending the very spiral that gave me a 36 inch waist and apathetic demeanor.

Now look, I know I haven’t become obese. But I’m what I refer to as “L.A. Fat.” And you can’t be “L.A. Fat” in L.A…and you really shouldn’t be “L.A. Fat” in New York, either. Nonetheless, I’m not myself and I’ve enlisted some professional assistance (I promise it’s not lipo) to get me back to where I should be.

I’m trying to be optimistic, but this journey isn’t going to be easy; I’m going to slip. I’m going to have bad days when all I want to do is sink my teeth into a wedge of cheesecake from The Palm. And I’m going to chronicle it all here because that’s what “Minding My Mouth” was meant to be: A forum to voice my thoughts, run my mouth and emphasize the integral role food plays in my life.

But don’t think this is about to become another health & fitness/self-improvement vehicle teeming with sunshine and sugar-free lollipops. I’m trying to lose weight and inches here, not my cynicism and snark…because that, my friends, would be tragic.

Ah, pizza’s here. Time for “The Last Supper” to commence.

I must say, I was a little hesitant to eat at a place called Pies ‘n Thighs because all I could think of was their pie going straight to my thighs. It’s kind of along the same line of why I have never been to a Fatburger, nor have I ever set foot in the Mexican restaurant called Porkyland near my grandparents’ house.  But had I come all this way in the rain and left without sampling the namesake, that just wouldn’t be acceptable, now would it?

Pies ‘n Thighs is what I imagine every local restaurant in the South to be: A non-descript storefront, plastic red and white checker tablecloths, tall tumblers of sweet tea and a modest menu of stick-to-your ribs favorites. If it weren’t for the plethora of retro spectacles doting the hipster clientele and the alt-rock soundtrack that were dead giveaways we were in Brooklyn, I could have easily sworn I was below the Mason-Dixon line.

It was a tough decision between biscuits and gravy or fried chicken and waffles, but I was lucky enough to find a dish that married the best elements of both dishes, the chicken biscuit: A slab of moist, crispy seasoned chicken was bookended by a warm, crusty biscuit that had been buttered and kissed with a tinge of sweet hot sauce. It was as if Chick-Fil-A’s prized breakfast item had undergone a facelift and emerged as a fresher, better version of its former self. Southern goodness, indeed.

I realize that it was a hard act to follow, but the apple pie was a severe disappointment. The crust looked delectably flaky and crisp, but was soggy and almost tasteless in reality. I could see that the apples inside were awash in a paste of cinnamon and sugar, but my tastebuds informed me otherwise. Really upsetting, especially seeing that “pies” is in the restaurant’s name. Luckily, this meant I didn’t do any further damage to my thighs, which had already taken enough of a beating with the chicken biscuit. But I’d like to think that’s nothing a 5-mile run in the rain didn’t take care of.

Several years ago, the Bug and I started a tradition of going to Six Flags Great Adventure every summer. Amusement parks in general tend to attract denizens of funky-looking folk, but this particular locale is in New Jersey, taking the people-watching to a whole new level. The women, alone, are like a combination of a bucktoothed Ellie Mae Clampett shaken up in a test tube with a rhinestone-decked Teresa Giudice. Now, I don’t go to Jersey for anything except for three things: Lady Levy’s Hoboken digs, Carlo’s Bakery and the occasional flight out of Newark. So you know that if I’m willing to travel two hours deep into Jersey, what we have going on at Great Adventure is somewhat of a gleaming gem. Where else are you going to see a wannabe badass 15-year-old Latina sporting a t-shirt with a graphic of a pile of nachos below the caption “Nacho Girlfriend?”

Feinstein and Bex decided to join us this year, and no sooner did we step into the funnel cake-perfumed air were we strapped into Batman the Ride. For those of you out of the loop (no pun intended), this is an inverted coaster, where you’re seated in a contraption that hangs from the track above you and your feet are free to dangle as you’re twisted and turned into a million different directions for which our bodies are just not meant. It’s kind of sickening when you stop to think about it. Some of these rides should really just be called “Bulimia” because all they do is induce vomiting.

While we escaped Batman without any nausea, I can’t say the same for our lunch: The Bug and I went the chicken finger and seasoned curly fry route, while Feinstein and Bex decided to go all out with giant foil-wrapped turkey legs. I don’t know where these turkeys are coming from that they have such meaty legs, maybe some crazy lab somewhere, but Bex is convinced they’re actually emu legs. Whatever they are, I felt like Captain Caveman when I took a bite of it, the thing was so big I wanted to club someone with it and scream “ooga booga!”

After almost losing our lunch on Skull Mountain, a roller coaster in the dark, we hit the midway. I’m not really one to spend money on carnival games (gratuitous Gucci? Yes. Squirt the Clown Mouth? No), so I just played spectator. Between rounds, I glanced to my left and saw a fatherly-looking figure wearing a tote bag that read “I Recycle Boys.” Ummm, euw. To say the least. I’m glad he’s not only lucky enough to plow through so many young men, but also proud enough to share it. However, I learned several years ago when I wore my “Everyone Loves a Jewish Boy” t-shirt to Great Adventure, that it’s not a good idea to advertise that you’re part of any particular minority group. Those dagger-like glares I received that year still haunt me in my dreams.

Feinstein won a basketball, but I really wish he had taken the prize that can only be described as a “racist banana:” A giant stuffed banana with dreds under a red, green and black knit cap that looked as if it has been smoking a little too much of the ganja. Why anyone ever thought this would be an amusing toy/bedroom centerpiece is absolutely beyond me. It’s more useless than the giant Pikachu I noticed, not to mention its reinforcement of negative stereotypes.

Pretty much by this point, we were pooped. What can I say? We’re not 15 anymore. (Okay, maybe we are; I posed for our picture on the log ride to make it look like I was feeling up the Bug.) In all seriousness, we no longer have the youthful stamina anymore to run around in the heat, properly digest junk food and have our bodies thrown in the most unnatural of directions. While I can’t wait to do it all again next year, I think we’ll all agree that the best ride of the day was the bus ride home.