Category Archives: Random Stuff

Let’s Get Physical

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For Pete’s sake I was much more optimistic earlier this year, wasn’t I?

I swear to God what a clusterfuck life is.  It’s a good clusterfuck, don’t get me wrong, but still.  I’m JUST NOW getting well from a sickness that tried to kill me, as you know.   Or at least kill my sweet husband.  He’s tried everything to care for me and it even came to buying me “Ensure” this past weekend so that I could keep something down.  My friends, that’s love.  Nothing says love like a nutritional chocalate shake aimed at the geriatric.  But he was at the end of his rope.  Things are better.  I have had two days taking a  a shower and even one of them I wore a bra.   BABY STEPS.

Today I even threw out the Indian food I ordered before Christmas.  I’m a regular Florence Henderson. Crap, Ann B. Davis.

We got a damn cat by accident, did I tell you?  Oh yes, I did, I remember now.  (See him up there trying to fist bump me while I’m trying to nap, WTF? In his defense Elliot and Stabler had just kicked some Special Victims ass but still, manners dude.)  On CHRISTMAS EVE there was a storm blowing through our town and we took the girls to look outside for Santa’s sleigh and this damn fat cat just RAN into our house.  I am NOT a cat person.  NOT AT ALL.  Allergic, intolerant and kind of judgmental.  Don’t care for them.  Well, a month later and here it’s a got a collar, vaccinations and sleeps in my bed.  How did this happen?  I call him “Potato” or “Cat Stevens” or “Cat Boone” or “Sauerkraut”.  Everyone has their own name for him.  That’s the beauty of cats, they don’t give a shit what you call them.  I wish I was more like that.

Anyway, he’s kind of an asshole but I like him alright.  He’s learned to use Coop’s dog door right off the bat.  Kind of impressive.  I didn’t know cats did that.  He eats kibble.  He doesn’t scratch.  He sleeps a lot. Super low maintenance.  Jesus, I kind of wish we were dating.

I have a physical ( MY FIRST) on Tuesday and I’m terrified.  I have ridden on the back of a drunken jerk’s motorcycle at 90 miles an hour down the PCH and this 45 minute appointment terrifies me more.  It’s not the Physical itself, it’s the RESULTS.   Cirrhosis.  Liver damage.  Pancreatic Cancer.  AIDS (OMG, that ONE night in Orange County), Lung Cancer, Blindness, Spleen failure ( I don’t even know what my fucking spleen DOES but I want to keep it like an old purse that might someday go with a new outfit).  Ugh. I’m so, so scared.  High cholesterol?  I’ll take it.   But if I come in for my results and they take me into some small dark room with nothing but two chairs and a box of Kleenex I’m OUT like a scalded dog.

Fingers crossed, my friends.   I will go tits up in the parking lot if they just tell me to take more Fish Oil.

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OBSERVATIONS AND GENERAL MINUTIAE

The other day I went to a local craft store and the sweet little gal that rung me up couldn’t have been twenty years old.  As she held out my receipt I couldn’t help but notice she had “1994” tattooed in some horrible gothic “font” on the four knuckles of her right hand.  Other than this egregious calamity, she looked completely normal.  No pink or green hair, no facial piercings, and no stud in the middle of her tongue.   She looked like the girl next door.  Well, the girl next door that got Yeltsin drunk on graduation night and wound up in a tattoo parlor.  Don’t get me started on this culture of deformity that seems to be everywhere now.  I’m all about self-expression and uniqueness but if everyone is so damn unique, no one is.   Really?  On your hand?  Why didn’t you just put it on your forehead?

I swear I’m turning into a crotchety judgmental curmudgeon.   I feel like this is okay because I indeed have four somewhat regrettable tattoos on my body so I get it but what even young drunk girl corrupted understood was putting them somewhere they can be concealed if necessary as I always kind of assumed that one day I would be the First Lady.

DOES SARCASM COUNT AS A PREMIUM TOPPING?

You guys remember the pizza fiaso from last year, right?  If you don’t, here’s the gist.   We bought a pizza shop and it almost killed me.   Well, that may be a tad on the dramatic side but it did certainly test the boundaries of my marriage and sobriety.   This summer our lease was up it was time to make a decision.  Throw in the towel and limp away or move the shop to a better location and by a “better” location I mean that it would have been more profitable on Mount Everest.  We moved the restaurant and we opened back up three weeks ago.  Holy cannoli, y’all.

I swear it’s like the Mafia…I thought I was out..but they pulled me back in.  I’m back to slinging pizzas nightly.  The response has been overwhelming and we actually had people waiting for tables over the weekend.  Success!  It’s exhausting as we’re still working our regular day jobs as well but it takes time to build an empire but we’re well on our way.   We have an incredible staff and the atmosphere and energy is completely positive and upbeat, especially compared to the last joint where the dining room was usually around 90 degrees and you could feel your will to live seeping out every time someone opened the oven door.  Oh, and this store is actually making money so that’s a nice turn of events.  Jesus.  So, stay tuned.  I am Girl Corrupted, LORD OF THE PIES.

I HAD TO GO THERE

So, BFF Schell and I have been on a diet/clean eating/exercise regime.   In an effort to get us jump started she ordered a three month supply of Garcinia Cambogia, which is the new miracle drug that Dr. Oz, et al have been pimping.  It’s an organic herbal supplement that you’re supposed to take twice a day and it will perhaps aid in weight loss.  She sent me a three month supply as well because she’s awesome like that.  You guys.   This stuff will have you pooping like a rabbit.  Between the vodka and jalapenos I didn’t really need help in that arena but OMG, hold onto your hat.  Not only are you pooping green spongy logs three and four times a day, it’s also causing me to develop what I like to call “air horn” farts.  You know, the  kind that forcibly comes out with a big loud crack at the end?   I’ll just be sitting at my desk and suddenly, “BRAAAAAAAAAAAAAP!   RAT! TAT! TAT!”.   It’s somewhat disturbing because my body is running the show and I can’t control it but it’s also somewhat delightful because it is so raucous and unexpected.

Tattoos, pizza and poop.  What more is there?

 

 

Notsomuch itsy or bitsy.

So this past weekend Johnny and I decided to retreat to our cabin at the lake for some much needed rest and downtime. We packed up our bags, books and booze and off we went. I couldn’t wait to sit on the porch with a cocktail and watch the sun set over the sleepy little cove. You long time readers may remember that cabin is where we spent most of our time when we dated and it was also the location of our wedding, five years ago. It’s a very special little place to us and holds so many happy memories. A weekend spent down there recharges your batteries and is good for the soul.

Usually.

It was Friday evening after supper and we decided we’d listen to some tunes and play a board game. “Gimme a sec!” I said as I bopped into the bathroom. As usual I lowered my pants and sat on the commode. As I was doing my business I felt something brush against my hair on the right side of my head. Then I felt a slight pressure on my head. My knee jerk reaction was to throw my head forward and bat at my hair with my right hand. I heard a faint thud on the carpet in front of me and looked down and saw this between my feet.

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WHAT. THE .HOLY. HELL. IS. THAT.

I froze in sheer terror and my pee stopped in mid-stream and I screamed for Johnny with all the capacity my lungs had. Now I am normally not terrified of spiders and roaches and things but this thing could walk on a fucking leash, I kid you not. As I heard Johnny coming down the hall I threw myself forward and off the toilet. I would like to say I wiped myself and pulled up my pants but sadly I did not. As he came around the corner it was all I could do to scream and frantically point downward at it. Guys, it was HAIRY. In the dimly lit bathroom (it’s a wood paneled cabin) and a somewhat fuzzy head (I’d been cocktailing) and I could clearly see how hairy it was. “GET IT GET IT GET IT KILL IT GET IT JOHNNY GEEEEEETTTTT ITTTTT”!

“HOLY SHIT!” yelled Johnny as he finally realized what he was seeing. I think my standing there screaming with my pants around my ankles threw him for a second. Again we’d been doing some porch drinking so our reflexes and thought processes weren’t ninja-like. Johnny quickly looked about the bathroom for something to whack it with. There was no grabbing some toilet paper and scooping it up. Hell, you’d draw back a nub. This is where it gets kinda silly. Johnny was going to do some work on our bathroom ceiling while we were there so he had his tools on the bathroom sink. Naturally, he grabbed this.

saw

Because why wouldn’t you grab a rusty old hand saw to kill a freak spider the size of your face?!? I think I *may* have called him a @*&*(%#@ retard at this point. He starts whacking up and down at the spider with the saw sideways which is completely ineffective as you can imagine. The spider takes off for behind the toilet. NOW I am 100% horrified because the thought of it getting away hadn’t even occured to me. The carpet is brown, the walls and molding are brown and the gigantic satanic spider is also indeed brown. This made it increasingly difficult as it retreated further away. I finally had the presence of mind to pull up my pants and run into the kitchen for a flashlight. I got the spider in the spotlight and kept screaming at Johnny to “KILL IT! GET IT! WHAT’S WRONG WITH YOU? ARE YOU BLIND? IT’S RIGHT THERE! I’M STAYING AT A HOTEL IF THAT FUCKING THING GETS AWAY”. Just then the rusty saw came down atop the spider and Johnny smooshed it with all his might, and continued flapping the blade down upon it. Its legs curled in around itself but it was still bigger than a golf ball.

“Jesus” said Johnny as he watched the last leg stop quivering. “I’m sweating”. My mouth was still agape in horror. “Did it jump on me? Did it fall? WHY WAS IT ON MY HEAD?!? We still don’t know. What I do know is that shit will sober you right up. We stayed the rest of the weekend but my bathroom behavior has somewhat changed. I now kick in the door karate style and turn on every single light and scour the place before sitting on the thunderbucket.

When we got home yesterday I googled large spiders in the South. Turns out this fellow is called a Wolf spider, and they are often mistaken for Tarantulas. Here’s a little tidbit from the online source.

Signs of a Wolf Spider Infestation

Sightings of wolf spiders are the main sign of their activity. (REALLY?!? YOU DON’T SAY.)

More Information

Although their reputation would lead one to believe otherwise, the bite of the wolf spider is not a significant medical threat to the average adult. Wolf spiders typically do not bite unless threatened or provoked. In most cases the wolf spider will first retreat or rear up on its legs, exposing its large fangs. (Did you just pass the F out when you read that last sentence because seriously? I almost did and I’ll tell you something else, if that thing had reared up on its legs there would have been a lot more than pee running down mine). *shudder*

Johnny was telling this escapade to his Mother because of course it’s HI-LARIOUS to everyone whose head the spider wasn’t actually on and he was trying to tell her how big it was and he kept saying it was the size of a dinner plate. It turns out that’s exactly the correct description. I submit to you a little piece I like to call Spider from Hell on Dinnerware.

wolf-spider-2

Sweet dreams.

P.U.

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So, it was bound to happen.  Mr. Cooper got skunked last weekend.  We were down at the cabin and I as I was cooking dinner I heard the door open and shut.  Being that Johnny was down at the dock, I knew this meant trouble.  Mr. Cooper can open the door with some force but rarely does it unless something really grabs his attention.  Like an ‘effing skunk.  He flew down the hill and into the bushes and I heard a ridiculous snarly ruckus.  Before I could make it halfway down I saw the skunk wobble out from the bushes and haul ass in the opposite direction.

Then I saw Coop.  Foamy mouthed and he looked somewhat sweaty.  I found out quickly that this was the oil that shoots from the skunk itself. Bull’s-eye.   The really awful thing was that this happened pretty late in the evening and we were 45 minutes from anywhere that would have any type of remedy.  We’d also been cocktailing so driving wasn’t an option.  Yes, we spent the night with the foul beast.  For those of you that have smelled a skunked animal, you know how terrible this is.  It is NOT at all like the smell on the side of the road when you pass a dead skunk.  No. This is literally barf inducing.

So much for the romantic getaway we’d planned.  Our night quickly became a silly game of hide and run from the poor dog who couldn’t comprehend why were suddenly shunning his affections.

The next day we drove 1.5 hours in my Jeep with all windows down on the interstate with said smelly ass dog in the back and attempted not to gag and/or puke down our shirts.  It was a looooong ride.  6 baths later and he’s still got a funk about him but we’re getting there.  He seems as over it as we are as you can ascertain from above photo.

So lesson learned.  Sometimes love hurts, but sometimes it just stinks.

Death by Shapewear

Alright y’all.   As you may have read eons ago I’m making 2013 THE YEAR for my corrupted ass to get fit and healthy.  So, after a few false starts I’m full steam ahead with a healthy diet and daily exercise plan.  There’s just one caveat.  Recently I ventured out to do a little spring wardrobe shopping.  Now, mind you, I know I’m going to plummet in size shortly so I didn’t really want to spend a ton of money on size 12 clothing when we all know I’ll be a size 8 shortly…well maybe a 10, but you get the point.  I decided to invest in a little shapewear during the interim.  Just a little something to keep my jiggly bits from doing just that.  You know, while I wait for them to become ABS OF STEEL.

I picked a camisole looking piece that seemed like the right choice.  My butt and thighs are fine, it’s just my poochy belly so I thought this seemed like a good place to start.  I grabbed a dressing room and decided to give is a whirl.  Now mind you, this thing is supposed to be tight so I picked a smaller size than I normally would because that’s the whole point, right?

Well.

I pulled the thing on over my head and started putting my arms through it while trying to pull it down over my boobs/belly.  Notsomuch.  This thing was like a sausage casing. It was so damn tight I could barely pull my elbows down around my head.  My arms were kind of stuck up in the air with the piece wrapped around my head and neck.  This didn’t seem right.  I fought with it a little more and got it down under my chin and around my middle.  I immediately realized that this thing was waaaaaaaaaay too small.  No biggie, I thought, I’ll take it off and go back out and make another selection.

It wasn’t that easy.  As soon as I tried to lift it back over my head I realized I was in trouble.  This thing was wrapped around me like a starved Boa Constrictor.  I heaved and pulled and stretched, all to no avail.  By now I had one boob up under my chin and one pointing due south towards my belly.  The more I struggled with it the more panicky I got.  I was grunting and groaning and starting to hyperventilate.  My eyes were bulging out of my head.  My hair was flying around with static electricity and I could feel the perspiration forming on my top lip.  My heart beat quickened at the thought that they just may have to call the Fire Department to cut me out of this evil garment.  I had to sit down on the little bench in the dressing room to catch my breath.  It was half on and half off but it had me in a death grip.  As I flailed about the room some more the tag landed square in front of my face where the instructions read that I was supposed to step into this thing feet first, like a bathing suit and take it off the same damn way.  Evidently it was not to go over your head in the first place.   This little tidbit would have been good to know fifteen minutes ago.

I finally wriggled free after what seemed like an eternity.  As I huffed and puffed and put my shirt back on I realized that anything has got to be easier than that, including exercise.  I left the mangled thing on the bench, all tangled up and stained with my deodorant.  Serves it right.  You know how you tap the biscuits in the can on your counter top and the dough puffs out through cardboard creases?   That’s exactly how I looked.

Tonight’s dinner?  Salad with a side of salad and salad for dessert.  Jesus.

SIGNS

I don’t know where you live but in my neck of the woods this day has been a virtual deluge. Rain, wind and more rain.  I don’t mind it though, rainy days and Mondays don’t always get me down like the song says.  So much going on.  Let’s get started.

SHUT THE FRONT DOOR,  we finally sold my single girl house!   A house that I loved dearly but that was quickly becoming a vacant soul sucking money pit.  We went through renter drama to the point of the ridiculous than we went through realtor drama which was completely mind-boggling and included a homeless guy temporarily setting up camp (!) underneath its side porch so that  we were almost to the point of burning it down ourselves  auctioning it off for around seventeen dollars.  And then it happened.  After two loans falling through with previous offers we got one that stuck and succeeded.  After five long years we now own ONE home…not three.  I still don’t believe it’s really sold though.  I caught myself staring out the window this morning fretting about the amount of rain that must be accumulating in the basement with this inclement weather.  OH WAIT, TOTALLY  NOT MY PROBLEM ANYMORE.   Freedom!

With that we’ve paid off some bills.  We didn’t make a ton of money but we made enough to pay off my Jeep and a credit card and still  sink some money into savings for a beach vacation  new tires and other life necessities.   Here’s the funny part.  A few months ago my Mom regifted a Starbucks card to me that she’d received from someone as she never goes there – it had less than $10 on it and I had used it a few times here and there.  In a spur of the moment gesture I decided to put $20 on it the day after we closed on the house.  Say what you want about Starbucks, I’m well aware that they are a predatory multinational corporation that squelches cultural diversity but holy mackerel have you tried their sea salt caramel mocha?!?  Anyway, I pulled the trigger and loaded up my card and that one act of indulgence made me feel more like an adult that selling the house in the first place.  It’s like that silly card defined me as a full fledged grown up.  Look at me, I have a card JUST FOR COFFEE and the occasional tea!  This is the same girl who scrounged the floor of her car for enough change to buy a Pabst Blue ribbon tall boy a decade ago.  OH THE DECADENCE!  I guess old habits die hard because I haven’t used it once and act like it’s a secret weapon only to be used for emergency coffee/tea retrieval.

In more grown up news yours truly has now joined the ranks of the smartphone allegiance.  Yes, it’s true – I was rocking a flip phone that resembled a hand grenade just two weeks ago.  I am still having problems with remembering to tap “end call” instead of just putting the phone down when I get someone’s voicemail so I’ve left a few rambling “voicemails” where the poor caller gets to listen to me burp and scratch myself before I realize it’s actually recording my life laying there.  Of course now I’m getting all the apps and I’m addicted to its intuitiveness.   Johnny and I are constantly in the middle of a “Words with Friends” match and it’s hilarious how many times my turn reflects my feelings at the time.  He plays “FIEF”?  I play “TOOL”.   He lands “AXONE” on a triple word tile and I play “DICK”.   Here’s a fun fact:  WWF will not accept certain words.  Words that don’t make sense or that you make up and of course, profanity.  Imagine our surprise to learn that WWF will accept “DILDO” but not “NEGRO”.  Politically correct phone game!  Still, I was delighted with “dildo” and racked up 27 points.

In more exciting news this afternoon I have an “interview” of sorts with our local neighborhood newsletter to be a contributor.  Me, a writer for the masses – can you imagine?  I’ll tell you who doesn’t want to  – my poor  husband.  As soon as I saw the ad asking for writing contributions I raced to Johnny, breathless.   “This is perfect!  I can write and get some exposure and make friends at the same time”!   Johnny just cringed.  I got a pep talk this morning much like the one before my job interview for my current position.  Same old stuff…don’t say “butt sex” for ANY reason, don’t use “douche” as a verb, yada yada yada.  This is going to be hard.  I may need flash cards.  I’ll let you know how it goes.  I may jinx myself and end up assigned to writing about the Dogwood blooms down our street and that’ll serve me right.

And finally, last week I attended a training workshop for my job that entailed my going to a local Hilton and drinking their shitty coffee while playing “Angry Birds” stealth-like under my desk.  The fun part was when my desk mate joined me.  I was already there and settled in when this large older man asked if the seat next to me was taken.  I replied no and he proceeded to occupy the chair and consequently unpack and get settled himself.  After doing so he stuck his large hand in front of my face.  I glanced up to see that he was in fact introducing himself and waiting to shake my hand.  As I shook his hand he said “Paul Campbell, Sagittarius”.  Naturally I blinked for a moment and then gave him my name and paused and then added “Aquarius”.  He nodded and seemed pleased and that made my morning because seriously?  I usually cannot find out a strangers Zodiac sign FAST ENOUGH.

Girl Corrupted is living the dream, people.

 

 

CHIT CHAT PADDYWHACK

EQUAL OPPORTUNITY OFFENDER

Yesterday I was in line at Kroger and this kind of cute young guy was standing behind me while putting his groceries up on the belt.   I noticed he had a wonky ear and tried hard not to stare but it was difficult because it looked like it had been melted.  You know how when a candle kind of caves in and drips down around itself?  Like that.  Naturally I was mesmermized and I was staring intently at it wondering if it was a birth defect or the result of an accident and thinking if he could hear through it and all of that and of course he noticed me staring and said “how ya doing”? to which I LOUDLY replied,  “IT’S REALLY  NOT A PROBLEM”!

Good grief.  Remember the flipper situation from a few years ago?  I am clearly the one with the problem.

QUIT SCARING  SERVICE WORKERS THAT YOU DON’T REALLY KNOW

I was walking to the bank the other day and ran into the gal that delivers packages to our office.  She told me that she had just been broken up with, via text message.  She has pink hair.

Me:  What?  That’s bullshit.  You’re not going to stand for that, are you?
Delivery girl:  Um, I guess I need to go by there after work and pick up my stuff.

Me:  No way.  That’s unacceptable.  You text his lame ass back and tell him that this is certainly NOT over.  You tell him that you deserve a lot more respect than that, didn’t you see that episode of Sex in the City when Burger breaks up with Carrie on a Post-it note?!?   Carrie at least went out drinking with her friends and smoked a doobie!   This is just as bad or maybe worse because at least Burger wrote something down and didn’t just type out “WE R DUN” or some shit and hit “send”!  I’m not saying you have to go all “Burning Bed” on his ass but c’mon, that’s one cowardly move and you know it and you totally deserve better than that.

Delivery Girl:  I’m just sad and I don’t know what you’re talking about.

IF HE WASN’T ALREADY IN JAIL THE FASHION POLICE WOULD HAVE ARRESTED HIM

I was coming out of the Courthouse earlier this week for work and grabbed the 4th floor elevator down in search of lunch and a walk around downtown.  Just as the door was shutting a hand stopped it and in walked what appeared to be an attorney with an inmate.  The inmate was a towering black dude wearing a dirty grey jumpsuit and handcuffs.  I heard clanking and looked down to see shackles and chains around his ankles.  He was also wearing neon orange Crocs.  With socks.

I looked at the inmate and smiled.  The attorney had a face like an onion and appeared to be no fun whatsovever.

Me:  I bet wearing those Crocs are worse than wearing those shackles.

Inmate:  *laughing* Girl, you know it.

Me:  Nothing says jail like plastic footwear!

Inmate:  Right?

Me:  Well, it could always be worse.

Inmate:  I don’t know …I’m basically wearing a snuggie out in public.

Me:  Yeah, your outfit doesn’t exactly say “my life is right on track”!

Inmate:  Shit.

The attorney then promptly escorted my friend off of the elevator while giving me a dirty scowl.  I wished my buddy good luck and he turned back to me and winked.  All in a day’s work.

 

Open mouth, insert foot, hit “send”.

Well, it finally happened, and let’s be honest, it was bound to happen eventually. Really, it was probably over due.

For the first time in my life I sent a reply to an email thinking I was soley responding to a personal friend when in reality, it went to an entire list serv.

I’ll start at the beginning.

Last week I was at work and up to my pits and tits with invoicing.  I took a break at lunch and decided to check my personal email and I saw that a  friend of mine had sent me
an email and the subject line was for a charity bike ride for Diabetes.  It just read “are you ready to ride”!?  I immediately laughed because she and I participated in this God-awful ride last year and I had to quit at mile 50 because I thought I was GOING TO DIE.  She completed the ride but it’s been a good-natured joke between us since then.   I was busy but I wanted to respond to her  because we’d had a meeting the night before with our bike club and she’d brought me an awesome handmade birthday present so I wanted to shoot her a quick thank you.
I shot her a snarky little note rife with observations from said meeting and went to lunch.  I’m so funny, I thought!
I came back in and plopped down at my desk and brought up my email.  Immediately I saw MY OWN EMAIL in my INBOX.      I then saw around 16 other emails with the exact same subject line.
We just lost cabin pressure.
My lunch seriously almost came right back up because it was clear that my email had gone to the entire bike club, not just to my pal.  What happened next is kind of blurry because I was trying not
to pass the F out.  I think I kind of ran around in circles like I was having some sort of seizure whispering “ohshitohshitoshitoshit”!  I called Johnny and hastily told him what had happened hoping he’d have some instant fix but instead he just kind of chuckled and said “you know honey, I find it hard to believe this hasn’t happened to you before…this is seriously the first time?”, to which I screamed “NOT HELPFUL!” into my cellphone and hung up on him.
Trembling, I sat back down at my computer and clicked on the other emails.  Of course they were all folks telling me that they had received my private email.   One lady even responded
“Whoa.  DON’T YOU KNOW THIS GOES TO THE GROUP?!?  WHOA!!!!!!!!!”
Yes, yes I do.  Now.
Let’s review.  I sent an email to around 75 women in my bike club where I proceed to………..
1.  sort of make fun of Diabetes (!) and the charity ride ( we have around 5-8 members who have Diabetes and this ride is the most coveted group ride we participate in)
2.  refer to another member as a “dirty hippie”
3.  insinuate that our Treasurer is dour
Oh, did I mention that I am also THE VICE PRESIDENT of this club?!?!   Jesus.
Needless to say, the fall out has been good times.  Nothing I could do but own it and face up to it and to be honest the thing I felt the worst about is calling the one chick a dirty hippie because I think she’s pretty cool.  I sent the a proactive apology and stated that I hoped that if she was in fact a dirty hippie then she’s probably a pacifist and hopefully wouldn’t kick my ass.  Come to think of it, that doesn’t sound much like an apology, does it!?
It’s kind of going down the middle I think.  Some folks thought it was funny and kind of privately think along the same lines.  Other ladies think I’m horribly inappropriate and offensive.  My friend was even a little bit upset because the email pretty much made it clear that she and I talk about the entire club which of course we do but she is a sweet and good person that actually does care about what people think which begs the question, why is she friends with me to start with?!?   I AM A BAD PERSON.
The whole thing has been a terrible mess and I’ve learned a lesson, certainly.  You want to know the most horrifying part?!?  Between you and me, it’s that I didn’t HAVE MORE TIME.  I was in a hurry when I jotted this email down and I can only imagine what pen would have put to paper if I’d had more time in which to really let loose.  It could have been so. much.worse.
Shit.
Think I should put “reply to all” on my jersey?

Home Sweat Home

Over three weeks into the new year and guess how much weight I’ve lost?

Not one god forsaken ounce.

I know these things take time but really?  Not even one lousy pound?  I’m surprised I didn’t go into some type of sugar deprived coma with the abrupt overnight cessation of martinis alone.  I’m actually doing quite well and I know that 23 days aren’t enough to gauge any type of progress, really.    I’d like to think that I’m not losing weight because I’m building muscle.  That sounds good, doesn’t it?  I’m on the stinking treadmill every night holding on for dear life while listening to “rad runnerz trax” or some shit I downloaded from iTunes in a lame-o effort to get motivated.  My coordination level doesn’t lend itself well to that medieval torture machine but I’m trying.  I’m waiting for my sweatpants to somehow get caught in the belt and consequently fling me like a human slingshot into the hallway just as Johnny is coming  downstairs.

I’m eating right.  Small portions.  Lots of veggies and leafy greens.  Almonds and apple snacks.  Lots of water.  As I mentioned before every night I borderline slip into a coma when I crawl into bed.  I’m also spending a LOT more time in the bathroom but for just this once, I’ll spare you the details.  I’m steaming broccoli and cauliflower.  I’m drinking green tea and taking vitamins.  I AM WALKING THE WALK, people.

At the peak of my frustration last weekend a casual acquaintance told me about a circuit training group she belongs to and invited me as her guest to tag along for a class.  Insert record scratching off the turntable noise here.  This, my friends, was the missing link.

You long time readers may remember my foray into Boot Camp a few years ago.  It turned out to be one of the best decisions I’d ever made.  I lost weight and gained muscle and made life long friends.  I figured anything is worth a look, right?  It’s clear that my haphazard approach to exercise wasn’t really panning out.    So, I said sure and off we went this last Tuesday.   As I followed her into the parking lot that evening I started to get nervous.  It was a shot-out old warehouse down a dimly lit street in a not-so-great area of town.  As I manuevered my car around the gravel parking lot dodging watery potholes I caught a glimpse of some hooded figures lurking around the front door under a spastically flickering lightbulb.  My first thought was “THE FIRST RULE OF FIT CLUB IS YOU DO NOT TALK ABOUT FIT CLUB”.

Seriously.  It looked waaaaaaaaaaay dodgy.

As we walked inside and my eyes adjusted to the bright lights, I  spotted a trash can in the center of the room.  It had a sign taped to it that read, “INSERT VOMIT HERE”.

Awwww, hells yes…I’m home.   For the next hour I did squats.  I lunged.  I did push-ups and I ran and then ran some more.  I did 100 sit-ups.  I was also introduced to some sort of Satanical practice called the “burpee”, which clearly was just made up to make people barf and lose their will to live.  I almost did both.   I was so sore when I got home that I could barely lower myself onto the couch and when a sneeze surprised me later that night, it almost brought tears to my eyes.

Yesterday morning found me rolling out of bed and crawling to the bathroom until I was able to brace myself on the sink to rise up on my two wobbly legs.  Holy shit balls was I sore.  So what did I do?  I went back for more last night.  Weights, bench presses and kettlebells.  Running.  Jumping jacks.  More laughter than tears combined with a whole lot of sweat.   I joined on the spot.  I called my hoodie-wearing instructor “the real Slim Shady” and managed to earn myself a couple extra laps.  Just like old times!  Now if I just had my pals Brooks and Doyle beside me.  Well, in their honor I will continue.  I will sweat, swear and audibly fart just for you guys.  I WILL GO ON.

I don’t need a clean well lit fitness center with a smoothie bar.  I don’t need “hot” yoga.  I don’t need a bunch of classmates wearing matching Old Navy capris and cami’s.  I need a dirty-ass dark warehouse filled with people that smell bad and one in particularly motivational fella that will encourage you to push yourself until you excel and meet expecations higher than you could ever set for yourself.

Or you may just vomit.

Either way, as they say, you’re lapping everyone who is sitting on their couch.  Look out 45, I’m totally going to kick your ass.

Where my stitches at?

I’ve been keeping a secret from you guys.

Wanna guess?  You won’t.  Let me tell you what it’s not.

1.  First and foremost, I am not pregnant so don’t let this sashay into sobriety lead you down that road.  That’s all I need in my house…one more thing that shits.

2.  Contrary to popular belief I was NOT born a man.  This one has perplexed folks over the years but it’s time I come clean.  I’m a real girl, albeit a foul-mouthed manly one.

3.  As much as I wanted to, I did not get a full color tattoo of Kid Rock covering the entire length/width of my back.

It’s much more disturbing and shameful than any of the above.  Are you ready?  DON’T JUDGE ME, I’M SOBER and HAVE A LOT OF TIME ON MY HANDS.

I’ve started knitting.

There it is in black and white.  Wow, that was freeing.

Yessir.  Knitting.  And I gotta tell ya, I’m totally hooked which would make a terrific pun if I was telling you about crocheting right now.  See?  I’m even making nerdy jokes.   I come from a long line of knitters.  My Grandmother was taught by the Red Cross in WWI and has been knitting ever since.  My Mom has knitted more sporadically over the years but has picked it back up in the last few and has really sharpened her skills to include complicated patterns while also making fun and crazy scarves for me and the girls.  It was watching her this fall that gave me the idea.  We were sitting in her living room sipping wine and shooting the shit when she pulled out her knitting bag and just started clicking away with her needles as we were chatting.  Immediately I was taken with all the colors and textures of yarn in her bag.  Knitting isn’t old skool and frumpy anymore – it’s colorful and lumpy and funky and fun!

I told her that there was a yarn shop right up the street where I live and I’d always wanted to peek inside.  She encouraged me to go for it* and the next week I found myself signing up for lessons.  Well, that was in October and here I am, four months in and completely obsessed   taken with this age-old pastime.  The women at this yarn shop have quickly become my BFF’s and confidantes.  There are two well-worn couches centered in the middle of this yarn oasis and every single day women of all ages and background gather there for ten minutes to an entire afternoon for knitting, camaraderie, and story telling.  It’s become my new watering hole, in a manner of speaking.

I feel like Norm from Cheers as I open the door and shut the cold wind behind me.  Everyone yells a greeting and immediately they begin to shift positions and materials to make room for the newest arrival.  We knit and commiserate and celebrate and laugh and sympathize.  It’s a sisterhood really and I feel so fortunate to be welcomed into their circle.  They are so encouraging and patient.  I’ve graduated from simple scarves to a patterned cowl to what is becoming a tri-color baby blanket in less than four months.   There’s something very Zen about it.  I find it calms my surly self.  I’m not sure if it’s the repetition or the satisfaction of creating something with your hands, or maybe just the old-timey kitschy factor that appeals to me.  It matters not.

What matters is that I’ve found a challenging creative outlet in which to express myself that doesn’t involve a hangover.  The yarn shop and the bar are very similar, really.  I go in and hang out with friends and strangers alike.  We swap stories and share advice.  We sometimes stay too long and almost always end up spending too much money.

I really dig it though and find myself kniting and racing the clock at night before bedtime.  It’s good for my nervous nature and it’s calming to my OCD – adhering to a mathematical pattern makes sense to me.  Here’s the thing;  you can get as crazy as you want with the colors and the textures and the different weaves but you still have to adhere to a structured logical pattern to create something worthwhile and sustainable.  That’s totally what blows my skirt up.  I’m an enigma comprised of free will, spontaneity and wild abandon but this girl also needs strict order and an occasional syllabus.  Sometimes it’s not easy being me.

So off I go on this new chapter in my 45th year, with knitting bag in tow.  I can hardly wait to see what’s next on this path.  Unfortunately though I’ve just learned that you’re no longer allowed to take your knitting aboard an aircraft.

They’re afraid you’ll knit an AFGHAN.

See?!?  Knitting is HILARIOUS!

knitting_illustration

* one thing i’ll say about my mom is that she is encouraging.  whatever it is I want or think I can do she’s the first one to tell me to go for it.  my earliest memory of this was when I announced at seven years old (upon watching the ultra cool movie “Convoy”) that I wanted to be a truck driver when I grew up.  she thought it was a fantastic idea.  no matter what it is, piano lessons, international travel, learning a new language, painting a room, whatever – in my opinion my mom always thought it best to regret something you had done rather than something you hadn’t.  thanks mom!

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