Saturday, October 30, 2010

"There Must Be 8 Uninspiring Ways To Leave Your Lover"

I'm not one to gripe.

Yes I am, what the hell am I talking about.

Anyway, I was driving home and this song came on by Paul Simon "50 Ways to Leave Your Lover". And I start thinking. Am I an alcoholic? No. That's not what I was thinking.

How old is this dang song anyway? Let me Google that. 1975. That was easy. Love me some Google. Even though it always sounds so dirty. I'm gonna go Google him. Oh, yes! While I was Googling him, my husband walked in and...oh no!!

I'm not even going to say "I digress", because I think this post might be the digression and I should really just write about how Googling is awesome, and have you ever googled yourself? You have.  You know it. Lordy be.

Back to Paul. What is up with this song? He tells me there are 50 ways to leave your lover and then only hands out 8. And they're lame!!! Lame I tell you!!!! Where are the other 42 ways??

Shall we look at these 8 ways a little closer? (you had to know that was coming).

"You just slip out the back, Jack." Just leave without telling her. Not bad. But I hope he's got a plan. Otherwise, he's going to be calling about the crap he left behind and the money she owes him and who gets the dog. 

"Make a new plan, Stan." Hmmm.. see what I mean? You need a plan. We are talking about the get-away plan, right?  Paul, this is where you help him figure out exactly what that brilliant plan is. That's why he's listening to your damned song.

"You don't need to be coy, Roy." You really think if Roy wanted to end things, he'd be, of all things, coy. I just am not buying it. And that's a stupid piece of advice. Tell him what he should say, at least.

"Just listen to me."
All ears Paul. All ears. Paul? Paul? You there Paul?

"Hop on the bus, Gus."  Is this after you've slipped out the back? Or are we waking her up early one morning and waving the bus ticket in her face? So many questions, Paul.

"You don't need to discuss much."  Sure, why drag it out with discussion? Just go. 'Cause if you start talking you might be coy, and then we're back to square one.

"Just drop off the key, Lee."  Yes, Lee, go to her house, hand her the key and leave . This one might be the only piece of actual advice he gives. There's decisive action and like he says next...

"And get yourself free." Wow, Paul, you could have saved us both a lot of time. You should have called this song "There's Only One Way To Leave Your Lover".

Drop off the f'in key!

How's this Paul... I'm gonna mail you the new book I just wrote. It's called "50 Ways to Google your Lover."

Thursday, October 28, 2010

One Child Left Behind

This is a humor blog so this post is actually meant to be a little funny. It may, however, come across as sad and pathetic and a terrible tribute to my high school English teachers. I do apologize in advance for that. Or maybe I don't!

Anyway, my first year in college, I took an English class. I can't remember which one it was - I am thinking it was simply a general English course. We didn't get to the good stuff as English majors until later.

I had passed in a writing assignment and was really nervous about the grade I was going to receive. I remember my friend turned to me and said he thought he had failed. (I can't remember how you would fail a writing assignment, but this one apparently you could). I told him, "No way, I am sure I did way worse than you," and a bet was made. I totally wish we had bet on something really good, but I fear it was just bragging rights on who did the worse. It's the simple things that matter, no? So, he goes up to the teacher, gets his paper and sure enough he walks back to his seat, waving the F as if it was the Nobel Prize. I figured we'd tie. He figured he'd won. My name was called and I went up to her desk confident in my failing ability on this assignment. Confusion and a little shock was the only thing I could feel. I walked  back to my seat waving MY paper in HIS face. I had won. I didn't think it was possible. Neither did he. The bragging rights were mine.

Oh, the grade? The ever popular NG, of course. The teacher said my writing was so bad that she could not give it a grade, hence, No Grade.

Here comes that uplifting music when the main character changes her life around.

I was so saddened by this grade that I felt I needed to "teach" myself how to write. No thanks to my high school English teachers. The question remains: How was I able to pass English or even high school? I was a B student. Um, a B student that apparently didn't know how to write. One child left behind.

Learning to write well became a passion of mine. It was only one year later that a teacher gave me not just an A+ but an A++ for my work on "The Yellow Wallpaper" (an interesting read, by the way) and an A+++ on something else I wrote.

Did I ever take those papers back to the first English teacher? You know I didn't, that would have just been too awesome.

That would have been the perfect ending to this little Lifetime Original Movie.  I would waved those papers in her face, flashed that grade, maybe even kissed the paper...SMACK, the school would be lined with other kids left behind clapping and cheering me on as I jumped down the stairs holding my A+++ and kicking my heels.

In your face high school English teachers!!!!

Oh, and if you find a typo, keep it to yourself, I'm still a work-in-progress!

Wednesday, October 27, 2010

"Honey, Not Tonight"


Sing to the tune of "Here You Come Again" 
 
Here You come again
Just when I’ve begun to feel a whole lot better.
You waltz right in my brain.
Just make me feel insane.
And wrap your pain around my right side only.

Here you come again
Just when I’m about to clean and do the dishes.
You  flash before my eyes,
And lie on my right side.
And pretty soon I’m wonderin’ how much Advil will stop this!

All I gotta do is wake in the morn'
And there go all my day’s plans.
Just leave it up to you and in a little while,
You’re messin’ with my day and screwin up my night time.

Here you come again
Makin’ me feel like shit so I can’t get out of bed.
You’re rattlin’ in my head, oh, I wish that I were dead.
Would you do me a little favor,
And let him know...

All I can really do is lay in the dark,
And think about his big plans.
If I leave it up to him, he’ll think in a little while,
He’s gonna make his move, but I feel like I’ll puke!

Here he comes again
Thinking he’s gonna get a little piece tonight.
He’s shakin’ me awake, go away for freakin' sake!
“Cause here you come again… 
Phew! And there he goes… 

Here. You. Come again..
Phew...and there he goooooeeess!!! 

Hey, that was kinda fun - thanks for indulgin'!

Monday, October 25, 2010

Will You Live To 100??

So I'm flipping through the pages of Famous Footwear's popular Mind Body Sole magazine - not because I subscribe, 'cause you can't,  but because it was thrown into my bag by the cashier at Famous Footwear, where, if I might add, I purchased a pair of awesome boots at 1/2 off (Go me!).

I came across an article entitled 20 Signs You Might Live To 100. I was intrigued. Then I was pissed. Then I just laughed and sipped my coffee.

I know this looks long, but I think it's an easy read...here we go: 

1. You eat purple food.  Hmmmm...Purple food? Usually, when food reaches that other worldly color, I employ the Old Wive's Tale: "when in doubt, throw it out."  Do purple gummy bears count?

2. You have been a college freshman. As in for Halloween? Does it count if I dropped out of college as a sophomore from a heroin addiction? Oh, that's fine? Great.  Well, I'm good, not only have a "been" a freshman, I actually graduated from college. Maybe this one will counter the whole purple food thing. 

3. You have a drama-free marriage.  Hahahahah! Wait. They're serious? I think marriage is synonymous with drama. We play the parts that we are assigned each day, acting on a stage for some imaginary audience. I swear I've even heard an applause a time or two. They can't be serious. Okay, this one's out. I have four kids, drama we got. 

4. You enjoy good friendships. Nah, I hate good friendships. Give me the backstabbing, husband stealing, dumps all over me kind of friend. Alright, we got this one. I do enjoy me a good friendship (and a nice Merlot on the side).


5. You have strong legs. (I am NOT making this up). What am I a horse? Do I need to be pulling things with these legs somewhere in my 80s. No, I don't have strong legs.

So far, so good... maybe I'll live to 90.

6. You set goals. Yes,  I do. Like writing a blog about this stupid list. 


7. You feel 13 years younger than you are. That would be 33. I was a leaky, chubby, postpartum mess at 33.  No. I feel more like 7 1/2 years younger.


8. You have a positive outlook on life. Well, I am positive I won't live to 100. So that's one for me.


9. You're outgoing.  Nope. Shy as they come until you get to know me. So, do I get 1/2 credit for this one?

10.You've got skinny friends. Now. I don't mean to be mean. Remember, they're making me answer this! My dear friends, although I did enjoy our "good friendships," I understand we can't be friends anymore. Hold on...what exactly is the definition of skinny? I might be able to get off on a technicality, here. But if not, I want to thank all my "friends" for costing me several years of my life!

I guess I'm down to, what? 80? And friendless at this point. Where can I get me some skinny friends. Not the gym, remember? I voted her off.


11. You don't have a housekeeper. OMG as we speak, she is cleaning my kitchen. I kid you not. She's not live-in mind you, and it's my one indulgence...really! Shit. Apparently, I need to clean my own toilets to live longer - that sucks!

12. You often walk instead of drive. I do NOT - let me repeat this - DO NOT live in the city, this one is NOT my fault. Everything is at least 15 minutes away. I haven't brought home hot Mac Donald's fries in 15 years.


13. You do aerobic activity 5 hours a week. Well, I do step class once a week. Um, I run up and down my stairs a....lot.....okay, I can't even fool myself that I can get to 5 hours.

14. You don't like burgers. I actually don't. I'll take the turkey burger any day.

15. You skip cola including diet. YES! Except once in a while when I get my Burger King, I must get a Coke to go with it. I'm giving myself this one.

70's still old, right?

16. You love tea. Love is a strong word. I like tea. He shows up on cold afternoons makes me all warm and fuzzy, rubs my feet, listens to me complain. It's nice. Now...why couldn't they say coffee? I love coffee? We have an amazing relationship. It can be exciting and dangerous sometimes (think drinking and driving). He's very dependable - he shows up each morning and gets my engine going!


17. You limit calories to 1, 400 to 2, 000 a day. Does that include liquid calories? No? Then, definitely.


18. You don't snore. I DO NOT snore. Wait. How would I know this? My husband is too busy snoring to notice. Nope, I can't imagine me snoring, so I don't.

19. You weren't overweight as a teen. I was not.

20. You have a flat belly. Okay, what is the definition of flat? I have had 4 children. This is not fair.  What is this flat belly shit! Let me ask my husband. Yes, he says it's flat.

Let's see I answered 10 out of 20 the correct way. Does this mean I'm gonna make it to  50?? I'm pissed.

Dear Mind Body Sole magazine people,

I like to make a comment about that stupid list you have in your magazine on living to 100. You know the one with skinny friends? I would like to know if you guys have ever seen Willard Scott's centurions on The Today Show? Yeah, those people on the jelly jars. Um, they ain't eatin' no purple food and drinkin' tea. Half of them say it's alcohol, chocolate and sex that gets them to 100. I'm gonna go with their list, thank you very much.

Your list sucks!

Respectfully,

Diane

Friday, October 22, 2010

My Guest Blogger's HERE!!!!

Yes, she is!!! I've been waiting for this all week!!!

The always hilarious Sara has agreed to be my partner for the assignment given to us by the blogging site SITS (notice the badge on the bottom left). They paired us humor bloggers up to guest blog on each other's blog.

I have been sooo lucky to be paired up Sara! Since this is my first guest blogging experience, Sara has been an absolute doll. Thank you, Sara. We're now bffs.

So, without further ado...the lovely Lambwhore and Goatslut leader...Sara...Oh, and for more of her hilarity. please visit Sara's site here!



Sometimes being crazy is ok. But I'm fully qualified to being your leader. 

I will be the first person to tell you that I think I have a wee bit of crazy in me. And I'm ok. I'm also sometimes selfish yet more giving than I'm able to be, I'm a complete bitch yet I can be the nicest person you'll ever meet. I'm organized to the point I drive others crazy but I feel cluttered and overwhelmed with crap.

I can't even figure myself out.

But I have a lot of things about me that make me...unique. My husband would insist I have obsessive compulsive disorder but I disagree because I am nothing like those people you see on shows. Sure, I have to be massaged equally on both sides of my body. I can't step on a crack with me left foot without doing it with my right. I like the fringe on rugs to be straight. I like everything in groups of three if they are used for decoration. Anything else needs to be even numbers. I'm freaking out because I have three cats and I feel like I need to get another one so we have an even number. You can't touch me on one side and not the other because I'll feel lopsided the whole time.

I mean, little stuff like that. That's totally normal.

Here's some Sara fun facts:

1. My husband and I are not a great match. We actually barely get along and we have almost nothing in common. I have actually no good reason for an answer when someone asks me what made me fall in love or want to get married to him. I can't even think up a good lie to that.

2. My kids are adorable. Everybody loves cute kids. Mine are cute, can sing songs from the radio and have attitude. My daughter also has a pooping problem that drives me insane and you'll get to see me gag when I clean up poop. My son likes to play with his "dangly parts" as my daughter says. He also roars for no reason.

3. My house is falling apart. My husband is skilled and capable of fixing these things but is unwilling. So in the meantime I watch HGTV with fierce jealously and secretly hope a natural disaster comes and destroys it all.

4. I have a strained relationship with most of my in-laws. My sister and brother in law are awesome and fun but my husband's parents hate me. And it's pretty much mutual. It's fun times. I am often alone on holiday celebrations because it's better to just eat Spaghetti O's and watch Teen Mom then endure hours of being in a room full of people who don't like you. Not many people can say their mother in law tried to pay off the groom the day of the wedding.

5. My cats are crazy and I'm not sure why. Lenny is gay and humps blankets but has now moved onto towels and sweaters. Stumpy eats toilet paper and drinks out of the toilet. Batman hisses at things that aren't there.

6. I have an awesome job at a college bookstore. But I've worked in places that should have been filmed for The Office. Or Office Space 2.0. Complete with Catholics, incompetence, and egos.

7. I have a strained relationship with my own family and while I try to balance the line of being myself and being who they think I am... I often fail miserably and it always ends with me being an asshole and ruining everything. Christmas is usually fun.

8. I often have what my husband calls "diarrhea of the mouth" because I say things long before I even think I should think about it before I say it. I often embarrass people without even realizing it. I will say the most inappropriate thing every time. (I'm available for parties and private bookings. Call me.)

9. I'm useless in emergency situations. If someone cuts them severely (like when my husband's hand was sliced open requiring a lot of stitches) you won't find me looking for bandages or calling 911. Nope- I'm laughing hard and trying not pee myself. You also don't want me to help you move. I can unpack and stuff but carrying anything? You don't want me. I'll be laughing the whole time and probably drop it. Sorry.

10. I'm going to be famous someday when my memoirs are published. You'll want to know me now. Just sayin.

So that? Is why you should be my lambwhore. Oh- and you should buy my stuff (http://scrapinsara.etsy.com).

Wednesday, October 20, 2010

Me vs. Man vs. Food

Well, here's my lovely family all gathered around the t.v. watching Man vs. Food like any respectable, All-American family. Have you seen this? I don't know - I guess this guy travels the country and eats a lot of big, disgusting food. Or attempts to anyway. That's the draw, that's the exciting part. Will he eat it? Will the food win? Hell, I watch this show every night when I serve my family dinner. Will son #2 eat this tonight? How can he disguise the food so it appears that he's consumed it? My daughter's in on it too, she'll start telling me a story to distract me from son #2? It's a painful show that I wouldn't subject their own grandmother to. So, now I'm forced to watch a grown up battle the food on his plate? Yipee!

The show starts and this particular episode is all about how Adam has to eat an enormous pulled pork sandwich (seriously, it could feed a family of 8). BUT this isn't just any pulled pork sandwich, no, this has a bucket of coleslaw on it and 6 oz. of Shut Up Juice (this means it has the juice of some really spicy pepper, equivalent to 200 jalapenos) slathered all over it.. 64 people have conquered. Adam has to get it all down, and hold it down for 5 minutes. Gross.

But the kids are all excited and my husband is out of his mind, 'cause it's BBQ and hot and I'm actually in the room about to watch this with him. Well, maybe the last one he could care less about.

"Does he realize how bad this is for his health? Not the hot part but the amount fat that's in that sandwich?"

"Honey, usually his food is like 15 lbs. Just watch."

"He is just doing this for the money," I say. Incredulous that someone would risk their life for money. Oh wait, I watch Wipe-Out and Real Housewives.

 "Well, no, honey, he loves going up against big food or hot food and sometimes, sometimes the food wins."

"Yes, but what about his cholesterol? He doesn't look as if he is in that good of shape. Didn't he watch Super Size Me?"

"What?"

"This could kill him. Does he have a doctor monitoring his heart?"

"Huh, oh look, he's perspiring all down his face - he might lose this time."

"I don't understand. He has to eat a lot of food and people cheer him on, really? Haven't we learned anything about portion control. OMG his face is as red as my hair. Someone needs to step in. I hope he carries a defibrillator with him."

"No one can step in. What are you talking about? Look, he's gonna do it...okay, now he has to hold it down for 5 minutes."

"What, like he loses the game if he throws up? It is possible that his body may be a tad smarter than he is and feels it is in his life's best interest to purge this mess!"

"5,4,3,2,1" My family is all counting down now. Good grief. "Wow - that was awesome." They all agree. "Now he's drinking some milk to cool his burning mouth."

"What about his heart burn, agita, can you imagine the sodium level in that? Is he married?"

"Why?"

"Cause how can his wife let him do this? He is going to end up 600 lbs. and on a Discovery Channel show about the morbidly obese that can't get out of bed, and I'll be helpless to watch (shameless plug for my upcoming guest blog). Do you think they pump his stomach after these shows?"

"No. Honey, relax, he wouldn't do this if it was dangerous. Can you be quiet for 5 minutes?"

"5,4,3,2,1" My family began counting down.

"I really just don't see..."

Man vs. Food - 1 Me - 0

Monday, October 18, 2010

I'd Live In Cougarville!

First let me say that I am a happily married woman! 20 years in, a bunch of kids, a happy, satisfied life. So when The Today Show aired the 50 hottest bachelors (1 per state), I wasn't expecting the fantasy side of my brain to go on overload..hmm...would I like to own a small cape in Cougarville? Hell-to-the-yes!

But, because I am a freak-a-nellie, I can't just let my imagination run with my life in Cougarville. Nope. I have to set the stage and make sure everybody is happy before I can go off and enjoy my fake life. Why??? Well, there's the hubby and kids to think about. For me to leave and be all happy in my little cape house, they need to be out of the picture...but how??

I know, I have to work on my fantasy skills. I suck at it.

How's this...hubby up and left me, took off with a bimbo from the office. Trite, sure - but it might just work. I couldn't have him die from cancer (wahhh) or take a job in Singapore to support us (awww).  No, we'll settle for the fact that he's a bum - makes the fantasy that much more sweeeeeet!!!

Okay, hubby's gone. Kids...crap. I don't want to be a cougar with my kids hanging around. They'll be all like, "Gross mom." And I'd be all, "Really? You think he's gross?"  And they'd be all, "No, mom it's wicked gross that you're with him." So the kids gotta go. But where? Um, maybe they're are all in prison. No, I wouldn't be able to be happy with my boy toy (BT) if I knew all my children were in prison. I mean come on, I have four. What  could they all have done? Planned and executed a robbery? Well, my oldest would have been too lazy to do anything but sit and drive the get-away car, my second would have to be the actual robber since he's all sly and likeable. The third would be the mastermind as he's the thinking man, but my daughter? What would she do? Be the one they hoist from the ceiling into the vault. She is small, it could work.

But no, they can't be in jail. Maybe they have all graduated from college and are old enough to not think it's so gross.. Hmmmm..daughter is too young, we are talking 10 more years. That would be gross. I'd be like a mid-fifty cougar. Forget that. It has to happen now!

Maybe the kids become actors and they're all on a Disney show and are living the Cali life and are like, "Mom who?" and I'm all like "Hey, I'm your mom, what about me?" And they'll be like, "Mom, go off and have a life for yourself will you? We can handle our finances, we have brother #3." And I'll be all, "Fine, I'm moving to Cougarville."

Okay, that seems bloody unlikely. Whew. This is getting exhausting. Um, maybe I really am a hot 56 year old (I do work out) and the kids are all in college and working their jobs and having their own lives. Yes, let's go with that one.  Now the fantasy begins.

I move down to Cougarville and get a little cape (on the ocean, of course). Do I take all my furniture from my old house? Do I sell my old house? Is this a permanent move? Sure. Too many bad memories here. Okay, moving day. I'm all yelling at the movers to be careful. Hey, I'm mid-fifties and probably going through menopause, so I'm pretty pissed at them, I'm sure.  Some of this stuff is very meaningful. Those candles were given to us on our wedding day 30 years ago. Yikes. Would I even still care about shit like that? And where's the BT? Isn't he supposed to be carrying something, flexing some muscles or something? And the house needs a paint job. Does my BT paint? Will he fix my flat iron when the cord develops a loose connection? Oh this is too freakin' much! I need a glass of wine!

Here's what probably, most likely, definitely happens.

On the way to visit colleges, hubby and I are in the car with the four kids in the back. They are all plugged in to various electronic devices, completely ignoring us and each other. The wind is whipping my newly straightened hair as hubby puts his hand on my knee. "We got here together," he says and smiles.

I look up and see a sign "Entering Cougarville - Population 6" (cause really, not many of us live here). As we drive quickly through, I catch the look of one of the women, she's alone on the street and  looks like hell (I guess getting letters from all your kids in prison can do a job on a woman), she catches my eye and with a very sad, almost weary gaze, she tries to smile and gives me a little wave.

As we drive by - I wave back.

Saturday, October 16, 2010

Small Pleasures

When I was eating a Whopper Jr. from Burger King ($1 on the value menu), I contemplated have a glass of wine with my meal.

It seemed rather sad and so unlike a wine-worthy meal that I didn't. But it got me thinking. Am I an alcoholic? No - that wasn't what I was thinking.

I was thinking so what if it seems a little sad and desperate. Small pleasures, of which wine and BK are two of mine, add up to a very enjoyable evening.

And isn't that what we are trying to do on this little spinning ball? Find pleasurable moments. Some of my small pleasures (feel free to add some of your own):

Wine...Unwinding pleasure.
Whopper Jr...With fries. Salty pleasure.
Kicking a stone down the street - Pleasurable until you kick it into the woods.
Sitting by the ocean - Calming the mind. Pleasing the spirit.
Slipping naked between the sheets - I'm talking about walking over naked, lifting the sheets naked and slipping in naked. Naked.Naked.Naked. (Seinfeld pleasure)
First cup of coffee in the morning - Pleasurably waking up.
Perfectly cooked (medium rare) Filet Mignon - "It's what's for dinner" pleasure.
Turning the first page of the novel you've been dying to read - Pleasurable anticipation.
An email from a close friend - Sentimental pleasure.
Raw cake batter - Salmonella pleasure.
Mosaic of leaves scattered on the ground - Crunchy pleasure.
Staring up at a starry night -Pleasurably awed.
Chocolate - A creamy, heart racing, savory pleasurable experience.

...imagine slipping naked between the sheets with wine AND chocolate?!

Not desperate. Happy.

Friday, October 15, 2010

L'eggo My Laundry

I love to do laundry. From the dirty, smelly start to the folded, April fresh end. I don't want you anywhere near the laundry room when I am working this magic. I want to organize, separate, fold....ALONE!!

I know there are many women and/or men out there that are crazy, crazy, crazy about a certain type of housework. And they alone want, nay, need to perform these chores alone thus they go completely beserk! I know I am not a freak. There are those of us that love to vacuum, or wash dishes or make beds or dust (wait, those people are freaks).

My husband can not understand this adorable personality trait of mine. And really, why would any husband complain? I could see complaining if I never did the laundry. Why does he horn in on the one thing I'd like to do alone. Well, there is maybe another thing, and he horns in on that too. Hey!!! I'm talking about watching my soap. Jeez...

Back to my laundry. I have my little system (it has now gone beyond separating reds and whites, we can thank Dateline for yet another wackazoid documentary that's freaked me out). But, even when my husband tries to get it right, invariably he fails. Like when underwear ends up being washed with the towels (crap, just gave that one away...it is a valid concern, look it up!)

"I'm just trying to lighten your load," he giggles at his laundry humor. Sad, I know.

"Yeah, well, how 'bout if I go to the garage and organize your tools?" He would hate that. Aren't you impressed that I even know where his tools are?

"That would be awesome! I'd love to watch you separate my nuts," he winks.

I got nothin'.

Tuesday, October 12, 2010

Where Would I Be Without You, Roxie?

It's seems so silly really, this admiration I have for you. And I am no stalker but honestly, I would follow you to the ends of the earth. You're so level headed, so calm in any emergency. Sometimes, when I am ready to panic, I hear your voice, and it's as if a cloud has lifted and a way out is so perfectly clear to me.

I think about the years before we met. How did I ever get along? How did I make it from one point in my life to another? Well, it's clear things were very messed up for me for a while, and I must have been just wandering aimlessly until our paths crossed. When my husband introduced us that Christmas morning, never did he think you would be the answer to my prayers. Is he jealous? Oh, Roxy, you know him, he's just so happy it's you that helps me find my way home and not  Clare. I won't get started on her. You were so funny when I was going off on how her bucket of crazy had just exploded and I was not going to help mop it up. You just kept saying something about the miles we've traveled and you're so right. Clare and I have been through thick and thin and sometimes it just takes an outsider to pull you back in line, set you on the right road, so to speak.

Oh, ha ha...Roxie..remember when I was telling you all about that guy and that crazy relationship we had? I remember, it was that long drive from my house to the Cape. You were telling me it was so obvious he wasn't my destiny or destination or something like that. Then we stopped at Burger King and you were like "Destination on right," hahaha...yup...Burger King can be way better than men sometimes. Love your sense of humor.

Sigh. And when my grandmother passed away, your comfort knew no bounds. Telling me how things go round about. You're so right. Life is funny like that. Man, you have been there for many of the tough times in my life. You with your lovely British accent. And every time I hear your favorite song, "Life Is A Highway", I think of you, Roxy.

Okay, Roxy, well, I'm going to go. I know you need several hours to charge up for your next big adventure. So have a safe trip. And thanks for always being there.

Saturday, October 9, 2010

First off...I Apologize To The Woman Behind Me In Power Pump Class Today

I do and she knows why.

The Real Post Is: Why I Think My Power Pump Class Is A Hidden Reality Show 

I do think my power pump class is a hidden reality show. It has to be. It would make such bad TV. Although we aren't supposed to know about this "show" we are on, we are all aware of the hidden cameras behind those mirrors, at least I am.

Yup, it's official I definitely have an issue about being secretly taped (see my other blog "I Blame Dateline" - I'd link but I don't know how).

The Jeff Probst of our little aerobic room is Susie. She's a love but I can never understand her with that contraption around her head that is supposed to be a microphone. I swear one time she told us that there were brownies being given away right outside the door. I ran outside thinking this was a challenge, but of course there were no brownies. But, I definitely won the challenge.

Some of the challenges include things with glides and body bars and bender balls (jsyk me and my bender ball are now dating. I mean, come on something that knows you that intimately deserves "dating" status - BTW...I made up my own acronym - this one is "just so you know". Think it'll catch on?).

The cast of characters changes each week because the sane ones talk themselves out of going each morning. But each week you are surely to find...

...the over achiever with her 27 lb. bar, step on the highest block, 20 lb. hand weights. She scares me. She's always breathing heavy and sweating. No one will vote her off. I bet she can make fire by just rubbing a couple sticks between her beefy thighs.

...the underachiever with her 2 lb. hand weights, no bar and no step. Clearly the reason she was picked to be on our island is that she is so annoying and it is well documented that everyone loves a pain in the ass. She boosts ratings. She's the Johnny Fairplay of our tribe.

...the prom queen - oh, come on...every gym/island has one or 22. The make-up (really?), the coordinating little outfit, the little blond ponytail - what evs. She will be getting my vote. No need for me to be subjected to that little midriff each morning. There are no men on the island and I know the other women agree with me...so it's a sure bet.

..the dedicated older woman (no, it's not me...yet - but I'm praying that it is one day). She's in the back desperately trying to keep up and taking all the low impact options (God bless her, really!). She's the mom of the pack, we know her days are numbered but we cling to the fact that she is around us, cheering us on, pushing us to be better than we really are.

...the mom's. Here's where I fit in. We really don't want to be here. We are only here because we know we should. Diet and exercise, The Biggest Loser and all that, right? We moan when we hear the word curtsy lunges and we fake doing our push-ups (those girly, on-the-knee ones and you know we never go all the way down). Our weights could probably be heavier, but God forbid we end up looking like a WWF heavyweight champ (as if). We are biding our time, praying there's a fire drill, monsoon or our instructor pulls something. It's sad, really - but it is the truth. We don't care. We are just here so we can justify the triple layer chocolate cake tonight. Being voted off is really something we hope happens.

Actually, I write my friend's name down each week and I know she's doing the same for me.

Tuesday, October 5, 2010

Ode To my Neti Pot

Let's be honest - I don't know how to write an ode. I don't think I've ever read an ode except perhaps John Keats' Ode on a Grecian Urn because it was on every English major's syllabus.

The dictionary states that an ode is a type of lyrical verse, so, okay, maybe this isn't an ode. But an ode is also an "expressive of exalted or enthusiastic emotion." So heck..maybe I am writing an ode. Because I am damned exalted (rapturously excited) over my Neti Pot.

My Ode That Isn't An Ode

Last winter it started with a little pain in my face.

I thought it was my tooth, so to the druggist I did race.

"It is a sinus infection," she explained in gory detail.

"I've never had one before," I sniffed. Did she just want to make a sale

of Mucinex and other pills that will keep away the snot.

"Not at all," she then did sigh and suggested the Neti pot.

"The Neti who?" I asked in complete pharmaceutical confusion.

"Don't you watch Oprah?" she asked, thinking it must be my delusion

that I don't know what everyone knows

"If Oprah says it, it must be so."

"Oh," I muttered, not  sure what in the hell that meant.

I grabbed my purse, gave her a look and off to aisle five I went.

The Neti pot for those not sure is a genie lamp at best.

You fill with salty water, sticking the spout.......surely they jest!

They want me to stick the spout up one stuffed nostril side

and then watch with complete amazement at what drips out the other side.

Only this time not just water will you see come out of you.

But things inside your cavity, good grief is that a screw?

Not a screw and not a clue did you have there was so much crap

inside your face, it is no wonder it hurt to close your yap.

Down the drain with a resounding plop, newly released from their cilia hell

You'll notice when you finally stand, you'll breathe and you'll feel....


well, that's the best I can do.

Friday, October 1, 2010

My Bologna Has A First Name - It's Cancer

It's not surprising, right? This new finding from The World Cancer Research Fund that states "Processed Meats Too Dangerous for Human Consumption." I mean none of us are like, "What??? Bacon and bologna and sausage are bad for me?" Damn!!!

But seeing it in writing. Man, seeing those words "links between diet and cancer." and "Consumers should stop buying and eating all processed meat products for the rest of their lives." They italicized it not me. That's some serious crap!

I said farewell to bologna long ago. It was a bitter break-up as all first loves usually are. I would love to share my story with you. 

Bologna and I did have a long and fulfilling grade school relationship. Well, I was filled, anyway. Sitting in the lunch room - that smelly little carton of milk, the raucous sound of excited children getting their hot school lunches and me and my little bologna sandwich on white, bleached, processed bread - you better believe it! It was true love. It was first love. It was not destined to last.

Then something changed. I changed. I did feel bad bologna, you must believe me! And it wasn't because of your dirty little secret, no! I guess I was growing up, finding myself, finding other lunch friends. Boy, me and peanut butter and fluff were never parted in high school, huh?  I apologize for that - she was just so different, so sweet. I needed her.

Then came college. You know how it is - there was a different lunch each day, it seems. I'm not proud of it and I don't condone all that messing around but isn't that part of finding out what you like? I don't regret Mac & Cheese (oh, he was so comforting) or Fettucini Alfredo (ahh...the Italians, no? Bellissimo. He was a devil tho, I blush at what we did together). But he did cause me the ol' Freshman 15 he did, that's okay, no regrets, right?

Well, then I became an adult. I got married, settled down, ate salads. I know you don't understand. But salads and lean chicken are just the adult thing to do. Dammit, if you ever grew up, you would understand!! But...I won't be mad at you. I am beyond that. I meditate, I do yoga, I put on 75+ sunblock, I don't expect you to understand. I let it goooo...

In closing, I would like to say that I know you wish we could go back to the ways things were, and sometimes I look back on those days with such fondness, and I too would love one more roll around with you. Ah, but we were so young and carefree. Now you cause cancer and I am trying desperately do avoid cancer.

It was never, ever meant to be.