Wednesday, September 30, 2015

Uno, Dos, Tres, Quatro, Cinco, Cake

Hola, Lector. ¿QuĂ© hay de nuevo?

Yep. I picked Spanish Alarm Clock over Morning Walk after Day 3. Or it might have been Day 2, who's keeping track. No one, Reader, that's who.  

I did manage to keep up the ol' walking routine for about four days of that first week, but I quickly and very - very - easily slid back into letting Evening Girl do the walking while Morning Me slept in.  And that quickly turned into, "Let's just go get some dinner and watch t.v., Evening Girl is tired." Or cansado, as I've learned from Spanish Alarm clock.  

The true loser in this story is...well, no one is actually winning or losing, I'm the only player in this game, and I'm okay with it, so I guess there is no true loser.  I had hoped, er, well, thought about maybe trying to get ship-shape before my next cruise, which is coming up shortly, but that's not going to happen. Probably not anyway. Most likely not. So instead I've done what I do best, which is eat cake. A lot lot lot of cake. Because I'm really good at that, and they say do what you love and the rest will fall into place, and I love eating cake. I'm waiting for "the rest" to do it's part. 

In fact, we and some friends were down in Amish Country, hoping to go to a hot air balloon festival which didn't pan out because everyone else in the entire state had the same idea, and we were getting there around 3 p.m. and, well, that was too late.  The website led us down the wrong path. It said to get there later in the afternoon, which I thought was the perfect sort of Saturday afternoon festival for me because then I could keep my ass in bed even longer that morning. But it was not a good plan, as all parking was g.o.n.e.  

Ever resilient when plans are wayward, we decided to just go eat. And that's where we spied this little number in the bakery window, and my friendie and I made a plan that it was going home with us. Because it's somebody's birthday somewhere, and it would be plain rude to not celebrate it with this cake.  

We are a lot of things, Reader, but we are not rude where cake is concerned.  So we bought it and brought it home and sang "Happy Birthday, Someone," and ate cake.  

Was it as good as it looked?

Do you even have to ask, Reader? Really? Look at it.  Of course it's going to be delicious. Of course it is. Love must have been stirred into the batter, because I could taste it. Vanilla-y love.  

So what have we learned here tonight, Reader, in this quick moment we've spent together?  

Well, first, I'm doing a horrible job of keeping you up-to-date on my very important life.  I apologize. And you're welcome, because you'll never get these minutes back, and you could be doing something really good with those minutes. But probably not, you'd probably just be watching t.v., or checking Facebook, so therefore I will continue to fill your minutes with nonsense. 

Second, it doesn't make me lazy to only last a week with my walking routine. It makes me bilingual.  

Lastly, be flexible with your plans. You never know when that fork in the road has a piece of cake on the end. 

Tuesday, September 15, 2015

La Vida Loca

I came home from another fun weekend of drinking and general shenanigans and vowed once again that it was time to get in shape starting Monday.

It's always on a Monday. Poor Monday. It just adds to the bad rap.  

Started slow.  A walk around the block, which is about a mile, so better than nothing.  The real test would come on Tuesday, when Evening Me started making plans for Morning Me to get the fuck up early and take a stroll before work. 

Which actually isn't tasking Morning Me with too much, considering I don't have to leave for work until 9 a.m. But when that alarm goes off, it's anything goes, and usually what goes is the snooze button. For about six rounds. 

Funny enough (strange, not haha), somehow (cats, I blame cats) my radio alarm got set to a Spanish station and now I'm awakened each morning to the Latin beats.  I think it's sort of like an immersion course, it can seep directly into my hypnogogic-state brain and the language will actually learn itself? I don't think that's quite right, maybe it's my brain that will learn itself? Whatever, something is getting learned. Maybe. Time will tell.  

Anyway.  This morning was the test, if I really meant it this weekend about getting in shape or if it was yet another best laid plan of Weekend Me. That alarm went off, I did a little cha-cha and hopped right outta bed, all proud and sleepy-eyed. At the ridiculously early hour of 7:45 a.m.  

In the MORNING, Reader. 


Well, early by super-duper lazy people standards (finger points back at me). 

I threw on a pair of track pants and socks and sneakers that I laid out the night before, couldn't bother with a bra because that seemed tight and constrainy that early in the morning. My boobies were still asleep, for God's Sake, they weren't ready to be strapped into the reality of the day.

I brushed my teeth, threw on a shirt over a tank top (I did have a modicum of decorum, I didn't need my chest flouncing all down the street without a little restraint), looked at my bed-head top-knotted hair and decided it was good enough.  Who'd be out that early in the morning, after all? I didn't need to look presentable, I just needed to get a-walking.

Guess who's out that early in the morning, Reader?? Everyone, that's who. All the neighbors, with their dogs.  And old people.  Up and down the street I encountered person after person, me with my semi-flouncy boobs, no undies, and sticking-up top-knotted hair.  

But I marched around the neighborhood like a boss. A underwear-less boss.  With bedhead.  But a boss. 

And then I came home, drank a hot cuppa my Chaga tea, listened to a 10-minute morning meditation on the deck, hopped on the inversion table for a quick decompression and got on with my day. 

So yeah. I'm better than you. This once. Unless you did something crazy like get up and run places, or go to the gym at some crazy hour before the sun came up, then you win. But since you probably didn't I figured I'll be horribly insufferable for just this once. 

Because what are the chances it'll happen two days in a row?   I mean, I have plans for it, Reader. I've even put a pair of underwear next to my track pants for tomorrow. I'm optimistic.  But it can really go either way once the Latin beats go off in the a.m.  I may decide to stick with my Spanish lessons.  

Monday, September 7, 2015

That's Alright, Mama

When exactly did my life become so much fun, Reader?? I think it started back in February when I no longer had to work at Tiny Town. Because while most people would view a lay-off as the most stressful time ever, I look back on 2015 as some of my happiest days in recent memory. 

I was just sitting outside this morning, drinking a cuppa coffee and looking at the pretty day and I was so grateful to have this life. 

Maybe it's all in the attitude. Or at least partially in the attitude. But an unhappy work life can create a shitty attitude that no amount of repeating gratitude-inspired mantras can unshit. Or de-shit. I'm not really sure what the opposite of shitty officially is, so let's go with de-shit. Sometimes it's tough to de-shit your attitude, despite your best intentions. That's all I'm saying. 

I haven't had to really work on de-shitting myself lately. I mean, I can still have a moment or three, but for the most part I'm feeling good about everything from one day into the next. It's easy to be positive, though, when shit isn't shitty.  

So yeah. It's good to be me.  

One of the greatest parts about being me is that I know the greatest people. And one of my people, The Healthy Hoff, asked if she could borrow my house to throw a surprise party for her mama.  Of course I pimped out Chez Bang Bang for Operation 70th.  

And then the greatest friend asked the other greatest friend for any ideas for the Greatest Birthday Ever.  

After some intense brainstorming, we devised the plan to have an Elvis show up and perform. Because one of the big regrets in the The Hoff's Mama's life was never having seen Elvis perform live.  

So we brought her an Elvis. Because we're awesome that way. And I may be just a tich self-serving. Maybe. Just a teensy weensy amount. 

It was an epic night at Chez Bang Bang.  Ep. Ic.  

Elvis came and performed for two solid hours. He sang and gyrated and took photos and kissed girls and handed out teddy bears and scarves and had the whole room on their feet. 

He posed with Elvis Goose, who was properly dressed for the occasion in his white jumpsuit, because Elvis thought Elvis Goose was ah.mazing, which it is because who has an Elvis jumpsuit and cape for their concrete goose? No one except Trixie Bang Bang, that's who. Because I had this outfit custom made.  

I'm even more pathetic awesome than you realized, huh, Reader. 

The second biggest star at the party was this little number:

Yep. Our electronic trash can, which became a member of the family this past week.  So yeah, she was a bit of a show-stealer.  I had a basic plastic can for the past two years, and coveted one of these fancy schmancy numbers, but refused to spend $$$ on a trash canister.  Because that's stupid when you can spend that money on an Elvis instead. Priorities, Reader. 

But thanks to our friendly neighborhood Costco, who charged a very reasonable $39.99 for this little beauty, she was mine, all mine.  And several other folks who were at the party and went out the next day and bought theirs, all theirs. 

So yeah. It's a pretty rockin' time here. From trashcan's to treasures, we've got it all right here, right now.  I hope you can say the same, Reader, and here's to us all having a de-shitty week.  

***This is a little on the lame-ish side, I'm working on getting some creativity back, because maybe my life is so much fun right now that it's sapped all the words from my head. Or maybe I just need more wine. Probably that.