Let's Get Physical

So it's time for Words. I'm not sure this is really worth the hype (I didn't really hype it as good words, just that there would be words, so I'm not held accountable to providing great content. I refuse that.), but the news on the street is that I broke down and joined a gym. 

I'd been threatening to do so since I started working over at Tiny Town. I needed something to do other than late late nights at work to avoid the rush hour traffic jam. 

Lo' & behold, there's a Planet Fitness right around the corner from TT. Ten bucks a month, no commitment, full use of all the equipment, 24/7ish.  

So the plan was to leave work around 5:30 or 6:00 (but I was hoping towards 5:30 more often than not), go to the gym for an hour, skate through traffic at 6:30, home by 7ish and feeling all accomplished and smug about how I've managed my time. 

The reality? I get out of work at seven. Or seven twenty, as the case was today. Working out by 7:45ish (after changing, etc), home by 9:45, and wondering what the hell I'm going to eat for dinner at 10:00 at night.  Not quite on plan, but I'm still working it out. I'm only in the second week of this whole charade. 

Interesting thing about my gym. It's co-ed, so I'm not really used to working out with boys in the room. My other gym adventure was an all-girls gig, and I was much more comfortable with that. But this is actually okay. The gym's mantra is "Judgment Free Zone" and so I try not to judge. 

But I got a little judgy the day I signed up. And noticed they have big bowls of candy all over the counter. I mentioned it to the dude signing me up and he told me, "help yourself, have as much as you want." A marketing ploy to keep you coming back and paying that ten bucks? Stealthy, Sir. And downright dirty pool. 

I didn't indulge. 

On my first day there I witnessed my motivation.  An old guy - old, not a middle-ager - he must have been in his 80's. Lifting weights on the machines. Doing his reps. And then getting up, grabbing his walker, shuffling over to the next machine and doing his reps. I challenged myself then and there to at least be as good at working out as the 80 year old with a walker.  

It turned out to be a tough challenge as I pulled things just doing the stretching contraption they have. I'm not nimble or limber at all. At ALL, I say. Things hurt and pull and I couldn't even get into most of the positions, but I kept trying, just like Mr. Walker.  

Then one night last week, I found myself judging again. I took my British Prude to the changing area with a curtained cubby. I am NOT going to be an out-in-the-open changer. And others should follow suit, in my judging opinion. They have showers right across from the changing cubby. And someone's curtain was not pulled tight. At all. And I saw Things that I would have rather not seen. In the way I don't want to see a big hairy vagina on an old (ahem. middle-aged) lady. I don't want to see my own big hairy vagina, much less someone else's. 

So I had that. 

And then tonight? Again, trying not to judge, but I judged silently, to myself. 

A lady was working out with pink foam rollers on her head. I looked twice and wanted to take a photo, but figured I'd get evicted and then I'd be stuck with no other option than to spend long hours at Tiny Town so I kept the image as a mental picture only.  But it was tough.

There you have it. I'm working out. And using that stretchy contraption thing, which to my amazement was easier to do the whole routine tonight. I sort of rock. And judge. 

Some Now, More Later

This is nothing more than saying stay tuned, I really have some good words stored up for you! I am just too tired to write 'em up. But there will be words. Oh yes. There will be words.


p.s. I'm tired because I work a lot of hours at Tiny Town. 

p.p.s. I got home at a reasonable hour tonight, in the 6:30 range, let the cats get some fresh air on the porch whilst I got nekkid and laid down for a short rest. Which turned into intermittent napping during Toddlers & Tiaras & Honey Boo Boo until My Mister came home at 9:30 with "dinner" in the form of a Taco from the Bell. Which I ate in bed while watching Honey Boo Boo.

p.p.p.s. I'm sort of addicted to Honey Boo Boo. And I find her to be somewhat charming. I've completely reversed my stance on that kid. She's far cuter in the personality arena then those spoiled brats on Toddlers & Tiaras. That show is just sad, far more so than the Honey Boo Boo clan. I kinda like 'em. There. I said it. 

p.p.p.p.s. I'm going to bed now. 

Neighborhood Responder - Part II

We were sitting up high in the SUV driving down the 25 MPH street last week, and I noticed the girl in the car in the next lane who kept looking down into her lap. As we got up beside her, I could see she was texting, which was keeping her head burrowed low instead of on the stop & go traffic in front of her. 

Our windows were open as it was a beautiful day for a drive and text, apparently. 

So I leaned out the window and yelled,  "STOP TEXTING!"  

Kenny stared at me, mouth agape at my audacity. 

The girl didn't look up, so I yelled again, "YOU! STOP TEXTING!"

Startled, she looked up at me, gave the old lady who should be minding her own business the stink eye, but tossed her phone in the passenger seat anyway. 

In retrospect, I should have taken a video of her texting and a photo of her license plate and sent them both to the local police department so they could get in touch with her mother. 

Because I'm a tattle-tale like that. Yep, I am. 

Texters & drivers? More dangerous than a bunch of drunks, because 16 year olds can do it, at all hours of the day, not just the hotspot hour of 2:30 a.m., when we're all on high alert cruising down the roads. 

The sad/interesting/head-scratching-est part? I know several grown men -  you know who you are. Randy. Timmy. Dan. - who text and drive. All. The Time. 

Knock your shit off. Because you've got the Neighborhood Responder on your ass.  And she will shout at you. 

Neighborhood Responder - Part I

This morning we were awakened by our Hillbilly Alarm Clock. It went like this: FUCK FUCK FUCKITY FUCK FUCK! FUCK YOU! FUCK THIS! (then the word QUARTER was heard), more FUCKS, and then a bunch of punching noises. Into a wall, I hope, and not a person. 

All that at 10:00 a.m. on The Lord's Day. 

So I opened up my screen, stuck my head out of the window and yelled in the direction of the Fucks (coming from the street behind our house), "Calm down, Hillbilly!" 

And Kenny told me to stay out of it, he wanted to hear more of the shenanigans. But it was too late. Either my "holla back girl" was effective, or the Neighborhood Hillbilly was spent from all that aggression and laying in a collapsed heap of fucks on the floor.  

Mashed Berries.

Today I'm spending part of my time doing Responsible Things, a.k.a, Avoiding A Call From Hoarders. And part of my time was spent cleaning out the refrigerator.  Where I discovered I have a bit of a jelly hoarding problem. 

This many jars in my fridge, and I do not have a Brady Bunch amount of kids running around needing PB&J packed lunches by the dozens. 

Nope. Just me & My Mister here. And plee-enty of jelly. And there was more in the door of the fridge, the upside-down squeeze bottle kind that doesn't fit on this shelf. 

The worst part is, I can't see throwing it out because it's not like it's inedible and I see Sophie turning over in her cremains at the thought of throwing out perfectly good food, and I do see visions of those little Sally Struther's kids flashing before me, thinking how much they'd appreciate my abundance with their gruel. 

So I can't throw it out in good conscience.  So we'll have a shelf full of jelly.

Anyone need jelly? You know where to find it. 

A Cat By Any Other Name...

We've (re)named him Sawyer. See the resemblance? 

Do Not Disturb

It's really difficult to fuck with a kitten in the house. 

Who wants to be in the middle of everything. 

Including coitus.

 Where he is not welcomed. 

He proceeded to burrow in a little blanket nest at the kneecaps, and it was some difficult maneuvering.

And keeping his head covered up by a blanket because he's a BABY and there are just some things he shouldn't see. 

Or be curious about.

And want to bat at. 

With claws. 

And it's creepy to be doing Things with little curious cat eyes watching every moment. 

It all just starts to seem ridiculous if you look at it from his perspective. 

#thecatswatchingusfuck=FAIL. 

2nd Thoughts

Reader. I rarely - in fact, never - have taken down a blog post. But I've felt bad for being a hater against little fuc...er.. ahem....the small children and parent's who don't know better, a.k.a, Toddlers & Tiaras. 

Let's just call it a reconsideration. 

I keep thinking of the phrase my friend uses: Let there be peace on Earth, and let it begin with me. And that wasn't very nice. It wasn't coming from a place of love. Or compassion for their stupidity. So I have reconsidered and have taken it down, for no other reason than to not have that little slice of negativity coming from me. 

That's not a guarantee against future negativity. Oh, nosiree. Just this one time. 

I think some little blogger just got her angel wings! 

Right. Right? 

Biggie Smalls

He has giant feet.  

The Over-Rated List

We succumbed to the hype and the horn-tooting that The Public has been doing and - against my better judgement - purchased a Keurig coffee maker. 


I did do some online research before making a $150 coffee pot purchase and the reviews were mixed. Some folks found that they stopped working after a short time and were a pain in the ass to keep descaled, while others swore they were handed down from the heavens by the hand of God. 


So mixed reviews. 


Now, I was given to a bit of head-scratching when I read that the Special Edition or whatever it was we purchased offered 3 different cup sizes. I wondered to myself what with the little coffee packet coming in only one size, how does it adjust to have taste from the heavens regardless of the amount of water used? 


I chalked it up to Magic, because obviously it must be fine no matter the cup size because no one had a complaint about that issue. 


So we bought one. 


And made our first cup. 


And it dribbled out and barely filled the bottom of a coffee mug. 

Wha - the - fu....?? Who drinks 5.2 oz of coffee? 


We experimented with various cup sizes. The largest size? Still only 9 oz. and made the flavor watery. 


It was definitely going to take 2 k-cups (they even have their own little lingo) per one cuppa coffee. Apparently, for our taste enjoyment,  it takes 2 k-cups, brewed on the smallest cup size and the mug still isn't filled. 

Why oh why do people tout this contraption with such verve and enthusiasm?? So, sure, it tastes fine. And the only thing I can really say that is positive is that I like the look of the machine on the kitchen counter and that the coffee ground clean-up is a snap. 


But is that worth the tradeoff? I still have to push a button to heat the water (so no time-saver there), and then stand there and make several k-cups at a time for our 2 cups of coffee in the a.m., and I'm now spending a Starbucks fortune per cuppa coffee, so what is the savings?


Nothing. It's nothing, Reader. It's just a different pain-in-the-ass than my old coffee pot, which I am telling you is going right back on the counter as I pack up my $150 contraption for a store return. 


Don't believe everything that's hyped, Reader. Christopher Hitchen's opinion is that the the four most over-rated things in life are champagne, lobster, anal sex and picnics. He apparently never owned a Keurig.