Tally-Ho NaBloMoPo on Day 14. So move it. Can you do it? Make it burn…on three…ready? Let’s go. Whatever. But this one will be short, because I have to do a post on my food blog today, too. I was nearly done with a post two days ago, was loading the last photo, and then…Yes. That stoopid message that says something about being reset so the connection was lost came up after I realized things were getting a bit slow and I suspected the inevitable was about to happen. When’s the last time you actually saw mad? You know. Like, really mad.

November 14, 2007

Dear Ms. Bartlett:

I just thought I’d take a moment today to let you know you kicked my butt the other day. Seriously. I should have known better, and that’s what I get for not taking the time to do a bit of research; i.e., look before you leap. I should have channel-surfed a bit. But you looked so harmless. So sweet. It was that smile.

I’m sure you’re far too busy for someone like me, but I’ve been trying to find ways to make sure I get regular exercise. I don’t always look forward to it, but do a fairly good job of getting in some exercise at least four days a week. But I’ve been struggling with the time change since I have a tendency to go out late in the afternoon or early evening to walk — hopefully right before the MoH gets home. One day it was completely dark by the time I’d finished, and although I sort of enjoy that, occasionally, the brush by the side of the road engages my overactive imagination and my constructive pessimistic proclivities begin to map out my defense on the chance the boogey man is hiding in the bushes and is getting ready to jump out to get me. Little does he know that I’m ready to grab the sides of his face in my palms and dig my thumbs into his eyeball sockets, knee him in the nards, and if necessary, ram his nose up into his sinus cavity with the base of my palm. Of course, a lifetime of repressed rage would most likely also be unleashed and there wouldn’t be much left of him.

Yes. Well, um, so I had waited too long to walk and it was already dark, so I decided to take a look at the free On Demand channels on cable. I thought I’d seen something about Exercise on Demand and thought I’d give it a shot. Mind you, it was some time ago (like years) that I’d see this feature of our monthly service to Time Warner, but that’s beside the point.

You would have been proud. I had appropriate exercise clothes on, and my tennies. Hell, even my weights were close by. I have to be honest though — I was a bit worried about my left arm since it’s been so screwed up with tendonitis. But I wasn’t going to use that as an excuse. I was going to suck it up.

Suck dough balls was more like it.

Sheeeeee-it. You smiled the entire time you were kicking my butt. In fact you kept telling me to smile and each time you did, I wasn’t. What’s up with the whole smiling while your tongue’s flapping around your chin? Have you ever tried to do that? But since I’m a team player, I tried, and I did learn that if I smile with my teeth, at least I can get air into my oxygen deprived lungs.

And I did appreciate that you kept telling me that I could take a break any time I wanted. I did notice that you smiled when you said this, like it was some kind of a dare. I’ve got you all figured out, marching in place there and not losing count while you’re smiling and telling me to take it easy. And not sweating. Not a single shiny place on your body.

Do you have any idea how hard it is to hang on to a weight when sweat’s dripping down your arms? Huh? And your your spine? Well, suffice it to say it was a veritable river headed down to my drawers. At least the RT didn’t make any comments when he walked by wondering about this latest project his mother had gotten involved in. And he didn’t laugh when I grunted, either, and I was listening.

I know you know that I knew I’d be doomed after the warm up and before the weights because I was already toast. That you knew that I’d know those repetitions would make my muscles feel like they’d been flopped into a frying pan set on sizzle. You totally knew. And you smiled the entire time. But you also knew I’d feel like *thank gawd I’m done* successful and proud after you ran me through the wringer the routine. I know you’d know that I knew I’d know you knew. Yanno?

So all in all, the beginner’s (ohmygawdwhatmustheregularworkoutbelike?) workout was a freakin’ killer great and because it was an interminable, exhausting only 30 minutes, I switched to a cardio salsa dancing workout that finished the job you started immediately afterward. I’ll have to thank her another time since I couldn’t see the writing on the screen with my face on the floor didn’t catch her name.

But hey! It was so incredibly tortuous and I was so sore the next day fun, that I was thoroughly encouraged to go on my walk again, making sure I got it in before the sun went down — in the drizzling rain.

So thanks, Desiree! The next time I need my butt royally kicked an amazing workout, I know how far and fast to run in the opposite direction you da man.

Devotedly,

Me

p.s. Might you be related to Rachael Ray? Just asking. It must be the smile.

Actually, the workout was excellent, and I was surprised that I felt as if I’d gotten more done than twice the time on a vigorous walk. I enjoy getting outside, keeping an eye on my odd neighbors in Paradise breathing, and watching the sunset, but this is something I need to do a couple of times a week. The on demand channels are an included service, and I can exercise whenever I want, which is, well, not a whole lot different that most everything else I do. So…okay. Whatever.

Guess what? The MoH has finally decided that he needs to exercise. Actually, he already knew that, but you know how that goes, right? Woo-Hoo! I’ve found another exercise buddy. And we are making some food and drink committments, too. I know you’re sick of hearing me yammer on about this and then nothing happens, so whatever. Fine. But still. We’re on it. We ARE, okay?

What happened to my VBF? She works umpteen gazillion hours a week and has decided to go to boot camp everyday at o-dark-thirty. No boot camp for me. I couldn’t do a push up if I tried. Just thinking about it pains me.

So the MoH and I went for our first walk Sunday. He didn’t even break a sweat. I, on the other hand, was sweating and huffing and puffing. It’s so annoying. But at least I was up and out. The air was still a bit smoky smelling and by the time we were done, my sinuses were stinging. I’m thinking it was probably worse to sit next to those happy smokers in Las Vegas, though. But the only jackpot I’d hit on a walk would be to find a penny someone dropped in the road. The promise of good fortune is always lovely.

We didn’t start our conscientious eating until yesterday because we were still recovering from those Bostinis I made. Jeez. But Monday, we were both on our best behavior as well. I ate so much spinach yesterday I swore I whinnied at the RT at one point. We’re packing in the veggies, and going easy on highly processed carbs. No extra servings for the MoH, one Coke a day for him, and two measly ounces of wine for me. Exercise daily. Water, vitamins, and all that rot.

I’m already looking for healthy recipes to bake. I have to cook. Have. To. But I will not be putting Splenda in anything. Ew-ah.

So yesterday was good. The MoH got home at a decent hour and then as planned, headed out the door to go work out at the gym in our development that we pay handsomely for and rarely use. As I put my shoes on to get ready for my walk, I could hear his car start up and shook my head thinking he was off to a terrific start. The gym is a four minute walk from our house. Jeez.

My walk takes me right past the gym, and I could see his persnickety car in the lot along with all the others. I was glad I wasn’t with them all and strode past, knowing the sunset would be spectacular. The air had lost its acrid smell and a pleasant breeze was blowing.

I love to walk. The problem is (and has been for years) that my shins always hurt. Or my feet. Add years to that and other aches and pains come and go. Right now, I have a serious problem with tennis elbow. And I’d love to blame it on playing tennis, but that’s not the case since I barely know what one looks like. It really kicked up when we were swimming this past summer and has only worsened. My friends chide me that it’s all the blogging I do. Fine. Why doesn’t my right had or arm hurt? Huh? It’s so tiresome.

But yesterday, NOTHING HURT! (Not counting my elbow, which I finally iced thanks to this site, so now I can officially call myself a cyberchondriac.) Totally amazing. I was able to zip along, push myself, enjoy the dark lavendar clouds tinged with peach change against the setting sun to a sooty grey in a field of deepening sapphire blue. Spectacular. Right under three miles in 25 minutes. Not bad. Stinky, but not bad at all. And I beat the MoH home.

A good way to cruise into the month of November, don’t you think?

And NaBloPoMoHo-Ho-Ho is around the corner. Blogging every day. Um, like this isn’t something I do already? I’m going to one up it, cut the length of these posts, and work on my food blog since I usually only complete two a week there. Is that cheating?

You need to sign up for NaBloMo. Come on. Click on those pink lips up there and join in. I only have two friends and the more the merrier. It will be fun. Except I haven’t quite figured out how I’m going to handle the week off we have around here before Thanksgiving. Hmmm…

I’ll think about it later.

Gotta go. I’m off to a friends to cook. Not for me. For her. She’s expecting and we’re cooking and freezing dinners so she and her huzbink can take it easy after she delivers. They need to. She was having difficulty conceiving. Tried everything with no success and so decided to adopt a beautiful baby boy this past June. And guess what? Yep. She’s due in December. She’s been off her feet for some time now, and so is in the stretch. Life’s funny, isn’t it?

And if this post wasn’t the biggest load of unfocused blathering, I don’t know what is.

Funny how a subtle change in a suffix or hyphenation can significantly change the connotation of something. As in goal-less or goal-free. One clearly implies not only lack — but a negative one at that, and the other, a sort of liberating, non-shackled state of being. Sort of the difference between:

• the sad sack who hits the alarm button in the morning with a mental list of, “get up, take a shower, feed the animals, take the car in, pay the bills, defrost the Thanksgiving leftovers for dinner, label my linen closet…” and
• the ebullient chap who bounds out of bed each day exclaiming, “Yes! The whole day is ahead of me and I can’t wait to find out what amazing things will come my way!”

Okay, well, maybe the contrast is a bit strong, but I came across this site not too long ago, and am probably one of the few who didn’t learn about it on Oprah, because I sort of forget to actually watch Oprah. Yes, I’m home. No, I just don’t think about it. The television doesn’t usually go on until about 7 or 7:30 so we can trash our brains family style watching things like Jeopardy, So You Think You Can Dance, Hell’s Kitchen, and — well, you get the idea. We are sort of in the “goal-free” category of television viewers. We “meander with purpose” to borrow Stephen Shapiro’s phrase.

My mom often tells me she hasn’t had a goal in her life. This admission often comes after we’ve been discussing “stuff.” The stuff can be any number of “things.”

Things like life.

Not so small a thing, or even closely related to stuff. But if I listen carefully, the goal issue usually connects to the idea of planning on, organizing for, going through, and/or getting a career. Not a job or work. A career. Why other things don’t seem to be considered that took her determination and perseverance is beyond me.

I’ve noticed that people have a tendency to lord it over those who haven’t jumped through life’s hoops. Like there are a set of rules somewhere that we have to follow so that we can be recognized at the end of The Road. Kind of like a graduation. You get there, someone reads your name, and then there’s a list of what you’ve “done” with your life. Career seems to be at the top of the list. Especially a career that is connected to education. A formal education. One that was obtained at an easily recognized and even prestigious institution.

But what if you haven’t done those things? What happens if you have a completely different set of rules that you live your life by? What if your life is goal-free instead of goal-less? More importantly, what if your goals have always been things like:

• keep your children clean, fed, and well clothed;
• be relentlessly productive because it is an end in itself;
• teach your children to be practical;
• make sure your children do their homework, and clean their rooms;
• be extremely organized and tidy;
• make sure your children understand that manners are important, and that they are a reflection of the entire family while in public;
• focus on functionality;
• teach your children how to cook, sew, garden, and take care of the house;
• take time to grow, appreciate, and smell flowers;
• pay your children an allowance even though you shouldn’t afford it, and teach them how to save that allowance;
• buy musical instruments and pay for lessons when you know you can’t afford it;
• tolerate inane jobs to earn a paycheck to feed your children;
• make sure your children understand that nothing in life is free, so working very hard is how you get ahead;
• have a day job and a night job;
• make sure your children understand that education is important;
• try different jobs when you no longer have to worry about feeding your children;
• keep reaching because you know there’s something out there for you, just waiting, if you could only see it more clearly, and so many other things didn’t get in the way, distracting you, making you wonder if you should be afraid of reaching.

Yes, what if your life has been filled with those kinds of things?

Are you goal-less, or goal-free? The whole concept fascinates me because it is easy to line up a few people we can all identify as being successful without too much analysis. We default to the “who’s productive and wealthy” criteria that is so often the crux of  our society. But then, after assembling these iconic individuals, we have to examine whether they’ve all jumped through those hoops I mentioned earlier. Often, they have not. What we learn is they had their own set of hoops, and that the hoops were of varying sizes, movable, and sometimes intentionally avoided, or dismissed as being a waste of time.

Hoop-less, or hoop-free? Maybe you think it’s all just Hoop-lah.

What do you want to do? What matters to you? What is important? What will sustain you — and not just your bank account? Because I think that’s the key. If this whole business of making lists and setting goals is never going to be more than crossing off the things on your list, or checking off those boxes, then all you’ll end up with is a list of things you crossed off. Or maybe not.

What if that list says things like:

Travel around the world?

• You have to want to do this, of course…

• You have to at least think about how to begin or where to begin

• You will need to consider how much or little to take with you

Read untranslated works of Gabriel Garcia Marquez?

• You might want to consider learning Spanish…and practicing a lot

Be famous?

• This is relative considering the guy who just got caught for spamming up our emails. Okay, so infamous. But still…
• You can’t just sit and wait around for it to happen.
• You have to at least learn what spam is and how to make everyone else miserable with it.
• Or lose a lot of weight eating Subway Sandwiches instead of home-baked chocolate cookies with macadamia nuts.

People who want to do things just do them. That’s why Nike tells us to “Just Do It.” What they really mean is, “Shut the funk up and get off your arse. Go brush your teeth and quit stinking up the air space with your monotonous jabbering about what you’re going to do or want to do or wish you could do if only you could do it.” Nike knows us. Well, they really just want us to pay a fortune for their products made for a fraction of a penny on the dollar in third world countries, but that’s another topic. So their marketers know us. Or get paid to act like they do. A lot.

The problem is, when your head feels like it’s going to pop off every minute of every day because you’re just trying to make ends meet (whatever ends are pertinent to an individual’s life) heading in a semi-focused direction beyond survival can feel a tad bit overwhelming. Making that list may seem easier than doing something unfamiliar. Articulating those goals make seem like organizing for action. Being industrious and productive can look great on the surface because you’re “getting things done,” but that just takes up time. The rest of it is horribly messy and doesn’t really fit in any kind of a list, so you never really have to do it. Right?

And when you run out of time at the end of the day, you can get into bed and dream about what you’d really like to do, if only you had the chance.

I am a meanderer. I waver toward whatever I am interested in. Detour here, wrong turn there. Learning and taking notes along the way, but rarely with the journey being described as the shortest distance between two points. The plan would be to get there in the shortest amount of time, but there are just too many shiny things I have to wonder about and understand along the way.

So probably more goal-free than goal-less. But always purposeful.

Unflaggingly. Thanks for the genes, Mom.

Tuesdays haven’t exactly been my favorite day of the week. That probably isn’t news to anyone, because they most likely will agree — unless they’re hopeless optimists and dupe themselves into the “well, we’re one more day closer to the weekend” game.

The only thing Tuesday really has going for it is that it’s a day to celebrate that everyone survived Monday. Barely. Tuesday used to be close to having a glimmer of fame recently because we media bottom dwellers all waited, roped into submission, expectantly wondering how the remaining contestants would faire on American Noodle. But alas, it no longer matters. We’re down to the nubbins on the show with only two final contestants getting ready to sing tonight. Yes, my butt will be on the sofa, and I’ll be watching and listening — but it’s a toss up as to who actually gets the most tweener votes — Blake or Jordin — Jordin or Blake. Eenie, meenie, miney, moe… Hopefully, the show will be entertaining. Maybe I’ll keep a tally on how many nebulous adjectives Paula uses, or how many times Simon rolls his eyes. Yah. That would be news. But hey! There’s always the Coke commercial, right?

Tuesday is a day to weigh-in, too, but I’m putting that off until tomorrow because I forgot to pack the orange stickies that grace my bathroom mirror for our weekend get away. Good thing, because with the lighting in the Stage Coach Inn, I wouldn’t have been able to see them anyway. Does “orange-streaked make-up on her face” get the point across effectively? Lovely. So we’ll deal with my on-going scale saga tomorrow. Wednesday’s a better day of the week anyway. Don’t you think? Half way there, and all that crap? I’m not sure about half way to what, but still. It’s more optimistic. See?

So I’m going to take care of a few responsibilities today since there’s no reason to leave the house. The sky is STILL grey, so what’s the point? Instead, I’ll:

• Finish that Daring Baker’s Challenge. Yes. Finish. It’s in the freezer because I had to go to Monterey and couldn’t finish. I can’t tell you what I’m making because it’s a secret until we all (45+ of us) finish and post our entries. Check it out on this Sunday. I guarantee your eyeballs will pop out. Does 400 points on Weight Watchers create an effective image for you?
• Yell obscenities at my monitor. Finish up a couple of projects I’ve started on Photoshop. I’m really trying to love Photoshop, but it’s really challenging. It’s not the warm and fuzzy software I’d like it to be. I’m sure I’ll get over it, but not until I’ve thrown my monitor out the window a few times.
• Temp fate again. Avoid the transfer of the photos from my hard drive onto an external hard drive so I don’t lose them like I did the last five years’ worth. Yes. There’s a sign on my forehead that says “STOOPID.” And you don’t have to tell me that from what you’ve seen, the photos aren’t much to lose anyway, right? Sheesh.
• Write a letter sounding like it came from a sane person. I feel compelled to question why the health insurance I applied for was accepted, but for a higher premium (for me alone)because my “endometriosis treated with complete hysterectomy” is considered a risk factor and I have to be “sign, symptom, and treatment free for six months” before I can reapply for the original coverage I applied for. You know — I could be wrong, but, after you’ve had organs removed, aren’t things just a tad different? And what the hell is “treatment?” I don’t even take aspirin. I did see that Moore has another movie at the Cannes film festival — this one on the health system here in the USA…Goodness knows there shouldn’t be much to slam there, right?
• Clean the microwave. Teaching the RT to do it would take way too long. Way. I’d like to say that this trusty appliance is coated with remnants of bernaise sauce, or mushrooms sauteed in green garlic and white truffle oil, but no. By the looks of it, the RT would need a hammer and chisel to extract various frozen burrito droppings and pizza explosions that have accumulated over the past week, and that now vaguely resemble a brown mass of volcanic material. No, a bit of baking soda won’t help this one. Or a warm cucumber…Huh? Ahem… I’m thinking Draino might do the trick. I will don my goggles before attempting this at home. Your microwave is clean, right? You don’t have a teenager yet? Feh.
  
  Microsludge
• Grill the RT about The Geometry Teacher’s class. The year is drawing to a close, and there’s still a question about whether he’ll squeak by with even a “C.” He’s been going to tutoring after school — free — and provided by older kids who actually like math, and who have survived The Geometry Teacher’s class. Although I’ve been tempted to sneak down there to see if he’s really going to the library to get help, I’ve successfully resisted. Chalk it up to another life lesson for him. When the hoops are placed in front of you, even if you don’t like them, don’t want them, or don’t think there’s a pot of gold at the end of them, you still have to act like you’re interested in jumping through them. Otherwise, they multiply like rabbits. After all — everyone needs The Geometry Teacher’s content in their lives and careers, right?
• Erase old DVR’d shows. Since I haven’t watched daytime TV in a few months now, I really should get rid of the 900 reruns of What Not to Wear. Sorry Stacy and Clinton. I love you, but I have far too many things on my list to confirm that I would be a great candidate for your show.

   Ohhhhhh… Tuesday, dear Tuesday, I love yah, ol’ Tuesday, you’re always a week away…..

Okay, consistently invariably predictably not being one to shirk my responsibilities, I’ve decided to resort to guerrilla tactics with respect to the phoodplan. I was visiting Deb at Confessions of a Jersey Girl, and she’s got a great photo of Ricky Lake sans about 125 pounds. HALF of her is gone. HALF. And I can’t, am struggling to lose, seriously working myself to pieces, am dorking around and not very serious about losing 50 of my own lubs. And 50 lubs isn’t even close to half of me. I could probably drop 10 in a snap by lopping off one of my glutes. So that just means I seriously suck at the phoodplan — am just a veritable LOSER. Well, not in this case, actually. Because I’d weigh less. But still.

Yes I weighed in yesterday.

Yes, my Thinner scale is still a snarky bitchface for not gracing me with even a .5 lub loss.

No, I didn’t lose any of my lubs.

Yes, I know I have to actually move away from my Mac — my computer, not my hamburger — to do this, but have moved my weights upstairs to use when Flickr is done taking freaking forever to upload my artful and unique photos.

No, I didn’t gain more lubs either.

And no, I’m not going to pat myself on the back and say any of that simpering positive “well at least that’s good news” pollyanna bullsh*t” over it. Feh.

Yes, I’m still hovering, languishing, dilly-dallying at that almost, maybe, just maybe… if I lean just a bit to the right on the scale… 10 lub mark. Just like last week.

So I’ve started wondering if even that is a fictitious thing — the almost 10 lub loss. Maybe it’s not even fat. I mean let’s think about it. I probably, actually, sorta, coulda weighed more than I stated when I started this whole phoodplan adventure if I count the girlie guts equipment I no longer own. That has to weigh something, right?

Plus, I chucked those hormone patches, so no more hormonally induced swollen body parts for me. No, not those. No, not that either. Sheesh. That’s not even my body part. Gutterbrain-sleezebaggsters. Ahem… so does that count? You know, do swollen body parts weigh anything? If I add all that up, it must count for something, right? *Uh…does meringue weigh anything, dorktress?* Well, yes, technically because it is a form of matter and matter is anything that has mass and takes up space, right. Whatever.

Anyway, I’ve decided to start writing down what I eat again and what type of exercise I do daily. *Well, that’s a novel concept.* Go figure why that works for me. *Like what? I can’t lie in writing to myself? Stooooooopid.* And I have a new idea I got from someone who is taking this way more seriously than I am and has results to show for it. Serious results. He has lost a lot of weight. I can’t promise that I’ll stop joking about the whole phoodplan weightloss thing with myself however, because it takes the edge off of it for me, and that’s just how I am. I have to laugh about it. I’m thinking laughing burns more calories than stewing. But stewing sounds fabulous if there’s lots of potatoes cozied up against a juicy beef shank and all simmering in a gorgeous red full-bodied wine and garlic. Some mushrooms. A few carrots. Parsley. Crusty bread….

So here’s my new tactic. If I have to look at these love Lub Notes to myself every time I go into the bathroom to get beautified, then maybe it will work. I have to, however, want to get beautified to begin with, so that’s going to be the first obstacle. Does make-up weigh anything?

I woke up with a euphoric sense of fortune today. I know there are others out there who are genetically wired to do this, and others who practice it with great purpose. I’m kind of somewhere in the odd category of those who realize it when they check it off their To Do list for the day. But, there’s no list, so the fact that I’m feeling fortunate right off the bat is a step in the right direction:

• My boys are healthy;
• my extended family is safe now and sound some of the time;
• my rescued animals are well fed and sleep contentedly near me most of the day;
• the MoH is my true best and most loyal friend;
• I don’t have a job, but will figure that out one of these days;
• a foodie has just received the Pulitzer! and
• I have developed a completely different attitude about our favorite young singer on American Idol. Sad, but true. But first…

When I got up this morning, I remembered that I had weighed myself yesterday and then forgotten about it. Let’s face it — in the grander scheme of things, the whole day was beyond challenging. But I vaguely remembered that the scale had been kind, so I performed the pax de deux with my nemesis today, and the results from yesterday were confirmed. Woo Hoo! 181 lbs. Eight pounds down. Soon to smash that 180 mark. YES! Five weeks have gone by and I’m still creeping along. I know I said 2 lbs. a week, so I should already be staring at 179. But that’s okay. I’ll get there and it will be more likely that I’ll keep weight off once I get to the goal I’ve set for myself. Right? So is the phoodplan working? Well, yes, and no. Yes, because my numbers are down; yes, because I’m thinking about being healthy, drinking less wine, exercising more, and paying attention to what I eat. No, because I’m not following the phoodplan to the letter. It’s kind of challenging, and I just don’t crack the whip to stick to it. Remember when I acknowledged that my VBF and I lack stick-to-it-ive-ness? Well there you go. We aren’t total schlocks, but, well, almost. Some times.

But I didn’t whip up a batch of that Magical Leek Soup published in French Women Don’t Get Fat and suck it down before weigh-in day like I said I was going to do a few days ago either. That would defeat the point of my phoodplan. Have you ever tasted that stuff? Oh my goodness, it’s completely disgusting not very tasty. I get that the whole point that it is to sort of cleanse you or something, but I’m thinking I’ll pass on the whole Make Like a Toilet and flush thing. Ugh. So not worth it.

And speaking of ugh, (how’s that for a slick segue…) I can’t avoid having the morning after discussion about American Idol. I know many of you realize we’ve reached capacity on the Sudden Waning Interest Syndrome meter at our house, but a few days ago, I came across an article that said Sanjaya had been booed while attending a Dodgers game with friends. There’s just something wrong with that. What is up with people? And I thought, “Feh, people don’t boo other celeb-types, like Britney Spears, so how is that fair?” but I stand corrected. You do have to consider the source, however. Have you ever seen Dodger fans? Who are they to boo anyone? Oh, I get it. They’re experienced experts on the characteristics of those in need of booing. Personal experience. The only thing they have to feel good about are big hot dogs — er, um, Dodger Dogs.

So after seeing Sanjaya last night, I have to admit to being in serious Mom mode and felt all fuzzy and very sorry for him. Seriously. I just don’t get what he’s trying to do. And I definitely didn’t understand the bandana, its connection to country music, or the song he chose: “Let’s Give Them Something to Talk About.” So he did, and it worked very well. The MoH — who was showing glimpses of his pre-Tax Mine self last night — was emphatically succinct. “Oh. This just sucks. It’s horrible. It’s just bad,” in much the same way he may malign his favorite local teams right before he breaks into a series of very loud boos. No, he isn’t a Dodger fan. But he was right. It was horrible. It made my bottom lip protrude and quiver in melancholy support. And part of me thinks the San-jan-isto is doing it on purpose so he can escape the dread of it all and move on with his life — hopefully to more voice lessons, or modeling, or toothpaste ads. No, I didn’t do this. But he’ll make a fortune because he really is a very cute kid. And his parents have lots to be proud of. Sniff, sniff.

But Phil and Jordan totally rocked last night! Doncha think? Woo Hoo! Geet out those gee-tars, saddle up yer harse, and twang along. Who knew they would be country stud-like? So we’ll see what’s up tonight.

Oh my gawd — I just made the bandana connection!

Well, slap me silly three times and pass me my Geritol so I can take a big swig. Feh.

The slug has gotten off her keester this week and has actually moved three whole days in a row — by herself.  The VBF is noticeably absent.  But that’s because she has no life and works umpteen gazillion hours a day.  Sigh.

It’s much more challenging to exercise by myself, because it can be beyond tedious if I do my usual no-brainer route over in McNeighbor Land.  So I’ve altered it this week each day to spice up the variety, and to prevent myself from taking short cuts and sneaking back home with some lame ass excuse.  And guess what?  It works!  I should think more on how easy it is to conspire against myself later.  So far, if I had to judge the quality of my “walks,” the criteria would fit into two categories:  scenery, and thought flow.  The scenery is obvious — it’s what I’m looking at while I’m walking.  You know:

• Wow, that’s a seriously gorgeous gate on that house; or
• Do they take care of their own yard, or do they have gardeners? or
•  What is up with the hideous turret effect going on with those chimneys, and how much did they get scammed on that job? or
• What were they thinking when they bought their kid that electric guitar and do they know he’s playing it that loudly when they aren’t home? or
• Uh…poor tree.  It died the “you were blocking someone’s neighborly view of paradise”  tree death.

You get the picture.  But thought flow?  Well, it’s related, obviously, to the eye appealing thing, because if I’m “walking” the way I did on Monday — trudging up and down the stairs in my house — all I’m doing is counting and trudging, with an occasional gasp for breath and diversion of thought focused on:

• hairball stains on the carpet;
• handprints on the wall; and
• dustballs under the furniture.  Oh, and
• how in the hell am I ever going to be able to get on the roof to clean that skylight? and
• Oh my gawd.  That crack in the ceiling extends across the entire room!

So I realized that if I altered my route outside I’d think about different things, and it would take my mind off of how much I really and truly detest going for a walk no matter how much I lie about it.  I could think more about things like:

• how to get a job, or not;
• how to lose more weight, since it doesn’t melt off my body like it does in the frying pan; or
• how to squeeze another meal from that left over ham from, I dunno, a few days ago or something.

You know.  Practical things. Not exactly stimulating material here.
But then I went down to the beach for a walk.  Big mistake.  I can’t think about anything down there.  It’s too distracting.  But isn’t it simply amazing? And aren’t you thinking, “What the hell is that completely stoopid person doing walking up and down her stairs for?”  I know.  I said I know.  Okay, already.  I’m working on it.  I’m working on a lot of things.  I’ll have answers for everyone soon.  But don’t hold your breath.  Just breathe…