kellementology

life according to me

Tag: Humor

  • Pigs, Lipstick, and Other Shiny Objects

    This is not a light-hearted post, so if you’re just not in the mood to be real, that’s fine.  But right now,  I’m thinking that blogging about my patio flowers, or thoughts about floor covering choices for a remodel, or how much I’d like to mail my flea-ridden pets to Siberia are not worth spending time on.

    My mind is heavy with the election, and decisions, policies and issues, and I have to pull the plug sometimes. I’m listening to 911 coverage in the background, remembering, and thinking how strange it is that seven years can go by so quickly, yet so slowly…

    (more…)

  • Silver linings and Butthole dragging dogs.

    As Far As Today Has Gone…

    What was annoying?

    Getting up the second the alarm went off, getting ready for my first official day as a person who actually goes to work after a year (only part time) and is ten minutes late because of traffic.  Three miles in twenty minutes is a problem.  I am not someone who is ever late.  Ever.

    But what’s good about it?

    Not getting pissed off about it.  I got to work.  All was well.  And tomorrow, I’m taking another route.

    What’s gross?

    Realizing that the dark smudge and related four-foot streak across one of the only clean places left on the carpet this morning was caused by the dog who couldn’t take an extra minute to poop outside, so came upstairs, summarily parked her butt hole on the carpet, then proceeded to skooch forward using all four paws, removing whatever offending turdlett was hanging on for dear life.  It worked.  What a genius.

    Where’s the proverbial silver lining?

    Obviously not on the carpet.  But the image of the dog dragging her butt hole is completely, side-splittingly HILARIOUS even though the spot remover didn’t quite remove the stain.  The bottle lied.  I’m an expert at lying carpet stain bottles. And in knowing that she doesn’t have worms or clogged anal glands.

    What makes me want to rip my hair out?

    After pulling off a B+ so close to an A in Algebra II during the first grading period this year, the RT has systematically worked to destroy his grade (okay, so it’s a B-) by not doing most of his homework because he doesn’t feel like it.  He’s knows it’s more than strange that he’s engaged in this rather highly developed form of academic suicide, but hey!  He’s good at just not thinking about it.
    Why do I grit my teeth, grinning to bear the agony of this revelation instead of ripping his lovely brown eyes out of his skull?

    He’s in more agony about it than I could ever be.  Daily, he procrastinates, then doesn’t do the work and the routine begins again the next day.  He must love the torture.  Plus, he must love my rather lengthy and antagonizingly argumentative discussions about life and work and responsibility.  And the concept of beginning to look for a job now that requires no degree and a cheap place to live while employed in said fashion.  In San Diego, that would be a cardboard box.

    And the bright side of this debacle is?

    He gets this flat look about the eyes, like I have the calm audacity to suggest he will have to fend for himself in this world, and that he may not get it right.  It lets me know I’ve gotten through.  And then I get to tell him that he’d better figure it out because he only has about six years of math left to take in his life if he isn’t planning on the minimum wage job route.  It doesn’t matter that he most likely will NEVER use any of the math he’s required to take, but you can all rest assured that at least with my kid, the good ol’ U S of A will have a chance to compete.  You know.  Mathematically.  In the world.

    Could someone tell Edwards for me please?  He was sweating bricks over it during the minute or two I listened to the debate today on NPR.

    Oh, and the RT completed his math while I wrote this, so clearly it’s not challenging.

    Like I said.  Torture.

  • Dear Desiree…

    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 silly 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.

  • Writing until the cows come home

    November 10, 2007

    Dear NaBloPoMo,

    My tongue’s not quite hanging to the ground yet with daily blogging, because I’ve missed very few days since I began last March. I do have the ability to write my way around any situation while standing on my head and singing Yankee Doodle. Or something like that. But I have a tendency to not write both days in the weekend because my house really does need to be cleaned occasionally.

    The other reason I may not write on the weekend is because of my food blog. It takes some time, and I enjoy spending time there with other foodies. And I fear that I neglect that world far too much compared to this one. And foodies are such a lovely bunch of people. I truly enjoy them.

    So today, I’m deferring to said foodie haven Sass & Veracity for today’s qualifying post. Even though this actually counts as a post.

    Besides, my post there is for a very worthy cause.

    And thanks to Mike at Port 16 for the idea.

    Have a lovely Saturday!

    Me.

  • Dear Walmart…

    My journey as a NaBloPoMo-Ho continues into its second day…

    November 2, 2007

    Dear Retailers (and in particular, Big Box Retailers, but specifically, Walmart):

    It has been noted that you have begun to show concern with respect to your sales projections for the upcoming holiday season, and as a result, have begun to slash prices. Evidently, your thinking can be encapsulated in this concept: If the price is low enough, the consumer will want what you want them to want because you want them to and your attorneys always get what you want them to get. Simple.

    I do have some consternation about this kind of thinking. It doesn’t exactly keep me awake at night, because not much does other than my relentless hot flashing, but still, I do think about where your narrow minded economics will end. At some point, someone has to lose. With any luck at all, it will be you, and not the consumer.

    The average consumer is tired of being the poster child for your faulty thinking. Well, except for the consumers who have figured out that they can purchase until they are bankrupt, and then have all their debts excused in bankruptcy court so that someone else has to pay for it. Okay, so the IDEAL consumer, not the average consumer. You know. Honest ones. Where was I? Oh yes…

    However, other considerations force me to acknowledge that if you lose, then you will claim that you will be forced to lay off employees (when all the while your CEOs will reel in massive bonuses even after the Board of Directors gives them a vote of no confidence and asks for their resignation), who are ultimately consumers, who then have no funds to consume consumables in a comfortable fashion. A different perspective could be that if you claim to have high losses, you’ll have fewer resources (minions) to convince consumers (suckers) that they can’t live without a 50″ flat panel plasma television for $998.00 and wouldn’t it make so much sense to get your Christmas shopping done now instead of waiting because wouldn’t you like to impress your holiday guests with this new purchase? Poor, poor unsuspecting consumers will then have to find out that in order to actually see High Def on their newly purchased and initially cheap television, they will have to subscribe for HDTV service and that the industry is sort of dragging in getting more than the basic channels up and running with High Def. Oh, and that warranty? And what about those cables and energy cleaners? Not so cheap. But still. $998.00 does sound good, doesn’t it?

    I’d just like to let you know that I am one of the new “increasingly resistant” consumers that you fear. I’m not coerced by sales or advertising. I don’t make impulsive purchases because you expect me to. I have no trouble at all in resisting any remote urge to “keep up with the Joneses.” No sweat. I will not be in line at your heavily advertised 8 AM sales events with the purple kool-aid drinking lemmings who seem to live for the fighting opportunity to get their hands on a limited number of sales items, and then when they fail, shop because they’re now in your clutches, and spend money on other items. Just like you planned. And you will sigh with relief because they are not spending their money on The Dreaded Gift Card that is such a detriment to your reported earnings.

    I will be content to shop when I feel like it, purchase what I want and continue to hope that the whole point of giving is just that. And that looking for the “just right gift” isn’t because of a sale, or cutting edge, or newest of the new. It’s just the right match for the person I have in mind.

    I won’t be using my home equity like an ATM to fund Christmas, nor do I expect to charge anything that won’t be immediately paid off. I could. But I won’t.

    So just a word of advice.

    Resist upper management when they tell you they have pro-rated product coming your way. Take a stand. Let them choke on it for buying it without consideration for how much inventory you currently have. It’s really not a big deal because they guy who will get screwed in the proposition is the one who okayed the initial purchase.

    Somebody has to be big enough to stop the nonsense. Just say no! Or maybe at least think about it?
    Besides. I’ll be forever indebted to you for not having to watch all the ridiculous advertising that is sure to come this year, acting as if it can tempt me to get out my wallet.

    Good luck to you and your bottom line in the rapidly approaching season. Perhaps you’ll soon come to realize that the projected 4% increase in sales over last year is really just fine. Just practice what The Ideal Consumer has to practice: restraint.

    Thank you for taking the time to consider my thoughts on this matter. I’m off to IKEA.

    Sincerely,

    An Increasingly Resistant Consumer in Paradise

  • Do I Look Good in This?

    This morning, I could hear the MoH’s voice coming from the closet, but couldn’t quite make out what he was saying. I think it’s a passive form of control, actually, expecting the one you most love in life, the soul who makes your sun rise and set each day to get up, come to you and inquire gently, “What was that you were saying dear?” But I don’t, because I know how this works.

    He soon walked out of the closet and stopped to look at himself in the mirrors that are on the closet doors. I noticed the black, corduroy baseball hat on his head before he returned to the closet. “So brown, black, and grey are neutrals, right?” he called out, returning quickly with yet another baseball hat perched on his head and stopped again in front of the mirrors. It was a dark Navy blue with a Yankees logo on the front. I was surprised it was even on his head and couldn’t remember where he got it.

    “Yes,” I confirm, remembering that he and I had watched What Not to Wear last night before heading up to bed, and that this is exactly what Stacy and Clinton were trying to teach that Philosophy doctoral candidate who had absolutely no clue about clothes. “Tan, beige, and khaki colors, too,” I continued as he headed back into the closet, evidently not liking the second hat either. He emerged with a third, black hat that kept him standing and appraising longer than the two previous choices. It was an SDSU hat sporting the fierce face of Monty Montezuma, the Aztec’s old mascot. “What are you doing?” I asked him, watching him begin to smile because I’d found him out.

    “Well, I don’t like this one because it’s pointy on top,” he said, raising his arm and extending his index finger to point directly down toward the offending crown of the cap. He was right.

    “It makes you look like a poindexter,” I said, because that’s my job when he preens, and I’ve been doing it for years. I noticed that he’d put on his blue grey fuzzy lined sweats purchased at Old Navy years ago, and had chosen a waffle weave two-toned steel grey and black Nike long-sleeved tee, pulled over a white tee. It’s what I call his Spock shirt because it reminds me of the Star Trek uniforms from the old TV show. It was all coming together now. He was actually trying to apply his learning from the show last night. Unbelievable. I’d tell him to go without a hat, but learned long ago that the hat comes out when he feels he’s having a bad hair day. I’ve never quite been able to figure this out, because there’s just not that much hair. I’ve thought about encouraging him to shave his head, but it’s kind of lumpy here and there.

    I went into the closet to look at the stacks of baseball hats with him and knew which he’d choose. It was a longer billed cap with a more shallow crown. A soft worn khaki green with a golf logo. His favorite. “It looks like you’re going out in a boat,” I told him, but I like that hat. He smiled and pushed past me to again survey the fruits of his fashion labor, and admired his reflection. I could tell he thought he looked cute, satisfied with his artfully mussed appearance.

    “Yes, that one works,” I told him. It’s a neutral. It doesn’t have to be grey or blue or black. You look fine, I confirmed as he headed downstairs to leave for the office on this maybe final Saturday he’d have to work for a while.

    He’s in the stretch, and this must have been his way of celebrating. Choosing just the right type of slacker wear to crunch numbers on the weekend when nobody’s around.

    I should probably email Stacy and Clinton.

    He never trusts what I have to say about his clothes.

  • A Day of Whimsey and Frolicking Cavortingness

    Today, my horror-scope read, “Something may be important without having to be serious. Today, the roles whimsy, mischief and laughter play can’t be under-estimated. Something wonderful comes out of all your clowning around.” Oh. My. Permission to be a bad girl.

    But laughter play? Is that a thing one does? What does it look like? *images of people too old to be engaged in this particular type of activity are conjured frolicking and cavorting in a woodland scene with ribbons and wearing their birthday suits* Bouguereau's Nymphs and Satyr Hey…I recognize those glutes!

    Whimsy and mischief indeed.

    Okay, twist my arm. I had already put on my rubber suit to tackle the RT’s bathroom since I put a serious dent in detoxifying it last week and could see that if I gave it another go today, I might actually come out ahead for the first time in months. The last time my middle son was here he quietly informed me that the RT must have gotten a bit wild with the toilet bowl cleaner because the lid was stained blue. I told him that, “No, I did that just to keep a safe distance” and still have a prayer of getting it clean without having to put a bomb in it. I reminded him of what his bathroom used to look like. End of ratting on his little brother.

    But I tell you, the possibility of whimsy instead of scrubbing the RT’s toilet? Now that’s a pretty tough decision. Moot at this point, however, as I could tell that he’d already given the porcelain bowl a swish or two. *Okay, so he’s actually figured out that there are tools one uses to clean things.* I’m detecting progress here.

    I will have to talk to him about leaving his toilet bowl scrubber next to his toothbrush on the counter, however…Don’t Do This At Home *Don rubber gloves and scrape all articles into black plastic bag…* It’s supposed to go ON the tube… *Hmmm…I know I’ve mentioned to him that the paper goes ON the roller a few thousand times…*

    What does one do when one practices whimsey? *Remove one’s pants with never a care as to where they land, or who finds them…*Does he put them there on purpose?

    I could eat bon-bons and watch old movies all day? How much different would that be on the whimsey meter than blogging? I could paint my toes blue or purple and the dog’s red. I could play hookey, but that’s what I do every day. If that isn’t whimsical I don’t know what is.

    With respect to mischief, I’d need to hire a tutor for that. I’ve never been very good at it. Well, there was that one time a few friends and I went into the surf one evening outside the Ritz Carlton sans some of our clothing. That wasn’t really mischief as much as it was group unwinding after a grueling period at work. And I would never have done it without the evil influence of my friends. I’m seriously out of mischief these days. I’m so boring and put out to pasture relaxed. Contentedly Chewing Cud

    As far as the “laughter play” is concerned, I think snarking is on the agenda this afternoon. So that would be more of a “snark-n-laugh” activity, with absolutely nothing playful about it at all. That has to count for something, doesn’t it? I’ve been called to an emergency get together with some very good friends who are celebrating the announcement of their boss’s premature exit. It seems he wasn’t up to the task expected of him and people had begun to question whether he was all he was purported to be. Pity.

    A Reason to Celebrate They’re heart-broken and will be suspending all clowning around out of respect for the dire situation.

  • Celebrating with the kellenator

    I know it’s not Wednesday, but still. I couldn’t resist. Well, actually I must have, because there aren’t supposed to be words here, right? Feh. I so don’t know how to not say anything. It’s a genetic problem. But I had to in some way celebrate that I:

    • was not at school on the First Day of School for the first time in over 20 years — give or take one or two;
    • was not sick with worry about whether we’d have enough students to keep all our teachers (i.e., tell one who has prepared very hard to get ready for a school year that he/she would have to leave);
    • did not have to be concerned that we had a vacancy for a position necessary to run the business part of the school — or have to train a new one who has absolutely no idea how to do his/her job;
    • did not have to act like it mattered that NCLB may seem great on paper but will never really work, and that YES! we’re all revved up about those test scores;
    • didn’t have to work the kinks out of a new lunch schedule, or bell schedule, or bus schedule, or duty schedule, or master schedule, or budget, or any of that.
    • I didn’t have to wonder for the 8,000th time why boys think pants that hang off their rear ends are comfortable to walk around in, and adolescent girls think everyone wants to stare at their cleavage and bellies;

    I have many very good friends who do think and wonder and worry about these things — today more than most other days — and they are very good at making sure it’s all taken care of with no discernible sign of angst.

    Instead, I:

    • joked gleefully with my new captive carpool kids, who didn’t laugh, even though I thought I was captivating;
    • drove down the hill past a good friend of mine who was on cross walk duty at her school — I did beep and wave, and I’ll bet she wishes she could have given me a special wave as I cruised past;
    • cheered with glee (well, not really) that the temperature here (77 today! and shhhhh….maybe the humidity?) dropped at least 10-15 degrees, and I can now thaw out my brains by turning off the AC;
    • successfully avoided doing anything I should do on this very special day;
    • obsessively thought about doing something I should be doing while I was doing what I wanted to do;
    • spent a lot of time going through blogs to get them on my netvibes feeder and was dismayed to find that many won’t go…;
    • waited anxiously for the RT to come home and tell me all about his first day back at Paradise High;
    • waited until the last minute to do this truly thoughtful and well-written post;
    • couldn’t resist and instead of writing about how The Govvenator is going to save those of us in SoCal from dying of thirst after that stupid ruling that is designed to protect a fish that most use as bait when they go fishing, I’d don his visage just for hoots;

    Kellenator

    • thought about the last two Halloweens the RT wore this mask and wondered if he had blown his nose….
  • Spectacularly Scintillating Snippets

    Spectacularly Scintillating Snippets

    Today is the day. You will finally understand what you have suspected all along: that I am, in fact, not a person, but a trained seal. Offer me a meme, and I bark on cue. For free! I have Mark to thank for this one. Mark over at Mark Base – Helsingblog. He who runs an interesting series of posts on pub toilets. Yes. I know. But he does have quite the way with words and has an interesting spin on the “8 Random Facts” meme. He’s put out a challenge to choose those who are perched in our “Friends” categories, but who we may not frequent or comment on much…How does that happen?  Too many blogs, too little time?  Fickleness?  Attention Deficit Disorder?

    Rules:

    • Post the rules before you cough up more exciting gossip about yourself give your facts
    • List eight (8), not 7 or 9 or 19 like I have done before
    • At the end of your post, sucker punch unsuspecting and innocent bystanders unfortunate enough to be in your “friends” category choose (tag) eight people and list their names (linking to them) which takes freaking forever.
    • Leave them a comment on their blog letting them know they’ve been hornswaggled and then bamboozled tagged.

    Yes! More excruciatingly droll information about me that you may not have known because it isn’t buried in my archives. And yes, I’m tagging today, so look for your name at the bottom of my drivel, then count yourself as one of my anointed “friends.” I hereby solemnly swear that I will stop by your blog more than I do, which sadly, isn’t very much. And for that I am wholeheartedly sorry. I know it’s worthy of my time, but in my addled state, I meander around the web and get lost, never to return, but happy that I’ve collected a few new bright, shiny things along the way.

    Now let’s proceed, randomly:

    1. It’s official: UCSD and Harvard have announced that “Obesity is ‘Socially Contagious.’” I’m a heifer because of my friends. It’s all their fault. Well, not all of them. Just the other heifers. Listen carefully and you will hear us lowing in the meadow while we chew the grass. We do have skinny friends who have resisted our evil influence, however. Uh…one. I’m thinking of challenging the study’s findings, questioning the impact a particular profession can have on an individual — especially when colleagues are also friends. But hey! Good news: the study has proven that fatness and thinness are both contagious. That means if I make a concerted effort to rub elbows with those less than gifted in the adipose department, I’ll drop some lubs.
    2. I do not have a gazebo. I know this comes as a shocker, but it’s true. Nor a pergola, a belvedere, or summerhouse. I used to have a sort of shed, though, on the property of our old house. My oldest son built it when he was fifteen to have a space away from The Rest of the Family. It didn’t work, because we’d all go out there to bother him. He used to sleep in it occasionally, even though he neglected to build it large enough to stretch out in. Dreams of it rolling down the bank it was perched on stopped him from spending the night there. When I last drove by our old house, I saw the shed still standing, nicely painted, and glad that the new owners were taking care of it.
    3. I routinely have to suppress the urge to label all my closets. There’s just something about the notion of having little stickers beneath sweaters and shoes I no longer have to wear or want to wear that say, “Black Pumps,” or “Black Sandals” or “Black Loafers.” The urge lasts about 2 seconds, and then I snap out of it. I have purchased a label maker, and now realize that others have this same disturbing tendency.
    4. Less than two hours after posting an ad on craigslist yesterday for a free BBQ, the old black grease behemoth was gone. Bah-dah-bing. I even helped the guy hoist it into his truck. After nearly five years of living in this pseudo hoity Gated Reach Out and Touch your Neighbor McHood where we are not allowed to put our trash cans out before a certain time on trash day — let alone park things on the curb — I have discovered the free section of craigslist. So now you know that I not only recycle, but I’m a bit slow on the uptake.
    5. I don’t really get jokes. Or comics. Or the “funnies.” If laughter is the way we’re supposed to measure whether jokes and comics are humorous, then there’s something wrong with me. On the rare occasion that I laugh at a joke, I promise that I will commit it to memory, and tell it to a group of people who will howl with laughter. But I can’t. Not only can I not tell it, I don’t even remember the whole joke. The only joke I will even attempt to tell is one that the MoH rescues me from every time he hears me try to tell it. The one about the man who goes into a bar with a monkey that ends up eating a cue ball…
    6. I love to watch people. They’re interesting in all their individual glory. The entitled folk get me going once in a while, but for the most part, I don’t get too worked up over the others. Okay. So, occasionally when they’re completely obnoxious. Arrogant. Single-minded. Loud-mouthed. Entitled. Jerks. Entitlement doesn’t necessarily equate with being “moneyed.” Therefore, a woman in Target (men don’t do this) who leaves her cart in the middle of the aisle while she is 10 feet away blathering loudly on her cell about her latest Brazilian wax job while trying to decide which celebrity gossip magazine to purchase can be equally as annoying as the person in the Jag who is sitting in the middle of the street waiting for someone to vacate his parking place. Someone who isn’t yet at his car door. Isn’t even walking in the direction of his car. Both types fascinate me with their complete and utter self-absorption.
    7. I’d like to not notice that people use it’s when its is correct. Or their instead of they’re. And affect when effect is the accurate word. And use then instead of than. No lesson is coming, but allow me to introduce the best little book ever published — The Elements of Style. Yes, we all have fun torturing the English language with our blogs. For me, it’s a large part of my enjoyment. But knowing which word to use, or more importantly, how to spell it is not the same thing. I know. I’m a bitch.
    8. I love words. I especially love it when others over use them, such as in this book review of Breaking the Rules. The reviewer pulls out all the stops AND his thesaurus to try an impress with phrases such as “malleable and amorphous body of generalizations,” “copious research and data compilation comprise compelling evidence that lends credence…” Or slings around words such as iconoclasm, dictum, morass, execrable, and quagmire. But I have never heard or read the word foredoom. Why would anyone choose to use it and expect to be taken seriously?

    Now for my “friends.” Aren’t you sorry you clicked that button at Blog Catalog or My Blog Log? Blame it on Mark, though. It’s his fault. But I did enjoy visiting your blogs today, reading your writing, smiling at your memories, and admiring what you’ve done with your blogs. I’ll try and be a better “friend.”

    WRITING TRUE

    Word Strumpet

    “Sleeping Kitten – Dancing Dog!”

    Finding Flabuless

    Life 2.0

    I Eat Snowman Poop

    Goodness Graciousness

    the rogue professor’s blog

    I haven’t put a message on your blogs yet. Sorry. You can Un-Friend me if you’d like. That will serve me right.

  • Ah ONE and a…stroke….stroke…gasp.

    I was invited by my VBF to swim in The Cove again yesterday. And I was going to go. I really was. But that sinking feeling was there. The one that I felt the other day before I swam. The one that never really went away even though I enjoyed my swim in the ocean. The one that, if I thought about it a bit, could grow into a full fledged anxiety attack. I can just tell…

    But I chickened out this time. I told my VBF I was sorry, and that by all means, she and my VGF should talk some serious smack about my chicken-ness while they were enjoying their swim in the ocean. Being the grand person she is, however, my VBF said we could get kick boards and do some laps in one of the pools our complex has access to. And she hates pools.

    Relief. Big fat chicken squawking relief. Bwaaaaaaaaahk. Bwahkbwahk-bwaahk. Whatever.

    View from the Garage

    So I got on my erg instead. You know — one of those rowing machines. The one I talked the MoH out of I don’t even remember how many years ago. The one I used to “row” on regularly — oh, for about a whole month — with earbuds in place, the garage door open, and a fairly gorgeous panoramic East County neighborhood view that would lull me into sitting on the damn thing for at least 30 minutes. And because I did spend some time actually learning to row on real water with real people — eight, even — I could almost schmooze myself into thinking I was actually skimming over the water in the bay. While in my garage. I know. Everyone who wants to sell swamp land in Florida, I’m your guy. Yah. Uh-huh. Rowing Machine

    That erg. The one I sort of have to peer at through squinty eyes to try and remember if I like. So I borrowed the MoH’s Sony disc player which also has radio stations I can tune to. I found some less than attractive stretchy pants in my closet I bought and have never worn because they’re aqua colored. It was a lapse of judgement, okay? I popped the garage door open a quarter of the way so the neighbors wouldn’t stare at me to let air in, and wiped the inch of accumulated dust off the erg.

    Sony

    Shoved the Sony in the back of my waistband… adjusted the earbuds and volume. Punched the tuning button until I recognized a voice…Oprah? On the radio? Huh.

    Secured my tennie clad feet into the velcro straps, and pushed “reset” on the info screen.

    Settled my butt on the seat, took stock of my inspirational view of the Grease Behemoth BBQ we still haven’t unloaded on my left, and the side of my car that I hadn’t realized was dinged up as much as it is on my right. Partial view of the nanny van across the street at twelve o’clock. Ready?

    I Tried a stroke or two, and adjusted the tension.

    Went back through my mental rolodex on the proper form and sequence….legs, arms, back, snap….okay….GO.

    Hmmm…I don’t remember my stomach getting in the way when I used to do this. Suck it in, Betty. Oh, this is just a bit awkward. Ooofff. You can do it! Atta gurrrrllllll.

    Oprah, “blahblahblahblah….”

    Should my thighs come apart when I get to the catch, or the release or whatever the hell it is? Do I just not slide down as far? Ugh. Maybe I can kind of do an alternating shift to the right, then to the left. Belly to the left. Lard gut to the right. Ooo…The twinges where my incisions were are a tad gross. Eww…

    Oprah’s guests, “blahblahblahblah….”

    Ummph. Grunt. Strain. To the left. To the right. Stroke… Stroke. At least the freakin’ thing doesn’t squeak anymore. Ohmygawd…30 more seconds and I’m done. GASP! Ten….Five….

    How Many Calories? I lasted five minutes. FIVE whopping minutes. Sweat, pumping heart, gasping for breath. FIVE. I didn’t bother to look at the “calories burned” screen because it was probably 4. Crap, I absorb 4 calories walking into the kitchen.

    And the Sony ended up completely down the back of my drawers which upon inspection resembled some kind of a lid to my rear end. Not attractive. But funny.

    The water in The Cove would have been much nicer. Bwahk…

    But the pool is right down the street. So guess where I’m going today?

    After I spend another 5 sweaty minutes on my erg.

    Update:  10 laps in the pool.  No erg.  Urp.