Hello, Garmin Forerunner 405CX.
It's a sexy beast. It keeps track of me while I scoot around the block, gives me splits, tracks my heart rate and gives an accurate calorie count. Then, it bundles all this information up and puts it on a nice little graph for my viewing pleasure. There's more it can do, but I did the typical "New Gadget Routine": I ripped it out of the box and slapped it on my wrist. Didn't read any literature, just pressed "start" and hoped for the best. Actually, I did have to do a little set-up, but then I got moving. If your gear doesn't make you do this, you have shit gear. I know this for a fact because I have a lot of shit gear myself. Don't beat yourself up. C'mon, let's hug.
My hubby got this for me for Christmas. He's very supportive of my efforts to drop the LB's. he's never been mean, grossed out, whatever about my being, errrr....husky. However, I owe it to myself to get back in shape like I was pre-kiddos. I want to get healthy, have more energy and blahblahblah. The other part of the picture is that my hubby was never a chubby-chaser. Why should he start now?
I'm not usually one to cling to a material object and hold it so near and dear to my heart; however, I find that I love this watch more than 99% of humanity. That makes me part of the 1% that everyone (who's cool) hates. I don't care. Let them eat cake! I love this friggin watch!
Christmas was great-minus all the barfing. The final tally: 3 of 5 had the stomach flu. A 4th got sick 2 days later. I should have out the watch on while puking to see what kind of workout I was getting. I lost 6lbs that night! Man, I always have great ideas after the fact. Dammit!
Thursday, December 29, 2011
Friday, December 23, 2011
A note to the triage nurse:
I get it.
It's the Eve of Christmas Eve and a Friday night. Who the Hell wants to go to work? I know I always loathed those occasional Friday night air refueling missions when I was Active Duty. Shiiiiiiit, girl! I'm with you!
But you know what else I don't want to do on the Eve of Christmas Eve and a Friday night? I don't want to watch my baby vomit so hard he's breathless. I don't want him to crumple against me after hurling the water he just drank and letting out a soft whimper because he's too weak to cry. Then, he pulls himself up and stumbles to the kitchen and says "wahwah" because he's so friggin thirsty (since he can't keep anything down). I don't want to watch him sway and stumble or feel his tight little grip on my neck as he clings to me for comfort, his breath sour with stomach acid.
Above all else, The number one thing I do not want to do on the Eve of Christmas Eve and a Friday night is talk to you. I don't know how you got where you are...working the Eve of Christmas Eve and a Friday night. Perhaps you're the lowest on the totem pole. Maybe you guys drew straws. It could be your scheduler doesn't like you. Or, maybe you're hard up for extra cash and took the shift so you could put food on the table and this makes you angry. Either way, know how you DIDN'T get to be working this Eve of Christmas Eve and a Friday night? Not by me. I had no say in the matter. In fact, I don't even know your schedular's name much less a phone number. No, triage nurse, I had no say in the matter. Please don't take it out on my baby boy, Sam.
In case you're wondering, I heard every sigh. I noticed every impatient note in your voice as you "answered" my questions. I picked up on your "You're a dummy, Mom" vibe. For example, when you asked "how many times has he puked" and I said "10" I totally heard the annoyance as you had to explain that you don't count the actual number of times barf left his mouth, you count the times he had an "episode" of puking separated by time. So, although he puked 3x, it only counts as 1 since they were back-to-back. How stupid of me not to know this.
Like I said before, I get it. I know this is no big deal to you because, well...you told me it was no big deal. I thank you for your advice on how to help my little boy. It was hard pulling that nugget of wisdom out of your brain, but I have it. Sam has finally fallen asleep and I hope he is able to fight this thing while he slumbers.
But this isn't about my little man, it's about you. Ms. Triage Nurse, I wish you a healthy life. I hope there will never be a day our paths cross because tonight I will wish on a shooting star that I could harness the power of projectile vomit so I could do so right in your face (you know since it's no big deal). Hope you enjoy the rest of your night! I will hug my children and be glad I don't have to work Eve of Christmas Eve and Friday night. I've seen how that can make a person into a cold heartless mass of shit.
It's the Eve of Christmas Eve and a Friday night. Who the Hell wants to go to work? I know I always loathed those occasional Friday night air refueling missions when I was Active Duty. Shiiiiiiit, girl! I'm with you!
But you know what else I don't want to do on the Eve of Christmas Eve and a Friday night? I don't want to watch my baby vomit so hard he's breathless. I don't want him to crumple against me after hurling the water he just drank and letting out a soft whimper because he's too weak to cry. Then, he pulls himself up and stumbles to the kitchen and says "wahwah" because he's so friggin thirsty (since he can't keep anything down). I don't want to watch him sway and stumble or feel his tight little grip on my neck as he clings to me for comfort, his breath sour with stomach acid.
Above all else, The number one thing I do not want to do on the Eve of Christmas Eve and a Friday night is talk to you. I don't know how you got where you are...working the Eve of Christmas Eve and a Friday night. Perhaps you're the lowest on the totem pole. Maybe you guys drew straws. It could be your scheduler doesn't like you. Or, maybe you're hard up for extra cash and took the shift so you could put food on the table and this makes you angry. Either way, know how you DIDN'T get to be working this Eve of Christmas Eve and a Friday night? Not by me. I had no say in the matter. In fact, I don't even know your schedular's name much less a phone number. No, triage nurse, I had no say in the matter. Please don't take it out on my baby boy, Sam.
In case you're wondering, I heard every sigh. I noticed every impatient note in your voice as you "answered" my questions. I picked up on your "You're a dummy, Mom" vibe. For example, when you asked "how many times has he puked" and I said "10" I totally heard the annoyance as you had to explain that you don't count the actual number of times barf left his mouth, you count the times he had an "episode" of puking separated by time. So, although he puked 3x, it only counts as 1 since they were back-to-back. How stupid of me not to know this.
Like I said before, I get it. I know this is no big deal to you because, well...you told me it was no big deal. I thank you for your advice on how to help my little boy. It was hard pulling that nugget of wisdom out of your brain, but I have it. Sam has finally fallen asleep and I hope he is able to fight this thing while he slumbers.
But this isn't about my little man, it's about you. Ms. Triage Nurse, I wish you a healthy life. I hope there will never be a day our paths cross because tonight I will wish on a shooting star that I could harness the power of projectile vomit so I could do so right in your face (you know since it's no big deal). Hope you enjoy the rest of your night! I will hug my children and be glad I don't have to work Eve of Christmas Eve and Friday night. I've seen how that can make a person into a cold heartless mass of shit.
Saturday, December 17, 2011
Too Cool For Christmas
Is it just me, or does there seem to be a bit of a backlash against Christmas magic?
Believe me, I feel pretty stupid writing "Christmas Magic" but I'm not sure how else to describe it. I define this "magic" as the belief that one man delivers toys to all the girls and boys around the world in a night. Or, it's the little bagged treat that a child might find on his or her nightstand every morning brought to them via a Christmas Angel who helps them count down the days till the 25th. These days such practices seem to be under fire, In particular, the "Elf on a Shelf".
For those who don't know (and until recently, I counted myself among your numbers) there's this elf. He sits on a shelf, but each day he moves to another shelf. Case closed. Recently, due to various social networks, blogs, sharing of pictures, some creative people have their elf sipping a beer, zip-lining from the staircase to the tree or reminding little ones to brush their teeth via lipstick on a mirror and smiling elf below with a toothbrush in hand.
Big deal. I personally don't have the time, imagination or energy to constantly move a toy all over the house. After our bedtime HELL of screaming overtired kids, the last thing I want to do is bake some homemade cookies, throw flour around the kitchen and break an egg on the counter and sit my elf next to it in an attempt to convince my 3-year-old that our toy did this. I just want to lay down and sleep myself! My kid wouldn't give a shit about the kitchen, she would happily gobble down the cookies and I'll not only have a kitchen to clean, I'll likely have to clean up after my sick kid who just ate a dozen Elf cookies. But I hold no grudges towards the Mom who can make that happen.
At my house, we are doing an advent calendar. It was my sister's idea; decorate some brown paper lunch bags with numbers to count down the days to Christmas. We hung them along the kitchen window drapes with a clothes pin so they are part of our decorations. Each night, I take one down, slip a little treat (a candy cane, plastic jewelry, Chapstick, etc.) in the bag and voila! Our house has been hit by Santa's helper. My daughter goes bananas. The look on her face each morning makes me start the day out on the right foot. Now, if I told my friends they have to do this or risk being a terrible parent, then yes, I deserve to be punched in the throat. But to say I suck because of something I do in the privacy of my own home, which has no bearing on your life or the life of your children, goes too far. As Ice Tea once said, and I'm paraphrasing here, "go eat a hot bowl of dicks".
I've seen some comments on how those who participate in creative elf on the shelf placements are "nut jobs" who "need to get a life". Really? A mom who wants to have a little fun with her kids is a nut job because she puts her elf in Dad's favorite chair and has him reading a book? Again, it doesn't have any effect on your life, why do you care? One person points it that it makes the rest of us non-creatve, time-crunched Moms look bad. I would argue that you writing you want to punch someone over something as asinine as a stuffed elf makes you look bad.
If I want my kids to believe in Santa or an elf who comes alive, that's my prerogative. My parents had us believing in Santa Claus and when I found out he wasn't real, I didn't resent them for this "great sham" they pulled over on us kids. I looked forward to doing the same to my own kids because it was such a sweet innocence. If people want to let their kids believe an elf smoked Dad's favorite cigar, drank some brandy and erased the DVR list, who cares? What harm is there? If the same friend broke into my house, threw a feral cat dressed as a reindeer in the living room with her elf strapped to its back, then we'd have an issue which I would resolve via a punch to the throat. Otherwise, keep posing that elf, enjoy the holiday season and love your kids the best way you know how.
Believe me, I feel pretty stupid writing "Christmas Magic" but I'm not sure how else to describe it. I define this "magic" as the belief that one man delivers toys to all the girls and boys around the world in a night. Or, it's the little bagged treat that a child might find on his or her nightstand every morning brought to them via a Christmas Angel who helps them count down the days till the 25th. These days such practices seem to be under fire, In particular, the "Elf on a Shelf".
For those who don't know (and until recently, I counted myself among your numbers) there's this elf. He sits on a shelf, but each day he moves to another shelf. Case closed. Recently, due to various social networks, blogs, sharing of pictures, some creative people have their elf sipping a beer, zip-lining from the staircase to the tree or reminding little ones to brush their teeth via lipstick on a mirror and smiling elf below with a toothbrush in hand.
Big deal. I personally don't have the time, imagination or energy to constantly move a toy all over the house. After our bedtime HELL of screaming overtired kids, the last thing I want to do is bake some homemade cookies, throw flour around the kitchen and break an egg on the counter and sit my elf next to it in an attempt to convince my 3-year-old that our toy did this. I just want to lay down and sleep myself! My kid wouldn't give a shit about the kitchen, she would happily gobble down the cookies and I'll not only have a kitchen to clean, I'll likely have to clean up after my sick kid who just ate a dozen Elf cookies. But I hold no grudges towards the Mom who can make that happen.
At my house, we are doing an advent calendar. It was my sister's idea; decorate some brown paper lunch bags with numbers to count down the days to Christmas. We hung them along the kitchen window drapes with a clothes pin so they are part of our decorations. Each night, I take one down, slip a little treat (a candy cane, plastic jewelry, Chapstick, etc.) in the bag and voila! Our house has been hit by Santa's helper. My daughter goes bananas. The look on her face each morning makes me start the day out on the right foot. Now, if I told my friends they have to do this or risk being a terrible parent, then yes, I deserve to be punched in the throat. But to say I suck because of something I do in the privacy of my own home, which has no bearing on your life or the life of your children, goes too far. As Ice Tea once said, and I'm paraphrasing here, "go eat a hot bowl of dicks".
I've seen some comments on how those who participate in creative elf on the shelf placements are "nut jobs" who "need to get a life". Really? A mom who wants to have a little fun with her kids is a nut job because she puts her elf in Dad's favorite chair and has him reading a book? Again, it doesn't have any effect on your life, why do you care? One person points it that it makes the rest of us non-creatve, time-crunched Moms look bad. I would argue that you writing you want to punch someone over something as asinine as a stuffed elf makes you look bad.
If I want my kids to believe in Santa or an elf who comes alive, that's my prerogative. My parents had us believing in Santa Claus and when I found out he wasn't real, I didn't resent them for this "great sham" they pulled over on us kids. I looked forward to doing the same to my own kids because it was such a sweet innocence. If people want to let their kids believe an elf smoked Dad's favorite cigar, drank some brandy and erased the DVR list, who cares? What harm is there? If the same friend broke into my house, threw a feral cat dressed as a reindeer in the living room with her elf strapped to its back, then we'd have an issue which I would resolve via a punch to the throat. Otherwise, keep posing that elf, enjoy the holiday season and love your kids the best way you know how.
Sunday, December 11, 2011
I'm fat, yet I want another cookie
I wish my mom was a crappy cook! Tonight's dinner: fried wontons and noodle soup. Then, I ate some pumpkin bread. Joyce, you fat bastard!
Anyone else freaked out about Christmas? I think I'm getting into gift card territory due to me not having a damn minute to think about what to buy people. Plus, I don't have the patience to cart my kids around crowded stores. I saw a guy cough up a hairball or something and then spit it on the floor. Can you guess where I was? Yup, free cookie to you if you guessed Walmart. I don't want my impressionable 3-year-old to see this. Plus, that kid has a knack for finding the grossest thing imaginable and stepping in it. Then, she'll fall down and somehow this piece of grossness will end up in her mouth. No thank you, Ma'am!
Speaking of cookies, I'm ramping up my workouts so I can shake some extra ass off of me. My YMCA membership is freaking great! I enjoy the classes and feel good about working out there. I'm not the fattest chick, nor am I the worst-dressed. If I could control my diet better, I'd really be kicking ass.
This past Wednesday, I saw a sad episode of "I'm Kicking Your 3-Year-Old Out of Dance Class". It was awful. The teacher told a Mom that her kid was a misery to have in class and she'd appreciate it if the kid would scram. She told her this in front of every other parent in the building. This teacher stopped the class (mid-dance) to take a 3-year-old out and kick her to the curb. I got to see a 3-year-old's heart BREAK right in front of me. There are things in life once seen that cannot be unseen. This is one of them. I wanted to hug that girl and give her anything she wanted at that moment: ice cream, candy, a doll, LeapPad, a car to make her feel better. Mom was no better, she was crying as well. I rubbed her back and tried to calm her down to no avail. She left, broken-hearted 3-year-old in tow. Oh, did I mention her other daughter? The one in the wheelchair who watched her sister crumple to the floor and her mom break down in front of strangers? Yeah. Pathetic. I was so angry I called the owner. I have not received a call back, but I will be following this one up.
This week's craft will be the decoration of gingerbread houses. Yes, I said houseS. I bought 4. I think my kid will eat more of the decorations than actually decorate. While I'll try to not be her partner-in-crime, I'd be a fool not to admit that, yes, I too will be eating a ton of candy meant for the gingerbread house. FAT BASTARD JOYCE!
Hey, Mom just stopped by to invite me out for a walk! I'm in! I joke a lot about it, but I do need to do something to get cookies, candy, cake off my brain. Maybe a little hypnosis. Or maybe I should grow up and get ahold of myself. I choose option "B".
G'nite!
Anyone else freaked out about Christmas? I think I'm getting into gift card territory due to me not having a damn minute to think about what to buy people. Plus, I don't have the patience to cart my kids around crowded stores. I saw a guy cough up a hairball or something and then spit it on the floor. Can you guess where I was? Yup, free cookie to you if you guessed Walmart. I don't want my impressionable 3-year-old to see this. Plus, that kid has a knack for finding the grossest thing imaginable and stepping in it. Then, she'll fall down and somehow this piece of grossness will end up in her mouth. No thank you, Ma'am!
Speaking of cookies, I'm ramping up my workouts so I can shake some extra ass off of me. My YMCA membership is freaking great! I enjoy the classes and feel good about working out there. I'm not the fattest chick, nor am I the worst-dressed. If I could control my diet better, I'd really be kicking ass.
This past Wednesday, I saw a sad episode of "I'm Kicking Your 3-Year-Old Out of Dance Class". It was awful. The teacher told a Mom that her kid was a misery to have in class and she'd appreciate it if the kid would scram. She told her this in front of every other parent in the building. This teacher stopped the class (mid-dance) to take a 3-year-old out and kick her to the curb. I got to see a 3-year-old's heart BREAK right in front of me. There are things in life once seen that cannot be unseen. This is one of them. I wanted to hug that girl and give her anything she wanted at that moment: ice cream, candy, a doll, LeapPad, a car to make her feel better. Mom was no better, she was crying as well. I rubbed her back and tried to calm her down to no avail. She left, broken-hearted 3-year-old in tow. Oh, did I mention her other daughter? The one in the wheelchair who watched her sister crumple to the floor and her mom break down in front of strangers? Yeah. Pathetic. I was so angry I called the owner. I have not received a call back, but I will be following this one up.
This week's craft will be the decoration of gingerbread houses. Yes, I said houseS. I bought 4. I think my kid will eat more of the decorations than actually decorate. While I'll try to not be her partner-in-crime, I'd be a fool not to admit that, yes, I too will be eating a ton of candy meant for the gingerbread house. FAT BASTARD JOYCE!
Hey, Mom just stopped by to invite me out for a walk! I'm in! I joke a lot about it, but I do need to do something to get cookies, candy, cake off my brain. Maybe a little hypnosis. Or maybe I should grow up and get ahold of myself. I choose option "B".
G'nite!
Wednesday, November 30, 2011
Sleep is overrated
Why sleep at night when you can lie awake wondering why your deployed hubby hasn't emailed you yet? I know I'm being ridiculous, but I don't sleep when I don't hear from him.
I just ordered the Christmas photos of the kids. A local photographer offered a free sitting and photos for those of us who have a deployed daddy during the holidays. I'm not sure when I got that head injury, but I managed to bring the kids to the photo shoot without any sort of Christmas attire whatsoever. Additionally, I allowed that day to be Katie's dress-up day (where she dresses herself head-to-toe). The resulting outfit? She had on more stripes than a herd of zebras. She had on every single color of a rainbow (we're talking ROY G BIV here people) plus some new made-up colors. Sam had on an orange shirt with a giant gorilla on it. Imagine my horror as all the little girls walked by in their fluffy dresses and make up, while the little boys strolled around in their miniature suits. Then, there's my kids. Like I said, I don't know when I got the head injury that does not allow me to figure out that a holiday photo shoot means they should get dressed for the occasion; I just know I have one. Luckily, my kids are cute (and the photog cropped the hell out of the pics so you couldn't see Katie's bottom half) and the pictures turned out to be fine.
I'll add that little snafu to my "Mother of the Year" write-up.
Oh, another cool thing happened to me today: Katie drank out of my water bottle sometime before her ballet lesson. Katie can backwash ANYONE under the table. When I took my swig, it tasted like hot dog water. A smidge of chewed-up matter confirmed my suspicions that Katie not only drank out of my bottle, she left some of her hot dog dinner to share. This ranks higher in grossness than the time I took what I thought would be a huge swig of cold sweet ice tea, but instead found a mouthful of warm whole milk swishing around my tongue. Katie had switched our styrofoam cups. That kid. I love her so.
I shall attempt to sleep again. Actually, just remembering that little bit of hot dog in my mouth makes me sort of ill. If I keep chanting "sleep is overrated" over and over again, I will grow to accept it, right?
I just ordered the Christmas photos of the kids. A local photographer offered a free sitting and photos for those of us who have a deployed daddy during the holidays. I'm not sure when I got that head injury, but I managed to bring the kids to the photo shoot without any sort of Christmas attire whatsoever. Additionally, I allowed that day to be Katie's dress-up day (where she dresses herself head-to-toe). The resulting outfit? She had on more stripes than a herd of zebras. She had on every single color of a rainbow (we're talking ROY G BIV here people) plus some new made-up colors. Sam had on an orange shirt with a giant gorilla on it. Imagine my horror as all the little girls walked by in their fluffy dresses and make up, while the little boys strolled around in their miniature suits. Then, there's my kids. Like I said, I don't know when I got the head injury that does not allow me to figure out that a holiday photo shoot means they should get dressed for the occasion; I just know I have one. Luckily, my kids are cute (and the photog cropped the hell out of the pics so you couldn't see Katie's bottom half) and the pictures turned out to be fine.
I'll add that little snafu to my "Mother of the Year" write-up.
Oh, another cool thing happened to me today: Katie drank out of my water bottle sometime before her ballet lesson. Katie can backwash ANYONE under the table. When I took my swig, it tasted like hot dog water. A smidge of chewed-up matter confirmed my suspicions that Katie not only drank out of my bottle, she left some of her hot dog dinner to share. This ranks higher in grossness than the time I took what I thought would be a huge swig of cold sweet ice tea, but instead found a mouthful of warm whole milk swishing around my tongue. Katie had switched our styrofoam cups. That kid. I love her so.
I shall attempt to sleep again. Actually, just remembering that little bit of hot dog in my mouth makes me sort of ill. If I keep chanting "sleep is overrated" over and over again, I will grow to accept it, right?
Saturday, November 19, 2011
Random fist fights that warm my heart
Anyone who knows me, knows of my penchant to be at the wrong place at the wrong time. I've walked in on countless people having sex, witness a home invasion, saw a guy pooping in the woods. Some of my favorite memories are the random fistfights I've come across. Here we go:
1. "Bum Fight". While waiting at a stop light, I noticed some goings-on going on at the BP across the street. Well, if it wasn't a mythical bum fight! 2 homeless dudes just swinging on each other like the last bologne sandwich in the world was at stake. I happen to know these fellows are homeless as I've gotten gas at that BP and they've requested money while I stood by the pump. I was a little confused, though. They usually seem very friendly to each other. I've also seen them at the Walgreens next door sharing a cigarette. Whatever the case may be, these two were destroying each other. Thanks to the extended red light, I got to watch.
2. "Chicks Say the Darndest Things". I had to pee one night while out at the club. Being the DD for the night proved to be one of the best decisions ever made as I saw things that I used against people for years to come. I don't approve of club bathrooms and try to avoid them at all costs. Anyhow, that night was a different night. It's like a force pulled me into the shitter and into the middle of this fight. These two girls were yelling at each other pretty hardcore when I walked in. Each had her little backup posse yelling things like "bitch". And
"dirty whore". I made my way into a stall and was relieving myself when I heard the battle cry: "If you don't like what I'm saying then why don't you hit me?". That's all the other girl needed and they tussled...right into my damn stall. Lucky me. Unfortunately, I had to kick both of their asses so I could pull up my damn pants and leave. One girl tried to step in as I charged out the stall like a rhino "this doesn't concern you, bitch" she tells me as I step on her friend's face. "when your friend comes into my stall while I'm pissing, it becomes my business". Punched her in the boob to get out of the foray. Come to think of it, I didn't wash my hands.....
3. "Bad Romance". This fight makes me sad. I was in college and this guy called the wrong number (mine) sobbing. His boyfriend just broke up with him because he wasn't ready to come out of the closet. Hearing such raw emotion and pain in the guy's voice made me hit *69 and call the dude back (this was pre-cell phones and when Caller ID was for rich folks willing to pay extra). He was a broken little gay man, crying and blubbering. I told him he dialed the wrong number. I was not Chad. He started howling at this point and I heard the thuds of him hitting his head on a wall or desk. The guy beat himself up pretty bad while I was on the phone with him. I invited him out for a drink to be with someone who didn't give a shit that he was gay. He declined and we hung up. 3 hours later, he called back and asked if that drink offer was still good. That night, me and a battered man had drinks at the bar down the street. He was all busted up when I saw him. He asked if he looked "that bad" (he shoved his head through his mirror). I said "well, I didn't know gay men could kick so much ass". We were friends for years.
4. "Somewhere in the World, You Have a Twin". This fight involves Yours Truly. This is hands down, the weirdest fight I've ever been in because the chick thought she was fighting someone else. While at the Bloomington Mall, a girl came up to me and said "Marie is going to kick your ass". I did no know any Maria, nor did I know why she was going to kick my ass. I ignored this broad and kept shopping. It seemed like everywhere I went, this chick was there, letting me know I was going to get destroyed by this Marie. I left and chaulked it up to the chick being high or drunk. The following week, I was back at the mall, returnin my purchases from the last week. Holy shit, here comes "The Messenger". She came over with 2 friends and informed me that she told Marie she saw me. They all agreed I was going to "get it". They pestered me while I shopped. They followed me out of the mall and I turned to "The Messenger" and said "give Marie a message from me, okay?". And I popped that chick in the face. I still don't know who Marie is or her friends. Best I can tell is that they had me confused for someone else.
So many more to tell, ut the kid's are up and about. There's "The Jimmy" and the "Ex Factor". I've loved them all. Well, the one with me in the bathroom kinda sucked. Ah, memories!
1. "Bum Fight". While waiting at a stop light, I noticed some goings-on going on at the BP across the street. Well, if it wasn't a mythical bum fight! 2 homeless dudes just swinging on each other like the last bologne sandwich in the world was at stake. I happen to know these fellows are homeless as I've gotten gas at that BP and they've requested money while I stood by the pump. I was a little confused, though. They usually seem very friendly to each other. I've also seen them at the Walgreens next door sharing a cigarette. Whatever the case may be, these two were destroying each other. Thanks to the extended red light, I got to watch.
2. "Chicks Say the Darndest Things". I had to pee one night while out at the club. Being the DD for the night proved to be one of the best decisions ever made as I saw things that I used against people for years to come. I don't approve of club bathrooms and try to avoid them at all costs. Anyhow, that night was a different night. It's like a force pulled me into the shitter and into the middle of this fight. These two girls were yelling at each other pretty hardcore when I walked in. Each had her little backup posse yelling things like "bitch". And
"dirty whore". I made my way into a stall and was relieving myself when I heard the battle cry: "If you don't like what I'm saying then why don't you hit me?". That's all the other girl needed and they tussled...right into my damn stall. Lucky me. Unfortunately, I had to kick both of their asses so I could pull up my damn pants and leave. One girl tried to step in as I charged out the stall like a rhino "this doesn't concern you, bitch" she tells me as I step on her friend's face. "when your friend comes into my stall while I'm pissing, it becomes my business". Punched her in the boob to get out of the foray. Come to think of it, I didn't wash my hands.....
3. "Bad Romance". This fight makes me sad. I was in college and this guy called the wrong number (mine) sobbing. His boyfriend just broke up with him because he wasn't ready to come out of the closet. Hearing such raw emotion and pain in the guy's voice made me hit *69 and call the dude back (this was pre-cell phones and when Caller ID was for rich folks willing to pay extra). He was a broken little gay man, crying and blubbering. I told him he dialed the wrong number. I was not Chad. He started howling at this point and I heard the thuds of him hitting his head on a wall or desk. The guy beat himself up pretty bad while I was on the phone with him. I invited him out for a drink to be with someone who didn't give a shit that he was gay. He declined and we hung up. 3 hours later, he called back and asked if that drink offer was still good. That night, me and a battered man had drinks at the bar down the street. He was all busted up when I saw him. He asked if he looked "that bad" (he shoved his head through his mirror). I said "well, I didn't know gay men could kick so much ass". We were friends for years.
4. "Somewhere in the World, You Have a Twin". This fight involves Yours Truly. This is hands down, the weirdest fight I've ever been in because the chick thought she was fighting someone else. While at the Bloomington Mall, a girl came up to me and said "Marie is going to kick your ass". I did no know any Maria, nor did I know why she was going to kick my ass. I ignored this broad and kept shopping. It seemed like everywhere I went, this chick was there, letting me know I was going to get destroyed by this Marie. I left and chaulked it up to the chick being high or drunk. The following week, I was back at the mall, returnin my purchases from the last week. Holy shit, here comes "The Messenger". She came over with 2 friends and informed me that she told Marie she saw me. They all agreed I was going to "get it". They pestered me while I shopped. They followed me out of the mall and I turned to "The Messenger" and said "give Marie a message from me, okay?". And I popped that chick in the face. I still don't know who Marie is or her friends. Best I can tell is that they had me confused for someone else.
So many more to tell, ut the kid's are up and about. There's "The Jimmy" and the "Ex Factor". I've loved them all. Well, the one with me in the bathroom kinda sucked. Ah, memories!
Thursday, November 17, 2011
Meatball hoagie? At this hour?
Yup. And it was damn tasty.
Tonight, we are trying a new weapon in our battle against these jackass deer that keep trashing the lawn. Our new weapon of mass distruction: Sam's diapers! By strategically placing them around various plants, we hope to disgust the deer into going somewhere else. My mom came up with this fantastic use of used diapers. We'll see how it goes tonight. The only drawback is we have to ensure we wake up early to collect the diapers and not piss off the HOA.
I can't believe I just typed that last paragraph.
Hey, if you're looking for a unique gift for your military spouse/friend/family or your friend who likes to shoot, hunt, whatever, take a peek at Junior's bullet pens. Google it, read the story and maybe buy a couple. I just got mine. It's pretty neat. I would post a picture but I'm still feeling my way around here, so no judging. My original intent was to send it to Jeff for Christmas. Thank god, I didn't! That's considered "war trophy" material out where he is and they would have confiscated it.
Wow, that last paragraph was a little random. Well, technically, not-I'm looking at my pens right now. I just got done talking about weapons of mass destruction....maybe I ought to throw my bullet pen at the deer to get rid of it. Nah, waste of a pen.
I still can't get over how yummy that hoagie was. God bless Mom and her meatball making ways! I wish you could all have some.
Oh, by the way, if you're reading this, kindly do me a favor and follow it. :) I also welcome comments and your own stories if you'd like to share. I love a good story!
Tonight, we are trying a new weapon in our battle against these jackass deer that keep trashing the lawn. Our new weapon of mass distruction: Sam's diapers! By strategically placing them around various plants, we hope to disgust the deer into going somewhere else. My mom came up with this fantastic use of used diapers. We'll see how it goes tonight. The only drawback is we have to ensure we wake up early to collect the diapers and not piss off the HOA.
I can't believe I just typed that last paragraph.
Hey, if you're looking for a unique gift for your military spouse/friend/family or your friend who likes to shoot, hunt, whatever, take a peek at Junior's bullet pens. Google it, read the story and maybe buy a couple. I just got mine. It's pretty neat. I would post a picture but I'm still feeling my way around here, so no judging. My original intent was to send it to Jeff for Christmas. Thank god, I didn't! That's considered "war trophy" material out where he is and they would have confiscated it.
Wow, that last paragraph was a little random. Well, technically, not-I'm looking at my pens right now. I just got done talking about weapons of mass destruction....maybe I ought to throw my bullet pen at the deer to get rid of it. Nah, waste of a pen.
I still can't get over how yummy that hoagie was. God bless Mom and her meatball making ways! I wish you could all have some.
Oh, by the way, if you're reading this, kindly do me a favor and follow it. :) I also welcome comments and your own stories if you'd like to share. I love a good story!
Wednesday, November 16, 2011
Quit encouraging the attention whore
I am uncomfortable in the gym. The moment I walk through the doors, I'm reminded that I've let myself go. I used to do this stuff for "fun", not because my ass is as big as a bus. These days, I walk in, get my workout on and leave. Recently, I thought it would be good for me to start taking classes like Zumba and indoor rowing. It was in my rowing class that I realized I will likely punch an old woman in the grill before I leave Texas.
Rowing is hard. Having some psychotic instructor yell at you while you're trying to remember your form, keep the "big number up" and not vomit all over the person next to you is hard work. It takes concentration and just as I get in my groove, Grunty McGruntie starts up from across the room. "YEEEEERGH (pant pant) YYEEEERRRRRRRGGGGHHHHH!" Gah, I get it, we all get it. It's hard. Shut up. She throws me off kilter for a while. Damn the great acoustics of the room. My ears were assaulted by McGruntie when Sweaty Old Man starts with "come on, girl, get it!" Great. He's encouraging her. Gruntie, sensing she has the attention she's always wanted in life, rewards Sweaty with a gut-wrenching bellow. Worst workout to date. Come on, no one else is grunting, we're all trying to survive. And to the old man, don't encourage the hysterics! Chick knows EXACTLY what she's doing. 60 year old broads with fake boobies and a full face of makeup aren't at the gym to workout. Thanks for feeding the attention whore.
The workout was a mere 40 minutes. But for the fact that I didn't want to pussy-out on my second day in class, I would have walked out. Maybe if I'm lucky, they'll stop coming to class. Afterwards, I did my own cool down like a good little girl. My dedication to going to the gym was rewarded with a fart to the face while on the treadmill. A guy on the elliptical in front of me tore it up, but since he couldn't hear them due to his iPod being loud enough I could sing along to it, the farts don't exist, right? The ladies on either side of him shot him death rays before they left. Lesson learned, kiddos, if you have to blow it up at the gym, just turn up your music and rock out. You won't feel an ounce of shame for clearing out half of the gym floor.
Rowing is hard. Having some psychotic instructor yell at you while you're trying to remember your form, keep the "big number up" and not vomit all over the person next to you is hard work. It takes concentration and just as I get in my groove, Grunty McGruntie starts up from across the room. "YEEEEERGH (pant pant) YYEEEERRRRRRRGGGGHHHHH!" Gah, I get it, we all get it. It's hard. Shut up. She throws me off kilter for a while. Damn the great acoustics of the room. My ears were assaulted by McGruntie when Sweaty Old Man starts with "come on, girl, get it!" Great. He's encouraging her. Gruntie, sensing she has the attention she's always wanted in life, rewards Sweaty with a gut-wrenching bellow. Worst workout to date. Come on, no one else is grunting, we're all trying to survive. And to the old man, don't encourage the hysterics! Chick knows EXACTLY what she's doing. 60 year old broads with fake boobies and a full face of makeup aren't at the gym to workout. Thanks for feeding the attention whore.
The workout was a mere 40 minutes. But for the fact that I didn't want to pussy-out on my second day in class, I would have walked out. Maybe if I'm lucky, they'll stop coming to class. Afterwards, I did my own cool down like a good little girl. My dedication to going to the gym was rewarded with a fart to the face while on the treadmill. A guy on the elliptical in front of me tore it up, but since he couldn't hear them due to his iPod being loud enough I could sing along to it, the farts don't exist, right? The ladies on either side of him shot him death rays before they left. Lesson learned, kiddos, if you have to blow it up at the gym, just turn up your music and rock out. You won't feel an ounce of shame for clearing out half of the gym floor.
Tuesday, November 15, 2011
Titles Are The Worst
Fat Chick Bloggin'. Name says it all. I'm a fat chick, I'm blogging. Boom.
Why am I here? I feel somewhat goofy writing huge notes on any social network. I mean, really? Does the guy I uses to play "Mafia Wars" with give a crap about the time my daughter told a woman she smelled like poop and should check her diaper? Prolly not. Some of my friends don't mind me clogging up their newsfeed, but they number few and far between. So, here I am. Blogging. Bloggity, blog blog.
My day was an average day. Woke up, worked out, hung out and then called it a night. I told my hubby about taking the Pilot in for some work. I HATE HATE HATE being a woman when it comes to walking into a mechanic's shop. I truly believe they pad my bill by about $50 because they think I'm a dummy. No, I don't know cars, but I know "thief". My key fob battery died. I just got it replaced 3 months ago. It is a bitch when the battery dies. The Pilot has a one-point entry system. I have to open it via the driver's side and then hit the inner button to open the rest of the doors. Anyhow, the guy puts in a new battery, no go. He informs me he needs to do a $100 "diagnostic test" to see if the electronic component in the car is busted or whatever. I tell him I have the Honda extended warranty and I think it's covered. He does some song-and-dance "well, it depends where you buy it". Fool, I'm gonna cut you short right now. I bought it at the Honda dealership. "well, they have the paperwork and without it, I don't know". Fool, once again, I'm gonna cut you short: you can do a VIN check and "find" the paperwork.
In the end, it was just some dusty contact points in the chip of the key fob. An old dude came over to inspect it, wiped it with his snotrag and dammit, if the car didn't lock and unlock via the key! Parting shot from the original ass mechanic: yeah, we're not going to charge you for that, um...consider it a nice freebie. Dick.
Anyhow, hope you enjoy! I'll dress the site up later. I got some deer scaring to do. Tonight's canned food: cranberry sauce (thanks, Keri!).
Why am I here? I feel somewhat goofy writing huge notes on any social network. I mean, really? Does the guy I uses to play "Mafia Wars" with give a crap about the time my daughter told a woman she smelled like poop and should check her diaper? Prolly not. Some of my friends don't mind me clogging up their newsfeed, but they number few and far between. So, here I am. Blogging. Bloggity, blog blog.
My day was an average day. Woke up, worked out, hung out and then called it a night. I told my hubby about taking the Pilot in for some work. I HATE HATE HATE being a woman when it comes to walking into a mechanic's shop. I truly believe they pad my bill by about $50 because they think I'm a dummy. No, I don't know cars, but I know "thief". My key fob battery died. I just got it replaced 3 months ago. It is a bitch when the battery dies. The Pilot has a one-point entry system. I have to open it via the driver's side and then hit the inner button to open the rest of the doors. Anyhow, the guy puts in a new battery, no go. He informs me he needs to do a $100 "diagnostic test" to see if the electronic component in the car is busted or whatever. I tell him I have the Honda extended warranty and I think it's covered. He does some song-and-dance "well, it depends where you buy it". Fool, I'm gonna cut you short right now. I bought it at the Honda dealership. "well, they have the paperwork and without it, I don't know". Fool, once again, I'm gonna cut you short: you can do a VIN check and "find" the paperwork.
In the end, it was just some dusty contact points in the chip of the key fob. An old dude came over to inspect it, wiped it with his snotrag and dammit, if the car didn't lock and unlock via the key! Parting shot from the original ass mechanic: yeah, we're not going to charge you for that, um...consider it a nice freebie. Dick.
Anyhow, hope you enjoy! I'll dress the site up later. I got some deer scaring to do. Tonight's canned food: cranberry sauce (thanks, Keri!).
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