I broke up with the gym.

Today was a day of reckoning. Today, I came face to face with every squishy girl's nightmare- quitting the gym, when you look like you shouldn't be doing anything other than walking in,grabbing a towel, and working out like you're trying to rid your butt of the 4 million orphans you've been smuggling inside since Christmas.

The truth is, I haven't been to the gym since the month after I was married. Ed and I joined prior to the wedding (Complete with personal trainers!!!!....!!) in order to rid ourselves of the smuggled orphans before we jiggled down the aisle toward matrimony.This proved helpful, and I jiggled less so down the aisle than I would have without joining the gym. My personal trainer did what I paid her to- she said things like "You're gonna barf? There's the trash can- 10 more reps Jen!!!!" and "You know, you and I weigh the same- I just have muscle tone." I went to pilates class after pilates class, and loved balancing my orphansinthebutt on a tiny ball with my legs in the air, while focusing on my breathing. It was fun while it lasted.

Then we went to Maui for the honeymoon, and I swam with the turtles, and convinced myself that there couldn't be THAT many calories in macadamia nut slaw, and that all the sweating I was doing while shopping for hibiscus flower sunhats was really helping me to keep muscle tone too. After the honeymoon, I went to about one more pilates class, which actually helped to convince me I had decided to adopt every orphan hiding in my butt (marriage then the carriage, right people?) and I forfeited my final sessions with the trainer. I didn't, however, quit the gym.

I first tried to break up with the gym 6 months ago. I walked in proudly in my business attire (clearly NOT there to work out) and told the young man at the counter I wanted to quit the gym. He said "But you still have personal trainer sessions!!! Can I schedule them for you now, so you don't lose out?" I said, no (because why in the world would I want to meet with a trainer, only to have them guilt me into buying MORE sessions, which would then lead to another vicious cycle) and he then told me he would rather I "Postpone" my membership to give me a chance to think about if I really wanted to quit the gym, because what about the rockwall?!!? the cycling classes?!!? the pilates!??!?! So, because I felt like if I denied these wondrous assets of the gym I would be giving this man no reason to go on..(I could see it in the news already headlined: Gym employee commits suicide over squishy girl quitting gym with no respect for rockwall)So for 6 months, I have been "postponing" my membership, apparently "thinking it over" which has really been me saying "Can I quit now? I do weight watchers and lost more weight eating smart than working out til I barf."

So, today, I did it. I ate lunch at Taco Bell (El Fresco menu thankyouverymuch) and walked over with Ed to break up with the gym. The employees were helpful in the sense that they were kind of jerky to us squishy people. One of them was clearly a model for some company somewhere, but I held my head up tall(while sucking in my gut). The worst part was when they said they had to take my little keychain card. So, there I was, chicken fat arms flapping in the breeze, trying to wriggle my card free, and then put it on the table, and walked my orphan filled butt on out the door. It was freeing in the "free to be fat you and me" sense.

Dear Gym with the rockwall,

It was time. You knew it, I knew it. I was sweating you in a way that wasn't good. You no longer made my thighs burn in exhaustion, and I no longer made you look good. So, it's better that we end it this way. You will find another, I'm sure. Some squishy girl looking to tone up for the big day- she'll swear it's for forever- but don't believe her. She's only in it for the wedding. She has no plans to make this a "lifestyle." This squishy girl needed the freedom to spend Saturday morning going on walks with her husband, rather than cursing an elliptical and watching subtitled tvs while sweat dripped in her eyes. You never know though, your next squishy girl might be different. Good luck and good riddance.

I always wiped down my machine,

Squishy Girl

You can call me Disturbed. So disturbed.

You know how there are those things you see on a daily basis that make you laugh so hard (but on the inside, because it's not appropriate to laugh that hard at something on tv outloud, like its your only friend,saving you from stepping outside the bubble of your cozy home and convenient whirly popper ready to make kettle corn at a moments notice)?

Well, I just had a reminder of something that I've seen daily, I think, and finally I thought to myself- enough is enough. I must write about this, I must share my amusement with others. For what reason, I don't know, but I feel he needs to be shared. Yes, I believe it's a he.He's certain to show up in my dreams, and possibly nightmares, now that I've devoted to him this much thought. You know,this should really be directed toward Denny's.

Dear Denny's people (I know you're probably too busy making fluffy pancakes from a mix that I can buy at the store, to put onto an undeniably sticky plate, which no one can explain since we all WANT to believe it has been washed and refuse to consider the alternative), but I want to share my joy, AND my disturbance with you.

Yes, I am disturbed. Yes, I am full of joy. And I want YOU Mr."I'm going to put strawberry,blueberry,raspberry,and maple syrup on EVERY table even though I know people only use the maple" to understand just why.

It's the nannerpuss.

He comes on my screen, all "You can call me Nannerpuss,Nannerpuss" and I instantly have to remove my head from my reduced fat Nilla Wafer/Cheez-it box (whatever I happen to have my head in at the moment) and watch him. It's almost as if he's speaking to ME. Like he knows, that I LOVE bananas,but I'm horrified of octopi..(Is that the plural of octopusses?)

So Mr."I'll make you wait for a table so you can eat your Grand Slam and then feel like you need to poop a submarine", as you can guess, I'm perplexed with my emotional complexity. Am I horrified? Do I want a banana? Does my fear MAKE me want a banana? I don't know. But Nannerpuss is causing me to want to hide all the bananas on my kitchen counter, and cut up my membership card to the aquarium- ALL AT THE SAME TIME.I don't know anymore. Maybe I should make my own nannerpuss, and then eat him, quelching my fear AND my hunger. Take THAT Dennys. TAKE THAT.

Witness the Madness!

HONNNK HOOOOOOONKKKKKK

Ed loves to bike ride. In fact, when we first met in college, I thought he only owned a bike. Given my past boyfriends-this was considered an upgrade!Hey, a bike! Maybe I can ride in the basket!I can carry the icecream! It was some form of transportation, so hey, it was A-OK in my book. So, he was the boy with the bike, and I memorized which bike on the rack was his, so I could appropriately stalk him each morning when I arrived on campus.Oh yes, I was totally the aggressor in our relationship. However, I digress.

So, my history with bikes is, to say the least, strained. My parents were in love with biking, and would take me biking in Lake Tahoe each summer, through mountainy trails and rugged terrain. After all, there is nothing better than camping for 3 days straight, dirt under your fingernails, grease in your hair,dusty knees...and then climbing on a mountain bike.Nothing.Better. I lived for those brief stops along the way for icecream, or picture taking...or icecream. Then one sunny afternoon on a crowded bike path, it all changed.For the worse. See,my parents insisted I get a "real" mountain bike. I chose my bike for it's most important attribute:color. It was a beeeyuutifful teal green. Yes, teal. It was 1994 people. Anyway, this bike was a "real" mountain bike, in the sense that my feet did NOT touch the ground on either side. This made it more "real." It also made it, "really hard to ride." Note that I am short, and this bike was tall.

So, on this fateful afternoon, I was riding in front of my parents in Lake Tahoe on a sunlit trail. I was admiring the forest, and appropriately honking my mini Sesame Street horn (it was a muppet's nose-I was 14, but not too old for muppets) when pesky pedestrians got in my way. Then, a butterfly happened. It happened to land on my ear. All of my love of nature flew right into the bush with me, when I promptly screamed, tried to stop (oh but wait, FEET.NOT.TOUCHING.GROUND!!)and flew right into a bush. People laughed. I walked my bike back to camp.



So, I'm very....ehhhh, I'd rather walk when it comes to bikes. But, Ed loves him some bike riding so I had to build a bridge and get over it.

So we bought a bike for me, again, chosen by color (purple!!) and size(kid sized!!!just for me!!!) and this time, I could touch my feet to the ground!! We also bought a bike seat cover with gel padding. I wanted a wider seat (read:TRACTOR SEAT) but Ed said I would look like an idiot. This didn't bother me, but apparently, it did him. So we bought the bike, and came home. All the way home, I had visions of me riding my shiny new bike,and all of the accessories I could purchase for said shiny new bike(pink flower basket anyone?. So we got home, rode around the corner, and then the pain came. Oh it came in huge amounts. I hurt in places I did not know could hurt. Oh the chafing. THE.CHAFING. We ran into neighbors, I smiled through the pain. We had to go home. I could not walk properly for the next 3 days. I swore I would throw the bike away (I'm that mature) and never ride again! My muppet horn days WERE GONE!!!

Then, this week at lunch,a coworker of mine mentioned that she bought a very wide seat for her bike(Read:TRACTOR SEAT), and now could ride for hours on end. This rekindled my dreams of flower baskets and muppet horns in a way I had not anticipated. I would get me that tractor seat, I would look like an idiot-I WOULD RIDE AGAAAAAIIIIINNNN!!! So,I bought my tractor seat, I love it like it's a brand new Chinese baby, and I rode comfortably around for over an hour. Yes, my butt looks huge on it- more than usual. BUT, I think this is the answer for wide butts and sensitive thighs the world over. I did some research on the seat, and supposedly it's great for men with prostate problems. Honestly, my prostate has never felt better.

This is all I've got.

Ok, I warned you people (and by you people, I mean interwebs people that lurk in the shadows of the night wearing sweat pants and eating reduced fat Nilla Wafers like Target won't ever put them on a "price cut" again and you have to buy 4 boxes at a time. Just me? Ok then.)So as I was saying...I warned "you people" that I wouldn't have much to say if I started a blog. So this is all I've got. This is all that's really been bothering me for a week now, enough to write about.

I love icecream sundaes. I love them in any form, and since beginning Weight Watchers, the sundaes have been lonnnng gonnne like Chris Brown's career. GONE I tell you. So, this past weekend, I allowed myself a sundae. A Mcdonald's hot fudge sundae. It's a DOLLAR. UNO DOLARO. How can you pass that up? Ed always gets the cone, because usually we're driving. Does that make this worse? It might. But it's not as bad as my only woe that I feel compelled enough to share with you here, in this sacred space of joy. As I type this I can tell I've got Nilla wafer crumbs in my keyboard. Ahem. As I was saying.

So the Mcdonald's sundae. I like that they give you the packet of nuts seperately, whereas growing up (oh I'm a long time Mcdonald's sundae enjoyer.) they would just put the nuts right on- no questions asked- you got the nuts,like 'em or not. So now, Mcdonalds has decided to give us a choice. Nuts or no nuts- YOU decide. I like that. Thank you Mcdonalds, for the gift of choice. I never can decide if I want them or not, usually I just leave them in the package and think of eating them after, but Ed talks me out of it, for fear that I won't like them and will throw them out the window, only to have the wind blow them back in his car. (This is a long story, but I have a history of throwing icecream products out the window, if I deem them "window worthy")

Anyway, so as I was enjoying my sundae this past weekend, I noticed that I felt more and more tension as I neared the end. It wasn't so much that the sundae experience was drawing to a close, but that I couldn't end it the way I wanted to- which is to get every.last.drop.of.fudge.out.of.the.container.

Guess what interwebs!!! The sundae container has RIDGES!!! THE SPOON does NOT fit perfectly in these ridges!!! I scrape, and I scrape, and I scrape those little scallopy mocking ridges, begging, coercing, forcing the tiny streaks of fudgy goodness onto my ill fitting spoon, but I CAN NEVER GET IT ALL. It's annoying. So, I'm asking,pleading, begging Mcdonalds to just put my sundae in a cup next time. A normal, round edged cup. No ridges, no tension, and I get all my fudge. That's all. I told you this blog would be boring.

They Don't.

Ed and I have always wondered whether his cat that he's had since before me (and that is a lonnng.tiiime.peeeople.) Julie, and our new addition to our kitty brood, Lillie, would get along. We've always pondered this, in a "I dunno, what do you think?" kind of way, that's always left us curious. Curious was a fun place to be, and I was REALLY ok with staying there.


Last night, I left that place.


I was doing my nightly rounds in the kitty rooms (don't ask, our cats have their own rooms, we are THAT couple), scooping litter and refilling water bottles. I had let Lillie out to roam (The reason they don't all roam at the moment, is that we have a piddler amongst us, and our carpet is trying to recover. It's actually trying to recover all the way into new laminate flooring, but the economy is not aiding in the recovery process one bit. Stupid 'conomy.) So I let the Lillster out to roam and went into Julie's room.

Now. Julie is a cat of large..girth shall we say. She's a good 25 lbs or so. White with blue eyes, gorgeous big round head. Julie has always had a "don't mess with me, and I won't scar you for life" kind of agreement with me. She now loves her new mom, and we get along just fine as long as I surrender to any and all of her demands.

So, as I was saying, I had entered the Snow Beast's room. Julie jumped over my leg. Out the door. Lillie was standing behind me. It all then became a blur, of literal tufts of hair flying behind Lillie as she ran down the stairs. I should add that Julie has dagger-like claws, and Lillie is declawed. Julie chased. Oh how she chased. Then, doing what a sane person might do- I chased too! Oh how I chased. I chased and I screamed. It's still a blur, but I'm quite certain it was a combination of "JULIE!!!NOOOO!!NONONONONONO!!! This was followed by an "arhgghaaaaaaaaaaaaagg" as I fell down the last 3 steps.

Once I recovered, I saw that though my chasing had stopped, Julie was still in hot persuit. Lillie was losing tufts of hair by the minute, and as I watched, Lillie jumped from the floor, over the back of the couch, and under the dining room table. Julie looked at me guiltily.

So, question answered. Would they get along? About as well as that lady and the gorilla who ate her face.

Ed didn't believe that it was that bad. But it was. I'm going to need to vaccuum today, because even though they never touched, half of my cat was left all over the floor. Apparently she's a stress shedder.






Lillie, before and after what has become known as "the incident"

Too boring for a blog?

I decided to try and start my very own piece of bloggy history, by creating what you are seeing here. I feel an immense amount of pressure now, to come up with something to write on a regular basis, because I hate HATE hate it when I check on my favorite blogs and there is nothing new. I'm not so egotistical that I think this will become anyone's "Favorite" blog, but I'm hoping that someone, in some far corner of the world, perhaps with nothing to look at but my blog and a Coke bottle lid (because that's all they have in the far corners of the world, you know)might find my little bloggy blog blog something tolerable enough to waste their time on.

So, nothing really to form a blog around at the moment- I'm just sitting here watching American Idol and munching on Reduced Fat Cheez-Its (holy goodness they taste like the full fat version...I'm sort of thinking they actually might be the real thing in the wrong box!)

I'm hoping that the kid with the headbands gets through to the final 12, since he seems like he's had a tough life and he's very genuine in a Boy George kind of way( After Paula said that last night I actually was shocked that I agreed with anything she said). I have the intense desire to type out the lyrics to Karma Chameleon in this space right now, but I will resist...this..is..difficult...lovingyouwouldbeeasyifyourcolorswerelikemydreamsredgoldandgreenredgoldandgreeen.

Oh, he's got the Karma.

Ok, I feel better now. I love me some Boy George/Culture Club. I heard Karma Chameleon while in the grocery store the other day with Ed, and I don't know if it's the fact that I dance and sing in front of my 5th graders almost daily, or what- but I instantly went into song,dance, and bounce-walk mode. It wasn't pretty, and I think my husband wanted to leave the building.Anyway, that's all now. I just found salt in my eyelash from the Cheez-Its. Time to put them down.