Tuesday, September 29, 2009

RTT - Pubic Hairs and Caucasian Rubbish

I don't know if I can watch the new seasons of "Girls Next Door". I was so in love with the first cast of whores that I would feel like I'm cheating on them. And besides, I HATE those twins. They are classless, Caucasian rubbish. (That is the PC term for "white trash".)

Yesterday, I spent the entire day with the Gloria Gaynor song "You Can Ring My Bell", running through my head. I continue to be amazed I was not admitted to a psych ward.

I don't know why Zeva didn't ask Tony if he loved her on the season premier of NCIS. After all, he was on truth serum. As you can see, I'm very upset about all this. If they don't fix this romance thing between them this season I'm going to explode. The sexual tension is killing me.

Last week, I was informed by one of the associates that there were pubes on the urinal again. Seriously guys, what do you think I'm going to do about this problem and why do you keep telling me about it.

If anyone knows how to get funky foot odor out of really nice shoes, please tell me. You know how you can make the mistake of wearing shoes with no socks on a hot day without using the "please don't let my feet sweat" foot spray? And then, your feet sweat like crazy making your shoes smell like swamp farts. Then, you wear them again and even though you remembered the "please don't let my feet sweat" foot spray, your feet still smell. I'm having that problem right now with a fabulous pair of Steve Madden heels.

I made the mistake of giving the trainer the gym my cell phone number. Now he texts me and tells me to get my fat ass to class. Last night, I was tricked into taking an extreme step aerobics class after an advanced yoga class. I thought he was harassing me into a body combat or body attack class. I have enough trouble remembering basic moves, let's just add an obstacle for me to jump on and off of.

My friend Dollface from the gym got engaged this weekend. Everyone, please feel happy for her. I was so happy that I hugged. We all know that I don't hug.....EVER! But, this was a big deal. She's a good girl.

My website will launch by the middle of October. I swear on my shoe collection and my toy collection. There. That should motivate me to FINALLY get the fucking thing launched.

That's a wrap, Lovers

Monday, September 28, 2009

From Ex to BFF

When I break up with a guy, I pretend he disappears, never to be seen again. Upon those rare occasions I do bump into an Ex, I do one of two things: Act like I don't see him or give the "Hey, What's up" nod and go about my business. On the very, very rare occasion I have to actually speak, I make sure I get something into the conversation about how busy I am and then I run off like a big wimp. Confrontational I'm not.

My last serious Ex before TH was my high school sweetheart. Chris and I had met the summer before my senior year after being introduced by mutual friends. He was five years older than me and had a "rebel without a cause" way about him that thrilled my little high school heart to no end. We dated exclusively for 4 years - save for a 6 month break up where I dated more than half of the men on Cape Cod - and lived together for most of that time. Although we had loads fun together, we were oil and water wrapped in dynamite. Our fights were epic; fueled by my insecurity and jealousy combined with his impatience and temper. I still don't remember what prompted me to break up with him on that snowy February day, but I think I saved both of us.

I didn't have to worry about bumping into Chris or pretending he disappeared to the Planet of Lost Men. He moved to Florida shortly after. I had dated a few losers and was on to building a relationship with TH. Chris and I shared a mutual friend and I after a few years, she began feeding me tidbits of information. I was happy he was settling into a new life as I was building a wonderful new life for myself, going back to school and falling head over heels with TH. There was one scary moment when Chris got hooked on prescription drugs and I was almost called in for an intervention. But, he fixed himself up and my presence was not needed.

For a few years, I thought about contacting him. After all, we had been really good at being friends. But, I'd never been friends with an Ex. I didn't know how to go about establishing a relationship. According to our mutual friend, Chris didn't even want my name mentioned. But, it had been 9 years. We both were happily embedded in new lives. Hell, I was a married woman and a totally different person than I once was. I was willing to be he was different too.

I already had his email address. Our mutual friend was forever sending emails to her entire address book without hiding the details. So, I sucked it up and sent him a quick note. For a week and a half there was no response. Then, one day there was an email waiting in my Inbox. He had gotten my message and (shocker!) was happy to hear from me. From then on, we sporadically traded emails back and forth and even talked on the phone a few times. We easily fell back into our old ways. But, the added stress of having a doomed relationship was gone. We were just friends.

A few months ago, I was sitting in my office and got a text from Chris. "Coming up North to do some hiking and planning to stop on the Cape. Do u want to meet up." Meet? I thought he was kidding. This was a man who didn't want my name uttered within a 100 mile radius a few years ago and now he wanted to have drinks? I was excited at the prospect of seeing him again. But, I faced two problems: Insecurity and TH.

The insecurity was easy to conquer. Everyone wants to look good to their Ex. I was hoping that the 10 years hadn't done too much damage to my face. I wasn't concerned about my body. I practically live at the gym. My optimism was short lived as I woke up on the morning of the meeting with a enormous zit on my chin.

TH was a whole other issue. I wasn't sure how comfortable he would be at my meeting up with an Ex. I know I wouldn't be. In fact, I would be hell bent against it. If the situation was reversed, I would be so furious at the idea that I would have made his life miserable. But, Big K is a nicer person than I am. He wasn't thrilled with my plans, but he begrudgingly accepted them. It is during these moments I have to admit I have the most amazing husband and you all should be very jealous.

So, last Thursday, my zit and I met up with Chris. For 3 hours, we talked and laughed. We chatted about old times and the most common response became "I know" or " I remember". There were no awkward moments. Just two old friends having a good time. I even asked him if he was nervous about meeting up with me after such a long time. He said not at all. Of course, he didn't have a zit the size of a volcano on his chin. We hugged goodbye and that was it. He started his drive back to Florida and I brought pizza home to TH.

The relationship myth that you can't be friends with an Ex is just that - a myth. In a world as small as ours and in a place that you're only six degrees from Kevin Bacon, (I can do it in 2 degrees) it is inevitable that you are going to run into one of those people from the Lost Planet. If they are a friend, it will make it that much easier.

Tuesday, September 22, 2009

RTT - I Get My Best Ideas While Naked

I cannot eat nonbreakfast foods (except for cold pizza) in the morning. For those of you that eat leftovers or lunch type items, I ask you this: WTF? That is gross!

I get some of my best ideas in the shower. I was shaving my legs this morning and came up with the solution to a huge problem just as I finished my right thigh. If I could be naked at the office, I would be running this joint. In reality, I am. I just don't get respect, a huge paycheck or credit.

Two weekends ago, I was driving back from visiting my grandmother and ran into a huge thunderstorm. It was raining so hard I couldn't see and I had to pull over into a rest area. All the other people were staring out their car windows at the storm. I was cleaning out my glove box. I hate sitting in a car with nothing to do. Five minutes later, I had jumped in the backseat and was tidying up there.

I love to see a guy driving a car with bumper stickers that say "Well Behaved Women Rarely Make History" or "Bless the Goddess" or "My Other Car is A Broom". It takes a mighty secure man to run errands in that estrogen plastered machine.
Note to Smokers: Alright, so I know that you have rights and all that. But, can you please, for the love of all that is holy, smoke somewhere not near me. There are reasons for "smoking areas". Not everyone wants to smell like a gnarly ashtray and give themselves lung cancer. And for the record, when the sign says "Thank you for not smoking", they mean you assmunch. Not the guy behind you or the chick on your left. YOU! So put out your fucking cigarette before I ram it up your ass.

Congratulations to TH and I. We celebrate our 2nd anniversary today. Two whole years of wedded bliss. It would have been a few years more if he'd gotten off his lazy lump and asked me to marry him sooner. But, I'm not bitter about that. Nosiree! Anywhoo.....we're gonna tear it up tonight - take out Mexican food and watching the season premier of NCIS.

Before all you ladies get a hair across your ass and start cursing out TH for not taking me some place special - just ease up. He took me to a U2 concert last night. Of course, the romance was spoiled by his parents sitting next to us.

That's a wrap, lovers

Friday, September 18, 2009

Who Knew Snot In A Shell Could Make You Horny

I never was one to believe food could make you amorous. Sure, I almost cum while in the process of eating certain foods, but the after effect have always eluded me. Most of the time I take the shape of a gluttonous sloth, laying on the couch, holding my stomach, taking short, shallow breaths and wondering how in the world I was able to eat 10 tacos and still be alive.

Last night, I attended a function held in a massive airplane hanger. For those of you who have been reading my ramblings for a year might remember the results of last years event. This year I decided to eat more than the frosting off a cupcake. I also decided to drink less than a keg of beer. I am a year older and didn't think I would be able to handle trying to keep my head from exploding all over my desk. So, here I am - sober, rested and ready to jump anything with a pulse.

Let me explain....

To make up for last year, I decided to sample everything at the function. I stopped at each table and devoured their offerings - steak tartare, chili, breads, cheeses, steak and cheese eggrolls (I had 2 of those), polenta in Alfredo sauce and......oysters.

For those of you who aren't familiar with oysters, let me draw you a picture.

Okay, so I didn't draw the picture, but you get the idea. It looks like a big booger in a shell. Those of you with a gutter mind are thinking the same thing I am. Looks a bit like youknowwhat, doesn't it? You're thinking it. Don't lie. Nobody likes a fibber. Alright, I say it. It looks like a vagina. Geez! Why do I always have to say it.

For the most part, people eat these in stews, chowders, breaded and fried or broiled. The true lovers eat them raw, alive and right out of the shell. Just dab a bit o' cocktail sauce, squeeze a little lemon and slurp it right outta the shell. Well, I did lots of slurping last night. I sat in front of the raw bar, beer in hand and fixed myself oyster after oyster.

I left the function at 8pm (I'm getting to be such an old fart), picked up some pizzas ('cuz I didn't eat enough) and headed home. At 10 pm, I felt like a crazed porn star. I was ready for action and TH was snoring away. (he's been busy and stressed this week, poor boy) No nooky for me.

I never believed in the power of aphrodisiac foods. I never needed them. But, now I know I should not eat 20 oysters and think my body will digest them as it would pizza or pasta. Apparently, they go straight to my loins.

Historically, aphrodisiacs were around to assisted with performance anxiety and to increase fertility. Making babies was an important issue back then and aphrodisiacs were in high demand. Anything resembling genitalia or sperm was thought to help out. The ancient Greeks, who were the horniest fuckers of them all, finally decided foods that created "satisfied dietary gratification" worked as well. I contest that fact. Eating a ginormous bacon cheeseburger with fries does not make me horny. As a matter of fact, I prefer alone time to digest and to take small naps.

Lovers, I have researched a list of naughty foods to set your loins aflame. Go forth and munch. But, beware the effects or you will suffer the same fate as I. I still have not found release. In fact, it's getting worse. TH, if you're reading this (and we both know you are even those you claim "you don't my blog") you better eat your Wheaties. It's gonna be a long night. For the rest of you, here's the scoop:

Aniseed, Asparagus, Almond, Arugula, Asafetida, Avocado, Bananas, Sweet Basil, Broccoli (and other Mustard Greens), Chocolate, Carrots, Coffee, Coriander, Fennel, Figs, Garlic, Ginger, Honey, Licorice, Mustard, Nutmeg, Oysters, Pine Nuts, Pineapple, Raspberries and Strawberries, Truffles (not the chocolates but a food very much like a mushroom), Vanilla and Wine.

After reading this list, I have finally figured out why I am the way I am. With the exception of Aniseed and Asafetida, I eat most of these foods weekly and in large quantities. Oh well. Now, if you will excuse me, I'm off to snack on some chocolate covered almonds and drink my coffee spiced with nutmeg. For lunch I have a wonderful sandwich featuring pesto (Hello! Basil and pine nuts) and I have a strawberries for dessert. My snack is a banana and I'm wearing perfume called Vanilla Noir. I'm a walking orgasm!

Thursday, September 17, 2009

I'm Awesome

I know that you're looking at this award and thinking, "Well....Duuuuuuuh! I knew that" So, thank you to those of you who know this obvious statement. And to those of you still on the fence, just wait. I'm gonna talk about feet tomorrow. If your fond of the tootsies (or someone else's), stay tuned.
Mad Woman over at Mind of a Mad Women feels I deserve this award. I must tell you that I'm worried for her sanity. But, I love you, darlin' for making me feel all warm and fuzzy inside without touching my special spot. Not many can say they've done that.

Tuesday, September 15, 2009

RRT - The Virgin Goddess, Zits & Bee's Make Me Horny

I don't understand why the pizza guy always thinks we have guests. Why wouldn't you order a large pizza with two toppings, a large steak & extra cheese sub, a large order of mozzarella sticks and a large order of garlic sticks for two people. Are you calling me a pig?

The tomato basil bisque at Lamberts Farm Market, Centerville MA is better than good foreplay. I'm just telling you this in case you're ever in the area and want to cum in your pants.

I figured one of the benefits of being married is you have a captive audience. Someone to share all of your discoveries. So, I don't understand why my husband doesn't want to share the awe, horror and disgust of an excellent new zit.

Speaking of zits, have you ever worked super hard to pop one and when you finally get it done you're secretly disappointed it's over. You know you have. Admit it.

I'm already torturing myself with thoughts of hosting Thanksgiving again this year. Remember the disaster last year? Right now, I'm pretending the holiday doesn't exist.

I miss the show "The West Wing". I wasn't really interested in politics until a few years ago. The West Wing was enough for me. Then I showed my utter ignorance when I confused something happening on the show with real life. Awkward moment.

I get horny watching the Nasonex commercial. The voice of the bee is Antonio Banderas. The man is a 9.5 on the damp panties scale.

Have you ever discovered a gigantic bruise and wondered how in the world it got there? I got out of the shower the other morning and saw an enormous bruise on my thigh. Now, I'm trying to figure out a what point a Mack truck ran into me. Of course, this has nothing to do with my lack of coordination and the fact I walk into objects all the time. This recent bruise is probably a result of walking into the corner of my desk. I do it three or four times a day when I'm rushing out of my office to unjam the copier before it erupts into a ball of flames from an associate trying to use it while it's jammed.

I have decided to go to the library to save money. My book budget is out of control because I read more books in a week than most people do in a year. After looking over my credit card statement from the last two months, I've concluded that I could feed a small nation on the amount I spent at the book store. Unfortunately, my town library is only open when I can't get there. If I find the time to grab a few books off the shelf, I can never get back there to renew them if I'm not done reading. Now I'm spending money on overdue fees. I just can't win.

And that's a wrap.

Thursday, September 10, 2009

How To Use Sex As A Weapon In Business

I love meeting sales reps. Especially if they come to the office believing that they're gonna put one over on the silly blond girl. They talk real fast, cover the conference table with spreadsheets while tossing promotional pamphlets in my direction. They babble on and on about how they're gonna save me tons of money and if I would just sign my name on the X all my problems will go away.

I'm very quiet during this entire performance. Occasionally, I give a half smile, nod my head or let out a cute, bubbling chuckle if what he said was suppose to be funny. I pretend to give the schmuck my undivided attention and carefully make him believe I'm buying every poison word that falls out of his mouth. It's all bullshit. He knows it. I know it. He just doesn't believe that I know it. He also doesn't know I've been studying our account for days. That I made my own spreadsheets, did research on the internet and probably know more about what he's selling than he does. I ask a few simple questions about ways we can save money to which he replies "That way isn't your best bet. You should really go with this plan" Again, bullshit. His idea costs more. He knows it. I know it. He thinks he's got me now. Hook, line and sinker. A minute more and I'll sign on the dotted line. Then, I pull out my favorite weapon. A weapon as old as time itself. A weapon every woman can use if she chooses.

I smiled warmly, turned my chair slightly so I was facing him, reclined just a smidgen, ran my fingers through my hair and then crossed my legs. I didn't pull a Basic Instinct. But, my legs were bare, I had on fabulous Steve Madden heels and a classy deep purple sleeveless dress that stopped just shy of my knees. I'm no Gisele Buchan, but I work with what I got. And it "got" him.

From then on, I managed to not only get some interesting fact about our account that aren't always disclosed. I even got the super secret number that bypasses the horrible 1-800 telaprompt system and would be answered by a real live, flesh and blood human who could (GASP!) actually help me. The bullshit was forgotten as he stared at my legs and I smiled coyly in his direction his fingers flew across the keyboard making all the small changes I wanted. I batted my eyes as I gently turned down his offer for a drink later. What I really wanted to do was shove my wedding ring underneath his nose and say "Are you BLIND? I'm married, you idiot! My husband could out-fuck you any day of the week". Then he asked if I had any sisters who were single. I told him I had a sister who was way too young and was currently going the way of the Kardashian sisters (dating only African American NBA/NFL type guys).

In the end, he declared me a "cool chick". The kinda chick he'd like to hang out with. We bashed the Bruins for awhile, realized we shared a mutual dislike of our bosses and a mutual passion for a good beer and baby back ribs. He told me his life story - recently divorced with two kids, hates his ex wife with the fire reserved for mass murderers and tried dating girls in their 20's for awhile until he realized that he was 45 and shouldn't do that kind of thing.

In the end, I still won. Got anyone you'd like me to break for you? I'm on a roll.

Wednesday, September 9, 2009

And The Winner Of The Fat Ass Award Is......

Me. That's right....me. I won the Fat Ass Award at the Marstons Mills Four Miler this past Saturday.

Let me first start out with saying - I never win anything. N-E-V-E-R! I don't win on scratch tickets, random drawings or board games. Do not pick me for you team in dodgeball. We won't win. Even if we're close to winning, something extraordinary will happen in the last 5 seconds that brings us back to second place. It's inevitable. I do not carry the winning luck.

Every single stinking race I enter, I try hard to win in my age group (30-34). But, it's not gonna happen. It seems to be the most popular age group for extreme runners. The winning girl usually has a body built like a swimsuit model and has kicked my sorry ass by at least 10 minutes timewise. I never bother to hang around after each race to hear the awards. My name will not be called and I don't really know many people in the race. I'm usually in my car and out of the parking lot before the last runner hits the finish line. But, this past weekend, I hung around afterwards. I was chatting it up with a fellow runner and gobbling up watermelon like my life depended on it. I was a bit wary of getting in my car just yet. I had forgotten to hit the bathroom before the race started and halfway through the 2 mile I'd almost peed my pants. Upon hitting the finish line, the control over my bladder came to a screeching halt and I might have tinkled a little bit. I did manage to get to the ladies room before the dam burst. The women at the scoring table must have thought I was going to hurl. Puking is a part of racing. I've learned never to be surprised to see a pile of vomit just over the finish line. Sometimes I have to leap over it. It happens. Some hurl, some shit their pants, some sprinkle in their pants. I'm happy to be a sprinkler. A little pee never hurt anyone.

But enough about my wet pants. On to my award...

Other than the obvious first place award and the age group categories, there are two awards often handed out. The Athena Champion and the Clydesdale Champion. These are weight class categories. The Athena is for women weighing over 150 pounds and the Clydesdale is for men weighing over 200 pounds. Please don't ask me what this has to do with running. My only thought is real runners (the ones who weigh next to nothing) probably think people who weigh the normal amount a person should weigh, can't run a decent race. People like me. I weigh 168 pounds. I am a solid mass of muscle and bone. Sure, I could lose 10 pounds and I would be ready for some photo shoots that don't involve women who have boobs. But any more and I would look like a bobble head doll.

I may be a Fat Ass but I've got a trophy, bitch!

Tuesday, September 8, 2009

RTT - Kegels, Swans, & Ass Smacking Affection

There needs to be a separate line for people who buy lottery and scratch tickets. I'm late for work but I'm trying to buy a friggin' container of cream for the office and they're itching their ass at the front counter while saying "Okay...I'll have a number five, two number tens and a quick pick.....no, not that one....the one with the picture of the alligator on it....oh, wait....I have another dollar....gimme one of those tickets with the Red Sox logo. That otta be a winna." More often than not, these people look like they should be spending their money on clean clothes and not the State lottery.

Ben & Jerry's makes an orgasmic oatmeal cookie ice cream. I bought a pint and successfully mined out all the pieces of cookie. Now, we just have a pint of vanilla ice cream.

I get really excited when I see swans. I know that they are nasty creatures, but I always get a thrill from catching a peek of one on a pond or in the reeds. I think it's the kid in me.

People who wear golf shoes to a golf match they are not participating in are stupid. TH and I went to the Deutsche Bank TPC tournament on Sunday. What a snooty bunch of snots! But, I got to wear plaid capris and I tied a sweater around my shoulders. I felt like I was on the set of Caddyshack. TH and I were acting like the perfect proper couple until he decided to start smacking my ass every chance he got. I had complained he didn't show me enough affection in public. The ass-smacking was his answer. Oh well, beggers can't be choosy.

Have you ever noticed old people never look both ways before they pull out into traffic? They just shut their eyes, gun the motor and plow through the intersection.

The other day, I gave Fancy Pants a sly little smile as he walked into my office. When he asked why I was smiling, I told him I was doing my Kegels. He told me that information was inappropriate and that particular activity was for private time. I was disappointed he wasn't shocked. The poor boy has become numb to my antics. And why wouldn't I do my Kegels at the office?

I became an Aunt for the second time this past week. Bring on the "When are you guys gonna have a baby" pressure. I'm ready for it.
For all of you how emailed me about my biopsy results: I got the answer this morning. Everything is fine and my boobs are still too small. Okay, I added that last part. The doctor didn't say anything about the size of my boobs. I was just taking this opportunity to complain about it again.

iPod Shuffle of the Day.
1. Chrome Plated Heart - Mellissa Etheridge
2. Jump - Madonna
3. You Know You Want Me - Pitbull
4. Already Gone - Kelly Clarkson
5. Burn it to the Ground - Nickleback
6. Abracadabra - Steve Miller Band
7. Sound of Madness - Shinedown.
8. Conga - Gloria Estefan
9. Disco Lies - Moby
10. The Fixer - Pearl Jam

That's a Random Wrap, lovers

Friday, September 4, 2009

A Different Kind of Shower

If you haven't already figured it out, I am VERY open minded when it comes to sex. Even if you and I don't jive on the same perversion, I'll listen to your side, offer up my opinion but I will never hold it against you. It's none of my business if you like to suck lime jello out from in between your lover toes (true story, folks). It's what ever gets you to the Big O. I'm just happy you get there.

I recently learned that an associate of mine had a thing for golden showers. (See, didn't I tell you people come to me and blurt out their most intimate secrets. I'm not even friends with this guy). Not one to judge someone's sexual preferences, I calmly said, "Really. That's nice." and ran to Google up everything I could find on it.

For those of you that are uneducated in what I like to call "The Freaky Side of Sex I Don't Enjoy", a golden shower is basically when you pee on someone or let them pee on you. Personally, it is not on my resume. I feel that all urination should take place on the toilet or if ultimately necessary, in the woods behind a bush.

Unsatisfied with my Google search and (again) reading waaaaayyyy too much about gay sex, I asked him: "Do you like to be peed on or do you do the peeing".

After a few seconds of careful though, he said "Well, I like to do the peeing. But, if someone wanted to pee on me, I might just do it."

Not one to back down from a subject I was still trying to digest, I said, "So is it the humiliation approach? 'Cuz that's what I read about online. It's a way to degrade someone"

"No" he said. "It's just something extra. Like when you're having sex in the shower. It's not degrading, it's just fun"

It's fun to peed on someone? Hmmmmm. I'm having trouble wrapping my head around that one. I know guys like to write their names in the snow, they like to tinkle on tree trunks and find pleasure in seeing just how far and loud they can pee. I don't even think I find the general act of peeing enjoyable. In fact, I find going to the bathroom to be a inconvenience altogether. Maybe because I'm a girl. Guys can just whip it out anywhere. We ladies have to unzip, pull down, sit, pee, wipe, wipe again, stand up, pull up and zip up. Don't even get me started on wilderness peeing. That's a skill in itself.

I started thinking to myself, what would I do if a guy wanted to pee on me. Would I let him do it? I mean, it's pee. Eww. This wouldn't be a jellyfish sting situation. This would be a purpose filled pee. Eww. Then, there is the smell. Eww. Even worse if they've just eaten asparagus. Eww.

Methinks there is no room in my bag of tricks for that one. Cum on my leg? Sure. Take a whiz? You've got the wrong girl.

Thursday, September 3, 2009

#1 Rule In Running Club - Don't Talk About Running Club

I always thought the spinners at the gym were crazy. A troop of heavy legged, Type A women who became so aggressive about sharing the same workout room with the kick boxers and the yogis that the gym is building them their very own room. Their pack mentality was infamous. Their brutality and aggression unmatched. I never thought I would find another group of people like them until I joined the Hyannis Road Runners Club.

Even though I started less than 6 months ago, I consider myself to be a decent runner. I can finish a 7K without someone waiting at the finish line with a defibrillator. My time isn't pretty, but what the fuck? I finished without stopping, didn't I? But, I wanted to get better. My dream is to finish a half marathon. Joining the group would allow me to be trained properly. Silly me, thinking that running was just walking, but faster. There's foot placement, stride, heart monitoring, warming up, cooling down etc etc.

The club separates people into 4 categories: Walk, Walk/Run, Basic Running, and Run/Race. After throwing more than 8 races under my belt I figured I was in the run/race group. Fat Chance. Those guys consider anyone who runs above a 9 minute mile to be a "non-runner". They looked like a bunch of heavy muscled gazelles, sprinting around the track at breakneck speed. I was placed in the Basic Running group. The instructor, an adorable white haired man, looked like he weighed no more than 140 lbs. He was in sublime condition. I felt fat and dumpy standing next to a man that was more than twice my age.

My race running style has always been the same: get to the race, pace around until it starts, run the race, finish, drink water and leave. Well......that is wrong, wrong, WRONG. There needs to be warm ups, stretching and cool downs. My heart rates must be closely monitored and I should never get in my car right after running. Always wait until your heart rate returns to normal. My only thought after a race was how fast I could get to the nearest deli to eat an enormous sandwich.

These people are animals. They do not "cross-train". All they do is run. The thought of kick boxing, weight lifting or yoga was greeted with a curled up nostril. Training is serious stuff as I soon found out after my third set of combination sprints. I consider myself to be in really good shape. But, I was sweating like a pig and to make matters worse, I smelled!!! At first, I wasn't sure if it was me until we were running a grueling "cool down". I started smelling the oniony BO smell again and the woman that I had previously blamed it on was at least 40 paces behind me. I knew it wasn't the girl running next to me.

The more I ran, the worse I smelled. I picked through my brain and tried to conjure up what I'd had for lunch, thinking that was the problem. But, a grilled cheese and lentil soup wouldn't have caused the massive stink that flowed behind me like a cloud. I looked around to see if anyone noticed my foul odor. But, everyone was so caught up in the battle to breath normally, that my stench was unnoticed.

The worst part about it was I had to get in my car after all this. The cloth seats soaked up the funk and now my car smells like a locker room after 20 hairy sweaty men left their used socks on the floor. I have since switch from that weird rock deodorant to regular old Secret. Screw going the au natural route. I don't want to smell like a jock strap again.

Wednesday, September 2, 2009

And Here's Another Thing About My Boobs

I'm gonna talk about gross medical stuff. So if you're at all queasy when it comes to needles, puss or blood, I suggest you wait until tomorrow when I talk about golden showers.

I know y'all get it. I hate my boobs. I want some new ta ta's....yada yada yada. You'd heard it all before. Weeeeeeeeeeeeeellllllllllllllll......here's just one more thing for ya. If you ever thought having small boobs got me out of the boob problems category, guess again. In the last 3 months, I have been felt up more than Madonna at an NBA game, MLB game and all her concerts put together.

It all started when I was at the doctor getting felt up by my physician after hearing (yet again) how fabulously healthy I am. His freezing cold hands were kneading me like bread dough when he said, "I feel a small lump right here. I'm scheduling you for a mammogram." I wasn't alarmed. I had been through the boob squishing machine before. This wasn't my first lump and it wouldn't be my last. I nodded in compliance and took the scheduled appointment.

Boob Squishing Day: I arrived at the doctors office and donned the beautiful cotton johnny that you have to wear as the move you from room to room. As I sat in the waiting room with all the of the patients, I could feel them looking at me from under their lashes as they were reading the latest People Magazine. It was the look of pity. They were all twice my age and in for a routine check up. I was the 32 year old who could have breast cancer.

When my number came up, I pranced into the screening room and smiled at the grim faced technical. She looked like she hated her job. I didn't blame her. I wouldn't want to look at boobs all day either. She tried to fit me up to the machine, but it's not that easy when you're working with someone who basically has only nipples. She pulled, poked and pushed. Finally, she seemed to be happy with the fit. Then she clamped that sucker down so hard that I felt the skin from my face pull. After lots of beeps, clicks and buzzes she finally unleashed me. We both stared down at the plastic tray and the splotch of clear liquid on it.

"Does that ever happen at home?" she said.

"Well" I said. "To tell you the truth, I've never squeezed it that hard."

Her face went blank for a second. Then she started laughing so hard she bent over to catch her breath.

"That was the funniest thing I've ever heard in here" she said as she wiped tears from her eyes. "You are my favorite patient today"

That's me. Comic relief for medical technicians.

Long story short, they were unhappy with the results and scheduled me for a little biopsy. No biggie. Just stick a needle in there and take out a sample for testing. That thrilled me to no end as I'm deathly afraid of needles, blood and all things that probe and poke. I managed to pass out when I got a TB test. (for those of you who don't know how that's done. They slide a tiny needle under the skin in your arm and shoot some sorta fluid in there and wait to see how you react to the poke.) I fainted as soon as the needle touched my skin.

Poking Day: So this past Monday, I was strapped to a gurney and ready to have my boob poked. I told the sweet faced nurse who checked me in that I was really 5 years old and would lost all bodily functions if I saw blood or a needle. She told me not to worry. She was the "official hand holder" and would be by my side if I needed anything. Great, not only was I worried about icky medical stuff, now I had to worry about my personal space being violated. I did not want to cozy with her. I just wanted to have my boob poked and get outta there.

I didn't get my wish. As soon as the procedure started, she swooped into the room with an excited "I'm here!" slapped a cold compress on my forehead and grabbed my hand. Eager to make me comfortable, she started asking me all sorts of questions, "Was I married? Did I have kids? Where did I work? What were my bosses names? Did I like my job". I was being interrogated while the surgeon was practically kneeling on my chest trying to get the needle in. All of a sudden, he exclaimed "Holy shit".

Now, that is not something you really want to hear while some dude has a needle in your boob. Those utterances should be reserved for times when the patient is unconscious, not while she is totally awake and struggling not to puke while a nurse is molesting her hand and draining all the information from her brain.

He must have saw my eyes pop open and stare at him bug eyed in amazement. So he said, "I didn't think it would be this hard to do. It's just that you have alot of muscle in there."

Gee.....no kidding. Even I can see on the ultra sound, you dumbass. Guess those years of medical school are working well for you, huh? I'm so happy you have a enormous needle inches from my lungs and heart. Makes me feel all warm inside.

He finally finished after what seemed like an hour of leaning on my chest and jabbing me with some big thing that made loud clicking noises. There were also a few more "Holy Shits" and "Lordy Lordy's" thrown in there for good measure. The hand holder was chirping away in the background as I gave what I'd hoped were pleading looks to the ultra sound technician to end this quickly.

After promising 4 times not to lift anything heavy for two days and to abstain from strenuous exercise for three days, I left the office with a gigantic piece of sticky saran wrap over my boob. I would have the joyous task of peeling that off on Friday. Unfortunately this "simple procedure" had turned into something more complicated, but I still had to go back to the office. For the next 4 hours, I sat as my desk with ice packs in my bra. Every time someone came near my office I would hunch forward, trying to hide the fact that I had gained 2 cup sizes in my right breast. Of course, this trick fooled no one and Surfer Dude slid up to my door way and said "Um, do you have an ice pack in your bra?"

I glanced up from my hunched position and said, "Yeah. So what."

He smiled and said, "You getting some new ones?"

Dontcha love the concern?

I keep trying to show TH the incision, but he wants nothing to do with it. I plan to ambush him tonight. What's a gnarly scab if you don't have anyone to share it with?

On a serious note, the results should come back negative. This was only a precautionary boob poke. Thank God. I was beginning to feel like a slut! I've been felt up by half the medical staff on Cape Cod!

Tuesday, September 1, 2009

RRT - Donuts, Erectile Dysfunction and a Gay Club Mix

I'm usually a really cheerful person. But, last Friday was just an awful day. I was picking up a sandwich at my usual lunch spot and the woman behind the counter said to me, "Honey, why so sad today. You look like your doggy just died" I look at her and very blandly said, "Yes, she did." Ummmm.....awkward!

Today is our monthly staff meeting and I heard a rumor there will be no donuts served. I've never feel more strongly about quitting my job than right at this very moment. Those donuts are the only vice I have during that never ending meeting.

On Saturday, TH and I went out to our favorite blues club to grab a cheeseburger. It took us a few minutes to realize that we were the only hetrosexual couple in the joint. It took us another few minutes to realize that Melissa Etheridge was in town for a concert that night. (If you've never seen her live, do it! She's amazing!!!)

I love, love, LOVE Paula Dean. I want her to take me home and feed me stuff made of butter. Her warm Southern Accent, her fabulous house on the water and her even more fabulously hot sons (one is still single!!!!!) make her one of my favorite people.

Have you ever noticed how many TV commercials there are for toilet paper, erectile dysfunction medication and herpes medication? We are a very fucked up society. Every time the person on the herpes commercial says, "I have herpes" and the other person says "I don't and we want to keep it that way", I yell at the TV, "Than you should have worn a condom". TH hates watching TV with me sometimes.

Speaking of erectile dysfunction medication. You know when they say, "For an erection lasting longer that 4 hours, seek medical attention." Who the hell would wait that long? Sure, a 4 hour stiffy is great, but if TH had a boner for longer than 3 hours I would be carting him in to the emergency room, stat! His brain needs its blood back.

As soon as I friend someone on Facebook, I go and check out all their photos. I'm such a big snoop! People must be so disappointed if they do the same thing. I've got like 10 photos. I'm very boring that way.

I love internet radio. I recently found a new station on Yahoo called "Gay Club Mix" it is "a dance station that embraces your extraordinary fabulousness". Wouldn't you know it, they play tons of Cher.

I would like to thank everyone for their kind comments, emails, letters and phone calls about my beloved pooch. I'm still broken hearted, but slowly making it day by day