My Mid-Year Resolutions

We are just about to that halfway point in the year when all our New Years Resolutions seem to have become a thing of the past. Resolutions? What resolutions? I don't need no stinkin' resolutions! (I say this as I purchase another pound of that silky french brie that I will inhale in one sitting.) Well, guess again. It's time to get back to business.

1. Get my gubbledy-goo'd up arse a little less gubbledy-goo by year end. If I drop 10 lbs I'll be happy. 15 and I'll be on top of the world. 20 and I'll start getting all Ms. Banks-y up in the heezy complete with cat-walk strut and telling everyone to kiss her fat ass.

2. Participate in another 5k, preferably one where Mamma B and I don't have to taser the princess into at least jogging 500 yards. (I'm officially the Ms. B, which stands for Ms. Bitch, in case any of you were confused. It goes back to my teenage angst years, and my dad continues to call me that to this day. So does Mamma Bestie, though. In a couple of months her preggo hormones will get the best of her, and I'll simply exchange "Bestie" for "Biotch". I mean this with all the lacy, ribbon-y, buckets of kittens and puppies love, though.) I hope to at least jog part of the way, so I'll need to start jogging again to get my endurance up. Mamma B took the taser away from me because I was getting too drunk with power, so now I can't use it volunteer the princess into participating too. Guess I got too greedy.

3. Pass the dreadful interview I need to pass in order to keep my job and get Big Poppa raise. That's right. I'll be big pimpin', spending cheese. (That was a nod to the ex, since he was so flat stupid he actually thought Jay-Z was saying cheese instead of Gs. I mean this with all due respect, but - and I say this with my best NJ/NY accent - what are you's retahded or sumpthin'?)

4. Finish the princess's baby book. Considering she's hardly a baby anymore and has morphed into the hormonal gremlin of hate, I think it's time. Plus, when I'm done I can pass on all my scrapbooking gear to Mamma B so that she can begin to chronicle the new baby's every step.

5. Save, save, save. Let's face it: money doesn't grow on trees. Wait...where have I heard that one before? Oh yes, the parents. Funny how suddenly you turn into them when you get older. I promise not to start spouting off anything about jumping off a bridge if my friends told me to or that there are starving people in Ethiopia. (I've used both those lines on the princess already!)

And for now, that's all I've got. I'm sure there are more things I could be doing better. What are your mid-year resolutions?

Don't make me go all Alanis up in this joint

(My) Life is one giant ironic mess, complete with black fly in my, well, pinot noir. Not chardonnay, but still...

I decided to get back into the swing of my workouts, sans trainer, and look where it got me: looking like a medieval Disney character as I hobble down the hallway to my bed, doing lamaze the whole way there because I've thrown my back out. Apparently I had the audacity to bend over to pick up a pair of shoes and my back didn't care for that activity. Shame on me, really. Just one more reason why I should make the princess clean! Get me the Ben Gay, dammit!

But this turn of lifestyle has a purpose. Not only will I get my big muscles back (yeah, I kiss the biceps and sell tickets to the gun show...BOOM BOOM fire power!) but I'll inadvertantly drop some of this excess gelatinous goo surrounding my vacationing muscles. I know that the goal should never be to lose weight, but in my case it kind of is. My arms have become so fat that I actually take flight when I wave. Not pretty. And who wants a stomach that makes a good kneeding pad for the cat? On the upside, I'm no longer tucking my boobs into my belt and playing banjo.

Beyond the weight and the healthy part, I'm starting to work out again to feel better about myself. And once I start feeling better about myself, I'm going to get back out there and start dating the socially rejected truck drivers and virgins of the world that I seem to attract. Yeah, I know we should accept ourselves as we are and learn to love our bodies, no matter what shape or size, blah blah blah freakin' blah. But I at least want to feel the self-worth that I should have before I start trying to show it off to someone of the opposite sex. I mean, really? Fat naked parts aren't exactly enticing.

You see, I've been avoiding dating for awhile. I've been happy having my own life. No one's stealing the remote. No snoring heating pad of testosterone and hairy legs hogging the bed. No differences of opinions or hurt feelings or mothers that I can't stand.

Speaking of which, I'm giving myself 6 months to get back to...well, myself.
The dating world can be very scary, and very fun at the same time. I met a guy last fall who was terrific, just not necessarily for me. He's now engaged and blissfully happy. I've heard lots of success stories about people who've met, dated, fallen in luuuuuuv and gotten married. I'm supposed to have the right outlook. I'm supposed to be happy in who I am and who cares if it doesn't work out and isn't it wonderful that I got to get out and have dinner bought for me and if I meet someone great then great, but just keep an open mind, yadda yadda yadda, bullshit, bullshit, bullshit.
But here's the thing. My back is so out of whack right now that who knows when I'll get to work out. And if I can't work out, then I can't get back to my goal weight. And if I don't look my best, I won't be subscribing to anything but "fat girls anonymous." And ain't no one taking out fat mamma for some tawdry sex. Which leaves me here, bedridden, putting Mamma Bestie on naked bathtub rescue notice. (Yes, it happened a long time ago when we were roommates. She came home from work and found me in the tub, calling for help. It was not the most glamorous of my days. Vicodin was involved.) Well, there's no vicodin involved this time. Just me and good old irony.

What's Your Sign?

It's been a long day today, but I had plenty of time to reflect on something I heard. And no, Nurse Betty, I didn't need all that time to form a thought. And no, Mamma Bestie, I didn't need a cold compress or Motrin afterward because of how much it hurt to formulate a thought.

I started my journey back home from Ontario at 5:30 am (too early for even the rooster to be awake, frankly) and as I came down over the Grapevine, (and smelled the lovely Kern County stench) the radio DJ started talking about a recent blind date that she had. On a side note, wtf KC? What are you pouring into the air to make it smell so bad? I used to live there and don't remember that rotten garbage perfume permeating the air. And yes, I showered, so I was certain it wasn't my own Eau to Single Girl.

I digress...

So, after some brief small talk, the DJ's date asked if he could ask her a few questions. She thought the request was seemingly innocent, so she obliged. Naturally she assumed the questions would involve the typical job interview variety, like where she was from, how many brothers and sisters she had, etc. Wrong! First question up - and this loser's last - "what's your credit score?" Seriously? What the heck do you need to know that for?

She didn't answer at first, but instead asked why he wanted to know such personal information. He said that he'd like to know so that if he were to get married, that credit would not be a problem for him and his future wife. On the surface this sounds plausible, except for the small fact that when she asked him to divulge this information first, he refused. Really? You're going to be that much of an asshole that you can't proffer this up first? Naturally that date ended moments later. But, this got me thinking. (Plus, I had another 5 hours of driving ahead of me, so I had some time on my hands, along with Motrin and a cold compress...and a clothespin for my nose. Seriously KC, W.T.F????)

When did our credit score start defining who we are as an individual?

We need credit to buy a car, a house, and even get a job. Our score follows us through life and can reflect poor personal choices or a stringent care to detail and responsibility. Some of us are suffering from the pains of the current economy or a divorce, but whatever the score, it's still ours to own. I get it. It's simple. But, aren't there other scores in life that are simply more important?

Remember that gigilo neighbor Larry from Three's Company? He used to frequent the bar and use the tired old 70's pickup line of "What's Your Sign?". Larry might have been on to something. I was thinking... (after I dosed up on Motrin and had the cold compress on my head and clothespin on my nose as I drove. Yes, truckers honked at my getup. I'm hot.) I was thinking that it would be so great if we all carried around signs of our own. I'm not talking about astrological signs, I'm talking personality trait signs. Kind of like those numbers that pop up over people's heads in the V8 commercials? Only this time, this poor girl's blind date would have a sign over his head that read "Superficial Prick" or "Nosey Dickwad".

I've been on some dates, and it would have been nice to have this sign ahead of time. You've been there, I'm sure. Everyone's met "Easily Freaked Out By Committment So I Have To Drive 7 Hours To Check My Fishtank Pump In The Middle Of The Night" or "Cheater" or "Liar" or (Argh!) "Secretly Gay Roller Skater". Wouldn't it be great if their sign read "Wonderful Heart" or "I Respect You" or "Understands Committment"? We'd be able to pick out the crapweasels from the herd and simply relocate them to somewhere more appropriate, like hell.

We ladies have our own signs to contend with, though. We've had to put up with the bull that men have put us through, and consequently, our signs read "Bruised", or "Lied To". We are survivors, though. We are strong, independent women with wonderful hearts. The women in my life are beautiful both inside and out. We come in all different shapes and colors. We have different personalities and gifts to offer this world. Most of all, we have our experiences that make us who we are. I've been through some trials and tribulations.

Yes, I dated "Secretly Gay Roller Skater" and "Fishtank" guy. But through it all, I've learned. I remember who I am, what I am all about, and where I want to go in life.

I smile.

I show the world my heart.

I stay true to who I am.

I tell corny jokes to make people laugh.

And I hold my sign up proudly. It reads "Happy".

The Behemoth Cometh

Tomorrow I get the esteemed pleasure of helping Nurse Betty clean out her garage. Most of you would make up corny (read: lame) excuses for being busy when a friend asks you such a favor, but considering this allows me to go to the dark side (aka, Monica Geller), I actually think of it as a treat. She asked me to help her a couple of days ago, and as she was asking, I had already drawn mental schematics of the garage, decided how many shelving units she would need, and was dissecting the junk - I mean prized possessions - into catergories. She just barely reserved the truck this morning. Sigh...amateurs.

You see, while most of you believe that being type-A organized can be a fault, those of us who are that way only see it as everyone else's stupidity. Why wouldn't you organize the knives, forks, and spoons when you place them in the dishwasher? And what is so damned wrong about sitting out on your friend's porch, only to walk over and start dead-heading her garden because you can't stand to have it there, staring at you, mocking you, snarling at you to fix it? Ok, so I might go overboard a time or two, but I also have my true Phoebe moments.

Nurse Betty can tell you all about the time I asked the waitress how big an 11" pizza was, or the time that I told her she needed to buy the chili con carne without the meat. (I took French in high school and college, folks. I no habla hispanola.) And there, Nurse Betty! Now you can't out me to anyone about how blonde I can be at times.

So back to this garage and why small children run away screaming from it. (Or in Princess 2's case, she happily goes exploring and comes out with treasures like a gardening mat or an old sock.) Have you ever seen that show, Buried Alive? Well, this isn't quite that bad, because none of it actually extends into the house, but the garage is full of useless items. I ask thee of level head, who the hell needs a knitting machine the size of a small piano? Or leftover carpet that could easily be used to carpet a gymnasium?

Tomorrow the behemoth cometh. Whether you call me the behemoth is on you. All I know is that when I'm done with her, people will raise a flag (or in Nurse Betty's case, a finger) in my honor.

I slapped it like I meant it in Whole Foods

So I know what you're thinking. And no, I haven't lost my friggin mind. Well.... Okay so the jury is still out on that one. Wink, wink, nudge, nudge. Shut up Nurse Betty!

Yesterday I participated in my very first 5K. Since my daughter was with me and Mamma Bestie (Yay for her! It's a boy!), we ended up doing a jog/walk. Actually, Mamma and I cajolled (read: tasered) Princess into walking/jogging. In a weird, sick, twisted way I enjoyed the experience. Wonderful CA capitol scenery, old growth trees shading us as we women walked, jogged, and ran our way through the downtown streets. There were strollers, toddlers, young girls, teenagers, women, and grandmas working all together, cheering each other on. How exilirating!

And afterward we partook of the Whole Foods breakfast where I learned how much I actually enjoy granola and yogurt. In essence, me and all my foodiness would roll around and writhe in the yummy goodness that is Whole Foods Sunflower Agave Granola. I won't though. That would be scratchy and I'm a delicate creature made of sugar and spice and everything nice. Suddenly it had me scurred. Does this mean I'm now a Berkleyite? Am I supposed to start liking the Prius? Should I become a member of tree-huggers anonymous? Because dammit I'll eat some red meat right here, right now. Hmmmm...wonder if breading a chicken breast in Sunflower Agave Granola would be good?

When the Princess and I made it home, we were tired and sweaty, so after we each showered, we decided to cuddle up in bed for some R&R. She decided we needed one last high-five to congratulate ourselves for our accomplishments. So, I begrudgingly high-fived. Evidently I didn't use enough gusto, because she exclaimed that I needed to "slap it like I meant it". Naturally I sensed a challenge and only realized the impending err of my ways after she loudly said "Ow!" when I demonstrated that I now meant it.

Naturally at this event there were thousands of women of all different shapes and sizes. Most of those darlings (i.e. skinny little bitches) were svelte little runners. And even worse, they all had cute little diamond rings. Ick! Yes, I'm jealous. It's such a pretty color on me, don'tya think? I know I shouldn't be, because my life is good and relationships only seem to cause drama. But it got me thinking that I am good enough to be part of a couple, so why aren't I?

I was pondering this with Nurse Betty as we drove all the way to Napa to pick up Sunflower Agave Granola (no I didn't put my mouth up to the dispenser instead of the plastic bag). She and I have both moved past all the hatred and contempt that we felt from our divorces. Me, because the wicked stepmother was kind enough to show my ex the meaning of karma. (K-A-R-M-A!!!! Let's hear it for karma!) Her, because all that nonsense really isn't worth her time. She reminded me of how happy I am just by myself and that friendships among women really are better than any man and bonus! No drama. And you know what? She's totally right!

As I shook the container of granola to release that honey goodness into my basic plastic bag, and that goodness was being stubborn, I remembered to "slap it like I mean it", and suddenly, a waterfall of granola was released. Guess a little bit of violence never hurt anyone!