Archive for March, 2011

So. This morning I have had the Black Eyed Peas’ “Imma Be” firmly implanted in my head for two and a half hours. I haven’t even heard the damned song in months. How can this be? Ask my wonked brain.

Lately the J-Man is relentlessly difficult to wake up, and when I finally do shake him from sleep, he snarks, “I’M UP!!! I’M UP!!!”

I find this irritating beyond measure. Tomorrow I am going to just smack him with a belt and be done with it.

That’ll learn him.

In other news, my cats have been eating the furniture.

I have no idea why the fuck this is. Remember the cute dining room chairs that my mom and I recently re-vamped? The finials on the tops of them have been gnawed beyond recognition, and the little fuckers have actually chewed off all of the paint. They have also chewed the rungs of the rocking chair, removing the varnish.

They have never done this before, and I have no idea why they have started it now. I thought that declawed cats (yes, I declawed, I’m going to hell) were pretty non-destructive, but boy, was I off.

Any suggestions on how to stop this would be most welcome. They do it when I’m not watching (smart little shits), so I’m thinking of painting something on the surfaces such as cayenne pepper or some sort of bitter oil, but I don’t want to damage their delicate little mouths in the process.

Fuckers.

In other news, I promised a photo of my new hair some time ago. The hair is no longer new, and this shitty photo is blurry and was taken with my cell phone, but here you go:

Ratty sweatshirt FTW!

Feel free to admire or mock as you see fit. Creative mockery is always welcome.

Yesterday I misstepped and fell right off of the fucking treadmill. I of course did not have the safety string attached to my person, so the treadmill was still running as I fell, but thankfully this did nothing but give me a slight arm burn.

One should probably be at least slightly coordinated in order to use exercise equipment. This is just some healthy advice from me to you.

In still other news, I’ve been working on a novel for two whole weeks and already have a scorching case of writer’s block. This is because I am used to writing nothing but short meaningless paragraphs about my short and meaningless life, and the thought of writing anything with the slightest bit of substance paralyzes me to my very core.

It’s daunting, but I am forcing myself to put down something, anything, every day and edit later.

And NO, the book is not about weight loss, EDs, being sick, or anything even remotely depressing. It should be sort of funny when all is said and done, assuming I don’t become a raging alcoholic in an effort to get the words flowing.

Here’s hoping.

Happy Thursday.

Thank you so much for all your supportive comments regarding my dirty whoredom. I deem you all Official Dirty Whores By Proxy.

So. In the interest of building a better butt, I have been clenching.

That is to say, I’ve been attempting to tighten up my butt muscles (as if I had any) whilst walking and running on the treadmill, and also doing little isometric exercises when I’m not on the treadmill that involve tightening the heinie.

I guess it’s working, because I feel like someone has beaten my ass with a baseball bat, or perhaps rolled over it with a steamroller, or perhaps just kicked it really good, old-school style.

It’s hard to clench! At least it’s hard to clench while running. Try this. Run around your house while clenching your butt while simultaneously trying not to feel stupid and keeping a decent pace.

It may sound silly, but it must work if the pain in my ass (which is neither my child nor my mother, for once) is any indication.

One thing I absolutely cannot lose is my C-section pooch, which is the bane of my existence. Having had a sloppy vertical C-section at the hands of a Brazilian madman who probably believed he was still practicing in some tribal mudhut somewhere, my stomach looks like a butt. A front-butt.

I would like to find that doctor and slap the ever-loving shit out of him.

I would also like to find my pregnant self, the self that gained an actual 100 fucking pounds, and slap the shit out of her, too.

Anyway, although I have done upward of a hundred and fifty crunches a day for oh, let’s see – YEARS, my gut remains gross, and I think the only solution is a tummy tuck.

Now my father has even offered to pay for half if I reach my goal weight and stay there for a year, and I have only thirty pounds to go; but the remaining half poses a financial problem.

This is where my master plan comes in. I am going to start trolling hospitals cafeterias for plastic surgeons. I’m going to wear low-cut tops (remember, I’m a dirty whore now) and pretty makeup and turn the charm up to a ridiculous degree.

Yes, folks, I am going to screw, date, or marry a plastic surgeon.

It can’t be that hard. Not all doctor’s wives are perfect. I’m medically fucked, so I pose an interesting challenge. Why not me?

While I’m at it, I could get a little Botox and some lipo, and then I could be in top shape for my 21-year-old lover.

Heh.

Seriously, though, I am lusting after that tummy tuck. If you saw the pile of sliced bread dough that is my belly, you’d get it.

Good thing I’m working on a novel.

What’s that, you say?

Yep.

More on that to come.

Happy Tuesday.

So I have been giving my father no end of shit because he is a gentleman of advanced age dating a woman only a scant couple of years older than me. This is because, well, it’s icky to watch your father date someone your age. It’s just ICKY.

Still, they look to be pretty happy, so I’ve been slowing down a bit on my shit-giving, and the time has come to admit the other reason I’ve been a little more forgiving toward my philandering father.

For the past six months or so, I’ve been having an on-again, off-again fling with a 21-year-old guy. On when I’m not dating anyone, off when I am.

The girls are now giving me virtual high-fives, and the guys are probably rolling their collective eyes.

We met at the local watering hole. I was pretty damned shocked when he started talking to me, given the fact that he was both young and ridiculously hot. I just don’t attract those kinds of men. Young, maybe. Broke? Almost definitely. But not ridiculously hot.

We came to find out that night that we were both steel mill people, since I was a past employee and he was a current employee, so we sat and talked slab haulers and steel heats for a good couple of hours, enjoying ourselves over beers as I tried desperately hard not to stare deeply into his ridiculously stunning eyes.

I wound up going back to his place, because at the time I’d thought, “Why the hell not?” I was unattached, moderately drunk, and let’s face it, opportunities like that didn’t come along every day. He had a nice house he’d just bought in a sub-division about five minutes away from mine. We sat at his kitchen table drinking beers, when I finally popped the question.

“So. How old ARE you, anyway?”

“21. How old are you?”

I very nearly choked on my Miller Lite, and then I asked what I knew to be a Very Stupid Question for a woman my age. “How old do you think I am?”

“Oh, I don’t know. 25?”

“Bull-Fucking-Shit.” For me to look 25 would take about 12 syringes of Botox, nine hours of lipo, and a damn good tummy tuck.

He swore up and down that he thought this was the truth and then gave me a weird look. “How old ARE you??”

“I’m 36. (This was before my birthday in December.)”

“You are NOT. Let me see your ID.”

“Let me see YOURS.”

We exchanged IDs and goggled, me because I was about to schtupp a man born when I was in high school, and him because well, I was old enough to be his mother, probably.

“How old did you think I was?”

“I knew you were young, I figured about 25, 26. I didn’t think 21! Jesus!”

“Does that bother you?”

“Frankly? No. Does it bother you that I’m 36?”

“Nope.”

People, I forgot what it was like to be intimate with a twenty-one-year-old man.

I just plain forgot, but Dear Heavenly Father, I hope I never forget again, because it’s freaking fabulous. I forgot what a twenty-one-year-old body looks like. It looks better than Michelangelo’s David, people, because it’s REAL.

Also, with twenty-one-year-olds? There are SEQUELS.

TMI.

We had a great night, but I figured that was that, so as he was getting ready to drop me off at home, I joked, “So. You want my number, right?”

“Of COURSE I want your number.”

I laughed. “You don’t have to BS me, seriously. It’s cool!” But he insisted, so I gave him my number, knowing that it was ridiculous and that he would definitely never call me.

He called me the next Friday.

He called me almost every Friday thereafter.

I rarely saw him, because more often than not I was either seeing someone or he was calling me a little too late during the evening, and I was nobody’s booty call. So I ignored the calls and texts and sort of laughed it off, answering only very occasionally if I was going to be out late and felt drunk and adventurous.

Lately, though, I’ve been thinking, “I can’t be this hot 21-year-old’s booty call… why?”

Friday night I went to a bar with my dad and his girlfriend. To say it was vastly boring would have been an understatement. The crowd was older, and I was fighting off some seriously geriatric dudes.

That sounds ageist, and I’m not, really. I *like* older men. I like *talking* to older men, but they always want more. Hell, I wish I was attracted to older men. It would make life easier.

I decided to text – let’s call him Troy, as his real name is not far off – Troy from the bar to see what he was up to.

“What are you doing tonight?”

“Picking you up in a half an hour.”

“K.”

At one point during the night I think I said something like, “I just wish I could take your picture, because you are SO fucking cute.”

I know. Heh.

I arrived home at six AM, just in time to get a good hour and a half of sleep before the J-Man woke up.

This whole thing is totally sick, but Oh My God, I am having so much fun.

SO much fun.

And thus begins my rapid descent into cougardom.

I would moan and whine about how I am going to hell, but the truth is, I don’t care one little bit.

Hope your weekend was equally happy.

It’s now Spring Break, a time of joy, a time for children everywhere to frolic and play sit their asses down in front of the computers and X Boxes and phones and Facebook/game/text their little hearts out.

Somehow it just doesn’t seem the same as it used to be. Remember doing stuff like swinging on swings and playing tag and neighborhood games of hide and seek and games of War? Totally passe.

I just forcefully kicked my child out of the house after listening to much whining and complaining that outside was borrrring and that there was nothing to dooooo and told him to get to stepping. I see no reason to spend a beautiful day inside.

Tomorrow I’m taking J. and a friend to a local go-kart/miniature golf/gaming place, which should be exhausting ridiculously expensive fun, and on Friday we’re going to the huge outlet malls in Michigan City to try and score some major bargains, which should be freaking awesome for both of us (I have spawned an enthusiastic shopper); so we do have a couple of things up our sleeves this week besides fighting over Going Out or Staying In.

I am experiencing a period of slight exercise burnout and piggish eating. I don’t know why this is. I’ve been doing so good and losing so much weight that I’ve just been sort of trucking along without much thought, but for the past week I have been eagerly inhaling three meals a day, plus snacks, without replacing any meals with my typical protein shakes; and I feel like poop. I’ve only gained back about two pounds, since I still am working out (just less vigorously), but that’s enough to scare me and wake me up a little and make me ask myself just what the hell I think I’m doing. I’m currently wearing a size 12 Skinny jeans, and Goddammit, I am staying in a size 12 Skinny.

I keep having to remember that this is a lifestyle change and not a diet, and that while I can occasionally eat a good meal, I can’t go on and off of my program constantly or it isn’t going to work at all.

The working-out laziness has been terrible. I was doing an hour or more on the treadmill every damn day, reaching speeds up to 4.2 miles per hour, and lately I’ve been doing a paltry half an hour and only going up to 3.6 before totally crapping out from exhaustion. And I really do feel exhausted. It must be from the bad eating – that’s the only explanation I can think of.

And now ends the horribly boring diet and exercise portion of this blog entry. Forgive me.

In other news, I am still getting near-daily texts from the ex, but no mention has been made of going out for dinner or drinks as we’d planned before. What this means, I don’t know, and frankly I don’t care. I am not going to try to analyze it, I am simply going to text. This is what I think is a very Zen approach to dealing with both men and technology. Or it could be very Yoda. “Text! Or text not. There is no try.”

OK, maybe not Yoda.

In still other news, today my stepdad’s brother-in-law is doing a little work in the house – fixing cabinets and bathroom fans and stuff like that – and the cats are losing their ever-loving minds. Guy!! In the house! Big Guy!! With Tools! OMG OMG!! Must smell and circle and stare!!

You’d think they’d never seen a man who could fix stuff before.

Oh wait, right.

Happy Monday, and have a riotous Spring Break.

So last night I headed over to the local watering hole for the drunkfest known as St. Patrick’s Day, having not been out (aside from the ‘con) for a full three months. Three months! I know, I’m slipping.

Don’t you say I’m getting old. I’ll smack the shit out of you with the wet sea creature of your choice.

I sat at the bar texting because I didn’t really know too many people save the bartendresses, and while they’re all very cool and take damned good care of me and my incessant complaints about the chilly air in the bar, they don’t really have the time to stand around and chat.

I’ve had a hell of a time meeting people in Indianny, unless you count the random acts that stop by my spot at the bar, tell me their life stories, and proceed to try to take me home with them. While this sometimes gets me a ride home – if I’m feeling brave and don’t feel I’m going to be raped in the car – it more often than not is just annoying. Also, it’s better to walk in the freezing cold than to almost get raped in the car.

Last night that annoyance came in the form of a sad sack from Texas who also didn’t know anyone and came over to tell me that he was moderately homely, had a crappy personality, a small penis, and was just looking for a girl who made bad decisions. Way to open, right? I told him that he was barking up the wrong tree, but that I would help him scout out some drunk chicks that might suit his purposes if I didn’t have to expend too much effort.

We picked out a few girls who were young, tipsy, and holding fruity concoctions, and I pointed him in their direction.

He toddled off, Guinness in hand, and came back later to tell me, “I’m sorry, I know you’re like, a “9″, and you would never, you’re too smart for that, but I wish you would.”

A: I’m no “9″ unless you’re really, really fucking drunk.

B: This guy was trying so mirthlessly to butter me up that it was depressing me.

C: Help.

I began to frantically make faces at my friend Jeremy across the bar, twisting my eyebrows and contorting my mouth in order to get him to save me because I never have the balls to say, “Look, Joker, don’t let the door hit you where the good Lord split you.”

All this time I was drunk-texting both my ex about… I forgot, and my college roommate to get his ass in gear, find his keys, and come pick me up.

I was saved on all three counts. My friend appeared, my ex kept texting, and my old roommate eventually showed. Victory was mine.

This morning I felt pretty damned good because I drank water like a fiend all damned night, and I must admit that I patted myself on the back a little as I sat down at my laptop to check my Facebook.

Until I noticed the large pile of vomit on top of it.

Yeah.

Something tells me that either the cats indulged in a little Jameson during my absence, or that son of a bitch followed me home, sneaked into my basement, and horked Guinness all over my laptop.

Either way, it was most unpleasant.

Hope you got your drink on safely.

Happy Friday.

There was an incident in Green Bay that made me feel like a dirty little heathen and I liked it and it irritated me beyond measure.

I was sitting at the bar with a friend, who was wearing a Weetacon name badge. Now the theme of the weekend was The Seven Deadly Sins, and the name badges featured an image of the Virgin Mary along with a light-up heart and the name of the participant.

A woman in her fifties who was moderately drunk leaned across the bar and said, “Oh, are you guys here for the miracle?”

“No,” we answered. “What miracle?”

“The miracle. You guys are here for the miracle.”

“We don’t know anything about any miracle.”

“Your name badge. With Mary. You’re here for the miracle.”

Apparently there had been some sort of Catholic miracle in Green Bay, and it had even been recognized by the Pope or a Cardinal or some other important deity or bird.

“Seriously, we don’t know anything about the miracle. We’re here for a writer’s retreat.”

(We always use the term “writer’s retreat”, and believe me, we laugh our fool asses off every single time we say it.)

Writer’s retreat. Heh.

“But… why do you have the Blessed Virgin on your name badge? Is it a Catholic retreat?” she asked, confused.

“No,” I said (and this was monumentally stupid), “I’m Jewish.”

Her hackles went up immediately. “Oh. I don’t like that. I don’t like that at all.”

We tried to explain the concept of the seven deadly sins and that it was our theme, and it did nothing but piss her off.

She proceeded to drunkenly ream us out for our disrespect for the Virgin Mary, and she shot us dirty looks for the rest of the evening.

BLASPHEMERS!

I’m used to this sort of thing, because I live with a hardcore Catholic.

Recently gay marriage has come up for debate here in Indianny (guess which way THAT vote is going to go), and my stepfather made a pithy little crack: “Thou shalt not toot on another man’s flute.”

“That in the Bible?” I scoffed.

“No, but homosexuality is a sin. It’s in the Bible.”

“It also says you can beat your wife and own slaves and stone people in the Bible. You up for that?”

Silence.

My stepdad is pretty devout as far as things go. He attends church every Sunday and goes to Stations of the Cross on Fridays. He prays regularly and gave up all snacking for Lent.

He is also the most impatient motherfucker I have ever seen, swears like a sailor when he’s pissed off, forgets NOTHING, and does not forgive anyone for anything, ever.

I don’t know about you, but that doesn’t necessarily say “religious” to me.

What do I know, though. I’m just a dirty heathen who hasn’t seen the inside of a church in a month of Sundays.

In other news, the J-Man had to do a project on a mythical being for his English class involving both a speech and a poster, and damn, was I impressed by both his speech and his mad artistic skills. He worked on the poster for several hours, and may I say I have never seen such lifelike and attractive elves.

I smell an A.

My dad bought the kid some (ridiculously expensive, WHY are tennis shoes so expensive) new shoes, and this morning he sat in the recliner stroking them and gurgling, “My precioussssss…” like Gollum.

My child is freaking weird.

I can’t imagine where he gets it.

Happy Thursday.

While I may not be eighty, I have a long-standing love affair with prunes.

Having been severely constipated my whole life, my dad introduced me to the wrinkly little greasy things at an early age, and I became enamored with the sweet little nuggets of poop-inducing fruit. I love prunes, prune juice, baked goods containing prunes, prunes in any form.

I only have had one bad experience with prunes before yesterday, and that is during a time in which I was eight years old. I was snacking on some prunage when I came across a prune pit that quickly became lodged in my throat.

“Gack.” I waved my arms wildly.

My dad looked up from his paper, mildly interested. My mom looked at me disapprovingly and intoned, “Stop making that awful noise, Jennifer.”

“Gack. Gack.” I waved my arms, turning a lovely shade of crimson, slowly choking to death while my parents stupidly sat there like morons.

My dad looked up from his paper again and began to understand the gravity of the situation.

“I think she’s choking.”

No shit, Sherlock. “Gack.”

To his credit, he finally rushed from his chair, and instead of performing the Heimlich Maneuver, which would have been too easy; he picked me up, turned me upside down, and began to shake me violently.

“Gack! Gack! Gack!”

Finally the prune pit dislodged along with everything else I had eaten that week, and order was restored to the kingdom of Trance.

So, there was that.

This week my mother bought me an extra-jumbo-sized bag of prunes because she knows that I love them (and also for their poo-encouraging properties).

I took them downstairs into the Trance Cave and started to eat a few whilst watching a Lifetime movie and damn, they were good, and I must admit I was having visions of poo, since I hadn’t gone in about a week.

God, I have gastrointestinal issues. I freaking dream about poop.

Anyway, I sort of lost track of time, and before I noticed what I was doing I had eaten about a third of the bag.

This is equivalent to taking about five maximum-strength Ex-Lax pills.

I wasn’t too worried, as I am the Anti-Poo Queen, so I shrugged it off, warned the J-Man not to eat my prunes (he is a Super Pooper), and went on about my business.

About two hours later I was to face what the impolite among us would call a veritable shitstorm.

I, however, will be couth and refer to it as “severe gastrointestinal distress”.

Let us just say that I finished three Time magazines in the john.

The allure of prunes is strong, people, but do not lose control. Trust me.

Trust me.

In other news, I received several gift certificates during the Weetacon raffle, and my daily e-mail has been forcing me to shop. I get e-mail from Amazon, Macy’s, Target, you name it.

So, I shopped. I bought some new lotion and hair conditioner and soaps. I bought two pairs of cute wedge heels from Target. I bought Wendy McClure’s and Jennette Fulda’s books from Amazon. I also bought a weight loss book from Amazon recommended by my friend Christine that promises not only stellar workouts and a great diet plan but AMAZING SEX! and a SEVEN (Note: I was wrong – it’s FIFTEEN) MINUTE ORGASM!!

Can you even fucking imagine a seven (fifteen) minute orgasm?? I must admit that this is the primary reason I bought the book (shut up, you would too), because the very thought was so tantalizing. Still, I’m not sure that I could even handle seven (fifteen) minutes of orgasm. I think I would pass out mid-way. Sorry, no more orgasm for me, I’m done. Too much orgasm! Must sleep now.

Seven (fifteen) minutes. I feel I must call shenanigans, but we shall see. Not that I’m actually sleeping with anyone at the moment to test this theory out.

Wouldn’t a seven (fifteen) minute orgasm scare a man half to death??

“JESUS, isn’t she ever going to STOP???”

Heh.

Internet marketing is so fucking aggressive. I’ll bet I get thirty e-mails a day from stores begging me to shop, offering me promo codes and discounts. It’s enough to drive me mad, because I WANT I WANT I WANT.

Sigh. Where’s that winning Powerball ticket when I need it?

If you have it, help a sistah out.

Happy Tuesday.

Hola! What’s shakin? What’s poppin’? What is going on?

This entry is brought to you by Maxwell House, coffee of the cheap. Guess what – it still fucking works like a charm.

I only lasted a half an hour on the treadmill this morning, primarily because I had a couple of beers last night. I have learned that beer + treadmill = not compatible. Even though I have become a Smart Drinker and down a glass of water after every beer, thereby lessening the chance for a hangover by about a zillion percent, I don’t eat as much these days and have found that I still feel a little crappy the next morning, even after very few beers.

God, you’d almost think I would have to stop drinking.

HA HA HA HA HA HA

Right.

Anyway, something rather interesting has popped up in my life, in the form of an ex that I honestly thought I’d rather eat rat poison than speak to again.

I got a text last week that read “Hey.” It wasn’t from anyone in my contacts, so I was rather confused, but I texted back, “Hey. Who is this?”

No response.

Being a curious sort, I looked it up on the net, and found the city that the number came from. It was the city of my ex, who I had deleted from my contacts with much venom and prejudice.

“Why didn’t you just tell me who you were??”

Anyway, we wound up texting back and forth for quite some time, and he was extremely apologetic for having been a sincere and major ass, and well, he asked me out.

I probably could have told him to fuck off – which actually was my first instinct, but I decided – more out of pure morbid curiosity than anything – to say yes, on the condition that it was not a date.

We made plans for Friday, plans that then had to be canceled on account of him barfing at work, but we texted all weekend.

I’m still not sure what to think about all this. This is someone who hurt me, and I don’t necessarily want to let him off of the hook all that easily. Still, he’s apologized about a frillion times, and I’m not one to hold a grudge.

I suppose I should just enter into this with extreme caution, bearing in mind the adage, “Screw me once, shame on you, screw me twice, shame on me.”

We shall see.

In other news, the J-Man and I went to see that new Red Riding Hood movie yesterday. It was pretty good, moderately gory for a PG-13 rating, I thought, and sort of melodramatic (“KEEEEL THE WOLLLLF!” Gary Oldman, you’re a bit over the top); but not bad, and the J-Man really enjoyed it.

There was one part involving a cute little fluffy bunny that gave me much pause, but I won’t spoil it.

In other news, I’m horribly addicted to bad Lifetime movies again. I had sort of overcome this addiction for a while, but now that we have Comcast we have Lifetime Movie Network, which shows the fucking things 24 hours a day, fueling my addiction to previously unheard of heights.

I have a Problem, people. This morning one was on that featured Susan Lucci and I was so excited I nearly peed myself. Lifetime AND Susan Lucci? Bonus!

The other night I taped one (GAH) with Heather Locklear (whose legs never age) starring as a highly delusional cuckoopants who imagined an entire family for herself and killed two people.

I don’t care who you are, that’s good TV.

I am off like a dirty shirt to go and wash my dirty shirts.

Happy Monday.

So, Weetacon. Weetacon was awesome and fun and full of good friends and many, many beers and excellent times, and I will refrain from getting all cheesy on it and naming everyone individually and calling out all of their delicious star qualities because well, it would take all damned day; but just know that I could.

Know that I could.

I didn’t take a single damn picture because A) I am a slacker, B) I mostly left my camera in the suitcase, and C) I prefer to Experience the Event; and for that I am sad. I am hoping someone got a photo of me in my Very Bad Dress, because it’s not often that I dress like a total hoochie mama and I feel that the moment should have been captured accordingly.

We packed a lot into the weekend, and it was thrilling but also exhausting, and I did have one seizure (thankfully up in my room), but during that seizure I scored big in the giant raffle we have every year (proceeds go to a local food pantry) and won a hundred and fifty bucks worth of gift certificates and a box full of Lush! Score!! So thrilling. I also won not one, but TWO trophies this year, for Best Dressed and Perfect Attendance, since I have been to every Weetacon. I never win anything, so I was so excited I almost peed on the rug.

I am always astonished by how well the event is planned, by how smoothly it flows and how all the activities kind of seamlessly blend into each other; and that is the result of a fuck of a lot of hard work on the part of Wendy Weetabix and family and friends, and man, do I ever appreciate it. I feel like I could never pull off such a crazy weekend with such panache. You folks rock.

It was good to see all of my old and dear friends, and I am of course experiencing major post-Weetacon depression due to the fact that I only get to see most of them once a year. So unfair. But there is e-mail and there are chat programs and well, there is that. And if you are reading I am nearly always available on Yahoo and GTalk. I am an internet whore available for the taking, baby.

I arrived home to a gaggle of cats who immediately pinned themselves to my clothing and humped my legs frantically. “You was gone? You go ‘way? You come back? You never leave again? Please please? You pet me? Pet me?”

My kid was happy to see me too, for about ten minutes, until he remembered that he had rented Kill All Motherfuckers or Zombies Eat Brains or whatever darling little diversion he’s currently into.

In other news, I need to clarify something: I am not running on the treadmill for a full hour! I do interval training, which is to say I vary between walking slow (3.4 mph) to walking really really fast – about 3.8-3.9 mph, and then I go a little faster and I run about 20 minutes out of that hour.

Since so many of you thought I ran the whole thing, today I decided to try to run the whole hour. (Lo, you have motivated me.) I jacked the treadmill up to 4.5 mph and ran my ass off, and I made it for 45 minutes before completely collapsing. Not bad for a filthy smoker!

So today at least, I was a runner.

It’s really fucking difficult to hop back on the treadmill after you’ve been eating pure cheese and grease and other assorted crap and drinking after not drinking for several months in Green Bay. Yesterday I about died and today was no better. I’m back to eating clean (except for a small taste of the cheese log I bought at the Mars Cheese Castle, how can one resist?), but my stomach is still in distress and I am feeling the effects of falling off of the wagon.

Now I really know how much better I feel when I’m eating right.

I know how much better I feel when I’m ingesting copious amounts of beer, too, to be sure; but I definitely can’t eat like crap anymore without paying for it.

Mmmmm… beer.

That’s all the news that’s fit to spit today. I think I deserve a nap after all that running.

Happy Tuesday.