Merry, Merry and Happy, Happy

Hmpf. Humans. I am Chobie.

Happy Christmas & Merry Holidays to all y'all! 

The husband is working for most of the night this evening. I'll be baking a coconut creme pie. From scratch. Then I'll be DVD'ing it with wine and, if I wish hard enough, maybe someone in a red fuzzy hat with matching suit and a belly that can shake it like a bowl full of jelly will bring me cupcakes!  

The husband will also be working Christmas day. I'll be at the zoo wishing all the critters who are far from home a very merry!  Then I'll be cooking a leetol bit for our Christmas dinner. . . . .

May you and yours find all the holiday cheer you want! 

Love is a Thing That Can Never Go Wrong

The husband & Dixie when we first adopted her

It's times like these that make the week. 

As some of you may have noticed, it's Christmas Holiday time. This week. So, it's all crazy-like around the city, state and nation. The husband has been on a night schedule for the last few shifts. He was home last night and even though I'm sick in the head with the pernicious Rhinovirus, I resisted the urge for much needed heavy doses of Nyquil. I tried to stay awake as long as the husband. This was hard. In fact, this was too difficult for my tired, snotty head. I psuedo fell asleep on the couch. . . . . .

The next thing I know, the husband is waking me at midnight with a bowl of freshly hand-popped popcorn, a couple of beers and a "Dr. No" DVD ready for "play". 

I made it until 1:30 AM. I have yet to finish the end of the very first "James. James Bond." But I fell a sleep with the hugest ear-to-ear grin this side of Tejas.

The Report of My Death Was NOT An Exaggeration

Something happened the other night at 4:03 AM. Something I never, ever, ever thought would happen. Something I definitely did not want to ever, ever, ever happen. Something I hope that will not ever, ever, ever occur again.

And I'm still supremely debilitated over it. Really. I am.

I was lying asleep completely dead to the world in my complete zombie mode. I faintly felt something run across my head. I heard a small thud as that something hit my pillow. I sat up in bed trying to realize if this was something dreamed, imagined or if a killer spider was on the loose. If any of you realize my terror of all things eight legged, then you comprehend that my heart was beating away at 250 beats per minute. This was not good. Trying unproductively to shake the sleep mode from my brain, I began tuning in my bat-ears, pleading to the gods that be to please make this a horrible nightmare; please don't make this be real. Please,please,please,please. . . .

That's when I heard it. A faint flutter. . . .

I screamed and hit the husband who happened to be lying right by me in his own coma induced sleep. I continued my delicate screaming, "OFALLTHINGSTHATAREHOLYTURNONTHELIGHT! TURNONTHELIGHT! TURNONTHELIGHT!" And, calmly without one iota of a question, the husband turned on the light. . . .

There, making freeway-like time towards the husbands head, on my pillow was a 2-inch long cockroach.

Yes. A $&%@'ing cockroach.

So, I did what any sane and very normal human being would do, I screamed bloody frackin' murder and forcefully threw my entire body off the end of our bed. Hitting the floor with a nice little thud. The husband whom had flown off the side of our bed, stood there, looking down at me and ever so serenely instructed me to extricate myself from my own entangled death trap on our floor to go get the toilet paper. I think I was back before he finished his request with the biggest wad of TP you could find this side of the Mason-Dixon Line at 4:04 AM.

Talk about traumatized. I mean, I'll just let all y'all guess as to how well I've been sleeping since then.

Wall-E's roach companion, Hal from Pixar Films. He is not my friend either. Death to all cockroaches. I mean, the thing has been hand squished and flushed down the toilet, but he's probably still alive. These things do pre-date dinosaurs by 70-million years and can live without its head for a MONTH. It's not natural.

Why Cats Are Smarter Than Dogs

I'm preparing for a bomb of different sorts today and it is not due to the fact that it is the husbands birthday. . . . .  Nope.  It is not that.  One of the dogs got into the cupcakes from the kitchen counter during the night.  Chocolate peanut-butter fudge no less.  

So, somehow and in someway one of our four-legged furries will be giving them back.  And not in a good form either. 

Birthdays, dogs and cupcakes.  I'm not sure they entirely go well together.  Thank the gods that be they don't know how to get into the vodka and wine.  

Folly of Oracle Verbiage

I just listened to a Louisiana po-po on TV say, ". . . being investigated for 'homo-side'. . . ."

Not, "hom-uh-sahyd" as it is properly pronounced, but "homo-side."

I have to say, I understand the Cajun/Louisiana accent. I do. I have worked with plenty individuals from the state that, unfortunately, gets hit pretty regularly by some awfully strong hurricanes. It, fortunately, was and still is strongly influence by a mixture of 18th century French, Spanish and African cultures. Hence a strong linguistic accent.

But really, in this day and age, you ought to try and not commit word pronunciation homicide.

I'm just sayin'.

Shopping Is Not Cheaper Than A Psychologist

I talked the husband into running the grocery errand with me after I was done with work.  He picked me up as usual and we headed to Central Market.  I'm making dinner tonight - it's baking while I type.  But this is besides the point. . . . 

I was at the grocery with my husband.  MY husband.  The one and only husband.  When I was approached by crazy men who decided that they shall strike up conversations with me.  

The husband thought it would be hilarious to walk away.  

And while all y'all think that I should have followed, I could not.  I was waiting for my order to be picked and wrapped.  

I was stuck.  

By myself.  

With a crazy man* asking me all sorts of questions, such as, "are you a nurse?" (I was wearing scrubs - I have to for my work) as well as "what are you making tonight?" and the ever obvious, "did you notice how cold it is outside? It's supposed to snow!"  Blah, blah, blah. . . . . (please strike me down with thunder. . .I mean, lightening - now.)

I tried to be polite.  

Do you ever get that really uncomfortable gut feeling?  

M'kay.  Need I say more.  

I found the husband, of course, in the wine section.  He was picking and choosing like he doesn't have a wife-who-monitors-&-reigns-in-the-ever-wine-loving-man-who-I-deem-the-husband. He was practically dancing around the entire section grabbing this and that.  I relayed my crazy man story.  

The husband just laughed.  Laughed!  At moi.  Hmpf.  Men.  

And then. . . . . it happened again with a completely different man**.  In the cheese section. Again, I tried to be polite.  Again, the husband walked away laughing.  

The husband is fired.  

*****************************************

*/**I'd like to point out here that these men were old.  Well, older than me anyway.  They were not some young hot tasty whipper snapper of a Rob Pattinson.  'Cos then I don't think the husband would have been so quick to walk away.  

I'm just sayin'.  

All The Running You Can Do To Keep The Same Place

Because my last post was so cool.

I now give you more geeky techno love:

No need to buy a separate GPS! A runner's, cyclists or any outdoor athlete's fitness dream. Powered by MapMyFitness - they had me at "hello" or maybe it was, "track your daily training data . . . ." Whatever the case may be, I was falling in love with a simple little gadget for my iPhone one more time this week. All the things I could do:

• Total Time
• Total Distance (in miles or kilometers)
• Pace (minutes per km/mile) or current speed
• Average Speed / Pace (km/mile)
• View your running maps directly on your iPhone
• Training Log including Distance, Calories Burned, Time, and Date
• Add Your Workout to Twitter
• And a partridge in a pear tree*
  

Imagine my excitement! I can instantaneously download and view my maps on the site or in Google Earth, post them on this here fantabulous blog (or website), email them to friends, or print them out for an event or group run, etc.

And, did I mention it was free? As in no charge for the application?! Blah, blah, blah. . . . Excitement. Excitement. Blah, blah, blah. . . .

So, I downloaded. I synced. I ran. Today. Close to 6-miles. With my GPS iMapMyRun turned on and in tow! While Britney Spears a cute little blonde's "Circus" new album was blaring in my ears. . . . . . . . (Huh? What? What's wrong? Motivation is key, m'kay?)

Anyway, an hour later, I doth return to plug in thy device from God Himself. . . . . . . . . . . . only to find that it didn't work.

What?!



It's supposed to be fab. It's also supposed to work. It couldn't possibly be the thing between the pavement and the iPhone, could it? Nah. Couldn't be. We'll see about next time. Stay tuned.



*No birds nor a tree are included. It's Christmas time folks, you think I'd honestly pass up getting some of your Scrooge McDoodge's undies in a bundle!

Snobs for the Snobby Snobbies

I'm still pouting over Facebook. If you missed reading as to why - look at my posting previous to this one. So in lieu of that stoopid technology, I give you what I have dubbed "really, really cool technology"*:

So that your phone could look like this**:

You don't have to be a wine snob to drink like a one.

That is all.

___________________________________________________________

*/**Because I give shout-outs when shout-outs are due, believe it or not, these images are not moi's. I know, I know. . . . . . . . . . . but they are from 9MMEDIA Blog and Digg. Check 'em.

@&#%$

I am in boycott mode of Facebook. It's stoopid.

You should know that.

So there.

That Soup is . . . . Sharp

I have a quick minute before I begin my marathon Christmas gift wrapping session. Because I've been neglecting all ya'll, I thought I'd post to say I'm still on planet earth. Some of you may have strong arguments as to this not actually being the case. To you I say "shoish up about that". I am too.

In my last post I mentioned I was "finished" and I am. Most of you guessed correctly - though vodka and cupcakes would have finished me it off nicely. I am still without cupcakes. Don't worry though, vodka is fully covered here in our home. Duh. Anyway, I am done with my Christmas shopping (that was completed way before millions of turkeys were sacrificed), my annual occasional perennial Christmas letter is written, printed & stuffed in their envelopes, which were hand addressed (big friggin' note to self: must obtain a computerized label program for next year & somehow will them to be inputted into the computer so I don't have to), all letters have been mailed and, finally, the house is complete with holiday decorations. Everything but the wrapping was finished before December 1, 2008. *Except Dixie, of course, found one of my gifts a bag of coffee beans and decided it would be a fabulous chew toy. A dog that is excitable if you barely bat an eyelash at her discovers raw java beans. I'll let you think about that one for a minute. . . .

***Jeopardy music*** (Feel my pain? Yes? Yes. No!? To quote Po, "it's gonna take a lot more than dew, and, uh, universe juice. . . ." than I thought.)

So, I believe I do have to go out to buy another bag of coffee beans. Thanks for that Dixie Doodles. . . You've made a liar out of me. I was done and now I am not. The life of being an owner of 6 four-legged furry one's. Never a dull moment. Ever.

So, I'm done.

And I'm happy, because this morning I got up at 7 AM. I got caught up on all ya'lls blogs. I went out in this 32-degree Fahrenheit weather and picked out a bakers dozen of bagels for the husband and I. Some will have to be frozen, I can't eat that much in one sitting, but it's good to think about eating that much in one sitting. Holey fat round holes of goodnesses with a schmear! Mmm.

But what has made me happiest of all this morning is the simple fact that I'm drinking coffee. With actual half-n-half. Bou-to-the-yah!

Yes, coffee. One cup. That is all it takes in my simple mind . . . errr . . . life. I'm immeasurably full of delight with all things coffee goodness at the moment. You see, since I joined Team in Training back at the end of October, I complete my runs in the morning. If, and I strongly stress "if," I have coffee before I run, I get to taste it twice. And not in a good way either. So, I've stopped my morning cappuccino's and occasional lattes. Cold turkey. But since today, Thursday, is my group night run, I get to wallow, bathe, immerse, saturate, steep and baptize myself in a morning coffee. If even it is a small one.

I'm off for some wrapping good times. I wonder if my day could possibly get any better?

Christmas Comes But Once a Year

Looking up

Yep. That is the husbands and my festivus for the restuvus. Vindi, veci, vassa! Or is it veni, vedi, vici? Pfffft. Latin. I should maybe think about sticking to my own language. One I haven't mastered, obviously, but at least understand. 

In any case, I have to say I am so very excited for Christmas this year. So much so that you would think that I am 5-years-old again waiting for Santa to come down the chimney to bring me all that which was built by elves! And some gum. Or vodka. Or cupcakes. Maybe all of the above?  Really, I'm not choosey. 

. . . .And. . . . I'm finished. I'll let you guess as to what is finished. 

Do you hear what I hear?

Intermission

At the Top of Oratorie St. Joseph
Originally uploaded by jlu007

Hi ya'll. You might have noticed, I'm taking a wee bit of a hiatus. I hope to be back sooner rather than later or not at all. Nothing is wrong. I've just got a "meh" momentary lapse of blogging. That is all. 

Did you know that the Collins English Dictionary will now be adding "meh" to its elaborate beautifully detailed explanations?   Pay homage to The Simpsons for that one.  

I miss you. I hope you are all well & happy.  

Bienvenue au Canada

Auberge du Vieux-Port
Me looking out our 4th floor window

The taxi the husband and I took from the airport drove through the city completely avoiding the highways. Curious as to why and thinking aloud in a whisper, "maybe he thinks as vacationing tourists we want to see the beauty of Montreal?" While glancing at my watch, I see that it's the middle of rush hour. Mr. Cab Driver had more practical ideas as to why he drove us though captivating neighborhoods instead of efficient highways. Me and my romanticism - the husband just smiled. After some time, we arrived at Auberge du Vieux-Port. It took my breath away. The room was even more intimately alluring. If it is even possible, I fell more in love with the husband while stepping into our room for the next three days.

Finally, I can't resist sharing a bit of history regarding Auberge du Vieux-Port. Rumor has it that Auberge is where "Suzanne" took Leonard Cohen to her loft by the river and fed him oranges and tea "that came all the way from China". Suzanne is actually dancer Suzanne Verdal who is no longer alive, but left immortal due to Cohen's love song of the same name. A precious relationship which produced a highly acclaimed piece of art. And also took me back to many memories growing up in a household that played Leonard's music during family dinners, parties and anytime the TV was off.

So far it was a fantastic start to our much needed vacation.

. . . more pictures to come . . .

I Once Wanted to Become an Atheist, But I Gave Up - They Have No Holidays h. youngman

I thought to myself, "self you've never made a silk floral thingy maybe you ought to try." Besides, it's got to be cheaper than paying someone else to do it. So, I began to scheme. I also threw in a little bit of design. Then I went to purchase silk floral items list in hand. To which I found myself staring at a bill that was just under $3.1M . . . . .

Right. Great idea to make this festive holiday item myself. It took many hours, a phone call to a floral designer (thanks mom!), a few hot glue gun burns, 2 trips to the craft store and a somewhat pseudo hole permanently burnt into my pocketbook. This is the end result:

World's Most Expensive Wreath

It wasn't cheaper, it took loads of my hours, I physically hurt myself (melted glue is hot and I do not highly recommend you place it on your nail bed at the exact place nail meets skin) and I'm not sure the end result is even remotely pretty.

So, after showing the husband my triumphant national-debt-expense, he replied with some oh-la-la's and a kiss. Awesome man the husband is! Then, just I was about to hang it outside he mentioned, "I wonder how long it will take before someone steals it?" As people have been prone to do with our front yard pretty things. Gah.

I never said brilliance was my forte.

Bonjour

Whose broad stripes and bright stars thru the perilous fight,
O'er the ramparts we watched were so gallantly streaming?
. . . .wait. . . that's our version. . . .
But I am standing on a rampart that surrounds old Quebec City. The only remaining
fortified city walls in the Americas north of Mexico.
And, we walked on them.
Now, that's cool!
(the fountain you see is in front of the National Assembly of Quebec)

Sorry for the brief intermission. The husband and I went on a vacation. We are now back in our Longhorn City in tow with 1,298,376,457 pictures. Sorta. Might be more like 500, but I've still got to review and edit the worthy one's so it might as well be 1.3 million. For serious.

That said, I've also have loads of travel tips for you. Such as the highly helpful, "do not pack for an 8 day vacation after one has consumed 2.5 bottles of wine oneself". Be ye not so stoopid. One doesn't tend to exactly know what one has packed. Stilettos are not a good item for a 5 to 6 hour walk a day. I'm just sayin'.

I have more bits of brilliance, but unfortunately, today will not be the day you get my moments of exceptional clarity. I don't have the time right at the moment, though I wanted my 7 readers to know I've been thinking of all ya'll. Mwah!

Au revoir et salut! At least until next time. . .

A Sphincter Says, "What"

Two knees. One diagnosis.

I have Patellar Chondromalacia. I also have Patellar Subluxation. In both knees. Granted one knee is a bit more famboozled than the other, I'm not going to mention any names left knee, ahem. . . . but they each have their degrees of severity.

You may think that I've won something uber fantastic, such as the lottery where I will sleep in $1,000 bills for the rest of my life. And, really, what rich folk does not do that luxurious behavior? Sadly, no. This is not the case for me even with such fancy-schamncy labels. Chondromalacia means I have inflamed cartilage, like arthritis, but instead of the degeneration which comes with arthritis, chondromalacia is thought to be capable of repair. It is also known as "Runners Knee." Hm. . . . Drat. Anyhow, subluxation means my knee cap doesn't glide properly in the groove it was made for; instead it's being pulled toward the outside of my knee.

So, I now know the reason as to why I had to quit my half-marathon training last year. Both cause some annoying pain, especially with physical activities.

Do not despair though. Good news can be found in all this. With a bit of physical therapy all should be cleared up and ready for more marathon training, hopefully by the end of the October month. Which is when I am supposed to begin my marathon training for Team in Training. A cause that is bigger than myself.

Can I get a whoot-whoot-huzzah?!

In other world news, the husband decided to tangle with a tree on a mountain bike trail at high rates of speed the other day.

The tree won.

I think trees always win. It's in their nature to not lose. Unfortunately, I can't say the same for the husbands face. We are like two old biddies sitting around comparing aches and pains. . . Okay, the husband doesn't gripe. He just looks like a cute in da face Frankenstein-wanna-be.

Have a great weekend, my seven readers. Don't hit your face on any trees. In fact, I'd recommend not hitting any part of your body on any tree. It hurts.

If I Had Only Known, I Would've Been a Locksmith

I swore I'd never write anything work related on this here blog of mine. However, I feel it deep in my inner most bones as my civic duty to edumicate thy masses. Besides, promises were meant to be broken so they tend to tell me.

Actually, I will not be ye so stoopid - I, at least, won't say where I work.

But I will say this, if you have found it absolutely necessary to do a heavy man encrusted workout before you walk into my room for any sort of therapeutic body massage, for the love of God, please, please, please shower. Rinse off your soaking wet, unpleasantly liquid-esq body that happens to be infused with a steeping sense of odor.

I solemnly swear to not touch the by-product of your apocrine glands.

Also, if you deem it fashionably chic to wear your fraternity boy boat shoes without the glory of your God-given right to wear socks, have the inclination, in the very least, to wash off your variety of saprotrophic micro-organism encrusted feet. I do not particularly like feeling as if I have stepped into a dermatophyte fungi convention even if you are not moldy. By the way, is your olfactory system out of order as well?

I solemnly swear to not touch your smellerella feet.

Finally, while I may view bodies close to being completely nekkid, it does not mean that I want to watch you get undressed. I am not in attendance at a "gentlemen's club" and I will not be throwing money into your tha-dank-ka-dank. So, I only ask that you wait to disrobe until I am safely out of the room with the door shut. It is imperative that you then climb under the top cover of the table sheet.

You are not the husband and I do not want nor need to see all of thee.



Legal Schmegaleese: You have been edumacated. This has been an exclusive public service announcement from your friendly Texaconsin Diva also known as Jen. Thank you. For more views on massage therapy - notice I am not a masseus by any measure or means necessary and I would greatly appreciate you not refering to me as such - please send in your written requests, comments, remarks or observations in the "comment" section of "Tales".

Elvis has left the building. At least until next time.

You Are Only Given a Little Great Spark of Madness

So, I was on my way to the doc's office today when I fell behind a vehicle with this bumper sticker:

I LOVE MY WIFE

As opposed to what . . . . .

Then I looked over to my left where I see a lady riding on the back of a motorcycle. She wore a sweatshirt, mind you it was on backwards. I suppose this is not very odd in and of itself, I mean, obviously she was chilly. However, she put the hood up over her face as they drove off for the highway . . . . .

At the doctors office I received paperwork as one normally does. I sat down in a very empty chair with a very empty chair next to me. I, obviously, was in what used to be one very empty chair and I placed my book, "The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo" and my purse on what used to be the other very empty chair next to mine. Promptly, as if on cue, the lady with the AARP card who had been arguing with the receptionist about her AARP card, tuned and snapped at me, "CAN I HAVE MY CHAIR BACK!" With no intonation of a question at all. I think I turned 50 shades of red and mumbled an immediate apology along with feigning ignorance about not knowing she was sitting there while I tried to gather up my things before her bottom hit. To which she replied, "well, no. You wouldn't know I was sitting there, because I wasn't sitting there" . . . . .




Is it Freaky Friday? The day has only just begun . . . . .

The Trouble With Eating Italian Food is That Five or Six Days Later You're Hungry Again g. miller

I am a geek.

Reason as to why I'm a certifiable geek? Well, here's another three for the already long listing record:

1) While driving to the grocery in my non-Coco Chanel car today, I turned down Cold Play to listen to the purr of the Italian engine of a sleek and beautifully black Ferrari in front of me.

2) Then pathetically attempting to catch up to the sleek and beautifully black Ferrari in my non-Coco Chanel car so I could continue to listen to that beautiful purr.

3) Finally, being redundantly overexcited when the sleek and beautifully black Ferrari got caught at a turn lane light right next to me, so I could hear those Italian cylinders purr quietly one last time.

. . . thereupon I immediately went back to Cold Play and the grocery. I don't think Chris Martin would've minded.

I've Got a Clue So I'm Sticking With You

If you were a hug, I'd be a kiss

Happy 4th Anniversary
I love you

He'll Make You Silky Smooth

This is only good thing to come out of
"You Don't Mess with the Zohan":

That is all.

Quietly & Safely Insane Every Night of My Life

I had a dream the other night.


My four-legged non-opposable thumbed dog, Chobie, was climbing a tree in our backyard. I have not a clue as to why my deliciously adorable Keeshond decided to climb a tree? He just did. Unbelievably, he was really very good at climbing a tree until he got about 4-feet off the ground where he slipped and fell. Chobie hit the mother earth with a "thump". He wasn't hurt, just a little stunned. While the dog remained lying on his side in the grass the husband turned to face me and in his matter of fact manner said, "well . . . that serves him right for climbing a tree."


And, that was that.

Waiter, Get Over Here - No, Not You . . . The Young One

Back on campus after 15 years.

Felt a bit cougar-ish when a couple of collegiate boys turned their heads when I passed on by. Which quickly disappeared as soon as I walked into a room full of academe girls. . . . Who looked directly at me as if I had willfully and spontaneously birthed three mutant heads out my left ear as I killed the czar and his ministers.

Mind you, I was stylishly wearing my stilettos. I mean, I do have charming toes.

Geesh.

Things Could Be Worse, You Could Be Ugly & Clean Septic Tanks

We seem to be getting a bit of wind and a little rain here in our Longhorn City. Hurricanes have not been a bother to us being so far north inland, but we do get residuals.

Speaking of leftovers. . .

Since the husband had yesterday off, but due to stoopid schedulers scheduling a full night beforehand he had to sleep all day, he took me out to dinner at one of our favorite local jaunts. A happy Texaconsin Diva I was! We actually got to sit down and enjoy our time, ordering sporadically the appetizers, the salads, the main courses and the desserts. Let us not forget the wine either. Of course there was wine, are you crazy? Four-and-a-half hours we got to eat, drink and take in awesome conversation with one another. It was all very European-like and super fantastic.

Tables came and went all around us. We were in our own world and occasionally, as it goes when you sit too close to someone, one might have occasion to "walk the dog" as the husband and I call it. So, here we are enjoying our time, when - for the sake of being polite, let's call them girls - came in for a table of eight. Already completely inappropriately dressed (a bit of Diva advice here: I realize you don't speak Prada and this is okay - it's not a common language, but and even more important is the fact that less is not necessarily more) and obnoxious, they ordered, they ate and they drank. Fine. Such is life at a restaurant.

In doing so; however, they must have a person who takes their orders. Our favorite guy was unfortunately assigned to this gaggle of wretchedness.

Some time later I heard, "So, like, do we get the hurricane refugee discount? Cause, I like, am a ref-you-geee." Which left our waiter man as well as myself completely and utterly flabbergasted. Composing himself, he replied in his perfectly delectable Italian accent, "I don't know. I'd have to check. Are you are a hurricane refugee?" Her friends chimed in with a resounding "yes!" Then she continued, "I can show you my I-Dee. It says I live in Tenness-eee, but I like live in Lou-eee-si-anaaah."

***blink, blink***

The girl did get out of paying her bill when clearly she was not a refugee of this current hurricane. Seriously. I would like to know why you seem to think that if you cannot pay your bill why you would eat out? And then, on top of that, play the whole "a hurricane ruined my life card" when you are not that person? I am overwhelmingly sure Beelzebub has a special place in his broken down palace waiting for you.

The husband and I left a couple hours later and we offered to pay her unpaid bill, but we were given complimentary port instead.

Does This Monitor Make Me Look Fat?

Stoopid schedulers of the husbands work. . . . I mean, that it is nice to actually give him a holiday off, but make him work the entire graveyard shift the night before you give him a day off. That makes total sense, right? Right!

Wrong!

'Cos then on his day off he Will. Sleep. All. Day. Duh.

No wonder this couple in this Longhorn City has no idea what a holiday actually is.

So, thanks for making me go clean on a holiday, thanks for making the husband sleepy for the day and, last, but certainly not least, thanks so much for your consideration. We have learned that in order for the husband to get the day off requested by him we have to specify to not make him work graveyard the night before (it is here that I would like to note to my seven readers, that today was not a "request off" made by the husband. It was an assigned holiday "day off" by the scheduling company.) You almighty smiters. One too many times he's asked for a day off and you give him the night shift before that day off. We are on to your wiley ways. . . . oh yes we are. And, we will be sure to not make the same mistake 5x's.

For serious.

I Will Swallow Your Soul

I found myself in the desert. Wearing my fatigues. Training to defuse a bomb. My heart was pounding with such a force that I felt it vibrating in my head. My hands were more than slightly shaking. I reached out for the Sprite can - the explosive at hand. Gently, deliberately I turned the mouth of the can north knowing it would work. It had to. People would be hurt if I did not accomplish what I had been trained for months to do.

I remember relief.

And then sprinting. Hard. I had never run as hard in my life as I was in that instant. We were being overrun. But by whom? My legs were in the beginnings of fatigue. I recalled they were yelling at us. A foreign tongue. I could not; did not want to understand. What happened? What was going on?

Later, at the sound of their voices, I snuck down some stairs. I heard their commander giving orders, I pointed my weapon the green laser grazing his body. Their red pointing back. I yelled into my partners radio, "bring the rain!" Realizing how out numbered we were, we started to ascend back up the stairs. Only bringing commotion.

"Hide" was my only thought. My only way of surviving.

Behind the concrete stairway I was thinking this not enough to conceal me even masqueraded in camouflage. I could hear my heart again. I felt the blood falling from my face. Where was their night vision? Then came the screams. They were unbelievable and unreal. Their shrieking sounded "dead". Deafening. Each one pierced my soul deeper than the last. Crouched where I was I took a peek at what was to come.

Suddenly, one of the foreigners jumped over the counter. My scream matched the others.

Commandos jumped into their holes. All others were not forgiven nor spared. Those who had no hole had nothing left. Nothing. I dared not breathe. Terrified to be found until they left. I could not determine where to dig my hole. And, as God as my witness, I searched for that place to shovel. I had nowhere.

I became fearful. The hairs on the back of my neck felt it. The other commandos emerged from their holes, picked me up and told me to run. Run like hell and do not stop. I stayed in the crowd hoping to be safer in numbers. My eyes had told me differently. . . . .

******************************

. . . . I awoke with a jump. My heart pulsing just as fast as in my dream. With a shortness of breath I realized I just had a dream of battle. Are you kidding me? Me? Battle?

Do you think I may be watching the husband play his XBox 360 war games a little too much lately?

I Thought I Smelled Jewerly

As many of you may or may not have perceived, I've been stressing lately (and not so mildly), but I can put that all behind me as of this morning. I passed my national boards. I am now an official licensed Massage Therapist in 25 states, including Puerto Rico. That's kinda cool, I think.

My seven readers may also be wondering what I did to celebrate my passing test score? Well, I took my newly licensed bum went into the backyard and performed poo-patrol. . . .

Exams and poo. My life in eight sentences. Somehow I'm missing wine, vodka and cupcakes.

Life is Just One Damned Thing After Another elbert hubbard

My prevailing life in pictures:

Very studious.

This is what a notebook looks like when one
fails miserably on their practice exams.

Once you get over the shock and horror of my first attempts at genius-ness; try, if you will, to notice the re-takes on the bottom 1/2 of the page. Really,I'mnotaduncecapwearer. Promise!

Dinner table converted.

Yes, that was my dinner last night.

What?!
One cannot get more gourmet than Diet Mt. Dew and Craisons. Geesh.

Anyhow, that's me in three photographs.

For the past week, this has been my life sucking vampire and this is how it shall be for a bit. My dinner may change from time to time, because, truth be told, I don't really like soda (I know, blasphemy!) and I'd really rather have a glass of wine and a cupcake. But I don't have a cupcake. Wine is a different story, but the main focus here is to study. And that I am.

With that, I have successfully avoided studying for 28-minutes & 32.7-seconds. The devil is pulling me back.

I bid you adieu.

It's Hard Enough To Find Your Way Around Chinatown

P.S. I threw the black bean sopa down the disposal.

I went mountain biking for 2-hours with the husband and another couple today. I did not break my face.

Although, you could have wrung me out like a soaking wet washcloth a few times and then some. The weather channel said it's 103-degree Fahrenheit here in our Longhorn City, but the heat index said it actually feels like 107 outside. I gotta tell you - it does. For serious.

I Consider Buttering My Bread Cooking

So, like. . . I'm taking a break from me studiousness. But now I am wrenched with a vex. "Why," might you be asking, am I irritated? With myself, of course.

Since I have been le fini with school, I've been cooking at home. A passion of mine that I love to do. I've missed it for 6-months and I'm entirely sick of eating out. My waist line is unhappy with me over all this eating out too. In the end, I would rather have a home cooked meal than a restaurant meal anytime, anyplace, any day. My last weeks cooking has consisted mainly fresh fruits and vegetables. Speaking of which. . . . have any of you realized how expensive said items are now at the grocery? Holy cripes! Though, this is not why I am irritated.

I am bothered due to my latest creation. Just over 24-hours ago I began to cook a pot of sopa de frijoles negros. AKA: Black Bean Soup. High in fiber and low in fat. Awesome! Directions are as follows:

Soaking: Place beans in a large pot, cover with 2 quarts of water. Allow to soak over night, or at least 8-hours.

1. after soaking, drain water, add 7 cups of water
2. bring beans to boil, reduce heat and simmer uncovered for 2-hours
3. in a skillet, saute onion, pepper and ham*** for about 5-minutes
4. add mixture to bean pot. Simmer uncovered for 1/2-hour
5. add contents of seasoning packet. Simmer for additional 1/2-hour

I followed the directions to a "T" minus the ham. What's the problemo you ask? Well, I ask it too! The beans are still as hard as a rock. Hard. As in my dog(s) wouldn't even eat that. Blehck.

To be honest, I did somewhat deviate from the recipe as I was reading yesterday on the Internetz, ". . . Some people blame beans for intestinal distress. It actually isn't the fiber in the beans that causes gas but a sugar that requires an enzyme to be digested, which humans lack. When soaking beans, add a pinch of baking soda to the water. It will help leach out the sugar from the beans, making you less gassy after eating them. Also, to avoid the sugar, don't cook the beans in their soaking water. . . " so, I added a pinch of baking soda and didn't cook them in their bath water.

Does anyone know if adding baking soda will cause a hardening of the beans? Have I done wrong? I was only trying to help my as well as the husbands intestinal distresses.

Um. One more thing. I just checked my second time around simmering soup. Not only do the beans continue to be hard enough to load in a BB gun for ammo, it appears that my genius-chicken-instead-of-ham-idea has turned a tasty looking purple. Yep. You read that right. The chicken is now freekin' purple.

Pffft. Stoopid bean sopa.




*** I exchanged the ham for chicken. Brilliant! Mucho healthier, right? Hmpf. If you have not already, please re-read the 2nd to last paragraph above. I see now that there is a reason pig instead of fowl is used. Whatever.

I'm going back to studying. . . le sigh.

So You Think You're Einstein

I am studying.

That is all.

A Very Boring Post

. . . . it's very weird to me to not have to be somewhere by 8:00 AM. Almost 6-months of regiment and I don't know what to do with myself now that it's gone?

I have loads and loads of studying to do for my licensing. But who wants to do that on their first day off of class and/or internship? Besides, I continue my wonderful tension headache that started yesterday afternoon before the husband took me to dinner to celebrate. The food was great, the company even better, but my head was not. Unfortunately, it's still not very nice. Bad headache. Boo.

What shall I do today that doesn't involve me climbing back into bed to rest my big fat head?




I'm a poet & didn't even know it. . . . Tee hee

Two-Faced

A sentence about "The Dark Knight":

It should be tonight's entertainment. "You either die a hero or you live long enough to see yourself become the villian. . . . "

Okay, that was actually 2 sentences. Who's counting when even Rotten Tomatoes gives it a 94% fresh? It was more than just entertaining! It was yummy! I can't even get into Heath Ledger's portrayal. He was full of delectable evil. Then again, each one of the characters in this flick added more than their names to it. It is a must see.

Fantastic!

It Pays To Be Obvious, Especially if You Have a Reputation For Subtlety isaac asimov

Apparently, my reputation precedes me.

While in class today, my Advanced Business & Ethics instructor pointed out that if something you don't know how to handle happens, call . . . Jennifer . . . or at least she's going to call me. And then she laughed. Laughed. Semantics-schemantics: Jen's been there. Jen's done that. My classmate had to immediately chime in, "that's no joke ya'll! I just called her yesterday!"

I don't think that is necessarily a good thing.

I told all ya'll that if weird schutff is going to happen, it's going to happen to me. All you have to do is just read this here blog. This leads me to wonder, why am I such a sheet magnet?

Justifications appreciated.

More Shepoopie

So, I haven'ts been around for a wee bit. This is well known and not what I'm going to delve into. I'm still around. Still kicking the pig. . . .

I will say this, "stoopid people scare me."

*********************************************

To explain, because I know ya'll. If I leave it at that, you will want to know. So, to save computer trees and in a Texaconsin Diva nutshell, as nutshell as I can get, this is how it goes:

Driving home from my internship today I encountered my first road rage. I mean, I've run into others, but this is the first one where I was actually scared. For me. Really, really scared.

I had some young girl, whom apparently, I cut off (inadvertently). So bad was her anger, she chased me on the freeway. She was less than 2-feet from Coco's bumper widely displaying her two middle fingers at me to tell me how much I am number one in her world. At the same time that she's driving with her two eloquently extended middle fingers, she is screaming red-faced "F*CK YOU!" Over and over and over and over and over again. I got the message.

But I'm confused.

What has happened here? How had I wronged this girl?

I put up with her gesticulations and her madman screaming for a wee bit (read 7 minutes). Then I tapped my brakes - not enough to stop me or slow me down; but enough to make her want to get off my arse. Off my arse she did go, but instead of leaving me, she ended up driving next to me. I, once again, ignored her until I noticed her Honda Civic pulling over into my lane. Time and time again. She got so close I had to change lanes. I looked over at her and she's yelling, "pull over bitch! I'm going to kick your ass! PULL OVER BITCH!" I laughed and said, "You want me to pull over?" She was nice enough to display her two middle fingers again while shouting "YES, PULL OVER BITCH!" This was absolutely fantastic.

Notsomuch.

Her attempts to force me off the road only made me decide that I'd had enough and kicked Coco into 120-miles and hour in about 3-seconds.

I thought I'd lost her.

How wrong I was. Five minutes since I left her in the dust, she's on my arse again. Honking and screaming as well as running her two fingers at me. I made a decision and pulled off the nearest exit ramp praying she wasn't going to follow. How wrong I was. She never got more than 2-feet off my bumper. Honking widely. Gesturing fabulously. Completely classy.

I'm trying to call the husband to see what I should do. Should I call the police? Should I keep driving to nowhere? I couldn't get the husband on the phone. What do I do? I was, by this time, frightened. I don't scare easy. I'd half made up my mind to call 9-1-1. . . . .

I didn't have to call the po-po as she did that for me. I was pulled over as soon as I had exited the freeway. She pulled behind the police. I was visibly shaking at this time. He talked to her first & then walked over to me. She said I had almost run her over, but I mentioned that she never was in front of me, so that wasn't very likely. Then, I regaled the tale of her trying to drive me off the road. . . .and all that had really happened (I know there is her story, there's my story and the truth lies somewhere in between - say what you will, I'm too tired to fight).

He went back to her and had what I am assuming is a nice bit of a conversation; she pulled away with a nice little good-bye gesture to me. He let me go too, but not without telling me he told her that she needed to find a way to control her road rage. That she needs to be more careful of who she chases down in her car, because you never know who is behind the other wheel. And, what would have happened had she side-swiped me and her car flipped over or lost control? I told the officer of the law that I'm almost 40-years-old, I have no need to fight someone on the side of the road. He replied, "if it's any consolation, you would've taken her no problem." With that, he gave me a smile and a laugh and told me how to find my way back home.




Oh. Right. I almost forgot.

She also had a wee little child in the backseat of her Honda as Mr. Patrolman related this to me when he asked her how she would have felt had she actually hit the side of my car and flipped her vehicle with her child in the backseat?

Some parents should really obtain a license to have a child.

Top 10 Reasons Texaconsin Diva Has Been A Missin'

10. School + internship = 'nough said.

9. Backbreaking yard work with the husband. Butitlooksreally,reallypretty!

8. Cleaning up after Dixie. ***sigh*** But I still loves her so.

7. Thinking I'm 23 (I am NOT almost 40 - shoish!) and attempting a technical mountain bike trail route after not doing so for over TEN YEARS(!) I. Thought. I. Was. Going. To. Die. I'mnotkidding&I'mnotadramaqueen. I was scared shepoopi.

6. Going to massive amounts of the husbands bike racing races. He done good though.

5. Talking the husband into taking a scalpel to my arm to remove a thorn from one of the many mountain bike crashes I gracefully experienced on the "day-I-thought-I-was-going-to-die".4. Massive amounts of sleep from a thing called exhaustion.

3. Obtaining a very nice palatable entity called, "whiplash" when my instructor quack chiropractor decided that he could help my tension headache by cracking aligning my neck. Chiropractorsarenotdoctors.

2. Spraining my right 5th metatarsophalangeal (read: little toe joint) - twice. That was nice.

. . . . . .and the number 1 reason, I hasn't been blogging . . . . .

I've got nothing to say. For serious. The grey matter has leaked from my brain and out my ear. I no longer know how to form word patterns that include grammatical correctness'. Or there abouts.

By Fixing It, I Mean, Don't Be Making Up Days of the Week

So. Many of you have asked how my first day/week of massage therapy decided to go for me. In short, it went very well despite the fact that my very first massage client "no showed" on me. Yeah, they did. How nice is that? I was somewhat nervous (read: very), but in the end, it turned out to not be such a bad thing as it calmed me down for my next "official" appointment. I'm weird like that. I also, along the way got edumacated in a few things in the way of massage therapy.

The few lessons I've learned this past week include the fact, most importantly, that you just cannot please them all. Sometimes you are damned if you do and in the same breath damned if you do not. Just go forward and do the best that you can. I now completely understand how the husband feels on a daily basis. You try hard as well as think you do the right/best thing for people. Usually, they will turn right around and bite you in the a** if they can. People are weird, but they are just not worth what leetol sanity you may be clinging onto in this big ole world of ours.

Secondly, I learned that I can give a very, very, very, very deep massage. I did not think it possible that I could go deeper than I already do, but having the most fantastic husband on earth has its benefits. He has been my ever faithful "practice mannequin." And once again, he didn't let me down when I came home telling the tale of someone saying I did not go deep enough. Um. Ow. Please tell me in the session where I can do something about it - not after when I cannot do a thing to fix it for you. End lesson.

Anyway, in the same sentence, I made the husband jump on my massage table to dig my elbows, thumbs and forearms into his fantastically yummy bicycle racing body. My goal was to make him jump from pain. Yes, on purpose. I needed to know how deep was too deep. I'm not a big meannie to the husband. I am a scholar not a hater. I need to know this bit of important information. But . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . the husband feel asleep. Hard REM sleep. Not to be discouraged, I kept on working deep in the tissues of all that I know is the husband. He never jumped. He never woke up. But(!) I learned that I can give a very, very, very, very deep massage, because, I was very, very, very, very deep into the husbands bodily tissues.

Thirdly, ice is my friend. My very best friend.

Which leads me to my fourth and final lesson of the week, I can give three deep massages in one day. And, if it were certain that I could have two more clients who only wanted light therapy, you can be sure that I would be doing five massages in one day. I only give two right now with practice on the husband. This is equivalent to me weightlifting for two to three hours daily. I would sign up for more clients; however, unfortunately, you never know what flavor you are going to get booked with. The front desk tries their best to schedule accordingly, but if a light massage therapist is full and I have an opening, I am going to get that light client. I am completely okay with this as I am a deep massage therapist and having a break from deep would be graciously welcomed in my world. It is entirely possible to get five or more deep massages in one day if I were to open my schedule for that many sessions. Which would absolutely and undeniably kill me. It would. I'm not even being my usual drama queen self. I. Would. Just. Die.

I start up classwork again on Tuesday. Our Advanced Clinical Massage class is still going strong. Kinesiology and Pathology will be the newest classroom additions. Advanced Business and Ethics will be joining soon. I've also signed up to do two massages as soon as class is finished each day. My days will now be getting a bit longer.

And, to think, I am tired now. . . . .

If all ya'll don't hear from me much, it is because my cute little fingers can't lift themselves to type.




I have seven massages therapy sessions down. . . . . only ninety-three more to go. . . .

Put Your Hands Down Will You, You're Embarrassing Us i. jones, jr.

I've waited almost 20-years. . . .

I'm glad I did!

I Like to Think of Jesus as a Mischievous Badger cal naughton, jr.

The massage school I have been attending for almost the past 3 months has deemed it safe for me to start placing my magic hands on the public. Today is the day I begin that journey. In fact, I'm booked for my time today.

Wish me luck. Or my future clients luck. Whatever suits your fancy.

When All Else Fails, Read the Directions

So.

Mr. Gecko-Lizard-From-the-Wondrous-&-Deadly-Outdoors:

For four(4)-weeks I completely loved and protected you; gave you shelter in our home. Even while many a dog sought and found you. Include the wily cats whom also hunted and located your green leetol bum. I would pick you up and place you on higher ground. Always. I then banished my kitty to a separate room - for weeks. All in the name of safety for Mr. Gecko who found his way from outside inside.

I made sure you had fresh bugs for lively gourmet meals. I thought this was our unsigned agreement: you eat the indoor insects and I made sure that no one stepped on you. I also made sure to find you each and every day to be sure you were still alive and kicking. If I could not locate your scaly arse, I was deeply saddened - ask the husband, I was. I hadn't called the pest control man for fear of killing you with all things fumy. I did not mind you staring at me as I typed on my computer. If you fell, I gently picked you up. I cleaned your poo - and I have enough of that currently going on to last the rest of my life, believe me. I vacuumed up your shredded shedded skin. I found you heat and water. I let you sleep in my family room throw.

The husband helped sustain your life as well. He was like a pro-wrestler keeping the dogs at bay. Without us, you would have been bird food by the second week of your birth. For serious.

Yesterday, I almost stepped on you - curses to you and your chameleon-like ways. Obviously, this meant you were on the floor. So, again, I bent down to protect you from the hounds-of-hell - - - jaws that were just waiting for a good chomp of you. You were a bit squirrely as you had not had your coffee for the day either, but I managed to get you up off to higher ground. I then ever so tenderheartedly put you down. . . . . . . . . . .

. . . . . . . . where you promptly turned and unnecessarily bit my finger. Hard. Unflinchingly hard. You suddenly and unbelievably had a sustained spasm of your masseter muscle. I didn't even know geckos had such a thing, but you were strong, let me tell you. I could not get you to LET GO of my precious and, might I add, cute finger. For 5-minutes I pried and pried; where I only to manage to shred my own finger. That was not cool, Mr. Gecko. Not cool at all.

And, that frackin' hurt.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . outside you go, you little b*st*rd.

Warmest Regards,
~Jen-who-used-to-trust-geckos-with-her-life-and-finger(s)

P.S. To any beastly-evil-spiders that may be reading this message: while I may be tolerant of almost any creature who dwells in my home, you best hope the husband finds you first, b/c I will squish you into a pile of spider mucus without thinking twice about it. I hold a doctrine that determines my race is superior to as well as has the right to rule yours. Eight-legged-freaks, I will have none of it. So, beware - there is no lifeguard on duty for you here. Unless, of course, it's the husband. He has taken pity on your souls.

Cloak-and-Dagger

In case you hadn't noticed, I'm indisposed and will be even more so over the coming weekend . . . . more later.

In the meantime, because someone asked nicely,
here are a few photo's from the past week:

Opening a couple of birfday gifts.

Jen, this is your life.
One of the best gifts ever
was received when I opened this scrapbook made by my mom & dad.
[Can someone explain why one of my nicknames in the 1980's was Hair?
I just can't imagine.]


Lastly, things that make you go, "hmmm"?

I hope all ya'll have a super-fab weekend! . . . . .Definitely don't forget your mom's. If your mom is like my mom, then your mom rawks! Hugs to all the mom's out there. If you're interested, here's my tribute to my mom from last year. A new one will be forthcoming, but not until after this weekend.

My Dad Said You Were a Drama Queen

. . . . . running late for the early morning Sunday ride, the husband needs a lift in the truck. I'm not allowed to brush my hair or do anything remotely human-looking before driving the husband to meet 30 of his friends. Nothing. To make me look slightly presentable. With zombie breath in tow and my bewbies hanging to my knees - I just had a birfday, people - I jump into the driver side of thy truck. I'm a good sport. Mostly.

**********

. . . moseying on down the road; driving along in my automobile . . .

the husband: drive it like you stole it.
me: I just woke up and therefore it's probably a little dangerous for me to be driving like that ***wild-eyed abandonment***
the husband: ***snickers*** I know, right?
me: what are the chances that there is someone at the 4-way stop at this time in the morning . . . . . . who, I guess, isn't even going to bother to stop?
swerving around the old man whom, mind you, didn't stop at the 4-way stop himself
the husband: you're going to be turning right up here. . . .
me, slowing down to pull in behind old guy to make the right hand turn up ahead
the husband: punch it!
me: ***punching it*** that old geezer is thinking, "effing* kids these days!"

Come to think of it, maybe the old guy was late for the ride too? I mean, he turned so quickly at the 4-way stop, because, if you remember, he never even stopped, which in turn made him swerve into the other lane of traffic before righting himself back in front of me in my lane. B*st*rd.

Maybe he was just drunk. Double b*st*rd.

Finally, I'd like to finish by pointing out it was far too early for me to be pulling out my Kimi Raikkonen moves, which I flawlessly performed in a truck. But all's well that ends well. I'm safe and back at home with my hair now up in a pony-tail and my pegs are brushed. I can now go out in public. I'm safe. All ya'll are safe.

*technically, this is not exactly the word I used, but I'm a lady. So there.

Sarcasma

What would I rather be doing on this lovely Saturday other than . . . . cleaning. . . . ?

Hmpf. . . .





That's right, I'd rather be doing pretty much anything other than cleaning. I'm heading to the cat boxes as soon as I can let go of this keyboard. The husband is gone until late tonight. I'm bored. Making things spotless is not helping.


What are all ya'll doing today? Make me jealous.





***Though, as soon as I get the kitchen done, I am making my energy pancakes with fresh strawberries in a bright shiny new birfday gift I received from my awesome husband. Maybe I'll show pictures if ya'll are good. Maybe.

You Look Like a Monkey & You Smell Like One Too

It's my birfday and I'm going to eat macaroni & cheese.

I Pulled My Hammy Trying to Get You Out of That Hamper Last Time

A post for etk.

I was out for my run this afternoon, which considering the agony conditions of my illipsoas (ill-ee-o-so-as), my piriformis (peer-if-for-mis) and last but not least my quadratus lumborum (quad-ray-dus lum-bore-um) is in, I'm surprised I got moving at all. In other words, my entire lower back along with my bootay has twinges of aches & pains - always. It is not my favorite feeling. A bit like nails on a chalkboard. Of which, I don't enjoy that either.

You see, back in December of 2007 I injured my back by being a bonehead bicycle junkie. I rode 4.5 hours, which I know is not very strange in and of itself. But you need to comprehend (1) I hadn't ridden my bicycle in about 6 months for that long of a distance and (2) I was, unknowingly, in the wrong gear the entire time. And not the good kind either. The husband noticed this wrong gear as we were finishing our ride. It was about the time that I had hard-core bonked, so-to-speak. It was a moment of brilliance on my part. One that I had not noticed until it was too very late.

So, since that time, I've been to a few massage therapists, a doctor as well as trying my own bit of voodoo. Nothing worked. [I have since been studying "Myofascial Pain & Dysfunction: the trigger point manuals Vol. 1&2". Which is where I have discovered my calling. To do more clinical work with my massage therapy once I'm done with school. It beats working in a spa. I'm too loud and obnoxious for that. Clearly.

Anyhow, this is not the point of my post. I have never shied away from digressing, but I tell you all this to say that while time and some massage therapy along with bottles of Ibuprofen, my back is slowly getting back to semi-semi-normalcy. Not much, but a little.

Today, we had a substitute instructor for massage class. We were to study pre-natal massage, but when the instructor got to my bum all hell broke loose. It did. shoish!Idonotexaggerate! She spent 45-minutes working trigger point therapy on my a**. It was torment. I could barely get off the table when she was finished. It had to be done and I understand this. I'll explain why if anyone is interested in another post. I cannot deviate that far off the path. geeoish. [Oh. Right. I should also mention here that I am not with parasite child. No, no - nothing like that. We all were to lie on the pregnancy pillows to understand how they worked and felt while we received a massage that was to be similiar to a pre-natal massage. M'kay?]

Muscle spasms are not our friends. Neither is the zombie plague. Or barf.

I'm just sayin'.

Back to my run. . . . and the whole point of this post.

So, I still decided to take my joggie-jog today regardless of the pain in my arse. Miracle? I don't know, but while I was out and about I saw this

drive by me. It doesn't seem like much, does it? But(!) a memory from my time way down south came slowly flooding back to me:

One night, as I was single in the city, I stayed home. Shocking. I know. But every now and then a singleton needed their Friday nights in-house with a bubble bath, a good flick, some wine and maybe even a good book. So there I was alone in my apartment with the ever faithful Chobie (my dog, people. My canine.) For some reason, I decided at around 12:30 AM it was in my best interest to look outside. I really don't know why. I just did. Only to see my very, very, very, very, very inebriated upstairs neighbor get home.

Yes, he drove. Yes, he was in his Cadillac just like the one you see posted above. Yes, his carport was right. next. to. mine. ***bum-baaa-dum*** I was horrified. No, thankfully, he did not hit my cute and perfect little Subaru. I've got to tell you, opening a can of whoop-arse on a drunk-arse isn't so festivus.

Though, I did watch this crapulent sot man tumble out of his car and splat himself face first onto the pavement. He was a train wreck. You don't want to see it, but you can't take your eyes off it. He made several attempts at finding his feet on solid ground. Obviously, he was unable to do so. Instead, he crawled to his door handle, sat up on his knees and took another 5-minutes to find his key in the door lock. Once that was complete, he then decided to crawl across the parking lot and up three flights of floors to his apartment.

That was the way of things for this guy.

The next morning, I asked the front office for a garage.



The end.