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.

. . . Never Yield to The Apparently Overwhelming Might of The Enemy sir winston churchill

I am studying.



That is all.

You Can't Handle The Truth Behind The Fence

Overheard today by the husband and me while we were bird seeding the feeders as well as on poo patrol:

7-year-old friend of next door neighbor kid: I had surgery on my balls. ***completely stated as a matter of every day fact***
neighbor kid: ewwwwww.
the husband and I: ***uncontrollable snickering***

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

7-year-old friend of next door neighbor kid: who wants to see my big fat butt?
neighbor kid: Ido!

Kids are funny. I think if I had the time and if it wasn't almost 90-melting-degrees outside; I would have sat out there all afternoon obtaining free entertainment provided by the children next door. Who wants to pass up free laughter? These totally made my day.

Evil Is All Knowing

The absolute worst part about being sick, aside from the feeling that zombies are munching nicely on my brain, stomach, throat and eyeballs (though somehow they're not touching my adipose - - - - - life is so not fair), is no mouth to mouth kissy-time with the husband.







The best bit about being sick is the kisses one receives once the husband catches said nasty-crud virus too.

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I have no idea how the husband caught my zombie virus? Unlike the Volkswagen commercial, I did not lick the husbands face while he peacefully slept beside me. . . . .

I Know I'm A Handful

Want to know what is one of life's greatest little treasures?

Finding and reuniting with old very dear friends. I won't lose you this time around. Promise. I'll get rid of all my stilettos before it happens again.

All ya'll know who you are. I want to say thank you for having the patience to put up with me losing you in the first place. My solemn vow is to not do that again.

The Secret of Happiness is To Make Others Believe They Are The Cause of It ~ al batt ~

Right. I've been systematically Mrs. Grumpy McGrumpster-Pants on my last few posts here and, in thinking about it, that really isn't like me. It doesn't feel right on the insides either. My whole entire self-being is affected and that makes me even worse off than I was just being cranky.

So, like a duck, I'm just going to shake off my tired cranky pants and . . . . . . wait . . . . . .or is it a dog that shakes off fleas?

Whatever it may be that animals do in shaking the tree, I think I have a post here that will make you smile. Maybe. At least I hope it will. Without further ado. . . .

I made lunch for myself today. The husband is working; I'm not trying to not feed him as he doesn't need to become more and more like Skeletor each and every day that he is. He's not here, so I can't feed the masses. And, no, the husband is not "The Evil Lord of Destruction" or from another dimension either - he's a bike racer. Which qualifies him as a skinny leetol rascal; like Skeletor. Okay?

Digression is a disease of which I'll never be quite cured of. . . . .

Anyway, I made me a sandwich. And you need to understand that my sandwiches are usually elaborate, because I love my veggies, herbs and mustard between two pieces of bread. I'm good at creating melty-mouth sandwich goodness, but keeping it real. I am. You know, for health purposes. Since I'm not a huge mayo fan, I don't use it much, if at all. I like my heart. I like me. I like my life. I'd like to be around here for another decade or two. Vegetables can offer more flavor-flave than mayo can and . . . . .

I am not digressing!

Pfffft. Whatever.

As I was saying. . . . I've even put cold green beans and asparagus on my sandwiches. Those were go-ooood.

But today, as I was putting my sandwich together with mustard and turkey - thinking of all the fixings I was going to tackle - when I stopped and looked at my bag of potato chips*. . . . . . . I got a fleeting thought and grabbed onto it. . . . . . .

Where I then proceeded to mash them into my turkey sandwich with the crush of double fiber wheat bread under my palm.

I haven't done that since I was a wee kid. It made me unbelievably happy! I even smiled the whole way through my sandwich thinking of the days when my mom made us sandwiches and then we'd crush potato chips into them. My sandwich today wasn't as good as when I remembered as a kid, but it made me remember some happy times. We'd sing at lunch - "Yellow Submarine" was a popular tune back then. We'd babble on and on about a whole lot of nothing. I loved being with my mom and bringing her buckets of worms I'd dug up and out of the forest. She wasn't fond of them, but she never told me that nor did she ever mention not to bring her buckets of worms. She used to take us to the forest to draw. I'd eventually wander off to go catch her some more worms of wonder. We'd come back and eat sandwiches. I was so little. I was such a happy-go-lucky kid.

Come to think of it, I miss those times. If my mom lived in my state or I in hers, I'd bring her a bucket of worms.





What haven't you done since you were a wee one? Do you miss it?

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*Um. . . . . So, my chips aren't really chips. They're "Baked Ruffle Cheddar & Sour Cream" flavored pieces of cardboard. I can't totally eat like I was 7-years-old even if my knee looks like I am 7-years-old (yep. Still healing from my bike crash from back in the day. Want a picture?) Baked chips. Hmmm. Must. Watch. Waistline.

Was this cheating on feeling like a kid again?

And, When I Get Back, You're Going To Tell Me What Exonerate Means

A wee bit of fabulous advices from the one and only Texaconsin Diva:

When getting on the highway, especially in this Longhorn City of ours, you may want to consider going faster than 35-miles-per-hour. At minimum, a good consideration would be 65-miles-per-hour. If you should so choose not to do so, then understand it's your own death. Please do not take me with you. In the very least, get out of the way; otherwise, you need not be stepping foot on our Longhorn City highways unless you are a passenger who is bound, gagged and hog-tied to a post while some one else who commutes will follow and completely comprehend the laws, regulations and rules of Driving-and-Darwinism-on-Our-Texas-Highways.

In addition, if you should happen to pull out in front of me when you have no room to do so, do. not. slam. on. your. brakes. It was not me who pulled out in front of you. I was driving along minding my own business when, whoooaaahhhhhh(!), to my amazement, you almost hit my Coco Chanel, which also would have included smacking me. If you had done so, it may be wise to realize that I most likely would have kicked you in your peasy-a** head. It is here that I would very much like to point out that I have a very strong foot, which is beside the point, other than me kicking you in your noggin' would hurt. So, just think about it for more than, oh Iduuno, let's say, a fraction of a second before you pull out in front of me. Then, you don't have to be annoyed that I'm right there willing to provide your vehicle with a free enema service.

In other words, don't punish me for your brain damaged-ness.

One last item of the day . . . . . get off your frackin' hand-held phone when you are driving.










. . . . . . . . what? You think I'm angry? I am not the one driving as though my brain is missing from its cranial cavity. They are the twit-bag-arsehats causing accidents at every unforeseen circumstance. I'm not going to jinx myself, because really, fate has a way with toying with me, so I won't say anything about me and accidents that have not yet happened. . . . But why, oh why, are you making my daily morning commute so harrowing that I feel as if I live in fear of the Khmer Rouge itself?



Shoish! IamNOTfullofrhetoric. NoramIviolent. Really. I'm not.

The Good Stuff

I know. I know. I am a horrible, beastly blogger. My time is eaten up elsewhere these days and it is all I can do to read all my fabulous blogosphere friends' bloggie-blogs. In case you are all wondering, I am. I may skip over uber-long posts for time management issues, but I am here reading when I have's a moment. I think I've even managed to forget how to use Blogger. I keed. I keed. Tis funny no?

Anyhow, I won an award from TT of Paint and Spackle, oh . . . . . . .idunno. . . . . . like, a millenium or so ago. . . . . . and I never did properly thank her. She took time to think of me and my leetol blog here in my Longhorn City, but could I even return a "thanks, tt! You really made my mixed-up crazy day!"? No. And that's just not like moi. I wasn't kidding when I said my cerebellum is a puddle of ooze and leaking out my ear down to my non-stiletto clad feetsie's. And, no, I'm not a drama queen.

I never forgot, even if I never did say thanks.



Oh. Right. In the tradition of awards I am to pass on the love, so in no particular order, "and the winners are:"

Jay of Cynical Bastard
Alli of Brown Eyed Girl
Butterfly Girl of Butterfly in Disguise
Freakazojd of Freakazojd's Palace
ETK of I'm Just Sayin'
Mindy of Mindy Does Minneapolis
Princess Winnipeg of the Princess Diaries
Emmeline of Why the Sky is Blue
Ian of Ooh! Shiny
Tink of Pickled Beef
Alex & Fi
Real Live Lesbian



(<------------ everyone's links are over there; check 'em out if you have yet to do so) I realize that some of you have already received this award. In case you have, please know that you are 2x's Most Excellent and then some! Someone else may have beaten me to it, but you're my staples in this here world of ours. Thanks for letting me peep in on yours every now and again. Pick up and enjoy your awards.




Later, gators. I will be back for more - most likely when I'm not a zombie princess. Promise.