tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-71350917720042226932024-02-02T15:20:51.902-06:00Tales From a Texaconsin DivaAn Amazonian Diva Who is Owned & Operated by a Little MenagerieJenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03584503437503775081noreply@blogger.comBlogger253125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7135091772004222693.post-31237110597943084392009-08-12T14:02:00.005-05:002009-08-12T14:33:31.121-05:00Sbohem<div align="justify">Well, I think it's quite obvious, three months later. . . . I blog no more. I never even started the so-called "private blog" back when I meant to escape an unfriendly. I didn't have the "ooomph". </div><div align="justify"></div><div align="justify"> </div><div align="justify"> </div><div align="justify">I started blogging back in 2004 or 2005, I can't quite remember. I did it initially to stay in touch with my family in the great white north & my friends who swelter south of the Mason Dixon Line. I never thought I'd make and meet the friends that I did throughout my time at Texaconsin Diva. It's been lovely. And fun. But somehow and someway I got fulfilled from something in someway. I love to write, badly as it may be, but I also love to share, even if it was too much at times. I also started to write not for me, but for my readers, which is not to say a bad thing. It's just that I wanted to quit long ago, but didn't want to let anyone down. No, no, your life certainly doesn't revolve around me and mine. I get that. I just felt obligated to keep on keeping on. Then I stopped. Suddenly. And out of the blue, when I checked my blog 3 months later & still had nothing to share or write, I knew it was time to leave "Tales of a Texaconsin Diva" behind. </div><div align="justify"> </div><div align="justify"> </div><div align="justify">Besides, <a href="http://pages.teamintraining.org/ntx/nikesf09/jluton">most of my extra time is spent in marathon training</a>. Yep. I'm at it again. One more for the road. For some reaon, which is only known to the Gods that Be, I just can't quit running like a girl. . . . . </div><div align="justify"></div><div align="justify"> </div><div align="justify"> </div><div align="justify">A great shout-out of thanks to those of you who came, read, supported and even felt compelled to comment every now and again. I've run my course here in this great blog-o-sphere of ours. I have enjoyed our time. But it is also time for me to fly. For some reason though, I'm still not able to fully close the door. You never know, I might just be back. . . . . </div><div align="justify"></div><div align="justify"> </div><div align="justify"> </div><div align="justify"> </div><div align="justify">With that, I bid you adieu. </div><div align="justify"></div><div align="justify"></div><div align="justify"></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#009900;"></span> </div><div align="center"><span style="color:#009900;"></span> </div><div align="center"><span style="color:#009900;"></span> </div><div align="center"><span style="color:#009900;">"Saying goodbye doesn't mean anything. </span></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#009900;">It's the time we spent together that matters, not how we left it." </span></div><div align="center"><span style="color:#009900;">(South Park, Tweek Vs. Craig, 1999)</span> </div>Jenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03584503437503775081noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7135091772004222693.post-50241957238210889132009-04-24T12:30:00.004-05:002009-04-24T12:37:42.689-05:00The First Amendment Only Applies<div style="text-align: justify;">. . . .when you <span style="font-style: italic;">don't</span> have a harassing stalker. . . . .<br /><br />Texaconsin Diva is going private, if you want in, you've got to ask, but you must also tell who you are (send your blog link, state your name and/or send money - I <span style="font-style: italic;">always</span> accept dinero. Duh):<br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;">jenjlu007@gmail.com <br /><br /><br /></div>Jenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03584503437503775081noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7135091772004222693.post-22441647730704215192009-04-17T13:38:00.003-05:002009-04-17T13:51:29.860-05:00It's Just Something I Know<h3 style="font-weight: normal; text-align: justify;" class="UIIntentionalStory_Message">Some days are more about not knowing your arse from a hole in the ground. <br /></h3>Jenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03584503437503775081noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7135091772004222693.post-89755186404266971392009-04-14T13:57:00.005-05:002009-04-14T20:47:05.687-05:00Don't Know Dum Diddly Doo<div style="text-align: justify;">I conjured up some homemade salsa yesterday to go along with the husbands and my dinner. Super fab yum! <br /><br />I decided to eat some with my lunch today as well. Though, I'm thinking garlic, onions and jalapenos were <span style="font-style: italic;">not</span> the best of my consuming choices I have made. <br /><br />I've now brushed my teeth three times in the past 1.5 hours and followed each with mouthwash. None have worked their magic. I could still kill an elephant with one blow of my breath; let alone what I'm doing to myself. <br /><br />Why? Why, do you ask, is this anything you should care about? It is majorly important, because I <span style="font-style: italic;">have a massage appointment with a client in 1-hour</span>. <span style="font-size:78%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">(panic!)</span></span>*** <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />***. . . . And I thought the only thing I really needed to worry about was burping, growling tummy or farting in front a a client. . . .<br /><br />Sheesh.<br /></div>Jenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03584503437503775081noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7135091772004222693.post-11737206482960683422009-04-07T23:04:00.018-05:002009-04-08T12:11:08.406-05:00I've Done the Calculation and Your Chances of Winning the Lottery Are Identical Whether You Play or Not f. lebowitz<div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5QeMBJvxOn35EZ4iegS8zf3DLVKiSVSH6DYhFhiO6EZ1DVDBRGepj2vElEF_ZZRu9EiDo5xi3sO1O6zo7Z6DAykmVPbes3FO4QAAiX5wMuylgDGBS4eDrTKvVczHKeXWhkJZPigwk6pOt/s1600-h/Pre-Marathon+With+Cara+%26+Greg.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 134px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5QeMBJvxOn35EZ4iegS8zf3DLVKiSVSH6DYhFhiO6EZ1DVDBRGepj2vElEF_ZZRu9EiDo5xi3sO1O6zo7Z6DAykmVPbes3FO4QAAiX5wMuylgDGBS4eDrTKvVczHKeXWhkJZPigwk6pOt/s200/Pre-Marathon+With+Cara+%26+Greg.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5322174117098043810" border="0" /></a><span style="color: rgb(51, 204, 0);font-size:85%;">Pre-Marathon</span><br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">First off, I want to thank those of you who wished me well for my inaugural marathon run this past Sunday, April 5. The generous support I received has been overwhelming! It is also <span style="font-style: italic;">much</span> appreciated.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjz9chZsFIGIMSrv9tOMxjmeKc6Ts9Mn5F0MA55JWkCRp2UluTG16_G5EcIlcftwSs_ef-VOO2-usnxNWFWFKldD2ry44oGHafKzMzCLtu7c8EMeQuN-my2csNZ9IGPEQN5Ws7yrZ6LvL12/s1600-h/Me+II.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 166px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjz9chZsFIGIMSrv9tOMxjmeKc6Ts9Mn5F0MA55JWkCRp2UluTG16_G5EcIlcftwSs_ef-VOO2-usnxNWFWFKldD2ry44oGHafKzMzCLtu7c8EMeQuN-my2csNZ9IGPEQN5Ws7yrZ6LvL12/s200/Me+II.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5322175110232739666" border="0" /></a><span style="color: rgb(51, 204, 0);font-size:85%;">Me</span><br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I have to say, I loved, loved, <span style="font-style: italic;">loved </span>every minute of that run even when at mile 22 my feet began to cramp. I never did hit that infamous "wall" marathoners talk about, so I was more than happy with that. It was <i>amazing</i>. I can think of no other word for how I felt crossing that finish line.<br /></div><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLSceIpRjOQudXV_GFvI1yovimems2L2bAvKRO7lYqGgxugvT-08cTvAVY4wtmgznjKf-TWeWfSfv7DPr_DhabiugMt3MtoTK75k2KA44mBh5F-2UpG77G-u8rYS4iG2QTb6y6tZiWlI2T/s1600-h/Cara+%26+I+VII.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 112px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLSceIpRjOQudXV_GFvI1yovimems2L2bAvKRO7lYqGgxugvT-08cTvAVY4wtmgznjKf-TWeWfSfv7DPr_DhabiugMt3MtoTK75k2KA44mBh5F-2UpG77G-u8rYS4iG2QTb6y6tZiWlI2T/s200/Cara+%26+I+VII.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5322174682032226370" border="0" /></a><span style="color: rgb(51, 204, 0);font-size:85%;">My running partner and I at mile 19</span><br /></div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhS7tn6VxOT5x0xD52dePEg6VVKjW_m5YckafkaO-ynxs9VkLfUQkTYkH_lJ_tper19-N5KU-YNVT_Z1T3_dIImxjHDKiSF2HyOxkMKhi2sYpi_yJebnWDnbgFBpUFwb2fXn881AqVhI_o/s1600-h/Thomas+%26+I+mile+22.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhS7tn6VxOT5x0xD52dePEg6VVKjW_m5YckafkaO-ynxs9VkLfUQkTYkH_lJ_tper19-N5KU-YNVT_Z1T3_dIImxjHDKiSF2HyOxkMKhi2sYpi_yJebnWDnbgFBpUFwb2fXn881AqVhI_o/s200/Thomas+%26+I+mile+22.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5322175589939223250" border="0" /></a><br />A <span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">huge </span>shout-out to the husband. His love and support throughout these past 5-months was absolutely incredible and I could not have done this without him. On numerous occasions, he was my personal Sherpa on my long training runs riding his bike by my side encouraging me on and keeping me hydrated as well as Gu loaded. During the marathon he selflessly carried a camera (<span style="font-style: italic;">and took 350 photos!</span>), sport drinks, waters and Gu as well as jackets and warm clothes for the wind and cold the <span style="font-weight: bold;">entire 26.2-miles </span>for my friends and me. Dallas had 27 <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjv84w8oB_0lnOuGVQmk3B9SALwsIREkqH5oTVzTD9z9lUkXiRAkiB2iOcXmXFzpkkzcwGXmIR8qqAAcD3ZUk-2zlAUCO_Sbj2dlnN6rdJWFrFcyh4i2tsFIazsHM-jiYHC-He4KxYntBBK/s1600-h/Thomas+%26+I+Mile+22+II.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 134px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjv84w8oB_0lnOuGVQmk3B9SALwsIREkqH5oTVzTD9z9lUkXiRAkiB2iOcXmXFzpkkzcwGXmIR8qqAAcD3ZUk-2zlAUCO_Sbj2dlnN6rdJWFrFcyh4i2tsFIazsHM-jiYHC-He4KxYntBBK/s200/Thomas+%26+I+Mile+22+II.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5322175974589257826" border="0" /></a>mile-per-hour winds the entire run with gusts up to 40 miles-per-hour. <span style="font-style: italic;">That wasn't rig</span><span style="font-style: italic;">ht</span> (yes, it sounds just as bad as it was). But the husband was by my side for most of the run. If my friends fell back for a bit, he slowed to bike next to them and they were so very thankful for that He's such a good soul. A few other racing friends and their wives came to bike it too despite the cold. I have fantastic friends! It was all just . . . <i>amazing</i>. . . !<br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDHTXxjTfJ3E82jd7DkhJuTNaTfqzGFr3p0dl7QLpwXFoeYgeYE2Gxalnyd2C5PifMe0HgDaB67Tzc_rm7wzgwrnWO_Wvu_sn8ogufa0fobg5pELvH8LqE06Tu3YOViV8mFHAIOzeuq0zF/s1600-h/My+Sherpa%27s%21.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 134px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDHTXxjTfJ3E82jd7DkhJuTNaTfqzGFr3p0dl7QLpwXFoeYgeYE2Gxalnyd2C5PifMe0HgDaB67Tzc_rm7wzgwrnWO_Wvu_sn8ogufa0fobg5pELvH8LqE06Tu3YOViV8mFHAIOzeuq0zF/s200/My+Sherpa%27s%21.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5322177134599193586" border="0" /></a> <span style="color: rgb(51, 204, 0);"> <span style="font-size:85%;">My domestiques</span></span><span style="font-size:85%;"> <span style="color: rgb(51, 204, 0);"> - as well as the husband and I at mile 22 (x2)</span><br /></span></div> <br /></div>Finally, I have to confess, I bawled as the husband hugged me coming across the finish line and then I bawled all over again when one of our honored hero's came up to hug me while I was signing out at the Leukemia & Lymphoma Society's tent. . . Everything was so surreal for some time after finishing. I couldn't keep any of my tears in check. It was great to finish! I'll be signing up again with <a href="http://www.teamintraining.org/"><span style="color: rgb(102, 0, 204);">Team in Training</span></a> in 2-weeks time to run the Nike San Francisco Marathon this coming October. I've got to do at least one more. . .<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLmEPBLInO7Qc-qZG_hBjGBxzDlJxYd-BL3fJ1HPfn45F_CiHGv-kTwMc-yfqz3xcATl0wRSG6K3kMk1z2Pk1ypjzDItuTB9iZv0LuZg83BkAD2PE8fAYJycsmsHJvSzfJxmaSJugidoay/s1600-h/Finish+Line.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 129px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLmEPBLInO7Qc-qZG_hBjGBxzDlJxYd-BL3fJ1HPfn45F_CiHGv-kTwMc-yfqz3xcATl0wRSG6K3kMk1z2Pk1ypjzDItuTB9iZv0LuZg83BkAD2PE8fAYJycsmsHJvSzfJxmaSJugidoay/s200/Finish+Line.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5322177525061538946" border="0" /></a><span style="color: rgb(51, 204, 0);font-size:85%;">Arriving at the finish line</span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="color: rgb(51, 204, 0);">5:19:21</span></span><br /></div><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLmEPBLInO7Qc-qZG_hBjGBxzDlJxYd-BL3fJ1HPfn45F_CiHGv-kTwMc-yfqz3xcATl0wRSG6K3kMk1z2Pk1ypjzDItuTB9iZv0LuZg83BkAD2PE8fAYJycsmsHJvSzfJxmaSJugidoay/s1600-h/Finish+Line.jpg"><span style="font-weight: bold;"></span></a><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhB1gH7e4opnOXlQoTNM4zc2296Di987krFbl1iJF6aqjx8xAElr1RqSfkbmB0b0-cPEGehWAiCMQsdn0BQW44aY0pRyz1O1Ehs5RWljq6NnhOryxvT-_FVMN0fGR_5qIaVoCFZa533ZVkz/s1600-h/Me+At+26.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 88px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhB1gH7e4opnOXlQoTNM4zc2296Di987krFbl1iJF6aqjx8xAElr1RqSfkbmB0b0-cPEGehWAiCMQsdn0BQW44aY0pRyz1O1Ehs5RWljq6NnhOryxvT-_FVMN0fGR_5qIaVoCFZa533ZVkz/s200/Me+At+26.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5322178006827585266" border="0" /></a><span style="color: rgb(51, 204, 0);font-size:85%;">Me at 26.2-miles</span><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWTD_RdEqTXVB18WO1D0nvc9abelv90lx8nmhIMLRKSo51SQijY3qKsvWCdDxx3FJFRMVI5s4idMfMVzXyVX6nC09yJ_-sTd4nGKCEvivD720nj1NTBiSeiip5zEyAhPti-Qwt-xzIw8Um/s1600-h/Celebrating+26.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 134px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWTD_RdEqTXVB18WO1D0nvc9abelv90lx8nmhIMLRKSo51SQijY3qKsvWCdDxx3FJFRMVI5s4idMfMVzXyVX6nC09yJ_-sTd4nGKCEvivD720nj1NTBiSeiip5zEyAhPti-Qwt-xzIw8Um/s200/Celebrating+26.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5322178354816875138" border="0" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: rgb(51, 204, 0); font-weight: bold;">Celebrating 26.2</span><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(51, 204, 0);">!</span><br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="sqq">Quick physical update: I'm up and moving about, if even a bit more slowly than usual. Everything has been checking out okay and I'm not curled up in a fetal position. The only injury I sustained thus far has been a tiny blister on the tip of my third toe on my right foot. So far, this blister has not been debilitating. I am exhausted, but that took until Tuesday to hit me. I believe adrenaline kept me moving and grooving these past few days. Now I'm ready to sleep. All this to say, I'm good and feeling sweet; just going to hit the pillows.<br /><br />Once again, thank you all. I hope to someday repay such generosity to each and every one of you.<br /><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(51, 204, 0); font-weight: bold;">“Pain is temporary. It may last a minute, or an hour, or a day, or a year, but eventually it will subside and something else will take its place. If I quit, however, it lasts forever.” ~ Lance Armstrong</span></span><br /></div></div>Jenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03584503437503775081noreply@blogger.com19tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7135091772004222693.post-16014508265425109872009-03-29T10:18:00.005-05:002009-03-29T11:01:40.291-05:00Be Humble for You Are Made of Dung. Be Noble for You Are Made of Stars. serbian proverb<div style="text-align: justify;">I woke up to dog puke today. That was lovely. I wonder if that is indicative of my day or even my week? <br /><br /><div style="text-align: justify;">Speaking of days and week, <span style="font-style: italic;">exactly</span> one week from today is my 1st ever <a style="font-weight: bold;" href="http://www.texasmarathon.com/index.html"><span style="font-style: italic;">marathon run</span></a>. To say the least, I'm a bit nervous. Not worried like my two running partners who have both been having nightmares. One dreamed I showed up to the marathon with a broken foot. She said she cried. <br /><br />I need to make mention here that later the same day, in real life, I slammed my foot in my car door. Yes, I am <span style="font-style: italic;">that</span> talented. It's bruised, but not broken. I told her not to tell me her dreams of horror anymore as apparently I'm now obsessing. I wasn't worried about breaking my foot, but now it seems I kick the wall when just casually strolling by it. So, while I'm not having the bad dreams, I am a bit apprehensive, as in, "if I <span style="font-style: italic;">think</span> about the marathon my stomach gets 1,000 butterflies." I think that's a type of anxiety. Isn't it? If not, then it's just confirming I'm a loon. I usually force myself to take a deep breath to try and shake off those winged critters. Eventually, I'm pretty sure that the beautiful butterflies will turn into nervous poo'ing. I'm not really looking forward to <span style="font-style: italic;">that</span>. Unless, of course, that causes me to lose 50-pounds. . . .<br /><br />Nervousness and its poo aside, I am really looking forward to it! I've trained hard for this and I deserve to finish. And that's all I am really asking for. To finish. Besides, there are people out there going through so much more than I ever want to imagine or know. "<span style="font-style: italic;">Think training is hard? Try chemo.</span>" It's a quote that has kept me moving these past 6-months. Yet, it is my hope you nor I ever have to. <br /></div><br />Wish me luck. It's something I'm going to need, well, that is if I don't break my foot first.<br /><br /></div>Jenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03584503437503775081noreply@blogger.com18tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7135091772004222693.post-11608690351435323532009-03-20T18:01:00.008-05:002009-03-20T21:23:26.225-05:00Keep Your Mind On Business, Not Bunnies<div style="text-align: justify;">My running team ran a hill workout last night as we usually do on Thursday evenings. I am starting to get used to those or maybe I should say that I am <span style="font-style: italic;">able</span> to continue to mostly stand afterwards. I even manage to keep breathing. Which is good for, well, living. And, is <span style="font-style: italic;">not</span> the point of my post. The point of this post is that usually after our Thursday night hill workouts, the team heads to a food establishment. The place we end up typically is "Fuzzy's Taco's." Many consider the place a legend in their own time. I tend to agree.<br /><br />And I think the food tends to agree with me. Even if it does totally annihilate my calories burned on those damn hills. The place is fun, hip and placed smack-dab on the very outskirts of a college campus. Thus, there tends to be many a post-adolescent teen placed throughout this yummy eatery. Give them a few margarita's or check in after bar time and the place can get hopping. . . . which, again, is not my point other than to say, the tables have glass counter tops. This means it's easy to slip a personal note, photo or card, etc. underneath the glass. One can find some wild pictures there. Or find out that a certain someone has a small penis, phone number included. Men, be careful what woman you spurn. . . . Hell hath no fury. I'm just advisin'.<br /><br />Anyhow, my teammates and I sit down. My coach brings me my lite-cerveza - calories burned, even more put back - while having his own seat. He looks at the photo's on the table around him and wondered out loud, "how is it that you got <span style="font-style: italic;">that</span> picture?" <span style="font-style: italic;">That</span> picture was of a woman who was out in public completely nude except for the body paint and the very teeny-tiny insignificant tha-dahnk-ka-dahnk. So, me, being the one who cannot <span style="font-style: italic;">not</span> look at the train wreck or even leave the crime scene as well as being ever so accommodating, moved the tortilla chips basket and pointed at the picture lying directly in front of him. . . .<br /><br />There, under the glass counter top, sits a photo of the blondie-<span style="font-style: italic;">non</span>bombshell in all her <span style="font-style: italic;">barely</span> covered gi-normous double-puppy glory love. I am <span style="font-style: italic;">not</span> mean nor am I jealous (if I was 13-flat-chested-years-old, you could <span style="font-style: italic;">maybe</span> say that about me, but these days in my old fogienesses I can and do appreciate another beautiful woman), she really was not cute as she had the face of Magda in "Something About Mary," but she had <span style="font-style: italic;">bewbies</span>. And <span style="font-style: italic;">big</span> one's at that.<br /><br />In response to my assistance with his viewing pleasure, my generous & very <span style="font-style: italic;">quite-natured</span> running coach said, "she's definitely <span style="font-style: italic;">not</span> a runner."<br /><br /><br /></div>Jenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03584503437503775081noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7135091772004222693.post-90208243693186575632009-03-18T11:14:00.004-05:002009-03-18T11:24:46.150-05:00Smiting Shame<div style="text-align: justify;">This morning I was going through my old iPhoto's . . . . I found this little ditty of a gem. And since it's so vicious in nature, I had to share it with my 7 readers. Don't judge. This is <span style="font-style: italic;">pre- morning </span>java. It is very, <span style="font-style: italic;">very</span> early for a Texaconsin Diva. Also, notice the reaction upon discovering it is not a photo, but a video. Divine. <br /><br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dxB8iShC29GNhSqkMIQPfMF2VOsffYmSesHpuYuaGSAFoQ4YBVVqqm92Br8bHUtfLiGHJYji2bKCJycyJbg' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div>Jenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03584503437503775081noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7135091772004222693.post-30911610981880155192009-03-09T12:00:00.002-05:002009-03-09T13:15:22.421-05:00My Advice To You Is To Have Nothing Whatever To Do With It.<div style="text-align: justify;">The husband is an avid cyclist who actually races on a team. I am a runner who is on a team. I <span style="font-style: italic;">participate</span> in events. The husband <span style="font-style: italic;">competes</span> in events. There is a very clear delineation between those two words during our each of our sports. There is also a clear <span style="font-style: italic;">boundary</span> between runners and cyclists.<br /><br />This is important to know. It's imperative, because the husband decided he would go with me to pick out new running shoes. This type of activity entails a trip to a <span style="font-style: italic;">running</span> store. Just running. A store full of runners, joggers and two-legged racers - not two wheels. <br /><br />As the cyclist husband held open the running store door for me, he quickly and in pro-ninja stealth mode mentioned, <span style="font-style: italic;">"you know . . . . . this is like throwing vampires and werewolves together."</span> <span style="font-size:85%;"><br /></span><br /></div>Jenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03584503437503775081noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7135091772004222693.post-85941689472451557882009-03-05T09:15:00.000-06:002009-03-05T09:33:58.442-06:00Someone's Boring Me. I Think It's Me.<div style="text-align: justify;">If you make it to reading the story typed below, here is the post I started yesterday. I'm pretty sure I'll be continuing it tomorrow.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;">*************************<br /></div><br />It's tax season again. Here I sit in front of the computer wishing my face would melt off instead of doing the inevitable. . . .<br /><br />Our dreaded deadline fast approaches, March 15th, without me doing much about it. Blehck. Corporate/personal taxes. <span style="font-style: italic;">Just blehck.</span> Though I suspect I am <span style="font-style: italic;">actually</span> giving our financial planning accountant some pretty quick heart palpitations at this very point and time, seeing as he has nothing from us yet. So, I <span style="font-style: italic;">am</span> doing something. Right? <span style="font-style: italic;">Right?</span><br /></div>Jenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03584503437503775081noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7135091772004222693.post-21016191183576585492009-03-02T20:48:00.004-06:002009-03-02T21:25:41.535-06:00It's Not Like You Were Doing Anything With It<div style="text-align: justify;">So, as I'm getting older, I find myself at the door of the doctor. I even make it into the office, which includes the dreaded scale. I don't want to go to the doctor or get on his evil, vile scale, but I'm pretty much made to go to the doctor where I believe they will pick you up and put you on that soulless fat counting machine if you refuse. Have you <span style="font-style: italic;">seen</span> some of those nurses?! I don't like going to the doctor even though I always feel like my face is melting off and that I'm dying. The doctor proceeds to tell me that my face is not vaporizing and death is not imminent. <br /><br />Irregardless, of my wanting to go to the doctor, I was made to make an appointment. So, I did. I love the husband and he seems to love me back, so when he tells me to go see the doctor over 100-times, I'm inclined to go. <br /><br />Eventually. <br /><br />Even though I am fine. Really. I am. And I will go only to be told that I am still living and breathing in which I will continue do so for many, many years to come. I already <span style="font-style: italic;">knew</span> this. Apparently, my face is <span style="font-style: italic;">not</span> melting off. But since I was there and I had to speak to the doctor, I did. I actually really, really <span style="font-style: italic;">like</span> this doctor. In fact, I'm a huge fan of doctors in general. But most of you know this already. My wedding vows made that crystal clear. <br /><br />So, because I like to share, here's a wee bit of <span style="font-style: italic;">one</span> conversation I did have with my PCP this past Friday morning:<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="color: rgb(0, 153, 0);">doctor:</span> </span>are you exercising?<br /><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(255, 102, 0);">me:</span> yes. I'm actually in the middle of training for a marathon with Team in Training.<br /><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(0, 153, 0);">doctor:</span> really?<br /><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(255, 102, 0);">me:</span> yes. I absolutely <span style="font-style: italic;">love</span> it! <br /><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(0, 153, 0);">doctor:</span> so how is it that you're running all these miles and not losing any weight?<br /><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(255, 102, 0);">me:</span> . . . . <span style="font-style: italic;">? ? ?</span> . . . . [blink, blink]<br /><br />I think my face began to melt off.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />That was a fun day.<br /></div>Jenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03584503437503775081noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7135091772004222693.post-88136200014817238492009-02-25T10:24:00.006-06:002009-03-02T21:28:14.643-06:00Looking Into the Soul of the Dog Sitting Next to Me<div style="text-align: justify;">So, I'm cheating. I know most of my FB friends have read this, as it was a "tag" thing on FB, but until I actually have some time to sit and write again, this "cheating repeat" will have to do. It took me all day to compose the damn thing and <span style="font-style: italic;">that</span> has to count for something when time is a luxury I don't have these days. Right? My sincere apologies to those of you who must read this twice. At least you know I'm still breathing in my Longhorn City. <br /><br />Barely. <br /><br />Anyhow, let us get to it. Twenty-five Randomocities about me:<br /><br />1. I deeply, deeply love and adore my husband. His heart, soul & mind are bigger than anyone's I've ever met. He loves me back unconditionally - including my idiosyncrasies, faults and happy's. It still amazes me. I've never experienced that from anyone but family previously.<br /><br />2. The husband laughs with me & at me daily. It keeps me grounded.<br /><br />3. I also wear my pearls &/or sparkly's on a daily basis. Why keep something so beautiful in a box?<br /><br />4. I love, love, LOVE to drive fast (but only if I'm the driver)! Then again, I am a total car freak. . . . I don't drive the husbands car b/c of this. I found myself driving over 180 mph down the toll-way once. That cured me of that car - not the speed, but the pure power of speed and what it can do.<br /><br />5. I've learned (over the years) not to trust too many people. I used to love everyone. Not everyone loves you back - friendship or otherwise. That's a very hard lesson to learn.<br /><br />6. I have a blog, which is where you'd find most of all this list of information already previously written & published.<br /><br />7. I am a total goofball!<br /><br />8. I love vodka, wine and cupcakes. Not necessarily in that order. And, never too much of any one or the other unless it's wine, cupcakes or vodka. Wait. What?<br /><br />9. Since I was 5-years-old, I only ever wanted to be a veterinarian. My mom took me to talk to one about becoming a vet and how to achieve that goal when I was 12. He told me I'd never, ever be able to do it. I believed him. I gave up my dream from that day forth. I regret that I never tried.<br /><br />10. I am currently training to run my first marathon with Team In Training for April 5th, 2009. I'm not crazy. If you think training is hard, try chemo (though, it is my hope you nor I will ever have to).<br /><br />11. My hobby is cooking. This makes Williams-Sonoma my absolute most favorite store in the whole wide world!<br /><br />12. I abhor clothes shopping. I'd pay to have someone do that for me. I'm such a non-girlie girl! But I do heart stilettos and makeup. So, I actually am a girlie-girl!<br /><br />13. I've had to learn to say no to animal rescues, but it still breaks my heart each and every time to do so. Six four-legged furries in one house is more than enough. It gives me plenty of story fodder though!<br /><br />14. I adore, respect, love, cherish & look up to my little sister and her husband more than they will ever know or comprehend. They are hardworking, kind, loving and generous souls who encompass wisdom beyond their years. I wish you all could know them too.<br /><br />15. I miss my family immensely. As much as I love our Longhorn City, Texas, I wish I lived closer to them.<br /><br />16. I believe in angels and demons. I also think I heart zombie's, vampire's, lycan's and ghost's far more than any normal human being ought to. . . . Uh-huh! They are to real! As are aliens. <br /><br />17. I try to remind myself daily that in the end, it's not between you and me, but between God and me.<br /><br />18. I've never been in a fight that I didn't ask for (aka: kickboxing, karate, jujitsu or boxing lessons). I'll continue to say till the day I die that being Amazonian has its perks. . . .<br /><br />19. I am terrified of spiders. They are evil, vile beastly creatures.<br /><br />20. I'm naturally blonde. Dark blonde, but blonde nonetheless. Obviously, I dye my locks.<br /><br />21. I've tried to read, "Skinny Bitch" on three different occasions over 1.5 years, but I didn't like a book yelling at me or telling me how effing stoopid I was. I also eat a little meat now and then, but only meat that has been organically and humanely grown. I tried to give it up a few years ago and only made it 2-years. I really love steak too much.<br /><br />22. I can't watch Animal Cops or anything related to animal cruelty (this includes Sarah McLachlan's advertisement of beaten, abused and neglected animals), because I start crying each and every time. The husband will change the channel for me/us - he can't take it either. I used to think I only felt this way about animals until I watched a show on St. Judes Children's Hospital. The husband, once again, gently reminded me to change the channel and when I couldn't move to do so, he did it for me. Cancer is evil. Beating animals is just as evil.<br /><br />23. I seriously have bad hearing. Take, for example, this conversation that the husband and I had once upon a time:<br />me: how was your ride?<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">the husband:</span> I got to potty-train. . .<br />me: *???*<br />me: . . . . you got to potty-train? Huh?<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">the husband</span>: I. got. to. potty-train. . .<br />me: you have to potty-train? Whut. . . . ? *[blink, blink]<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">the husband</span>: I! Got! Stuck! By! A! Train!<br />me: oh.<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">the husband:</span> yeah. You and your bad hearing.<br /><br />24. I don't debate religion or politics. Especially when wine is added (lesson learned)! I have mine. You have yours. Lets leave it at that. <br /><br />25. Having Reef Sharks as well as Nurse Sharks swim around you, under you and over you is unexplainable, amazing and somewhat anxiety producing. No, we were not in a "cage". We were free diving in these parts. Besides, I always thought Nurse Sharks were like big Labrador puppies - always sleeping on the ocean floor. Seemed harmless enough. It is a bit different when they are swimming around you. Add in some Reef Sharks and you have yourself a mighty fine time with a bit of a fast heartbeat. Do you think sharks can sense fear?<br /><br /><br />That is all.</div>Jenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03584503437503775081noreply@blogger.com9tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7135091772004222693.post-41191670137709394382009-02-04T22:00:00.005-06:002009-02-04T22:21:59.546-06:00What Do You Want An Adorable Pancreas?<div style="text-align: justify;">This was my day today. . . <br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I tried to make my cappuccino on three different occasions. Not once did I complete this task. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Not to be defeated, I continued to turn on the espresso machine three different times. And was distracted three different times. And I have to point out that the espresso machine stays on for 2 hours at a time before turning itself off. That's 6 hours. <br /><br />Six hours that I could not get my cappuccino made on this day. <br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Seriously, who cannot find time to make a cup of coffee during normal hours? </div>Jenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03584503437503775081noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7135091772004222693.post-25508756919757453542009-02-03T11:21:00.006-06:002009-02-03T20:50:36.239-06:00Long Time Coming & Then Some Part Deux<div style="text-align: justify;">Aaaaand another from thy Princess of the Universe:<br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(204, 102, 204);">Numero Deux: I am totally DYING to meet you - what would you do with me if I just showed up on your doorstep one day and announced I was there for a week?</span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Princess! Do not give me such tachycardia! Not that I wouldn't love to have you come to my awesome Longhorn City and stay with the husband & I. We heart company. We also heart entertaining. We do. But. . . just showing up. Ahhck. Well, it wouldn't normally be a problem if my house weren't such a mess on a consistent basis. Four dogs does not make a clean house. Like, ever. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Anyhow, having a slight mess is not an answer to your question. Thus, to comply with the interview question, here is what I would do: </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I'd take you on a 14-mile run. 18 if you're on best behavior. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I'd then toss you into an ice bath. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I will be looking forward to your pink princessy knock on my front door. Soon, I hope! </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">But don't think we're finished with our fun, fun, fun! Oh we're so not! Because the husbands and my Longhorn City is so close to <a href="http://i39.photobucket.com/albums/e195/Faded_Halo92/Jensen%20Ackles/JensenAckles49.jpg"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(204, 102, 204);">one of your favorites</span></span></span></a> - and really, this should be many, many peoples favorites - we will go on a search to hunt this one down. What happens when we do find him is up to you. Remember, what happens in Longhorn City, stays in Longhorn City. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Unless I blog about it. [But I wouldn't do that. . . Really. I wouldn't. Pffft. Have faith.] </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Furthermore. I'd also have to<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(204, 102, 204);"> </span><a href="http://secure.jamesavery.com/index.jsp?utm_source=rkg&utm_medium=ppc&utm_campaign=brand&gclid=CJCHr4-0wZgCFSEhDQodUFBcZg"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(204, 102, 204);">take you here</span></span></span></a>. Loads of sparkly princessy goodies to be had in this place. <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"> I</span> can even buy prettiness here due to hypo-allergenicness. In fact, the husband originally bought my engagement bling here and continues to do so. It's an original Texas craftsmanship one cannot come to Texas and not visit this store. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">We can show off what we've found, jewelry <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">and</span> Ackles at <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"><a href="http://www.fortworthzoo.com/"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(204, 102, 204);">the oldest zoo in Tejas</span></span></a></span>. I know, it's a zoo, but it is beautiful and the animals are treated very humanely here. Sometimes zoo's are a necessary evil. This one is a great one. Trust me. The animals are awesome. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">When you finally arrive on my doorstep, don't forget your appetite. Texas has great food and loads of it! Barbecue, Tex-Mex, Chili, down-home and fine dining. If you crave it, we have it with a bit of Texas flair added in. In fact, we have cook-offs, fry-offs, festivals, jamboree and many, many food celebrations including Turkey trots, watermelon thumps and peach jamborees. If you're adventurous you can even enter into a jalapeno eating contest. But I'll leave that one to you and you alone. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">But if you do that, you will need <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"><a href="http://www.justinboots.com/en/?SID"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(204, 102, 204);">a pair of these</span></span></a></span> so you can kick a cockroach to the corner. Or just wear them to the <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"><a href="http://www.fortworthstockyards.org/"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(204, 102, 204);">Stockyards</span></span></a></span>. I swore I'd never buy a pair, but last year I broke that swear. I'm glad I did. Cowboy boots are the most comfortable item you can put on your feet. I have yet to buy an actual Stetson, but truly I don't see that happening. Maybe the big-a** belt buckle, but not the hat. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I'd also cook for you. Anything you wanted. Ask and you shall receive. I might even make a party out of it, so you can meet other fabulous Longhorn City people. Did I mention, we love to entertain? </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Princess, there are so many goodies here in my Longhorn City that I couldn't practically link them all. And I'd bore everyone. There's museums, boutiques, water art, trails, hiking, dancing, biking, horseback riding, shopping, food, drink, glittery sparkly's, etc., etc., etc. Just come and you'll find out for yourself. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Then, you can blog about it. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Oh. Right. You'd <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">have</span> to give Jensen back when you're done here. Okay? </div><div><br /></div>Jenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03584503437503775081noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7135091772004222693.post-82441181077669039302009-01-31T15:27:00.012-06:002009-02-02T09:55:20.739-06:00When Vultures Drop Dead, It May Be Time To Wonder<div style="text-align: justify;">The husband said it would be tough; maybe even distressing. Well. . . those weren't quite the words he used, but suffice it to say he more or less said it would be agonizing. And that <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">did</span> make me take a slight pause. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Of course, I ignored it and forged valiantly onward, but only because I'm sick and twisted. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">When it comes down to it, I have to say, once again, the husband's uncanny ability to be right about everything humanly possible (except when he says I'm <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">not</span> dying when I actually <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">am</span>), was <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">exactly</span> on target. It was dreadfully awful. And I'm demented. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Adding 40-pounds of ice to my cold bath water so I could sit in it for 15-minutes is probably not going to be my claim to fame. <br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">For serious. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(153, 0, 0);"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(102, 0, 0);">****************</span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(102, 0, 0);">Ooops. . . .I created confusion. Imagine that. So, I need to do a wee bit of clarification for all y'all. </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(102, 0, 0);">The ice bath was </span></span></span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(102, 0, 0);">agonizing</span></span></span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(102, 0, 0);">. I </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(102, 0, 0);">only</span></span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(102, 0, 0);"> ran a training run of 14-miles prior to that. Currently, my leg muscles feel like a million-trillion euros, even if it seemed as if I was completely and utterly neekid in the subarctic Antarctica where only penguins survive for 15-minutes of my life. </span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=";font-size:13px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(102, 0, 0);"><br /></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(102, 0, 0);">I did; however, wear a sweatshirt on my upper body. No reason to </span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(102, 0, 0);">completely</span></span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=""><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(102, 0, 0);"> torture myself. . . Right? </span></span></span></div>Jenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03584503437503775081noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7135091772004222693.post-34873865767757341792009-01-28T19:26:00.003-06:002009-01-28T20:13:19.046-06:00Long Time Coming & Then Some<div style="text-align: justify;"><a href="http://winnipegprincess.blogspot.com/"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;">Princess of the Universe</span></a> probably gave up on me on long, long, <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic; ">long</span> time ago. I can't blame her, I mean, I asked for it and then there it sat. For almost a couple months. Actually, I have until February 19th and that would officially make it two months, but that is neither here nor there. Either way, there it sat in my in-box marked as "unread" so I would not forget. Hmmm. . . Yeah, <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic; ">that</span> tactic worked.<br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I'm blaming Blogger. For some reason, I can no longer "copy, cut and paste". Add that to the fact that I'm lazy, well, you don't get the post I've been meaning to write for over a month now. However, I have another fellow blogger that I heart and covet! In fact, I believe she's a little known secret, but will be busting big some day. Which is besides my point and I'm hoping she'll forgive me for stealing her idea by gushing loads about her funny. So, I'm copying her and will be answering my interview questions one by one by one by one by one. If you're lucky, I'm in a good mood and not lazy, I may even answer two questions at once. Huzzah.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">So, you owe this post to <a href="http://verbal-sid.blogspot.com/"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;">Verbal Diarrhoea</span></a>. . . . </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I give you, my seven readers, <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">Princess Interviews a Texaconsin Diva</span>.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(153, 51, 153);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;">Numero Uno: How long did it take you to write your Christmas letter? Cause I couldn't even imagine trying to condense a year into one really interesting page. </span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I plead the fifth. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Moving on . . . </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I keed - I keed, Princess! See? I'm funny too. Maybe not Steve Carell, but hey beggars cannot be choosers. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">To get to your question, it takes more time than I like or seem to even have. For those of you who didn't get a letter, you may be in the dark here. I'll try to explain. Once the husband and I got hitched by the good ole ball and chain, I thought it would be fantastic to start a yearly Christmas letter and send it world-wide to all our friends. Big mistake. I am now tied to doing it year after year. If I don't, I have people call me out in front of many others on them either A) falling off my yearly letter list or B) I didn't do one. That was a good time. I enjoy being called out in front of groups of people in the middle of restaurants. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Anyhow, the first letter I did was a "Top 10" list as to why it was a good thing the husband and I got married and attached a cute little wedding photo to the front. That wasn't bad. Pretty painless, but then the second letter, I decided to get really creative and did a letter to what it was like to be married in accordance with the "Wedding Vows". You know the "till death do us part," "to have and to hold," and "in sickness and in health," (according to the husband I am never sick and never about to die. I'd like to disagree here. There are plenty of times I am dying.) etc., etc. . . I'd have to say that took many hours of writing and re-writes as well as editing to make it fit on my itty-bitty card. That one also had a cute little picture of us on it. I think that was my favorite letter to date - maybe I'll post it here someday. Maybe not.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">The third year was mundane stuff of us making a move to our Longhorn city. Blah, blah, blah. Not my best. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">The fourth year, I skipped it. See above when getting called out at a family birthday party in the middle of a restaurant. Fun times (yes, I'm reiterating. To this day I'm <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">damaged</span> by that).</div><div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">This year, I spent a few weeks trying to come up with a subject. I wrote and deleted. Wrote and deleted. Wrote and deleted. Wrote and deleted. I finally came up with . . . <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">the husband</span>. Duh. Had I just done <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">that</span> subject in the beginning the letter would have flown from brain to keyboard to print. As always, he's my perfect subject. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">So, while I'd like to say it doesn't take nuttin' to write my yearly Christmas letter and be included in the cool kids crowd, I would be lying. It takes a lot of time and even more thought. More than I have of either that time of year. Sometimes I wish I hadn't even begun and low expectations would sit in place. Though, I would be lying there too. I enjoy my Christmas letter even if it does stress me out year after year. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">The end.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">More interview questions to follow. Thanks Sid of Verbal Diarrhoea for giving me the idea to post each question separately. May you not get any additional readers so I can keep you as mine. All mine. </div></div>Jenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03584503437503775081noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7135091772004222693.post-84992452060952758822009-01-22T09:47:00.007-06:002009-01-22T10:40:24.779-06:00When We Die We Are Nothing More Than Worm Meat<div style="text-align: justify;">I have something that has <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">really</span> been on my mind. A <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">bother</span> if you get down to it. Thing is I can't seem to shake it. <br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I cannot sort out what is more disgusting. The fact that I am close to losing a toenail from not paying attention to length and long run training mileage <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">or</span></span> the fact of that little "<a href="http://texaconsindiva.blogspot.com/2008/12/report-of-my-death-was-not-exaggeration.html">flutter</a>" I heard the other night during my real live nightmare of a $&%@'ing cockroach crawling across my head, were really its legs. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Apparently, cockroach legs make a clicking sound when they walk.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Ugh.</div>Jenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03584503437503775081noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7135091772004222693.post-15956493264539645752009-01-14T22:16:00.005-06:002009-01-14T22:48:40.760-06:00Safety is Not Created in Numbers, Nor Anything Else<div style="text-align: justify;">Holy mother-lovin' buckets. I haven't posted in three weeks! It doesn't seem like that long, but it is and I seriously apologize. Thank you to those of you who reminded me I need to write something, even if it's crap. I'm not being sarcastic either - I've got a million and one blog ideas floating around the great abyss known as <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">Jen's-Amazonian-Brain</span>. For serious. I do. I just need to find some time to get it from brain to keyboard to computer screen and finally to the great blog-o-sphere. Suggestions on how to do this? I mean, I'm not even a parent and I don't have time. Gah. <br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Anyhow, this one is about numbers and math. I <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">severely</span> dislike both. Never been good at either. Aside from the <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">three weeks </span>of neglect, take for example, that tomorrow in our Longhorn City at 9 AM we are supposed to be at <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">28-degrees Fahrenheit</span>. However, yes that's a <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">HUGE</span> however, with the wind chill, it's going to feel like <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;">17-degrees Fahrenheit</span></span>. Right now, I hear it's 2-degrees in Chicago. So, no, I should <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">not</span> be complaining, but I still don't have to like it. Tomorrow night is supposed to be record setting. Of course, in the wrong direction - low 20's. . . I can't even think about it without my brain hurting. Wait. . . I think something burst. . . erm. . . froze. . . anyone know a doctor? </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Ha! </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">And to continue on my rant on horrible, irresponsible numbers, let's just say I've been running my arse off for the past few months. Some of you may know this and some of you may not, but suffice it to say that while I've been run-eng and run-eng I noticed a slight change in being<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"> a lot less curvaceous</span>. <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;">Hurrah</span>! Finally. Right? Right! <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">Wrong</span>! <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;">NOT ON THE SCALE I DON'T</span>. I weigh <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">exactly</span> the same as I did when I started this marathon training adventure. So, so, <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">so</span> not fair. It's been almost <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">3-months</span>. My minimum run is 5-miles and my long run is up to 12-miles. I run 4-5 times a week and throw in a low-impact cardio for good measure once per week. I also watch what I eat. For real. So, when does that atrocious, ugly, corrupt, villainous, malevolent, hateful, unpleasant, wicked, and heinously evil Beelzebub device formally known as the "scale" start recognizing my hard work? </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">See? I don't like numbers. Never did. Never will. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">The end. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div>Jenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03584503437503775081noreply@blogger.com17tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7135091772004222693.post-66768214205579453442008-12-24T15:05:00.004-06:002009-01-01T01:24:20.541-06:00Merry, Merry and Happy, Happy<div style="float: right; margin-left: 10px; margin-bottom: 10px;"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/texaconsindiva/3095955460/" title="photo sharing"><img src="http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3127/3095955460_92b56fbf6e_m.jpg" alt="" style="border: solid 2px #000000;" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/texaconsindiva/3095955460/"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-size:13px;">Hmpf. </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-size:13px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;">Humans</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-size:13px;">. I am Chobie.</span></a><br /></div><span style=" margin-top: 0px;font-size:0.9em;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">Happy Christmas & Merry Holidays to all y'all!</span></span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"> </span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">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! <br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">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. . . . .</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">May you and yours find all the holiday cheer you want! </span></span></span><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div>Jenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03584503437503775081noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7135091772004222693.post-79674948638785353492008-12-23T10:27:00.007-06:002008-12-23T14:56:28.683-06:00Love is a Thing That Can Never Go Wrong<div style="float: right; margin-left: 10px; margin-bottom: 10px;"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/texaconsindiva/3095964496/" title="photo sharing"><img src="http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3215/3095964496_49431b685e_m.jpg" alt="" style="border: solid 2px #000000;" /></a><br /><span style=" margin-top: 0px;"><a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/texaconsindiva/3095964496/"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">The husband & Dixie when we first adopted her</span></span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><br /></span></span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;">It's times like these that make the week. <br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">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. . . . . .<br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">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". <br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">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.<br /></div>Jenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03584503437503775081noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7135091772004222693.post-45424990270538961972008-12-17T10:04:00.013-06:002008-12-17T20:30:33.951-06:00The Report of My Death Was NOT An Exaggeration<div style="text-align: justify;">Something happened the other night at 4:03 AM. Something I never, ever, <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">ever</span> thought would happen. Something I definitely did not want to ever, ever, <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">ever</span> happen. Something I hope that will not ever, ever, <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">ever</span> occur again.<br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">And I'm still supremely debilitated over it. Really. I am.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">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. <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">Please,please,please,please. . . .</span> </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">That's when I heard it. A faint flutter. . . .</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">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, "<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">OFALLTHINGSTHATAREHOLYTURNONTHELIGHT! </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">T</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">URNONTHELIGHT! TURNONTHELIGHT!</span>" And, calmly without one iota of a question, the husband turned on the light. . . .</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">There, making freeway-like time towards the husbands head, on my pillow was a 2-inch long cockroach. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">Yes. A $&%@'ing cockroach. </span></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">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.<br /><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><div style="text-align: justify;"> <div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXcjl3-rVmX8iCTrHX6Vee0gZimI5R1GVHhelcwT1zJC4ss3Dc0QSdTav0ta7ukSapVPmGCCvGnzfI2ONLxyE8wvq-WnWoxxRq2WHg3efHkbwY5Oanw09BWCPLaKKs8JU279kxb2drUB3o/s1600-h/080708_EX_cockroachTN.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 159px; height: 116px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXcjl3-rVmX8iCTrHX6Vee0gZimI5R1GVHhelcwT1zJC4ss3Dc0QSdTav0ta7ukSapVPmGCCvGnzfI2ONLxyE8wvq-WnWoxxRq2WHg3efHkbwY5Oanw09BWCPLaKKs8JU279kxb2drUB3o/s200/080708_EX_cockroachTN.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5280948470163369666" border="0" /></a></div> </div></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br />Talk about traumatized. I mean, I'll just let all y'all guess as to how well I've been sleeping since then.</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><br /></span><span style="color: rgb(255, 204, 153);font-size:100%;" ><span style="font-style: italic;">Wall-E's roach companion, Hal from Pixar Films. He is <span style="font-weight: bold;">not</span> 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 <span style="font-weight: bold;">not</span> natural. </span></span><br /></span></div>Jenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03584503437503775081noreply@blogger.com22tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7135091772004222693.post-33237876545508980262008-12-13T06:57:00.005-06:002008-12-13T11:02:03.324-06:00Why Cats Are Smarter Than Dogs<div style="text-align: justify;">I'm preparing for a <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic; ">bomb</span> 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. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">So, somehow and in someway one of our four-legged furries will be giving them back. And not in a good form either. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">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. </div>Jenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03584503437503775081noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7135091772004222693.post-70941844670784311622008-12-10T12:40:00.004-06:002008-12-10T13:19:57.225-06:00Folly of Oracle Verbiage<div style="text-align: justify;">I just listened to a Louisiana po-po on TV say, ". . . being investigated for <span style="font-style: italic;">'<span style="font-weight: bold;">homo</span>-side'</span>. . . ."<br /><br />Not, "<span class="pronset"><span class="show_spellpr" style="display: inline;"><span class="pron"><span style="font-weight: bold;" class="boldface">hom</span>-<span style="font-style: italic;" class="ital-inline">uh</span>-sahyd</span></span></span>" as it is properly pronounced, but "<span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">homo</span>-side</span>." <br /><br />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.<br /><br />But really, in this day and age, you ought to try and not commit <span style="font-style: italic;">word pronunciation homicide</span>.<br /><br />I'm just sayin'.<br /><br /></div>Jenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03584503437503775081noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7135091772004222693.post-81878335806592683702008-12-09T19:05:00.003-06:002008-12-09T19:34:34.180-06:00Shopping Is Not Cheaper Than A Psychologist<div style="text-align: justify;">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. . . . <br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I was at the grocery with my husband. <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">MY husband</span>. The one and only husband. When I was approached by crazy men who decided that they shall strike up conversations with me. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">The husband thought it would be hilarious to walk away. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">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. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I was stuck. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">By <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">myself</span>. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">With a crazy man<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 255, 0); ">*</span> 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.)</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I tried to be polite. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">Do you ever get that really uncomfortable gut feeling? </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">M'kay. Need I say more. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">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. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">The husband just laughed. <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">Laughed</span></span>! At moi. Hmpf. Men. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">And then. . . . . it happened again with a completely different man<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(102, 0, 204);">**</span>. In the cheese section. Again, I tried to be polite. Again, the husband walked away <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">laughing</span>. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">The husband is fired. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;">*****************************************</div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 255, 0);">*</span>/<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(102, 0, 204);">**</span>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 <a href="http://popwatch.ew.com/popwatch/2008/12/new-moon-direct.html"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;">Rob Pattinson</span></span></a>. 'Cos then I don't think the husband would have been so quick to walk away. </div><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: justify;">I'm just sayin'. </div>Jenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03584503437503775081noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7135091772004222693.post-41988605421379407222008-12-07T22:37:00.011-06:002008-12-07T23:12:14.490-06:00All The Running You Can Do To Keep The Same PlaceBecause my last post was so cool.<br /><br />I now give you more geeky techno love:<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://www.imapmy.com/"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 107px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhI0mkw9DgBGYBZAg1PDEeKcPqodSj5lV62PXi5qukNoqoI1ZZTBol2InurWmJ3K4toEia0_uwZdxGmUfHgLL_pjXN6o0TXtYXn2nb6Lu2EXPSc5AO1Yf-XK3Vb3lminYIGs-JWn1ajt-kZ/s200/imapmy_rotate.gif" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5277274505195502370" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><br /><div style="text-align: justify;"><br /><br />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:<br /></div> <ul><li>Total Time</li><li>Total Distance (in miles or kilometers)</li><li>Pace (minutes per km/mile) or current speed</li><li>Average Speed / Pace (km/mile)</li><li>View your running maps directly on your iPhone</li><li>Training Log including Distance, Calories Burned, Time, and Date</li><li>Add Your Workout to Twitter</li><li>And a partridge in a pear tree<span style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);">*</span><br /></li></ul><div style="text-align: justify;">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. <br /><br />And, did I mention it was <span style="font-style: italic;">free</span>? <span style="font-style: italic;">As in no charge for the application?! </span> Blah, blah, blah. . . . Excitement. Excitement. Blah, blah, blah. . . . <br /><br />So, I downloaded. I synced. I ran. Today. Close to 6-miles. With my GPS iMapMyRun turned on and in tow! While <strike>Britney Spears</strike> a cute little blonde's <strike>"Circus"</strike> new album was blaring in my ears. . . . . . . . <span style="font-size:85%;">(Huh? What? What's wrong? Motivation is key, m'kay?)</span><br /><br />Anyway, an hour later, I doth return to plug in thy device from God Himself. . . . . . . . . . . . only to find that it didn't work. <span style="font-style: italic;"><br /><br /></span><span style="font-style: italic;">What?! <br /><br /><br /></span><br />It's <span style="font-style: italic;">supposed</span> 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.<br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:85%;" ><span style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);">*</span>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!</span><br /></div><br /></div>Jenhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03584503437503775081noreply@blogger.com9