It's Hard Enough To Find Your Way Around Chinatown

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

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

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

A Very Boring Post

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

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

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




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

You Want a What

My head is a puddle of ooze.

If you might have a very bad idea that massage therapy school is elementary and/or effortless; you need to take that back. Immediately. Or I may just have to kick you in your adorable heads.

I'm too pooped to feel pooped. And somehow that has to be an oxymoron. But I couldn't tell you why - as I've previously told you, my cerebellum is glop. In fact, my brain is going to start leaking out my ear, my eyes and my mouth right on down to my stiletto clad feet. Which, by the way, are none to happy about having to not wear fabulous stylin' stilleto's every day I leave our Longhorn City home. The feets may just get used to the cushy sounds of . . . dare I say it . . . tennis shoes.

Quick, spork my head.

Ahem. I have a feeling this consciousness (or lack thereof) won't be gone until mid-July 2008. Yeah. Yeah. Yeah. In the big scheme of things, it is a small amount of time. Short term brain pain. I can deal. It's just I can't begin to even tell my seven readers which end is up, let alone, read their blogs. Three to five hours of . . . . . . . . . . .

. . . Oh! The husband just called. He's opened a bottle of wine . . . . .






Bye-bye my pretties.

Waking Up Is Hard To Do

Can someone tell me why, an admittedly abhorrent, disagreeable, frightful, ghastly, hideous, lousy and do not forget obnoxious dancer, I. . . errr . . . . I mean, they would purchase "Dance Dance Revolution Universe 2" to play on their husbands XBox 360? And then wonder in complete and utter astonishment as to why they are failing miserably on the beginner workout level? Really. This needs an explanation.

I Love Pasta & Sunflowers

When the husband and I have a chance to enjoy breakfast with one another, we typically turn on BBC America, as we absolutely cannot get enough of Ramsay's Kitchen Nightmares, Top Gear, You Are What You Eat as well as Doctor Who, of which we are just beginning to get into. Yeah, I know. This does not make us cool or trendy or whatever. The point is, I enjoy any one of these shows just as much as the husband does. Neither one of us watch much of any TV. If it is on, we are usually watching a movie together or it is background noise for whatever we may be doing at the time. We will; however, sit down and watch the aforementioned BBC shows when one pops on. In my book, they sure as hell beat the Military Channel, Science Channel and/or NASA Channel, which tend to come on if by chance the husband gets the remote faster than I do. This phenomenon happens a lot. Like, more than you think you can imagine, much to my dismay. Most of you already know my feelings about these channels, so I won't bore you yet again.

Anyway, yesterday morning we were watching Ramsay cuss out yet another individual for being stoopid. What I don't understand is that Ramsay is a top rated world renowned chef with 5-star rated restaurants and these people called him for help and, in the end, they will not listen to him. Uh. Hello?! It seems to me that since your foodie place is failing miserably, you might want to take a listen to a dude that knows something about this industry. Learn and grow, people. Duh.

Yet I am digressing once again, when Ramsay was done trying to help out another miserable fellow, BBC America went on to this show: How Clean Is Your House? Now, I heart these two ladies. They are hysterical and more than practical. They can clean your house without harsh additives with things you can make yourself at home that will not harm thy outdoorsy environment. All good things there. Right? Right. Wrong! You see, I cannot watch this show when I'm eating any sort of food. Neither can the husband. These people that haven't cleaned in, oh I dunno, say 10-years or so; well, it's humongously disgusting. I do not even have words for this. I start gagging and thrashing about. The husband will turn off said show.

Then I begin marathon cleaning of the. entire. house.

Which is what exactly happened yesterday. I'm not talking my normal weekly clean of the house, that which includes scrubbing the bathrooms, dusting, vacuuming, laundry, changing sheets, throwing out clutter and mopping. I'm talking vacuuming of the mattresses, box springs, curtains, door frames, every piece of furniture after it's been dusted, floors, books, ceilings, base boards and vents. In each and every room of the house in our Longhorn city. I even vacuumed the vacuum, which is probably some sort of an oxymoron. Everything in sight has been dusted and vacuumed, including Dixie, Lola and our female cat, Mia Bella whom, by the way, absolutely loves to be vacuumed. She chases me around the house begging for it and will get in my way of vacuuming the couch and chairs in order for me to do her. I am not kidding. Someday, I may video it to be posted. Then ya'll will believe.

Finally, this show always does this to me. It freaks me out that badly. I cleaned so much yesterday that I did not finish until 7 PM last night. I skipped lunch even. I have yet to scrub each of the bathrooms as well as finish up the laundry, but everything else is done. For now. NINE HOURS of cleaning. If Kim and Aggie happen to show up here to snoop around for those little horrors they tend to find and actually find some, I think I'll spork my own self to death.

I'm not OCD. Really . . . . I'm not.

A Really Beautiful Relationship Is A Once in A Lifetime Thing

Where Were We?
Sometimes we are beerknurds.

Any guesses as to where the husband & I might have visited this past January 31st in the evening? Here's a couple more hints taken from plates (aka: Rings of Honor) which hang on the said buildings inside walls and ceilings:

For sale by owner: Liver. CHEAP! Slightly used.
******
Time is never wasted when your wasted all the time.
******
The eagle is hammered.
******
They tell me not to, but I still drinks it.
******
Stop staring & buy me a beer.
******
To whole wheat. Now that's a toast.

I consumed 1.5 wheat (weizen) beers that tasted strangely fascinatingly enough like Fruity Pebbles! How great is that to have beer that tastes like sugared cereal? Fun times, I tell you. I could only drink 1.5 beers because I get a full belly-delly from fermented wheat products. And . . . . I'm old.

Now That's The Kind of Dirty You Can't Wash Off

Sooooo. . . . I have been tagged with a "Meme" by the wonderful, awesome and fully entertaining Princess Winnipeg. Which means I must share a few facts about the fantastic Texaconsin Diva. Since I've been tagged only once before, I do happen to have few things you may or may not know. I'll try and be brief, but that alone is a difficult task for moi.

And, of course, there are codes of conduct - etiquette, if you will. I guess I must be a good diva.

Rules:
1. Link to your tagger and post these rules on your blog.
2. Share 5 facts about yourself on your blog, some random, some weird.
3. Tag 5 people at the end of your post by leaving their names as well as links to their blogs.
4. Let them know they are TAGGED by leaving a comment on their blog.

Let's get this party started:

1. I broke my left wrist when I was 5-years-old jumping down off the monkey bars for the end of recess. No one knew it until 9 PM that night when Dr. Bob came home and took one look at it and said to my mom, "Mom C, I think you've got a broken arm here. . . " Mom started crying she felt so bad. Even my kindergarten teacher had grabbed my wrist and moved it up and down pretty violently while I sat back choking on my tears as she did so. It's okay, mom, how were you supposed to know? Plus, it's pretty cool to wear a cast to school at that age! Bonus that we were friends of the people of the Mayo Clinic - priority service. Bou-yah!
2. I can cook. (And not just pop tarts.) This also includes grilling meat. Two things I completely enjoy doing. Though, my cooking endeavors led me to stop my monthly dinner/wine soiree's back in the day. I no longer had the fun they once were when one of the guys went and got a girlfriend who thought it was best to tell me how to cook in my kitchen. One time, she went as far as to leave and purchase an herb at the grocery when she found out I wasn't using it. Upon her return, she threw all of it in the food. Food. I. Was. Cooking. I was a wee bit perturbed, but didn't have the cajones to tell her to get out of my kitchen and don't come back. I was trying to have a nice time, people. Second party she came to. Second strike she got. She also invited 30 people to a Halloween party Alli and I were throwing without asking for permission. She was awful. I think he married her anyway. Third strike. . . .
3. Once, I was told I looked like a German soccer player. A Male German Soccer Player. (Why couldn't it at least have been Beckham?) This guy, who so eloquently uttered these words, left me speechless. Me. Speechless. . . . In my own home.
4. I can't dance. Even when I'm full of ze liquid courage. I just can't do it. I am awful. (ButIlovesit!)
5. I knew I wanted to marry the husband before I even met him. I'd heard so much about him that he just sounded like the person I wanted to and should be spending my life with. I was right. He is.

I know, I know. . . rules are meant to be brok-ed. But since Princess Winnipeg thinks I am nice and all I surely don't want to disappoint. That said, the following of ya'll are tagged:

1. Alli, because payback is a bee-otch.
2. Ian, because he's sure genius. Anyone who can write a 13 page paper on the innards of a ping-pong ball as punishment for a school time crime of talking or something, has got the goods.
3. Alex & Fi, because they've been gone too long and need to come back to the blogosphere. I miss ya'll.
4. Iain & Vikki, because they're about to have another wee little one! They're very, very brave and kind! They also hike more than anyone I know on this planet.
5. Mindy, because ultimately she is uber fabulous! And who doesn't want to hear of fabulousness? Especially since she lives in the great state that I was born in.

I've done my duties. It's off my plate and now on yours. . . .

What Do You Want, an Adorable Pancreas

Am covered in thy paint. I might be close to being toxic.

Will get back to thee all when able to varnish off. . . .

Are You & Your Little Band of Ruffians Picking Pockets

What are Jen and the husband in the middle of:

A) prepping (sanding, washing, masking/taping, wood filling, etc.) the dinning room & family room for paint
B) planting stuff that grows
C) tearing out homemade ceiling structure(s) in the Great Hall
D) power washing house, fence, cars, garage
E) epoxying the garage floor
F) fixing broken window the dog kicked out last spring
G) prepping trim on home to receive a coat of paint
H) breaking into shed
I) replacing deadbolt on said shed post-break in
J) re-caulking 264 pieces of glass
K) customizing all outlets, plugs and weird electrical items
L) flabbergasted that closed off electrical wires which are 60+ years of age are still "hot"
M) pricing Pergo flooring for master bedroom (cha-ching)
N) prepping kitchen for paint
O) prepping guest bathroom for paint
P) replacing front & back door hardware
Q) repairing rotten wood pieces around home
R) on the millionth-and-one trip to Lowe's
S) cooking the entire way through home improvements
T) ALL OF THE ABOVE

What's your guess?

That's How This Lady Rolls

I am officially jumpy. I had never been before. I was the one, at 6 years of age, that sat through an entire viewing of "Jaws" without batting an eyelid. And, no, my mother did not approve. She said "no, you cannot take Jenny to see that movie," but my older and way cooler cousin did not see the point in listening to a mother's advice. She took me anyway. I wasn't even frightened of the ocean let alone sharks. I was 6. Give me Spielberg any day. I can take him.

I was 8 when "Salem's Lot: The Miniseries" was shown on TV. My parents let my brother and I watch it with them. My brother covered his eyes the entire time while mentioning more than once, "tell me when it's over." I sat wide-eyed and bushy tailed viewing the entire show. I fell in love with bloodsucking vampires and all things evil.

After I had discovered Stephen King, I then found Anne Rice and Dean Koontz. I couldn't read fast enough. These authors were coupled with and era of Freddy Krueger and Jason. Hmpf. Child's play if you ask me.

. . . .Fast forward to modern day Longhorn City, TX USA. . . .

Late Monday morning, I was just back from the gym and the grocery. In the husbands and my driveway, I went around to the passenger side of the truck to start unpacking recently purchased food goods. It was then it happened. Panic suddenly had me in its crushing grip. In one movement, I had jumped, ducked my head defensively and gasped with horror. I had 6 bags of groceries in each hand. I almost dropped them and fled. Shock was enveloping me as my little heart was pounding through my chest. Seconds passed . . . .

What exactly was it that brought a horror giant down?







A falling acorn. One that had whizzed past my head at what was seemingly 32-miles per hour and hit the truck with alarming force.

Don't believe me?

evidence A: the scratch left on our truck after atomic acorn hit.

Sometimes, I Like To Do Nice Things Without Being Coerced

The aliens decided I was too boring and dropped me back in the Longhorn City. I somewhat made mention that there might be some interesting people's out there in Florida, southern Texas, Minnesota, Missouri, Canada, Scotland and maybe the Cyprus area too. . . .Maybe I did and maybe I didn't. All I'm going to say is that those of you who may live in said areas, might want to keep your eyes on the skies, the cows and Uranus.

I'm just sayin'.

And now back to me, me, me.

So, aside from alien abductions, I was asked to take a few tests at my newly acquired place of employment. Because I just can't seem to refrain my impulses as well as being one that practices the vein of embarrassing the hell out of myself by not minding the shame, I've decided to share the test results with my seven readers.

My Personality Type is: INFJ

Apparently, the basis of these answers say quite a bit about the individual - likes, dislikes, career choices, compatibility with others, etc., etc., etc. In giving you a bit more detail, here is what you can expect of moi:

I = Introversion
N = Intuition
F = Feeling
J = Judging

And, I quote, "INFJ: "Author". Strong drive and enjoyment to help others. Complex personality. 1% of the total population. Serious students/workers who really want to contribute. The are private and easily hurt. The make good spouses, but tend to be physically reserved. People often think they are psychic. They make good therapists, general practitioners, ministers and so on. . . "

The husband was sure to point out "complex personality." I don't believe that's good. Is it? How soon he forgets that I am an Amazonian perfect Princess. . . pffft. Anyhow, he was also sure to mention, "physically reserved?" more so in question, because with him let's just say I am not-so-much if you catch my drift. M'kay?

Ahem. . . . moving on. . . I also started to think "1% of the total population of people are INFJ's. . . .and are considered psychic. . . ." Fabulous. I am a freak of nature in every aspect of my personality.

That's just lovely.

There are all sorts of additional and deeper explanations of what my MBTI [Myers-Briggs Type Indicator] actually means. But I don't need to verify that I am an abnormal aberration.

Let's just move on to test #2, shall we?

What are my strengths?

After a 30 to 40-minute test, here is what has been determined as my top five brawniness':

Harmony
Developer
Empathy
Communication
Input

Harmony
To boil it down, I look for areas of agreement. I do not see much to be gained from conflict and/or friction, so I seek to hold it at a minimum. I know when people around me have different views and I try for common ground. Harmony is my guiding value. I do not understand why so much time is wasted by people trying to impose their views on others. I think we would all be more productive if we kept our opinions in check and instead looked for consensus and support - I live by this belief. I hold my peace when others are sounding off about their goals, claims and fervently held opinions. I steer clear of debate. (This; however, goes away with 6 bottles of wine, trust me on this) In my view we are all in the same boat and we need this boat to get where we are going. It is a good boat. No need to rock it just to show that you can.

Developer
I see loads of potential in others. Very often, this is all I see, because to me, no individual is fully formed. We all are a work in progress. When I interact with others, my goal is to help them experience success, but I also challenge them. Over time, individuals will seek me for help and encouragement. This is both genuine and fulfilling to me.

Empathy
I can sense the emotions of those around me. I feel what they are feeling as if these feelings are my very own. I can see the world through their eyes and share their perspective. I do not necessarily agree with each person's perspective and I don't necessarily feel pity for each person's predicament. That's sympathy - not empathy. Duh! I do not condone the choices each person makes, but I do understand. Apparently, this is powerful. Don't ask me how; I do not know.

Communication
I like to describe, to host, to speak in public (I'm sorry, what?!) and to write. Ideas are a dry beginning. Events are static and I feel the need to bring them to life, to energize, make them exciting and vivid. So, I turn events into stories and practice telling them. Over and over and over and over. Okay, maybe not over and over the last time, but I do like making them more alive.

Input
I am inquisitive. I collect things. This collection may consist of information, words, facts, books and quotations or even tangible things (um. . . no. As that would mean I have to dust them). I collect because they interest me. I find most everything interesting. The world is exciting precisely because of its infinite variety and complexity. Apparently, my collection is huge.

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

Finally, you ask, "what does this all mean?" And I say, "I don't have a flippin' clue." I mean, am I a psychopath, antisocial cereal killer? Why can't I just stay in my Amazonian world of those perfect pretty things such as flowers, puppies, couture hand bags, butterflies, the husband, stiletto shoes, kittens, sugar and a little devilish spice here and there? Why?

. . . . Dammit. I'm going to bed.

There's My Little Enchilada

So, I realize I've been ignoring this here blog for the last 2 weeks or so. I haven't found any wittiness on my part for quite sometime. Perhaps nothing funny has actually been done or said to me, which I find very hard to believe. Or maybe this blog is getting on my nerves. Are we losing one another? Blog relationships are tender and must be lavished with love, happiness and held ever so gently. I have done neither for quite some time.

I don't know what's going on here and frankly it does bother me.

Have I lost touch with the great blog-o-sphere? And why? Am I bored? I always know when one of my dogs, um. . . . so as not to incriminate her supreme damn cuteness. . . . um. . . . them. . . . , let's just say the name rhymes with "pixie". . . . is bored. She brings me a sock. No, she doesn't chew it, she'll just walk around the house with her most prized possession until one of us notices and takes it from her. It's usually the husbands, because for some odd reason his socks don't seem to make it to the dirty clothes hamper. It's another of his unexplained phenomenons, which I can't go into right now, but the husband also cannot deny this fact. Although he might try, it's the truth and nothing but the truth. I would never make up stories about him to get a laugh on my blog. Never. Anyway, when we take the sock from her she gets pretty melancholy. It's damn cute. One just can't resist the cuteness powers of Dixie. You have to play with her.

Unfortunately, I don't have such a behavior. Especially one that can so easily be remedied as a throwing a ball in a game of fetch. I mean, at least I haven't found myself walking around the house with the husbands dirty sock in my mouth. So, I can't say for sure that it's sheer boredom keeping me from blogging to my 7 readers. But it's not to say that I'm not keeping up with my 7 readers' blogs and I must mention here that theirs have all been good as of late. So, why can't I blog lately? This mystery is even astounding to me.

I got to thinking. . . .

Here's what I consider what might be the situation up in my hizizile.

A few weeks back I was asked through the husband for my resume. So, I spent a week putting that together. I spent another couple of days trying to do some recognisance detail on this here company who asked for my resume. If I was going to send someone my detailed work history, I'd best be armed. For example, where is it - what is it - why is it - who is it - how is it? You know, all the important stuff. Plus, I needed to know what position I was applying for. Sometimes beggars need to be choosy. I wouldn't do very well on a street corner or dancing with poles. I'd like to use me brains and me edumication too. So, with some information, albeit small information, I was armed to write a cover letter, which took another few days. And sent it on to the person who originally asked the husband for it.

Not really thinking that anything could come of it, I went on with my life by continuing not to blog. But I received a phone call that same day asking me to come in for an interview. Now, let me explain my work history as of late. Officially, for the last year, I've been known as the housewife. That's it. I have no clock, no boss (no, the husband doesn't count as I am the alpha here - Amazonian Princess, people. Duh!), no deadlines (okay, maybe the paying of the bills), no assignments, no reporting to duty on time, no nuttin'. And, no, it is not as quaint as it sounds. People have often looked at me with jealousy, but also with disdain. I have received a lot of, "I would love to be you and not have to work!" As well as, "so, you don't do anything?" accompanied by a look of disdain as if I just caught the Ebola virus and fully plan to pass it on to said perpetrator by planting a full on kiss right on their mouth. People have even suggested that I give birth to children in order to give me something to do. Seriously? I should have children so that I am not bored? What a fantastic idea. Why didn't I think of that? Bring the kid on, I need amusement here in our Longhorn city!

All this to say, it is a catch .22. It is boring not being productive, contributing, dealing with only things that have to do with all-things-housely or getting out of the house and doing something for society. (Volunteer work doesn't cut it either - that's a whole other can o' worms that I'm not opening right now.) It also is hard to give up some acquired freedom. You know, the whole by-product of not working. Freedom has its perks. One such benefit revolves around the morning. I'm not - nor have I ever been - a morning person. It's nice not having to wake up to an alarm clock at 5:30 AM; okay, so maybe it's 6:30 AM - whatever, it's the morning and all the same to moi. It is nice being with my dogs all day - but even they cause me crazy-time too. It's so freaking hot in this Longhorn city of ours that staying outside all day is not awesomely feasible. A person would melt trying to do so - just as soon as they burnt their nose hairs off as well as all remaining bodily hair. I don't have a beach where I can spend my days slurping dirty martini's while swimming lazily in the ocean. *I wish* It is also nice to know one can jump on an airplane for a bit of reprieve; a vacation, if you will, without having permission to actually be able to go on vacation. Another perk of freedom.

***To bring some of my newly acquired 7 listeners up to date on the work history of moi, before this past year I worked very part-time in our old apartment complex, which in turn covered our rent each month. It was a pretty sweet deal if you ask me. Anyway, if you want to be totally bored you can just read here to find out the rest of my Greek tragedy. . . . er. . . . history. It's uninteresting. I'll leave that up to you. But you can't say you weren't warned.

Now, since I believe I have fairly given you notice, let's get back to the subject at hand. Moi! And my non-blogging status. Yes, I went to the interview, which resulted in a 2nd interview, which resulted in a job offer. It is a job I can do and would most likely enjoy doing. I liked the people I interviewed with and I like the company's philosophies. I'm pretty sure I'd like the job if even to just get back into the work world once again. Upon my hesitation at the job offer, more money was offered. Who doesn't like money? But this isn't the point. This is.

I sit here now realizing that some of my lack of sleep (take last night, for example, I have a total of 4.5 hours of blissful nothingness under my belt) and lack of blogging are to be blamed for this job thing. I know most people do it and I myself never thought I would not work (it just kinda happened), but I have to say I am a bit apprehensive about the whole situation. Back to the daily grind, schedules, appointments, research and alarm clocks. Hello to new friends, new brain power, new money, new clothes (of course!) and new endeavors. Goodbye lazy mornings, lazy daytime gym workouts when no one hogs the machines, lazy pajama wearing (all day - good sirs - I. do. not.), lazy freedom, lazy blogging and lazy walks with the pups. And yet, there is something to be said for making your own paycheck and using your own brain as well as doing something for myself for a change. Something that is just mine. Something of worth. I'm not really skilled in the art of nothingness. After a year at home, I know this much about me.

Finally, I've made a ton of pro and con lists. I don't think I have anymore. I've talked, debated, bullied (okay, not really), conversed, bantered, rapped and tete-a-tete'd with the husband over this entire situation. He, obviously, wants me to work, but more importantly, he wants moi to be happy. He even started helping out more around the house just to prove that the house will not collapse or implode upon my absence from it. But regardless and on top of that, I have to make the decision to work or not to work by next Monday by either accepting or not accepting the position? I am at some losses here. I need some sage advice.

Shall we take a poll?

Okay, Crazy Time Begins at 5:30 PM

This past April, I celebrated my 7th-Anniversary-of-My-29th-Birthday. This is significant. Why? Because I need to remind myself that I am no longer 21-years-old. How do I do this? By attempting to complete two cardio gym classes in a row. Let me reiterate: Two. Cardio. Gym. Classes. In. A. Row - with an emphasis on cardio. Which completely proves to me that I am a young-un no more. I am a brick. A stationary brick. I think I like being a non-moving brick. It suits me just fine.

Even as a brick, I thought I was Queen of Cool, but it turns out I am only Napoleon Dynomite with a fuzzy 'fro, moon boots, tater tots and a llama, but even he has dance moves. I don't have dance moves. I can't dance; I thought I could, but it's really pretty crude bordering on inapt incorrectness.

Seeing as this white-girl cannot dance, I should have known when at the tender age of 12 I tried to take break dancing classes and failed miserably. Why oh why did I not stop there?

So, tonight, I went to my 2nd "step & strength class." I can do the weight strength training, but I am a 2-lefter on the step. Literally and figuratively. Add in squats, intervals, lunges, jumps, hips, legs all completed on or around a step and it's as if I am on invisible fire just like Ricky Bobby doing windmills across the race track in his underwear. I think you're supposed to look like some sort of gliding pretty in pink ballerina, but not me. I am a brick. Add some sweat and it's not pretty. In fact, it looks like I'm in pain. Lots and lots of pain. It cannot even be categorized as bopping. How the rest of the class did not fall into gales of whopping laughter is a very scientific mystery to me?

In trying to get beyond the qualified, but concealed amusement, the class that followed was a "cardio kickboxing class." Easy enough. I was a blue belt in kickboxing and took 3 months of boxing lessons and. . . .uh. . . . So, what are you trying to say? Whatever. So, I took kickboxing over 5 years ago and boxing only a year ago. I'm only a little out of shape, I've been working out for, like, forever. Duh. I can still punch. And kick.

Or so I thought once again.

Little (oh so very leetol) did I know it was successive bag punching for 30 minutes. Um. Ow. Is all I have to say about that. I do need to talk to the husband to drill him find out as to why I did not barf out a lung. It would have given me the excuse I needed to quit.

Finally, I'm out of the shower. I am indubitably and evidently not 21 anymore. Classes ended at 6:45. I can barely lift my fingers to the keyboard. All I can stomach is water. I have a nice tuna steak in the fridge waiting for human consumption and all I want is water.



. . . . kill me now.