Just a few of the thoughts spinning out of control in my head this morning:
For the love of God, somebody send me some cows. I simply cannot keep going to Wegmans to buy milk every other day and I’m too stressed out to lactate.
What am I supposed to feed cows? Do they eat spaghetti?
I met with a personal trainer yesterday.
My bank account says I can’t afford a personal trainer. Loud and clear! With enunciation! And inflection! And rampant use of extraneous exclamation points!
My weight and BMI both say I can’t not afford a personal trainer. I know this because they were screaming at me in unison and I think the personal trainer heard them because right at that moment, he whipped out one of those Are You Healthy charts and with his finger, pointed to my optimal healthy zone. Then he ran across the room and pointed out the window to my current zone which apparently resides somewhere over the horizon. The exact distance between the two zones was difficult to determine because he didn’t have his GPS on him and I forgot to bring my globe from home.
Part of my brain says I need to get off my ass, suck it up and hire the personal trainer already.
Another part says I need to hit the gym on my own because who the hell do I think I am, Oprah? What’s next, a personal chef?
A teeny tiny little part of my brain is squealing Oooooooh, I always wanted a personal chef! Let’s be Oprah! Come on, it’ll be fun! Who’s with me?
And finally, one last part of my brain is telling all the other parts to shut the hell up so it can mull it over some Dove chocolate.
Just to keep you in suspense, I won’t tell you which part won.
The last part won.
Courtesy of the teeny tiny part of my brain which can’t keep a secret and thinks suspense is highly overrated.
I have come to the conclusion that I am waging psychological warfare upon myself and I am losing for a variety of reasons, not the least of which being that I am ill equipped to go into battle.
My husband is complaining that Planters is getting stingy lately with the cashews in their Mixed Nuts.
I don’t know what to tell him. *burp*
You learn something new everyday. Except last Tuesday. Not sure what happened.
Summer TV is abysmal. Never did I think I would see the day when my husband, the National Geographic, Science Channel and History Channel aficionado, would willingly watch obese, tattooed, pierced, freaks of nature with stunted vocabulary and severe pepper spray issues repossess cars and wrestle the occasional jacked up dwarf. And know all their names.
I have reviewed my schedule and managed to carve out thirteen minutes next Thursday in which to be spontaneous. Haven’t decided what I will do yet.
I took this photo well over a year ago.
It is still applicable today.
So is this one, except that the bath mat is green.
I live in a constant state of deja vu and surprisingly enough, it’s not all its cracked up to be.
Why does my brother return my call just to tell me he can’t talk?
I want Steve Perry and Journey to kiss and make up.
I’d settle for kissing Anderson Cooper myself, even though he has nothing to do with either Steve Perry or Journey.
Staples had packs of paper on sale for $0.01 each last week. I bought enough to write War and Peace by hand fifty-two times.
I would never write War and Peace by hand fifty-two times. That’s what I have kids for.
Staples has one-subject notebooks on sale this week for a penny. If my kids ever take 1,769 subjects in school, they’ll be ready. Twice.
I believe this firmly cements my status as a bargain hunter whore.
The other week, I was waiting for my car to be serviced at the Honda dealership when I noticed a woman three seats down from me eating ice cream. With a real spoon. From a ceramic bowl.
What the hell did she do, bring it from home? Who does that?
Why didn’t she bring enough for everyone? That is just rude, if you ask me.
No one ever asks me.
Why would anyone take their two year old child to play miniature golf? Why not throw him outside with a plastic golf club and a wiffle ball and a sprinkler and just let him be happy? Because I don’t think crawling under a wind mill and getting stuck and you yelling NOW YOU’VE DONE IT. HAPPY NOW? COVER YOUR FACE, IT’S MY TURN is making anyone happy, to be honest.
As long as we’re being honest, a premenopausal hormonal woman allergic to outdoors has no business playing miniature golf either, especially when it’s a sunny 102° out and the only source of shade is currently inhabited by the aforementioned little human in a pull-up who refuses to budge no matter how many times she pokes him with her putter.
So I’ve heard.
I am putting off renting Helena’s violin. I like my ears. They work perfectly well and they look pretty and I’m not ready to rip them off my head yet. I’d tell you to ask me how I feel come November but chances are I won’t hear you because of the two gaping holes on either side of my face.
That’s it! Anyone else want to roll?