What Were They Thinking?

Last month I joined the local YMCA with big plans of going daily to work out and swim and lose this weight I've gained lately. Gyms are traumatic places for me... Even back in high school I hated them enough to take my chances on getting expelled by skipping PE rather than undressing in front of the "pretty people" and running about making a jiggly fool of myself. So, after over a month of talking myself into going to the Y, last Monday I finally packed my gym bag and set my mind on going after work. I was very good on my diet all day. I got to the gym and worked out for over an hour (amazingly good for a lazy arse like me) and was feeling very pleased with myself... UNTIL... Walking out the door, I noticed a table with FREE chocolate cupcakes and kool-aid. Seems they were celebrating their anniversary. Did I walk past? No, heck no. It was 7:30 at night, I hadn't eaten since noon and that was diety food and I had worked really hard at the gym. Plus... who can turn down a free chocolate cupcake? Not me. I ate it in 2 seconds flat, then hated myself all the way home. Why did they thwart me like that? What a mean thing to do to all the pudgy women who, like me, have to cajole and beg themselves to go to the gym! And who were standing around the cupcake table eating seconds? SKINNY PEOPLE! Grrrrr! Have I been back to the gym since then? No... Hopefully it won't take another month to talk myself into going back.

Poison Ivy

I grew up playing in the woods. My parents had an acre of overgrown land and I had a treehouse, a tire swing, and a fort deep in heart of the jungle. Poison Ivy was rampant as it is everywhere in the South in the summertime but I ran through it without a thought... sat in it, probably even picked it for loverly weed bouquets for my girlie "fort". Not once did I ever get the stuff... UNTIL....
I was in college and was home for the summer. My friends talked me into going to the local annual "International Festival" downtown, as they had heard the German beer was really German and the alcohol content was stronger than our own watered down American crap. The festival was giving special honor to Australia, and had many acts, most of them cheesy "direct from Australia" vaudeville-like bits. I got blitzed as all college kids do, and sang loudly to all the "authentic" Oz songs about kukaburras in gumtrees and matilda waltzing. I was having quite the time I must say! Then came the aboriginal Dance Troupe from "Far North Queensland" performing complete with loin cloths, painted chests and digeridoos. I was enchanted with the "Crocodile" man... he was eyeing me too. Long story short, we hooked up and needed a place to go to be alone. I was staying with my parents so that was a no-go, and he was in a hotel room with 10 other guys so that was out (I'm not THAT adventurous!) so we ended up going to a local park and found a good private spot in the woods to get it on. So basically I did it in the bush with an Aboriginal! Too bad the BUSH was poison ivy! THIS time it took... God smite me down big time. I had it all over my backside, back of my legs, back and ETC!!! I went through 3 prescriptions and 2 cortisone shots before it finally relented. I was horribly afraid that he got it as well, and that being Aussie, didn't know what poison ivy was and thought I'd given him some horrible STD! I wrote him, and he wrote me back to assure me that he figured that was what it was, that there are similar plants in Australia and no worries, he'd only gotten it on his knees.

I'm remembering this story because somehow I've gotten poison ivy on my neck. It looks like a giant inflamed hickey, at least that's what the guy I work with said. I've no idea how I got it... most likely the cat walked through it and then I hugged him. Bastard. Poison ivy now jumps at me... I can just look at it and it attacks me. I think it plots daily to get me.

Needless to say, I will never do it in the bush again... with or without an Aboriginal!

Somebody shoulda bitch-slapped Elvis

Poor ol Elvis... too many YES men hanging about sucking him dry. Someone shoulda taken that gun away that he used to shoot TV sets with and pistol-whipped him into shape. "No more pills! No more nanner samitches!" Then he would have been around for the early 80's Leg-warmer-wearing-let's-get-physical movement... He could have whipped himself into shape and done exercise tapes with Jane Fonda and duets with Olivia Newton-John. How would Elvis have made New Wave his own I wonder? I have no doubt he could have. He was a musical genius, even if he did have horrible decorating tastes.

I, of course, remember exactly where I was when I heard. I was 12 years old. I had been to a Southern Baptist summer camp all week long. I had been been AWOL most of the time, never showing up to any of the bible study meetings or chores they had planned for me... I was hiding out in the stables with my fellow heathen friends Sandra, and her little sister Sheila. I don't know which was the stronger draw - the horses (which I loved) or the stable boy (who I thought I loved) but both were stronger than the alternative of sitting around in a circle singing hymns and testifying! After a week filled with mosquitos and holy rollers, I was ready to go home and sit in front of the TV in lovely icy cold air-conditioning and have my Mom bring me Kool-aid and E.L. Fudge cookies. But on the bus home, as everyone chatted away and I rocked out in the back seat listening to my TRANSISTOR radio (God I'm old!) I heard the news... ELVIS WAS DEAD. Holy smokes! I felt an empty sadness in the pit of my stomach. No I didn't really listen to Elvis, but I did know who he was and he was a Southerner and we were all very proud of our native son, even if he had become a laughing stock in those last years. Just the year before the Birmingham News had run a story with the headline "Fat Elvis Rips Pants" about Elvis splitting out of his beadazzled suit on stage in front of everyone. Poor guy. Dad picked me up from the church parking lot. "Did you hear?" I asked him. "Yeah." That's all we said. We rode home in silence. I walked in the back door of the house and I could hear the TV on, giving all the sad details. Mom was in the kitchen cooking dinner. She was chopping veggies and just bawling her eyes out. I didn't say a word to her... just went to my room and laid on my bed. How many people were crying for this man who never met him... didn't know him at all really? How had he touched so many people? He was truly amazing - even if he was cheesy.

Anyway, that's my little trip down Memory Lane. Such a long time ago. Seems like yesterday.

Eeeek! A MAN!

I went to get a manicure and pedicure today... I haven't had one in ages because I've been trying to save money... But my poor hands and feet were suffering and so I went, spur of the moment to the friendly little nail shop near my house. As I was rolling up my jeans I realized that I hadn't shaved recently... I was totally embarrassed and apologized profusely but the girl said it wasn't bad (then she said something in Vietnamese to the girl next to her and they laughed but I'll try not to be paranoid here!) and I relaxed as the chair started massaging away my woes. The THE MAN came in. All decked out in Golferman clothes. Lots of gold jewelry and VERY white teeth. He had something to say to everyone in the shop... What a friendly man he was. He sat at table 1 and got a complete manicure. I sat there in my massage chair and watched him the sneaky way- using the mirrors. What kind of man gets his nails done? Male hand models? That would be acceptable to me I suppose. I listened to him chat aways like a girl, getting all involved in the town gossip. He didn't act gay, in fact, he had his 12 year old daughter there with him. She had her nails done in dark purple, dad opted for clear. I guess this man was a Metrosexual? Is that what its called? I prefer my men to do their nails themselves, like my father always has, using manly nail utensils such as a pocket knife, toothpick, and giant toenail clippers. Then there's always the Improv Style... Biting and spitting. That's the manly man way. I like the manly man way. I don't get my hair done at the barber shop... I really don't want men in my beauty shop or nail salon, seeing the whole secret beauty process! I wonder if this man's buddies knows he frequents girlie nail shops? Do they sit around the table on Tuesday Poker Night admiring each other's hands? Holy crap! What is this world coming to? Men should have clean but rough hands if you ask me... manly hands. Actually, I don't even mind a little grease under the nails... but that's me... Mechanic hands excite me... Big rough strong mechanic hands with mechanic muscles... You know, forearm muscles like Popeye had. Tattoos are optional. I will never be attracted to a metrosexual. My man will not cry in public except on 3 occasions: when his Mother dies; when his dog dies; and when his team comes from behind, beats all odds and wins it all. Yep... I'm afraid manly men are going the way of the dinosaurs. Such a shame.

His Mother Must Be Proud

Saturday August 5, 2006
Went to mass as I always do on Saturday at 5pm, with all the other people who don't want to be bothered with the obligation on the proper day of Sunday. Gotta love the Catholics, they understand the whole "convenience" factor... the Baptists will never get it I suppose... I am a Convert by the way, I grew up a Southern Baptist. Not being a "Morning Person", I always made my parents late to church on Sunday morning... Mom hurriedly dropping me off at my Sunday School room where I immediately snuck out and down the hall to the bathroom where my other heathen friends would be hiding, smoking cigs and talking about boys and such important things as the length of Gene Simmons' tongue and who got lucky in the dark corner of the skating rink the night before... Anyway, back to the point... the visiting priest tonight was a monsignor who had some pretty impressive priestly credentials… he is the emissary between the Pope and the British government… he was over here slumming it to fill in for our vacationing rector because they are pals and he started out here years ago. I was pretty immpressed. He told of carrying a letter from the Pope asking ol' Slobodan Milocevic to please (I'm sure the Pope says "please") stop bombing things during the war in Kosovo. I don’t care if you are an atheist or an animist or what, there’s got to be a bit of awe there if you ask me… carrying something written by the most powerful man on the face of the earth. Did he have a Trapper-Keeper to keep it safe, or did he just fold it up and stuff it in his shirt pocket maybe? I could just see me patting my pockets saying "Yo Slobo, I got a note here somewhere from JP for ya... now where did I put it... " All I’ve ever carried that was important was a note from one elementary school teacher to another, and even then the note just probably read "Meet me for a smoke at 2:15 in the teachers’ lounge."
My cat Mr. Whiskers (not very original, I know, but I had grown tired of thinking up cool cat names by the time he came along) is sitting in the dry bathtub, all alone except for his favorite toy, a bottle cap… he’s knocking it around and meowing to it… he’s giving it a great tongue lashing I must say… he’s been yowling on for about 10 minutes straight now, with his weird siamesey-gravelly-nasally tone, which is weird coming out of a black cat. I wonder what is going thru his little cat mind... he does this EVERY night. Does he have a whole little scenario going on? Do cats pretend? I wish I had a Babelfish.