Pee-Tah Moved

I bet I didn’t tell most of you because I couldn’t really tell it without crying, but Pee-Tah moved away from me. He’s done it before and he’s very good about keeping in touch and visiting, but it still feels terrible when I want to go over to his apartment on a Friday night in my pajamas to watch Jason Bourne do unspeakable things to bad guys.  Or speakable things.  Jason Bourne is one of those guys who isn’t really all that good looking on the surface but then he does something like knock out a guy with one punch and you find yourself dealing with overactive ovaries and wondering why it all of the sudden got hot in the room and speculating about why you feel compelled to fling your bra at the television screen.  Like how women react to Dammit Todd.  Those people are the good-in-motion people.

Pee-Tah arranged nights with each of his close friends to pack a section of his apartment and then have dinner together. I was slated for the kitchen packing night which works out well for me because Pee-Tah has only expired foods in his pantry because he forgets to eat, but he has great appliances and gadgets, all clean, barely used.  Packing his kitchen is easy.  Toss the food and place the unopened gadgets, already packed securely in their original packaging into the storage bins, then tape, date and stack.  After packing, we went to dinner and planned on talking about his new house, his new friends, the dates he had planned, but instead we decided to cry and touch fingers while people around us assumed we were a couple.  In a way, we are.

“I didn’t realize everything I would be leaving,” Pee-Tah whispered. “I didn’t think about leaving you, really.  I know we will see each other but right now you are just around the corner.  You won’t be around the corner anymore.”

“I know,” I choked. “I can’t come lie on your bed and you can’t serenade me with the piano, and I can’t rummage in your cabinets and steal expired raisins.  I can’t go to anybody else’s house in my pajamas and fling my bra at Jason Bourne.  Even if I could, I don’t want to!”

We sniffled for a while, watched our poor waiter flit around desperately trying to take our orders, and then talked about the logistics of the trip. That made it worse because Pee-Tah said with a warbled voice, “Pilot Frank offered to ride with me in the moving truck so I wouldn’t have to go alone and I said no.  Why did I say no?!  I don’t want to do this by myself!”

“I don’t want you to, either!” I wailed.

Then we looked at each other, and looked away and then looked back and I said, “I can go.”

Pee-Tah didn’t even hesitate. “OKAY!” he hollered.  “OKAY, CALL YOUR BOSS RIGHT NOW.”  Because she is great, she also said, “You can go,” and our short notice travel plan was born.

I’d like to talk briefly here about the moving truck but I have to be honest with you, I don’t think I’m going to be able to do that. You should’a seen that thing!  It was huge! Enormous!  Pee-Tah’s plan was to attach the tow trailer on the back for his car and have some good-in-motion moving men load the truck, and all of that worked out pretty well except for the part where Pee-Tah wasn’t fully packed yet and he and I loaded the last of it for a few hours.

I took a thousand pictures of that truck before ever clambering in it and when I say clambered, I mean clambered. Two steps with hand rails just to get to my seat, and my seat was a bench that I shared with Pee-Tah with storage underneath for our snacks and my purse.  I worried about us driving that thing for 14 hours to Minneapolis.  Would we be safe?  Would the car be safe back there?  Madre worried about us being safe, too.  “Drive carefully,” she fretted.  “Don’t go too fast,” she instructed.

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Once we hit the road, I no longer worried. There wasn’t a soul on the road that could hit us at any speed and cause us any damage.  That truck was a Sherman tank.  That truck was a hoss. That truck was indestructible.  The only worry about that truck was filling it up with diesel and I don’t even want to know how much of Pee-Tah’s money we spent on that bill.

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That truck also rode like one of those fat shaker machines – you know, the kind where you can strap yourself in and then jiggle with a cocktail in one hand and a cigarette in the other and still get a full and effective workout? That kind.  It was pretty loud, too, so Pee-Tah and I spent a lot of time speaking very deliberately and forcefully to one another while I shook my fat and Pee-Tah just shook his bones because he doesn’t have any fat.  When our 14 hour drive turned into a 21 hour drive because we never got over 50 mph because of the enormity of the truck (“don’t drive too fast,” Madre said), Pee-Tah and I spent a lot of time doing singalongs to 80s ballads and 90s love songs.  I sing great.

My favorite part of the trip, after spending 21 hours with Pee-Tah in a moving truck, and after sleeping about 8 hours total over two nights, and after the conversations we had about what we’d like God to say to us when we get to Heaven, and after we planned my next trip via plane to MSP, were the dinners we had at the truck stops. Truck stops, y’all!  I had dinner at some truck stops!  I love truck drivers.  I always have.  I’ve always felt very safe seeing those big rigs with all the lights on them when I’m driving in in the middle of the night in my small sedan.  I know not everyone feels that way, but I always have.  The truck stops were such a rewarding experience for me, but I am always particularly moved when I see someone in their element.  Those men (and probably women!) could back those trucks into the skinniest of spots.  They had beds in the back where they slept for the night on the exit ramps.  Some of them brought family members and all of them were friendly.  Plus I got to eat truck stop food which was not only plentiful but delicious. Well, as delicious as it can be when the partaker has given up all grains.

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Pee-Tah and I woke up on our last morning together at 4:30 am. Something like that.  We were puffy-eyed and sleepy but we had things to do:  he had to complete a home inspection and I had to catch a plane.  We performed our morning ablutions and ran out the door together where he fired up his big rig with a car attached, and I climbed into an Uber with a guy who desperately wanted to be an actor and wore all the gold chains and cologne to prove it.  We didn’t cry, we did hug, and we took off for our business.  It was the only way we could do it; otherwise we’d still be clenched in a lover-like embrace at the entrance of the Holiday Inn while people walked around us and wondered why we were boo-hooing like toddlers.  Pee-Tah’s house was inspected and then purchased and my plane was caught.  We talked later that night and were right on the edge of losing it when his mother arrived to help him move in.  We talk every so often to make plans for my next flight out there so I can decorate my room.  I have a room.  It’s the one with the full size bed.

I’m okay. Pee-Tah is okay.  This is what being a grown up is.  We make our choices, the best ones we can, but we never lose sight of what is important. He is important to me and he always will be.  He moved, but he’s never far away and I’m so damn thankful for that.  Plus, we are good-in-motion people and you don’t just get over the good-in-motion people. You keep them, because they are the best.

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Snarky

This weekend I went shopping with Daisy. Often I like to shop for undergarments and often I drive my shopping partners nuts because I only wear matching sets.  Finding matching sets isn’t always easy for me despite all those cute undercracker sets you see in Target.  Those cute sets only come in size perky or petite, and this will surprise you, but I am neither.

I’ve been on a quest to find the right nude and white sets of undies. I’m sorry, this is TMI, but we are in the trenches now.  Anyway, on my quest, I’ve recently purchased and worn a set of each, only to discover that the brassieres are at minimum a size too large, despite my having been measured by an “expert.”  (“Expert” here means a shop girl holding a measuring tape and the measuring is done over the blouse, not “expert” like that high school football player who offered to “measure” me that one time because he “knows titties.”)

Daisy was off in the sized perky and petite bathing suits, rummaging for a suit for our pending Florida vacation, when a brassiere measuring “expert” approached me about the undergarments I was riffling through. “Would you like to try one of those?” she asked.  “It’s the best brand.  They fit like a dream.”

“Sure,” I said, because we all know that once a woman trails off into the bathing suit section, things can take a lengthy turn. It’s because women like being mean to themselves and criticizing all their perceived flaws, and I was going to let Daisy do that in peace because no amount of my telling her she’s perky and petite will make trying on a bathing suit any easier.  What else was I going to do with my time but try on some bras? Plus, I was in the market for one.

The “expert” trundled me off to the dressing room to give me a thorough measuring and once she got a gander at my (super cute, almost perfectly fitting) bra, she began bellowing.

“WELL NO WONDER YOU ARE IN HERE. That bra fit is AWFUL. MY GOD, THIS IS TERRIBLE.  You aren’t in the right size AT ALL.  Look at that wide back!  You need a triple D, with LOTS OF SUPPORT, GOODNESS!!!”

She waddled out of the dressing room after my thorough tongue-lashing during which I had to say, “Could you please not let everyone in the store hear my business? Could you please stop yelling?” and helped me select three bras. I picked the pretty ones and she picked the parachutes.

“Try these on,” she ordered. “They are meant to COVER THE BREAST UNLIKE THAT THING YOU HAVE ON THAT LETS THEM SHOW OUT THE TOP.” I clutched my three selections and shame-facedly made it back to the dressing room, me and my ill-fitted bosoms.

The first one, her selection, sure did fit like a dream, if a dream fits too large and droopy. My whole breast was swimming in there, and if any of you have breasts, you could have put one of yours off in there with mine.  It isn’t often I put on an undergarment that is too large, but I have to say, that was heady stuff.  I turned to the side to see how the breast just kind of pushed out from the body and then flopped over like a pancake on the lip of a plate.  That was weird because my breasts don’t do that even on their own, even unfettered.  I’m 44 but gravity hasn’t killed me yet.

The second one was just as bad. Maybe bigger in the cup size, though, and instead of making me look like I had pancakes for boobs, I looked like a little kid in my grandmother’s bra which was stuffed with pads and slightly pointy.

“How’s it going in there?” the sales lady hollered through the door.

“I look like a battle ax in these. I mean, the hooks on the back cover up the entire area between the top of my shoulder blade to the bottom of my rib cage.  And the straps are like rip cords. Very sturdy and not at all flattering.”  I was not impressed.

Neither was she. “YOUR ENTIRE BREAST IS FALLING OUT OF YOUR BRA.  These are meant to be SUPPORTIVE, something you CLEARLY NEED.”  I remembered how my breasts looked in my super cute, almost perfectly fitted t-shirt just five minutes ago when they were high and tight in my super cute, almost perfectly fitted bra and was puzzled.

I tried, though. “Sure, I’m with you, but this bra will stick out of my shirts because it comes up so high. The one I own is more of a lifter and separator, because I like my breasts placed in the breast region, not smashed down and covered to my neck, where, and this is weird, I don’t have any breasts. Does anyone have breasts up to their neck? Because this cup comes up to my neck.”

“You do what you want but I wear these all the time,” she sniffed, and then stiffly marched back to her cash register.

I tried on the pretty bra that I picked out and wouldn’t you know it really did fit like a dream. I didn’t look like a ‘ho, but then I didn’t look like Maxine either.  I turned this way and that and admired how high and tight everything was, how I could breathe normally, how nothing fell out of the bottom, and then I took it off and hung it back on the hanger.

As I walked out of the dressing room, the sales lady called, “Did you like that one?”

“I did,” I replied.

“There is a free gift with purchase,” she enticed even though she was still offended.

“Ooh,” I mulled. “Is the free gift a matching panty?” I was intrigued and would have slapped down the ridiculous $65-per-bra lickety split if she had said yes.  But she didn’t.

“No, it’s a lingerie bag. We don’t have matching panties for that bra.”

And that was that. Bra back on the rack, Daisy and I out, saleslady miffed.

That’s how it goes, folks. Never an easy answer for boobs like mine.

 

 

Room

Have you guys read the book “Room” by Emma Donoghue?  I heard it was awesome.  This has nothing to do with that book, though.  Just thought I would share.

Following are some snippets of conversations heard from Jimmie’s bedroom, last Thursday night.

 “Ooh, I love it!”

“Hoor!”

 “I will cut you, bitch.”

“No, not that way!”

 “Dammit Murphy!”

“Jimmie! Let me do it!”

“Oh, God, did we squish Seamus?”

“Freddie, did you really drive over here in a sports bra and a blanket?”

“Jimmie, thank you for letting me fulfill my dream.  “

“No problem, Felix, thanks for fulfilling your dream in my bedroom.”

And then I went to work puffy-eyed and lethargic on Friday.

You guys do know that my Daddy-O has the link to this here blog, right? Get your minds out of the gutters, pervs.

Remember when I was painting my bedroom over a weekend?  That was merely the first step of a huge process called Operation: Jimmie’s Bedroom.  Again, minds out of the gutter. 

I decided a few months ago that I liked my bedroom but it wasn’t really mine.  I saw a movie in which the bedroom had a certain feel and I wanted that feel.  So I yapped about it to everyone and Felix perked right up.  “A feel?” he says.  And I says, “Yes, soft.”  And he says, “Give me ten minutes.”

And then the plans poured forth.  We talked about color and texture and paint and fabric and chandeliers.  We used words like “fresh” and “glam” and “treatments” and “oh holy crap, I can’t believe we are going to do this.” 

It has taken me months to decide on the comforters and sheets and assorted furniture items.  Several things have arrived in boxes since January and those boxes have yet to be opened.  Murphy and Seamus have set up their guest house on those boxes and it will be a sad day when they come home from work and find them gone.  Let this be a warning to you pets, that day is coming soon.  Prepare now. 

 I also had to choose paint colors.  By now, it should be clear to all of you that I’m a chick.  And while I think Lowe’s and Home Depot are marvelous places, I cannot amuse myself looking at every screw and nail and set of pliers in there.  Apparently every ex-boyfriend I ever had can, though, and all of my whining about “let’s spend time togetherrrrrrrr” should include the caveat “but not in a hardware store”.  Ahem.  I went into both Lowe’s and Home Depot with the idea of finding the perfect paint color and came out with every hue of blue, green, gray and purple they had.  Clearly, I like variety and can amuse myself for hours looking at every single paint sample in the store. 

I proudly showed my 52,000 paint chips to Felix who in a sudden lurch understood that maybe I needed more help narrowing than we originally thought.  I have a feeling that this was the beginnings of a slow panic for him.  I’m so distracted by shiny pretty things and I’m whipped about like a rag doll with every new thought I have.  Ooh, feathers!  Sparkly chandelier! Wow, modern stuff is awesome. . . . Fortunately for him I’m his favorite plus I’m nice plus I cook well so he’s been very patient.  Bribery works wonders.

After Felix narrowed my choices to about 50, I went back to Lowe’s and got more paint chips. Like I said, shiny!  And I taped every single one of those paint chips to my wall and invited Felix to come over and help me choose.  I wish I had a picture of that.  You would laugh hysterically at the picture of horror on his poor face.  We finally chose three of them, one for an accent wall, one for regular walls, and one for small designs.  Oh, it was agony.  (The funniest part about this is Martie and Coach were there also.  Martie took one look at the 68 paint samples on my wall and within about 30 seconds picked one that matched her bedroom décor perfectly.  Decision made. Done and done.  Were it that easy for me . . .)

Now I had big plans for taking pictures all the way through this process so that Felix could use it as a design book of sorts, in case he gets the chance to do this for someone else.  And I wanted to see the progress. But once I bought the paint, I went nuts. Best laid plans of mice and men, and all that . . . . so no before photos. 

I painted like mad for a solid day and then did touch ups for a couple of evenings. Meanwhile, Felix spent HOURS with some poster board and an Exact-o knife making a stencil for me. 

Progress

So the process on Thursday night went like this – feel free to interject the conversations from above wherever you see fit:

Felix and Jimmie leave work at the same time.  Felix arrives at Jimmie’s house before Jimmie does despite their leaving at the same time from the exact same location.  He runs to the house with giant stencil in a wad so that it wouldn’t get wet in the monsoon (again) and then waits miserably on the porch for Jimmie to arrive.

Jimmie arrives.

Jimmie and Felix lay the stencil out and ooh and ahh over it.

Jimmie opens a bottle of wine.

Jimmie and Felix sample cake that Jimmie made (divine).

Jimmie and Felix sample cake again.

Jimmie and Felix drink wine.

Jimmie and Felix have dinner.

Jimmie and Felix drink wine.

Felix mixes the paint while Jimmie hovers.

Felix demonstrates the proper paint application treatment. 

Jimmie tries to recreate it and fails miserably.

"Jimmie! Let me do it!"

Jimmie hovers for a while then parks herself on the bed, watching and looking pretty.  And drinking wine.

Freddie arrives wearing a sports bra and blanket.

All ignore odd attire and Jimmie and Felix and Freddie drink wine and feed Freddie.

Murphy discovers stencil and tries to play with it.

Felix has apoplexy.

Murphy settles in for a nap on the stencil.

Why is everyone freaking out?

Felix and Freddie apply the stencil.

Felix demonstrates the proper paint application treatment.

Jimmie and Freddie try to recreate it and fail miserably.

Jimmie and Freddie give up all pretenses of hovering and park themselves on the bed, watching and looking pretty. And drinking wine.

Felix works his ass off.

How come I'm all alone over here?

Jimmie and Freddie ooh and ahh a lot.

Freddie goes home with cake at reasonable hour.

Stencil bows up in odd places, prompting much cursing and yelling.

Jimmie and Felix wrestle with stencil. A lot.

Jimmie and Felix win and apply paint twice more.

Felix and Jimmie hop around like morons in excitement over paint treatment and lack of sleep.

Felix and Jimmie put bedroom back together and hop around like morons some more.

Felix leaves with cake in the wee hours of the morning.

Jimmie sighs in happiness a lot and stares at her newly painted walls.

Murphy, indifferent to the happy sighs, purrs loudly on Jimmie’s stomach.

The end. 

And here mes amigos, is the finished product, at least for this week.  The bedding is not included yet. I wish I were a better photographer.  More progress will be made but I will spare you the write up and just show a picture of the absolute finished room.  Don’t expect it anytime soon.

Squee!

What do y’all think I should do for Felix as a thank you gift?  In your suggestion thought process, please note that he also offered to come help me pick up a bed for my third bedroom and in the drive over to my house, he hit a curb and blew out his tire.  His man-truck had to sit on the side of the road for a while as Madre and I came to his rescue.  Here he was trying to do a good deed and the man-truck has a minor heart attack.  It only took him an hour of swearing and cursing and sweating to bring it back to life.  What’s the phrase?  No good deed goes unturned.  How do I repay him?  I mean besides purchasing more wine and making more cake and looking pretty, of course?

 

Rump Shaper, Booty Blast, Shape Shaker – Ultimate Exercuses

Today’s topic, boys and girls, is exercise.  I’d love to be able to rhapsodize about it but honestly, I’m not sure I can.  I have more of a hate/indifferent/sometimes-like relationship with it.  You know what, though?  I’m going to give it a go.  Maybe that is how this post will end, one of those “you never know till you give it a try” sort of messages.  This might be the most positive thing I’ve ever written.  Is it scary that I don’t have an end point in mind yet?

 

Oh, this is gonna get wordy.  I can feel it. But I’m here to “Impart Wisdom” so let’s get to it.

 

How does one choose an exercise program, you ask.  Well, first you must be facing forty in a few years.  And you must have some extra curves that you want to get rid of.  It also helps if you have any kind of desire to actually BE healthy but honestly, age and fat will knock some sense right into you without all that “living healthy” garbage. 

 

There are many types of exercise programs out there.  You just have to pick something you like and that you can sustain.  Me, I get bored.  I try lots of things, most of which scare the pants off of me at first (not literally).  Currently I’m into the Body Pump/Spin/Running (read Jogging, slowly) phase of my life.  But I’ve gone through several phases over the last few years. 

 

You already know that I’m a devoted member of my local YMCA.  Before I joined the Y, though, I was the member of a girlie gym.  It was for women only and the program suggested attendance three times a week.  I enjoyed it, I suppose, and give them props for getting me started but after a year or so, I outgrew them.  I needed more.  Plus, the gym burned down so I guess my needing more really just meant I didn’t want to sift through the char and rubble to find a jump rope. 

 

I tried something called I Chi Chin (I think) with a former co-worker for a little while, mostly because he was completely stoked about it and asked me repeatedly to join him.  Let me kindly say that Tai Chi is not for me.  I felt like a complete dork what with all the hissy breathing.  Plus, people made fun of it (always behind his back) and that right there will cause an extra curvy, almost forty-year-old to have a re-think.  No, thank you.  Also, I have no desire to put my foot behind my head.  Ever.  So, pass.

 

Rickkster does a self defense-type thing.  The funny part about that isn’t the workout.  It’s what happens to him during the workout that makes me giggle.  Before we knew he was learning all these specific movements and tricks, we thought he was just getting lucky with a new girl because he had what looked like hickeys on his neck and we were all like, “Way to go, man.” But when he started coming in with bruises in odd places like the giant one on his forearm, we got a bit concerned.  “Rickkster – uh, is she large?  Is she mean? Beefy, maybe?” He finally told us that it was not a new girl but a self-defense class which in hindsight makes a lot more sense.  He’s scrappy but wiry so I think it is perfect for him.  Also, he mentioned that he might have been smushed against some girlie parts during the lessons so my guess is that Rickkster is completely happy with his workout choices.  Wow, total tangent there.  Anyway, self-defense is also not for me.  I don’t want hickeys and bruises and smushing up against girlie parts of any kind.  Plus I’m nearly 6 feet tall so I don’t really feel the need for any self-defense moves.  Pepper spray works just fine. 

 

For now I’ll stick with the running (jogging) thing.  I like it. And one day I will run a ½ marathon.  Just one.  I don’t want to get too crazy.

 

And what does one wear when working out, you ask.  I can tell you what not to wear, specifically if you are man.  If you choose running as your activity, the bicycle short is not for you.  Just no.  No.  N-O spells no.  Please.  I don’t care how seriously you take your running, there are no excuses in the world valid enough for you to showcase every nook and cranny, or bump, that you own in spandex.  Please, if you have any love at all for humanity, do not wear this garment and most especially, do not tuck your t-shirt into this garment. Same goes for those of you that wear the tiny flappy running shorts.  Imagination is a terrific thing. Let’s not ruin it by putting all you have on display, mkay?  Oh, and for the record, only Michael Phelps looks good in a Speedo.  No one else even needs to try.

 

And now for the ladies.  I can only speak with authority for the busty girl.  Get a harness, preferably one that does not skew uni-boob.  The objective here is to have something so tight and confining that you cannot breathe properly. Then and only then will you have enough support to not damage your eyes while running. If you have to sort of shimmy in and out of it with the help of some grease, even better.  You are now ready to tackle any method of bouncing, jogging, or movement you choose.  Oh, and get good shoes. 

 

Otherwise, I suppose you should just buy whatever you like.  I know I don’t look my best when working out but it does help to have a t-shirt that reads “You me” with the heart in red sequins. 

 

And who does one choose for workout partners, you ask.  Not the former co-worker who was so excited about putting his foot behind his head, I’ll tell you that right now.  Mostly because he has an odd grunting sniffle that sounds a bit like he’s strangling but that’s my personal hang-up, I suppose. 

 

Also, not people like Dammit Todd.  Dammit Todd can eat fast food for months and lie around on the couch being lazy for months and in one week will begin and excel in an exercise program that surpasses everything you ever wanted to accomplish in your entire life.  It isn’t fair. So to feel good about yourself and your accomplishments, let Dammit Todd go do his own thing while you go do your own. He currently subscribes to the “Body by the Hulk” program which was designed by a mutual friend who has arms bigger than my head.  I cannot sustain that kind of fortitude.

 

Funny story. When I first started walking in Nashville I was on the Greenway which is this really nice system of walking trails that run throughout the city.  Now this should come as no surprise to you, but I don’t meet a lot of strangers.  And one day I was walking along when a largish woman with a corkscrew-curl wig asked me if she could walk with me.  I had never seen her before but of course I said yes. I was fascinated by the wig and I like talking.  We plowed along getting to know each other and when we got to the big monster hill she started praying. She prayed all the way up the hill:  “Lord Jesus, help me up this hill.  Lord Jesus, please get me up this hill.  Lord Jesus, I need You now.”  It worked. She and I made it up that hill and still had enough breath to continue on.  I learned a valuable lesson that day.

 

Pick people that you like and that challenge you for workout partners.  I prefer Lynnette and Jane.  And Lord Jesus, seriously.  You should exercise with people that give you good encouragement and training.  Sometimes I call encouragement and training “yelling” but that’s usually when I’ve got PMS.  As you get better at it, it’s nice to be the one doing the encouraging and training.  It’s never called “yelling” then, but “motivation”. 

 

To end, I’ll tell you a story about my first and only 10K I’ve run thus far.  I had trained for it and really wanted to do it. But race day was cold and I was second-guessing myself.  Martie was there as were Coach, Lynnette, Jane, Pooh and Tigger.  And Martie gave me a scolding (which she calls “encouragement”) when I said that I would just do the 5K instead of the 10K because I wasn’t ready.  Because she’s the younger sister and because she’s bossy, I ran the 10K.  Towards the end of the race, I came to a sign that directed the 5K runners in one direction and the 10K runners in another longer direction, and right there I started to get teary-eyed.  I was tired.  I didn’t want to run anymore.  My chest hurt and my legs burned and I was wiped out.  But I didn’t cheat.  I sent up a tiny little prayer and I kept running.  I paused to walk about 20 steps up one hill but otherwise I ran the entire way.  And when I made it to the track for one lap around as the finish, I was just so proud.  I ran with all I had in me for that last lap and I crossed that finish line and I did not die.  And Martie, Lynnette, Coach, Jane, Pooh and Tigger were all right there, waiting on me.  We had all run races that day that challenged us, 1 mile and 5Ks and 10Ks. None of us died and we all completed our runs.  And it was amazing. 

 

See there?  I did get a positive message out of this after all.  And I thought I should share an email here from Quan, who I’m learning is quite wise:  I had a great workout last night…. Went home and took a 2 hour nap then ate pizza.  I feel great about it.

 

Sending best wishes to Jamie, Jane, Laura, Julie Ann, Judy, Ginny, Chandra and Christina.  Good luck on the half and whole marathons this weekend!  And full credit goes to Lynnette for the title of this here post.  Thank ya, baby!

 

 

Yet Another Rain Story

What the frick is up with the monsoons already?  This weather is wreaking havoc on my hair which, honestly, needs no help to look like crap.  It can do that on its own.

 

I do have a story here.  For those of you who know me, you already know it will take me a bit to get there.  So here begins my circuitous route to the punch line.

 

We’ve got a new-to-us guy in the office.  I remember what it was like being the new person in a new office in a new city where I knew precisely one person and that person worked ALL THE WAY ACROSS TOWN.  My new co-workers took me to lunch my first day but then I felt sort of lost and adrift for a few weeks until I established my own friend pool to go to lunch with.  I resolved then that anyone who might be suffering from New Person Syndrome would not suffer it long around me. 

 

A complete aside here (I know! Shocking!).  Dammit Todd and I used to work together.  Before that, though, he had to interview with our company.  I was the first line of defense for anyone coming into our office unsolicited, usually people selling their job placement services.  So when Dammit Todd showed up in a suit and tie, I naturally assumed that he was there to sell us something and I was no how, no way going to let him get away with that.  He asked for the big boss and I said, “Did you bring me a present?”  He got quiet and said, “No.” I replied, “Well, you can’t come in here without bringing me a present.”  And he didn’t say a word.  And then Lynnette (we also used to work together) came up to get Dammit Todd and said, “Oh, hi Dammit Todd.  Are you here for your interview?”  So, yeah . . . . I really did ask him to lunch on his first day and then introduced myself properly as “Jimmie, your favorite” and we have been fast friends ever since. 

 

Back to the new-to-us guy.  I like the name Quan for him.  I’m not sure why.  We, and by we I mean I, are (am) still getting him used to us as a group.  I must say, he fits in like he’s always been here so going to lunch with him is a treat for all of us.  Really, I just cannot emphasize enough how much we really like him.

 

On Tuesday we got a pile of us together for lunch and walked up the hill to the Mongolian BBQ place.  Have you ever been to one?   A small bowl costs you one price, a large another.  I love watching the people who can take the smaller bowl and craft a larger bowl out of it by lining the edges with snow peas and then stuffing it full.  Amazing.  We had a great lunch and talked a lot and got fortune cookies.  And then I learned that Quan belonged to us because he sent the following email when we got back to the office: 

 

PS – I shouldn’t have even gotten a fortune cookie … they always suck for me.  Mine said:  Others take notice of your radiance. Share your happiness.

 

What a load of crap. 

 

Isn’t that great?

 

Fast forward to today.  Because I tend to be a creature of obsession when it comes to food, I’ll wear a place out for about six months to a year before I get sick of it.   And it’s Friday, the day usually reserved for having lunch out with my friends.  Never mind that the weather forecasts called for rain and heavy thunderstorms and wind, my friends and I did not bring lunch from home.  We said we would go somewhere close and yummy and not worry about the weather. And we picked the Mongolian BBQ place.  Again.

 

Also despite the weather forecasts calling for rain and heavy thunderstorms and wind, I left my umbrella (that I stole from my boss – you would have too because it’s really nice and big) in the car. 

 

Also despite the weather forecasts calling for rain and heavy thunderstorms and wind, I wore a short skirt and sandals today which really has nothing to do with the story except I wanted to whine about being cold and wet now. 

 

I had no lunch, no umbrella, and no warmth but we were still going to the place up the hill for lunch because I was insistent.  I borrowed an umbrella from a guy on my floor, we walked out the door, and the wind immediately whipped that umbrella inside out.  My hair was ruined.  I wrestled the umbrella back into some semblance of order and continued on. Felix’s umbrella was also wrangled into a bit of a mess.  Quan’s umbrella did beautifully.  Lucky dog. 

 

Felix and I traipsed on, holding our mangled umbrellas low over our heads and sort of wrapped around us like plastic wrap. We could not see a thing but luckily for us, we only ran into one parked van and one large marble sign.  No injuries were sustained.  Quan just strolled on behind us with his perfectly lovely, fully functioning umbrella.  Jerk face.

 

I suppose I can let Quan have his perfectly lovely umbrella, though.  Today his fortune read:  You will soon receive a letter from a loved one.  Awful, isn’t it?  The guy already has the perfect umbrella.  He doesn’t get the perfect fortune too. 

 

And here is the point of my story.  I returned the umbrella to the guy on my floor after our lunch adventure.  It did me no good in the monsoon.  My hair is a mess.  It’s crunchy and flat.  I spent more time putting the umbrella back together as I walked than the umbrella did protecting me from the elements.  I told him all this.   I cannot understand why he is upset with me.  Really. Can you? 

 

 

 

 

 

 

This is why people don’t let me borrow their stuff.