Deuces

Mind over matter, or matter over mind? If I tell myself enough "I love the gym"- will it become true? Can I convince myself that sweating on an uphill incline squeezed between the Guido to my left and Malibu Barbie on my right is anything less than thrilling? Can I ignore the driblets of sweat that sneak into my eye sockets and make me half blind as I climb up that invisible hill? I'm really unsure. And I am proud that I drag my reluctant butt (which is looking nicer and nicer with each squat, by the by) into said gym.  The gym attendents kinda' know me by name (or rather, by the ever-so-sad look on my face as I enter into the gates of bench-pressing Hell).  And though I am reluctant, I am obedient in my routine these days but I can't help but wonder: "When will I learn to love coming to the gym?" I seek out eye candy, which amuses my husband just a little (definitely not a lot).  Because eye candy at least gives you something to gawk at. 

Beekeenee, Beekeenee Why must you taunt me?? You are so cute, On the mannequin so thin, Beekeenee, Beekeenee I won't let you win. On the treadmill I run, when I would much rather cry, Beekeenee, Beekeenee, When will this skinny trend die? Beekeenee at the beach, Beekeenee at the lake, How much muscle tone Can a spray tan fake? Beekeenee at the pool, Beekeenee by the pond, Beekeenie you belong, On a tall, skinny blonde. Beekeenee, Beekeenee, I want to frolic on the sand, Like a video-girl on MTV, Who splashes behind the band And yes I do lunges, and the occasional crunch But beekeenee, beekeenee, My butt just can't keep up. But there you are... In your fabric so small, Beekeenee, Beekenee, My one-piece just called..

I've never cheated on you. (OkOkOk) Maybe in my mind with Clive Owen back in 07' but it didn't mean ANYTHING!!! I SWEAR!! And I suppose there are a ton of other worse things you can do to your partner or spouse than cheat.  I suppose. You smoke cigarettes behind my back. I think that's some form of cheating.  Maybe.  I know you're working on quitting altogether and yet I do tend to find Marlboro boxes in the most random of places, including behind the television that we don't watch downstairs and behind your music equipment in the office. (Yea, I found those). The boxes were, however, empty. (What's that all about?) Have I ever wondered if you've cheated with some tramp? Of course I have.  Just look at that face.  The face only a mother, a wife, and some whore could love.  But I know you are faithful. And damn you, Oprah Winfrey for airing a show last week featuring hootchies that seek out married men.  Attention hootchies:  Thi

My husband and I have been sleeping apart lately. Doesn't this sound like the beginning of a really juicy, drama-filled relatonship story? Humph. No.  'Tis not. Try again next week. He doesn't like the separation.  I mean, who would? Me.  This girl. And certainly I adore my husband.  I adore all the pets that huddle together with us each night.  But, in truth, I also love nothing more... Than sleeping like a starfish. Arms spread to the outer rims and toes managing to pull the fitted sheets up from my expensive mattress. Because if there is one thing I always splurge on- it's the mattress.... and egyptian cotton sheets. Yes, my refrigerator and couches are hand-me-downs that I've dressed in colorful pillows from Target and tacked numerous photos to in an effort to make them look new again.  But the mattresses in my home always come nicely dressed in those fancy schmancy sheets from hotel collections. And each night I slip into bed beside th

This is the story of 8-Fork. It's not a funny story. It starts with a troubled woman.  She is kinda' going crazy. Each week she takes mental stock of her utensils.  As she reaches for a fork that is not there, she wonders "what the heck... I just emptied the dishwasher." And anyone who has gone through a phase of randomly losing stuff that has no business being lost knows how perplexing this can be. Like socks that wander off in the night, so too they took her forks.... one by one.... and she started using a spoon to eat her pasta, because, quite frankly, she just couldn't justify buying more forks until the mystery was solved. She asked her husband "Do you know what keeps happening to our forks".  And he crinkled his eyebrows and looked mildly confused.  It was a look she knew well.  One in which said "I know what is happening to your forks but I'm not gonna' tell you coz' you might get mad so I'ma pretend to look li

I loved the music guy. No one knows why. Over the weekend I sat with my girlfriends that I've know since I was 15.  I lived with these girls in college, so  they know my dating resume better than just about anyone else in the world. They know my significant boyfriends.  They know my fleeting relationships.  They know the ones that happened in between even though, with 4 heads put together, we can't remember their names. But there was the one that I like to say I loved, because we think it's funny when I say "I loved that guy".  And we burst into laughter because none of us are sure whether I really loved him.  It seems like many moons ago.... My room-mates and I had headed over to the music store one afternoon.  I was in the market for some used CD's.  Probably something embarassing and juvenile like Britney Spears (don't judge me- I still love her....).  And he worked there.... He wandered over to me and started chatting. I thought he was

I once dated a douchelord.  A scoundrel. A curly haired boy who wasn't even all that good looking. Bitter much? Naaaaaaahhhhh. It wasn't too devastating.  He did, after all, have curly hair and his name was Cliff. Tragic, right? I was opening a Mimi's location at the time, and like the little single-somethings my colleagues and I were as we traveled around opening restaurants we found ourselves often dating the trainees. (I think that was "frowned upon" and yet, somehow, we always got away with it.) So as the "kids" filtered in, one by one, on orientation day, we would call "dibs" on who we would attempt to swoon.  Cliff was the swoonee- I called dibs. We dated, it was relatively pleasant until.... I discovered he was also dating one of the other trainers. If she wasn't so hideous I would have had to wreck her face, but mother nature had taken care of that for me.  Karma often works backwards, it would seem. Because ce

In the morning when I wake, I go quiet.  No stretch. And if I remind myself, I don't yawn loudly or do that weird grunt thing I do when I want to refuse the daylight and curl back under the blankets. Because if I move, if I stretch, if I grunt, I welcome them: The cats, and one waggy-tailed dog. Because generally they have enough strange respect to let me sleep while I am legitimately sleeping. But when they sense I am awake they crawl up to my face. Yes, the face.  Trouble digs his head into the palm of my hand that rests under my head forcing a petting that I am passively giving.  Penny jumps atop my cheek, breathing heavy, hot, bad doggy breath into my nostrils. The others might meow or bite my toes. They are saying "WE SAW YOU, WE SAW YOU!!  NO NEED TO PRETEND!!  WE SAW YOU, I'MA TELL THE OTHERS!!" And if I am really grumpy, I will literally pull the covers back over my head, curl my toes in, and ignore them until their pouncing and hot, he

Thank You for reading my blog. Sometimes people say: "I read your blog..." and I hold my breathe for a moment and think about the language I use in my blog. I pray quietly I haven't offended someone's belief system.... that I haven't groaned too much about how much the gym hates me.... or the other way around. I pause as my mind races over my topics.  Have I been too emotional?  Have I confessed too much? But then I want to hug them. I write because, Sometimes I don't know how to say it out loud. Because I want my family to know that my memories of them... with them... are magical.  And they may not remember things just as I do... (And in my memory I am a little bit thinner...) I write because I want people to know that even though I haven't seen them for many moons, I think of them. Often. And I don't want to bore people out loud with stories about how cute my cats are.  In all seriousness, though, They're so cute.  L

I'm an emotional wreck. Maybe. I like to be dramatic. This past weekend was lovely- a long, much needed weekend away to the beach where my husband can surf and I can bask in the sunshine with girlfriends.  Perfection. Every Memorial day is this bittersweet.  Warm, long, and the 30th marks what would have been dad's birthday.  So as I bask in that warm sunshine, I think of him.  My laugh is a little quieter, but still genuine. And this past weekend was extra bittersweet because my niece paid tribute to dad with the same tattoo he had- an eagle.  The eagle that was always free and flying on his shoulder and bore a great symbolism to his life.  Now, at 18, my niece wears that same tattoo. We have been begging her to reconsider a tattoo for years.  And just like when she decided to become a vegetarian at age 9, she decided on this tattoo by age 10 and no one could dissuade her.  She marches to the beat of her own petite drum.  She is stronger than I was at 18, and if I d