Better looking than MJ
In my never dying quest to be worthy of Abercrombie and Fitch, I see that it is time to diet again. Apparently, my groovy coolness and ability to actually pay for the over-priced crap does not outweigh my recent birthday and my extra twenty (did I say 20? HA!) pounds.
And while I'm at it, I might as well go for golden. I mean, that's what makes a cool kid cool, right? I want to be the next face of Abercrombie and Fitch. Of course, it would have to be one of the ads where I'm being groped by some loser that can't afford a shirt and forgot how to pull his pants up, because the "Blondes Don't Pay Cover" and "Blame It On My Blue Eyes" campaigns are just too Aryan nation for me.
As someone who has been overweight since birth and has been on a diet since I was five years old, I'm pretty well versed in all the ways I'm supposed to act to insure me the next spot on an A&F ad. Can I do it? Probably not, because as anyone who has never suffered with chronic obesity will tell you, us fat women are a lazy bunch. But somewhere in between my working sixty hours a week, running three times a week, writing a book and managing a house, I'm going to get off my fat ass and put on my WWMJD (What Would Mike Jeffries Do) cheap rubber bracelet and try it again. My drug of choice this time around: Alli.
First, why would I need a drug, right? Just be more active and quit stuffing your face, that's the key. Well, somewhere between learning to walk and starting grade school, my body decided that I should do twice as much as everyone else, and eat half as much, just to maintain an overweight status. Pfft. I've already been doing that for almost fifty years. Of course, birthing children that would fall into Jeffries category of an ideal customer didn't help much either, but that's a moot point since I've told them they will be disinherited if I catch them in an "A&F" shirt.
Again, why Alli? The side effects, silly! Who can resist anal leakage? Oily, orange colored stools, an inability to control bowel movements, gas with discharge and of course, rectal pain? It's all for beauty, right? So who cares if my ass hurts and I crap orange slime every time I fart? It's all for the betterment of society.
Yesterday, I bought Alli. I lasted 24 hours. I had to resolve myself to the fact that I'm just not as cool as Mike Jeffries, who is at least a decade older (and definitely not as good looking) as me, but that took all of about 30 seconds. I mean, dude (your favorite word, not mine), look in the mirror. Not cool at all. You're like that creepy grandpa that wants to hang out with the teenagers, and they let you, temporarily, only so they can laugh about it later.
And incidentally, at sixty +, I know the 'male problems' you are either experiencing or will be soon. You'll be begging for anal leakage. How cool is that, dude?
I 'liked' this group on Facebook called F*ck You, I'm from Kansas. If you are from Kansas, or any of the surrounding states, you probably should like them, too. It's totally Kansas. Although I haven't been home in a while, I'm going this weekend, and I am so excited. Of course, I want to see all of my friends and family (and eat at Chicken Annies), but also, we have something very important to do this weekend. Represent. If you frequent the FYIFK page, you'll see that people from different cities and towns send them pictures: beautiful sunsets, amber waves of grain--or whatever that is growing on the plain, and a lot of times funny things seen in Kansas. However, I have yet to see my hometown, Baxter Springs, on the page. But that is going to change. We're going for funny---in a big way. My fellow Baxterites, as most of you know, we are having a little party on Friday night. Well, actually a bonfire complete with Blob sized Peeps and other bonfire-ish things. Basically, we're going to party like it's 1979--without the eight tracks. And when a large group of SE Kansans get together, well, the funny just happens. We we're getting our kicks on Route 66 before it was fashionable. So, prepare yourself. The first cowtown is going live this weekend. We're loud and we're proud. And we're from Kansas. Many follow up posts to follow! Stay tuned! And if you are new to my blog, check out the Deacon series above. My first novel, They Call Me Crazy, takes place in a small Kansas town and is currently being shopped to publishers by my agent.
I hear people talk about pacing while running. I assume that has something to do with speed, and not the kind that gives you a quick pick me up. So as I conclude my third week of my latest new hobby, running, I thought it would be a good time to think about speed and pace and to decide if I have either of these.
First of all, I'm not sure I should call it running. Running brings to mind a gazelle, leaping through tall grass, not a Tyrannosaurus Bearallina flat footing the concrete. Jogging, however, I think can be counted as any forward movement that involves jiggling, and there is a lot of that going on.
So how fast do I jog?
You know when you are dreaming, and your feet are churning like a hamster on a wheel, but you aren't really moving? Yeah, I'm slower than that.
Have you ever tied your legs together at the ankles and tried to move? Yeah, I'm slower than that, too.
Yes, Heinz ketchup flows from the bottle like an arterial bleed compared to my speed.
I won't be able to outrun the zombies when they attack.
But it isn't necessarily about speed. It's pace. Maintaining whatever speed is comfortable, and that, I have down pat.
So, for those that are keeping track, my goal is to run a 5K by November. Since I'm barely to C, I'm not counting in K's yet, but in minutes.
End of week three=13 minutes.
Not bad for a dinosaur.
I have forced Al into watching a foreign film on Netflix....... He claims he can't read and watch at the same time......
Although I've only met 'Al' once, when I saw the above status update on his wife's Facebook page, I felt his pain. Oh, the dreaded "Honey, put down the book and watch a movie instead," is worse than "I know you say you don't like liver, but, if you just try it..." I imagined poor Al, cradling a good crime mystery, anxious to discover the next twist in the plot, plopping on the couch only to hear, "But it's a great chick flick. Trust me."
Poor Al. Been there, buddy.
I'm still waiting for the day when my husband says, "Why don't we just sit and read together tonight?" Yeah. Not going to happen. He's a movie guy, and I'm a book girl. But, in an effort to keep the peace, I've developed a sure fire way to read my book AND convince my husband that I'm enjoying his poorly dubbed karate flick at the same time.
The most common paradigm in film is the three act structure: Setup, Conflict, Resolution. Use it to your advantage. All you need is six note cards with a few creative lines.
The first card: THIS LOOKS GOOD or GOOD CHOICE, HONEY or something else that says, "Yes, you were right, I was wrong, the liver is delicious."
Second card: WOW, SHE LOOKS REALLY DIFFERENT IN THIS MOVIE. Since actresses pride themselves on their ability to 'look different', this is a gift line. And your spouse will think you are paying attention.
Third card: DAMN or HAHA or WOW. Your movie partner is vested by now. One random word doesn't distract them, but subconsciously makes them believe you are watching. This is your genre specific card, so be careful! You don't want to accidentally HAHA while watching Shindler's List. Dead giveaway.
Fourth card: Movie spouse is deep into conflict now. Time to get a little revenge. This is your random speech card. "YOU KNOW, I READ SOMEWHERE THAT THIS DIRECTOR IS KNOWN FOR HIS USE OF LIGHTING AND SPACE, AND THAT SETTING PLAYS A BIG PART IN HIS WORK. IN FACT..." If you get this far, play it by ear. You won't though. What you will get is a "SHHH" from your partner. Golden.
Fifth card: The bathroom card. More revenge. "PAUSE IT SO I CAN GO TO THE BATHROOM. I DON'T WANT TO MISS ANYTHING." Ha! Now they have to look at a frozen screen while your journey off, with your book, to take care of business.
Final card: YOU WERE RIGHT, HONEY. I ENJOYED THAT. Try not to laugh when you say it.
Place these cards in order, every ten to fifteen pages in your novel depending on your reading speed. This gives you a comment about every fifteen minutes, painlessly getting you through a typical hour and a half movie. When you get enough practice, you will be able to mimic your partner and laugh when they laugh, or jump when they jump, and never miss a sentence on the page.
When the movie is over, put your cards away for next time, and grab a quick kiss before going back to your book. And don't forget to 'like' your spouse's next Facebook status:
The movie was great! Even Al thought so!
The last time I attempted to run, one of my sons asked, "What the hell do you call that?"
"That's rude," I replied. "I have physical abnormalities that make running very difficult."
"Boobs and feet."
I guess the best way to describe it is to say I run like an injured Tyrannosaurus Rex. My elbows, tucked close to my side, while my itty bitty hands flap over my chest, fighting my gifted bosom down to avoid bruising my chin. One of my feet insists on hitting the ground flat like a bear, while the other likes to tiptoe, like a ballerina, making it appear that I am about to topple over, one side or the other, with each stride.
A floundering Tyrannosaurus Bearlerina. That's me.
However, in November of this year, I have challenged some of my runner friends to come to Vegas for a 5K run that involves a lot of paint and a lot of partying, and I have promised to run with them, if they decide to take the challenge. For me, I get to hang out with some friends. For them, they get to witness the T-Bear in action.
So I started training today. Afterall, it's only 5K, what is that, like 10 blocks? No problem. I ran almost a block today, and figure I can now recover for the next three weeks before I add another block to my workout. It was difficult trying to ash my cigarette while my arms flopped around like headless chickens over my bosom, but I figured it out. The carb loading before my run was much more fun than the running part, and I'm sure I'll be in pain tomorrow. I may have to have a massage. Hmmm. Maybe this running thing isn't so bad after all. AND, it's for charity, right? And paint. And partying.
So who's with me? November. Las Vegas. 5K (maybe that's more like 12 blocks?). Paint. Party.
We'll make history. Or at least America's Funniest Home Videos.
About your horrorstrologist: The Great Kelldini earned her degree in Foresight from a correspondence school that she found in the back of a MAD magazine. In thirty years of predicting futures, she has yet to get one right.
A Few Faithful Readers:
Jo Ann, a Pisces. Here she is with a few of her fish friends.
Cher, a Taurus. Strong like bull. Or is that a pug?
Justin, a Leo. Just like the Little Engine that Could, he keeps on trying.
Justin, a 'cusper' which basically means he has no clue whether he is a Leo or a Cancer.
Darren, a Libra. How nice, feel better now?
Ben, a Sagittarius. Trying to disguise yourself won't keep them away. Encyclopedias.
Remember that year that you kind of told the truth on your taxes? Yes, you know the one. Time to dig out those dummy receipts and hope they pass inspection. The moon of unexpected windfall is in the house of IRS, and you, Aquarius, aren't even going to get a kiss.
Love is in the air! But, not for you, fishy. Buy a dog, or stick to the one night stands.
You are ready for a fight and you are not backing down this time. Before you stomp out the door, tell a friend to grab a video camera. After all, everyone knows an Aries can't win a fight, and who knows, maybe your beat down video will go viral.
You thought you were overloaded with stress last month? In the words of the great philosophers Bachman Turner Overdrive, you ain't seen n-n-nothin' yet. The moon of Chaos is in the house of Taurus, so get ready. But remember, you got this, because as a Taurus, you are the baddest MF-er in the valley!
Get your bail money ready now! February is a month to party and nothing says trouble like a party with the twins. This time, try to remember not to ask the arresting officer for a donut and don't request that he use the fuzzy handcuffs. But smile for your mug shot, because the good news is, only a three day stint this time.
With the moon in the house of vagrant, expect a guest this month. Sorry, not Grandma with cookies, more like that uncle that no-one talks about. It would be a good time to finally get that lock for the liquor cabinet and stock up on some stain remover for the couch.
Well, Leo, you have failed again. No problem, you'll soon be able to wallpaper your bathroom with participation ribbons. Take some comfort in the words of your friends; even if they are laughing at you on the inside.
It's not just a rash. Get it checked out, Virgin.
Oh, Libra. Always trying to feel better about yourself. Reading your inspirational books, taking your exercise classes, chanting. Give it up. Accept that you just aren't as good as say, a Taurus. You were born too late. Deal with it.
Your little stinger (or stingerette) got you in a bit of trouble. Expect a not so pleasant visit from a certain Virgo. Then get out your little black book; you have a few calls to make.
So you've had it with stupid people. The moon of WTF is rising, Sagittarius, and an army of half wits is headed for your door. Your only defense is to beat them in the head with an Encyclopedia. But first, you'll have to teach them to read. Good luck with that.
You think you're so cute with your curly horns. Get over yourself. Curls are so 1990's. And don't bother asking your significant other 'does this look good on me?' He/she/it is going to say yes. And it's a lie.
A Taurus, of course.
Until next time, the Great Kelldini says:
SUCK IT UP, BUTTERCUP! It's only February, you've got a long way to go....
Beth and me. When we aren't trying to kill each other.
This past week, I had the pleasure of staying at a resort in the White Mountains of New Hampshire that is a known ghost haunt. Okay, that sounds a lot creepier than it really is. It is a fabulous place that I've been to several times, and it just happens to have a few rooms that have had reports of strange things happening. Some people actually request those rooms. I'm not one of those people.
I can't say I like 'strange things happening' in my hotel room, but, I have come to the conclusion that I am a ghost magnet. A refrigerator for creepy things. Last week was no exception.
The first night, I woke and heard sounds from the bathroom. It was like someone was in there, looking around, maybe getting ready to take a shower, or just getting ready for bed. Even though it was very late, I assumed it was the room next to ours, assuming the bathrooms backed up to each other, assuming even further that there was someone in the room. I found out the next morning that the room was empty.
The next night, around three a.m., I again woke to the sounds of someone in our bathroom. I started to get out of bed. I don't know if I was going to wake my roomie Beth Garland who was sound asleep in the other bed or if I was going to investigate myself, but I was getting up. Then something grabbed me. Yes, GRABBED ME. It wrapped around me like a straight jacket, I couldn't move my arms, and it held me on the bed and wouldn't let me up. I kicked and kicked and kicked, strange that my legs worked, but it wouldn't free me. Finally, I remembered my roomie and yelled. She didn't hear me, but whatever held me let go.
Have I mentioned what a total chickenshit I am? This might be a good time to mention that, because the minute I was 'set free', I jumped three feet to the other bed, landing on top of my friend Beth, straddling her with my hands on her shoulders, screaming her name.
Did I mention that my friend Beth is a retired Army Master Sergeant? Yeah, this might be a good time to mention that, too. Without hesitation, Beth grabbed my throat and decided to strangle me. She's a lot stronger than I am. And she was serious about the strangulation.
At that point, I was screaming, silently, for the ghost or whatever other force that was in the room to intervene. Of course, no sound came out, because I was in the process of being choked to death. Then just before I became another hotel ghost, destined to haunt the halls for all eternity, Beth released me, too, and I fell into the bed next to her, gasping for air.
Hearing Beth recount this story in her point of view was hilarious, waking up from an "Oprah loves my book" dream to a mad woman straddling her in the middle of the night, had us both laughing and took the edge off a bit. But, we still slept with the light on. Like ghosts are afraid of a 40 watt bulb. Please visit Beth Garland's website at www.bethanngarland.com
And check out the fabulous Mountain View Grand Resort in Whitefield, N.H.
Calling me at 7 at night is rarely a good idea. I work long hours, I deal with a lot of bull, and by 7, I'm in no mood to be harassed. Especially by a jealous wife. But, there she was, and I was in no mood to be a player in her baby daddy drama.
Ring. Ring. I look at the number and don't recognize it. I do, however, recognize the area code, because I have friends in Vermont and that's their area code. Okay. "Hello?"
"Who is this?" Not, hello, I'm inquiring, or hello, you don't know me but... Just who is this.
I laugh. "Well, who did you call?"
She cleared her throat and tried to sound not psycho. "This number was listed on my husband's cell phone bill and I didn't recognize it..."
Oh, Oh, Oh. A woman going over her husband's cell phone calls wondering if there is anything funny going on. I had to smile. It must be my birthday.
"Well," I said in the smokiest voice I could muster, "I get at least forty calls a day because of my work. You'll have to be a little more specific than that." This is not a lie, just an omission of a crucial detail.
"Your job? Which is?" True, the best thing to do at this point was to hang up. But she was making it so easy...
"I make visits." Again, this is not a lie. I just neglected to mention that I am a home nurse and my daily 'visits' are usually to elderly people requiring wound care or insulin injections.
"What? What kind of visits?" She was trying to remain calm, but I could hear the veins in her temples pulsing against the phone.
"It really depends on what they need. What did you say your husband's name is?"
"John Smith (not his real name. You've got enough problems without me plastering your name all over the internet, 'John')."
"Tall guy? Red hair? Thickkk....neck?"
"No! He has dark hair and he doesn't have a thick anything! Are you a prostitute?" I could tell she was starting to lose it. And now she had asked me directly what my 'business' was. I couldn't lie.
"The nature of business is confidential. It's between me and my clients." Not a lie.
"Oh my God! I thought he was cheating on me, but a prostitute! I can't f*@$ing believe this!" I didn't know how much longer I could hold out, so time to stop before she hangs up and starts chopping John into tiny pieces.
"I'm not a prostitute."
"You said you were!"
"No, you said I am. I'm a nurse. In Las Vegas. And I'm pretty sure you are in Vermont."
"Huh? Las Vegas? What the hell?"
"Our area codes are one digit off. I think you misdialed."
Click. That was it. I wanted to call her back and tell her what a crazy psycho she was. I mean, come on, who does that? You think your husband is cheating, so you call some number and expect someone to say, "Oh, yeah, John, I'm doing him every Tuesday night. You're his wife? Oh, you want to watch?" No, any mistress worth her lingerie is going to lie to you anyway, and then alert John to the fact that you are on to him.
So out of curiosity, when I got home, I pulled up my husband's cell phone bill from last month. I didn't recognize half the numbers.
"Hmm. Not bad, Hero."
Then I did what any self respecting woman would do in that situation. I went through his billfold while he was sleeping and hired an investigator to follow him.
The difference between psycho wife and non-psycho wife?
How you collect the evidence.
Creepiest Santa ever
Yes, it's that time of year again, when parents all over encourage their young children to sit on an unknown fat man's lap and tell him all their desires. A little creepy, yes, but, it's somehow related to Christianity and the birth of Christ, so, it's okay. It's Christmas, and here comes Santa.
But with one on every corner, how do you know which one is the REAL Santa? I mean, as a parent, you don't want to encourage your child to sit on some mans lap if he isn't the real deal, right? As usual, I'm here to help:
1. If the beard is fake, he probably isn't the real Santa. Tell your kids to always pull the beard to make sure, or better yet, walk up and pull it yourself.
2. Santa has had the same nine reindeer since the beginning of time, and therefore, should have no problem naming them for you. Ask him. In fact, ask him to spell their names for you. That should be entertaining.
3. If Santa asks your child for his address, he's probably not the real deal. Santa knows where everyone lives, if he asks, you are probably about to get robbed.
4. Santa is fat. Isn't this the first thing parents should be looking for? Don't fall for 'Mrs. C has me on a diet.' She's fat, too, and no fat woman wants a husband travelling all over the world, looking fine in his red velvet, while she sits at home with the elves. Not going to happen.
5. I'm yes and no on Santa wearing gloves. I think the real Santa would not wear gloves and I'd prefer his hands to be exposed anyway, as long as he sanitizes between children. I'm particularly weary of Santa just coming back from his bathroom break, though. The jury is still out on gloves.
6. Santa has a twinkle in his eye. I don't know what that means, but if his eyes aren't twinkling, he probably isn't the real guy. Of course, that could mean he is sober, which is a good thing. Your call on the twinkle.
7. If your Santa smells like spiced rum instead of spice cake, walk away.
8. If he looks like Billy Bob Thornton, run like Hell.
And remember, underneath that red velvet rental, he really is just some random fat man that you don't know. Be careful out there.
The glasses I wear when reading Facebook posts
In the past week, things have been way too serious on social media sites. Apparently, there was some big election that has everyone's panties in a wad, and that's obviously where some people keep their sense of humor. But amidst the ranting, I was trolling the comments making a list of some of the ridiculously overused sayings that make no sense and the responses I would have liked to have made (I was on my best behavior).
'I'm not getting older, I'm getting better.' Actually, no, you're getting older. Get over it.
'It takes one to know one.' Let's see, I know that I'm not one, but I've seen the pictures you post online, and I'm pretty sure you are one. And everyone knows it.
'The pot calling the kettle black.' I'd just like to thank the pot for not using any racial slurs. People could learn from the pot. We could call it Pot Etiquette. However, in Colorado that would take on an entirely new meaning.
'Boys never grow up, their toys just get bigger.' A boy came up with this one. Guaranteed.
'Toot your own horn.' Being able to toot your own horn is impressive. But, I'd kind of like to know how that discovery came about. One day, you and your friends were just sitting around with your horns out and someone said, "Hey, watch this!"
'Well color me Christmas.' What? What does that even mean?
'Tickled pink.' Being tickled until you turn pink is not a good thing. It is torture. If you tickle me pink, I will cut you.
'Bacon makes everything better.' Well, that one is true.
'Period.' This is of course following some profound (not) statement in sentence form that actually has a period at the end of it. Like the first period is not enough, you need to spell it out and add another period.
'Don't make me take my belt off.' Hmmm.
'Boys will be boys.' Does anyone else see this and start singing Lola? I thought so.
'I've got your number.' Lose it. Period.
'I'm not touching that with a ten foot pole.' As if you have a ten foot pole to be touching things with.
Got any more?