Even if it’s just “Hi. Loser. Bye.” you gotta comment. It’s like, the law or something today. 😉
Last night, I dreamed that I was on a band trip and I forgot my flute so I had to borrow somebody’s wooden piccolo. We were in a huge stable. Then there was a dance but my mouth was full of grass and I couldn’t get it all out so I was trying to find a bathroom to barf in. And a gay friend of mine and her partner were at the dance and they brought the newborn baby boy they had just adopted and named Toby. (Which isn’t really a stretch since they are fantastic foster parents to a couple older boys who could be labeled problem children and wouldn’t even have a chance in life if it wasn’t for them.) Then we were all lined up next to an olympic sized pool, not sure why. *whew* That was weird even for me. And now we can add grass to the growing list of crap I can’t get out of my mouth in my dreams.
It is impossible for me to sit down and write one blog entry and hit submit. I’m not the only one, right?! I hit ‘create post’ and that might sit in that tab in firefox percolating all day long while I check email, backup files to dvd, write, listen to a podcast, write, watch a couple episodes of tv on dvd (man, daytime tv sucks buttocks), make a pot of coffee, check job postings, write, play with my pics, let the dog out, get a cup of coffee, write, smoke, write, make a PB&J for lunch, sweep the kitchen floor, check email, write, pick up the kids from school, write, help kids with homework, check email, put a load in the washer, write, read blogs (I’m up to almost 40 that I check with google reader and not one of them can I bear to unsubscribe to), write, get kids ready for bed, write, then hit submit.
I saw a girlfriend last night that I haven’t seen in a while and she lost 72 pounds. And she worked really really hard at it. It is so unfair the way our bodies and metabolism can be so different. I’m 5’5″, 125 pounds, 32D, 27, 36, and I am ashamed to admit, I do not have to work at it. I popped two human beings out the ole escape hatch and the only crappy thing I have to show for it are some bad stretch marks on my thighs. I do not exercise. I eat crap. I smoke. The packaging on my Carman Electra Striptease Workout is unbroken and dusty. I am almost exactly the same measurements as I was on my wedding day. Hate me now, hate me hard. I deserve it. The only difference between me and dedicated, strong-willed, hard-exercisin’, calorie-countin’, daily weigh-in havin’ amazing women is Genes. I’m sorry. I really am. But I’m not trading. I guess the whole point to this… point… was that I know there are phenomenal women who work at it 24/7 and I don’t, and I do appreciate both my genes and how hard you do work at it.
That’s about all my news, if you can call it that. Further updates as events warrant.
Rip it, roll it, and punch it, dudes.