For $300, you could have a drunk person vacuum your house, too.

I’m trying to come to terms with the fact that I’m a lazy piece of crap.

This isn’t exactly a world-stopping revelation. In college, I would stay up until 3 am and go on 4 hours of sleep because I was too lazy to get out of my chair and go to bed. Most of my big papers were begun around 9 pm, the night before they were due. These days, I usually wait to do laundry until Husband is on the verge of turning his underwear inside out. I’m currently drinking a glass of wine from a bottle that I wrestled the cork from opened using an automatic cork remover. Yes – I pressed a button and it pulled the cork for me. It’s awesome. And let’s face it ladies – I know I can’t be alone when I say I don’t exactly shave my legs regularly during the winter. It helps to keep me warm. (Insert cringe from all male readers.) Due to laziness and lack of inspiration, I haven’t posted on here in a few months, even though the original goal was to post about once a week.

However, last night was the kicker.

I started to consider purchasing a robotic vacuum and thought, Ok, maybe I really am a slob.

It seems like a wonderful concept. You press a button and little Wanda (the name is a work in progress) goes spinning around the room, sweeping up your Cheez-It crumbs from 8 consecutive episodes of The Office last Sunday afternoon. As many reviews stated, “It looks like a drunk person vacuumed your house.” Excellent. I’m almost sold.

A friend’s review stated, “…It was mentally disabled and just kept getting stuck under things. Then it broke 6 months later. Robot vacuum fail.” Yes! Why wouldn’t I want to spend $300 on that kind of entertainment?

Admittedly, this was brought on by the fact that my sister got one of these as a Christmas/birthday gift from her fiance. (The only gift that makes the combined Christmas/birthday thing ok) She has a cat and a dog, both of which shed approximately 542 pounds of fur each hour. Naturally, I became insanely jealous after hearing her constant praise of El-Neato, and how nice it is to come home from work and hear your personal maid sweeping your bedroom.

So, my husband did what any kind, loving man does and gave me a guilt trip about wanting it.

“If you want it, go ahead and buy it,” he said. “It’s completely up to you. After all, you always get what you want. I can’t even think of the last thing that I asked for. I’m going to go outside and work, and you can decide what you want to do while I’m gone. My car jack is broken,  but if you really need this vacuum, I won’t get another one.” He even said it so sincerely, with a smile on his face.

Damn him.

All was well, though, because today I checked my phone at work and read a text from Husband which read, “I will sweep the house tonight.” And he did. Every square inch of it. He says he would rather become the vacuum than spend $300 on one that might break in 6 months. I need suggestions for a name.

Also, it’s time to go shave my legs.

My mom’s adventure with the interwebz

Everyone loves a good story about my mom.

To make a long story short, Mom is going back to college full time starting this winter for medical billing. This is now her third time going to college in her life. The first time was in 1975 at OSU. She went to college for one year and dropped out when her dad said he would buy her a car if she quit. (My family puts the “fun” in dysfunctional.) The second time was 15 years ago for cosmetology. Mom graduated and actually did hair for a few years, but she quit because she wasn’t making enough money. Apparently making NOTHING with no job is better than making minimum wage. I really hope that it works out this time. Mom is 55 and has yet to find a self-supporting career.

Last night she called me because she was looking at the black Friday ads for laptops. Mom has absolutely no experience with computers and knows nothing about them. However, she’s decided that she needs one for college, so I listened to the specs and told her what to do. I think the rest of this story is best told through dialogue:

Mom: This one from Best Buy says it has 4 gee-bee. Is that good?

Me: Yes, Mom. 4 gigabytes of RAM will make it run plenty fast for what you need. I’d get the Toshiba.

Mom: Well, I’m just so lucky that I have a daughter who’s just so smart in these things. You know I don’t know anything about it. I think a laptop is just what I need since it means I’ll have the internet all of the time.

Me: What do you mean, “all of the time?”

Mom: You know, that wireless thing it has. I’ll have the internet if I get a laptop.

Me: Uhhh…Mom? Do you think your laptop is going to come with the internet built in?

Mom: Well, that’s how wireless works, right?

Me: ….. (trying to plan how to explain the internet) [Sigh] Mom, the internet isn’t everywhere for free. It’s not like…oxygen, just floating around us all the time.

Mom: What’s this wireless thing it says it has for, then?

Me: Your wireless card picks up signals from a router. It works kind of like your cell phone, like how it picks up your wireless signals from a tower. Otherwise, it would be like buying a cell phone and trying to make calls with no plan.

Mom: So, you’re telling me I’m going to have to sign up for some kind of service? [gigantic overdramatic sigh of desperation] I didn’t realize it was going to get this complicated! (whiny voice)

At this point, I explained how she has a couple options. She can sign up for broadband through her cable company or she can get a wireless air card through a cell phone company.

Me: But either option is probably going to require a 2 year contract.

Mom: Oh, God! I don’t want no contract! I have so many questions. I think I’ll call Time Warner tomorrow  and call you back and have you explain what they said.

Me: Why don’t you just ask them while you’re on the phone with them?

Mom: I guess I can do that, too. So, if I sign up through the cable company, they’ll install a bunch of wires and I’ll have wireless, right?

Me: You’ll only have wireless if you install a router.

Mom: You’re talking gibberish. You have to explain this stuff. Why can’t my laptop just get the internet after they install it? Isn’t that what they do? A router?

Me: A router turns the wired signal from your modem into a wireless signal in your house.

Mom: So, if I get this wireless thing in my house, I can take my laptop and use it anywhere?

Me: No, it’s only in your house. If you want to use your wireless card at other places, you can go to a restaurant or coffee shop and use their wi-fi.

Mom: Can you spell that for me?

You get the idea. I’ll be sure to update everyone with Mom’s college experiences. Her major is medical billing, a field which is primarily done using computers. I think I’m going to change my phone number.

Yes, it’s Halloween, but I wear a mask every day.

Men, I know you just don’t understand. Women, you wish men understood so they would stop harassing you.

What takes women so long to get ready?

I’m going to attempt to answer this question for my readers of the male persuasion. For the ladies, you get it. Laugh along. Up top, girlfriend. (Too much?)

First of all, there is a certain amount of maintenance that goes into hiding what we really look like, as women. If you saw what we really look like with no makeup and unstyled hair, you may not recognize us.

For example, Cameron Diaz is a beautiful woman, as shown here:

As any other woman does, Cameron looks quite different without makeup (especially the expensive makeup applied by professional artists):

I am not posting these photos to poke fun at her in any way. Any woman without makeup is going to look completely different. It’s just truth. Unfortunately, there is a certain standard of appearance that women feel they have to abide by. Before I go to work, or to a party, or any event where I care about my appearance, it takes time to go through the process of getting ready to leave my house. So men, listen up, because I’m going to explain to you exactly why we take so long to get ready.

Yes, it takes me 20 minutes to shower. Most of us have medium length to long hair. It takes time to wash it and rinse out all of that shampoo. You think the hair is done? Oh, no. Then you re-do the process with conditioner. Meanwhile, because women are taught from a young age that body hair is an evil force that will cause us to become lonely spinsters, we have to take 5-10 minutes to remove all of that hair through the barbaric process of our choice.

I seriously hate showering. It’s a long repetitive process and it seems like as soon as I finish one shower, it’s time for the next. For you inventor-type people, please invent some product that will allow me to wake up and instantly be clean, a la The Jetsons.

Then, there is the aftermath of showering – drying and styling my hair. My hair takes somewhere around 10 minutes to dry. If I let it dry naturally, it forms into this flat, frizzy, Medusa-like wavy, hot mess. After I blow dry it, my hair still has this awkward wavy pattern that needs to be tamed. Enter the straightener. It takes another 10 minutes to run the glorious invention called a straightener through all of my hair so I can show my face in public.

Notice that we are now at the 40 minute mark and I’m not even dressed. At this point, I have to choose what to wear. Do I wear the sweater that’s cut so awkwardly that it makes me look more flat-chested than a ten year old? How about this one? No, the tank top that I always wear under it is dirty. How about these jeans? No, I just found a hole in the crotch. Great. Add another 10 minutes to the total.

Now, it’s time for makeup. Let’s just skip the whole “natural beauty” discussion and get down to it. We’re not kidding anyone. It would be wonderful if women were appreciated for how they look naturally, but it’s simply not the case. My skin is a blotchy combination of pink areas, dry flaky spots, and blemishes. I have baggy dark circles under my eyes. Enter foundation. After a coat of moisturizer and foundation, I can fool the world into believing that my skin is healthy, smooth, and evenly complected. Then come blush, eye shadow, eye liner, and mascara. My husband knows first hand that I look like a completely different person when I’m done.

He actually walked past me when I began this post and saw the pictures of Cameron Diaz. He was shocked when he saw her face without makeup. (He also began drooling over the other sexy pictures of her from my Google Images search and I had to kick him out of the room.) I commented that he knows how different I look before and after makeup. He started to reply, “Yeah, you look like…” but trailed off because my eyes said, “You probably don’t want to finish that sentence.”

Total time to get ready: one hour. I spend one entire hour of my day doing the same monotonous routines. So guys, please don’t harass us when we’re working hard to get ready. It’s because of you that we do this, after all. We could be ready in 20 minutes like you are, but we sure wouldn’t appear to your standards.

What do you have to say about this? I’m interested in comments from both genders.

I can take 22 Justin Biebers in a fight, for your information.

What I should be doing:

• Laundry (Students tend to notice when you’ve worn the same shirt three Mondays in a row)
• Dishes (I had to use a mixing bowl and serving spoon for my breakfast last week)
• Working out
• Cooking a nice [healthy] domestic dinner
• Stopping for groceries on the way home
• Organizing my closet
• Repainting my nails (Husband has a thing about bare nails. Don’t ask.)
• Researching grad school…and actually taking classes

What I’m actually doing:

• Making a frozen pizza for dinner
• Checking facebook
• Reading about how many Justin Biebers I could take in a fight on The Oatmeal
• Drinking strawberry “lemonade”
• Wearing sweatpants
• Listening to Weezer

(http://theoatmeal.com/quiz/justin_bieber)

I really should get on that laundry soon, though. I dropped a vanilla wafer covered in pumpkin dip onto my pants today and it looked like I had baby crap smeared on my thigh. It probably gave the high schoolers something to talk about.

Apparently your new vehicle didn’t come with that fancy “turn signal” option.

Hey you. Yes, you. Driver from Ohio. It’s time for us to have a little chat.

You see, for quite a while I’ve been meaning to write about this particular frustration of mine and I’m finally feeling inspired, so get ready. For some reason, approximately 50% of Ohio drivers have no clue how to work these things we call automobiles.

Let’s start with turn signals. The purpose of a turn signal, in case you aren’t aware, is to give the other drivers some notice that you’re going to slow down. Putting on your signal as you’re halfway through your turn DOES NOT HELP ME. I don’t give two flying geese whether you’re going left or right. Actuate that bugger about 200 feet before you have to turn so I don’t plow into your backside. I think we’d both appreciate that. While I have your attention, non-turn-signal-user, let’s talk about lane changes. Use it. Just do it. If flipping the turn signal lever is so exhausting to you, we have bigger problems to discuss than this. What if I’m getting into the middle lane and I don’t know that you’re going to do the same thing? I promise that I will punch you in the back of your head if you hit me for that reason.

Our next lesson involves an Ohio law that for some reason, many of you struggle with. Are we all aware that it is law to have your lights on when you have your wipers on? Driving in the rain with no lights on is about as intelligent as brushing your teeth with battery acid. Part of that same law requires you to get in the other lane when a tow truck or police officer is on the side of the road. Seriously. You don’t need to pass me on the right just because I won’t go 75 mph. I’m trying to avoid going to jail because I ran over a cop, you nincompoop.

Okay. Speed. There is no reason that you need to go 80mph unless someone in your car is about to give birth. When both lanes are moving at 65 during rush hour, driving .75″ from my bumper is not going to magically give me the ability to make the semi in front of me disappear. What’s your freaking hurry, anyway? Are you not happy with your current fuel mileage? You need to go 80 so you get even less for your money? Weaving back and forth between people is not getting you there any faster, either. Most of the time when I follow someone who’s doing that, we end up about 2 cars apart at the exit ramp. I’m so glad that you risked your life and everyone’s around you so you could get to your destination 10 seconds earlier. You get a cookie and a gold star.

STOP. TEXTING. If you kill me, I will haunt you forever by singing the Song That Never Ends. And it will never end.

Here is how merging (during rush hour when we’re barely moving) is supposed to work: just like in kindergarten, we take turns. We let someone from the ramp in, then we go and so on. Semi trucks are big. They need room to get in. Don’t be a dick. Leave some space and let them in. I guarantee if that dude loses his cool, his truck will run right over your SUV. You will lose. The main point is that people need to quit being rude and try being courteous on the road for once. We’re all adults. Try to act like it.

Rain does not equal temporary amnesia of driving skills. Every time it rains, there are about 5 wrecks in our area. Slow down, don’t be an idiot, turn on your lights as mentioned before, and leave some space in front of you. Not difficult. Go on with life.

On a similar note, you can NOT drive the same way in snow as you can on dry roads, in case you hadn’t noticed. Freaking out because you’re sliding on that black ice doesn’t do any good, nor does slamming on your brakes and turning the wheel. Every year, the freeways look like the Winter Olympics bobsled competition. Most of the people chilling in the ditches are there because of stupidity.

So, to sum it up:

1) Use your signal.

2) Quit being an impatient jerk.

3) Don’t be an idiot.

Happy trails.

I guess I’m just not a true Amurrrican.

I was born and raised in a Midwest state where sports are everything. Unless you could talk team winning records, knew football plays, owned at least three jerseys, or at least hosted Super Bowl parties, you were nobody. In sixth grade, I even stooped as low as to be a cheerleader with the hopes of fitting in. All that got me was a really awkward team picture and a case of low self-esteem when I didn’t make it the next year.

I’ve always been a natural born band geek. My idea of a fun evening in high school was to learn all of my major scales in two octaves by ear.

…I mean…no I didn’t. That would be REALLY nerdy. Anyway.

Because of my musical obsession and massive apathy of all things athletically related in my home, I never learned the slightest thing about any sport. Even after being on the eighth grade basketball team, I couldn’t tell you anything more about basketball than “you shoot for the hoop.” And pass the ball. And run a lot. I still have no idea why I got to shoot foul shots in the one game when I got more than 30 seconds of playing time. Something about a foul. Yeah.

By some sort of magical happening, I ended up marrying the only man to walk this earth who is as apathetic about sports as myself. It’s freaking fantastic. When other guys are glued to their televisions, eating cheesy poofs and shouting obscenities, mine just wants to curl on the couch and watch Renovation Realities.

A normal conversation between Husband and Typical Jock Dude goes like this:

TJD: Man that drama with Tressel is crazy. It’s a bunch of bull. Where are the Bucks gonna be next year?

Husband: What’s a Tressel?

TJD: Seriously? I’m talking about the Bucks, bro.

Husband: Oh, yeah. We’ve been having problems with deer on our road, too.

TJD: Uhhhhh…let’s just drink beer.

This brings me to my next subject. People around here are nucking futs about The Ohio State University. I’m pretty sure there’s an Ohio law that says you can be executed for leaving out the “The” in the name. It’s common practice to buy a grey car just so you can pimp it out with scarlet decorations, buckeye leaves, and bobbleheads of Brutus the Buckeye. It doesn’t even end in death:

I’m just going to set this right here for your viewing pleasure.

I guess my point is that I just don’t get it. The rules, or even basic concepts, of sports escape me. I spent my first season as a high school band director trying to figure out what downs were. Now, I don’t judge anyone. I’m always happy for our high school team when they win a game and I support band kids who play a sport. I just have no idea why our crowd is cheering most of the time. I’ve learned that if I cheer along, I look like I know what’s happening. As long as I know the words to “Hang On Sloopy” and I can answer “OH!” with an “IO!” I will avoid excommunication from the state of Ohio.

So, carry on, you sports fans. And hit the showers, before I smack you with a wet towel. I’ve got to practice my scales.

60% of you are going to be disappointed with the lack of boobies in this post.

We’re all on a mission of some sort.

This is why you never blindly follow the GPS.

For some, their mission is to become a better person, or donate more money to charity. For others, it’s to get to that booger that’s way in the back and has gotten all hard and pointy. Other people are trying to see how many times they can scratch their butt in public without being caught. (“I’m up to five, bro! Up top!”) Some people in my community are on a mission to see how many years they can shun the dentist and still keep that one tooth in the front. I know someone who calls it Chomper. Still, others are on a mission to make all teachers seem to be the human reincarnation of Satan in our country. There’s a reason I remain anonymous on here. (Oh no, she di’int just get on a political soapbox on a humor blog! *z-snap*)

Anyway, the point is, we all have a mission in life.

Chances are, you came to this blog on a mission for porn.

You see, I have a slight obsession with checking my stats. In the past week, about 60% of my hits were referred from a Google Images search. Nearly all of those image searches include the name “Jenna Marbles” and some sort of body part or adjective. Just look:

This list makes me proud to be a woman. I mean, instead of searches for “jenna marbles smart” or “jenna marbles funny,” we have searches for her full body, boobs, under wear (btdubs, it’s one word, you horny moron), and legs. As Jenna has stated in her “How To Get Ready For A Date” vlog, we’re all sexual objects, anyway. We shouldn’t try to be interesting, or intelligent, or wear anything that won’t show off our “sweater puppies.”

So, go ahead, you 15 year old perverts. Keep searching for “jenna marbles hot” and “jenna marbles boobies” (Yeah, I got that one today. They can’t be any older than 14 for that big boy wording). Continue to type things like “moms cleavage” into your Google search box.

Wait.

Back up the freaking Oedipal train.

Someone was searching for moms cleavage and found my blog?? And I thought I had issues. I bet they were really disappointed when they clicked here. This is probably the same kind of kid who was breastfeeding until age 6. Ah, mom’s cleavage. Makes me feel so cuddly, warm and safe. Amirite???? (And covered in baby powder.)

So, thanks to the 10% of you who actually stop by and read. To the other 90% of you, keep searching for your porn. I admire someone who has perseverance. I hope you achieve your goal. (Crossed the line?)

Seriously. I can’t even make up this stuff.

I’ll make this one short to make up for how long yesterday’s was. (Thaaaaaat’swhatshesaid?)

This is another one of those “only in my life” sort of stories, similar to yesterday’s post about the Golden Corral.

So, yesterday I was on my way to the gym for my second session with my trainer, Barry. I have to drive through a section of the freeway which has been Construction Zone Hell for the last few months – concrete walls, orange barrels, approximately 15 feet in which oncoming cars get to merge, the whole shebang. There’s an SUV to my left and a concrete wall to my right. I’m cruising along, enjoying the sounds of 90s alternative rock, thanks to my new favorite station.

Suddenly, the wind picked up.

You see that mashed-up orange barrel on the right? One that looked identical to that began blowing into the road in front of me, rolling over itself like a plastic tumbleweed.

I’m going to get a little cliche with you now, so just bear with me. It was like a slow-motion scene in a movie. You see, I have a car that isn’t quite three years old, yet. I’m a very cautious person and I’ve never let anything happen to my precious car. (Yeah – you with the runaway grocery cart. I keel you.) So, I panicked.

I couldn’t go left, due to the SUV and as I said, there was a concrete wall to my right.

I’m going to hit it, I accepted. There’s no way around it.I hit the brakes to lessen the speed of impact. I even swerved a little, so I wouldn’t hit it completely head-on.

After what seemed like five minutes of scrunching my eyes and white-knuckling my steering wheel, I finally heard it.

BAM.

I seriously thought I was going to puke. Images of the cavernous dent in the front of my car filled my mind. My hands shook furiously. I wondered who I would have to call to sue the State of  Ohio for their clearly incompetent workers, who would allow a barrel to just float across a busy stretch of highway. By the time I got to the gym, I was surprised that I had even made it there, since obviously the front of my car had been reduced to scrap metal.

I got out and squatted to examine the damage, with a pit in my stomach.

No dent. Seriously?? There were some globs of grease smeared on the bumper, and maybe some slight scuffs of the paint underneath, but no substantial damage to be seen.

So, amazingly enough, nothing really happened. In about 30 minutes, I’ll be driving through that same construction zone on my way to work. Do you think anyone would judge me if I attached a snow plow to the front of my compact car?

Baby powder in Mom’s cleavage was the least of my worries

Under normal circumstances, I dread visits with my mother. I am well aware that this makes me sound like a terrible, horrible, no-good kind of person. It would take more words than the world’s longest blog post for me to explain why I feel this way, so just take my word for it.

I can hear you judging me.

Anyway, Mom’s birthday was on Thursday, so at this time last week, I started making plans with my family for the required birthday dinner. As usual, I called my grandma in an effort to avoid getting stuck on the phone for two hours with Mom. Typically, birthday dinners in my family happen at Texas Roadhouse. That’s just fine with me. They have steak, sweet potatoes smothered in brown sugar and butter, and I can order a margarita, which always helps me to cope with Mom’s incessant whining and complaining about the woes of life. Seriously, she’s the biggest Debbie Downer you could ever meet. I feel like I need to be on Paxil after I leave, just to see the light of day again.

However, Grandma wanted to go somewhere different this time, and as the reigning matriarch of the family, she gets to decide these kinds of things without question.

I love my Grandma. She’s a strong woman who has overcome numerous obstacles in life, lived through the Depression, buried two husbands, and raised my sister and me when my mom wasn’t capable of doing so.

But, ICK.

I do not do places like Golden Corral. My hometown does not have…ahem…the classiest of people living there. So, the idea of eating somewhere in which there are large pans of food with the purpose of self-service is not appetizing in the least. I imagined the scene: dirty children putting sticky fingers into macaroni and cheese, toothless women coughing and hacking over the plates and silverware, and tables that haven’t been properly sanitized since the place was built.

Then, I decided that I was being horribly judgmental. I would go to the Golden Corral, and I would suck it up, and be just fine. Friday evening arrived and Husband and I drove to meet Mom, Mom’s Boyfriend, Grandma, and Sister for Mom’s 55th Birthday Extravaganza. I even bought a “nice” birthday card because I was so rudely informed at our Mother’s Day gathering that I don’t get her nice enough cards. Yes, you read that correctly. My cards did not demonstrate my daughterly love at an appropriate level, so my mom told me I needed to buy her mushier cards in the future. So I did.

Husband was not happy at all. He and I share opinions on buffet-style restaurants and our last encounter with Mom was painstaking. She had spent our last three-hour visit talking about nothing but her back pain, excruciating 20-hour work weeks, getting two hours of sleep every night, and sanding wallpaper. One of the reasons I love Husband is because he tolerates these sorts of visits, and for some reason, comes back for more.

We walked into the Golden Corral, “nice” card in hand, and greeted my family. Grandma looked absolutely adorable. She’s 88 years old and is quickly losing her vision due to macular degeneration. A tightly curled victory roll decorated her forehead and hot pink lipstick was smeared around her lip area.

“I called earlier and told them that we’d be here at 6:30 with seven people. They said they would push two tables together for us. I gave them our last name, so when your sister gets here they can take her to our table.”

Yes, folks. My grandma made reservations at a Golden Corral, and was under the impression that this was proper protocol. I turned toward the window and smiled. I’m sure when I’m 88, I’ll do silly things like that, too.

Surprisingly, my mom didn’t immediately dominate the conversation with complaints. She gave us hugs, said hello, and excused herself to the restroom.

Maybe this won’t be so bad, after all, I thought. The worst thing I had noticed so far was a mass of baby powder escaping Mom’s exposed cleavage, as usual. She doesn’t seem to understand the concept of rubbing it in so the rest of the world doesn’t see evidence of her boob sweat problem.

Husband and I walked to the cashier to get our drinks and pay. As soon as she filled our cups with water (they wanted $1.79 for drinks and we were already paying $11 for school cafeteria quality food!), she realized that her car windows were down in the pouring rain. Here is where the experience starts to go downhill. The cashier ran outside to put up her windows. I understand. No problem. But, the manager who walked over to fill in left us standing there, waiting to pay, while she helped people behind us in line.

Finally, the cashier came back inside and we were able to pay and join my family, who had been patiently waiting for us for the last five minutes. I’m sure that was a fluke, I told myself. Don’t judge this place. I’m sure the food will be fine.

We were led to a private room in the dining area, in which there were only two other occupied tables. Sweet. This might turn out ok, after all. We ventured to the buffet area, where Husband and I meticulously examined our plates and silverware for baked-on food. I noticed a pan of cinnamon apples and thought, I like those. See? You were stereotyping.

Then, an old woman who was standing in front of the apples began to cough and hack. Right. Into. The. Apples.

A ten year old girl walked by, wearing nothing but a bathing suit.

Immediately, I entered Germaphobic Panic Mode. What was safe to eat here? A woman leaned over the buffet, dragging her hair across the food. A man licked his fingers and grabbed the tongs, piling fried chicken onto his plate. I finally settled upon beef stew (all of the meat had been taken, leaving only the vegetables; take that as you’d like), mashed potatoes and green beans.

As I sat down, Mom, Grandma and Mom’s Boyfriend were wolfing down their food as if someone had given them a five minute time limit for dinner. Husband and Sister cracked jokes about the meatloaf and mac and cheese’s similarity to Banquet frozen dinners. The servers were doing a good job of taking away our empty plates and keeping our drinks full. Mom was even on her best behavior, allowing the conversation to center around someone besides herself most of the time. I couldn’t believe it.

Grandma sat down, holding her third plate of food. “I waited for ten minutes for them to fill up the fried chicken! Some big guy tried to take all the drumsticks, but I only let him have two!”

Then, something happened that solidified my decision to blog about this dinner.

A mass of people walked into the doorway of our room. They were dressed in wedding clothes.

That’s right. A group of 40 people had made reservations to have their wedding reception in this private room and were quite upset because three tables, including ourselves, had been seated there. I had to hide my horror and amusement, for fear of having my tires slashed. Their outfits were interesting choices for a wedding. Jeans. Boobalicious strapless dresses. You get the idea. There ended up being room for all of them in the private room and disaster was averted.

Grandma returned from her fifth trip to the buffet. Her plate was piled with desserts. “I took that spoon and scooped all of the peaches from the peach cobbler. I only left the crust!” Our whole table burst into giggles. When you’re 88, you can do what you please. If Grandma wants to take all the peaches, more power to her.

Mom opened her birthday cards and actually appreciated them. I’m still in shock that she was so well behaved. Maybe we should go to Golden Corral more often. Apparently, it calms my mother’s talkative nature.

Also, where else can you go to a birthday party and a wedding at the same time?

Barry White is going to get me ripped, even if it kills me

Let’s travel in time to this past Saturday, shall we? My work-out buddy (hereby known as E, until I decide a better moniker for her) and I had our initial session with our new trainer, Heather. E and I got to the gym right on time for our 12 pm appointment, and waited. And waited. Heather finally decided to stroll toward our table around 12:10, plopped into her chair open-legged, and began talking with absolutely no introduction.

“Mbghio bfji rghio gthjiob tihhjri. Bdfijiti bhi ghign?”

That’s all I heard for two reasons.

You know those girls who make you do a double-take when they talk because their voice sounds like Barry White?

"Like, do these shoulder pads make me look fat?"

The second reason is that she was mumbling in her muffled baritone toward the table. No eye contact. Something about metabolism, and water, and what do I eat. I answered her in my usual intelligent manner, making eye contact with the side of her face:

“Uhhh…I used to eat bad stuff….like…fried stuff and whatever, but now I eat good stuff, like fruits and vegetables, and like, turkey and stuff.” Man. I should really think about going into the nutrition field if this teaching thing doesn’t work out.

This intelligent exchange continued for the next five minutes or so, as Heather muttered into the table and shoved papers toward us to sign. I started to wonder if she would notice if I started answering her questions using only Barry White song titles since she seemed so uninterested in my answers.

Heather: So, what are your goals?

Me: Staying Power.

Heather: Have you had a trainer before?

Me: You’re The First, The Last, My Everything.

Heather: Do you have any specific areas on which you’d like to focus?

Me: Honey Please Can’t Ya See? You See The Trouble With Me.

Heather: Ok, we’re gonna go over here so I can measure you.

Me: I’ll Do For You Anything You Want Me To.

On Tuesday, it was time for our first workout. Heather led us to a corner of the gym and adjusted her package demonstrated the leg circuit for us. After the third time through it, there was a nuclear war happening in my thighs. She wanted us to do it ONE MORE TIME.

Since I’m paying for this, I want to give it my all. I’m not giving up. (Never, Never Gonna Give Ya Up) I powered through the fourth time, huffing and puffing, wiping my nose on my shirt sleeve, then dropping the kettlebell to the floor and guzzling water. My heart rate was somewhere in the 340 range. That may have been slightly exaggerated.

We started to walk toward the bench press and I was feeling like a champ. I made it! My 11-inch thighs are gonna be ripped!

Then, things started looking a little strange.

White spots filled my vision. Stomach churned. Room was spinning.

Great. Instead of impressing Barr…Heather with my outstanding endurance, I’m now sitting on a bench, breathing deeply and wondering if she would crush my head between her thighs if I puked right here. I’ve always been good at first impressions.

“You ok?” (What Am I Gonna Do With You) “You’d better take a walk.” (Baby, We Better Try To Get It Together)

Three days later, my legs are still sore. Barry’s on a mission to kill me, but if it gets me ripped, I can handle it. Just don’t expect me to look like one of those female bodybuilders. I haven’t had time to stock my baby oil supply.