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Entries in Digression (18)


Teeth pulling, head banging, and deadlines


Writing a scholarly (there’s that word again) research paper can be likened to pulling one’s own perfectly good teeth and/or banging one’s own perfectly good head against a perfectly good wall.  It is self-mutilation in honor of academia, if you will.  It hurts.  Like the dickens. And it’ll cost a pretty penny to fix the hole in that wall.

I must enjoy pain.  But that’s another post for another time.

I have a deadline for this paper.  I hate deadlines.  I hate being told what to do.  I’m a bit of a loner and take pride in marching to my own little drummer.  My little drummer takes her own sweet time when marching, and I seriously have no control over that.  I have one speed:  Not fast.  Deadlines are never welcomed, not always met and frequently fretted over and the cause of many a nervous breakdown.  I wouldn’t have first-hand knowledge of that last symptom, however.

  At least not yet.

The research study paper begins, of course, with a Title Page.  This is a complete waste of paper, the killing of a tree, like saluting the environment with a big ‘Fuck You’.    It’s just wrong.  The Title Page consists of a title, a date and the author’s name, all centrally positioned on a big white boring page.    However, I am all about pleasing Professor so I comply.

There go the nation’s forests.  Don’t blame me.  I have a ‘thing’ for getting A’s.  I must get an A in this writing project.  I simply must.  So kill a tree?  Absolutely.   Miss the deadline?  Usually not an option.  Bang my head and pull my teeth?  I’m into pain, remember?

After the Title Page is the first page, which begins with something called an Abstract.   The abstract is not to be confused with the Introduction, which must also be included, but comes right after the abstract.  Here’s where I take issue, people.  In said abstract, I must summarize my overall intentions for the research paper in the first place.  So, I ask you, what’s that leave for the Introduction?

“Hello, my name is Theresa and I am writing this research paper to provide proof of my innocence. I have the right to remain silent….”   Oh wait, I fell asleep there for a sec.  That doesn’t quite fit, does it?  So what does fit?  I never did like introductions anyway.  Maybe I’ll just throw that section out. Maybe Professor won’t notice if I bribe him with a virtual apple or better yet, a virtual BJ or something.  I’m willing to try anything.  Although I’m really out of BJ practice, quite honestly.    And then there’s the whole gag reflex thing.  Ugh.  Serious lesbian nightmare material.

But I digress.

And the plot thickens.

Next you have to provide something called a Literature Review.  Believe me when I tell you that this section is not nearly as romantic as it sounds.  We writers think of ‘literature’ as something readable and get our warm-fuzzies on just thinking about it.  This is not that kind of literature, people.   The literature review is comprised of brief but thorough explanations for each and every piece of research information covered for your research project.    It’s a bitch is what it is.

Right about now, you’re either sipping your wine and wondering what the hell I’m babbling on and on about.

OR you’ve fallen asleep and your wine is now warm.  Make sure to wipe that drooly stuff off your face. Not attractive.

OR you’re thinking a literature review sounds a lot like a Bibliography.  You would be right on all counts:  the babbling, drooling and the bibliography.  So go ahead and get a refill on that wine.   I’ll join you.

So what I’ve figured out so far is that research study reports are so freaking large because you have to formulate your research info into several different sections, thus saying virtually the same damned thing over and over again, only mixing the words around for a more scholarly effect.

Kinda shines the old term, “educated idiot”  in a whole new light, doesn’t it?

And?  By the time I’m finished with this program and obtain that coveted Masters Degree, I will owe a whole bunch of money.   Again, ‘educated idiot’ anyone?   I can see how that might be perceived.

So, boys and girls, what have we learned today?  We learned some new words, or at least some new definitions for old words, right?   Let’s define some terms now, shall we?

  1. Deadlines.   Make you do things.  Bad things.  Because you gotta get an A.

  2. Head-banging and Teeth-pulling.   Normal daily workout for Grad students.

  3. Wine induced coma.  A beautiful dream of school break and happier times.  All you need is enough wine to get you there.

  4. Educated idiot.    Yours truly.  And getting more so with each passing second.

  5. Masturbation…..err, I mean Masters Degree.  There’s no time for the former.  Sadly.

  6. Virtual bribery.  Apple, BJ, sexting, cash, jewelry, first born. (See number 1)



Turns out, there’s a whole lot more to this freaking fancy paper than the sections I have described above, too numerous and too boring to mention.  I’ve been plugging away all day on this mutha-effing report, and now I’m enjoying blogging, reading some blogs and drinking some wine.  I’ll finish the thing tomorrow.  Deadline?  Oh, that was yesterday.  I’m late.  And I’m handling it pretty well, don’t you think?

I sent my “apple” off to teacher.   I’ll still get an A.

Just kidding!   Cheers!



(Image by Google Images)

I just need my Meds


Every time I think Las Vegas is unique in its overabundance of crazy people, all I have to do is turn on the news.   Some guy pepper-sprayed people in a Black Friday shopping line…somewhere.  I didn’t listen all that carefully because I didn’t care all that much.  I am not a fan of Black Friday, crowds, shopping or the potentially deadly combination of the three.   And Las Vegas?  We’re not any worse or better than any place else.


People are getting shot.  Somewhere.  Somewhere in the United States.  I didn’t listen to where because I was too busy sorting out my medication.   We’ve become immune to horrific news like shootings on Black Friday.  I never thought I’d see the day when I would say something like, “I knew that would happen if those stores opened up in the middle of the night.”  It seemed I was more concerned with being right than the fact that a crime was committed and that was wrong.

Insensitive?   Yes, apparently I was.  How and when did that happen?

Immune to violence?   Again, how did ice enter my veins and numb my brain?

Apathetic?   Bingo.  This is where I ended up, along with multitudes of Americans who were otherwise law-abiding, tax-paying, hard-working, caring individuals.

I was apathetic.  I didn’t care.  I had so many issues to deal with in my very existence that I had successfully blocked out my “give a shit” gene.  Hell, I probably wouldn’t have cried when I saw cute little puppies any more.  I used to.


I’m worried that I have become one of those old-fart cynics who whine and gripe about everything.  Not long ago, I was hit by an old geezer in an electric wheelchair at the casino.   I turned to look at him, and instead of his apologizing for bruising my leg, he said, “Would you get the hell out of the way?”

And what did I say?   I said “I’m sorry” and I moved to let him pass.  I may be apathetic, but I still have good manners.   What did I want to do?  I wanted to flail him with my big purse.  I wanted to scream at him.  I wanted to ruin his day.”   But I didn’t.    In retrospect, I think he was too far gone into his old world that he probably got up every morning and “chose” to be unhappy.   But I didn’t want to add to that.   I have manners, remember?

Which leads me to today.   TRUE STORY:

All I wanted was to pick up my medication.  I drove to CVS pharmacy, and started to turn into the driveway that led up to the drive-thru.  However, someone must have been running a hell of a sale because there was a line wrapped part-way around the block, and running right across the drive way.

So, I lightly tapped my horn so I could get through, and people began to make a path for me.  One man, however, started literally screaming at me.  I don’t know what he was saying because it was in Spanish, but the dude was pissed.   I was a little frightened, so I closed my window and locked my doors.  This reaction is not unheard of (or uncalled for) in my fair (crazy, crime-filled) city.  I was merely trying to protect myself.

But I was scared, a little bit.   There he stood, blocking my path and screaming Spanish stuff at me.  I actually wondered at that point, what may have ignited his anger, because I couldn’t imagine it could have been me.    About that time, he moved over just enough for me to pass, so I slowly proceeded forward.  When I reached the point where he was at my door, he began beating on my window and yelling some more.   I was stunned and afraid to move for fear of running over his feet or something.

The car behind me was honking.  There were several cars behind me at that point, probably blocking traffic in the street.  So I started inching forward, and I swear, the son-of-a-bitch stayed right at my window, pounding and yelling.   My heart began beating faster, I’m sure, because I was getting quite frightened at this point.

Then a woman came up and started arguing with the man, in Spanish.    I saw her tug at his coat, trying to get him to step away.   He literally pushed her away.  He didn’t hurt her but….


I rolled my window down and screamed back at him that I was going through and if I run over him, then so be it  (or something like that, with an F-bomb or two thrown in).

It was the weirdest thing.  His eyes got big and he backed off.  He backed clean off to where the rest of the crowd was standing and just stared at me.

Not knowing what the hell just happened  (and severely hoping he wouldn’t pull out a gun and kill me) I pulled on through, then drove on down the driveway, passed right on by the drive-thru pick-up window, and kept on going.  I didn’t stop until I got home  (well except for red lights).

I may never leave the house on Black Friday again. 

But one thing did come of my little episode from hell.   I realized I do still care and I’m not completely apathetic.   I didn’t want him to hurt that woman.  I cared about what he might do to me and the folks in the crowd.

It’s a lot more “real” when you experience it first-hand.   So, thank God no one got hurt.  I could thank the crazy little man for scaring me shitless and moving me to action, but that would give him power.   Today, I had the power.  The power of choice.   I chose to care and to get involved.   I was stupid to roll down my window and yell back, but somehow it miraculously worked.   I don't recommend it, though.  I am no authority on crowd-control or even little Spanish-speaking, angry man, control.

But I did care about the outcome.  That’s not apathy.  And I’m going to be just fine in my old age.

But I still need to pick up those freaking meds.


Pictures and Memories

Not in the mood to study today.  Don't want to write NaNoWriMo today.  Can't think of a single humorous line to blog today.  Not interested in trying to figure out my new domain name today.   Don't want to go shopping today.  

This is how I get when the holidays come around.   The only thing  (besides a good wine buzz) that helps me when I'm away from the ones I love is looking at pictures.

So, people I love, this blog is dedicated to you.  I miss you.  I love you.  I hope to have the privilege of seeing every one of you in 2012....."God willing and the creek don't rise."  (I don't know who wrote that, but I've heard it all my life).

But I digress.   And I hate it when I say I digress.  But I do.

So here we go.  My picture dedication.  (Click on images to enlarge.  It will make the pics awesomely more amazing. I promise)

Last year, I was here.   Georgia, at my Dad's house.  Gosh it was beautiful.  I'd forgotten how beautiful.  It was the first time Id been back in 5 years.

The view from my Dad's front porch.


View of Dad's driveway. We don't have these views in Las Vegas.


Views are nice, but family makes the holiday

Me and my Dad. I'm so lucky to have this man as my Dad. He's also my Hero.

Me and my Little Short Sweet Sister, Robin. She doesn't like to be called short, but she's 4'11" for crying out loud.













Dad and Donna. They have my heart!

My stepmom Donna. Yea she's gorgeous. So what else is new. Love you Donna!











Lovely stepsis Sherri. This woman never ages. I'm serious.

StepBro John. I swear this is the stillest I could capture him. He moves fast when he's trying to avoid pictures.













Yes, I am missing all these amazing people (and their families!).     Hang on a sec, I need a right back.

OK, moving on.

Everyone knows my boys are at the very core of my heart.  That's old news.  So of course I'm missing these beautiful people.



My son Glenn and actress Rebecca Budig. I chose this picture because Glenn made the sacrifice of standing in a long line to get her autograph and pic for me. What a guy. I also miss "All My Children", the show.

Fave pic of Amanda, Abe and Tono. Big wedding coming up June 16th. Saving the date! I'm so excited!

Joan, Tono and Abe in Build-A-Bear Las Vegas

Me, Abe, Tono and Amanda the night the two lovebirds got engaged. Awesome!

Tono, Me and Glenn a few years back. I was sick. So was my hair. The boys were perfection though!









Grandson Tono. Getting way too big. Growing up. Whatsup with that? Miss you sweetie! XOXOs


OK,   I gotta stop all this blubbering or go to the store for more tissues.  Where's the toilet paper?   Uh oh, we can't be out of that too!  O.M.G.

So.  you can't look at pictures without including your best friends.   I am so blessed to have many friends.  However, I have two (sets) of friends that hold a golden spot in my heart.  Not only are the women  (Mary and Donna)  my dearest friends,  but their husbands  (Garry and Dave)  are also.  It's kinda weird in a very wonderful way.

Mary and me, doing what we do best. Cocktails and talking. We never run out of things to talk about. Love you Mary!


Garry and Mary at Green Valley Ranch in Vegas. It was Garry's birthday. YEAH


Donna and Dave. Beautiful people. Good friends. Love these Tucson folks.


Me and Donna not long ago. They were in town to see Elton John. I didn't get to see Elton, but it was great to see my friends. Love you guys! Don't feel sorry for me, ok?


Well, that's enough for now because I really do need to study, NaNoWriMo and go grocery shopping.    Happy Thanksgiving to all my family, my IRL friends  AND my wonderful online friends too!    Can't wait to see your holiday pictures!    XOXO'S


Hunger and the Fat Food Shopper

I sit down and plan my week’s menus, then dutifully make out my weekly food shopping list.  We’re on a tight budget at my house, and it’s the only way to keep me from bringing home every Twinkie and frozen pizza I can get my hands on.

That was last night.

This morning I got up and had my coffee and farted around the house checking email, watching TV and being lazy.  By the time I actually made it to the grocery store, I was hungry enough to eat liver.

And for me to eat liver, I have to be mondo, uber, sooper dooper hungry.  I’m talking bear-like.  It’s not pretty.

So I was pretty hungry.  I started out being the Good Terri that I always aspire to be.  That lasted down the produce and soda aisles.  About that time, Bad Bad Terri jumped on my shoulder and said, “Let’s rock this mutha.”

I’m not sure what that means, but I blame it on Bad Bad Terri.   She gets me in a lot of trouble.

But back to my story…

So, I picked up speed with my shopping cart and whizzed right past the items on my list……tomato sauce, canned vegetables, soup.   I rounded the corner on two wheels and “Behold the Awesomeness”!  There before me was the crackers, cookies and cakes aisle.  Oh lordy, I was going to “hell in a hand basket”, as my Mom used to say.  I started loading up my cart with anything sugar coated, cream puffed, cream filled, lemony, chocolaty, with nuts, without nuts, with icing, without icing, and plain donuts, too.

My breathing became shallow and I broke  into a sweat.  I made it to the end of the aisle just in time. My cart was full.

And then…..

A wonderful, BBQ…ish smell drifted right smack up my nose, and like a cartoon character, my feet lifted off the floor, and I literally floated all the way over to the Deli counter.   And there they were, glistening, inside the case.  The most beautiful BBQ ribs I’d ever seen.  It was a magical moment.

I ran back to my cart, hurdling an old lady, a seeing-eye dog and two toddlers.   I needed to make room for those ribs.  I needed to make a decision.  What should I get rid of?    This was too easy!  Those plain donuts of course!   Everything else had to stay.  I was not parting with those Twinkies and nobody was going to make me.  I had a need for a Twinkie.  If you know what I mean.  You’ve all been there, right?  Am I right?   I know I am.

So, I made some room in my cart for those bodacious ribs and wheeled on over to the Deli counter to make my ribs purchase.  OH MY GOD.  They were gone.  No ribs!  In fact, the BBQ smell was gone!

IN FACT, the beautiful Deli was gone!

And then I woke up. 

Not really.  I’m just kidding.  I’m a kidder.

But I did have a similar dream where I was ravenous in the grocery store.  However, in that dream, those Twinkies went home with me.

Message or Moral of this wacked out story?   Well I have two.

  1.       Never go to the grocery store when you are hungry.

  2.       Send a skinny person to do your food shopping.

(Images from Google Images)

All good things must come to an end

Don’t you just hate it?  The fact that all good things come to an end?   I really hate it.

Right now I’m hating on ABC for cancelling All My Children.  I got so upset about it, in fact, that I wrote about it in my column.  You can read it here.  And please do.  Read it, I mean.  Again, you can read it here.   You see the deal is, I can make a little money if people actually visit my pages on  I actually make about a penny a visit or so, but after a few months, I can cash a whopping paycheck of at least ten bucks.    I write under two titles, Business Insights Examiner and Creative Writing Examiner, with the latter being much more fun and interesting.  The former is a real yawner, and understandable why I don’t get many visitors…….but please go there, anyways.  Thanks.  Pardon the shameless plugs, but  Mama needs a new bottle of wine.

Back on subject, other good things that come to an end…….and consequently, piss me off, are:

A banana split.   Yums of orgasmic proportions.

A margarita.   Liquid nectar of the gods.

An  ‘In n Out’ burger.  O. to the M.G.

A rollercoaster ride.   For us grown-up kids that don’t get laid nearly often enough.

An orgasm.  Damn it.  I need to find a rollercoaster.

A juicy novel.    Oh baby oh baby.

A Jennifer Lopez music video.     Who needs porno?  Not me.

You get the gist of it.  Things are good.  Things come to an end.  So what does this mean?   Does it mean that things that are bad last forever?   I say, yes, in some cases.  At least they seem to last forever, anyways:

An ass-chewing from your boss.  Seriously, how many ways can he express his disappointment?  It’s not like he hasn’t embellished on HIS expense report.  Sheesh.  Fuck him and the limo he rode in on.

A political speech.  Drone.  Lies.  ZZZzzz.  Tell me again why this is pre-empting “Survivor”?   I’m not convinced or pleased.

Liver.  I just threw up a little in my mouth thinking about this one.  My Mom used to make me sit at the table until I finished every bite of my liver, which sometimes took a couple hours.  I vowed to never shove even a sliver of liver into my kids’ mouths.  I was a good Mom.

A Denver Broncos game this year.  Pure torture.  Tim TeBLOWS.  ‘Nuff said.

Diarrhea.  You knew I had to go there.  Poop fixation?  I think not.  Just because I’ve written about conditions of the nether regions a few times before….don’t judge.   I’m considered a senior.  We have issues.

The long lines at the seafood buffet at the Rio Hotel and Casino in Vegas.  This is a local headache.  Those dang tourists are getting between me and the unlimited shrimp and crab legs.  They don’t realize how dangerous that could be.

Well, that’s it for today, as I still have mountains of homework and must get back to it.   UGH.  Besides, I don’t want to end up on the “bad things that go on forever” list.

I’m not there yet, right? 

Wake up!   The post is over.  You can move on now.  








Constant Cravings

No, this is not a post about that singer, KD Lang.   I never much liked her music anyways.  Oh she’s a cute little butch lesbian and all, and that would normally be enough for me to worship her, but I’m just not a fan.  

But enough about her.  Let’s talk about me.

Lately I’ve been a bundle of nerves.  I suppose you’ve noticed if you’ve read any of my more recent posts.  All this business of getting a job, losing a job, getting another job, losing another job, trying to tread Grad School water, writing my book, dieting (well, somewhat. I’m no saint, people. I cheat), exercising, and trying to be a good person.   Whew!  I’m tired. 

And?   I have this craving for grapefruit.  Where the hell did that come from?  I never much liked grapefruit, but lately I’ve eaten one every day, and still want more.

I think something’s rotten in Denmark.   I think my chakra is out of balance.  Maybe my karma is all whacky.  Or my Yin is fighting with my Yang.  I’m just all fucked up.

Shouldn’t cravings be for chocolate and/or wine?   And sex?  Oh wait, scratch the sex.  That’s fantasy, not cravings.  I’m getting my delusions mixed up.

True story:  I went to the supermarket a few weeks back, strolled into the produce section to see what looked fresh, and there they were, glistening…and waiting for me.   Beautiful, big grapefruits, firm but heavy with juice.   I hungrily loaded six of those beauties into my basket.  I was smitten.

Now, people who know me might have read the above paragraph and thought one of three things: 

  •   I wasn’t really looking at grapefruits, but rather some lovely, well-endowed shopper who chose to show some cleavage, or

  •   I was role-playing and it got a little out of hand  (sorry honey), or

  •   I mixed up my meds again.

I have weird friends. 

But no, they were real grapefruits, not lovely breasts, and the only way I’d be role-playing in a supermarket would be…..wait, I do that all the time.  (Remind me to tell you the story about Helga the milkmaid some day).  As for the meds?  I’ll take the 5th on that one.

So I finished my shopping and took my plump, tantalizing pink, firm, juicy grapefruits (focus people. I’m talking fruit here, really) home.  Since that first trip, I’ve returned three times for more grapefruit.  

Cravings are funny things.   Rumor has it that every woman gets some kind of craving when she’s pregnant.  For Lucy, it was pickles and ice cream.  For me, it was Pepsi. I was only 19 during my first pregnancy, and remember walking a mile and a half to the store every day for my 16 ounce bottle of ice cold Pepsi.  Yes, it may have been easier to bring a case home and refrigerate it, but I was into exercise back then.  The walking must have been part of the craving.  During my second pregnancy, nine years later, I drove to the store for my Pepsi when I had depleted my refrigerated stock.  I was older.  And I had a really nice car. 

**Sidebar:  Now you know how I found my hips.  And cellulite. And cankles.

Pregnancy isn’t the only trigger for cravings.  There’s stress, depression, loneliness, a good pot high.  Just normal everyday life.  My cravings have progressed with age.  In my 30s I had cravings for Mexican food, Tangueray & Tonic, and redheads.  In my 40s, it was BBQ, margaritas and….still redheads.  Now in my 50s, my cravings have included (but not limited to) wines, seafood and sour things (hence the grapefruit).  And the redheads?  I’m not so picky anymore.  Jennifer Lopez could be bald and I’d still want to (insert naughty fantasy here) with her.  What?

I’ve never been known for my ability to say No.  This is no surprise to anyone.  I can’t ‘Just Say No’.  I’m way too curious for that.  And weak.  And, as Aerosmith sings, “I don’t wanna to miss a thing.”

So I’ll just give in to my cravings.  As long as they’re legal or I can at least claim them for medicinal purposes.   Rock on.

I think it’s time for some grapefruit.  


Images from Google Images

Go Terrri! It's your birthday!


Tomorrow is my 58th birthday.   While it’s not a ‘stop the presses’ and ‘film at eleven’ monumental occasion, it is important to me.  I have always loved birthdays and I’m happily not one of those women who stop having birthdays past 39.  I don’t mourn my younger days and what once was.   I will save such somber emotions for more pertinent, appropriate and hopefully far-off times.

I celebrate birthdays, and yes, even my own.  I have had the pleasure and privilege of being me for 58 years and I am truly thankful and grateful for the opportunity.  So what’s not to celebrate?   Bring out the good wine!   I’ll have the red, room temperature, thank you very much.  Now, let’s all drink to my birthday, shall we?   Cheers!

I remember when I was in my 30s and I visited my Dad in Georgia.  He was shuffling a deck of cards and I remember looking at his hands, swollen with arthritis, and thinking, “Are my hands going to be like that when I’m in my 50s?”   At that time, being 50 something seemed so far away and so old to me.  I didn’t really want to think about it much, so I really tried not to.    I wonder now if my sons look at me and feel the same way I did back then.  No, my hands are not like my Dad’s, but my arthritic back certainly shows my age at times. 

I guess if I could relate anything of importance to my sons, regarding my life and my age, it would be that I am still here.  I’m in here, inside this older body, and behind this more aged face and tell-tale gray hair. I’m here.  And I’m the same intelligent, passionate, caring, vibrant and fun-loving person I have always been.   And when you are my age, my sons, you will understand how this is possible.

The best thing about being me and about being 58 is that, even though I may not be the huge success at life I’d always envisioned, I do know myself and I accept myself along with my excess baggage and flaws.  If I would have known myself this well back in my 30s, I may have been a lot more successful at life.  Or maybe not.  Either way, I’m ok with it.  And how can that be?  How can I be ok with my life as imperfect as it appears to be right now?

I am ok with my life because I know  that I am the only one who can change it, make it better or worse, make a difference or not, and/or waste it or make something of it.  It’s up to me to define my present and redefine my future. 

So what now?

So many possibilities!  I’m excited for the future, not in dread of the years flying by.  My life’s experiences, good and bad, have prepared me with the wit, wisdom, courage and determination I need to cushion the blows that may come my way in my future journey.   Those priceless gifts only enhance any man-made skill sets I’ve managed to pick up along the way, thus further strengthening my will and ability to continue through this amazing, incredible life!

So, raise your glasses and drink to me and my 58 years.  I shall raise mine and drink, as well, to my life and to all of you, my friends and family. 

Because, without you, my wine or my journey would not be as sweet.

A fine predicament of my own donut design

Lately, I have been on a health-kick.  I’ve been walking every morning and doing some stretches before and after.  Mind you, I haven’t been on an exercise regime for more than two weeks at a time for a long while, so I’m not exactly buff.  Fluff would be a more accurate description.  The ‘fluff’ hangs around me like a bad cold or a nosy neighbor.   Just hanging there.  Fluffy. Droopy.  Doesn’t fluffy sound better than fat?  Still.  It’s fat.

And it’s in my way.

By in my way, I mean it all gathers up front when I bend over to try and tie my shoes, and then I have to stretch extra hard and extra far.  This results in an inevitable stomach cramp, forcing me to stumble over to the bed and stretch out until it subsides.   Or until I wake up from my nap, whichever comes first.  And conversely, all my fat meanders around back when I try to sit down on a bench or chair that is low to the ground, making my knees buckle.  Sometimes it’s a hard landing.  Quite frankly, I’m a bit worried about my La-Z-Boy recliner.

So that’s why the health-kick.

I’m tired of wearing flip-flops so I don’t have to tie my shoes.  I’m tired of spilling my coffee because I can’t sit down gently.   I want to recline with ease and grace, complimenting my ladylike demeanor and my delicate sweetness.   What?   I’m serious.  Shut up.

I want my girlish figure back.   I’ll settle for a boyish figure.  Right now my figure is more rhinoishtic.  Or hippopottomish.  Take your pick.


I exercise.  Badly.  And with little or no finesse.  Case in point.  This morning, I got down on the floor to do my stretches, leg lifts, sit-ups, nap and pushups.   When I finished up three minutes later I was exhausted, so I slithered over to the couch in order to have something to hold on to while I got up.   Using my strong, muscular fluffy droopy arms for leverage, I held on to the couch and got up on both knees.  So far so good.   After that, I raised one leg to the stand up position and immediately had to rethink my situation.

Both my legs had sharp pain kinks in them, forcing me back to my knees.    While thinking , "Wow, being on my knees sure isn't as much fun as it used to be!“ and then thinking, "Lordy, why do I keep eating those fucking donuts?  Just shoot me now”,  I got this stellar idea.  I would just grab the couch with both hands and stand up, pain be damned!   And it was!   Or, rather I was.  Damned, that is.

Bad decision.

Screams ensued. Big gnarly cramps. Both legs. Me on my knees leaning on the couch.  No way out.  There I was, with thoughts running through my head of having to walk on my knees for the rest of my life.  Or even worse, having Joan walk in and have to help me up.  She’s already had the pleasure of pulling up my drawers when my back went out the other day.  She didn’t need to see me praying to the couch pillows.   At that point, I had already confessed all my past discretions and pillow-abuse sins and was starting to account for my doily fetish.

No, she could not catch me in that position.  I had to get out of there.

Finally, a light-bulb went on somewhere in my brain and I decided to massage my legs to try and get the kinks out.  That seemed to work pretty well and after a couple minutes, I was able to pull myself up far enough to sit down on the couch.

Whew!    Saved by my magic fingers.   I always told Joan I had magic fingers, but she ignored me.  Magic fingers are good for lots of things, you know.   Her loss.

So, that’s how I got myself into a fine predicament of my own donut design.

What did we learn from this excruciatingly long story?

If you’re overweight and out of shape, don’t get down on the floor unless you’re diving for donuts.  Don’t bother with the exercises, either.  Just have your masseuse on speed dial.