Inquiring mind wants to know...

Would any of you date a young lady with a prominent tattoo that says "Daddy's Girl"?

Personally, I find it a bit creepy.

Seen at the Spa

Written on the whiteboard by a recently-delivered-of-her-first-child colleague:

That's not my breast milk in the fridge!

I loled.

The biggest joke?

The posted 25 mph speed limit in the big Revere rotary/roundabout/traffic circle (take your pick).

AWKWARD

A couple weeks ago on a Tuesday I did a trade with my friend A., with whom I work at the spa, and received a FANTASTIC massage. I strolled into work on Wednesday night feeling like a million bucks and greeted the usual gang. A. was there, and I immediately thanked her for the wonderful massage and mentioned that I had even posted her awesomeness on the facebookenings.

Meanwhile, as I continued my effusiveness, I observed A.'s face becoming more and more, well STUFFED looking. You might even say "constipated". My babbling trickled to a halt as I realized I must have stepped in it somehow. (Not an uncommon occurrence in my lifetime, trust me!)

I quickly changed the subject and a short while later A. escorted me out the back where we could have a conversation not likely to be overheard.
It turns out that A. had been asked by L. to do a trade on Tuesday, too. But A. had put her off, telling her "[she had] something to do on Tuesday."

Yeah, that would be trading massages with moi!

And of course when I first entered the break room and started blathering about the epic massage I had received and how AWESOME A. was, L. was standing right behind me and heard everything.

I realize that I really didn't do anything wrong since A. hadn't apprised me of the situation, but I was still mighty embarrassed.

Oh, well. Awkward is my middle name.

All Zumba Classes are not Created Equal

*WARNING* incredibly boring blogpost ahead, consider yourselves warned!

 So, I've been pretty proud of myself for heading to the local Y every Sunday morning for the past six weeks or so for a most excellent Zumba class. Doing the same thing over and over again at the gym gets really old, really fast, so I decided recently to mix things up a bit, taking yoga, Zumba, and a brutal weight-lifting class. I've always considered myself a fairly decent dancer (oh, hell...who am I kidding, *I* think I ROCK!), and I took ballet as a child and ballroom dancing classes as a teenager.

C., our Sunday morning instructor, is always cheerful and full of energy, and her class is always packed. I believe we've had up to 30 participants, which makes for a very crowded room. It's a fantastic over-all workout and I feel I'm getting my money's worth. So far I've stuck to the back of the class, but I think I've got most of the routines down well enough now that I could move up a row or so this coming Sunday.

Yesterday I was idly perusing the class schedule at the Y, and lo and behold: A Friday morning Zumba class! Perfect, I thought. I always drag my feet going to the gym, but if I know a class is scheduled, I make more of an effort to get my butt in gear.

Dear God, I should have known better.

My first clue should have been the relatively small size of the class, only ten or so people. My second clue should have been the lack of, well, people of a certain age, shall we say. Third would be that three of the participants were male. Further indications of the hell to come would have been obvious to a toddler, such as the minuscule, artfully torn, midriff-bearing, brightly colored, "ZUMBA"-emblazoned outfits most of the others were wearing. Not to mention the tanned, toned,
pumped, and buff bodies encased by said outfits. Did I mention the six-packs on display? No, I'm not talking about beer, more's the pity!

Speaking of pity... pity me, dear Readers!

The instructor, H., was friendly and up-beat, and she started the class at a high intensity. Then she turned it up to ELEVEN. I tried my best to keep up, and focused on the footwork, mostly eschewing the hands/arms.

You know, I've always thought that I could swing my hips and shake my ass with the best of them, but I was WRONG WRONG WRONG. I never knew that Zumba required twerking skills! (Look it up, Folks. My children enlightened me. *shudder*)

I was panting and sweating buckets within minutes, keeping my gaze glued to the instructors feet and her gyrating ass, totally acceptable behavior in Zumba class, I might add.

Every once in a while, I would catch a glimpse of a doughy, whiter-than-white, stiff and totally awkward middle-aged chick in the mirror, then I'd realize: Oh, yeah. That's me. Fuck.

But you know what? Even though I wanted to quit half-way through, I stuck it out to the end, mentally composing this blogpost as a coping mechanism, to distance myself from the torture. I also eventually realized that several of the folks who were madly gyrating along with H. were actually Zumba instructors themselves, which made me feel a bit better about my lack of coordination and grace. Not to mention my lack of booty-shaking skillz.

And you know something else? I'll be back there next Friday at 9:00. I can't possibly get any worse, so that means I can only get better!

GO, ME!

Quote of the Day from my Youngest (by 21 endless, pain-filled minutes) Daughter

Said in a sepulchral tone of deepest melancholy, while contemplating her black-on-black sneakers as we're driving to weight-lifting class:

My shoes are a reflection of my soul...

I larfed. 

Who edits these things?

I just received my mental health nursing clinical placement form, which I need to fill out and return to my school as soon as possible.

Here are the errors I found on the form:
fACULTY (minor, I know, but I'm nitpicky ;).)
DISPBUSMENT (I have no idea what this is supposed to be, disbursement maybe? Is it an acronym?)
A run-on sentence:
The following information is required in order to submit your fingerprints which will be taken by human resources as part of processing your appointment or in connection with the reinvestigation required due to the risk level associate (sic) with your position.
FOLLWINTG (following)
WIEGHT (weight)

I dunno, maybe I'm being too harsh. But this IS an official form and the errors (which not only display an underlying laziness and lack of concern, but could also easily be corrected) piss me off.

Somebody is not doing his/her job. Yet getting paid for it.

Fuckers.

Context is EVERYTHING.

File this one under "Things I Never Expected to Hear my Doctor Say to Me.":

"Good thing you don't sleep naked."

Interesting day at work.

Not only was I called The Human Rolling-pin (a good thing, trust me), but I was subjected to (too) much conversation on the brilliance of a client's child. Yeah, the mom told me how much her daughter's "photogenic memory" helped her in school. I had to bite my tongue and just nodded my head and murmured assent. Hey, I need the tip money!

Karma is a bitch!

Just ask the motorcyclist who almost ran over me and my dogs yesterday.

My pups and I were finishing our morning constitutional and were waiting for a break in the typical morning rush hour traffic to cross the busy, two-lane street in front of our house. Nicely enough, a local cop in his patrol car stopped to let us cross. Harley, Tucker, and I hustled across the oncoming traffic lane, then passed in front of the cop car and were about to make it onto the sidewalk when we had to come to a screeching halt because an impatient motorcyclist on his crotch-rocket decided that he didn't need to wait in the line of cars. Nope, he thought it was a good idea to go speeding alongside the stopped vehicles. Places to go, people to see. And apparently run over, too. Have I mentioned there's no shoulder on this road? Luckily he was able to stop in time, but not before scaring the shit out of me and my dogs and pissing me right the fuck off. Tucker even pulled out of his collar and was loose in the street.

After hurling choice invective at the helmeted bonehead, I was focused on getting Tucker leashed and all three of us off of the road. The nice police officer had a different priority, though. After courteously waiting until my dogs and I were safe, he turned on his pretty lights and siren and disabused the motorcyclist of his notion that he could continue on his merry way unscathed. They were still there fifteen minutes later when I was putting the trash by the curb.

That put a smile on my face and a song in my heart. I hope they threw the book at him.

Ah, Karma...sometimes you're on my side.

Generally...

...whenever a foreign-born (male!) client answers my question of "Have you ever had a massage before?" with "Well, not a massage like this...back home, massage is TOTALLY different," I have my suspicions on how the session is going to go. And I'm (unfortunately) usually right.

*sigh*

And to add insult to injury, he didn't tip me.

I'll have to have the front desk add a note to his file: If client calls to schedule another massage, refer him to Soong's Pleasure Palace down the road.

Overheard in the Car...

Tally: OMG,  this song is unicorn herpes!

Me: *blink blink* Whut?

Tally: You know? It's all *magical* and it never leaves you! You get it totally stuck in your head.

Me: Back in MY day, we called that an "earworm"...

Jenga Madness!

Believe it or not, I managed to reach my advanced age without ever playing the game Jenga. My daughters were quick to try to exploit my inexperience...to their detriment, as I proceeded to build to VICTORY and trounce them. Heheheheheh.

Here's a pic of one of Chaos' and my towers, it is an epic construction which proceeded to tumble mere seconds after this shot was taken.

I think it's pretty impressive!

Fun visit!

Yesterday, Rivendell was graced by the presence of Wally and the lovely A.!

Much delicious food was consumed, many fun discussions were had, and we got the dock put together and installed. (Wally, Sci-Fi, and various progeny literally took the plunge and did the lake end of things...I was more than willing to tote that barge and lift that bale, as long as I didn't have to get into the lake. BRRRRRR....)

It's nice to spend time with good friends, and we'll have to do it again REALLY SOON. Because fun. And because BACON AND BURGERS. :D

The Blue Zephyr...

...is a snazzy car to someone who drove a bare-bones, manual transmission car for almost a decade. It's automatic and it even has CRUISE CONTROL.

The only problem is, when you've worked hard all day and then have a three-hour drive in the rain, cruise control combined with the mesmerizing shush-shush of the windshield wipers, the cars in front of you throwing up clouds of mist, the hum of the tires on the wet pavement,  and the sameness of the countryside all lead to an increasingly rapidly approaching stupor.

Not really a safe situation.

Thank heavens for TallyAngel's conversation, my dog Harley's frantic attempts to get to the front of the car where the trash bag with the WENDY'S DETRITUS was located (yes, I'm positive in his teeny-tiny brain it was ALL IN CAPS), and caffeine.

We arrived safely in Rivendell, albeit a little damp around the edges, and now we're going to rest for a few days. Well deserved after the semester from hell.

While I'm sitting on my butt, surfing the 'net, reading trashy novels (and some not-so-trashy), and playing board games with most of my family, I will take more than one moment to reflect on those who gave their lives so that I can sit here in comfort, taking my ease.

Thank you so much for your sacrifice, I will never forget.

Beyond pissed.

Well, ONE FUCKING POINT destroyed my GPA. My 9-credit Adult Health class only had points from the four exams we took, even the final was only worth 25% of the grade. I got, respectively, 96, 86, 94, and 96 on the exams. All the papers I had to write for my clinical (which has the same professor) were worth nothing. I don't know why she bothered even grading them and assigning points. I don't know why I even bothered working so hard on them and why I stressed so much. If I had gotten ONE MORE QUESTION correct, on any of the exams, my overall score would have been 94. Instead, the average is 93. Which, of course, is an A-. Since it is a 9-credit class, this A- torpedoed my 4.0, and now I have a 3.927. I know, I know..."first world problem", right?

Whatever, all I know is that I don't know why I try so hard, and now there's no point anymore. Who cares?

_______________________________________________________________________________
Yes, I know the math is not quite right. The first three exams were 50 questions, two points each. The final was 100 questions, one point each. ARGH.

Bay-bee-sitt-er? What's that?

Yesterday afternoon, a lady scheduled for a massage arrived right on time.

Yay.

Unfortunately, she arrived with her two daughters, aged somewhere between eight and ten. Even more unfortunately, the two people working the reception desk were young, easily intimidated (read "steamrollered"), and didn't say anything until the client had already been taken back by the therapist for her session. Then, and only then, they called one of our managers to bitch about it "not being [their] job" to babysit.

No shit, Sherlock! What's far more important is the LIABILITY issue. Not to mention the other guests getting services...they certainly didn't want to hear a bunch of giggling and trampling of little feet down the halls.

The manager said the only thing he could: it was too late to do anything about it.

I really hope they drove home to the lady after her massage that she couldn't bring her kids with her again.

Unless she brings them right into the room with her (relaxing!). Otherwise the precedent has been set, and she'll think it's a-okay to schlepp her crotch-fruit with her to the spa anytime.

She and her kids are just lucky that I missed the whole kerfluffle because I was in services the entire time.

Duct tape is my friend...

heheheheheheh

Will you look at that?

I've got ANOTHER friend who's just published a kick-ass, SF novel!

Peter, aka Bayou Renaissance Man, has always been one of my favorites blog-reads, and his move to fiction is a wonderful and welcome development.

So, go, buy, and read "Take the Star Road". I guarantee you won't be disappointed!

Quote of the Day

Overheard in the kitchen...

"It's either kill me or get me a milkshake."

Saturday Haiku (Shades of Scarlett O'Hara)

My pets need their shots
waiting in line at Petco
estimate: one hour

An old yellow lab
shits aisle-blocking poo-puddle
sudden change of plans!

Tomorrow I'll try,
poosplosion-fate-temptation,
a different Petco!