Blogging Oddity?

Well, since I am the princess of all that is efficient and organized in the world and all the items in my day timer have been completed (meaning: all tv shows are repeats), I got this great idea to find other cool Blogs out there in the cyber world. Well it was like I slipped into some kind of bizarre reality world that shocked me. No it was not what you expect. It wasn't all dirty and nasty as I scrolled though blog after blog. It was riddled with people posting pictures of their kids and every SINGLE damn thing their kids do! Right down to what they ate that day, potty pictures etc. Um have you people not heard of those bad people who surf the internet? Ugggg. Watch Dateline or 20/20 once in a while ladies. I'm even leery of posting pictures of my cats on the internet just in case some crazy cat-o-phile hunts me down and steals my furry entertainment! Well, after scrolling through blog after blog of people posting their "family" stuff I suddenly realized that the second favourite blog topic is infertility. Talk about ironic. One half of the population posts their pain and suffering about not being able to conceive and the other half rubs their noses in it by posting a second by second picturelog of their kids every move. Yikes. I have to tell you honestly that there seems to be a whack of those short people who think they know everything in the house I live in but they are really NOT that amusing. And definitely not amusing enough for me to want to follow them around, take pictures of everything they do and then spend time posting them on line with cute little stories about what said kid is doing in each picture. I have better things to do with my time. Like watch tv and write stories. Not only that, once they hit that age where they are all long limbed and bad hair they really lose their appeal. Could you imagine how thoroughly embarrassing it would be to have your mother post pictures of you during some of your firsts: Johnny's first chin hair, Johnny's first "oopps, that was supposed to just be gas", Johnny's first gushy zit. Ewww. I'm going back to good old Google searching up the people and shows I love: like Michael Buble (have I mentioned him already?) and the cast of Weeds, Rent a Goalie (Cake in particular), Rescue Me (gotta love ole Tommy Gavin) and all the other shows that fill up my daytimer and make it impossible for me to work out.

Pretty Toes The Bizarre Way

Recently a dear, sweet friend emailed me to tell me how exciting her Friday was turning out to be. She was way excited about winning a fabulous manicure package at a local spa on the radio! She listens to this particular radio station every morning and something took over her brain and she decided to call in during the morning shows Question of the Day. What was the question? What's the weirdest thing you have in your closet? Hmmmm. I thought to myself. What could it be? All kind of twisted, sinister things pop into my head. Guess what her winning answer was? Her mother's urn. Well. That's um weird I suppose (I currently have the un-urned remains of the old boys poppa in my china cabinet - is that weird too?) Well it really was not the funniest part of the story. You see my friends mom is alive and kicking (thank you very much!) Yup, her mother bought the urn, gave it to her dear daughter about 10 years ago and my pal has been moving the sucker around from new home to new home, from closet to closet for all these years (and most likely many more!) Sister, your mom brings organization to a whole new level, all be it a little creepy. That or the chick has some serious control issues and does not trust you to pick out the most fashionable urn. You know what? This story has inspired me! I have decided that the kid that pisses me off the most over the next ten years or so will receive my urn to pack around with them and keep until I kick it. Oh and I have a lot of crap to do before I walk the big walk, let me tell ya! (mostly think it will totally creep out any future wife that comes into the picture therefore effectively ruling out any buttbag with no sense of humour who decides to hook up with one of the "boys". Ha ha bitches!)

My friends day......awesome. Her mom's obsessive compulsiveness has spooked her for years, but all that urn packing and moving paid off. Her toes.....beautiful. Thanks mom!

(PS - Dude, you should have fought fire with fire and totally put flowers in that sucker and put it in the most prominent place in your house when mom came over. I betcha 10 years later the old bird would have said "Goodness, what a lovely vase!" Jokes on you mom.)

And A Running We Shall Go

Well, I did it. I finally convinced my running partner to hit the street, so to say. We went out yesterday for our first outside run in many months. Oh the feeling of the wind in my hair… scratch that – I wear a hat….. Oh the feeling of the blood rushing through my body…… oh, that was a near heart attack. Um. How about this (for those of you who think running is FUN) we hit the road like a couple of ladies running to the blue light during the famous “blue light special”. Outta the gates at top speed – think cheetah chasing prey. This insane, unconscious idea was mostly likely a combination of excitement to finally be outside running and because it was so freaking cold if we did not get a move on we most likely would have frozen to death (In reality it was me who was cold. I’m a sissy.) After about 15 minutes of running at top, turtle speed we both practically hyperventilated and had to walk it out for a minute. It took about 20 minutes in to realize that we probably messed up not pacing ourselves right from the start. Especially since we are both not in top racing form. Alas, we sucked it up and continued on, patiently waiting for the other one to call “mercy” (which does not happen often because my running partner is a great runner and I am stubborn). Finished strong (still standing) and went the hell home to warm up the appendages. As soon as the hot water hit my cold, beet red arms in the shower I again wondered what the hell is fun about running and why I put myself through this. After my litany of curse words and having to turn the water to frigid, I started to feel good. Finally, this is what it’s all about…..the finish feel good. There is nothing like it. Side note: about six hours later I took a couple painful steps down the stairs. As soon as the old boy heard me cry out all he said was: “you went running”. Ah, thanks for the reminder dude. That’s why I can’t get down the stairs. Better re-think the “half-marathon in 20 days” training if just getting down the stairs is like an Ironman event.

Would you like a donut with that?

Who hasn’t made a little location error every once and a while when going through a drive thru? You know: driving over the odd curb, bumping the car in front of you while getting your change, driving too far away from the window and having to get out of your car to hand over your money and get your order? Well, I have committed a brand new offence and I have no excuses. I was not up all night at the casino winning at blackjack. I was not at the pub telling people my opinion. Nope, nothing. Can’t even say I was tired. I actually pulled up to one of the extremely convenient garbage cans and tried to place my order! In my defense this particular Tim’s was littered with garbage cans (irony). It was like the yellow brick road of garbage cans…….. I got so exhausted from the mere act of cleaning out my car and taking advantage of every single garbage receptacle that by the time I ran out of junk in the car I certainly MUST have come to the little speaker that politely asks “pick your poison?” This would have just been a funny little story I kept to myself but alas there was a passenger and if I don’t start spilling the story soon you know its going to come out even worse for me. I’m pretty sure this trumps the time I drove past all the garbage cans AND the talky speaker thing right up to the pick-up window and tried to place my order. You should have seen the look I got from the chick behind the window! I thought she was going to call the National Guard right there on the spot. Seriously, do I look like i'm gonna rob the joint? (Although there have been times I have had a nearly homicidal need for coffee). I don’t know what came over me that time. Maybe because there was not a car in sight and I was so excited to be at the front of the line I freaked out and went right to the prize? I can’t really say but you can bet there was a little extra love in the cup of coffee I got that day.

The Bird Whisperer

This past weekend I was delegated the task of babysitting our neighbours two birds. Yup, birds. Although it would have been extremely amusing for me, our neighbours insist that the babysitting be done at their house, not mine. This might be due to the two cats. Not sure. Just the visual of the cats lying on top of the bird cages waiting for someone, anyone to open up the Kentucky Feathered Cage just kills me (does not amuse said neighbours. At all.)

I must admit to a small pathological fear of birds. Really, I don’t mind them as long as they don’t flap around and get in my hair or sit on my shoulder and try to peck my eyes out. Don’t even get me started on flying poop. Apart from the fear I have gotten used to and bonded with their Crazy Ass Woman Hater bird – Crackers. All other times I have babysat ole Crack Head I always feel bad for the darn thing being in the house all alone with no one to squawk at. This being said I always make a point of turning on the radio during the day and doing the “Pretty Bird” talk whenever I go do the food and water runs. Despite my efforts the bird always just hisses at me and will never come out of the cage (probably has nothing to do with the two pounds of cat hair hanging off me.) This Christmas, Crackers lobbied his family and pled his case for companionship. Dear family: “If you people keep going on hockey road trips and holidays and can’t take me with you I insist you bring in a friend. No, not a cat. They piss me off and seriously, they lick themselves. I would like another bird. Particularly one less beautiful than I. If you don’t get me someone to talk to I will promptly grab a stick, put a paper towel full of food at the end and leave. Vamoose. I’m going into the wild.” Cracky’s mom and dad promptly got him a friend. Great for Crackers. Bad for the babysitter. The new edition to the National Geographic scene looks exactly like Crackers! I can’t tell them apart. So on my first food and water run this weekend I open up the Alpha Bird’s cage first and low and behold the thing hops on my hand and walks up my arm to my shoulder. What? I don’t get it. This bird does not like women and certainly does not like me. It’s probably showing off for the new kid in town, Popcorn. So I do the water and food thing and then proceed to open Poppy’s cage to do the same and almost have a panic attack – what if they switch cages on me when I am not looking. Shit. Better put Cracky in the cage and then do Poppy. Good plan. Once I have foiled the Bird Babysitter Evasion Plan I do the food and water in the other cage. Strangest thing. Our friends told us Popcorn loves chicks and is super friendly. Not so much? Whats going on? Popcorn gives me the evil sidways look and won’t come out. I think my neigbours switched the birds on me and now I am concerned that I don’t know who is who. What if they come home and think I have messed up their pets? I spend the rest of the weekend suffering with a Bird Identification Crisis and call them both “pretty chicken” in the most sing-songy, pretty bird voice I can. Now that the neighbours have come home I am waiting for the phone to ring with “What the hell did you do to the birds?” What can I say? Would it have been to much to ask for you guys to get a bird of a different feather? Like BLUE.

Employer Wanted: Apply Within

So as I get on in age and as the economy turns (cool soap opera name: As The Economy Turns) I keep thinking that I am getting a bit to old to go out, resume in hand, peddling my better work qualities to prospective employers.  I think I am going to turn things around a little bit and be the interviewer, not the interviewee.  This is a first draft of the ad I will be placing to find my dream job.  If you have ever worked with me feel free to email particular quirks or a charming idiosyncrasy that I may have missed.
 
EMPLOYER WANTED:  Apply within.  Very tolerant employer with great sense of humor wanted for extremely hard worker with a teeny, tiny attitude issue.
 
Employer must be willing to provide more work than employee can possibly get done in a day in order to reduce boredom.  Employer must keep employee busy and mentally stimulated at all times.  If this condition is not met and employer lets guard down, paid napping and web shopping will ensue.  If workload dimishes enough, employer will be cited for misuse of employee time and said employee will leave.  Employee has better things to do (await delivery of above noted web shopping).
 
Employer must not require employee to conduct communication with other humans, of course unless they personally screen the humans for sense of humor and sarcasm tolerance, then communication will be considered.  As well, employer must be willing to take honesty. Brutal honesty.  If your outfit does not match, is flat out ugly, or really if you are breathing you open yourself up to honest critiquing, and it will be forthcoming.  Reverse criticism is acceptable and encouraged.
 
Employer must be willing to overlook employees obsessive compulsive level of attention to detail and be willing to have even a quick note or email proof read for grammar, punctuation and spelling (past and present tense will be reviewed as well).  That and if employee is given a beautiful, working IN box and you leave stuff on the chair, you open yourself up to a serious can of whooping.  Employee will take responsibility for any and all mistakes made but will not, under any circumstances, take the crap for someone else’s incompetence.
 
Employer must not, under any circumstances, expect employee to become buddies with the other employees or go shopping on lunch break.  Employee will be nice to the other employees - only if they do not present themselves in COW form, if that is the case, all bets are off.  This employee is there to work, not eat and socialize.  Coffee consumption completely different story and will be written into contract under Paid Mandatory Caffeine Break Article 2.2.
 
If you want to meet with employee you better be organized and your presentation of the information would best be kept in the most humorous way possible, again to reduce boredom.  I expect to be entertained.   My time is your money. 
 
Employer must expect voicemail to be used or take your own calls.  Babysitting is not a service employee offers.  If your phone answering expectations are different than this, hire Mrs. Wiggins.  If you don’t know who Mrs. Wiggins is, you are to young to be doing any hiring and get your ass back to the mailroom. 
 

Never, I mean NEVER, email under the influence!

As promised, I am delivering one of two embarrassing moments in my life (and my life seems to be riddled with them) that involve email. This happened a few years ago so I have dealt with the stupidity of the whole thing and it does not wake me up at night any more. Apparently my judgment is not the best after a couple of drinks.

We have friends (stop laughing, we do) whose son’s goal in life was to become a fireman (yes, I tried to talk him out of it, it didn’t work. His dream was bigger than my wisdom.) Over a few years this young man took every course you can possibly imagine and dedicated his entire life to getting his crazy ass into a firehall. He happened to stop in one night while his parents were celebrating something with us, I’m guessing we might have been toasting the fact that we all just woke up that morning (really, we are not getting any younger you know!). It was then the young fella explained the difficulties he was having applying for firedude positions. It seemed that although he was educated, fit and fabulous they would not consider him because of his youth. (Or yoootth if you are in New York).

Where does the embarrassing moment that you are all waiting for begin you ask? About now: I, in all my glory, (marg. a. rita.) went all Queen Injustice when I found out that one of the towns he was going to apply to was CHARGING people to just look at their credentials. What? You can’t be serious? He’s going to pay you to look at his application? I don’t think so! You should consider yourself lucky Junior sent his application to your horse riding, cow plopping, no mountain town in the first place! Well it was not enough for me to just go off about it, I took my salt rimmed attitude to the computer and promptly found the towns “mayor” and emailed him to let him know exactly what I thought of him making people pay for applying to work in his town. Oh it was not pretty. In the end I told him he was a criminal and he could not have our talented young lad and anyone who pays to apply for a job is just stupid and he deserves those type of people working for him anyway. Good luck when Town Hall catches on fire buddy! (I'm pretty sure I cc'd the Chief Fire Mucka Mucka too!) Oh did I feel better after that little ditty was done and I hit SEND. Of course until the next morning when I went into the SENT items (only after dredging up some memory of even being on the computer the night before!) and re-read the thing. Did you know that you not only slur your words when drunktalking you also slur your words when drunkwriting? Amazing phenomenon. (Every single time I even think that word I always sing the song from The Muppet Show – phenomenon, du du da da, phenomenon du da da da – please tell me a couple of you remember this?)

Future note: no matter how witty you think you are after a few drinks, it’s a delusion. That wonderful, warm feeling of superiority is false bravado. You seriously get dumber. Trust me. Therefore the rule stands: Never, and I really mean never, let me get near any kind of communication device when under the influence. I have already looked into purchasing a breathalyzer for my Blackberry.

Footnote to story: The young lad did get a position as a Fireman, in his own hometown. Apparently they know talent when they see it. And no, he did not take my advice to put “Have own pillow, will travel” on his resume.

New Year, New Attitude, New Running Shoes?

I am currently in the beginning stages of re-negotiation with my running partner (thinking about bribery). I’m the wild card in the commitment department so she doesn’t trust me anymore. I’m almost positive I am going to have to “prove” myself worthy before she will even consider training with me again. What seems like a hundred years ago the two of us went on a great adventure. The lazy runners ultimate challenge: the Marathon. I enjoyed almost all parts of this adventure. We got marathon training books out of the library (and read them), tried out new running gels and “sport beans”, we certainly did not restrict carbs in our diet in any way (yippee!), bought new, amazing running shoes and gear and we emailed and called each other about a million times a day whenever we discovered some new important marathon running tip. It was fun. Oh, except the three hour weekend runs and the training. THAT sucked. Oh, and the no alcohol thing. THAT sucked to. As it turned out we both got sick the week before the big race and did not have the experience we had been dreaming of. It did not help matters that an older gentleman (like 80 years old) was race walking beside me the entire time and at a certain point in the race he PASSED me and finished before me! Alas we did finish and managed to drag our worn out carcasses shopping within hours of finishing (although there was a number of times a shelf had hold me up and prevent me from passing out!) The post marathon shopping was a bigger accomplishment than the freaking race.

After that I think I ran twice. Then I quit cold turkey. I was so sick of running, drinking water and all the other things that went along with this self induced torture that I needed a break. Oh and a break I took. I tried running a few times over the last year or so. I even conned my running partner into training for a half marathon last year (which again involved travelling and shopping so I wonder where my heart was really?) That training ended for a number of reasons. I decided that a half marathon could be run in my sleep, even with the extra winter fat I was sporting so I went with the Weekend Warrior Training Schedule (read: only running once on the weekends, and that’s it). I mean heck, had I not run a full marathon not to long ago? I should still have some kind of running mo jo right? Um no. Ended up injuring myself and going to physiotherapy for my knee. Not one of my brighter ideas.

So here I am again thinking about dusting off the running shoes and getting back out on the street. Mostly because I hate all other forms of working out and something has to be done about the rolls and I am not talking dinner rolls. Jumping of any kind is stupid and hurts my head. I don’t mind yoga if I can tolerate the instructor and they don’t mind me laughing hysterically during the class every time they say “sit bones”. That and running is the only exercise for us uncoordinated people. Seriously, you should see me trying to catch a ball – think alligator arms.

There was a sign along the marathon route that I will never forget: “The pain of running this marathon is temporary. The pride is forever.” Oh really. Even if your talking up the "Marathon" at a party two years later, 20 pounds heavier and you get winded walking up 10 stairs? Do you still get to gloat? Really don’t you have to keep it up to still be considered a “runner”?

Progress notes to follow. Might wait until I move out of Cranky Town into Brought This On Yourself Burbs (its called out of denial and into self-realizing disappointment). What of it? My brain is still sharp(ish). That and I have at least worked out once in the last two weeks. That must count as effort. Right?

If I Ruled the World - Part Two

So it sucks being a chick. Period (no pun intended). This is the way it is going to be in my world (I can hear the clickety, clack of chick shoes running to my side now). In my world every chick will get one day a month to call in “Bloated”. Really, shouldn’t we have some benefit to putting up with all the woman stuff we have to deal with? We should have one day to keep our cranky asses at home, wear ugly sweats and nap. It’s like rejuvenation time for our psyche and really it benefits all. The other side of the story here is you need to keep your water retaining, swear word shooting, evil ass at home because I, who happily medicate for this affliction, do not want to be near you so please, do us all a favour and take a day off.

Those of you dealing with the unpredictable, crappy, uncontrolled heat wave time we like to call menopause, you get to call in “Pissed Off”. You deserve it. You have gone all this time dealing with the trials and tribulations of being a woman and now this! What the hell? What happened to that saying “All good things come to those who wait?” That’s the biggest load of crap ever. So you wait 50 years to be cramp free and as a consolation prize you get to be more pissed off about nothing than you ever were before and sweating like a contestant from the Biggest Loser? This certainly has to be considered an injustice.

Of course after menopause you would think I would demand that the women resume a full work week and start sucking it up. Well, not so much. I have been told that after menopause you gain this new found sense of self I call: “Don’t Give A Shit What You Think”. So once you can prove that your post-menopausal you officially get to call in “Don’t care, not coming in, so fire my ass”. (I understand these titles will be difficult for HR forms but we can minimize them to DGASWYT or calling in fu for short.)

Men – sorry dudes you get to pee outside wherever and apparently whenever you want. You don’t get any special concessions. We might cut you a bit of slack if you extend our birthdays to birthweeks and you leave us the hell alone and don’t even look at us for one week a month AND do the housework. Each case will be carefully reviewed on an annual basis, however there will be no guarantees your request will be granted. It will obviously depend on the week you submit your request.

Stalker Alert

Really? I’m all for stalking people that you admire and stuff but honestly, I checked out MySpace the other day and it seems like a breeding ground for crazy people. Who in their right mind would want chemically imbalanced people sending them messages all the time? It’s like a stalkers toy store. I even have difficulty with the whole Facebook invasion of privacy even though you can block the crap out of it. Is nothing sacred anymore? Remember back in the day when your average stalker would have to hide in the bushes or peep through the blinds in the window? Now they just sit in their jammies, eating pizza, stalker surfing in their own living room! What of it? Wait – does Michael Buble have a MySpace account? Be right back…

Like the New Colors or Colours, whatever your fancy.

Yup, you guessed it. Without alcohol and the tv show I would normally be singing along with this evening (stupid REPEATS), I decided to change the layout on my blog to include my favourite (or favorite) colour: red.

Why do Canadians always like to add more letters in their words than necessary? Come on people, its bad enough our kids have reduced sentences to three letter, do we need to keep adding u's in everything. I am a huge fan of the word: Check - like the thing that is a piece of paper with potential of having money attached to it AND a fancy little mark that means you did it right! While we are at it, lets get rid of apostrophies. They are meaningless and have always caused me some angst. (Probably should have taken my bookstore gift certificate and bought myself a fancy dictonary so I don't have to check Word to see if I spell a word right - apostrophy or is it apostrophe. I say, doesn't matter how you spell it, it's a stupid word. Oh, I guess I would then have to spell out does not and it is - crap.)

You might have noticed that I have TWO followers now. No, it is not a coincidence that I have TWO cats. I told you they don't have access to the internet. A dear, sweet friend heard my plea and immediately added herself as a follower. Martini to follow my dear - after the wagon crash (you did not think I would do this "clean up the liver challenge" forever did you?)

The Red Shoes

So you all know about the red purse and my lost love. I officially met the absolutely most amazing red shoes that are the exact perfect match for my friends purse. I even devised a plan to steal them. The plan of course failed, mostly due to my lack of surveillance. This is how it went.

We attended a New Years Party at a friends house and after the required amount of polite eye contact I proceeded to check out the outfit choices and more importantly the shoes people were wearing (purses were missing - probably dumped on some bed with the coats - poor things - come on ladies, your purse is supposed to be a statement not a necessity). You honestly can tell a lot about people by their shoe choices (psychological study and book to follow regarding shoe purchasing and personality traits). Well the viewing was slim, some people (myself included) de-shoed at the door, so it did not take long at all. Well I happen to see this chick across the room who exuded sophistication and class and low and behold she is wearing The Red Shoes! They are a sight to behold by shoe lovers everywhere. I slide in for a closer look. Ohhhh they are sooo nice: open toed, the exact colour of red, just high enough to be sexy but not slutty and they made her feet look like a size 5! Oh dear. I move to the inner circle and introduce myself to Dorothy from Oz and another pretty girl I will call You Look To Young to Have a Teenager (Yup, I realize I am out of my element here but hey, they did not tell me to go away. Although they may have wanted to?). We chat a bit and I happen to mention to Dorothy that I really love her shoes and "um, what size are your feet?". She politely tells me she is a size 8. I smile wickedly and while Dorothy is distracted I tell To Young that I was planning to finish my beer and hit Dorothy over the head with the empty bottle and would she mind clearing a path for me. "But why?" she asks all curious and stuff. I guess I thought she might just have been on the same page as me about the shoes (or at least drunk) so I tell her. "I'm going to knock her out with my beer bottle, tear off her shoes and get the hell out of here." She actually chuckles. Dorothy comes back into the circle of fun and To Young proceeds to tell her about my plan. Oh crap. I had better find my people and get the hell out before I get bitch slapped. I anxiously await at least a f u from Dorothy but alas she kills herself laughing and hugs me? What? Sister, did you not hear the part about me hitting you in the head and knocking you out? Dorothy says to me "Oh my goodness, you are the first person to openly plan to steal my shoes. Most people just ask for them." Huh, does that make me smarter then the other chicks? I don't know. Dorothy actually asks me what size shoe I wear and I say usually a 8 depending on water retention and how many cookies I have eaten that week (all the while I am wondering if she wants to give them to me, give them to me, give them to me.... saying it in my head over and over did NOT work). She looks down and says "Where are your shoes?" (I interject here because I am almost sure she grimaces when she looked down at my feet. Not only was I shoeless but I was wearing white running socks! Not a pretty sight! In my defence I thought everyone would be pretty pickled by the time we arrived at the party so I chose comfort over fabulous.) I tell Dorothy that my boots (a lie) were down stairs (they were DC runners) and that I thought we had to take them off at the door. (Another lie: last year I wore a brand new pair of brown boots I had just had shipped to me - to the same party!) This is where my shoe theft plan failed miserably and I was forced to learn another one of those life lessons: Whenever you are going to devise a devious plan, make sure you check every one out first before shooting your mouth off. It seems I was not patient enough in my planning stage to observe long enough. Too Young and Dorothy are BEST FRIENDS! To make matters worse, Dorothy bought the shoes LAST YEAR and I am positive they cannot be purchased any more! Maybe my New Years Resolution should be to be a more patient observer? Or Ask Questions Before Speaking? Do you think it would be obvious at this point if I found out where Dorothy lives and liberated those red shoes? Hmmm, maybe I will stalk her for a bit and make her become my new bff (hate that acronym but alas it cuts down on typing the actual words) and ask to borrow them and then leave town. Or maybe I should just wait till next New Years and ask her for the darn things. Hey, Fabulous Red Purse - Momma's coming to get you baby!

Welcome to Cranky Town..just the beginning...for now.

Just in case you were all wondering (and at least one of you did wonder, OUT LOUD) my ONE follower you see on the bottom right hand side IS NOT ME. I write this sarcasm, I don't need to follow it. That just happens to be my biggest fan and huge source of inspiration. No, it is not my cats. They can't type (however I think one of them can read).

Now that Cranky Town is coming my Rule the World posts may get a bit dark for some of you. You have been warned.

I promise to not try to eat my purse this time as a replacement for bread, heavenly bread.

Two Days In.....

All right. I apologize for the lack of entertainment and using you all as my silent cyber life coach but seriously, I think I broke out in a sweat today just thinking about the thought of not drinking AND not eating bad food AT THE SAME TIME! What the hell was I thinking? What happened to baby steps? I am not sure right now which evil I miss more: beer or carbs. Oh goodness... there are carbs in beer! Carbs are evil. Carbs=rolly, polly, olly. That is my mantra. Hummmmmm me rolly, polly, olly. I'm not even going to beg my running partner to come back to me until I can at least run 10 km without crying or stopping for a latte. Next stop: Cranky Town.