Good news! I survived. I did half an hour on the elliptical trainer, then collapsed onto the floor weeping stretched out for a while. While my hindquarters are still markedly jiggly, I'm feeling the burn, baby. Unfortunately, Mary only placed second in the Minnesota-wide mathematics competition, and Laura's bundt cake fell apart. It was touch and go there, for a bit. In the end it was okay, though; the town welcomed Mary back with open arms and some dude in a tophat declaring in a thick Scandinavian accent, "Tank you, Mary Ingalls, for putting Walnut Grove on da map!", and Pa said the cake...
I will exercise until my ass and thighs no longer jiggle like a bowlful of jelly when I walk, or until I get tired and need to lie down. Please stay by your phones. I am headed upstairs to remove my wardrobe from the elliptical trainer, watch reruns of "Little House on the Prairie" on the Hallmark Channel (they're actually great for exercising; it's hard to wimp out while watching a little girl rescue her entire family from a flood or build a house out of logs ya know), and ride like the wind to... nowhere. If I'm not back in an hour, please call 911. And send coffee.
My name is Mir, and I'm a sugarholic. Today marks the first day of the rest of my life (at least until the Christmas season is fully upon us and it becomes my civic duty to eat a lot of sweets again). I plan to take it one day at a time, working my way through all twelve steps of recovery. But I'm really gifted, you know, so I've made it most of the way through the program already. Step 1: I admit that I am powerless over sugar, and my life has become unmanageable. Today I marched my fanny down to the grocery store determined to pick up the fixings for a healthful, protein-rich dinner. Pork...
I'm working on my positive thinking. My new glasses are still not ready. Laundry is threatening to take over my home. One child started to disrobe at the Dollar Store this afternoon, and the other one has started saying, "Whatever!" in response to anything I say that doesn't reinforce her need to be Queen of the Universe. Despite my fervent prayers for the six tons of leaves in my yard to perhaps just blow elsewhere, the task of yard clean-up is still waiting for me to get a grip and grab a rake, already. BUT. Our neighbor met me at the bus stop this afternoon, bulging bags in hand. She was...
There was a commercial break in the baseball game, just now, so I went into my bathroom to take my nightly meds. I picked up my cup and turned on the water. Then I noticed the cup was wet. I have no recollection of using that cup today, save for when I brushed my teeth this morning. But the cup is wet. Which probably means I already took my pills. More specifically, it most likely means I just took my pills within the last hour or two. No recollection. So. Which is the more logical course of action? Assume that I am old and senile, already took them, and miss a night if I'm wrong? Or wonder...
Well, technically, Dr. Atkins is dead. But I figure that I lay claim to making baby Jesus weep so often, and so many regard Atkins as a man of similar stature, and--oh, look, I just made them both cry--anyway, if he was alive, or if he can cry from beyond the grave, I single-handedly devastated Dr. Atkins today. Also? I keep typing Arkins. Is there a Dr. Arkins? A vet, perhaps? Oh dear lord, I am babbling. Which is, as we all know, a common side effect of Carbohydrate Poisoning. There is one of those humorous lists that circulates the internet which includes the item: "I hate it when some...
As I'm sure you're aware, unless you live under a rock or something, there's a huge shortage of flu vaccine this year. I don't really understand the particulars, on account of I didn't pay any attention. What I heard was "vaccine shortage" and from there my neurotic Mama mind spun into overdrive. The details are unimportant. What is critical is this: if I have to live through another Year Of The Flu, I cannot be held responsible for my actions. Three years ago, we all got the flu. But not at the same time! No! Because that would've been manageable. No, that would've been a picnic. Chickadee...
Well, are you? I bet you are. No, really. I mean, it's so clear. Anyone who's anyone is pondering it right this very minute. See? That's right. What I'm thinking... what you're thinking... is that it's high time to take control of the masses through the reckless use of pseudoephedrine hydrochloride. Doesn't it give you a little shiver of delight, when we're in synch like that? Oh, baby. Yeah. Actually, I had some assistance in arriving at my master plan. This morning, all I had on my mind when I woke up was getting Chickadee ready for her class pictures. That was Plan Numero Uno for the day,...
I love prednisone, yes, I really really do, because my leg, it very nearly looks like a leg, today. It doesn't even itch. See? Here I am, not scratching! Hurray! But, oh how I hate the prednisone. Hate hate HATE. The prednisone? It is opposed to sleeping. The prednisone says, let's stay awake a really long time so we can fully enjoy the mess we've made of your already precariously balanced emotions. Why waste this time sleeping, says the prednisone! There are things to regret! Things to worry about! Countless opportunities for feeling inadequate! Sleep is for people who like themselves! And...
