Step 13
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.
“Hi, Mir!!”
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.
read more…
The Stay-Puff Marshmallow Monkey
It’s November. It’s November in New England. It’s winter coat weather.
read more…
Just one more reason why I love her so
Despite Kira‘s staunch refusal to have a sex-change operation and marry me, I do love her like a soul-mate.
Behold but a sampling of the wisdom that issues forth from her on a regular basis:
“Where the heck are all the single Christians? I mean, do most people require the horrors of marriage to drive them into the arms of God?”
You can see why I am quite smitten.
Higher, too
It’s started already. People are falling under the spell of the new me with my fabulous new glasses. Fame and fortune are within my grasp; as is utter humiliation. To wit:
The scene is the church kitchen. Choir rehearsal has finished, and I am hiding in the kitchen sucking down a cup of coffee before it’s time to go upstairs for the service. I’m chatting with a fellow choir member. We are having a deeply spiritual conversation about the relative merits of various coffee makers.
Him: So yeah, it works pretty well, but it has one of those permanent filters, and so the coffee always tastes a little plasticy.
Me: Mmmm, plastic coffee!
Him: But you can use a regular paper filter, I guess. That would probably fix that problem.
Me: Uh huh. And how long have you been enjoying your plastic-flavored coffee?
The door swings open and the choir director sticks her head in. She looks around until she sees me, then points at me.
Her: Can you do an F?
Me: *blank stare*
Her: A high F. Can you hit a high F?
Me: Oh. Yeah, sure.
Her: Great! *she turns to leave*
Me: WAIT. Why?
Her: Will you be at rehearsal on Thursday?
Me: Yes…?
Her: Great! *she turns to leave*
Me: WHY??
Her: Yoooouuuu’ll see!
*The choir director leaves and I swear we can hear her cackling all the way up the stairs.*
Me: Ack…?
Him: I think you’ve just been the victim of a hit-n-run solo.
Me: Goody.
You see, I do not mind singing solos. Truth be known, I’m a bit of an attention monger (shocking, I know). We’ve started rehearsals for our Christmas concert and I usually get assigned something extra and so yes, fine, a solo, excellent. But there’s a big difference between “Can you hit a high F for maybe an eighth note duration amongst the entire choir of voices” and “Can you hit a high F for perhaps a very long time when yours is the only voice singing.”
Because, friends, I am an alto. Okay, fine. On the off chance that my voice teacher from high school is reading this: I’m technically a mezzo, which means my range falls inbetween an alto and a soprano. But in most standard choral arrangements, one is either an alto or a soprano.
For those of you who don’t sing, that means that I sing low. It means that while the chirpy ladies in the front row are singing melody just as perky as can be, I am in the second row singing some sort of low funky harmony filled with lots of sharps and flats and other weirdness, but no high Fs. I like it that way.
I’m ready to work up a new ad campaign for the makers of my frames. “Look smart, sexy, hip… and more like a soprano. Just see if you don’t.” I mean, it’s possible the choir director was just smoking crack or something, but I tend to think it was the glasses.
Please check back next Thursday for a full-fledged panic attack, depending on what I find out. Also, if you’d like to come to our Christmas concert this year? It’s on Sunday the eleventeenth of Pretendember. I hope you can all make it.
Spec-tacular
Hey, guess what! It is incredibly difficult to take a picture of oneself if one or more of the following conditions is true:
1) You’re a lousy photographer.
2) You have normal-length arms.
3) Your fancy camera has a big-ass zoom lens, thereby assuring that there is no way to get the lens a decent distance from your face.
4) Your fancy camera’s LCD display does not swivel so that it can be seen from the other side of the camera, and therefore half the pictures you take are either of the top of your head or your chin.
Who knew?
I promised a picture of the new specs, and I shall deliver. Too bad I can’t share a picture of my whole face, but, well, I never got one that didn’t feature freakily enlarged facial features on account of the above-mentioned issues. Not sharing those has nothing to do with my personal vanity, you understand. It’s just that I don’t want to detract from the beauty of my new glasses. That’s it.
Ahem.
Here they are!
What you can’t tell from this picture, because I suck, is that they are a deep plum purple. And the side pieces are all hammered and texture-y and nifty. Also, I am naked and sticking my tongue out. (Just kidding. I’m not naked.)
I can see clearly now
I think I forgot to mention that yesterday my new glasses finally arrived. I dragged the children out in 50 mile-per-hour gale force winds to pick them up, because I’m just that good of a mother.
Anyway, remember how these new glasses are going to make me look younger and thinner and sexier and blahdi blah blah? I’m not convinced. However, it’s amazing how–when one has adapted to seeing poorly–finally being able to see clearly is such a shock. I mean, I knew my old glasses were scratched and spotted, but what a difference to put on lenses I could actually see through! So that part was pretty good. Briefly.
read more…
Date night
I think maybe someday I’ll have an actual date that involves leaving the house, on the weekend, but maybe not until after I’m dead. Don’t ask me how that would work, logistically, because I have no idea. It made sense when I wrote it. Honest.
Anyway, after my snarky moment that produced the last post, I decided to share with everyone the Softer Side of Mir and give you a view into what has become my traditional Friday night. Uncut and uncensored! Wooooo!! Cover your children’s eyes cuz this is gonna be wiiiiiild!
read more…
Newsflash: it’s not anonymous!
So, hi, friends, and newcomers from Blog Explosion. You do all realize that when you rate blogs, it’s not anonymous, right? Because, um, I’m not gonna name any names, here, but some people who have me blogrolled have recently gone to Blog Explosion and given my little ol’ blog a lousy rating.
This leads me to believe one or more of the following:
1) You’re stupid.
2) You have lousy taste.
3) Someone held a gun to your head and forced you to blogroll me (and really, if that happens? please contact the news because I think such a story would be fascinating), and then you thought you were rating me anonymously and I wouldn’t know it was you.
4) You’re drunk.
I mean, hey. Whatever. It’s not a huge deal. But why blogroll me if you think I suck? I don’t get it. Of course, there are lots of things I don’t get. Like low-carb pasta. Or thinking that exercise is fun. Or decaffeinated coffee. Or refusing to enjoy movies that have subtitles. Or brazilian bikini waxes. The list goes on; this is just to show you that I’m fully aware that lots of things in the world puzzle me and I’ve made peace with this confusion. This particular thing, though? I think may be predicated on the notion of some sort of stealth and incognito-ness, and if that’s the case, I just wanted to let y’all know you’re mistaken.
And also busted. Thanks, by the way.
I’ve been frying my retinas; what’s her excuse?
I’ve decided to spruce up the pit a little. You know; if I’m gonna be spending most of my time down here, I may as well be comfortable. I’ve added imaginary flokati rugs and a groovy lava lamp, just because. On the non-fictitious side, I’ve finally dug out and dusted off my lightbox, and just spent my first half-hour of the season sitting in front of it.
Now I am blind. But! So much happier! Well, not really. After about a week of consistent use, I will stop wanting to sleep all the time, though. Which will, of course, give me more time to lay on the rug eating candy and admiring my imaginary lava lamp.
It’s good to have goals.
You may recall how thrilled I was to have a 100% successful round of eBay auctions. No dumb questions, and all of my buyers were lovely people who paid me on time. Naturally this gave me a false sense of hope and impelled me to tempt fate by posting up twice as many auctions the following week, and now I am paying for my foolish optimism. In each and every auction description the following line appears:
Shipping: I will ship this item within the U.S. only.
Confusing, yes? That’s why a nice lady emailed me yesterday to ask if I will “ship international.” I was very tempted to reply that I only ship internationally for those who meet my stringent grammar requirements, and thus I had to decline her request. Instead I was polite in my response, but a feeling of dread has come over me. The morons have found me again.
How long would I have to sit in the glow of the lightbox before I am either immune or just too blind to read my email?