Can you get rabies from that?

Let’s talk about people who love to exercise and what mental illnesses they might have.

Just off the top of my head, I can come up with sadism; in the case of personal trainers, masochism; body dysmorphic disorder; and dissociative identity disorder where one of the personalities has body dysmorphic disorder.

I hate to exercise.  I try to make myself love it, but every second I spend exercising is excruciating and I only do it because my body is shaped like a Swiss Cake Roll, courtesy of a diet of Swiss Cake Rolls.  I kind of want a Swiss Cake Roll right now.

I’m assuming that people who say they love to exercise really just mean they love how they feel after they exercise or love the way exercise makes them look.  Or in my case, love how it justifies eating Swiss Cake Rolls.  And wine.

Since the new year I’ve been going to the gym and running/walking on the treadmill.  Three miles.  I know, I’m awesome.  Don’t be jealous.  Green isn’t a pretty color on you.

Anyway, I figure I’ll be able to run a marathon in a couple weeks if I want to.  I wouldn’t actually run a marathon, though, because did you know perfectly healthy, athletic people run those things and then drop dead?  Like out of every 1,000 people that run a marathon, 750 people die.  That statistic might be a little wrong.  I’m too lazy to Google it.

So unless you think you’re good enough to win the marathon, and assuming they have some amazing prizes, I just don’t think the risk is worth it.  You can give me a lecture about having a sense of accomplishment, knowing you’ve done something few people do and setting a goal and achieving it, blah blah blah.  I don’t set goals other than early morning sobriety, and I do nothing just for a sense of accomplishment.  If I’m not getting a prize at the end, I’m not doing it.

Anyway, after several weeks of this impressive increase in my general physical fitness, I kind of figured I was in awesome shape. So yesterday, because The Beast is recovering from a cough and I didn’t want to put him in child care at the gym, I decided to just stick him in the stroller and run around the neighborhood.

I learned some things on my run-like activity yesterday:

1.  I’m not so much in excellent physical condition as I am a walking advertisement for a daily aspirin regimen.  (I’m a walking advertisement for many things.  All bad.)

2.  If your stroller has very deflated tires and you’re both too lazy and too impatient to find the air pump and instead decide to push a 35 pound toddler around the neighborhood in said stroller, it will actually feel like you’re simultaneously sitting in the stroller and attempting to push yourself in it.  You will regret not finding the air pump.

3.  If you have an app on your iPhone that tracks your distance, calories burned, pace, etc., and if you tell said app that you want to do the interval program where it’s supposed to let you know in a sexy computer-generated voice when it’s time to increase or decrease your speed, it will monitor your speed via the GPS and will get bitchy with you and give you the silent treatment if you start half-assing it by going so slowly that you could be passed by a peg-legged pirate who instead of wood has breadstick pegs.

4.  If it begins to feel like you are no longer pushing a toddler in a stroller and instead are pushing a dead cow in a wagon without wheels, you will shove the stroller down all the hills so that you can rest your arms for a bit.  And then you will run like a demon to catch up with the stroller so that your toddler doesn’t hit a curb.  Note to self: The Beast needs to wear a helmet on future runs.

5.  If you run by someone who happens to be out in their yard, you will pick up your pace and pretend like you’re not dying even though you feel like vomiting up every organ in your body and possibly even things that couldn’t actually be vomited up, like your spine and your femur and your pubic bone and things that are really strongly attached to your innards.

6.  And lastly, when you run by an undeveloped wooded lot where you’ve previously seen a dead animal, you will move over to the other side of the street so that you don’t breathe in the dead animal’s rabies dust.

Just me, huh?  Maybe I do need to be medicated.

Just for you, a picture of me running.

Hand-drawn rendering of my run. Artist's medium: Number 2 pencil on four Post-Its


A Post-ette, not to be confused with a Post-It.

Although, if this blog were written on paper, a Post-It would be an appropriate medium for the following note:

You all are stressing me out!  My little blog went from having two hits a day to suddenly having eleventy-googol hits.  (I had to Google “googol” in order to spell it correctly, and you’ll find that eleventy is my favorite number.)  All because my sister tweeted it.

That’s a lot of pressure for somebody who’s already prone to anxiety.  And if you come back here looking for humor, I’m worried you’ll be very disappointed.  I’ve been told I’m very dull and humorless, like the commenter on my previous post who informed me she has nothing bad to say about the Pioneer Woman and certainly has nothing bad to say about the Pioneer Woman’s dog, which she also let me know is a Basset Hound, not a beagle.

Talk about missing the point.  Next time I’ll highlight it for her.  (I should mention, if it isn’t obvious, that I can be kind of snarky.)

Oh, and you should also know that you’re welcome to disagree with me on anything I write, but if you post a comment, there’s a possibility I’ll make fun of you for it.  (See previous paragraph.)

But I like for things to be very reciprocal, so feel free to make fun of me, too.

I have a disproportionately large head.  You should start with that.

A hand-drawn rendering of my giant head. Ironically, on a Post-It.

I should also mention that I’m an artist.

The Pioneer Woman Can Suck It.

I recently found myself perusing the Pioneer Woman’s web site, and I kind of hate her.

I don’t hate her in a truly sinful way, you know where I sit around and plan her demise and imagine her spontaneously combusting just as she’s about to take a photo of her stupid dog.  What is that?  A beagle?  I don’t know my dog breeds.

I hate the way she makes me feel utterly inadequate as both a wife and mother, because while she’s able to run this empire of blogging, cook book writing, actual cooking, homeschooling, cowboy lusting, cattle ranching and photography, I’m a walking advertisement for The People of Walmart web site.  That’s how gross I am.

Anyway, I hate her.  And while I realize that all of these issues are bred out of jealousy and my own feelings of inadequacy, I’m, nevertheless, going to list the things about her that drive me nuts.  If you love her, don’t read this post.

1.  Her dog: She loves her dog.  I hate my dog.  This time it is in a sinful way that makes me imagine my dog spontaneously combusting.  I realize I’m evil for hating one of God’s creatures.  My dog is stuck in a perpetual cycle of bark.  Go outside.  Bark.  Come back inside.  Bark.  Go to my bathroom to eat.  Bark.  Come out of the bathroom.  Dry heave.  Bark.  Go back outside.  Vomit up something she ate three days ago.  Bark.  Come back inside.  Bark.  Go back to the bathroom to eat again.   (The Beast likes to play in the dog food so we have to lock it in our bathroom which requires me to open the door so the dog can eat.)  The Pioneer Woman apparently loves her dog so much that she takes 4 gajillion pictures of it with her fancy camera and posts every flipping one of them on her web site.  I’ll post a picture of my dog when she actually spontaneously combusts.

2.  Her children: I don’t hate her children.  I’m not that evil.  I don’t hate her for posting pictures of her children.  That’s lovely.  I don’t even hate her for homeschooling her children.  I hate her because I can barely handle The Good One’s homework while she’s able to homeschool four children.  The Good One recently came home and told me he had to write five sentences with synonyms.  I had him write five sentences with homonyms.  I have an English degree and I totally jacked up his homework.  If I homeschooled The Good One, I’d be legally drunk all day and he’d be qualified for a career in ticket-taking at an amusement park.  In my imagination, she only pretends to homeschool her kids and they are actually just illiterate mountain children who spend their day running around with cattle.

3.  Her husband, Marlboro Man:  I get it, your husband is a sexy, virile cowboy, but do you have to take pictures of his butt in chaps?  My husband would literally have to be dead before I’d be permitted to put a picture of his butt online.  And is Marlboro Man really that awesome all the time?  Surely he’s come in from a night of cow-tipping with his buddies and traipsed through the house with manure all over his boots causing her to want to knock him over the head with one of her perfectly seasoned cast iron skillets.  Why doesn’t she write a post about that?  Why doesn’t she post about how when Marlboro Man snores, she dreams of smothering him with a pillow?  That’s normal married behavior.  Maybe I’m just jealous that my husband doesn’t wear chaps.  I’m going to start calling my husband Virginia Slims Man and post pictures of him drinking beer in his boxer shorts while he watches Hillbilly Handfishin’ on Animal Planet.

4.  Her hair:  I realize I’m being petty but I have a truly craptastic haircut and I hate it so much that I dream of having long hair even though I don’t look good in really long hair, so by virtue of her having long hair, I hate her.  If you have long hair, I also hate you.  Don’t take it personally.  I’ll like you again when my hair grows out.  Or when you cut yours off.

5.  Her use of canned foods:  I’m not a food snob who refuses to use cans because of BPA, although that does cause me some concern.  I’m a hypochondriac with OCD who is actually afraid of cans.  I have no idea what the phobia is called (alumicanibotulisiphobia?), but her willy-nilly use of cans stresses me out.  So basically I hate her for her lack of insanity.

6.  She likes cats:  The Pioneer Woman loves her cats and posts pictures of them wearing jewelry and sleeping with the aforementioned beagle(?).  If you’re a cat person I probably don’t like you either.  I have a cat that stays outside and is basically a wild animal.  She’s feral and mean and leaves us alone but does a good job of killing snakes, mice and birds.  I don’t let my kids near her because she will eat them.  Cat people, like cats, cannot be trusted.

7.  The photos of her food:  I realize that her blog is often about food, but do we really have to have 20 pictures of sticky buns?  Maybe what actually bothers me here is that she’s able to find time to make these foods, often from scratch, and take eleventy-two bazillion pictures of them, and they all look amazing.  Somehow I don’t think people would be as impressed with photos of me opening a bag of shredded cheese and adding it to a bag of frozen tater tots.  Or on an especially crappy day, a photo of me pouring a bowl of cereal.

8.  She has someone stand behind her and take pictures of her while she’s taking pictures. That’s just nuts.

And people say I need to be medicated.


Hey, Virginia Slims Man!  It’s dinnertime.

Kid’s programs that make me want to throw things at my T.V.

Snappy title, don’t you think?

A few questions that have popped into my mind while watching the brain-cell-killing children’s programming that The Beast loves.

1.  Considering Dora carries everything she could ever possibly need in her backpack, including but not limited to ropes, flashlights, books, ice cream cones, plants, sleds, snow shoes, etc., why didn’t she just find a whistle in her backpack for Azul the train instead of making us suffer through the great train race?

2.  Why does Caillou always wear shorts and a T-shirt while all those around him are bundled up in sweaters and pants?  I know why I hate him, but why do his parents want him to catch pneumonia and die?  Is it his voice?  And why is his house so bright?  Who has a kitchen that’s painted entirely in primary colors, plus green?

3.  Why doesn’t anyone in Dino Dan’s world tell him that he’s the only one who can see the dinosaurs?  Why don’t they take him to a psychiatrist to see why he’s imagining these horribly colorful dinosaurs that, while being as tall as three-story buildings and creating earthquake-like tremors when they run, are discernible to no one but him?  Why doesn’t his mom commit him, or at the very least medicate him?  And why is his little brother the worst child actor in the history of ever?  Which producer’s child is this?  There’s no way that child was the best in a process that included auditions.

4.  Do the Fresh Beat Band members show up to work each day and pray for the rapture to remove them from the horrible employment situation they find themselves in?  Also, what sort of auditory crack is in their songs that makes The Beast insist that our entire household dance every time they sing?

5.  Yo Gabba Gabba…I can’t even form a coherent thought on this show other than somebody high on something had to come up with it.  No other possible explanation for a children’s show that includes a character that looks like a giant implement of internal self-massage. (Pardon my crassness.)

6.  Lastly, why am I utterly incapable of repeating any of the Chinese words on Ni Hao, Kai-lan?

Before you get all judgy on me for letting The Beast watch all these shows, he doesn’t watch them all on the same day.

I’m totally lying.  I plop him down in front of the TV at 7:00 a.m. and don’t even attempt to move him until it’s time for his nap.

Quit judging me.  It’s either that or alcoholism.