Here’s a list, in no particular order, of the reasons my slack ass has not posted to this blog in, lo, these many months:

1.  Spending a lot of time eating food that is amazingly bad for me.  I try to eat well, I really do.  That is a straight up lie, y’all.  I don’t try to do anything but figure out how to lose weight in a magical, mystical way that requires absolutely no discipline on my part.  And it takes a lot of time to flip through all those dusty spell books piled up in the cold, cavernous dungeon where my willpower used to be.  I just finished a novel in which one of the characters, a terminal cancer patient and leg amputee, jokes that at least he lost weight after the amputation.  Friends, the thought of it gave me pause…just for a moment.  But in that moment’s pause lies everything wrong about how my brain sometimes works.

Today I have ingested two cups of coffee, a protein drink, a Quarter Pounder and fries, a Coke Zero, a box of Goobers and a doughnut.  I’m now drinking a glass of wine, which means the Cheetoes will be arriving at the party soon.  Nary a vegetable in sight on that menu.  Said menu left me cold and lifeless on the couch at 4:30 this afternoon, feeling the thousand chemicals I’d scarfed down having their evil way with my insides.  I have no perk.  No pizzazz.  No inclination at all to do anything about it, including going to the grocery store to buy healthy food because I’m trying to lose weight, dammit, and that’s where they keep the red velvet cupcakes and pastrami.

 

2.  Rejoining the rehab gym.  Despite my horrid “diet” (read: slow march towards scurvy), I did rejoin the Gym of a Thousand Senior Citizens in an effort to maintain some semblance of health.  God, I missed them.  But there they were, still gettin’ it on treadmill and workin’ out in full jewelry and makeup.  I am taking more of the classes now, which I hope will keep my interest peaked.  I tell you what, there is nothing better than watching Blanche from The Golden Girls planking like a windsuited golden goddess right in front of you.  I love to grapevine with these ladies, y’all.  We grapevine, we squat, we crunch.  Some of us have a bad habit of walking out 20 minutes into every freakin’ class we take, but what are you gonna do? Martha was never known for her stamina and at least we have a 20 minute marker for our workout.

Also, I’ve decided that all my workout clothes will from now on be black.  This is an arbitrary, crazy rule I’ve set for myself, but, dammit, if we can’t set weird rules for ourselves that have no basis whatsoever in any kind of logic, then our forefathers labored meaninglessly, and all of the struggle for rights and independence since then is pointless.

I think the wine’s kicking in.

 

3.  Singing “Let It Go”.  If you have a girl child under the age of 10 and do not know everything about this song, including lyrics, choreography, costuming and the precise moment when Elsa takes off her other glove and throws it away (hint: “Well, now they knooow…”), then…I don’t know what to say to you.  I honestly don’t.  Because I don’t know if you’re blessed or cursed.  On the one hand, I’ve come to understand why professional torturers incorporate repetition into their routines and how hearing the same song sung over and over again day in and day out may make you want to stab yourself in the eyeball with a ballpoint pen, but on the other hand: Best. Fucking. Song.  Ever.  Seriously.  Every time I watch that part in the movie, I’m filled with a computer-animated grab bag of emotions that swell inside me like a…well, like a “swirling storm inside” and make me want to shout at the screen, “You go, Elsa!”  But Evie asked me to stop doing that, so now I just say it on the inside.

I just have to say, Adele Dazeem, or whatever your name is, I never really got into Wicked, but I’m sorry now that I didn’t.  I have never heard anyone, anyone, bring a song to life they way you can.

 

4.  Watching House of Cards.  Good lord, that show.  It’s been a long time since I’ve seen two in the morning, but thanks to House of Cards, two in the morning and I have met again.  Damn you, Netflix, for giving me two whole seasons of all the wonderful, wonderful “underbelly of Washington” intrigue, the moral angst, the connivery, the breaking of the fourth wall, the designer suits, the full 25 minutes of every other episode where I had absolutely no idea what was going on but loved every second of it anyway.  I had 26 episodes of that damn show at my literal fingertips, and I watched them ALL in under two weeks.  I watched while folding laundry, while waiting to pick Evie up from school, at the gym, in the bathroom, in the gym’s bathroom.  I contemplated watching in the car, but I’m pretty sure you can be arrested for watching TV while driving.  But I would have gladly been arrested for you, Kevin Spacey, you magnificent bastard.

 

5.  Trying to convince my child that arguing with me when I tell her “no” only serves to enforce the “no” rather than reverse it.  Y’all, sometimes it’s like battling a three-foot tall public defender dressed in a Merida costume who follows me around the house, incessantly debating the issue of whether having ice cream for breakfast or wearing said Merida costume to church should be admissible.  Only this public defender uses whining as a strategy (not unheard of), throws herself dramatically around (also not unheard of) and has grape Popsicle all over her face.  Some days.  Lord, some days, I am so DONE with the arguing over every little thing, EVERY little thing, that I am unable to communicate a coherent thought and find myself whipping around, throwing my hands in the air and proclaiming, “I AM THE ONE WHO SAYS THE ‘NO’ AND YOU ARE THE ONE WHO DOES THE ‘NO’!  THE ‘NO’ IS THE THING THAT MEANS THE MOST!”

I actually said this.  I think.  It was along those lines.

So, as you can see, I’ve been rather busy with all the things.  That being said, however, I promise to keep y’all more in the loop.  I know.  I’ve promised it before.  But I really mean it this time.  You know I love you bitches.

 

 

 

 

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