tis the season for lazy list making

Top Excuses To Avoid The Gym (that is three feet away from my apartment):

10. It's snowing. In Wisconsin. SURPRISE.
9. I can't find my boots
8. My horoscope said something fabulous was going to happen to me today (and obviously I'll miss it if I'm on the treadmill)
7. My blog needs me
6. I can't do anything before I've had coffee. And then another. And some waffles. And maybe a granola bar for endurance and ooh lunch time!
5. I still have leggings in my closet. Clearly I need to do a blitz clean.
4. I have two movies from Netflix in the mail that I have to watch right away. Gotta keep that line flowin'.
3. The bathroom needs cleaning. Then the kitchen and the living room and the bedroom and the...
2. I haven't talked to my mom in 2 hours. Better call.
1. I'm feeling fat (look, I never said these excuses made sense)

apparently being fat isn't a job

Alright so today I'm laming it up. I went to the gym yesterday for an hour and a half and feel like I did enough self ass kicking to cover my laziness for today.

That and my arms hurt. So here come the excuses already and it's the second day back in the groove. Instead of heading to the gym (like half a block away from me, shut up) I started a food log online and in my moleskin so I can both be judged by others and myself on a daily basis for thinking tender thoughts toward dirty milano cookies. This is why I just need to not have this shit in my house. Because then I get in the "well the only way to get it out IS TO EAT IT" mentality which means me buried in my pantry wolfing down cookies and cereal instead of just throwing it away like a sane person.

I think this new diet/exercise program might be getting some of my motivation back. Except, you know, when I'm avoiding going to the gym but still. At least I have the dream of having motivation. I'm also submitting an application to do volunteer work at the hospital and am now fully through 4 agencies trying to help me find jobs.

You hear that Wisconsin unemployment? THIS IS ME, STILL WAITING FOR MY DAMN CHECK. I'm about go Stewie on someone's ass "BITCH WHERE'S MY MONEY" style. My bank account is down to about $200 and my savings is almost non-existent. I have to talk myself down from daily panic attacks that I'm going to end up homeless and fighting with the fat ginger cat outside for the scraps left over under people's grills.

I need to find a way to make money that isn't prostitution or selling valuable organs on the black market. But I also don't want to get stuck in some dead-end job working for some douche opening his emails and answering phone calls. Except I have no idea what I want to do anymore. I want to write but the only thing I know how to write about is myself and I don't think I can publish a book about how to lose your job and sit on your ass for two months. Because I think half of America already knows how.

I'm hoping losing some weight can get me back on track, or at least give me something to do until my unemployment runs out and I end up homeless outside with the ginge.

Seriously though. WHERE'S MY MONEY?

oh unemployment--at least i have you

So here's what's happened to me in the last couple of months while I was blogger MIA:

1. I was laid off from my job
2. I gained about 10 pounds over the holidays (fuck you giant apple almond pie)
3. I lost the treadmill in my apartment (aka my dad reclaimed it in the name of walking on it in his slippers and spotty pajamas)
4. I'm now unemployed and 10 pounds heavier

You think your life is spinning out of control? Try eating yourself into a milano double chocolate cookie coma after having to spend 3 hours trying to reach someone at the unemployment office after they unceremoniously tell you they aren't sending you money because you answered a question CORRECTLY.

Here's a tip Wisconsin unemployment office--those helpful links you have next to each question for dumb people to look at if they don't know how to answer if they've been fired or not? Yeah. NOT HELPING. Especially when they tell you to answer yes if you were "fired, let go or laid off from a position" which I WAS laid off so guess what my answer was? YES. Surprise! I guess I really have to stop reading so intently in the future.

Anyway, unemployment joys aside, I spend my days applying for jobs I'm either over qualified or vastly under qualified for. And when I'm not personally debating my own merits I'm spending the rest of my time trying to uncover internet "get rich" schemes by reporting them as spam on careerbuilder. Hey I've gotta take all this pent up bored angst somehow. And it's either that or reporting my former jobs careerbuiler listings as having inappropriate content.

Come to think of it--nah. I'm above all that. For now.

At least until tomorrow when I've cleaned the apartment for the 90th time until the kitchen sink starts to squeak under all that gleam and I've beaten every DS game within a 200 mile radius of me. I'm getting desperate here.

Desperate enough to start working out again? Dragging my ass down the two blocks to my free apartment work out area? Forcing myself onto the giant FREE treadmill under the giant FREE plasma screens? Maybe. But I'm sure I can think up some inane excuse to get out of it.

After all, I hear there are some prime internet scams that need to be reported. Someone's gotta crack that shit wide open.

I want candy bubble gum and taffy

Somehow, pineapple and grapes are not a fulfilling substitute for cookies.

public announcement version one

I recently came across a link to my blog someone had posted on their site. And while I'm all for people reading, commenting and or linking to my writing or quoting me for whatever reason, I'm not all for people taking the point of this journal out of context. Or, also, being an inadvertent asshole about people's issues with their weight.

Now, let me first say this: I am 140 pounds, 5'3" and 23 years old. Medically, I am within my healthy weight standard for my height and age. I am also about 50 pounds under what would be considered medically obese. And while I'm flattered that someone took the time to read my blog and to write about it in their own, I'm frankly offended that someone would not take into consideration that just because someone has issues with their weight or that extra little jiggle on their thighs that might not exactly make them obese. And while I think obesity is an incredibly serious medical matter, I am in no way saying that I judge anyone who is, or who has been, obese.

Now here's my convoluted point: If you're going to quote someone, please try not to take their words or the point of their blog out of context. I'm not here to rally the cause for obesity or to say that over weight people have problems or that I have some kind of negative self image or even that I'm overly proud of the size I am. I think I could stand to lose a few pounds and I make no qualms about the fact that I don't hate my body. In fact I appreciate it and love it for existing. Cause you know, I kind of need it (fat and all) to survive.

What really pisses me off is someone referring to obesity as a problem (which it is) and in the same sentence saying that it's good to see fat women having a positive self image. And then following it up with "I'm not saying that I find it attractive, but if she does that's ok."

Look. I like my body. And while it may be dimpled around the edges or wobbly in places, I fucking respect it. I think sites like this that try to excuse discussing weight loss with being concerned about obesity and then in the same sentence referring to people who are "comfortable in their own skin" as "being ok" even though it's "unattractive" are frankly, fucking disgusting. Referring to me as "rather ordinary looking" and then immediately after "over-weight person" is contradictory and frankly, dumb. I don't mind people quoting me; hell, I could care less if you quote me and then call me a disgusting fat ass but at least be honest about your intent.

I'm in no way the champion for obesity or weight loss. I'm a 140 pounds and I've never weighed above or below it. I don't fluctuate and I don't have an eating disorder. While I'm in this to lose weight I'm also in this to stay healthy and to make the point that douche bags like this are the reason people have self image problems in the first place. It's never ok to passively agree that being ok with yourself is good but at the same time championing that it's unattractive. It's like standing in the middle of a gay club and saying "Aww look at all these gay people frolicking about, isn't that nice for them? But frankly it's disgusting and I think you're all going to hell. Ooh but I'm so glad you're comfortable in your own skin, how nice for you!" You just look like a two faced asshole.

Here's the deal: While it's nice to be quoted and to see that people are actually paying attention to what I write and that maybe out there in the world someone actually gives a damn, I do not want to be used for someone's jellyfish comments. If there's anything I hate more then pity it's someone's lame attempt at trying to be PC masquerading as sympathy.

Saying you respect over weight people for "being comfortable in their own skin" while at the same time amending that you think it's unattractive is frankly, a bigger load of shit then even my ass can carry.

maybe if i close my eyes i can pretend it's not happening - nope, still is

I hate that bikini shopping forces you to be positive about aspects of yourself that aren't the circumference of your thighs. Staring at myself in the hideous lighting and strange distorted around the edges mirror, I tried (in vain) to ignore the slight wobble in my inner thighs when I moved or the expanding top of the muffin creeping over the band of the lycra/spandex/crazy hybrid of unnatural bikini fabric at my hips. I tried instead to focus on how shiny my hair looked. How it was really sort of bouncy and light and really flattering against my skin tone. That my cheeks looked flush and that my shoulders were actually quite tan and ooh my boobs look fantastic in this ruffly bikini top.

Then I looked down again.

Then I wanted to hit something. And let me clarify straight out--I really don't have much of a problem with my body as a whole. Sure I could stand to lose some weight but I'm short and therefore realize that I carry a bit more weight around the bottom because let's face facts--I'm not exactly leggy. I wanted to hit something not because I'd gained a few pounds or never managed to lose those few pounds or hey sweet Christ is that cellulite?? but because year after year after year I get sucked into this same suck spiral of self doubt and thigh hatred by the bikini industry and their ridiculous sizing standards. I mean really. What's at all flattering about a tie at the side bikini with huge stripes across the width of the ass? No much, except now I look like a zebra rearing up in anger every time I bend over. And who the fuck wants to draw attention to their thighs except Mischa Barton who doesn't have them in the first place so why not draw the eye downward and just pretend they're there? Or put a strange metal band around the crotch region that just brings the whole mess of fabric down and makes it look like you have saggy business or got three pounds of beach sand lodged down there? It's ridiculous.

I always run into this problem in the dressing room and I know I'm not the only one. The tops are lovely, fitting in all the right places and flattering across my back and (frankly) perky and perfectly sized boobs (look, I get a few nice features to brag about ok?) So it's all fine and well until I try to find a bottom that goes with my size small top. Extra large? (Falls off the crotch) Large? (Hangs off the curve of my ass and shows everything) Medium? (Vacuum sealed is all I'm gonna say) Small? (Is this from the baby gap?!) It's degrading, to be honest. I ended up walking away with the perfect top and extremely sub-par bottoms because I figured I'd need them eventually if I ever had to come within four feet of water and didn't want to get my good white Hamptons-style capris wet and muddy. As is, it's a huge fat guy in a little coat situation and frankly, I'm too embarrassed to actually walk around in them. I should have just bought the top and left the bottoms, faking a "woops shrank in the wash" or "lost them moving" or "donated them to charity for people with freakishly small thighs and asses" excuse when asked. Anything except saying, "Frankly my dear, I don't give a damn that I've had one too many Boston Cream Pies in my day. I've enjoyed every last one of them and at least if I got hit by a car tonight I'd be safe in the knowledge that I've eaten every form of Chunky Monkey ice cream within a 200 mile radius and thus can die happy." Or maybe the padding in my thighs would expand supernaturally and save me from hitting the windshield ala air bag protection.

Instead I'm going to have to invest in one of those hideous beach sarongs that old ladies in Boca Raton wear to hide their spider veins. Can sarongs still be sexy? Can I wrap it around my lower half and let one short, stubby little leg hang out to maybe get some kind of action in the sun? The most annoying bit of this is that my legs are the one part of me I actually want to get some color. It's so fucking white down there it looks like I just escaped from prison where I was locked in solitary confinement for the past 8 years. I'll tell you what though--it's never been a challenge to find one of my veins at the doctors. That shit is out--loud and proud. Er well, loud anyway. Not so much proud.

So I guess I'm going to have to wear my really nice white capri shorts all weekend offset by my new amazing bikini top. And just hope no one ever needs to look at the skin past my knee ever again. Good thing I'm practically a nun.

And yes that is the only time you'll ever hear me say that. Thank you for asking.

why cats are indoor animals - and i am obviously not

We're currently waging war against the angry ginger cat that lives somewhere in this complex.

Last night I'm sitting on the couch reading my plethora of magazines while my brother watches the news when I hear a scraping sound out on the patio. I peek out the door and notice hmm, our garbage seems to have somehow moved its heavy ass onto the grass. Now I know we get some strong winds in between buildings but aside from a class 4 tornado there's no way that bag full of cereal boxes, pizza wrappers, left over chicken and corn husks moved itself two feet from the patio to the grass.

I get up to investigate and just as I'm poking my head out the door I see a streak of red and white before I slam open the door and shout, "OI! GINGER CAT! GET YOUR FAT ASS OUT OF MY GARBAGE!" My brother leaps up and is all "WHERE? WHERE?" Because up until now he's been convinced that I'm making up the angry ginger cat stories because he's never once seen it. Even though he's witnessed the shredded evidence of our previous garbage bags having their insides spread out on the grass for all the other tenants to see. Oh you had burgers again this week? Did the news section of the newspaper not interest you at all? My they sure do go through a lot of sponges...

Right cause that's all I need is my nosey heavy footed neighbors upstairs to start picking apart my garbage and deciding they know exactly what kind of person I am based on the volume of dryer sheets I go through in a week.

I jump out onto the patio and start waving my arms in the air. The cat stares up at me, half a week old chicken breast caught in its fat mouth. It clearly isn't giving that delicious morsel up anytime soon. My brother steps out behind me and when I start to point, "See! I told you! Fat angry ginger cat stealing our garbage!"

"Oh," he goes. And just looks at the cat. I'm all "Oh? OH? You didn't believe me for like a month that cat's were even allowed in this complex let alone ravaging our garbage. I believe we had an argument about werewolves vs the strength of the wind between buildings. Now you're all 'oh' about it."

Meanwhile, while we're arguing about the existence of the cat, the damn thing pulls another bit of week old food out of our garbage and scampers off with it. We spend the next five minutes trying to devise a plan to trap it McGuiver style using a complicated pulley system and twigs.

Eventually we give up and decide to just walk the garbage down to the dumpster from now on.

I'm sure that cat is off dying somewhere of horrendous food poisoning from two week old chicken mixed with week old rice and a month old can of condensed milk. Let this be a lesson to anyone who lets their cat wander around outside. I'm totally not above feeding it the most disgusting things I can find just so it shits all over your new clean carpets. Hope you enjoy that chicken breast as much as I did.

because if i ask 'how many calories are in that?' i'll be written out of the will

Why is it that whenever my parents come down to visit I end up gaining 2 pounds in 2 days?

It's probably the high carb, high sugar, high fat diet they roll in here with. Throwing cookies and cake and donuts at me on their way through the door. I just had the most delicious spaghetti dinner with bread buttered to perfection and brocolli that literally melted on my tongue and rolled down my throat to settle happily in my stomach and go, "Ohh yeaaaah." Right next to the coolaid man, apparently.

My mom also kindly bought me irresistible chocolate from Starbucks filled with cream. Right. Like those can actually stay in my turn around longer then four seconds. STARBUCKS CHOCOLATE. WITH CHAI CREAM IN THE MIDDLE. It was practically born with my name on it.

This is totally unfair. I love my parents but I kind of wish they'd turn into uber health nuts who only brought me full grain bread, vitamin smoothies and all natural peanut butter. If only for a weekend. Because this on and off the diet business? Can't be good for my thighs.

i'm gonna raid that like the leftover muffins at starbucks

Here's my motivation:

When I lose 10 pounds, I'm buying all knew underwear. Starting with everything in the Victorias Secret Angels collection. There won't be a push up bra, balconet, or garter left untouched.

And I'm going to get a proper fitting, no matter how awkward having a woman I don't know feel me up in a dressing room might be. But I've always wanted someone to measure me and give me my actual proportions, not just the crazy stay-puffed marshmallow man ones I have in my head.

Honestly, nothing screams GET YOUR ASS ON THE TREADMILL like the prospect of staring at myself in unflattering lighting with too tight boy shorts and a sagging lace bra. Ok, someone else looking at me looking at myself in unflattering lighting with too tight boy shorts and a sagging lace bra might be a smidge worse.

Now excuse me while I go dream about expensive lace and bows in inappropriate places.

i feel like i just discovered the wheel

I severely underestimated the treadmill's level of boredum. Even my sweet Kick Your Mom's Ass playlist cannot help keep me on that winding road of rubber and blinking lights longer then about five minutes.

So I decided I needed to find something to keep my ass in one place like re-runs of the Hills used to. Yeah, don't look at me like that. You know Audrina's torrid romance with Justin was totally on your top five 'Reasons to cancel plans with normal human beings' list.

I decided to compromise. I love tv, I despise the treadmill. I love my couch but I hate my saggy ass. So I came to a crossroads: either continue to watch tv on my ass on my couch and push my ass into further saggdom from saggdonia or WAIT FOR IT---watch tv ON MY IPOD. WHILE ON THE TREADMILL.

Totally genius right? Yeah I know I'm probably not the first asshole to think of that idea but I've never done it so it's new to me. And now kind of makes me feel like a total douche for not having figured this out sooner. If I'm going to have to get on the treadmill I might as well find something interesting to distract me long enough that I don't pay attention to how much my legs hurt or how much I feel like I'm going to vomit my kidney out through my mouth.

Honestly, I got through half of Casanova before I realized I'd been running for 35 minutes. WHAT KIND OF NONSENSE IS THIS?? You know it's a testimate to David Tennant's sexual powers when he can get me to jog for 35 minutes straight without dying. The man should do infomercials for Bally Fitness.

Now that I've got that figured out, I just need to find new things to put on my tiny little ipod screen to keep my hampster run going. Unfortunately for my ipod, I can only get about half an hour of anything on there before the thing starts to cry out for sustenance. Seriously Steve Jobs, you might wanna look into some kind of everlasting ipod battery. Because 30 minutes of the Tennant on my screen? Totally not enough.

Now about those crunches.

What? No, seriously, what about them?

can i make a spreadsheet for my life?

I had a donut at work today. A very large very good chocolaty cake donut from Walmart that's probably been sitting out for six weeks but still tasted FANTASTIC.

This is not me falling off the horse. This is just me sidestepping the hurdle.

I'm getting on that treadmill tonight if it kills me. Which it probably will considering it's about 90 degrees outside and 100 in my apartment. I'm going to be rolling in the sweat just standing on the damn thing.

Todays attempt: 30 straight minutes of treadmill ass kicking. Mixing intervals of walking and brisk jogging. Then some lunges and crunches. Over all 1 hour of work out time. I figure if I plan this out ahead of time, I might actually get it done.

Well that and the 25 sticky notes with "JUST DOOO IT" I posted all over my treadmill this morning might just be the motivation I need.

i have intentions, i just don't execute them

So here's the thing: where does one get this thing called motivation?

is that my ass or a punctured balloon?

So after giving my dimpled ass a thorough inspection in the mirror this morning (and btw referring to your ass as "cute and dimpled" does not actually cover up the fact that it's sagging to the right and looks suspiciously like someone taped a cardboard box down there and wrote 'ass' on it) I've decided I need to get in shape.

Really, for a number of reasons: I'm over sucking my stomach in when sitting down, standing up, lying down, sleeping, unconscious from a head wound, or any other form of existing. I'm over avoiding wearing my skinny jeans on alternate days (or days that end in y or start in M, T, W, S or F) because I fear a fat guy in a little coat crotch tear situation. I'm tired of feeling my thighs jiggle every time I hop two stairs at a time. I'm tired of not being able to hop more then three stairs at a time for fear of total respiratory failure. Basically: I'd like to be comfortable. I'm not looking to be a size 4 here but a size 6 would be nice. And is not totally unreasonable considering my height and age.

Plus this way if I lose 10 pounds the next time I have my yearly exam I won't have to have the awkward jellyfish conversation with my doctor where she compliments my shoes and then tries to tell me all the benefits of this thing called a treadmill (and oh did you know that exercise is a good thing? I know you're not a doctor but I hear the news has been going around) and that maaaaybe taking vitamins for that obvious calcium deficiency would be good (in other words YOU NEED TO STEP OUTSIDE MORE THEN TWO MINUTES A MONTH, VAMPIRE). Pretty much I'd like to be able to quip back "Well actually I circuit train, do kickboxing, can run 20 miles in 10 minutes and by the way could bench press you and the four anorexic nurses in the waiting room without breaking a sweat. Oh and also, crocs went out like 2 years ago. Actually, they were never in. So why don't you step off me, and step into a shoe that doesn't have intentional holes in it? I hear it's unsanitary."

Then I imagine I'd make some crack about never getting skin cancer and having the skin of a baby eskimo when I'm 85. It's all very witty and sophisticated in my mind. Unfortunately, my mouth is hindered by the eight glazed donuts hanging out of it so I'll have to work around that before I can spout off witty retorts.

Anyway, the point is I've decided to lose weight. And document it here, for the world to see, support and mock my beautifully flat dimpled ass. I'm staring out slow: a few days on the treadmill jogging for 30 minutes followed by some squats and crunches. And who knows, maybe in a few weeks my ass will be as uplifted as my spirit.

(Or it'll be wallowing in the same alcoholic stupor as the rest of me) Here's to hoping!

on why i can never go to that shopko again - if i know what's good for me

I'm waiting in line at the pharmacy to get my prescription filled when I hear it. A woman wheeling her shouty baby around the makeup area. I look over and for once, I swear, my face is completely judgement free. I'm not all "you know a well placed back hand works wonders" or "wow I'm so glad you know how to discipline your children" or even "Is that a baby or are you murdering a fucking banshee?" I just casually give a look over my shoulder and at the same time, manage a yawn.

Now, ok. First of all - It's 5:30 in the afternoon. I'm tired. I've been waiting in this goddamn line for 35 fucking minutes because apparently, all the mill workers and mullet owners decided now was the time they wanted to venture out into civilization and pick up their viagra pills. Second of all - nobody looks pretty at 5:30 in the afternoon on a workday. I'm sorry, fuck you, but no. You are not well coifed, your makeup is not applied to a T and you are most likely walking around like a zombie in wrinkled dress pants, coffee stained white shirt, wet shoes from the rain storm outside and hair sticking out in about 14 different angles, two of which might be illegal. So to be fair, you have reasons to not look like you just stepped out of a photo shoot, swinging your glorious because-i'm-worth-it locks around and pouting around meticulously applied lipstick. It happens, ok. TIRED PEOPLE HAPPEN.

So here I am, over worked and under paid (please ignore the other entries where I might have admitted to watching the entire fourth season of house in two days and just trust me that I sometimes have to do work--occasionally. Every now and then), waiting in line to be raped by my insurance. And as if the day couldn't get any better then me just dribbling an energy drink all over the front of my already stained shirt, I have to deal with this. While yawning and turning to NOT judge the wailing child in the aisle next to me I lock eyes with the demon spawn long enough for it to suddenly stop, stare wide eyed at me and then point and start to scream, "ICKY! ICKY!! IIIICKKYYYYYY!!!!!" It then bursts into tears, still pointing, hopping up and down in one place and screaming at the top of its little baby lungs forged in the deepest pits of hell "IICKKKYYYYYYY!!!"

Now, naturally, my first response is to reach up and check to see if there are any living objects in my hair and I don't know, peeling of its flesh to scare this child into a coma. And while there are a few hairs out of place and ok, admittedly, there might be a squirrel in there knotting the joint up and building himself a home, there is nothing on me that would make a two year old start to scream bloody fucking murder next to the eyelash curlers. At this point, I look in front of me and everyone is now staring. From the child, to me, to the child, to me again. I look at the mother and she shoots me this vaguely indifferent attempt at a commiserating look that says "Oh I'm sorry. My child was obviously born from the womb of satan's bride so he really hasn't learned his inside voice yet." IE: She shrugs her mom shoulders at me, gives a frowny face to her hellion baby and tells him quietly, "Ssshh."

Meanwhile, the ENTIRE LINE at the pharmacy counter is looking at me like I just abused a puppy telepathically and then teased the kid about it while stabbing him with the shredded remains of his Elmo doll. So the little bastard and his anorexic mother get to move on down the makeup aisle while I have to stand there, awkwardly smoothing down my hair while burly looking women give me the stink eye and a man in a shirt with a half naked woman on the back straddling a boat snickers at me.

And as if it wasn't embarrassing enough to have frightened a child with my outstanding beauty, when I get to the front of the counter and ask for my prescription I get the pharmacist who can't control her inner decibel level and fairly screams to the crowd, 'YOU'RE GOING TO WANT TO WAIT AT LEAST A MONTH BEFORE YOU START HAVING ANY KIND OF SEX. OR YOU'LL GET PREGNANT.'

So not only am I the terrorizer of children but I'm now also a slut. I'm glad we could have this moment together, Shopko. Now if you'll just give me my outrageously expensive birth control, I'll try to leave with some kind of fucking dignity still intact and try not to have dirty sex on the number four register belt and then run over a baby on my way out. But at this point, I make no promises.

this is why we can't have nice things

I'm sitting in my temporary cubicle desk when my boss leaves for lunch. I start up a House episode, put a frozen meal in the microwave before I hear a distinctly annoying buzzing sound. I peer out of the break room and sure enough, my boss left her blackberry sitting on the desk. Now, I have exactly two seconds to do either: ignore it, assuming she probably wanted to leave it there OR figuring she is a rational over worked human who can't breathe air normally without her blackberry in hand at all times, manage to give it to her before leaves.

Lucky for her (and unlucky for my legs and respiratory system) I decide to give it to her.

I spend the next five and a half seconds bolting out the door, launching myself down the stairs, around a precarious wooden railing that heaves under my weight, vaulting down another flight of stairs and somersaulting out the door (ok maybe not but I did sort of half stumble and had to crouch down to get my shit together so it was inadvertently very ninja) and manage to catch her just before she pulls out of the parking lot. I hand her the phone through the window, gasping "You----wheeeze---forgot----wheeeeeze---y

our phone------wheeeeeeeeeze."

She grabs the phone, looks at me bent almost double from the exertion and just blinks. "Wow, you're like--super assistant."

I try to give a witty reply along the lines of "You bet your ass" but it comes out more like "Yeah--mfhaGASPAIRBREATHENOWOMG-ahtahBLOOO."

I wave at her instead, walk away holding what's left of my insides and have to take a rather intense breather on the way back up the stairs. Like an old man. Leaning against a creaky railing, wheezing and cursing the kids who keep stepping on my lawn. This is when I decided--

I really need to get in shape.

why shoes on a log you say

I had removed my patent leather shoes after a while, for they foundered badly in the sand. It pleased me to think they would be perched there on the silver log, pointing out to sea, like a sort of soul-compass, after I was dead.

sylvia plath. the bell jar.