At least she’s not pregnant, right?

So on Friday, my GF gets a phone call and I hear her in the other room, a little animated, but I’m not an eavesdropper and I don’t have a short-term memory so three minutes later when she busts into my office / our bedroom and really it was more of a burst into the room as there was no door-breaking involved, I was slightly puzzled when she said, “Guess who called?”  No clue.  I’m bad at guessing games and never on the same page as anyone else.  “Steve Harvey?”, I ask trying to keep up with her animated state.  “The doctor from this morning.  He says my urine test came back positive for being pregnant” and she looks at me expectantly.

Well, of course it did – oh yeah, I’m just that good.  Okay, maybe not THAT good.  I actually just look back at her and patiently wait, thinking ‘alright, let’s hear it.  Tell me your tale’ with a mental eye roll.  This oughta be good and I lean back in my chair.

“I tell him there is no way I’m pregnant.  And he asks me again, “Are you certain that you couldn’t possibly be pregnant?”  And I tell him, “No, I’m divorced and there is no possibility of that.”

Of course she didn’t tell him she’s gay.  She’s still undecided about that one.  Oh I don’t mean she isn’t in any way; she’s just iffy on telling strangers.  We’re of that age, okay I’m not really, but she’s of that age where such things were kept to yourself.  Marriage to a man, shoot, you can share that with anybody but being with a woman, that’s a hush-hush thing.  No need in stirring up the cross-burners or the bible-thumpers.  Would hate to get a stern look from someone you aren’t even on a first name basis with, right.  UGH.  I could give two shits less who knows or don’t know, who agrees or don’t agree.  If you aren’t paying my bills, what the f*ck do I care what you think?  But I digress.

“So the doctor says if there’s no way for me to be pregnant, then I probably have a tumor.”  Well, to be honest, I said this same thing to her months ago. “Hey, babe, you should have a Pap smear…something ain’t right.”  She faintly lightly bleeds after sex.  (I know it’s TMI but I’m telling this story and you guys aren’t going to tell this one in pubs with drunken strangers or you definitely lead some sad sad lives with very poor stories and I’m never hanging out with you if that’s the kind of stories you tell…well, if you do, don’t mention her at all – she’s iffy around strangers.)

Coincidentally she already has a Pap smear scheduled for Wednesday night.  Of course it’s at night.  Some dude in an alley, with a pickup truck camper and a coat hanger.  NO.  It’s a night clinic.  Don’t be so gullible!  She’s already crossed “the line” in that particular clinic as they know “about me” and therefore assume “it” about her, since she’s my shadow, thinner and taller but still my shadow, which is so weird.  Because of course I finally got her to go to the clinic.

Okay, fine.  I didn’t get her to; she refused to go when I said she might need a Pap smear but then her sister called like the next week and said, ‘Hey everyone in the family has thyroid problems; you should get that checked’ and she scheduled an appointment immediately.  I was like WTF to myself but it’s whatever.  I honestly think she feels I am a ‘boob’ and pays no attention to me whatsoever in spite of my awesome advice giving and massive hoards of personal experience.

And the nice clinic folks talked her into scheduling a Pap, considering it would be her SECOND ONE in 24 years.  I know, right!?  Slow down, sister!  Spreading your legs every 24 years!  Geez.  Tying up the medical community with your always showing up, demanding answers every 24 years!  But again, whatever.  At least she’s going.  At least she already had this scheduled.  At least she’s not pregnant, right?!

Anyway I held her while she cried a little and I told her the truth – hey, you’re young, you quit smoking a year ago, you’re healthy, we’re exercising, eating right, and you have not had large amounts of unexplained weight loss so I’m sure it’s nothing “bad”.  Just something.  A thing.  A thing to overcome.  This too shall pass.  You are strong.  Whatever it is, it doesn’t stand a chance against you and your mid-western genes.  Plus you have me!  (She probably mentally eye rolled on that one.)

So cross your fingers out there, folks.  I’m not going to lie to you guys.  I’m not a good caregiver.  I have empathy.  I love deeply.  I’m just more of a Do it yourselfer when it comes to bodily things.  If I needed surgery, I’d look into doing it myself.  I don’t want your help.  I got this.  So conversely if you’re sick, get some medicine; if you’re wounded, wrap that bleeding shit up.  Don’t depend on me.  I’m not your lifeline.  What if I wasn’t here?  You better suck it up, buttercup, and fix yourself.  What if you didn’t know me?  What if I die before you?  You better learn to be independent.  I’ll be beside you of course but I don’t want to do it for you.  That’s self defeating.  At least she’s not pregnant, right?


I may need to lower my expectations a bit, or not.

So I’m not sure if you’re a “Sloppy Joe” fan or not but I feel compelled to share this with you.

We had turkey Sloppy Joes a couple of weeks ago, with ground turkey, and not Manwich but a generic brand that L bought, being cheap but also she said it was lower sodium than Manwich.  I’m all for that as long as it doesn’t taste weird and it didn’t.

The leftovers, however, got lost in the bottom of the fridge and cleaning out the fridge just now, I found the little glass bowl of it.

Disturbing enough to share with you is that – it was not molded.  The fresh guacamole that she made and we never even touched was molded and black.  But neither the turkey meat nor the Sloppy Joe sauce was the least bit moldy.

I will never eat Sloppy Joes again, not out of a can.  And maybe not ground turkey meat either.  A little creepy that it didn’t mold, and it didn’t smell weird at all.  I leaned back when I opened it, but nothing.  Not a hint of impropriety.  No assault on my nasal passages.  Nothing.  No burning and tearing up.  Zip, nada, nil, zilch.

I’m not eating that crap.  If it doesn’t have the foresight to at least rot and decay, with an odor of clear deadness that threatens to invade the deepest recesses of my home as a fervent reminder to clean the fridge out more often, then No.  No, no, no thank you.

Because that’s what I expect from my food.  If I don’t eat it in the proper amount of time, I want it to rot and fester up like a sore in the desert heat and totally scream at me when I get around to finding it – “Eat your leftovers, lady!  Clean out your fridge!  Look what you’ve made me do!  See how bad I smell?!  What is wrong with you?!”

And there was none of that.  Let down, I am.

Plop, plop, fizz, fizz….

You know, relief can come in so many forms.

Like when you’re in the car and it starts to rain really hard but then stops again before you get where you’re going. What a relief that you don’t have to get wet!

Or when you hear about a certain food being recalled but you didn’t buy that brand because it wasn’t on sale that week.  What a relief that you might not die from eating it!  Back up, E. coli, I’m good this week!

Well, this morning, my relief comes because I don’t smell like a dead animal!  Score!

Yesterday, I kept smelling this ‘smell’ while I was working.  I got up, washed my hands AGAIN, even up to my elbows.  And still, I could smell this smell, you know.  Finally I thought I had it figured out as my sweaty bra, from exercising.

So imagine my surprise this morning when, yet again, I smelled that smell…and I’m in clean undies and clean clothes, freshly bathed and everything.  So I went in search of unaccounted for odors.

As it turns out, NOT ME or my sweaty bra.  Small dead animal directly under my newly opened bedroom window.

Oh, what a relief! I don’t smell like a dead animal! Yay!

Why steal when you could just ask?

21 hours ago my post was about how great I was feeling.  This morning, however, I’m just annoyed.

My bike’s been stolen.  Apparently me and the bike had bonded because I woke up and instantly thought, “My bike has been stolen” and then I thought, ‘That’s crazy. Get the flashlight.’  And of course, my bike has been stolen.

You know the funny thing is, if you’d knocked on my door and told me your sob story, I would have given you my freaking bike.  You don’t have to steal from me.

AN HOUR LATER:    Okay, fine. I feel better now. I still hope whoever took my bike develops boils on their backside but whatever.  UGH.  I’ve exercised and I feel great.  Did my triceps extensions.  Did my rowing squats, for what I’ll never know.  Did my 20 minutes of steps, while holding my stomach in and my shoulders back (Dear God, how did I get so out of shape?).  Did my balance exercises.  And showered.

C’mon, Life, what else you got?

I feel nice!

I’ve been up, working hard…3229 steps in a half hour, plus a couple of yoga exercises (the chair and the gate), some strength training and some balance exercises. I FEEL GOOD!

I’ve showered and am on my second cup of coffee! How I say, HOW, could life get much better?! Oh yeah…I could be listening to James Brown sing, “I feel good”.

Row, row, row your own boat.

I added more strengthening exercises today…specifically the Rowing Squat.  Who, I want to know, who squats while they row?  Anyone?  NO!  No one does that.  No one should have to do that!  There’s seats in boats, I’ve seen them!  But I did 45 of them before my body said, “Stop, stop, stoppppittt, just stop”.  And that’s added to 1066 steps, oh yeah, and some segway (which should be called Lean-Over-Until-You-Think-You’ll-Fall-Way, and some tilt table and of course just for fun, Advanced Snowball Fighting.  I’m telling you, that one is just too much fun.  Those rowing squats said it would tone up my thighs and something else.  Well, it better.  Snowball fighting is my reward for the rowing squats.  😛

$15, you guys!  C’mon, take up a collection, for Pete’s sake.  A dollar from 15 people.  You’d loan me a dollar, wouldn’t you?  Well, loan me a dollar and I’ll just avoid you for a while.  Totally worth your dollar!

Anybody, somebody? At least spread the word for me, guys!  It’s for a good cause!  And I am working my butt off.

(DISCLAIMER: The CF website says there are two categories, Timed and Non-Timed…please do not be mislead.  I will NOT be participating in the Timed event.  It’s just not happening.  In fact, I might take the Jack-Ass award for dead last but I WILL FINISH.);jsessionid=186D7306AA3042CB009163771F6CE0B6.app212a?px=2143672&pg=personal&fr_id=2820

Pass me the whine and/or a little consideration.

Okay, so the girlfriend cut me this morning.  No, not literally, merely figuratively.  Merely I say, as if it didn’t count.  It counts actually.

Okay, story:  We live in a deer infested state.  If you can drive 20 miles without seeing them dead from traffic, you must clearly be driving with your eyes closed.  So on the days when she drives either to work or to her daughter’s, I ask that she call when she’s arrived safely.  I mean, they just jump in front of you.  It’s disturbing.  But whatever.  Anyway, she did not call, so I called her.  As she answers the phone, I hear her say to her daughter, “Turn off those lights; you’re wasting electricity.”  I say into the phone, “What did you say?”  “I told her to turn off those lights; she’s the one responsible for the electric bill.”

Okay, let’s stop and review for a moment.  Her daughter’s money, for her daughter’s electric bill is a concern to her.  Okay, fine.  I get that.  What I object to is how constantly I ask her to turn off things when she’s left the room or is finished with them…not just the lights…the television, the fan, the stove, the oven, and the list goes on.  Please unplug that.  Please turn that off, hon.  Please, please, please, please, please, please, please.  And when we shared a house with her daughters, I consistently asked that they turn off the dining room, kitchen, living room, and hallway lights EVERY SINGLE GODDAMNED NIGHT.  I used to get up in the middle of the night and turn these lights off, every single night.

So, she’s shitting me, right?  Putting me on?  That her daughter leaving on her lights is a BIG DEAL?  But the electric bill I PAY FOR, THE ONE I GET UP AT 3:30 AM EVERY DAY OF MY LIFE TO PAY FOR, is…what…unimportant?  Seriously??

So yeah, the day started with this wound.  I’m truly aghast at her audacity to say this where I could hear it.  Do it behind my back, for Pete’s sake.

Why is her daughter’s money more important THAN MY MONEY!!!?????  And when I said to her on the phone, “Did you really just say that to her?”, she says “But she works hard.”  At that point, I told her I loved her and hung up.  Arguing is not a good thing.

Is peeing in her soda a bad thing?  I think I need perspective.