2008 December

Disgruntled

Dear Longs Cashier,

You suck.

I know you don’t need an advanced degree to work there, but when I purchase one of something that’s marked 2 for $5, don’t sigh and tell me you don’t feel like doing the math. And when I look at you like, Are you kidding? Don’t laugh it off and tell me your boyfriend does all your math for you. In fact, don’t brag to me about how he does everything for you because you work two jobs while he works none. This isn’t something to be proud of. Also? Learn to chew gum. I don’t need to see inside your gaping maw while you chomp away on your Hubba Bubba and tell the entire line what I’m purchasing. Especially when I’m buying Extra Strength Knock You To The Floor NyQuil and a box of Tampax. I clearly don’t feel well. I’m sick AND PMSing. I’m fucking cranky and don’t need to be picked on by a 20-year-old who can’t divide $5 in half.

Signed,

Your Disgruntled Customer

Filed Under: Apropos of Absolutely Nothing, I'm cranky, Life, Premature Ejacublogging®, Random, Rude

In This Post You'll Learn My Porn Name (But Not Much Else)

posted by Mo Leave a Comment

I just borrowed this meme from LVGurl because I can’t think of anything to write today and I’m hoping this will generate something. Generate, what I don’t know, but it kind of made me laugh and I need a laugh today because I’m cranky. Like really cranky. Like cranky enough to consider ordering a whole cheesecake from The Cheesecake Factory then snarfing it down so fast I’ll want to puke. That kind of cranky.

Apparently, all of my alter-egos have sort of an African-American/Latina flair.

1. WITNESS PROTECTION NAME: (mother’s & father’s middle names):

Marie Joseph (Sounds very demure and sweet)

2. NASCAR NAME: (first name of your mother’s dad, father’s dad):

John Walter (Not all that white trash, is it?)

3. STAR WARS NAME: (the first 2 letters of your last name, first 4 letters of your first name):

Famaur (pronounced Fah-more)

4. DETECTIVE NAME: (favorite color, favorite animal):

Black Samoyed (Kinda funny/ironic since Samoyeds are white)

5. SOAP OPERA NAME: (middle name, city where you live):

Meyers Valencia (technically, I suppose it would be Joan Valencia since my middle name was Joan before I legally made my maiden name my middle name but this sounds cooler. Follow all that?)

6. SUPERHERO NAME: (2nd favorite color, favorite alcoholic drink, optionally add “THE” to the beginning):

Red The Dirty Martini (LOVE this. I think I should print T-shirts).

7. FLY NAME: (first 2 letters of 1st name, last 2 letters of your last name):

Mafa (pronounced Mah-Fah. Which really should be MoFo)

8. GANGSTA NAME: (favorite ice cream flavor, favorite cookie):

Chocolate Chocolate Chip (which is kinda funny because I’m the whitest white girl I know, yo)

9. ROCK STAR NAME: (current pet’s name, current street name):

Gracie Alejandro

10. PORN NAME: (1st pet, street you grew up on):

Jet San Sebastian (this is actually pretty awesome)

Filed Under: Apropos of Absolutely Nothing, I'm cranky, Lazy Posts, Premature Ejacublogging®, Random

2 December 2008

Operation Workout Begins (Soon. Today? Maybe. Or not)

posted by Mo Leave a Comment

I used to be fit and healthy. But no longer.

I used to go to the gym at least four days a week. And I just didn’t go to hang out and chat. I trained. Hard. I even broke a sweat. At one point I hired a personal trainer who kicked my ass. I could bench press my body weight and I could leg press my body weight and then some. I was strong. I was fit. I was clear-headed. My ass sat where an ass belongs (in fact, it sat where a 19-year-old ass sat—now it’s where a 39-year-old ass sits). My arms didn’t jiggle. I had calf muscles.

Those were the days.

Damn, I used to look good! (Although I should learn to match my makeup to my skin color.) Okay, only my shoulders looked like this, but still...

Sadly, that wasn’t all that long ago. Until a little over a year ago I worked at a fitness magazine and it seemed easy—if not mandatory—to get to the gym on a regular basis. Not only did I need to walk the walk to talk the talk, but it was an amazing stress release for me. I’d have a crappy day, go to the gym, throw some weight around and feel better. I slept well, my skin was clear and I ate better (for the most part). It was fun to try new workout programs or exercises.

Since switching jobs 14 months ago I haven’t gotten to the gym with any kind of regularity. I think the last time I worked out was in August (yes, of THIS year). Technically, my hours are 9:00 a.m to 6:00 p.m. but at certain times of the year that just isn’t reality. I’m heading into the four or five month period of total insanity where getting off work at 7:30 or 8:00 p.m. is going to feel like I’m leaving early. I’ve been at work until 11:00 p.m. or midnight.

The stress is immeasurable. I eat like shit, and it throws a wrench in my sleep patterns. I’ve thought about working out in the morning (which tells you just how desperate I am), but with those hours I just can’t get up. I can’t barely wake up on time—forget about waking up EARLY. There are also a few days coming up where I need to be in my chair at 5:00 a.m. And, sadly, coming in at the butt-crack of dawn doesn’t mean I’ll get to leave at 3:00 p.m. Not even close.

With my crazy hours and stupid eating habits (Corn Pops for dinner if I eat anything at all) I have actually lost weight, but when I check myself out in the mirror (Yo! How you doing?!), I see a soft, weak person looking back at me. (The only part that I AM happy about is my gut. No more muffin top for me, baby!) I’m like the Pillsbury Dough Girl. I’m tired. I have bags under my eyes. I have no energy, and walking the dog wears me out. And the worst part for those around me? I am one cranky bitch. (Yes, bitchier than usual.)

I ran into my trainer at Starbucks this morning. While he got his black coffee with Splenda, I was holding my Venti Skinny Vanilla Latte and a cranberry orange scone. He looked me over from head to toe, and was like, “So, I haven’t seen you in a while. Your husband looks great.” Bastard couldn’t even fake a compliment.

So shut the fuck up and do something about it, right? I’m trying. I have my gym bag in my trunk (although I just realized I took my tennis shoes out. Can’t run on the treadmill in my boots, can I?). I’ve made an effort the last few mornings to get up, stretch and do some push-ups and sit-ups before I get in the shower. It’s pretty pathetic—I used to be able to do about 30 guy-style push-ups without breaking a sweat. Now? I’m lucky to do 10 of the girlie push-ups. But it’s something, right?

I’m looking into alternatives/substitutions to hitting the iron (wow, doesn’t that make me sound tough? No. Oh well.). There’s a new yoga studio opening after the first of the year near me. I think I’ll check them out. I don’t like the yoga classes at my gym, but I want to try something less jarring, more Zen. Lead with the body and the mind will follow. Or something like that.

Even this kid is stronger than me.

So Operation Workout begins. I’m working up to making my way to the gym. This week. I swear. I can’t pick a day and go (okay, I probably can, but, you know…). I know it’s the only way I’m going to feel better. But making the time with a ramped up work schedule, grooming the dog for dog shows (that’s a whole other post), being married to Julie the Cruise Director and the holidays? It’s going to kick my ass. But I suppose not as much as me NOT going to the gym will.

Until I get my strength (and my body) back, if you see me pinned under a barbell, could ya call for help? I’d appreciate it.

Thank you Lesley for your Ah-May-Zing Photoshop skills. I laughed my ass off this morning! Check her out over at Um…What?? You won’t regret it!!