Wednesday, April 29, 2015


Strangals is my word. The derivative of the word is strange. It is defined as those strange thoughts and concepts, questions of life. It is not meant to be confused with strangles. Stranglers are bad criminal people or Wranglers which are too tight and create nutters, a squishing of the balls; jeans which strangle the family jewels.

Anyway...some things to ponder are a comin'. They are random processees which go through my head at, yes, random times. Some times they are from opportunity arising and other times, I just think of weird shit.

So randomly thinking...

I've been on both sides of the pendulum of body compositions....the ones which tip the scale to the right and the ones on that scale who kiss the clouds of weightlessness. It's my genetics to have to fight to be healthy. I was never born a skinny bitch. Damn you, genetics.

This latter stage of health called Old Age...Eat Lean Poop the most difficult. I have to run at least 8 miles a day and do CrossFit or strength training to keep any sort of muscle mass going and then after the day is done, I look like a Parkinson's patient. That is no lie. And it's painful.


Who in the world thought it was cool to force old people to do Olympian workouts just to be able to walk without dimples or creaking in the knees? I'm talking to you, God.

I will be the first to admit, I see a Rascal in my future.

Photo credit:

It is somewhat surprising the discrimination against fat people and old if you are out. It's not a fun ride. Sometimes the difference between skinny and fat is a miss versus a ma'am. Other times, it is a door slammed in your face versus one with a handsome young man holding it open for you.

The Eat Lean Poop Green movement has changed the face of groceries and the way people view you. If you aren't fresh, you get a snarl. If you eat frozen lean meals at work...a big "ew" beholds you. I am one of those who now has to eat fresh, but I certainly don't turn my nose up at "the others" nor do I brag about my meals or green poop at work.

It just is what it is.

Believe me, if I could get away with frozen coconut ice cream cicles right now, I would.

Now that my body is used to these leafy substances and crispy critters, I have to be careful. Even the wrong coffee can send the body into butt convulsions of the third kind. It isn't fun trying to get back to ground zero with your regulation.

Just today I had that annual exam thingy and had to explain all this to the doctor. He is a nice doctor with a good sense of humor which I appreciate. I would not go to a serious va-jay-jay doctor. That would just be weird.

Apparently, asking certain questions of the va-jay-jay doctor is inappropriate especially if he has a student with him. For instance...questions NOT to ask..

1) Just what makes a person want to look at va-jay-jays all day? Money right?
2) Do you ever have to go in there with your nose plugged or hold your breath?
3) I never know if Brazilians are good or should I have a full on golf course fairway for ya?
4) Do you think you could provide those nice towelette wipey thingys for us? Fresh is best, right?
5) When you ask if anything is new are you referring to my sexual activity or creepy crawly things down there? Because the woman cave has bats right now. No action. Zero.
6) Could you have a bathroom in every exam room? By the time you get in here I have a full bladder and stand back if you press on there...cuz the dam be broke at my age. When I have to go I have to go.
7) I mean, really, do you go through high school thinking that you want to examine hoohahs for the rest of your life? You could just have gone to strip clubs.
8) Does your wife ever get jealous? Like for reals?
9) I bet you see some nasty stuff, right? But not me, right?
10) Do you ever get uncomfortable doing this? I mean, it's the delivering baby part that is cool, right?



And a little advice for the Eat Lean Poop Green lifestyle? Eat lots of fresh (not cooked) leafy greens because your body works more to digest and burns more calories, less waste. turns your poop green. It's really cool. And when you are hungry, reach for apples. They fill me up. Plus...they take a long time to digest and sit there like a rock. You don't want anything. Ever. Like even water.

No more strangals for me. I'm to bed. BTW...the bats hang upside down in the cave at night.

Haha. Not really.

There might be cobwebs in there, tho.

Not that you really wanted to know.


I have no idea.

Going to sleep now.

Sunday, April 26, 2015

Why not?

For some strange reason,  I decided to do a 30 day challenge with kettle bell squats. Why not? I suppose you think I was frangled into doing it by some friend. Frangled=wrangled by force.

Nope.  It was not on the internet. It was not proposed by friends.

I just want my butt to be lifted up out of my socks.
 I know I am probably crazy and even though it might be a good idea to get checked because then I would qualify for SSI, I am avoiding it all costs. I mean, how can I be a super hero with ninja skills if I am certifiable? 

Batman never went to a shrink for a diagnosis, but I really think he had an issue with S & M. Really. No one likes that much black unless they are going to a funeral and that tight suit...yeah...whips and chains, baby... unless... 

Yes. Batman did not need the internet. He had the bat signal. People needed him. He was lured places by a signal before the internet was even invented and it worked. And his gadgets. Who knew? I suspected. It's the next episode...the unveiling of the truth...

Back to the squat thingy.

Let's face it. I'm 47, almost 48, and gravity is a bitch.

In my mind, I'm 29 and holding and everything is perky. No, I don't do drugs.

As long as there are no mirrors in sight, this is my reality. Shut it.

It is exciting that I am on the downhill slide of forcing myself to the gym and to run. I actually enjoy it and now and feel guilty if something interrupts my runs. (Disclaimer-this is not potty talk)

It feels great to be able to just run again. (Again, not diarrhea)

Simple childhood movements become a task after 45. My next goal: walk without creaking. 

In the midst of my squat challenge...which I had to start over because I missed two sporadic days ...the Bug approached me.

It is commonplace that children interrupt their parents at the most inopportune moments.
BUG: Mom
ME: Yes, Can you see I am doing my squat challenge.
BUG: Yeah. You need to go down further. Get your booty lower.
ME: Don't  you have to clean your room?
BUG: I have a question.
ME: Yes.
BUG: So. What does it mean when it itches down there.
ME: You need to scrub that thing. Get in there and wash.
BUG: Do I have an infection?
ME: Well, I 'm not looking at it
BUG: But how do I know if I have an infection?
ME: Do you have a bunch of jiz whiz?
BUG: What? No. I don't even know what that is.
ME: Stuff. Nasty stuff in your underwear.
BUG: No!
ME: Then you are fine.
BUG: But what if it itches?
ME: Do you want to get up all in there with a hairbrush?
BUG: Ooo. NO!
ME:  Then you just need to wash. Can I finish in peace, now?
BUG: Yep. Mommy, I really, really love our dogs.

Random 6 second blips. It's the way of the teenager.
Now, for the confession of the hairbrush...
And someday I am going to run around in my garden just like this for no apparent good reason...why? Why not?

Sunday, April 19, 2015

Potty Training

The Murphis has a new trick. Not this next one, but one later I will talk about in grave detail. No, that word was not a mistake.

First, he thinks he is a person. He bats at me to get my attention. He pushes my butthole with his nose to get me to the grub because according to him at certain times it is din din time. Whodathunk the bung was a steering wheel?

He jumps on me and hugs my neck with his paws. Not that I get upset at the attention, I just don't want him getting in the habit of jumping up on people. Could you imagine if I were to meet an important dignitary and he would jump up and snag a silk suit or cashmere sweater? Heavens to Mergatroid! I definitely would be placed in super secret lock down. My vagina wouldn't even see the light of day.

I've been talking a lot about vagina issues lately. Not that I have one (yes-vagina, no-issue(s)), but it is a topic of discussion around the house. I have been telling Bug to use better hygiene down there and she isn't too keen on hearing it. I'm not trying to prepare her for being presentable as a court prospect, but strictly concerned of her medical welfare and vagina health as a woman.
We do not discuss this, although I can imagine it leaves a burning sensation.

Nothing gets her in super scrubber mode than the word, INFECTION. Workouts cause condensation problems which grow mold. Teenagers also don't scrub up all in there. Well, I don't watch her, and I don't smell it, but I do laundry. No visuals. I mean, my teenager is not like other vagina hygiene violators in the sense that she is very clean but we can't be too careful and I really don't want to expose kiddo skid problems but they happen and momsters should not broadcast them on the internet. It's embarrassing.

On occasion, Murphy will give her a butt nudge and I tell her it's time to wash because he is doing Mimsy checks. She screams at me during these moments. I think screaming is her mechanism of defense against her annoying mother. BTW... Mimsy sounds so much more ladylike than vagina and I need all the help I can get. I got that new word from Coffeypot. He posted a most amusing meme on Faceplant and now I have new words. 
There.I stole it. Now you can enjoy it too. Thanks, John!

This daily jog down my ordinary life lane has been diverted. I was initially talking about Murphy's new tricks.

We must interrupt vagina hygiene to get back to the new dog tricks.

Anydetour, Murphy has learned to lift the toilet lid and drink from the bowl of the Porcelain god. It's gross. Even though it is clean water, he is gross. This isn't his new trick.

See, sometimes we babysit the boss's dog. While drinking from the flush, he has taught the baby to do the same, only since the baby is small, the baby gets itself all the way inside the toilet. Then, once Murphy is finished, he shuts the lid.

We could not find the baby. Like. Anywhere.

After about 32 minutes of panic attacks, a small whine was heard in all the land. Fourteen more minutes of panic attacks and Bug discovered the baby in the toilet. Of course, the baby was soaking wet, dripping of zee toilette watairre. That's French for toilet water. Nice touch, Murph.

This became a regularly scheduled event and we pretty much figured Murphy was an assassin. I'm not sure if he misunderstood waterboarding school. I'm also certain he was dropped by CIA spies and must have flunked out of spy training. They don't keep you if you are cute. Nor do they want you if you think waterboarding involves a toilet. Only ugly people who have stone faces who wear tweed coats and carry hankies can be spies. Murphy has a 60's shag rust coat. Plus he's cute.


The boss came to pick up his dog.

We didn't mention anything.

A few days later,  an interesting story was to be told at work. It seems the baby gets all up in the toilet now and gets stuck in there and couldn't be found for quite some time. Who would think to look in the toilet for a dog?

DA BOSS: I wonder how that happens? I mean, what dog does that? Why?

ME: I have no idea.

Saturday, April 18, 2015

Body Porridge and Bunchies

Have you ever been out jogging in a busy park or around a running track and really viewed someone's gait? Not in a creepy way, but just in my observations of people and being in the running arena, I tend to try to improve my lope because I feel clumsy while running. I suppose it is something that grabs my attention because I feel awkward and clunky in the first mile. My co-worker said the same is for her and the first mile and a half is painful until she reaches her stride. It might take me longer and by the time I reach it, the race is over.

While at the indoor running track at the university last night (it was raining bitches!), I felt like a three legged gazelle, only in slow mode. As I rounded the corners, I was often passed by 20 year old students who were full of piss and vinegar. Or maybe they were just younger and more fit. Some had professional strides and I tried to mimic them while behind which was quite comical. It made me feel like a toddler who mimics her parents. I don't really remember that, but it must be so if they say so and mine did. History repeats itself.

Then there were those last night who made me cringe because they were so uneven, I was sure they were being poked left, right, then left again. Some stood out to me because I could sympathize with their struggle. They were moving their left leg forward but the right leg was in the way and the thigh friction was creating more work for them. I remember those days and carrying that extra weight. I was blessed with Ebert thunder thighs and even when I am fit, I have big thighs. I guess I should not complain, because they make me strong like bull.

But my attention was not on myself, but on those forging ahead of me one step at a time. It made me kind of sad but then I thought, "They are here. Cheers to them!", and it was fleeting moments before I got into my music again and galloped around like Richard Simmons chasing his tutu in the wind.

What about those who have bunched undies?

I mean ...when that happens to me, I do that straddle yank and get them right out of my crack before they cut my vagina in half. There is no pride in the gym. Guys pull on their junk at every turn. Girls are kind of different. They let it ride too long before intervening in the vagina choking.  I jogged around as the bunchers passed me not even phased by the chafing and choking going on.

There are times it is not convenient to be behind people on the track. For instance, when a fast sprinter jolts by you and you get a whiff of the most odiferous aroma of clash of the sweat globs and body porridge. Your face instantly grimaces while you zig and zag, slow and speed up to get out of the cloud of funk. It is to no avail. Inevitably, you inhale mass quantities of pungent air which is like a shart in the sense it has substance and you can taste it on your tongue. Well, I have never tasted a shart, but I can imagine it is the same as tasting someone's body porridge. What's worse? They lap you again and again and again.

In times like these, I appreciate at my age it is not essential to look good, but more important to feel good and smell presentable. After all, I am gunning for finishing, just finishing...not finishing first. Firsts are like the Holy Grail at my age.

For the love of my vagina, I have "gym undies." Those are the ones which don't bunch, cut, or fall down. No butt flossers. They would definitely strangle the crack and cut the hoohah. And who wants that? It's not like the guys in the gym are looking for flossers or commandos...they are looking for fit gym bunnies with a  Barbie face. I don't qualify nor would I want to but at the college stage, there are girls who work out and those who go to the gym to hook up.

Now...back to the important stuff...gym undies are the ones that are perfect for your bottom comfort and they vent the furnace. With spandex being the best choice of bottom running attire, the furnace gets humid and the chimney has to be swept after a good workout.

On top, you need a good quality sports brassiere so the girls don't hit you in the face or the vagina, depending on your elasticity. Some people prefer to tuck them in their spandex, but I find that pinches. So, I opt to make a uni-boob out of them in my Under Armor sports bra. If you get a size smaller, they really squish in there nice and you feel like high school. A good cruddy t-shirt will surely detract the shit magnets from  you and you will be in your own world, free of gym meat markets.

Yes, you might ask who would want a broken down nag of 47, but you would be surprised at the crowds that flock me. Not really, but it sounded like a magnificent fantasy. I'm sure I'm the token "old guy" and they make fun of  me just as I observe their uneven gaits and bunchies.

With my running attire advice, you might be prone to the critics, but they don't share their fashion feedback so who cares if they point and whisper. You will run like the wind and not break wind, nor will you strangle your vagina and everything will be in its place.

Socks. Socks are critical along with your shoes. Quality is important and socks should have a fit band to go above your heel so you don't have blisters. Shoes must be "on fleek" as my kiddo says which I think is the dumbest hip urban slang. I mean, where do they come up with that? At least groovy and swell made sense. Anysillystuff, the dogs have to be protected because they hold you up for a life time and when they hurt, you feel it in your vagina.

Hair is styled in a messy bun. It keeps the sweaty strands from constantly drooling on your neck. Pony tails are old school and beat you like a mother as well as attack the person in the next lane. You need to drive in your own lane and that includes your hair.

Your head sweat will blend in with your back sweat and grime to create great body porridge leading down to blend with bewb sweat and butt crack sludge. This is a problem if you sweat like Hillary Clinton during Emailgate.  No one wants to see your butt crack sweat marks and so this eliminates anything grey. Black is the best choice. Next is navy blue.

You can see the problem here with boob sweat, improper holdage, and a vagina full of body porridge signified by her peeking down there .Never mind she has a figure to die for and the fact she picked a great workout color. I always wear outfits like this to the gym.
It's much better to have a uni-boob which sports bras provide if you get the right smash. Now, I would suggest you wear a shirt over this and probably change your bottomage because this looks like a beach hooker trying to be a runner. Never mind she has a body to die for.

Even in my darkest days of workout bliss, I could never build up enough body porridge to compete with some of these college kids. Some days I feel like I am fighting a war of clean air and particle contamination.  Nor did I dress like a hooker at the gym. Distractions are terrible.

Boys...put your shirts back on!

Friday, April 10, 2015

Thursday, April 9, 2015

Coffee Trots

I really hate to talk about poo, but it seems to be the thing to do when you reach my age. I am pretty sure I vowed never to talk about regularity or my aches and pains when I was younger because that is all OLD people do.

Well, poop. Shit.

After adjusting the Eat Lean, Poop Green lifestyle plan to all organic...I have experienced some...let's say...setbacks. The toxins are exiting quickly and being replaced with wholesome foods minus any preservatives and additives. I'm pretty sure I understand why rabbits poo so much now and why cows get the runs.

Let me just say it out loud and matter of factly...

I hate it when you get the coffee trots and rush to the restroom, do your thing...only to return to your desk to begin sweating because another tidal wave is coming. You quickly exit and do the shuffle scoot down the hallway to the ladies' room. Bolting into the lavatory in hopes there is an empty stall amongst 22,000 college students (not all girls) is stressful and adds to the pucker. What if I have to go the basement or the 2nd floor or the 3rd floor? And then...relief...there is an open stall calling you like St. Peter to the Pearly Gates. You have to also account time for the mult-layered butt barrier made of toilet paper (gobs of it) so as not to contract diseases. Why? Because you can't hover when you have coffee trots or it will back blow all over the place. That is not a pretty sight. Not that I have ever seen or done that, I just imagine it to be really gross.

And don't forget to account for the acidic odor.

There is not enough powder in any powder room in this world to combat a green salad and Colombian bean explosion.

Maybe it was due to my recent ingestion of Sabra hummus. Nah. That was a couple weeks ago.

I blame the Colombians.

Don't forget to wipe. And good. Lots. Many times. Look at your toilet paper to make sure. When it comes clean, your bum is ready to go back to work.

It's never a one and done.

I used a whole roll.

And don't leave the stall until all are gone. You don't want anyone to know you did that.

Don't worry, they will evacuate quickly from the noise. It's like aiming less lethal bouncy balls at a bunch of cops. They know what that means.


For the love of air...stay out of the student center for a few hours.

Flat People

The answer to every question is: Aliens.

I have said that multiple times. I think if I say it over 10 times it becomes a fact. The puppies are part of our family and they give us joy each day despite the fact they can be naughty.

Murphy has become very protective of me and if Moose comes for loves, Murphy plunges himself in front of him or lands top of me and fights him off. It's much similar to how Miss Piggy feels about Kermit.

In fact, he has been "sneaky obsessive." That is my coin phrase for "stalking behavior on the sly" and it pretty much sums up his actions. He will sit by my feet, occasionally scanning around like a cool breeze. Then he might plop down on my feet. When he thinks all is clear, he might saunter over to the toys or the dog bed. The minute Moose comes near me, he pulls a Flying Matilda leap and lands on me in front of Moose and is fierce with possession. It's serial behavior. Even Bug notices and laughs. Sometimes she sets Moose up which is really not fair to the poor feller.

Now, other people are threatening Murphy's love and obsession with me. The flat kind.

Murphy attacking the flat people who have entered the home without an invite.

I post pics of him without his permission. Sue me.

Please don't judge me by my house either. Well, I guess you can if you want. Dog toys were everywhere and laundry just got dumped on the couch to fold during this moment. The pic was a laughing shot taken by Bug. This went on for several minutes. I don't know how we are going to break him from attacking the flat people and knowing the difference between round people and flat people and good guys and bad guys. Anyone who comes near me should prepare for war.

It's kind of nice to have a man fight over me.

We don't do any of that other relationship stuff. That is sick.

Well, I might kiss his face.

In other semi-related news, I became subjected to a CrossFit coach who is in the top 1% of the world. His peers fondly call him "The Freak of Nature" and he is Irish with a very well done beard. Scary but handsome fellow. It is fitting so say I am going to die a slow painful death. Last night I could not put my hair in a pony tail. Today, I cannot put chap stick on my lips.

I am feeling very a flat person.

Maybe I should introduce him to Murphy. 

Wednesday, April 8, 2015

Hard Wood Floors

Last night after my gym workout, I came home and settled down to a much deserved glass of red wine. My "one glass" might be a bit large, but it is still one. It wasn't long before Bug plopped down next to me. It was our time to watch "Dance Moms". Yes. I have no explanation why we have made this "a mother-daughter" thing. Those women are crazy and Abby is up and down and seems to say some pretty harsh things which makes me wonder why they stay? I think Holly is the most normal one. Bug said, "it's because she is a doctor."



I know you are thinking right now. WTF? She watches Dance Moms? I don't know what to tell you. It's like a train wreck. You can't look away. It's ridiculous.

It used to be WWF then I got tired of it. Bug now watches that on her own. Now, it is Dance Moms. I'm trying to enjoy things my daughter enjoys so we can do it together, but this is killing me.  Well sort of, now I am into it. A little. It's like watching work only minus the cop intervention.

It was not long before she asked me a question...

"Mom, what does it mean when your carpet matches your drapes?"

At that particular moment, my reaction was to spit red wine everywhere and snort it up my nose.

*cough, cough, wheeze*

"Why do you ask that?"

"I heard it at school."

"It's in reference to interior decorating."

"No, it means something else."

"Ok. When used humorously, it refers to your body hair up there and down there."

"Oh. A boy asked my friend that question."

"Egads. You tell them that is none of their business."

"I did. But my friend told him yes. Does that mean she has red hair on top and bottom?"


I did not need to picture ginger carpet and drapes.

"Uh. I guess."

"Does your carpet match your drapes, Mom?"

Again, red wine snorted up my nose.

"Are you OK, Mom?"

"Yep." (cough, wheeze)


"I have hard wood floors, honey."

"EwWWWWW. I did not need to know this!"

"You asked."

"Uh. I am lamed for life."

"You mean traumatized?"

"Yes! That too!"

Wednesday, April 1, 2015

Cinnamon Constipation

This last week has been ODD to say the least. Still waiting to feel the surge of crack also known as B12 shots the doctor promised me. I don't know if I feel like I have more energy or less. I still do what I do. Maybe. I don't know. I just found out the price of those suckers and shat my pants. Good thing I met my deductible this year so they cost me $80 instead of $400.00 normal price. Egads!

And then there's next year. What can I do to reach my deductible then? Hahaha. Yeah.

I wish they had natural hot springs B12 pools all over the state so I could just dip myself in once a month.

Have no idea why except last night I must have been touched by angels with no common sense passing out a glow of stupid. The light shown (that is a past participle of show-which right here it is improper usage and the word of choice should be shined) down on me.

It was my lucky night. I was challenged to the cinnamon challenge. I never heard of it, so I just did it. Plus there was that part where I was told almost everyone has failed the test. Well, not me. I'm superior to those Internet bunglers.

Bug topped a heaping spoonful of cinnamon onto the biggest spoon she could find. I accepted it without hesitation. It was fine for about 6 seconds until the powder went up my nose, in my lungs, and lodged in my throat. I ran to the kitchen sink and let out several coughing poofs of discomfort and cinnamon dust. Then I hacked and hacked. Over the sink, of course. While reaching for water, I wheezed. Then I guzzled water and spit and tried to regain my composure. I needed one of those dentist mouth suction machines. Breathing was overrated. I did all this while laughing my ass off. Then I I having an asthma attack? Luckily I did not.

That shit was nasty.

So it ended up I was constipated in my throat and my butt. I mean, what substance does that at both ends at the same time?

The trick was to drink a glass of red wine afterward which seemed to bring me back to normal except for the constipation part in my butt.

In the middle of this, my brother called...

"What are you doing?"

"The cinnamon challenge. You ever done it?"

"No, I'm not that stupid."


"That's like three years old, you know."

"Never heard of it. Bug thought it was pretty funny. "

"You are a Loozah!"

"Yeah. Thanks. Related! You are Biggah Loozah for not trying it."

"Nope. Smarter."

I could not taunt him. He got all the smarts.

Our conversation continued but lost the interesting. advice...don't do that shit at home. You will die.

Then I read you really could die from it and get it in your lungs since it is essentially tree bark and Sri Lankans have gotten lung cancer, hair and weight loss from working in the factories which really got me worried because then I was thinking I was really really REALLY stupid. Whew. Breathe. But I will just hope and pray I didn't get enough in the lungs to cause lung cancer.

Getting ready for bed, I had a surge of cinnamon energy to clean the bathroom mirrors. It was not the B12, but the cinnamon.Yeah, really. I think it will replace my B12 shots and everyone should try it. Next month, I might snort it for faster ingestion.

So any energizerbunny, my cleaning towel got hooked on my nice Caldrea glass soap dispenser which slipped into the sink and continued traveling right through the bottom of the porcelain bowl. Yeah. LIKE. RIGHT. THROUGH. LIKE. BROKE. IT. Dead. BEYOND REPAIR.

Fuck me in the ass.

The porcelain was shattered and I could not even fix it with duct tape or all the silicone in the world. It was a $500.00 vanity with a fossil top. Yep. I checked on prices already.

There is a big ass 6 inch diameter hole in it.  I pretty much wanted to throw up. Not cinnamon, though, because it is not constipated in my throat any longer.

Have you tried brushing your teeth in the bathtub? It's not the best option with a broken neck. Additionally, I don't trust the kid to clean the tooth paste out of it so I said she had to go downstairs or spit in the toilet. I'm not sure what I will find when I get home.

The cinnamon really causes ass pain. My butt hurts really bad.

I just know I can't afford these mistakes.

Damn you, cinnamon!