Ahh, sweet summer. It's here! And last week we had the beastly hot temperatures that the northeast is famous for, which brings out the whiner in all of us. We whine when it's too cold and snowy and we whine when it's too hot and steamy. It's a rite of passage for all who live in New England. Last week was brutal. Prime whining weather. HOT! HUMID! UNCOMFORTABLE! Don't get me wrong, I'll take it over cold and snow any day, but it was tough to bear, especially since we don't have any a/c in our house. Friday the 19th was hotter than Hades. There was no escape from the heat, even when one was placed in front of a fan turned on turbo. I was reading on my guest bed, barely breathing shallow breaths, and I had sweat dripping off of my body. Dear friends of ours had invited us to go "tubing"in the early evening on the Housatonic River, which is right below their home. Let me start by telling you that I'm a nervous nelly when it comes to water. Especially, oceans, ponds, lakes, or rivers. I'm fine in a clean pool, but the other aforementioned bodies of water freak me out. I'm just not an aquatic person. Never have been. I don't like the thought of unknown squishy things being below me in the water. Fish? Muck? Algae? Eww!! I almost died on our honeymoon when we rented a boat and Jonathan coaxed me into snorkeling. I barely got into the water when I saw a big, icky fish and scrambled up the ladder of the boat so fast that I nearly broke my collarbone. After a hyperventilating anxiety attack on the floor of the boat, Jonathan saw my true colors and didn't try to get me to snorkel again on that trip. He's smart that way. It was embarrassing. I can jump horses over five foot jumps, but swimming makes me truly weak in the knees. I've gotten better in the water since our honeymoon, though I'm still not exactly comfortable. Truth be told, I'm not even close to being comfortable. I knew that Jonathan really wanted to go tubing on the river, so I was grappling with whole prospect of putting myself in a potentially spazzy situation. The practical me thought it would be fun. The freak show me was having an anxiety attack at the idea of getting on a tube to float down the river. I was torn. Anxious. Addled by days of extreme heat. But I wanted to be a big girl and do this!! Not to mention that it was Africa hot and the water would no doubt feel great. Conquer those demons, I told myself! So, with shaking hands I donned my bathing suit and off we went to our friend's home.
"Hello," I called out in a high, breathy voice when we arrived. I knew there was no backing out now. I had to be brave. I had to face the river and my fears. Our friend's were happy to see us.
"You'll be fine," Emma consoled me as she patted my back (she knew I had trepidation about this adventure). The guys were laughing and beers were opened for the trip. We threw the big tubes into the back of their truck and headed out. When we arrived at the shallow spot for us to take off, I shuddered a little, but not enough for anyone else to see. I took a last pull of the beer and gamely, I dragged my tube into the river, hoisted myself upon it and began to...float. I was floating! It was actually pretty easy and fun, even for a water chicken, like me. The Housatonic is very kind at this time of year. It rolls slowly, the views are breathtaking, birds are on the water, you float in a dreamlike state. It was almost fun! I was stiff and nervous when we got the first fast flowing section. We had to navigate through some rocks and I proved to be successful and didn't kill myself. Phew. First hurdle, conquered. We floated and floated and passed through some more faster, rocky areas, with no issues. Hah! I was DOING this! I was being brave and though secretly I wanted it to be over I couldn't argue that the water felt lovely. I was finally cool on this hottest of all hot days.
The end of the ride was signaled by the appearance of the gorgeous covered bridge in Cornwall, CT. It's a storybook sight, that bridge. So historic, a sign of days gone by and also, a faster current.
"Go to the right," Nick called out over his shoulder. I made sure to paddle my tube over to the right side of the bridge just before we got to more fast moving water, which spilled us under the bridge, dodging more rocks and all of sudden I was in the lead. OH MY GOD, I WAS IN FRONT OF EVERYONE ELSE. I looked over my shoulder and saw that the others were laughing and relaxed, so I didn't panic. Ha ha. Fun, fun. I'm in the lead. We're in the river, hurtling along, passing big rocks, the current was strong. I looked back a final time and Emma called to me, " This is where we get off!"
"HOLY HELL," said a voice in my brain. "THIS IS WHERE YOU GET OFF!" Without another thought, I threw myself from the tube, like I was on a sinking ship in the middle of the Atlantic and landed in the water. It gushed over me. I went under for a minute, trying to right myself, but only managed to vainly grasp at slippery rocks. My tube sailed by me, leaving me to die all by myself. I watched it as it headed downstream, like an uncaring bastard and barely heard Emma say, "Oh Michele, your sunglasses!" Blast! As I stood up on shaking legs in the two feet of water, I realized that I'd lost my dang sunglasses. My expensive Dolce and Gabanna sunglasses that I'd had on my head were now victims of the river. Oh, the rocks, the slippery, mossy covered rocks. I could barely walk. The shore was in my sights, only four feet away. "Screw the sunglasses," I said. As I scrambled to the shore, scratching and bruising my legs, I watched Jonathan head downstream, like an agile fish, to fetch my wretched tube. Emma searched for my sunglasses, though it was in vain. I gasped for air and thanked the gods that I hadn't bashed out my front teeth on the rocks when I "fell" in the river.
"They're just sunglasses," I called out, my voice shaking. "How about we head back and get a cocktail?"
So, I did it. I tubed down the river. I survived (barely) and it was fun until the end, when I almost killed myself, through sheer panic. The dunk in the river actually cooled me off, and I feel badly that I lost my fancy sunglasses, but I'm glad that I didn't wimp out. Cold comfort. In the end, I blew it. However, in the long run, I don't really care. We ended the evening by having a spectacular meal by candlelight at Nick and Emma's house. Today I went to CVS and bought two pairs of cheapo sunglasses to replace my fancy pair. I'm pretty sure that if I were to tube again on the Housatonic (fat chance) those cheap sunglasses would cling to my head, with tenacity and I'd emerge like a watery freaked out mermaid, ten dollar glasses, intact. Lesson learned. NEVER GO TUBING AGAIN.
Monday, July 22, 2013
Friday, June 21, 2013
Here comes the judge...
A couple Sundays ago, I was the judge for a small horse show in Clinton Corners, NY. I awoke early that morning so I could adequately provide myself with a bucket of coffee before I had to set sail for the show. I wanted to be super sharp and on my game and since I'm not a natural morning person I needed mucho caffeine. I've been judging a bit more over the last few years. It's not a job for everyone, but if you like watching endless rounds of horses and ponies jumping courses and can sit on your ass for several hours at a time then it's be right up your alley. I've always been able to watch endless rounds at horse shows and sitting still for hours comes very naturally to me. Long story short, I enjoy judging.
The morning air smelled clean and fresh, with a subtle hint of warmth that promised a bright summer day was coming up. Perfect weather for a June horse show. I smoothed my skirt and checked my make up in the mirror before I fired up the Audi. The drive was about thirty minutes through shady country roads that wound up and down hills through the Hudson Valley. While driving, I found myself reflecting on June horse show mornings of my youth. Before I got my own horse, one of my summer highlights was the Hampton Falls Volunteer Fire Department Horse Show. When I was really young it was held in a large flat field just down the road from my house. The night before the show the volunteer firemen would configure long sections of snow fencing to provide a ring. There were more rows of snow fence to mark off the parking areas. A small wooden booth was towed in on a flatbed to serve as the judge's stand. I would spend the day of the show walking around the show grounds in a glorious daze as I watched horses and riders being put through their paces. It was thrilling to be around so many horses and riders at once. Something about it just felt "right" to me. If I was lucky I was allowed to pat a horse, or hold my friend Kim's pony for a few minutes. The night of the show I'd come home dusty and exhausted, but full of excited stories to tell my parent's about what a grand day I'd had. Poor things, they had no idea what I was setting them up for a year, or two later.
Still lost in my reverie of those charming local shows of my youth, I came upon the farm where I was judging. When I got to the end of the long bumpy driveway I stopped a woman walking by and asked where I should park my car. She pointed to where the trailers were all going, but I smiled and said to her, "Well, (I could've inserted "you insipid peasant" here, but I chose not to) I'm the judge." It's a heady feeling to say those words. Suddenly, I was the most important person on the show grounds. The earth nearly buckled under my power. Well, not really, but I did get a totally V.I.P. parking spot right next to the barn. Hoisting my bag, which was loaded with seltzer water and snacks, I went in search of the ring to get my instructions and a prize list. The staff for the show were exceedingly organized and had put me in a comfy chair by the side of the ring in the shade of a large tree, complete with a folder of judges cards. I settled in and prepared myself for the first task of the day, which was judging lead line. Lead line is always a cute class. Little tots dressed as miniature equestrians in tiny jodphurs and hard hats that are bigger than their actual heads are ridiculously adorable. I was treated to two little cuties being marched around the ring by smiling handlers. Both received blue ribbons, despite the fact that my husband texted me during the class and told me it was never too early for a child to learn the agony of defeat. He grew up under the rule of a very tough trainer a.k.a. his mother. She instilled a killer competitive instinct in her kids that drove them to run other children over in flat classes and ride like they owned the course. Jonathan still goes into a scary "win or go home" mode when he's showing. I usually don't make direct eye contact with him right before a class. It can be deadly.
The next division was a group of very intense Walk-Trot riders. One little girl was as white as a sheet, frozen in place on her chestnut pony.
"It's her first show," said the woman who was in the ring with me to do the announcing. I nodded, sagely and gave the little girl a big smile when she walked by me. Again, I reflected on my early childhood and though I don't really remember my first show I'm sure I was as spooked as the little girl in my ring.
"Relax and have fun while you ride!" I said in a cheerful voice. Okay, maybe I'd had a little too much coffee, but I didn't want to have zombie children riding around the ring, too scared to steer, or stop. No one fell off, or died of fright during the class and I pinned it as I saw it. The scared little girl actually smiled when she got her yellow third placed ribbon. I even choked up a little. I'm sappy that way. Hey, being a judge doesn't make you inhuman! Then we moved on to the jumping divisions. I spent the next few hours watching kid's jumping courses, some smooth rounds, some more bumpy, but all were well turned out and doing their very best. The last classes were composed of a group of good riders and nice horses, which made my judging job earn the money. All were good, some missed some distances and lead changes, but it was a delight to watch these young girls learn how to navigate a course of 3 foot jumps with as much precision and accuracy as they could muster. And I learned a few judging tips from the owner of the farm, who is a rated judge. It was a lovely day in June. A beautiful day to judge a horse show, and I felt privileged to be chosen for the job. If I'd had an inkling 30+ years ago that I'd be asked to be the JUDGE of a horse show I probably wouldn't have slept for a week. Being involved with horses for as many years as I have is a total thrill. Sometimes I can't believe that I make my living as a professional rider. It's a weird job to explain at cocktail parties of non horse folks, but totally fulfilling to a diehard horse lover. I'm hoping to judge more shows as I get older. I may even strive to get my judges card from our head organization, the United States Equestrian Federation.
As I drove back to our farm when the show was over, good sized check in my pocket, I couldn't wait to get there, tack up my horse and go for a ride. I don't know why horses are in my blood, since I come from a very non-horsey family, but they are and I wouldn't change a thing. At the end of the day, I'm still that excited kid who loves everything about horses, the smell, the tack, the discipline, the thrill of a good course and the bond that we have with these beautiful four legged creatures who allow us to ride them. Okay, sap fest is over. Next blog will be full of crazy cat stories and four letter words.
The morning air smelled clean and fresh, with a subtle hint of warmth that promised a bright summer day was coming up. Perfect weather for a June horse show. I smoothed my skirt and checked my make up in the mirror before I fired up the Audi. The drive was about thirty minutes through shady country roads that wound up and down hills through the Hudson Valley. While driving, I found myself reflecting on June horse show mornings of my youth. Before I got my own horse, one of my summer highlights was the Hampton Falls Volunteer Fire Department Horse Show. When I was really young it was held in a large flat field just down the road from my house. The night before the show the volunteer firemen would configure long sections of snow fencing to provide a ring. There were more rows of snow fence to mark off the parking areas. A small wooden booth was towed in on a flatbed to serve as the judge's stand. I would spend the day of the show walking around the show grounds in a glorious daze as I watched horses and riders being put through their paces. It was thrilling to be around so many horses and riders at once. Something about it just felt "right" to me. If I was lucky I was allowed to pat a horse, or hold my friend Kim's pony for a few minutes. The night of the show I'd come home dusty and exhausted, but full of excited stories to tell my parent's about what a grand day I'd had. Poor things, they had no idea what I was setting them up for a year, or two later.
Still lost in my reverie of those charming local shows of my youth, I came upon the farm where I was judging. When I got to the end of the long bumpy driveway I stopped a woman walking by and asked where I should park my car. She pointed to where the trailers were all going, but I smiled and said to her, "Well, (I could've inserted "you insipid peasant" here, but I chose not to) I'm the judge." It's a heady feeling to say those words. Suddenly, I was the most important person on the show grounds. The earth nearly buckled under my power. Well, not really, but I did get a totally V.I.P. parking spot right next to the barn. Hoisting my bag, which was loaded with seltzer water and snacks, I went in search of the ring to get my instructions and a prize list. The staff for the show were exceedingly organized and had put me in a comfy chair by the side of the ring in the shade of a large tree, complete with a folder of judges cards. I settled in and prepared myself for the first task of the day, which was judging lead line. Lead line is always a cute class. Little tots dressed as miniature equestrians in tiny jodphurs and hard hats that are bigger than their actual heads are ridiculously adorable. I was treated to two little cuties being marched around the ring by smiling handlers. Both received blue ribbons, despite the fact that my husband texted me during the class and told me it was never too early for a child to learn the agony of defeat. He grew up under the rule of a very tough trainer a.k.a. his mother. She instilled a killer competitive instinct in her kids that drove them to run other children over in flat classes and ride like they owned the course. Jonathan still goes into a scary "win or go home" mode when he's showing. I usually don't make direct eye contact with him right before a class. It can be deadly.
The next division was a group of very intense Walk-Trot riders. One little girl was as white as a sheet, frozen in place on her chestnut pony.
"It's her first show," said the woman who was in the ring with me to do the announcing. I nodded, sagely and gave the little girl a big smile when she walked by me. Again, I reflected on my early childhood and though I don't really remember my first show I'm sure I was as spooked as the little girl in my ring.
"Relax and have fun while you ride!" I said in a cheerful voice. Okay, maybe I'd had a little too much coffee, but I didn't want to have zombie children riding around the ring, too scared to steer, or stop. No one fell off, or died of fright during the class and I pinned it as I saw it. The scared little girl actually smiled when she got her yellow third placed ribbon. I even choked up a little. I'm sappy that way. Hey, being a judge doesn't make you inhuman! Then we moved on to the jumping divisions. I spent the next few hours watching kid's jumping courses, some smooth rounds, some more bumpy, but all were well turned out and doing their very best. The last classes were composed of a group of good riders and nice horses, which made my judging job earn the money. All were good, some missed some distances and lead changes, but it was a delight to watch these young girls learn how to navigate a course of 3 foot jumps with as much precision and accuracy as they could muster. And I learned a few judging tips from the owner of the farm, who is a rated judge. It was a lovely day in June. A beautiful day to judge a horse show, and I felt privileged to be chosen for the job. If I'd had an inkling 30+ years ago that I'd be asked to be the JUDGE of a horse show I probably wouldn't have slept for a week. Being involved with horses for as many years as I have is a total thrill. Sometimes I can't believe that I make my living as a professional rider. It's a weird job to explain at cocktail parties of non horse folks, but totally fulfilling to a diehard horse lover. I'm hoping to judge more shows as I get older. I may even strive to get my judges card from our head organization, the United States Equestrian Federation.
As I drove back to our farm when the show was over, good sized check in my pocket, I couldn't wait to get there, tack up my horse and go for a ride. I don't know why horses are in my blood, since I come from a very non-horsey family, but they are and I wouldn't change a thing. At the end of the day, I'm still that excited kid who loves everything about horses, the smell, the tack, the discipline, the thrill of a good course and the bond that we have with these beautiful four legged creatures who allow us to ride them. Okay, sap fest is over. Next blog will be full of crazy cat stories and four letter words.
Tuesday, June 18, 2013
Cat Dynamics, illustrated by some guest blogging...
Wow, I'm such a lame ass. I haven't bothered to follow up on the last blog and we're in the latter weeks of June. To be fair, we have been very busy with horse shows, lessons, barn chores, tennis, getting a kitten, etc. YEAH THAT'S RIGHT, WE GOT A KITTEN!!!!! Any of my friends on Facebook know this since he's been featured on my page, daily, since he arrived at our house a week ago. We named him Miles, and he's tiny, fuzzy, insanely adorable, precocious and brave as can be. There's nothing more ridiculous looking than a tiny ball of fuzzy kitten-ness arching its back all Halloween cat style, advancing toward a target in a sideways fashion on its tiptoes. I mean come on! It just makes you laugh. Miles does this move on a regular basis at us, the other cats and occasionally the dogs. He is a bad ass mo'fo kitten. We love him so much that it's nausea inducing. I love that when I pick him up to kiss his head he claps his fuzzy kitten arms around my neck and bites me. I love that he attacks our feet while we're brushing our teeth. I love that he runs in front of us while we're walking through the house and stops dead directly in front of us to rear up and grab us around the ankles. He has a sweet, cuddly side that he exhibits when he's asleep on a lap. When he's asleep we can pet him all we like without any claws or teeth or ninja fight moves. For now his tiny teeth and nails don't hurt a bit. I fear as he gets older these fun little habits of his will have us hemorrhaging vast quantities of blood, requiring transfusions several times a week. We'll have long, road maps of scars decorating our bodies. People will start rumors that the Edel couple must have a self cutting problem due to all of the deep scarlet ribbons of scratches making road maps across our arms and legs. I'll get anonymous self help pamphlets in the mail from "Cutter's Hotline". My guess is that we should address Miles' kitten obsession with killing and conquering anyone, or thing who crosses his 1 lb. path. It seems like a logical move since I predict lots of bloodshed in the future. But he's so damn cute! And irresistible! And soft! And fuzzy! Okay, I'll stop there. If you want to see pics of the devil's spawn just check my FB page.
Marbles, our calico girl cat has checked in for a guest blog feature:
My caretakers have lost their ever loving minds. They brought home an animal that was plucked from the bowels of hell. I hate him with ever fiber of my tri colored being. I fantasize daily about killing him, plucking every piece of fuzzy kitten hair off his body until he's a bald, bleeding mass. The extent of my loathing of this beast is hard to put into words, but just know that I'm pissed off beyond belief. I watch him cavorting around the house, while I'm high atop a piece of furniture and I try to use my death glare to freeze him in his kitten tracks. It's no use. He's impervious to my death gaze. The other day he got on my bed (where my caretaker's sleep) and I couldn't believe his audacity. Nothing is sacred anymore. Nothing. My life is over as I knew it.
Mia, our black and white cat decided she would weigh in, too:
I've always been the youngest, smallest and cutest cat in the house. I still am in my mind, but my caretaker's have brought home a stupid, crappy kitten that they fawn over for hours while he terrorizes the rest of us. I've never hissed so much in my life. My hisser is actually sore. This kitten thinks he's going to be my friend. WRONG! He chased me tonight. Twice. My hatred for him is deepening, which I didn't think possible. I refuse to be in the house for more than an hour while IT is here. I may go on another water strike, but I know the woman caretaker will just force a syringe of water in my mouth if I do. She's cruel, in so many ways. I am the cutest cat, dammit. I eat ITS food every chance I get in hopes of starving it. Then I watch the woman caretaker refill his dish and tell ME to stop it. I tried suffocating IT the other day while IT was sleeping in the woman's lap. The caretaker's just laughed and thought it was adorable that I was sleeping on her lap alongside the thing. They're too dumb to catch onto my ploy. I've thought of enlisting Marbles in my plan to off IT, but she's such a bitch and claims to be above me. My boyfriend, Zeke is pissing me off, too. He actually seems amused by the stupid kitten. What a dumbass. My wrath will be recognized. They'll all be sorry.
Zeke, our big 17 year old Tiger, had this to add:
I'm still mourning the loss of my beautiful mother, Miss Girl. She was a great mom, always loving, nurturing me, giving me great advice. No cat could ask for a more caring momma. But, alas the passage of time strikes us all down at some point and my mom is gone now. The caretaker's brought home a small, fuzzy baby cat last week. I am now an uncle to this creature. I've never questioned their choice in new animals, but I'll admit that this one is a tad lively for our geriatric home. He thunders around the house like a miniature elephant. And he mock attacks me on a regular basis. I gave him a smack down on day two, albeit a gentle one, given the difference in our sizes, which established a modicum of respect that I wasn't sure was possible when I first met him. However, the baby cat isn't stupid and he now shows me respect, but I allow him to bat at my tail and engage in some gentle play time. Mia is ready to break up with me, but she's just being overly hostile. I think she'll get over it in time. She's never been the sharpest tack in the box. Don't get me wrong, I love her, but she's a bit of an idiot. I think it will all be fine. Adjustments are always difficult.
Miles, the small bundle of baby fuzz has the last word:
It's my house now, BITCHES!!!!
Marbles, our calico girl cat has checked in for a guest blog feature:
My caretakers have lost their ever loving minds. They brought home an animal that was plucked from the bowels of hell. I hate him with ever fiber of my tri colored being. I fantasize daily about killing him, plucking every piece of fuzzy kitten hair off his body until he's a bald, bleeding mass. The extent of my loathing of this beast is hard to put into words, but just know that I'm pissed off beyond belief. I watch him cavorting around the house, while I'm high atop a piece of furniture and I try to use my death glare to freeze him in his kitten tracks. It's no use. He's impervious to my death gaze. The other day he got on my bed (where my caretaker's sleep) and I couldn't believe his audacity. Nothing is sacred anymore. Nothing. My life is over as I knew it.
Mia, our black and white cat decided she would weigh in, too:
I've always been the youngest, smallest and cutest cat in the house. I still am in my mind, but my caretaker's have brought home a stupid, crappy kitten that they fawn over for hours while he terrorizes the rest of us. I've never hissed so much in my life. My hisser is actually sore. This kitten thinks he's going to be my friend. WRONG! He chased me tonight. Twice. My hatred for him is deepening, which I didn't think possible. I refuse to be in the house for more than an hour while IT is here. I may go on another water strike, but I know the woman caretaker will just force a syringe of water in my mouth if I do. She's cruel, in so many ways. I am the cutest cat, dammit. I eat ITS food every chance I get in hopes of starving it. Then I watch the woman caretaker refill his dish and tell ME to stop it. I tried suffocating IT the other day while IT was sleeping in the woman's lap. The caretaker's just laughed and thought it was adorable that I was sleeping on her lap alongside the thing. They're too dumb to catch onto my ploy. I've thought of enlisting Marbles in my plan to off IT, but she's such a bitch and claims to be above me. My boyfriend, Zeke is pissing me off, too. He actually seems amused by the stupid kitten. What a dumbass. My wrath will be recognized. They'll all be sorry.
Zeke, our big 17 year old Tiger, had this to add:
I'm still mourning the loss of my beautiful mother, Miss Girl. She was a great mom, always loving, nurturing me, giving me great advice. No cat could ask for a more caring momma. But, alas the passage of time strikes us all down at some point and my mom is gone now. The caretaker's brought home a small, fuzzy baby cat last week. I am now an uncle to this creature. I've never questioned their choice in new animals, but I'll admit that this one is a tad lively for our geriatric home. He thunders around the house like a miniature elephant. And he mock attacks me on a regular basis. I gave him a smack down on day two, albeit a gentle one, given the difference in our sizes, which established a modicum of respect that I wasn't sure was possible when I first met him. However, the baby cat isn't stupid and he now shows me respect, but I allow him to bat at my tail and engage in some gentle play time. Mia is ready to break up with me, but she's just being overly hostile. I think she'll get over it in time. She's never been the sharpest tack in the box. Don't get me wrong, I love her, but she's a bit of an idiot. I think it will all be fine. Adjustments are always difficult.
Miles, the small bundle of baby fuzz has the last word:
It's my house now, BITCHES!!!!
Thursday, May 23, 2013
A Lovely Trip...
Jonathan and I were lucky enough to be invited to a very dear friend's wedding that happened to be taking place in the Dominican Republic in the beginning of May. We accepted, of course, especially since Jonathan was asked to be the Best Man and we couldn't say no to a vacation destination like the DR. As the day of departure for this trip got closer, unfortunately my oldest, best kitty friend began to show signs of decline, due to old age. I was heartbroken, but this moment is inevitable when we're lucky enough to have pets in our lives. Miss Girl gave us the clear sign that she was on her way out of this world three days before we were set to leave. It was so sad, but she had a graceful exit (of course, she did, she was always graceful and very proper), and after having her live with us for 18 years I said my final goodbye to glorious 20 year old Miss Girl. May she R.I.P. I will always love this kitty the most, she was fuzzy, grey and white and very special. Demanding, gorgeous and a wonderful soul. She left behind her 16 yr. old big grey Tiger son, Zeke and we have two other kitties, Mia and Marbles, who didn't like Miss Girl much, but I'll overlook their taste in friends. Frankly, I think they were just jealous, because Miss G was very pretty and though I love Mia and Marbles, they aren't exactly oil paintings. Hey, we all can't be super models. I get it.
So back to the trip. It didn't start off all that well. I was still pretty broken up about saying goodbye to Miss Girl, but we were going to a tropical island after a wretched winter and a bleak spring so I couldn't complain and tried to dry up my tears. The flight to the DR was uneventful, direct from JFK to Punta Cana, DR. On the flight, we had two girls sitting behind us who filled the flight with inane conversation. They proved impossible to ignore. IMPOSSIBLE TO IGNORE. Beyond dumb. Mind numbing dumb. One of the girls had a panic attack before we landed. I heard her have this convo with a flight attendant:
Flight Attendant: What's going on? Are you okay?
Stupid Girl: I don't know. I feel dizzy.
F.A.: Did you take anything?
S.G.: Yes, I took a valium before we took off.
F.A.: Do you feel sick?
At this point, I want to reach back and slap the Stupid Girl and tell her to strap it on. She's made it this far and she needs to grow a pair. It's a plane flight, for God's sake. Flying is stressful and unnatural. Don't do it if you can't handle it!
S.G.: I feel sick and dizzy. Oh my God, I might be sick!
Now, I want to really slap the Stupid Girl, because I was afraid she was going to barf on me and I'd been listening to her stupid stories for THREE HOURS.
F.A.: You need to calm down. You'll be fine. Sip some water and relax.
Stupid Friend of Stupid Girl: I think you're having a panic attack. I had one once. It was terrible, but I was fine. The airport in the DR is so pretty. It's pink and has a thatched roof. ( really? this is what you tell your friend who is freaking out? But it works, so fuck it. )
Stupid Girl, giggles.
Giggles. Now, I really want to hit her. The Flight Attendant seems to feel the situation has been diffused and moves on as the plane begins it's descent. Well, long story short, we land, there isn't any barfing and we all get off the plane to sort out luggage, etc.
After much ado, Jonathan and I find our luggage, make it through customs and head to find a van that will take us to our hotel. Guess who is sitting in our van? The Two Stupid Girls!! I can't wrap my mind around the fact that we have these two idiots in our van, but I put on a brave face and get into the front seat next to the driver. Off we go. Really? What did I do to deserve this??
The Stupid Girls immediately begin to make conversation with two other idiot American's in the van. It's painful. Annoying. Horrible. I feel badly for Jonathan, who is sitting next to them, but I look out the window from the front seat, like I'm not even in the same car. LA LA LA LA. We drop off the other idiot passengers at their hotel after a 15 minute ride. Bye! Then we drive on. The Stupid Girls attempt to talk to the driver, who says that he doesn't speak English. For a moment, I think this is weird, but then I recall the conversation he's heard from them. It's insulting! These people are horrific. Hmmm. I begin to call upon my high school Spanish. I go through some conjugation, verbs, nouns, etc. So, we drop off the Stupid Girls 10 minutes later at another resort. Bam. Bye, idiots! And head off to our resort. Ahh, it's just Jonathan and I in the van. I get brave and ask the driver how far, in Spanish. The driver is awesome, he answers me very simply, 20 minutes! We chat, in simple Spanish for a few minutes, I feel very chuffed at my my bi-lingual prowess and we finally arrive at our resort, Excellence! To be continued...
So back to the trip. It didn't start off all that well. I was still pretty broken up about saying goodbye to Miss Girl, but we were going to a tropical island after a wretched winter and a bleak spring so I couldn't complain and tried to dry up my tears. The flight to the DR was uneventful, direct from JFK to Punta Cana, DR. On the flight, we had two girls sitting behind us who filled the flight with inane conversation. They proved impossible to ignore. IMPOSSIBLE TO IGNORE. Beyond dumb. Mind numbing dumb. One of the girls had a panic attack before we landed. I heard her have this convo with a flight attendant:
Flight Attendant: What's going on? Are you okay?
Stupid Girl: I don't know. I feel dizzy.
F.A.: Did you take anything?
S.G.: Yes, I took a valium before we took off.
F.A.: Do you feel sick?
At this point, I want to reach back and slap the Stupid Girl and tell her to strap it on. She's made it this far and she needs to grow a pair. It's a plane flight, for God's sake. Flying is stressful and unnatural. Don't do it if you can't handle it!
S.G.: I feel sick and dizzy. Oh my God, I might be sick!
Now, I want to really slap the Stupid Girl, because I was afraid she was going to barf on me and I'd been listening to her stupid stories for THREE HOURS.
F.A.: You need to calm down. You'll be fine. Sip some water and relax.
Stupid Friend of Stupid Girl: I think you're having a panic attack. I had one once. It was terrible, but I was fine. The airport in the DR is so pretty. It's pink and has a thatched roof. ( really? this is what you tell your friend who is freaking out? But it works, so fuck it. )
Stupid Girl, giggles.
Giggles. Now, I really want to hit her. The Flight Attendant seems to feel the situation has been diffused and moves on as the plane begins it's descent. Well, long story short, we land, there isn't any barfing and we all get off the plane to sort out luggage, etc.
After much ado, Jonathan and I find our luggage, make it through customs and head to find a van that will take us to our hotel. Guess who is sitting in our van? The Two Stupid Girls!! I can't wrap my mind around the fact that we have these two idiots in our van, but I put on a brave face and get into the front seat next to the driver. Off we go. Really? What did I do to deserve this??
The Stupid Girls immediately begin to make conversation with two other idiot American's in the van. It's painful. Annoying. Horrible. I feel badly for Jonathan, who is sitting next to them, but I look out the window from the front seat, like I'm not even in the same car. LA LA LA LA. We drop off the other idiot passengers at their hotel after a 15 minute ride. Bye! Then we drive on. The Stupid Girls attempt to talk to the driver, who says that he doesn't speak English. For a moment, I think this is weird, but then I recall the conversation he's heard from them. It's insulting! These people are horrific. Hmmm. I begin to call upon my high school Spanish. I go through some conjugation, verbs, nouns, etc. So, we drop off the Stupid Girls 10 minutes later at another resort. Bam. Bye, idiots! And head off to our resort. Ahh, it's just Jonathan and I in the van. I get brave and ask the driver how far, in Spanish. The driver is awesome, he answers me very simply, 20 minutes! We chat, in simple Spanish for a few minutes, I feel very chuffed at my my bi-lingual prowess and we finally arrive at our resort, Excellence! To be continued...
Monday, April 22, 2013
Reading Frenzy
I'm one of those rabid reader people. I start to jones when I'm getting near the end of a book that I'm enjoying. I'll read the thing like a woman possessed, but as the last chapters come into view I'll slow waaaayyy down to prolong the agony of being...finished. When I finally muster the courage to read the last chapter, I will savor each word in each sentence. After I read the last line, I'll place the book down on the table and try to imagine how I'm going to carry on. My body will feel like an empty husk, my wan expression will bear evidence of the sadness deep in my soul. It's over. It's the same feeling that I used to have as I went to bed on Christmas night when I was a little kid. Remember that? The build up for Christmas is so psycho-amazing when you're little. Between the cookie decorating, tree decorating, candles with colored light bulbs in each window, and the presents? Christmas is like a little kid crack party. And then it's all over. The next day is just another day. It's not special. It's Dec. 26. Big whoop. The decorations lose their sparkle, the tree looks limp. You get it. That's how I feel after I finish a really good book. Sad, like I'll never find a book to read that is that good again. It's a wonder that I'm not in therapy.
I have a Kindle, but after the first couple of months the novelty of reading a clinical paragraphs on a grey tablet the size of a large index card wore off. Call me old fashioned, but I'm a library book person. Our local library in Millbrook kinda sucks. The librarians are all prudish older women, with permanent parsimonious expressions stamped on their faces. They basically exude an air of disapproval. Of what? I don't know the answer, maybe it's just life in general, enjoyment, puppies and chocolate. There is one nerdy young dude who is now working at the library. He's just what you're picturing in your head. Tall, geeky, clunky dark framed glasses (of course!), wears tight sweaters and has a prominent adam's apple. I can see him at the guidance counselor's office as a junior in high school, tapping a pencil on his Battlestar Galactica trapper keeper saying in an excited high nasal voice, "I'm really interested in becoming a librarian!", while the guidance counselor suppresses a yawn and replies, "Of course you are, Steven."
Selecting a book at the library is like playing the lottery. I try to limit myself to three books at a time, four at the most. My standard method for selection is to read the title, open the jacket, read a bit of the blurb on the inside cover and scan the first page. For me it's either in, or out. I'm not into cheesy romances, or period pieces about war, or dragons, or women clad in corsets and bustles. I like real, fleshed out characters, good description and a story that will hook me in so deeply that while I'm reading it I'll forget that I have clothes that need folding in the dryer and nineteen other things that need doing while I'm sitting on my ass with my nose in a book.
This morning I finished what I considered to be a very excellent novel. It's called, "Truth in Advertising" by John Kenney, a first time novelist. The writing is as smooth as glass. The story is sweet and sad, but not schmaltzy. The main character was wry, smart and quick witted and you love him, feel sorry for him, want to take him out for a drink. I want more of him. I miss him already. When I read John Updike's "Rabbit, run" series of four novels about an ordinary man from PA named Harry Angstrom, nicknamed Rabbit, there was security that Harry would have some longevity. This was to be a long term relationship and by the end of the last book, "Rabbit at Rest", you were wistful, but ready to let him go. He'd run his course. Harry wasn't the best guy in the world for a multitude of reasons, but in the end you still like him and even though he smoked for years, drank too much and ate pounds of greasy food, you're still sad that he dies of a heart attack at the end.
I have one more book to read out of my current library stack of three. However, I need a few hours before I'm ready to start it. I'm not over the mourning period of finishing the last one. I need a little space. Some closure. Time for deep reflection. I may light some candles and chant. Don't worry, I'll find the strength to carry on and read again. I always do.
I have a Kindle, but after the first couple of months the novelty of reading a clinical paragraphs on a grey tablet the size of a large index card wore off. Call me old fashioned, but I'm a library book person. Our local library in Millbrook kinda sucks. The librarians are all prudish older women, with permanent parsimonious expressions stamped on their faces. They basically exude an air of disapproval. Of what? I don't know the answer, maybe it's just life in general, enjoyment, puppies and chocolate. There is one nerdy young dude who is now working at the library. He's just what you're picturing in your head. Tall, geeky, clunky dark framed glasses (of course!), wears tight sweaters and has a prominent adam's apple. I can see him at the guidance counselor's office as a junior in high school, tapping a pencil on his Battlestar Galactica trapper keeper saying in an excited high nasal voice, "I'm really interested in becoming a librarian!", while the guidance counselor suppresses a yawn and replies, "Of course you are, Steven."
Selecting a book at the library is like playing the lottery. I try to limit myself to three books at a time, four at the most. My standard method for selection is to read the title, open the jacket, read a bit of the blurb on the inside cover and scan the first page. For me it's either in, or out. I'm not into cheesy romances, or period pieces about war, or dragons, or women clad in corsets and bustles. I like real, fleshed out characters, good description and a story that will hook me in so deeply that while I'm reading it I'll forget that I have clothes that need folding in the dryer and nineteen other things that need doing while I'm sitting on my ass with my nose in a book.
This morning I finished what I considered to be a very excellent novel. It's called, "Truth in Advertising" by John Kenney, a first time novelist. The writing is as smooth as glass. The story is sweet and sad, but not schmaltzy. The main character was wry, smart and quick witted and you love him, feel sorry for him, want to take him out for a drink. I want more of him. I miss him already. When I read John Updike's "Rabbit, run" series of four novels about an ordinary man from PA named Harry Angstrom, nicknamed Rabbit, there was security that Harry would have some longevity. This was to be a long term relationship and by the end of the last book, "Rabbit at Rest", you were wistful, but ready to let him go. He'd run his course. Harry wasn't the best guy in the world for a multitude of reasons, but in the end you still like him and even though he smoked for years, drank too much and ate pounds of greasy food, you're still sad that he dies of a heart attack at the end.
I have one more book to read out of my current library stack of three. However, I need a few hours before I'm ready to start it. I'm not over the mourning period of finishing the last one. I need a little space. Some closure. Time for deep reflection. I may light some candles and chant. Don't worry, I'll find the strength to carry on and read again. I always do.
Friday, April 12, 2013
A robot vacuum, who knew??!!!
For his birthday this year, Jonathan's parents gave him a present that has revolutionized both of our lives. It's a robotic vacuum cleaner aptly named the "Neato". No bigger than the average bathroom scale, this clever little unit zooms around the house methodically clearing our floors of dog hair, cat hair, dirt, sticks and whatever other bits of detritus has accumulated over the course of the day. It has a memory so it knows where its been and it even knows when the battery is getting low and it returns itself to its port, which is based in our living room. This machine is amazing. First of all, it does a great job. Our rugs have never looked better. Second of all, it is very thorough and though it doesn't move the dining room chairs to get under the table perfectly, I'm not complaining. I haven't taken out the Dyson is two weeks, and the floors look like they could be eaten off of (though I wouldn't advise it in my house). Third of all, its programmed to vacuum every day while we're out in the barn so when we come back to the house it's like the Vacuum Fairy has been there. The damn thing cleans under our bed AND under the living room sofa. How many times have you gone to look for a lost shoe, sock etc. and gotten on your knees to take a peek under these two pieces of furniture and risen in disgust at the amount of "stuff" under there. Please tell me that its not just my house that has hosted giant dust bunny parties under the bed and sofa. I believe we've had entire dust bunny conventions in my house. Any time we've moved I've always shrieked in horror at the things that were hiding under the furniture, which hadn't been disturbed since it was last moved into position. I can happily say, that will never happen in my home again. I'll even push the sofa aside next time my mom comes to visit just so I can show off how pristine the carpet is under there.
Sometimes we happen to be inside the house on a break while the Neato is working its magic. The Neato has sensors on it so it doesn't ever bump into us, or the cats, or dogs if any of us are in the way of its path. I was a little concerned when I saw it hurtling across the carpet towards my very deaf cat, Miss Girl, but it politely veered away from her allowing her to continue on with her bath, undisturbed. My boy cat, Zeke (who is very bored this time of year since he's been waiting for spring to come so he can get out of the house and eat moles again) has taken it upon himself to challenge the Neato. He likes to walk by it while it's working and give it cold stare and puff his body up, while he cruises by on his tippy toes, like Fred Flintsone at the bowling alley. Jonathan noticed him doing this threatening drive by last week, and I've seen it a couple of times. Cats are so ridiculous, especially Big Zekie. He's such a badass. The Neato gives him a respectable berth when it goes by and I think Zeke feels he's gotten the requisite respect he deserves from it. Win/win. The only member of our household who really doesn't enjoy the Neato, is our big merle Aussie, Remy. He's a sensitive sort and has never been fond of the vacuum, or the blower we use to clean the aisle in the barn. He doesn't care for electronic beeps that come from the TV when we're picking a show from Netflix. And now a motorized moving, humming robot that seems to go everywhere in the house, therefore making no where safe. Poor Remy. He seeks solace, laying by my feet, eyes wary as the robot passes through the room. I tell him it's okay, but I know he doesn't trust this vacuuming robot freak. It's unnatural. And it is. Unnatural. I like to think it's supernatural! It means we always have clean floors. I will never again wince when I have to bring someone up to our house, thinking "Oh my heavens, the floors are SO dirty!", because they aren't dirty. They are fabulously clean!! Happy Birthday Jonathan!
Sometimes we happen to be inside the house on a break while the Neato is working its magic. The Neato has sensors on it so it doesn't ever bump into us, or the cats, or dogs if any of us are in the way of its path. I was a little concerned when I saw it hurtling across the carpet towards my very deaf cat, Miss Girl, but it politely veered away from her allowing her to continue on with her bath, undisturbed. My boy cat, Zeke (who is very bored this time of year since he's been waiting for spring to come so he can get out of the house and eat moles again) has taken it upon himself to challenge the Neato. He likes to walk by it while it's working and give it cold stare and puff his body up, while he cruises by on his tippy toes, like Fred Flintsone at the bowling alley. Jonathan noticed him doing this threatening drive by last week, and I've seen it a couple of times. Cats are so ridiculous, especially Big Zekie. He's such a badass. The Neato gives him a respectable berth when it goes by and I think Zeke feels he's gotten the requisite respect he deserves from it. Win/win. The only member of our household who really doesn't enjoy the Neato, is our big merle Aussie, Remy. He's a sensitive sort and has never been fond of the vacuum, or the blower we use to clean the aisle in the barn. He doesn't care for electronic beeps that come from the TV when we're picking a show from Netflix. And now a motorized moving, humming robot that seems to go everywhere in the house, therefore making no where safe. Poor Remy. He seeks solace, laying by my feet, eyes wary as the robot passes through the room. I tell him it's okay, but I know he doesn't trust this vacuuming robot freak. It's unnatural. And it is. Unnatural. I like to think it's supernatural! It means we always have clean floors. I will never again wince when I have to bring someone up to our house, thinking "Oh my heavens, the floors are SO dirty!", because they aren't dirty. They are fabulously clean!! Happy Birthday Jonathan!
Wednesday, April 3, 2013
Working it Out!!
I just realized that I've skipped blogging for the entire month of March. Why? Because March was HORRIBLE! Cold, windy, grey and basically an extension of winter 2013, which is unfair to say the least. I'm going to stop my whining right here. March is over and done and despite the fact that April hasn't started out much better, the upcoming forecasted temperatures look acceptable for this time of year. I can live with any day over 50 degrees. My expectations have been lowered and a sunny day, with no wind, over 50 will do just fine. Okay, weather bitching is now officially done.
Now onto the meat of this blog, which is that I've started going to a gym to workout. It's the first time in my life that I've been compelled to exercise beyond my daily mucking stalls, throwing hay bales, lifting grain bags, wrangling horses and riding. That might sound like a fair amount of physical daily exercise to most folks, but considering I've done this job for the last 20+ years my body is a virtual robot and I can do these chores with one arm tied behind my back, albeit my very sore, aching, seized up back. I realized around mid-February that I was getting up out of a chair bent over like a 80 year old grandma, and my middle resembled the Pillsbury Dough Boy. I have thin legs, so during the winter of wearing ten layers, no one ever thinks I look pudgy, but the mirror doesn't lie and my stomach was in sad shape. We're going to a wedding in the Dominican Republic in the beginning of May, and I was starting to panic at the thought of exposing my lilly white, whale belly in a bikini. It became time to DO something about my decrepit, chubby state. So, off to the gym I skipped, or rather limped like quasi-modo. The gym I chose is a tad run down, but it has all the requisite machines and weight equipment. And it was cheap as hell to join. Perfect. The manager is kind of creepy, but I don't care. He spends most of his time on his cell phone, sitting around in a tacky, leather Yankees jacket, with a "lid" on his head and reeks of cigarettes. I always give him a cheerful "Good Morning" as I scan my card and leave it at that. I decided early on that I was going to abandon my gregarious nature when I was doing my workouts. No eye contact, no smiles, I would be The Terminator in the gym, a workout zombie. I'm sticking to it. I'm a workout beyotch. Every day I put in my earbuds attached to the iPod, set it on some groovy tunes and set forth to work up a sweat by torturing myself on the elliptical machine, treadmill, weights, etc. I mix it up and I'm learning as I go what works best for my body and how far I need to push myself without making myself horribly crippled. The scary thing is that I really f'ing like it!! My back has never felt better, no joke. For the first time in years I don't feel like the Tin Man in need of a good dose of oil. This was a welcome side effect that I wasn't anticipating. My core has a ways to go, but already after one month, my stomach muscles are visibly tighter and I'm getting in shape. I have a waist! And the muffin top is smaller! Hallelujah!! I just may be able to brave the beach in the D.R. without sucking it in so hard that I pass out taking my first sip of a rum punch.
I go to the gym around 8-9 a.m. and though I don't engage in conversation with the other patrons, don't kid yourself, I watch EVERYTHING. It's all done on the sly, because staring at the gym is a total no-no. One of the rooms has a solid wall of mirrors and it's tempting to get stuck looking at other people (especially for a serial voyeur, like myself). Getting busted staring is the kiss of death. I learned the hard way and now I've devised some quick glances that go unnoticed, just fast peeks then back to making it look like I'm training for a marathon, like a serious athlete (ha ha ha ha ha!). I'll never run a marathon, in fact if I run for 15 minutes on the treadmill, I look like a bleary eyed co-ed who just woke up from a two day bender. It helps that most of the other gym folks that I see are in the 60+ age group. I give these guys and gals a lot of credit. A few of them could potentially kick my ass. One guy does weights like no one I've ever seen. He's a total freak. Covered in sweat, he goes from machine to machine, huffing and puffing, lifting and groaning. He's an animal! Another older dude gets on the elliptical machine and pumps so hard that I fear the thing will take flight. I swear this gym must have 911 on speed dial, but these folks are there almost every day and I haven't seen an ambulance, yet. I take a day off every fifth day, since I do have a business to run and I have to attend to certain duties beyond my own vanity. I know, boring, but it's true. So that's what I've been up to for the last month. Getting older doesn't have to suck, or mean that we have to surrender to letting ourselves go. Vain jackasses, like me, can pay to punish themselves on a daily basis. Whoo hoo! Off to mix myself a martini now...I don't want you to think I've TOTALLY lost my mind, or that this blog has been hijacked by some kind of health nut. No, it's still me, the martini floozy, just in a bit better shape, getting down with her bad self, while she secretly watches old folks swing their flab. Hey, don't judge, I could be spending the hour I work out stalking people on FB while eating pancakes!
Now onto the meat of this blog, which is that I've started going to a gym to workout. It's the first time in my life that I've been compelled to exercise beyond my daily mucking stalls, throwing hay bales, lifting grain bags, wrangling horses and riding. That might sound like a fair amount of physical daily exercise to most folks, but considering I've done this job for the last 20+ years my body is a virtual robot and I can do these chores with one arm tied behind my back, albeit my very sore, aching, seized up back. I realized around mid-February that I was getting up out of a chair bent over like a 80 year old grandma, and my middle resembled the Pillsbury Dough Boy. I have thin legs, so during the winter of wearing ten layers, no one ever thinks I look pudgy, but the mirror doesn't lie and my stomach was in sad shape. We're going to a wedding in the Dominican Republic in the beginning of May, and I was starting to panic at the thought of exposing my lilly white, whale belly in a bikini. It became time to DO something about my decrepit, chubby state. So, off to the gym I skipped, or rather limped like quasi-modo. The gym I chose is a tad run down, but it has all the requisite machines and weight equipment. And it was cheap as hell to join. Perfect. The manager is kind of creepy, but I don't care. He spends most of his time on his cell phone, sitting around in a tacky, leather Yankees jacket, with a "lid" on his head and reeks of cigarettes. I always give him a cheerful "Good Morning" as I scan my card and leave it at that. I decided early on that I was going to abandon my gregarious nature when I was doing my workouts. No eye contact, no smiles, I would be The Terminator in the gym, a workout zombie. I'm sticking to it. I'm a workout beyotch. Every day I put in my earbuds attached to the iPod, set it on some groovy tunes and set forth to work up a sweat by torturing myself on the elliptical machine, treadmill, weights, etc. I mix it up and I'm learning as I go what works best for my body and how far I need to push myself without making myself horribly crippled. The scary thing is that I really f'ing like it!! My back has never felt better, no joke. For the first time in years I don't feel like the Tin Man in need of a good dose of oil. This was a welcome side effect that I wasn't anticipating. My core has a ways to go, but already after one month, my stomach muscles are visibly tighter and I'm getting in shape. I have a waist! And the muffin top is smaller! Hallelujah!! I just may be able to brave the beach in the D.R. without sucking it in so hard that I pass out taking my first sip of a rum punch.
I go to the gym around 8-9 a.m. and though I don't engage in conversation with the other patrons, don't kid yourself, I watch EVERYTHING. It's all done on the sly, because staring at the gym is a total no-no. One of the rooms has a solid wall of mirrors and it's tempting to get stuck looking at other people (especially for a serial voyeur, like myself). Getting busted staring is the kiss of death. I learned the hard way and now I've devised some quick glances that go unnoticed, just fast peeks then back to making it look like I'm training for a marathon, like a serious athlete (ha ha ha ha ha!). I'll never run a marathon, in fact if I run for 15 minutes on the treadmill, I look like a bleary eyed co-ed who just woke up from a two day bender. It helps that most of the other gym folks that I see are in the 60+ age group. I give these guys and gals a lot of credit. A few of them could potentially kick my ass. One guy does weights like no one I've ever seen. He's a total freak. Covered in sweat, he goes from machine to machine, huffing and puffing, lifting and groaning. He's an animal! Another older dude gets on the elliptical machine and pumps so hard that I fear the thing will take flight. I swear this gym must have 911 on speed dial, but these folks are there almost every day and I haven't seen an ambulance, yet. I take a day off every fifth day, since I do have a business to run and I have to attend to certain duties beyond my own vanity. I know, boring, but it's true. So that's what I've been up to for the last month. Getting older doesn't have to suck, or mean that we have to surrender to letting ourselves go. Vain jackasses, like me, can pay to punish themselves on a daily basis. Whoo hoo! Off to mix myself a martini now...I don't want you to think I've TOTALLY lost my mind, or that this blog has been hijacked by some kind of health nut. No, it's still me, the martini floozy, just in a bit better shape, getting down with her bad self, while she secretly watches old folks swing their flab. Hey, don't judge, I could be spending the hour I work out stalking people on FB while eating pancakes!
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