Last Will and Testament

By the time you read this (sometimes I auto-post, based on all the crap that spews from my mind, and my lack of desire to document it...) I might be dead.

You see, I went back to yoga today, after a VERY long absence.  About a year.  When my body couldn't keep up (holy shit, yoga is totally good for body pain because you just go at your own level, but I couldn't even do that!), I stopped going.  Which made my body forget all the wonderful things it had learned. Like the bending, and the stretching, and the less groaning.

So I finally went back.  And damned if I couldn't even sit cross-legged.  So there I am, sitting on my mat amongst people twice my age, and I can't even sit criss-cross applesauce like a good little Yogi.

And now, I fear for my body.  I hurt in places I shouldn't hurt.  Places I'm not sure anatomy people have even named yet.  What if I wake up tomorrow, dead from over-exertion at yoga?

So I thought I would submit my will, in case shit falls the fuck apart.

Being of questionable sound mind,  I leave the following things to the following people:

To qfsp (quest for skinny pants)-I leave all my blog followers.  She always boosts me up (except for that time she assured me exercise would help me feel better) and reminds me to stay focused.  She has inspired me to track my food, write shit down, blog my personal business.  Actually, some of you may just have a bone to pick with her.  Go annoy her, here.

To Mrs. One Day at One Day I'm Gonna-I leave all my Twitter followers.  You are amazing, full of health shit too, understand me and my probs.  (Even though I've never met her in RL, she knows my shit, and loves me anyways.)

To Devi-my new local friend, resource, and support bitch.  I leave you all my supplements, and pharmaceuticals to put in your stash for a rainy day.  You are there whenever I need immediate assistance, and you KNOW.

To Steph, Jen, and Suzy-I leave all my gluten-free shit.  My family won't want it, and you all need it.  Plus that tasteless shit is expensive!  Thanks for asking me questions, listening to my whining, and reaching out.

To almost every Kim I have ever known:
Kim from 7th grade--you dropped me as a BFF when I went away to Disneyland, even though I brought you a Mickey pen and notepad set.  You hurt my feelings, when I was in the middle of puberty.  You suck.

Kim from college--you left utilities on in my name, which damn near prevented me from buying a house.  Still, I stuck by you.  When you asked if I liked your husband, I chose to be honest.  We haven't been friends since, even though you left that pompous windbag years ago.  I reached out to you, you ignored me.  You are a twat.

Kim from a while back--I helped you realize your dream of being a stay-at-home mom, by making you go the fuck away from me and my people.  FAR far away.  Then, I had to spend thousands defending my decision that WAS RIGHT.  Within weeks of your shitstorm, I developed excruciating pain that would go on to be diagnosed as chronic Lyme.  You are the suckiest of the sucks, the bitchiest of bitches, the stinkiest of assholes.  And I will forever fight the urge to run you down with my swagger wagon, provided I survive yoga.    You are the ringleader of Asshole Kims walking this planet.

You Kims? I leave all you bitches my yoga gear.  I hate you all, I want you all the suffer far more than I.  Wear my stretched out pants, sweat on my nasty old yoga mats.  Sirsasana your way into herniated discs and ruptured organs, bitches.

(My sincere apologies to Kim of the Mike and Kim, who is NOT an asshole.  I don't know what happened there.  Maybe you are the anti-Kim.)

UPDATE:  I checked my Facebook account for Kims.  It seems I know quite a few-and they are all pretty awesome.  I am sorry that all the Evil Kims have ruined shit for you.  Pretty much if we are friends on Facebook, you are NOT an asshole.  Sorry about the generalizations.

And to April---I leave you my Facebook account.  You have the ability, with your regular references to Urban Dictionary, to make even the most solid stomachs undulate.  I have removed all minors from my FB page, so it's yours for the offending.  May the force of a thousand retches be with you.

That just about sums it up---unless someone needs a bunch of VERY stretchy clothes in a wide range of sizes?


Who would you leave your craziest shit to?

The Yum and The Barfies

Why, oh why, does antibiotic-induced nausea only happen after I FINISHED the bowl of yum? 

Why can't I feel shitty, oh, say three bites in?  Save me some freakin' calories, yo.

Three bites:

The first, to really understand the yum.  Become fully enveloped in the mouth ecstasy.

The second, to completely relish the yum. 

The third, to drive away the hungries.

Then, nausea, so that I put DOWN THE DAMN FORK.

Instead, I eat, eat, eat, eat, eat, eat.  Then, I get up to get a drink of water.  Forget about bowl of yum.  Then, the barfies set in, and I have to plan around the barfies, see if my meds should be fully dissolved, which would determine WHERE the barfies, should they come, can take place. 

The bowl stares at me, enticing me.  Begging me to enjoy the remains.  The last bits of yum left.  Not just the dregs, but the GOOD STUFF that incited yum noises only moments before.

My plan of saving the best bites for last, like DESSERT bites, is foiled. 



At least I didn't finish the bowl.


:::sigh:::

Our New Pet. Or, The Thing Living Under The House

We have a problem.

You see, we now  (thanks to me, always wanting to up and move, every time I get pissy about mold, or asshole landladies, or whatever) live backed up to an Open Space.  Open Space means "dry grass and animals that will fuck you up" in some other language.

Our neighbor has already warned us about the baby rattlers she has found, like clockwork, each year (I can't even recall when each year, because I was too busy mentally craigslisting a NEW new place to move to).  She also mentioned the coyotes.  Smaller than dingos, not into stealing babies. 

And I have grown used to skunks, being in the country-fied 'burbs.  So, when I smell skunk in the wee hours of the night, I'm irritated, but acclimating.

But when I get home, and outside smells fine, but there's a strong odor inside, I get pissy.  And the fleas.  We now have fleas.  WTF?

In what I thought was unrelated news, there has been a strange sound in the early mornings, coming from the backyard. 

Turns out, it's this sound, here:

http://www.outdoor-photography-topic-gallery.com/animalsounds.html

Scroll to the bottom, turn up your speakers, and click on "skunk".

Here's what we think is happening----Mr. Stinky is climbing into the undercarriage of our house.  By Monkey Boy's room, judging by his complaints of "scratching noises".   We thought he was just being dramatic.  There's a vent, with the chicken wire bent back, with little tufts of fur stuck.  And in our closet, where the smell is the worst, the floorboards are extra creaky.  So, Mr. Stinky is probably all, WTF is going on up there, it scared the piss outta me!  Hence, our smelly home.



Not okay, Mr. Stinky.  Not okay at all. Your time under our feet is coming to a close.