Would anyone miss it when it was gone?

The world has a way of sneaking up on you sometimes.

Today, I came inches from squishing this booger with my new springy pastel pink floral flops.  That would’ve been a tragedy. (I’ll let you infer into that statement as you wish.)

Instead, I gasped and recovered quickly enough to grab my Nikon and paralyze him into a digital image…or 9.  Which is really quite funny, because I really do not care for frogs or toads or, pretty much, any of the reptilian and/or amphibian classes or phylums or whatever you call it.  But nearly smearing this ugly dude’s guts all over my coveted sandals was more than enough to merit a moment of inspection and pseudo-appreciation.  I mean, he did just have a near miss with his chance to be reincarnated as something a little higher on the food chain, right?

After I satisfied my urge to photo document all of life’s little oddities and chance encounters, I packed up my camera and set off for the day.  As I rambled through my usual routines of prepping a classroom, Friday spelling tests, giggles and gasps at our adored daily read aloud, spring recess (the very best kind), spinach salad eaten en route back to the dining room, raised hands, messy backpacks, and our beloved alma mater ceremoniously bringing our school day to a close via “all call”, that same ugly mug played chicken with me over and over again in my mind.

I thought about him (or her?) as I backed out of my driveway.  I wondered where it would go.  Was it already gone?  What if it decided to escape and made the fatal mistake of hopping towards the driveway - rather than away from it – and I murdered it with my Firestone?  I have to trust that, were that the case, it was just meant to be.  His (or her) number was up.  The universe has a way of making things happen, you know?

Sometimes, it’s just time.  Sometimes, the jig is up.  Obviously, this fellow (I’m just going to run with the guy option.  Surely if it was a chick she would have some rosy cheeks or something, right?  I mean, it’s hard to find a good man out there, right?  If she ever wants to make some tadpoles with a nice, family sort of toad/frog/thing, then she’s got to strut her stuff… right?) has completed his cycle of life.  I’ve seen the diagrams in our science labs at school.  He’s at the top of the circle.  All arrows lead to him.

And you know what else?  I don’t believe in coincidences.  I’m certain that things happen for a reason.  I think little Tommy Toad was planted for me to write this post.  It’s a post that I’ve been stewing on, sitting on, trying to squish down for a while.

Sometimes, I think I’m like that toad. (Except, I’d rather be a frog, thanks.  Smoother skin.)  Sometimes, all I can do is freeze.  Hope I blend in.  If I smile and stay really still, no one will notice my buggy eyes.  Be veh-wee, veh-wee quiet.

I’m going into quiet mode for now.  I’m going to try to blend into the scenery for a while and just watch the world around me.  I’m not motivated to write what is appropriate to share, and not willing to share what I’m motivated to write.  I going to lie still beneath that pink sandal hovering above my head, and hope the shoe doesn’t drop. 

After all, a frog’s best defense from predators is it’s camouflage.  Well, unless it’s a poisonous frog.  Then it’s painted all sorts of pretty colors.  While I do like pretty colors, I think I’ll save the poison for another fairy tale.

*****

Just a note…

Thanks for reading.  I’m taking a break.  There’s a lot bumping around in my head right now – about the blogging and internet world, friends, family, marriage, and boundaries.  Lots and lots about boundaries.  I am going to take a hiatus with my notebooks and freely express without hurting feelings, offending beliefs, or being judged. 

Love to you all.

I’ll keep you posted on my impending return.  I hope you’ll be open to the possibilities.

Jenny

Sunday in Snaps: Raining Cats and Dogs

This morning, the girlies and I welcomed the rain from the comfort of my bed.  We cuddled beneath the covers watching Barbie hang ten and save the mermaids from evil Eris.  My sheets are littered with Pop-tart crumbs, but my heart was as warm as the coffee on my bedside table.

Meanwhile, out back….

Daisy rested against the glass door between mad dashes after silly squirrels.  Bo lingered beneath the trees, patrolled the perimeter, and made laps through the wet grass.  He was so filthy by the time I was finally able to lure him back inside, I banished him straight to the shower for a complete overhaul. 

For the remainder of the day, my four-legged babies pouted and paced, scratched and begged to, once again, be granted their freedom out in the elements.

 

Mean Mommy that I am, their romp in the rain was over for the day. 

They made the best of it, though.  Bo in his red club chair…

and Daisy on a soft, faded quilt…

my little ones finally figured out the second best way to spend a rainy Sunday. 

I sure do love rainy “stay-at-home days”. 

P.S.  My Big Boy sure does smell purrty tonight.

Motivate Me

As you may recall, I’m currently in the midst of an intervention.  And, as interventions may go, it’s moving along quite nicely, if I do say so myself.  As with anything in life, finding the motivation was half the battle, really.  You know, that whole mind over matter thing.  To be quite frank, I tend to struggle with a little condition of “matter over mind”.

Recently, though, I’ve reacquainted myself with my inner strength and motivation.  I thought perhaps you all might benefit from some of these highly technical tips and techniques, too.

Money.  As you probably already know, money can be motivating.  I encourage you to consider financial punishments and/or rewards when setting up a personal goal.  If you’re like me though, this alone is easy to lose sight of…like the cost of my gym membership.  The thought of wasting that auto-drafted chunk of change every month has never once been motivation enough for me to drag my lazy bootie to the treadmill. 

Public humiliation.  When in doubt, plan your own roast.  I did and I really hope I get to cancel it.  I REALLY hope I get to avoid that.  Really.  I don’t know if I can survive that.

Circle of friends.  Peer pressure is a good thing…after about 21 or so.  Get a partner – or more – and put them on speed dial.  My partner in crime and I have talked each other down from the ledge more than once already.  With her support, I was able to resist the temptation of the fresh, hot pizza calling my name.  She, with the assistance of my psychological prowess, was able to throw away a completely untouched small fry from McDonald’s.  Together, there is nothing we cannot resist.  Last year, I had a workout partner…until that crazy chick moved without my permission.  While we ran our mouths, and laughed till our sides ached, we worked our booties off multiple days a week – despite our busy schedules and irrational harassment from a tacky gym patron.  Everything’s more fun with a friend.

Tunes.  Not only does music keep your energy level up while your working, but it’s been known to keep me going a little longer, too.  For instance, I may be in the last two tenths of a run when a favorite song comes on.  All of the sudden, I go all music-Nazi-slave-driver on myself and make a rule that I can only listen as long as I’m running.  If I quit, the music goes off.  Usually, a great song will be worth another few minutes of weary muscles and chest pains for me. (Then again, I’ve often said I want to find a gym where it’s completely normal to bust out in song and dance while you’re on the treadmill.)

Open your eyes.  If fitness is your goal, take a good hard look in the mirror.  Naked.  Recently, I started my own ritual.  After arriving at the gym, I drop off the girlies in the play area and head straight for a private dressing room.  Then, I strip.  Nothin’ but skin, babe.  I stand there in the obnoxiously poor lighting from the one pitiful 60-watt incandescent hanging overhead and try to disgust myself.  I look at all the places I usually suck in and cover up.  Then, I suit up and head to the torture chamber, ready to do battle.

Jealousy…I mean “role models”.  Choose the treadmill, elliptical machine, or mat right next to the hot chick.  Watch her.  Get jealous.  Really, really jealous.  Like – bitter and mean jealous.  Let the envy soak in deep until you feel like a fat pig.  Then, push harder, run faster, lift stronger – because you can be that flaming hot, too.  Show that biotch what you’ve got!  Yeah!

An audience.  Be aware of the men watching you.  You may think you look awful – sweaty, stinky, ragged and pale.  Apparently, they don’t agree.  Either that or they just don’t care, because men watch women working out.  That’s all there is to it.  Married  men, single men, old men, young men – they’re all looking at you.  Feel the heat of their eyes boring holes into your arse.  Imagine what they see.  I don’t know about you, but if somebody’s going to be looking at my backside, I hope they see a nice, firm buttocks with just enough softness for a good pinch – not a bowl of jell-o and orange rinds.  Somehow, I think you might agree.

Eye candy.  Look right back at those men.  Sometimes, you get lucky.  Just today, this totally hunky Tim Tebow look-a-like pulled up to the elliptical right next to me. Wow.  Not a minute before, I had begun to back down and woos out.  Miraculously, I got my second (third?) wind, found a little more strength, and stuck it out through the remainder of my mission.  And, as an added bonus, I also noticed a nice looking man downstairs who, through squinted eyes and the red metal handrails of the stairs, looked an awful lot like a scruffy Chris O’Donnell. I was thoroughly entertained. 

Sweet success.  As a friend of mine said recently, nothing tastes as good as skinny feels.  No pain is worse than the sting of defeat.  The miles never look more doable than when you’re looking back over your shoulder.  You never feel fat and lazy AFTER you work out.  Focus on these things. 

I don’t claim to be an expert – by any means.  But, I’m pushing.  I’m hurting, I’m sucking it up, and I’m trying everyday to do better than the day before.  And, that’s all anyone can ever ask. 

 

 

Photo credit: http://www.flickr.com/photos/d_vdm/ / CC BY-SA 2.0

Line, please.

This feels foreign and uneasy. I've missed the success and escape, but stage fright can be crippling. These bucket loads of dry sand I've been trying to hold between two bare hands are beating me. Emotions, thoughts, memories and words run through me as long ribbons of blurred grains - smooth like silk, warm like the sun - leaving me hollow and limp.

I turn to my bed. The book on my nightstand, once filled with passion, adventure, images and culture, now lies silently beside my clock, resting beneath my mobile wake-up call, counting down boldly to 4 A.M. Reluctantly, 5. Regrettably, 6.

Each night, I turn off the day and blanket my soul with the safety of an old quilt, cushioning my nighttime thoughts with a pillow, sweet with the scent of home. This is my retreat.

I read my friends' lines and directions through the filter of distance - miles and years. I can hear through these flimsy walls the soundtracks of their own dramas, romantic comedies, documentaries, and musicals as their stories carry on. My own movie is paused like an old VHS. Someone needs to fix the tracking. It's shaky and wiggly.

I'm waiting for direction, the next pages of my screen play.

Improvisation is harder than it looks.

The show must go on. Put on a happy face.

How the hell did I get here?

Whose line is it anyway?

March 12x12

The day started ridiculously early.  When I took this picture, I was up and dressed, packed and almost ready to walk out the door.  Coffee in hand. 

It was all worth it, though.  What a fabulous day.

Sitting in the airport, one my fellow travelers- after taking a Zantax for her fear of flying – noticed we were flying on a small, commuter jet and texted her last wishes to her mother from gate A7. 

“Take a nice trip with my money and donate the rest to the ASPCA.” 

Her mother’s reply: What’s the ASPCA?

After a cab ride of endless traffic, we hit the streets for some shopping.  The cold and rain, along with an intense desire to find deals, steals, and irresistible finds, drove us into H&M for a thorough visit.  We canvassed their three floors and emerged victorious.

At tiny tables wedged between the kitchen and the wall, we devoured a warm pizza lunch.  We entertained ourselves watching the hopelessly unorganized supervisor try to communicate with his non-English speaking crew and observing the constant stream of locals pouring into the little pizza joint – ironically called Firehouse Pizza.  It was a welcome break from the cold and wet.

Heading onto MoMA, I ooooohed and aaaaaaaahed at Monet’s Water Lilies.  We laughed and marveled at Burton’s quirky perversions, questioned and stared at the performance art and all agreed that some art just isn’t for us…namely the scary stuff. 

Afterwards, we ducked into the Magnolia Bakery for a sweet treat on the go, paired it with a glass of wine at a warm, dry pub before making our way back to the hotel to check in and freshen up.  We were checking out our view of the Empire State Building and gray skies when room service surprised us with a gift from my brother Jethro – a yummy bottle of champagne to celebrate our retreat. 

An old friend of mine (whom I hadn’t seen in too many years to count) met us at our hotel, guided this group of lovely bumbling tourists through town to a little dive for a drink and hailed us a taxi like a true gentleman.  He sent us to the Coffee Shop for the most delicious fries and chive dressing….on the side of our burgers, of course.  Girl talk poured all over the table like the little bottle of Heinz 57 and our energy finally began to wane.

Back in the room, Steph and I giggled like girlies playing with our cameras and smiling at  faces and moments frozen in time on the digital display of our DSLRs.  While our roommates slept, we shared one set of earbuds, Zuned some tunes and Googled craziness on my Blackberry.  It was the adult version of hiding beneath the sheets with a flashlight past lights-out. 

What a fabulous day. 

Sunday in Snaps: Toy Story

After a big day down in Riverside yesterday, we were beat today and hung close to home.  Consequently, my house and yard is a trail of destruction.

 

Oh. There’s one more.

Hope you all have had fun makin’ messes this weekend, too.

 

  

 

permission to write junk: granted

I’ve written about this before, but some things are worth revisiting.

When I first read Natalie Goldberg’s Writing Down the Bones and saw how she emphasized the importance of writing with pen in hand, I scoffed.  I can write best when I type.  I can type faster than I write.  I had a million thoughts about how this did not apply to me. 

Now, after more than a year and a half, hundreds of pages and dozens of pens, I’ve reformed.  In fact, you could say I’ve “converted”.  I am a notebook junkie.  Not in the sense that I buy notebooks everywhere and have pretty, fancy journals.  Although there is some truth to that as well.  But in the sense that I have at least four or five notebooks running at any given time.  What’s more, they’re usually with me – wherever I am.  In my car, in my work bag, in my purse, notebooks, notebooks, notebooks.  I even keep a pad of paper in the pocket of my car door. 

When I write at my keyboard, there is a pressure to publish.  I need to do something with these words.  Go somewhere with this message.  A notebook does not impose itself on my mind in that way.  Rather, it is a place for me to do with it what I choose.  It is a dumping point and a blank canvas simultaneously.

I wish I could say all these notebooks are neatly tabbed and organized, categorized by writing purpose or topic.  But, that would be a lie.  No, my notebooks are very much a mess, somewhat of a stream of consciousness.  Though, I don’t always work front to back or even chronologically.  My topic or purpose may be a sharp contrast to the last piece I wrote, so I find myself skipping twenty pages or so to isolate the entry.  At times, I open to the back page and start from there. 

In effect, I’m burying treasures for myself.  On many occasions, I’ve stumbled onto a forgotten page and thought, “Wow.  I like that.”  Other times I think, “Ugh.”  But, more often than not, I find within those lost words a piece of something I can use – some line or paragraph I can lift and rework or build upon.

Many times, momentary regret leads me to feel I should be more organized and systematic with my spirals and pages.  However, I always decide – no.  That would take away the freedom of the page.  I never want to find myself sitting before a page reserved for Hank and Ione.  I don’t want to be faced with lines allocated to emotional tirades.  There is not a humor and sarcasm tab in my mind, nor is there a specific time of day or chair in which I sit for motherhood reflections.  I may dream in my bed, but perhaps I remember and ponder my dreams while pulling Pop-tarts or drying my hair.  I need an outlet that goes with my flow, or my flow won’t go.

And there’s one more great thing about these crisp white pages.  One day, when I’m good and ready, I’m going to burn them.

Nothing to lose.

*** Let me just begin this post with a heads-up for any relatives of mine who might be reading. Today?  Just stop here.  Really.  Come back and see me another day, please, but this post is not for you.  I love you all dearly, but I don’t think you need to read this Girl Talk post. 

For those of you who are not related by blood or law, carry on.  Just bear in mind, this week, it’s all about FANTASY. ***

In a world with no consequences, you’ve got nothing to lose.  What is your fantasy?

Wow.  That’s pretty darn wide open, isn’t it?  I mean, wow.  You’ve got nothing to lose.  Nothing.

That’s actually a large part of the fantasy for me – feeling you have nothing to lose.  Just letting go and running with it.  I melt at the thought of letting passion and desire swarm over you.  Letting it rule your mind and dictate your actions completely.  Just go for it.  Do whatever you desire, however you choose, wherever, whenever. 

Adding the risk of “getting caught” spices it up too, though I guess that sort of goes against the idea of a world without consequences.  Perhaps I should explain. 

I read an article recently about a restaurant somewhere in the U.S. that is notorious for having sexy bathrooms.  And, by sexy bathrooms I mean – bathrooms people frequent to have sex.  Yeah.  They’re not popular for their cheesecake.  Diners just want to do it in their bathrooms.  So, for Valentine’s Day, restaurant management decided to play it up.  They encouraged couples in a way that meant more than turning the other cheek. 

While the thought of standing in line for a turn in a stall does not appeal to me in the least, doesn’t it sound wildly fun to sit across a table from your special someone in the middle of a crowded restaurant lost deep in your desire for each other as you sip your wine and bide your time - until you just can’t keep your hands off each other?  Impulses sweep you away.  Your judgment goes out the window with reality and you just succomb.  Steal a moment, find a spot, and make a crazy, wonderful memory.

Imagine moonlight on the beach.  You two are virtually alone, although you know that could change at any moment.  And somewhere in time, in the air between you – the air that has lessened, and lessened still more, as you felt the pull of each other.  Any sense of care about being seen, heard, or even stumbled upon slowly drifted away like a broken shell in the tide.  You can hardly see each other in the darkness.  The sand is wet and cool compared to your bodies.  You are absolutely lost in passion.  The world around you is muted by the sound of the ocean rolling in and out and in again.

It really could be most anywhere, because it’s not the time or the place but the pull.  It’s the irresistibility.  An urge that can’t be squelched.  A want turned need.  That “I don’t give a damn - I want you now,” feeling. 

For me, it’s not about costumes or toys or role plays.  It’s not even about far away romantic locations or bodies beautiful.  My fantasy is the passion itself.  A passion that is so magnetic and electric you lose sight of everything else and let it swallow you whole.  You can’t help yourself.  You just let go…like you’ve got nothing to lose.

My Private Tunnel

It is dark and lonely and the wind is strong. The sunshine is beautiful on the other side, though.  I know it’s warm there.  The sky there will be a beautiful blue with only a few cottony white clouds floating high above me, just enough to make the blue all the bluer. 

Some tunnels are so dark and so windingly long that they rob you of the sunshine peeking in from the other side.  Not mine.  My tunnel is mostly straight with an easy, gentle curve or two, but none so sharp and tangling as to blind my eyes to the relief that lies ahead of me.

Going into this tunnel, the face of the mountain was rocky, barren, jagged and threatening.  But when I emerge, the peak above me will slope more smoothly.  And it will be green and fertile and filled with signs of spring – rabbits, deer and fat little chipmunks will be busy around me as I squint in the glare.

When at first I feel that familiar warmth on my face again, I will pause in my tracks, my hand at my brow, filtering the stark rays from stinging my dark-weary eyes.  Footsore and lonesome, I will rest for a moment and suck in the calm deeply.  The relief.  The gratitude.  I will let the sounds of life, long muffled beneath this mountain I’ve been working through, fill my ears again.  They will sound brand new and beautiful to me.  Even the rustling of leaves as the wind tangles them against one another will feel like taffeta to my ears.

Across the way, just beyond the shoulder of the road, I will find a soft patch of fresh clover and wildflowers.  There I’ll lie outstretched on my back, napping beneath the blanket of light.  Time will stop as I close my eyes and breathe.  And feel.  And be.

Until that day, I will continue.  I will hold tight to that feeling of peace and warmth and safety as a promise, stoking the fire in my engine.  I will dig deeply and scrape the courage from the tips of my pinkie toes and elbows and wear it around my neck in a locket.  When I feel myself growing tired, I’ll rub the small silver charm between my fingers and will my energy to renew, my fire to refuel, and I will start again.

Until that day, I will press on.

 

 

Photo credits:  http://www.flickr.com/photos/docman/ / CC BY-NC 2.0

Baby Claire

Author’s note: Bear with me as I fast forward a bit, please.

* * * * * * * * * *

The little pink line, faint as it began to emerge, pushed tears through Ione’s eyes.  It brought back too much.  Memories of hospitals and bedrooms darkened by drawn curtains and days that made her heart claw ferociously stood before her mind, front and center. 

It wasn’t supposed to happen like this.  She needed Hank to be home.  She wanted him there with her.  She longed to curl up in their bed together, bury her face into his shoulder and cry again for Claire, before letting happy tears fall for this second chance baby.

This baby would help make losing sweet Claire a little more bearable.  This baby would help heal the hole she carried.

Ione knew she would never entirely be free from this pain, but she hoped one  day she might be able to look into a baby’s cheery little eyes and not see the daughter she’d lost.  Perhaps one day she could hear a girly giggle or see a curly pigtail tied in a bow without feeling like she’d been robbed of her chance at motherhood.

Claire was like a porcelain doll.  Her tiny round face strengthened by Hank’s square jaw.  Perfect little cupid’s bow lips, smooth and pink, begged to be kissed.  Eyelashes and fingers that stretched on and on gracefully.  She was already a little lady at only less than a day, a beautiful little lady.

One day was not long enough.  Ione remembered a time she had wished she would just die, too.  Why not leave this world and be with Claire?  Maybe there she could hold her baby again.  She imagined sleeping next to her; watching those tiny lady fingers wrap around her own; feeling the smooth, soft roundness of Claire’s head as it fit in the palm of her hand.

Sweet, baby Claire.   Your mommy loves you.  I’ll love you forever.  I’ll never forget you, baby.  This one – this new baby – will not make me forget you.  No one can do that.  I’ll love you forever.  We’ll be together one day, baby, I promise.  Wait for me, Claire.  Wait for Mommy.  I promise I’ll come for you.

But now, she needed to stay for this baby. 

What will Hank say?  How will I tell him?  Dear God, please God, keep this baby safe.

I can’t do this again.

* * *

Photo credit:  http://www.flickr.com/photos/clogwog/ / CC BY-NC-SA 2.0

I need an intervention.

I love food.  I particularly love sweets, but I also LOVE cheese, and potatoes, and breads, and pastas, and vegetables, and FRUIT – oh, wonderful fruit, and pizza, and hamburgers and steaks and ALL red meat, and fish, and salads, and French fries dipped in ranch dressing, and nuts, and cookies, and chocolate, and vegetable omelets with turkey sausage on the side, and Wheat Thins, and sliced apples with peanut butter, and popcorn, and Diet Dr. Pepper, and wine, and just about anything with artichokes and/or mushrooms.  Oh, and recently, I’ve fallen in love with French toast.  I love food. 

I love to cook.  I love to try new recipes.  Much like my outfits, I try new recipes more often than I repeat them – with the exception of a moderately sized repertoire of “cook by heart” dishes, of course.  On the weekends, sometimes I like to bake.  I absolutely love to slow cook things like roast or tenderloin all day long on a Saturday or Sunday.  I wish I was better about using my slow cooker because I love that, too.  I love to make a big pot of soup or chili – and I think there’s almost nothing better than a homemade salad.  Yum.  I love to make homemade pizza with spinach, fresh tomato, mushroom, and black olives.  I love to poach an egg and serve it on an English muffin with fresh basil, a huge slice of tomato and melted Swiss cheese.  I love to cook.

I love to watch cooking shows.  In fact, Rachael Ray is on in the background as I type this.  In those long ago days of my old life, when I was just the mommy of one, BigGirl and I used to lay around all day long on Sundays watching PBS cooking shows, one right after the other.  (That was in the decade that I didn’t pay for cable….Darn it, Comcast.  You’re evil.) Perhaps it was those early days of her life that firmed BigGirl’s own love of cooking shows.  Just a moment ago, as she ran out of the room for a quick second, she instructed me “Tell me everything I miss!  And don’t you forget a thing!”  So, when she returned, I dutifully filled her in on the steps of hollowing out zucchinis, cleaning mushrooms and starting a saute skillet.  We love to watch cooking shows.

Now, unfortunately, these three loves come at a price.  Now, I need to lose weight…again. 

Enter CBS Sunday Morning.  This show has “been in the family” as long as I can remember.  Growing up, the only Sunday mornings our home was not filled with the soothing sounds of Charles Kuralt’s voice were the days he was on vacation.  Those final peaceful scenes in which the only soundtrack is that of crickets chirping, wind blowing, and geese honking were the Closing Ceremonies of our Sundays.  This tradition has carried on into my own home.  A few weekends ago, they featured a story on procrastinators, during which they highlighted a unique site called Stickk.com.  It “stuck” with me as a unique concept.  I intended on looking it up later.

Enter my sister-in-law.  She, too, loves food.  She, too, wants to lose weight. 

Two heads are better than one.

Here’s the plan:

We’ve made a little challenge/wager of sorts.

The Plan:  We’ve both committed to exercising at least 3-4 times per week each week until June 18th.  At which date, we are aiming to have lost 20 pounds.  (Each.  Hee hee!)   You can check on our progress here and here.  Feel free to cheer us on…or heckle, I guess.  That can be motivating, too.  

Collateral:  We will pay each other $5 every week that we do not meet our exercise goal.  Our progress is being refereed by impartial parties. 

End Results:  If we do NOT reach our ultimate weight loss goal, the other will

(a) Do something with the other person’s money (which, depending upon our diligence, could reach a maximum of $80) that they would NEVER do. 

And,

(b) UTTERLY AND COMPLETELY HUMILIATE THE OTHER ON OUR OWN BLOG.  I mean, we’re going below the belt.  We will leave out no detail.  She gets to tell the world what a lazy bootie I’ve been.  She gets to tell the world what a fat bootie I’ve become. She gets to tell the world everything I don’t even want to tell her.   This part was her idea, by the way. 

That, my dear, is an intervention.  B.  It’s all about (b) for me.

Well, that and the insults my Wii Fit threw at me yesterday as I climbed back on after months of neglecting it.  Man.  That thing really knows how to hold a grudge and smack on a guilt trip, doesn’t it?  “Looks like you didn’t reach your goal.  Humph.  I could have told you that already.  Do you want to try again, or are you done trying to keep up appearances for my sake???”  “Oops.  Looks like you’ve gained a few pounds, haven’t you?  ***inflates Mii to five times its original size*** There.  Now that’s  more like it.  Don’t you agree?”  “Have you been participating in fitness activities away from the Wii Fit?  Have you been cheating on me with the gym?  Is that why you never come see me anymore?”  And I love how it talks about everyone else, too.  “You know, it’s been a long time since I’ve seen Diego…Have YOU heard from him lately?”   I do not always like my Wii.

Gotta go.  Ina Garten is on.