Scrub a Dub Dub

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Yes, I use a washcloth.  In fact, I’m a washcloth scrubber.  (Be careful where you scrub though, apparently you can scrub natural bacteria right off your vajayjay and cause an infection.  I read that somewhere.  I know it’s tempting but refrain.)  Anyway, doesn’t everyone scrub with a washcloth?   Apparently…not.

I recently had a conversation with some friends about washing with a washcloth (yes, I know…very compelling) and I was completely shocked to find that, according to them, it’s rare to wash with one.  Well, in my circle anyway.  Dirty, dirty circle.

Just a bar of soap and their hands work fine for them.  Huh.  What about all those crevices?  Those certain unmentionables that I don’t think I want my hands touching on a good day?

Well, “that’s what the soap is for,” they tell me.  Ok, so I gave it a try.  The only problem is, I got the overwhelming need to wash my soap…with a washcloth.  Don’t get me wrong, I think I’m a pretty clean person.  I mean, it’s not like I go out and sling mud or anything.  It’s just that, well, we have….crevices.  I mean, they call them wash cloths for a reason, right?  It’s a cloth to WASH with, correct?  Maybe I’m missing something.

I have to admit that I like my washcloth.  I have a bit of a love affair with my washcloth (get your head out of the gutter).  My washcloth as seen more…oh.  Never mind.  How about those Mets?

McDeaf

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“Welcome to McDonalds.  Can I take your order?”  Said the guy behind the speaker.

“Yes, I’ll take a #2 meal with a sprite.  A 5-piece chicken strip meal with a water and a crispy chicken honey mustard wrap with a coke.  That’s it.  Thank you.”  Said me.

“Would you like fries with the crispy chicken wrap?”

“No thanks.”

“So, you would like a #3 meal…”

“Um, no.  Not a #3.  A #2.”

“Oh.  So you want a chicken wrap meal…”

“No, not a meal.  Just the wrap and a coke, no fries.”

“Oh, sorry.  So you want a 5-piece chicken strip meal with a water and a crispy chicken meal with a coke.  Will that be all?”

“No, I also would like the #2 meal.  With a sprite.”

(Am I being Punk’d?  I looked around for Ashton Kutcher.)

“Oh ok.  Your order comes to $15.74.  Please drive up to window #1.”

Seriously, considering the ordering process didn’t go so well, we were only missing a coke.  Like my New Year’s eve experience with bad ice, I should have known and just drove out of the parking lot.  Why do I do this to myself?  The signs were once again as strong as Popeye on 50 pounds of spinach.

I’m supposed to be on a diet anyway, right?  It looks like that just got bumped back to March.  Darn.

Broken Promises

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Happy New Year!  Or should I say Happy First Month of the New Year!  Like many, I wrote a list of new year’s resolutions for myself.  It looks like this:

  1. Start a blog
  2. Get a real job
  3. Eat more fruits and vegetables
  4. Eat less
  5. Exercise more
  6. Lose weight

Honestly, I don’t think that’s too much to ask of myself.  So, it has been exactly one month and this is what I have accomplished:

  1. Start a Blog – Well, yes. I did.  Yay for me.
  2. Get a real job – Um, I’ve sent in my resume to 2 places and tried to teach myself PowerPoint.  Does that count?
  3. Eat more fruits and veggies – If you count wine as a fruit, then resolution partially achieved.  If not, then….no.
  4. Eat less – Actually I’ve stopped grazing like a damn cow all day.  Ok, maybe I haven’t stopped exactly.  Let’s just say I’ve decreased the grazing a bit.  That is less, right?
  5. Exercise more – I should rephrase that to say “exercise.”  I went for a walk on January 30th.  Unless I continue to do so, that would be a big fat N-O.
  6. Lose weight – Since I basically failed at 3, 4 and 5, I guess it’s obvious what the answer is to #6.

About 3 years ago, I stopped making new year’s resolutions.  Because this is what inevitably happens.  I barely make it past day #1.  I guess because my list looks about the same every year and let’s face it, this girl likes her food.  And more than 1/2 of my resolutions pretty much involve food or the act of reducing food.

But this year was going to be different.  I was so sick of walking by those damn store mirrors and catching a glimpse of myself and being startled because that woman looks like me but couldn’t possibly be.  What I really should have as a resolution is to stop looking at myself in store mirrors.  Stupid store mirrors.  Those suckers ought to make us look like we lost 10 pounds, not gained 10 pounds.

So, instead of tossing the entire list out the window, I am going to start again today.  I’ll let you know how I’m doing in a month.  Do Bloody Mary’s count as a veggie?

I Am a Grouper

No, not a groupIE — a rock band following floozy.  But a groupER — a bottom feeding fish.  That’s how I like to describe myself these days.  I believe that is one of the reasons why I have gained a bale of hay…55 pounds…since this:

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DH, the kid and I went to a local BBQ place for lunch over the weekend.  This is what we ordered:

  • Wings
  • Potato Skins
  • Onions Rings

That was just for starters.  For my main meal, I ordered a pulled pork sandwich with sweet potato fries. The kid ordered a pulled pork sandwich with regular fries, but that doesn’t matter.  She’s 14.

DH ordered a small cup of chili.  That is why I can bounce a quarter off his ass AND his stomach.  Even though he is old.  Even though he is middle-aged.  Because he is not a grouper, he is a guppy.

There was this left over:

  • 1/4 of a potato skin
  • 2 onion rings
  • 1 wing
  • 1/2 sandwich
  • 1 small pile of sweet potato fries

DH hates leftovers.  They pretty much repulse him.  Me?  There are starving children in Ethiopia and I cannot, will not, throw anything away.  Well, unless it starts to look like a science project and even then I have a problem with it.

So against hubby’s wishes I told the server to wrap it all up.  That was Saturday.  Yesterday was Monday.  DH tried to toss out my leftovers twice but I caught him and threatened bodily harm.

So I ate this for lunch to save it’s life:

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Even though I wasn’t hungry.  If I didn’t, it would go into the garbage and I couldn’t live with myself.  I guess that explains why I look like this now:

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All because I can’t throw away food.  Ok, I’ll say it…I’m middle aged too.  I know that doesn’t help.  I also know I’ll never have that 23 year old body again.  But come on.  A bale of hay?

Please Keep the Muffin Top Where It Belongs – In the Bakery

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I have a slight problem.  That problem would be the extra skin, flab, lard, fat — more affectionately known as “The Muffin Top” — around my midsection.  Really.  I’m not running a bakery, so what gives?

Every day, I agonize over getting dressed.  Now of course, if I were willing to give up my size 6 jeans and give in to my “real” size (that would be an 8 or…cough, cough…a 10) I wouldn’t have the problem of spillage.  Yes, I can get them zippered and buttoned.  But only after a few squats, stretches and very — and I mean VERY — deep inhales.  The wondrous sight that awaits me is not pretty.  Let me introduce you to my BFF — the loose fitting top with the elastic around the waist, so it doesn’t show belly you wouldn’t want your own mother to see.

Over the summer I attended a wedding. I kid you not, I had to pour myself into not one, but TWO spanx-like devices so that my tummy would appear slimmer.  Forget about sitting down all day.  And using the bathroom?  Well, let me just say when I excused myself to relieve the bladder, my DH was close to sending out a search team.  I do appreciate the Spanx.  ALOT.  Thank you to the brilliant person who invented them.  I really do LOVE you!  (Disclaimer:  if someone tries to hug you, brush up against you, or even get within arms length of you while wearing these contraptions, your cover is totally blown.)

So why buy bigger jeans and possibly look better too?  Because I’ve got it under “control.”  And anyway, I’m going on a diet Monday.  Nachos anyone?