PM of the Ukraine and hotter twin sister of Princess Leia Organa
PM of the Ukraine and hotter twin sister of Princess Leia Organa
It’s such bullshit you burn so little calories having sex. Such bullshit. How the fuck am I gonna get rid of these love handles when you barely burn a calorie a fucking a minute?! This week is gonna suck. I can actually feeeeellllllllll the fat growing. Ugh. Just call me Tons of Fun. At least my tummy is happy.
I’ve recently (i.e within the last week) decided to get my flabby ass back into shape. It’s ironic really, since six months ago I told my husband I did not want to be the hot wife with that fat husband. That was my way of jump starting his motivation into working out. Six months, and about 20 lbs later, Hubby Dearest has a six pack, chisled pecs and an ass you could bounce a quarter off of. And he says I gave him a complex by calling him “Fatty McFatfat” all the time. Complex my ass you ass. I’m the reason he’s got the body of a 22 year old when he’s pushing 30.
Suck it Fat Boy Slim.
So, now that I’ve got the cuntygoodnessoftheday out of the way, I’ll elaborate further on a more interesting topic. Me.
To bring you up to speed today I went for a 2 mile run in the middle of a rain storm, in the middle of a state park which also houses a camp for way ward kids. Seems like a grand idea when you just got laid off and denied a loan.
So, about a mile into my run, I hear crashing and huffing in the underbrush to my right. I stop, bend down and listen. It stops. So does my breathing. I know that huffing. What the fuck?
A bear? (do we have bears on Cape?)
Can I out run a bear? I’m currently working a 15 (suckfest) minute mile, how fast do grizzly bears run? Shit, can they climb trees? I know black bears can climb trees, but can grizzly bears?
With Lady Gaga to keep me company one ear bud in, the other wrapped around my sweaty icky sports bra I huff on as fast as my former smoker/RA riddled body will take me. Sometime around my 1.5 mark I start to hear it again. Loud. Whatever the fuck that thing is it’s either stuck in some Stephen Kingesque spider web and can’t get out, or it really is a mother fucking grizzly bear and I’m totally fucked.
I need a weapon. What did they teach me in survival training? Curl up and die? Bears don’t eat dead meat, so I have to pretend like I’m dead. I look at the wet, cold, nasty ground and I can hear my Rheamie doc telling me I’ll catch my death if I lay in a puddle.
Like I said, I need a weapon. Since the wet, soggy tree branch I decided on won’t depart from the tree trunk I settle on a rock thats the size and shape of both my fists.
I begin running again. This time with “Poker Face” and being to sing very loudly along with Lady Gaga for another half a mile until I can see my car. And the Park Ranger emerging from the woods to my right with a black trashbag slung over his shoulder.
How fucking creepy is that!?
There could be body parts in that trashbag for all I knew.
I hate my husbands driving. Mind you, I’m not exactly endowed with the best driving skills in the world. I text while driving (I’m trying really hard to curb that bad habit) I talk on the phone, I play solitare at red lights and I speed. I do howeve wear my seatbelt thanks to the excessive beeping my car emits 20 seconds are the engine turns over.
That being said. My husband is a real asshole behind the wheel. He drives like he behaves when he isn’t behind the wheel of a car- with an inflated sense of entitlement. He rides peoples asses, speeds in school zones, swears at other drivers, and is constantly hard stops. The last bad habit pisses me off to no end. I used to work on very large automobiles in a past life, and I’ve gone through quite a few cars and brake pads to know that an excellent way to burn through your brand new brake pads (not to mention warping shit) is to go from 50 mph to a dead stop within 15 ft or less.
Now, my car may not be brand new, but it’s new to me. And one of the nice things about this car is the fact the brakes work on it. No shuttering, whining, grinding or screaming. It also helps because everytime you hit the brakes the battery gets charged. I like this car and I’m babying the fucking shit out of it. James on the other hand, he doesn’t. Like I said, he drives like an asshole and he does it intentionally because he knows it bothers me to the point of nagging so he’ll be able to bitch about my nagging with just cause.
Now, even though I hate his driving, what I hate even more are the gasps, sign and teeth grindage that comes along with me behind the wheel and Hubby Dearest sitting shotgun. One would expect with all the sound effects that come out of his mouth I’m driving the wrong way down a one way street. So, usually when we’re in the car together 90% of the time he’s driving. He drives my car more than me and he’s gone half the week. That’s actually a testament to how little I work and my lack of a social life more than anything, but you get the point. No female empowerment in THIS car.
He also farts. A lot. And only cracks the window like an inch when they are the type of farts that would knock a bull elephant out cold for an hour. One would think there was a rotting animal carcass in his butt. It’s quite rank.
Not to get off topic, or back on, but he’s currently fucking around with his iPhone and I type this out.
I got my go ahead for my tubal litigation. I’m not sure how to feel about this. Happy? Sad? Maybe a little gassy, but I’m gonna blame that on my ulcer, Squirmy. Sitting in the consult room with my gyno, so many emotions went through me. I was more than thrilled (and a bit surprised) when he said that he would do it, although he made it quite clear he was prepared to tell me no even before meeting me. I was prepared for that. I’m used to older adults making decisions for me with regards to my health. For the most part I’m okay with that. But when it comes to my choice (or lack thereof) to have kids, I try and make it clear that me, myself and I are the only people who makes those choices. Not some 70 year old man who’s been sticking his fingers in ladies cooters for the past 40 years.
That being said (or written) I’m also a little sad. Maybe it’s my period (it very well could be, I cry over the ferrets shitting in corners like they always do) maybe it’s just the primal female in me that is finally starting to mourn the inability to conceive and have kids. I said primal so suck it. I’ve never been a kid person, sure, I like kids, but I never really ever pictured myself having them. I only pictured peanut butter smeared all over our tv (hubby words, not mine) not being able to sleep till noon (I actually woke up at 0930 today, hubby didn’t believe me when I told him) and getting fat. Which I already am. So whatever.
I was reading my cousin Kristen’s blog earlier. Catching up really, I haven’t read it in several months, and a lot has happened to her, not a lot for the better and most if it involving her kids (read it here, please send happy thoughts). Long story short, Kristen and her husband Ted were in the process of adopting 3 small children when their paternal grandmother decided to sue for custody. After seven months and taking them to Korea (her hubby is military) the woman has the gall to do this to them. So they literally have to give the kids back. It’s so sad.
This is hard to me to watch/read because 1.) because I’m adopted and my bio dad pulled the same asshole stunt and 2.) because adoption is a very real possibility to James and myself. Just because I’m having my tubes tied does not mean that kids are not in our future. I have stated more than once to more than one person that adoption is a viable option and I would prefer it than having my own kids. I’m simply lucky enough (in a way) that I have RA and since I like walking and my meds don’t play well with unborn kiddies, those kiddies are out of the question. Or womb. Whichever.
Anyway. That is a foster/adopter(?) parents worse nightmare. I can’t even comprehand what they are going through. I’m so angry for them. I honestly want to find that old lady and shake her. But these are not my kids, and this really isn’t any of my business.