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    Entries in trainer lady (4)

    Friday
    Nov132009

    I tried to picture myself doing this and sprained my brain

    On Tuesday I mentioned that I saw Trainer Lady and that she gave me homework. She did this because clearly she hates me I told her I was feeling extremely uninspired, exercise-wise, and that I wasn't motivated by weight loss. Which I'm not. My body seems to like being this size, so I'm going to let it, but I would like to be more fit.

    "Okay, how do you define 'fit'?" asked Trainer Lady.

    "Uh. Dunno?" I answered wittily.

    So that's the homework she gave me. I have to define what 'fit' is to me, so that when I get there, I'll recognize it. Because otherwise I'll just keep working out and working out like a maniac until I keel over in exhausting moaning, "But I never...got...fit....."? Or something. Here's what I wrote:

    I will feel 'fit' when I wear my workout clothes with as much regularity as my normal clothes, and when I feel like I belong in them and not like they're a costume. I will feel fit when I think I look 'athletic' in sweats vs. 'schlumpy'. I will feel fit when I am much less jiggly. I will feel fit when I drink a lot of water because I'm thirsty, not because a magazine told me I should. I will feel fit when I have energy until bedtime, but then crash hard and sleep soundly. I'll feel fit when my muscles have the dull ache of being worked properly, not the sharp twinge of misuse. When I choose the salad over the cheesy lasagne because the latter will weigh me down, I'll know I've really made it.


    I haven't sent it to her yet, so if you have any suggestions on how I'll get a better mark, let me know. I'm also supposed to come up with a 'backup' plan for if I fuck up my back again (apparently laying on the couch and moaning piteously isn't a good plan), and find 5 drop-in fitness classes to attend. I should probably do that, because as a reminder she sent me this:

    She doesn't feed me chocolate, but I guess I'll keep her anyway.

    Tuesday
    Sep292009

    I bet I know how they're planning to ship my million dollars: Random Tuesday Thoughts

    randomtuesday

    So! It's Tuesday.

    What's new with you?

    I just got an email. All it said was this:


    You have won £1,000,000 pounds Reply us your Name:Country:Sex

    It's like they're not even trying anymore. All the passion has gone out of the relationship, I tell ya.

    I have a bone to pick with a certain delivery company. I won't say who, but their initials are U, P, and S.

    What the fuck, guys? You attempted to deliver my package, and we weren't home. So you left a polite little note saying you'd try again the following day, between 2 & 5, or after 5. I made sure hubby was home at 2.

    You showed up at 12:30. And left another little note, saying you'd try again the following day, between 2 & 5, or after 5. Hubby was home all day and yet, when I got home from work, there it was, your pretty yellow note saying that this had been your final attempt (again, at 12:20, do you need a fucking watch?), and you were shipping my package back. Hello? You can cough politely outside our door and the dog loses her mind, so you couldn't have tried that hard to deliver my Earth boots.

    Mama needs her footwear.

    So I logged on to your website to see if I could pick them up at your store but no, I got nothing but error messages. I called your phone number and a lovely automaton informed me that because there were brokerage fees owing, for some reason that means they have to be shipped straight back. That very same day. She asked if I needed to hear that information again, and I said "No! I need you to not fucking ship them back!"

    Stepford Customer Service replied, "I'm sorry, I didn't quite get that."

    Clearly. I can't seem to speak to a human and my crack shoe dealer tells me that was the LAST PAIR. They will try to ship them back to me but can't guarantee anything.

    What are the chances they'll use the same fucking shipping company?

    Anyway. Happy Thoughts! Pretty Things! Gorgeous illustrations by my friend Akiko!


    I just realized I only have a partial-feed thingy going on this blog. Yeah, I have this interwebby dealie mastered.

    The program of stretches and strength-training exercises that Trainer Lady gave me is like, 15 pages long. I did it yesterday. Can't I be fixed now?

    I should probably go do that. What's random (or ranty) in your world? Link up, interwebby people!


    Tuesday
    Sep222009

    I went an entire evening without internet, and I have a lot of pent-up thoughts: Random Tuesday Thoughts

    randomtuesday

    I think you know what to do.

    Wow, only two posts between now and LAST Tuesday. That's pretty lame. In my defense, I had a seriously sub-par mediocre post planned for yesterday but Mother Nature intervened and dropped a tree on the power lines. I think it's her way of paying you all back for the sucktastic summer.

    I've never had my power go out like that before. It scared the shit out of me, because I heard a huge buzzing and the lights all dimmed and sputtered but didn't go out. Then half of the lights in the house went out, and I could smell something burning. Most sensible people, given that it was windy and storming out, would probably look outside, but next to zombies, my biggest fear is that the wiring in my 55-year-old house is going to short out someday and burn us to the ground.

    (Except for the stupid dog, who will somehow escape the inferno and live to return and piss on our ashes for never taking her for walks.)

    (Uh, I didn't say it was an entirely rational fear.)

    So I did the grown-up thing, and called my dad.

    Dad said call the power company. Duh.


    Ever tried to entertain a toddler in a rapidly-darkening house? Yeah, I didn't even try. We left the terrified dog in the pitch black and went for a drive.

    See, it's not totally irrational to think the dog hates me.

    Disney princesses, "Keely" style. Y'know, if I'd thought of it first. I think Beauty is my fave.

    The stretches Trainer Lady gave me to do for my back are helping, a lot. So much so, that on Saturday I experimentally weeded a tiny bit of garden - without pain. Holy shit! So I weeded some more, thinking the whole time that I probably shouldn't be pushing it, I should quite while I'm ahead, I'm being a fucking idiot. I weeded for probably 1/2 an hour.

    Guess what I got on Sunday? Confirmation that I'm a fucking idiot.

    Consensus on my totally informal poll (which I almost forgot about. Who's taking bets on whether or not I actually finish this little project?) was, shockingly, "trace my family tree". Which has appeal, mostly because I can do a lot of it without leaving this comfy chair right here. But...do you really want me to BLOG about it? Boooo-rrrriiing. So I'm throwing "see a ghost" in there. Or at least I'll attempt to.

    I will probably drag FoN along, because I'm a big chickenshit.


    Wow, I was a fucking idiot AND a chickenshit, all within two paragraphs. I'm feeling self-disparaging, apparently, so I'm going to stop there. Want to play? You don't have to say mean things about yourself. Or me, for that matter. Grab the button and link up!


    Wednesday
    Sep162009

    It's amazing they let me procreate at all, really

    So I was going to sit down this evening and write the next post in the ex-boyfriend series, except that I had this...DAY...today. You know the type. I spent the majority of my afternoon dealing with a client who I will not go into much detail about. I will simply say that her last name rhymes with Penis, and she has clearly been so scarred by that tragic coincidence that it has rendered her a lying, shrewish, demanding bitch who is full of self-loathing, and completely incapable of carrying on a civil conversation without mentioning at least three times that people are NOT supposed to call her on her work cel phone, and why can't they just manage to get along without her very important self?

    Her: "Well, it's about TIME you got it right. They are supposed to be WHITE. All the other ones are WHITE. I don't know why that was so hard, I never agreed to the GREY, they're obviously WHITE."

    Me: (thinks) Why don't we have video surveillance so I could play you the tape of you agreeing to the GREY?

    Her: (phone rings) "Why do they keep calling me on this phone? They're not supposed to. Can't they figure it out on their own?"

    Me: (mutters) "I bet you wouldn't be such a bitch if your name didn't rhyme with penis."

    Her: "WHAT?"

    Me: (brightly) "I said 'Have a nice day, Mrs. Lenus'!"

    (Yes, I am actually 8 years old)

    Then shortly before I was ready to leave for the day I got a text from my hairdresser, inquiring as to whether I might have forgotten that I was supposed to be sitting in her chair at that very instant?

    Shit.

    Two minutes after THAT I got a text from hubby saying "Um, the crockpot isn't actually turned ON...". Great. Now I have split ends AND a whole raw chicken that has been sitting on my kitchen counter for eight hours.

    And then Trainer Lady worked me over. This isn't actually a bad thing, as she's a physio trainer and she's trying to help me overcome my gimpy back, so I can get back to working out or maybe even running again. But this was my initial assessment, and a few simple tests and some really painful stretches pointed out just HOW gimpy I actually am.

    So now I'm sitting here with a glass of wine and a box of Robax Platinum.

    The end.