In Which It's Time To Drop Those Cookies And Give Me 20  

Okay, so it's January 5th and you know what that means. Time to get back to the gym.

UGH!

The last month was hit or miss with me, mainly miss. Like everyone else on this blue planet I had ever intention of getting back to my routine...your routine... ANY routine, but we were on vacation, the holidays were fast approaching, the dog ate my sweat pants...

Now it's over a month and my wack-ass hip joint is absolutely furious with me and won't stop whining. Even alcohol won't placate the crazy bee-yatch. Believe me, I've tried. It's gotten so bad I look and sound like the Crypt Keeper rattling up out of my chair all hunched over and hideous.

I hate him.

Anywho, this week I've started anew. I have to say I love my gym. It's clean, well maintained and cheapcheapCHEAP!

Holla!!

And perhaps best of all, it's not a meat market. People are there to work out. Period. That seems a little redundant, doesn't it? I use a (.) then write "period".

But I digress.

The point is muscle-bound, numb nuts aren't chatting up wafer-thin, bubble-headed bleached blondes in dire need of a hoagie, trying to impress them with their best "which way's the beach" none-too-subtle bicep curl. No one's hitting on anyone. Okay, except this one time early on when this old guy tried to get a little friendly with me. I had to shut him down. Come on. Besides the fact that, HELLO? I'm married. Not interested... he was like, in his sixties and SHORT, like way short, like a wee l'il man from the Irish Isle short. Ewwwwww. And what is it about short dudes trying to scale Mount Murray?!? Not gonna happen, Dude. Not gonna happen.

Again, I digress...

I like to grab my book, pop in my iPod headphones cranked loud enough to block the piped music (seriously bad BAD music they play there) and hop on various muscle ripping machines which will render me unable to lift a flick of lint off the carpet later in the day because... it's FUN and good for you!!

Anywho there are several regulars that I've sort of missed in my Absinthe...er, I mean absence. There's this petite woman who is there All.The.Time. Every time I see her, Jill Sobule's song "Lucy at the Gym" runs through my head, except I don't think my Lucy has an eating disorder just an off-putting glare.



She has amazingly defined guns like Madonna, minus a nasty bulging vein or two. She whips those 45lb dumbbells around like a guy. Sometimes I check to make sure she's not packing, if you know what I mean. She's in incredible shape. I think she's in her forties. But Jesus, Good God if she's younger don't tell her I said she was older! She'll beat the living shit out of me without breaking a sweat!!

I fear her.

Then there's this short, handsome youngster ripped like Jesus, who I swear is so into himself he steals a kiss on his own tattooed bicep each time he does a curl. *muah* Mirror Mirror on the wall...

What is with all the tattoos? Seriously. I thought they died down, but Holy Crap I'm just about the only chick in the place outside of Grandma that isn't inked. And I'm not so sure Grandma hasn't got herself a big ole tramp stamp under her baggy velour pants.

Then there's this other perpetually tanned, bald guy who has a prominent shuffle and faraway stare. I'm not sure what the deal is with him. He may be suffering from some sort of neurological ailment, and I feel like a horrible person saying this, but he creeps me out. Big time. When he's there, he's at the gym forEVER. And he always without fail is hanging out, sitting on the machine I want to use. He's downright peculiar. And yet, as much as he creeps me out, when he's not around I worry something happened to him.

Wait..What??? I know. Makes no sense at all. Probably just some residual ex-Catholic guilt.

Then there's Odoriferous Man who reeks so badly he could be a new villain on Batman. Not even exaggerating there. Serious funkadelic happening. Makes me wish odors emitted color schemes so you can see it and give a W-I-D-E berth. He needs a cape and a daunting theme song when he enters.

So, to recap, this week I successfully dragged my unruly mop-topped, bed head, boney ass to the gym twice! Yee Haw!!! I'm on a roll, BABY! Good thing, too because tonight is the first of our monthly wine flights. You know the ones where we sample four full glasses of themed wines in about 45 minutes before we're cut loose to give the city a drunken reach around.

Yeah. That should keep that little bastard hip joint mollified and happy.

Keeping Up An Annual Tradition 
or kissing off the old year 


Happy 1-1-11!!


Okay, so every year Geo and I have a standing date with our long-time buds (and a smattering of newcomers) to gather together at midnight to greet the new year with the traditional banging of pots and pans, uncorking of the bubbly and flipping off the prior year. 


Giving the old year the one-finger salute started way back in the Jurassic era when T-Rex ruled the Earth and Pterodactyls soared in the skies, also known as our College years. It's a stupid thing that happened spontaneously one New Year's Eve and it just stuck, mainly because we're all 12 year-olds.


Some years I cannot WAIT to be rid of...2001 is high on that list. But truth be told, I'm going to miss 2010. 


I turned 50 without falling and breaking a hip. On the contrary, I felt rejuvenated and lighter in spirit. We celebrated 25 years of mostly wedded bliss, had our first Francis Dunnery house concert, I survived SXSW, met some truly amazing women whom I'm blessed to call friends, reconnected with my brother and sister-in-law, and traveled all around the Northeast to listen to the blue-eyed lovely one sing, enabling Geo and I to spend more quality time together than we had in years. 


Dearest 2010: 
Please don't take this photo personally. You know I love you. I shall always think of you fondly. You are one of the best years I've ever had. You will always hold a special spot deep in my heart, but it's tradition. You understand. 
XOXOXO, Murray


Bring it on, 2011. Your power dates (1-1-11, 1-11-11, 11-11-11) show promise, but you have some mighty big shoes to fill. 

In Which I Share One Of The Funniest Blogs About Misfit Toys

Okay, so there's this blogger I love known as The Bloggess. She's demented, delirious and I love her. She's hilarious. 


This week she posted a blog pondering the realities of The Island of Misfit Toys. The kind of stuff we've all questioned, except for maybe that last bit about the dolly. 


If you can't enlarge this post to read it, a link is here. Enjoy!
  

In Which I Place The Hazmat Number On Speed Dial 

Okay, so I'm not the greatest housekeeper. 


Stop laughing. 


I'm just throwing that out there. I admit if there is any kind of diversion to distract me from cleaning, I take it and then promptly blame it later for my shortcomings in the house beautiful category. I can't help it. I'm lame like that.


Take the refrigerator, for example. 


I have seen some things... some horrible, HORRIBLE things festering in the dark corners of our Frigidaire, but even I was immobilized by the abomination homesteading in the veggie drawer. 


All I wanted was some peppers to make pepper steak. I innocently opened the crisper to find this Demonic Denizen dripping like an Amityville inhabitant, spewing forth its sickly spores into my airways.

What the???! GAG!?!! ICK!!?! CHOKE!! HACK! 


MOMMYYYYYY!!!!!!!  

Hands down one of the grossest things to surprise me in a long time. This stuff was so dead, even that adorable Pie Man from Pushing Daisies couldn't reanimate them. 

I said a few Hail Marys, donned the head-to-toe yellow Hazmat jumpsuit and grabbed that 10 foot pole we have lying around for just such an occasion in order to extract the offending former life form. 


After pouring enough bleach on that drawer to turn Michael Jackson into a white woman (what...too soon?), I promptly fixed myself a double tall boy for medicinal reasons. 


Yeah, medicinal reasons. That's the ticket. 


The sad thing is, in my cold and twisted heart I know this is not an isolated incident. It will happen again. Be afraid. Be very, very afraid. No Martha Stewart am I. She stopped by once to show me a trick or two, but I haven't seen her since. 


Come to think of it...what is that blond thing behind the meat keeper... 

And Unto Us This Day Is Born... a Cocktail Weenie.


Okay, so this Munchables Nativity scene is so wrong in so many ways, but come on! Bacon roof, sauerkraut hay, pickle loaf Wise Guy robes... whatever the hell that blobby thing is on the right. Hilarious! Even the Baby Jesus himself would belly laugh at this ridiculously brilliant meat-lovers tableaux constructed in his honor because, you know, it's funny. 


As the crusty Sargent says in Stripes, "Lighten up, Francis." 


On this irreverent note, may your holiday be filled with love, laughter and only the amount of family you can tolerate with or without medication. 


Merry Christmas and pass the mustard!

Another Senseless Holiday Crime Spree

Great. Now I'm never going to get that effing pony.

In Which I Sit On My Butt At The Computer Instead Of Getting On With The Business of Christmas

Okay, so it's December 23, (What?! Already?!?) the tree doesn't even have lights on let alone decorations, the house is so messed up we're waiting for FEMA to deliver a signature white disaster trailer in the drive, and I have not addressed one single Christmas greeting card. Yet here I sit at the computer wasting time.


And guess what? I don't really care.


I'm not depressed or even the least bit sad. On the contrary, I have this unusual sense of calm...and freshly waxed, baby-bottom-smooth armpits. 


Hey my Holiday prep is in a shambles, but come on! Priorities, people. I may not have checked anything off my "To Do, You Lazy Bee-Yatch" list which mocks me at every turn, or taken time to clean or bake or write cards, but having my Simian armpits hairless is way up there on the food-chain of priorities. And for those who know me... Yeti + hairless = huge feat.


Anywho, the bear trap of holiday trappings has been replaced with the preference to socialize. I don't need, nor want anything really. Like we need more crap to clutter our already stacked to the max dwelling. What's more important now isn't whether the house is decorated, but getting together with those equally irreverent like-mind, lovable lunatics I call friends and family. On that front I can say I've been rather successful.


And as Linus says, "that's what (this) Christmas is all about, Charlie Brown."


You can take this stress and shove it. I'm going to lunch.