Oh The Douchebaggery

The news has been depressing lately, to say the least.
I love that I quit my job just in time for the economy to go belly up.
I have always had awesome timing.

So imagine my delight when I came across this little snippet.

http://www.wlwt.com/cnn-news/17589970/detail.html

This woman is my new favorite person, ever!
The accompanying picture is utterly priceless.

See what I did there? Utterly? 'Cause cows have utters?
Yes. Yes, I am that clever.

So I am browsing the Craigslist Missed Connections today, because, let's face it, I am obsessed.
And I come across one that describes me and my friend to a T...
Something along the lines of, "Wow, you were hot". Definitely us, right?
Well, there were other factors at play in making my ultimate determination, of course.
They named the place my friend and I were hanging out at and seeing as how we were the only ladies there, and it was a M4W posting, Bingo!

Let me back up to the night in question.

My friend and I went out to watch the debate on the big screen.
After it was finally over, we and a few other girls decided for some godforsaken reason to go to the gay bar.

Let me clarify by saying we didn't go to the lesbian bar.
No we went to the dudes looking for dudes bar.
I am okay with that because ,as of late, I have grown aggravated with the encounters I have had at the places around town that we typically patronize.
That said, I usually only end up at the gay bar when I am hanging with one of my gay male friends. So I have a buffer, if you will.

I tell you what, the drag queen at the door was not happy to see us.
It was blatantly obvious. Afraid of a little competition, perhaps?
She had 'tude to spare, folks.
And all the guys at the bar were looking at us like we had some kind of agenda.

Let me reiterate, we were the only women in the establishment.

So my friend and I take a seat while the others go and engage in some tomfoolery on the dance floor.
This guy walks up to me, introduces himself, says something about how we look like we need some shots...and proceeds to heavily vibe us.
After our obvious snub, he casually walks away.
Afterwards, I ask my friend, "What the fuck... Is that dude trying to pick up ladies at a GAY bar?"
I believe he might benefit from rethinking his tactics.

It reminds me of this one bum that lived by the trash can outside my building in New York.
Everyday I would walk to school and he'd yell out, "Hey, ugly! Hey, ugly! Come over here, I got something I wanna' ask you".
Hurt my pride a little bit, but the guy was clearly drunk on the mad dog 24/7, so I can rationalize it by blaming the beer goggles.
Finally one day I had had enough. So I go over and say, "What?!! What do you have to ask me?"
He answers, "Come lay down naked beside me".
Ummm, might wanna try a different approach, bud.

Sorry about the tangent.
I just can't figure out dudes sometimes. Not to mention the whole ritual of going out to a bar and trying to meet someone.
It seems to me like the last place on earth you would expect to find a suitable mate.
I know it does happen on occasion. Hell, it's happened to me once or five times.

Okay, back to the missed connection.
I'm thinking this has got to be the guy (name withheld for obvious reasons).

So, the more I am thinking about it, the more I need to know!

I am away from my computer so I call up my partner in crime from the night in question and ask her to respond to the poster for details.

She does.
He responds.

Turns out, we are not the ladies in question. I had gotten the nights mixed up.

Oh well.
I wasn't looking for any romantic outcome. At. All.
I mean, dude is clearly confused about a few things.
And anyways, he wasn't my type.
No sir! I say expose your chest hair only when you're naked.

I have just always wanted to be a missed connection.

But here's where things get weird.

My friend writes back to say, sorry, wasn't us.
And the guy writes back, saying, "Too bad. I would love to chat sometime".
And, wait for it, he includes photos of himself!

Hunh?
What?

He's responding, sight unseen, to someone he's never met before on the premise that she is, well, a she?

Or maybe he admires the fact that she can use a keyboard?

Man oh man, I will never understand you guys.

So sorry.

Let's just say I had a helluva whirlwind week which culminated in my lying in bed all day trying to recover.

Good times were spent writhing around and praying for god to end my suffering.
Excellent!

So, anywho, when I finally felt my motility returning, I forced myself to take a walk.

Of course it's raining. And hard.

For the love of mother nature! What the hell is happening?
Maine...Mother effiin' Maine is under a tropical storm warning.

As if I need another reason to leave the planet (besides the fact that McCain's popularity is on the rise and how the fuck did that happen considering the ass-whupping he took in the debates last night).
Dude is a total doppelganger of Quagmire. Honestly, what is wrong with his face?

Okay, back to my day.

I need to get out of the house. Screw the elements, I'll bring my umbrella.
So, I find aforementioned umbrella, leash up the hound, and get to walking.

It's sprinkling, but nothing to alert FEMA about, yet.

Ten minutes into my jaunt it starts to really come down end of days style.
I am fumbling with my umbrella, pressing the button and then manually trying to push the metal rods up....all to no avail. My cursed umbrella is broken. I am getting soaked.

So I turn around to get my damp ass home when I come to a cross-walk.
I am standing there with sopping wet hair, a more than likely anguished look on my face, holding onto an unruly dog and a bum umbrella--- when not one, but THREE cars pass me.

I have said it before, I will say it again...

What is wrong with your stupid heads?

White lines in street=stop for pedestrians.
Especially pissed off wet ones.

My urgency is (for lack of a better description) more urgent than your urgency.

You are in a moving vehicle with a roof.

I apologize and fully retract if you had a stubborn sun-roof that was malfunctioning.

Seriously, I have been there.

And in Florida, no less!
Those downpours are apocalyptically torrential.

Snap! Most uncomfortable twenty minutes of my life.

But my guess is, you just didn't give a fuck.

Perhaps, dear readers, you haven't gotten my drift...albeit a continental-sized one, but I need to get the hell out of New England.

I just heard the terribly sad news.

Paul Newman was the ultimate guy.
I mean for chrissake, Cool Hand Luke?

He will be missed as a beacon of everything that does not suck in Hollywood.

Which, let's face it, is pretty much everything these days.

See what I did there?
It's fun with phonetics!
Snap! I did it again!

So, last week my mom and I were having a conversation when I made what I thought was a perfectly relevant observation (I think it might have had something to do with how pink is the spectrum's ultimate color winner---orange and yellow, you are sooo owned!) when she opined, "You are so weird. You have always been so weird. Even as a baby, you were so weird".

Okay, mom. I get it.

It's been coming up an awful lot lately.

My friend and I were having a discourse the other night about the ills of high school, the psychic scars that it leaves, and how nerds do indeed triumph.
I mean, doesn't it seem like people who were popular in high school always manage to abandon their cool status the minute their cheer leading uniforms and glamour shots become irrelevant?
And how were they relevant in the first place?

God, teenage-ism blows so hard.

My best friend does the most wonderfully precise recount of the day we met in high school.

It was my first day.
I had bonded with a chick in typing class over our "tats".
Oh, god!
I happened to get the most horrible offender covered up with yet another offender.
Don't get me started on tattoo regret.

I still have an ankh (yes, an ankh! so counter-culture, so unique, I know) on an area that fortunately doesn't see the light of day that often, but makes for some hilarious pillow-talk when it does get viewed.

Point is, the true test of any first day of the high school experience is the lunch room.

I never brought lunch. Not once.

So, my first day at this particular school, all I had on me was a bag of fire flavored jolly-ranchers. Mmmmm.
Do they still make those?

Never mind, my teeth weren't what they were 15 years ago.
I tried to eat a sugar daddy the other day and almost knocked out an entire row of chompers.
Damn human fallibility!

So, my friend reminisces that on the day of our meeting I said nothing but, "Psst" and then dropped a jolly rancher under the table and into her lap.

She's like, "You were sooo weird".

And then I was talking with another friend who was sharing her own horror stories about being an outsider and a nerd, when I said in agreement, "Oh, god, yeah! I was a total nerd".

And she says, "You aren't a nerd. You are just a freak".

So it's unanimous.

I was thinking about this today as I was walking around town (as I am wont to do, because I have now officially crossed the town-line into crazy-person-ville and have nothing better to do than amble about aimlessly...keep your recyclables safe, folks!) and having a conversation with myself.

I do it often when I think no one's watching.
Shut up! You do too.

Then I get home and read the news.
I find two bits that trouble me deeply.
1) Sarah Palin okay'd charging rape victims for test kits.
2)Global warming has gotten so bad that Polar bears are resorting to cannibalism.

I'll be renewing my visa soon.

Destination=Moon!

This little snippet made me feel 1000 times better.
Finally a voice (or voices) of reason!....

http://www.kpho.com/news/16758520/detail.html

It's officially fall and with it's arrival came some cooler temperatures.
Today was the coldest day so far this year since last spring.
Way to hit the ground running, Autumn!

So I am rifling through my dressers looking for a long sleeve shirt. Any long sleeve shirt will do.

Hand to god, I am not in possession of a single long sleeved shirt.
Jesus on a pogo stick, what the hell happened?

And then I remembered that I had a rather speedy exodus from my former apartment which resulted in the sacrificing of a pretty substantial chunk of personal belongings.

Apparently a fair portion of the stuff I left behind was my winter clothing.

So, until my financial situation changes or the wardrobe fairy graces me with some new clothes, it's all about layering, baby!

Fortunately, I have a new favorite hoodie...thanks Jana!
So, I am comfortably dressed and ready to drink in the fall with a walk around town.

I can't believe how much bitching I have done over the end of summer.
I plumb forgot how much I love Autumn!

I spent all day at the zoo yesterday.

I'm not at all a zoo fanatic.

Matter of fact, I try to avoid it at all costs.
I don't like seeing animals behind bars.
There is something unsettling about bearing witness to a creature out of it's natural habitat.

I mean, if you are a giraffe, native to west Africa, how the fuck are you about to enjoy fall in New England?

Not so much, probably.

And don't get me started on all the scrotum munching Rhode-Islanders who tap on the glass in an attempt to wake a sleeping animal for no other reason than to pacify their whiny brat's desire to see it up close.

Calm the fuck down!

As I learned yesterday, a snow leopard can leap 32 feet! The fence enclosing said beast looks half that.

So, you want your adorable little spawn to see the creature's face?

Let's see what her face looks like after it's mauled off, chewed like so much Wrigley's, and spat on your stupid feet.
Sooo precious!

Yeah, the zoo and I have issues.

But I needed some cute kid therapy and my nieces fit the bill so, I acquiesced.

The day started out peaceably enough. My nieces were rad, the weather was nice, the smell of excrement was not yet downwind (curse you, 4:00 p.m. gust)...all's good.

About three hours in, however, I was having a straight-up boredom-induced nic-fit.

I removed my niece from my shoulders, bid my mom and sister adieu, and made my exit.

Next hour or so were spent with me chain smoking, soaking up the last gasp of the summer, and growing very, very, hungry.

By the time my family met up with me I was willing to chuck my humanitarian ideals out the window and eat a fucking snow leopard....with some fava beans and a nice Chianti, good sir!

My mom was right on board.

Thing is, my mom is singularly minded.
When we hang in the 'konk, we dine at one place only.
I have no say in the matter as I am just along for the ride and, therefore, dine for free.
So, though I hate the themed restaurant she prefers, I keep my chow hole shut... 'cept for the eatin' times.

As we walk up to the hostess stand, I realize there is some weird shit going on in my uterus.
I need to get home as soon as possible.
But the promise of a free meal is so tantalizing that I suggest we stay, but take our food to go. In the meantime we can wait at the bar while it's prepared.

Mom's down! So she orders a beer and we bide our time playing ghost.

The food took so long that we practically ran out of letters in the alphabet.

I'm antsy and uncomfortable and mom's losing her patience.

We ask about our order.

Bartender comes back with our food and we are set to jet.

As we take our leave, the server asks, "Oh, did you already pay"?
My mom answers, "Yeah".

I'm confused because I don't remember the portion of our evening when we anted up, but my insides are jumping and my mood is slumping and I need to eat my dinner like, yesterday!

We get outside and my mom is walking with total tunnel vision towards her ride.
We get inside and I ask, "Did you really pay"?

Diabolical laugh...

"No, did you"?

Holy Christ.

I aided and abetted my mom.

My salad sucked...but I would so do it again.

God is laughing at you and all your silly science, Hadron Collider technicians!

So, clearly this is an issue that has been on my mind since I first became abreast of said shituation.
That could probably be evidenced by the number of times I bumped my initial posting about it.
I am going to spare you another bump, so if you don't know what the hell I am talking about, please avert your eyes to the list of previous blog entries to the right of the screen, click on the "0 minus right fucking now" posting, and prepare to get schooled.

Turns out, the collider has been shut off.

WooHoo!
Go back to partying like it's 1999...when times were simpler and s.t.d.'s like Sarah Palin hadn't yet blipped our collective radar.

http://www.cnn.com/2008/TECH/science/09/20/hadron.collider.damage.ap/index.html

My favorite part of this article is when they expose that the collider emitted a pretty substantial amount of helium.

Can you imagine all the scientists running around, freaking out, saying things like, "Trouble in quadron three! Danger! Let's go on highest alert!"...all in the dialect of Alvin and the chipmunks? Awesome.

Man oh man. It is practically fall.

I know, Captain Obvious called and he wants his earth-shattering observation back...

But the season just crept up on me like all get out.
I was taking a walk today and had to wear a jacket for the first time since memory allows.

Waaah! I was just getting into the summer.

And for some reason, the colder the weather, the more melancholy I get.
I found myself listening to some wrist-slittingly somber music today.

Spring and summer were all about hip hop and dance music (shut up, haters...I can get down to a Kelly Clarkson remix! Yes I can!)

Something about less daylight and chilly temperatures makes me want to listen to the shoe-gazers.
It's totally counter-intuitive.

I mean I'm feeling down and what do my ears want to hear?
Interpol, The Editors...God forbid, The Cure!
Misanthrope music!

I am not at all ready for the fall or winter.

Anybody else wanna go to Alaska and spend six months in daylight?

No, scratch that...I forgot how ass-backwards Alaska is (sorry, 3030).

Greenland it is!

This is not an angry jokity joke blog.
This is a message to runners and bicyclists everywhere.
Heed it, my friends...or pay the consequences.

I get the allure of outdoor physical activity.

Hell, I ran cross-country for years, much to the detriment of my knees and my menstrual cycle (t.m.i.?).

And those who read this thing know I like to bike, even if my ass hates me for it.

Point is, there are certain things you should know when engaging in these undertakings.
You wear a helmet, duh.
You don't run down the middle of a highway...that would just be too supremely dense for words--- although I do know this one guy named Peanut Butter who routinely did it.
Let's just say, he was five cans short of a six-pack and the last time I saw him he was on an episode of Cops, but other than that, stellar guy!

I digress.

I was walking my dog around town today when at least four runners came up behind us unannounced.
My dog freaks out. It's kind of her thing...
I mean besides all the pooping and sniffing as per the usual canine antics.
These people are creeping up behind me all stealthily and just completely oblivious to the fact that I have a dog.
Sure, she's small and unassuming, but allow me to clue you in to one fact...
The more petite the dog, the bigger the fight or flight response!

Imagine that you are barely a foot tall and some sweating behemoth comes barreling at you with no warning...
I'd nip the hell out of your ankles too.

For the health of your lower extremities (and if by chance you encounter a larger dog) the family jewels, announce yourself!
A simple cough, ahem, or "behind you" will suffice.

Don't look at me with disdain when my dog barks or startles.
You have been forewarned.

Dear Anonymous,
I believe I know who you are. (pop, goes my heart!?)
In response to the request for an anti-Palin rant, here goes...
I try not to talk politics too much because the current state of affairs has got me in a tizzy. But since this is the first outright request I have gotten (and I will take requests, folks...I am here all week...uhh, make that until I get gainfully employed) I'll bite!
Oprah has been in the hot-seat lately for her refusal to invite this N.R.A. lovin', moose-killin', abstinence- only toutin' (ha! arrogant proselytizing is a karmic bitch, no?), completely un-qualified dilettante onto her couch.
How can you blame her? Cooties are contagious!
But seriously.
I harsh on Oprah a lot.
Mainly because every time I have bothered to tune in over the past five years she has either been talking about how high her duvet's thread count is or her very, very good friend John Travolta.
We get it. You have money and famous friends.
Whoopee!
Can I have a car?
But today I tuned in to CNN and found a little snippet about some idiotic Republicans urging women to boycott the Oprah show.
Whiny little conservatives!
No lies, I was unimpressed when Oprah officially backed Obama due to previously stated annoyance with her show and it's "topics".
But I am now going to tune in every day (even if my T.V. is on mute with a well-placed sheet over it) just to stick it to these pedantic grandstanders.
I'll take my Oprah show.
You get dibs on The 700 Club.

I am sure everybody and their second cousin has seen this by now...but lookie! I just learned how to embed stuff! Yay! It's like I have seen the future of technology! Or Russia....from my house!

I love Matt Damon.

Mmmm...yes I do.

I never understood how such an obviously talented and intelligent (not to mention bad ass) wunderkind got the dubious distinction of being best friend to the seething genital wart that is Ben Affleck.

And how is Ben Affleck more popular than little bro Casey?

That dude is hot.

Seen Gone Baby Gone?
I rest my case.

Anyhow, I just saw this--and I was going to avoid broaching the whole "politics" thing again...but dude has spoken my mind for me.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=C6urw_PWHYk

Ha! Dinosaurs! Priceless.

I realized tonight that I have eaten for free the past five nights in a row.
I have literally been feasting on the spoils of friendship.

The one thing that has kept me from going completely bat-shit insane (not to mention, broke) is my wonderfully awesome friends.

I know I use this forum as a sounding board for all the ills and general* qualms I have with, well, life.
*albeit legitimate---'cause let's face facts, 90% of the populus sucks....which is why I feel so fortunate to have befriended those of you about whom I'm speaking...smooches!

But I would like to take a moment to thank god for all of my friends.
I honestly, HONESTLY, don't know what I would do without you.

Michael, thank you for laughing at every one of my silly ideas (p.s. guerilla/gorrilla art is a go!).

Leslie, thanks for being your wonderful self and passing along a good reference about me to your cohorts without my even having to ask...I love you!

Jess, I would have totally rocked it at trivia tonight. Alas my wallet was hungry and unfortunately she takes precedence right now. I swear to god, I will kick it phunky phresh next week if you'll still have me. I just adore you!

God, this list could go on and on. These are just the wonderfully smart and superior human beings (not to mention damn foxy...seriously, how did I end up befriending a crew of such supremely attractive peeps?) that helped me out today when I was feeling particularly low upon awakening.

I really do feel like I am having a Sally Fields moment but I must say, oh guy in the sky...I am gonna' get sentimental, but the gratitude must be spread like land'o'lakes! . I'm not winning an Oscar but this is the closest thing to a platform I have, so...
I love you all.

And, Banana...I just cannot wait to see you!
I know it's going to be brief but time with you is always time well spent.

I miss you, angel-face.
I will buy some blueberry vodka and ginger-ale in preparation for your arrival ('cause I can't exactly go out all Biggie Smalls style at the club...but we never needed any lousy clubs to enjoy ourselves, did we?).

I hope I can give each one of my friends an iota of the solace that they have given me.

I complain. I bitch, I know.

But life is good knowing you guys are there. So thanks.

When I am rich and famous (in a non-skeezy or opportunistic but in a totally acceptable literary way) I will pay you back.

You can live in my villa.

The one in Paris will probably be more hospitable than the one in Tuscany.

Those Tuscan flies are killers!

Back to angry postings next time..Swear !
Gushing done! This tempeh bacon sandwich ain't gonna' eat itself!

So I had some dinner with a friend tonight (big ups on the stir fry, J...it was "peachy" keen...if you know what I'm saying) and the talk turned to Myspace, Facebook, and other "social networking" sites.

I gotta' say, I think the whole idea of social networking is bunk.

Not gonna' lie, I have a Myspace page.
Or should I say, my dog has a Myspace page.

I can justify it because it belongs to my dog, not me! I trained her well.

How many creatures do you know who lack opposable thumbs and still manage to run their own web page? My dog straight up rules.

Anywho, what happened to actual meaningful conversation?

Seriously, how many times have you been involved in face to face dialogue with a person who drops some inanity ala' You are 100% Virgo if...
I could care less about your ridiculous lists! So you're proud of your astrological sign

'cause things are looking mighty bleak, my friend. I was browsing CNN.com this morning and read one of those stories that the editors sneak in there amidst all the heart-warming human interest "news" so as not to generate much hype. Don't get me started on the government control of the media! I swear to God, Amy Winehouse's punching incident eclipsed this shit. And this is the possible portent of the fucking APOCALYPSE! So, apparently for quite a while the Swedes (those supposedly pacifist but clearly dead-bent on nihilism dirty blond bitches) have been building something called a Large Hadron Collider. A what? The name even sounds like some Kubrick-esque scary-ass earth-eater. Dude, that was a lot of hyphen's...sorry, I'm downright panicked. So this Collider is basically more powerful than God and every other attempt at smashing atoms (you know, as in atomic m'effin' energy) and could potentially have the power to create black holes. No Earthling has seen a black hole yet. The shit is still theoretical. * But if this black hole actually forms, we could potentially be absorbed into nothingness. Earth was fun while it lasted! See You Never!!

The collider is set to get plugged in (sure that's probably not how it's operated) in August.

My body got bitch-slapped by the East Bay bike trail today.
My thighs feel like a thousand mini-daggers are repeatedly stabbing them, my vajayjay is numb, and if my ass had tear ducts it would be sobbing like Kathy Lee Gifford in a televised visit to a sweat shop.

Fucking ow chihuahua!

The entire day unfolded the exact opposite of how I had planned it.

I lounged around for the better part of the morning and early afternoon until I had grown aggravated with my own sloth and decided that I hadn't properly sucked enough marrow out of the summer yet.
I'm thinking, I am going to sweat out some frustration on the bike path.

But first I need caffeine for reals!

I decide to go to Starbucks, and before you admonish my decision to offer up my patronage to the corporate gods, let me explain my rationale.

Starbucks has vanilla powder on their condiment counter.
It's free! I don't have to pay an extra 50 cents for a flavor shot.
Yes! Yes, I am that cheap.

It's around two so I figure the crowds would be to a minimum.
But Jesus H. People really love their Starbucks. Confounding!
I had to park down the street because the lot was full.

And there was a line.
It took me about twenty minutes to get my cappuccino (and I use the word cappuccino loosely, as there was a surprising lack of foam.) Bad, bad barista. I likes the foam!

So, by the time I get home, it's far later than I had projected for my departure time.

And now I had to deal with the tumult of getting my bike into my car.
Holy shit!
I must have broken some kind of Guinness record for dropping the f-bomb.

I am lowering the back seats of my car and wrangling with this bitch for like 30 minutes. I am sweating up a storm and I haven't even gotten to the exercise portion of my day yet.
Finally I get the thing in there and take off for my destination.

I get to the trail head at 3:30 and figure everything will be okay if I keep a steady pace.
All told, the trail is 30 miles round trip and going by my history with it, I should be back to the start in around three hours.

I'm good to go! A finishing time of 6:30 means there will be daylight still and just in case I have brought my handy dandy knife.

Mess with me and you'll get a good shanking, bitch!

Allow me a minute to remind all the girls and boys out there to ALWAYS wear a helmet.
Seriously, I once took a psychology class presided over by a professor whose specialty was in brain damage and I have heard some horror stories about bike-related head injuries.
A helmet might look stupid but nothing is more unsavory then a drooling head case who has lost all their basic capacities.

So I am wrestling with getting my bike out of the somewhat precarious position I have managed to have gotten it into.
Situation was ridiculously hard.
I am moaning and groaning like a porn star and feeling like I am birthing a whale, when finally I set my bike free.

I start pedaling when I realize I can't get the unruly whore out of first gear.
I'm pissed as hell 'cause it's a new bike and I am thinking that I want to feel the burn that only second and third gear afford me.
I recall that there is a smartly located bike shop right off the path and so figure, I'll just stop and get their expert advice.

An hour into my journey I am no longer concerned with down-shifting. The path seems more laborious than ever.
I am getting straight-up jelly legs.

I wasn't hungry before I left because I overdosed on some delish pad thai last night (thanks again, Leslie! You are such a catch, you don't even know!). So I took along only a dollar thinking that if I needed some substinence to fuel my adventure I could stop and get a bag of nuts.

Holy fuck! A dollar really doesn't get you anything anymore!
No nuts for me! Just pain and a grumbly belly.

So I get to Bristol and am psyched to have made it the distance but am now completely not okay with how I am feeling.
My body has never resisted the bike trail like this. I am confused.

Then I realize, It can't be me! I have not fallen that far out of shape since my last ride.
So what variable has changed?
Aha! The bike!

I opted for a smaller bike because I am clearly superficial and the twenty four inch bike came in the most pleasing shade of pink. The twenty-sixer only came in purple. Old people and transients like purple. Trust me,purple is not the color scheme of choice for someone young and vibrant like me.
Hand to the bible, I chose my ride based on it's color.

So here I am, proud owner of a pink bike and an even pinker skin tone.
I am huffing and puffing the last leg home.
Fuck all that, get me out of first gear business...at one point I get off to walk the bike but it's taunting me all the while. I'm channeling Lance Armstrong.
Throw me a bone, cycling god. I don't think I can make it.

I am sore and getting attacked by gnats all the while being passed by elderly people.
Senior citizens are whizzing by and smiling like the whole fucking ordeal is a walk in the park. Fuck you and your feel-good endorphins! My endorphins have failed me. I want out!

I finally get midway to the trail head and start chanting a little mantra.
The Little Engine that Could had "I know I can, I know I can..." I had "This fucking blows, this fucking blows"..I am literally saying it with every breath.

At this point I am no longer concerned about somebody coming at me all predator-style. Screw my knife, I could kill a bitch with my bare hands.

I come to within three miles of the end and the sights that had originally lured me to this path are now taunting me. Ooh, a pretty swan, just became "fucking glorified duck living a life of leisure". Sweet, sweet sea smells just became the funky aroma of a nasty yeast infection.

I am done! I want out.

I drag my numb ass along to the finish line and literally have to sit on the hood of my car for twenty minutes before passing go. I was still far too shaky to entrust my feet to maneuver a motor vehicle.

But I did. And I got home.
And for now I will bathe in the Epsom salts of futility because I know that tomorrow I am going to walk like I got fucked. And not in a good way.

I had a day at the beach.
Sounds relaxing, right? Not so much.

So I get all prepped, do the requisite grooming and lotioning, pack my beach bag full of the necessities, and get online to try and figure out my destination.

I've been told that North Kingstown beach is free after Labor day (huge plus as I am fiscally challenged at the moment) and according to my Mapquest directions, it's also surprisingly close.

So I get in my car at around 12:30, thinking I'd get there around prime time, 1:00.
Of course my car is on empty. I have been driving it on empty for two weeks without worry, ya' know, cause' Providence is small and I figure if worse comes to worse I can walk somewhere.

I know, my sense of adult responsibility is staggering.

But seriously, since recent events I have had a lot of time on my hands and I have always preferred walking to driving when I can, so I can justify my avoidance of the pumps.
I figure, I'm doing my part to conserve our natural resources, all the while helping the environment and my anorexic wallet.

I guess that seven dollars will get me to and fro (judging by crapquest's projections) my destination easily.

Three miles, THREE MILES after I hit the interstate, my car is back on E.
Now, I hate pumping gas. Always have. Something about having to pay for my freedom, I guess. I don't know. But I have ended up running out of gas in some sincerely seedy places so I have already studied my owner's manual and kept track of exactly how long I can go once the orange light comes on.

Honestly, I once drove blindly on empty with a gas can in the trunk and the sole intent of finding out how far I could drive without re-gassing.
My car's reserve is around 53 miles.

That's a lot of miles.
I don't even know if Rhode Island encompasses 53 miles from one end to the other.
We live in the Mary-Kate Olsen of states!
Therefore, I have never worried about being stranded.

Point is, it took me seven dollars just to land back on empty.

Do I panic? Do I stop to refuel?
Nah. I am straight up Alfred E. Neuman.
What me worry?

SO, I keep going with the knowledge that I have at least 50 miles before I should start to sweat.

But because I am low on gas, I am forced to turn off my a.c.
And it is hot. So much for that no sweating thing. My fucking eyeballs are perspiring!

So I get to within 1 mile (according to stupid-motherfuckin' don't-get-me-started-i-will-kill-a-shady-bitch Mapquest) of my destination, find a gas station and begrudgingly feed my card into the machine.

I'm good to go!
It's almost 1:15...perfect.

I set the thing that gauges my miles and when I get to three, I stop to ask directions from some utility guy fixing some sort of utilitarian thing (I know, I have a way with words) and the dude just looks at me with a Forrest Gump look on his face.

I couldn't have been more direct.

All I asked was, "Hi! Can you tell me how to get to the public beach from here?"
Blank stare followed by a stupid smile.
Followed by, "Uuuh, yeah. Just keep driving thataway".

Okay.
Thanks, buddy.

I failed to mention that because of the extreme temperatures in my car I had long since removed my top.
I didn't think twice about it because I am wearing a bathing suit and this is beach country. It's not like I am wearing a thong, or a bikini even.

On a side note, I never understood why guys will go absolutely ga-ga over a chick who shows some cleave at a bar or a grocery store, or say a job interview (Never know who you might meet, right?) but you can go to the beach in the equivalent of a bra and panties and nobody even acknowledges your practical nakedness.

Anyway, I follow the sage's directions and drive "thataway".

I am driving until I hit Narragansett.

12 miles, my friend!
What the fuck?

I have now taken the long way to get to a beach I would have gone to originally had it not been for the tantalizing draw of spending less on gas and the promise of no admission fee.
The principle of it all irked me enough to turn the fuck around rather than just parking and taking an easier and faster way home.

So I recalibrate my mile counter thingie and figure my original mapquest location should be round-a-bout 8 or nine miles.

I get there and see a road that is named Beach St. I figure, this has got to be it.
Even if Mapquest never mentioned it.
I dunno if you can read through the subtleties, but I HATE mapquest.
Bitch has got me lost more times than I ever found my destination.
I suppose I should also blame Rhode Island and it's total "road renovation all the time" attitude/complete lack of consistency in actually using placards to mark street names.
I have mapquested a few destinations only to find that some pivotal exits and/or routes no longer even exist.

I swear to God, more than once I have followed the Mapquest directions to a T, only to end up meandering around Connecticut or Massachusetts.
I have seen more of this land than Ponce DeLeon!

So, at this point, I throw the fucking mapquest directions out the window (that's a proverbial window, folks. When you litter it makes a Native American cry. And that makes everybody cry. Give a hoot! Don't Pollute! I know, I am mixing up my eighties P.S.A.'s---if only I had One to Grow On right now!).

I end up turning down the beach road and wander far too long around a residential neighborhood.

It's now almost 3.
I am more pissed about the dollars than anything else and I have already budgeted my time so that I am certain to be back in Providence by 5 at the latest. I have plans!

So, I turn around and find myself back on the street I drove up on 2 hours prior.

I see a traffic cop and pull over.
I ask, somewhat exasperated, "Can you tell me how to get to the N.K. public beach?"
He says, "Take your next left".

Really?

I took my next left, and sure enough...there she is!

At first I am psyched because there is absolutely no one there, save one guy in a beach chair at the far end.
Unfortunately the far end isn't that far.

The beach itself is Skee-Lo short.

Alas, I do have some privacy (p.s. in my head I pronounced that priv-acy---with a soft i...all British-like 'on account of I'm feeling fancy and a little sun-stroked).
So I lay out my towel, apply the SPF 45 'cause I have had one too many nasty encounters with the sun.
I love you, earth-feeder! You keep my vitamin D levels in check and rule over the whole day/night dynamic, but why you gotta' make me so pink and silly looking?

So at this point I am weighing pros and cons.
Pro-I am finally here and the waves are lapping and the breeze feels awesome and I am practically alone.
Con-fucking stingy, buzzy, sand flies biting the shit out of me.

Honest Abe! My right foot looks like a topographical map.

And I forgot my phone. So I have absolutely no clue what time it is.

I do what my body tells me to and turn over when I feel hot and then finally cry uncle when one of far too many aggressive gnats decide my ass would make a delightful dinner.

I get back on the interstate just in time to make rush hour in Providence.

Rad!

I have barely enough time to shower and change before I have to be in Seekonk to baby-sit my nieces.
But I make it.
And as much as I moan about family obligations, I truly do love hanging with my girls.
So, I was trying to get them to go to sleep after hours of play by reading to them in my best drone "you are getting very sleepy now" voice.

I must have read 20 books.

Sounds like a lot, but childrens' books are not at all that comprehensive.
You will never find Clif Notes for Horton Hears a Who.

One of the great literary tomes I read to my angels was entitled, "Feelings".

Sample line, "Sometimes I feel sad, sometimes I feel mad".
Mind blowing, Right?

So, Lena says, "Sometimes I have dammit days"!

I'm like, do tell!

My perfectly brilliant little 3 year old niece clarifies, "Oh, you know, Mimi...Dammit, Dammit, Dammit"!

Yes, Lena! I do know.

And I will be there with the coleslaw.

Ever have one of those cravings that will just not go away, no matter how much you try to suppress it like a bad childhood memory.

Shit, I got a hankering that can just not be satisfied. Or should I say, satis-fried? Zing! I amuse myself.

I need a hush puppy like all get-out!

Because I reside in the North and I am assuming that the majority of people who read this also live in the North (or what I will now bitterly refer to as the land of Hush Puppy Hate-itude) let me define for you the total awesomeness that is a hush puppy.

It is an all at once, sweet and savory experience. A deep fried ball of sweet cornmeal served with a perfectly seasoned cocktail sauce. Pure taste sensation. I tell you what, I am totally jonesing for one just thinking about it.

Closest thing in RI to the hush puppy is a clam cake. Fuck a clam cake!

Matter of fact, fuck clams! (I'm about to get sincerely juvenile, but--haha! Fuck Clams...snap! the sexual innuendo is priceless)!
But honestly, clams have the texture of a rubber band. Every
time I have ever disregarded my history with them and dive right in, I end up getting an extended stay visitor betwixt my bicuspids.
Shit is uncomfortable to eat. Don't get me started on popcorn! Evil buttery temptress!

And anyways, the clam cake is not as sweet and fluffy as a pure Southern hush puppy.

So I have been thinking, no, lusting over is more apt, hush puppies all day long.

It's Labor Day and a friend had the day off. I did too!
Imagine that.

So, we walked downtown and stopped for lunch at one of the only places that was open and people were actually laboring.

I'm listening to our server recant the specials when one immediately piques my interest.
Fried sesame chicken over greens with a peanut sauce.
You had me at fried--- yummy.
I snapped back to reality ever so quickly when I remembered that, oh yeah, fried means it's coated in flour and flour=gluten. Aaargh.

I thought about my glorious hush puppies again because, well, like I said, Constant Craving!

And I had the grandest epiphany. Hush Puppies are made of corn! They don't get any special glutenous coating. I can totally go to town on a hush puppy without fear of bronchial retribution!

Now here is where things get sad.

A friend of mine recently moved to Maryland.
We Southerners consider Maryland to be on the cusp of the south. Not quite southern enough and not quite northern enough.
But they are situated on some fine fishing waters* and I must attest, I have enjoyed some delectable hush puppies there.

Last week my friend (not the aforementioned ex-pat), realizing that it was gonna' be a long weekend, up and booked it out of town to D.C. and didn't bother to tell me until she was well en route.
I'm like, wait, Hey! That's close to Maryland, a.k.a. Hush Puppy Territory.
Drop a sistah' off.
Let's kill two birds with one stone (folks, that's next to impossible! every time I try I only end up injuring the second bird, the wing-man if you will!) and visit with my friend and feast on buckets of hush puppies.

Nah. No such luck.

I really need to invest in a deep fryer.

God, I'm not even going to count, but I know I said the words hush and puppy ad-naseum.

Here's hoping a lot of people are desiring info about hush puppies, hush puppy recipes, the movie Hush (awful) or cute pictures of puppies (adorable), because that shit shows up on google.

I need the hits man.
Way more than Amy Winehouse and Nick Nolte combined.

*I should clarify that for some inexplicable reason hush puppies are only available in seafood restaurants. And Damnit! Only in the South.

I'm confused.
My body has a mind of it's own.
I mean clearly my body is comprised of many parts and of course one of those parts is a brain (a nice big juicy one, thank you!), so when I say my body has a mind of it's own, I mean metaphorically speaking.

I have been feeling like a total lard-ass lately due to lack of physical activity and a recent passion for cheese. Mmmm, gouda.
Plus, my "lady in waiting" is knocking on the door.
Things just haven't been feeling their utmost firmest.

Two nights ago I cracked.
Gluten be damned! The belly wants what it wants. And the belly wanted some pizza, DAMNIT!
So, I go to the place where I go when I needs the cheesy goodness.
The cashier knows me, or at least knows my typical order.
She has never once made any attempt at conversation with me...until this night.
She says, "Are you losing weight"?

I didn't even know how to respond.

Here's the thing.
I am sure this girl thought she was paying me some kind of compliment, no matter how ass-backwards it might have been.
Sadly, the majority of women I know feel that they need to lose weight.

But is it ever okay to comment on a stranger's appearance.
Would you say to an overweight person, "Geez, you are more portly than usual these days"?
I hope not, though it might be kinda' funny.
God, I'm an asshole.

And before I sound like a hypocrite, lemme explain the whole "feeling like a lard ass" thing.
I know I'm not fat. I just feel lazy and I do have that fear of "letting it all go" and becoming one with the sofa and a pack of Famous Amos. I could sooo go there.

Ah, sweet dreams. Sweet chocolate chippy dreams.

Okay, I've returned.
So, I felt taken aback by this girl's comment.
This morning I weighed myself expecting to see at least a little overage...but, NO!
I have actually lost weight.

Now I figure there are only two explanations for the recent lightening of my load.
1) You know how people are always saying, "So and So is carrying the weight of the world on their shoulders" when they are going through some shit?
Maybe this weight of the world actually manifests itself in the lbs. and mine is gone due to recent fun-employment.

2) The average adult brain weighs 400 grams (yes, I googled it). Now, I don't know a gram from a graham cracker, so I am unsure how that figure translates into pounds, or if it even does for that matter. Point is, maybe I have finally actually lost my mind and all the pesky weight that goes with it!