Tonight I picked a 6lb 2oz, 19" long zucchini from our vegetable garden.
God thinks he's soooo funny making it baby sized and hiding it from us long enough to grow it that big.
Oh that wacky God. What a kidder.
Fortunately for him I like zucchini bread.
Harrumph.
Showing posts with label Going straight to hell. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Going straight to hell. Show all posts
Thursday, July 30, 2009
Monday, August 18, 2008
Sweating with the oldies
Men just don't understand why sometimes it's okay to hate.
With a renewed sense of determination to battle the bulge (for the 4 billionth time in my life) I went for a walk this morning. It's supposed to be sticky hot today with storms in the afternoon, so I thought an early morning jaunt would be prudent.
I choose a pair of knee-length yoga pants and a baseball style top I haven't worn in a few years that's easily two sizes too big now. Which sounds good and all, but I myself am still way more than too sizes too big. And bigger than I was just a few months ago when I gave up on Weight Watchers and began the summer of comfort food. And inactivity.
But I digress...
I covered my bedhead with one of my Beloved's Baseball hats, put on a pair of sunglasses and headed out.
I should comment on the hat. I have a giant head. Sometimes My Beloved jokes that I could capture my own moon. He's sooooooo funny like that.
Hats rarely fit me. Baseball hats are the worst. They perch awkwardly on my head unless I squeeze them down into place. This leaves me lightheaded. And, worse than that, it's totally obvious that I've squeezed my humongous melon inside with absolutely no room to spare. Flapping ears, and all that.
Today I didn't care. My new haircut made the hat look slightly less ridiculous on me and, if the Superman comics are to be believed, the glasses completely disguised me.
I confidently strode down to the pond near our house, feeling empowered and motivated. There's a path around the pond that's about a half a kilometer in length, and I figured that early in the morning I'd likely have it all to myself.
I decided to do three laps before heading home.
Almost halfway through my last lap I spotted her. A runner. She burst onto the track across the pond in a little racing bra and short shorts.
I had wanted the solitude, but was admittedly a little grateful to see another person on the track. There are some isolated bits that make me a little nervous. There's a lot of paranoia in my gigantic head.
I continued to walk, undaunted by the runner.
Until she passed me.
She looked different close up. Better. Tiny. Perfect.
She was roughly the size of my left leg and every inch of her was evenly tanned (I could tell because there was just so very much skin to see). The word "FLIRT" was printed across her firm, peach-shaped butt and her long, silky ponytail swished with every step she took.
The "phhhst phhst phhhst phhst" of those steps was in stark contrast to the lumbering "thwunk thwunk thwunk thwunk" of my own (which, until she passed, had been music to my ears).
I took stock of the figure I cut plodding along the track. Too big shirt. Ruthlessly unforgiving yoga pants. Giant head mashed into a baseball cap. Tomato red face dripping with sweat. Hair frizzed up and poking out from under the cap like a 1970s baseball player.
And yeah, I hated her a bit.
I realize this is unfair. It would make much more sense to hate myself instead (although there's certainly some of that at play here. Clearly), but I chose to loathe her instead. Her and her flirty butt and itty bitty little waist flitting around the track like a wispy, perfect little butterfly.
My Beloved laughed when I told him my sweaty tale of woe, and asked why I would think to hate the perfect little jogger.
Men.
With a renewed sense of determination to battle the bulge (for the 4 billionth time in my life) I went for a walk this morning. It's supposed to be sticky hot today with storms in the afternoon, so I thought an early morning jaunt would be prudent.
I choose a pair of knee-length yoga pants and a baseball style top I haven't worn in a few years that's easily two sizes too big now. Which sounds good and all, but I myself am still way more than too sizes too big. And bigger than I was just a few months ago when I gave up on Weight Watchers and began the summer of comfort food. And inactivity.
But I digress...
I covered my bedhead with one of my Beloved's Baseball hats, put on a pair of sunglasses and headed out.
I should comment on the hat. I have a giant head. Sometimes My Beloved jokes that I could capture my own moon. He's sooooooo funny like that.
Hats rarely fit me. Baseball hats are the worst. They perch awkwardly on my head unless I squeeze them down into place. This leaves me lightheaded. And, worse than that, it's totally obvious that I've squeezed my humongous melon inside with absolutely no room to spare. Flapping ears, and all that.
Today I didn't care. My new haircut made the hat look slightly less ridiculous on me and, if the Superman comics are to be believed, the glasses completely disguised me.
I confidently strode down to the pond near our house, feeling empowered and motivated. There's a path around the pond that's about a half a kilometer in length, and I figured that early in the morning I'd likely have it all to myself.
I decided to do three laps before heading home.
Almost halfway through my last lap I spotted her. A runner. She burst onto the track across the pond in a little racing bra and short shorts.
I had wanted the solitude, but was admittedly a little grateful to see another person on the track. There are some isolated bits that make me a little nervous. There's a lot of paranoia in my gigantic head.
I continued to walk, undaunted by the runner.
Until she passed me.
She looked different close up. Better. Tiny. Perfect.
She was roughly the size of my left leg and every inch of her was evenly tanned (I could tell because there was just so very much skin to see). The word "FLIRT" was printed across her firm, peach-shaped butt and her long, silky ponytail swished with every step she took.
The "phhhst phhst phhhst phhst" of those steps was in stark contrast to the lumbering "thwunk thwunk thwunk thwunk" of my own (which, until she passed, had been music to my ears).
I took stock of the figure I cut plodding along the track. Too big shirt. Ruthlessly unforgiving yoga pants. Giant head mashed into a baseball cap. Tomato red face dripping with sweat. Hair frizzed up and poking out from under the cap like a 1970s baseball player.
And yeah, I hated her a bit.
I realize this is unfair. It would make much more sense to hate myself instead (although there's certainly some of that at play here. Clearly), but I chose to loathe her instead. Her and her flirty butt and itty bitty little waist flitting around the track like a wispy, perfect little butterfly.
My Beloved laughed when I told him my sweaty tale of woe, and asked why I would think to hate the perfect little jogger.
Men.
Thursday, August 07, 2008
Eeew.
It's interesting what you can find in the produce department. Today it was a nose-picking yahoo in a Leaf jersey on a cell phone. He was wandering around like he owned the place, digging for gold with both his thumb and index finger.
I heard him before I saw him, and as I turned towards the noise, I happened to lock eyes with him while he was knuckle deep in a nasal hole.
Gross. So very, very gross. All I could think was that he was going to wander about willy nilly, touching fruit and vegetables with his snotty little fingers.
He stopped his tunneling when he saw that he had an audience and with the bravado that only this kind of jackass can muster, he wiped his hand all over the Maple Leafs and strutted about like a peacock, telling whoever he was talking to about "the fucking hottest chick" he'd ever seen.
It was almost worse than the nose picking.
I plan my route at the grocery store. Fruit and veg, meat then bread. Sometimes bread then meat, depending on the flow of traffic. This guy, so enchanted with himself and the memory of the fucking hot chick, wove in and out of the entire area like a silverback gorilla with ADHD.
And, somehow, despite my methodical route-taking and his random strutting, it appeared as though I was trailing him. Everywhere I went, there he was.
The horror.
The very last thing I wanted was for him to think that any part of me was even remotely enchanted with any part of him.
If they ever wanted to make a remake of Saturday Night Fever with a main character who wore hockey jerseys and picked his nose in public, this guy would be a shoe-in for the lead.
The last thing I heard him say as he wandered by the meat counter grabbing packages of chicken and beef, was that he was heading to the gym.
Poor gym. But lucky, lucky grocery store.
Sometimes people, just by being, annoy the crap out of me.
Harrumph.
I heard him before I saw him, and as I turned towards the noise, I happened to lock eyes with him while he was knuckle deep in a nasal hole.
Gross. So very, very gross. All I could think was that he was going to wander about willy nilly, touching fruit and vegetables with his snotty little fingers.
He stopped his tunneling when he saw that he had an audience and with the bravado that only this kind of jackass can muster, he wiped his hand all over the Maple Leafs and strutted about like a peacock, telling whoever he was talking to about "the fucking hottest chick" he'd ever seen.
It was almost worse than the nose picking.
I plan my route at the grocery store. Fruit and veg, meat then bread. Sometimes bread then meat, depending on the flow of traffic. This guy, so enchanted with himself and the memory of the fucking hot chick, wove in and out of the entire area like a silverback gorilla with ADHD.
And, somehow, despite my methodical route-taking and his random strutting, it appeared as though I was trailing him. Everywhere I went, there he was.
The horror.
The very last thing I wanted was for him to think that any part of me was even remotely enchanted with any part of him.
If they ever wanted to make a remake of Saturday Night Fever with a main character who wore hockey jerseys and picked his nose in public, this guy would be a shoe-in for the lead.
The last thing I heard him say as he wandered by the meat counter grabbing packages of chicken and beef, was that he was heading to the gym.
Poor gym. But lucky, lucky grocery store.
Sometimes people, just by being, annoy the crap out of me.
Harrumph.
Wednesday, July 09, 2008
Letter #2
Dear God,
The following headline, in a prominent spot on my online news page, would seem to indicate that you didn't find my last letter all that amusing:
Motherhood "so much fun," says Jamie Lynn Spears
Fine. I'll stop ragging on breedingly-abled celebrities if you'll cool it with the Spears big baby fun headlines. And maybe ease up on the Brangelina twin watch stuff too, while you're at? Pretty Please?
I do have to thank you for cushioning the blow with the Woman finds baby bat in bra, thought it was cellphone headline immediately below the Spears one though. Classy move.
Regards,
Kristin
The following headline, in a prominent spot on my online news page, would seem to indicate that you didn't find my last letter all that amusing:
Motherhood "so much fun," says Jamie Lynn Spears
Fine. I'll stop ragging on breedingly-abled celebrities if you'll cool it with the Spears big baby fun headlines. And maybe ease up on the Brangelina twin watch stuff too, while you're at? Pretty Please?
I do have to thank you for cushioning the blow with the Woman finds baby bat in bra, thought it was cellphone headline immediately below the Spears one though. Classy move.
Regards,
Kristin
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