A Few Things That Have Had Me Roaring Today

Today has been a non-stop laugh fest. It began, oh so kindly, with one of my BFF's posting this amazing picture on her blog. In the post, she wishes her dear sweet baby puppy a happy birthday, and illustrates with the picture below. And this is my new favorite pic! Alana, of course, looks beautiful (she never doesn’t) but her dog, with her 2nd birthday, also seems to have morphed into some sort of hip, no-nonsense, drug lord. I’m still not sure how something that’s only seven pounds can be a bad-ass, but our little Rockstar has accomplished it, what with the cheetah outfit and the hairy jowls. She only needs a cigar in her mouth and some gold gangsta chains ‘round her neck, and she’s set! Anyway, for some reason, I have fallen truly.madly.deeply in love with this picture, and it’s on my desktop at work, for shameless peeping every now and again. Thanks for unwittingly making my day, Lana! I love you and your darling drug lord pooch! Seriously. Just look at Roxy's face, for like, a minute straight, and you can't help but chuckle!

The day got a bit better (well, not better, but at least more interesting) when a colossal furry spider ambled on into the bathroom stall I happened to be facilitating. I panicked, naturally. It gleefully roosted inches from my left foot, and I was, well, otherwise occupied. It’s not like I could do what I normally do (scream and run for cover) and get my self to safety in a timely manner. I thought for a few mere seconds about actually squashing the thing, but I realized that since it seemed to be roughly the same size and height as a newborn infant, I did not relish the idea of hearing the crunch, then inevitably having to throw away a pair of my favorite kicks because it had spider contamination all over it. Plus, I could tell it was plotting my untimely demise, and I didn’t want to provoke it. I survived, though, but barely.
Just barely.

I’ve also done some sneaky calculations, and I have come to the horrifying conclusion that my dietician’s sole quest in life is to make me fat, and not just fat, but, like, enormously fat. Naturally, as I have, you know, oh, a small fear of that, it’s had me stressing. During my sesh with her earlier this week, I was trying to fish for an exact number she wanted me to gain, but could get nothing better than her saying she wanted me to go up, well, let’s just say a looooot of BMI points. So, I get on the internet, and since I’m smarter than a canine, it didn’t take me long to calculate the number she more or less wants me at, and it is preposterously high – and I’m not just saying that because some would say I have an eating disorder and therefore am a bit distorted when it comes to my body. Like, the number she wants me at is higher than the number I delivered the man-child at. So naturally, upon discovering this, I roared for a good twenty minutes, and promptly decided I need to have a heart to heart with the dietician, let her know that this is never (and doesn’t need to!) happen. If it’s necessary to establish dominance, then so be it. I should go watch the Discovery channel and see how the tigers do it. Establish dominance, I mean. I’ll look into it and keep you updated.

And, lastly, you’ll only find this funny if you are familiar with The Lord of the Rings. Marissa, I cannot wait for the moment you read this! So, Rivendell. That is the village where Frodo and Sam and the other hobbits live, right? Well, nothing makes for a better word to say when belching. It’s my new favorite hobby. Rivvvveeennnnddddeeeelllll! It’s so satisfying. I’m thinking I’m going to try to get Brandon video recording me while doing it, then posting it for your (shameless, I hope) enjoyment.

Have a good day, all! Brandon and Cade came and picked me up during my lunch break, and we went and bought the necessary tools to dress Mrs. Peterson’s wounds to nurse her back to health. Brandon has promised me her speedy recovery by 5 pm sharp, when I am off work, so that we can all go on a lovely ride together.

Two Flats

This afternoon Cade and I rode Mrs. Peterson for several miles. We had such a blast riding to the park and looking at the "duts," (translation: ducks) and left only when two geese started chasing us, and Cade (okay it was really me) had a minor freak out.
Don't even get me started on my duck issues.
I was gone nearly an hour, far longer than my dietician's strict 15 minute only exercise rule (laaaaame).

But I got home, and Brandon noticed I had not one, but TWO flat tires. Wha-?! How did I flatten both my tires? I'm such a dumb broad. I've already killed Mrs. Peterson.

Riding Mrs. Peterson

Well, Cade, just like his mama, has fallen in love with Mrs. Peterson. Hour after hour he begs to “wide bite!” (Translation: ride bike) And, well, despite it being spring, it’s wretchedly cold here – as in, much too cold to ride a bike. But when his begging has driven me to a near psychotic state, I usually give in, just so he’ll stop imploring me with those big beautiful eyes to go “ousside.” So this afternoon, even though it had snowed a good foot or so last night, I took him out bike riding. We donned our hats and gloves (though it looks silly in the picture because I have no gloves small enough for the teensy man child) and started our bike-riding adventure. Because this whole exercise thing is to strengthen my lungs anyway, it’s not easy to not have asthmatic issues with a 25 lb dead-weight strapped to my chest, but with my inhalers(s), I make it just fine. I’m really having a lot of fun bonding with my wee one this way.

Meet Mrs. Peterson

The newest member of our family has arrived! Meet Mrs. Peterson. Isn’t she beautiful? I love to ride her, and oh, how she loves to be ridden! She’s chicly old-fashioned, and is the most glorious piece of metal I’ve ever laid eyes or hands or butt on. And don’t ask me why she’s married, or whom she’s married to. I do not know these things. I only know we are in love. She’s a bit naked, but I will be pimping her out this weekend with a basket and a bike horn. I’d also like to find tassels to hang from her handlebars, but is that too flashy? Will she come across as a slut? I’m not sure of these things!

I must admit I’m having a really salacious time telling people I’m going out to “ride Mrs. Peterson.” But I’m weak for a sex joke. I can’t helps it. I’m also grateful to her because, rumor has it, she’ll be saving my lungs in dire need of exercise and strength. And if ya have to exercise, you might as well do it while pimped out in pink and hotness - at least, that’s what my grandma always used to say.

So, whaddya think? Isn’t she a beut?!

PS Her seat needs to be raised. I look a bit like an overgrown child on a midget pony. Not the image I was going for, exactly.