The Madness. Of March. Ing in Place.

Now if I could just get that dog of mine
 to March AND
change the load of laundry ...

So, it's March. And you know what that means of course. Madness. And plenty of it.

Note: I am not talking about the silly basketball business, no! I have been waiting for years to finally fill out my brackets, if you know what I mean and I think you do, and the filling out just doesn't seem to be happening.

I digress.

I am referring to the real March Madness, dear Readers. I am referring to the Madness that occurs at some point during the month of March when I realize that May is 8 weeks away. And May is the beginning of summer, yes. And summer may require the wearing of a swimsuit.

Bah!

So, naturally, I decide to take three pilates classes per week, one with a ball and one with a flex band/roller and one with a magic circle.

Note: Do not mock the magic circle. It is a magical place, yes.

So, naturally, I decide to find every 'buff arms in a week' workout I can find on Pinterest and choose the one that seems the most brutal.

Note: Four minutes of pushups? Really? Who does that?

Additional Note: Me.

So, naturally, I decide to buy a pedometer, even though The Hub foolishly believes that I will become obsessed with the number of steps I take each day.

Note: Silly Man. When have I ever given him the idea that I am prone to obsessivity?

Additional Note: Oh, yeah.

So, now I practically have to drag poor Rubi down the street for yet another walk in the rain. I have also  learned that it is 55 steps to the laundry room and back and I can add another 100 steps if I march in place while I change the load. 

Note: I have a great idea! Let's stick a pedometer on some kid marching in the band with his tuba. Now that's a workout, my friends.

So, now my arms are so sore that I can barely reach the whipped cream and I it is possible that I am stuck in the magic circle, yes. 

Clearly, I have only one option.

Ruuuuuuuuuubi!

Is that dog hiding under the bed again?

Silly girl. Doesn't she realize that it's March?

Heck, yes! 

Keep Your Hands Off My Man! Boobs.

So The Hub and I are appliance shopping. On his birthday, a fact that I somehow have to mention to every appliance salesperson that we meet and who happens, quite oddly, to be a divorced woman somewhere in my general age bracket, give or take.
With the Divorcee SalesLadies we discuss The Hub's desire to meet my (rather) finicky needs.

Note: Simmer down, everyone. I am referring to my appliance needs, obviously.

Additional Note: Okay, fine. It may not be that obvious.

The SalesLadies ask How long have you have been married? and How have you made your relationship work for so long? and How did you grow together instead of apart? So, naturally I find myself explaining my Trophy Wife status and the whatnot.

Note: I try not to include the whatnot in the conversation but I am pretty sure that the term 'Sugar Daddy' comes up and I am not referring to candy, no.

The SalesLadies are wistful. The SalesLadies are jealous. The SalesLadies are eyeing The Hub and wondering Where have all the good men gone?

And, one of the SalesLadies adds, Look at him. He's over fifty and he's not even fat and ...

Wait for it ...wait for it ...

He doesn't even have man boobs.

Yup.

And he's all mine, Folks.

Heck, yes!


- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad

Just Another Day. In Paradise, Sort Of.

Fabulous, Indeed!

I'm sitting poolside, with the view of an Eiffel tower. Not the Eiffel tower, mind you, but a somewhat reasonable facsimile in Las Vegas, yes. 

Pools are always interesting spots for people watching, yes, particularly on a warm day in Sin City.

The pool itself is not particularly sinful, no.  The sun is high in the sky, and a most unusual mix of music  is playing from the cabana house while hotel guests lounge about.

There's a mid fifties dude with a bit of a belly across the pool from me giving me the chin nod when I look up. So I try try try not to look up but I can’t help myself because I need to see if he’s looking. So I look. And his chin nods.

Note: Bah! I have no self control whatsoever.

The European couple next to me is fairly entertaining. 

Note: I know that the fellow is European by the fact that 1) he is grooving to George Michael singing about chameleons and 2) he is wearing a sky blue speedo and 3) he is speaking in a strange cadence that sounds like he has something caught in his airway.

Additional Note: George Michael is a man without conviction. He comes and goes. He comes and gooooooes.

A new posse has arrived poolside. Near the Eiffel tower. They are heavily tattooed twenty something fellows in swim trunks and cowboy boots. I kid you not. Cowboy boots. But not speedos, thankfully. Definitely not European Cowboys, no. 

The lifeguards, a couple of twenty somethings, are flirting with each other. The hot tub is filled with dudes with big bellies and ball caps, intermittently checking their phones and watches.

Note: Maybe they are timing the hot babes that want to meet them to see if they actually arrive in twenty minutes.

So, the Cowboys are cannonballing. The Europeans are grooving. The Big Bellies are checking. For Hot Babes.

As for me, I'm reading my book. I'm concentrating deeply, yes. I’m not looking at the Dude across the pool. I will not give him the satisfaction, no. 

I’m not looking. I’m not looking...

Sweet Holy Moses. I looked.

Ah, there it is.  The chin nod.

Note:  Bah! I have no self control whatsoever.

Heck, yes!