Run. Dog. Cat. Cat. Me.

happy freaking friday. at least my socks match.

On behalf of the Blah Contingent everywhere, I have this to say:

happy.  freaking.  friday.

And how are both of you, my loyal and faithful blog followers, may the gods of insurance continue to approve and pay for all your meds?

I was flying pretty high after last Saturday, it took me until Tuesday evening to crash.  Wednesday Becky started buddy training with me at Killer’s.  Killer would give me a set to do – “Terri, do three sets of these four exercises 16 to 20 reps.”  Then she would work with Becky.  Actually it was more that she worked Becky over.  In the nicest way possible, of course, because Killer is a very sweet person upon whom I have an enormous Girl Crush and she would never do anything to hurt someone.  She might do things to help them get stronger which would have the side effect of lasting pain and the inability to raise your arm high enough to brush your teeth or put a hat on your miserable unwashed hair, but, heh, shit happens.

Still suffering delusions of grandeur I figured if I could do a half marathon I could certainly do 25 lat pull downs.  If 20 is good, 25 is better, right?  And since my hip flexors and glutes are a source of trouble, let’s just show them and do 30 monster walks instead of 20, dammit.  When Killer put the bands around my ankles for the monster walks Becky’s eyeballs boinged out of her head like a Looney Tunes character.  “What fresh new hell is THAT?” she asked.  I think maybe Becky needs a Xanax before our next workout.

It’s one better.

Thursday when I woke and considered going swimming and realized that would include having to raise my arms high enough to put on the swimming hair condom, and that swimming involves kicking, which means my legs would have to actually move, I decided I would sit that one out.  Becky and I messaged each other, careful not to raise our arms any further than needed to reach a keyboard.

I cheered Becky up by noting that her post #fatass #slacker  should be #F’ingawesomemarathoner #Killertriedtokillme.  She laughed and then cried when her abs engaged.

This morning I woke at 7:30am, reluctantly, and had about 13 cups of coffee which had no beneficial effect whatsoever.

Becky couldn’t join us today and when I tried to do bicep curls and couldn’t lift the weights Killer called it a day.  I went home, had some more coffee and took a nap for an hour.  Then I made some green tea with lemon just to switch up the caffeine source and sat around looking at the dog hair floating up off the stairs.  I tell you what, the hair all over this house – and I’ve started brushing him daily, so in theory a lot of that hair should already be in the trash, but, no – he should weigh about 8 pounds and be completely bald.

His mother would still love him, however.  Probably she would love him even more since it would save so much vacuuming.

I know, that looks like a cat. It’s not.

(ed. Note:  yes, those are too cats)

(dammit.  I searched for hairless dogs.)

(cat note:  Cats Rule.  Dogs Drool.)

(DAMMIT CHUNK QUIT HIJACKING MY BLOG)

I need to get some more socks.  They’ve started getting saggy and they bunch up in my shoe.  I only wear one kind of sock, Thorlo running socks with the knit-in cushion.  Also I wear them inside out.  The knitting is softer on the outside.  It’s like when they put all the seams on the inside of a running bra.  Gentlemen manufacturing jog bras:  No.  Stop that.  No inside seams.  Or, go ahead and continue doing that, but wear that sucker on a long run your own self.  Preferably a long hot sweaty one, and let’s see how that chafing feels when you get in the shower.  Why waste all the softness on the outside?  Do you put the fleece blanket on fleece side out?  I think not.  Guess what I figured out?  I wear the jog bra inside out too.  With brains like these I should not be able to carry the weight of my head on my poor tired shoulders.

Oddly, since all my children have left home all my socks have stayed.  I do the laundry.  All the socks match with their mates.  Running socks, hub’s black socks for work, funny little bicycle socks – they all hang around and match up.  Every single time. You’d think I was running a coffee shop with a dating match-up event for socks.

I clearly remember it was so unusual that all the socks in a load of laundry for six people would match up that one day when they did and there were no orphans to shove in the corner with the rest of the orphaned socks, I was so excited that I called my friend and announced, I just washed 27 pair of socks AND THEY ALL MATCHED.

She did not believe me and accused me of lying.  Well, OK, maybe she didn’t say outright that I lied.  But her snorts were quite obvious.

This is what I think.  I think socks hate children.  My kids moved out, all my socks stayed.  I’m just saying.

The other side of this is children think their parents had sex exactly the same number of times there are children.  It’s obvious that socks are sexual beings.  It’s also obvious that they have very loose morals.  And I believe that is part of the disappearing issue.  The socks are leaving the house in order not to corrupt the children.  Once the children are gone, no need to hide their socksuality.  Also they are much older socks, now, and a Friday night spent with you, propped on the footstool on your feet, while you eat 98% fat free popcorn and watch the five episodes of the Colbert Report which you recorded this week – this is a wild and crazy time.  You spend a crazy Friday night like that and on Saturday morning you do laundry, you’ll find those socks are much to tired to go roaming.

Finally, here’s my friend Julianne’s take on the issue: