Things That Spell Thirteen

T is for Travel, which I love and don't get to do often enough

H is for Hussy, which I have been described as and have no problem with

I is for Irish, which I am fortunate to be, thoroughly and completely: the sappy, emotional "I love mum" crying part as well as the happy "hey let's have another Guinness" part

R is for Righteous Babe, which I like to think of myself as, for sure

T is for Talent, which for me is writing and I'm finally embracing the concept without feeling like a bad, bragging girl

E is for Elizabeth, who is my grandmother, even though she's been gone for nine years--she's still my grandmother

E is for Elizabeth again, which is my middle name, after her

N is for Nice, which very few people have EVER accused me of being--which is fine by me

The Stupidist Thing I've Seen All Day!

Here it is, folks.

Gosh, thanks, Dr. Cliff Pickover (oh, I am so tempted), thank you SO much for teaching me the difference between men and women. I really needed it simplified and making it into this wacky dials-and-knobby-thingies graphic REALLY helped me.

I decided to Stumble and write about whatever came up.

Why did this come up?

What did I tell them about myself that generated this pathetic website?

I'm shuddering over here. I can't even write about it.

Miscellaneous Fun Stuff

There's this guy named Jimmy Knox. Jimmy has a sister Marquita, and he lives on Juanita (that's a lake). She cuts hair. He makes it into rugs (the hairpieces, not the ones you walk upon). You can't make this stuff up.
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My dad was telling me about a guy he used to know, named Sammy. Everyone called him Sammy the Shoe Man (guess what he did for a living?). My dad said, "He had sole." Har har! "When he met you, he would shake your hand, but he wouldn't look into your eyes--because he was looking at your shoes."
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My niece is six and has a very sharp wit (in addition to being completely adorable--oh, yeah, she has it all). One morning, she looked at her mom, who was in her usual morning-running-around attire. With one hand on her hip, and the other using a baby carrot for emphasis, she looked at her mom and said, "Mom, I've just about had it with those pilates pants."

Dogs Who Walk Themselves and Other Hometown Stories

Sitting in one of our favorite pubs last week, I turned my gaze from my table mates when I spotted two dogs strolling down the sidewalk. Apparently alone and walking side by side, their easy rambling way reminded me of two old friends. Two old men, perhaps, heading out for a drink or to meet their lady friends at a dance. Or maybe they were just getting in some much-needed exercise. No humans followed them. I’m still wondering about it.
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Dogs are everywhere, including out on dates with their humans. One of my favorite summer nights out starts with a walk downtown to the best pizza place in town, where dogs are welcome on the deck and they can help themselves to the big water bowls. Afterward, we saunter over to a live-music pub where we try to choose from among the excellent beers on tap and where, again, dogs are welcome to hang with their people. Ours lay among the peanut shells and took a nap while we enjoyed beer, tunes, and friends.
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I pass an elementary and a high school on my four-minute drive home from the gym. Every morning, I observe a simple act that many don’t have a chance to see anymore: kids walking and riding their bikes to school. At both schools, the bike racks and the sidewalks out front are full. I love watching the little backpacked boys and girls hurrying down the street, and I gauge my lateness by how fast they’re going—because we both need to be somewhere by 8:15.
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What else do I love about my town? While it might not have been apparent in a previous post, I do love the political climate—because in our city’s recent mayoral race, we actually had to choose between two liberal progressives. Wow!

It's All Good

I am a lucky woman. I come from a large family. We were all raised Catholic, and apart from our parents, none of us participate in the Catholic part any longer

And that's okay.

I am in upstate NY this weekend, celebrating my parents' 60th anniversary. Most of my siblings are here, along with lots of nieces and nephews. We are eating well, and drinking some really nice Pale Ale. We are yakking and laughing over old oft-told tales until our mouths hurt and sides ache.

Somehow, we all get along really well. Somehow, we really love each other, despite our differences, which are few. Most of us are like-minded politcally, socially, intellectually. Many of us share a love of beer. We love our siblings' spouses and children. As one of my brothers would say "It's All Good." No matter what's going on, who's going through difficulties, and how our successes or failures stack up against each others', it's all good. And if you ask any of us, each would answer that the "somehow" that made the difference in our lives is our parents. They could not have done a better job raising all of us and the results are amazing.

We're healthy, happy, and here. No one is ill. Our parents are vital, and still very much in love. They are best friends.

We are incredibly lucky. And trying to hold onto it while we can. Someday, and who knows when, I won't be able to say that.

What I hate about flying

“Traveling today is not like it use be!” everyone complains. Long security lines, ridiculous regulations and surly TSA employees are just the start. Then you get crammed onto another full flight where you have less leg room than a first-grader’s desk. On my recent flight, there was no movie to ease the pain (thanks a lot, Northwest Airlines!) but you could enjoy the privilege of purchasing a box of crapfood for five bucks. Five hours later, and you’re on the other coast—which is less time than it will take for your poor legs to uncramp.

All of this is the new reality that most of us have actually become accustomed to.

None of this, however, is what I hate about flying.

What I hate about flying is the smell. Two hundred fifty breathing, sweating, sloughing off skin-ing, belching and FARTING people crammed into a space designed for half that many with absolutely no escape. I don’t despise my fellow human except for when he (or she, but I think mostly he) is farting on me. Yes, ON me. The air is moving around my body and I am in the middle of it so the fart-filled molecules are falling on me and my clothes. I am breathing the fart-filled molecules into my nose—and I shudder to think of where they originated.

Farting on the shuttle bus, farting in the security line, farting on the jetway, farting for three thousand miles at thirty five thousand miles up.

It’s a good thing they’re not allowing passengers to light up anymore, or we’d all be blown to pieces.

I hate flying. It’s the farting, my friend.

Real Progress

Today was Day 1, Week 1, of Round 2 of Boot Camp. A new, improved version of Boot Camp for me. Again with the hundreds of lunges, jumping jacks, squats, over-arm claps, sadistic mountain climbers, and 8-count pushups.

But today, AMAZINGLY and very surprisingly, I was able to do every effin' repetition of every effin' exercise as the uberfit (what is wrong with me today? I hate the fad of using "uber" to describe just about every single feeling, emotion, object, person, place and thing, which in itself negates the term) instructor barked them out to us. I did them all, not effortlessly, mind you, but without pain. WITHOUT pain. This is real progress.

After class, I walked briskly to my car, easily lowered myself into the seat, and went about my drive home and the rest of my day without a thought of my burning muscles. I felt good. No, great.

Compare this to my description of this same class eight weeks ago.

I am making real progress. My body is adapting and getting stronger. And I'm thrilled about it. Now if it would only reward me by losing a few pounds, I'd be ecstatic. Not too much to ask, izzit??