Okay, I’ve mulled this over long enough that its time to throw it out there for public consumption:
I don't get Lady Gaga.
Is this just a sign of my age that I just don’t get her?
I don’t think so, because my 62-year old mother ADORES her. In fact, hang out on the south side of Chicago and chances are you’ll see Big Mar riding around in the Trailblazer, cigarette hanging out of her mouth while belting “Bad Romance” like it was an ode to single old broads everywhere.
(Sidenote: Please ignore the “Just Dance” track on my iPod – its not my fault it happens to be a good running song. Some things just defy explanation. Let’s be okay with that and get back to the bigger picture here.)
So what is it that I just don’t get?
Between the outrageous hair/outfits and the following of “Little Monsters,” I just don’t get it. And the more I think about it, the more I feel like my mother circa 25 years ago, when her little daughter M (age 8), was BEGGING for the new Madonna cassette tape while she wondered what the hell was so great about a trashy girl from New Jersey dressed in lace and whining about being a virgin and papas preaching.
Now THAT’S a flashback – how old am I anyways??! Better question – how the heck old is Madonna?!?!
So I guess I will just have to put Lady Gaga on my list of “Things I Don’t Get Because I Am Old or Just Uncool.”
And considering the size of that lsit, I’m gonna need some more paper.
Getcha Boots On, Sandy
Speaking of pop culture – what in holy hell is wrong with Jesse James?
You bag a chick like Sandra Bullock and even get her to marry you, and then you go whoring around with that Bombshell chick who’s covered form head to toe in ratty-ass tats, and reportedly a white supremacist?
I mean, did he have a lobotomy?
That’s the only thing that would explain why he did this, and expected it to be kept a secret.
Ugh. I debated on whether or not to even put that picture up because personally I want to run naked through a scorching fire just to melt the dirty off everytime I look at it.
Which begs the question - how on Earth did Jesse James get naked and make the sexy times with her?!?!
Excuse me while I go bleach my eyes and brain N.O.W.
Wanna know when three minutes is truly an eternity?
When those three minutes are the time it takes to brew that morning coffee.
So have I mentioned that it is literally raining babies around my head?
I’ve got three new nephews, one nephew/niece on the way, and all my friends have had or are currently pregnant with new babies.
Aiden and Nolan
Baby Sully On-The-Way
Me and Cheese are slowly becoming eeked out the social lives of once-babyless.
It is starting to make me wonder if they all know something I don’t, and if this is a train I need to reconsider boarding.
Of course, peer pressure is no reason to have a bambino. For a myriad of different reasons of which I will not disclose here, suffice it to say I am just not down with it yet.
Plus, I like my life right now. Yeah, I get it – its selfish. Nothing compares to the miracle of children, yada, yada.
But I’ll tell you something – being surrounded by baby-makers has taught me that not all is sunshine, rainbows and cute little baby clothes. It’s HARD – I don’t care who you are. And right now, I can’t comprehend uprooting life to take that on.
It's just such a tremendous responsibility of which I am just not capable now.
And besides, I don’t need yet another reason to sit around and binge eat cake frosting and corn chips.
Triathlon training is reason enough.
Not My Reality
And speaking of babies:
Does anyone believe that this lady had one just months ago?
I’ll tell ya what – you find a way for me to look like this post-pregnancy, and I’ll find a way to shoot out those little guys rapid-fire like a machine gun coochie.
Oh, and speaking of - once again, triathlon season is upon us.
And now that the weather is mostly above Suck It degrees, I have taken my long runs back outside.
Nothing against the treadmill, which got me almost entirely through Ironman training, but I needed to get some fresh air in my lungs and I was just plain bored with the monotony of my iPod and the fact that I seem to uncannily time my runs during the Rick Sanchez timeslot on CNN –which my gym runs incessantly.
Seriously – would it kill ‘em to toss on Bravo for a few hours here and there?
In any case, I took my legs over to the lake these last few weeks.
My legs and my COMPRESSION TIGHTS.
That’s right – I bought into the fad.
And before I say anything else, we all know by now that I am truly not a new-gadget-type of girl. I am scrappy, plain and simple. I ride a four year old tri bike that is starting to rust and rattle all over, my riding shorts are also that old and all worn out at the crotch, and I can barely spell Garmin, much less plunk down the money to own or work one.
But I got compression tights, and boy oh boy do I love them.
Not only are they great for actually running and giving my ass the sports bra-like support it needs, recovering after a long run or a brick in them is genius.
After having them on a couple hours post long workout, I wake up in the morning feeling almost zero effects of the previous day’s smash fest.
I suspect I will wear the crap out of these until the are no longer compression but more like yoga pants, and the downside is that they cost a ton. And while I considered setting up a texting donation site a la Haiti to help fund my compression tights shortage, I figured I best hold off until I can pay my own way.
Either that, or just wait ‘til my birthday and drop LOTS of hints for my husband.
(Husband, if your reading this, that was hint #1).
Moral of the story?
Compression tights rule, and I hate being poor.