Friday, October 23, 2015

I'm calling for Eradication of Ants

Never in my life have I considered eradication of a species of any sort. But as I was sitting at my desk penning what would be one of the greatest novels of all time, I began to scratch my noggin. Not in the – I’m searching for the words to occupy the blank white page on the screen – kind of scratch, but of the itchy scratchy kind.

When suddenly a visitor appeared on the interior of my left eyeglass lens. Yep, for what did appear, but a tiny ant - crawling about my lens as if it were just another Wednesday. 

Now, I don’t know about you, but this is the type of thing that can’t escape your conscience, sub conscience, nor your nerve endings who feel they have been violated.  My entire being has now been taken over by phantom ants sitting on every cell of my body – all because of one, rogue live little being.

I now would like to address whomever in the world has the ability to rid humankind of these annoying little creatures. And, while we’re at it – let’s obliterate wasps too. I was wronged this summer by one of those botherations. Yes, that little needle butt nuisance found a way into my hair follicles. And it jackhammered my head so hard that I was numb from my left temple down to the base of my neck by the end of the week.

What possible benefit do either of these insects bestow upon our beautiful mother planet?  Yeah, ants dig tunnels, which aerates the soil. Blah, blah, blah. I already have an aerator. It’s something I call lawn service, and they are not climbing into my pantry searching for crumbs to take home. Did you know, there are literally millions of ants for every single person on this planet? Really? Do we need that many? Can’t we at least do with half that number? If everyone swore an oath to aerate the land around them for the betterment of our dirt, can we please just blast a few million of them away? I’m just asking. It’s already a NO if I don’t ask.

Not a face even a mother could love.
So how about those wasps? I get the bee thing. I saw the movie. Having bees is good. To not have bees is bad. Earth likey likes the bees. Pollination, pretty flowers, green earth, blue sky is what we are grateful for all because of bees. Got it.

Wasps, however, I’m not sold on. They are supposedly good for pest control. The only thing they control in my yard is me, and access to my Hummingbird feeder. The only time I’m happy to see a wasp is when I’m refilling the bird feeder, and I find several of the drowned, gluttonous beasts in the container.  Good riddance.  Please, please, please do not have anyone film a story about wasps. They do not deserve the notoriety. They are attention seekers and bullies.  Help!

Monday, November 10, 2014

My Own "Cold" War

I want one dollar from every person in the world right now so I can start a vaccine research fund for the common cold.  Seriously, the average adult contracts 2-3 colds per year with a longevity of at least two weeks; and children even more. I know this from my extensive research on the subject. Oh yeah, I went all the way to the couch, procured the laptop and promptly typed in CDC common cold. I will stop at nothing to end this "cold" war.
My best friend, Mr. Kleenex

Like a good, responsible member of society, I religiously partake in the needle of the Influenza virus annually. But people, where have we gone wrong? Where is the cold vaccine? Colds are annoying; people with colds are annoying; and because this affliction is not life threatening - some think it's just fine to share their virusy, nasty little sinusy/cold parasites with the world. I think the new word of the year now is "Quarantine."

This post may be a tiny bit self serving, because after a week of nursing my teen back to health, I've been reduced to the position of "wide-gaping open mouth" breather. Yes, that's what I get for not quarantining my daughter to the woodshed for a week. But, no, I have to go and challenge Mother Teresa for a sainthood by allowing my offspring to stay in her warm bed within close proximity to my immune system.
Why you should quarantine your teen.

Okay, so back to my vast research where I've found there are more than one billion colds in the U.S. a year. Where is the civility? It doesn't take a rocket scientist - literally (I'm guessing it's some other kind of scientist) to figure out, we have an annual pandemic; and I'm beginning to believe nobody cares.

Now I'm going out on a limb here to make a statement I have not researched. But I'm pretty sure the common cold has been on our planet for-like-ever. Which leads to my next point. There have been years and years to study this bad-boy and still nothing. I'm not saying take the experts off of the killer infectious disease vaccine-making list, but don't we have some genius interns who are frothing at the mouth to relieve human-kind of this irritable nasal affliction?

I'd call someone and demand an answer, but for whatever reason my number seems to have been placed on every politician's and government agency's do-not-call-list.  I have only the three of you who read this to rely on.

Monday, January 13, 2014

It's Too Hard to Train for a Sprint Triathlon

I never would have accepted the assignment of a Sprint Triathlon I bestowed upon Big Red and me, had I realized training would be so annoying. You people do realize if it's iceberg weather, the only option for cycling, is inside on a one-wheeler traveling nowhere.

Big Red alway flaunting her thighs
Now, cycling was actually the least of my worries when I forced this commitment upon us. So as I started on my 45-minute jaunt,  just knowing "I've got this - because at least I will be sitting during this little endurance exercise," I finally realized  - THERE IS NO COASTING on a stationary bike. Nope. You sit, but your legs are in constant motion for 45 minutes. What? I'm sorry, but this isn't reality training. This just isn't going to work.

Let's talk about running, shall we?  What I'm about to reveal to you should in no way be construed as something I'm proud of, but here it goes - I can now run 5k in 36 minutes. Yeah I know, you're grandma runs it in 20. Give her a medal, will ya?

Now, Big Red however is a different story. She runs at the pace of your great, great Grandma. And yes, I know, that particular Grandma is no longer amongst the living. Exactly. I believe Big Red has mastered one-and-a-half miles at this point; and I don't dare ask how many markings on the clock dial are passed by the minute hand when the task is completed.

She is of German descent and claims her people are not runners - they are marchers.  Now I see it a little differently. Big Red was born in the wrong century as far as I'm concerned.  Her voluminous Herculean thighs are of the sort women in the 1800s donned after years of harnessing themselves to a plow in the potato fields. As time passed, these women were replaced by oxen.
Big Red couldn't fit her thighs in the car.

Now, for the swimming. Yeah, that's going to have to wait. It took a while to actually find a suit to fit, and our gym pool is very, very busy.  Just haven't quite jumped in yet. It's very mentally challenging to want to take a plunge when it is 20 degrees outdoors. Yes, I know, we have an indoor pool at the gym. I didn't say it was impossible, I'm just saying it's mentally challenging.  And most of you are aware, we are weak to such.

Thursday, January 2, 2014

Whose Glutes Aren't Larger Than Their Neck? I Must Meet that Person.

The first few steps to successfully committing to a Sprint Triathlon at the age of me, is: #1. Scour the planet for the easiest race in existence, no matter how far you have to travel. #2. Pay for it, or in my case, have Big Red pay for it, because she's so excited to be a part of it. #3. Buy, for the first time in your life, a one-piece swimsuit that fits like a Chinese finger trap.

So for any of you who haven't had the pleasure of shopping for "said" swimwear, I'm going to clue you in on the humiliation of such an event. Big Red purchased hers first and whined about the tightness in the shoulders, therefore she'd have to return it for a size larger.  Okay. I get it.

So, with all that knowledge under my belt, I confidently walked out of the sporting goods store with a royal blue, sparkly, shiny suit - complete with racing stripes - in yes, a size larger than I choose for clothing.

And then a couple of days later I decided it's time to give it a go.  Now, I know, most people would perhaps have the gumption to actually try the swimwear on before purchasing. I don't disagree, except with the winter storm we just endured, I was bundled up as if Ralphie's mom from "The Christmas Story" had taken an interest in my well-being.

So, now I'm home and I approach the entry by cautiously looking at the suit from all angles, and quickly conclude there are no zippers.  It appears the only plausible way to embark on this journey is through the neck of this contraption. Therefore feet first through the neck. Okay, so far, so good.  All I can think of at this point is, my neck is way smaller than my gluteus maximus (which is why it's called maximus, not minimus), therefore how do these manufacturers expect I pull this suit up to my shoulders.  FYI, this is not a stupid question after all.

It can be done. WARNING: If you're squeamish, exit this site right now.

All it takes is a contortionist attitude much like the magicians who find it fascinating to escape a straight jacket. Simply dislocate both of your shoulders; wiggle like a bobble head on a gang bangers dashboard; carefully insert arms through their designated space; and finally, slam your shoulders one-by-one into the nearest wall for perfect relocation.

Voila, success. Except, I looked like a ball of pasty, white dough stuffed into a narrow cylinder of chicken wire. Nobody needs to see this. So, like Big Red, I marched back to the swimsuit purchasing palace and traded that model in for another, only I chose one three sizes larger (not one).  The gal at the counter was so sweet after I told her  I clearly had a much smaller vision of myself with my original purchase. She quickly replied, "aren't you the one training for the triathlon," and after my nod, she said, "you can come back in a couple of months and fit into this one." I cried all the way home.

Monday, October 28, 2013

Go Out and Save a Face Today

This unfathomable trend of men growing weeds on their face just to prove they can, has become exhausting. You see it everywhere, baseball, football, bowling (well, I guess it has always had a presence in bowling). And I'm not even going down the route of duck hunting. These are the men you expect it from. It's cold when you're all alone out in the wilderness. It also gives them something else to stroke with their free hand.

I have news for those who find it a recreational sport to randomly decide to challenge father time with the wicked speed at which they may be able to camouflage their pie hole.  And do you know what that news is? You will enjoy a lot more alone time. If you're tired of your companion - now is the time to get that facial construction started. She'll leave after she awakes with pus oozing from her ulcerated, reddened dermis.
Bad example, cuz all
women want him.

I may or may not know this from my own experience.  It certainly hasn't been from recent experience, but this fashion direction has brought back horrid memories for me from a few years back. Remember the "two-day shadowed scruff" look? Yeah - nobody needs a human exfoliator. I now feel the need to reach out to those who may become victims of such. If I save just one face, this blog has been worth it.

Now, for those women who have been threatened by your loved one with a thought that he may take on this dastardly challenge - I advise the following response:  Oh that's great baby.  If we're going to relinquish grooming routines around here, then I can demolish the runway and commence reforestation.   Who doesn't want to save the rain forest?

This Super Hero work is endless!!!

Saturday, May 25, 2013

Eight hours of Our Lives We'll Never Get Back

Rio Negro & Amazon meet but never mix.
I'm resurrecting a blog I started back when I was on a Visa in a foreign country south of the equator with Big Red.  So, please amuse me and pretend we're in the moment, as I'd like to continue with this escapade as if I were not currently in a country where springtime harkens to "enjoy the sun, if and only if it shines, because mother nature in menopause will rip those bright warm rays from you in a New York minute." 

If we weren't larger than life - you' could see view.

You may recall a time when I lamented, if you want time to stand still - hop on a treadmill.  However, after today - I can one-up that. Visit an art museum in a foreign country with the native-speaking museum director, and time will not only stop....... it will grab you by the ankles and toss you back to 4th grade crying for your momma.

We arrived at 9:20 a.m. and I swear it was 8 hours before any semblance of food was anywhere near passing these lips. There isn't eight hours worth of anything to view on this planet unless it's the video of Big Red flying out of the golf cart when I topped the speed with a sharp left turn and she clawed her way back off the ground donning fresh sod in her choppers. Now loop that video, and it will never get old. If only the Vine application were available back then.
Village Heifer in Amazon near Manaus

Beach gym in Rio (blackberry had no problem taking this pic)
I'd show you pictures of the artifacts, however, my blackberry was as bored as I, and couldn't muster up the enthusiasm to record this momentous episode in our lives.  FYI - this was in 2011, when I was still clutching to my own telecommunicative artifact with the global leader in wireless, Research in Motion.

I have, however, provided you with a few images reminiscent of our jaunt through the land of conflicting language. I know, they speak Portuguese, but depending on what longitude you are positioned, there are French and German influences in the speech. Just sayin.

As you can see we actually filled up a full frame in a photo, but we can't blame the travel on that. We arrived there in full body form. 

 I only posted these hideous photos of us, because I knew it would make Big Red's skin crawl. And.. well... that's fun for me. After all, she's lost a ton of weight.

Sunday, May 19, 2013

It's how Super Heroes shower.

Big Red, Super Hero Jr., and Yours Truly prepping for the race
Our crackpot gaggle of girls has been asked to participate in an upcoming 5K Foam Fest! Yes an obstacle race with fun blow up toys to bounce, slide and tumble on.  If you want us to run, you must entertain us every 20 seconds with a surprise, such as a Champagne break, or a water feature. We love distractions.  The event organizers praise the race as the only obstacle mud run that doubles as a human car wash.  Apparently there is copious amounts of foam thrown at the runners, because the event crew has an anal retentive need for cleanliness at a "MUD" run. Whatever!

This is not our first attempt as such an event. As a matter of fact I recently received praised by a workout guru for my dedication to fitness. Mr. Fit had noticed, via the internet diary we call Facebook,  that I actually ran in a Mudder Race last summer.  I didn't have the heart to tell him it was the Run Amuck, which although sounds a bit like a tough mudder - but was really more like a stroll through a carnival with a candied apple in your mouth.  FYI, here is the warning from the race organizers: 2 Tips we encourage you to follow: (1) Don’t drink before the race. Alcohol + masses of people + mystery obstacles = molotov cocktail. In other words, bad news. (2) Absolutely, postively no diving into the mud pit. Period.

Our Event Sponsor Bosley

So anyway, my team took this race very seriously as we prepared that morning for this annual event. We even secured a sponsor for the day - who supplied us with all our necessities for this arduous affair. It was a very hot day which required much hydration. Two hours prior to shotgun, we made sure we downed at least three beers and one Mojito. Whaaaat? We had two hours to twiddle our thumbs. We were bored.

The Aftermath.  Alive and well!

 The way I see it, anyone can run a race sober. Where's the challenge there. But I have to say, there is nothing like a 3.1 mile run with obstacles to sober you right up after you end the race flying face down on the giant blow-up water slide. You know where we placed? Yeah I don't either.