Some people should shower before working out.

Let's talk about smells, yes odors, fumes - not fragrance or aroma, because those are not synonymous with this Super Hero in Training's gym. I have been going to the gym earlier in the mornings while my offspring has been in school, but today I slept in a little later due to winter break and took a leisure approach at getting to my double secret training facility.

I had forgotten why I relished in the early morning workouts until I walked past the cardio room, and it hit me like a Mack Truck all the way to the core of my being. I was dizzy to the point the concrete floor was rapidly approaching my face before my hand found the wall to anchor my twitching body.

I have spoken of this creature before, so if you've been reading my blogs you'll know who was in that room. I knew and I didn't even have to look. The Predator was back. I realize it seems redundant to speak of him again, but he's (not that I like it) a part of my training life and I want you to experience every slice of Heaven with me on this journey.

(Before reading further, I must warn you of the graphic nature of what you are about to experience. You may want to turn back now.)

I really want you to understand what I endure. To say he hasn't showered in a week doesn't really get you to the repugnance of the situation. Imagine a 40-something year-old, 245 pound guy who's been growing dreadlocks for the past 20 years while crouching ass to heels in backwood excrement for weeks at a time waiting to maul a wild beast with his bare hands. And then consider the fact that he may roll around in his prey's body fluid like a dog in .... well you know. Okay, so that's how he smells when he arrives to the gym. I do not have the perseverance to stay for the final, final. My training is not that advanced.

Okay, that's it. I'm done. I've got to take a shower now.

Body Shock or Bottle Shock?

I am approaching my one-year anniversary of the commencement of this blog, which catapulted me to my goal for the Mexico trip in April of 135 pounds. Guess what? I'm still there. Although not celebrating that fact, but not mourning any gain either I suppose.

At November's end I had been told by experts at the gym, including my Gym Husband (and don't tell anyone, but I don't think we're going to last) that I have been over training. I was advised to shock my body out of the routine it has become accustomed to.

So not being one to ignore great advice, I did what anyone would do. I stopped training for 15 days, yep, count 'em. Fifteen entire days. And do you want to know what I did? I flew to Washington D.C. for a Christmas Party where no sea creature or two to four-legged land critter was spared from landing on my plate; and no Champagne bottle was safe. Then I flew to Vegas five times for a sundry of meetings, dinners, lunches and yes there was Champagne and copious amounts of grape juice from around the world. My exercise included pushing a button on an elevator; waving my hand in the air for a taxi and signing my name to the bill. Don't tell me I can't take comfort in some good counsel. I proudly Jolted this body out of monotony.

So now I've been back at the gym for three days this week - only to be surprised by a greeting from Metropolis' own Prince. Things do change when you're gone for a while. Oh, and the divorce papers from my Gym husband were prominently displayed on the counter upon entry. This will be an ugly split. I wonder who will keep the pink mouthpiece?

Anyway it's nice to see new faces and his Royal Highness at the gym, however I'm old enough to be his.... well if I was his mother I would have been a pretty big slut in elementary school, and we all know that didn't happen till much later. So, what I was going to say was, I'm old enough to have been his babysitter. But the point I'm getting at - is his presence will make my time at the gym that much more stressful. Think about it, albeit as a Super Hero I vow to protect everyone in the community, nobility is always a target. It's a well-known fact in all the historically accurate Hollywood Kablooey movies, the villains take a particular interest in aristocracy. I need a side-kick. Where's Gilligan when you need her?

I ate a $25,000 hamburger today.

It was a weak moment after a gruelng hour and a half workout today that nearly morphed me into Puke Girl, when I had an out-of-body experience. It was so surreal that even I wonder if it truly didn't happen.

I was sitting at the stop light (in a car - my car- which I have affectionately dubbed as "Why did I let my ex talk me into buying this P.O.S.?) Anyway, I floated effortlessly out of my driver's side window then into the unassuming BMW to my left, where the passenger was savoring a juicy, dripping, everything-on-it CHEESEBURGER, wrapped in foil-lined paper.

I snatched that sphere of fatty carboliciousness right out of his knotty-knuckled hand and made it disappear quicker than Houdini could say Abra. Now, being a Super Hero in Training and all, I did feel a twinge of guilt. But in my mind, if I was about to starve to death, what good was I going to be to anyone? I view it as a citizen helping out, much like when a cop is in hot pursuit of a perpetrator while on foot and has to commandeer some poor soul's precious motorcycle to catch the bad guy. It's almost exactly the same thing, except for the no one is in immediate danger part.

At that very moment that bundle of deliciousness was worth about the same as the price of a motorcycle, and I just have to say that poor unsuspecting soul was lucky to keep his fingers, because I don't recall ever seeing the foil-lined paper anywhere after the incident.

I want to look better in my Skivvies for Janet Napolitano

Now that I'm 11 months into my Super Hero training, I've found it easier to accept the fact that any further improvement in this almost 49-year-old vessel will require either harder training, demolition and reconstruction, or less imbibing. As difficult as it is for me to say, "I choose harder training!!!!" I've warned you - as my muscle mass increases - the brain matter is shrinking. A year ago, I'd be calling the demo man stat.

Now my next statement will seem odd at first, because I have sworn off dating for the next, at least 8 months - could be longer.

I have an entirely new goal. I just want to look good in my Skivvies. And that's not to say anyone has actually seen me in them in the past few months, and nor will anyone until next summer, except, I'm assuming - Janet Napolitano.

I want to have rock-hard abs and shapely thighs for Janet Napolitano. Yes that's right - all for our nation's Homeland Security Chief. Why? Well, far be it from me to be the one going through the new airport full-body scan devices that peer beneath clothing - and have them mistake a fat-fold for a weapon. I couldn't take the humiliation. I'd rather them say, "let her through, her guns are attached." If you refuse to be scanned, they just pat you down. So, yes I'm working harder to protect the TSA from having to "fondle me," as one woman put it in today's USA Today.

I never said I was graceful.

Today has become a day off, only after Trainer Guy and Gym husband repeatedly preached to me the virtues of giving my body a break. Oh, gym husband, yes this may require an explanation. This is much like a real marriage. Gym husband tells me what to do and I tell him I don't want to, because, well because I really don't want to. Then when he's not looking I try to do it on my own. It's a strong relationship built on adoration, deceit, arguing and no sex. Does that sound familiar?

Anyway the reason they both concurred a respite from the gym is necessary is due to the fact that my natural feminine gait (which doesn't really exist - I truly lumber when I walk - I'm from Arkansas) has turned into more of a stride much like that of Mae West when the 1st through the 30th Infantry returned home from WWII. Hey don't get your panties in a bunch, after all in her very own words, "I've been in more laps than a napkin." Okay, you know that's Mae not me, right?

What I'm really trying to say is I'm in so much pain from my waist down that every time I had the urge in the middle of the night to go - I was cursing myself for not having the foresight to snag a catheter from any random hospital of late. Oh how I envy handicap bar toilets now when I approach my lavatory.

I found Gilligan in Hawaii

You know, Batman had Robin, the Lone Ranger had Tonto - and I get..... Be-Be, whose only resemblance to a useful coconspirator is, well, Gilligan. And on my worst days, not even I think I could pull off Alan Hale's role as the Skipper. But there is no side show, I mean sidekick to better describe "Big Red."

For example, in Hawaii on our 4-hour tour off the island of Oahu, we stopped in a cove to swim in an area swarming with Spinner Dolphins. When I say swarming, I literally mean there were 30 pods of Dolphins in this cove. We have our snorkel gear fiercely attached to our heads and we are the first two out of the boat - shaking with excitement to be in the presence of such beautiful animals. I started looking in the depths of the ocean to see a pod of 12 dolphins right below our feet.

After the dolphins pass under us - I flip my head out of the water with my hair swinging to the side just like a super model to share the excitement with Big Red - and she looks at me in astonishment. It appears while I was actually face down in the water looking for dolphins - her attention was focused on the mountainside beyond the cove. Last time I checked, dolphins have this innate need to be in the water, they are not much for hiking mountainsides. Of the 300 dolphins in the water with us, guess how many Be-Be saw, counting those who damn near brushed her feet? Negative 12, zero, zip, nada.

Well anyway, while in Hawaii we were hell-bent on learning to stand up paddleboard, because after months of training our core, legs, arms, narcissism, ego etc., we figure we will kick-ass on this new challenge. There was only one thing holding us back - we actually figured this was a good stunt to conquer while sober. We only had five days in Hawaii, so where were we going to find the time for sobriety?

We arrived Wed. afternoon and went straight to the poolside bar while we waited for our rooms to be ready; Day two we were up at 5 a.m. for golf - and they serve, I mean push beer on you at the golf course. Then we rewarded ourselves with a booze cruise after a tough day on the course; Day three we were up at 6 a.m. and to the gym, so upon our landing at the beach - there were fountains of mimosas with no home. Who can ignore that? Day four - Thurston Howell and I took Be-Be out so she could snub the Dolphins and later we attended a sporting event which is too painful to discuss. Finally Day five - this is the day, we will take a brisk walk, scout our location for paddleboarding, and have a little breakfast. Now the wait for breakfast was 20 minutes. No problem we'll go downstairs to the bar for a minute. We never made it back upstairs. Two hours later and hoards of mimosas down - Let's go shopping!!!

There's more of me to love after a 2-day trip to Vegas

I have spent two days in Vegas eating and drinking everything presented to me. Yes people present to me because "in my mind" I'm like royalty. I grew up believing I was part of the Kennedy family because my mother seemed to know every detail of their lives as if she had breast-fed John-John herself. Therefore, yes I'm American Royalty.

So back to what I ate - I think EVERYTHING sums it up. My exercise included riding up and down escalators as well as several elevators. I'd have taken the stairs but I paid for wheels on my suitcase - so I felt compelled to use them.

I walked to and from the car at Valet parking and at four different restaurants. I did sweat but it was more a condition of the heat- over 100 degrees - Oh and when that cop's sirens went off behind me. That was a false alarm because he was actually after the guy with lawn equipment falling out of the back of his truck. Phew wee. Lucky for me because I'm sure he would have frowned upon the roadie I had in the cup holder next to me.

Just kidding it was half a bottle of leftover wine from the restaurant that I snagged from the table next to us. They seemed to enjoy it during their dinner- so I hated to see it left behind. No not really - someone I know actually bought it - maybe. I will go to the gym tomorrow and spend at least 2 hours as if in a confessional.

So the only life I saved while I was in Vegas was that of a toothless meth addict (that may be redundant, because aren't they all toothless?) who was standing in the middle of main street after I was driving away from a Mexican restaurant. I saved her by swerving out of the way before my car plowed into her as she was walking straight toward me in the middle of the street. I feel pretty good about the trip now. A life was saved - so all was not lost - except her poor teeth.

I'm getting stupider - so weight training must be paying off

I'm beginning to believe in the theory of the brain versus brawn. I think I'm getting stupider. Just messing with you, I'm actually not muscular enough to even say stupider with a straight face - yet. I'm a tweener at this point. I really have never been a brainiac (if that is a made-up word - I'm okay with it)-nor a brawniac (totally made-up word).

So as you can see, I have clearly lost some I.Q. points which have been replaced with muscle tissue. Now let's not kid ourselves, we all know I don't have a lot of wiggle room when it comes to the Intelligence Quotient.

Before I go any further down this road I have to do a shout out to my gym-compadres, because I can't afford to lose anymore friends due to my antics in this blog. Okay boys at American Iron gym- you know I love you, but you do realize those girls aren't paying attention to you for your thoughts on molecular fusion, right?

So anyway this is how far I've sunk in I.Q. I actually started listening to these guys when they suggest I train for an event; or worse a fitness magazine photo shoot. They drag me to the Wall-of-Fame at the gym which has hundreds of photos I choose to not look at everyday, because none of those people on that wall have the slightest resemblance to anything attached to my head -(you know? The head that used to house a brain).

So the now dumbed-up version of me starts thinking - that would be so cool at my age to do a photo shoot; and then something snaps me back into reality. I don't know what, probably the arthritis in my left finger - cuz I'm freakin old.

So I say, um guys - that's so sweet of you to think I could actually pull that off - so I promise you, when I die and come back reincarnated as a 20-something hard bodied, oily fitness guru - I will gladly paste my assets all over that wall. But while I'm sporting this barnacle-ridden, sun damaged, stretched-out baby incubator body, I'm going to have to take a pass.

Then they said the cutest thing. Oh no worries, we have a great photographer who knows how to shoot in just the right light and with photo shop and airbrushing you too can look that good. So after all, who am I to say they aren't the best and the brightest? God love 'em. I can never leave that gym now.

Learning to speak Gym can be dangerous

In the gym I not only learn the nuances of training; sweating; and jealousy of others with much better assets than mine, but I now have an entire new vocabulary. None of it terminology useful to me outside the four walls of iron, machinery and torture devices, however I've always been one who loves the art of communicating.

Especially when Mr. Freaky Strong (that would be a large creature who believes loud spurts of grunting, growling and screaming are prerequisites for an authentic ball-busting workout) tells me as I'm two sets into an already agonizing leg press, "You should throw another Ay-Shun on there." I respond with, "HU? An Ay-Shun?" He says, yeah, you know like a small Asian person.

I know what you're thinking, "What the hell?" So I can't help myself - I have to ask, what pray-tell is equivalent to an Asian? Well, let me enlighten you. It is anywhere from 90-100 pounds in gym-speak. Now, I know these guys aren't racist, because in my gym we have every color, gender and species known to man.

All I could think of is - I sure hope that crazy, naked Asian guy trapped in the car trunk of "Hangover" doesn't hear about this. I don't think Freaky Strong would stand a chance to that naked guy wrapping his legs, and whatever that was in between, around his face. I'm almost certain it would be the first time I would see a perfectly healthy mountain of muscle just FAINT.

Oh, and by the way - prejudice does exist in the gym, but it has nothing to do with color - just never call a Strong Man competitor a "body builder." If you do, that will be the last mistake you ever make. I know, how can you tell the difference? Because as much as I hate to say it - THEY ALL LOOK ALIKE. Oh no she didn't. Oh yes I did.

So back to his suggestion of throwing another Asian on. My response was, dude - I'm not trying to be a He-Man-and-monster of the Universe. I really just want to fit into my pants.

If only I could open my EYE

After months of strenuous workouts, muscle building, fat melting, blood, sweat and tears (no actual blood was spilled, but I'm feeling incredibly dramatic right now). However, the tears part is absolutely true, especially when I'm crying for my mommy while my ass is to my heels and 120 pounds are on my shoulders and I'm supposed to stand up.

Okay back to - after months of all that stuff - I have come to the conclusion that I still look way better fully clothed. Okay, I admit I do have some muscle definition which makes everything tighter, except for the actual skin that is attached to the aforementioned tissue.

Even though I have abs when I'm standing in the right lighting; at the right time of day (dusk or dawn preferably); and stretching my neck with all my might up to the heavens while sucking in my gut - there remains one little problem.

My belly button looks tired. I used to have this perfectly round crater in the center of my abdomen, and now I have what appears to be a lazy, drunken eye-slit. Don't get me wrong, the metaphor isn't lost on me. I've seen pictures of my eyes after a few pops of wine have been applied, and I have to tell you that look doesn't get any better in the center of my torso.

I keep telling myself that if I just lose 5 more pounds of fat, I will wake up bright EYED and bushy-tailed; and I don't mind the bushy tail part, because I know where I can get that waxed.

Today I morphed into a horse.

My gym is a breeding ground for fitness geeks. The patrons there train for Iron Man, Strong Man, body building, and anything else you can think of that requires your body mass to resemble that of Twisted-cold-blue steel. These guys are not messing around. They pull trucks, planes, and tractors, which I really don't understand, because all those things are equipped with perfectly good engines.

So now, after I've spent countless hours in their play land with their play toys, my trainer has decided I should start using the big boy equipment. Today we started out with me pulling a sleigh - I guess that's a step up from pulling a train if you get my drift. Yeah that's a whole other blog I'm thinking about writing. Not that I've ever pulled a train mind you - oh and not that I'm even considering it - there just - well, never mind. Another day.

In order to pull said "sleigh," I must strap into a harness, yes - much like a Clydesdale pulling the Budweiser truck. And the harness is hitched to a flat piece of metal with copious amounts of weights. The only thing separating me from the Clydesdales is - there is no arena, no cheering fans, and I can't freely urinate or sniff anyone's butt in front of me. Other than that it's about the same.

If I don't get the Super Hero gig, I guess there may be a space for me behind a Big Ass Horse.

No Pro Football Player has ever been in my shorts.

Because the new school year was rapidly approaching Saturday, my Princess had a brilliant idea to throw an end-of-the-year tweenie party and invite every Tom, Dick and Harry over - except it was more like every Jan, Vick and Carry since it's still a G-rated age group of girls.

And being the top-notch, perfect, Super Hero mom that I am (I can say that, because my tweenie doesn't read my blog so she can't actually repudiate any of the above mentioned text), I delighted in throwing the tweenie party of the summer on Saturday with pretzels, chips, dip, pizza, ice cream sandwiches, and sodas. Now you know how "T-H-E-Y" say that one cheat day can't really hurt you? Well I've heard this from "T-H-E-M," and "T-H-E-Y" are LIARS.

Yes, I bought all that junk food for the kids, however, the chips sat out right in front of me all day. Hello? I never have happy food at my house. I eat cardboard, liquid protein, rabbit food, shark food (but no people, license plates or sardines); so this one time I decided to eat chips, a slice of pizza, a soda, ice cream sandwich and maybe a couple dozen other unmentionables. So the moral of this story is to never listen to "T-H-E-M."

Because I now feel I'm in a position to try out for linebacker for - I don't know - A Double A High School Team, or worse - The Detroit Lions. "Hey, put me in coach, I don't smoke."

But none-the-less - I'm telling you the ramifications of one cheat day is big and "T-H-E-Y," whoever "T-H-E-Y" are - SUCK! This lead-butt had to go 40 minutes on the stairs and 20 minutes on the treadmill - not to mention the crunches. However, the hardest part of the morning was squeezing into my spandex shorts that have never been used by an actual professional football player.

Dangling from the moon

Remember when you were in Jr. High and High School and you were sure everyone is looking at you, even though no one actually could, because your face was always two inches from a mirror? Well that very feeling came over me today at the gym.

Trainer guy decided it is now time after months of training to test my ability on pull-ups. You know this move. Your body dangles miles up from the floor and for some ridiculous reason you lift the upper-half of your body above the bar. I'm wondering what he thinks I need to take a peek at up there, because I can see everything very clearly from the precarious position I'm already in - which happens to feel like center ring at the circus.

At my first glance up - while I was still comfortably planted on the earth, I chuckled at his request to jump up to the bar which may as well have been anchored to the moon - considering my non-kangaroo-like stature. I mean really, white men can't jump and this mixed raced Cherokee/Irish girl is feeling a lot like a white man right now under these circumstances.

So in an effort to save myself from inevitable humiliation, I search the room for the smallest girl I could find (she couldn't have weighed more than 100 lbs) I pointed to her and said, "Can we accomplish this same task if I can just lift her over my head?" It's worth asking, because this little stunt he has in store for me requires these arms (that are attached to MY body) to lift my entire body weight UP repeatedly. I explained that I'm not quite down to the weight I need to be to do pull-ups yet, you know - about 85 pounds.

I don't know what it is I do him, because his response is always that of a dead, cold stare. I think he feels these workouts would go by much quicker if I didn't spend all my time creating ways of getting out of the next set of the circuit.

So I have no choice but to leap with all my might up to the bar, and all I could think was - just don't miss the bar. Ah, victory! I connected to the bar. Okay, so here I am, hanging above all the little people, now I must pull, pull, pull myself up. I'm not sure I can even describe the sounds projecting from my mouth, but I made it through five pull-ups.

As a shuttle from the space station firmly planted me back on the earth - I turned to a standing ovation from everyone in the gym. I'm not sure they were as proud of my accomplishment as they were delighted the agonizing screams had ceased.

Gulliver's Travels

If I could actually move any body part right now, I'd try the seemingly impossible task of running a brush through my hair.

I woke up with the notion I'd be going to the gym today, but as my hand attempted a movement to lift the covers - I realized I've been on an excursion through Gulliver's travels and I am now tied to the bed by tiny villagers whom I cannot see. These are not to be confused with the Village People, because that would be a whole different story and I'd be scouring my neck in search of an Adam's apple. The workouts would have to cease immediately if this were the case.

These people know how to tether a giant. I gave up the notion of even lifting my head, until something stronger and more frightening threatened me - and that would be my breath. That spicy, pear infused pork dinner washed down with Prisoner wine came rushing back to the surface of my frontal lobe. I really don't know how the brain works, but I happened to remember this particular term from anatomy or brainatomy, whatever it was.

During my time-out in bed with nothing but my own thoughts swirling around in my (cavernous) head, I recalled a week of daily workouts, topped off with a mother-daughter pilgrimage to a Martial Arts class as my final stunt for the week.

The MA class is taught by the Olympic medalist trainer of "Puke-Girl." Choosing my one last meal before "said" class was very scientifically thought out. What tastes the worst coming back up? - EGGS. NO EGGS!

I must rest now, but when I return you'll have a full recap of the MA experience. I don't know what was more difficult - the class, or the verbal sparring with my Tweenie for the 20-minute journey to learn the art of self-defense.

Captain Sullenberger has competition on the water

It was supposed to be a leisure trip down the Truckee River from Tahoe City to River Ranch, but no - Be-Be - you remember her don't you? She's the one who one-upped me by learning to fly last year, way before I even considered it a possibility.

Even though her flight was merely a milli-second back then, she's maintained the ego of Donald Trump and the flight skills of Elmer Fud.

Anyway, like I said, Be-Be, who's apparently had a hankering to show up Captain Sullenberger since his heroic landing in the Hudson River, decided to take flight from the raft. There was really no reason to leave the raft - no leaks, plenty of Margaritas left. She baffles me sometimes. You can really never predict her next move.

Now I probably don't have to tell you - her water landing was very visually different from Sully's. I'm just saying I think his popularity would have been much different if he'd landed the plane on its back. Now, maybe I'm wrong, but she seemed to have taken in a lot of water with that approach.

At this point I had somewhat regretted telling her she didn't actually have to wear her life vest as we commenced our voyage.

Lucky for everyone, I had my Super Hero unitard on, so I was able to sweep the wreckage up in one quick swoop. She was proud to announce she hadn't spilled a drop of her Margarita during the inflight service. Oh and by the way, I don't think her seat cushion really worked that well as a flotation device.

If you wonder what ever happened to Linda Blair - she's training at my gym

We're going to play a little game here. I'm going to write a few blogs today and over the course of the next few days; of events that have happened throughout the past few weeks, and with each blog you're going to pretend it happened to me today, because I do not favor writing in the past tense. So those of you who have actually experienced some of these phenomenal events with me, drop some acid and live in my imaginary "NOW" world.

Sooooo, today, (wink-wink)- I was feeling especially powerful, and decided to step up my training and run all the way to the gym - well, from my car which is parked at the very last parking spot; at least 50 yards from the front door. Hey, don't judge - I don't see anyone else doing this. With that said, I then took flight on the stairmaster for forty minutes before my scheduled session with Mr. Trainer Guy.

So my usual ritual after the stairs is to go to the dressing room and put my Kindle away, wash my hands, and towel off before Mr. Trainer Guy. But today I opened the dressing room door to be smacked head-on in the face with a stench so offensive my Super Hero eyes were burning from the inside out. I opened my eyes to the culprit, and for lack of a better word, I'll call her Puke-Girl.

Clearly she's an arch nemesis to this Super Hero, because she brought me to my knees. Not only had she left a trail, but there was no foreseeable end to her venomous rampage. Because I'm such a compassionate person, I ran out at lightening speed and told Front Desk-Girl to get a mop - she's got to perform an exorcism on Linda Blair in the bathroom.

Then I go about my business to my usual starting point with Mr. Trainer Guy inside the weight room; only to witness a menagerie of gym rats who were sporting mops. Is there no end? Is she some kind of mutant squirrel hoarding all her food like nuts for the winter and just couldn't keep them in? I'm training for a Super Hero role - I do not need these horror movie distractions.

Oh, and I know this just happened today, but she has returned to the gym with her trainer a few more times and has rendered the same results. So this was not just a Fluke-puke - I think she's allergic to her trainer.

Trapped on a plane

I have no conscience, unless she's sitting next to me. And she is, in the form of a flaming red-head angry person, who's turned nice when her world improved due to all the fabulous Kharma I have collected.

She's punishing me with a non-class seat on Delta to travel across the continent. She placed the laptop in front of me and ordered I write a blog. And at 10,000 feet in the air with only high-carb snacks, alcohol and sugar, I have to tell you - I'm a little embarrassed to sport the tight red Super Hero onesy I have on right now.

What have I done lately? I'm losing weight at the rate of about a pound a light-year now. Most of you haven't traveled in my dimension, so that means like "my great-grandchildren will be dead before I get to my goal."

I've been honing my "saving lives" skills. It's been mostly geared towards animals, because I really don't want to raise any expectations of me. Once you start saving people from burning buildings, you're life really isn't your own anymore.

I've saved a seagull from a plastic gracery bag. I know, you hear about dolphins and the plastic six-pack holders, but you never hear of the danger plastic grocery bags impose on the poor seagulls. Some might muse that any seagull living in the desert, about 300 miles from any semblance of a SEA is probably asking for trouble with a grocery bag. But I have to say, any seagull with the wits about him to go to the market to purchase his fish is worth saving. You don't see dolphins milling around the store in search of sardines. No, they are apparently out in the ocean swilling a six-pack of coke, or even worse - Pabst Blue Ribbon for all we know.

Okay, yeah I saved a human too. It was one of those male versions of a Damsel in Distress. What I saved him from was his own embarrassment. His Jeep Cherokee was stalled in a left turn lane. I offered to help push. And he was so excited and grateful for the offer that he jumped in behind the steering and said "let's go." Really? You have a chick helping, and YOU get behind the wheel. So, in my world, I yanked his whiny butt out of the car and tossed it into the nearest lake, Virginia Lake - only 2 miles away. Okay, I actually pushed his car to safety, because people were watching. And I ask, why were they watching a 134 pound middle-aged woman push a 1/2 ton car with a 230 pound dude in it?

My pheromones are screaming for attention.

When you actually wake up at 6-ish and get to the gym by 6:40-ish, there's a whole new world of people at the gym. These must be the dedicated people - not a group with whom I have much in common.

However, this a.m., I joined my BFF and trainer-guy for a half-hour workout before my 45 minutes of stairs. And what do you know, one of these new folks who seems to know trainer-guy well - stopped to chat it up with him while I was standing on one leg with a gazillion pound weight hanging from one arm.

Then surprisingly enough to me this new guy says, "you smell good." Well, he might have actually said "someone over here smells good." (Let's not forget, these events are all things that happen in MY mind.) So naturally, I modestly said, well I'm sure it isn't me. Even though deep down inside I'm thinking "hey, I've still got it." My pheromones are on point. I did a little victory dance in my head. It was either my pheromones or the smell of Cinnamon Dulce latte seeping from my pores.

It had to be me he was getting a whiff of, because after careful deduction of the fact that my BFF is a married mother of a 5-year old -- I know her pheromones shut down around -- well let's look at it this way -- she was married either July 25th or 26th 2008, so her pheromones shut down the following day.

Wait, back that truck up. I'm mistaken. She started seeing her pheromones in her rear view mirror on her wedding day, because - I'm not sure about you, but I don't think she was buying tampons at the corner market in Napa on her wedding day because there was some great special going on.

Did I mention, that during this blogging experience, I have had a drop in actual friends? But I'm up to a total of seven followers now!

You know, I've kind of lost my train of thought now after squealing on my friend the way I did, so I'm signing off to practice my begging for forgiveness pose, whatever that is.

If Ed McMahon calls tell him I'm busy

I'm beginning to like my chances of a phone call from Ed McMahon better than manipulating this body into a size 4. And I'm pretty sure that dude checked out a while back. Ah, maybe that's it, when I see him I'll be a 4, but will have killed myself to get there. I don't like my odds on that one; and Gamble is my middle name. Well it actually is my last name, but whoever says that?

Hey, I'm not a quitter though. We all know this, because I never quit on wine during my pathetic course to 134 lbs. It's funny, I was going to say during my "path" in the former sentence, but my fingers took over and "pathetic" was the final outcome. I somehow knew it wasn't really my brain working the keyboard all this time. Someone has me on puppet strings.

And to boot, my trainer isn't helping. He told me if I wanted to be a size 4, I'd have to lose some muscle. He's trying to scare me, because he is prejudice against women will small derrieres. Can you really trust a trainer who's theme song is, "I like big butts and I cannot lie?" I don't know.

Okay, so for the sake of the getting those cute golf skirts, I'm going to stick to it. Now don't be disappointed if I only lose like an ounce a week, which would put me at 12 oz. a year. And after 8 years, I'll have 6 pounds of fat GONE. All my muscle in tact. However, I may not have my teeth by then. Geezus! Why don't I just wait til I can't chew anymore? Weight loss won't be a problem. No really. I'm going to continue trying, because - I don't know, I can't really think of a good reason other than it just gives me something to obsess on.

I might finally deserve a rubdown.

After three days of vigorous workouts, my eyes slowing opened this morning thinking about my impending day at the gym. After all, it is Saturday when all the newby firefighters are reduced to little girls by the herculean Tamara.

I've been around Tamara for three years now, and I still can't stop staring at her. She is the female, white, red-headed version of Duane "The Rock" Johnson. Her rump is as big as my nightstand. I could actually set my glass on it. Now I wouldn't, but if she were knocked out cold, I don't think I could stop myself.

Oh yeah, I was inching towards the edge of the bed. No scratch that. As I attempted to inch towards the edge of the bed, every muscle group in my body threw up a protest sign and popped open the tear gas. This is the first time in my life I've actually understood the whole, "I need a massage" thing. My BFFs have made fun of me because I'm just not one of those people. They coaxed me into my first massage in Hawaii three years ago (first massage at age 45) and I can still count on one hand the number I've had since then.

You can call it shy, inhibited or whatever. My theory has always been that massages were created to relax muscles. Now, why would someone with no muscles ever need a massage? My fear is a masseur would spend the entire 50 minutes looking for something to rub. How embarrassing this would be. I suppose they could rub anything, and I've heard some of them do. However, I always figured my fat didn't deserve such attention. I will not reward my fat with a rubdown.

Well the point is, I think I now have something to rub.

I'm 98 pounds of muscle and other stuff.

Okay, I'm in business now with my new-found willingness to drop another 6 lbs. for golf couture. At 7:30 this morning my trainer measured me to find that - of my 135 pounds, 36.5 is fat and 98.5 is a bunch of other stuff with some muscle in there too.

He said I have to be on a strict diet to lose 6 of the fat and none of the other. Soooo, this means 1. Cut sodium to 1000mg a day - (I can do this). 2. Drink 80 oz. water daily - (done) 3. Cut out processed foods - (Hmm. blah, blah, blah - I can't hear you) 4. ABSTAIN from alcohol - Easy, no problem. Wait, I'm sure he said no "grain" alcohol. Yep, in my mind - that is what I heard. He didn't say anything about grapes.

Most of my grapes are fermented (Websters: ferment - to excite, agitate) So my grapes are excited, and maybe a little perturbed. This doesn't mean processed; and perhaps they are bottled up and corked. Just like a Genie in a bottle, when they are uncorked, they bring pleasure to their master. Who's not going to free these agitated spheres of nectar? Hello!!! I'm a Super Hero - it's my duty.

5. Train at 85% of maximum heart rate for one hour - five times a week. I don't have one of those heart-rate thingies, so I'll wing it.

Okay, so with that said, I only had time for 30 minutes on the stairs. I'm pretty sure I was at maximum heart rate, because I didn't actually die, but I wanted to. I trained with him for a half-hour. We did something new today, it sounds lame, but, I picked up two 45-pound kettle bells, one in each hand dangling at my side (as if I could place them anywhere else) and he told me to walk around the perimeter of the gym with these in tow. He said pretend they are two 45-pound suitcases in each hand. Okay, then pop out the wheels on these puppies and we are business. I've got tip money in my pocket.

So ever since the whole Cabo trip came and went I had lost my Super Hero motivation. I've been acting like someone who's trying out for the role of a Hollywood producer's girlfriend, (but without the drugs). Hey, I'm not opposed to drugs, but I just don't have the money I had in college to afford that lifestyle anymore. J/K mom. ;] - all that money went to books, I swear.

I've maintained a 3-day a week workout and have played more golf (in a cart); and the dinners, lots of dinners, and WINE. You'd think with my 30-year high school reunion approaching next month I'd be busting out my old ditto jeans and dolphin shorts to prove, I don't know, that I'm the only freak still in possession of such items. I don't really have them, but I'm sure if I tried hard enough on e-bay I could score some.

Hollywood hasn't called yet, and the women's PGA is, I'm sure, watching me via satellite, but Nothing. Maybe they'd look more closely if I actually knew the name of the association, which is the LPGA. It's this kind of dedication to my craft that gets me everything I deserve.

So, in the form of fashion, my motivation showed up. My Batmobile friend has decided to rid herself of all her golf skirts/skorts. She said, "Hey Sean, you're a size 4 to 6, right?" I thought to myself, ehhh, more like a 6 to 8, but the smart side of my brain (very small portion) said, "You're damn straight I am." Then quietly to myself, I said, "or I will be, and quicker than a newly released prisoner at a whorehouse."

So I sprang out of bed today and headed to the gym for an hour-and-a-half workout. I've eaten a lean slice of chicken, watermelon and an apple. The remainder of the day will include, water, water, celery, water, fish, 2 leaves of lettuce and some other crappy food. Who knew? Cute golf skirts are my new motivation. Have you seen how expensive these articles of clothing are? I think the LPGA was created by a golf wear designer who wanted to make some real money.

The Predator is smelling up my gym.

Here I was, minding my own business on the stairmaster for my 45-minute ritual of bargaining with myself for damn near anything to get me off quicker - and suddenly I'm beginning to wonder what I had possibly consumed that could make such a rancid smell escape my pores.

As discreetly as I could, I lifted my arms one-by-one and turned my nose to each pit - hoping I wouldn't knock myself out at such close range to this pungent stench. But it's just one of those things you can't stop yourself from doing. Now, I was as surprised as anyone that I smelled just fine. Not anything I'd bottle up and sell, but I certainly wasn't offended by me.

So now the hunt is on, what died and where is it hiding? At this point I see some other arms going up in front of me. It was synchronized pit smelling at the gym.

At exactly the same time, all of our heads turned to the left - to witness the only guy in the room who clearly has no discernible olfactory sense. It was the friggen Predator. Yes, THAT Predator. Schwarzenegger's arch nemesis. This dude is alive, and he smells like he still lives in the swamps of Guatemala where Arnold found him.

Okay, so maybe he wasn't the actual Predator, but he was the spitting image of him in a pastier, squishier, softer, fatter older version - all wrapped up in a wife-beater tank. If I were a full-fledged Super Hero (not the one in training) I might have suggested he wear sleeves to help soak up that funk.

So, the good news is, I was able to use the rancid smell as my bargaining chip to end my stairmaster gig in 20 minutes. As a matter of fact - the dude had the room all to himself lickety-split. My smelling tool is very important to me. I can't have some has-been movie villain corrupting my ability to sniff out good wine.

I slayed my first Dragon

I realize it's been a while since my last blog, but once the Super Hero powers kick in - there is very little time for "tooting my own horn," which gives me no great pleasure.

So just the other day as I was exiting the shower, I had my first encounter with, Dum, Dum, Dum, Dum -- "WASP-MAN." I know I said dragon in the headline, but in my defense, without my contacts in - he teetered on anything from Mosquito, Dragon to - I suppose a fly - if you really want to go there.

So I wrapped a towel around me, because I thought it would make a better story to actually use my new-found skills, as opposed to merely letting him break his own neck from turning his head at lightening speed to shield his eyes from - well - me in "all" my glory.

I don't think I can take full credit though, because he may have caught a quick glimpse; and I believe I pounced on him while he was still in a slight stupor. He has no idea how lucky he was. If he'd have been a fly, he would have had the pleasure of that vision - multiplied. I killed him for his own good really. Mercy killings are in the Super Hero handbook - so I was within my scope of work.

I know I'm supposed to also save lives, like the poor little squirrel that was LUNCH for the Hawk in my backyard last weekend. However, that Hawk was really hungry; and there is no one who sympathizes with hunger more than moi. There are days these past few months that squirrel might have shivered at the way I looked at him. I'm not getting between any wild beast and his lunch - ever.

My first real Super Hero encounter.

So we have one day of decent weather to play a little golf and my new mentor/partner asks if I want to ride in her cart. So being the newby on the course, I gladly jump at the chance to have a chauffeur on the links to show me the way to golf nirvana.

I had no idea how good this was going to be until I get a glimpse of her at a distance driving up to sweep me off my feet in - now wait for it - the tricked-out, gadget filled Batmobile. I nearly fell over, but my Super Hero balance trigger kicked in and I stayed upright til I knelt down in front of the cart with hands bowing with respect. "I'm not worthy." I've only been training since January. Do I dare? I was as giddy as a teenage girl who'd just been kissed by Lawrence Taylor, no wait, wait, Taylor Lautner. Oops. God, I hope his wife doesn't read this blog.

So I'm thinking, Holy Snot Rocket, her husband is the caped crusader and apparently not worried about hiding his identity. It's weird though, because her name isn't Vicki Vale. She's probably hiding her identity because she doesn't want anyone to know she's a reporter for the Reno Gazette Journal. It has some issues of late, (I mean in the analytical sense, like it doesn't know what it wants to be when it grows up - New York Times, USA Today). Sorry, sometimes I just can't stop myself.

I have to say, I play a much better game of golf when I'm surrounded by my true Super Hero accessories and paraphernalia. I felt so at home. It was a little awkward at the end of the day when everyone had gone inside for the end-of-the tournament meal and I was still sitting in the cart waiting for a signal from the Mayor of Gotham City.

Oh, and my partner who's name isn't Vicki Vale, is one of those super do-gooders who hands out her own body organs like candy at Halloween. Oh yeah, you need a spleen, she'll spare it; a kidney, no problem. Where do these people come from? I don't even think she went through any formal training for this.

There was a time when "pregnant" was a dirty word

I promise to increase my blogging frequency. I promise to increase my blogging frequency. Okay, I've said it twice, so that means it will happen. I just don't say Candy Man three times, or even twice for that matter. I don't want to take any chances.

I am back into the full swing of things. I started training again last week with full gusto, okay 1/2 gusto during an hour session with stalker trainer and BFF Robin. I continued the week with two more sessions at 1-1/2 hours and another at 2 hours. Oh yeah baby, paint the Super Hero suit on me now.

I also played golf three days last week. No, I did not walk. I have a CART bag, not a "whatever you call those bags you carry." I think there is a strict rule you shouldn't walk with a cart bag. It's an unspoken rule so don't ask anybody about it. It's like back in the old days - no one talked about women being pregnant, they would just say, oh yes Pearl, "she's in the family way," in a light, hushed whisper. I know it sounds crazy, but it is absolutely true.

I haven't weighed myself this week. I'm waiting until I start feeling some other protruding bones I've never felt before. I might have some hip bones hibernating somewhere. I know I'm making some headway. I have to be, because I'm truly suffering right now. How? You say.

I quit drinking. I know, what's up with that? Well..... when I say I quit drinking, I mean I quit Sunday through Thursday. Okay I quit Sunday through Thursday when I'm home for the evening......okay, and when I don't have any company over. This is deprivation. I think I know how those people feel who go on eight-day cleanses.

It's sad for my daughter though, because she doesn't get a hot meal anymore for dinner. I'm sure you've heard of the book, "The Joy of Cooking." Well, in fine print that only I, as a Super Hero can read - it stipulates the requirement for you to have a glass of fine wine in your hand to master the actual "joy" of cooking. I follow instructions to the letter of the law. If I can't have wine - there will be no hot cuisine. I'm kidding of course, she can still have heated-up kid's cuisines from our grocer's freezer. I'm not a total monster.

My trainer is stalking me

I don't know what my trainer's problem is. He keeps texting me with the old "When are you coming back?" He's the only man that has ever begged me to come back - and I find -- I'm annoyed with it. I've only been gone for a few days - weeks - well it hasn't been a month yet.

Doesn't he know that Super Heros sometimes need a break. I mean really, you can only take so much of, "Help me, Help me!" "Oh no the train is coming!" "Little Johnny is getting mauled by rabid wolves!!!" Hasn't anyone ever seen Will Smith's movie Hancock? Geez. Give a girl a break.

I only felt a little bad about my break when one of my BFFs was choking in Mexico and my other BFF had to pick her up and slam her against the table to dislodge the unchewed carne from her trachea. She used such magnum force, I'm pretty sure her kidney popped out too. But the gusto with which she slammed her was sure impressive. I was just thankful she had spent so much time with me, because clearly, she's learned something.

By the way, we have two kidneys, right? For all the Champagne we consumed, I don't think her body will notice a missing organ for at least another 6 weeks.

I was so fascinated with the sound of my own teeth gnashing and gnawing on my carne grande, and the swirling of the Veuve on my tongue, that I didn't notice her choking until she was splayed on the center of the table like a holiday pig sporting an apple.

So with that said, I'm going to call my trainer back. I hate seeing bodybuilders beg and BFFs suffer.

I'm a stubble-faced fat guy in a lawn chair

So now I feel like an impostor rather than a super hero, because due to many factors, I haven't worked out in 13 days. Today is (read this with a slow melodic menacing tone)dum, dum, dum, dum, DOCTOR day. I loathe DOCTOR day.

Even though I went through the psychotic scale ritual this past week to overcome my fear of scales - I'm terrified. I've decided to give myself a 10 pound advantage for this weigh-in. The way I see it in my mind, I woke up emaciated this morning (remember, in my mind), but I'll be having a coffee meeting at 9 which will add an instant 2 pounds. Amazing what a little liquid will do to expand your body mass.

Now, on the other hand alcohol does the exact opposite - it sucks any and all hydration particles you may have in your system. That's the only time I actually see my cheekbones. Anyway back to the scale. So yes, the clothes..... all the clothes I'll be wearing, because I suddenly live in the antarctic. So this scale reading will be off the charts. Roy Scheider needed a bigger boat in Jaws. Me thinks my DOCTOR may need a bigger scale. I hope I get through this day.

I've tried to explain to my daughter how hard it is to be me. She doesn't understand the caricature of me (in my mind) is that of a stubble-faced, shirtless fat guy sitting in a lawn chair with a cigar in his left hand and a watering hose in his right. Yet I have to jump out of bed every morning and mold myself into a combination of June Clever and Pamela Anderson. With such a laborious task ahead of me every morning - it's truly a wonder I don't have a pharmacy of hallucinogens in my bathroom.

Hey, have a great day and if you need to feel better about yourself, peek over my fence and look for the lawn chair.

¿Dónde está el patrón?

Here it is, the month of reckoning. For anyone who has read through my plight since January knows this whole Super Hero fiasco started in January when I was informed I'd be going on a girls' weekend to Cabo, which commences this Thursday. So my entire reason for creating this blog has come to a resounding head.

Although I have not worked out for the past week due to travel and miserable allergy illnesses, my body was shocked out of the 2-month plateau and I'm now down to 137 pounds. I know, not a super model does this weight make, but super models can't fight crime. Now if you need a champagne glass sucked dry or a powdered mirror wiped clean, they are your girls.

Okay back to me. Yes, I weighed myself. I had a moment of truth - not really - the fact is I'm going to the Dr. this Wednesday and they have this torturous ritual of putting you on the scale for the whole world to see - so I decided instead of going into anaphylactic shock there - I'd have a private moment at home with my own personal hell so I wouldn't jump out the window of their one-story building. I know it wouldn't actually hurt me much, but I'm guessing I'd look like an idiot doing so. So I did it to preserve my dignity.

Apparently my Super Hero status is going to come in handy in Cabo, because unbeknownst to me - folks seem to believe bad things happen to good people (FYI, using the term "good" loosely in association with my crowd) in Cabo. Not to worry, I've already run through several scenarios in my head at 1:30 this morning on how I'd take over the bad guy(s). I thought maybe I should have learned some jujitsu - but I'm convinced that by the time I crouch into my crane stance, their AK-47 will have already pierced my brain and all those with me. I'm strong, but I don't have that Super Hero speed down yet. You can actually still see me move.

At the end of this post I've come to learn that I have a new addiction and it is in fact an addiction to writing about my faults and foibles, and those of my BFFs - so I am going to continue down this Blogolicious journey till I get shot in Mexico.
¿Dónde está el patrón?

The most difficult part of Super Hero training is learning to fly

I think I'm finally over my fascination with my rib cage. Now I want to lie flat on my back with a ruler across my hip bones without it balancing like a teeter totter on the junk in between. Hey, a gal's got to have goals. I think we've all established that I'm not real cerebral.

I explained last week how my trainer had me in a plank position with one leg off the ground for - I don't know, a week - alright 30 seconds. For you non-plankers, you should know this is a very submissive position where you are perpendicular to the floor - face down - and supported only by your forearms and toes, so your back is in a straight, plank-like position and you hold it for 60 seconds. So you can see that perhaps lifting one leg off the ground might make this a little more difficult.

Well I've got news for you - that was nothing. This week Mr. Trainer decided I should get in a plank with one leg off the ground and the opposite arm straight out in a Super Man flying position. It was at this point when I questioned if he could possibly figure out a difficulty level one notch up from this - and that was when I remembered, yes this could be done with no arms and legs. I know this because my BFF Be-Be mastered this position just last year.

She had not informed us she had been practicing this trick, so you can imagine our surprise when she was walking toward us and suddenly she was splayed out in full Super Man flying formation. I was very impressed, however, I don't think she held that position off the ground for very long. I think recovery from that little trick takes a while, because once she hit the ground she stayed down for a little while.

She realized she had made only one mistake when performing this very advanced maneuver - she should have put her phone and purse down, because those items did go flying off in different directions.

It saddens me to say - I will never be able to reach her level of expertise. I know you should never say never, but I want her to bask in the spotlight on this one. As it turns out, she beat me to Super Hero status.

Earthquakes make less noise than my stomach in the morning.

As I was yanked out of a deep sleep this morning from the nagging sensation to hunt down a large beast like a Neanderthal emerging from his cave, I felt something weird around my mid-section. It was something I've not been familiar with in recent years. I raced to the bathroom to get a closer look when I realized -- Adam hasn't cornered the market on ribs. It's not just a biblical term anymore. I found my rib cage.

Of course, now instead of being elated that I can actually feel them - I have fear. OMG, I hear of people breaking their ribs and how painful that can be. Let's face it, these puppies have been swaddled like Tiffany stemware in bubble wrap for quite some time now. I'm vulnerable here.

With that said, I hop on the scale with a cheerio attitude (I felt British for a moment) thinking okay!!! This is going to be my day. What? There must be some mistake here. I've been sweating my arse off, eating like someone who has no taste buds and now this? I'm convinced I need a new scale. The needle must be broken. It hasn't moved in two months. Oh I know, everyone says, muscle weighs more than fat, yadda, yadda, yadda. I've got news for you, one pound of muscle weighs the same as one pound of fat. They both weigh a POUND.

I do realize that I've only upped my workouts since this Monday, so I clearly haven't shocked my body enough to let go of the fat it has become very fond of over the years. I'm on a Plateau and I'm ready to jump. I'm only joking, don't call the Hotline. I'm fine really, but the next time you see me and go in for the big hug, be cognizant of the ribs.

I woke up this morning with my fist in my mouth

Okay, I'm here to report I did not wake up 15 pounds lighter as I predicted in my last blog. However, I did wake up with my fist in my mouth, which I think indicates insatiable hunger. Now this must mean all the extra cardio is burning something, because I've never been hungrier in my life. And yes, hungrier is a word (I looked it up since I thought it looked weird).

Now regarding having hunger. It has never really been a stumbling block in my life, because I've never missed an opportunity to nip it in the bud. I mean why wait till your body tells you to eat. If you know you're eventually going to be hungry - CONSUME.

I'm counting every calorie I put in my body and every calorie I'm burning; and that equals - I'm friggen starving here. Yesterday I did the stairs for an hour and the treadmill at 3.7 with a 6 incline for 20 minutes. Today I did an hour on the stairs and 40 minutes of circuit training. According to caloriecounter.com I consumed 1900 calories yesterday and burned 2600. They want you to only burn 100 calories more than you consume, but I'm in a hurry here to get to the weight on my driver's license.

From what I can tell, the additional time spent on cardio is paying off. Now the fact that I'm irritable all time has cost me some friends (if only I could add their weight into my weightloss) but I'll win them over again when I invite them to Hollywood for the unveiling of my star on the Walk of Fame. It will probably be next to Richard Simmons.

I spend more time in the gym than a porn star does on a casting couch

I'm considering applying for a job at the gym. I say this only because I'm now upping my 45 minutes of cardio a day to 70 minutes, which equals 60 on the stairs and 10 on the treadmill, followed by 30 minutes of circuit training. I'm now officially in the gym more time than a porn star spends on a casting couch.

However, today I increased my circuit training with my trainer and one of my BFFs to one full hour after my 70 minutes of cardio. Oh yeah, my BFF has a knock-out body with legs of a Gazelle, and it takes every fiber of my being to allow her be anywhere near me in the gym.

But because I'm a giver with no resentment towards those who have better genes than I - I refrain from throwing a 10 lb. medicine ball at her when she's in the middle of her bench presses. "Hey, Robin catch!!!"

Anyhooo, I felt strong today. Yeah bring it on - I can do anything, anything I say. Except fight the PMS induced mother nature gale force winds. Today in Northern Nevada we experienced record breaking winds of 70 miles per hour, and our trainer thought we should spend a little time outside. I kid you not, the airport wouldn't let planes land, yet our trainer feels a little time with Katrina will only make us stronger.

I don't know about you, but it is incredibly distracting to have the wind blow through your ears creating an annoying whistling sound as it passes through the vacuous chamber where my brain used to be before I started training to be a Super Hero.

So with all that said, I had 70 minutes of cardio and 60 minutes of circuit - so I figure I've got to weigh 15 pounds less tomorrow morning. I'll let you know how that works out. I hope my trainer is okay tomorrow, because I just had a vision of a house landing on him and his beautiful ruby slippers.

A life lesson - never insult your trainer

I hope you all can learn a valuable lesson from me. Never, ever, ever tell your trainer you're not getting the results you want.

Try to remember you have control over your own time in the gym, so if you haven't lost a pound in a month (that is if you're trying to lose weight and lordy-bejeezus I am)just get on the treadmill, stairs, eliptical or bike for 15 minutes longer than you normally do. Trust me this is the exact course of action you want to take. Save yourself!!!!!

I say this because my trainer has now decided to change my circuit to a point that I feel we must be filming a new Iron Man competition. He points to the weights I'm to pick up. As you know weights are lined up in succession based on size. I usually pick up the kettle bells third from the left (left being the lightest). Today, he pointed in a direction very far right from the left to which point I wondered if we were heading to Searchlight, NV for a tea bagger event.

I looked at him and said, "Isn't that what they use to crush cars?" He has no sense of humor. I've insulted him therefore this is my lot in life. Planks were a at a whole new level today, in a push-up position on my hands with one leg off the ground for 60 seconds. Then get in a squat position and lift this 500 lb ball(might be a slight exaggeration) in a curl then over your head and keep doing it for three minutes straight. Oh wait, you need to squat lower -- lower -- lower. Hey Mr. Trainer Man, my butt is so close to my heel that I could accurately pee in my shoe right now.

Every time I gasped for air as if it would be my last, I'd just hear him say in a very snippy non-empathetic tone, "You wanted to work on your arms." Yeah well, I don't want my skin to sag either, but I'm not taking safety pins and yanking my skin up to my neck and pinning it.

So I hope we all learned something today. Have a great weekend.

Truth in numbers?

I hated pop quizzes in school and they are as equally cruel when you're an adult in age/weight denial. My trainer knows my fear of scales, measurements, fat scopes, etc., so he never, ever gives me a heads-up when he's going to spring a measurement day on me.

That day was today. As often happened in school, I failed - well sort of. The way I see it, he failed. He says numbers don't lie. Well okay, but even if they did, I apparently wouldn't know it based on my relationship history. And let's be honest here. I don't have any better relationship with numbers than I've had elsewhere.

He measured body fat first. Some numbers went up and some went down. Then the tale of the tape - "You've lost inches everywhere." So then the analysis went something like this: "Your body fat went up 1%, but you've lost inches." So I'm thinking losing inches is good, til he cut my 'head-in-the-clouds' thought off with, "You probably lost muscle." What? I'm sorry, I'm sure I didn't hear you right. Muscle? I'm in the gym 6-9 hours a week and I'm losing muscle and not fat.

Then I wonder, is the irony not lost on you Mr. Trainer Man that I pay you to help me lose fat and increase muscle mass? Then his words that damn near dropped me to the floor. "You need to be more disciplined in the gym and eat better."

If I had any energy in me to scream I would have, but I had just endured 40 minutes on the stairs and 30 minutes with him. But as soon as he pried my hands from around his neck, I explained - if I trained any harder, the Olympic Committee is going to start scouting me. I don't have time to train for the Olympics. I just want to fit into my size six Super Hero spandex and be on my way.

So today I've eaten Oatmeal for breakfast and tuna fish with Balsamic vinegar on it and a handful of almonds. I'm not saying I believe him, but that Super Hero outfit isn't going to get any bigger and Hollywood is waiting.

My first date with my new Irons

Aside from cardio and weight training I do actually get outside and play my hand, leg, and foot in a game of golf. For me it isn't actually a game, because I don't keep score and if you don't keep score nobody really takes you seriously. And why should golf be different from any other facet of my life?

I played 9 holes in the wind recently with my brand spanking new Callaway irons, which everyone knows I have, because between this blog, Facebook and Twitter, I literally have no secrets.

I keep thinking with all these outlets I'm probably keeping a really good therapist out of what might be fairly lucrative employment. Of course, with my luck I'd get one of the therapists who's dating my ex. I'm not talking about my ex-husband. My ex-husband is fine. As a matter of fact he's probably never been more sane since we parted ways.

Anyway, someone asked how I played with my new irons. I'm here to tell you it was much like a first date. The irons are great to look at - all shiny and new - and I could tell they wanted to please me, but not be too subservient. As with many first dates we had a lot of awkward pauses, like when the Sand wedge wanted to linger in the Sand trap too long. There were little moments such as that, which I'm sure one day, we'll look back on and have a chuckle. I can only hope the second date goes a little smoother. I did promise I would call. I'm giving it the appropriate 3-5 day rule. I don't want to seem too desperate.

This body is too old to be mine.

Yeah I said it. This body is way too old for me. As I sit here, I'm waiting for my recall letter. I believe my U.S. mother (as opposed to my Aborigine mom from previous blog) said I was "created" in Gulf Port, Louisiana. So any chance of getting my extra body parts was washed away with Hurricane Katrina. My extras became fish food at that point.

You know, this could explain the rise in shark attacks on humans. They've had a little taste and then became Super Hero part fiends. They're addicted - so they figure all humans have the Super Hero high associated with them.

Anyway my right hip hurts. I realize that was a round-about way to get to the point. But when you lay in bed in agony your mind starts on this long journey and you just can't throw down the road spikes to stop it.

Okay, back to me. I have no idea what happened. I've been diligent this month at the gym 5 days a week doing cardio and weight training. Every other day I did 150 squats (60 with weights and 90 without). Yesterday I was on the stairs for 40 minutes and only worked with weights for my arms. I did no legs. Suddenly around noon yesterday my right hip started screaming at me. Sleep escaped me because I could find no position to relieve the pain, until I finally elevated the right hip and that seemed to help.

My trainer will be so disappointed this morning that he can't torture me. I'm going to tell him that Hannibal Lecter, no wait, that guy eats people. I'm going to tell him that Lex Luthor and his Kryptonite has struck once again. This Super Hero is still waiting for her recall letter. On another note, if any of you have a clue what "human" ailment could explain this, I'd be happy to hear it.

Back in the groove

I've been out sick for the past few days with a sinus infection. And I have to tell you that my brilliant self on the first two days thought maybe working out would help excrete things other than the gallons of sweat I already unload during each session. After two days of that I stayed in bed/couch for 3 consecutive days. Brilliance comes after a couple of setbacks. I learn, just not swiftly.

Today, on my first day to recovery, (I deem it that, even though no one from a medical background has had even a glimpse of me) I sauntered into the gym like I'd never left and grunted through 40 mins of stairs, 3.2 miles; and 40 mins of weight training. I went extra because my trainer was there training someone else, and I know it makes his skin crawl to see me doing so well without him. Neener, neener.

I then raced home, and since the word of the day is swift, I swiftly showered, dressed and went to, well, LUNCH. I had a brothy spinach and mushroom soup and blackened salmon on a salad.

After returning home I took one look at my, how do I say this nicely, Rubenesque dog. I know that sounds so wrong (you picture red lipstick on him don't you?) Okay he's fat. I'm thinking let's get the whole family in shape. I pull out the leash, change clothes and out the front door we go.

He's so excited, his Kim Kardashian butt is wagging and we're heading down the street. I have my trusty baseball bat perched upon my left shoulder, just begging for a stray dog to challenge me and lard-butt. I only smacked myself in the back of the head three times before realizing a safer position for the bat might be to rest at my side.

So we strolled along at a good pace until something I never saw coming -- happened; I fell. I have no idea what happened. I was walking along singing skip to the loo my darlin and suddenly I'm staring at pavement; and my knee, my knee is screaming. I feel compelled to mention at this point I may have had 1-3/4 glasses of wine at lunch, but I'm pretty sure there was some uneven pavement. My $150 distressed Calvin Klein jeans have got to be worth at least $200 now. And my knee with fresh road rash, has to be, well, priceless.

After a carefully thought-out stint on the ground, I rose with dignity and moved on. Lard-butt actually enjoyed the reprieve. You know your dog is out shape when he continues to stop at the door of any random car parked on the street with the hope in his eyes that you may open "said" door for him to climb into and drive home.

We made it through a 40 minute walk with no threats from terrorist dogs, or UPS trucks (Lard-butt loves to chase UPS trucks - not sure what they ever did to him). I'm home now and I can't quit thinking about that Brooke Shields commercial from the 70s or 80s. "Nothing comes between me and my Calvin Kleins." I got news for ya. They break quicker than a condom.

Clearly February was a wash

I know, I'm a lame blogger. I never said I'd be going pro. So I'm back after a few days, okay call it a month and we'll pretend February has 31 days. So what's my excuse? LIFE! I've read about, I've heard about - and it finally actually happened to me. I was too busy.

First of all, in spite of my respite from blogging and my 8-day trip to Hawaii and my week of "short-bus" legislative session, I somehow pulled through the 31-day February with 13 days of work-outs.

I'm too pretty for math, but that is damn near half the month, but clearly no Super Hero will be jumping out of any cake from that paltry showing. Oh yeah, speaking of cake - it was my birthday in February too. Anyway, before I left for Hawaii I had one last chance workout session with my trainer that I must share with you.

It was total humiliation. My trainer shows up with these super huge blue rubber bands that looked like they came off a newspaper read by the Jolly Green Giant. He takes these dirty nasty things and hooks them together to form a figure 8. Get it? A hole for each of us.

I have to climb in one loop, place it on the front of my hips and he gets in the other loop behind me and leans back on the band while I'm supposed to lunge forward with all his weight to pull. So that's fine, except for the fact that when I pull forward - all my bulges of fat envelop the band, like if you were to pull a string tight around a tube of dough.

I'd love to tell you no one was watching, but I'm afraid we now have the attention of the entire gym, because, well, because this was Asinine by anyone's definition of the term. It gets better. Next he tells me to sprint. What? I have an audience and I'm going to sprint with a full-grown black body builder in tow?

OMG. That's it. That's why I haven't blooged. I've been scarred for life. I've spent 31 days trying to block this out of my mind. This is my first step to recovery. So glad I shared.

No mea culpa here nor with my trainer

After the experience with the ring card girls, I decided to have a chat with my trainer regarding MY results as opposed to those tarts wagging their assets in the boxing ring last Friday night. His answer, "Sean, genetics plays a big role in body shape."

I'm thinking so... "You want to play the Genetics card?" So this is my mother's fault? My poor mother. Well Thank God I have someone to blame, finally. Then it occurs to me - my mother is a size negative 8 and my father at 6'2" and 200 lbs. doesn't compute to my -- we'll just say Rubenesque physique.

So after deep thought, which really only took a couple of seconds because my brain truly isn't that big.

Anyway, I figured it out. That's it, OMG - I'm adopted. At 48-years of age my trainer in his beating-around-the- bush way has outed my parents. My real parents are actually fat, white Aborigines who sit out on the hunts for the Dingos and the search for fresh water in the lowlands of Australia. They just sit back and eat scrupa (made that word up - I'm so not doing research for this blog).

I'm just glad to have the mystery solved. And the best news is - my genetics take the blame, not me - nor my American parents, who by the way - have a remarkable resemblance to me.

How can it be?

At the advice of my non-medically educated friend Robin, I took the last two days off from work outs (actually she only suggested the one day), but I felt compelled to take her advice to a higher level. Everything I do is one notch up - it's the Super Hero in me I think.

I made up for it today by 38 minutes, yeah, that's right, count 'em, thirty-eight on the stairmaster and twenty-two on the treadmill. Math, not my subject, but I can add to 60. I haven't done 60 minutes of cardio since the Carter Administration.

I might have pushed myself a little harder, because I went to a boxing match with my BF on Friday night. We were ringside which is where I ran into MY trainer. I introduced my BF to Dietrich, at which point Dietrich informed us he has trained a couple of the Ring Card girls there that night. I'm sure you know where this is going.

So at each and every round I'm (ringside, mind you) subjected to these androidian products of Dietrich, that is if androidian is even a word. I look up at them, I look back down at myself, I look back up at them, then back at myself. At which point I'm starting to think - I'm not sure I see a resemblance. I want to find Dietrich and ask, "How much do they pay you?" Cuz when I look at them, I'm not feeling like I'm looking in a mirror.

Clearly there is some mixup here. Doesn't he understand I'm training to be a Super Hero? I mean, how much more money does he need? I think I've already paid him enough to buy a small condo, okay or maybe a scooter. I'm not really sure.

It was bound to happen sooner or later

Yep, you know what I'm talking about. The Super Hero athletic injury. I don't know how it happened, but today while in the gym with my trainer, a horrible stabbing pain underneath my left shoulder blade reduced me to a sniveling, little toddler crying for mommy.

I mean it felt as if a tiny Leprechaun climbed up underneath my shoulder blade using a pick-axe, then shoved it in a nice tight spot and started swinging to-and-fro - all the while screaming with a maniacal laugh.

This cut my training time down to only 15 minutes on the stairmaster. You say, but the stairmaster has nothing to do with your shoulder. I say - but Gunter the cell master, a.k.a. the trainer wasn't showing any mercy in our 40 minute dance on the gym floor. Therefore, instead of throwing up with an audience, I chose to leave the gym and call it a day OFF.

If you care, that was at 10 this morning and it's 6:47 p.m. now and I'm still in writhing pain. Since the workout was cut short, I really layed off the calories today and consumed a Muscle Milk light, coffee, a chicken breast, some tuna, a rice cake with almond butter and now the nectar of the Gods, Italian red wine. I get no pleasure downing Aleve, Advil or Ibuprofen - I mean really, doesn't grape juice taste a whole lot better going down?

It's a new Day

So after experiencing Disney's Tower of Terror in the dressing room yesterday, I spiked my workout up a notch. 30 minutes with the trainer; 30 minutes on the stairs (3 miles) and 15 minutes on the treadmill (1 mile). So during this process I rid myself of so much fluid, that I created an all new atmospheric condition in the aerobic room.

People with straight hair were actually walking out with Jheri curls. I kid you not. This was a brutal day. A day I asked myself, wouldn't it be easier to just EAT a lot less? By the way - I would never ask myself, wouldn't it be easier to just quit drinking Champagne and wine? That would be a felony stupid question. Nothing is easier without libations. Nothing!

I tried my turn at Macy's again to get the perfect gift for mom. As I was looking at the G-strings in the lingerie section (not for my mom)- please remember I have a bit of a distraction problem. So, anyway I hear this booming voice, "Mam?" I ignore it, then "Mam?" again. I turn around thinking - OMG is this about that damn mirror?

So it's this sweet cowboy holding up a robe on a hangar, and I say well thank you that is so thoughtful. How did you know I needed a new plushy black robe? He smiled and said, "how tall are you?" So my response is "Oh, so are you Prince Charming, except it's a robe rather than a slipper?" "I'm afraid I can save you the trouble - I'm not your Cinderella, I'm sure."

This man is relentless. Apparently he's buying a robe for his wife and I looked to be her height, which is 5'6". I didn't have the heart to tell him I had heels on, therefore his scientific sizing might be off a little. Anyway, I tried the robe on, it fit, and he turned on his heel with a thank you and purchased it just like that.

Since he's so efficient at purchasing for others, I wanted to tap him on the shoulder and see if he could pick something out for my mother.

Picking myself up and dusting myself off.

Okay, after two days in Vegas I woke up with the nagging feeling I must go to the gym. So I throw some cereal on the counter for the kids, squeeze into the leotard (not really, I don't even own a leotard) it just sounded funny. Although a certain Senator in our state has been spotted wearing such a contraption to the gym.

I pull off a miracle with 22 minutes on the stairmaster. You really have to ease yourself back into this routine to avoid injury - I'm sure I've read that some where. I then went the distance with 22 minutes in the weight room. I had no time left. I had to get showered and to my next appointment, LUNCH.

I had a Mercury Salad, oh that's Ahi Tuna in civilian speak. Apparently Super Heros bulk up on toxins to create an immunity against any type of warfare that can be thrown at them. Tomorrow is kryptonite consumption day. I can't actually tell you what foods contain kryptonite - it's a family secret.

So after lunch I run into Macy's with the ambitious goal of finding a fabulous birthday present for my mother. I head straight upstairs to the petite section, because my mother is a Cupie doll. I'm searching for petite Ralph Lauren when I notice bathing suits.

Well I've been working on my Super Hero self for at least 5 days now, why not celebrate in all the glory of me in a bathing suit. Off to the dressing room I go. I'm going to have to send a letter of apology and a nice size check to Macy's for the mishap with the mirror.

Okay so where is that Ralph Lauren section? I'm diligently searching and hoping no one is following me from the "Why did you think you could wear a bathing suit" section, when I hear.... Sean.. Sean.. No. I'm thinking. No! No more distractions - must get mom a present.

It's that damn Calvin Klein. He's sure he has the perfect dress for me in the formal section. But Calvin I'm here on a mission. My mother's birthday is Sunday - Ooooh.. that is a beautiful jewel-toned red dress. Okay, quickly I will try it on. What's that? Oh it's on sale - 45 dollars you say? My mother couldn't live with herself if she knew I missed out on such a deal. I'm happy to report, the mirrors in the dress section are still in perfect condition.

Las Vegas Debauchery

I have been remiss in blogging due to taking on the persona of someone who isn't training to be a Super Hero. Yes, two days in Vegas does not a Super Hero make. As a matter of fact, at the writing of this blog my brain still can't catch up with my physical self.

Upon my arrival at Simons, a big beautiful Mimosa sat upon a pedestal before me. I swear there was an Angelic glow hovering over it. The glass was so rich and inviting with little beads of sweat - as if there was concern I might reject it. I took pity and swilled that nectar before we sat down; and then the other 5 that followed - never had to sweat.

I devoured sushi, an egg white Frittata, boiled shrimp; and I scraped my teeth across the end of a candy bar. I did avoid any items from the "White Trash" portion of the menu. However my co-conspirators rolled their sleeves up like champions and took on the pigs in a blanket; and waffles and fried chicken. If anyone was looking, they may have seen me rubbing a tiny portion of the chicken all over myself. I know, sorry for the visual.

My cardio for the day was sauntering through the airport; I think I entered and exited an automobile about 8 times; walked into two clothing stores and a grocery store twice. The grocery store needed extra attention, because I suddenly created a habit of buying multiple bottles of wine just for the sheer pleasure of bouncing them on the concrete. Although this seemed to be a great pleasure for me, the humor was lost on those who actually wanted to imbibe. But, back to my point, I was really burning the calories.

Dinner included wine, 5 bites of pork, really super scrumptious pork, and some nibbles of to-die-for BREAD. I love bread, I never eat bread - I ate bread people. So I'm going to just go ahead and round that calorie count up to about 9000 for the day. I might have had a small set-back. I think my arch nemesis sent radioactive evil thingies into the reasoning portion of my brain. Or I could just blame it on the ah-ah ah-ah ah-al-co-hol.

Chuck Yeager yelled at me

So after the kickboxing caper yesterday, I met with a couple of friends for lunch at Harrah's Steakhouse. I had Parmesan crusted chicken breast, broccoli and yes, a glass of Rombauer Chardonnay. Hello, I'm at Harrah's on a Friday.

Now on to the evening. I met a friend a the Grill (my personal favorite watering hole - in Reno). I experienced two lovely glasses of Champagne. Now in case you don't know, Champagne is a good choice because it is a smaller pour and fewer calories, blah, blah, blah.

So after the second lovely glass of Champagne, the bartender informs me that "Mr. Politician" would like to buy me a drink. Well... What am I going to say? Oh no thank you "Mr. Politician," because I'm doing this whole new thing where I'm going to be a Super Hero and this probably wouldn't be conducive to my goals.

I believe my exact words were, "Hit me." Now "Mr. Politician" was all the way on the other side of the room and, I really needed to thank him but I was surrounded by a sea of people (maybe 5), so I gave him a wave and a nod and unbeknownst to everyone else, I used my Super Hero telepathic ability which transported my aura right to him, where I thanked him profusely. I'm pretty sure he felt it too.

So my BF shows up and we go to his favorite watering hole, Porky's, it's basically on our way home. A large group of our friends are about to sit down to dinner with fellow Safari Club members and they invite us. Oh I couldn't possibly, I had the Parmesan Crusted Chicken today ...... Oh well, Okay I just won't eat. I'll have a glass of wine with you.

So, I'm at the table of 28 people and I look two people to my right - and there is, in the flesh, Chuck Yeager. I know, I'm stunned. He's the fastest man alive and he's sitting still, almost right next to me. After everyone is full of red meat and wine, Mr. Yeager stands up and starts talking.

I'm thinking hey we're shooting the shit with Chuck Yeager. So I pipe in and we all get a big laugh - then he looks at me and says, "Do you want to speak?" Oops, I think I was just reprimanded (for the sake of the story, I'm saying he yelled at me). I thought well, I guess you should probably have the floor Mr. Yeager, being that you're already standing and all.

So everyone is hanging on his every word when he's talking about, I don't know, breaking some sound barrier and shooting planes down. All the while I feel like the little kid in church who is looking all around as everyone else has their heads down in prayer. I'm looking for anything, a bug to squish, anything.

I want to take him aside and say Chuckie. Oh yeah by now we have pet names for each other. He calls me Mouthy Cow. It's so sweet, because he's from Texas where I'm pretty sure cows are sacred - so I was just feeling the love.

Anyway, I want to say let's hear about some really cool stuff, like the movie "The Right Stuff." Or how that Barbara Hershey chick is now a drug addict or how Sam Shepard got a D.U.I. I mean, give me something.

He actually apologized for getting on me, and his wife told me he never apologizes to anyone. I can't be sure, but I'm almost certain my Super Hero powers forced that apology.

Day Two

Okay, so yesterday was very successful. I ended up with consuming only 1393 calories and that included 3 glasses of Ferrari Carano Merlot with about five bites of peppered steak at my favorite watering hole, The Grill. It was date night.

I know, you say well three glasses of wine, that's replacing viable nutrients your body needs. Hey, I never said I was a nutritionist. I'm a N.A.R.C.I.S.S.I.S.T. And by the way, if I use that word enough - I'll eventually remember how to spell it without aid from the dictionary. Oh, I didn't even finish the third glass of wine. I swear I left just enough in the bottom, that if unattended - it might leave a stain.

Today I will attempt a new sport, Kickboxing. Not sure I have the proper balancing ability, because I hear you actually have to lift your leg above hip level at times. You will receive a full report. I have actually worked out now 7 days in a row now and I think my clothes have a millicent of give. I'm using metrics for emphasis, because metric measurements sound smaller than... whatever you call our system we use here in the good ole U.S. of A.

I ate canned salmon for breakfast. Yuck I know, but I need the protein and I ate all my egg whites yesterday. If you eat things you don't like, then you tend to give most of it to the dog, which I call stomach bypass, without the surgery. I've got to get to the store.

Still Day One

Okay, so far today I've eaten 320 calories and burned 532. See, this blog is already helping me push harder. I have to admit though, during the 30 minutes on the stairmaster- I got off twice - asked where the nearest plastic surgeon was - then hoisted myself back up in a fit of crying.

No one at the gym pays attention to me. As a matter of fact, they move away from my space. Extra humiliation hit when I was atop the stairs, climbing to the pearly gates - my BF walks in. Now, I must explain that I am a sweater - when I say sweat I mean - I was donning the just dumped a bucket of water on me like I'm in a wet T-shirt contest look, but without the glamorous hair part. If he can love me after this, he's a stronger man than most.

My friends have asked why I started this blog. I think its pretty clear that public humiliation is a great motivator for me.

Day One to Super Herodom

I am a 48-year-old single mother of a girlie Tween; and I am a full-time lobbyist in the state of Nevada (hey at least I'm not a hooker). I have been someone who works out enough to get by and eat just good enough to never make a difference. I work out a few times a month with a personal trainer, and although I see some changes in muscle tone, my clothes fit the same as they did last year and the year before - oh hell, probably the same a eight years ago. Who am I kidding?

I finally had a stellar idea, I'll become an actress who is being sought after to play a Super Heroine, and she's somewhere around the age of, um - 48. With this, I have motivation to work harder and eat better, because for the role - I will receive a couple of million dollars. Yes. That's it - I'm going to be a Super Hero. I can't wait to read the script. I've got to get an agent, stat.

Okay, so when I snapped back into reality, I realized what I really need is to be held accountable by others in my narcissistic attempt at a better swim suit body. So with this blog, I'm going to reveal every detail of my food intake, exercise regiment and I will even give up the big, bad ugly truth of all my failures throughout. Stayed tuned - there will be many.

So my goal is to have a Super Hero-ish stature by April, when I will be going to Cabo with a group of women, yes, women. The most judgmental creatures to inhabit the earth. This is who I'm doing this for. Certainly not a man, because from my years of experience - men aren't really that picky about who they sleep with - but women - they are vicious. Not that I'll be sleeping with any of these women, mind you.

I'm new to this, so I'm not sure how often I will be on with updates, etc. So here it goes.