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.