I don't even know me anymore.

As I climbed the stairs to nowhere this morning, I questioned myself on why I haven't indulged in my therapeutic blogging ritual for several weeks. After retreating to the recesses of my mind and digging very deep into my id,(this took about 5 seconds) I learned - I'm too damn happy.

Something is seriously wrong. I think I have been lobotomized. That may not be a word, but as we all know, it's my blog and if I want to butcher the English language into a bloody nubbin - I can.

So I figure all this happiness has to come from somewhere. I guess the whole not dating thing has kept me from any kind of tortuous heart breaking. Oh wait, I can't get a broken heart, because I actually don't have possession of such an organ any longer. Yeah, funny story. I told the last guy who stole it, he could just keep it. I wasn't going to be needing it anymore. And that worked out okay, because I kept all the jewelry. In retrospect I think I should have held out for a car too.

So the next time you see me, perhaps you should try to make me miserable so I can actually get back to my self-deprecating state of mind (which, by the way, is a very comfortable place for me to be.) I don't know how to act with all this happiness bottled up inside me.

Be-Be's Scale Gave Up

Thank heavens the holidays are finally over. I can get back to some essence of normalcy. Today is virtually the first day in weeks that I have awakened with no residuals from the art of miscalculating portion sizes due to my poor math skills, celebratory flu, sinus/cold or belly flu.

But I do take comfort in the fact that at least my scale didn't commit suicide during the holidays. How many of you had to go buy a new scale after the holidays? I only ask this because apparently some scales (okay the one owned by Be-Be) just give up from the duress in trying to please. Oh, I don't think it's due to excess weight on the scale - it was just pure fear of Be-Be's approach.

If you don't know Be-Be, she doesn't take bad news really well and I can only imagine the anxiety of those tiny little gears in the bowels of the scale when Be-Be's time of reckoning hit. I can hear the bugles belting out the Battle Hymn of the Republic trying to awake all the other scale parts from their peaceful slumber.

Scales aren't prone to sweating, but this poor fella had some pressure trying to soften those springs and crank those tiny little wheels and stop them before some unsuitable number popped up, just so no abuse could ensue post weight check.

She never told me what actually broke the scale - whether it was the time she kicked it into the wall after a night of riotous living, or when she threw it across the room after a week of consuming only sprouts and coffee - but I'm guessing if you opened it up and took a close look, you'd see hundreds of tiny little nooses dangling from every little gear, spring and pin.

Be-Be can be unpredictable, but I can now guarantee you, I will never hear the words "My scale broke," from her lips again.

I see Kim Kardashian in the mirror.

It's a new year and I've made no new resolutions. I'm dealing with enough from last year's commitment to Super Heroism. I've been feeling guilty the past couple of weeks, because my gym attendance has been at best, paltry. But I regained some sense of self-worth when it was brought to my attention that Kim Kardashian is apparently my twin.

I know, I couldn't believe it either, but after careful thought I see the resemblance. She is 20-something; and I'm 20-something plus 20-something. She is well-endowed in the hindquarter and, well, I just have a big ass.

She dates rich and famous guys; and I've been known to flirt with disaster by spending my time with the Infamous ones. She has paparazzi constantly stalking her for pictures; and I have friends constantly asking me to take their pictures with other famous people.

And that's not all, she has given up dating in 2011 - and low-and-behold, dating has given up on me. She doesn't drink much; and I don't drink much bad wine. And the Pièce de résistance is - she is drop-dead, stunningly beautiful; and let's just say, (and I'm going out on a limb here) - that I've got to be at least a Yerington, NV 10, a town where meth is what's for breakfast.

So with that said, I'm going to have to muster up the energy to get to the gym so I can hold my own when the not-so-tolerant 8 and 9s of Yerington start looking to bust my face. I still have my teeth and I want to keep them.

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.