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31 January
Red belt ho
My red belt test went unbelievably well. All indications lead me to believe
this was going to be the HELL test, but alas it was easier than anticipated.
Dare I say the easiest since white belt?
Maybe it's because I'm become accustomed to the pressure. Maybe it's because
I know what's expected of me. Maybe it's because I imagined an event far worse
than what actually occurred.
Maybe, and I think I'm on to something here, it’s because hard-core female
black belt didn't lead us through testing. Yeah I think that's it. Whether
in class or during testing, she has no mercy. It's possible she is a karate
robot. I've never witnessed her feel pain, stop for water, or injure herself.
She can scream at you for hours without losing her voice. I can count the
number of times I've seen her smile...twice.
Karate robot aside, the testing process was stressful, but I didn't have a
mental breakdown during basics like I did in October. Righty even survived
the testing process without one tear shed. Are we seasoned vets who can withstand
the rigors of testing day jitters? Highly unlikely. Maybe we just got lucky.
While waiting for our turn on the floor, Righty and I got to observe the current
crop of red and orange belts. I'm very impressed with our orange belt adults.
We've got quite a talented bunch moving up ranks. Props to OBC who will soon
become GBC. Be warned, I will be watching for signs of arrogance.
If all goes well, in two weeks I officially become a red belt. I'm fully prepared
to have mental breakdowns on every test until I make black belt.
28 January
It's magic
Righty has a magical bag. It didn't come from the store that way, but it
was created from her motherly talents. Some consider the magical bag a myth,
but Hollywood has embraced this mythical item. Blockbuster movies with A list
celebrities are produced with the magical bag playing a major supporting role.
This magical bag of Righty's is a small, plain canvas bag with nondescript
graphics on the outside. To the causal observer it might look like a bag one
gets for free at conventions or seminars. However, those of us with an eye
for detail know better.
Her bag has the ability to serve many purposes. It is used on a regular basis
as a purse, beach bag, grocery bag, gym bag, briefcase, and laundry basket.
The magical bag is quite cavernous on the inside although appearing rather
small on the outside. I once watched her pull out a two karate uniforms, her
work clothes, another change of clothes, and clothing for her son.
Once at the beach her bag substituted for an ice chest. It carried enough
ice and drinks for 20 people.
Her bag also seems to keep the necessities of life tucked away inside. I've
seen a hairbrush, along with a pair of nail clippers removed in a time of
need. There is no end to the random items that pop out of her bag. For instance,
a state map and a whisk were once produced to the amazement of innocent bystanders.
Truly her canvas bag could sustain life when it's most needed: a camping trip,
nuclear apocalypse, an impromptu road trip, or even an evening in a bar.
Tonight I personally witnessed the magical abilities of this bag. In desperate
need of food for her son, Righty pulled out 2 Little Debbie Snack Cakes. Just
when we thought he would collapse from starvation, her bag saved his life.
I'm positive this was not the first time her bag and its cache of goodies
came to the rescue.
Because of recent back muscle issues, I was in need some sort of sports cream.
However due to impending financial doom on my part, I'm unable to purchase
such an item. From the recesses of her small canvas bag she produced a jar
of Tiger Balm.
Although Righty will deny every word in this post, I want her to know that
those of us who have benefited from her special bag wish her a world of thanks.
26 January
Right back at ya
The pain started Sunday night. Getting up from the sofa, a shooting pain
launched in my left lower back. I blamed it on the couch lounging, surely
it was a crick. Perhaps some moving around help work it out. That was a stupid
plan, moving around only made the pain worse.
Next I convinced myself it was my left kidney. After all the pain was radiating
from where I think my kidney is located. How much water had I been drinking?
Not nearly enough. Arguh, it's a kidney stone!
As I lay back down on the couch contemplating my impending kidney stone, I
thought, well maybe it's just gas. You know sometimes gas will do that...give
you shooting pains in weird areas. I've never had gas pain in the back before,
but it is possible right? And after I blogged about the Stinkking boy and
his gassy adventures, now I've got shooting gas pains. Great.
I allowed myself to channel my mother for a few minutes thinking of every
possible medical condition that could affect my lower back. Before I lapsed
into a medical panic, I decided to attack the pain head on, I took an Advil.
How did the world function before Advil? I'll never know.
This morning there was no pain, not even a little. Hah, pain be gone. Until
I got off the couch again doing the same twisty thing I did last night. Tonight,
however, my back had some sort of spasm, kinda like a charlie horse. Half
bent over, I froze in position for fear that the pain would get worse as I
stood up. Slowly I rose up, kinda like Neanderthal man walking on two legs
for the first time.
As I made my way to the office carpet to stretch out my back, I tried to figure
out exactly what I did to hurt myself. At karate class Saturday morning we
did a fair amount of stretching before working out. We did this fancy little
move were you lay on your back, lift you legs up over your body and try to
touch the floor (over your head) with your feet. Although I had no problem
performing this move Saturday, my body voiced its opinion on the matter Sunday.
Although I was able to work through some basic stretches trying to ease the
tension in my back muscle, the pain remains. I find myself walking around
with my left hand firmly planted on my aching muscle...much like a pregnant
lady touches her belly.
Operation:back be better will commence tomorrow evening.
Since my only weapon right now is Advil, I'll have to commandeer some supplies.
My list currently includes a heating pad and some muscle rub.
I will also be reevaluating the manner in which I get up off the sofa. It
seems there is more to this simple technique than meets the eye.
ramblings by Whitey on 11:09 AM
107522339058443420
Whatcha talkin' bout?
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25 January
It's A Conspiracy
I'm wondering if the animals have an alarm clock. Both animals got up at
5:50am this morning; then proceeded to make sure I got up with them. Fritter,
truly the queen of noise making, whined until I let her outside. Muffin made
so much racket in the cat box, I thought the walls were coming down. Ten minutes
later, everyone in the house had gone to the bathroom, ate breakfast then
went back to sleep until noon.
I learned a lot of new things about myself this weekend. Let me rephrase that.
I learned a lot about how other perceive me this weekend.
OBC has lumped me into the arrogant karate group. It seems all or most of
the green belts are arrogant, especially towards the lower ranking students.
Although I would never have categorized myself as such, since the labels have
been placed, I'm feeling quite uppity right. now.
It seems that people, according to KJ, have a predisposed idea that all women
with my name have blond hair. I don't. Nor have I ever met anyone with my
name with blond hair. I'm not saying there aren't blond women running around
with my name. However, since it is a unqiue name and there aren't very many
of us, I find it highly unlikey. But maybe I'm just arrogant.
This conversation got started because of my predisposed idea that all women
named Heidi are tall, thin, blond Swedish bikini models. I was proved wrong...very
wrong. Now I'm being mean, but what do you expect from a arrogant blond woman.
It also seems that people, according to KJ, associate pet names with my name.
I totally agree.
So it seems that I'm an arrogant, blond, cocker spaniel.
ramblings by Whitey on 11:13 PM
107513722263012513
Whatcha talkin' bout?
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24 January
That's A Safety Risk
Safety is the mall's top priority. Apparently the only two activities allowed
in the mall are eating and shopping - anything else is considered a safety
risk.
KJ had big, big plans for a karate demo today. He thought; let's wow them
with some board breaking, some sparring, maybe even some self-defense techniques
or weapons techniques. Mall security had some different ideas.
We were only allowed to do basic moves and forms; anything else got lumped
into the safety risk category. We were banned from touching each other. We
were banned from doing any jumping techniques. We were banned from moving
quickly. Ok, that's just not true, but it might as well be.
Mall security also made a group of high school students remove their togas
because it posed a safety risk.
You might be wondering, where is this mall located, Russia? Or even Canada?My
thoughts exactly.
What kind of world do we live in where high school students can't wear togas
at the mall?
22 January
Gassy McGassy Pants
Someone has been releasing horrendous amounts of gas during karate this week.
Not little farts that go unnoticed, but noisy, stinky, lingering farts. After
this evening I'm certain the guilty farter is a Stinkking boy.
We are blessed (ahem) in our do jang with three King boys. Righty dubbed them
the Stinkking boys last year because they frequently attended class in stinky
unwashed uniforms and :::shudder::: hair. Standing next to them in class became
a chore because of their smell.
Someone must have complained to their father because their hair no longer
stinks. Did you notice I neglected to mention their uniforms in that sentence?
Honestly how long does one have to go without washing their hair before someone
standing one foot away can smell it? And why can't they smell it? Maybe I'll
never know and that's probably a good thing.
I was lucky enough to stand next to the oldest Stinkking boy this evening.
Twice during our forms workout THE gassy smell made it my way. I tried to
ignore it but sometimes you cannot ignore the funk. When we took a short break,
I heard a loud squeak sound come from Stinkking boy's general area. At first
I thought his foot made some sort of noise on the rubber mat, but the smell
wafting my way was a clear indicator. The Stinkking boy was cutting em all
night.
I know what you're thinking; hey with all that moving and kicking I bet
everybody is farting. Quit picking on that Stinkking boy.Ok, first no
and second, hell no.
Here's my solution to his gas problem: charcoal underwear. That's right, it's
my idea; don't steal it. If his underwear had a charcoal layer, his gas wouldn't
be an issue.
Luckily I'm testing for a new belt color. With this (hopefully) promotion,
I'll move four feet to right of the Stinkking boys. Although I'm not sure
four feet will be enough distance from his toxic gas.
ramblings by Whitey on 10:08 PM
107483093190884157
Whatcha talkin' bout?
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19 January
Return of Perky Butt
I decided to splurge on another pair of butt shaping jeans. This was the
only exciting event which occurred over my holiday weekend. And it's a stretch
to call that exciting.
Exciting event: 1st runner-up
I'm positive Muffin watched a couple make out...on TV. Not only am I sure
she watched it, I think she was mesmerized by it.
That about sums up my three day weekend.
16 January
Will you be my friend?
Beer was the six member of our drinking party this evening. I always enjoy
when beer comes drinking with us. I've never had a boring evening when beer
is invited. And I'm willing to bet, you feel the same about beer.
At first beer started talking about work, but because beer is a doesn't stick
to one topic long, the conversation moved on to important things - like toilet
paper preferences. Beer wanted to know which technique was preferred - folding
or bunching. Beer also insisted that men prefer small quantities of cheap,
sandpaper like paper while women prefer soft, quilted gobs of paper. Beer
then held an in-depth discussion about bathroom habits. Beer even launched
into the benefits of smoking. Sometimes beer just doesn't make sense.
Beer is quite the conversationalist. Beer talked about hobbit love, shaved
heads, star wars tattoos and cinnamon rolls.
I learned that beer convinces my friends to do bizarre things. For example,
beer convinced Snadam to fashion a pair of earplugs out of a tampon.
Unfortunately beer left early this evening. And we all know that once beer
leaves, the drinking ends. I hope beer drops by this weekend for a visit.
15 January
Karate whammy
"Don't worry about your next test. I've been watching the green belts and
you're all ready. The test is just a formality."
"I can't wait for this group of green belts to make black belts. This group
is going to make a great crop of black belts."
"Don't get a big head over this, but I prefer working with the green belts
rather than the red belts. You look good; I don't have to yell at you."
Although my instructor continues to reassure us about our upcoming test, I'm
still nervous. My nervousness will get progressively worse as testing day
arrives. I like to follow a routine on testing day to quell my nerves.
It's important to recognize the actions which lead to the success or failure
of an event. This applies mostly to sporting events, academic testing, or
anything that can be changed by your attention to detail. As any sports fan
will tell you, a dedicated fan can and will affect the outcome of a game.
This is a silly concept only to those who don't understand the power of a
whammy, a jinx or a good luck charm. I.E. - I wore the same LSU t-shirt for
every football game, except the Florida game. And which is the only game we
lost?
Back in the day, I did some scientific research on the whammy. You can not
deny scientific evidence. View the whammy results.
To avoid a karate whammy, I like to repeat my actions from my very first gup
test. I do not vary my routine, for it would certainly cause doom.
Two weeks before testing, I paint my toenails purple. Why purple? -because
my toenails were purple for my first test. The purple paint is not removed
until after promotion.
The night before testing, I wash and iron my uniform, including sacred white
t-shirt. Speaking of sacred shirt, I wear the same shirt for testing. The
sacred shirt is only worn on testing day and promotion day. This same rule
applies for the old tattered white sports bra.
Eating breakfast the day of the test is strictly forbidden...mainly because
I feel like I'm gonna hurl. I even skip the coffee because my of the hurl
factor. However, I do take two Advil the morning of - just in case.
As long as I follow the karate whammy rules, I'll move on to the next belt
level. The whammy research has shown it has nothing to do with your current
skill level.
Basically, what I'm saying is, you too can become a black belt in karate with
the proper toenail polish and t-shirt.
13 January
The green monster gurgles no more. As mysteriously as the noise began, it
ended unceremoniously yesterday evening. The fridge continues to operate perfectly
without the time so I won't bother replacing it. The manufacturer really just
put it there for looks.
Karate was exceptionally hellish tonight. It bothers me when we spend more
time on yelling loudly than refining our technique; which is exactly what
happened. It's drilled into our heads from day one that a good ki-yap (spirit
yell) is good for the soul and our discipline. And sometimes, when our spirit
is low, we are required to repeat a technique, along with a louder yell, until
our spirit level is acceptable. Usually this means screaming at the top of
your lungs as to not incur the wrath of an instructor.
There are times, more than I care to acknowledge, that our collective group
yell is unacceptable. I always manage to ki-yap as loud as humanly possible
because I hate punishment exercises. That is until tonight.
I reached a point, somewhere around frog leap #25, where I didn't care. The
entire exercise became pointless. My lack of caring continued over to the
five hundred & fifty-five thousand spinning back kicks we were forced to perform
because we lacked spirit. Well, I had the spirit beat right out of me and
I wasn't the only one. Small green belt woman that I smacked in the chest
several months ago quit screaming. Righty seemed to become a mute within minutes
of the six count exercise.
The thing about not caring is that you. don't. care. Bring on more punishment
exercises because I don't care. I don't care if you yell at me; I don't care
if everyone does more pushup; I just don't care. It seems the point of the
exercise was lost on me and Righty and of most of the adults in class.
I feel much better now. Bitching to the world about things I can't control
makes me feel better.
12 January
Damn, my butt looks
good in these jeans! That's right, I said it.
I finally bought a new pair of jeans. You might recall my hate post directed
at Mr. Gap and his wide-leg, slim thigh, low waist jeans of hell. My mission
was to find a regular pair of jeans and it proved to be more difficult than
I suspected. Fast forward five months.
I ventured in the world of Levi's. Although I've tried several on several
dozen pair of Levi's on over the years, they just didn't seem to fit right.
Since the Levi's are arranged via waist and inseam size and I don't know my
waist size, I eyeballed a pair. Turns out, I picked the right size. I'm not
sure if my butt looks really good in these jeans or just really bad in other
jeans.
Sassy hair + perky butt = wooing material
11 January
It lives
Apparently the green monster does not like being moved. Shortly after moving
it around Saturday, a small rumbling sound began to emit from beneath the
grill. It sounds much like a VCR rewinding the world's longest tape. As the
hours progressed, the noise began to annoy me.
I tried blocking the sound by closing doors and raising the tv volume, but
the noise continued. Also, it got louder every time the heater kicked on.
So armed with my five tools plus a flashlight (hey, does that count as a tool?);
I tinkered with the green monster's parts. Heh.
My machine related philosophy goes something like this: if moving the g.m.
causes strange sound to start - banging on part with tools will make sound
stop. Sounds reasonable to me but what do I know, I own five tools. It didn't
work. My machine philosophy is flawed.
My next goal was to remove noise making part, giggling it (ahem), and then
replace it. Once again a ratchet set was needed to complete the part removal.
If you remember from yesterday's blog, I don't own a ratchet set. However,
I did manage to dislodge the part, examine it, giggle it, hit it again, then
replace it. Finally when the g.m. got plugged in again, the part and it's
noise emmited roared to life.
I tried to drown out its gurgles by stuffing a towel in front of the grill,
but that only knocked the sound down a nano-miccron - I made that word up.
Basically the towel did nothing but make me feel better.
This morning Dad came over to examine the green monster's underbelly. Apparently
the timer is making noise. According to him the timer controls the freezer's
ability to defrost. It seems moving the fridge engaged or enraged the timer.
I know for a fact that damn thing didn't work before. Yesterday since the
fridge was empty, I disassembled the freezer because gobs (technical term)
of water constantly drip inside. And yes, I did disassemble the freezer with
only five tools. If you count the hair dryer, I used six.
The drain hole, along with some of the coils were frozen. So ha! The timer
was not worker before yesterday. But since the damn thing won't stop with
the noise making, I've got to replace it.
I blame this on the fridge of fungus.
10 January
The MisFit Fridge
In the great tradition of hand-me downs, I was inline to receive a quality
new-used refrigerator. Although my current fridge works, it is old as hell.
Little old lady was kind enough to leave it with the house. It's probably
the first refrigerator made by Sears. Ok, so it's not that old, but it was
definitely produced sometime in the early 60's or 70's. My dinosaur of a fridge
hasn't failed me yet, but it's only a matter of time before the Sears ColdSpot
no longer gets cold in any spot.
I accepted the generous offer of new-used hand-me down fridge sight & condition
unseen. If this was a movie, this little tidbit would be called foreshadowing.
I figure if it was built in the last ten years, I come out ahead in this scenario.
Hmpht...faulty logic.
Mr. O'Dell and Mawk arrive with my new-used fridge of joy. They move my green
monster out and make preparations to move the new-used white fridge of joy
inside - except it won't fit through the door frame. Mr. O'Dell decides we
need to remove the doors for entry and since I own a total of five tools (flat
screw driver, Philips screw driver, hammer, pliers and crescent wrench) he
went home to get a ratchet set. But not before he untied the handles to the
white fridge of joy. Inside was no fridge of joy; inside was a microbiology
experiment of massive proportions. The white fridge of joy became the fungus
fridge from hell.
Upon reflection, I should have taken a photo, because I can not accurately
describe the condition of this fridge. Revolting comes to mind; so does bleck.
Think about some old container of food forgotten in your fridge. Now think
about when you open said container finding the food covered green gunk. Now
imagine that covered inside my new-used quality fridge of fungus. Sixty percent
of the surface was covered with mildew, mold, and/or fungus. The doors, the
shelves, the foam lining, the metal trays, even the freezer was encased with
it.
The previous fridge owner claims it was clean before it was put out for pickup.
I'm also told it sat outside for one week...in a hazardous chemical dump.
Don't get me wrong, I'm extremely grateful for the opportunity to have a quality
new-used fridge. However, the mildewy inside gave me the hibbie-gibbies. Bring
on the haz-mat suit. Yuck. Originally I planned on spending about an hour
cleaning the white fridge of joy. I refuse to put my food in something that
I hadn't cleaned myself. One hour of cleaning was quickly spiraling into 4-6
hours of a bleachy haze.
My own personal hell contains mildew, fungus and mold, along with the food
stuff that gathers in the kitchen sink drain. Bleck. Seriously though, bleck.
The fof shelving unit screws were covered in mildew. How in the hell do stainless
steel screws, buried with the plastic walls get coated with this? Honestly
how could I forget to take a picture? Shock, it must be shock. I'm blaming
it on shock. Medically speaking, people in shock don't think clearly. Yes,
I am equating finding mold and fungus inside a fridge with being shot.
While Mr. O'Dell and Mawk made a ratchet run, I attacted the fridge of fungus
with an array of cleaning supplies. My goal was to knock out the big spots
before the fof got moved inside. With my keen observation skills, I noticed
how much bigger the fof was than my green monster. With measuring tape in
hand, I determined the fof was too big for my fridge cubby. Mr. O'Dell verified
my findings. Needless to say I was relived. I'll take my chances with my clean
green monster, may it run for years. Or at least until I can afford a quality
new fridge.
Mr. and Mrs. O'Dell have decided to make the fridge of fungus a beer refrigerator.
An important side note here, I will never put my beer in that fridge nor will
I take a beer from that fridge.
09 January
Beer
Pro or con?
ramblings by Whitey on 11:17 PM
107371183376195196
Whatcha talkin' bout?
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07 January
Are you obsessed
with my hair?
Many people have a strange attraction to my sassy hair. It lures
them in with its fascinating features, much like that strange fish in Finding
Nemo. You find yourself attracted to it but don't know how or why.
The WOMAN's assistant, let's call her the grim reaper, has to touch my hair
every day. Every single day. She states because it looks so cute, she just
has to touch it. Dr. Mike, another co-worker, felt the need to sneak up behind
me and touch the ends. He claims, that if he had "rod stewart like hair" he'd
be proud. What the hell? Rod Stewart like hair - that sounds like an insult.
Is it cute or like rod stewart? Either comparison irks me.
Over Christmas, my aunt told me that a lot of famous people wear their hair
like me. Then she asked why it was black. My hair is not black, not even close.
According to the box, it's Chestnut Brown.
Loyal blog readers, both of you, will remember the comments my hair receives
at karate. At one point it was too messy for the photographer. She tried forcing
it down into a more acceptable position. Humph, that sounds kinda kinky. Another
time someone commented that my hair was sticking up in the back and I must
have been napping before class.
All this attention my hair gets now has made me realize that it must have
been quite dull with the other do. No one ever commented on my hair before.
I'm left wondering, did you know I had hair? It's not a new development. It
seems people went out of their way avoiding eye contact with my mop hair.
My mother used to say, a woman's hair is her crown of glory. Ok, that's just
stupid, but when else can I work a quote like that into my blog? Speaking
of my mother, she's had the same hairstyle my entire life. I once saw a photo
from high school were she had a different look, but that's it. In every photo,
including the ones taken immediately after my birth, she has the same 50's
style bouffant do. In a picture to picture comparison, you might think she's
wearing a wig, the same wig for forty years. Nope. She likes her teased hair
because it makes her look taller.
Don't get me wrong, I like the fact that people, strangers even, like my hair.
At least they make eye contact now. However, I don't like people; strangers
even, touching my hair. I kinda feel like a circus freak. Besides the whole
invading my personal space issue. Remember, loyal readers, the hugging commandment?
If hugging is frowned upon, wouldn't touching anything, including hair, also
be taboo?
For now I will carry on with the curse of sassy hair. Cause that must be what
it is, a curse. Sassy hair equals attention which equals touching. Mop hair
equals shame.
ramblings by Whitey on 10:20 AM
107351390244417911
Whatcha talkin' bout?
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06 January
Warm It Up
It's supposed to be the coldest night of the season. The temperature has
already dropped below 30 degrees and its only 9pm. Flannel sheets and flannel
pjs are in order tonight.
Muffin decided to spend the entire day inside rather than brave the cold &
wind. She is currently sleeping in the laundry basket. Fritter is not so calm.
After a game of kangaroo keep away, she is chewing off one of his ears.
Some cheap church sign flashing the temp was my only clue as to how cold it
was and I suddenly remembered unwrapping a pipe to wash my Jeep. It was 80
degrees Sunday; rewrapping the pipe was not on my to do list. In my mind,
this is time to panic. The fact that I could have gone to bed without wrapping
the pipe, which, I'm sure, would have led to a busted water pipe, had me racing
home. After several layers of foam, plastic bags, t-shirts and towels, I proclaim
the job done. However, I'm convinced my father would shame me if he saw my
wrapping job. His head would shake and then he'd say, girl, don't you
have any sense? I, however, have confidence in my layering skills, the
pipe job will remain as is.
My favorite house feature is the bathroom gas heater. Unlike electric heaters
with thermostats, the gas heater doesn't stop until it gets turned off...or
until the house burns down.
After two consecutive posts about the joys of meat, I had pizza for lunch
today. The pull of DeAngleo's pizza overruled the beef rant. However, there
were several generous slices of pepperoni arranged ever so neatly. There's
a picture of my pizza tucked away on my new digital camera, but I'm too cold
to retrieve it.
05 January
Not me
Ground meat has been scarce. Over the weekend, several grocery stores were
out of ground meat. I'm wondering if the mad cow craziness has made its way
down south. That's not possible, is it?
As a genuine southerner, nothing stands between me and my beef. Risk of disease
or not, I will have a tasty burger or steak whenever the mood hits. And the
mood has hit. This evening I purchased 2.5 pounds of ground chuck and cooked
meatballs. If you’re looking for spaghetti, keep looking. Only meat served
here.
The locally owned grocery store around the corner has the best beef in town.
I should know, I'm a meat coinsure. And what, you say, does it take to become
a meat coinsure? Simply the love of meat. If you love meat, you too can become
a coinsure.
I've always been a meat fan, but Dr. Atkins has refined my taste buds. No
longer will the regular ground meat from Super Wal-Mart do. There's a reason
why the meat at Super Wal-Mart is so cheap...it tastes bad. Even my beloved
bbq sauce can't fix a meal cooked (ahem) with their ground meat.
The so-called Select Angus Beef from Albertson's is not so select. Additionally,
the Albertson's meat is twice as expensive as any store in town. I don't mind
paying a premium price for my beef, but it's gotta taste good. It sounds like
I'm a meat junkie looking for my next fix. Ok, so maybe I'm a meat junkie,
not a coinsure. Is there any shame in it? No. If vegetarians and vegans can
take pride in their love of veggies, I can take pride in my love of meat.
Call me a megan.
The Atkins wagon
The month of December proved to be an eating disaster, at least by Dr. Atkins
standards. Although I tried to follow the modified diet, Christmas sweets
proved to be my weakness. It is entirely possible for me to make a meal out
of donuts, cookies, and cupcakes.
Knowing that the last two weeks of year would be especially difficult, I decided
to ditch Atkins and give in to my cravings. This meant pancakes for breakfast,
hamburgers for lunch and a Dr. Pepper with dinner. My favorite indulgence
during the holiday break was carbonated beverages. Don't get me wrong, I love
the rice & gravy, it's probably in my top 5 favorite foods but there's something
special about carbonated beverages.
Since starting Atkins in April, I've only allowed myself 3 soft drinks. For
some reason I consider soft drinks the holy grail of goodness. Quite conveniently
I decided that 7 & 7 would be my drink of choice over the holidays.
Although this little carb detour has been wonderful, my stomach doesn't seem
to think so. After eating an extravagant Christmas dinner, I was hungry an
hour later. This trend continued over the break. Generally within an hour
of eating, I was hungry again. It seems my body doesn't like the high carb
content anymore. Although they are quite tasty and filled with starchy goodness,
my stomach likes protein and lots of it.
I'm willing to brave mad cow for my stomach.
04 January
Leaf me be
Because my neighbor, owners of LBD, did yard work yesterday, my yard is looking
haggard. With rake in hand I tried to conquer one small section of the yard.
Notice I said tried.
My neighbors, let's call them the Burbs, after the movie of the same name,
do little or no yard work at all. In fact, while I've mulched the yard twice
this winter, the Burbs have neglected their yard completely. Well, Mr. Burb
spent several hours bagging leaves. His grand total of leaf bags produced
from his front yard, side yard and drive way was two - two leaf bags.
I toiled away on the portion of my yard that butts up against the Burbs yard.
My first goal was to rake the leaves on the grass line of the driveway. I
wanted to knock out the leaves in the hose path because my original plan for
the day was to wash the Jeep. As much as I hate raking leaves, I hate raking
wet leaves more.
Feeling oddly motivated by Mr. Burb knocking out his entire yard in a few
yours, how long could it take me? At the end of two hours my final count was
six leaf bags. Thing is, I didn't finish the yard. I managed to hit the big
spots, mostly on the outside of the yard leaving the center covered with leaves.
Perhaps a mathematical equation could explain this situation. How is it that
no leaf work all year results in 2 leaf bags, while somewhat regular maintenance
equals 6 bags?
ramblings by Whitey on 11:44 PM
107340987941418061
Whatcha talkin' bout?
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03 January
Destination: disappointment
What O'Dell assured me was to be a fun filled day of shopping turned into
a long car ride. Plans to conquer New Orleans' Magazine Street were marred
by a bad attitude...specifically O'Dell's bad attitude. I'm not sure what
Mr. O'Dell said or did to piss off the mrs., but she refused to participate
in any activities. I witnessed no transgression so heinous that an end should
be called to the day. However O'Dell had other plans. To make a long and painful
story short, instead shopping, drinking and merry making, we spent the day
driving. We spent more time driving to and from then we actually did in the
city of New Orleans.
So after getting up early, not eating lunch until 3:30 and riding in the car
for an entire morning, I was in a bad mood. My bad mood continues to linger.
I even tried the cure-all for crappy days...a nap. If a nap can't solve a
bad mood, the next step is beer. That being said, I'm in such a funk, I don't
even feel like drinking. Maybe I'll take more photos of Fritter.
02 January
The Digital Era
Finally, the famed digital camera has arrived. No more will my stories be
limited to just mere words...photos can accompany the vivid tales of my life.
Expect photos that will comment on soci-economic plight of the lady bug. Photos
that shed a new found sincerity and honesty into this world. Photos so poetic
Maya Anglou will reference in her future books. Expect all of the above, plus
Fritter and Muffin, perhaps the occasional person.
Let's get things started with Fritter.
The gallery of extraordinary pictures
has been uploaded. However, there were some technical difficulties with the
laptop, so a limited number of whitey originals are presented.
The current photos presented in a large format so you can curse me if you
are not on a high speed connection. BTW, future images will be presented in
thumbnail format for you viewing pleasure.
ramblings by Whitey on 10:38 PM
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Whatcha talkin' bout?
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01 January
Greetings
Are the french more cultured than us? According to an actual french woman,
they are. However examine the proof presented before you and make your own
judgment.
Cultured french woman gets drunk off of two lemon drops, proceeds to chase
a seven year old boy around the yard calling him a bastard.
Drunk cultured french woman proceeds to loudly fart while chasing the boy,
while six uncultured Americans listen/watch in horror.
Drunk cultured french woman drink four glasses of champagne. Then tosses back
two shots of tequila.
Drunk cultured french woman gets nauseas and makes no attempt to find a bathroom.
Drunk cultured french woman vomits on living room floor of uncultured American
hostess.
Drunk cultured french woman is attended to by uncultured American hostess.
Drunk cultured french woman leaves in shame.
Uncultured Americans continue to drink without farting or vomiting.
ramblings by Whitey on 12:04 PM
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Whatcha talkin' bout?
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