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9:20 p.m. - 2010-06-15
I miss you, John.

I wanted to do that Google image word association thing that all the cool kids are playing, but frankly I'm too pooped. And if you're too pooped to google, then you're reeeeeally pooped.

And what would slothy LA be pooped from? A tough day polishing her toenails? Worn out from watching her Sims go to work? Wait, we know! She went all the way upstairs and reset the thermostat on the central air!

Nice. Thanks. I'll remember that and will someday be as kind to you. Nar.

Nope. As I did yesterday, I actually did real physical work around here. Bad-ass gardening. None of this polite deadheading the petunias. I pulled an entire wheelbarrow-full of this shit out of the perennial bed. This nasty weed is fricken everywhere and it hurts to pull it out, no matter how well armored you are. Oh, it uproots easy enough, but every bit of it is covered in spines. Spines that leave burning itching welts. Plus it has a bazillion little seed balls or something that cling to your clothes, hair, and even skin. It's murder. My forearms look like I lost a knife fight with a hyperactive squid. Slashed from wrists to biceps in a million skinny cuts. But I saved my salvia, foxgloves, and lilies from strangling to death.

I also attacked and conquered Laundry Mountain. Like a fool I expected Mick would eventually tire of processing our clothing and linens through the machines and leaving the stuff in huge hummocks on the folding table in the cellar. I assumed the accumulated mess would get to him and he'd either stop washing stuff or he'd finally start folding. WRONG! No lie, the piled up, wrinkled tangles of clothing, bedding, and towels almost reached the ceiling. Of course the stuff would slide off the table where it was then trodden upon by both pets and people alike until it needed to be washed again. I was the one finally driven mad by this insane approach to laundering and today I folded at least 17 loads worth. I even tossed the horribly wrinkled shirts into the dryer with a damp washcloth and got most of the creases out.

We own an embarrassment of socks, btw. An entire tribe of centipedes couldn't wear this many socks in a year, let alone three humans who only own two feet each. Sometimes my American uber-consumption shames me.

The morning started off with my usual trip to the gym. The break I gave myself on Friday must have helped, I went heavy and extra-reps on the machines. But what really did it for me was not being right next to MIL on the treadmill. The woman expects me to keep up a nice chatty conversation while we trudge along and the effort to have breath enough for conversing has really bitten into my training to break the 15 minute mile. Today, without the onus of having to talk I busted my butt and went for it. Best time ever- 16:24. Not world-class by any means. Flo-Jo isn't at home weeping with envy or anything, but for a tubby chick who 3 months ago couldn't walk an entire mile at any speed without feeling faint and having to throw up afterward, my mad treadmill dash today made me really happy.

Probably did so well because I ate the breakfast of true champions this morning.

Me and Belushi, baby. We know how to do it right. ~LA

8 Wanna talk about it!

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