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1:48 p.m. - 2011-06-03
The Counter-weight

A companion piece to my previous entry, which was all about the good news and happy things.

Today's Bitch and Whine List

The gym:

It's still airless and stuffy in there.

A middle-aged Snooki-wannabe playacting at working out, but obviously only there to troll for men, who'd half-ass use the machines and then saunter off without wiping them down. I know they weren't sweaty, besides her pathetic 'workout', nobody in a see-through pink floral tank top with a black lace demi-bra underneath is interested in any exercise other than flexing a guy's wallet and doing some horizontal aerobics. But it's the principle of the thing. Don't be a gym slob, okay, Ms Bump-it 'do?

Generating an annoying amount of static electricity on the treadmill and repeatedly zapping myself. My hands knock against the side rails every few steps and ZAP! Clearly either I need grounding. (yes, I know a few of you have thought this for years already) Hmmn…Is there a lightning rod app? Or I should hook myself directly into the climate control and use the electricity to…oh, I don't know…turn it on? Dudes, it's June. Many, many large people come here and sweat. There is much use of the oxygen, large people breathe heavy and often when exerting ourselves. Smothering the clientele is counter-productive. Dead people never renew their memberships.

This is really an all the time and not just gym specific thing, but I am a slowly bubbling caldera of seething hatred for people who don't use their turn signals. I notice this especially going to and from the gym because the drive is rote and I have more attention to give to the inept and annoying behavior of my fellow travelers. I totally understand commuter rage now. But you can't let it get to you. Freeway shooting? Really dumb idea. Again, hello? Dead people? Guess what? They don't go to the gym and they don't DRIVE either. Nothing is solved by killing the guy ahead of you.

Misc. Grumps:

I wish the doggie salon I take Princess to was more butch. I stopped there on my way home to make an appointment and it's this twee Grandma house with Nile green clapboard and flamingo pink trim. The name of this place is so pukey precious I can't come up with a nom de internet for it that's more obnoxious. Then once in through the floral-wreathed front door, the tiny waiting area is floor to ceiling peg board loaded down with the grossest display of sparkly collars, bedazzled doggie shirts, and squeaky toys shaped like shoes and humongus diamond rings. One wall is nothing but puppy purses. Despite the dopey name, Princess is a dog. She is not a child stand-in or a midlife crisis accessory. Well, maybe a little bit of child stand-in, she's the kid Mick and I were too old to have together. In any case taking my dog to this palace of canine excess and extreme frou-frou is guilt-making. It also gives me a bad case of the Zsa-Zsa Gabors. I wish there was another place as conveniently close-by. A more gender neutral and utilitarian place. Supercuts For Dogs. I'd be okay with that.

Mick's been felled by some nasty intestinal thing. Food poisoning, probably. Or just a harsh reaction to entirely too much strawberry-rhubarb pie. Whatever. He's miserable, poor dear. One up thing, he's being a much better patient than he used to be. Far less drama king and much more cooperation with treatment. Mama don't do noble suffering. Not if you refuse proper food and medication but retain the right to moan and cry and demand I sympathize 80 times a day. Nossir. It's insulting to my momsy-nursing skill. And it's ridiculous because nobody here is wowed by your moral strength in refusing an Advil and a lozenge. Honks me off is what it does. Drink the damn tea, swallow the pills, rest when I tell you and eat what I give you and then you get the honey-lips wife. I don't put up with that uncooperative nonsense from my kids, no way is Mick allowed to pull that crap.

Yes, I'm bossy. This is news?

I'll close with a quote from Ben Franklin's hilariously sexist yet absurdly near the mark 'Old Mistresses Apologue'...

'Because when Women cease to be handsome, they study to be good. To maintain their Influence over Men, they supply the Diminution of Beauty by an Augmentation of Utility. They learn to do a 1000 Services small and great, and are the most tender and useful of all Friends when you are sick. Thus they continue amiable. And hence there is hardly such a thing to be found as an old Woman who is not a good Woman.'

A good woman, sure, but there are limits.

Heading into the weekend with an uncommunicative son, an unwell husband, and an unkempt dog. ~LA

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