Last night, I made Gouda cheeseburgers with onion and tomato jam. I know! Who even am I? I also roasted sliced potatoes and dipped them in this sauce made from, among other things, sour cream and mayonnaise. Ima weigh 750 pounds.
But I’ve also been working out a lot. My trainer is moving this week and she’s all behind and overwhelmed so we can’t meet till Saturday, so I’ve whipped out my good friend, fmr., Tracy Anderson. It’s funny, I’d kind of forgotten but then immediately knew the stuff she was gonna say. Her instructions make no sense.
“Don’t just stop where you point your toe. There needs to be an energy behind it.”
“I don’t want anything to be dead. Use a lot of power, here, in this movement.”
This is similarly why I don’t like yoga videos. “Lift from your heart chakra and push your soul through your pelvis.”
Use words please. Words that make sense. You California twit.
Anyway I’ve been doing her, and also eating Gouda cheeseburgers, so in the end I will look exactly the same. But at least I made an hour go by in this, my year of being at home.
I have good news on the Fitz front: Today he came to the bowl when I fed them, and he let me pet him while he ate. Hissy’s fur is soft and full, and his is thin and brittle. I feel so bad for him. He just needs the love of a good woman. I can change him.
Anyway he even purred for a bit when I petted him. So I have faith and I’m pulling my chakras from my solar plexus.
Really, I love him so. I can’t stand it that he’s a scared kitten, and it’s so hard to not try to swoop him up and kiss his orange head and pet his fur till it gets soft. But if I tried that he would die of 15 heart attacks. So I keep doing what I’m doing, which is sitting in here all day and giving off an “I’m no threat” vibe.
Also, I’ve pulled that damn health-filled Hissy off the food a little. I hold her and pet her and she preens and smiles and waves to the crowd. I think she’s bogarting the food, man. Don’t be a bogart. God, junior high was a stupid time.
Did you smoke the gange in high school or junior high? I did, but just to seem cool [Disclaimer: She never seemed cool] and I never, to this day, liked the feeling of being high. My ex-best friend used to say I got dumb when I smoked it, and that she’d whip out old jokes and I’d give her the blank look.
Who wants to seem dumb and be out of it?
That said, I do enjoy the feeling of a Xanax. I have so many drugs here: opiates from my surgery, Ritalin and Adderall, Xanax from that Fall of Cancer anxiety that I had. And do I take any of them? No. They’re just sitting here gathering dust while I look at fireflies. I need to get with the program. I could get into dolls, man.
[Disclaimer: She still does not look cool.]
Who’s cool at 54? Anyone? I guess that one Iris lady, not my cat but that old lady with the giant glasses who has all the fun fashions. She’s cool. Anyone else?
Barack Obama is cool. In his 50s. You gotta give him credit for overcoming a name like Barack.
That’s all I can — oh, Clint Eastwood. He’s cool. He’s like 179.
Other than that we’re just old. And invisible. Which is a shame, cause if anyone saw me, they could have a Gouda cheeseburger.
P.S. Does anyone local have any old grocery bags? I am plumb out from cleaning litter boxes 400 times a day. Let me know and we’ll find a safe way to exchange, or alternatively we can cough on each other. Thanks.
P.P.S. Oh! I forgot to tell you! I ordered a meat thermometer after I cooked chicken the other night, ate almost all of it, then saw pink and prepared to die. Anyway it came and OHMYGOD, not only does it work easily, it has a built-in bottle opener AND…
a magnet so you can keep it on the fridge!
I need to get out more.