What say.

I joined a gym the Sunday.

Went for my **~Training Session~** on Monday. Of course it was, pretty much what you’d expect… Humiliating as all hell. I got there at one o’clock as instructed. The trainer, who I’ll refer to as THOR, wasn’t there.

I waited.

…and waited.

THOR showed up at 1:20pm. It went downhill from that point…

THOR: Dude.

Me: You’re late.

THOR: But bro, Yer ‘pointment whut’n ’til one fif-teen.

Me: Oh sorry. That makes you, um… late.

THOR: Man! Dude. Sorry.

Me: It’s cool.

k. I’m THOR.

Me: Hey THOR. I’m Mark.

THOR: What say we get you weighed in?

Me: What say. (then I get on the scales).

THOR: You don’t LOOK like you’d weigh that much.

Me: Hmmm… I guess I oughta join a gym or something. What Say.

THOR: HAHAHAHA that’s a good one mr. Mark.

Me: [thinking] Screw ya THOR.

Then we retreat to THOR’s office.

THOR: Blah, Blah, Blah, Gloots, Blah, Blah, Blah, Body Mazz, Blah, Blah, Blah, Lean Muscle, Blah, Blah, Blah….

Me: [thinking] Fuck. I haven’t weighed this much since Leslie and I played piggy back. Their scales have GOT to be wrong. It’s must be set to IQ instead of LBS.

THOR: Blah, Blah, Blah, …your goals?

Me: [not thinking] Huh? Oh. Yeah. Goals? Yeah. I’ve got goals… I’ve got goals all over the place. Matter of fact, I’m one goal-oriented mother… I’ve gotta goal to get back to my superhero weight of 180. I want to be healthy. I want to feel good again. I’d like to be lean, not worried too much about bulking up. Matter of fact I’d like not to worry– you know stress less. I’d like to move. I want a better relationship with my kid, the MeenAger, at least for the next two years until she goes to college. I want to pull out of this brain-searing depression. I want to feel creative again. I want to be a better conversationalist. I’d like to pay off some credit cards. I want to get some new tennis shoes. I’d like to have sex, or at least a sex like activity with my wife. I’d like to lose about four pounds of face. Regrow hair. And last but not least, I’d like to NOT kill another Personal Fitness Trainer.

Yeah, I’d say I’ve got goals.

THOR: [mouth open, stunned.] ~blink. ~blink.

THOR: HAHAHAHA you’re too funny mr. Mark.

THOR: What say we ge’cha started with a good warmup.

Me: good? What say.

Then THOR proceeds to add a pain component to the humiliation.

Halfway through the **lower body** workout, as I’m biting my lower lip trying to hold back the tears…

THOR: Burnin’? You feelin’ the burn yet? Give me four more. Three. Two. And…

Me: Ut. Ooob. Eeeem. Leeb.

Me: [holding back the tears, seriously] Wait…. Wait…. Wait a second…

Now! Just now, you just managed to push me past the threshold. Congratulations, you just triggered a killer Vicodin habit in me.

THOR: HAHAHAHA you’re just too funny mr. Mark. Toooo funny. What say we get you started on the [toe push] machine, it’ll help your definition.

Me: What say.

Damn, those pesky man nipples.

Yesterday was that sort of day. The weather was warm, but not too warm. Kaly was at the lake with a few friends.

Leslie and I were home alone, left to our own devices (cue the porn music) which included: waking up late, eating healthy cereal, working in the yard and of course washing the dogs. All of which is strong evidence that we’re lapsing getting sucked into middle age.

Washing the dogs is (of course) MY JOB. I’m not quite sure why or how I got chosen for this “bonding” experience.

So I’m in the shower (yes the shower) with Holy. I’ve lathered her up and I’m holding onto her, upside down, as I’m trying to rinse her off.

A bit of backstory…
Holy, (also known as: Holestein, Hubba, Ho!, Bodeenah, Hubb-D and Butch) is a loyal yet stupid dog. She’s sweet in a sort of mentally deficient way.

She is the bastard offspring of a previous pet of ours for whom we didn’t think it necessary to have spayed, and some ratty-assed, chow-mix stray hound who immediately after shooting his wad saw me and then saw Jesus. Eh, I was too late.

A few months later we had a herd of puppies, all brown and white and cuddly except for the odd, black and white retard– Holestein.

Of course Kaly bonded with yon Hubbuh (also known as HeeBuh, HoBeast, Hubbahubbah and Veronica).

If it were not for Kaly pitching an all out hissie-fit way back when when it came to ridding ourselves of that hunk of protein, I’d have one less dog to bathe, one less mouth to feed.

but anyway…

Yeah so I’m in the shower trying to hold onto the The Hub de Duh. She’s lathered up, slick as snot, and I’m holding her on her back while trying to direct the water spray onto her belly/underside in order to rinse the 14 ounces of Mint smelling Head and Shoulders oversquirt off the beast.

Soon as a drop of water got remotely close to her nose she freaked as if she had just snorted a line of fiery death.

I’m trying to hang on for dear life as her arms are flailing, her paws spinning and her sharp black, gothic, stilleto-like claws start whirring around.


At some [painful] point during all this her back claw manages to snag my right nipple.

I thought she’d ripped it clean off, but instead I think she just sprained it. Either way it hurt like hell.

Still does.

I’m writing this to try and help explain myself to Les and Kaly. They saw me rubbing my nipple tonight, and… well… it just didn’t look right.

I swear it was the dog!

She’s such a cow.

Looking through Kaly’s pictures this morning…

Leslie: “…she’s not that tall, that other girl is only 4′ 10″. ”

Leslie: “This is Becky Smith.”

Leslie: “She kinda beats to her own drum.”

Leslie: “She’s very emoo-ish.”

Me: “I think you mean ‘EMO-ish’.”

Leslie: “I really don’t know what Emoo means anyway.”

Me: “Emo?”

Leslie: “um yeah… Emo.”

Morning Dance

I woke up to Bigg licking my forehead, my cheeks, my nostrils.

I got out of bed, put on a pair of jeans, and carried him downstairs. He hasn’t quite got the concept of stairs down pat just yet, so I carried him like someone would carry a three year old child– in my arms, his arms and paws wrapped around my neck. his head on my shoulder.

He’s getting really big.

So we’re out in the front yard. Me in my jeans, bed hair and no shirt (it’s a warm and muggy morning). Lewis with his nose to the ground fast at work finding just the right poop spot.

He walks us over to the side yard.

He walks us to the backyard.

He walked me into a spiderweb.

Arms flailing, I go into the “there’s a spiderweb on me” convulsion dance.

I don’t think anyone saw me.

Except for Bigg.

He thought it was the greatest thing in the world.

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