WHAAAAT????????
Mood:  incredulous
Now Playing: "Guilty", Gravity Kills
WHAT THE FUCK.
Weighed myself today, and I couldn't believe my fucking eyes. The last time I was hefted onto a scale I weighed in at 182, which was what I pretty much expected. TOday, hefted again into the sling, I gawped at the fact that I now cash in at 192. HOW THE FUCK DOES THAT WORK?
For the last two weeks I've been doing NOTHING but work out on that confounded Gazelle thing and take my pills. The appetite suppressant/metabolic enhancer has KILLED my food intake to an apple and a cup of coffee for breakfast, a tomato with bleu cheese for lunch, and MAYBE a small bowl of whatever for dinner. I pee constantly, good god above I SHIT twice a day, how the FUCK could I weigh ten pounds more than what I did in FEBRUARY??
This prompted a SERIOUS depression attack, and the hub-unit had to stay home from work for an hour trying to console me while I tried to beat him off with a stick becuase I didn't want to be touched. I'm surprised I didn't leave greasy fat-marks on his shirt. GRRRRR...
HIS reasoning:
How do I know that I haven't gained a lot of weight before I started working out, and how do I know that I also haven't LOST any, since I abhor scales? How do I know that I'm not just packing on muscle that will eventually kick my metabolism up a HUGE notch and then I'll just drop it all in a blink?
MY reasoning:
I AM A FAT COW THAT DOES NOTHING.
HIS statement on the situation:
I love you no matter what, and the working out must be doing something because the last time we had sex I was Super Stamina Girl.
JOY.
MY statement on the situation:
DON'T FUCKING TOUCH ME AGAIN OR I'LL POKE YOU WITH A SHARP STICK.
Can you tell I'm having a bad day? Shit...
And then, to make matters weirder,my mom drops all this crazy business about how I should have had a D&C after my miscarriage just to make sure everything came out. SHe says this because her rights to grandchildren fall solely to ME, because my little sister is a fucking jet-setting flake. I tried to explain that they just don't DO the scrape when you've only been pregnant for two and a half months, which prompted her to fly into a "I told you so" speech about sleeping around and putting the hub-unit under pressure to raise another man's baby. Hate to break it to her, but she's only half right. Yeah, it was another guy's baby (Christ, I was s slut), but me? A mom at 24? Her ass hurts. Things just got a little twisted.
But enough of that mess, I'm bitching about having a fat ass.
And I'm done bitching.

How Sexy is the Man in Uniform?
Mood:  chillin'
Now Playing: Splinter Cell Theme Music (GAWD I hate that game...)
First of all, a HUGE Whoot Whoot to Chinq, proprietress of the Nut House, for leasing a unit on the far side of the complex after several posts! I never knew we even HAD lakeside views...
The hub-unit had a Change of Command today, so he had to come home and change into his whites for the occasion, and for a moment there I was taken aback. I'd forgotten how downright sexy those sailors could look in the right uniform. I wanted to jump on his yumminess right when he got home, but I couldn't because I was violated during my pap smear today. Fucking GYN's...
I actually asked Doc Shmuckatelli (known from heretofore as-) about the nasty silly-putty pinkypurple goop that occurred with that NASTY yeast infection thing earlier this month, and he gave me a blank look. All I got was "well, you don't have any infection now", and "purple is not really a color I like to connect with the vaginal area". Connect THIS, assmonkey. I want a new doctor.
I hate going to doctors. I would rather DIE than go to see a doctor. When I had my miscarriage last year (something I'll have to probably get into later), the hub-unit literally had to FORCE me to call and make an appointment to get checked out. This was more complicated than it sounds, because the unit was actually in Japan during said appointment. Later about all that mess. I especially hate going to see the cootch doctor and getting a spread and scrape because I have issues with people taking liberties as such (once again, complicated...). I'm going to have so much fun if I get preggers.
Oh yeah, it's fucking HOT again. After about a week of decent temps around here it's cranking up to a weekend in the 90's here. This is WASHINGTON, people, it doesn't DO high 90's here. It doesn't do high 70's for that matter. I'm gonna die in the heat. I can feel my fat rolls already starting to sweat.
As for the "fat No Longer" plan:
It's been almost two weeks, and no change in my weight. I'm barely eating because of these pills, and I've gotta go careful on the damn machine because I keep breaking myself, but COME ON....
I'm starting to get impatient. I've got 40 pounds to drop by November, and I'm into instant gratification.
BAH.

Must...Stop...Posting....
Mood:  caffeinated
Now Playing: "Ain't It Funny", JLo(bleah)
I should really run amuckon the net BEFORE I post this ridiculousness every morning...
Funniest site EVER: Amalah's fantasticness. I laughed so hard I had coffee shooting out of my nose. I could never even aspire to her greatness. It was there that I found the uber-creepy site by Kirk Cameron, of all fucking people. Nothing against Christians or anything, but whoo BOY is that kinda strange...
I take it back. Some Christians spook me.
Like Kirk Cameron.

The 90's Revisited
Mood:  spacey
Now Playing: "Black Betty", Ram Jam
So someone posted about the 90's. I guess this means that I have to say something about my most embarrassing moments...
I was in junior high during the earlier 90's, and in high school the latter decade, and I SUCKED in high school. I spent so much time trying to find myself in other people that I ignored my education and tried to fit in, thereby creating my worst 90's moment... FASHION.
I wore the eight pairs of scrunchy socks with the snap-crotch bodysuits and the pegged jeans, hair in a tail on top of my head and bangs out to THERE. I wore the pink and black-checkered bike shorts with an oversized t-shirt with a corner tucked into one of those ridiculous plastic things that made it only LOOK like I'd tied it up. I wore my clothes backward when Kriss Kross was cool (couldn't sit down to save my life), I wore the multi-colored Cross Colors outfits with the silver baby pacifier necklace, I wore bell-bottomed pants with up-to-there platform shoes and a crocheted vest. The bells lasted a day, because some jackhole called me a stinking hippie. Funny, how I now live in Kurtas and dashikis with patchwork pants and thriftstore finds.
I wore the short shorts with the little rufflies on the bottom with a matching shirt and Blossom hat (you KNOW what I'm talking about), I affected a bowler hat and spectacles to look studious...
You fucking name it, I did it. If only my mother hadn't enabled my co-tour (lol) victimization with her credit card, I would've been better off.
So there you have it, kiddies. My worst memories of the 1990's is clothing.
But lord, don't get me started on the music...

Dear God, You Did WHAT?!?!
Mood:  bright
Now Playing: "Time and Time Again", Papa Roach
NOTHING happened this weekend. It was a payday weekend, which meant a frantic shopping spree at the social hub of the city (read, Wal-Mart), followed by grocery procuring and house cleaning. SO boring. I did my usual scan of the WWW to keep up on the torrid affairs of the rich and inane, and came up with only a few tidbits:
Michael Jackson denies having quadruplets with an unidentified woman via artificial insemination. BLEAH.
The new movie "The Grudge", starring the buffylicious Sarah Michelle Gellar, seems to be a rip off of the ring, all the way down to the creepy little girl with black hair crawling around with her hair in her face. We need more original ideas Here's one (Hollywood, feel free to rip me off):
In the farther future (cliche), we have once again slipped into a hard-core patriarchal society. Women can't have jobs, they can vote only in things that concern them, i.e. higher taxes on foods that are imported, etc. The government is working smoothly with no chicks (Condi Rice, sorry), but there is a slight faction of women who had resorted to rebellion. I'm talking rock-hard bitches that spit in the face of male authority, that live on a decommissioned group of aircraft carriers off the coast of California, dubbed Themiscryia...
Being an almost self-sufficient society, the US government has left them alone, only intervening when the women pirate around the coast in search of their own...only doing what they need to survive away from the craziness of the world around them...until now.
And NO, they're not lesbians, you dirty birds.
So something happens (slightly vague on the area, any suggestions?), and the US maleness needs the help of the autonomous society of Themiscyria, who until now have been the bane of the country. I'm thinking about some great clandestine meetings in the darkness of a hangar bay... a leader more like a mob boss than a queen...some ridiculous threat that men can't handle because they're dopes.
I don't know. It's a work in progress, I haven't worked all the kinks out yet. I just have this...image.
Sometimes, I hate being a writer. Things just sit in my head, half-baked and crumbling, until the right moment.
But when, at my ridiculous age, is the right moment?
I have two books finished, sitting on my shelf, that the hub-unit was gracious enough to have special printed and bound for me like an actual novel. Maybe I'll do something about it after I'm dead.

I Take It All Back
Mood:  quizzical
Now Playing: "Interstate Love Song", STP
Okay, I take it all back. Today's not SO boring, but I will say that my interest has been piqued. It's all about this Rance dude everyone's been talking about.
He seems very bored, that's all. Some people have a gift for writing, some don't. I do, or so I've been told, I just don't exhibit it here on this blog. I'd rather work on my Chronicles and hide them away so no one can read them, because I crumble under 'constructive criticism'. It's my shit, I'll let my fan base read them when I'm damn good and ready, ie; dead.
But as for Rance, who cares? I've noticed the guy gets like 73 replies to his posts. He's well-spoken, I'll give him that, and I've read the articles about who he may be, but should we care? Isn't the good thing about blogging the anonymity?
I don't know, I'm starting to ramble away from the thought that originally sparked the entry.
Oh yeah....
I just don't see the reason for his popularity. I mean, he's entertaining, but I could give a rat's bumcheek about who he is. I may love pointing out the faults of the rich and ucka-famous, but to spend hours a day trying to discern the identity of a guy who says he's a Person of Infamy? Bah.
Entertainment, that's all. But if any of you can give me a few reasons about Rance's poop-ularity, I'd love to hear them.
Maybe I'm just not reading into it closely enough.
And since I've been watching TWO HOURS of I Love the 90's every night this week, I have a question to ask of anyone who dares answer:
What 90's trend did you jump headfirst into and now despise yourself for doing so, and what was YOUR most memorable moment of the past decade?
I will reveal my most embarrassing 90's moment in a later post. I wanna see if anyone answers me first so I don't look like a dork.

Yet Again, A Slow Day on the Homefries.
Mood:  spacey
Now Playing: "Gepetto", Belly
This is me when I was skinny and red-haired. One of these days, I will be that gorgeous again, but for now I have to deal with being Big and Beautiful.
Not for long, dammit.
So I've been using the Gazelle for a week, without documenting my progress, and this is why:
I broke myself the first day. Seriously. BROKE.
See, I didn't read the whole part in the manual about discerning 'Good' pain, like fatigue, from 'bad' pain, which hurts. The last time I made an effort to work out daily I was in boot camp, and that was ALWAYS pain, thus the whole 'no pain, no gain' mentality. I am a colossal idiot.
This thing is small, and fairly non-threatening. There are five exercises you do, with different positioning and whatnot, and you're supposed to do twenty reps of each exercise ONCE when you're first starting out. ONCE. A SINGLE SET. That's not very much. However, I forgot that my chubby yet attractive ass hadn't seen the gym in a while, so I figured I'd do at least 20 minutes, maybe 30, or do at least a mile on the meter, or maybe burn 150 calories. The problem? These things all occur at different time periods, thus I was working out for EVER. I did at least Five sets of three-count reps (owwww), until I had hit 30 minutes, 150 calories burned, and one mile done on the meter. I was sweating profusely and grumpy for a cigarette.
As soon as I stepped off the damnable thing, my knee gave out.
I have bad knees, hence no e-trainer for me. Really bad knees. I can barely jog, let alone run. And as soon as I set foot on solid ground---
THUD.
So now I'm sitting here with a knee brace on one leg, and an ACE bandage on the other, smacking myself for going the overexertion route. Starting next monday, I'm doing fifteen minutes a day, and that's IT. Not paying attention to the calorie counter, ignoring the mile-o-meter, just fifteen minutes. I'll graduate when I'm not landing in a heap on the floor after each session. Fucking COLOSSAL idiot, did I mention?
Saw a crappy movie yesterday while doing the dishes called Hearts of Fire, starring some skeezy-looking chick named Fiona and and an even-skeezier-looking Bob Dylan. BOB DYLAN? It also had Rupert Everett in it, and I was very amused because he played a rock star, and he played a crappy rock star. I didn't get much of the plot, but at one point Bob lays the whammy on Rupert.
How sad is that? If I ever met Rupert Everett, Shakespearean hottie that he is, I'd have to snicker and say 'dude, you got slammed by Bob Dylan'. Even Rupert probably wouldn't remember what I was talking about, but that's okay.
The whole point of my private jokes is that they're private. If it's just me that gets them, at least ONE person got the punchline.

Mood:  caffeinated
Just for my own amusement, I would like to mention that there is inded a person named Bumble Ward out there. You heard me, BUMBLE WARD. She's a PR rep for Quentin Tarantino and Sofia Coppola, and if memory serves correctly, Tim Burton. The reason I find this amusing is because I have known this for quite some time. Kevin Smith brings this up in "An Evening With Kevin Smith", while discussing his semi-ridiculous feud with Tim Burton. I just thought this was funny because I can draw a parallel.
We finally got new neighbors downstairs. Not that I'm happy, it takes away from my morning s with the music blasting at 7 AM, but it's not that big a deal. They have a baby. ICK.
Not that I'm con baby or anything, lord knows I'm getting closer to that time when negotiations start with the hub-unit, but there's just something about other people's kids....
I'm fairly certain I have no worries about them trying to play good neighbor. No one in apartments ever tries to get to know their neighbors, at least in this town.

The Wubbulous World of...Well Shit, It's Just Me
Mood:  a-ok
My blog is not boring.
I am.
It's not that my life is, I am more than content with my situation. But reading about all the exciting things people get to do on an almost regular basis makes me wonder what the hell happened.
In my own defense, however, I have to take into consideration the fact that my life is just starting out, with many more miles to go and tons more bridges to cross. I've been married less than a year, we don't have kids yet. We're in a small apartment that we both love, and have no plans on moving. The hub-unit will retire in three years, so we're not even thinking about that yet. Nothing really brave and bold going on here.
I'm not even that smart. Well, let me retry that... I am not a genius commentator on the state of the world today. I avoid the news, I don't talk politics, and I'm not really into the shit that's going on. I know, I should be concerned with what's going on in Iraq blah blah blah... I don't care. I'm very NOT into the military thing. After four years of ridiculousness I want nothing to do with them. It's not that I'm anti-military, but I'm very not interested in what they have to say about their jobs. Bless the guys overseas, but hey, they signed up for it. We all make mistakes.
(Sorry Colonel)
Maybe I'm just bitter and jaded because not all my life experiences were sunshine and fucking lollipops. I would rather inundate myself with pop culture vie computer and tv than the fight in Iraq. That's my problem.
And I can't stand stupid people. My morals, as everyone in my VERY EXTREMELY small circle of friends (pop. 3) know, are fucked. However, people that just do some of the most retarded things I've ever heard of seem to FLOCK to me and damn near DEMAND to be my friend. I'm loud, obnoxious, and I hold nothing back. NOTHING. If you're one of those fucktards that think I'm just SO the shit, I will tell you that you are an idiot. For some reason, that endears them even more to me. This is why I don't leave the house.
And for those people that think I'm cool now and can't imagine me any other way, let me tell youse something: It took me four years, almost five, to get this way. And when I say this way, I mean intolerant of dumbasses. I REFUSE to take part in the damb-assedness other people do. I refuse. I spent my entire time in the public education system trying to fit in with some group, ANY group, and I blew my fucking education. I spent all my time so wrapped up in attempting a social life that I wasted all the time I could have spent with my geeky dorky friends who accepted me as is. This unfortunate complex of needing to fit in lasted all the way through high school and well into my first year in the navy. Guess what? After the retardation factor went up in the people I was hanging with, I gave up.
Why should I pretend, and waste all my time trying to hang with the popular people when it's so blatantly obvious they're fucking stupid? So, I put a stop to it, and here I am. No jackholes need apply.
I am happy with where I am, and with the people I have in my life. I suppose this makes me boring, but then again...
Do I really care that much?

The Search For The Perfect Sofa
Mood:  lazy
Now Playing: "Marianne", Tori Amos
No one wants their Grandma's Couch.
You know what I'm talking about. That floral-patterned, overstuffed monstrosity that may have been great to sit in or jump on at Nana's place, but you wouldn't want in your own living room. I should know, I have a Grandma's Couch. A big ugly unwieldy oatmeal colored recliner loveseat. Ucka.
It is, however, the last piece of bachelor furniture in the house, and the hub-unit and I are both loathe to get rid of it due to the memories it carries (good for him, blurry for me...). This weekend, however, we decided to go looking, just in case. We're a hip young (well, I am anyway) couple, we should have cool furniture. On this island, that means scrounging in the sale section of Oak Harbor Furniture just down the street from us.
We kind of wanted to check out the Todd Oldham collection from Lazboy, because he's very cool and the unit has a major crush on his snap sofa. We actually found an ENTIRE living room set for 2500, and that's fucking GREAT, if you consider that the sofa alone is 1100. It was a rug, two tables, two lamps, toybox ottoman, recliner, chair and matching ottoman, and the sofa. I wanted it, and I wanted it BAD. However, there are several reasons why this was complicated:
1. I have a husband I have to consult now;
2. I don't have a job, and must rely on reason #1's income;
3. It was green.
I kinda liked the green, but the unit was a little skeptical because that meant the we would have to buy matching curtains and spend even more money which we didn't have. Which lead to the most daunting of the complications:
4. Financing.
The hub-unit had bad credit and fixed it, but now he has no credit. It was hard enough getting a loan for our car, and now we were going to attempt to buy an entire living room? Can you say "limited credit balance"? We were SO denied. We were both kind of upset, but it also made us heave a huge sigh of relief at the same time because we'd have to pay at least 250 a month if we wanted to make the 12 months same as cash thing. And believe me, you don't want the 12 months of interest tacked on just when you're so close to finish making payments.
Time to take it to the Internet!
Some random obsos:
Watched a marathon of the Surreal Life yesterday on VH1 in a countdown to I Love the 90's last night. I was more amused by Vanilla Ice than anything. He was ranting and raving, and I mean in an ugly, self-righteous way, about how he didn't want to be associated with the whole "Vanilla Ice" thing anymore. He said he didn't want to be as the joke anymore, how he wanted to be taken seriously and some such nonsense and that the cheese factor on the show was getting too high.
Hate to break it to ya, Rob ol' buddy, but EVERYONE on the show is just that: cheese. Tammy Faye Messner, Erik Estrada, Traci-fucking-Bingham for god's sake, are all caricatures. They're all extreme has-been's who may have made their way after fame and fortune, but will never regain their mass stardom. They've all been mocked constantly, and they always will be no matter what they do. It will always be in the back of our minds, no matter what they do. Sorry dude, but SUCK IT UP.
And by the way, I HATED the 90's.