Would you accept the invitation?

I have been having a rough time lately…the usual kinds of challenges that we all face personally and professionally, but the challenges feel amplified by the holidays. I asked the Universe to give me a break, to cut me some slack please pleeeeeease.

I received an invitation out of the blue…an invitation to dance. I don’t dance! I am a mosh pit brawler, but I am not a dancer. I am clumsy. I felt embarrassed just reading the invitation, and I was thissssclose to sending my regrets that I couldn’t attend.

I paused, thinking this was such an unusual invitation. Had I ever in my life been invited to a dance outside of high school? I couldn’t remember ever receiving such an invitation. Maybe the Universe was trying to give me an opportunity to feel differently this holiday season by doing something different?

I deleted my regrets, and replied that I didn’t know how to do the dances, but that I would be willing to give it a go. I hit send before I could chicken out.

The venue was a stone manor built in the 1920’s. It looks like a castle. Inside there are large stone fireplaces, high ceilings, chandeliers, and a ballroom. I found myself standing in that ballroom, a Cinderella with two left feet, and I considered excusing myself under the guise of a restroom visit to run away before the festivities started. I talked myself into staying.

The waltz. I stepped on my partner’s feet. I laughed. I stepped on his feet some more and laughed a lot, some of it nervous and some of the laughter the glee of a kid with a new toy…and then for a few gorgeous minutes, I got it. I was waltzing, waltzing until I was dizzy!

The English country dances. I didn’t know any of the lingo when we started, but I soon caught on well enough to follow along for most of the dances. I wasn’t graceful or elegant, but I was delighted. I had a different partner for every dance, and every partner taught me something I didn’t know, every partner gracious and forgiving of my newbie status.

The hours passed in a flash. I haven’t laughed so much in a long time, and I haven’t been so challenged by trying some completely foreign in a long time.

Later in bed, I realized in all those hours under the chandeliers, I hadn’t given my troubles a single thought. My previously tight, tense shoulders were relaxed. The Universe had given me a break and cut me some slack, granting me a fabulous day that I would long remember.

Would you have accepted the invitation to the dance, or the equivalent, that popped up out of nowhere? I am glad I did.

Tale of a Sports Bra: An Overshare

Let me tell you a little story, a true story.

I decided to go to the gym today.  I’ve been on a little hiatus from the gym after a rough time with the same ol’ bone spurs in my lower back and hip.  I’ve had to break up with crossfit for a little while…sorry, crossfit, it’s not you; it’s me…while I test out some easier workouts.  Today was my first effort at a “normal” gym, as opposed to a “crossfit box.”

I pulled on my spandex pants.  Yay for spandex pants!  Look at how great my butt is in spandex pants! I realized today somehow every single pair of gym pants I own is cropped; how did that happen? Cropped pants were not a good choice for today, but I was not going to be stopped by overly short spandex.

Sports bra time.  I really prefer the sports bras that zip up the front and put everything on lockdown, but I don’t have one that doesn’t sneak itself unzipped mid-workout right now, so I had to go with the backup bra.

I dislike sports bras that pull over my head.  It’s not the pulling them on that gets problematic; it’s the trying to pull a soaking wet bra off post workout that gets a little tricky.  They stick and become unwieldy…and then boom, you’ve smacked yourself in the face with the sweaty thing.  Bleh.

The backup bra is kind of a hybrid deal…pulls on over my head, but does have hooks in the back so it’s not a total Houdini act to remove it after going to the gym.  Not my favorite, but it will have to do, because no excuses: it’s gym day.

Pull it on over my head, and I go to hook the back…and it won’t hook.  I try several times and then the panic kicks in:
Oh hell, have I gained 800 pounds since I stopped crossfit?

I must’ve gained 800 pounds.

I start bargaining with myself and the sports bra as I try to fasten it:
If I can get this thing on, I will do double the workout I’d planned for today.

If I can get this bleeping bra hooked, I will consume only water, air, and celery for the next 2 weeks.

If I can just get dressed and go to the gym, I will never leave the gym since they are open 24 hours…I’ll just stay there until this bra fits better.

The wrestling continued for a few more minutes, so then I dragged the scale out to see what the damage was.  I closed my eyes while the digital scale calculated the big reveal…and then the number popped up.  It’s the same it was, same as it has been…I’m still a delicate flower.  WHAT THE HELL?

If I can’t put on a sports bra, I can’t be trusted at a gym.

If I can’t put on a sports bra, how can I drive a car?

I took a break from the sports bra and put on my socks and shoes, pleased that I could still operate the laces. Pants and shoes: more than halfway there.  Let’s try this one more time.

GAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH! It will not fasten.  I can’t do this.  Throw the cursed thing on the bathroom floor and glare at it…and I realize…I had it inside out.


Problem solved.

Please ignore all my pleas and sworn oaths related to celery; I was under duress.

a true story

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Last night, a friend and I went to soak in a hot tub at a local spa retreat.  Clear night, soaking under the stars, talking about everything, watching the steam rise into the night sky.  Awesome.

Afterward, I was waiting in the lobby to check out while my friend was changing into street clothes.  I was sniffing all the incense and perfumes and found one that smelled fantastic.  I was holding the bottle in my right hand and dabbing the fragrance on my left wrist while the cashier was ringing up a couple for their services.  The cashier called over to me that she loves that fragrance, and I agreed that it was so delightful (and, umm, slightly outside my price range)…the man in the couple walks over to me and says, “May I smell?” I think he wants the bottle of fragrance, so I as I turn to hand it to him, he grabs my left wrist and pulls it to his face and inhales close enough to my skin that I can feel his facial hair.  OMFG!!!!

In full earshot of his woman friend and the cashier, he says, “And now may I lick you?”

I looked appropriately horrified as I said, “Errr no, no.  Reserved for people I am on a first name basis with.”

His woman friend, now finished with her transaction, laughs, then she tells me his name as they turn to head out the door.

The door closes, and I’m still standing there, mouth open, bottle of perfume in my hand.

The cashier says, “Did that really just happen?”

I nod.  “Yeah, it really did.”

Hey, Pretty Lady

I buy a season pass for Splash Country specifically to float around the lazy river every year.  SPF 800 million, baseball hat, sunglasses and I’m ready to float around and around and around and around at every opportunity I get in the summer months.

Often, the lazy river is full of people of all ages, laughing and splashing.  I don’t care.  I totally check out and stare up at the clouds and the trees and just float.  Saturday was pretty typically crowded, so I was just doing my thing.

“Hey, pretty lady.”

I heard it the first time, but I wasn’t paying him any attention because I didn’t know anyone else in the lazy river.

“Hey, pretty lady.”

Just watching clouds.  Even snagged a second tube just to rest my feet on.

“Pretty lady, I’m going to splash you!”

And splash! Water all over my arm, so I look in the direction of the splasher.

There’s a tattooed guy, younger than me but not by much if I had to guess, grinning at me.  He’s got a tube over his middle, but he isn’t floating with the current, he’s walking along.

“Pretty lady, I was talking to you.  Didn’t you know you were the pretty lady?”

I shook my head.

“Oh, you don’t want to be bothered, do you?”

Shook my head again.

“Well, seemed to me you needed to be told you’re beautiful today.  Don’t get a sunburn out here.  Bye, pretty lady!” And off he went, walking into the crowd of floaters ahead of me in the lazy river.


But nice.

Kind of creepy.

But still nice.



I’ve been drinking coffee for nearly two months now.  I am still concerned that it will stunt my growth, as I have aspirations of being six feet tall.  There is no need to point out that I am forty and probably won’t get any taller; it’s important to have aspirations!

As I clutch a warm mug in one hand this cold morning, I have decided that I don’t like coffee as much as I like warm creamer.  I found a creamer brand that’s got only ingredients I recognize on the label, no chemical junk, and I am really fond of the chocolate.  And the vanilla.  Oooooooooo and the cinnamon-y one that I got this week.   I pour enough in to the coffee to make the coffee no longer the color of yucky coffee and it’s a yumfest.

It would be undignified to just drink creamer…and it needs to be warm…and if I just warm up the creamer it might get kinda scorchy and gross…so I’ll keep pouring cups of coffee under the socially acceptable ruse that I like it, when really I just want a warm cup of creamer with some caffeine.

Dear “I Love Sluts:”

Dear I Love Sluts:

I’m not calling you names.  I’m not defaming you.  I am only calling you by the badge that you display so prominently on the front of your car, Ms. “I Love Sluts”…your car that was using the exit of a one way only private parking lot as an entrance.  Cmon, think hard: driving the wrong way into a parking lot that is not public, blocking my exit as I proceeded in the correct law abiding direction from a lot where I actually have permission to park.

Hey, if you love sluts, good for you! I’m sure sluts, just like baby seals and those weird hairless cats, need love and bumper stickers.  I am glad you are bravely leading the rallying cry to stand up for sluts everywhere you drive.  You educate those that would think sluts unworthy when your sticker ever so proudly proclaims daily, monthly and yearly that you love sluts…so maybe the anti-slut regime will see that bold sticker, pause and reflect and think “hey, she’s right; sluts do need love!”

I think your support of sluts is admirable…but I think your head is all up in the slut love committee and not on the roadways!  You were blocking my way.  You were going the wrong way.  You were in a private parking lot that I, wonder of wonders, am in charge of towing ne’er-do-wells out of five days a week. 

Vrooming your car closer to mine and waving wildly doesn’t make you a better advocate for the sluts you love; no, it only weakens your cause.  People who love sluts should also love parking meters or parking decks when they are perusing parking spots during business hours…people who love sluts should value driving their horseless carriages in the right direction at all times.  Be the example, Ms. I Love Sluts! Lead your fellow slut-lovers to glory by obeying traffic laws and posted “no trespassing, towing enforced” signage!

With sincere admiration for you and the sluts you love,

I Love Pirates, Jack Skellington and S’mores



Further poonanny thoughts…

If you use your poonanny too much, it will fall out–Chiquita and I decided that earlier this week.  After much thought on my behalf, I also determined that if you don’t use it at all, it will dry up, turn to dust and blow away.  “Oh wow, it’s been a really bad pollen season, look at the coating of dust on everything!”  Noooooooooooooooo, it’s been a really bad frigid bitch season; that’s the residue from dried up poonannies!

Use it or lose it, but don’t dare abuse it!

The things we come up with…

Chiquita and I have been friends a longass time now, to the point that sometimes our conversations make no sense at all…but this evening, our conversation took a deep, meaningful turn, like a public service announcement or an ABC Afterschool Special starring Scott Baio and Kristy McNichol.  Here’s what Chiquita and I need you to know:

Ladies, be good to your poonanny.  If you abuse your poonanny by behaving like a trollop, jezebel and/or common roadwhore, your poonanny will just fall out.  One day, I’ll be driving down the road, and Chiquita will point out the smushed shape on the asphalt and say, Ooooo poor possum.  I’ll have to shake my head and say No, Chiquita, I’m afraid that’s no possum.  That’s Lolita’s poonanny.  It fell out.  I tried to warn her, but she wouldn’t listen, and her poonanny up and fell out her drawers.  What a sad day that would be, ladies!  So please, treat yourself and your poonanny with respect, and try to avoid behaviors that would land you on Maury or Jerry Springer as a repeat guest.  We, and your poonanny, thank you.

fresh breath crisis?

I was at Sam’s filling up the KatMobile for a road trip.  The guy on the other side of the pump was going through his Jeep at breakneck speed, looking for something, looking, looking…I heard a cuss word or two as he kept searching.

Finally, I hear a cleared throat and a “Hi, excuse me, do you have any gum?”

“Gum?” I ask, obviously perplexed, raising an eyebrow at Jeep Guy.  I’ve been approached for money, food and lots of other entertaining things while pumping gas, but this was a first.  “Is it a gum emergency?”

“Yes, it is,” he replied. “Is this your first time in a gum emergency?”

I said it was, and grabbed the minty fresh gum from the cup holder in my car.  I extended the whole pack, thinking he might need the whole thing to MacGyver together some sort of world-saving device, but no, he just took one piece and thanked me profusely before zooming away in his Jeep.

So now I’m left to wonder what sort of fresh breath crisis lends itself to asking a stranger at a gas pump for gum?  Hot date? Job interview?  Sipping vodka on your lunch break?  Sneaking out and eating a double Whopper then going home to your vegan wife who thinks you’re vegan, too?  I’m so curious!  At any rate, whoever you are, Jeep Guy, I hope all was well once your gum emergency was thwarted.

Paintball Badassery

Yesterday, my dad (Dad the Bounty Hunter) and my coworkers found ourselves at Wolverine Paintball battling it out with a rival business.  If you’ve never played paintball before, go!  It’s hilarious and stress-relieving and exercise all at once.  I must give a shoutout to Anthony (funny and patient with the newbies!), John and all the staff at Wolverine for being super friendly and really helpful to everyone in our group.

We played on two different courses: the woods and speedball.  In the woods, it’s an army-style battle, hiding in the brush, scampering from tree to tree in hopes of sniping a member of the enemy team before they get you!  Dressed in camo, I belly crawled, hid in the brush, dove behind trees and shot the hell out of the other team and got the snot shot out of me as well.  Laying in wait in the woods gets to be pretty scary—with your protective face mask on, the sound of your own breath is amplified, and your peripheral vision is limited, so hunkering down in the weeds, waiting for the enemy to pass by, my heart was racing and I was sweating and paranoid that they’d sneak up on me from behind and shoot me in the back…in other words, it was freakin’ awesome!!

The speedball course is where I got all my bruises.  I considered posting photos of the bruises here, but they have all morphed into such giant purple hideousness that I don’t want to gross you out online (but I’ll be happy to show you in person!).  The speedball field has obstacles but is clear of trees and brush, so basically, you know where your enemy is, it’s just a matter of shooting them before they shoot you as you move from obstacle to obstacle.  Where the woods course involves patience, the speedball course involves a mad rush of adrenaline as the paint goes flying every which way!

Everyone had a tremendously good time…how could you not?  You get to run around and play army or A-Team or whatever like you did when you were a kid, you get to blast people with paint and you laugh and yelp and forget about every stupid thing that was stressing you out before you got there.

My birthday is coming up, and I have to say I am truly torn between going roller skating and playing paintball…can I do both?????

(go see the gang at Wolverine and raise hell!)