Posts Tagged ‘mindless musings’

Have you ever entertained yourself by blogging in your head while doing a mundane task? Then find when you get the chance to actually sit down and write, the urge has passed, the moment spent? That happens to me a lot.

Somewhere in the confines of my brain, scattered among the silver dust and copper particles, live the most fabulous blog posts. Hidden from the world by just a fleeting moment, my brain keeps them all to itself.

Selfish pig.

I went to the gym this evening. Oh yes, I forgot to tell you. I joined the gym. There. Now you know.

I had just sat down on the machine that exercises your quads. I can’t think of what it’s called, but it’s a torturer of a machine that makes you raise this padded thing while your your legs start burning like a son of a gun.

I was adjusting the weight (cause it doesn’t take much to make my wimpy quads burn like a son of a gun), and while doing so, I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned and saw a blond, older man completely drenched in sweat. I mean he was covered in sweat beads from head to toe. He started talking to me. Only, it was more like mumbling to my ears because I could hardly understand anything he was saying. He had a very heavy accent, Russian or Romanian or something. I caught a little bit of it.  “… don’t have…” “… size machine here…?” At first, I thought he was trying to ask me if they had some kind of machine here. So I politely smiled and shrugged.

It was then that I think he realized he startled me because he said something like “Sorry…  big mouth!”  and pointed to his face.

As he started to walk away, he said, “you’re petite!”

Then it clicked. He was saying something along the lines of they don’t have smaller machines here. Cause I’m petite. Hardy har har.

Okay, Mr Foreign Sweaty Big Mouth. The adult sized torture machines work just great, thank-you. They still make my legs burn like a son of a gun. Though I can’t say they drench me in sweat. Thank goodness for that. Women don’t sweat, you know. They glisten. Or something.

That is all.

I like to buy things for our little furry monsters. I can’t help it, really. They’re the only children we have! I’m quite certain if we ever have real ones, they’ll be spoiled rotten.

A few months ago, I bought some cheap new toys for the fur girls. They used to go through about one a week, but aren’t quite so destructive anymore. Thankfully they take a month or two to dismember most of their chewies these days. I have this bad habit of buying things and then leaving them in the shopping bags on the floor for days, until I get around to remembering to put them away. The new doggie toys were no exception. I shoved the bags into the office and forgot about them.

Around this time, I decided to test leaving the dogs out while I ran errands. Trixie is trustworthy. Molly… not so much. Despite our best efforts, she still likes to think of our office rug as her personal potty from time to time. But she had been doing well lately, so I figured it was worth a shot.

I must admit, I was a little nervous to walk in the door when I returned home. One of them alone is not bad, but the two of them together could probably tear the house apart, small though they are. I put my key in the door and heard:

*sniff, sniff, sniff… snort. Sniff, sniff, sniff… snort.*

That’s Molly. She tries to inhale the door whenever we come home.

I took a deep breath and prepared myself for the worst. Torn up toilet paper? Garbage strewn about? Urine soaked furniture? Shredded socks? What horrors of doggie life were awaiting me on the other side of that *sniff, sniff, sniff… snort*??

I slowly walked in. Hmm. Everything seems to be in order. No foul smells. Okay, perhaps Miss Snort behaved herself.

It wasn’t until I let them out to potty and watched her as she ran back inside that I found it. Evidence that Miss Molly didn’t quite resist all of her deeply entrenched canine urges. Oh no. She had been in the office and had found what was rightfully hers. I wouldn’t have ever known had she been smart enough to rid her face of the evidence.

I of course followed the sticker’s instructions. You can’t help but love this cute little monster.

Good golly, Miss Molly. You sure can make me laugh.

As I was looking at the new bust I bought to model necklaces in photographs, I realized that it is completely fake. Not just fake as in: well, duh, it’s plastic. But fake as in: no real woman’s boobs are that perky!

Then I wondered to myself… if all mannequins had saggy boobs, love  handles, and cellulite, would anyone ever buy anything?

Then I put a shirt on her because she was disturbing me.

That is all.

Gravatar… sounds kind of ominous, doesn’t it?

It reminds me of The Gravitron. You remember… that nausea-inducing amusement park ride that spins you around so fast you defy gravity. I only rode it once. I almost threw up. That was enough to keep me off of it for the rest of my life. It didn’t, however, keep me from hearing rumors that if you spit while the ride is going, your spit will land on the person across from you. Can’t say I tried that. Can’t say I’m disappointed.

Gravatar won’t make you vomit or inhale someone’s spit. And if it does, well, that’s really not its fault, you know? That must be a personal problem you should work on. Either way, you should sign up for it. When you do, you’ll have a pretty little avatar instead of a generic blue box next to your comments on not only my blog but all other blogs that have Gravatar enabled. And that’s a lot of blogs, yo.

Check it out. Just please don’t puke. I don’t do puke. Lexapro isn’t that good.

The hair got a makeover today. As you will discover, the hair has multiple personalities.

This is the hair at the salon, patiently and studiously awaiting its turn to be chopped. (Don’t ask why there’s a weird hair thing on the top of the head. It has no idea.)

This is the hair at the salon, patiently and crazily awaiting its turn to be chopped.

This is the hair post makeover. I told you it has many sides. It has a left side…

A back side…

And even a right side.

This is the hair not amused.

This is the hair slightly amused. Or diabolically evil. It’s hard to tell, really.

The hair thinks Dustin is funny.

Ultimately, the hair is happy with its makeover.
I think.
It’s Irish and kind of moody, so you can never really be sure.

Next time, I think the hair will have an adventurous side. With multiple colors. Stay tuned…

You know that woman you see walking down the road to the mailbox, wearing mismatched (though modest) pajamas?

Yeah. That’s me.

That is all.

As quoted by stellaloella on Etsy:

Trying to figure out Google is a little bit like trying to determine the will of God on the Internet.

That really made me laugh. How true it is! Only, at least God is usually a little more straightforward…