I have great friends. One of them has a little boy who’s starting Kindergarten this year. She’s a very loving, very smart woman. Like me, she has strong viewpoints and no compunction about sharing them.

Which is why I feel completely comfortable calling her out when she makes stupid decisions. We haven’t had a serious difference in opinion since she decided NOT to get her son vaccinated (GAH! This still infuriates me!), but I feel I must protest when she starts making noise about how relieved she is that the school she’s sending him to has a vegetarian option on the menu.

WHAT? Excuse me? I have zero problems with people who make the decision (as adults) to forgo meat, or those who choose to be vegans. Yay personal choice! Yay freedom! And I do realize that it’s natural for parents to pass their beliefs and preferences on to their kids. Duh. But while I wouldn’t interfere with someone’s choice to become a vegetarian, I don’t think their children should be subjected to that same lifestyle – at least, not until they become old enough to decide for themselves, and by that I mean 18 + years.

There are alternatives, of course. I realize a lot people find tofu a good nutritional choice. Nevermind that tofu is basically coagulated soy milk, it gets the job done. But in places like Montana, especially rural Montana, those options are far more difficult to come by. What then? I just don’t think following a strict vegetarian diet is the healthiest choice for a small, growing body.

YES, I went there. Not that her parenting decisions are any of my business. I don’t even have kids of my own, and perhaps that means I should just shut my hole. But rest assured: if I ever DO have mini-mes, they’ll know what steak tastes like (and reap the nutritional benefits).

Note: While I believe including beef, chicken, and fish in a diet is better than going without, I recognize that a lot of people eat too much meat – which isn’t good either.

Just in case I haven’t yet pissed off everyone in the world, I’ll add that I wrote this while enjoying hotdogs for dinner. That would be pig AND cow parts. Yummy.

In the office earlier today:

Me: Turns on AC.
Boss: “Turn that thing off.”
Me: “It’s hot in here! Aren’t you hot?”
Boss: “I’m allergic to air conditioning.”
Me: …………
Boss: “I am.”
Me: “Uh-huh. Okay. You know it just circulates cold air, right?”
Boss: Gives me dirty look.
Me: “So you’re allergic to air? Because…that would be bad. Seeing as air? Is pretty much everywhere in the world, all the time.”
Boss: Leaves office.

Don’t worry, I won’t be getting fired. My boss loves me, despite my smart-assed nature. And my tendency to point out the obvious. Maybe I should have made him feel a bit better by suggesting dust or pollen as a reasonable alternative? Nah.

I went to the library today in search of more reading material (because really, there can never be enough) and found a book called I’m No Monster: The Horrifying True Story of Josef Fritzl, by Stefanie Marsh & Bojan Pancevski. Actually I found several, but when I slid that one across the counter the librarian looked up with alarm on her face and said, “I should warn you – only four people have checked out this book, and three brought it back without finishing it. Apparently the things he did are just awful, and very detailed.”

If you know me, you know I was indulging in a mental eye-roll. First: I have never NOT finished a book. Ever. I’m incapable. Second, she just gave a mild case of curiosity a big boost. I HAVE to know what’s in that book, and right away.

Other books I checked out:
Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance, by Robert M. Pirsig
Shattered Silence – The Untold Story of a Serial Killer’s Daughter, by Melissa G. Moore & M. Bridget Cook
Tears in the Darkness: The Story of the Bataan Death March and it’s Aftermath, by Michael Norman & Elizabeth M. Norman

I might’ve been in a slightly morbid frame of mind while I was looking. What memorable books have you read lately?

I’ve had temporary custody of Rowdy for about a week now. Heidi will be here sometime tomorrow to claim him and take him home…except I want to keep him.

He and Luna have finally started getting along (a little bit). And he’s gotten all cuddly. I curled up on the couch to take a nap yesterday and before I knew it he was squirming up against my stomach, pressing his cold nose against my hand. We snoozed for an hour or so.

Another bonus: Taking him for his daily walks has been helpful for my butt. Seriously. We walk to get the mail and back, in addition to my gym time (sadly Rowdy doesn’t come to the gym with me).

He’s always in such a great mood, besides. Dogs are so HAPPY. He waggles around, all cheerful and affectionate. Just seeing him chase his stupid, demolished lobter puts a smile on my face – partly because his legs are so short that it’s hilarious to watch him run.

But LOOK:

Would YOU give him back?

I’ve been ignoring the crack on the floor of my cheap, ancient shower for about two months now. I fully intended to continue ignoring it, until a) one of my handy male friends actually listened to my bitching and offered to save the day (I know, feminists, and I’m SORRY), or b) I ended up moving. Except this morning when I hopped in the shower, the floor sort of wobbled and creaked, and I made a yipping noise and plastered myself against the side wall trying not to move, envisioning myself plummeting through the floor and into the spider-infested crawl space below, because I suddenly remembered the only thing holding me up besides a thin piece of fiberglass was the thin piece of PLYWOOD underneath it.

Which, after about two months, is probably soggy. And there’s definitely a bit of a suspicious smell. So I took myself down to the hardware store and pestered the various customer service personnel until one of them helpfully suggested 2 Ton Clear Weld Epoxy. Is it just me, or do those words seem synonymous with my doom?

STEP 1: Tear open package of epoxy, accidentally ripping helpful directions on back panel. Swear. Hold pieces together and read directions.

STEP 2: Go clean and dry floor of shower. Realize this chore should be repeated more regularly.

STEP 3: Wonder where the hell the “provided mixing paddle” the directions continue to mention is at. Rattle empty package. Double-check epoxy mix for mysterious attachments. Decide palette knife from brief obsession with oil painting will have to suffice.

STEP 4: Use palette knife to mix and apply epoxy to dried shower floor. Become slightly high from chemical scent. Think, “Will be having fun at work tonight!”

STEP 5: Remain in bathroom while epoxy perfume drifts through enclosed space, because what the hell. Rethink decision after light-headedness sets in. Leave bathroom. Open windows. Make plans to skip shower tomorrow, for fear of feet sticking to shower floor.

Honestly, I think it would have been better if JTT had been here, stuck in my tiny bathroom huffing epoxy with me. But overall, seeing as none of  my parts are stuck to other parts – or objects – I’m declaring this experiment a success.

Brandy invited me to go to a food show in Billings on Wednesday. Naturally my reaction was an enthusiastic YES!!  Food? Free food? I didn’t even have to consent verbally, I think the tell tale drool on my chin was answer enough.

We set out at the almost unbearable hour of 6:00 AM. We drove south and oh god how I wish I’d remembered my camera, because spring in Montana is a sight to see. There were sharp blue skies and lush green trees and mountains and baby cows everywhere.

Me, every time we passed one of the 128,759 cows out to pasture with an accompanying calf: “Look! A baby cow! A little one!”
Brandy, while giving me a dirty sideways stare: “Yes. I see it.”

Ahem. Anyway. My ability to travel obnoxiously aside, we arrived in Billings on schedule and went straight to the Metra, where the food show was in full swing and parking was a bitch. Oh, and it was raining. Bonus: Brandy, ever-practical, had an umbrella under the seat and we were the only ones carrying one so we got to give the wet, shivering fools hunching into their jackets looks of superiority sympathy.

Inside it looked like Christmas at Sam’s Club. There were tables everywhere piled with free samples being manned by cheerful people more than willing to let us help ourselves. They had sausage and bacon, breads, crackers, desserts, ham and prime rib, etc etc. It was like heaven would be if I were in charge of things, OK? And yes, I tried everything – including a yellow carrot. I didn’t even know yellow carrots existed. My world is all askew.

Afterward we went shopping and I found the perfect pair of jeans, the best pair ever, the pair that made my butt look just as good – if not better – than Jessica Biel’s. Brandy wouldn’t let me buy them because she said they were too tight (were not) and too expensive (were too). I’m not kidding, though. If I’d laid down the $98 for those jeans – which I would have, if I weren’t so damn broke – I might actually get asked on dates. Or just groped a lot.

After our excessive window-shopping spree, we drove to Forsyth so Brandy could see her mother. I didn’t realize Forsyth was 100 miles away from Billings – an additional 100 miles, that would be IN ADDITION to the hundreds of miles we’d already driven. I thought it was something like 30-40, but we got to do a lot of catching up.

On Thursday Charlie (Brandy’s husband) called and said we needed to meet him in Great Falls at about 6:00 PM to shop for a new fridge (theirs died quite unexpectedly). So we drove another handful of extra miles to go to Great Falls, and by that time my ass was cramping and my water bottle was empty and I was imagining various ways in which I could stuff Charles into the aforementioned fridge.

Off topic: about 7 miles southeast of Great Falls, on a road I’d never been on, there’s an actual, honest-to-god pet cemetery. I did a double-take. I saw the movie during my formative years (bless you, Stephen King) and have never fully recovered. That’s what backyards are for, is all I’m saying.

The trip was good and I was happy about spending quality time with Brandy, even if we did spend most of it squished into her Buick with broken air conditioning, stuck behind assholes who thought it would be acceptable to drive 35 or 40 miles per hour despite the various signs posted about the speed limit being 70. Next time I’m taking a notebook and a big black marker for making creative signs to hold up to the window when we pass. It’s better than my original plan, which was to swipe Brandy’s mobile and start “helpfully” calling 911 re: drunk & reckless drivers, and YES, sir, I do have the license plate number…

My bathroom sink has been clogged for the better part of two months. If you know me at all, you know avoidance and denial are a couple of my specialties, so naturally I didn’t try to deal with the problem until today (in case you’re wondering avoidance meant brushing my teeth in the kitchen).

There’s a powerful, very poisonous drain cleaner called “Marc 55″. I had a bottle stashed away, leftover from the last time my drain needed a good bitch slap. I booted Luna outside because it isn’t a great idea for anyone to inhale the fumes once you uncap the bottle – forget about an overly curious, slow-moving tub of lard with whiskers. She was pissed, and deigned to let me know it by sitting outside the open window and yowling pitifully for about two hours (she spent the last hour sulking in the direction of the house from her favorite tree).

After the cat was out of harm’s way and all the windows that aren’t painted shut were open, I poured a quarter of a bottle or so down the bathroom sink. It started smoking, at which point I backed out of the bathroom and hung my head out the front door. The odor…suffice it to say I no longer have hair on the inside of my nostrils. And also, YUCK.

But guess what? It DID NOT WORK. Yeah. My hair (the primary reason the drain was clogged) is resistant to the stuff. It smokes and burns through almost everything, but my hair fought back. My hair stayed twined around the stopper, all gross and stubborn. After seeing that I’m kind of surprised my hair can be cut with scissors.

Eventually I had to replace the stopper altogether. I let Luna back inside and she huffed past me, directly to the back of the couch where she glowered and licked her paws until I left for work.

So, problem solved. Except I’m sort of afraid if I let my hair grow too long it’ll smother me in my sleep.

Someone suggested a co-worker and I pretend to be sleeping together; their aim was to drive another co-worker over the edge (please don’t ask, because I honestly don’t know).

I live in a town so small that all it would take to start that particular rumor would be my vehicle parked at his house overnight, or vice versa.

Keep in mind, I thought this was a stupid idea. I never agreed to it. I don’t even like the guy I was supposed to be pretending with. Anyway, he came into the office and the subject was raised and he said, “I have a reputation to uphold.”

EXCUSE ME? Nevermind my not wanting to play along, I HAPPEN TO BE VERY DOABLE. Or at least I was a long time ago, when I went on my last date. I don’t have a bad reputation – I even go to church sometimes (okay, once in the last year…on Easter). I help the elderly get unreachable items from shelves in the grocery store. I’m nice.

But obviously not nice enough for Mr. I’m Too Sexy for My Shirt, who PS is NOT that good looking and only thinks he’s hot shit because of his glory days from high school, where his biggest achievement was sports. Ooooh, you can throw a football? GUESS WHAT, SO COULD OJ SIMPSON. Asshole.

Now that I’ve reverted to sixteen again (I wish I was still irresponsible enough to key his car without fretting over the consequences & bad karma), I’ll finish by saying that if I can’t get an unattractive jerk-off, I’m doomed to be sexless forever, spending the rest of my existence watching Buffy reruns and cuddling up to ice cream and my cat.

They were right.

I’ve been working out steadily for a little over a month. I go to the gym at least every other day, sometimes every day. I aerobicize! I spend so much time on the godforsaken elliptical I may as well build a shrine to the damn thing. I lift weights in an acceptably girly fashion – lest I grow too many muscles (HA! as if I’m in danger of that happening) and end up looking like a scary body-builder type. I jump rope. I walk. I do housework. I admit to occasionally having hopped.

Those people with much less stomach fat than me, the ones who claim that diet is crucial, maybe even more important than exercise?…they were right. And I hate them.

I worked my butt off (without making any drastic changes to my diet), and I lost exactly FOUR rotten pounds. 4! That’s less than five! That’s a LOT less than 25, which is my eventual goal. I gave up junk food, mostly, and tried to cut back on pasta (some days were more successful than others). And I look pretty much the same. As it turns out, I can’t eat like an adolescent boy (don’t you think god should’ve created all metabolisms equally?) and expect results. SUCK.

I guess this means I have to change my diet. Goodbye pecan caramel rolls, hello hummus.

People are flawed and sometimes selfish. People make mistakes, and sometimes they have affairs. Take Rielle Hunter and John Edwards for example. It’s really no one’s business, right? So they had an affair. I try not to be too judgmental (and frequently fail), particularly when something doesn’t directly concern me.

HOWEVER.

Did everyone read the article (complete with photos) in GQ magazine? I have zero sympathy for Rielle Hunter. She claims that when she saw the photos she “cried for two hours” and found them “repulsive.” What the hell did she expect? She TOOK HER PANTS OFF. She tried to say she trusted the photographer and “went with the flow”. She also said she expected the photos to be “tasteful” and above the neck. Oh yeah? Then why did you take your bottoms off, Rielle? And you can’t tell me you honestly expected bottomless shots to be tasteful. Period.

I also found it ridiculous that she tried to say she just genuinely wanted to help John Edwards “change the world” and that’s why she was so interested in him. She also claims she didn’t come on to him, and that she had no ideas in that direction because she knew he was married. Yet her first words to him were “You’re so hot.” Uh huh. Where I come from, that’s a come-on. And most business negotiations and professional meetings do not start with those kind of statements. Unless I’m doing it wrong?

If GQ was aiming for tawdry and tasteless, they hit the mark.

Another thing that’s bugging me: this woman who’s trying to be the fattest woman alive, to break a record? Donna Simpson, isn’t it? She weighs 600 pounds – not because of any medical condition (although her weight has caused multiple health problems and considerably shortened her life span), but because she WANTS to weigh one thousand pounds (half a ton). So she eats and eats and EATS and doesn’t exercise – at all. In fact, she claims she tries to move as little as possible.

She has kids. In fact, she broke a record and ended up being the largest woman to ever give birth at 500 + pounds. What kind of example does she thinks she’s setting for them?

Oh, wait, she thinks she’s healthy. MY ASS. Forgive me, but anyone deliberately aiming for a half a ton is NOT a healthy individual. She’s putting her life – and therefore her children’s lives – at risk. She needs to find another goal for her life.

Okay. I think that about covers recent news topics that have angered me.

HAPPY SAINT PATRICK’S DAY!

I’ve been on a diet – except I don’t like thinking of it as a diet, because that seems like I’m denying myself. And trust me, I’m not. I’m trying to incorporate healthy eating, more than my usual fare of pizza burgers fries chocolate cookies, and I wish I were exaggerating, but every single one of those foods pops into my diet at LEAST once a week. I’m a card-carrying junk food junkie. Melted, artery clogging cheese is like crack to me.

For the last few days I’ve been very strict with myself. Meaning I’ve been eating fruits and salads and lean meats and whole wheat bread. I usually only eat two meals a day because I work until midnight, which means I wake up late enough in the morning that I choose to skip breakfast (I’m told this is very naughty, diet-wise). And while I always have a couple of snacks, I still feel like I’m starving.

Tonight, for example, I’ve been fighting a serious craving for popcorn (a snack that could not be considered healthy the way I make it) for more than THREE hours. I want it. Badly. I drank a cup of coffee with fat free creamer instead, hoping it would warm my tummy enough to make me feel full. HA.

Nevertheless, I remain vigilant. Not because I actually have any kind of willpower, but because I don’t have a choice. My goal is to be fit and healthy (and, yes, a certain weight) by the end of May. In two weeks I’m going on vacation, and I know - despite the very convincing arguments I make up in my head – that I won’t behave. Especially since I’ll be with my best friend, and she loves to eat. She’s also an excellent cook. I’m doomed to enjoy all the foods I love for four days on end, and I’ve been known to gain shocking amounts of weight in the short stretch of four days.

All of that means that for now, I have to be on my best behavior. No binging or giving in or moments of weakness. Because I need to lose the weight I’ll be gaining on vacation, so I break even. SAD, isn’t it? Yes. It is.

I also ordered a gorgeous new bikini, and that should be arriving this week or early next week. I’m thinking that when I see it and try it on I’ll be more inclined to say no thank you while I’m away. Anyway, I said NO to popcorn tonight (more than once), and I consider that a small triumph. I just hope the scoreboard continues to show numbers in my favor (although in truth it should probably say “food 9384729993343, amber 1″).

I’ll be keeping my fingers, toes, and all other limbs tightly crossed.