I took Archimedes to the vet for his shots, and to inquire about his incessant sneezing ALL OVER ME in the middle of the night. The vet assured me that because he was a stray, his mother probably wasn’t vaccinated and so a respiratory infection – one that will disappear with age – is the probable cause. She also had some interesting news: what I assumed was his junk, male parts, etc, is actually a wayward tuft of fur.

Archimedes is a GIRL. Female. With a very masculine name.

No wonder she spends all night alternatively sneezing in my face or attacking my bare toes – if I were her, I’d be bitter, too. It also explains why she and Luna aren’t bonding as quickly as I’d hoped (although smart money says the second I put up my Christmas tree they’ll FIND something to bond over).

The problem I’m having is that I can’t leave her name the way it is. It’s driving me nuts. Neither have I had any helpful suggestions as to other names, nevermind that Heidi seems to think “Pumpkin” is an acceptable thing to be shouting from the porch where my neighbors might see me. I refuse to call any pet of mine something as undignified as “Pumpkin”.

Now then. If you love me, you’ll add your suggestions in the comments. Please and thank you.

I bring you another enthralling post on fitness. My fitness, which is consequently NOT fitness, but…something else.

Three years ago, I joined the gym. I was overweight, out of shape, and having way too much love for pizza and chocolate (as usual). Nevertheless, it took about two weeks for me to notice that my butt was tighter, my thighs were more toned, and my abs were flattening out. I noticed the number on the scale lowering a little every few days, and it was like crack for me. Before long, I was in pretty good shape – and thinner, which let’s face it was the real motivator. (A healthy heart? Pssh).

Sadly, I now realize I took my mostly instantaneous weight loss for granted. I still had a fairly decent metabolism, and my body was fully willing to cooperate.

I’ve been working out steadily (while alternating my weight training and cardio every other day, I’m crazy not stupid) for over two weeks now, and guess what? My weight is exactly the same as when I started. EXACTLY. THE. SAME. What the hell? My ass looks a little tighter (okay, it feels a little tighter too) but WHAT THE HELL? This is all I get for my hours of sweat? This is the only progress I can claim after renouncing chocolate and pizza and cupcakes? THIS? Sucks!

I thought I would’ve lost at least a pound or two by now. One measly pound, is that too much to ask? I just need a little encouragement, something to keep me climbing back onto the elliptical. I guess it’s true that the older you get, the harder it is for your body to bounce back. I always thought that was a lame excuse for people’s bad habits, to be truthful, but I have a whole new appreciation for the effort involved for people attempting to drop pounds over the age of 25, and a whole new hated for fifteen-year-old cheerleader types who can spend the off-season shoveling in crap food and then start training and have the perfect body a week later.

If I’m coming off a little bitter, it’s because I AM.

Evidently three years is a long time as far as the female form is concerned.

About two weeks ago, I went on a date. He called me, I asked him, we agreed to meet. I asked him (something I don’t normally do) because everyone assured me he’s the shy type, and I am NOT the patient type. Okay, and also because Heidi kept insisting I have no balls, and I had to prove otherwise. BEHOLD: my wrinklies.

He seemed to have a great time. We’ve been friends a while, so it wasn’t especially awkward or anything. It was fun and relaxed.

He never called.

I should take this opportunity to say I’m not bothered because I was crazy about him or anything; it’s more about my pride, of which I have an excessive amount (against all odds).

THIS ALWAYS HAPPENS. I go out with someone or other and then I never see him or hear from him again. Sometimes I don’t even really like the guy, but it still drives me nuts that he didn’t feel like I was worth a second date. I mean, it’s one thing for me to decide someone isn’t that interesting, but it’s another thing ENTIRELY for him to blow me off.

I’ve been doing a lot of thinking (fueled by the ingestion of a frightening amount of french fries) and here is a short list of possible reasons he chose not to call:

1) I wore socks with my Keen sandals, which I think is a perfectly acceptable alternative to wearing real shoes during the winter months (L.A.Z.Y.), but he commented on it in a not-flattering way. If he didn’t call because of my choice of footwear, he would have been really bummed to discover I hardly ever wear makeup and that I prefer to sleep in men’s boxers.
2) A guy I work with showed up and spent a good portion of the evening talking to my date. They seemed to get along well, despite the tendency of my co-workers to threaten potential boyfriends, but the savvy and flirtatious comments I would normally make (or HOPE to make) never actually came into play.
3) I didn’t invite him to my place, even though he specifically asked to come over. I said no. I also didn’t kiss him goodnight, not because I wasn’t open to the idea, but because my wrinklies are only so developed, and THE MAN SHOULD KISS THE WOMAN, dammit. At least the first time.

It’s also possible, as a fourth option, that what I’ve been saying all along is true: I repel people. I’m not aiming for sympathy, it’s merely fact. I’m loud, opinionated, sarcastic, and my feminine side is decidedly less prominent than most women’s. I’m direct, and I see no reason to modify my behavior (even momentarily) to snag a lover. If he couldn’t appreciate my callous sense of humor and semi-acceptable hygiene, it wouldn’t work in the long run anyway.

The positive side of never hearing from men after the first date is that I hardly ever have to shave my legs. Oh, and it’s just fine if I don’t look very good naked.

Well, not all of you. But a select few have been complaining (I’m talking to you, Heidi) that I haven’t been posting enough. I can’t imagine why, but nonetheless, I aim to please. So I give you a post about FITNESS. Or my fitness anyway, which is more like a lack thereof.

I joined my gym again – and had to pay an extra $25 to get my key activated (RIP-OFF), but that’s neither here nor there. I’ve been more out of shape lately (in case you’re wondering just how out of shape, imagine me sitting on my butt 90% of the time shoveling ice cream, pizza, and french fries into my mouth, and then imagine my normally non-ass expanding to the size of a small love seat) than I have been in a very long time, and I was starting to feel yucky all over.

Today was only my third day, but I feel satisfyingly determined to bust my ass until it disappears again. If the massive soreness I’ve been feeling all over is any indication, I’m well on my way. Heidi always insists that people never see results right away (and of course she’s right) but I SWEAR my thighs are already shrinking. And hey, if I need delusions to keep going, I say there’s nothing wrong with that.

Fortunately, I come from a family of active people. We are not couch-sitters (most of the time) or TV fanatics (my sister can’t even watch a movie without fidgeting like crazy and eventually getting up to do something else). My mother used to kick us outside constantly, which was always safe (small town) and, I’m certain, beneficial to her sanity. In case you’re wondering, we are DEFINITELY junk food people. The only reason we didn’t weigh a thousand pounds a piece is because we spent every day of our youth outside either swimming or sledding or putting our imaginations to good use in the park. Come to think of it, it’s a miracle we all have decent teeth. I’m amazed mine haven’t rotted out of my head.

My problem is, I’m still a junk food person – but now I’m not running in circles or rolling down hills or climbing trees. Sadly, I’ve become stationary the way that so many adults do. It’s gotten worse since I took the evil desk job I have now. Eight hours of ass-sitting is never good, and there’s only so much cleaning and pacing one can do.

But those are all just excuses, and that’s why I joined the gym (again). I’m also trying to scale back on the sweets, but let’s face it I’m no saint and even if I was, everyone has a vice. I’ve always believed there’s no POINT in spending half an hour sweating nearly to death on the blasted elliptical if I can’t have a cupcake afterward (a statement which always causes my athletically-inclined sister to roll her eyes, and now that I’m thinking about it that’s probably why she has always been, and will always be, skinnier than me). Which I think is a fairly healthy attitude. Besides, like I’ve said before, I work better if there are rewards in my future, and especially if those rewards are frosted with sprinkles.

But, as a concession to the sudden existence of my butt, I think maybe this time I’ll reward myself with a pair of very sexy jeans.

I’ll start by saying I hope you all had exactly the kind of spooky holiday you were hoping for, and then segue directly to blathering on about my own experience, which was of course comprised of euqal parts fun & embarrassment.

I started the evening by taking my sister & her daughter trick-or-treating, while adamantly ignoring the fact that my poor niece was forced to masquerade as a TELETUBBIE. When I mentioned that being carted from house to house clad in what amounts to bright yellow footie pajamas with a pig’s tail topping off a couple of discolored elephant ears (an elephant! she would have been an adorable elephant, now THAT is a suitable costume for a two-year-old) will probably be her first memory later on, in therapy, my sister just gave me a dirty look.

Afterward we hustled the baby back over to Grandma’s, who had agreed to babysit for the duration of the festivities, and I changed into my pirate costume. Lara, my niece, took one look at the finished product and smiled up at me and just when I was sure she was going to be brutally honest and ask aloud why Auntie Amber’s cheeks were hanging free (not REALLY, what am I, a skank?) she said, in the sweetest voice, “You look cute.” Aww. It’s good to know she’s already mastered the art of socially acceptable little white lies.

We went to Heidi’s place to handle hair and makeup. Heidi was a vampire victim, and she looked gorgeous all dolled up with two “bleeding” bite marks on her neck. Her husband went as the offending vampire, complete with a flipped-up collar, which I know should seem juvenile and vaguely tacky, but I’ve always thought it was super-sexy. OH COME ON, you know it is. Almost as sexy as suspenders. Mmm, suspenders.

Anyway. My brother-in-law’s friends went as the cop from Reno 911 and Waldo, from Where’s Waldo. Everyone had great costumes, but it wasn’t until later, when I ended up hand-cuffed to Waldo, did I realize that some people had costumes that were authentic as well.

Luckily I’m fond of Waldo, so it wasn’t a big chore to be stuck to his side. We danced, and he told me I looked beautiful (maybe little Lara isn’t such a little liar after all?), and after a few drinks we demanded that we be released for bathroom breaks, lest things get awkward.

The band, “Sax Cadillac,” was great (stoned, I suspect, but great just the same). They played a lot of good music, equal parts fast & slow, making sure to hit the songs everyone loves. I barely sat down all night – which wasn’t a hardship, trust me.

At 12:30, after the costume winners were announced (in case you’re wondering, Waldo and I got completely, entirely gypped), we all packed into Heidi’s car (she was the sweetheart otherwise known as the designated driver) and went to stay at her place.

We woke to breakfast burritos and very BAD male cartoons – “Aqua Teen: Hunger Force,” or something like that – and sat around eating leftover Halloween candy until we felt ambitious enough to go our seperate ways.

Fun was had, in some ways too much fun and in other ways not enough. I can’t WAIT for next year.