how to tell it was an extra-good workout

one) the Largish Black (I refuse to say ‘African-American’, because that is just dumb; all my Fine Black Friends will tell you the same thing) Fellow that you train with on occasion says, “Man, gurrrrrl, I ain’t nevah seen you sweat like that.”

two) sustained, to-the-core nausea (like, your insides fervently trying to convince you they’d work much better if they were on your outsides, exposed to the sunlight for the eensiest little bit of time) ensues immediately upon –and sometimes a bit prior to– completion

three) you lust the post-gym protein shake more than you ever have any fancypants multicourse meal you’ve ever had the pleasure of partaking in

four) after the gym, but just prior to the above-mentioned Dlishus Breffus^tm, during the ‘getting-presentable stage’ liquid eyeliner must be abandoned else your lids look like the left coast of Argentina has been diagrammed on them

five) your heart and head feel more settled than they have in weeks upon weeks, God Bless Righteous Exertion And Amen

glorified linkdump

Some stumblereading/browsing:

“…it is mainly used to denote the science of major mental paradigm shifts”

“Slang, profanities, insults and vulgarisms from all the world.”

“But at least, when you go on American Idol, sing the song with some damn conviction! It’s not your song to butcher with your mindless drone!”

“We are happy to work with family drawings, poems or photos to make the design completely individual for your child.”

“We have more Gods than you can shake a stick at.”

“Unicode’s success at unifying character sets has led to its widespread and predominant use…”

“3 Original Songs”

“Fast-forward through the boring parts of life.”

and, as an aside, I would like to know what happened to/with Jesus in those intervening two-ish decades. That bit has been driving me pretty silly-crazy for the past several months.

What Tess Just Said

“Iunno, if I were a stripper, I would peel that pole to Willie Nelson or probably Ryan Adams*.”

…whereupon I began shoutsinging Come Pick Me Up in the key of A, because I really like A.

Because he is one of my favorite songwriters and because the Alabama Theater is one of my favorite venues, I’m going to the show next month. They are very camera-friendly, so I’m jazzed about that business.

* WHO IS TOTALLY MY BOYFRIEND AND THE FATHER OF MY UNBORN MUSICAL-GENIUS BABIES (Only, he’d have to wear a paper bag because I don’t find him all that attractive, really. And he’d have to not speak, except for dirty bedroom mutterings, but he might even ass that all up; so in essence the only things he’d really be allowed to do would be to fuck and sing.).

I feel like I am a little bit cursed, and other musings.

When I got back from Hotlanta this weekend,I’d intended to start this entry in the following way:

One geek, two geek, three geek, dork.

Then I was gonna regale you with tales of booziness and good times. However, Unx was still recovering from Dragoncon (“OMG! Call me! I have tales of superheroes and transvestites and far. too. much. liiiiiquor. Pee ess, I hate people.”), so there went my little rhyme.

Also –waiting for me when I walked through the door– there was the news that one of my children’s best friends had died. He drowned on Saturday afternoon in the creek behind our pastor’s house. He was one of what Maxim calls “Your Lost Boys” when speaking to me, one of the kids that has taken up semi-residence in our house from time to time.

Sam walked around inconsolable all of Sunday and came home yesterday furious at all the rumor and innuendo surrounding the whole event. See, one of his other best friends (and also our pastor’s son) was there when it happened. It didn’t take very long at all for all the stories to start getting cooked up. As a result, it didn’t take long for Sam’s nerves to get worked up. I came around the corner of the funeral home yesterday to hear him telling another boy, “That is SO untrue and I swear to God, if I hear that kind of crap coming out of your mouth again, I am going to beat the unholy shit out of you.” This was from between clenched teeth.

The one I’m really worried about is Scout. She’s walked around exhausted-looking and on the brink of tears for the last two days, but she just won’t cry. I catch myself fervently wishing that she would crack wide open with a wail and let it all flow. She’s not about to let anyone in, not about to expose her tender bits, not about to let emotion overtake her and make her appear weak. Last night, in the crush of teenage dramatics (you know the kind…there are always those trying to draw attention in on themselves, to make any given situation about them), my Scout stood there quietly, patiently waiting. It took nearly an hour, but the crowd finally thinned, and she stood up at the head of the boy’s coffin, leaning in and whispering to him. Then she performed a Particularly Scout Gesture, kissing the tip of her index finger and planting that fingertip on his forehead lovingly. Then she dropped something into the casket. It was a piece of paper wrapped with a lemon yellow hair band.

I knew that they had both placed things in there, so on the way home I asked. Sam spent countless hours skating with him and playing guitar for him, so he put in a set of bearings and his favorite pick. Scout put in the first note they had ever passed in class lo those many years ago. When I asked her about the ponytailer it was wrapped in, she reminded me that he had a habit of pulling out her hairbands in school and at church because he liked to see her all stirred up. “That was the first one he ever pulled out of my hair, mom. It was at school.” And then she stared out of the car window the rest of the way home.

I was most amazed by this, by her sentimentality, because she is not overt with it. I was also amazed by the other kids there. A favorite necklace, a treasured ballcap, a coupon for free Copenhagen dip, this year’s Auburn football schedule went into that casket. Things that connected them to this boy, a boy who by all accounts was optimistic and joyful and uplifting damn near every minute of every day. This was despite his own shaky raising-up.

I’m sorry this is so inelegant and ineloquent, but I’m just tired. For the last twelve weeks I’ve been taking it on the emotional chin. Every time I think I’m coming to rights another wave of icky washes across the ole bow and I’m once more taken aback and wondering when I can just breathe easily and without hesitation again. I’m sick of holding my breath in order to be prepared, waiting for the time that the wave goes one further and seizes me as well.

SERIOUSLY.

Oh, Good Lord.

“I’m just playing with your brain, Bob.”

Yi-iiikes.

It’s the mouth thing she does. Gets me every time. BUT I CANNA STOP WAAAATCHING IT!

Today, she is Vaffanculo Day!

So, you know, Fuck You.

>:o)