Icy Hot Pain

Oh my dear lord, I have gone and tried to kill myself. Well, alright, not on purpose, but I have seriously impaired my ability to move! So you know that though I would much prefer to lie prone on my couch, sipping mimosas, and watching Bridezillas on the WE channel (you really have to check this show out, the women are appalling...it's FABULOUS!), the ever-increasing size of my ass often compels me to the gym.

Now don't get all upset like I've joined the weight loss bandwagon, cause, to be sure, I don't seek to drop a pants' size so much as to not outgrow the one's I'm in! Typically I just hop on the ol' treadmill long enough to catch up on the goings-on of my favorite General Hospital characters, but for some reason I was recently possessed to venture into the free-weight area...and that was the beginning of the end for ol' Queenie.

Somehow, in my endorphin-haze, I thought it would be a good idea to do a few squats while holding 10-lbs weights in each hand of course. And of course, I couldn't just do 1 set, oh no, I had to do a full 3 sets before moving on to torture my upper-body with the chest press.

So I left the gym feeling sweaty and firm, went about the rest of my day thinking I was a champion of fitness, went to bed last night quite relaxed, and when I awoke this morning... I COULD NOT MOVE MY LEGS!!!

The burning in my thighs is a pain I haven't felt since...well, since the last time I ventured into the free-weight area and clearly have not returned for long enough to forget how incredibly stupid that is! I'm hobbling around here like an 80-year-old women, and apparently smell like one too. This IcyHot crap I've smeared on my legs has filled the entire office with a peppermint aroma reminiscent of grandma's arthritis medicine and strong enough to make your eyes water. Of course this is a delightful change from the regular odor of hamburger grease that wafts into the office from the T.G.I. Friday's below.

Needless to say, I am nearly incapacitated at my desk, crying out at random when I have to stand, sit, bend or walk. You'll have to excuse me now, I must go brace myself on the walls of the stall so I can lower onto the toilet.

Bar Talk

So last night all the girls went out to celebrate Fashion Slave's birthday. Yes, the lovely Fashion Slave has turned another year older. How old you ask? I'd say she's probably old enough to know better and young enough to do it anyway...like me!

Anyhoo, we had a lovely dinner and drinks and all, and naturally we got to talkin about the Y-chromosome and all it's flaws. Someone asked the question, "what do a group of guys talk about when they're out at a bar together?" Well I can tell you....absolutely NOTHING!

It's an odd and amazing phenomenon, but men can actually spend time together and not discuss a single thing of import. I mean, I can have a 20-minute conversation with a girlfriend and walk away knowing the details of her tragic break-up, last night's date, the latest dieting venture, and her outrageous shoe splurge- and that's if we've just seen each other the week before! But Sweetpotato, he can hang out for hours with a friend he hasn't talked to in a month and come home with NO new information! He doesn't even know if they guy's dating anyone! I mean, seriously, how can you not ask these questions?

The thing is, he doesn't seem bothered at all by not knowing the every movement of his friends' lives, and I guess they aren't bothered by his. The truly amazing thing to me is, I mean they stand at the bar for hours together, and I see their lips moving, but it's not clear that they're actually saying anything. Of course, there's the obligatory comment on a pair of large breasts or a nice butt, and the chest-beating about who could get those breasts into bed - not that they'd get off their bar stool to talk to them. But other than that, it appears they nod at the television and rattle off sport's statistics in between bathroom breaks.

How their lives are not affected by the drama of their friends' relationships, I just can't understand. I mean, if I didn't have my friends' lives to dissect, what would I do with my time? There is nothing so entertaining as hashing and rehashing angst-ridden episodes from the past, especially involving people who aren't there to defend themselves!

And the gap between the X and Y chromosomes widens further. If guys don't have anything to say they stay quiet. If we don't have anything to say, we talk about someone else!

Royal Vacation

Have y'all missed me? I know I've taken quite a little break from blogging, but I just haven't been inspired as of late. Don't get me wrong now, folks go doing stupid things right in front of me all the damn time, but some days I just can't be bothered with rightin' the world with my writin', you know?

So I took a few days off and went home to God's Country to lay on the beach and do as little as possible. I mean to tell you, vacations might just save the world. I think if all the folks in the Middle East got a little more time off, they'd be so much less inclined to blow things up. It's just hard to gather up irritation when you're listening to the waves crash as you sip your mimosa and turn the pages of your trash book. I did manage to burn myself in oddly-configured patterns where my sunscreen application has lost some technique, but you can't really see those areas in clothes. I saw a movie, visited my grandparents, and instructed my little sister in the fine art of eyeliner application - all excellent uses of my time.

Those few days of rest have really calmed me down. I mean I haven't thrown a single item from my desk yet this morning, and though my trip to work was in the midst of a downpour, I didn't once curse at someone for incorrect umbrella usage! Granted, this is my first day back in the ratrace so perhaps it isn't the most reliable gauge of my improved temperament, but whatever.

I sometimes think that life in a smaller town would be easier, that I'd enjoy the slower pace, the porch-sitting, the neighbor waving. But then I went to the local bank and waited 15 minutes to make a withdrawal because the teller thought it would be a good idea to open the bank at 9 a.m. without any cash in her till....um, this is a bank right? Where people go for money? Yeah, so the pace might not work out for me at this juncture, and the idea of having your neighbors all up in your business doesn't appeal either so perhaps I should just visit smaller places for now.

Alright, I've gotta go untangle the messes this company has made in my absence, surprised the place is still standing actually. I've got more to say this week though, so y'all come back now...ya hear?

Bus Stations

Gracious friends, I know I have been slack in my blogging as of late, but I have to tell ya, I'm just happy to be alive, having spent last weekend in not one but two bus stations.

I mean to tell you, the bus station contains a sector of society previously unrecorded above ground. These folks seem to only exist in the dim lights and cement floors of an underground tunnel. It's like an experiment in human socialization with no control group!

I don't mean to say that everyone who's ever taken a bus falls into this dejected category, but there are a certain species among use who consider the fast-food joints of a train station to be actual restaurants. These are the same folks who consider Cinnabon part of a balanced breakfast, and you can see those honeybuns have balanced quite well on their backsides as they lumber through the station.

Anyway, I'm not sayin they're bad folks, but they are a certain kind of folk - the kind without all their teeth, actually. I don't care if they grew there or you bought them, but if you are walking around in society without a full set of chompers, you need to get up from the computer right this instant and go get you some. Not the bus station folks though, no they're walking about toothless, shoeless, senseless. I mean who in their right mind would take the Greyhound across country? I could barely stand my 2 hours trek down I-95, can you even imagine being on that urinal-smelling monolith for a week? I'd have stabbed myself in the eye within the first 4 hours!

I know you're asking, "why Queenie, if you're so high and mighty why were you ridin coach class," and that's a very fair question. You see darlins', I do these things for y'all, so that you don't have to experience such atrocities and can learn from my misfortunes....well, that and it's a helluvfa lot cheaper than the train! But trust me, after this last time, I won't ever be boardin' the bus again. Not after spending 3 hours in the sweltering heat with every indigent in Christendom tryin to talk me into donating to their dinner fund. One man asked if I was a model, and considering I was dripping sweat, wearing no makeup, and sporting a suntan mustache, one can assume that he don't get outta the terminal too often.

No friend, the bus station is not a place you wanna be. When I finally arrived at my destination, I felt the need to Purell every area of my body that had touched anything. I still don't feel clean. I don't care if I have to scrape together every penny for a year, I'm flying from now on...and I suggest you do the same.

Close Encounters of the Ex-Kind

So a friend of mine is in the middle of a situation in which we've all found ourselves at some point, and since how we handle such situations defines us on a deeper level, I thought I'd address it with everyone.

You all know the story, date someone, break up with them, move on with your life... and then run into them again. If you live in the same town or even near the same town, the chances of this occurring are considerable, so it's best to be prepared lest you find yourself in a bad way.

First and foremost, you must have your look together! Being fabulous is the best revenge, so be sure you are lookin cute every time you leave your house. I know it's a pain if you're just gonna pop into the grocery store, but all your months of healing and growing and becoming a better version of yourself will all be shot to hell when he sees you buyin Oreos without your face on. And no one over age 18 needs to be seen in public without foundation in the first place, so do yourself a favor and get yourself together.

So then, when you do encounter the Ex, you must choose your words carefully. Never ask a question which might allow him talk about any positive things occurring in his life. The last thing you want to hear about is his great job, or vacation, or god forbid, new girlfriend. For every bit of fabulousness you allow him, yours deflates considerably. You must resist all your upbringing. You will be tempted to automatically ask "how are you?" Don't. Remember, you don't care and he might take that as the window to talk about himself and you don't want to hear it!

Do, however, take every opportunity to talk about your own fabulousness. Make it up if you have to, but find a way to work in some thrilling details of your new fabulous life. If you happen to have a new guy, don't mention him directly, just breeze over that tropical vacation "we" just took and let your Ex fill in the blanks. Nothing smacks of desperation like flaunting a new fling, and you needn't bother making him jealous, he will be anyway, so less is more in the detail division.

Always keep the encounter brief. I don't care if you've got nothing to do for the rest of the day but wash your hair and watch General Hospital, you must always appear as if you've got somewhere pressing to be and your fabulous new friends are waiting desperately for your arrival. If for no other reason than keeping the torturous moments in his presence to a minimum, you must cut the conversation off as soon as you've exposed just enough of your sassy sparkle to keep him jumpy for the rest of the day. There is nothing to be gained from prolonged conversations with someone with whom you no longer choose to associate. (If he was the one to make that decision then even more reason not to spend any time with him!)

In summary: be fabulous, busy, and unconcerned with his well-being. It's not bitchy, it's self-preservation, and it works every time.