NO TV FOR YOU!

My sitcom did not make the top 25 in the script contest. I am somewhere between screw them, they are stupid, what do they know; and screw this, I am stupid and what the hell do I know about writing for TV. The latter smarts. However comma I have always prided myself on being tenacious, occasionally to the extent of the retarded mindset of a pit-bull who won’t let go just because you can’t make him; so I am working on agent query letters. Also have no idea how to do that.

Anyway, who says I can’t write for TV, except for those contest guys and my mother who says I should get a job for Christ’s sake, as if Jesus needs me to have a job, he’s doing ok look who his dad is. I mean who better to write for TV than me, I was raised by a TV. A nice one that sat on the floor and later was a nice stand for the new TV. And Paul Lynd never sent me out of the room when he wanted to say something blue.

Some of my favorite shows could be a little frustrating, but maybe that’s why we watched them. Like I knew from a young age that somebody should have kicked Gilligan's ass, I wanted to be Ginger, even though I am really more of a Mary Ann, and that the professor was bangin both of them. I knew Mrs. Brady was well quaffed bullshit and that my human mother was a lot more like Alice and Alice from Mel’s Diner.

I loved Dick Van Dyke, maybe more than Captain Kirk, I loved Mary Tyler Moore, but not as much as Dick and I love Rhoda but not as much as Mary. Why couldn’t they let those girls be happy, do you think Mary was really so big a prig that she couldn’t keep a boyfriend and was Joe really that bad? No, you just can’t mess with the formula. What happened after Sam and Dianne got together, Maddie Hayes and David Addison bumped uglies? Stinksville! Do you really think Ted is ever going to meet your mother? Not if they want us to go on watching.

See, I know how TV works, if it ain’t broke don’t fix it. But my script isn't a rehash of old formulas either. It has some really funny, snarky characters that make you laugh, maybe even cry, (when I get around to writing the very special episode that you and your family won’t want to miss) and interesting, relevant in today’s world storylines.

So, I know that trying to get my show on TV, or get my books published is like trying to win the lottery, but even my mother says you can’t win if you don’t buy a ticket, and somebody’s gotta win.

Update: Not Going To Hell

We were in the grocery store the other night, (I ended the self inflicted Wal-Mart purgatory), and there he was! I asked Wayne to go and look at him and he was not impressed. I guess the only reason I thought I was impressed with this boy, is because I thought he was impressed with me. Gawd, am I a desperate attention whore. But I feel better now that I have figured out that I was never really attracted to the boy, I was attracted to the thought that a boy like that could be attracted to me. The kind of boy that was never attracted to me in high school; or later when I started going to dance clubs. The kind of boy that all the girls loved and all the boys did too. I just wish I had spent less time lamenting boys like that and maybe I would have found my man sooner.
Super love you Wayne; I am very impressed with you and endlessly thrilled that you are attracted to me.

That Is So Un-Kewl

I am awake. I am a sentient nerd.

The reality that I may always have been a nerd and not known it, really harshes my buzz. I thought I was kewl. I rebel to the point of screwing myself regularly, whilst thinking I just stuck it to the man, I wear pink converse tennis shoes, classic kewl kid garb only slightly milded by the hue, and I use the f-bomb as an adjective every chance I get. You see, I am just as kewl as I was in the 10th grade. Which would be totally rad dude except that I keep catching myself doing way un-kewl shit.

Recently I became aware that when I greet my neighbors I usually say, “hey neighbor”. I thought this was a good way to deal with the fact that I can never remember anybody’s name. And I caught myself concluding a voicemail with “okey doky doodely doo, I’ll talk to you later”. WTF! I shiver to think how many times I may have done that before my awakening.

OMG! Even though I am fluently using f-ing text abbreviations I have begun to think I may not be knarly after all. In fact I think I might be Ned Flanders.

Roach Bait and Weed Killer

Last year for my birthday the neighbors gave us some “wine”, along with a powdered mix that you add to the “wine”, and blend with ice for “merlot” “slushees”. Hey at least they made an effort, misguided as it was, to give us wine and not just wine stuff.

We stuck it in the wine fridge and forgot about it. Well, we were so out of wine that the other night I opened it. In a former life I have drank: Mad Dog 20/20, Manischewitz, Boonesfarm, Bartles & James (all varieties) and some homemade stuff my older sister’s friend stole from her grandfather’s basement. But even I could not drink this.

It was so bad I couldn’t pour it down the sink because we have a septic tank and I was afraid of what it would do to the little turd eaters that live there. Don’t want to kill the excrement devouring microbes that keep the front lawn from becoming a really big loo. And I did not want to pour it in the yard and kill the grass I have been trying all summer to save.

What to do? Once before when we had some really bad wine, the kind from a big glass jug, Wayne’s dad told me if I put it in saucers on the floor the silverfish and palmettos, that invaded the apartment we were living in, would crawl in and drown. It didn’t work and I ended up polishing off the jug, (don’t tell Wayne, but I couldn’t help it he was out of town, and I was lonesome.) But this “wine” was worse than that, and since we are bug free, knock wood and thank you God, I poured it in the cracks of the driveway to kill the wayward weeds trying to grow there.

So, I won’t say if it kills weeds, bugs, or septic systems don’t drink it, because the exceptions to that rule would be too numerous to list.

Fall?

This month is the 6th anniversary of our being in Florida, and I have learned to discern differences in the seasons. We definitely have a winter and a summer but the meandering into spring and fall is subtle and easily missed.

Today while I was watering the lemon tree, I felt the vaguest hint of fall in the air, or smelled it, I don’t know, both maybe.

It reminded me of being a kid at the pool; maybe it was the humidity or that sometimes we can smell the ocean here.

And I remembered the slight melancholy feeling of summer ending, going back to school, and no more pool.

I remembered the promise of the holidays, which as a kid seemed so much further off this time of year than they do now.

There was just an indefinable something this morning, maybe the way the sun hangs in the sky in August, maybe just that it’s August.

Too Good to be Threw

I just reconnected with an old employer from waaaay back in 1984. Thank you internet. Kate ran a consignment store in Columbus Ohio, called One More Time, and I worked there as a clerk. I was quite impressed and sometimes a little intimidated by her, but I watched her and learned how a strong independent woman operates. Those were some fun times; I learned a lot of valuable lessons, and when I took a crack at running my own store, 10 years later, I even bought her book.

When I worked at One More Time I was 19 going on 2 and not the most confident person on earth; somewhat used to being damned if I did and dammed if I didn’t. I think Kate knew that and wanted me to grow some backbone. “Show some initiative Wendy.” she told me once in a way that made me think my mousey little fluff ball act was not going to cut it with this woman; and so I did. Not exactly a moment Helen Reddy would have sung about, but it did have an effect on me, and many times over the years being the first to speak up or show a little strength has helped me get to where I wanted.

And when I was breaking up with the architect and not showing up for work and being a crying mess when I did show up, she told me, “Wendy, work can be a break from what is happening in your life.” Well, I never forgot that either and it has worked for me, even though I did not get it when she said it, because I thought breaking up with a boyfriend of 3 months was worse than death. But since then there have been times when I thought, thank God I am going to work tomorrow and won't have to deal with this or that...

After my most recent experience of working for ass on fire women, I look back on what I remember as Kate’s no BS attitude and long for a logical work environment, even though at the time I didn’t realize how good I had it. But Kate wasn’t all brass. I was living in a basement apartment riding the bus to work, and if I missed the transfer, I stood in the snow, froze like hell and was late. That winter, Kate gave us Christmas bonuses….and it was enough to buy that car from my sister’s boyfriend that I had been talking about. Checks were presented at a nice restaurant, also courtesy of Kate.

I could go on, but suffice it to say I remember what she did for me and others. One of the girls working at the shop went on to buy it, ran it quite well and even expanded it. Kate also got her man to give me snorkeling lessons so my Ohio wouldn’t show too much when the architect took me to Key West. And when I bought a to die for gold jacket from one of her regular customers on the side, she barely said a word. (Probably should have fired me, sorry about that Kate.)

So when I got her response to my email today, and she remembered things about me, I started to remember all the things I admired about her. Thanks Kate for the job, the bonus, the advice, and the friendship, cause I didn’t know it then, but you were a friend.

Auditions

Last weekend I went down to Hollywood Florida to audition for The Biggest Loser. I went last year and met two women with whom I am still friends. In fact this year I auditioned with one of them as a team. But I've got to tell you, the whole thing was a big fat rip off; pun intended.

We waited in line five hours outside of the Hard Rock Casino, enduring disparaging looks from drunk asses staggering their way home at five in the morning. If you are hammered, shoeless, alone, no purse or phone, with your too tight, I guess you could call it a dress, caught in your cottage cheese ass crack, while your fake boobs bounce precariously out of the top of your hooker red garb, and you stumble past a line of fatties three or four times, while looking for your car or your pimp or whatever, I don’t think you should throw nasty looks. At least the queue of chunks was looking for a way to help themselves.

Then there was the lanky waif who asked what the line was for. Pestered by the reproachful inquiries, on of the portly crew informed the poor witless imp that we were all waiting for the cupcake eating contest to start. This drew only minor snickers until she doubled back and queued up with the rest of us. She did look rather hungry. Her boyfriend soon rescued her and whisked her off in pursuit of a hot sign at Krispy Kreme.

Despite the onlookers, the first three hours in line weren’t too bad. We laughed, told stories etc., but then the sun came over the building behind us. We spent the next two hours standing in the south Florida sun trying to keep our hair and makeup looking good for our audition. Audition…what a load of crap. When we finally did get inside, we waited more and then we were herded into an arena where we had to run a gauntlet of vendors hawking everything from fat burning water to diet programs to sugar free chocolates. (The chocolates were actually pretty good.) All that time in line and then we have to walk through a live infomercial just to get two, regulated by a girl with a stop watch, minutes with a casting person. And, there were eight of us in each group, so that gave you like thirty seconds to “audition”.

At first I was disappointed that we did not get picked, but now that I think about it I am relieved. One day I will be a healthy weight, I will be published and maybe even sort of famous. So, do I really want clips of me in spandex shorts and a sports bra all over You Tube? I think not. Or more realistically; do I want everyone where I or my husband work to know exactly how much I weigh? I’d rather give you my checking account number.

So that’s it for my attempts to humiliate myself on national TV. Unless of course I get the call from Deal or No Deal; I would so take the deal at any offer over $250k.

Which Cubie You Be?

The guy in the cube next to me is about half my age so I figured he'd know; “Dude,” I says because I know when you use slang young people think you are neat. “How much is Wii?”

“Depends on where you get it. “ Dude says, refraining from calling me ma’ am.

This response provokes a Prairie Dog* from the girl in cube 13, across the row from Dude, who asks, “Did you say weed?”

“No,” I responded, trying to say, "shut up dumbass before they hear you and mind your own bee’s wax," by drastically raising one eyebrow.

P.D. from girl in Cube 11, “I thought you said weed too!”

“Wii”, I said!

“Weed?” cube 13 repeated.

“Wii, the game!!!” now I was past caring.

Giggles and grin’s from cube 11. “Ha ha ha, you said weed.”

If you can’t beat em, join em. “How much is WEED these days? Last time I smoked pot, a nickel bag was $5.

Dude rejoins, “A nickel bag’s $20.”

“Does your mother know you been puffin fatties?” More cool slang from the swell old broad in cube 9.

“I only tried it once and it didn’t do anything for me,” Dude protested, “why pay for something that doesn’t do anything for you?”

“Dude?” I asked, “Maybe you bought 20 bucks worth of oregano!”

*Prairie Dog: When an office worker confined to a cubical pops his or her head above the cubical wall in order to ascertain what is happening in other cubicles. Cubicles are most often constructed with half walls, in which case a properly executed Prairie Dog would require only a slight elevation of the body using the chair’s arms to assist in achieving the desired height. To fully stand would draw unwanted attention thereby endangering the Prairie Dog’s lunch or break if they were caught and accused of not having enough to do.

A Day In The Life of Cubical Girl

Cubical life really is like the movie Office Space. I have 14 bosses; one of them is always running around with their ass on fire, usually in an effort to look as if they are so important that they must rush here and there.

If one boss has an idea they send it to all of cubical world, where it is then forwarded to all of cubical world by the other 13 bosses with an urgent tag saying please see email from so and so ASAP as her ass is on fire.

Urgent email will be followed by a cubical drop with same information, acknowledgement of which has to be signed and returned to one of the bosses then forwarded to the other 13 lest there be hurt feelings.

The last such correspondence regarded the effort to become a paperless office. We all signed a pledge to save paper, made a copy for each boss and one for HR. Sometimes I sneak a post it note when no one is looking.

If there is thunder and lightning outside, (the call center I work in is located in Florida, lightning strike capital of the world, so yeah it storms here every once in a while) we have to take off our head sets and cradle the phone between our ears and shoulder while typing and maintaining our call time. All I can figure is one of the bosses must have had a headset on her ass during a storm and it got set on fire.

Seriously, I can’t make this shit up; you are not allowed to eat in the kitchenette, which is complete with a sink, refrigerator and dishes. One of the bosses decided we must all go down stairs to the cafeteria. But God help you if you are off the phone too long, that gets all 13 asses burnin at once.

Average Sucks

I have said it before; if I was just a little bit smarter or even just a little bit dumber my life would be so much easier. And here is another shining example of how being average regularly kicks me in the ass.

I ran out to Target at lunch. I could see it was going to rain soon, so being as smart as I am I parked by the garden center. I reasoned that because I was able to get a spot so close to the door by parking back there, I would not get very wet if it was raining when I came out. Oh how smart I am!

I did a little too much shopping and only left myself enough time to check out and scurry back to work. La la la la. Check out, thank the clerk, explained that I was going to take my purchase back through the store as I was smart enough to think ahead and no thank you, I will not need a bag for my head. I assumed she meant to cover my hair as it was raining like hell.

Now I’m getting a little tight on time and I kinda of have to rush to get ALL THE WAY TO THE BACK OF THE STORE so I can go out through the garden center door. That’s right; they close the garden center when it’s raining like hell. ALL THE WAY BACK TO THE FRONT OF THE STORE, grab the bag for my head and rush outside, where I have to go ALL THE WAY TO THE BACK OF THE STORE, in the pouring rain, to where I left my car.

If I were a little dumber, I would not have noticed the clouds, parked by the front door, got a little wet and made it back to work on time. If I were a little smarter, I might have figured out that they close the garden center when it rains like hell, parked by the front door and made it back to work on time. Luckily I have just enough brains to keep me from suffocating myself with the bag I put on my head.

Write That Down

We stopped at Publix to buy some lettuce; (I’m lying, it was ice cream) and while we were waiting in line, Wayne was perusing a ladies fitness magazine. What that girl was fit for is not printable here, but I am sure she was quite athletic and could hold her breath for long stretches of time.

Don’t give me the ole men are programmed to look spiel; I’ve seen men look with their mouths hanging open and dripping spittle. My man doesn’t do that, but he wasn’t reading the articles either, so I gave him a knuckle to the delt in the hopes that it would help him refocus, (on me). Sort of like a medicinal slap to the face of a hysterical person.

Wayne turns to look at me all innocent like; “What?” he says with mock anguish, “it’s not like I would sleep with her….But I would watch somebody else do it.”

Well you gotta laugh, that is a good line. So I did what any writer would do. I took out my notepad and started to write it down for future use. This drew a quizzical look from the checkout clerk who had been watching the whole thing, and was not thrilled with the conversation. Some people are no fun! So I told her the lawyer makes me write down everything he says so we can hold it against him later.

I've Got a Talent For Picking Shows....Not

I don’t know why I wanted to, but we were watching America’s Got Talent last night. If you have ever seen the show you know that it is a “talent” contest for more than just singers, where three judges rate the acts. Sound familiar? Everyone hates the judge Piers (the Simon Guy), Sharon (Paula Abfool) loves everyone and David Hasselhoff (Randy, you rock dog) is a total dipshit.

It is amazing what passes for talent on this show, i.e. a lip syncing Tina Turner impersonator with a fat ass and a bad wig. So we decided to make it a little more fun. Each time the Hoff, as David likes to be known, proclaimed to an act that, “you” slur a little, “are what this show is all about.” we would take a drink. Object being to end up as drunk as the Hoff, pass out and not have to watch the show anymore.

Well, if by “you’re what this show is all about,” he means grown men crying for their Mama to be proud of them, strange little children with acts that make their Mama cry with pride, and freaks and geeks that make the rest of us cry, then drink up, cause it’s going to be a long night. You know it took a year after seeing Nacho Libre for Wayne to let me pick a movie again; I guess I better just hand over the remote because it’s going to be a long time before I get to pick a TV show again.

How Would You Like Your Steak?

I love it when Wayne and I go out to dinner. We have great fun talking about plans for our home and our books and our cabin and then he will say something so smart and funny it makes me laugh so hard I snort. It’s not always sunshine and roses, it’s a little bit of work to keep things this great, but it is totally worth it and I refuse to give into the snark. I have a half theory that one of the reasons women lose their husbands to younger women, is not because of their bodies, hair, and makeup, it’s because those girls haven’t become bitches yet. Seriously, treat him like more than a sperm bank and a paycheck and maybe he’ll surprise ya. But I digress.

Thursday I was feeling bratty and sorry for myself because Wayne had to work on Independence Day and I would be alone. Poor me at home doing what ever I want, (actually I went shopping) while Wayne is working yet another holiday. So, he took me out to dinner to make me feel better. (I told you I was a brat). We drove around and ended up at Hops; just because... why not? Well, we got a really great meal, a professional courteous server and only spent like $60 bucks. My trailer park may be showing, but this chain that we weren’t expecting much from, surprised us with a really good ahi tuna appetizer with a smoky twist, grilled Wayne’s steak Pittsburgh rare, and managed the three special requests on my order. It was not the Ritz, but we have paid a lot more and not had as good of an all around experience.

In case you're like me and don’t know, Pittsburgh rare means charred around the edges and practically cold and definitely bloody in the middle. Which led to our conversation regarding meat, sort of.. I asked Wayne, while he was scarfing up his steak, if he would eat the pilot of a plane he was on, that crashed in the mountains, to stay alive.

Between chews quite matter of factly, “Yes”.

“Well,” I said in a feeble attempt to get his goat, “which part would you eat first?”

He thought this over for not nearly long enough before replying, “Actually, I would eat the flight attendant first.”

Be Careful or Your Hair Will Turn Green

Note to self:
When you find blonde hair on Wayne's lapel, it belongs to you dumbass! Bleach, Chardonnay....ringing a bell? That's right, before getting all stabby take a quicky looksy in the mirror and check the color du jour. Ok? Ok!

No Review for You

I'm thinking that we are getting too many reviews on this blog. I love doing them, but I don’t want Lemon Tree to be all reviews so I am going to now do my Non-new reviews every other Thursday. When there is nothing in the new releases or you need suggestions for your queue, check out the Wendy’s reviews category for some of my favorites.

On a side note; tomorrow is the 4Th of July, so I am going blonde. UM? I don't know either; I just got a bug up my ass and decided to go blonde. I have been thinking about doing it and was going to Sunday, but got hammered and didn't get to it. I'll let you know how that works out.

Movie, Paint, Bleach and Chardonnay

Friday night Wayne and I had a date night and we went to see M. Knight Shamalamadingdong’s new movie, The Happening. It wasn’t. It didn’t suck but nobody’s going to be walking around saying “ I see plant people.” Still it was nice to have a night out, Wayne’s has been working so much lately and he deserves a little break. But it didn't last.

Saturday we worked like dogs. We have been painting the house since time began, but we are almost through. Unless you count the punch list which gets bigger and bigger the closer we get to done.

Sunday Wayne went back to work, but I kept on painting, in the 90 degree Florida sun, but we are almost through. ( Yeah, right) Later that day my co-cubie came over so we could dye each other’s hair. I am an aspiring kitchen beautician; not!!!

We didn't get to my hair and really we should have left her's alone, but it doesn't look that bad, and after all it will grow out. Tip: Don't mix hair bleach, Chardonnay, more Chardonnay, karaoke (in the daylight for God's sake) Chardonnay and then champagne. And here's why...When our husbands divorce us, and who could blame them really, we will looked like too much bleach blonde, streaky mop headed drunks, to get new ones.

Sales

We had a sales meeting today at work. It was one of those deals where they drag us all into the conference room, hop us up on coffee and doughnuts and make us do the company cheer. Rah rah shoot me now, go team, in the face. What’s our motto?...I ‘d rather have hot coals up my ass than be in this meeting! Well…I may have changed a few of the words but I’m sure a few other people were thinking the same thing.

I mean it really isn’t that bad, hell it’s time out of the cube so I can’t complain…but I will!

After all, management is offering us ways to make incentives for cross selling, that’s like extra pay just for being annoying and pushy, so again, can’t really complain, but I will. I was raised to be annoying and pushy for free. It just seems somehow tawdry to get paid for it. When you’re giving it away you can pick and choose, but put a sales quota on it and now I’ve got to push every Tom, Dick and Harry that dials my number. Now that’s annoying.

And the guy pimping this sales meeting was walking around saying stuff like, “There’s more where that came from if you hit your goals.” Or “Bend over backwards….for your team sales drive, the effort will pay off.” Every time one of the cubies chimed in with the desired response he’d toss a buck at them. Hell, had I known there was going to be an old guy at the meeting with a pocket full of $1 bills I would have worn a different outfit.

Crushin on My Captain

Saturday afternoon it was Captain Kirk and Saturday evening it was Captain & Tennille. I got Wayne to go out for a little Karaoke; I wonder if he regrets telling me he would give me everything I want? Probably not, that’s why I love him like a muskrat. Love will keep us together but maybe not Karaoke, however, he is a good sport and even sang two songs; he’s really pretty good, I wonder if he secretly likes to sing?

My first at bat, I hit a home run and got a fan. He was pretty old and said he had left his hearing aid at home, but I trust in his assessment of my Karaoke prowess, even if the old fart did grab my ass. Then Wayne sang and he was a hit too; so I grabbed his ass. By the time my next turned rolled around I had about 28 beers, the sound system misfired, so I had to stand there on stage for 2 agonizing minutes while it got fixed and restart my song twice. I bombed! Gawd, how quickly a drunken crowd forgets your past glory.

Wayne sang again, did great, got some applause but the crown was thinning and yawning. Beer, singing and the Florida heat can wear you out. I was determined to go out on a high note though. I was once told I have a soprano inside me I just have to let her out. NEVER believe anyone who is trying to sell you something; especially singing lessons. NEVER try to hit a note out of your range just because you’re drunk enough to think you can. And NEVER sing Broadway in a country bar. Uh Baby, can we go home now?

So the evening ended with me begging Wayne to do that to me one more time. And, once again living up to his promise to give me everything I wanted, he did! My Captain sang me one more love song on the home karaoke machine he bought me before tucking me in with 2 aspirin and a bottle of water.

Crushin on Captain Kirk

Saturday afternoons in my neck of the woods they show an episode of Star Trek and I love it because I love Captain Kirk. (In a totally sexual yet innocent way.) Mind you I am not a Trekky; I don’t go to the websites or the conventions or dress as Spock or Uhura at Halloween, that would ruin it for me. No, a good Saturday for me is to get some chores done and then settle in for an episode while half napping and waiting for Wayne to get home. The episodes are much better if you are half asleep; makes Kirk kinda dreamy like.

You should also not confuse my attraction for Captain Kirk with any sort of attraction for William Shatner. Though I enjoy his work save for TJ Hooker, should go without saying, I don’t have a have naughty little prepubescent girl lust for him like I does for Cap'in Kirk. Allow me to elaborate.

I don’t remember if I first saw Shatner as Kirk or as a disturbed man in an episode of The Twilight Zone; I just remember being a little girl and being totally ga-ga for Kirk. I…loved….yes loved……the way he…..talked. And the smoldering gazes, SHAZAM, hit me like a thunder bolt in my little, just discovering that boys aren’t all butt-cheese, heart. Hold me Captain, I am weak in the knees.

My brother had bunk beds in his room and would play Star Trek; the top bunk being the bridge. Sometimes I got to play, but not often, as he was older and a butt-cheese. I don’t remember what character my broham would be, but I sort of think of him as Scotty the engineer because he was always into electronics and is kinda of nerdy. (He actually went to a convention once.) If you got called up to the top bunk you were doing pretty good; usually I was the Ensign that got killed in the beginning of the episode when they beamed down to whatever planet.

I didn’t like playing with them anyway; I preferred to keep the Captain to myself. OOOO like when you got to stay home sick from school and there was an episode on. I wanted to be Kirk’s green Orion Slave Girl soooo bad. Or that episode where he gave Uhura the shirtless tonsillectomy; daaaamn! Had I been older I would have let Kirt go where no man had gone before, but that didn’t even occur to my little girl brain, I just wanted to be grown up so he could kiss me like that. SHIVER!!



A Playdoh colored fantasy in space all wrapped up after an hour and put away till next week.

Saturday afternoons can lead to some pretty good Saturday nights around here. All grown up, I get to be Captain Wayne’s beige, farmer tanned, oh so willing slave girl, and I get to be on top whenever I want.

Don't Hate Me Because I'm Beautiful

Today I have packed clothes and am going to the use the gym at work before I go home for the day. Wayne leaves the house for work in the morning with keys. I leave for work, a four hour shift, with an overnight bag. But no matter, because I am going to be so skinny that everyone will hate me. Wouldn’t that be a great way to be hated? Right up there with being hated for your tons of money.

I plan on putting in a solid thirty on the treadmill. Fifteen facing forward and fifteen facing backwards. I saw this on an episode of Biggest Loser; works the back side really well. I want to make sure to concentrate on keeping my backside looking good because I have been told I look better when I’m walking away.