Sunday Bloody Sundae!

OK! I have officially broken my no gym rule. Yes, I belong to a gym. Yes, I have a lifetime membership and faithfully watch as monthly fees are deducted from my checking account each month. And no. I do not actually go to the gym.
In a moment of weakness/stupidity ten years ago, I signed a lifetime commitment to Bally's Fitness Centers. Now, if you know anything at all about mysuestories, it's that commitment is not exactly one of my strong points. (Geez, there's a surprise for ya, husbands one through twelve!)
It's not that I don't believe I will maintain such an exercise relationship, it's just that very often I believe I'd rather have a second plate of pasta or another drink rather than waste all that energy going to the gym.
So, monthly fees be damned, I broke up with my gym. Okay. It WAS rather a one sided relationship to begin with. I had to make all the commitments, and it was my responsibility to always go to HIM. Not once did he show appreciation, either, unless you count the pain he made me endure.
Even after the break up, he'd still taunt me. I could see him leer and posture as I would drive by, all the while me keeping my eyes cautiously tuned to the Baskin Robbins across the street.
Monthly he would send love letters on my bank statements upon which he still extracted his royalties!

Any yet still I resisted. What did HE have to offer me anyway? Health? Over rated. Happiness? Not nearly as much happiness as in an ice cream caramel covered super sundae deluxe with crumbled Oreo's on top. The hot bod? I think I've pretty much come to terms with the notion that my Anna Nicole Smith/ Pamela Anderson swimsuit days are well behind me.
(Oh! But THOSE days!! Brief? Yes! But Great? Oh yea!)

Anyway, three days into an extremely relaxing do nothing vacation, I hit the local fitness center. I jogged, I walked, I swam. Every day. I even picked up a tennis racket (which I just as quickly put down when I remembered that all I knew about tennis could be written on the backside of a fly!)

So, here it is Sunday. 48 hours after we returned from our most relaxing vacation. And for the second time in as many days, I have revisited my old beau, Gym.
Yep. We walked, and jogged and swam, just like old times. We both left this encounter having invested more than a little sweat, and I must say, I almost look forward to going back tomorrow.

After all, if I stay true to form again tomorrow, that will be day #3 I will have earned (And YES treated myself) to the lovely caramel covered ice cream sundae with crumbled Oreo's!
Finally! An incentive worth going to the gym for!

Painstakingly Beautiful

Hello, constant reader... It's good to see you here again. Thanks for being on stand by while the Mountain Man and I were busy collecting more data for future mysuestories....Hmmmm, that DOES make these little trips a tax write off, doesn't it?

Anyway... you may remember, one of our last detail sharing (read- embarasing) adventures here at mysuestories (lurkers our specialty!), was the of the very handsome Mountain Man getting a (gasp) pedicure for his mountainous feet.

From My Pedi Valentine

This mini-foot spa treatment (and by mini, I'm not talking about his feet, but rather the treatment!), you may recall, left our head of household at the mysuestories ranch very happy.

From My Pedi Valentine

And happy he was. Happy, that is, until two days later, when in a very revealing mankini (OK, they were surf boarding shorts- I'm not ready to unleash MY man in a banana hammock onto parts unknown just yet!) I noticed THIS on the Mountain Man's previously unscathed lamb chop.

From My Pedi Valentine

It appears that our local Asian Walk In Day Spa is really a cover for Jeffrey Dahmer's Slice 'Em and Dice 'Em Butcher Shop! And while under the guise of scrubbing supposedly dead skin off his legs, she apparently removed a few live layers of dermis as well. Perhaps they run a skin donor program on the side?
Not to worry, dear reader. My own Nurse Ratchet alter ego kicked in and prescribed plenty of liquids and rest for our poor maimed Man Of the World.

From My Pedi Valentine

From My Pedi Valentine

As you can see, he is not one to complain when being administered to with Baileys and sunshine pool side.
That Mountain Man! What a brave little buckeroo!

Leaving On A Jet Plane

Today the Mountain Man and I headed south to escape some of the New York weather.

We flew from from JFK to Charleston, No Carolina after a journey that began at 2:30 am when the Mountain Man very lovingly planted his foot firmly in the center of my back and pushed me out of bed, proclaiming "Honey, it's vacation time!"

Ain't he sweet?

The early am car drive to the airport was a bit of a blur, as my eyes were still glued shut. ( Due to no fault of yours, dear Alex-our favorite car service oeprator!)

Anyway, after intermittently sleeping like a pretzel on the first 1 and a half hour leg of our journey, the Mountain Man and I decided to kick thngs up a notch.

Once in Charleston, we upgraded our "Coach" vouchers. Keep in mind, constant reader, that in the airline world, "Coach" is not quite as prestigious as in pocketbook world!

From First Class

Anyhow, we upgraded to First Class (for a mere 25% of the original upgrade fee-Thank you very much Mrs. Travel Agent!), where we were seated first and generally treated just like Billy Idol in Adam Sandler's "The Wedding Singer".

A little First Class insider info:
Have you ever noticed in the back of the plane, you're always told they can't serve cocktails until you're in flight?
Well, in the front of the plane, coctails of all types are served BEFORE coach even boards.
Oh, and those cocktails? Absolutely free.

From First Class

Mountain Man and I figured if we kept a steady pace of drinking, we will have well surpassed the additional $150. upgrade fee before our FREE inflight meal was even served!

Giddy on imagined wealth and airline cocktails, we tried not to sneer as the mere ordinary folks wereled like cattle to those seats behind the curtain--talk about a social barrier!

Mountain Man laughed as I commented on the riff raff ---reminding me that after about one more cocktail, "WE would be the Riff Raff!"

hey, I'll bet you didn't know that in first class, they don't show you how to inflate that little life vest that is expected to sustain you in shark infested waters after a 35,000 foot fall from the sky in a huge hunk of metal.

Nope. They have a steward who blows up each one for you.
And, i suspect, frequent flyers of the premiere club are shown to the exits first. I guess they want to make sure the sharks dine well on us "fat cats" before tossing out the rest of the passengers into the great blue sea!

Well, constant reader, i gotta go. New cocktails just arrived, and a decision has to be made as to which (FREE) entree to dine upon...

Sigh, I guess the cold cut platter with fresh fruit and strawberries will have to do.

From First Class

Well, if we walk like rich ducks and fly like rich ducks, why do I still have a hankering for an eight dollar ham and swiss hero from coach?

Oh My Darling Toe Jam Tine-

Happy Valentine's Day, dear readers, (yes, plural..I am feeling pleasantly optimistic!)

As promised in yesterday's cliff hanger, I took my dear, sweet Mountain Man completely out of his element (read: beer, bodily noises, and anything fishing and hunting), and treated (ha!) him to a day of feet pampering.
That's right. My Valentine's Day gift to him/us was a stop at the local spa, where we BOTH (That's right..BOTH) had pedicures!

Now, I generally do my OWN pedicures and manicures at home. It's cheaper, and I am pretty damn good at it, if I may(and I do) say so myself. However, I HAVE been and DO go to the spa occassionally for the professional treatment of toes and fingers.
And...There's no way in hell I was gonna attempt a spa treatment on HIS feet! (Having a VISA card? PRICELESS!)
So, off to the salon we went...

Now, if you know ANYTHING about the mountain man, you would know that he and his 250 lb, six foot frame are not exactly akin to having strange asian women play with his
feet while sitting in an automatice massaging chair built for size six women.

Apparently, the three Korean women in the shop argued over WHO would have to deal with this Toe Jam Travesty. I don't speak Korean, but I'm pretty sure the words "I no do General Stinky Tsaos stinky toes!" were a firm denial of service. Suffice to say the oldest/ homeliest female in the salon drew the short straw.

Anyway, there was my hulk of a handsome man in a chair six sizes too small..

From My Pedi Valentine

And THEN he figured out the remote massage.

From My Pedi Valentine

"It rubs the lotion on it's skin, or it gets the hose again,"

From My Pedi Valentine

When the woman asked the Mountain Man to roll his pants up higher for the "Supreme Pedicure And Massage", I swear, he DID NOT offer to remove them altogether.....(Okay...I just WISHED that was the way it had played out...)

From My Pedi Valentine

Oh well. At least at the end of the day it paid off, (even if i can NEVER go back to that salon again!)
This is how the Mountain Man's feet look tonite:

From My Pedi Valentine

Whoops... A little too much info there...
Nope...THIS is what he looked like, REALLY, I swear!

From My Pedi Valentine

Shit! It's only toes, right?

My Funny Valentine

Okay, I'm going to let you, constant reader, in on a little Valentine's Secret.
Tomorrow, I am taking the Mountain Man AND his adorable size 13 feet for a pedicure!
Any polish color suggestions, dear reader?

From Pedicure Plans

Now all I have to do is contact all his big, burly hunting friends so they can wave at him through the window!
Trust me..you don't want to miss THAT post!


Happy Valentine's Day, dear reader(s)! I'd take (all of) you with me if I could!

That Doggy has Style

My girlfriend once asked me why I don't carry around our "lap" dogs in public. THIS would be why.

From Doggy Do Doggy

Note to friend: Yes, the two in the background are the males: Mickey (I guess you could say is in the rear?) and Bruno is the rear.
Notice Bruno never stops eating. And yes, sadly, Rusty, in the foreground, is the only female.
Poor Rusty. Must be her perfume. Sorry, sweetie. It's a dog eat dog world out there. Or maybe it's just a dog eat Bruno world.
You won't see this at the Westminster Kennel Club.
Sigh.

The Hen House

Ok, kids, here's a little bit of a different look at mysuestories.
I work in a hen house.
Technically, it's an office, with computers buzzing (mainly tuned to the internet!), and papers churning, but that's where any differences end.
I work (read-lay eggs) along with six other very strong willed chicks, in veryclosequarters. We are typically on our perches hours before the sun rises, and we spend the next 10 hours or so pushing out those golden eggs. (In our cases, those golden eggs we bear are for the baskets held by "Management" -best spoken in the voice of the troll -like midget from that classic, albeit short lived HBO series, Carnival).

We are seven very different chicks at varying laying stages of our lives. Some of us have yet to fertilize our first eggs, while several of us are watching our hatchlings hatch chicks. Suffice it to say, there is enough hormonal energy in this VERY small hutch to supply a third world country with enough nukes to become a major player in World War III.

Have you ever even tried to regulate the temperature for such a wide range of mother hens? Half want the air conditioning set to Alaskan temperatures, while the rest have under desk heaters searing their little chicken legs to a nice crispy brown.
It is best to come to work in a bikini layered with sweats, pants, shirts, and sweaters, so as to accomodate your own temperature. Trust me, summers have some chicks working naked, while others are wearing ski jackets. I kid you not.
Forget the fact that when "Management" (herein known as Foghorn Leghorn)enters the roost disturbing the hard laying chicks, there is a gaggle of sqwarking and the feathers do in fact fly!

The sqwarking concerns any number of highly intelligent chicken tid bits-
Who's being catty (deadly in a hen house, I tell ya!) -That would probably be me.

Who's not working nearly as hard as the other chicks - That would be all of us,as we are ALL THE MOST HARD LAYING OF THEM ALL.

Who's hair is a mess- Me again.

Who's stealing all the best vacation times- Um, guilty here.

Who's starting the rumor that we are all nothing but a bunch of chickens with our heads cut off---um, Mrs. K.? -You may have to own THAT one!

Anyway. We ARE like a bunch of chickens in a tiny coop. And we do Cluck while we go about our business of laying the golden eggs. And yes, the feathers really DO fly when a fox is in our hen house.

But you know what? As long as I gotta lay eggs (and I do, just ask the Mountain Man!), I'd rather do it with these chicks, all of them. Come hell of high water, I wouldn't trade them for finest chicks in town.

Actually, if I did trade 'em in, I'm afraid I might end up with a bunch of turkeys!

Thank you, no. I'll just keep my eggs in THIS basket, thank you very much.

From The Hen House

SWARK!