Leap day.

Finally Wednesday night I had an awesome workout. Truth be told I've been struggling with working out, which is odd. It felt impossible to drag myself to the gym for just another ho'hum workout, I never left feeling energized or pumped. Rather just sweaty and disappointed.

It was seriously starting to piss me off.

The other night everything clicked into place. The spinning class was one of my best, discounting the wickedly bad charlie horses I kept getting in my left calf. I was really pissed that I had to ease up for the last two hard sets we did because it felt like my muscle was trying to pull right off my leg. It is still sore today, fucking pisser.

Because the charlie horse gimpy calf is still hurting I'm skipping the gym tonight, I don't want to make it worse. Plus I'm hoping that it'll stop being a little bitch so I can go to spinning tomorrow morning or tomorrow night (if I can't drag my ass out of bed in the morning).

Part of the reason I can't seem to get out bed is that I've been having really vivid dreams, everything feels so real. The other night I had a dream that the guy I'm interested in (hey! it's complicated-but I'll leave it at "I'm interested") told me he loved me (uh, so not even anchored in reality) then last night I had a dream he told me he didn't want to see me anymore because he was never, ever going to commit. Of course this last dream has induced me to become Mademoiselle Crankypants today. Yes, it wasn't real, but yet it completely bummed me out.

Adding to the crankiness is the massive subterranean cystic-like blemish that is forming on my chin. Something so large and heinous it will effectively move me into Quasimodo territory and I'll to become a shut-in until it subsides. Let me digress for the moment, I hate all words for blemish- except for, well, blemish. Zit and pimple cause me to physically shudder and thus I cannot bare to even think about them otherwise I'll be mistaken for someone with a seizure disorder.

The last thing I'll bitch about is the weather. February seems like the longest month in the history of man, it's been gray and depressing with only occasional snowfalls to brighten the dismal, soul crushing bleak landscape that is southeastern Ohio in the winter. Right now I might sell a non-vital organ for a warm, sunny local and a drink with a tiny paper parasol in it.


The weekend, it was nice.

This last Friday Yumi and I decided to go out to happy hour. And something unusual happened, we actually went home after 2 drinks like responsible adults!

What? Shocking? Am I turning into a boring oldie?

Probably not, considering it was just two weeks ago I was stealing friend's beers and then chugging them when they didn't drink them fast enough. Of course then in my drunken state repeatedly (probably yelling) into my phone that we were out celebrating my friend's divorce. Which really wasn't the case, we were out to give moral support- not celebrating. But at 8 beers that line becomes very much blurred and everything seems like it is more fun. Even divorce.

Granted I wasn't the one getting divorced so I guess that statement could be considered completely bogus and unprovable.

Saturday night I finished a knitted gift for my friend's birthday, well- I need to add the buttons to it and it's done. Hurrah. I also made Orangette's brown butter cookies. Which of course she admonishes bakers to let sit for 2 days to allow the flavors develop. But clearly I couldn't wait, because I lack all self control, and busted into a couple of them post-baking. They are delicious. Make them.

But I did manage to put the rest of them away and am going to use all -2% of the willpower I possess not to eat them until Tuesday.

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So boring

What have I been doing lately? It really seems to be a whole lot of nothing. I feel trapped in that wintery craptastic mood where I just don't feel like leaving the house, yet desperately want to get the fuck out of town. I've also been mysteriously exhausted without any real explanation and it is seriously pissing me off. As a side effect I've not gone to the gym in what feels like forever and thusly feel like my pants are too tight.

Which is sort of a problem because I only own like 4 pairs of pants that acceptable for public viewing. And mysteriously one pair has gone missing and one of my favorite pairs has developed a hole. A hole that renders them unwearable. Bugger.

This morning in an effort to stop the slow progression outward of my belly I went to spinning. And I do feel better, and now am slightly tempted to go to another spinning class after work. Because not fitting into my pants isn't an option, people. Pantless Suzanne is not a good thing.

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Lets discuss that my favorite show, Jericho is back. With a nod to it's fans it showed a character eating peanuts in the first couple of minutes. Whoohoo. That is how you treat your fans. You also treat them right by giving them a kick ass episode, with lots of Skeet and Stanley and Mimi. Toss in some Heather too (I could use more though) and I'm a happy girl.

Not so much the Emily. She's still a dumbass, who can't bake a cake.

Also the whole Stanley/Mimi proposal scene made me cry. Cry like I was being the one proposed too. It was awesome. I covet Mimi's skin. She has that beautiful healthy glow with lots of freckles. As someone who recently re-discovered her freckles this summer (I didn't get them for 10 years) I am covetous. I'm sad that I don't have them now that I'm trapped in the dregs of winter.

And since I'm lacking a perfect transition I'll just throw myself into another topic entirely without regard to flow. What? You don't want to hear me talk about dating again? Tough.

Recently I was reading a popular online magazine and the discussion of who pays for what on a date came up. I have to say I was SHOCKED at some of the responses from women. There was no shortage of women who would refuse a second date with a man if they took them up on their offer of going dutch. Really?

You offered, what is so wrong about them accepting it?

I don't know, personally I've always preferred going dutch on dates...at least in the beginning. For me it's about the sense of independence I've had ingrained into my psyche since I was a little girl. I come from the school of thought that I can pay for my own damn dinner, thank you very much. At Christmas time I went out with a male friend and he was totally shocked when at the end of the night I pulled out my wallet to pay for my share of drinks. He kept saying "But you are a girl you don't pay for things, right?!" At some point I missed the memo that said no penis = not having to pay for your drinks.

There was also more than a few who thought that the man should pay for dinner because he is getting the pleasure of her company. Ok, why not just call your self a hooker and be done with it?

I don't know, maybe that was harsh?

I think there is entirely too many expectations of what the other person should and should not do, sometimes it feels impossible to get it right. But perhaps you have to believe it will all shake out correctly in the end?

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Frightening Realization.

Last night I managed to accumulate three hours total of sleep. That's it.

Between my mind being unwilling to shut off and then the nasty spat of storms that rolled through I just didn't sleep at all. Which is why I laid in bed until 8:15 this morning and didn't shower before coming into the office- hence the baseball hat and pony tail. The fact that I still managed to make a phone call to my sister (I needed reassurance I wasn't losing my mind) and make it into work by 8:45 is amazing. Actually that is the latest I've been in the office since I don't know when. If you would have told me that years ago I would have laughed in your face, by nature I'm much more of night owl. I could stay up all night reading, drawing, writing, and drinking. But slowly over the years I've forced myself to get up earlier and earlier. And come to the frightening realization that I sort of like it. I blame my father, the man is a natural morning person. I fear I caught it from him.

It is those little things that smack you full on in the face and you sit up and say "Holy shit. I'm turning into my mother/father." And then you cry into your plate of eggs.

It isn't that you don't love your parents but just that you never quite believed that you would become so very much like them. And really, my parents are wonderful people. I should want to emulate them in a lot of ways but there is still a small part of me that wants to be different- like a petulant teenager.


Damnit, whatever.

There is absolutely no hope of me writing anything resembling a cohesive post today, filled with witty transitions and insightful, pithy observations.

Instead, I feel like a haggy, lumpy, limp-haired old shoe who just wants to sit on her couch and maybe cry a bit while watching a Lifetime or Hallmark movie. (Don't judge me, I actually was disappointed this weekend when I realized my cable provider doesn't offer the Hallmark channel. I often mock and hate the sap of Lifetime, but sometimes there is nothing more delicious than a Tori Spelling made for tv movie in which the nanny steals her baby and then her husband while trying to kill her.)

I tried to take a picture of me wearing the hat I finished this weekend and after 15 shots that nearly brought me to tears I gave up. The damn hat looks like the one a couple of posts ago, except it's blue.

I'm going home soon, at which I've decided I'm going to open that blasted $15 a bottle of champagne that I bought for New Years.Then I'm going to cover my face in a mask that smells like chocolate, pluck my eye brows, repaint the nails I chipped yesterday, and give myself a pedicure. After that I'll probably be drunk enough to start making random phone calls to people. If I've got your number I'd like to apologize in advance for anything I might say.

Then I'll probably pass out.

Good plan.