Tales of Wit and Charm…

All summer long I’ve been making excuses why I can’t go swim in AK and Mrs. AK’s swimming pool.  The truth is that I haven’t felt comfortable in a swimming suit since 1996.  I know I’m not obese, but I’m certainly not fit enough to walk around in a two-piece.

I’ve wanted to attend some personal training sessions for years, but truthfully I’ve always been too self-conscious,  But this year I’ve decided to get over myself and do what it takes to finally be comfortable with my body.  I looked into the options my gym offers, but was less than impressed.  The Yuppie suggested his friend Tracey, who is a personal trainer.  I knew he wouldn’t recommend someone I would hate, mostly because he knows I’d bitch about it until his ears bled.

I met with Trainer Tracey this week and loved her.  She wasn’t intimidating at all, yet fit enough to kick my ass when I need it.  Which I will, since I’m lazy and really hate to sweat. The first session was a body and fitness assessment.  Saying I was pleasantly surprised with my results would be a complete understatement.  When she told me my body fat percentage I wanted to kiss her hard ON THE MOUTH!

My body fat was significantly lower than I expected.  I didn’t believe my results since they qualified me into the “athlete” category.  I asked her to double check, but she got the same results. I have bruises from those stupid skin fold calipers, but dammit those are the best bruises I’ve had in quite some time.  Yeah, I’d kill for some decent sex bruises, but that’s another post for another day.

Trainer Tracey and I decided to focus on endurance and toning, which I have a feeling will kick my ass since I was sore the day after a simple fitness test.  I’m forcing myself to stick with this for the next couple of months.  If only to reward myself with fitness prizes.  No, I’m not kidding.  Doesn’t every girl who loses a few pounds deserve running shoes covered in Barbie pink glitter?  I thought so.

Dear Google,

I’d like to thank you for reminding me what swimming sperm look like with today’s homepage image:

I admittedly have suffered a dating lull lately.  It’s good to know you’ll always be here for me to remind me of the good times when my bed was much, much busier.

Love,
Sarah

I wanted to be reminded of the insanity a lifetime of loneliness can cause, so RLO and I went to see Harold and Maude play at the Gallivan Center last night, as part of the Sundance Outdoor Film Festival.

Seeing one of my favorite cult classic movies play outdoors on 35 mm film is the perfect way to spend a summer evening.  RLO, however, would disagree.  Which may have something to do with the older woman next to him farting very loudly.  He sure can’t seem to escape gassy people and gassy dogs lately.

We took the scooter so I could practice driving with a passenger.  I’ve mastered riding alone, but have a little trouble still with someone on the back.  Usually I just make RLO drive me around town, but he’s finally decided it’s time I learn.  Really I think he’s just lazy—add that to the list of reasons to hate him.

On the drive back from the movie RLO said, “I’m riding bitch on a pink scooter, holding a pink blanket.  Now all I need is a box of tampons and I’ll be the textbook definition of neutered.”

I laughed, but had to stop and think, which looks worse: RLO riding bitch on a pink scooter, or RLO driving a pink scooter.

Internet, what do you think?!

Sometimes I think the Internet loves RLO more than they love me.  The majority of my email lately has been questions about him.  He’s stealing my thunder.  Bastard.

In typical jealous girl fashion I present you with a list of RLO facts that may cause you all to love him a little less, and me a whole lot more.

1)    RLO is moody.  Not moody all the time like I am, but if he doesn’t get his sleep he’s a pissy little bitch.

2)    RLO plays the piano.  Sure, one may believe that’s a good trait, but the only songs I’ve ever heard him play are Billy Joel.  Also, his piano is in his bedroom, which makes me wonder who exactly he is wooing into his bed.

3)    RLO hates Daisy.  I have no idea how anyone could hate that sweet, little innocent pug. Sure she farts up a storm and barks at him, but she’s only barking because he hates her.  Yesterday when we were outside with her, he told her there were treats in the road.  Who tries to lure a dog onto a very busy street?  A horrible person, that’s who.

Obviously RLO is an evil man. I’m doing everyone a favor by befriending him–keeping him busy keeps him from ruining the world.  That almost makes me a super hero, right?  Saving the world is very important business.  If I’m not acquiring super hero status, I at least deserve some sort of prize, or medal for my heroic actions.  Something sparkly and pink will do.

When in the country it’s key to look country.  Jack Daniels in your glove compartment does the trick!

I assure you this whiskey wasn’t mine. No really, it wasn’t; I’m a vodka girl.

Last night at the Clap Your Hands Say Yeah concert someone Rlo knew walked by.  He, of course, didn’t introduce me.

He pretends he’s protecting me from his Mormon friends and their wild heathen activities such as praying, and talking reverently about Jesus or kittens.  However, I know the truth: he’s protecting them from me and my need to use the word fuck at least 3,000 times a day.

“Was that one of your Mormons or school friends?”

“She’s a Mormon friend, and a nurse.”

“Another one?  How many naughty nurse friends do you have?”

“Let’s just say I’m covered in the sponge bath department.”

“Ohhh, if I ever get too lazy to shower can I borrow them?”

Rlo looked at me in disgust and said, “No, Sarah, I’ll hire that out.  It’s worth the money.”

I see absolutely no reason why Rlo should be embarrassed of my extreme laziness.  If anything he should be pleased, especially now during the Olympics.  Where’s his sense of competitive pride?  I’d fire him, but he’s irreplaceable.