It’s me. The end.

It’s a sad day in America when one gets excited about gas that is $3.55 a gallon.  It’s even more sad when one drives 10 miles out of the way to get it for $3.52.

I mean, this is not a bargain by any means.  It still costs the price of a small island just to fill up  my tank.  But I have to admit … anytime the gas prices drop a penny, I gets me a tickle in the belly and a song in my step.  And then I make Autumn high-five me in the car.

She no likeee that part one bit.  As evident by stink eye and disgruntled noise from throat.  Cuz I guess when you are almost 15 years old, a high-five from your mom is just like a big hug in front of all your friends.  Very very very not allowed.

Hmmphf.

But back to gas.  I’m not the only one who gets excited.  Last night (after I fill up my tank full of delicious $3.52 gas), Brad calls me and tells me the gas station across town messed up and was selling gas for $2.58.

Erlack!

The universe, ONCE AGAIN, has done tipped sideways.  In fact, it’s probably hurling uncontrollably through outer space as we speak.  Cuz I know for certain if things were right with this world, Jesus would have spared me that extra $18 I spent on MY gas.  Cuz He know I have better things to do with my money.

Like lattes.  Or casino-ing.

Poo.

Brad has a little laugh at my expense, and I suppress very mightily the urge to poke him up the backside.  Cuz I know for sure he no likeee THAT.

So now Brad is speeding his way across town to claim his share of the gold, calling all his friends and family in the process.  And then of course, he hauls the gigantic Suburban up there next.  Might as well take advantage of the situation as much as possible.

Which brings me to this point:  When was even $2.58 a good price for gas?  I mean, that’s still over $2 a gallon, which was the number that brought us into this mess in the first place.  I suppose we are just slaves to our environment … we adjust when we have to, then get excited when things take a turn for the better, even if it’s not really all that better in theory.

Which then brings me to this additional point:

DAMMMMMMMMIT!  Eighteen dollars down the effing hole.  And my week of coconut lattes down with it.  Blah.  I swear, next time some gas station decides to have a pricing accident, I dadgum better be first in line.  Served special by cute pump boy (Brad) who delivers free cappucino, (winning) lottery ticket, and a nice squeegee of the windshield.

Cuz if we gonna to do this, we gonna do it right.

I am pleased to say that I have gone to the gym four times since last week.  FOUR TIMES.  That’s like, ohhhhh, about four times as much as I have ever gone before.  It truly is amazing.

However, on the bad side … I am a horrible sweater.  For reals, ya’ll.  It is the most unattractive thing you’ve ever seen.  I was on the treadmill for about 3 minutes and the moistness had already set in.  Brad, on the other hand, cranked it up to full speed, had a leisurely run for a bit, then afterwards … it was as if nothing had went on at all.  I don’t know how he does it, stay all fresh and pretty like that, but what I do know is this:

I need to master that Ninja Sweating Technique.  And fast.

You know something’s up when your own daughter hands you a towel out of the clear blue and for no apparent reason.  Cuz seriously, that girl doesn’t ever do anything without having been told five times.  So this must’ve been a dire situation, for sure.  I say, what’s the towel for?  And she say, take care of that business like yesterday.

Pfft.

I’m trying to be a good exerciser, I really am.  Ya’ll know how much I’ve hated physical activity.  So the mere fact that I am in the gym, like just physically present, is a miracle in itself.  And then for me to actually attempt a jog on the treadmill is about the time when hell freezes over.  And also about the time I pee my pants a little and so I cut that biz like pronto.  No sense in torturing those around me as well.

On Monday night, we are walking out of the gym, and I’m kind of feeling good about myself and the fact that I lifted weights and didn’t break a groin or something, when Brad turns to me and gets this contemplative look on his face.  I about thought he was going to propose like right there on the jogging track, but out comes this instead:

“You sweat a lot, don’t you?”

I could have punched him in the neck.  Especially cuz that’s no where close to being a diamond ring.  He should really preclude statements like that with a look that matches, like a stink eye at the minimum.  Prepare me a little bit, ya know?  Otherwise, we be getting engaged before he knows he even wanted to.  Cuz sometimes my brain takes a vacay into Fantasyland, and I don’t hear what you say after you give me the googly eyes.  In fact, just try telling me you didn’t propose and see what happens.

Brad – Proposal = Inadvertent Vasectomy.

Oopsie.

Going to the gym by myself tonight.  Where I can sweat grossly in private.  And then when I get home, I’m going to give Brad the giantest hug ever.  And then prolly stick my forehead on him.  Like on his cheek, close to his mouth, where he likes it best.

Yeahhhhh.  So you wanna talk about that ring now?

Well, that settles that.  I’ve finally figured out how crazy starts.  NOT pretending I have my own cooking show.  NOT living inside my head where I am skinny and fabulous.  Nooooo.  Those would be a much nicer way to begin.  Instead …

I’ve joined a dadgum gym.

I swear, my body’s been taken over by extraterrestrials.  Cuz seriously, ya’ll know I wasn’t in my right mind when I signed the dotted line.  I’ve been brainwashed.  Bamboozled.  Bullied by the Queen Barbie herself.

Poo on that Mama.

Turns out, mama gets the giggles when she puts her first born child through the torture that is the Elliptical.  I mean, have you been on this machine?  It’s practically barbaric.  It was probably a World War II torture device in another life.  I swear, I was on it for no more than 30 seconds, and my thighs were on fire.  Mama say, “Don’t lift your feet off the peddles when you walk.”  I say, “Get me off this damn thing.”

I did fare better on the bicycle and the treadmill.  At least on those things, I can trick myself into thinking I am simply going out for a latte or something.  Cuz I’m pretty sure nobody ellipticals to the coffee shop.  Or at least not the crazy ones.

However, mom gets on the treadmill beside me and kicks it up to 4.7 miles per hour.  I’m going 1.5 and sweating like it’s my damn job.  Showoff.  So I increase my speed a little bit, and I promise you this:  If I wasn’t holding on for dear life, I’d be chillin’ face down in someone else’s sweaty footprint.  Cuz those treadmills keep moving, even if you ain’t.

Brad decides he gonna show that mama a thing or two, and forces her into a rousing game of racquetball.  Turns out, mama is scared of racquetball.  Cuz there be flying balls every where, and they will hit you if you’re not looking.

Come to think of it, I was kind of scared of it too.  Especially after I went running down the court to retrieve one of my balls, and I sort of peed my pants a little bit.   Crap.

But on the bright side, I weighed about 5 pounds lighter when we were done.  Then mama said their scales were broken, and I about slapped her in the neck.  Guess I’m gonna actually have to work when we go work out.  Another reason to believe the universe is stupid.

Get back home, sweaty but exhilarated.  Feeling good about the exercise, doing something healthy for my body.

So I had myself a really, really enormous brownie.

Whaaa…..?????

Baby steps, ya’ll.  Baby steps.

Brad and I have had a couple of good streaks at the casinos lately.  So either Taurus is in the rising house of Mercury in the 8th sector of the moon.  Or low cut shirts really do work.

(If it’s the second, I’m going to have to take momma out with me more often.  Fake boobies rule.  And men are just pathetic little putty wads in the hand … )

Which brings me to a point.  Women certainly don’t lose all functionality, rationality or sensibility when a dude in a nice pair of pants walks by.  But if it’s a woman in a V-neck shirt, men become blathering idiots, complete with drool and zombie eyes.  It’s really quite funny.  And handy.  Hence the casino success story.

That follows.

Hell, what did I just go on about?  I’ve completely lost my train of thought.  Shut up, Brain.

Anyhoo.  Back on track.

I mentioned last post how Brad and I won $400 at the Three Card Poker table.  It was at the grand opening of a new resort, and aside from standing up at the table in the food court (because of no chairs, not because we wanted to cuz that = exercise), it worked out to be a rather profitable and successful evening.  I mean, I’d stand up and eat some onion rings if it guaranteed a table win.

So we started with some Blackjack.  Unfortunately, the table minimum was $10, and all I had was a 20.  But I did it anyway, slid my two sad little red chips into the betting circle, right next to the guy with an Eiffel Tower of chips.  I’m sure he was thinking I was about to throw the synergy of the table with my pathetic minimum bet, but surprisingly, I won, he won, and his little Asian friend popped up out of nowhere with a rousing“Table win!” gesture.  Which then had me thinking, All right, Alkie.  Simmer down.

Anyway, ya’ll know how the night ended … with $200 a piece in our pockets.  Figured luck was on our side, so we tried our Blackjack/Three Card strategy once again on Saturday night.

Lemme just say this … Super Fun 21 is NOT super fun.  We lost $40 in five minutes.  What the sam hell?  So we go to 6 Deck BlackJack.  Did better, but not the best.  But we had enough money built up to feel comfortable shelling out the big bucks on the Three Card.

And quickly, just like that, Brad and I became celebrities.  The pit boss practically fell over himself trying to sign us up for the Player’s Club.  It was hilarious.  I was like, where’s my comp suite and cocktails?  Dammit!  Lobster dinner, pronto!

We ended up with 9 little black chips.  It was the best night of our lives.  We walked away happily and responsibly.  Then the douche bag from our table walked past us about 10 minutes later and said if we had played one more hand, we would have gotten Triple Aces.

Erlack!

Why did he have to tell us that?  I hate that guy.  I want him thrown out.  Cuz we are members of the Player’s Club and that apparently = everything.

However, the good news is that we leave the casino with all our winnings intact.  Split evenly and pocketed safely.  Even better news … getting to spend my winnings on something better than car insurance.  Weeeee!  And although there was no lobster dinner involved, being Player’s Club members does have other benefits.  Cuz after 2 hours of playing cards, Brad and I racked up one dollar each to spend on whatever we effing liked. 

Ha.  Told you we were celebrities.

I said it before and I’ll say it again:  This world’s done tipped sideways.

And it’s all Brad’s fault.

Turns out, winning $400 at the three card poker table means I put my $200 up for car insurance and Brad uses his for jeans at The Buckle.  What in holy sam hell is that mess?  How did I get to be the responsible one?  Granted, he did buy me a nice green shirt and a microdermabrasion kit, but now the shirt has a tiny hole in it and I’m pretty sure the microdermabrasion kit will burn my face off.  And then where will I be?

With 6 months of legalized driving, that’s where.

Pfft.

Secondly, I’ve gone on a water diet.  Figure maybe I can lose 5 or 10 pounds.  Which would be great, right?  Except for one thing:  water tastes like crap.  It is the most boring of all things boring (with the exception of exercising and wiping sweat off tanning beds, of course).  But I’m doing it just to see what happens.

Then I find out.

Brad drinks more soda.  Right in front of me.  With extra lip-licking and gulping noises and everything.  He is like a dying man in the desert or something.  It’s like, was soda that delicious before, or do you just like to torture me?  Hmmpfh.

Blah blah blah with your fancy drinks.  That’s all I got to say about that.

And I swear, if I don’t lose some weight, I’m karate chopping somebody in the throat.  And by somebody, I clearly mean Brad.  Cuz no one gets to drink that much soda in front of me and get away with it.

In correlation with this new water thing, I’m also trying to eat better.  So I’m living it up with my tubs of yogurt and whole grain crackers.  Hell, if you showed me a burger right now, I’d probably throw up in my mouth a lil bit.

(And if you believe that, there be some karate chopping for you, too.)

So imagine my thoughts when Brad calls me yesterday on lunch break and tells me how hard it is to decide what to eat while he’s parked at the effing Sonic.  And then when he settles on a pile of bacon cheese fries.  While I am trying to swallow down my 98-cent Lean Gourmet.

There be some mental squishing of his head between my fingers right about now.  If he’s not careful, he’ll be sending me to Latte Town in two seconds.  Or Burger Ville.  Or Cheesecake City.  Anywhere that’s not 98% fat free.  Seriously, I’m being tortured by visions of potatoes swimming in an ocean of cheese.

Poo.

Brad, I love you.  But I will come after you in a heartbeat.  Especially if you are holding a bucket of macaroni salad or something.  I am trying very hard to be good, so if you could be a sweetie and just lie and say you’re having carrot sticks for lunch, that’d be great.

In the meantime, you better guard your Little Debbie’s and fancy drinkies.  And prolly your fingers, too.

You know, just to be on the safe side.

So I’m sitting at work, right?  All ready to do some travel agent.  I turn on the computer, go through my emails and check the list of pending reservations.  So far so good, right?

Boot up the internet and all hell breaks loose.  Here’s what ensues:

Checking Yahoo mail.  Leads to clicking on “My Yahoo” for customized list of celebrity news.  Where I proceed to read about Pete Wentz Makes Out With Guys! or Amy Whinehouse Back To Rehab!  You know, the important stuff.

Next, I look at my bank account.  Balancing the checkbook — very very necessary.  Now, the phone is probably ringing somewhere around this point, but I am in a trance-like state and most likely ambivalent to outside work-related noises.

It happens.

Gotta catch up on my fellow bloggers!  Might as well click on their Flickr links while I’m there.  And of course, I can’t forget my online book group.  After all, I’m the moderator, and therefore must lead a good example.  Otherwise, the ladies in there might go all kinds of crazy.  Lorraine, you know how you do.

Customer coming in.  I heard our door ding.  As long as I face this way, they can’t see me.  I have the invisible shield on.  La la la la la la la!

Speaking of books, Amazon is fun to browse through.  I like to do my research, keep up on my favorite authors, maybe perhaps buy a book that I will read in about 3 years.  Again, very important shopping to be done here, as you can see.

Oh, wait!  The Good Cook Book Club is having a summer sale!  One can never have too many cookbooks, can they?  Or really, any kind of item that is 50% off.  Because truthfully, it’s practically saving money to buy it.  No matter what it is.  Plus, I can justify a sale like nobody’s business.  Which is how I became the owner of that nail care kit I can’t use.  And the two super shammies I bought for … you guess it … the price of one. 

Time for a breaky break!  All this working’s done worn me out.  Horray for lattes, I’d say.  Or doughnuts.  Cookies … chips.

Dammit!  There really shouldn’t be coffee or a Quizno’s nearby.  It make me fat.  Blah.

Anyhoo, back at work.  I’m on level 37 on Diner Dash.  I swear, I’ve been on this level for two weeks, and if something don’t happen pretty soon, I may go all l;sdlkjl;gakjj;lkdj on my computer.  Seriously, how hard is it to sit the little people down at their little tables and bring ‘em a dadgum sammich?  If it wasn’t for the businessmen talking on their cell phones the whole time, everyone else in the diner would be much happier and wouldn’t leave the table without paying their bill.  And then I’d get more points and get to move to level 38, and …

Shizzzzzzznit.  Phone again.  Figure I should answer it but my finger’s got a cramp.  Oh well.  That’s what the co-workers are for.  I likeee them.

Screw Diner Dash.  I’m going to see what else I can play.  Ooooh, Sally’s Spa looks fun.  And Burger Island, and Dress Shop Hop.  I’ll just download all of them cuz options are nice.   In the meantime, better check the email again.  Cuz Brad is no doubt stalking me this morning.  It’s what he do.

Guess I better write me a blog post.  Entertain my peeps.  I don’t have anything interesting to say, so it’ll probably take me a couple hours to come up with something worth writing.  I’ll just have to think a bit.  So I’m gonna lay my head down on my desk for one li t  tlllle .. s .. ec … dgh  arfdg ifdjkj

…

…

…

Whaaa… ??  Woah.  Where was I?

Hmmpfh.

Well, the point of the story (you forgot there was one, didn’t you?) …

I have Work ADD.  I cannot concentrate on one thing at all whatsoever when I’m at work.  It’s nigh on impossible.  My mind flits back and forth between thoughts like I am a Brad on the interstate with no cops around.  It’s crazy.

However, odd thing is … I can concentrate like hell when watching DVR, reading a book, or eating mashed potatoes.  Just try rousing me out of my stupor then, my friends.  Either I ignore you or I bite you.  It’s that simple.

Now, before mom gets upset, I must say this Work ADD only applies to travel agent.  Cuz when I’m at the video store, I am a drill sargeant.  For reals, you should see me.  I never ever sit down or fall asleep in tanning beds.  Ever.  When customers come in, I am the first to greet them, and never do fake vom noises in the trash can when smarmy Bob heads off to the Big Bed.  I pay for all my candy purchases, and vacuum the corners.  I make little girls pay for candy bars they try to steal and scrape off gum they try to eat from beneath the clearance bin.  I am G.I. Jane but without the bald head (or rock hard body, but whatev).  No one messes with my mama’s store.  Period.

(Mama, you should so be laughing right about now.)

Alrighty, I’ve been typing this post long enough.  Gotta get back to work.  And by “work” I mean … well, you know what I mean.  That ADD thing strikes again.