Enough About Me ...

As admitted in an earlier blog, I run on a treadmill. Granted, this is a seasonal affair as running in the rain in the dark is not only tough to commit to, it's dangerous. Some danger comes from a few close calls with automobiles not seeing me and let's not even get started about the host of serial killers the northwest has nurtured. But that's not what this blog is on about. I'm here to talk about the zones so brilliantly marked on the JogMaster 2000. You see, there are two key zones, the fat burning zone and the cardio zone, distinguished by heart rate. Seeing as my ass isn't filled with cardio, I'm not quite certain why there is any other zone pointed out. What puzzles me is the concept of not burning fat when you are in the cardio zone. I'm trying to picture what exactly the fat is doing at that point. I'm running on my JogMaster, fat is burning, then my heart rate kicks over to the cardio zone and my fat says, "whoa, hold on boys-pant pant-the game's on. Dude pass the dip," as it sits back collected in my thighs watching me and my heart rate run like an idiot. Probably yelling out pointers and laughing. Or trash talking or singing little jingles, "D Cup! bang bang. D Cup! bang bang"
I've worked out in the fat burning zone, it's truly boring. The heart rate doesn't have to beat very fast to enter the zone. Some crunchy food and a swift walk to take a piss during the ad break ought to get you there in no time.

The top of a Tic Tac container says, "Have a nice mint!" Some days when I'm reaching for that little 1.9 caloric minty wonder, those sweet words complete my need to freshen and distract as I eagerly await my next meal. Let me warn you, however, if you search for such an image be warned. "The Forgotten Art Of Analingus" is lurking and apparently rated quite high in today's fancy search algorithms. And that charming phrase somehow cancelled out the delicate prose of my Freshmint moment.

So I mother. And as such I converse with others who mother. The topic most frequented, feeding the little love buckets. Do they or don't they get sugar, do you breast feed or are you the guilt ridden mother who feeds them the man's processed formula, how often, how much, fresh food, baby food. Naturally marketing gets into it. Only the finest, most complete, modeled after breast milk, elvin kissed, certified organic, twenty-five essential vitamins, DHA, ARA, mashed by hand into a purified gooby mess. With supporting pictures of pure, creamy colored babies, soft focussed in fluffy towels smiling at their wholesome mother with the eye locking understanding of love ever lasting. End scene. What's left out is the image a mere few years down the road of your perfect angel with palette so pure it could bless bagels at Jenny's birthday party. One hand tucked into the bowl of cool ranch Doritos other hand on the microphone of the rented Karaoke machine singing "Love Shack," with other pure paletted angels that were too nervous to sing alone and the one angel who's too sensitive to fit in doing the obnoxious "Love Shack baby" line. All of them giggling suspiciously as the punch quickly runs low.
So okay, I'm the guilt ridden mother who has corrupted my children's taste buds with that evil substance sugar. I like to think that I understand what the road ahead may involve and I want to teach them moderation. So here little johnny, taste it, mmmm isn't that gooooood. That sweet taste of sugar.

Yo.
Uh uh.
MC Beanie Baby wit his funky fresh cohort Ornamental Cabbage yo.
We gonna crunk it up tonight.
We got 't' we got 'a' what else have we got to say
Huh
Got fiddy of my friends in their benz drinkin' bub going to the club cuz there is no pub
Wah-wah wah-wah
Had we a pub we'd go, but real slow and know no yo-yo gonna flow mo' po' than this fomo
[talented, young, emerging girl artist sings complicated yet simple ten noted catchy ditty]
Shake yo sixlets. Bring yo fun dip. Milk yo shake-n-bake.
Uh uh. T-Ranz. Huh-huh. T-Ranz Fatty Acid in the house yo.
Got my xbox. Three six oh and a ho ho with some cheetoes... er
poo, I've already explored the long 'oh' sound.

Finally all day all video. My bum's numb.

Occasionally, sometimes I wonder how people would reference me not like best "romance movie since Titanic" but like, "that girl with the hair," or "you know, that girl who's really loud and obnoxious, but not too obnoxious," or "yeah, I remember she had the hair with a constant urge to tap dance on every wood floor she walked on." I don't really care what the description is as long as it's not, "Oooooo that's right, she didn't say much," or "she was so nice," or 'she had good ideas, but didn't really know how to express them." See what ten minutes with E-tv does? Looking into behind he scenes of Angelina Jolie. All about image and perceptions. But enough about me ...

There aren't many things that make me laugh as hard as watching grown men in a field with a fast car. So pure and so real. What did they do back in the day when fast cars didn't exist? Perhaps that sat on the back of an angry bull and timed each other. Or perhaps they threw very large logs to see who could throw the farthest. Or maybe they took an extra large hockey puck, slide it along ice while people frantically swept out a path for it. Whatever it was I'm sure countless hours were spent diving in deep with detail. Making rules, calling each other cheaters and drinking something fermented at the end. So good to see some steal threads to human kind.

I flipped to the Colbert Report (pronouced Colber' Repor', for those not in the know) and stumbled across The Swash. Promoted by Mark Cuban investor billionaire. This is a toilet seat that heats, washes and dries all parties in the front row of the Pissfeld Follies. More exciting than the two retractable water wands for him and her or the mantra to "help promote the Cleaner Man" is The Swash promotional video. Totally worth it to see the Oscar moment where the young, beautiful actress with her shower fresh clean posterior shares with the audience her moment of clarity and Noble Prize deduction that follows:
"We don't use dry paper to wash our hands. We don't use dry paper to wash our dishes. *Why* do we use *dry* *paper* on our most sensitive body parts?"
A retort, I have none. Why *do* we? Why use paper when you can feel shower fresh all day long … all day long. That, I do not know. I want one and I'll patiently await the Swash attachments soon to follow.

While waiting for my whole salmon to be filleted, I partook in some crab dip. I wouldn't register myself as a dip person, but this was the best dip I've ever had. Granted, I was hungry. It could have been cardboard mixed with mayo for all taste buds concerned. I bought a tub and a pack of Wheat Thins for a gentle ride to my mouth. Thankfully the hit lasted longer than crack so I could wait a week before my next tub. Pulled open the lid, slathered a goob on some soft, fresh wheat bread and the crab dip was not so good. I tried it on some Ak Mak, that 100% wheat cracker from the vicinity of Mt. Ararat, the cradle of civilization and the ancient land made famous by Noah's Ark and the crab dip was not so good. It didn't have that magic that drove me to the store to buy it the following week. It was then I realized the crab dip's success was the Wheat Thin chaser. What ever elfinned its way in to make that cracker should be sold separately. I'd like to sprinkle it on my broccoli as I begin Diet 2006.