You are currently browsing the monthly archive for November 2009.
Um? Sorry? Hope you’re not currently menstruating, and in need of that pad that you so thoughtfully placed in the bathroom cabinet. I, myself, AM menstruating which is just a little bit ridonkulous because I JUST stopped, like, 23 short days ago. And that evil Aunt Flo just kinda snuck right up on me this time. Because – HELLO?!?! What about the oozing zits? And the painful cramping? Gawd! Just blood and clots? Where’s the fun in that, I ask you?
Now, I’m not generally the kind of person who takes things that do not belong to me. And if we worked in a real work place, we’d have access to a machine chock full of “feminine products”, yes? So, really, you should be blaming Teh Man, and not me if you are currently hunting around for your stolen pad while you create bloody spin art in the workplace toilet bowl.
I never would have pilfered your pad, Nameless Colleague, unless I had REALLY needed it. Before stealing your pad, I considered cramming my undies with wads of toilet paper. And I also considered cramming my vajango with wads of toilet paper. Neither option seemed viable. Or comfy. Hence, my crime spree.
Rest assured, Good Colleague, that I always return what I borrow. So tomorrow you will find a new pad in place of the one that I stole. (Yes, Glaven - a NEW pad. Don’t even go there.) Know, too, Cheap Colleague, that the replacement pad will be of finer quality. Because – HELLO?!?! No wings? What the fuck is WRONG with you? Where did you even purchase this cheap ass piece of shit? I sure hope you don’t have me for Secret Santa because it appears you are one miserly, penny-pinching bitch.
But thanks for the pad. Seriously.
Yearly mileage: 1,257
…but don’t expect any mileage tomorrow, people, because running on Day Two? Generally not the best idea for this here moose.
I shouldn’t be talking to any of you bastards, really. Because never, never, never have I received quite so many hostile, belligerent comments. Gawd! Stupidly embrace evil sexist stereotypes buy one running skirt and the Eleven Faithful Readers go all crazy on ya. Not so faithful, are you?
Whatever. Faithfulness is highly overrated, anyhow. If everyone was faithful, I’d enjoy far fewer “Maury” episodes and I’d have two fewer half siblings, but that’s a story for another day. I’ll forgive and forget your vitriol, people, mostly because I’m desperate for attention, even the hostile, belligerent kind. So I’m going to tell you about yet another completely out of character purchase. It’s a shock. So try real hard not to shit yourselves.
The Moose Fambly has acquired a new car.
Yup. A very nearly BRAND new car. It looks kinda like this:
Only bigger, so that I can fit my entire moosey self within. There’s even a moon roof so that my antlers can get some air! It’s got other crazy high tech shit going on, too, by which I mean that ALL of its doors open!!! As in, the door handles have not yet snapped off in the extremely frigid Frostburrg air, like two of the Tracker’s handles and three handles of Teh Boy Moose’s Suzuki. Door handles, people, are like a dream come true for some people. Never take them for granted.
So I showed up in J.’s driveway this morning and her jaw kinda dropped. “Wow”, she said, and then just stood there speechless. I wasn’t sure if the “Wow” referred to the new haircut, the new running skirt or the new vehicle. So I kinda fluffed what’s left of my hair, sexily stuck my hand on my spandex clad hip and leaned across the hood of the car. Which looked EXACTLY like this:
Oh, okay. Maybe it looked more like this:
But I digress. The point is that J. was looking at me like I was someone she didn’t even know. So I had to show her it was still the same ol’ LuMu - running skirt, hairlessness and working door handles, be damned! And so we ran.
J. is having knee surgery soon. Really soon, as in tomorrow. So a kinder friend would have given her the day off. All of my kindness got trimmed off by a maniac from SuperCuts, however, and swept away like so much garbage. That meant that I got seven hard miles out of J. today, including two times up the world’s steepest hill. I ran while she rode her bike and monitored for potential dog attacks. It was my first time ever in the new skirt, and I know you don’t want to hear this, but I LOVED it. It really was seriously comfortable, and I swear that it made me run faster, just so that I didn’t look TOO much like a “girl”. And thanks to its magical “antimicrobial” action, I could barely smell myself.
Which is likely a claim that Bachelorette #2 there can rarely make.
Yearly mileage: 1,249
So last night Mr. Moose and I were sitting around watching television, and I was thoroughly pissed off with the utter dearth of intelligent, quality programming available. I mean, where the hell was “My Name Is Earl” or “Teh Family Guy”? In despair, we finally turned to PBS and watched this lame ass “Becoming Human” episode of “Nova”. Gawd! I might as well have picked up a (shudder) book or somethin’.
I learned something in spite of myself, and it was this: Those dirty Evolutionists should all be beaten, preferably with a Bible or a really solidly made crucifix. Those Lil’ Baby Jebus haters actually believe that we’re nothing more than hairless apes. Fools, I tell you! One “fact” that they presented gave me food for thought, however. They said that when our ancestors became hairless they developed the ability to effectively sweat. This let them become endurance runners, able to run for up to four hours under the brutal African sun to hunt down prey. The computer generated simulation showed a barely fuzzy ape-like dude running down an African antelope. The antelope, unable to shed heat, eventually grew exhausted and overheated and was felled by the ape dude. The ape dude did a few celebratory pelvic thrusts and then ate his weight in antelope.
Seems kinda crazy to run for four hours just to go “nom nom nom” on a stringy ol’ antelope. I, myself, will only run four hours for bagels, fruit and GU. And also cheesy marathon medals on colorful ribbons.
Those devil-worshipping Evolutionists got me to thinking, though. If the hairless state of our ancestors allowed them to become better runners, perhaps the best runner of all would be completely, totally, unapologetically bald. I shared this thought with Mr. Moose and his eyes lit up. I could just tell he was imagining a bare, denuded sexy vajeen.
As if, Mr. Moose, as if. The bush stays, and I’m actually looking into purchasing products to make it coarser, darker and thicker. But I did make a decision right then and there to shave my head. You’re welcome, Mr. Moose, you’re welcome.
Today is Veteran’s Day, so Mr. Moose and I used our day off to head to SuperCuts. (Don’t begrudge me the day off, people. I’ve sacrificed plenty for this country. Why, I dated Mr. Moose 25 years ago when he was in the reserves. He had a government mandated stupid looking haircut, but I did not turn my back on him. Some pussies whine and moan about the shrapnel still lodged in their spinal cords, or the “torture” they endured as a POW, but I think we all know that dating a man with a very bad haircut if a far, far, far greater sacrifice. I’m a Great American Hero, I tell you, and it’s just a matter of time before I’m up there on Mount Rushmore where I belong.)
So off we went to SuperCuts for the embaldening. The stylist (I mean, the “stylist”. This was SuperCuts, after all) looked alarmed at the condition of my hair. Because have I mentioned that I’m a bit of a dirty hippie? And that I NEVER get my hair professionally cut? And that I believe that conditioner is a useless, unnecessary expenditure? And that I own no hair dryer, and also that I buy ”Made in China” shampoo at Teh Dollar Store? And that every single time I buy said shampoo, Mr. Moose says, “Now, fortified with 100% more ground up girl babies!!”
Yeah… So I’ve kinda got a Cousin It thing goin’ on here, but whatever. I told her to shave it all, every last single hair, so that I could become the fastest, sweatiest, antelope nomming-est runner that ever was. She did not oblige. She did cut plenty of it, though, and I can’t wait to get out there tomorrow to catch me an antelope. Nom, nom, nom…
After the near embaldening, we headed to Target to pick up a Christmas gift for Teh Girl. (I feel safe in reporting that said gift is yoga pants and a matching top. My secret is secure, as Teh Girl will NEVER again read this blog. She read one time and I guess I might have written something about Mr. Moose wrapping my ankles around my antlers or some such thing. And she freaked all out on us, because apparently we’re much too decrepit to be engaging in such antics. Whatever, Girl Moose, whatever. Sometimes we even do it on your bed, and we make your Hello Kitty watch us.)
And it was while at Target that I did the horrible, shameful, shockingly disgraceful deed. I’m almost too guilt stricken to write about it, but I feel that I must. Here goes: I bought a ….gulp….um…..well…..uhhh….
I bought a running skirt.
Man, that was hard to write. But I feel better. Yeah, the clearance rack in the sporty section is my downfall. I often score $3 running bras there, or $2 tech shirts. Today I found row upon row of size medium running skirts. I flicked them aside, haughtily muttering to myself about those vapid women who think that even while running one must take great pains to look “hawt”. On this very blog, I have dismissed such women as insipid fashion plates, rather than as intelligent, competitive athletes.
But that was before I felt the spandexy goodness. And saw the price tag marked down from $24.99 to $4.98. FOUR NINETY-EIGHT, people!! I can’t buy a pair of running shorts for that, particularly ones that are “antimicrobial”. Yup, that’s right – this magic skirt promises to “Defend against odors”. And as it was my head that I shaved and not my pubes, I really, really need me some antimicrobial action. So stop judgin’ me, already.
I snuck the running skirt into the fitting room, half expecting for Storia Gleinem to stop me. I made it there unmolested, though, and once I put that skirt on I fell a little bit in love, I think. It looked great. And much more importantly, it FELT great. I ran around and around that tiny little fitting room, humming “I Will Survive”, in a futile attempt to negate the sexist message that one conveys while wearing a freaking running skirt. But did I mention that it was $4.98? And antimicrobial besides?
I going out tomorrow morning to run me down an antelope. And I’m gonna look hawt while doing it.
Bald, but hawt.
Yearly Mileage: 1,229
Generally on weekends I am a real slug. I wear the same stale-smelling, fleece pajama pants from Friday evening right through Monday morning. I take them off only for special occasions like running, showering, toileting or sex. And for more than one of those activities I just pull my pajama pants down a bit or push them aside, rather than going to the bother of actually removing them. ‘Cause everybody knows that undressing can be a real hassle.
Every now and then Mr. Moose will deign to walk with me or attend to shopping or some other errand on the weekend, but he’s always insistent that I “put some pants on.” That man can be a real priss, I tell ya. “Gawd!”, I shriek at him. “Why don’t I just put on a freakin’ ball gown and a tiara!!” I usually acquiesce to Mr. Mooses’s demands, however, reluctantly changing into “real” clothes. The second we return home , though, I’m back in my cozy pajamas, trying not to act too delighted upon seeing Mr. Moose’s aggrieved expression.
I’ve been anxiously anticipating Daylight Savings Time for weeks now, as it affords me a whole extra HOUR inside my pajama pants. I know some people would think carefully about how best to use their extra hour. They might choose something meaningful or productive like family time or home improvement projects. Me? I just sat there for sixty minutes straight, absent mindedly petting my fleecy ass cheeks while staring vacuously at absolutely nothing. And it was good.
I deserve this down time, though, because just yesterday I was incredibly productive. Behold in wonder all that I accomplished:
- I ran seven miles at a 8:09 pace.
- I cursed myself for not maintaining a 8:00 pace.
- I brought my car in for its annual inspection.
- I heaved an enormous sigh of relief when said car actually passed its inspection, despite the fact that it’s got some issues. But who needs a driver door handle anyway, huh? I mean, virtually EVERYONE climbs in their car from the back seat, yes? Yes? YES?!?!
- I made homemade vegetable beef stew.
- I baked two loaves of homemade bread.
- I made a large batch of homemade applesauce, using apples that Mr. Moose and I picked ourselves a couple of weeks ago.
- I wondered why the hell Martha Stewart has her own show, when I am clearly more domestic and rarely engage in insider trading.
- I cleaned my house, but only in a superficial fashion. It looks really tidy but the bathroom and kitchen are still bathed in bacteria, germs and invisible filth, just the way I like it.
- I readied the Halloween candy, kinda like this: One for the bowl, two for the LuMu. One for the bowl, two for the LuMu…
- I wondered where the hell all the freakin’ Halloween candy went, and also why my stomach hurt, and I decided that teh Boy must’ve gotten into teh candy, then sucker punched me. He’s sneaky like that, teh Boy.
Yearly mileage: 1,186
