YANK IT, PUMPKIN!

I have a serious problem. And it rhymes with "BUMPKIN."

Question: What's grosser than gross?

Answer: A runty mid-50-ish woman the approximate color and texture of dehydrated cow hide wearing only a couple of strategically placed strips of spandex whilst attempting to fornicate with her personal trainer in public.

Scenario: So I'm at the gym the other day, working out and minding my own business, when this personal trainer comes over by me with his "client." The first thing I noticed was that she should NOT be wearing what she was wearing (a) at her age and (b) if not participating in the acquisition of pornographic materials. She seriously looked like she plucked her leotard off of a "Bang Me Big Boy" Barbie and then managed to shink it. ANYHOW.

The trainer (who I will admit is PDC [pretty darn cute]) situates his "client" into what is basically the "doggie style" position, and proceeds to stand behind her, instructing her how to "pump" her dumbbell up and down. Pretty standard, I rather enjoy this exercise myself (though I haven't had the pleasure of having the cute trainer stand behind right behind me for instructional purposes, I imagine such a scenario would "enhance" the experience quite a bit--but I digress).

So the "client" starts pumping her dumbbell up and down and soon grows weary of it. She starts whining. The trainer, in an effort to sustain her, starts shouting out supportive instructional phrases, and for some reason, with no plausible explanation apparent to me, starts calling her "Pumpkin."

It started out like this, "Come on, pull it, Pumpkin. PULL IT. That's right. Arch your back, Pumpkin. PULL IT. LET'S GO."

And then "Pumpkin" starts moaning and chiming in (now getting more excited), "You tell me where to put it, and I'LL PUT IT. Yeah, YOU TELL ME WHERE TO PUT IT, AND I'LL PUT IT!" And the trainer comes back with, "COME ON, BRING IT HOME, PUMPKIN! YANK IT, PUMPKIN! YANK THAT THING! ARCH YOUR BACK, PUMPKIN! C'MON, PUMPKIN, YANK IT!!" And she starts yelling over him, "YOU TELL ME WHERE TO PUT IT AND I'LL PUT IT! I'LL PUT IT WHEREVER YOU TELL ME TO! I'LL PULL IT! THAT'S RIGHT, I'LL PULL IT!"

And so on and so forth, creating this rapid (and loud) crescendo of "YANK ITs" and "I'LL PULL ITs" and "PUMPKIN" this and "PUMPKIN" that.

I do not have to tell you how badly I was sniggering at this point. I seriously had to turn away and hold my breath to try to keep things under control. I finally gave up though, I was beet red and seriously feeling as if I was going to pass out if I didn't let it out. So I gathered my towel and CD player and hurried out of earshot before I officially lost it. Not that they would have noticed, anyway. And I'm sure the people around me as I was blubbering through a random hysterical bout of laughter in public thought that I was perfectly insane.

So here's my problem. I see that trainer ALL THE TIME. And every time I do, I start smirking and snickering against my will. I CAN'T HELP IT! As soon as I see him I start picturing him engaging in this grotesque onrnathological mating ritual with the sqwawking and the elbows and the feathers flying everywhere and I start laughing! In front of God and everybody! So I am certain that he thinks I've got some kind of crush on him or something, he always kind of smiles at me as if he can't quite figure out what I'm smiling about all the time, but he seems to think it's funny. The whole situation is highly embarrassing for all parties involved. Whenever I see him and "Pumpkin" together I have to gather my things and make a beeline for the opposite end of the gym, pronto.

Which brings me to my next point, what is UP with magnifying kissing noises on TV?? It's DISGUSTING!! I was watching The Bachelor last night, and of course he was mugging down with everybody like it was his last day on Earth, and they kept cranking up the juice to the microphones so that you felt like you were IN BETWEEN THEM whilst they were kissing, ie WAAAAAAAY TOO CLOSE FOR COMFORT. The whole thing was totally grossing me out. Somebody please explain to me why that is necessary.

And now I'm going to go feast on potato chips and chocolate. Thank God I worked out today.

Tuna salad sandwiches and underpants

After sleeping on it, I have decided to fix up a special tuna fish salad sandwich for my pizza-thefting beagle. It will consist of tuna fish, mayonnaise, and cayenne pepper. Or perhaps white pepper, I haven't decided yet. I think that black pepper is rather too odiferous and would tip him off that there's something afoul with the tuna sandwich. Not that it would stop him from eating it, but if he smells something funny I figure he is less likely to take a big savory bite. I am also debating the pros and cons of making a little hole in the middle underneath the top piece of bread and inserting a sizeable dollop of "special filling," comprising mainly Tabasco sauce mixed with a couple spoonfuls of the ground pepper of my choice. However, I am afraid that some of the filling might wind up on my carpet, so I may not go that far. Also, I don't want to give him cardiac arrest, I just want to create the temporary illusion of a four-alarm fire in his sneaky, thieving little beagle mouth. I can hardly wait.

The real question is, do I let him have a bowl of water. I suppose I should. After all, that would be the humane thing to do. Even though premeditated clandestine pizza-snatching is a heartless inhumane thing to do to a person, I think I shall be the bigger one about it and let him at least have a drink. The real torment will occur later, when he goes to poop. And then we will be even Steven.

My other source of angst today is my underwear situation. Has anybody else noticed that the top of your pants keeps getting lower and lower with each passing season, but the height of the standard pair of underwear is still the same? The situation is truly vexing. I can feel the back of my underpants sticking up over the top of my pants today by at least a couple of inches. How embarrassing for myself. You spend your whole life trying to hide your underpants from other people, and then Calvin Klein decides to remove the top inch of your pant height all of a sudden to make a splash and before you know it, you hear snickering every time you bend over to retrieve a file out of the bottom drawer. Vexing, I tell you.

And that is all for now. Has anybody else ever heard the term "Croatian eyebrows"? My friend Jennifer claims to have them, and I'm just not sure about it. She seems to indicate that they are really "bent" and "don't need grooming." Is this so?

The Beagle Chronicles

So one of the primary reasons for starting this blog is to keep up with the thousands of off-kilter happenstances that constitute a single day of my existence, and share them with others. It is simply too much to bear alone.

I am the unfortunate owner of a 1-year-old beagle. I say unfortunate because most of the joy I've experienced in life occurred PRIOR to beagle ownership. Now I spend the majority of my waking life yelling and scrubbing bodily excretions out of my carpet and wondering how things went so horribly wrong. I used to think rescuing a sweet little innocent puppy from a life of squalor and maltreatment at the hands of some trashy family with 18 kids living in a camper somewhere was a noble thing. In hindsight I realize that I was duped royally and will be suffering for my momentary lapse in judgement for the next 15 years of my life.

I fixed up a big plate of homemade pizza tonight, with the works---pepperoni, green and red peppers, mushrooms, black and green olives. Homemade garlic marinara. Garlic herb crust crisped just so in the oven.

I ran upstairs to start a load of laundry before I sat down to eat. I heard an odd clanking coming from downstairs and ran down to find my beagle STANDING ON THE TABLE over my plate, which was completely empty, DRINKING OUT OF MY GLASS. Are you KIDDING ME??????????? He polished off my pizza in 30 seconds flat and then helped himself to a drink, since, you know, THE PEPPERONI AND OLIVES MADE HIM THIRSTY. What the $&%#!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

The other day he was sitting out in the hallway and I heard him toot. I peered out at him to point and laugh. He proceeded to turn around and sniff his butt, whereupon he took one whiff and bolted downstairs. Even though he TOTALLY smoked me out and then made a run for it, at least that was somewhat amusing. The pizza situation is altogether different. I will have my revenge.......