Dreamy, melancholy, full of the wist. That’s where this song takes me. And it’s a lovely ride.
I have come to realize that I am sorely in need of an actual gym playlist as this is not a pump you up sort of list. It is a bunch of goodness in song form, however. And this song is such a little shiny gem from my youth along with almost every other Erasure song that I can recall. So enjoy this bright and shiny and super pretty please send me some actual gym playlist songs. I need help, y’all. For realz.
This song kicks unicorn booty. And it also reminds me on my radass husband who introduced me to it. You’re welcome.
So freaking tired. There are no appropriate words forming any approximation of viable sentences to convey my feelings about these post links in an even fairly witty or interesting way. And even to put them in some sort of order by category seems out of reach. Plus I didn’t do a SISS last week so I have double the pleasure, double the fun.
Shorter than ushe because I left out a shit ton and picked out the best of the best. Also realized that I star almost everything from Mommy Wants Vodka, the Bloggess and Bugginword and the better part of Whole Lot of Nothing which tells me y’all should be reading those blogs, bitchez, sos you can star ‘em yourself. Lastly, always end on zombie if you’ve got it.
191.8, up .2
I know I’m supposed to be all I am woman hear me roar, scales are bullshit, proud of my pudge; but I do care and do want those numbers to be moving in the downward direction. I worked hard this week at the gym and I ate healthfully, and possibly intuitively although I haven’t yet decided if that is bullshit, without being restrictive.
And .2 is bullshit. If I’m going up or down couldn’t it at least be measured in full pounds? And then I’m doing the ushe excuses – I haven’t pooped today(read: I was just about to take a 5 pound crap of solid fat), I’m premenstrual(read: retaining enough water to sustain a small village in Africa for a week), the stress is getting to me(read: the extreme stress of taking care of my one child in the comfort of my own home back with my husband and best friend is enough to send anyone to loony bin for a ‘rest’).
Although I do care about my number, I could care less about yours and think that you are beautiful and gorgeous just the way you are. I also hope that your number doesn’t get you all down and dumpy. I see some magical shit going down all around me on the internettles in regards to body size and beauty and baring it all like here, here and here – the magic number and the swimsuit round of the competition. These girls are the rad supreme as well as being pretty damn fine looking in their swimmies. I have to give the swimsuit competition to our dear old chainsawing wielding, chain smoking Aunt Becks for true panache and joie de vivre while handling lethal machinery. But Pangie is rocking the shite out of that suit as well, although sadly lacking in the power tool category.
Right now, for me, it’s more about the ratio of the effort put in vs the poundage hanging on for dear life to my ass. I’m an American dammit! and I am entitled by birthright to get what I want if I work hard enough. So it’s that letdown more than a number or a size or a feeling about whatever’s going on on the underside of my arms. All I can do is go all gangballbusters this week and see where it all lands next Fri-dizzle.
In the category of hardly worth my time to mention – Scotty won American Idol. Really America? Is this your Idol? When did you change, America? How did it all go wrong? How could I not have seen this coming?
I’ve decided that I’m going to go all the Secret meets Adam Savage and reject your reality and create my own wonderful universe in which Casey is revealed to be the actual winner of American Idol setting off a chain of events that results in the outing of all the worlds secrets including, but not limited to, the release of the list of actual real life mutants and superheroes that have been portrayed in film as a smokescreen should anyone ever witness an act of universe saving or alien butt kicking and the cloning of James Franco that allows him to be on every network, in every movie and teaching at every community college simultaneously.
Have an alternate weekend, y’all.
Another song I had already posted in my 30 day challenge is next in the lineup. So you get a remake! Hurray for you! And hurray for Madonna! Because if you don’t like Madonna, pretty sure we can’t hang. And I am sure that you are dying to hang with me and my adorable parasite who is currently oozing from all of his head holes. Ain’t we lucky we got ‘em, good times!
It gives me great pleasure to post this on mah blog. Not really sure why, but it amuses me. Not quite as much as when 3-6 Mafia took the Oscar stage though. Because that was the rad.
“Capture the Everyday is about getting you to capture those everyday moments in your life! Each Thursday, I’ll (Melissa from Adventuroo) issue a simple challenge to capture something that’s a part of your daily life. You can post just a picture or add some words to go along with it. You’ll have a week to get it done and then I’ll issue another. It’s a quick, easy way to start capturing those little parts of life we sometimes take for granted.”
This week’s task was to take a picture of ourselves playing with our kids. Apparently I don’t do so well with rules and expectations. Hmm, is that a positive or negative trait? Glass half full, people.
Come on, y’all. You knew at least one of us was going to cop out of actually being in the picture, right? Yes, yes y’all. Cause you’re smart like that. S-M-R-T. I bet you knew it would be me. Why? S-M-R-T as a whip, you ladies are.
I really do not enjoy the picture taking experience from the side of the camera that captures my dark circles, my hair in dire need of some sort of attention, my leggings clad body unfit for clothing of the more confining variety. And, in my defense, it is freaking hard to take a picture of yourself with you kid with an iphone.
So here, let me distract you with the glorious cute that is my kid. And, let me assure you, that is my voice so I am not completely out of bounds with this choice. And all I have is this lousy link because my WordPress skillzies are not so S-M-R-T. But the cute is worth the click so do it.
Want more of the Everyday? Get it at Adventuroo.
Can someone please tell me why I cannot comment on Blogger blogs? It is driving me all stark and raving. I type out my comment and click google account to comment and it sends me to the Blogger login page. Of which I am already logged in to. Curses.
I have things to say, people. Important things. Knowledge that I need to impart. Wisdom that I need to bestow. Empathy that I need to emp. Is it Blogger, or just me?
I have spoken before of my sick and twisteds for the music of Sean Combs, aka Puff Daddy, P Diddy, Pejazzle. Wait, what? So yeah, I loves the guy and would be all up in his Alizé or Ciroc or even Colt 45 if I could stomach any of those things. This song also reminds me of going to the gym with my hubberband when he was merely some random hot guy I went to the gym and out dranking with. I raise my Irish car bomb to ya, babes.