Now, I don’t watch much reality TV. Putting twenty people in an isolated bubble for six to nine months and expecting them to perform incredible acts and engage in weird wild behavior is kinda boring to me. If I want weirdness, all I have to do is look at my kids. Or in the mirror.
The only reality television show I’ve watched in recent years is American Idol, and I stopped watching after Mormon-Face won.
(I did, however, adore The Real World, with Puck and Pedro. ZOMGBBQWTF I am dating myself.)
I’ve occasionally tuned into the Biggest Loser for a minute or two, because it makes me feel good to eat cheeseburgers and be all, “YOU KNOW YOU WANT A PIECE OF THIS, DON’T YOU, MOTHERFUCKERS?” to the poor contestants sweating of their pounds. Then I quickly switch to something MORE gruesome and dark, because that’s what I prefer.
It seems I only watch depressing, dark television shows AFTER they’ve been pulled off the air. I’m going to guess that my funk is due to the end of Prison Break, which still makes me weep.
Last year, I noticed half the blog world was doing something called “The 30 Day Shred,” a workout designed by the cute-as-a-button Jillian Michaels. Well, I thought flippantly as I ordered the workout DVD from Amazon, I bet I just lost like 7 pounds just ordering it.
I was gonna be a SHREDHEAD.
I got the DVD in the mail and stared it down, knowing that just OWNING it would make me lose a bunch of weight.
Eventually, I realized I should probably take it out of the plastic wrap and open it up. BINGO! Another 4 pounds gone, I figured, patting myself on the back heartily.
Now here’s the thing, Pranksters, I kinda love to work out. Which is probably not something you’d expect from me, but it’s true. There’s some sick part of me that loves to get all hot and sweaty and strong. So when I went to the basement (to avoid roving crotch parasites who would most certainly smack me on the ass while I worked out), I was pretty pumped to get my workout on.
I did it.
Then I did it again.
Then I did it the next day.
I felt great….for someone who couldn’t walk. My leg muscles had turned to jello, and the very act of rolling over in bed caused me to cry out in pain. Some sick part of me was awfully proud of this.
So I kept on it. Shredding my cares away.
Until, I noticed pain in a place that I couldn’t quite explain away.
I’d hurt my foot when I’d fallen down the stairs, very early into my pregnancy with Amelia. I’d never been able to properly treat it, thanks to my gestating crotch parasite, instead, I wore Das Boot and iced it whenever possible.
(sidebar: do you KNOW how people treat you when you’re pregnant, wearing a gigantic boot? Like you’re suffering an IQ of 12. It was, quite possibly, the weirdest thing I’ve ever experienced. People talking to me slowly and loudly while making it clear they thought I was mentally-challenged.)
And we all know what happens when I get pregnant: I get fat. All that extra weight on my poor injured foot lead to more pain. By the end of my pregnancy, my feet had swollen so badly that I couldn’t wear shoes and the hurt one was approximately the size and shape of a cinder block.
I delivered the girl and the swelling went down, and frankly, I had bigger fish to fry than my poor ickle foot. It could have been on fire and I wouldn’t have noticed.
Last spring, when I decided to do Das Shred, it aggravated my old injury. I had to stop.
I was a #ShredFailure
Unfortunately, this injury also put a stop to my gardening abilities last year. So it’s no surprise that my garden is half-complete, my roses sadly suffering from Black Spot. I’d managed to get outside this weekend, before it got Ass Cold again, to fix some of what was left undone, but I’m actually ashamed by the state of my yard.
So, Jillian Michaels, wherever you are; you can crawl out from under your piles of money and get your pert, perky ass to my house and help me fix it.
Hey, I’ll even let you wear your green sports bra and spanky short-shorts.
Now I should start by saying that I am not an English Nerd. Before writing on The Internet, I was all science, all the time. I had (have) grand plans of going BACK to science as soon as humanly possible. I’ve not taken more English classes than the minimum required to receive my diploma, because, well, I’d rather poke out my eyeballs than read anything Jane Austen ever wrote.
Let’s be honest. Read anything I’ve ever written and you’ll see that blogging is free publishing for a reason: anyone can do it.
That said, I’ve clearly turned into an Old Fart. When I heard that Oxford English Dictionary had added text-speak to it’s formidable definitions, I got Furious George.
THEY’RE NOT WORDS.
At the end of March, nine hundred words were added to the famous, respectable Oxford English Dictionary. Including “LOL,” which, for those of you living under a rock, means “laughing out loud.” According to justifications by the Dictionary Maker People, LOL is okay to add because it once stood for “little old lady.” RIGHT, Oxford English Dictionary People, play the Little Old Lady Card so I can’t call you out on your bullshit. Who can POSSIBLY be angry at a Little Old Lady?
This blogger. Right here.
See, Oxford English Dictionary Makers, I see nonsense text-crap like “LOL” and “OMG” and those weird heart symbols all over the place. They annoy me. More than mayonnaise. Rather than stand united in our hatred of pointless acronyms like I’d expect, you bowed down and added A HEART SYMBOL (that I can never properly make which is part of the reason I hate it) TO THE DICTIONARY.
This is not okay.
First we have to accept microblogs like The Twitter and The Tumbler because people “didn’t like to read words,” and now IMHO (“in my honest opinion”) is there, right next to real words like “infarction” and “imbecile.”
Guilt me with your Little Old Ladies all you want; there’s very little that will get me off your ass for this disgusting, horrifying mutilation of the English Language, Oxford English Dictionary.
Unless, of course, you add me to the dictionary, too, under “full of the awesome.” Then we’ll be BFF again.