Category: Daily

As I sit here at my computer in the kitchen of our tiny house, my oldest daughter is watching a human growth and development movie at school. This is The Movie. (I saw my version in 1981. Girls went into one classroom. Boys went into another. We each saw our gender-specific movie, we returned to our normal classrooms, and when it was all over I knew that vagina is NOT pronounced Va-GHEE-nah. (Similarly, penis is not PEN-iss, as I had originally thought. Please know that the PEN-iss was NOT covered in our girl movie.))

Last week I was able to screen the movie that Meredith is currently watching, and I was a little shocked. Although the girls and boys will be divided, they will be viewing the same video. The video is presented as a call-in radio show titled “Puberty Week with Brad and Janet!” and I have no idea how the obvious Rocky Horror Picture Show tie-in made it past the original reviewers.

This morning Meredith left the house as an innocent almost 10 year old. She will climb into our car this afternoon with the line drawing of an erect boy part fried onto her brain. She will know about wet dreams. She will know that a sperm is 50% of what makes a baby and that an egg is the other 50%. She will NOT know how those two parts hook up, and if she asks it during the Q&A session, it will not be answered because it wasn’t directly discussed in the movie. (I know.) It wasn’t directly discussed in the movie, yet I know my kid and I know how her mind works and this evening I’ll probably have to lay it all out for her. And I guess that’s fine, but I also think that 10 is young, but I also know that kids are growing up faster now, but I also don’t necessarily think that arming them with this knowledge at 10 is going to prevent teen pregnancy.

I’m a bit flummoxed and I *did* consider letting her skip the movie. (This morning she told me that she was going to eat a light lunch just in case the movie turned her stomach. Heh.) BUT, kids are kids and kids will talk and I would rather she see it than hear about it at recess.

I can’t remember if it was the fourth grade movie or the fifth grade movie that said something like, “Just because you’re now CAPABLE of making a baby doesn’t mean you’re READY. You need financial stability!”

Financial Stability.

Here’s a photo of me when I was a 19-year-old sophomore at Mizzou. I’m wearing a bolo and a vest, I’m drinking a wine cooler in my dorm room, I’m getting ready to attend my very first (and also very last!) fraternity party, and I had no concept of Financial Stability.

In other words, “Just because you’re now CAPABLE of making a baby doesn’t mean you’re READY. You need blah blah blah blah babies are cute!”

(By the way, I’m pretty sure this song was playing as that photo was taken, and I was using a lot of aerosol hairspray in those days. The jeans were NOT mine, by the way.)

Anyway, the kids are growing up and the kids are alright and I’m sort of a prude and I’m getting ready to bake Snickerdoodles for a priest and I wish I knew where that bolo went because I’m suddenly feeling the need for some honkytonking. ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

Once upon a time I knit a bunch of socks and because I really loved knitting socks, I decided to see if I could fund my trip to BlogHer ’08 by knitting socks for anyone who was willing to pay $50. It worked. (I was shocked when it worked.) BlogHer ’08 was weird and amazing and dramatic and wonderful. I haven’t been back since. (I do miss it and I would spend some time talking about it, but I feel like I’ve already beaten my Dead Horse o’ Neuroses into the ground. I’ll let you off this time.)

So, socks. After I knit a bunch of socks for the BlogHer gig, I quickly learned the following two things about myself: 1. I don’t really like to take orders for handknit items. So much pressure! (I will make rare exceptions if I’m given a LOT of time.), and 2. Socks really aren’t that much fun to knit. (For me. If you love to knit socks, we can still hang out, of course. I used to eat feta cheese and chocolate chips mixed together as a snack. We all have bags full of wacky, don’t we?)

In September of 2009, I finished these socks for myself:

Because socks really aren’t that much fun to knit (for me), this particular pair took exactly two years to complete. (When I was knitting socks for BlogHer, I had to finish one sock each week to keep up. So, although I can knit a pair of socks in two weeks, this pair took 104 weeks. Heh.)

I love these socks. They’re made of Koigu which is squishy and shows stitch definition really well and I find myself saving them for special occasions because they’re orange and warm and leafy and the toe construction is all crazy and nice.

Last week I wore the socks to a meeting, and then I came home and changed my clothes in the family room. (That’s where the laundry baskets are, and right now they’re filled with clean clothes. When in Rome!) I stacked the clothes I had been wearing (including the socks!) on the piano bench (as you do) and walked into the kitchen to check e-mail.

I soon noticed that Scout and Henry were playing tug-of-war with an old towel but it wasn’t really an old towel at all. It was one of my Koigu socks, and I didn’t realize that until it was entirely too late.

And then I was very sad, but I knew it was my fault for leaving the socks out and socks and towels are pretty much the same thing when you’re a dog, so no one was punished, although both dogs WERE put in their crates for ten minutes or so because I needed some time to mourn.

(It’s impossible to be mad at Scout and Henry because sometimes they reverse spoon each other on the couch and it makes my blood pressure drop.)

Tomorrow is the first day of spring. I have a weird feeling in my throat and when I walk outside, it feels like November. The good news? I’ve had my eye on this ring for over two years, and now it’s off of Etsy and on my finger and if you can’t have spring in the air, you may as well have it on your hand.

A friend and I went nose ring shopping over the weekend and as a result, I now have the ability to run faster than ever before. We have so much to talk about, don’t we? ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

All it takes is for one person to say, “Tea is for Healing” and suddenly I’m drinking one and a half quarts of hot tea each and every day. (I’m not exaggerating.) Apparently, I need some healing. I’m cranky and a little stressed and my skin is all sucky and my stomach has been in knots. Although the tea is delicious, the whole Healing thing feels like a mug of crap, but at least I’m fake-healing with tea and not Crown Royal.

(Side note: I held a side plank in Pilates last Friday for the first time EVER. It had nothing to do with tea and everything to do with me refusing to be the only person in class who can’t hold a side plank. (Every time the instructor calls us into a side plank, I think of this dinosaur and how we’re more alike than different.))

The latest chapter in my tea obsession? This stuff. (I have Tempe to thank for this. She does RESEARCH.) Because I once again have the skin of a 14-year-old girl who doesn’t take hygiene seriously, Jeff and I found ourselves at Whole Foods last Friday to browse their Yogi teas and their meatless meats. The Skin Detox tea is supposed to clear me up and make me GLOW (like Edward in the sun, not that I have any idea what I’m talking about). ((This is the guy who develops the Yogi tea. I’m not sure we could hang out at a doughnut shop, but I think I can trust him with the whole tea thing.))

Right before I leave the house to pick the kids up from school, I brew a 16 ounce tumbler of the skin detox tea. I then take the tea bag and put it in a tiny cup for later. Before I go to bed at night, I wash my face (with Purpose cleansing wash because I’m not going to leave out any details here) and then I run the hottest water I can stand into the used tea bag before rubbing it all over my face. Sometimes the bag breaks and suddenly I’m Martin Sheen from Apocalypse Now and I’m frantically pushing old cardamom seeds and dandelion roots (and hibiscus flowers and rose petals et cetera!) into my pores and the hot water is dripping down into my mouth and I’m a disaster but I’m a disaster for the right reason: I’m trying to achieve The Glow. I’M HEALING.

(Kara made bread pudding last week, and you should go look at it because it’s BEAUTIFUL.)

I actually got a manicure last weekend before the mouse races. (I will NOT talk about the mouse races. In fact, I never again want my world to include the word Mouse anywhere near the word Race or else I may begin screaming the F word and sending out fake invitations for people to join me in my kitchen for a bit of accounting! It’s a long story that involves me being a little sensitive with a tendency to overreact!!! Where’s my tea?!?!) Anyway, I went with this color and I love it so much that I bought a bottle (50% off!) today. I don’t EVER get manicures and because of that, I tend to keep my hands below the table. Because of French Quarter for Your Thoughts, I hereby proclaim the remainder of March to be known as The Eighteen Days During Which I Gesticulate Flamboyantly!!! ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

On Sunday afternoon, I walked into the grocery store at the same time as an older woman with crazy red hair.

I grabbed a cart. She grabbed a cart. I headed toward the applesauce. She screamed, “WHERE ARE THE PINEAPPLE TIDBITS?!”

One of the store managers came over and told her to head to Aisle 11. Because Aisle 11 was also the applesauce aisle, I secretly felt a small thrill at the thought that I might be able to help this woman locate her tidbits.

As I grabbed my applesauce (the strawberry kind, because the kids are NUTS for it), I saw her choosing her tidbits about twenty feet down the aisle from me. As she threw them into her cart, she screamed, “WHERE IS THE DURKEE NUTMEG?!”

The manager ran over and explained that they don’t carry Durkee spices and would she settle for McCormick Nutmeg? “BUT I HAVE A *COUPON*!!!”

I had only a few things that I needed to pick up at the store (applesauce, peanut butter, bananas, black beans), and the firecracker continued to explode with every item on her list. (“WHERE ARE THE PORK TENDERLOINS?!”) I’m sure the manager didn’t love her, but I did.

Banana Chocolate Chip Bread Pudding from Veganomicon. I’m sure the kids won’t love it, but I did. Please let me know if you BreadPuddingedAlong! ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

I haven’t been responding to comments again. I hate when I do that. Sometimes I wonder if I should go back to the No Comments thing, but then I know that I would miss hearing from you. Isn’t life hard? (I’m sitting on a stool in a warm house staring at the computer while eating a bowl of Purely Decadent Cookie Dough. My life is not hard.) I do apologize for being quiet lately.

The past week has been crazy and amazing. My mom had her surgery on Friday, and everything went well and I would post a photo of her in her anesthesiatic haze, but it seems that anesthesiatic isn’t even a WORD—so why post a photo and stir up hell with The Word People (not to mention the anesthesiatically hazy!)?

On Sunday I journeyed out for lunch to meet someone I’ve never met before. She and her husband moved to St. Louis from Boston, and it took less than two minutes for her to zoom way up to the top of my Favorite People list. She’s creative and super smart and funny and she knits and, yes. As nervous as I get about meeting new people, I do love eating cheesecake at a two-seater wooden table with a brilliant new friend.

Monday. On Monday I did Pilates and went to the library and did my PTO reports and had dinner with ANOTHER one of my favorite people. (I have at least twenty.) We went to One 19 North where I tried Brussels sprouts for the very first time. I also got my fig marmalade fix, and I drank the very best martini ever.

It’s called a Baked Apple Pie Martini, and it was delivered steaming hot and delicious and I’m almost embarrassed about how much I smiled and looked up toward the heavens as I drank it and I’m even (almost) MORE embarrassed about how angry I felt when a fruit fly perched itself on my glass, rendering the final two drinks undrinkable. (I’m pretty sure I could create the drink at home using this recipe. However, to my knowledge, I have never purchased a bottle of vodka, and I’m not sure I should start now. Highway to the danger zone.)

Today I worked on freelance and I went to a parent/teacher conference at the middle school and I roasted Brussels sprouts for the first time. (Brussels sprouts no longer scare me!) I also dropped by the elementary school where I did that thing that I hate doing which involves calling things as I see them with ugly talk. (I really should carry a pack of Marlboros and some sloppy red lipstick in my pocket for these toxic moments, as I firmly believe that people who spout yuck should have lipstick on their teeth and a cigarette that flops around with every unnecessary exclamation point.) I once had a friend who waited at least ten seconds before answering a question because he didn’t want to waste words. I need to adopt that strategy starting right now. Now.

It’s time for me to step away from the computer and prepare chickenless dumplings for dinner. (Do you know what the opposite of excited is? That’s how the girls are feeling about the chickenless dumplings! Yet, I soldier on.)

Tomorrow? It’s the Fluid Pudding BreadPuddingAlong! ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

A few years back, I joined a book club at my church and I actually did pretty well keeping up with the books and the meetings. About six (or more) books ago, I decided to take a break from the club and read The Hunger Games. (I know! Would you just be quiet over there?) SO, I read the first two Hunger Games books and then I read Juliet, Naked and Gone Girl and Skipped Parts and The Fault in Our Stars and In One Person. I received the e-mail a few weeks back that the book club is now reading Not Like Other Boys. I immediately requested it from the library, because why join a book club and then stop reading the books?!

Not Like Other Boys is due back in two days, and I Cannot Get Into It.

It’s not that it’s a bad book, because it’s NOT. It’s just that I really want to read The Hotel New Hampshire. I hate that life is so short. (Sadly, part of me justifies returning the book unread because I know a few people who NEED to read it. People who have actually told me that they would disown their own child if he/she ever came out. Perhaps I should buy several copies of the book and mail them anonymously!)

Do you remember about a month ago when I went to the new haircut place and it’s right next to a chocolate place and it ended up being a perfect day? I went back yesterday, and I took in a photo of a bald Charlize Theron. Because my new hair lady is a genius, I walked out with my very favorite haircut.

(I’m wearing my new favorite shirt with a favorite scarf and it sort of looks like I’m on a journey to Duck Face, but I can assure you that I am not. Hey, look! The left side arm rest fell off of our rocking chair, but we’re holding off on getting another chair until we can move! Also, I never *really* want to replace the chair because it’s the chair that supported me while I was feeding the girls in the middle of the night. It’s a great chair for knitting and reading and checking texts and Scout takes naps on it and one weekend I read most of East of Eden while sitting on that chair holding a feverish baby named Meredith and Hey! Pope Benedict is on television right now leaving his apartment for the last time. I wonder if he feels attached to any of his chairs.)

Heather talked about her hair today. I love her, so I followed her lead.

If I say Mouse Races, what do YOU say? Our school used to host a trivia night in the spring, and the turnout was never huge. I believe it has something to do with the fact that our school holds students from something like 23 different countries. Trivia Nights aren’t a big thing all over the world, and if you don’t know American pop culture, it might not be a fun time. (I’m FIERCELY competitive at these things. Because of this, if I was invited to a Mongolian trivia night, I would probably stay home because I know I wouldn’t stand a chance.) ((WAIT. Before you start raising your eyebrows at me, let me say that I KNOW a Mongolian trivia night would probably be very educational for me and that I am Exactly What Is Wrong With Our Country. I would DEFINITELY go to an event called Meet Mongolian People, Chat About Their Heritage, and Eat Food! I just don’t want to sit at a table feeling like a loser because I don’t know this song.))

Anyway, this year we’re taking a break from the trivia night and going with mouse races instead. When the idea of mouse races was introduced, I had to ask if we’re talking about Real Mice. (We are.) The mice will not be eaten, but they will be given fake names and they will be yelled at to run faster so people can place bets and win money and it all sounds so crazy to me, but I’ve heard it’s an amazing time! Have you gone to mouse races? (Would you LIKE to go to mouse races? If you’re in St. Louis and you want more info, shoot an e-mail my way!) Mice! Running! Adults only because of the betting and the drinking and the screaming at the mice! (Yes. There will be drinking. The drinking might make some people jump up and down as they yell loudly at their chosen mouse. The drinking might make some people sit in the corner and send PayPal donations to animal rights groups. I won’t tell you which hat I might be wearing.) ((Disclaimer: Drinking is not required, Silly. Neither is reading Fluid Pudding. I love free will. (I also love determinism!)))

I’ve been told the races look a little something like this:

Again. Let me know if you’re local and interested. (In mouse races. I’m not trying to date you, although I *will* high-five you and make awkward eye contact if you show up!)

This evening for dinner we’re having a vegan shepherd’s pie. My friend Erika shared the recipe, and it led me to purchase my first parsnips (Life List Item #82!). Tomorrow morning will find me at the hospital at 6:00. After that, there’s a 70% chance of Pilates followed by another sleepover for Meredith. Also, I’ll be starting The Hotel New Hampshire. (Oh, John Irving. You stir me every time.)

Oh! Wait! Bread Pudding! A few of you want to make bread pudding, so let’s do it next week! I’ve marked my calendar for Thursday, March 7th. It’s the Second Ever Fluid Pudding BreadPuddingAlong!!! Aren’t we amazing? We Are. ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

Every year I gain ten pounds over the holidays, and every year I lose ten pounds before the end of February.

Today is February 25th. (Only ten months until Christmas!) I have managed to lose three of my ten pounds. This can only mean that old lady crap metabolism has set in and that I’ll have to start moving around more than twice each week to get down to Status: My Pants Fit. New Plan? Lose the remaining seven pounds before the end of April, and gain only 5 pounds during the holidays. Easy. (Hopefully. Stinking Oreo Balls.)

One of my very favorite people is organizing an auction for the End Women’s Cancer Walk. I’m going to be knitting an Annis to donate to the auction. Because I’m absolutely terrible with deadlines, I’m going to use Fluid Pudding to hold me accountable throughout the next two months. I did my cast on last night.

I’ll keep you updated. Weekly, maybe. Or weakly. We’ll see. (If you would like to contribute anything to the auction, let me know! I can hook you up with the details.)

Spoofing Update: In the past 72 hours, only one person has cursed at me and accused me of stealing their credit card information. This might mean that the end is in sight! I have no idea! (I remain hopeful, because the hopeful people are the most charming, don’t you think? (The pessimistic ones always get those scowled up forehead wrinkles, and those are not always adorable.) By the way, I’m going to get my hair cut in the style of a Shaven Theron on Wednesday morning, and would you rather I be a pleasant bald lady or a scowler bald lady? That’s what I thought! Where was I?)

This week is crazy with meetings and conferences (meetings and conferences are two very different things!) and appointments (something else entirely!) and vegan spinach alfredo (dinner!) and shortened school days (no worries! we still meet our required 1,044 hours!) and surgeries (my mom’s ankle!) and veggie kebobs (lunch!).

Let there be peace on Earth, and let it begin with me. (I capitalize when I’m talking about the planet. I sometimes put my commas and periods outside of the quotation marks. A good friend of mine calls it intuitive punctuation, and I’m nothing if not intuitive.)

Is it time to do another BreadPuddingAlong? Three years have passed! ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

Let me just say this.

My name is Angela. (My middle name is Lynn, if you’re curious. I once asked my mom why she chose Lynn, hoping she would tell me a story about Loretta Lynn. Nope. Mom and Dad chose Lynn because everyone else was choosing Lynn. Lynn it is.)

I own Fluid Pudding Dot Com, and I have five e-mail accounts at Fluid Pudding Dot Com. One is for Angela, and that is my name. One is for Angie, and that is also my name. (I go by both, and sometimes I have no idea how to introduce myself. You can call me whatever you want. I used to drink a little and then introduce myself as Samantha. It’s a free country, although some of you don’t think so. Because it’s NOT!!!! Big scowls and frowns and blaming Obama for high gas prices!!! Where was I?) One e-mail account is for Fluid Pudding when I feel like I don’t want to share my name. My kids each have an account at Fluid Pudding, mainly because they really dig Pottermore, and you need an e-mail address to sign up.

I do not send out e-mails from 3920859 at fluid pudding dot com. I do not send out e-mails from loves269 at fluid pudding dot com or helensnastycloset at fluid pudding dot com. I could continue with this list, but I’m assuming you get the idea.

All of this to say: Fluid Pudding Dot Com has been spoofed. Spoofed! As a result, a lot of people are getting strange e-mails from random names at fluid pudding dot com. Some of those e-mails say things like, “Your PayPal payment to Bernard Chastain has been processed!” When the (mostly angry) recipient of this e-mail responds to Bernard at fluid pudding dot com, I get the (mostly angry) e-mail. And then I have to say something like this:

“Hello there! I am so sorry to tell you this, but I am not Bernard Chastain. My name is Angela and my account has been spoofed. I am not selling anything, nor am I trying to take payment for anything. I am currently in touch with my website host along with the tech support at PayPal, and we are trying to figure out what has happened. In the meantime, all I can do is tell you that I’m very sorry you received the terribly annoying e-mail regarding payment to Bernard Chastain, but I can assure you that I had nothing to do with it, and I’m doing everything I can to make sure it stops.”

Also, despite what the spoofer (is that what you call someone who spoofs?) wants you to think, I do not want to be connected to you on LinkedIn. I don’t want to be connected to ANYONE on LinkedIn. I pretty much hate LinkedIn, and I’ve deleted my account there 493 times, yet the e-mails keep pouring in. (“You can’t quit me, Angela!!!” – LinkedIn)

Finally, I have no interest in purchasing or selling a Russian mail order bride. I didn’t even realize that Russian mail order brides existed outside of bad sitcoms. Oh, the things you learn when you’re spoofed.

(It has been a very strange few days.)

If you’re here because you want to punch me for sending you a weird e-mail, please wait at the back of the line. I’ll be over here scratching my dogs’ ears and hoping this all ends soon. There’s coconut milk in the fridge. Help yourself. (Disclaimer: This is not really an invitation to help yourself to the coconut milk. Please don’t come into my house.) ‘ ‘ ‘text/javascript’>

1. This afternoon my mom came up and we had veggie sushi. Afterwards, we went to a health food store and I’m pleased to report that I am now the proud owner of nutritional yeast and vegan bacon bits and vegan bouillon cubes and Himalayan pink salt and vegan chicken and vegan beef and vegan egg substitute and I feel like you’re getting bored. I’ve been getting closer and closer to full on veganism, and now that I have this cookbook, it all boiled down to Finding the Products. I have found them.

2. If something weird happened and all of a sudden you were required to punch one person with absolutely zero consequences, do you know who you would punch? Sure, it would be easy to simply nod and choose Dr. Oz, but think about it. You get to punch ANYONE. You HAVE to punch someone. And maybe we’ll set it up in a way that the punchee has no idea WHO the puncher is. Do you know who you would choose? (I know who I would choose. I’m telling no one. If Punching Day ever happens, I’m ready.) ((My mom wants to punch Carrie Underwood, and although that sort of came out of left field, it made me very happy that my mom has chosen a Punchee.)) (((Please know that I do NOT endorse punching if it’s not part of a federally mandated Punching Day. Peace! Love!! Understanding!!!)))

3. After Harper misplaced both tennis shoes and her homework over the weekend and then offered a REWARD for them instead of actually LOOKING for them, my feathers got a little ruffled. When I went into the girls’ room to help look for the missing items and I found dirty clothes on the floor along with notes from school that carried dates from November, I lost my mind. Yesterday morning I dropped the girls off at school. I then returned home, entered their room armed with a box of trash bags, and threw away every single thing that was out of place. I had been threatening to do this for several weeks, but I always lost my nerve. Yesterday was The Day. The only items I held back from the trash were things like a digital camera, an iPod Nano, a DSi, and any books. (I can’t throw books away.) Those items were placed into a basket, and the girls can buy them back from me as they earn money by doing chores. (The Buy Back Bin was not my idea. A dear friend of mine mentioned it several months back, and I knew I had to work it in.)

4. When I was 21 years old, My Bloody Valentine released an album titled Loveless. I was finishing up the first semester of my first senior year and I spent my spare time writing bad poetry and taking midnight drives to Jefferson City for doughnuts and drinking instant coffee and burning incense and dipping fries in ice cream and Loveless was always in the background. When I think of Loveless, the leaves are brown and I’m in my Volkswagen Fox and I’m driving with the windows down and the heater on because I love fresh air and heat and I wore flannel and clunky shoes and I thought I liked to sip whiskey, but now I know I was just pretending.

Last week, My Bloody Valentine released their follow-up to Loveless. I’m now 42 years old. I’m now married with two kids, I’ve done the office job thing, I’ve moved several times, and I’m too tired for midnight doughnuts. Ah, but the leaves are still brown and my shoes are still a little clunky and I still try to write (not poetry, just this and that) and this morning I drove around with the windows cracked and the heat on and My Bloody Valentine is once again in my head and yes.

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First off and most importantly, thank you for all of your kind words regarding Meredith and her spelling bee! I love you guys. Please come over for dinner right now. I’m making this, and it smells like onion heaven. (That’s a very good thing.)

Okay.

My Thursday spinning class starts at 9:30. I have attended the class every week since Thursday, December 27th, which means it’s still a fairly new gig, but this is what I know: I LOVE it. I schedule appointments around it. I plan sports bra laundry around it. I love the instructor, I love her music, and I love the fact that I sometimes drip sweat onto the floor as I ride up a hill in the dark.

The place where I spin is right across the street from the girls’ school. On Thursdays, I tend to drop them off at around 8:40. I then park at the gym’s lot and drink hot tea until 8:50. I then enter the gym, sign up for a spot in the spinning studio, place my towels and my water on my favorite bike, and slowly warm up until the instructor arrives. At around 9:15, the studio is normally full of spinners. Although I haven’t really spoken to anyone, I always smile at the woman from Australia. I always stay far away from the older gentleman who is VERY outspoken about his belief that everyone should own a gun. (I have no idea how he manages to turn every topic of conversation into a gun control debate, but he does! It’s sort of like that whole Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon thing, minus the fun, plus furrowed brows and paranoia.) I try to stick close to the tall blonde woman who seems to weigh 60 pounds. (Fun Fact: If you click on the tall blonde woman link and listen to the song, please know that I can’t sing along without choking.)

This lady? I do not like this lady. Let’s call her Coco, because she actually carries a Chanel mini-backpack to the gym.

Coco always arrives for class right around the time that the bikes are filling up, and she ALWAYS screams to her friends about These New People who are showing up too EARLY and reserving their bikes too EARLY and, “I come straight here after I drop off my kid! I can’t get here any earlier and all of these NEW people are showing up and taking all the bikes! What the HELL?!”

These are her friends.

Their kids attend the same middle school as Coco’s, yet they somehow manage to arrive at class at least twenty minutes before her.

When Coco arrived to class last Thursday, all of the bikes were taken and SHE LOST HER MIND.

Coco: What the HELL?! IT WAS MY PLAN TO SPIN THIS MORNING!!! Who ARE all of these people?!

Friend #1: I know!

Friend #2: It’s disgusting.

(Really! She said it was disgusting! I can name at least 93 things that are more disgusting than people showing up a little early for a spinning class!)

Friend #3: Whoever put those towels on that bike hasn’t been here since I’ve been here. I say take it.

Coco then removed the water bottle and towels that someone else had placed on the bike, sat down, and began warming up—all while chomping gum and ranting about how ridiculous life can be.

Less than two minutes later, two gym employees entered the spinning studio with a guy who occasionally attends the class. Apparently, the towels and water bottle Coco had removed were his. The employees then BOUNCED Coco, and my heart filled with joy as she gathered her phone and her tiny backpack while yelling at the employees about All These People and how It’s Not Fair and You People Need to Do Something!!!

(Yes. My heart filled with joy. I’m not the greatest person and God isn’t finished with me yet or something (or other).)

The best part of all? After she stomped out and the door closed, Coco’s friends actually laughed about the whole thing. And Friend #2 spent the entire class shamelessly flirting with the guy who snitched on Coco.

He definitely wasn’t into it.

I matched (and sometimes outpaced) Friend #2’s ride until the final song ended, which I believe means that I won. And I’ll be back on Thursday. At 8:45. Because I can.

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