Back in the day, when Husband Dearest would be away – business, bachelor party..whatever – I would take my chance to watch scary movies with my friends or all the random ghost shows that come on after dark on the weekend. I would do this knowing full well that I would watch just enough to start believing there are ghosts in my own house, friendly or not.
Wouldn’t be too long before I would be sure they weren’t friendly, and every time my dogs barked at nothing, I would be more and more sure I was right. Those nights were probably the bulk of that month’s electricity bill, because every light, and sometimes more than one television would be on the whole night. From the street, my house very likely looked like Thomas Edison’s field lab.
Knowing I was choosing to scare myself witless was literally like cutting my own switch and grabbing for my ankles.
As I near my thirties, my choice of punishment has evolved. I seem more and more prone to the sappy, woman movie. Yes. It’s true. When normally I can’t sit still for longer than an hour show, I keep finding myself in the middle of these wonderful, horrible, sometimes Lifetime-related, woman-targeted movies like “P.S. I Love You” or “My Sister’s Keeper.”
These movies seem designed to make you weep. Not cry, weep…seep? Whatever crying it is when your eyes drip of their own accord, long after you have told them to cut it out. These story lines are fantastic, sad and moving. You know what you’re getting into and just can’t help but watch anyway.
Guys, I know you don’t get it. We don’t get it either. I will sign off by trying to explain it with Man Language:
Imagine you are offered two choices: A) a massage or B) a massage with a happy ending
What if they told you that the massage would be great, the happy ending even better, but at the end the session, the massage bimbo would take your money and kick you in the nuts.
You know there are plenty of you out there that are still thinking B is looking pretty good…
Internet, today I am an ass. Sounds harsh until you think about saying that in a lofty, British accent – then it just sounds like a story you shared with a buddy at a pub (yeah – a pub).
Wait, I know what most of you (my one reader) are going to say: why not spell it ‘arse’ then, my British liege?
Answer – because that sounds more Scottish and not at all the sound I’m going for.
Anywho. I have my antsy pants on today and heaven forbid you get in my way. I am a little scared of taking the dogs on a walk. Why? Because most days, my puppies are angels and can do no wrong. But Internet, on days like this, animals are assholes, and one leash tug in the wrong direction might just make me lose it.
Lose it in a ‘why-do-you-hate-me-give-me-candy-right-now-you-never-let-me-have-anything-supermarket-tantrum’ lose it.
Luckily for the beasts, this rarely results in any public display of well, anything, but I do think they can hear the internal screaming because on days like this, they tend to hide behind Husband Dearest’s legs and wait for Real Mommy to return.
I had my first Personal Training session yesterday with Kara at the New Braunfels club, and I realized very quickly that there’s exercise…and then there’s exercise.
Also was quite humbled by how out of shape I actually am, despite my many – and as it turns out USELESS– trips to our gym in Dallas. In one hour with dozens of short-lived but intense exercises, Kara has started me on my fitness journey to greatness.She has also rendered me an invalid. I think I slept almost 12 hours last night.
I’m a little behind in posting, but on Monday evening, Husband Dearest said – let’s go check out The Gristmill – I hear the sunset is amazing.
Now, Internet, there is something you have to realize about me – I have been 80 years old my entire life. My first instinct on a Monday evening is to be at home.
Why? Duh – because it’s a school night.
But then I realized something – I had no reason not to go.
LIFE (The Next Chapter) has given me a gift of being in charge of my own schedule. So off we went. Gruene (“Green”) is such a fun, lovely place – the best of small town culture with historical route. This town very well could have had a “square”. People park – then people walk. Around town.
Or, like us, to The Gristmill.
Husband Dearest and I both had the Tomatillo Chicken, one of the healthier options. The meal was great, but the view and the people were what made this a place to come back to. One of the restaurant’s best assets is a lovely lady named Heather who went out of her way to know our names and make sure we had a great first Gristmill experience.
The view is phenomenal – you’re sitting in the trees, watching the water flow down below as the sun bleeds all the best colors into the sky.
Well, sue me for waxing poetic. Judge for yourself.