LAMENESS ABOUNDS

I am hanging my head in shame. I built you up, Buttercup, just to let you down. I really need to learn to keep my big mouth shut.

Last night while getting ready to go out, I posted here about going to bike night and promised great blog fodder. I’ve been a reluctant biker chick for over 3 years now and I’ve never been to a Bike Night event that wasn’t at the very least interesting. You combine bikers, bikes, alcohol, music and contests and there is always something to entertain.

Until last night. We went to a Bike Night that we have never attended before. There weren’t many bikes or bikers there upon our arrival. I was starving and insisted that we eat NOW. I’m a very cranky SMB when I’m hungry.

The pub grub I spoke of was mediocre at best. And I was starving so my standards were lowered quite a bit. We did enjoy very yummy angus sliders for an appetizer. The rest wasn’t worth telling.

By the time we finished eating, all the bikes were gone. Really! What kind of bikers were these that can’t stay out past 9:30! Even I can do that and I’m a very lame biker chick.

MHS said that we got there too late because I was blogging in the bathroom while putting on my makeup. Seriously, read the last post……..it took all of 2 minutes to write that piece of literary genius. Pffftt! I’m tellin ya. The night was lame all night. I don’t think we missed a thing. I didn’t even see one drunk biker chick. No games, no fancy bikes to wow the crowd.

I’m hanging my head in shame. I let you down. I didn’t come thru. To top it all off, I ended up leaving my camera on the kitchen counter so all I had was my camera on my phone which isn’t bad in good lighting but it was night and as you can see…..not so great.

The Biker Nazi telling a tall tale.

The Biker Nazi sporting his new paint job. See the empty parking lot beyond the little tree. No bikes. Gone. Every.single.one.

IF IT'S THURSDAY, IT MUST BE BIKE NIGHT

The Biker Nazi is back in town. It's Thursday night and Bike Night at a local sports bar. The Biker Nazi is buying me some pub grub. Oh and before you get any ideas, My Harley Stud is coming too. I'm sure the BN will do something blogworthy. If not, I'll make something up. I'm armed with my camera and maybe I'll even run into my old friend, Truman.

Stay tuned. The fun's about to begin.

THE GRINGA IN THE BACK

After the talk I had with myself on Monday, there was no getting around going to the gym after work. I’m usually able to get out of the office on Mondays at a reasonable time and make it to my favorite class, Latin Impact. It’s basically aerobic dance exercise using Latin music and Latin moves. The class is taught by a very nice woman who is incredibly fit and probably close to my age. English is her second language and most of the class is taught in Spanish. That’s OK with me because I’m fluent understand directional queues in Spanish like right, left, forward, back, look, Not that way, STUPID!

I didn’t make it to class last week but after taking this class the week before, I couldn’t walk without pain for three days. Yet another indication of how badly out of shape I am.

I should probably point out here that I have a fair amount of rhythm, I can dance. I’ve taken a few dance classes, performed in the Dolphin’s half-time show, had a part as a party guest in the Nutcracker which required dancing, etc. I’m not completely without any dance ability. Until.it.comes.to.Latin.moves. Ay Caramba! My hips just don’t want to move like that.

The class starts and I’m smiling, happy to be out of the office, and feel good about taking that first step to get back on the diet/exercise wagon. The instructor is a natural. She starts with the warm up and the hips are going. I’m enjoying myself and feeling pretty good about being able to keep up even if the hips aren’t cooperating. The class progresses into the cardio segment. She’s taking us all around the room, right, left, back and forth, diagonally forward and back, turning around. Oh yeah, Ms. Tiny Dancer loves to make us turn around and around to the point that I’m almost dizzy. The worst part about turning around is the wall of windows. I always stand in the back. I don’t mind if I laugh at me but I would hate to have to hurt someone don’t want others laughing at me. So around and around we go and don’t think for a minute that there aren’t men people suddenly lined up to use the machines right by the window. I smile as I turn because I’ll be damned if I’m going to show that I have no idea what I’m doing even though it’s quite obvious I’m nice like that.

By the middle of the class, I’m still smiling but I’ve figured out that leftover roasted brussel sprouts aren’t the thing to eat for lunch on Latin Impact Monday. I’ve figured out that the teacher doesn’t have a plan. I don’t think she has choreographed this class. But she has developed a strategy. “As soon as the gringa in the back figures out what we’re doing, change it.”

And as if it’s not bad enough that I’m the only one in the class whose hips can’t move independently from the rest of her body, I’ve got what appears to be blonde Cheryl Burke (Dancing with the Stars) right in front of me. The problem with having “Cheryl” in front of me is that I’m competitive a follower inspired by greatness. Having this woman in front of me raises the bar. I’m trying harder. And it ain’t pretty.

At one point in the class we were expected to shake our booty in a circular motion really fast while waiving our arms in the air in a opposite circular motion. What the……? While this might be attractive in a hip-hop sort of way on a young girl with a cute booty, on me……….not so much.It’s like that old pat your head and rub your belly sort of thing. I’m sure I could get it if they slowed it down to a waltz tempo but seriously….? Not happening. Let me tell you there is nothing sadder than a white girl desperately trying to shake her booty, waive her arms, while burping roasted brussel sprouts, attempting to do it with style like “Cheryl” and smile at the boys thru the window because everybody knows, “You never let em see you sweat”. Alas, the sweat, the terror on my face, and the complete lack of Latin vibe was all too obvious.

By the end of the class, I was no longer smiling, I didn’t care what the boys thought, I hated Cheryl and I was thinking very mean thoughts about Ms. Tiny Dancer. I stared at the clock, willing it to move faster so I could be done with this whole mess.

The class was finally over. Ms. Tiny Dancer thanked us for coming, praised us for doing such a good job and told us we were very smart women to be able to follow her directions. It’s amazing what a few nice words can do. I’ll be back next Monday. It’s my favorite class.

ONE DAY AT A TIME, MY ARSE! I want it NOW!

By now, you've probably seen the cover of this week's People magazine. You know the one with little Valerie Bertinelli, the girl we all loved in One Day at a Time. She is 48 now, soon to be 49 years old and revealed her smokin' hot, new body, in a bikini no less, on the cover. Yeah, I hate her. But seriously, good for her. This struck a chord with me because we are the same age. Well, she's a bit older. *smirk*

Ironically the People magazine arrived in my office mailbox yesterday: The very same day that I woke up, took one look in the mirror and said, "Who the hell are you?" I didn't recognize the face staring back at me. I look like crap! There are bags under my eyes that you could pack for a month long vacation. There are lines on my face that would give MapQuest a run for its money. I don't even want to talk about my grey roots. Does anyone know how to get your hair to stop growing? Oh and let's not forget the mini me that's attached itself to my mid-section. Oh yeah, there's a whole other person cohabitating with my body. I've got proof. Just look at the scale. Wait! Stop! You're just going to have to take my word for it on that. Bottom line: I've come to the realization that I'm no longer pushing forty. I'm draggin it.

It took a while but I finally got over the shock of this over-night transformation, (Don't tell me it didn't happen overnight. That's my story and I'm stickin to it.) So I sat myself down and had a talk with myself. It went something like this:

Me: "Damn, girl! You've really let yourself go."

Me also: "Go where? Where are we going? "

*Apparently the new me is not only a wreck, she's also stupid. Grrr.*

Me: "We've got to do something about this. What do you propose that we do?"

Me also: "I like donuts. Can we go get donuts?"

Me: "That's it. You're going back to the gym today! You're going back on the South Beach Diet" There is no excuse for a woman your age to let herself go like this, Do you hear me, Soldier?"

Me also: "Does that mean we can't stop at Dunkin Donuts? Not even for a muffin?"

Me: "You are really thick, you know it?"

So then I get to the office and see cutesy, little Ms. Bertinelli on the cover. That might have p*ssed off a weaker woman. Not me! It just strengthened my resolve. If VB can do it by her 49^th birthday, by gosh, so can I. *Oh dear Lord, have I lost my mind?*

I've got until December 2009 to literally get my rear in gear. I'm going to start drinking more water and less wine beer coffee. I'm going to get more rest. I'm going to hit the gym or exercise elsewhere vigorously 4-5 times a week. I am going to follow the South Beach Diet because it works for me when I actually follow it. I'm not saying that I'll be modeling any bikini come December but mark my words:

I will be a smaller, fitter, crankier happier Smart Mouth Broad.

And I'll be doing it all…….One Day at a Time.

SISTERHOOD

Pseudo of Pseudonymous High School Teacher tagged me with the Sisterly Love badge a couple years months weeks ago. At the time, I had a few other posts already planned and then a few more current events hit that just begged to be blogged about. I am honored that Pseudo would think of me for this but I kept putting it on the back burner. Thank you, Pseudo!

I am the baby of the family. As the only product of a second marriage for my mother and the only child for my father, I arrived much later than my siblings. My sisters were seventeen and thirteen when I was born. My brother was twelve. The difference in our ages during my upbringing created a relationship with my siblings that more resembled extra parents than true sister/brother relationships. I have no recollection of any of them as anything other than an adult. Nevertheless, a bond was formed and now that we are all adults, we share a normal sibling relationship. Normal being a relative term here. If you've been a reader here for long, you've met my brother and sister and let's just say we all share that Goofy gene that was handed down from our mother, Lucy.

What I'm getting at is that I didn't have the pillow-fight, make-up sharing, got your back kind of sisterhood with my sisters when I was growing up. They were busy raising their own children and in fact my eldest niece is only 3 years younger than I am. I love my siblings dearly and we are very close, don't get me wrong. It's just a different sort of relationship.

I forged sister like relationships with my best friends from my childhood and am fortunate to still enjoy the blessings of those friendships. I have friends that I may not speak to for months and not see for years but when we get together, it is like no time has passed. We become the same giggle girls we were when we were young. Our stories just get a little juicier. Leaving my friends to move to Florida was really hard. We don't get to see each other near as often as I would like. Beauty's daughter just got married this past weekend and I would have loved to have been there. I wasn't able to go and that breaks my heart. I really wanted to be there for this major moment in Beauty's life. It's hard to miss the big stuff in a loved one's life. But one thing I know for sure is that Beauty knows I love her. She knows how much I wanted to be there. She knows she better have lots of pictures to show me. And the next time we are together, it will once again be like we've never been apart.

My relationship with my siblings and my chosen sisters is like that because we are always together in our hearts. Love doesn't acknowledge time or distance. It's just love.

The rules for passing on this award are:

Pass it on to those you choose. They must write about their sisterly relationship. That's it. I've made friends here in bloggyville that I never would have imagined and feel a sisterhood with all of you. Yes, even the guys. Consider yourself my sister. Don't you feel special now? Well you are to me. I'm tagging each and every one of you. Take it or leave it. I love you all.

Hugs,

SMB