Re-getting Healthy

Not only did I stop blogging, I stopped going to the kickboxing parlor as much right before I left for my trip and over the holidays. I mean. I could tell you all the reasons why I haven’t gone more than once a week since Halloween. But when it’s all said and done, it doesn’t really matter. Mostly because none of those reasons are making it easier to get back on the healthy bandwagon, but also because I gained like 10 pounds. Sorry foreigners, I don’t know the conversions for weight. And I could look it up, but I’m far too lazy for that noise.

I’m starting my second week of going to the kickboxing parlor multiple times a week. My legs have dully ached for a week now. Okay. Slight exaggeration. But for a good portion of the past week, it has hurt to move. Re-getting healthy is hard. Not hard like dealing with diabetes or triple bypass angioplasties. But hard like let me sit here and whine like a little bitch. Sort of like when I know I need to go to the dentist or the doctor or buy new underwear. I realize this is all part of living a healthy lifestyle. Well, maybe not the underclothes part. but maybe. I’d be interested if there are studies about the link between new undies and level of health. I know what I’m doing if I ever go back for my Psy D or PhD.

When I was fucking off at the end of the year, I never stopped to consider how much whiny bitch getting healthy again would inspire. Yes, I’ve started going to the parlor again. Yes, I’ve started blogging again, at least semi-regularly. But there’s the whole doctor/dentist thing I’ve been avoiding. I realize that it’s for the best, and I should set a good example for the little people in my life. BUT… Okay, I don’t actually have a legit excuse for not making an appointment for either doctor. Perhaps, if I go to bed now, I won’t have to think about those things.

A New Tax Bracket

It’s difficult to fuck up chicken noodle soup. It’s also difficult to fuck up nachos, but I’ve had fucked up nachos. And perhaps, I love the chicken noodle soup too much for it to ever be labelled as “fucked up”. I used to think it was difficult to fuck up a W-4 (an American piece of shit form you fill out when you become hired by someone so the government knows how much to take away from you). But guess what!!! (I mean besides the fact I’m not a fan of the government taking any amount of money from me.) I fucked up my W-4 when I got hired a year and a half ago.

So, if you’ve been reading my blog for any amount of time, you may recall that I was unemployed for a long time when I first started writing this blog. I’ll refresh your memory or catch you up if you’re new… During my unemployment, I “may have” gotten into the habit of waking up in the afternoon. Not just a little afternoon, but like 3 or 4 hours after noon. Therefore when I got hired, I had to readjust my schedule; like throw myself into jet lag on purpose. Needless to say, when I went to my orientation at the crack of dawn (9 am), I may have been a bit loopy.

Orientation for me was when I filled out all the forms! Not the silly forms like who to contact in case of emergency. But forms like the W-4 and my direct deposit forms. Unfortunately, the finance dude at work misread my direct deposit form, and it took far too long to straighten out. Last year I didn’t really pay attention when I filed, although I thought my return seemed a bit small. Then today I was doing a rough draft of my taxes and had to pay… a lot. Pardon me?! Just how in the fuck did that happen???

Apparently, since I don’t have kids nor own my home and make a certain amount, I need to have more taken out of my check. Really government? You can suck my dick. This has nothing to do with the current state of politics in the US. I’ve been anti-taxes since my first pay check a month after I turned 16. However, this is the first time I’ve made a certain amount. I can’t help but think that I done fucked up on my form when I filled it out a year and a half ago. Right so long story short, I’m drinking adult cherry cola in an attempt to yank on my big girl panties on and redo my W-4 making sure they’re deducting enough.

Hell on Earth aka the Airport

I’ve flown a lot this year. Okay, perhaps “a lot” is a relative term. I’m going to be flying down to San Diego in a few minutes. Again “a few minutes is relative”. Anyway, relativity aside, I fucking hate the airport. Anyone will do. I went on my first flight at the age of six, and it’s only gotten worse. Thanks a lot Obama. Wait, that’s not right. Thanks a lot Trump. Hang on while I throw up in my mouth.

I would write more but I need to pee before boarding. I’m a fat girl about to go on a plane. I’ve heard the rumors. Myth busters be damned.

Tapestry of Profanity part deux

Know when you finally decide to get back on the blogging horse, and you write a beautiful blog full of swears, and then you post it and decide to edit it only in the process you end up deleting the body of the blog? Oh. So it’s just me? Fuuuuuck. But surely you can relate on some level. Such as that one time you decided to get back into regularly going to the kickboxing parlor the next day, only to become violently sick in front of your new person and his best friend and not only are you embarrassed as fuck because they cleaned out your sick out of your car but you now also had to postpone your triumphant return to your favorite stress reliever? No. Okay I got way too specific there.

I feel like some days I just need someone to hang out in my wake tidying up the destruction behind me. Right. I’m being really over-dramatic. And when I wrote it I did so in a voice that makes everything a question with the influx at the end. Influx is that the correct word? I don’t know. This is why I need someone to live on my shoulder or pocket whom I could get these answers I need. Also, I’d have them bring me bagels and other bread products. Maybe alcohol too.

Right. So. Anyway. The whole point of my last blog wasn’t some statement about the nothingness of weaving a tapestry of profanity. It was about putting my post holiday big girl pants on and start making healthy and fun choices again. Really? I could have summed up the lost blog, which was a few paragraphs, just in a few words?! What the hell? Seriously. I am going to attempt to not fuck off any more. I will wear trousers and study and be a productive member of the world. I will.

Tapestry of Profanity

Irish Mothers

I’m always caught off guard when I interact with Irish mothers. I’m minding my own business in the shop or eating breakfast or drinking at the pub, and then suddenly, I’m telling an Irishwoman I’m travelling alone and why I’m not married and/or why I am wearing flip flops. Every time. After coming to Ireland multiple times, you’d think I’d be used to it by now. I’m not. See. My own dear mother is not Irish. She isn’t even Irish-American at all. No. She’s of the rare German-Russian heritage. On both sides. Like if I don’t know better, I’d think she came from a long line of inbreeders. Nope though. She’s just from a Mennonite family… on both sides.

My mother isn’t really up in my business. Ever. She asks me how I’m doing, and it feels invasive for her. Really mom? That the hell? Mind your own fucking business. But I know it’s coming from a good place (okay, I think it is). My mom sends me across the ocean alone and vaguely hints that having some idea of where I’m at would be nice for her. This is the woman who spent 72 hours expelling me from her body. In those terms, I think that gives her some license to ask more questions about my wellbeing. Then again, she doesn’t read this so I’m safe from her actually finding out I could possibly be all right with a little more concern from her.

Irish mothers on the other hand, have raised their children until very recently under the thumb of English oppression. It’s in the shared unconsciousness of the culture that it could be wiped out and is under threat.Therefore, it is the Irish mum’s job to protect her children by whatever means possible. I could delve into the societal and cultural and historical reasons for the reasons why the Irish are the way the are, especially the women. And more specifically the mums. The fact is regardless the knowledge I have about the Irish, whenever I end up interacting with an Irish mother, it surprises the fuck out of me.

It has happened in the North. It has happened in the Republic. In the east and west and middle. These mums are everywhere. I’m not complaining. It’s just an observation. Most recently, I was at breakfast this morning and got into a half hour long conversation with an Irish mother about my travels and her remodeling her house. Hence, she and her husband staying in the guesthouse we’re both at. It led to the internal debate about should I just focus on my food and use her as background noise or should I engage in full on conversation and choke down cold eggs later. There was a compromise. Cold toast helped me swallow the cold eggs. Because go politeness. Also, she’s a mom. You can’t just not talk to a mom, especially when she’s handing out bits of knowledge. So rather than hiding in my room the entire day, I’ll go outside and take a walk.


Thoughts on a Train

I rode the train from Cork to Galway today. Well, technically speaking from Cork to Limerick Junction. And from Limerick Junction to Galway. Except it felt like the long way from Limerick Junction. Needless to say, I had a lot of time to think and read and play on the internet on the train. I started reading Good Omens and it seems good so far. I hope it stays good as it’s only one of three books I brought with me on my less than three week vacation. Don’t judge me. As it turns out, I’m really stuck with my internet browsing. Mostly social media. There isn’t much to say about my internet usage. Then there were the thoughts.

Okay, so, my thoughts weren’t groundbreaking or even insightful. Consider yourself forewarned. Every time I ride the trains (hmmm that makes me sound like a fucking hobo but I can’t be assed to edit it, so a hobo I will be), I think about Shining Times Station. You know, Thomas the Tank Engine? No? You lucky son of bitch. The point of this is that Mr Conductor was played by Ringo Starr and George Carlin. I shit you not. So naturally my thoughts wandered to who the fuck was like kids’ show? You know who’d be great for this? The forgotten Beatle and the man who did a schtick called the 8 words you can’t say on television.

Seriously. What happened there? My next thought was more a realization. And that was riding the trains (there I go being all hobo again) makes me tired as all hell. I could barely keep my eyes open. I forced myself to stay awake though, because you know, jet lag is a skanky dick. As jet lag and the steady rocking motion of the train fought against me, I realized it wasn’t just the train. It was all moving vehicles that I’m not in charge of operating… hopefully. If I am in the car or a plane etc, I’m going to fall asleep after a while. Try and stop me! Okay. Please don’t. I just realized I must like the motion of the vehicle. Mmmm turbulence.

And that was that. I told you it wasn’t profound or anything. In other news, I’m sharing a room with two fellas I’ve never met before. It doesn’t look like they’re friends, so there’s that. Sorry. Random sharing. The dude on the bed next to mine is trying to sleep. I want to take a nap. BUT I’m not going to. I’m going to get off my ass and get some food for dinner and some more to send home because I love the food I cannot get in the USA. That’s going to be expensive to send back to Seattle. Ah well.