A case of the Mondays :(

This weekend C and I went rollerblading in the park with Oliver, as part of our recent pact to be more active. Turns out this is a worthwhile endeavor, because all three of us are apparently in the worst shape ever and turned out getting our asses 110% kicked.

It doesn't help that I can't stop, slow down or turn sharply on rollerblades. Forest Park is full of hills, many of them featuring hairpin turns that intersect with busy roads. Oh, sure, there are concrete barricades where each path intersects with a road for people like me, but when you're coming down a hill or around a corner at an uncontrolled speed of approximately 500 miles an hour, I'm pretty sure it doesn't matter if you hit a barricade or an oncoming car. Needless to say I ended up hiking down most of the hills with my blades on while C went screaming ahead of me. Oliver stuck with me because he's recently become Fat in Italian Greyhound terms. Which means he looks normal, but can't run 35mph for 12 hours straight anymore.

This prompted me to research "fat italian greyhounds" and this is what I came up with:

Excuse me, but if these animals were human women, I would probably trade bodies with them. They look good to me. Plus, if Oliver needs to take several long breaks and a dip in the pool mid-workout, thats great with me. "But C-eeeeeee, Oliver is tiiiiiired, he needs to rest!" The other upside to all this dog fatness is that it's obscenely cute/ridiculous looking when C has to carry Oliver up the big hills at the end of the workout. You haven't lived until you've seen a grown man roller blade up a hill with a little dog cradled like a baby in his arms, ears flapping in the wind.

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I've just learned that the only other woman in my office who is of childbearing age is trying to conceive. Anyone who knows me knows of my irrational hormones when it comes to babies. My brain is barely powerful enough to control them. But of course a baby is the absolute third worst thing that could happen to us right now (the first and second are death and being fired). Right? RIGHT?! The following account of my weekend is probably among the top five reasons why I shouldn't even think about babies.

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MY WEEKEND:
1. went rollerblading
2. got challenged to get drunk.
3. got drunk.
4. watched lord of the rings.

Sexy Rexy

Today in addition to work I:

• looked up information on multiple births
• participated in an online photoshop contest (DORK)
• read the comics
• spent copious amounts of time on craigslist looking up the following things that were for sale:

• birdcages
• old wedding dresses
• washing machines
• houses
• briggs and stratton engines
• horses and ponies
• Nigerian Dwarf Goat
• mountain bikes
  

Admittedly, perusing craigslist always starts out innocently enough. "Oh, Rex needs a bigger cage, the lawn mower is broken and my friend needs a new washing machine." I'll leave it up to you to try and discern what particular train of thought got me from washing machine to Nigerian Dwarf Goat.

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I've started working out again and last night I got hooked into "BODY BLAST" which is about exactly as awful as it sounds. I reckon they got the name from the fact that after you complete "Body Blast" you will probably feel like your body has been "blasted" by something heavy, like an anvil or an artillery shell. I probably shouldn't have started my workout regimen back up with something with that name but when I was invited to the class by a woman who is at least 168 years old, the two shreds of pride I had left at that point wouldn't let me refuse. Needless to say, that old woman quickly showed me that I am a weak, flabby person who doesn't deserve to be 23 and in the prime of life.

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To finish, I must report that baby Rex: (see below - to refresh your memory)

Is now teenage Rex, and while no longer requiring bi-daily feedings, is now what C affectionately calls "a little shit." I'm sure that moniker has been accurately applied to teenagers throughout the annuls of history, but probably none so accurately as it is applied to Rex. For something that gets toys, food, treats, accesories and attention galore, he sure does a whole hell of a lot of hissing and biting and generally telling me where I can stick it. Not unlike a human teenager, I would imagine.

Pretty much the only endearing thing about him at this point is that he has learned the following:

• Cat Call
  
• "Seventy Six Trombones"
  
• the beeping on the microwave

Maybe the third one is somewhat less endearing than the other two, but still. He is also molting and thus in addition to his unending bad attitude and incessant cat calling (also not unlike a human teenager, I suppose), he looks like we put him in the blender. I promise we didn't, but I can't promise that we havne't thought about it.

NOW, it's five o-clock.