5-35-13

by Marinka on January 28, 2018

No, those aren’t my measurements.

If you must know, that’s the combination to my new combination lock which comes with its own set of problems.

I started going to the gym recently, the local Y, because it’s less than two blocks away from me and because apparently according to “science” exercise is good for the human body and my newest goal is to live for a really long time and be in good enough shape to fully enjoy Trump’s incarceration and by “Trump’s” incarceration I mean Donald’s, Donald Jr.’s, Eric’s, Ivanka’s, Jared’s, and any and all horses that they may have ridden in on and by “incarceration” I mean “jailed.”

So going to the gym is all sorts of complicated because first you have to find the ID card that was issued to you during happier times. And by “happier times,” I mean when Barack Obama was President and the United States was a superpower instead of a super embarrassment.

Fortunately, my ID card was attached to my keychain, so I was obviously distraught that I didn’t have that excuse to stay out of the gym for another decade or so. But then I couldn’t find a combination lock, or, more accurately, I couldn’t find a combination lock to which I knew the combination. I have plenty of locks that are locked forever because I have no clue what the combination is. I asked my kids if they knew the combinations, in case they were secret savants, but they had no idea and then when I asked my sixteen year old son if I could borrow his combination lock, he said “sure, but I don’t know what the combination is” which was an excellent way to lay to rest any questions of whether I am his biological parent. This may be a good time to tell you that one time, many years ago, I actually went through the whole rigamarole (whoa! That’s a real word, apparently) to retrieve the lost/forgotten combination which involved sending a signed and notarized statement to the MasterLock company swearing that you are the proud owner of the lock and cannot remember the combination and then, a few weeks later, they send you the combination. This is a wonderful time in a lock owner’s life and leads to much rejoicing, and if you’re me, an almost immediate loss of the combination that has been so recently reclaimed.

So I did what any normal person would do and for a while used a locker at the Y without a lock. This was a risk, I knew, but I am nothing if not devout and I just couldn’t imagine a world where the Lord would permit both (a) Trump to be president and (b) my locker would be burglarized. Although this is totally sound thinking, I still spent most of my workout session in fear that someone would open my locker and steal something or throw my keys away or something. And I had to bring my keys with me because my YMCA ID is on the keychain. What, you already forgot that?

The whole experience was absolutely nerve wrecking because how could I enjoy a workout that would launch my career as a fitness model when I was about to lose my keys and my YMCA ID as well as membership loyalty cards to various superstores that were attached to my keychain? This led to my checking in on my locker throughout my workouts with a frequency that signaled to the locker room attendants that I was storing a small child on the top shelf.

It was exhausting and unsatisfying and not just because no one bothered to try to steal anything from me, which in and of itself is offensive.

And then a miracle happened and I bought a lock:

IMG_0615

I bought this one because it was different and I thought that since my history with the traditional locks wasn’t great, I would give this one a shot.

In the days that followed, I had to field a number of questions, including, but not limited to the following:

Why would you ever buy a lock without numbers?
Are you a complete idiot?
I know you said you tried twice to the right and twice up, but did you do it in the right order?
Are you sure you’re not a complete idiot?
Were they out of normal locks?
Is it possible that you’re a partial idiot?
You just picked it because it’s purple, didn’t you?

The problem was that no matter what I did, I could not get the lock to open, which, it turns out is a big negative where locks are concerned. But equally as worrisome was the fact that other people that I showed the lock to were able to open it, so it raised a whole bunch of questions about my well-being that no one wanted to address without professional assistance.

Finally after a few weeks of this nonsense, which were so stressful that I could not even think about exercising, I bought a real lock.

And then I started to come up with smart ways to remember the combination.

“Let’s see, 5-35-13,” I thought out loud, “Well, the 13 part is easy because I live on 13th street. And 35 is not a great challenge, because, hey, I’m not 35 anymore! And come to think of it, I’m not 5 anymore either, so done and done!”

Can you think of a problem with the “not a certain age anymore” memory trick? Because I couldn’t until I pushed the lock shut which was the moment that I realized that having celebrated my 50th just last March (gifts still being accepted, but don’t wait too long!) there are forty nine ages that “I am no longer.”

So the only solution is to post my combination here. And hope that Mueller hurries up.

{ 1 comment }

Do You Like It?

by Marinka on September 13, 2017

The other day I realized that I weigh more than the Guy I Went to Ireland With, which is an exciting way to beat the Seven Year Itch, even if it’s only been three years and you’re freebasing antihistamines. Interesting story about how I figured that out. He announced his weight after he weighed himself and then after he left and I secured all doors and windows, I weighed myself and the number that I weighed was higher than the number that he weighed, so doing some back of the envelope calculations, I came to the conclusion that I was heavier than he was.

Immediately I tried to pry open one of the windows for the needless-to-say-but-apparently-necessary-to-write purpose of flinging myself out, but my weight gain was less “muscle” and more “ass” so the window remained sealed and I remained.

A few things came into my mind right then, in no particular order: Fourth, no one must ever find out. First, well, he is as bald as a baby’s bottom and I have a glorious mane, which explains everything. Second, I have to start dating two men simultaneously, preferably conjoined, so that they always weigh themselves together and I will never outweigh the person(s) I am dating again. Fifth, this wouldn’t be a bad time for a light snack and, finally, third, maybe I should lose some weight.

I didn’t like that last third idea so much because of the whole patriarchy thing and ObamaCare but on the other hand, I am not entirely comfortable with the conjoined. I know it’s my thing, my limitation and not theirs, and to be fair to them, they haven’t been exactly seeking me out for dating purposes, either, but if I am being honest with myself, I have to admit that I have no interest in dating ever again, even the non-conjoined, especially now that there are those walking among us who voted for Trump. I’ve never even dated a Republican, so I can’t risk this shit now. Besides, I love the Guy I Went to Ireland With, so getting a haircut is the only thing that made sense.

This is the part of the post where I put in a lot of transitional stuff that ties everything together nicely and earns me a Nobel in Blogging. Except I have things to do, so if you wouldn’t mind taking over this part, I’ll share a snack with you.

To make a long story slightly shorter, I decided not to cut my hair but to lose a few ounces instead so before I knew it, the Guy I Went to Ireland With and I were doing the Whole30 eating plan again and it was going great. I know what you’re thinking. If we’re both doing the Whole30 and we will both lose weight, won’t he still weigh less than I do?

And the answer is, I guess, if you believe in math, that’s how it works. But I believe in love and its power to transform and make me weigh less than him. Also I plan on injecting him with lard while he sleeps, so this is one of those clear eyes full heart can’t lose situations.

Now if you’re finished with the interruptions, I will tell you what happened last night so that you will know.
I don’t know if you’ve ever done Whole 30, or eaten any food, but the essential element is food preparation. Whole30 means no dairy, no sugar, no wheat, no something else, so there’s a lot of label reading and cooking from scratch. And I don’t know what scratching has to do with it and if it’s related to the Seven Year Itch. And I love cooking for my family. Knowing that I’m providing healthful, nutritious meals is a feeling that I cannot describe, but what I can describe is how great I feel when I get complimented on it.

You know who doesn’t get how great it is to get complimented on a meal lovingly prepared? The Guy I Went to Ireland With.

“Thank you,” the Guy I Went to Ireland With said when I handed him a plate of love in the shape of lamb shepherd’s pie.
And then we masticated. In silence.
“Do you like it?” I asked.
“It’s ok,” he said.

It’s not his fault. I asked him a question and like a damn fool, he answered it honestly, probably because I am the first human being that he has ever met and is new to human interaction.

So as a public service, I will explain what someone who prepared your meal wants to hear when they ask “Do you like it?”

WHAT TO DO WHEN SOMEONE WHO PREPARED YOUR MEAL ASKS “DO YOU LIKE IT?”
A Step-by-Step Guide

1.Put your eating utensil down or disconnect your feeding tube
2. Look at the food preparing angel with love in your eyes.
3. Swallow, while looking at food preparing angel with love in your eyes.
4. Say, “Do I like it? No. No, I do not. I love it.”
5. Pick up your eating utensil but then put it down again, for effect. I’m not sure how this will work with feeding tubes.
6. Say, “I’ve never tasted anything like this. Amazing. Truly.” (Warning: do not say this if this is the second night you’re having this meal, although you can say something along the lines that it’s even better on the second night, but that’s a thin line you’re going to have to walk, so I can’t help you).
7. Pick up/put down utensil, but not so that your good preparing angel notices a pattern. Maybe give food preparing angel $100 as a distraction.
8. Say, “seriously, how did you do it?” If FPA™ starts to respond, say, “No! Don’t tell me! I Can’t be trusted with this secret!”
9. Give FPA™ another $100. Because you can’t put a price on food. And love. No matter what restaurants and Tiffany’s say.
10. IF and ONLY IF FPA™ questions your sincerity, throw down your napkin (oh, pre-step 1, make sure there’s a napkin folded on your lap. And also that your wallet has a few $100 bills) and say, “Please do not question my love!” Squeeze out a tear. Tell FPA™ that you are too hurt to continue this conversation, but fortunately not hurt enough to stop eating.
11. Finish everything on your plate.
12. Lick the plate.
13. Ask if there’s an antidote.
14. Say that you’re kidding. Offer another $100 to “take care of” any “misunderstanding.”

I hope that this has been helpful.

$100, please.

{ 3 comments }

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