Sweaty Boxers

Sounds delicious, doesn't it?

Well, now let's put it into perspective. Master P and I decided that we were going to start trying to more religiously doing some sort of athletic activity. (Even if it is not swimsuit season, there are certain hibernating techniques that only our furry friends should engage in - storing fat). So we've vowed to go to the gym more often.

It's ironic actually -- we half decided to live where we do because there is a gym on site. Given the fact that the gym is not in our apartment complex is my excuse for never going before. Anyway - back to the story.

So we went - sweat a ton and felt good. We repeated the next day. Which, by the way was far more difficult than the day beforehand. Now this is where our story goes from being G rated to near X. Master P and I are cranking away at our selective machines, when low and behold, enter another residence.

What I am about to say from this point on is the gosh awful truth.

A small framed man enters into the gym. He is eating a cookie. He does a quick scope of the scene and puts his bags down in the middle aisle, between the two rows of machines. (In other words, he puts his things down where anyone on any machine has full view of what he is about to do -- thank goodness P and I were the only ones in the room).

He proceeds to take off his boots and put them in a plastic bag, perhaps the same one that had the bag of cookies in it. Who knows? What happens next nearly caused me to either a) fall off my machine or b) piss in my pants. He took his jeans off. He took his jeans off and then proceeded to fold them up. Mind you, there is a bathroom in the entrance way. So here he stands in his checkered boxers. P and I exchange glances, trying not to laugh out loud.

Instead of them putting on a pair of track shorts OVER the boxers - stringy man sits down (yes - sits down in a room full of mirrors!!!) and laces up his running shoes. He does all of this without thinking that there may be other people in the room. Well, once the shoes are on - he jumps on the treadmill and starts running.

Two thoughts cross my mind.
1) He is not afraid to let it all hang out - he is comfortable with his manhood.
2) He must not be packing much, because I would imagine as a male it is not very comfortable to run free balling it.

Upon consulting with Master P, we concluded that it would have to be the later.

Never a dull moment in this life. Never a dull moment.

* I thought I could chalk the experience up as never wanting to go to gym again and to continue with my blissful lazy streak. I have opted to refrain from giving up on working out. Maybe next week someone will be lifting weights in a thong! *

garbage raiders.

I admit it. I raid garbage bins for thrills. And no, this does not mean that I dig my hands through bags. It means I browse the situation to see if anyone may have left behind a small treasure (or large). I take joy in seeing things left outside of garbage containers - whether its chairs, mirrors, plates, tables... etc. Some of the news that makes me the most excited is when neighbors move.

Last week someone posted a note outside our apartment complex.
"Everything must go. We are moving out this week. $ amount of dollar, o.b.o. ... ya da ya da..."

O.B.O. is like music to my ears. (For those of you who may not know what o.b.o. stands for -- here's a goody -- it means or best offer). Hell, I am not going to buy your old furniture, but leave it outside the dumpster in good condition and I'll take it off your hands. And that is my best offer.

I admit most girls get excited about sales on shoes, purses or accessories. Not to say that those things don't turn me on - okay, so they don't - but finding treasures or bargains on second-hand things really rocks my world. Especially when they are free! I picked up a couch in college that way, and no, it was not insect or dander infected.

I had to chuckle to myself the other day because I dragged Master P out into the cold (25F, -2C) to check out the dumpster situation. The family had officially moved out and I want to be sure we got a good glimpse of whatever goodies may be left over. Having a wood table and real chairs would be nice and those were a few of the many things we could use, but don't have. (Not to say that I don't like eating around a card table with captain chairs... but not when we have to cut meat ;); even if it holds your beer perfectly).

Unfortunately, much to my dismay there was nothing, nothing left outside the closest dumpster (or the three others that are further away). (Okay, so I admit I have a problem - I like to dumpster dive!).

Until the next family moves out I'll be waiting for more signs.

I may be blonde, but I ain't stoopid

Women be warned - don't go to a mechanic alone. Or, if you do expect the worst.

I hate to call it my beater, but my car it on the fritz. Hopefully it has more life to it yet than I give it credit for. We'll see how it survives its first winter. I thought it was high-time to bring it when I was beginning to feel like a Nascar drive (Or Formula 1 for you espanolcitos). I got a recommendation of a mechanic, and felt comfortable dropping off the vehicle.

Well, when I finally got called back in - there was a laundry list of things to be fixed. The exhaust system, timing belt, axles, brake fluid, electrical whatnots... All of it totaling more than what my car is even worth. I decided to get a second option.

The place I ended up going to made almost all my repairs - replacing necessary parts, not the whole freaking system for a forth of what the other guy said. No sweat then, right -- everything was fine. Car was fixed, money was saved.

Not so fast. Let's not forget that the day I got it replaced (axles were included in that) my car dead stopped on the busiest road in town on my way to pick Peds up from class. What to do, what to do? My car is at a dead stop, I am alone, it's dark.... eeps. At least I flicked the hazards on! Peds and the rest of the Spaniards came to my rescue, as did some strapping young men.
It was, to date, my first adult experience -- having to deal with your car breaking down in the middle of a busy road. Amen it was evening - so there was no accident or complication with other traffic. The story ends with me having the car towed back to the original place and having one to many VTs that night to forget about the pain. Have I mentioned yet that I hate cars? Because I do. I hate being dependent on a gas-guzzling, repairs needed *thing*.

Anywho -- that is the fun and glory of being a women. Having the mechanic try to pull a fast on you. Doesn't work so well with me mister - not even if you send a cute "thank you for ruining my day and confidence in my vehicle" card a couple of days after you try to rip me off.