A few notes:

I finally got around to joining a gym around here. I’m tired of running in the dark, in the ghetto, dealing with crack heads and beating myself to death by running on asphalt. Seriously, shin splints suck, as does being accosted by some drug addict who hasn’t seen a toothbrush or solid food for more than a year among abandoned warehouses. But that’s just me.

Xtian went with me as he’s DYING to join a gym (for real). So we show up at the gym, have to fill out some forms before they’ll tell us anything or give us the tour. We already knew we were joining this one, so we kind of just zoned out while he gave us a rushed sales spiel. When it came time to pay, and set up the EFT, salesdude asked for a debit or credit card. Xtian pulled his out, and I mentioned that since both cards were linked to the same bank account, he could just put all the charges on the same card. Salesdude asked if I had a card with my name on it as well. Puzzled I said yes I did. He then hemmed and hawed for about 4 minutes saying things like, “Well, not that anything…don’t want to be rude…. sure you’re fine.” It finally dawns on me what he’s saying: in the event we break up, the gym dues would be screwy.
I just blurted out, “Umm, WE’RE MARRIED. If we were to break up, the gym membership would really be the last of our concerns.” He was totally embarrassed, and frankly he’s kind of a dipshit. He still refused to put both our dues on the same card. Well played salesdouche. Well Played.


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In other news, in spite of my best efforts, on the surface, I’m pretty much a Mormon housewife. Aside from the whole “having a job” and all that. I cook, I obsess about babies, I stockpile food like the end of the world will happen tomorrow, I clean (unless Xtian beats me to it) and am really thinking I should be making all Xmas presents out of pipe cleaners, embroidery thread and LOVE. If only I could get my sewing skills up to par and lose that whole “I am still complete human with the same rights, dignity and intelligence as men” mentality, I’d be campaigning for Relief Society president.

And who did it take to point this out to me? My mother. Obviously. I fucking rule.

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And finally, I fear my hair is growing out even worse than I thought possible. The huge WAVE my hair seems to love is getting uglier by the moment. And better yet, not even my hardcore flat iron is doing anything to stop it. It's just a few gray hairs from looking like every terrible aging soccer mom haircut. Now all I need is a pastel twinset to pair with my boxy, sagging ass khakis. Just amazing.