catheroominations

So there I was, sitting at my desk, gnawing on my fingernails while fretting about how to approach my boss with a request for an increase in my salary. When what to my wondering eyes should appear on my Google homepage, but this:

See more Apple love here.

I think this about covers it

Scrabble:
Funny zefrank video.
This is dangerous. If you want to play a game with me, look for catheroo.
No matter how addicted I get, I’ll never be as good as the word geeks in this movie.

Crossword puzzles:
New York Times crossword (membership required). Try the Monday puzzle first!
We watched this yesterday. I can’t believe what goes into creating a puzzle.

Is it the bootcamp workout that has exhausted me? The rising at o’dark thirty, before the sun is up? The blogging every day for thirty days? Or the wine tasting after work today?

Whichever it is, I’m wiped out. I’m trying to stay awake to watch a recorded episode of Standoff, but I might not last that long and Grey’s Anatomy will have to wait until tomorrow.

But I said I’d try to post something every day, even now that NaBloPoMo is over, and I don’t lie. I flake, yes, but I don’t lie. Because when I was little, I loved Pinocchio and that movie taught me that lying was wrong. I believed that little wooden boy so much that I used to touch my nose on the rare occasion when I did lie and I’d wait for it to grow. It never did, but still. I don’t want my pants on fire, so I don’t lie. Except to lie down and go to sleep, which sounds like a marvelous idea, so I think I’ll go do that. Nighty-night.

I signed up for Bootcamp. Not the military type, the exercise type. For three weeks, five days a week, I will rise at 5:30 am, brave the cold, damp air, and join other bootcamp cadets (read: crazy people) for an hour of torture exercise. And I will arrive on time each day because if I do not, it’s 20 burpies for me. If you don’t know what burpies are, they’re somewhat like push-ups on steroids. And I loathe burpies. So I will not be late.

You may be wondering why am I doing this. You may think I’m a loon for leaving my nice cozy bed before the sun rises and voluntarily participating in cardiovascular exercise and strength training for an hour a day. Couldn’t I just accept the extra pounds that reside on my frame? Learn to embrace my tone-lacking body parts? Couldn’t I just (gasp!) DIET?

No. I need someone to kick my ass or I won’t exercise. I need to be worked. Hard. I want to sweat. I want to be sore the next day, to feel that I’ve done something good for my body. I crave that runner’s high I haven’t experienced in much too long. So these Bootcamp instructors can yell at me. I will do what they say. They can shove my face in the mud and force me to do ten more push-ups, and I will do it. And I will love it. Love it, I tell you!

You see, there’s this dress I bought. It’s a rather expensive dress to wear on a very special day and I want to look hot in it. That means rippling rhombs, tremendous traps, and luscious lats. It means tight triceps and bulging biceps. And I want a big thick football player neck. Add a tiara and you’ve got one slammin’ bride-babe, no?

Music Mama tagged me for this quiz. Words, I can do. Math? Notsomuch.

I wonder if erudite means something similar to crudite. Mmm…now I’m feeling a bit peckish. Time for breakfast!