Having destroyed several body parts, my new shirt and also my dignity at the skatepark, the missus and I left our son happily scooter-ing away with his friends in Lee’s Summit while we went looking for anywhere with the temerity to open their doors and feed us liquid encouragement on Christmas Day.

We Drove Everywhere.

Downtown Lee’s Summit was a ghost town (maybe on this particular day we could call it a “Holy Spirit town…) except for one sketchy looking little place straight out a of Stephen King novel where the “Open” shimmered like a mirage as if to say “Don’t Come Here”.

The normally bustling highway corridor was much the same and we drove past other similarly searching souls who waved us back, shaking their heads sadly as if they’d already been though the abyss and found nothing but the deep void of booze free space.

Reaching the north end of LS civilization we detoured west and on a whim drove down a wide and deserted street, still defeated and resigned to our QT beverage cooler door fate when suddenly a shimmering halo appeared over the horizon.

As it turned out, the halo was actually a packed movie theater parking lot and the sun was reflecting off of the cars and into the sky like a multifaceted beacon in the otherwise devoid of life landscape but in that very parking lot was a lone and tiny…

Applebee’s.

Shifting into up I sailed across the median and over the hedges, screeching to a halt in a parking spot with my tires juuuuust touching the passengers side line of the handicap spot and we skipped gleefully to the front door.

Inside was a superb mix of everyone out of a 70’s Coca Cola commercial and it was a holiday delight to see.

Old folks, young ones (mostly at the bar), people of every color, some hippies (I did find it odd to see hippies at a chain restaurant), some circus performers and what I thought was the very small man from The Station Agent happily consuming their famous rib platter.

We breathlessly informed the hostesses that we were there to make the acquaintance of their glorious bar and made our way to a couple of empty seats.

We looked at the bartender with starstruck eyes as she gazed at us from across two feet of polished and gleaming oak and ordered real, non gas station drinks.

They. Were. Delightful.

Thank you Applebee’s. My first visit to your hallowed halls in at least two decades was excellent 

So today Karma has reared it’s fateful and misshapen head.

Many years ago I had moved to the east coast and, being unfamiliar with the local methods of home heating, was introduced to the concept of fuel oil.

The house we rented was built in 1810 and had a 1000 gallon oil tank buried in the yard to feed the furnace but alas, it had no gauge so we just had to guess when we needed to fill the tank. Also, not having the money to buy a thousand gallons of fuel at a time, I bought just enough to get through each month and inevitably would run out causing me to call the fuel company for an emergency delivery.

Mark, our trusty driver would come out and cheerfully dole out however much fuel we ordered and we’d give him cookies or cakes or whatever we’d made that day.

The caveat is that each time we ran out it was unfailingly on a major holiday.

We ran out on Christmas Day one year and New Year’s Day the next.

Thanksgiving.
Easter.
Valentine’s Day.

It became a joke and Mark would leave with the parting shot “See you on the next holiday!”

Today, Christmas Eve, at 7:30 pm I got a call that a tenants oven had gone out in the middle of cooking the family feast for tomorrow and I immediately thought of Mark.

Without a second thought I got into the car and went out to fix the problem, chuckling to myself the whole time and hoping that Mark, wherever he is, feels the karma rolling back around 

Laundry

My eyes opened and I groaned a bit as my alarm sounded on the nightstand next to me. 

Cursing and spitting erupted and although I tried to quell the noise, my wife wouldn’t let it go and the noise didn’t abate until I was all the way down the stairs and on the way out the door. 

I’d thrown on a pair of shorts and a shirt out of the dryer and ran out to get away from the racket but I felt a little constricted and wondered if I’d just been eating too many salty foods and retained some water. 

Arriving at the gym, I put my things away and started in on the treadmill. 

In short order I was sweating profusely and feeling good so I upped the speed and started to run. 

As I ran I began to suddenly feel lighter, not in subtle waves but in sudden bursts and I thought maybe endorphins were making their way through my system and giving me a boost of enthusiasm and some pep in my step. 

I was soaking wet and knew I’d have to spend approximately three hours with a mop and bucket to clean up my now pooling water weight around and behind the treadmill when suddenly something hit the back of my neck with a wet smack, warm liquid spattering everywhere. 

Pressing the emergency stop button and pulling the earphones from my ears I looked behind me and noticed every treadmill, every elliptical machine and every single exercise bike at a dead standstill. 

The entire room was staring at me…

…and the girl who’d been on the elliptical machine behind me.  Now sporting a sopping wet pair of my tangerine colored boxer briefs on the left side of her face and down her neck. 

Two other colorful pairs were draped on the handlebars of her machine along with a hand towel and two mismatched socks, moisture dripping from them as though they’d just been pulled early from the delicates cycle in the washing machine. 

She was p’too-ing bits of lint out of her grimaced and horrified mouth and retching involuntarily, trying desperately to hold down her (what I can only assume was…) vodka laden whey protein drink. 

Apparently the earlier feeling I’d had of swollen personage was actually hidden unmentionables sequestering themselves in the nooks & crannies (yeah, they’re not just in English muffins) of my once really tight, now greatly loosened gym shorts. 

As each item fell from the legs of my shorts, my stride had picked them up and flung them with catapultic velocity at this poor woman and she’d been trying to dodge them like stinky and colorful wet meteors. Successful at times, not at others.

 

There was a dripping slap mark on her right thigh and a welt rising on her cheek where one of the socks had shot up from the bottom of my shoe and rocked her head back as she held on with her barely clenched fingertips to the elliptical grips. 

Taking my shirt off and tying a knot in the waist, I began collecting my underthings and stuffing them into the neck hole, avoiding was anyone’s gaze and mumbling an apology to the once smokin’ hot (now white hot) girl for what I had inadvertently done to her, and to everyone else for having to look at my fish belly-esque pale torso. 

Taking the steps down into the locker room I wondered for the many-eth time this week if I’d be facing charges on my next visit…

See you next week my friends 

The Plunge Pool

This morning was leg day and certainly easier than Monday. I’m sure that in the next couple days my legs will feel like walking on columns of fire so I’m quite excited. 

Having learned my lesson from the last episode I checked the speed setting on the treadmill and lo and behold some funnyhole with actual fitness had set it back in the warp speed range with Mount Everest incline so I dialed it back to my comfortable range, which I like to think of as “Rameneater” pace. 

A brisk saunter one might say. 

Several of the people around me had what I’d refer to as a Greek statue physique and were running on the treadmills like they were being chased by a flock of rabid chickens but not one of them was wide eyed and looking over their shoulders, screaming like horrified women. 

Like me. 

Yet there I was, briskly sauntering, screaming yet again with flecks of foam spraying from my lips, straining to look over my shoulder for the nefarious fowl. 

Checking my speed, knowing full well I had to be around 65mph, the display read… 

“IS THAT ALL YOU GOT?” 

So not only was I putting in my finest treadmill performance in eons (three days), the MACHINE WAS MOCKING ME. 

2.8mph. 

This. 

This is what had me all foamy and screamy. 

I can’t imagine what will come out of my open maw when I actually jog.

Being surrounded by pretty people with their chiseled abs, square jaws with just a hint of stubble, shaved chests and designer water bottles is intimidating. 

The guys are attractive too. 

I’m going for more of a Pasta Physique down from the current Whipped Mashed Potatoes look I’ve come to carry around. 

I’m quite fluffy. 

Anyway…

The weight room calls. 

Leg day consists of:

1. Leg extensions
2. Leg curls
3. Leg lifts
4. Legs burning
5. Legs falling off
6. Leaving legs in the weight room because f&$# the legs. 

Finishing up, I pulled out my ear buds and looked up to see everyone standing straight up and staring directly at me. 

Although I’d learned my lesson and didn’t use vodka for my protein beverage, that stuff makes you quite…   

well

…windy. 

Apparently I’d been cracking off squeakers the whole time I was listening to my gangster polka song list (much like Amish music but off the chain) and couldn’t hear a thing. 

I had wondered what the smell was but I figured that’s just what sculpted people smell like. 

Not meeting a single gaze lest someone recognized me out in the world, I slunk out and down to the locker room. 

The hot tub was calling. 

Donning my swim mumu, I stepped into the indoor aquatics center and made my way into the hot and soothing waters of the eighty person hot tub and sank blissfully into its depths. 

After about ten minutes I was boiling nicely and getting pretty comfy and hot when I glanced over in the corner and noticed a sign that read “Cool Plunge”. 

Now, I don’t know if they meant temperature or temperament but I was intrigued. 

While there was a set of stairs leading sedately into the Cool Plunge, my sense of Indignance was immediately incensed because it has the word PLUNGE in the name.

It’s not the Cool Dip. 

It’s not the Tepid Tiptoe. 

No, it’s the COOL PLUNGE. 

So I jumped right in. 

To my immediate regret. 

The water in the Cool Plunge isn’t cool at all. 

It’s FRIGID. 

Imagine there’s a pool at the bottom of a rapidly melting glacier with an iceberg in it. 

Now imagine yourself willingly leaping in with your head to toe skivvies on. 

I was an instant mansicle. 

I instinctively reached down to protect the cash & prizes but there was nothing there anymore. 

The Cool Plunge had a hidden surgical secret and I now had what I could only assume was a mangina. 

Every cubic millimeter of the pride and joy had turned themselves inside out in a sense of self preservation. 

I never knew I had a 53 inch vertical leap but I guess muscles can contract pretty vigorously when they’re chilly and suddenly I was standing flat footed, back on the pool deck and rushing back to my hopeful re-manning in the warmth of the hot tub. 

It’s been another excellent morning at Woodside 

Whey Protein Drinks

and why I’ll be enjoying these things a LOT. 

The body builders of the community tend to have the mindset of low fat, low carb and high protein and apparently one way to onboard some protein and heal muscles is whey protein powder drink mixes. 

No whey, you say?

Why yes whey! 

Whey is the leftover cloudy substance dairy farmers scrape off the milk barn walls after each and every cow has left its own “scrape” marks and then boil it vigorously until tastes distinctly of the north end of a southbound rhino. 

Adding approximately 3 1/2 other ingredients including amino acids, (ACID!!!!!) creatine, (instant cretin) horse rectum (kidding…I think) and vanilla flavoring, a quite palatable substance is obtained. 

Well, this morning I decided to add a whey protein drink into my workout regimen (yes whey!) because I’m a FINELY tuned athlete and dammit, I deserve it!

After careful consideration of the directions, I spied the words “add to your favorite beverage” so I immediately snatched up the vodka and commenced to gettin’ healthy. 

After three protein drinks and about seven protein shooters (vanilla whey with some oj is highly recommended) I was ready to make my way onto the treadmill and show these (incredibly sculpted) Jackwagons…

HOW. IT. WAS. DONE. 

Swaggering up to the treadmill I tripped on the cord and barely caught myself on the foot rail before mashing my forehead in onto the rubber floor.

Gathering my dignity I stepped aboard and turned it on, not noticing it was set at 207mph. 

Both feet shot out from under me like they belonged to The Flash while the rest of me belonged to Fat Albert. 

The wet smack I made on the belt sounded like a raw brisket hitting floor on a hot day and the screeching sounds coming from my legs as I held on to the heartbeat measuring handrail were delightful. 

The racing Nordic Track was busy doing me a favor and trying to sand off my cellulite (who needs liposuction when you can just scrape it away at the gym?)

Anyway, picking myself up one again I glanced at the readout on the treadmill screen and saw that I’d traveled just under thirty miles in a few seconds and burned 3400 calories so I figured that was enough. 

I was headed back to the weight room. 

I was pretty thirsty at this point so I knocked back another Tito’s and protein tallboy on the way and smashed the cup on my forehead to show my dominance in the weight room. I’d seen rednecks in movies smash beer cans on their foreheads to prove their manhood so I was improvising. 

Waking up back on the floor I was surrounded by the concerned faces of people I’d obviously impressed with my cup smashing technique. 

They helped me up and several bowed and genuflected (away from me though. I’d never seen that.) I thought I might have heard some laughter but I wasn’t sure as my vision kept greying out and my ears were buzzing. 

Anyway, just a word of advice here. 

For those of you who don’t know this already, vodka isn’t a good idea in a protein drink. 

I’m betting whiskey will make a real difference…

Well, I’m back in the gym and it IS pretty…

Except for me. 

I’m fairly certain I’d be considered the “huitlacoche” on the otherwise immaculate ear of sweet corn that is the Woodside Tennis Club. 

Say it with me but pinch your nose, jut out your lower jaw and vote conservative while you do. 

“Whooodsiiide Tennissssh Clubb”

Where there’s excellent food, tasty beverages, lounge chairs, massages, hot tubs, saunas swimming pools and last but not least, torture chambers (the elite among us call these “workout facilities”).

The “initiation fee” grants me a whopping 20 minute one on one chat session with a personal trainer who will subsequently beat the bejeezus out of my *ss (donkey) just for the sheer delight of it. 

I think mine is called Mistress Kimberly. 

I’m certain she’ll be wearing an all black vinyl skin tight track suit, have #1 blue black hair with bangs and ruby red der lipenstift (lipstick to the uninitiated mistress servants among us).

I think she has black patent leather New Balance cross trainers with chrome spikes. (Ummm, kinda into it now…)

I can only imagine her first words to me will be “Kneel schlave” followed by “No wonda yoo ah heah. Yo boddy es so squeeshy und sahft” and “I veel beat yoo until you cahnt remembah yoo were boann”.  All with a gentle smile and gleam in her eye. 

I’m sure she’ll tell me it’s all out of love. 

In the meantime, 30 minutes on the treadmill watching FOOD F$&@ING VIDEOS and an upper body workout given to me by my BFF/Frenemy Emad (who works out constantly and when he’s not he’s dreaming about working out) (seriously, pm me and I’ll give you his address if you’ll kindly egg his house EVERY DAY FOR. EH. VER.)

Let’s just visit this scenario together why don’t we? I’m looking at my mushy, corpuscley self in the mirror while I pretend I’m one of the two biblical thieves (you know, the guys on either side of JC? I’m holding no illusions about any deity complex here) holding weights out at arms length and trying not to poopa la short pantalons while my buddy Jeff snort laughs behind me and tries (unsuccessfully I might add) not to wetta his own la short pantalons. 

Maybe it was the whistling and squeaking noises emanating from my straining fundament but I’m certain I summoned a lesser demon from the weight room floor (which subsequently WAS lava if you were wondering).

Anyway, after this SUCCESSFUL foray into what I will now consider “werkinowt”, I’m down for some more. 

Mistress Kimberly, I’m yours ️

I rolled lazily over in bed this morning, looked at my blushing bride and coyly suggested that we engage in some morning “relations”. 

She turned, opened one eye and not so delicately suggested that I go “relations” myself, so off to yoga I went. 

This morning was spent with a young and giggly Joanna, informing me to “stay tuned” in order to win my own stretchy Dragon sports bra (seriously, I haven’t grown those yet Joanna) and some yoga pants (maybe I could win two pair? One pair for each leg?), and her two ridiculously flexible friends. 

First of all, don’t make me giggle when you’re having me apply torque to my midsection. All sorts of sounds ensue and my “divine wind” escapes unimpeded into the room, thereby making me giggle some more and the scenario repeats itself ad infinitum until something solid makes its way into the picture. 

Then, it’s no longer funny. 

As Joanna and friends were telling me how good I was doing in my Sleeping Hound Dog pose, I was busy trying not to wake up the old battle axe (ahem… I mean my blushing bride) with my Thundering Booty pose. 

Unsuccessfully. 

On a particularly trying maneuver (I think it was Sitting Up By Yourself pose) I was suddenly reminded of the delicious burrito dinner I had joyfully sat in front of the evening before,

…and not in a delightful way. 

The sound of roaring top fuel dragsters filled the room and the windows rattled in their frames. 

I had to jump up and steady the television, inducing even more foundation crumbling blats from my weakened fundament and making me giggle uncontrollably. (No, really. I’m like, eleven inside) 

As even more thunderous “applause” appeared from my nether region I began laughing outright. 

My stomach weakened and I bent over at the waist, laughing all the while until…

Suddenly it was no longer funny. 

With that last laugh and in my weakened state, an unwelcome and squishy visitor had made its way into my sweatpants and turned them unbiddingly into sewerpants. 

With a somber look on my face and humiliating giggling still coming from the tv, I turned to go upstairs to remedy my unfortunate situation and…

There in the doorway was my wife. 

Apparently all of the giggling and laughing and windy pants soiling coming from downstairs doesn’t make for a pleasant sleeping environment and the look of abject horror on her face told me that she’d been there for most of the highlights. 

…I wonder if she’s ready for relations now…

Nearby the end of my third lap this morning, I noticed a spider at the bottom of the pool. 

It was the size of Aragog, king of the arachnids, from Jerry Potter and the Venomous Donkeys or another one of those movies. 

(at least in my mind it was)

I screamed at it, wet myself quite thoroughly (no one could tell, I was underwater for cripes sakes) and sailed gracefully out of the pool in one fluid gesture like I had donned one of those wearable water jets, only the water was decidedly “apple juice” looking. (Yes, you could certainly tell then…)

Regaining my emancipated self composure, I got a running start, cleared the monstrosity and began my self beration (yeah, made that up) once more. 

Upon reaching the relative safety of the other end (seriously, you can never be too sure with those sneaky bastards) I saw that one of the grannies had found the offending creature and scooped it out of the pool, thereby allowing my hiding “cash & prizes” to make a reappearance and relative calm once again reigned in the pool. 

As I continued my flagellating workout, I saw that the grannies had gathered at my starting point and were gaily chatting away, leisurely pumping their foam barbells and having a great time. 

When I reached the end of my lap I took a breather and began defogging my goggles when a scratchy voice popped up and said 

“You know what you should do…”

And a tirade of exercise advice flowed forth. 

Everyone had a say. 

*”You should alternate freestyle and breast stroke”

*”You shouldn’t rest between laps”

*”You should try yoga swimming” (Huh? That’s a thing?)

*”You should tie your hands and feet together first” (What?!?!)

*”You should meet my granddaughter”

*”You should wear a speedo, handsome”

Wait…what?

MPH: “Meet your granddaughter? Ma’am, I’m a married spud. Mrs. Potato Head is at home waiting on me.”

G1: “Yeah, but she’s really pretty”

G2: “My granddaughter is a yoga instructor”

MPH: (under my breath, “not a chance in hell…)

G3: “Mine is a lottery winning doctor that teaches pole dancing and likes older men with dad bod’s”

MPH: “Well maybe there’s a chance…wait…NO!” (What is this, granddaughter auction day at the pool?!?!)

MPH: “Ladies, I appreciate your concern for your young relatives marriage prospects but I’m off the market”

“I’ll keep you in mind in the unlikely event that something changes”

“Oh, you had cards made?”

“I’m not sure I should take one when you had it…um…there…”

As the raspy giggles ensued, I turned and climbed the ladder to low exclamations of “Mmmmhmmm”, “That’s right” and “If I was a hundred and thirty seven years younger…” 

And fled once again. 

Walking into the pool this morning I felt pretty average.

I woke up lethargic, just a little ho hum and I really didn’t want to get in the water.

The first lap and subsequent several, I felt the water dragging on my body and I just couldn’t seem to get into a decent rhythm.

After a bit I decided to change things up and work on the flip turn like I’d seen the olympians do on tv.

As I approached the end of the lane I began my turn by tucking my head and banging it into the wonderfully soft tiled edge of the pool.

Temporarily stunned, I breathed in some liniment flavored water, spit up someone’s wax earplug and prepared myself for another assault.

Approaching the other end and knowing I waited far too late to begin my turn the last time, I knew I had to get it going early.

Tucking my head and doing a perfect somersault with the exact twist I needed I thought “I’VE GOT THIS!” and started to plant my feet for a good and impressive shove off the wall, pushing as hard as I could to propel myself as far underwater as possible

My feet touched nothing.

I must have looked ridiculous, stretching full length in the water, fingers extended and reaching for greatness. My toes pointed and trying for firm purchase on the wall and at least eighteen inches away.

I’m sure the ladies thought I was having yet another seizure but I recovered and swam away from my embarrassment, trailing my dignity like a slow motion water skier.

Attempt number three brought complete and utter success.

I began my turn earlier than attempt number one, later than attempt number two and right on time. My grateful toes found the wall and I pushed off, skimming underwater with a feeling much resembling euphoria.

As I swam toward the other end I felt so free and so accomplished. I was absolutely gliding through the water feeling streamlined and slick.

I was high on life and liniment scented chlorine water.

As I got to the other end, my arms were feeling good but weak with the effort I’d been putting in so I thought I’d rest for a minute.

I stood up and smiled at the elderly woman in the lane next to me, knowing she’d seen the amazing feat I’d just performed at the other end, and nodded my hello.

Me: “Good morning!”
She: “…um…hi…uhhhh…”
Me: “Everything ok?”
She: “…um…no…uhhh…”
Me: “Do you need help?”
She: “…um…no…uhhhh…”

She: “You do.”

Me: “What’s wrong?”

She pointed at the far end of the pool and there, on top of the water, lay my feeling of freedom, accomplishment and my slick attitude in the form of my swimming trunks.

Except for my Elvis swim goggles and a moronic grin I was in my all-together birthday suit (it seriously needs ironing) and in full view of the octogenarian Chatty Kathy’s.

Heading to the other end “freestyle”, I looked much like a candy cane with my red face and white patooty, I retrieved my shorts, pulled them back on and amidst the cackling of the hens, made my way once more into the anonymity of the locker room.