Velvet Verbosity

A few nights ago I was on my way home and talking to a friend on my cell-phone.  I thought I knew my way home, but took a wrong turn and only then did I turn on my GPS.  It took me down some back roads with little traffic.  At an intersection, I came to a stop at a stop sign, and sat patiently.  Only when the guy behind me finally got fed up and honked his horn did I realize I was sitting at a stop sign, waiting for it to turn green!!

100 Word Challenge roundup will be posted by midnight.  If you haven’t submitted anything, you still have until 7 p.m. Eastern time.

I admit, it’s been a while since I’ve been through the regular check out line at the regular grocery store. I tend to use the self check-out counter and get pretty tunnel visioned about just getting the hell out of there, or I shop at Whole Foods or Trader Joe’s.

Yesterday I was feeling leisurely (with Christmas around the very next corner, I admit this is probably naive and foolhardy) and economical (a dollar goes a wee bit further at Stop N Shop versus Whole Foods) and decided to stand in a regular line complete with a real live cashier. You only live once right? As I was unloading my groceries, I glanced over to where I remember the candy shelves and soda cooler being when my kids were still of an age that they sat in the cart and had “close candy proximity” induced seizures as I frantically unloaded groceries in a race against full onset preschooler meltdown.

This is what I saw:

What is this crap?  Where are the chocolate candy bars to melt in a child’s sweet chubby fists to be smeared all over clothing and car seats?  Where is the soda that will turn a well-mannered child into a tazmanian devil on steroids?  Where is the potential for your child’s gentle voice to turn into a spine shredding whine?  I want to know who is responsible for this. Parenting is just not parenting without the experience of candy shelves at the grocery checkout. So if you see a small woman giving you a scornful look next time you’re in the grocery store with your sweet, healthy-snack-eating-toddler, that would be me.  And you call yourselves parents.  Ha!

With love,

I’m just wondering what content you’re reading that I’m not writing. I’ve thoroughly checked my blog, and I just can’t make the connection between my content and the ad you’ve most recently placed on my blog with a half-naked woman selling Skid Steer Tires?

Blink blink.

Could it be the entire category labeled “Feminism”? Because feminism and women selling tires in their underwear must be somehow related. Now I happen to know that you have some amazingly ginormous brains working for you over there at the Google complex. Perhaps you could set them on the task of creating algorithms that actually interpret my content to produce relevant ads. Maybe you know something I don’t, but I don’t think that you’re going to sell many tires to my readership. I know I mentioned Goodyear a few times, but apparently you’re only reading half the conversation.  I think you missed the part about fair pay for Lilly Ledbetter?  Maybe my brain is too small to comprehend your mysterious ways, because I was equally confused at the Muslim dating sites, the diet plans, and the mail order bride ads. Maybe that’s all you got over there? Yeah, that must be it. How else to explain the complete disconnect between my content and your thinking you’re going to sell women on my blog. I’d send you a memo, but you wouldn’t get it.

Maybe Ima fire your a** and switch to Blogher ads.

I am not even going to TALK about Josef Fritzl. Nope.

This is my brain on Yoga:

Ok, it’s hot in here, but I can take it.  I’m naturally flexible, this will be a piece of cake.  So what that that woman can fold her body in half?  So what?

10 minutes in:

Ok, yes, yes, breathe in, fingers locked, reach up, stretch from the waist, lean to the right, ow that hurts, oops…arm flat to my ears, right, ouch, no I’m not bending any further, she can’t tell, how can she tell how far I can really lean if I’m willing to feel PAIN??  Nope, I’m staying right here and I’ll just make a face like I’m pushing it.

30 minutes in:

Dammit, lock the leg, LOCK the leg.  I fecking hate yoga!  I’m just gonna walk out of here, who CARES if everyone will think I’m wimping out.  FECK them.  I  fecking hate yoga!

45 minutes in:

Ok, floor poses.  I can do this.  What?  Touch my forehead to my knees and pull my heels off the floor?  No.  I don’t think so. FECK you.

While laying on the floor in resting pose, “shananana” (or something like that):

My t-shirt is too tight.  It’s clinging to my skin.  I need to take it off.  NOW!  Oh my god, I just want to grab it in my sweaty fists and tear it right down the middle.

Wow.

What if I went stark raving mad in this over 90 degree heat?  What if that one little circuit that keeps us from going completely batty just shorts out right here, right now?  What if I didn’t just THINK that I wanted to tear my shirt off, but actually DID it because I had gone insane, and that part of the brain that keeps people from doing all the crazy sh*t they think had just sparked and fizzled for the last time?  What would people do if I just let out a primal scream and tore my clothes off and then walked around the room looking lost and vacant while mumbling incoherently about random things?

Now that would make class interesting.

One hour in:

Are we done yet?

During the crazy breathing exercise:

What?  What?  What?  Ack!

And then I fell over dead.

Na na na nanana naaaaaaa.  People, it’s Friday.  Time to smile.

I know this one has been circulating for a while, but maybe like me this will be your first time seeing it.   The apple exploding is actually quite beautiful, but the watermelon?  One hair on the side of disturbing.  Too easy to imagine that as a body.  *Shiver*

You may have noticed Velvet Verbosity has been “off air” since last Tuesday. That makes nearly a week of dead air space. If I were a disc jockey, I’d be out of a job. Was I plagued with writer’s block? No. Carried off by my local caveman? No. Lost in the jungle and adopted by lions? I wish. Swept off my feet and taken away on vacation? No, I’m still here in freezing New England in “the house that I hate”.

Lots of posts jangling around here in my head, so I will be back this evening to write something of substance.