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A little quality control would go a long way.


I was having a super good morning. See how I used the past tense? Because I am NOT having a super good morning anymore. I got back from an early spin class and was totally looking forward to my morning cup o’ joe. I bought a box of Caramel Drizzle flavored K-cups yesterday and I knew it was going to be the most delicious thing I tasted this week. After I fired up the Keurig I did some planks because I am all about time management, as seen through the endless hours I spend reading dlisted and Suri’s Burn Book and Wikipedia and the solicitations for Casual Encounters on Rochester’s craigslist.

My coffee was ready and the smells of magic and Santa Claus permeated my kitchen. I was salivating in a very Pavolvian way (just dropped some college knowledge on you bitches!), but when I went to get the milk out of the fridge THERE WAS NO MILK. And since I gave up the f-word for Lent (along with Nutella because I am a sadist) I couldn’t even express my anger through shouting my most favorite, most effective expletive. “Damn!” and “Crap!” just don’t cut it when faced with such harsh, bitter disappointment.

SO I jump back in my car and head to Wilson’s Farms. Wilson’s Farms is like a ring of Dante’s Inferno. It’s where souls are tortured for all eternity. It smells of feet and heartbreak and is staffed by minions of the devil who wear acrylic nails. Since I’ve been living in Canadian New York I’ve had two hobos come up to my car window and yell at me for money, and I’ve subsequently seen both of those pleasant individuals buying Lotto tickets and stale Peeps at Wilson’s Farms. It’s an unsavory crowd and the walls are crawling with a toxic combination of tuberculosis and crushed dreams.

Have the mental image? Good, let’s shudder and continue.

Beautiful Wilson’s Farms was the closest milk vendor which is why I went there. After buying a gallon of  skim and shedding my Hazmat suit, I headed home to FINALLY enjoy my damn cup of coffee. It was only after I added my splash of cow juice and took a sip that I saw that the milk was BEST BY FEBRUARY 20. For the calendarly challenged among you, that was 4 DAYS AGO. And because I like both math and hammering my point home: that was 96 HOURS AGO or 5760 MINUTES AGO. And I drank it. So I am probably going to vomit any second and I need to hurry up and finish this post.

Even though my Friday is effectively ruined, I did get to go to spin this morning since MY HUSBAND is home from work. I started taking classes at this studio a few weeks ago to break up the boredom of being injured. I really like it a lot. It’s challenging and ALMOST replicates the good hurt I get after a hard run. ALMOST. It’s still indoors, it’s still pedaling to nowhere, it’s still not running, and until my Pearl Izumi cycling shorts arrive, it’s still going to feel unpleasant on my lady parts. Why are those seats so uncomfortable? They were clearly designed by a vagina-hating man [insert Rick Santorum political joke here]. But I still really like spin and will definitely continue to do it if/when my peg leg heals.

And for those of you keeping track at home, tomorrow marks my 7-week Injuryaversary. I expect you to all pour a 40 of Gatorade out for your fallen home girl. Or do this because it looks like a really classy way to honor me:

One Comment leave one →
  1. 02/24/2012 1:22 PM

    I have a love-hate relationship with my bike shorts. Love how they feel, love how my legs look in them, hate the padded diaper look / feeling. I always wonder, “does everyone see my squishy padded woman parts? Do they think I’m wearing Depends???” That fear is enough to wear shorts and cover up the nice leg look :(

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