We’re going to the Ranch this weekend for some R&R (and maybe a little poker) and I can’t help feeling like this little  trip is in everyone’s best interest. And I do mean everyone. The people I drive on the freeway next to (I think I sprained my middle finger yesterday giving someone a very well deserved and enthusiastic bird), my coworkers, my sweet boyfriend. Every one. Even you. Surely it has not required much reading between the lines to get the vibe that I’m frazzled and anxious lately. I know that talking about these sorts of things helps, so I’ve tried to run my yapper as much as possible. But I’m not really sleeping. So a trip to the doc is also on the menu. But I’m reserving a tiny bit of hope that maybe some good old fashioned not doing jack shit will help me uncurl my toes, if just for a day or two.

I suspect that the recession has made a lot of people feel this way – strung out and desperate. I also suspect (with a side order of hoping) that it will pass.  May it pass soon. Because there’s a version of me that laughs loud and means it. And I kind of miss her.

Okay, so I really kind of hate one of the trainers at boot camp. There, I said it. Maybe it’s the condescending way she talks, or the looks she gives me when it turns out I can’t SPRINT 400 METERS on my second day, but hoo boy, I do not like her one bit. I signed up for this class for me. Because I want to get better at things like push ups and sprinting some distance (though, seriously? Four hundred meters? I’ll jog, thanks). But I’m pretty good about knowing my limits. So yelling at me to finish an exercise that has made it virtually impossible to use the toilet for the last two days, well, that’s not going to get you anywhere but in the Do Not Like section of my slam book. We are not going to be besties. Ever.

The rest of the trainers are all very nice and don’t seem to mind that I’m not going to be a serious contender while I’m carrying around an extra thirty pounds of body weight. I think maybe they’re just glad I save the over-exertion vomiting for the privacy of my own comode.

Did I mention I can’t use the toilet? Too true. I can’t get down or up. And let me tell you, to complete any sort of business in there, you gotta have the down and up! Confession: Last night, I had to pee really, really bad, but the idea of the down and up became so unbearable that I… took a shower instead. That’s right. I George Costanza-ed. And you know what? I’m okay with that.

Amanda and I started our 5:30AM body boot camp this morning. And then I came home and threw up. No stranger to some ass-kicking workouts (oh, hello, Jillian Michaels), I was prepared for it to be…well, not easy. But I didn’t wake up at five o’clock this morning thinking, Golly, I hope I get to run ladder sprints until I hork. Jillian never made me barf. But then again, The Shred was like, 20 minutes, not a solid hour of torture. I don’t have to tell you that I am now keenly aware of every muscle in my midsection.

Stupid core.

What’s even more torturous is that the Boy is sitting next to me on the sofa, watching football with a plate of chocolate chip cookies. Do I want one of those cookies? No. I want seven of them. But there’s a lot of other things I want more. Like, to not have suffered in vain at Early Thirty in the morning. See? This is what being a grown up is about! Being oh so wise – and realizing your metabolism isn’t moving any faster than the plot of LOST.

I’m going to have a sharing moment and tell you that right now, I’m under a significant amount of personal stress. Some of it is of my own making, but most of it isn’t and there are so many things out of my hands and I’ve been doing things like trying to find an attorney. I never in my life thought I’d need to sue anyone, but here we are. I feel so helpless, being trampled on by a company who has the power to put my future in peril, and that feeling makes me so freaking MAD. So, you know, if you’re an attorney with experience in credit libel and all that fair credit reporting stuff, I’ve got a winner for ya. And a sweet, sweet paper trail.

Did I mention I’m tweeting? Oh, because I am. Just one more way for you to have even more access to total non-importance. Rockin’!

Oh, thank god. Ken Wheaton’s book arrived in the mail this afternoon! I’ve been looking forward to it for so long, that it’s like… well, okay, you know how you get it in your head that you want a certain food (say, pappardelle al telefono) and you google your little fingers to the bone only to realize that not one damn restaurant in all of Dallas offers this tasty little number and so now you don’t want ANYTHING, thank you very much, if you can’t have that? Yeah, that’s how I’ve been about this book. Because until I finish it, Half Price Books is dead to me.