Earlier in the week, I got bit by a spider. Again, because of course I did. And it wasn’t much more than an annoyance until the whole bee incident. And then, after the bee did his thing and it crossed some sort of venom threshold, the spider bite on my inner arm that was the size of a quarter grew and grew until yesterday, when I took my angry red, tennis ball sized owie to my doctor. She poked, prodded and then drew a black line around the red halo on my arm and said, if it gets bigger, call me. Then she loaded me up with antihistamines and antibiotics and sent me on my way. I’ve been obsessively checking that line ever since. It’s a new hobby.

Insects and arachnids aside, we had such a fantastic weekend with Stephanie, Phil and their pint-sized scalawags. Oh, to hear three-year-olds say scalawags! I was endlessly delighted by the things that came out of their mouths. Then there was grown up time, which was mostly about putting things in our mouths – like, wine and bread pudding and this thing called drunken bread. I didn’t make it to boot camp yesterday. I’m still recovering. For the Dork Lord and me, it was the perfect way to celebrate our first year together*. You know, minus the bees and spiders and such. Or the part where the Boy left his wallet at home in Dallas. Or where I forgot to pack deodorant. But I guess ‘perfect’ is sort of a relative thing.

The Dork Lord hasn’t met any of my New York friends before. Not that they’re so very different from my Dallas friends, but I’m pretty sure that a weekend of air kisses and “lovey!” and “remember that night we double fisted champagne and I fell in a snowbank/had to have the cabbie count my money/got lost in my own apartment” stories will make him wonder just who he sleeps next to at night. The woman he knows has two cocktails and is ready for bed. Yeah, his girl likes to party all the time, party all the time.

And on that note, my most sincere apologies to Butterfly for the apparently vomit-inducing displays of domestic contentment lately. If this weren’t a family friendly site, I’d tell you what you could do, and how it would involve certain sunless areas of the anatomy. But as it is, I’ll just say, I’m sorry you’re so unhappy and I sure do hope your tummy feels better.

Like right now, it’s at home making pot roast, my wee little crock pot built for two. After boot camp, I chopped up some veggies, tossed in some beef, and when I came home at lunch to walk Sir Crapsalot, I opened the door to the most glorious smell this side of Quaker Instant Maple & Brown Sugar oatmeal. Don’t pretend you don’t know. My coworker eats it. I get a little drooly because it smells like Sunday morning when I was 12, uninformed about such things as carbohydrates and diabetes, and maple syrup was my bitch.

One of the greatest gifts the crock pot has brought is the gift of vegetable variety. The Dork Lord, he is strictly a green bean and broccoli guy. No squash, no asparagus. Spinach? The horror! But since the crock pot lends itself so well to soup-making, I’ve started throwing all sorts of vegetables in and letting the crock pot do its thing. You know, as in making things soft and mushy and disguising specific flavors under one heavenly broth. In the last week we have added cabbage, zucchini and Brussels sprouts to the rotation with unprecedented success. There’s a weird kind of personal satisfaction that comes from sponsoring improved colon health.

Holy cow, after the number of times one trainer yelled, “You’re supposed to be in push up position! PUSH UP! POSITION!” while I remained vertical, well, I’d be worried that it made me look a little bit obstinate – if I truly gave a damn. But I’ve been off muscle relaxers for two weeks now and I’d like to keep it that way. Plus, all that yoga-ing has made me feel very zen about my workout. I do what I can and accept my body and what it has to offer today. Which is so totally un-boot camp.

DEAL WITH IT.

Speaking of yoga-ing. I’ve been debating about whether to make this an official gripe, but I think I will, in case you’re thinking of getting into yoga and need an honest assessment of the studio. If you’re not and you don’t, feel free to tune out now.

A couple weeks ago, I signed up for the 10 days for $10 introductory offer at Sunstone Yoga. I’ve been a fan of hot yoga since I first tried it in Boston almost… ten years ago. Yes, I gasped when I typed that. Anyway, after your third introductory class at Sunstone, they make it a point to call you up to the desk to go over your “options.” You know, for non-introductory price yoga. Which I don’t have to tell you is pricey. Now, I’d already read about all of my options online. I knew I didn’t want one of their one year, unlimited, auto-deduct packages. I had every intention of continuing my practice there – the room is properly heated, most of the instructors are good – but with boot camp, I would only be up for one or two times a week. I had it all figured out.

After my fourth class (guess I squeaked by the day before), I got called up to the front desk where the yoga instructor/mad dog sales lady proceeded to give me the hard sell – the hardest hard sell I’ve had to put up with in a long ass time.

I don’t know how many times I said, “No thank you. I already know my options, and I will be buying my classes individually,” but it was apparently not acceptable. I could feel my shoulders getting tense as I tried to explain time after time that I was simply NOT INTERESTED. When I finally escaped, I went home and shot them a quick email letting them know I appreciate that they have a business to run, but I did not appreciate their very un-yoga approach. I got a call later that morning. Trying to sell me a package. And then an email. And then another call – this one letting me know that it’s the responsibility of the instructors to make me aware of my “options.” Again with the options.

I’ve since received two more calls and another email.

Basically, I could not feel any less zen about my experience with them. And this morning at camp, my workout partner mentioned the same thing. They want your cash, and they don’t care about much else (except for yesterday’s instructor – who was very concerned with sending energy to my lady parts. Which I fully appreciated).