That’s right, ladie and germs. I’m gettin’ jiggy with da beat.
I know, I know.
That’s not hip-hip lingo and Jeff and Marissa will surely be laughing at me. But I’m trying to say that the joy of hip-hop has permeated my soul and nearly punctured my eardrums.
Truth is, Neil Young and James Taylor just aren’t cutting it with this old broad anymore.
They are only good enough for workout casual. I’m looking for music for work out impossible, yo.
I’m in the home stretch now, and I need to pump it up.
I got dat boom, boom, boom.
Know what I sayin’?
Today, I did one hour on the rowing machine, that’s 550 calories if you believe the ticker on the damned thing. That’s a lot of cannoli, homeboys.
A few days ago, I switched up my IPad shuffle and dumped the lounge music and laid in some tracks from U2.
Suddenly, my pecs started plumpin’, my guns started smokin’ and I was good for the long stretch.
U2 is the bomb, but it’s not quite the Full Workout Monty.
So I turned to the Black Eyed Peas to take me home.
Will I. Am. He’s so cute; he reminds me of a koala bear.
And Fergie, dat bitch got some sweet ‘tude.
Okay, enough with my lousy patois.
My goal was to get to one hour on the rower before the end of the month and I did it today.
I’m probaby gonna pay for it. Last night, I was gnawing on the Ibuprofen to ease the pain in my right hip.
It throbbed half the night, y’all. My ankle felt like I’d been branded with a hot poker.
All this, hot flashes and a spooning retriever made me feel like an 80-year-old sweat ball.
Then the plantar fasciitis took hold as I hobbled to the bathroom for my 5 a.m. pee.
Fuck that hurts.
But this morning, I woke up ready to take on the world — and my rowing record.
Gives me the right for a little misbehavin’ this afternoon on the deck with pappy and dem dogs.
Father’s Day on the deck.
Should be good. While I was doing my warm up on the stationary bike, I found a good recipe for barbecued chicken and Thai rice and grilled vegetable salad.
Gonna cook up a mess with hot sauce and all the fixin’s, turn on the margarita machine and eat and drink up the 500 calories I lost today.
No worries. I’ll lose them again tomorrow.
Gonna eat chicken til the sauce drips down my elbows. Gonna lay on my lounger and read all about Shania Twain’s skank adventures as a teen songbird.
Crawl in bed at 9 o’clock.
With the Advil.
I just can’t help ma sef.
Happy Father’s Day.