On Running Bras, Kegels, and way TMI

Okay, I know what the title says, but it may take a while to actually cover all that. Mainly, because my laptop (oh, for Shiva's sake, again with the laptop???) might try to go not so gently into that good night while I'm in the middle of this whole thing. My AC port has some kind of short/damage/personality disorder where it will not connect and charge my battery unless you push it in, hold it to the side, stand on your head and recite the entirety of the Magna Carta. And it's never the same way twice. And then, when you have your aura cleansed, your chakras aligned and are in the middle of a project so important your family's well being depends on it, the sonovabitch stops, loses it's shit and the whole process starts anew. AAAAUUUUUUGGGGHHHHHH!!!!!

I've had another attack of girly-ness. Seriously, I expect to be wearing taffeta and sporting Shirley Temple curls any minute now. My usual bedtime attire is a baggy t-shirt and a pair of flannel pants. The other day I was waylaid in Target by a couple of gorgeous, girly, silky pieces of bedtime confection. A chorus of angels filled my ears and I was compelled to purchase. I loves them! They are a little skimpy, but not as skimpy as say, what I wore on my wedding night. Which was nothing. Gimme a break...I waited until I was 30!! I'm lucky I still had my dress on after walking the 3 flights of stairs from the ballroom where we got married to the roof garden where the reception was held. Not that there weren't thoughts in that direction. :)

On Monday I decided to run the road past the Women's Maximum Security Finishing School after I dropped the kids off at the bus stop. Little change of pace; why not? I was almost done with my warm-up when I realized I had forgotten my ankle brace. Ah, well, I don't want to walk all the way back to get it; I'm sure one run won't hurt anything. Well, hell. Forgot my heart rate monitor too. I'm surprised I remembered the dog (like anyone could forget Knucklehead McSpazatron when he's practically doing back flips and running from his leash to the front door). Did you know that running on asphalt is a whole different ball of cheese than running off road? And while your 43 year old body with the trashed ankle will forgive you running without your ankle brace on trail, it will bring you into the 5th ring of hell on the road. 20 minutes into this, my right leg was burning from toes to knee, my left hip was full of ground glass, and I was limping like a pirate with a peg leg. So I'm back to hot soaks, ice packs and taking more time to get dressed for running, with all the neoprene and Velcro strapped to me than I actually spend running. I look like a dominatrix triathlete. And speaking of running... I've been looking for a decent running bra that would tie the load down enough so I wouldn't be at risk for a TBI. I have several "sports bras" that are only sufficient for, say, brisk walking or just watching activity. Not actually participating in it. So I went to the local Big 5 and bought a bra that advertised itself as a "compression bra," guaranteed to hold things where they are supposed to and not stress that Cowper's ligament until your boobs look like a National Geographic special. The problem with pull over sports bras is, if they are stretchy enough to pull over your head, they are too stretchy to contain the goods effectively. "Aha!" I thought, "but this compression bra compresses, so I have found the cure!" Except for a few small issues. One, being that trying to get said compression bra over your head and your arms through the arm holes is a bit of a challenge. Houdini in a straight jacket, covered in chains, locked in a trunk underwater, would blanch and the thought of putting this sucker on. And then, once your head and arms are through, you have to stretch it forward enough to get the twins in and not scrape off your nipples in the process. Ready? Now try to breathe. So I bought another bra at Cabela's that I thought would be more comfortable and definitely easier to put on as it had a zipper in the front. It is more comfortable, easier to put on and affords more support, but my boobs haven't been this close to my chin since the first time FB slept through the night while I was still exclusively breastfeeding (causing Steve to exclaim, "Oh MY GOD! Are they ever going to go back to NORMAL???").

So, I bought this thing called a Kegelmaster. It is this kegel excerciser that uses progressive resistance to strengthen your glittery hoo-ha. I'm now at the strongest level and joy of joys, it doesn't matter how bad I have to pee, I can let loose with a tsunmai of sneezes without any worries at all. Not to mention the benefits if I ever get to have sex again...someone is going to be extremely happy. I've got super vag!

Anyone ever wonder who the first person was to think, "we should take this casava plant, beat the starch out of the roots, roll it into balls, cook them with milk, eggs, sugar and vanilla until the balls are gelatinous, and tehn eat it."? I love tapioca pudding as much as the next person, but seriously, who thought this would be a good idea?

Ever wonder how many vibrator injuries are caused a year? And I don't mean injuries occurring from rank stupidity, just from, you know, lack of lube or over exposure. You know EDs have to be full of this kind of thing. Don't know why I thought of this...just did. Maybe the oil barrel sized vat of Astroglide I saw in the pharmacy triggered it.

I'm getting my new pup on Friday; his name is Kennedy, which I do not like. I was talking about it at work and someone suggested we keep with the Looney Tunes theme (Bugs, Sylvester) and name him Fudd. Meh. I had shared this conversation with Senior Chief's Wife (it's one of her dogs' older litters who needs a new home)and I had said, "So we need to coordinate Kennedy or Fudd or whatever we're going to call him." And she suggested K. Fudd. But I'm fighting encroaching douchebaggery every day with these kids, and I feel naming him that would just be an open door policy for Ed Hardy, mandannas, decorative facial hair, and I can't go there. Since his parents' names are Dixie and Diesel, I was bandying Deuce about. FB agreed that that would be a good name and then SoS piped up with, "If we call him Douche.." Okay, no. Dooley? Nah. So I think we settled on Dude, not because of my penchant for using a variety of reasons and moods, but rather, for The Big Lebowski. Which my children will see at as a rite of passage for impending manhood. I guess I could have called him Walter or Donny, but then I'd spend all my time saying, "Shut the fuck up Donny!"