I discovered For the
Foxes in a rather “basic” way (Pandora’s BORNS station), but I am,
basically, fairly “basic,” so I guess that’s rather alright. I really
don’t even know why it’s considered a bad thing, anyway, to be “basic.” I
am aware the term is intended to be an insult, but by whom, and what is
so offensive to this particular snarky crew? There’s a punchy
competitiveness – and not relegated to females – I occasionally hear the
condescending cutes from men, too – and pressure to be unique and
individualistic. You know what, I’ll let Rihanna shine bright like a
diamond (I still am highly suspect about gross human rights grievances
and exploitation all for the sake of diamonds… “F” I digressed, again –
happens all the time). But, more to that in my next post…. See you tomorrow!

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Errance
The French have a word we don’t possess in English. Errance. It means “to travel without any clear destination.” Isn’t that rather a lovely word?

 

Finca Austria Nosara Costa Rica Sunset Pacific
For most of my friends, I know my plan – to not have a plan – is physically discomforting. I understand. They care for me, and above wanting me to have happiness and a deeper fulfillment. They want my safety. I desire safety for myself, too. Which is part of the reason I’m not planning a PanAmerican drive from Nogales through Darien Gap. Although, I would -LOVE- to do that. I don’t have a death wish, and I’m not an adventure junkie. However, I am insistent that – as of right now – I cannot force a prescriptive process to what I am going to do next after having completely dismantled my life in Phoenix. Selling all of my possessions and accounting my belongings to 12 boxes that now reside in my mom and stepfather’s basement was not a decision – nor action – I took lightly. But… deconstruction to rebuild at a later time… IS… the very process.
Oh, and if I could afford to, I’d gladly set a clear destination back to this view atop a hill in Nosara, CR.
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Breaking up is hard to do. Two years after I fell in love with At One Yoga, the location near my condo closed, and I found myself paying close to $200 a month to only go one or two times per month. All without the benefit of a private class. A hard decision had to be made. In anticipation of the breakup scooped up new member deals on studios around Central Phoenix. I intended to “date” other studios in effort to find one I love as much as I loved At One. With curiosity, I picked up a two week membership to Pure Barre, a Bar Method-type workout studio that I had been curious about checking out for a while now.

OH.
MY.
GOSH.

The class was only one hour long. But! I’m pretty confident I lost my right muffin top in just the one session, but at a cost, mind you. This workout is consistent isometric exercises for an hour. An hour that can break me.

That red ball!

You see, there was this little, red ball.

We were instructed to hold it in between our upper thighs for most of the workout, which meant I was always squeezing. And tucking my hips, and lifting my knees or my feet, or crunching, or planking, or, or, or…. I grimaced. I sweated.

I shook and twitched and spasmed throughout the entire workout.

And the way-too-adorable-instructor, Melanie, kept telling me that was a good thing! And kept telling me that I was doing great, which was horrible, because the more that little thing praised me, the more I wanted to do to get more praise and kudos, ugh!

Delightful, tiny, instrument of squishy torture. Pure Barre, Pure Fitness Rage.

https://www.theskinnyconfidential.com/2012/02/03/purebarre/

I was squeezing, and tucking, and lifting, and crunching, and planking. And between all the squeezing, and tucking, and lifting, and crunching, and PULSING, and planking, I wanted to grab the little, red, ball from between my inner thighs and throw it at her cute, younger-than-me-maybe 26(?)-year-old-face to make her stop talking and telling me to squeeze, or tuck, or lift, or crunch, or PULSE, or plank. But, not only were my legs quivering but my arms, too, because those were the first victims of the lifting and pulsing workout. My arms were so jello-y that I probably would have missed with my aim. And, I also decided that I was just too tired to resist, that resistance was actually futile. I squoze, and tucked, and lifted, and crunched, and planked… and remembered that I not only signed myself up for this, I paid for it.

I know now how the Nazis occupied Europe and the Romans ruled such a vast empire. They had the red ball and a ballet bar and just exhausted everyone into submission. Heck, it worked for me.

I was sucker punched.
I had NO IDEA what the hell I was signing up for, and I actually called sweet, cute, fellow Lululemon-loving Melanie-my-instructor a She Devil last night.
To her face.
And then she asked me, way perky-like, if I would be back.
And I said, absa-freaking-lutely. Besides, I need to whittle off my left muffin top, now, to balance my skinnier, right, side.

That blasted ball is a torture device, and when I regain any sensation in my arms, I’ll return to the studio for more, and more, and more, and more.

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Check Thyself, or in Other Words, How to Be Responsible to Not be a Blazing Jerk

I wrecked myself as I completely blew through any adherence to the 11th commandment: check thyself… blah blah blah. Oh boy, I don’t think I was hangry. A Snickers bar probably would not have helped. I was desperate, emotional, all logic computing switched off in my brain, and I was inexcusable. I can write a manual on hindsight 20/20 how to not be a jerk after the fact guilt reflections.

Wicked Witch of the West 
+ nails on a chalkboard 
+ whatever Mothman’s doom prophesying screeches sound like
= Jennifer on the phone to two Cox Communications Customer Support Guys. 

I’m sure that’s what I sounded like tonight.

OK, so I have been a whole heck of a lot of whole messiness this past week. Big whoop, right? We ALL have crappy weeks. And, for a very short spell tonight, I totally justified my bad behavior. Pouty little girl.

Why the drama? My modem crashed on me. Yesterday.

And for no reason (well, a LOGICAL reason, that is) I can identify, I decided to just get super bitchy with the Cox technical support guy. It’s not HIS fault that my five year old modem decided to crap out on me… but I certainly spoke to him like it was his problem to fix… complete with…. I must shamefully say this. I didn’t exactly end the call with thanking him for his assistance and wishing him a good evening. Naaaaaaah, I wasn’t even close to as gracious as that. And this poor guy… he didn’t deserve it. And my head was so far up my bootie that I…. I repeated almost same behavior on ANOTHER Cox guy because he informed me I bought the wrong modem type tonight.

Oh GEEZ!

As if it’s the Cox Guy’s fault that I didn’t pay attention to the modem type when at Best Buy. NoOt his fault yours truly bought a DSL modem type instead of a cable modem type. And, not even aware yet of the fact I needed to accept responsibility for my ignorance in purchasing, I then proceeded to admonish the poor guy and I forcefully told him he had to tell me exactly what type of modem to buy because…

I am so ticked off with you guys right now you need to give me a reason not to cancel you right now!” Wooo, so scary and legitimately positioning myself for accomplishment of obtaining resolution, right?! Punch me!!

Oh, and this followed my attempt to reproach the Cox Guy LAST night because Cox did not proactively contact me to let me know that my modem was about to putz out. In other words, I was an asshole.

…Not that I have an excuse, but by the time I spent 32 minutes on the phone with the computer prompter trying to trouble shoot the modem problems. I should not be allowed to communicate with artificial or live intelligence.  Having to repeat almost everything I said because the computer couldn’t decipher my voice, I was already beyond edgy when the poor guy came on the line. When he asked me to repeat all the steps the computer had me do – after I tried the same troubleshooting before calling Cox – well, I blew my top.

🙁

Needless to say, I am not a fan of those automated trouble shoot systems. Maybe…. Perhaps if they could program the system to recognize the stoopid-hooman is losing their mind to register some sort of AI empathy? Or some sort of acknowledgment instead of the always proper and chipper “hmm, I did not register that, let’s try again,” response? I don’t know the answer to that one…..

Chimpanzee Sanctuary Zambia by Liz Bridges

As I write this I cringe! Because, even as I huffily wrote down the suggested modem model number and mumbled “good night” or something probably inaudible, it still hadn’t occurred to me what an outrageous bitch I was being to these service people. And, if I were me, speaking to someone behaving like (me tonight), at my work, I would scold (me tonight) for being so badly behaved. And these fellas just took it, graciously, and with dignity — because I was everything but dignified. And for what??? A fricking five-year old modem! Where do I come up with myself sometimes, right??

And all because I bought the wrong modem and was pissy that I had to put my jeans back on and drive the two miles to Best Buy.

Soooooo…. when my NEW surfboard modem wouldn’t connect to the computer and I realized I was going to have to call Cox AGAIN… for the third time in 24 hours… I took a big breath, and checked myself, and bit my tongue as I asked for help resetting my account. Thank heaven I didn’t get blackballed. Because now I’m aware, and scared, about what notes they wrote about the crazy bee-otch on my account.

Oops. Now I feel just as guilty and ashamed as hell.

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