Another conversation

I got to meet Mary, an email friend, face to face.  It was lovely to meet her!  Lovely person.  And she has the sweetest Malinois in the world.  Meet  Ms. J: 

 

 

Unlike many Malinois, this pretty girl is delighted to meet new people and to be given fur-loosening scratches.  She also gives kisses and even jumped up and hugged me.  Yeah, I would have given her my car at that point.

 

Two beagles and a wire fox terrier, however, weren't as delighted with my new friendship.  When I walked through the door, there were three little black noses giving me a going-over. 

 

HRHTM:  Um...is there something you want to tell us?

Me:  What?  No.  What would I have to tell you?

Bailey:  How about why you're home late from work?  Smelling like [sniff sniff]  Is that Malinois???

Me:  Well, yeah, but it's not what you think.

Maddie Mae:  Ohhhh.  It's not what we think.  I see.  I get it.

Me:  No, really, I was visiting Mary and she has a great dog and I was just petting her a little--

All three:   [groan]

Bailey:  Petting her.  Uh huh.

HRHTM:  What, are we not ENOUGH for you?  You need more dog than we can give you?

Bailey:  I mean, after all we've meant to each other, this is how you act?

HRHTM:  And judging from the amount of fur on your clothes, I guess we're just not fuzzy enough.

Me:  Guys!  Seriously!  Come on.  It was a few pets.

Maddie Mae:  A few pets?  A few pets?  Oh, and let me guess.  "It didn't mean anything.  You thought about us the whole time."  [shaking her head]  I don't even know who you are.  No!  I'm done.  I am too old for this crap.

 

 

And all three walked away.

 

I think I'm sleeping alone tonight.

It worked!!!!

My friend Courtney came over today, bringing with her the husband and the two furry children.  Her youngest, Oreo

 

 

is in love with Roommate's boy beagle.  It was deeply meaningful play date.

 

Because Courtney and her fella were in my house, I had to make something to offer them.  After all, if you come to my house, dearest, you must be hungry.  After a couple of hours of romp-n-play, the dogs were ready for a lie-down and the grownups were ready for a cup of tea and slice of cake.

 

Mmm.  Cake. I believe I've mentioned one of my favorite sources of cake recipes is The Caked Crusader's blog.   CC [superhero that she is] posts recipes that make my mouth water and the size of my derriere increase.  One of the recent recipes grabbed my attention and screamed, "MAKE ME FOR COURTNEY!!!!"

 

Why for Courtney, you may ask?  Okay, you didn't actually ask, but really, you might just be holding back on asking.  Go ahead.  Ask.

 

Oh, so glad you asked!

 

Courtney is one of my friends with food allergies.  She's allergic to:

• glutens
• eggs
• dairy
• nuts and
• yeast.

I've baked bread for Courtney before [no, it wasn't easy] and made cookies.  But what I really wanted was to make this cake.  It seemed like something she would love.  The problem?  Butter, eggs and flour. 

 

So what to do?  Don't worry, I'll tell you.  You know how I love doing that. 

 

First, I mixed a quarter cup of ground flaxseeds with three-quarters cup of water and let it sit.  It turns into a gooey, weird mess that works as an egg substitute.  Nooooo, not by itself!  Just in baked goods.  Don't try to scramble this.

 

Gack.

 

Second, I used coconut oil in place of butter.  I hadn't used it before, but it was a pretty easy substitution.  And the delicious coconutty smell of it made me want to sit on a beach while rubbing on suntan oil and sipping a mai tai.  Which would result in my getting hammered, hung over and sunburned to a freaking crisp.

 

It's better that I do my baking in the kitchen.

 

Finally, I used a really nice gluten free baking flour by Bob's Red Mill.  A lot of gluten free flours use almond flour, which would cause Courtney major discomfort, but BRM does a great job with nut-free flours.

 

But look!

 

 

It worked!!!  Courtney's hubster even had a second piece.  And then fixed my computer.  And then took care of the dogs.  What a guy.  Courtney should totally marry him.  Yes, I told her that, too.   

 

Puppy play date, Sunday sunshine and cake.  I love it when a plan comes together.

Volvo 1, Lisa Marie 0

This is the shape of the warning light that popped up on Volvo's dash when I was driving home from Courtney's house on Saturday night.  Generally, when Volvo flashes a warning light at me, it's not a good sign.  It usually means Volvo and I will be visiting the mechanic and it will cost us hundreds--if not thousands--of dollars.  Needless to say, I was a bit upset when I saw a heretofore unseen warning light, especially since I had NO idea what it indicated.

 

The conversation went like this:

 

Volvo:  Ping!

Me:  Wait.  What's that?  What does that mean?

Volvo:  La la la la la la....

Me:  What?  What is it?  What does that symbol mean?  Half circle-ish thing with lines?

Volvo:  Hmm hmm hmm hmm....

Me:  WHAT??  We're out of orange juice?  We need pulp-free?  You're sensitive to acids?  WHAT????!!!!

Volvo:  [quiet chuckle]

Me:  Fine.  I'm too tired to worry about it.  I'll look at it tomorrow.

Volvo:  Sure.  That's fine.  I'm not all that expensive to fix, when you've driven me.  ON AN INJURY.

Me:  DAMMIT.  Fine!  I'll look at the book when I get home.  I can't look right now; I'm driving.

Volvo:  Perfectly reasonable.  How many miles is it to the house?  On the freeway?  At night?

Me:  ARG!!!!!!  Where's a parking lot??  Where's a damn parking lot?????

Volvo:  Well, there's one we're just about to pass--oh.  Okay.  I guess we're pulling in, Mario Andretti.

Me:  You shut up.  Where's the book?  Okay, index...warning lights...Rear fog light?

Volvo:  Yes!

Me:  You have rear fog lights?

Volvo:  Tcha!  Of course I do.

Me:  Well, how did that get turned on?  How do I turn...seriously?  This switch?  That's what this was all about?

Volvo:  Well, it was this or the Hokey Pokey.

Me:  [thunking head against steering wheel]

Volvo:  Heehee!

Volvo has a mean sense of humor.

Six and a half months?

Sigh.

I know.  I dropped off the face of the earth.  Well, not dropped, exactly.  More like yanked off the face of the earth.  Yes, you guessed it.

Alien abduction. 

No, no.  I can't talk about it.  It's really too painful.   The fear!  The uncertainty!  The really weird smell!  It was---

What?

How can you suggest such a heinous thing!!!  Lying?  To you, dearest invisible friend?  Why, I'm horrified you'd even...suggest....

Okay, fine.  I was just lazy.  Happy now?

Moving on.

The Walk for Pancreatic cancer

My landlady was diagnosed with Stage III pancreatic cancer, more than five years ago.  Today, she is cancer free and walking a 5K in support of a cure.  Roommate and I are walking with her.

Www.pancan.org

She had a 2% chance of survival and she did it.

I think that's reason enough to walk in the rain.  In Seattle.  In November.  I think that's reason enough to wear every scrap of purple I can find and get my face painted.  I think that's reason enough to get up ridiculously early on a Sunday morning.

And if it weren't reason enough, the 98% who died, like my ex's mom, would make up the difference.

It's not a new sentiment,  or even a particularly pretty one, but all in all, I have to say:

Cancer sucks.

How do I let myself get talked into this?

Worst band.  Crappiest bar.  Roommate's coworkers.  One extremely toasted friend in absurdly high heels.

At the risk of sounding like Cinderella....

SOMEBODY GET ME OUT OF HERE.

Bits I Left Out

Dearest, I was reminded by the Great and Powerful Deb that I had not mentioned one or two tidbits about my weekend of gardening fun.  I am certain that this is a loss that would devastate you, so I shall correct this immediately, pausing only to breathe a word of thanks to the G&P Deb.

Thanks, Deb.

1)  I renamed lasagna gardening.  [I know, I know.  You wouldn't have survived not knowing this. Critical stuff here.]  After the forty-fifth layer of something....organic.  Yes, we'll just call it organic.  After the forty-fifth layer of something organic, I was reminded of another layered character.  At that very moment, I dubbed my activity "Shrek Gardening."  I do recognize that I am opening the door to endless, and annoying, impressions of Donkey, but what to do?  Shrek Gardening was dubbed.

2)  At one point, I looked over at my dog.  All three dogs were keeping me company as I Shrekked away [see, now it's a verb!] and HRH Tuppence Marie had just visited her stylist the previous day.  She was all clean and clipped and fluffy and white.  She lay there, happily sunning herself, enjoying the beautiful fall day, watching birds wing by and gazing up at a cloudless sky...while draped like the Queen of Sheba across my newly created Shrek garden.  I stopped Shrekking to shriek, "That's a FLOWER BED, not a DOG BED!!!!" 

I believe the look I got from her could be accurately interpreted as, "Whatevah."

3)  While I Shrekked away, Roommate helped with the yard work by doing one of her favorite things:  demo.  In yard terms, that means pruning some hapless tree or shrub within an inch of its life.  I didn't realize that while doing so, Roommate's gardening attire behaved poorly.  Her jeans had gotten too loose and wanted to slip downward.  Her shirt kept riding up in back.  If I had been paying attention, I might have noticed these minor wardrobe malfunctions and therefore not been surprised by Roommate's statement:

"I bet you're glad I put on underwear!"

I know.  It was an absolute General Foods International Coffee moment.  What else could I do but celebrate that moment in our lives?

Gardening.  It's pretty awesome.  ALmost as good as underwear.

How I Spent My Weekend

So I found a book at my local thrift store entitled "Lasagna Gardening." Surprisingly, this isn't a book that instructs on how to plant lasagnas, pan and all, nor is it a garden for growing the products needed for lasagna. This is a profound relief to me, as I've heard the mozzerella plant is an absolute bear to grow.

 No, this a book on a particular gardening technique. 

The idea is, instead of digging and tilling and plowing and amending, organic matter is simply layered on top of sod. Or craptastic soil.  Or dead bodies--no, no.  Wait.  That's a different book.  One is to create layers of this stuff like layers of lasagna.

Ahhh!  Clever, huh?

Not the cheapest gardening technique on the planet, I don't mind telling you.  On the last run to the home improvement store, I dropped a C-note on this crap.  Literally.  Steer manure.  Chicken manure.  Compost.  And a small mountain of peat moss.  Roommate was thrilled to have this in her car. Thrilled.

Because she has a hatchback with foldy seats, that's why. Volvo couldn't have carried nearly as much crap.

Heh.

Anyway, between the stuff I got on Saturday and the other organic ickiness I'd picked up the day before, I managed to lasagna three-quarters of the ugly fence line and one of the four raised bed areas.

And no, the last one is NOT a shallow grave.  Silly!  I would never do such a thing!

Heh.

Another Return

Yes, it's that time of year.  Actually, it's not quite that time of year yet, but since the first day of fall happened over the weekend, I decided to do a surprise Soup Day.  That's why I made the sign.

I showed the sign to X-ray Andy, whom I adore, darling little cueball that he is, and he exclaimed, "Why didn't you tell me?"

Well.  Because it was a surprise Soup Day.  Hence the sign.

Fortunately, Andy is more than just a pretty face and he put the pieces together quickly.  I adore Andy.

The soups are nothing special or even particularly good, but it's been a long and soupless summer, so I'm hoping I get a pass. 

The cookies turned out well, though.  New recipe, called Butter Bars, though with the melted colored sugar on the top I felt they should be called Brulee Butter Bars.  I wanted to bring in cookies, but didn't want to shape the dough, put the cookie sheet in the oven, shape the next batch, trade out the cookie--snnnnnnnnnnn.

What?  Oh, sorry.  Even I fell asleep on that one.

Soup Day has returned.  Let the rejoicing begin.

A Cure For Gravity

<p>I'm so tired of gravity!  If only there was something, <i>something</i> in this world to correct my posture and lift my sagging bustline! Something that would help me sit up straight at my desk while being super stretchy and comfortable, with just a soupçon of lace, to make me feel pretty.  Oh, oh, and can it self-adjust for periodic changes, too?

Ah.  An answer to a maiden's prayer.

Computer Woes

My computers hate me.  Don't look at me like that, it's true.

See, I had plans for this weekend.  Computer related plans.  There was going to be writing on my blog (and therefore conversation with you, my lovely) and work on my horribly neglected work-in-progress and possibly, just possibly, forays into my next WIP.  I told Barnabas all of this.

Hm?  Oh, Barnabas Pimm.  My netbook.  Yes, I named my netbook.  No, it isn't weird.  No, it isn't.  Listen, do you want to hear this or not?

Thank you.

So I told Barnabas this, and reassured him that he would remain plugged in for all of it, as his battery is dying.  Or giving up the goat, as Roommate's mom would say.  And everything was fine until the power cable was bumped by a passing beagle.  Then suddenly, Barnabas was no more. 

Was it death by battery implosion?  Power cable failure?  Both?  A hideous plot by invading alien life forms? All three?  I do not know, and none of my geek friends have called me back.  I had to stride forward and find other solutions.

And stride I did.  I set up the desktop computer that had been languishing in Roommate's room for over a year.  Despite the acres of dust and miles of cords, I put it all together and booted it up, only to discover that the computer's ability to recognize the cable modem had disappeared.

Now I have no Barnabas, nor do I have access via internet to retrieve work stored on Barnabas and other places.  You know.  There.  The cloud.  Whatever. 

All I have left is my phone.  And wow, did I just say that and doom this poor phone??

I'm going to bed.  Wake me when technology is easier.

Goat? What goat?

Yard sales.  You either love them or hate them, right?

I love and hate them.

No, really, I do.  I love going to yard sales, garage sales, rummage sales, flea markets.  I love digging around in piles of stuff, searching for treasure.  I love finding that unbelievable deal, because someone is sick of his or her own clutter.  I love looking at what one of aunts calls "used crap." 

Seriously, she does.  She also calls antiques used crap.  Several years ago, she, my uncle and my cousin took me to a nearby town known for its antique stores and let me run wild for the day.  My aunt was ever so helpful, too.  She'd point at a store and say, "Oh, there's some more used crap we haven't looked at, over there!" A pip, she is.  An absolute pip.

Anyway.  While I love going to yard sales, I am pretty much sick and freaking tired of putting on yard sales.  Okay, yes, Roommate does do most of the work, but I get dragooned into a boatload of work I did not want to do in the first place.  Which begs the question; has Roommate forgotten what an essentially lazy creature I am?  I am beginning to fear this is the case.

Roommate's heart is in the right place, though, bless her.  The yard sale proceeds go to support breast cancer research and treatment for people who cannot afford care.  Any leftover items at the end of the yard sale is donated to Goodwill or the Salvation Army or Value Village.  And when she heard about shortages in Seattle Food Banks, she added a canned food drive to this sale; anyone who brought a canned food item to the sale to donate would get a free baked good.

Guess who baked the goods?

Roommate was quick to point out that "we" baked the shortbread, the chocolate chip cookies and the four loaves of banana bread the night before, because she HELPED with the baking.  Which is true.  She did help.  She pulled a cookie sheet out of the oven and slid another sheet I'd loaded with unbaked cookies into the oven.  Really, it was tremendous.  Based on this criteria, Roommate's mom chimed in that she, too, helped with the baking, since she pulled out two of the loaves of banana bread.  Now that I think of it, I have no idea why I was even in the kitchen. 

Despite my utter exhaustion afterward, the sale was a success.  Roommate and her mom worked very hard to make it so and I walked around, trying to talk people into buying more used crap than they ever wanted.  And after it was all said and done, the rest of the used crap was donated and is no longer in my basement.  It just doesn't get much better than that.

No, wait.  It does.  The best moment of the whole weekend happened when Roommate's mother made reference to an object that finally broke after a long period of ownership and use.  "It finally gave up the goat," she reported to Roommate.

I stopped unpacking a bin of glassware onto the folding table to turn and stare at her.  "What did it give up?" I asked.

"It gave up the goat," Roommate's mom repeated.  "Haven't you ever heard that saying?  That means it died."

The ten minutes it took me to stop laughing and explain the origin of something giving up the ghost was the absolute best moment of the whole three days.  It almost made the work worth it.

Almost.

Sigh.  It's done.  I'm done in.  I'd better get to bed now, as I feel like I'm about to give up the goat.

Snicker.

Bailey's Super Power

Dearest, I know I've told you that I live in a three-dog household. And I adore them all, really, I do. My wee beastie, Tuppence Marie, is a little demon spawn, but she's my baby. Maddie Mae, the thirteen year old Pillow That Eats, has wormed her way into my heart. Now if she would only scoot over in my bed.

And then there's Bailey. Beagle Bailey.

He's Roommate's dog, primarily. Oh, sure, when I'm on the couch and he wants under my blanket, he completely forgets who his mama is, but he loves Roommate. And she loves him. And I love Mr. B, too, despite his propensity for stealing and eating used Kleenex and dirty underwear.

But last night, neither Roommate nor I were feeling love for the beagle.

Bailey spent the majority of the evening driving Roommate nutso. While I was safely occupied by my hideous job, Bailey was acting like someone had slipped speed into his kibble. Itching, scratching, itching, scratching, racing around the house, bow-WOOOOing at the top of his lungs. Not his usual snuggly, couch-potato self.

Naturally, Bailey needed a bath to ease whatever irritation he'd found for his pink and bumpy skin. And if the boy gets a bath, the girls get baths. NO ONE was happy about this.

Btw, when dogs get baths, one person does the job in my house. Here's a hint.  It's not Roommate.

So the dogs were bathed and it was late and Roommate and I retired to our respective chambers for an abbreviated night's sleep. Until quarter to one. That's when Roommate opened the door to my room and asked me to help her.

Bailey had been unwell. In Roommate's bed.

I will not inflict the details on you, dear one. I like you too much. I can tell you this, however; it was better than last week. Last week, when Bailey was sick in Roommate's bed, then under Roommate's bed, then in MY bed, then under my bed. Yes, he was The Incredible Barfing Beagle.

So Roommate and I didn't get a lot of sleep and even when we did go to bed--AGAIN--Bailey was still squirrelly. Which, for a beagle, is very conflicting.

We're both exhausted. And jealous of the fact that the dogs all got plenty of sleep when we went back to work. And we have a boatload of laundry. And everything needs to be steam cleaned.

Sigh.

Rotten little beast.

Anybody want a beagle? He's going cheap.

Doing The Math

I had planned this for a while,  dearest.  I said to myself, "Self, what we really need at the clusterama that is my workplace is a COOKIE JAR.  Preferably filled with cookies."  Fortunately, the other personality that was present that day agreed.  We approached Roommate with the idea.
Roommate, being who she is, was on the job immediately.  While she doesn't sprint to the kitchen the second baking projects are discussed, she is an ardent and committed shopper.  It was she, unsurprisingly, who spotted the cookie jar at a local thrift store.  She spotted it, I bought it and then, the sprint to the kitchen occurred.

(N.B.  I do not sprint.  Or run.  Or jog.  I have a car for these things.  And while I believe you might have recognized hyperbole in word choice for dramatic effect, I felt it was only right to confirm your possible suspicions.)
So I baked coconut cookies and I brought cookies and aforementioned jar to work.  Then I posted the sign. 

Then the questions started.  While I had prepared for one question, and pre-answered it ("Oooo!  May I have some cookies?") I was blindsided by the question I received.
"Did you make the cookies, Lisa Marie?"
Seriously?
Okay, okay.  Other people can bake.  Other people do bake.  Other people can and do bring things they've baked to work.  Other people are less likely to bring in a cookie jar for the cookies, but it's still possible.
But then there's the sign. 
Oh, sure, other people can do a smart-ass sign.  Coworker Vicki the Wonder Xray Tech does so quite frequently.   But the combination of baked goods, jar AND smart-ass sign pretty much points the thinking being to me.
Cookies + Cookie Jar + smart-ass sign = Lisa Marie.
See?  It's just simple math.

The Return of VNP

Very Nice Person came to town this week; his cousin got married and he attended said cousin's wedding.  Although we're no longer dating, we're still friendly, and we had the chance to hang out a bit, grab a few meals together and catch up.

This was from breakfast this morning, at the Maltby Cafe.



After breakfast, we stopped at Flower World, so I could covet nearly everything I saw.  VNP was really quite patient.  Which was understandable, given that he was working toward renewing certain aspects of our former relationship.

Dearest, I'm not saying that to be unkind, nor am I angry with VNP for this, as he was respectful and caring an interested in my while doing so.  But I have to say, I find it a bit startling.  After all, VNP is still the same person.  I am still the same person.  The dating thing didn't work before.  So why the rekindling effort?

And now my brain won't work because of massive frustration.  Mind-body connection?  Yeah.  Gosh, it's fun!

Sigh.  If someone can explain the Y chromosome type, please, please do so.  Immediately.  I think my brain is actually starting to bleed.

Change of Season

Okay, okay. I fell off the face of the planet again. I could apologize, but I've done that before. Instead, I think we should just move on.

Yes. I do. Stop glaring.

I've let too much fall to the wayside in the last several months, blogging being the least of it. But enough is enough. If I want my wish list fulfilled, I'm going to have to act on it.

1) I need to get back in the habit of Weight Watchers.

I've completely fallen off the wagon there. Yeah, I know the keys to success. But unless I actually pick them up and fit them into the locks, keys don't do me any good.

2) I have to return to the gym.

GAH. I cannot believe I typed that. The gym is a place of evil, and not the fun kind. Not the seven different types of chocolate in one dessert kind. Not the fleshy misbehavior with the really hot guy kind. Not the kind that, yeah, will send you to hell, but the trip is going to be awesome. It's just the sweaty, stinky, nasty kind of evil. And it's evil that must be done.

I just have to figure out a way to do it without needing to return to counseling afterward.

3) I must write every, single day.

It's not rocket science. I just have to do it. Whether it's a blog or one page of craptastic prose that kind fits in my sadly neglected work in progress, it has to be done.

Btw, how do rocket scientists describe things that are really, really complicated? Any clue?

It's a whole lot of change, my dear invisible friend. A whole lot.

I'm not sure I have a large enough jar.

Newfoundland Pictures!

We'll chat about this soon, but oh!  How gorgeous this place was!!!!  Perfect weather, awesome surroundings, fantastic people.  I almost stayed.  I would have stayed, but my hideous job requires that I "show up for work" in order to get paid.  Pfft!  Unreasonable much?

Here are a few of the pictures taken by my not-so-super camera phone.







Must.  Go.  Back.

On My Way!

Dearest, I've been naughty yet again, I know I have.  It's been another chunk of time apart.  Can you forgive me?  Will you forgive me?

I'm writing this as I sit in an airport, praying to an Omnipotent Comedian that the free wi-fi emblazoned on the signage dotting the long hallways will actually allow me to use the internet on my phone without having to sell an internal organ to pay the roaming charges.

That's right.  ROAMING charges.   I'm in Canada. 

Okay, I'm  barely in Canada.   I'm just over the border in Vancouver.  But I'm waiting for a flight that will take me to St. Johns, Newfoundland.

Well, I should be accurate.  If nothing else, let me be accurate, right?  I'm actually waiting for a flight that will take me to Edmonton, which will lead to another flight that will take me to Montreal, which will then let me board the flight to St. Johns.

I know.  I know!  But it was the only flight that got me to St Johns at a decent hour.  So what if that decent hour is sometime tomorrow?   So what if I'm beyond exhausted?  I'll nap a bit and be ready to enjoy a summer evening in Newfoundland!

I just have to get there first.  On a teensy, tiny little plane.

...No problem!

Live with it.

So Roommate decided it was time for me to get a haircut.  Normally, I am profoundly indifferent to hair, but at this point, my hair had gotten a little out of control.  After all, a woman of a certain age isn't always done a favor by longer hair.  The problem was, I hadn't decided on a hairstyle.

Again, normally, this isn't a problem.  The best haircut I ever got was picked out for me by my former coworker Paula and her stylist.  Paula had had a rough day that week and I told her she could pick out any hairstyle she wanted for me.  It sounds selfless and giving of me, doesn't it?

Yeah.  It isn't.  That's seriously how little I usually care about my hair, per se.  I want to look decent over all, but hair...meh.  It grows.  You get a bad cut and you hate it, it grows out.  You get a good cut and you love it, it grows out.
Anyway.  Roommate and her coworker Kelly [who does a very nice job cutting hair] flipped through some hair magazines and the snipfest began.  By the time Kelly was done, there was enough hair on the floor to make a whole new Lisa Marie.

And I had a hairstyle that makes Carol Brady

 look sexier than Salma Hayek.

Yup.  It's that...unsexy.  Seriously.  It is the hair equivalent of the mom jean.  It's not the length.  It's not the fact that my hair has a freaking mind of it's own.  It's that this cut, that looked adorable on the model in the magazine, makes me look like like Carol Brady's less appealing sister.

I'm never getting lucky again.

Ad nonsense

At what point, dearest, does one say to oneself, "I am just too freaking lazy?"

Oh, yes...when one is worn to a nub holding a book.

And look at that picture!  She's not even reading a book!  It's a couple of sheets of paper!  If she were reading the Oxford English Dictionary, maybe I could see it.  But come on!!!!

And she's got decent arms.  It's not like she's suffering some debilitating disease, fer chrissakes.

Look, I know I'm lazy.  I know I spend a fair amount of time figuring out ways of doing as little as humanly possible.  I know part of my hatred and loathing of the gym and all things exercise are related to my laziness.  But, again, come on!!!  Even I'm not this bad.

Ooo!  I just found a boundary.  How...unsettling, really.

I'd best go lie down until it goes away.