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the quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog
and I wrote that without looking.
Small victories folks, small victories.
In other news, I've had three calls today from three different gyms. One was a gym I was supposed to interview with last week, but being one to leave a totally bitchen first impression, I phoned fifteen minutes after I was supposed to be there to let them know I couldn't make it because I had a migraine. Which is why it was good that they called again today, needing an aqua class filled on Thursday morning. The other phone call was for a twenty hour a week position in a gym on the other side of town. Beth is going to call me back after she's conferred with the manager about whether or not a single mother is appropriate to their needs. Apparently though, I was the only one she talked to who didn't turn up her nose at their policy of being trained in their admin practices before being put on the gym floor. I like the idea, maybe because I'm not twenty one and brandishing my PT qualification like it's so special that I should be running then joint, not demeaning myself doing what the boss pays me to do. Yes, there was some subtle social commentary in that last statement because fuck me, my generation is raising a bunch of idiots, thankyou. Anyway, she was pretty fucking happy when I told her that before personal training, my background is in sales and marketing, and I could practically hear her executing the mexican wave when I told her I can type the quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog without looking. Which I didn't do that time but, whatever. They're also looking for their personal trainers to rent space, and obviously working in a gym, one can (theoretically at least) drum up clients to utilise and pay for that space, so while I don't really want to spend twenty hours each week away from The Midget, sitting on my ever expanding arse sure as shit ain't paying the bills. Then my usual gym needed a class filled on Thursday morning which - too late! My queenly presence is required elsewhere.
About that migraine. It probably wasn't a migraine but, whatever. It still hurt like a motherfucker. Daniel was a real champion throughout the ordeal, insisting that I not disturb myself for over ten (!) hours to change his absorbant undergarments. He also valiently declined to leak wee outside the double edged elastic legs and all over the bed, where he lay peacefully beside me for the duration.
Mastitis.
mas·ti·tis, noun.
Inflammation of the breast or udder.
So not only have my norks, boobs or ta-tas become very pedestrian breasts, they've also been lumped together with the multi nippled, dangly underthings on a cow.
Marvelous.
Finally, deebs was lying in my lap as I bastardised this new keyboard, and he's now flat on his back on the floor, banging his head with the rattle he can now hold in his fist.
and I wrote that without looking.
Small victories folks, small victories.
In other news, I've had three calls today from three different gyms. One was a gym I was supposed to interview with last week, but being one to leave a totally bitchen first impression, I phoned fifteen minutes after I was supposed to be there to let them know I couldn't make it because I had a migraine. Which is why it was good that they called again today, needing an aqua class filled on Thursday morning. The other phone call was for a twenty hour a week position in a gym on the other side of town. Beth is going to call me back after she's conferred with the manager about whether or not a single mother is appropriate to their needs. Apparently though, I was the only one she talked to who didn't turn up her nose at their policy of being trained in their admin practices before being put on the gym floor. I like the idea, maybe because I'm not twenty one and brandishing my PT qualification like it's so special that I should be running then joint, not demeaning myself doing what the boss pays me to do. Yes, there was some subtle social commentary in that last statement because fuck me, my generation is raising a bunch of idiots, thankyou. Anyway, she was pretty fucking happy when I told her that before personal training, my background is in sales and marketing, and I could practically hear her executing the mexican wave when I told her I can type the quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog without looking. Which I didn't do that time but, whatever. They're also looking for their personal trainers to rent space, and obviously working in a gym, one can (theoretically at least) drum up clients to utilise and pay for that space, so while I don't really want to spend twenty hours each week away from The Midget, sitting on my ever expanding arse sure as shit ain't paying the bills. Then my usual gym needed a class filled on Thursday morning which - too late! My queenly presence is required elsewhere.
About that migraine. It probably wasn't a migraine but, whatever. It still hurt like a motherfucker. Daniel was a real champion throughout the ordeal, insisting that I not disturb myself for over ten (!) hours to change his absorbant undergarments. He also valiently declined to leak wee outside the double edged elastic legs and all over the bed, where he lay peacefully beside me for the duration.
a re-enactment of the actual event
Now, let's talk about the word for today, which is:Mastitis.
mas·ti·tis, noun.
Inflammation of the breast or udder.
So not only have my norks, boobs or ta-tas become very pedestrian breasts, they've also been lumped together with the multi nippled, dangly underthings on a cow.
Marvelous.
Finally, deebs was lying in my lap as I bastardised this new keyboard, and he's now flat on his back on the floor, banging his head with the rattle he can now hold in his fist.
not pictured: the subsequent plugging of his pie hole with the thumb of his underutilised other hand, proving that indeed, the boy can multitask.
posted by aibee at 11:33
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