• Previous posts

  • Dissolved
  • Two new delights
  • Less noise, more me
  • Good times
  • Not Ken’s Dream House
  • The joy of different
  • This must be the place
  • All of the feels
  • Life update: endings and beginnings
  • Adapting to the lasts
  • At the same time
  • Take a picture it’ll last longer
  • Horsin’ around
  • Surrender, Dorothy
  • College let-go

Archives from 2002-2006

I was at my “Turbo Kick” class at the gym last night and I had motored along fairly well until the last part of class when the instructor launches into this monotonous, horrifying routine of punches and kicks that just goes on and on and on for maybe twelve or thirteen hours straight, punch punch punch punch punch punch punch punch jab jab jab jab jab jab jab jab zigzag zigzag knee back kick back kick front kick front kick front kick front kick REPEAT, and I got to thinking that instead of visualizing a smaller waistline or whatever as my form of motivation for making it through without doing that thing where you go get a drink of water but you take your sweet-ass time about it because really, it’s less about hydrating and more about taking a break before projectile vomiting ensues, I should be thinking about how my improved physical fitness will help me when the zombie plague eventually sweeps the earth. I mean, have you seen the new, fast zombies? Those motherfuckers will run you down and suck your brain dry in no time, I don’t know about you but I’d like to feel capable of putting some distance between my delicious, tempting flesh and their rotted, yet still powerful jaws, and I need to be strong enough to carry a couple of small children while I’m sprinting for my life because the kids might be a pain in my ass at times but it’s not like I want them to become zombie kabobs.

That train of thought thundered right past Crazy Town and into Batshit City as we all hunkered into the godawful bend-down-touch-the-floor-with-one-hand-then-straighten-up-and-kick-the-opposite-leg routine and I decided that what we need is a zombie preparedness training franchise. Preferably designed by Max Brooks, this would be a series of classes a person could take which would involve an intense physical regimen combined with classic survival training: how to dress a wound (not a zombie afflicted wound, obviously, since if you’ve been bitten you should probably be concerning yourself with finding the nearest gun so you can . . . well, that subject will be in the class too, and let’s be honest, it won’t be cheery), combat techniques, recognizing poisonous plant species, turning your household into a defensible stronghold — you know, the usual.

Sure, maybe the cardio-triggered lack of oxygen had something to do with this idea, but I’m telling you, I think it’s got merit. People would take this class for general survivalist tips, people would take it because they thought it was funny, people would take it because even though they joke about the subject they find themselves thinking about zombies at the strangest times, just idly considering the nightmarish possibilities, remote though they must surely be, ha ha ha ha haaaaa.

Now, a class about werewolves or some shit would just be fucking stupid. You see the difference, right?

See? Totally worth saving from the undead. I’ll be honest, though, I’m not sure I feel the same way about Cat. Would she save ME? I think not.

Oh god, are we still talking about this? Note to the million-and-one ParentDish commenters who opined that all mothers who work outside of the home are jealous of those who stay at home full time: ah, no. If I am jealous of anyone, it’s the rare breed of parent who purely loves staying home OR working OR a combination of the two because it truly fulfills them and makes them happy and — here’s the important part — doesn’t feel compelled to crap on defensively about their choice and explain why the alternatives to their own situation are undesirable to not only themselves but somehow, mysteriously, every other parent on earth. I am jealous of this maybe-mythical person because when I read someone’s comment that if a family has two working parents they shouldn’t have kids because “kids are a prividlede not a right!” (side note: is a spellchecker a privilege too?) I can’t stop my OWN self from crapping on about how close-minded this is and how every working parent has their own unique situation and the tired-ass argument that keeps getting trotted out about how when you work outside the home you aren’t actually raising your own kids reminds me of a bunch of slack-jawed morons holding up misspelled signs that declare the earth is flat, FLAT WE SAY, and really, maybe if I could just not CARE about other people having (crazy) opinions about my parenting choices I could sit back and concentrate on feeling fulfilled and happy instead of FROTHY-MOUTHED and RAGE-Y.

Oh god, am I still talking about this?

← Previous Page — Next Page →

• My product review site:

  [Older recommendations]