humor, self-help

Potassium Pick-A-Part

Leg Cramp! Bananas 911!
Leg Cramp! Bananas 911!

I’m a banana freak. I eat em, mash em, purée them, put those yellow babies in bread and yes, probably choke em down… a little too sexily. I can’t help it. I’m a pervert. But so are you guys… speak for yourself. Alas! But, here we are. Ha! Pervs! I knew it. Bananas are also good for cramps (not lady cramps-the sugar in them will make your moody space worse-believe me I’ve tried), but these fruit sticks are good for leg cramps, arm cramps, brain cramps… things of that nature. Huh? Or, at least that’s the rumor. Not committing to the brain cramp suspicion; But, it could explain why there are so many bad drivers. So, imagine my surprise when I have been depleted from a midday romp, (uh *blushing… shhhh, everyone needs a lil momma-feel good time, *wink), AND I’m starving AND I reach for a ‘nanner… AND my calf seizes up. Ouch. Yeah, seriously, what the hell.  

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And STRETCH! And REACH!

I try stretching it out, downward dog style, and it doesn’t seem to alleviate it. Damn you, yoga. Maybe too much momma feel good time? No, that definitely cannot be it. AWAY. Silly. Radical thoughts. Still with my unopened bannana in tow, I grab a heating pad and flop on the couch for a solid twenty minutes. Hoping the heat of this electric walk-around-furnace will bring release to my lopsided dead leg. Nope. I give up on the portable heatery thing and I hobble my way to a nearby staircase and attempt an alternate the stretch of the calves event. As I pedal each foot up and down on the step, I don’t seem to be finding any letup. Hmmm, still not quite busting that bitch out. Blast it. I aimlessly cruise around the house venturing to “walk it off” until I acquiesce. And take a big belly flop onto the hard tile floor. My banana stumbles across with me, airborne until it finally plunkers down into my line of sight. On the floor. After a couple bounces. Adding a light dusting of bunnies to the peel.

I lazily reach for the yummy potassium-rich goodness, in all my exasperated glory and finally concede to munching down on this little crescent moon shaped treat. Chomp. Chomp. Chomp. And I hear a voice from above. Hello. Are angels singing? What are you doing. Is that you, God? No. It’s my honey asking me why the hell am I laying lifeless on the floor, slobbering all over a banana…

“Babe.. I had a cramp.”

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Stalker Envy

Just here. Being lazy… NOT stalking anything

Let’s give it up for those individuals who really commit to stalking their prey. Or “loved one.”  It really takes a special kind of crazy to keep a tail on a woman. Or man. That’s just a lot of energy I don’t have to give in my “things I could do with my energy” bank. Raise your hand if you’re laziest stalker ever… Here! Present!  I mean, I’m the worst. But, I guess if you’re going to fail at something, stalking might be a good thing, at which, to suck.

 

Though, I digress and start to wonder if maybe I gave off the stalker vibe a little better than previous notions on a recent trip to my local grocery store. Apparently, I was exuding stalker-like qualities and made this guy nervous. Ah, reality bites. Ok, here’s what happened. There’s this cute guy that works in the produce section. He always happens to be there when I need to shop but it’s not a planned encounter. It just happens. I see him there whether I shop in the am, pm, random stops, need water, etc. You get the point. So he was there this morning and he recognized my predictably-dressed, casual and sexy, glasses-wearing nerd, shopping self and says hey. We exchange the “how you beens,” and social decorum whatnots, then I say flippantly, “I think I may be stalking your shift.” I laughed. I’m funny. He laughed. Awkardly. Maybe I’m not so funny. He looked around. Uncomfortably. Ugh, he ducked and totally missed getting hit with my humor stick. Crap. Where’s the vitamin aisle… Get me the hell out of here. Now he thinks I might ACTUALLY be stalking him. Perfect. Little does he know, I’m just too lazy to get up during commercials when watching my favorite show. When I had tv. Yes, it’s still cancelled for those of you who read my blog often. The no-tv withdrawals have subsided. Hence why I probably made the socially inept blunder to begin with. Can we get a round of applause! Shoutout to awkward public situations!

I see you! You can't  hide behind no damn bananas, fool! #pounce #groceryninja
I see you! You can’t hide behind no damn bananas, fool! #pounce #groceryninja

Maybe it’s being out of the dating game? Possible. Maybe it’s my hermit-like status? Book club, party of one, please. Maybe it’s the no television?! You’re a weirdo. I know. Regardless, my anti-soch behavior has got to change or I’ll keep ending up on the high alert, creeper list. There’s no list. Is there such a list? With my luck, there’s absolutely a list. And I’m likely on the damn thing. You’re definitely on it. Hush up, random vocal bystander. Well, if I wasn’t on the list before, I’m probably being added to it now after that apocolyptic encounter. Maybe I can fix this boo-boo with some heavy duty I’m Awesome Duck Tape… that’s what I’ll do. But, first I’ll need a disguise. Because there’s nothing more normal than that. Please don’t dress up as cat woman. But, it’s hot. No. Fine, I can put on a fake mustache. Or just skip waxing my lip this week. And as long as I catch grocery store hottie before he sees me, it’ll all work itself out. Unless he dives behind the organic bell peppers…