Fucking and Frying Chicken

Today I made the bold statement that those are the only 2 chapters in the Housewife Handbook. I'm not entirely sure that was incorrect. At this point, after looking at project plans and budgets and hours and resources until my eyeballs crossed I'm fairly certain that a life of those two things supplemented by Shopping for Saucy Negligees and Handbags might just be the life for me.

But that is tonight. And I'm always convinced a life of leisure would be preferable until about 2 minutes before I walk into my job in the morning and feel all superstar-ish again.

Lather. Rinse. Repeat.

On Monday my personal salvation began. I took a noon tour of The Bay Club, which is about 5 blocks from my job, and fell in love with the place immediately. I mean. They have a fucking elliptical machine next to the hoop court so I can stare at fine boys sweating it out while I work on a nicer ass. That can't be bad.

And the place is massive. Around every corner there's another set of machines. Cable TV linked up to everything so you can watch trashy television while you sweat (when you're not watching hot boys do layups), 2 big old pools, saunas, steam rooms, plush and cushy services, a cafe and tennis courts on the roof.

It took about zero convincing to get me to sign up, in spite of the insane fees. The way I figure it I've been spending at least 200 bucks a month getting me and my homegirls drunk for the past six months so I'm actually saving some money this way.

Also: my therapist insists I might find that magical unicorn of a motherfucker at a gym like that, and I'm inclined to agree with her. I mean. He'd be there if he was gonna be anywhere.

But of course last night I had a client dinner right after work so could not go to the gym. That said, the handsome and dashing client was telling a story and I learned that *he's* a member of The Bay Club too, so this is a good sign.

Tomorrow I go.

Thing is I was trying to figure out the best way to break my habit of drinking after work. Right now I use Jameson as a nice transition method. I go from stressed to carefree pretty much instantly, you know?

But there's a better way to do that. And if I can get a tinier waist in the process it's pretty much win/win.

Compounding that lifestyle victory is the fact that the couch I ordered eight thousand years ago actually showed up yesterday morning. It's lovely. It's delightful. It's a creamy tangerine color that totally matches my 70s swinger style apartment. It's also got a chaise built into it so that I can daydream and stare at the sky in queenly comfort while I sniff stargazer lily blooms or do my toenails.

These are all things that I need.

Yawn and stretch. I haven't stopped doing anything, you see. So tonight was me on the princess sofa smoking cigarettes and drinking Ketel One mixed with Vernor's ginger soda while I laptopped away at this project plan for a project that's already shipped to teach us all a lesson about how not to go over budget in the future. It was semi-meditative, but the vodka helped that along a bit.

And tomorrow, who knows? After an hour of treadmilling and handstanding I might decide to have a cocktail or two anyway. Or I might just cruise home on an endorphin high and stamp white hot hearts all over the dark purple paint I just put on my fingernails.

As long as it's different than what I've been doing, I won't trip.

Now all I need to find is a swoony tennis instructor to teach me a thing or two about sportsmanship and give me an excuse to floss a white mini dress and matching bloomers.

Ha. As if I need an excuse.

I'll dream him up tonight. By tomorrow he'll be on my doorstep I am sure.

I win everything. Always.

Sweet dreams.