Attend new exercise class taught by a lovely Brazilian woman who repeatedly screams, “WORK YOUR GLUTCHAS, LADIES!” while we do approximately 1,000 squats. She then gives us inflatable purple balls to put between our knees and loudly commands, “NOW SQUEEZE THE PUH-PURL BALLZ BETWEEN YOUR TIGHS! SQUEEZE THEM! SQUEEZE DA PUH-PURL BALLZ LADIES! GOOOOOD!”
Forty minutes later, I leave the class majorly disappointed because 1) I was panting far too heavily to get in even one “That’s what she said!” during the squeeze routine 2) my glutchas are totally killing me and 3) I smell like ball.
Set aside time to answer the ton of fan emails I receive (ton = one every six months) because even though I am a huge internet star in Latvia, I still need the little people to keep me humble.
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Thank you so much for your email. Remember, keep reaching for the stars, my friend, and you just might catch a sparkle!
PS: I don’t know what you were doing in that photo you attached, but you probably need antibiotics.
(Note: Wendi does not actually know what she did on this day, but there might have been some Benadryl involved.)
At lunch, I tell my friend Jennifer that 18-year-old Dickens the Cat has always been happy being an indoor cat. Jennifer says this is because Dickens has “gone all Shawshank and shit and doesn’t know what life’s like on the outside.” I strongly disagree.
However, two days later, Dickens starts scratching at the door and frantically yowling to go out for the first time ever. I’m then shocked to find a jailhouse tat on her belly (“I ♥ Pussy”), a sharpened toothbrush next to her litter box and a clawed-out tunnel that starts in our dining room and ends in a Puerto Vallarta bait shop.
Therefore, because God knows the last thing I need is a feline prison riot on my hands, Dickens is now allowed 10-minutes of supervised time in the yard a day. But no cigs until she stops scratching the good couch.
FRIDAY AND SATURDAY
Per our usual Sunday routine, my husband and I spend the morning relaxing, reading the paper and critiquing the local news reporters’ clothing choices. The boys happily play in the front yard.
Suddenly Jack runs inside and we sort of notice that he’s soaking wet. “That waterfall in the front yard is awesome!” he yells. “Glad to hear it,” I mutter, not looking up from the Target circular. “Now go play outside again.”
Ten minutes later, Sam bursts in the front door and he’s also completely wet. “Thanks for the fountain, you guys!” he laughs. “It’s so fun!”
Ten more minutes later, my husband finally says, “Why do people keep honking when they drive by our house? And do you hear water running? Maybe we should go take a look at what’s going on—right after we talk about that horrible safari jacket the weather lady’s trying to pull off. Oh, NO, baby! You look like a demented Girl Scout!”
When we finally do stand up and go outside, what we find is a broken sprinkler head that’s been gushing water 20 feet into the sky for the past 30 minutes. Making our house look like the suburban Bellagio:
With all of the repair and clean up that then ensued, it turned out to be a big pain the Glutchas for me. But it also turned out to be The Best Sunday Ever for the boys.
At least, that’s what I told Dickens before I threw her in The Hole for puking on the warden’s favorite pair of suede boots. She’s never going to make parole and meet Tim Robbins in Mexico with that behavior.