I am my skates and my skates are me

The first real piece of advice I got at derby practice was to bend your knees and stay low, to the inside of the track. The second piece of advice was to wear your skates as much as possible. I wanted to - I really wanted to. But the greeter at Walmart told me I couldn't wear skates in the store (yet another reason Walmart sucks - like I needed another reason) and I don't get out much so.....despite my best intentions I don't wear my skates that often outside of practice. And besides, with size 11 feet the damn things are HEAVY. Stupidly, ridiculously heavy. I suppose I could just sit around lifting my feet up and down, over and over, and probably get as much of a workout as actually skating on them, but that would be boring, and weird. Instead, I try to find opportunities to wear them around the house.

Today I made a quiche in skates. I had to wear my son's rollerblades, because my husband took my skates to work (in the trunk - he wasn't skating around his office in them, I don't think.) The quiche turned out just fabulous, and I am sure the skates had everything to do with how light and fluffy it was. Wouldn't you agree?

Tomorrow I plan to clean the house in my skates. At the very least, it will be more challenging. But I am hoping it is also more fun. Because seriously? I hate cleaning the fucking house. If this works out like I hope it does, then I can see plenty more days of rolling happily around the house in my skates with a can of Pledge and a featherduster, dragging a vacuum along behind me. It sounds like much more fun then the way I do it now, which is in my granny underwear with a beer.

And to update you on my asshole dog: He fucking did it AGAIN. I wish I was kidding. But that STUPID FUCKING DOG ate more of the carpet inside my car. I am not going to post a picture because honestly, it makes me nauseous to even think about it - never mind photograph it for posterity. It's like living in that "Marley and Me" movie, as so many of you have SO HELPFULLY POINTED OUT, except I'm no Jennifer Aniston, and I think my husband might be hotter then Owen Wilson. In a Middle Eastern kind of way. That doesn't make any sense at all, does it.

My point is this - this is not a movie, it's my fucking BRAND NEW CAR and if he doesn't knock it off he will never see the inside of it again. If he is very, very lucky I will forget about this before he's dead. I doubt it though - he honestly may never have another car ride - ever. He certainly doesn't deserve one. The little bastard. Okay, I feel better now. I'm going to put on my skates and fold laundry.

P.S. if he eats my skates, hand to God, he is fucking Dead Dog Walking. No Joke.