Caught up...

I bit into the apple.

I always seem to find the wrong apple. I always seem to bite off more than I can chew.

In Warner Robins, the apple came in the form of a girl -- 19 and about 5-foot-8 with sun-kissed skin, hazel eyes, blonde highlights that flowed down her back -- I met on an assignment covering something wack.

She told me about Georgia Bob's. I had to check it out. Oddly enough -- and a month later, no less -- she was there when I went.

The food was bangin. I'll definitely be back (but they can keep that concoction they tried to pass as banana pudding).

We sat there and talked. It was weird, because I haven't had a real conversation with a girl/woman in years (unless she's Cunty). We talked about everything from the state of the economy to the excitement for Whitney Houston's new album (which my boy says stinks, but we'll see).

Sunday night, I got invited over for a movie. "There's nobody here, and I hate being in this big house all by myself," she insisted.

I went.

I was there for an hour before we got the movie in. Seems neither of us had seen The Hangover, and she had it on bootleg. We were sitting through the previews when I felt her breath on my neck.

"I hope you don't mind..." she said, trailing off between kisses on my neck.

I was getting seduced. And I was liking it.

Innocent turned to full on when I realized she had her hands on my waistband, sliding the zipper down my Polo jeans.

Just when she slipped her hand inside and was pulling the toy out the cereal box, in walks her mother, groggy and yawning, wiping snot from her eyes...

(to be continued...)

A sign of the times

I've had a hard time keeping my apartment clean lately. It's not the size (which I'm still trying to get used to) or the fact that I work long days at least twice a week, and still find time to fit in tennis, too.

My life is in disarray.

I've yet to adjust to the new climate and culture of my new habitat. I haven't really given myself a chance to sit still and say, "so, this is gonna be done here, and here, and here, and here.

The only thing in my life that's on a schedule is Charlie (and she's doing fine by her standards). So I'm taking Lazy Sunday to get my act together.

I need to eat better: I may have IBS, or be slowly becoming lactose intolerant. Either way, I'm cutting things out of the diet to determine the correct route for fixing things. The first sign that something was wrong? The fact that I'd lost 15 pounds in less than two weeks, then put it all back on overnight -- with the tight stomach and cramping and back aches that come with a sudden body change. I was tempted to do like my melanin-challenged counterparts and simply get a colonic. Aah, but that pricetag is a bit too much... lol

I need to respond to the demands at work: I was told specifically what I'd be covering when I got here.

Boy, has that drastically changed.

Now that I'm doing the job of two people, I need to do a few things to make sure all the stress isn't falling to me. My editor needs to know some things (such as that business portion of my beat) need to be reconstructed on my beat. I also need to figure out how to let him know politely that I'm paid for 40 hours, so I'm about to start putting in 40 hours. I don't make enough for the madness!

I need to be on that treadmill: I got on the other day after realizing I was walking around hungry, but my stomach was full. Three quarters of the way in, panic (and back pains) set in. I know it wasn't because I hadn't been on the treadmill in a month, but still...

I'm headed out to Kroger to get some things to get the week going. Then I'm back to the house, cleaning up and washing/ironing clothes for the week ahead.

Peace.