Not Just Your Garden-Variety Neurotic Smartass.

Black Thumb, Go Green.

I bought a plant!

tiny plant grows cautiously

I was in the checkout at the grocery store, and on a small display table next to my cart sat a few small, bedraggled succulents. I saw this one, with its sad little droopy leaf hanging off of the side and its painfully dry soil, and I had to give it a home.

I’ll admit that I typically don’t have much luck with plants. My mother is the plant lady of the family. Her spider plants in the ‘70s and 80’s grew massive and terrifying protrusions, and her Wandering Jews are lush and lustrous. My stepdad, too, takes great care with his outdoor summer flowers, producing pretty little beauties like this:

lipstick red

I have killed a cactus, and that’s no easy feat.

Still, I am determined to make my new little friend thrive, and am keeping it in the kitchen on the counter; far from the cats’ ravenous eyes and the nasty porch cigarette smoke.

Here’s hoping.

Gym Rat.

I just got back from the gym. I both love and hate the gym.

I love the gym because there is such a diverse array of bodies in motion and it’s interesting to watch. On the Stairmaster is a lovely Latina woman in peak physical condition smoothly climbing to nowhere. On the elliptical is a heavy white woman churning her arms and legs furiously to the beat of the music. On the treadmill is a thin Black man running with a look of grim determination. They all inspire me.

I love the music at the gym. To use a current slang term, it slaps.

I love working out because although it is often painful, it feels good and necessary. My shoulder and pretty much everything above the waist still ache, so I am relegated to the recumbent bike, leg weights, very isolated ab exercises, and the treadmill for the time being. I’m slowly gaining momentum.

I hate the gym because I do have a shit body image and I do tend to compare myself to those lovely diverse people who are working so hard and look so great. I can’t help but look at my sweaty, red face or protruding abdomen in the enormous, floor-to-ceiling mirror and think, My God, Monstrous.

It’s very hard not to listen to the running commentary in my head that squalls, “YOU used to be that thin,” or “YOU are not working that hard”.

I am there, I am doing what I can, and no amount of self-flagellation is going to help me.

No amount of iced coffee runs after the gym are going to help me either, though. Heh.

*sips Dunkin‘ Donuts frozen vanilla chai latte*

Do you go to the gym? What’s your favorite thing to do there? Hit me up in the comments.

Send Cyanide.

I am roughly an hour and a half late for a Labor Day luncheon at my mom’s because I am waiting for my daughter’s boyfriend, so if you could please fax me some of your best benzos and a bottle of Patron, that would be great.

Picture Pages.

By the way, there’s a link in the drop-down menu to my Instagram page if you feel like adding me and checking out all of my cat photos and horrendous selfies.

Hi, Neighbor.

Well, welcome to the advent of further blatherings. I am back on WordPress, much to the chagrin of terrified children everywhere.

I will soon be pasting entries from Patreon here, as well as the REALLY old TranceJen stuff from Diaryland, when I was younger and thinner but admittedly still crazy.

I hope you enjoy it. More content coming soon.