I always get kinda thinky on this day. Don't mind me; it'll pass. It was just a day picked by my mother's obstetrician, but somewhere along the way, along the years, it became 'my' day.(Hey, I was breech, and my mother was tiny. They took no chances…and you in the back, the one that just piped up and said "Even from birth you were determined to show your ass!" -- I heard that, you little prankster. No cookies for you!)

Score: trainers 3, domesticats 0.I'm now in the market for yet another personal trainer. Val emailed me a couple of nights ago to let me know that due to personal time constraints, she would no longer be able to train me.

(This is the part where I scream out loud -- a lot -- in frustration.)

"I have a feeling we'll be getting "train wrecks from the gym" as often as we get "train wrecks from IM'ing" here soon." - Kat

Dear God. I'm supposed to be cooling down, prepping my lunch, and contemplating errands, but right now I'm sitting here unable to do anything besides laugh and shake my head in horror. I can only describe this morning's workout as somewhere between a Lewis Black comedy special and a train wreck.

There's a special place in hell for people like us. In this case, 'Chris' is Mr. Lanphear of retrospecticus.org non-fame.

With twenty minutes left to go on the elliptical machine this morning, I knew without a shadow of a doubt that it was time for us to purchase a new mp3 player. Our current one, bought for $30 off of Heather some time ago, has developed the electrical equipment of Alzheimer's; it no longer remembers that it's supposed to play mp3s as well as audio CDs, and only plays audio CDs when it gets up on the right side of the bed that morning.