Get Goose

One of my favorites when describing a total whack-job:

The guy is all foam; no beer.

I nearly forgot to post my Spade-ism for the week.

This week’s Spade-ism is in honor of Boot Camp, something I haven’t posted on in a while. Suffice it to say I am now in my third month of Boot Camp. Yes, you heard correctly. Numero tres. Just call me crazy. I did switch over to a class that starts an hour later, so I am no longer driving to Boot Camp in the dark. However, I am no longer sleeping in either. While I do suck wind every once in a while, my stamina has definitely improved. Of course, this could also be due to the fact that I am no longer carrying around as much weight on my bones. The junk in my trunk is 14 pounds lighter. This is not to say I am back to my Bo Derek bikini days. Far from it. The ol’ muffin top, though, is a lot less muffin.

So, today we ran some sprints and yesterday we did suicides. And, I noticed that my sprints were quickly turning into jogs. My bones ached. I mean, what happened to the limber girl I used to be? I was like an 80-year-old out there. My “quick turns” in suicides were like slow-motion dance moves. Pathetic.

And on that note, I give you this week’s Spade-ism:

I have seen smoke come off of dog shit faster than that.

Recently, I’ve neglected this blog. I’ve been swamped. You’d think a quick post here and there wouldn’t take too much time, but it’s all about prioritizing. My paying job is a priority, so until this blog makes me millions, I sometimes put it on the back burner.

This week, I am going to make an effort to post regularly.

Today’s Spade-ism is in honor of all you busy people out there:

She’s so busy, she looks like a cat trying to cover up shit on a marble floor.

Last night, my husband and I attended an outdoor dinner party for two friends who recently got married. It was 93 degrees and extremely humid. The kind of humid that makes sweat drip down your back and underneath your boobs. Pretty.

On our way home, we were discussing the conditions and my husband blurted out the perfect Spade-ism.

I remarked, “Wow, people were really sweating at the party, huh?”

And Spade responded, “They sure as hell were sweating. Sweating like a bunch of whores in church.”

As tight as a camel’s ass in a sandstorm.

The humidity in Knoxville is indescribable. Today, as I was pushing my child in the jog stroller up a steep hill, I was reminded of one of my favorite Spade-isms:

It’s hotter than a goat’s ass in a pepper patch.

He’s as useful as a one-armed trapeze artist with an itchy ass.

In honor of the bride: She sure is purty. She’s finer than frog hair.

He was as confused as a hungry baby in a topless bar.

I’m as busy as a one-legged man in ass-kicking contest.