Parental Guidance Suggested

The following couple of informational pieces may not be suited for young children (or men of any age or my Very Southern Mother, who would not appreciate the immodesty). Beth, however, will probably love it:

There is, for some reason, a life-sized cardboard cutout of Michael W. Smith standing in the ladies' (single unit) bathroom in the teachers' lounge at school. I strongly feel the need to cover myself up the entire time that I'm, um, taking care of business. I also blush furiously. I mean, friends may be friends forever, Michael, but even my closest ones don't watch me pee. And the only time I've ever even seen you was at Atlanta Fest when I was in junior high. This bathroom coziness might be a little much, don't you think?

***********************************************************************************

Wednesday, at the gym, I was talking to one of the guys who runs the place. He teaches my Buttz and Gutz class (yes, they spell them with z's; it's not really a classy establishment, but it's cheap) on Monday nights and does a great job; I attribute a lot of my toning up over the last year to him. Anyway, he offered to show me around the weight room a little in order to give me some more variety in my routine. I took him up on it yesterday.

We were just starting out, and he was showing me how to do the whole bench press thing (which, by the way, is the one thing I told Cal that I didn't want to do, but oh well). I knew I was in trouble when he told me to scoot back on the bench so that my, uh, well, .... they rhyme with 'ripples' ... line up with the bar. If that didn't embarrass me enough, he then proceeded to tell me just exactly how much I needed to scoot. "Keep going, keep going, keep going... there! that's it!" Uh, yeah.

You know a man invented a particular system when it requires using those as a unit of measurement.